Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Sam can’t believe he let Bad and Antfrost pull the rug out from under him like this. Literally. Falling fifty-some blocks into a mess of obsidian and thick red vines… he isn’t sure if his pride or his body hurts more right now. Feather falling on netherite does wonders though, so it’s probably his pride.

Especially considering that he gave up his pickaxes and tridents. What was he even thinking? He knows they’re up to no good, but—okay, that’s a useless road to go down. It’s not helping. Time to focus on other things right now, like getting out.

And ignoring the hissing whispers from the Egg that he can feel creeping into the back of his brain.

It’s fine! It’s fine. He just needs to assess the situation and he’ll figure out a way out and he’ll be fine.

He’s trapped in a block wide cage of obsidian—plenty of space for human variants, but Sam isn’t human, and he’s certainly not in the same size range. He’d be squished if he tried to stand on four limbs, and it looks like he would barely even be able to sit down without his knees getting jammed into his chest or something. The obsidian is jagged and obviously cast without much care, vines creeping into the holes and cracks in the surface. The biggest hole, just at his waist, is only just big enough for him to fit his hand through. Not like that will do him any good.

He pulls up his inventory. He’s got the rest of his netherite toolset, so… he supposes that will have to do. Hacking at obsidian with an axe or shovel will definitely destroy the tool beyond repair, but he can probably break it given enough time. Sam shuffles to get a good angle and pulls out his axe.

An immediate problem makes itself clear, which is that there is no good angle and he doesn’t actually have room to swing the axe. He’s barely even got the room to stand. He shifts around, trying to find a position where he could get any kind of leverage, but there’s nothing that works. He pockets the axe and grabs his shovel to see if he can at least jab it at the obsidian, since he can’t swing an axe.

There’s still not enough room. He sighs and pockets the shovel too. Even if he still had his pickaxes, he wouldn’t be able to do anything with them. There really was no point in taking them.

Sam groans. Looks like he’ll have to call for help. Hopefully Puffy got away clean, and hopefully she can get past Bad and Antfrost to get him out fairly soon.

Just before he grabs his communicator, the Egg’s voice shoots through his head like an arrow, much clearer than the previous whispers, shocking him in place and giving him no choice but to listen.

I can give you what you want .

“What—?” Sam’s paw hovers over his communicator, but he can’t bring himself to pull it out of his inventory. The Egg can’t do anything to him, it can’t. He just—he just needs to ignore it. Just ignore it.

You’d be a fool to refuse.

“I want out,” he snaps. “Can you do that for me?”

I’ll give you what you want most .

“I’d like out,” he says again.

Your deepest desire, Sam. I’m sure you’ve thought about it before .

This is so cliche. “Can’t say I’ve got a deepest desire or whatever.” The ridiculousness of this whole thing lets him finally grab hold of his communicator, even if his limbs are shaking.

You do .

“Oh yeah? What’s my deepest desire?”

Wouldn’t you like to breathe again?

Every pixel of him freezes. A hand still hovering over his inventory, a paw gripping his communicator like a vice, another hand bracing him against the wall with a clenched fist, and his eyes dead-set on the dark obsidian in front of him that seems to pulse in time with whatever’s in his head.

I can give it to you .

Sam laughs, short and bordering hysteric. “You can just give me new lungs, then?”

I’ll keep you alive .

He doesn’t respond this time. He needs to just ignore it. He types out a quick message and sends it off.

>awesamdude whispers to CaptainPuffy: I’m in a cast obsidian cage. About a block wide, no room to break myself out

He doesn’t expect a response immediately. Puffy has to contend with Bad and Antfrost after all. Rescue will probably take a while.

Sam sighs and slides down the obsidian. Just like he suspected, it’s cramped and uncomfortable with his knees pushed up to his chest, but he doesn’t want to stay standing. He swipes through his inventory. He knows he doesn’t have anything even remotely entertaining in there, but he checks anyway.

Nope. Nothing to tinker with. Not even a blank book. Lovely.

I can give you what you want .

Sam isn’t one for music, but he starts humming something he’s heard Ponk singing before. Anything to drown out the increasingly persistent voice. He’s sure he’s getting the tune wrong, but he hums the melody as best as he remembers over and over, trying to focus on that instead of the Egg promising him working lungs.

The only way Sam assumes the Egg could do that is getting those blood vine things inside his body, and he’d really prefer to just… not. He has his mask, and that works for him just fine. His mask works flawlessly. Sam crafted it himself, after all. There was a lot of trial and error to perfect it. He can’t have it breaking down on him.

