A Proper Disgrace
The bat was coming straight for his face.
George had about three seconds to make peace with the fact that he was going to die in a barn, at the hands of an eight-year-old, with no one to mourn him but a field full of cows—creatures who, despite their vacant stares and slow, chewing mouths, would surely offer more grief at his passing than any human ever had. He could already imagine them, standing solemnly in the field, lowing mournfully into the night, the only creatures in existence who might spare him a moment of sorrow. Not his father, not his so-called friends back in London, certainly not his uncle, who had thrown him to the wolves (or, rather, the small rabid child with a bat). No, in the end, his only mourners would be cows, and perhaps, if he were lucky, a particularly sentimental chicken.
And then—
A hand shot out with lightning precision, fingers like an iron vice locking onto his shoulder and yanking him aside with effortless strength—so fast, so forceful, that the air itself seemed to ripple in Techno’s wake. The bat whooshed past his ear, missing him by a breath, but the sheer power of the movement left George stumbling, the world tilting around him.
It was impossible. No one should be that fast. That strong. The way Techno had moved, so precise, so calculated—it was unnatural. George felt his legs wobble beneath him as the sheer magnitude of the moment sank in. He had just been saved by a force of nature.
“Careful,” Techno said, as though George hadn’t just nearly suffered a fatal accident.
George placed a hand over his chest. His very fragile, very delicate, very English chest. His heart was still hammering, his breath coming in uneven gasps. He felt lightheaded, his vision blurring at the edges. He wasn’t just rattled—he was unraveling.
“Careful?” he repeated, breathless, voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “I was nearly murdered.”
Techno blinked at him. “You were nearly mildly concussed.”
George let out a shaky breath. His hands trembled. His knees felt weak. Was this what it meant to be truly alone? To nearly die in the dirt, surrounded by strangers, and have no one to care except a boy with too much strength and a herd of indifferent cows?
Then he turned to the culprit.
Tommy stood there, grinning unapologetically, still holding the bat.
“I almost gotcha,” he said proudly.
George stared at him.
Tommy, apparently, took this as encouragement.
The next thing George knew, there were small arms wrapping around his waist.
George stiffened. "What—"
"I like you," Tommy announced, squeezing tighter.
George froze. His brain short-circuited.
This was the same child who had, not moments ago, nearly taken his head clean off with a bat. And now, now, he was proclaiming friendship? He was embracing him? Was this some sort of elaborate ploy? A predator lulling its prey into a false sense of security before striking again?
He needed to escape. But how? Any sudden movements might provoke another attack. He could practically feel Wilbur watching, amused, from the sidelines, and the last thing George needed was to provide more entertainment at his own expense.
He turned his head ever so slightly. "Wilbur." His voice was tight, urgent. "Help."
Tommy beamed up at George, utterly unbothered by the turmoil currently tearing through his soul.
George swallowed. He gave the boy a deeply uncomfortable pat on the head. "Yes. Well. That’s… nice."
Tommy giggled and ran off, leaving George standing there, utterly bewildered, his brain spiraling into absolute chaos. His hands hovered awkwardly in the space where Tommy had just been, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to form words, but all that came out was a strangled, incoherent sound.
This—this was not normal.
He had been raised in strict, polite society, where physical contact was reserved for stiff handshakes and the occasional, begrudging pat on the back. And now, a child—a wild, untamed creature of dirt and recklessness—had thrown himself at him with reckless abandon, squeezed the very life out of him, and then scampered off as if he hadn’t just shattered every last rule of proper social etiquette.
George brought a trembling hand to his chest, as if to steady his very soul.
"No," he whispered to himself, voice weak with disbelief. "No, that did not just happen."
But it had. And there were witnesses.
Wilbur was smirking.
"Yeah he does that"
George turned away, face burning with horror. He was losing his mind. He was certain of it now.
He had being hugged.
George exhaled. Crisis averted.
