#tailoraver

His not-son immediately breaks into a cackle so intense that he seems to be struggling to breathe.

“Since– how do you have fans?!”

Vio rolls his eyes and throws a small pillow at him. “Thanks, menace.” “You’re spending too much time with Day,” Aryll accuses, still giggling.

Zinn, Aver, and Toma emerge from downstairs. Aver is yawning, Zinn teasing him, “You'd think you haven’t slept in days.”

“I've been fuckin’ busy! Trade shit, getting new fuckin’ manufacturing methods up, starting to figure out orders for the Christmas ball– list is fuckin’ endless,” Aver whines.

Zinn squints up at the ceiling in a manner nearly identical to how Vio looked just a few minutes ago.

Toma asks, “You got a question?” Zinn hums, nodding a few times.

“...So, I'm gonna take that as a joke,” the Tubbo slowly says. “And not as you being a dick.”

He looks over to Aryll and relays, “Wants to know why you decided to be a doctor.”

Aryll perks up, his tail flicking with interest. “Oh! Well, it’s because of not-Dad. I saw him help others, and more specifically help Toma with knowledge…and I decided I wanted to do that, too. And it was a big help, once people started coming back.”

Aver flops down on the couch, and Zinn follows suit. Toma sprawls over both of their laps, getting a little laugh from all of them.

Aver's expression falls at the message he gets.

He's heard about the partially redacted message that Atlas got. Just like his friend had described, this one has something very blatantly covered up.

Atlas’ was just a brief blip. This one, though? It sounds like the bulk of the message has been replaced by static.

It sounds a lot like a TV that's been left on but isn't displaying anything.

“Uncle Aver?” Toma reaches up and touches his shoulder, breaking him from his thoughts. He sounds worried.

He smiles, ruffling the patchy hair on the zombie piglin’s head. “S’ fine, big man; just a weird thing.” Louder, sort of directed to the ceiling, he says, “Dunno what you wanted to say, couldn't hear most of it. Try again?”

OOC::

Here's the full question, for reference:

“Huh,” he says, head tilting to the side. Before the not-kids can ask what happened, he tells them, “I got…fanart.”

They all perk up, and he huffs and says, “Yes, I’ll let you see it. I think I just need to say that for it to–?”

Before the statement can finish, the other four get the popups as well.

Toma claps his hands in delight. “Grandad fanart!” Instead of correcting him, Vio just heaves a long-suffering sigh. 

So sue him; he has a soft spot for the zombie piglin child.

Aryll snickers, “The cold weather gear is too colorful for him, but otherwise…yeah, pretty much, that’s him alright!” “It’s not my fault I’m not built for snow! Snow wasn’t a fucking issue in the deserts and savannahs where I’m meant to be,” Vio reminds him.

The not-brothers and Toma laugh at that, while Vio rolls his eyes at them. “Yeah, yeah– yuck it up, you menaces.” “Hanging around Day too much, bossman,” Zinn cackles, “who wants to take bets on how long before you start calling us gremlins you love very much?”

The enderman hybrid points at him. “That’s what I said! He’s spending too much time with Day, which is hilarious because he stayed here to avoid him.”

“I don’t have a choice! I have a travel with him and Theo, and they talk a lot!” “Uh-huh,” Toma snorts, “That’s tooootally all it is.”

Aver furrows his brow, and the merriment quiets a little. “...Okay, and? If it’s not malicious, I don’t really fuckin’ care. Lots’ve us have secrets.” As if to prove his point, he gestures over at Vio, who looks wary at being dragged into this.“Monkey’s Paw ‘ere keeps his therapist a secret for…some fuckin’ reason?” 

“Because I feel like it,” Vio answers, sounding slightly affronted, “Let me have my mischief.”

“Yeah, see? S’ fuckin’ weirdchamp, but doesn’t really matter. If whoever’s lying to everyone or whatever isn’t doing it out of malice or to hurt people…then it’s not my fuckin’ business, innit?”

The alien pauses, looking a little concerned. “Someone is lying to everyone?” “Ehh, according to the– what, we’re calling them Observers? One of ‘em said that. But from what I hear, some of ‘em are dicks.”

Zinn narrows his eyes. “You said something about not being able to hear whatever they said, though.” “Mmh. Yeah, fuckin’ redacted to hell n’ back,” Aver sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s not exactly thrilled at being the one who has to decide if it was or wasn’t something important.

