Chapter Text
The first thing he hears is the crowd's roar, followed by the distant scraping of metal against metal as the previous competitors were either led or carried out of the arena.
It wasn’t uncommon for fighters to come out injured. In fact, fighters were often paid more by the viewers if they injured their opponents. Techno had been on the worse end of that incentive more times than he cared to admit. Of course, he’d also received the bonus and had never really been in the position to care about where the money came from so long as it came his way.
His way is a loose term, he grumbles as he tugs on his helmet to complete his mech armour set.
While the president loved to portray all the fighting as totally optional and voluntary tournaments, it was really far from it. The most it ever was a spectacle for rich benefactors to come and gawk at. Their money was probably what had paid for the armour and weapons Techno was using right now, not that he cares to think about it that much.
The announcer’s voice carries clear down to the sand where Techno is standing. The entire stadium was state-of-the-art, of course. It sat right on the bleeding edge of the entertainment industry in terms of cameras, audio equipment, and even the facility itself.
Large beams arced into the sky, forming the base for a series of shades to keep the sun off the audience. There were several boxes dotted around the top ring, ensuring that the highest paying viewers would have the best view once the boosters in the fighter’s mech suits kick in.
The armour wasn’t quite of the same standard- that was reserved for the Manbergian Armed Forces- but it was still high-tech nonetheless. At the bracket Techno was in, he was even afforded some small personalisation of it. It was how he’d ended up with the small, crown-like spikes around his helmet and the small patterns etched along the arms and legs.
He’d been in the game for as long as he could remember. One of the longest-lasting fighters in the whole arena circuit. As a kid and teenager, he’d fought duos but…
He transferred out of duos when he was 17.
Since then, he’d started an entirely new persona. He grew out is hair, dyed it pink, gathered several new scars from fights and gained muscle from endless training sessions. It had paid off, he was probably bringing in the most money out of any of the fighters and his win streak was steadily creeping towards one thousand.
Of course, it was always a bit lonely at the top, but it wasn’t like Techno exactly wanted to make friends with the people that he always ended up fighting. Friendships never went well when you were constantly forced to beat each other up in mech suits for the entertainment of rich fucks who just sat in their comfy boxes all day and jeered and-
Techno doesn’t like the audience very much.
But he wouldn’t be the Blood God if he didn’t know how to put on a damn good show. So he tightens the final strap on his suit and jumps out into the bright lights as the announcer shouts out his name.
Wilbur Soot really fucking hates his job.
Now, he wasn’t one to complain about it to anyone else. But let it be known that he really hates his job. Sure it puts food on the chipped table of his shitty studio apartment, but if he’d had it his way, he’d have been on the nearest skyship to another country by now.
But those were expensive as hell. Wilbur hadn’t ever met anyone with that kind of money and he- an ex-arena fighter- sure as hell didn’t have it.
He’d been saving up, but then he’d gotten sick, and then his holo tablet had broken and he couldn’t do half of his job without it. So he was essentially back to square one on the whole ‘leaving the country so you don’t have to be reminded of your probably dead brother every time you go to work’ thing.
Wilbur sighs at the thought, thunking his head against the cool railing of the camera loft. Usually, those kinds of thoughts were reserved for late at night in his dingy apartment when the only light coming in was from the holographic advertisements outside. His twin was very likely dead, he knew that. It had been nearly six years since the last time he had seen him. Hell, he could be in another country by now.
The thing about arena fighters was that once they changed their fighting persona, they were extremely hard to keep track of. Especially when they had a very little record of them in the first place.
Wilbur hadn’t even had a birth certificate when he’d left, he’d had to rely on his district ID and it was a miracle he’d been able to get this camera operator job.
The fight below him was still starting up, so he cast a quick glance down at his holo tab to make sure all of the cameras were still working. He could hear Phil, his boss, calling out adjustments over the headsets as the crowd started to get restless. Idly flexing the fingers of his cybernetic arm, he adjusts his cameras into the correct position.
The arena never failed to leave its impression, whether you were one of the rich fucks paying for the fights or one of the poor kids who got dragged into it.
Just as he finishes adjusting the cameras into their proper positioning, he hears a series of footsteps behind him. The sudden noise causes him to whirl around, immediately planting his feet in a fighting stance. It takes him a moment to realise it’s just Phil, looking slightly confused at Wilbur’s response.
“...did I startle you?” He asks.
Wilbur takes a moment before he relaxes, letting his arms fall back to his sides. “Just a bit,” He tries for a light tone, exhaling a laugh.
