Archive of Our Own

Brandon just needs to go out and touch some grass.

He sighs, shaky and unsure. Seconds pass, maybe a full minute, and he's just staring down at the floor where he dropped his mug previously full of coffee. Some of it has even seeped into his slippers by now. Fuck.

A violent shudder breaks him free from his trance. He steps back immediately, making a noise of distaste at the trail his slippers leave behind, so he steps out of them and rushes to grab a towel. What's up with him lately? He manages to clean up just fine, but the fact that he even dropped his mug at all is so … unlike himself. Thank goodness there's no one else home to hear about this.

Forget the coffee, he should really go outside for a bit. Wasn't he out of eggs? He kicks himself into grabbing his shoes and jacket, leaning against the wall to get his shoes on with mild effort. Then he shrugs his jacket on, grabs his phone, wallet and keys, and steps towards his door.

But even the idea of going outside has his stomach twist into a knot that gets tighter and tighter the more he reaches for the door handle. Anxiety sets its teeth into his lungs and the small breath of air he does manage to suck in does nothing to help the heat blooming across his face. He really doesn't want to go outside. What reason does he even have to go outside? He could just bug Leo to get groceries, or order them. His nose wrinkles in distaste at the thought of talking to anyone at all.

What's wrong with him? The thoughts are overwhelming, whispering into his ear, begging him to stay home, making the sweat break out on his forehead as soon as he even touches the handle, words that scare him more, some words that he swears he doesn't know the language of.

Brandon pulls his hand back, and it all quiets down. He sighs again. This is weird, though he can't seem to find the energy within himself to argue with the thoughts. His hand falls back to his side and all the energy he had to go out evaporates from his body.

It's fine, right? He can just stay home and play more Prominence. At the idea, his head twists towards his room, like he can see it through the walls. Yeah, he should go play some more; he has a video to finish anyways.

He's in his room before he knows it. He kicks off his shoes without thought. He never turns on the lights—his curtains are still drawn. But his PC is on, and it takes three simple clicks before the modpack is once again loading. He drops down into his chair and finally, his shoulders sag with quiet relief. His fingers rest over the WASD buttons, his other hand resting atop his mouse and tapping a finger impatiently against the left button. His eyes are absolutely glued to the loading screen.

Any and all thoughts about going outside or talking to someone are forcefully shoved to the back of his mind. Now, there's eyes on him, he's being watched, he's expected to perform.

Isn't it a shame his recording software is left completely untouched?

He blows out a breath. When the red of the loading screen dissipates, the sight of the main menu faces him. His gaze drags over the figure clad in yellow. Even here, safe in his room, he feels small, as if he's standing at the foot of it and looking up at it's great magnificence. He's stuck with a lump in his throat, unable to be swallowed down when he tries. It feels like that thing is staring straight back at him.

After a moment, he clicks onto the singleplayer tab. As soon as he's there, a deep breath escapes him. He sits back in his chair, unaware of how much he leaned forward towards his screen. But here he's fine, it seems. Another shiver runs through him.

Something about this damn modpack messes with him. At least he could still recognise that somewhat. He hasn't been feeling the same since starting this second playthrough, since the update to the pack. He hasn't been feeling sane. His world twisted and turned when he didn't look at his screen. The bosses of the pack haunted his dreams. The narrator spoke to him in his less than waking moments. The language of ancient beings in the game were written across his eyelids whenever he blinked.

Maybe he needs help—professional help. Or he could just close the game? He should close the game. His eyes flick over to the button that would close him out of the game. It would be so simple. He could quit this all, right now.

His mouse hovers over the play button for his most recent world. It's fine. It's so fine. He can finish the pack, finish his video and be done with it forever. He'll be okay.

He presses play. The game freezes before it loads. Brandon breathes in, breathes out, stares at his screen, waits for it to load. He can't help but notice how it seems to take longer to load this time. Another small update? He rolls his shoulders, and waits.

