dream smp oneshots and unfinished fics

inferno (unf.)

Jack Manifold likes to think he's suffered more than the average person.

Which, given that this is the DreamSMP, where hardly anyone can go a month without being involved in some sort of betrayal, is a bit of an impressive feat, in his opinion.

Of course, impressiveness is relative -- Jack does not see shuffling down the Prime Path on half a heart, blood seeping from untreated wounds that make breathing a painful endeavor as "impressive," per se, but he is proud of himself. Most other people on this server would have been long gone after daring to strife with Technoblade -- most likely decapitated or speared through, but not only did Jack not instantly lose his final canon life (engaging in any sort of 1v1 on this server is a terrible idea at this point), he brought Technoblade himself down to a low enough HP level to make him panic and not finish the job. If that isn't an achievement to die with, Jack doesn't know what is.

The dull throb of pain spikes into a jolt of sharpness that runs through Jack's abdomen as he walks up a few wooden steps, his movements sluggish against the thick, smoke-filled air that weighs down on him and fills his lungs with poison. The sky is black and littered with flakes of red and orange coming from the raging flames covering the crater that once was L'Manburg. The sound of explosions in the distance are constant and they make his head pound along with them, in sync, as if they were going on within his skull. The withers are mere blobs in Jack's swimming vision, formless masses of destruction that glide gracefully through the sky, attacking every breathing thing in their path.

Jack shudders with a forceful exhale followed by a wet cough. Black blood flies from the man's mouth and stains the Prime Path, and Jack grimaces in pain and discomfort. Wither poisoning. He's learned to ignore the feeling over the course of time -- he spends enough time in and around fortresses to be familiar with the gnawing, brittle feeling his bones experience while under the effect, how easily his skin breaks, and how vulnerable he is.

But this is nothing he can get used to. The effect lasts much longer since he's still around the source of the poisoning, and while it would seemingly make sense to get away from the destruction, he knows he'll be dead the moment he steps off the Prime Path -- the broken ribs threatening his lungs will make sure of that. One misplaced step down a hill and he'll be drowning in the most vicious way possible. He'd be more upset about the notion if he thought he'd be leaving permanently, but since having seen how Ghostbur is...he isn't all that concerned. He can still build, he can still fight -- he can interact with people and walk through walls. What are the downsides? Aversion to water? He already has to deal with that to an extent. Missing memories here and there? No, Ghostbur only forgets the bad things, the sad things, and hardly anything upsets Jack Manifold. He simply isn't affected.

Jack lets out an embarrassing shriek of pain as he stumbles, his foot catching in an indentation in the wood and making him lurch with a sudden motion his body does not agree with. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes as a fiery pain erupts somewhere in his chest, and, ignoring the protest from his frail joints and the numerous wounds on his face and arms, he furiously rubs them away, widening cuts and making them sting from the grime and blood on his hands and the salt from his eyes. He doesn't care. Jack Manifold does not cry.

He looks out onto the crater and starts to sway slightly, the pounding in his head fading into the background to make way for the aching lightheadedness to come in as his vision starts to blur even more, his grip on his surroundings melting away as each second passes. His train of thought slowly derails until he's left only with one thought in mind:

I am not afraid.

The sluggishness vanishes and is replaced with a comforting, light feeling that is nothing short of alarming considering the circumstances. He hardly acknowledges it as his mind shuts down. One mantra continues to ring through the silence.

I am not afraid.

A wither approaches, and he becomes far more fragile than before, even in his last moments. He sways, and dust that floats and lands on his skin tears it at the microscopic level. He can feel all of it and it hurts. The wind blowing around him feels like it's stretching his skin and it burns. His feet and ankles start to crack due to the brittleness and the strain of holding the rest of his body, disregarding completely just how light he feels. He tries to squeeze his eyes shut. His already-thin eyelids tear at the folds, and the blood seeping into his eyes stings and tints his blackened world with crimson.

I am not afraid.

He sways, and he falls off the edge of the Prime Path.

I am not afraid.

I should be.

He falls, and falls, and falls. The blood is pushed from his eyes by the air, his short hair whips against his skin, and it stings, but he doesn't feel so fragile anymore. He falls, and he knows he hit the ground a century ago, he felt all his brittle bones shatter upon impact, he felt the grass slice through his muscles after the collision split his skin open due to the force like newspaper, he felt it, but it only lasted for a moment before he kept falling.

Trying to open his eyes now would be a useless endeavor and a waste of energy. His skin burns with phantom pains of what should have been his death, and he scratches the side of his body that hit the ground first (you know, where he split open like a badly sewn toy) to try and ease the burn. It doesn't work, it really only makes things worse, but it brings some sort of twisted comfort to him that some of his pain is being inflicted willingly.