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His first inkling that something is wrong is the faintly grey, rectangular glitches that pepper the cloudless sky, just strange enough against the swathe of unbroken blue to distract him. He trails off mid-sentence to squint upwards and frowns when the irregular smears disappear between one blink and the next so completely that, for a second, he’s almost convinced he imagined them to begin with. Except, as George turns his attention back toward Dream to continue speaking a wave of fear sends his heart racing. The Dream he’s been talking to—a sad facsimile of a lost friend provided by a god and his own subconscious, a poor replacement but all George has left—flickers, face and body more and more covered by darker grey, jittery squares that vanish and, as they do, take Dream piece-by-piece with them.
George catches himself reaching out in panic, eyes wide and lips parted to cry out, fingers sliding uselessly through empty air as he fumbles to his feet in a desperate lunge to hold on. Spinning on his heel he jerks his head around, noticing floating, warping trees and a circling perimeter of pouring rain despite the present sun and chasms scored into the ground where the earth has turned to nothing. The idyllic field of flowers he and Dream were laying in is barren, too…even the extra folded blanket and bag of food set to one side of their lazy picnic is gone.
“…Dream?” George calls, voice and limbs trembling as the safe bubble of his dream crumbles and hitches. Colors fade and brighten everywhere he looks, blurring the surroundings that he tries vainly to keep in focus.
No copy of his best friend reappears, the name petering out in a warbling refraction against unseen walls so close he could touch. Why is there no Dream? There should be a Dream—even when they argue and part ways all it takes is George’s word and Dream is right there again just like before.
The once-blowing gentle breeze has died to leave the air heavy and stagnant as it vacillates sharply between Nether-hot and End-cold.
Mouth dry and pulse pounding, he shivers, clutching at his own arms as he curls into himself. All of his increasingly insistent thoughts to reset his dream, to reshape the landscape around him and bring Dream back, go unaddressed…never before has this happened when he’s dreaming. Never once has a dream refused to obey what he wants. Not with the power XD has granted him, not with the full control he’s thus far always had while he was asleep. He’s supposed to be in control here, not the dream itself, so why is he suddenly helpless to change it?
Something’s wrong, he thinks, stepping backward quickly when the block beneath his feet starts to violently shake. Something is very fucking wrong!
“XD!” George shouts as he ducks a chunk of wood and glass that his brain barely registers looks like part of the Community House over his alarm.
For once there is no answer.
Only a creeping, terrifying silence as he realizes he is well and truly alone…and far less powerful than he’s ever been.
His panic crests higher at the lack of chaos god arriving to help and more flying debris—the shattered half of a music disc, gleaming iron shears—causes him to tuck into a crouch with a yelp to hopefully become a smaller target. A curtain of lava sweeps inches over his head seconds after, so close he can smell his own singed hair and feel the sudden dampness of sweat that coats his neck. Sets of one and two-block crying obsidian slam down into the earth as easily as raindrops, the sounds of their impacts a wall of TNT explosions that rattles his teeth. Over the deafening boom-boom-boom something shrieks its ire with a loud, howling roar which freezes all of George’s prey-animal instincts in place, body locking up as he’s too afraid to pry his head from the safety of his knees.
It sounds like a dragon—like the dragon.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up,” he chants through numb lips, unable to settle his nerves enough to bring himself out of sleep like he usually would, “please wake up, I want to wake up now, for once I want to wake up, please let me wake up!”
Razor-blade titan’s teeth crash together with the stomach-churning sound of a bone shattering, molten breath brushes against his arms so hot his sleeves dissolve in its wake, white-hot pain punctures straight through his chest, a searing trail of blood runs down his neck, down his face, onto his tongue, the block beneath him gives way and—
—George staggers gracelessly from the bed onto the floor in a heap of quivering limbs and dragged-over covers as he pants, gaze darting around his safesolidnormal room in search of danger. No dragon greets him, no part of the room is coming apart at the seams, nothing is noticeably out of place. Just his curtain-dark room exactly as it always is when he’s awake enough to see it. Despite the familiar corners and clutter it does little to soothe his residual fear, the lingering sense that something is wrong continuing to permeate his thoughts.
Swallowing roughly he drops his eyes from their paranoid circuit and he yanks down his shirt collar, certain he’ll see a gaping wound except…he presses a shaky hand over unbroken skin, twists his arms to find no burns. Touches his face and pulls away a hand unpainted in crimson ichor, tastes no redironblood in his mouth.
