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*
There were voices happening outside, which was annoying, because Scar was trying to sleep. Well, he was supposed to be trying to sleep, but really he was lying on his side in bed and thinking about all the wonderful plans he had for the future. It was a bright and glorious future, mostly, except for the parts where he died, or Grian did, or something else terrible happened. But mostly it was bright and glorious and, because Grian was involved, probably full of explosions and heists. Scar loved heists. If Grian weren’t busy—he was one of the voices—Scar could reminisce with him about some of their greatest heists.
Grian’s voice said, “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Hm?”
“This was supposed to be fun. You always make it fun,” Grian said, like an accusation. “I don’t know why it’s not fun.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said the other voice, which Scar recognised as Scott. That was fine then; Scott was one of their allies. Why he was outside the base in the middle of the night talking to Grian, Scar didn’t know, but there were a lot of things he didn’t know about Scott. Which was a shame, really! It was nice to know things about your friends.
“Yes you do,” Grian’s voice said. There was silence, for a moment. “With the games.”
“Ah,” said Scott.
Also, if you remembered things about your friends, that could be used as leverage later. Scar was very good at leveraging information for profit, which worked well with Grian’s smash-and-grab methodology. Grian was now saying, “I didn’t think it would be such a big deal,” which was something Scar had heard him say before, although usually in a less aggressive tone. He sounded angry. “How do you do it? Tell me how you do it.”
Scott started to say, “I don’t know—” but Grian interrupted.
“Yes you do! Tell me how you do it. It was just supposed to be fun and now—and now Scar keeps dying, and everyone keeps dying, and it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal—”
There was silence, for another moment. The desert was never really silent, what with the wind blowing through the sand dunes, and the distant howling of coyotes that were probably on the other side of the world border, and the background hum of crickets. Scar hadn’t known that crickets could live in the desert; he’d thought they preferred musty basements or actual caves. He’d have to remember to tell Grian that crickets could live in the desert. He thought Grian would probably want to know.
“It’s different,” Scott was saying. “I don’t know.”
Grian, again. “I thought, it would be fun, to have everybody kill each other.” Silence, again. Then, “We kill each other all the time back home.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Scott said.
“But now it’s all fucked up,” Grian added. The voices fell silent for a moment, and Scar daydreamed fondly about some of the greatest times he and Grian had killed each other in variously inventive ways. Grian was always such a good sport about it too. Did it count as daydreaming if it wasn’t technically daytime? Oh, now Grian was saying something again, Scar should probably listen. “So. How do you do it.”
“It’s different.”
Grian’s voice was aggressive, louder. “No it’s not! It’s not supposed to be different! You know.”
Scott said, “Do I?”
“You’re a gamemaker too,” Grian said. Accusatory, shrewd, bordering on shrill. “Aren’t you? You make stuff up. Make people do things. And it’s fun.”
“You’re not having fun?”
When Grian next spoke, it was muffled, like he’d buried his face in his arms. “I didn’t mean to kill him. But now everything’s all wrong.”
“Mm.”
More silence, more crickets. Then Grian said, “I don’t like it. Any more.”
He sounded sad. Most people didn’t know that Grian could experience emotions like sadness, which was honestly a fair assumption, considering how rarely Grian expressed emotions other than vicious glee or exasperation. But sometimes, when they were back home, Scar wouldn’t hear from him for a couple of days, even though they lived right next to each other, and so he’d go knock on Grian’s door (because Scar was always polite) and then break in anyway (because Grian was always Grian) and find Grian curled up somewhere in a nest of blankets and feathers, sulking. He sounded muffled and sad then too. And if Scar tried to touch him, he’d usually get smacked in the face with a wing for his trouble, but Scar didn’t mind, because hitting Scar was one of Grian’s favourite things, and it didn’t hurt anyway. Grian had never actually genuinely hurt Scar, for all his posturing.
They had a good life, here in the desert. Sure, maybe the sand monopoly hadn’t worked out, and the dark oak monopoly had gone even worse, but they had Pizza II now, thanks to Scott. And of course Mr. Bubbles, who was currently asleep in a little nest Scar had made from Grian’s sunhat, which Grian didn’t know about but surely wouldn’t complain about once he saw how cute Mr. Bubbles was, all curled up and cosy.