“Sorry about that,” Phil smiles, as seemingly amicable as ever. “Just figured I should check on the cameras, I know they were giving you trouble last time.”
Trouble was putting it lightly since they had gone almost totally offline out of nowhere. Wilbur had been solidly convinced that he was about to lose his job until Phil assured him that the error was far out of his control.
“They’re fine, haven’t really had any issues with them this time,” Wilbur says as he leans against the railing, trying to ignore the faint pain flaring up where his flesh meets metal.
“You doing okay after that, mate? You seemed a little worried…”
Worried isn’t the way Wilbur would put it, but he doesn’t need his boss thinking he can’t do his job.
“Yeah, no, it was nothing,” Wilbur waves him away, not really making eye contact.
Phil doesn’t look like he quite believes him. Wilbur feels his heart briefly stutter before the roar from the crowd below grows and Wilbur realises that the fight must be about to start. He watches as Phil swears and rushes back to his control booth with a quick apology.
Wilbur turns back to his cameras, briefly checking on his holo tab before fixing his sight on the distant figures below. The fight had to be rigged, it was some hotshot new kid up against the Blood God.
He casts an eye over to one of the boxes. Wilbur could just make out the vague shape of ram horns curled around a head. The president was in town.
This was going to be a long fight.
Techno winces as the horns go off, adding more hype to the crowd.
Sparks fly from the metal heels of his boots as he skids across the arena. He can distantly see massive holo-panels displaying the stats of the fight. He’s winning, as usual. Most fights go until either the opponent taps out or their mech suit is destroyed. Right now, it’s looking like the latter, especially considering the guy he’s fighting seems bent on trying to take him out.
As much as Techno is tired of fighting, he hates losing even more. If he’s going to fight, he’s going to be damn good at it.
His sword is probably the most expensive thing he has. It was a longer blade, with a glowing pink stripe down the center, reinforcing the blade. The subtle, gilded hilt comes down hard against his opponent's chest. There’s a soft shout, muffled by metal. The mech armour is complicated but at this point, it’s almost like a second skin to Techno.
He manages to keep his steps light as the two skirt around the arena. It would be much easier to deal with just one blow and be over with it, but the audience loves a back and forth. They love to never quite know who’s going to win and they love to believe that he’s fighting tooth and nail for every victory that he gets.
The only blow his opponent manages to land is a solid hit to his side. It’ll probably end in some bruises, but Techno can take a hit.
After a few more minutes of dancing around, Techno can almost feel the crowd growing restless. He sighs, tightening his grip on his sword before suddenly spinning around and using the boosters to launch himself into the air. It’s fast enough that it catches the other person off guard.
Even though they try to rush up and meet him, they both drop around ten feet back to the surface of the arean, kicking up the dirt that’s at the bottom. Techno can hear the hard bang of his opponent’s head hitting the earth and the roar of the crowd as he brings his sword up to hover above the chest of their armour.
They don’t fight to the death, but the crowd is always excited by the idea of the possibility.
After a few seconds of them both just breathing, there’s the telltale sound of his opponent tapping oit and the horns around the arena go off. The announcer is kicking up, announcing the winner and Techno stands, letting the cheers soak in for a brief moment.
It isn’t much, but he does feel slightly better when he knows that all the fireworks and cheers are for him.
Wilbur squints at the timetable for the light rail, watching as the times blink back at him. The night schedule was always bare, no one seems to think about the people who actually worked in the arenas rather than the rich audience that could afford their own transports.
Luckily, he’d timed it just so that there were only a few minutes before the train. Some nights, if he got out too late, he had to wait upwards of half an hour, sitting on the bench and staring at his holo tab like he’d find something actually interesting.
The train isn’t crowded, just a few other people that Wilbur vaguely recognises from around the arena. He didn’t know many people from this job, other than Phil. The camera positions were relatively isolated from one another, and he didn’t exactly have the easiest time getting along with most people.
Maybe he should consider looking into therapy.
He definitely doesn’t have the money for that.
Wilbur carries himself to his room without much thought. It’s a small little studio apartment on the 25th floor of a building that cannot possibly be up to safety codes. Really he’s just thankful it has an elevator.
It’s already late, and as much as he’d love to do just about anything, he’s too tired to really bother. His apartment doesn’t really have much in the way of entertainment either. For all that Manberg is praised to be one of the countries on the bleeding edge of technology, Wilbur’s apartment looks much like how he’d imagine one would’ve looked a few hundred years ago, minus the holo tab he sets down on his counter and his cybernetic arm.
