Chapter Text

“Hello? What’s your name?”

Bad keeps smiling because there’s no one else who will. He smiles even when he wants to cry; he smiles when they run out of food. That’s all he could do.

He rarely slept. He was used to staying up late at nights to patrol the mansion, just in case that someone decided he was vulnerable enough to prank, or worse. Patching up the mansion’s obsidian walls was tiring, and his house was suffering from the occasional wear and tear. Gathering resources had become a routine, even when his path was still pristine and his walls still standing. He would find himself shoveling gravel and sand from faraway lands for long hours, slaving away in the scalding sun.

He didn’t mind the hard work. It gave him reason to be away from the wars. The others couldn’t threaten him or ask him to join their side if he wasn’t there. The labor also took his mind off things, and sometimes Skeppy would tag along! Bad was always nagging Skeppy about the dangers of being alone in the SMP, especially with the recent news hanging about, but he never listened. The rare times that Skeppy came with him, he would even help. It all depended on his mood, so it was an endless gamble.

But when he’s not on a supply run, he’s in the Badlands.

Bad founded the Badlands mainly for him and his friends. They didn’t see eye-to-eye all the time, but there was one thing they agreed on: to stay out of any conflict that came their way. They kept true to their ideals, but they were often harassed by both sides thinking they possess information on the other. They didn’t, and it was getting tiring rather than terrifying.

Despite his small frame, Bad is a hard worker. Getting the Badlands recognized was a difficult task as it was – especially if their allegiance was strictly neutral. Neutral meant they didn’t pick a side, and that was a problem for many reasons. They could play broker for both sides since they were only loyal to themselves, and information was valuable. Any drop, any peep would be worth for a pretty penny.

At the end, Bad still had the advantage of knowing Dream for a long time. The man’s changed, but he still valued relationships to some extent. However twisted his ideals may be, his intention is were good. It was merely a case of the right message, wrong messenger. If Dream approached the topic a gentler way, things wouldn’t have derailed to the chaos it was now.

After refusing to join Dream’s offer to join side for the fifth time, he finally granted them the title of an official faction. Now no member of the Badlands were allowed to pick sides, which was their goal to begin with. It cleared their lives and brought them peace, at least for the majority of it. They stayed out of the conflict and enjoyed it to the best they can. Bad could finally take a breather and not have to worry about anyone knocking at his door, asking him to pick a side or be destroyed.

But was all his hard work worth it? Why was he the only one who had to make sacrifices?

Bad shook the thoughts away and sat on his roof, legs dangling off the edge. He faced the ocean with a longing gaze; but he didn’t know what he was yearning for. To be away from all of this, perhaps, but it was impossible. It was a possibility a long time ago, but now? Not anymore.

He sighed, picking at his sleeve. The night was quiet, but the ocean tides kept him company. After all he’s seen throughout the years, even the waves had become like static in his ears.

Everything changed, but he was still the same broken record playing the same distorted tune. Like a flower that wilted after the weeds invaded his soil.

He didn’t have time to continue thinking, as a familiar yet distressed voice called out to him, “Bad! I need your help!”

In usual days, the woods was a huge no-no. First off, it was dark and secluded, and nobody liked dark and secluded places because you never know when someone is waiting for a jump, or is emotionally vulnerable enough to attack you blindly. Secondly, there are monsters. Literal monsters like zombies and skeletons and creepers, all mutated and risen from countless years of pollution. Getting bitten to death didn’t sound like a very nice fate, especially when it’s in the teeth of a rotting corpse.

(Not to mention all the secret bases you do not want to stumble upon. Some things were meant to stay secrets, and people are willing to kill to keep them safe. Bad learned this the hard way, where an entourage of netherite and diamond swords were thrust in his direction in Pogtopia, and how Ant was enslaved by them to work in the mines.)

But today Bad had something else in mind. Besides, it was just the forests near his house, where he preened and replanted in his spare time. Granted, it was always being chopped down because it was also next to Tommy’s place, but it was safe considering that it’s in the range of the SMP’s borders. No one in their right mind would make a secret base right in your enemy’s territory. Right?

“Baa-aa-ad,” Skeppy whined, tugging on the back of Bad’s cloak like a child. The other didn’t turn to him, venturing forward with his best friend in tow. “I don’t wanna go oouuuut.”

Bad groaned in exasperation but never stopped walking. He was pulling Skeppy’s weight now, as the man’s feet was dragging on the wooden path and him slowly sinking to the ground with every passing second. His cloak was surprisingly durable for how much it’s gone through.

“Then you should have just stayed home,” Bad snapped impatiently. “Skeppy, you’re going to tear my clothes. You know how much I hate sewing.”

He hated sewing because he could never get those accursed threads into the needle’s little hole. If they could enchant pickaxes to mine through stone like moss, so why couldn’t they enchant needles to automatically thread themselves?

“But I get so lonely,” Skeppy complained. “You’re never around and you never talk to me!”

That got Bad to spin around, and Skeppy released his cape just before he could be knocked off the ledge. The path they were on was hanging over a chasm, and no one bothered to fix it.

“Excuse me, mister? You’re the muffinhead who refuses to look—” Bad paused as soon as Skeppy’s face twisted into a victorious grin. He’d fallen prey to another one Skeppy’s traps. He pointed an accusing finger at him, glowering. “Listen here, you! I do what I can to keep us and the Badlands safe. Yet I still try to spend time with you and you just ignore me all day!”

Skeppy rose to his feet, brushing dust from his hoodie. “That’s because you spend all your time with Discount Skeppy,” he rebutted. “What does Puffy have that I don’t?”

“Puffy? What does she have to do with this?” Skeppy glared harder. “Skeppy, you know that she has more resources than me when it comes to healing. We do this every week!”

“Exactly! Every week!” Skeppy changed tactics, his expression shifting to his signature puppy-dog-eyes. He knew more than anyone that Bad loved dogs and whatever that had any correlation to them. The fact that Skeppy had this ace up his sleeve only aided in him getting what he wanted and Bad another headache to worry about. He pouted, eyes practically shimmering with innocence. “Do you not wuve me anymore?”

Bad’s eye twitched. This was the fifth time he used this trick on him this week, and it was Tuesday. By the end of the week, Skeppy would eat him out of house and home. Not that he already isn’t, but he was going to have to work double time if he wanted to afford Skeppy’s extravagant expeditions. For the better or the worse, Skeppy’s tantrums were almost as rare as naturally formed emeralds.

“You better find new tricks, Skeppy.” Bad sniffed. “Your tactics don’t work on me! I’m not going to fall for it another time!”

Skeppy snapped out of his dog-eye face and muttered various profanities.

“Language,” Bad chided lightheartedly, taking Skeppy’s wrist. “Come on, ‘Geppy. It’s a simple trip. We go there, replant any trees that might have been chopped down, get some apples to make apple pie, get some kindling from any old wood, then check the lighting in case any mobs decide to spawn there!”

“That—” Skeppy stared at him, swallowing. “Sounds like a lot of work. I’m not sure if I’m cut out for any of that.”

Bad knew it was a lie from a mile away. “You fight people for fun every day but you draw the line at simple chores?” Bad sighed, feigning disappointment. It would be lying if he said it was difficult. “Skeppy, they don’t even take much time or energy. They’re easier than wrangling someone in our front porch.”

“They’re chores,” Skeppy emphasized. “They’re repetitive and boring. You know what’s going to happen every time you do them. It’s either the leaves are too yellow or the soil is too hard. Fighting is not!” His eyes lit up with excitement. “Everyone fights differently and you have to keep your senses sharp to survive. Looking at everyone the same way is like being an animal that bites the same place. You never know when they’re hiding a knife in their sleeve, pants, or back. They could be lying about being good with a sword and is actually a talented archer.”

His green-eyed best friend grimaced. Clearly, they have distinct concepts of fun. Bad was the type to enjoy his time by reading a book by a dim fireplace while Skeppy was the type to charge into a bush of poison ivy for the sake of charging into poison ivy.

“You should be a writer,” Bad muttered.

Skeppy threw his hair dramatically. “Nah. I’ll get someone else to do it for me.” He grinned at Bad, winking at him.

“I’m not writing your autobiography for you,” Bad deadpanned. “If I did, you’d be short and strangely invested with muffins and ducks. I’ll even make up a character named BuffBoyHalo who beats you up every time you ask for sand, and the only way to win his heart back is by saying sorry with a dozen muffins. Oh, they’re gluten free!”

“That’s called fabrication of history. You’ll find yourself in court for that.”

Bad shot him a look and Skeppy shut up, crossing his arms. “Fine,” he groused. “I’ll pluck the stupid apples. But I’m not doing anything else!”

“Yay!” Bad beamed and wrapped his arms around Skeppy. “You’re the best, Skeppy!”

Skeppy rolled his eyes, but he didn’t push his friend away.

All things considered, the forest under the path still had the basic idea down. The trees at the very front were charred and stumped, but the further ones were still intact and untouched. With the ever-growing tension between the children and the Dream SMP still looming over their heads, there was no question why Tommy nor Tubbo would hang around this area much.

Bad almost sighed out of relief. They wouldn’t have to be here all day it seems.

“Apple, apple, apple, apple,” Skeppy sang, tossing fruit over his shoulder and into the basket. He threw one with each word he sung. “Apple, TapL, apple, TapL, apple—”

From nearby, Bad grunted and pulled his hood tighter. He should have known that Skeppy was too hyper to stay quiet and do regular things.

“Apple!” Skeppy cheered, holding a red one up as if it were a trophy. He dropped it into the basket and turned to Bad, body swaying. “Bad, I’m bored! How many more apples do you want?”

Bad glanced at the basket that was as tall as Skeppy’s waist. It was filled to the brim, which impressed Bad, but as he took a closer look, he noticed that Skeppy had thrown in every apple he could find, including the ones that were close to rotting. They were great for apple pie, but they would rot even more easily in their basement.

“We only need the ones that are close to ripening,” Bad said, pointing to an apple above him. It was small and red, but it wasn’t ripened because of its stem. It was still green and not bark yet. “We’re not going to finish that all in a day, Skeppy. You’d just get a bad tummy ache.”

Skeppy’s eye twitched. “So?”

“So you need to sort them all out again.”

“WHAT? Bad! We’ve been here for hours! Can’t we do this tomorrow?”

“I’m busy tomorrow!” Bad lifted a bundle of kindle and dumped it by Skeppy’s feet, right by the basket. “I used all my supplies to help Karl’s injury. Apparently, he ran into Ranboo and Tommy while they were gathering supplies and they attacked him. I’m completely out of ghast tears and blaze rods from that!”

 “Karl’s hurt?” Skeppy paused. They knew who he was. Karl was the friendliest person they’ve met, and most considered him to not be a threat. Why would anyone want to hurt him? 

Bad nodded gravely, no longer joking about. “He almost died,” Bad admitted, looking at the floor. “Sapnap came to get me last night, and I barely made it. I know they’re kids—but sometimes, they go too far. It’s not like we can blame them. They were tormented beyond our knowledge and they just bit the hand that hit them.” He sighed. “I just don’t see why all this fighting and hurting is necessary.”

“Then why don’t you just go back?” Skeppy demanded. “Back to my village. Where our biggest worry was about our pigs trying to eat our fences. Where it’s safe.”

“All my friends are here, Skeppy.” Bad smiled at him, hefting his axe up. “So are you. My friends need a healer, and I can’t turn my backs on them. If you want, you could go back to Invaded by yourself, and I’ll come visit you from time to time.”

Skeppy sunk to the floor and began sorting apples. He tossed the rotting ones further into the woods. “You know I won’t go anywhere unless you go,” he said somberly, grabbing a browning apple. “I’m not leaving you alone with those psychopaths, Bad. Just like you wouldn’t leave me here by myself.”

Bad nodded. It was his fault that Skeppy was here to begin with. But honestly – he hadn’t anticipated that they would be dragged in a war world where he had to fight against hurt teenagers and his own friends. Then again, who had? And they retaliated just the same. Everyone’s morals have shifted in some point, and their bright smiles no longer innocent and carefree.

“It’s the least I can do. Now hurry up, Skeppy, before the night falls.”

Their luck? Horrible. They made ten minutes of quiet progress before being interrupted. A flash of white bright caught their attention, their heads simultaneously turning. Bright lights were never good. They meant that someone was fighting nearby or they were going to get ambushed. The last time Skeppy saw a bright light, he’d passed out and woken up in the hands of Tommy and Tubbo’s grabby arms. If it wasn’t for Puffy breaking him out, he might have been influenced into taking drugs and various other substances. That wasn’t a pleasant experience, and their relationship had been strained since.

The light had come from behind bushes and trees. The greenlife rustled, as if the person were struggling to stand or just throwing a huge tantrum. But it was definitely human; they saw their gloved hand grabbing onto the tree’s trunk, but the rest of them was still hidden.

Bad frowned, raising his axe as the light was the closest to him. Skeppy called for him, warning him from growing closer, but it fell on deaf ears. He crouched as he approached the moving figure, both hands clutching his only weapon.

“Bad!” Skeppy rose to his feet, sprinting towards him. “You can’t just go to every stupid light you see! What are you, a fucking moth?”

Bad ignored him. The ground beneath his feet suddenly seemed stone cold, despite the grass and the moist soil. With deep breath, he parted the bush and revealed a man in white and blue… and an unfamiliar presence.

“Fucking hell!” the man screeched, startled. His hands were raised to shield himself, so that Bad couldn’t see what he looked like. “Fuck right off, won’t you?”

“What?” Bad demanded, confused. “Who are you?” Strangers were a big thing in this world. They either meant someone had called in a favor or they were personally invited by Dream himself. Either way wasn’t a good outcome for anyone, and the last time a new person arrived was when the Dream SMP was blown to oblivion.

The stranger lowered his hand and blinked at him, equally lost. He had chocolate hair and tan skin, with a pair of white horns protruding from his head. A demon. Whitened scars littered his cheek and neck, some newer and some older, as if they were hastily healed but never properly rested.

The most startling thing was his face.

“I—I don’t understand,” Bad stuttered, clenching his teeth. What was going on?

Standing, the man cracked his neck and put his hand on his hips. “I’d be surprised if you did,” he mocked, tapping his foot impatiently. “Seriously, it’s not like I expected much from you to begin with, but somehow you manage to still disappoint me.”

Bad’s cheeks colored. What was up with everyone insulting him the moment they meet? “H—hey!” he stammered, offended. “You know I can kill you in one hit, right? I have full netherite, and you have nothing!” Lying wasn’t his strongest suit, but he hoped his frustration was enough to bluff over. It wasn’t.

“Really? You look like you’d free a spider if it got in your room.” His lip twitched. “That wasn’t a compliment.” Unexpectedly, he tossed an arm around Bad’s shoulder as if they’d known each other their whole life. Bad tensed, every hair on his back standing on their ends. “It seems that we’ve gotten off the wrong foot. Why don’t we redo our introductions and start over?”

“Hey!” Skeppy jumped in before Bad could swing his axe in self-defense. “Let him go! Who the fuck even are you?!”

The man let Bad go and turned to the demidemon. He grinned at him, revealing sharp teeth that was intimidating even for his own kind. “Come on, we’re only being friends.” He snickered. “Why do you have to be so uptight?”

Skeppy raised an eyebrow, but Bad could tell he was perplexed. Skeppy’s nose always scrunch up whenever he was facing something he didn’t understand, and they were both seeing something that only happened in a storybook. Bad stepped back from the man in white, switching to his sword and pointing it at the stranger.

“What’s your name?” Skeppy demanded, steeling up and unsheathing his diamond sword. He may be half the demon everybody was, but he was still skilled in his own right. If this newcomer was trying to kill them, he would be dead before he even tried.

The man raised his hands, but they didn’t knock gloated look off his face. “Chill! Calm down. I mean you no harm!” He might as well be holding flint and steel with a sword by it. “The name’s Good, and I’m him from another world!” He pointed at Bad, who’d gone into utter shock. “And you are?”

Chapter Text

Bad tried to make friends with Good. How could he not? Avoiding arguments was on the very top of his to-do list, and Good had hit it off with Skeppy almost instantly, after they made it past their awkward-because-I-tried-to-kill-your-friend phase. Within seconds they were laughing and exchanging inside jokes of their own.

Despite this huge revelation, Good didn’t talk about his own world. If it wasn’t for his face, Bad never would have believed him. Then again, a lie was made to sound convincing, while the truth was not. Neither Skeppy nor Bad made the effort to ask, and they’ve kept his identity a secret.

Good looked plenty different from Bad, even if you stripped them bare. Their quirks, their unique personalities and how they hold themselves were enough to tell them apart. While Bad was shy from conflict and avoided direct eye contact, Good resembled a wild wolf baring its fangs to bite. Bad’s weapons were hidden and tucked away, but Good’s claws glinted under the light and ready to cut.

Even Skeppy had trouble finding some form of resemblance between the two, if not for Good’s outlandish introduction and their voices.

Good, despite a demon’s reclusive and territorial nature, was eager to explore the land they called home. (Frankly, Bad would call it anything but, since he’s sure that a home was supposed to be a place where you’d feel safe.) They were more than happy to give him a tour, though Bad spent half an hour preparing for all the scenarios that would happen. He made Skeppy pack shears for cobwebs and gave Good a set of spare diamond armor, since the demon was utterly defenseless.

He ignored how Good and Skeppy complained about his paranoia, talking about him behind his back. His face turned numb when they made light of his worries and preparations.

Out of all the locations they decided to visit, Skeppy had decided that they’d show Good the Community House. This was met with a quick jab from Bad, mostly because it was smack dab in the Dream SMP territory and the Dream SMP means conflict.

“Aren’t we allied with them? They won’t attack us!” Skeppy argued.

Bad felt something shift in his back. The belts around him were enough to keep it down and hidden in his cloak. “Who’s to say they won’t turn on us?” he demanded. “What if other factions were waiting nearby for an attack? What will we do when that happens?”

Skeppy sputtered in disbelief. “What the heck, Bad? You were the one that said we won’t need to worry about them!” he shot back. “So why start now? Is it because of him?” He jabbed a finger at Good, who was humored by their argument. His tail flicked behind him in amusement. “Are you worried that they’ll see you differently because your doppelganger is a demon and not you?”

