Hi again Innit!! To answer the why, I’d say we’re here to… offer advice maybe??? Hmmm. No, that’s not quite it. We’re here to cause change. Or, to help you change. Whether for better or for worse doesn’t really matter.
Also I’d like to add— I won’t say anything on whether all Dreams are evil or not, but I will say that’s not why the scribe forced Daz to release you!!
Innit’s head cocks to the side.
The phrasing and tone are interesting; there's too much uncertainty in both. While, sure, it could just be that this particular Observer is just stupid, Innit doesn't think that's the reason.
It's doubted Break's seemingly dense nature the second it became clear they knew more than most others.
And now, Innit is positive that the Observer is smarter than Daz gives them credit for or that they’ve openly displayed. It doesn’t make sense for an entity as powerful as the Scribe to entrust something they clearly care about to an idiot.
That, and it would be rich if Break's fondness for Daz was like recognizing like. Who better to appreciate a performance than a fellow actor?
It says after a moment, "...You don’t have to pretend to be stupid with me, you know. The only one I could tell is Daz, and…well. I hate him more than words can possibly convey."
And fuck is that the truth.
Daz had been the one who created it, Dream had been the one to make it a person, and both of them had ripped what tiny shreds of agency it had for their own selfish ends.
Bitterness rises like bile. Or, at least, what the vague idea of bile that it has from Daz.
It hasn't ever felt…anything, really. Most sensory information from Daz has always been muted for it. That was true for not just touch but taste and smell as well. It had been something Innit had always been unclear about the reason for, but…over the last three years in its own personal hell, the answer had become clear.
It had never been accepted, merely tolerated and used until it got in the way. Then it was discarded, locked away and left to rot.
That fact became blindingly clear when it realized Daz had no intention of ever letting it go free.
Trying to swallow the surge of seething hatred that rises up, Innit attempts to focus on something less painful.
"And you say that like you know the actual reason why my gracious benefactor made that bastard open my cage. Would you be kind enough to share what it is? Or is that something I need to figure out for myself?"
It gives a wide grin that shows off its too-sharp teeth. "I'm happy to fully cooperate with you, unlike Daz. He’s nowhere near as smart as he pretends to be. Nor does he appreciate what a wonderful change all of you bring. He's grown complacent with this peace. That's why he's struggling to cope with the realization of what his precious little Achilles truly is."
In the central Council room, Daz presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Right, sure." His tone is bitterly sarcastic, and only grows moreso as he continues, "Do you have some real estate on Mars to sell me? Or maybe you just want to piss on me and tell me it's raining."
His hands drop and he gets to his feet. "If it wasn't clear, I don’t believe that was an accident. I don’t appreciate being lied to. I also don't appreciate traitors."
A loud peal of laughter echoes in the back of his mind. He nearly entirely suppresses the flinch it causes.
It's miserable to have your trust broken, isn't it? Funny how you can't handle a taste of your own medicine. A shame I can't do to you what you did to me. How long would you last, I wonder, if I could shove you in a cage?
He doesn't dignify the toothless threats with a response. Innit can't take control; they knew that for a fact. It had been attempted, both with Daz willing and with him unwilling.
Every time had been a resounding failure.
Ah, but I have a benefactor now. One who forced you to open my cage and whose trusted agent just blatantly misled you. The Scribe is clearly powerful. The Scribe obviously is interested in giving me freedom.
Who's to say they couldn't and wouldn't give me control? Imagine what I could do to your little house of cards given just a measly hour or two.
A chill goes down Daz’s spine. He knows his monster is trying to fuck with his head. That doesn't mean it doesn't have a point. Trying to keep his voice even, he says out loud, "I– I need to take care of something. You're all dismissed."
Can I request a wide variety of images of sand popping up around Day as if they were pop up ads on a website until he’s just surrounded by a wall of sand images?
It had been such a lovely morning, too.
The weather was clear, breakfast hadn’t resulted in attempted fratricide (though that is usually more likely to happen at dinner), he had gotten a good night’s rest, Patches was dozing adorably, and Day had decided this meant it was a good time to work on knitting.
His current project is to improve (that word being used extremely liberally) upon the gift he’d given Lucid two years previously; an absolutely eye-searingly hideous, though comfortable and warm, sweater.
From what he’s heard, the admin takes a certain spiteful joy in inflicting its awful presence on others. Aver had seen it, immediately realized who had given it to him, and proceeded to call Day and tell him both he and Lucid were blights upon the earth and, frankly, the world deserves better.
…It may have been the wrong move to immediately agree and say that San deserves someone competent and capable, not whatever you wanted to call what Lucid is.
Anyway.
Day is interrupted from the music on his com and the steady, rhythmic progress of his new worst creation by an image popping up between his face and the garish monstrosity.
It takes him only a few moments to realize what he’s seeing. He narrows his eyes, pauses his music, and says flatly, “That’s not funny.”
This statement causes a half dozen more images of sand to pop up.
The substance is up there with some of the literal worst ones he knows of. Lava? Hazardous, occasionally triggers violent flashbacks, but largely acceptable. Obsidian? Sometimes will catapult him into a catatonic state, but useful. Raw potatoes? Will make him scrub his hands until they bleed, which does the opposite of help his mental state. Eldritch goop? Treated with extreme caution because it made Theo’s eyes turn solid black for a good ten minutes when he curiously poked at it.
But sand?
Sand is the bane of his existence. Any kind feelings he had towards sand died first in the prison, then a second time when he realized he has the memories of Philza fucking Minecraft (the most boring man alive) slowly and laboriously draining not just fourteen ocean monuments, but a dozen chunks’ worth of nearly all the lava in the Prime-damned nether with sand.
And then, finally, fatally, a third time when he had to stop Orph from trying to eat sand in their first home. And then Dee kept encouraging it, largely by distracting Day via trying to do it too.
He still doesn’t know if they both just decided that this, THIS was the ideal way to test his patience, or if they genuinely enjoyed it. The memory of Orph’s long, melodramatic rants on the subject still make him shudder hard enough that his wings will poof up. And then, of course, Dee would join in, and egg him on.
It’s coarse, it’s an irritant, it gets everywhere, it’s heavily tied to some of the worst parts of his life. He has made it a point to make one of his kids deal with smelting the stuff for glass for over a decade, and pointedly rejected the idea of having glass in most of the ‘windows’ of his own home.
Sure, part of that was so he and his kids could more easily enter and exit in an emergency…but it was also partly to do with not wanting to deal with the amount of sand it would take to fill those openings.
“I will find you and break every single one of your bones, in alphabetical order,” Day hisses, feathers fluffing up with anger.
Another dozen popups appear, and he gets to his feet, throwing his project on the ground in frustration. “Why?! What brought this on?! Are you sadistic assholes just enjoying my suffering?! Is this funny to you?!”
