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The button wasn’t working. Why wasn’t the goddamned button working?
Scar’s jaw ached from how tight his teeth were clenched.
The patience he had started with was waning. He furiously slammed his palm down on the “pass” button repeatedly, not caring that he could potentially overload and jam the mechanism.
Because it wasn’t even fucking working in the first place.
He gave one final, harsh, outraged slam on the button, a frustrated noise escaping from his lips, before ultimately giving up.
Scar was not much of a crier. To be honest, he wasn’t one who portrayed emotions too outwardly whatsoever. He had preferred to keep everything under a cool mask of indifference, playing whatever villainous part he was supposed to puppet with considerable ease. Yet, in this moment, he wanted nothing more than to scream his voice hoarse and sob for as long as his body would let him before it withered and decayed.
Unfortunately, the dying hadn’t worked either. He was perpetually stuck with only a little health remaining, one gleaming red heart mocking him from where it watched. Once, he may have cherished it. Now, loathing was all he could muster.
Scar shuffled over to one of the rocky arms of the hooded statue, sliding down and leaning his fully weight against it. He tipped his head back, resting it atop the jagged cobble that seemed to love poking out and jabbing his back in every possible location it could.
Closing his eyes, he attempted to hone in on any sound. Anything that signified life. But, as he already knew, he was the last one standing. He had already done the rounds of the limited map, calling out the names of those he once stood against to find someone, anyone, to show him that he wasn’t alone.
Sure, Scar had been a lone soul in the games, an honest trader with no accomplices and multiple adversaries. However, that did not necessarily entail that he had been lonely.
Occasionally, the world got a little quieter than he had liked, but most of the time he had been content to be off in a corner with himself as his only company. It had been enough just to hear the outside world, listen to other people’s voices and hear of their tales, travels, and ventures.
But this, this was far different than what he had lived previously. This was not the pleasant kind of solitude. This was bone-chilling, soul-gnawing loneliness.
No more airy laughter carried on the wind or impacts from explosions. No more cackling fires or awkward chattering from failed traps. No more group meetings or random, futile conversations. Just complete, eerie, radio silence.
Scar wasn’t sure if the void of emptiness in his heart had ever dilated to a size quite as large as it was now.
Sighing through his nose, he weighed his future, considering how the inevitable would drown him under the weight of its isolation and faults.
Disliked as he had been in this world, the villainous miscreant who required a keen eye kept on him, was it wrong of him to miss the fact that the dislike stemmed from people who could once experience it?
Was it inherently bad to prefer, to even desire, the hatred of others over nothing at all? Even if it meant his heartstrings continuously strained in an effort to keep his countenance neutral in the face of their disgust?
After all, an obvious people pleaser could not exist in this world. That lesson had been learned. Success and survival came in hiding behind masks of indifference.
He could feel the carefully crafted guise slipping, the charade cracking at the edges like the glass of an aged framed photograph.
The burden of carrying saccharine emotions could only drag one down.
How long had he spent schooling his expression to ensure nothing he did could be used against him? How much effort had he put into the endeavor of passivity in the face of their words, or even lack thereof? All for it to start crumbling now?
At least no one else could watch it disintegrate.
His body began to tune back into the world again, his ears searching desperately for anything that wasn’t the rustle of grass in the wind or the distant pattering of cows in a pen. To no avail.
Loneliness leeches on its victims eagerly, latching itself onto their souls and digging incisors in to greedily gulp the blood of self-assurance and contentment.
The temperate day he remembered feeling from earlier as he had watched sun rise from the horizon, shifting the world from dawn to day, no longer felt quite so pleasant in utter seclusion. Brutal solar rays blared on the scarred skin of his face, the glow burning into his eyelids as he tried to shut them from the world. As he tried, desperately, to awaken from whatever nightmare he was currently in.
He couldn’t sit here anymore. He had to move. The only option now was to keep going, to survive on whatever resources he could attain within the limited border.
