𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔. | 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐛𝐮𝐫 ♥

𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓, 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒌𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒔.

Schlatt was shaken. Wilbur knew, he knew from the way his eyes darted across each room before he entered, slowly, slowly, he no longer taunted, he no longer teased, he no longer ate, he no longer breathed. Wilbur had proposed to him, in gut turning remorse for the panic he caused in his beloved, for the remorse that oozed through his brain at the sight of Schlatt's nails clawing at his sleeves every time they met, the husked bags under his eyes, the fragile voice he still held, "Schlatt, deary, I have an offer to make." Schlatt had nodded in a daze, he seemed too far gone to care. Wilbur dragged out his pocket knife, with the innocent grin of a cold faced liar, the knife he'd killed Fundy with, the knife that led to Minx's death, "I've seen how terrified you are, really, I have, and I begin to worry when you won't join me to eat, you're starving yourself." He leaned forward to thumb at the bags circling the man's eyes, "You're not sleeping either."

"So, I propose an offer. We circle around the ship and do your tasks, then we do mine, I have a knife, and I'm not letting anyone hurt you. Alright?" Schlatt stared at the knife with big eyes now, oh so big, and oh so infuriatingly unreadable, slate, "Hey, I want you to feel safe, man. I'm worried. You know I'd never hurt you or anyone else, I am not crazy." He seemed to be trying to convince himself rather than Schlatt.

Schlatt swallowed the spit he hadn't known he was building up in his throat, "You'd really do that..? You'd kill for me?" Wilbur could just harshly resist the snicker howling in his head, his smile upturning once more. How he wanted to tell Schlatt, to see the horror seep into his eyes, when Wilbur would tell him how he had already murdered, all for his beloved, Schlatt, how he would do it a million more times for him, too.

Schlatt's voice was small, nothing of what it used to be, gullible, shriek, horrored. Now, Schlatt was not a gullible man, nor was he naive, though mortal fear, fear that fuzzed your vision, that hugged your skull so tightly you begged it to burst, the type of fear that made you trust a deluded man whispering sweet nothings in your ear, that made you gullible, it made you want to believe everything alluded safe to be true, and everything alluded dangerous to be wrong.

Wilbur smiled, feigning sorrow, though no dejection loomed over him now, his soul wicked in scarlet, murder on his stainless gloves, "If I must, yes." And so it was settled then and there, Schlatt's muscles loosening, his taunting returning, the feeling of him now rumbling at the pit of his insides, now, he was no longer panicking each time he entered a room, instead he kept his eyes glued to Wilbur's, training them, putting his life, his soul, all of his trust into the man he'd known roughly around a month, all because of one thing; fear.

Now, Schlatt sat in reactor, Wilbur just across the hall in security, doing wiring just for a moment, only a moment, when he heard a voice, one evil, vile, putrid tone that made Wilbur hear ringing in his ears like he'd never heard anything else before, "I don't wanna' do this, Schlatt, but your friend, Wilbur, seems pretty-" He paused, maybe to motion to something, "-in the head, and like he and Scott said, us cold brutal murderers need our paycheck, and we need to hit two birds with one stone." Wilbur could hear the smile in his voice, he could hear the evil in his voice, he could hear him whisper for Wilbur to just come and snap his neck already, and feel his muscles limp in his arms, "Forgive me, buddy. Oh, and, say hi to Fundy and Minx when you're gone, will ya'?" That's when Wilbur sprinted, he sprinted across the hall faster than he ever had, blood in his hands within the second he reached them, blood splattering along his suit, along Schlatt, along the floors. Quackity screamed, he had begged, he had sworn, he had promised not to tell, he had made the wrong choice. But this, this needed to stay in the room where it happened. All of it. All of it. He turned to Schlatt. They were bloodied. Adrenalin and pure murder lust flooded through Wilbur in an instance, the release of agonizing pain rippling through him every moment he stared at Quackity's body, the sight of his body limp in Wilbur's arms, where Wilbur still held the knife tight to his throat, as if to keep him dead longer. It made Wilbur's eyes crinkle. It made Schlatt scream.

Schlatt seemed terrified, he screamed and he yelled nonsense, nothing but gibberish to the walls of the room. But why be scared of Wilbur? Wilbur wasn't crazy or anything, he wasn't some deranged psychopath, he simply had a goal, and his goal was protecting his beloved whilst also having fun, what's so wrong about that? Murder is fun, you see, maybe try it yourself if you still see him immoral, you'll see how fun it is, the way your heart ups a beat, the wine red painting your soul a murderer, it's all quite wonderful, really.

Wilbur had helped Schlatt stand, with a keen smile struck across his lips, and Schlatt could only hold onto Wilbur, for dear life, he clawed into Wilbur's neck, sobbing into the fabric of his suit. Wilbur hummed. Maybe before he had felt guilt for his sins, for the murder that sunk his heart red, maybe, but now? Now, he felt no guilt at all, not when he got everything he wanted, not when Schlatt was buried deep in his arms, and not when his boot heel sunk into the pale, dead, face of their crew-mate.