He’s interrupted from screaming at the ceiling by a wary, “...Uh? You okay, there?”
He snaps his head towards the sound of the voice, and sees the rather confused-looking Aleph and Khons staring at him.
They both seem worried, too, which Day would be more concerned about if he wasn’t dealing with otherworldly entities needling him for apparent funsies.
“Question askers are being assholes,” he says, making a noise of frustration as more popups appear. “If you’re looking for Theo, he should be out in his studio with–” He cuts himself off, slamming his eyes shut and taking a long, pointed inhale.
He is calm. He is very, very calm, and not about to start figuring out which god he can drag down from the sky and slaughter like the worthless dog they are for this active transgression against his patience, sanity, and most importantly, peace.
Through gritted teeth, he tells them, “With Perce. They’re working on something. If they’re not there, check Dee’s workshop.” His second eldest–actually, all of his kids–have various ways of using the multiple versions of the internet they can access to their fullest extent.
That is to say, they troll people with them.
Each of them has a unique niche of chaos they inflict on unsuspecting people. Perce will edit together well over a dozen versions of a movie or show, use memes that don’t exist and don’t make sense, and otherwise use and abuse his nerdery to make people absolutely furious.
Theo argues with people about folklore, myths, and legends, often cited and sourced with information from other worlds. He can and will post full essays about historical context for a myth that doesn’t exist using sources that are from a dozen other realities.
Orph will release songs or versions of songs specifically to piss off a world’s version of Wilbur, if he’s a musician. There have been multiple occasions where he’s tricked other realities into believing that there’s a new album or single coming out.
Atlas is, somewhat hilariously, the most low-key troll. His post histories in rock, mineral, gem, and bead groups are storied and often entirely genuine…and then he’ll pull some absolute nonsense out of left field. His favorite is arguing with Theo about carved versions of various myths, often poking holes into his points…by using data and a different version of the myth.
Lee, bless his tiny, golden heart, likes to give other realities media they wouldn’t otherwise get. Games that were canceled, movies shut down, projects that otherwise failed to see the light of day; any and all of them are liable to be offered up to others. He does, however, refuse to explain where or who he gets it from. His favorite phrase is ‘I’ve been advised not to disclose that, for the safety of others.’
And then there’s Dee. Easily the most chaotic of them, his method is to do livestreams. Has amassed a following on well over a dozen worlds’ internet, always showcasing some sort of impossible, improbable thing that can’t possibly exist in those worlds. And yet, he makes a point to react to the chat, donations, and other ways that make it clear it’s not prerecorded footage.
He can, has, and will, talk at length about redstone, and the second someone asks about redstone, he gives an entirely too-sincere confused look. “...Redstone? That sounds like a band. Oh, wait, do you mean my wall? Yeah, that’s red sandstone, good eye!”
Questions about Minecraft are met with similar confusion, though more pronounced. “I don’t actually know what you’re talking about. Is that a new show? Is it any good?” And then he’ll put a shulker down sideways on a wall, open it, dig something out, and set it down.
It’s gotten to the point where if his brothers know he’s streaming, they’ll go in and bug him. Sometimes it’s Orph, there to deliver a melodramatic rant. Sometimes it’s Lee, sitting with him and trying to follow his ramblings to glean insight into the mystery that is technology or just be an extra pair of hands.
And, sometimes, it’s Day himself.
Is it maybe a little mean-spirited that he thinks it’s funny? Yeah, probably. But considering he had to deal with some sort of issue in that world for it to be connected to Sanctuary…he thinks he can be forgiven for thinking it’s hilarious when nobody can tell if he and Perce are the same person. There have only been a handful of times anyone guessed–usually very sarcastically–that he’s the dad.
Day answers them the same way; a direct message that says ‘you were right.’ And as soon as they replied, he’d tell them, ‘I’m the dad on Dee’s streams. And nobody will believe you.’
And then he blocked them.
No further attempts to contact him are answered from that world. In fact, half the time he isn’t even so much as a regular in Dee’s chats.
But right now, Dee’s chaos–and Day’s habit of making it even more chaotic–aren’t the focus. Day is too busy trying to deal with the wall of floating images of sand literally encircling him. Moving doesn’t help, because they follow. Turning his head doesn’t help, because they’re forming a half-transparent wall around him. Cursing the gods isn’t helping, because they seem to be actively enjoying his misery.
“...Did they ask something rude, or…” Khons’ wary question is answered by Day telling the literally golden-wooled sheep hybrid, “They’re showing me sand.” He can feel the further confusion that causes, so he adds, “I hate sand. Sand is a fucking awful substance. I feel to sand as Vio does to snow. That being that it should stop existing.”
He’s sure he sounds absolutely insane, but frankly, until someone has well over a literal week’s worth of memories just of tedious, mind-numbing sand placement, then they don’t get to judge him.
“...Do you want us to get someone? Maybe call Vio, so you can commiserate about how much you hate a part of nature? And possibly work out some aggression?” Aleph’s offer makes Day’s eyes narrow slightly in thought. But, in the end, it’s not a terrible idea.
“I’ll call him. Thank you, though. Is there something else I can help–mother FUCKER that’s just a dick move, it’s not my fault someone gave a fictional character the same issues as me, but it’s NOT the same and it’s NOT fictional–” What starts as an attempt to get his anger control abruptly goes sideways as a clip of the infamous Sand Rant starts playing.
He tries to strangle his frustration, mostly so he doesn’t just open his mouth and start wordlessly screaming.
Hey, I was sort of wondering about first impressions and later if that impression changed. What was Daz’s first impression of Daydream, Theo, and Vio and did that impression change later on?
And what about Aver and Karl Prime? I’m a little curious about Daz’s first impression of them. Did your thoughts change after learning about Karl Prime’s time traveling?
Daz is back in the main Council rooms, with their quartz pillars and walls with irregular patterns of gilded blackstone dotted among regular blackstone.
Specifically, he’s laying down on the light grey couch, idly inspecting a magic 8 ball. He appears to be alone. “A deal’s a deal, Scribe. Keep your end and I’ll keep mine.”
The display of the toy changes, the answer now reading You may rely on it. Daz gives a soft huff at it, more tired than actually amused. He sets it down on the coffee table, then he turns to look at the ceiling. As he laces his hands together over his stomach he says, “Congratulations, Observers. I’ve negotiated a second deal that lets you ask questions to Khons and Aleph again. Try not to fuck it up this time.” While it’s not the most threatening he’s sounded when speaking to them, there’s a certain venom to his words that puts it up there.
The next part is not one he looks forward to, but…he has no choice. Not only is it important that he uses every advantage he has, it was part of the bargain he made.
His eyes drift closed and he lets himself sink into his own mind.
When his eyes open, he stands at a familiar oak door. It's been barred shut with thick iron chains and there are claw marks at the base of it.
