#pb fic

“Why?” Tubbo asked, and, well. Phil stared at the man who had locked him up in his own home, forbade him from visiting his starfate, only to bring him straight to his doorstep to watch helpless as this very man executed him. He stared at the man who Ranboo talked so highly of. His partner, his husband, the other caretaker of a very young child that they raised together. He stared at the man who he had only known by name through letters that rarely shared the full story. Words failed him at first. Phil was one of the men who had willingly (delighted in it, even) tore through the earth to burn a scar deep in it so that it would never heal.

He could tell him any number of things, and Phil knew none of them would satisfy the man before him. So he told him the truth.

“Because someone has to,” Phil replied.

“Why you?” Tubbo asked, his face contorting into anger suddenly. “Why you?” he shouted, his hands balled up into fists at his sides. Phil was old, he knew that deep in his bones. Tubbo wasn’t old by his standards, but he had aged. He had fought in wars beside his friends, died alongside his friends. The single tether of his soul clung tightly to the world he remembered, to the anger that festered deep inside him. Anger at Phil, sure. Anger at the world, at the string of fate that tied him to a story he no longer wanted to touch, but couldn’t leave behind no matter what. 

“After everything you’ve done, why is it you?” Tubbo’s voice cracked as he shouted. Phil felt his own heart chip away at the display, but his voice remained as steady and simple as it had been.

“Because no one else has.”

Tubbo straightened, rapidly blinking away tears. Philza didn’t really like watching people cry. He might have been old, but he wasn’t immune to empathy. He stepped off his shovel, pulling it from the ground. He turned away as Tubbo rubbed at his eyes, barely a sound coming from him. Phil turned back to his task of terraforming the dirt around him, focusing on that instead. His ear flicked at the sound of scrabbling and stones plinking off each other as Tubbo made his way down beside him. A glittering netherite shovel joined his in the dirt, digging into the soft earth with purpose. Philza’s gaze flickered up to Tubbo’s face, taking in the firm line of his mouth, his brow furrowed in concentration. His own gaze flicked to Phil’s, then dropped back to the ground.

Technoblade opened his eyes to see a scrawny young man step up into the ring. The piglin’s gaze raked over the guy’s body, taking in his form as he reached out to the chorus. They fell silent in the man’s presence; a rare treat, or a dangerous warning. He eyed the other man as he grabbed the offered sword.

“And you are?” Technoblade asked. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect randos to join him in his fights. And this was a celebration. A celebration of death, of blood spilt, of the pitch-dark void and those who dared to test its waters with their dance. So, of course, he got a bunch of randos daring to test his waters with their unsteady stance.

But this one, this guy, tested the weight of the sword, and then positioned himself. His stance was good, better than anyone Techno had seen of those who stepped into the ring that night. But there were still mistakes. The man still had more to learn. Thank the gods that Techno was a good teacher.

"Dream," the man bit out the name. The piglin tilted his head down to size up the man, Dream, again. Green eyes burned behind a mop of dusty hair, the intensity of his gaze startling as he sized Technoblade up as well.

"Alright, Dream," Technoblade replied, lowering himself into his starting position. The chorus rose in his ears until the edges of his vision went a little red. He felt a grin creep over his face, his breath hot in the cold air as he added, "Show me what you've got."

---

The fight wasn't long. They never were, really, not in the ways that Technoblade was used to. But, oh, what a fight it was!

Dream was more agile than Techno was. And he was fucking fast. He nearly had his blade to Techno's throat before he realized. But Techno was agile too. Techno was fast too. And by the looks of the kid who challenged him, this shrine's champion of the night, Techno had years of experience on him. The chorus sang in his skull, sang in his rushing blood as he battled Dream in the ring. His goal was to subdue his opponents. The void needed no more souls tonight, not for this night of celebration. Not that Dream seemed to understand that, not as he nicked another slice into his opponent's skin. The burn prickled in the night air.

With the crash of sword upon sword, Techno heard something past the chanting crowd. Past the chanting chorus. Past the singing of his blood.

It was another song, another tune, another melody of another. Another with voices in his ears, another with the same yearning for a fight like him. And, as Dream swung down with his sword, sparks flashing like souls in the void, Techno saw the mark, the brand of a god's touch shattering up across his face like lightning.

Techno caught the mistake before Dream realized. He caught the opening and, with well-practiced ease, he took advantage of the quickly diminishing opening.

