Chapter Text
News travel as fast as lightning in the SMP. Especially news about Dream. That is because no matter what news it was, it was bound to be terrible. That was something known to all inhabitants of the Dream SMP. With that being said, they were never mentally (or physically) prepared for any news about the Admin, whether he was imprisoned or not. And this time was no exception.
All of their communicators had rung a familiar tune. A tune that often indicated someone had entered or left the SMP’s vast geographical boundaries. That same communicator showed exactly who was in the region, provided that their communicator was working, and they weren’t dumb enough to transverse the dangerous mob-infested Dream-governed (or previously governed) plains of the SMP without a communicator’s Coordinate Identifier. Everyone’s name was listed, put on plain sight for everyone to see (for Dream to see), so that no one hides where they can’t be found (where Dream can’t find them).
And as such, word travelled fast, especially the word of death. A communicator is more than just a device; it is like a beacon of light. Once its owner dies, the light flashes out in alert, letting a simple short text fly out to let the people know that a fellow SMP member had passed away. Once everyone had heard the chime, they knew it was something important. Someone new came in, someone old had left, or…
Dream fell out of the world.
Sam glanced at his device, comprehension eluding him. Dream was supposed to be just a few meters away, imprisoned, desperately trying to live and survive another day, hoping to escape. The thought of him dying was as unlikely as the sun rising from the west. The man, even in his weakened state was dangerous, almost immortal. And if Sam hadn’t known any better, he’d think the man would never actually die. That there’s some sort of hidden power in his palms that won’t make him perish, at least not permanently. The looming thought of his inevitable return haunted them all, and that’s why they kept him here, where he could be seen and controlled. Sure, they wanted the revival book, but did it really matter? After ten months of torture, ten months of interrogation and ridicule, they could have come to terms with the fact that killing the man was much better than keeping him alive. But there was the fear of what then? What if they kill him, and he comes back again somehow, seeking revenge on all that has transpired in those obsidian walls? They had thought that they’d broken him irreversibly. The light had gone out from his eyes the first five months of his forced residence in Pandora’s Vault. But something had changed when Quackity did the stupid thing of luring Techno-fucking-Blade into the prison. There was hope in the air, there was strength. And even though Technoblade miraculously escaped, leaving his prison buddy to rot and die alone, the fire wasn’t gone. Dream seemed more mentally present than he ever did, even before imprisonment.
And Sam (no, everyone that had seen him in this state) feared him even more than before. This silent strength. A dragon in sheep’s clothing awaited them. Even Quackity felt reluctant to visit the prison now, electing to simply give up on most days. Quackity played it off as if he didn’t care, that he might as well let the Admin spend the rest of his life there if he wants, with no human contact. But they both knew the truth of things.
That was the expectation, the dread and fear of the warden. That was the burden. But…
Dream fell out of the world.
He read the message again. It just didn’t make sense.
Quackity was in Las Nevadas, overseeing preparations for the new desert-themed water park with Foolish and a few others, all of whom had paused work to dumbly stare at the communicator. Quackity had last seen Dream five hours prior, where the sun had just risen with his shears cutting the Admin’s skin liberally. His prisoner was bleeding back then, pained, unable to move, but very much alive. Quackity’s methods were at times risky, like that morning was, but it was within his calculated error margins. He would never lethally harm Dream as long as he didn’t have the revival book, and Quackity was positive that Dream knew that. There was just no way something he’d done had killed him. Hell, if Quackity did kill him, the message on the communicator would have been much different, much more incriminating. And yet there he stood wide-eyed staring at his device, jabbing its figurative finger at his chest, shouting:
Dream fell out of the world.
He read the message again. It just didn’t make sense.
The infamous Clingyduo were loudly chattering as they enjoyed the nice afternoon breeze, saying provocative words that further ignites their conversation. Their cheer was interrupted by the chime. Tommy stood there next to Tubbo out in the open sunny field, shell-shocked. And for the first time in any life of his, he was speechless. He read the message as if it had no meaning. He couldn’t understand the words if he tried, not in those few silent moments.
