Work Text:
--- 1 'when I see you by yourself' ---
She’d known when they reunited on Hermitcraft. Through the hugs and the tears, his hands were too cold, his eyes were purple. They used to be blue. Pearl had known, then, but she stopped herself. Stopped the thought right there in its tracks. No use pondering on things that weren’t true. They’d both thought the other had died, permanently, after all.
For the first days, she remained happy, listening to his stories of the time they were apart. She sang songs of Empires while he told tales of amazing builds, and for a while, nothing seemed wrong. Everyone treated her kindly, and nobody asked questions. He’d told her the others didn’t know about Evo. That was alright.
Everyone vanished one day, and suddenly, she felt as though she were back there, alone against the world, her friends gone with no goodbye. It stung, but she wasn’t entirely alone. Then they returned, one by one, and it stung less.
He was the last to come back. Pearl tried her best to forgive.
She’d known after the first life game. He came back and didn’t speak to her, clinging to Scar and ignoring her existence. Someone said he fell. Someone else said he didn’t really hit the ground, falling through it instead. At the time, Pearl remembered thinking he must have known just where to fall, to keep on falling.
With little difficulty, she could imagine his body disappearing into the ground. Like a glitch. The server admin, Xisuma, refused to investigate his code for her. Fair enough. The eyes still disturbed her.
She’d known when Jimmy approached her off-world, and asked far too many pointed questions. But for all her suspicions, she argued with him. There had to be an explanation. Because if there wasn’t, what would it mean? She didn’t like to think about it.
Time passed. Days turned to weeks. The moon hit their world. Another game came and went. Being a part of it hurt more than being left behind. Scott won and was gone back home without falling through anything. Pearl didn’t think about it for a while.
People talked to people talked to people, and she found out more. Once, she had called him her brother. Now, she couldn’t meet his eyes. Purple eyes. In the silent downtime, she busied herself with building, making friends, ignoring the sense of being Watched which never quite went away.
Another game. She won. She saw something she didn’t want to see ever again. When she asked Scott, he said he’d seen the same, but something—someone—helped him escape.
In the Great Library, a public world she had only visited once before, she found a single book about the Watchers. Scouring through, she realised she knew more from personal experience than the author did after years of research, but one page caught her eye. Transfers.
Special players, Chosen by the Watchers, to live forever as one of them. But the player never made it past that point, torn apart and copied by a parasite, their memories taken in death and planted into a copy’s body. Not a good deal for the copy either, she supposed. A myth with an unhappy ending, or a much more painful truth.
She knew. Today, when she received a message from him asking to talk. She knew, sitting on a bench on a hill overlooking the new and busy shopping district. Close enough to reach out and hold, he sat with his wings over his shoulders, hands clasped together in his lap as if trying not to move.
It had been enough, then, for Pearl to break her silence. She didn’t look at him. “I know you’re not him.” The person (non-person) next to her was not Grian. She would call him that: Not-Grian, for convenience, and to remind herself.
“What do you mean?” Feigned confusion. As if he hadn’t been the one to call her here. Pearl sighed, watching how Not-Grian shifted uncomfortably while trying not to show his nerves. A chill settled, the soft breeze of spring causing her to shiver.
She picked a down feather from the bench seat. Soft. Purple. “You aren’t really Grian.” Most of her sentences sounded like questions, but her words fell uncharacteristically blunt against the wash of colour around them.
The stranger laughed. It unsettled her. “What are you on about?” There was a sharpness in his words. “Of course I’m me!” And Pearl didn’t know what it was, but the way Not-Grian said it had her mind blaring panic alarms. So close to her side, she swore he radiated non-temperature. Not cold, nor hot. A void.
Something in her gut lurched. “You thought I wouldn’t be able to tell, but I can.” She felt him staring at her, Watching her. He could Watch all he wanted.
“Jimmy could, too, right. I think Scott knows. If Martyn ever paid attention in the games, I’m pretty sure he’d notice.” Uncertain. Martyn could be quite clueless. But Pearl couldn’t confirm nor deny, as she hadn’t had the chance to talk to him since their last, violent meeting.
Memories of the previous game trickled into her head. Explosions, swords, dogs, and blood on her hands. Scott’s pitiful smile when he ended it. Pearl’s hands gripped her knees until the knuckles turned white, a pool of grief threatening to open up under her. She breathed deeply. Not now.
A tiny voice. It sounded almost apologetic. “Martyn’s like me.”
The finality of the statement nearly broke her. “Oh, gosh. Don’t say that.” One thing about her, is that she did not break. She never broke. Never. Apart from when she did. Not-Grian knew that, surely. He would push her too far, and then she’d snap. Like Tilly all over again. Did he want that? Did he need it, as Watchers do?
“Not yet,” he explained. “He will be. They like him.” Pearl grimaced. How could he see it as affection? Did They like her Grian, the original Grian, before killing him? Or stealing his body, whatever it did.
She should have phrased the next part as a question, but it didn’t come out that way. “D’you know how to stop Them from…” and she couldn’t say it. A chill settled in the air. Not-Grian’s wings ruffled in the wind, purple feathers moving without sound.
“Maybe.” What an answer. “I don’t know. I stopped Them before, for Scott, but They never let Martyn go. He’s like me. Fun.” A moment’s hesitation passed, and Not-Grian looked away. Ashamed or in thought, Pearl couldn’t tell. Her chest ached at the idea of this creature wanting to save them, and for what reasons. A little part of the person she knew, reaching out to help them. The only part remaining. A part she never liked, because it was always his downfall. Loyalty.