“What was…,” his attention snaps over to his item chest when a guess drapes itself with the intimacy of the reaper’s touch across his shoulders. “No,” George whispers and drags himself over to it bit by bit, body uncooperative from his dream-turned-nightmare even as he grits his teeth and keeps going. “No, no, it can’t…he can’t.”
The chest lid bangs heavily against the wall and only doesn’t rebound to hit him due to an absently raised palm, George already dived halfway into its contents in search of a specific compass he’d hoped to never need again in a hunter’s capacity. It’s a frigid chunk of metal in his hand as he steadies himself on his knees, staring at the back of its scuffed and dented casing where childish well-worn carvings depict a long-gone set of three. Even with the current state of the server it should be lit, should track, as it has always done since their manhunts started. Even now it should work fine—“No, it’s fine if we keep using it here, too. It’s a way to keep track me if you need it, right? I might get in trouble and need you guys to come bail me out,” a laughing voice says with a trusting smile as a warm hand gently closes his fingers around it—but….
George’s thumb brushes over the faded smiley face while he breathes in one-two-three-four-five to better steel himself, and then turns it over in his palms. Stares.
The ever-present enchantment that links it to a playerID, that shines to display its active status even far from its tracked entity…the compass face is muted and dark, the needle stuck in the default notch rather than flicking around in its occasional radar-like sweeps. It’s not supposed to be dark, unmoving, so long as its tracked entity was, was…
…alive.
A choked, pitiful gasp erupts from his mouth as he whirls around into a half-crouch and throws himself at his bedside table, compass clattering to the ground behind him. He throws clothes and books aside to unearth his communicator from where he’d long-since buried it, not wanting to hear anything if it wasn’t his most desired news. News he can’t admit to wanting outside the confines of his own head or his dreams. Everything he’s heard since…since—it’s been due to Sapnap or Karl or Quackity catching him when he’s awake and most of the time he wasn’t interested even when he forced himself to listen. To push through the molasses in his veins and his lungs and his mind to pretend at being fine. To smile and nod and pretend any of it mattered when his world had shattered to pieces.
Not that he doesn’t care, but…he’s felt stuck as he watched the server move on, wishing for a past he could only grasp onto in his dreams.
He scowls and hisses as a jagged edge of his communicator case slices across his knuckles, yanking it close with a tight grip. A black screen taunts him that he hesitates to light up, a whorl of icy water dripping from the crown of his head to the floor that leaves him shivering. Shakily exhaling, he taps the screen to wake it up and chooses to ignore the movement in the chat window—so, so fast, quicker than he’s seen in a long time, sparking new rising panic as he dreads to know why—to toggle the player list, tense with nerves and eyes closed.
George peeks through his lashes at the very top of the list where the server admin’s name sits in a place that should be meant for honor. Slumps into the bed frame with enough force to leave a bruise as he stares vacantly at the death-dark grey pixels, chest tightening and a mournful howl building in his throat. He ignores the blood he smears on the screen when he checks the secondary entity list, desperate enough to hope—George presses his free hand over his face, inhaling sharply with a wet sniff.
Dead, dead, dead…not even a ghost remains to echo in these empty spaces as its soul languishes in limbo.
His vision blurs with tears, suddenly drifting lost at sea without an anchor in a floaty, dreamlike state of denial. This…can’t be true, right? It’s just a mistake, but…. When he tabs into the important system messages window—not wanting to endure whatever fresh hell awaits him in the general chat—with clumsy motions he stares between his fingers once again at the screen, bleary and hurting and, more than anything, confused.
There’s no death message.
How can that be? The player list has never been wrong before, not with Schlatt or Wilbur or Tommy. And…George licks his dry lips, leaning his weight further onto the bed and wincing at the wood digging into his ribs…what else could have so thoroughly broken apart his dream except the death of the server’s admin? What else could have drawn XD’s attention away from him than the death of the god’s admin? What else could it mean that he lost control—that the dragon came in screaming as fire and fury and grief?
There has been a death. Somehow, someway, someone has died. Where is the death message? What is the death message?
A soft vwoop near the door drags his attention to the door although he barely stirs, content to languish in a heap on the floor as his world yet again falls apart around him. Faintly, a suspicion plants itself in his mind as he can’t help but wonder. Servers are tied to their admins, he knows, so this entire wretched place should be destroying itself, not…continuing on as though nothing has happened. XD shouldn’t still be here either, the god no longer woven into the server’s code by choice to support his admin; XD should’ve already turned it to ash to make way for something new, something better. He thinks XD might decide to keep it alive for him as the god certainly has the power to do so…but for how long until the god gets bored?