He needed to start moving before he descended to the final stair of the downward spiral.
He had given himself enough seconds to ruminate, to tuck away his battles and recollect himself. Once he opened his eyes again, the mental struggles would cease to exist, and the only thing that would matter would be continuing on until he could potentially find a solution. His vision of world in front of him would surely knock him back to reality, hiding away all of the turmoil in his head. After all, out of sight, out of mind, right?
If only his sight wasn’t limited to the desolate land he had to call home.
Inhaling sharply, Scar strained his eyes open, forcing himself to meet the world once again.
The startling, oversaturated contrast of blaring mid-day light immediately caused him to squint. His head pounded, an ache forming in the back cavities of his skull, traveling through his cranial nerves in a high voltage path.
Leaning heavily against the rocks for support, Scar slowly brought himself to his feet once again, trying to steady himself against the ever-growing throbbing pulses in his skull. Once he felt stable enough to start walking again, he carefully made his way towards the pass button.
The hooded figure looked as if it was staring down at him in faux pity and mockery. Or maybe it was just the paranoia stage of insanity setting in.
He worked his jaw, staring down at the button, seemingly transfixed by what should have been such a simple bit of engineering.
The button wasn’t working. It would not be working anytime soon. He simply had to accept that and move on. What else was there to do?
Allowing himself one last cursory glance of the statue and the button, Scar turned on his heel, pivoting away from what had been his only hope to escape this hellish reality once and for all.
How foolish of him to believe there could be an escape. A winner.
Now it was a matter of figuring out how he would pass his days. A matter of how he would live on for the next while, because apparently even death would rather avoid him than claim him, until he could find a way out.
If he could find a way out.
Only when a metallic tang flooded his mouth and roused his dried tastebuds did he realize just how hard he had been biting down on his tongue, his frontal canines leaving lacerations along the delicate skin.
Wincing, he attempted to ease up the tension in his jaw, yet each dreadful step away from what was supposed to be his claim to victory only reminded him more and more of the sudden state of utter isolation he was thrust into.
That goddamned button. Blasted piece of machinery would rather its victim simmer in their guilt.
He was so damn stupid for thinking he could just walk away from his consequences. Always making rash decisions, playing indifferent and letting himself deal with the repercussions later. Always so goddamn fucking stupid-
“Scar?”
Suddenly, what had once perceived itself as a rather temperate day immediately dropped to a level of subzero.
Scar froze in his tracks, shock instantaneously immobilizing him. An icy wind of terror snaked around him like an anaconda entrapping its prey.
Was that…? It sounded like…but it couldn’t possibly be…
“Turn around, Scar.” A familiar voice called from behind him, tearing him completely away from the internal mental catastrophe that had consumed his mind only moments prior.
Gooseflesh pricked up along Scar’s skin, as if a sudden, chill draft had just gone through.
He was many things that people claimed he was, a scammer, a liar, a cheat, even if he would forever deny it.
But, despite their beliefs, he was not naive even though that was how he portrayed himself. Why, the “honest” trader must never act too suspicious or suspecting, and the facade of oblivion had let him get away with most things he would not have been able to do otherwise.
A facade wasn’t the truth. He was not stupid or naive. He knew this voice was not who it so desperately attempted to emulate. The odd distortion dancing around the edge of each word gave that much away, though to the untrained ear it was hardly noticeable. But mimicry could never fool him.
Not when it came to this voice, at least.
“Come on. Aren’t you happy to see me?”
Squeezing his eyes shut, he reminded himself to breathe, forcing his lungs to inhale a larger quantity of air. The shallow, panicked breaths he had been taking were not going to help ease his mood.
Had he finally reached the point of insanity? Even he was able to recognize that this voice was not real. Potentially it was all in his head. He knew his mental state had been going, but he didn't think it had deteriorated this much within the span of being isolated for hardly two hours.
