Chapter Text
For the second time in her life, Pearl wakes up alone in an unfamiliar world, with nothing but the clothes on her back.
Her first breaths are laden with the smell of ash. The ground under her – not the soft bed she’d fallen asleep in just last night, but rough, dusty netherrack – is hard and uncomfortably warm. The hiss of lava echoes from somewhere not-distant.
It is not a gentle awakening, but a sudden, harsh jolt. Sends her gasping for air, reaching for a weapon that isn’t there.
There is no guide to waking up in the Nether. Because no one sleeps in the Nether, of course. It isn’t possible, for the curse laid long ago by the Developers, that it would forever be a restless place of torment. She’s, impossibly, woken up in a place no one could rest peacefully, unsuspectingly, as she had.
Yesterday, she’d gone out partying with Scott, Sausage and Jimmy, to celebrate her graduation. Tomorrow, she’s supposed to meet Gem for a trip to the museum. Today, she’s completely lost and in hell.
It’s almost worse than the first time. No – it is worse, for the first time she’d woken up in this state in another world -
(Only minutes after arriving in Evolution, she’d found her family again, and for the time being, many things had been put to rights.)
- things only started going wrong later. Now, things are already burning around her, quite literally.
She’s in the Nether, unarmed, barefoot, and struggling not to break down from the memories of another world that still haunts her.
Focus. She has to get out of this situation first. Then, she can have the freedom to mull things over and mourn. Slowly, she sits up, eyes flicking around her surroundings, wings giving a small twitch. She’s in the Nether wastes, in what appears to be a hollowed-out cavity of netherrack. A few assorted chests and shulkers are placed haphazardly around the room, some left ajar.
A sound from the corner, cast in shadow. Instantly, she whips around, and sees -
Lurid, glowing violet feathered wings – six of them, large in size, fanned out like a halo, blocking the exit to the room. Pools of inky darkness like sunspots flickering in every feather, in the image of eyes, all staring directly at her. And attached to these wings, a cloaked, hooded figure; with an inhuman, bird-like face, no, a mask, that of an olden plague doctor. Divinity radiates off the figure, like the sweltering heat of the summer sun.
She is looking at a Watcher. The realisation comes far too sluggishly, as if she’d left all her training, for situations like this, back at home.
For a brief moment that seems so much longer, the two of them stare at each other in silence, frozen in place. Two of them, who should not be in this world. The miasma hanging in the Nether air feels heavier than before, pushing down on her. On both of them, perhaps.
The Watcher breaks first. One hand rises from Their side, the motion erratic and slow in what she might’ve guessed, if she were to ignore all logic, to be uncertainty. Fear, even. She does not focus on that; instead, on the hand itself, fingers tipped with sharp talons, extended towards her, as if trying to grasp at her.
“...Pearl?” A voice that isn’t hers. The Watcher speaks first, too, in a warped, distorted semblance of a human voice. She almost thinks she can hear something close to warmth, close to grief, or at least some sort of emotion in Their words -
And then the Watcher lunges at her, and her instincts slam right back into her again, pulling her to her feet. The ground scalds her bare soles, but she barely feels the pain. For she is now up against her greatest enemy, one she’d dedicated the last three years of her life learning to fight, learning to protect herself, and the rest of her family, from.
***
On her first day back home from Evo, as soon as she was left alone, she’d picked up one of the heavy axes in their storeroom. Swung it once, twice, countless times at armour stands – her makeshift training dummies – lined up in their garden.
Lizzie, the only one of their sibling quartet not taken into the Watchers’ Game, found her almost an hour into her practice, for she’d just spent that time tending to Jimmy while conferring with BigB and Netty. She’d ran over to her, taking her hands in her own, pulling her from her destructive reverie. Briefly thumbed the calluses on her hands, her eyes sad. “You shouldn’t be straining yourself right now.”
“I’m fine, Liz.” She’d replied, “I’m not badly hurt. I just thought I’d spend the time on something productive.”
“On fighting? We’re – You’re safe now, little bird. You’re out of that dreadful place. There’s no need to fight anymore.” Sorrow spilled from her elder sister’s voice, even as she’d struggled to maintain the same reassuring tone, that once told her bitter winters would end, mistakes weren’t the end of the world, the door to home would always be open for her. That now seemed as fragile as a sandcastle, blowing away in the storm that engulfed them both.
And then she’d wrapped her in her arms, as she had countless times, in a time that now seemed an eternity away. As if they were children again; it was all Pearl could do to not crumple instantly into her sister’s arms. She shouldn’t shatter like this. She had to be strong now -
On her first day back home, for the first time in months, she let herself collapse. For she would always be weak to the ones who had raised her, who knew her weaknesses inside and out, even as she now tried so hard to fix them.
The years had changed them. She towered over Lizzie now, tall and lanky and scarred, no longer fitting snugly into her embrace, but sticking out awkwardly instead. And her sister – it would be easier to believe she were still the same, a constant, an anchor in the midst of all this upheaval; but she wasn’t unscathed either, just more subtly - her gentle face more worn, her grip more desperate, her smile more solemn.
She’d finally felt herself being tugged back to the house, gently, but in the way only elder siblings could, that allowed no resistance. “You need rest. Let your big sister take care of you.”
Maybe she did. But she couldn’t rest. Every time she closed her eyes, those images would play out again; the portals of bedrock, the tough journey to exile.The world stuttering to its final moments. The world tearing itself apart, cracks lashing through the sky, the ground, everything she’d known for the last year. The world dying, in just a matter of seconds, and she could only watch.
And, long before then: her falling through the void, as two Watchers looked down at their Players, all remaining nine of them, as they held her elder brother in Their hands. The time has come. The toll must be paid. Your leader has proven his worth. He will no longer be with you, but with us instead.
Grian had passed on more gracefully than the world he once led. He’d once fought bravely, if foolishly, against the trials laid out for them, loud and burning bright in his rebellion. Here, in the void, even the brightest sun was no more than a twinkling little star.
