Alternate Battle for Dream Island

ABFDIA 3b: Host's Nightmare 3

Golf Ball started to squirm again.

They'd repeated the whole surveillance routine for quite a few nights by now, each one more stringent and strict than the last. She did all the math in her head, accounting for the possibility that there *were* people looking right at them; perhaps the balls hadn't spotted them, but they *definitely* spotted the balls. Every single square inch of the nearby grasslands was scrutinized, then double-checked for good measure. GB made a big deal about making sure that nobody, *nobody*, not even her, said a single word during the whole thing; they speak once, and they could become distracted, or *discovered*. From sunset to sunrise, that was all they did. Getting things set up, pointing their telescopes at *anything* that even seemed *slightly* out of place, counting the seconds tick by without a single thing of note happening, then returning to their miserable underground shelter as soon there was the first sign of morning light. They'd then do all their other preparations to *eventually* tackle the speaker box and whatever he had up his metal sleeves, a checklist that seemed infinitely long and constantly growing, and then at night they'd do the same thing all over again. Night and day, day by day, and so on, and so forth. Ad nauseam.

While Tennis Ball was more than happy to complain about his *vital* role whenever he was finally allowed to talk, as much as Golf Ball knew deep inside that they were on the same boat, she *just* didn't want to admit it. Again, it was a necessity. They let their guard down for even a moment, even for 2.763 seconds, and they're dead. *Dead*. The Announcer's bound to be looking for them, searching every corner of the world, making sure that there isn't gonna be any opposition to... his plans. Whatever they were. That's why she begrudgingly hauled the telescopes up the stairs each and every day. That's why she challenged herself to keep her eyes open all night, blinking only when she *really* needed to. That's why she started on this whole journey of discovering old knowledge in the hope that it'll lead them to a new age of prosperity. If she admitted to growing tired of it, now or ever, it'd be the definitive proof that everything they did was in vain. That all of this was for naught. That she was a failure. And above all else, she *definitely* did not want to be seen as a failure.

It'd been a week now since their first shift, and she could now confidently say that there was nobody keeping them under surveillance. Not yet, anyway. After the conclusion of that final, confirmatory look, she'd triumphantly march over to their makeshift bedroom, construct a little fortress for herself out of pillows and blankets (making sure she was separated from the horrors of the world by *something*), and immediately burying herself in it, snoring loudly within several minutes. Though she couldn't *say* it, she could *show* it; there was nothing she wanted more than to just... sleep. To have a few solid hours of rest. A few hours away from all of this.

But as soon as she got comfortable with closing her eyes, the terror would come back in full force. All the cumulative mishaps and fiascos that led her to her current predicament. The threat of that strange metal box, constantly looming over them. His plans are unknown, perhaps unknowable. That dreadful feeling that any moment could be her last, that all of a sudden the roof could collapse and bury her instantly, and the hope of a better future would die with her. The threat was massive. The threat was everywhere. Not even rest could give her a brief reprieve anymore; if anything, it just acted as a lens to further focus her fears. It was all too

Golf Ball had barely been asleep for two hours before she jolted right out of her mattress.

Deep breaths. One, two, three, then whatever number comes after that. She looked to her left, then to her right. Nothing. The place was the same as it's always been. Dark, depressing, deep underground. But at least it was *consistently* so. She shook her head, berating herself for being so taken aback by the fictions created by her unconscious mind, then promptly rested her head (well, her entire body) back on the bed.