His screens cut out the second the game loads in. His mouth falls open. In the darkness of his unlit room, he can barely make out the shape of himself in the reflection of his screen. He's frozen, rooted to the spot. His hand is locked onto his mouse where he should tear it loose and try to restart his pc. A nervous hum leaves his lips.

The nerves come back. They crawl along his spine slowly but surely, like a bug climbing over his bare skin. For the first time in days, everything's quiet. He hears his own breath out, sees the clouds they make in the icy air.

Wait what?

Brandon looks down at his hands. Only now does he feel the biting cold. Doesn't he have heating on? What time of the year even is it? When he turns his head towards his phone to check date and finds it laying discarded on the edge of his desk, a headache makes itself known like a jab through his skull, and he immediately turns back to his monitor, where it dies back down. Oh … fuck.

Now, the real panic starts to settle in his guts. Every glance away from his setup brings a headache like an air horn going off inside his head before only to dissipate when he turns back. He taps his fingers on his keyboard and mouse. They're shaking worse than he wants to admit.

The button on the body of his pc used to turn it on and off is blinking, slowly, innocently. It's the only thing he can look at in his room without being punished. Nothing good can be waiting for him when he turns his pc back on, but what else can he do? He just needs to swallow down the worst of his anxiety and panic and reach over, then press it and wait for it to turn back on. Surely nothing will actually happen. This is all one big, weird coincidence. He's being paranoid. Even so, he has to hype himself up before ripping his hand loose and pressing the button.

As soon as he touches it, his eyes roll up into his skull and he slumps over on his desk. He's out cold in an instant.

There's howling. Minute recognises it as wind blowing through treetops in winter landscapes, a haunting tune reminding him of holidays with his family when he was still a little boy. He's not sure how long he lies there, listening to the noise that's both calming and terrifying. His body feels heavy, tired, cold most of all.

When he finally gets the energy, and the courage, he cracks open an eye. Instead of the sight of RGB lights in his setup, he's met with a white and grey blob. He doesn't try to stop the confused hum from slipping out. Blinking the blur from his eyes, he frowns at what he sees.

Is that … snow? There's flakes dancing in front of his face at his breath out. More fall after, landing on the ground underneath him and also settling peacefully on top of him. He can't remember it snowing. Trying to get the puzzle pieces together is hard with the way his mind still pulls at him, drowsy from sleep. Maybe he did go out. Maybe he went out for groceries and blacked out because he slipped.

He's trying so hard not to panic. Sitting up gives him a better view of his surroundings, but it doesn't end up being any better than before. He blinks, once, twice, at the sight of a tower in front of him. Not any kind of modern tower. No, it's cracked and broken but still scratching high in the sky like some old medieval tower of great importance, yet one lost to time.

And he recognises it. The worst part is that he knows what tower it is.

"Surely not?" he begs no one but himself. Tears well up in his eyes but he blames the cold that seeps through his tee and jeans. He's fucking freezing but he can't even lie to himself and say he's hallucinating.

That's the Lich Tower. He's sitting in the snow in front of the Lich Tower. He's played this modpack more than enough to know exactly what it is.

In a haze, he gets up onto his feet, despite the weird feelings in his limbs. He stumbles onto the ice and carefully slides his way over to the foot of the tower. A couple dozen holes litter the icy lake, and his mind supplies him with the knowledge that this was his own doing. His first boss fight, his fight with the Lich King.

His lips form a thin line. Everything about this is horrible. He only needs to reach out and touch the bricks of the Tower to feel just how real the bricks are. He can scratch the ice from the stone and it collects underneath his nails, painfully cold. His laugh of ridicule makes another cloud appear in the air in front of him. He laughs, unable to stop himself, and catches himself on the stone because the laughing nearly makes him collapse.

The tears start to flow—and how they freeze on his skin just makes him cry more. His stomach lurches. He feels sick, empty as his stomach seems to be. He really stands no chance trying to stop his body from convulsing. At least his knees catch him when he falls but there's nothing to help him when his stomach empties itself onto the ice.

