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Listen. Scar might not be the most observant of people, but after a while, even he could tell when something was off. And something was. Off, that is.
Because someone was watching him.
Everywhere he walked in the Swaggon District, (and that was what it was, truly, no matter how many times he protested it was just his ‘starter base’) there were eyes on the back of his neck, a prickle on his nape that didn’t leave no matter where he went.
Now, a reasonable person would have made the assumption that it was maybe business competition, or just an animal of some sort. Someone sensible would have asked one of their friends if they’d felt like someone was watching them, and what to do. But Scar was neither reasonable nor sensible, and he often jumped to unreasonable conclusions.
After a few days of the constant feeling of being watched, Scar decided that the mysterious someone — or something — watching him was, in fact, an alien from outer space spying on him to figure out how humans worked so that they could take over the planet.
A perfectly normal conclusion to come to, obviously.
If the being stalking him really was an extraterrestrial being set on world domination (which it obviously was), then Scar needed to make a plan. He would track down this creature, he decided, and either convince it to not take over the planet, or make sure that when it did, it avoided the Swaggon District entirely. Because that was the important priority here.
Now all he needed to do was track down the alien. It turned out it wasn’t that difficult, really, because apparently, the being wasn’t really trying to hide. He spotted it — him? — perched on the side of the original Swaggon’s smokestacks, bright red eyes staring directly at him from grey skin. When Scar turned to properly look at him, the possible alien bared his teeth in warning, and took off into the sky, skeletal wing covered in dark feathers beating into the darkness.
If Scar really thought about it, he would realize that the person’s appearance was no indicator to whether they were an alien or not, since many members of the Hermitcraft server weren’t quite… human-looking, including Xisuma, the admin himself. But Scar rarely thought rationally, or at all, and the small glimpse of the man simply made him more stubborn in his efforts to convince the possible extraterrestrial to not take over his company.
The next day, the eyes were on him again, and Scar sighed. “You know,” he said to empty air, "This stalking thing you’re doing is actually seriously creepy.”
Silence.
“Well,” the air said back to him. “Maybe I’m trying to be creepy.”
Scar yelped, jumping backwards, bumping into one of his wagons and tripping onto the ground.
He lay there for a second, leaning against the wagon wheel, eyes frantically jumping around his surroundings. “What the heck,” he whispered, panicked. “What the heck? Where did you—where are you—what?”
Suddenly, before him, the air seemed to shiver and a tear seemed to appear in between, and then, in front of him, the alien materialized, scowling. Scar shrieked.
“Hi,” the alien said, teeth bared into an amused, sharp grin not dissimilar to the snarl he’d given him the other night, “Good to meet you.”
“What the heck,” Scar repeated again, staring in disbelief. “Oh my god,” he said, a realization dawnning on him. “You have a British accent. Does that mean Mumbo is also an alien. And Pearl? Wait, no, Pearl’s Australian. Wait, but does that mean Cleo’s also an alien. I knew there was something weird about all of them! Oh my—”
“What?” the person said, face scrunched in disbelief, and Scar realized it was actually a pretty good-looking face, and wow, that was not a thought he actually wanted to have right now, actually. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, you’re from outer space, aren’t you? You’re an extraterrestrial being who’s planning on taking over the world—”
“Stop talking nonsense,” the person said, and Scar blinked in surprise. The alien sounded far bossier than he’d expected. And annoyed. “Aliens don’t exist.”
“Of course they do,” Scar said. “You are one! And you’re trying to hide the fact that they exist right now, see, Mr. —” he paused. “Wait, what’s your name?”
The person blinked at him, seemingly thrown off. “I go by Grian,” he said flatly.
“Alright then, Mr. Grian, you may think you have me fooled, but I’m not that dumb. I know what you are, and you can stop pretending. What I wanted to talk to you about, is that when you inevitably rule the planet, if you could just avoid my Swaggon District over here, that would be great.”
Grian blinked perplexed, red eyes at him. “Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “If I was an alien bent on world domination — not that I am — your only condition is that I just… avoid your company?”
“Well, and no destruction of builds, obviously,” Scar said, gesturing at Boatem and the silhouette of Octagon beyond, “We spent a long time on those!”
Grian frowned at him, forehead wrinkling. “You’re a madman,” he said flatly after a moment of silence.
“Well, of course you would think that,” Scar said dismissively. “You’re not from this planet, so of course you’d think I’m strange.”
“For the last time, I’m not an alien,” Grian said exasperatedly.
“Oh, really, then what are you? Where are you from?” Scar challenged.
Grian’s face shuttered close. “Nowhere good,” he muttered, and Scar paused, staring at him in perplexion. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“I’m from another server,” Grian said sourly. “So I’m not from here. But I’m not—from another planet or anything. Maybe it would be better if I was.”
Something about the way that Grian talked about his old server gave Scar a pause—and he realized it would be better not to pry. At least for now. He noticed that in the span of their discussion, the sky had darkened and the temperature dropped considerably. Grian’s wings were shaking—no, shivering. Scar remembered Grian the first time he’d seen him—curled around the smokestacks of the Swaggon.
“Well,” he said finally. “I thought you were too handsome to be an alien, anyway,” Grian sent him a sharp look, annoyed, and Scar grinned. “Come on,” he said, standing up and holding out a hand to the other man. “I’m cold already. Let’s go inside.”
Grian stared at his outstretched fingers like they would bite him. Scar smiled in what he hoped was a non-threatening way. (Little did he know, he’d never been intimidating in his life, and Grian had been watching him crash into things enough to know he wasn’t a threat.)
Finally, Grian took his hand, flashing him a smile with perhaps more teeth than strictly necessary, but Scar didn’t mind.
And even though Scar was touching him, Grian didn’t really mind much either.