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The thing was. It had genuinely seemed like a Good Idea at the time.
Third Life had been — and admittedly still was — one of Grian’s finest creations. He’d come up with the idea after the Mycelium Wars during season 7 of Hermitcraft. He’d been sitting in the Resistance Headquarters one night with Etho, counting their inventory of Mycelium blocks for the attack they had next week, when Grian had admitted — a little shame faced — that he was kind of embarrassed that he always started wars.
Etho had merely laughed, the arctic wolf hybrids ears pricked and mismatched eyes glinting as he’d cackled and announced that Grian was the best thing that ever happened to their server.
“Players can go a little stir crazy, when they hit a infinite respawn capability. Especially powerful players. It’s good, on peaceful servers, to have an outlet for all that violence. Even if it is in convoluted pranks. Hermitcraft has been lacking that to be honest — we needed a pesky bird.”
Etho’s voice had been warm as he patted Grian on the head. And the words had unfortunately stuck with him.
It had started as a small thought — a ‘what if’ situation. Innocent enough in it's own rights.
What if he could make a temporary Hardcore server? One that was linked to code, so that players would be automatically teleported back to their chosen home servers upon death. A kind of anarchy server. Then he figured players would need to be eased into the violence. Not everyone could immediately let it all go after all! Thus the Life System. A curse of some sort that would expand upon violent thoughts????
The avian had found himself pausing in between working on his mansion, upkeeping The Barge, and gathering resources to scribble down thoughts and ideas.
Then, he’d left the book out unthinkingly at a meeting with Doc over some RedStone. The man had seen it, and announced he thought it was a good idea. From there his idea had evolved into full conversations with X and Doc. Setting up parameters, spells, world boundaries and rules. By the time he’d realized it was going to be an actual genuine thing, they’d already had a list of players interested. Several of those players hadn’t even been Hermitcraft Players.
Xisuma had even brought the Empires admin, fWhip over to discuss what exactly his players would be participating in. He had listened with an avid, and rapidly more interested expression as the idea was pitched.
“It’s a good idea — great even. But I can foresee one major problem.” He smiled. “Our players are biased, you definitely need to do something to ensure they won’t only team up with people they already know and trust.”
And that’s how Grian and Doc had worked out the Memory Wipe mod.
A simple enough mod. It was a type of memory blocker, or suppressor and would work to temporarily lock a player's memories of people, places, and names from their past. Leaving them a blank slate in terms of relationships, but allowing them to keep their skills and preferences.
It also left behind impressions. With the mod activated, when a memory blocked player looked at another player that they knew or had any kind of relationship with before, they'd still have the faint echoes of those emotions. And if they were married or in a relationship they’d remember that they were married and their entire feelings. A suggestion Doc had made much to Grians then baffled confusion.
“ Some of the players interested are already married, they need to be able to remember they’re happily married.” Doc had shrugged at Grian’s confused look. “ Hey, you might be planning for it to be a simple anarchy server, but with things like this emotions are gonna run high during the game. At that moment it will feel real to them — to you even. Don’t underestimate how crazy someone can get when on a limited time clock to live.”
“ I just didn’t even think that would be a problem. Because — we keep our base impressions of other players right?” Grian demanded, blinking owlishly at the strings of code Doc and Xisuma were carefully teaching him to weave.
“ People have crushes, unspoken interests, reasons they aren’t acting on those impulses. Take away the reasons and memories and leave only the emotions and you have a powder keg.” Xisuma hummed, sounding vaguely amused. “I bet three pairings will walk out of your Death Games madly in love, possibly married.” Grian squawked as Doc threw his head back and laughed.
“Want to put actual diamonds on that bet?” He grinned, fangs flashing and Xisuma hummed.
“Absolutely. Ten diamond blocks on three couples and one complicated relationship.”
“Twenty Diamond Blocks on two marriages and one dating. And an extra five diamonds on one of the married pairs forming hybrid mating bonds.” Grian had shrieked out protests even as the other two shook hands on it.
“Don’t worry your feathery little head about it, Grian. Me, fWhip, Doc, and Cub will be monitoring the cam-accounts of the players to ensure that they are getting good footage. So we’ll place bets no matter what.”