“Farewell, everyone. Please go on without me. I promise I’ll be watching over you, always.” And, a whisper only she could hear: “I’m sorry, Pearl. I couldn’t keep my promise to you. But I know you won’t need me anymore anyway. You’re all grown up, no longer a little baby fledgling, and I couldn’t be prouder.”
She’d heard the older Evolutionists say, and even her older friends who didn’t have to experience the horrors, that she and Jimmy had had to grow up far too quickly; that looking into their eyes was more like looking at two aged veterans of war. But even then, she knows they, as the youngest of the group, were shielded from the worst of things.
The brother who raised her, had met his end protecting them. And now, she sees the hole left unfilled in the formations of the others, where losing one of their most fervent fighters had been the loss of most of their hope.
If she’s grown up, she hopes she’s grown into his shoes. Someone who could save lives and inspire hope in even the most futile battles. Or, better yet, grown beyond; someone who could actually win where those who came before lost. For vengeance, for loyalty – for righteousness. For the safety of everyone she loved.
Which is why, on her first day back home, she returned to the fight. She will never leave the fight, not when there is still so much to fight back against. She is now the best warrior among her siblings; she must use this strength to protect them. Take on the mantle that was left behind, left to her, that day in the void.
One loss is already too much. She will not allow another.
***
She is already on the back foot in this fight. So much for being the best warrior, for all her training, when it could melt away in a moment just out of... nerves, or fear, or shock? She doesn’t have time to figure that out. Either way, she should not have faltered at the first second; she’s already lost precious time, and given her foe the first move.
Though, that’s probably slightly less relevant to her significant disadvantage than, well, being empty-handed with no weapons, armour, anything. She’d thought that if she were to face down a Watcher, it would be a more prepared affair; she’d duel Them, weapon in hand, let every strike land with satisfaction, that even if They were deathless, They weren’t bloodless. Probably.
Somehow, she’d completely forgotten about the part where Watchers could just snap up Players and throw them into Their games with a cleanly wiped inventory. As famous, as common, as that course of action was for Them, Evolution being only one out of an infinite number of cases. This one, presumably, being another.
She is unarmed against an omnipotent divine being. One whom she can see is also unarmed, but, of course, this is a deity. Watchers don’t need weapons to crush Their foes, though They could effortlessly summon some if that were how They wished to hunt.
Not this one, at least. Their claws tighten around her arms, trapping her with ease. They speak again, in a jumble of words she can hardly process, especially not as she is frantically attempting to wrestle herself out to no avail, everything around her deafened by the pounding of her heart. Either way, disarming and fighting to defeat is not an option.
Which really just leaves escape, because she isn’t going to surrender. If she dies here, she wants to die on her feet, steadfast in her resistance to the very end. She’d rather not die, of course, which is why, as she struggles against Their grip, kicking and stepping and hitting only the hem of Their robe, she scans the room for something she might be able to use -
There. Her foe has been careful to block off the entrance They’d presumably arrived by, but behind her, instead, is a hole in the ground. A narrow hole, at that, a dim glow shining up from within. That it is glowing, in the Nether, probably means lava, but it’s not like she has any other options.
First, to free herself. It’s been a long time since she’s had to fight dirty like this, but the lessons of her scrappy formative years will never truly fade. She yanks her trapped left arm upwards – judging by the weight of her opponent’s grip, Their dominant hand would be Their right – brings it close to her face with an inhale, then bites down, hard. The fabric tastes like soot on her tongue, sizzling pressure pushes against her teeth, and she can barely feel a metallic tang seeping through; before the sheer power confined in the ichor staining her mouth sends her recoiling away.
Fortunately, the pain she’d dealt in return has also sent the Watcher reeling, Their grip on her loosening – just enough for her to wrench both her arms free with a sharp tug. She dives towards the hole; her opponent realises what she is doing, darts towards her just a moment too late, and just like that, she’s out of the room.
As it turns out, the glow was from magma, shaped into platforms surrounding openings parallel to the one she’d just fallen into. Hardened lava – close enough. Still, she’d rather not get her wings burnt, and she needs to descend as fast as possible, so she tucks her wings in and dives. Above her, she hears a distraught screech, growing further every millisecond.
And all too quickly, she meets the floor. She hadn’t realised how fast she was falling, and she’s paying for it; pain shoots through her limbs, her fall barely broken in time by stretching her wings. Probably a few nasty bruises; nothing feels broken, thankfully. With a wince, she gets up again, looks up -
She’s, of course, still beng chased. The Watcher dives downwards as well, though They appear to have been caught on the platforms, with their larger wings. Still, she doesn’t have time to spare.
She looks around – this place appears... built. If she hadn’t needed to hurry, perhaps, she could’ve appreciated the structure a bit more; the detailing is quite pretty, the colour palette is cohesive, the overall form, as far as one could tell from this room, is majestic. Right now, there is only one thing she appreciates: it’s open.
Looking through the pillars, she can see that they are high above the ground, a sea of lava stretching out before her. Lava – lethal, but useful, if there was something she could find in time – she hears the Watcher approaching quickly, feels the gust of wind from above -
Lying on yet another chest, seemingly carelessly tossed onto it, are bottles of a glowing orange liquid. She could cry in happiness. Potions of Fire Resistance – exactly what she needs right now. She grabs the nearest bottle, and downs it. None too late, as the Watcher bursts into the room, landing fluidly, immediately beelining towards her.
She throws the empty glass bottle at Their head, with all her might; it shatters on impact, sending Them stumbling back – she hadn’t expected that, to be honest. They seem unhurt, so it really didn’t do much, but it was satisfying – and every second she buys for herself, counts. As the Watcher flails, she glances at Them one last time, and jumps out of the room, into the lava far below them.
***
Lava; molten rock. Viscous, searing-hot, opaque. Bright. Watchers might be able to look into any space, Their eyes spread throughout the world – but lava wasn’t space. Watchers couldn’t see in lava, be it because the light blinded Them, or be it that it was just physically impossible to see through molten rock. Which is why her plan is to swim through the lava to escape; as soon as Their eyes couldn’t follow her for a while, she could be anywhere even after her minutes of being immune to fire wore off.
