thought i'd make a little thing for this one too :)
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INCIDENT REPORT:
Report Number: 34
Date of Report: Tuesday, February 2nd, 2021
Time of Report: 19:32:18
PERSONS INVOLVED
IGN(s): awesamdude, Dream
Comm codes: 2833-58, 5930-64
Identification available: [X] Yes [ ] No
INCIDENT
Date of Incident: Tuesday, February 2nd, 2021
Time of Incident: 14:43
Location: Pandora’s Vault Main Cell
Incident Description:
Warden awesamdude entered cell 14:30 to supply prisoner Dream with ration of five potatoes. Prisoner asked for a new clock (destroyed, see Incident Report 33) and was refused. Prisoner displayed belligerent, uncooperative attitude. Warden conducted customary search and inspection of cell. Prisoner became increasingly irritable and refused to move from lid of chest during the inspection. Prisoner had to be physically relocated to search chest contents. Chest contains one new written book. Book appears to be written to visitor Badboyhalo during previous visit (see Visit report for Badboyhalo, January 30th, 2021). Prisoner unresponsive to questions about book contents. Prisoner expresses sudden antagonism upon being presented with rations. Prisoner acts aggressively about supplied rations and throws them at Warden. Rations subsequently confiscated. Continued aggression required use of force from Warden. Prisoner refused to comply with verbal commands and continued to resist attempts at restraining the prisoner and ending aggressive behavior. Prisoner attempted attack on Warden and seized [Warden’s Will] (see WARDEN’S INVENTORY | Tools and Weapons) in ensuing altercation. [Warden’s Willbreaker] utilized to reobtain stolen weapon.
INJURIES
Was anyone injured?: [X] Yes [ ] No
If yes, describe injuries:
No injuries sustained by Warden awesamdude. Prisoner Dream sustained broken right wrist, broken ribs (left: 3, 4 | right: 5, 6), contusions around throat, left eye, broken nose, sprained left ankle. One potion (potion of healing I) applied.
WITNESSES
Were witnesses present?: [ ] Yes [X] No
If yes, IGN(s) and identification information of witnesses:
FOLLOW UP ACTION
Prisoner will be instructed to go to back of cell before exiting cell in all cases. Automatic food dispenser will be implemented at soonest possible opportunity. Rations will not be delivered for the next three days. Visitation will also not be permitted.
woo :D was able to participate this time with a little fic, hopefully this means i'll have the time to try and write more consistently again :') hope you guys enjoy 2.8k words of c!Dream being Normal and Fine and c!Sam being absolutely miserable.
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The prison is working out well.
Dream spins the clock. The background is mostly a sunny blue sky, with the slightest creep of dark blue rotating in along the right. The sun is a bright dandelion yellow. It’s afternoon. Maybe two, three o’clock. He’s been tracking the days by sunset, when the clock is split in equal halves of blue and navy. Ranboo visits too, to corroborate the time, but it’s a good habit to keep track while he can. It’s been seven days. A whole week.
Besides Ranboo, there’s been one visit. Tommy. He’s seen three people, since being put in here. Tommy, Ranboo, and Sam. He’s eaten twenty potatoes. Counting is mundane, but so is everything now. There isn’t much to do in prison. Just sweat, and stare at lava, and stare at obsidian when that makes his eyes hurt, and wait for Sam to come in and check that he’s not been doing anything stupid, and wait for visitors, and eat and drink and sleep. It’s not a big room. He wouldn’t say it’s a particularly small one, either. The ceiling’s a little low, and there’s not anywhere to run, of course, but there’s plenty of room to pace and sit and lie down straight and he can sit down on the chest fine without hitting his head on stone. It’s not like he’ll need much space to carry out any plans in the foreseeable future. The cell is absent of certain comforts—a cot, for one, for obvious reasons—but once you get used to that, and the food, and the heat, it’s really not that bad. It’s not like he’s any stranger to roughing it.
