#im so proud of the rendering on the armor i never do it

[valfeathers]

knight & captain

[dr3amofagame]

Do you think c! Quackity are skilled on the mastering of "necessary convincing" on a person? And man the stream yesterday was so intense dark theme.

hello ! 

this is testament of how behind i am in asks, haha, considering this was sent basically at the beginning of q’s visits and it’s been ,, uh ,, several months since then ASJKFLJAS - but im going to try to answer it now while pretending that we dont have months proving that c!quackity is very willing to do whatever the hell it takes to get the revive book from someone.

i think that the ,, technicalities? of the torture were never an issue - everyone in the dream smp universe has to know how to use a weapon in its most basic form, after all, just to defend themselves from mobs and stuff, tho some people are clearly more adept at using them than others. torture is ultimately just hurting someone until they do what you want them to do (way oversimplified, but this definition works here) - physically, if you’re able to kill a zombie, there’s functionally little different with inflicting harm on a defenseless unarmed human with no means of defending themselves.

the real challenge, as with most things in the minecraft roleplay, comes from the mental side - how far is c!quackity really willing to go? obviously he *can* hurt someone, but doing so also tends to go against a lot of our most basic instincts as humans. defying that becomes the real question to consider - and c!quackity, in his increased willingness to hurt not only c!dream, but everyone as he’s manipulated people more and used people more for his own gain in the last few months, seems to providing as much of an answer as we’re going to get. 

this obviously isnt to say that he isn’t conflicted, or that he’s pure evil !! but c!quackity, by his own admission, seems to hold little trust for other people and ideals anymore. his main goal is Las Nevadas and whatever he needs to make it great - anything and everything else is either a means to his end or an obstacle in his way. i dont doubt that there are chinks to this mindset to exploit, things that he cares about enough to take his single-minded focus off of Las Nevadas. as of now, though, i don’t think that torturing c!dream and the violence it’ll require of him will be that breaking point.

anyway, have a really dark snippet exploring c!quackity some more !! he’s really fun to write, though i don’t think i’ve really mastered his voice yet - practice makes perfect, i guess. heed the warnings and hope you enjoy! 

tw: torture, abuse, blood, injuries, branding, violence, death mention, abuse apologism, mental deterioration, dark content, dark imagery, very dark portrayal of c!quackity, pandora’s vault/prison arc

There’s a certain learning curve that comes with torturing someone.

It sounds obvious, thinking back, as much as it sounds morbid as all hell, but it’s not like he’s in any position to judge. Quackity swipes another stack of iron from a chest, momentarily grumbling about the cost, before melting down three ingots for the blade of his next axe. He could just do it in a crafting table, but there’s a degree of calm in the monotony of doing it all by hand, slowly watching as the iron begins to glow red hot in the heat of the furnace and then hammering it into shape on his anvil. He hadn’t been good at it before, had let Sapnap do the majority of the smithing for the three of them in the past, but. Well.

When you’re eating through several sets of iron tools a week, either from bending them out of shape against unforgiving obsidian or melting the blades past saving in lava or burning them all entirely, when he’s too tired to be bothered cleaning off the blood and simply chucks the used tools after a session into the molten rock outside the cell, you kind of have to figure out how to make your own shit so others don’t get suspicious.

He beats the metal into a block, humming softly over the clangs of his hammer. There’s definitely a learning curve to crafting weapons, too - he’s pretty proud of the ones that he can make, now, even though he’s still no good at any of the fancier furnishings and finishes (nor does he particularly care about them). Figuring out how to torture someone effectively was a similarly slow process - finding their limits and how far to push before something, inevitably, gives. He hadn’t exactly handled it the best in the first few visits, usually retching into the nearest wastebasket at the smell, at the feeling of blood coating his fingertips, at the screams ringing incessantly in his head. It wasn’t all that long before he forwent sleep altogether, devoting all of his time on paperwork and calls and anything that would deafen the cries that would’ve haunted him otherwise. He was no good with his tools, either - more than a few times, in those early visits, did he end up slicing too deep or going too far and needing to cut the session short for Sam to come in and administer health pots before Dream died and rendered all of their efforts useless.

