Chapter Text
It’s quiet.
It’s been quiet ever since they’ve locked him up and left him to rot.
It’s been quiet. There are no animals roaming around. No trees, no wind. Nothing. Nothing except for lava and a ticking clock and raw potatoes dropping into water.
He should be happy about this, he thinks. He should be happy because it just shows him his plan worked. That there was no problem, no setback, no children isn’t he one, too? thinking they were smarter than him, that they could win against him at his own game.
(They think they have won, but in the end, they locked him away just like he had predicted. Just like he had planned. They haven’t realized yet—haven’t realized that they’re following his strings like obedient little puppets. That they’ve walked right into a set-up. That they would’ve never had a chance if he actually wanted them dead.)
(He told them that he was always ten steps ahead—how did they forget? How did they forget something so crucial? (It’s no surprise then that it’s so easy to predict their next steps, to make them dance to his song, to make them follow his lead without them even realizing.))
Somehow, he doesn’t feel happy. Somehow, it doesn’t make him happy to know that he has won. Somehow…somehow, it just shows him that maybe he’s the only one who thought of them as a family.
No one except for Tommy has visited him so far, and he doubts that they still will—it’s been two weeks since the final confrontation. If no one has come by now, no one will ever come. Except if they need something from him. Except if they want Wilbur back.
His plan worked, didn’t it? They hate him now, they’ve united against him, they’ve become the one big, happy family he wanted them to. But…but he’s not part of it. He’s not a part of it, and he knows that no one wants him to be.
It’s understandable. It’s understandable, but it hurts. It hurts because they were his first family after his parents got murdered. The Army never was. Of course, it wasn’t. How could it’ve been?
Sometimes, he remembers, sometimes, he wished that someone had noticed. That someone had seen something. That someone had looked him in the eyes and told him that they see it the same way. That they see them as family. That they will help. That this will work without violence and manipulation and death.
But no one ever did. No one ever did. (Maybe though, maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that they haven’t seen through his lies and his mask and his armor. (They still don’t know that he’s not twenty-one—that he’s not the age they assumed he’d be. That he’s not twenty-one and an adult, and that he doesn’t know everything about the way the world works.))
If they don’t realize he’s not an adult, how would they realize that he’s not the villain, the tyrant, the monster they think he is?
It’s okay though. It’s okay because at least, they’re a family now. At least, they’re a family. At least, they’re a family.
It’s not okay. It’s never been okay.
It’s been three weeks.
It’s been three weeks of silence and empty books and sickening potatoes.
It’s been three weeks of screams in his head and burning lava and blood on the walls.
It’s been three weeks and not one person that is not Tommy has showed up. (Why did Tommy visit him? Out of all of all of them…why has it only been Tommy? The person he has hurt the most.)
He shouldn’t be surprised. He really shouldn’t be. (He wanted them to. He wanted them to hate him so much that they would unite against him, fight him, lock him away.)
He wanted them to do all of this, but…but he had never planned to be put in this cell. Sam had wanted to add it; a high-security cell for dangerous prisoners after he had told him that someone he can’t kill would be placed in here.
But that was never the plan. It was never the plan to put anyone in here—not Tommy, not Tubbo, not Techno. No one.
He had made sure that there would be activities, that there would be ways for the prisoners to make the most of their time in the prison, that they wouldn’t go crazy.
He knows what solitary confinement can do to someone there’s a reason why it’s considered to be torture, after all. He knows. He’s lived through it once; he will do it again, but…it wasn’t planned.
It shouldn’t have happened and no amount of telling Sam so changes the Warden’s mind. He’s tried. Multiple times. All he achieves is less potatoes—just enough for him to survive, but not enough for him to not feel hungry anymore.
Gods.
He hates this so much. He hates it so much because it makes him think about things he’s wanted to forget. Things he’s wanted to forget and never remember ever again. Things of a time when he was a naïve little child with too much power, too much drive, too much hope.
(Things that make the pain in his wrist worse. The pain of a long-healed injury. The pain he shouldn’t feel anymore.)
The thoughts make him wonder if this was the right decision. If this was worth it. If they were worth it. Maybe he should’ve let them do whatever they want. Maybe he should’ve stayed with Sapnap and George in their little cottage. Or maybe he should’ve opened a new server, should’ve let this one die and let the others figure out where to go next which server they could destroy after his.
He wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have sacrificed his own life for people who will never appreciate it. Who will never even know what he did for them.
He wouldn’t have to eat raw potatoes and get sick from them every single time. He wouldn’t let his finger burn and walk into lava when the thoughts get too loud. He wouldn’t try drowning himself. He wouldn’t be cut off from the world—alone with his thoughts and empty books, alone with a ticking clock and welcoming lava.