Pearl felt quite sick. She stood, hovering in that spot for a beat before walking in front of Not-Grian. “You’d better figure it out. You killed my friend, and I’m gonna find a way to kill you.” He stared up at her, once-blue eyes catching the light. The ground beneath her feet felt unstable, sinking, trying to swallow her up. She couldn’t stay. It hurt too much.
An ashy smell bloomed like ink in water. “I didn’t kill anyone.” The words were meek, but nothing could garner her sympathy. Not now. She’d known for some time, but the wound of grief lingered parasitically, seeping blood through her skin, spilling onto everything, consuming everything, decaying everything. Pearl shook her head.
“Stop pretending.”
Pretending to care. Pretending to be him. It didn’t matter what she meant.
Not-Grian took the latter. “I can’t be anyone else.” A hum, sad. “I’m just Grian.” She scoffed at his audacity. How dare he? He, a monster from the Greater Void, claiming her dead friend’s identity.
Even then, a spark of empathy threatened to ruin her. She hurried it away with another accusation. Another point of spite. “You chose to lie.” And he had. Around them, the world darkened. Was he doing that?
“Wouldn’t you?” Not-Grian asked, in response to both the question she spoke and the one in her head. It filled Pearl with such fiery anger she had to take a step back, the urge to attack the copy burning in her veins. In passing thought, she likened it to being a red life. The grating, painful frustration building into a slow fury. The need for spilt blood. He brought it out in her.
Their games picked it out of her and didn’t put it back when Their entertainment finished. Since her first game, a bubbling, pained anger sat under her surface. It never left, like a punishment. When she won, later, she thought it would go away.
No such luck. A talk with Scott let her know it didn’t get worse, but didn’t get better, at least not in the short term. So, right, she was easily angered, but anyone would be. Anyone would be when talking to this Watcher-spawn. She looked at the replica of her friend, and saw nothing but a hollowness, registering and responding to the world around him without truly experiencing it. An expanse of what should have been a person.
The tense quiet between them had almost become comforting before Not-Grian broke it. “I don’t understand why you’re upset.” He sounded frustrated. Pearl looked away and tried not to kill him on the spot. Not that it would stick if she did.
Her anger boiled over, a split second of red bleeding into her mind. “Are you serious? My friend is dead!” It startled even herself, and she almost apologised before remembering what she was talking to. Rage continued to boil.
The genuine confusion on Not-Grian’s face made Pearl’s eye twitch. “But I’m just the same. I have all my—his memories and feelings and—and I remember the change.” She didn’t miss his slip-up, claiming the original Grian’s memories as his own. They weren’t, however he felt about them, and they both knew it. But something else caught her interest, the fury inside her slowing to an uneasy simmer.
“Did it hurt him?” From what she’d read, she couldn’t imagine the transfer as painless. The mortal had to die, after all, and all the things that made them themselves would be taken. Were taken.
Not-Grian is too quick to respond. “Yes.” Alright. He looked across the horizon at nothing, perhaps Watching something she couldn’t see. Pearl saw him bring his knees up to his chest, wings wrapping around like a blanket, and she nearly cried.
“Don’t tell Jimmy that.” To her surprise, Not-Grian nodded, accepting the request. He seemed a little out of it, barely reacting to her movements as she slung her bag over her shoulder. Like he had nothing happening in his head, only built to respond to familiarity. It’d be sad if she wasn’t so set on ending his stolen existence.
The thought made something buzz unhappily in Pearl’s chest. If she hadn’t spent years grieving already, she’d be a wreck, wouldn’t she? Her friend died, and it hurt when it happened. Now she was stuck with an emotion-mimicking copy who believed himself to be the same. Great.
She probably couldn’t kill him. Not without causing herself a boatload of issues. So, she sighed, and took one last look at Not-Grian. Sitting still as anything (did his heart even beat?) on the bench with a troubled expression.
Those eyes locked with hers, and she scowled. “So, until you get why I’m upset, I just can’t… be around you.” Or else she would hurt him. Or else she would hack into Xisuma’s screens and delete all his code. Or else she would burn the server to the ground.
A sniffle. Not-Grian blinked. “Okay.” No fight. No defence. She expected more from something modelled after the Grian she knew. Maybe being transferred did that to a person.
Still, she didn’t want to know more. Hearing the word, Pearl turned on her heel, and walked away, leaving Not-Grian to ruminate. She’d be doing the same, later, a terrible sinking feeling weighing in her lungs as she left the shopping district and headed back home.
--- 2 'a door you locked' ---
It was sunrise when he messaged the Watcher, because he knew Joel wouldn’t be around to eavesdrop. Neither of them liked waking up this early, but now he knew what he knew, Jimmy had no problem bothering the third member of their team. He waited in a covered part of the Bread Bridge, fumbling with his communicator for no good reason, heart fast in his chest as anxiety crept into his bones.
A thud. He looked up, meeting the Watcher’s eyes. Purple, inhuman eyes. It smiled at him, mimicking a real person.
“Bad Boys meeting? Hi Tim!” The Watcher seemed genuine. It looked around for Joel, and Jimmy frowned, an uncomfortable nausea brewing. His time was running out already, red sand spilling through the hourglass clipped to his belt. To learn what he learnt at this time? Well, he wasn’t happy.
How could it act so cheerfully, knowing what it was? All those times Jimmy had noticed little off things about the Watcher, he’d thought his mind was playing tricks on him. Even Pearl didn’t entertain his theories, despite knowing herself things had gone wrong somewhere. But now, he knew, and he’d never felt more betrayed.
Betrayed and angry. He didn’t care enough to break the news gently. “Grian. I talked to Pearl, y’know.” The serious tone didn’t feel right on his tongue. Neither did the Watcher’s stolen name.
He didn’t miss the way the Watcher’s wings twitched under his scrutiny. “Right.” The Watcher stood still, just looking to him warily, like a prey animal. It wasn’t fooling him.
