Chapter Text
It is difficult to love the desert.
Especially when Scar has him digging up sand in the early afternoon when the heat is at its worst. The first two iron shovels broke in his hands ages ago, leaving him with the backbreaking work of gathering sand with a stone shovel–the iron too precious to waste on tools he’s going to break a few minutes later.
The sun leaves the back of his neck irritated and red before he even had the chance to realize the small area of skin was exposed. In the moments when he escapes to the supposed reprieve of shade, the heat is still thick enough to taste in his mouth. Sweat drips from every inch of his body, making the sand stick uncomfortably to his skin.
For as far as the eye can see, the lifeless expanse of the desert surrounds him. The only thing cutting through the desolate plains are the lonely cacti, acting as silent protectors of a land too hot and too hostile for any reasonable living thing to survive in.
The decision to live in the desert is as absurd as it is impractical. The land is devoid of any natural resources. There is no rich soil to foster crops, no animals to raise, no water to nourish them, and not a single tree to cut down. Any natural resource they want would have to be tediously tracked down and lugged back to the sandy domain.
The promise of copious amounts of TNT is fragile at best. The real bottleneck on their TNT supplies was always going to be the gunpowder. With so much sand, they will never actually be able to control a monopoly over the stuff. Besides, Grian is far more concerned about having enough food to make it through the week than any possible problems over future TNT supplies.
He rests when he realizes his inventory is nearly full, nearly collapsing in the sand when he tries to sit down. Grian takes the first few pieces of sand into his hands. He ignores how his palms are already red and sensitive from gripping the handle of a shovel for so long, causing the rough and grainy texture of the sand to feel amplified on his skin.
Grian begins the process slowly. He hasn’t built with sandstone in a while. The last time he needed to use the material, he was able to use a stonecutter for the brunt of the work. As he gains confidence, he gains speed, not caring about how the sand chafes his palms.
As time wears on, the soft malleable sand turns into hardened stone. Maybe it’s not the strongest material in the game, but it’s certainly strong enough for building a base.
When a hand lands on his shoulder, he doesn’t startle. He heard Scar trudging through the sand behind him for nearly a minute before his partner(? Boss? Creditor?) “snuck up” on him.
Gods, the desert heat does not want to leave him alone.
“I got some dirt!” Scar says with the grass-stained pants to prove it. “Even found a few seeds. How’s the sand coming along?”
“Good.” He refuses to look away from his task. The faster he completes this, the faster he can build them a shelter and get out of this desert heat.
“Excellent! This is going to be great. We can build on top of the mountain over there. I’ll make sure to put the dirt somewhere where it won’t get in the way. After you’re done-”
Scar continues to rant, but Grian doesn’t listen. He despises this whole ordeal. He wants the safety of the mountains or the natural resources of the forest or the animals roaming the plains.
He doesn’t want Scar.
Scar isn’t a survivor. He lacks tact and foresight. He doesn’t have Etho’s or Impulse’s technical expertise. He doesn’t have Skiz’s or Scott’s hardcore experience. He isn’t physically intimidating like Tango or BigB. He can’t build defensive castles like Bdubs or threaten anywhere near as efficiently as Cleo or scheme half as well as Martyn or convince anyone to spill their secrets as quickly as Ren.
He’s just Scar.
Scar is too impulsive and too loud. Scar is an awful liar who wears his heart on his sleeve. Scar is a dreamer and a romantic. He’s the punchline at the end of a cheesy joke and the taste of sugar that sticks to the back of your tongue after finishing too-sweet ice cream on a too-hot summer day. Scar is, in short, everything that doesn’t survive in a place like this with people like them.
Grian does not like the desert, and Grian wishes, with more and more desperation, that he hadn’t let his hubris get the best of him. The tell-tale flash of hot white still flashes before his eyes. The static smell of gunpowder now reminds him of regret. It was only meant to be a prank.
Scar stands above him, expression bright as he talks about everything he dreams they’ll achieve together. His perpetual optimism never wavered since the creeper accident. He contained seemingly endless amounts of hope and compassion and childlike wonder.
All things that will get him killed. It may have been early in the game, but Grian could already tell that caring is not a risk worth taking when lives are on the line.
He flirts briefly with the idea of just killing himself. It would be stupidly easy to do. A nice “fall” off the cliff they are building on, and he would be free from Scar. A happy little accident to escape from his self-imposed bonds. Scar none-the-wiser to his betrayal.
But having three lives is already much too close for comfort. Every second he survives on green is another second he will not have to spend dead. If the creeper accident had shown him anything, it was that he would be a fool to think he has any control over his own fate. The risk is simply too high to take.
For now, Grian will just have to weather the desert storm.