These are too short to post individually so here's the list of vignettes in this chapter.

1. The Burden of a Youngest

TW: references to unhealthy family dynamic

2. Monsters Aren't Always Bad

TW: none :) 

3. The Hotel

TW: swearing

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1

Technoblade was the firstborn.

He had pink hair and searching, cold blue eyes. As a baby, he rarely cried and instead spent his energy trying to escape the confines of his crib.

His little hands latched onto anything they could find, striving to explore and learn.

As his mind grew, so did his knowledge.

As his knowledge grew, so did his fighting skills.

And as his fighting skills grew, his ability to express emotion, socialize, and sympathize, lessened.

By the time Wilbur came along, Techno's arms hadn't seen the light of day in nearly a year. They were always covered in sleeves to keep others' skin away from his.

Wilbur was the opposite of Techno. He screeched at all hours of day and night for his father, giggling and smiling widely whenever he was given attention.

The two brothers demanded so much from their father in so different ways that by the time Tommy came along, there was simply nothing left to give.

Instead of being comforted when he cried, being gently placed back in his crib whenever he tried to escape, they let him cry and let him roam. It caused him to have a firm grasp of his independence and an even firmer grasp of his emotions.

His sobs as an infant were always unapologetic and loud, adjectives that followed him into his early years of childhood, when he was always tagging along after his older brothers, but at a distance.

Tommy felt like he'd always known not to touch Techno or speak out of turn when Wilbur was in a bad mood lest he be on the receiving end of either's temper. That's just the way it had always been.

Each time Techno came home from school with a note from his teacher about a fight and each time Wilbur slammed his door and refused to come down for dinner whenever Phil brought up his consistently low grades, Tommy learned not to do those things. His dad was already stressed enough with two kids like Techno and Wilbur; the least he could do for his father was stay out of the way.

So that's what he did. He made sure not to make enemies of his classmates so he wouldn't get in fights, and he made sure to stay on the good side of his assignments and his teachers so his grades hovered at As. And it worked. Phil never had to worry about him. That's what he wanted, wasn't it?

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2

Time and the things confined in it move differently when one is eternal. Everything moves so fast, yet when one moves, even a flick of a finger, everything else slows down to balance it out.

Most of the time, Wilbur didn't move. He stayed stationed behind the claw machine because his dark figure blended into the shadows and his yellow eyes fit in with the flashing lights of the machine.

He was rarely spotted, and when he was, the children didn't know they'd spotted him.

He also enjoyed this spot because he could see out the clear case of the machine and watch the children run around. The game was a popular one, so he got to see their red-cheeked faces light up when they caught a toy. 

Today, a group of kids came running over. The leader, head decorated with a birthday crown, shoved her way to the front. "I go first, it's my birthday," she crowed, and the other children grumbled.

With the tip of her tongue ever so slightly creeping out, she focused on dropping the claw where she wanted it. Wilbur followed her intense gaze to a monster plush.

Good choice.

The bottom of the plush was buried among other toys, but the head popped out far enough that it wouldn't be impossible to get it. Just a bit of a challenge.

The girl's and Wilbur's eyes followed the claw as it lowered down, gripped the plush, and pulled up, bringing the toy with it.

Wilbur hissed in quiet excitement, taking just a moment too long to notice that the girl's eyes had left her prize and were now trained directly on his.

She screamed.

In a panic, Wilbur fled to the row of Skee-Balls, watching as all the adults' heads turned slowly to the source of the scream.

Feet fell upon patterned carpet in heavy, slow thumps, as if the bodies were moving through water.

When Wilbur finally settled and stopped moving, a few years had passed. The girl, older now, walked into the arcade on a quiet day with shaky steps and quarters in hand. She crept over to the claw machine (it hadn't changed) and slowly peered around the corner. She sighed in relief and put a quarter into the slot. It took her a few tries to pick up a toy, having lost her skill after years of letting it rust, but got a penguin plushie at the price of a dollar twenty-five. She took it out of the drop box with reverent hands, staring into its eyes for a moment.

As she walked out, she thanked the attendant at the ticket counter. Wilbur never saw her again.

Some time later (Wilbur hadn't bothered to keep track) the next thing to catch his eye strode in with confident feet covered in Velcro-strap shoes. He looked to the boy's honey-blond hair, taking in bright blue eyes staring at the Skee-Ball machines.

As the boy walked over, he fished out a quarter from his shorts and put it into the slot, beginning to play once the balls had rolled down for his use.

He wasn't great, but not terrible. It took him a few tries, but he eventually beat the score he had gotten on his first round, pumping his fist in quiet success.

Wilbur thought he would bore of Skee-Ball at that point and move on to another game, but the kid fished more quarters out and put them in.

He played. And played. And played.

His scores steadily improved, but all too soon, the boy was out of quarters, small hands coming up empty when he dug them into his pocket.

His lip curled in a small frown, looking at the ground to see if he could have dropped any.

Wilbur did the same and saw a glistening coin that had ended up behind the machine, probably having spent decades in that spot. he hadn't even noticed it.

He picked it up, wiped the dust off, and rolled it towards the boy. He didn't know why he did it. He shouldn't have. But he did.

The kid felt something hit his shoe and looked down to see the quarter still spinning as it fell. He knelt down and grabbed it with small fingers, then looked up.

Straight at Wilbur.

This time, there was no scream. There were no tears, running, or panicked parents. The boy just looked at him.

"Thanks," he said after a bout of silence. He put the quarter in and played another round.