At the same time…he’s got lucky with his treatment here. Technically, this is better. This is better than the one before this. The one he survived when he was ten. He gets food. He has water. And even if he’s not allowed to go out, he has his books and a quill.
It’s better.
It’s better.
Right?
To his surprise Bad comes to visit. He doesn’t know who he’s expected. Maybe Sapnap. Maybe George. Maybe Puffy who’s called him duckling and left him in favor of another child—a better child—maybe Tubbo and Tommy who’s been the only one to come see him so far to make him bring Wilbur back.
He doesn’t know. All he knows is that he doesn’t expect Bad to visit him. Bad who’s eyes shine red. Bad who’s looks so different with the white instead of red stripes. Bad who’s under the influence of the Crimson. (The one who should be human the least is the only one to tell him that the prison is inhumane.)
He knows he deserves to be locked up in here—somehow though, it still hurts when Bad tells him so. When he tells him that forever is not that long.
Bad tells him he’ll bring him a plant or a pet, Bad tells him he’ll talk to Sam about the conditions of the prison. Bad promises him more and more and more and he doesn’t hold any promise.
The conditions aren’t improved, Bad doesn’t come back to bring him a plant, a pet.
Days pass in a blur. Days pass he can’t bring himself to remember. Days pass and all he can think of is the hope that maybe, he won’t be alone in here for the rest of eternity.
He waits. And waits. And waits.
Nothing changes. Nothing changes, and Bad doesn’t come back to visit him.
He shouldn’t be surprised. (He knows he deserves this. The empty promises of people he once thought were his friends. It’s his own fault, isn’t it? He hurt them. Again and again and again.)
He’s hurt them. (He doesn’t think he can ever be forgiven. Even if it was for them. Even if everything he did was supposed to make their lives better. Was to make them hurt less.)
he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed he’s failed —
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
[Dream burned to death.]
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
With a sigh, Sam shuts off his communicator, ignores the death messages flooding the chat. (The death messages of a person he once saw as a friend. Until this friend started to abuse and manipulate and hurt children. Until this friend turned into a monster.)
He’ll deal with this situation on another day. Maybe. (He knows he never will. And he knows he should feel guilty about this. He knows—but he doesn’t.)
***
You’re thirteen seven when they come. You’re thirteen seven when they come and kill your parents. You’re thirteen seven when they take you away and leave your sister to die.
You’re thirteen seven when your childhood ends. When they force you to stop being a child. But it’ll take you six more years until you realize maybe though, maybe you never actually realize.
They lead you away from your childhood home, from the house that you grew up in. From the big tree near the church where you and your sister spent hours climbing on it. From your dead parents who begged for your life, who begged for your sister’s life, whose eyes are lifeless and cold now. From your sister who’s not dead yet, but who’s not alive either. (You might’ve been young back then, you might’ve been a child, but you knew that she wouldn’t come back. You knew she wouldn’t speak to you ever again after one of the men put a sword through her stomach and turned away turned away as if he hadn’t just killed a nine-year-old child.)
Back then, you didn’t know. You didn’t know why they took you and left your village in shambles, why they killed your parents and your sister and everyone else living there who dared to stand up to them.
Back then, you weren’t aware of the powers you held, of the talents you possessed, of the future you’d live.
Back then, you were just a child who wanted their life back. The life before the fire and the steel and the pain. The life before you had to see your parents be killed.
The life you lived before they came and took away everything you had ever loved.
(Maybe this has been the first time you realized that people are going to use everything to tame you.
Maybe it was the first time you realized that attachments will only ever hurt you.)
***
When he wakes up, he’s cold. (As if he’s back. Back in snow biomes with no other human than the men in sight. Back in tents that never brought the comfort of a home. Back in temperatures that might’ve killed a lesser soldier.)
No. It’s not…it’s not possible. It’s not possible. He…he left—his eyes fly open.
His throat closes, he can feel tears prickling in the corners of his eyes as he shuts them close he can’t he can’t cry not now please he can’t be weak in front of them he can’t he can’t be—.
There’s no way. There’s no fucking way. There’s no way he’s back. He made sure…he made sure—! He made sure to leave no evidence when he left he made sure!
He might be suffocating. He might die. He might. Does he care? Does he care? When has he cared last about his life? When was the last time he actually wanted to live—his eyes snap open. Really open. Open in a way that makes it possible for him to see. And he’s…he’s—
And he’s back. Not back in the snow biomes and in the black tents, not living in temperatures that made him wish he’d die. Not back with the men who killed his parents.
Instead, he’s back…back in a cell made out of black obsidian. Back in a room closed by falling lava. Back in here where he only hears a clock ticking and raw potatoes falling into a hole filled with water. (Back in a room that seems as inescapable as his situation when he was seven thirteen and taken away from his parents.)
