Real or Not Real?

Part 1

Tommy was starving. The kind of starving that made your mouth water just by glancing at the tips of your fingers. And he hadn't drank anything other than Logstedshire's salty ocean water for well over two days, so his hallucinations had been going on for awhile.

His mouth and lips felt dry, and his upper lip stung from how much his nose had been running. He was sick, and every movement hurt.

He's also trapped. He's strapped down on a cold, metal table, with the restraints digging into his skin tight enough to make him wince even at the slightest movement.

But he was so hungry. He'd been here forever. He'd stopped shouting awhile ago, his throat too hoarse to muster anything other than croaks. And instead of feeling angry, he really only felt tired. His exhaustion was obvious on his face. It had been showing for more that a long time—definitely ever since he'd been exiled from l'manburg, but probably for much longer. Maybe even from before Wilbur had founded l'manburg, and that had happened years ago.

He'd fallen asleep after days of absolutely no sleep, and woke up here a few hours ago. In this horribly bland room, tied down on the medical table.

It was pretty alarming, especially since Tommy had no recollection of walking, or being moved here.

He heard footsteps outside the room occasionally. Sometimes they were light footsteps, sometimes loud stomps. Sometimes Tommy could hear high heels clacking against the tiled floor, sometimes there were boots.

Every once in a while, he could've sworn he heard talking from a few rooms over.

And God, that stuff wasn't even that scary compared to the constant moving of machines inside of the room.

He couldn't see anyone controlling the machines— but they were moving. Taking pictures, buzzing, beeping, whirring in a way that made them sound almost malicious.

Every move he made, the machines noticed. He's pretty sure they're recording him. There's other cameras in the room, too. In the corners, on the ceiling, and a voice recorder hanging from an absolutely horrifying looking machine that dangled above him.

Nobody entered the room for a long, long time.

Not for at least a few hours. There were at least five seconds of pause between each beep the machines made, and Tommy counted nine hundred and seventy two beeps before the door finally opened. And he hadn't been counting even half the time he'd been awake.

Wait— footsteps. Footsteps, closer to the door than the others had been.

Oh, shit.

Alarm bells immediately went off in his head the second the door opened.

That green bastard—

Here he was, literally immobile and therefore unable to protect himself, and Dream was in the room.

Dream was the one who trapped him in here, he should've known right from the start!

Tommy cried out when a sharp pain suddenly shot up his spine, back arching against the pain.

Tommy wanted to snarl, wanted to curse Dream out, but he recognized the fact that the pain he'd just felt, it wasn't unintentional. It wasn't hunger pangs, and it wasn't just the normal back pain he usually felt.

And he was... he was just so tired.

Dream must've been able to hurt him somehow. Some sort of button, or one of the machines... So he shouldn't. He should lay down, and shut up—

Wait.

What the fuck? He's Tommy fucking Innit. The manliest man alive. He's not a bitch, and he's not going to give in to this. Especially not to Dream.

He clenched his jaw. He sat up as much as he could while strapped down to the table, and made direct eye contact with Dream. Well. As much eye contact as he could with Dream's ugly mask in the way.

Tommy grinned— the type of grin he'd given hundreds of others. A grin of rebellion, and disobedience.

Dream seemed like he was about to say something, but Tommy gathered all the saliva he possible could in his mouth (not much, honestly) and spat directly at his mask.

"Ma—make me," A hoarse cough. "Fuckwad."

It hit Dream's face, right where he'd wanted it to. Bullseye, on Dream's ugly fucking mask.

Silence.

The room fell silent for a few seconds, and all throughout the silence Tommy held eye contact with Dream.

Dream straightened up.

He grabbed a towel from a table next to Tommy, and wiped the saliva off.

Dream tutted, and shook his head disappointedly. He was mocking Wilbur.

Tommy's eyes sharpened.

Tommy remembers vividly the way Wilbur used to shake his head at Tommy. The harsh spill of words that would come out of Wilbur's mouth, screaming their angry disappointment whenever Tommy disagreed with Wilbur, or did something wrong.

The cigarettes Wilbur used to put out on Tommy's arms.

It started happening sometime after Wilbur started... acting a bit differently. Around the same time Wilbur started getting a bit more physical with Tommy. When Wilbur started hitting Tommy.

"Fuck you, prick." Tommy snarled.

"Very well, Tommy. I will perhaps be back at a later time, and hopefully you will feel less... combative, when I return."

Dream spun around, and stepped out of the room. Holding the door open with one hand, Dream turned around to face Tommy once more before leaving the room completely.

Of fucking course, always with the dramatic exits—

Tommy froze when Dream suddenly pulled his mask down.

His thoughts skidded to a halt.

Dream only ever pulled his mask off when he was Tommy's friend.

At Lostedshire, when Tommy threw all of his things into a hole, and complied with all of Dream's orders.

Tommy felt all of the anger he'd previously felt drain out of him.

Tommy fell limp on the table.

He didn't see the way Dream smiled, or the way his eyes flashed triumphantly.

The sound of the door closing echoed in the small room.

The quiet whirring of the machines once again became the only audible sound in the room.

But. In a few minutes time, Tommy's screams would replace the beeping and clicking.