That being said, swimming in lava is difficult, even with the potion that made the burning lakes feel more like a pleasant warm bath. The visibility issues apply to her too, and swimming in colder, more solid patches is almost like swimming in molasses. Not to mention, the potion isn’t permanent; after a few minutes, she will burn to a crisp within seconds if still submerged. It’s still best to put distance between them on land – flying is too visible, and from how the Watcher moved, she suspects that Their true aptitude lies in aerial battles.
(If only because their stance is familiar to her; one she’d tried to copy once, but grew out of with proper training, haphazard scraps of “whatever works to survive” from the only other avian she’d known for years.)
So, while the magic of her stolen potion is still strong, after minutes of swimming blindly, she pokes her head out of the lava, and looks across the banks. In the distance, far beyond the banks, she sees a tall pillar, on the pillar a ladder...
It’s a sign of habitation. It’s far away from the building she’d just escaped. It’s a wild hope, but she now has a goal to get towards. She hastens her strokes, puts her head beneath the surface again, and swims.
She makes landfall in a short time, just as the tingling of magic under her skin fades away. A few shaky, painful steps onto solid ground, hastening into a sprint. The pillar looms over her, at its top a giant netherrack mass, either an enormous cliff or a part of the Nether’s ceiling. Somewhere further, shrouded by the miasma, if she were to focus on the scenery instead of her escape, she would swear she could see what looked to be the tip of a giant construction drill, but that would be just frankly bizarre.
(As if everything else about this situation wasn’t similarly jarring.)
By the time she reaches the ladder, she knows she’s little more than a mess: her feet are sore, her knees scraped and bruised, her wings shedding broken feathers left and right. Her limbs feel heavy as lead. Her whole respiratory system hurts from rapidly breathing the poor Nether air. Red coats her hands and legs, stains her clothes; she can’t tell if it’s nether dust or blood, and she really doesn’t want to know right now.
At the very least, flying plumb to the ladder won’t make her stick out as much. She unfurls her wings, gives them a single, feeble flap – and doubles over, a jolt of pain shooting up her torso at the motion. She must’ve twisted something at some point, or burnt something; she’s not in a good position to check. If she hadn’t noticed it earlier, though, it probably isn’t serious enough to keep her from flying. Not when she’s this desperate, at least.
Wincing, she grips the ladder, ignoring how the friction makes her hands smart, and hoists herself up, kicking off the pillar into the air. Her flight comes in frenzied, painful flaps, propelling herself upwards in a short burst, before her wings seize up again, before she has to grab onto the nearest rung again. Climb until her wings feel better; don’t stop, don’t let Them catch up. Take off again when her wings are ready. Rinse and repeat, until she reaches the top.
She’s never felt particularly confident around ladders, she tries not to think. Instead, she tilts her head out, as much as she dares to, looking around as she makes the long climb; there’s a purple glowing blob in the distance, but at the very least, They are still far away. Maybe They are headed in her direction, having finally spotted her; whatever the case, it’s not like she can do anything about it now, just climb as fast as she can.
The roar of a portal fades in gradually as she approaches the top, and her stomach can’t help but churn. Logically, it’s good news. More likely than not, there’s a gateway close by back to the Overworld, where it’s easier to hide, easier to survive. Emotionally, it’s torture. As silly as it is, she will always associate that sinister hum, that purple glow, with bedrock instead of obsidian, with time instead of space.
She finally pulls herself up the top rung, wings folded again to fit through the small opening. Magical light casts her aching limbs in an unearthly glow. The portal is right beside the ladder, its roar deafening. On its side is stuck a hand-painted sign, in neatly stenciled letters: SHOPPING DISTRICT HERE!
...A shopping district? That would mean this world was not only quite populated, but significantly developed, even before she’d arrived. Just what was this Game she’d been taken into?
No – she doesn’t have time to wonder. She doesn’t know what to expect, even. All she knows is that the Nether is a dangerous place, and she’s almost definitely safer on the other side. So, with only a moment’s hesitation, she steps into the portal, and lets the light consume her. Ignores the rising nausea, as the magic creeps up her skin; swallows her whole, compresses her.
It lingers, for a tortuous eternity that she knows lasts only seconds; then, everything subsides, and she is expelled into gentle sunlight with a stumble.
***
Back then, it had taken Pearl many weeks to muster the courage to visit the Main Hub again.
It was something she would have had to do eventually. For the average Player, it was practically compulsory to visit the Hub – the centre of the universe, which had everything any Player would need, all the goods, services and opportunities. Life had to go on, after all; the end of one world she had long left behind shouldn’t have been the end of her life. She still had many years ahead of her – even if, back in Evolution, she’d gotten used to expecting that she may only have meagre days left, if the Watchers willed it so.
She was no longer a piece of Their Game. Now, she was a regular girl, whose only worries should be – should’ve been – going to college. She already had a portfolio prepared; her focus was just to study hard, to make up for the one year she’d lost, a gaping hole in her records, that she would sorely prefer not to talk about to an emotionless stranger scrutinising her worth.
Perhaps pettily, she would also complain, the Game hadn’t just taken her year, it had even taken her favourite sketchbook. Before, she’d been considering using some of the pieces inside for her portfolio, too. Its pages had been filled years before she even knew what a Watchers’ Game was, with how much she constantly drew. But she’d still kept it around anyway, for when she would finally be able to build her designs into reality. Evo, ironically, had given her that chance, the one redeeming thing she could say about the Game.
And then she’d lost the book sometime in the last few weeks. She isn’t sure when, nor how; it could’ve been her last moments in the Game, it could’ve been during her travel through the portals, it could even have been a careless accident while building. All she knows, even now, is: it’s gone, she’ll never get it back, the Watchers could easily have taken it (but that’s unlikely), she can’t use anything in there for her portfolio.
Though, that was small change, practically minuscule, compared to all her other issues. Sketchbooks could be easily replaced. That is, if she tried not to think too hard about the details, about how it was old and red and torn and dog-eared in places, lovingly used; how her name wasn’t even the only one on the fraying cover, for it had been scrawled on in marker many years ago, above the crossed-out name of its original owner – for how much her late brother had loved designing, he wasn’t even slightly good at drawing, and so he’d given his barely-used sketchbook to her, “to make way better use out of”, from scribbles to building plans and painstakingly-coloured sceneries.