George rolls his head where he’s pressed against the bed and holds the heel of his hand tightly against his mouth to help choke down a sob at the sight of maskless XD wearing his best friend’s face. His gaze trails over those achingly familiar features, each second of helpless greed another knife jabbed into his chest—minus the deity’s glowing eyes and freckles and bright white hair, the god’s face is a carbon copy so perfect that he shouldn’t find it wanting. But he does, he does, he does.
“George,” XD greets, voice low and somber with a timbre distinct from that of his copied mortal appearance. There’s a faint furrow between the god’s brows and the slightest fraction of a frown.
“XD,” George rasps in return, a twisting coil of dread rooting itself in his gut. “…Is it true?”
He notices the god’s expression flickers and suspects that XD doesn’t want to have to admit the truth, spreading those sickening dread-roots further and further, so dense as to choke on. The god has always been a reprieve for him and so much kinder to him than he deserves, he thinks. Why else would XD indulge him in his dream fantasies so much, letting George hide away from the world and everything he doesn’t want to acknowledge?
This once, though, he doesn’t want the comfort of a lie. Not with that voice, not from that face.
“It is,” the god finally murmurs, tone gentle. Kind. “Dream is dead.”
Oh…it’s true? My dream fell apart…because Dream died. I didn’t…I can’t…how, why, George thinks, mind gone blank as he curls tighter in on himself where he sits. He hadn’t really…expected a ‘no,’ but…. He still kind of…hoped XD would have smiled at him with the god’s own—not stolen but wholly XD’s—mischievous grin. Held out a welcoming hand, told him that it wasn’t true, that it was just an error, a trick, a nightmare. That Dream was somewhere safe and alive and that XD could take him there.
Away, someplace where he and Dream could live free from the burdens of the wider server and make a home that could last, this time.
He only realizes he’s crying when the cool touch of gloved hands meets his warm tear-stained cheeks, slow to focus on XD who, regalia spilling onto the floor and wings tucked up behind him, is now crouched down next to George rather than on the opposite side of the room. XD carefully pries his clenched fingers from around his creaking communicator and a soft shower of end-purple-bright sparks flit across his bleeding knuckles to leave smooth, clean skin behind.
George’s eyes fall on the device—incongruous and unassuming as it sits in a centuries-old deity’s grasp—and he manages after a few tries to clear his throat. “W-Why didn’t I see a message if he’s…?”
“I thought that, in this instance, it would be better to hear the news from me than emotionless text on a screen,” admits XD, watching him with a clear sense of concern for his wellbeing. So real, so present, so human. For a brief second the shadow of another face overlays atop the god’s and George breathes through a quicksilver dizzy spell.
“…Why didn’t you save him?” George whispers, heartsick and torn between yelling and tossing things in anger and making a coarse demand for the god to put him to sleep in a new dream. “Surely you would…he is…he was your admin? XD, why would you not save him?”
I thought you cared, he does not say despite the acidic burn of the accusation simmering behind his teeth. There’s no other target for his ire, his frustration, other than his room and himself and a god…yet he’s not so far gone as to be so cruel when it is undoubtedly by XD’s grace alone that the server still stands at all.
XD’s vibrant green eyes close, a unusual wave of fatigue dimming the shine of his freckles, “Would I have…what, then, may I have done?” The god then meets George’s tear-wet gaze evenly, an undeniable grief writ there plain for George to see, “Make no mistake, I did not want him to die and I mourn him. He is my chosen, he had many years yet to live and grow that have been stolen from him. However. Should I have saved him only to replace him where he died, hoping he would be allowed this time to live? Do I dare trust in the kindnesses or regrets of those who allowed his deaths to occur? Or should I have removed him from this server entirely regardless of his wishes? Taken him someplace kinder where I might watch over him to ensure he might be safe? Perhaps I should have simply set him free in this world in which he has no friends and no allies willing to safeguard him and no guarantee of happiness, of a future—in a world which views him with suspicion and hostility and hate. One which killed him twice before and now thrice?”