Just in case, he hovered his hand over the axe tied to his belt. “Well. Is there a body?” His question seemed to surprise the Watcher, as if he’d been expecting a whole other line of thinking. What, did he want to talk about moral ethics for three hours? Jimmy didn’t have that kind of time. No one did, but he especially didn’t.
“Somewhere. But it’s empty,” the Watcher said. He didn’t even want to know what that meant. The confirmation hurt his heart a little, extinguishing his hope that this had all been a misunderstanding.
Their friend was dead. Pearl had been right. “Oh, yeah. No chance he’s still somewhere in there, then?” He mentally slapped himself for asking. Idiot. Stupid hopeful idiot. Still, some part of him wished for a ‘yes, actually’ or even ‘no, but he’s at peace’. Any form of closure would be better than facing the walking corpse.
“I’m right here.” Another problem Pearl warned him about: it thinks it’s the same as the real thing. It spoke with such a hurt and defeat that Jimmy almost felt sorry for it. Living as it does must be difficult, but it had no right to imitate a dead man.
He tried not to let his frustration get to him. “You don’t get it.” Simple and true. The Watcher couldn’t understand what they were going through. It wasn’t made for that purpose.
“No,” the Watcher said, straight-forwardly. A coldness whipped the surrounding air, and Jimmy felt too aware of the long drop to ground-level. Why’d they build their base in the clouds, again? The Watcher couldn’t even fly during the game, so they were all taking a big risk, weren’t they?
A moment passed unpleasantly. Conversation apparently finished, the Watcher walked past him and back out to Bread Bridge, spotting their teammate on the other side. They waved at each other before the Watcher started planting more seeds. Jimmy stared, trying his best to breathe. It’d moved on like it was nothing, but he could deal with that, not wanting to disrupt the game. Or tell anyone else about this.
Hopefully, he wouldn’t die first this time, and he could have another chat with the Watcher later. His communicator blinked with a message, but he’d grown so used to them he didn’t bother checking who’d died. Turns out everyone got reckless with this game’s system.
Now quite far away, Jimmy saw the Watcher casually talking to Joel, laughing at something he said. A desperate feeling made him want to go right over there and spill everything to their teammate, but he remained rooted on the spot, anxiety deepening with every second. Maybe it’d be better if he died first, then at least he wouldn’t need to be around the Watcher anymore.
Oh well, he could only hope.
--- 3 'come on back to me, my bright tomorrow' ---
“Why do they hate me?”
Scar stretched, his arms reaching for the leaf-covered ceiling. “Who?” A few bones clicked in his back. Okay. Too much stretching. Ouch. When he looked back over to Grian, who stood in the doorway, he could read the man’s emotions like a book.
Wings folded inwards, arms hugging himself, Grian stared at the floor. “Pearl, Jimmy, Scott... Martyn too. And probably BigB if Pearl told him.” Told him what? Well, those names weren’t what Scar expected. Things got bad sometimes, and he’d be there in his tree-base to comfort Grian through all his little insecure moments, but this… wasn’t normal for them.
“I’m not sure about that! I’ll bet they don’t hate you,” Scar said, testing his usual response. He swivelled his chair around, the work of redstone genius that it was, to properly face Grian, who gratefully moved towards him. But unlike their normal interactions, he didn’t get closer, standing a few metres away and stopping there instead.
Was Grian worried about hurting him? Scar didn’t like that thought. They’d already been through it all once after their first ‘life game’ (as everyone had been calling them). It hadn’t ended well, and Grian spent the following week basically glued to him, until he swerved in the opposite direction, unable to even look Scar in the eye for a month.
They’d both been kind of messed up. It took a lot of apologies and a lot of late-night talks to get things right again. If they were about to have that whole song and dance, Scar would like to know, thank-you-very-much.
Alas, Grian didn’t seem happy to explain. “They don’t like me, but I don’t understand.” Good old cryptic messages. Scar wondered if he got that from the Watchers.
Oh, yes, he knew about that whole debacle. Being part vex himself, he found strange magics pretty easy to spot, but he hadn’t actually asked Grian about it until he came to him crying in the dead of night and dumped his entire backstory in one go. They were never the best communicators.
“Did they say that?” Scar thought he’d test the waters. Sometimes, Grian took things out of context, and catastrophised, not knowing the difference between a playful jab and genuine anger. And Scar knew it wasn’t a weird Watcher thing. That’s just what you get for building constantly with no sleep for three days straight.
Back to the problem at hand. Grian’s shoulders slumped at his question. “Yes.” He sounded like an angry child, sulking in the corner.
“Oh dear.” He opened his arms, and Grian didn’t move for a second, trying to resist. But sure enough, he broke, walking over and basically climbing onto him, embracing Scar in a tight hug. He was lucky Avians were so light, or they wouldn’t be able to do this without breaking his chair or hurting his legs.
A sigh of exhaustion. “They think I killed him.” Grian’s words were muffled, his face hidden in the crook of Scar’s shoulder. “The original.”
“Huh?”
A huff of annoyance. “Grian. The original one,” he clarified. So they found out. Scar hadn’t ever known the original, so his perspective wasn’t the most ethical. He didn’t exactly care where Grian came from or what was there before him, as long as they had each other in the moment.
But he always knew one day the secret would get out, and no one would be happy about it, especially those who knew Grian before. “Ah. Yeah. I see why they’re upset.” Scar thought back to the list of names. Pearl, Martyn, BigB. That tracked. Scott? Grian had mentioned something about helping Scott in the second ‘life game’, protecting him from the Watchers. Wasn’t that a good thing?