“Of course not!” Bad had quite a bit to say about demons, but he kept those to himself. Demons were driven by conflict and altercations, which was the exact opposite of his morals. Not to mention they were cunning and downright cruel, and the demons here were the perfect example of such. “I’m just saying we should go somewhere safer. Someplace where we wouldn’t have to worry about violence, maybe?”

 Both Good and Skeppy’s expressions told Bad that they thought that he was the deranged one.

“Wow,” Good blurted. “You’re a fucking coward.”

“EI!” Bad shrieked. “Language!” He was ignored as Skeppy chortled to Good’s statement. Hearing him use Bad’s voice to curse was something you didn’t see every day.

“I know, right?” Skeppy agreed with Good, much to Bad’s dismay. “I bet he blunts all the forks he uses to eat.”

Bad’s face burned. Skeppy knows exactly why he’d done that. Ever since Tommy tried to stab George’s eyes out with a fork while they were having a dinner together, Bad couldn’t get it out of his head that anything that can be used as a weapon. A fierce warrior needs not a sword but a stern gaze. Any self-respecting fighter would utilize the items around them as offense, but Bad was not a fighter.

“Besides,” Skeppy continued, much to Bad’s dismay, “if Good is you and you are Good, don’t you think that he’s a better version of you?” He ignored Bad glaring at him. “I mean, he curses. (“Fuck!”) That’s, like, a massive upgrade in itself. Maybe he’s you from the future.”

“I’d think I’d remember having a phase where I dressed in in all black like some sulky teenager,” Good said. “No, thank god. I’m not from the future. Maybe time runs differently here, but I would rather eat dirt than admit I used to be this.” He gestured around Bad’s frame, smirking. “I bet my baby self could wrangle you in his sleep and cut you for breakfast.”

Good and Skeppy burst into laughter, doubling over and holding each other for support. They wiped tears from their eyes, crumpling to the floor and pounding the ground as if it were the funniest thing they’d heard all their lives. All with Bad still standing in front of them, his body stiff and his lips pursed.

The tip of Bad’s ears scalded with heat. Vaguely, he heard a belt snapping behind him, followed by a piercing pain that shot through his back. It jolted to the rest of his body like lightning had struck him, his knees nearly buckling and giving out. He bit down on his tongue to distract himself, the distinct taste of metal flooding his tongue. Bile rose up from his throat, and his vision turned misty.

He covered his mouth before his blood could trickle from his mouth. Turning on his heel, he stormed up the stairs, skipping one or two steps at a time while holding onto the glass railings for balance. At some point, the laughter had stopped, but it was the least of his concerns.

“Bad!” Skeppy called just as Bad reached the second floor. “It’s just a joke! You know it’s a joke! Come back!”

The second floor was darker than the first, and orange light pooled in the quartz floors from the sun setting outside. It was also strangely empty, all pearl white from the ceiling to the walls. Bad turned to the stairs and to the torch light down there, not seeing anyone but the steps.

And one single feather at the very bottom.

Bad froze, his eyes widening as the belt around his chest fell by his feet in clatters. The back of his cloak lifted just enough to reveal more underneath, but not uncover fully.

“Bad?” Skeppy asked, heading towards the stairs.

“Go away!” Bad screamed into his palm. “Just leave me alone!”

Skeppy’s footsteps stopped. “Come on, Bad!” he whined falsely. “Why are you mad at me now?”

Bad fell to his knees, his own mind betraying him. He felt as if a million voices were screaming inside his head, just behind his eyes and pushing out his ears. His head was about to explode any second and his skull would burst.

“LEAVE!” he roared with a shaking voice and all his strength.

It happened again.

He didn’t hear what happened after, as when he came to, it was dark outside. He was lying on the floor, trembling from the sheer cold. Pulling his cloak closer, he winced as he felt a trail of dried blood stick on his cheek. He looked to his hands, and he saw his right palm stiff from blood and his saliva. His mind was in a buzz, every action guided by instinct.

Bad glanced up and looked outside the windows. The sky was sapphire blue, and the full, round moon looked just like a halo.

Why was it so cold?

By the time the door opened again, it was high noon.

Bad had collected himself and cleaned up his mess before Skeppy came back. Unfortunately, so did Good. He mopped up the blood and burned the belt to not raise any questions. The masses on his back had to go without any restraints, which their new free reign only worsened his pain. Just as a caged bird cannot survive in the wild, some things were better left under lock and key.

The feather was gone, he noticed, but he didn’t pay too much mind on it.

When they returned, Skeppy asked no questions. Bad merely waited in the house on their sofas, reading books that he’d read a hundred times before. This was their ordinary: whenever Bad got too emotional for either of them to handle, Skeppy would leave to let Bad defuse himself. He knows when he’s not wanted, so he excuses himself for Bad to calm down on his own. It was for the best.

But it wasn’t what Bad needed.

Bad wanted someone to be there for him when he has an episode. He wanted someone to hold his hand and calm him down. He wanted someone to sit by him and someone he could lean his head on. But the people he knew where not affectionate people. They spoke with words from a distance and never touched one another. The best they could do was offer a shoulder pat and an awkward smile.

Bad yearned for physical contact. Someone who he could hug and would reciprocate the gesture.

Skeppy called for Bad and he went to him. Upon seeing Good, he stiffened, but he managed a smile and apologized for his behavior yesterday. Good snorted and shrugged but didn’t hold it against him.

They told him about all the people they met. The first person they met was Puffy, who was surprised at Good’s appearance but didn’t put two-and-two together. They didn’t blame her; how could you, if your alternate doppelganger suddenly showed up without an introduction? While Puffy built her therapy office, Good offered pointers of how her build could be destroyed with Skeppy testing it thoroughly.

The next person, believe it or not, was Quackity. They met at the Community House, where Quackity had been waiting for Karl to arrive from the Nether. They held a miniature bet about how many curse words they could fit into one sentence, with Good taking the win by a small margin. He won a gold ingot, which was measly but still proof of victory nonetheless.

They met more people as the tour went on, but they couldn’t meet everyone. Some of them, like Ranboo and Fundy, were hostile and chased them from their territories. Bad bit his lip when they mentioned going into some dangerous bases to steal things, especially when they were caught red handed by none other than Purpled.

“Oh!” Skeppy snapped his fingers. “Then Sam Nook chased us with this really beefy sword. I should really get Sam to get me one of those bad boys.”

“You should have just taken it from that Techno guy,” Good rebutted. “He had good stuff and it was lying all in a chest. It’s practically free loot!”

Skeppy huffed. “You crazy? He knows who touched his stuff in his sleep. The last time someone stole his things, he hunted them down so harshly that they had to hide in the Nether for three weeks. I’m not risking that.” He turned to Bad, who was staring at them as if they’d grown two heads. “Oh. We went to see Techno.” Then he turned back to Good, recounting all the adventures they had. Adventures that he would never get to do with Bad, because he refused to leave the Badlands. This was just much as a tour for Skeppy just as it was for Good.

Skeppy sounded like he had an amazing time… without Bad. Bad wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t. Maybe he felt a little left out, but that’s besides the point. It’s the fact that Skeppy chose a demon over him that stung.

“Before I forget,” Skeppy continued, “Dream invited us for dinner. At the Community House.”

Bad raised an eyebrow. Dream rarely attended social events. Now he was hosting one?

“Almost everyone is going to be there,” Skeppy explained, then frowned. “Well, except for the people who we’re supposed to fight, but it’s going to be like a party! Me and Good already said yes. You have to come with, Bad, since you already missed out yesterday. You’re going to be there as my supervisor, to make sure I don’t get drunk and fall into holes.”

Bad’s nose scrunched up. Between the two of them, he was the one always meeting new people and going on trips with strangers. But being in the same room with all those people—those demons—didn’t sit right with him.  Especially knowing that Dream’s the host of it all.

“Look at him,” Good crabbed, almost cynical. “He looks like he’d rather slit his own throat than say yes. He’s as easy to read as a dog that’s just been given a bone.”

Bad bit down a rebuttal, but Skeppy didn’t. The demidemon curled his lips, frowning towards his best friend rather than the demon accusing him. Bad felt a twinge of hurt flicker in his gut, but it faded as soon as he reminded himself of the greater picture.

“Bad?” Skeppy demanded. “Were you really going to say no?”

Drawing a long breath, Bad bit his thumb’s nails and tried to face his friend’s eyes. “Skeppy, listen—” But Skeppy wouldn’t listen. He made his distaste audible with a disbelieving huff, his arms crossing in irritation. “Skeppy,” Bad said patiently, taking his ruined thumb from his mouth, “we don’t know what their goal really is. It could be a trap, or something worse—”

“Just admit you don’t want to spend time with him,” Good interrupted harshly. “I know that look on your face when I said who I am. You found a scapegoat, and you dumped him onto me. It’s that simple.”

Skeppy looked up, alarmed. “Bad?” he asked, completely ignoring Bad’s side of the story. “Is that true? You don’t want to hang out with me anymore?”

“Why else would he find so many excuses?” Good scoffed.

 “That’s not it!” Bad stood from his couch, face redder than his jacket. “Dream asked us to fight a war for months on end, and now he wants to have a dinner party? Do you know what he does to traitors?”

“He stopped asking us for a long time, didn’t he?” Skeppy shot back. “He finally left us alone after the Badlands got officiated! It’s just a get-together, Bad, stop being childish.”

For a price! Bad wanted to scream. He didn’t know what he had to give just to give them a piece of mind. They don’t know what he sacrificed just so they could sleep at night. Easy for him to say!

“Childish?” Bad scalded. “You’re calling me childish just because I don’t want to go to Dream’s party? Dream? The guy who terrorizes children just because they refused to listen to his every word? The guy who blew up Philza’s home only because he’s Techno’s friend?” He steeled himself, drawing a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll go, but only because I don’t trust anyone there alone with you.”

Skeppy blinked, leaning back as if it weren’t the answer he was expecting. He even overlooked the second part that Bad threw in.

“You will?” Skeppy beamed, shot to his feet, attempting to throw his hand around Bad’s shoulder. He backed off when the brunet slapped his hand away, but that didn’t dull his mood one bit. “Fuck yeah, Bad! We’re going to get so drunk!”

Bad didn’t like the idea one bit. Especially when he caught Good rolling his eyes while groaning.

Chapter Text

Bad spent the next few hours distressing over possible scenarios and the amount of weapons one could hide in a shirt, but there were just too many unknown variables. For starters, he didn’t know who was going to be present. All he knew was that Sapnap and George were definitely going to be there – Sam, Ponk and Antfrost were plausible, but nobody else was a guarantee. On another note, he found out three different ways on hiding an axe in his pants. That would be useful except Skeppy finally remembered to tell him that it’s a no-weapon, no-armor event.

He would have strangled Skeppy if it weren’t for his own nerves flaring in his own head. The muffinhead just doesn’t have the awareness a seasoned warrior was supposed to have. He understood that Skeppy’s reaction time was great, but when your guard was down while you were eating baked potatoes and drinking alcohol, there’s no way you could react in time with nothing but a fork while your opponent had an axe and shield.

They didn’t wear anything too formal. They wore what they usually wore under their armor and called it that. If they took the good clothes, they might be ruined by the end of the night.

On their way there, Skeppy tried to make conversation with Bad, but Bad always gave a short answer. He couldn’t stop fiddling with his fingers under his cloak as they grew closer to the Community House. Skeppy didn’t notice his anxiety, though, and turned to speak to Good beside him.

“Ten gold ingots that I can outdrink you,” Good declared.

Skeppy grinned and met his challenging stare. “You’re on.” He turned to Bad. “Who’re you betting on?”

Bad blinked and whipped to him a bit too fast. “Sorry?” he asked, voice rushed and dazed. “Were you saying something?”

Skeppy sighed in disappointment. “Nothing.” He then continued to talk to Good, completely ignoring Bad afterwards.

Bad liked silence, and their chatter soon faded to background noise. But somehow, all he could hear was a high-pitched ring flaring in his ears.

The party was, to be honest, mundane.

Sapnap welcomed them into the Community House, chewing on what seems to be a half-eaten cookie. He guided them inside and closed the door, sealing their fates.

It was completely quiet. The supposed-party was solemn and somber. Despite the food and drink laid out on the table at the center, everyone was looking at each other warily, as if someone would pull a sword out and start drawing blood. Dream was the host and no one dared defied his words, but it still didn’t ease anyone’s fears that someone would go against him and ruin the night for everyone.

All things considered, it was pretty packed. Techno and Philza were here. Bad spotted them at the very corner. George, Karl, Quackity, Foolish, Puffy, Niki, Jack, Hannah, Eret, Punz and Ponk had attended. Most of them were scattered out and talking to each other, casting suspicious glances at others whilst holding onto their drink or food.

Sam and Ant weren’t here, which could be either a relief or something more to worry about.

Unfortunately, was more than enough for him to worry about. Skeppy’s face brightened as he saw Techno, sticking his hand into his pocket while he went to greet an old friend. Techno gave him a rare smile as they high-fived each other.

Weren’t Techno and Philza Dream’s enemies? Why would they be invited? Better yet, why did they show up? Now that he thought about it, he realized that they weren’t the only ones who went against Dream. Niki and Jack ran their own thing, aligning themselves with no one but themselves. They were affiliated with no one in this room. Foolish and Hannah were completely neutral, so it makes sense for them to be invited to something as trivial as a party, but what if this was an ambush?

“New guy?” Sapnap asked, swallowing the rest of his cookie. He eyed Good from top to bottom. “Must have some balls to even get in the borders and stay.”

Good huffed and shot him a grin. “Bigger than yours’ll ever be.”

“We’ll see it when we get on the battlefield,” Sapnap said. “But tonight – heck, I don’t know what’s up with tonight. All I know is that we’re supposed to treat each other equally and with respect, all that mojo. Should have stayed at home and slept if I’d known it would be this awkward.” He winked at Bad. “And you finally decided to get out of your hole. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Bad nodded sheepishly, though his eyes were darting around for any sign of hostility. He saw none, and Sapnap was plain bored out of his mind. “I’ve been busy.”

Sapnap waved him off. “Sure you have.” He clicked his tongue. “Running the Badlands and all that. Still, how busy can you be when Sam shows up in our meetings in your place?”

Bad’s stomach churned. The meetings. It was a weekly thing that he was supposed to attend. But the meeting was more like a status report to Dream rather than an actual meeting. To see who’s defecting or who’s loyalty is wavering. Bad never went so Sam went for him. Sam was better at him when it came to pressuring events.

“Well.” Sapnap patted Bad’s shoulder, smiling softly. “For all it’s worth, I’m glad to see that you’re okay and alive.”

The brunet returned a weak smile. Alive? Yes. Okay? Not so much. Sapnap then left to Karl and Quackity, leaving Bad alone with Good. But that didn’t last long either, as Bad squirmed away and left to a quiet corner. He was least likely to be surprised from there, but he wouldn’t put it past anyone to refrain from using explosives.

He wasn’t the only loner, either. Eret was gazing out the window with his sunglasses despite it being nighttime. Hannah was playing with the plants that grew by the windowsill, the leaves and vines curling around her finger. This party was the last thing from a party. It was just putting a bunch of people in a room and knowing that they are uncomfortable with each other. Everyone breathed waiting for someone to cross the line, and all would descend into utter and complete madness.

Someone coughed into their fist. Bad heard it and he was sure everyone heard it too. But no one turned their heads. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. Except that knife was a voice and the tension only grew thicker as it was cut down. The doors from Bad’s east swung open, and a man in green walked in as if he owned the place.

“Hello, everyone!” Dream hollered, completely unbothered by the uncanny atmosphere. “Is everyone enjoying the party?”

Everyone stiffened simultaneously, and Dream either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The latter was likely correct. With considerable hesitance, muted replies were given by hums and tight lips, forced by false optimism and lingering doubt. No one dared to look directly at their masked host, averting their gazes to the floor, window, or ceiling, but never onto the man himself.

Dream took this in stride, walking past Techno and Philza while giving them a curt wave. They responded with a stiff nod of their own, but their eyes turned lax to sharp in a split second, calculating Dream’s every move. In just a brief moment, they seem to already have enough information for them to discuss in hushed tones, their minds acting faster than Bad could ever comprehend. Even Skeppy was scratching his head when they referred to him for confirmation.

He headed to the center of the room and stopped by the drink table. Taking a wine glass and a spoon from the utensils, he raised his arms and tapped the glass with the teaspoon. Clink, clink, clink—loud enough to turn heads, but soft enough to soothe some tension. A finer distraction, meant to attract listening ears rather than gleaming swords.

Dream cleared his throat and set the items down. “Hello,” he greeted formally, both voice and face unreadable. “I just wanted to say, thank you for showing up tonight, and for following the terms.” He paused, thinking, then continued, “Peaceful, is it not? To simply enjoy food and each other’s company?”

Bad doubted anyone was enjoying the company. Most people here were used to their lonesome lifestyles and looked as if they would stab a child to escape this room. They’d done it once, and they wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” Dream said. “This very room we stand in – it used to be a place where me and my friends spent all our time together. We would bring blankets from our homes and find a spot to lie down. Before the roof was built, we would talk all night while we looked at the stars. We’d even count how many constellations we can find.” He tilted his head. “They’re fond memories, really.” He didn’t sound fond one bit. Instead, his tone hardened. “Sadly, good times never last.”

He turned towards the door he’d just came in and clapped his hands twice. Instantly, the doors swung open, hitting the walls and revealing two newcomers. One was armed to the teeth with netherite, while the younger was led in chains with nothing to his name. Bad’s stomach dropped, as did everyone’s faces. People gasped audibly, faces paling and hands shooting to cover mouths.

“But we can forge onto a new era,” Dream promised them. “We can start anew! Where we can live in peace!” His demeanor turned menacing as Punz unsheathed his sword, holding it horizontally to Tubbo’s neck from behind. The teen stiffened, gritting his bloodied teeth. “All it takes is a little sacrifice! Isn’t this wonderful? Not only are you getting food and drink, you’re also getting a free show!”

