Chapter Text
“Dan, Dream got away. We’re on the way back to the station.”
Oh, the irony. He knew picking up his phone wouldn’t be a good idea, but he told the team he’d be on standby after they met up with…well, him.
Besides, it’s been ten minutes since he moved and pushing a button was a good workout.
“Are you there?” George’s voice thundered from the device, echoing throughout the abandoned room he was currently in.
“Here.” He grunted out in response, unworried about turning off his voice distorter, considering the two halves it had split into some point between his fall and his landing—though calling the skillful and admittedly somewhat lucky move he pulled ‘a landing’ was generous. More of a haphazardous crash, really.
His back and shoulder were both burning like hell underneath his skin, but it would’ve been a lot worse if the ender pearl he threw hadn’t broken through one of the glass windows and cracked safely on the marble floor he was currently laying on.
‘A lot worse’ being him going splat on the street below. Guess he should thank Prime his aim was on point. And that the building had weak glass—hence the whole ‘lucky’ part of his statement.
“—e okay? Ask him if he’s okay.” Bad’s voice came through, barely audible. Well, at least he knew the enchants on his mask still worked, which meant it wasn’t broken. He spent too much time making it perfect and just for him, it would’ve been devastating if, on top of everything else that happened, it had cracked.
“Are you hurt?” George’s voice came through, seconds later.
“Fine. Just bruised my shoulder being a dumbass, nothing to worry about.” He struggled to keep his voice even, his ribs throbbing with every breath he took to speak. “How’d it go?”
“Dream…got away again.” His eyebrows drew together, forming a glare focused up at the ceiling. Understatement of the fucking year, ladies and gentleman. “We’ll tell you everything when we get back. The situation’s…a little too complicated to explain over the phone.”
Would they? He squeezed his eyes shut harshly. He can't afford to think about that right now.
“Yeah about that…” He said, throwing some forced cheerfulness in his tone—heavy on the forced. “Could we go over it tomorrow? I was hoping to get some extra sleep tonight, since I’m still recovering from my cold and all.”
“Uh…sure Dan. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Dream hung up as quickly as he could, his sharp inhales turning into short, wheezing breaths. Ender pearls could be such a pain. Literally.
He lifted his head an inch or so off the ground to easier assess the damage done to his body. First things first, he should really do something about the arrow in his shoulder.
The wound wasn’t awfully deep, luckily, but Dream could tell that if the arrow was an inch or two deeper than it was, it most likely would’ve been life threatening and he would’ve had to pack the wound. It was thanks to Punz’s armor that hadn’t been the case. He made a mental note to pay the contrabandist more—Prime knows he would absolutely love that.
Using his opposite hand to grip the shaft of the arrow, he braced himself with a deep, controlled, and frankly extremely painful inhale and pulled as hard as he could. He shouted a curse once it was out, dropping the arrow and involuntarily shivering as a sharp, burning pain laced his shoulder for a good few seconds.
Breathing and sweating heavily—at least breathing hurt less now that he was actively bleeding out, silver lining—he pushed down hard on the injury with the same hand he used to remove the projectile. He let out a hiss of pain, his head and upper body shooting up a small distance from the shock. He twisted and turned slightly before laying back down in a somewhat more comfortable position.
Keeping the pressure, he grabbed a small pair of medical scissors from one of the pockets on his belt, and carefully maneuvered his arm so he was able to, albeit awkwardly, cut and peel off his hoodie sleeve and parts of his leather armor. It was moments like this that made him grateful he was ambidextrous.
He had hoped he wouldn’t have to ruin both articles of clothing further but, well, desperate times. Punz may be able to repair the armor, at least.
Then he lay still, closing his eyes and drumming his fingers on the cold, tiled ground beside him as he impatiently waited for the blood flow to slow. He hummed softly to block out any thoughts that threatened to invade the fragile steadiness he felt. The wind howling through the broken window, the rustling of plastic blinds flapping into each other and occasionally slamming into the window frame when the wind would stop, the drumming of his fingers and his humming—they were all constants. A rhythm that grounded him in the safety of the present.
Around ten minutes later, he alleviated the pressure to glimpse at his shoulder, and let out a sigh of relief, satisfied when there was no longer a heavy stream of blood trying to escape the wound. Digging through the large belt pouch he packed with everything he could keep on hand for first aid, he pulled out a needle and surgical suture. He knew from experience the deep gash would need stitches.
At least it didn’t seem to stretch very long.
Oof, scratch that. He grimaced as he took a closer look, realizing just how wrong he was in his assumption. The wound spanned around an inch and a half across the middle of his shoulder from what he could tell. Guess that’s what he gets for trying to be optimistic.