In short: she isn’t even sure if she would have dared to present it to her assessors. She isn’t even sure if she could bear to.
For a very short time, before she’d lost it, it had been a memento. Now, it was just a lost item. Not much point in thinking about it. Even if deep down, she could rage and grieve, that the Watchers had been so cruel to even take one of the last keepsakes she had of the person they’d stolen too, it was really just – nothing, in the grand scheme of things. Too small for anyone to bother with.
(It hadn’t – still can’t - stop her from feeling terrible over this loss all the same, though.)
***
For all that she mulled over the past, regardless, she had a future, and – if her sister’s great efforts at encouragement had had any effect – it could start right there. Shopping at the Main Hub. New clothes, new sketchbooks, new life. New her. Hopefully.
On this occasion, it had been just the three of them: Pearl, Jimmy, Lizzie. The latter had suggested inviting her boyfriend Joel as well – he was a good fighter, she’d explained, more insurance in case anything happened. For all that he was a good man, a close friend of both of theirs, too; she and Jimmy had looked at each other, just for a second, and immediately, soundly, rejected the idea. It would be too painful, both had understood, even if they had both been willing to tolerate the pain for just themselves. They made three; Joel would make four. The wrong four.
So it had been just a close family outing. Two tired youths trailing their older sister, desperately trying to be happy enough for all three of them. The effort was appreciated, even if it made Pearl feel even more guilty, for all the burdens she’d placed on the people she loved.
Approaching the Hub, she noticed the very moment Lizzie’s face shifted; her eyes, directed at the shopping street before them, narrowing just slightly, her lips pursed in dismay. The conversation died down almost instantly, Jimmy, too, having picked up on her tension.
“What’s wrong?”
Lizzie had sighed, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. It wasn’t a particularly surprised sigh; rather, a more resigned one. “...Things just keep getting worse around here. Every time I visit, there’s always... more of these. Watcher stuff.”
“...Oh.”
But really, it hadn’t been unexpected, loathe as she was to think of it. If she were to cast her memories back, to even before Evolution, it was clear that her Game hadn’t even been the start of things. From the very beginning, eleven people could be snatched away to another world without so much as a blink from the rest of the population, even when everyone knew who was responsible. Just a drop in the ocean, barely even creating a ripple. No one’s heart could afford to ache for every single Watchers’ Game, after all, because that would be a pain that could only build, and never end.
And before the beginning – the signs had already been there, up and in her face, even. Even now, she remembers the speeches from the Main Hub, loud not-quite-voices blaring through redstone lines, before either of her eldest siblings would hurriedly turn the radio off (read: chuck the radio into the sink and douse it with water). Speeches, from the snatches she’d been able to hear, of the grandeur of Those Who Watched, and of Their requests of the populations of every world. ‘Requests’ wasn’t exactly accurate, since there was no way to decline; if They wanted something, They could take it with ease. It was more of an order – more of a formality, or a boast of Their might.
As much as she wanted to believe that things were perfect in the years before the Game, the truth could never be erased. The signs were tightly woven into her memory, still, violet accents seeping into walls and screens, eyes blinking quietly onto posters and pillars, calls for recruitment on air interspersed among the radio’s daily cycle of music and adverts.
It was a gradual, quiet conquest of the Main Hub, after so many other worlds; yet it had clearly still been in its infancy when she’d left.
For the street before them had never been this saturated in Their influence. Banners hung from the trees, murals claiming the walls, the words blasted across every other surface: WE THE WATCHERS...
We have our eyes on you. We want you. We will punish you. We decree thus. Familiar lines seared into her memory, now given shape, and here to stay.
Beside her, Jimmy had inhaled sharply. A few feathers even sprung up behind his ear, in horror. “Oh. Oh, goodness gracious. What – what’s all of this?” He’d asked, voice shaky, completely devoid of the confidence he’d been trying to maintain up till this point.
“...It’s how things are now.” was their sister’s soft reply. And Pearl could only stare, paralysed, at the sheer show of Their might in that moment. That was how things had been on Evo; that was not how things should’ve been at the centre of the universe, the greatest bastion of Players in sheer scale, now another crown jewel of the Watchers.
But it was. It was inescapable, even in their attempts to return to normal life, and it felt almost no different to the Games they’d been trying to leave behind.
“We – we can head back.” Lizzie suggested hurriedly, as she’d tightened her grip on her shoulder, “we don’t have to buy our things here. Or right now. I’ll – between Katherine, Shelby and Scott, surely they know of other better places to shop. I’ll ask them -”
“ - No, it’s alright.” They’d already made the journey. If this was what the Main Hub was like now, smaller worlds with less protections weren’t likely to be any better off. Besides, these were just... decorations. Eyesores, yes, but not even anything capable of harm. If she was going to fight back against the Watchers one day, she couldn’t be intimidated by just the smallest sign of their influence. “I – I’m fine. I’ll manage. Better to start to get used to the world we’ll be living in for the rest of our lives, yeah?” It was a long shot to hope that things would change anytime soon, after all, when she still felt so powerless to change them herself.
And so they’d continued, down the street, holding on tightly to each other, maybe, fearing any of them could be pulled away again, at any moment.
***
In the window of a bookstore, a live broadcast played on the ancient TV screen, audio tinny but surprisingly clear, worming its way above the drone of the customers’ conversations. Dozens of Players were scaling a mountain, like a surging swarm of ants. The looks of stony determination on their faces – and here the camera zoomed in on the frontrunners, monstrous in their demeanour with their clenched teeth and fiery glares – made the context clear: it was a competition, not a fun group excursion. This was a race to the top, set to incongruously cheery music.
The camera panned out, revealing a few figures hovering high above the ground, all clad in flashy, jaunty suits, surrounded with enough visual glamours to make a cheap camera spontaneously combust. Their faces seemed almost human at first glance, yet their expressions were unmoving and their eyes – not just the pair on their faces, but also the whole, subtler flurry surrounding them – were unblinking. It was gaudy, it was uncanny – above all, it was captivating.