And even when he's done, his body doesn't leave him to rest; his next breath in is as deep as it is useless and it leaves him again immediately. He reaches for his chest and throat, but he can't breathe properly. Is he hyperventilating? He's probably hyperventilating. It doesn't feel good.

Tears keep coming and he has to crawl into the tower. It shields him from at least a little bit of the wind, but not nearly enough. He cowers against the stone, pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs them so tight it's undoubtedly going to wear him out. But his eyes stay wide and he breathes in and out faster and faster.

He's stuck here. He's in fucking Prominence and he's having a killer panic attack. The knowledge hurts his chest more than the hyperventilating can.

He has no idea how long he's there. By the time he comes back to awareness, he's numb to the cold and his fingers hardly budge. The sky has gone dark.

Swallowing whatever saliva hasn't frozen yet, he forces himself onto his feet. The cold here is brutal, and he flinches at the sharp pain when he scratches the crystallised tears off his cheeks. Breathing hardly forms clouds anymore. He's definitely dying, right? And, sue him, he doesn't want to find out what happens when he dies. He's not sure he'd meet God here, in this game. The gods he does know from this modpack aren't ones he'd like to meet in person.

He steps onto the ice and skates to the other side of the lake. Ruins await him but he skips past them. There's a house, lit and hopefully safe. His feet are dragged through the snow with every step. The urge to collapse is strong. But he must resist. Gravity drags him down. Must … resist. His body is so heavy. He has to … keep going.

He falls through the door more than he opens it, but at least he's inside. A weak cry of relief escapes past his lips at the warmth that envelops him. The house has a bed and it's all he can see. He crawls and stumbles over to it, feet catching on the wooden planks of the floor, and promptly collapses. Once again, he's out cold before he even hits the soft sheets.

That night, his dreams are still vague, but more clear than they have been in a while. Ominous figures the size of mountains looming over him. Himself, weak and frail, kneeling at the foot of them. There's not a lot he knows in this dream, but he does know he's too powerless to do anything to change his fate. The chanting grows loud. His mind is too full. He doesn't understand the things he's seeing, he doesn't even understand the world around him. He just knows there's no fighting the purple-black tendrils wrapped around his arms and legs to keep him locked in place. He's stuck here.

When he wakes, it's not to sunlight coming through the window. It's definitely not to the sight of his own room. Disappointment and anxiety weigh heavy on his mind, and he curls his fingers into the sheets to pull them over his head. He's still so cold.

There's no one to see how he tears up, hidden away under the covers of a bed that isn't his own, that isn't even comfortable. His body trembles against his will. Slowly, his breaths in and out warm up the space underneath the covers, but he can't stop his shaking. Because, let's be real, he's completely fucked out here. He doesn't want to know how many hits it'll take to kill him.

Does he even respawn upon death?

He shivers more violently, curling in on himself. His body feels too weak and frail in his own arms. He's not ready to die yet. The horrors out in this world are all out to kill him, what are the chances he survives even one night out? He bites his lip to swallow a noise at the grief already settling around his heart. There will be nothing but death out here for him—he fully believes it's exactly what that thing wants too.

But really, he can't just sit by and let that happen. If there's anything he doesn't do, it's giving up. The sheer amount of modpacks he's played that have tried to break him and failed to prove that point. And he knows this modpack, doesn't he? He played it before. The memories of where his base used to be, what weapons to craft, what to do in order to survive, it's all still there in his mind. This is the exact world he used to beat it once. Maybe he doesn't need to beat it again, but the least he can do is survive. He has the knowledge, he can get the tools in time.

Brandon blows out a deep breath. He's not going out so easily. The covers are thrown off him and he uses his hand to wipe his tears. When he sits on the edge of the bed to get up, he notices with a grimace that he doesn't quite have any feeling in his feet yet, and wiggling his toes doesn't help too much. Trudging through the snow in his socks hadn't been the best idea.