Tubbo was bruised all over, but there were no visible wounds and blood on his clothes. He’d been taken kicking and screaming, which was seen by Punz sporting a new black eye. The injury didn’t bother him as much as the younger, as even now he struggled to stand on his own two feet. He might collapse if Punz lost his hold on him, and the only reason he wasn’t defying the adult was because he was too weak to do so. Tubbo was the one half dead and barely clinging to consciousness, but Bad’s knees were weak and the floor swayed beneath him.

“What—what did you do?” Sapnap swallowed, backing up against the wall. He was pale, but Bad saw only shock in his eyes. There was no horror or fear, like how a villain was surprised that their plan had gone exceptionally well.

Dream chuckled. “There’s no reason to be afraid. This is a party! We’re supposed to have fun!” He gestured towards Tubbo with an open palm, his fingers closed enough to snap at any moment. One snap and a child’s blood could be spilt. “I said there will be no weapons, but Punz means no harm. He’s here to take care of our safeties… just in case anything happens.”

Already, he saw wicked smiles creeping onto people’s faces, casting an ugly reflection in their shadows on their feet. They leaked through the floorboards, spilling onto wood and pooling close to Bad’s feet. They were smiling – celebrating that they had the sight of a beaten child to go with their wine.

Bad’s mouth turned sour. He knows why Dream is making such a spectacle out of Tubbo’s capture. This is what will happen if you went against him. It’s both a warning and a trap—those who show sympathy have betrayed him for wasting time and emotion on traitors. Dream had them all under his thumb – even Foolish and Puffy forced laughs, but it was stiff and unnatural. They sounded as if they were being strangled; which they might end up if they don’t play along.

But those who truly smiled in delight and hollered in victory – they weren’t faking. They took true pleasure in witnessing the suffering of others.

“Put him in the cage,” Dream instructed Punz. The blond nodded, leading Tubbo towards Bad. Every hair on Bad’s end stood in fear, but Punz wasn’t looking at him. Bad turned to his right to see an inhumanely small box walled off by iron bars, with not even enough space for anyone to sit down.

Punz shoved Tubbo in the cage, squeezing in him. Tubbo had enough room to move his arms but not enough to stretch them.

“Yo, Bad,” Punz greeted the brunet casually, as if he weren’t ushering a teenager to be some sort of circus animal. “Never expected to see you here.” He locked the cage with a key, and tucked it inside his pockets. Tubbo snapped to Bad with a spiteful glare, still full of hatred and fire despite his wounds. He was a cornered animal ready to bite whoever’s closest.

Bad stepped away, face still pale. “Y—yeah,” he agreed, not trusting himself to look into the mercenary’s eyes. He felt Tubbo’s glare burning into his head. “I thought I should get out more often…”

Shaking his head, Punz sighed. He swiveled towards the cage and kicked it once, the iron bars resonating throughout the room. Tubbo quickly dropped his glare and turned to wrestle the chains around him. No one paid any attention. “You’re a shitty liar,” Punz snapped harshly, but that was just how he spoke. He had to be, for his line of work tolerated no sign of softness or weakness. He turned on his heel and left across the room, but his eyes were still on the captive.

When he was out of earshot, Tubbo started to speak to him. The corner was secluded and darker than others, which was what lent Bad a peace of mind. But even the blackest corners now had eyes and ears, and there was nowhere else to hide.

“Not a party person, I presume,” Tubbo said smoothly as if he weren’t bound in chains. Like they were regular party-mates that met by punch bowls and finger foods. “BadBoyHalo, is it? I’ve heard of you from Sam. He says you’re a worrywart and I guess that bit is true.”

“You talked to Sam?” Alarms rang in Bad’s head. Why were they talking? He wasn’t against his friends meeting new friends, but Tubbo was the leader of the enemy. The enemy of the entire SMP, nonetheless. “What did you talk about?”

Tubbo shrugged, wincing as his grin caused the bruise on his cheek to sting. It was purple and swollen, so Tubbo’s voice was a bit muffled, but that didn’t dampen his chatterbox nature.

“Nothing much. I’ve met the man once, and even then it was under unusual circumstances,” Tubbo said. When Bad’s face dropped, he bit his prey like a shark. “I suppose you’re a neutral faction. Dream saw Sam giving us some potions and didn’t strike him down on the dot. If it were anyone else, they’d be dead before they could say ‘mule bits.’” His tone turned dark. “Does it haunt you – what you’ve done? How do you sleep at night knowing that you’re a justified two-faced traitor?”

Bad had to admit, Tubbo was smarter than he looked. A child thrust into an era full of war and fear must learn to grow fast, lest they are left behind. Tubbo was proof of that. He had stronger resolve than adults and a steelier gaze than a fully trained warrior. But Tubbo is still a child, and Bad didn’t want to interlope himself any more than this. Sam helped Tubbo’s side and Dream knew it. This party was just as much as a warning to Bad as it is to the people who dared help Dream’s enemy.

One wrong move, and it’s he who’s in the cage. One misstep, and his friends will be thrown in there with him.

Bad fought the urge to curl up into a ball and cry. The pressure behind his eyes bulged from his sockets. His eyes widened with grief but they were drier than the desert sand.  His limbs turned to bark and his feet turned to roots, planting him in place.

The chatter around him pulled him under a sea of ink. His head swam as it suddenly became difficult to breathe. His chest weighed a hundred pounds, refusing to rise and fall.

He needed to get out of here. Now.

“Bad?” Bad looked up. Puffy and Foolish were looking at him worriedly. “Is everything alright?” Puffy asked, careful to keep distance between them. “Do you need to sit down?”

Bad blinked at them as if they were figments of his imagination. His eyes could be playing tricks on him, but they were very, very real. Too realistic for his mind to conjure up.

“I—” Bad sucked in a shaky breath. He held his head, his glasses falling from his nose. Foolish let out a cry of shock as it slipped down his chin, and shattered into a million shards as it hit the wooden ground. Glass pieces rained on his shoes, the silver frame dented from the impact. “I need to go.” He pushed past the two and headed straight out the door, stepping on glass that couldn’t penetrate his soles.

Puffy called out his name, but Bad didn’t listen. He staggered past others and slumped at the door, barely finding the energy to turn the knob and walk out. His body was hollow and he was running on pure adrenaline alone. His limbs shook and his back ached and his head screamed through fogs. Everything about him was so empty it hurt.

Why was this happening? Does Tubbo’s words have that much of an effect?

Bad made to the main portal before his legs gave out, falling to his knees and elbows after climbing just a bit of stairs. It was nighttime, but his bones seared like fire. Sweat pooled from his skin as if he were in a sauna. In a daze and with shivering fingers, Bad unclipped his cloak and hastily kicked it aside, and cold air graced his soaked clothes. It provided some relief, but his breaths were still heavy and his lungs started to ache.

He needed help. But there was no one out here. No one to rescue him and no one to rely on.

His eyes squeezed shut. Vividly, a scene began to float in his murky vision. Its corners were muddled and the colors were diluted and grayed, but color slowly bled into its edges, and the voices and sounds turned sharper. It was blue; so very blue. But it was also gold and white. Most of its background was sapphire blue, yet the man—no, boy next to him was glowing like the sun.

Parts of his vision was blocked by what appeared to be a cloth. Silk, even, from how it reflected light in its folds. The boy’s face was blurry, but his grin was evident throughout, from his voice to how he had his chin resting on his palms.

A bright, golden light shone behind the boy’s head, as if the sun had decided to become his halo. It blinded him from seeing his face. Then, his thin, lean arms reached out to hold him—blink. He opened his eyes and he was back in the Dream SMP, crumpled on a blackstone path with no one to call for.

It was so real, like a buried memory – one that was so old that it’d been forgotten. But it wasn’t, and it was just a hallucination. Nobody had halos nor was he ever swaddled in silk.

“My god.”

Bad froze entirely as footsteps clanked loudly near him. Instantaneously, he pushed himself upwards, stones and shards digging into his elbows and forearms. He hissed from the sting, but he managed to stagger to his feet and face the newcomer with dread.

To be fair, he didn’t have high expectations for his doppelganger anyway. He knew a red flag when he saw one, and for once, he wasn’t surprised that his predictions were right.

“I can’t believe it!” Good howled, grinning widely. “All this time I lived in fear of angels – and yet now I see you I realize I have nothing to be afraid of! You are weak, withered—powerless!” He burst into laughter, circling Bad’s shaken form like a predator. His tail flicked joyfully.

He was provoking him, no doubt about it. A demon’s nature and natural weakness was that they were always too prideful; always too ahead of themselves. Give one power, and it’ll let it get over its head.

Bad made a conscious decision to not reply. He saved his breath – using the remainders of his energy to summon his sword. A dark, glowing blade manifested itself in his palm, its grip strangely repulsive despite him crafting his own blade from scratch. With barely enough willpower to keep his arm steady, he crawled to stand on two feet, stumbling to find his balance with only one free hand.

Good, despite his victim’s armed stature, didn’t look bothered in the slightest. “I thought the party invite said not to bring any weapons!” he cackled, almost as if he were in disbelief. “Looks like you’re a tidbit of a rulebreaker yourself, angel!”

Angel. Bad’s eyes were half-lidded, clinging onto the last bits of consciousness, but he noticed his forgone cloak now laying on the dirt ground, his back completely bare for the world to see. His eyes widened, seeing feathers instead of black leather.

“We can do this my way or the hard way,” Good giggled, drawing amusement from Bad’s helplessness. “Put down your weapon. You’re in no condition to use it.”

Bad responded by throwing himself at his demonic doppelganger, his sword raised but his sloppy stance wide open. He felt as if he were pulling thousands of pounds as he lifted his arms and legs, but it all broke apart the moment he swung, leaving him light but weighing his downfall by tenfold.

Good easily sidestepped the attack, going so far as to hook his ankle over Bad’s foot, tripping him and causing him to fall face first onto the jagged floor. His front flared with pain. Arms shaking uncontrollably, Bad tried to push himself back up, but his arms turned to jelly that fell apart with a touch. Instead, Good reached down and pulled him up by his collar, a maniacal smile plastered like a mask that’s too surreal to be real.

“Goodbye, Bad,” he cooed mockingly, turning him towards the portal. The portal’s hum was so loud—unnaturally high-pitched and… bright?

He was suddenly bathed in a blinding, harsh white light, as if the source were coming behind Bad and in front of Good. His sword slipped from his palm, but Bad didn’t hear it clattering on the floor. “See you on the other side!”

He pushed Bad backwards, but Bad didn’t feel himself falling to the ground. Instead, the world turned brighter as wind gushed in Bad’s ears, and he was suddenly plummeting in bright daylight.

Chapter Text

Falling.

He was plummeting from the sky, but the rush of air was like a whisper at the back of his mind. He couldn’t feel solid ground, but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He’d been in the sky before. A long time ago, Bad once soared the skies and nestled in evening clouds. He’d sit on high cliffs and preen his feathers. It was such a distant memory—more like a fantasy, now—but it was only a few years ago. Even as he fell, his wings burned and cracked from mere movement. The more he opened the, it was as if a nail was being hammered into his spine.

Even if he tried, his wings won’t work. They were nothing but dead weight to him, like baseless ornaments weighing him down into the ocean. They’ve gone too long without opening, let alone using. He wasn’t worthy to have them.

Only, he wasn’t trying. He let the pain remind him that he was a hoax. He let the aches in his joints tell him that he’s a failure. Just because he wears a halo of light doesn’t mean he deserves it.

In chaos and conflict, they didn’t need kindness. Just like they didn’t need him. He was nothing to them. They needed power; they needed people who can help them turn the tides of war. He could do none of that. He was a healer, not a fighter. He was the person people turned to when they needed help or advice. Not for bloodshed and violence.

And he wasn’t needed there. They didn’t care about any of that.

He’s worthless.

He’s got magic, he’s got wings—so what? If they can’t be used in fights, then they’re useless. They might as well be nonexistent, and Bad might as well be air. At least he won’t be wasting oxygen by being him.

Does he want to change? Does he want to mold himself into the warrior they needed? He doesn’t. He was fine with how he is now. It’s his fault for choosing to stay in a world where he isn’t wanted. He was foolish to think that they would accept him as one of them regardless of his skill. Attachments and emotions were secondary to them, just like him.

Bad squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his hands. Both his wings felt like they were about to snap out of his back, refusing to flap even once. He knew by the speed he was falling, he was going to die a gruesome death. The weakest people die the messiest deaths, and he was about to be a living example. Even if he wanted to try, to save himself from his rapid descent, he couldn’t. It was too late for him.

His face was moist, turning cool from the winds. Humans said they would remember their last moments when they’re facing their death, but he didn’t see any. Maybe there weren’t any memorable memories he could recall, even as he’s meeting his end. How pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice snuffed out by the wind.

He waited for his mind to go dark, but his breath was knocked out of his lungs as a warm figure crashed into him mid-air, pushing him off-course. The body sent them hurling elsewhere, deterring from the cold, hard ground he was supposed to end up.

Neither of them had time to scream as they were sent crashing into a solid wall, colored glass panes and wooden planks shattering upon impact. They collided on the shard-scattered floor, bodies entangled together. His breath hitched, waiting for the pain to kick in, but the only thing that bothered him was bruises littered around his sides and chest. Whoever had saved him from certain death had taken the brunt of the damage.

Bad tried to open his eyes but quickly realized he couldn’t. His body was still trying to process the shock from his near-death experience, and his limbs refused to work. He’d been more terrified than he let himself realize. There was still someone lying on him, most likely suffering from worse injuries than he is. The man’s arms were still wrapped around him, as if he’d been trying to protect him in spite of his own well-being.

Bad breathed out, body trembling uncontrollably. His wings were sticking out in wrong directions, and the searing pain in his joints were unbearable. Sweat pooled around his body as he tried to suppress the pain, but tears were forced to his eyes as his adrenaline began to wear off. The matter of the stranger behind him still persisted—who was it? He’d gone through a portal; the same portal that Good used when he came to his world.

Was this Good’s world, then? A world that made Good who he was? The thought alone made Bad’s knees go weak. He couldn’t stand the fighting in his own world. There was no way he could survive Good’s.

Thankfully, the stranger behind him began to stir. His arms around Bad shifted, but he didn’t let go. Bad’s mind raced, millions of terrible scenarios going through his head. He’d caused this person pain. They’re not going to let him live this down—

The man groaned, pushing himself upright. Glass shards and wooden splinters rained as he moved, sliding off silver-blue feathers and to the ground.

Wait.

Feathers?

“You okay?” the man asked, visibly trying to hide the pain in his voice. Bad snapped out of his delirium and turned his head, to be met with a painfully familiar face, but not. The man’s face was filled with concern and gentleness. The one he knew could only be seen with irritation and exhaustion.

Bad’s tongue dried. He wasn’t sure how he looked like right now, but the man looked way worse. He was covered from head to toe in bloody scratches, with more serious injuries doting his arms. The wings seemed to be the only thing intact, though Bad’s not sure how.

The man frowned, seeing no reaction. “You… alright?” he asked again.

“George?” Bad blurted, confusion riddling his face. The pain his wings subsided after zero movement, though he was afraid to move them again.

George blinked at him. He stared, but he showed no obvious malice. It raised a red flag in Bad’s head.

“Yes?” he replied, more uncertain than wary. “That’s… my name?” He clicked his tongue. “Names aside, are you okay? If I’d waited a second longer, we’d be dead.”

His face was George, but his aura, his tone and even his expressions were completely different. He was the things that George was not. George wasn’t kind, he didn’t care about others’ well beings other than his own, he didn’t risk his neck for others—and he would never ask about someone else’s condition even if they were dying right in front of his face.

George certainly wasn’t tall. This George seemed to be as tall as Dream might’ve been. It was the only indication that he was in a completely different world, or George had suddenly grown wings and ten inches while he was at it.

“Ye—yeah, I’m fine,” Bad stammered. “Thanks for asking.”

George raised his wings. They looked silver, but the tips of each feather faded to sapphire blue. He was using them to shield Bad, but they barely had a scratch on them.

Wings. The only being that Bad knew had wings were—

“George, you’re an angel?”

George furrowed his brows. Bad’s fight-or-flight instincts triggered itself, knowing that George would retort with a snappy remark that would somehow result in a brawl between Sapnap, Dream, and George himself. Even if the two weren’t here, Bad still can’t rest easy.

“Yeah? Are the wings not enough proof?” he asked back. “Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look okay.”

“I am fine,” Bad snapped a bit too harshly, pushing himself up. “I just need to get back to—”

Searing pain flared from his back as if he were being tortured by a molten whip. A scream was caught in throat, but ended up stuck on his tongue. His body froze instinctively, curling into a fetal position as his wings refused to obey his command.

George’s eyes widened at the condition of Bad’s wings. They were frail, thin and fragile; nothing like his own. “What happened to you?” he demanded. “Were you attacked? Wait, you need help. I’ll bring you to someone who can help you, okay?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Carefully avoiding his misshapen wings, George gathered the shorter into his arms and took off into the skies.

Bad barely stayed conscious throughout any of it, as he was trying to keep himself under control. The rest of the day was a complete blur to him. He could vaguely remember doors opening, hushed voices buzzing around him, and especially a glowing pair of hands on his back. It was odd. Some so bizarre that Bad wasn’t sure if they were his hallucinations or reality.

By the time he could collect himself, he realized that he was lying on his stomach, a blanket draped on his lower body. He tried to move, but his wings were fixed behind him, a metal exoskeleton setting them in place whilst attached to the ceiling. He was trapped, but it didn’t feel like a prison. The metal exterior didn’t feel like cuffs but rather a tool for healing. It wasn’t trying to restrain him; there weren’t any bars or lava that impeded his escape.

It reminded him of his own makeshift infirmary back at his home, but everything here was dedicated to healing, not put-together tools made from shears and a dagger.

He pushed himself up. The bed was water-like, almost like jelly that bounced right back. The equipment on his wings shifted on the railings attached to the ceiling, like harnesses instead of chains.

Bad turned around. His feathers were brushed and cleaned of dust, straightened but not fully preened. Their twisted shape was back to its original form, but now that they’re fully exposed, Bad realized how weak they’d been after years of neglect. They were nothing like George’s wings—large, glowing with health and strong—or how they should be.

