Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A quiet life had its own special type of tranquility.

Every day he would spend in his father’s bee garden, looking after sweet smelling blossoms that bloomed year-round, constant buzzing surrounding him as he shifted from flower to flower with his old, rusted watering can. Occasionally, some of the rust would leave a thin, red residue on his pinkish skin, hands coated in what he sometimes pretended was the blood of enemies, of the monsters that spawned in this world during the darkest hours of the night.

Maybe he had taken after his uncle Techno a little too much. Unlike Michael, Techno was a full-fledged piglin brute, with the battle skills and bloodlust to boot. The apparent chants of “blood for the blood god” echoed in his head constantly, leaving him ready for battle at any possible moment.

Michael, on the other hand? He had never touched a weapon in his life. Unlike his ancestors, he couldn’t shoot a crossbow. His hands had never settled on a golden blade. In fact, he’d rarely even seen them altogether. His parents were very careful to keep them away from him.

He’d been told stories, of course. He’d heard about how his parents had traversed the dangerous nether, fully kitted out in armor that had been specially modified with gold to keep piglins at bay, weapons that could kill someone with a single strike held tightly in clawed hands, more tucked into scabbards and sheaths at their belts. They had found him wandering, a young zombie that didn’t immediately try to attack them, too entranced by their gold to even realize who they were. They, eventually, returned to their home, where the skies were open and clear and blue, a color he had never seen until they entered his original home.

A while passed before they returned to take him home.

His zombie traits couldn’t be cured, but they’d done their best to keep them at bay. The green spots on his skin that he’d remembered seeing when he was younger had vanished, turning only into a darker patch of pink. His blindness in his left eye had not gone away, but he had nothing to compare it with. He had never been full sighted, at least not in his limited memory from the nether, so it wasn’t like he was disappointed about it. The only thing he might have wanted both eyes to see was to only hold more resemblance to his parents.

Ranboo and Tubbo, his dads, could not have been more different. One was half enderman, with clawed hands and split-colored skin, with a particular habit of memory loss and carting around a book which he occasionally jotted down in. He was tall and lanky, like his enderman cousins, but strong, too. Tubbo, on the other hand, was half ram, with cool-looking horns that curled around his ears, and almost as buff as Techno. Michael had watched him work, wide eyed through the window of his bedroom, in the sleeveless shirt that made him look that much stronger than anything else he had ever laid eyes on, carting around logs and stacks of wood that even Ranboo couldn’t carry with an ease that almost made Michael jealous.

Tubbo had scars, too, that rippled down his face, narrowly missing his eye before continuing down his neck and arm. They weren't the only ones, either, but those were clearly burn scars that barely missed maiming him permanently. Others were from quick slashes, or, in Ranboo’s case, from one embarrassing moment when he tried to befriend a village cat.

Of course, he asked about their origins. His dads had given each other a strange look, before cautiously explaining about their original server, a place known as the “Dream SMP.” Michael had heard this name before; in fact, he had heard Ranboo muttering about someone named Dream and how his visions were getting worse, rather than better. They recalled wars, chaos, and explosions, a land of nothing but violence, all orchestrated by Dream, who they managed to throw into an inescapable prison.

Some of his memories did include his younger years, from his time on the SMP. Most notably, it was of a screeching alarm, of his parents running around, panicked, and Ranboo scooping him into his arms, making a run for a forest he could barely remember, begging someone for help. They had joined this server soon after, and it was his home, the place he had grown up in. This was the land he knew like the back of his hand, the place he had traversed for years and years.

Now, he was almost fully grown. A full-fledged zombie piglin that had only ever seen the nether once. 

Both of his parents could take on anything. Any time a skeleton or creeper came a little too close to their property for comfort, one of them went out, armorless, with a singular weapon, and slayed it without any semblance of hesitation, even when an arrow hit them by accident or a creeper snuck up behind them and blew up. Whatever it was, they easily shook it off, and patched up the piece of earth, lamenting about the grass being ruined, or plucking discarded arrows to later throw into the lava. He had snatched a skeleton’s arrow once, observing the rotted wood and the broken, cracked flint that was the head. These, on average, did more damage than normal arrows, since they couldn’t be pulled out as smoothly without causing damage. However, they also had the added side effect of not flying as smoothly or straight, and overall just a nuisance to deal with. 

Since he didn’t know how to make his own arrows, he had to experiment with the crafting table in his room for a while, eventually making his own, sharp, flawless dozen arrows. It hadn’t taken too long after that to craft his own bow with spider’s string. He would have preferred a crossbow, but those were harder to make, and his parents sure as ender wouldn’t have given him the recipe.

When his parents were out, or occupied with other things, he would shoot at the trees in the distance. Surprisingly, he seemed to have a natural talent for it, only copying the moves and stances that Ranboo did whenever he fired off flaming arrows at mobs, lighting up the area around the creatures so Tubbo could charge in with an axe. His aim was, for the most part, accurate. Techno would have been proud of him.

Unfortunately, they did end up catching him, right as he was pulling another arrow from the quiver at his hip, about to set it against the wood and shoot an apple out of a nearby tree. Tubbo had screeched, running up right as he was lowering the bow to glance around, confused, and pulling it from his hands. His parents had taken the quiver, which was fair, since he had stolen it from them, and gave him a lecture long past his usual bedtime about acting carelessly and violently.

They believed that his tendencies were natural, but still wanted to avoid having him be “violent” or “destructive.” He didn’t really understand why they were so assertive on this one matter alone, when they would let him visit other servers for weeks at a time, but he tried to let it be for the time being.

After that, understandably, they sent him to stay with Techno, who would hopefully understand his “piglin fascinations,” for a few days. That may or may not have been a good decision on their part.

Uncle Techno mostly respected their wishes, but insisted that he at least “know how to shoot properly in case something happened” and lent him a hand-crafted crossbow, enchantments carved into the wood. He’d spent the weekend shooting at targets, apples, and whatever his grandad Phil allowed him to shoot at. They’d even spend one dangerous night outside, where he’d learned to shoot moving targets and actual mobs. The adrenaline and action had been exhilarating, and he couldn’t wait to do more.

Even Techno put his foot down, once Michael dared to suggest training with a sword or an axe. He did not end up learning any close combat. Techno emphasized that he didn’t want Michael to turn out like him, and to live his life peacefully, without bloodshed, and without the voices that piglin brutes had.

Eventually, Michael garnered the courage to ask about Dream.

He didn’t exactly remember where, but somewhere he’d heard that they had once been sparring partners. Friends, even. It might have been when they were off-server, and out doing something else with Techno. 

As it turned out, Techno had once been locked in prison with Dream. Upon his own breakout, he intended to return to break his partner out, but had instead gotten news that Dream had broken out, as well. After that, he hadn’t been contacted in any form, by letter or communicator or even in person. Dream hadn’t been seen since, and the server was shortly after abandoned. Fifteen years, and nobody had heard from Dream.

Dream was apparently the reason, though, that Tubbo and Ranboo were on edge any time Michael thought to pick up a weapon. They didn’t want him to experience what they had gone through.

Michael, on the other hand, disagreed. They were all strong, physically and mentally. They were everything he wasn’t. Surely they would allow him to gain his place among people, even if he wasn’t born among them, just like Techno.

For a while, though, his curiosity was satiated. He returned home to find the crafting table in his room shifted instead to the living room, where he could be watched when using it.

He still crafted a knife when Ranboo’s back was turned.

A good, long period where he was seen to have given up on violence was what he needed. There was a server he wanted to visit.

To pass the time, he turned to the other things he had been doing to occupy his time, to turn a blind eye to the desires to swing a sword like Ranboo or split a log like Tubbo. These were hobbies that they liked; encouraged, even. He took up baking as a suggestion from Aunt Niki, but that wasn’t the only thing he indulged in.

Music was always something he enjoyed, even if his dad always got a strange look on his face any time he played a specific music disk. So, without much prompting, he picked up a couple talents for instruments. His parents even took the time to hand craft them for him, though they didn’t have the skill to make any of the more complicated woodwinds. A harp and a lyre, or even a violin were easy enough, but his flute and horn and all the other winds had been bought from off-world. Out of all of them, he really had no favorites, but he did tend to like the ones that weren’t all that heavy.

Of course he loved his instruments, and he loved playing them more than anything else, but there was always something else that was bothering him. There would always be something else. During that brief moment with Techno, when he hit a creeper for the first time with not only one but three arrows, and he watched it fall to the ground, dead, he thought that maybe he had found it. That was the thought, the instincts that he had been seeking, the desires that he had been following. Not just violence, but actually doing something worthwhile with weaponry that he had never been allowed to touch.

Popular servers and worlds that he had been to before had many types of fighting-style games where he could practice with a blade. That being said, there was nobody to train him, nor mobs to fight. 

The Dream SMP, however, at least had one of those things.

As a zombie piglin, most mobs ignored him. Since that was the case, even at night he was relatively safe. Even if he attacked them first, most wouldn’t dare to touch someone born of the Nether. 

But he knew how dangerous it would be to have bad habits ingrained into him from the start. It had taken him weeks to break an old habit of positioning when playing that had ended up causing pain and minor discomfort in his wrists, only a few years before. No, he needed a real, proper teacher. He didn’t expect to find one on the ragged remains of a server long abandoned, but maybe he might get some real answers.

