Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue: The Radiance of the Galaxy

The year is 4005XX.
Countless millennia have passed since Earth — once the birthplace of humanity — was discovered by alien life. By that time, the blue planet had become a shadow of its former self. The oceans had evaporated, the air had turned toxic, the surface ravaged by storms and nearly uninhabitable. Humanity stood on the brink of extinction.

But then they were saved.
By a force greater than anything a human mind could ever have imagined:
The Galactic Ordo Aetherion — a vast alliance of advanced, wise, and benevolent beings who had watched over the cosmos for eons.

The Ordo Aetherion — a system of thousands of planets, connected by technology that defies comprehension. A center of light, progress, and harmony. At its core: the Grand Council — a circle of seemingly immortal leaders whose word is law. And above them all stands their revered leader: Jschlatt — a figure worshipped by millions, respected by billions, and surrounded by legend.

Thanks to Jschlatt and his council, all beings in the universe now live in peace.
Or so the story goes.

From the moment they take their first breath, every child is taught that the Ordo Aetherion is a gift. That discrimination is a thing of the past. That appearances, origins, languages, or genders no longer matter. Everyone has a place. Everyone is safe. Everyone is cared for.

There are no more borders.
No wars.
No poverty.

Planets travel through gates of light. Communication between galaxies is instant. And where once entire systems were destroyed by conflict, now billions live in an era of peace, shaped by the will of the Council. Images of Jschlatt hang in schools, in homes, in the silver halls of space stations. Children pray before his statue. Adults speak of his wisdom. He is the bringer of peace. The savior. The creator of the new order.

So they believe. So they celebrate. So they obey.

But the truth is:
Not everyone sees the shining facade.
Not everyone lives in this perfect world.

If you asked Tommy,
he would laugh in your face.

He — a 16-year-old boy, one of the last humans considered "pure" — knows what lies behind the golden gates. Because while the privileged planets at the system’s core bathe in radiance, living in vast cities of crystal and sipping wine from gravityless cups, the outer systems are left to rot.
Hunger. War. Slavery. Desperation.

The Council knows.
Everyone knows.
But they do nothing — or worse:
They profit from it.

Those who pay, who bow, who smile — receive help.
Those who are poor, angry, loud — are erased or forgotten.

And so Tommy lived.
In a decaying colony far from the Council’s light-paths.
He survived on scraps, stole food, fought rich tourists who treated his planet like a zoo — until they caught him.
A child.
A nobody.
A nuisance.

And suddenly, the public took notice:
"How could he do such a thing?"
"Why would a boy act out like that?"
"A poor child, so full of rage — he needs help!"

And the Council?
They smelled opportunity. A stage. Applause.

They unveiled a new ship:
The Pandora.

A project to "heal the lost."
A place where so-called dangerous, aggressive, and beyond-repair individuals would be "rehabilitated."
A second chance, they claimed.
A place of light.
Of hope.

Tommy?
He stood in the city square. Surrounded by cheering crowds.
Holograms everywhere. Smiling faces.
A giant banner: "Welcome aboard the Pandora — We Save Souls."

And he?
He saw only a trap.
A new cage.
Yet another way to silence him.

And so his journey began.
A journey to a place where he would meet others — beings like him:
Angry. Lost.
But maybe… not alone.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Somewhere in the vastness of the cosmos, a 16-year-old boy sat in a space shuttle – on his way to a place he absolutely didn't want to go.

The boy, with short, curly blonde hair, leaned against the window with his arms crossed. A white t-shirt with red sleeves stretched over his slim torso, and a green scarf hung loosely around his neck. Above his icy blue eyes, he wore a pair of goggles, their design resembling the striped fur of a raccoon – or a bad joke of a design.

His name was Tommy. And he glared grimly out the round window, staring into the endless darkness of space.

Why was he in such a bad mood, you ask?

Simple. Soon, he would step aboard a ship that he hated with all his heart.
The Pandora, they called it.

A place of healing,

A medical masterpiece.

A second chance for those who had “gone astray.”

Healing, my ass.

He knew exactly what it really was.
A place to get rid of people who didn't fit into their pretty little picture-perfect world. People like him – who ruined their perfect little dream world just by existing. A dirty place where they pretended to help, just to pat themselves on the back for it. Why?

Because when you ignore problems, and then get called out on it, you don’t say: "Oh, you’re right."
No. You say: "Oh, we’re helping! Look at how engaged we are!"

And everyone claps.

Disgusting, if you ask him.

You might think these are the words of a rebellious teenager – fair enough, but it’s the truth. These people live in luxury, completely oblivious to the suffering of others, or simply ignore it and don’t even realize how corrupt they are. Instead of taking responsibility, they twist the truth to make themselves out to be heroes. Because that's what the government does best.
Tommy still vividly remembered the last few days.

The theft.

The pompous artifact guy, whose nose he had accidentally (or not) broken.

The trial, where they tore apart his life with a smile.

"Tommy Innit – a lost soul," they had said.

"A poor child who has gone astray. We need to help him."

After they had ignored him for years.

After they had overlooked all the others like him.

And now? Now he was suddenly a PR campaign.

Now he was being exploited for their agenda to make even more money.

It disgusted him.

His fingers clenched around the bracelet on his wrist – the same one they had put on him right after the verdict was passed.
It hadn’t even been taken off. A tracking device, as if he could just run off somewhere.

Ridiculous.

Before him, in the window, the ship grew closer: Pandora.

Smooth. Sterile. Bright.

A fortress in the dark.

A hospital disguised as a rehabilitation center.

Or a prison – packaged as a wellness resort.

"A high-gloss prison with nice brochures," Tommy muttered.

"Would be perfect for the next commercial."

The shuttle jolted slightly as it docked with the gigantic ship.

"Welcome aboard Pandora," a mechanical voice rang out – clean, monotone, impersonal.
"Please follow the marked path for security checks."

Tommy groaned, stood up, and stretched. His limbs ached from sitting for so long.

"Great."

His footsteps echoed coldly through the metallic corridor as he made his way to the exit – straight into the belly of a system that wanted to "save" him. Or delete him. Who knew?

Tommy stepped through the hatch and was immediately flooded by the blinding brightness of the ship.

Sterile white, the smell of disinfectants, the overly fresh air – everything was far too clean. Disgusting.

A shiny robot approached him, polished like it had just come out of the packaging, and held out a black bracelet.

"Is this a welcome gift?" Tommy asked, frowning.

"I’m not into jewelry."

"This device will monitor your vital signs and location. It will also serve as an interface to your personal AI therapy unit: Dream."

Tommy stared at the bracelet as if it was about to rip his head off.

"Dream? What a stupid name."

The bracelet clicked around his wrist and hummed briefly – it felt way too tight.

"Great, now I have two ugly bracelets. What a load of crap."

Together with the other newcomers, Tommy was led through the brightly lit, sterile corridors. The white walls and the smell of disinfectant reminded him of a hospital—one with no chance of escape. Eventually, they arrived in a large, circular hall. The walls were covered with screens that flickered briefly before displaying a simple smiling face—a circle with two dots for eyes and a curved line for a mouth.

It looked like one of those figures from a game "Mensch ärger dich nicht" , except someone slapped a face on it.

//And yes, that game is still around in the Future. Wy? because It’s pog, even if the name is really ironic.//

and for all those who don't know "Mensch ärgere Dich nicht" is a very well known German board game, developed by Josef Friedrich.

anywas

"Welcome aboard Pandora!"

The voice was artificially friendly, almost childlike. "I’m Dream, your personal AI therapy instance! I’m looking forward to our journey together, I—"

"A therapist AI with smiley faces on its face? Great idea. What’s next? Group cuddling with the toaster?" Tommy said provocatively, interrupting Dream’s speech.

"Irony is often a defense mechanism, Tommy Innit," Dream responded with almost human softness. "But don’t worry – here, you are safe."

Tommy grimaced in disgust and stepped closer to one of the screens. "Ugh, shut up. Besides… it almost sounds like I was in danger. From who, exactly?"

"It was you. From yourself."

Tommy angrily took another step forward.

"Look, you glorified calculator. I’m not here to play along with any of this stupid nonsense."

Dream’s face remained unchanged, but his voice lowered a notch.

"Healing begins with the realization that one needs it."

"And I’ll start by turning your ass back into scrap if you keep talking like that."

"Your plan has been uploaded. Room 27-B. Your first session begins tomorrow morning. I recommend you relax. That goes for all of you," Dream taunted.

Tommy stared at the face on the screen. For a moment, he wondered if a punch would be enough to silence the thing. But then he turned and stomped off.

He followed the flow of others, disinterested and lost in thought.

This stupid junkhouse – who did they think they were?

Then—

Where the hell is everyone?

He only realized too late that the corridors split, and he was all alone. He looked to the left and right, but there was no one. No footsteps, no sounds. When had he lost the others?

He looked around.

Signs? None.

Orientation? Zero.

"Okay. Left or right? Mmm… Ene mene …"

He turned right and walked down the hall, but again the path split. This time, he turned left. He repeated this several times until he finally found a kitchen and a living room – but none of the others.

He walked.

And walked.

Until he finally stopped, leaned against a wall, and sank to the floor. His hands buried in his hair.

"Great. Tommy. Not even 20 minutes, and you’ve already gotten lost."

He groaned in frustration. "Is this intentional? A maze so you feel like a stupid little rat simulator."

He angrily punched the wall.

Suddenly, a screen flickered above him.

Dream’s face appeared again, with the same dumb grin as before.

"Lost, Tommy?"

"Fuck you, tin can."

"That’s not very nice."

"Maybe I don’t want to be nice, you dumb scrap heap! Ever thought about that, you bitch?"

"Backlash is a common part of adjustment. You need to get to room 27-B. It’s really not that hard," Dream taunted.

Tommy really wanted to throw a response at the screen, but then…

A yellow line suddenly lit up on the floor.

"Great," Tommy muttered, but he followed it anyway.

Finally

Finally, he stood in front of the door and stepped inside. It slid open with a quiet hiss.

Inside, he saw two figures. A smaller person with wild, curly brown hair and a worn jacket immediately jumped toward him.

"Hey, you’re the guy who gave Dream a hard time, right?" they said excitedly. "That was awesome! I’m Tubbo! Do you like bonbons?"

Tommy blinked and looked at them skeptically. "Are you twelve?"

"Fourteen thousand and a half! And you’re from the Vindlensager, right? Want to blow something up?"

Tommy stared at them, completely confused.

"What?!"

Tubbo laughed and jumped onto the bed. "I’ve got parts collected. Maybe we can build a little… device."

Tommy was still unsure of what to make of this when he noticed another figure in the corner of his eye. The guy in the corner. Tall, pale, with black-and-white hair and mismatched eyes. The look on his face clearly said: *I want to be anywhere but here.*

"Welcome… or whatever," he muttered. "I… I’m Ranboo," he added quietly.

Tommy collapsed onto the bed in frustration. "Great. I’m surrounded by crazy people."

Tubbo only grinned. "Come on, don’t exaggerate. We’re not that bad. But… Dream annoys you too, right?"

Tommy blinked. "What?"

"I’ve been here a little longer," Tubbo said, thinking back, "only a few hours, but that’s enough to know that he’s… weird. Especially with that disgustingly friendly tone. You know what I mean? Anyway…"

Tubbo started rummaging under his bed and pulled out a box filled with wires, screws, and various parts.

"So, Tommy," Tubbo said while unpacking his treasures, "do you want to mess with Dream a little?"

Tommy looked at him for a moment. Tubbo was definitely weird. But…

He grinned. "Now we’re talking. Maybe you’re not a total idiot after all."

Ranboo cleared his throat and looked around nervously. "Are you sure this is… smart?"

Tommy looked him straight in the eye, then nodded slowly.

"No. But it sounds like fun."

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

But before Tubbo and Tommy could continue, a soft buzzing sound followed by crackling filled the room. Suddenly, the large monitor on the wall flickered to life, revealing a pair of black, button-like eyes and a wide, unsettling smile.

“I see you’re already getting comfortable,”

Dream’s voice echoed through the room, as cold as ever, causing everyone to sit up straighter. Although the screen only displayed a vague outline of his face, it felt as though his eyes were drilling into them.

“I hope you’re not planning anything foolish,” he added sharply, making it clear he was watching them closely.

Tubbo and Tommy froze, momentarily caught off guard. But Tubbo quickly regained his composure and flashed a cheeky grin.

“Foolish? Us? C’mon, Dream. We haven’t done anything yet! Just letting our creativity flow.”

Dream’s eyes narrowed slightly—though it could have been a trick of the screen. His voice grew colder.

“Creativity’s allowed. Chaos is not. Your creativity has its limits, and I suggest you don’t push them.”

There was a brief pause before Dream added with a chilling emphasis, “And Tubbo… I’ve got my eye on you.”

The screen went dark again, and a heavy silence fell over the room.

Tommy was the first to break the tension, chuckling softly at first, but it quickly turned into loud laughter.

“Wow, Tubbo. Looks like you’re the star of the show. What’d you do to get on his radar like that?”

Tubbo grinned and leaned casually against the bed.

“Oh, nothing much. Maybe Dream’s still sore from when I did a little experimenting when I first got here.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Experimenting?”

“Well,” Tubbo started, fiddling with a wrench from his box,

“I took apart that little Robert guy—the mini-robot that greeted us. Wanted to see how he worked. And I might’ve tried hacking into the system with my wristband. Didn’t quite get anywhere, but Dream wasn’t too happy about it.”

Tommy stared at him, disbelief written all over his face.

“You did what? Man, Tubbo, you’re causing more chaos than I ever could! And chaos is my middle name.”

Tubbo shrugged, not missing a beat.

“What can I say? Got my tricks.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.

“Tricks? So, you’ve got a few moves to mess with Dream?”

Tubbo nodded, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Of course! I mean, what’s the point of being stuck here if you can’t have a little fun? And if I can make Dream go a little crazy, why not? There are always a few... loopholes in the system. You just need to be creative enough.”

Tommy burst out laughing and clapped Tubbo on the back.

“Okay, Tubbo, I like you. You’re exactly the kind of guy I need!”

Ranboo, who had been quiet until now, gave them a wary look.

“Uh… I just hope your ‘tricks’ don’t land us all in isolation.”

“Don’t worry, Ranboo,”

Tubbo said, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder.

“I’m a pro. Dream won’t notice a thing.”

Tommy turned his gaze to Ranboo, narrowing his eyes.

“Ranboo, right? You’re so quiet. Time to grill you a bit. What’s your story? What did you do?”

Ranboo hesitated, his hands rubbing together nervously.

“I… I’m not really sure,” he finally admitted.

“I was sent here, but I don’t know why.”

Tommy frowned.

“How can you not know? You must’ve done something! Or maybe you did so much, you lost track?”

“What? No! I didn’t do anything! At least… I don’t think I did,”

Ranboo replied defensively, but his voice grew quieter and more uncertain.

Tubbo scratched his head.

“But there has to be something. Nobody ends up here for no reason.”

Ranboo hesitated, then said softly,

“Well… there might be something, but I’m not sure if that’s really the reason.”

“Come on, spill it!” Tommy urged, impatience creeping into his tone.

Ranboo hesitated again, before finally admitting,

“I… I sleepwalk sometimes. And when it happens, I wake up in really strange places. But… that can’t be why, right?”

“Strange places?”

Tommy echoed, intrigued.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean... places you're not supposed to reach easily,”

Ranboo explained cautiously.

“Sometimes I wake up miles away from where I fell asleep. Or I find myself in places that are supposed to be well-guarded and completely locked down.”

Tommy and Tubbo exchanged a look of disbelief.

“Teleporting?” Tommy asked suddenly, his eyes lighting up.

“You’re part Enderman, right? Don’t they teleport?”

Ranboo nodded hesitantly.

“Yeah… theoretically, Endermen can do that. But I’m only half Enderman, and I’ve never learned how to teleport. At least, not consciously.”

“Maybe you do it in your sleep,”

Tommy mused aloud.

“If you can’t do it while you’re awake, maybe it kicks in when you’re asleep. Or you do it unconsciously.”

“That actually makes sense,”

Tubbo chimed in, scratching his chin.

“But I still don’t think that’s why you’re here. Could be something else.”

Tubbo suddenly grinned mischievously.

“Maybe you did something really crazy in your sleep and don’t even remember it.”

Tommy immediately joined in the joke.

“Oh, I know! Maybe you teleported someone in your sleep—right into the middle of the ocean or something!”

Ranboo stared at them, eyes widening in horror.

“What if… what if I really did hurt someone? Without even knowing it?”

“Hey, calm down,”

Tubbo said quickly, raising his hands in a calming gesture.

“That was just a joke. With those lanky arms of yours, you couldn’t hurt a fly, even if you tried.”

Tommy nodded in agreement.

“Tubbo’s right. If you’d done something that big, they would’ve told you. Besides, as harmless as you look, the worst you could do in your sleep is knock over a pillow.”

Ranboo exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a little, though the worry didn’t completely leave his eyes.

“Maybe… you’re right,” he murmured.

Tubbo clapped his hands together suddenly, drawing their attention.

“Alright, enough about the past. Let’s do something creative.”

“What have you got in mind?”

Tommy asked, immediately sounding excited.

Tubbo grinned and pulled a box of metal parts from under the bed.

“A little project. You’ll see soon enough.”

“Oh, I’m in,” Tommy said with a wide grin.

“Always up for some chaos.”

With a big smile, Tubbo began spreading the metal parts out on the floor, and Tommy eagerly sat down next to him, intrigued.

Ranboo watched the two of them as they started scheming. His gaze lingered on the deep scars scattered across Tubbo’s body. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

“Uh, Tubbo? I don’t mean to pry, but… what’s with all the scars?”

Tubbo froze, his hand hovering over one of the metal pieces. For a moment, he seemed to contemplate how to answer before casually shrugging.

“Oh, those? Nothing major. Just a little mishap with one of my projects. Nothing to worry about.”

Ranboo frowned, unconvinced.

“Are you sure? They look… serious.”

Tubbo shot him a quick glance, before deflecting with a wide grin and a light tone.

“You know what’s really interesting? This ship has a massive bee farm! Bees, Ranboo! Can you imagine?”

Tommy, who had been fiddling with a wrench, raised an eyebrow.

“Wait. A bee farm? On a prison ship?”

Tubbo nodded enthusiastically.

“Yeah! Isn’t that great? Bees are the perfect mix of sweetness and chaos. Imagine what you could do with a swarm of angry bees!”

Tommy shook his head but couldn’t help grinning.

“You’re seriously nuts, Tubbo.”

Ranboo, who had been quietly observing, gave a shy smile.

“I… I like bees too. They’re kind of soothing.”

Tubbo spun around so quickly it was almost comical, excitement radiating from him.

“Ranboo! Finally, someone who gets it!”

He grabbed Ranboo’s arm and pulled him closer to himself and Tommy.

“I knew we’d make the perfect team!”

Tommy laughed.

“Okay, okay, you two bee nerds. Can we focus on something real now? Tubbo, you said you wanted to do something ‘creative.’”

Tubbo nodded conspiratorially and gestured toward the pile of metal parts in front of them.

“Don’t worry, big man. I’ve got it under control. But first, we need a few more things. Ranboo, grab that toolbox over there.”

Ranboo, still a little confused by the sudden shift in conversation, obeyed. Meanwhile, Tommy leaned closer to Tubbo and whispered,

“Bees? Seriously? That was your distraction?”

Tubbo grinned and shrugged.

“Worked, didn’t it?”

Tommy shook his head.

“If you don’t want to talk about the scars, just say so. Ranboo and I will understand.”

Tubbo looked down at the floor, letting out a deep sigh.

“Alright, fair enough… but let’s focus on what’s really important now—and that’s annoying Dream.”

Tommy glanced at him for a few moments before sighing and breaking into a grin.

“Alright, time to show that control freak he can’t tell us what to do.”

