Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His first death was an accident. 

Things like this happen, he supposed, when working on such large, expansive projects. He was alone in the shell of what would soon become his downfall his greatest build; the Prison. It wasn’t that tragic or interesting a death; just a small collapse in the walls as he was working. Wrong place wrong time. Nobody else seemed to have been near enough to have seen it through their comms, so Sam merely took a 5-minute break and went back to his work.

His second death was a lesson.

He hadn’t known. It had been so much stress for so long. He would be the first to admit (privately, in his head) that he hadn’t been treating himself the best as of late. One day, ironically in the same place as his first, Sam found himself facing another prison death. 

He didn’t think that a creature such as himself--a king nonetheless, would succumb to death by explosion. Self-explosion, that is. 

He sat in the prison lobby, and he was just so overwhelmed --

His mask filled with smoke, his throat releasing involuntary hisses. His hands lifted to the sides of his head as he closed his eyes tight and curled up and suddenly--

[Awesamdude blew up.]

He woke up suddenly, his body on fire and--where was he? What happened to the Prison? Why does he hurt so much? 

Wrapping his arms around himself for some semblance of comfort, he began to sit up and looked around. 

He was...in his house? When was the last time he’d slept , let alone sit in his base? A glance at his comm had his stomach ill with dread.

He was much more careful after that.

His final death was--

Wait, what --

“Foolish,” Ponk began. “You hardly even have to do anything, you big bully .”

Foolish sighed, wringing his hands. “I dunno, Ponk. I didn’t wanna do this, to begin with, and I’m having second thoughts,” he laughed nervously.

Ponk poked at the shrunken Foolish’s chest. “All you have to do is keep watch! Maybe help me corner him. You’re hardly even part of it. And besides,” they said, pulling their arm back towards themself. “Taking away a single life from him? After what he’s done? It’s hardly even justice. It’s just a little playful revenge. If anything, he’ll probably just laugh it off like he has all my other attempts.”

Foolish decided against commenting on the admittance of this not being Ponk’s first time making an attempt on Sam’s life. 

“It’s just his first life, Foolish,” Ponk goaded. 

“I know, I know! I already agreed to it, and I’m a man of my word. Nobody’s coming, let’s just get it over with.”

Ponk’s pointed grin nearly made it all worth it.

When Ponk had shown up, Sam felt himself prickle with nerves. He took a few deep breaths, steeling himself for this encounter. He didn’t want to risk another blowup, let alone one around someone else.

A part of him, bigger than he’d like to admit, mused that it wouldn’t mean much what the others knew if he was totally dead.

“Hello Ponk,” Sam’s monotone voice rang. Ponk thought he sounded tired. Sam always sounded tired, nowadays.

“Sam!” Ponk barked giddily. “It’s been quite a while since last we met up, yeah, friend?” 

Friend, Sam thought dully. 

“Not too long, I don’t think, Ponk. What brings you here?”

Ponk’s sweet smile grew all the more dangerous at that. “Just here with Foolish, walking around. I take it you’re on a break from the Prison, yeah? Awfully close to it for that, but I know your dedication.” He spared a glance towards his long-gone arm.

“Oh, yes, I suppose. I’ve been doing it a bit more recently.” 

Sam had been given no other choice, really. Give himself regular breaks or risk blowing up again. He chose the former.

“Good, good. It would have been a lot harder doing this if you were camping it out in the Prison like you usually do.

Sam felt his heart rate spike once again. His breathing quickened. “What?”

Ponk pulled out a long sword. An involuntary hiss left Sam’s mouth as he jerked back. “Ponkie?”

“Don’t you ‘Ponkie’ me, Sam! You should be intimately familiar with the idea of teaching others lessons, what with the stealing my arm and all. I’m just here to finally repay the favor! That’s all I want, y’know? And in a pretty ironic way, too.”

Sam began backing up, heaving in short gasps. “Ponk-”

The sword made its first hit. Sam jolted, his mind focusing on the damage dealt to his final life. His dodging got sloppy in his panic. He was beginning to realize he wasn’t ready to die. He didn’t want to not exist.

Was this was Ghostbur had felt, when Dream had taken him? 

Was this how Tommy had felt?

The sword hit again, and again. Dimly, Sam recognized Foolish standing nervously behind Ponk. 

“Ponk, Ponk please--” Sam wheezed. “I’m-I’m so low--” half hearts, he felt with terror. “My health is so low--” 3 hearts. “Ponk--P--” he gasped out his breaths in terror, unable to stop the tears welling in his eyes. “I can’t--This is my last--”

A strangled shriek left the creeper’s throat, his body slumping as his eyes grew dull and lifeless.

The final shot was quick, leaving little time for the processing of pain on Sam’s end; the sword stabbed straight through his heart, coating its blade with a red, almost powdery shimmering blood. 

[Awesamdude was killed by DropsByPonk using Mama Mia </3 ]


Ponk clapped his hands together after putting away his sword, almost as if cleaning off possible dust. “That’s a job well done then, ey, Foolish?” 

Something felt... wrong about Sam’s death. Shaking, Foolish gave a small nod.

Sam’s last death had been revenge. It was all he deserved, probably , he had thought after awakening, trapped once more in a frigidly cold yet scaldingly hot, brutally dry obsidian cell.

Chapter Text

The area around him was so painfully loud, he scrunched his eyes which were already tight even tighter as if that would mute the noise. “Where...where am I?” came a whispy, raspy voice. He had wondered where it had come from, before realizing it had to have been his own. This is what got him opening his eyes.

Awesamghost (was that him? Who was he?) found himself face to face with a bright blue sky. The tall buildings just in his view are what led him to believe he was back in Las Nevadas. He sat up, looking around. The city was bustling, but nobody seemed to have noticed him yet. This was fine with Sam (Gam? Is that who he wanted to be?), who just wanted to get his bearings.

A loud voice came from a distance away. Sam(?) found his head snapping up, suddenly feeling a strong sense of terror. 

“GHOSTBUR!!!” Came an oh so familiar voice and oh , it was Tommy he was hearing--and soon seeing barreling towards him. Tommy came closer, close enough for Sam to see the awful crumbling of his face as his hopes were crushed.

He was confused, but he knew he never was and could never be the ghost that Tommy was looking for.