From a certain point of view, it’s almost relaxing. Sam is predictable. Almost more of a clock than the clock he’s given him, which is half the reason Dream throws it in the lava at all; Sam is reliable. His reactions are reliable. He gets food delivered twice a day, once in the morning, once at night. The nightly visit is accompanied by questioning, and occasionally Sam comes into the cell around midday to interrogate him too. Dream cooperates. Why shouldn’t he? He’s already spilled his whole plan to everyone on the mountain, gloated to Tommy, who has surely run his mouth to everyone within earshot by now. There’s no point to him being cagey at this point; no, better to rave and rant about Tommy and exile and his plan in the mountain, better to let Sam get all the information he wants and watch his eyebrows knit in disgust. Sam raises his voice, Dream answers his questions, Sam storms off. He’s even started watching the clock, just out of curiosity, and Sam leaves his cell pretty much the same time every day. Clockwork.
There was one day when Sam didn’t come at all and Dream had—a moment, admittedly, embarrassing enough, just a string of disconnected thoughts about what would happen if the Warden of the prison suddenly dropped dead and died—but Sam had been right there the next day, looking more miserable than Dream has ever seen him. He made a quip about skipping work that made Sam snap at him; Dream takes it as a good sign, that the man guarding him seems to be more pained about the fact that he left him alone for a day than Dream was bothered about the disappearance of the single person responsible for every aspect of his life for the foreseeable future. That’s Sam, though. Dependable. Dedicated. Never one to not take his job seriously. If Dream put Sapnap in charge of the prison, he’d probably starve to death before the first month was up, but Sam looks like he’d rather fall on his own sword than leave Dream alone for a full twenty-four hours again; Dream has it in him to feel bad that he’s putting the guy to work for the sake of his own vacation. Just, a little bit.
Back to his point. The prison is relaxing. Really. It’s boring, sure, but obviously he expected that; he’s never had so little to do before. He wakes up at night (he’s been attempting to sleep at nighttime, just because the light apparently is supposed to mess with you, but his sleep schedule has been shot for months so it’s not like it really matters to him all that much) with his brain racing, grasping for a list of tasks to do, only to come up empty. It’s a bit of a marvel. He thinks it’s funny. Yeah, brain, he’s in his—vacation arc. They’re doing nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just like they planned. Nobody’s getting into this place to kill him, not without smacking face-first into, like, a billion security protocols, not without dealing with Sam’s workaholic Warden schtick on their ass. He’s even getting food hand-delivered to him. Full service! Or something.
He spins the clock again. Tommy gave him books to write. Sam flipped through them, asked questions, Dream answered. He’s not writing answers for them. He might throw them in the lava, if Sam doesn’t just confiscate the damn things; Dream knows he wants Tommy nowhere near him. Fair enough. Maybe he can write some long-ass manifesto about how much he wanted Tommy’s discs for Sam to chew on, if he gets bored enough. He laughs a little at the thought as he thinks it—okay, yeah, nah. He’s not at that point yet.
He lies down. Horizontal. The ground is hot, but everything’s hot, and he’s getting used to it at this point; better hot than cold, honestly. He’d rather sleep here than out in the snow. The ceiling is a plane of unbroken black stone. Dream raises his hand, splays out his fingers. His nails are starting to get long. Nothing to file them down with in here…teeth it is. Whatever. He lets his hand fall back to the ground, sighing. His eyes glance over at the clock.
Barely any time has passed. Still hours before Sam comes back. Dream bites back a low groan. Fine, fine, the boredom is getting to him. A little bit. He’s not surprised—it’s not like he’s ever done well with sitting still—but it’s still, annoying. He waves his arms and legs like he’s making a snow angel in the obsidian. Or doing jumping jacks. He should do jumping jacks, maybe. He’s got a basic workout routine to do daily—or several times a day, when there’s nothing else to do (there’s always nothing else to do, but whatever), but he’s not in the mood for it right now.
He clicks his tongue, just to hear himself. He talks to himself, sometimes, but he has to be careful what he says. Not that it’s not a good thing to keep up, though, for the madman routine. It’s much better to talk to himself when he knows he has an audience, muttering Tommy, Tommy, Tommy in those minutes before Sam enters his cell. Fun, even. Sometimes he writes out evil speeches to give in his notebooks, burning the pages in the lava before Sam arrives. He shouldn’t get reckless with it or anything, pushing the things too far past the point of absurdity, but at this point he could probably get away with saying—just about anything. He could blather on about how he wanted to keep Tommy in a cage and play his dumb little discs to him all day until he goes insane, and Sam would write all of that down in his—book with his face twisted up under his helm while Dream tries not to break down laughing and give away the whole ruse. Not that laughing doesn’t work out for him either, to be fair. He’s gotten pretty good at the villain laugh.