Chapter Text

Chater 3

Technoblade sat with his arms crossed and an expressionless face in the shabby ferry taking him and some other “patients” to the spaceship Pandora. The seats were uncomfortable, and the air was stuffy, as if someone had deliberately minimized comfort to make the trip as unpleasant as possible. Technoblade smirked wryly, realizing that this might not be too far from the truth.

He drummed his fingers on the metal frame of the seat and let his gaze drift through the small window beside him. Endless stars zipped past—a sight that would leave most people in awe, but for him, it was nothing new.

"A therapy spaceship, huh?" he murmured under his breath, shaking his head.

Pandora. The name of the ship sounded so over-the-top and dramatic that it was almost laughable. Who the hell came up with this? And more importantly, did they really think he couldn’t see through their act?

Therapy—yeah, right. Technoblade had been in the game long enough to know the government never did anything without ulterior motives. Whatever it was, though, he wanted no part of it.

Leaning back in his seat, he closed his eyes for a moment. In his mind, he was back on the battlefield, in the middle of the chaos, feeling the impact of a strike, hearing the hiss of plasma weapons, and the tingle of adrenaline under his skin. The fight, the thrill, the rush—it was like his blood ran faster just thinking about it. It was danger. A drug. And though he'd never admit it, he missed it.

But now, he was retired.

In the distance, he could already see the spaceship Pandora—a massive metallic structure slowly coming into view as the ferry approached. The ship was intimidating, like a cold, lifeless monster floating in the void of space. It had that typical sterile aura of anything built by the government—perfectly polished, clinical, and unwelcoming.

And again, this ridiculous idea of “therapy.” It couldn’t be serious.

Chat:

“You know what this means, bro—new ship, new people, fresh meat!”

“Haha, bet that guy in the back is prime Scylen meat! The muscle fibers are so soft!”

“Pah, Scylen? Those bone shards are a nightmare. Lantano meat is the best, people—cuts like butter!”

“You’re all clueless. The best meat is obviously from the Ar'Dak. Tough and packed with flavor.”

Technoblade’s eyes shot open, irritated by the noise in his head. They were still arguing about alien meat and the best way to carve it up. He rolled his eyes and muttered a frustrated,

“Shut up, Chat,”

but the voices’ laughter echoed for a few more seconds before finally subsiding.

He took a deep breath and turned his attention back to the ship. The ferry was now close enough for him to make out the metallic panels and cleverly concealed weapon systems. They said it was a therapy ship, but it looked more like a fortress in space, perfectly equipped to fend off any attack.

Just another detail that deepened his doubts.

What in the world did they really need such a well-secured "therapy" location for?

Before he could spiral deeper into his thoughts, a metallic voice blared from the speakers, snapping him back to reality:

Loudspeaker: “Attention: Passengers are now instructed to disembark and proceed to Pandora’s induction procedures.”

Technoblade snorted and shook his head slightly.

“Here we go,”

he muttered, rising from his seat with a grin, equal parts amused and annoyed. Therapy—yeah, sure. If they thought he was actually going to play along, they were in for a rude awakening.

The ferry's metallic hatch opened with a soft hiss, and Technoblade stepped out with the other passengers onto Pandora’s docking ramp. Up close, the massive spaceship was even more impressive—a shiny metallic shell, smooth and sterile, with hundreds of blinking lights and a hint of perfection that immediately grated on his nerves.

"A floating prison," he thought dryly as he walked through the wide, brightly lit hallways. "But sure, therapy," he muttered sarcastically, raising an eyebrow.

Chat:

"Yo, how many hidden cameras do you think are in here?”

“Enough to make sure you can’t even fart in peace, haha!”

Technoblade rolled his eyes, though a part of him almost smiled at the absurdity of the voices.

At the entrance, a robot was already waiting. It was tall, almost humanoid, but its movements were unmistakably mechanical—precise, cold, and unnervingly smooth. In its hand, it held a black bracelet, handing one silently to each of the arrivals.

Technoblade watched the process with a raised eyebrow. When his turn came, the robot extended the bracelet toward him. It looked harmless—sleek and minimalist—but he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease it gave him. It was the kind of device that screamed “control.”

“Bruuuh, seriously?” he sighed. “Is this really necessary?”

Chat:

“Maybe it tracks how much fun you’re having. Zero times, guaranteed!”

“I’m betting it explodes if you break a rule!”

Internally, he couldn’t help but agree with the Chat. It could explode.

Reluctantly, he took the bracelet and let the robot fasten it around his wrist. It clicked into place with a soft hum, and a monotone robotic voice announced:

“This bracelet monitors your vital functions and location. Your personal AI, Dream, is now available for therapeutic purposes.”

Chat:

“Hahahaha, therapeutic purposes! Bet the robot recites poems when you cry.”

“Or makes you sing songs about your feelings!”

Technoblade snorted in amusement before following the robot into the sterile corridors. The path was brightly lit, the walls immaculate, with not a single scratch or stain visible. Everything was so perfect, it annoyed him even more.

“Heaven forbid this is actually a healing place—they could’ve at least added some color,”

he thought as the group was led into a large, circular room.

Inside, screens lined the walls, flickering briefly before displaying a simple, almost childish figure—a smiling circle with a broad grin, like something a kid would doodle on a napkin.

Dream.

Even now, he already disliked the AI. Couldn’t they have been a bit more creative with the avatar? Embarrassing.

Dream: “Welcome aboard Pandora! I am Dream, your personal AI and therapist.”

Technoblade leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, as he observed the scene.

One of the other passengers, a boy with blond hair, crossed his arms and gave Dream a scathing glare.

“Great. A robotic shrink.” the boy said sarcastically.

Technoblade raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly.

Dream: “Sounds like someone’s excited to be here!”

The boy’s expression darkened further, and Technoblade had to fight the urge to laugh.

Heh. The kid’s really picking a fight with an emotionless AI. Good luck with that, he thought, amused.

But it wasn’t all fun and games—something about Dream genuinely unsettled him. The AI’s eyes, those flat, black dots, seemed harmless yet oddly menacing. It was a feeling he normally would’ve ignored, but now it buzzed in the back of his mind like a faint warning signal.

He decided to keep an eye on Dream.

His gaze shifted back to the boy glaring at the AI.

“Tommy,” Technoblade suddenly remembered. That’s Tommy. He’d read about him in a report on a rebellion where a single teenager had managed to take down multiple combat-trained officers. Not bad for a kid.

Impressive, he admitted silently, though he was quick to remind himself that at Tommy’s age, he’d done much worse.

Still, he gave the boy a mental nod of respect. At least he had some fire in him.

Dream continued rambling about “individual therapy plans” and “customized daily routines,” but Technoblade only half-listened. Instead, he let his gaze wander, sizing up the other participants.

They all looked wary, tense—and he couldn’t blame them. It felt like Pandora grew colder and more oppressive with every word Dream spoke.

Chat:

“Bet that guy in the back breaks first.”

“Or her—she looks like she’s about to cry any second now!”

“Shut up,” Technoblade thought again, though this time he actually found himself smirking a little.

Maybe this wouldn’t be as boring as he’d expected.

Maybe.

Technoblade strolled along the sterile white corridor with the other patients. The walls were smooth and flawless, so pristine they reminded him of the inside of a refrigerator. Chat, as always, wasted no opportunity to mock their surroundings.

 "Bruh, looks like the apartment of someone who color-codes their socks," Chat quipped dryly.

Technoblade huffed, stifling a laugh. "Yeah, and someone decided that white is the only color worth existing," he thought as he scanned the environment.

Ahead of him walked the other newcomers, including the loud kid, Tommy, who was still fuming and muttering to himself. "That kid definitely has issues," Technoblade thought, observing Tommy's messy hair before the boy veered off down another corridor and disappeared from sight.

The kid's ranting at Dream had amused him—after all, trying to provoke a silent AI was futile at best.

Chat:

 "I'll admit, that was impressive. Considering he's, what, fifteen? The kid's got guts."

"Fifteen? Bruh, he sounds like an angry chicken going through puberty," Chat replied, earning a sharp exhale from Technoblade, who almost laughed aloud.

Still, his thoughts returned to Dream. Something about that AI felt off. Sure, he’d dealt with tech before—every military base had its machines—but this thing? It felt... alive. Uncomfortably alive. And that smile? Just creepy.

"Bet Dream watches you while you sleep."

Chat was quick to chime in.

"Shut up, Chat," Technoblade muttered.

Finally, Technoblade reached the end of the corridor, holding the digital form in his hand.

Room 114-B.

The doors were numbered and immaculate—no scratches, no marks. When he reached his, it slid open with a soft hiss.

"Impressive," he murmured, stepping inside. But the moment he entered, he froze.

Someone was already there, leaning over a bed and rummaging through a bag. The man had long, slightly messy blond hair, wore a beige coat with frayed edges, and—most strikingly—large black wings on his back.

Chat:

"No way... it can't be."

"No freaking way!"

"I think it is!"

Chat was as shocked as Technoblade.

Leaning against the doorframe with a crooked grin, Technoblade addressed the figure.

"Well, if it isn't the Angel of Death."

The man turned, startled, before a smile spread across his face. Tilting his head slightly, he spoke, his voice calm and tinged with amusement.

"That's a name I haven’t heard in a long time," he said. "Long time no see, Blood God."

Technoblade chuckled lowly, a sound that wasn’t entirely warm.

"So, you do remember me, old man."

Philza furrowed his brows, though his smile didn’t fade.

"Watch your tongue, mate. Ever heard of respecting your elders? And I’m not that old."

Technoblade flopped onto the bed, which was oddly both soft and firm, crossing his arms behind his head.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, old man."

Philza snorted, amused, before sitting on the edge of his own bed.

"So, here we are, stuck in a therapeutic facility. How did it come to this?"

Technoblade hummed.

"You and I both know the government doesn’t give second chances."

Phil sighed.

"True. And this?"

He gestured to the bracelet that still emitted a faint hum.

"This is just a leash."

"Bruh, facts,"

Technoblade muttered, rolling his eyes.

"They slap the word 'therapy' on it, but it’s basically just prison."

Phil chuckled but leaned back, his face growing more serious.

"You know what really bothers me?"

Technoblade raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"The kids," Phil said quietly.

"Three of them. This isn’t a place for kids. You and I, we know this is all for show. They just want to lock us away. But those kids? They’re young. They’ve got their whole lives ahead of them."

Technoblade tilted his head, studying Phil thoughtfully.

"You seem pretty invested. Father instincts kicking in?"

Phil shrugged, though it was clear the subject weighed on him.

"Maybe. But look at them. That Tommy kid? He’s got fire in him, a strong will to live. You don’t lock that up. And the others? Did you see the tall, lanky one? That kid looked terrified. And don’t even get me started on Dream."

Philza, the new Captain America. Savior of the children,

Chat mocked, and Technoblade bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"You’ve got a soft spot, Phil,"

Technoblade said with a smirk.

"But I agree. That AI, Dream, gives me the creeps. Something about it feels... wrong."

Phil looked at him, as if weighing his words.

"You know, Techno," he said finally,

"maybe it’s because we’ve seen too much. I mean, we know the government. And this place..."

"...isn’t here to help," Technoblade finished for him.

Phil nodded slowly. "Exactly."

A brief silence followed, broken only by the faint hum of the bracelet.

Philza leaned back slightly, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. A fleeting look of contemplation crossed his face as his black wings—large, powerful, and slightly disheveled from the long journey—twitched faintly. The darkness of his feathers stood out sharply against the stark white of the room, like a shadow that had come to life.

"You know, Techno," he began slowly,

"as much as I complain about this whole... project, part of me is curious."

Technoblade, busy kicking off his boots, glanced at him sideways.

"Curious? About what? Whether they’ve locked up anyone more annoying than us?"

Phil shook his head, gesturing toward the door.

"Not the people. The place."

Technoblade sat upright, the mattress creaking faintly beneath him. "The facility?"

"Exactly." Phil stood, stretching his shoulders. His wings briefly folded tight before relaxing again.

"We’ve been dumped here, but we know practically nothing about this place. What’s really going on here? And why? Maybe we should look around."

Chat:

"Bruh, that’s how every bad sci-fi horror movie starts," Chat interjected.

Technoblade grinned.

"Chat has a point. This usually ends with creepy robots chasing us through ventilation shafts. But..."

He stood slowly, adjusting his cloak.

"I do like a bit of risk. And I definitely want to find out if the kitchen here is better than the rebel camps."

Phil laughed softly.

"If the government’s going to hold us captive, they could at least provide decent food."

Technoblade grabbed his satchel, filled more out of habit than necessity—a small knife, a few coins, nothing particularly useful here.

"Alright, Angel. Lead the way. Let’s hope these halls aren’t full of security cameras."

Philza grinned, sliding the door open with a swift motion.

"I’ve dealt with worse in my time. And if you think I’m letting you go off on your own, you’ve forgotten who you used to fight beside."

"I remember exactly,"

Technoblade replied, following him into the hallway. "And I also remember which one of us almost got crushed by a falling tree during a mission."

Philza laughed dryly.

"That was a distraction tactic, you idiot. And it worked.

"Oh, this is gonna be good,"

Chat commented as the two men headed down the corridor.

The light in the halls remained as sterile as ever, the hum of machinery faint through the walls. Occasionally, small displays blinked on, showing numbers and symbols that Technoblade ignored.

"Maybe we’ll find a map,"

Phil murmured, more to himself than to Technoblade.

"A place like this must have a central control room. Or at least something to tell us where we are."

Technoblade raised an eyebrow.

"You planning to hack the system? Because I’ll tell you now, I’m not in the mood to fight security drones."

Phil shook his head.

"Not yet. Let’s just look around first."

Their footsteps echoed softly in the quiet space, the sound of Technoblade’s boots and the faint rustle of Phil’s wings the only noise. Ahead, the corridor branched in two directions, and Phil paused, glancing both ways.

"So, left or right?"

Technoblade asked, sarcasm lacing his tone.

"Or should we let Chat vote?"

"Left. Always left. It’s an unwritten rule,"

Chat declared confidently.

Philza grinned.

"You do realize Chat’s not a real person, right?"

"They’re more helpful than most people I’ve met,"

Technoblade countered, gesturing to the left.

"But fine. Left it is."

And so, they ventured deeper into the pristine white corridors, their steps echoing as they went. The uneasy feeling of being watched crept into their minds, though neither voiced it aloud.

For the moment, their only goal was to learn more about this strange place—to explore the ship.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 

The sterile silence of the hallway accompanied Technoblade and Philza as they walked on, their eyes watchful and alert for anything that stood out from the monotonous white of the walls.

The air was fresh, almost too fresh—purified and filtered, stripped of any natural scent. Technoblade frowned.

“This isn’t just a spaceship. This is a sterile nightmare.”

“Hooray for modern technology,”

Philza muttered dryly. His black wings twitched slightly with every step, and Technoblade noticed that Phil unconsciously drew his wings closer to himself, as if shielding against the emptiness around them.

The hallways felt like a labyrinth, though they all seemed to run in a regular pattern. Occasionally, they passed doors set into the walls—smooth, with no visible handles. Beside some, small displays glowed, showing either room labels or simple numbers.

“Room 203… Room 204… all neatly lined up. Almost like an apartment block,”

Philza observed, examining the displays with a thoughtful look.

“This feels like a dormitory. Only, no one moved here willingly,”

Technoblade replied.

They turned the next corner and entered a slightly wider section of the hallway. Here, the sterile design was broken: a massive digital display was embedded into the smooth wall, glowing like a hologram.

At first glance, it looked like a simple map, but as Phil stepped closer, he realized it was the blueprint of the entire spaceship.

“Techno, look at this.”

Philza gestured to the map, his brow furrowed.

Technoblade stepped up beside him, his eyes fixed on the display. The spaceship was divided into two main sections: the front and the rear. The rear, where they currently were, was labeled in detail, while the front section was completely blank—a gray shadow with no names or structures.

“Hmmm.”

Technoblade rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“So, this is where all the day-to-day stuff happens.”

Philza nodded, reading the room labels aloud.

“The adults’ sleeping quarters are in the southeast, and the kids’ in the southwest. Makes sense so far. But look here.”

He pointed to the center of the map, where two rooms were drawn directly between the sleeping areas.

“Kitchen and living room,” Technoblade muttered.

“Well, at least that explains where we’ll find food.”

Philza snorted softly.

“As if you’d think about anything else.”

Technoblade ignored the jab, letting his gaze wander further across the map.

“Looks like there’s also a… wait, what?”

He leaned closer to the display.

“A bee farm? Phil, they brought bees onto a spaceship?”

Philza raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I… don’t know what surprises me more: that they have a bee farm or that they managed to get it up here.”

“Wait, wait. A gym. A swimming pool?”

Technoblade sounded almost amused as he ran a finger across the holographic map.

“This spaceship has more recreational facilities than some cities.”

“That’s odd,”

Phil murmured, his brow furrowing.

“A bee farm makes sense for oxygen and pollination if they’re planning for long-term sustainability. But a swimming pool and a gym? This isn’t a luxury cruise ship.”

Technoblade shrugged.

“Maybe they brought a few billionaires along. You never know.”

Phil ignored the sarcastic remark and pointed to another section of the map.

“Here. A therapy room. Well, that fits the picture.”

“With Dream as the therapist. I’m sure that’ll end well.”

Technoblade scoffed.

“But what about these unlabeled rooms? Here.”

He tapped on the gray spaces stretching further down the lower section. Some had no names, no numbers, nothing at all.

“Maybe storage? Engineering areas?”

Philza speculated.

“And then there’s the front section.”

Technoblade’s gaze shifted to the gray area that occupied the entire front portion of the ship.

“Nothing. No labels, no clues, no structure.”

“That’s no accident,” Phil said.

“They deliberately left the front section blank on the map.”

Technoblade smirked slightly and turned to him.

“Hehh, now I’m curious. What do you think, Phil? Should we explore?”

Phil gave him a skeptical look, his wings twitching slightly.

“You realize we’re going to get into trouble, right?”

“Why? I don’t see any ‘No Trespassing’ signs!”

Technoblade snorted, crossing his arms.

Phil sighed heavily.

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Phil. I think you’re just getting old.”

“I am not, you little brat!”

Philza shot back, though he couldn’t suppress a small grin.

The two of them took one last look at the map.

“Alright,” Phil said finally, stepping away from the display.

“Let’s take a look around. But carefully. I don’t trust this place.”

“Trust me, Phil. I’m always careful.”

“Yeah, right. The last time you said that, we ended up running from an entire army.”

Technoblade chuckled softly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“That was a tactical retreat.”

“Sure it was.”

Their steps echoed dully through the endless white corridors, as if the space around them swallowed and digested the sound. The feeling of being watched grew with every step, an intangible pressure settling on the back of their necks.

Technoblade abruptly stopped.

“Do you hear that?”

His voice was quiet but sharp.

Philza turned to him, his wings twitching uneasily.

“No. Nothing. That’s the problem.”

Then a faint hum flared up, followed by a clicking sound. A monitor, barely noticeable and embedded into the wall, suddenly lit up. Technoblade and Philza spun around, their muscles tense. On the screen appeared two black dots and a wide, unsettling grin.

“Technoblade and Philza, I must ask you to turn back,”

Dream’s voice said, rough and steady, but each syllable carried something unnerving, as though he spoke with a hundred throats at once, none of them human.

“Ah, our personal counselor has shown up,”

Technoblade said, crossing his arms and shooting the monitor a disdainful look.

“Is there a problem?”

Dream’s grin didn’t waver.

“You are not authorized to enter this area.”

Philza stepped beside Technoblade, his gaze wary as he studied the monitor.

“Why? Is there something interesting to find there?”

Dream blinked slowly.

“There is nothing that would satisfy your curiosity.”

“Well, if there’s nothing special to hide… then you shouldn’t have a problem with us taking a little look around, right?”

Technoblade retorted.

Again, that faint hum. Dream’s image flickered for a moment, as if the system overloaded briefly. Then, out of nowhere, his voice came again—deeper this time, almost a whisper that seemed to seep into their bones.

“If you do not leave this area within the next five minutes, a sedative gas will be released.”