He’s back in a cell where he doesn’t even have a bed to sleep on, a chair to sit on, a table to put his food on—but…but he can’t complain. Shouldn’t complain. He has had it worse. Once—once a long time ago. Compared to back then, this is nothing. This is nice treatment. This is better than what he deserves, isn’t it?
He’s back in this cell, his fingers tremble not from the cold not from the cold not from the cold not from the— and he’s not sure whether he should be…glad that he’s not back in the cold or if he…if he—the heat is better than the cold. Right?
He’s, he’s always preferred it. Preferred the heat over the cold. Because Sapnap was born from fire. Because he associates it with his friends with his friends he doesn’t have. Because it reminded him of freedom.
It doesn’t. Not anymore.
It doesn’t remind him of Sapnap anymore. It’s impossible to still associate it with his friends. And no matter how hard he tries—he can’t think of freedom when he feels the warmth of lava on his skin. (It’s almost as if those things never existed. As if five weeks of solitary confinement stripped away every little positive feeling he’s ever possessed. Maybe he deserves it. He doesn’t know.)
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
[Dream drowned.]
[Dream drowned.]
[Dream drowned.]
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
[Dream drowned.]
[Dream drowned.]
[Dream drowned.]
[Dream drowned.]
[Dream drowned.]
It’s only been five weeks if he’s counted correctly.
It’s only been five weeks, and he’s already going crazy.
It’s only been five weeks. How will he be able to stay longer in here? With no human contact, with no way to fill his time, with no other sound than the stupid clock on the wall?
How long will it take him until he breaks?
(He can sense the disappointment of them in his sleep. When did he get so weak?)
(It’s not the first time that he wonders whether he should’ve never gotten attached to any of them in the first place.
He’s learned his first lesson when he was thir—when he was seven. He should’ve never forgotten it. He should’ve continued to run and never befriended anyone of them. Not Sapnap, not George, not Wilbur or Tommy. He should’ve stayed alone—he wouldn’t be in here if he had.)
Why has he been so stupid?
***
There’s not a lot you remember from the time they locked you away. You know that they didn’t want you to die not really, not your body. You know that this was not to punish you. You know they did it because they thought it would make you stronger. It did, didn’t it?
You remember that you were sixteen ten the first time it happened. That they dragged you away from the other soldiers children who weren’t fast enough to run away when their villages were overrun.
You remember that they dragged you away, that they locked you up in a black box built with obsidian, that the only light you saw for the next two weeks was the dim light of dirty glowstone. You remember that even if you stood directly in front of it, you weren’t able to see more than the shadow of your hand.
They don’t give you a lot of food. Just a loaf of bread at the beginning of your isolation. (It isn’t the first time, they starve you until you almost die. It just is the first time that they put you in a black box for that.)
To your surprise, the first day is better than you had expected. You’ve heard all the horror stories from the other soldiers children who came before you it didn’t come as a surprise that it would happen to you, too. You know what you have to expect.
The first day in hell is okay. You’re bored out of your mind, but it’s fine. You’ve survived worse, you’ll survive this. You know you will. All the other soldiers children did, too; why should you not? (They tell you you’re supposed to be one of the strongest. One of the most capable ones. One of the most skilled soldiers they have. Of course, you’ll get through this without a problem.
Right?)
When you wake up on your second day, your neck is stiff, all of your limbs feel like you’ve twisted them in a wrong way and the shoulder you’ve injured before being locked up throbs painfully. (You know it’s your fault—after all the first thing you’ve learned was to sleep in any kind of situation, in any kind of position. It’s your fault that you haven’t used this knowledge.)
The second day is still okay. Your ability to move is restricted, you can’t release all of the energy pent up in you—it almost feels like hell. (But you’re a good boy. A brave soldier. You know how to follow their orders and to stay put. You know what you have to do and how to act. You know they will be disappointed in you if you misbehave now.)
So, you try to repeat the fighting moves they taught you just a few days prior. You’ll be locked away for two weeks—it might not be a lot, but you know how much you can forget, how much the others might learn, how far you’ll fall behind. The most you can do is to not have them to need to repeat their lessons for you again.
On day three your wrist begins to ache; the pain subdues the discomfort your shoulder brings, but you’re not sure if it’s better or worse. Because…because your wrist should’ve healed years ago. They’ve you broke it two years ago it shattered and healed so badly that it had to be rebroken again.
You feel your wrist; it’s not broken. Then why does it hurt so badly?
Day four doesn’t bring comfort. It just gets worse. Day five doesn’t either.
You’re sitting alone in a black box, the glowstone is flickering although you’re sure it should not be possible. Your loaf of bread is already half-eaten. There are still nine more? Less? Has it really been day five already? Maybe it’s been longer…or shorter you don’t know you don’t know you don’t— days to go. How did the others not go crazy?