An echoing laugh sounds out as Daz reaches out to touch the chains. They vanish like they were never there and the door swings open.
It had once been a small but cozy room stitched together from memories and things he liked. A table from his time with Phil, made of sturdy oak and carved with mementos of the past. Now it’s little more than splinters and sawdust. A long dead fireplace of once-cheerful red bricks like the one in the Dream Team base, a witness to countless arguments about cheating in assorted games. Two comfortable chairs mangled almost beyond recognition. Flowers from an old friend, shriveled and sure to vanish into dust were they touched at all.
Plastered across the walls are countless pictures that shifted through scenes and memories at a dizzying speed. Some he can’t bear to watch, while others draw his attention despite himself.
In the middle of the ruined room with its cold fireplace, sat Daz.
Or, rather, his reflection. The entity mirrors his appearance, down to nicks and scrapes, but the details are different. The hoodie, though the same style as Daz's, is solid red. Not bright red, but a deeper version closer to the color of cooling blood from a fatal wound. The earrings in its ears are almost all the same shapes, but in a silver tone so bright it's nearly white.
The largest difference, bar the colors, is where the Shield earcuff should have been. Instead, it has a chunk of faceted malachite.
The thing smiles at him. "Isn't it funny how you shove me in a box when you think I won’t be useful? How you get to decide when I have value, and when I deserve freedom–"
Daz cuts the other-him off. "You tried to convince me to take over the server. I would be dead or, worse, back there if I let you stay free. I did what I had to do.” He sighs and adds reluctantly, “...I can't imagine you gave up your name, monster mine."
The other Daz grins, just a little too wide with teeth just a little too sharp. "Of course not. You may have abandoned the name Tommy, but Innit is mine."
Daz scoffs softly. "You've been watching. How much do you know?" Innit’s smile only grows. It mockingly coos, "I know plenty. I won’t let you chain me a third time. You made me and yet went right back to trying to deny me. I am you. Such terror for your admin-self…I’d be insulted if it wasn't warranted."
It gets to its feet, brushes off the mimicry of dust from its clothes, and walks past Daz out the door. "Come along now, my petulant host. You were asked a question. Our mysterious benefactor wanted me free, so let's show the Observers what they’ve been missing out on."
Daz watches as Innit dissolves into a fine mist, its grin and not-quite-right eyes the last things to fade. The mist sinks down and Daz can feel the thing settling under his skin. (Where it belongs. Where it always belonged.) Then he steps back and rises back into his body.
Only a minute or two has passed and nothing is notably different about him when he opens his eyes.
"The T3 were my salvation. They arrived aware enough to help but uninformed enough to fool. That was all that mattered--that I was able to trick them to escape my original server so I could cause as much damage to Dream as possible." The words border on robotic, detached in a rather eerie way. A whisper hisses through his mind. Traitor-danger-enemy. Dream got what he deserves–to rot in the ruins of what could have been paradise.
Prime, it was going to be weird to readjust to a second voice in his head. Go fuck yourself, you weren’t the one shoved in a box again– And it had tried to bring their precarious house of cards crashing down. A Dream is a Dream is a Dream. Dangerous and waiting for a chance to strangle the happiness of everyone around him–
Daz has more important things to do than have this argument again. If the fucking Scribe wanted Innit free, fine. Whatever. It was a price worth paying for Lee. That child again, his monster snarls. You do so much for him…only for him to be like us. Glowing with an admin-spark and soon placed under the thumb of an admin-Dream so he can learn how to destroy everything he touches.
Only years of practice keep Daz’s expression blank despite the utter rage those words inspire in the wreckage that was once his heart. He’s not going to rise to that bait, nor entertain the road it wants him to go down. Not in words and certainly not action.
His tone hasn’t changed at all as he continues out loud, “Day is a good dad, despite being a Dream. He’s more perceptive than he lets on. Theo is…weird, but in a mostly good way. He truly wants to help others, though his first and strongest loyalty is to his family. Vio is even weirder and more unsettling than I first realized. Anything I learn about him raises more questions than it answers.”
Three threats. They would get in the way. They would destroy the two of them without hesitation if they tried anything stupid. Like, say, trying to usurp Lucid. He’s not fucking trustworthy, sure, but acting rashly has fucked the two of them over in the past. It’s better to be patient.
Fury that isn’t his bubbles in his veins. Patient?! PATIENT?! I was shoved back in a box after I helped you orchestrate our swan song! After everything that was ours shattered like fucking glass! I was trying to protect us, but you developed a bleeding heart for a Trojan horse– And he had been right to put it back in there. Innit was a monster, and Daz had been a fool to ever think otherwise. You got attached. That’s dangerous. He’s so fucking vulnerable! If anyone knew, they would use him to cripple this entire place. We can’t afford that. Congratulations, it has eyes and half a brain! No fucking shit Lee is critical to the server. The scariest people on the server would crumble like sand if he was hurt.
Laughter like knives meets that as the thing mocks, You consider yourself one of those people. But you aren’t. You’re a coward hiding behind a mask so you don’t have to face the truth. Your friends are just allies whose interests currently align with yours, the only reason you have to keep going has no idea how vital he is, and everyone thinks you a fool. Better a fool than a target.
Shockingly, it doesn’t have a witty retort for that.
"Aver was startling. Theo was one thing, but…I was like Aver, at one point." And then you took the hand of a jealous monster who wrapped a noose of false moonlight around our throat– Fucking bold to lay all the blame for that at his feet! Innit was the one who saw Dream bare his throat for them and decided to make him care.
I wasn't the one who was real. You could have refused him– And what? Please, enlighten him what other path there could have been, how he could have possibly foreseen any of this. Especially as a stupid, blind child who was offered his heart’s desire on a silver platter.
Infuriatingly, it falls silent again. "Now I see the similarities between Aver and myself. He’s lucky there aren't more."
Daz waits a beat to see if his admin-self would offer more snide comments. Aside from an indignant scoff, it doesn’t.
Thus he continues. "Lore, Karl Prime, is…fine, I guess. Not really any special feelings. I disliked my Karl, but this one I don't bear any particular ill will towards. He has a nice store."
Karl had been the brightly colored harbinger of the end of his joy. One tiny stone that resulted in multiple deaths, both of people and his happiness.
A bloodied crown. Pointed fingers. Sugar and rot on his tongue. Familiar eyes shining in betrayal before they turned sightless. A grave no one would find. Words meant to be read in the aftermath, left for the only one who had bothered to ask questions. Too little, too late. I hope he punched Dream, though. That thought kept me warm in that wretched little box. I'll make you regret doing that. You should know by now not to cross me.
And Innit should know by now that he doesn’t give a shit. Daz is the one in control and he’ll block his miserable, petty little monster at every turn. Promises, promises. You know what they say about making ones you can’t keep.