And maybe whatever was left would lead him to a teacher. There was nobody in mind, but the people of the SMP were all wickedly dangerous. It was high time he followed in their footsteps.

Without much notice, and without informing his parents, he packed up his items into his rucksack, even pausing to snatch a few iron tools and scabbards from the armory that Tubbo had long since forbidden him from entering. Before he left the house; he scrawled a half-legible note, picked up his violin’s case, and took off before the sun rose, before the rooster’s call would alert them.

Michael jumped servers on his own for the first time, emerging in the hub where he could search for specific servers in the large bar that appeared in the center of his vision. The place he was intending to go was a whitelist-only server, but he concluded that since he had been born there, it was surely someplace he was allowed to be.

And when his fingers keyed in the name “Dream”, the SMP was the first to pop up. He tapped on it, waiting with baited breath.

The world began to load around him, summoning blocks under his feet and over his head. Trees appeared in the distance, the whole world green and overgrown and bright. Just as he took only a few steps forward, rabbits jumped around his feet.

Only, the overgrown look of the place made him the slightest bit hopeful that people still remained. When there were no more people on a server, time itself seemed to freeze. That hadn’t happened here.

“Hello?” he called out anxiously. Predictably, nothing responded. 

Starting to explore the vast lands, he looked over every abandoned home, every rock and tree that he passed on the worn wooden path away from spawn. As he neared some buildings, red, decaying vines seemed to grow wildly, curling around windowsills and hanging off of rooftops. A thick, sweet smell filled the air, the strong scent of rot and death. Michael raised the collar of his shirt over his nose to block it out, but it scarcely helped.

This must have been the remains of what his parents called “the Egg”. The last he had heard of it, the thing was still growing, its influence spreading. Members of the SMP had fallen victim to it already; but now that they were out of range, it seemed to have faded. No voices seemed to whisper in the back of his mind, as some of the former ‘servants’ of the egg had implied, so he continued on, poking at one with a stick before he carried on. It, luckily, didn’t move.

A giant crater, covered by a roof of cracked glass, appeared after almost an hour of walking. Michael was curious, but didn’t dare stepping onto the obviously damaged flooring. Fall damage was not something he wanted to risk his life for. A few minutes were spent poking around the ruins, but he didn’t stay long, not when a tiny glimpse of obsidian in the distance caught his attention.

While he walked, he tugged his communicator from where it had been resting on his belt, stuck there by some kind of magic. Gifted to him by Phil, who had a couple of spares, it was really only intended to contact his parents when he wasn’t home. Despite that, though, he chose to send a message out to the server, and figure out who still remained online.

<You whisper to Server> Who else is here?

<You whisper to Server> It’s Michael, Ranboo and Tubbo’s kid? I came back to explore but someone is still here, right?

Maybe it would have been nice to be alone, but he couldn’t help but feel relieved that he wasn’t. The entire place gave off a strange, eerie vibe, almost as if he was constantly being watched. Had he been paying a bit more attention, maybe he would have noticed a deep brown cloak hiding amongst the trees, blue eyes fixed on his every move.

The prison was foreboding, tall, and towering over the lands around it. As he got closer, he could have sworn he felt the old spirit of a guardian that had passed. Though his parents hadn’t informed him of much, he knew enough to piece together that there must have been one or more elder guardians in the area to prevent people from breaking in or out. 

Michael called it his ‘mob sense’, being able to tell what monsters had been or were in the area. Even though it was useful, he hadn’t gotten much of a chance to toy with it. The most he could tell were a few chickens that got out of their pen, or a fox, on occasion. If he was lucky.

Now, he could tell that something was inside the prison. What, or who, he didn’t know, but they weren’t hostile; that much he knew. 

Reaching towards his belt, he was almost surprised to find a pickaxe—this one diamond, with an efficiency enchantment—that he nearly drew right then and there. His own curiosity had gotten him in trouble before, but this was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Breaking into an inescapable prison from fifteen years ago was sure to give him an adrenaline boost—and hopefully satisfy the small voice in the back of his head that urged him to use his newfound freedom.

Placing his instrument on the ground, far away from the saltwater, Michael swam to the big, hulking building in the middle of the water, readying his pickaxe for a swing. Unlike how obsidian normally acted, it seemed to be crumbling. Breaking.

The moment the tip of his pick smashed the first block, his communicator beeped. He paused for a moment to grab for it, intent on replying to whichever parent had messaged him, but was met not with one of his contacts.

< Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜ > C̴̝̳̤͇̪̓͑̔̊̅̚͜ḩ̵͓̎̈́̊́͝ē̸̼͈͍̄͛ç̵̻̥̯͆̉͐͑͆̀k̷̹̘̋ ̸͙̺̹́͆͆̕ȉ̸̛͎̥̭͙̻̞n̵̯̪͔͒̒̏͌̑͘ṣ̸̡̣̽̏͑̔i̴͕̙̺͎͍̟͎̍̽d̶̜̣̘͛͝ě̸̢͚̗͎̟̰̮ ̸̞͛͌̾̏͜͠ť̵̞̥̹͓͈̩͌͂̂̍h̸̢̬̗͎̺͍̥̃͊ẹ̷͙̠̬͔̆̈́͒̊̄͌̓ ̶̪̗̥̘̇͌̒͜͝m̴̨̛̱̫̥̻͎̥̏̋͆̑å̷͓̻̩̺͉͎̙̓ȉ̵͇̲̳͉̇͐ņ̸̛̥͙ͅͅ ̵̜̻̖̺̚ç̸̧͉͎͓̺̣͝e̵̛̹̯̪̪̮̩͛̐̊̚ͅl̷̠̼̰̤̟͌̅̆̕l̶̢̰̖̘͕̯̽̋̀͛̏.̶̰̝̬̤͕̗̹̓̇͝

“What the-” he murmured aloud. “The…main cell? I can barely read that.” Michael waited a beat, and then added, “is this server corrupted or something?”

< Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜ > R̵͙̙̘̙̳̄ë̷̥͕́͑͛̾͒̾t̸̡̢̝̤̗͖͋̾͊̈́ͅú̶̳͇̙͆̇̓̓̈r̶̨̞̤͎͉͚͆ṅ̶̳̝̱͊̊̍ ̵͓̠̻͉̗̮̾̎̈́̈́̈́̇t̵̩̣̠͖̀̎͛̀̾̋͌o̵̻͠ ̴̨͍̹͖̣̍̄̋̔͋̈ẗ̶̺͇́̑͐͗͝h̷̛̯̜̀͂̈́̐e̴̼̥̲͈͖̋̽̀̆͝ͅ ̷̦̺͈̓̄̍͒e̴̖͇̜͆͛̽̈͐͜n̶̗͔̣͎̪̼͐͌̆ṱ̷͖̝̀͆͗͆̋͜r̵̢̡͉̝̘̹̀ͅa̵̡̹͆́̈̓̚͘n̷̝̰̏̎̓̎̆̕̚c̵̹̼̣̲̣̩͕͊e̵͈̻̅̆.̴̲̯͉̼̦̏͂͜ ̵̠̰̹̮͍̠̔͘T̵̡͙͙̠̗͇̀̃̈́̉̓̂h̶͙̬̪͉̗̝͘ḛ̸̪̯̘̦̜̂ ̵̨̙͕͚͖̦͐͂͑̑̉͘p̸̗͓͓̗͋́̉͊̽͑̎͜ő̴̧r̴̮̬͍̙̐̍͊͑̋t̶̼̜̻͕͆͑͝a̵̩̤̫̼̺͓̿͊̂͜l̷̢͚͖͇̦̹̰̑̔͗ ̶̛̳̫̬̞̮ḯ̵̎̈́͜͝s̵̢̧̖̗̻͖̃̉̈̊̉̕ ̷̡͙̱̲̅̏̉͐̄ò̶͚́̈́͒̀ṕ̸̡̨͉̱̘̱̂̈́͒͗͘ẻ̵̩̖̽͒̎́̃͜͝n̵͓̮̂́̕.̵̩̹̞̦̇̑̏͝

Glancing back across the water, Michael sighed, letting his shoulders slump. “Really? I think I’d rather just bust in here myself, thanks.”

Even without mining fatigue, it was hard enough burrowing through several layers of already-crumbling rock, praying that the whole structure wouldn’t come down over his head and kill him there. He was acutely aware of his own heavy breaths, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Maybe he should have listened to the stranger before jumping in blind. Gods, how stupid was he, more ready to listen to the commands of a stranger over his own family.

Despite his reservations, he still burst through the interior walls of the prison. Where he was, he had no idea, but ending up in what looked like a monitoring room was better than walking right into a wall of lava. He was immune to it, of course, having lived in the nether and being part zombie, but it still wasn’t pleasant when unexpected.

The cameras, surprisingly enough, were mostly still functional. There was one labeled for the main cell, honoring the small request from the only other person online, and glanced curiously at the empty room. Something about the obsidian seemed wrong, and discolored. Unlike the rest of the building, though, it seemed strong and sturdy, unless you counted the crying obsidian that slowly dripped purple goo down the walls. A cracked, empty cauldron was against the wall, a broken lectern and chest just next to it. The chest had the lid completely removed, splintered to pieces. A stack of books sat just inside it.