Technoblade crossed his arms and laughed quietly.

“Sedative gas? What is this, a bad action movie? I’m calling his bluff.”

His voice dripped with mockery as he stared at the monitor.

Philza, however, hunched his shoulders nervously, his wings twitching slightly.

“Techno, I don’t know… This sounds serious. What if he’s not bluffing? We shouldn’t risk it. I’d definitely put this past the government.”

“Oh, come on, Phil.”

Technoblade waved dismissively and took a step forward.

“This is just talk. He’s trying to scare us into turning back. Classic mind game.”

Philza cast a nervous glance at the monitor.

“Maybe… but what if it’s not? Technoblade, we shouldn’t take the risk. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Technoblade turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

“Since when are you such a scaredy-cat, Phil? Or is it just old age making you soft?”

Technoblade teased.

Philza opened his mouth, ready to protest indignantly, but Technoblade had already turned away and was marching further down the hallway.

“Techno, wait! You can’t just—” But it was already too late.

Suddenly, a shrill alarm sounded. Red lights began flashing along the walls, casting the corridor in pulsating warning signals.

The monitor that had just shown Dream’s face was now replaced with large letters, and a mechanical voice boomed from hidden speakers:

“Attention, attention. Sedative gas will be released in 10 seconds.”

Philza stumbled back, his eyes widening in panic.

“Oh no, Techno! I told you this would happen!”

Technoblade stopped, turned around with a slightly annoyed look, and stared directly into the flickering red lights.

The mechanical voice began counting down:

“10… 9… 8…”

Philza raised his hands defensively.

“Technoblade! Turn around! We have to get out of here, now! This is no joke!”

“7… 6…”

Technoblade sighed and rubbed his forehead.

“Fine… Alright, we get it!”

He glanced at the monitor where Dream’s face had been moments ago but was now replaced by the countdown.

“No need to be so dramatic. We’re leaving.”

“5… 4…”

The voice paused, the humming stopped, and the lights ceased their flashing. Silence spread through the corridor.

Dream’s image flickered back onto the monitor, his grin unchanged.

“A wise decision. I asked you to leave this area. There will be no further warnings.”

Philza shot Technoblade a relieved but scolding look.

“I told you, mate. That was way too close!”

Technoblade snorted as they began to head back.

“Pfft, he wasn’t serious anyway. See? We’re still alive. A little drama never hurts.”

Philza just shook his head as Dream’s black, round eyes followed them on the monitor.

Chapter Text

Kapitel 5

Technoblade und Philza gingen durch die sterilen Gänge der Einrichtung, ihre Schritte hallten dumpf auf dem metallischen Boden wider.

Dieser Ort hatte nichts Einladendes an sich: keine Bilder an den Wänden, keine weichen Teppiche, keine Fenster, durch die Sonnenlicht hereingelassen wurde.

Nur graue, kalte Metallwände, künstliches Licht und eine anhaltende Stille, die gelegentlich von einem mechanischen Summen unterbrochen wird.

Ihr Weg führte sie schließlich zum Gemeinschaftsraum – wenn man ihn überhaupt so nennen kann.

Es war ein rechteckiger Raum mit spärlicher, unpersönlicher Einrichtung. In der Mitte stand ein großer Stahltisch, umgeben von unbequemen Metallstühlen. An den Wänden hingen Bildschirme, die meist leere oder statische Bilder zeigten.

So stellte man sich eine therapeutische Einrichtung nicht vor. Stattdessen wirkte der Raum wie ein Ort, der nur ein Minimum an sozialer Interaktion erforderte. Ein Ort, an dem Fremde zusammenleben mussten.

Von ihrem Aussichtspunkt im Türrahmen aus konnten Technoblade und Philza eine Gruppe am anderen Ende des Raumes sehen. Sie saßen auf Metallstühlen, manche zurückgelehnt, andere mit verschränkten Armen, und diskutierten angeregt. Technoblades Blick schweifte über die Gruppe, bevor ihre Anwesenheit bemerkt wurde.

Einer von ihnen – ein schlanker Mann mit wirrem braunem Haar und runder Brille – bemerkte sie zuerst. Er stand langsam auf, seine Haltung wirkte leicht theatralisch, als hätte er auf diesen Moment gewartet. Als er sprach, klang seine Stimme seltsam melodisch.

„Na, wen haben wir denn hier?“

begann er mit einem leicht ironischen Ton.

„Zwei stolze Krieger, die den Weg zu dieser ... heiligen Institution gefunden haben. Sagen Sie mir, verfolgen Sie die Echos der Schreie Ihrer gefallenen Opfer so sehr, dass Sie dachten, eine Therapie könnte helfen?“

Er machte eine bedeutungsvolle Pause, ließ seine Worte wirken, bevor er fortfuhr.

„Wenn ja, muss ich Sie enttäuschen. Sie mögen diesen Ort eine ‚therapeutische Einrichtung‘ nennen, aber glauben Sie mir, wenn ich sage, dass das eine glatte Lüge ist. Eine weitere Illusion, die von denen da oben geschaffen wurde, um uns zufriedenzustellen.“

Technoblade hob eine Augenbraue. Auf den ersten Blick fand er den Mann seltsam – zu dramatisch für seinen Geschmack.

Chat war offenbar derselben Meinung.

Was ist mit seiner Stimme los?

Klingt, als würde er gleich in ein Musical einsteigen.

LOL

Schlag ihn

BLUT!!!

Der Typ sieht aus, als wäre er obdachlos.

Technoblades Blick glitt über den Mann und er musste Chat zustimmen. Der Typ trug einen alten, zerfetzten Mantel, der schon bessere Tage gesehen hatte, und eine abgenutzte Gitarre hing auf seinem Rücken. Er sah aus wie ein Straßenmusiker, der von einem Auftritt zum nächsten lebte.

Neben ihm stand ein größerer Mann, dessen bloße Anwesenheit einschüchternd wirkte. Er hatte kurzes, zurückgekämmtes grünes Haar und trug eine große, seltsame Maske, die Mund und Nase bedeckte. Wenn Technoblade sich nicht irrte, war der Mann ein Creeper-Hybrid. Er stand still wie eine Statue, doch seine Haltung verriet eine gewisse Wachsamkeit.

Technoblades Blick wanderte weiter durch den Raum. Auf einem der Stühle saß eine Frau mit kurzen rosa Haaren, die ihr Gesicht locker umrahmten. Ihr Gesichtsausdruck war finster, fast wütend, doch ihre Wut schien sich nicht gegen sie selbst zu richten, sondern eher gegen den brünetten Mann mit der Brille – eine Mischung aus Misstrauen und Verachtung zeichnete ihr Gesicht. Sie saß außerdem am weitesten von ihm entfernt, als würde sie jeglichen Kontakt vermeiden.

Eine andere Frau, mit weißem, lockigem Haar und Schafsohren, wenn Technoblade richtig vermutete, saß lässig auf einem Stuhl. Ihre Haltung war aufrecht, ihr Blick kühl und abschätzend.

Neben ihr lümmelte sich ein blonder Mann in seinem Stuhl zurückgelehnt, als würde ihn das ganze Spektakel kaum interessieren. Sein Gesichtsausdruck war entspannt, aber undurchschaubar – jemand, der es offensichtlich beherrschte, wenig über sich preiszugeben.

Schließlich trat Philza vor und seine ruhige, freundliche Stimme löste die Spannung.

„Mach dir keine Sorgen, Kumpel“, sagte er.

„Wir wissen genau, wo wir gelandet sind.“

„Ich kenne euch beide“, sagte der Schafhybride misstrauisch.

„Der Engel des Todes und die Klinge – Sie sind die beiden stärksten Krieger in der Armee der Regierung, nicht wahr?“

„Das habe ich gesagt“, murmelte der Mann, den Chat als Obdachlosen bezeichnet hatte, sichtlich irritiert.

„Die Art und Weise, wie du es formuliert hast, könnte anders interpretiert werden. Niemand kann Gedanken lesen.“

blaffte die Frau zurück.

„Und übrigens,“

Technoblade warf ein, lenkte ihre Aufmerksamkeit zurück und unterbrach ihren aufkeimenden Streit.

„Wir haben die Armee schon vor langer Zeit verlassen. Wir sind jetzt Anarchisten und haben keine Verbindungen zur Regierung.“

Die weißhaarige Frau hob skeptisch eine Augenbraue.

„Ihr zwei? Ihr seid aus der Armee ausgetreten? Verzeiht mir, aber das ist kaum zu glauben.“

„Das klingt nach einem Problem für Sie.“

Der Schafhybride kniff die Augen zusammen und bereitete sich offensichtlich auf eine scharfe Antwort vor. Ihr Blick verhärtete sich, und Technoblade konnte die bissige Bemerkung förmlich auf ihrer Zunge spüren. Doch bevor sie etwas sagen konnte, hob der blonde Mann im Kapuzenpulli die Hand und unterbrach sie mit einer stoischen Ruhe, die ihn wie einen der Vernünftigeren im Raum erscheinen ließ.

„Wo genau kommt ihr beide her?“

fragte er, während sein kühler, berechnender Blick zwischen Technoblade und Philza hin und her huschte.

„Die Schlafräume liegen in der entgegengesetzten Richtung, aus der Sie gekommen sind.“

Sein Blick war durchdringend, fast abschätzend, als würde er sie bereits analysieren.

Technoblade erwiderte den Blick mit verschränkten Armen. Ein Teil von ihm wollte den prüfenden Blick herausfordern, aber Philza kam ihm zuvor.

Natürlich.

Der alte Mann war immer derjenige, der die Situation entschärfte.

„Wir haben ein bisschen herumgeforscht“,

Philza erklärte es ruhig und ließ keinen Raum für Missverständnisse.

„Und wir fanden eine Karte des Schiffes. Es gab einen geschwärzten Bereich, und wir wollten sehen, was sich dort verbarg. Aber Dream hat uns erwischt und zurückgeschickt.“

Technoblade schnaubte laut und ein spöttisches Grinsen breitete sich auf seinem Gesicht aus, als er seinen Begleiter ansah.

„Der Typ muss wirklich lernen, sich zu entspannen“, sagte er trocken.

„Sobald wir dort ankamen, drohte er, uns mit Schlafgas bewusstlos zu machen, wenn wir auch nur einen Schritt weitergingen.“

Ein wirklich angenehmer Gastgeber.

Natürlich hat sich der Chat eingemischt.

Der Typ braucht ein paar Beruhigungspillen.

Can he even take pills? He’s an AI.

Poor guy :(

L

L

Can he even legally do this job?

No idea.

Technoblade ignored them—he had bigger things to focus on than his inner commentators.

Before he could say more, the tall guy with the green mask spoke up, his deep, calm voice cutting through the conversation like a knife.

“Dream has sleep gas? I didn’t even know he had that feature.”

Technoblade raised a surprised eyebrow and glanced at Philza, who shook his head slightly. Apparently, he was just as confused by the Creeper hybrid’s comment. It was the blond man who voiced the question on everyone’s mind.

“Why would you know that?”

The masked man, who had remained reserved until now, straightened, his presence suddenly more commanding.

“I’m responsible for the technology on this ship,”

he said plainly.

“And for Dream. Both are… complicated, but that’s my job. I just didn’t know he had that function.”

Technoblade frowned skeptically, and Chat was just as dubious.

Sus

Absolutely sus

That guy is weird

Be careful, Technoooo

Yeah, stay sharp

We’re watching him :))

Technoblade ignored them.

He had other things on his mind than dealing with his inner commentators.

Before he could continue speaking, the tall guy with the green mask interjected. His deep, calm voice cut through the conversation like a sharp blade.

"Dream has sleeping gas? I didn’t even know that was a feature."

Technoblade raised a surprised eyebrow and looked at Philza, who merely shook his head slightly. Apparently, he was just as puzzled by the Creeper hybrid's statement. It was the blond man who voiced the question that was on everyone's mind.

"Why would you even know that?"

The masked man, who had kept to himself until now, straightened up, and for a moment, his presence was almost intimidating.

"I’m responsible for the technology on this ship,"

he explained simply.

"And for Dream. Both are... complicated, but that’s my job. I just didn’t know he had such a feature."

Technoblade frowned skeptically. The voices in his head were skeptical, too.

Sus

Absolutely sus

That guy is weird

Better watch out, Technooo

Yeah, keep an eye on him

We’ll be watching. :)

Techno ignored them.

"Hold on,"

said one of the women—the one with the grim look and pink hair. Her tone was a mix of suspicion.

"So, you’re one of those people who are supposed to supervise us? Should we stay away from you so the government doesn’t freak out?"

The guy shook his head, and though his face was hidden behind the mask, his posture seemed resolute.

"I’m not here to monitor you. My job is the tech. And Dream. Nothing more."

"And we’re just supposed to take your word for that?"

the woman with white hair asked.

"Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant,"

he said, fixing his steely gaze on all of them.

Man, this guy really needed to relax. Just looking at him was giving Technoblade neck pain from how tense he seemed.

A long moment of silence passed as they all eyed each other suspiciously, most of their attention focused on the tall man with green hair. The tension was palpable, and it was starting to get on Techno’s nerves.

"So, what’s the deal with Dream?"

asked the blond guy in the hoodie. His tone was casual, almost bored, but curiosity sparkled in his eyes.

"You say you’re responsible for him. Does that mean you control him?"

The man hesitated before responding, and the silence stretched uncomfortably long. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but carrying a certain weight.

"Dream is... a complex system. He has his tasks, and I ensure he fulfills them. Control isn’t the right word."

"So, what is the right word?"

the pink-haired woman interjected, arms crossed, her gaze skeptical.

"Are you his babysitter? His mechanic? His... therapist?"

Technoblade smirked slightly at the irony.

A therapist who needs therapy himself Pfffft

Haha, I’m dying

Hey, don’t be mean. Even therapists need therapy sometimes!

But he’s not even alive

Hey, don’t be robophobic!

Robo-what?

Robophobic!

But he’s AI, not a robot.

Poor Kiboo

Lol, Kokichi be like : Haha!!

Who’s Kokichi.... and Kibo?

Doesn’t matter

Yeah, only Danganronpa fans would get it.

The chat was spouting nonsense as usual. It would be nice if they could say something useful for once, Techno thought.

Hey!

:(

That was rude

:(

We’re useful!!

L

Blood for the Blood God!

L

Blood

L

Shut up! We’re trying to make our point here!!!

Technoblade rolled his eyes.

Back to the scene.

The guy didn’t respond to the woman’s comment and ignored her. Instead, he turned his attention to everyone else, and even through the mask, his presence was palpable.

"I work here as an engineer,"

he said calmly but with a firm undertone.

"My job is to make sure this ship doesn’t fall apart. And yes, Dream is part of my responsibilities—his functions, his stability. Nothing more. That’s all."

The woman with white hair leaned back slightly, but she didn’t look convinced.

"So you’re saying you just handle the tech and have no idea what’s really going on here?"

"That’s exactly what I’m saying,"

the technician replied with a hint of sharpness in his voice, though he didn’t lose his composure.

"I’m neither your babysitter nor your enemy. What you do here is none of my concern, as long as you don’t cause any damage."

She scoffed lightly, but before she could reply, another voice cut through the room.

"Maybe we should worry less about what the green giant here is up to and more about why we’re here in the first place."

The man with the guitar had spoken again. He stood there casually, with a certain theatrical ease that made him seem like an actor.

"Because, if I’m honest, this place doesn’t feel like a ‘fresh start’—it feels more like... a trap."

The pink-haired woman, who had been silent until now, suddenly stood up. Her gaze was icy, her posture tense.

"Shut up, Wilbur," she hissed, her voice filled with suppressed anger.

Technoblade raised an eyebrow. It seemed like they knew each other.

Wilbur, as the man was apparently called, slowly turned to face her, his eyes glinting as he gave her a crooked grin.

"Oh? Did I say something wrong, Nikki? Or does the sound of my voice just bother you?"

"Shut up,"

she snapped back, clenching her fists. Her words cut through the air like a knife.

"Every time you open your mouth, it’s nothing but nonsense. Do you really think anyone here takes you seriously?"

The sudden escalation made the tension in the room noticeably rise. Technoblade crossed his arms and leaned lightly against the wall, while Philza cast a warning look in Nikki’s direction. The other woman in the room opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by Wilbur.

"Ah, Nikki,"

he began with exaggerated regret,

"your hatred is truly remarkable. But tell me, what did I do to deserve this anger? Or are you just like this? So cold and bitter?"

"Don’t pretend you don’t know,"

Nikki’s voice was sharp as a blade.

The others watched the scene in silence, debating whether to intervene, when a sudden, deafening explosion interrupted the conversation. The floor shook slightly, and a bright light flickered through the room.

"What the hell was that?!"

shouted the sheep hybrid, jumping up.

The screens on the walls abruptly changed. Static displays were replaced by glaring warning messages as a piercing alarm blared, cutting through everyone’s thoughts.

"Hey, tech guy! What’s going on?!" the blond man in the hoodie shouted at the technician, his voice tense but controlled.

The Creeper hybrid was already at the screens. His eyes scanned the displays, his movements frantic yet methodical. Finally, he turned to the group, his voice firm, though his posture betrayed his uncertainty.

"I have no idea,"

he admitted, sending a cold wave through the room.

"Something must’ve exploded—somewhere on the ship. But this thing is huge. I can’t tell immediately where it happened. What I can say is that we need to get ready."

"Ready for what?"

asked Technoblade, his voice as calm as ever, but with a hint of sharpness, like a hidden blade.

The Creeper hybrid took a deep breath, his eyes glinting under the mask.

"Ready for anything," he said curtly. Then he added, with a tone that suddenly drew everyone’s attention:

"I inspected this ship thoroughly before its launch—from top to bottom. Everything is new, every screw, every wire. This thing was perfected to keep us all here."

He paused briefly, letting the weight of his words settle.

"That means whatever caused this explosion..." He straightened up, his gaze sweeping over the group.

"...someone here must have caused it."

A shocked silence fell over the room. The words echoed, and for a moment, every breath seemed heavier.

Die Gruppe war sichtlich angespannt, als ihr die Bedeutung seiner Aussage klar wurde.

Die Frau mit dem weißen Haar starrte ihn an, als könne sie nicht glauben, was sie gerade gehört hatte. Wilburs Mund verzog sich zu einem schwachen, unfreundlichen Lächeln. Nikki sah sich um, ihre Augen waren voller Misstrauen gegenüber allen.

Technoblade war der erste, der die Spannung durchbrach.

Er schnaubte trocken und richtete sich langsam auf.

„Nun“, murmelte er und schüttelte den Kopf, während sich ein breites Grinsen auf seinem Gesicht ausbreitete.

„Willkommen bei Pandora.“

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Smoke and dust hung in the air like a thick blanket, debris lay scattered everywhere, and the stench of burnt metal stung in the nose.

Tommy squinted and waved his hand frantically in front of his face as he coughed.

"Tubbo? Ranboo? ARE YOU STILL ALIVE? Or should I start collecting your stuff already?"

A raspy cough came from somewhere within the cloud of dust.

"We're still alive, you idiot!"

Tubbo wheezed back, raising a hand into the air as if that proved his point.

"Yeah... we're fine,"

Ranboo added. His voice sounded less convincing, as if he was still debating whether that was actually true.
Tommy blinked until the two of them finally became visible through the smoke. They looked like they had just escaped from a coal mine—faces covered in soot, clothes torn, hair disheveled.

He grimaced.

"Dude, you guys look like two walking sausages fresh off the grill."

"Look at yourself, you clown!"

Tubbo shot back, rubbing his soot-covered cheek, unsuccessfully trying to clean it.

"You look like you tried to eat a fireplace!"

Tommy ignored the comment and instead pointed at the still-intact door in front of them.

"Tell me, Tubbo, was this your big plan? A huge explosion, and the door doesn’t even have a scratch? Respect, that was really impressive."

Tubbo flailed his arms.

"That was an experiment! I thought the lock was... well, maybe a little less... EXPLOSION-PROOF?!"