The names didn’t matter. Grian was still hung up on Scar’s words. “You do?” He sounded desperate. “Could you tell me?” Scar had to pause for a moment, brain trying to catch up with the request. Did Grian not understand why those people would be sad, or angry?
Apparently not. Which was fine. Understandable, even, given how chill Scar had been about it. Maybe he should have been less chill. Would that have worked? Was this just a problem with being a Watcher-creature-thing, or was it a Grian-specific problem? Scar had no idea. When he spoke, he tried not to sound mean.
“Well, Grian, I dunno, maybe knowing their friend is dead and replaced by a god-parasite—no offence—isn’t the best news ever.” Okay. Failed at not being mean. Scar didn’t know what he was saying. He felt Grian go tense in his arms. Poor guy. He rubbed circles on his back as an apology.
Still, he didn’t seem to follow Scar’s line of thinking. “But I’m the same.” There’s the problem. “I’m not anyone else.” It wasn’t like Scar didn’t empathise. When you’re told you’re a monster, it’s not a good feeling, and the ones saying it are often wrong. But sometimes you are also a literal monster, and the people calling you a monster don’t want to deal with your monster-isms right now. Or a walking reminder of their murdered friend.
They could be messed up creatures together, at least. Scar pulled Grian closer, trying to layer some comfort over the party of emotions he could feel from his partner. He felt muscles relax again, and smiled.
“Think on it. You’ll understand eventually.”
--- 4 'I think of you with hesitation' ---
The last thing Xisuma wanted on a sunny morning was one of the Hermits bugging him about code. He had spent the past week and a half updating the server to contain the latest virus protections and fun new modifications, as well as fixing the holes in the code left by certain ‘redstone geniuses’ and their completely unnecessary builds. Granted, he was guilty of the latter himself, but at least he cleaned up the code afterwards instead of letting it sit for someone else to deal with.
For once, he was spending his morning with a cup of tea and a scroll through admin blog sites, rather than checking up on the server. For once, he could put some thought into his own projects and such. For once, he got to just relax and take a day off. Of course, this is when he was interrupted.
“X, can you look something up for me?” Xisuma nearly fell out of his chair. His feathered friend really knew how to sneak up on people, if he wasn’t trying. Gathering his bearings, Xisuma looked to the doorway to see predictable Grian, who watched him curiously.
A bit too curiously. “Oh, good morning. What seems to be the problem?” Because it was always a problem with Grian. Xisuma knew about his whole ‘experiencing code and the physical world at the same time’ thing, and almost weekly Grian would come in with a new issue. His back would hurt or his feathers would be broken, and somehow it would be the code’s fault, not his own reckless habits.
For some reason, Grian would be right at least half the time, and Xisuma would have to fix a few strange patches of code. Sometimes it seemed as though Grian’s code actively hated him. They’d have to talk about it at some point. Could be a virus.
In the present, Grian stood around with a nervous twitch. “Can you look at my code for me? I want to know something.” His tone sent a blurring worry down Xisuma’s spine. Not the routine.
“Alright. Give me a minute,” he said, standing from his chair and stretching. Grian’s eyes were on him, following his every move as he headed over to his screens, all three lighting up at the sound of his approach. They were positioned at face-height, because he hated sitting down while working, and he purposefully set the text to read larger than he needed so the other Hermits could watch if they wanted to.
They rarely did, but Grian was an exception. He seemed to understand Xisuma’s fascination with code, perhaps on account of living in it, and he found it relaxing to watch him fix things. Or, that’s what Grian had told him in the past.
Hearing Grian move closer, Xisuma opened up the files on the centre screen, scrolling through the endless nodes to find Grian’s file. After so many instances, he knew exactly how far to scroll to find the code, locating it almost instantly. Behind him, he heard Grian make a strange bird-like sound, which he usually suppressed. Hm. Anxiety.
Once the file had been opened, Xisuma set about navigating the layers of code inside, swiftly tapping through to check for damages. With the guidance of Grian’s trills and coos, he got through the uppermost sections of code, the basic parts keeping the player together. Nothing wrong there.
He turned to Grian, only to be met with a gesture to keep going. And so, he did, simple coding mechanisms slowly developing into more complex language, causing him to work at a reduced pace, carefully checking each line for errors. Grian said nothing, only watching, implying he shouldn’t stop.
Then, they got to the messy stuff. The deepest layers of player code he’d seen in a long time. Xisuma grimaced, struggling to translate even one line at a time. He’d forgotten how difficult code could be.
While he worked through the code, Grian standing impatient at his shoulder, he saw something he very much should not have. He saw a line move.
“What?” he asked, glancing at Grian to check he hadn’t died. “This is…” impossible, insane, actually beyond what he thought could happen—was Grian a Watcher? What? How did he not know about that? Xisuma felt lightheaded. He needed to stop looking at the code.
No one’s code should move like that. Code on this level didn’t repair itself unless it had a virus, and viruses did not look like that. He saw the lights on the screen shift again, as if just to mess with him. It would only constantly change itself if it belonged to a higher being of some kind. Which… explained a lot about Grian, now he thought about it.
But it soon became clear Grian (benevolent Watcher bless this server) didn’t just do this to give him a migraine. “Is he still there?” The question came out nervously, and with a little restraint, as if he wanted to say more. Xisuma blinked, looking again at the screen as the lines warped and fizzled.
“Excuse me? What is this?” He pointed to the screen, at a few lines he’d only translated halfway. Something about the body code being… copied? Old, old data, unmoving inside a whirlpool of ever-changing code. It looked almost grey, unlike the stark whites and purples in the other lines.
Dead code, but bearing weight in itself. He couldn’t remove it without removing Grian, as a person. Two little lines of code held so much, impossibly.
