Chapter Text
They spent a really long time sight-seeing.
His friends gawked at every new discovery, poking at all the new plants and creatures with curiosity and wonder. Wormwood could barely make out Wilsons’ hand from the blur that it had become, jotting notes so quickly he doubted any of them would be legible to other people. Craters in the ground were crouched over and poked at, and innocent white flowers were picked off of trees to be analyzed and stuffed into packs and pockets. Maxwell even asked him to question the trees, at some point (which was odd in of itself, as the magician friend had never for a second believed Wormwood about the plants talking with him, but whatever), and while Wormwood did his best to coax the fauna out, they never gave more than faint whispers about the beauty of the light or the ferocity of the dark. Wormwood didn’t really think much of it, but the look on Maxwell’s face when he relayed the tree’s whispers to him was… well, it was certainly a look.
A while into the investigation, they began to spy floating figures in the distance; apparitions cloaked in white with holes where their heads ought to be, eyeing them from hiding spots behind the faded trees. Wilson offhandedly compared them to the shadow beasts that haunt during insanity, and one of the things actually came out and attacked him, presumably for his comment – cutting through his chest and sending him toppling to the ground before vanishing into the air. He was fine, just startled, but his friends made sure to avoid the figures after that.
His friends would still groan in pain, now and again, clutching at their heads or their chests, knees wobbling – but Wormwood could see that they were adjusting to the sensation, gathering their strength quicker each time they faltered. It was admirable, really: it had taken Wormwood multiple full moons before he got used enough to the feeling, himself, and here his friends were, powering through it like it was close to nothing.
It was impressive. Either that, or he was weak. Could have been both, really.
Wormwood was pulled out of his thoughts by a warmth pressing against his arm, and he faltered in his steps. He turned down to see that Webber had wrapped himself around the limb rather tightly. The boy looked up, and thankfully Wormwood could see a carefree, mischievous grin on his face, rather than the pained one he’d feared for a second.
“Mr. Wormwood! Hey, can you give us a piggy-back ride? Mr. Wilson said no!”
Wormwood glanced up to see Wilson crouched down over some odd, new creature, poking at it’s tail with a pencil and recoiling as it hissed. His other friends stood around him, chatting or eyeing their surroundings. “Well… science friend is busy.”
“Yeah! So we’re asking you! Please?”
Wormwood huffed, before crouching down and allowing the boy to clamber onto his back. “Spider friend no feel good? Or just lazy?”
“Hey! We are not lazy! We just… don’t wanna walk!”
“Hm. Funny.”
Webber climbed over Wormwood’s backpack, slung his legs over his shoulders and wrapped his arms around his headpiece, giggling. “Besides, your piggy-backs are fun! We still dunno what this thing on your head is, Mr. Wormwood, but it’s great for grabbing!”
“Okay… if friend says so.”
Wormwood staggered forward to catch up with the group, who had dispersed from their separate circles to all gather around Wilson, looking at the creature curiously as he continued to poke and prod at it.
“... and it’s like a salamander, but… not.” Wilson continued, holding a cautious finger out. The creature eyed him warily, before inching forward to sniff at it.
“A lot of things here are like other things, but not.” Winona said. “I mean, the insanity feeling, the little… uh, white things that definitely weren’t like the shadow creatures–”
“Winona, please,” Maxwell huffed, hands in his pockets as he eyed the salamander-adjacent suspiciously. “let’s not tempt fate anymore than we already have.”
“Okay, be boring.”
Wormwood could feel Webber adjusting, pushing against his headpiece. A new weight settled against the back of his head, and he had to practically stare at the ground to keep Webber supported.
“It’s a salamander, but a plant!” He jeered, pointing over the top edges of Wormwood’s vision. “It’s a salad-mander!”
“Oh, hardy har,” someone muttered.
“Hey, that was pretty good!” Wilson turned, smiling. It was strange, to see him looking over Wormwood’s head like that. “Yeah, we’ll go with that. Saladmander.”
“YOU ARE SAD. ALL OF YOU.”
Wilson stood, pointedly ignoring WX’s comment as he pulled his notebook out of his pocket and quickly jotted something down. “Don’t rain on our parade. Besides, it’s getting late. We should probably pack in, huh?”
“Here?” Wickerbottom questioned.