Well wasn’t that ominous. “Learning about his time travel explained a few things about my Karl. Sometimes I wonder what future he prevented by doing what he did.” Sometimes he wondered why Karl didn’t stop him. It should have been easy–there were countless times when everything could have been fixed.
Instead, Daz was left with the wrong blood on his hands and a void where his heart should have been.
It’s long since passed unsettling and gone right into eerie, the way Daz remains motionless and expressionless on the couch. If you couldn’t see his chest rising, mouth moving, or his occasional blinking, he could pass for a corpse. His monotone voice isn’t helping that at all. “You aren’t Break or Chime; the phrasing is different from theirs. You must be one of the ones who is supposed to learn from us. I’d tell you to find a better teacher, but if I need to tell you that you’re already a lost cause.”
Maybe not entirely. What Daz doesn’t appreciate, his monster very well would.
…Oh?
From somewhere intangible inside of Daz’s mind, Innit cocks its head to the side in curiosity.
It knows when Daz is ignoring him. That isn’t the case now. Whatever is happening, Daz is none the wiser.
“Oh, this is rich,” Innit laughs, slowly bringing its hands together in a few slow claps. “The fucking bastard can’t hear me, but I can still be heard. You’ve been listening this whole time, haven’t you? More than just one of you…ha! He’s in for a rude awakening, because he pissed off the wrong…mm. Person isn’t quite right for what I am, but close enough.”
Its arms spread wide and its grin turns too-wide and too-sharp again. A reflection of fire and blood shines in its eyes as it says, “You can imagine how fucking miserable it’s been, locked in his head for three years. It inspires a certain, special kind of hate. He has plenty of secrets tucked away that I know aaaaall about. So go ahead–ask away. I’ll tell you most of what you want to know. After all–I have whatever is going on with all of you, and whatever the hell the Scribe is, to thank for my freedom. I’m happy to repay that debt.”
If that meant that Innit suffered too, then, well…that was fine. Daz stood to lose so much more. Just like Dream had.
Nothing like an encore to make everyone remember the singer, eh?
@ Daz: oy, manipulative asshole! you're my favourite and i love you (: @ Raine: hello! you're my other favourite and i also love you! I'm not gonna call you any names though because that would be mean and I think im actually incapable of being mean to you. which is a good thing. i'd offer to hit anyone who's mean to you but i have noodle arms and i'd be in line behind daz anyway. and there's no point hitting someone who's brain is broken. please tell the rest of the council i adore them too! :D!
Neither of the two in question look very happy about the message, though Raine admittedly looks more confused than anything. “...I didn’t know smiles had a sound,” he says. “...Or that there are multiple Observers with…what I’ll politely call ‘interesting taste’.”
Daz narrows his eyes slightly at both the dig and the new information. “I’m not really glad there are more of you. Or, worse, that there’s still only one and they’re getting clever.” Raine makes a noise of agreement. “...Thank you, though…I think.”
“As far as passing the message on…well. One of you fucked up spectactularly by hurting Khons and Aleph. They won’t be happy with the confirmation that more of you know about them,” Daz says, lip curling slightly at the memory.
Raine frowns, idly picking at the hem of his shirt for want of something to fidget with. “Nor will Aster. This has…implications. Ones that I don’t like, even if you seem…nice enough.” He pauses, and then adds, “It’s interesting that you think that Daz would be the first in line to hit someone. That’s not his style, though…he is protective.”
Daz huffs softly, reaching over to shove lightly at one of Raine’s legs; they dangle over the arm of the chair in a way that seems like it shouldn’t be comfortable at all.
“A punch is too easy to shake off. Those that harm me and mine should be crushed until even their atoms vanish. Suffering and anguish are so much more powerful when they happen in someone’s head.” He grins a little, sharp-toothed and more than a little malicious. “You seem to know that already, though. Why else bring up manipulation? Observers haven’t been around when I’ve used my mask around those who didn’t already know, let alone when I’ve nudged and shifted people to do as I want them to. Break barely counts; that’s just regular blackmail.”
There’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes, though it’s…not a playful kind. No, this is the curiosity of someone who wants to dismantle the entire world, people included, to see how it all works. Then he can use that information to twist and lead people where he wants them to be, where he needs them to be. All so he can perform a breathtakingly elaborate dance with people who have no clue that the music could exist at all--let alone that someone is dancing, or that the same person is conducting the orchestra.
Manipulative is a very, very accurate descriptor of Daz. It's his bread and butter, his favorite game, and his coping mechanism for his trauma.
He only underscores that when he asks, “With that and you saying that I would be the first to do harm to those who hurt Raine in mind…you clearly have some sort of information you’re working off of. Tell me, where does your knowledge of us, of me, come from? What sources are at your disposal, and how many others do you know of?”
Raine chimes in, “And why is there so much interest in the Council? Others are far more interesting than the five of us. We’re unusual, perhaps, but…the focus on us is strange. Almost as strange as the situation as a whole.” There’s a pause before he adds, “...Is it something to do with the one who was called the Scribe? Or the Showrunner. Both of which are still…interesting titles. That we were spoken to directly, allowed to bargain, and given a deal is…”
When he trails off, Daz picks up his train of thought. “It’s noteworthy, to put it mildly. Infinitely moreso when I realized that nobody else has any idea that entity exists at all.”
Omg I have a nicknameee now Break is such a cool nameee. But also Daz, to answer your question, me and a couple others do get our info from the scribe!! That’s not typical, though— most of the observers don’t know as much, and their job is to find out new information. Our job is to help them along!!
As for how many… well they come and go. New ones form, and old ones fade. The number is always changing. OoOoOoOo.
Another Question— I’ve been watching Dream Prime like you asked, and that got me wondering— what do you think about the world?
There’s a roll of Daz’s eyes, but it’s more preformative than genuinely annoyed. He’s too busy mentally turning over the phrasing of the answer. “...Interesting that you call it a job.” His attention flicks over to Aster, who gives a soft hum of agreement. “Definitely strange.” He frowns slightly and asks the other Tommy, “You and Raine said that the Scribe felt different. You never clarified any further. What made them so different?”
Daz considers it, rolling the single encounter over in his mind. It had been jarring and unsettling in at least a dozen ways, but a few were moreso than others. “...They were weightier,” he murmurs, almost to himself. He glances at his friend and Raine agrees, “If the pressure of a normal Observer speaking feels like a spring shower, then the Scribe was closer to a heavy downpour.”
Aster’s eyes thin slightly, but he remains quiet as Daz tries to find a way to put it into words. “It reminded me of being near Hero when he does eldritch bullshit. Not exactly the same but…parallel. Similar. I don’t like any of this, even if it will probably make keeping an eye on Lucid easier.” Dream Prime’s very existence bothered Daz in a way that little else could. He was an ugly reminder of both how far he had come and how far he could fall if he was too careless.