He looked away. This was his own fault.

The door to the room opened. He whipped towards the entrance, seeing a complete stranger. He was wearing a dark blue jacket over a black shirt, with a ribbon loosely tied around his wrist. His dark hair was in a bun behind his head, with strands loose as if he didn’t have the heart to retie it. He didn’t look like anyone Bad knew, but he felt like the way Bad felt about Angel George. Familiar.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice lax and calm. “How you doing?”

Bad’s skin tingled. He knew that voice. It was the voice he avoided when he’s trying to get someone to safety or when he’s putting fires out. First George, now Sapnap. They’re both so different. Of course—they’re the Dream Team’s doppelgangers. They’re the things their original selves are not.

If Sapnap is an arsonist, a destroyer—does that make his alternate self a healer?

“I…” Bad found himself looking away. “I’m fine.” Help always came with a price, no matter how small. To save someone meant to gain a favor from them, and he disliked that form of currency for a long time.

Not-Sapnap nodded, humming as he walked over to a shelf of books. He took a couple and dropped them on the table by his bed. “Here,” he said, now adjusting the crutches on Bad’s wings. He started to unscrew them with his hands. “This’ll take a while, and I don’t want you to bore yourself to death.”

Bad grimaced as his wings were being fumbled by someone else. He hadn’t show them to anyone on the server—not even Skeppy, which the guilt ate through him—and a complete stranger was prodding it.

Not-Sapnap noticed this and stopped. He turned to Bad with his hands on his hips. “Don’t be so nervous. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just getting this off so we can start on your physical therapy.”

Bad whipped to him. “Physical what?” he demanded. Physical Therapy wasn’t a stranger to him. He’d helped Ant and Ponk through theirs when their lost limb was reattached. He never thought the word would be used for him.

“Physical therapy,” he huffed. “Your wings are in horrible shape, dude. George said you were attacked, and while he is my friend I doubt him. Especially after I treated them.” He gestured to his wings. “Do you have any sort of disease? It’s unlikely, since angels aren’t like humans and they don’t get sick for the end of the world, but there’s always an anomaly somewhere.”

 Sitting on his knees, Bad pursed his lip as his fists on his thighs tightened. “No,” he admitted. “I just… haven’t used them for some time.”

Not-Sapnap raised an eyebrow. He took hold of the crutches and spread one of his wings to the left. “Does this hurt?”

“A little.” The pain wasn’t as intense as before. It was more like a soreness that persisted after a workout. He moved his wings, and it wiggled in its confined space. He winced at the tenderness in its joints and flesh.

“Tell me.” Not-Sapnap leaned on the wall, setting the screws down to the table by the books. “How long is this… ‘some time’?”

Bad bit his lip.

“I need to know,” Not-Sapnap said. “I won’t say anything to anyone else. Healer’s Honor. Besides, I need to know so I can treat you. Do you want to go the rest of your oh-so long life without flying?”

His snippy quips reminded him of the Sapnap he knew, but without any of the fire. Instead, Not-Sapnap was calm, laid-back like the ocean. Nothing like the pyromaniac Bad knew.

“Around years, I think,” Bad relented. “At least five.”

“Five.”

“…  maybe seven. I hardly keep track of time.”

Not-Sapnap paused as if he were a movie. After a pregnant silence, he turned to Bad, like a robot finish analyzing its plan. Bad swallowed, his body tensing.

“How are you even alive?” he demanded. “George said you were falling out of the sky.”

“And he saved me,” Bad agreed. “I would’ve died if it wasn’t for him.”

“That’s not the point. I’m asking you how you even got up there in the first place. With your wings’ condition, you won’t be able to move them, much less actually fly. Did another angel try to kill you? There isn’t many around where we are, but there’s always the bad apples in the bunch. Do you remember their name?”

Another angel. “There’s more angels?” he asked back. “I didn’t know that.” Bad mentally slapped himself. This was a different world. Of course there would be more angels. George is one of them, for goodness’s sake!

Not-Sapnap’s frow deepened, much like George’s earlier. But rather than frustration of his ignorance, it was a look of worry. Bad felt himself shrink under Not-Sapnap’s gaze, like he was at fault for dooming the world.

“Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen you before.” Not-Sapnap pushed the wing back into its place. “I’ve met some other angels because of George, but he never introduced you to me, or talk about you.” He scratched his head, then gave a free hand to Bad. “I guess this is where we introduce ourselves. I’m Pandas, Healer to mostly George, since he keeps getting himself into trouble. Nice to meet you.”

Bad stared at the hand, then to the face of the voice. He could see bits of the Sapnap he knew in there; his dark eyes and his dimples whenever he smiled. They had the same  face, same physique (which was surprising considering the Georges’ height and race difference) and voice, but he’s not Sapnap.

He took Pandas’ hand with a firm grip.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Bad.”

Pandas gave him a lazy grin.  “Don’t worry,” he assured him. “You’re in good hands.”

Bad really hoped so.

Chapter Text

Moonlight trickled in the window like a river of silver fish. Bad looked up from his book, and was fairly surprised to realize how fast time had passed. His wings were still kept in place by a metal cast, but they didn’t bother him as he laid on his stomach, flipping page after page. It’s been hours since he saw anybody else, and he was almost antsy waiting to see the other versions of the people he knew. But no one came, excluding George who came and offered to spoonfeed him his stew because of his condition, which Bad immediately declined.

This George was too nice for Bad’s liking. Too innocent and caring. Nothing like the George back in his world.

He didn’t mind spending his time alone. In fact, he was content that he was given personal space – not that an infirmary was personal. There were other beds in the space, but there were curtains hanging by each bed, and he was the only one here. Was Pandas a good healer or did nobody get hurt? Either seemed too good to be true. Nothing’s went wrong yet. That alone should be more than uncanny.

Bad never had high expectations for anything. Not since the first war in the Dream SMP started, and he wasn’t about to get his hopes up for anything now. Wishes and wants were always met with disappointment, and dreams were crushed by boots of steel. He remembered staying in his home, holding Skeppy’s hand and waiting for the wars to tide over, praying that they won’t be roped into the conflict. It was a simple, fragile wish; yet it’d been destroyed as the fires spread towards their mansion, burning their garden and smoke suffocating them inside their own house.

He squashed the thought and shook his head, turning his eyes back to the book, squinting to read the words with some difficulty. It was a story about a child finding her way home from the land of the stars, meeting many enemies and no friends at all. Her enemies were nice, but they weren’t good; they poisoned her mind with lies of her home, whispering things into her ears that weren’t true at all. Bad liked this story. It was the first thing he’d read in a while.

“Sweet Naïve Starchild,” George’s voice rang out, surprising Bad. He whipped towards the curtains, to see it wide open with George holding it open. His wings were folded behind his back to prevent knocking any equipment over. “Have you read it before?” He entered the small space, the curtains closing behind him.

Bad blinked. “Sweet Naïve Starchild?” He didn’t hear the door open. Had he been so absorbed that he hadn’t paid attention to his surroundings? He closed the book, running his fingers on the leather cover. The name was written in cursive, with a drawing of a starry-skied window at the bottom. “Pandas brought it in case I was bored. This is the first time I’ve read it.”

George’s eyebrows arched, his arm on his hips as if he were surprised by him. “Really?” He bent down and picked up the book, opening it and tracing his hands on a random page. “I thought everyone’s read it. It’s a classic bedtime story that parents tell their children.” He chuckled fondly, closing the book and handing it back to Bad. “Me, Nightmare and Pandas took turns reading it to each other when we were younger. I remember that Nightmare was always scared of the god that turned mad.”

Nightmare. A new name. If Bad had to guess, he was Dream’s opposite, and he was still friends with George and Pandas. In his world, not so much. “I haven’t got to that part yet,” Bad confessed, taking the book back. “I’m still at the part where the main character is looking for her friend—the one who can hear stones’ songs.”

 “Oh. Did I just spoil you?” George hummed, tapping his lips with a finger. “I’m sorry. I’ll shut up. Anyways, are you ready to start flying?”

Eh? What?

Bad swore he heard George wrong. “… excuse me?”

George gestured to the window. The wind blew softly gently outside, combing the tree leaves like a musician strumming their guitar strings. “Pandas told me I need to teach you flying,” he said as a matter-of-factly. “He can’t do it, because he doesn’t have wings, obviously. But that aside, I’d like to introduce you to another one of my friends! It’s okay if you’re not up to it, and I won’t pry, but he’s shy and I need him to meet more people other than me or Pandas.”

“Let me guess.” Bad can’t help but crack a smile. Dream’s opposite was shy and timid? That was a sight to behold. “It’s Nightmare?”

George clicked his tongue and gave him finger guns. With his eyes squinted, Bad noticed that they were strikingly blue. Bluer than the blue in the deep sea and bluer than cornflowers. It was almost as if they were magic. (Which again, wouldn’t be surprising, considering he’s an angel.)

“Someone’s catching on quickly. What are you gonna do next? Uncover the secrets of my good looks?” George kidded, reaching up for the metal harness around his wings. He fumbled at the structure, but he was careful to not irritate Bad’s wings. They were much better now, but they were still weak and sensitive. “How do you get this off?” he complained. Suddenly Bad didn’t have much confidence in the angel’s technical capabilities. “Did Pandas put these at random and called it a day? And he calls himself a healer?”

The curtains slid open, revealing Pandas in a black sweater and ponytail. “And you call yourself my friend?”

George and Bad screamed simultaneously. George’s wings shot outwards, smacking Bad in the face with a face full of feathers.

“Why are you here?” Bad demanded, pushing George’s oversized wing out of his face. 

Pandas shrugged, sticking his tongue out at George before turning to Bad with an answer. “This is my infirmary,” he quipped without malice. “Can’t I go in my own place or check up on my patient?”

Bad’s face flushed red. “Well, I guess—” He wasn’t used to joking around with others. Fortunately Pandas noticed his discomfort and took over, whipping to George with a raised eyebrow.

“Are you trying to wreck his wings?” he scoffed, pushing the angel aside. He started dismantling the skeleton himself. “You’re one sadistic bastard, if I do say so myself. Are you scared that Bad looks too pretty that you’re going to reinact the Evil Queen from Snow White?”

George grinned at Bad. “Ooh, you’re Snow White.” He winked at Pandas. “Who’s Prince Charming, then?”

Pandas tilted his head, like he was seriously listing down the candidates in his head. “Not Nightmare. He can’t kiss someone even if his life depended on it.” He opened the harness and freed Bad’s wings. He guided them down with difficulty, every joint and feather stiff and numb. “What about Jeff? Or even Big K? They’re matches made in heaven.”

“That depends.” George shrugged, swiveling back to Bad. “Do you like someone who cooks a lot or someone who likes hugs?”

“What?” Bad quizzed, thoroughly confused.

“Yes. You’re right. Prince Charming needs to be someone who can handle kissing a random corpse in the middle of nowhere,” George muttered. “Someone who’s good looking, but not more than me.”

“Why don’t you play both roles then?” Pandas vamped, crossing his arms as he puffed out his cheeks. “You can cast yourself as Mother Gothel while you’re at it. Gaslighting your love interest to get Bad helpless in the woods, then swoop in and act like the hero to get him to fall in love with you.”

George huffed. “And you say I’m the sadist.”

“This is a story about you gaslighting Bad. I’m merely the narrator and you’re the entire circus.” Pandas put his hand on Bad’s shoulder, pointing a finger at his face. “Isn’t that right, Bad? Do you see Mother Gothel in his face? The edgy, goth vibe in his black eyeliners and black lipstick?”

Bad nearly jumped in his skin. He didn’t expect that he would be included in this conversation. He was usually left out of them, as he couldn’t catch on very well. But somehow, he understood what they were saying, as if their words were taken right from his head.

“Yeah, George.” He smiled, bringing himself out of his daze. “Where’s your nose piercings to match your black eyeshadow?”

Pandas howled, doubling over and clutching his stomach. George feigned offense, putting one hand on his chest and the back of his other on his forehead, leaning backwards with a dramatic expression on his face. “Not you too, Bad!” he cried. “Not my fatal weakness: Goth aesthetics!”

Bad burst into a fit of giggles, covering his mouth with his hands as George whined about storybook villains and dark makeup styles. Pandas choked on air, pounding his chest to clear his windpipe, and the two others shut up and turned to him with concerned expressions. It shocked the brunet, as he also didn’t anticipate that they would be so concerned with each other’s health. This wasn’t something they would do in his world.

“You alright? Do you need to sit down like the old man you are?” George jabbed, his smile growing worried rather than amusement. “Do you need some water?”

Pandas coughed and cleared out the rest of the blockage. “I’m fine.” He grinned at him. “If I die before my patient, I want you to burn my body and dance over my grave. But back to the topic.” He gently pinched Bad’s wings. Bad tensed at the hold. “You should be fine to do gentle stretches. And what I mean by that is: don’t let George convince you that jumping down cliffs and opening your wings last second is a good idea. It’s not, and it’s a very messy death. We can’t hold a funeral for you if you die that way because it’s too embarrassing. Got it?”

Bad nodded. During the conversation, he’d almost forgotten that his wings were exposed, and not hidden in a thick cloak stuck to his back. He was so used to the aches and pains on his back, that he didn’t realize they’d been relieved. But that’s not why. Pandas and George were comfortable. They made him feel a way he never had back in his own world. It was like a warmth that blossomed in his body, like a comforting blanket that cradled him in the coldest of nights.

“Now get out,” Pandas said as Bad stood from the bed, almost tumbling over but was caught by George. “And don’t come back until you’ve gotten your fill.”

Bad frowned. “Fill? Fill of what?”

“Flying. Once you start, you don’t ever want to stop.” George smirked, letting go of Bad once he could stand on his own. “Trust me.”

Side-by-side with George, Bad walked out of the infirmary and into a world he presumed that would be in ruins. It was Good’s world, after all. If someone like him could be as wicked as him, then what would everyone else be like? But he was wrong and judged too early. George is kind, and so was Pandas. They were opposites – they were what OG George and Sapnap were not.

Only a few minutes down the road paved by stone brick, he was greeted with various houses and gardens, each built with different styles and different individuals. They were all polished and perfect, without a sign of griefing or burning. The floor was smooth and fertile, void of fire and explosions, like it’d never seen any wastage in its time. Flowers blossomed from every part of the fields.

Bad looked around with wonder. It was so peaceful. There were no war declarations or houses burnt down in retaliation. There were no fighting and no blood splattered on wooden doors. It was just… peace. Smoke rose from chimneys and crops ripened in gardens. It was so normal and beautiful, that Bad wanted to cry. He’d forgotten what a world without war looks like. It was too good to be true. s

George wrapped his arm around Bad’s shoulder and pulled him close to him, his shoulders just barely reaching George’s chest. Bad looked up in confusion, only for his question to be answered when he felt the cool wind chilling the tear streaks on his face. Somehow he didn’t notice he was crying and George did. The angel didn’t say anything, and didn’t look at his face to question him either. He was giving him privacy, yet reminding him that he wasn’t alone. He didn’t need to go through his sadness by himself.

With the back of his hand, he wiped his tears away and sniffled, the sensation completely different from other times. He wasn’t crying because he was sad. He was crying because he was overwhelmed by relief. He never thought he would feel this way, let alone in a foreign world, but here he was.

There was no war or betrayal in this world. The people here lived in peace, without having to worry about their friends putting a sword to their throats.

“You need new clothes,” George said, avoiding the elephant in the room. “I don’t know where you got them, but I don’t recognize the fabric. They’re too thin. How are they supposed to keep you warm?”

Bad shook his head, taking a deep breath. “They’re not supposed to,” he croaked. “They were made specifically for that.”

“Oh.” George’s grip on his shoulder tightened worriedly. “Then you definitely need a new wardrobe. You look around Pandas’ size; if you don’t mind being another vessel for his goth aesthetics.”

Bad giggled, hiccupping and trying to get himself under control, only for the dam to shatter with a flood pouring out. This was wrong. This wasn’t right. He was too nice. George’s not supposed to be nice to him. Neither was Sapnap or anyone else. This is an illusion. Everything was. Everything’s just too good to be true. How did he know that this wasn’t just his brain playing tricks on him? Was he bleeding out on the floor somewhere, conjuring up some fantasy that he longed but could never have?

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” They stopped walking. George took hold of both his shoulders and spun him around, so Bad would be facing him. He wiped his tears with his thumb, cupping Bad’s cheeks with care. “We don’t have to fly tonight, okay? We’re just out here for a walk. For some fresh air. Then we’ll go back, let Pandas give you a checkup, and we’ll read books for the night, okay?”

Trying to stop, Bad nodded, only for fresh tears to stream as soon as the old ones were wiped away. He shook George’s hands away, and wiped his tears with his sleeves while covering his face. He hated anyone seeing him like this. He was told and told again that crying made you vulnerable, and vulnerability was what got you and the people around you hurt. But he just couldn’t stop – layers upon layers of untended grief bubbling up to his mind, taking over his headspace before any could pop.

“Come on.” George put a hand on his shoulder, voice soft. “I know what’ll cheer you up.” He turned, and spread his wings without hitting Bad, then bent down slightly to reach Bad’s height.

Bad sniffled and stared through pouring eyes. “A—a piggyback?” he hiccupped.

“Just don’t grab onto my wings.” George smiled. “Trust me, you’ll love what I’m about to show you.”

Skeptical, Bad climbed onto his back, holding onto the angel with his arms around his neck. His skin was warm; warmer than a regular person’s body heat. It would be unbearable to some, but for Bad, it was just right. Like drinking warm cocoa on a cold winter night.

“Hold on tight,” George told him. He spread his wings and took off into the air, their feet leaving as the ground grew further beneath them.

The first few seconds was nothing but wind rushing on his face, drying his tears like a mother’s handkerchief. Droplets of tears fell from his chin, descending to the sky like a crystallized shooting star. Throughout their ascent, he could barely keep his eyes open, only seeing flashes of blue, silver, and the steadily fastening pace of George’s wings. In the air, he couldn’t hear anything but the wind and flaps of wings and feathers, along with the pounding in his head.

