Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Las Nevadas is loud.

Dream has always been aware of it, but as he races away, horse bouncing under him and Punz calling encouragement from in front of him, it’s even more apparent than it used to be. Las Nevadas is loud, a roar of flashing lights and blinking noises and chatter that make his eyes water and his head ache. Everything aches, really: he can’t remember the last time he’d ridden horseback, even before prison. When he tries to think back that far, his mind throbs, and he pushes it aside in favor of riding faster, for fear of stumbling over memories he won’t (can’t) think about. His body hurts from disuse; fuck, he thinks, with a stab of alarm, when is the last time he’d trained?

“Not much further,” Punz calls, under the cover of moonlight. His voice is a welcome distraction to Dream, who suppresses a whine, low and discomfited, in the back of his throat. “Turn left when you reach the treeline. The horse knows what it’s doing.”

Dream hums an agreement, coarser and drier than he remembers his own voice. It’s not that he doesn’t speak in Las Nevadas (on the contrary, they make him speak, they make him speak a lot) but in there, he doesn’t have time to think about what he’s saying or how he sounds. He speaks for survival, and because that’s what humans do. They speak. They communicate using words.

And he is a human. He always has been.

(He does not miss the feeling of soft dirt beneath paws he does not have. He does not miss the soft sound of birds that make his ears prick up because human ears do not do that. Above all, he doesn’t miss cantering through forests, staring up at the stars at night, the trees murmuring him to sleep.)

(Las Nevadas has no place for delusions. More importantly, the Plan has no place for delusions.)

(He cannot miss what he has never had.)

Taking a sharp left as the forest closes in, Dream takes a last look back at Las Nevadas: the prison he’d spent months in, stuck under Quackity and Sam’s watchful eyes. Well. Prison is too harsh a word: in his mind’s eye, he conjures up images of Pandora’s Vault, before he’d left it to feature as the Las Nevadas private guard. Pandora had always been much worse than Las Nevadas. At least in the latter, food had come regularly enough, along with an ability to see the sun, sometimes. And he hadn’t been tortured.

But it’s still so loud. Even in the dead of night, he’s so aware of it all. A pressure is building up in his head, vicious and unrelenting, and, taking one hand off the reigns to press it in annoyance to his forehead, Dream lets out a tight, controlled breath.

With Las Nevadas out of sight behind the treeline, he finally slows down.

It’s enough for Punz to catch up – his ally hasn’t ever been the fastest rider. Slowing his horse to a steady trot beside his own, Punz quirks an eyebrow at Dream’s discomfort, and, not for the first time, Dream wishes he had his mask. Anything to cover his face up, just for a little more privacy.

He trusts Punz. It’s just…

“Hey. You good?”

…It’s just that Punz is looking at him with widened eyes and a tilted head, like he’s someone more fragile than the man they’d let get imprisoned, like somehow, he’s become delicate. And sure, he feels more delicate than before, feels like a completely different person, but feeling delicate and being seen as delicate are two very separate things. Dream bristles.

“Fine,” he says, and his voice is curt, “let’s keep moving. How much further?”

Punz squints ahead of them, and when he does, Dream closes his eyes, a pinched expression overtaking his face while he pushes back a low, dragged out hum of discomfort. Riding like this is nowhere near as easy as he remembers – then again, Dream thinks bitterly, his memory isn’t the most reliable right now. Not since…

Well.

“About two hundred blocks or so.” It’s Punz again that interrupts his thoughts, and this time, Dream is grateful for it, pursing his lips tightly and following where his ally points. They’re deeper into the forest now, and the noise drowning him from Las Nevadas has faded; in relief, he tips his head back, just a little, and lets his eyes drift up. There are dark clouds gathering above them, indecisively stormy, and he can tell by the smell of the air that rain is on its way. “If we keep up a steady pace, we’ll be there in no time.”

Punz’s eyes dart back to him. They’re worried when his face remains neutral.

“You gonna make it?”

“Am I gonna make it?” Dream repeats dryly. “I mean, my other option is to head all the way back to Las Nevadas and give up any hope of escape. So I guess I’ll have to. …Yeah,” he relents, softening his voice just a tad when Punz rolls his eyes, “yeah, I’ll make it. I’m fine. Scraped, but fine. Let’s just hurry.”

Urging his horse into action again, caressing its soft mane gently and momentarily missing Spirit with a deer pang, Dream gallops past Punz, relishing the cool night’s air on his face and the rush of exhilaration of moving so swiftly again. It feels good: he has never been suited to the indoors, and no matter how much Sam had kept him cooped up, being outside and around nature is so electrifying that Dream wants to howl.

He doesn’t, obviously. Because he’s human. But he does take a deer breath in, letting the cool fresh grass scent flood his lungs and lift his spirits, and gently pushes his horse faster and faster until he feels like he’s flying again. Screwing his eyes shut tight, ahead of Punz and able to avoid his warning looks, he tips his head up to the sky, and leans back. The rush is better than he remembers.

He’s missed this. He misses home.

But home isn’t where his mind tells him it is. Home is the Community House and Pandora’s Vault. Home is with his family and friends. Home is what he’s fighting for. Home is not these moth-eaten forests and dusty roads long forgotten. It is not waking up under the blue sky and sniffing around his friends excitedly. Those are not his memories; and if they are, then they are wrong.

(It’s easy to ignore the niggling whisper in the fact of his head that they are his. He is not an animal. He only thinks they are his memories. They are wrong; he is wrong.)

(He has always been human.)

Still, the exhilaration at being free – properly, truly, actually, free – makes him laugh, a small, giddy sound, and when Punz catches up with him, he can tell his ally is feeling the same way. There are crinkles around his eyes, and his lips twitch upward in a smile.

“How does it feel to be a free man?” He asks Dream teasingly. 

Dream grins back at him, even as the clouds open up above them and spill out drizzling rain.

“Great,” he says simply, “I feel… great.”

Their camp, if it can be called that, is bare. When they reach the clearing, Dream is greeted with a wide open grassy area, a patchwork cabin, and the smell of food. Nice food, too, and it makes his stomach growl in complaint. Hearing it, Punz snickers.

“What, they didn’t feed you at Las Nevadas?” 

He tosses the question out with a snort, but his sharp, sideways gaze makes Dream bitingly aware Punz is still checking in on him. He’s been closed-lipped about everything – about the prison and the torture and the guard duties and himself – so it’s not a surprise Punz is fishing for more information, but it’s easy enough to force his lips into a little crooked amused twist.