————————————————
Later, when they were finally free from Tommy’s chaos, George and Wilbur found themselves leaning against the fence, watching the sun lower over the fields. The quiet was a welcome change, though George wasn’t sure he liked how easily he was falling into it. He had spent his entire life surrounded by walls, noise, structure—this openness, this stillness, it was unnerving. Yet, with Wilbur beside him, it felt… less so.
Wilbur wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t constantly moving, shouting, demanding. He was a steady presence, casual and unintrusive, as though he knew George needed the space. And George, for once, didn’t mind the company.
George sighed. “You’re the only tolerable person here.”
Wilbur smirked. “High praise.”
George glanced at him. “You’re—different from them.”
Wilbur raised an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”
George hesitated. “You… you weren’t always here, were you?”
Wilbur shook his head. “Nope.” He tilted his head, watching the fields. “Few years ago, we were orphans, lived in a town a couple miles away. I'm pretty sure Tommy doesn’t remember any of it. Techno was always one with nature. I'm the only one who remembers the wonders of light switches. But y’a do get used to living here. Phil has always been rather… supportive, despite my best efforts against him.”
Wilbur chuckled.
George blinked, his mind whirring. Orphans. Adopted. That explained—well, everything. The lack of childhood stories, the reason their names had never been mentioned at dinners, why no one had ever spoken of cousins until now. His father had always been so precise, so meticulous about lineage and family expectations—of course he wouldn’t have bothered to bring up adopted relatives. They weren’t ‘proper’ family in his eyes, were they?
George felt something unpleasant settle in his chest. A mix of guilt, anger, and something else he wasn’t ready to name.
George swallowed, glancing down. His chest still felt tight. The events of the day still clung to him like a feverish nightmare. He had never felt more out of place in his entire life.
George was quiet for a long moment before Wilbur finally asked, "So? What do you think of Prime, now that you’re one of us?"
George made a face. "I think you’re all absolutely mad."
Wilbur grinned. "Fair." He leaned forward on the fence. "Just wait until tonight, Phil will have you burn a blessed candle"
George wheezed “of course, we must keep the absurdity at an all time high!”
For the first time since he’d arrived, George felt the smallest bit of relief.
Maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t die here after all.
Bonus:
That evening, after the long day, just as Wilbur had said, Phil approached George with a small package wrapped in cloth. He handed it over with a warm smile, the kind that made it difficult for George to protest, even as his instinct was to question everything.
"A gift," Phil said simply. "For your initiation."
George carefully unwrapped the package, revealing a candle—deep purple, smooth, and adorned with faint golden engravings of unfamiliar symbols. The scent of it was rich and earthy, something like aged parchment and warm embers.
"It's been blessed by Sam himself," Phil continued. "A Prime Candle. Light it before bed, and it’ll guide your thoughts."
George hesitated. He was still undecided about all this—this town, this faith, this strange way of life. But Phil’s expectant expression left little room for refusal.
"I... appreciate the gesture," George said carefully.
Later that night, as he lay in the attic, he lit the candle. The flame flickered gently, casting a golden glow across the wooden beams. He laid down, breathing deeply. The scent curled around him like an embrace, lulling him into something dangerously close to peace. His eyelids grew heavy.
And then—
He wasn’t in the attic anymore.
A vast, endless space stretched before him, filled with a shimmering, shifting light. Stars blinked in and out of existence. The air itself hummed.
A figure stood before him—tall, imposing, and yet oddly familiar. Cloaked in white with glowing green eyes behind a white mask, the being exuded an ancient, unshakable presence.
"You are at home now, George" the being said. Its voice rang through the air like a bell, reverberating deep within his bones.
George opened his mouth to question, to protest, but another presence appeared beside the god—a woman with kind eyes and Dark hair that flowed like a river.
"Do not be afraid," she said, voice gentle. "I will be looking out for you now."
George didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to process what was happening. But as he stood there, in the presence of these divine beings, something in his chest ached—something he had ignored for a long time.
And then—
He woke up, the candle still flickering beside him.