His body shook with excitement, his hands clammy and coated in cold sweat as anxiety pumped in his veins. It’s been years since he visited the moon and stars, since he last whispered secrets to the aurorean lights above. He was about to see them again, with his crippled wings and the help of an unlikely friend.

George broke through the clouds, a brilliant pair of feathers emerging from the silver clouds like a swan. His speed dropped, flying slow enough to keep them in air, but fast enough to glide above the clouds and peek at the world below.

Bad opened his eyes to a world he desperately missed.

“Doesn’t this look amazing?” George stuck his hands out, his lips curled into a content smile as he took in the sight: warmly lit homes and forests on the ground; the endless woods reflecting moonlight with their leaves; rivers flowing across the land like liquid platinum.

Bad nodded, his hold around George’s neck tightening. “It’s breathtaking,” he agreed. “It’s everything that I’ve ever dreamed of.”

George laughed. “You don’t need to dream anymore! Everything you see here… it’s real.”

Bad sucked a tight breath in. It was. Everything’s real. The wind combing his hair was real. The salty tears that he tasted on his tongue was real. And the angel he was holding onto was very, very real.

He glanced at his own back, as if thinking of something. An idea rooted itself into his mind like a seed. Slowly, warily, he lifted his wings up to the air, in spite of its stiffness and poor shape. He imagined that he was flying on his own. He pictured himself swimming among the stars, searching for a cloud to curl up and sleep on. He let the wind comb his brittle feathers, the cold air surrounding it like a protective blanket.

For a long time, his instinct to fly had been extinguished like candle flame. Years of scorn can leave one’s heart cold, and turn one’s desire to stone. But now, as George shared this piece of the night sky with him, it was relit. Like a phoenix born from ashes, like a flower blooming from a wilting bush.

He’d forgotten many things. Relief, happiness, honesty—but he’d forgotten the most important thing of all, and George had reminded him of what he should be fighting for. His fists balled, the last of his tears rolling down his cheeks like pearls; a silent declaration of change.

He wanted to fly again.

Chapter Text

They stayed above the clouds for a time they couldn’t count. Without clocks and other people up with them, there was no telling how long had passed, how long they have been airborne.

Bad felt nostalgia fill his senses. A mix between relief and longing pestered in his throat, but he couldn’t get it unstuck. He was in a different world, a different time and era. He shouldn’t be held back by the rules that once chained his people down. Those laws have died with them, and they will now rot in a place he never intends to follow. But somehow, those rules have carried over to a place where they should not be. A cat in a nightingale’s nest. A dandelion in a bed of thorns.

They didn’t stay in the air for long, as they still had places to be. George mentioned meeting Nightmare, which was what they were supposed to do other than flying. This flight was brief, but it was well-spent. Bad cleaned the tear streaks from his cheeks, though some traces remain in salt. This short trip was enough to relight the fire in his soul, to rekindle the freedom in his being.

As they broke through the clouds, it didn’t take long for him to notice a bright red dot moving around in what seems to be a foundation of a large build. George noticed the dot too, as he beamed and sped up his descent, while keeping in mind that there was still someone on his back.

“Is that Nightmare?” Bad asked, his body pressed close to George’s back. Wind blasted on his face as they rocketed to the ground, his own wings getting the stretches they need.

George nodded, his arms and legs held close. “Yeah!” Bad could barely hear him over the sound of wind gushing by his ear. “Hold tight, we’re landing!”

His ears popped as George abruptly came to a stop, his movements practiced and repeated a million times before. They were barely above the ground, George adjusting his position to vertical, his wings spreading and gently flapping as he landed on his feet. Bad slid off his back, his arms sore, but he didn’t experience vertigo. The only thing he felt was a vigor for recovery and healing, and that was a good thing.

He wanted to stop running, but how will he start?

George, after stretching his wings and back, sprinted into the foundation with his arms open. “Nightmareeeeee!” he sung, running after his friend like a lovesick puppy. “C’mereeee!”

The beginnings of the build were taller than Bad, so he couldn’t see where the angel had ran off to. But screams soon followed, not from George, but from his friend Nightmare. “Ge—George?! What are you doing here?” With more shrieks and what Bad assumed to be the other running from George, but utterly failing as his voice grew muffled.

Bad blinked, heading towards the entrance of the foundation. His wings were still closed behind his back, but he wasn’t actively trying to hide them, though it still felt odd, unnatural. He shoved the feeling down before entering and meeting Nightmare.

They were more affectionate than the George and Dream he knew, that was for certain. And it was the other way around; George expressing his friendship like an excited puppy, and Nightmare running from it like it was kryptonite.

He saw Nightmare scooped up in George’s arms, the builder in red visibly smaller and shorter than the angel. He was at least two heads shorter, which was a parallel to the George in his world. They had changed the most; their heights, personalities, interests completely different. Bad didn’t hate the change. It was unique. You could tell by the way they interacted that they didn’t have any ounce of hate towards each other. Unlike his Dream and George…

“George!” Nightmare yipped, thrashing in the angel’s grasp. He was holding a pickaxe, but he wasn’t trying to stab the angel’s eyes out. “Put me down! Please?”

Bad’s eyes bulged. Hearing Dream’s voice saying the word please usually meant the world was ending. But this wasn’t Dream. This was his opposite, who was very, very short and shy. Completely unalike the original. His posture and speech patterns were enough to offput his similar voice, so Bad felt more at ease.

George grinned. Nightmare shoved his face aside but that didn’t stop him. “Not unless you say you love me.”

Was Bad thirdwheeling? He was definitely thirdwheeling.

Nightmare turned as red as his shirt. “N—no…” he protested, but his voice grew softer by the second.

“Come oonnnn.”

“I… I love you, George…” Nightmare pulled his shirt up to cover his face. “Now, can you put me down, please…?”

Bad stared. It was that easy? The George he knew would have punch Dream’s teeth out he ever pulled a stunt like that.

George giggled and set Nightmare down. He recovered and adjusted his mask to the side of his head rather than covering it. It was colored black, with two white dots and an upturned smile drawn for a face. His eyes were dark red, brought out by the color of his shirt.

Bad raised his hand, trying to introduce himself. “Hi, I’m—”

Nightmare shrieked like a girl and ducked behind George. He held George’s sleeve, trying to hide himself by pulling George’s wings to cover his person. It failed miserably, and George retracted his wings to turn to his friend.

“Nightmare, you don’t need to be so shy,” George coaxed him, moving out of the way. “This is Bad. I told you about him earlier.”

They talked about him? The only thing that was worth mentioning was the time that George saved him from plummeting to his death. So if they talked about that, it would be royally embarrassing for Bad, because how the muffin does an angel fall to his own death? He never thought he would be flustered with his lack of flight, but now he wished the earth would swallow him whole.

Nightmare cinched the edge of his shirt, looking down. He looked more of a toddler that’s trying to muster up enough confidence to talk to someone in their class rather than an adult. He looked like a teen, too.

Bad decided to take the first step forward. He held out his hand, offering his bare palm to the shorter. Nightmare had long hair, with one side of his bangs covering his left eye and the rest was tied into a small braid behind. “Hi, I’m Bad,” he said warmly. “George has told me about you.” He tried not to wince when Nightmare flushed even redder, if that were possible. “Did you build this? You’re very talented.”

Nightmare’s eyes sparkled. He looked up, some shyness melting away from his face. “You… you like it?” His voice grew louder. The start of a beaming smile manifested at the tips of his lips. “Thank you.”

Bad nodded. “I like what you did with the spruce pillars,” he complimented him. “Stone brick and spruce are a great combination for large structures. What are you planning to use for the floors?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m trying to decide between dark oak and birch.” Nightmare snapped out of his shyness completely, surprising George. Bad and Nightmare himself didn’t notice this. “I’m trying to go for a vibe that speaks, ‘this means business.’ Do you understand?”

“Wood?” Bad blurted. “What if someone burns it down?”

“It’s okay. I can rebuild,” Nightmare assured him. “Besides, I doubt anyone would want to burn it down.” Bad nodded, biting his lip. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw a wooden build that was left completely intact. “So? Birch or dark oak?”

“Dark oak,” Bad said instantly. “Birch is more homely and welcoming.”

Nightmare nodded. “ I thought so. What are your opinions on arches on the walls?”

“Cobblestone. I build statues that give off light, so you don’t have to place torches everywhere.”

“Oh! Sea lanterns?”

“Jack O’ Lanterns. They were the only ones that people won’t take. They’re also convenient if you need  a quick torch to go somewhere.”

“Jack O’ Lanterns! I never thought of that. I always use all the pumpkins for pie.” Nightmare hit his palm with his fist. “Can you show me your design? Please?”

“Sure. Maybe you can even use glass to make chandeliers. They—”

“Ahem.”

The two blubbering builders stopped and turned to the angel. He had an arm on his hip, his fist raised to his mouth to cough in it.

“How on earth am I thirdwheeling my own friends?” He feigned betrayal, gasping as invisible tears streamed from his eyes. “I know when I’m not needed. I’ll just go back to—” He paused his fake crying for a moment to think. “Back to Pandas, where he actually wants me.” Bad doubted Pandas would want George crying at his coattails. He was willing to bet Pandas will kick him out in a heartbeat.

Nightmare’s eyes widened. He raced to the angel to hug his arm. “No! We want you here.” He turned away from George so he won’t see his blushing face. “Please don’t get mad at me.”

“Don’t get mad?” George looked upwards and dramatically put the back of his palm on his forehead. “Can’t you tell, Night? You betrayed my trust… by running off with that!” He stabbed a finger at Bad’s direction. Bad pointed to himself, flabbergasted. “What does he have that I don’t? I’m handsome, charming, a 10/10… I’m all you could ever want in an angel!”

“Well,” Nightmare huffed, not so apologetic anymore. “He is smarter than you…”

George shrieked in false crying before falling to his knees as if a spotlight was shone on him.

Bad snorted. “He’s got one thing right.” The words slipped out before he could help it. He clamped his hand over his mouth, eyes widening at what he just said. He glanced over, expecting rage and fury, but he was met with George screaming into the ground and Nightmare trying to hold in a giggle. Relief washed over him.

Nightmare skipped away from George and gave his hand to Bad. “I’m Nightmare,” he said, voice low and still meek. But he wasn’t as shy as before now that he’s grown more comfortable around him. “Nice to meet you, Bad.” He gave him a small smile, brushing his bangs from his eyes.

He looked like Dream if he never went down his psychopathic route. Bad was once again hit with a wave of longing—yearning for a world that he could never see. A world where everyone was kind, forgiving and not the slightest bit vengeful.

Bad didn’t know what this world had to offer. For now he’ll thread lightly. This was still Good’s world, after all. If this world could cultivate an evil being like his counterpart, there had to be something gruesome behind the scenes.

Something that he never wanted to see on George, Nightmare or Pandas’ faces. Just this once, he wanted to be selfish – all for him to wake up from this fever dream with a happy ending.

Chapter Text

Bad later learned that this was the first time Nightmare willingly struck up a conversation with someone he just met. Granted, they could bond over building and structures, but George told him that Nightmare was usually reserved and shrunken from the people he doesn’t know, and that it takes at least a few weeks for him to remotely trust them.

He encouraged them to spend more time together, even if they didn’t talk and spent their time solely on building. It was great that Nightmare could come out of his shell and confide in Bad, and it appeared that Bad was the only one he would trust around his builds. That alone was an honor worthy of the gods themselves, considering he won’t let Pandas touch his blueprints.

Bad held up cobblestone stairs in one hand and stone stairs in the other. Nightmare tilted his head, tapping his lips before pointing to the cobblestone stairs. Bad nodded and left towards the beginnings of the statue, a base he was building for Nightmare’s reference. They didn’t need to speak, and Bad wasn’t going to push Nightmare. Rather, he too, enjoyed the silence, their only form of communication being stone and foundations.

Sometimes, silence was better than sound. Silence meant that there was no one breathing around you, holding swords towards your throat. Silence meant that there was no TNT igniting nearby, and not a click of flint and steel to be heard. It was something he didn’t get often – not with Sam’s machines and the prison’s bubbling lava. He would prefer the crackle of sharp edges digging into stone any given day.

(Not the screech of iron chipping away at diamonds, though—those haunted his nightmares beyond time and space. The shards; they sprinkled into his open eyes, worming into his sockets until he cried red.)

Bad didn’t know when he started helping Nightmare with this build, but Nightmare had deemed him worthy enough to be his co-builder. While Nightmare started digging through the dirt floor, Bad started moving the scaffolding and the chests. He had plenty of materials gathered, and it was pretty darn impressive that one person managed to scavenge all these. Someone could have helped, but it was an eye-opening amount.

By the time he was done arranging and moving the items, he saw Nightmare still struggling with the floor. It’s now that Bad realized he wasn’t using an enchanted shovel – just a regular diamond one. No wonder it was taking so long.

He tapped Nightmare’s shoulder and handed him a half-used diamond shovel. He didn’t have a netherite one, but he could make one for him if he could access an enderchest. Most of his gear was in there, and he was severely unarmed as of now. The only thing he had on him was his sword, which he hadn’t had a use for yet.

Nightmare tilted his head at the shovel, curious. But he wasn’t blind to the aura of magic surrounding the tool, so he took it with a bit of hesitation. He stabbed the shovel into the ground, and yelped as it dug through the dirt like tofu. Surprised, he turned to Bad, wide-eyed.

“How?” was all he asked. It was the first thing he said in hours.

“Enchanting,” Bad answered. “You infuse souls and magic into the tool.”

Judging by Nightmare’s skeptical expression, he assumed he didn’t know what that was. It’s not surprising. Only a limited amount of people had access to enchantments, due to their inability to harness magic. Bad was one of the few people who could enchant items by will.

“I can teach you,” he offered. There was no harm in sharing information. “If you want to, that is. It’s a very complicated process.”

Nightmare stared at him, and Bad started to wonder whether if he’d gone too far. They’ve only met for a few hours but Bad was offering even more time together. Nightmare was shy, definitely, so would he be intimidated? To his surprise, Nightmare nodded sheepishly, clutching the shovel tighter.

“I’d like that,” he confessed. “Can Pandas and George come too?”

Bad nodded. “Sure,” he agreed. “I don’t mind.” He smiled as Nightmare’s face lit up, aglow with excitement. They then returned to their builds, making more progress than the night before.

When daytime rolled around, Bad and Nightmare were leaning on each other’s backs, dozing off. A variety of rough sketches, concrete powder and dyes were scattered around the dark oak floorboards, like a colorblind tornado targeted them because it hated color.

As it turned out, neither Nightmare nor Bad were morning people. They were both night owls that worked through the night and powered through the day with sheer will, taking intervals of sleep between blinks, yawns, and/or sneezes. It was the furthest thing from a healthy lifestyle, but it worked wonders for keeping him and Skeppy alive in the dead of nights.

It wouldn’t be the first time that Bad slept out in the open. In fact, he spent countless nights curled up on a tree’s trunk, snapping awake to the slightest of movement. But here? He didn’t need to worry, nor was there any movement. Nightmare had chosen a location far from anyone and anything. This was the very first time that Bad could sleep soundly in a long time.

That didn’t mean that it was dreamless, though.

“When you’re in this cage, then Skeppy would follow. Isn’t it great, Bad? I could kill two birds with one stone. Another step closer to a big, happy family.”

Bad stirred but he couldn’t quite wake up. His even breathing quickened, his brows forming a faint frown.

“Don’t take him away from me! I’ll do anything, ANYTHING!”

His figure trembled, his breaths turning erratic. Whimpers escaped from his lips, waking Nightmare and causing him to fall on his back, but he didn’t notice.

“Aren’t we friends, Bad? Why won’t you just trust me? It’s like you think you’re better than all of us.”

His body convulsed violently as a pair of blue eyes stared straight at him. He saw himself in them: shivering and small, weak.

“They don’t want you.”

Bad screamed. His eyes finally flew open, limbs thrashing around violently. His instincts plunged into fight-or-flight mode, but he couldn’t unsheathe his sword as he could barely get his bearings. He darted around, the world around him disorientated and muffled to his ears.

There were multiple voices around him. All drowned out by the blood pumping through his heart and roaring in his ears. There was someone holding his wrists, but their touch was like pinpricks that pierced his skin rather than warmth or restraint. He heard names being called around but he didn’t recognize them.

An shadow loomed over in his vision from above, and his wrists were released from the grip. The shadow held up two hands, glowing with… aura? Magic? He cupped Bad’s cheeks, the bit of warmness scalding like molten iron. He felt something surge in his head, like a pressure that phased through his body and trickled out his toes and fingertips.

He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling sharply—

Then opened them, blinking to come face-to-face with an upside-down singular red eye and a curtain of blond hair. Stiff, he turned his head to his right, and saw a tall angel sighing in relief. To his left was a man in black, holding his arm in one hand and two fingers over his wrist.

Everything was suddenly calm, even if he was on the verge of a meltdown only a second before.

Nightmare let go of his face, the residue scarlet magic still lingering in his palm. He didn’t say anything, but Bad could see him pursing his lip and frowning. What did he do? What was that?

“You okay?” George was the first to break the silence. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Talk about what? Bad wanted to ask, but he found his body too drained to even move his mouth.

“He’s tired,” Nightmare supplied. “Needs sleep,” he added helpfully.

Pandas nodded, agreeing with the shorter. “He hasn’t slept all night and he’s in shock,” he snipped. George huffed indignantly like his intelligence was being tested. “It’ll be more comfortable for him to sleep in an actual bedroom. He can stay over at my place for now.” He put his hand on Bad’s forehead. His palm was too warm. “He also might be running a fever. From stress, most likely. George, can you carry him?”

George snorted. “And get me sick too?” he scoffed, but he was already scooping Bad into his arms, careful to not squash his wings. “You’d have two sick angels on your hands, Pandas. And I’m not as nice as Bad when I’m sick.”

“I said ‘might.’” Pandas pinched George’s wings. George snapped his wings back like a tail. “I’m preparing for the worst. He hasn’t gotten any rest—thanks to you bringing him here—and he’s just woken a nightmare(Nightmare, no, I’m talking about Bad’s bad dream, not you).”