He shakes his head, ignores it, and gets up despite the shakes. He'll just have to find some shoes, surely there are plenty. A chest in the other corner of the house catches his attention at the thought and he stumbles over, kneeling down to open it up and look at the contents.

Flint. Arrows. An apple. Rotten flesh and some string. He takes the apple and sets his teeth into it, shivering from relief at the sweet taste and instant revitalisation it seems to give his body. As he does, his eyes fall onto two of the most useful items in the chest. He's almost … scared … to grab them. First, he grabs the other items—they disappear into his inventory, and he refuses to dwell on how the hell that even works—and only then does he reach out for the last items at the bottom of the chest.

An iron claymore is the first to take his attention. He wraps a hand around the handle, fails to lift it up, then grabs it with both hands.

"Holy fuck—" He groans as he lifts it free from the chest and drags it out, arms shaking with the effort. He grits his teeth to lift it further, but the weapon clatters to the ground as soon as the tip slips off the edge of the chest and he's taken down with it.

Uselessly, he stares at the claymore like it personally slighted him. Okay, slight issue; he can't lift the damn weapons. Is that the fault of the weapon or is he just weak? He glares at it from where he sits. Perhaps he kind of, sort of, somewhat started slacking in eating meals while playing Prominence. Whatever, okay?

The claymore is shoved into his inventory—the weight of which he somehow doesn't feel at all, but he still doesn't want to think about it too much. Instead of that, he grabs the remaining weapon; two identical iron sickles. They suck, if only because he doesn't want to get anywhere near mobs that want to kill him, they're not good for range in the slightest. But he has no choice but to take those. They're not too heavy in his hands, and he carefully twists them around in a way that almost looks like he knows how to use them.

He turns to the door. Now that he knows what to do and where to go, all he needs is to gather his courage and step out the door into the cold. His old base is waiting for him half a world away and the sooner he gets there the sooner he can dress up warmly and be safe. The journey will be uncomfortable, but he has nothing better to do anyway.

The wind is howling ominously, growing into something deafening when he pushes the door open a crack. It carries the sound of groaning zombies. He has no way around them unless he runs, and he should surely save his energy for the journey.

He lets his head fall against the door after he closes it. No armour, no food, just his sickles and half a frozen body to fight mobs ten times stronger than him. He's been set up to fail.

He doesn't even know how to kill.

Ignoring the nausea threatening again, he shoves the door open before he can change his mind and cower in bed any longer. Immediately, the two zombies that were lingering ahead turn their rotten heads towards him. In a way that's somehow even clumsier than Brandon himself, they start to step toward him. Face pulled into a look of great discomfort, he clings onto the handles of his sickles like they're his lifeline.

Rotten flesh is a smell he really hoped to never come across. He wrinkles his nose at it and the sight of them as they inch closer and closer, greedy hands outstretched to grab at him, flesh green from how dead they are. He's frozen for a moment, unable to look away from their glossy eyes and rotten teeth.

And then they're close enough and he steels himself with a deep breath in and out. In a way that makes it damn obvious he's never held a weapon before, he slashes at the closest one's arm. The iron blade of the sickle is sharp enough to cut a hand clean off, but as it drops to the ground Brandon is the one who exclaims in a panic, disgust rolling around in his stomach and making it very known he just ate an apple.

He gets no time to deal with it. He has to grit his teeth and lash out again, though it just slices through the air with a swoosh and leaves him vulnerable for the free claws of the other zombie. Scratching across his bare arm, he yells and backs off until he feels the stairs leading up to the house against his heels. If he backs up any more, he'll be cornered.

Warm, boiling blood wells up from the scratches and he nearly makes the mistake of looking. Instead, he steps up a step, two, three, until he towers over them. Before they can figure out how to climb the stairs, he leaps. Claws graze at his feet, his heart is pounding in his throat.