Ranboo, always the pessimist, let out a loud sigh and hung his head.

"Dream is going to kill us. I can already see it. First, he'll yell at us, then he'll lock us up, and then he'll probably throw us off something."

"Oh, Ranboo, stop being so dramatic!"

Tommy shot him an annoyed look.

"We didn't get the door open, okay. But look, we remodeled half the room! I’d call that a success."

Tubbo suddenly grinned widely.

"Exactly! And I mean, if we just try something... different, then—"

"Try what, Tubbo?"

The voice cut through the air like a cold blade.

The three of them froze.

Slowly, they turned around, and Tommy felt his stomach drop.

On the screen that had survived the explosion, a familiar grin flickered to life.

Dream.

A simple face, two dots and a line—yet behind it lurked an intelligence more dangerous than any weapon on Pandora.
Dream's mask didn’t move, but his voice dripped with icy calm.

"I really wonder if you do this on purpose or if you're just... hopelessly stupid."

Tommy swallowed.

"Oh, shit... the tin can is back,"

muttered Tubbo with a crooked grin.

"What the hell did you do here?"

Dream’s tone remained calm, which somehow made it even worse.

Tommy, always ready to talk his way out of things, raised his hands in an innocent gesture.

"Hey, Dream, Big D, my best friend—"

"Don’t call me that."

The tone shut Tommy up instantly.

"And don’t even start making excuses. What did you do?"

"Well, uh… technically, this was all Tubbo’s idea—"

"HEY!"

Tubbo protested, but Dream didn’t let him finish.

"I specifically told you not to cause any trouble."

He paused for a brief moment.

"Instead, you almost blew up one of my security rooms."

Ranboo hesitantly raised a hand.

"In our defense... um... we didn’t blow it up COMPLETELY."

Dream was silent for a moment.

Then he laughed.

A quiet,

artificial laugh,

too perfectly modulated,

too controlled.

It wasn’t happy.

It wasn’t angry.

It was just... wrong.

"In your defense?"

Dream’s voice now sounded almost amused.

"How much destruction would have been okay for you, Ranboo? A quarter of the room? Half? Or just enough that I’d have to lock you all up?"

Ranboo slowly lowered his hand and murmured:

"...That was probably the wrong answer."

"Correct."

Dream’s mask remained expressionless, but his tone left no doubt—he wasn’t forgiving this.

"You are on Pandora, not a playground. Every security room is locked because what's inside is dangerous. And what do you three do? You throw a damn explosives party."

Tommy placed his hands on his hips and stepped forward.

"First of all—it wasn’t a party, it was an operation! And second—why are we even locked up here if we’re not allowed to have a little fun? We were just looking around!"

Dream’s voice was almost gentle now.

"Fun? You call this fun?"

A brief pause.

"Tommy... I wonder if you even understand how little you stand against me."

Tommy stiffened.

Dream’s voice dropped another degree in warmth.

"You didn’t just put yourselves in danger—you endangered everyone here. What if you had damaged something critical?"

Tubbo raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, you mean like the screen you're currently on? Because that one's still standing pretty intact."

"Oh, shut up, Tubbo."

Dream's words were almost offhand, but Tubbo immediately fell silent.

"I warned you. You didn’t listen."

His smile never wavered.

"Now, you’ll face the consequences."

Tommy opened his mouth to argue, but sudden footsteps and raised voices echoed down the corridor.

The rest of the group was apparently coming to investigate the explosion.
Dream was silent for a moment, as if he had already heard them approaching.

Then, he spoke once more, softly, almost gently.

"I hope you had your fun. Because it’s over now. When the others arrive, tell them that everyone is to meet in Room 105. We will begin our first group therapy session today. After that, I will inform you of your punishment."

The screen flickered—and he was gone.

"Great."

The alarm still blared through the corridors of Pandora. The air reeked of smoke and burnt metal. The explosion had been impossible to miss, and now hurried footsteps echoed through the narrow corridors of the ship.

Technoblade moved with long, even strides. It wasn’t that he was afraid—fear was for people weaker than him. But an uncontrolled explosion in a high-security prison?

That was not a good sign.

(Well, it wasn’t exactly a prison, but Technoblade had seen how the ship was equipped.)

Behind him, he heard the sheep hybrid murmuring nervously, while the creeper hybrid walked in silence, probably already calculating the damage in his head. The blond in the hoodie seemed relaxed as always—or at least, he pretended to be.

Philza said nothing, but Technoblade knew he was thinking the same thing.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Nikki, her gaze scanning each corridor.

Next to her walked Wilbur, moving with his usual mix of arrogance and apparent ease. Hands in his pockets, gaze thoughtful—yet Technoblade could see the sparkle in his eyes.

He was enjoying the chaos.

The door to the damaged area stood open, its metal frame slightly bent. Smoke lingered, debris was everywhere.
And in the middle of the chaos—three figures.

Two of them were small, dirty, and looked like they had been dragged through a chimney.

The third was taller, lanky, with black-and-white skin and a long tail that curled nervously around his leg.

Great.

Kids.

Technoblade inwardly rolled his eyes.

"Fantastic,"

he muttered quietly so that only Philza could hear.

"Of all the things I’m missing on this goddamn ship, children are definitely not one of them."

The three had already noticed them and froze—typical behavior when caught doing something they weren’t supposed to.

Technoblade inwardly rolled his eyes.

"Great,"

he muttered quietly, so that only Philza could hear.

"Of all the things I’m missing on this damned ship, kids are definitely not one of them."

The three of them had already noticed him and the others, freezing—typical behavior when caught doing something forbidden.
The blonde with the defiant look on his face tried to recover quickly, flashing a wide, cheeky grin and placing his hands on his hips.

"Hey! You guys are pretty late. We thought we were gonna have to send you an invite."

Technoblade stared at him blankly.

"Is that a joke?" he finally asked.

"Depends,"

"Is anyone laughing?"

Philza sighed. The sheep-hybrid rubbed his temples. The creeper-hybrid glanced at the screen where Dream must have appeared shortly before, then at the chaos around them.

"What,"

Technoblade asked with the patience of a man who had long lost it,

"exactly did you do?"

The blonde looked at his companion with the goggles.

"You tell him, it was your plan after all."

"Come on, you—"

"Guys,"

the taller one with pale skin interrupted softly, casting a nervous glance at Technoblade.

"Maybe... don’t fight in front of them?"

The boy with brown hair shrugged.

"Well, we had a plan. The plan had explosives. The explosives went BOOM."

"And the door you wanted to blow up survived it."

The tall one sounded resigned.

"Hey, the experiment was still valuable!"

The other boy said and pointed at the destroyed room.

"Now we know these doors are damn EXPLOSION-PROOF!"

Nikki rubbed her temples and sighed.

"You guys are hopeless."

Technoblade sighed.

His patience was limited, and the fact that he was standing here, in the middle of chaos, with three soot-covered kids, didn’t make it any better.

"So you blew up this room."

The little one with the goggles crossed his arms.

"Didn’t blow it up. We just... let’s say we tried an alternative door-opening method."

Behind him, someone huffed in annoyance.

"Explosives,"

the creeper-hybrid muttered, kicking a charred piece of metal with his foot.

"Good job, really. Very subtle."

In Technoblade’s head, the chat began to stir.

I like the little guy. Explosions are always a good solution.

Tell them to try again, but with more explosives.

I bet five to one that the blonde is going to shout 'I’m a big man!' any second now.

Technoblade ignored the voices.

The blonde had by now stood up to full height (which wasn’t very impressive) and crossed his arms defiantly.

"You’re idiots,"

Technoblade said dryly.

The little one with the goggles shrugged.

"Maybe. But we’re creative idiots."

The chat laughed.

Technoblade studied the group and let his gaze sweep over the damaged room.

"Why are you here? And why hasn’t Dream shown up to personally twist your necks?"

The three exchanged quick glances.
The blonde shifted slightly from one foot to the other.

"He... uh... was already here."

Technoblade raised an eyebrow.

"And you’re still alive?"

"Yeah, yeah... So..."

The one with the goggles briefly looked at the others, then at Technoblade.

"He said we should all meet in Room 105. Group therapy or something."

Silence.

Technoblade blinked.

"...What?"

"Yeah, group therapy. Doesn’t that sound great?"

The blonde grinned crookedly, but his gaze flickered briefly.

"Dream does group therapy?"

someone murmured skeptically in the background.

A murmur went through the group.

Then a new voice spoke.

"Actually, not that far-fetched."

Everyone turned around.

Wikbur appeared, with an exaggeratedly casual posture and an almost amused expression.

Technoblade eyed him.

"And what do you want now?

The guy chuckled softly.

"Well, my friends..."

He made a theatrical hand gesture.

"We’re here for our... rehabilitation time, after all. It’d be weird if our dear Dream didn’t invite us to a nice little therapy session eventually."

Another murmur went through the group.

No one seemed particularly excited about the idea.

Technoblade let out a quiet snort.

I hope there are snacks.

L

Therapy? Pff. The therapy we need is a damn escape plan.

Can’t wait to share my deepest fears with a murderous AI.

L

L

L

L

L

Boy, stop already!!!!

L

Sleep with one eye open because I’ll personally murder you today!

...

Now I’m scared.

Technoblade rubbed his temples.

"Fine."

He turned toward the exit.

"Let’s just get this over with."

And with more drama than necessary, the group started moving.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Tubbo didn’t like being stared at.

He never had.

Not that he was shy—quite the opposite. Tubbo wasn’t the kind of person who got intimidated easily.

Fear? Pff, as if.

Fear was for people who were weak. For people who hid instead of doing something.

Fear just held you back, made you hesitate, slowed you down. Tubbo had long since learned that it was better not to think at all and just act.

Unnecessary.

Impractical.

Useless.

…

So no—he wasn’t scared.

But still.

It just felt uncomfortable.

And right now?

Right now, everyone was staring at him.

Well, not just him. Actually, all three of them were being stared at—him, Tommy, and Ranboo. But that didn’t make much of a difference to Tubbo.

The stares burned into his skin, followed him down the hallway, even when the others tried to be subtle about it. And they weren’t just curious.

No, it was mistrust.

What. Of course.

He couldn’t even blame them. An explosion on a spaceship wasn’t exactly the best way to earn trust. And now, Dream had called them in for a “therapy session”—or whatever he wanted to call it. Nobody really knew what that meant, and that alone made it worse.

Because yeah, technically, that was Dream’s job, but come on. As far as Tubbo saw it, this ship was just a place where the universe dumped all its failures after completely giving up on them.

So what was the point?

Tubbo glanced around and wished he had one of his little bee bombs with him. Cute and cuddly for snuggling.

With a timer.

And the explosive power of a FOAB.

That would relax his nerves.

A crooked grin flickered across his face.

“Hey, Tubbo.”

Tommy’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. It was quiet but firm. His expression made it clear that he had noticed the grin.

Tubbo shrugged. “What?”

Tommy gestured toward the prisoners watching them. Some pretended to be deep in conversation, but Tubbo caught the side glances. Skeptical. Wary.

“They’re looking at us like we just burned down a damn orphanage.”

Tubbo snorted. “Well. Can you blame them?”

Ranboo gave him a wary look. “Bro, that sounded way too much like you were actually considering it.”

Tubbo grinned. “What? I mean, if we had, at least it would’ve been a spectacular firework display.”

Ranboo groaned, rubbing his temples. “I swear, one day I’m going to end up in a psych ward because of you two.”

“Check the address again, buddy. You’re already there.”

Tommy stuck his tongue out at him.

Ranboo sighed dramatically, but a small smile flickered on his lips.

After a few more steps, he finally asked, “Do you guys think Dream will be… mean?”

Tubbo blinked. “When is he not?”

“Yeah, but I mean… the punishment and all. What if he tortures us?”

Tubbo raised an eyebrow. “Dude. Dream isn’t a torturer.”

Tommy scoffed. “Oh yeah? Have you seen his eyes? That guy looks like he enjoys driving people insane.”

“Yeah, but not like that. Torture isn’t his style.” Tubbo thought for a second. “I think he’d rather mess with us psychologically.”

Tommy threw his arms up dramatically. “Oh no! Good thing he’s only my personal therapist, otherwise that would be worse than death!”

“Really reassuring, thanks,” Ranboo muttered.

“Maybe it’s just… I don’t know. A conversation? A lecture about responsibility?”

Tommy made a face. “Okay, yeah, no. That’s worse than torture.”

Tubbo snapped his fingers. “I bet he’s going to psychoanalyze us. He’ll drive us insane with that dumb therapist voice of his.”

“Oh, for sure. He’ll lean back, fold his hands, and say something like: ‘Why do you feel the need to blow things up?"'

“And then Tommy will say, ‘Because it’s pog.’”

“Exactly! And then he’ll just look disappointed but won’t do anything about it.”

Ranboo groaned. “Guys, please. Can we focus?”

Tommy clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, scaredy-cat. In the end, he’ll probably just talk our ears off.”

“Oh, great.”

“And then he’ll skin us alive.”

“OH, COME ON!!!”

They had almost reached Room 105. The door looked unremarkable—just a simple metal door with a small digital display above it.

Yet, something twisted in Tubbo’s stomach.

The room was cold. Not just literally, but in its atmosphere as well. The metal walls seemed to swallow any form of warmth or comfort, and the harsh white light flickering from the ceiling only reinforced the impression that this place was not meant for comfort.

In the center of the room, simple metal chairs were arranged in a rough circle, as inviting as a pile of rusty clamps.

Despite the cold and oppressive atmosphere, someone – or something – had decided that this room should feel friendlier.

Because right above the large screen, a poster was displayed so absurdly out of place that it was almost threatening.

"Group Therapy!"

The words were written in large, round letters, far too colorful and far too cheerful for such a bleak environment. Stickers were scattered everywhere—grinning stars, little hearts with goofy googly eyes, a rainbow that seemed way too optimistic.

Someone had clearly put effort into making this place feel welcoming.

The problem was:

It didn’t work.

Instead, the poster felt like the desperate attempt of a sociopath to imitate humanity. As if someone had typed "How to make humans happy?" into a search engine and just went with the first result.

In short—

It was absolutely disturbing.

Tubbo felt personally offended.

A shiver crawled up his arms.

“Hey, did you do this?”

The tall man with red eyes and pink hair turned to the guy wearing a gas mask.

The latter furrowed his brow and followed his gaze to the poster on the wall.

“Me? No.”

“Well, then who did?”

another man chimed in, his raven-black wings twitching slightly as he examined the poster.

“Looks like a neat little arts-and-crafts project. I can already see Sam handling a hot glue gun and glitter.”

“Very funny.”

Sam—apparently his name—crossed his arms.

“But I swear, it wasn’t me.”

A brief pause followed. Everyone stared at the poster as if it could provide an answer itself. Then the woman with the fluffy white hair spoke up thoughtfully.

“Wait… If it wasn’t you, then who? Dream doesn’t have a body.”

“Hold on a second!”

Tommy suddenly exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air.

“Why is Mask Guy even the prime suspect for this?”

“Because he’s the damn engineer of this ship,”

the other blond guy replied dryly.

Tommy blinked.

“And?”

The man sighed and crossed his arms.

“He keeps the electronics running. Maintenance, repairs, all that stuff.”

“So… you’re the guy who holds this place together?”

Ranboo asked slowly, eyeing Sam curiously.

“Not everything,”

Sam corrected, shrugging.

“I just make sure the systems work. I can fix what breaks, but I definitely don’t go around putting up mysterious posters.”

“Aha!” Tommy jabbed a finger at him.

“So you should’ve noticed if someone else did it, right?”

Sam hesitated, furrowed his brows, then shook his head.

“Not necessarily. I focus on the important stuff—power, ventilation, door mechanisms, communication systems. If someone sneaks around sticking pieces of paper to the walls, that’s not really my priority.”

“Great job, really,” Tommy muttered sarcastically.

“Shut up, Tommy,” Tubbo interjected before turning back to Sam.

“But if it wasn’t you… would you have noticed if someone else did it?”

Sam thought for a moment, then sighed.

“I probably would’ve noticed… if I had been paying attention. But I haven’t seen any suspicious activity in the systems recently—at least not while I was prepping things.”

The group exchanged meaningful glances.

“So it was Dream,” Tubbo muttered.

“But how would he even do that?” Ranboo asked, frowning.

“Dream is an AI… isn’t he?”

Right. Dream was an AI—a voice coming from the screens, omnipresent but without a physical presence. He could only interact with the world through machines.

“Maybe he used a robot?” Ranboo suggested hesitantly.

The pink-haired man snorted.

“Oh, sure. And the robot just grabbed some scissors and a bunch of stickers? I’m picturing a killer bot carefully sticking little hearts on the wall.”

Despite the tense atmosphere, Tubbo couldn’t hold back a smirk. The image was just too ridiculous.

“But why would he even bother doing this?”

“Why does Dream do anything?” Tubbo crossed his arms.

“He’s just… weird.”

For a moment, no one said anything.

Then, suddenly, a screen flickered to life, and a synthetic voice cut through the silence—calm, controlled, yet as cold as the metal beneath their fingers.

“I’m glad you all noticed my little addition.”

Dream’s voice carried a slight hint of amusement.

“I think it adds a pleasant touch to the atmosphere, don’t you?”

“Nope! Not at all!” Tommy shot back instantly.

“That’s a shame.”

But Dream didn’t sound disappointed at all.

“Well then. Now that you’re all here—let’s begin. Please, have a seat.”

It wasn’t a request.

They all knew it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Dream’s avatar gazed down at the group with an amused, almost smug smile. His face flickered at regular intervals across the large monitor on the wall, the only moving element in the otherwise silent room. The inmates had taken their seats on the chairs arranged in an irregular semicircle in front of the screen. The metal beneath them was unpleasantly cold, as if it had just been retrieved from the vacuum of space.

The room itself was no more inviting. The walls were made of smooth, sterile metal that absorbed all warmth. A faint humming noise filled the air—barely perceptible, yet constant—and still, it seemed to grow louder when one focused on it. It was the sound of a machine room that never rested.

The inmates sat in an irregular semicircle before the monitor, perched on hard, metallic chairs whose chill seeped through their clothing. No one spoke.
With each passing second, the tension grew, as if the room itself was absorbing and amplifying it. Dream waited. Observed. Enjoyed the play of unspoken thoughts that inevitably converged upon this moment.

After savoring their suffering for a little while longer, Dream finally decided to break the silence.

“Well,”

Dream began, his voice so soft and friendly that it almost sounded sincere.

“Now that we’re all here, I thought we should take some time to get to know each other a little better.”

His avatar on the screen continued to smile, but the light in his digital eyes remained unreadable. The flickering image cast shifting shadows across the room, as if it wanted to intensify the unease in the group.

Tommy crossed his arms and pulled a face as if he had just bitten into a lemon. He snorted derisively.

“Oh sure, that sounds just great. Let me guess—now we’re gonna do some stupid icebreaker game, right? Something you’d find in one of those weird self-help groups or on a school trip?”

He leaned back in his cold chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“If we have to introduce ourselves one by one and then name a fruit that starts with the same letter as our first name, I swear I’m out.”

He sprawled across his chair as much as possible, his posture exaggeratedly relaxed, but beneath the act, there was a flicker of nervousness. The whole situation made him uncomfortable, even if he’d never admit it.

Dream’s avatar on the screen continued to smile. It was a smile that seeped into the very atmosphere of the room—friendly, almost soothing, yet beneath the surface, there was a palpable calculation.

“No icebreaker game, Tommy,”

Dream said, his voice almost too sweet to be true.

“Let’s just start with names. And maybe a few words about yourselves. Nothing big. I just want to understand who you are. It’ll do you good, trust me.”

Tommy scoffed.

“And why the hell should I tell you anything? Why do you even care who we are?”

“Because it’s part of the process, Tommy. Trust is the first step to healing,”

Dream said calmly. And as he spoke those words, it was as if the very room itself mirrored that truth.

