Interlude Will

No matter how much Will washed, he couldn't get his hands clean.

His skin was warm and turning red from scrubbing, but the sticky feeling of blood—El's blood—clung stubbornly to his fingers. It was like it had seeped into his pores, tainting him in a way that soap and water couldn't touch.

The washroom attached to the Enrichment Centre's ambulance was supposed to feel safe, but to Will, it was like the walls were leaning in, trying to squeeze the air out of his lungs. The light was too bright, glaring off the sterile tiles, making everything feel sharper, more unforgiving.

He scrubbed harder, fingers trembling as the bar of soap kept slipping away. The scent of antiseptic hung in the air, almost stinging his nose, but beneath that, he swore he could still smell iron—the raw, metallic tang of blood. He looked up, catching his own reflection in the mirror. His eyes were too wide, too hollow, like he was looking at a stranger's face—someone who'd just seen the worst part of themselves.

And then he noticed he wasn't alone. There was another face in the mirror, flickering into view beside his own. Smaller, younger, and definitely dead. A familiar ghost that had haunted him for a while now—the memory of a death that never actually happened. He called it Dead Will, mostly because he hadn't come up with anything better.

Dead Will was both his muse and his oracle.

"We do what we must, because we can," the corpse-like face intoned, worms spilling from its slack mouth. The scene was so grotesque, so routine now, that Will found himself almost numb to it—like reading a gruesome comic for the hundredth time. But it wasn't the image that made him wince; it was the memory of the sound.

The sickening pop of an eyeball bursting.

That wasn't something he could shake off. It wasn't just in his head—it was a real memory.

Will clenched his fist, the ghost of his drawing pencil pressing against his palm. He could still feel the weight of it, slick with El's blood, even though he'd thrown it away as soon as he could. He'd acted without thinking, his instinct guiding his hand to do something awful and necessary.

"Spill blood, to spare blood," Dead Will said, his voice low and cracked, as his face crumbled away into a grinning skull.

In that moment, Will had been absolutely certain that El's eyes were the source of immediate and deadly peril. It was the only thing that made sense at the time, the only way to act quickly enough to save them all. But now that the deed was done…

Was it a vision, or was it just madness?

Dead Will's form started to disintegrate, turning to dust. But even as he faded, his last words lingered in the air like a whisper that wouldn't die. "If you can't trust yourself, whom can you trust?"

But that was the real question, wasn't it? Could he really trust himself? Deep down, he believed he'd done the right thing—that he had acted to save everyone. But then, so did all the madmen with their delusions.

Should he be locked away, treated like a danger to others?

Will's throat tightened, and he swallowed hard.

He wouldn't do well in a straitjacket.

The door slammed open, loud as a gunshot, and Will's body jerked, his eyes snapping to the doorway. There stood Mike, his face like a storm—fierce, all dark eyes and clenched jaw. But what really hit Will like a punch to the gut were the bruises. Swollen and ugly, a deep purple blotch spreading across half of Mike's face, like spilled ink soaking into paper.

Will's breath caught. He still couldn't believe he'd done that. Not just the bruises themselves, but the fact that he'd been able to do it at all. That he'd been that person, even for a second.

"El's awake," Mike said, his voice clipped and hostile. Will couldn't blame him, but it still hurt. "She wants to see you."

"Mike," Will started, reaching out to his best friend, "I'm—"

"Don't!" Mike recoiled like he'd been slapped, and the look in his eyes stung worse than any words. "I don't want to hear it. If it was up to me..." Mike's voice wavered, then hardened again. "But it's not. She needs rest. But she won't rest until she talks to you. So come on." He clenched his fist, his knuckles going white. "And keep your hands to yourself," he added through gritted teeth. "If you hurt her again…"

Mike trailed off. Because they all knew the truth. He'd tried to stop Will—not just him, but all of them. Jonathan, Nancy, Dustin, Max, Lucas—they'd all tried, and they'd all failed.

Mike's threat sounded hollow even to his own ears, and that emptiness, that fear and helplessness in his voice, hurt Will more than anything Mike could have said.

As they stepped out of the cramped washroom into the narrow aisle of the ambulance, a security guard stood near the door—a human, not a robot. Human guards were more visible around the Enrichment Centre now, ever since GLaDOS had gone offline. The official explanation was that they were running tests on backup systems, but Will wasn't sure he believed it. Something bigger was going on.

The guard's eyes flicked to Will, and for a moment, Will half-expected to be arrested on the spot. But maybe they had more urgent matters to deal with—like the Nazi attack on the Moon or whatever had caused the system to shut down. It wasn't like Will could just run away anyway.