He carries an emergency breather just in case something might happen to it, but he rarely needs it. He hasn’t needed it in a long, long time in fact. His mask works just fine.

So… he doesn’t really need it in his inventory then. There’s really not much of a point. It’s just taking up a whole slot that could be used for other things. More important things. He doesn’t need it.

God, why does he even have this thing? He pulls it out of his inventory and tosses it out of the biggest hole in the obsidian.

Sam hears it hit the ground below his prison, and his heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach.

What just—?

How did—

No no no wait what did he just do—

You don’t need it.

The Egg. The Egg took hold and—

Oh Prime. 

I’ll keep you alive .

“Shut up,” Sam hisses back. “Shut up shut up shut up.”

How long did it take for the Egg to control him? How long has it actually been?

He pulls up his communicator to check the time, and finds messages from Puffy. He didn’t even hear it go off.

>CaptainPuffy whispers to awesamdude: I’m trying to get there as fast as possible I promise
>CaptainPuffy whispers to awesamdude: I need help to get past them
>CaptainPuffy whispers to awesamdude: Hang in there

Sam thinks… he should probably reply. But now that the panic from tossing his emergency breather is dying down, (it shouldn’t be dying down, why is he feeling calmer), his fingers feel heavy. When did that happen?

How far has the Egg wormed into his brain, and he can't even tell?

>awesamdude whispers to CaptainPuffy: Help

It takes Sam a lot longer than he would like to admit to press those few buttons. He thumps his head back against the wall after he hits send and grips the communicator in a vain attempt to ground himself.

It feels like he’s gone a few hours without his mask, lightheaded and heavy all at the same time. But his mask is secured on his face, he knows. He brings up a hand—it’s there. He can feel the vibration of the filters. Diagnostics say the oxygen flow is normal, but he turns it up another 5% just in case. His mask is fine. He isn’t having trouble breathing. But he’s… he’s…

He’s just…

His head hurts.

Everything is pulsing—pounding—he doesn’t know what to do. There’s nothing he can do. He can’t get out.

There’s no getting out .

There’s no getting out.

There’s no point .

There’s no point.

Just give in .

Just give in.

It might work .

It might work.

Take off the mask .

His heart skips a beat.

“No.”

No, of course Sam isn’t gonna take off his mask.

He reaches up to the back of his neck.

He can’t do that.

His fingers hook around the clasps.

He needs his mask.

He undoes the clasps.

He’ll die without it.

He holds it out through the hole in the obsidian.

His hand is shaking.

Just let go .

“N-no.”

He can’t pull his arm back. The air is thick with something sharp he’s never smelled before. Whatever the Egg is giving off is already burning in his chest. He needs to put his mask back on. He doesn’t know how long he’ll survive when the air is this polluted. It’s going to set off an episode that he might not be able to recover from.

His palm is open, ready to drop it onto the ground. “No, please, I’ll—”

I’ll keep you alive .

“Stop.” Sam swallows and tries to take a deep breath around the tightness in his throat. “You—” He pulls against invisible strings holding his arm out. “ You can’t have it .”

He yanks his arm back, snapping the strings.

His fingers, however, don’t get the memo that he should have closed his fist around the mask. It falls out of his open hand, clattering against the floor below his small window.

Oh.

Oh no.

That’s…

This is it. His mask is out of reach and he’s in an obsidian cage and he’s going to die here.

I’ll keep you alive .

No. No no no no—

No need to panic .

The Egg is unfortunately right about one thing, which is that he cannot panic. Panicking means hyperventilating, and hyperventilating is guaranteed to agitate the redstone in his lungs, and then he really is as good as dead. He may have all three of his lives, but he doesn’t want to waste one on asphyxiating because an egg possessed him to chuck his masks.

He only briefly considers taking off his shirt to press it against his face and use it as a makeshift mask. The problem is that even if he had the room to maneuver out of his chestplate and shirt, the thick and unyielding fabric isn’t breathable even to people who don’t have lung problems. He’s fairly certain he could use his work clothes to smother someone. All his shirt will do is make him pass out. Everything he can think of still leads him to falling unconscious. There isn’t a way out of this, barring suddenly awakening shapeshifting powers that will let him shrink enough to crawl through the hole in the obsidian and get his mask back.

Actually, he doesn’t know if shapeshifting lets someone change sizes that drastically. He should ask Quackity about that later.