“Didn’t Atlas get something with a cut part, a while back?” Aryll’s question makes Aver nod. “Yep. Just a blip, though. This one was pretty much the whole fuckin’ thing. But…”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Pretty much everyone has fuckin’ secrets, yeah? Not my fuckin’ place to drag that shit into the spotlight.”

For all his insistence that it doesn’t really matter, he can’t help but feel uneasy about the situation.

The goat hybrid hums, fingers drumming on the side table next to him. “...Sure, I’ll take your word on that.”

It also reveals the extent of his evidently never-fully-healed stitches. The line of them that goes from under his left eye continues across his nose at an angle, then curves under his right cheek and ear.

If they continue further, it's hidden by his hair.

He looks a little more relaxed in general. The brightly colored, though often redstone-smeared, jackets he wears are instead swapped out for a nearly identical one, but in greyscale.

The unusual, void-black stones that festoon his ears seem ever so slightly less devoid of color, but that might be a trick of the light.

…Which must also explain his eyes. They’re not usually black, but they seem like they are now. His hair is less of a rich chocolate brown and closer to the shade of loamy soil.

Vio seems unphased, so anything that might be going on must either be perfectly normal or is warping reality.

Jacobs tells the alien across from him, “Go ahead. Abuse your power, see where that gets you.” “I hate you.” “No you don’t.”

Again, Vio looks offended. "Don't tell me how I feel." "Then don't tell obvious lies," Jacobs answers, taking a long sip of the…

Actually, what the fuck is he drinking? It looks alarmingly like tar, from the color to the consistency. The cup he’s using is almost comically big, too.

The alien opens his mouth, doubtlessly to argue again, but Jacobs points out, "Didn't answer the question. If you're going to experiment with defying Time, do it in a controlled way and not where I'm eating."

Vio clicks his tongue in disgust, evidently aware that Jacobs has too good a point to try to dispute.

"I knew he was an asshole from the first time I saw him and acted accordingly," the alien huffs.

Jacobs snorts, "He could tell we had something in common." "We have nothing in common–"

The man raises his eyebrows and uses his enormous cup to gesture at Vio’s own, marginally less giant cup.

It's the same stuff Jacobs is, against all logic, managing to suck through a straw and not immediately die from ingesting.

"Coffee doesn't count," Vio says, unknowingly solving the mystery. He rolls his bright purple eyes and adds,  "That happened later."

"Yeah, but you used present tense." Voice flat, Vio refutes, "A slip of the tongue. Just like a knife is going to slip into your neck if you don't stop testing me."

Jacobs grins again. 

Evidently, Vio is happy to have something else he can focus on.

With a pleased, smug-seeming flick of his tail, he answers, "Thank you. It's nice to know some people can appreciate me."

It's Jacobs' turn to be annoyed. "Flattery, novelty, or poor taste. Also, way to sell your not-sons short." "They’re not my kids!" "Hence the not part."

Instead of arguing that point further, Vio tells him, "Jealousy suits you. Keep being mad, it's doing wonders for my mood."

Rolling his eyes, Jacobs scoffs, "I'm not jealous, I'm pointing out that you got a blind fan. You don't have a style, you have neon purple coats with inverse amounts of stains and embroidery, some jewelry, and nothing else of note. I think Aver would laugh his ass off if he heard it being called a style."

Vio grins wide enough to show the veritable daggers he has for teeth. "Sounds like jealousy and pettiness. Can't even win an argument without dragging others in, huh?" The sip he takes of his tar-like substance, evidently some abomination that he and Jacobs claim to be coffee, is very smug. "Tsk, tsk. I expected better from you."

For a long moment, Jacobs stares at the alien.

Then he twists a band on his wrist and swipes at the air a few times.

Vio's smugness immediately fades. "Don't you fucking dare–"

There's a spiteful grin as Jacobs asks out loud, "Hey, Aver, does what Violet wears count as a style?" 

A wild bark of familiar laughter sounds out. "Fuck no! He's fuckin' lucky fashion crimes can't get someone thrown in jail here. Probably like that because he rigged the fuckin' system–"

"I reformed a paranoid, war-torn hellhole with extremely obvious corruption and mental instability!" Vio's argument gets another snicker, but otherwise ignored. Aver asks, "What'd he even fuckin' do that made you ask?"

With all the smug glee of a kid tattling to a teacher, Jacobs answers, "One of the watchers claimed that Violet has a great style." 

Making a noise of understanding, Aver replies, "Ah, so one of 'em is fuckin' insane. Good to know, thanks for the warning. Not-Dad–" "Still not your dad!" "That's why there's a fuckin' 'not' in front of it, dumbass. Anyway, don't believe everything you fuckin' hear. Sometimes…people are wrong."