“Course they did,” he says mildly. Liar. “You think they’d… what, let their top-secret prisoner pass out? ‘Course not.”

Punz looks gratified at the news, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. What he can’t sense, as Dream can, is the scent that hangs around someone when they lie: Dream is drowning in it now, a heavy stiff cloud of lie lie lie, and his nose twitches in distaste. 

“I am hungry, though,” he adds, as they dismount, “I’m really hungry.”

“Good thing I have soup cooking,” Punz says cheerily, “I want a payrise.”

Despite the exhaustion leeching at his energy, Dream splutters a laugh. “Dude, I pay you enough.”

“You don’t pay me to make your damn dinner,” his ally calls primly over his shoulder as he heads towards the door of the cabin, “come inside. Or, did you wanna eat outside?”

The question makes him stiffen. Maybe his tone turns the same.

“We’ll eat inside. At the table. Obviously.”

Punz hums, and is gone inside before Dream can say anything else, leaving him alone for a precious minute or two. Dream’s eyes flutter shut, and his hand rubs his horse’s flank soothingly, hearing her snort in approval. If he loses focus enough, it almost feels like he’s the one being petted. 

It’s been a long time since he’s been alone. Especially outside. The last time had been waiting for Tommy and Tubbo to show up to their staged victory, roaming the sleepless mountain until the sun broke over the horizon. It had been beautiful, a far cry from the prison he’d known he faced. Had that been why he’d picked the mountain to fight on? One last look at the beauty of his world, of his home, before he’d been taken away?

He isn’t sure. He knows he never will be. Memories aren’t to be trusted anymore: he understands that now. Memories can be changed, memories can be wrong. Bitterly, Dream recalls the pages and pages of writing in the books in his cell, remembers panicking over them. 

(“I didn’t write these,” he says. Air won’t come quick enough. “This– This wasn’t me.”

Sam stares down at him, face blank. “It’s your handwriting.” Though his words are cold, his voice is calm and steady. Dream almost wants to cling to it, would cling to it if he hadn’t been in such a dangerous situation with such a dangerous person. “It’s your handwriting, and it’s signed with your name.”

“I–” Dream stumbles over his words, struggles to calm enough to reply. “But I didn’t write these. I don’t remember–”

“You don’t remember,” Quackity repeats, voice mock-pitying, “that isn’t the same thing as ‘it wasn’t me”. They’re two different fuckin’ things. You know that.”

“No.” Dazed, horrified, Dream rips the book from Sam’s grip, stares at the pages wildly. 

I’m losing memories. I can’t remember what’s real and what’s not anymore. Sam says I didn’t eat anything today, but I thought I’d eaten a potato. I know I ate today. Everything is blurring together. I can’t keep track of anything anymore. Everything is so confusing.

“Isolation has damaged your memory.” Sam sighs, turns away. “In a few hours, you might not even remember this conversation.”

“Karma’s a bitch, right, pal?” Quackity smiles blithely, and Dream’s panic reaches its peak. “I’ve gotta say, it’s good seeing you like this.”)

…Memories can be wrong. Hell, Dream doesn’t even know if that memory is real. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Prison had been hell, Las Nevadas had been hell, and now he’s home. Or. Well. He’s back to the Plan. He’s back with Punz.

There is something aching inside of him, but he ignores it in face of following Punz inside, taking his shoes off by the door and ignoring Punz’s bewildered look at his actions.

He’s out now. All he has to do is stick to the Plan, and things will be just fine.

Dinner is good. Dinner is fantastic. 

Dream wolfs his down like he hasn’t eaten in days, much to the consternation of Punz, who he has to reassure not once, not twice, but three times, that he’s definitely had enough to eat. And then, because he suddenly realizes how much lying makes it sound like he’s bothered about the starvation – and he’s not, he’s not bothered, it’s over now, he has no reason to care – Dream relents a little of the truth.

“No, okay, so the food wasn’t… it wasn’t always constant,” he admits, self-consciously scuffing his feet against the oak flooring under Punz’s gaze, “but it wasn’t enough to complain about. Come on. Anyway, it’s over. And,” he says, trying for a smile, “the food now is ten times worse than the food anywhere. You’re a trash cook.”

His insults work. Punz kicks him under the table, and Dream yelps.

“You won’t be wanting seconds then.”

“Punz, my favorite person in the whole world,” Dream says immediately, “you love me. You won’t deprive me of soup.”

Sure enough, a second bowl is poured for him. He grins in victory, and earns another kick accompanied by a look that’s far too fond to be pissed.

“Eat your damn soup, Dream.”

After dinner, they wander outside. It’s not Dream’s suggestion; Punz is the one who brings it up, offers a walk, and Dream doesn’t turn it down. Standing and stretching makes his head swim a little and his legs throb with pain – it’s been a long day – but heading outside and being hit by fresh air makes it all fade away. Closing his eyes and taking a lungful of the night, Dream jerks away from Punz’s touch as the older ghosts by him, and when he snaps an accusatory gaze, his ally winces at him apologetically.

“You’re jumpier than usual.”

You think I’m jumpier than usual, Dream thinks dryly, but doesn’t think this will go down well. Instead, he grunts, shuffling over from the door to let Punz out and stand beside him. 

“Well,” he says, evasively, “to be fair, I think it’s been, like, almost a year. In my defence.”

“Almost a year. Shit.” Punz lets out a hard breath. It mists in front of them, a reassuring fog before it dissipates. “You were in there for a long time, Dream. A hell of a long time. I kept going to the meeting point, but you never showed.”

“I know.” Dream mimics his ally, sitting down on the steps of their cabin and tilting his head back. There’s a smattering of stars above them still, though they’re beginning to grow dim as the sun rears its head over the horizon. For once, he feels strangely at peace, like something inside of him is settled being out in the open again. “I tried. After Techno left, I thought the prison break would be any day from then. But…”

“But you got yourself moved to Quackity’s country. Yeah.” 

“Yeah.”

There’s silence for a long moment, and Dream takes the time to look around, let his eyes adjust to the gloom of the night. It’s mob-proofed as best as it can be without attracting unwanted attention; in the distant treeline, though, he can see the shadow of things moving, hear the rattle of skeletons, the mumble of zombies. They don’t scare him – they never have – but the idea that beyond the mobs, Sam or Quackity could be waiting, fills him with a fear he finds humiliating. If he’d been anything other than human, he could have shaken that dread off quickly. Gone for a gallop around the trees. Flown through them. Climbed them, thrown himself past them and into the night’s sky. Unease curdles his stomach, makes the soup lie there heavily.

