Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

We were friends, once. 

Martyn remembers this, as he circles around the clearing, sword clutched in both hands. He doesn’t know how he remembers it. It was just a flicker, not even a full fledged memory, a flash in his mind’s eye. 

The clawed hand resting on his shoulder. “We’ve done well this day, me Hand.”

Across the clearing from him, those bloodied claws grip a sword, and fangs flash as the King of Dogwarts—no, Ren—no, the Red King…

Too many names. Too many memories, conflicting with each other. Why? 

The bloodlust has been brutal. He didn’t expect it to be so strong during his green life, or for his friends to feel it so strongly either. 

He didn’t expect BDub’s deliberate suiciding to red in the first couple of days. Of course, he doesn’t know what else he expected…this is their first go round with this idea. Isn’t it?

Ren’s voice again. 

“Dude, Impulse is in the castle! What’s he doing with the castle people?!?” The shouts of “treachery!” “I can’t believe he’d betrayed us!”

He’d made a joke, then. “You didn’t expect this, either!”

Laughter. 

But a tiny part of him had meant it, maybe? That the Hand wasn’t so loyal to the King after all. 

Martyn shakes his head. No. That didn’t happen. He’d never be second to Ren. 

Ren stops. Stares at him, over the gleaming edge of his enchanted sword. Those damn sunglasses and the enchantment misting off the blade—Martyn can’t read him, not with so many layers obscuring Ren’s face. 

I used to know how to read him, no matter what. 

Martyn shakes his head. Growls. “Are you coming at me or not, Ren?”

Ren lowers his sword and shield. Just a little. 

Martyn tenses. It could be a trick. They’re both bloodied, but he lost most of his armor and his shield a while back. Thanks to Grian. 

Again.

Stop it with the stupid trick memories! That didn’t happen!

Ren could easily get him off guard and kill him. Right now. And Martyn feels…sadness. Loss. Why? It’s not like Ren has been his buddy this entire game—in fact, Ren’s been nothing but a pain, a thorn in his skin this entire time. Sabotaging his builds. Undermining his alliances. Like the guy hated him. 

But under it all there are these bits of memory, floating around in his head, surfacing at the worst times. Telling him there was a before. Another game, like this one. 

Only in that one, he and Ren are allies. 

Not just allies. 

Friends. 

To the bitter end. 

“You cut my head off.”

The words are so unexpected Martyn jumps, and slams his back right into a tree. He keeps the bark pressed tight against his shoulder blades, heart pounding, hoping this isn’t another distraction so some of Ren’s buddies can sneak up on him. 

“I—I—what?” He demands. “Ren, I’m only just now on my yellow life, and I haven’t touched you this whole game.”

The only reason Ren was red was because because a creeper got him during his green life ( another echo? Grian’s voice. “I’m so sorry Scar!” ) and then BDub’s mad-red run got his yellow life, along with Cleo, BigB, Smajor, and Tango. 

Who was left? He hasn’t checked. Once BDub’s red life had run out, in a spectacular clash between him and Cleo ( had it meant to end that way? )  the server had descended into chaos. And then Ren had come hunting for him. For him, specifically, even though Martyn had given up trying to get back at him for the sabotage and was just hoping to survive. 

“I remember it,” Ren says, and lowers his sword a little more. “It’s weird, my dude. Like, I keep having this one memory pop up in my head over and over. And I know it’s a memory, but it never happened.”

One memory. One memory, digging so deep into his mind that he couldn’t shake it. Martyn lowers his sword a little. “What memory?”

“You cut my head off,” Ren says. “And I asked you to do it, my dude.”

Ren knelt before him on the cold altar, head bowed, weaponless hands resting on his knees. Martyn clutched the axe in both hands, trembling. To be asked to do this—he knew it was the only way. And yet—there was just this feeling of wrongness. Fear. They should be fortifying Dogwarts, not messing around with powers like this. 

And then he raised the axe and swung it downward. Hard. 

And it still wasn’t enough. 

“I didn’t want to do it,” Martyn says. 

Ren tips his glasses up, his eyes wide. Martyn flinches back at the sight of the red eyes, the fangs, everything. 

This wasn’t Ren. 

He didn’t know what had come back, but whatever this was, it was walking around in Ren’s skin and using Ren’s voice. But it wasn’t Ren. 

And he was the only one who saw it. 

But he wouldn’t say anything. Ren had wanted to protect Dogwarts. And he was nothing if not the King’s loyal Hand…

Maybe. 

“You remember too?” Ren says. He lowers his sword and shield all the way. 

This could still be a trick. Ren had had him pinned, his blade at Martyn’s throat, not a minute ago. And then he’d hesitated. Faltered just enough that Martyn had been able to wrench free and run. 

Not that it had done him any good. 

Maybe…but maybe if Ren was thrown off enough—and he looked shocked now—maybe he could win this fight and live another day. Martyn lowers his sword a bit more and steps forward, keeping himself hunched a bit. Like he’s worried, hesitant. 

“I just remember pieces,” he says. “Dogwarts. I remember Dogwarts.”

Ren smiles a bit. “Dogwarts. Now that was a palace, me Hand.” Then he looks confused. “I keep wanting to call you that. Why?”

“You were a king. The Red King.” Martyn steps closer, reaches out with his free hand. “Do you remember, Ren?”

Ren’s eyes flicker. “I—I remember.” He drops his sword and grabs Martyn’s hand. “The King and his Hand. Dude, why haven’t we—“

Martyn stabs at him. Buries his sword to the hilt. Ren jerks, lets out a grunt of pain, and drops to his knees. His hand tightens on Martyn’s fingers.

“You were...loyal,” he said. “The best right hand man...a king would ever want. Why—why did we forget, Martyn?” His voice breaks. “What...happened...to us?”

And now Martyn remembers. Is hit with a thousand memories, like arrows. 

Renchanting. Dogwarts. Alliances forged and broken, the raid on the village, chasing down Scar because of a stupid banner, a zombie invasion, Grian blowing up half the desert, Cleo and Pizza, Tango’s games, Impulse’s betrayals. 

He doubles over, then falls to his knees beside Ren’s body. Ren’s hand is slack in his now. 

This.

This is familiar.

“My king!” 

“Ren…” His voice is broken.

Why had they forgotten? How had they forgotten? 

No one remembered. If they had, someone would have made a joke about how he and Ren were turning on each other. Cleo, surely, with her snark. Or Scar, always stirring up trouble somewhere. 

But they’d all forgotten. 

And he’d just killed his king. 

Martyn’s fingers fall from Ren’s to the sword, dropped in a moment of trust. They may have forgotten, and things may have gone differently, but some things—little things—remain the same. He lifts the netherite sword. He knows it isn’t—can’t be—the same blade. But it looks the same. The enchantments are the same. The heft in his hands is the same. 

Martyn stands up, wobbling—but there’s a fire in his belly now. 

He’s going to find the ones who made them all forget that first game. 

He’s going to make them pay. 

Chapter Text

“Ren…”

It’s Martyn’s voice, quiet and broken. Impulse steps around the tree, clutching his axe with both hands. Martyn kneels at the other side of the clearing by Ren’s body, shaking as he clutches Ren’s hand in both of his. 

Impulse takes a second to breathe. He has to do this right. He has to…

Ren’s voice.

“Traitor!”

Impulse shakes his head. He hasn’t had a chance to ask anyone else on the server yet about these weird little fragments of...not memory. Because they didn’t happen. He split pretty quickly and has spent most of his time underground, venturing up only to find more resources and, occasionally, to see if he can snipe someone while there’s been a battle going on. 

Martyn stands up, staggering, gripping Ren’s sword in his hand. The netherite sword. 

If he’s going to do something, it needs to be now.

Impulse sneaks forward, raising the axe.

At the last moment, Martyn turns around. He yells and staggers backward, holding up one hand.

“Impulse, stop!”

Impulse does stop. He doesn’t know why. But something--a panicked pleading in Martyn’s voice--halts him. He lowers the axe.

“What’s going on, Martyn?”

Martyn’s breathing hard, and his yellow eyes are darting around the clearing as if he expects more people to step out from the trees and close in on him.

Like that would be happening. Impulse didn’t know who all was left, but there weren’t many. And he certainly hadn’t tried to make any alliances.

This time.

Impulse shakes his head.

Martyn stares at him. “It’s gotten to you too, hasn’t it?”

“What has?” Impulse mutters. He takes another step forward, scans Martyn up and down. Bloody. No armor. Just the netherite sword, that he looked in no condition to swing right now. An easy kill. So, so easy…

“You’re getting the memories too, aren’t you?” Martyn asks.

Impulse rubs his eyes. There’s something nagging at the back of his mind--something half-remembered--but he can’t quite bring it forward. 

“Do you remember Dogwarts?” Martyn asks. “You were playing both sides. Trying to keep everyone happy. BDubs killed you at the end, because he didn’t trust you anymore.”

They gave me a clock.

Impulse laughs. “I think you’re confusing yourself, Martyn. BDubs killed me not that long ago.” His yellow life, too. He hadn’t been prepared for going red this quickly, but at least he’d had the sense to hide some of his best gear close to his spawn point. 

There’s a pulse at the back of his head, like a headache not quite fully formed. A red mist edging around his vision. Every second he stands here, talking to Martyn, is a second lost in hunting other players. Grian is one of the last yellow lives on the server, and he knows where Grian has hidden his spawn base. He needs to take Grian’s stuff, kill him, follow him back to spawn, and kill him again, while he was vulnerable. He’s had that plan for days now, because Grian is a threat, because…

Because last time, Grian won.

And instead of winning, he was listening to Martyn babble.

Impulse leaps forward and shoves Martyn in the chest. Martyn trips backwards, sprawling against the base of a tree. Impulse slams his hand to Martyn’s chest again, pinning him, and raising his axe for the killing blow.

Martyn drops the sword.

Why did he drop the sword?

Martyn curls up, squeezes his eyes closed, holds his loosely curled fists over his head. Not like he plans to strike at Impulse. But like he thinks it might protect him. “I killed Ren,” Martyn whispers. “I killed Ren. I killed my king. I was his loyal Hand and I betrayed him.”

“I am king of Dogwarts! And Martyn is my loyal Hand. The Hand of the King!”

That...couldn’t have come from his imagination. Because Martyn had mentioned Dogwarts, and called Ren his king, but that memory in his head-- it’s got to be a memory, right? --is in Ren’s voice. Ren, arms thrown wide, standing on an altar of stone, gesturing to his little walled kingdom, his crown crooked and hanging over one fuzzy ear, a big goofy grin on his face.

Impulse lowers the axe, then steps back, getting his weight off Martyn. “Tell me more,” he says. “Tell me about the King and his Hand.”

Martyn gives him a nervous look. “You remember?”

“Yes? No? I don’t know , Martyn.”

The sword is within easy reach, on the ground. All Martyn would have to do would be to roll and grab it, come up swinging. But he doesn’t. He just stays huddled against the tree, his hands palm outward towards Impulse. Pleading for his life.

“We’ve done this before,” Martyn says. “Third Life. We’ve done it before. And before, Ren and I built an enchantments store. Renchanting, remember? Then he walled it in and called it Dogwarts. We had a war with the Sand People--Scar and Grian. You were trying to play all sides, keep alliances with them, and us, and the Crastle, and the Hobbits. You and Etho built a castle made out of wool in the swamp. Remember, Impulse?”

He remembers. It’s a sudden, heavy weight, pressing on his shoulders, making him stumble. That ridiculous white wool castle, flanked by flaming mountains of lava. Funny that the wool castle is the thing that makes him remember. How many times did it survive Scar trying to set fire to it?

“Where...where is Etho?” Martyn asks.

Regret floods Impulse, now that he remembers. “I killed him. He was red after Tango’s game melted down. I just...took my opportunity.”

Martyn lets out a shaky laugh.

Impulse laughs too.

“Tango and his games. At least that didn’t change.” Martyn stands up. He still doesn’t go for the sword.

Impulse walks over to it, edges his boot under the blade, and flicks it up into his hand. He weighs it, aware of Martyn’s eyes on him. He fastens his axe to his belt and hefts the sword into both hands. “This was Ren’s sword?”

“Yes.”

“So more than just Tango’s taste for death games didn’t change.”

Martyn nods.

“What’s going on, Martyn? Why can’t we remember anything?”

“I--I don’t know.” Martyn suddenly flinches. Then he takes a deep breath and looks up at the sky. “Night’s coming on. You want to dig down, hide out here while we figure out what to do? This is a pretty abandoned corner of the server.”

“Do you know who made us forget the first time?” Impulse asks.

Martyn isn’t listening. Martyn’s looking past him, further into the clearing.

Oh.

Impulse turns around.

Ren’s body is gone now, but there are life orbs and some of Ren’s stuff still lying on the ground. 

Martyn had been Ren’s employee, then his follower, and at the last, his loyal protector. In the last game. And Martyn had just killed Ren.

“Was it...was it killing him that made you remember?” Impulse says softly.

Martyn looks up at him, his hair falling in his face, and Impulse is surprised by the look of anger and sorrow on Martyn’s face.

“Yeah,” Martyn says. He swipes his hair away from his eyes. Wipes away tears, too, though Impulse pretends he didn’t notice them.

Impulse puts his hand on Martyn’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” With his other hand, he offers the sword to Martyn. “What’s your plan?”

Martyn’s fingers close over the sword grip, clench it so tightly that his knuckles go white. “We’re going to find out who took our memories. And we’re going to stop this. Before anyone else gets hurt.”

Impulse can’t help it--he laughs again. Not because he’s making fun of Martyn. It’s a terrible plan. They have no clue where to start. But it sounds like the Martyn he remembers. “I’m down for that.” He pulls his shovel from his pack and starts digging.

Chapter Text

They’re taking turns watching--which seems kind of ridiculous, really, because they’ve burrowed themselves down about twenty blocks and hollowed out a space that’s just big enough for them and their beds, torches guttering on the walls so nothing spawns in the dark.

But Martyn wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.

Impulse took it easily enough. At least, he thinks Impulse did--the man has no problems sleeping, judging by the snores coming from the corner. Or maybe Impulse just doesn’t show it as much as he did.

Martyn rubs his eyes again. 

Ever since he remembered, ever since he calmed down enough to really think, one question has been going over and over in his head. 

After every winter, there comes a spring.