Ah. He’s already spiraling into useless thought trains. He’s getting lightheaded; he’s definitely not gonna be able to think straight much longer.

Not like he ever thinks straight in the first place. He wonders if Ponk will go on a date with him if he survives this.

He’s supposed to be figuring a way out of this mess.

I’ll keep you alive .

“Good… good luck,” he wheezes. “Maybe try… less crappy air, then.”

Sam honestly thinks he would rather snort pollen than keep on breathing this smoky miasma the Egg is putting off.

The redstone pulls at the scars in his lungs as the movement of his breathing powers it.

No no no he cannot have an episode right now—

The pull slowly releases. His muscles relax instead of seizing out of his control. 

He’s… still breathing evenly. How?

But he’s still lightheaded. Dangerously so. He has to stay awake. If he’s unconscious when he’s rescued, Puffy won’t know to put his mask on. He’ll die. He has to stay awake.

His chest burns.

I’ll keep you alive .

He has to stay awake.

He has to stay awake he has to stay awake he can’t fall asleep he needs something

He takes off his arm bracer

Hurts

He’s awake, though.

Hurts

Arms or his lungs?

Blood on his chin, arms, hands

Coughing

He can’t breathe he can’t breathe—

Sam gasps but he can’t breathe

His throat is scraped raw

Burns

How long has

His throat is closing up, has been for a while.

There’s not much time left. He can’t have much time left

hurts

can't breathe

hurts hurts hurts

How’s he even alive…?

I’ll keep you alive .

Well… looks like it was right. should be dead by now

maybe

but

feels like death anyway

burns

“SAM?”

tommy

Tommy?

His head is far from clear, but this at least is giving him something to focus on.

“Sam, are you there?!”

“I don’t even know how he’s alive! He’s been down there for like fourteen hours.”

Oh.

He doesn’t know when the Egg made him toss his masks, but he’s pretty sure this is the longest he’s breathed on his own and stayed conscious in… ever. Probably. The Egg really can keep him alive without a mask.

“Sam—we’re coming, Sam!”

“Puffy…?” Oh, ow , his throat burns even more when he tries to talk.

“Sammy! Sam, it’s me! Your best friend!”

“Hey… Hi, Tommy.”

The hole in the obsidian is suddenly big enough for him to get out of. Puffy urges him forward, grabbing his hand when doesn’t move fast enough. He can finally stand up on all fours, but even still he just stumbles into Puffy’s arms, barely able to keep upright.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” Puffy’s hands keep him steady as she helps him down to mostly-flat ground, where his limbs promptly buckle and he’s back to sitting. “Are you—are you okay, Sam? What happened to your arms?”

“I’m… had to stay awake,” he wheezes. He can barely get in enough air to speak. “Bit myself.”

Puffy and Tommy are both quiet. They look… concerned, he thinks, but his vision is swimming. It’s hard to tell. It’s not that big of a deal, just a little bite.

Well… it is a lot of blood.

The important thing right now is his mask.

“Whoa-ho-ho, hey!” Tommy finally yells, making Sam flinch. “What d’you mean you ate your arms, you can’t do that! You wouldn’t taste good.”

“Tommy, Tommy, he’s been through a lot. This has been a long fourteen hours.”

“Where’s… where… my mask?” He can’t see where it fell.

“Here, here.” Puffy gets his attention again. “I’ll make you potatoes later or something—stop eating yourself, and I’m gonna bandage up your—”

Sam interrupts her by weakly thumping the back of his hand against her arm. “Mask…” He gestures to the pile he’s just spotted on the floor.

“What, these things?” Tommy holds out the masks. Sam didn’t even see him moving over. “Why were they on the floor?”

“The Egg… made me drop them.” He reaches out with shaky hands to grab one of the masks—no, wrong, not his every day one. He needs the emergency breather. Extra oxygen. Bronchodilators to open up his throat.

He tries to hand his normal mask back properly but he just ends up dropping it before grabbing the emergency one. He thinks they might be saying something to him, but it’s lost in the concentration of hooking it around the back of his neck and turning it on.

The click of the filters turning on is instant relief even before he can feel the effects of the oxygen and dilators. Sam takes deep, gasping breaths. His throat is still struggling to open up, but he can already feel the difference with the clean air.

“Hey, big Sam, uh, what’s happening.”

“Emergency breather.” He takes another deep inhale before he says “Red lung,” as a short explanation.

