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Chapter Text

Phil pushed open the doors of the tech shop - unlocked, he noted absent-mindedly, he really needed to start remembering to lock the doors - and entered the room to find the lights already on and four people already inside.

“You all are here early for strike,” he greeted, folding his coat and draping it over his chair. There were two chairs in the shop - one was permanently Phil’s and the other was fought over by the rest of the tech crew. Today, Tubbo was sitting in the second chair. 

“Wilbur drove me in,” Tommy explained, “We figured we might as well give you some time to sleep in. The rest of tech crew just fuckin’ appeared.”

“Not everybody’s related to the tech director,” Purpled pointed out. 

“And stage manager,” Phil added on reflex. Which reminded him - he had projects to start handing out and a checklist to complete. Today was a Saturday, and though their next show was a month away they still needed to get ready.

“What does ‘SMP’ in ‘SMP Performing Arts Department’ stand for anyways?” Tubbo asked.

“I don’t think it stands for anything,” Purpled replied, “Like the PSAT.”

Tommy cleared his throat. “Super Mega Pu-”

Ranboo slapped his hand over Tommy’s mouth, effectively cutting off what Tommy was about to say. “I agree with Purpled,” he said brightly. 

There was a blessed pause in which Phil deliberately tuned out the past conversation and consulted his checklist. 

“Ranboo got everybody doughnuts except for me,” Tommy groused after a minute of tolerated silence. He was perched on a stack of platforms. Phil eyed him warily - they were sturdy, but old and prone to handing out splinters like emails sent from magazine subscriptions. 

“You owe me sixteen dollars,” Ranboo pointed out. “No doughnuts until you’ve made at least a down payment.”

“I call dibs on Tommy’s doughnut,” Tubbo called with his mouth full.

Phil pointed at Tubbo. “No eating in the shop,” though his comment was halfhearted at best. There really was no way to stop people from eating in the theatre, though he did his best to admonish people when he caught them.

Tubbo guiltily finished the rest of his doughnut and Phil pulled out his plans. “What’re we doing now?”

“The good news is that the next show is going to be a continuation of the previous one,” Phil sighed and rolled out the blueprints (read: crumpled sticky notes taped on a sheet of poster paper). “We’re keeping aspects of the old set so you don’t have to tear down all of it. That means you’re taking down the tower and the White House, but leaving the podium up.”

“What, we’re continuing with the L’Manberg plot?” Tommy asked, leaping down from his stack of platforms.

“Probably. I’m not involved with the acting,” Purpled shrugged. “I think they renamed it to Manberg.”

Tommy wrinkled his nose. “Shit name.”

“Didn’t you and Tubbo act in the last play?” Ranboo asked incredulously. He was the new recruit and had admirably caught up on the lore and all its fuckery that Phil didn’t know about and didn’t want to even think about touching. 

“I’m acting in this one as well,” Tommy grinned.

“I’m just sticking with tech for this arc,” Tubbo muttered, shuddering a little. “I’m perfectly content with leaving ‘executed by firework-wired crossbow’ as the pinnacle of my acting career.”

“Anyways ," Phil cleared his throat, clapping his hands together. “Strike. You know what to do - take everything down but leave the podium. I suggest working from the top then the bottom - you’ll probably need to pull out the ladders.”

“I love strike.” Tommy bounced into the tool room. “We get to harass the actors and make them do our manual labor.”

“We help with the deconstruction,” Ranboo pointed out, “The whole point of strike is a group effort to take down the set so we aren’t stuck here for hours.”

“You’re no fun,” comes muffled from a room over. 

“Phil, can I use the chainsaw?” Tubbo asked excitedly. 

Phil waved his hand wearily. “Go for it.”

He left the four boys in the tech shop and headed off in search of the playwrights’ room, hoping that the stage wouldn’t be destroyed once he came back.

-

The playwright’s room’s location varied from time to time. Phil checked the black box, then the dance practice rooms, then the dressing rooms, then in a last-ditch attempt, all the corridors. Nothing.

He finished off his rounds back at the stage, slightly irked. Tech crew had surprisingly made progress on dismantling the set - the White House was partially torn down, the roof and two walls gone. Tommy was balanced on a stack of platforms, wearing a headset and shouting instructions at pit orchestra, which was surprisingly also functioning and helping. 

“Big Q, get off the tower!” Tommy hollered. 

“How am I supposed to fuckin’ take it down, then?” Quackity screeched back - he was perching awkwardly on top of one of the knobbly ledges Tommy had tacked on said prop. Every day, Phil has regrets about letting Tommy design that tower. “Or get off?”

Tubbo came hurrying by with a ladder three times his height, nearly knocking down Fundy. “Sorry, coming through, excuse me,” he constantly apologized as he maneuvered over planks and stray screws.

“Get on the ladder,” Tommy instructed - “Tubbo, you help him up - leave the ledges up, they’ll provide footholds. Take some ratchets with you, we used bolts.”

“I wasn’t aware this was rock-climbing class!” Quackity’s voice was pitching higher and higher with every progressing minute that he was stuck. 

“Tommy!” Phil called. “Do you know where the playwright meeting is?”

Tommy shrugged. “They’re all talkin’ through here -” he tapped the headset - “and I’m supposed to be contributing to the meeting, but I dunno where they are. I can barely hear ‘em through all the stage noise, anyways.”

“Great,” Phil muttered. At least he could narrow it down to places where headsets were already wired. Though that didn’t help much - those fuckers were everywhere.

Phil left Tommy, Quackity, and Tubbo to the tower and ducked under what used to be the podium. Purpled was helping Sapnap take down the foundations, both of them bickering lightly about screw types. 

“Do either of you know where the playwright meeting is?” Phil asked, trying not to sneeze - sawdust was littering the ground and everywhere else, to be fair. “Or where all the headsets are hooked up to?”

“Dream’s supposed to be there but I haven’t seen him at all this morning,” Sapnap replied. “Purp?”

Purpled shrugged. “No clue. Maybe ask Ranboo, he’s usually the one up in the booth doing sounds and lighting during shows.”

“Where is he now?”

“I think he was helping Fundy.”

Phil gave them a thumbs-up and ducked out. 

Ranboo was easy enough to find - he and Fundy were detaching the podium from the White House, and they were both holding… fishing rods? Phil decided to ignore that last fact. 

“Ranboo, do you know where all the headsets are wired? In the entire theatre?”

What was visible of Ranboo’s face behind the sunglasses and the face mask -  which was not a lot, but Phil was good at reading body language - looked perplexed. “Uh, no, but they’re all everywhere.”

“True,” Fundy cut in, “I’m pretty sure I saw one in the bathroom.”

Phil groaned. “I need to use them to locate the playwright meeting. I know they’re using the headsets but I don’t know where they are now.”

Ranboo paused for a moment. “If they’re using a headset, couldn’t you also use one and talk to them through it? They’re all connected, aren’t they?”

Phil closed his eyes, acknowledged that statement and its coherency, and tried to keep from screaming. “Noted. Thank you.”

He made his way over to the closest headset, which was on stage right. Phil tried valiantly to keep from smashing the buttons with too much force and slipped on the headset. Immediately, he could hear the yells - they sounded suspiciously like Wilbur, admonishing someone in the background. Something about skulls?

Phil turned up the volume to the highest setting and yelled into the mic, “Where are you guys?”

The voices petered off instantly. Static floated over the comms before Wilbur said, his voice much clearer and with a tinge of sheepishness, “Hi, Phil.”

“Will,” Phil repeated sternly, “Where are you.”

