DreamSMP Works - Dream-centric

Past, Present, Future

Reincarnating Dream, immortal Philza, time traveler Karl au. Might be a bit ooc because I'm not too good at writing lots of dialogue, and I'm not as proud as this one lul

I think they just sit and talk. Slightly inspired by: https://youtu.be/fLmEJ-1px5Q. Written: March 1, 2021. Word count: 3300.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Time was a fickle thing, was it not? Going forward at a constant pace, never turning back.

Humans have a set amount of time to live, limited by the constraints of their own body.

Unless you were special.

The clock was made of gold. The top half semicircle had a glass covering, which laid over a cycling circular plate of gold. The circlet was painted, inked so that half of it was bright blue and had a shining yellow sun and the other half was dark black and had a glowing grey moon. It moved towards the right, going round and round as the day went by. The very center vertical line of the top semicircle had a thin unmoving hand to point out the time of day.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, went the clock.

Dream's mind went along with it, Tick, tock, tick, tock. His eyes followed the inching circlet.

He was waiting. Waiting for the next thought, the next thing that would come to trouble his mind, the next memory he could be envious of, the next visitor.

He had already solved many of the troubles that kept him awake for days on end.

He didn't regret his actions. He didn't regret his thoughts and plans. Evil was in the eye of the beholder. He was evil. He didn't care that he was evil. He was the villain. He cared about his SMP. His SMP did not care about him.

Tick, tock, tick, tock. It was just a waiting game.

Madness and insanity called to him in the lonely room of his.

So he did things. He wrote books, like how Tommy had suggested. He acted good, like how Bad told him. He practiced talking, like how Sapnap wanted.

But now there was nothing to do. The books were all filled, the Warden never present, the voicebox kept in shape (or so he thought. He hadn't practiced in a day).

Sharp tallies scratched the days he had been in the room on the walls. Even his signature smile was carved roughly into the obsidian out of boredom, using the broken shards of old clocks and shattered potion bottles. He carved them when he was bored.

Tick, tock, tick, tock. The little sounds his clock made were constant. Like the flow of the lava and the obsidian walls around him. His cell was a constant (even though he hoped it wouldn't be).

He longed for the connections, the ties, the bonds that he had and shared with his SMP that he had cut for the sake of unity.

Unity.

It was all he wanted, wasn't it?

For everyone to be together and happy, for there to be no chaos or murder or arson.

For peace.

And then they made L'manburg and ruined it.

Tick, tock, tick, tock. He heard voices.

A non-constant.

He wondered who it was, but he'd have to wait.

He both hated and welcomed waiting. There was always waiting, to some degree, in his life. In everyone's lives, actually.