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The obsidian gives Sam no warning; like glass, it shatters, leaving dark shards all over the floor. In the time it takes for him to draw his sword, frantic and confused, a figure has stepped into the fragments littering the ground, crumbling them underfoot.
But it's not anyone Sam would have expected.
"George?" he asks hesitantly. George is silent as he walks through the hole he's made, slight frame outlined by the grey sky beyond. "What are you— how—”
George’s expression is unmoving and impassive as he stalks across the floor, gaze fixed on Sam from behind his dark lenses. Sam scrambles backwards, instincts sending him skittering towards safety, before he raises his sword again; the other player isn't wearing armour, or even wielding a weapon. There's no reason for Sam's hair to be standing on end, for every cell of his body to be screaming at him to lower his head, look away, beg for his life, flee—
He tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword. "Leave," he says, but the word come out uncertain. "I don't know how you managed to— to blow up the walls, but you need to leave. I won't even kill you for this if you go in peace, George."
"Leave?" George asks quietly. He takes another step. "I'm sorry. I’m afraid I can't do that."
"Why?" Sam manages to croak around his tongue, made heavy with fear. "This isn't a fight you can win, George. Come on, please."
"I can't do that," George repeats. "You see, you have something of mine."
The laugh that startles out of Sam is tense and thin. "Dream? You know better than to try—”
"Of course not," George interrupts— and then he laughs too, the first sign of emotion that Sam has seen from him since he stepped through the rubble. Amusement. "Do you really think I'd have let him be locked up for this long?"
Fear and curiosity war inside of Sam, and fear wins. Sam raises his sword.
"Stop speaking in riddles," he demands. "If you take another step, I'll kill you. This bullshit ends here, George."
"That's where you're wrong, Sam," George says quietly. "You can’t kill me."
He moves too quickly to track— one moment, he's standing a dozen paces away, head lowered and hands empty; the next, he's in front of Sam, knocking his blade away with a sword. Sam stumbles under the startling force of his attack before regaining his footing, but it's too late— George is on the offence, weapon flashing as he moves. The blade of it is thin and gleams blood-red, and it almost hurts to look at.
Sam's arms tremble with the effort of parrying him; George seems unaffected entirely by the elder guardians' Fatigue, but Sam's sword is heavy in his hands. He's never seen the other player fight like this, ruthless and relentless. It's all Sam can do to fend him off, and even then he only barely manages to keep up. He owes it to luck entirely when he manages to land a hit on George: George’s sword ends up cramped between himself and the wall as he steps past the lectern, and Sam slashes at his face. George ducks back just in time to avoid losing an eye, but his dark-tinted glasses go flying.
Sam freezes. George’s eyes are—
Then George’s blade is sliding between his ribs, and Sam lets out a guttural moan, slumping against the wall. His blood spills scarlet onto the dark floors, pooling warm and wet around him; expressionless, George pulls the sword out. Half delirious with pain, Sam shrinks away from the blood-red blade and thinks, it's hungry.
"What are you?" he croaks, and George looks impassively down at him before turning away. His shoes track blood across the tile as he approaches the inner wall, setting a hand against it.
"I am many things," he finally says, so quietly that Sam almost doesn't hear him. "But today, Sam, I am your killer."
Blood is still staining his fingers as Sam's eyes slip closed, George's crimson irises burned into his memory.
Having another person in the cell is a novel experience.
Technoblade is humming. Dream can hear him— his movements, his breathing— and he can't decide whether he hates it or not. Lying listlessly across the cool obsidian, staring blankly into the ceiling, the only thing tethering Dream's mind to his body is the other player's presence.
He's awfully chipper for someone stuck in hell.
When Dream gathers the energy to point this out, Techno sits up from where he's lounging by the netherite bars. His fingers rub at the exposed skin of his left wrist— his only nervous tell, as far as Dream knows— but he shrugs, lackadaisical.
"I mean," he laughs. "Like I said. Sooner or later, I'm gettin' out of here— Phil's gonna realize I've been gone too long."
Dream just shakes his head despairingly and stares up at the ceiling. He hurts all over, a bone deep ache he's grown used to. Obsidian stares back at him unmovingly as the hours pass like they always do, slow and endless; Techno alternates between humming and muttering to himself, and Dream just lies there, hopelessness gnawing at his gut.
Between one moment and the next, something changes.
Techno's murmuring cuts off, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Dream's heart drops painfully, and he hauls himself upright to check on the other player just as Techno stands abruptly.
"Techno?" Dream asks. The player doesn't look at him, but his brow furrows; his eyes are fixed across the lava.
"Something isn't right," he mutters, ears flicking as he paces in front of the bars. "I—”
Whatever he says next is drowned out by Dream's heartbeat roaring in his ears. Quackity wouldn't be back so soon, right? If nothing else, the player kept a schedule— or Sam kept one, at least, and he wouldn't be back right after his previous visit. Right?
"Dream," Techno shakes him, breaking him out of his looming panic. Dream blinks him back into focus. The other player has a hunted look in his eye, like an animal caught in a trap: the first inkling of fear that Dream has seen. "Dream. Breathe."