He goes to turn to Sam for reassurance, but Sam isn’t there. 

It’s Punz instead that catches his eye. “Good?”

“Fine.” It’s out of Dream’s mouth before he can stop it. “I’m… fine. Just… I’m tired.”

Punz grunts in understanding, getting to his feet and offering Dream a hand. 

(Dream remembers not having hands.)

(No he doesn’t.)

(Dream thinks he remembers not having hands.)

(Or maybe he doesn’t.)

He takes it, his human hand clasping Punz’s, and gets hauled to his feet. Without fur or feathers, the night is cold, biting, and he’s glad to head back inside, away from the mobs and reminders of what he hadn’t ever been, and it’s with a weary relief Dream stumbles into bed as the sun slowly begins to rise, eyes heavy, words muddled with sleep.

“I’ll stay on guard first,” he tells Punz thickly, “to make sure nobody comes looking for us.”

Punz scoffs. “Yeah, tell me that without yawning. I’ll stay here.”

He sits down on the edge of Dream’s bed, nudges against his leg affectionately. Dream resists the urge to curl up to him, nuzzle into the crook of his neck like he’d… like he thought he’d done one thousand times before. Before. It’s strange to think of before – he’d spent so long struggling to figure out the before, so long thinking it mattered when it hadn’t ever really mattered. The past is in the past. The past warps and twists in his mind. If he stays focused on the unchanging, constant Plan for the future…

“Dream,” Punz murmurs, “you don’t… I dunno, wanna talk about what happened, do you? I mean, when I first saw you last month…”

If he stays focused on the Plan for the future, the past can change as much as it wants. Lifting his head tiredly from the pillow and wishing he’d fallen asleep on the forest floor, Dream meets Punz’s eyes. 

They’re the same as he thinks he knows.

“I’m okay,” he tells him quietly, “I promise.”

And as he falls asleep that night, he can almost convince himself that it’s the truth.

Chapter Text

In the unbearable heat of his cell, Dream thinks of the forests.

Not the forests of the SMP, littered with war and history and too many people, though even they would be nice about now. No, his mind drifts further, back to his childhood, back through the battles and bloodshed of his teenage years, to the forests he’d grown up in. They’re faint around the edges in his head, distant and disconnected from him with time and age, but if he closes his eyes and stifles the smell of the prison with the cuff of his hoodie, he can almost, almost, see the lush trees, almost, almost, taste the soft morning dew on his lips where blood now pools.

Someone kicks at him. The image dissolves.

Dream doesn’t move. The foot has a body which has a mouth, and it sighs, tired.

“Get up, Dream.” Sam says from somewhere above him. Dream’s nose twitches, but he doesn’t move. Exhaustion seeps into every muscle; his nose smarts from breaking under Tommy’s fist.

It’s been a long night for both of them.

The angry red lines on his chest and neck have subsided now, as death marks always do, but they follow him in any form he shifts to, and they hurt. It’s been years and years since he’s gotten himself a death mark, and now, he’s gotten himself two in one night. What would George think? Dream asks himself with a rueful smile he keeps hidden behind his mask, before sobering. 

He hadn’t been oblivious to George’s absence from his staged disk war finale. He wonders if he’s still sleeping.

“Dream,” Sam says again, heavier, firmer, “get to your feet. Now.”

Which ones? Dream wants to ask, amused, but he doesn’t want to push his luck. Instead, he presses his lips together, shifts as human as he can, and slowly, cautiously, gets to his feet.

Sure enough, it’s Sam above him, standing with his arms crossed, a resolute, irate expression on his face. He’s not managed to hide the look in his eyes, though: he half looks like a kicked puppy, gaze following Dream as the prisoner moves, stretches, breathes. He looks betrayed. In a way, he guesses Sam has been betrayed – though not for the reasons the Warden believes.

“Are you letting me out?” He asks, contrite enough to make Sam’s eyes sharpen. A telltale fizz bubbles under Sam’s mask.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” His warden sounds tired. “Hands up. Don’t try anything stupid.”

“Like what?” Dream presses, wry. “You’ve– Sam, I literally have nothing. You’ve searched me down, like, twenty times since I got here. It hasn’t even been a day. What, you think– you think I’ve got some magic netherite hidden on me somewhere that you missed? Maybe– Maybe TNT? So I can– TNT my way outta here?”

Sam isn’t impressed. What is visible of his lips behind the mask thins. With rough hands, he grabs Dream’s wrists, tight, and lifts them up, pushes them out to the side. It’s an unnecessary invasion of privacy, but Dream bites his tongue, and allows Sam this one thing.

…Not that he can stop Sam, he knows, with a twist of discomfort in his gut, but his faith in his old friend holds firm even when he longs to bring his arms back to his side. 

By now, after the explosions and swords and secret mountain bases, his hoodie is ripped to hell and back. The sleeves don’t cover the gashes at his elbow or the bruise on his hand from Tubbo’s shield slamming into it, and the hood isn’t much more than rags now, not enough to hide the nasty scar across his neck. It’s exposing, standing under Sam’s scrutiny like this without armor, and Dream feels strangely– naked. A prickle of unease runs down his spine; with a gargantuan effort, he ignores it for now.

This isn’t supposed to be comfortable. He hadn’t asked Sam to build an inescapable prison for nothing. 

(Though he misses fresh air much more than he’d thought he would. Misses the sun beating down on his back, misses water splashing at his ankles, misses animals. Misses, more than ever, Punz’s shitty food that would put raw potatoes to shame.)

(This isn’t supposed to be comfortable. Doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it, though.)

Sam pats him down, runs his hands over Dream’s body until he’s satisfied his paranoia. Only then does he step back, only then does he allow Dream some room to breathe, to hide, turning away from his prisoner while he fumbles with the potion belt at his waist. It’s new, Dream notes distractedly, while his nose twitches at a new scent besides the heat and the sweat and the blood, when had he gotten that? At Christmas? Before? After?

Ah. He recognizes what he’s smelling when a glass bottle is uncorked, pressing back a growl in his throat to avoid Sam’s ire. Fermented spider eye, the sickly sugar and mushroom making him grimace. Redstone, speckled with cobblestone – Sam’s just mined it, clearly, it’s fresh from a cave or tunnel. A potion of weakness comes into view in Sam’s hands when he turns back, and Dream only has a moment before Sam is stepping closer, using his height in an attempt to– what? Intimidate, maybe? Coerce?