Each knife-edged word lands like a physical critical blow that George is helpless to shield himself from—harsh truths he’s avoided acknowledging for months finally coming home to roost—and made all the more powerful because of XD’s controlled cadence despite the sorrow clearly present in drooping wings and a slight bow of the head.
“Even if I had revived him and sent him far, far away, millions of chunks between him and those who have hurt him and killed him…,” a terrible knowing is leveled in George’s direction and he shudders under the weight of it. “How would that solve anything? He could never return here and be safe, not without banning everyone and he, fool that he was, would have rebelled against the idea. Should I have volunteered to safeguard him at every moment from every potential enemy as he stubbornly refused to fully protect himself? He would have never agreed, much too prideful and much too hopeful. Where does that leave him, then? Exiled as a pariah from the main lands of his server while those who had killed him celebrated his death and lived on to enjoy what he no longer could. What could that fix without also being a punishment he did not deserve? How could it be anything less than cruel. How could it, George?”
The faint drumming of the god’s fingers against George’s communicator intersperses the static filling his ears. He numbly watches XD shift away and stand, pacing toward the door before pivoting back again, regalia and halos and wings flaring in reminder of the god’s status.
“What might be a solution,” XD continues, abruptly something merciless and sharp-fanged, “when all roads are so painful and filled with cruelty? Dream loved this world and it killed him. Thus, as much as it is an unwelcome thought, perhaps it is better to allow him the peaceful embrace of the void. It may be kinder to Dream in death than what he has suffered in life. Perhaps,” the god murmurs, shoulders falling and face turned away, a wistfulness entwined in mourning, “in time, one day, the universe shall be merciful and there shall be a new Dream, one who might live.”
George swipes uselessly at his face and its fresh stream of tears, grabbing onto the bed and side table to staggeringly haul himself upright. “…You could have brought him to me! I would have looked after him,” he protests, waspish and vehement beneath the telling quaver of his voice. Grief and anger war in his chest as he scowls in the god’s direction. Surely, surely XD knows he would have, had Dream been brought to him? Regardless of when they last spoke and George’s ire and their broken friendship and Dream’s choices, his dreams were of Dream because, above all else, he’d wanted Dream back. He’d much rather swallow his pride and have Dream here, alive, than try to figure out how to exist in a world where Dream was dead.
…What is the point of anything without Dream?
“I considered it,” the god reveals and George braces himself against the bed in surprise. XD’s eyes gleam end-purple-bright for an instant, regarding him through white-blond lashes without turning to face him. “However, are you truly willing to fight the entire server if necessary to keep Dream alive?”
Recoiling, George furrows his brows, “What…?”
He knows what XD is implying…but he doesn’t like what XD is implying.
“Come now, you are not the foolish type,” a familiar dangerous predator’s gaze is angled toward him, “you know as well as I that the majority of this server despises Dream and would not leave either of you be. Could you protect him every moment of every day from the dozens of willing and able enemies you would incur should they know you provided their ‘villain’ with safe harbor? Could you look friends and allies in the eye and run them through in defense of someone who, in their eyes, deserves to suffer and die? They would kill you both without question if given the chance—you, a traitor, and he, a monster unworthy of life. You would forever be looking over your shoulder prepared for the worst, unsafe and hunted and one misstep from losing Dream despite your efforts, despite your choices. Unless you, too, chose to vacate the Greater SMP and move far, far away, there would be no peace found here. Would you be satisfied somewhere else in the world alone but for Dream as your home was truly lost to you? Dream loved this world and it killed him. Do you love Dream enough to risk your life to save his, day after day after day?”
Would he be satisfied? Just him and Dream someplace else, eking out a life together in solitude as they pretend they had no previous home of which to mourn the loss. As they pretend not to miss people and places and what was left behind when they fled. A lazy, drifting life spent patching up the holes torn in their friendship and trying to figure out what happiness is supposed to look like in a space without conflict and war and drama. Does he love Dream enough? A phantom well-missed tea kettle laugh echoes in his head, an unmasked and unguarded smile aimed at George with all the reverence of worship so ingrained in Dream’s very being that he’s not sure how he ever doubted it. He thinks of promises made and broken and a gulf of silence unbridged out of stubbornness and pride until it was much too late to speak what was left unspoken. Of apologies unsaid and unheard and the gutting loss of his own safe harbor enfolded in Dream’s arms as he was held close and cherished and loved.
Could he look friends and allies in the eye and run them through? Aware or not that they thought Dream deserved to suffer and die?
