Work Text:
GoodTimesWithScar was slain by Grian
“It’s been amazing”
What was he doing - he won he should feel relieved - he should be satisfied…
So why had the red fog not lifted, why was he still craving blood that had already been spilled? What was the point, why had he done it all? Why had he tried so hard to win - so hard that he’d killed the only truly good person he had ever met - just to be left alone in a suffocatingly small world that suddenly felt too big, too empty. Winners don’t feel empty, they don’t feel remorse.
Why should he even live? Why should he give them the satisfaction of watching him lose the last ounce of sanity he holds in his shaking blood soaked, sand crusted, fingers. He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t.
These games don’t deserve a winner. How can anyone win a game so encompassed by deceit and murder and betrayal?
He was already on the mountain, all he had to do was jump. By the time he had processed his decision he was already standing on the edge. One small step away from his escape.
From his cowardly retreat disguised as a courageous sacrifice.
From throwing away his third life in a world that didn’t give fourths.
He hoped Scar knew he was sorry. Even he wasn’t naive enough to imagine forgiveness.
Oh well… here goes nothing
“Goodbye”
He stepped off the edge.
Grian hit the ground too hard
The World was empty.
--❤️--💛--💚--
Perma-death was supposed to be peaceful.
That’s not quite right.
Perma-death wasn’t supposed to be anything. It was supposed to be the lack of everything so why was Grian still here?
Why was his conscience still bombarding him with guilt that should have dissolved. Seems a fitting enough punishment for his crimes.
But that wasn’t all. He could still feel a body. A body that felt different yet distinctly more his than the one he remembered from the games.
He felt hands, clean soft hands, without the scars he had grown so used to.
He felt weights hanging from his back, yet somehow he didn’t feel unbalanced. He felt natural, like this was how he was designed to exist, like he was finally whole. Wings he quickly realised. His wings. How had he gone so long without realising they were missing. How had he ever felt fine without them?
He felt eyes that he slowly blinked open before immediately regretting it as light flooded his being. He felt eyes, so many eyes. The two physical ones he was used to on either side of his nose and also so many others, unseen. Eyes on his arms and legs, eyes from the clouds and the ground, from behind him, above him, beneath him. Eyes everywhere and anywhere as if at any moment he could open another, anywhere he pleased.
It was… unsettling to say the least.
But also freeing in a way it pained him to admit.
It felt wrong, this omnipotence. It felt greedy. He wasn’t entitled to seeing everything that occurred. He wasn’t owed anything. He wasn’t different from anyone else. Was he?
It also felt comforting. He would never be surprised, or scared or backstabbed again. He could always see everything. No one could hide from him or escape him. He would find out. Comforting.
But it wasn’t natural in the same way the wings were. The eyes were comforting like the warmth from a flame you know you should step away from. Like the all encompassing heat of being burned yet still craving an escape from the air that seems so cold in comparison to the heat you will never be able to forget.
It felt dangerous.
Grian closed his eyes.
All of them.
And opened and closed them again and again until he was able to just open the two eyes that up until now were all he knew. Suddenly just two felt like nothing. He felt naive, stupid for refusing knowledge, for refusing a part of his biology he should crave but he knew it would not lead to anything good. So he stuck with just two for now.
Even if he could no longer see behind his own back, he could still see the environment around him and he certainly did not recognise it.
He knew the entire Third Life server like the back of his hand, and this place was somehow unfamiliar.
Which makes sense in a way. He wasn’t supposed to respawn. It was his third death. He knew that.
But clearly he had respawned. So where was he? What had happened?
Did everyone from the games respawn here? Had Scar respawned here?
The mere thought was tantalising but Grian knew better to believe in such a distant hope. Or at least he should have.
“Scar!!! SCAR!! Can you hear me! Are you here!! I’m so sorry, I'm so sorry I… I just” Grian ran around the empty server like a headless chicken searching high and low for any sign of Scar. Of any of his friends. He even would have been relieved to run into one of his so-called enemies as long as he wasn’t alone anymore. He ran until his legs stopped working, screamed until his voice was hoarse, cried until his eyes were dry. But he found no one. He was truly alone.
He should have known, known that they - the Watchers - wouldn’t give him any source of joy.
Wait, how did he know who the Watchers were? How did he know he was one? Why could he suddenly remember years of his life that he had forgotten during the games? How had he gone weeks, months, without noticing he was missing the majority of his memories. How could he be so easily tricked? How was he persuaded so easily to participate in the death match, to kill his friends, his allies, his Scar.
Grian didn’t know how long he wallowed in his self guilt; all he knew was that by the time he had died of starvation and respawned where he started he was resolved to get over it.
To do his best to forget those horrid games, to forget the threat of the watchers. To pretend he chose to be here, chose to be alone, at least until he could find a way to escape. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of watching his misery.
So after his respawn he did the normal things. He chopped trees and mined stone. If he avoided the dessert like the plague that was nobody's business.
Eventually he had built a base. Admittedly much bigger than needed for one person but when had Grian ever settled for something small. And if the garden outside was filled with lilacs and poppies. Then that would be a beautiful choice purely based on aesthetics, no other reason.
--❤️--💛--💚--
Eventually Grian got used to it. Got used to the stabbing pain from loneliness that eventually settled to a constant dull ache. Got used to being woken by nightmares throughout the night forgetting where he was, forgetting it was over, forgetting he had won. He got used to his new habits. Or triggers more accurately. Got used to panic attacks brought on from the feeling of sand between his fingers once he had finally ventured to the river hoping to get properly clean, though he still steered clear of the desert, or from the sound a creeper makes moments before it explodes feeling an instinctive fear even though his respawns were no longer limited.
He had near constant panic attacks triggered from old memories, memories he had been free from during the games yet now tormented him as strong as ever. Memories of YHS and Evo and worst of all his time with them. The masks, the all consuming purple glow, the pressure to change himself to fit perfectly into the mold of an obedient watcher no matter how much it killed his soul.
The one thing that was better out of the games was his wings, and the new ability they brought with them. More often than not he found himself wasting his afternoons soaring through the sky. Dipping and diving, whooping and chirping. Feeling the rush of adrenaline as he swoops back up just before hitting the ground. He felt most at home in the sky. Moving quickly enough to finally brush off the feeling of eyes constantly watching him, following him.
He was on one of these long flights when it happened. The server log that had sat empty since he first spawned in however long ago suddenly got a new message.
Smajor1995 joined the world