Dream stands up. He looks at the clock mounted in the item frame; the sliver of night sky on the right side has grown just slightly wider, enough to expose the slightest edge of one white-dotted star. Still hours before sunset. He pulls it off the wall, watching the background tick ever slowly forward. The gold gleams, polished to a mirror finish.
Sam’s craftsmanship is unmistakable, even with something as small as this. He almost feels bad for what he’s about to do.
He holds the clock up to the lava, keeping it in his hand for as long as he can handle it before the heat against his palm makes him shove it entirely under the flow, watching it disappear through strings of smoke. The crackling noise fades back into the normal hisses and pops after a few seconds; the smoke will linger for longer. Dream stands there, the lava’s heat at his face. It hurts his eyes to look at.
…whatever.
He backs away. Then claps, brushing his palms against each other. Clock’s been burned. Another item of his daily itinerary handled—not that he does this daily. Has to keep Sam on his toes, right? The crazy prisoner isn’t supposed to be the predictable one, not like the ever-punctual Warden. This is—important, he’s decided, for his image. Well, not important, maybe, but it’s calculated. Beneficial. Nobody sane takes the one thing they have in their cell and destroys it repeatedly for literally no reason. Sam’s prisoner, the crazy guy that was trying to take over the server, isn’t sane. No one questions why an insane guy tries to control everyone with a bunch of shit he doesn’t even have, why he thinks he can keep someone locked up in a two-by-one box with a couple of iron bars, why he listens to a guy threatening to kill himself when he can literally raise the dead. It’s all set dressing. Method acting. One or the other, or both; it’s not like he’s ever watched a real play in his life. All that matters is that everyone thinks he’s crazy because no one asks a crazy guy why he’s acting crazy, and crazy people do stuff like obsess over stupid pieces of vinyl and talk to themselves and destroy their own shit for no reason.
(Which probably makes Tommyinnit a crazy person, ha.)
Sam will come back. Soon. He will bring potatoes with him, and investigate the cell, and see the missing clock. He will complain. He will threaten Dream, rave about the destruction of prison property, telling him that he won’t replace it. He will question him about Tommy. And tomorrow morning, a new clock will be put in its place. Honestly, Sam would probably give himself an aneurysm if he had to look at the cell with one of its components missing. It seems like the kind of thing to bother him too much not to set straight. And tomorrow, maybe Dream will throw the clock into the lava again, and maybe he won’t. He’ll see.
He’s the one that decides, in the end.
—
Sam checks his comm again as he waits for the lava to fall, head already pounding. He’s had an on-and-off migraine ever since his night with the Egg, and the current wave shows no sign of abating any time soon. If he could have it his way, he’d be back in his bed, Fran curled up beside him, where it’s dark and quiet and comfortably cool instead of sweating half to death in a suffocating suit of full armor. Instead, he’s nursing a headache that only gets worse with every notification he reads off the log pulled up on his screen; he doesn’t even bother counting the string of [Dream tried to swm in lava] that appears under today’s date. The fact that it’s a seemingly longer list than the days previous does little to help his already bad mood.
He still has no idea what Dream hopes to achieve by doing this, besides attention. Not that Sam has even been trying to give him that, these days; he visits twice a day, once at 9 the morning and once at 6 in the afternoon, and then leaves the prisoner to himself. Sam doesn’t answer to him. He’s not going to get the same reaction he got the first time he pulled this stunt, when Sam had rushed into the cell in the middle of the night, heart in his throat after running halfway across the server, only to find Dream waiting for him in the middle of his cell with his mask smiling back mockingly. If he’s hoping to stir Sam into a panic again, he’s sorely mistaken. But still Dream continues. He’s probably just doing it to get a reaction out of him. He probably thinks that’s funny.