“Oh, Wilbur, you’re about to lose a canon life,” Tommy cackled over comms. Seems like the little gremlin had finally managed to fix his headset issues. 

“Shut up, Tommy,” Wilbur shot back. “Phil, we’re on…” he hesitated. “The grid.”

“I told you guys not to go up there unless it was for - oh, nevermind,” Phil bemoaned, sinking back into his seat. “Who else is up there?”

“Techno and Niki are with me,” came the staticky reply, “And Dream was here, but he left a few minutes ago. He was the one that let us in.”

“That’s how you keep getting up there despite my locking the catwalk doors,” Phil muttered. He added tell Dream to stop breaking into the catwalks on his list. “Okay, you can stay, but you’re using the ladders to get down. I’m locking the doors in a minute.”

“The ladders?” Phil can hear Wilbur’s slight desperation in his voice. Somebody laughed in the background - it sounded like Niki. “Phil, come on-”

“If you’re up on the grid, you use the ladders to get down,” Phil reiterated, “Tech rule. Only wimps use the stairs.”

“And old people like you,” Tommy’s voice crackled in Phil’s ears. Phil forgot he was still on comms. He had half a mind to disconnect Tommy’s headset.

Phil sighed and clicked his headset off, heading up to the stairs. 

-

Strike passed by relatively easily after that. Phil locked the doors to the catwalk twice, manually and with a lock he brought in from his office. He came down from the stairs to see Niki hopping easily off the ladders, followed by Techno practically carrying Wilbur down.

“Good session,” Techno gave Niki a thumbs up, and she returned it. “I think we’re got a lot done.”

“I’m thinking we could touch up some of the last costumes we used as well,” Niki replied, “And now that we have a sense of everybody’s arcs I can let costuming know how everybody should appear.” She ruffled Will’s hair and gave Phil a smile before heading off the stage.

“I hate those fucking ladders,” Wilbur shuddered after Techno pried his death grip off his cloak. Techno and Phil just looked on, amused. “They always make me feel like I’m going to fall to my death.”

“Not if you have a functioning grip,” Techno pointed out, and Wilbur glared at him. 

“There’s just a flimsy gate that attaches it to the catwalk, and then you have to go up another one to get to the grid -”

“Which is a risk you took, going up there without supervision,” Phil admonished. 

“We didn’t move any of the weights,” Techno reassured Phil, “Honestly, we just sat within three feet of the ladder. Dream let us in but didn’t stay - I think he was listenin’ in via the mics.”

“Probably ‘cause the grid’s really high up,” a new voice interjected, “He doesn’t like heights.”

Phil sighed, not even bothering to turn around. “George, you’re late for strike.”

“My bad.” George doesn’t sound remotely sorry; he flashes a quick salute at the group - Wilbur dramatically returns it with a flourish - and makes a beeline towards Sapnap to most likely start annoying him. 

“He literally doesn’t show up for rehearsal,” Techno remarks half-interestedly. “It’s kinda impressive.”

“Which is why we’re writing him out of the script.” Wilbur taps at his phone. “Phil, I texted you the plot points and the set pieces we’ll probably need.”

“Great.” Phil’s phone let out a cheerful ding! a second later. So did Techno’s. They raised their eyebrows at each other.

“Wilbur,” Tommy screeched from across the stage, “Why’d you text the family groupchat?”

“Plot points, dumbass,” Wilbur hollered back.

Phil shook his head. “You can go tell everybody we’re taking a lunch break,” he muttered to Techno. “I ordered pizza.”

Techno nodded and left, his cloak swishing behind him. Phil watched the bright red of the fabric disappear and wondered how many more props he’d find incorporated into people’s everyday outfits. 

Lunch break. Halfway there.

-

After lunch, Phil consulted his list. He needed to check in with the costuming department, make sure everybody in pit orchestra was accounted for, and schedule a time for the Badlands to come in. 

Oh, and tell Dream to stop breaking into the catwalks.

Phil stuck his head into the theatre. Sapnap and George were sprawled in the audience seats - Phil briefly considered asking Sapnap to take his shoes off the chair in front of him, then decided that the seats were too shitty to require actual care. 

“Have any of you seen Dream?”

“Probably up on the catwalks,” George answered easily, thumbing at his phone.

“He can’t be up there, I double-locked the doors this morning.” Phil crossed his arms. 

Sapnap shrugged and exchanged a glance with George. “George,” he said pointedly, letting his voice carry, “Why do you think Dream wears that mask all the time anyways?”

“His actual face is too ugly,” George replied immediately, pitching his voice loudly as well.

A muffled clank came from above the three, followed by a wheeze and an indignant “Hey!” from the catwalks. 

George and Sapnap swung around to face Phil. I-told-you-so was written all over George’s face.

Phil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb in defeat. “I’m coming up.”

He struck a deal with Dream - if the guy was able to get through the locks, there wasn’t any point in stopping him - to at least turn on the lights when he was up on the catwalks and not let anybody else in if he was up there without Phil’s permission. 

Phil wasn’t too worried about Dream’s safety. Maybe he should be. However, if he kept getting up on the catwalks without causing Phil any problems to clear up, then he figured it was acceptable enough. 

Time to find the costuming department. 

-

Turns out, the costuming department found him. Phil had barely set foot in the lobby before he caught sight of Eret and Puffy moving through the entrance, on time for their afternoon work. Costuming department wasn’t required to show up for morning strike because 1) they weren’t too involved in the acting and set (aside from Niki) and 2) they were the only functional group that Phil didn’t have to constantly manage in the theatre, and he wanted to repay that. 

“Puffy! Eret!” Niki made her way from one of the adjoining corridors. “Good to see you.”

“How’d the playwright session go?” Eret asked cordially as Puffy playfully threw an arm around Niki’s shoulder. 

“We’re continuing with the L’Manberg storyline,” Niki replied. “Techno’s taking over his anarchist persona while Wilbur has some ideas about how to wrap up his corruption arc. I’m in charge of what happens to L’Manberg and its citizens and how they deal with the festival aftermath.”

Phil approached them. “I’m assuming you all have ideas on how to do costuming?”

“A little,” Niki directed. They all started heading to the back of the building where the costumes and props were stored. “We’re keeping the costumes from before similar. At this point in the plot, everybody has a solid idea on where they stand and what values are important to them.”

“If people confirm they’re on a different side than what they appeared to be on during the previous arc, we could switch up their designs,” Eret offered. “Like when Tubbo took off his suit before he was executed.”

They made it to the back of the building and started climbing up the stairs to get to where the costumes were stored. Phil unlocked the doors and they all stepped inside the musty room, suppressing the urge to sneeze. Puffy flicked on the lights.

“It doesn’t have to be just the costumes,” Puffy added, “If we change up the way characters physically present themselves and look, that speaks just as loudly as a new outfit.”

“I’ll let them know in the next meeting,” Niki nodded cheerfully. “Phil, anything to ask?”

“Just needed to make sure you all are on track.” Phil tossed the key to the costuming room at Niki, who caught it deftly. “Keep ahold of that and let yourselves in when you need to. And -” he pointed a warning finger - “Don’t let Tommy in here without supervision.”

“Roger that,” Eret rumbled. Puffy saluted sharply, grinning. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Phil replied and headed back down to the rest of the theatre.

-

Pit orchestra, in their element, was a force to be reckoned with. Sometimes, that force was cohesive. Today, it was not. 

Phil ducked something vaguely pen-shaped and bright orange before it made contact with his head. He turned around to see the offending object - a kazoo - clatter somewhere in the row of seats behind him. 