Day six or is it day seven? comes along and with it more darkness, more boredom, more pain you know you shouldn’t be punching the walls, but it’s the only thing you can do. Your wrist doesn’t stop aching and your shoulder gets worse again. It’s only been six or seven days. You shouldn’t be this…this, you shouldn’t be this—
You don’t remember.
Day seven eight? passes by without you really noticing. You sleep a lot. You try to, at least. Your days are filled with darkness and nothingness. (Sometimes you wonder whether you’re still alive. You don’t feel like you are. The glowstone is so dim that you feel as if you’re floating in the Void.)
More days pass. More days that you spend doing nothing. More days that you later will not remember. (You’ll only remember your aching wrist and blood dripping on obsidian, the forgotten bread lying on the floor and the glowstone in the corner.)
You don’t…you don’t know how much time has passed (You don’t remember.) when the door to your prison is opened, and the first natural light you’ve seen in days weeks hits your eyes. It’s almost blinding even if it’s evening and the sun is setting.
They pull you out. You’re too weak to help them. Why are you so weak?
“Clay,” you hear them say. You can’t open your eyes; the light is too strong. It hurts. “You’re one of the best. This…this is disappointing.”
(Of course, it is. Of course. You’re not surprised. Everything you do…everything you do is disappointing. They’ll tell you you’re one of their best, and the next second, they’ll tear you apart.)
You know they expect more of you. You know you should be more than you are. You’re one of the best fighters, you’re the fastest of them all, no obstacle can stop you.
You’re an Admin; you’ve got powers most people are dreaming about. Then why are you so weak?
***
There’s light in his cell when he wakes up. There’s…light in his cell. Why is there light? There should be only dirty glowstone.
There’s light…and he’s warm. He’s—he frowns. He frowns as he opens his eyes.
He can see a glowstone in the corner, but it’s free from dirt. Its glow is bright and warm; it spends light. And there’s lava. There’s lava right in front of him. There’s lava closing his cell instead of another wall made out of obsidian.
He’s not there. Obviously, he’s not there. It’s been five…five years. (Has it been longer? He doesn’t remember. When did they…when did they lock him up? Has it really only been two months?)
Has he been dreaming? Again?
It’s been a long time since he dreamed. Almost ironic that a person with his name would have trouble dreaming—or well. Trouble sleeping. One needs to sleep to be able to dream.
He doesn’t do either.
But since…since he’s been here. Since he’s been here, he’s sleeping more. He’s been sleeping more, and slowly the dreams have been coming back. Only that these aren’t dreams. They’re memories. They’re memories of a time he just wants to forget.
(Maybe this is one of the reasons why he’s never sleeping. He’s capable of suppressing unpleasant memories, but they’ve always been coming back as soon as he’s asleep. He’s never able to escape them. He has never been, and he knows he’ll never be.)
Normally though, normally he doesn’t dream about things that are so closely related in such a short period of time. (But maybe more time has passed. He doesn’t know how long he’s been in here. After the fifth week, he’s lost count. He didn’t want to keep count.)
Normally, he’ll dream about the war when he was eleven seventeen, and then he’ll dream about L’Manberg, about Wilbur calling him a villain a monster. Sometimes, he dreams about the day he was taken away, about the snow and the cold, about the black tents. He never dreams about his training. The only exception is the box.
Maybe it’s Pandora’s Vault. Maybe that’s the cause. He’s got a lot of time to think, a lot of time where he doesn’t have to do anything at all. A lot of time without any kind of human interaction. A lot of time to just lose himself. Yet again.
Maybe that’s the cause. Maybe all the time he has on his hands makes him think about events in the past that he’d rather forget—it’s hard to remember what he’s thinking about. About the fleeting thoughts that invade his mind, only to be forgotten in the next second.
Maybe there’s been something that’s caused him to delve to deeply into his history. That’s caused him to dream about this.
He doesn’t know. He’s not sure if he wants to know. It might just make things worse. It’ll definitely make things worse.
He breathes out. There’s no point on dwelling on this. The longer he spends his time on these…thoughts, the worse the dreams might get.
But there’s not a lot to do otherwise. There’s only so much to write down. And there’s only so much to eat. And there’s only so much time that he’s able to stare at the glowstone until the thoughts are getting too loud again.
There’s never enough attempts to finally stay dead.
Gods. Sam will be disappointed. Again.
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
[Dream burned to death.]
[Dream burned to death.]
[Dream burned to death.]
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
Sam doesn’t need to look at his communicator to know what happens when it starts to ping. And ping. And ping again. There’s a difference in sound between a death message and an actual chat message; by now, they all know what this is. If they haven’t muted him yet.
