#runstheshow

Everything has gone to absolute shit. Daz’s spark, Lee’s spark, Innit’s freedom, Observers interacting and coddling Innit– none of that is good!

And, the icing on the cake is that Theo and Day are now apparently getting a special visitor.

That has to be the Scribe. There’s no way that there’s some other mysterious entity tied to all of this running around.

He’s fighting a panic attack, the urge to puke his guts up, and flashbacks of how it felt to bury Tubbo.

What a mess you’ve made for yourself! Hah– you’re pathetic. Just as lost and stupid as you were every other time. Hey, why don’t you try running to Lucid and beg him to teach you, instead of Lee? 

Instead of dignifying that with a response, Daz snatches the magic 8-ball that’s he’s been seen playing with a few times. He studies it like it could provide an answer, a way forward–

Wow, this is pretty sad. 

The sudden voice makes him startle, and then set the toy back down. “...What do you want?”

Mmmh…that’s not the tone you should be taking with me.

He snarls, “You can’t just–”

I can do whatever the fuck I want, actually. You want to play stupid games? You won’t like the stupid prize you earn for that.

Sugar and rot coat his mouth and mind. The broken enchantment tries to turn him into nothing more than atoms. The sword he spent countless hours laboring over pierces his best friend’s heart. The sword. The grave. The deal. The sword, the grave, the deal. The deal, deal, dealdealdealDEAL–

Daz stumbles, suddenly caught off-balance. He catches himself on the edge of the central table and sinks down into a chair. His head is throbbing and his lunch is threatening to come up even more than it had before.

Just past the pain, there’s a sense of loss that he can’t understand. Why does it feel like he’s forgetting something…?

What the fuck did you do, jackass? Innit’s groan of pain gives him a spiteful spark of happiness. At least he’s not suffering alone.

Petty little– look, if you’re going to bore me, I can just go find someone else to talk to. 

The unspoken threat of what that conversation would look like is enough to make him swallow and ask, “I don’t know what you consider entertaining.”

Tittering, the voice replies, I mean, plenty of things! But pacing like this isn't gonna cut it. Make a move, or I'll flip the chessboard over.

Daz stares at the nether star set into the meeting table. The magic inside it makes it shimmer and gleam.

He bought that star in part to fuck with Aster. Having a symbol so blatantly tied to him in this place, and displayed so openly, makes it impossible to deny that the Council is linked to him.

Ditto for the pattern in the floor beneath the table. Smooth quartz and glowstone in the shape of a four-pointed star.

But, ultimately, the Council is Daz's creation. Even though they're meant to be equals, in times of crisis the group looks to him for guidance.

The result of his blood, sweat, tears, and trauma is a beautifully efficient system that protects the server.

And, in doing so, protects Lee.

They can't afford to shrink away from this responsibility. No matter how little they want to do it…

Daz shuts his eyes and steels his nerves.

Quite literally kicking down the door into the library, they shout, “Hey, Scribs, we need to chat! Get your nose out of your fucking books!”

Much like the Showrunner’s stage, the library is the domain of another unusual individual. The infinite rows of bookshelves bear titles in indecipherable scripts, but…that’s the only real feature of the space.

Everything else is a void. A white, empty void, stretching out over Eons and Eras.

Show’s face shifts to a brief animation of an eyeroll. Great, in-jokes that exactly one person can possibly understand. That bodes super well for how this’ll play out.

From amidst the shelves, a figure slowly emerges.

Like the Showrunner, their form is…unusual. What little ‘skin’ is visible is, much like their counterpart’s, rather similar to a jointless mannequin. The color differs, though– a swirling, silver-and-lavender as opposed to the Showrunner’s gold-and-black.

But largely, they are obscured by a cloak.

The cloak covers most of them, bar their many extra arms– and the number of them keeps shifting, as do the sizes of the books they’re writing in– and their ‘face’. It looks almost like a universe is depicted in them.