Dream feels neither. Contrary to Sam’s beliefs, he has no ill-will towards him, none at all. Everything is going according to plan – he has no reason to make Sam angrier at him than necessary, so he’ll drink if he needs to.

Still. Dream’s brow furrows behind the mask. He’s not sure how pleased he is at drinking this particular potion, harmless enough though it is.

“This isn’t part of protocol,” he notes, wary, tone light, “potions are dispensed from the block above the water to get visitors out. There’s nothing about weakness potions in the blueprints we made.”

“Protocol–” Sam half-scoffs, half-groans, “Dream, you’re not in charge here. This prison is mine. If I decide the prisoner is too much of a threat to deal with, then I take whatever means necessary to protect myself and to protect visitors. I want you to drink this.”

Another trickle of unease. Dream frowns, presses his point–

“Why? Why do I need to– I already told you I’m unarmed. I have no armor, no weapons, nothing I can do to hurt you.” Except shift forms. Except speak. Except, apparently, exist. “Why do you want me to drink this?”

“You have a new outfit.” Sam says shortly. “This is to ensure you don’t fight it. Drink, please.”

…He can’t smell deception on Sam’s part. Throwing caution to the wind, Dream warily takes the potion, and, under Sam’s watchful gaze, downs the bottle.

Weakness potions never taste good. Potions rarely do – he’s taken enough of them throughout his life to be a good judge by now, and this one is no different. Sam is an efficient, but not dedicated, potion maker. He has none of the flair George has, none of the taste that Bad’s do: with a pang, Dream realizes with dismay that he’s homesick for people he won’t see for a long, long time. Days. Weeks. Maybe even months, depending on how soon he gets to escape. He wrinkles his nose drinking the potion, the thick liquid slipping down his throat like an eel, and before long the familiar effects begin to set in. Heavy eyes, uncoordinated limbs. A sudden loss of clarity: thoughts, once crystal clear, if rueful, growing slow, sluggish. Sam steps forwards before Dream can even remember that stepping back requires moving his feet; off-balance, he stumbles, and it’s only thanks to Sam that he stays standing. Despite this, he growls low in his throat. Not threatening, not warning. Just wary. Just exposed.

And Sam’s eyes are so dark when he says, “Shirt off.”

Dream numbly complies. He hadn’t planned to fight back before: the potion just ensures he can’t. The air thickens, clogs. For a second, it’s almost nice; reminds him of warm summer days and soupy nights with his friends, piled on top of each other, limbs sprawling, in the Community House. Fuck. Eyes close. Having his shirt off is only somewhat of a relief in the stifling cell. Maybe commissioning lava as a cell curtain hadn’t been the smartest idea.

…Maybe prison hadn’t been either.

Anyway.

Sam’s hands, at least, provide something cool. His gloves are colder than the rest of the cell, and Dream has to stop himself from leaning in when they slide his shirt over his head after removing his hoodie. If he’d felt exposed before, he feels utterly helpless now – this is part of the Plan, he tells himself, because it keeps him from speaking, this is what you wanted. And then he corrects himself: this is part of the Plan. The Plan is what you wanted.

“Do you have a fever?” Sam asks him, feeling his forehead with the back of his hand. His voice is quiet, collected, but uncertain: he senses the heavy air between them, thick with something they won’t name. “You’re warm.”

At this, Dream smothers a laugh, clamps the noise between his teeth. “I’m surrounded by fire, Sam,” he tells him, voice sounding distant, exhausted, and he damns the potion to the Void and back again, “course I’m warm.”

The sour look Sam sends him is worth it. So is the harsh tugging as one sleeve breaks the thin green band he wears around his left wrist. A gift from Callahan years ago, back when they’d first met: a bonding between two hybrids, and Dream feels a momentary rush of loss as it lands in the lava at his cell and dissolves into hissing steam and ash. It’s gone in seconds. It’s gone like it never existed in the first place.

Sam is quiet after that, mostly. He focuses on pulling Dream’s usual clothes off, face clipped, expression professional, but Dream sees his eyes wandering like a young child seeing an angel; how are you human? He knows Sam is thinking. How are you so human after everything you’ve done?

Of course, he’s not human. He’s not. But the fur and claws and teeth and tails are saved for safer places. Pandora’s Vault is not safe. Not for softer forms. His human one can endure it. Nothing else.

Dream doesn’t bother speaking either. It’s a comfort to keep his thoughts to himself – often, weakness potions make him loopy, chatty, leave him babbling incoherently to anyone nearby–

–Bad, hushing him gently as he stitches up his leg; Dream, struggling to retain human form–

–George’s face screwed up while he hands scissors to Bad, telling him distractedly to keep rambling while shrapnel gets dug from his leg–

–Sapnap, giggling at Dream’s sluggish stories, shuffling closer with a gap-toothed grin to hear more–

Sam’s face isn’t what it had been. It’s colder now, distant. Dream knows it’s inevitable that Sam’s opinion of him hardens – it’s part of the Plan, after all – but it still stings to see. Maybe that’s why he keeps his mouth shut while Sam pulls the itching orange jumpsuit on him, dresses him up like a little doll. While Sam works, Dream’s mind flits, very briefly, to Tommy. It’s enough to keep him amused, at least. The crushing relief on Tommy’s face when Punz had stepped through the portal had been enough to make him laugh at the time; now, with nobody to keep the act up for but Sam, Dream can allow himself a faint smile. 

Tommy thinks he’s won. Tommy thinks this is about the disks. 

God.

God.

“What was it about?” Sam asks very sharply, hands pausing at Dream’s waist where they steady him. The redstone addition is making the potion last longer, he realizes with a pang of disgust: it’s showing no signs of wearing off any time soon. “What was all of this for, Dream? What is this?”

Dream licks his lips. They’re so dry. The forest calls for him. He can’t answer. “For… the server,” he answers, at least partially truthfully, “for the server, and… I don’t know. To get control. To– to win.”

It’s the bullshit answer he’s given everyone for the past year, and it rolls off his tongue so easily now. A look of disgust and contempt and dislike brushes over Sam’s face, and Dream blanches at it, actually tries to recoil. It’s so strong. So potent. He’s never seen Sam look at him like that before.

