SBI oneshots and ideas

Cold with a Voice (SBI - Tommy)

Summery: Wilbur, sent by a green suited man, adventures out North. He reaches the dastardly snow tundra where he almost died. That is, until a helpful friend came to save him.
Setting: The snow biome.

Tw: freezing(?)
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Wilbur was on the run for a little while now.

It isn't safe back home. No one wants him there. He made up his mind to leave when a man reported such.

As he walks the sky drops snow on his head. He hums trying to ignore the coldness in his fingertips.

The bag on his back sways in sink. He's getting tired. He should find someplace to rest for the day.

'It's only morning, I can make it another hour or two.' The snow doesn't agree with him, instead it rages harder.

It gets colder, he tries to pay attention to the smoke coming from his mouth rather then his cold Frame.

His legs shake with every step he takes. It's so cold. It's too cold.

The freezing man mumbles incoherently about the weather, all the while his breaths come out labored and his steps come out ragged.

The snow piles high above his ankles. He's stepping over snow and ice trying to get to somewhere worm and inviting.

Wilbur might be in a cozy jumper but he's freezing from the head down.

Everything becomes numb. First his fingers then his toes.

He can't feel anything. A lone voice in his ear tells him to move forward, it doesn't want him to perish.

Wilbur, however, could care less if he died. Would it be and angle from heaven, or a demon from hell? He is only doing it for the voices sake.

Without the voice, he would have been dead meat by now.

The voice isn't mean, like one would think.

No, the voice is like a mother. Sweet and friendly. Like all mothers should be, the voice wants what's best for Wilbur.

It stops him from doing anything irrational, and calms him down when upset.

It's the mother and father he needs. The mother and father he wants.

So he trudges on, even when the snow is waist deep, for the voice in his head.

You are doing great, keep it up and you'll find somewhere nice and cozy.

He droops to one side, tiredness multiplying tenfold, but the voice tells him to press on.

'Don't die in the snow, you are almost there.'

So he keeps moving, even when it feels like his numb ankles are melting off.

He walking on top of the snow, to an unknown place out in the wilderness.

He falls once or twice along his way, hands burning at the cold touch.

Every time he stagers up to his feet and continues forward.

He weekly cries out, "help, is anyone even out there? Am I going to die here? Forever unknown till someone finds my dead specks on the ground?"

The man feels his hot tears before he registers he's crying.

The tears feel good sliding down his face.

They give what little warmth he has to his icy cheeks.

He can't feel the freezing temperatures, but the voice says it's there.