Or…it is a universe. Because it moves– the stars, the celestial bodies, all of is moving. In just a few moments, several stars wink out, while others suddenly appear. Along the edges of the ‘garment’-- if it really can even be called that– are ever-shifting runes in that same silvery-lavender color that seems unique to them.

Each rune seems to be made up of a shifting mess of overlapping words.

In much the same way, the odd, dark purple, crown-like ring of horns that blends into the cloak are made up of untold words in seemingly eternal flux. Above the center of that crown is a large, cat-like eye made of yet more words– these in bright lavender.

Around the eye are dozens of rings of varying widths and sizes, spinning in seemingly random directions, with yet more eyes embedded into them.

And…that only leaves their face. Or what passes for one.

There’s a geometric, elongated sideways eye-esque shape in the center of an otherwise white mask. The edges of it shift slightly, but only enough that gives the impression that it’s capable of more change.

In an almost bored monotone, the Scribe says, I have made it clear I have no interest in being on your stage. Leave me to my work.

“It’s fucking boring, though! If there’s no audience, there’s no point in writing! Scribs, you gotta–” Showrunner, you have already interrupted me and dragged your audience along with you. Whatever game you seek to play, I will not be partaking.

The Showrunner groans, multiple extra arms appearing to help them emphasize, “The game is that there’s nobody to write for! The seats are empty, the stage is lifeless, and I’m bored outta my mind!”

At this, finally, the Scribe’s own additional arms pause in their writing.

…I already allowed you to use my name to, as you put it, ‘liven things up’. “That wasn’t even me, not really! That was the yahoo at the keyboard needing to make your precious little sociopath play nice!”

The first hint at emotion comes, the Scribe replying, You speak as though you have no favorites of your own. “I never said I was unbiased, but it still fucking helped you, too!”

The pupils of all the eyes thin in unison. I grow weary of your arguments. Leave, you have gotten the hint of mystery that you, ironically, are incapable of cultivating on your own.

A shriek of frustration accompanies a sound like breaking glass. Jagged, teeth-like shards of the Showrunner’s flickering red screen-face mouth along to the distorted echo of, “Holy fucking shit, how are you such a giant bitch!? Stop being such a useless stick in the mud and help me make this fucking work!”

Emotion is once again gone from the Scribe’s voice as they sigh, Still a spoiled child, demanding attention and affirmation. If your stage is so empty, stop waiting for a prompt to populate it. Simply…devise the scenario yourself.

The flickering gets more intense, and the Showrunner seems to become just a little larger. The circle of extra screens around their face spins faster and faster, until they stop looking like anything more than a glowing red ring.

There does seem to be a floor of some sort, but it’s not something that looks any different than the rest of the inky, Void-like…void.

Neither of them say anything. Daz is close enough that their sides are touching, his daggers in hand. He’s facing the other way to scan for anything that might sneak up behind them.

Everything is that disturbing, eerie kind of quiet. A quiet so absolute that your brain screams that something is wrong.

The only sounds are their breathing and the shifting of their clothes. They all sound like gunshots amidst the lack of even subtle ambient noises.

And then, in a split second, everything changes.

They find themselves standing in what looks like an old-fashioned theatre. The giant red velvet curtains are drawn and the overhead lights are off.

Daz realizes they’re in the middle of the aisle of seats. A plush red rug stretches from about 10 feet away from the stage back off into the far distance. The rows of seats stretch along with it…and off to sides, as well.

It feels like the majority of this place is just seating.

Something moves, and Daz snaps his head to look at it.

Whatever it is, it isn’t anything he’s seen before. Two of some kind of bizarre, blob-like creatures sit in what seem like VIP seats. They wobble like Jello as they…maybe? Watch him back.

There’s more of them scattered around, including more in that section, but none are as distinct as those two– some are barely more than shadows.

Suddenly, from above, there’s a giggle. “Don’t mind them, they’re just representations of the audience!”

He takes several steps back to put distance between himself and whatever just spoke.

Floating above their heads in an absurd ringmaster-esque costume and smiling, Daz had to take a moment to wrap his head around their appearance.