“Is this winning?” The warden demands, tilting Dream’s face up to him. His fingers run across the stubble Dream hasn’t had time to shave, catch on the scar on his jaw that’s always been raised a little. It’s familiar, if disconcerting with the anger in his voice. “Is any of this winning?”

What is winning? Sam dressing him in an orange prison jumpsuit, the knowledge he will spend weeks in here being underfed and understimulated? What is winning – gaining two death marks in one night and being cut off completely from the server that is quite literally a part of him? With the obsidian, he can barely feel the land tugging in his stomach. It makes him nervous. What is winning? Is this what it looks like?

He hums his answer, and lets Sam decide.

By the time the potion begins to lift, Dream is ready. He finishes dressing, has something clipped onto his ankle, gets attached to a chain which attaches to the back cell wall, and Sam remains too close the whole time. Dream isn’t one for claustrophobia, but his skin hasn’t stopped itching, crawling, the whole time he’s been in here, and with Sam so near, it certainly doesn’t help. Eyes aching, body dulled, he sits down on the chest, lethargy seeping through him. 

(Sam hasn’t stopped staring at him, not even once. His hands haven’t gone near his mask, either.)

(Take a picture, Dream wants to quip, it’ll last longer.)

(He still feels the phantom of his old friend’s hands on him, his grip lingering too long. Possessive. Strict. So he keeps his mouth shut.)

“You’ll be fed twice daily,” Sam says flatly, “morning and night. You get a clock to track the days and retain a regular sleep schedule. Visitors run by the visit system we set up before all of– this. You have books in the chest, and a lectern to write, if you want to.”

“No bed to sleep in, though,” Dream says, and shrugs at Sam’s cool gaze, “I mean, I know I set it up, but–”

“Anything else is a security risk.” Sam actually smiles at him then, lips thin. Dream wonders if the creeper hybrid is smoking dangerously behind the mask. Wonders if he’ll explode and kill them both. “That’s what you said, isn’t it? Am I wrong? Anything else–”

“Is a security risk, yeah.” Letting his head fall back, Dream gazes blearily up at the ceiling of his cell. He’ll count the blocks another time. Doesn’t want to get bored of it too quickly. “I know what I said. You don’t– I know.”

“Good,” replies Sam, “okay, then. Then we don’t have anything else to say to each other.”

Sam is reliable. Despite all his protests about how unstable creeper hybrids could be, Sam is one of the most dependable people Dream knows. He’s constant, steady. He knows what’s right and sticks to his jobs. It’s exactly why he landed the job at the prison. So, when Sam turns away, back stiff, shoulders set, Dream allows himself one private smile behind his mask. Sam is reliable. He’s acting exactly as expected. 

Which means Dream is playing his part well. 

Still, the chain on his wrist bothers him. Replacing Calla’s bracelet, the chain is heavy and awkward, tugging his hand into a painful position. Grimacing and tugging forwards experimentally, Dream calls out for his warden one last time.

“You’re just gonna— gonna leave me here? Like this?” He asks. “I look like your dog or something. Like I’m Fran. I’m not going anywhere, Sam. You could untie me. I’m not— your pet.”

Sam turns, slowly. The look he gives Dream is frosty and lingers too long. 

“You’re right. You’re not my pet. You’re not anyone’s pet.” 

Dream blinks. “Sam—”

“You are a monster,” Sam says quietly, “that’s what you are. You’re an evil man, Dream. And I’m going to make sure you know that while you’re in here.”

He can’t even scramble for a reply to the comment. Sam is downing a fire res potion and striding into the lava before Dream can process his words, and when he’s found his response, Sam is long gone. 

Evil. Well. It’s what he’s been aiming for this whole time. If Punz were here, he’d give him a wry smile, tell him how well the Plan is going. But he’s not particularly in the mood to think about plans and prisons and Punz. He can’t. It leaves a taste in his mouth far too close to nostalgia for him to do that. 

Instead, Dream curls up as best he can, and closes his eyes. The cell has seared itself into his mind now, and he sees it even with his eyes shut, but it’s at least a welcome change from the blinding light of the lava. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but it does come: when it does, it’s restless, disturbed by vague nightmares and the aftertaste of the weakness potion, as well as constant discomfort. 

…He wishes there was a bed.

Halfway through the night, Dream surrenders, and shuffles over on the chest, trying to shift into a form more comfortable than his human one. All that he manages is a headache and frustrated growl that sounds stupidly human. 

His skin itches, but he puts it all down to being too tired to focus on a form. 

Uneasily, he tucks his legs up closer to his chest, and drifts into a dreamless, dizzy sleep.

(And Sam watches. Through the blinking red camera in the corner of the cell, Sam watches.)

(Sam watches, and he devises a plan.)

Chapter Text

When he and Punz resume their plans, Dream’s body is aching.

Not just from the horseriding from a few days ago – though, after over a year away from any kind of horseback riding, his muscles do protest when he slides out of bed – the ache is deeper than that, more integral. Nothing short of sleep will keep it at bay. Even then, sleep brings nightmares, and worse, sleep brings back half-formed memories he’s certain had never happened.

Or. Well. He thinks he’s certain. It’s impossible to tell for sure.

Waking up leaves him with a dry mouth and splitting headache. He’s never been hungover before, but he’s almost certain this is what it would feel like. It leaves him tentative, withdrawn, and Punz studies him with growing worry with every hour they spend together.

He’s fine, of course. His body longs for something he knows it can’t have, and his mind feels almost fractured, but Dream throws himself into work anyway – tries, with every ounce of his willpower, to ignore the weaknesses he’s feeling and replace them with focus. The Plan keeps him grounded, for the most part: no time to overthink things or complicate messy feelings when he’s scouting out a new base area for him and Punz, or when he’s talking a mile a minute to run his friend through the schedule once more. 

They return to the prison – there’s a sight for sore eyes. Sam hasn’t returned to it since Dream had escaped from Las Nevadas: not properly, anyway, other than lingering awkwardly around it for a day or two like a lost puppy before leaving again, so it’s falling apart. Literally. The obsidian is crumbling where the water crashes against it, wearing it down so the blackstone inside becomes visible. There’s ivy, now, and vines beginning to snake their tendrils tentatively towards the prison entrance – not Egg vines, thank God, because the last thing he wants to deal with right now is a giant telepathic brainwashing Egg – and Dream can’t help but feel… nostalgic, somehow.