But something else caught his eye.

A small white blur, easily passable as a small stack of pages or a feather of some kind, sat on top of the books. Maybe it was his own curiosity, maybe it was intuition, but that one little blur led him, step by step, to face a lava wall. Without any other hesitation, he dove right in.

His suspicions were correct, he realized, when he reached the cell. The obsidian was discolored, a strange, darkened shade of red that he had never seen before, besides maybe netherrack. He barely took a moment to inspect it, even running his fingers along the textured ridges of the block, kneeling down on the ground. Some of it rubbed off onto his hands, like rust, but the majority of it remained as a dye, splotchy in some places.

Natural senses came easy to him, but he wasn’t as well trained to notice such things as Techno.

Even he knew what blood smelled like.

The chains against the back wall confirmed his theory. The colored splotches of red were too close to be a coincidence to the corroded iron shackles. There even looked to be a collar, hanging suspended from only a few chains, and his stomach churned at the thought. It had been almost fifteen years since this prison was ever used. It shouldn’t have ever been used like this.

Now that he was acutely aware of it, everything seemed to give off a scent of blood and rot and death. It filled his nostrils, clogging his senses, and he gagged despite himself. He nearly dove right back into the lava, anything to get out of that room. 

But the little white blur refused to let him.

Taking in controlled lungfuls of air, only a few steps carried him over to the broken chest. Just a quick peek, and then he could leave.

He was greeted with something that set off his mob alerts like crazy.

It looked like a doll. Just a small, painted clay doll, some silver slivers along its surface, like tiny scars. It definitely seemed like something Dream would have made. That symbol was practically his brand.

Michael reached in to pick it up. When he made contact, he felt a slightly squishy, almost rubbery surface, the silver scars giving it a slightly rougher feel. So it wasn’t a clay doll. Whatever the case, it would melt if he wasn’t careful, so he cupped his hands tightly around it. If nothing else, it would make a cool-ish addition to his shelf back home.

Turning back toward the lava, he prepared himself to jump, and leap and swim in the molten rock, hopeful that the item in his hands wouldn’t burn, when he felt movement. He unclenched his hands, revealing the little thing. Under his surveillance, he noticed something.

It was breathing.

The tiny body rose up and fell down only the tiniest amount, but it was clear enough. This thing was alive. Somehow, by some miracle, it was alive.

He couldn’t just leave the mob in there to die—why it had spawned in the first place, he had no idea—but now that he knew it was living, he had to be more careful of the lava.

His bag, the one he took everywhere, was fireproof. It was thrown over his shoulder, an easily accessible place to get whatever he may need, whatever items he had chosen to bring along. There was space in there for it, and room where it wouldn’t risk being burned by the lava. Not that he knew what it felt like, but in theory that must be a horrible way to go.

“Let’s go, little buddy,” Michael muttered, placing the creature as gently as he could into his backpack. “I’m gonna take you out of here, okay?”

Before lava covered his ears, he could have sworn he heard a tiny squeak in reply.

By the time he had fully exited the prison, the horrible scent of the cell had cleared from his senses. He wasted no time in swimming back over to the mainland, and pulling out the little mob from his bag, setting it down gently in a small patch of grass. It shivered softly.

Apparently, it had taken him nearly a full day to get in and out of the prison, somehow unnoticed. The sun wasn’t quite yet setting, but it was starting to hang low in the sky. If they were both mobs, the dangerous ones that spawned at night shouldn’t be an issue, but that didn’t mean that Michael didn’t want a roof over their heads. Without any other options, he took the blob, and his things to the prison entrance.

When he turned his attention back to the creature, he noticed that it was following his movements, albeit sluggishly, beady eyes shifting as he trudged around the room, tugging plants and weeds out of the cracks in the flooring. It seemed to shy away, though, whenever he got any nearer, so he tried his best to stay away.

His food was split in half. He didn’t know what it ate, but it accepted the steak he offered, after a brief look of disbelief. More was tucked away in a small pouch that prevented it from going bad, and Michael ended up cooking another one after the little blob wolfed it down.

“I don’t suppose you know who is on the server, do you?” he asked, just as a way to quell the silence. It glanced up at him, still chewing on the slab of meat, and then looked back down at the food after a beat. 

Michael sighed. “Thought so.”

The mysterious player hadn’t responded, though, so maybe they wanted this mob out, and on the server grounds?

Whatever the case, he put out his campfire, stomping on the ashes, and curled up in the corner to sleep. After a few minutes, he felt the blob wiggle in between his arms, giving a small, content squeak. He couldn’t suppress the smile.

“Goodnight, little guy.”

As the sun rose, casting a small bit of light into his temporary shelter, a small, almost unnoticeable sound woke him up. He blinked blearily, pushing himself up onto his elbows. A quick glance at the open entrance turned into a long stare when he noticed a figure sitting against the wall of the doorway, knees tucked up to his chest; still and unmoving on top of the darkened blocks of the interior. They hadn’t made any attempt to leave.

“You—re up,” a gravelly voice spoke, so deep and scratchy that it seemed to be a wonder he could speak at all.

“Yeah,” he replied, rubbing the sleep out of his eye. “Who are you?”

“You d-don’t-” The man coughed, hacking and wheezing, shoulders shaking with strain as he tried to breathe, taking in a gasp of air. “-know me?”

If the orange prison uniform didn’t give it away, then this did. Michael sat up straight, crossing his legs just in front. Wisely, he stayed away.

“You’re Dream, right?”

There was silence in reply. Dream hung his head over his knees, almost ashamed, his whole body slumped over, battered and weak. Michael noticed, with a start, that the uniform hung off of his shoulders, exposing bony collarbones and scarred skin.

“You’ve been online all this time?”

And he let out a chuckle, dry and humorless, a small sob cutting it off.

“The p-prison prevents logouts.”

Michael gaped. “The—wait, you were stuck there? But Techno said you got out!”

“I don’t know w-what fantasy Techno’s got r-running through his head,” Dream muttered, voice already fading, words cracking partway through, “but he needs a b-brick slammed against it i-if he thinks I-I could get out on my own.”

“But he-” Michael’s mind whirred, trying to make sense of the whole situation. “He said you had regeneration and stuff as admin. So…couldn’t you break out and just…heal?”

“Admins lose a-abilities under stress.” The last word was barely a whisper, the man’s vocal cords cutting out. And after only a few words, too.

“I’m assuming you’re a hybrid, or a full mob? You must be the blob thing. Slime? Or something else?”

Dream didn’t even attempt to reply. His head fell back against the wall, exposing his heavily scarred face to the growing sunlight, eyes closed. Small tears barely glistened on his cheeks.

Lacking anything better to say, Michael got to his feet, and plodded over to his bag, in the near center of the room, by the remains of the campfire. “I’ll go find some sheep or something so I can craft clothes for you. I’ll leave my bag here, though, if you need anything.”

He tugged out a set of shears, turning back to the opening. They clicked against the metal hilt of his sword where they sat in Michael’s hand. “Who else is on the server, anyway?” 

Dream’s mouth opened, then closed again. As Michael drew closer, his breath seemed to catch in his throat.

“Can you…type it out on a communicator?”

There was a small nod, and Dream lifted his head back up, blinking his eyes open. They landed almost immediately on the silver shears. He shuddered.

“Here.” Michael took his communicator, and handed it over. Their fingers barely brushed.

Only server admins could see who was online. That meant Dream was the only one who could tell who messaged him, who knew he was still in prison.

But that begged the question of why that person didn’t break him out on their own.

The screen was tilted back around, slightly shaking as Dream held it back out, tightly gripping the base as if afraid he would drop it. The letters spelled out the name Callahan.

“Callahan?”

A nod.

“Who’s he?”

The communicator was tucked close to Dream, trembling fingers barely tapping the keys.

A god.

“Another admin?”

No.

“Like…an actual god?”

It’s complicated.

“Okay…” Michael gestured vaguely to the outside. “I’m gonna…go get wool. Let me know if someone contacts me, okay?”

Dream nodded again. His eyes didn’t leave the shears, keeping them locked in his vision as Michael stepped past. 

Weird.

It didn’t take too long to find the sheep—surprisingly enough, the entire server was covered with wildlife. There were a couple of creepers around that he easily dealt with: a couple good hits and they went down easy if he didn’t get too close. Some spider string was picked up on the way; hopefully good enough to make a bow. He had neglected to bring one on his trip.

Sheep were sheared, and soon enough he had a large mound of white fluff in his arms, the shears hanging back on his belt. He could craft it into clothes once he gathered some wood, but Michael didn’t want to dirty it by setting it down on the dirt, and thus be forced to wash it in the sea. He had also neglected to bring a crafting table, not that they were all that difficult to make.

Instead of going for the trees, he brought the wool back to leave inside, near Dream. The man quickly typed out a message to him about getting more for beds, and he readily agreed. Though he doubted that Dream could, he asked him to gather some supplies if he felt up to it. They would be alright on food for several days, and the roof would definitely hold, so shelter wasn’t an issue either. Really, the only thing they did need was probably a crafting table, but Dream didn’t exactly look like he was in the condition to punch trees. Michael could grab some wood after he got some more wool.

