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There was only one person on the server that posed a real threat to Dream. Well, Tommy, of course, but Tommy could be dealt with. Tommy was annoying, a fly around his head waiting to be swatted, but he would never be considered a real threat. No. There was only one person on the server that had shown themselves to be able to outwit, to outmatch Dream: Technoblade. Technoblade was not under his control, so Technoblade was a threat. And threats had to be dealt with.
Pandora's Vault was created for that purpose. To hold threats that were otherwise uncontainable. To hold threats while they were…dealt with. The cells had been empty for too long. Dream had plans, and Technoblade, as he stood then, did not fit into them.
Techno did not go quietly. Sapnap and Sam had each lost a life, and almost Antfrost as well, before Dream could subdue him. In the end, all he needed was leverage. A knife pressed to Philza's throat, for example. Techno had surrendered when drops of red started hitting Phil's collarbones.
"Not him," he had said. "I'll go with you, Dream. But kill him and I will make you regret it, whatever the cost."
"Go with me quietly," Dream had growled, "and I won't have to. But try any funny business, any escape attempts, and neither you nor our dear Mr. Minecraft will like what happens."
Techno had walked into prison of his own free will, despite Phil's protests.
Dream had smiled from behind his mask when the door to Techno's cell closed with a quiet click. Another piece of the puzzle squared away. Another variable eliminated. Another advantage gained.
"I hope you won't take all this personally, Techno," he said gently. "I really don't have any grudge with you. In fact, I'd love to be your ally. Your friend."
Techno did not respond. He stood with his back to the door, hair braided loosely down his back, shoulders tense under the coarse white prison shirt. The only sign he heard was a faint twitch in his fingers.
Dream was a man-shaped being of his word. Philza was released (there was nowhere he could go where Dream couldn't find him, not really) once Techno was secured away. He was even given a potion of healing and some bandages by way of apology. Dream received an icy glare and a string of curses for his troubles, but it didn't matter. His anger had no effect on the situation. Even Philza Minecraft couldn't break into the Vault.
Dream hadn't lied when he said he hoped to be Techno's ally. Techno was a formidable force; that was the reason he was in the prison to begin with. Dream had no desire to anger him further than was necessary. He made certain that Techno was given high quality meals, that the food was varied and well cooked. He had running water and an extra pillow. Dream visited every day to try and provide some company. To try and show Techno that he was someone who could be trusted. It took a while to make any progress. He was met by either stony silence or outright aggression for the first week. After that it was dry sarcasm or open mockery, but at least they were interacting.
On day fifteen Techno said, "Dream, I have a request."
Dream blinked, startled. "Yeah?"
"It's been two weeks of nothin' but this cot and that table bolted to the wall. Can I have some books?"
Dream thought about it. Techno hadn't tried to escape, hadn't threatened the guards or refused his meals. And it wasn't like he could do anything with books. "Yeah, ok."
Techno blinked at him, turning to face him fully, which was unusual. "…Really?"
Dream shrugged. "Yeah. I'll get you some books. Anything you like in particular?"
Techno eyed him suspiciously, like he expected Dream to change his mind. "Mythology's good. But I'm not picky."
Dream nodded. "I'll see what I can do."
He found some mythology books. Some were older than others, but he inspected all of them to make sure they were free of potentially dangerous objects. As an extra gift, he added an empty soft-bound journal plus a quill and ink pot to the little pile.
Techno…appreciated it. Begrudgingly. He certainly wasn't about to tell Dream he was grateful. And he wasn't grateful, anyway. He was literally being held prisoner. He wasn't grateful. But the books were nice. He read them aloud, sometimes, when Dream was gone. It made the voices happy. He knew a lot of the tales by heart, but it was nice to revisit them.
The journal, on the other hand, was problematic. He wanted to write in it. He wanted to plan, or try and sketch, or compose tales like Wilbur had always been able to. But the voices were too loud. He could barely get through two or three words before he had lost his train of thought completely. When he found himself writing the same word three times in a row he gave up and tore the page out of the notebook.