There's a pause, and then Aver continues, "Or lying. Might just be lying. Who knows; maybe the Observers or whatever they're fuckin' called are just laughing at you."

The expression Vio has is entirely offended. "Excuse you, I have plenty of style–" "Big man, the only reason you have coats without fuckin' stains is that I threatened to snowglobe you if some didn't stay clean."

Vio mutters, "Which is uncalled for, I have formalwear–" "Don't you fuckin' dare bring that fuckin' crime up," Aver says, a worrying hint of hysteria in his voice.

"You're the one that made it!" Aver, hysterical note getting more prominent, snaps, "Practically with a fuckin' knife to my throat! You made it fuckin' clear you were doing it just to fuck with me! Ooh, Aver, I'm gonna be a fuckin' asshole and make you pick between a literal fuckin costume, something based on a fuckin' anime cosplay, or just wear a normal-ass fuckin' outfit! Fuck you for wanting me to look nice!"

Vio huffs, but he’s grinning. "Maybe that's normal ceremonial attire for my culture, you don't know."

A moment of silence passes. Then another.

Then with an alarming amount of calmness, "Hey Jacobs, where are you and how much can you stop Vio from running for his miserable fuckin' life?"

Visibly and audibly pleased by this turn, the mechanic answers, "His house, and very little. I can set off your stasis chamber, though."

With a nervous chuckle, Vio tries, "Uh– surely you have a lot on your plate. You wouldn't take the time to come here just to stab me, right?"

Very much not kidding, Aver answers, "Better fuckin' run, bitch."

Not bothering with any further attempts to dissuade either of them, Vio scrambles out of his chair and books it.

Meanwhile, Jacobs gets up and calmly makes his way to the stasis chambers in the basement.

He waits until he’s gotten back home to begin to answer the new question. If Theo is around, he’s not anywhere in earshot.

…Though he’s pretty sure his eldest has been getting slightly better at stealth. It can be hard to judge, sometimes; Theo rarely bothers with being sneaky when he can instead bulldoze his way through whatever was stupid enough to stand in his path.

The flight back had given him time to consider the question. “There’s been a few cases like that,” Day starts with. “The one that comes up the most is someone named Grian. I have no idea why he just seems to show up every so often. If he’s there, we know it’s a more or less peaceful world. Other than that…”

He tries to remember some of the others, though can’t recall anyone else who appears with any sort of frequency in the Dream SMP. Sometimes people who are usually present are missing, but it’s much rarer that the reverse is true.

The question is complicated by what exactly counts as the Dream SMP being an unexpectedly murky issue.

When he, Theo, and Vio get the pull, they don’t always end up in anything Day can definitively say is a server at all. Whatever causes their ender chests to remain static doesn’t seem like it discriminates; the contents have yet to change, no matter how many non-server realities or places that otherwise definitely aren’t the Dream SMP they wind up in.

At this point, all they can do is shrug and call it a weird quirk of the multiverse or executive meddling to make their job marginally easier.

“...I’d count Time, but I try not to potentially insult the entity who controls time and probably reality. We’re still not positive about that, and aren’t willing to stick our nose into their business to find out for sure. None of us are interested in pissing off someone who can unmake everything we know and love.” 

Idly, he raps his knuckles against the oak plank wall he’s passing next to. It’s a familiar superstition borne of a bone-deep terror at the idea of angering the deity. “In the event that they can see everything or are otherwise observing, that was meant as respectfully as possible.”

He shudders at the idea of invoking the wrath of a god who he still suspects created a reality from the tattered remnants of his own admin access.

For just a moment, his unease crests in a way he chalks up to the tangled knot of emotions around everything tied to his first life.

Things are better now, even if he wants to stop being one of the ones who has to shoulder the burden of keeping things that way.

Which is only going to get worse now that he has to try and navigate the idea of teaching Lee code. The idea of leaving any sort of vital education to Lucid makes Day break out in a cold sweat. The idea of leaving such an important part of his youngest son's education in his hands, though, adds near literal hives and roiling nausea to the mix.

Better is not perfect. Remorseful doesn't mean good. Day has sacrificed far too much to risk Lee being hurt in any capacity.

Given that nobody else knows code, that means that Day will have to try to figure out how the hell to teach it to a ten year old. It's not that he resents or even dislikes the thought of teaching his kids; hell, in most cases it serves as a good chance to bond with them.