“How considerate,” George sulked. “I’ll drop him off at your place. Can you make sure Nightmare gets to bed too?” With his wing, he pointed towards the shorter man, who was yawning and rubbing his eyes.

Pandas shrugged and slung his arm around Nightmare’s shoulder, already rounding him off to the direction of his house. As George took off into the air, the steady thrum of George’s wings echoed faintly in Bad’s ears, but any wind was blocked from his face.

Weakly, he moved his wrist, just enough for his hand to clamp onto the angel’s shirt. He pulled at the fabric, successful in getting his attention as the brunet looked down. “Yeah, Bad? You alright?”

Bad tried to nod, but all he could manage was a whisper.

“Thank you…”

He fought the urge to close his eyes. Being wounded in an unfamiliar world was scary, but passing out was even scarier. He didn’t know what would happen around him if he gave into sleep. The unknown was always more intimidating than the known equations, and this was no exception.

George held him closer, growing more worried than relieved. “Just sleep, Bad. Everything’s going to be okay.”

And he did, growing more comfortable in his arms. Some part of him screamed at him to stop; to not grow attached to this hallucination of a place. Because once he does, there’s no recovering when they’re lost. The void will remain in his heart, and nothing can fill the emptiness that will consume him whole.

“Nooo,” Bad whined, putting a pillow between him and Pandas. “I don’t need the bed rest. I’m fiiiiine.”

Pandas groaned like his soul had finally left his body. If one whiny angel wasn’t enough, fate just had to send another his way. At least Nightmare would stay quiet and actually do what he was told, save for the times that he stayed up and started to plan new buildings, but that’s besides the point.

“I know you’re fine,” Pandas tried, nearly driven to insanity after realizing that angels were all stupid stubborn nimrods, “but George doesn’t think so.”

Bad lowered the pillow and shot a glare towards the said man. George whistled and turned away, pretending like he wasn’t the instigator of this. He threw the pillow straight into George’s face, which hit its mark and George fell over like the dramatic person he was.

Panda snorted. Maybe there was hope for Bad after all.  

“George!” Bad cried incredulously, completely apathic to his fall. “I’m fine! Pandas said so!”

George didn’t make an attempt to sit up. In fact, he crossed his arms on his chest, covering his face with his wings and played dead. Pandas poured his coffee on his foot, which had fortunately, cooled down beforehand. George shrieked and shot up, almost overshooting and hitting Pandas between his legs.

“You’re the one that insisted he rest,” Pandas said. “At least give him a reason before you decide to treat him like an infant who can’t change its own diapers.”

George blew a raspberry and used Pandas’ white coat to dry his pants. Pandas didn’t flinch. George turned to Bad. “So you know about your supposed ‘fever’?”

Bad nodded. Pandas’ eyebrow arched, intrigued.

“Angels don’t get fevers,” George deadpanned. “We don’t get sick because we’re not mortal. What you just had was more complicated than that.”

“Snap.” Pandas grunted. “George is smart. World’s ending after all.”

George winked at him, not even offended. “Learned from the best. Anyway, our body temperature is supposed to be higher than a human’s. It’s to sustain the magic that burns in our body. So Bad wasn’t having a fever. Think of an angel’s heart like a fire. It’s what keeps us warm and alive. But if an angel locks their magic away, their body temperature drops significantly, sometimes even lower than a human.” He ruffled Bad’s hair. “And I noticed you were unnaturally cold for an angel when we first met. I kept an eye out just in case, and I’m glad I did.”

Bad blushed when he remembered how they actually met each other. He was a mess and plummeting to his death, and George had saved him like a hero they’d read in storybooks. Though the reason why he was falling in the first place remained a secret to him, and they didn’t need to know. They can’t know that he was from a different world. He knew how Good treated him. How fast would they change faces once they knew?

“Come to think of it, I noticed something odd when you first came to the infirmary.” Pandas regarded Bad warily, but it was concern for him, rather than trying to hide something out of guilt. “Your scars.” He crossed his fingers. “I can only assume some, but most overlap and didn’t heal correctly.”

Bad’s mind came to a stop. What were they saying?

“Who did this to you, Bad?” George held Bad’s hand. “What aren’t you telling us?”

Oh.

Oh.

They knew?

Did they figure it out?

No. He just asked who, right?

Was it a trick? A twisted, screwed up test to torment him?

A sickly familiar face stared into his soul, impaling his chest with a clawed hand. Bad’s stomach churned.

George squeezed his hand tighter, grounding him. But it felt like a ruse, like he was trying hard to gain his trust, to wait for the right moment to strike. His lips hung open, and he could see it in their eyes that they were waiting for an answer.

His voice quivered. “N—no one,” he gasped. “It… it was just an accident.” Pandas’ frowned deepened. “Multiple accidents.” Bad wanted to bury himself. He should have known better than to lie to a healer. The proof was right on him, weaved into his skin and his words like a bloodied tapestry. He saw through his façade immediately, but he didn’t pursue. Pandas shook his head, calling it off.

George dropped it. He sat by Bad, slinging his hand over his shoulder and held him close. His right wing covered him like a blanket. Bad’s head rested on George’s side, too short to reach his shoulder. He tensed, not used to physical affection. Anything that touched you could potentially be a sword or an axe that sliced through your skin. He hasn’t hugged anyone in years, but in the span of two days, he’s been held for more times than he can count.

Should he cry? He wanted to. He can’t find comfort within his friends, but the people who he’d met for two days were willing to hold him close without fearing he would pull a knife on them.

“Get some rest,” Pandas advised. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

He sunk into his blankets, leaning close to George and wrapping his arms around George’s chest. He was warm. So very warm. He felt warmer than he’s ever been all his life.

Bad didn’t want this moment to end. He didn’t want to wake up.

Chapter Text

With an uneasy feeling, Ant braved himself to enter the mansion’s borders. The black concrete path was layered with a blanket of dust and dirt, the lawn overgrown with weeds from neglect. This house had been desolate for months – but he had to try. It was his last hope.

As he sidestepped the muddy pools, he cringed at the color of the once-clear body of water. It was murky brown, like dried blood and no one bothered to change it. Leaves, sand, dirt and various unnamed condensed blobs floated in the still water, and Ant prayed for whoever would fall in it.

He touched the dark oak doors. Like everything else, they were coated in dust, the edges splintered beyond repair. The brass knob had corroded, just on the verge of falling off its hinges.

“Hello?” he called, shirking from the door. It reminded him of the haunted house they had a long time ago, that build now a mere memory and a painting in many. “Bad? Are you there?”

No answer even after minutes. Sighing, he nudged the door open with his foot, not daring to touch it with his hands. He called out again, but no one answered him. Resorting to last legs, he ventured into the crumbling mansion that was on the verge of falling apart. No one would live here, but he had to try. The war was coming. They needed their leader.

He searched every room. He looked through their storage and found nothing but rations that rot from moisture and swords that grew blunt from ignorance. He skimmed through their greenhouse and was met with an array of wilted plants. The two didn’t have much furniture as they spent most their time out in the fields, and their home has never looked so empty and… sad. He opened the door to his room and it was as quiet as a cemetery. The bed wasn’t made, and the armor stand was empty. It was a tomb without a body. A funeral without anyone to mourn.

The quartz walls were painted with sadness and grief. The blue-tinted windows reflected abandonment and loneliness. How long has it been since its owner left and never came back? What happened to him?

What happened to his friend?

He stood atop the mansion’s roof, barely noticing that the waves crashing onto the beach had never been so chilling.

“Greetings, friend Antfrost!” Sam Nook grabbed Ant’s shoulder, surprising the feline with his monotone voice. Parts of his sentence was accentuated with fake enthusiasm, but in reality it was just cheap autotune. “Have you seen friend Skeppy? Master Sam has required his presence.”

Ant spun, eyes widening at the android’s red eyes. Despite Sam Nook being Sam’s best invention and he’d support his friend no matter what, but it still creeped him out whenever he was up close with it.

“Skeppy?” Ant asked. “What does Sam need him for?”

Sam Nook’s gears whirred. “Master Sam is searching for Friend BadBoyHalo. My databases state that they are inseparable. He has told me if I find one, I’d find the other. He also has informed me that a meeting is required for the war against the Greater Dream SMP.”

Ant grimaced. He did not want to know what Sam programmed into his databanks, because Sam Nook has revealed more things than Ant should have known. He really didn’t want to know how much gel Purpled uses to style his hair every morning before he runs his trading hall.

“I can’t say I’ve seen him,” Ant admitted. “I looked everywhere. I was hoping Sam would know.”

“That is most unfortunate,” Sam Nook said with robotic sympathy. “I will update him on your findings.” He turned to walk away, but Ant took his cold, metallic arm. The fur on his arms stood on its ends, but he managed to squash a yelp down.

Sam Nook turned to him, and Ant coughed into his fist. The shiver phased through his body from the bottom to the top, his furs corresponding to the chill. “Do you know where Sam is?” he asked. “I need to talk to him. Like, right now.”

The android’s red scanners zoomed out. “Affirmative. I am always receiving feedback from Master Sam’s tracker. It is part of my programming,” he said. “I will inform him of your arrival as we speak. He is currently located in the proximity of the Community Portal. I hope you do not perish.”

Ant gawked at the machine. If that was Sam’s attempt to crack a joke, it was done in poor taste. Then again, he remembered walking into Sam while he was feeding Sam Nook his voice lines, and the man looked close to death after several sleepless nights.

The feline nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be on my way.” He glanced at the purple and gold build behind Sam Nook. It was Purpled’s trading hall that Sam Nook built. “Good luck on… your business.”

Sam Nook gave him a robot version of a smile and saw him off. Ant hugged his chest and shuddered. That thing was created to protect Purpled from his attackers and meant to be comforting. How that’s a source for comfort was beyond him. He needed to remind himself to teach Sam and help him re-evaluate his dictionary of definitions.

Purpled’s trading hall wasn’t far from the community portal. It was a twenty-minute walk at most, fifteen if you ran. That is, if you took the Prime Path. However, the path became inaccessible after a dispute between the Chaos faction and L’Manburg. So, Ant had to take the long route, passing through buildings and alleys to avoid falling into craters and stepping on puddles of poison.

To get to the portal, you had to pass through the Community house. But now Ant stood at the end of the path, a line of destruction and carnage behind him. What laid before him wasn’t the home that Dream, George and Sapnap built. It was all reduced to ashes and debris, all moist and soaked from rain and lake. The floor was punctured – the wooden planks giving away to reveal the body of water below, the fish nibbling at wooden splinters.

A lone, singed picture laid surrounded by debris, the glass shattered and the frame burned to charcoal. The picture was mostly fine – depicting a scenery once upon a time, where the eight people lived in peace. The corner was burnt, erasing a member like they never existed.

Ant didn’t see it. He stepped past the ruins, and headed straight towards the portal. 

He found Sam relatively easily. The creeper hybrid was struggling to relight the portal correctly, as the amount of portals nearby overrode the designated destination the original one was supposed to go. He was doing it because no one else wanted to, but he needed the nether route to get more netherite.

“Hey, Sam,” Ant greeted, nose scrunching from the smell of smoke. He squatted down by his friend, frowning at the flint and steel in the creeper’s hand. “You shouldn’t be using that, you know. It’s dangerous for you.” He coaxed the tools from his hands, alarmed at how hot his scaly fingers were. “I’ll take over. You stay back for now.”

Sam shook his head, but he didn’t stop Ant. As a creeper, any fire was dangerous around him. It could cause him to explode in an instant, and even with his human half giving him more insulation to heat, he was still prone to higher temperatures and burns.

Ant struck the flint and steel once. The portal didn’t light. “Why are you doing this alone?” he asked, worried. “Shouldn’t you be asking someone else to do it?”

“I don’t trust anyone to,” Sam confided. “Earlier today, Ranboo bought Punz’s loyalty with a stack of diamonds, and Tommy switched sides to join Dream.” He rubbed his fingers. “You’re the only one that I can trust, Ant. You, Skeppy, Bad, and maybe Purpled.” He sighed. “And half the people on that list have gone missing.”

Ant paused. So he’s not the only one who noticed their disappearance, and this was the first time he talked to someone else about it. No one seemed to care about the absence of two people who were insignificant in the grand scheme of things. He even assumed that they were deliberately killed in the dead of night, so they wouldn’t interfere. They didn’t have enemies, as they were still new and a neutral faction. No one liked to provoke trouble when they could avoid it.

“Maybe they’re just lost somewhere,” he offered, trying to be a beacon of hope. He sucked at it. Between him and his partner, Velvet’s the optimist, not him; but he had to try for the sake of their sanities. “Or they’re just gathering materials and decided a vacation is way better than the shitshow happening here.”

Sam cracked a smile, but it was strained and didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe.” He sat on the floor, shoulders slumping. “I know I’m selfish for wanting Bad to join us in a war he wouldn’t want, but…” He shook his head. “We need his expertise. We need a medic and if anything goes wrong, I don’t know if we can find someone who’s willing to help us.”

“Puffy is a decent healer,” Ant said, “and she helps anyone who goes to her for help. She’s neutral, like us, and she’s our friend.”

“Friendship means nothing in wars.” Sam’s voice took on a hard edge. “We were friends with Dream, George, Punz and Sapnap for years. Look how that turned out, Ant. Dream’s a sociopath, George ditched us, Punz is bought by the highest bidder, and Sapnap is very much hellbent on burning L’Manburg to the ground!” He punched the floor. “It became worse when that new demon showed up out of nowhere!”

“Who?”

Sam whipped to him, hatred ablaze in his eyes. “Good.”

Ant shivered. He knew that name. He was an enigma that not even Dream could figure out where he came from, what he was here for, or how he was here. But unlike George who was exhausted from all the chaos, Good would commit manslaughter before he had his breakfast. Most people liked him, only because he was easily persuaded into joining their side with the promise of discord. Some even say he was crueler than Dream.

Before Good’s arrival, the pot was already boiling with the concoction of war. Good was merely the catalyst, fanning the flames and adding fuel to the fires, until it was ready to tip and erupt into an utter mess. The Badlands weren’t directly involved, but even they were feeling the consequences that they would suffer in the near future – after the worst and largest war that would happen in a month’s time.

There were only two sides to choose from, and those who do not pick will be eradicated like weeds. But neither of them were in the right. They could only choose the lesser of two evils. On one side was Tubbo and Ranboo’s rebellion, using violence to achieve a mission that was otherwise impossible: to be free of Dream’s rule and left alone. On the other was Dream’s side, retaliating their fire with more fire, aiming to squash them down until they submit.

“This war isn’t worth our resources and time,” Ant snarked. “Especially with half our members gone.”

“Sapnap walked up to me when I was trying to fix the portal.” The creeper grimaced. “He wants us to join their side.”

“And kill children?” Ant shook his head. “No. I won’t.”

Sam nodded. “I thought the same. Glad we’re on the same page.” He buried his face into his hands. “I need to give Nook a maintenance check and some upgrades—in case they try to recruit Purpled. Gods, I need to check up on Ponk, too… he must be so scared.”

Ant put his hand on Sam’s back, rubbing comforting circles. “He’ll be fine. I bet he’ll chase them out by throwing cat litter in their faces,” he joked, but took on a more serious tone afterwards: “It’s Purpled I’m worried about.”

“He’ll be fine,” Sam quoted, nodding at Ant. “Sam Nook’s keeping an eye on him. Though I need to start making those stasis chambers just in case.”

Ant struck the flint and steel one more time, this round with more vigor. Sparks flew from the flint and onto the obsidian, the cinders seeping into the frame like liquid metal, illuminating the crevices and brought the portal to life. A purple membrane swirled before them, humming with energy. Sam stared.

“Huh.” Ant chuckled, lowering his hands. “Sixteenth time’s the charm.”

They will be fine.

He hoped so.

Chapter Text

When Bad first came into this world, he’d spent the first night bedridden with his wings held in place by casts. Fast forward two days, and nothing’s changed, save for the scenery, his wings’ freedom and the people in the room.

Wait. People?

Bleary eyed, he squinted at the figures who were spread out in the space, all asleep. There were blankets and mattresses spread out beside the bed, with three people sharing it, their sleeping patterns as different as night and day. George was far too tall for the mattress, his legs sticking out the end. He slept on his back, unaffected by Pandas’ arm laid across his stomach. His shoes were off, and his shirt pulled up to reveal pale skin.

Pandas slept George’s left and on his side. His brows were curled into a frown, seemingly irritated by George even in his sleep. He was only wearing a blue shirt and black shorts, his hair untied and fanned out on his pillow. He drooled in his sleep. Nightmare, on the other hand, was the tidiest sleeper amongst them. He was curled up on George’s right, hugging his pillow rather than sleeping on it. He hadn’t changed at all, but his mask sat by Pandas’ hair tie on the dresser.

Bad yawned and glanced out the window beside him. It was still dark out, but the moon was just over the horizon. If he had to guess, there’s still an hour left until sunrise. He was used to waking up early if he ever slept before midnight. This was usually his time to switch shifts with Ant in the Sanctuary.

The trio showed no sign of waking up anytime soon, and Bad didn’t feel the urge or need to fall back asleep. He needed to keep his senses sharp and his schedule consistent. So, he got out of bed, freshened up by splashing cold water on his face and headed out the door. He’d be back by sunrise to not worry anyone.

Pandas’ house was small, but it was cozy. There were dozens of pictures hanging on the walls and on the mantlepiece. Most of them were with Nightmare and George, but some with people that he didn’t recognize, but felt familiar. He counted a man in an orange hoodie, his face hidden from his hood, but he was smiling at something; a woman with short, curly white hair and goat horns in a sweater; and a blond in black, sporting silver jewelry like rings and earrings.

The more he looked, the more his fuzziness morphed into confusion. Good was from this world, wasn’t he? Why wasn’t he in any of these pictures? They were nothing alike, but when Good stepped into his world, he’d claimed to recognize most of his close friends. Good knew them and they should know him, so why didn’t they mention him at all?

Bad’s ears perked when wooden floorboards creaked behind him. He spun to see Nightmare standing by the room’s door, still clutching his pillow but his mask was on his head. He looked like he was still half-asleep, seeing the world through a veil. Bad almost had a heart attack.