(Sapnap had been the one to first teach him how to wield an axe, correcting his stance and his grip with gentle, calloused hands. He remembers them training on the newly laid dirt surface of Mexican L’manburg, sweat dripping down his neck from the sun beating against their heavy armor, Sap laughing at his unbalanced, heavy-armed swings and demonstrating with his own weapon, movements fluid and graceful as if it was an extension of his own arm. In the cell, he thinks of Sapnap’s voice, firm in his focus - feet at least shoulder width apart, hands braced on the axe handle, left sitting just above the end and the right just a few inches below the head - and swings.)

It had been...a process. A bloody, often painful process - his hands are calloused, now, in ways they never were before, from the constant handling of his many tools. His back aches constantly from bending over, and his shirt - more often splattered with blood than not - now bears some permanent pink stains that he can’t get out no matter how hard he tries. (The laundry, he thinks wryly, had been a hell of a learning process as well.) He picks up the metal with a pair of tongs, easing it back under the fire’s heat until it glows a soft pink, and then places it back onto the anvil to work - slowly beating the metal into shape.

He’s had to learn a lot. The lessons are fascinating, in a gruesome, morbid sort of way. He’d brought a brand the other day, painstakingly carved into a fancy, curlicued Q all on his own, used in his work at Las Nevadas originally to finish furnishing a few pieces of leather furniture he had scattered around the city. As Dream struggled under him, skin blackening under the white-hot metal, he’d immersed himself in the sight, far more similar to his past leatherwork than he might’ve originally expected. He almost wanted to do it again, just to compare, but the stress of it all had been enough to knock the prisoner into shock, which had put a significant damper on the rest of his visit. He watches the iron glow contemplatively from his anvil, not nearly as hot as he works at it.

Another dip in the furnace later, it’s heated just enough to work out the finishings, and he carefully knocks the ends into a blade. Picking it up with a pair of tongs, he holds it up to a nearby piece of glowstone, grinning at the finished axe head. There’s still quite a bit to do, technically - he still needs to sharpen it along with the other ones he’s finished, as well as fasten them to their handles, but even so - it looks good. He examines it, back and front, against the light. It’s probably his best one yet.

Quackity smiles to himself as he puts it down with the rest, pulling out his calendar from behind him and carefully marking another red X over the date. Learning to torture someone takes a hell of a lot of time, but. Well.

He has all the time in the world.

[aces-miild]

Familiar Fell - Chapter One

Sans waits just inside city limits. His hands are deep in his pockets, his clawed fingers picking anxiously at the seams. He grinds his pointed teeth, a deep frown taking the place of his usual grin. Red-tinted sweat beads on his skull, and his good eye is illuminated, watching the struggle taking place just beyond the rolling hills.

Beside him stands his friend - though he would hesitate to call her so out loud - the esteemed inventor Doctor Alphys. She wrings her scaly hands, concern rendering her unable to speak.

So, they wait in silence as a small crowd - humans and monsters alike - whisper fearfully around them. They watch the distant light of magic as attack after attack rains down over the hillside just north of Ebott City, spears and bones alike striking the dry summer earth.

A strangled roar rings out, the last cry of the dying. The attacks cease, and the gathered citizens let out a collective sigh of relief as a massive amount of dust rises on the evening breeze, sparkling in the setting sun. Beside him, Alphys shivers.

As the crowd dissipates, Sans glances over his shoulder at the city, and the damage the beast had done before being led out into the hillside. Ruined streets, crushed cars, destroyed storefronts. Sans would never have guessed that a monster like Aaron could wreak such havoc. 

Then again, the creature that had rampaged through the city hadn’t really been Aaron, but a vicious, destructive creature - a huge horse-like abomination with a powerful fish tail capable of leveling buildings with a single swipe. It was like something out of a nightmare. 