It's just that code is incredibly complicated. Most of what Day knows is instinctual. Exposure to a wealth of new items, concepts, and needing to figure out how to fix crimes against morality have done a lot to increase his understanding, but…

Not for the first time, he wishes he had a sounding board for this sort of thing.

=========

Wherever it is that Theo is, it looks like some sort of workshop dedicated to bookbinding. The eldest Was-Taken sibling is slowly and methodically assembling a book with lovely, elaborate calligraphy and art.

While he's been caught off guard before, whatever it is he's making seems important enough that his only reaction for several moments is a soft twitch of his wings.

He gently sets his work down once he's at a good stopping point, and gives a long, steady exhale.

The sound makes Perce raise his head curiously. It's clear that he’s the one who did the calligraphy, though the art seems to have been by a third party.

He tilts his head slightly at his eldest brother. "...Something happen?" Theo’s wings ruffle slightly as he says, "Question about if we see people during fuckin’ travels that shouldn't be there. Which, yeah, sometimes. Multiverse is weird n’ whatnot. Still have trouble wrapping my head around how fuckin isolated shit is. SMPza was a shit place, but at least if you walked long enough, you'd end up in a different territory.”

Cosmic outlier cosmic outlier It was SO hard trying to act like we understood the weird stuff there– Yeah but D3 was technically an admin like, what, ten times over? Territory management, our beloathed.

“Dad was only admin ‘cause I didn’t want to deal with that shit. Besides, s’not the same as admins like Lucid is. Or…Lee, apparently,” Theo adds, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Perce, who at this point is used to only hearing half of a conversation, picks up on the general direction that the Fates are going in. “Or Daz,” he points out. Theo snaps his fingers and points at him. “Yeah, him too. Fuckin’ weird that he’s another one. Makes me wonder…” His thoughts trail off, brow creasing as he mentally goes back over when he had first met the now-obnoxiously bubbly Tommy.

Between what Daz had said and how the local Dream had acted, Theo now suspects that the later had not just known about Daz’s capacity for being an admin, but had needed it, somehow.

He hadn’t just been afraid, he had been terrified to the point of tears.

At the time, Theo had written it off as another instance of the unhealthy, unhinged obsession that has cropped up more often than he cared to dwell on during his traveling.

He mutters, mostly to himself, “Dunno why they aren’t both being trained, seems fuckin’ obvious.”

There’s a noise of disagreement from Perce, who flicks his wings slightly. “Too many cooks can fuck things up, especially if those cooks ever disagree. That’s even before you get into how easily things can get messed up, or that Daz can be talked into just about anything.”

But he’s a golden retriever! He just wants to make everyone happy! Yeah, exactly. If someone seemed upset enough, he’d go along with whatever they wanted him to do He’d summon infinite items for everyone He’d make it rain candy because that seemed like a thing people might like He’s not THAT dumb– Who have YOU been watching? He’s an idiot. Idiot is harsh. He’s just a bit… He’s got a different kind of smart, stop being mean–

“If you’re all gonna bicker about the guy, do it more fuckin’ quietly,” Theo says, rolling his eyes at the chorus of grumbled not-quite apologies from the cluster of voices in his head.

Or…the old voices, anyway. He’s still not sure what the deal is with the new ones.

His little brother snorts softly, hiding a grin at the exasperated annoyance Theo has for the Fates.

Which just makes him point threateningly, but otherwise not mention it. “People who aren’t usually part of the Dream SMP…the fuck is your criteria for that, anyway? If you mean fuckin’ baseline, we all see tons of fuckin’ worlds with oodles n’ oodles more people in ‘em. Servers aren’t always a thing, or sometimes they’re weird as shit. Other times people’re just fuckin’...there. One dude pops up every so often, uhh…Wheat or Bran or something like that. Flown with a few of ‘em ‘cause sometimes they have fuckin’ wings, usually help him pull off a prank or two, have acted as a middleman for Caper n’ Spark to sell some of them the schematics for glitter TnT n’ for him to sell them some shit I don’t remember the purpose of. Always a new one, always too much technical shit for my taste.”

He racks his brain for other instances of repeated but non-baseline players, but draws a blank. Perce points out, “Haven’t there been competition worlds?”

Tournament worlds are fun! Vio subbing in for a last minute injury was amazing– I still can’t believe they looked at THAT bastard, then at Day and Theo, and really thought he’d be the least OP out of all of us–

“First of all, we all fuckin’ agreed that he needed a world to let off steam. Second of all, he is not more fuckin’ OP than me–” “Dunno, he sure seems to kick your ass a lot–” Theo abruptly grabs a thick rubber pad and chucks it at his little brother, who leans out of the way of it.