The ground is uneven where he lands behind the zombies. He sticks the landing somehow—if he fell, those sickles would've ended up in nasty places—and only has to stumble a little before he can start running. He doesn't even look back at the zombies; their hungry groans are enough to push him to run faster. His socks get wet from the snow, uncomfortable and ice, ice cold.

Adrenaline keeps him going until the sun paints the sky red. He doesn't stop for the arrows that shoot past his head, nor the cackling of witches, the groans of a dozen more zombies, even the unmistakable hum of an illusioner spelling doom for him if he so much as looks over.

He finds bread in a lonely camp that's long ago been abandoned. It's stale on his tongue, old and a day or two away from rotten. He just deals with it, and keeps running as soon as he finishes the piece.

Sunlight keeps him from freezing. He's made it out of the tundra a while ago, though he couldn't say when exactly this was. In his mind is an imaginary line that he follows to his base, to safety. All he needs to do is follow it and stop only out of necessity. Random chests get him a handful of food, more arrows, and a half-broken bow to keep him safe whenever a stray mob gets a little too interested in him.

The sun sets again. A creeper stands between him and his destination. He nocks an arrow into the bow, takes a few deep breaths, grits his teeth, and lets the arrow go. He can't even follow the arrow until it's buried in the creeper's skull through its eye, and he looks away with a flinch, a shock going through his whole system at the sight. But it hisses, a glance proves its now noticed him and is stalking closer. He gets a few seconds at most to nock another arrow and let it loose.

He watches the body drop. This time, his stomach protests too much at the sight of arrows sticking from the green fur and he rushes to the nearest tree to lean against it and throw up a second time.

"Oh my goodness." His head leans against the tree, tears welling up in his eyes. "I'm not fucking made for this." He's not sure who he's talking to, maybe the entity that got him here in the first place. Maybe he's just mumbling to himself in a now empty forest.

He doesn't bother stopping the tears when he scoops up the gunpowder left in the wake of the dead creeper. He apologises to it too. Guts twisting in guilt, he berates himself for being so selfish when he could've just walked past.

After that, he kicks himself to just keep going. This forest isn't ending.

Despite that fact that nothing's blocky here, he recognises the forest his base is at in an instant. The sight of those tall trees get his heart pumping, hope flaring up in his chest. He'd slowed down to a walk, but now he gets himself to run once again at the promise of a home, of safety, of good food and means to protect himself. A laugh even escapes him at hints of a house that's much too familiar to him.

He nearly crashes into it. Is it weird that he lays his hands on the base of the building and thanks it quietly? It's a little weird. He still does it.

Circling the bottom of it, he knows exactly where to find the entrance. He giggles at a line being strung from the balcony to a tree, from which hang fresh clothes like they're a gift to him. Though he doesn't feel like wearing a suit—he's not ready to become like his Minecraft skin just yet—he snatches the warm and dry socks from the line and books it up the stairs to find himself inside.

He struggles into the fresh socks as he takes in the chests stacked up against the wall. As soon as he's free from his fight with them because he refused to sit down for it, he zips to the first chest and peeks inside. With a greed he's never felt before, he snatches up the nearest flaming sword and grins. He grabs a few baubles that he knows will help him a lot—some give him health, others luck or arcane strength. The cross necklace is one that makes him pause, and he chuckles with a small laugh. Isn't a cross so out of place for a world like this? He wraps it around his neck anyway.

The basement is even more promising. Immediately, he finds a set of diamond armour on a stand just waiting to be used by him. His laugh is so giddy; he feels like a little kid in a candy store who's just been told he can take anything he wants. Even if the villagers give him odd looks, he grabs everything he can get his greedy hands on.

Diamond boots feel like a huge weight off his shoulder when he gets them on. They're heavy and a hell to get on, but when he stands and looks down at himself, pride washes over him. He's survived long enough to get here, and he's getting good loot out of it? Yeah, he's doing just fine.