That question and its phrasing suggests something he really, really finds suspicious. And he doubly suspects it was phrased as such on purpose to catch his attention.
“XD,” George calls, the shape of each letter in his mouth leaden but sharp. “Show me the death message.”
It’s not a question or a plea but a demand.
Under his steely gaze the noticeably reluctant god complies, a subtle gesture sparking end-purple-bright power around George’s communicator before it’s floated over to his waiting hands. Taking a fortifying breath, George flips it over in his palm and wakes the screen from sleep to view the system message window.
Blinks. Once. Twice.
Sits heavily on the edge of the bed as his legs wobble and give out.
Stares.
[Dream was slain by Quackity wielding Warden’s Willbreaker]
George…doesn’t understand. The words dance on the screen, incomprehensible and bizarre as he’s once more doused in an arctic-cold whirlpool.
…Quackity? Quackity killed Dream? With…something called Warden’s Willbreaker?
Warden as in…Sam? The prison? He’d heard no alarm since the last one and Sam’s all-clear to the server, so he must assume Dream was still there and reasonably ‘under control.’ So then, why? Dream died—was slain—in prison. Wasn’t the prison, as much as George hated it and everything it stood for, just supposed to keep Dream locked up but otherwise safe? Alive? George could still carry a flickering, pathetically hopeful ember as long as Dream was alive. Wasn’t Sam supposed to look after Dream? Not, not—why the hell was Quackity even there? The prison is fucking far from Las Nevadas and even farther from Kinoko Kingdom! Do Karl and Sapnap know about this, about Quackity—
(Sapnap pouts in Quackity’s direction and Karl lets out a ‘boo,’ with a frown, hearing Quackity beg off to return to Las Nevadas for the night rather than stay over with them. Quackity looks tired but relaxed, grinning indulgently at his fiances and shooting a wink at George.
“You really can’t stay?” Sapnap presses, drooping over the table like a petulant cat.
“Sorry, no,” Quackity says with an apologetic smile, “Work, y’know?”
Karl ‘boos’ again, briefly reaching out to squeeze Quackity’s hand, “Ah, well, next time you’re staying!”
Quackity returns Karl’s gesture and then mimics it with Sapnap and laughs, bright and pleased, “Of course, of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”
And so they’d let him leave. But each ‘next time’ was another apologetic smile, another ‘work’ excuse.)
—George feels sick, wondering if each time they’d seen Quackity off he’d gone to the prison the next day. To work. To, to….
There’s no question if Sam knew, not with a weapon called Warden’s Willbreaker. Which, what the fuck kind of name is that? What is he supposed to take from that, from will breaker, other than the malicious intent to hurt Dream? It’s not something Quackity would name anything, which means it’s definitely Sam’s—the proud warden of the server’s one prison—which then means that Sam’s most likely aware and allowed Quackity in who knows how many times. That Sam made and enchanted and named tools he then placed in Quackity’s hands. That Sam maybe even used himself.
How many times did Quackity visit? And for what?
George hadn’t…really wanted to listen when Sapnap came back from the prison in a mood, subconsciously filing away each scrap of information that only made his heart hurt. Able to read between the lines that it was a horrid place no one should be in. But surely….
“XD,” he starts, slowly, tongue numb and fingers once more threatening to crush the communicator in his hand, “how bad was it?”
“It was,” the god says, eyes closed and face turned toward the ceiling, “kinder to let Dream die and remain so.”
…Which is an answer in and of itself, isn’t it?
George wants to scream. Grab Sam, grab Quackity, grab Sapnap, grab anybody by the shoulders and shake them. Lash out with words and weapons to quell the tumultuous hurricane of griefloverageregret threatening to tear him apart. “Why won’t you tell me,” he demands, whisper-soft lest he shatter into something only made of teeth and claws and violence.
XD watches him, a faraway glint in those neon green eyes, and posits in a gentle parry, “Perhaps, George, you may want to find those answers for yourself from the source. I could tell you, but would it not be best to force the perpetrators to admit to their wrongs against Dream personally?”
That’s…a compelling point, actually.
He drops his eyes to the communicator and swipes over to the main chat, hardly taking in the flurry of celebratory messages quoting Dream’s death notification and laughing, interspersed with small drops of quickly drowned-out confusion. George starts to see red, a black anger filling the space between his ribs to shield his aching heart. He recalls the god’s earlier expression and confession of mourning and finds himself asking, “Have you lost like this before, XD?”