Tommy tried to piece together the message word by word. The first word was Dream, a terrible man who’d manipulated him, lied to him. A man so indestructible and wicked, he somehow managed to live despite the whole server being thirsty for his blood. He was a man with so much power and influence, that even death was in his grasp, a mere tool to be used on a whim. Tommy wasn’t even sure if he was a man, at least not the man he once was when he joined the server. Tommy knew he was a troublemaker, a boy who had stood in the face of power and had felt its wrath viscerally, until he himself was crystallised into an immovable object. Where they clashed, there were just campfire memories of hushed friendly conversations, and shouts of betrayal, angry, terrible shouts from both him and someone he once thought was a friend. That was Dream. And no matter how much he pretended that he doesn’t fear him, how much he acted like he can defy him, Tommy was never able to overcome the unstoppable force that was Dream, and was only right here because other people had grounded him. The Dream he knew now was a monster, that kind of monster. He wasn’t his old friend, and Tommy was beginning to believe that he never was (never will be).
And yet, staring at the device in his shaky palms, he saw what he could not understand.
Dream fell out of the world.
He read the message again. It just didn’t make sense.
Kinoko Kingdom wasn’t silent for long, as Sapnap’s confused outbursts shook the very foundations of the country, enough to wake George from his indefinite lonely slumber. With Karl at their side, unable to understand the weight of what they had lost, or the implications of what has become, they huddled together, trying to comprehend the message as if none of them knew how to read. The first word was Dream, a man that had betrayed them, their former best friend.
Sapnap had vowed to kill him should he escape, that was his burden and expectation.
George was overcome by his fatigue and sadness, that he had a proclivity to sleep for days and days on end, waiting for the day the server goes back to how it was. That was his foolishness, his expectation.
The pair didn’t speak often, each indulged in his own version of grief. Grief for the boy they met when they were kids, out in the woods on his own, wearing nothing but shorts, a green T-Shirt, and a white mask. Grief for the day where they gave him coloured pencils and pens to decorate the blankness on his face, and the warmth they felt when he decided on a simple smile, so that they may always know his happy self. Grief for their community house, for their fishing nights, for their hunting games… Grief for the friend, the one that hides within an alienated mind. What was once a desire for peace and unity, turned into a desire for power and control. The Admin was now imprisoned, and they were safe. And Sapnap had his axe at the ready.
What neither of them had suspected, was this cursed message:
Dream fell out of the world.
They read the message again. It just didn’t make sense.
The syndicate were having a lovely meeting on whether Las Nevadas should be destroyed or not, over mugs of hot chocolates and Niki’s delicious cookies. They all glanced between themselves and the device, unsure of what to say or how to react.
Every single person on the SMP was confused, except of course for Technoblade, who didn’t spare his comrades a glance. The former escaped convict had spent three months with Dream alone in the cell, only to be liberated by Philza (by an 87 day miscalculation on the older friend’s part). And two months into the present, overall ten months into Dream’s cumulative entrapment, the man was dead. Only Technoblade knew what had happened to the excruciating detail.
And Technoblade was not snitching on a man he’d gotten to know well for three indispensable months of his life. No matter how much he played it off to his friends, that wretched prison had affected him, and no doubt it was worse for his new friend. For three months, Dream and obsidian were his whole world. There was nothing to do except talk. Dream and Techno, both being men of action, neither connected to each other in any familiar way, were forced to talk to each other in a clock-less space. Techno learned many things about the man, and Dream no doubt learned his share of things. An unlikely comradery replaced their old dull rivalry. And if it was up to Techno, the prison would have been blown up mere days after his escape.
But Dream had a plan. And who was Technoblade to impede on his friend’s wishes? And so he waited, and waited, for two months. Two whole months to clear any suspicion on the Blood God’s involvement in anything related to the Admin. He stared at his communicator, sighing uneasily.
Dream fell out of the world.
He read the message again. It made all the sense in the world.
And with that, the entire server gravitated towards the prison not-so-silently. There was no longer any need to wait, only to act and move forward. The rest wouldn’t believe it until they see it for themselves. That the Admin, the menace, the old friend, the rival, the most powerful individual on the server besides the Blood God, the man… Dream was actually, truly dead.
His plan was afoot.