He only needed a few more animals, depending on how thick their wool was. Given the situation, he probably should at least wash the dirt off of it, especially since he’d be making blankets and pillows. If he was lucky, maybe just three more would be enough, given that the wool from one was already more than enough to make a simple shirt and pants. 

Just then, he realized that Dream wasn’t wearing shoes. Michael didn’t know how to make those, since he has hooves, and hoped that he’d be able to work without them for a little while.

Michael could barely see over the fluff, some of it tumbling out of his grip already, and hurried back to the prison’s entry hall to deposit it before he lost any more. Predictably, Dream had not gotten the wood he needed for a crafting table, but there were small piles of sticks that definitely weren't there before. They could probably be used in firewood, or an axe since he didn’t have one. 

Dream himself was hunched over against one of the columns, staring at his rucksack full of food with a mixture of longing and guilt.

“Hey Dream?”

The man jumped, startled, and turned to glance at him quickly. He seemed to almost want to stand, but ceased in the motion with a hand already braced against the wall.

“Did you eat anything while I was gone?”

A head shake was given in response. 

“I mean, it’s nowhere close to lunchtime but we didn’t really eat when we got up, so go for it, really. I don’t usually eat breakfast anyway.” He pondered it for a moment, glancing at Dream’s skeletal face, then offered, “I could always get something lighter; I mean I usually eat meat so that’s just about all I’ve got, unless you want mushrooms. There were some apples growing nearby, if you want those.”

The look of relief on Dream’s face was obvious. “Sure,” he croaked. His eyes dropped, and landed on Michael’s instrument case. The latter was about to turn and grab the apples—along with some wood—when Dream spoke again. “You play?”

“Yeah. For…five years now? Give or take?” 

“I’ve played for seven,” Dream murmured, “since I was fourteen.”

“You’re welcome to use it,” Michael offered warmly. “But it’s probably a little bit out of tune.”

He shook his head. “Not anytime soon.”

Biting his lip, Michael considered pulling away to go hunt for the nearby apple trees, but instead blurted out the question that had been on the tip of his tongue since they were introduced.

“Can you train me?”

Dream appeared mildly startled. “With what?”

“Fighting.” Suddenly uncomfortable, Michael subconsciously copied Dream’s fiddling. “You used to go toe to toe with Techno, right? I—I want to be strong. Like him and my parents.”

“Who—” Dream cut himself off, coughing, but Michael understood the question.

“Tubbo and Ranboo are my dads.”

“You?” Again, his voice trailed off into a whisper.

“My name’s Michael.”

A head shake was given as a response. “I can’t-”

“You don’t have to spar or anything,” he said hurriedly. “Just…basics. If I learn it wrong initially it’ll hinder fighting later.” Michael waited a moment, then awkwardly added, “I’m just gonna…go get those apples now.”

Dream ducked his head in what Michael accepted as a nod, and he hurried away. The sun in the sky told him that it really was a bit too late to be eating breakfast, but it wasn’t as if his sleep schedule had been all that great to begin with.

Wood was obtained, apples were gathered, and a crafting table was built and shoved into the corner. Michael was about to craft an axe, Dream’s signature weapon, according to Techno, but immediately made a sword at the expression on his face, somewhere between apprehension and disgust. He passed it to Dream, and crafted some clothes and blankets for the approaching night.

As it turned out, Dream had held up decently well over the past fifteen years. At the very least, though he seemed to have a limp, there were no displaced broken bones. When he asked, Dream alluded to having to set them himself. Michael regretted asking, but at least the conversation allowed Dream to sit still enough for Michael to cut the mats out of his blonde hair, freshly wet and washed in the sea. A little wet, but dressed in new clothes, including a green hoodie that Michael had the foresight to dye with cacti he picked up earlier, Dream looked almost like Techno had explained.

Only…

“How old are you, Dream?”

Dream turned to stare at him. “What?”

“You look like twenty. Shouldn’t you be like, I dunno, thirty five?”

There was a small beat where Dream contemplated a response. “I’m a bit like Philza.”

Michael blinked, mildly surprised. “You’re immortal?”

“Something like that.” 

And that, it seemed, was the end of the conversation.

The next day, Michael was shaken awake, bright and early, before the sun had even begun to rise. Dream was there, hand on his shoulder, watching his face carefully. He had an odd expression that Michael couldn’t even begin to describe.

“The mobs are still out, so there’s time. Grab your sword.”

Five minutes later, Michael was up and waiting, weapon raised and clenched tightly in his hands while Dream muttered small pointers. Somehow, he seemed less skeletal than the day before.

“Your power comes in a solid downswing, with gravity,” he spoke, keeping his voice down to not alert the wandering mobs. “Your best bet is to swing downwards at an angle towards their chest. They’re smaller than you, so be wary. They can hit you a lot more easily. Stay light on your feet and move quickly.” Dream’s hand gently closed over Michael’s own, bringing the sword up just the tiniest bit. “I’ll be behind you. Really, I’d suggest armor for your first time, but you should be alright on your own. They won’t attack you until you get close, since you’re also a mob.”

“Yeah,” Michael replied, gritting his teeth. He’d never actually fought something head on, and the prospect was making him a little nervous. The tip of his blade was noticeably quivering.

“Battle jitters,” Dream said calmly, slowly stepping in front of him, sword in hand. “They happen. Don’t think about it too much.” He scanned the flattened land ahead, and then pointed out into the distance, where a stumbling figure was barely visible. “Head for that zombie. I’ll take the spider on its left.”

“Okay,” Michael murmured. The knots in his stomach only wound up tighter as he took shaky breaths, walking forward on unsteady feet. It was just a zombie. It was just a zombie.

He was only a few feet away when it turned and started moving towards him.

Behind him, Dream nudged his shoulder. “Now.”

Quick moving feet barely made a sound in the tall grass as Dream broke away to deal with the spider. Michael tightened the grip on his sword, and made a run for the zombie. Just as he was told, he slashed downwards, across the creature’s chest. It faltered for a second, but continued moving closer, hands outstretched.

“Kill it!” Dream screeched from somewhere behind him. Without any better plan, Michael pulled his sword and ran it straight through. The zombie made an odd groaning noise, and went limp, pulling Michael’s sword out of its chest cavity as it fell. When it hit the ground, it turned into dust, leaving only a small heap of rotting flesh on the ground.

“Oh gross,” he said, kicking it away. Light was barely starting to creep over the horizon, past the looming obsidian prison.

“You wanted a bow, right? It dropped string.”

“Yeah,” Michael answered easily, letting out an unsteady breath. “I’ll be able to make one today.”

“When the sun rises, I’ll show you some stances. And more defense. Shields, if you have iron, are really helpful.”

He could barely see Dream in the dark, but wandered close to him anyway. “Thanks again, Dream.”

A small flash of white told him that the message had been received. “You’re welcome, Michael.”

They slowly edged into routine. Wake up before the crack of dawn to slay the monsters of the night before, eat something small and light for breakfast, continue training with whatever Dream or Michael wanted to do that day. Once or twice, Dream had asked him to play his violin, which he had agreed without too much convincing. The music seemed to always calm them both down, and they usually lazed around for the rest of the day after it.

Within only a couple of weeks, Dream appeared to have returned to a healthy weight, something that astounded Michael. Adding on the training, and hints of muscle were slowly being regained under his skin. The afternoon was usually a period where they relaxed, or sometimes hunted. In Michael’s case, it was building a small house for the two of them. The prison entry was great, and it held, but he could see Dream’s look of apprehension every time they stepped even mildly close to the portal. Something else was needed.

Something that concerned him, though, was that he hadn’t received any form of communication from either of his parents. At all. Not one little message. Surely by now they had to have gotten worried, right?

As it turned out, he was exactly right.

It was early in the morning, just after breakfast, and he was sparring, actually sparring for the first time, with Dream. They were using wooden swords and leather armor, shields held in their other hands. Michael was almost bouncing from how excited he was.

In the middle of one of his swings, Dream faltered. He momentarily tilted his head to the side, and Michael slowly straightened up, lowering the weapon. “Everything okay?”

“Someone’s joined the server.”

Instantly, his spine stiffened. “Someone else is here?”

“I didn’t whitelist anyone else. Oh, Prime, this isn’t good.”

“What do we do? They don’t know we’re here, right?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured softly. “They’ve been here before. And that means they know me. Prime, Prime, this isn’t good.”

“Would it help if I grabbed the iron stuff?”

Dream did not reply, stiff as a board, eyes wide. This wasn’t the first time Michael had seen this reaction, and by now he at least partially understood how to deal with it. One of the first things he had learned with it, though, was to not allow the glint of metal into Dream’s vision.

This was…really bad.

“I’m going to grab my sword,” he warned, before sprinting towards the temporary camp. His sword was out, as was Dream’s, and he grabbed them both, sliding his own into the leather sheath that he still kept at his side during training. Turning back to the open field, he joined back with Dream, still unmoving, breath short and quick.

“Michael!”

Both of them stiffened at the sudden yell. 

Both of them knew that voice.

“Michael!”

And there was one more. Also familiar.

It appeared that Michael’s dads had found where he was after all.