Their head looks like a flat-screen monitor, with a simple and pixelated animating ‘face’. Said animation looks like a very rudimentary GIF of blinking. Six phone-sized screens circle their head, displaying what seem like random emojis.

They giggle again. “Oh my god, the look on your faces! Hah– this is definitely worth the hassle. Although…”

Well, their ‘face’ seems to update when they talk. It’s not in sync, though.

The entity hums to themself. “Yeah, nah, this won’t do.”

They withdraw a round-top cane. It suddenly extends and reaches to tap on Daz’s head.

And then Innit is there.

It stares at them with wide eyes, and then looks up at the entity. After a long moment, it gets to its feet and bows.

“You’re– you’re the Showrunner, right? Not the Scribe.”

A sound like the correct answer in a gameshow plays. “Yeah! Hell-o, my favorite little metaphor!”

The…Showrunner, evidently, settles down on the ground and reaches out to squish Innit’s cheeks together. “Awww, look at you! You’re so smart and unexpected!”

Innit seems to be in shock, which makes three of them.

Aster recovers first. “So, if you’re the Showrunner, then– where is the Scribe? And what do you do?”

The Showrunner blows a raspberry and rolls their eyes. “I borrowed Scribs’ name for reasons. It was always me!”

Daz is able to gather himself enough to ask, “So– you’re Time?”

They laugh, bright and uproarious. Finally letting go of Innit, they turn to face him.

Their smile isn’t terribly kind or fond as they tell him, “Time was just a sock puppet for Scribs. A useful tool and nothing more. It’s really just a name and some divine pressure, there’s not much else there.”

He laughs shakily. “So– we weren’t chosen on a whim. You just…have been toying with us all along…?”

“Yes! See, despite what an miserable little cunt you are, you are clever enough that dealing with you is sometimes worth it,” The Showrunner confirms.

There’s only one thing to ask, then. “Why? Why do you care so much about us? Not just Sanctuary, but– the people you have rescued?”

The Showrunner starts laughing.

Again, it’s not nice or kind, but instead manic. Almost malicious; something that screams that this entity is not someone that can be reasoned with if he makes a wrong step.

Their expression, despite its lack of fidelity, is borderline unhinged as they giggle, “You haven’t earned that answer!”

Daz shudders, then jumps as Innit speaks again. “How do we earn it, then?”

The Showrunner reaches down– they’re absurdly tall, easily clearly eight feet– and pats its head. “Figure more secrets out, little monster. Figure them out on your own and you won’t have to share what you learn.”

Despite how unhinged this divine being is, Innit smiles warmly up at it. “Thanks for the hint. I’ll make you proud.”

“Aww, you’re adorable.”

From his side, Aster asks quietly, “...When do I know when I’ve earned the– the wish?”

In between blinks, the deity stands in front of him and has its screen-face barely an inch from his. This close, Daz can hear a faint, electronic buzzing.

“Depends. What d’you want to use it on?”

Aster, tense as a strung bow and as rigid as a netherite sword, tells them, “I haven’t decided yet. But if– if it’s not going to be for a while, I can rule some things out.”

The traitor’s eyes flick over to Innit, and resentment burns in Daz’s chest. After ripping his past open and destroying his plans, Aster wants to use this– this impossible fucking thing on Innit?!

Grin wide, The Showrunner tells him, “For that, I might be willing to…be a bit more lenient. You might have to see the things you least want to see, and agree to do that, but, well…I’m not completely heartless.”

Aster’s expression conveys how little he likes that condition.

“Oh, and it won’t make it end. It ends when I decide it’s not fun any more. Talk it over with your little group first. You never know– you might have some clever bastards decide to step in and make that unnecessary.”

Yeah, no, Daz can read the implication there. He’s being threatened to cooperate, and probably helm, Innit getting a body…or else the wish paid for by his past and future will be given to another.

The Showrunner laughs a little. “Alright, alright. That’s enough fun for one of the lowest rungs of secrets. I’ve given you plenty.”