“Get back,” Quackity screeched, “I have more where those came from!”

“How do you even have more?” Fundy cried, “You’ve thrown at least five at me already!”

“Make that six, amigo -”

“They’ve been at this for at least ten minutes,” Sapnap commented, materializing next to Phil. They both watched Quackity chase Fundy around the electric keyboard and up the aisle, passing by George - who had not moved from his position since Phil saw him last. “I leave to tune my violin and they go feral.”

Phil groaned. “Can you… I don’t know, get their attention?”

Sapnap raised his violin under his chin and scratched out a high-pitched, harsh, drawn-out noise with a flourish of his bow. Phil barely restrained himself from slapping his hands to his ears, but the noise worked. Quackity and Fundy ceased their bickering and turned to glare at Sapnap. 

“Dude,” Quackity whined, “What the fuck was that.”

“E-string,” Sapnap said smugly, “Works every time.”

“Sounded a bit out of tune,” George called from his position in the audience seats. Sapnap promptly flipped him off, then surreptitiously adjusted one of the knobs on his violin.

“Okay,” Phil clapped his hands together, “Do you all have any ideas as to what you’re going to do?”

Fundy shrugged. “We usually just hold practices until Wilbur gives us the music he’s composed for the play. Other than that… stay out of everybody’s way?”

“If I have to do a solo,” Quackity said gleefully, making his way around the theatre and picking up his discarded kazoos, “Can I get Wilbur to sneak ‘My Heart Will Go On’ into the repertoire?” 

“Absolutely not,” Phil threatened, “Or I will cut your mics mid-performance.”

“George’s joining pit orchestra,” Sapnap added, “In spirit, of course.”

“Maybe he can add vocals,” Quackity mused. 

“If you autotune the mics I’ll do it,” Fundy offered. 

“Even if I joined,” George said dryly, “This orchestra can’t sound worse than it already does.”

Quackity hurled a kazoo in his direction. Phil sighed. 

A few more hours, then he’d be able to go home.

-

Phil had locked himself in his office for the past couple hours, working on blueprints for the upcoming play. He had a lot of logistics to cover, such as wood allocated and purchases that needed to be made on their budget. Thank god tech had a policy of reusing materials for years. 

If the theatre had burned down while he was in his own working bubble, he hadn’t heard about it yet. It was quiet outside, and judging by the time, probably dark as well. 

He just had one last task to finish. 

“Hey, this is Badlands Tech,” a tinny voice came from Phil’s phone, “Sam here, how can I help you?”

“Sam,” Phil said with relief, “It’s Phil.”

“Oh, hey!” Sam’s voice brightened, then turned faintly concerned. “You sound tired.”

“It’s strike today,” Phil explained. 

“Ah,” Sam acknowledged. “Well, how can I help you?”

“Just wanted to schedule a time for you and the crew to come in and check up on lighting and the props,” Phil replied, “The usual.”

“No problem.” There was the faint sound of typing from Sam’s end, then, “How does two weeks from now sound?”

“Great.” Phil said in relief, “That works. You’ll probably be able to catch the monthly set parkour contest as well.”

“And make sure nobody falls to their deaths while doing so,” came the dry response. “See you then, Phil. And good luck!”

“Thanks, Sam.” Phil rubbed his forehead and ended the call.

He sat in his office for a little bit, trying to alleviate the light headache pounding at his temples. Strike was always fun, and the work was rewarding, but sometimes it made him want to run his head under the chop saw. 

Speaking of the chop saw, he left Tommy and Tubbo in the shop unsupervised. A lot of the crew members had already left - the costuming department and pit orchestra had slowly left after strike tapered off, and what was left of tech and the actors were quietly working on separate projects. 

Phil got up and opened the door of the shop. To his surprise, everything was organized neatly - tools were back in the tool room, platforms had been rolled out to the back of the stage, and planks were neatly leaning in their designated areas. Tubbo was nowhere to be seen and Wilbur was sprawled in the extra seat, Techno and Tommy quietly bickering over the last of the tech fruit snack packages. 

“Hey,” Phil said in surprise, “It’s clean.”

“Everybody pitched in to clean up. We even swept the stage and organized the chairs,” Techno informed. “It was a group effort.”

“No worries, big man,” Tommy rolled his eyes, “We didn’t destroy your precious theatre.”

“Tubbo left a few minutes ago, I think he caught a ride home with Quackity and Fundy,” Wilbur yawned, “There isn’t anybody left in the building but us.”

“Dream?”

“Saw Sapnap and George dragging him out. We’re definitely the last ones here.”

Phil allowed himself to relax - just the tiniest amount. “Thanks, boys.”

“‘M not a boy,” Tommy said indignantly, “I’m a man.”

“Little baby man,” Wilbur teased, “Little baby, little gremlin child…”

“I’m going to shove a two-by-four plank up your ass.”

Techno and Phil followed Wilbur and Tommy’s argument out the back door of the shop, Phil turning off the lights and locking the door. 

“I think this show’s gonna be a good one,” Techno told Phil.

“Yeah,” Phil smiled, “I think so too.”

Chapter Text

Pit orchestra, being neither actors nor tech, weren’t contractually obligated to be found within the theatre during working hours. However, they still could easily be found within the building as often Phil himself. Quackity proclaimed it was because the entire theatre department was like a big, happy family. Fundy muttered under his breath that it was Stockholm syndrome.

Currently, Fundy and Quackity had taken over one of the practice rooms and were… well, doing something. 

“Okay,” Wilbur said loudly, practically kicking down the door to the practice room, “I finished composing the score for the play.”

“Dude,” Quackity complained, removing his headphones, “We were vibing.”

Wilbur raised an eyebrow at the tornado of the practice room. Fundy was crammed into a corner, poking at his keyboard. Sheet music occupied the majority of the floor and Quackity was crouched on a stack of speakers.

“Do you even know how to read sheet music?” Wilbur prodded.

Fundy coughed from his corner and moved to plug in his keyboard into one of the speakers. Quackity grinned.

“You don’t need sheet music to play the kazoo.”

“You don’t need a lot to play the kazoo,” Fundy muttered. 

Quackity glared at Fundy, who shrugged guilelessly. Wilbur sighed and shoved a stack of papers into Quackity’s hands. “Just take a look at this. I paper-clipped different copies together.”

“Roger that, president,” Quackity saluted.

“Exiled,” Wilbur said dryly before he left the practice room. 

Fundy hummed under his breath. “On the bright side, Quackity, I think I got the keyboard to work like we wanted to.”

“Excellent,” Quackity said gleefully, hopping down from the speakers, “Now let’s meet up with the rest of the group.”

-

The “rest of the group” was just Sapnap, who was lying starfished in the middle of the lobby floor, his violin discarded to the side. 

“Dude,” Fundy remarked cautiously. Quackity nudged Sapnap with his toe. “Are you dead?”

“Yes,” Sapnap groaned. “Someone adjusted the strings on my violin so they’re slightly out of tune.”

Fundy winced in sympathy. Quackity just said, eloquently, “Sucks.”

“Who messed with my violin?” Sapnap whined. “I’m going to actually kill them. It took me ten minutes of practice to realize something was off.”

”I wish I could shake their hand,” Quackity snickered. Sapnap tilted his head to send him a death glare. 

“Not many people in this theatre have musical expertise,” Fundy remarked. “And we barely count. Quackity plays the kazoo.”

“Hey,” Quackity protested, “I auditioned and I got in, fair and square.”

“Walking up to Phil and demanding for him to listen to an improvised performance doesn’t count as an audition,” Sapnap countered.