“Stay behind me,” he said quietly, twirling Dream’s sword in his grip. “I’ll get us out of this.”

When they finally came into view, Dream finally sprung back to life, stumbling back into the grass. Michael raised the sword higher, the breeze ruffling his hair. For a moment, nobody spoke.

“Get away from him, Michael.” Tubbo’s voice had gone tense, and audibly scared.

Michael glanced back at his mentor, his teacher, only a shield and a small bit of leather armor to his name. No longer a threat.

“Dream’s my tutor. You refused to teach me, so I had to find another way.” Michael twirled the sword in his hand.

In the end, he was proud of his choice.

“If you want to take him away, you’ll have to go through me first.”

Chapter Text

With nothing but the cool breeze keeping Dream grounded in the present, there was little Michael could do but stand by, weaponry in hand, in front of him, facing down two of the people that agreed to put him into the prison in the first place. None of this could be helping, none of this was helping, but it was all Michael could do. He couldn’t protect his mentor from his own inner demons and fight off both of his parents.

They had been training for years; they knew everything about combat there was to learn. Tubbo and Ranboo weren’t perfect, but they were damn near it. Michael had been learning the basics of how to use a sword for mere weeks in comparison. His only advantage was that they wouldn’t want to hurt him. Neither did Michael want to attack, nor did he really want to defend himself against them, but he would to defend Dream, uncharacteristically still and silent save for his labored breathing.

“Dream’s dangerous,” Tubbo said, audibly nervous. “Michael, please put the sword down. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Dad, I know enough. I know what I’ve heard from you, and Techno, and from Dream. I also know that Dream’s been locked in a prison for the past sixteen years, and I’m not going to let you throw him back in there. Not a chance in Prime.”

This time, Ranboo spoke up, his voice painfully placating and understanding. “I don’t know what he’s told you, Michael, but he’s a manipulative person. There’s no way he’s been in prison for that long. We told you: he broke out before we left the SMP.” 

Michael clenched his sword tightly. “And I’m supposed to believe that when I broke into the prison on Callahan’s orders, and found Dream stuck in the main cell.” He made sure to lock eyes with Ranboo. “He never escaped prison.”

“We were all there!” Tubbo said exasperatedly. “He must have known you logged on, Michael. He’s a master manipulator, who’s to say he hasn’t gotten full access to the prison and can control it with a single thought? Dream’s an admin! They’re practically gods!”

“He told me that the prison blocked admin abilities!” Michael argued. “Even if he actually had gotten out, he hasn’t bothered anyone for years! He’s left you alone, why can’t you do the same?!”

“Because he’s gone after the people I care about.” Tubbo hefted his sword. “You can’t understand, Michael, what he’s done. To me, to Ranboo, to-”

“I don’t care!” he shrieked. “That’s not him anymore! Will you just take one minute and just look at him?!” 

There was much to look at. His skinny frame, void of any muscle. The marks that stretched over his face and neck, collar shaped scars running around his throat in patches of burned and warped skin, the short sleeved shirt that seemed to hang over bony shoulders, exposing more lines of torment. His hair was a stark white, no longer its old golden color like Uncle Tommy’s.

Michael knew it didn’t look pretty. He knew that Ranboo would be inclined to hear him out, that he would hold Tubbo back from attacking. They could read him like an open book, and communication went both ways. He had lived with them almost his whole life; at least according to his memories. They were his parents, he knew their tells and they knew his. Tubbo was vicious and violent toward his enemies. Ranboo would prefer to talk things out with people who were willing to reason.

As he had expected, Ranboo leaned down to whisper something into Tubbo’s ear. His dad’s hand clenched around the netherite axe, and he mirrored the sentiment with Dream’s iron sword, drawing his own from where it rested on his hip. There would not be a fight between them that day, at least not physically, but it didn’t hurt to look prepared.

“Fine.” Tubbo slowly lowered his weapon. “Fine. I’ll talk with Dream.”

Michael sheathed Dream’s sword, keeping his own loosely in his hand. “Promise me you won’t hurt him.”

“We won’t hurt him,” Ranboo replied softly. “He hasn’t been seen in years. We need to be sure that you are safe around him.”

It took every molecule in Michael’s body to not make a snappy retort. “You’ll be waiting for a little while, then.”

Ranboo’s head tilted ever so slightly to the left. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, Michael lowered his weapon, hiding it behind his back as he turned to face Dream. The wind blew his hair into his eyes, and he took a moment to shake it away. A quick gesture to his parents reminded them to stay quiet. Michael made sure that he remained absolutely still.

“Dream?” he said, as softly as he could. “You there?”

When there was no response, he did his best to hold in a sigh. “Dads, I’m taking Dream back to our camp. Don’t follow us.”

Their immediate protests fell silent when Michael marched forward, lightly setting his hand on Dream’s arm. “I’m gonna grab your shoulder now, okay?” Silence was his only reply, aside from a stiff exhale when his fingers barely dug into Dream’s skin. This was bad. Really, really bad—maybe even worse than the time Dream had burst into tears, pleading with Michael not to hurt him. 

Dream had never been entirely unresponsive. There had always been some element of fear that kept him grounded. Once, it was Michael’s shears, which was an awful experience. Another time, it was an iron axe. That too, was horrible. And Michael had just been working on their cottage!

“Let’s go to the house,” he eventually said, a pit forming in his stomach. There was no roof, and the inside wasn’t quite decorated, but it was far away from the weapons and materials scattered about the prison entryway. The floor was still grass, but at least it was preferable to obsidian.

Dream was limping again, almost his entire weight on Michael as they stumbled along. Quiet footsteps were in the grass behind him, the sharp sound of metal hitting against metal as weapons clinked together. His parents were following.

He slowly stopped moving. “I said leave us be,” he stressed. “You don’t know how to handle this, and you hate him. I don't want you anywhere near him until he’s ready.”

“Michael-”

“No!” Dream cringed from his shout, and Michael took a moment to breathe before glancing back towards his parents, arm still around Dream’s shoulder. “I’m almost an adult; I know how to handle myself. I broke Dream out of prison myself with a pickaxe long after the guardians died, I’ve been dealing with whatever trauma he got from the torture that this server put him through, and now you still want to kill him? You still think he’s a threat?” All the resentment that he had taken such care to hide from Dream bubbled up to the surface, and Michael exploded before his parents had the chance to defend themselves. “I’m not a child! And you threw him into a torture chamber, so this is your godsdamned fault! You dare to think that he would hurt me, someone who has no reason to be cruel to him, after he has just spent the last fifteen years of his life in hell incarnate! I’d be glad if he actually tried to attack you! Because you would deserve it!” 

He turned away, not bearing to see the looks on their faces. A voice in the back of his mind told him to scream at them more. “Go home. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” With a gentle nudge, he moved on slowly, Dream stumbling along. This time, no footsteps continued behind him.

As much as it pained his heart, Michael was relieved that they didn’t follow.

Carefully, he led Dream to the product of a few days worth of labor, setting him down against the cool, wooden wall, right on a small patch of grass that he had not yet gotten rid of. “I’ll be right back; promise. I’m just going to grab your blanket from the camp.”

It only took a few minutes, during which time Michael made sure that his parents had left the server and scouted out the area, but he returned with a bright red blanket that he and Dream had dyed with the crushed petals of some nearby flowers—none of the egg variety, as Michael had objected to it strongly. It was soft in his arms, with a corner of rabbit fur from when Dream had taught him how to skin them, though he kept far away from the knife and looked a little sick when the blade tore easily through the skin. While mismatched and as colorful as the rabbits around the area had been, it felt nice under his hands and a quiet form of comfort. There had been no fur in the prison.

The air had changed. It felt darker; colder. More ominous. The wind had started to pick up, and he shivered as he noticed clouds hovering over the edge of the horizon. He’d have to pull them under some shelter or build a mismatched roof while Dream suffered in his own head. The drag of a saw against wood might draw out even more unpleasant memories. And gods forbid he hears the sound of an axe.

There was movement, upon entering the doorway and past the uninstalled door that was left leaning against the wall. In front of Dream knelt another man, a deep brown cloak speckled in white covering his shoulders and draping in front of him. On his head sat two curved antlers, intertwined with flower vines that Michael belatedly recognized as morning glories.

“Hey!” 

Dream noticeably cringed, and the man turned to face him, a finger held up to his lips. What looked like blue paint was spread over his brown eyes, practically war paint, with small patches of lighter skin that almost looked like the spots on a deer. No words were spoken between them, but he raised a health potion from the confines of his cloak, shaking the contents and tilting his head. It definitely glowed the usual color as healing, but…

“Who are you?” Michael demanded, a hand falling to where his sword usually sat, the blanket tumbling to the ground. “Step away from him! Now!”

The man dropped the potion into the grass, standing with his hands held out, palm up. Michael scanned his body but, save for a singular knife at his belt, he didn’t appear to be carrying anything dangerous.

“The knife.” Michael held his hand out, and, wordlessly, the blade was pulled from his belt and handed over. Now, he held the power here. The man shrugged, and looked back down at Dream. He mimed drinking at Michael, and, almost confusedly, Michael shook his head.  “Do you not speak?”

There was a slight jerk of the head. No, this man did not speak. 

