Chapter Text
His father had remained passed out for the rest of the afternoon. There were no hospitals in the area, and the ones farther out did not have the capability to treat Philza's wing. Wilbur decided his best course of action then would be to take him to a hotel and let him rest. Wilbur himself fell asleep as soon as he hit the hotel bed. Once he woke up, his father was still asleep.
Wilbur got up, he would love to see a news coverage of the afternoon's events. He put a kettle on the hotel stove, hoping to make tea before his father woke up, so they could have a proper conversation about their future arrangements.
Unfortunately, Philza began to stir before the kettle had whistled, not that he would have been able to sleep through it anyway. Wilbur watched the man flair about in a panicked frenzy for a few seconds before calming himself.
When he was put together again, he scanned the room and spotted Wilbur.
“Morning.” Wilbur nodded.
“right.” Philza responded slowly.”What..” he trailed off, his eyes slowly phasing out of focus. “.. What exactly happened?”
“There was a fire, and everyone made a great big deal of it. Some revolutionary act. I saved you, I believe. Then you saved me, so now we’re even I suppose.” Wilbur explained, watching his father reach around for his glasses, which had shattered in the fire.
“Revolutionary...” Philza squinted, having figured out his glasses weren’t present. “Wilbur, why are you here?”
Wilbur paused. “You asked me that earlier as well, is there any particular reason I shouldn’t be here?”
Philza sighed. “What's your plan? You’re certainly not working with me anymore, what are you gonna do?”
“Well sure, not publicly, but Mr. Watson, you cannot possibly expect me to believe you want to sever all ties from me? I’m practically your son after all, that would just be cruel, and as much as I love to protest your judgement, you are not a cruel man.” Wilbur leaned back in his chair.
The whistle of the kettle went off, interrupting their conversation. Wilbur got up and took out two cups from the hotel cupboard. The only tea they had was English breakfast, it was no turmeric ginger, but it would have to do. Wilbur poured their tea.
“Mr. Soot, I do not associate with enemies of the state, and as of the moment, that is what you have posed yourself as, my personal opinion weighs little bearing on the matter.”
Wilbur rolled his eyes. “Your comedic prowess never fails to impress, old man.”
He turned and met Philza's eyes, who was staring at him. “I’m serious, go home. That house can be yours, I have another.”
Wilbur paused again. “Pardon?” was all he could manage to say.
“Get out.” Philza said, his voice sounded angry. “Get out, Mr. Soot. Go home.” Philza stood up and outstretched his wings, taking up half the room.
Wilbur put down one cup of tea and left the room, grabbing the few things he had brought with him. By the time he got home he still hadn’t quite processed what had just happened. He leaned against the wall and took a sip of his tea. It tasted poor without milk or sugar. Wilbur put it down and walked out of the hotel.
He had things at the other hotel he ought to pick up.
Wilbur stepped outside to face the desert once more, a hot dry wind swept through the air. Coyotes, commonplace to Arizona, face a significant amount of hostility in the world which they inhabit; duststorms, death, drought and the like. The humble coyote, however keeps moving, he will move to new dens and learn new skills to ensure his survival. He will adapt, improvise, and overcome.
These things played in his mind as he gathered his belongings. A lonely sympathiser, on his own, what a tragedy. A fool and a moron who thought himself the dreamer, could he really have such a solemn tale?
There was a horse in the back of the hotel, it wasn’t Wilbur's, but he had already made his mind up about taking it and riding as long and as far as he could. He had food enough to last him a good few days and by then he really ought to have figured out what he is to do with himself.
Wilbur mounted the sorry old thing and slung his belongings over its back. With a light spurring on and a few moments, the horse began to walk at a reasonable speed. He did his best to steer the horse northbound. As he did so, he lost the attention of his own mind once again to his best understanding of the day's events.
Perhaps the zealot, Vice President to be, Mr. Soot, had killed himself with his letter to the American public. Perhaps he was hanging limp in a gutter somewhere, all his weight strained against his broken neck and a growing puddle of broken bloody promises dripping down his body and below his feet.
Now that he's naught but a ghost, the people will begin to whisper. Whisper about what he used to be, how he blew up the only gate to his new nation before it truly got the chance to live. A bloody abortive act that led thousands of hybrids without hope and without light. What a selfish man.
Others may one day look at empty space that occupies Mr. Soots grave and say to one another ‘good riddance, really’. They would tip their lovely sunday hats and shake their heads in shame. ‘It goes to show what happens to the truly demented. Notice not a single mourner?’
The sun was beginning to sink lower and lower into the sky, he would have to slow and set up camp sooner or later. He was past the point of civilization, all that he could see was dirt, rocks, and dried brown plants that lined the ground.
Wilbur sighed and dismounted once more. He took the rope from his bag and tied it to the horse and then to a firmly rooted tree next to him. Next, he got out his blanket. He had neglected to bring a tent, but what he had would do, he laid it on the ground like a carpet.
He searched through his things for the last and most important of his possessions as it pertained to his momentary objective. Then he found it. A feather and a box of matches. He took them down slowly and gingerly.
He sat on the blanket and stuck the feather into the dirt. He lit a match and touched it to the top of the feather, watching it burn down to the calamus.
“Well, Mr. Soot. Your ideas, so it seems, were too great for your time. Don’t worry, my friend, I will avenge you, and live your ideals to the best of my ability.” Wilbur told the burning feather. “And I think I will do so by joining the revolution.”