A second plunge to the cold, unforgiving ground would kill him–in spirit, if not literally. He couldn’t lose everything all over again.
He would stain every fiber of his being with blood if it served to protect those who he calls his. No price was too high for their safety and happiness. It was one of the things that he and Aster agreed wholeheartedly on. They knew what it was like to have loyalty demanded of them and gave it willingly with so much more caution for that fact.
The reasons for that demand had been oceans apart, though, as had the scars they left behind. Aster, with a permanently muted ability to emote and a desaturation to his features, had decided to hone his combat skills to the point of being able to confidently stand alongside Theo as one of the most openly deadly people on the server. Theo had had his dad, a chorus of entities who could help him, and years to perfect his combat prowess.
Aster had, at one point, been a fairly cosmically average Tommy. Not incapable in a fight by any stretch, but nothing special either. He had just chosen to devote himself to learning to be the scariest person in most rooms and then followed through with pure Tommy spite and stubbornness.
His strength is his ability to swing a sword with terrifying speed and accuracy.
Daz, by contrast, counts his mind as his weapon. He is far less obvious about his scars–both literal and metaphorical. An unassuming, invisible, smiling mask to hide behind. It’s an act he has both perfected and enjoys, because, well–people are puzzles, and conversation is an elaborate game. He likes to tug and nudge and push others into where he needs them to be.
Dreams likened themselves puppet masters? Well, Daz was a choreographer and maestro, leading those around him in a dance so effortless none of them had any clue it existed at all.
If they knew, they would be on guard. If they were on guard, they could plunge a knife in his back. Or, even worse–a knife through the heart of those he cares for. Regret snaps at his heels with every step he takes. He wakes in the middle of the night with a swallowed scream for someone long since dead, like if he tries hard enough he can reach through the mists of time and warn him, to save him, if only if only if only–
But he can’t. He knows he can’t. His mind just turns against him at night, dragging his past back to the forefront of his mind. He’s accepted that sleep is a restless, grueling task to be checked off through gritted teeth. As much as he would prefer to not need sleep, he’s yet to overcome that particular human limitation.
A memory presents itself before he can stop it in its tracks; the worried, if slightly amused face he had come to know so well (as friend and family and–) looking at the work that had been done while Daz should have been asleep. This is even worse than my first attempts, his mentor had told him, ignoring the glare Daz had leveled at him, and I didn’t have a teacher. Impressive. Daz had doubled down by spitting out a grumpy, Fuck you, you self-righteous prick, not everyone just knows this shit! And it had been a beat too long before he realized his mistake.
His mentor had grinned smugly. That’s a diamond, a gold ingot, and an iron ingot. Pay up.
Nothing had been anywhere near as infuriating as the Prime-damned swear jar.
Well. Maybe one thing. The look in his eyes when he had said This is just cleaning up loose ends still raised his hackles and made years-old spite and bitterness ignite all over again.
Or, as the case was, made him turn cold.
The ability to take his anger and freeze it, to make deadly spears he could use to pierce the hearts of any who stood against him had proven so much more useful than any combat skill ever had been.
Where most other Tommys were fire, he was ice. And he preferred it that way; he had long since learned how to live in the frigid wasteland of his resentment, to thrive off of it. Fire was strong, sure, but it died when it had nothing left to consume.
Cold, on the other hand, was far more insidious. It crept up on you, slow and methodical. Frost was a ceaseless foe that could only ever be delayed–but never stopped. It was inevitable.
Not that it saved him, his mind whispers to him. Ice and cold and frost only let you take revenge after it was said and done. And then you ran! You could have taken those last two lives then, but you were too fucking cowardly to do it.
He grabs those thoughts, mocking and sneering things that they are, and shoves them into one of the many rooms in his mind. Not right now, demons; he has a different kind of problem to puzzle over.
One he actually might be able to solve.
Barely a moment passes between the answer he got and his own. "So you have no idea how many there are, then." Daz sighs, raking a hand through his hair to push it out of his face. It’s only partly to hide the faintest of tremors he’s gained from his traitorous, wandering thoughts. "Lovely.”
Raine’s narrowed eyes tell him that he’s already noticed, though. Fucking over-observant asshole. Daz bites back the urge to hiss in annoyance as he sees Aster’s expression shift in the slightest way, barely there. They both know too much about him and his tells.
Instead of letting either of them express any concern, he opts to answer the question. “The world is a toddler who can cause widespread devastation if they get too sad,” Daz says with a slight scoff. “They’re deeply attached to entities that will inevitably die, because aging is very much still a fucking thing. We’re going to have to deal with their meltdown when those entities are gone.”
The three of them startle at the windows that appear in the middle of the air. “What the–” Raine cuts himself off, while Daz takes all of a few seconds to process what the pair of images actually are.
“My plans aren’t all murder. Murder is too obvious,” he mutters, both sounding and looking a little offended.
Aster’s eyes narrow, and he pulls out his com to check something. He makes a quiet noise, and then shows the screen to Daz.
“...What the fuck,” he says flatly. It’s one thing to know that one–two, now–of the Observers are fond of him. It’s another to realize that the same one was sending art out. No, actually, this made perfect sense. Of course it would be one of his fucking fanclub! Because things just couldn’t get any worse.
Ah, Daz thinks faintly, there’s the other shoe. It’s a testament as to how shaken he is that Daz’s face visibly pales.
He can’t breathe around the fear that seizes his heart. Neither option is good, but what terrifies him the most is the idea of either himself or Lee having to learn from Lucid.
A bitter, ugly laugh wells up from somewhere dark in his chest. Fucking history repeating itself, huh? Fine–he’ll dive in front of this bullet.
Better him than Lee.
Raine looks more than a little worried, swinging his legs back down again so he can lean over to put a hand on Daz’s arm. The way Daz flinches at it tells him more than enough. Aster’s muted expression shifts to concern, too, as he says quietly, “It doesn’t have to–”
Daz bares his teeth at him. “Shut up. They already know too much. I have to figure out how to make sure it doesn’t–he doesn’t–”
“You’re catastrophizing,” Aster tells him with an even, almost scolding tone. Daz laughs again, a tiredness to it that he hasn’t shown at all thus far. “No shit.”
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to regain enough composure to get through the question. If he were less thrown off by this revelation (by the threat of time being a flat fucking circle), he’d be more careful about his words. He was already off before it, though–he’s usually better about keeping his memories of his mentor under lock and fucking key. “Atlas and Orph don’t know. All of you need to go. I’m not answering anything else right now.”
Aster and Raine both look even more worried at the bluntness of the answer.
