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Phil has to bite back a groan as they lead him into the testing chamber for the third time this week. His entire back, from his wings to his hips, hurts from the effort of attempting to spit in the face of his captors. Metaphorically. Phill is pretty sure that if he were to literally spit in the face of one of his lab coat wearing jailers, he’d end up with two pretty little pinpricks of a taser gun in his arm, and a surge of electricity coursing through his body.
He wonders if they want wings or weapons this time. They’d been very impressed by his skills, the ones he’d developed in the years spent in isolation. He didn’t feel like telling them that you tend to develop a lot of different skills when you accidentally strand yourself in a dead world for five years, waiting for someone to come and check on you so you can hitch a ride back to a populated dimension.
Turns out, it's neither. They have a special surprise for him at the testing area.
It's his kids.
It's Wilbur and Tommy, to be exact. He’s not exactly surprised that Techno is absent from the gathering. Apparently, you make a few escape attempts, and you get confined to your cell (they call it a room. It is not a room. It’s a fucking cell) for the rest of eternity, which was the only reason why Phil hadn’t attempted a jailbreak yet. He’d spent years pretending to be an inhabitant of this dimension at one point, and nobody had known. Nobody. He had a wife and shit. If he made a breakout, there’d be no way for the Foundation to find him again.
He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t register hands pushing him through a doorway until he’s already through. His gut is screaming at him that he needs to remove himself from this situation, and
now,
his instincts stuck between a primal urge to run and the human urge to hug his children.
He doesn’t get the option to choose.
Phil steps forward, with the intent to hug his sons. He wants to wrap his arms and wings around them like he used to when they were children, waking up from nightmares. He wants to tell them both that it's okay, that they’ve been
so brave
and
so strong,
but dad’s here now, and he’s gonna make it all better. And maybe, some selfish part of him chimes, maybe he doesn’t want to do it for their sake but for his. Because if he makes the promise to them, then he has to follow through somehow, even if he has no idea
how
to even begin to fix this mess.
Instead, his whole body shudders, something else gaining control of his muscles. Ten feet away from him, Wilbur shudders as well, before standing straight. His eyes look confused, but the rest of his expression and posture scream with the same manic energy that he possessed in the button room.
“Kill me, Phil.” Wilbur shouts. His mouth and body follow a script, but his eyes scream with the same helplessness as Phil feels as his legs slowly walk him towards his son. He has the ability to watch, to feel, but he’s ultimately a passenger as the two of them act out this twisted play. There’s a horrible, familiar weight in his hand as a longsword appears out of nowhere, just in time for him to drive it into Wilbur’s gut.
He feels the blade hit home with a sickening sound of skin and muscle parting for a second time. He wants to believe that he’s dreaming, but he knows that even his subconscious isn’t sick enough to make up the sounds of Wilbur’s rattling breaths and Tommy sobbing. He’s just killed his son for the second time, in the exact same way, and he doesn’t even have enough control over his body to apologize.
The sword in his hands vanishes with Wilbur’s life.
He lets his jailers lead him back to his room before he allows himself to break down fully. He may not be able to control his tears, but he doesn’t want to let Tommy see his dad break down in front of him. He can’t.
Alone in his cell, Phil wraps his wings around himself, and cries.