He remembers that voice so specifically in his head. So clearly. But it doesn’t sound like anyone he knows. Not Grian, not Scar, not Skizz...not Ren. And besides, Ren was gone by then. And he was dying. Martyn figures that could have something to do with it, but still...every time he’d died, the voice had spoken to him. 

Was it the same person who had caused them all to lose their memories of the first game? Who had respawned them all back here to cause more chaos?

Who could it have been?

Not one of the Third Lifers. He doesn’t know them all well, but he knows one thing—they’re all friends. They wouldn’t wish this kind of forgetfulness, this kind of bloodlust, on anyone. 

Martyn leans his elbows against his knees, frowning. The first game, that had been fun. Even the red life had been fun. There definitely hadn’t been this bloodlust consuming everyone’s senses. And if he needed a primary example…

He looks over at Impulse. 

The one who didn’t want to choose a side in the first game. It had been a stupid move that had ultimately cost him his life…

Martyn winces, then squeezes his hands together until his knuckles crack. See, there’s that bloodlust again, saying Impulse played a stupid game the first go-round. They’ve all had to fight it, even during their green lives.

And now this time…

They’d talked as they shoveled downward. Impulse had somehow managed to miss all the big news on the server. How Big B died, from Etho’s clever trap. Tango’s games—and the many player deaths they’d caused before everyone decided he was enough trouble and had formed a temporary alliance and hunted him down. Martyn had watched that from afar, watching how Ren had led the pack, how he’d been the one to leap at Tango from behind, a feral howl tearing from his throat as he’d driven his sword through Tango’s back. 

At the same time, Martyn had been shocked—and a little terrified—as Impulse had shared his plan for finishing off Grian. Spawn-camping. He’d never thought that Impulse —or any of the Third Lifers for that matter—would stoop to that. It was weird to see the way Impulse would sometimes stop working, staring at nothing, his hand resting on the handle of the axe at his belt. 

Really weird. Really unsettling, if he was honest. 

He doesn’t like this side of Impulse. 

As he sits on watch, Martyn finds his eyes drooping closed. He’s tired. Not so much physically, but there’s a deep ache in his bones and his brain feels slow. 

He finds himself going back over the last few minutes of Ren’s life on this server. Ren had appeared out of nowhere. He so easily could have ended Martyn’s life, in those first few seconds. Just like he’d done to Tango. Martyn made himself slow down and remember—remember it all in excruciating detail. Why hadn’t Ren killed him?

Ren had jumped him, throwing him down to the ground, one hand pinning Martyn’s shoulder down while the other held the edge of the blade—the Skizzblade, which it really wasn’t, because even though it looked exactly the same, it wasn’t the same sword, couldn’t be—right to Martyn’s throat. One cut, and Martyn would be on his red life. 

But Ren had started. Pulled away, eyes going wide behind his sunglasses. Just enough for Martyn to kick free and run. 

Come to think of it…Impulse had had the same look on his face in the same situation. 

Martyn straightens. 

Was he the common factor there?

He’d been the one with the most memory flashes, at least, so he gathered from what Impulse had said, and how no one else talked about them. Impulse said they were only little bits and pieces, hard to make out, hard to think they were anything, really. And then there was the bloodlust, consuming all thoughts. 

Martyn scrapes his hair away from his face. Both Ren and Impulse remembered more snatches of memory when they were around him.

But why him?

And could it be replicated?

Martyn opens his comm screen and sees who is still alive. 

ZombieCleo

Skizzleman

Grian

SolidarityGaming

InTheLittleWood

ImpulseSV

Only six left. Out of fourteen. 

Three yellow-lifers—himself, Cleo, and Grian. 

Skizz, Jimmy, and Impulse were all red-lifers. 

If he was to test out his theory, he would have to do so very, very carefully. Because he has a sick feeling that whatever is going on here will happily destroy his remaining lives in order to keep the game going. 

“Martyn,” Impulse says. He sits up and leans his elbows on his knees, still looking tired. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, I think.” Martyn frowns. “Just…trying to make sense of it all.”

“You need sleep?”

“No, I’m good.” Martyn stares at his comm. At the grayed-out name. Rendog. 

Impulse puts his hand on Martyn’s shoulder. Doesn’t say anything, just squeezes gently. Martyn winces and jerks away. In all the chaos, he’s forgotten Ren’s claws digging into his shoulder when he’d first attacked. 

“You’re hurt.”

“Yeah, no big deal, I just—“ Martyn looks up. 

Bright red flashes through Impulse’s eyes.

Impulse takes several steps back, trips over his bed, and presses his back against the dirt wall. His eyes never leave Martyn. His hands clench and unclench his blanket. 

“Impulse?” Martyn asks. 

“It’s—“ Impulse swallows and tries again. “You might not want to be down here with me right now, Martyn. I can’t—“

Bloodlust . 

Impulse is shaking. “You should run.”

Martyn grits his teeth. “I’m not going anywhere, Impulse. I already killed my king. I’m not going to abandon you.” He hates what he does next, but he draws Ren’s--his--sword and angles the blade at Impulse. “You’re on your red life. So if you want to live, Impulse…get a grip on yourself.”

Impulse grits his teeth and bows his head. After a moment, he says, “Do you have a plan yet?” He says it through his teeth, like the words don’t want to be said. But he’s trying. 

Martyn scans the list of names. He doesn’t want to approach one of the red-lifers. If he loses Impulse, he loses his only ally. 

“We’ll find Cleo next,” he says. 

Impulse nods. “Think it’s morning yet?”

Martyn shrugs. “If its not, maybe killing some mobs will help you.” Why is he so calm? Why isn’t he shaking with the need to kill, like Impulse?

More questions. And no answers. Martyn sighs. Time to get moving. 

Chapter Text

Cleo pauses in her digging and cocks her head to the side, listening. She can’t be sure, but she thought she heard rustling. It was either another player or a creeper, and neither would be something she’d welcome right now.

They’d had a plan. And then BDubs had succumbed to the bloodlust, the idiot, and gone out in a blaze of glory.

She hopes he’s happy. 

And in the meantime, she was going to cover the forest floor leading up to her mountain base in TNT traps. 

“Oh my gosh! He blew up the desert floor, did you see that!”

Cleo shakes her head. Annoying. Focus on the task.

The rustling again. 

Cleo drops her shovel and whips out her sword, aiming it at the trees behind her. “If anyone’s trying anything, you might as well stop! I’m on to you.”

Silence. 

Then Martyn edges out from behind a tree, holding his hands up. Empty. 

“Martyn! Where have you—“

“Cleo, Cleo, before you get mad at me—“

Cleo looks from Martyn to the tree he just stepped around. It’s a huge dark oak tree, more than big enough to hide more than just Martyn. 

“If you’ve betrayed me—“

“I haven’t, I swear I haven’t!”

“Liar!”

“Cleo!” Impulse steps out from behind the tree. 

Cleo’s eyes widen, and she scrambles backwards. “No, no. No you don’t! Stay away from me! I’ve done nothing to you, I have nothing—“

Impulse drops his axe. Then he does something odd—he quickly unbuckles his chest plate and throws it down beside the axe. His greaves and boots follow, until he’s only wearing his spawn clothing and no armor or weapons. 

Cleo raises an eyebrow, then looks at Martyn. 

Martyn sighs and tosses his sword and shield on the pile. That looks like all he has—like he doesn’t even have armor. 

“Okayyy,” Cleo says slowly. “Now back up.”

Both of them do as she says, backing away from the pile of weapons and armor. Cleo moves forward until she’s standing between them and their gear. They could have more gear hidden in their inventories, but they wouldn’t be getting this stuff back unless they killed her. 

“Now say whatever it is that you want to say, and then go away,” Cleo says. 

Nothing to see here. I was never here. 

Cleo blinks, and realizes Martyn didn’t speak. He’s just watching her, his hands still in the air. 

“What?” She snaps. 

“Cleo, are you…remembering anything weird?”

Cleo starts to say no, but…

Fire. 

“I set Joel’s roof on fire.”

SmallishBeans has burned to death. 

But hang on. That wasn’t right. Joel never burned, in fact he was the one running around setting things on fire. His deaths had come from Tango’s game, where he’d been shot ( “this is your punishment, Tango, for wearing a helmet.” ), and then BigB had PvPed him, and then he and Scar had battled it out over something. One of Scar’s stupid pets, probably. 

Cleo shakes her head and glares at Martyn. “Okay, boys, times up. Go away. And just for bothering me, I’m gonna keep all your nice gear here.” She turns. 

“Cleo—we’ve done this before.”

Cleo freezes. “What did you say?”

Martyn’s voice is tense. “We’ve done this before. You, me, Impulse—all the Third Lifers. We’ve done this before. Ren and I teamed up and we were Dogwarts. You remember our attack against the Crastle, when we thought this guy—“ He pokes Impulse’s shoulder—“was a traitor?”

“BDubs betrayed me for a clock,” Impulse says. 

“But you were already dead by then, because you fell off Joel’s burnt roof, and then you and Scar got into a fight, and that was the end for you.”

Cleo doesn’t quite know why she says it, but she murmurs, “I made a pact with Scott.”

Quick as an Enderman, Martyn dives forward and pushes her. Cleo tries to flail at him, but she’s tripped over the pile of gear and she’s falling…

She’s walking over Joel’s burnt out roof, inspecting the damage. She hadn’t meant for him to die in the fire, but really…who let themselves burn to death? Why didn’t he have a bucket of water, the idiot?

A sudden zip. She has just enough time to look down, to see Ren, a bow in his hand, fanged grin gleaming up at her. Cleo feels the impact and it knocks her sideways…and then her feet have slipped off the roof beam and she’s falling, falling, the ground rushing upward…

Cleo hits the ground, rolls, and comes up on her feet. Martyn hasn’t moved. Impulse hasn’t moved, although his hands are clenched in fists and he looks on the verge of running back into the forest. They’re both standing on the other side of the pile of gear, and Martyn has his hands up. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says over and over. “It only works if it’s something traumatic, something that brings on a big flashback. I’m so sorry, Cleo, but it had to be done.”

Cleo leans over, bracing her hands on her knees. She looks up and glares at Martyn. 

He gives her a nervous smile. 

“I should kill you for this,” Cleo says, although her heart isn’t in it for once. 

“Believe me, you’d only be doing me a favor,” Martyn says quietly. 

Cleo frowns. 

Behind Martyn, Impulse points to Martyn’s shoulder. Cleo can see a bandage peeking out from his shirt sleeve, and there are holes torn in his shirt…

Claws. 

Cleo opens her comm and scrolls up through chat, then sighs when she finds the entry she expected. 

Rendog has been killed by InTheLittleWood. 

“You killed Ren this go-round,” she says. “You idiot. Did he remember everything before he died?”

Martyn nods soberly. “It’s what made me remember. And—and I’m the one making everyone else remember.” His shoulders slump, and he finally brings his hands down. 

“ What ?”

“It’s true, Cleo,” Impulse says. “I found him right after he killed Ren. I would’ve killed Martyn, but…well, you know Martyn. He started talking, and I listened. And then…” His voice trails off.

“And then what?” Cleo demands.

“And then he had an axe to my throat and was about to kill me, and it triggered his memories,” Martyn says. “That’s how it works. It has to be something traumatic.”

“Sounds worse for you than for them,” Cleo snaps.

Impulse shrugs.

“The good news is that whatever glitch or whatever it is that made us forget, it doesn’t stand up too well to having attention called to it,” Martyn says. He crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Oh-kayyyy,” Cleo says. “So you got me to remember. What good does this do? We’re still stuck here. Over half the players are dead. And Skizz is going mental—I barely got away from him the other day.”

Martyn’s hand clench into fists. “I want to find who’s responsible for this and make it stop.”

Cleo stared at him. “That’s stupid,” she says finally. “Martyn. This is probably a glitch or something. Or maybe one of us messed with something. Either way I don’t think you’re going to find a fix for this.” She points at Impulse. “And red-lifers are insane. He’s going to kill you.”

Impulse’s jaw clenches. “I’m not.”

Cleo snorts in disbelief. 

“Look, can we get inside?” Martyn asks. “I’m not comfortable talking about this in the open.”

Cleo eyes them, considers. If she lets them in, what are the odds they’ll try to kill her and take over her base? She’d respawn right there, as a red-lifer, and she knew her hidden chests and secret stashes. She might have a chance to take them out, if they did anything. 

And yeah, the whole memory thing is weird enough to make her hesitate. Some trick, if it was meant to just get a chance at her. 

Cleo points to the pile or armor and weapons. “I’m taking these. Swear you two don’t have any more gear on you.”

They both swore. 

“Neither of you are allowed weapons while you’re inside my base,” she says. “And I’ll warn you—I have it rigged with TNT. If I have to, I’ll trigger it. Then you—“ She points at Impulse. “Would be perma-dead. And Martyn, I’d be coming after you once I’m a red-lifer.”

“I don’t want to go red,” Martyn says. “Really. I don’t. I’d prefer to avoid that as much as possible.”

“I wish BDubs was here,” Cleo mutters. She grabs the weapons out of the pile of gear and motions to the armor. “You guys can get that.”

She leads them the short distance through the dark oaks to her base, hidden behind a massive dark oak in the base of a mountain. She triggers the hidden entrance and motions them inside. Martyn ducks into the tunnel without a word. Impulse stops, hesitates, and seems to struggle with something. 

Then he turns to her and whispers, “Look, I’m not going to say this around Martyn, because he’s had enough trauma in the last day. But you keep an eye on me, Cleo. I’m really struggling with getting the bloodlust under control.”

“Funny how the tables have turned,” Cleo says.

Impulse stares at the floor. “I know.”

“Right. Well, I won’t hesitate to kill you if you get twitchy.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet. This is probably the stupidest thing anyone has ever done.” Cleo steps inside after Impulse and closes the door. 

Chapter Text

“You look exhausted, Martyn.”

Well, that’s a bit unlike Cleo, so he guesses he looks pretty bad. Martyn sits in one of the chairs by her fire and glances around. 

“Cozy place,” he says. It looks like a hobbit hole, all wood with a parquet flooring and tunnels rabbiting off in all directions. He’s surprised at how good she’s been able to get it to look while dodging the insanity of the server. 

Cleo shrugs and tosses some bread at him. “While you’re eating, you can explain.” She throws another loaf at Impulse, then sits down. Between them and the chest where she shoved their gear. 