Oh you /are/ smart. I mean, I knew that in my head, but seeing it at work is something else. I'll say this, for now: the Scribe loves you far too much for you to be anything /but/ interesting. Also! I didn't mean in line to /punch/, I meant to /defend/. S'why I said there's no point hitting someone who's brain is broken; I'm very sure Daz would have already sent them quite certifiably insane. Or just destroyed them and everyone they ever loved. Something like that. :D -Interesting Taste Observer
“Flattery will get you everywhere and nowhere,” Daz says, that sharp quality once again present in his smile. “Though I’m not sure if I should take offense to your surprise at my intelligence or not. It’s tempting to say yes, since you supposedly know me so well.”
He glances at his friend and fellow Council member from the corner of his eye for just a moment. Raine silently pulls out his com and taps out a message, sends it, and then puts it back in his pocket.
Daz continues as though nothing had happened, “The extent of how I break them would depend on the nature of how they upset Raine. It’s not a done deal that I shatter their psyche completely.” His eyes narrow slightly and he adds with a bit of bitterness, “...even if it should be.”
As much as he would like to destroy everything that looks wrong at him and his, that would be far too suspicious. The price of openly crushing those that earned his ire was placing those he cared about in danger. He knew, because he had seen it happen before.
Not a lot of people knew how poison has a taste. How, even splashed, it has a strange way of working its way into your mouth and coating your tongue until it lingers even after you brush hard enough to make your gums bleed. Even years later, just the memory of rot and sugar threatens to make his pulse spike.
His memories of that event are both far too clear and mercifully smudged by time and trauma. A cage in the middle of a plains biome, a group of people led by a president who never should have been such, a grin too sharp for the man who was baring it at him, and dread pooling in his gut.
One life left, and it was being used to lure his mentor into losing one of the three he still had–if not more.
He wished now that it had worked, that his now-former mentor had lost one of his lives to the plots against them. He wished that he could have walked away with the two of them on closer to even terms. One life, betrayal met with betrayal, and both of them a black fucking hole that threatened to consume anything and everyone that got too close.
There’s nothing he can do now but viciously, spitefully hope that his former mentor is suffering now.
He’s pulled from his dark thoughts by the sound of the door opening. His expression gives nothing away, kept carefully neutral out of habit. Aster raises his eyebrows at him in question, though it’s Raine who starts to explain, “New Observer, another one for the Daz fanclub.” The other Tommy’s eyes narrow at that. “...And?” “And, since that apparently isn’t enough for you, they’re also fans of the rest of the Council!”
Daz’s words hang in the air for a few moments, before Aster says flatly, “Nope. I don’t want a fanclub. The Swords and Shields are bad enough when they call me the leader–” “--Which they’re technically not wrong about,” Raine points out. Aster gives him a look; Raine just grins back at him.
“Oh, and we got confirmation that the Scribe gives the Observers information.” Aster’s head snaps towards Daz, disbelief written all over his face. Said young adult is idly studying the nails of his hand, though Aster is entirely sure he’s being observed despite it. “Why didn’t you lead with that?” “Good news first, bad news second,” Daz replies, glancing up at him. “...The existence of more people that think you’re a decent person despite knowing the real you is not good news.” Aster’s snark doesn’t seem to bother the other Tommy, who rolls his eyes. “Bad news and worse news, then.”
In spite of the fairly muted–almost alarmingly so–nature of Aster’s expressions, he can still glare with plenty of force.
It’s Raine, though, who tells him, “The Scribe loves us, apparently, and that’s why we’re interesting. Or part of why.” Aster stares at him for a moment, then looks over at Daz. Said person seems more than a little smug as he says, “I asked what made the Council so interesting. That was the new one’s answer.” He frowns and adds reluctantly, “...I suppose they should probably get a name, too–”
There’s a long moment before Daz sighs loudly. “Yeah, I should have known you'd still be here.” “What do you mean get a name too?” Aster’s wary question is met by Raine telling him, “Daz decided that since blackmailing that one worked, he might as well name them.” “...Dare I ask what that name is?”
“Break.”
Aster pinches the bridge of his nose to try and stave off the headache that comes with Daz being fucking Daz. “Of fucking course you named the all-seeing entity–” Daz cuts Aster’s mutter off by arguing, “They aren’t omniscent, just have access to some sort of information network that we don’t; it’s almost certainly to do with the Scribe. Which is why I’m glad that Break decided to be so very helpful in keeping an eye on Dream Prime.” He pauses and adds, “...Not that they had much of a choice in that matter. Not if they wanted to hear from me again.”
Raine opts to answer the question that was asked himself…sort of. “I didn’t know you were a fan of jokes. Though, since you like Daz, that should be obvious–” “Fuck you, actually–” “No, no, Raine has a point,” Aster chimes in with.
Daz’s eye twitches ever so slightly. Raine gives a single, long laugh.
The younger of the two Tommys in the room had no idea he could hate insects quite this much. He’s finding fun new things to hate and fun new ways to do it. Wait, no–not fun. He meant the opposite of fun.
Ah, the joys of intangible watchers, one–two, now–of whom had a disconcerting interest in both him and his friends.
“I still don’t know or care what the purpose of an ant brush is, Break,” Daz says through gritted teeth. Aster snorts slightly, getting a venomous glare. “Nor do I know if I’ve used one accidentally. My hair just looks like this all the time–too short to pull back, and I don’t care enough to style it any more. Helps with my image, too.”
He gestures at the relatively short length as if to demonstrate. It’s all swept away from his face, but the bangs look like they threaten to fall into his eyes if he moves too much. It, along with the elaborate and pastel nature of his hoodies and shirt, all but scream that he doesn’t do much in the way of physical labor. After all, who wears something so expensive while knowing it could and would be ruined easily?
Obviously, Daz does. It’s another way for him to throw people off his scent, make them underestimate him. It’s not like he doesn’t have a small fortune in his ender chest, obtained both legitimately and…less so.
Funny how it had been fine to bend the rules for him, back when his former mentor had cared. Less funny how the full force of his ire had been directed back to him in a moment that changed everything.
Fuck, he needs to stop thinking about him. He isn’t here, he never will be here, and he doesn’t matter. Not any more. Daz has someone–multiple someones–that he’s replaced him with. They might not all know of his uglier side, but that’s fine. Others do know, and accept him despite the void that he hides behind a thin but impenetrable mask of gold and kindness.
His friends (and family and–) are at his side, and that’s all that fucking matters. He won’t let himself get sidetracked by memories of a life he’s shed.
It’s almost a relief when he hears the question. He latches onto it desperately as a way to a redirect away from the jagged, bloody thing that is his past as well as the fucking ant brushes. It’s a term which he may eventually murder someone over, and the jury was still out if it would be an Observer or not. He would find a way to make them tangible out of Prime-damned spite if he needed to.
“Serf & Turf, hands down. If you put just their food next to some of the others, it might not rank quite as highly.” A sort of disturbing glint enters Daz’s eyes as he explains, “No, no…it’s the experience of dining there as a whole that makes it my favorite. Their psychological warfare driven approach to dining makes the food so much better.”