Or maybe he had lost track of time. Had it truly only been a little over two hours? Or was his mind playing tricks on him. Perhaps it had been two days. Or even two weeks. With the lack of comprehending really anything, including hunger, it was highly possible.
No, he can't be that crazy yet. Somewhere in the far corners of his mind, he could sense and gather some remnants of sanity. He hadn't descended into full hysteria yet, though it was only a matter of time. Hearing strange, altered voices of the ones you knew was only one of the first symptoms, and it probably could just as easily fade as it does appear.
Maybe he just needed to keep breathing. Eventually it would go away. It had to go away. Right? Right?
"Scar." The voice repeated again, more of that odd distortion creeping in as it failed to retain the vocal effect in its irritation. Scar flinched at the newfound harshness.
"You're always running, you know that? Always the first to bolt when you're in danger, the first to avoid the consequences you deserve to feel. Always the coward." The cruel laugh emitting from its icy tone was enough for Scar to dig his nails firmly into the palms of his clenched fists, creating red crescent-mark cuts and creases along roughly calloused hands.
The voice hummed.
"But no one can outrun everything, and even you know that. Don't try to escape from this and duck away like the weakling you are. Turn around and face me."
He had not realized quite how sharp his unkempt nails had been until warm, viscous crimson began to run rivulets down his palms, staining them with another shade of red as if he did not have enough blood on his hands already. Allowing himself one last steadying breath, he forced his eyes open and spun around slowly to face the figure carrying a familiar voice without the familiar cadence, inflection, or phrasing in its words.
Scar shivered, numbness and paralysis overwhelming his body as he stared at the illusion in front of him. He no longer felt like he was in his own body, his words seeming oddly distant to his own ears as he spoke them.
“You look like…like him…”
The resemblance was uncanny, all the way down to the honey hued hair that glowed a sun-kissed golden in the sun and the ink-ridden, void-like eyes. Albeit, now that Scar noticed, the eyes seemed to carry an almost purplish tint, the pupil outlined in a phosphorescent violet.
The figure laughed, apparently very content to make Scar uncomfortable as a shiver snaked down his spine.
“Oh Scar…” It tilted its head at him, its eyes glowing ever more purple. “I am him.”
Scar refused to believe it. It couldn't possibly be. The thing was lying to him.
“No, you aren’t.”
It smiled, a sight that stood the hairs on Scar’s neck up at the ends.
“If you use that wonderful imagination of yours, I could be.” It singsonged in its horribly familiar voice.
It sounded so much like him.
Scar did not know how to react, how to respond. For voids sake, he didn't know what to do at all, except let the moment simmer in silence as he blinked, a blank canvas on his countenance. The mirror image watched for a second, not bothering at all to hide the sheer, cruel delight upon the features it stole. It drank in the sight before it with such callous admiration, as if the image of Scar's disbelief and emotional agony was the sweetest liquor to ever grace its tongue.
“Come on, don’t you want to stay here? Stay with me? It could be just like how it once was.”
The musical lilt in its voice turned Scar’s stomach sour with sickening familiarity that felt like a kick to the gut. The contradictory nature of its voice, with the comparison between the menacing venom it held only some moments earlier to the now almost mocking sweetness, stood the hairs on Scar's nape up at their ends.
Nauseatingly, Scar knew he couldn’t even say no, because he had no choice. He was forced to stay here, whether he liked it or not, all at the mercy and greed of this figure that looked so damn much like a boy he once knew. A boy he may have once loved.
The creature laughed again, this time in a way meant to resemble an avian’s chitter, but it sounded so awfully distorted around the edges and so completely wrong.
He always knew the day would come when he could no longer avoid the ramifications of his foolish, desperate, or greedy decisions. He had been well aware that at some point, something would come back to haunt him for his imprudence. He feared now that he had been too hopeful that either he would be long gone before it got to him or it would be some watered down form of punishment. How typically rash and senseless of him.
