A Rift Through Worlds (A Dream SMP x Hermitcraft AU)

Prologue

L'Manburg was at its last legs. After the war, the founding and revolution of Pogtopia, it had remained a mere shell of a previously defiant nation. Sure, it was slowly being rebuilt, blocks cut with precision and care but the presidents, both the old and the new were dead and they had left the reins to two children. The charismatic Wilbur had led with his voice, soft, warm, and confident until the stress and paranoia dug under his skin. The elected 'presidency' of Schlatt had ruled with arrogance and a wine bottle in hand despite the man's deteriorating health and heart issues.

They had left behind a broken and shattered nation to two traumatized teenagers who could barely stand on their own two feet. Now, the falling nation was kneeling at every demand, threat and want of the Dream SMP. First a nation of a madman, then a country of a drunkard and presently a slave of a sadistic master.

They had been overpowered so easily -which was to be expected, honestly.

Ironic, isn't it? L'Manburgs ideals of freedom and independence had been crashed in one day and one night under the foot of one, singular man. A man who had cut all leashes from his neck, who had disconnected and ripped all threads and strings from his limbs; a man who had exchanged his soul for absolute control. They had been defeated by a man who could manipulate whoever he wished, caring not for what he had to sacrifice as long as it benefited him, and no one was capable of manipulating him in turn; that was an undisputed fact.

His undoubtable self-confidence was the reason Tubbo had been discretely pulling his fingers into tight fists, blunt nails digging into his palms and leaving their impressions in the soft skin. Even in enemy territory, Dream sat relaxed on the opposite end of the table, the pearly white smiley mask had been lifted up so that calm, arrogant smirk of his was in view and a bead of cold sweat rolled down the young president's temple, his lamb ears nervously twitching at every sound in the dark room, the roots of the stubby horns atop his head becoming itchy. Dream was sure of his win, that much one could from his posture which was not as stiff as the others' were. 

The quill in Ranboo's gloved hand had been scratching the paper of the book, laying down pitch black ink as he recorded the words that were being spoken; the rules; the deal that was slowly forming between the master and the slave. He had yet to decide whether to write this event down in his prized memory book or not, whether the outcome was way worth remembering than what was happening. He would forget anyway, right?

And Tommy... even if he didn't want to show it, he was scared, frightened, frustrated with the ordeal they had found themselves in; he was scared of what would happen to him and the others; what the outcome of it would be. His fear had seeped into his mouth way before the meeting had started and it had morphed into words; curses and empty threats directed at the green-clad man as a means of defense. Fundy and Quackity were desperately trying to keep him calm and his foul mouth closed as to not make their situation even worse, though Dream had seemed thoroughly amused by the boy's idiotic antics.

Finally, when they had managed to turn the tables on Dream with Tommy's sharp logic, and Fundy and Quackity were celebrating their supposed victory as Dream teared down the obsidian wall, Tubbo had felt the tiniest bit of hope swelling in his chest. Of course, his mind still had doubt -and rightfully so- yet that hope was trying to fight it off. The effort soon proved to be in vain, though. Tommy was a great asset when he would shoo away his rage and brainstorm for a new tactic on the spot. He had used Spirit's skin, one of the only things he had known that Dream prized.

Dream bowed to no one, however, especially not to his favorite plaything; his own toy! That would have been ridiculous in his opinion; he wasn't a masochist. The skin of his late horse, Spirit, had had value to him... once. He had valued it as a memoir of the stallion, one of the few friends he had but Spirit had died long ago. He had found no reason for a dead animal to hold him down; losing because of an attachment to the dead was less than ideal. The stallion had died and he had grieved more than enough for it; it had been buried and he had decided that life moves on. Simple as that.