What if the way Writer Dream knew about the story was because the book that Schlatt gave him (it's not a resurrection booki am ignoring that) was the script for the smp, like other people theorized before? And Wilbur was the owner of it before Schlatt got ahold of it. Wilbur tried twisting the strings of fate to do his bidding, though it backfired and sent him into madness. Dream will follow in his footsteps, it's only about time.
“What the fuck is this book, Schlatt?” Dream hisses, voice rough, unsteady. He’s standing in the doorway, door slammed open in his anger - in his fear, Schlatt muses in entertainment. The all-powerful admin himself is scared. He can hear it in his voice, knows if he looks over, he’ll see it in Dream’s stance; the tense, adrenaline-filled stance of a man who’s had his entire life’s purpose thrown out from underneath him.
But he doesn’t need to look over. Instead, he grins, lets the expression crawl over his face like bugs, and adjusts his tie in the mirror. “So you found it,” he says, “well done, admin. It was about time.”
And just like that, with a couple of mocking words, Dream is snarling, spinning Schlatt around and shoving him against a wall to get his attention. Such drama, Schlatt muses, all over a little book. All over a little script.
“I want answers,” Dream demands.
Schlatt arches an eyebrow. “They’re all in the book. How much have you read?”
“Everything that’s been written.” Dream lets him go, paces round his room like a caged animal, every muscle tense and every line terse. “But it’s bullshit. It’s- It’s a joke, Schlatt. A well-executed one, but a joke nonetheless. It has to be.”
Taking a moment to regain his breath, Schlatt returns to his desk, deliberately dismissive over Dream. “Oh, yeah, buddy, some joke. Trust me, it’s not a joke.” He scoffs, feeling a familiar bitterness climb up inside him at the thought. “Soot’s always been better than pranks like this. And this has his handiwork all over it.”
Dream sucks in a breath between his teeth, whirls around, alarmed. “You think this is Wilbur’s doing?” He asks, like this is somehow a surprise to him.
Schlatt chuckles. It’s not a nice sound. “Look at the author on the front page, dreamboat. That’ll give you all the answers you need. He didn’t write the damn thing, but he’s made too many changes for this to be anything other than his work.”
He doesn’t bother waiting for Dream to do so, but he hadn’t worried: Dream flicks through the book until he lands on the first page, staring at it in disbelief. Schlatt knows what he sees - Wilbur’s name signed neatly at the bottom, a dark scribble over the name in the centre, too dark to make out.
“So, you know what’s going to happen.” Schlatt breaks the stunned silence, voice calm, nonchalant. “On the day of the revolution.”
The admin swallows, convulsively. “You’re going to die. And Wilbur is going to...”
“..Blow himself and Manberg to kingdom come, right.” Schlatt cracks his knuckles, takes a swing from his bottle, and eyes Dream contemplatively. “And you know there are empty pages in the book. My guess is that it’s up to whoever owns the book to fill in the blanks, as it were.”
Silence. Thick, choking. And then it turns considering. Schlatt grins as he watches all of Dream’s passiveness and inaction and desperation unwind in front of him, watches the admin begin to consider things he’d never normally think of.
This, he thinks, is the real power of the book: getting inside its owners’ minds, making them panic, making them oh so desperate. He hadn’t been the same after he’d found it outside his door one morning after the election with a smug little note, knows from outside sources that Wilbur hasn’t been the same, has been descending further and further into madness with every frantic change he’d tried to make - and Dream won’t escape either.
“It says that I join you in the revolution,” Dream says at last, “for the book.”
Schlatt chuckles. “Got it memorised, have you?”
Dream jerks his chin at him, barely hides a snarl behind his mask. “Give me the book,” he demands, “and I’ll follow the script until the end. And then I’ll write my own ending. A better one than this.”
And he can’t help but laugh at that - bitter, amused, unsurprised. Because no matter how much Dream tries, Schlatt knows exactly what’s going to happen. They’re all slaves to the script in the end.
“Deal,” he says, because the cameras are probably rolling, because it’s been written this way.
He wonders, idly, if the audience are watching this, as he shakes hands with Dream, one devil making a deal with another, before dismissing the idea. He knows they aren’t.
There are some scenes that are left out of the script, just to keep things exciting.