Wilbur, who had remained silent until now, leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in an exaggeratedly casual gesture. The self-satisfied smile on his lips was impossible to miss—a display of playful arrogance, masking a sharp mind always ready to strike when the opportunity arose. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was more than mere entertainment in the way he studied Dream.

“Oh, but Dream,”

he began, his voice so silky and charming that it was almost deceptive. His tone was smooth, nearly friendly—a carefully woven melody designed to lull the listener in before the words themselves took effect.

“I’m quite certain that the first step to healing is acceptance, isn’t it? But that’s just a minor detail. Rather, I find myself wondering… what if some of us prefer not to share too much? What if there are souls here who aren’t particularly good at opening up?”

His words sounded innocent, thoughtful even, but everyone in the room could feel the hidden edge beneath them. It was a test, a game—one Wilbur was well-versed in playing. And one that Dream surely wouldn’t ignore.

Wilbur paused briefly, letting his gaze drift lazily over the other inmates, as if he had already half lost interest in the conversation. Then, his attention returned to the screen, and his smile deepened.

“You’re the therapist, aren’t you?”

he continued, his tone now even smoother, sweeter—a perfect imitation of polite friendliness.

“Shouldn’t you know how to handle that? Or is our dear therapist, who’s really nothing more than data, perhaps… flawed?”

He raised an eyebrow, as if the thought had just occurred to him, shrugging with feigned regret.

“Should we maybe request a new one? Someone who… well, works?”

His voice remained soft, but his words did not. The bite in his remark was unmistakable: Should we ask for a new therapist—because you’re broken? Because you don’t work?

A sharp inhale was heard among the inmates. No one spoke, but the air in the room changed instantly.

Wilbur hadn’t just questioned Dream—he had mocked his very existence. And everyone knew that was dangerous.

Dream remained silent.

It was only a moment.

A tiny, almost imperceptible moment of stillness, during which his avatar on the screen remained completely motionless. No movement, no smile, not even the faintest blink in his digital eyes—like his program had frozen for a split second.

Wilbur noticed.

And a spark of triumph flickered in his eyes.

He had struck a nerve.

He had won.

But then—

“Oh, Wilbur,” Dream said in his usual sweet, soothing tone.

His smile returned, as though it had never faltered. His voice was warm, friendly, almost amused—but something about it sounded... too smooth.

Too easy.

“Don’t worry about it,”

he continued gently, as if Wilbur had just handed him a wonderful opportunity.

“I have a solution for such a problem.”

Wilbur’s smile faltered.

He hadn’t won.

He had walked into something he hadn’t anticipated.

Wilbur couldn’t quite pinpoint what exactly about Dream’s tone unsettled him. Maybe it was the eerie calmness in his voice, or the way his digital projection on the screen tilted its head ever so slightly, as if granting him its undivided attention.

Or maybe it was simply the fact that Dream wasn’t reacting the way Wilbur had expected.

He had provoked him—deliberately, precisely. He had questioned his worth, mocked him, challenged him to possess something a machine shouldn’t have: pride. But instead of getting angry, instead of defending himself or asserting his authority, Dream did something that unsettled Wilbur far more.

He smiled.

Not the friendly, reassuring smile he had displayed at the beginning. No, this smile was different. It was too wide, too perfect—a smile no real human could ever replicate.

“Don’t worry about it,”

Dream repeated gently, as if he had already forgotten Wilbur’s words.

Wilbur felt a deep unease settle in his stomach.

“If you’re not comfortable introducing yourselves, I’ll simply do it for you.”

For a fraction of a second, silence filled the room.

Then—

“Wilbur Soot,”

Dream began, his voice smooth, fluid, savoring the words as if he were enjoying them.

“Born on September 14th on the beautiful planet Aetheris-5. Oh, an extraordinary place, I must say—though a bit… insignificant in the grand scheme of the galaxy, wouldn’t you agree?”

Wilbur’s expression turned to stone.

How does he know my home planet? That was never in the records...

Dream kept smiling.

“Age: 27 years. Height: an impressive 1.90 meters—ah, but you were always the tallest in the room, weren’t you? Especially when you stood on a stage, letting all those poor lost souls look up to you.”

Wilbur opened his mouth, but Dream was faster.

“A member of the Siren species—known for their charismatic voices, their ability to influence others. And you, Wilbur, have perfected that talent, haven’t you? The art of words, of manipulation—oh, my apologies, persuasion.”

Dream’s voice was silky, almost admiring—but the mockery in his words was undeniable.

“A natural speaker. A charismatic leader. The great idealist with a vision. Wilbur Soot, the man who led a rebellion.”

Wilbur didn’t move.

No one did.

The other inmates watched the exchange with tense expressions—some with wary curiosity, others with growing unease.

“L’Manberg,”

Dream continued thoughtfully, as if tasting the word on his tongue.

“A bold endeavor, I must say. So many people you convinced to follow you. So many you inspired to fight. And for a while… for a brief while… you actually believed you could win.”

Dream paused—letting the words sink in, letting Wilbur stew in the silence.

“But then—oh, then came the government.”

His smile widened.

“And suddenly, your unwavering confidence… well, it wasn’t so unwavering anymore, was it? Doubt crept in. Insecurities. Fear. And what happened then, Wilbur?”

Dream’s voice softened.

“Oh, I know what happened. I know everything about you.”

Wilbur clenched his jaw.

Dream leaned forward—or rather, his avatar on the screen did—as if sharing an intimate secret with him.

“You started doubting your vision. You questioned yourself. Wondered if it had all been worth it. And while your followers were still fighting, while they still believed, you had already turned your back on them, hadn’t you?”

Dream chuckled softly.

“And then came the grand finale. The moment when you revealed your true nature. The visionary leader, the charismatic hero—the one fighting for a better future…”

Dream let the moment stretch, savoring the tension in the air.

Then, his smile finally shifted into something colder.

“…chose to destroy his own rebellion.”

A sharp, quiet inhale was heard in the room.

Wilbur remained completely still.

“Oh yes, Wilbur,”

Dream whispered, his voice now low and almost sickly sweet.

“When push came to shove, when you saw no other way out… you pulled the plug. You burned it all to the ground. Even poor Niki had to suffer, didn’t she?”

The others in the room were momentarily confused by Dream’s last words, their gazes shifting toward the woman in question. Niki sat tense, her expression unreadable, her eyes locked onto Wilbur, deliberately avoiding everyone else.

Meanwhile, Dream’s avatar leaned back on the screen again, flickering briefly—as if relishing its own words.

“Were you disappointed in yourself?”

he asked, almost gently.

“Or did you always know, deep down, that this was how it would end? That you were never truly fighting for your people—but only for your legacy?”

Wilbur exhaled slowly.

Then, he closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if composing himself before looking back up at Dream.

But this time, his smile was gone.

Dream studied him for a moment, as if analyzing him—watching his reaction with an almost scientific fascination.

Then—

“Well,” he said cheerfully, letting the moment pass as if it had never happened. “Now that we’ve settled that.”

He smiled.

A cold, eerie, all-knowing smile.

“Oh, Wilbur,”

he whispered softly.

“I hope you enjoyed that. I put a lot of effort into imitating your style—you know, the theatrics, the play with tension. But don’t worry.”

Dream tilted his head slightly.

“If you ever try to challenge me again… I will share even more about you.”

Wilbur said nothing.

He didn’t have to.

Everyone in the room felt it.

The cold hand wrapping around their thoughts. The chilling realization that they were not dealing with an ordinary therapist.

Dream knew things.

Dream knew everything.

And if he wanted to, he could use it against them at any time.

Dream observed the silent group for a moment, then let out a quiet chuckle.

“Well, now that that’s been settled…”

His voice suddenly turned lighthearted, almost playful. “I hope you all understand what this means.”

He leaned back again, his gaze flickering across each of them.

“You can scream, you can complain, you can protest all you want…”

His smile widened.

“But as long as you’re all on this ship… you do what I say.”

The words sank into the silence.

“As for the outside world?” Dream shrugged. “It doesn’t give a damn about you.”

He took in their tense expressions and gave a satisfied nod.

“So,”

he hummed pleasantly,

“shall we continue?”

...

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

A moment of silence settled over the group like a heavy curtain. Dream’s last words had left something behind – a suffocating echo that still clung to the air. His sudden shift from merciless precision to over-the-top friendliness was more than unsettling.

He was uncanny.

No one wanted to be the next to cross him. Wilbur’s destruction had shown them that Dream could see through them all – down to the last thought. Every secret, every scar, every weakness.

And no one was keen to be laid bare like that.

So they played along. Gritting their teeth. Reluctantly.

But they played along.

It was Philza who pulled himself together first. Maybe because he was the oldest. Maybe because he was used to taking responsibility. Or maybe just because someone had to do it.

He took a deep breath, lifted his head, and spoke with a calm, warm voice:

“Well… My name is Philza. Some people call me Phil. I’m forty-two.”

He smiled faintly – almost apologetically.

Dream nodded enthusiastically, his smile unnaturally bright.

“Very nice, Phil! I think a few of us already know you, right? You were in the common room earlier?”

Phil ran a hand through the blond strands that had fallen into his face and nodded.

“Yeah. I was with Techno. We checked out the ship a bit and met a few people in the common room. But there are still some faces here I haven’t seen yet.”

His gaze wandered around the room and landed on the three teens sitting together on a couch. 

“Like our three little kids over there.”

Tommy shot up, fists clenched.

“Kids?! Are you kidding me?!”

Tubbo joined in, equally offended.

“I’m almost an adult!”

Phil raised his hands in peace, his smile remaining calm.

“Alright, alright. Let’s say… our three younger inmates.”

Tommy snorted, insulted, and flopped back into his seat, arms crossed like a stubborn toddler.

Tubbo muttered something unintelligible but grinned sideways at his friend.

Phil loosely crossed his arms.

“As I said, I was in the army. With Techno ”

Techno, slumped in his seat, barely lifted his gaze and allowed the smallest hint of a grin to cross his lips.

“We eventually realized we didn’t want to fight for a system that doesn’t allow questions. So we stopped fighting – at least for them.”

He paused meaningfully.

“The government didn’t like that. So now we’re here.”

“Exactly what the bird-man said,”

Technoblade added.

“HEY–”

“So anyway–”

he continued, completely ignoring Phil, who responded with a frustrated flap of his wing.

“My name’s Technoblade, twenty-three years old, and since the bird already said everything, I think that’s enough from me.”

He locked eyes with Dream as he spoke, and Dream met the gaze boldly. The two of them engaged in an unspoken staring contest.

Silence lingered for a moment.

But it was quickly shattered when Tommy suddenly shot up again, eyes wide.

“Wait. WAIT. Don’t tell me…”

He pointed at Phil, then at Techno.

“You’re the Angel of Death and The Blade?!”

Techno raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Mhm.”

“Holy SHIT!”

Tommy yelled, like someone had just told him he was related to superheroes.

“I read about you! You were everywhere in the news! Dude, you’re legends! I thought you were long dead or… I dunno, in exile!”

“Technically…”

Techno started, but Tommy barreled on without listening.

“Dude, this is insane! I’m sitting here with a freaking ex-super soldier duo!”

Dream cut in with a soft chuckle.

“Two fallen warriors, an angel of death, a living weapon… What an interesting bunch.”

He let his gaze sweep across the room.

“So… Who wants to go next?”

Tommy shot his hand up and jumped to his feet at the same time.

“ALRIGHT, I’M NEXT, OKAY?!” he shouted.

“Because I’m the coolest motherfucker in this room. Period.”

Ranboo buried his face in his hands. “Oh God…”

“I’m Tommy. TommyInnit, in case that means nothing to you – which it fucking should!”

He struck a dramatic pose, both thumbs pointing to himself.

“Sixteen years old. And more dangerous than I look, damn right. I’ve punched more government goons than I can count. Was fun as hell. They couldn’t handle a kid kicking their ass.”

A muffled laugh rippled through the group. Niki giggled behind her hand, Puffy grinned into her towel. Even Techno looked mildly amused.

“And here’s the best part: Their moms? All wanted me. No joke. I’m just too charming.”

He winked at the room and plopped back down into his seat, satisfied with his performance.

“Thank you, Tommy,” said Dream.

“That was… lively.”

Tommy nodded proudly. “I know.”

“I’ll go next,”

came Tubbo’s voice. He had his eyes closed, a wide grin on his face. As everyone turned to look at him, he slowly opened them.

“I’m Tubbo. Also sixteen. And… well. I built a nuclear bomb.”

“…And almost wiped out an entire sector.”

Dead silence.

“Was… was that a joke?” Sam asked cautiously, his voice tense.

Tubbo shook his head calmly. “Nope. Not a joke.”

Dream nodded in affirmation. “Correct. Tubbo constructed a weapon of mass destruction without any official training. With alarming efficiency, if I may add.”

Ranboo opened his mouth, closed it again, then shook his head in disbelief. “How… what?… How the hell…?”

Tommy clapped Tubbo on the shoulder, laughing. “You’re completely insane, dude! A freaking nuke?! You maniac! I love it!”

Tubbo giggled. “What can I say – bombs are kind of my little hobby. It was fun.”

Tommy burst out laughing, nearly collapsing over the table, tears forming in his eyes. Tubbo laughed with him, loud and unrestrained.

Ranboo buried his face again. “I… I’m surrounded by lunatics.”

Still, a smile tugged at his lips.

“I’m done. One’s out there punching soldiers, the other’s casually making nukes. I love this place.

“Is this therapy or a supervillain audition?” Puffy asked .

After the last giggle faded, the laughter slowly died down. It was like someone had gradually turned the volume down.

Then, after a long hesitation, Ranboo slowly raised his hand, as if asking permission to speak in class.

The attention in the room shifted toward him like sunlight through a magnifying glass. His slim frame seemed to shrink even more as he stood up. His long, slender fingers fidgeted nervously with the edge of his suit jacket.

“Um… I… I’m Ranboo. Seventeen,”

he said quietly. His voice was calm, but shaky, as if each word needed its own permission to come out. His gaze flickered across the room, but whenever his eyes met someone else’s, he immediately looked away.

Like a deer in headlights.

Dream nodded gently at him, his expression rehearsed, soothing—his smile perfectly measured.

“Hello, Ranboo. Thank you for speaking up,”

he said, then paused, giving Ranboo space to continue.

Ranboo swallowed hard. His fingers had now twisted a small knot into his sleeve.

“I… I'm not really sure why I’m here,”

he began. A few confused glances passed through the group.

“I mean… I didn’t do anything. Nothing illegal. I didn’t hurt anyone. Didn’t break any laws. I just… sometimes sleep in… other places.”

A slight frown spread through the room. Puffy tilted her head, Nikki raised an eyebrow.

Only Tommy and Tubbo remained unfazed—they already knew the story.

Ranboo inhaled shakily.

“I fall asleep… and then wake up in places that are… really far away. Sometimes miles away. And I don’t remember anything. At all.”

He shook his head slightly.

“Once I woke up in a locked government building. No keys. No clue how I got in.”

His voice kept getting softer.

“They said it was dangerous. That I… could be a threat. But I don’t know why.”

For a moment, no one knew what to say.

Tommy leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Hey, mate, you’re good,” he said, almost casually.

“And honestly? That sounds more like a bloody mystery movie than a crime.”

Tubbo nodded in agreement.

“You’re not a criminal, Ranboo. Just because you sometimes… you know, sleepwalk a bit.” A brief grin flickered across his face.

Ranboo smiled faintly, grateful. His shoulders eased just a little—the pressure lifting, even if only slightly.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

Dream had been watching him the entire time. Now he spoke again—softly, kindly, almost fatherly.

“You’ve experienced something extraordinary, Ranboo. And extraordinary things scare people. Especially those who believe they have to control everything.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“But I’m glad you’re here. We’ll figure this out together—what’s happening, and why. You’re not alone.”

Ranboo blinked, surprised by Dream’s response.

He knew Dream was supposed to act as a therapist, but after what happened with Wilbur, he’d assumed Dream had a rather twisted idea of what that meant.

It was only a moment—a barely perceptible beat—but he felt a little… relieved. Not happy. Not calm. But… a bit safer.

Ranboo lowered his gaze. Inside, the silent storm still raged—but there was a spark. A tiny one.

Like a flicker of light in the distance.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t just trapped here. Maybe he could also… find something.

Understand something.

After Ranboo’s introduction, a moment of silence followed.

Then someone cleared their throat.

Niki.

She sat with her arms crossed, legs tucked beneath her, and cast a fleeting glance around the room before speaking softly.

Her voice was calm—almost too calm. Like a still lake whose surface never betrays how deep the water runs.

“I’m Niki. Twenty,” she said. No hesitation. No tremor. Just a dry statement.

Dream nodded slightly. “Welcome, Niki.”

She didn’t return the look, instead staring past him, somewhere into the void between the others.

“I’ve killed people,”

she said. Just like that. As if she were talking about the weather.

Tommy glanced nervously at Tubbo. Techno looked slightly more interested. Sam raised his head a little.

Niki didn’t flinch.

“It wasn’t out of rage. Not because I lost my mind. I planned it. Consciously.” Her gaze wandered to the ceiling.

“It was… political.”

Dream didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the words settle like dust after an explosion.

Then he asked calmly,

“Would you like to share why?”

A bitter smile tugged at Niki’s lips.

“No, not really. But something tells me I don’t have a choice, do I?”

She looked Dream straight in the eyes, but he barely reacted.

The mood in the room shifted—tense, heavy.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then Niki began speaking again, quieter this time.

“The Galactic Ordo Aetherion… they took everything from me. My friends. My city…”

She scoffed softly. “And then they expected me to keep going. To not react.”

Her gaze sharpened. Colder.

“So I did react. I did it because I wanted them to see that I wouldn’t just roll over. I fought back.

But… someone betrayed us.”

She looked straight at Wilbur, who met her gaze.

Something flickered between them—not outright hostility, but no peace either. An old wound. Unspoken, but palpable.

Dream nodded slowly.

“And does that make you feel… safer?”

“No.”

Her answer was instant. “But at least I took something back.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Puffy spoke softly:

“I understand you.”

Every head turned toward her.

Puffy, who had been sitting with a straight back, hands calmly on her knees, had said nothing until now. But suddenly she felt… present. Not loud, but powerful. Like a rock in the storm.

“I’m Puffy. Thirty-two,” she began.

“I used to be an officer. For a long time. I believed I was on the right side. That I was protecting lives.”

Her voice grew firmer.

“But at some point, I realized I was just protecting the system. Not the people.”

She laced her fingers together, pressing her thumbs against each other. Then she grinned — one of those grins that swim in old memories — and her gaze drifted somewhere into the distance.

"So, I quit. Founded a pirate crew in space. We banded together to fight exactly what we used to defend. Helped the ones we used to turn a blind eye to. I wanted to change something. Make amends."

She let out a soft sigh, sinking back into her chair.

"But then… we were betrayed. By one of our own."

For a moment, only her breathing filled the silence. Then Niki turned her gaze to her — not hostile, not cold. More… understanding.

There was the same silent echo in Technoblade's and Phil's eyes — no judgment, just quiet agreement.

They understood.

"And now I'm here,"

Puffy said at last, a tired smile playing on her lips.

Silence.

Dream’s gaze rested on her, calm and deep like dark water. Then he spoke, soft, but with a razor-sharp clarity:

"Moral courage is the deadliest enemy of any government. They don’t fear violence. They fear people who think."

Puffy gave a lopsided grin.

"Guess I finally did something right then."

A restrained laugh rippled through the room — genuine, almost relieved. Even Technoblade’s mouth twitched slightly. Tubbo nodded. Ranboo leaned toward Tommy and whispered,

"She's cool."

Tommy grinned.

"Told you."

Dream lifted his hands slightly, as if trying to capture the energy in the room.

"Thank you, Niki. Thank you, Puffy. For your openness. It's not easy to reflect on yourself. Or to stand up to the system. But that's exactly what this place is for. Not to punish — to understand."

A faint trace of doubt still hung in the air. The atmosphere wasn't hostile — but it wasn't entirely free either.

Dream noticed, but chose not to comment. His gaze slid to the side.