Back in the safety of the bookstore, Pearl had steadfastly held onto the book on Nether architecture she was thumbing through, eyes focused on the diagrams on the pages. Double-decked bridges. Central courtyards planted with netherwart, surrounded by triple-storey housing blocks. The passages were a makeshift mantra, anything to block out the sounds of the Watchers’ broadcast, anything to keep her eyes away from the scenes of this other, now-standard, Game.
The Watchers’ giggles carried above the crowd from decade-old speakers. They seemed to be discussing something, milling about in the sky as They watched the Players ascend. Their eyes flicked around, the camera moving with some of them, perusing the area; before, with an exclamation of delight, the most showy of the Watchers – the host, it seemed – flew towards a particularly promising contestant, the camera following Them with a jolt.
Blackstone and basalt, with gold as a currency, treasure and building material for the most affluent. Hoglin-cart shipment routes from nearby basalt deltas to bastion construction sites.
“Oh, look at this hero,” the host purred, voice sickly-sweet, reaching down to lay Their hand on the Player’s head in a show of faux-affection. “Here, here – smile for the camera. You’re being watched by millions right now – that’s right, millions, that’s how many people know you’re an absolute pro at climbing.”
The Player relaxed into a smile – up at the Watchers, adoringly, seemingly flattered by the praise. “You’re a strong one, aren’t you?” The host continued cheerfully, combing Their fingers through their hair. “Is it the skilful parkour? Or is it the endurance? How could a mortal madlad like yourself make it up here so fast?”
Hoglins stored in separate stable bastions. No distinction between supply and war hogs. Compact rooms near the ramparts built to house Piglin stablehands.
The host abruptly jerked forward, leaning down till the nose of Their mask touched the Player’s own. The music cut out, leaving nothing but the sound of the Player’s breaths – and the Watcher’s warped voice.
“You’re fast. Too fast.” They whispered, voice still brimming with Their now-dissonant cheer. “You’ll end the game too quickly. It wouldn’t make for interesting content if the strongest were to just win everything, would it?”
Their hand tightened around the Player’s hair, whose joyful expression quickly turned to horror, a realisation coming mere seconds too late. The Watcher yanked, dragging Their prey effortlessly with divine strength that belied Their lean frame; then, a casual toss.
The screams of the fallen Player echoed through the mountain, through the bookstore, long after their body had faded from view down the mountain cliff.
Exposed treasury surrounded by bridges for higher visibility, a show of wealth and power. All the power in the realm. The power to do anything they pleased, to taunt and to torture and to slaughter for their own amusement, the screams, the screams -
“Pearl?”
She’d finally torn her eyes from the page, even though she hadn’t been reading at all; instead, her mind was filled with images of horrors far greater than the Nether could conjure, pushing out any insight on pig bastions she attempted to absorb. Jimmy was staring at her, face pale. The stack of comic books in his arms, bent from how tightly he’d been holding them – hugging them, even.
It was their brother’s funeral. It was the end of the world in Evo. It was a regular day in a public bookstore, and they were still scared, weak teenagers, who only had each other left, who could only watch as everything went up in flames around them, again and again.
“We’re outside,” she’d said hoarsely, reminding him, reminding herself. Anchoring themselves to reality, away from the maelstrom of memories that dogged them. “We’re no longer in Their Games. We are safe.”
“We are safe.”
“We are together.”
‘We are together.”
A brief lull. An unspoken acknowledgement between the two of them, where words were too rigid to fill the gap – and then, they’d collapsed, almost in unison, into a mutual embrace, tightly holding each other, tears mingling and drenching their shirts.
“It... it’s so hard,” he’d sobbed, “I...can’t. Can’t even watch the darned telly without...”
“...They’re everywhere now. Why - why can’t we ever escape? Haven’t we suffered enough?”
It was two of them against the world, it had seemed, that very moment, crying in a bookstore where no one around them bat an eye. Two of them, against a world that didn’t care as it sped towards darkness. Two broken souls, perhaps the only ones who would truly understand their shared pain, as much as everyone around them tried.
The bookstore was full of people; the Main Hub, full of friends. Lizzie was just two shelves down, even. And yet, for the first time in months, the realisation fully settled in, like a cold splash to the face: they were more alone than they ever had been.
“...H-how do you do it, Pearl?” Jimmy had asked softly, after a brief moment, and she remembered giving only an unintelligible querying sound in response. “How... how do you go on everyday, I mean. You’re always well put-together. You’re always... you’re strong. You’re – you cope really well -”
A humourless laugh erupted from her throat, far harsher than she’d meant for it to be. “Do I? Do you see me? Do I really look like I’m coping well? I’m – Jim, I can’t -”
“You’re way more capable than me, at least. I’ve been – sis, I’ve been floundering since the day we came home, I’m supposed to be – I had a mission. I thought I could save everyone. But I can’t even – I can’t even live with the things we see now -”
“And you think I can?”
“You’ve always been stronger than me - ”
“Not stronger,” she sighed, “just angrier. I want to rip Them to shreds. I want to swing my axe and chop Them down like trees. I want vengeance, and that’s what’s keeping me from giving up. Is that...”
“I mean -” he faltered for a moment, “it’s not like you’re going around blowing up at everyone, that’s never been you.” In the past, maybe. Every passing day, she fears ever more she will tip over into that blind, pointless rage; into hurting those who deserved it least. It’s a nightmare that now plagues her, where it had never even occurred before; to wake up to a world where her hands are stained scarlet, the people she loved dead or escaped, terrified of her and the monster she would become.
“’Sides... I’m plenty furious too. I just... look at me. Whatever you’re doing, it’s way more constructive than whatever I’ve been at.”
“It’s also way more exhausting,” she mumbled, holding her brother tighter, “I wouldn’t want that for you. Please... stay as yourself. Or something less destructive than me, at least.”
“...I don’t want to. Not if it means losing you instead.” He returned the gesture. “You’re my little sister. It...should’ve been me instead. Doing all this. Fighting to protect you. Not the other way around.”