He hums a soft tune to himself as he gets the leggings on. The weight of the armour is insane when he straps the final clasp tight so it can rest comfortably around his waist, and he grimaces at the test steps around the base he takes. How is anyone meant to move in these? He feels so clumsy. The chestplate doesn't promise much better results. Out of all the pieces, that one is the worst to lift off the armour stand and settle down next to the crafting table.

A problem for later, apparently. He abandons his task and moves around the basement to take it all in instead. All the villagers give him a look of mild curiosity before they go back to conversing in a language he doesn't even try to understand. The enchanting setup has him baffled, so he leaves that for later and gapes at the displayed weapons instead for as long as he wants.

There's a bed waiting for him. As soon as he curls a hand into the covers, he feels a sensation surge through him. He purses his lips at the realisation. He might have just set his respawn point. Hopefully he never finds out of it actually works or not; he's going to treat this like a hardcore playthrough, and he's never going to die.

It finally reminds him to pay attention to the weight on his wrist. Since appearing here, he's been ignoring it, but now he can finally raise his arm and stare at the device. The screen lights up, like an old game console, he can't help his slight laugh. Compared to his phone, this thing feels clunky but sturdy. He swipes to explore the thing, seeing a couple chats, settings, a map, maybe more. What does he even call this thing?

A noise outside has him freezing. Whistling, not some random zombie groan. All the blood drains from his face.

He abandons the bed and finds a corner to hide in as soon as footsteps come down the stairs to the basement. His corner is just by the side of the fence that acts as a door in and out, and he hears the way this person stops whistling as soon as they make it down there. Brandon holds his breath. A player. It's an actual player.

The fence gate opens and closes. Footsteps head further into the basement. A few villagers hum a greeting like they know this player. Brandon pushes himself further into the wall. From here, he should be fully hidden from view unless they look straight at him from the furthest corner of the room. He hopes the chances of that happening are really fucking low.

"That isn't where I left you."

Now Brandon can't even breathe if he wants to. That's his own voice. He just heard himself. With shaking hands, he grabs at the wall and dares a glance beyond it into the basement. What he sees makes his stomach drop.

Two sets of jet-black wings. A thin tail curling and swishing in agitation. This person's back is turned to him but Brandon doesn't miss the way he picks up the chestplate left by the crafting table. It's returned to the armour stand, where this Minute hums thoughtfully and looks around the base. He doesn't notice the extra person in the base even if his glowing, white eyes flick through the rest of his things, glueing to the pedestal a weapon of his is missing too.

Now would be his chance to run. Brandon watches Minute walk to the other side of the basement and his cowardly heart beats against his chest like a drum, almost loud enough to have the other hear it too. He sneaks out of his spot towards the fence. If he's quiet enough, he can get out without Minute noticing.

Why is he even this scared? There's a chance this doesn't have to get ugly if he just surrenders and tells him what's up. But he's terrified, his body and mind begging him to get away from danger while he can.

The fence creaks when he pushes it open. Two heads snap toward each other, their eyes meet, and his heart sinks down to his stomach.

He's the first to move. Before Minute can shout his "hey, wait!", Brandon is already halfway up the stairs. He doesn't bother trying to hide again. He runs into the dark, into the forest, no destination in mind, just putting one foot in front of the other.

The armour weighs him down yet at the same time gives him strength as the enchantments on it glow and work their magic. He can't spend any time appreciating it, not when an arrow buries itself to the feathers into a tree right next to him. A yelp escapes him and he can't help the way he veers to the opposite side of where the arrow hit.

For a moment, he's foolish enough to think he might outrun his other self. That one second, hopeful as he feels, makes him feel like gravity no longer holds him, like he's flying through this forest.

Then pain rages through his body and he's sent crashing into the moss and grass. His cry comes a few seconds too late, when the sting of the attack is registered by his body. He pushes himself up, fingers digging into the dirt, then finally sees the source of his agony.