“Yeah, uh, I dunno how I feel about setting up camp on this island,” Willow said, peering out from behind the librarian apprehensively. “Are we forgetting the part where you almost got split open by, uh– the things that definitely were not in any way related shadow creatures, or whatever?”
“Bah, we’ll be fine. Just don’t attract them again.” Wilson set his pocketbook away and turned to face the unanimous looks of apprehension. “Oh, come on, guys.”
“YOU ARE AN IDIOT.” WX huffed.
“Really! I thought you of all people would be with me here, WX. What happened to ‘moonbase!’?”
“NOTHING ‘HAPPENED’ TO MOONBASE!”
“Shut up, both of ya, you’ll attract ‘em.” Winona cut in, walking over to set a hand on Wilson’s shoulder. “Look, why don’t we just go back to the boats? We can pull away from shore, rest up, and continue in the morning. Or go back. Whatever we want to do.”
“A reasonable idea,” Wicker said, having at some point wandered somewhere out of Wormwood’s vision, and returned with a salad-mander cradled in her arms. It seemed pretty happy to be there.
“Fine, fine.” Wilson huffed, stepping forwards slowly. “We’ll do that. Let’s go back.”
The group began to mingle their way back, chatting cautiously about their findings, and what they’d do once the morning came. Wormwood could feel Webber relaxing against his back, his grip loosening somewhat, likely as sleepiness took him. He smiled to himself, affectionately exasperated. Maybe the small friend really had been tired and just unwilling to show it… or something like that.
“WHY DO YOU LET HIM DO THAT?”
“Huh?” Wormwood glanced up as well as he could, and noticed that at some point WX had made their way right next to him. “Who? What?”
“THE SPIDER. YOU’VE LET IT CRAWL ALL OVER YOU, LIKE A PEST.” WX continued, staring into Wormwood, expressionless. “IT IS CLEARLY HAVING A DENTRIMENTAL EFFECT ON YOUR PHYSICAL CAPABILITIES.”
“Oh, well,” Wormwood said, a smile creeping despite himself. “Spider friend asked! Maybe not so nicely, but would make spider friend happy. And also friend is tired, now, so is helping! Right?”
“I GUESS SO.” WX said, looking away from him. “BUT YOU STILL LOOK PATHETIC.”
“Hehe. Okay, friend.”
“I think it’s a very kind thing to do,” Wickerbottom said, as she continued her trend of wandering into the corner of Wormwood’s vision unnoticed and inserting herself into conversations. “Webber did not need to be carried, but he was clearly enjoying it. I feared he would split his face in two, what with how much he was grinning.”
“THE TEMPORARY JOY OF A SMALL MEATBAG IS NOT WORTH THE RISK OF PHYSICAL INABILITY,” WX countered. “IN THE EVENT OF A DANGEROUS SCENARIO, WORMWOOD IS PHYSICALLY IMPAIRED BY THE WEIGHT.”
WX walked into Wormwood’s vision, then, forcing eye contact between them. “IF A PHYSICAL ATTACK IS TO OCCUR, MINION, YOUR ORDER IS TO TOSS THE SPIDER CHILD.”
“Huh?”
“WX-78,” Wickerbottom sighed.
“WHAT? IT IS THE MOST LOGICAL COURSE OF ACTION,”
The image of Webber tumbling to the ground by his own hand pointedly did not seem so logical, but Wormwood kept his mouth shut.
“It would be upsetting for everyone else and probably get the both of you kicked out , WX. Don’t drag Worm down just because he listens to you.” Wilson said, somewhere up ahead.
Wormwood paused, and was beginning to wonder how long Wilson had been listening in before he glanced up and noticed that they had reached the coastline. Their duo of boats floated in the water, rocked slowly by the waves, all the chests and anchors and things still attached. A salad-mander was mouthing at one of the boats’ edges, sampling the wood from the safety of the island’s edge, and before noticed them and scamper off.
“Oh, good.” Wickerbottom sighed. “It’s all still here.”
“Who would’a taken it from us?” Winona asked.
“If I’d been able to sneak away and sail off like I’d planned…” Willow muttered. Winona punched her in the arm, and she giggled. “C’mon, it’s a joke.”
“Let’s just get some sleep,” Maxwell said as he clambered onto his respective boat. “I’m exhausted.”
“It’s from all the rambling and conspiracy theories, you doof,” Willow jeered, even as she sagged after him.
“It is also sunset.” Wilson added.
“ C’mon, it’s a joke!”