Now, Grian had extensively warned the players entering the games about the risk. He’d had nearly ten meetings covering — in detail — every way this could go wrong (or right.)
He’d had them sign wavers. Saying he wasn’t liable for any damages, relationship changes, or hybrid evolutions they may or may not come under. Ren and Martyn had been in hysterics reading the list. Cackling over it while Grian had remained red faced but firm in his standings.
Who would have thought that almost every single warning ended up applying to Grian!
Here he was, two hours after waking up from his final death in 3rd Life, heart and throat twisting, married, hybrid instincts screaming for his mate to get in his nest right now, no longer a parrot hybrid.
Slowly, the avian closes his eyes, desperately trying to quiet the frantic chirps building up in his throat. His mind flashes lightning quick. The world spinning wildly around him as it implements his memories in with the 3rd Life ones.
Scar staring up at him, his eyes gold, gold, gold in the fading sunlight . Gold, like the white sands that surrounds their newly claimed territory. Gold like the heat and warmth of molten lava. He’s looking at Grian with a slightly puzzled expression, head tilted and hair falling slightly in his eyes.
“Is that ok?”
It’s not. Grian hates the desert. The sand gets all in his feathers, his bright fluffy red macaw feathers that are incapable of handling the dense heat. It’s burning hot during the day and freezing cold at night and there’s no water or trees but —
His chest is warm, his cheeks are burning, and his throat feels strangely tight. Later he’ll whine, he’ll throw as many fits as possible like a petulant child about their biome. He’ll flower down at Scar from the rafters of their newly built home and have to be coaxed down over the course of an entire night. But for now he finds himself incapable of saying no.
“Let’s start a monopoly on Sand.” He grins, and likes how feral and right it feels on his face.
Grian’s wings rest heavy on his back. Sleek dark brown feathers with bars of white and gold. Larger than his parrot wings had been. He feels off kilter. His body bowing forward under the sudden weight as his perception shifts from what he knows to what he’s become. His talons curl in his hair and into the floor, long and wicked. Nothing like his previous little claws. He moves a hand out to steady himself and winces as one of the talons gets tangled in his curls. Carefully extracting it before holding up one of the long sun bleached curls.
His hair brushes his shoulders, longer than it’s ever been before. Scar had liked it that way. In the two and a half years they’d been on the 3rd Life server, Grian had quickly found that his partner liked taking care of him. In any and all ways. From helping with preening, to carefully brushing out Grian’s golden curls and braiding in poppies and lilacs.
His hair had gone from relatively shaggy, and a soft golden brown, to dripping down his face and brushing at his collar bones, bleached a pale gold by constant sun. The only thing keeping them from becoming a matted tangled mess being Scar’s fingers carefully gathering them back into braids each morning.
He can feel the braids now; slightly mangled from that last fight. The flowers crushed into his hair, and twisted in on itself into ugly knots. Even on Red, his mate had insisted on the ritual. Even on the day he betrayed him, his partner had still spent an hour in the morning brushing and braiding,
His communicator buzzes at his hip and Grian nearly jumps in fright. His hind talons dif deep gouges into the spruce floor and he winced slightly even as he pulls his communicator from his hip,
Grian has joined the Game
XisumaVoid; Welcome Back Grian!
DocM77; Lol, I won my bet! Twenty Diamond Blocks!
GoodTimeWithScar: Grian!!!
Oh god. Oh God.
Grian’s fingers shake, his vision honing in on the last message. It isn’t realistic, he knows it’s not, but his mind flashes to his last moments on the life server, to blood, sticky and hot coating his hands and nails, too wings that wouldn’t fly and a dead sun hanging in a dead world and —
His wings snap out before he can stop them, and he feels vaguely alarmed at how quiet and sharp the motion is. The tips of his wings brushing against the wall of his bedroom in the mansion.
(He’ll have to widen everything, change dimensions and openings to account for his new width. How old wingspan had been the same as his height, his knew wingspan is nearly double it.)