Such transformations weren’t unheard of. The news reported stories of monsters Turning, becoming overwhelmed by rage and transforming into savage beasts bent on destruction. It was becoming more and more common. This was, however, the first time Sans had seen it happen in person. 

Guess that creep got turned down one too many times, Sans assumed, having trouble coming up with anything else that would piss Aaron off enough to turn into...that. 

Sans returns his attention to the hills in time to see the City Guard making their way back. He recognizes the silhouette of the Captain, Undyne. She trudges along, footsteps dragging as she supports the weight of Sans’s brother Papyrus. Despite looking worse for wear, the two appear to be in high spirits, no doubt proud of their victory. A pack of wolfish monsters surrounds them, whooping and howling, their laughter carrying over the dry land. 

Alphys, anxious to be reunited with her wife, rushes to meet the Guard halfway. 

Undyne lets go of Papyrus in favor of lifting her tiny wife into the air in a celebratory embrace. They share a too-long kiss, leaving Papyrus to collapse to his knees from exhaustion. In an instant, Sans is at his brother’s side.

“ya good, bro? ya look a little pale,” Sans jokes, trying to hide his concern. Though things had been peaceful since monsters settled on the surface, Sans had yet to fully move past the kill-or-be-killed mentality he picked up in the Underground. Caring about others, even his own little brother, was still something he struggled to outwardly show, for fear that it would be exploited.    

“I Am Fine...Just...A Bit...Winded,” the younger skeleton responded between gasping breaths. Sans had never seen him this worn out. 

“S-so, it’s o-over?” Alphys asks, glancing in the direction of the still-drifting dust.  

Undyne nods her head solemnly. “I wish it didn’t have to end like that,” she admits, much to Sans’s surprise. The old Undyne would’ve revelled in such a battle, but now all he sees in the fish monster’s eyes is regret. He guesses that having to kill your former neighbor - no matter how big a creep - really took away from the thrill of the fight. 

We’ve really been spoiled up here, haven’t we?

Undyne places her tiny wife back onto solid ground, and the other members of the guard start to head back into the city to begin working on repairs. Sans offers to help his brother stand, but Papyrus’s pride gets in the way. He lifts himself on unsteady legs, ready to join the others, but Undyne stops him, putting a hand on his armor-clad shoulder. 

“Go home, bonehead. You took on more than your fair share of that fight...go get some rest,” she has an uncharacteristically sympathetic look on her rugged, battle-scarred face. 

“I’m Fine, Captain.” Papyrus attempts to get out of her grip, but fails miserably, easily kept in place by his superior’s incredible strength.

“Get. Some. Rest. That’s an order, punk!” She commands with a good-natured, though tired, smile. She releases his shoulder and punches him, sending him reeling back a bit.  

Papyrus considers this for a moment, then straightens his posture. “Far Be It For Me To Ignore An Order From My Captain,” he states. Then, much quieter, “Or The Advice Of A Friend.” He turns to Sans. “Shall We, Brother?” He asks, resting a hand on the shorter skeleton’s shoulder.

“sure thing, boss,” Sans replies.

The two disappear in the blink of an eye.  

--

As usual, Sans rises late the following day, only leaving his room to refuel on junk food. It’s already two in the afternoon, and Sans expects to see his brother flitting around the house doing chores, or at least a note telling Sans that he’s gone out. 

But the house is silent, and the door to Papyrus’s room is still shut tight. Sans knocks on it lightly, “hey bro, you in there?” Sans hopes his brother is just going over some combat strategies with his figurine collection. 

There’s no answer.

Cautiously, Sans opens the door and looks around his brother’s room. Once, back in Snowdin, he never would’ve dared to enter his brother’s room uninvited. The Papyrus that existed in the Underground would’ve had his head for invading his privacy like that. But now, after a few years of family therapy, the brothers were on much better terms. 