“Oh,” Tommy spat, “It’s you .” But at that, he found himself squinting; furrowing his brows, and tilting his head as he moved closer to look at the dull grey-green ghost in front of him. “Wait...it’s... you ? Sam? Is that really you ?” 

Shakily, the ghost gave a weak nod, a fragile smile gracing his dead face. “Yes, I think. Or as close to Awesamdude a ghost can be, at least.” Maybe that would be enough. He hoped it was. Not the dead Sam, not Sammy Wammy, certainly not The Warden . Just...himself. “Not Quite Sam, not quite not,” he mused.

Tommy scowled, but a look of understanding crossed his face. “That’s...good enough, I guess.”

“Y’know,” Tommy began with new vigor, “Ghostbur was confused too, for a while. I don’t think he ever stopped, really.”

“That’s...really sad, Tommy.” Sam found himself laughing softly. 

“Oh, piss off.” Tommy leaned back, looking towards the Needle high in the sky. “I didn’t know you were on your third life. I didn’t even know you’d died.”

Sam hummed, clasping his hands together. “I didn’t expect you --or anyone, really--to notice. I lost my first two lives out of conflict and pretty secluded. I didn’t see a point in telling anyone because I didn’t think I’d manage to find a way to lose them all.” He also didn’t want to acknowledge his...explosive problems, but Tommy didn’t need to know that. 

“I think that only I knew how many lives I had left.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Probably died to zombies, or a fuckin avalanche or something, yeah?”

“Or something,” Sam breathed.

The two of them sat in relative silence for a few moments, Sam relishing in the warmth of the sun and the comfort of another person just... existing with him for the first time in too long, Tommy brooding in his thoughts.

“Say, who else knows about this, anyway?”

“Oh! I’ve just woken up here, you see, so you’re probably the first to know. Or at least the first to meet me.” 

Tommy scoffed. “That’s just about the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard, and I have to listen to Wilbur talk about bloody fish politics .” The boy held out a hand (it was covered in neon bandaids), which Sam hesitantly took. Tommy grunted as he pulled the ghost up. It appeared that they weren’t as weightless as dead Sam had once thought. 

“I’m taking you to Big Q, Sam.” 

His bleeding heart lurched at the mention of Quackity because right, of course, Q would need to know the status of his business partner! But he couldn’t help but feel the fear. He knew what this Quackity was like when he was angry; when things didn’t go his way. He didn’t want to have to face that wrath right away He didn’t need Tommy seeing Quackity get like that. 

“Are you sure? I mean...Are you even allowed in here?”

“People in the Essempi tend to give me a lot of leeways, as I’m sure you know.” And Prime, if that didn’t feel like a direct callout. “Besides, even if I was banned, I’m returning one of his most esteemed henchmen, ain’t I?”

Sam couldn’t argue with that.

“Do you even know where he is?”

Tommy looked towards the casino; center stage in all its glory, still not yet open. Flyers hung around it (and the rest of the city) to advertise its opening celebration that was soon to be. 

“Yeah, I have a pretty good idea.”

Chapter Text

The journey to the casino was not hard, unsurprisingly. It was midday and while Las Nevadas was certainly a bustling city, its real life existed in the night. That meant that the streets, though busy, were not too crowded and it was easy to get a quick path to the large, white building.

Sam paused at the steps, remembering something. “I’m not so sure you should actually follow in with me, Tommy. Q had made a big point of keeping minors out of the casinos.”

Tommy, however, waved him off, beginning to walk...just off to the side of the door? “Oh, relax. Big Q’s let me in here before; showed me how the machines work. Lost Linda to it,” he trailed off.

Only briefly reacting towards the odd comment, Sam grabbed Tommy’s hand and dragged him more towards the door. “Why’re you going that way? The real entry’s over here.”

With a confused, sputtering child in tow, Sam slowly opened the doors to the casino.

Tommy’s eyes widened. It was the first time he was ever truly inside the casino, and it was even grander than the rest of Las Nevadas. Many large banners decorated the lobby, all broadcasting Quackity’s 88th birthday celebration.

“Holy shit !” Tomy wheezed. “Big Q is old as hell!”

Sam simply shrugged. “He’s a duck hybrid. I think it has something to do with that? I don’t know, I don’t really pay much attention to how animal hybrids work, it’s all too confusing for me.”

“I’m calling bullshit on that,” Tommy huffed, listening to the echoes of his shoes against the hard floors of the casino. “You’re a master redstoner and builder. No way that’s confusing! Not to mention you’re a hybrid yourself.”

“A hybrid of sorts . It’s complicated. And besides,” Sam laughed. “Creepers work differently than average animals. We don’t really...age like they do? If that makes sense? I’ve never seen a creeper reach old age, at least.”

“Probably ‘cause they’re always exploding .” It was a simple, lighthearted (or as lighthearted as Tommy got) comment, but it had Sam’s undead stomach churning nonetheless. 

“That could be the case, I suppose.”

The rest of the walk passed in silence.

“His office should be right through these doors.” Sam lifted an arm to gesture towards the tall double doors. The hallway here was dim; not meant for the eyes of the customers. 

Tommy had decided to go in alone, not quite sure how Quackity would react. He was a wildcard nowadays and even Sam found it hard to tell when he would begin to burst with anger. He planned to stand right outside the doors, though, partially to greet Quackity and partially in case anything went wrong.

Tommy stepped hesitantly into the room, Sam looking on through the still-open doors. Quackity appeared to be buried in paperwork; likely the final papers needed to really get the casino set up and fully cement Las Nevadas as an official city. 

Tommy waited for a few moments as he watched Quackity work, likely not wanting to interrupt him. Sam knew this to be a bad move--Quackity could spend hours sitting there and working without acknowledging Tommy’s existence even once.

After a short period of time, Tommy seemed to have realized this as well, as he had stepped further into the room and cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, Big Q?”

All he got for his starting effort was a grunt of half-acknowledgment. The boy didn’t let that deter him, however, and he continued on; “So...Sam’s a ghost now. Like. Dead and gone, I guess, but actually not-so-gone, y’know? He’s here--erm. His ghost is here in Las Nevadas, I mean. Uh. Yeah.”

“That’s nice, Tommy,” was the dull reply he got as Quackity grabbed the wineglass next to him and drank the red liquid in it. As he drank, his brows furrowed. Ah , Sam thought. He’s finally processing the question . 