He has the brief thought of trying to find something interesting to watch on his holo tab, but the second he even sees his bed it's like his brain becomes one track focused entirely on sleep. The rest of his body moves on autopilot, bringing himself right to the edge of the bed. The only thing that knocks him out of his half-conscious state was him slamming his toe against some box peeking out from underneath his bed.
Cursing, he glances down. The box is unassuming, an old shoebox from some cheap pair of shoes that had probably been long worn through. Even though he knew what it contained, he knelt down and opened it anyways, as if the contents would change or make him feel any better.
There wasn’t even a lot inside. He hadn’t had many sentimental items as a kid, and he was able to take even fewer when he escaped. There was a small figurine of an orca, something that he’d made when he was little, but aside from that, there were mostly photos and other scraps of paper. He pushes aside the paper bearing his fighter name to see one of the few photos of him and his brother.
They’re about ten in the photo, Wilbur smiling with a gap in his teeth and Techno offering a small smile at the camera. Wilbur’s curls hadn’t quite become manageable and they surround his head in a halo of frizz. It’s the only photo he has of himself as a kid where he and Techno are just smiling.
He’s not even really aware he’s crying until he feels a droplet hit his hand.
Immediately, he drops the photo back into the box, shoving it back under the bed. He doesn’t need to spend tonight feeling sorry for himself. He has bigger things to worry about, like saving up enough money to get the fuck out and forget any of this happened.
Part of him feels like a jerk for thinking about that. Even if his brother is probably dead, he still feels like shit for abandoning him.
Wilbur scrubs at his eyes, trying to get the tears to stop. It works well enough. The last thing he wants is his neighbours- or even worse, the security cameras in the hallways- to pick up his midnight breakdown. He isn’t even sure if the cameras serve any real purpose, but the thought of some government worker somewhere hearing him crying is embarrassing enough.
He pulls himself together enough to crawl under the thin blanket sitting on his bed. The alarm on his holo tab is set for early the next morning
“Wilbur!”
The shout brings a sharp hiss of static with it as it rings out from Wilbur’s comm system. It bounces around the metal of his helmet and he spins to see Techno maybe ten feet away from him.
He feels strangely floaty, odd because of the weight of his armour. His twin is locked in a sharp fight with the first of the pair th ey’re fighting. Wilbur can hear the drone of the announcer and the roar of the crowd as the stadium lights beat down on them.
Wilbur isn’t quite sure why Techno’s shouting at him until he sees it.
The other half of the pair had slipped away from Wilbur and was making some poor attempt at sneaking up on Techno. Wilbur curses himself for not seeing it sooner.
He goes to move but finds himself strangely rooted to the spot. It’s as if someone had drilled the metal of his armour to the arena floor, rendering it useless. He’s shouting, trying to get Techno to move or alert him, but there’s no sign that his twin hears him.
The last thing Wilbur sees is the frantic look in his twin's eyes as the sword comes down at him and-
Wilbur gasps as he’s woken up by the droning of the billboard across the street from his flat. It goes off nearly every morning, but he’s still shocked by it as if it’s something new. At least it gives him something else to complain about.
He rolls over, blindly knocking around on his nightstand until he finds his glasses. If he had more money, he might go for something to fix his vision or at least a pair of glasses with a fancy overlay. Or maybe just a pair of glasses that weren’t on the verge of falling apart if he sneezed too hard.
The edge of his mattress is slightly cold as he grips it, trying to ground himself. It’s not the first time he’s had that dream, it certainly won’t be the last. Of course, in real life, the fight had gone much different. He’d been able to reach his brother just in time, but the sword was already coming down.
Really he was lucky they offered the cybernetic limb instead of just kicking him out.
The soft beep of his holo tab drew his attention and he could see his notifications begin to filter in. The daily news was always some bullshit about the president or some new transit project that never seemed to reach the district he lived in. Or maybe it was just more ads selling weird gadgets that Wilbur had zero use for. The wonders of the modern age, he supposed.
He’s cursing said wonders about ten minutes later when he’s finally checked the news.
Apparently, the transit association, in their truly infinite wisdom, have decided to reroute the maglev lines that run through his neighbourhood. ‘We ask that all citizens make use of their own transportation at this time, we are sorry for the inconvenience.’
“Well some of us don’t fucking have our own transports, now do we,” Wilbur mutters as he shoves his wallet into his bag, already dreading the walk. He’s out the door in record time for once, the walk is nearly double the time it takes on the train.