Dream's back hit the floor hard, his voice hitching as the impact knocked the breath from his lungs. Technoblade pointed the sharp tip of his sword as Dream's throat, his own breath panting like smoke into the air. The song hit its peak, ringing in the silence that followed as they stared at each other, waiting for it to break.

Technoblade sheathed his sword and knelt down at his opponent's side. "Good fight," he commented, holding out his hand to the other. Dream raised his hand, eyeing the offer like he was about to knock it aside. But then warmed skin met cooling skin as Dream’s hand grabbed onto his. Technoblade pulled them both up to their feet. With their hands intertwined, flesh to flesh, Techno could hear the song mellow out into a quiet hum. It may have a dumb idea, but he wanted to know why, of all others, Dream's blood sang so sweet to him. He let go when Dream pulled away, but before he could leave, Techno's hand dropped down on his shoulder, holding him fast.

"I'm gonna take a break," he said, sticking his thumb towards the line of food booths down the way. "You wanna stick around for a bit?" Dream eyed his offer, distrust written all over his face like the brand that faded now that the fight was over. "I'll pay," Techno added, not keen on letting him get away just yet. Dream shrugged off his hand with a roll of his shoulders, but he didn’t leave. That intense gaze seemed to sear itself into Techno’s skull as he gestured with his head in the direction of the booths. Well, alright then.

Technoblade led the way to a booth selling stew; ‘To Warm the Soul’ read the slogan on the sign. Dream snorted as they settled down. Techno’s eyes flicked over the guy, taking in the faint tremble as he hunched deeper into his sweater. He didn’t have a preference for what they ate, so Techno ordered something most people liked: rabbit stew. For him, mushroom stew.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Dream asked quietly as they waited for their bowls.

“Heh? Why would I?”

“Uh, because?” Dream gestured at the festival around them. “It’s a death party?”

“Oh, you’re not from here, are you?” He didn’t wait for his company to reply. “Mortem Cantet isn’t a festival where people go around killing. It’s called other things in other servers, but it’s the same premise. Mistrixtin doesn’t take souls tonight and people thank her for it. I like fighting, but I don’t like killing.”

“Oh? Then why fight?”

“Because I enjoy winning.” Dream fell silent. Two bowls were pushed towards them, and Techno handed over a few emeralds to the owner. He ate his food slowly, savoring it. Dream picked at his, eating the meat first before the rest of it. Techno’s ear flicked, listening as people walked by. Quietly, careful of the secret he was dropping, he added, “And because it makes Chat sing.”

“... Chat?” Dream asked, his own voice hushed. He tilted his bowl to drink up the warm broth, then asked, “You hear them too?”

“Yeah.” His ear flicked again, listening as the chorus rose again with attention drawn back to them. “Rowdy bunch on my end. You?”

“... they’re nice. They like seeing me win, too.”

“You like winning?” Technoblade asked, pushing aside his empty bowl.

“I do,” Dream replied. Fierce delight trickled into his answer, but it faded as he asked, “How long have they been around for you?”

“A long time. They only got louder when I fell into the overworld.”

“Fell?”

“I followed my friend in. It… uh,” Technoblade trailed off, his own god-touched brand lighting across his skin under his shirt. “I met Mistrixtin that night. It’s because of her that I’m here.”

There was a long pause from Dream. Out of the corner of his eye, Techno could see his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to speak. Finally, he asked in a voice the piglin had to strain to hear, “Can I see it?”

Technoblade took his hand again, his breath hitching as the chorus rose into a roar again at Dream’s touch. They weaved between the crowd, trying to find someplace quiet, someplace empty of eyes that would look and stare. Dream ducked his face as they passed people, to the point where Techno tossed a booth some emeralds, then grabbed a mask, and slapped it over Dream’s face. He yelped in surprise, his hand slipping out of Technoblade’s grip to hold it to his face.

Technoblade pulled them into a dark alcove, his hand slipping free of Dream's. Almost immediately, Dream fumbled with the buckles to secure the mask. Techno sighed.

"Here, let me." Dream froze as he closed the distance between them. The buckles made on this server weren't found anywhere else in the universe, at least, not where Techno had seen. Of course Dream was struggling. They latched with a satisfying click! Hands reached up, hesitant and trembling (though he might just have a tremor constantly in his hands… huh). Dream felt over the mask, felt where it ended, and felt how it covered the entirety of his face.

For the first time that night, he saw Dream relax.

"I'm surprised you don't have a mask on constantly," he commented as he started pulling off his shirt.