The blood (though to others it might look like tomato juice, Sam knew of Quackity’s...strange tastes) was spewed from Quackity’s mouth as he sputtered, startled. “Fucking--ugh--” Quackity coughed, “ what ? Tommy, that’s not a funny fuckin joke to play, you know. Even if I know you’re lyin. Why are you even here , you should be off gallivanting with Soot!”

“Q, I’m not lying, I--Sam’s looking rather dead last I fuckin checked. I would know. I saw him!”

“Tommy,” Quackity warned, standing from his chair and wiping his mouth. “You’re walking on a thin fucking tight rope right now--” Quackity cut off as he spotted Sam’s form peeking through the opening. His eyes widened. “ No ...shit, Sam? You’re…?”

“I’m really dead,” Sam affirmed, stepping into the room. “Dead as can be. Ultra dead. Permadead, in fact.” 

Quackity frowned, stumbling towards him. He reached his hands to Sam’s ghastly face as if he didn’t really believe it to be real.

Sam didn’t believe it either, at first. 

Quackity pressed his hands into Sam’s face. “How is that even possible? You’re The Warden , you should be the strongest person not currently locked in a fucking jail cell!”

Both Tommy and Sam physically recoiled some. 

“These kinds of things happen,” he forced out. “Nobody knew I was already down two lives--”

“You were murdered ?! You fucking--You let someone kill you? Sam--”

“He didn’t know , Quackity--”

Tommy pushed his way between the two of them, setting a hand on Quackity’s chest to keep him away from Sam. “Hey now, boys, that’s enough of that then, innit? Sam’s right, this shit happens sometimes. I would know, wouldn’t I?” 

Way to rub salt into the already perpetually bleeding wound, mister Innit. Very appreciated.

Chapter Text

Tommy was dragging Sam along, much as he had been doing ever since he had first spotted the ghost. Sam had no real choice but to allow it, not really certain of what to do now that he was a ghost. If anyone were to know how to go about such a situation, it would be Tommy.

They were to go to the Community House. Tommy had decided it would be a grand idea to announce to the whole of the Essempi the situation, and Sam could feel himself begin to prickle with nerves. His heart throbbed anxiously at the idea of all those eyes on him, all those people knowing . The chances were that Ponk would be there, too, and fuck if that didn’t scare him then nothing would. 

A grim part of him was sure Ponk would look at the damage she’d caused and smile. Even the parts that didn’t agree thought that it was all he deserved and what The Warden had wanted all along, right? To be feared? For people to know that he was not to be taken lightly? His death would mean that the people took him and his job seriously, wouldn’t it?

He was briskly pulled out of his head by Tommy, who’s giving him a concerned look. Er...it’s more of a confused frown, but the sentiment is there and it’s good enough. “You alright there, Sam? You’re, uh...you’ve got a bit of a situation going on right now.” Tommy made a circular gesture at Sam’s face, to which he reached up and noticed a powdery, wet material cascading down his face. He was crying. It burned. 

“I’m...I’m fine, I think.” Why was he crying? He...he doesn’t remember--

A flash. A dark room. Bright orange heat. A familiar voice saying words he can’t quite decipher--

Sam is exhausted . 

“Ah, well, I guess memory issues are a constant when it comes to ghosts now, hm? This entire place, really, but especially ghosts.” Tommy shrugged. “Wasn’t sure if that was just a...Ghostbur thing, or…”

Sam felt fuzzy; tingly and dull. He nodded. He felt sick. He didn’t want to forget. He couldn't forget, not after all he’d done--

“Let’s keep going. We’re going to end up late to our own meeting, Tommy. That’s not very professional, you know.” Sam gave him no time to argue as he continued towards the Community House.

Quackity wouldn’t be coming to the meeting. He was a busy man, and saw no real point in going when he already knew what was to be said; choosing instead to leave an anxious teen and a possibly even more anxious recently dead man to handle the backlash as he kicked back with a nice (debatable, considering the contents) meal and some paperwork in his office. 

Sam was hidden from the crowd that had grown. Tommy figured it would be easier to get his words out without causing an even larger scene than normal.

The boy, standing in the middle of the Community House, cleared his throat and fiddled with one of the neon bandages on his fingers. “Right then,” Tommy began, projecting his voice rather easily across the land. “As you’ve probably gathered, you’re here for a pretty fuckin’ important reason, and I don’t wanna delay things even further--” 

“Wait a minute!” Puffy pushed her way to the front of the crowd. “Not everybody’s here yet! I mean, all things considered, I’m not too surprised at the absence of Philza, Technoblade, Wilbur, and Quackity, but there’s still one other person that should be here!” 

Tommy took in a weak breath. 

“Tommy, we have to wait for Sam! If it’s important information, Sam would want to be here, even if you aren’t on the best terms.” 

Ah, and there it was. Of course, things couldn’t be easy with Puffy around, caring for others as she tends to do. 

Sam was glad she was thinking of him still, after everything he had done.

He could feel his tired eyes burning with the welling of tears as he began to forget what it was he had done in the first place. 

Tommy gave a nervous laugh, more of a distraught wheeze than anything else. “Right, well, about that! Uh, haha!”

Puffy pursed her lips, furrowing her brows. “Tommy, what’s going on? Where is Sam?”

The teen gulped, and even from where he was Sam could see his face was pale, a nervous sheen growing on him. “Um.” 

Almost as if possessed, Sam stepped out from his hiding spot, going to help Tommy. When the boy noticed him, he stepped back. “I think he can explain this better--better than I can.” He then used his arms to showcase Sam’s ghastly dull green-gray form. “Say hello to AweSamGhost. Take it away, Sam!”

Sam shook, glancing back at his sudden audience, who all stared silently in shock. 

Closest to the front, Sam could see clearly the changing of Puffy’s expression. A concerned frown morphed into a pained, tearful one. “Sam?” came her voice, weak with emotion. 

It took all he had to whisper back; “Hello.” 

“How--how could this even happen ?!” Came the voice of Bad from further in the crowd. His form was easy to spot; taller than most others and still dull from his time with the Egg. “Sam, you were The Warden ! Strong and practically invincible! It’s hard to believe you’d lose a single life, let alone all three !” 