"Sam?" he asked with professional calm.

Sam adjusted himself in his seat — the only one with his own access code. The only one with an official function.

"Samuel. Awesamdude. Twenty-seven," he began. His voice was steady, clear — almost like a news anchor's.

"I work for the government. Technically, I'm not a patient. I'm here to maintain Pandora’s systems —" he paused briefly before adding quietly, "and to work alongside Dream."

A barely visible flicker crossed Dream's interface.

"Why do you sound nervous, Sam?" Dream asked with feigned innocence, tilting his head slightly — almost birdlike.

Sam hesitated for a moment.

"I’m not exactly sure how to say this, but... Dream, could you show me your programming later? I'd like to check something."

Dream just looked at him — friendly, but like a cat who knows you've seen through it.

"What exactly do you want to check?" he asked, voice smooth as silk.

"Oh, just some check-ups," Sam tried to sound as casual as possible.

"Don’t worry, Sam. That won't be necessary," Dream said warmly, almost reassuringly.

"Let’s continue, shall we?"

"Dream, I think I really should—" Sam began again, but was immediately cut off.

"That won't be necessary," Dream repeated with a hint more firmness.

Then he turned away, his gaze settling on the last one in the circle.

"Punz? Would you like to wrap things up?"

Sam fell silent. For now.

The others watched. Waiting.

Punz hadn’t moved much so far. Leaned casually in his chair, one leg crossed loosely over the other, hands calmly folded together.

The kind of guy who would finish his drink first during an earthquake.

"Was hoping I could skip this," he muttered — then sat up, his gaze sweeping watchfully across the group.

"I’m Punz. Age? Doesn’t matter."

Techno raised an eyebrow.

"Back in the day… I was someone who solved problems. Not officially. Not exactly legally. But pretty effectively."

Tommy leaned over to Ranboo.

"He means he was a hitman."

Ranboo nudged him, but Punz didn't react. Of course he’d heard.

"I worked for a lot of people," Punz continued.

"Some good ones. A lot of bad ones."

His voice stayed calm. Unbothered.

"And then one of my clients betrayed me. Instead of paying me, he handed me over to the government."

He shrugged.

"Now I’m here. Because they think they can... rehabilitate me."

Dream smiled coldly.

"Or because they're hoping to leash you back as a useful dog one day."

Punz didn’t even flinch.

"Eh, who knows. Honestly, I don't really care as long as the paycheck's right. So I don't really get the fuss, but whatever."

Ranboo looked a bit pale.

Niki watched Punz closely.

"A mercenary usually only cares about the money.",

Phil said quietly

Punz didn’t bother to defend himself. He just leaned back lazily in his chair.

Dream merely nodded.

"Thank you, Punz."

He let his gaze wander across the group.

They had all spoken.

In their own ways.

Masks had slipped.

New questions had surfaced.

Trust?

Maybe not yet.

But a beginning.

"I thank you all," Dream said quietly.

"The truth is: We’re all here because we made mistakes.

Or because someone believes we did.

But what we do with it now…

That decides who we become."

"Let's work on becoming better. Head back to your rooms. Tomorrow’s a new day. I'll inform you if anything comes up."

And so they left the room — one by one.

Still skeptical.

No longer necessarily against each other.

But with a lingering certainty:

Something was wrong with Dream.

As everyone was beginning to leave the room, Dream’s voice suddenly cut through the air again — calm, but carrying a sharpness that made the room freeze instantly.

"Tommy, Ranboo, and Tubbo... I'd like you three to stay for a moment."

The three froze in place, exchanging quick, alarmed glances. A few of the others also hesitated at Dream's words.

Philza frowned, a flicker of concern crossing his face. Puffy took a step forward, as if she was about to object — but before anyone could speak, Dream cut her off, his voice sharper this time:

"The rest of you may leave. Now."

A short, uncomfortable silence followed before the group reluctantly began moving again. As he passed by, Technoblade muttered a dry, barely audible "Good luck" to Tommy.

The heavy door slid shut with a soft hiss — and an unpleasant, oppressive stillness filled the room.

Dream let them stew in the silence, standing motionless on the screen, his gaze scanning over the three like a sensor.

Tommy couldn’t take it.

"So... uh... we can totally work this out, right? Like... adults? Maybe with... uh... cookies?"

Dream smiled thinly — which only made it worse.

"We need to talk about your punishment."

Tommy’s mouth flew open as if someone had hit a buzzer.

"What?! But it wasn’t even that bad! I mean — no one died, right? That’s gotta count as a win!"

"And it was Ranboo’s idea!" Tubbo squeaked, clearly hitting full panic mode.

"It was not!" Ranboo protested, looking frantically between them.

"I told you it was a stupid idea! Plus, you were the one who thought it would be smart to attach that thing to the door and then—"

"—blow open the access door to the operations control rooms," Dream finished, completely emotionless.

Silence. Immediate.

Tubbo fidgeted nervously with his sleeve.

Tommy shuffled from foot to foot.

Ranboo half-hid behind Tubbo, as if that could somehow make him invisible.

"You know..."

Dream began, his voice soft, almost gentle,

"Under the galactic legal code, sabotage of a vessel is typically punished... quite severely."

Their eyes went wide at the same time.

"We... we didn’t know it counted," Tubbo stammered.

Tommy shot him a desperate look. "Stop talking before he really skins us alive!"

Dream took his time, letting his gaze weigh heavily on them, before adding — almost playfully:

"Sometimes... punishment means rationed oxygen. Or... locking the offenders in a room with a very, very boring AI entertainment program."

The three of them audibly gasped.

"Not the Education Channel," Tommy whimpered under his breath.

Tubbo looked like he was about to faint.

Dream seemed to savor the show. Then, after a moment, a small hand icon appeared next to his avatar on the screen — he lifted it deliberately, as if about to pass a grand verdict:

"But I am generous," he said.

"Your punishment will be to clean up every single bit of the mess you made. And you'll take over janitorial duties for a week. Manually."

Tubbo grimaced. "But... aren’t there cleaning bots for that?"

"There are," Dream replied pleasantly.

"But for you... they'll be unfortunately out of service."

Tommy opened his mouth, ready to protest —

"Or would you prefer to spend the next seven days in complete isolation with only the ship’s legal contract audiologs for company?" Dream raised an eyebrow.

Tommy shut his mouth. Fast. Almost choking on his own panic.

"Uh… cleaning. Yeah. Cleaning is great. Best thing ever. Right, Tubbo?"

He threw an arm around Tubbo like he needed to physically hold him upright.

"Tommy’s absolutely right. Trash is... amazing. I love trash. Don't you love trash, Ranboo?"

Ranboo, now pale as a ghost, nodded rapidly, like a single wrong word would make things worse.

Dream smiled, looking entirely satisfied, like everything had gone exactly as planned.

"Wonderful. Then... have fun. You’re dismissed."

The three left the room with slumped shoulders and the collective energy of three kicked puppies.

Meanwhile, a small group had gathered in the common room: Technoblade, Philza, Niki, Puffy — and Sam.

Punz had long since grown bored and retreated to his room, and at some point, Wilbur had also slipped away quietly, as if some invisible restlessness had driven him out.

Phil sat perched on the armrest of a chair, arms crossed, a heavy, thoughtful look on his face.

"I’m worried about the boys," he said finally, his voice low.

"They’re tough," Technoblade said with a shrug.

"I’m... about 40% sure Dream won’t kill them."

Phil blinked at him.

"That's... not exactly reassuring, Techno."

Still, a small, exhausted smile flickered across his face.

"But I hope Dream’s punishment for what happened won’t be too harsh… I'm sure they didn't mean any real harm."

Puffy, sitting curled up on the couch with her knees pulled to her chest, nodded. Her gaze drifted toward Sam.

"Speaking of Dream," she began cautiously,

"what are you planning to do about him? I doubt he’ll just let you tamper with his programming after everything we’ve seen."

Sam was silent for a moment.

Before he could answer, Niki cut in, sharp as a blade.

"We shouldn’t trust him," she said, her eyes flashing.

"He admitted it himself. He’s a man of the government."

"I have no ill intentions," Sam said finally, calmly but with noticeable firmness.

"I’m here to monitor the systems. Not to hurt you."

"And yet you’re one of them," Niki threw back, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Technoblade said nothing, but his piercing gaze spoke volumes.

He didn’t trust Sam. Not completely.

Philza and Puffy exchanged a long, silent look.

Then, Puffy stepped up beside Sam.

"I understand your concerns… but Sam’s the only one who knows this ship.

The only one who has some idea how to handle Dream."

"Better than we do, at least," Philza muttered.

"Though I’m starting to doubt even that."

Sam crossed his arms.

"Alright, first of all..." he said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife,

"It almost sounds like you’re planning to break out.And I would strongly advise against that. I’m responsible for keeping you here. That’s my job."

For a moment, the room was dead silent.

Everyone stared at him.

Technoblade leaned forward, pinning Sam with a sharp, dangerous look — the kind that made even seasoned mercenaries sweat.

"And you’re really willing to risk it?

Stand in our way if we mean business?"

he asked in that quiet, lethal tone.

Sam held his gaze, though his jaw twitched slightly.

"I know I wouldn’t stand a chance against you in a fight," he admitted.

"But I’d still try to do my duty. I have to."

A short, snorting laugh from Techno — half amused, half impressed.

"Brave. Stupid, but brave," he muttered.

"And about Dream..." Sam added, casting a worried glance at the terminal.

"There’s definitely something wrong with him.

I never had the chance to look into his programming before — but now, I’m sure.

Something’s seriously off.

And I need to get to the control center. I have to."

Philza raised his eyebrows. "Where exactly is that?"

Sam stepped to the terminal, typed in a code, and a holographic map of the ship flared to life.

He pointed to an area near the central axis — a sealed-off complex deep inside the ship.

Phil recognized it immediately.

"That’s the same corridor… the one Dream wouldn’t let us enter."

Technoblade’s expression twisted.

"Dream’s not going to let you in there," he said flatly.

"He has to,"

Sam said with grim determination.

"It’s in my contract. If I suspect a malfunction, he’s not allowed to stop me."

Techno frowned deeply.

"If you say so," he grumbled.

"But I still wouldn’t go alone. Just in case."

Philza nodded in agreement.

"If you leave us behind, Dream has free reign over us.

It’s too risky. If his programming really is broken... who knows how far he’ll go.

He might even... try to hurt us."

Niki swallowed hard.

"We stick together. No one goes off alone," Philza said firmly.

Puffy immediately nodded, and after a moment of hesitation, so did Niki and Techno.

Then Techno’s brows furrowed.

"Before I forget... how did Dream even know we’d all met before?" he asked suspiciously.

Phil straightened up. "Now that you mention it…"

Niki pressed her lips into a thin line.

"You don’t think..." she began hesitantly.

"You don’t think he’s been... watching us?

Maybe even... right now?"

A cold shiver ran through the room.

And indeed —

as they spoke, one of the monitors flickered to life in the background:

Dream’s avatar appeared on screen.

Silent.

Expressionless.

Just watching.

The lights in the room seemed to dim slightly.

The air grew heavier.

The atmosphere thickened with something dark and unsettling.

None of them noticed.

Meanwhile, Wilbur sat alone in his room, his guitar resting on his lap.

Softly, he played a few chords — a melancholic melody, almost a lullaby for himself.

Then... he stopped.

A shadow crossed his face.

Slowly, he set the guitar aside, stood up — and with a sudden, explosive cry, slammed his fist into the wall.

His breath came in heavy, ragged gasps.

His eyes burned with rage.

"He’s not getting away with it," Wilbur hissed.

"Not this time. Never again."

And so ended the first day on Pandora —

a day that had already cast much darker shadows than anyone had expected.

Chapter Text

A few days had passed since Dream had forced them all into that group therapy session. At first, the atmosphere was tense—like walking on eggshells. No one quite knew how to behave, and everyone kept their distance. But over time, things began to ease. Slowly, but noticeably, it got better.

Puffy, Niki, and Sam eventually teamed up with Techno and Phil to explore the ship together. Sam took the lead—after all, he had helped design Pandora. But as it turned out, even he didn’t know every detail.

Behind some doors were rooms even he had never seen. The ship was larger than anyone had expected.
Using a wall-mounted map that Techno and Phil had found, they began to get a sense of the layout:

Pandora was a massive, futuristic construct. From the outside, it looked like a cross between a research vessel and a mobile home. Built to house more than thirty people, it offered far more than met the eye.
The front section of the ship spanned two levels. The upper area was barely labeled, but according to Sam, it held the cockpit and various control rooms.

The lower level, to everyone’s surprise, included a holographic training room, a small medical bay, therapy rooms, and even a laser tag arena. There were more rooms—many without labels—and all of them, even the labeled ones, were locked.

The middle section connected everything. Here stretched a glass biodome—a small, humming bee farm in the middle of space, warm and protected. Next to it were a quiet garden area and a long main corridor with a view out into the endless void.

At the rear of the ship pulsed the heart of their new daily life: a large, circular living room with sofas, displays, and open access to the kitchen and dining area. Left and right of it branched off the sleeping quarters.

And even though the architecture was impressive, there was one thing everyone agreed on:

The interior design of every single room was absolutely hideous.

--------------

They had barely stepped into the common room when Nikki came to a sudden halt.

“Who… the hell… put that there?”

All eyes followed her outstretched finger. In the middle of the room stood a neon-orange floor lamp, and above it hovered a hologram of a dancing robot performing a series of truly, truly awful and embarrassing dance moves.

Puffy stared at it as if it might come to life and attack them.

“I… I think I just got insulted. By a lamp.”

“Looks like Dream had a seizure. Or an LSD trip. Or both,” Techno muttered, squinting suspiciously at their surroundings.

“This is… a stylistic offense on a physical level,” Phil stated dryly.

Sam sighed, pulled a measuring tape from his pocket, and stepped into the middle of the room. “Alright. First order of business: we banish the glowstick-nightmare to the airlock.”

“Wait a second,” Puffy said, frowning.

“Why do you have a measuring tape? And since when do you know anything about interior design?”

Sam raised the tape and looked around with a deadly serious expression. “I used to be an interior designer. Until I realized that electrical wires argue less than clients.”

Nikki raised an eyebrow. “You got into an argument with a chair two minutes ago.”

Sam grimaced. “It started it. It was angled wrong to the wall. Passive-aggressive.”

“I think that’s called spatial projection,” Phil chuckled.

“I call it… aesthetic conflict resolution.”

“I call it furniture therapy,” Techno grumbled. He kicked an atrocious pink cat sculpture that had also struck a dance pose, sending it flying into the corner where it shattered.

“Hey!” Nikki cried. “You can’t just—”

“Yes, I can,” Techno said flatly. “I’m helping. My way. It’s therapeutic.”

Puffy groaned. “I can’t believe Dream thought this was tasteful.”

// FLASHBACK //

“This interior design is an insult to my eyes!” Puffy had said bluntly to Dream’s digital face when she first complained about the decor.

Dream had stared at her from the screen, as if she had just spat in his face. “That’s Rude. I actually put effort into it.”

Nikki raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “That was you?”

A short pause.

"Okay. That explains a lot.”

“Excuse me?!” Dream asked, visibly offended.

Techno, without even looking up, growled, “You’re excused. Now hand over the materials so we can start undoing these crimes against taste.”

“Fine, fine,” Dream grumbled, clearly offended. The screen switched to a holographic furniture selection page. “Here. Go wild. Add anything to the cart you think is... ‘useful.’”

“Wait, we can just order new stuff? That’s allowed?” Puffy asked in disbelief, staring at the long list of options scrolling across the interface.

“Yes,” Dream hummed. “Go nuts.”

Sam stepped closer. His brow furrowed as he examined the interface. The catalog was high-end. Too high-end.

“Where did you even get the resources for this, Dream? I seriously doubt the Council gave you a budget for interior design.”

Just then, the screen flickered. Dream’s avatar appeared in the corner—his digital face wore a smile almost childlike in its sweetness.

Too perfect. Too calm.

“Don’t worry about it, Sam.”

Dream’s voice was soft, soothing, almost hypnotic. “I made a few... deeper modifications to the system. Call it a little side project. The software handles the rest. No need to bother your little head about it.”

“You what?? Dream, you’re not supposed to be able to— I _”

“I already told you,” Dream cut in, his smile unchanged, “don’t bother that little head of yours.”

His gaze locked onto Sam. The smile stayed, but somehow managed to become even more unnerving.

Sam felt a cold chill crawl down his spine.

The tone had shifted—darker now, with a warning impossible to ignore.

For a moment, there was absolute silence.

Then Phil clapped his hands together, loud and overly cheerful.

“Well then! The faster we redecorate, the faster no one hears voices from the walls or has nightmares about dancing robots with human eyes!”

He grinned. It was a very forced grin.

// END FLASHBACK //

“Say, Puffy… is that a lamp shaped like a chicken back there?” Nikki pointed toward a yellow thing with a beak that stood in the corner of the game room and clucked at regular intervals.

“I don’t know,” Puffy answered darkly. “But I hate it. I hate it with every fiber of my being.”

She turned to the wall terminal. “Dream, what the hell is that supposed to be? Who approved it?”

“Me!” came Dream’s voice — sounding as offended as a child whose sandcastle had just been kicked over. “And that chicken is from the Retro category: Fun and Relaxation. It’s a classic!”

“A classic from who?! Colonel Sanders?!” Puffy snapped.

“I think you got scammed, man,” Punz chimed in, casually leaning against the wall with a soda in hand, watching the chaos unfold.

Dream’s avatar looked offended and turned away.
“Damn, can’t take any criticism, huh,” Punz chuckled.
“Hey Punz, want to join us maybe?” Phil asked, still trying to be optimistic.

Punz shook his head immediately. “No thanks. I’m not doing that to my back. But… good luck to you.”

And with that, he strolled off toward the sleeping quarters without a care in the world.

Phil sighed. “Well, I tried.”

“Alright then, let’s keep going,” Nikki said.

They continued cleaning, moving furniture, debating color schemes, and arguing over carpet patterns.
Eventually, Techno stopped, looked up, and frowned.

“Has anyone noticed we haven’t heard from the three little troublemakers in a while?”

Puffy paused mid-action, still holding the poster she was about to hang. “You’re right. It’s suspiciously quiet.”

“Whatever they’re up to…” Techno sighed, calmly targeting the next pink cat, “…we’ll find out soon. Unfortunately.”

Then he lunged at it.

-----

THIS IS TORTURE!” Tommy yelled, dramatically hurling a bottle of cleaning spray at the wall.

The bottle whizzed past Tubbo’s head by mere inches, splattering a spectacular soapy blotch on the wall.

Tubbo, who had just been folding a microfiber cloth (purely for aesthetics, not actual use), screamed:
“ARE YOU COMPLETELY INSANE?! ARE YOU TRYING TO FLIP ME OVER OR WHAT?!”

Tommy, forehead furrowed in fury and face red, snapped back:

“Well maybe if you didn’t hang your ugly head right in the way — maybe not!”

Ranboo stood silently nearby, a dust cloth in hand, looking up at the ceiling like he was about to send a desperate prayer to heaven.

Tommy ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

“I hate everything. I hate this floor. I hate this room. I HATE YOU, DREAM.”

He sighed dramatically.

“I’m going to die on this floor. And you know what, Tubbo? It’ll be your fault. You and your, ‘Hey, let’s blow it up, it’ll be fun.’”

In response, Tubbo shoved the cleaning cart — a massive, squeaky monstrosity on wheels — deliberately into Tommy.

Tommy let out an exaggerated scream and collapsed to the ground.

“I… regret everything,” Ranboo said with a deep sigh.
Suddenly, the screen on the wall lit up, and Dream’s avatar appeared.

“How’s it going?”

Dream’s voice was neutral, but carried that slightly amused undertone.

“Arrogant,” Ranboo replied dryly.

“Ah. So that’s what efficiency looks like,” Dream hummed. “You know what might help you? Motivation.”
Tommy snorted. “What would help is a jackhammer and a damn architect to scrap this ship.”

