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Wilbur had been cold for as long as he could remember, for as far back as his mind could reach.
It was a strange coldness, they found out in his youth, one that couldn’t be quenched by mountains of blankets, or the biggest of hugs, or even the comforting glow of the crackling fire place. The layers of sweaters and coats he would wear did near nothing to mask the cold. It was there forever, lingering.
Wilbur had learned to deal with it, pushing the never-ending chill to the back corner of his thoughts, and fixated on his tasks to avoid giving the icyness even a second of time in his mind. He was the president of a nation after all, the leader of a rebellion, he had no shortage of work to be done.
But then it got worse.
The coldness started to grow, when he saw the results of the election, the one percent of votes that exiled him from the land he created.
And the coldness grew as he and Tommy ran from what was his pride and joy. He had to leave it all behind, his men, his friends, his own son. His son. His thoughts turned stale at the mere mention of Fundy, how he betrayed them all, the sight of him standing, gazing proudly at the swiftly-burning flag of L’manburg.
The coldness grew still as they set up camp in a ravine, hidden away from civilization, alone in the wilderness.
Out here, there was nothing to distract Wilbur from the cold. It set into his bones, his veins turned to ice and his mind a glacier. The only thing he craved was an escape.
And he had finally found it.
The button.
It stood, mounted on the wall in front of him. The world had never been as cold as it was on that day. At those moments. It was all Wilbur could do to keep from shivering from the non-real frost that brushed his face, the sweeping chill that was permanently affixed to his spine.
They tried to stop him, from pressing the button. Tommy was adamant there was a better way, to take back the nation with negotiation. He said that it wasn’t too far gone yet. Tommy was a fool. They all were. This wasn’t about L’manburg, not anymore. This was about escaping the cold that had plagued him for so long.
Phil was the last to try and stop him. And he almost succeeded, at that. But it wasn’t enough. The warmth Phil provided was temporary, finite, just a flicker of an an already dead flame that had vanished as soon as it arrived.
But the button. It was cold at Wilbur’s touch, but he knew, as he pressed it, that he finally felt it. Warmth. The cold was gone, replaced with raging heat of the same intensity. It was blissful, perfect really. The blood rushed through Wilbur’s mind, his smile wide and manic, his head pounding from the thrill of it all (or was it the catastrophic explosions behind him, he’d never know, he didn’t care to).
Even when the supposedly cold metal of his father’s sword pierced his body, when the anguished cries of his loved ones reached his ears, all he felt was a release from the grasp the cold held on him.
Wilbur had been cold for as long as he could remember, but finally, after years, decades, what could have been even centuries, he was warm.