“Well, um,” he fumbled weakly. His voice was quiet but so was the rest of the building. “It’s--I--Nobody knew I was down so many lives. I’d lost the first two quietly,” a half-lie, but nobody would need to know, “and I didn’t think it was something that needed to be shared.” He looked into the crowd. “But I--I don’t--this is nobody’s fault but my own. A prank gone wrong. Nobody,” he managed to spot Ponk, whose face was unreadable with their mask on. The two of them looked one another in the eyes. “Nobody knew. I don’t blame anyone but myself for the events that occurred today.” 

“How’d you lose your lives, Sam?” it was an innocent question, but he felt a stubborn fear at the thought of answering. 

Clearly sensing his discomfort (or perhaps remembering his own experiences was more likely), Tommy stepped back into the conversation. “A bit of a rude thing to ask now, innit? Don’t need to go prying into a man’s deaths, do we? He’s died and that’s that, so leave it there, yeah? If we didn’t see, we don’t need to know.”

The people began backing off, and for that, Sam was grateful. All this stress was really taking a toll on him. 

He couldn’t escape it even in death, it seemed.

Chapter Text

Jack Manifold looked on at the ghost of Sam. Ponk saw said ghost shifting uncomfortably with the eyes upon him, and part of her wanted nothing more than to usher the people away. Sam got nervous with lots of attention on him.

Ponk shouldn’t have cared. Sam killed him.

He killed Sam right back. Permanently. 

He guesses they’re even, then. A heart for a heart.

“I don’t understand these damned ghosts,” Jack complained, crossing his arms. “I mean, why stay dead? I crawled out of Hell, so it’s not like it’s impossible.”

Right, Jack had died, too. Whatever he had seen left him rotting and bitter and smelling kind of gross. He moved weirdly, too. Ponk suspected it was joint and muscle pain considering his entire body had shut down and wasn’t supposed to be moving.

“It’s not just that simple, Jack,” Puffy argued. “From what I know you had a strong will to keep on surviving. Not...Not everyone is the same way.”

“Sam’s The Warden, though! If anything were to keep him here wouldn’t it be the dedication he’s got to that bloody prison?”

Ponk could almost laugh. Bloody prison was accurate in ways Jack would never know.

“All the more reason for him to come back as a ghost, don’t you think?”

Ponk had heard enough of the stupid conversations going on around them. It didn’t matter how Sam was a ghost, what mattered is that he was. And it was Ponk’s fault. Looking up at Foolish, Ponk grabbed his hand and began to make his way towards the ghost.

Sam looked up at the shadows that suddenly graced his vision. Upon doing so, he was met with the forms of Ponk and Foolish. 

Despite himself, Sam could feel a warm smile growing on his face. Something familiar. Something normal and not overwhelming. That’s what Ponk meant. “Hi, Ponkie,” he hummed. 

Even though the mask was secured on Ponk’s face (it was a new one. He had to get it after Sam had--what had Sam done, again?), Sam could tell they were frowning. “Ponk? What’s wrong?”

“What’s--what’s wrong ?! Sam you should know might damn well what’s wrong, you idiot !”

“Your death felt weird when it happened,” Foolish said after Ponk’s outburst. “I hadn’t focused much on it then but it was because it was your final life.”

Ponk clenched his fists. “You had tried to warn me. You had begged and you never got the words through in time because you were, what, scared?” 

“I don’t blame you, Ponkie, if that’s what this is about. I already said so.”

“Stop calling me that, Sam!” they barked. “This is serious and I’m upset that you’re just brushing over everything that happened like you always do!”

The ghost shifted away. “Oh...okay, then. What...what are you trying to tell me here, Ponk?”

Ponk ran a hand over his head, as though trying to card his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know, Sam. I really just don’t know what to do here.” They laughed bitterly. “I guess this marks us both even though, wouldn’t you think?”

Sam couldn’t quite remember what it was Ponk had been getting back at him for, but deep in his mind, he knew to nod his head. It really was all he had deserved. He deserved more, really, for all his crimes.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were down so many lives? And I’m not talking about in the moment. I get that. But...we trusted each other at one point, right? That wasn’t just a lie, Sam, was it?”

“Oh, Ponk...of course, it wasn’t.” He couldn’t help but reach a scarred arm up; placing a gentle, cold hand on Ponk’s cheek. “You were one of my most trusting companions, Ponk. I cared so deeply. Perhaps that was why I never let you know. The fewer people had to worry about an absence of lives the better. I thought I could keep what I had left.” He let out a quiet laugh, but it sounded more like a strained half-cry. “I never was good at keeping people alive.”

And he really, really wasn’t. Tommy, Ponk, Ghostbur...Hell, Sam had a hard time keeping his prison in check in general.

He glanced at the slow-falling sun, feeling light. Actually...it was more of a nauseating feeling. He was dizzy and it was getting hard to really understand what he was looking at.

“Stop looking at the sun, stupid.” Ponk turned Sam to face him once again. Dimly the ghost noticed Foolish’s face falling with concern. When had the god shrunken to that height?

“Sam, are you doing okay? You’re looking a little pale...er. Paler than you were when you first came here.”

“Uhm,” came his oh-so-intelligent response. “I’m...actually feeling a bit dizzy. I think...I think I’ll be fine, though.”

And he was fine! For a bit. 

Ponk and Foolish had led him to a secluded corner of the Community House. The three of them sat and caught up a bit. Puffy and Ant and Bad had come up to Sam at various different points, mostly to send well wishes and bid their goodbyes. It was really getting late, after all. 

“Alright, Sam the man. Time to get going now, don’t you think?” Ah, that was Tommy. Sam looked up towards him, though things felt fuzzy and unreal. His undead stomach twisted in knots.

“Where do you plan on taking him, Tommy? Aren’t you homeless right now or something?” Foolish seemed reluctant to let the boy drag Sam around, but it was okay. It had been going on all day, anyways.

Tommy shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe we’ll stay with Tubbo for a day or something. I'm sure he and Ranboo wouldn’t mind too terribly.” 

Sam thought they definitely might, but he said nothing.

“Why don’t we take him to Las Nevadas? He’s working there, after all. And Quackity would probably have a place for him. Besides, I could get him out of your hands, then.” 

Tommy shook his head. “No thank you. I’ve been keeping a good enough eye on him once I spotted his ghost in the first place. First one to find him, you know."

Ponk groaned. “Why don’t we stop arguing and just go to his damn base, guys? He’d probably like it there better than anywhere else.”