A beat of loaded, magic-imbued silence causes George to look up again, eyes going wide at the ancient pain XD does nothing to hide.
“I have.” He expects that to be the only answer he gets but XD then continues in a soft tone, “It sparked within me a great and terrible grief. One from which I have never recovered in all my centuries of life.”
The god regards him thoughtfully and George stares helplessly back—they are both looking at the shards of someone else.
George awkwardly clears his throat, looking at this chaos god who wears his best friend’s face…his dead best friend’s face. “Will you help me?”
“Of course,” says the god, with a faint shadow of a dead man’s incredulity. “After all, this is still Dream’s server and I am still DreamXD.”
XD’s assessment from before digs its talons into his mind as he runs a hand over his face to clean off the remnants of his tear tracks. If he really does this, it will put him at odds with likely everyone outside of one or two exceptions. But does he care? He thinks it over and concludes that no, there’s so little to care about now with Dream dead. George hates his own cowardice and Sam both for preventing him one final visit with Dream. Maybe it would have changed nothing but he could have closure, could have made one last attempt to mend fences and see if the Dream he once knew, once loved (still loves) was still there. Now? He’ll never know. Why didn’t he question Sapnap more at the time? His own reluctance to hear about the prison despite wanting so strongly to hear anything about Dream ruined that, too.
Sleep would be a reprieve, wouldn’t it? To fall under into a world of dreams where none of this happened, forever allowed the kindness of a false past, a soft lie. XD would likely let him, even now, but….
Will his dreams ever be truly peaceful again?
George stands up from the bed on steady feet, a shroud of confidence mantling onto his shoulders as he looks at the chaos god in his room with sharp eyes. As much as it appeals to him, he thinks he’s going to stay awake, now, and show the server his wrath—remind them that he exists and that not only Sapnap and Dream are dangerous. He doesn’t care if the server doesn’t like it, he’s going to ensure answers are found and dragged out into the light where no one can pretend any longer that what happened to Dream was justice.
He’d best dress for war.
XD’s gaze examines him for a moment and then the god gives him a nod, stepping closer and raising his hands into which a swirl of end-purple-bright appears and dissipates to reveal a crown. “An apology,” the god somberly calls it, and George wonders. Unlike George’s previous crown it’s a beautiful, intricate swirl of delicate black metal nonetheless sharp enough to kill with, the band inlaid with a glowing white strip that oozes power and each curving, perfect garland endowed with a constellation of precious gemstones, some of which he highly suspects came from XD’s own world since he doesn’t recognize them. It’s so, so close to XD’s color scheme married with his own…except a shade to the left.
Before he can process the crown, the god is also presenting him with a new cape fit for a king, an emperor, a god. A similarly beautiful, divine swathe of gorgeous otherworldly fabric with a constant flow along its edges, pseudo-transparent as it displays a glittering mirror of the night sky, the fur collar a shimmering holy white with gold threading and the clasps made of softly glowing Ender pearls.
“And a gift from myself,” XD adds, a hint of nervousness in the absent flicks of the god’s wings.
That from myself is another tucked away suspicion on the pile at this point but George chooses to accept both items rather than take XD by the lapels and demand answers. He shifts his attention to his armor stand and its accompanying weapon holders, considers the newly gifted accoutrements and then pauses to follow a curious line of thought.
George wants to send a message that cannot be misinterpreted by even the stupidest and most blind person on the server, and he believes his own tools, while suitable in their own way, aren’t quite the right fit.
So…whatever happened to Dream’s things? The shield is in his own chest kept safe but the rest? The armor, the weapons?
“Where are Dream’s armor set and his weapons, XD?”
XD hums, expression with a flickering dissatisfied frown, “Where such things always are. Looted after his defeat.”
And George doesn’t think he’s imagining the god’s weird tone on defeat, yet another thing to poke at later, busier scowling at the idea that everything Dream’d worked to create has been stolen like spoils of war. “Fuck that, none of them deserve anything of Dream’s. I may not either, but at least give them to me instead.”
If Dream can’t have his life or his things, at least George can try to look after what Dream’s left behind.
Once again XD gestures and a swirl of end-purple-bright deposits an occupied armor stand bearing Dream’s Nightmare armor and weapon stands for Dream’s Nightmare weapons—and one crossbow he snorts at seeing again. George crosses to the armor and the axe, admiring the well-maintained and battle-scarred nicks and dents, the sheen of enchantments turning the netherite purple. He’d made fun of Dream for his naming skills plenty of times but he’d always, just a little, thought the darker cast of metal made all of Dream’s items all the more intimidating, all the more vicious, all the more worthy to be held in Dream’s hands.