“I really don’t know how to explain,” Martyn says. He thinks he’s probably taking this the worst of any of them. For whatever reason. Cleo just looks angry, and Impulse… Impulse stares at the wall, and every now and then his hand twitches, as if closing around the haft of an axe. 

They’re going to have to work quickly, before Impulse looses it. 

“Martyn? Martyn!”

Martyn snaps his gaze back up to Cleo. 

“Seriously, you should get in a bed before you fall over.”

He’s felt tired , sure, but not like this. Not this bone dragging weariness that seems to smother him like too many blankets on a hot summer night. Martyn rubs his face. “We have to plan. I don’t have time to sleep, I need—“

Martyn. 

He jumps. 

Sleep, Martyn. We must speak, and it is taxing for me to speak when you are not sleeping. 

Martyn blinks hard, feels his head bob down to his chest as if it’s suddenly too heavy to hold up. 

“Oh this is ridiculous. Impulse, help me get him to bed before he passes out.”

Martyn opens his mouth to complain, to say he’s not that tired , but his eyes droop and he feels Impulse and Cleo take his arms, all but carrying him. He wants to tell them no, that this doesn’t feel right, that he doesn’t want to sleep, that something is calling to him and dragging him downward. 

Martyn feels like he’s falling. 

And then he is.

Surrounded by pure, utter darkness. No light. Martyn puts his hands up, but he can’t see them. He only knows he made the gesture. It’s a weird disconnect, feeling the wind whistle past him, flapping his coat around his legs, but unable to see any motion. He tries to twist around—did it make a difference?

“Martyn,” the Voice says again. 

Martyn starts. 

This. 

He knows this. 

He remembers, every death in the first game. Falling. An impenetrable darkness. 

The Void and the Voice. 

“Who are you?” he demands. 

At least this time he can speak. 

“I am Third.”

Third? Who? Martyn tried to remember if anyone he knew had ever gone by the name Third. The only thing that comes to mind… “Hang on. Third, as in Third Life ?” 

“I’m so glad you are finally able to speak to me, Martyn.” The Voice—Third—sounds pleased. “Perhaps you weren’t able to in the before times because you were dying.”

“Yeah, umm, speaking of…” Martyn flails his arms a little. “Can we not do this? Because it reminds me very much of—“

His back hits—not hard, gently, as if he’s settling into bed at night—ground. Spongy ground. 

Martyn rolls to his side and sits up. 

He’s in The End. 

Spongy yellow islands float all around him, some with towers and some with weird growths, and in between is all that darkness , all that Void . 

“Welcome home, Martyn.”

Martyn stands up, wobbling. Still feeling off kilter from falling, and definitely feeling weirded out by the disembodied Voice. 

Well. Third. He guesses he needs to stop calling it the Voice. 

“Third?” Martyn says. 

“I’m here.”

Martyn looks up. Above him, in the darkness, something shifts. Something darker than the darkest shadows, a void in the Void, something…monstrously huge. 

Martyn’s voice cracks. “I can’t see you.” His hands shake and he grabs handfuls of his coat, trying to steady himself. As he bows his head, he can almost feel an icy cold breeze on the back of his neck, ruffling his hair...but there’s no wind in the End. He can feel it looming over him. There’s a silken touch on his cheek—feather-light, the barest hint of roughness. He looks sideways without moving his head. Silvery strands, like spiderwebs but as thick as his thumb, whisk out of sight. 

He doesn’t dare look up. He doesn’t dare. Martyn knows if he does, it will be too much, and he will scream and try to run, and he can’t do that, he can’t . Because if he shows that he’s scared of Third, he’s afraid that it will crush him into the ground. 

And then who would keep Impulse from going berserk from the bloodlust? 

Who would keep Cleo from burning the entire server?

Who would—

The feathery brush against his cheek. A soft shushing noise, unbelievably gentle, comes from above him. “Martyn. Martyn. You mustn’t think this way. You are home. You should be glad to be here.”

“I—I don’t understand. My base isn’t in the End.”

“Not in the End. Here. On Third Life. Within my walls, you will be safe. You can make your home here, uncontested, the king of the server.”

I don’t want to be king . The thought slips out before Martyn can stop it. 

“Of course you do. Didn’t you think about it, the first time? That’s what drew me to you, you know, as I gained knowledge and thought and independence. I saw the times you walked behind Ren, watching him, hand on your sword, wondering if now would be the moment to strike.”

It was true. There had been those moments of weakness...but Martyn shook his head. He hadn’t fallen. He had remained loyal to Ren.

Third continues, “So of course I had to change things. You were hungry for the winning, Martyn. And I gave you a second chance.”

“By respawning us all here again, without our memories. And with more bloodlust.”

“Except for you.” A silvery strand brushes under his chin, lifting it just a little.

Martyn catches sight of looming shadow and squeezes his eyes shut. His hands tremble. “Please let me go back to my friends.”

Third makes a shushing noise, but this one is annoyed. Dismissive. “Then go. But Martyn…” 

For a brief moment, something tightens under his chin, digging what feels like sharp claws into Martyn’s jaws, pulling him up until he’s nearly on tiptoe. He winces, lifts his hands as if to push it away, then just stops himself. He still won’t open his eyes. It hurts, it’s so cold, colder than Ren’s claws, ice sealing his mouth shut and making his teeth ache, oh void it hurts…

“It’s time for spring to arrive, Martyn. Do not disappoint me.”

The weight of Third’s gaze lifts, and Martyn suddenly feels something pinning his arms and legs down. He flails, sits upright, chest heaving in a gasp that makes his ribs ache. 

He’s in a bedroom, in Cleo’s little hobbit hole. And nearby, someone--Impulse--is shouting.

Martyn stumbles out of bed, shivering. He grabs the blanket, wraps it around his shoulders, and staggers toward the noise.

Chapter Text

Impulse and Cleo are arguing. Martyn stares at them, feeling bleary, struggling to keep up. Cleo’s standing between Impulse and a bank of chests. Neither of them has weapons out, which surprises Martyn with how twitchy Impulse has been, until he remembers--oh. That’s right, Cleo took their weapons.

“I want my axe back,” Impulse was saying. “I need it back, Cleo.”

“Nonsense. Don’t be stupid, Impulse. Do you need your axe like a little kid drags a blanket around or something?”

“Cleo, just give me the axe.”

“I told you no .”

Impulse suddenly goes still, and his hands clench into fists. “Don’t make me hurt you, Cleo,” he snarls, and suddenly Impulse isn’t Impulse anymore, but a dark entity with pointed fingers and a looming shadow and blazing red eyes and…

“Impulse!” Martyn lunges forward between them, grabbing for Impulse’s fist.

It smashes into his jaw instead, knocking him and Cleo back into the chests. Cleo shoves Martyn in the back, pushes him to the side as she stands, drawing her sword.

“No!” Martyn grabs her arm.

She shoots him a dirty look.

“Please,” he whispers.

Impulse suddenly makes a strangled noise and backs up. “There’s blood again. Martyn, did...did I do that? Did I do that to you?” His voice is high pitched and he sounds as if he’s physically pained.

Martyn stands and pressed a hand to his jaw. His palm comes away stained with red. 

It feels like his stomach drops. He leans heavily against one of the chests and hangs his head. “It was real,” he mutters. 

“What was real?” Cleo asks.

“I had a dream. The--” Martyn frowns, well aware of how crazy it’s going to sound. “The server spoke to me.”

“The server ?” Impulse says, disbelief coloring his voice until it almost sounds like he’s scoffing.

“I know how it sounds!” Martyn clenches his hands in the blanket around his shoulders. “Trust me. I know how it sounds. But it’s true. The server spoke to me. It called itself Third--that’s when I made the connection. I’ve heard the voice before--every time I died last time, there was this voice speaking to me, before I respawned. Acting like I was some kind of chosen one or something. It just told me…” He shudders. It’s almost as if Third is in the room with him, a weight on his shoulders, silk brushing against his skin. “It wants me to win.”

Impulse and Cleo stare at him. 

“Okay.” Cleo breaks the silence. “Okay. This is weird, Martyn. Even for you, this is weird.” She spins the sword in her hand, sheathes it. “Why does the server want you to win? How did it gain...what would this be, sentience? How did it gain sentience in the first place?”

“I don’t know,” Martyn says.

“I’ve heard of it happening,” Impulse says. “Ghost stories, mostly. I’ve never experienced it myself.”

“Those are ghost stories for a reason, Impulse.” Cleo snorts. 

“Martyn.” Impulse turns back to him. “What did the server...Third...what did it tell you?”

“Just that this time, I’d better win. It was practically an ‘or else’ hanging over my head, and I don’t like to think what their idea of ‘or else’ might look like.” 

“So that’s it then,” Cleo says. “It’s sentient and it’s decided you’re going to win this time. And what do we do? Should we just give up?”

“No,” Martyn whispers. Then, stronger, “No. Absolutely not. I don’t want this. If what it said was true, it’s cheating. It’s making everyone else crazy with bloodlust while leaving me with a clear head.”

“What about the memories thing?” Cleo asks.

“I don’t think it did that deliberately. It wants me to win, and that’s more of a liability than anything, isn’t it? Maybe that’s just a part of how I’m connected to it. Maybe...” He sighs. “I don’t know, Cleo. I don’t.”

Impulse suddenly lets out a high-pitched giggle. He rubs his face with his hands. “The dang server imprinted on you, Martyn.”

Martyn stares at him for a minute before he realizes Impulse is right. 

Cleo cracks a slight grin. “Like a baby duck.”

Martyn can’t help himself--he laughs. “It’s certainly not fuzzy and cute like a duckling.”

And then they’re all laughing, doubled over with tears in their eyes, because the image is just too funny. Martyn is the first to recover, wiping tears from his eyes, his ribs aching from the laughter. That was good, he realizes. He’s needed a laugh like that since Third Life--since the second round--began. 

Cleo straightens. “So. Why would a server imprint on you, Martyn?”

“I don’t know. What’s the difference between me and every other player on this server? I mean, I’m only okay at PvP. At this point, Grian’s almost a better choice if it’s hoping for a guaranteed win--and he already won it once anyway. When it comes to the people on this server, I’m average.”

Once again, it’s Impulse with the answer. “You don’t have a home server.”

Martyn frowns. “What now?”

“All the rest of us have another world to call home. Most of us are hermits--we have Hermitcraft,” Impulse says. “It’s where we’ll end up, after we leave Third Life. And I know Scott and Jimmy and BigB have their own things going on. Where would you go?”

Martyn’s stomach knots. Impulse is right. He has no home world. “And…Third said they want me to stay here. To become king of the server.”

Impulse nods. 

Cleo groans and leans her head back. “I cannot emphasize enough how much I hate this.”

“Well how do you think I feel about it?” Martyn snaps. 

“So what do we do about it?” Impulse asks. “I mean…it’s the server . It’s our entire world. How do we even stop it? Can we stop it?”

“I don’t know,” Martyn whispers. He sits down on one of the chests and huddles there, pulling his knees up to his torso and wrapping his blanket-engulfed arms around them. He’s still cold, and he keeps imagining a brush of cold breath across his neck, as if Third is just right behind him . 

Cleo crosses her arms. “We have to. Because yeah, it might want you to be king of the server, but what then? What happens after you win? It pulled us all out of the metaphorical grave to redo this just because it was unsatisfied with Grian winning the last time. An easy fix would be to just let you win, but—“ she makes a face. 

“You think it would get bored? Do something even more horrible next time?” Impulse asks her. 

“My mind goes lots of places, and none of them are good,” Cleo says. 

Martyn shivers. The idea of that huge, looming entity, bored … He doesn’t want to think about it. It had already casually hurt so many of them. Even him. He runs his hand across his jaw, feels flakes of dried blood come off on his fingers. “Whatever we do, we’ll have to do it somewhere around the Void.”

“The Void?” Impulse says. He looks uncertain. “Why the Void?”

“That’s where it lives. Or at least where it’s centered—I mean I know it’s the whole server, but it just took me to the End in my dream, and I could sort of see it there. It’s sort of manifested itself there in the empty spaces of the world, I guess.”

“Okay. So we have three choices, then.” Impulse ticks them off on his fingers. “We break through bedrock—I can do that easy. We tunnel upwards in the Nether. Or…we go back to the End.”

“Breaking bedrock isn’t going to give us room to maneuver or fight or whatever we do,” Cleo says. “That’s a good way to fall into the Void, but not…whatever we’re going to do.”

“Same with tunneling upward in the Nether,” Impulse says. 

“So I guess we go to the End,” Cleo says.

“Third Life is seven-hundred by seven-hundred blocks,” Impulse counters. “There’s no stronghold here.”

“Are we sure about that?” Cleo says. “Because I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve been too busy this time around trying to hunker down. I haven’t explored anything.”

“You’d think with fourteen players, we’d have run across something by now. But regardless, whatever we pick is going to be super dangerous,” Impulse says. “Especially for the red-lifers.”

Martyn listens to them talk, throwing ideas back and forth. He doesn’t say anything. If he even thinks about what Impulse and Cleo are saying for too long, he’s afraid Third will hear. Third implied it was hard to speak to him when he was here—in the Overworld—that it needed him closer to the Void. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t read his thoughts, or get a general idea. 

“Where’s Grian?” he asks suddenly. 

Cleo looks over at him. “BDubs got his green life, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Me neither,” Impulse says. “I think he kinda did what I did this game, squirreled away hoping to build up enough power to take everyone out.”

“He’s set traps all over the place,” Martyn says. “That’s what got my green life, some random TNT tripwire trap. And it took my armor too because there was a second blast after the first.”

“That’s familiar,” Cleo mutters in annoyance. “Some things just don’t change.” She shakes her head. “Why do you want Grian?”

“I dunno, I just would feel better if we had another ally,” Martyn says. “Preferably not another red-lifer. No offense, Impulse, but I think one’s about all we can handle right now.”

“No, no, I fully agree with this.” Impulse paces. “Ok. So we find Grian, we recruit him, we travel to the End, and we…what? Kill the manifestation of the server’s sentience? What would that do to all of us, since we’re here?”

“What would it do to him?” Cleo points at Martyn. “The rest of us will respawn in our home servers. He’s the only one without a home.”

You’re home . 

Martyn shivers. 

“We can’t just let it hold us hostage here, Cleo.”

