A Miserable Excursion
The rain hadn’t let up, turning the world into a gray, endless downpour. George’s coat was soaked through, clinging to his skin like an unwelcome second layer, and his boots squelched with every miserable step. Water dripped from his hair, slithering down the back of his neck, and the cold had settled deep into his bones, gnawing at him from the inside out.
And worst of all—
Dream had been unbearable.
“You work slower than my grandma. And she’s dead.”
“You sure you went to school? Because I’m starting to think you got lost on the way and never made it.”
“Oh my Prime. You actually reek. What is that, desperation? Or is it just the smell of a man utterly defeated?”
That last one had sent George over the edge.
He had whipped around, ready to absolutely eviscerate Dream with a well-articulated monologue—
Only to see Dream smirking down at him, sleeves rolled up, drenched in rain, looking like something straight out of a Brontë novel.
It was disgusting.
George hated him so much.
By the time they finally reached back home at the barn, George was vibrating with barely contained frustration. The relentless rain, the thick, cloying mud, the utter humiliation of being paraded around like a farmhand—it was too much.
As soon as they stepped inside, George bolted for the attic, muttering under his breath. He barely heard the others talking, barely noticed the warmth of the indoors as he stomped his way up.
His coat hit the floor in a wet heap. His shoes went flying across the room with more force than necessary. He swiped at his damp hair, still seething.
He sprinted to the corner where he had hidden his treasures, pulled out his power generator, and—
At last.
The glorious glow of a phone screen.
Civilization.
Music.
Contact with the outside world—though without the luxury of internet access. No messages, no news, no escape into the digital abyss. Just pre-downloaded music, old notes, and the dull, cold comfort of a screen glowing in the dim attic light.
George collapsed onto his bed, sighing in relief. The familiar hum of his device filled the air, drowning out the memory of rain and mud and Dream’s insufferable voice.
Wilbur, climbing up the ladder, peered over at him.
"Ah. You’ve returned to the digital age."
George, eyes closed, nodded, quickly angling the screen away from view. "Don’t snitch."
Wilbur scoffed, dramatic as ever. "My dear cousin, I may be many things—a scholar, a gentleman, an unrivaled conversationalist—but a snitch? Never."
George exhaled, relaxing just a fraction. He wasn’t sure he believed Wilbur, but at least for now, he wouldn't have to answer to Phil.
“I am never leaving this room again.”
Wilbur hummed, tilting his head as if pondering some great philosophical truth. Then, with the flair of a seasoned performer, he placed a hand over his heart and sighed. “Ah, but that is what they all say, dear cousin. And yet, inevitably, the call of the outside world proves too enticing. The sun, the sky, the grand adventures—”
George, deadpan, stared at him. “Mud. Manual labor. That thing you call stew.”
Wilbur gasped, as if mortally wounded. “Blasphemy! You wound me, sir.”
George did not respond, simply turning his attention back to his screen, scrolling mindlessly. Wilbur, undeterred, flopped onto the bed beside him, thumbing through one of his books.
The silence between them stretched comfortably.
For the first time in what felt like forever, George almost felt at peace.
It was… nice.
Techno and Tommy, however, were engaged in what could only be described as a battle of epic proportions.
It had begun as a simple staring contest, each determined to outlast the other in sheer, unblinking endurance.
Then, in a moment of sheer impulse, Tommy had launched a cushion straight at Techno’s face.
Techno, in his infinite patience, had calmly picked up the cushion and hurled it back with precise, calculated force.
That was all it took. Chaos erupted. A second cushion was thrown. Then a third. Then somehow, an entire chair was involved. A table was upended. Tommy had leapt onto Techno's back, clinging like a wild animal, while Techno moved with the quiet determination of someone who refused to acknowledge his opponent’s existence.
By the time George and Wilbur ventured downstairs, Techno had Tommy hoisted upside down like a sack of potatoes, and Tommy was flailing and screeching, absolutely convinced he could still win this war.
Phil, standing in the doorway, just having walked back, took one long, exhausted look at the scene and let out a sigh so deep it could have shaken the walls of the barn. He pinched the bridge of his nose, already resigned to whatever havoc had been unleashed.
“Prime help me.”
George, taking in the absolute absurdity of it all, turned right back around.
He was going back to bed.