“I can play a mean cover of ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’.”

“Do you even know any other songs than that one?” Fundy asked curiously.

“That,” Quackity pointed his kazoo at Fundy, “Is irrelevant information.”

“Get up off the floor,” Fundy nudged Sapnap with his foot again. “Big Q and I have something we want to test out on the speakers.”

“Will Phil let you do that after The Incident?”

“We do not talk about The Incident.”

They all made their way inside the theatre, their instruments in tow. To their surprise, George was in the audience, holding a polite conversation with Ranboo. Something long and dark was slung across his back - it looked like a case.

“George,” Sapnap sang gleefully.

George swung around to face the group. The flash of comical dismay that passed over his face was hilarious in of itself.

“Okay,” George said quickly to Ranboo, “I’ll just find another time to -”

“To do what?” Quackity asked, slinging an arm around George’s shoulders and the case. George suffered this with an eyeroll but made no move to push Quackity away. 

“Test something out,” George muttered as Ranboo interjected helpfully, “He brought his guitar.”

There was a silence in which George glared daggers at Ranboo, who shrugged somewhat abashedly. Quackity and Sapnap glanced at each other, growing grins on their faces. 

“Oh, that’s excellent, ” Sapnap said loudly. “Do you think that we could, y’know, test it out? Maybe? On the speakers?”

“Fundy,” Quackity whispered. “Start setting up your keyboard.” Fundy saluted and melted away to the front of the stage. 

“Sapnap,” George hissed, “What are you doing?”

Sapnap only threw George an exaggerated wink. If anything, George looked even more annoyed. 

“I don’t think that’s going to be a good idea,” Ranboo began hesitantly, “Seeing as when you guys had mic access last, The Incident occured -”

“Which will not happen again,” Quackity interjected smoothly. “C’mon, man, just for five minutes? For George?”

Ranboo glanced at George, who only gestured helplessly. “Okay,” he began slowly, “Five minutes.”

There was a brief respite in which Ranboo disappeared to set up the sound equipment and George tried to edge closer to one of the emergency exits.

“No,” Sapnap said after hauling George back by his collar, “You’re staying here.”

“Get your hands off me,” George huffed, slapping away Sapnap’s fingers. “I don’t see why I should stay and listen, it’s not going to contribute anything.”

“Well,” Sapnap grinned, “Let’s just say you’ll want to be here in ten minutes.”

“I certainly doubt that.”

“If anything bad happens I’m cutting off your mic access!” Ranboo yelled from the booth, his words muffled by the glass. 

“You can’t do that!” Quackity shouted. 

“I do it for almost every rehearsal!” Ranboo propped open the booth window that overlooked the audience so his words were clearer. “You guys just never notice.”

Fundy gaped comically up at Ranboo. “Does that mean you’d just play music over us during performances?”

Ranboo froze for a second and slowly closed the window instead of replying.

“Can’t believe Phil let him into the booth,” Sapnap groaned dramatically.

“To be fair,” George pointed out, “He’s the least likely member of tech crew to set fire to the equipment.”

“We are not being fair.”

“Okay, we need to play somewhat coherently for the first few minutes so we still get to stay on access to the speaker systems,” Fundy explained, fiddling with the knobs on his keyboard. “What about trying the sheet music Wilbur gave us?”

“We just got that, like, fifteen minutes ago!” 

“Shut up,” Sapnap hissed, dragging a stand over, “Just play.”

“You’re on in three,” Ranboo called. “Two… one.”

The entire theatre collectively braced for the upcoming performance. When everything didn’t dissolve into chaos immediately, Quackity cracked an eye open and peered cautiously at their ensemble. 

“George,” he hissed - in surprise rather than anger - “What the fuck?”

George didn’t even look up at Quackity, eyes trained on the sheet music pinned haphazardly on Sapnap’s stand. His guitar was out and slung around his shoulders, alternating notes vibrating from one of the speakers he’d connected it to. “I’m saving your performance.”

“You can sight-read? Who taught you?” Sapnap asked incredulously. 

“Your mom,” George replied, deadpan. 

Someone wheeze-cackled from up in the catwalks. Sapnap, without even turning around, flipped off the darkness and yelled, “It wasn’t even that funny, Dream!”

“I think this is the first performance we haven’t thrown in a while,” Fundy remarked, his hands dancing over his keyboard. “Everybody, get ready - on your marks -”

Sapnap carefully settled his violin on his chair. 

Quackity blew out a sharp whistle on his kazoo and the theatre sprung into action. Sapnap practically threw himself across the stage and yanked the plug connecting George’s guitar to the speaker out. Fundy hit a button on his keyboard and slammed his hands onto the keys, the sound being replaced with something much more synth-like and familiar. 

Up in the booth, Ranboo was frozen in a belated oh, no. 

“CREEPER,” Quackity bellowed into his mic. 

The theatre was plunged into relative silence as Ranboo cut the sound systems, but the damage had already been done. There was a distant CRASH a hallway over, and the sounds of a scuffle from the direction of the tech shop. 

“AW MAN,” Tommy hollerered, skidding out from backstage. He was still holding a drill in his right hand. 

The THUNK of Ranboo’s forehead hitting the desk was still audible even to those on the stage. 

Tommy blinked, as if he was suddenly realizing where he was. “Wait, what the fuck?”

“So we back in the mine,” Tubbo sang tunelessly as he meandered onto the stage. “Tommy, the podium’s still missing a brace.”

Tommy swore and started shoving Tubbo back in the direction of the shop. Fundy and Quackity shared a grin and knocked their fists together. 

“Mission accomplished,” Quackity said with relish. 

“You couldn’t have picked a better song?” George asked, sounding slightly miffed. 

“Nah,” Sapnap said cheerfully, “This one was a classic.”

“You all,” Ranboo called, his voice muffled - presumably still resting his forehead on the desk in defeat - “Are never allowed to test the mics again.”

Pit orchestra surveyed each other, grinning. For a minute, they commandeered the entire theatre - right on the edge of the stage, in front of the empty seats: an audience of ghosts. 

“Okay,” Fundy sighed, “Now that we actually have the repertoire, we need to start working on it.”

“Hey, George,” Quackity crooned, “Would you be so kind as to consider joining…?”

“No.”

Chapter Text

Tech had been going fairly well for the past week. There was only one saw-related mishap and the set was well on its way to being halfway built.

Well, things had been going fairly well until Tommy had the idea to operate the lift by himself, just to see how high it would go. Tubbo had strolled into the theatre after his bathroom break just in time to see Tommy back the lift right into a prop and run it over with a CRUNCH. 

“Oh no,” Tubbo said faintly. 

“Wh - Tubbo!” Tommy exclaimed in the voice of one who just got caught doing something they were not supposed to be caught doing. 

Tubbo made his way to the fallen prop. It was a tree, cobbled together out of foam and duct tape, lovingly repainted where it was peeling. And it was cleanly crushed in five separate pieces. 

“Tommy,” Tubbo said warningly. “The prop.”

“You didn’t see anything,” Tommy accused as he swung down from the lift. “I think your eyes aren’t working - by the way, Tubbo, didn’t you say you needed glasses a week ago? I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, besides your failing eyesight - oh, fuck.”

“Tommy,” Tubbo repeated, “That’s the L’Mantree.”

Tommy scoffed, though he looked sheepish. “Are you sure about that? What’s the saying - there’s plenty of trees in the forest? I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding -”

“Did you guys break the tree?” Purpled asked incredulously, having entered the theatre from the audience entrance. 

