Work Text:
Isolation.
Isolation .
Isolation.
Torture.
Torture.
Torture.
“Dream-” Sir had looked down on him, but instead of the usual gleam, the usual smile, scowl, shouting, and yelling, they had eyes filled with an indescribable feeling, something Dream hadn’t felt in a long time. A shattering look as the blade clattered to the floor.
“‘S w-wrong, sir?” Dream blinked, his vision swirling around. Yellow spots danced in his vision as he looked up, surrounded by his own blood, pretty shades of gorgeous reds, vibrant and a little piece of the outside world, another color to decorate his lonely life.
“Fuck, fuck .” Sir grabbed his cheek, sweat dripping off it like he was overheating. Dream couldn’t understand. Everything felt so fuzzy and he threw up whatever potatoes he had weeks prior. Vomit and blood surrounded him in a canvas of colors and Dream let out a groan as a shaky smile slept up his lips.
Dream blinked again and he heard footsteps recede and the clink of the machine shutting down. The lava filled overhead again, blocking Dream from the world he’d forgotten.
Cold fingertips brushed against his skin, whispering in voices and lulling him to sleep. His world turned black and he swayed, falling asleep in his own blood.
No one had visited.
Not.
A.
Single.
Person.
Sir had long forgotten about him, deciding that he wasn’t worth spending days on. Dream would never forget that look on his face, something horrifying. Sam never listened to his cries and one day, Dream had stopped. Keeping himself entertained became difficult and the number of days he spent in the obsidian prison only grew.
He’d tried everything.
Drowning…
Dream leaned against the wall, looking anywhere. He’d been so consumed by the flickers of lava, rising up and meeting the air, that when he turned to his head and saw the moldy, blood-filled water next to it, he almost gasped. He remembered when Sir used to plunge him in the icy coolness until he couldn’t breathe until his vision blacked out.
First, he hated it.
Then he loved it.
It made him feel alive.
Dream wondered how long he could go before he’d respawn and curiosity had always driven Dream further into his pit of insanity.
But he didn’t know that yet.
Dream’s ink had run out a long time ago, so he couldn’t document it.
But that was alright!
Dream dunked his head under and soon suffocation crept upon him. Water filled his nostrils, mouth, and ears, thrumming like a forbidden melody, the long-lost song of a siren. His heartbeat slowed down and he felt blood rushing to his ears. His entire body was fighting to stay alive but how could it when Dream himself didn’t want to save himself.
Soon he felt a headache coming on and boom.
The particles of his body disappeared into the air and Dream was met with the calm touch of the void. Respawning was painful, the way the particles had forged together, stitching themselves back in a bond that was human-like. Dream’s eyes blinked open as he stared at his fingers, the fingernails pulled out from one of Sir’s sessions.
He clutched himself, his teeth chattering as the water sank into his bones. Even the heat couldn’t push away the feeling of the frost gliding up his neck.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Bone-breaking…
Dream was bored. Bored of the game he’d grown used to playing. Sometimes he’d see fish swimming around, staring at him with those big eyes. Sometimes he’d see XXXXX in them or maybe XXXXXX. Occasionally, Dream could also catch the glimmers of XXXX and XXXXX, staring at him with utter care as they tended to the scrape on his knee. Although the scrapes were much more than scrapes and although they weren’t just on his knee.
Slowly, Dream’s memory dissipated, until he couldn’t recognize faces or why he was in the hell he’d grown to call his home. He couldn’t remember how grass… that’s what it was called, right? He couldn’t remember how the grass looked. Hell, he couldn’t even remember half the colors of the rainbow. The only ones he knew were yellow, the colors of his locks and pus oozing from his wounds, orange, the color of his prison jumpsuit and the warm lava, red, the color of the blood oozing out everywhere, brown, the color of his water and dried blood sticking to his clothes, and the purple of the obsidian.
He didn’t remember green? Or blue? Or the colors in between. He didn’t remember how sunsets looked or how mountains did. He didn’t remember how freshwater felt. Was it cold or warm? Did it taste like fruits? Or fish? What did fruits taste like again?
Dream wondered about his body.
How much would it take before his body had enough and would make him respawn? So Dream started again, fascinated by his own question.
His bones snapped.
Muscles tore.
Sometimes he swore he could see a flash of white.
It only took a little bit for his body to be done and respawn again.
Dream was disappointed, but he kept going, trying to make himself last longer, but unlike the water discovery, he couldn’t. He guessed it was the human body. Dream sighed. It was fun while it lasted.