“I know, I know that , I just…” Cleo stops. “You hear that?”

Martyn listens. And now he hears it too. Distant explosions. Multiple ones. He quickly checks his comm, but there’s no new death messages. 

“Someone’s coming.” Cleo runs to a chest, throws it open. Practically throws Impulse’s armor and axe at him. She yanks open another chest and throws some armor at Martyn. 

He takes it. It’s just enchanted iron, not diamond, but it’s better than his coat and jeans. “Do you think they’re attacking the base?”

Cleo looks dead at him. “We’ve already established Grian’s hunkered down. So who does that leave, Martyn?”

Jimmy and Skizz. 

And Skizz had been bit hard by the bloodlust last time. This time…this time he was a maniac. 

“By the End…” Impulse growls out, scrambling into his armor. “Martyn, we can’t kill them.” His voice changes, cracks a little. “Don’t let me kill Skizz.”

Martyn looks over at Impulse. At his red eyes, and the way he’s already shaking a little, and…his fingernails have gone pointy at the ends and he’s pretty sure those are fangs making Impulse’s words slightly mumbley. “Yeah. Sure mate. I’ll try to keep you from killing Skizz.”

He’s not even really sure if even Impulse can last against a Skizz rampage, though.

Chapter Text

He is cold. And it’s very dark. 

Grian opens his eyes. Far, far below, he sees yellow specks, somehow glowing in the darkness. 

End islands. 

He twists his head back and forth. There’s a faint glow around him, too, just enough that he can see--barely--what’s happening. 

Shiny, silvery threads bind his wrists and elbows and knees and ankles and chest, pinning him precariously to...something. Grian twists his head around and tries to see, but it’s all just darkness. It’s not Void, though--it’s solid.

Well, I would hope it’s solid, otherwise I’d be falling…

Why is he here? Where is here? The last thing he remembers is tunneling downward, trying to run from Skizz and Jimmy. And then… He closes his eyes, tries to push past the fog filling his brain. He’d lost his first life, his green life, to BDubs. And then Skizz had found him, and he’d run… 

He’d run out of torches. 

And Skizz had still been coming.

He’d done all right for a while, because there had been a river of lava, even though for some reason he kept flinching away from the orange glow at the most inopportune times…

“No! My own trap!” He hops frantically back and forth, searching for a way out of the lava.

There’s confused shouting all around him. Ren is laughing. Martyn darts close to the edge of the moat, throws down a bucket of water. Grian dodges, scrambling for any handhold he can find.

“Agh! I really wanted that pufferfish to work!” Martyn says, backing off. He pulls out his bow.

Scar, shouting from the bunker behind him. “Have we not killed any of them?”

“No, for real?” Grian shouts back.

Impact. Pain.

Grian was shot by InTheLittleWood.

Grian flinches again.

“He’s awake.”

The whispery voice suddenly surrounds him, and there’s an icy breeze.

Grian pulls back, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He knows, without knowing how he knows, that this isn’t like Martyn’s pranks or Tango’s games. This isn’t any sort of mob he’s familiar with, and he has nothing--no armor, no weapons, and he’s stuck to some kind of wall like a fly in a spiderweb. 

The lava has run out. He no longer hears Skizz behind him--maybe he withdrew once he realized there was no light. Now Grian is groping through the darkness. He lost the wall of the cave when he tripped earlier, and now he can’t find it. This cavern must be massive--he’s been searching for what feels like forever, and he’s yet to find a wall.

Unless he’s just going in circles.

Something scuttles above him. Grian looks around, frantically, just has time to see the large compound eyes of a cave spider before it pounces on him. He yells, swings his sword, but the damage is done. The poison hits him like a punch to the gut. Grian scrambles away, digging in his pack for food. Another punch, and he looses his pack. Another, and he trips and falls to the ground, darkness overtaking him.

And now he’s here.

Maybe Skizz found him, and instead of killing him, he took him...somewhere? 

“Guys?” Grian finally says. “If anyone’s there...what’s going on?”

His voice drifts off into nothing, into the Void.

The breeze brushes across his neck once more. “Sleep, foil to the Hand. Sleep. Your time is not yet come.”

Grian struggles, trying to pull free of the sticky webs pinning him to the wall, but his movements are slow and heavy, and eventually, his head falls forward, and despite blinking frantically, his eyes slowly close.

Chapter Text

Those TNT traps would have been a lot easier to deal with if he hadn’t had to babysit Jimmy.

Skizz leans against the trunk of a dark oak tree, scanning the foot of the mountain. He’s certain this is where Cleo has her base--he’s almost caught her several times over the last day or so, but she keeps managing to disappear. But it’s always been around here.

“Ow. Ow.”

He doesn’t even have to look over his shoulder to know Jimmy’s somehow stumbled into the ring of sweetberry bushes Cleo’s planted around the base. 

“Buddy,” he says. “I’m losing patience.”

“I know, sorry, I’m--ow--I’m almost there--ow.” 

Skizz finally looks over his shoulder. Jimmy stumbles out of the sweetberry bushes, shoots Skizz an apologetic look, then digs into his pack and starts gnawing on a hunk of bread. Skizz lets out a growl, but tries to keep it under his breath.

His initial plan--teaming up with Jimmy, killing everyone else, then killing off his partner--was going well. He just isn’t sure how much longer he could deal with Jimmy’s bumbling. There might be few enough people left that he could afford to take out Jimmy. Maybe once Cleo is dealt with. Then it would just be Martyn, Grian, and Impulse... His hand tightens into a fist.

“If we tunnel straight in, that way--” He points towards a cliff face. “We should hit part of her base. She can’t have tunnelled that deep into it.” He gives Jimmy an annoyed look. “But you have to be quiet .”

Jimmy nods. “Got it, boss.”

Got it, boss.

Skizz twitches. There’s something about that phrase that instantly makes him annoyed. “Don’t call me that,” he mutters, turning away. He weighs his pick in his hands, trying to decide exactly where to start digging.

A section of the cliff face suddenly folds inward, and Cleo appears in the doorway. Skizz presses his back to the dark oak, then reaches out and drags Jimmy behind the tree as well. He tilts his head, trying to see around the tree trunk without revealing his location.

“Skizz!” Cleo shouts. “I know you’re out there!”

Skizz glances at Jimmy, nods, and puts his pick away. Jimmy shifts from foot to foot, nervous. Skizz draws his sword, slips his hand into the straps of his shield, and takes a deep breath. He can feel the boiling, bubbling warmth of bloodlust settling over him, and he closes his eyes, letting the feeling wash over him.  Letting the red mist edge in around his vision. Grian had gotten away yesterday, and that frustration welled within him, making the heat of the bloodlust even sharper.

He wants this done. I want to end somebody today.

Skizz charges out from behind the tree and runs at Cleo. Even if she did duck back into her base at this point, he knows where it is. He can tunnel inward and trap her. He might have lost Grian, but today, Cleo is going down.

She just stands there, like an idiot, not moving. Until two figures push past her and step out of the tunnel.

Two … Skizz slows down when he catches sight of Impulse. His friend stands beside Cleo, chin lifted confidently, holding an axe ready. And Martyn on the other side of Cleo, one hand upraised, his other hand gripping a sword.

“Skizzleman! Jimmy!” Martyn shouts. “We just want to talk!”

Skizz slows down, holds out an arm to tell Jimmy to stay back. He eyes the three in front of him. Both Martyn and Cleo, on their yellow lives. And Impulse… He sighs and shakes his head, trying to free his sluggish thoughts from the hold the bloodlust has on them. Impulse is red. Impulse is an easy target. 

“Martyn, hey homie!” he says. “Last I saw, Ren was chasing you down. Got him, didya? Good job, my friend, good job.”

“”Look.” Martyn steps forward. “We need to talk, okay? Can you guys just put down your weapons and come talk to us?”

“Excuse me , but they’re not coming in my base,” Cleo says. “Absolutely not. Red-lifers stay outside.”

“What about Impulse?” Jimmy asks.

Cleo shoots him an annoyed look. “ Obviously there are exceptions. Barely.” She looks back at Skizz and grins. “Don’t be a chump , Skizz.”

The word makes his hand reflexively tighten on his sword hilt. Skizz eyes Impulse again. Every instinct in him is screaming threat, threat, threat , and as he watches Impulse’s hands tighten on his axe and the way Impulse is watching them, his jaw clenched, he knows why. 

He’s fighting bloodlust.

Skizz feels a brief flicker of sadness but pushes it away. Focus. He needs to focus. He takes a step forward and gestures at Impulse. “Why’re you fighting it, buddy? Come on. Come at me, Impulse!”

“Impulse, remember what we talked about?” Martyn says. “We’re not--”

“You know you want to, brother.” Skizz grins as Impulse bares his teeth, his eyes glazing over.

“Yeah, c’mon, Impulse!” Jimmy shouts.

Cleo pulls out a bow and nocks an arrow, taking aim. “Both of you, shut up now. Shut up, I’m warning you--”

Jimmy suddenly slams his sword against his shield. Skizz winces as he watches Cleo let her arrow fly. Well, Jimmy had to learn at some point.

“OW!” Jimmy stumbles back. “Holy moly, Skizz! She just took out half my hearts!”

“Geez, then get back in cover,” Skizz barks at him. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and flinches, jerking his shield in front of his face. Hears an arrow bounce off the wooden surface. 

He takes a few steps after Jimmy, then sees Impulse running across the clearing at him. 

“No, wait, Impulse!” Martyn yells. 

Perfect. The red mist edges in until all he can see is Impulse’s snarling face and the gleaming edge of Impulse’s axe. Skizz knocks away Impulse’s first strike and jumps backward, edging again towards the forest. If he can lure in Impulse, he and Jimmy can deal with the red-lifer and come back for the yellows.

He keeps back-pedaling, mostly dodging or making defensive strikes as Impulse chases him down. When they’re on the edge of the forest, Skizz spins around and runs, dashing between trees. He can hear Impulse’s crashing footsteps right behind him.

Then there’s the clash of weapons and Jimmy shouts “Holy moly!” again.

Skizz stops and catches his breath. Jimmy won’t last long against Impulse. Well, maybe that would take care of two problems at once.

“Impulse, no! Jimmy! Where’s Skizz? Stop it!”

Martyn’s followed Impulse.

“That’s a problem,” Skizz mutters to himself. Martyn and his talking . He’s almost as silvertongued as Scar.

Skizz circles around until he sees them. Impulse and Martyn have cornered Jimmy against a small hill. They’re on alert, but they’re not even attempting to attack him.

“Listen, Jimmy, we’ve gotta talk,” Martyn says, a note of urgency in his voice. He’s grabbed Impulse’s arm and seems to be ready to drag him away from Jimmy if necessary. “This isn’t what it looks like. Third Life, I mean. You’ve been getting the flashbacks too, haven’t you?”

“What the heck are you even talking about?” Jimmy demands.

Skizz pulls out a bow, takes aim. Fires.

Martyn grunts in pain and staggers, letting go of Impulse. Impulse immediately lunges at Jimmy. Skizz growls and runs forward. Martyn spins around, grabbing for his sword-- he didn’t even have it in his hands, the idiot-- just as Skizz crashes into him. Martyn stumbles back against a tree, and as quickly as he can, Skizz stabs his sword forward, feels it stick into the tree behind Martyn.

Martyn’s eyes go wide. He grabs at the sword in his torso, looks up at Skizz. “I...it’s a trick...it’s tricking us…” His voice fades. “Skizz, no…”

Skizz, no.

InTheLittleWood has been killed by Skizzleman.

It’s like driving a spike right through Skizz’s own brain. He roars and clutches his head, trying not to drown under the deluge of memories that slam into him.

“What would you say about me building a tunnel from Skizzle Point to Renchanting?”

“Yeah, my dude, go for it! Where you thinking?”

“Over here, maybe?”

“Yeah, I’ll build like a watchtower or something to disguise it. This is perfect, my dude!”

Charging up to the Crastle walls, yelling for Grian’s head. Slamming open the door. Grian is on the stairs. “Grian! Grian!”

“Skizz, what are you doing?”

“Skizz, no!”

“Oh no,” Impulse says. He looks between Jimmy and Skizz. “Oh no. Martyn’s respawning. Oh, this is not great, not great at all. Cleo! Cleo!” He turns and runs back towards Cleo’s base.

Jimmy looks over at Skizz, eyes wide. “What just happened?”

“I don’t know.” Skizz grits his teeth as he looks after Impulse. “But we’re gonna get answers. One way or another.”

Chapter Text

Martyn wakes, lying on his stomach, his arms crumpled beneath him as if he tried to break his fall. Unlike the other times he’s respawned...he hurts.

And he’s not in his bed.

He’s back at the End, lying on the spongy ground of an island. Slowly, he pushes himself upright, glancing around. This island has one tall growth on it that he’s lying at the base of, and it’s so isolated--he can barely see any of the other End islands, floating about in the darkness.

Skizz killed him, and now he is on his red life.

Martyn groans and flops over onto his back, wincing. His chest still hurts. He rubs the sore spot and...his hand comes away red. Martyn sits up and looks down. He’s still bleeding, the edges of the gash in his shirt stained red. He peels away the edges of the tear, feeling sick as he catches sight of torn muscle.

The cold breeze wafts over him, this time bringing with it the smell of burning electrical wires and the damp smell of caverns. “Martyn. You’ve returned.” A pause. “You’re red! Congratulations.”

“Yeah, thanks, umm…” Martyn is struggling not to panic. As he holds his right hand out in front of him, watching the blood drip off his fingers, he notices his fingernails are starting to shift. To become longer, pointier. Claw-like. No, no, no. His skin fades in color until it’s a pale gray. He doesn’t need a mirror to know his eyes are now red. He holds his hand over the wound and stands up. 

His last red life wasn’t like this. Well, the gray skin was, but...not the aches and the dripping wound or the claws. With his left hand, he checks his teeth. They’re fangs now. He guesses Third took some cues from Ren this go-round. 

Another waft of that smell, and Martyn knows without looking up that Third is looming over him. This time, Third doesn’t bother trying to hide the silvery spider-web threads that drape down, surrounding Martyn, almost touching him. It looks almost like the iron bars of a cage, and Martyn has to resist the shiver that crawls down his spine. 