There have been a few quiet days in which Dream didn’t try to kill himself—it’s been so nice without a reminder that the tyrant, manipulator, villain Dream is still alive, still living and breathing, still a danger to them—to them and to the minors on this server. The pinging makes him wonder whether he should just mute him, too.
It’s been almost two months now since they saved Tommy and Tubbo and locked Dream away. It’s been almost five weeks since anyone came to visit the prisoner. It’s been almost four weeks since he’s last seen Dream. (He knows he should be looking for the prisoner. He knows it’s his duty. But he can’t bring himself to go to the prison. To see if Dream’s okay.)
As long as Dream is locked away as long as all of them are safe from Dream he won’t go back. (And Sam has enough trust in his abilities to know that Dream won’t be getting out any time soon.)
He stares at the wall.
There’s not a lot of other things he’s done the past few hours? days? weeks.
He hasn’t touched the books since Bad’s visit. Since he gave Bad a book to thank him for visiting. Since Bad promised to come back with a pet or a plant. Since Bad broke it.
When he was younger, he used to love reading books. Loved listening to the elderly in their village. Loved when storytellers came through their home and brought stories from other Universes that were more beautiful, more heroic, less cruel than their own. Loved when the older children soldiers whispered about heroes and myths and sacrifices in the middle of the night—always careful to not get caught. Loved when the time came and he was one of the older ones, one of those who shared stories that made them forgot about all the pain and hurt and gruesomeness of their lives.
Once he dreamed about becoming an author himself—he thinks he remembers telling Sam about it. Shortly after they met.
He doesn’t want to anymore. He doesn’t think he would be able to become one.
He can't tell tales of heroes and the villains they defeated. Of princes who saved their princesses from dragons. Of witches who try to kill children only to get killed themselves.
It’s not possible anymore. Not with him being the villain of their—of Tommy’s story.
He’s the villain. How should he be able to tell the story of a hero?
He’s never been one. He’s always been the antagonist. A villain.
Someone who hurts others rather than heal their pain. He’s hurt everyone on this server; he still does. Someone’s who selfish instead of sacrificing their life for the greater good. (His plan to unite the server was never shared by anyone else. After all, they always seemed quite content shattered into fractions.)
Someone who’s a bad person. Someone who deserves to be in here. Bad has said so. When Sam still came to see him, he always told him. Why should he believe something else?
He’s still staring at the obsidian wall—he can’t even pick at his bandages that normally would cover his arms and hands. He can’t do parkour, can’t even properly sleep. There’s just nothing to do.
And Gods, he wishes there was something he could do. (Something that’s not jumping in lava. Something that’s not seeing how long it takes him to die when he burns. Something that’s not counting the seconds until he blacks out when he puts his head under water. Something that doesn’t involve pain. Even if he likes it. Even if it reminds him that he’s still alive.
Sometimes, he wishes he wasn’t.)
(But he doesn’t deserve the release of all the pain through death. He didn’t let Tommy be free—why should he be allowed?)
He wonders why he doesn’t already have any hallucinations, why he’s not going crazy yet, why he’s still sane as sane as a villain can be. But maybe…maybe his time in the Army taught him something.
He knows it made him stronger—obviously.
And all the pain he went through had to bring him some sort of advantage.
Something’s different.
He hasn’t moved from his spot since he woke up a few hours ? prior—he doesn’t want to move.
His head is foggy, his legs and arms are heavy. He’s not even sure he’d be able to get up if he wanted to.
It’s probably the lack of food. (He’s been vomiting from the raw potatoes since the second week of being here. Since then, he hasn’t been able to eat more than four potatoes a week. Dying and respawning is nicer than going through food poisoning.)
Maybe it’s because he’s constantly respawning. Not that he cares. Not really. Everything that fastens up his death—his final death—is welcomed, and this might do that, too.
It doesn’t matter now though. It doesn’t matter because something’s different—someone’s…coming?
He can hear the pistons. The lava…the lava falls weirdly. It’s not as calming as before.
Someone’s coming.
But who? Maybe Tommy to finally revive Wilbur? It must’ve been months by now—he’s already wondered although…he can’t say he cares enough about it to think a long time about it.
(He knows they’ll either kill him after he bring Wilbur back or they’ll put him back in here just in case someone else might die. Tommy and Tubbo are on their last lives after all. He knows what’s better. He knows what he wants. He also knows it’s very unlikely.)
He still hopes it might be George. Or Sapnap. Or Bad. Or Puffy. Maybe it’s Bad, and he’s bringing the plant he promised? (It’s a childish hope. A childish hope he shouldn’t have. He’s not a child anymore. (But is he? He’s fifteen, not twenty-one. All of the people on the SMP call Tommy and Tubbo children even if they’re almost adults—why should he not be one if they are? Why is he the only one who’s punished when he’s the youngest? But…age is no excuse, it never has been, and he’s stopped being a child a long time ago.))