“I mean – first of all, Jim, we’re the same age.”
“I’m five months older -”
“- which means we’re the same age. We’ve been twins for a long time. Can you really blame me for wanting to protect you?”
“No, but I can blame myself for being too pathetic to help.”
It had once been rare for her sunny, carefree twin to be so self-deprecating; yet another casualty of the Game laid bare for her to see – his confidence.
“No – Jim, no, you really aren’t -” She struggled to find the words momentarily, “You’re more help to me than you realise, y’know? I know I just said my revenge is what keeps me going, but really...it’s mainly you. And Lizzie, and all our friends, but we’ve been through a lot more together.”
“That’s a lotta pressure from a traumatic bonding trip, not gonna lie.”
“Sorry. Just...you know me. I’d do anything to protect the people I love, and that includes all this fighting. It was always my choice to make, so...don’t blame yourself for it, yeah?”
Silence. They were of the same mind, she knew; that if it were her in Jimmy’s shoes, just the barest change of perspective, she would not be able to make that promise either. It’s not as if she could even forgive herself as she was.
“...I think we’ve spent enough time here,” Pearl had said, finally disentangling herself from the hug, and looked down at her book; there was a small rip in the page, near the spine, where she must’ve torn it in her sheer anxiety. A pang of guilt hit her; damaging books never felt good, even if she’d planned on buying them anyway. “Anything catch your eye?”
“Yeah, these,” Jimmy held the comics up. “I need to binge my Creeper-Man again. Need to catch up. We missed, like, twenty issues in Evo, Pearls, that’s insane. I don’t wanna keep Fwhip waiting too long, he’s been really good about not spoiling me, but apparently he loved the most recent arc, and he’s got lots to say about it when I actually get there...”
A brief levity, pulling them back – just slightly closer – to innocent halcyon days again.
Just above them, the broadcast continued. The Watchers had shifted Their focus, this time to the stragglers at the bottom, who chatted amiably amongst themselves. With no chance to fight for the goal, they seemed to turn to friendship instead; they’d given up, an unforgivable sin in their commentators’ eyes. “It seems they’ll need some incentive,” the host announced mischievously, and seconds later the lava rose, submerging them all.
In the audience, a businessman guffawed, cheering at the scene; he exclaimed, “How thrilling! They’ve been coming up with such fun new ideas these last few months, haven’t They, these Watchers? Wonder if They’ll accept a partnership? With maximum profits for both parties, of course...”
***
The Overworld Pearl steps into is nothing like the streets she’s grown accustomed to.
It’s impressive, yes – far more impressive than anything she’s ever seen in her life, in fact. Buildings of all shapes, sizes and colours, a beautifully crafted, yet starkly mismatched array. A giant model of flight rockets on one side of the main road, a traditional red-brick-and-stone building on the other; a compact, modern, bright red stand with the words FIVE GOATS splashed sleekly across the billboard on its roof, opposite it, an elegant, historical hall floating on a small lake, with beams of dark spruce framing walls of tinted glass. The massive trees seem to twinkle – upon closer inspection, she realises, the trees are laden with genuine diamonds, strung up like strings of the world’s most ostentatious fairy lights.
It’s pure chaos. It’s unrestrained. It’s flagrant extravagance. It’s human.
Surely this shopping district must’ve been a few years, at bare minimum, in the making, she thinks. Something like this couldn’t be a scant few days’ work. More than likely, this was the work of a community, tightly-knit over a great many months together. And she’s an uninvited guest, intruding upon their home out of the blue. Even if she knows she had no other choice, not for her own survival, shame still coils in her gut.
Perhaps a good start would be finding the relevant authorities and working from there? She turns around, and finds herself face-to-face with a neatly lettered sign. The words TOWN HALL immediately stand out to her; it seems she isn’t too far from her destination, at least. She’d have thought that a smaller world – that is, most places that weren’t the Main Hub – would be led by an administrator as the highest authority, but it’s just as well if this place has a government, or whatever other civil service they’ve set up. How big was this world, anyway? Sizable enough to have a dedicated, fairly large and developed shopping district, but...
She re-reads the sign, this time actually focusing on the words – and freezes. For the sign didn’t just read TOWN HALL. In full, it read:
HERMITCRAFT TOWN HALL
Inaugurated on May 3rd 20-- by Steward ̇/ᒷꖎᑑ⚍ᔑ
Offices of the Mayor and Dogcatcher
Please direct all queries and issues regarding the SHOPPING DISTRICT and its upkeep to this location.
Her mind races. Hermitcraft. She is standing in the Hermitcraft. She’s heard of this world before; the memory is bittersweet, the inkling of a hope that, for years, had been thoroughly quashed.
A few months before Grian’s passing, the topic of other worlds beyond Evolution had come up, while the two of them were discussing their future, if there was anything for them beyond the Watchers’ Game. As it would turn out, there would only ever be anything for her; but of course, they couldn’t have known it back then. All they could do, if they dared, was fantasize about other worlds where things could be better.
“I’ve heard – here and there, y’know, from some friends -”
“You have friends?” She’d joked, to which she was met with a pillow chucked gently at her head.
“Yes, I do, little fledgling. Not everyone is as lonely and angsty as you and your emo phase, stop projecting.” The reply had been similarly light-hearted; they both knew, in their hearts, that even if everyone else in the world hated them, they would still have each other. Even ignoring that they were both very well-acquainted with each other’s friends anyway.
“Anyway, apparently, my friend Mumbo, you’ve met him before – he’s been travelling with this group, they call themselves Hermits, their whole collective is called Hermitcraft - they’ve never had any incidents with Watchers before. Zilch. Nothing. No Watchers creating disasters, no sudden Player abductions, none of that.”
“Like, nothing? At all?” She’d stared, surprised. “But then that would mean...”
“Safest world in the universe, yeah. That has been tested, at least, because there’s no way a world of that scale wouldn’t have been picked up by Them by this point.”
“Wow...” It had seemed unbelievable at the time. Too good to be true – but if it was, it would be paradise. “How’re they doing it over there?”