Tubbo nodded mournfully. Tommy said, “It was Tubbo.”

“Sure,” Purpled said skeptically. “Look, the play’s at the end of the month, we really need a tree.”

“Is it salvageable?” That was Ranboo, heading over from the shop. He didn’t look too peuterbed, probably because he’d been used to how many props tech had managed to break in his time here. 

“The duct tape rule doesn’t apply here,” Tommy muttered. 

“That bad, huh?” Ranboo hopped onto the stage. “Are you - oh. Oh, no.”

“The L’Mantree,” Tubbo said in the same mournful tone that graced his facial expression, “is gone.”

“F for respects,” Purpled muttered. “That was one of, like, the OG props. I think it’s been around as long as Dream’s mask has been on his face.”

They all stood and contemplated the existence of the stationary smile painted onto Dream’s mask. 

“Legend says that Dream’s mask is actually a part of his face,” Tubbo said, still somewhat mournfully. 

“It’s just a prop he found years ago and stole from the theatre,” Techno interjected, passing by the boys on his way to the playwright’s room. He discreetly passed Tommy something - a chipped, dark skull prop. 

“Still, he’s only a few years older than us, he’s not a fuckin’ cryptid.” Tommy was eyeing the skull suspiciously. 

“When I joined the SMP he shot me with that crossbow prop,” Ranboo grumbled, “Twice.”

“Isn’t that crossbow, like, involved in at least three canon deaths in this theatre?” Purpled queried. 

Tubbo nodded glumly. 

“Mine wasn’t canon, for the record,” Ranboo muttered under his breath. 

“I distinctly remember you hiding in the shop with an arrow sticking out of your ass,” Tommy snorted. 

Ranboo glared - the tilt of his sunglasses looked decidedly aggressive. “Who’s the one on their last canon life, may I ask?” he said pointedly. 

Purpled clapped his hands together loudly. “Guys,” he interjected, “We still need to replace the tree.”

They all stood in relative silence, thinking of a way to minimalize the damage. Finally, Ranboo broke the silence. 

“There’s a forest not too far behind campus,” he said slowly. 

“Great,” Tubbo announced cheerily, “I’ll get the chainsaw.”

-

“Tommy,” Tubbo said tiredly, hefting the chainsaw in his hands, “Please stop talking.”

“It’s already hard enough to understand you without the British accent,” Purpled deadpanned. 

Tommy sputtered. “I am fucking British!”

“Occupational hazard of being from the UK,” Ranboo said cheerfully. 

They were on their way to the forest - it really wasn’t a forest, more of a sparse and scraggly woods - but it was still a looming shadow across the fields behind campus. 

Tech hadn’t earned too many strange looks as they made their way to the woods, but Tommy’s loud, constant banter and the shopping cart Ranboo was wheeling (for tree transport) were enough to scatter the birds that they passed. Tubbo’s chainsaw was actually the most innocuous aspect about the group. 

Tommy had chosen to sit in the cart with his knees slung over the edge, hands gesturing wildly when they were not tugging at Tubbo’s sleeve to get his attention. “Tubbo, hand me the chainsaw?”

“No.”

“You’re supposed to be my bitch around here,” Tommy whined, “Pass over the chainsaw.”

“You’re going to either hit me or Ranboo with it,” Tubbo replied. “So, no.”

Tommy huffed and attempted to knock his foot into Tubbo’s side - he was hampered by the cart and Tubbo neatly dodged. 

A few more minutes of scuffling ensued before Ranboo sighed, “All right, my turn in the cart,” and Tommy grumbled under his breath before uncurling himself from the shopping cart basket and trading spots with Ranboo. 

Ranboo folded himself much more neatly than Tommy, tucking his knees under his chin politely. “Ranboo,” Tommy grinned, “You ready?”

“I - what…?”

Tommy immediately took off, shoving the cart wildly towards the sparse fringe of forest. Ranboo yelped and grasped the edge of the cart, his protests loud and high-pitched as the two crashed their way to the underbrush. 

“Hope we have insurance on that cart,” Purpled remarked, “I think it’s going to be a wreck in a couple minutes.”

Tubbo sighed. “Yeah,” and the two watched as the cart went flying over some rocks, sending Tommy and Ranboo toppling. 

They made their way to the edge of the forest, where Tommy was sprawled on the grass and the cart was lying on its side a few feet away. Ranboo was still somehow holding onto the cart, his hands white-knuckled. 

“Shouldn’t have done that, big man,” Tubbo said mildly as he pulled Tommy to his feet with his chainsaw-free hand. “You might’ve given Ranboo a concussion.”

“What about my head?” Tommy whined as Ranboo said, his voice muffled from his face being very much still in contact with the dirt, “My brain was mostly empty anyways.”

“Well, fill it with something,” Tubbo replied. 

“With what?” Ranboo pushed himself up off the ground. His sunglasses were slightly askew. “Dirt?”

“As long as it’s not sand,” Tommy muttered with the air of one who had gone over multiple similar scenarios before. 

Tubbo paled. “Don’t say that too loud. You might summon him.”

“Wilbur’s probably too busy catjamming to hear -”

“Anybody know where Purpled is?” Ranboo interrupted. 

The trio stood on the edge of the forest and stared into the trees. Their fourth crew member was long gone. 

“He’s probably off doing what we actually came here for,” Tubbo said reasonably as Tommy announced, “He’s fuckin’ dead.”

Another beat of silence. Ranboo sighed. “Well, we better go find him.”

The three started their trek into the woods. There was a faint path curving into the woods, winding along the brush. Tommy went first, forcefully snapping branches out of his way to make room for Ranboo and Tubbo. 

“Keep an eye out for him,” Tubbo called, hefting the chainsaw in his hand and keeping an eye out for any possible tree candidates.

Ranboo was picking leaves out of his hair - side effect of being freakishly tall, as Tommy would put it. Tommy hollered, “PURPLED?” into the woods. Whatever birds remained in the woods flapped away in protest. 

“Sheesh, I’m right here, tone it down,” Purpled’s annoyed voice floated back to the trio. He sounded somewhere to their right and they all peered into the underbrush. “I found a tree.”

“Ayy, big man!” Tommy cheered, stomping his way over to where Purpled’s voice came from. 

“Tommy, the plants... oh, nevermind,” Tubbo started then trailed off. Ranboo snickered. 

“At least we have a path to follow.”

They followed Tommy’s frenzied rush through the trees until they saw the flash of Purpled’s hoodie through the trees. He was standing next to a tree - really, more of a sapling - that barely looked taller than Ranboo. It was thinner than Tommy’s wrist and looked one strong gust of wind away from falling down. 

“This one,” Purpled proclaimed. “This is the one.”

“Seems a bit malnourished.” Tommy side-eyed the tree. 

“Unless you want to stay out here for longer…” Purpled said warningly. 

“The tree is fine!” Tubbo said brightly before Tommy could reply, and flicked the chainsaw on. 

The rest of the three steadied the tree as Tubbo made quick work of the trunk and were soon able to pry it from the ground. They followed Tommy’s path through the underbrush until they made it to the main path and neared the still-toppled shopping cart. 

“Put ‘er in,” Ranboo called, and they tipped the shopping cart the right way up and leaned the tree inside the basket area. 

“It looks kind of like you,” Tommy said thoughtfully as they made their way back to the theatre with their precious cargo. “All lanky and shit.”

“You’re the one with the…” Tubbo waved. “Pointy elbows.”

“Like sticks,” Purpled added dryly. 

Tommy sputtered. “My limbs are not like sticks, dickheads!”