When Wilbur finally gets up to the top of the arena, he sees Phil there, as always. The only strange thing about it is that he’s talking to some guy that Wilbur has never seen in his life. He doesn’t look like anyone who worked in a different section of the arena- there was a considerable lack of any form of ID- and he was far too scrappy to be a fighter.
Phil had his head dipped low with a serious expression on his face as he spoke.
Wilbur frowned, going to set his bag down near his camera station instead of interrupting whatever strange conversation was happening. Stay words reached him every now and then, but nothing got to him through the fog that had already settled in his brain. He took out his holo-tab, frowning when the joint in his wrist started sticking again.
“The fuck happened to your arm?” A voice cut in, causing Wilbur to nearly drop the thing altogether.
He turns to see the same person- kid that Phil had been talking to now standing in front of him.
They couldn’t have been much older than 18 and some part of Wilbur hoped to whatever was even out there at this point that this wasn’t an arena fighter. The kid didn’t seem like the type. Wilbur had been scrawny at 18 too, but even he’d had some muscle to him.
“...what?” Wilbur can’t find it in him to come up with an actual response.
Luckily for them both, Phil was already rushing over, and he quickly grabs the kid, moving him a foot away before offering up an apologetic smile.
“Sorry about that, he’s…my nephew doesn’t always have the best first impression. He didn’t mean it,” Phil says.
“I fucking did mean it! I wanted to know-”
“Didn’t I just give you something to do?” Phil asks, turning to give the kid a sharp look that Wilbur recognises from when he’s pushing the little time he has before his cameras go live.
“I’ve got all afternoon,” The kid waves at him, seemingly unconcerned.
To Wilbur’s mild surprise, Phil doesn’t start snapping at him. Granted, Wilbur hadn’t heard Phil snap at anyone earlier, but it also wasn't like Wilbur had a great track record with people having endless patience.
“I’m Tommy,” The kid continues.
“...you’re Phil’s nephew?” Wilbur asks as his brain catches up.
“Something like that,” Tommy shrugs, leaning back against the wall.
“Why are you here?” Wilbur only realises he probably should be less blunt after he asks the question.
Tommy doesn’t seem offended though, and Phil just laughs softly.
“Fucking internship, yeah?” Wilbur raises an eyebrow at that. “Cameras and shit.”
“He’s shadowing me for the day,” Phil explains in a way that actually clicks in Wilbur’s addled brain.
“Right…he’s not gonna fuck with my cameras?” Wilbur feels the need to ask. The last thing he wants is some kid making a mistake that will fall to him to clean up.
“Nope, in fact, he’s supposed to be heading downstairs to go and check in with someone, like I asked him to ten minutes ago,” Phil’s tone is light-hearted, but even Wilbur can pick up on some sense of urgency behind the words.
It seems that Tommy picks up on the same thing because he’s rolling his eyes and wandering off after throwing a mock salute in Phil’s direction.
“Kids,” Phil sighs, seemingly not acknowledging whatever was behind the interaction Wilbur just watched.
“Yeah,” Wilbur says like he knows anything about how a normal kid is supposed to act. “Just threw me off, is all.”
“You look wiped out, mate.”
“I’m fine,” Wilbur waves Phil off, they’ve had this conversation before.
“You know my offer always stands-”
“Yeah. I know, Phil.”
“You going to be okay if I put you up in the camera nest again?” Phil raises an eyebrow.
Wilbur considers it for a moment. He doesn’t exactly love being up that high, with such a clear view of the fights, but someone has to do it. He just shrugs in response. “I don’t really mind.”
Techno hisses as he pushes himself up.
Last night’s fight, despite him having a clean sweep, still left its mark. Luckily, he didn’t have any cybernetic limbs, but there were parts of his ankles that had some tech in them. Reminders of a particularly gruesome fight.
He could already hear the sounds of people in the halls moving about, telling him that he needed to hurry up if he wanted any shot at decent food.
The light from the one window illuminated enough of his room that he was able to stumble over to the lightswitch without tripping over any of the furniture. While his room wasn’t exactly crowded with items, living in the same box for the last five years left a person with a fair amount of buildup.
Techno couldn’t really complain, at least they didn’t put him with a roommate.
Really the only parts of his day that involved other people were getting ready and the fights.
He wasn’t sure if people were intimidated by him or there was something about him that was just that unlikeable.
There wasn’t any sort of media thing happening today and Techno was thankful for that. It was honestly shaping up to be a slower day as he headed down the hall and noticed the lack of arena managers bustling around.