It takes forever for the lava to completely fall. It takes an eternity, and it’s still not long enough.
On one hand, he’s excited. It’s been too long without any human interaction, and he’s always been better with other human beings surrounding him. On the other hand though…he’s not sure if he can do this.
Whoever might visit him will be just another person he hurt. The others don’t care enough to come visit which is…understandable. Very. If they haven’t visited Tommy, why would they come see him out of all people?
(And yet…and yet he wishes, he could see George and Sapnap and Puffy. Punz—Punz who was on his side up until the end. Punz who promised to come visit, but who he convinced to not do so. Too suspicious. Now he wishes, he’d never talked him out of it.)
It takes forever, and when the lava is finally gone, when it’s only a sea covering the floor, he sees him.
He sees Sapnap. Why would…why would Sapnap visit him? Why now? It’s been months, why would he come only now? He thought…he thought after neither Sapnap nor George came that they would just…forget about him. (Which would’ve been for the best. Which is the reason why he let them go after George accused him of not loving them anymore. He’s never stopped loving them. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tell them.)
He sits up. Forces himself to sit up—it’s the least he can do for his best friend Sapnap. If he already can’t talk to him—it’s not because he doesn’t want to, it’s more a matter of the fact that he might not be able to.
He hasn’t talked in weeks, his throat is dry and raw and who knew that lava would burn that much in his throat even after his death?.
By the time, he’s finally sitting up he’s weak weak weak weak weak weak weak weak weak weak, Sapnap steps off of the bridge.
“Dream,” he says, and it’s been…it’s been—he doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s heard Sapnap’s voice. Since he’s heard anyone’s voice. He almost cries at the sound because he’s alive, isn’t he? But he doesn’t. He doesn’t because monsters don’t shed tears.
“Dream,” Sapnap repeats, a frown on his face. He might expect him to reply. To show in any way that he understands him. That he’s listening. But everything is so heavy. His mind is still foggy. He can’t talk. Maybe he can. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember the last time he needed to speak.
He glances at the chest on which a book’s lying. It’s been there since Bad’s visit. He never put it back.
“You want the book?” Sapnap asks as he follows his gaze. “So, you’re not talking? In general? Only not to me? Are you sulking? You know you deserve to be in here. As much as I still love you, I have to say that.”
…sulking? Why should he be sulking? There’s no reason for that…not really. He deserves to be in here. If even Sapnap says so…
It’s almost a surprise that Sapnap actually brings him the book and a quill—he expected him to just walk away after a few minutes and the realization that he won’t talk. He would…he would if he was able to.
“So,” Sapnap says, handing the writing tools to him (he ignores the way his arms feel too heavy to lift, the way his hands shake, the scars on his bare skin). “Why are you not talking? Have you not been talking to Sam all the time?”
Haven’t seen Sam.
The frown on Sapnap’s face deepens. “You haven’t seen Sam? Shouldn’t he look after you? Make sure there are no problems?”
He just shrugs, his eyes slowly moving towards the lava. (To the lava that doesn’t feel quite like the hugs Sapnap used to give him, but closer to the feeling than anything else he’s experienced in the last few months—even before the prison.)
He won’t though. (He still remembers Sapnap’s reaction when he first died in the nether because of lava. And even if they’re not friends anymore, even if Sapnap might not care about him now, he won’t jump into the lava. Or burn himself so long until he dies.)
Don’t know how long he hasn’t been here.
Sapnap’s eyes flicker towards the lava wall through which they still can see Sam’s nametag. “How do you get food if he doesn’t come?”
He really wishes he would spawn with his bandages—even after months it’s weird to see his bare wrists. (At least, he still has his mask. If he didn’t have it…he doesn’t know what he would do. They would know.)
Automated.
“Automated,” Sapnap repeats, “huh. Cool.” (It’s very cool. Especially since he used to catch the potatoes before they could land in the water and toss them into the lava. He doesn’t do it anymore. He’s barely able to get up.)
“I miss you,” Sapnap says to his surprise. Why does Sapnap miss him? He shouldn’t. “It’s weird without you, y’know?” Sapnap hesitates. “But obviously, there’s a reason why you’re in here. A reason why you deserve to be in here.”
He slowly nods. There’s a reason. He knows. He’s hurt them he doesn’t know how—and he gets punished for it.
Sapnap sighs, pushes his bandana the slightest bit up. “You deserve to be in here, and…and as much…as much as I miss you, I can’t let you out. No one can.” He closes his eyes. “I love you, dude, but if you ever escape, it won’t be Tommy or any of the other people on the server who will take your last life, Dream. It will be me.”