Wormwood reached up and shook at Webber’s shoulder until he felt them stir. “Wh– huh?”
“Here,”
“Oh,” Wormwood crouched, and Webber slid off his back to the ground with little trouble. “We fell asleep?”
“Yes,” Wormwood turned to face him, smiling as Webber blinked sleepily at his surroundings. “but friend said was no tired, so maybe not.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah! No, we weren’t tired…”
Wormwood reached forwards and gave him a quick pat on the head, grinning as Webber scrunched his face in disamusement, before they lept off the land and back onto their respective boats.
“Alright, let’s move out,” Winona said. “Don’t want no totally-not-just-white-shadow-monsters or saladmanders climbin’ on our boats and our faces and interupttin’ our beauty sleep.”
“Our faces? ”
“Sure, them salad-manders do have claws, Maxwell.”
“I personally think a salad-mander clawing all over Maxwell’s face is an excellent idea.”
“SECONDED.”
“Shuddup, you freaks, both of ya – or I’ll toss you overboard. Don’t think I wouldn’t clamber over there to do it, you tin-can! I would!”
The clanking of the anchor rising, the gusts of the wind slowly blowing them away from the shore, his friends arguing about absolutely nothing – these sounds were familiar now, and Wormwood felt his eyes closing, even as the sun still peaked out over the horizon. He fumbled his way into the bedroll, burrowing beneath the covers. The thing had never been comfortable, but after the day he’d had, it felt like he was cradled in the palms of comfort. Or receiving a very good hug.
“Someone’s sleepy.” Wormwood felt the sole of a shoe knock at his headpiece a little, and he opened his eyes to see Willow setting up a bit ahead of him. “Can’t blame ya. That went on forever.”
“Mm,”
“Don’t roll off the edge,” she said, and then giggled, as though coming up with a devious idea. “Or if you do, try to drag Max down with you.”
“Willow, I swear to god.”
Wormwood wanted to smile at that, maybe make some remark and see if his friends would smile too, but something was clawing at his eyes and silencing his mind. His friends words and laughter were beginning to fade to garbled nonsense as fatigue began to burrow in.
He saw Winona fiddling with a lantern, grumbling under her breath, and satisfied with the prospects of his future safety, Wormwood let himself settle.
–
He’s still.
He’s on his feet, now, and when he comes to he half expects to find himself wobbling with the sudden change in posture; but indeed, he feels almost nothing. Nothing of body, barely anything of mind. A sort of curiosity, maybe. Intrigue, buried in his limbs and his chest. The dangerous sort, the sort that sends friends hurdling towards their demises, looking to conquer the next great thing. It is not enough to move him, now; but he recognizes it for the fickle thing it is.
The place he’s in is foreign – the vast majority of it is theoretically yellow-gold, shining brilliantly in the cavern, but the cold blue light makes it appear more green. Dark gray rocks are embedded between the golds, flat enough to use as a sort of floor, if not an inconsistent one. Pillars and structures shoot far above him, disappearing into the void above, inaccessible. They appear far older than him.
This whole place is sickly warm. He’s vaguely reminded of days spent plowing the fields in summer heat, the way the air seemed to wrap around him, an inescapable chokehold on all sides. Those days are very far away, right now. Sweat drips from his leaves, evaporating before it can hit the floor.
It is completely silent, for not even his breathing could reverberate here. He isn’t breathing, though, so it’s a moot point. He remains where he is, scarcely moving save for tilting his head around, as though searching yet unwilling to risk getting lost, or disobeying an order.
An order.
It is the same as suddenly snapping awake. The world comes into focus, he exhales, the damp simmering heat fades, the light turns from cold and unforgiving to ethereal and welcoming. His rasping is harsh, his throat unaccustomed to the sensation, and his ears begin to ring – the sound of dripping water surrounding him is all he can hear besides it, overwhelming and yet unsatisfying. Something is growing in his chest.
The anticipation is over, now; the world is breathing around him.
There are whisperings of something to him, but he can’t make it out. He doesn’t even really want to hear any of it. So he closes his eyes, instead, and burrows into the limelight expanding in his chest, plunging, a sensation so familiar yet so impossibly far away. It’s mostly cold.
Sometimes, he feels as though he will be cold forever.
—
“... WORMOOD.”
He almost didn’t hear it.
