absolution.

contrast.

cw: excessive cursing, an axe, implied eye injury, brief mention of scars, mention of exile

if there's anything else, let me know!

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Tommy lurches when he wakes, clawing his eye. Screaming and crying, he rolls around with tears still streaming down his face. He gasps on his breath, his lungs burning to live. The (phantom?) pain is suffocating, drowning him because fuck, Dream's still holding him down and he can't breathe. "Fuck," the blond chokes out, sobbing right after. "Dream, Dream — I get it! Stop, stop, stop, please I'm sorry I won't do it again sir I'm sorry I'm sorry —"

His head scrapes against something warm. Birds chirp distantly and oh, the prison also doesn't have that either. It's warm, more like a hug than the burning, constantly-consuming lava.

Pandora's Vault isn't warm. It's cold, obsidian walls immune to the lava next to it, freezing under the soles of his feet and shivering skin. It's exile tenfold.

This isn't Pandora's Vault.

With a bit more clarity, Tommy can see a glimpse of puffy Cumulus clouds above his head, partially blocking a bright Sun and its rays. The sky is vibrant, bright, real. Tommy can feel its comfort wrapping around him, something he hasn't felt in ages, something more comfortable than lava, and he sinks into it. His skin tingles with the warmth — not pale, cold nor bloody like a dead man, just scarred. He's laying down on something, and finds that it's concrete as his fingertips graze it. He -- he can't feel his right eye, but that's fine because. Because there's no blood, either.

"This isn't the afterlife, is it," Tommy whispers. The only response he gets is the squawking of birds. The blond groans.

Fuck. Shit. Okay. Okay! He can -- shit, he doesn't have anything, does he? Sam has it all. Fuck.

Okay, he just. He has to look around. See where he is, what he can use. Ask what server he's in, and maybe get some help? Either way, as much as he wants to lay down and forget reality exists forever, he has to get up. With that in mind, Tommy slowly sits up, unsure of what remaining wounds he has and unwilling to risk it. His muscles ache, and the blond hisses once or twice, but it's better than normal.

He's sitting, his legs flat against the ground and his arms holding himself up, when he finally manages to look around.

He's on a building. One with a flat.. roof? Is he on a roof? There's a door to his left with a sign on it, but he isn't quite sure what it reads. The letters are just. Lines? It's.. one of them is like a tower of blocks, the other just an upside-down T with an extra line, making it like an upside-down F instead. Phil had mentioned something about it; a different language, right?

Tommy snapped his fingers with a memory, faintly remembering when Phil had written the second letter (character?) in a different server. The man was writing because he couldn't speak the language himself. It's Japanese.

It's.. Japanese.

Oh, shit. It's Japanese. Tommy is fairly sure he doesn't know Japanese. Fuck.

He can also be sure that hey, this is definitely, one-hundred percent, not the Dream SMP anymore! But then this could also be a dangerous server, one that could be fucking deadly to him right now!

Changing his attention before the panic really settled in, Tommy finally decided to look himself over.

There's no blood. His scars are still there, marred, healed skin he doesn't want to see but has to. He's still wearing his trademark t-shirt and some beige shorts, along with worn shoes, socks, his tool belt -- just his normal attire. Flipping the pouches open, Tommy scanned through them, surprised to find some items in it. Some iron, his communicator (thank Prime), a flint and steel, seeds, golden apples, rotten flesh, torches -- wait. Golden apples?