"I do," Dream muttered, his head tilting as he watched him. Techno lit a lantern so his audience could see the snaking lines of the Crow Mother's touch on his skin. Dream's voice continued, even as his head tilted down the line of his body. "When I joined this server, something went wrong and my mask broke. Just poof! Out of existence." Dream reached out to trace the mark. With every breath into his lungs, the mark glimmered. With every lingering touch of Dream's trembling fingers (it was worse in his left hand), the mark shone like starlight. The light trailed after his retreating touch like a comet's tail.

"Was it enchanted?" Techno asked, pretending like he wasn't breathless. The chorus sang where they met. Their tune lingered even as Dream pulled away.

"Yeah." He sounded breathless too. Techno clicked his tongue.

"And that would be why. Anything already part of you, or enchanted special, follows you server to server. Anything else doesn't. Not unless the server god likes you. Or maybe the admin, if the server's got one of those."

"Will it come back if I go home?"

"Maybe. Though it might not be the same as it was before."

Dream hummed, then felt over the mask again. It was contoured, shaped into something representing the festival. "Am I a crow?" he asked.

"Hm, no I don't think so. Maybe a fox." Techno's fingers slipped under the mask, going to tease it up, when Dream's hand slapped over his wrist. His grip tightened like a vice, surprisingly strong for the lithe little twig he was.

"Don't."

"Bruh, I've seen your face already." If anything, that only made Dream's hand tighten further.

"You haven't," he insisted.

"Yes… I have…?" Techno's brow furrowed. "Unless… your mark…" Silence stretched as he trailed off. The sound of feathers warned them of the wind, but neither of them leapt to cover the lantern. The alcove was plunged into darkness once more.

"What did she take from you?" Dream asked softly, the noise muffled behind the mask. He nodded towards the mark on his chest. Techno watched him, the chorus talking amongst themselves at this new development, asking what other secrets he was spilling tonight.

"My lives," he replied. "And you?"

Visiting Dream was… rough some days. Sam knew it was because of Quackity. Sam knew it was because of the torture that left its mark upon Dream’s body. The first time he heard Dream call Quackity ‘sir’ left him tasting bile in the back of his throat. The memory of it haunted him every time he had to go back to the main cell. That morning, he managed to ignore the dead look in Dream's eyes, the slump to his shoulders, and the way he favored one leg more than the other. (Quackity's voice echoed in his ears as he crushedcrunchedsnapped and Dream's screams faded into the dark recesses of his mind). Along with the taste of bile, that image haunted him now. It had been months since Quackity started visiting on the daily, visiting Dream with the intent to get the revive book out of him one way or another.

Months of allowing Quackity in and no one else, lest they see the injuries Dream collected. Months of walking him through the prison, taking him to the main cell to the point he wondered if it might be best to take him through the guard entrance. But the guard entrance was for guards and there was no chance in hell that Sam would allow Quackity to be a guard. He was sure that if he let Quackity have full range of the prison, it would shatter the balance of power they shared. Outside the prison, Sam took orders from Quackity. Inside, though… Inside, Sam remained the final authority on all matters. 

At least, he tried to be. Quackity had ways of working into the cracks in his armor, begging, pleading, suggesting the routes they take down the winding road of his own schemes. But Sam still held authority. That was why, when Quackity went into the main cell, it was Sam's tools he used. No one was allowed to bring anything into the prison, but Sam. So no one would be allowed to bring in their own tools of torture. It had to be his own.

Even if it meant he rubbed his hands raw trying to clean Dream's blood from his axe. Even if it meant he could still smell Dream's fear and Quackity's vicious delight in the power he held over him as he carried his tools home with him. He realized, a few weeks in, that staying in the prison, keeping his spawn point there, was affecting him more than he thought it would. He’d see shadows moving in the corners of his eyes, beckoning him around corners to find nothing but shadows. His hands itched to redo the redstone, make it brighter, bright enough to chase away every single shadow that hid from him (brighterBRIGHTERCHASETHEMAWAY). He almost did it, until he realized that he’d have to redo the entire prison. Too many sleepless nights, too much redstone that buried under his nails and trapped itself in his mask. He found himself one night clawing at the beds of his nails, needing to remove the red that burned like redstone caught in an open wound, when he realized the red he found was not dust.