Dream is standing, waiting for him. Muttering to himself, he thinks he can hear. Sam pulls the lever for the bridge and steps on it, his sword in hand, wanting to get this visit over and done with as quickly as possible. He might sleep in the Warden’s quarters here, tonight, just to avoid the commute back to his base. Yeah, that sounds good. All he has to do is survive one conversation with Dream.
The prisoner has stopped talking to himself by the time Sam steps into the cell, lifting his chin as he looks at him.
“Hi, Sam.”
Sam makes a vague noise of acknowledgement, not more than a low grunt. His eyes scan the room from left to right, stopped prematurely by the sight of the empty item frame mounted on the wall. His headache grows exponentially worse in an instant, a stabbing pain hammering itself into the back of his skull. He grits his teeth.
He should’ve expected this. He knows he should’ve expected this.
“Prisoner.”
“Sam,” Dream replies, his smile audible in his voice. Sam closes his eyes, a prayer flitting across his overtaxed mind. God help him.
“Where’s your clock.” What’s the point of asking, even. Dream sways from foot to foot.
“I burned it?”
“Why did you do it. Again.” Dream shrugs. Sam steps forward, shoves him back. “Don’t be so dumb, Dream.”
The prisoner barely seems to react, his back hitting the wall. His voice is nearly sing-song. “Ohhh. I got you though.”
Sam wishes, not for the first time, that he didn’t have the work ethic that keeps him from coming into the cell drunk. Surely the prisoner cannot be any more infuriating to handle with the help of some alcohol. He holds the prisoner by his jaw and knocks his head back against the wall, gauntlet digging into the pale skin under the bottom edge of his mask.
“What is wrong with you!” Dream struggles, slightly. Sam kicks at his legs. “Don’t move. Answer my question.”
“Let go.”
“How many times have I told you not to burn the clock, Dream!” He knocks the back of his head against the wall, harder this time. The struggling stops. “Do you think it’s funny? I don’t have to replace your clock!”
Dream sounds a little dazed when he replies, arms crossed at his chest. “I just wanted to burn it. So I did.”
“That’s ridiculous. What is your problem.” He shakes his head by his jaw, once, then lets go, giving himself enough distance to swing a fist into Dream’s side, making him double over. He scoffs at the sight, anger white-hot. He knows he shouldn’t be letting the prisoner get to him. Knows that Dream is only doing this to mess with him, mess with him the same way he messes with everyone, trying to get into his head. His skull feels like it’s being split apart.
Dream stands up straight again. All Sam can see is the flat, smooth plane of his mask, that smile, unchanged. His hands, knotted into tight fists at his sides, shake. The heat pulsing behind his eyes feels like rage, and also almost feels like he’s going to cry.
He can’t do this. The realization is abrupt, but sure. Not tonight, not with this headache, not with Dream. He can’t go through the same song and dance, can’t sit here and examine the cell and give the prisoner his potatoes and go through questioning for an hour, can’t spend the rest of his night going over his words with a fine-toothed comb looking for the nuggets of truth hidden in the midst of the prisoner’s crazed ramblings. Hasn’t he done enough? For the whole server, for everyone, day after day he stands and faces the monster before him and day after day he stands strong; retreating now feels like weakness, but he can’t. He honestly, truly, can’t. He ignores the weight of the potatoes in his inventory and turns.
“Sam?” Dream speaks again when he’s reached the edge of the cell, sounding slightly winded. “What are you—?”
Sam pearls across the gap, slamming the lever to lower the lava wall as soon as his vision clears. Tomorrow, he will be the Warden of Pandora’s Vault. Tomorrow, he will stand toe-to-toe against the one he has been entrusted to keep and stand firm. Tomorrow, he will do as he must, as the one responsible for the survival of everyone and everything he holds dear.