A while later, the boy came back. It couldn't have been long, a few months at most, since he looked the same.

"Excuse me, Mr. Skee-Ball?" the boy said once he had reached the machine.

"I was wondering if I could have a quarter."

Wilbur rolled out another quarter. The boy played.

He kept rolling the quarters, and the boy kept picking them up and sticking them in the machine.

"Could I have some more quarters, please?" the boy asked, and Wilbur suddenly found that there were no more — not behind this machine, at least. 

"I can look," he rasped quietly, and the boy's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

Wilbur slinked off, going from shadow to shadow until he got to the claw machine. Jackpot.

So many kids spent their trips to the arcade glued to this one game in hopes of bringing home a new stuffy, so it was no wonder that the floor was positively littered with quarters.

Wilbur happily scooped them up in his inky hands, being careful as he carried them back to the boy. He found himself excited to see how he would react to this bounty.

By the time he got back to the Skee-Ball, he wasn't sure how much time had passed. Granted, he had been behind the claw machine for a while, looking for quarters and picking them up, but he was relieved to see the boy was standing in the same spot.

Wilbur did a double glance and realized this was a different boy. Or at least, it wasn't the same boy he had met earlier.

This boy looked like that little boy, except this one wasn't little. He was tall now, hair slightly darker, face more mature. His shoes had gone from Velcro to lace-up.

"Was I really gone that long?" Wilbur rasped, mourning the lost time with his new friend.

"You've been looking for quarters... all this time?" he asked. Wilbur nodded, yellow eyes bouncing up and down in the black. 

"But look at all these quarters!" Wilbur hissed excitedly, holding his hands out. The quarters jingled softly and the boy's eyes widened.

"I thought I was dreaming, all those years ago," he said softly. Wilbur looked into his eyes and was certain this was the same one. That unmistakable blue.

"What's a dream?"

The boy chuckled a little. "Doesn't matter. It just means I'm glad to see you again."

---

3

Mitch needs to get off his ass and hire an actual chef, Tommy thought to himself as he closed the last lid on the buffet warmers.

The advertisement for free hot breakfast on their website and the sign outside was the only thing keeping the hotel afloat, honestly. And if I'm the one cooking all the breakfast, that means this hotel is essentially resting on my shoulders, thought Tommy spitefully. I need a fucking raise.

Just then, three men walked into the hotel and Tommy hurried over to the front counter, ripping his apron off and stuffing it under the desk. "How can you help today?" he said, slightly out of breath. One of the men, the one with pink hair, raised an eyebrow at him. If Tommy didn't need this job so bad, he would have glared back.

"Is breakfast still going?" said the oldest-looking worriedly. "Phil, it's seven in the morning," the brunet grumbled, glaring half-heartedly at his surroundings.

"Yes sir, I- er, the chef just finished cooking it," he said, remembering to offer a friendly smile.

"Wonderful," the blond breathed, sighing in relief. He pulled out some bills from his pocket, putting them on the counter. 

"Our house has a gas leak and we need to stay here for a while. Is this enough for the first few nights?"

Tommy quickly counted the bills. "Yep, this is good for three nights."

"And breakfast?"

"Breakfast is complimentary."

"That's suspicious," the brunet commented, and while the blond man was searching his wallet for his ID, Tommy stuck his tongue out at the man.

"AH! HE-"

"Hush, Wilbur," Phil breezed over. "Here's my driver's license."

Tommy's fingers hammered on the keys for a few seconds before handing it back. "Alright, good to go," he said. "Your room is number twelve."

A brass key was handed to Phil, who looked at it for a moment before pocketing it. "Thanks, mate. Now, where can we find breakfast?"

-

"These eggs taste like shit," the Wilbur one said, spitting them out into a napkin.

Before he could stop himself, Tommy said back, "Fuck you too, bitch," freezing as soon as the words came out of his mouth.

Slowly, he began cleaning up the kitchen again, hoping if he acted like that hadn't just happened, they would too.

"I thought the chef cooked them?" the pink-haired one snarked, and Tommy couldn't stop himself.

He held up his middle finger towards the table, not even bothering to turn around as he wiped down the stovetop, hearing an offended gasp from behind him.

"What's your name?" the blond asked, and Tommy turned around, squinting his eyes. "Are you going to report me to my manager? 'Cause you should know that he's not here and he won't care. If you want to tell him to hire a chef, though, be my guest."

They stayed frozen in a stare before the blond man started laughing. Wilbur rolled his eyes, and the pink-haired one just sighed heavily. "He's gonna adopt another one," he said softly to his food.

"No, mate, I'm not gonna report you. Goodness knows Techno and Wil need an ego check sometimes. I just wanted to get to know you since you're the only one here."

"Well, that's not gonna change, I'm the only one that works here. I'm Tommy, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Phil. And I thought you had a manager?"

"Nice to meet you too. And yeah but he doesn't work at all."

"So you do everything?"

"Well, we're a pretty small hotel and only have twenty or so rooms, and most of them stay empty since we don't get a whole lot of guests."

"Don't you have school?" Wilbur piped up as he chewed a mouthful of waffle. Tommy stayed silent.

"...Okay then," the brunet said after a moment, pouring an obscene amount of syrup over his waffles. Tommy shuffled in place, hitting his shoe against the linoleum floor a few times before saying, "I've got to go work on something, but let me know if you need anything."

"Alright, thank you, Tommy," Phil said as he smiled gently. Tommy smiled back, then went to go fix a broken toilet in room five.

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