The idea of being together with basically anyone makes his skin crawl. He already feels a hell of a lot like he’s an imposter in the majority of situations; the last thing he wants or needs is to have to lie to a significant other.

Plus he’s just. Aggressively not interested.

The little chat he had with Theo after he’d gotten the earrings from the eldest and youngest Was-Taken brothers, in which they commiserated over how little they wanted to touch any of that…the years have only made that more and more true.

Aster is, ultimately, a fairly public figure. He also is carrying the burden of multiple secrets that could shatter the server– secrets that he has to hide from those he holds dearest.

So, when he wants to actually be able to breathe somewhere truly private…he retreats to the Council HQ.

The fancy rooms no longer bother him on a visceral level. Maybe it’s because they’re so familiar now– a sign of absolute safety.

…Or, almost absolute. There’s still the risk of Daz showing up to be a fuckin’ bastard.

Less so, lately. Daz has been more than a little preoccupied with teaching Lee and dealing with all of the fuckery surrounding the Scribe.

One of their rewards for their first deal was what, at first glance, looks to be a Magic 8 Ball.

It technically is. But it’s also so much more than that.

It’s the way that they can ask a questions to the Scribe. There are limitations, which Aster is pretty sure are listed on a piece of paper taped in the back of an innocuous book on the bookshelf in the potions room.

He hasn’t bothered to keep track of them. Being smart about this kind of thing isn’t his forte. He’s here to be brawn, and he’s very, very good at that part.

Not that he’s stupid. He’s just…very aware that Daz can, does, and will run circles around him.

Again, though; the bastard has been busy lately.

…It’s weird that it’s been so quiet without that jackass deliberately antagonizing him. Keeps making him feel like things are getting dangerous.

Uhg. He glares up at the ceiling of the main room from his place flopped on the couch. He doesn’t like that he’s not really even able to find peace here anymore.

Especially because the damn Observers are here. They’re not asking anything, though, so Aster sure as fuck isn’t going to offer them more than he’s obligated to.

Well isn’t this just pathetic!

Prime fucking damnit, that’s the last entity he wants to hear from. He’d take a million weird and invasive Observer questions over the Scribe deciding to focus their attention on him.

Oh, don’t look so sour. Due to some recent events– don’t worry about it– I’ve realized that maybe you’re not as much of a lame stick in the mud as I thought!

“My face and voice are broken. I can’t not look like this,” he points out, still not fully used to having to curb his snark for literally anyone.

Smartass. Look, do you want a deal or not?

His eyes narrow. Not bothering to get up from his relatively comfy pose, he tells the horrible entity likely capable of destroying everything he knows and loves, “Aren’t you supposed to give me reasons why I should do it? Isn’t that your whole thing– make me an offer I can’t refuse?” There’s a beat, and he tacks on, “Y’know, like the Devi?”

Laughter comes from the Scribe. Oh, man, this is why you’ve caught my eye! Not a lot of people would sass me. Even the brains of your operation is scared shitless, but you…see, I know you’re not stupid enough that you think it’s a good idea. You’re just…that kinda person. 

Almost against his will, Aster has learned to read tone well enough to get the impression that they don’t consider his boldness a bad thing.

Weird! Usually gods or whatever the fuck the Scribe is are touchy about respect. They certainly seemed to dislike when Daz got too mouthy, after all.

They continue, You’re right, though. So, Stardust, I know something has gnawed at you for a long time now. 

He does not take the obvious bait, and instead patiently lets them draw the suspense out for their reveal.

Don’t you want to know more about that bastard that dragged you into this mess? I mean, really– he doesn’t just have a few cards he’s holding back, he’s got a whole fucking deck he’s hiding! 

He is curious, but at the same time…it’s a horrible, almost violent violation of Daz’s privacy.

Daz has kept a lot of things secret, presumably for a reason. Going to someone else to pry his life open is liable to result in a nasty situation that Aster can’t possibly recover from.

Oh, and Lee wouldn’t forgive him. There’s that, too.