Today, it’s just too much. He looks back to a wall of unbroken lava, only able to stare at it for a few seconds before turning away.
woo! managed to finish this in time. kinda unedited and kinda a mess but i've missed writing these guys; i'm deeefinitely in need of more practice to get c!wilbur's voice down, but hopefully this can be the start of me writing some more fic set earlier in the timeline, LMAO.
thanks @elmhat for the awesome event!! been epic to see people's submissions and i cant wait to see this continue. ur awesome <3
c!dream meets up with c!wilbur to tell him about a change to their plans | 2.3k words
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<Dream> be there in 5
The communicator in Wilbur’s hand casts a pale glow onto the palm of his hand, the only light he has to guide him as he paces the length of the hollowed-out room; it’s dark, zombies groaning somewhere outside, the dead singing their songs, shuffling through underbrush in the belly of the forest that surrounds Pogtopia. The air is musty in their little dugout, a claustrophobic awning of stone carved into the side of a hill, well-shadowed even during the day, the darkness swallowing the wan light of the comm in his hands now. He can barely see the floor underneath him as he walks, shuffling steps forward and back, ten paces each. He presses his hand against the wall, turning to the entrance and standing still.
Phil always had a whole thing about light, Wilbur having grown up on lectures about light levels and spawn-proofing and the dangers of leaving cavities unlit while mining, had grilled him on different ways of keeping a room from becoming a death trap. Carpets, half-slabs, glass. How many times had he been warned of the danger presented by surprise creepers and dark corners?
Phil had never been much of a fan of explosions.
The main server is mostly well-lit, but the secrecy demanded by revolution effort means that the forest surrounding Pogtopia gets much darker. Not that he’s in the main ravine at the minute–with the amount of people coming and going as of late, Dream had wanted their meeting to be in a slightly more discreet location, and Wilbur had agreed. It was easy enough to slip away with Technoblade once again off to do his own thing and Tommy having run off to find Tubbo, and Wilbur had managed to arrive to the room sufficiently early before sunset to prevent himself from getting ambushed by mobs.
He slips his hand into his coat pocket. Chekov’s gun is smooth and cold against the palm of his hand, polished wood and metal. He smooths the pads of his fingers down the barrel, over the trigger. He leaves it, pulling out a half-empty pack of cigarettes instead. His lighter provides a clearer view of the room, still empty. Dream is late.
Dream is usually late, then again–it’s expected, really, with the way he runs around the server, always busy, always chasing down those plans of his, smart man that he is. Dream likes his secrets, his mystery, mask and armor all made to keep his cards close to his chest–Wilbur can hardly fault him for it, god no. Dream has what he wants, just as they all do, all of them tripping over themselves in their ambition, crabs in a bucket, the pledges to help the revolution coming from each one that jumps off of Schlatt’s sinking ship. He breathes in deep, smoke coating his lungs with tar.
“Wilbur?”
Light throws itself into the room from the entrance, rippling wildly as the fire on the end of Dream’s torch burns, casting wild shadows over his mask as he squeezes himself inside. Despite his armor, he has an uncanny knack for moving silently, cloak and hood pulled low over his head so that only the edge of the painted smile is visible. The torch is raised higher, moved left and right as Dream surveys the contents of the room around them. Wilbur smiles and tips his head towards him in greeting.
“Dream, my man. How good to see you again.”
“Wilbur…” Dream’s voice trails off. His head turns from one side to the other, making another anxious sweep of the room before refocusing on Wilbur, his hand moving to pull his hood down and then run his hand through his hair, having been pressed flat by the heavy fabric. The blank face of his mask stares back at Wilbur, tilting to the side like a confused dog as he shakes out his shoulders. “We…need to talk.”
“Well? I’m all ears.” He gestures at himself, leaning against the wall of the room. Dream turns to look over his shoulder again. His armor glimmers, the light of the runes on their surface made more obvious in the dark. He bounces on the balls of his feet, reaches up once again to tug his fingers through his hair.
“It’s important.” No shit, Wilbur almost says, because for all that Dream might think that his mask hides everything he’s thinking, he’s never quite been as guarded with his body language as he might hope; the anxiety rolling off of every jerky movement is enough to set Wilbur’s teeth on edge as it is, never mind the long silences and hesitation, but he’s not stupid enough to think that that would get him anything resembling an answer. Instead, he raises an eyebrow, smiles wider, and spits out another curling thread of smoke.
“You’re an important man. I should hope so.”
Dream pauses at that. His head does that tilt-thing again. “...alright.”