Looking back, it was that day that things started getting better. He watched the white paper flutter to the floor, twisting in on itself, and realized, there are more things to do with paper than write on it. He picked up the paper from the floor and considered it. He'd read somewhere, a long time ago, about the art of paper folding. Ori…something. Origami, one of the voices bellowed helpfully. Yeah, that was it. Origami. Maybe he could do that.
He'd learned a little bit about it, years ago. Enough to know that there were many, many kinds of folds, and that most of them were harder than you thought they should be. But that was alright. It wasn't like he didn't have time, he supposed.
So he folded the paper. It wasn't good, not at first. Folding the paper in half gave him a little lopsided rectangle. Folding it again gave him a square.
Well. It was a start.
He folded the page for the rest of the day, until Dream came for his visit. He had managed to create, in order of impressiveness
- A square
- A triangle
- A diamond (different from a square)
- A diamond with flaps
- A trapezoid (which was a fun word)
- A triangular thing that could stand up on its own
His page had gotten very wrinkled by the end of the day.
Folding, he decided, was a Good Activity. It was far better than pacing back and forth, trying to drown out the cacophony in his skull. It kept his hands busy, and he could talk to the voices or just leave them be. They seemed to like it also, maybe not as much as when he read but certainly more than staring at the wall. The next day he used five pages, and the day after he used ten.
Squares got boring very quickly. He made a game of trying to fold the paper as small as possible, which was fun for a day or so. He tried to see how many triangles he could fold into a single sheet, which also gave him a day. But it wasn't enough. It was too repetitive, too meaningless. Too easy for his mind to wander. He wanted to try something else. Paper airplanes were a thing, right?
Technoplane! The voices agreed. Technoplane! Planes go brrrrr, E, fold a plane, best plane, Technoplane, E, Technoplane, plane pog--
He folded a plane.
Planes were a decided improvement from squares. There was a lot of variety in planes, in wing shape and nose shape and body height. They were fun to watch. Some nosedived immediately, some twirled in elaborate arcs, some flew steadily and then crashed. The voices had fun naming the planes, too. Plane twenty three was named 'Grug' for reasons that the voices refused to explain. Plane forty eight flew directly upward somehow and smashed into the glowstone in the ceiling. It was dubbed 'Icarus' almost immediately.
After a few days of practice,Techno got good at folding planes. He could make them sail out between the bars and into the hallway, or spin in looping circles around the room. One of his newest, most refined designs had triangular wings that swept back along the sleek body. It was fast, faster than most of the ones he had created before. It curved neatly around the bars and into the hallway beyond, but suddenly the swooping dive it gave reminded him of glossy black feathers on a cloudless day, and a green and white hat perched on a blonde head, and easy laughter and warm smiles and silver against pale skin and drips of dark crimson and--
Techno didn’t fold any more planes that day.
Dream didn't mind Techno's paper folding habits. When he visited he gladly passed the planes back through the bars. If Techno was feeling especially tolerant they would throw them back and forth, or Techno would try to sail one over Dreams head without him catching it. It gave Techno a burst of vindictive glee whenever Dream couldn't coax the paper to do the same tricks that Techno could. It made Dream smile behind his mask that Techno was willing to interact with him.
He branched out from planes eventually. He experimented with making other things. A simple ladybug. A hat. A leaf. A box. It was satisfying to fold, to try something and undo it, then redo it again in a different way. He started a little collection of paper items on the table.
Dream replaced the notebook when he ran out of paper. Techno tried to recycle as much of it as he could, but not all of it was salvageable. After the first few times, Techno asked if he could keep the empty bindings.
"Why?" Dream asked.
Techno shrugged. "Dunno. Why not, I guess." He snorted. "Sense of accomplishment, how 'bout that? Like a hunting trophy."
Dream laughed. "Books aren't real good at running away. Hunting trophy seems like an exaggeration."
Techno smiled at the joke. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but he smiled. He hadn't done that around Dream before. It was progress. Dream watched him for a moment. "Yeah, you can keep the bindings. Use them as a placemat or something," he said. Maybe Techno would warm up to him eventually after all. He would see that Dream wasn't so bad. Dream was willing to wait, if it meant he got the Blade on his side.
Techno kept the bindings. They were nice to have around, a different texture to run his fingers across when the boredom set in. Maybe they would be useful for other things, too.