“You can now attack without provocation,” Third says, the voice sibilant and soft. “You can become king, Martyn. All you must do is go back and destroy all opposition. And then...King Martyn...I have a challenge for you. A final challenge.”

A test of your loyalty, me Hand.

Martyn flinches as one of the silvery web strands drapes over his shoulder. It curls around his neck. Cups under his chin and lifts his gaze upward, to a tiny bit of color that doesn’t fit with the End’s purple and yellow. 

Grian. 

Martyn can see him now, hanging from a branch of the growth far, far above him. Grian’s arms are outstretched, bound in place by silver strands. Webbing drapes his chest and feet, still clinging to the rocky outcropping, but loosely, precariously, so that his sneakers dangle hundreds of feet above the island—and the Void. Grian’s head droops forward on his chest. At this distance, there’s no telling if he’s actually breathing or not. 

But Third had said “a final challenge.”

Something inside of Martyn’s chest tightens, takes his breath away more than any wound he’s received. He forces his lungs to expand and contract. Tries to look away, but the webbing under his chin keeps his gaze upward. He’s cold—not cold because of Third, but cold from fear. From worry. 

How is he even seeing Grian, at this distance, with no light?

More of Third’s work, he bets. 

“So that’s it then,” he says. “That’s the end game. You want me to kill the rest of my friends, and then bring me here to fight Grian?”

“He was an excellent foil for you last time,” Third whispers. It’s almost a purr. “The loyal Hand, and the indebted prankster.”

Martyn clenches his hands. “And what if I won’t? What if I refuse to do what you want?”

The webbing suddenly whips around his neck. Martyn gasps as it jerks him off his feet, dangling him in the air. He kicks as the webbing twists and turns, swinging him out until his feet hang over the Void. Martyn tears at the webbing with his fingernails, but it’s as cold and strong as steel--he’s not going to break it. More webbing strands snake around his wrists and pry his fingers away from his neck, holding his arms immobile.

It tips his head back, and for the first time Martyn comes face to face with Third.

The face is a facsimile--a blank mask, pale gray, with just the faintest indentation for a mouth and two black, staring compound eyes. The skin of the creature’s face is seamless and unbelievably smooth. Behind the face, he can see a huge, bulbous, shifting body that disappears up into the Void, and many, many legs, and hundreds of draping webs and silver strands, crawling and twisting around Third until they, too, disappear into the darkness of the Void. 

“Remember, Martyn, that if I so please, I control all life on this server,” Third hisses. “Reset. Respawn. I can always just restart the game.” It hums quietly and says, “Maybe third time would be a charm, and this annoying little glitch of remembering what should be forgotten would be finally gone.”

No. No . He can’t let that happen. What would his friends become without their memories, without the one thing holding them all back from completely succumbing to the bloodlust? What would he be? Martyn quickly shoves the thought from his mind, before Third can capture it. 

Third smiles. “Your memories of your friends are precious to you. I understand this. But if they are getting in the way of your climb to greatness--”

“Please, no.” Martyn chokes the words out. Now that it’s holding his wrists too, there’s less pressure on his neck, but it’s still so tight that he can barely breathe. “No. Don’t take their memories from them. I’ll do what you want. I—” A thought hits him, and Martyn takes it, gives himself a split second to consider, then hurries forward, shoving the thought to the back of his mind before Third can pick up on it. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just, please, let them keep what they’ve remembered.”

Third considers him for a moment. Then it lowers him back down to the End island. The silver cords unwind from Martyn’s neck. He collapses to his knees, coughing, his hands going to his throat. 

“Climb your path, Martyn,” Third’s voice says from above him. “Climb your path, and bring spring forth.”

The spongy yellow of the island fades from underneath his knees.

And Martyn becomes aware of voices above him.

“He’s moving!”

“Don’t do it, Skizz! Don’t you dare!”

Martyn opens his eyes.

Skizz is standing over his bed, his sword hovering close to Martyn’s throat. “Martyn, geez!” he says. “It took you long enough!”

Motion catches Martyn’s eyes, and he looks sideways. Impulse stands at Skizz’s side, one hand gripping Skizz’s shirt, the other holding his axe ready to swing. Jimmy stands back a few paces, half through the door, his bow drawn and centered on Impulse’s back.

Where was Cleo? He’d heard her voice. Martyn looks up and sees her crouched in the rafters of the room, bow in hand, aiming at Jimmy.

“Wow,” he croaks. “I was out for a few minutes and I wake up to a proper stand-off.”

No one laughs.

Skizz drops something on him. Martyn winces and glances down, picks up the sheathed sword that Skizz dumped on him. Gives Skizz a puzzled glance.

“I remember that blade,” Skizz says, angrily. His red eyes gleam. “I remember things that didn’t happen, Martyn. Not in this game. What did you do? Did you mess with the settings on the server, cause a glitch? What’s going on?”

“Can you--” Martyn gently pushes on Skizz’s blade with a finger.

Skizz doesn’t move. “Tell me. Now. You’re on your red life, so you’d better watch your step.”

“Yeah, that’s literally everyone here in case you missed it, Skizzleman,” Cleo says. “No one’s impressed.”

“Look, buddy,” Skizz says. “It’s simple. Either you tell me what you’ve messed with, and then you fix it , or I take your red life. And to be honest I bet you can tell which way I’m leaning.”

“The memories are true, Skizzle,” Impulse says. “I’ve been trying to tell you.” The hand hold the axe trembles. 

Martyn feels a rush of hot acid in his throat, and for a split second, he considers pulling the blade from the sheath and jumping up. Stabbing Skizz, and Impulse, and Cleo, and Jimmy, just like he’d stabbed Ren. Taking out all of them. Red starts misting over his vision. 

“Skizz, please ,” Impulse says again, his voice trembling. “I’m not going to be able to control it much longer, and I really, really don’t want to kill you, man.”

Skizz’s hand clenches. Then he spins and slings his sword into the corner of the room. Everyone jumps at the clatter. Skizz scrapes his fingers through his hair and sends Martyn a glare. “Explain this. Now.”

Martyn sits up, wincing at the soreness in his chest. His stomach knots and he looks down. There’s still a gash in his shirt, but the skin beneath is bloodless. No wound. He rubs it with the heel of his hand, as if that will ease the ache.

“Hey,” Jimmy says, lowering his bow. “What’s wrong with your neck?”

Martyn touches his throat and winces. There’s a bruise there, he can tell that. A bruise...like the scar around Ren’s neck. He bites the inside of his lip. “I’ll explain as soon as I can,” he tells Skizz. “Cleo, I need some paper. I have a plan. I have to write this down—if I think about it too long, Third’s going to hear it, even all the way up here.”

“Third?” Jimmy says. 

“I swear, I’ll tell you, I promise. Just give me a minute. I think I know how to fix this.”

Chapter Text

Ren hovers at Martyn’s side as his friend explains to Skizz what had been going on, about Third and the memory loss and they way they’re stuck on the server thanks to him.

“Oh, me Hand, I’m so sorry,” Ren whispers, placing his hand on Martyn’s shoulder. 

Martyn doesn’t react.

Of course he doesn’t.

Martyn looks so tired, sitting there with the blanket huddled around his shoulders, his claws poking holes through the fabric. Bags under his reddened eyes. His head half-hangs to one side, as if he can’t keep it fully upright.

Ren closes his eyes, sighs. He so desperately wishes he could be there for Martyn, but instead, he’s locked in this accursed, ghostly form. Ren slams his fist against the wall.

If he focuses, he can see the other ghosts, the ones that were taken by Third’s determination to make Martyn win. They had a hand in it--Ren and everyone else, and Grian’s game had been twisted. He turns and squints, trying to see who is standing next to him. There’s a glimmer of blue hair. Scott then. 

“Smajor.” Ren reaches for Scott’s shoulder, but his fingers pass right through. Scott doesn’t react, at least, not that Ren can tell. He pulls back, curls his hand into a fist. He can’t even seek the comfort of his other friends. He feels the weight of loneliness, heavier than he’s ever felt before.

“But I have a plan,” Martyn says.

Ren spins around. Skizz has finally backed away From Martyn, his sword sheathed. Ren slips between the two and leans down, gripping Martyn’s shoulders. Martyn looks straight through him, but his red-shaded eyes are determined. He’s drawn a steely air of determination around him like a tattered cloak. Ren grips him tightly, even though he feels his claws sink through Martyn’s shoulders without getting a grip on him at all.

“That’s right,” he says. “That’s right. You fight. You get down to the End and you fight , my dude. You can do it, me Hand. There’s a reason I picked you.”

He just wishes he could help. He sits down next to Martyn, and his head sags until he’s resting against Martyn’s shoulder. Listening. Waiting.

“I have to be careful,” Martyn says. “Third--Third can hear my thoughts, if I focus on them too long. So I have to figure out a way to tell you guys without Third overhearing--if it hears, it will spoil everything. So--”

Cleo emerges from another tunnel and passes off a quill, ink, and paper to Martyn.

Martyn shifts, crossing his legs and resting the paper against one knee. “So I’m gonna write it down, and hopefully if I don’t think too hard about it, Third won’t react.”

“Is there a way we can distract it?” Impulse asks.

Martyn shrugs. “There’s no way any of you can interact with it, except me. We’ll just have to hope this works.”

Ren lifts his head, his ears pricking. Maybe there is something he can do after all.

Ren no longer focuses on floating--instead, he allows himself to sink down, into the ground. Past the layers of dirt, of rock, through a mine, through bedrock, down into the Void. As a ghost, this place doesn’t affect him at all. All he feels is a slight chill as he stops, looks around. 

The Void is a strange thing as a ghost. When Martyn first killed him, Ren had immediately come down here, trying to see what had gone wrong. Because he’d known something was wrong. As a ghost, he could see faint forms of the End islands, less solid than the Overworld. He spins slowly in place, using his arms to steady himself so he doesn’t go cartwheeling away in a random direction like he’s in space, and sees the End island he’s looking for.

Light isn’t an issue here either. He can see far, far above, where a nest of silver strands reveals Third’s bulbous body, its legs curled up under it as it watches with its shiny compound eyes, staring down at Grian’s unmoving body. Is it actually awake? Or is Third sleeping, after its talk with Martyn? There’s no way to tell. It doesn’t need to move, to breathe, not like a normal living thing. 

The irony that he is no longer a normal living thing either isn’t lost on Ren.

Ren drops down to where Grian hangs. Pats Grian’s cheek.

Grian doesn’t move. Doesn’t even sway in his spun-metal hammock.

“Hang in there a little longer, my dude,” Ren whispers. “Just a little longer. We’ll get out of here and get your wings back soon.”

There’s a slithering sound behind him. Ren doesn’t need to turn to know that Third’s shiny plastic face is right behind him now, hovering. He doesn’t turn. After all, he’s a ghost. What can Third do to him? He hovers his hand on Grian’s shoulder.

“Rendog,” Third says. “Welcome to the Void.”

Ren doesn’t answer.

Third moves so that Ren can just barely see it out of the corner of his eye. Slowly, his heart hammering in his chest, Ren turns to face it. He tips his head, lowers his sunglasses down on his nose a bit  so he’s staring eye to eye with Third.

“Hullo, monster,” he says.

Third chuckles. “Pot, meet kettle.”

“At least I know what I am,” Ren says. He’s not, he’s not a monster, but he can play this thing’s games for a bit. Keep its eyes off Martyn and the others. Give them a fighting chance. Let it think what it will of him.

Third shakes its head. “I’m surprised at you, Ren. Abandoning your friend. You haven’t left his side since those first few minutes after your final death.”

When he’d seen what it was that had doomed them all to this pathetic excuse of a game. Ren clenches his claws. Then, he’d fled back to Martyn’s side. He’d stayed with his friend, even running after him when Skizz had stabbed his sword through Martyn’s chest and Ren had seen his friend disappear into the Void. He couldn’t just abandon Martyn. Not after everything he’d gone through. He’d watched Third threaten Martyn, and he’d been unable to do anything about it.

The memory ignites a slow-burning rage, and Ren feels something he doesn’t often feel--the desire to kill and destroy. His ears flatten to the sides of his head, and he growls, low in his throat. “You’re going to get yours. Sooner or later. You stupid, overgrown bulbous growth.”

As expected, Third suddenly lashes out with a web. Ren has no idea if it can hurt him in his ghost state, but he’s not going to take the chance.

He leaps back--his ghost form can jump much further than he ever could--and readjusts his glasses so that they cover his eyes again. 

“I’d like to see you try. And if you think Martyn is going to rebel against me, you’re wrong.” Third snarls at him, but doesn’t come after him. Afraid to leave Grian, perhaps? 

Ren focuses on rising upward again, back to Martyn. Back to his friend. He can’t tip Third off. Time for more misdirection. “The Hand of the King may not--he might have bought the lies you’re selling, sold out his loyalty--but don’t expect the rest of us ghosts to go quietly into the Void. We will take our revenge, Third. After all, isn’t vengeance what keeps ghosts around in the first place?”

Chapter Text

They all knew their part in the plan. They’d all debated and talked about the plan, adding in their own ideas and refining it, since he couldn’t. But Martyn’s stomach still knots as he watches Cleo, Skizz, and Jimmy take off on their own. 

“They’ll be okay,” Impulse tells him.

Martyn sighs heavily and nods. There’s an itch at the back of his head--not a physical one, but a mental one--and he wonders if it’s Third trying to communicate with him, to figure out what was going on. It was not going to be happy that he’d let three of his so-called rivals take off, but hopefully…

He stops himself from thinking about it too much. Focus, Martyn. Focus. Dig down, build a bubblevator, talk to Third. Hopefully it’s attention would focus on him and not on the others.

He quickly glances through his pack. Thankfully Cleo had already had a lot of the items they needed--except for soul sand. He turns and starts for the nearest Nether portal. He can hear Impulse behind him--and he knows Impulse is just watching his back, but he wishes Impulse would walk beside him. It’s like another itch, this one on the back of his neck, warning him that an enemy is behind him. No matter how he refuses to think of Impulse as an enemy. He knows it’s just the bloodlust, but…

As the Nether portal comes into view, Impulse steps up beside him. “I’ll go first.”

So you can ambush me on the other side? The thought isn’t his--at least, it doesn’t feel like his. It feels sibilant and chilled, like Third presence sitting like a spider in the back of his mind. Martyn shoves the thought aside. “You don’t have--” Despite himself, his voice has a sharp edge to it.