In his defense, it was awful quiet, quieter than he had ever heard his friend’s voice before. He hadn’t even known they could be that quiet. But indeed, WX’s voice was scarcely a whisper – choppy and mechanical still, but verging on silent. Sparks between wires…
“.. whhm?”
“WORMWOOD,” they mutter again. “WAKE UP.”
When he finally found the strength to tear his eyes open, it was still dark. His vision was encased by the foot of the boat, and the distant waves in the horizon. He must have turned over in his sleep, and drifted right to the edge. He slowly rolled away, trying to find his friend’s face in the faint light of the lantern.
“Whh-at? What?” he whispered, trying to match WX’s silent tone. He could hear his friends distant snores, the tossing and turning of blankets, and the occasional grunt or mumble. The lantern hummed, and somewhere out of his sight, WX’s gears turned.
“YOU WERE CHOKING.”
“Eh?” Wormwood slowly brought a hand up to his neck, as though that would help him verify. He did feel a bit ragged, as though there were a handful of tiny little knives poking the innards of his throat. He didn’t really need to breathe manually, but for some reason he was right then, and he couldn’t stop himself – as though his body was desperate for more air than he was getting. He finally thought to look up, and now he could see WX’s silhouette looming directly over him, uncaring. His breath rasped against his chest.
“Oh.” he mutters. “m’sorry.”
“FOR WHAT?”
“Hm?”
“WHAT ARE YOU SORRY FOR?”
“Uh,” Wormwood paused. “... wake friend?”
“I WAS ALREADY AWAKE.”
“Oh. Dunno,”
“SIT UP,” WX commanded. Wormwood hesitated, for a second – it was quite warm in his bedroll, and for some reason he was absolutely freezing in the warm autumn night – but he eventually obeyed, rolling onto his back and forcing himself up.
“Friend need help?” He rubbed at his eyes, took a few quick blinks, shuddered, and observed his surroundings. As he suspected, all of his friends were asleep still, despite the leap WX would have had to take from the other boat to get to him, and the apparently audible choking sounds they claimed Wormwood was making. The boats rocked lightly yet uneasily on the waves, and the silhouette of the island stood out from the rest of the horizon, like an unsightly lump.
“NO,” said WX. “I JUST HEARD YOU. I THOUGHT MAYBE YOU HAD FALLEN OVERBOARD AND CLIMBED BACK OUT WITHOUT MY NOTICE. OR… SOMETHING LIKE THAT.”
Huh. “No, no, okay… why friend awake?”
“I DO NOT SLEEP.”
“Seen friend sleep.”
“I SHUT DOWN WHEN I NEED TO RECHARGE. I DID NOT NEED TO TONIGHT.”
“Ah,”
“WHY WERE YOU CHOKING? DID YOU INHALE A FLY, OR MOONDUST, OR SOMETHING?”
“Uh… dunno.” Wormwood closed his eyes, and tried to focus. He had been dreaming, again, dreaming of something important – but just as last time, it was slipping his mind now, especially with the conversation distracting him. “... bad dream?”
“A BAD DREAM WAS CAUSING YOU TO CHOKE HARSHLY ENOUGH THAT I THOUGHT YOU WERE DYING?”
“Ah… don’t remember.”
“EVERYDAY, SOMETHING NEWLY CONCERNING ABOUT YOU ARISES.” WX said, their voice a choppy whisper on the wind. “ARE YOU SICK?”
“Huh?”
“SICK. YOU KNOW, THAT FEEBLE MORTAL AILMENT THAT MAKES FLESHBAGS DO THINGS LIKE COUGH, AND VOMIT, OR WHATNOT.”
“Uhh,” Wormwood gave himself a quick pat down, prodding at his leaves and vines for signs of illness. He couldn’t feel anything wrong, now, besides still being cold. “No problems.”
“PERHAPS IT IS NOT YOUR BODY.” WX continued, and here Wormwood felt a chill. A crawling fear, making it’s way up his chest to wrap around his heart once again, constricting. “ARE YOU… GOING INSANE?”
Wormwood folded a leafy hand into a fist, and knocked twice at the side of his head, as though that would tell him anything. He didn’t feel insane, per say, but he didn’t feel right, either – once more, those full moon night sensations were returning, and he set his hand against his chest as he tried to catch his breath. The methodical rise and fall of the waves kept the ringing and the pain from being so bad, and with the presence of his friends he did not feel so impossibly lonely – but it wasn’t like any of it was good. Still, what would WX care if Wormwood was or was not going insane? He was alive, right? Hadn’t toppled overboard or anything. Now that they’d verified he wasn’t dead, they would normally just leave him be.
