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    Summary

    It’s a bright Hermitcraft day. Grian wouldn’t know, he thinks wistfully, as he is not outside in it; he is sitting in a bedrock cell. Bedrock below him, bedrock all around him, bedrock above him. Not even a window— that’s just inhumane. The sky was a clear dizzying blue when he woke up this morning, perfect mischief-causing weather, and he is in agony over his mischief-causing being interrupted. It’s a beautiful sky for flying in. 

    ConCorp’s trap dragged him right out of it. 

    “If it isn’t our delightful little trophy,” Scar says as he strolls into the cell that Grian’s been sitting alone in for a few hours now since the trap deposited him into it, and the delight is in Scar’s words and his tone and his expression, his body language, leaning forward to rest artfully on his cane.

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