But despite how much he dislikes Daz as a person, he liked the idea of ripping his defenses away even less.

That armor is pretty much the only thing standing between Daz and a total mental breakdown. Daz going off the deep end is pretty much the worst-case scenario for the entire server.

Still, he’s not so dumb that he turns it down right away. “That’s an interesting proposal. What is it that you want from me?”

A new perspective. He’s hogging the spotlight and it’s getting on my nerves. Sure, yeah, he’s– interesting and nuanced and whatever. But variety is the spice of life, and you have proven to be capable of quite a bit of spice!

None of that makes much sense to him. Beyond the metaphor, he’s pretty sure the implication is that they’re all just entertainment and Daz is grating on them by now.

He has no fucking clue what they mean by him being spicy, though.

“That’s your motive, not what I would have to do,” he sighs.

Their voice is flatter this time. Impatient little shit, huh? Fine. Make things interesting, same task as that bastard. I want a reason to turn the camera away from him for once. Even if he has to be in the fucking scene, I’ll accept a change in POV. 

That makes him sit up. “Camera? Are you recording us?!” In a manner of speaking. Don’t look so surprised, it’s obvious! And, look– there’s a big secret that’s hovering over Sanctuary. You find that out, and I’ll give you a VIP tour of what’s really going on.

“I don’t–” And a wish! No rules, no limits. A single, solitary wish that you can use to get anything you can imagine. Reality will bend to your will. I’ll even let you trade it, if such a weighty prize doesn’t feel right in your own hands.

He swallows.

He doesn’t want the rest of it, especially not learning more about Daz, but…

A wish, huh?

Considering it makes him feel a bit sick, but he asks, “...What are the limits. Not the wish– you said that already. I mean the rest. What am I not allowed to do?”

As long as you give me something interesting, I don’t care what it is or how you do it.

“And…what are the consequences if I can’t pull it off?”

There’s a low, ominous laugh. You’ll forget this ever happened and I’ll make your life worse. 

There aren’t a lot of people that know better than Aster that Daz would accept this. Not only that, he’d come up with a masterful plan to make everything work out wildly in his favor.

Fuck. He hates this, but he can’t refuse it.

He gives a soft, humorless laugh of his own. “Alright, Satan. I’ll shake your hand.”

Excellent. A pleasure doing business with you, Stardust.

The camera suddenly snaps to the Showrunner.

They’re hovering over what looks like a representation of the Council HQ, and Aster himself, on the stage.

A wide, almost manic grin is on their TV-screen head. “Gentle audience, I’ll need your help with this one. You can suggest things you want him to see– things from the bastard’s life.”

The lights suddenly dim, and they add, “But be aware! My favorite little monster’s presence might be shown, but not perceived. At least, not yet.”

They roll over mid-air so that they’re on their back. “This is your chance to peek at any moments you feel didn’t get a proper scene! Not just within his backstory, but beyond. Prologue, sequel, even a sneak preview of upcoming attractions if you want to be so bold. Whether or not Aster sees inside his head will depend greatly on what makes things more fun.”

It’s weird to see him so serious. Logically, he knows that this is the real Daz– or at least realer than he’s ever been for Lee before.

That doesn’t stop it from feeling like he’s peering into the uncanny valley when he looks at him.

Daz studies him, and a faint smile rises up. “Alright, kid. Ready to learn some admin secrets?”

Honestly, Lee wants nothing more than to learn what other secrets Daz has. He can tell that whatever he’s going to learn…this is important.

That’s why the other Council members are in other rooms. The two of them are in the hidden…lounge…thing? That can only be reached by breaking two specific blocks and climbing up into a hidden passageway.

It’s paranoid as hell, and it reminds Lee of his Dad.

Bouncing a little in his seat, he nods enthusiastically.

Daz seems pleased by the enthusiasm, but mostly keeps a straight face. “Good. So…” he leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. Lee automatically mimics the pose, his curiosity cresting nearly painfully.