Inside the ambulance's small emergency bay, there were two narrow beds. Jonathan, Nancy, and Dustin sat crowded on one. El lay on the other, Max by her side, with Lucas standing next to Max. Will's gaze darted over them, guiltily noting their injuries—the bruise on Dustin's cheek, Lucas's swollen nose, Jonathan's arm wrapped in a sling, Nancy's split lip.

But all of it seemed to blur in comparison to the bandages over El's eyes.

Pure, pristine white.

"Will," El said, her voice sounding like it was held together by sheer willpower, tired but stubborn, "Come closer."

Will shuffled forward slowly, his movements awkward and heavy like he was wading through deep water. But then something snapped inside him, and he couldn't hold back any longer. He stumbled the rest of the way to her side, almost collapsing there, knees hitting the cold floor.

"I'm so sorry," he blurted, his vision turning blurry and unfocused with tears that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his eyes.

El's hand reached out—not a fumbling gesture but a deliberate touch. Her fingers brushed under Will's eyes, gentle, like she was wiping away rain off a window. "Don't be," she said, and there was a quiet strength in her voice that felt like it could crack at any second. "Clever, brave, and ruthless. I see it now."

Max let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a shaky laugh, the kind that happens when you're too relieved to cry but too raw to smile.

El turned slightly, aiming that small, tired smile toward Max. "I don't need eyes to see. I haven't really needed them since I was little." Then, she looked back to Will—not that she needed to, but he could feel her focus on him, like she was seeing straight into his bones. "I was asked to forgive you," she said, her words carrying a weight that made them feel heavier than they should. "But I can't."

The words hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. Will felt his insides twist, sharp and cold, and for a second, he thought he might shatter right there. He'd known it—known that forgiveness wasn't something he could earn, not after what he'd done. But hearing it out loud still made the ground under his feet feel unsteady.

El's voice softened, almost cracking, as she went on. "Because you did the right thing, Will. You saved me. But I'm asking you to do something even harder—forgive yourself."

"How can you say that!" Mike shouted, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. He looked like he was about to punch Will. And for a second, Will almost wished he would. Maybe it would help. Maybe it would hurt less. "After what he did!"

Jonathan opened his mouth to speak, his face a mix of guilt and desperation, but Mike cut him off, spinning on him with fury. "Shut up!" Mike snapped, his voice cracking under the weight of his anger. "Don't think I've forgotten! If you two had just kept it in your pants, Steve wouldn't have run off to the Moon, and El—" His voice faltered, his breath hitching as he struggled to say her name. "And El wouldn't be lying here like this!"

"But you," Mike said, turning his fury back to Will, eyes blazing. "I had to watch you gouge El's eyes out with a pencil. Stab! Stab! Stab! And when I—when we—tried to stop you, you just threw us away like we were nothing. Like rag dolls."

Will flinched, the words hitting him harder than any punch could. He'd have preferred Mike to actually hit him. At least fists had a clear kind of pain.

"It's not about you," Max said, cutting through the tension. "This is El's choice. She's the one who's hurt. She's the one who decides."

"And what's with that?" Dustin suddenly jumped in, his brow furrowed. "I mean, Will, you've always struggled to even levitate a pencil, and now you're suddenly as strong as El or Damien? Like you're turning into Jean Grey or something?"

"I don't know how I did it," Will said, grateful for the distraction even as it brought back memories he didn't want to face. "I just knew I had to act. And when everyone tried to stop me... I just reacted. It wasn't like I wanted to, but something inside me just... snapped."

"You were sad, but you were angry too," El said softly, her voice calm like she was drawing wisdom from somewhere deep.

"I guess so," Will admitted, looking down at his hands. "I was terrified of what I was doing, of what I had to do. But I knew something awful would happen if I didn't. And when you all tried to stop me… it did make me angry."

"Anyone sane would try to stop you from gouging out someone's eyes," Mike muttered darkly.

"Someone once told me," El continued, ignoring Mike's bitterness, "that when we're sad, but also angry, our powers are strongest. If you hold onto that feeling, it might come easier."

She paused, her face turning serious, almost like she was weighing the words. "But he's not a good person, Will. So don't live like that. Being sad and angry all the time isn't a good way to live."

Lukas snorted, "You're right, no one wants to see the rise of Darth Will."

"It wouldn't be Darth Will," Dustin couldn't help himself from correcting. "Probably something like Death Linder, you know? Like invader—Vader. Blinder—Linder." Everyone stared at Dustin, his joke falling flat.

He shrugged, embarrassed. "Too soon?"

El let out a soft laugh, the sound cutting through the tension like sunlight breaking through clouds. "I needed that," she said, a hint of gratitude in her voice. Then, her tone shifted to something more serious, more fragile. "But now, I really need to rest. Someone, please keep an eye on Will. He's hurt his hands."