"What's wrong?" Dream manages to croak. "It's— is it Quackity?"
A pause. "No," Techno says. "It's not Quackity."
Fear abating, Dream drags himself to his feet and stumbles over to the cell's bars. There's no movement from the other platform, no ticking of Sam's genius redstone— whatever it is that had sent Techno into a panic, Dream can't sense it. Behind him, Techno's hooves click against the obsidian as he mutters, so quickly and quietly that his words run into each other.
Then, a shadow in the doorway. Dream snaps to attention, heart pounding. It's not Quackity. It's not. The figure steps into the orange glow of lava.
"George?"
For a second Dream thinks it’s a trick of the light, or of countless sleepless nights. But George lifts his head, meeting Dream's eyes; he’s wearing his glasses, and his face is indecipherable in the harsh shadows cast by lava. Where is Sam?
"George!" Dream calls again. If George can hear him, he doesn't show it; instead, he examines the control panel critically. Hope unfurls in Dream’s chest as George moves, pushing buttons, flicking levers. Pistons grind in the obsidian walls and still there is no sign of the Warden.
George darts onto the platform just as it begins to move. Dream’s breath feels stuck in his throat, hands sweating around the netherite bars. George’s expression is still carefully blank, so empty Dream almost doesn’t recognize him— but it’s George. Dream strains towards him, takes in the new sharpness of his cheeks, his hair a little longer and curling at his nape. “You’re here! You came.”
George turns his face towards Dream as he steps off of the platform, where he’s hunched over, scarred fingers clenched until his knuckles press white against his skin. A netherite pickaxe appears in George’s hand, gleaming enchanted, and Dream only has a moment to remember himself and scramble back before the sharp point of it cracks against the bars, crumbling them. Dream drinks in his presence as he steps past the bars and slides his glasses off his face. With the light behind him, George’s face is cast in darkness. It must be the lava, or the darkness playing across his skin, or the fact that Dream hasn’t slept in what feels like years, then, that his eyes gleam.
“George,” Dream repeats, something tired and fragile dissipating in him. “I really thought… I thought you wouldn’t come.” He shifts, about to step forward, but then Techno moves— his hand snags the fabric of Dream’s sleeve and stills him with a vice grip.
Dream tries to shake him off, turning towards the player with a scowl. Before he can say anything, though, George speaks.
“You’ve really gotten yourself into a mess this time,” George says. His tone is surprisingly mild, noncommittal and even. “Haven’t you, Technoblade?”
“What?” Dream blurts, and then the hand Technoblade has on him is tugging him downwards as the player drops to his knees. Stunned silent, Dream hits the obsidian hard enough for his teeth to click against each other.
“I’m sorry,” Techno says, voice a strained rasp. “I didn’t mean to—”
"Cause trouble, I'm sure." George blows out a sigh. "Well. We all make mistakes."
"I'm sorry," Techno repeats, eyes fixed on the floor. Dream works his jaw, trying to find words and coming up empty. "You didn't… have to come for me."
"As if I would let one of my only remaining devotees get stuck in here?"
George says it so casually that it takes Dream a moment to process the words. In the meantime, Techno’s hand drops from his wrist as he admits, reluctantly: “I lost my bell.”
“It was taken,” George corrects, “and Sam has already paid for his misstep.”
Techno’s eyes widen, darting upwards before he remembers himself. “You killed him?”
“Did you think I would spare him?” George asks, amused. “It’s one thing to lose your prayer bells, but to take them from someone is another thing entirely. For that, and for imprisoning you, he paid in blood.”
“Blood for the blood god,” Techno replies reverently. Dream clears his throat, completely and utterly lost.
“What the hell is going on?” he demands. George’s eyes cut to him, and he stares boldly back until Techno’s hand settles on his shoulder, both a warning and a threat.
“Don’t speak to him like that,” Techno snarls. Dream turns towards him with a scowl.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he snaps at the same time that George says, “Techno, it’s fine.” Techno lets go, still glaring, and Dream climbs to his feet, rounding on George.
“I just want to know what the hell you guys are talking about,” he says, drawing himself up to his full height. George just raises his head to look Dream in the eye.
“You’re smart, Dream,” George tells him. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out." His attention slips away. "Techno, get up. We're leaving this place.”
George crosses the cell, Techno trailing like a shadow, leaving Dream staring after them in the middle of the room trying to come up with a response. Under George’s hand, obsidian crumbles, revealing rows of redstone behind the thick wall: an observer blinks, redstone lamps flicker on, and a siren starts blaring. Out of every lightsource, George’s eyes glow the brightest when he looks over his shoulder.
Blood for the blood god, Techno had said. Techno, who never knelt for anyone, not even his executioners. Techno, murmuring prayers under his breath.
The siren rings on. Another obsidian wall falls, letting golden sun in around the figures of a god and his worshiper.
Why didn’t you come for me? Dream wants to ask. But both of them have already disappeared. All he can do is follow the sunlight, alone.