“Mobs love their admins. Mobs won't intentionally hurt their admins, not without provocation. Well…outside of a select few cases. Don't try to talk to a wither, that doesn't go well.”

He frowns. “That can't be right– Dad and Lucid would have noticed.”

There's a soft huff, and Daz explains, “They never were so deeply, cripplingly lonely that they started talking to mobs. They had San, after all, even if somehow the server didn't have other players.”

That…would be true, he guesses. It does make sense in that light.

“But I've seen hostile mobs attack them.” “I don't know if Day clocks as an admin any more, and for Lucid…are you sure they attacked first? Or were they just getting close, and Lucid attacked them? Because if they're attacked, of course they'll retaliate. If they're going to die either way, they'll adhere to their normal instincts.”

Fuck, he can’t say for sure. He'll have to pay closer attention in the future.

“Some mobs, though? They're more than just that. Some mobs are smart– smarter than some players, even! They have their own languages, cultures, and customs.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, vaguely aware his wings are fluttering in surprise. “But why hasn't anyone–?”

Daz tilts his head to the side. “Why haven't you?”

The question echoes the way his dad will try to make him figure something out on his own.

It's super weird to notice the similarities between his Dad and Daz.

With a sigh, he answers, “Nobody thought it was possible, so nobody considered it.”

From the smile Daz has, that seems to be the answer he was looking for. “And when nobody suspects something, their ignorance is the best smokescreen.”

Another sigh escapes him. He's getting a little more used to the real Daz, but it's still unsettling to see him like this.

“Now,” Daz says, “Knowing that there are two mobs who are unique, which ones do you think they are?”

Immediately, Lee answers, “Villagers, obviously.” “Nope.” “No?!” “They’re more complex than, say, a zombie, but not enough to truly consider intelligent.”

He has to consider it. What mobs act abnormally?

It doesn't seem like it would be outright hostile mobs, but he could be wrong. But purely passive ones don't quite feel right, either. And if it was a culture, surely they must lump together in large groups…

Ah.

He straightens up and says, “Piglins. Attie says they're always respectful and appreciative if he gives them more than just gold ingots. They have homes, too, with bastions…and San wouldn’t be able to see inside those too easily.”

Daz grins at him, seeming pleased he figured it out. “Yep. That's where one of my secondary sources of income is from, actually. I have deals with several bastions for ancient debris. I give them gold and overworld goodies in exchange. I'll take you on one of my meetups next time. They…”

Unexpectedly, a wistful expression crosses his face. “They’re good folk. They'll be overjoyed to have an admin and a half who know how special they are.”

From the way he's talking, and a nudge from his weird sixth sense, Lee says, “You like them, don't you?”

“...They were friends, back on my original server. It was lonely so far out– not that I had many people who wanted to see me, anyway. Dream told me they were smart, so I…started going to local bastions. I learned their language, their customs…” Daz trails off, brow furrowing faintly.

“And?” “...That's a story for another time,” Daz sighs. “For now– tell me the other mob that has true intelligence.”

Lee huffs, aware that he’s not going to get Daz to budge if he doesn’t want to.

If the big clues for Piglins were being clustered together and having homes, what else fits?

Wardens do have homes, sort of, in ancient cities, but they’re kind of weird and definitely not clustered together. And also extremely hostile, at least to most players. Maybe it’s different for admins, but…that still doesn’t feel quite right.

Witches are also pretty solitary, and it’s not villagers, so…what other mobs have a structure linked to them?

…Wait.

“...Endermen?”

Daz hums, face giving nothing away. “Why do you think it’s them?” “They’re not in them, but the End has cities, they’re always found in groups, and a little bit because they’re neutral but can become hostile if you don’t follow their ‘rules’.”