“Have you been on the server with Dream?”

A nod. There was some kind of gesture, and then the man shook his hand from side to side. 

“And you never tried to break him out??”

It looked like the guy brought his hands up to sign something, fingers moving in foreign patterns before aborting the movement, waving his palms dismissively. He instead pulled a communicator from a small hook on his belt, typing in it furiously. A few moments later, Michael’s own communicator went off, and he picked it up to read the message.

< Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜ > Gods are not allowed to meddle in mortal affairs.

“But it’s not a mortal affair,” Michael argued, squinting at the familiar name before glancing back up. “Dream’s not mortal, is he?”

< Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜ > No, he is not. But I cannot remove him from a prison that blocks all admin abilities.

< Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜ > The god XD abandoned this land a long time ago to follow George. He is the only one who could have broken him out.

“You’re not mortal either, are you, Callahan?”

<Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜> No.

“Then you couldn’t at least have tried?? I broke in there with practically nothing!”

<Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜> I do not expect someone raised by mortals to understand my reasons. 

“No, I do not. You immortals have to be so complicated!” Callahan raised an eyebrow, but still Michael continued. “Dream was in a horrible situation! He could have used the help! Don’t try to help him now that he doesn’t need you anymore!” Michael crossed his arms, throwing the knife into the dirt. “Get out of my house.”

Clouds seemed to roll over the sun, covering them all in shadow. The faint clap of thunder was heard, from only a few miles away. If they waited any longer in silence, Michael almost felt like the wind would blow.

Callahan stood, typing out message after message but deleting each one before it could be sent. He glanced up, then back down at Dream, his brows furrowed. Something resembling shame made its way over his features. Eventually, he managed a response.

<Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜> Dream was my student. He has always been my responsibility.

<Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜> I cannot change the past. His path was one to walk alone.

<Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜> It is regrettable. But I cannot interfere. I have spent the last fifteen years freeing this place of corruption. As the Admin of this land, Dream is the only one who can complete my work.

“That doesn’t change my point of view,” Michael replied, looking up from his communicator, eyes narrowed. “I don’t want you here. You knew he didn’t leave the prison, which is more than I can say for the rest of the server. I don’t care if you want to help, I don’t care if you have your ‘godly reasons’ or whatever for not breaking him out of the prison, and I don’t care if you want to stick around here. Leave. Now.”

There was no movement for a moment, Michael getting increasingly more worried that he would have to force the man out. Then, Callahan turned on his heel, brown cloak swishing, and started towards one of the several doorways that Michael had not yet filled in. His knife was left, abandoned, on the floor.

<Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜> I will assist with your house, little Godling. Then, I will leave.

A second communicator dropped to the ground and Michael opened his mouth to say something else, yet still Callahan continued typing.

<Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜> This is Dream’s communicator. There is another set of netherite tools in the Warden’s office. It will help work progress smoothly. Keep them away from Dream.

<Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜> I would get them now. I can gather materials in the meantime. A storm is brewing, and I would not advise moving Dream anywhere else.

“I’m not leaving him alone with you,” Michael answered stubbornly. The hand at his side tightened into a fist.

The man shrugged loosely. 

<Ć̸̤͓a̸̻̝͚͒̂ļ̴͎̎̇̔ͅl̷̛͉̚͘a̵̙͖̔̅̈͘̚h̷̢̫̬̆̎̓͝ǎ̶̧̪͑͒̓͊n̸̨̛̊͜> Suit yourself. The storm won’t be far away, though. I’ll at least get a roof on the place.

Agonizing it over for a few moments, Michael finally snapped, “Fine. But I’m not happy about this.”

With one last glance at Dream, still pressed against the wall, head buried in his knees and hands tightly wound through his hair, breaths coming out in short gasps, Michael turned and hurried towards the looming obsidian prison. He couldn’t take long.

There was little doubt that Callahan wouldn’t try to hurt Dream. However twistedly, he did seem to care. It didn’t exactly soothe Michael’s nerves, though. Just like Techno, probably because of their shared piglin traits, he had always been protective of things that he considered ‘his.’ Now, Dream was a part of that, over the month or so that they had spent together. In the same way that he cared about his tools or his weapons, he cared about Dream. Nobody else could touch him, not if he had anything to say about it.

Maybe it was a little possessive, but Techno never seemed to care about it, so neither did Michael. The only thing that really bothered either of them was their easily distracted nature—particularly to gold.

Which was why, once Michael entered the Warden’s office, he froze.

Right in the corner, right next to the open door that led to what looked like a bathroom, was a suit of armor, left covered in dust on an armor stand. Still, under the glow from the enchantments, it shone in dim lighting, beautiful netherite edged in solid gold. The craftsmanship was obvious—the skill and care even more so.

Michael approached the armor, a hand already raised, fingers pressed to the chestplate. It…seemed about his size. And he could adjust it, anyway. He swiped his fingertips along the pristine surface, bringing with it fifteen years worth of dust. He couldn’t just leave it here, lost to time. By the looks of things, it hadn’t even been worn. Compared to his parents armor, chipped and scratched and repairs evident, this set seemed newly crafted and enchanted, never to be touched after the server was abandoned.

Next to the gear, on the opposite side of the bathroom door, were two chests, each one large enough to easily hold weaponry, so he tore his eyes away from the stand to grab what he came here for. 

Neither chest was locked, so he shoved open the first one and promptly recoiled at the sight. Each weapon was pristine, unrusted, save for the shears that looked rusted, but all were covered in a congealed dark red substance that dulled the shine. The scent was thick with iron, the distinct smell of blood. Even with the enchants he could see engraved on each hilt, which would have made having them worth it, Michael wasn’t sure he wanted to pick any of them up. Each one told a story he never wanted to hear.

Tentatively, he opened the second chest. It only held a shovel and a hoe, both thankfully clean. The tools he needed, though, were currently covered in Dream’s blood.

Steeling his nerves, Michael picked up the axe, breathing shallowly to not get any more of the smell in his lungs. This one seemed by far the most used. Even the blade had slightly dulled, and the wooden hilt was spattered with dry blood where he held it on the grip. At least the bathroom was right there, and he could wash off the torment. If the faucets still worked. 

The amount of red that stained his hands couldn't be scrubbed off, no matter how much he tried. The weapons, though, gleamed brightly, as the inscriptions on each blade could finally make themselves seen. Warden’s Hammer. Warden’s Will. Warden’s Willbreaker. Warden’s Torment.

It wasn’t easy, but Michael returned outside, the Warden’s tools in his arms, slung across his back, and tied to his belt. The armor was abandoned once he read the inscription on the inside. A familiar name.

Awesamdude.

The prison warden.

Michael knew Sam. Like most of the members of the SMP, he and Tubbo were good, even great friends. The man loved Michael when he was little, dropping by every so often with good food and games That Michael would always play with. Would Sam have done something like this? Could he?

Callahan was still there when he got back, purposefully out of sight of Dream. A slight smile crossed his face as he observed Michael, before pulling out his communicator to type something out. Instead of sending it, though, he tilted the screen around for Michael to see.

They suit you.

He could have felt sick. “No thanks.”

Callahan shrugged, pulling it back to type more. I have the roof done. Indeed, he did. A combination of torches and lanterns lit up the inside. Work on the floor? I can do doors.

“Whatever.”

Move Dream into a room once it’s done. I have a bed made.

“Where, exactly?”

Callahan just gestured at the communicator’s screen. 

“I’m not exactly sure what you’re saying, but sure. These weapons are going straight into lava next chance I get.”

This time, Callahan snorted, almost an audible noise. Netherite weapons are immune. But nice try.

And with that, the two of them got to work.

The rain started about two hours later, after they had finished, and were instead working on furnishing the place. At that point, Callahan dropped his items, and vanished. Michael carried on as quietly as possible, hanging up small paintings and putting the finishing touches on the kitchen. Having Callahan around was a big help, but it didn’t mean that Michael had to like it.

But there was one other sort of business that Michael wanted to sort out.

<You whisper to Awesamdude> Where are your visitor logs?

Almost unsurprisingly, Sam didn’t take long to get back to him. He always had his communicator close by.

<Awesamdude whispers to you> What visitor logs?

<You whisper to Awesamdude> The prison visitor logs. Where are they?

There was a pause.

<Awesamdude whispers to you> Why?

<You whisper to Awesamdude> I’m on the server. I saw the main cell. Who did it? Was it you?

He waited. A minute or two went by, and there was still no response. Only when he was beginning to doubt that Sam would reply, and he would have to go search the prison himself, did Sam respond.

<Awesamdude whispers to you> It might as well have been.

<Awesamdude whispers to you> The visitor records were destroyed when I left the server.

Michael huffed, gritting his teeth. So it wasn’t Sam. That didn’t make it any less his fault.

<You whisper to Awesamdude> Torture? Really?? I looked up to you!

<Awesamdude whispers to you> I know.

<You whisper to Awesamdude> And I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that you made weapons specifically for this or the fact that you allowed it to happen under your watch! They were still covered in blood when I found them!!

<Awesamdude whispers to you> I know.

<Awesamdude whispers to you> It doesn’t matter anymore. Dream has not shown up since. He’s probably on his own private server. There’s no way he’ll show his face again.