He remembers it first being built. Remembers the waves of apprehension and paranoia that had met him with every stack of obsidian he’d mined for Sam’s build.

It will be worth it, he’d told himself then. 

Looking at the prison now, it rings hollow and naive inside his head.

It will be worth it.

Punz’s voice draws him from his reverie. 

“Dude,” Punz says, “this place is fucking grim.”

Even in the solitary silence of the prison’s halls, his words are hushed and reverent. Dream can’t tear his eyes away from the familiar blocks; his ears prick up at the drip-drip-drip from the roof; he doesn’t so much as flinch when the specter of an Elder Guardian ghosts through his vision. Punz’s startled noise and disgruntled curse means he hadn’t been as prepared for it.

“You really wanna make this place into our base?” His friend asks, not for the first time. “I don’t know, Dream. Something about it feels really fucked up.”

“No, no.” Dream finds his voice. It takes all his effort not to whine. “Look, this is perfect. Nobody will come looking for us here. It’s like… hiding in plain sight.”

That’s part of the truth, at least. He’s not exactly keen on the prison either, not after everything. A few months away hasn’t erased the ten months he’d spent locked up inside, and even the prison lobby makes him want to recoil.

(The sound of footsteps carrying through thick lava and boiling steam, the promise of Quackity coming closer and closer.)

(The sizzle of a weakness potion dragging him off to sleep, the burn of a health potion waking him up to Sam’s face peering intently into his own.)

(The creeping feeling of dread upon finding more books he’d never written, less potatoes he hadn’t eaten, new additions to the cell he’d never seen.)

(“Your mind just won’t let you remember,” comes the crisp, clipped response, “because you don’t want to remember what you’ve done wrong.”

Dream struggles for breath. “But I do remember. I remember that.”

“But you pretend you’re not responsible.” The same voice continues, unwavering. “You try to pretend there’s something wrong with you. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants to–)

When Punz opens the vault, Dream is greeted with the familiar sight of a place he hadn’t ever wanted to see again. His hands don’t shake when he lifts them to touch the Warden’s desk, and his breath doesn’t hitch when he flicks through the visitation book to see rows and rows of Quackity’s sprawling handwriting.

This is the Plan: Dream is locked away, and Dream escapes. The prison falls into disuse, and he and Punz slip inside to make it home. 

If he changes things now, then he’s changing the Plan: the one thing that had kept him alive and sane through months of hell. And more than that: if he changes the Plan, then it’s because he’s giving into emotions, and he’ll be admitting that the prison had been a mistake. Worse, he’ll be admitting that the prison had been too much for him.

Feelings are… untrustworthy. Dream has long since learned not to rely on them. Even before they’d become fickle and false in Pandora’s Vault.

“Is it weird being back?” Punz asks, toying at a loose tile with the toe of his boot. Dream remembers that block being placed, remembers laughing with Sam about something asinine. “It’s gotta be, right– You were in here so long.”

“It’s… something.” He cements his vision on the pearly white stairs, approaching them with caution and glancing upwards. On the fourth stair from the top, he sees blood. Wonders if it’s his own, and, if it is, from which visit. Wonders if it really matters. “We should be careful the first few days we’re back. I don’t trust Sam not to come back. He, like, lived here for a while.”

Dream doesn’t need to turn to see the consternation on Punz’s face. It’s written in his voice. “He what?”

“Okay, not– not exactly. But he stopped going home at some point, before– before Quackity got him to take me to his place.” The stain on the stairs is old, browning blood splattered in splotches on otherwise pristine stairs. Dream can’t quite peel his eyes away from it as he gets nearer, nose twitching at the scent. Definitely his.

No. No, not his. Before he can think about it too deeply, he scuffs his boot over the mark, and when he steps back, it’s gone. Clamping one hand over his nose briefly, fighting back instinct and thoughts from a sicker mind, Dream regulates his breathing, forces words out of his mouth that is human and normal and his and not wrong.

“We could set up here. Or there are, like, cells further in. Not the main cell, though we could use that too – it’s just deeper inside. Either way, nobody’s gonna come past the entrance.”

His fingers trace along the bridge of his nose and map over the curve of his jaw until Dream has convinced himself that it’s normal, and only then does he dare suck in a breath through his nose again. His nostrils flare at the onslaught of smells, but this time, he doesn’t react. Pleased at his own control over his thoughts, it takes Dream until he’s at the bottom of the stairs for him to notice Punz hasn’t answered.

“What do you think? Here, or–” 

Punz is staring at him, face expressionless. Next to him, on the wall, is a bloody handprint.

Dream’s stomach does somersaults.

Quackity’s hand, by the size and markings.

Not Quackity’s blood, though.

“This yours?” His friend – ally – asks, voice too be casual to be true. “That’s weird, if it is. Cause you told me things were fine in here.”

Don’t react. Don’t react. The handprint burns itself into his mind. The chasm of missing memories opens up, threatening to devour him. Dream stares until his eyes burn. 

“Well?”

“Not mine.” Dream’s lips stretch into an easy smile, lips pressing naturally over fangs he doesn’t have. “Dude, look at it. Are you serious?” It takes him several strides to cross the room to inspect the bloody print. Refusing to overthink his own actions, Dream presses his hand against the wall next to it. His own hand dwarves the red. “It’s so small. I think I’m offended.”

Punz doesn’t give him the smirk or grin he’s looking for. Instead, his expression tightens, and he purses his lips together. Dream doesn’t need to taste the scent of tension on the back of his tongue to know Punz doesn’t believe him. 

“That’s not what I meant.”

Dream sighs. “It’s not my blood, Punz.”

“Really?” Punz snaps. It’s been a while since he’d seen Punz this heated about anything; even then, when he wracks his brains, the last time Punz had been this annoyed had been watching an old MCC, yelling at his past self for not moving quick enough. “Because I’m not blind, Dream, okay? I see the way you’re acting in this place. I know something happened here. Something you’re not telling me.”

It’s hard to force out a laugh, but Dream does so anyway, makes it sound as incredulous as he can. “You’re an idiot,” he says in feigned disbelief, heart throwing itself against his ribs so hard he thinks he might throw up, “look, I told you everything. Prison was– Well, it wasn’t– it wasn’t fun, Punz, is that what you want me to tell you? It was boring, and it was uncomfortable, and yeah, okay, I got a little hungry sometimes. But that’s all.”