Impulse holds up his hand. “I know I don’t have to, Martyn. And I’m not questioning your abilities, you know I’m not. But what do you think would happen if you stepped on the other side of that portal into a mob of piglins? From what you’ve told us, Third wouldn’t hesitate to reset the entire server if you die on your red life. I mean...it threatened to drop you into the Void itself if you didn’t do what it wanted. And then we’d all have to go through all of this again.”

It was true, and he knew it was true, but at the same time, he can’t take his eyes off Impulse’s claws, the way his hands constantly twitch. Martyn had thought the bloodlust was difficult to deal with in his green and yellow lives, but even though Third had said it wasn’t as bad for him as the other players… he can’t even imagine how Impulse and Skizz especially are able to keep their bloodlust under control long enough to do anything. Martyn doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods. 

Impulse nods back. He walks into the Nether portal. As his form wavers and shifts in the purple light, he grips his axe tightly and takes a deep breath. Then he disappears.

Martyn follows. It’s only a matter of seconds until he stumbles back out, this time in the hot, red landscape of the Nether. As soon as he steps foot on the netherrack, the itch in the back of his mind becomes fingernails-on-a-chalkboard. He catches himself on the side of the portal and takes in several deep breaths. Red edges his vision. There’s just the slightest, faintest whiff of blood in the air, and the netherrack under his feet gives as he takes a step forward.

Where was Impulse?

“Impulse?”

“Don’t talk to me.”

He spins.

Impulse is sitting on the ground off to the side, next to the portal. He’s gripping his axe with both hands and he’s trembling, eyes closed. After a few seconds, he gives Martyn a quick glance. 

He’s vulnerable, look at him, not even on his feet. Kill him. Kill him now. Martyn twitches, shakes his head.

“You can hear it too?” Impulse asks. “Is that...is that Third?”

The voice is like Third, but also not like Third. “I don’t know.” Martyn realizes he’s put his hand on his sword hilt without even thinking about it.

“This place makes the bloodlust worse.” Impulse gets up, moving slowly and heavily, as if he’s fighting against his own limbs. “I just didn’t expect it to be this bad. I haven’t been back here since my green life.”

This was his first trek into the Nether this go-round. Martyn nods. “Let’s get the soul sand and get out, then.”

Impulse nods. 

Martyn makes sure to walk alongside Impulse this time. He doesn’t want to present himself as a target. 

They manage to find and mine a patch of soul sand within a few minutes, and are headed back to the portal when Martyn hears the first, angry snort coming from behind them. He spins around. 

A whole wave of piglin mobs is coming over a slight rise in the netherrack.

“Ooooh Void,” Impulse says. “Go time.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Martyn begins to run. His feet sink into the netherrack slightly as he runs, squishing under his weight, and the smell of blood rises in the air. 

He trips.

Impulse stops and grabs him, pulling him up to his feet. For a split second, Impulse hangs onto his arms, and Martyn feels a flicker of fear, like a miniature bolt of electricity that runs through him. He jerks away, throat tightening. Impulse is going to shove him back, towards the piglins, he can see the thought in Impulse’s red eyes, the way his arms tense...

But Impulse doesn’t. Instead, he shoves Martyn the other way, towards the portal. “Run!”

Martyn runs, dives into the portal. As he turns to look he can see Impulse has stopped several feet away, facing the piglins.

“Impulse!” he shouts.

And then he’s through.

Stumbling out the other side. 

The bloodlust settles a little, like a rock in his stomach, and the nagging scrape at the back of his mind dies back down to an itch. Martyn stands and readies his sword. If Impulse doesn’t appear, he’s going back in there. He doesn’t care , he’s not going to lose his friend now…

Impulse stumbles out.

Martyn sighs and rubs his hands over his face. “You okay?” he demands.

Impulse nods. “Close call though.”

“Yeah. Really close.” Martyn pauses, then says hesitantly, “Was that...a big piglin horde?”

“Biggest I’ve ever seen,” Impulse says. “You think--”

Third . Martyn doesn’t even have to wait for him to finish. “Let’s get this started.” He tosses his pack to Impulse. “You build, I’ll dig.” He grabs his shovel and takes a few steps away from the portal, sets the edge into the ground, and starts digging.

The sun is hot, and beats down on his back, but Martyn finds the monotonous, hard labor soothing. Bloodlust has no place here. Third has no place here. It’s just him, and the shovel, and the dirt, and the rock, and Impulse’s occasional mutterings to himself as he lays out supplies and tools and begins putting things together.

But sooner than he wants, he starts spotting the speckled dark-and-light grays of bedrock poking through the rock. He pauses and looks up. The tunnel is in deep shadow now that the sun is almost setting, and Impulse has set out torches in the walls. He’s about halfway down the tunnel with the bubblevator.

Martyn gets back to work, clearing out a large space for them to work, enough that he and Impulse would be out of earshot of each other when they stand at opposite ends. Then he and Impulse switch places--Impulse begins laying out the pistons for breaking through the bedrock, and Martyn climbs back up the scaffolding and picks up where Impulse left off on the bubblevator.

It’s now full night. Martyn begins to wonder when he’ll get a message on his comm from one of the others. Is it possible they’ll complete their mission before he and Impulse meet theirs? Theirs is mostly just busywork. Mostly just to keep Third’s eye on him.

Martyn pushes the thoughts away. This close to bedrock--to the Void--he’s going to have to be a lot more careful. He still can’t feel Third as anything but that nagging itch, but it’s about to get much, much worse. 

He finishes the last couple of blocks of work, then steps back and nods. It’s working--he can see the bubbles in the water, flowing quickly upward. It will be perfect. He takes down the last of the scaffolding.

“Okay, Martyn.”

Martyn turns.

Impulse has a network of pistons and redstone and TNT laid out on the far side of the cavern. He finishes laying out the last lines of redstones, puts a trigger down, and glances over at Martyn questioningly.

Martyn nods, slips his arm into the straps of his shield, and kneels on the ground beside Impulse, covering them both just in case too many pieces of rock go flying.

Impulse takes a deep breath and flips the trigger.

The entire cavern shakes and rumbles. Rock pings off Martyn’s shield. It’s over within a few seconds--almost too quickly.

And as the dust settles, the itch in the back of Martyn’s head grows to a full-fledged growl.

What are you doing , Martyn?

Martyn looks over the edge of his shield.

They’ve blown through the bedrock, and now in the other half of the cavern there’s a large hole leading straight into the Void. Even as he watches, silvery strands snake up the edges of the hole and dig into the rock.

“Oh heck,” Impulse whispers.

“I-I just want to talk, Third,” Martyn says. He takes a few steps forward, cautiously.

“Is he talking? I can’t hear anything.” Impulse frowns.

Martyn motions for him to be quiet and scoots a little closer to the hole.

You can’t fool me, Martyn. What are you up to? Why didn’t you kill them?

Martyn turns to Impulse and says, “Thank you for helping me. I’ll be back in a minute.” He walks away and--even though his legs shake so badly he feels like he might fall at any second--walks over to the edge of the hole. He sets down his shield, then sits, cross-legged, right at the edge.

The Void stares up at him, dark and hollow, the silvery strands disappearing into its depths. One of the webs crawls along the rock and, almost gently, wraps around Martyn’s wrist. Gives a slight tug.

“Hey,” Martyn says, keeping his tone light. Even though his heart is in his throat. “Hey. I wanted to talk to you. I figured--this would be the best way, right? So I don’t have to keep sleeping or dying. A king can’t speak to his loyal--what would you consider yourself? My Hand?”

There’s a pause, then Third chuckles softly. I would prefer to think of myself as the Kingmaker.

“Kingmaker. Sure.” Martyn grins. 

Why is the other one with you?

Martyn lowers his voice and leans towards the Void a little, as if confiding a secret. “It would have taken me a lot longer to get here without him. Don’t worry. He won’t last too long.”

Third makes another pleased purring sound. What did you wish to speak to me about?

“The borders.”

Third says cautiously what about the borders?

“It’s a small world with the borders,” Martyn says. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, about building my kingdom, and…a king needs resources. This is fine for a little while, like the Third Life game. But I have plans , Third. An enormous castle. A village. A giant library. But I need to be able to travel outside the borders for resources.”

That will make the others harder to hunt down. 

Martyn grins. “Maybe. But if I can string them along, like I have with Impulse…I can get some work out of them before I eliminate them. I’ve even got them out right now, working to find some stuff.”

Scar tried a similar thing last time, did he not? Offering ‘friendship’ to everyone that did what he wanted?

“There’s fewer of us now, and…” Martyn shot a glance back toward Impulse.

Impulse was pacing back and forth, rubbing his hands together, picking up extra blocks and messing with them before setting them down. It looked like he was doing everything possible to keep from reaching for his axe.

He grows impatient. You may not be able to trust him much longer.

Martyn shrugs. “He’s expendable.” 

Well. The webbing around his wrist seems to loosen a little. I think I can grant you this request. Tell me, what will you build?

Martyn leaned back on one hand and began to talk, telling Third of the grand builds he’d planned.

And now, all he had to do was wait.

Chapter Text

“C’mon, Martyn, c’mon,” Cleo mutters, pacing back and forth in front of the barrier.

Jimmy sits on the hillside, jiggling one leg. He watches Cleo pace for a few more minutes, then glances at Skizz.

Skizz is standing on the top of the hill, watching out into the dark. They’ve had to place some torches, just to keep mobs from sneaking up on them. 

Jimmy rubs his hands together. His bloodlust seems to be better than the other two--they haven’t really been able to sit for more than a minute or two before having to get up, constantly on the prowl. He knows Skizz has run into the dark a few times to lash out at creepers or skeletons, just to get some of it out of his system. He’s been lucky--he’s just been able to sit, albeit he’s squirming worse than a little kid forced to sit still for very long. 

“Do you think he’ll be able to do it?” Skizz asks. “I mean, really, do you think so?”

“He’s the only one who can,” Jimmy said.

“Yeah, that’s real comforting, Jimmy, real comforting,” Cleo grumbles. “Martyn, server prankster, is the guy we gotta rely on.”

“See, that’s why I didn’t buy it at first,” Skizz says. “I’m still struggling with it. I mean, no one else other than Martyn has heard or seen this Third thing, right? How do we know he’s not pulling some massive prank? Or how do we know he and Impulse haven’t come up with some elaborate scheme to get us off our guard and--”

“Skizz, just shut up. Shut up a minute and think about what you just said,” Cleo says. “We all have the memories from the first time. All of us. We know there’s something wrong with the bloodlust thing. And clearly, there’s something wrong with all this.” She waves her hand around the trees. “Even if we decided to do this a second time, why would we not remember the first time? Grian wouldn’t do that to us.”

Grian. Holy moly, Grian. Jimmy leans his elbows on his knees, rests his face in his hands. The picture Martyn had painted of what had happened to Grian was...well. All of it was terrifying. For him especially. He’s only survived this far thanks to Skizz, and he’s not sure how much longer Skizz can take his bumbling. He’s surviving on pure luck and his teammates’ skills.

A noise fills the air--like the sound of a huge curtain or piece of cloth being pushed aside. Jimmy looks up as the shimmering blue barrier in front of them is swept away, as if it never existed. He jumps to his feet. “Guys--!”

“Let’s move!” Skizz pushes past him, already digging an eye of ender out of his pack. They’d already used one. Hopefully they have enough. They’d all dug as many supplies out of everyone’s bases as they could, and killed all the endermen they could find. Skizz tosses the eye of ender into the air and they all watch as the purple sparkles float forward.

“It’s going northwest, c’mon.” Cleo takes off in the direction the sparkles led.them. 

Jimmy rushes along behind Cleo and Skizz, holding an arm over his face as they head into the trees. Branches and bushes scrape his armor and bare hands and slap at his greaves. Skizz is holding a torch and that’s literally the only way Jimmy is keeping track of them.

“Creeper!” Skizz shouts, and dodges to the side.

Jimmy yelps and barely throws his shield up in time, feeling the explosion knock him back off his feet.

Skizz tosses another eye of ender.

“Don’t use them all! Remember we need twelve!” Cleo says.

“Yes, thank you, Cleo,” Skizz grumbles.

Jimmy scrambles to his feet and runs after them. The dark woods seem never ending, but finally, he can see dawn peeking over the horizon. 

“Here! It’s here, come on!” Cleo pounces at the side of a hill with her shovel.

“There’s zombies! Watch out!” Skizz spins and shoves his pick into Jimmy’s hands. “Help Cleo. I’ll deal with the zombies.”

Jimmy digs into the hillside as fast as he can, trying to ignore the sounds of combat behind him. He doesn’t know how long it takes, only that he and Cleo seem to be plowing through the dirt and stone at an amazing rate, fueled on by adrenalin and bloodlust and--at least on his part--pure terror.

And then they’ve broken through. Cleo stows her shovel and grabs her sword and shield. “Skizz! We’re heading down!”

“Okay, so remember, we need to mark where we’ve been,” Skizz says as they descend the steps. “Otherwise we’re going to waste hours in here, and I seriously doubt that Martyn can keep Third entertained for hours even if he does have a silver tongue. We’re speed-running this baby.” He slaps Jimmy on the shoulder with the most camaraderie he’s shown yet. “You ready for this, buddy?”

Jimmy shifts his grip on his sword. “Yeah. I’ve got this, Skizz. I won’t let you down.”

Skizz makes a disbelieving noise. “Let’s just hope your infamous luck holds out today.”

And they head down.

Chapter Text

Martyn’s comm buzzes. Without slowing his description of the library he planned to build, he digs in his pocket with his free hand--Third’s web is still wrapped around his other wrist. He glances at the screen.

SolidarityGaming: done.

Then he sends a string of numbers. Coordinates.

He feels a weight lift. They’ve done it. He glances back at Impulse.

Impulse holds up his comm and nods.

Martyn, what’s going on? I sense you’re feeling differently.

Martyn starts to stand. He pauses, then forces himself to pat the web wrapped around his wrist. “It’s daylight. I can’t believe we’ve been talking all night!” He forces a laugh. “Time got away from me. Since you’ve dropped the barrier, that means I can start on gathering more resources and getting to work. Thank you, Third. This means a lot to me.”

The web slackens a little on his hand. Excellent…

Martyn turns, motions for Impulse to head to the bubblevator.