He stiffly sat up, bracing himself before gently dabbing the laceration with a cloth doused in a custom antiseptic he had on hand to avoid infection. He inhaled sharply through his teeth, barely containing a yell. That stung worse than he thought. Taking a breath and threading the needle, he began the slow process of sticking the implement in, pulling it through, dragging it out and across the bloody gap, and repeating the whole process over again.
He’s stitched himself up a few times before, he was familiar with what it felt like. But for some reason it was particularly painful this time, his movements slower and more sluggish than usual. Maybe it was the fact he was mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted. Or maybe it was the fact he pearled thirty minutes prior. But every single time the needle pierced his skin, he flinched. Occasionally spasmed for a few seconds. And boy, if that wasn’t a disconcerting sign of how close his body was to shutting down. It didn’t help that his hands kept stuttering and shaking, missing the needle’s mark more often than not. He prided himself on his pain tolerance, but this time he couldn’t not feel, couldn’t block out the hurt. He just wanted it to be over.
He wished he wasn’t alone. He wished someone was with him. He didn’t want to go through this by himself, he wanted—he wanted his partners. He shoved away that desperate, whispering thought in disgust, chalking it up to being deluded from the pearl.
Almost thirty minutes later, he took a deep breath and finished the last stitch, tying a small knot and biting off the end of the thread. He forced himself to finish what he started, wrapping a good few layers of gauze under his armpit and over his sutured shoulder. He laid back down immediately afterwards, giving himself a breather and maybe even gathering the energy for a motivational self pep talk, all the while continuing to ignore the potion that had been burning a hole in the side of his pocket for the last hour.
+ + + + +
He woke up in a cold sweat, the remaining dredges of the nightmare he was trapped in moments before still clawing at his mind. Taking a deep breath—and thanking Prime it didn’t hurt—he gently pushed himself to a seated position and, despite his muscles and injuries protesting the movement, scooted a couple of feet backwards across the floor until his back was gently propped up against a wall.
He sighed, anxiously running a hand through his hair, parts of his nightmare still playing over in his head against his will.
Every shitty dream he had started the same way—with him being back. In this one, he was fighting a figure he couldn't quite make out in a ring. He didn’t want to, he never wanted to, but it was an almost daily occurrence he could never get out of.
It was how he was trained.
The twist, however, was that both opponents were allowed to go for the kill. That’s how it went in underground fight clubs. Of course, subduing or knocking out your opponent could still get you the win, but that’s a little hard to accomplish when the person you’re up against tries to stab you in the stomach every chance they get. Regardless, Dream didn’t go for the kill unless he was left with no other choice.
It was one of the reasons Quackity called him his ‘special project.’
Every match he fought for his survival, and with each opponent, his skills improved, until the scars obtained from each bloodied fight grew less and less, and kill or be killed gave way into a third option—mercy. And through everything he did, success or slip-up, Quackity was there to watch and mold him into what he wanted him to be. The greatest weapon in his arsenal.
Things weren’t great, but as long as he did what he was told and Quackity wasn’t in a bad mood, nothing terrible happened. His new life grew familiar, so much so he forgot about his old one, and when that threshold was crossed it became harder to leave than it was to stick around. The longer he stayed, the truer that sentiment became, until the door he had kept one foot out of had been slammed in his face. His roots had grown so deep that he thought removing himself from the weeds around him would cause him to wither away.
He faced consequences every time he spoke out of turn, fumbled a training exercise, or broke any one of Quackity’s many rules, and those he took in stride. He danced on the line of what he could and couldn’t get away with, testing limits left and right, even though it inevitably meant getting on Quackity’s bad side more often than not. He grew cocky, unbothered by the man’s punishments, because what could Quackity do that was worse than what he’d been going through daily? A skipped meal here and there, a rigged fight with multiple opponents, call him petty, but all of it just made Dream want to push back harder.
But he underestimated just how far Quackity was willing to go.
He goofed around, fucking up a stealth mission for the hell of it, and it was then he truly faced the man’s wrath for the first time. He came closer to death than he’d ever had before, and he shudders to remember the white hot, blinding pain Quackity had caused him. It stopped every few minutes, and he would think, he would pray, that maybe, it would end. Only for him to hear the piercing screech of metal being dragged across the floor, barely giving him time to catch his breath, let alone brace for the harsh impact of a pair of blades twisting in his back that would always be twice as brutal as the last time.
But the worst part, the thing that terrified him to his core, was the overwhelming sense of helplessness he had felt. He couldn’t fight back. Couldn’t cry for help, not that anyone would’ve come to his rescue if he had. He couldn’t do anything, and that's the feeling that had haunted him since.