He’d heard the myths. Chosen ones taken up by their gods to be made immortal. This told a different story. Dread settled in his chest, the two simple lines telling him everything he needed to know. The pure complexity held in those lines, despite themselves looking basic, told a terrible tale of love, death, and rebirth.
Xisuma had to sit down. He stumbled back to his chair, hiding his face in his hands as he tried to process it all. One: The original Grian was very much dead. Okay. Explained a lot about how Pearl had been acting recently. But he never knew the original Grian, so he’d be fine, on a personal level. Two: this Grian was a Watcher. Or similar to one. That would take more getting used to. He took a deep, shaky breath. Alright. This was fine.
“You’re upset,” Grian pointed out blankly.
A humourless laugh. “At you, Watcher? No.” He could never be upset at one of his players for something out of their control. “Only a little surprised.” Okay, he was downplaying it. This was going to be on his mind for the rest of time, probably. But he wasn’t angry.
Grian took a step back, looking uncomfortable. “Oh. That’s good.” Did calling him ‘Watcher’ hit a nerve? Xisuma sighed, standing from the chair once more.
“You wanted to know if he’s still there?” he said, heading back to the screens. They hadn’t stopped showing data, the middle screen still projecting the endless movement of code in Grian’s system. When Xisuma approached it, he saw the code speed up, matching Grian’s nerves.
He felt the air grow colder, like the Void, and found it easier to breathe. Grian had made it thinner, the surrounding atmospheres, enough for him to remove his breathing mask, which he did hesitantly. For once, he could feel the fresh, cool air in his lungs. Benefits of knowing a Void manipulator, he supposed. Grian didn’t even seem to notice what he was doing.
“I know my feelings are wrong.” Grian tried to look at the screen, blinking at the rapid movements. What a sad thing to say. Xisuma wanted to tell him he’d be fine, in better words, but he had no better words.
Pointing at the two lines of dead code, Xisuma tried to explain. “It’s complicated, Watcher. The transfer killed the original, here, but you inherited all the fragments that made him himself.” The way Grian’s eyes lit up, Xisuma had to admit it was endearing. “In any other sense, you are the same. But that’s not how being alive functions. You continued while he died. Whether you are the same isn’t the debate. He still died.”
The ones who knew Grian before still lost a friend, no matter how much of an exact replica this person was. They probably weren’t taking it well, and this Grian had to deal with it. Xisuma expected a lot more visits about ‘broken code’ in the future.
But Grian only stood there, troubled expression clear on his face. “I’m confused.” Yes, well, why wouldn’t he be? Xisuma did have a knack for talking too fast.
“Alright, put it another way,” he continued. “Can he make new memories, friends, and grow in personality, or is it all you?” He knew the answer of course. Two lines of dead code did not a player make. But they were like seeds buried in the dirt of his Watcher-code, sprouting a whole complicated person from them. They were the lines that told Grian how to be Grian, and would continue to do so for the rest of his life.
But they had no life inside them. The player they came from was gone, likely melting back into codespace somewhere. That was the cruelty of it.
Grian looked away for a moment, then nodded. “Me. I’m the new memories guy.” A charming way to put it, and true. Good. Xisuma didn’t need to explain that concept to him, then. Grian knew he wasn’t the same person as the original.
Back to the problem at hand. “That’s why they’re upset, if I could take a guess.” He hoped Grian understood he wasn’t calling him the problem. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t ask to be created.
The players who knew him before the transfer were likely devastated. He tried not to think about the things they might have said to Grian, not understanding the hurt they could raise and the existential nightmare they might unleash on the Watcher’s psyche. If they made Xisuma play therapist, he wouldn’t be happy.
With all his pondering, he almost didn’t see Grian go to the exit. But he did feel it, the air around him growing heavier once more. He slipped his mask back on, a little disappointed, and waved a hand towards Grian in acknowledgement.
At the door, Grian forced a smile. “Thank you.” He still didn’t understand. Xisuma could tell. That was okay, he didn’t expect him to fully grasp the concept of grief straight away. Not in this very specific situation. Normal grief was fine. Things are different when they’re grieving over you, while you’re right there.
“Good luck,” he called, watching Grian wander away from the base. Once he left, Xisuma let out a sigh, feeling tension he hadn’t noticed leave his shoulders.
Methodically, he drew back the layers of Grian’s code, covering up all the oddities with the player-adjacent shell. Then, he shut down the screens, feeling comfort in the organised way they settled together. He meandered back to his chair and felt a true sense of relief wash over him as he sat, content to stay like that for the rest of the day if he could.
Hold on, was his tea cold?
--- 5 'don't make me sorry' ---
They didn’t usually let him back into these worlds. Empty, as they were, with no one left to entertain Them. Abandoned worlds unsettled him. Useless floating hunks of code, left to slowly unravel into decay and lend themselves back to codespace. The idea of getting trapped on one didn’t seem appealing.
Grian (he was struggling to call himself anything else) remembered falling out of the first life game world, sand in his throat, body racing through a void. He remembered staying behind to end things on the second, present only to stop Them. The third remained unclear. After his stunt protecting Scott, They didn’t want him to interfere with the winners anymore, but nothing happened to Pearl.
He hoped not, anyway.
This one, he wasn’t sure about. Why did They want him there? Martyn’s time must have run out days ago, and he’d had no word from anyone to suggest things had gone wrong. He knew Martyn was a risk, and They’d never stopped chasing him, but he would know if anything happened. He would know.
If They turned Martyn like They turned him, he’d feel it. At least, in theory he would. They had never made another since they made him, so he didn’t know what it felt like. Probably strange, he thought, and probably sad. An intangible sadness he felt for his original, but in the direction of a friend.