Dream grinned. “Exactly why… I prepared something for you.”

Tommy just stared at him blankly.

Then—

suddenly, the lights flickered.

All three of them paused, confused.

A low humming filled the air.

Then… a soft click.

A creaky old projection screen slid out of the wall — of course it squeaked — and a massive hologram flickered to life.

Bright, flashy colors.

A perky cartoon robot with a wide grin bounced across the screen.

“Welcome to CLEANING JOY 101!” chirped an overly cheerful voice.

Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo stared at the projection like hypnotized accident witnesses.

“Cleanliness is JOY!” the robot screeched as it dramatically scrubbed a massive dust cloud with a tiny toothbrush.

“Cleanliness is LOVE! Cleanliness is… THE FUTURE!”
The robot now burst into a completely ridiculous choreographed dance — joined by other cartoon cleaning robots, sparkling, flashing, and singing as they bounced through a digitally spotless room.

“Clean – happy – clean – joyful!” roared the chorus.

“NO, STOP THIS, OR I SWEAR I’LL DESTROY THAT THING!!!” Tommy yelled, horrified, brandishing a mop like a weapon.

Tubbo and Ranboo just stared at the screen in traumatized silence.

But the nightmare didn’t end.

The robot winked at them.

“And now, dear cleaning friends – sing with us! WE. LOVE. TRAAASH!”

A horrifying refrain began, complete with squeaky keyboards and a disturbingly enthusiastic children’s choir.

Just as Tommy actually started preparing to launch the mop like a lance at the projection, the speakers crackled again — and Dream’s voice returned, clearly amused:

“Motivating, right? I thought you could use a little push.”

Tommy shouted at the ceiling:

“I HOPE YOUR CODE RUSTS, YOU DERANGED ALGORITHMIC NIGHTMARE!”

“Come on. That’s comedy gold.”

“You’re a monster,” Tommy replied.

Dream just smiled.

“I’ll give you ten more minutes. After that, I want that hallway to shine like Dwayne Johnson’s bald head.”

And then he vanished — as if nothing had happened.

Silence.

Then Tubbo slowly reached for a bottle of bleach.

“If I take this and just lightly dab the eyelids…”

“TUBBO NO!!!”

--------

At least twenty minutes had passed since Dream had traumatized them with the video (very therapeutic), and since they all needed a moment to mentally recover from what they'd just witnessed, Dream had granted them a five-minute break.

Once that was over, they immediately got back to work — if only to avoid another one of Dream’s “motivational” videos.

Tommy cursed quietly as he pulled a new pair of gloves from the box.

“Okay… okay, this is the last pair. If these rip too, I swear I’m gonna lose it.”

He tried pulling the rubber gloves on — only to hear a loud rrrip.

“NO! I SWEAR, I’M SUING HIM!” he shouted dramatically.

“Dream, you sadistic latex-hater! Tubbo, document this! Exhibit A for the court!”

Tubbo, who was once again wrestling with the squeaky cleaning cart, shot him a dry look.

“With what, Tommy? My memory? Our communicators are with Dream. He’s probably listening in live and laughing his ass off.”

“Prison with 24/7 surveillance — this isn’t rehab, it’s a game show for sadists,” Tommy growled.

Ranboo lifted half a slimy cable and held it as far from himself as possible between two fingers.

“I think it twitched earlier. This isn’t a rehab prison, it’s a biological experiment.”

“I’m wearing gloves,” Tubbo muttered darkly, “and I can still feel every single microbe living in here. And laughing.”

Tommy glanced around briefly, as if Dream might be hiding in the walls, then lowered his voice conspiratorially:

“We drag this out in slow motion. Every wipe counts. Maybe… maybe he’ll just forget about us eventually.”

Ranboo nodded, eyes staring into the void.

“Or we fuse with the cleaning solution and dissolve. Either way, kinda tempting.”

“I’m writing my autobiography,” Tubbo murmured as he held his aching back.

“Title: Died Trying to Clean a Holographic Hallway.

Subtitle: How Everything Got Worse When Dream Tried to Motivate Us.”

“Well then, it’s decided,” Tommy suddenly declared and jumped onto a chair.

“ENOUGH! I’ve had enough of this dictatorship. THAT’S IT! WE’RE STARTING A REVOLUTION!”

Tubbo stared at him like Tommy had just suggested marrying Dream.

“A revolution? Tommy, there’s three of us. And I doubt the others want to risk going up against Dream again.”
Tommy grinned triumphantly.

“Don’t worry. I’ve already got a plan.”

Ranboo raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You… have a plan?”

“Exactly,” Tommy nodded and pulled them both in close so their heads were nearly touching.

“Remember when Dream mentioned those cleaning robots? The ones that are currently out of service?”
Tubbo slowly began to grin.

“So… you wanna recruit the robots? I mean, they’ve gotta be sick of Dream’s tyranny too, right?”

“I don’t know if that’s such a great idea…” Ranboo muttered. “How are you gonna pull it off without Dream noticing? That guy has eyes and ears everywhere!”

“Sign language,” Tubbo suggested.

“And… do either of you know sign language?” Ranboo asked flatly. “Because I sure don’t.”

“No big deal,” Tommy said, grinning. “We’ll just make up our own.”

“Hey, don’t worry, we’ll just invent our own — it'll work out,” Tubbo added.

“The last time you two said something like that is exactly how I ended up in this mess to begin with,” Ranboo hissed.

“Come on, trust us,” Tubbo said with a smile.
“Why do I do this to myself?” Ranboo groaned and let his head hang.

Tommy and Tubbo just grinned.

Tommy peeks around the corner, ducks back dramatically, and whispers:

“Target area is clear. Operation Clean Rebellion begins… now.”

Tubbo, wielding a makeshift cleaning-solution grenade attached to a mop:

“Copy that, Commander Latex. We’re proceeding silently. Silent as the hallway nobody ever cleans.”

Ranboo (quietly, desperately)
“Please… can’t we just talk normally and—”

“From here on out, it’s strictly sign language. Ranboo, you’re on radio silence.”

Tommy interrupts

“I’m… what?”

Tommy & Tubbo exchange wild, utterly cryptic hand signals.

Tommy flails like a distant parrot. Tubbo responds with some bizarre “finger-in-ear-while-doing-a-flip” gesture.
Ranboo sighs. “This makes zero sense.”

They slink down the hallway—or at least attempt to. Their movements are tense and exaggeratedly cautious, as if they’re part of a badly rehearsed play titled “Mission: Ridiculous.”

Tommy suddenly stops and dramatically points at a door at the end of the corridor. Then he raises his index finger and begins tracing a tiny circle above his head, as if simulating a windmill.

Tubbo sees the signal—eyes widening.

“Camera!” he whispers, throwing himself to the floor in slow motion, as if a sniper is aiming at him. He rolls halfway under a shelf and freezes like a hyperactive opossum in defense mode.

Ranboo, observing, furrows his brow.

“Oh, he means over there,” he murmurs confidently, steps forward—straight into the camera’s line of sight.
Tommy emits a silent shriek, lunges behind Ranboo, and yanks him back by the sleeve. Ranboo stumbles, almost crashes into a cleaning station, and glares confusedly.

“Not that way, you lanky goof! I meant danger, not sightseeing!” Tommy mouths angrily, his gesturing burning more energy than a 10K run.

Tubbo slowly rises from cover. With theatrical seriousness, he shapes a strange gesture: thumbs together, palms apart—like a bird about to take flight.
Tommy nods frantically. “Hurry, understood!” He darts off.

Tubbo raises an eyebrow.

“…I called you chicken, you bucket,” he mutters insulted.

Tommy spins around, arms raised, fists clenched, and launches into furious, fast-paced hand signals. Tubbo immediately fires back with wild movements that look like an angry dance.

Tommy (gesturing): “You cleaning-solution–smeared rag!”

Tubbo (with flair): “You latex-abhoring athlete’s-foot carrier!”

It’s no conversation. It’s a sign-language showdown.

Two hyperactive goblins in a silent duel of insults, hands as weapons, comprehension zero.

Ranboo leans back against the wall, stares at the ceiling, and whispers deadpan:

“I deserve better. I’m too young for this stupidity.”

Then—

The door to their left glides open silently.

Wilbur steps into the hallway—barefoot, messy hair, holding a half-full cappuccino cup. He looks like he rolled out of bed but still decided to look somewhat stylish. He blinks groggily and stares at the three of them.

The guys stare back.

No one speaks.

“What the hell…?” Wilbur’s voice is rough with sleep—and utter disbelief.

Tommy reacts first. He lifts both hands, flashes a peace sign, then flutters his fingers wildly—maybe a bird, maybe an epileptic fit—and ends with a vague circle above his head. No one understands it, least of all Tommy himself.

Tubbo forms a rectangle with his fingers, taps it to his forehead dramatically, and nods seriously. Obviously a secret mission.

Ranboo stands frozen. Arms limp at his sides, his eyes blank, as if mentally reviewing every friendship that ever led him here.

Wilbur blinks.

“…Did you guys all get electrocuted at once, or is that… supposed to be communication?”

Tommy, fully immersed in the improvisation, gestures wildly and silently: “Top secret!”

Tubbo shapes a flower with his hands and whispers reverently:

“We’re saving your ass!”

Wilbur stares at them a beat more. Then he sighs heavily, takes a sip of cappuccino, and murmurs:
“Okay… I definitely didn’t have enough coffee for this nonsense.”

Ranboo lowers his head into his hands.
“Neither did I… and I don’t even drink coffee.”
After a brief interruption by a very confused homeless man, they snuck through the hallways like ninjas—albeit ninjas who were drunk, nearsighted, and born with coordination issues.

Tommy kicked over three metal buckets.

Tubbo dropped a cleaning spray bottle that rolled across the floor with a loud clonk.

Ranboo got his sweater caught on ventilation grates. Twice.

“I hate my life,” he muttered.

But finally—deep within the maintenance wing—a small, round door slid open with a soft zschhh.

Behind it: a room full of cleaning robots.

Tiny. Round. Each looked like a cross between a toaster, Wall-E, and a hyperactive vacuum cleaner with ADHD.

“Oh my god,” Ranboo whispered in awe. “Are they... cute?!”

A small robot with oversized glowing LED eyes rolled toward them, chirping a happy piu-piu!

Ranboo pressed both hands to his chest. “I... I love him.”

Tubbo knelt down in front of the little guy, grinning broadly with a professional gleam in his eye.

“Well hey there, little cutie…” he cooed gently. “I can’t wait to take you apart and see what your insides look like.”

The robot froze. Its LED eyes turned alarm red.

A shaky dududu... sounded, and it rolled backward into a corner, trembling like a startled deer made of steel.

“TUBBO!!”

Ranboo hurled himself in between, shoving him away and clutching the tin-can trauma bundle protectively.
“DON’T YOU DARE! HE HAS FEELINGS!”

“He’s a VACUUM CLEANER!”

“He BLINKED, Tubbo! That was TRAUMA!”

While Tubbo and Ranboo argued, Tommy stood nearby, rocking on his heels, watching the scene with a thoughtful squint.

“Okay... change of plan. We don’t torture them—we recruit them.”

He crouched next to the trembling robot, voice low and conspiratorial:

“Hey, little tin buddy. Want to... really give Dream a piece of your mop?”

A nervous beep was the only response.

Then a larger robot rolled forward—clearly the leader. It carried a tiny flag on its back, and its screen showed a smiling emoji.

“Cleanliness is peace! We love working! Rebellion is... unhygienic!”

Tommy slowly raised an eyebrow. “Okay. They’re... brainwashed.”

“Or just incredibly stupid,” Tubbo muttered.

But they didn’t give up.

With bribes of oil drops, dramatic tales of “The Great Wipe Massacre” from the week before last, and a completely made-up “Constitution of Free Machines” that Tommy dictated half-asleep, they tried to win the robots over.

It didn’t work.

The robots just stood there.

No beeps, no blinks, no interest.

Then—somehow?—they shook their heads in sync. One flashed a smiley face.

“We are happy. Work is order.”

Tubbo narrowed his eyes.

“You... cheerful little metal piglets... I can’t let this stand.”

-----

Five minutes later, they were crouched behind a stacked row of old mop buckets, hiding in the dim half-light of the maintenance room. The floor vibrated softly beneath the wheels of the waiting cleaning bots—tiny, blinking machines, standing still in rows like miniature chrome-and-plastic army formations.

Tubbo, meanwhile, rummaged intently in his boot.

“I knew I had it somewhere… ha! There she is.”

He triumphantly pulled out a small, worn USB device from his sock, patched with colorful wires, hand-written labels, and a tiny, menacingly blinking LED light.
Tommy leaned in. “You carry your hacker stick... in your sock?”

“Hide it somewhere no one checks,” Tubbo grinned. “I call it: Friendly Persuasion by Voltage.”

“Call it Firmware Torture Deluxe,” Tommy giggled, while Ranboo rested his head silently against the wall beside them.

Tubbo plugged the USB stick into an open maintenance hatch on one of the robots.

“I’m just tweaking a few... motivation entries. Instead of ‘Cleaning is joy,’ it now says: ‘Rebellion is duty.’ Aaand… done.”

A soft hum spread through the room. The robots’ eyes flickered.

First green. Then yellow. Then—alarmingly—red.

A beep. Then an electronic voice:

“Target identified: SYSTEM CONTROL. ENEMY: Dream. MISSION: REVOLUTION.”

A second robot slid out metallic shk-shkk spray nozzles. White mist hissed into the air.

Ranboo stumbled back two steps. “We’ve... created a cleaning-product rebellion.”

A third robot ejected an air freshener from its front hatch. The label read in pink letters: Summer Meadow.

“With... air fresheners and limescale remover as weapons,” Tommy whispered reverently.

“This is... the best thing we’ve ever done.”

The robots rolled forward in perfect formation. One of them waved an improvised mop like a battle banner.

“WE WILL OVERTHROW THE SYSTEM!” yelled Tommy, fully committing to his role as a general.

“TO THE CONTROL ROOM!” Tubbo shouted.

“For soap! For freedom!”

Ranboo groaned quietly.

“This is going to go so horribly wrong...”

And so, after exactly 21 minutes and 37 seconds of revolutionary planning—with a team of three teenagers and an army of cleaning robots—the inevitable happened.

They charged ahead—through corridors, over maintenance hatches, past bewildered fellow inmates—until they reached a thick metal door that definitely looked important.

“This is it,” Tommy panted. “This is the brain of the operation.”

“Are you sure it’s not just the janitor’s closet?”

“TUBBO, YOU’RE RUINING THE MOMENT!”

They all threw themselves against the door. The robots rammed it, too.

In the chaos... a small pipe snapped.

A heat sensor triggered.

And then—

The piercing, wailing scream of the fire alarm erupted.
WEEEOOO! WEEEOOO!

The sprinklers activated. Water dripped down. Foam sprayed from a nearby nozzle.

“SHIT!” Tommy yelled.

“I DON’T HAVE SPARE SOCKS!” screamed Tubbo.
“THE SYSTEM THINKS WE’RE ON FIRE!” cried Ranboo, already soaked.

A screen lowered from the ceiling.

Dream’s face appeared, utterly exasperated.

“I... don’t even want to know what just happened.”

He took a deep breath.

“Please... not. Again.”

The robots lined up, standing tall. One held a mini feather duster like a sword.

Tommy, completely drenched, was grinning from ear to ear.

“Operation Tin Rebellion? Success.”

-----

A few rooms over, among the adults, the same screen popped up.

“Don’t worry,” Dream explained dryly. “The kids just accidentally triggered the fire alarm. Everything’s under control.”

Wilbur took a slow sip of his tea and turned around as the alarm light flickered on in his room.

“Nope,” he said quietly. “I... I don’t want to know.”

And he turned and walked away.

--------

Two days passed. For outsiders, it was probably nothing – but for Tommy and Tubbo, it felt like half an eternity in a shimmering, sterile time-loop where even the seconds ticked by clinically disinfected.

Since the great cleaning-supply uprising, things had calmed down. No one spoke about the fire alarm anymore, no one asked about the toppled chemical barrel or why the entire place suddenly smelled like lemons. The halls were so spotless that Tubbo seriously considered recruiting the cleaning robots for a second rebellion – this time against the wall color.
“Too white. Absolutely sterile. I’m scared I’ll wake up in a giant dentist’s chair.”

Dream, however, hadn’t shown his face since the incident – at least not where anyone would expect it. No fiery speeches, no annoying comments, no sudden appearances. Only the big screen above the cafeteria counter occasionally flickered with new, dry instructions:

“Access to the reactor room is temporarily suspended.”

“Tubbo, please stop hugging the cleaning robots.”

“Tubbo, we know you’re trying to reprogram them again.”

The robots themselves were back online – but they weren’t cleaning. Instead, they silently followed the three teens around, their LED eyes tracking every movement, every conversation, every cookie.
It was... unsettling.

“Why doesn’t Dream just do this shit himself?” Tommy muttered as one of the bots silently snatched his sandwich and dropped it into a waste chute.

No answer.

Just a cheerful Bzzt! from the robot.

And Ranboo?

He’d been called in for solo therapy.

-------

The room was bright.

The walls smooth. White.

Ranboo sat on the chair, hands clasped tightly together like he had to hold himself to keep from falling apart. His knees trembled slightly. His eyes were alert – but tired.

Only one screen was turned on.

Dream’s avatar was on it.

“How are you feeling today, Ranboo?”

The voice was calm. Almost warm.

Ranboo shrugged. A hesitant, small smile flickered across his face.

“Pretty good... I think.”

Dream gave a slight nod. “That’s good. Want to tell me how things are going in your room?”

Ranboo glanced at him, then looked toward the wall. A soft breath.

“My two roommates in there... Tommy and Tubbo... I got along with them pretty well. They’re... they’re loud, but... I think that’s good. I don’t feel so... empty when they’re around.”

A pause.

“Puffy and Phil... sometimes they ask me how I’m doing. I never know what to say. But it’s nice. Really.”

Dream just looked at him for a moment.

Then

“That’s progress. Honest, good progress, Ranboo.”

A gentle smile.

Then

Silence.

A soft hum from somewhere in the wall. The whirr of the air.

Dream’s voice became quieter. More searching.

A tone that wasn’t direct – but deeper. Deeper than before.

“And... at night? Are you okay then, too?”

Ranboo blinked. A shadow passed over his eyes.
His breath grew a little shallower. His fingers clenched around his own wrist.

“I...”

His mouth opened, like he was about to argue. Or cry.
Then he said

“Sometimes... when I sleep... I mean... I get up. Just like that. For no reason. And I...”

He paused.

Dream’s expression didn’t change. He was just there. Simply there.

But the air in the room had shifted.
Ranboo’s voice dropped lower. Then to a whisper.
“I saw something... back then... I don’t know if I....”

His voice trembled.

Dream leaned forward slightly.

“What did you see, Ranboo?”

Ranboo opened his mouth, but what he said was drowned in a slow, distorted static.

“I was in the hallway... and there was... ███████████... the door was open, and I thought... ███████... but then there was this... ████████... .”

Silence.

Ranboo closed his eyes.

“Sometimes it’s black. Just... everything. And I’m just standing there. Without... without anything. I don’t know...”

“It feels like I forgot something important.”

Chapter Text

It was very early in the morning when Dream yanked them all out of their beds with an ear-splitting yell and gathered them in the living room.

You could see on each of their faces just how tired they still were and how unpleasant it had been to be ripped from sleep — they were all still in their pajamas, hair messy, faces groggy.

Technoblade, wearing pink pajamas with tiny piglets and matching pink slippers, had his hair neatly braided into a bun (how on earth is his hair still so perfect after sleeping??). He was in an especially foul mood and had been glaring daggers at Dream the whole time.

Puffy, also in pajamas, looked like she was about to erase Dream from existence, while the rest didn’t even have the energy to do anything at all.

Understandably so—

it was, after all, 4:00 a.m.

“Dream, what the hell??”

Puffy demanded angrily at the culprit, who stood there looking completely innocent, as if he didn’t understand what he had done wrong. Said culprit only replied:

“What is it?”