Had he really sounded so bad, choking like that? That WX felt the need to check on him beyond making sure he wasn’t dead?
In any case, he gathered himself, and without thinking a thankful smile bloomed on his face. “Oh, friend! Feel okay, really… is just bit scary. New stuff. Makes bad thoughts happen. And bad thoughts make bad dreams,”
“I GUESS I CAN UNDERSTAND. AN AVERAGE FEEBLE MIND WOULD NOT HANDLE THIS SITUATION WELL, LET ALONE ONE LIKE YOURS.” With that, WX sat back, seemingly satisfied with his answer. Relief bloomed where the fear once held, and Wormwood felt himself relaxing as well, as though he had just escaped a battle.
“Mhm,”
“I STILL NEED TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT YOUR STRANGE BEHAVIOR. BUT DOING SO ON A HANDMADE DEATH VEHICLE SURROUNDED BY UNCONSCIOUS MEETBAGS THAT COULD BECOME CONSCIOUS ANY SECOND DOES NOT SOUND VERY PRODUCTIVE.”
Wormwood nodded again, only half listening by this point. He had a vague memory about some threat WX had made, about how he was ‘acting strangely’ and they had to ‘discuss it’, or whatever – but it had faded over time. The fatigue rapidly returning, probably because he had been awake for a few minutes, was not helping him recall very well. His chest tightened a little bit more.
“I WLL ALLOW YOU TO RETURN TO FULFILLING THE EXHAUSTIVE NEEDS FOR REST OF YOUR PUNY MIND.” WX continued, likely fully witnessing how Wormwood struggled to keep his eyes open. “HOWEVER, BEFORE I DO, I… HAVE AN ORDER FOR YOU.”
An order. Wormwood pushed the rapid fatigue aside, forced himself back into attentiveness, and looked up to meet the robot’s eyes. “Yes?”
It was here that WX went silent. Wormwood could practically see them calculating, piecing together what words would work best for whatever they had to say. It was just as awkward as it always was whenever they did this – usually, Wormwood had noted, it was whenever they were trying to express something without coming off as though they actually at all cared about whatever was going on or what they had to say about it. He briefly recalled how Webber had once come home in tears, weeping over the unfortunate death of one of his spiders at the hands of a pigman, and WX had spent a full five minutes staring off into nothing before approaching him and telling him that he could ‘keep his minions alive if he was anything close to competent’. It had not gone over well, but Wormwood always knew it was only the best they could do.
Hm. Maybe he should be more worried about whatever they were about to say, actually.
WX seemed to have eventually found the words, for their gears suddenly finished whirring, and their body readjusted. They crossed their arms, and Wormwood held his breath.
“IF WHATEVER IS WRONG WITH YOU IS SOMETHING… THREATENING. SOMETHING THAT IS POSING A DANGER TO… US AS A COLLECTIVE, I SUPPOSE – YOU WILL STOP WITHHOLDING IT AND TELL ME, EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.”
Ah.
Before Wormwood could even begin to formulate any sort of response, distant and familiar sensations began to climb up his spine. The tightness in his chest grew, surrounding his heart and squeezing tightly, verging on knocking the wind out of him. The ringing returned, drowning out the sounds of the waves and his friends snores and WX’s churning, waiting gears – a chokehold on his mind.
The first few seconds, he could not bring himself to open his mouth, his mind completely wiped of thought, unable to breathe. The next second, all of the sensations suddenly halted at once, Wormwood returned to his mind, and he felt the words leaving his mouth before he even formulated them.
“... Friend think would hide?”
“WELL.” WX shrugged. “I WOULD NOT PUT IT PAST YOU. YOUR COMMUNICATION SKILLS ARE CERTAINLY SUBPAR, AFTER ALL. BUT YOU KNOW I WILL… UNDERSTAND.”
“No, no,” Wormwood felt himself giggling, and brought a hand up to his mouth, smothering a corner of his smile. It would not do to wake his friends now. “No word problems. Nothing like that wrong. Really. Would not… no keeping what hurting friends. Bad idea!”
“YOU ARE SURE?”