At first, he doesn’t see anything of note. All of Papyrus’s possessions are where they should be, immaculately organized, not a single item out of place. Then, he sees his brother, still asleep in bed. 

“it’s gettin’ pretty late, paps…” Sans says, walking over to the bed. “You should prolly eat somethin’.”

No response. 

Panic flares in Sans’s soul. Papyrus was a notoriously light sleeper, even when exhausted. Sans reaches a hand out and shakes his brother, hoping that the taller skeleton won’t be too pissed off at being woken up so abruptly. 

Nothing.

Sans shakes his brother harder, calling and then shouting his name again and again, to no avail. He takes a step back, breathing heavily. His good eye lights up, and he scans his brother, checking his stats. 

AT: 50

DF: 30

HP: .5/100

Sans collapses to his knees, reeling from the realization. It can’t be...he can’t be... 

Papyrus, his little brother, the only family Sans has ever known...has fallen.

--

Alphys was Sans’s only hope. He knew about her experiments with Determination - he’d had a hand in them, way back when. If he could just get a small sample of whatever was left over, surely he could wake Papyrus. 

But when he showed up at the lab, all Alphys could offer were her condolences. “I’m s-sorry, Sans. There’s n-nothing I can do…” she turned her back, unable to face him, and fidgeted with some papers on her desk. “Experimentation on monsters - awake or fallen - is illegal. You know that.”

“never stopped ya before,” he muttered in response. 

“I was p-protected by the King before.” She sighs, and adjusts her glasses. “I can’t give you any D.T., anyway. Once the b-barrier was broken, I disposed of the leftover materials. Best not to have that kind of t-temptation laying around...You’ve seen what curiosity does to me.”

Drives her insane. Up-the-wall. Completely bonkers. “yeah. makes ya do some real mad scientist shit.” 

“Exactly. I have a new reputation I’d like to cultivate,” she hesitates, then asks, “Are you going t-to t-tell Undyne, or…?”

“i was gonna hold off. not sure i want her tryin’ to help out.” Sans was pretty sure she wouldn’t take it well, and he didn’t want her barging into his house and roughing up his already unstable brother in an attempt to wake him by force. 

Alphys nods solemnly. “I’ll wait a few days before I bring it up.”

“thanks, al.”

“I wish I could do m-more for you. For Papyrus…”

“yeah. me too,” he says bitterly as he turns to leave. As the automatic door to the lab shuts behind him, one of the guards outside - an old buddy from the Wolf Guard back in Snowdin - speaks up.

“M’sorry ta hear ‘bout Papyrus…” Doggo says, not quite making eye contact. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but, well...ya know how it is.” He did. Doggo had come a long way since being blinded; his other senses had improved to compensate for the loss.

Sans had nothing to say. He simply nodded at his old drinking buddy and prepared to teleport home.

“If ya just wait a second, Sans, I got a suggestion for ya.”

“what?” Sans all but growled, narrowing his eyes at the meddling mutt.

“Well, ya know how my old man fell ‘bout six months back?”

“yeah, what of it?”

For what it was worth, Doggo completely ignored the skeleton’s aggressive tone, and simply kept on with his explanation. “Well, my mom took ‘im to this lady livin’ in the woods...a witch. Monsters’ve been goin’ there with their fallen for a while. She’s got a bunch just sleepin’ in her house...she takes care of ‘em, y’see. Keeps ‘em from dustin’ ‘til their families are ready to say goodbye.”

Sans didn’t want to hear more. He didn’t even want to consider that Papyrus might never wake up. 

“i ain’t takin’ my bro to some crackpot witch, dog-breath.” 

“Hold on, now, m’not done. See, she doesn’t just keep ‘em from dustin’. Nah, she’s also got a reputation for wakin’ up the fallen. I don’t really know much about it m’self, but she might be able to help ya.” Doggo looks off into the distance with his unseeing eyes. “Might be worth your while ta take a trip over there, y’know? Just to see if there’s anythin’ she can do.”