“You’re talking like I’m not even here,” Sam slurred, crossing his arms and huffing. “But...I do wanna go home,” he murmured.

Tommy looked on, frowning. Sam couldn’t help but wonder what it was he was thinking of with a face so melancholically nostalgic. 

Perhaps he was remembering Sam’s escape from the Egg.

Sam himself couldn’t have been happier to stop thinking about that event, so he did. 

Ponk nodded, mostly to herself, before standing and cleaning off her hands. “Right, then! Let’s get you back home, Sam. Fran’ll be so excited to see you.”

The thought of seeing his beloved dog got Sam moving past his suddenly unbearable nausea as he stood up. 

He took a few stumbling steps before everything tilted. The last thing he saw was the moon crawling over the horizon. 

Ghosts can pass out, too. Good to jot that down.

Chapter Text

With noises of shock (and a few shouts), the trio scrambled to catch Sam’s falling body. 

“What’s wrong with him?!”

“I don’t work with dead people , Foolish!”

“This never happened to Ghostbur! I-I don’t know what’s going on!”

Foolish took a deep breath and clapped his hands together, demanding silence. “We need to get him somewhere safe. Night’s already here and there’s no time. Let’s just go to Sam’s base, wherever it is.”

“Ponk and I should know the way.”

And so the group went on their way; Foolish carrying Sam’s ghostly corpse, Tommy and Ponk leading the way to Sam’s base.

The Warden awoke from his slumber. Slowly his eyes open and he takes in his surroundings. He was...at the base. That wasn’t right, though. He shouldn’t be here. He needed to do his job.

Monotonously he made his way through the halls of the once-home, unknowing of the other three that lay sleeping nearby.

He opened his door and was once again on the way to his prison. The trip was harder in the dark and he had no materials or weapons or armor, but…

The Warden needed to prove a point. He was dedicated. He was the guardian of the prison and he intended to continue doing his job, in death or in life. Nothing mattered more than the prison. Nothing ever had, nothing ever would. 

This job should be easier as a dead man, anyways. 

And so he makes it, finally, to the prison and to his desk in the front of the secured lobby. He grabs for some spare armor and tools used typically by any other wardens on the job at any time. 

Not that the Warden had really trusted anyone else to do this job anyway, but it was nice to pretend he had help when it came to carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He sat in his seat, shifting to get as comfortable as he possibly could for what he knew was going to be a long shift. He had no intention of leaving unless absolutely required, and, well. Who would need the assistance of a ghost?

The Warden sat tall and firm; staring coldly at the prison’s entrance, spare sword in hand. He was to be ready for anything. So, he began to go over all threats in his head.

Any opportunity for Dream (or Technoblade, really) to escape would be stopped immediately, of this he was sure. Quackity hadn’t visited in days, and it was unlikely he would start now. Tommy was the next worry but after the unfortunate demise of Ghostbur and the subsequent chasing off of the boy, the Warden doubted that Tommy would be trying to return any time soon. And he hadn’t seen Philza yet, so he didn’t think the elder would be stopping by, either. This was a perfectly normal night.

Except it wasn’t really normal, was it?

So many things felt...different. Off, now. If the Warden had thought he was tired in life, he was even more exhausted during his unlife. But this was okay; he was used to working through exhaustion. He knew how to keep awake; alert. It didn’t matter that he had made mistakes under such tiring circumstances, he would be awake and protecting the prison and that was better than risking an escape or infiltration during sleep. He may have made some errors but he was not unprofessional. 

He was so cold, too. And it was so, so quiet. Too quiet. Well, no, it wasn’t quiet. He could hear something. Always right in his ear, always whispering. The void of sound was filled by gruesome whispers he could barely understand. 

But he was used to this, too. The Egg was nothing new. Neither was the voice of Dream just barely audible through the distances between the two of them.

Even if they weren't supposed to be able to hold such an effect on him anymore.

Hours would pass in this not-quite silence. The Warden would not move from his position; staring at the portal or looking through the papers on his desk. He had a job to do and he intended to take it very seriously.

The Warden would not know of the passing of the night, though. He could not see the changing colors of the sky, nor could he see the sight of the moon slowly rising and falling in the sky. For all he had known, an eternity had gone by and he had stayed loyal and dedicated to his work in this dreary almost silence. That would be neither a surprise nor a cause for complaint for him.

As the sun began to rise unbeknownst to him, the Warden found it harder and harder to keep his eyes open. Head bobbing with exhaustion, eventually, he finally closed his eyes.

The Warden succumbed to sleep.

Chapter Text

When Sam woke up everything was so dark and dim. The walls were dark, the lighting was hardly doing anything, and his body felt stiff and cold. 

When Sam woke up he was confused. On one hand, he no longer felt that sickening dizziness, but on the other, he had no idea where he was. This was certainly not his base. There was no warm bed, no Fran at his side. Fran loved Sam, and Sam was sure she had missed him in his absence. He had been gone so long…

The idea of Fran being left alone saddened him immeasurably. He shook his head, not being able to bear the thought much longer. He would make a plan.

The plan was to get up and investigate his surroundings first, then find a way out and make his way back home. Back to Fran. Back to his friends (if they would still be willing to call him even an acquaintance anymore).

So this is what he does. Sam stands suddenly, pressing his hands against his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up. He needed to be alert if he wanted this plan to work. When he finally takes his hands away from his face he blinks, trying to get a reading on this place he finds himself in.

And... oh . This...he wasn’t lost at all. This was the Prison . He…

Sam didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be here one bit. His heart quickened, the wounded organ speeding up with his sudden terror. As a dead man, the pumping of blood wasn’t all that important, but his body didn’t seem to get the memo that he shouldn’t have a beating heart, nor that he didn’t need to breathe, much less this quick. He moved to the ground, trying to catch his breath, curling up some. Why was he here ? The last thing he remembered was Ponk saying that they would be taking Sam home ! She couldn’t have meant…

No. No . They couldn’t have meant…

This Prison is not my home , He wanted to cry. The hissing in his throat sparked up at the mere thought that this is what he was known for. It had to be a prank; a joke. A sick, cruel one. He wanted...he wanted out, but he couldn’t seem to move. The hissing grew quicker, louder, more plentiful. Sam had no power here, in the Prison. He was trapped in its clutches like he knew its prisoners were trapped in his own clawed hands.

The smoke leaving his mouth only made his panic worse. How could he breathe if his lungs were full of smog?

