Chapter Text
Tommy drifts in the void.
It is not the void that makes up the End. Even though he’s never been there, Tommy knows from the stories he’s been told that the void he drifts in is different. It is a void, but it is not a void at the same time. To call it that would be to imply it is like the one that makes up the End when it is not. Rather than a void, it would be easier to call it… nothingness.
Tommy drifts in nothingness.
The nothingness is dark. It is technically colorless, as nothingness means an absence of anything, even color. But the human mind always tries to comprehend what is around it, and so as Tommy floats, all he sees is black. It is a black unmatched by anything he has seen, darker even than what he imagines the void of the End to be. He can see nothing, not even when his hand hovers centimeters from his eye. Or, at least, what he thinks is his hand.
There is nothingness, and it extends to Tommy’s body as well. He thinks he has one; he can imagine the limbs, he can imagine them moving, and he feels as though he is breathing. But he can experience none of it. His senses are both there and not. He knows he should have them, and his brain sends out signals as though it has them, but he does not perceive anything. His body is weightless, adrift with nothing to feel.
Like a ghost, his mind whispers.
Shut up, Tommy snaps back.
But that thought is not entirely wrong, for he has no substance. There is nothing to move, even if his subconscious insists that there is something there. No matter how hard he tries, nothing happens; he feels nothing, he sees nothing, he hears nothing.
After all, he is drifting in nothingness.
Sometimes he hears Wilbur. As there are no senses, he does not hear through eardrums and airwaves. Rather, he hears Wilbur’s words as though they were thoughts of his own, and he hates it. The words appear in his head, and he is afraid that one day, he might not be able to distinguish which are his own thoughts and which are Wilbur’s.
He doesn’t want Wilbur’s words. They are harsh and cruel, spoken with the intent to hurt and belittle and Tommy is terrified that he might mistake them for his own. That he might take them to heart.
He tries not to listen. He really, really does, but it is not as simple as covering one’s ears, for there are none to cover. Not here. The most he can do is make his own thoughts really loud, and sometimes, he is able to overpower Wilbur’s words. Wilbur is blocked out for a time, giving up for a moment and leaving Tommy in peace, but he comes back eventually. He always does.
And so Tommy floats. This is his afterlife. Nothingness surrounds him, Wilbur’s words echo in his mind from time to time, and sometimes, aftershocks of pain tingle in limbs no longer there. Flashes of lava and bright, maniac eyes will dance through his mind.
But sometimes there is nothing. No thoughts, no memories, only nothingness. And that is so, so much worse.
There is no way to tell time here. Sometimes Tommy even doubts that it exists, for surely nothingness means there is no time as well. But then he goes back to counting where he left off, adding days or hours or, during bad moments, sometimes a week.
He abhors it, abhors the knowledge that time must be passing while he experiences nothingness. But it is better than talking or listening to Wilbur.
Pain starts to creep along Tommy’s limbs again, but he ignores it. He has no limbs. It is a memory of being trapped in a prison, blows raining down upon him, driving him closer and closer to the sizzling heat of the lava-
No. He will not go there. Tommy struggles to clear his head of those thoughts, but it is hard as the pain tingles in the limbs that are not there.
He tries to think of memories he still has of the Overworld that he treasures. Of the people he cared about, of L’Manberg, of his house. But the pain persists, and with a gasp Tommy realizes that it is growing stronger.
He still has no limbs to move. He still cannot hear or see or smell or taste. But pain races up and down his body, growing stronger and stronger until he finds himself screaming; what he thinks might be a head is thrown back, and what he thinks might be his mouth is open wide in a soundless scream.
Distantly, he hears Wilbur demanding to know what is wrong. Demanding answers for Tommy’s screams. But Tommy cannot answer, for the pain grows worse.
It is as though his body is being shredded. As though tiny pieces of him were being neatly cut out even as it feels as though every molecule in his body is being ripped outwards. He feels as though something is taking him apart, taking everything it can reach and pulling on every fiber of his being, transcending every universal law to do so. The pain is blinding.
And then, all of a sudden, it stops. Everything both snaps together and feels as though it were carefully assembled. The agonizing pain stops, but aftershocks still ripple though his body.
There is something below him.
Tommy almost cries from both relief and pain. On one hand, he can feel again and that is the most wonderful thing compared to the nothingness he was in. But also, he can feel again. Every slight movement he makes causes the surface below him to tug at his skin, causing short, dull bursts of pain.
And then there’s a roar, and all sound comes crashing down. Tommy whimpers as the noise assaults his ears. He can hear the pop of lava, the slow drip of liquid falling to the ground, footsteps, and a cackle that fills the air.
Dream, he thinks.
Tommy’s back, and as he lies there, listening to Dream laugh and talk, he can’t help but think that this might be no better than the nothingness.
Dream talks on and on and on, reveling in his power to revive those that have lost their final life. “I’m a god!” he crows, delighted, and Tommy can only shudder at the malice that lurks behind those words.
And then he turns to Tommy, and Tommy only knows because he can hear footsteps approaching him. He has yet to open his eyes. The light from both the lava and glowstone is too much for him, even though his eyes are closed. But a hand grabs his chin, wrenching his head up, and Dream coos, “C’mon Tommy. Won’t you be good and look at me.”
Tommy doesn’t respond, choosing to keep his eyes shut. The grip on his chin tightens, and Tommy whimpers as the fingers dig into his skin.
“Open your eyes, Tommy,” Dream murmurs in a low voice.