Punz’s turn to scoff in disbelief. It’s harsh and loud and makes Dream want to flinch or howl or bite or whine. “Right, right,” he agrees sarcastically, “which is why you’re twitchier than fucking Ranboo in here, right? Come on. I’m not dumb. I’m not stupid, Dream. Look at you!” He gestures at him, eyes razor sharp and sweeping. “You can smell it, can’t you? You can smell it, that blood, you know it’s yours. You can’t lie to me, man. I know you.”

“I’m not a fucking animal, Punz!”

Later, Dream tries to rationalize through his response. Several different theories come to him, and he writes them all down dutifully, ignoring the humiliation that it brings to document his own outburst. Stress is the first thing he attributes it to; quickly discards, too, because he’s been stressed before, and hasn’t lost his temper like that. Embarrassment, genuine anger, tiredness, all of those are plausible– sleep is hard to come by, and Dream remembers the heat of annoyance in his cheeks when he’d snapped at Punz.

But it’s deeper than that. What he doesn’t write down that night is that his outburst comes from a place of fear. 

Of weakness.

His breaths are shallow as he wrenches his head away from Punz, and steps back from the wall. He doesn’t look back once as he heads upstairs, and when his ally joins him, neither of them say a word about the blood.

–

They’re by the campfire Dream cooks strew over when Punz brings it up again. 

They sit for a while in a silence that is almost comfortable. The buzzing of mayflies and the cool breeze passing through the area offers respite against the warm sticky heat, and Dream is glad when clouds pass over the sun above. “Rain soon,” he says to Punz, who grunts in agreement, “Hope and Badger can finally get a break. Must suck being in the sun with saddles and reins you can’t take off yourself.”

His horse, Hope, whinnies in approval. Dream tries not to think about how instinctively he thinks he understands her sound.

“Yeah, but at least they don’t have clothes.” Punz, draped lazily over the side of their makeshift camp, eyes the horses appraisingly. “Wearing armor sucks, dude. If I could be a horse, I’d swap in a heartbeat.”

“You don’t mean that,” Dream tells him, “you’d only be able to eat, like, apples. Apples and hay. And you’d never be able to talk to me again.”

“Exactly,” Punz says, smirking, “spare me a headache from listening.”

“Dick.” Smiling wryly, he tosses his ally a bowl, pushing the ladle towards him. “Get your own damn stew. I’m not serving you now.”

“You love me.” Punz’s grin doesn’t change as he scoops stew into his bowl generously, while Dream slices up a fresh loaf of bread between them. “God, Dream, this is good. Seriously good.”

He tries not to preen. “Yeah, duh. I’m… I’m awesome like that.”

The stew is good. His mouth waters at the smell. Before he can stop himself, he’s wolfing his first bowl down hungrily, and going for seconds in a matter of a minute. His stomach tightens at the look Punz shoots him.

“There’s a lot you’re not saying about prison, huh,” he says solidly, without accusation.

It’s not a question. Dream finds he’s not hungry anymore.

“No point dwelling on it,” he manages, setting his bowl down with a shrug, “I mean… yeah, it was bad, but we knew that. That’s not a surprise.”

“I know. That’s not–” Punz drags a hand through his hair, frustrated. There’s a new scar on his forearm; Dream wonders distractedly how he got it. “When we spoke about the prison trip being bad, we didn’t mean getting beat up by Sam. What the fuck, Dream.”

“Who said it was Sam?” Offering a faux smile, Dream’s stomach curdles at the look Punz shoots him. “I mean– I mean, there was a reason, right, that I was at Las Nevadas.”

“Dream.”

“Look,” he says, firmly, “it’s nothing. It’s over. So prison sucked. Big deal. I’m– We’re fine.”

(Lies. The air smells heavily of deceit.)

Punz looks at him, truly looks at him. Dream looks back. Pretends the eye contact doesn’t feel wrong, pretends his whole body doesn’t ache being in a form it feels trapped in, pretends he can get Punz to read his mind when he thinks, forcefully: I’m fine.

“You should have told me.” Giving up, Punz picks restlessly at the edge of the bowl. He doesn’t look pleased. “We’re partners, Dream. That means honesty. Communication.”

Dream presses his lips tight enough to bruise. “Yeah, okay. Well, now you know.”

“I’m serious,” Punz tells him tightly, before softening, “Dream, that’s not– What happened was–”

The silence he peters into is uncomfortable and stilted. And, when Punz places an awkward hand on his leg, it’s all Dream can do not to kick and leap away, bury himself in a tree or river until the feelings of wrong and bad and scared subside.

“Dream,” Punz says instead, voice quiet, “you’re still sure about the Plan?”

Yes. No. The Plan– Dream swallows a mouthful of soup, and it feels like it’s going to choke him. That’s one thing he’s never forgotten. The Plan has always been – mostly – crystal clear in his mind, even when everything else had started to blur and disappear. The Plan, the wild, paranoid, stupid, complicated, Plan. It had been his lifeline before prison, when everything had been muddy in his mind. Now it’s the only real constant he knows for certain.

“It will work,” he says instead of answering, sick at heart, “I promise.”

Chapter Text

Quackity appears not long after. Like a dog, Dream curls in the back of his cell, a mix between a growl and whine trapped in his throat.

“God damn, Dream,” Quackity whistles through his teeth, “I wish I’d done this sooner.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. Doesn’t move when Quackity gets closer, doesn’t move when his old friend kneels down beside him to inspect the damage prison life and food has done to his frame. He isn’t afraid: Quackity is nothing, has been nothing since he’d arrived on this server. Dream isn’t afraid Quackity. He could rip the other’s throat out in seconds if he wanted.

Here’s how things are supposed to go: Quackity mocks, makes idle threats, maybe throws a hit or two. Dream takes it, Quackity leaves. Sam appears, tosses him food without a word, or perhaps a stern order to eat it before it rots. Dream will stare at him from the corner, and, unsettled, Sam will leave.

Here’s how things actually go. Quackity pulls out a glittering netherite axe, and the howl of panic that sticks in Dream’s throat emerges as a strangled call for Sam.

“Enough of that, Dream, enough of all that,” Quackity grins, golden tooth as bright at the axe in his hand, “you can call all you fucking like. Sam isn’t coming.”

“What did you–” Dream does move, now, hunching backwards, skittering to the cell wall, “what did you do, Quackity, what did you– Sam!!”

No response. So he does what any cornered animal does: he lashes out. 