“Promise,” he said, and looked up to meet WX’s eyes. His quick fit of laughter had died quite quickly, and he now felt a sense of solemnity wash over him. These words had to be said, even if they weren’t entirely true. “No lie to friends. No secret danger. Really.”
“... ALRIGHT.” WX leaned back, uncrossing their arms before standing shakily. The waves rocked the boat calmly, but uneasily. “I WILL MAKE THE CHOICE TO BELIEVE YOU.”
Wormwood watched as they turned away, stepping to the boat’s rim as though preparing to cross to the other vehicle, before turning to look back at him over their shoulder.
“I STILL WANT TO TALK TO YOU. AND I WILL. DO NOT MAKE ME REGRET DELAYING IT.”
With that, they took the step, crossing as quietly as they had come. Wormwood watched them settle down among the mass of silhouetted bodies, disappearing among the sleeping friends. After a few seconds of silence, he exhaled, the tightness in his chest finally beginning to relieve itself. Carefully but without delay, he laid himself back down on the mat, closed his eyes, and tried not to think of anything.
It was going to be an even longer day tomorrow. He had to sleep.
The waning crescent moon shown overhead.
–
He did not sleep.
“Let’s get moving!” Wilson shouted, inadvertently kicking spare moondust around as he bounded onto the island. The footprints from their arrival the day before had remained, but were made illegible as Wilson stomped all over them.
“Will you not? You sound like a mad man,” Maxwell said as he gingerly stepped onto the island, cradling his temples between his hands.
“I do not! I sound pumped! Who’s pumped?”
Willow groaned somewhere, and Wormwood couldn’t help but agree with her as he wobbled his way off the boat. Once WX had left him be, he hadn’t been able to find any more sleep beyond the few hours he had gotten before, and it was certainly catching up to him now. It was only his previous practice in acting like he wasn’t in deep discomfort that kept him from being obviously, outwardly exhausted. He narrowly avoided stumbling over his feet as he joined the half-circle forming at the coast, most of his friends listening diligently to Wilson as he continued to speak.
“O-kay, this is all very cool and what-not and I’m still very excited, but I know the rest of you probably want to go home. So here’s what we can do. We can just split into groups today, take a full walk around the island and bring back anything cool we find here by nightfall. If we don’t find anything particularly useful or interesting, like if it’s more of– uhh, more of what we’ve already found, we’ll just call it quits, mark this island on the map and go home.”
“Who put you in charge?” Maxwell said.
“He’s always in charge. He’s Mr. Wilson,” Webber replied.
“And it was just a suggestion, Max. I’m open to ideas.” Wilson said.
“Are we splitting into two groups of four, or four groups of two? Or will some form unholy, uneven three-group-division take place?”
“Chill, Wicker.” Winona laughed. “I’m up for two groups of four. We still don’t know if this place is fully dangerous or not. The more hands on deck, the better, if you ask me.”
There was a chorus of agreements and nods from his friends, and with that his friends began to chatter all at once, dividing amongst themselves. Wormwood stood still for a moment, watching his friends pick sides, until Winona came into his vision and took his arm.
“C’mon, bean, you’ll be with me.” she said.
“Oh, oh– okay.” Huh. Well– weird, how quickly she came for him, but why not? He liked Winona.
Wormwood was led away, to where WX and Maxwell were having a half-baked conversation about the possibilities of whatever they might discover, or something like that. The second he heard the words “lunar” and “power” in the same sentence, Wormwood elected to tune them out.
“Sooo, you two comin’ with us?” Winona asked eventually, redrawing Wormwood’s attention.
“Huh? Oh, sure. Better than being with them,” Maxwell said, gesturing to where Wicker, Willow, Wilson and Webber were already beginning to wander off, chatting eagerly amongst themselves.
“SECONDED. THIS GROUP WILL BE… ENDURABLE.”
Oh! Wormwood was endurable! He beamed, despite the exhaustion.
“Well, let’s go take a look around. No time for tourism today, folks, we’re lookin’ for real solid wacky stuff!” Winona said, taking the head of the group and leading them in the opposite direction from their boats.
“We’ve already found plenty “wacky” about this place.” Maxwell continued.
“Yeah, well, I mean like– ‘Them’ stuff! Not just the existence of this place, and the gestalt-whatever-Wilson-called-’ems. Progression stuff, y’know? A cool boss fight, or-or a clue of somethin’ bigger, or whatever.”
“Why would you want to find that?”
