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DREAM looks at Punz, eyes gleaming with that no longer innocent excitement of his. The usually masked man’s expression is easy to read in the privacy of his base, the grin of a tyrant paired with the eyes of one of his best friends.
“It’s a small favor really,” Dream continues, still gazing at Punz with far too much eagerness considering the matter at hand. “I’d do it myself if I wasn’t busy.”
“Define small, Dream,” Punz finally says, mind still grappling what Dream had asked of him. “I. . .”
“You what?” Dream tilts his head, pretending to be confused. “You can’t? Or won’t?”
Punz busies his thoughts by adjusting his inventory. “I can,” he says, moving a stack of cobble back and forth between slots.
“So you will,” Dream replies with a smile. He turns and takes his things with him. “I trust you Punz.” You’re the only one I have left to trust, Dream says without ever saying it; Punz hears it all the same.
“Kill him before dawn. Doesn’t matter if they know it was us,” Dream takes Punz’s slow nod as a sign to continue, “all that matters is that Sapnap’s dead.”
PUNZ is a good man, no ill will or selfiish intentions in his soul. He’s in it for the money, he tells himself as he walks through the grass, as he’s done many times before. It’s a simple thing, the sword goes in, then out. Sure, the blood would be on his hands, but a job done would mean Dream would get off his ass. He’s a good man, he repeats, the phrase becoming a mantra.
Punz makes a note to himself to never let his friends employ him.
The voice in his head crawls out again, more agitated than before. You can’t kill your friend, it says in that nagging voice. No matter how much Dream pays you.
Punz shakes his head, almost tripping on a rouge vine. Somethings stirs in the dark at the sound; Punz tells the voice to shut its ass up for the life of him, not wanting to die at the fault of his damned conscience. The dark doesn’t make another noise when Punz stays still, muscles tensed. He moves agian when the silence remains, taking a small step towards the wooden path to Sapnap’s house. He takes no more than three steps when someone clears his throat behind him.
“Punz.” Sapnap is there, sword pointed at Punz’s chest, his heart. His face shows no surprise.
The sword hilt at Punz’s hip is painfully obvious, the gig up almost immediately.
“How did you-”
“It was expected,” Sapnap interrupts in that final tone of his that Punz hasn’t heard from him in a long time. “How much is he paying you?”
Punz doesn’t answer the question, paralyzed in his unenchanted iron. The discreetness wasn’t worth the sacrifice in defense, now that Sapnap found him. Sapnap takes the silence as an answer, lowering his sword in disappointment. “Alright.”
“I’m sorry,” Punz starts, the realization of what he’s doing now and everything he’s done in the past finally coming to him. The weight of it all rests painfully on his shoulders, and Punz is well aware that Dream isn’t the only one who put it there. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, throwing his sword on the ground. “I should have listened.”
Sapnap watches as Punz takes off his iron armor piece by piece, standing there defenseless in comparison to Sapnap’s enchanted netherite. Punz looks at Sapnap, eyes asking for a forgiveness he would never accept. “I’m sorry,” he says again, falling to the ground.
He covers his eyes with his hands, everything from his past actions to the present moment crashing down on him. It’s a kind of sadness that doesn’t quite make you cry, but the kind that follows you to your deathbed, that lives in your thoughts on sleepless nights, that leaves you empty and cold no matter where you are. Punz retches, not out of nausea but out of disgust for himself. Punz looks at his hands, seeing the faces of the people’s he’s killed in the lines of his palms, as well as Dream’s. He clenches his fists, looking up at Sapnap.
His friend is kneeling on the ground in front of him, his enchanted armor giving him the aura of an angel. Punz wouldn’t be surprised if Sapnap liberated him here on the border between wood and grass. “It’s okay,” Sapnap says, resting a hand on Punz’s shoulder. A little too tight to be casual, but enough to ground Punz from his thoughts.
“It’s not.” Punz’s mind races from time after time where Punz was on the wrong side of history. “It’s not, Sapnap.”
“It is to me.” Sapnap tries to rub his shoulder but Punz swats his hand away.
“That’s not enough,” Punz says, standing up. He picks up nothing but his sword and his chestplate, his mind slower and its thoughts darker.
“Punz,” Sapnap begins, his tone heavy, “where are you going?”
“To fix this.” Punz hands Sapnap his gold necklace. “See you.”
Sapnap gets up when Punz starts to walk away. “Where are you going?” he calls.
“Tell George that I’m sorry,” Punz calls back. He doesn’t answer when Sapnap asks again. “And you can ping the armor back to Dream’s place.”
THERE’S AN ART TO DYING, Punz realizes. Masters are few and far between, but are remembered the most. The best deaths are the ones that never feel real, the ones that stay with you until your own; they become parasites, haunting the minds of the deceased’s friends and family. Punz has decided, on his final night, that he may not be a good man, but he may as well be good at this.
Punz enters the room silently, looking around Dream’s base for the damned man. He goes through a passage so secret that Punz could count the people who know about it on his hand.
Dream is there, asleep and sprawled on a chair in a position that looks uncomfortable from miles away. Maps and papers lay in a mess on the floor beneath him, the familiar faces of his enemies outlined in red and captioned with obscenities. The room is lit only by a lone torch on a table, one that Punz passes by very carefully. The blonde takes no more than three steps towards Dream, sword pandished.
IT’S A SIMPLE THING, the sword goes in, then out. Sure, the blood is on his hands, a filth that will never be cleansed, no matter how many times Punz runs his hands under water, but a job done is a job done. The nagging voice in his head is long gone, any hopes of return had died out with that torch. The silence in his mind has finally returned, long gone but still familiar.
Punz settles near a quiet spot and sorts his things. The blocks he has left are tossed into the darkness, his chestplate at his feet. There is blood on his hands in many senses, the peacefulness of Dream’s last slumber evident in the stillness of his fingers, the small stain on the back of his hand still visible in his hand. He takes a deep peath and unsheathes his sword. The enchanted glow makes the blade seem unreal, its glimmer almost putting Punz in a trance. He runs his hands along the sharp metal, flinching slightly when he pricks his finger.
The mantra is tried, its truth debatable.
Punz is a good man.