Utterly exhausted after the games, with weariness that seemed to settle straight down to the bone, Scar realized this new development was decidedly not helping his blossoming headache.
At this point, he wasn’t even sure if the strength could be conjured to deal with the culmination of his consequences. God forbid a person experience pure, debilitating fatigue. Moments like this were where he wished he had some sort of cane or crutch to lean on, especially with a body like his that experienced phantom pains and fatigue so naturally and easily.
Unable to withstand another minute of staring at this creature, he turned his back to it again and just walked away to the closest tree, propping himself down heavily by the trunk. The sun felt like too much. The tree cover offered nice reprieve.
He was sure he wouldn’t lose the creature. It was here to torture him anyway or something like that, though his own mind sure did plenty enough to torture him without another person’s interference.
Besides, the figure seemed rather keen on following him anyway. He would rather not follow it. If it wanted to keep its close distance to him, it had to trail him, not the other way around. The other way around would require some sort of threat for leverage, but the figure knew that Scar would gladly accept any sort of threat to his life with open arms at this point.
Just as he had expected, the strange imitation of a loved one followed Scar like a second shadow, staring shrewdly for only a second in a carefully schooled expression with the honed eyes of a hawk, probably avoiding some sort of shock at the lack of reaction from the provoked victim, before starting towards the tree. Scar dared himself to stare into those lovely, gold speckled eyes, which now seemed far more cold and dead.
Cold and dead like the real body they belonged to.
Some might call him a masochist for forcing himself staring directly at a mimic of someone who had caused his cheeks to flush and his heart to flutter, knowing fully well that whatever stood in front of him wasn't who he so desperately wished it was, and that this creature was here only to cause and feed on his pain. Though he preferred to call it 'exposure therapy.'
Scar directed his gaze directly in front of him, eyes intently focused on the large cloaked figure statue to avoid the vulture-like, keen-eyed scrutiny from the mocker that now sat immediately to his side, leaning far too close for comfort.
The thing seemed content to just observe Scar for a bit, watching him as if that was all it ever did and all it ever desired doing. Any wise chess master only employed their best pieces once they had observed enough from the opponent to ensure their move would win the game.
Faintly, from the depths of Scar's mind, a small thought stirred from the chains he had shackled it down with this entire time, arising from its murky hiding place.
At least he wasn't alone anymore.
His acknowledgment of the thought brought it to life, creating a buzz in his mind of euphoria. Was it objectively wrong to prefer being stuck with this creature clearly meant to torture him as opposed to being alone? Probably. But Scar didn't have the decency to pretend like he cared anymore about what was, by standard of morals, right or wrong, nor did he possess the strength to deny the masochist tendencies any longer.
The brief silence between him and the figure was nice. At least it was no longer the silence that left him alone with his rampant, pessimistic thoughts. But finally, it struck, leaning suddenly closer into Scar's space, causing him to flinch from surprise. The imitator brought its face closer to Scar's, its pinkened lips a hairsbreadth away from his neck, not quite touching, but just close enough to flood Scar's vision with stars.
It’s breath ghosted against Scar's delicate skin as it whispered in an almost seductive manner, “Everything you've ever wanted is here before you now. Are you willing to give in?"
Scar sucked in a breath, his eyes widening. For a second, only a flash, he could imagine his lips against this imitators’ cold ones.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.
Rapidly, his heart pulsated in his chest. He could hear the erratic rhythm from thrumming beneath his skin from his fingertips to his rushing ears.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
The creature drew back its face a little and reached out its hand, placing two fingers, the middle and index, against Scar's collarbone, before gently dragging them down to be right above his rabbiting pulse. The contact was enough to drive Scar to the edge of mania. A faint spell of dizziness sent his vision slightly off-kilter.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
He reminded himself again and again, repeated the mantra in his head as if it were a sacred scripture. This was not the truth. This could never be the truth. This thing in front of him wasn’t real, even if it looked so damn true.