(He knows he deserves to be in here. Knows that he deserves to suffer as much as he does but is it enough?. He knows.
It doesn’t make the words hurt less.)
***
You’re nineteen thirteen when Wilbur comes into your world and starts a drug empire within a few weeks. A drug empire that becomes a revolution, a war for independence. (A war that reminds you too much of a different life. The life of a person you’re not anymore. The life of a person whose name was Clay.)
You’re not Clay maybe you are—maybe you’re not; you don’t remember, not anymore. You’re Dream, and yet it’s impossible to ignore the glaring similarities between this war and the war you—Clay—fought in (the war because of which your parents had to die, the war because of which you’ve lost the last illusion of a childhood, the war because of which you’ve lost your family and you’ll lose them this time, too.)
This war is just as violent, bloody and unnecessary. Has a war ever been necessary?
You’re not a pacifist, not really—but you’ve always disliked unnecessary, avoidable violence. A revolution to gain independence from something people can’t get independence from—you’re not a country. You’re not a leader. There’s no government. How can they be independent when they’ve always been free?
You’ve created this world for your friends your family to build, to live, to have a peaceful, safe life. As long as they don’t break your three rules, they’re allowed to do whatever they wish to do.
You don’t care. You don’t care. If they follow your rules, you won’t intervene. You’ll stay back in your small base with Sapnap and George and watch them from the shadow—there if needed, but invisible if your help is not required.
You tell them not to steal. (You can still hear them cry after the soldiers left their villages—cry for their dead children and partners, cry because the war took everything they ever loved, cry because now they don’t even have something to eat left.)
You tell them not to grief. (Sometimes, when you close your eyes, you see it burn. You see your home burn. You don’t think you will be able to see it be destroyed another time.)
You tell them not to enter the end. (It’s easy, really. If the dragon dies, the world will die, too. And all you’ve ever longed for has been a home. A permanent home. A home where you can stay for the rest of your life. A home in which you can live the life your parents wanted for you. A life that’s safe. A life that’s not filled with war and blood and pain and death.)
There’s nothing more that you want—just these three simple rules.
Somehow, Tommy is able to break two of them within his first week on the server. Later you will look back and wonder…have you always been the villain?
You don’t ban him—well, you do, but you let him back in anyways because…he’s barely older than you, he’s only fourteen he’s older by a year; he’s childish, loud, naïve.
By any means, he’s still a child. A child that still learns. A child that hasn’t matured yet. A child that still grows into the role of a soon-to-be adult.
(“A child,” they tell you years later, “how could you hurt a child? You’re an adult, Dream, he’s five years younger than you, and there’s nothing better that you can do with your life than tormenting a child?”
‘If he’s a child, then what am I?’ you want to yell, ‘I’m younger than him, but no one has ever made the excuse of being a child for me! I made a mistake, I got punished. No one ever took the responsibility away from me—why are you doing it for him? Just because he’s a minor? Do you want to say that he can’t make decisions for himself? That he doesn’t understand the aftereffects of the things he does?’
You don’t say those words though—you never do. Maybe…maybe it’s because you fear they might start treat you the same way. As if you’re a child who can’t make a responsible decision. As if you’re a child who can’t understand the consequences of their actions. As if you’re still a child even after everything you survived.)
A child. So, you try to be lenient. You try to be understanding. You try to be forgiving. (You fail miserably as you see your home burn. As you see your friends splitter into groups. As you see people demand independence in a world where they can do whatever the fuck they want. (You know it’s unfair that you blame him for actions that mainly Wilbur caused, but it hasn’t been Wilbur who griefed bases and stole from your friends on his first day on the server. It hasn’t been Wilbur who was one of the driving forces of the pet wars.))
But still…you know you could abuse your Admin powers. You know you could kick them, ban them make them go away so you can have your peaceful server again, but you don’t. You don’t because they’re your friends even if they paint you as their antagonist, as their villain, as a bad person who wants nothing but harm them. They’re your friends, and you’ve created this world for them.
You’ve created this world for them to have fun and be able to live a life they’ve always wanted. And if it means that your world isn’t as peaceful as you wanted it to be, so be it. The others don’t seem to have a problem with it—instead they bloom. They mature and grow into their roles and become worse versions of the people you love.
You’re nineteen thirteen when Wilbur and Tommy come into your world, take away your family the first family you’ve had since you were seven and make you the villain of their story. (Sometimes, you wonder if it’s always been this way. If you’ve always been a villain. A monster. Someone who only ever hurts the people he loves.)
***
It’s been days since Sapnap’s visit. It’s been days, and his words still echo in his head.