Another body, another empty person, another wave of upset he didn’t understand. It would be his fault. He’d tried so hard to stop it, but now…
Grian looked around the empty server, seeing familiar structures towering over crumbling, cratered land, one movement away from collapsing in on itself. Water rushed through a winding river, unable to stop even as its code collapsed, useless. The subtle scent of salt pierced the air, and a thousand eyes Watched as Grian stepped towards the river. He knelt down, feeling the coarse, muddy sand of the riverbank. Damp. He closed his eyes.
What are you trying to tell me?
Reaching into the world’s code, he brushed against the water, fluid lines switching and fluttering at his interruption. It moved freely past him, alive with a language he forced himself not to read. Somewhere under his skin, another eye opened, glowing in its search for meaning, delving deeper into the river with purpose.
Looking, now, not Watching, the ground shifted a little under his feet. Unstable bank. Grian tried to keep his balance steady, leaning towards the crisp sounds of running water. His code-body danced around the river, spectral hands falling into the mess underneath its surface, delicately taking it apart from underneath.
He was sure if he could see the physical world around him, it would not look real. Bits of river code hummed at him, frozen in place at his presence. They stuttered and swayed, but on an empty server, he figured glitches didn’t matter much. Grian tore the pieces to the surface, examining their twitching form before tossing them back into the churn. Nothing.
Then, he caught it. Further into the stream, something flashed a new colour, sparking Grian’s interest. He followed the anomaly, touching his wingtip into the river to guide his physical body along, chasing darker codelines.
It didn’t seem any closer, despite the movement. Grian sighed, and continued to follow the strange thing in the water, code-body twisting against the river’s current. It seemed almost like a virus, in the unreal way it moved, darting around water code in sharp jolts, but that didn’t deter him, the dangers of such a thing lost in his determination to catch it.
Code-chasing made him happy. A virus might make him happy, too. With a grimace, he brushed away the thought. Viruses kill. Viruses ruin a player, decomposing their code from the inside out. He didn’t want that.
Would it be different for him? He wasn’t exactly a player. What if it kept him decomposing, eating him from the inside, stuck in code decay for eternity? The thought shouldn’t excite him. It didn’t, he told himself. Only pushed his curiosity. Could a virus even change him? He was already ruined. What more could it do?
Stop it. Grian took his mind out of the code, violently shaking his head. It took a second for him to open his eyes again, and the smell hit him before he could. Rot. The acidic taste of bile rose in his throat. Rotting meat.
He opened his eyes, and regretted it. He’d followed the river down to the shore, and on the sand lay a body. Water gently lapped at the corpse, while the sun cast harsh rays over it, amplifying the stench. Something was oozing out of its chest onto the beach, staining the sand a sickly pink. Grian tried not to look away, and against all his best instincts, walked towards the carcass.
Player bodies were a rare thing. He’d only seen one before, and that was… well, himself. The original. It took him a minute to figure out who it was, but there were giveaways. And it could only be one.
“Martyn,” he spoke uselessly, as if the body would get up and talk back. An odd feeling hit him, one he hadn’t truly experienced before, and he felt something wet on his face. Reaching to touch, Grian realised he was crying.
Watchers don’t cry. They don’t mourn. It was weakness, to grow attached to players, knowing one day they would die. Permadeath server, virus, simple code decay, anything could take a player away from Them. Only the special ones got to stay forever. Only the ones like Grian got to be made eternal. Because They loved their favourites. They loved him.
They also loved Martyn. And Scott, because he had been defiant, but Grian had protected Scott. They had a strong dislike for Jimmy, for some unknown reason, and They seemed neutral towards, if entertained by, Pearl. The others, Grian wasn’t sure.
None of that mattered now. They loved Martyn, which meant only one thing. Grian stared down at the body, a new reason to feel sick building in his gut. It wasn’t possible. He would have known by now.
But the body was empty. He could see it when he looked at the code once more, that strange line multiplying to carve out the shape of the corpse, a million scratches of dark red blurring into a void of life. An emptiness.
Why? Grian didn’t ask out loud, lest They find him and answer the question. He would have to tell everyone the news, wouldn’t he? He would have to tell everyone about himself, too. It felt wrong to keep it from them all, now, even if it meant they would hate him. Like Pearl and Jimmy and Scar.
Like Martyn, probably, before he was killed.
Collapsing next to the body, Grian let out a sob. His wings shuddered with his breaths, the putrid smell blending into the background. He tasted salt and metal on his tongue, each inhale drawing in more than air. The server had already begun to fall apart, and the crumbling code tasted like death.
“Little Watcher,” a sudden, booming voice called out. No, multiple voices, like a chorus, and it didn’t call. They were talking directly into his mind. Grian gasped, looking around, but even without the tears blurring his vision, he was sure he wouldn’t see anything. Watchers? He thought They couldn’t speak to him anymore. Did They bring him here?
In his growing panic, he somehow registered They had called him little, and found the audacity to be offended. And he wasn’t a Watcher, was he? Not a real one. Maybe one day, thousands of years into the future, if he didn’t keep angering Them. But why would They call him as an equal?
His hand felt soft flesh, and he jumped back, landing to sit a little further from the body. The voices spoke again, this time in a rhythm he could only associate with his creators.
“We see your grief, but do not fret; your friend will live a long life yet.” As slow as They spoke, it took a moment for him to process. A long life? Had They not transferred Martyn already? Were They waiting to see his reaction? The panic dropped into his throat, feeling lodged there alongside his heartbeat.
Grian looked up to the sky, wings flapping frantically behind him. “No! He’s dead, don’t bring him back, please!” Begging didn’t often get you anywhere with Watchers. He remembered begging for Them not to kill him. Remembered the original doing so, at least. It never worked.