As time passed, he kept building his folding skills. The shapes he made got more complex. A flower. A butterfly. A turtle. A tree. A collapsing cube. Each new design could take him days to perfect. His table became littered in white shapes.
Techno lost track of how long it had been since he'd seen sunlight. Dream never told him anything about what was happening outside, so he stopped asking. His daily routine became: wake up, eat, stretch, do what limited exercise could be achieved in the cell, fold, eat, read, fold, talk to Dream (or ignore Dream, it depended on the day), eat, read, sleep. Repeat. Again and again. The same five paces by five paces room.
As time passed, Techno tried new ways of folding. He ran paper over the edge of the table to curve it, or wetted the creases with water. He folded things in pieces, over multiple sheets of paper, and fitted them together. A rose. A ravager. A dragon. A hydra. A minotaur. Each figure took him more than a week, some closer to two or three.
As time passed, his skills became more and more advanced. His work became more and more detailed, more and more structurally sound. He discovered new tricks, new techniques, and filed them away for later use.
Dream learned that Techno liked talking about his folding projects. He could talk at length about how hard it was to fold the legs on the scorpion, or how he was trying to get the arch of the horse's neck just right. Dream could see him smile when he talked about it, even if it never reached his eyes. But maybe that was just how Techno was. Maybe his smiles were genuine. Maybe he wasn't happy, but he seemed content. He certainly seemed more open to talking to Dream than he was at the beginning. And Dream was happy for it. Progress was slow, but he had nothing but time.
Imprisonment was weighing on Techno more than he let on. It was sheer spite and stubbornness that kept him from letting Dream see how much he hated it. He was fine with solitude, but he usually was able to move. To explore with Carl, or farm with his hands in the soil. He couldn’t feel the sun on his face. He couldn't hear snow under his boots. He couldn't feel the wind in his hair. And, Gods, his hair. The pink had grown out and faded, leaving him with inches of brown at the roots. He hated it. But he doubted that Dream would let him have bleach and hair dye, and he certainly wasn't about to let the bastard try and do it himself. The only one who was allowed anywhere near his hair was Phil.
It was thoughts of Phil that were keeping him sane, he supposed. Phil, safe and happy back at their homestead. Phil, surviving by himself for years at a time in his own worlds. Phil wouldn't want him to give up. Phil wouldn't want him to become docile. So he kept getting up every day. He kept folding, he kept practicing, he kept reading stories and trying to keep the voices at bay.
The voices were worse at night. They loathed the confinement, urged him to punch the walls, break the bars, to kill the guards, to escape. It made it hard to sleep, having hundreds of thousands of screams in your head. He would fold on those nights. He would try new things. He would run old pages under water and lay them to dry, or fold them while they were wet. He would run his fingers over the leather bindings he kept. The nights felt longer than the days, but he could work uninterrupted. So, spurred by the shouting in his skull and the memories burning his heart, work he did.
Time passed, as time does, whether you care to notice it or not.
Dream, for his part, was not usually one to stick to a routine. Routines made people predictable, easy to track. Easy to anticipate. Easier to kill. Dream was not usually one to stick to a routine, but he was willing to make exceptions. For example, he visited the prison at around the same time every day. He had considered switching the times up (and had a few times over the months, when it was convenient) but if he had decided it was better to keep it. He could force a schedule onto The Blade, onto Techno, onto his…friend? Ally? Prisoner? Whoever he was, now, it was delicious in its own way.
Dream came to the prison in the early afternoon every day, when the sun shone on his back and warmed the top of his head and glittered off the water in shimmering patterns. Like the rest of the guards he was able to bypass the security measures, which was a nice touch. Much more efficient.
Something was off when he visited that day. He didn't notice at first. It was just a strange uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. He stepped into the lobby, putting his keycard back in his pocket and feeling the security measures close up behind him as if they had never opened. He looked up to greet Sam at the front desk. Except, Sam wasn't there. He paused, scanning the room. Everything seemed normal, except…except the lights at the desk were off. He stepped over cautiously, keeping a hand on his axe. His footsteps were too loud on the blackstone floors.