“Dunno.” Was the simple answer. “But, I’ve been in contact with the admin – X, he’s also an acquaintance of mine, I’ve been hoping to learn from him.” Since her brother had taken on the position of admin for Evolution himself months prior, albeit informally; the Watchers had just left the position open for the Players to sort it out amongst themselves. “If ever – no, when we leave this place, I’ve actually got an invitation from him to visit Hermitcraft. Hopefully I can bring everyone along. You, me, Tim, Lizzie... I’m, like, 90% sure she and Joel would be married by then, so him too, I guess. I wouldn’t say no to staying a while there.”
“What if we stayed there forever?” She’d joked, letting the humour cloak the ember of hope, for something so impossible, glowing ever brighter in her heart. “What if we just never left, Griba. We’d be safe there, under their protection, forever.”
“What a nice thought.” He’d replied sadly, with a gentle hug, the only real comfort they could have in that moment. And indeed, what a nice daydream it was. Nothing more.
***
Except it was more than that, clearly, because somehow, she’s standing right here. Her one connection to the place might’ve been lost, but through the years that came after, she would still hear the name come up from time to time; in school, around the Main Hub, from eavesdropped conversations of faraway worlds. Each and every time, the description was unchanging: an island of safety, an idyllic haven devoid of any threat, a bastion where the cruel excesses of the Watchers were unheard of.
It wouldn’t even be inaccurate to call the Hermits legendary by this point – not just for their famed skill, but for how impregnable they were. A step above any other Player, above the worldly troubles others had to face. A secure, closed community – for how else could they ensure their safety? – that couldn’t be simply found; she recalls hearing something about a whitelist carefully curated by its most trusted members, so only the worthy could ever join their ranks. It was no wonder it had seemed like such an impossibility to even step foot into their world, even back then.
Yet she is here, in the promised land, worlds away from the Watchers’ influence. It seems so surreal, being truly safe, for the first time in years.
Logically, she should be overjoyed. Of all the worlds she could’ve been sent to, arriving in Hermitcraft was like winning netherite ingots in a lottery for iron. As a survivor of the Games, she wants nothing more than a home where her worries can be laid to rest; a world where she can lay down her weapons, and live without the pressure to even survive. As a builder, it’s always a thrill to see the works of the greats in person – and so many famous builders were gathered in this one world, too!
But, as a sibling, she can’t shake the bitterness – nor the sadness - that stains her thoughts; she’s here, all alone, with no way to contact her family. No way to bring Lizzie and Jimmy here, to safety with her, even though they needed - deserved it more. She is just a nobody, a complete stranger to most of the Hermits; worse yet, a trespasser, messy and filthy and in no good state to impress them. They could kick her out, send her wandering the void again, much more easily than she’d come in.
I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know anyone here. I’m good at building and terraforming though. Yeah, nah, not a very convincing defence. My brother knew your administrator, and received an invite shortly before his passing. Not only is the reminder painful, it seems unearned to invoke the name of a dead man just to save herself. More than likely, they would think she was the type to simply throw her siblings’ names around and expect some blatant nepotism. Not a good look at all – no, it was just slimy, full stop. She has dignity. She has morals.
And then – her fatigued mind finally catches up to her again, and all those feelings quickly coalesce into a single one: horror.
She’d escaped a Watcher in the Nether. This world’s Nether. This world was no longer safe.
Hermitcraft had been infiltrated.
Never mind her questionable legal status here. Never mind her unsightly appearance. Never mind the rules of this land. Danger is near, and she has to warn the other Players, before it’s too late.
Evolution couldn’t be saved, nor could the Main Hub. But maybe this world could be.
Maybe, for the first time, she could protect everyone.
***
It takes a much longer time than expected to find another Player – a Hermit, Pearl has to constantly remind herself, these are the Hermits.
Such is the difference between a smaller, gated world and the public hub worlds. With so much land shared by so few people, spaces like these would frequently be completely vacant at certain hours, where everyone else was back at their own bases far away, working on their farms and whatnot. The Main Hub, in contrast, would always be bustling with traffic, the sheer volume of Players dependent on it as their main source of necessities ensuring it would never go undisturbed.
The stillness of this pristine town unnerves her. It feels wrong, in a way she can’t seem to find the words to describe. But perhaps she’s just not used to it.
Yet, for all the time it takes to finally catch sight of anyone else, when the Players finally come into view - a pair of horned figures; one tall, with shaggy green fur shielding the glint of burnished steel; the other, shorter and stouter with an amicable face – she still hasn’t quite managed to prepare what she needs to say to them. Simply seeing the Hermits in person has already jumbled her thoughts again with involuntary excitement, any headway she might’ve made completely wiped out.
To say nothing of the fact that the two seem deep in conversation, their eyes occasionally darting about, their voices hushed, as if worried about eavesdroppers. She can’t tell what they’re talking about, but it seems to be something best kept secret, something they won’t appreciate a stranger barging in on.
To even approach them feels a daunting task. But it’s really her only option, as time ticks away to the pounding of her heart, so loud against the silence of the streets; the spectre of their uncertain doom hanging over her and her alone. She could spend an eternity agonising over her words, but she might not even have minutes to spare.
She shrugs off her jacket with a wince; at least her white T-shirt underneath is relatively clean. She wraps the jacket around her waist instead - even as the red is an ugly smear against the soft greys of her jacket, it will draw much less attention when attached to the bottom half of her body, hiding her stained shorts as a bonus. Hopefully she looks at least halfway presentable, and not like some kind of crazed murderer rambling about delusions she can’t prove.
Taking a deep breath, she steps out of the floating glass hall – some sort of Emporium, she hadn’t focused on the name at all – and right into the path of the duo. She ignores the shocked – horrified gasps of the two, and opens her mouth to speak.
“Excuse me, I...I’m sorry to interrupt, but...”
“You – you’re -” The taller man cuts in, voice stern for a moment; yet, a lilt of concern seeps into his voice, growing as he continues, “you’re badly hurt. Are you -”
“I’m fine,” even as every muscle in her body feels as if it is on fire, as if she hadn’t left that lava lake at all. “Just... need to warn everyone. There’s – there’s -”
The words feel so painful to even say, even at this crucial juncture. She can feel the pressure of their visible worry, and panic builds in her chest.