Sam curled up further, wrapping his arms around his knees and gasping for breath. He clenched his eyes tight as possible to brace for--

[ Awesamdude blew up.]

But...Sam didn’t blow up. Because if Sam had blown up, if he had really lost it, then he wouldn’t be here anymore. He’d be dead and gone as Ghostbur was, meeting up with the real Sam in whatever hell their afterlife would be. But he was still here. And somehow that hurt the most.

He was so confused and tired and everything hurt . Why was he still around if Ghostbur wasn’t? He had learned the hard way that ghosts could die, so how was he still here?

The hissing picked up again. His ghastly bones ached and his lungs filled once more with the cursed smoke. 

He wanted out. Needed out. The Prison was cursed. It was a hell through and through and though he promised that he’d never leave it unprotected he just wanted to be free.

He braced himself, tears burning his cheeks and strengthening the overwhelming emotions within his body as--

[ Awesamdude blew up.]

His forehead rested on the floor as clumpy, powdery gunpowder tears dripped from his eyes into piles under him.

Something about the fact that he could just keep exploding with no end both fascinated and horrified him. 

He doesn’t think creepers were made to survive like this. 

Not that they were really made to survive at all, what with the crippling explosion-worthy social anxiety towards humans, but. Besides the point. 

Sam’s not really sure how long he’s been here, curled up on the floor leaking gunpowder. It could’ve been worse, he could’ve exploded again. 

Soon enough he hears the familiar sound of redstone and portals. Though looking back at it he feels foolish for the way he reacted but in the moment he truly had worried that Dream had escaped due to his negligence. Selfish, selfish Sam, too focused on his problems to do his one job--

“Oh my muffin, Sam? Sam is that you?”

But the voice wasn’t Dream. The clacking of familiar boots echoed through the room as Bad made his way to Sam’s cowering figure, looking around to see what the issue could have been.

The first thing he noticed--other than the ghost of Sam shaking on the floor--was the black, ashy material surrounding Sam and the front desk, which was somewhat burnt. Dumbly, he realized that the ashy material probably was ash.

Crouching down to better see Sam, Bad pursed his lips, frowning with concern. “Sam, it’s Bad. What are you doing here? I thought that Ponk or Foolish would’ve taken you home or something. Maybe even Quackity. You...don’t look like you should be here.”

And he really, really didn’t. He was shaking like a leaf, gripping his arms tightly, and leaving puddles of powdery tears on the floor; nothing like the strong, bold Sam Bad once knew.

“I woke up here,” was the miserable reply, quiet and raw. “Bad, I don’t wanna be here.”

It reminded Bad of Sam’s time trapped with the Egg; the soft, sad, tired voice Bad could hear whenever he walked past (or whenever the Egg thought it would be fun to give the whole Eggpire a bit too much information about a very private scene.) He shifted.

“Let’s get you home then, friend.”

Bad sent a look over to Antfrost, who had been standing off to the corner the whole time. “Ant, would you mind working yourself for a little while? I have to…” Bad looked back at the small figure of his friend. “I have to help him.”

The feline nodded and Bad helped the shivering Sam up and out of the prison.

Chapter Text

The past 25-odd hours had been hard.

Sam had been taking a break from the Prison, had been killed by Ponk, had woken up as a ghost, successfully met up with TommyInnit, Quackity, and the rest of (or at least close to the rest of) Essempi, collapsed on his way home and woke up in the Prison, where he promptly flipped shit and was rescued by Bad. 

And now he’s here, in his real actual home this time, trying to recuperate from the events of this morning. He finds himself in the kitchen. He isn’t really sure what for , he’s not hungry (if ghosts can even get hungry?), but he looks through his cupboard and cabinets and fridge anyways. 

He was about to close the last chest in the room when he spotted them. Pumpkins. A shitton of the things, too. He wondered, briefly, what he would ever need this much pumpkin for, before remembering something. A plethora of “somethings”, really. 

Pie , Sam thought to himself. I used to bake pie . When had he ever stopped? He must’ve just been so busy with other things on his mind. The ghost thought for a moment before shrugging and grabbing out the surplus of pumpkin, setting them down before hunting down wheat and sugar. Baking a pie or two wouldn’t hurt. Besides, he could give them to the others as thanks for helping him.

The process of baking pie was familiar to him in a way that few things ever seemed to be anymore. Sam couldn’t tell you how long he had sat there putting the dough together, kneading it and chilling it, making a paste of pumpkin, waiting for the goods to cook, and making more as he waited. It was soothing and easy to lose himself in the world of flaky crusts and warm scents.

There was no room for his impending dark thoughts when he had to focus on the intricate steps to mixing the perfect crust. He felt effectively weightless. Free and bright in the warm world of cinnamons and spices and pumpkins and the scent of autumn. 

Sam could almost hear the music that he had used to play whenever committing to his pie baking; spending hours delicately crafting his pies safe from the autumn chills outside, vintage songs he’d found from long before the Essempi had formed--perhaps even from an older world. Soft pianos and honey-sweet voices echoing through the record player that he’d handmade. Sometimes it was accompanied by the laughter of family and friends; Puffy and Bad and Skeppy and Ant one time, Ponk and Quackity another, always mixing and matching and adding their own charm to Sam’s quiet work.

A living Sam had learned over time that food tasted better when prepared with love. He wondered when he had stopped living a life filled with that love; when had his pies grown bitter and cold like he had before he stopped trying altogether? And though he was trying again to be better now, he couldn’t help but ponder. Could a dead man even create something sweet, when his last days in life were so cruel?

Thoughts like these were best not to dwell on. He had to hope that if anything, he could find love in this world once again. Even if through the form of pies. (Especially through the form of pies, if he were to be honest. It was a good place to start.)

“Sam?” the sudden appearance of a concerned voice is what really burst the creeper out of his work, hours later. 

Fran had come by quite a while earlier, and, excited to see such a familiar scene of what she deemed to be her owner’s attempt at soothing himself, immediately lay down at Sam’s legs. The scene was so familiar, in fact, that Sam had hardly a chance to acknowledge her before he was back into his mixing and pouring and baking.

Dark, dull eyes immediately flew up, searching for the source of the sound. Ponk could see the warm, nostalgic glow in said eyes, as Sam hummed out a soft greeting. “Oh, hello, Ponk.”

