Chapter Text
Dream left the rare sleep he got at the grating sound of pistons. Another day, another visit.
He debated not sitting up; his bones were already protesting at the simple prospect of moving. But he wasn’t in the mood to die right now. Sitting up it was. He took care to get away from the pointy stones of the wall to move up, putting his weight on his elbows. He had had enough of those piercing his skin, he didn’t need any more scratches, not now. No thank you.
The wall held on without Dream, but, sadly, the contrary wasn't so true.
Glass shattered on the floor, accompanied by the familiar sound of particles dissolving into the air under the effect of gunpowder. Only one potion? No poison today – at least not yet – only a healthy dose of slowness. No weakness?
The previously raised netherite blocks lowered back down into the floor. Footsteps seemingly echoed in the small room that is Pandora’s vault to its main prisoner. Dream lifted his weary eyes to be met with the sight of Quackity’s manic grin.
Hmm. Weird. Usually, it didn’t appear until blood was pouring; did he sleep through the first part of the session? That didn’t happen often. Thankfully. He sneakily checked his arm; no blood. Well, none fresh enough. Wait, there was some? Did Quackity come back early, before he turned clean?
He lost his thought track as sudden movement in his periphery alerted him of the incoming kick. Left side. He let his body fall with it, relishing the glimpse of Quackity’s grin turning into a frown he caught from his place on the floor.
Always a delight. After all, smiling was Dream’s privilege here, and he would make sure it remained so. Blessed be his mask; he was sure he would not get away with that so easily without it. Nevertheless, Dream braced himself for the next hit as he got back up. His slowed down body failed to evade the hard surface knocking his head down into his knees, effectively reopening every wound on his back. Yowch.
In spite of that previous little bout of rebellion, Dream opposed no resistance to his wrists being bound together by black chains, of which he knew the tint better than his own signature green clothing's by now. He liked how Quackity kept an eye on him while doing so. Especially his legs. Seems he hadn’t liked that kick from a while back. Only now he looks at them. Ha.
“Never too much, never too little. Rebel just enough for them to know to stay careful with you, and more importantly, for you to know to fight, to stay who you are”, the Others had said.
With the bindings in place, Quackity rose back to his full height. He was quite tall from this point of view. “Tsk", he clucked. Dream flinched the smallest bit. "You always distract me.” Quackity picked up the… - book? Yes, it was a book - he had hit Dream with. A book? Had he run out of creative ideas? Or maybe… paper cuts… Oh, please, not again. Not like that.
“Not again? Not again what?” Had he said that out loud? That’s bad. “What are you on about, D- prisoner?” The avian's confused tone turned dangerous towards the end.
“Nothing.” Dream whispered; his mouth was too dry to talk normally these days.
“Really?” Oh crap, now he was interested, Dream thought, as he was painfully lifted by his hair. Or knots, rather. Nope, not the time for such musings. Dream tugged his wings closer ; not even he could see nor touch them, but it brought him comfort. “Are you sure?” Quackity said slowly, his expression turning dark.
“I’m sure.” He answered, more confidently than he felt.
“Oh really? ” They- Quackity. Quackity repeated, widening his eyes in feigned surprise.
“Really.” A distraction, Dream needed a distraction. “Now why don’t you tell me what you have prepared this time?” ‘This time’. Dream was playing it safe. Showing he knew how much time had passed only worked if he was right.
“Haaa. You won’t say anything, will you?” Dream’s hair was released, and he brutally fell back down onto the floor, his legs burning. When had he gotten so high up?
“And it would have been so fun to play with something that makes you plead at the mere thought of it, too.” A kick to the side. His silence must have been answer enough. “But as much as I hate to admit it, that’s not what I’m here for.” He’s not here for his pleads? They’re rare, Dream makes sure of that, but it’s what seems to bring him pleasure; the only thing he seeks besides the revival book. Won’t give it.
Instead, Quackity holds out the book he brought. It’s a book and quill, Dream notes. The same kind as the ones he writes in quite regularly. Maybe thinner. Quackity shaked it in front of his eyes. Dream simply looked up, his face a blank mask (ha!).
“Take it!” Ah, so it was what he wanted from him. You have to say it, Quackity. One never knew, and doing nothing is always the best option. On top of that, it counts as a rebellion, of an uncommon kind that doesn’t warrant systematic punishment, too.
Dream extended his ruined hand (yep, he sure hadn’t died yet), trying to be quick despite the slowness II, but the book was taken out of his reach. Did he have to chase it-
“Hmm, no. You’ll put blood everywhere. Here.” A splash potion hit his hand. Dream suppressed a hiss at the unexpected feeling of glass exploding into glitter on his wound and retracted his hand to examine it.