“Nightmare?” Bad asked, careful to keep his voice low. “What are you doing awake?”

Nightmare sniffled, walking towards Bad and narrowed his eyes at the pictures. “Not sleepy,” he lied through his teeth, despite looking like he would drop and start snoring. “You?”

Bad shrugged. Nightmare was a man of few words. “I was up for a bit,” he came clean. “I wanted to take a walk outside. I’m not used to sleeping a whole day, you know? There’s no time…”

The dirty blond tilted his head at him. “Why?” he asked. “Why no time?”

“Ah…” His mouth dried when he tried to answer. What was he supposed to tell him? That his counterpart was the sole reason his world was going to ruin? That he came from a different world that was going to war against teenagers because of their doppelgangers? That he wasn’t supposed to be here and practically shoved here by Good? “We were busy with… building. Yeah, building.”

It was a lie clearly that clearly pandered towards Nightmare, but he didn’t have to know. Bad’s lied many times before, but not to his friends. He stepped on the blossoming guilt that bloomed in his gut, trying to keep his eyes on the pictures, tracking Nightmare’s expression through the glass. However, as much as Nightmare shared his passion and talent for building, but he didn’t look the slightest bit convinced.

“Let’s go,” Nightmare said.

Bad paused. “Go?”

Nightmare dropped the pillow and tied his hair back. “Out.”

As it turned out, the city that Bad saw before was made entirely by Nightmare. It was easy to tell, as the styles of the buildings matched Nightmare’s perfectly. It was full of his personality – mysterious, reserved, and somber. No one lived in those houses, but Bad picked out George and Nightmare’s individually. Both their houses were decorated in their colors, but they all had orange tulips, cornflowers and a rose in their gardens, just like Pandas’. Knowing that Nightmare singlehandedly built and maintained these warmed Bad’s heart.

Walking with Nightmare was less awkward than he expected. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it’s because they both liked building. Maybe it’s because they spent all night talking and experimenting with dyes and concrete. Or maybe it’s because their synergy just worked better than most people he knew. He didn’t now what to feel about it – the few times he’s felt grounded with someone else was with Ant, Sam, and Skeppy.

He shared that connection with more people before—Dream, George, Sapnap, Punz and more—but those bridges were burned, sent crashing down to the crashing waters below. He was afraid to let himself get too comfortable; in fear that they were working for someone else, ready to turn on him the moment gold was brought into their faces. So why would he feel so at ease with Nightmare?

With… them?

It takes him years to trust someone completely. Every friendship he’s ever had had always experienced endless turmoil for them to even remotely confide in one another. But somehow, this inverted trio had managed to make him feel at ease in the span of two days. It was something you could only read in fairy tales, or a dream.

Bad sighed and fought the urge to shake his head. This would all be over soon, and he would have to return to his heck of a world and plunged into yet another war.

“How’s your wings?” Nightmare asked, not looking at him.

Bad turned to his back. He hadn’t given them much attention because it’d been the least of his worries. His feathers were still cramped, but it was no longer painful. In fact, it was a huge improvement compared to when he saw them last. Maybe it’s because of the “angel magic” that George pointed out.

“They’re better,” Bad said. “Still haven’t tried to fly.” He chuckled dryly. “Suppose I forgot how to? I’d ask George to baby me even more, holding my hand while I flap my wings like a duck.”

Nightmare didn’t laugh, perhaps sensing his distress that he was hiding with a poorly tasted joke.

“Come,” Nightmare said suddenly, taking his wrist. He turned, jogging in the opposite direction of the path and dragging Bad with him.

They ran through the cobblestone path, passing houses and murals and other things alike. Bad didn’t have time to see them all, as Nightmare didn’t stop to give him enough time to window shop. Nightmare may be small, but he was also a builder. The thing about builders is that you should never underestimate them. They were strong, had the endurance of ten horses, and they knew what point to strike to cause the ceiling to come crashing down. In conclusion: fear all builders.

At some point in their journey, it had become an uphill run. Nightmare wasn’t the slightest bit winded, but he’d let go of Bad’s wrist and led the way, occasionally turning his head to check on the angel. They’d been running for around twenty minutes, and the sky was turning brighter.

Nightmare came to a sudden stop, swiveling to Bad. Bad wiped sweat from his brow, looking around. There weren’t any buildings here, nor any torches to keep the mobs away. They were at a cliffside, a field of grass stretching towards the horizon. Cows slept in packs, nestled by each other without a care in the world.

“We come here when we fight,” Nightmare explained, walking towards the edge of the cliff. He gestured Bad to stand beside him.

“Why?” Bad looked downwards. It was a long way down. “So you can take turns pushing George off?”

Nightmare smiled faintly. “No,” he paused, contemplating the idea. “But that would be fun.” He shook his head. “We would sit here until the sun sets. After the moon comes out, we forgive each other. We’re friends, and we shouldn’t be fighting. That’s the lesson we would learn every time.”

Nightmare made it sound so simple. It was so… magical. How can they just let bygones be bygones? Every argument had to come with a price. Someone was going to make a sacrifice to win and suffer if they lose.  

“We call it the End,” Nightmare explained. “It means to bring an end to your argument and move forward.”

Bad kept his eyes on the field below. He could barely see the bottom where nature continued to prosper. The grass wasn’t withered nor the dirt was poisoned. It was natural and left completely untouched.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Sit down.” Nightmare sat. “The sun’s almost up.”

Bad sat next to Nightmare. The grass was cool.

“Did we fight?” Bad asked. “Do we need to forgive each other? What for? Are you mad at me for putting too much red dye in the pink concrete?”

Nightmare shook his head. “Not me,” he quipped. “Yourself.”

“Myself?”

“Yes. You blame yourself for things you cannot control.” Nightmare put his hand on Bad’s thigh. “Let go. You need to forgive yourself to move on.”

Bad was tempted to laugh it off, because how would he know that? But he caught the sincerity in Nightmare’s eyes. He bit his tongue and trained his gaze back to the fields below, but Nightmare pointed upwards.

“Look at the horizon.” Nightmare lowered his hand. “Focus on your future; where you want to go.”

Bad looked to where he pointed. He saw inklings of mountains afar, barely illuminated by the setting moon. It was like a painting come to life. A painting of peace and serenity. A vision of a fantasy he dreamt of so many times.

Where did he want to be?

He closed his eyes, letting his mind wander. An image bubbled up to the surface, depicting a field with four people lying in a circle. He identified one of them as himself, but his wings were supple, healthy and preened. Around him were three strangers – no, not strangers. One was dirty blond in red, the other with brown hair and large wings, and the last in black with a ponytail.

Bad’s eyes snapped open, almost falling over. His breathing turned labored, his body heavy and stiff.

I can’t want that.

I can’t wish for something I’ll never have.

He knew the drill. He doesn’t belong in this world, no matter how much they made him felt like he did. Hoping for something impossible was only going to kill you on the inside slowly and surely, in the most painful way possible.

Fresh tears sprung to his eyes and he hung his head, trying to hide them from Nightmare. If Nightmare noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead, the blond put a hand on his shoulder, and kept his eyes away. Sunlight trickled into his lap. He looked up, coming eye-to-eye with the rising sun. A new day. A new beginning.

Bad scrubbed his eyes furiously. He needed to stop crying so much. Because once he goes back, he won’t have the luxury to.

If he goes back. What was there for him? Why would he want to stay in a place where nobody needs him around?

“Why won’t you just get me some saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand?”

“Dang it, Skeppy! I’ll get you your sand. Just give me some time!”

Chapter Text

“Hey guys! Went for a nice walk?” George beamed, dressed in a pink frilly apron with oven mitts. He was holding a tray of freshly baked cookies, the chocolate chips still molten hot. “We just made cookies!”

Bad wasn’t phased by George’s choice of wear. He’d seen worse. “Cookies?” he asked. “Were we gone for that long?”

“Not really, but magic does have its uses.” George ushered them inside with his wings, careful to keep the pan away. “Which by the way, I should teach you how to use it, considering…” He didn’t finish the sentence, letting imagination do its work. “Anyway, we made enough for all of us. Though Pandas made oatmeal and raisin, and I’m not sure why…”

“Some of us don’t have immortal metabolisms like you!” Pandas snapped from the kitchen.

George ignored him. “We don’t do this often, but since Bad’s here, we’re having cookies for breakfast!” He grinned. “You can help put icing on the sugar ones if you’d like. Nightmare usually does it by himself, but I’m sure he doesn’t mind some extra help.”

Bad glanced at Nightmare. The blond didn’t react, but they could see a glow of happiness around him. They took that as a strong yes, and they also overlooked the fact that Nightmare was beginning to drool from the chocolate aroma.

“I like chocolate too,” Bad started carefully, trying not to be a party pooper, “but I don’t eat gluten.” It was part of the reason why he rarely got to make and eat pastries. Gluten-free alternatives were difficult to come by, especially in war times. It was a special treat for him more than anything else.

George tilted his head, seemingly unaffected. “We didn’t make any gluten-free cookies, though.” He frowned at the chicken, looking ridiculous with his getup. Bad swallowed the want to giggle, but Nightmare snorted and started to shake. “I’ll see if we have any gluten-free flour. Maybe Pandas has it and I don’t know. That man could hide a corpse in his pantry and I wouldn’t notice.”

“You sure it’s not because of your thick skull?”

The pair simultaneously whipped towards Nightmare. Bad sighed, taking George’s wrist and removing the hot pink oven mitt for himself, then took the tray before George started acting up a one-man Shakespeare play singlehandedly. To his expectations, George leaned his forehead on the wall, and started faux crying. As Nightmare started apologizing (not so sincerely), Bad walked into the kitchen and set the tray on the table.

Pandas rolled his eyes at Bad, wearing a regular apron instead of a baby pink one. His hair was coated in flour. “Let me guess: you want more chocolate too?” he snarked. “Is that one not chocolatey for you?”

Bad shrugged. “Are they not chocolatey enough?” The cookies in that tray were practically overflowing with chocolate. There was more melted chocolate than the actual cookie itself. “One of these is enough to send someone into epileptic shock.”

“Glad we’re on the same boat.” Pandas pushed a tray of cookies towards him. It was the oatmeal-raisin ones he made, and there was a good two dozen on it. He raised a palm before Bad could speak up, putting a hand on his hip. “These don’t have gluten. I’m gluten-free as well; and besides, this is healthier than chocolate chip for breakfast.”

Bad held up a cookie and took a bite. It was still warm, the raisins made from fruit he didn’t know. Were there other fruits here? He tried making sweet berry raisin cookies, but it was nothing like the one he was eating now. Sweet berries were more suitable for tarts and jam, not cookies.

“What are these made of?” Bad asked, covering his mouth.

Pandas paused mid-chew. “Oatmeal and raisins.” His voice was muffled, crumbs flying from his lips. He didn’t bother to cover his mouth like Bad. “I could’ve sworn your eyes were fine.”

Bad snorted, swallowing. “Better than your hair,” he retorted. “What fruit is this?”

“Grapes.” Pandas swallowed, already going for seconds. “You mean to tell me you never had grapes?”

Bad remained silent. Grapes didn’t exist in his world.

Pandas paused, shoving the lot in his mouth. He grabbed a glass of water to help him swallow. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he groused. “Come on. You’re coming with me.” He snatched Bad’s wrist before he could get another cookie, dragging him out the kitchen, pass George’s whining and Nightmare’s nonchalance, and straight out the door, all without asking for his consent.

What was everyone’s deal with dragging him around places?

They raced out the porch, and straight towards the back of the house. There weren’t any fences to keep anyone or anything out, presumably because there was nothing to avoid. The idea was completely foreign to Bad – regardless of how many fences you would put, no one respects your personal space. They would barge into your home, take your items or deface it if they wish. Bad almost lost all motivation to keep building if not for Nightmare’s passion. He was the rope that came just in time.

Pandas let go of his wrist once they arrived. It didn’t take long, only a couple seconds.

Bad’s eyes widened.

It was a farm, all natural and without the presence of redstone. Carrots, potatoes, beetroot and unknown vegetables were planted in tilled farmland, a water stream running nearby. A wooden fence stood upright, not to chase anyone away but to let vines grow in its nook and crannies. Small, spherical green and black gemstones hung in bundles each. Berries like sweet berries blossomed with a brilliant red, with yellow seeds dotting the small exterior.

The garden wasn’t as large as the automated ones he’d seen before. But in exchange for efficiency and output, the plants were all healthy and vibrant with colors. It was nothing like the poor, wilted rations he had to cook for stew to get some actual flavor from them. These ones looked like they could be plucked fresh and eaten raw.

Bad must have been staring, because Pandas waved his hand in front of his eyes, looking more worried than proud of his handiwork.

“Have you never seen a garden before?” he quizzed. “You looked like you just discovered an entire new realm.”

Well, Bad did. There were so many things that he hadn’t seen. Most changes were simple and subtle, but they were enough to blow his mind. But now, all that mattered was the plants. There was so much more variety than what he’d ever known all his life.

“Of course I have a garden, you muffin,” Bad clapped back. “But mine’s never grown to this extent.” He always had to harvest them just before they ripened, in fear that they would be trampled and stolen, as if the obsidian barrier would suddenly break down. His crops never got proper sunlight, too, so they never grew properly.

“To what extent?” Pandas pressed. “This is standard for one. You should see George’s. He uses magic to grow his, since he’ll kill any plant he touches.”

 Bad shook his head. “I don’t doubt that.” He poked the jewel fruits. “But I haven’t seen some of these before. What is this one?”

“Those are grapes,” Pandas explained patiently. “I used the black ones to make raisins because they’re sweet and tart. The green ones are more sour and crunchier.” He pointed at the heart-shaped red berries. “Those are strawberries. We usually eat them whole, but if they aren’t as fresh we’ll use them to make syrup or jam. And these lovelies are raspberries; I usually eat them when I’m in the mood but they’re mostly for Nightmare.” He continued onward, giving Bad a tour in his garden. Bad listened to every word, asking questions that Pandas would explain without so much of a huff.

“What are those yellow ones?”

“Oh? Mangoes. They’re sweet when they’re golden yellow, but bitter, harder and sour when green. You can use them to make sweet sticky rice or just cut them up.”

“This?” Bad pointed at a tree with pink fruits.

“Peaches? They’re sweet. The leaves and bark are used to make tea. Peach tea is Jeff’s favorite so I make it for him whenever he comes over.”

“How about this?”

“Those are apples. Have you never had an apple before?”

“They can be green?”

“Yes! They can.”

If Bad saw Pandas’ perplexed expression, he didn’t say anything. Some things were better left unsaid, but he had a feeling he can’t hide forever. He shook his head and forgot it, choosing to enjoy these moments while he can. The memory was mundane, almost like an everyday chore, but it was a priceless jewel that Bad would hold close to his heart. It was these simple things that made life worth living… and he didn’t get them as much as others.

“Here.” Pandas plucked a blueberry off its bush and handed it to Bad. “Its color looks fantastic. Your mind will be absolutely blown.”

Bad stared at the small berry in Pandas’ hand. It was smaller than his thumb, and it looked more delicate than anything he’s ever seen. The first thing that came to his mind was whether if it’s been splashed with crossfire potions or having grown from one. Plants that were contaminated with potions were always mutations, and they never tasted right. Fruits or vegetables that were grown from them, however, were poisonous, regardless of what potion it’d rooted from. They were used as common assassination attempts.

What if Pandas’ kindness had been all a façade? What if he was luring him in for this clean kill?

Bad inwardly flinched at his own thoughts, as if his body and mind were repulsed by the idea of Pandas possessing nefarious intentions. He’d been nothing but nice to him, even if they were strangers. Pandas had nursed him when he was in his lowest point. He’d taken him in his home even when he had nothing to gain out of it. He wanted to wrangle his own instincts when common sense finally kicked in.

Pandas tilted his head, palm still open. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to,” he said. “Just say so. You don’t need to look so guilty about it.” He closed his palm and patted Bad’s shoulder. “You can be vocal about your thoughts. I trust you and I know you won’t do anything to hurt me or anyone else here. Let’s work on making that mutual, hm?”

“You—” Bad shot up, more desperate than alarmed. “You trust me?”

“Of course,” Pandas replied without hesitation. He said it as if it were a natural thing to do. To trust a stranger that you only met for a few days. “Why’d you think I let you sleep in my house? I would send you back to the clinic if I didn’t.” He paused, then continued. “I don’t know where you came from, or how you got here, but you fit right into our group. And friends don’t let friends wallow in self-pity.”

“I’m not pitying myself,” Bad argued weakly.

Pandas grinned at him like he finally caught the mouse with his paws. “So you admit we’re your friends?”

Bad spluttered. He forgot that Pandas could be snappy if he wanted to. His face flushed. “Uh, can I try that blueberry now?”

Pandas hollered with laughter and gave him the berry. It’d turned warm in his palm, but Bad swallowed it in a gulp, not even bothering to chew. On its way down, its skin tasted faintly of a mixture of bitterness and fragrance. Milder than a sweet berry’s, but it had its own charm. Now he wished he hadn’t just shoved it down his throat and actually chewed.

“Want another one?”

Bad’s wings perked up. “Yes please.”

Chapter Text

Bad ate so much fruit that he spent the whole day moping in the living room. Similarly, George and Nightmare had eaten so much cookies that they were in the perfect equilibrium between a food coma and a sugar rush. Pandas was the only one unaffected, only because he only had his disgusting oatmeal raisin cookies to munch on. If he were less boring, he would be side-by-side with his friends, groaning his stomach out on the couch.

Suffice to say, Pandas was not impressed.

“It’s noon,” he snapped, soap bubbles doting his hair. They refused to pop even if he’d already finished doing the dishes. “How are you supposed to eat lunch and dinner?”

“L-l-lunch?” George stammered, grunting from all the way from the couch. His feathers irritated Nightmare’s face, who sneezed and pushed it away from him. The wing sprung back twice as fast. “I can’t eat anything else.”

Pandas threw the washcloth at his face. George had an affinity for getting things thrown at him. “Go out for a walk!” he barked. “All three of you. That’ll help you digest. It’s better than just laxing around the entire day.”