Suddenly a silver strand whips past him, wrapping around Impulse’s leg. Impulse yells as it yanks him off his feet and drags him toward the edge of the hole.

Martyn dives for Impulse and grabs his arms, digging his feet into the ground. “Third? Third!”

What are you up to, Martyn? Your friends. They’ve found a stronghold. A portal! To come here, to the End. Third’s voice grows until it’s a roar in his head. What have you done, Martyn?

Impulse screams as the webbing yanks on his leg, so hard that Martyn nearly loses his grip on Impulse’s arms. “Hang on, Impulse!” he yells. “Hang on!”

Third yanks again.

Impulse’s hands slip through Martyn’s.

“No!” Martyn scrambles after him, but he’s gone.

Impulse is gone. 

So is any sign of Third.

Martyn clamps his hand over his mouth. He’s shaking. He kneels at the edge of the hole into the Void for he doesn’t know how long, staring into the deep darkness and hoping he’ll catch sight of Impulse. Somehow.

The cavern around him starts to rumble, then shake.

Martyn scrambles for the bubblevator. He feels hot tears running down his face and dashes them away with his sleeve. Grits his teeth.

Martyn! Third shouts after him. Martyn! You will not betray me again, Martyn! This is your final warning! Three chances, for your three lives! The next time you try to fight against me, you will regret it!

“Get wrecked, Third,” he growls through gritted teeth, before stepping into the bubblevator.

The shaking is so bad by now that he’s thrown from side to side in the bubblevator. Below him, Martyn watches the cavern collapse, the blocks all tumbling and falling into the Void. The growing darkness consumes the cavern, then the bottom of the tunnel, then rushes up toward him.

C’mon. C’mon, he can’t die here. He can’t. Martyn glances upward.

He hits the surface of the bubblevator, grabs the edge, and heaves himself out, rolling onto the grass.

The bubblevator collapses.

Martyn doesn’t give himself time to recover. He gets up, coughing, and runs in the direction of the coordinates Jimmy gave him, pulling out his comm to double check.

Running through the woods, the branches tearing at his exposed skin, he remembers running from Ren--what, only two days ago now? Three? He doesn’t know. He can’t focus on that. He can’t think about Ren, sprawled on his back with a sword sticking through his chest, or Impulse, disappearing down into the Void with a look of terror on his face…

Martyn lets out a choking sob and pushes himself harder.

His legs are burning by the time he stumbles down the steps into the stronghold. He follows the chunks of dirt and torches that the others have used to mark their way, until he hears it. 

The sound of the End portal.

He staggers into the portal room, leans heavily against the wall to catch his breath. He looks up, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

“What happened?” Skizz demands. “Where’s Impulse?”

“He--he--” Martyn chokes up. Looks over at Cleo and Jimmy. He can’t face Skizz right now, can’t face the rage and fear he sees growing in the other man’s face.

“Impulse?” Skizz shouts, shoving past Martyn. His shoulder slams into Martyn’s, nearly knocking Martyn over.

He doesn’t care. 

“Impulse!” Skizz shouts again, his voice almost cracking.

“Third got him, Skizz,” Martyn says. His voice breaks. “Third dragged him down into the Void.”

Skizz grabs the front of his shirt and slams him into the wall. “Tell me the truth, Martyn!”

“That is the truth!” Martyn yells back. “Third sensed something was going on. And it took Impulse to warn me. That’s the Ending truth, Skizz!”

“Skizz!” Cleo grabs his arm and jerks him away. “This isn’t helping anything. Stop it. Get your head on straight. We have to go, before Third decides to kill us all and reset the server.”

Skizz rubs his sleeve across his face. “Then let’s get moving,” he snarls. He shoves past Jimmy, pauses for a split second on the edge of the portal, then jumps into it.

Cleo helps Martyn straighten up and looks him right in the eye. “I hope for your sake this works, Martyn, because if it doesn’t, Skizz is going to kill you. And I’ll be right behind him.”

Martyn nods wearily. He’s so tired. Everything aches, especially the spot in his chest where Skizz stabbed him. Just yesterday. He rubs his chest as he climbs the steps, stares down into the yawning darkness of the portal. It looks like the Void. He shivers, but makes himself step off the platform and drop into the portal.

He appears in a small room. Skizz has already dug himself out and is standing on the spongy surface of an End island.

“Well?” Skizz demands. “Which way do we go?”

Martyn looks around. There’s a cluster of islands near them, and he can see Endermen swarming the surfaces. He quickly averts his gaze. The last thing they need is an infestation of Enderman. Especially with Skizz’s history with them.

An island close by has familiar pillars and a familiar obsidian build, and if he squints, Martyn can see the remains of an enormous black beast. Half of the flesh is missing, leaving stark-white-and-red bones sticking up in the air, almost as if something has been eating the remains of the dragon. He shivers. 

Light catches his eye.

Far away, so far he can barely make it out, he sees it. The enormous growth where Grian hung, the last time he’d spoken to Third in the End. The island glows strangely, even though he sees no torches or lanterns or any other light source. 

And as he thinks the name, Martyn suddenly feels a return of the heavy weight on his shoulders. Third’s looming presence.

“Guys, c’mon,” he calls down into the hole.

“What’s the plan?” Cleo asks, jumping up beside him. She turns and grabs Jimmy’s hand, helping him scramble up.

Martyn points. “That way,” he says. His own voice sounds fuzzy, and his brain seems to be working slowly. The others hurry forward. He watches for a moment, then starts after them, slowly.

“Martyn.”

The last time he spoke with Third, the voice had been in his head.

Now, it rang through the Void.

Martyn looks up, frantically searching. Where is it? Where is Third? Out of the corner of his eye, he can see everyone looking around in a panic. “Get the bridge going!” he shouts. “Get it going!”

“Uhh, Martyn?” Cleo points to one of the other islands.

Martyn doesn’t want to look. But he does anyway. The Endermen are all looking at him. A good dozen of them. And, one by one, they all open their mouths and start screaming. 

“What are you doing, Martyn?” Third roars. “Why are they here? I warned you!”

Silver threads suddenly appear, lashing out at him. Martyn draws his sword—once Grian’s sword, then Ren’s, two lifetimes, the same people and the same blade—and slashes at them. 

“Third, stop!” He pleads. “Please, listen to me! Third!”

The netherite slices through a section of the webbing.

Third’s scream is so high and shrill that Martyn drops to his knees, pressing his hands over his ears. He knows he’s yelling in pain but can’t hear himself over Third’s wailing. 

He hacks at another flailing strand, gets to his feet. “Third! I brought them here for a reason!”

A strand lashes around his wrist. Twists him toward the edge. Martyn wrenches away just in time. 

“Martyn!” Jimmy. 

“Martyn, help!” Cleo. 

Skizz roars in pain. 

“I brought them here as a special sacrifice to you!” Martyn yells. 

The noise stops. 

The silver strands stop flailing around him. 

Martyn glances at the others. Endermen surround them on their bridge, but for some reason they’ve stopped attacking. They’re all standing around in a ring, still aggro’ed, mouths still open wide, but no longer attacking. Jimmy hunches, holding his shoulder where he got cut. Skizz and Cleo both limp as they shift their weight from foot to foot. 

Third’s shiny-smooth, plastic face drifts down close to Martyn. “What did you say?” It asks, the sibilance low and deadly and hissing-harsh. 

“I brought them here for you,” Martyn says weakly. His heart thumps in his chest. “Like when I sacrificed Ren on the Black Altar last time. I brought them here. To watch my final battle. To prove my dominance. For you to do with as you wish.”

Webbing caresses Martyn’s cheek. “Then why do you weep?”

Was he? Martyn wipes his eyes. His sleeve comes away damp. “I—I’m scared, Third. I’m scared, and I’m worried, and—they are my friends. It’s hard. But I know it’s the right thing to do.”

The strands take his shoulders, turn him toward the others. Out beyond the cluster of Endermen, webbing gathers along the bridge, wrapping and and twining together, until a silver bridge draped from one island to the other. 

Third’s webs gently drape over Martyn’s shoulders and propel him forward. He can see the looks on the others’ faces—pure terror on Cleo and Jimmy’s. Skizz looks angry, ready to tear into the Endermen around them. 

“I’ll walk with them,” Martyn says, and steps forward to stand beside Cleo. He puts his hand in her shoulder, mouths one word. Trust . 

Cleo grimaces and then nods. 

They move across the bridge together, surrounded by a knot of Endermen. Martyn shifts his grip on the netherite sword. He briefly wonders if it should be renamed—instead of Skizz being the first to die in their alliance, now it was Impulse. It doesn’t have the same ring though—and this is not what he needs to be thinking about. 

As they step onto the other island, Martyn looks over his shoulder. The other side of the bridge is already unraveling. He gives Jimmy, who’s lagging, a bit of a nudge. 

“This way.” He leads them toward the tall growth where he can still see Grian, far too high for his comfort. He doesn’t know if any of the others have seen Grian yet. He’s not sure he wants them to see Grian. 

The Endermen fall back, lining up along the edge of the island like sentries.

Suddenly, Third slams more webs into the ground in front of Martyn. Then behind the others. Then to the sides. Hemming them all together in a tiny cage of silver. 

Martyn steps back, bumping into Skizz, as Third lowers its face toward him once again. 

“This had better not be another pathetic attempt at a trick, oh king,” Third hisses. 

Martyn shakes his head. “No trick. I swear.”

Skizz grips the back of his shirt. “What’s to stop us from killing him and then you?” He growls at Third. 

Martyn cringes. 

Third eyes Skizz for a moment, then laughs, low and deep. “I think you might have chosen the wrong one, Martyn. And you, Skizzleman. That partnership would have been entertaining to see. Perhaps next time.”

“There’s not going to be a next time, glitch ,” Cleo says. 

Third considers her for a moment. Then it lifts a bundle of webbing and dumps something on the ground in front of them. 

“Impulse.” Skizz lets go of Martyn’s shirt. 

Martyn’s breath hitches in his throat. Impulse is covered in blood and he’s limp, his body sprawled on the ground like a rag doll. He can’t tell if Impulse is breathing or not. 

Skizz starts forward. 

Third pushes webbing into Skizz’s chest, halting him. “No more talk of killing my chosen one, Skizzleman. Or—“ It lifts Impulse by the back of his shirt, swings him a little towards the Void. 

“Got it. Put him down.” Skizz sheathes his sword and holds his empty hands up. 

Third drops Impulse and lets Skizz go forward. Skizz kneels down, getting his arm under Impulse’s shoulders and lifting him a little. 

“He’s still breathing.” Skizz glances at Martyn. “Do we have any healing potions?”

The desperation in his voice cuts Martyn deeper than any blade. He doesn’t want to answer. They all know what might happen if Impulse stays unconscious too long. Glitching, fragmenting code—the last thing they need on top of dealing with Third. 

“I have one.” Jimmy digs into his backpack and pulls out a bottle. “You were only able to make a few potions—this was one of them, and you gave it to me ages ago.” He offers it to Skizz. 

Skizz gives a choking laugh as he takes it. “Geez. For once, I’m really glad you’re bad at this, Jimmy.”

Jimmy laughs and looks away. 

“And Grian?” Martyn asks Third. 

Third nods and lifts into the darkness. Martyn tracks it’s progress as it drifts upward, reaching webs forward to grasp Grian, lift him free. Grian’s limbs rag-doll as well as Third cradles him and begins lowering him back to the ground. Martyn can only hope he’s just asleep due to Third’s influence, not unconscious, because they don’t have another healing potion. 

Third sets Grian on the ground. 

Almost immediately, as Third’s webs withdraw, Grian starts stirring. Martyn crouched down and puts his hand on Grian’s shoulder. 

“Martyn?” Grian’s eyes flicker open. He looks around. His eyes go wide. “By the End—“ He shoved himself away from Third. 

“Grian, it’s ok,” Martyn says, gripping his friend’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“What is that thing? It—I—“ Grian looks up, then shakes his head. “I was dead, and then, I was—here. Where’s here? What’s going on?”

Martyn laughs. “That’s a long story. I’ll tell it to you—I promise—but right now I just need you to trust me.” He grabs Grian’s hand and arm and pulls him to his feet. 

“Are you satisfied?” Third asks, leaning back down and getting very, uncomfortably close to Martyn’s face. “You have your audience. Your sacrifice . I even gave back the one I stole. You have your foil. Now give me the end I have demanded. Show me your strength, Martyn InTheLittleWood, king of the Third Lifers.”

Martyn steps away from the others a little, lifts his chin. “Yeah. All right, Third. This is what we’ll do.”

Suddenly he draws the netherite sword and brings it up to his own throat. He presses against his skin, just enough that he feels the edge cut a little and blood begin to trickle down his neck. 

“Martyn, stop!” Third almost sounds panicked. It’s head twists and turns, whipping back and forth as it spins a quick circle around Martyn. “What are you doing?” 

Third sounds…terrified. 

“What would you do if I killed myself right now, Third?” Martyn demands. “Reset the server? Bring us all back again, to do this all over, just like you threatened?”

Third is silent. 

Martyn grins. “That’s what I thought. You can’t reset the server and take away our memories again, can you? Because you don’t know the glitch that causes us to remember. You don’t know how to fix it. And this time there would be more memories. You can only give us so much bloodlust to cover things up before the game doesn’t work anymore.” He laughs, though it comes out shaky. “So here’s what we’re going to do, Third. You’re going to send my friends back where they belong. Let them go home, Third. Release them.”

There’s a long, long silence. Third’s empty face floats in front of him. Martyn hates it. Hates the way it just sits there without expression. Without tells. He lets Third hear his thoughts now, loudly and clearly. He hates it. He will kill himself if Third doesn’t do what he wants. But he will make a deal. A bargain. 

“What bargain?” Third asks softly. 

“Let them go, and bring me Ren,” Martyn says. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel the rush of blood in his fingertips. “Bring me Ren, and I will give you the most glorious battle you’ve ever witnessed. Imagine it. The King and his Hand, once again forced to battle for supremacy. And this time— I will win .”

Silence drags out around him. Martyn’s hand shakes. But he doesn’t look away from Third. He doesn’t dare. If he looks back at his friends, if he looks around at the dark, empty Void, if he sees the Endermen surrounding them—he’s afraid he’ll lose his hope. Give up. 

For his friends’ sake, he can’t give up. 