The training room was thankfully empty when he arrived. Despite the bruises he could feel beginning to form where the harsh blow had landed, he was still feeling in much better shape than he often was the day after fights.
He wraps his hands idly, gazing at the wall. If he had been a moment quicker, he probably could’ve avoided the hit altogether. It had been much easier when there was someone to watch his back for that kind of stuff.
Techno frowns, grimacing at his knuckles. They were starting to split slightly, despite him wrapping them before he’d started training. He didn’t have a fight that evening, a rare moment off, but he was terrible at sitting still. Wilbur had always been the one to calm the both of them down, but now Techno was just left alone with his thoughts.
After a few more rounds, he felt his knuckles beginning to sting sharper and sharper, so he took a moment, sitting back against the bench. The paycheck from his last fight was bound to deposit at some point that night, meaning he should probably head down to the repair shop and see if he could get his armour fixed from the last fight.
Just as he goes to leave, he hears the door to the training room slam open and shut again. Techno feels his body go tense. The likelihood of it being trouble was low, but there were always those who were either jealous of him or, worse, had been paid to try and take him out of commission.
He didn’t turn around, taking a moment to school his features. When he did turn around, he almost laughed.
“Are they seriously sending kids to try and take me out now?” He asks, taking in the scrawny kid in front of him.
“What?” The kid’s face scrunches up in confusion. “I’m not a fucking kid! The hell are you talking about?”
“You look like, 16 at max, can’t really blame me here,” Techno shrugs.
“I’m almost 18,” The kid mumbles. “I’m not here to like, take you out or whatever the fuck you’re on about.”
Techno raises an eyebrow at that.
“Are you a fighter?”
“That’s not really important.”
“You shouldn’t be in here if you aren't,” Techno straightens, not interested in talking to some kid who’s wandered into a place that he shouldn’t be.
“It’s complicated. I came to find you,” The kid’s tone shifts to something more focused and it causes Techno to pause.
“Find me?”
“I mean, you’re the fucking Blood God, aren’t you? Unless there’s some other guy wandering around with bright pink hair and a scar like that,” The kid points to the scar that cuts across Techno’s right cheek.
Techno glares, bringing a hand unconsciously up to run his fingers over the rough skin.
“What do you want?”
“Can’t a guy just say hi? Or like, make sure you didn’t get your ass kicked?” The kid glances around as he says it.
Techno pauses slightly.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I watched those guys go after you. Seemed pretty pissed off,” He shrugs.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Techno sighs, leaning back against the wall. “If this is some weird pity thing I don’t need it.”
“Well, you’re fucking prickly, aren’t you?”
Techno just stares at him. There hadn’t ever been another option other than to be prickly and stubborn and a little bit of a dick.
“...okay. Does that happen a lot?”
“Does what happen a lot?”
“The guys trying to beat you up.”
Techno just shrugs.
“Not everyone is that thrilled with my win streak, people want their guys to win, most people in here will do anything if it means a little extra bit of money their way.”
“Seriously?”
“You’re not a fighter, are you?”
“How d’you know that?” The kid's voice cracks slightly, face scrunching up in slight confusion.
“Because if you were, you’d know what I’m talkin’ about,” Techno says as he snatches up his water bottle. “So, if you aren’t a fighter, then where are you from, because I’m really not interested in getting my pay docked for talkin’ to someone I shouldn’t be.”
“I’m from outside,” The kid shrugs.
“Where outside?” This was starting to feel like pulling teeth and Techno distantly wonders whether just walking off and forgetting about this guy was an option.
“...I work for the arena.”
Techno narrows his eyes, but there isn’t any telltale sign that the kid is lying.
“Doin’ what?”
“I’m an intern. Camera shit.”
“What, tryin’ to figure out the best angle to watch me beat some guy into a pile of nuts and bolts?” Techno says as he shoves the bottle into his bag.
“Something like that,” The kid mutters. “Figured I should see what all the big fuss is about, the Blood God and all.”
“Have I disappointed you yet?”
“You look like a nerd. You wear glasses,” The kid says.
Tehno sputters out a laugh.
“That isn’t a nerd thing, you look like you could barely leave a dent in anything.”
“Hey! I could totally fucking fight someone if I wanted to!” Techno winces again at the sudden volume change.
“You look like a gust of wind would blow you over.”
“I’m just built different,” The kid shoots him a small grin.
Techno sighs.
“You goin’ to tell me what you’re really doing here?”
The kid looks around for a second, and when he speaks again his voice drops in volume.