Dream remembered a time when he used to paint. Blurry faces merged together, laughter and the voices of others sounding a lot like his. He couldn’t remember what other voices sounded like, only a different variation of his own. Dream sighed as he recalled what a canvas looked like.
He knew it was square.
And a color called white.
But Dream imagined purple, a gorgeous obsidian block, cut thin, and sharp edges that would be difficult to draw over.
Colors.
Dream had always loved them, all so beautiful and new. An extravagant array of hues that would blend together to create picture-perfect landscapes, people so full of emotion, and memories that would make him nostalgic. Dream looked at the walls around him, glimmering and full of so much potential , so many ideas, so many thoughts.
Dream grinned.
To anyone else, it would seem like a maniacal grin, but to Dream it seemed like one genuine. He could paint again.
He could paint again
. Dream found bits of his hair scattered around the prison from when Sir would tug on them too hard. Together, he twisted them around so they formed the top of a brush. With hairs that were too bloody and dry, Dream stuck them together with fresh blood to make a stick.
His mask was broken, several times over, but there was a shard that cupped around slightly. It was supposed to be white? But it just looked like the dried blood everywhere else.
Dream licked his lips, his tongue feeling around the pricks of stitches that Sir had ripped out in anger. He decided that it’d be a new experiment. Another test to run as he looked around for some kind of tool. He decided to swatch it on the pretty walls, glimmering like amethysts. First, Dream took another part of his mask and smoothed out the surface of the obsidian, ignoring how the sharp points dug into his skin and ripped, leaving behind pieces of tissue and muscle.
Instead, Dream focused on smoothing out the surface of his new canvas.
Then Dream swatched his blood, realizing the different colors he could make. It wasn’t much, but he knew that more sensitive parts of his skin created blood of a lighter hue while thicker parts of his skin were darker in color.
When Dream thought he was ready….
He didn’t know how long time had passed .
He grabbed the piece of porcelain that would be his palette and grabbed another piece to rip into his skin. He squeezed the blood so it would drop on his palette, careful not to mix it with other colors ( shades ). He hadn’t even realized the potatoes piling up next to him, coming with mold and disgusting fungi. He didn’t pay attention to the fact that days blurred by and his body grew frail.
His immune system was weak and close to the edge, about to tip over like a sack of potatoes. The irony .
He didn’t care.
So he picked up his made paintbrush and dipped it into the paint . He let his wrist flick side to side in a practiced motion he learned long ago. Even if he could forget memories, it seemed like his body would forget his muscle memory, steps ingrained into him since he was a child, under the care of XXXX and XXXXX.
Dream shrugged it away, wondering what he wanted to draw. He could vaguely remember a cabin in the woods. The colors were all fucked up, but it wasn’t like Dream had colors anyway. He squinted, trying to remember who lived there and what it meant to him, but he couldn’t.
He gave up trying.
Instead, keeping the picture in mind, he returned to the wall and gloriously started painting the splotches of burgundy trees. He didn’t remember what type they were, but they got thinner as they reached the top like a- A- A- A triangle? Dream scrunched up his face, ignoring the stinging pain that came along with it. Dream shook his head.
He was fine.
He needed to refill his paint palette quite often and it was taking a toll on him. Exhaustion weighed on him like some kind of spell, making his eyelids droop and his body sag. But he couldn’t stop.
He couldn’t .
Not until the painting was finished.
So Dream carried on, the strokes on the wall becoming more and more defined until he could see it. He could actually see his vision brought to life and all the marks on the cabin and the glorious lights and the textured soil and the intricate leaves-
But something felt wrong.
It felt wrong.
The drawing felt wrong like he missed a step or two or three or four or five or-
Dream shook his head.
He was just fine.
But he should get some sleep, take a nap, take a break. Dream smiled to himself as he looked around the room. There were three other walls to take care of.. He wanted to make this place his, a beautiful gallery of his drawings right in his home .
~
Dream shouldn’t have been surprised that when he woke up, he’d already respawned in his sleep. It could’ve been because of his blood loss or his lack of food, but whatever it was, Dream didn’t care. He was excited, like some kind of drug was running through his veins, pushing him to get up and go forward.
Dream stood up, immediately wincing.
He forgot that although respawning gave you perfectly working organs back in the shell of a body, it was like a dull healing potion. It helped skin smooth over some scars and patch up spots that were in pain, but it wouldn’t completely demolish all blemishes. And unfortunately, Dream had been respawned so many times that at some point, it didn’t even work as well. Healing or regen potions didn’t either.