Scar took a moment to imagine a family portrait of Mr. Bubbles, himself, Pizza II, and Grian, all wearing matching hats and ponchos. It was a charming picture. He could perfectly envision Grian’s sulky expression, and the blur of Mr. Bubbles’s wings, and Pizza II in the background, and his own arm wrapped around Grian’s shoulders. Maybe he could make a tiny bee-sized hat, Scar thought, and started snickering to himself quietly in the dark, imagining it. No, he should make a whole outfit. A set of adorable little booties, so Mr. Bubbles’s darling little feet wouldn’t get burned from the hot sand…
Bees mostly fly around instead of walking, Scar, said the imaginary Grian in Scar’s head. This was a good point, but thankfully Scar had already thought of this argument. Sure, most bees, Mr. Bubbles included, spent most of their time flying instead of walking, but sometimes Mr. Bubbles liked to crawl around, maybe when his wings got tired, and that could still be dangerous. Most of the time, Mr. Bubbles walked on Scar—and I am scorching hot, Scar thought, to the imaginary Grian he was having this conversation with, since the real Grian was still busy talking to Scott for some reason—so the point still stood. Kind of like a bee would stand, actually.
Scott had said something that Scar hadn’t heard, but Grian was talking again now. He said, “But I don’t—I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know if I can.”
“’Course you can,” Scott said. “You’re in control of it, aren’t you?”
Grian sounded heartbroken, which made Scar’s chest hurt in sympathy. “I don’t know. I thought so. But—”
“Okay.”
“But now it’s different.” And then, bitterly: “Yeah, you’re right, it’s not the same. I don’t know what I did wrong.”
Scott said, “I don’t think you done anything wrong.”
“Well obviously I did!” Grian snapped. “Because how come everything is—is—is like this?!”
“I don’t know,” said Scott. “I mean, I think it’s supposed to be this way.” There was another long moment of silence. “I think you did it how it’s supposed to be.”
Scar was still thinking about all the different kinds of clothing for bees he could make when Grian came back inside. Grian was generally very loud, but he made an obvious effort to shut the door quietly, which Scar thought was just so nice of him, even if he wasn’t actually asleep so it didn’t matter. Grian shuffled around the room for a bit, muttering under his breath, and gradually divesting himself of various pieces of clothing and weaponry. Then, abruptly: “Scar.”
“Hmh?”
Grian’s voice was sharp. “How much did you overhear?”
“’M sleeping…,” Scar protested.
“No you’re not.” Grian stalked over to the bed and climbed in next to Scar, somehow managing to make it seem like getting under the covers was an accusation in court. “How much.”
Scar said, “Grian, I don’t know what you’re talking about, I haven’t been hearing anything. Well, right now I’m hearing your lovely voice, which seems to be mad at me for some reason, but before that I was just listening to the sof— the sofforific— the sleepingly sounds of the desert. Did you know there’s crickets? Grian? Don’t kick me! Did you know there’s crickets in the desert?”
For a long moment, he thought Grian had somehow defied the odds and managed to fall asleep instantly. But then Grian let out a huffy sigh and said, resigned, “…No.”
“Oh, I thought you were asleep,” Scar told him, delighted.
Grian made an indignant, exasperated noise of pure frustration. “And you were just gonna keep talk— Never mind. Go to sleep. Good night.” And he rolled over and shoved Scar’s shoulder, which was quite rude of him, but Scar shifted over onto his back to give him room anyway. Grian flopped face down on top of Scar’s bare chest, which was his preferred sleeping position. Scar thought it was very cute and sweet of him, even if Grian maintained that it was only to make sure Scar didn’t get into any trouble overnight.
One of Grian’s wings smacked Scar in the face while they were adjusting, and Scar reached up to settle it, stroking the clipped primary feathers soothingly. Grian made a ruffled noise and said, “Scar, don’t touch those,” but he didn’t try very hard to get away.
“Okay,” Scar said agreeably, petting Grian’s feathers some more. Grian grumbled quietly into Scar’s collarbone, but the tension was slowly leaving him as Scar brushed his fingers gently along his wing. “Did you have a good talk with Scott?”
“Go to sleep.”
“Okay. G’night, Grian.”
Grian sighed, much put-upon. “Good night, Scar.”
*
EPILOGUE.
It was over. It was done. Scar was still on his knees in the dirt, blood dripping down the side of his face. The dark sky roiled above. When he looked up, Scar could see the faint silhouette of something standing on a rock in the mesa above, watching him. Waiting. Like a vulture circling its prey.
It’s over, Scar, Grian’s voice had said, in his head. She’s dead. You won.
The shadowy figure flickered, like it was going to take a step towards Scar, who was shaking all over and covered in blood. Feathers flared like a thousand blinking eyes. Scar dragged himself closer to the rock, leaving bloody handprints in the dirt behind him. Somewhere, a storm was rising, the wind whipping his hair.
“Well?” Scar managed to spit out. “Was it fun, Grian? Did you have a fun time?”
Grian looked down at him, or maybe didn’t; it was hard to tell when his eyes were only partially visible, and they never gave much away anyway. Scar could barely see him. But his voice was clear enough when it said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
*