The redstone circuits at the desk were severed, and not neatly. Dust was scattered haphazardly around and the wires were frayed and uneven, like they had been cut with something long and sharp, something not meant for the precise work of wiring. Worse still, there was blood behind the desk, dark and drying.
The door slammed open and Dream spun, leveling his axe at the threat. Sam stumbled from the doorway to the guards quarters, looking disoriented. His armor was askew, but he had his sword in hand. His eyes focused on Dream a moment later.
"Sam?" Dream asked incredulously. He lowered his axe. "What happened?" Something deep in his gut told him he already knew.
Sam scrubbed a hand down his face. "Techno's escaped."
Dream was running towards the cells before he finished the second word. How had this happened? How? Techno had been cooperative, complacent even. He had shown no inclination for escape. Stupid, stupid, he thought. When have you ever seen Techno complacent? He should have known something like this would happen. But still. How in Ender's name had he actually managed to get out? He had nothing, nothing , in that cell. Not even a butter knife with his meals. No armor, no sword, no potions, no anything.
His boots pounded down the hallway to the holding cells. He was relieved to hear Sam behind him. The door at the far end, the barred door to Techno's cell, stood ajar. A tray of food was spilled over the floor like it had been dropped. He drew his axe again as he approached, for whatever good it would do him.
Inside the cell, Antfrost was tied to the leg of the bed, gagged and stripped of his armor. Dream dropped to a knee beside him, pulling at the ties. They looked like strips of thick leather, tied securely in tight knots that didn't cut off circulation. "Somebody start explaining," Dream growled.
"He jumped me in the lobby before I could react," Sam said. "He was wearing armor, I thought it was Ant at first, but I realized once he tried to put an axe through my skull."
"He was wearing my armor," Ant said, pulling the gag out with newly freed hands. It looked like a wad of paper.
"No shit," Dream said. "How'd that happen?"
"When I came to bring him lunch he was standing at the door, like usual, but it was unlocked somehow, so when I walked up he slammed it into my face," Ant said. He rubbed at his wrists. "I dropped the tray and tried to get at my sword but he was faster. He had these, like, white claws on his hands, too." Ant sighed. "He overpowered me, got me in some kind of headlock. Told me he'd gouge my eyes out if I yelled, which I don't doubt. He dragged me back in here, knocked my head against the floor…next thing I knew I was here, with a headache the size of a Ghast, staring at the empty hallway and trying to get someone's attention."
Dream leaned back against the wall, eyes on the middle distance, trying to follow the scenario in his head. Why was the door unlocked? What were the 'claws'?
"That all checks out," Sam said. "He jumped me in full armor a few minutes after you went to give him his food. I scored a hit on him, I think, but," he shrugged, "It's Techno, man. Dream, you're the only one who's ever come close to beating him in a fair one on one fight. I went down pretty fast. He probably used your card to get out, too, Ant."
Dream rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension building between them. He could feel the anger simmering low in his gut but he didn't allow himself to feel it yet. Instead he examined the strips that had bound Antfrost. They were, as he had thought, leather cut into rough, oddly shaped strips. Where had he gotten leather from?
He moved further into the cell, still thinking. A flash of white caught his eye. There were things laid out on the bedspread. He picked them up. Two thin white sticks, one slightly curved at the end. Eight thick, hollow, vaguely triangular shapes.
Oh. Oh, that clever bastard.
The sticks were lockpicking tools, and the triangles were the claws. The sticks looked like rolled, highly compacted paper. The claws, also, were paper. Many sheets, probably, folded in thick layers, coming to an unexpectedly sharp point. The ends of the lockpicks as well as the folds and tips of the claws were hard to the touch, shining with some kind of lacquer or dried glue. How in Ender's name did he make glue??
His eyes alighted on the stack of used book bindings, pushed unobtrusively into the corner of the room. That clever bastard. Sure enough, when Dream turned the stack over the inside of the spines were scraped clean of the remnants of the glue used to bind the pages. That explains the leather, too. Techno had, apparently, found a way to cut or tear the empty bindings into strips once their glue had been harvested.