Another pleased smile forms. “That’s mostly correct. Not sure what the deal is with them and cities, honestly? But…yeah, endfolk are a stickler for their rules. Speaking of which!” He narrows his eyes, and points at Lee. “Do not approach any endfolk on your own. They have complicated, delicate customs and social networks, and you can very literally and without hyperbole start a war by saying or doing the wrong thing. If you fuck up, dozens to hundreds of sentient, sapient beings might die. You’ll need training just to be able to shadow a meeting with them. Piglins are much, much more forgiving. While endfolk might give you some slight leeway for being a small god, that won’t get you far if you piss a group off. Their grudges run long and deep, Achilles, and they will have no issue targeting you and yours for failure to follow their rules.”

He swallows, shrinking back a little at the idea. Even if he might have gotten curious and done it before, hearing exactly what that might lead to has killed any desire to jump the gun. “Okay.”

Daz studies him for a long moment, and then exhales in clear relief. “Good. They’re tricky to deal with, but…” A faint sparkle enters his eyes, and he adds, “but, well– if you can pull it off, it’s very profitable. Elytras are easy to sell…or easy to pretend to buy.”

Lee’s jaw drops. “You’re– where does the money go? You can’t be pocketing it, right–?” “Why not? Genuine elytras obtained through hard work are still being put into the hands of new players. The person who did that hard work is being paid.” “Wh– but it’s an unfair advantage! You’re just– you’re cheating!”

The other potential admin rolls his eyes. “I’m using skills that I put considerable effort into learning and/or are innate to me, the same as Orph and his music or Attie and his jewelry. I’m honestly at much more risk doing things like this than just going to hunting for cities myself. But that also takes time, and I’m running desperately low on that as it is. Ultimately, it’s not my fault nobody else considered that endfolk or piglins are capable of making deals like this. I’m not going to apologize for using whatever tools and skills are at my disposal to their fullest.”

He groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Prime, I kinda get why Aster thinks you’re a dick.” “And he’s a sanctimonious idiot who, despite all the shit he’s been through, still thinks the best of others.” “That doesn’t–” “Also, he sees his original Dream in me. Plus he’s so fucking pissy that he was the only one who caught onto what I’m really like. Hell, several people defended me when he tried to warn them!”

For several long moments, Lee studies him. A vibe forms, and he says, “You see your original Dream in him, too, don’t you?”

Daz startles a little, and then laughs without any humor. “Fucking vibes, huh?”

It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no. It seems like it would be easy for Daz to just lie about it, but he doesn’t seem to want to do that.

Interesting.

“What about him is the same?” “I don’t want to get into that,” Daz sighs. “I feel like it’s important–” Tone firmer, Daz states, “Drop it.”

Some innate alarm bell warns him that disregarding this won’t end nicely, so he reluctantly concedes. “...Fine. Okay, so– Piglins and enderm– endfolk, are both waaaay more advanced that anyone else knew. What other magical admin secrets do you have?”

Daz blinks at him, and tells him, “Admins needs claims to function. A claim can be anything from a token to a charm to a pair of glasses, but it’s preferable if it’s worn. Claims act as a way to reinforce their bond with a person precious to them and a warning sign to others. Rejecting or taking back a claim is tantamount to rejecting the associated admin; a symbolic gesture that signifies that they are no longer worthy of that bond. Conversely, reciprocating the bond with an item in return expresses the opposite, that the claimed person is claiming the admin back.”

That…sounds an awful lot like the jewelry Attie makes. But Attie isn’t an admin, and he makes jewelry for everyone. “Isn’t that just normal, though? The giving gifts thing, I mean. Everyone does that.”

“In Sanctuary, sure. But even that started from an admin. Your dad might have traded his spark, but the instincts likely remain. From what I’ve heard from Atlas, the jewelry was subtly and unconsciously encouraged, until he took it upon himself to develop a formal system for it. Once in Sanctuary, it bloomed into a server-wide custom. As far as I can tell, your dad and Lucid have no idea that it’s just a normal admin thing.”

Lee makes a face. “Are you sure? It seems weird to–” “Imagine what it would feel like if Aster gave back his earring.”