It was like his body had drank it so many times that he’d practically become
immune
to it.
Dream shrugged, forcing himself to stand up. He had stopped cracking his neck a long time ago after he realized that it killed him. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was a miss-placed bone or shit, but whatever it was, he couldn’t crack his neck anymore without being scared for his life, not that he was scared .
It’s just that he was in a bit of a hurry, excited to start his new project. He wondered what he would draw. He tried to think of a memory of the outside world.
He remembered Sir?
Sir?
Sir?
He remembered himself.
Oh?
Dream’s arm swung up, starting the pattern of strokes. His brush dragged over the lines, replicating Sir’s relaxed posture and the buttoned-up shirts he’d always wear. Dream- Dream was a monster, a wicked thing, a creature that was pathetic. He drew his hair, shooting up in all kinds of directions. His brush flicked over his scars, drawing a messy version of himself.
He drew Sir in beautiful wings like an angel, like a hero. He drew Sir’s axe, the one that would still give him nightmares, give a monster nightmares. Dream switched back to himself, decorating himself in monstrous things like horns, broken off and held in Sir’s hands. He drew himself, cowering in a bow.
His heart clenched at the drawing, but he smiled. He felt tears drip down his cheek and he touched it, the phantom of his touch reminding himself of someone else and for the first time in his prison visit, he wished that there’d be someone to wipe his tears away and hold him close. He wished for someone who’d whisper warm, reassuring words into his ear and give him a shoulder to lean on.
Dream shook his head.
Monsters didn’t deserve that.
That was something heroes like Sir would go back to.
People like Dream would always end up back here, in the cell, all alone.
Dream shook his head, laughing at his foolishness. He couldn’t believe he’d even wish for something like that.
Dream refilled his palette again.
And he painted.
And painted.
And painted.
Until his legs gave away and he collapsed onto the hard floor, his eyes fluttering shut.
~
The next day, Dream stumbled to his feet, tear tracks still firmly planted on his face. He stood in front of the third wall, thinking and thinking and thinking. He imagined a landscape. He couldn’t pinpoint exact details like how the blades of grass looked or how a sunset would look against the mountains. But he knew the basics and his mind was imprinted with thoughts of a land so far away, one Dream would probably never see again.
As hard as he tried to imagine that kind of world, his drawing just looked wrong.
So.
So.
Wrong .
But Dream was wrong, wasn’t he?
He was a beautiful, wrong creature, devoid of these emotions he felt and unable to see the things he saw.
So Dream kept it up on the wall, spilling the contents of his paint palette as he stared up in defiance at the drawing. The grass looked like obsidian and the mountain looked like more chunks of obsidian. The river looked like lava and the sun looked like a ball of it. The trees looked wrong. The animals looked wrong. The world looked wrong. Everything looked wrong.
Dream sat back down, a haunting gaze brushing over his senses.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
~
The next day, Dream sat up and looked at the fourth wall, his heart hammering in his chest as he refilled the paint palette. He vaguely remembered a base? A base, was it? There were people, but Dream couldn’t remember what they looked like. Their faces blurred together so, in frustration, Dream smudged the blood in a blurry blob as he drew the rest of their figures.
Dream himself, was in the drawing, again on the ground, with his mask split in two. An axe was held to his throat by a boy that Dream couldn’t remember. All he knew was that he hurt the boy and the boy hated him. Dream started drawing the delicate details, the fear painted on Dream face and the base that expanded in his vision.
Sam.
He saw Sam.
And Sir?
Yeah.
Sam’s features were all blurred. Dream had a vague grasp of what he looked like but it had been so long . It seemed so far away when the scene had taken place. Dream didn’t remember why he was there or why they dragged him away to this new place he called home, but whatever it was, Dream was grateful for it. If it weren’t for that, Dream wouldn’t have found his home .
Plus the world was safer without him in it.
Dream stared at the painting, completely unsatisfied with the outcome. The people- Without a face, they looked bare, like a phantom of what they could be, only a ghost in place of a portrait so elegant. Dream heard groaning.
What-
Dream heard the groaning continue.
Someone was visiting him .
~
Technoblade wasn’t a very sentimental person. That he’d admit. He preferred having no attachments like Dream, but unlike him, if he ever did make any attachments, he would sever the strand connecting them. He wasn’t that cruel. So the few that wormed themselves into his heart would get to stay. The few that accepted his bloodthirsty nature would get to roam free in his house, free in his heart, and free in his mind.