Smugly, Perce tells him, “You’re too obvious. Gotta be faster if you want to win against the reigning king of manhunts–” “Oh, I’ll show you fuckin’ fast–!”

Theo launches himself over the table, but his little brother is already darting away and out the door of their joint workshop. Both of them sport wide, toothy grins that make it clear they’re using the bickering as an excuse to take part in the familiar bonding ritual of mostly friendly fratricide.

=============

The last of the trio pauses in the act of reading out loud. He, along with Aver, are in Aver’s workroom. A sleeveless navy hoodie is being embroidered with dozens of tiny, shimmering stars in shades of silvery white and light blue.

There’s a noise of curiosity from Aver, but he doesn’t look up from the tiny, sure stitches he’s making. It’s not common that he does this sort of work himself any more, but Khons refused to let anyone but Aver have the thread spun from his wool.

Sure, the finished piece will be for Aster, and the thread was offered freely to him as a sign of Khons and Alephs’ friendship. Those didn’t magically erase his trauma.

Even now, Aver is always extremely careful to return any excess and to secure it in the meantime.

It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t think anyone would be stupid or greedy enough to take it even as a joke; the fact is that Khons, and by extension Aleph, have had issues with it being stolen in the past.

Aver, despite his fondness for causing light to moderate headaches, does genuinely want to help people learn to overcome, or at least learn to live with, the strife and misery that led them to end up in Sanctuary.

For all that Lucid is its admin, and all that the T3 are its shepherds, Aver will always be one of those who decided to dig his heels in to make it a home instead of a living hellscape.

The leader of that charge has been quiet for a few moments before he speaks again. “...A question about non-baseline people who show up in the Dream SMP,” he murmurs, looking thoughtful.

Aver is more than familiar with the faint crease of his brow, slightly narrowed eyes, and idle flicks of his tail.

His not-dad is trying to figure something out, but this is one of the rare times when he has no idea what he’s tripped up on.

“Talk to me, big man. You know I’m a good fuckin’ sounding board.” “...It feels like a weird question,” Vio says slowly, that furrow increasing.

“...Seems fuckin’ normal to me? Or not any weirder than any of the others you’ve mentioned.” “Yeah, exactly. I don’t understand why it feels so off.”

Aver hums, his stitching pausing for a few moments. Looking up at Vio without moving his head, he points out, “Might be weird eldritch radar. Dunno what you’d be picking up. God vibes?”

Vio visibly grimaces at the idea. “I don’t want to meddle in the affairs of the divine. I’ve heard enough horror stories from Theo to want nothing to do with any of that.” “Maybe you’re getting scoped out to be a fuckin’ prophet or some shit,” Aver says, mostly to see the way his not-dad’s face contorts in absolute horror.

If the alien had fur, Aver has no doubt it would be standing on end. As it is, he shudders violently. “Nope, no, do not tempt the universe with that sort of talk–” “Not that fuckin’ big of a deal, some of them are chill–” “Your experiences are not only not universal, but entirely unhelpful. Just because Lady Death looks kindly on you–” “Hey, Mumza is pog! Fuckin’ loves hearing about you, too, n’ is still bummed she can’t talk to you directly–”

“I wanted to molt a dozen times in a row being near Philza when he was used as her vessel. I don’t want to revisit that experience. I didn’t even know I could break out in hives, but damn if that isn’t what happened!”

Aver rolls his eyes. “Fuckin’ drama queen. For someone who talks to gods semi-regularly, you’re awfully fuckin’ anti-divine.” “I’m not against divinity, because I’m not suicidal, I just want to remove every layer of my skin and disinfect it in lava by being near them. My body evidently decided that gods are too close to magic, which I am allergic to.”

“Your fatal fuckin’ flaw. That, or being a stubborn bastard.” Vio’s eyes narrow, and he points a finger at him. “Pot, kettle. You wouldn’t keep calling me your dad if you weren’t just as bad–” “Not-dad, get it right,” Aver chirps smugly.

“Fuck you,” Vio retorts flatly. Aver’s smugness only grows as he says, “Not my fault you can’t remember the joke.” “I’m physically incapable of forgetting the joke without severe memory loss, because Day and Theo take every possible chance to tell everyone we meet about it!”

The reminder makes Aver cackle with laughter. “Yeah, Theo thinks it’s fuckin’ hysterical. Can’t blame him there, ‘cause it is. N’ now you have to vanish for the week around fuckin’ Father’s Day, otherwise the whole fuckin’ server lines up to dunk on you.”

