In the desolate realm of the Dream SMP, where reality and madness danced a twisted waltz, Tommyinnit’s mind had unraveled like a frayed thread. His once boyish laughter now echoed as maniacal cackles, and his eyes held the wild gleam of someone who had glimpsed the abyss and decided to leap headfirst.
Dream, the enigmatic prisoner, languished in his cell—a cage of iron and regret. The world outside had forgotten him, but he clung to the memory of freedom like a moth to a dying flame. His obsidian eyes traced the cracks in the stone walls, each fissure a testament to his own unraveling sanity.
Tommy shared a ramshackle cottage with Technoblade and Philza, two souls equally scarred by the tumultuous events that had unfolded. The walls bore scars—literal and metaphorical—etched by battles fought and friendships shattered. They were a trio of misfits, bound by their shared madness and a desperate need for redemption.
But Tommy had a singular obsession: Wilbur Soot, the ghostly specter who haunted their every step. Wilbur, the fallen leader, the mad poet who had once sung of revolution and destruction. Tommy wanted to bring him back—not the Wilbur who had died honorably, but the Wilbur who had danced on the precipice of chaos.
His plan was audacious, fueled by desperation and a touch of madness. He whispered it to Technoblade one moonless night, the fire casting flickering shadows on their faces.
“We break Dream out,” Tommy said, eyes fever-bright. “He’s got the knowledge—the forbidden magic. We force him to bring Wilbur back.”
Technoblade grunted, his tusks glinting in the firelight. “And what if Dream refuses?”
“Then we break him further,” Tommy replied, his voice hollow. “We twist his mind until he begs for release. We’ll make him pay for all the suffering he’s caused.”
Philza, the ancient guardian, listened in silence. His wings were tattered, feathers falling like snowflakes. He had seen empires rise and fall, gods crumble into dust, and yet this motley crew intrigued him. Perhaps it was their shared madness that bound them—a fragile alliance in a fractured world.
The plan unfolded like a nightmare. Tommy infiltrated the prison, his eyes wide and unblinking. He found Dream shackled, his skin pale and eyes haunted. The once-powerful man had become a mere echo of himself.
“You’re insane,” Dream spat when Tommy revealed his intentions. “Wilbur’s soul is shattered. Bringing him back won’t be a reunion—it’ll be a calamity.”
Tommy grinned, teeth sharp. “I know. That’s the point.”
He forced Dream to perform forbidden rituals, each incantation tearing at the fabric of reality. The prison walls trembled, and the air smelled of burning ozone. Dream’s sanity crumbled, and he screamed, his voice echoing through the corridors.
And then, in a burst of fractured light, Wilbur returned—not the noble ghost, but the madman who had danced on the edge of oblivion. His eyes held galaxies, and his laughter was a discordant symphony.
“You fools,” Wilbur whispered, his voice both tender and cruel. “You’ve brought back the chaos. The fractured echoes of my soul.”
Tommy laughed, the sound unhinged. “Welcome home, Wilbur.”
But the mad poet merely shook his head. “This world is a canvas, and I am the brush. Let the chaos consume us all.”
And so, in the heart of madness, they danced—a trio of broken souls, stitching together fractured echoes until reality itself trembled.
Tbc~