He had to be going insane. Maybe if he blinked hard enough, or held his eyes shut firm enough, or bit down on his tongue fiercely enough, this imitation would just disappear. Fade away inch by inch like morsels of sand slipping through one’s fingers.
Oh, the irony of the sand, to fall so swiftly into still, unmoving, nothingness after dealing a brutal, scorching burn to one’s palm.
Alas, when Scar reopened his eyes and loosened his clamp on his tongue, all that he had achieved was swallowing metallic tang of blood pooling in his mouth from pierced skin along with severe disorientation and a worsening ache brimming in his skull.
He couldn't. He couldn't do this. Not when he was fully aware that this amalgamation of terror and corruption in front of him was adorning such a convincing facade.
But how bad could it be?
No. He had to get up and move again.
Drawing himself back and away from the extremely persuasive impressionist, he got to his feet and hurried towards his base, speeding away for...no particular reason. Because he doesn't run from things. He just so happened to be walking hastily with intent, beelining towards his base, because he missed his empty, standalone home oh so much.
You know..."home, sweet home!" Like those who actually experience contentment with their lives say.
He wasn’t running, he tried to convince himself, ignoring how quickly his breaths were coming now, shallow and short with the effort it took to keep up his rapid pace.
He definitely wasn’t fleeing from his problems. He was a fighter through and through, and he was surely not attempting to escape from this thing that looked suspiciously like the boy with the key to his heart.
The presence of the figure loomed behind him along with the setting sun on the horizon. It seemed capable of effortlessly following him, not breaking out in a sweat or portraying any other normal signs of fatigue. Though, Scar supposed, it would probably be odder if it were displaying any normal signs in general, considering what it was.
Scar strained forward on his feet, struggling to arrive home faster despite the weighing exhaustion in his sore and tired limbs.
He totally wasn’t distancing himself from one of the few things that could evoke any emotional depth.
Sweat beaded along his forehead, and he swiped away at it more viciously than he probably needed to. It had been cool earlier, hadn't it? In fact, frigid enough that Scar could probably have clutched his cloak a tighter to preserve some heat if he cared about survival? Now his cloak felt more like a burden than anything as the radiating heat of the orange-hued sun branded his skin with a feverish, fiery intensity.
It was quite symbolic, wasn't it? The physical sun intent on burning him from seemingly the inside out at right this very moment as it made its descent for the day? Making its final, brutal move before it retired for the night? And the metaphorical sun behind him, following him, no, chasing him, like he was interfering on its horizon path? Like it needed to follow the cyclical movement required of it to ensure the moon came up to take its place?
The sun and the moon, yin and yang, opposites attract, whatever the phenomenon desired being called. That was how it had worked with the real Grian and him. Grian was the sun. Scar was the moon. Following each other, chasing one another in circles, never quite able to rise at the same time and meet in the middle. Never quite able to align and coexist.
Except in this universe, in this moment, this imitator made itself clear, presiding over the role of a star bright enough to fool every willing fool, and ensuring that in its predatory pursuit of the moon it could deal the most possible damage, singeing lacerated skin, rubbing salt in the wound.
He doesn’t run. He’s not a coward.
By god, Scar missed the real sun more than Icarus ever could. He missed Grian.
He. Is. Not. A. Coward.
So lost in his thoughts, Scar had not even noticed that he had arrived at his destination and entered the threshold of his base, past the crumbled, ruined walls meant to serve as barricades. Due to the severe beating they had taken during their time standing, along with lackluster skill at building them in the first place, the stone walls that once towered high now only raised at their tallest point to his hip.
Scar immediately made his way over to his sunflower field outside of his tattered trading establishment. During his time on the server, tending to the flowers, ensuring their prosperous growth, flourishing, and wellbeing had occasionally been the only thing to keep him sane in his worst, loneliest moments. They had comforted him, whispered to him their encouragements with each rustle and sway in the breeze. They had kept him company. Each stride towards the garden felt like a return to some sort of solace, to some sort of home.