Ranboo just hummed something underneath his breath, the tune slightly pensive and simple with a repeating melody. 

The stick argument carried well into the fields and the tech shop. Ranboo and Purpled managed to heft the tree out of the cart and prop it up against the sliding saw. 

“How are we going to keep the tree from falling?” Ranboo asked curiously, ignoring the continuous debate between Tommy and Tubbo, which had morphed into something concerning explosives. 

“We have some old pipes,” Purpled mused, “If we cut one into a piece big enough to stick the trunk in, we can screw some L wedges into a piece of plywood and call it a day.”

Ranboo gave him a thumbs up and disappeared into the further recesses of the shop to look for the pipes - he somehow knew where everything was located in the shop, despite never knowing how to articulate where things were. 

“L shaped hinges,” Purpled told Tommy and Tubbo, who were still in the midst of their argument, “3 of them, not the thick ones.”

Tubbo nodded, his attention briefly snapping to Purpled. “How long do you think the screws need to be?”

Purpled shrugged. “One and a half inches?”

“Let’s use Phillips heads,” Tommy suggested. 

“You only like them because they’re harder to put in than star bits,” Tubbo accused. 

“If you’re not putting force into the drills,” Tommy whined, “What’s the point?”

Tubbo sighed. “I still think nuclear’s a good option for destroying evidence without any remains.”

“We’re not fucking American,” and they were off towards the tool rack, bickering again. Purpled sighed and went to the scrap pile to scavenge for a decently sized piece of plywood. 

“Cutting!” he heard Ranboo warn before bringing down the chop saw on a piece of plastic with a screech and a whir. 

Purpled pulled a rather evenly cut rectangle of plywood the size of his forearm out of the pile and headed back to the main area of the shop. Tommy and Tubbo were already seated on the ground, snapping the batteries onto their drills. 

“Careful,” Tommy warned, gesturing to the loose screws rolling on the floor. 

When Ranboo returned with the cut pipe, he placed it evenly on the plywood as Purpled stuck the tree inside.  After that, work passed by easily - Tommy and Tubbo made quick work of screwing the tree into the pipe and L braces. When they were finished, Ranboo and Purpled removed their hands from the tree, no longer bracing it. 

It wobbled but stayed upright. 

Tommy let out a victorious holler that echoed throughout the entire theatre. Purpled and Ranboo let out simultaneous “let’s go!”s and Tubbo simply laughed. 

“L’Mantree,” Ranboo proclaimed, “You have been reborn.”

They replaced the tree in its usual corner of the stage and went back to their individual tasks with the pleased airs of a job well done. 

-

“Phil,” Wilbur asked slowly as they re-entered the stage from the playwright meeting, “Does anything look… different to you?”

Phil surveyed the tree and how surprisingly stable it looked. It’d definitely hold up for the rest of the show - maybe even more. He felt oddly proud. 

“Nah,” he said, “I think it looks fine.”

Chapter Text

The morning of the first proper rehearsal found the Dream Team (plus Bad and Ant) standing in a circle in the middle of the stage, with Dream at the center. The smiling center of Dream’s mask shifted from facing George, to Sapnap, to Bad, to Ant, then back to George again.

“C’mon, Dream,” Sapnap taunted, “Aren’t you going to move?”

“I’m calculating,” came the annoyed response, just as Niki and the other playwrights walked onto the stage. 

“Calculatin’ what?” Techno asked with narrowed eyes, like he could already tell what was about to unfold. 

“Oh,” Bad offered, because he was a generally polite person, “We’re starting another round of Ma-”

Dream, seizing his opportunity, ducked beneath Bad’s gesturing arm and was immediately making a break for stage right. 

“Bad,” Sapnap groaned.

“Manhunt,” Bad finished with an apologetic grin. George and Ant were already dashing off behind Dream, disappearing behind the curtain folds. Sapnap didn’t bother chasing after them - they worked better split up into duos. 

“We’re about to start a rehearsal,” Wilbur groaned, “Couldn’t you have waited?”

“Vengeance,” Sapnap said solemnly, “Waits for no man.”

“Well, it certainly seems to depend on one,” Niki laughed. 

“If you let me be the fifth hunter,” Tommy scoffed, “This round would be over in minutes.”

There was a muffled yelp, and a shout from the curtains on stage right. A few seconds later, Ant tripped out from the folds, his eyes wide and shoelaces untied. Following suit was George, crashing to the ground and barely managing to catch himself on his elbows. They both seemed frazzled but unharmed, their hair standing on end from static. 

“See,” Tommy muttered, “Minutes.”

“He shocked us,” George complained. 

“The curtains are staticky,” Bad mused. Sapnap eyed the huge, velvet swaths of cloth with trepidation. “Better find a way to neutralize that.”

“Bad, Ant, don’t you have tech assistance to be doing?” Wilbur asked. 

“Lunch break,” Ant answered promptly. 

“It’s 9:48 AM.”

“Guys,” George said pointedly, jerking his chin in the direction of the curtains, “We need to beat Dream to stage left if we want a shot at actually winning this Manhunt.”

“Right,” Bad cheered, “Let’s get going!” and Sapnap shot the actors a salute as they ducked off the stage. 

-

Manhunt worked like this: in order to win, the hunters had to stop Dream from entering the prop room and finding the dragon egg. There were obstacles, of course, and rules, but this was the main objective. 

(The egg was an oblong, dark orb-shaped prop that was probably older than the building itself. When Bad and Ant saw it, they said The Badlands had something similar, except their egg was crimson. Their eyes also somewhat glazed over when they mentioned the other egg, and the rest of the Dream Team made an unspoken decision to not press the topic.)

There were two pairs of spare keys to the prop room, three pairs in total. Phil had the original set, and the costuming department had one of the other spare pairs. Which left the final set of two keys up for grabs within the rest of the theatre.

In order to access the prop room, both keys needed to be used to unlock the door. Manhunt rules dictated that none of the teams knew where the keys were located, but just their general area. One of the keys was hidden in the left (stage left, to be exact) wing of the SMP building, and the other key was hidden somewhere on the upper floors. Karl and Quackity had been given the jobs of hiding the keys before the round.

Right now, the hunters were scouring the left wing - Sapnap and Bad on the first floor, George and Ant on the second. They figured that they might as well split up and cover ground, given that there was a chance one of the keys could be on both the left wing and the second floor. 

Sapnap pulled out his phone and squinted at it. Hunter perks came with a tracker on Dream’s phone, though it pinged his location only once every five minutes. So far, Sapnap and Bad were searching a dressing room, where Dream’s location was last updated - he was long gone, though and the place looked somewhat disheveled (as if someone was looking for a hidden item). 

“Bad,” Sapnap groaned, “It’s almost going to have been five minutes, we should leave.”

“We don’t know if the key’s here or not, yet,” Bad countered, climbing on one of the chairs to peek at the windowsill, “Dream could’ve missed it, he doesn’t get much time to spend in rooms.” 

“And it could be in one of the others,” Sapnap grumbled, but Bad hushed him. Sighing, he continued glancing at his phone, where Dream’s marker stubbornly stayed in the same dressing room. He switched apps and called George.

“Found anything yet?”

“Nothing,” came George’s staticky voice, “Just a bunch of empty hallways. You should keep your guards up, though, chances are he’s still on your floor.” 

“We haven’t found the second key,” Ant chimed in, “I have a feeling it’s not on the left wing.”

“Who hid the second floor key?” Bad asked, still shuffling around the countertops.

A pause. “Quackity…?” George hedged. 