TECHNOSOFT
Let’s gooooo alreadyyyyy
ugh
Technoblade was fully armed with his enchanted netherite and had the entire SMP with him, but he couldn’t help but feel a voice nag at him, telling him to hurry before it was too late.
Poor green teletubby
He’s gone insane, fucking insane
E
Techno shook his head, turning back to Philza, Tommy, and Tubbo, who were leading the crowd of the Dream SMP ensemble to the prison. There were few people, some opting to stay in the comfort of their own homes, but it was alright.
“This is fucking bullshit!” Tommy shouted.
“ You’re fucking bullshit.” Tubbo retorted, crossing his arms with a smirk.
“HEY-” Tommy squealed in outrage.
“Shut up, kid,” Technoblade added, rolling his eyes.
“I’m not a kid .” Tommy protested.
“Mate, you are a child.” Philza shook his head, his wings brushing against Techno’s fancy robes. Techno marched ahead, his voices screaming all kinds of bloody murder at him like he should hurry, he should slow down, he should leave, he should-
HURRY
LEAVE LEAVE LEAVE
BLOOD BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD
BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
“Headache again, mate?” Philza asked, pressing his hand against Techno shoulder. Techno rubbed his temples and nodded. “Chat, stop bothering Techno.” Philza chuckled, his wing curling Techno into a weird side hug.
Birds and their bird things.
The prison came into view in all its black and purple glory, a beautiful catastrophe waiting to happen.
“Eret, you informed Sam that we’re coming, right?” Techno turned to the king of the SMP.
“I think so-” They answered, pulling out their communicator. “Nevermind.” Techno scoffed as he watched Eret punch in a few letters, probably informing Sam this very second. Not like Sam could stop them anyway. Techno stepped foot in the prison and immediately the chilling air startled him.
“Ugh- I don’t think-” Tommy whispered from somewhere.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, Tommy. You too, Ranboo.” Tubbo reassured and Techno had to give it to that kid for being mature like that. Techno knew that his played a part in it, but he couldn’t find it in himself to feel remorse for it. He had a family, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to question their morals. So far, it was only Phil who’d stayed by his side no matter what, who hadn’t betrayed him and chopped up their string of trust like baked potatoes.
“No, I’m going.” Tommy huffed.
“I uh- Guess I’ll go.” Ranboo shrugged. The endermen looked nervous as he fiddled with the collar of his suit. Techno looked away, pulling out his weapon as they landed to weird Sam would be, a service desk if you will. Sam was there, hunched over his books and writing notes. His communicator laid far away from him and Techno scoffed, knowing that The Warden hadn’t even taken a look.
“What the-” Sam stood up, raising his trident. “What’s going on!?”
“If you’d bothered looking at your communicator, you’d know,” Techno smirked, watching as Sam yanked his communicator from the other table and pulled it up to his face.
“This is so vague. It just says you’re coming.” Sam looked over with uncertain eyes.
“With the king of the SMP,” Technoblade added.
“With the king of the SMP,” Sam repeated, his eyes falling on Eret. He sighed grabbing a clipboard. “I need you all to sign this.” Technoblade internally groaned at how long that’d take.
“Actually, that won’t be necessary.” Eret’s held their head up higher. “I’ll sign it for the rest.”
“But-” Sam started.
“Are you questioning my authority, Sam?” Eret raised an eyebrow and Technoblade had to give it to them. Eret was completely competent to look threatening when he wanted to.
Sam grumbled something under his breath as he handed Eret the sheet. Eret signed it and with a sigh, Sam led them ahead. The air grew hotter and colder at the same time, a swirl of temperatures that should’ve clashed.
The smell of the prison also grew stale like mold or something. Technoblade’s nose was able to sniff out the smell of iron which slipped into his taste. Iron-like blood. Techno pushed ahead with urgency. He knew that Dream had killed Tommy. Had he killed someone else that was unknown to The Warden? Techno knew that his senses were amplified unlike the rest of them, so it may have seemed confusing to anyone else as to why the piglin-hybrid was so intent on going faster.
Finally, they arrived at the contraption.
“I haven’t really- I haven’t really checked on the prisoner as of recently,” Sam admitted.
“Isn’t that your job?” Techno raised an eyebrow. “And how long is recent?”
“I think it was….six or seven months ago?” Sam looked around, nervously.
“How’s he even eating!?” Puffy called from the crowd.