“Sam? Is this what you’ve been doing since Bad brought you back?” 

(‘After we sat and calmed you down’ was unspoken between them. Sam had spent at least half an hour still in near hysterics, thinking they had left him in the Prison for a sick joke. Ponk couldn’t help but feel sour at that. She would hardly even dream of being near that hellhole after what Sam had pulled months prior, and the mere thought made what was left of her arm burn with phantom pain. The group had assured him they hadn’t left him behind, but had rather woken up and found him missing from bed after they set him there to rest.)

“More or less,” the other shrugged, looking back towards his pies. And... wow . He had made...a lot of pies. Sam’s kitchen was by no means small, and almost every inch of counter was covered by the form of a pie. There couldn’t have been less than 60, in all honesty, and Sam had no idea how this managed to happen.

“This is a lot of pie, Sam.”

“It is a lot of pie.”

A beat of silence. Another.

“Would you like some pie, Ponk?”

The question sparked a snort from Ponk. “ Would I like some pie ,” they mocked. “Doubt it really matters how much I want pie, Sammy. At this rate, the entirety of Essempi will have to be eating your pies for the rest of their lives, stupid! You’ll be putting Niki out of business, and she just got back!”

There was no real malice in the words, and the two of them looked at each other for a moment before laughing, Sam’s quiet giggling mixing with Ponk’s loud chuckles.

“Tommy! Foolish!” Ponk had called after he regained his composure. Ah, it looked like those two were still in the home, then. “Come here and have some pie!” 

“WHERE THE FUCK IS ‘HERE’?” Came the somewhat muffled shout of reply from who could only be Tommy. 

Ponk rolled his eyes, taking a deep breath to shout back. “The kitchen, stupid!” 

“DON’T YOU CALL ME STUPID, PONK-”

Sam sighed, smiling. “You really couldn’t just use your communicator?”

Ponk put a hand on her chest, looking mockingly aghast. “Of course not, Sam! What do you take me for, a coward? Or worse yet, lazy ?” 

The giggles returned against his will as Tommy and Foolish found their way into the kitchen. 

“Holy mackerel, this is a lot of pie!”

“Sam, Big Man! I knew you knew how to bake but I didn’t expect to have so much pie at our disposal!”

“What’s the occasion for pie, anyway?” Foolish asked, grabbing one with a single, large, godly hand.

The ghost shrugged, rummaging for forks and knives. “No special occasion, they’re just relaxing to make.”

“There is more pie here than I have seen ever in my entire life,” Tommy said with certainty. “We will be eating pie for the rest of forever.” 

“That’s the plan, boys, so get ready to have your fill,” Ponk declared, pulling out a record and placing it in the player. 

The quartet sat together that afternoon; the sound of calming saxophones and sweet lyrics becoming background noise as they created idle chatter, forgetting their problems, if only for a little while.

Chapter Text

The days that followed were learning experiences for everyone. Sam had only been a ghost for so long, after all, and every ghost was different. They’d need to learn all they could about him to properly watch after him.

Ghost Sam (Gam?) appeared much more lucid and aware than Ghostbur, seemingly remembering much more than Wilbur’s ghastly counterpart. Ponk couldn’t tell if that was due to general differences in ghostly traits, or if it was because the Sam once living truly felt no guilt towards his actions. They weren’t sure they wanted to find out.

As time went on, though, Ponk began to notice things about the ghost. His shoulders slumped in constant exhaustion, and he had small bouts of confusion; as though he could mostly remember things, but sometimes they slipped past his mind. Ponk wrote this all down. She was a doctor, after all, and Sam would always hold a special place in her healing heart, even if she didn’t want him to. That meant that she would care for every aspect of him, even if it was less than living.

“Sam, what are you doing?”

The ghost shifted uncertainly, pausing his work slowly building around a sleepy-looking Fran. “Oh, it’s not much, really.” 

The dog didn’t move, already familiar with the ritual from the days of living Sam. 

“It’s nothing important, don’t worry too much about it, Ponkie.”

The other hummed noncommittally, gazing at the ghost and absently writing something in some book Sam always saw on his person. He wondered if it was a diary, but his living memories didn’t seem to line up with that.

“Patient book,” Ponk said as if reading his mind. “I’ve got all my notes for every patient I’ve had in here,” he said, waving the book in Sam’s face. 

Sure enough, the pages revealed notes for various Essempians, notably late president Jschlatt, a few observations for Tommy, and pages for Sam himself.

“Doesn’t this break some sort of doctor-patient confidentiality rule?” Sam teased, leaning closer to catch a better look. 

Ponk rolled his eyes. “Oh, please . Essempi is hardly known for its integrity. Other regions would surely see my medical license as city slum worthy at best , and Fundy’s our only other real medical professional. Nobody here gives two shits about ‘patient confidentiality'. Besides, most of these people are fuckin dead, anyways. That, and most of this is just personal observations and thoughts.”

Sam tilted his head, comically similar to Fran sitting a ways away. “Are you tired, Ponk? You seem cranky.”

Ponk’s eye twitched. “I’m on the verge of a breakthrough.”

“Well,” Sam said, urging himself to ignore the queasy feeling he often got when his mind started remembering the less than pleasant, “I hope you get it soon, Ponkie. You’re so smart, you know.”

The next time everybody met up, it was in Las Nevadas. 

“Sam’s my right-hand man,” Quackity had argued when he finally showed his face. “Dead or alive, we’ve got a deal. A job. We all know how dedicated to his work he is.” The jab at Ponk was clear and had Tommy letting out an astoundedly offended scoff on their behalf. 

“I’m listed as Sam’s first emergency contact anyways,” Quackity continued. “In cases where he is in danger or unable to care for himself and all that shit, everything needs to go through me. And I say you hold your next little meeting here so that I can observe and keep my people safe.”

Quackity seemed to be regretting this choice now, however, as Sam watched the man shift uncomfortably once he spotted his fiances. 

“This place is kind of nice I guess,” Karl hummed to Sapnap, holding the man’s arm and walking forwards. “It’s a bit too flashy and modern for my taste, though.” His airy tone left Quackity clenching a fist and trying to restrain a flinch. 

“I thought you liked big shows, did you not?” The duck said walking towards the duo, arms waving in a show of flair and possessiveness. “Though I guess I didn’t know you as well as I had thought, haha.”