Terror suffocates his form shift: he can’t quite bring about the change, can’t make his teeth lengthen into fangs or turn his feet to hooves. Can’t change his skin, make it leather-thick, or heavy with fur. When Quackity’s axe slams into his arm, Dream is human like he’s never been before – and the shock of it is enough to send him crumpling, back to the floor, covered in blood. Shift, he urges himself, muffled thoughts dizzy, shift. Protect yourself.

Quackity is chuckling to himself, sauntering around the cell like he owns the place. He’s a lot damn braver than he had been: Dream remembers the man’s fear when he’d confronted him in the El Rapids fiasco, remembers standing seven foot tall with antlers and long claws and remembers Quackity shrinking in the face of the inhumane. He doesn’t seem bothered by that at all, now. Maybe he senses Dream is too rattled to transform himself into anything other than human. For a second, for more than a second, he yearns for Sam. Yearns to see a familiar hybrid. Needs to reassure himself that he’s not alone.

That thought dies even before it registers. Because he’s not an idiot. Quackity hadn’t broken in to his cell. There are no alarms, no shouts for guards. Sam isn’t on his side. Dream’s starting to wonder if he’d made the wrong choice.

“Dream,” Quackity says, voice low, silky, “we’re gonna have a lot of fun together.”

Hours pass. Then days. Days into a week, two weeks. Dream’s life blurs into a kaleidoscope of color and pain and blood.

Quackity wants the revive book. It’s impossible to explain why that’s never going to happen: not that Dream thinks Quackity wants to hear logical thinking. The man is driven by a determination Dream had overlooked in him for the longest time – he regrets that now. There’s a lot of time for regret in that cell – trusting Sam, underestimating Quackity, overestimating himself. Maybe the whole plan is cause for regret: Dream entertains the idea of spilling the truth to Quackity, and, more often, to Sam. Wonders what would happen if he did. Disregards it, frightened, almost as soon as the thought appears. Listen, he’d told Punz, the day before the end, it’s not going to be fun. It’s not even gonna be easy. But– I can do this. This is in my control.

Control. Hah. Dream hasn’t had that in a long time. Doesn’t have control over sleeping, Quackity’s visits, eating, whether he has nightmares or whether he dies. Doesn’t even have control over his own body: shifting into any hybrid form other than human has become impossible, and most days, Dream doesn’t have the energy to try.

That is, until the day Quackity shows up with no visible weapons, and a loaf of bread.

Dream’s used to the visits to know to be wary. He doesn’t move when Quackity leans back against the basin at the wall, tosses the bread into the center of the room. Doesn’t even bother asking questions. Speaking when not commanded is a surefire way to get himself hurt – and Quackity, smile large and relaxed, seems to be in a good mood. Who is Dream to spoil that for himself?

“Do you know what today is, buddy?” Quackity asks him brightly. Dream’s eyes track his every movement. “Probably not. Not– I guess there’s not a lot of ways you can tell time in here, right.”

Understatement of the century. Dream keeps his mouth shut, but ducks his head in reluctant acknowledgement of his lack of time.

Quackity offers him a languid, lazy gesture towards the bread. It’s fresh, hot. Dream can smell it: it’s enough to make his stomach churn and mouth salivate. 

“It’s your birthday,” Quackity tells him, that smile still firmly in place, “I got you a present. Happy twenty-second fuckin’ birthday, Dream. I hope you made the most of your, uh, your twenty-first. It’ll be the last one you celebrate outside in a long time.”

…His birthday? Is it August already?

Dream stares at Quackity, dry-mouthed, and finds his voice.

“You’re… lying,” he says, quiet, “it’s not– I’d– I’d know if it was August. I’d know.”

But how? How would he have known? Even as the words leave his mouth, Dream feels doubt wrap itself laden over his sentences. Time passes differently: without a clock, or access to the sun or outside, Dream’s only way of telling the time – or even telling the date – is through Sam, and through his erratic, inconsistent sleep schedule. Sam visits roughly every three days: usually. He’s certain he sleeps about five hours through the night: maybe. Dream places himself in May, not August: but Quackity’s taunts rattle something fragile inside him.

Sensing his turmoil, the other man leans closer. This time, his smile has grown teeth and an edge of condescension.

“How the fuck would you know, Dream?” He asks. “How the fuck would you know?”

Dream, frozen, says nothing. The little faith he’d had in his ability to remain independent in prison crumbles, slowly, like an eroding rock into a fathomless black sea.

Quackity shrugs towards the bread.

“Happy birthday. Look on the bright side! One year closer to your miserable fucking death.”

Potatoes have dried up his appetite, shriveled his stomach to nothing. Despite this, Dream lunges for the bread, eager to eat, eager to fill his mouth and throat with anything that isn’t his own blood or sweat or tears or that horrible charcoal taste of obsidian. The bread almost burns his fingers, and he almost recoils, but it’s so soft he could cry, soft, breaking apart when he tears it in two and brings it to his mouth, hunched over, because he won’t let anyone take this away before he’s eaten it, this is his, and his hybrid instincts know by now that Quackity is a threat. Every time the man enters the prison Dream senses it: danger, his senses howl, and Dream often struggles not to join them.

The bread is delicious. Hard to chew on, with broken teeth, but Dream chokes one mouthful down, then another. And–

“Ah, ah,” Quackity tuts, disapprovingly, “hey, stop that. Stop.”

A shock buzzes through Dream’s skull, loud, electric. He barely registers the pulse of pain at first through the noise: and then it hits him, sodden, weighing down his bones like thunder. The noise that rushes from his lungs is half a breath, and half a scream. Inches from his fingers, the half-eaten loaf of bread lies.

Quackity smiles down at him when Dream looks up. There’s a lightning rod in his hands, sizzling hot with energy. 

“Dream,” he says, with saccharine sweetness, “you’re not a goddamn animal.” 

Dream stares at him, uncomprehendingly. Quackity’s grin is wider than it has ever been before. 

“Let’s try that again. And this time…” The man pauses, eyes him up and down like he can see into his soul and is unimpressed by the sight. Danger, Dream’s mind screams, danger.  

“This time,” Quackity finishes, “do it like you’re human.”

When Sam slides a bowl of soup towards him later that night, Dream takes it gingerly, with fingers still twitching from the electricity. His warden watches as he eats it, spoonful by spoonful, sitting perfectly upright in human form.

“Good,” Sam says, “I think you’re finally learning.”

And, for the first time in a long time, Dream is truly, truly frightened.