“Let your friends leave, and bring you Ren,” Third repeats slowly. 

“ All of them,” Martyn says. “The ghosts as well. Every one of the people you’ve stolen from me.”

Third gives a soft huff, and it’s mostly immobile lips twitch, as if it’s trying to smile. “Very well, Hand of the Red King. Ren chose his second in command well. You are indeed clever.”

Something crackles in the air, strange shades of gray and purple in seven different spots in front of him. For a split second, Martyn’s afraid Third is trying to one-up him, to play a trick on the trickster. 

But then people begin to materialize. 

BDubs. 

Tango. 

Scar. 

Scott. 

Joel. 

Etho. 

BigB.

They all stumble onto the spongy ground, looking around, shocked. Surprised. 

Scar’s the first to speak. “ Grian ? What’s going on? What—oh. Oh wow.”

Martyn can only assume Scar’s seen Third. 

Martyn looks to his right as he hears another crackling sound. This area is bigger, the size of a Nether portal, and it flashes with green and blue and purple. 

“That’s it, then?” He asks. “Where’s Ren?”

Third leans down over him. “Promise me you are not lying, trickster king.”

Martyn lowers the sword from his throat, places it on the palm of his hand. Cuts. Winces as blood trickles over his hand and patters down on the ground. “As this server is soaked in my blood and the blood of my friends, I swear.”

The portal clears, and Martyn sees a familiar mesa beyond, orange and yellow and white, a black tower looking ominously in the in the background. Ren’s build, in season 7. 

“Skizz, Cleo,” he says. “Get everyone through. Quickly.”

He can hear questions, murmuring voices, but he doesn’t look around. He keeps his eyes on Third and the seventh glitch that keeps shivering and crackling in place. 

It almost looks like smoke more than a glitch or a portal, now. And as the smoke curls upward, he starts seeing legs, a tail, a torso, arms…a head. Ren’s ponytail and sunglasses and fuzzy ears. 

The smoke clears and Ren stands in front of him, looking around, confused. He spots Martyn, grins, lifts up his sunglasses. “Me Hand!” Then he sees Third, and his look darkens. He drops the sunglasses back into place. “What’s this about?”

Chapter Text

Ren stands across the island from Martyn, breathing carefully in and out, as if taking too deep of a breath will blow everything away like an illusive mist.

He’s back. He’s alive, and he can feel the slight give of the end island under his feet. Scott’s standing the closest, within arm’s reach, and Ren reaches out for him. This time, his hand settles on Scott’s shoulder and stays there, weighty and solid. Scott reaches up and squeezes Ren’s hand briefly, then ducks free, charging into the portal after Jimmy.

And there’s Martyn, standing in a squared stance like he’s ready to fight, glaring up at Third. Ren feels a burst of pride at the sight. His Hand has done well.

“Martyn!” Impulse says.

Martyn turns, just enough to see them, not enough to get Third completely out of his sight. Ren can see them over his shoulder, Impulse standing at the portal with Skizz supporting him. Impulse glares at Third.

“Kill that Voiding Ender for me, okay?” Impulse growls.

Martyn lifts his hand. 

Skizz and Impulse step through the portal. Ren lets out a breath. Everyone else is out. Everyone except him...and Martyn. He looks over at Martyn, trying to figure out what the next step is. He knows Martyn has one. Even when Martyn told Third that he’d brought the others as a sacrifice, Ren hadn’t believed it. He knows Martyn--he’s always thinking two steps ahead, always scheming. 

“What now?” he asks.

Third unfurls a length of webbing, and two armor stands clatter to the ground. Enchanted armor and weapons. Martyn flinches. 

“Keep your promise, trickster king,” Third hisses.

Martyn slowly turns, gives Ren a desperate look. His chest heaves in one deep breath, his shoulders sagging. “My king…”

Ren’s stomach sinks.

“Neither of you are so unworthy as to wear piecemeal, patchwork armor like you have,” Third says. “Take the diamond gear I have given you. It befits you both.”

With slow, dragging steps, Martyn walks to one of the armor stands. Ren meets him there, puts his hand on Martyn’s shoulder. It feels good for Martyn to feel solid under his fingers. 

“It’s okay, me Hand,” he says softly. “I’ve been watching. I know everything. I’ve barely left your side.”

Martyn gives him an angry sideways glare, his jaw clenched and his red eyes glinting. 

Ren swallows down the lump in his throat. Please, no. I know I haven’t misjudged you.  

Third lets out an angry hiss. “You are no longer King of Dogwarts, Ren. Do not be so presumptuous.”

Ren spreads his arms and grins up at the creature. “You love to see it!”

“Enough talk!” Third slams a wall of silver strands down between them, shoving Ren back from Martyn. Ren feels his claws rip into Martyn’s shirt and jerks his hand back, but the damage is done. Blood wells in the the gashes in Martyn’s sleeve, and Ren can see his other shoulder has a bandage. He winces, remembering grabbing that shoulder when he tried to kill Martyn.

“You promised me a battle, Martyn.” Third looms over them, its face close to Martyn’s. “A glorious victory befitting the trickster king. Hold fast to your promise, or I will reach across the worlds and drag your friends back here and make them suffer . Think on that before you make a fool of me again, Martyn.”

Martyn closes his eyes, bows his head. 

Ren grabs the sword from the dummy he stands next to and brandishes it. “Try it, server sludge,” he growls. This is no netherite sword, but it’s sharp, and he can put up a good fight before he’s taken down. His ears swivel back, lying flat against his head as he snarls at Third.

Third whips around, hissing.

“No.”

The single word from Martyn hangs in the air.

Martyn reaches down, picks up the shield from the armor stand. Slips his arms into the straps. “I’ll deal with him, Third.” He stalks toward Ren.

Ren hesitates. Surely this can’t be real. Surely, Martyn has some kind of plan. Something. 

Martyn slashes at him.

Ren jerks back, barely knocking the blow aside with his own blade. Before he can recover, Martyn charges forward, slamming his shoulder into Ren’s stomach. Ren stumbles, trips, rolls, his tattered gray cloak tangling around his arms. His sunglasses go flying. Ren ignores them.

“You’re not king of Dogwarts anymore!” Martyn snarls. “You’re not king of anything! You never were!”

Each word is a punch to the gut, a knife to Ren’s heart. He stands, wrapping his fingers around his sword grip. Once again. Martyn starts circling, crouched in a ready stance, his sword and shield at the ready. He gets between Ren and the armor stands.

“My dude.” Ren holds out one hand. “Just, stop for a second. Think. You don’t--”

“You’re pathetic!” Martyn says. “Stop begging! Stop prolonging the inevitable and fight me, Ren!”

It feels as though Martyn’s words are hollowing him out inside, driving the knife deeper. Ren’s stomach knots. Red mists the edges of his vision. His hands shake. He crouches down, baring his teeth. He keeps his eyes on Martyn. “You think you could have done better, ‘trickster king’?”

“I know I could have done better! Will do better!” Martyn lunges, leading with his sword.

Ren knocks it to the side, locking hilts. 

Martyn presses his weight forward, shoving Ren back another step. “You were the one who got us killed, Ren. Your hubris. Your bloodlust. You’re the reason we’re here in the first place.”

And there’s the twist of the knife.

It’s not true. All he ever wanted to do was protect Dogwarts. Protect his people.

But these are the same thoughts that have whispered to him, in the deep dark nights when he’s staring into a puddle of water, looking at his gray skin and clawed fingers and red eyes and wondering...if it’s worth it.

Ren flinches. It’s like a bucket of cold water right to his face, dousing his bloodlust instantly. He disengages his sword and steps away. Even if Martyn has truly given in--someone needs to keep a clear head.

Martyn lunges forward, slashing at him. Ren pulls back, looks for an opening, but Martyn’s too good--he’s got his shield up, and what the shield isn’t blocking, his sword is. Ren isn’t a PvPer. He can fight, if he needs to, but this isn’t what he’s good at. He isn’t as quick on his feet as Martyn.

Martyn steps forward again. He’s got the advantage--he has the shield and more armor. Ren steps backwards. He can’t risk a glance, because that’s when Martyn will strike, but he knows he’s got to be near the edge.

Third sways above them, webs curled tight against its body. Ren can almost feel the pleasure radiating from the being, and he can hear it’s pleased hissing as he and Martyn clash again and again, and with every step, Martyn herds him backward, pressing him closer and closer to the edge of the island.

The enchantments flickering and the sound of the swords brings back memories--the battle in the desert. Standing alongside Martyn, charging forward, their voices raw from screaming “For Dogwarts!” Only this time, they’re fighting each other. He’s fighting against his Hand.

Ren blocks another of Martyn’s blows...and his sword snaps. Fear sends a shock through him, and his voice trembles. “Me Hand--snap out of it!”

“Kill him! Finish him! Claim your crown!” Third shrieks.

For a brief second, fear flickers over Martyn’s face. Ren drops the useless sword hilt. It’s him. It’s his friend, he’s sure of it, even through the bloodlust reddening both of their eyes. It has to be.

He tries again. “Please! Martyn !”

Martyn steps forward. Closer. Within arm’s length of Ren. Raises the sword. Says in a low, gentle tone, “I’m sorry, Ren.” Then he lunges forward.

Ren braces for the sharp, agonizing pain of the sword thrust.

Instead, Martyn’s arms wrap around him, tackling him off the edge of the island. Ren barely has time to yell before they’re jerked to a halt. Something in his leg pops and Ren howls in pain. Martyn's arms are dislodged, and he flails. Ren reaches out and grabs the back of Martyn’s shirt with one hand. Martyn almost loses his grip on the netherite blade as he stops falling, his eyes wide and panicked as he sways back and forth, Ren’s grip and a thin gathering of fabric the only thing keeping him from falling into the Void.

Ren stretches his other arm down. “Hang on,” he says.

Martyn reaches up with his free hand and grips Ren’s, looking up at him with a grim smile. “Don’t worry, boss.”

The pain in his leg sends spasms down Ren’s hip and back. He tucks his chin to his chest and looks up.

One of Third’s webs is wrapped around Ren’s leg. 

“You liar !” Third shrieks.

Ren kicks at him. Third dodges the kick and snakes downward to get in Martyn’s face. Martyn jerks, and they sway back and forth, dangling over the Void. Ren tightens his grip, but he can feel the fabric of Martyn’s shirt stretching, ready to tear. Ren bites back a sob. It can’t end like this. It can’t.

He won’t let his friend fall--to the Void, or to Third.

“You lied to me, trickster! You lied! I will bring them all back, Martyn. Every single one of them! Your friends will stay here and suffer for what you’ve done, over and over until you take your rightful place!”

Martyn raises his chin. And without a word, he swings his free arm--the hand still holding the Netherite sword. The Skizzblade. The blade pierces through the plastic mask-face of Third.

Third screams--a loud, unholy, piercing sound that feels like it pops Ren’s eardrums and shakes the entire place.

The webbing around his ankle loosens.

And then they’re falling. Down into the Void.

Martyn reaches up. Grab’s Ren’s other hand. Pulls him close and wraps his arms around Ren in a tight hug. “I’m sorry,” Martyn says.

He can feel the rush of the wind and a crackling pain that feels similar to despawning. Only it’s not. It’s falling into the Void. Ren can see pieces of Martyn’s skin flaking away.

“It’s okay, Martyn,” Ren says. He hugs Martyn back. “It’s okay.” He smiles. “See you in the spring, my dude.”

Chapter Text

Martyn wakes up surrounded by flowers.

For a moment, he just lies still. The warm sunshine seeps into him, and the flowers bob overhead against the bright blue sky.

Blue sky.

Not the dark nothingness of the End.

Before he can fully process, a face appears, leaning over him. 

“Ren,” Martyn says. “Ren!” He sits up.

Ren drops down to his knees and wraps his arms around Martyn in a crushing hug. Martyn hugs him back, clutching handfuls of Ren’s shirt. No claws. He can’t feel claws any more. He pulls free of Ren and examines his hands. Regular fingernails. No gray skin. He looks up. Ren’s eyes are back to their normal blue, and he can see them because his glasses are pushed up into his tangled hair.

“You did it, my dude!” Ren grips his shoulders and gently shakes him. “You did it!”

Martyn lets out a gasping breath and scrapes his hair back from his face. Gives Ren a shaky grin. “Everyone’s here?”

“Come see.” Ren grabs him under the arms and lifts him up to his feet. 

Martyn looks around. 

They’re standing in the only patch of grass and flowers for hundreds of blocks, surrounded by red and white desert. Far off, Martyn can see a dark tower. But his eyes are quickly drawn to a group of people sitting on blocks not too far away, or sprawled on their backs, all looking worn and exhausted, but there’s a giddy air about them too, and they’re all talking excitedly.

“My dudes!” Ren grabs Martyn and steers him towards the group. “Dudes! Martyn’s here!”

“Martyn!” Impulse leaps to his feet and crushes Martyn in a tight hug. Martyn grunts, then loses his breath as Cleo and Jimmy and Skizz all join the group hug, nearly crushing him. The rest of the Third Lifers surround them, shouting and cheering.

Ren drapes his arm around Martyn’s shoulders. 

At the weight of his friend leaning on him settles, Martyn’s stomach knots a bit. He looks up at Ren. “My king? I--”

Ren waves his hand. “None of that. I’ve left that behind me, Martyn. Just Ren.”

“Ren.” Martyn swallows. “I--I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it. What I said, I was just…” He recalled it perfectly. The bloodlust roaring through his veins and pounding in his ears. The feeling of the blade in his hand. Third yelling at him, both above and in his head. Kill him, Martyn! Kill him! Kill him! The things he screamed at Ren, the things he said, just to keep Third unaware, to keep it out of his thoughts long enough to formulate a plan, long enough to get both him and Ren out of there…

“Dude.” Ren grins at him, and his grin is bright and genuine. “No worries. I get it.”

Martyn nods. “For what it’s worth--I think you were a great king.”

“Ha!” Ren’s grin broadens. “I was at that. I definitely was.”

“Drinks at Ren’s place!” BDubs yells. “He’s buying!”

More cheering.

Martyn laughs and whoops, throwing his fist into the air in victory. He takes in a deep breath and whoops again, reveling in the feel of the sun on his skin and his friends...his friends are all alive and they’re here and they’re safe . He remembers it all, now. And he wouldn’t trade any of them--not for the world, not for a crown.