The scar he received, courtesy of Quackity, served as a daily reminder why he couldn’t afford to fail, and from then on he didn’t screw up.
The scorn and anger he used to find immense pleasure in causing became something that incited nightmares, reminding him what happened the last time he pushed too far. And so he followed Quackity’s instructions to the letter, until he was able to become anything the man needed him to be. With fear as his motivation, he turned into the best of the best, the threat looming over his head leaving him no room for anything else.
Besides the one, he had an absolute success rate when it came to missions, whether it be recon and stealth, stealing documents and valuables, bounty hunting, threatening people for information, and even killing when it came down to it. His mask, previously something used to hide his identity, became his identity. No one knew what he looked like underneath it, not even Quackity, thanks to a deal they struck when he first joined Ender’s Blood. Well, that and the modified curse of binding and thorns enchantments that the man had someone etch on.
“If you want to keep it on, fine—I’ll let you have your secrets. But if you’re going to work for me, it better stay on.”
And so that’s exactly what he became known as—The Mask. That was until he came face to face with someone who showed him that wasn’t all he had to be.
He’d been tasked with tracking down a man and killing him. It was simple, and even if he didn’t like it, it was something he knew how to do all too well. The trail was easy to follow, obvious. But as with other missions that involved going after a person, he found himself following red herrings as a way to delay the inevitable. Despite his best efforts, it wasn’t long before he came face to face with his target. But unlike others he’s hunted down, the first thing the man did wasn’t to grab a weapon, or beg for mercy. Instead, he sat down on a bench, invited Dream over, and simply talked.
And Dream listened. He listened as the man who was supposed to be his bounty told him he didn’t want to fight, but he would if he had to because he had a family to protect. He listened as the man told him all about his wife who passed away in the hospital over a decade ago, and the son he’s had to raise on his own and couldn’t be prouder of. About the ups and downs of his life, the family and friends he’s gained and lost along the way, people he had betrayed, trusted and been hurt by. About all the significant, terrible things he’s done, as well as all the good he’s brought to others.
And when Dream asked his target why he had told him his story, the man said it was because he was willing to listen. And suddenly, the man became something more than just another hit. The last thing he remembered being told that day was that he was a good person, and to leave Ender’s Blood before it tore him to pieces.
Unable and unwilling to complete the mission he had been tasked with, he faced the first choice he’s had to make since he became Quackity’s prized possession. He could either go back and suffer the consequences, which would mean gaining a twin scar, or he could take his bounty’s advice, sacrifice everything he is and everything he knows, throw out his costume, and run as far as he possibly could.
He opted for the second choice.
The only things he couldn’t leave behind were his mask, the tattoo of a bleeding ender eye above his ankle, and the countless scars he gained from his time under Quackity. And somehow, the latter as opposed to the others served as a more permanent reminder that he’d never be rid of his past.
The first few months he hid away, kept himself under the radar. But pretty soon, funds got low, and he grew lost. He didn’t know who he was without the training, the missions, and even Quackity. It had been so long since he had to be anything else but a tool for someone else to use when needed.
While a part of Ender’s Blood, he was forced to adhere to a strict regiment. He was told when to eat and sleep, when to fight and train, and everything in between. Every minute that went by was one more order he was following, in one way or another. Without that routine in his life, he panicked, and struggled to get anything done. It took him three days to even bring himself to eat, and when he did, he ended up scarfing down half a sandwich he had found in a dumpster.
He wallowed in his misery, debating with himself on whether or not he should go back. But before he could fully make up his mind, he was found by a man in a mask. Despite knowing who Dream was, and the circle of crime he was associated with, they helped him get back on his feet. They convinced him of just how valuable freedom was, and taught him the basics of how to be independent, something they seemed to be experienced with. They showed him an apartment building that wasn’t overpriced, and gave him Punz’s contact, telling him the man could help—for a price.
And that’s when he got the idea to start doing the only thing he knew how.
He raided a penthouse and got into contact with Punz shortly after, who helped him with his mask problem, to a certain degree anyway, among other things. Designing him a new and entirely different costume fell under that arrangement, something he’d always been grateful for. He became a better version of who he used to be, running around and taking only from the people who had too much.
It took him a while, but he slowly got used to the fact that he wasn’t being scrutinized or judged over his every action, and that he could speak freely without being told to hold his tongue. Bit by bit, he began regaining his confidence.
He learned how to be part of society, how to go through the motions, and most importantly, how to voice his thoughts and make his own decisions.
