Chapter Text
He falls like a lightning bolt, a trail of blinding white against the glittering black of an alien sky.
He slams into the ground like a fucking rock.
It hurts like a son of a bitch, and Tommy announces that to the foreign soil with a grunt, not bothering to so much as flop sideways as he does. “Goddamn shit-stained son of a motherfucker - where the fuck am -”
And then there’s a feeling in his throat like a hand wrapping around it and twisting, not painful, exactly, but awful and uncomfortable, and he chokes on his own words.
It takes a moment of terror for him to realize that he can’t speak, but whatever this strange reaction is, that seems to be all of it - there’s no pain when he tries to talk again, just the uncomfortable sensation of speaking without sound.
What the -
He does bother to roll sideways, at that, grunting in pain as his whole body aches. He’s going to be a mass of bruises tomorrow, he knows - but at least the server jump’s few moments of spawn invulnerability prevented more serious injury. There’s nothing to do but drag himself to his feet and check his comms.
[Automod]: You have been muted from chat for: profanity. Profanity is not permitted on this server.
“That’s fucking stupid,” is what Tommy tries, unsuccessfully, to say in response. There’s no sound at all from his mouth, as if the words have been snatched away just as they reach his lips.
<That’s stupid.> is what he types, but the message doesn’t send. A moment later,
[Automod]: You have been muted from chat for: profanity. Profanity is not permitted on this server.
There’s a clench in his gut, at that. At the idea of being muted by - not even a real mod, an arcane construct -
He forces the budding panic down.
<What sort of piece of shit anarchy server has a fucking no-swearing rule, shitface?>
He doesn’t bother to censor himself, sure that the words will be gone the moment he tries to send them, and, sure enough:
[Automod]: You have been muted from chat for: profanity. Profanity is not permitted on this server.
<Fuck you.>
[Automod]: You have been muted from chat for: profanity. Profanity is not permitted on this server.
He starts to write out another profane response, impugning the honor and heritage of not only the automod, but it’s creator, the moderator implementing it, and their parents and grandparents, but stops himself halfway through.
He’s wasting time shouting messages into a void. He doesn’t have a lot of time to waste.
Rather than continuing to argue, he scrolls back to the top of his message feed. There’s a typical greeting message, any discussion before it out of his view.
[Server]: TommyInnit has joined the server.
There’s a timestamp skip of less than thirty seconds before the next message -
[Mumbo]: New hermit?
[Welsknight]: Hey! Hi!
[Welsknight]: Welcome to the server! Hang on, I'm right by spawn.
[Tango]: So am I, I’ll meet you there
[RenTheDog]: Hello?
[RenTheDog]: I didn’t think we were getting anyone new this season
[FalseSymmetry]: Is somebody doing a tour?
The chatter continues up to the mute messages, the chatters obviously unaware of his current, muted status - but the next person to message has the signature grey-flagged nametag of an admin.
[Xisumavoid]: Whoever it is, I didn't add them.
[Xisumavoid]: We’ve got everyone in for season six.
[Xisumavoid]: I don't recognize the name, either.
There’s a moment’s pause in the chat, as if everyone is contemplating that fact - the fact that Tommy has hacked his way onto what is becoming increasingly obvious is a private, whitelist-only server.
Then a new name pops up in chat, and with a twisting wrench of certainty, Tommy knows exactly where he’s found himself.
[Grian]: Let me check spawn.
There’s no mistaking the name - not when he’s spent the last year rewatching, with almost feral satisfaction, the smuggled video of Dream, dying over and over again to the brunet’s ax. The suddenness of it, the surprise, the limp, lifeless body fading out -
Tommy isn’t sure if he can still find it in himself to have a hero, but if he did, Grian would be a contender.
That doesn’t matter, though, because Grian isn’t the sort of person who dabbles in anarchy servers. He’s a builder, a creative - a bit of a recluse, sticking to his own private worlds and…
… and Hermitcraft, and Tommy knows, with a flash of certainty, that he’s never been in more danger in his life.
He raises his eyes to the treeline - to shelter - and runs.