A light ringing in his ears indicated the approach of another response. “You are ones who Watch, we ones who Listen; our Chosen sought us, to find his mission.” What? He took pause, looking between the body and the skies. In the back of his mind, he remembered something Martyn had said, about some body of deity connected to the Watchers. Good deities, he’d theorised.
They weren’t Watchers. Grian’s brain still couldn’t keep up with Their poetry. “I don’t…”
Interrupting, the new deities’ voices threatened to break his skull with how loud they were. “We pray for no more blood to spill; we pray you will not act your will.” His will? They had called him ‘little Watcher’ before, meaning They knew what he was. But, he wasn’t like the others. If They didn’t like Watchers, he should probably tell them that.
“I’m not—it’s not my will,” he managed. Talking to beings of this scale didn’t sit right with him, and always left a strange taste in his mouth. But, he guessed it couldn’t be worse than the persistent smell of decay currently embedding itself into his clothes.
The deities seemed to understand him, at least. “Then smile, little Watcher, if peace you seek; your friend returns home as we speak.” Okay, decoding time. Yes, he liked peace. Big fan of peace. Unless it’s funny. That wasn’t the important bit. His friend—that’s Martyn—was headed home. How many days had the body been here?
It didn’t fill him with confidence. “But is he…” broken, dead, replaced, ruined… “like me?” He hated when deities tried to soothe him, invading his brain and putting cotton there. He especially hated when They read his self-deprecating thoughts and tried to comfort him through it.
They noticed his discomfort, pulling away, but Their voices still sounded like drums. “The little one has much to learn; for better or worse, his wings he’ll earn.” Did they mean him or Martyn? He’d be flattered or horrified, depending. If Martyn had wings, the transfer was a basic guarantee.
Grian huffed. Couldn’t They be more specific? It had been too long since he talked to these types. If this became a regular thing, he’d have to start writing things down.
He didn’t even get to talk back before They spoke again. “Farewell, brave one, we commend your tact; we listen for a selfless act.”
And then the voices stopped. Grian could feel a headache coming on, and he grimaced, trying his best not to make it worse. None of that interaction made sense. He’d just have to check on Martyn himself, like a normal person, instead of relying on weird cryptic god messages.
His communicator beeped to life, and Grian pulled up Martyn’s contact. He didn’t often send messages between servers, as it caused minor issues with world code, which admins really hated cleaning up, but this was important.
<Grian: hi, r u ok? ik winning can be weird LOL>
He waited a minute or so, eyes glued to the communicator screen, before a response popped up.
<InTheLittleWood: yep! gg man>
A breath of relief. Grian knew from personal experience how difficult it was to learn to communicate again after the transfer. Learning other languages, the ones not put into his head by Watchers, was a pain, and text-speak even more so. Unless the process had changed somehow, he could be confident the original Martyn was fine.
Which made the corpse on the beach a bit of a worry, but he supposed life games were unpredictable. He’d got Scott out of the second just fine, but he didn’t see Pearl’s victory, so it could have been a similar dead body situation.
To cease his pondering, some part of his code hummed, beckoning him back to Hermitcraft. Grian let himself smile, feeling the strength of his tie to the server. The not-Watchers had gone, as far as he could tell, and Martyn was safe, leaving this world with no stone unturned. Ready to be consumed back into the codespace. Good.
Casting one last look over the server, Grian found himself wanting to explain everything to the others, if only to congratulate Martyn for not dying an untimely death. Like he did. The thought didn’t seem as unappealing anymore, even if he knew people wouldn’t look at him the same after knowing what he was.
But he could understand that now. And with a new group of deities on his side, there could be a way to stop it happening ever again. To save all his friends. Grian relaxed, closing his eyes as he left the server. He finally understood.
--- + 1 'wishing I'd been someone else' ---
Bodies can’t rot in the Void. He learnt that the first five times he came back here. Grian didn’t like coming back, but it felt like the respectful thing, so he did. Now, he was here for a proper reason, bundles of wildflowers in his arms and a message of invitation ready to send.
The section of Void, one of the few with real ground, had been hidden from the Watchers a long time ago. Which made it hard for Grian to find it, sometimes, despite being the one who put the shield up. This time, he had Scar with him, who helpfully pointed out the right space to travel to, also carrying vast amounts of flowers.
Taking Scar somewhere with several drops into the Void and a real chance of permadeath didn’t sit right with Grian, but he didn’t have much choice. Besides, Scar had promised to be careful, on account of his life being on the line.
It was going to be a funeral, of sorts. Grian still didn’t know if it was the right call, but Scar supported his idea when he explained, encouraging him to go through with it. Finding the cold body of his original again didn’t fill him with joy, but the others needed closure. This was about as much closure as they could get without killing him.
They’d chosen purple theming, because red looked too much like blood, and the flowers would contrast nicely against the cream-coloured stone and the endless Void surrounding them.
For a few hours, Grian flittered around the space, prettying it up as much as he could, given the circumstances. He placed most of the flowers onto the body, in the place of parts he’d taken in the transfer, trying his best to make it look less like a crime scene. Or a site of resurrection.
Scar suggested he close the body’s eyes, as they were freaking him out, and probably wouldn’t go down well with their guests. He was right, as always. The dead, grey eyes made a mockery of lively blue. Closing them made a sadness bloom inside.
Far too soon, it was time to gather everyone, a job Scar thankfully took. Once the invitation messages were sent, he informed those invited that they should look out for Scar, and please make sure not to touch any stray codelines while travelling. He didn’t want anyone catching a virus on their way to a funeral. He wished he could have held it anywhere else. He wished the body would rot.