“There’s a Watcher in the Nether.”
No response. No change in their expressions; not fear, not determination, not even relief. Just the same concerned looks, staring her down. “I... I know it’s hard to believe. But please – it’s actually true. I was just there – I... They were chasing me, and -”
“Okay.” The shorter man rests a hand on her shoulder gently. “It’s alright, young miss. Take a deep breath. Relax. Doc and I can help you out. You are safe here.”
No, they weren’t. Any moment now, the Watcher could decide to head to the Overworld, and easily find them here, at the centre of the world. And then...
“Can’t,” she mumbles, “we don’t have much time. We need to get everyone to safety. We can’t afford to – to let Them find us -”
“Why not?”
Two simple words. And yet, as soon as she processes them, everything crashes to a halt.
If the Watcher’s very presence had been an inferno, burning painfully away at her, yet igniting the determination to fight back lying in wait; then this was a pail of cold water, tossed carelessly over the flames, letting them sizzle uncomfortably deep within her. What did he mean, why not?
“If They catch up to us... They won’t – They’ll have Their way with us, and -”
“And why’s that such a bad thing? What’s there to worry about?”
She stares at the shorter man in disbelief – his still-pleasant, oddly calm demeanour, seemingly more concerned about her injuries than the Watcher now chasing them.
Unless – no, this was the only explanation. Surely it simply meant that Hermitcraft was so well-protected, the admins had worked so tirelessly in the shadows to protect their Players, that there could exist Players who never had to fear Them. Who could afford to live their lives, carefree and unknowing, in a place no threat would ever reach. But that was not the case now, and she had a dozen burns to prove it.
“Um, I – I’m not sure how much you two know about Watchers, but – from my experience, They’ve hurt a lot of people in the past -”
“Oh, I know far too much about Them.” The tall green man – Doc? - scowls, yet she can see a look of understanding in his non-mechanical eye; the mechanical one is still harsh and piercing. This understanding, however, doesn’t seem to be shared by his companion.
“I’ve had some experience working with Them too. I don’t remember Them being all that horrible, perhaps you just ran into one of the bad ones? I mean, so long as you don’t offend Them and stay respectful, They should be fine -”
“Impulse. Seriously, stop.”
Thankfully, the green man stops the other – Impulse, presumably – from speaking any further, because if she’d had to hear any more of these platitudes, all the ways people belittled her fears and downplayed the torment she, and all the people she loved, had been through, all the losses they’d suffered – she might just snap.
“Sorry. I’m just saying, you have nothing to fear here. Our Steward’s a good fella, He’ll treat you fairly.”
“Your Steward?” She thinks back to the sign – it wasn’t a position of authority she’d ever heard of, and it didn’t seem to have an office in the Town Hall, but it did seem to hold some considerable power. “What do you mean?”
Before the two men before her can answer, she finds herself suddenly acutely aware of a presence behind her, as their expressions shift – the tall man, to irritation; the short man, to joy. A sweltering pressure, formless and yet weighing heavily on her. A feeling that tingles across her skin, setting off sirens in her head.
The feeling of being Watched.
“You.” Doc growls, at the Watcher behind her, “you, Steward, came at the worst possible time.”
“Easy now, Doc,” Impulse quickly adds, likely attempting to placate Them. “Maybe it’s actually the best time. I’m sure, whatever misunderstanding this is, we can sort it out peacefully. Steward Xelqua, and – this young lady here -”
“Pearl,” she introduces herself numbly.
“We’ve already met,” the Watcher’s voice echoes behind her, Their tone unfathomable.
She turns, face-to-face with that terrifying mask again. Their giant wings, neatly folded, pristine beside her bedraggled, almost-unusable pair. Even as her guts turn to ice and her limbs, involuntarily, tremble simply standing still, she will remain defiant till the end. If the other two men can’t protect themselves, she has to at least try, for them. She will not bow down. (Well, actually, she might have to, if only to maintain eye contact with the Watcher, whom, she dimly registers, is significantly shorter than her.)
“You will not hurt them,” she manages to gasp, though every breath seems shorter, more difficult than the last, straining against the tightness in her lungs.
“I won’t.” They, unexpectedly, agree. No, it has to be one of Their tricks. “You’re badly injured.” And who’s to blame for that? Besides herself and her own recklessness, that is. “Are these two not...?”
“We were just about to get that sorted,” Impulse replies. “Pearl, right? We’ll get you fixed up. Just relax, and come with us, peacefully -”
“...No. No, thank you.” She grits out, “I don’t need your pity. I just need – I need everyone to be safe -”
“- Which they’ll be. Perfectly safe and sound. I’m not here for a fight. You have my word, little fledgling.”
She freezes, processing the last few words. Then, red floods her vision, and she feels a surge of anger well up within her, a renewed burst of strength.
“Keep that nickname out of your mouth!” She snarls, lunging at the Watcher. For They had the gall to taunt her, disguising it in cloying kindness, letting her seem unreasonable and completely insane; with what They’d taken, with a reminder of her grief, her greatest failure. “How dare you taint the memory of the people you’ve killed, with your lies!”
She dives forward, yet their form seems so unreachable, simply stepping back to watch her fall. The momentum carries her to a stumble, crashing to the ground gracelessly. As she tries to get up, she feels herself being restrained, arms suddenly bent and interlocked with another, hairier, sturdier pair. The world around her seems to swim, revolving around the Watcher’s visage, looking down on her, devoid of any emotion.
The other two men’s faces join Theirs, blotting out the sun above her, and she can barely absorb snatches of their conversation; realising, with horror, who was restraining her. The Players, obediently, holding her down, chaining her up, sealing her fate.
Her last thoughts, before the world fades into a black void, are a tortuous maelstrom; shame, that she hadn’t been strong enough, despite all the effort she’d put into training; guilt, that she couldn’t avenge the people she’d lost after all; and, more than anything -
Betrayal.