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The mushroom cottage burns, and George wakes to sirens and smoke inhalation.
“We need to find you somewhere less flammable to live,” says Dream.
“I could build out of stone next time?” George rubs black soot off his goggles. He sounds weary but optimistic.
“We must keep you safe from all harm,” Dream insists, and so forks over 60 volumetric meters of gemstones. “I have off-screen access to creative mode, but this? This is the price of love.”
“Thank you,” says his new contractor, “for trusting me.”
Dream nods. “You don’t ask questions.”
“And you were nearby.”
“And you seem to have no ethical standards.”
“Thank you,” says Sam, “for the blood diamonds.”
“No, no,” Dream reassures him, “these were grown in a lab.” He points at the engineer’s face. “I’ve always wondered why you wear that gas mask.”
“I don’t want to breathe whatever made you this way.”
Dream produces a contract, and both men sign. “Diamonds now. The blood comes later.”
Sam smiles as those complicit in human rights violations so rarely do. “Would you like some pumpkin pie? I baked it fresh this morning.”
George accepts a slice and eats greedily, crumbs falling down his shirt. Dream removes his porcelain mask and uses it as a plate. “I need you to act more intimidating.”
The Warden deepens his voice and stiffens his posture. “May I still distribute pastries?” He wields his trident like a devil’s pitchfork.
Dream smiles. “You’d better.” The threat is implied. “Is it true that eating only potatoes gives you a fever?” He could swear he once read that on Wikipedia.
“N-no,” Sam stutters, “That’s rabbits. They’re all lean protein; no fat or carbohydrates. So you can’t digest them.” He’s tried.
George can’t believe Dream doesn’t know the difference between rabbits and potatoes. One hops, the other just sits there. Both have eyes.
“Then it’s okay to feed the pri--the guest, nothing but raw potatoes?”
Sam blinks as if trying to decide whether or not to have a stroke.
Dream slaps him across the back of the head with a blunt, tuberous object. It won’t be the last time he uses a potato as a weapon. “Do you want to get paid or not?”
Sam is really just in it for the cash. Dream for the thrill of the game, and George for the promise of a vaguely homoerotic relationship. The three of them make a great team.
There is a main room, for George, and several other smaller holding cells, in case Dream wants to recruit a harem or something. He affectionately outfits George’s new home with a sharp edged metal basin (combination sink-toilet) and a clock. An alarm clock.
Sam asks, “Don’t you think this is a bit extreme?”
“If he hadn’t slept through the fucking elections, maybe I wouldn’t have had a villain arc. Maybe we could be together, openly, and actually be happy for once in our sad block-man lives.”
“It’s alright,” says George, “Solitary confinement won’t be so bad as long as I'm with you.”
Dream likes to blame anything but himself for his evil actions. Meanwhile, Sam chooses to have no conscience at all. It’s much easier to be Lawful Neutral. If anyone questions him, he simply swaps out his steampunk goggles and pretends to be a capitalist raccoon.
“You know,” Dream muses, “if our relationship doesn’t work out, I might repurpose this project to torture teenagers.”
George nods sagely. “Fuck them kids.”
“Should they get yard time?” asks the Warden, “enrichment?” Dream shakes his head. “Okay. Just asking.”
“Keep asking me things and you’ll be Guest number 002.”
He warbles like an animatronic. It’s become an involuntary stress response.
Dream slaps him across the face as though trying to reboot a computer, or else catch rabies from a feral trash creature. When it comes to Sam Nook, he risks either outcome. “We need a name. I don’t want to get political, and we’re inviting debates about prison reform. The prison-industrial complex.”
Sam has noticed that people get away with all kinds of heinous shit by alluding to Greek mythology. “Pandora’s Vault.”
“Ooh,” says George, “Can I be Pandora?”
“You guys are so cute.” If fifty stacks of obsidian can’t keep them together, then Sam might lose hope. “You make me believe in true love.” He wonders what a healthy relationship looks like, and whether or not it can include torture.
“I’ve always said, George,” croons Dream, as he locks the prison doors and incinerates the key, “Everything I do, I do for you.”
“Even the child abuse?”
“Especially the child abuse.” This is so romantic.
George blushes. “You’ve never told me your tragic backstory. The trauma that justifies your abusive tendencies.”
Dream shakes his head. “We’re simply not that close. But maybe… we could be.” He leans in, so that only the metal bars he’s installed can separate him from his lover.
Sam asks, “May I give him his potatoes now?” Feeding his friends is this man’s second-favorite pastime, ahead of cold cash but just barely short of overreach of power.
“You’ll have plenty of time to do Warden tasks later,” Dream growls, “We were having a moment.”
Sam warbles once more. He can feel the Nook instincts taking hold. Maybe he should grow a spine. He’ll get around to that later.
There sounds out a concussive ringing, almost as if a large, aggressive sea creature has been torn from its home and stuffed into a metal tube. Next the alarm clock blares, and George tosses it into an exposed curtain of lava. Fuck this. He’s going back to bed.
He curls up on the jagged obsidian floor. The warden lobs a potato at him as his eyes close. “Sweet dreams.”