“I can’t tell you,” He’s got a bigger grin on his face.
“Then leave?”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“I’ll call security.”
“You wouldn’t,” The kid seems smug about it.
And the worst part is that he’s kind of right. Despite the fact that Techno knows the kid shouldn’t be here, doesn’t belong here, he doesn’t want him kicked out. It’s been a long time since he talked to someone that wasn’t another arena fighter, and even longer since he’d had someone even mildly concerned about what would happen if he couldn’t watch his own back 24/7.
So yeah, he wouldn’t. But he wasn’t about to say that. The last thing he needed was some kid who didn’t understand how anything down here worked following him around. Even worse if the kid was an intern. The only people who got internships were people who had connections and Techno was not about to be the reason that some patron’s kid got hurt or ended up scarred by something that happened to them while he was technically watching them.
“You should get out of here, either way, last thing we need is someone thinking you actually are a fighter.”
“I could take it.”
Techno rolls his eyes and tries to tell himself it isn’t fondly.
“No, you couldn’t. C’mon kid, get out, shoo,” He waves in his direction.
“...I’ll see you around then.”
“Sure you will,” Techno doesn’t really believe them, but for the sake of being at least pleasant, he says that anyways.
“I’m Tommy, by the way, see you later.” The kid- Tommy says, before turning and rushing out the door.
Weird fucking kid.
“Why’s your nephew interning here anyways?” Wilbur asks at their break as he gets some water. There’s been an odd tickle in the back of his throat.
He hasn’t seen the kid since the weird exchange that morning, but it’s been in the back of his mind for most of the day.
“Hm?” Phil looks up from his communicator.
“Your nephew,” Wilbur repeats, taking a sip from the shitty plastic cup.
“Oh, right,” Phil laughs a little. “He’s not exactly my nephew by blood, more so a family friend kind of thing. I needed the helping hand and keeping an eye on him was just kind of a bonus,” Phil shrugs.
“Keeping an eye on him?”
“He…tends to get into trouble easily. Don’t tell him I said that, but he can be a little shit.”
“Why am I not surprised by that?” Wilbur sighs.
“He means well, mate. He’s never made the best first impression.”
“He insults everyone he meets?”
“Kind of.”
Phil’s response prompts a snort from Wilbur. Tommy didn’t seem like a person with incredible amounts of tact.
“...you feeling any better, mate?” Phil asks as he finishes tapping something out and shoves the phone in the pocket of his coat.
“What?”
“You seemed a bit wiped out this morning. Almost had me worried,” Phil says, real concern colouring his tone.
“You always worry about me,” Wilbur makes a vague attempt to wave the words away.
“More worried than usual, WIl.”
Wilbur sighs again. “Fucking maglev trains got rerouted. Had to walk. Didn’t sleep well,” He hopes that by being vague enough, Phil will just let it go.
“They’re working on them again?”
“Not in my fucking neighbourhood, they aren’t. It’s probably another fucking line extension on the west end.”
The west end was one of the richest and fastest-growing parts of the city. God forbid they weren’t immediately connected.
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Phil says and Wilbur is suddenly reminded that Phil is about 15 years older than him. “It’s always been like that.”
There’s a bitter tinge to his words. Wilbur decides to not poke at it.
“Well, it ruined my fucking morning, so they better cut it the hell out,” He laughs, trying to sound like he actually finds amusement in it instead of annoyance.
To his relief, Phil does at least smile, crow’s feet growing in the corners of his eyes. It makes him feel a little bit better. He’s sure if he couldn’t find any humour in his life, he’d be in a much worse state.
They talk for a little while longer. About everything and nothing. Phil seems to know a little bit about everything one could possibly make small talk about and Wilbur, not for the first time, wonders just what his story is. A question for a rainy day perhaps.
The conversation is only broken by heavy steps on the metal. It seems Tommy has made his return since when Wilbur looks up, the teen is carrying several boxes full of what is probably camera and audio equipment.
Just as he reaches them, the top box takes a dangerous tilt and Wilbur shouts as he rushes to grab it, metal fingers bending at an odd angle to keep the box from fully toppling over.
“Fuck, I thought I had that,” Tommy says, trying to push it back on top of the stack.
“How far were you carrying this?” Phil asks.
“Basement,” Tommy says like it isn’t several floors below them.
“You’re fucking lucky you didn’t drop it sooner,” Wilbur says.
“I told you earlier, I’m built different.”
Wilbur feels himself lose a year off of his lifespan. Really, this kid is going to do more to end him than the arena ever could.