Bad groaned. “But me and Nightmare just came back from one.”

“Do it again.”

George rolled over the couch, his wings spread out to cover Nightmare and Bad like a blanket. Nightmare sneezed like a puppy from a stray feather. “But I don’t get fat,” he complained.

“Did I stutter, George?”

George pushed himself to sit upright with his wings, his arms still holding his stomach. “Okay, mom.”

Pandas kicked George out of the house, quite literally. Then, he gently ushered Nightmare and Bad out, reminding them to stay safe and punch George whenever he does something stupid. Nightmare’s eyes sparkled when he received permission and agreed to violence a bit too quick for Bad’s liking.

George brushed dirt from his shirt and picked dust from his wings, completely unaffected by the boot to his bottom earlier. He beamed, opening his arms to his friends. “Alright! Since we’re all alone—” His smile turned to stone when he realized that Bad and Nightmare were already comparing wood and stone for Nightmare’s builds, utterly ignoring the angel.

Three seconds later, Bad and Nightmare stopped talking about building and stared at the brunet throwing a tantrum worthy of the heavens themselves. Nightmare stared at Bad’s wings, then to George, as if to say, must suck to be related. Bad sighed, shaking his head and pushing Nightmare in the opposite direction. Nightmare’s skin was cool.

“So!” George said after moments of embarrassing himself. “What do you guys want to do?” He recovered from his food coma in moments, like he wasn’t lounging on a couch half-dead from a chocolatey overdose only ten minutes ago.

Bad shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “We can just walk and talk.”

“Or…” George rolled his eyes in thought, putting his finger on his chin. Oh no. George is thinking. The angel’s crystal eyes scanned them, then their area, then finally settling onto the white mass on Bad’s back.

Every single feather and hair on Bad’s body stood on its end, cold sweat pooling in his palms. His pores shivered into goosebumps as George spread his own wings, ruffling through each of his feathers. He wasn’t ready. He wanted to fly again, but not this soon. His eyes flicked towards George, then to Nightmare, looking for an excuse or a way out.

Nightmare clicked his tongue, staring at the floor, seemingly uninterested in something he cannot participate. Bad bit his lip, his fingers clenched by his sides.

Unexpectedly, George folded his wings behind his back. “Or we could practice your magic!” George suggested. Bad’s entire body cooled into ice, and his knees wobbled like jelly. He wasn’t sure whether if it was from fading adrenaline or sheer relief. Could be a mix of both.

Bad blinked, ears still ringing. “Magic?”

George put a hand on Bad’s forehead. George’s hand was no longer as warm as it had been when they first met. Instead of a scalding, almost burning touch; George felt like any other person. On the other hand, Nightmare, a regular human being, had cold skin. He could have sworn Nightmare’s temperature was normal, especially after spending an entire night with him. Was this what George meant by angels having a higher temperature because of their magic?

“Yeah, magic.”

“So… like spells?”

George frowned. “Spells? No. Those are just myths.” He guided Bad and Nightmare towards Nightmare’s unfinished build, where they would have more space. “And magic is just a term used by mortals. These powers are our natural abilities, like how a mortal breathes and how they eat to survive.”

“Only angels have magic,” Nightmare supplied.

Only angels.

“What about demons?” Bad asked. “They can use magic too, can’t they?”

“Have you seen one before?” George asked, curious.

Bad chewed his lip. Depending on his answer, they might realize he wasn’t what they thought he was. His world was plagued with demons, and not one angel in sight. George was the first angel he’d seen in his life, other than himself. But there was a demon who didn’t come from his world. He came from here.

“Yes,” he answered after a long debate, “I have.”

George stopped dead in his tracks. Nightmare followed suit, both disturbingly in sync. Bad paused, turning towards them, only to notice the sudden change in their expression. They shared the same troubled face, George’s carefree grin and Nightmare’s meek pout gone in a flash.

Bad cinched the hem of his shirt. He’d said something wrong, hadn’t he? Maybe they didn’t know about—

His mind came to a complete standstill as he was suddenly wrapped in hugs, two pairs of arms from both sides holding him, like they were afraid he’d break into a million pieces. George’s wings were open, forming a protective layer around them, almost as if he were a mother hen.

“Don’t worry,” George said, voice hard but sympathetic. “We won’t let him hurt you again.”

Bad released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Unlike before, he didn’t tense up and he softened into their touch. A grateful smile widened his lips, and the tears never came.

“Okay,” he wisped, content.

Bad could have sworn his day had started out amazing, so he really didn’t know how his luck had derailed so rapidly in the span of seconds.

As of now, he was sitting in front of a flower bud, the baby bud sporting pearl white that faded to pink. They sat around a circle, all eyes on George. The attention stroked George’s ego well, giving him a hypothetical godly glow that set him above the others. Nightmare had brought him back to reality by punching his shoulder, and he did not hold back.

George massaged his shoulder, mumbling something about tendons and skin care and how it would affect him in his old age, but he got back on the topic once Pandas started glowering daggers at him. He cleared his throat.

“Angels abilities are unique, because we can manipulate things that are considered ‘godly.’” George made quotation marks with his fingers. That term must have come from misguided mortals, judging by how he reacted to it. “Every angel has the same skillset: healing, light, calo, chrono, and last but not least, flight. Most tend to focus their attention on one aspect, and some are jack-of-all-trades.”

Bad stared at him, confused.

George scratched the back of his head. “Calo means heat. Chrono means time. We can manipulate them to some extent, and they are very versatile.”

“Time? Heat? Light?” Bad asked. “How are those even—? How does it work?”

“The cookies,” Nightmare explained. “He does that a lot.”

Bad’s mouth stretched into an “O”. He didn’t think magic would be that convenient, much less used for generic everyday tasks. The demons he knew had magic solely for fighting and some form of mind control. The concept of magic here was completely different than the one he was taught.

“It’s better if I show you.” George cupped another flower bud in his hands in a trained fashion. When he opened his palms, he revealed a fully blossomed flower. “This is time manipulation, but we can only affect objects, not the entire time stream itself. We can’t make it night or daytime any quicker.”

Bad swallowed. “That looks difficult,” he admitted, staring at the flower in wonder. Could he do that? Could he be like George, powerful and confident?

“Once you get the basics, the rest is easy.” George took Bad’s hands and moved them to another flower bud. “Baby steps! Just focus on channeling your magic, and don’t be afraid to ask for help.”

Channel his magic? How? That was easier said than done. He only knew he had magic for barely a day. There was no way he was going to learn how to use it in less than twenty-four hours. Still, he wanted to try. He was hesitant, but magic! Real magic!

He clenched his hands, willing it to do something, but nothing happened. He told himself to make it grow; didn’t work. He did breathing exercises and called from within; also a complete failure. He glowered at the flower, then his hands; not only did this not work, George had a laughing fit over this attempt. At least someone got something out of it. Eventually, he gave up and started muttering things that only trolls would understand.

Bad was completely and utterly stumped.

“What am I doing wrong?” he whipped to George after the thirty-sixth try. He resorted to giving the flower a pep talk which failed spectacularly. Even Nightmare laughed, but he was being polite by tightening his hoodie strings and covering his entire face. Tufts of his hair poked from the hoodie, and Bad could still hear his muffled giggles.

George shrugged. “You’re trying too hard,” he said, as if that explained anything. “Magic, for lack of a better term, is something we do because we want to. By forcing it, you’re holding yourself back because that’s not what you want. It’s instinctual. It’s ingrained in our flesh and our veins. You have the potential; the only thing you need to do is learn how to call upon it.”

“Summon it?” Bad gripped his hair. “How do I do that?”

“If it helps, think about what you want the most. Then hold onto that feeling and channel it. Your mind is hardwired to help your body channel the magic you want.”

It was surprisingly sound advice, coming from George. Life was full of surprises. Bad took a deep breath and closed his eyes, turning back to the bud he was supposed to grow. He put his palm around the flower, thinking hard of the thing he wanted.

The first thing that floated in his abyss was a vision he conjured before. A grassy field with flowers, and four people lying in a circle, heads side-by-side. There were differences – when Bad looked at their faces, he saw them for them. The people they were supposed to be were no more. Bad could no longer see the people they were in the other world.

The people he used to know aren’t his friends. Nightmare, George and Pandas are.

But he couldn’t very well stay here forever, could he? He would have to go back one day, and he’d have to face them on the other side of the battlefield. Using their faces and twisting it into something cruel, horrific, and agonizing. If that ever happened, he would fall to his knees and weep. Some things were just meant to break him.

A sharp gasp from his right snapped him back to his senses. His eyelids flared open, his hands immediately taken away from the flower, only for a sharp pain to shoot from his palm, his skin sliced open when he moved his hand. Warm blood trickled down his arm, and he stared blankly at George and Nightmare, who were beyond worried and confused. Not at him, but at the flower he had in his palms.

He looked at the flower, only to see that it was something beyond a flower. Its white and pink petals blossomed brilliantly, but its stems had corroded to black, its leaves grown into thorned vines that surrounded the flower in a cage. Blood dripped from a thorn, the mutated plant resembling a beautiful tragedy – a delicate soul plagued by its ghoulish nightmares.

“Bad?” George’s voice sounded so far away.

Chapter Text

DELETED CHAPTER, NO LONGER CANON

Bad is a kind soul. Others seek comfort in his gentle words and calm encouragement.

Good is anything but. He is an ember that burns everything in its path, regardless of the cost.

From their disparities alone, one could only imagine the destruction they would cause. Between Bad’s magic and Good’s brute force, the catastrophes that would follow are nothing short of disastrous.

They are different. They are night and day, fire and water. Placated in their own worlds, they would have never expected to cross paths, as there was nothing that linked them together. Unlike Nightmare and Dream, unlike GeorgeNotFound and GeorgeIsFound, unlike Sapnap and Pandas—Bad and Good shared no commonplace, never meant to intersect.

… that was true, right?

Right?

… oh, fuck.

“Bad, for the love of god,” Good spat, exasperated, “if you say muffin one more time—”

“What the muffin is wrong with you?” Bad snapped back. “You can’t just go around threatening people!”

“I didn’t ask! And the last time I checked; your friends like me better than you.”

Bad shut up instantly, a bright purple hue rushing up his face and the tips of his ears. Lies were made to be believable, and truths didn’t need to sound convincing. He knew how Dream, Sapnap and George hung around his evil doppelganger instead of him. He knew how much time Quackity, Puffy and Skeppy spent with Good and not Bad.

He was painfully aware how they ignored him after they’ve met Good.

Good smirked, delighted to finally have the upper hand after endless debate. While they were opposites, they were equally stubborn. “It’s true, isn’t it? Can’t find anything to dispute my claim?”

“They still like me,” Bad stuttered. His confidence wavered the more he thought about it. He looked down, holding his sides in uncertainty. “Don’t they?” He sounded like he was trying to reassure himself, rather than refute his counterpart.

Good’s tail flicked in glee. He put his hands on his hip, grinning widely to reveal razor sharp teeth. “Not as much as they like me,” he sang, tail curling around Bad’s waist. “Your friends are sooo much more fun than the sad fucks back at my place. There’s only so many things I could do, before they”—He snapped his fingers, scoffing—“break.”

Still purple-faced, Bad whipped to the demon, glaring daggers at his white skin and black eyes. Never in a million years he would have thought that his counterpart was crueler than anyone he’s met.

“You’re sick in the head.”

Good ignored him, opening his fist to examine his clawed fingernails. With his tail, he pulled Bad closer to him, a psychopathic sneer reflecting in Bad’s colorless pupils.

“You know what, Bad?” he asked, voice sweet like poisoned honey. He gingerly tapped his fingernails on his cheek, leaving only his index finger just beneath his eye. “I like it here.” He dug his fingernail into skin, drawing violet blood. He dragged his finger down, blood dribbling down to his cheek and onto his dark clothes. “I think…” He relished the horror in the angel’s face, too distraught to even notice his blood and injury. “… I would like to stay.”

“NO!” The rip of fabric pierced through the air, and Bad’s cloak was suddenly in tatters, scraps of cloth fluttering to the floor. A pair of wings erected from his back, reflecting and catching the light from his halo, as if they were luminescent. Yet, despite the majestic reveal, his panicked face ruined the image as he desperately backed away from the demon. “You can’t stay here! This is my home!”

Good tilted his head at the feathers, barely bothered by the lightshow and magic bursting from the angel. He returned his tail, wrapping it around his own thigh. “Hm,” he hummed. “I assumed you were defective.” He clicked his tongue, unfazed. “But I guess not.”

For a few moments, Bad steadied his breathing and regained his courage. Wings spread out defensively, he stepped closer to Good, but the fear in his eyes betrayed his every step.

(Good grinned. He hadn’t expected the angel to be so exploitable. Angels were incompetent beings, but his counterpart was plain meaningless.)

“This is my home,” Bad repeated, voice shaking. He glared at Good, but it was an ultimatum. “And I will protect it from you.”

Good burst into laughter, as if this were the funniest thing he’d ever encountered. The angel paused, haven’t expected this reaction. His wings drooped slightly, confused and afraid.

Eventually, Good regained his composure and combed his loose hair behind his ears. He leeched onto Bad’s fear like a parasite, eating away at his insecurities and fears to fuel his own power. One misstep was all it took, and now he’ll push the angel down to the abyss. He’ll let the silver feathers be eternally snuffed out by the darkness.

“Protect it from me?” he cackled. “Have I done anything wrong? Have I hurt anyone?”

Bad wings fell. His halo disappeared from sight. He shrunk like a child being reprimanded by his mentor. “N—no,” he wisped. “You… haven’t.” He shot back, but like a wounded animal than a retort. “I—I—you’re only biding time! You’re going to do something that’s going to hurt someone, and I can’t allow that to happen!”

Good sneered. “How are you so sure?” he lashed. “I thought angels were supposed to see the good in everyone. Do you not have faith in me—your own counterpart?” Shaking his head, he brought himself to a disappointed sigh. “I was right; you are defective. It’s no wonder that the others disliked you. Humans despise imperfections, just like you, a wrong, broken angel.”

“I’m not broken.” Bad’s voice quivered. He clenched the sides of his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m not wrong.” He folded his wings behind him. “You’re just trying to get in my head. You… you demons are like this. I know what your kind does.”

“There’s no need for me to get into your head.” Good feigned an offended gasp. It was quickly replaced by a sinister smile. He put a hand on his shoulder, forcing the angel to snap open his eyes and meet his stare. “Because I already am.”

“You’re not.”

“It’s time to face reality, angel.” He leaned closer to Bad, so close that he could feel the magic essence that the angel radiated from his skin, usually sweet and warming but now sour and distressed. “Your. Friends. Don’t. Need. You.”

He shoved the angel, forcing him to fall to the floor. Good towered over him, hand on hip with a demented sense of superiority engraved into his face. Bad’s mind drew a blank. Who can he tell this to? Everyone saw Good as a better version of him; not evil. They would never believe him if he told them his counterpart’s heart was dark; darker than coal and colder than ice. Good was him, and he was Good.

Does that mean he was evil, too?

Skeppy. Skeppy would believe him, right? They’ve known each other for a long time, and he’ll believe him if he—if he just… (He remembered Skeppy and Good hitting off instantly, bonding over their chaotic personality and Bad’s incompetence.)

Quackity? Would he believe him? (He remembered Quackity and Good holding onto each other as they laughed together, claiming to be each other’s new best friends.)

Puffy? Would she? She had to. She was the most sensible out of all of them, even when the Egg tried to control her. (He remembered Puffy putting her trust into Good as they rebuilt the statue room, talking to each other as if they were old friends.)

Anyone?

Would anyone believe him?

“Not going to prove me wrong?” Good squatted down, his tail curling behind him in joy. Joy that his doppelganger was weak; joy that the angel was so easy to manipulate. “Are you finally out of excuses, Bad?”

Run.

Fear blossomed in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. Eyes wide and paralyzed with fear, he stared straight at the demon, unable to turn away.

He wanted to run, but his legs were stiff like lead.

He couldn’t even find anything to say.

“I thought you were supposed to be talkative.” Good shook his head., but the grin on his face was less than subtle. “Bad, come on. Angels aren’t cynical; they’re forgiving, selfless, loyal…” He scrunched his nose. “And you’re anything but. You’re more of a demon than I am. Perhaps god’s system was wrong and you were sorted into the wrong place…”

“Shut up,” Bad whispered.

“… or you stole someone’s wings and halo and took them for yourself…”

“Shut up, shut up!” Bad covered his ears, but Good’s voice rang in his head.

“Or maybe,” Good continued, triumph seeping into his voice, “you’re just as useless as I thought you were.”

“SHUT UP!” Feathers fell from his wings. Some turned grey.

“The others despise imperfections!” Good snarked. “That’s why they despise you!”

Bad roared and tackled the demon to the ground. Like a feral animal, he glowered at his psychotic counterpart, the intent to kill evident in his aura. His magic sparked like cinders, ruby aura licking his skin like pulses.

Held on the ground, Good showed no sign of weakness. He giggled, throwing the angel off guard.

“You say I’m going to hurt someone,” he snickered, words cutting into Bad like a sharp knife. “But take a good look at your own self.”

Bad’s eyes widened in shock, his bloodlust dissipating instantly. He scrambled to his feet, backing away from the demon as if he were standing on hot coals. His body trembled and shook, so much that he was covered in cold sweat. He held his palm, but numbness pricked at his fingertips, like cold stone.

“Angels are supposed to be peace lovers,” Good snipped, pushing himself up. It excited him to see the angel doubt himself because of his lies. “Gods, you are broken.”

“What do you want from me?” Bad wisped, wounded and desperate. Tears glinted from the corner of his eyes. His shoulders sagged and wings drooped, all fight disappearing without a trace.

Good brushed dust off his clothes, a wicked thought popping into his mind. He could be rid of two birds with one stone. With crushing ease, he put his hand on Bad’s shoulder once more, this time without a struggle. Bad’s body was relaxed, defeated thoroughly.

His hand around his shoulder tightened. Bad winced as the claws dug into his flesh.

“I want you gone.”

He pushed the angel backwards, into a portal that led to another world.