Another arrow, tainted with a purple-black something that twists and flows off the arrow like thick smoke, pokes through his shoulder. His mouth drops open. A shaking hand comes up to reach for the arrow but he's too scared to touch it. Blood is dripping freely from the wooden shaft. More of it stains his shirt, colouring it a dark red.

The gasp that leaves him is one of horror. He's just been shot. Fuck. Minute is not a friendly.

As soon as he tries to scramble back onto his feet, a kick shoves him back down. His mouth fills with moss and muffles his scream when the arrow is forced back up the way it came under his weight.

No, he can't die here. This can't be how he dies.

Brandon sobs, pushes himself back up with even weaker arms. "Please—" he begs, but it comes out strangled, warped with pain. From the corners of his eyes he can make out the tips of dual blades, ones he recognises because he remembers making them. Ash, Remnant of the Sun and Edar, the Penumbra; weapons that can kill him in an instant. That will kill him in an instant.

Minute makes a sound of disgust and it's the only warning he gets before one of the weapons is lifted. He only has time to breathe in before the sun-warm sword is stabbed between his shoulder blades, forcing him back into the ground, the blade gliding through his body with no effort.

The last thing he can do is gasp weakly. He can die here apparently. How disappointed will his friends be if they ever find out this is all that took to kill him? He sags in place, the pain fading to a distant afterthought, and he only thinks of his friends' faces, the confusion they might feel when they see he's disappeared. Or maybe, he realises in a last spark of hope, he'll wake up back home and this will have been a horrifically realistic nightmare. One can dream.

Brandon gives up fighting and lets the blackness take over his vision. Everything becomes blissfully … nothing.

He wakes up screaming a second later. Eyes open wide before he can help it. He scrambles back in the bed he finds himself in. His whole body is weird and everything feels weird and the pain is still there but it's weird. Everything feels like it's knitting back together after being ripped apart, reformed from sludge and ink and forming who he's supposed to be but it's not him because he just fucking died.

His voice dies moments later. The tears don't stop streaming down his face. That knitting together hurts, nearly more than the arrow and sword themselves did. He sobs, pushing himself against the wall until there's no more space to back up in.

Apparently, his crying summoned Minute again. Despite the tears, he sees the intimidating shape of him enter the base, and he pulls the covers closer like it'll stop the pain from coming. Distantly, he hears himself beg for mercy. Like a small, helpless child, he cowers further into the wall. His throat feels raw, rough like every other part of his body.

He doesn't want to die again. He doesn't want to have to go through that all again.

Minute shushes him, quietly, calmly. He's slow to approach, hands raised. When he sits down, a clawed hand comes to rest over his knee. Brandon feels the warmth seep through the covers. Another sob crawls up his throat, unable to be kept in.

"Hey," the other says, and Brandon flinches at the sound of his own voice. None of this is right.

He sniffs, hugging his knees tight. After a long while of gathering the courage, finding his voice and clearing his throat, he manages his own "hi," quietly and unsurely. Minute frowns at the sound too. Things finally seem to click.

"You're me?"

He swallows the lump in his throat and nods. In no world did he expect his Minecraft self to look like this. The fanart hardly did him justice, with the double wings that looked like those of a bat or a dragon. His sharp teeth and claws, the tail slapping quietly onto the bed, those unnaturally bright eyes. Maybe they did do him justice, a little, but seeing him right here in front of him is another thing entirely.

He snaps his gaze to the hand resting on his knee. Minute isn't hurting him, doesn't sound like he will. Curiosity is what's sparking the slight frown on his face.

Brandon collects all the courage he has left—albeit very little, at this point—and lets go of the covers with one hand to rest it over Minute's. The hand is warm, the skin smooth with a couple scales that he catches on with his fingers as he trails some unknown shape over it. In the end, it's just real. Minute is real. He blows out a deep breath.

"Where did you come from?"