The very idea is like a punch to the gut. Something deep inside of him screams at the concept, and he doesn’t even realize he’s having a panic attack until Daz is hugging him. “Shh, hey– it’s not real, I was just using an example. That stubborn bastard would literally die before he gave up his earring. But that’s my point– non-admins don’t feel that strongly. They might be hurt, but they wouldn’t freak out over just the idea of it. Claims are an innate part of us, just like flying is to avians or being stubborn is to Tommys.”

The hand rubbing his back, carefully running underneath his wings so they aren’t pinned down, is enough to calm him down. The way that Daz is further explaining it is soothing; his tone, his gentleness, even the tension in his body.

He’s worried that I’m so upset, he thinks, and feels weirdly relieved about it.

Despite his evident intelligence and capacity to manipulate and lie, Daz is distressed just by Lee being so out of sorts.

He wraps his arms around Daz, making him pause. Slowly, a hand goes to his head, and the other admin carefully cards a hand through his hair.

It feels a lot like when his Dad or Theo or even Aster does it. Every past experience has taught him that this means comfort and protection and safety.

With a soft, shuddering sigh, he wraps his wings around Daz and leans more against him. Daz tells him, “I didn’t think it would get under your skin that badly. I’m sorry. I guess I just…forgot how bad it is.”

That’s right; Daz knows this because he has the same instinct. Then…from how he said that, he’s had claims be rejected before?

“Who would hurt you like that?” “...I don’t think that’s a good topic for right now. Everything is still a lot, yeah? So let’s hold off that particular distressing chat for another time. I know you’ll probably learn about it eventually, but…now you know the important parts that relate to you,” Daz tells him.

Fair enough. 

Daz continues, “Admins get attached to things and to people much more intensely than non-admins. We can’t help it; it’s a part of who we are. I’m pretty sure it’s because we need to love the server we end up becoming admins in, but it’s not like I can call up a god who can explain that.”

Might not have a direct line to a god, but you have something even better!

Lee flinches at the sound of that voice, already wary of the problems it can cause. He heard enough from the Council to never want to encounter it again.

Aww, kid…you look so tense! Hah, you’re gonna be so fucking obvious the second you spot any of them outside of here. I mean, pfft…you might as well just announce to everyone that there’s something sus about them!

He looks up at Daz, whose expression gives nothing away. “I’m aware of that; it’s on the agenda. Thank you for your warning, Scribe. Is there anything I can help you with?”

There’s a soft scoff. You’re no fun.

A pleasant but still chilly smile curls up on the other admin’s lips. “But not boring, right?”

…No, not boring. Now that you’re actually taking fucking action again instead of having a string of panic attacks in a corner–

Daz was having panic attacks?

–you’ve actually made things interesting again. So interesting, in fact, that I’ll give you a little…boon.

Those bright cyan eyes crinkle as Daz’s smile grows. “That’s awfully kind of you.”

Uhg, save the fakeness for someone who doesn’t know you backwards, forwards, and inside out. Anyway, your boon is this; one of the Observers has been tattling to Day and Lucid about admin shit. If you keep making things fun, I might see fit to give you more info.

The smile drops, like he’s taken the statement to heart, or maybe like he’s just that unhappy with that knowledge. “I’m going to guess that I have to go big for you to bother doing that.”

The Scribe coos, Aww, you already know me so well! The frequency of quality of info is gonna depend on how much I like shit that happens because of your actions. 

Daz nods, rolling his shoulders. “Understood. If there’s nothing else you need me for, I need to prep Lee on how to lie effectively. We don’t have forever, after all; he’s gonna have to go home soon.”

A cackling laugh makes Lee shudder. No, no…this has been fun. I approve of the chessboard you’ve set up. I’ll take my leave…for now.

As Lee gets to his feet, the unseen entity murmurs, Just remember that there’s always another person, just as smart as you, who can provide entertainment. So don’t disappoint me, Daz. You won’t like the price of failure.

Despite the Scribe having left, that warning has left the room feeling frigid. Daz shows no outward sign of how he’s feeling– likely because he’s good at acting– but the vibes tell him one thing with absolute certainty.