Sapnap’s eyes practically glowed when he spotted Quackity, subtly escaping Karl’s grip to further close the distance between himself and the duck hybrid. “Quackity, hey! I-is this where you’ve been all this time, babe?”

Quackity let out a strained laugh, nodding with a dangerously sharp smile. “Yeah, man! I actually built this all for us,” he murmured.

“Q, this is incredible! Did you r–”

“Have you been to Kinoko, Quackity ?” The casual question cut through Sapnap’s excited words, Karl’s voice emphasized with an unreadable edge. “It’s quite incredible, really, you know? This place is…nice, I suppose, but Kinoko’s simply magical .”

Sapnap looked startled, trying to let out a “Karl, what–?” , but Quackity was hardly deterred, only pausing for a moment before the smile on his face grew as strained as his laughter. “Well actually, Karl , it’s kind of hard to visit a place you didn’t know existed! And when George finally told me a little while back, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to ask him where it was.”

Sapnap turned to Karl, his expression something just short of horrified. “Karl, you told me you told him–”

“Well, he fucking didn’t, Sapnap!” Quackity exclaimed, hands flying into the air. “He didn’t fucking tell me and I had to find out from someone who clearly didn’t even FUCKING care!” 

The hybrid sucked in a breath, and both Sam and Sapnap moved to comfort him. “Can we–we shouldn’t be doing this right now,” he muttered tearfully. “We’re here for Sam.”

“Whatever you say, Q…” Sapnap nodded, before turning to give a sharp look at Karl, whose yellow eyes glanced the other way. He shrugged absently. 

Sapnap ushered his other partner away towards the larger group, and Sam could hear his “What the fuck , Karl?!” as they left.

“I have a feeling you’re starting to regret inviting all these people into Las Nevadas–”

“Shut the fuck up, Sam.”

Chapter Text

It was impossibly warm and impossibly cold, and his body curled, cramped, in the cell he found himself trapped within. 

The afterlife was great at mimicking his Egg-top prison.

Though Sam had to wonder as he listened to the just barely hearable whispers of the Egg echoing around him, just how much of this was supposed to be here. The Egg was strong, and who was to say it wouldn’t be able to reach power in the afterlife, as well?

Sam could not move much at all in his obsidian container. He preferred it this way, though perhaps a more comfortable position would be ideal. He shouldn’t be allowed to escape, and he was far more afraid of encountering his dead companions than he would ever care to admit.

Especially a certain blue-handling once-ghost.

Despite his best efforts, Sam could not avoid the other dead forever. Not when Ghostbur was so determined to make friends with the one who’d failed him.

“Sam?” came the whispy voice that haunted Sam’s infrequent dreams. “Sam, is that you?”

“Ghostbur?” the other asked, voice raspy from a long period of either speaking too little or screaming too loud for help he knew he didn’t deserve. Sam had not known that ghosts could get to the afterlife.

“Sam! Oh, Sam, it is you! I had–well I had thought as such, but I wasn’t very sure, and Schlatt wouldn’t give me a good clear answer but–oh, you’re here!” 

It was then that the ghost seemed to realize what that meant, as he deflated, and his voice seemed to sadden. “Why are you here?”

“People tend to appear in the afterlife once they’ve exhausted their lives, Ghostbur.”

“Well I just–I hadn’t known that you were–”

“Nobody had.” Sam adjusted his position within his cell, arms resting on the platform of the singular opening within the obsidian, where he could just barely see the ghost.

A long almost-silence echoed between the two of them, the only sounds invading Sam’s ears being the ever-present murmurs of the Egg. Part of him wondered why Ghostbur would willingly walk himself up to such a dangerous area.

That was when he remembered all the rumors he’d heard about Limbo.

“Ghostbur? What…what are you seeing right now? What does this look like to you?”

“Well that’s a silly question! But I’ll humor you–you seem so hung up on it. You’re…” Ghostbur hesitated, deeply squinting in Sam’s direction as if trying to decipher just what, exactly, he was seeing.

After a long moment of thought, he slowly spoke. “You’re in one of those old…well, what are they called–ticket booths, I believe? Yes, yes, an old ticket booth. I’m not sure as to if those are very much commonplace, anymore. It’s probably why yours is the only one with anyone in it! Why not come out?”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. If it were as easy as just stepping out , he wouldn’t have stayed! “I don’t think this is the same for me as it is for you, Ghostbur. I’m trapped here.”

“Oh, don’t be such a debbie downer, Sam! Or I guess a Sammy sad-sack?” And then he was out of Sam’s sight, presumably trying to open a door that Sam could not see. A door that did not exist.

There was a long moment of struggle, Ghostbur’s grunts of effort echoing through his skull. Eventually he came back into view, hair slick with sweat and a blue-covered face pulled into a frown.

“The door is locked.”

“I know, Ghostbur,” Sam sighed. “I don’t think there was really a door here, to begin with.”

Ghostbur continued to visit. Upon Sam asking, the ghost simply replied “Schlatt is old and cranky, and the other man here seems too sad to talk. I feel bad bothering him.”

Sam supposed that made sense. “But you don’t feel bad bothering me? Why would you want to talk to me? You died by my hands.”

“I don’t blame you!”

These simple words were enough to shock Sam’s brain to the point of even the Egg’s eternal murmuring being nothing but a dull fuzz.

“I’ve hurt so many people. Surely you’re mad?”

“You stopped Tommy, didn’t you?” The ghost hummed. “If I had known what he was really planning, I wouldn’t have gone through with that. I don’t want to be the cause for any more deaths. And I don’t think you ever did, either.”

Sam didn’t respond.

“You’re a fascinating man, did you know that, Sam? You were very nice to me before I died. For a moment there, you had helped me feel so very safe. I feel like that’s something you used to do a lot. I wonder why you stopped?”

“I did what I had to, to protect the server,” Sam choked weakly.

“You didn’t have to do it alone, though. Sam, I’ve learned that it is exhausting carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. You do things, or the person you once were will do things, and it hurts lots of people. And there’s no excuse for the pain we’ve caused, is there? But the least we can do is try to do better, so that we never do such terrible things again.”

Ghostbur stood from his spot sitting beside Sam’s prison, turning to leave.

“Just some food for thought.”

Ghostbur was gone once again, and Sam’s heart ached with a weary sorrow. The only sound now was the whisper of the Egg, suddenly much louder than before.