Vio stands in front of Tommy and Dream; he has his eyes closed and rubbing his forehead. It’s doing nothing to stave off the impending migraine.

Tommy’s hair is somehow a constantly shifting rainbow and matted with a suspicious, slightly purple tinted ooze of dubious origin at best. Dream is nearly completely coated in an unholy mixture of mud, honey, sand, and a staggering amount of bright red glitter. His mask is now hot pink with eye searingly orange angry eyes and a frown; the combination of colors is utterly headache inducing.

Neither of them will look at each other. Behind them, the last of the giant, flaming wooden dicks--positioned to be clearly visible from Tommy’s room in the Snowchester Mansion--finally gives up the ghost and crumbles in on itself.

"Alright," he finally says, opening his eyes to glare at both of them, "This has gone on for long enough. You've both had your fun but I'm putting an end to this prank war. You will both cease fire or else."

They both whip their heads around to start shouting. "He fuckin' started it--" "He's the one who--" They both cut themselves off, glaring at each other.

Vio's voice is firm. "I don't fucking care who shot first; I'm not saying it again. Neither of you will attempt to prank the other for at least three weeks. Do not test me on this; I will take it as grounds to go nuclear. You two are rocketing straight towards burning the entire fucking server down. I would do a lot to stop that from happening. Do you both understand?"

There's mulish glaring from the two of them; it’s almost impressive how Dream is able to project it despite his mask. Vio says, tone even firmer, "I can and will make you stand right here until I get the response I'm looking for. Play bitch games, get bitch prizes."

Two very angry, very sullen grumbles of reluctant agreement are made.

"Good. Get whatever nightmarish sludge you have on your respective bodies off and then start cleaning up your messes. I expect it to look like nobody lit any dicks on fire outside anyone else's home using a fucking loophole that will be closed going forward, Dream--" Vio pauses to turn to full weight of his gaze on the petulant admin, who shrinks slightly under it. "--I expect it to look like nothing ever happened by midnight on Friday."

Tommy looks utterly dismayed, protesting, "But that's in two days and tomorrow is the--" Vio cuts him off. "Yes, it is when Day plans on sparring against Atlas and Orpheus! You will not be watching it. I'm so glad you realized that this is a punishment. You both girlbossed too close to the sun this time. Enjoy your crash landings."

There's a quiet snicker from Dream. "Get the fuck down from your high horse, Dream. Once the cleaning is done, you get an all expenses paid trip for a week to baby jail to atone for your crimes."

There's a few seconds of silence before Dream mutters, "It doesn't cost anything because that's just my house--" "Congratulations, you get a free upgrade to ten days of house arrest in the lovely cabin I overpaid for! Remember what I said about playing bitch games? There's your bitch prize. Do either of you need any further incentive, or can I safely go deal with some other crisis that inevitably popped up in the last five minutes?"

They both sullenly grumble out noises that convey that they do not, in fact, need any further incentive.

"That’s what I thought. You will each clean up your respective pranks. Because neither of you will fess up as to who threw the first punch, you get to clean up the giant, glowing insults hovering thirty blocks above the Prime Path together. I don’t know how you made concrete fucking glow like the Prime-damned sun, and I actually don't care. It will be cleaned by both of you and it will be done by Friday at midnight. Any murder attempts are frowned upon and if I get complaints about yelling at an unholy hour there will be consequences. Good? Good. Dream, put out the flaming dicks so they don't cause any further fires before you leave. Tommy, you're dismissed, but know that I'm very disappointed. Don't you dare taunt Dream while he puts the fires out, either."

Tommy looks sort of like a kicked puppy as he slowly trudges into the Snowchester Mansion. Dream, meanwhile, angrily puts the remnants of the fires out. Vio turns on his heel and stalks off, his tail lashing in agitation behind him.

From their place in a close but not too close tree, Day and Theo turn and look at each other.

Day shuts his recording off, though starts another one to have footage of the deeply ironic scene of giant flaming dicks being put out by a different, more metaphorical giant flaming dick.

"...D'you think they'll ever realize it was you?" Theo’s question makes Day hum in thought. "...If Vio didn't figure it out, I doubt Tommy or Dream would. They're both blinded by anger at each other. Even if they somehow look away from that...I'm not openly a Prank War club member for a reason."

Day smiles, while Theo snorts in amusement. "Fuckin' feral-ass bastard. N' you fuckin’ wonder why we turned out like we did."