On the life server, flying had been forbidden, and Grian’s wings had appropriately been spelled incapable of the act. Instead only allowing him to hover or slightly slow his own fall. With the Memory mod, Grian had had no memories of flying, no idea of what exactly it meant to him. He’d just known his wings were changing, and felt a vague longing for the skies above. One that was quieted easily enough with distractions from his partner.
(Business partner, turned friend, turned confident, turned husband.)
It’s jarring, mind boggling to have the context. The memories of flying before versus now as he rockets into the sky much faster than he’s used to. With his parrot wings he’d still needed rockets to gain the speeds and maneuvers he’d loved performing. He had been a songbird hybrid, supposed to stay low to the ground, performing small tight movements. He's not sure what he is now — a falcon of some type he suspects, something native to the desert with long claws meant to perch on cacti and snatch up rabbits — but he’s fast.
Grian screeches as he shoots into the clouds, faster than he’s ever achieved with a rocket or an elytra. He feels unsteady, like one wrong move and he’ll spiral out of control as he twists himself in midair. One of his wings dips with a stray wind current — so much more sensitive than his parrot wings had been — and he stumbles with it.
If he’d been able to fly while his body evolved during the life series, he wouldn’t have noticed the difference. As it is, his flight is jerky, too fast and too slow as he angles straight for his goal. Wings getting caught in random stray updrafts and downdrafts that feel slightly too uncoordinated for their usual pull.
He’ll ponder the differences later. Will probably spend hours with False working out his new wings. The eagle hybrid amused and thrilled in her instructions.
For now, it feels entirely natural to tuck his wings in tight and plummet as he reaches his goal.
The wind stings as it rips at his face and hair, running smoothly over his wings and body. He can hear it whistling around and against him. A small separate part of his mind whirls with screeches of joy and excitement at the sensation.
But the vast majority of his mind isn’t focused on that. Instead it’s focused on the tugging in his chest. The pull of a nearly completed mating bond. Guiding him directly to who he’s looking for.
He’s but a fish on a hook as he cuts through the air like a perfectly honed blade. Sharpness Four — his wings have been enchanted with Sharpness four .
But he doesn’t care, he doesn’t because —
“Scar!” His wings snap out right as he slices into the clearing, allowing his body to twist in mid air, his hind talons extending out as he narrows in on his victim with pinpoint accuracy.
“Oh no —!” The yelp doesn’t deter him at all as he slams the man to the ground. One foot planted firmly on Scar’s chest and the other beside his head, his wings spread out in all their glory as he points a furious finger down into wide green — beautiful, shining, alive — eyes.
“You!” He yells back, “You —“
And he isn’t even sure what he wanted to say, what he was going to say, because his mind is spinning. The bird brain in his head is screeching, and Scar is here. He's alive, he’s not dead. He's here. There isn’t blood coating Grian’s arms and hands, there isn’t an ice cold body cradled gently in his arms as he howls his grief to an empty sky in a world that suddenly feels hopelessly empty.
Abruptly Grian wilts, his wings dropping down, as he shifts so most of his weight is taken off of his wheezing mate. Blinking furiously as he continues to point at the apparent love of his life.
“You —“ There’s a lot of things he wants to say.
How could you do that to me? How could you force me to kill you? Are you ok? I killed you. You could have won. Why didn’t you?
But his parameters have shifted. The memories of creating the games, of setting up everything and putting the world together with his own Admin telling him the truth. It was entirely natural for the Red Curse to make a Red life lash out at any lives above them. Especially, if said Yellow or Green life was the last one.
But still! It wasn’t natural to allow the other person to win!
A warm hand on his ankle stops his thoughts in their tracks.
Scars palm slides up his ankle and settles on the thin bones just above it. (Not quite a human calf, but not exactly a bird leg either.) His mates pupils are blown wide, the green of his iris a thin sliver around them. Fully, Grian can feel the Vex magic in Scars blood, twisting and turning violently through Scar’s veins and pulsing against Grian’s own.
“I didn’t have the memories to compare you to before — but you really do look so beautiful when you're feral.” He breathes, and Grian can feel his feathers bush up, cheeks burning.