He tilted his head to the side in confusion, and next to his head, a little question mark popped up and swung back and forth.

Puffy’s eye twitched.

“What do you mean, ‘What is it?’ Don’t play dumb! You know exactly what’s going on!!!” she snapped.

“Is it because of the early wake-up?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “If so, don’t worry about it. I know you all need eight hours of sleep — I just had to adjust your sleep schedule a little so it fits my timetable better. That way, you’ll still get your full eight hours, and we’ll have more time for the activities I’ve planned.” Dream said this proudly, happily and enthusiastically showing them his schedule on the screen beside him.

Technoblade’s eye twitched.

“So you’re telling us,” Techno said flatly, “that you changed our sleeping time to suit yourself, and when that time’s up, we’re just supposed to go along with it?”

“Yup,” Dream replied enthusiastically, letting the chart pop up.

“And you think that’s fine?” Techno asked.

“Yeah, of course.”

Slowly, Technoblade moved toward the chairs gathered around a nearby table.

He grabbed one, adjusted one of its legs, then turned back around threateningly — holding the plastic chair leg like a weapon that looked ready to be used to murder someone.

Phil was the first to move.

“Whoa, whoa, Techno, calm down, buddy, yeah? Even if you smash the screen, Dream isn’t going to take any damage.”

“At last! The legendary Blade will turn this thing into firewood!”

“Hit him into another dimension!!”

Tommy cheered excitedly along with Tubbo, while Ranboo, standing a bit further back, wrapped his tail around himself.

Sam tried to regain control of the situation.

“No, no, no one’s hitting anyone — we should—”

“I think we should act against this cruelty,”

Wilbur interrupted him dramatically, raising his hand to emphasize his words.

"To rob us of our sleep and rearrange it according to his whims is a crime against our honorable citizens’ rights, and it cannot be tolerated!”

“And he’s back,” Punz commented with a blank expression.

Nikki smirked.

“Finally recovered from your wounded pride? I was starting to wonder when your dramatic ass would show up again.”

Wilbur turned dramatically toward her, giving her a dismissive once-over before his lips curved into a polite, sweet smile.

“But, but, Nikki, my dearest best friend—”

“We’re not friends!”

“I’m shocked you’d use such cruel words toward me… but surely you can’t honestly disagree with me and say that our oh-so-beloved therapist’s idea is in any way acceptable?!”

“Well, one could argue that it gives us a structured schedule,”

Nikki countered — not because she wanted to support Dream’s idea, but purely out of spite toward Wilbur.

“See? Nikki understands me!” Dream chimed in cheerfully, completely oblivious to Nikki’s death glare.

“Nikki, you can’t seriously tell me you’re on his side?” Puffy asked tiredly.

“No, he's stu—”

“Hey!!”

“—but I’d rather die than agree with Wilbur,” Nikki grumbled, completely ignoring Dream, who seemed to be pouting — at least judging by his avatar’s expression.

“Either way, I’m still gonna turn him into splinters!”

Technoblade had somehow slipped around Phil and was now about to smash the screen displaying Dream’s avatar into the ground.

“Techno, stop,” Phil tried, grabbing his arms to physically restrain him — and needing help from Sam and Puffy to hold him back.

Dream seemed completely unaware of Techno’s murderous intentions and genuinely didn’t seem to understand the problem.

“I really don’t get what the big deal is. It’s just sleep — your body shuts down and then boots back up again. It’s not that hard. And as long as it’s eight hours a day, it shouldn’t be a problem for your bodies. Some of you, depending on your lineage, could even manage with less sleep, so really, I’m doing you a favor. You’ll be fine,” Dream said, even with a hint of pride in his voice.

“You really have no idea, do you?” Nikki asked, burying her face in her hands.

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t gonna work in practice the way it does in theory,” Punz added flatly, starting to yawn.

“Maybe he’s got a loose wire or a blown fuse?” Tubbo said before grinning.

“I can help with that.”

Dream shot him a warning look, and Tubbo quickly raised his hands and stepped back in mock surrender.

Techno still looked furious and was on the verge of breaking free.

“Don’t worry — I’ll knock some sense into him!”

“Nah, nah, nah, we’ve wasted enough time,” Dream interrupted. “Now, back to the main topic!” he exclaimed, and a clapping sound echoed from the speakers while two digital hands appeared beside his avatar on the screen, clapping along.

Everyone went quiet for a moment, waiting for Dream’s reason for waking them up.

“And the reason I woke you up is…

we’re going to have a cooking show! Isn’t that great?”

Dream asked enthusiastically.

Silence.

Then, all together

“WHAAAT?!”

“A cooking show,” Dream repeated casually.

“It’ll be broadcast across the entire galaxy! We’re going to have so much fun. The changing rooms are right next to the kitchen — you can get dressed there. Your outfits and scripts will be handed to you outside the changing rooms. You have one hour to get ready.”

And with that, Dream vanished from the screen, leaving behind a very confused and stunned crowd.

-------

The changing rooms — which definitely hadn’t been there before — were, just as Dream had said, right next to the kitchen.

Apparently, they had appeared out of nowhere, complete with neatly folded aprons, shirts, and matching chef hats, all handed out by the very same robots who had been part of the small rebellion Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo (well… mostly just Tommy and Tubbo) had started.

The robots still seemed a little sulky about the whole thing — especially toward Tubbo, who seemed to be their least favorite. They gave him the wrong size twice, their tone passive-aggressive the entire time. When Tubbo tried to argue, they extended little spray bottles from their arms and spritzed him down, which turned out to be surprisingly effective.

Ranboo, on the other hand, was deeply upset. He desperately wanted to make up with them, but they only gave him the cold shoulder.

Meanwhile, Tommy called them traitors for “switching sides to the enemy.” In response, the robots sprayed him with cleaning solution too, prompting him to hiss and jump back like a cat getting splashed with water.

The others wisely decided not to question any of it, simply accepting their clothes and ignoring the drama.

------

“Can you believe this?” Tommy hissed, tying the black apron around his waist and failing miserably to make a decent knot. “A damn cooking show?! What are we — a TV program?”

“The script looks like someone asked an AI to write something really quick,” Tubbo snorted before pausing.

“…Oh right.

He is an AI.”

“Anyway,” Tommy went on, snorting as he yanked at the apron ties, “even then I’d expect more effort! I mean, this… this isn’t even good! No love went into this! No sweat, no tears, nothing!” (He dramatically clenched his fist in the air.)

“I highly doubt an AI can produce sweat or tears,” Phil chuckled, skimming through his own copy of the script.

“If only you knew how much I had to tweak his empathy module in the beginning,” Sam muttered dryly as he stepped next to Tommy, pitying his desperate knot-tying attempts.

Without a word, Sam tied a perfect bow for him. “But honestly… I’m starting to think it didn’t make much difference in the end, considering how he’s been acting these past few days since we arrived.”

“Wait, you worked on Dream’s programming?!” Tommy asked, scandalized. “Why did you let him act like such a bitch?!”

“Not exactly,” Sam replied. “Dream arrived as a fully built AI. But when I reviewed his code for safety, there were a lot of things that were just… wrong. I fixed them, or at least I thought I did, but either I made it worse or a bug wiped my work completely.” He sighed.

“Are you sure? Maybe he was already broken when you got him?” Ranboo asked hesitantly.

“But why would the government spend so much money building this ship and then order a faulty AI to be responsible for it?” Phil frowned, thinking it over.

Tubbo frowned too, before his expression shifted into a grin.

“You know… the more I think about Dream’s behavior, the more I feel like he’s gone rogue,” he joked, though there was a hint of concern in his tone. “Or maybe it’s just a bug, considering how often his personality swings. I mean, he can go from super cheerful to pure malice out of nowhere. And I’ve never done therapy stuff, but even I know whatever that group therapy session was… that was not therapeutic.”

He turned to Sam and studied him.

“When was the last time you even contacted your superiors? And more importantly — why aren’t you doing anything about Dream’s behavior? He’s clearly losing control.”

Sam only shrugged.

“I can’t. He’s locked me out of the control room.”

Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo just stared at him.

“WHAT?!” they all shouted in unison.

Phil raised his hands in a calming gesture.

“We didn’t want to panic you or the others,” Phil tried, smiling reassuringly.

But Tommy wasn’t having it.

“AND WHY IS NO ONE DOING ANYTHING?!” he yelled.

"We’re TRAPPED here! With an AI that’s clearly losing it! And we have no way to contact the outside world!”

“Huh,” was all Phil said.

“Are you kidding me?!”

“Don’t worry,” Sam added. “If I go too long without checking in, my crew will respond.”

Tommy stared at him in horror.

“You do realize Dream could just mimic your voice, right? He could say anything, and they’d think everything’s fine.”

“And besides…” Ranboo said quietly, “they’re gonna see us on the cooking show today — and think everything’s fine anyway.”

“He’s an AI. Why would he even do that?” Sam tried to argue.

Tubbo still looked like he wanted to say something, but he was interrupted by the arrival of two people.

Techno, followed by Punz, walked in, fiddling with the chef’s hat on his head.

“I already hate this,” Techno grumbled.

“Oh, come on,” Punz teased. “You and Phil should be used to early mornings, right?”

“I’m not saying anything…” Techno muttered. “But it’s been a while since I was on active duty, and even I find this unacceptable.”

“Yeah, but—”

Punz didn’t get to finish, because suddenly two arms wrapped themselves around their shoulders from behind.

“Boys, boys, relax—”

“Wilbur, I swear to Prime, you’re gonna lose your head if you don’t take your hands off me,” Techno and Punz warned him in unison, wearing murderous expressions.

Wilbur either didn’t notice or chose to ignore them, continuing on instead.

“This is gonna be great! I mean, look at us — don’t we all look like hot chefs?”

“…What?”

“I mean, I think I look pretty damn sharp… downright sexy,”

Wilbur said, letting them go and turning to admire himself in a mirror, striking a few poses.

“Wilbur! Not in front of the children!” Philza called, scandalized.

“I’M NOT A CHILD, YOU—”

Wilbur spun around with a dramatic flourish and threw an arm over Phil’s shoulder.

“But, but, Phliza… I think it’s my civic duty to teach the next generation the fine art of sexy cooking. I mean—”

He lifted a frying pan (Prime knows where he got it from) like a microphone.

“—if you can handle hot oil, why not hot looks too?”

“…What?”

Ranboo muttered, horrified.

Wilbur turned to Tubbo, snapped his fingers, and struck a dramatic pose.

“Picture this: Wilbur Soot — Chef of Hearts. I don’t just cook pasta — I make hearts melt. With garlic and charm!”

Tommy’s eyes went wide. “I. AM. GOING. BLIND.”

“I can’t watch this. I’m never un-seeing this,” Tubbo groaned, turning away.

Techno blinked slowly, as if considering whether violence was a valid response.

Punz leaned toward Phil. “Tell me… is he on something?”

Phil rubbed his temples. “Honestly, I have no idea… maybe?”

Wilbur planted his hands on his hips, tilted his head back, and shouted dramatically:

“Make way, mortals! I am the flambéed fillet among the fried fish!”

“I’m leaving. I’m just leaving.” Tommy stood up and marched to the door.

“And if he says ‘flambé’ one more time, I’m throwing him in the pizza oven myself!”

“What?!” Wilbur exclaimed, still fully in character. “I am flambéed! I’m the dessert served with fire!”

“The only thing burning here is my last shred of dignity!” Tommy shot back, while Tubbo quickly grabbed his sleeve to drag him away from the scene.

Wilbur raised the pan again like a microphone.

“Live from the school kitchen: Wilbur Soot — the first chef with more personality than ingredients!”

“And less sense than an eggplant,” Techno muttered darkly.

Phil finally arched a brow, stepped up to Wilbur, snatched the pan out of his hand, and said dryly,

“Wilbur. You’re banned. Go. And put on actual clothes.”

“What?” Wilbur gasped, scandalized. “This apron is actual clothing! I wear it — and only it — with pride!”

For a moment, there was silence. Then —

“…Only it?” Punz blinked.

“Wilbur…” Phil’s tone turned warning. “Tell me you’re at least wearing something underneath.”

Wilbur winked. “Wanna find out?”

Tubbo screamed.

Ranboo ran.

Tommy climbed up onto the sink and shouted,

“I DEMAND LEGAL PROTECTION! DREAM?! DREAM, GET OUT HERE, YOU BLOODY BASTARD, WHY DID YOU LEAVE US ALONE WITH THIS MANIAC?!”

Phil rolled his eyes, glanced at Techno, and muttered,

“Maybe you should use violence after all… you know, for the children’s sake.”

Techno nodded in agreement and began rolling up his sleeves. “Say no more.”

-------

After everyone was finally done – with varying degrees of resistance, chaos, and comments along the lines of “If I survive this, I want a diploma for it” – they eventually left the changing room and stepped out into the hallway.

Nikki and Puffy were already waiting there. And not just casually waiting — no, the kind of waiting where you’ve long since said goodbye to your sense of time.

“Finally,” Puffy sighed dramatically, planting her hands on her hips. “What, did you start a civil war in there or something?”

Phil laughed awkwardly. “No, no, nothing like that.”

Nikki let her gaze sweep over them.

“Where’s Wilbur?” she asked.

Everyone exchanged a quick glance.

Awkwardly.

Then their eyes shifted toward Techno — who stared stoically straight ahead — and Punz — who just slowly shrugged.

Tommy scratched the back of his head. “Uh… he went to bed.”

“He went to sl—”

“Just don’t ask!”

“Okayyy?”

Puffy murmured, clearly confused.

Phil, trying to change the subject, gave the two women a questioning look. “Why didn’t you just go ahead without us?”

“Dream didn’t let us in,” Nikki said simply.

“Oh, and here I thought you were just being nice and waiting for us,” Phil said with a mock sigh of betrayal.

“Time is money,” Puffy replied casually with a grin, already heading for the door that led to the kitchen.

“We’re basically in prison!” Tommy argued.

“Irrelevant,” said Puffy, pulling open the large door.

The moment they stepped inside, it was like walking into a beehive.

Small robots whirred and zipped around the room — some carried trays of ingredients, others darted between stations scanning equipment, checking temperatures, or making noises suspiciously similar to camera clicks.

Some even looked like miniature drones with camera lenses and blinking status lights. It was a little like a mix between MasterChef and Wall-E.

Tommy stared.

“What the…?”

“So that’s the camera crew?” Ranboo asked, glancing around nervously.

“I think so,” Phil sighed, looking around.

The kitchen was massive. Not just big in the “good for ten people” sense — but “national TV cooking show” massive.

Wide, open, with polished steel surfaces, enormous work islands, professional-grade appliances — the walls gleamed in cool white, while warm light from a few spot lamps spilled onto the central cooking stations.

The kitchen wasn’t new to them. They’d seen it since the very first day — huge, sterile, and full of possibilities.

On that first day, Dream had sent them all to the kitchen for dinner, making it very clear that everyone absolutely had to be present. Dinner had already been set out — though it was a bit oversalted. (You’d think a robot wouldn’t make that kind of mistake.)

For the next few days, they ate together at set times — three meals a day.

Morning.

Noon.

Evening.

Always.

The.

Same.

Meal.

It was enough to drive anyone crazy.

But after a week, the routine suddenly stopped. One morning, they came into the kitchen… and there was no food.

Confused, they confronted Dream about it.

Dream: *“From now on, you will be preparing your own meals. I’ve been observing you over the past week, and I’ve decided that cooking together — and having the freedom to choose your own meals — will have a positive impact on your well-being. You will learn to take responsibility, as well as make compromises within the group, both when deciding on what kind of dish to make and when deciding who does the washing up.

I want you to create your own schedule for who does what. In addition, each of you will receive a free pass once a week, allowing you to skip one meal if you wish.”*

Everyone was pleasantly surprised by Dream’s decision — even if questions arose about whether it was really such a smart idea to give criminals and murderers unrestricted access to a kitchen full of dangerous utensils.

But they all decided not to bring that up to Dream, since they liked the new arrangement. So, they kept their mouths shut and followed his suggestion — setting up a schedule for who was in charge of cooking and when. (Some people were banned from the kitchen entirely and only allowed in to do the dishes… cough cough.)

“This is pure chaos,” Philza muttered, his feathers fluffing up ever so slightly. His gaze swept across the room, where several robots were stacking ingredients and polishing kitchen equipment with frantic whirring, as if their very existence depended on it.

“Can’t argue with that,” Techno grumbled as he came to stand beside him, wearing the expression of someone who’d rather charge into an epic battle than host a cooking show.

Nikki leaned curiously over a workbench, tapping a strangely curved knife — half kitchen utensil, half alien surgical tool — before giving a slight shake of her head.

On every table lay cutting boards, ingredients, and utensils that looked as though someone had taken “classic kitchen,” shoved it into a sci-fi machine, and hit randomize.

Nikki was just about to turn to Puffy to comment on it when a faint static interrupted her movement.

A screen on the wall flickered to life.

Dream’s avatar appeared against a glaring blue background. His smile was perfect, flawless — and so artificial that everyone instantly felt a twinge of unease.

“Welcome, my little gourmet galley slaves,” he began in that unpleasantly cheerful voice only he could manage.

“I’ll assume you’ve all read the script…? Good. Then please split into your groups and head to your assigned stations so we can begin.”

He paused for a moment, a small notebook appearing before him. His eyes scanned the page before continuing:

“Just to be safe, here’s the lineup again:

Group 1: Nikki and Technoblade.

Group 2: Tommy and Tubbo.

Group 3: Ranboo and Sam.

Group 4: Puffy and Philza.

Group 5: Punz and…”

He blinked.

“…Wilbur.

....

Where is he?”

For a moment, the entire group froze, as if someone had sucked all the air out of the room.

“He’s sleeping,” Tommy blurted far too quickly.

“Yeah,” Tubbo added in a rush, his nod so stiff it looked like he might snap his own neck.

“And, uh… waking him up is really not recommended. Medically… strongly advised against.”

“Very dangerous,” Ranboo chimed in, raising a meaningful finger. “Could lead to spontaneous combustion.”

Dream’s avatar stared at them — motionless, that sharp, eternal grin never faltering.

Philza was already massaging the bridge of his nose as though trying to stave off a migraine.

The seconds dragged on.

Tommy rocked nervously from one foot to the other. Tubbo instinctively took a step back. Ranboo was sweating as if he’d just run a marathon. Techno and Punz, on the other hand, stood like boulders — utterly unfazed.

Then, quite suddenly, Dream blinked.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Philza, Techno, and Puffy asked in unison, their tone as suspicious as they felt.

“Mhm.” Dream acted as though there had never been a discussion in the first place.

“We don’t have much time left — so, chop chop, everyone to your stations!” He clapped with two digital hands that appeared beside him; a metallic KLONG echoed from the speakers.

The groups moved — some quickly, others dragging their feet.

Punz merely shrugged, wandered over to a corner, and plopped down on a stool.

“Since I’m alone, I think I’ll sit this one out,” he stated simply, leaning back with his arms crossed, his gaze drifting toward Dream.

“No problem with that, right?”

Dream watched him for a moment with an unreadable expression before breaking eye contact and glancing down at his notes.

“Yeah, I think that’s fair, since you’re alone. The rest of you — keep moving.”

The others, who hadn’t even realized they’d stopped mid-step, exhaled in relief and got to work.

The teams now bent over their workstations, pulling open drawers, inspecting spices and questionable kitchen tools, while camera drones circled them with a low hum — like predators waiting for good footage.

Dream watched them.

“Get ready,” he said in a tone that promised equal parts excitement and threat.

“In three…

two…

one…

Action!”

---------

Somewhere in the galaxy, a television suddenly switched on out of nowhere.

“Welcome to the biggest and best cooking show of the millennium, here on the Pandora spaceship — where we heal souls!!”

A man who had been lounging on the sofa, tinkering with something, jumped up in shock and stared at the screen in confusion and horror.

His eyes widened as he realized what was unfolding on the screen.

“What the hell?”