“It’s—you have red lung?! ” Puffy looks horrified—rightly so, Sam thinks. He’s just glad she immediately understands the severity and won’t try to take his mask away.

“Aren’t lungs supposed to be red?” Tommy asks. Sam would laugh at him if he could manage more than shaky wheezes.

“Well that’s not—it’s a disease—Sam, are you okay?!”

He starts shaking his head, but the movement makes him dizzy. “I wanna go home.”

She says something else, but Sam is losing focus.

Tommy’s voice pierces his ears, but Sam can’t process it.

“I feel… really bad,” Sam groans. “Can I just go home. Please.”

“If you feel bad, that’s more reason to go to the hospital . Now give your arm back, I need to stop the bleeding.”

Oh. Hospital. That’s actually a good idea. Puffy is smart like that. 

He only vaguely registers the sting of a healing potion on the open wounds of his arms and Puffy wrapping it up in… something. “It’ll have to do for now,” she says.

Sam nods, and he has no time to think of something to say before Puffy is pulling him up. Standing is probably important, but he’s still lightheaded. He doesn’t know if it’s from lack of oxygen or the Egg lingering in the back of his brain, but either way he can’t see straight and absolutely would have collapsed all over again had Tommy and Puffy not caught him from both sides just now.

“Whoa, hey!” Tommy hoists Sam’s arm over his shoulders. “Jeez. You’d think having four legs—hands—legs and arms? Would help him balance better.”

“His middle limbs are paws,” Puffy says.

“I’m—” Sam bites back another groan. “Can I just go home…?”

“Absolutely not,” Puffy says sternly. “We’re taking you to a hospital, remember?”

Oh. Hospital. That’s actually a good idea. Puffy is smart like… wait, didn’t she already say that?

They both have to coax him forward. He doesn’t really know which direction they’re going, but he trusts Puffy. It’s not like he’s got much of a choice anyway. He really just wants to lay down and go to sleep.

That would be fine, right? The Egg isn’t all that bad, it’s kept him breathing so far. He’s got his mask back, he can rest for a short while.

Or maybe not, because now they’re going up the stairs, and this is—this is the worst. This is, in fact, hell.

His legs and arms are shaking, and anything Puffy or Tommy says to him is completely lost over the whirring sound of his mask picking up in time with own labored breathing. Sam is pretty sure he hasn’t had this much trouble breathing since he first destroyed his lungs.

They manage to at least get up the stairs and into the underground tunnels—or at least he thinks that’s where they are—before Sam stumbles and collapses against the wall, gasping and gripping Puffy like a lifeline. “I can’t. I need t… stop.”

“Okay. Okay, we can take a short break.”

Puffy helps him sit down without falling over. Sam is pretty sure he tells her thanks, but he’s also pretty sure his voice is nothing more than a barely audible wheeze right now.

“Uh, Puffy, we probably shouldn’t stop right at the Egg tunnel.”

Wow, not walking is really nice. He leans his head back against the cool wall. 

“Let’s just give him a few ticks, then we can go to the spider farm.”

He can’t hear the Egg anymore, so that’s… probably good. He’s having a hard time hearing other things, though.

“What? Why the spider farm? There’s a path right up here!”

He’s trying to keep track of Tommy and Puffy’s conversation to remind himself that he’s awake—that he needs to stay awake.

“The spider farm has a watervator. I don’t think he can take any more stairs.”

There’s a tickle in Sam’s throat.

“Ah, shit. So… is a pit stop out of the question, then?”

“Absolutely no detours.”

Sam tries to ignore it and breathe shallowly. He should be taking deeper breaths, but he doesn’t want to set off a coughing fit.

“Just to Church Prime! He was stuck with the Egg for ages, he probably—”

His next inhale scrapes against his throat like sandpaper and he chokes, hand coming up to his mask before he realizes he can’t actually press it over his mouth any further.

“Sam?” Puffy’s eyebrows are drawn together, her nose scrunched up with worry and confusion. “Sam, hey, what’s wrong?”

Sam keeps his mouth shut tight and shakes his head. He tries to focus on breathing through his nose, but the scratching in his throat persists.

Puffy puts her hand on his shoulder, and he wishes he could feel reassured by the gesture. “Sam, talk to me.”

Something wet bubbles up in his throat.

Nope, not gonna be able to keep it down.

He rips his mask off just in time for him to hunch forward and hack up blood all over the ground.

He chokes, air catching on the blood in his throat and making him cough even harder. His lungs spasm and he can’t catch his breath. He can’t breathe. He can’t bre