Tommy forces his eyes open at the tone that threatens pain. At first, he can see nothing. The light is too bright, making his eyes water, and he tries to shy away from it but is unable to due to the grip on his jaw. He blinks rapidly, trying to regain his sight, and slowly, everything comes into focus.
Crouched there in front of him is Dream, who stares down at him with a maniacal grin.
“What was it like?” he asks, his head cocked to the side. “What was the afterlife like? Did you see Wilbur? Schlatt?”
Tommy whimpers.
“Come on now, Tommy, what did you see?” Dream stares down at him expectantly, but Tommy can do nothing other than shut his eyes.
He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to relive floating in nothingness, the way he couldn’t move or breathe or scream. He doesn’t want to relieve Wilbur, Wilbur with his cruel words and taunts, the Wilbur that is nothing like the commander he followed during the Revolution.
But Dream’s voice grows cold again, and his grip ever tighter as he drags Tommy further from the ground, demanding, “Tell me, Tommy. Or I’ll send you back there again.”
Panic flares in Tommy’s chest, and he opens his mouth to speak but no words fall out. The nothingness of the Afterlife sits heavily upon him. All that escapes him is a croak, for after months with no way to speak aloud he can’t quite remember how.
“I can do it,” Dream threatens, as though he thinks Tommy isn’t taking this seriously. “I can kill you again and no one will know. No one will hear you scream, no one will know that you died again. It’s a good thing I disabled achievements and death messages way back when I started this world, isn’t it. No one will notice. No one will take you from me.”
Tommy shudders, panic running through his body as pain radiates from the grip Dream has on his jaw and his skin as it scrapes on the floor as Dream yanks him around.
“I..” Tommy manages to say, and Dream pauses, leaning in to hear him. “I was in this- this void. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Dream looks highly unimpressed. “Really.”
“Yes!” Tommy squeaks, his voice cracking from disuse. “There was nothing there. It was dark and I couldn’t see or feel or hear-”
“And was that it?” Dream doesn’t look happy. Tommy gulps.
“Wilbur was also there,” he says in a quiet voice. “I couldn’t see him but… he was there.”
And Dream lights up again. He lets go of Tommy, which in turn sends him tumbling to the ground with a shout as it makes pain shoot up his arms. But Dream doesn’t care. He takes a seat right before Tommy and immediately starts asking questions.
Tommy doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t know why Dream is so focused on what Wilbur said, why he’s so obsessed with the man, and he doesn't like it. But if he doesn’t answer, Dream’s voice lowers and his eyes darken and Tommy immediately remembers the way Dream towered over him as he beat Tommy to death. It makes the words tumble from his lips, and he can’t help the way he relaxes when Dream starts to smile at him again.
Dream continues to ask questions, until Tommy finds himself answering the same ones over and over but he dares not stop. Not when he knows the consequences of displeasing Dream. He talks until his voice grows hoarse, until each word trembles as he speaks.
And then the curtain of lava starts to fall.
Tommy doesn't notice at first, but Dream stills, staring at something beyond him, and he manages to turn his head to see. His breath catches in his throat, and deep within him a small spark of hope flares to life.
The next hour is a whirlwind. Sam is here, Sam is taking him away from the prison, but even as the creeper hybrid guides him over the bridge he can’t find it within himself to be grateful. Not when every touch leaves him aching to pull away. Not when Sam looks with concern at him, asking him gently, “Why do you have a white streak in your hair?” as though he cares. Not when he has spent days trapped with a man he hates, one who has made it his life goal to torment him, with no hope of rescue.
Sam left him in there. He did nothing to help, and even though Sam brings him out now, Tommy cannot and will not be grateful for it.
Sam guides him through tunnels only the Warden knows of, sparing him the intricacies of traveling through the security protocols. But as they stand outside the prison, mere inches from the portal entrance, Sam stops. He says he would like to help, but Tommy knows he lies because he does not move. He just stands there, regret painted across his face as Tommy walks away.
He can feel Sam’s gaze on his back, and the moment Tommy is out of sight he finds himself walking faster and faster until he’s running through the SMP, his legs pounding against the ground and his heart pumping fast as wind whistles through his hair. He ignores the pain that comes with each step, focused on getting away from the prison.
He comes to a stop outside his house, sinking to the ground and breathing heavily as the sun starts to set in the sky. His hair flops forward, and with a jolt, he realizes that it’s white.
Why do you have a white streak in your hair? Sam had asked.
With growing revulsion, Tommy realizes that it is a result of his resurrection. It’s proof that he died. Proof that Dream revived him. And as he tugs at it, all he can remember is Dream gloating, proclaiming himself a god. He remembers the gleam in Dream’s eye as he claimed that no one would know to rescue him. It’s as though Dream has claimed Tommy as his own.
Tommy’s eyes fall upon a dandelion, and immediately he yanks it from the ground, crushing it in his hands until it is nothing more than pulp. It stains his hands yellow, but that is good, that is what he wants. He runs them through the white streak in his hair, over and over and over and over and over and over, ignoring the sharp pain as his fingers tug at his hair. He finds more dandelions and does the same, dying his hair with unexpected mania, wishing with all his might that the streak would disappear.
He hates it. He wants it gone. Dream has left a mark on him and he hates that someone could see it and know-
Tommy’s hands meet empty air and he stops. They hover in place, stained yellow from his efforts. He looks around and realizes that there are no more dandelions. His hands are completely covered in yellow, but he looks at his hair and finds that it is yellow too. It is his. It is hidden. It is okay.
He closes his eyes, curling over his knees and hiding his face from the world. Eventually he’ll have to get up and enter his house, but for now he tries his best to ignore the tears dripping down his cheeks.