Abruptly, he remembers the first moment when his wings started to change, that first molt he’d had six months into living in the desert. He’d been adapting to the climate. His body sensing the high stress situation — sand everywhere, high heat, rising tensions all around them as factions formed, and a desperation to protect, protect, protect the player he’d sworn himself too.
It had been only the third or fourth time he’d ever let Scar near his wings for something like preening. He hadn’t had the memories to back up his knowledge, but he’d known preening was deeply personal for avians. Something you only did with family or your mate. But Grian hadn’t been able to reach places closer to the base of his wings, and the sand had been driving him absolutely insane. Itchy grains pressed directly against his skin, trapped in clumps of dirt, sweat, and misery. He’d been incapable of saying no to the offered help.
Scar had made a concerned sound about half way through, and Grian had been tense enough during those early preening that he hadn’t fallen into a preening haze, and had snapped to attention.
What’s wrong? I didn’t feel anything, did you pull a W feather wrong —“
No! No, no, no! I’m sure it’s nothing.” Scar had been quiet for only a few more seconds before he’d continued in a soft tone. His fingers tracing some feathers at the base of Grian’s wing right where it joined his skin with a barely there touch that had had the avian's entire body locking up.
“Are you newer feathers supposed to look . . . different?” He’d asked.
“Different? Different, how?” Grian had twisted around to try and see, but had obviously failed.
“ Ah, they look brown, vaguely gold?”
And no they weren’t. But Grian had been too tired to question it, and he’d promptly decided it didn’t matter if he wasn’t hurting, and they weren’t growing weird. He’d said as much, a faint whine in his voice as he struggled to keep himself from pushing back into Scar’s palms.
“ I think it’ll look nice — the gold and brown will help you blend in, you’ll look even more deadly.”
Now Scar stares up at him, slowly sitting up so Grian is standing with his feet planted on either side of the man’s hips. His mate leans forward, head tilting back to stare at Grian with that look. An intense look that Grian has unfortunately encountered repeatedly with his mate and never fails to make his belly swoop.
The vex hybrid flashes a slight grin, eyes half lidded and lazy as he props his chin up on Grian’s thigh, his arms circling around Grian’s legs so tightly he nearly staggers.
“I didn’t have anything to compare it to before — with my memories gone. But I do now, and you look —“ he blinks once, slow and Grian’s face burns, even as he tries to maintain a glare. It’s a trap, he can tell it’s a trap by the curl of his mates mouth. But he goes for it anyways.
Always have to press the buttons.
“I look?” He demands.
“You look like you’re mine.” Scars voice dips, and Grian steadies himself against the flood of vex magic, breathless.
“You are the worst.” He gasps.
••••••••••
Later, the entire server will tease and heckle them, they’ll have to schedule an actual marriage ceremony so that Mumbo stops crying about missing it, and Joel and Jimmy will stop sending him threatening messages. Etho, Ren, and Bdubs will all laugh at him and tell him they were extremely aware that Grian and Scar had a weird “ Thing” going on.
“No one gets That invested over a grass rivalry without it being a little bit homoerotic, Grian.” Ren snorts.
False and Doc will inform Grian that his hybridism seems to be a cross between a Peregrine falcon and a Golden Falcon, and he’ll have to undergo classes on handling a new much more powerful wing strength. (As well as spend several weeks adjusting all his builds window and balcony spaces to accommodate that new wingspan. There will be many many deaths from fall damage and kinetic energy as he slams into things.)
Grian will be an absolute disaster over editing the life series footage to upload to the Servers Web. Mortified how much he has to cut out between him and his mate. Only appeased by the fact that Scott and Jimmy are also in a similar predicament back on the Empires servers.
What Grian won’t ever notice, Scar notices for him.
Before 3rd Life, Grian was a wild card, always out and about. Pulling off pranks and heists galore. He rarely stopped, rarely slept, and rarely took care of himself. Now, his wings shine, each feather in perfect immaculate shape. His hair, always carefully combed and braided through with flowers or jewels. His skin flushed with happiness and excitement. Well cared for and loved.
And so — in spite of his mortification at getting married while basically drunk. It’s with a grin and a wild sparkle in his eyes, that a year later, Grian asks about a new series called Limited Life.
Everyone is (obviously) immediately on board.