The skin tingled and grew back over the flesh. Blood vessels sealed, and near invisible scars became visible again over the intact flesh. A healing potion. His left hand - and his back, and his knees (or lack thereof) - were now the ‘only’ traces remaining of the last session. He probably forgot some parts.
Everything just hurts so much.
“Better. Now you take it.” The book was shoved into his now stiff but intact (what a weird feeling) appendage. “Write. ‘Hi’”
Dream had just received healing. From Quackity. Some would have been thankful, and therefore, obedient.
Dream took his bloodied left index finger to the cover and mimicked writing.
Quackity grabbed it lightning quick. Ow.“No, with the feather! On a page!” Quackity sighed, exasperated, all the while releasing the finger under Dream's watchful gaze. “You’re turning me crazy.”
Dream’s grin grew behind his mask. Nevertheless, he calmly opened the book and took up the quill, not without disturbingly looking into Quackity’s eyes the whole time, of course. He had mastered the art of writing without looking; one occupied themselves however they could in this hellhole.
“‘Hi Technoblade’” Oh, he started dictating right away. Dream was surprised, had Quackity learned something? Not the fact that Dream shouldn’t be messed with, obviously, but still. Satisfied, he started writing.
Wait.
“Technoblade?” Dream's voice was rough from the turmoil in his mind more than the thirst. He lifted his feather from the paper.
Quackity started smiling his face-splitting grimace again. It annoyed Dream. “Did you finally realize? Yes, you’re writing a message to that pig. You’re gonna call in that favor he owes you and ask for a visit in the prison.”
“What? No!" This was the worst possible scenario. "You’ll trap him in!”
Quackity caressed his scar across the face. The one Techno had given him. “Shrewd, aren’t you? But it doesn’t matter. You’ll write that message anyway.”
“No, I refuse!” Dream yelled at the top of his lungs. A sound barely louder than his whispers escaped his lips.
“You refuse?” Dream shivered. “You refuse?” Quackity repeated, stepping closer. Dream defiantly looked straight at him, ignoring the trembling of his hands.
“Did I hear that right?” Quackity rumbled, spreading his white wings in the cell to look threatening.
“You did.” The slowness lost its effect. And so on these words, Dream threw the book and quill towards Quackity’s face. It slid down his nose and thumped on the obsidian of the floor in the loud silence resonating in the cell.
Shiiiing.
Quackity drew his netherite sword from where he stood.
Dream carefully reached with his lips for the small metal plate in his mask. It was there so he could bite onto it to squash grunts of pain before they came out.
The session was on.
Quackity stalked forward, expression somber. And Dream already knew. He knew he would cede. But there were ways to shoot down Quackity’s plan, and for that, he first had to lower the guard he so liked to rise. To do so, he needed to cede in the right manner. And so, when the first slash – across the abdomen, taking care to avoid his mask – came, he took it without a flinch, 'like a champion'. Like Dream does.
Quackity’s characteristic crazed grin came back. “Oh, don’t worry. I made sure I have plenty of time to spare you today.” Ha, ‘spare’. This was a grim affirmation, but Dream could appreciate the irony.
It meant this wouldn’t end quickly.
*****
...And he was right about that. The session was interminably long; he was submitted by the sword, the shears, the pickaxe, the hoe… There was no set pain that would break him. Quackity knew that.
Death was a relief, a rare one to have during a session; the fact that he had died three – three? – times showed how long this one had lasted.
But he had yielded in the end. Such a luxury that was; such a swift – swift? – end would never have happened had it been the revival book he was asked for. He just couldn’t give it. Never. And certainly not to him. Not to them.
“Write.” He had said. And Dream had written, slowly. “Now, sign. With your name. Like you would have done.” As if he didn't do it anymore. And Dream did; he took up the feather and started signing. Slowly. Very slowly. “Oh, come on! Do you want more of the whip?! You can do it faster!” Dream could.
He had written to Techno Quackity’s words, in Quackity’s book, with Quackity’s feather, on Quackity’s terms. And it would be delivered by Quackity.
Quackity turned around, annoyed. He couldn’t do anything to speed Dream up; it had taken all his time to make him agree in the first place. And while he didn’t look, while he was losing focus, certain of Dream’s ‘goodwill’ he had acquired and then enforced for a few hours longer, Dream wrote.
What Quackity didn’t know however, was that Techno would know something was wrong with it. Dream smiled to the floor at that thought.
Because those words weren’t written in ink; they were written in ink and what Quackity had spilled the most of: Dream’s blood.
And Technoblade was the blood god. A piglin hybrid.