Chapter Text
Scar slams his body into the hard wood of Trader Scars. It will rot, as the life games tradition, it will rot like the corpses of the reds. It will rot like him. He claws at his head. His dark hair is softly to his touch, not helmet tough. He feel grateful, of all things, to be so unprotected. He is not a cheater. He is not a cheater. But he is the only one to think that. The saw of his crafting table ever so slowly cuts through his matted hair. He can feel warm blood trickle down his neck like summer rain. But it's not summer. It not limited life where Cleo or Bdubs or someone will wrap their arms around him and tell him its okay. And he's scared off all his friends. He wants Grian to come back and ask for his alliance another session, where he doesn't have to be mean. He clutches at his head again. No helmet. The pain is dull in the back of his head. Void, he'll hate himself for this later. But, now, it creates a sense of relief. He moves his head slightly to keep the cutting going. It can be played off as an accident.
'I fell against my crafting bench! You know how clumsy I can be!' He'll laugh to anyone who asks.
If anyone does want to talk to him again. Thoughts engulf him like flames. They burn him so much that he doesn't hear foot steps. He does hear, however, the 'oh, Scar..' He can't help but feel the hands of the disembodied voice cup his head and pull him away from the bloodied saw. He attempts to open his eyes, even though he cant remember when he closed the. But, oh Void, it hurts. And he's oh-so-selfish. He closes his eyes again, even though the voice praised him when they were open.
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It hurts when he wakes up. It's no longer a dull, nagging pain that caresses the back of his head, but a sharp, seeing pain that makes him sick. His vision is blurred and his hearing is muffled. He can feel slightly. He can feel the calloused palm, that could fit anyone who has even breathed in the humid air of the life series, rest in his cheek. It soothes the burning touch ever so slightly. He can't feel his own hands.
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He wakes up again. This time, he can hear better. He can gear the clatter of someone working at a crafting bench, and the meow of his cat. He can almost hear the cloud-soft footsteps that walk over to him. The figure is a mass of coloured dots, like most things have been for Scar lately. If he strains his eyes hard enough, he can sort of make out that the dotty figure is wearing a suit, and his hair isn't too long. That's about it. His body is heavy - stupidly like a helmet - even though its just laying there. He can't remember when he last used his wheelchair. "Hey, Scar," The voice says. Its British, that's for sure. The voice is only slightly muffled now. It sounds like it's taken care of Scar so many times before. Maybe it has. He mumbles something not even he can understand. The voice - which definitely has a body now - slips in beside him. He realises he's on a bed, not his one that he made by sewing so quickly that it felt like the lumps in his mattress were going to kill him. But it's still Trader Scars. The covers are orange.
"Oh, Scar," The voice whispers. It's a weird blend of sorrow and pity and worry and love. And he doen'st know if he loves it or hates it.
His eyes gloss with unspilled tears as he holds Scar's face. The figure's face is pale and scared. Scar reaches out a heavy hand to hold his, two shaking hands clutching at one another helplessly.
"Shhh...it's okay Scar. You're safe here. I'm here." It said softly, but it sounded like a helpless plead. As Scar slowly woke up, it continued whispering to him. "You're in your shop, Scar," the redstone-covered figure murmered. "You hit your head. You hit it so hard, my dear."
The pain in Scar's head has lessened by a tad but still lingers. The words of whoever this is - Scar is beginning to make out an all-too-familiar stashe - is like a healing potion to him. And how it isn't fair that he wants to console his friend and scream and cry, but his vocal chords feel so dead.
It feel dead, just like him. He's sure he's dead. There's no way he's alive.
Gradually, Scar's world starts to fall back into place. The room isn't spinning as much, and his head doesn't hurt as much. a constant, comforting warmth. He's aware of the soft purr of Jellie, his lovley cat. He's aware of someone's hand, still resting on his shoulder. He's aware of the soft words that someone is whispering to him, words of comfort and reassurance. He's aware of the fact that this time, this person isn't going anywhere, that he's here to stay. He can feel the comforting presence of his friend beside him. Yet, he can't quite place him. The name 'Mumbo' dances on the fringes of his mind, a familiar tune he can't quite catch.
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The next time he wakes up, it's to the sensation is the sound of a voice, reading out loud. The words are muffled at first, flowing together in a stream of nonsensical sounds. But, slowly, the words start to take form. They're stories of adventures and mishaps, of victories and losses, of friendships and rivalries. Stories that he's a part of The voice reading these stories is soothing, its rhythm steady and comforting. It's the voice that's been by his side since he woke up, the voice that's been reassuring him and taking care of him. It's a voice he knows, a voice he trusts.
With every word Mumbo utters, memories start flooding back into Scar's mind. The cheerful banter, the hours spent building, the joy of shared victory, and the sting of shared defeat. It's all familiar, all comforting. Suddenly, a particular memory surfaces. It's of them, Mumbo and him, working on a redstone contraption. Or, well, Mumbo working on it and Scar messing it up. Mumbo's laughter rings in his ears as the contraption springs to life, working just as heintended. Mumbo's face lights up with pure joy and pride, and Scar can't help but join in the laughter.
"Mumbo..." Scar murmurs, the name fitting perfectly with the face in his memory.