Sapnap groaned. “Knowing him, it’s probably somewhere stupid, like taped behind a door.”

“Remember when he found a way to dangle it off the strobe lights?” Ant mused.

Sapnap can hear George’s facepalm through the phone speaker. “Please don’t remind me.”

Sapnap was about to open his mouth and poke fun at George and the memory - involving a lot of shrieks, a fallen ladder, and Dream pulling off some crazy stunt that involved using the catwalks as monkey bars - when his phone went ping! 

A yell came through his speakers and he fumbled with his phone. Bad was already on it, though, shoving his screen in Sapnap’s face. “He’s in the main lobby!”

The call abruptly ended and Bad and Sapnap took off, running down the corridors. When pings usually went off both pairs of hunters immediately made a beeline towards Dream’s location to try to catch him while he was nearby. 

Sapnap and Bad barreled past Tubbo and Ranboo - who were in the middle of a lighthearted argument about a… stuffed pigman toy? - and skidded down the hall to see a familiar flash of green around the corner. 

“DREAM!” 

Dream’s mask flashed in their direction, the smiley face looking decidedly shocked, and then he darted in the opposite direction. 

“How did you find me so fast?” he yelled over his shoulder at Bad and Sapnap, the two determinedly giving chase. 

“You’re standing, ” Sapnap hollered back, hoping his voice carried enough to alert Ant and George as to their location. Currently, Dream was making a beeline towards the musical wing of the SMP. “In the fucking lobby!” 

“Language!” Bad berated, his voice carrying almost as loudly as Sapnap’s shouts. Sapnap rolled his eyes good naturedly. 

Dream skidded past the large musical practice room, but the doors were closed and loud voices were carrying through the walls. He opted to duck down a hallway and slip through a door into the theatre. Damn easily accessible fire exits. 

Sapnap and Bad crashed after him, Dream veering to stay on the right side of the theatre as they pounded down the aisles towards the stage. He’s still angling for the left wing, Sapnap realized, he still hasn’t found the key yet. 

He voiced as such and Dream called him a creep. Sapnap shot back that it was basic observational skills, and refrained from calling him a dumbass. 

“Where’s Ant and George?” Bad huffed as they followed Dream, the latter leaping from row to row of chairs instead of touching the ground. Show-off, Sapnap grumbled. “Shouldn’t they be here now?”

“Maybe they’re still in the lobby,” Sapnap suggested. 

Dream was nearly at the stage - for a split second, it looked like he was actually going to jump up onto it and ruin the rather impressive monologue Wilbur had locked himself into, then he veered right and ducked through another fire exit.

Sapnap crashed through to hear a shout - not his - and a very familiar pair of goggles cornering Dream. 

“George,” he gasped, “I never thought the day would come that I’d be happy to see your face, but it’s here at last.” 

“I’m still waiting for the day I’m happy to see yours,” George informed him snippily, and Sapnap was about to throw himself at his fellow hunter, Manhunt be damned, when Dream gave a nervous laugh and the predicament that they were in became clear. 

They were at the end of the hallway.

Dream was trapped. 

Ant appeared at the other end of the hallway. The hunters had trapped Dream into a small space at the end of the hallway, where there were three walls and a door leading to a dressing room hemming him in. 

“Oh, Dream.”

“Oh, George,” Dream parried back. Sapnap let them exchange teasing threats while he scanned for possible exits. 

Dream’s mask tilted incrementally towards his right, then left. 

Sapnap saw him register the dressing room door a split second before he was lunging forward. Unfortunately, he was too late - the door slammed shut in his face and he slammed against the door, which shook but didn’t give. 

Ant, at that moment, had finally caught up to them. “Why are the hallways so long, ” he complained, resting his hands on his knees. 

“Dream’s in there,” Sapnap grumbled, pointing at the door. “Probably barricaded himself in.”

Ant eyed the dressing room door. “Any keys?”

“Nope.”

Bad stuck his head into the hallway. “You all good?”

“Where were you?” George asked, narrowing his eyes at Bad. 

“Spreading word,” Bad said vaguely, and Ant nodded as if that made sense. Sapnap blinked at them. Somehow, he got the feeling that it was not Manhunt-related.

“Weirdchamp,” George noted. 

“Anyways,” Bad said cheerily, “Hey, Sap, that’s the dressing room we were searching around in earlier.”

“He won’t find anything in there, we already searched.” 

“I think,” Ant, who had an unspoken but strong camaraderie with the SMP costuming department, interrupted, “You’re forgetting something important.”

They all turned towards him. Behind, the dressing room was eerily quiet.

“All the dressing rooms connect to each other,” Ant finished. 

Sapnap swore, and Bad squawked at him. 

-

Thankfully, the wing of dressing rooms ran alongside the hallway, with only two exits. Poor interior design, but it allowed them to confirm that Dream was in one of four possible rooms. 

“One for each of us,” Bad said, sounding chipper. Sapnap thought about making a snarky comment, but held it back at the subconscious reminder that out of the four of them, Bad was one of the most likely to make it out of an encounter with Dream. 

They split up, keeping the lights off and being as quiet as they could. Sapnap was in the process of looking under a chair when he heard a loud yell from the room to his left. 

He slammed open the door to see an overturned chair tipped over on the ground and a scattering of makeup brushes on the floor. Dream was scrambling to get on top of the desk while George struggled to get into a sitting position. He was holding a shoe in his hand. Judging by Dream’s socked foot and the vent hanging halfway open from the ceiling, Sapnap could guess what happened. 

“I thought the vents were off limits!” George shouted at Dream. 

“We never said,” Dream protested, and then he noticed Sapnap standing in the doorway. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Two to one,” Sapnap tried, going for a show of bravado, “You’re not getting out of here, Dream.”

“Oh?” and then he did something absolutely ridiculous, which involved throwing his second shoe at George, who ducked underneath the makeup table for cover, and leaping off the table in an attempt to catch the vent’s opening.

Sapnap launched himself across the room to tackle Dream - he did so with an oof and they were both sprawling next to the overturned chair that was probably used to barricade the door leading to the hallway. 

They both landed inelegantly on the ground, and Sapnap was rolling, trying to gauge his surroundings when he saw the glint of something metal taped to the chair leg. 

Oh, you have to be kidding me-

He was reaching for the key when he felt a tug on his hip. Immediately knowing and placing what the motion was, Sapnap snapped his head up and glared at Dream. 

The latter was clutching a yellow laminated strip of fabric - a flag, no longer attached with velcro to a harness around Sapnap’s waist, and shrugged. “Got you.”

The door was open and the key gone before Sapnap could search for an accurate curse, and Sapnap let the back of his head hit the ground with a defeated groan. 

George stuck his head out from underneath the table. “What happened?”

“He got the key,” Sapnap informed his fellow hunter through gritted teeth. “And my flag.”

-

Manhunt also operated on a lives system. Each hunter wore a harness with a flag attached to it with velcro - Dream had the same setup, except he had two flags. If a hunter’s single flag was pulled, they had to sit outside the building for ten minutes. If both Dream’s flags were pulled before he found the egg, the hunters won. 

The hunters could still operate if one of their players had to wait outside, and Dream could still run if he had one flag remaining. It operated similarly to flag football, or capture the flag. 

Whatever. It still meant Sapnap was banished outside the theatre. Hunters could respawn limitlessly, but the wait still set back his team. 

One key down, one to go. 

Sapnap, with ten minutes to kill, opted for pulling out his phone and scrolling through his contacts. 

Karl picked up on the first ring. “Hello? Sappitus Nappitus?”