“So? What is it? Do tell.” Has Dream decided to go against him? Perhaps. His enthusiasm with regards to their plan is more unpredictable than Wilbur had expected, sometimes perfectly willing, sometimes hesitant to agree to much of anything. But he had agreed, nonetheless, had provided the TNT that Wilbur has set sprawling underneath Manberg’s main stage; cold feet, now, would be rather unprecedented. Still, it’s Dream–very little can be discounted when Dream is in the picture, Wilbur knows. He places his hands in his pockets, thumbs hooked over the edge, pistol brushing against his fingertips. “I hate to push, but the suspense is killing me.”
Dream takes another second, then reaches behind his head. Wilbur straightens where he’s standing, suddenly curious, as he removes his mask.
He’s seen Dream without it only a few times–all able to be counted on one hand, this one included. The light of the torch illuminates his face from the chin up, cast shadows highlighting the contours of his skull, the contours of his cheeks, light catching under his brows. His features are delicate in a way that still surprises him, a smattering of freckles over the nose of his bridge made visible as he raises the torch higher. Dream’s eyes are a little wide, a little bloodshot. He bites his bottom lip, blinking twice in quick succession, eyes darting over the walls and then back to Wilbur’s face.
“Schlatt called me. For a meeting earlier.”
“Schlatt?”
“He knows about the TNT.”
Wilbur blinks. “Well, fuck.”
“Look–Wilbur, look.” Dream makes a little move with his hands, shaking them out by the wrists. “It’s not–it’s not the end of. This, okay? But, he knows. I didn’t tell him. I don’t know how he found out, I don’t know if someone told him, I haven’t told anyone, but–he knows. We can still work with this.”
“Schlatt knows?” He searches Dream’s face. He seems earnest, but god knows, but what would he have to gain from lying about this, anyway? Who else could’ve told him–Tommy? Tommy might not tell Schlatt directly, but Tommy has never been good with secrets, letting anyone and everyone in on everything with an apparent inability to control his own tongue–
“--but it’s, fine. The TNT is still there, the room is still intact. I checked some of the wiring and it doesn’t look like it’s been tampered with. Wilbur, are you listening to me?”
Wilbur waves him off. “I’m listening. Just keep going.”
“I don’t think we need to change anything with the TNT. Like, Schlatt’s just one guy. And his gear is shit. If he messes with the TNT, then we’ll–we’ll figure something out, but you know, I don’t even think he even, like, knows where it all is.”
“Well, it’s kind of everywhere, so–”
“–which is my point. It’s too deep, he’s still sitting on top of a bomb. There’s nothing–there’s nothing he can do.” Dream crosses his arms in front of his chest, still worrying his lip between his teeth. “I just thought you should know.”
Schlatt knows. Schlatt knows–Wilbur paces against the wall of their room, ten paces forward and ten paces back. He crushes his cigarette underneath his boot, nails digging into his palm.
“Well, Dream? Is that all?”
Dream’s expression twists. His brows pinch together, lips pressed against each other and curling into a slight grimace, his expression giving too much away after spending so much time masked.
“There’s…one more thing.”
Wilbur scoffs. “Just spit it out, you prick.”
Dream doesn’t even react to the insult, shoulders hunching up as he begins speaking. “Look…it’s just. My plans have…changed.”
What? “I thought you just said that they didn’t?”
“Our plans are the same. It’s just–Schlatt made me, an offer.” Dream shifts from foot to foot. He swallows, throat working, his eyes still bright and wide, pupils dilated with a thin circle of green around. Wilbur stares at him. He almost looks… “He’s got something. Important. He asked me to…join him, kind of, and he’d–give it to me.”
“What?”
“It’s not–look, Wilbur. Wilbur.” Dream raises his hands, palms out, a placating motion. “It’s not what you think, but I–I had to.”
“You had to join Manberg.”
“I’m not joining Manberg!” Dream runs his hand through his hair, eyes flashing. Wilbur is suddenly very aware of the axe on his back, the heavy plates of netherite armor. Eret, the button, it was never meant to be. “Why would I join Manberg, what–”
“So what’s this? What’s this then, Dream?”
“Wilbur–”
“Because from where I’m standing, I have to say, it looks a lot like you’re betraying me.”
“I am not–”
“That’s just like you. That’s just like you, isn’t it? Good ol’ Dream, mister 1000 IQ, outsmarting everyone–well-played, man, well-played! I really must congratulate you!”