He remembered the way his hands stuttered, his breath catching in his throat as he watched his nails bleed. Bleeding blood mixed with gunpowder close to live redstone. Even as his breath hissed, he dragged down his mask and put his nails into his mouth, (keepitcleankeepitsafekeepitaway!), even as he tasted iron and redstone together, a poison used to kill far too many times over, even as the hissing from his mouth grew--

Sam exhaled long and slow, and then took his thoughts into his hands and set them aside. It was fine. He was fine. It was fine. He directed his trailing thoughts back to his checklist and forced his feet forward again. All the security measures were in place, the potions restocked, the nether portal was free of mobs, and his key cards had been updated to the latest version. All the other versions were locked in a chest buried in obsidian in the guard hallway. No one would find it. He made sure of that.

While Bad and Antfrost had been guards at one point, he could no longer trust them. Even though Antfrost had promised him that dying helped clear his mind of the egg's control, Sam's trust in them died the second they trapped them at the Red Banquet. Plus, he knew Bad had a soft spot for Dream. If he saw the condition Dream was in now and know who was allowing it to happen… Sam couldn't risk it. He couldn't.

They weren't the only ones who Sam watched his trust in wither and decay like corpses in the sun. Tommy snuck in to kill Dream. If Sam had not seen the axe, had not grabbed him in time, then…

Sam's hand gripped on his trident, anger smoldering in his lungs. He stopped again to breathe, to calm down the fans whirring in his mask. If he hadn't caught Tommy in time, then Dream may have died. Or Dream would have used Tommy to get out like he tried with Ghostbur. Or maybe he would've killed Ghostbur anyways and used Tommy to escape. Any of those would have led to the same conclusion in his head: Tommy and Ghostbur dead, and Dream alive or dead, escaped or gone.

And then there was Ponk. Sam closed his eyes against the pain in his chest. Ponk, who would walk around the server with him, talking about whatever they wished. Sam always loved to listen to them. Their voice was nice to his ears and it often soothed the circling storm in his head. He still remembered the first time they held hands with him. They entwined his fingers with theirs, laughing as they tugged him down the path. Warmth bloomed in his chest, if only for a brief moment. He loved Ponk, almost to the point he considered asking to be their soulmate. His happiness faded as those memories painted a dark stain in his mind. Ponk had stolen the keycards! They had refused to give them up!

Ponk forced Sam’s hand!

So he took theirs.

And now Ponk’s hand was left to sit and rot and decay in a location only Sam knew the coordinates for. Sam left it as a reminder of his purpose. He left it as a reminder of his mistakes and his failures and how he had to fix them. It was a reminder of the consequences he faced for the actions of others.

As he walked through the halls, Sam found himself drawn to the thought of those consequences, to the thought of the consequences he'd face should anyone learn what Quackity was doing here, day after day. What Sam allowed him to do, day after day. He couldn't allow anyone else's weapons into the prison, couldn't allow Quackity to kill Dream like he wanted to. Sam's purpose was to keep Dream here. Alive and locked up in the prison until he could be trusted again.

But when had Dream ever been trustworthy?

Sam paused again, familiar glass panes catching his eyes. He stared at the glass panes, at the reminder sitting behind there. He stepped forward and peered in, memorizing the details, memorizing what had changed. Like his reminder, people changed so quickly. One day, they were your friends. They laughed with you, built with you, shared their ideas and wants and dreams. They made promises with you. Promises they said they wanted to keep. And then the next day they turned on you. They trapped you in dangerous places, making new promises as they trampled over the ones they broke like they were as worthless as the life they intended to take.

“He was my friend,” Sam whispered to his reminder. “He was my friend.”

Sam stepped away from his reminder. He stepped away from the glass panes and resumed his walk through the prison. The path he took was a familiar route. It was also a dark route, at least in the corners of his mind. In the corners of his eyes, he saw the shifting of shadows. They grew with every step he took, trailing after him along the walls. They hid in the cracks of the blackstone and obsidian. He retrieved his lantern, carrying it in one of his free hands. If there was enough light, then the shadows would disappear. Surely, they would leave him alone today.

He was your friend, a shadow whispered in the back of his mind, its tendrils nipping at his heels. He spun on a dime, swinging the lantern at the offending thought. He felt it fade, but that only allowed the rest of them to gather at his back.

“Was,” Sam emphasized, turning around. “He was my friend once. He’s lost that right.”

And who’s fault was that? the shadows on the wall asked, their voices quiet, but firm as they pushed through his circling thoughts.