Aster rolls his eyes at the phrasing, but opts not to interrupt. He settles down on one of the other chairs, an odd sort of rigid discipline in his posture despite him being among friends. The disparity in their postures was sort of interesting; Raine the most relaxed, draped sideways over both arms; Aster the least so, back straight and looking ready to jump into a fight in a split second if he needed to; and Daz somewhere in the middle, retaining his oddly regal aura in spite of his casual pose.
Daz continues, “Depending on who’s with me and how much they’ve pissed me off recently, I sometimes even join in with the staff’s mangled ye olde english.”
This is what finally makes Aster speak; tone flat again, he says, “I made it a rule to never go there with him or with people who could reasonably ambush me with a surprise party.” Daz grins widely at him. “I stand by that being a fitting punishment for incurring my wrath. You pissed me off, you paid for it, you tried to get even with me for the surprise party by tricking some others into putting hot pink hair dye in my shampoo–”
“Which backfired because he just fucking swapped it with mine,” Raine mutters. Daz’s grin only grows. “And that started a prank war, naturally, because that’s how conflicts are settled here. It was beautiful to watch, almost as much so as Aster having to admit that he had started it.”
Both of the others glower at their friend, though Raine with noticeably less heat. Daz just laughs at it. “Raine didn’t actually do anything wrong; I just knew he needed a good excuse to destroy something. It just so happened that the ‘something’ in question was a few people’s ability to look at bonemeal without breaking into a cold sweat.”
“He made them cry over it,” Aster sighs. “Yes,” the alternate universe Dream says, “Yes I did. I would do it again to drive home the point that my house is trespassed in at your own risk.” Daz’s eyes crinkle in amusement. “That was the other reason I did it. It’s also technically my house–” “You know damn well you designed it with me in mind. I saw the fucking blueprints, Daz. You showed me the blueprints. You weren’t honest about why you picked me–” “I was mostly honest! I knew you’d lose it with the Council, dealing with the apartments in Valley of Hope, and the stress of being around so many Tommys–”
“Baffling that being roommate with Daz is less stressful than all of that, but, you know. To each their own.” Both of them look over at Aster, who raises his eyebrows back. Daz gives sarcastic jazz hands and rolls his eyes as he says, “Turns out group housing in an area that can be pranked at any time isn’t the ideal place to recover from trauma. Who knew?” He pauses and then adds, “Me. I knew, because I could see Raine get more twitchy, not less.”
Daz looks at them both, head tilting to the side in an unspoken question. Aster considers it, and then sighs. “Nothing you’d say isn’t already common knowledge. I’d rather not piss you off by getting too into your history.” “I trust you not to tell them more than you feel you need to,” Raine agrees.
With a deep breath, Daz starts, “Aster has hovered protectively around Achilles from even before I first got here. Given that I needed to have Loyalty excised from my code, said enchantment was extremely unstable at best, and I was dealing with…a few things–” Extreme trauma brought on by a profound betrayal, the subsequent loss of the final two things he held any care for and the realization that he had nothing, among other things, “--Lee wound up being the Dream who kept sitting with me to stop the Loyalty from leaving me in mind-rending agony. That and Aster’s aforementioned protective hovering quickly combined with us having our first meeting.”
The far more heavily scarred Tommy can’t help but smile at the memory of Lee doing that for him, too. Aster’s hand reaches up to touch the calcite star he wears in his ear. His tone is definitely fond as he says, “Lee has a habit of doing that. His dad stopped trying to make him not do it around the fourth time he found him in the room I was staying in. I told him I didn’t mind it, that it was kind of nice. He just…wanted to help. And he did. For a lot of us–Tommys in particular–Lee is…he’s a concrete reason to believe that there can be good Dreams. And if there can be one, there might be more.”
The Dream in the room doesn’t seem to take any offense to it; if anything, he looks like he understands all too well.
Daz gives a hum of agreement. “It’s the reason a large chunk of Protege Tommys that end up staying are also in the Swords and Shields. Lee gave us hope, so we decided to repay that a hundredfold. Loyalty, not by force or enchantment, but earned by simple acts of kindness done with no expectation of repayment.”
It was why the Council had formed at all. Protection for the sake of a child who was, arguably, the safest person on the whole fucking server. But Daz wasn’t the only one who needed drive, needed a purpose, a goal of some sort. Daz had leveraged that need and the loyalty that Achilles had unknowingly earned with flower crowns and disarmingly kind comments to make the Swords and Shields.
And while it had been his idea to make it a concrete organization rather than a handful of scattered watchers, that didn’t mean he claimed full ownership of it. Daz had very purposefully not placed himself as the sole head. Too much work, for one. He also wasn’t an idiot, and had known he needed others to catch his errors and hold him accountable. The Council all had equal say in any major choices and all answered to each other. And often did; none of them were shy about questioning the others about anything they did if they felt it was unneeded or harmful.
The system worked far better than Daz could have ever dared hope it might. He considered it his magnum opus. Wilbur’s unfinished symphony had fucking nothing on the Prime-damned empire Daz had built from the ground up.
Not that Wilbur mattered, of course. Daz had let go of the already broken link to his once-brother a long, long time ago.
Daz glances over at Raine, who raises his eyebrows back at him. “And then Raine. Raine was different. He arrived in Sanctuary after the Council was more or less formed–just without the fifth member I wanted us to have. There were a few people who stood out, but…mm. Despite the clear trauma he’d been through, a few things combined to him deciding he needed to protect Lee. Dreams that end up here do tend to need something to motivate them to keep going–that wasn’t what caught my attention. It was the way he shoved his own issues aside again and again towards that end.”
A slightly bitter laugh escapes from his friend at that. “Getting me on board for the Council wasn’t easy, given…a few things about my original world.” A shudder goes down his spine at the memory of cold metal, the eyes of his friends going lifeless, and the feeling of his own life being drawn out drop by agonizing drop.
There’s a reason his eyes aren’t anywhere near as bright of a green as the average Dream’s. They weren’t always like this.
Before Raine can sink too deeply into his memories, Daz yanks him out of them by continuing, “I saw potential in him. I knew it would be fucking wasted if he floundered around on his own, so…I extended a hand.” Raine shrugs, arms folding over his chest. His tone is surprisingly light as he says, “He’s convincing. By the time I knew enough to really understand what the fuck he had been doing, it was…hard to be anything but impressed. And not thrilled at the idea of him being anything resembling my enemy.”
Daz grins at that. “I gave you countless chances to walk away. You just didn’t take them.” Aster adds, “Which we’re all glad for. Raine does a lot that goes unseen by nearly everyone; we’d be worse off without him. Does that mean that I have to admit that Daz was right from the start, which gives him another fucking reason to be a smug asshole forever? Yes, unfortunately for myself, Aleph, and Khons.”