But it was only when he met the trio for the first time that he learned how to be happy.
+ + + + +
The first thing he noticed once he was calm enough to have coherent thoughts was how cold he felt. The second thing he noticed was he was sweating. He belatedly realized those two things together couldn’t mean anything good. He took off his mask, relishing in the chill of the cold air, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand before taking a look around the room. His vision was weirdly hazy, and he had to forcibly blink a few times to process his surroundings, but after a few seconds he managed to make out his utility belt and phone lying a few feet away from him.
He knew he had to leave. He wasn’t safe here. Bad, George, or Prime forbid Sapnap would be back to search the area for any trace of him. He knew that, but the second he tried to stand up, his head pulsed with a strong and sudden wave of dizziness, causing his vision to flash white, and suddenly he was sitting back up against the wall with no memory of having done so, right back where he started.
Was he sick? Had a fever? He never got sick, at least not like this, in the span of just a few hours with no prior warning signs. Was it the pearl? But as far as he knew, the only side effects of pearling were a sudden drop in body temperature, shortness of breath to a physically painful degree, hallucinations or delusions, and short term blindness that faded in and out, the most common to make an appearance being the former two. And even if it did account for all his symptoms, the side effects disappear within an hour. There were longer lasting and harsher effects if you pearled more than once, sure, but that wasn’t the case for him.
He winced as he shifted his body a little too carelessly, his stitches pulling painfully from the movement. His eyes widened in realization, and he quickly glanced at his shoulder to confirm his hypothesis. His breath stuttered as his eyes caught on the thin, black veins spreading out from the wound.
He was right.
He wished he wasn’t.
The arrow was poisoned.
Using his uninjured side to support his body weight, he crawled to his phone as quickly as he could. Every time he lifted his arm and dragged himself just that much closer to his objective, his head throbbed painfully, protesting the movement. His shoulder wasn’t too happy about being jostled, either. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that would help dull the overwhelming senses he was experiencing thanks to his ongoing migraine. He felt weak and sluggish, and he hated every second of it.
By the time he reached his phone, he was shivering and sweating profusely. His vision flashed black a couple of times before he managed to focus on the screen, and he distantly knew he was close to passing out. He pressed call on the first number he saw, not bothering to check whose it was. As soon as he heard the tell tale click of someone picking up, he spoke.
“Old security building on Wilhelst street. Bring milk.” He barely registered the sound of a stuttered ‘what.’ from the other line before everything went black.
+ + + + +
Dream woke up in a panic, sputtering and hacking out a liquid he had no memory ingesting. He took a deep, raspy inhale the second he could, eyes tearing up from his coughing fit.
“Oh, fuckin hell mate. I thought you were dead.”
His eyes sluggishly blinked up to where the voice was coming from. “Innit?” He rasped out in question as his mind processed the form crouching above him. His body shivered harshly, drenched in a cold sweat. He lay back down breathing heavily, a hand over his stomach. His head was pounding, his mind hazy, and all he wanted to do was close his eyes and forget about everything for a few hours.
But the world could never be that kind, could it?
He felt hands jostle his shoulders, shaking him out of whatever sleep he was about to fall into. “You gotta stand up on your own. I can’t carry you. Well, I could obviously, because I’m just poggers like that. But I’d have to charge you for it. And how am I supposed to force—I mean, how are you going to recognize how awesome I am and give me five stars on yelp when you’re asleep the whole time? My brand, Big D, think about my brand.”
Dream tried to process that while getting dragged up to his feet, failed immensely as his brain blue screened in real time, tried to process it again, and still couldn’t make sense of any of it. Innit’s rambling did prove as a useful distraction though, because the next thing he knew he was walking side by side with him, the teen’s arm supporting as much of his weight as it could while they shuffled down the stairs of the dilapidated building.
“Ack.” Dream winced, his body catching up to him. He was sore all over, the stitches on his shoulder were pulling with every step, he couldn’t think straight, and the last thing he wanted to do was move. The pounding in his head got harsher and he stumbled, vision flashing white.
“Shit, I told you I couldn’t carry you! I’m not a taxi service, bitch.”
His eyes snapped open as he found his balance again, supporting as much of his own weight as he could. “Sorry.” He mumbled out in a breathless whisper, barely registering what Innit said. There was some grumbling on the teen’s end, but he was too out of it to bother trying to hear what was actually said. By the time they made it outside, Dream was ready to pass out all over again, and he nearly did before a yell startled him to attention.
“Bee boy! Help me shove him in the car. Fucker’s heavy.”
Hands, somehow both rough and gentle, shoved him down on something soft, and blessedly, his vision went black.