Void, he misses Dream.
His fingertips skim the cool metal of the chest plate and curl away, “Help me put it on?”
The god dips his head and complies after George ducks out of the room to swap out of his sleep clothes, steady gloved hands fastening each piece—except the head, which he slots into his inventory instead—to George’s slighter frame as if done a million times before. It’s a bit bigger on him than Dream, with gaps he’ll never be tall enough or large enough to fill, but XD aids it in sitting properly with a wave of the hand and a brush of power that shrinks the armor until it’s as comfortable as George’s own. With that settled, the god then drapes and secures the gifted cape onto his shoulders before finally, solemnly, nestling the crown onto his head and stepping back.
George stretches to test his mobility and murmurs a thanks, lifting Dream’s shield from his chest and setting it where it’ll be ready to switch into his off-hand. Then, looking around, he decides to add pieces of himself, too. His quiver is equipped almost on autopilot but with his bow he hesitates until XD reaches out to show him that the cape will be no hindrance, as George’s weapons and hands can pass straight through. Bow slung across the shoulder and the Nightmare axe in hand, he then watches with raised brows as XD fills his inventory and the armor’s belt pouches with potions and healing food of the highest quality, the god tutting absently as he’s fussed over.
Eventually he swats XD away so he can examine himself in the mirror and finds the George looking back at him a powerful, dangerous warrior. He has always been strong enough, he knows—if overshadowed by Dream and Sapnap—but wearing Dream’s armor and holding Dream’s axe makes him feel powerful in a way he’s only been able to replicate these days in his dreams. The server will recognize both on sight and feel fear and, frankly, good. George hefts Nightmare up and eyes his own weary reflection in the shine of its double-sided blade, presses his face against the flat of it as his shoulders bow over it, the dam that’s shored itself up for so long now crumbling beneath a tide of grief and rage and loneliness.
This is all he has left, now.
He had hope so long as Dream lived.
Dream is dead.
What good does hope do him now?
And the truth of it leads him to cry, his tears splashing purple-shining metal.
XD enfolds him carefully in arms and wings as he shakes apart, awkward but earnest and reminding George of Dream so, so much that it hurts, agonizing enough to spill blood onto the floor. George has never once mistaken XD for Dream—even if they were to stand side by side with matching features he would know Dream—but now all he has of Dream is XD (and an axe and a set of armor and a server missing its most crucial part). George would give everything to have Dream again instead…what good do weapons and armor do him? What good does a world that’s lost its brightest spot do him?
“You are not alone,” the god quietly assures him.
While George appreciates the sentiment and the support, he can’t help but think unlike Dream (Dream died alone).
He cries until his tears run dry and a headache threatens to bloom behind his eyes, grasping onto the shreds of his composure so he can pull away from agonizing notquiterightbutsoclose comfort. Face turned from XD to preserve his middling dignity, he scrubs his face clean and steels himself before tucking his vulnerabilities within a cloak of righteous fury.
Dream is dead by Quackity’s hand, facilitated by Sam’s choices.
“Make sure everyone that matters on this server is gathered in one place,” he orders with all the authority of an unquestioned king.
Dream is dead when he should be alive and George—perhaps a little too late, perhaps drowning in regrets—isn’t going to let the server get away with pretending dead is how Dream should be.
A critical eye runs over every inch of him to assess his readiness, the god nonetheless twisting a hand into free-form code to do as asked. “As you so command, so they will be.”
With one last flourish, XD’s hand retreats and gestures grandly toward the door, “They will gather at Pandora’s Vault whether they like it or not and shall remain there until we arrive.”
George breathes in slowly and then exhales, not ready to lay eyes on the site of Dream’s death but unable to deny its role. Dream can no longer run, so he shouldn’t either, and he’s not about to let Quackity and Sam try. “Okay,” he says, giving himself a shake, “let’s go.”
For you, Dream, he thinks as he passes XD on his way out, seeing the god’s mask reform to cover those endlessly painful features. I’m sorry I’m late, I’m sorry I didn’t visit. You’ll never know but…I still loved you.
Nightmare sings when George wields it and marches off a newly re-crowned king with a god at his heels.