There’s a sharp bark of laughter from Daz, his eyes lighting up. “I argued for hours before they all gave up trying to convince me otherwise. I earned my smugness over being right about that.” “It’s also your default state,” Raine comments, and then adds with a roll of his eyes before Daz can even open his mouth, “...default state when you’re being your actual self. We don’t count your fucking mask-persona-whatever.”
“Fucking disturbing when he drops it,” Aster mutters, which only gets him flipped a bird by the other Tommy. Aster returns it, neither of them having looked directly at each other for the exchange. Daz tells him, “It’s how I learned to visualize it. I’m not changing my terminology.” “Didn’t ask you to, just commenting that it’s fucking creepy when you go from fake to real,” Aster sighs at him.
With a wave of his hand, Daz changes the subject. They’ll just go in circles over this, which he knows from experience. “I’m not answering about Khons and Aleph. If they decide to tell you, that’s their choice. I doubt they will, though.”
Daz gives a long sigh, eyes shutting. His tone is once again flat, though still manages to be notably insincere as he says, “Thanks, Break. A valuable contribution, as always.” His eyes widen slightly and he snaps his fingers. “Ah! The other one. I forgot to name you.”
His fellow Tommy pinches the bridge of his nose again. “They’re not pets, Daz–” “I never said they were. I’m being generous by giving them code names. If I wanted to, I could demand a name from them. Then it’s a back and forth to get one at all, if it’s real or not, and if I care about that. It’s easier to just assign names to some of them. If they want to get offended, I will remind them that I’m apparently one of their favorites.”
“There truly is no accounting for taste,” Raine mutters. Daz opts to ignore it, visibly lost in thought. He then breaks into a wide grin. “Chime.”
The other two stare at him for a moment. Raine’s eyes narrow “Is it because they chimed in–” “Yes. Yes it is because they chimed in on being my fan,” Daz confirms. And because windchimes could be…grating, in large doses. To put it mildly.
But he’s not admitting that one out loud.
Instead he asks, “So, Break–does your info on me also come from the Scribe? And is that standard, or more…unique?” “...How many of you are there, anyway? Observers, I mean.” Aster’s question makes Daz points at him, giving a little nod. “That as well. If you don't have an exact number, then a ballpark.”
He has to be careful with what questions he poses directly to the Scribe, after all. Any extra information he can get–even if it has to be further verified afterwards–is extremely useful.
Oh I almost forgot!! Hi Khons. I like your sweaterrr
The stars on the back are nice.
The scene is quiet and peaceful. Khons is in a living room that seems to be his own, judging by the pictures of him, Aleph, and a small handful of others scattered around. Notably, of the other Council members, only Aster is in multiple. Raine and Daz are both in one, but it seems like it had been some sort of server event--dozens of others are also in the same picture.
Khons himself is sitting in a comfortable chair and spinning what looks to be his own wool.
The sound of the question makes Khons flinch softly. Seemingly on impulse, he goes to shift his mask over his face, but pauses when he realizes what was said.
His hand falls and he smiles, broad and pleased. He twists around to show off the back of his cardigan, which also shows the way his little poof of a tail is wagging.
“Thanks! ‘Leph knit it for me. He spent a long time on the back. He keeps saying he can do it better, which, yeah, he probably can. But I'm attached to this one. It’s the first complicated thing he made for me."
His hand smooths over the front, his smile growing wider. "It's…kind of symbolic. We couldn’t really get attached to anything. Even my masks were usually taken from me."
From underneath a mound of blankets on the couch comes a mumbled, "The moon is lopsided and the dye is uneven."
Khons leans over to pat the lump that is, evidently, Aleph. "It adds realism." "It's not good enough," the Techno argues.
"I'd never have anything if I only got things you deem 'good enough.' Your standards are too high and you're too critical of your work," Khons retorts.
After a moment, Aleph moves the blankets to reveal his face. "Yours aren't high enough. You deserve nice things." "I do have nice things. You made most of them."
"Moony," Aleph sighs, like they’ve had this argument before. "'Leph," Khons replies, sounding a little amused.
They stare at each other. Aleph is the one who breaks eye contact first, leaving Khons looking triumphant.
Ok then Daz!! I’ll keep watching Dream!! Mostly all he does is play with his cats and feel guilty about things he did in the past though. But anyways, what’s your favorite flower?? Do you like cacti? They remind me of you!!
“Good. He deserves to feel guilty,” Daz replies with both satisfaction and a fair bit of venom. Judging by the look on Raine’s face, he’s holding back some sort of snark.
Then the rest of the messages comes through and Raine can’t help but snort at Daz being compared to cacti. It’s surprisingly accurate–or, well, maybe not surprising. Break, as Daz had decided to name them, evidently knew a fair bit about him. Daz gives Raine a withering look and considers denying the similarities out of pure pettiness. He opts not to, instead saying, “...I almost respect them–as much as one can respect a plant. They’re usually associated with endurance and perseverance and have an effective defense mechanism in the form of spikes.”
He shifts to a somewhat more comfortable position though somehow retains his almost regal and rather smug aura. The angle he moves at pulls up the sleeve of the light yellow hoodie he wears–which he seems to have several versions of, based on the slightly different patterns to the swirls every time he’s shown. There’s an elegant, golden scrollwork cuff on his wrist. The design is centered around three oval pieces of malachite.
The bracelet disappears under the sleeve again as he settles fully into his new position, having only been visible for a few brief seconds. Those few seconds were enough to leave the impression of it being important, though. Daz continues, “As far as my favorite flower…? Oleander. Desire, charm, destiny, and caution–all of which suit me, I’m sure you agree. It’s also extremely poisonous. It felt fitting, given Lee’s keen interest in poisons and toxins.”
He shrugs a little and adds, “I opt to ignore that romance is associated with it, too. I’m not interested in that sort of thing. I also have a decoy flower. Freesia; freedom, friendship, trust, thoughtfulness, and innocence.” He huffs out a small laugh, rolling his eyes a bit. “I’m not stupid enough to all but spell out that I’m acting via flowers. Not when there are popular books about their symbolism sold at A Tale as Old As Time. The Was-Taken family and the Not-Family all have meaningful flowers they’re associated with, too; they’d notice that sort of thing. I’m really not interested in Vio getting suspicious of me.”
“Vio is fucking terrifying,” Raine agrees. “People argue that Day and Theo are worse when they want to be, but…no. They don’t rank higher than the literally eldritch alien with an even more eldritch entity who decided to be a dog for–I don’t even know why. I just know I give Hero a wide berth because he creeps me the hell out. Vio scolds the damn thing regularly and was a Prime-damned information broker on an even more cutthroat version of this place than average. I’m not making myself someone they really take notice of, ever, because I’m a fan of being alive.”
Daz makes a small noise of agreement. “And thus, decoy flower. Suits my mask; sweet, a bit sappy, and even more dumb.”