“I have a contraption for that.” Sam took a deep breath. “Uh- For about three to four months ago, I had Quackity come in here quite often and uhm-”
“What are you talking about!?” Techno growled.
Torture.
Homeless blob is tortured
NOOOO
BLOOOOOOD
“You’ve let Quackity torture Dream.” Technoblade glared, his eyes glowing crimson.
“How did you-” Sam’s eyes widened. The contraption halted and they arrived at a wall of lava.
“He did what -”
“What’s going on-”
“Sam-”
“ Dream -”
“I didn’t do anything he didn’t deserve.” Sam looked away. “It’s like- Punishment.”
“You tortured Dream.” Tubbo repeated, but Techno could see the fear written in Tubbo’s eyes. Techno did everything in his power to keep from lashing out because Sam was the only person who knew how to work this thing. Techno waited as Sam pressed another lever and the platform lifted again as the lava fell down.
One.
Two.
Three.
Gasps.
No one- No one could’ve prepared Techno for what was inside the cell. No words could even describe the horrifying sight laid out for him. The floor had bits of skin, muscle, tissue, vomit, blood, shit- Everything was scattered out. There were fingernails, pieces of hair, toenails. The walls. The most horrendous part was the walls, painted with beautiful drawings of landscapes and-
Techno’s eyes caught on the one drawing that contained Dream and Quackity, a horrible picture of something Dream perceived as true.
The worst part about it all was that the drawings were covered in red, in red icky blood, shades so horrendous that it made Technoblade want to puke. Techno heard someone puke behind him and it sounded a lot like Ranboo.
Techno’s eyes gravitated toward the man in the middle, his prison jumpsuit torn in so many places that Techno wondered how it could still stay together. The man himself had so many scars and he didn’t seem the least bit worried that half the blood that was supposed to stay in his body was scattered out for everyone to see.
Dream looked horrible like he hadn’t eaten for days which was true, because Techno’s head twisted to the side and he saw piles and piles of potatoes slumped against the wall, mold growing on them.
Dream held a piece of his porcelain white , if it was even that color anymore, mask and a paintbrush made out of his own hair as he drew on the walls with his own blood like it was an everyday occurrence.
BLOOD
BLOOOOOD
BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD
SOMEONE SAVE DREAM
DREAAMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
GREEN TELETUBBY
BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOOOD
KILL THEM KILL THEM KILL THEM
“ Dream !” Puffy lept forward, sobbing as her knees hit the ground. Niki followed soon after, her eyes puffy with tears. Someone else that sounded like Sam was throwing up his entire guts onto the floor, but everyone else was in a panic.
“Dad,
Dad
.” Tommy shouted, stepping back.
“Fucking-” Tubbo took a shuddering breath.
“ Is that Dream ?” Someone else whispered, their voice sounding awfully like Sapnap.
“Oh?” Dream’s voice sounded croaky like he hadn’t spoken for years . Dream turned around and Techno’s heart stopped. He hadn’t even noticed that he was crying, but he certainly could tell it more now. He shakily lifted his hands up and wiped his tears, staring at the awful shell of a man, limping as he drew out more blood from his calf, calmly.
“Dream,” Technoblade stated.
“You’re j-just in time. I was w-wondering what to d-do for these faces right here.” Dream pointed to the blurry faces surrounding Dream had the confrontation. “I have inspiration n-now.” He smiled a ghostly, haunting smile.
“Dream.” Technoblade rushed up to the man and swatted the blood palette and paintbrush to the ground. Dream flinched and stared back at him like he just murdered his entire family.
“W-why’d you d-do that.” Dream cowered, holding his hands close to his chest as tears filled his eyes. Techno almost felt bad for doing that.
“Dream-” Puffy ran over from her spot and was about to wrap Dream into a hug before Dream pushed them away and scurried all the way to the back wall.
“N-no…” Dream cried, holding his oddly twisted fingers out.
“That can’t be Dream.” Tommy yelled, but Techno’s voices were chanting for blood. His head pulsed with anger, energy, with hatred and before Techno knew it, he was standing over Sam’s dead body.
“My h-home.” Dream whimpered. “‘S my home.” Techno felt anger. The next time he met Quackity- Oh, no one could describe the things Techno would do to him.
For now, they had Dream.
Broken.
Dream.
Techno cradled Dream in his arms and watched as Dream sobbed into them. He locked eyes with Phil and Phil repeated one message.
Death.
Death was near.
Phil’s wings flared up, his expression painted over with grief.
Kristin was hungry.
Hungry for blood .