<You whisper to Awesamdude> He hasn’t shown up because he’s been locked in your prison for the last sixteen years!!

<Awesamdude whispers to you> Michael, he escaped fifteen years ago.

<You whisper to Awesamdude> No the fuck he didn’t! I found him still locked up in the main cell!!

<Awesamdude whispers to you> There’s absolutely no way he didn’t. I checked the cell. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

<You whisper to Awesamdude> Aside from the chains and the blood, right?

Sam did not reply.

<You whisper to Awesamdude> I’m with him. He’s not doing well. Now who did it, or so help me I will tear down every block of your prison until I find out.

<Awesamdude whispers to you> It was Quackity, okay? I let him into the prison after Dream murdered Tommy. I thought it was right.

A furious response was being typed out, but Sam responded before it could be sent. It took him a moment to breathe, before he deleted the message, and read what Sam had sent.

<Awesamdude whispers to you> I’ll be there in a few hours. Don’t approach him.

<You whisper to Awesamdude> No the fuck you will not. Stay away or I’ll have Dream remove you from the whitelist. We WILL transfer servers.

<Awesamdude whispers to you> He’s dangerous!

His fingers dug into the communicator. It might even break under the strain.

<You whisper to Awesamdude> No, he’s not! You come on this server, Sam, and I’ll kill you! You’d deserve it, too!

The quiet sound of creaking floorboards brought his attention from the communicator up to meet a familiar, scarred face. He allowed the device to fall from his fingers, letting it fall with a clatter to the stone countertop.

“Dream,” he breathed easily, tension dropping from his shoulders. At least the worst part was done with. “Are you okay?”

Dream nervously clutched at the doorframe, almost seeming to want to hide behind it. The red blanket Michael had grabbed earlier was sitting over his shoulders, almost like a cape. Indeed, it was tied at the front; probably Callahan’s doing. “Are they…”

Michael understood the question immediately. “They’re gone,” he promised. “I talked with Callahan; he helped me finish this place before the storm hit.”

An expression of surprise crossed Dream’s face, and his hands moved to clutch tightly at the rabbit fur corner of the blanket. “Callahan…helped? He doesn't hate me?” There was a note of urgency in his voice that Michael couldn’t understand.

“Uhh, no? I don’t think so? He left a health potion for you, if I can remember where he put it.” Michael glanced around, only spotting Dream’s communicator on the counter opposite, but Dream spoke again.

“And…you?”

“What?” He blinked, brows furrowing confusedly. “Why would I hate you?”

Dream’s eyes slowly shifted downward, his jaw going slack, eyes widening in pure horror. His already pale face paled further. He took half a step back. Finally, Michael allowed himself to realize the one thing he had overlooked, as his own gaze followed Dream’s.

The Warden’s Hammer, leaned against the counter of the kitchen, sat barely peeking out from behind Michael’s legs, and in full view of Dream. The purple gleam of the blade reflected in green eyes, and this time, he did stagger back. His back hit the wall, and Michael hurriedly knocked the axe away, back behind him. It hit the ground with a thud.

“No! No, that's—Callahan told me to use those for building, I don’t want to hurt you or anything!” He brought his hands up in front of him, taking a few hasty steps forward. “I swear I won’t do anything. I can throw them away, if you want me to. I know they won’t burn in lava but I can still make sure nobody can touch them again.”

Letting out a shaky breath, Dream let his fingers curl into the wall behind him, catching the blanket as they did. “No, they’re…they’re useful. He was right. I just…” Opting to remain silent, Michael let his hands fall in front of him, clenched but easily visible as Dream struggled out the rest of his sentence. “I don’t…know, Michael. Please don’t…use them…on me.”

“I would never,” Michael promised immediately, taking half a step forward. “I swear to Prime, Dream, I would never try to hurt you.”

“I know,” Dream muttered, still trying to edge away. “But it’s…hard to believe that, sometimes.”

Wracking his brain for something, anything, that could help, the only thing Michael’s mind settled on was food. Neither of them had eaten that day, and Michael had long since worked up a sweat finishing the house.

“Want me to make something to eat?” he suggested, as a distraction. Luckily, Dream took it.

“Can…can you make stew?” Slowly, Dream pulled himself away from the wall, still far away from the axe behind Michael, and moved to the living room across from the kitchen.

“Sure.” He grinned softly, letting the guilt fade from his mind for the time being. “Let me go see if I have any more mushrooms in my pack.”

The next morning, as usual, Dream woke him before sunrise, iron sword already in hand. The Warden’s weapons were leaned up against the wall, close to the corner and glowing softly. Michael noticed how Dream’s eyes lingered on them for a moment, before offering the sword to him, while he took his usual iron sword. Dream, surprisingly, accepted. And, as they always did, they went outside to kill the monsters and mobs of the previous night.

The skies were still cloudy, but the worst of the storm seemed to have passed overnight. Muddy ground still made a strange suction noise as he or Dream picked up their feet, making movements a little harder, but they managed easily. 

Throughout the whole thing, Dream seemed noticeably nervous. When Michael inquired, he waved it off with only a few muttered words about immortals and nether creatures, and a mention of Callahan’s name. Michael didn’t ask him to repeat himself, either, still focused on hunting a small group of spiders.

Afterwards, they gathered by the river to wash up, tucked away the loot they had retrieved from the mobs in Michael’s satchel, and made their way back to the cottage for breakfast. Michael had found a wild chicken’s nest a few days before, and their egg supply wasn’t bad. He taunted them into a hastily built pen with a few seeds, scattering them around for the birds to peck at. With the sudden rain, he hoped that they’d gorge themselves on the worms that would wiggle their way out of the ground.

While they ate breakfast, Dream told him a story about Technoblade. The two had practically grown up together, always just a little more than their rivalry made it seem. Even during their time together on the SMP, not even Phil knew about their history together. They had been friends. Good ones, even, and the thought drew a smile from both of them. Who would have thought the Blood God himself would go soft for someone like Dream?

With some hesitation, Dream asked about the voices. Michael replied that he didn’t have any, that they were something only piglin brutes had. It looked like Dream was going to argue, but he cut himself off, instead saying, “That’s not what Techno told me.” Michael didn’t exactly know much about his heritage anyway, so he didn’t exactly know enough to fact check.

Later that morning, while Dream was outside with the chickens and Michael was adding some crafted furniture to the inside of their house, he was greeted by the sight of a frantically waving Callahan by the window. Dropping the hammer he had been holding, and letting the axe lean up against the back of the chair he was trying to put together, Michael wiped his hands off on the front of his jeans and made his way outside.

Before he could even ask what the man was doing there, Callahan started signing faster than he could even comprehend what each symbol was, let alone what it meant. He was gesturing around a lot, too, and then once or twice back towards where Dream was.

“Is something wrong with Dream?”

Callahan paused, then shook his hand side to side. So so?

“I don’t understand,” he clarified. “Can you-” Michael cut himself off, then called out to Dream. “Dream!! You know sign language, right?”

“I do!” Dream called back. “Is Callahan here?”

“Yes!”

It took a moment, but Dream emerged from around the corner, approaching them both with an ease Michael hadn’t seen from him before. There was a certain glint in his eyes that reminded him of Techno before starting off on another mythology rant.

Callahan very pointedly started signing in his direction, and Michael watched Dream’s eyes get wider and wider with every gesture. His eyes flicked back and forth between them. Dream suddenly did seem nervous, looking more and more on edge.

“What’s he saying?”

“They’re coming back,” Dream answered, almost blankly.

“My parents?”

“The…the whole server.” Dream’s hands found the front of his shirt, and started to curl into the fabric, shaking. “They…they know I’m here.”

“We’ll fight them off,” Michael said immediately. “But can’t you remove them from the whitelist? Then they won’t be able to bother you.”

Callahan signed something else, and Dream nodded, repeating it for Michael to hear. “The…the prison had some…long standing effects. I can’t access most of my admin abilities until I’m healed.”

“But-”

“Michael, mentally, I’m a dead man.” Dream said it with such defeat, shoulders slumped down and head bowed. “I can’t look the people who tortured me in the eyes and fight them. That won’t happen. Not in a year, maybe not even in ten.”

“But-” Michael was at a loss for words. There was, realistically, nothing he could do. He wasn’t trained enough to fight people who had been fighting for almost two whole decades. “What about Callahan?”

“He’s been a sworn pacifist since he joined this server. Even before that, actually.”

A few signs later, Dream looked up, watching Callahan’s movement, and then spoke with a correction. “He says he’ll fight.”

“Is he any good?”

Callahan looked mildly offended, but at least it drew a huff of laughter from Dream. “When he trained me, I don’t think there was ever a time I beat him.

“We’ll need armor,” Dream continued, straightening up. “And weapons, and…yeah. Michael, you should use the Warden’s gear.”

“You sure?” he asked hesitantly. If Dream were to freak out because he showed up in Sam’s old gear…

“I won’t be able to handle anything that heavy. And…you and Callahan will probably do most of the fighting.” As he fiddled with his hands, Dream glanced at Michael before quickly averting his eyes. “If…that’s okay? They’re not coming for you, they just want me. You can leave. You don’t have to stay.”