“Obviously, it was his fault,” Sam replied, first calm. The shadows didn’t respond, but he could feel their judgement. He could feel their disagreement. “What, do you think I’m wrong?” he snarled. The shadows shifted in the face of his growing anger, never parting under the storm, simply shifting with the flickering light. Sam breathed, standing tall once more. “It was not my fault that he chose his destructive ways. He destroyed an entire nation because it stood against him! Tommy stood against him and look where it got him! Dream abused him! His actions caused Tommy to become suicidal! That was not my fault!” 

And what did you do to stop it?

“I… I offered my help,” Sam said, his voice falling quiet as he stepped back. The shadows surged after the retreating light.

Do you think that was enough?

“I built Sam Nook to help take his mind off it! To give him something to do! I tried! Is that not enough?”

But what did you do? Sam tried to protest, but the shadows overrode him. Allowed him into the main cell to visit someone so dangerous? His blood is on your hands. His death is because of you.

“I had to! I had to leave him in there so I could investigate the explosions! I didn’t… I didn’t think he would kill Tommy!”

And yet you allowed it to happen. You allowed Ghostbur to die here as well. Who’s next?

“No one. No one is dying in here anymore. I’m not letting it happen anymore.” 

And yet you let Quackity here. Is he not a threat as well?

“Quackity promised he wouldn’t kill him. He gave me his word.”

You trust Quackity, and yet you don’t trust Dream.

"He's the bad guy!"

Is he?

"Ye--what do you mean 'is he'? Of course he is!" Do you think he's just a good guy doing bad things?" He could feel the shadows agree. He stomped forward, netherite-heavy steps echoing through the hall. His tone was as harsh as his breath, firm in his truth, unbreakable as bedrock. "Bad guys do bad things. All he's done are bad things. Therefore, he's the bad guy."

Then what does that make you?

"What?" The shadows create closer, coiling even as he swung the lantern towards them. They flickered at the edges of the light in time to the flame.

How many times did you let suffering happen? How many people died and were hurt because of you?"

"That's-that's not the same!" he said quickly, stumbling over his words and his feet as he brought the light in front of him like a shield. The shadows stepped closer, their judgement a heavy weight in his mind.

Is torture not the same as abuse? How can you condemn one version and still allow the other?

“That’s not me! It’s Quackity!”

It’s your weapons. It’s your tools. It’s your hands that open the door for him. Is that not proof enough?

“It’s-it’s--” Sam cut off before shouting at the shadows. “I’m not the bad guy here!”

This isn’t guilt by association. It never was. Sam felt the shadows tilt their heads at him, felt them consider him. Their voices were a calm contrast to his roiling emotions. Who feeds him raw potatoes?

"That wasn't my choice!" Sam hissed at the shadows. They only seemed to grow around him. They bit at his ankles, tore at his arms, buried themselves in the cracks of his armor, whispering until his skull echoed with it. "I wanted to feed the prisoners steak, but Dream wanted to use potatoes!"

To keep him barely alive.

"But alive!"

Is there a difference? 

"Wha," Sam licked his dry lips, eyeing the shadows in the corner. "What do you mean? My job is to keep him alive. He's alive."

But for how long? You know the hunger in Quackity's eyes. You know the hunger in the twitch of his hands. The shadows shifted along the wall. Sam's gaze felt heavy and haunted as he tracked their movement. What happens when you're not enough to stop him anymore? What happens when his hand twitches too far? What happens when you're too slow to stop it?

"Shut up," Sam hissed at the shadows, his mask flaring and whirring with the effort to keep his breathing under control.

What happens, the shadows hissed in return.

"Shut. Up," Sam snarled. His grip on the lantern tightened.

When you fail?

"SHUT UP!" The lantern crashed into the wall, shattering on impact. Fire flared briefly, flames licking the obsidian before dying to the shadows as they retreated from him. Like the fire, his anger faded as silence closed in around him.

Panting, he stared at the ruined lantern. His gaze focused through the ground, unseeing and still seeing far too much. "I can't," he breathed, seeing Quackity crossing to the cell in the depths of his memory. "I can't fail," he breathed, feeling the shadows creeping around him again. He could still hear Quackity's voice, his urging to kill Dream, to avenge Tommy.

Sam knew the hunger in Quackity's eyes. He knew the twitch in Quackity's hands when he took Sam's tools. Sam knew what he wanted to do to Dream. But he promised! whispered a small voice in the back of his skull. The shadows rose up before him, their anger radiating out until it aligned with his own. 

What makes you think you can trust him? What makes you think you can trust any of them?