That clever bastard. He'd underestimated Techno. Technoblade had fooled him. He had hidden his scheming under a veneer of compliance. He had waited, he had developed his skills, he had planned and thought and prepared. He didn’t know what he expected. How could he have been so stupid? So blind? This was Technoblade. Technoblade, with permanent scars on his hands from eight months farming potatoes to spite a child. Technoblade, who always had a plan. Technoblade, who was always a fraction of a second ahead of him, who was always the slightest bit faster. He had underestimated The Blade, and he would pay for it.
The table along the side wall was bare of the collection of white figurines that had been accumulating over the months. Techno had found a way to take them with him, it seemed. In their place was a book, one of the mythology books, with the quill and inkpot laid carefully beside it. Dream picked up the book slowly, feeling the worn cover under his fingers. There was a page marked in the book by a torn slip of paper. He opened it. The tale of Daedalus and Icarus. Nestled between the pages was a pair of wings folded out of a crisp white sheet of paper.
The bookmark read, in crisp calligraphy, "Crete could not hold him forever."
He could picture Techno, standing here. Waiting. Thinking. Wondering if it would work. Wondering if his skill could bring him to safety, away from captivity. Wondering if he would be able to fly, or if his hubris would lead him to death. Wondering, if he tried, what it would cost him if he was unable to protect those he loved.
He clenched the slip of paper in his fist. Techno had always had a flair for the dramatic. He almost smiled, despite the anger roiling in his gut. Technoblade had had at least a few hours head start. It was time to prepare. He had always loved a good hunt, and The Blade would make a fine quarry.
In another place, Techno stepped out of a Nether portal into the biting cold. His legs ached from walking farther than he had in almost a year. He'd tried to train, but five paces by five paces could only do so much. His shoulders hurt where the straps of the badly fitted armor cut into his skin. His arm burned from the cut he had gotten, slowly bleeding through the hasty bandage he had put on it. The voices beat at the inside of his skull, thundering for blood, for more of the chaos they had tasted after eleven months of deprivation. The stolen axe felt like it was made of lead. His hair blew about his face in the wind, falling out of the haphazard braid he had tried to do. He touched the bag tied to his hip woven of strips of leather and paper. His figures were still safe.
One foot and then the other. Ever forward, through the wind, down the route his feet still knew by heart. One foot and then the other. Snow whiter than paper crunched under his boots. Wind howled past his head and the voices howled inside it. He passed a wooden fence. There was a cabin ahead of him and the smell of woodsmoke in the air. One foot and then the other. Get to the door. Just a little further.
"Techno!" A voice rang through the wind.
Techno looked up slowly. It was hard to focus. His head throbbed.
"Techno!" Someone burst from the door of the cabin. It was someone in a green and white hat, they had blonde hair, and was that a blue cloak, and it was Phil. Oh sun and stars it was Phil , Phil was here and he was smiling and crying and there were arms around him and feathers in his peripheral vision and there weren't tears in his eyes, there weren't , Technoblade never cries, and he had his arm over Phil's shoulder and there was a wing around him that sheltered him from the wind and then it was warm, there was a fire blazing on the hearth, and Phil was helping him take the armor off and Phil was saying something, he could hear Phil's voice again , he had to pay attention, Phil was saying something --
"..injured? Do you need potions?" Phil helped him sit on the couch in front of the fire.
"My arm," Techno mumbled. The words were an effort. "Sword got me." How had he gotten cut? Oh. Right. Escaping from prison. Oh. "Phil," he said urgently, gripping the man's hand. "They're comin', Phil. Dream. Antfrost. Sam. They're comin', they're gonna hurt you because I escaped, they're gonna try and take me back, Phil--"
Phil was crouching in front of him, one hand steady on his shoulder. "I know, mate. I know. Don't worry. We'll be ready. I'm here, alright? I'm going to take care of it."
Techno nodded. Phil was here. He was safe. He was home .
There was something else. Something important. Right. He clutched at the bag at his side, pressing it into Phil's hand. "Watch these for me?" he asked.
Phil took the bag gently. "Of course, mate." He held out a potion which Techno took gratefully. "Good," Phil said, smiling. "Now, sleep. You're safe. I'll take care of everything."
He was safe. Phil was there, and he was home. The last thing he felt was Phil draping a blanket over him, careful of his injured arm. Sleep consumed him.