It seemed like he blinked, and everyone was there. Scar, at his side, in his chair with Jellie asleep on his lap (how he took the cat through an interdimensional hole in the codespace was beyond him). Pearl and Jimmy, standing together with equally sour expressions. Scott, leaning against a pillar of rock a little further from the rest of the group. BigB, who Grian wasn’t sure even knew everything. And Martyn, looking at the body uncomfortably, hugging himself.
The most obvious burst of colour came from the body’s wings, lying flat against the ground but angled upwards, framing the face. Brilliant red, yellow, and blue, melting beautifully into purple. It was something he wished he’d inherited.
No one was speaking. The tension tasted like sour fruit. Pearl looked about ready to kill someone and make it a double funeral. Scar placed a hand on his back. Subtle reassurance.
“I remember dying,” he spoke, breaking the silence like glass. “It’s like a warm hug.” Liar. Some things, they didn’t need to know. But Pearl already knew. She knew everything, and glared daggers at him for lying. That was fine. He could get stabbed later. Right now, he needed to speak.
“I think I understand now.” BigB seemed to hang on every word, while most of the others had the opposite going on. Scott remained the one true neutral, or he at least looked that way.
A quick rebuttal from Pearl. “You’ll never understand.” As quickly as she said it, she looked away, unable to keep his gaze. Jimmy touched her shoulder, an attempt at comfort, but she practically slapped his hand, and stepped just an inch further from his side.
His heart fell. This would be difficult. “I’m sorry your Grian is dead. I’m sorry he can’t make new memories.” Somehow, it didn’t feel like the right thing to say. Jimmy confirmed it with a pointed glare.
“But he’d want me to keep living,” he said, and braced himself for the dispute. Martyn and Scott said nothing, uncharacteristically quiet. Or perhaps just awkward. This felt more like a bad family reunion than a funeral.
BigB raised his hand as if they were in class. “I think that’s… sweet. He—he would, wouldn’t he?” The question wasn’t really for Grian to answer.
Then came the anger. Jimmy scoffed. “You don’t know that.” Directed at Grian this time. He’d already told Scar not to speak for him on this, but he felt the man at his side bite back a harsh response to Jimmy’s statement. And Grian wanted to be snarky, too. Something in his very being demanded it. But he promised himself he’d be civil, which felt more like a self-imposed curse.
Regardless, Jimmy was just wrong. “I do know. Everything he ever thought is in here.” Grian pointed at his own temple. “I don’t just say things for fun.” And no one could argue with that, thank the stars.
“You’re on our side, right?” Martyn said, speaking up for the first time. Scott raised an eyebrow, suddenly interested. Nobody missed the ‘our’, it seemed. He wasn’t only asking if Grian was a friend, he was asking for an ally. Someone who could save them when the Watchers inevitably tried again.
So, what else could he do? He nodded. “I’m not your Grian, but I can’t exactly be anyone else.” And he would protect them. He would fight off every last Watcher in the codespace if he had to, just so no one else would have to go through this. He wouldn’t let them take his friends.
That’s when he truly understood. Everything they said to him, even the cruel things, were reflections of their grief. A grief he felt even for himself, looking down at the corpse of his original. And he’d felt that fear when he thought Martyn had been transferred, sitting with the body on the beach and begging unseen gods not to change him. He’d feared losing a friend. Losing. Not a worry for Martyn’s psyche after the transfer, a worry for Martyn being dead. Gone. Because it wasn’t the same.
What Xisuma told him, he didn’t piece together until that moment. Oh. Grian’s wings shook slightly, and he felt Scar run a hand across the feathers, trying to ground him.
Scott finally stepped towards the group. “We know you had no choice.” But that isn’t the problem, Grian filled in for them. An unhealthy way to think, perhaps, but Jimmy and Pearl still glared at him as if he were the worst living thing in the universe. Like he could only be a reminder. They’d lost so much, the evidence right in front of them all, and he mocked them with his presence.
No, they were wrong.
His existence wasn’t only defined in a loss. “I learnt how to love you, from him,” he said, quiet. He remembered those first days, the influx of old memories overwhelming him, leaving him prone on the floor, to the Watcher’s displeasure. But he wouldn’t trade those memories for the world. “I want to keep learning from him.” And then, finally. “I want to be friends again.”
And he did, so badly, want to be friends. The original Grian wanted so many friends. It made them both so happy to be seen. But, he did understand, if they couldn’t do it. If they couldn’t look at him anymore. Because he still had Scar, and Xisuma, and maybe some others, depending.
“Well, you did save my life.” Scott shrugged. Grian couldn’t tell if he was hiding his emotions, or just wasn’t too affected by the whole thing. Still, he appreciated it. Maybe a bit too much, as he had to force down a happy chirping sound.
Jimmy spoke up next, surprising Grian with his response. “I can try.” Not a certainty, but a promise. Something built up from a wreckage of emotions. They would try, that’s what mattered.
With a light smile, BigB met Grian’s eyes. “We can make it work, man.” He’d been hiding tears, clear in his voice, which might as well have broken Grian’s heart. When did Pearl tell BigB? He hadn’t seemed shocked at the sight of the body, but the wound felt fresh. They’d have to talk about it.
Nothing from Pearl. She wouldn’t look at him, nor the body, staring instead to the ground. It pained him, of course, but Grian didn’t push. He knew what this meant for her. He knew she couldn’t be around him. He knew, and he was okay.
After a moment of pause, Martyn nodded at Grian, silently confirming their friendship. Built on a mutual understanding of the complicated, terrifying world they had been thrown into. Two pawns in a game of Watching and Listening, ready to fight.
“Thank you.” He had nothing else to say. No one had anything else to say.
A cool breeze faded in from nowhere. Flowers bloomed, opening to an unreal light. The group gathered around the body, in silent mourning, and Grian understood.