The "thing" tailed him wordlessly. He could feel its keen, observing eyes burning into the back of his head as he reached his finger out to trace the delicate, golden petals of one of the sunflowers in the frontmost row. Its watchful gaze pricked the hairs on the nape of his neck up and thoroughly discomfited him.
How many more times could he avoid this thing? It seemed adamant on torturing him, trailing him constantly around the server just to mess with him.
It didn't seem to desire relenting anytime soon. Scar always knew patience was a virtue, and this creature seemed to possess an overwhelming amount, content to sit around and watch and wait for the right moment to pounce.
So, he supposed, the matter boiled down to him. Could he turn around and face his fate? Reality is always present, no matter how much one attempts to evade it.
And Scar was not a coward.
He withdrew his hand from the sunflower and brought his hands to his sides, clenching his fists so tightly that the blood drained from the knuckles, leaving pale patches of skin. Whirling around, he came face to face with blinding, warm-toned rays of sunlight outlining the figure.
Bringing a hand up to shield his eyes from the sudden increase in light intensity, Scar could only stare in awe at the devastatingly beautiful silhouette of his love obscured by shadows with wings framed by the sun like an angel.
It had never been more of a shame that the devil was a fabulous actor and Scar was supposedly not an easily deceivable fool. But with the way his heart stuttered, tripping over itself at the sight of the pinnacle of etherealism, the most catastrophically gorgeous view to have ever graced the vision of man, he was beginning to ponder his infallibility.
Without thinking about it whatsoever, without fully intending to at all, Scar had taken a slow step towards the figure.
Here he was again, acting on impulse, not caring about the consequences until later.
His body seemed to move of its own accord as he made more careful progress in the direction of the figure, headed surely for utter ruination. Yet, this time, Scar knew he was not being controlled by anything to do so. Nothing was manipulating his body physically asides from his own profuse desire and the pounding rhythm of his heart, pumping blood of yearning that flowed through his veins.
The figure, he smiled so softly. So kindly. Scar was entranced by the gentle warmth of his features. Scar was entranced by him.
With the direction they grew, sunflowers were made to face and follow the sun. They faced now both suns of Scar's life, the physical and metaphorical version.
Finally, Scar reached the boy, his boy, only a mere few inches separating them. His winged companion reached out, caressing his face gently and cupping it in his smooth, soft palms.
Scar had always been entranced by Grian, so utterly besotted with him. What's to say he couldn't pretend this was Grian? It looked like him. It sounded like him. It made Scar's heart pound and rabbit like he had. What would stop him from convincing himself that this was his real love? His isolation would have an appropriate, perfect solution if he pretended and believed.
"I am here, my love. I am here for you," the angel leaned in and whispered gently in Scar's ear, tucking a strand of unkempt, brown hair delicately behind his ear. Scar shut his eyes, allowing himself to be lost in the undeniable sense of comfort.
Yes. He could pretend. He could pretend that this thing in front of him was truly the boy he dreamt of, the boy he saw every time he shut his eyes. He could live here with it, with him, and live the life he always wanted.
After all, he had faked and acted for the entirety of the life he could remember. What would be so different now?
And eventually, if he was lucky enough, Scar might even forget that this wasn't his real love to begin with. It would all fade into unnecessary, insignificant background noise that he could shove into the depths of his mind and ignore.
With his eyes still shut, he willingly succumbed to the sensation of lips trailing kisses along his jaw and down his neck to his collarbone.
In time, he would be able to ignore the coldness that was carried in each press of lips against his face, soft cavity of skin beneath his jaw, and along his neck. Soon, he would be able to completely block out the firm, stiff nature of the kisses as they were placed along his body. He would no longer notice the lack of genuine softness or lovingness in them, the evident absence of warmth in each contact.
For now, this was good. This was company where he could have been lonely instead. This was comfort, familiarity, and something akin to his dreams.
For now, he could pretend.