“You nimrod,” Sapnap scolded, “Why’d you hide the key underneath a chair?”

“Not my fault you lack basic observational skills,” Karl replied cheerily. “What’s up? How’s the hunt going?”

“I’m dead.”

Karl made a sympathetic noise. “How long until you can rejoin, or whatever?”

Sapnap checked the time. “Four minutes. Do you know where Quackity hid the other key?”

“Can’t tell,” came the admonish, “That’s cheating. Besides, I want to stay on Dream’s good side in case I ever get to be the fifth hunter.”

“That’s never going to happen,” Sapnap teased, “You’d just slow us down.”

A disbelieving scoff. “I’ll have you know that I know the entire theatre like the back of my knee.”

“Hand.”

“No, knee. That makes it cooler.”

“Okay, sure, Jacobs.” Sapnap checked the time and winced. “I gotta go back in soon.”

“Kick Dream’s ass for me!” Karl cheered. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “But don’t tell him I said that.” 

“Oh, I’m definitely telling.” Sapnap hung up on Karl’s giggling protest with a grin. 

-

The hunters agreed to meet up on the second floor, overlooking the lobby.

“No sign of the second key,” Bad explained, “Though we did have a run-in with Dream on the catwalks. He got Antfrost around -” he checked his watch - “Three minutes ago.”

“Didn’t see him outside,” Sapnap said with surprise as George snickered, “Cat- walks.” 

“Opted to use the tech exit.”

“Fair enough.” Sapnap glanced around. “Any chances Dream’s found the second key?”

At that exact moment, their phones let out a PING. 

Dream’s marker was right in the lobby, outside the prop room door. 

-

The prop room, or as Manhunt rules dictated, the “Endgame”, had rules as well. 

The hunters were able to manipulate the props inside the room and hide the egg. Dream’s goal was to find the egg, and he was able to know the general location but not the specifics. Nobody said the egg couldn’t be within sight. 

There was also the rule to not break any props, or Phil would most likely kill you and then kick you out of the theatre. 

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t died,” George yelled. 

“I wasn’t the one that got bested by Dream’s stinky-ass shoe!” 

“Guys, focus,” that was Bad, and they were nearly at the open door to the prop room. Both keys were still in their locks. 

The lights were off and George flicked them on. No use giving Dream an extra advantage. There was shuffling that immediately died down once the lights came on. Suspicious. 

Bad tilted his head and gestured down an aisle, down a rack of flowerpots. Sapnap nodded and pointed in his chosen direction, towards the chairs. 

Finally, Dream’s annoyed voice floated towards the hunters. “Where the fuck did you hide the egg?”

“Language!” Bad berated. 

“Same place as always,” George deadpanned, his voice muffled from two aisles over. 

“Well, I can’t see it -” the voice trailed off. “Oh, come on. You didn’t.”

“We did, ” Sapnap said gleefully, and he turned the corner to see Dream perched on top of a pile of pillows and folded rugs, an irritated tilt to his mask. 

Across from him, George became visible from behind a pile of discarded dolls. Bad, holding a stuffed duck like it was a weapon, was also inching closer from a different direction. They had him surrounded, minus Ant. 

“I’m going to have to remove all of these?” Dream grumbled to himself, then eyed the approaching hunters. “Okay, fine.”

(It was Bad’s idea to hide it underneath props. George suggested the pillows; in case if they got flung around, they wouldn’t break anything. Most likely.)

Dream launched himself off the top of the tower and Bad sidestepped to avoid his descent. The two of them were on a chase past the teacups and china plates, away from the egg. 

It was enough to make Sapnap falter, torn between staying with the egg or following after the two, when he heard Bad’s yell, “He’s going for the flags!” and the distant muffled sound of a stuffed animal connecting with someone’s face. 

Eliminate the flags, buy more time to uncover the egg. Sapnap turned on his heel and sprinted towards the sound of the fight, and heard the sound of velcro ripping and Bad’s groan of defeat. 

“Oh, Sapnap,” Dream laughed, and oh, shit, he had to get back to George, strength in numbers or something like that. 

He completed a turn and the pile of blankets arose in his vision. George’s face appeared behind the pile and he yelled, “DUCK!” and threw a pillow over Sapnap’s head. He heard it connect with a muffled grunt, which probably bought him some time. 

Sapnap slid behind the pile of blankets and tried to catch his breath. Ant was nowhere in sight - his phone dinged! with a text and he saw a message asking for their location. Sapnap typed out a hasty reply and pressed send before a solid THWACK! of wood against plastic brought him back to his surroundings. 

Peeking around the mound of blankets, he could see George and Dream… fencing? Or, at the least, swinging and parrying blows using two props. George was defending himself with a spindly broom and Dream had a closed umbrella.

Though George was being backed up, he was also maneuvering them so that Dream’s back was facing the blanket pile. He caught Sapnap’s eye with a flash and tilted his head, mouth set. 

Sapnap took his chance. Moving as quickly as he could, he darted forward and yanked one of Dream’s flags off his harness right as Dream disarmed George with his umbrella. 

“You just got tricked.”

“You’re an idiot,” and Dream took George’s flag.

George kicked the broom over to Sapnap and the latter grabbed it just in time to block a sweep of Dream’s umbrella. Sapnap was still awkwardly angled, somewhat crouching on the floor with his back pressed to the blanket pile. He managed to scramble to his feet between swings and the two resumed their match. 

“You’re not getting that egg,” Sapnap taunted. 

“Really?” And Dream pulled back, eyeing Sapnap and then the umbrella in his hand before he suddenly snapped it open. 

Sapnap flinched back in surprise, and the umbrella fell to the floor, still open, no person holding it. He turned around and Dream was standing next to him, Sapnap’s flag in his hand. His mask looked smug. 

“You’re the worst,” Sapnap grumbled, and stepped back.

Dream tossed him the flag. “I have at least five minutes until Bad’s back,” he said, and Sapnap could hear the laughter in his voice, “Think I can uncover the egg in then?”

The unspoken answer was yes, there weren’t actually that many pillows over it, but Sapnap just rolled his eyes, fighting back his reluctant grin. There was a flash of motion behind the two, barely visible in Sapnap’s line of vision. 

“You know,” Ant said belatedly, “It’s bad luck to open an umbrella inside.” 

Dream’s shoulders tensed in surprise and he spun around, but Ant was already sidestepping, making a swipe at Dream’s final flag.

There was a pause. 

Dream’s mask tilted down to see the empty harness and he fell over with a muffled groan, the tension leaving his body as he collapsed into the pillows. 

No more lives. 

The hunters won. 

Sapnap cheered, pumping his fist up and down and running over to embrace Ant. “You crazy catboy, Ant, you did it, I thought you wouldn’t even show up -”

“Did you just call me a catboy?” Ant asked, narrowing his eyes, but he accepted Sapnap’s victory hug. 

Bad appeared from behind an aisle, having recovered the duck plush. “We won?” he confirmed with Sapnap, and Dream’s answering sigh was enough to do it. 

“I was so close, too,” Dream groaned, fending off George’s attacks, the two locked in a pillow battle that was somehow much more intense than anything that had happened this manhunt. “If Ant hadn’t shown up - oof, George, that was my ear, chill -”

The hunters held their mini celebration for a few more minutes, Sapnap eventually ending up joining Dream and George’s pillow fight which ended in a 2v1 and Sapnap’s face mashed against musty fabric, when Bad cleared his throat. 

“And now, we have to clean up the rooms we were in,” he announced, and both hunter and runner alike let out a protest.