“Cause it’s cool! C’mon, WX, back me up here.”
“IT WOULD BE GOOD TO FIND MORE EXAMPLES OF THE DOMINANCE OF LUNAR POWER,” WX chimed, dust kicking up from their boots as they marched alongside the group. “THE OPPORTUNITY TO WATCH IT CRUSH MEATBAGS BENEATH IT’S FEET SOUNDS PARTICULARLY INVITING.”
“See! WX wants a boss fight too!”
“I don’t think that–... ugh. Whatever.”
Wormwood felt a small smile creep up onto his face as his friends continued to chat and bicker. The sounds of their voices, familiar and predictable and safe, made being on this island a little easier each time. The gestalt-things watching them from behind faded trees, the fissures spewing strange light into the air, the saladmanders and carrats running between his ankles, the bright blue hue and glow on everything surrounding him – even all these terrible things, now, began to feel a bit more welcoming. He’d still hate to be alone here, of course, but his friends always somehow managed to make everything a little bit better. The ringing in his ears was quite faint, and the tightness in his chest was equivalent to that of a light squeeze, akin to a weak embrace.
He figured it could all just be the exhaustion, though. Maybe he was just too tired to be afraid.
The environment around them was the same as it had been the day before, with little notable difference. His friends no longer paused to poke and prod around, though, so they were mapping out the place pretty quickly. Winona fiddled with the map in her hands, struggling to draw and walk simultaneously.
“Need some help?” Maxwell said, and Wormwood tuned back in to reality. The magician was fiddling with a faded flower petal between his fingers, which he must’ve plucked it off a tree or off the ground at some point without Wormwood’s notice.
“Oh, please. Ya ain’t have the motor skills or spacial awareness for this,” Winona replied. “Thank you, though.”
“Robot friend do it?” Wormwood said.
“PLEASE,” WX huffed, not bothering to look at the group as they spoke. “IT IS MORE ENTERTAINING TO WATCH HER STRUGGLE. BESIDES, I DO NOT NEED A PHYSICAL MAP.”
“Thanks a lot, buddy.”
Maxwell huffed, and tossed the petal aside. It fluttered in the wind, and drifted out of Wormwood’s sight. “Well. This little daywalk has certainly been exciting,”
“Will ya chill-ax? It ain’t even noon yet.” Winona said, still fiddling with her makeshift pen and paper. “And if we don’t find anythin’ cool, doesn’t mean the other guys won’t.”
“YOU ASSUME TOO MUCH COMPETENCE FROM THEM.”
“And Wilson’s probably been holding them up, inspecting every little thing he sees. They’re probably still in sight of the coastline.”
“HAH!”
“Shuddup, both of ya. You’re terrible,” Winona said. Wormwood turned to face her, and could see hints of a grin on her face. His vision was swimming a bit, though, so it was kind of hard to tell.
Come to think of it, he didn’t feel great.
Wormwood brought a hand up to his chest and concentrated on his breathing, and noticed a rather familiar tightness making it rather difficult. Nothing unbearable at that rate, of course, but he was kind of getting sick of the overall sensation by now. Whenever he was near this terrible island, it seemed couldn’t take five steps without this happening.
It felt stranger this time, though. Not necessarily in the symptoms, but in his mind. The ringing grew a little louder with every step, and he felt his grip on his thoughts loosening – as though they were clearing up, and making way, for…
Wormwood felt himself stop in his tracks.
“Bean? Ya good?”
Deep breaths. Focus. He just had to focus. If he just focused… focused on…
A sudden shot of pain struck through his skull, and he yelped, hands flying to grasp at his head. It was as though someone had just punched a hole straight through his temples, in one end and out the other. He could hear his friends leaping towards him, saying things, grabbing at his arms, but he barely made sense of it over the pain, even as the ringing slowly began to fade.
“–rmwood! I swear to god!”
“Well don’t yell at him, yer only gonna make it worse!”
“You are also yelling!”
“At you , you–!”
“Oww…” Wormwood groaned, for he didn’t have the cohesion to come up with anything else. Even as the pain lessened, he kept his hands where they were, distrustful that it wouldn’t come back.
“Holy shit, bean, what the hell? Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
He opened his eyes slowly, and finally met the eyes peering at him. Winona and Maxwell were right in front of him, staring with worried eyes and clenched fists, respectively – and WX watched from a ways behind them, seemingly completely unmoved by what they had just borne witness to. The sight of their faces calmed him, if only a little, and he slowly began to remove his hands from his head and back to his sides.