“I was literally the one to suggest we fight them, Dream. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dream looked relieved. “Okay.” He let out an unsteady breath. “Then…we should get materials and find a place to camp out. Callahan said he could delay them until tomorrow.”

With that, Callahan nodded, turning away and venturing off towards the old buildings that were almost overtaken by red vines.

“We’ll need netherite for both of you, if I’m using Sam’s gear.”

“Callahan will find something.” Dream tried to take a step, but stumbled, knees weak and legs trembling. Michael caught him easily, holding him upright with an arm slung over his shoulders, letting Dream use him as a crutch.

“Let’s get you back inside, yeah?” he said, wary of how easily he knew things could go south in Dream’s head. “I’ll go scavenge for supplies.”

“I can help!” Dream insisted, attempting to pull away. Michael only grabbed his arm to keep him steady and unmoving. “You can let go of me.”

To Michael, it looked like the firm approach might be better in this case. “Again, you’re freaked out by this.” Dream’s tells, by now, were pretty obvious. “I’ll go get supplies. If you want to help, get food sorted out. If I can find any spare armor or anything, I’ll get it back to you.”

“I can do something else! I can help!” Still, he tried to pull his arm away, and Michael wasn’t budging.

“You’re gonna not freak yourself out again! The last time it happened, do you have any idea how freaked out I was?”

“I-”

“You completely disassociated, Dream! Like, didn’t respond to anything we did disassociated! That was honestly worse than when you thought I was ‘Sir’ or Quackity or whoever the fuck tortured you!” His hand clenched tighter around Dream’s wrist. “At least I get some reaction or something that tells me you’re still in there!”

Now the tugging was a little more insistent. “Michael, please-”

“I’ll let you go if you promise not to do anything stupid.” Finally noticing how pale Dream seemed to have gotten, he let go. “Just…let me handle things, okay?”

Nodding like a frightened rabbit, Dream took a few floundering steps backward. “Yes, si—Michael. I’ll…do that.”

Michael sighed, and Dream flinched. “I guess I’ll be off then. Any-”

“I’ll help,” Dream murmured. “If I give you admin privileges, you can teleport to Techno’s cabin. You’ll find what you need there.”

“Along with a couple dozen withers, yeah?” Michael joked. It fell flat.

“I’ll get the commands put into the server,” Dream said quickly. “You’ll know when…when it happens.”

“Alright. Just send me coords, yeah?”

The rest of the day, along with about half of the night, was spent scrounging through the remains of the server, pulling random bits of diamond and netherite tools and armor back to their base camp, which they decided would be the prison. Dream was right; having the permissions really did make things a whole lot easier. As long as he had his communicator, he could teleport just about anywhere on the server, which made dropping off supplies a bit less time consuming. Uncle Techno’s house was packed to the brim with both valuables and weaponry, multiple fully enchanted sets of armor that Callahan started helping Dream modify to fit him.

Arrows were crafted, fletching tied, and bows strung with intense care that came with years of familiarity. Michael did his best to reinforce the obsidian walls with the netherite blocks that he found around the place, especially in the main cell. He laid careful, intricate traps that only he and Dream knew about. Secret crossbows were set up to fire if a tripwire was activated, and Callahan managed to lure a few creepers into a pit that was covered with sand. One wrong move, and someone would fall in.

It was only slightly worrying to Michael that no matter how deadly everything seemed, he didn’t feel even the slightest bit sorry for what the traps could potentially do to someone. He blamed the little voice in the back of his head that told him it was right. 

All of them fell asleep inside of their ‘fortress’, though he never did find out where Dream ended up sleeping. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Sometime close to midday, Dream, once again, was waking him, trembling all over. He didn’t even need to hear the frantic, whispered words that Dream repeated over and over.

“They’re here,” he said, trying in vain to stop the tremors in his voice. “They’re here.”

Michael and Callahan decided to go out to watch them from the guard towers, in fully geared armor. Michael held the Warden’s axe tightly in his hand, a bow slung over his shoulder, waiting for them to approach. The area, for the time being, seemed clear. The only company seemed to be the rabbits that lingered in the field outside. 

Eventually, Callahan dropped to the roof of the prison, bow drawn and arrow poised to fire. Michael followed suit, letting the axe fall to the ground and turning instead to the long-range weapon. People weren’t yet in range, but they were coming close. He could feel it.

His mob sense held little use, but it was enough. There was a creeper nearby. Two avians. A blazeborne. The creeper and one of the avians were headed this way. The others seemed to be gathering at a further distance.

When they finally came into view, his grip on the bow tightened. Sure enough, there was Sam, dressed in full netherite, wielding a clearly enchanted trident. And by his side, almost comically shorter, must have been Quackity.

Quackity. He had never met the man, and he knew that his parents didn’t have the best relationship. Now, he could tell why. Even from this distance, he could feel the hatred, almost insanity, pure rage radiating off of him in waves. He wore no armor, but carried a netherite axe.

A ping from his communicator drew his eyes temporarily away.

<Callahan whispers to you> We should fight. Before they have a chance to see Dream.

He was about to agree, when he saw a lone, netherite-covered figure leaving the entryway of the prison. 

Dream. 

That fucking idiot.

Without much thought, he threw a pearl, appearing only a few seconds later, right in between the duo and his teacher.

Sam and Quackity both clearly saw them. He noticed the squaring of their shoulders, the tightening of their jaws and, in Quackity’s case, a smile stretching across his face.

“And you must be Michael.”

Behind him, Dream stiffened at the sound of his voice. Michael held out his axe. “So what if I am?”

“Step away if you know what’s good for you. I will put this axe in your brain if you try to fight me.”

“I’m not the one unarmored,” Michael said dryly. “And Sam won’t fight me.”

A pearl shattered on the ground next to him, and there Callahan was, sword held out defensively.

“He will fight,” Dream corrected quietly. Quackity’s eyes narrowed at the sound.

“I don’t recall ever telling you that you could speak, Dream.” Michael didn’t even need to turn around to figure out that Dream must have shut his mouth immediately, eyes wide. The grip on Callahan’s blade tightened, and he raised his own threateningly.

“Don’t you dare speak to him!” He nudged forward. “You are not in control of the situation here!” Not while he still breathed, at least. Not while he could still fight.

Quackity laughed, a cold, delirious thing. “Dream, come here. Now.”

There was movement just over his shoulder, and then Dream was almost robotically stumbling towards them, barely brushing past Michael’s shoulder. It took Michael entirely too long to process and to yank Dream back and away, making sure to keep him behind himself. Sam looked slightly sick.

“Michael,” Quackity said sternly, his voice almost lowering in pitch. “You don’t want to make me angry.”

Dream whimpered at his shoulder, trying once more to walk over to them. Michael didn’t release him.

“Is this not wrong to you?! Is this really what you think is right?”

“Michael,” Sam tried soothingly, “Dream has always been-”

“It doesn’t matter what he has been,” Michael cut him off. “Just fucking look at him, Sam! This isn’t right!”

“Dream is-”

“Not anymore! Because of what you two did to him!” Callahan echoed the sentiment, raising his sword higher, the hilt resting somewhere around his shoulder.

“Enough is enough, Sam,” Quackity muttered. “Let’s kill these two and throw Dream back in his cell.”

When Callahan lunged was when Michael followed suit, aiming his first strike at Quackity’s unprotected chest.

To his credit, they both fought well. Michael had a difficult time even landing a single hit on Quackity. Though unarmored, he knew how to use that axe, much better than Michael knew how to use his. Not only that, but he knew where all the chinks in his armor were. He knew where to aim, how to hit, and the force to use. After one time where the blade came a little too close to his neck, he chose to change tactics and start swinging with more force like Techno does, rather than Dream’s speed based technique.

Callahan seemed to be having a little bit more luck. Sam’s helmet had been knocked clean off, and there was a nasty looking gash in his collar that was sluggishly bleeding. When he got a brief moment, he glanced back at Dream, who was, expectedly, sitting in the grass, fingers digging into the dirt, eyes wide. This fight was not doing him any favors, but this would keep happening unless they would both die here.

Michael managed to lure Quackity into the creeper trap, quickly kicking him back with his hoof and into the sand pit. It didn’t kill anyone but the creepers, but Quackity was affected by the continuous explosions, leaving him dazed and pressed against the wall opposite. Standing above the pit, with a barely moving Quackity below him, there was only one option.

While he had the chance, Michael dropped into the hole, ignoring the twinge of pain in his ankles, and sliced his axe straight through Quackity’s neck. There wasn’t even enough time for him to scream.

As he stood there, watching the blood slowly gurgle from the dying man’s throat, something caught his ears. Something more than the grunts of Sam above him or the sound of a blade whooshing through the air.

Voices.

At first, it was just one. Then two. Then three. Then at least a dozen, each one perfectly unique.

Above him, Sam was waiting at the edge of the pit, facing Callahan with his arms up in defense. Just one more step…and he fell, landing on his back. Michael planted his hoof on the front of Sam’s chestplate, looking him dead in his eyes. The bloody axe was raised into the air, like the executioner waiting to strike the final blow.

“Do it,” Sam said breathlessly. “Kill me.”

Michael raised the axe a little higher. There seemed to be hundreds of the little voices, all chanting one, singular thing, a sentiment that he echoed.

“Blood for the blood god!”