“Wilbur, can you just–”
“So what is this meeting then, Dream? Gotten cold feet, now that you’ve been discovered? You’re his little lackey now, is that it, his little lap dog–you’re gonna start another war? Put down another revolution, lead us all out to slaughter like last time, good for you, you motherfucker, is that the point of this farce? You’re here to kill me?”
“Wilbur, can you just listen to me!”
Dream’s voice is raised. Wilbur draws himself up to full height, Dream’s head craning up slightly as he crosses the room in front of him in two long strides.
“What.”
“I’m not. Joining Manberg.” Dream’s arms are crossed tightly in front of him, scowling slightly. It’s an expression not all that much unlike Tommy’s teenage petulance, a set jaw, eyes narrowed under furrowed brows. “There’s just–a peace treaty, right? I can’t just violate that. And now Schlatt knows. He’s asking for me to give him–gear.”
“Gear, like what.”
“Armor. Weapons, shields. Support in the incoming fight. You know, he’d already been paying Punz, the rest of the people in my country are already going to fight with him. And, whatever.”
Wilbur rocks back on his heels. His skin itches, feeling antsy, so he goes back to pacing. “And?”
“I meant what I said, earlier. This doesn’t change anything. The TNT is still there, we can still blow it up. It…doesn’t matter who wins the, the battle and stuff.”
Wilbur sets his shoulders, turning back to look Dream in the eye. “Really. It doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t! It doesn’t matter. We have an agreement, that’s still like–a thing.” Dream’s hands close into fists, then open again. “I don’t like this, okay? I don’t like Schlatt–” Wilbur scoffs, “--and I don’t exactly want to work with him. But I have to. I swear, I really have to.”
“Because, what. The treaty?”
Dream shakes his head, expression still all twisted up like he’s eaten something sour. “He’s got. A book.”
Wilbur laughs outright at that. “A book.”
“It’s–Wilbur, I swear. It’s important. I’ll, I might–I’ll–” Dream makes a frustrated sound, teeth clenched. “I have to get it.”
“So you’re going to work for Schlatt.” Fuck it. Wilbur pulls out another cigarette, lighting it as he speaks. “You’re going to be the emperor’s little guard dog.”
“I’m–”
“No, no, it makes sense. It’d be too boring for you otherwise, wouldn’t it? Not enough chaos, with everyone joining the rebellion.” He gestures with the cigarette, Dream’s eyes caught on it as it moves. “You want us all to fucking destroy ourselves, keep everyone weak, Manberg, Pogtopia–you don’t need to explain yourself, man, you’re a smart guy! Even out the playing field, join whatever team has the fewest players, keep yourself above it all. Bravo, really. Bravo.”
Dream’s jaw works, but he stays silent. Wilbur smiles at him and breathes in a long drag of smoke.
“Well, Dream. I very much appreciate our meeting together today, really. Really! This has been…enlightening. Is that all? Or do you have any other important information to tell me.”
“...I’ll come around in a few days to tell the others. About, switching sides and whatever. And–the TNT is still going off, alright? No matter what.”
Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”
Dream stares him down, Wilbur meeting his eyes evenly. He breaks eye contact first, looking down at the floor and tossing several stacks of TNT onto the ground between them. -
“Thank you, Dream. Until next time then.”
Dream stares at him, blinks, his eyes wide and green, before he turns away. The torch disappears into his inventory as he walks to the exit of the room, silhouetted in the doorway as he presses the mask back over his face. Wilbur reaches into his pocket, draws out Chekhov’s gun, holds his arm straight in front of him, fingers wrapped around the pistol as Dream works at the straps behind his head. He keeps it held there, pointed at Dream’s back until the man slips into the night, the blurry reflection of the lit end of his cigarette vaguely visible in the dull metal.
He’s not sure how long it is before a twinge to his arm makes him slip the unloaded gun back into his pocket. He sighs. He needs to start making his way back; after all, he still needs to think of a birthday present.
i do not believe quackitys “kill techno” bit has much to do with the infamous Tomorrow. he just said that it might not be tmw, and techno has been emphasizing the sixteenth, so there might be smth bigger happening