He knows he deserves to be in here. He knows he deserves this treatment. He knows. (Sam told him. Tommy told him. Bad told him. Now, Sapnap has told him, too. All of them can’t be lying, right? Especially not if his best friend has said so—has even promised to kill him if he ever should get out.)
He deserves to be in here. He’s just so tired.
[Dream tried to swim in lava.]
[Dream drowned.]
[Dream drowned.]
He doesn’t know how much time has passed since Sapnap’s visit.
The clock continues ticking, but he doesn’t know how much time it’s been. Maybe it’s been hours. Maybe it’s been days. Even weeks?
He doesn’t care. Not really.
He’ll never get out of here anyways. It’s not like it still matters.
Wasn’t that what he wanted?
[Dream starved to death.]
[Dream starved to death.]
It’s hard getting up. He hasn’t even touched the lava in days. Hasn’t eaten anything. The book and the quill lie forgotten on the ground.
His wrist throbs.
He doesn’t know why he feels worse now, why the months before Sapnap’s visit almost feel like nothing compared to this.
(As if Sapnap coming to see him has sucked every little bit of life out of him. A surprise that he even had anything left.)
[Dream starved to death.]
[Dream starved to death.]
[Dream starved to death.]
[Dream starved to death.]
[Dream starved to death.]
[Dream starved to death.]
He’s wanted Sapnap and George to hate him. He wanted them all to hate him—and he’s accepted it. He’s accepted that the whole server sees him as a villain, as someone who has to be taken down. That’s the whole reason why he created his plan this way.
Then why is the knowledge that they do affecting him so much? (But…it’s not really all of them, is it? As much as it hurts that the people he once saw as his friends, as his family dislike—hate him…it’s the knowledge that even Sapnap and George have not been able to see behind the mask.)
They’re the people he’s been the longest friends with. He’s known them since he was eleven seventeen—even before he left the Army.
And yet…and yet not even they have seen the truth.
He tries to sleep.
He fails.
Even though he’s so exhausted, so tired that he feels like he could stay asleep for the rest of eternity.
There are potatoes falling into the water. He knows he should get up from where he’s sitting and eat them.
It’s been (he doesn’t remember how long it’s been he doesn’t remember he doesn’t remember he doesn’t remember he doesn’t—) a while since he’s last eaten.
But he doesn’t have the strength to stumble on his legs and walk to the hole to just eat raw potatoes. (He should be thankful. He should be thankful that Sam’s even getting him potatoes every day.)
He doesn’t think he could even crawl across the cell if he wanted to.
He’s just so tired.
He doesn’t know why he’s spiraling this fast…this fast? Maybe it’s already been weeks since he’s had any last sense of time left.
Not that he cares.
The sooner he dies, the better.
Is it even possible for him to stay dead?
***
When you’re fourteen eight, you kill for the first time.
You’ve already been a year with the Army by then; a broken wrist already on your list. An injury that will you set back for months. (An injury that’s not your fault, not technically at least, you didn’t fall, you didn’t jump from a tree and soften your fall. All you did was holding your shield the wrong way—holding your shield the wrong way and having a pissed-off trainer that day.)
You’re fourteen eight when you kill for the first time, with your left wrist in a cast and only a knife in your right hand.
The man—dressed in the colors of the Army—has followed you ever since you’ve left the camp to bring an officer some important information that you don’t remember anymore.
The man is following you, and you don’t know what he wants from you. There’s no reason for him to trail after you—but you know he’s here for you; for you or the information…not that it matters in the end. (It’s either you or it’s him. Would it’ve been better if it had been you instead of him?)
You try to lose him, but he’s too close. He’s too close, and then he’s standing in front of you—in front of you in a dark alley with no one else around you. You’ve hoped…this was supposed to be a shortcut to escape him.
“What’re you doing here?” he asks, slowly coming closer, and the way he speaks makes it obvious that he’s not drunk—but why is he following you then? Why has he been following you since you left?
It’s an advantage and a disadvantage for you at the same time. Because you might be able to escape him, you have been trained after all, but...you don’t know why he’s been following you, dressed in the colors of the Army and yet, so obviously, not an ally. You should’ve died that day. It would’ve been more merciful—for you. For you and all of your friends.
(Back then, you haven’t worn your mask yet—you didn’t even have one. After that though…after that only two weeks passed until you’ve got a perfectly fitted one. Until you’ve got your mask and never took it off ever again.)
Later, you won’t remember what’s happening. There’s a white, slowly getting dirty cast on your left arm and a knife in your right hand, and then there’s a knife in the man’s throat and red splashes all over your cast.
You look down onto a man who’s been towering over you just moments ago. His eyes are closed, the stone under him turns red.
You know you should feel regret. You don’t.
(Maybe you have always been a monster. Maybe they have been right. Maybe this has always been your role to play.)