“Don’t… dunno… what?”
“It’s alright,” Winona said, immediately. “It’s alright. Deep breathes, bean, stay with me here. Do you… know what that was? You prone to seizures, or somethin’?”
Wormwood unconsciously brought up a hand and knocked at his head a few times, in the vague assertion of trying to reorient himself. He could hear WX’s gears stutter in the distance.
“Uhhm… no…?” His head was still pounding, but he forced his way through it and began to dig through his mind. He really didn’t know what had happened, but it felt as though something has passed through his head, somehow; and like a particularly unpleasant dream, it had left something of itself behind. He searched around for a while, and eventually felt as though he were stumbling his way into something he hadn’t known of before. Wormwood grabbed at it and pulled it out with desperation. What had it…?
“... Wormwood?” Maxwell said. “You need to speak to us. Tell us what happened.”
Wormwood lowered his hands entirely, and stood stationary for a moment as he processed what he’d found. His breathing quickened without his notice, and he felt his eyes widen. He turned and made a cautious jog to the treeline.
“Wh– Hey! Ya can’t just leave!” Winona cried, dashing after him. “We won’t–!”
“Look,” he whispered to her as she approached, and he saw his leafy finger come into his vision, pointing ahead. Winona turned, and while he couldn’t see it Wormwood could feel her shock and anger being replaced by confusion.
“... What?”
He lowered his hand, and said nothing. Whatever had left the knowledge of this thing in his mind hadn’t left him anything to actually say about it.
Maxwell and WX creeped up behind them, peering around his and Winona’s shoulders to see.
“... IT’S A ROCK.”
“It does look different from the other things we’ve seen,” Maxwell muttered. “But…”
“Uhhh…. well. It’s the first sort of ‘brown’ color we’ve seen here. Besides the saladmanders,” Winona said, walking forwards to rub her hand against the stone. She brought her hand up, and scowled at the dust and mineral that had accumulated so quickly on her glove. “Gross.”
“There’s something beneath the exterior. Look,” Maxwell walked forwards, and prodded at the rocks side. “A sort of navy blue… with light veins.”
“Looks like a proper thing! Dunno how it got overrun with a rock that doesn’t exist anywhere else on this island, but we can give it a quick inspection, maybe a shot at diggin’ it out to see what it is,” Winona said, smiling as she knocked her fist against the buried structure itself. “WX, come look at this.”
Wormwood watched in silence as the robot complained, but obeyed, stalking forwards to examine the thing. As they did so, Winona looked up and shot Wormwood a small smile, beckoning him forwards with her hand. He felt a bit of gratitude as he approached, as well; she seemed willing to forget what had just happened a moment prior, to focus on this.
Maxwell and WX were less likely to be so forgiving, but that was a small concern in comparison to this.
“... What should we do with it?” the magician said, eventually.
“Uhh. Dig it out. Like I just said,” Winona turned to him, a look of slight annoyance overlaying her features.
“You’re sure that’s not a bad idea?”
“Comin’ here was a bad idea, but we sure did it anyway!”
“SCANNING…
Winona and Maxwell went silent, and the three turned to face the robot as they surveyed the structure. Their gears and inner workings audibly rattled for a moment, before a puff of steam shot out of their wiring, and the rest of the sound stopped.
“UNIDENTIFIABLE.”
“... Alright, well, if WX can’t identify it then… sure. We’ll uncover it. But I’m still suspicious.” Maxwell said. After a beat, his eyebrows shot up, and he spun around to face Wormwood. “So what the hell was that?”
“Oh for gods– Maxie, leave him alone. He’s havin’ a rough of it, surely.” Winona cut in as she dug through her backpack, grasping at a pickaxe. “Look at him. Does he look like he knows anything at all?”
“THAT IS WHAT I HAVE BEEN SAYING ALL THIS TIME.”
“Oh, hardy har, you tin-can.”
Maxwell did indeed look at him, and Wormwood found himself looking up to meet the magician’s eyes despite himself. Normally, the man’s glare would make him shy away – anger in general was an emotion he feared in his friends, and he avoided fanning it where he could – but something in him kept him from being properly afraid. After a moment of eye-contact, Maxwell huffed and looked away.
“... Let’s just get to work.”