The logical next question. Brandon's eyes snap up to Minute's and he quickly looks away again. How is he supposed to explain that this is a video game world he used to control? Even thinking about it forces the whole situation to make less sense. The questions of how and when and where and how especially make his brain fill up with noise and fuzz, he doesn't know how to even begin figuring this out.

"I don't know." He answers, and lets his head hang a little. He really hopes that answer doesn't piss the other off. "I'm not from this world, I just … I don't know. I'm not sure how I got here."

The look he gets is one of sympathy. "Is this … Have you died before?" he asks and grimaces at how Brandon shrinks in on himself. "I'm sorry, I didn't—I didn't know you were another player. That was awful of me, I'm sorry."

He can't even say it's okay. It wasn't. Thinking about it has him feeling all the pains from respawn all over again.

Something must have shown on his face because Minute gently squeezes his knee. "Can I see? I can check if it healed right." And his worried look is impossible to deny, so after a nod, Brandon lets him peel the covers off him and motions for him to turn around.

Anxiety squeezes Brandon's heart tight. For a moment, he can't breathe when Minute lifts his shirt up enough to see. He could just be offering up his life again, and the knowledge he'd respawn isn't enough to calm his nerves.

A hand ghosts over the injuries. Even soft touches have him arching away, teeth settling in his bottom lip to keep a pained noise inside. Attention to his wounds makes a soul-deep agony twist through his body once again; he can feel the sword sitting between flesh and bone, and he can feel the arrow shifting around in his shoulder. They're no longer there, he knows it's phantom pain, yet he stays still, tense, frozen to the spot like it'll help keep the pain to a minimum.

"I guess first respawns are always a bit rough," Minute mumbles. "Here, eat this."

An apple is presented to him, shining his black hand, crust golden and beautiful. Brandon slowly takes it. He can see the torch's flames reflect on the crust. Isn't it so silly, how it's hardly heavier than a normal apple?

Gingerly, he sets his teeth into it and takes a bite. The juices are sweet and leave that odd feeling that makes his tongue tingle, he feels the effects as soon as he swallows his bite. His whole body perks up. Suddenly, every breath he takes fills him with confidence and every muscle feels healthier than he's ever felt before.

"First golden apple too then, I assume." Minute laughs softly. He keeps the shirt up for a moment longer, like he's inspecting if the golden apple is doing a proper job. Then he drops it. "How much do you know about this place? This world?"

He swallows down another bite. Each one is better than the last. The pause gives him a good second to think of his reply.

"I know a lot. I just …" How is he really meant to explain? "I haven't experienced any of this. Where I come from, things work differently, I guess."

"Your world has different rules," Minute finishes for him.

A smile pulls at his lips. "Exactly." He takes another bite. The nerves are starting to ease up. He's not entirely sure what to make of Minute, how much he should see himself in the guy, but he's gentle when he squeezes Brandon's shoulder.

"It's a lot more peaceful there, isn't it? You don't … have any scars." Minute's hand lingers. "You feel a lot more …"

"Weak?" Brandon bites down on the half-eaten apple to hide the way his face flushes with embarrassment. He didn't even think of that. Just how much do they differ in strength? The first impression he got of Minute was the feeling he could snap him like a twig.

"You're not weak. I would've said frail but you're not. You've never had to fight, have you?"

He shrugs. "Not to the death. I punched some guy who made fun of my friend once, does that count?"

Minute laughs softly. The bed dips from his weight when he leans back, and Brandon looks back over his shoulder just in time to see him get up. The armour he'd stolen is put back on the stand, but he moves to the crafting table. After some time, Brandon sees a set of iron armour appear, piece by piece, and he sits on the edge of the bed to watch.

"You say that's weak, but not having to fight every day of your life is a good thing. Not everyone is so lucky."

Brandon nods solemnly. He knows it, just not in the way Minute implies.

"Here, this is better to train in." The set is shown to him. Despite not being as fancy or enchanted as the other set, it feels a lot more his level. "Though you should rest first."

Brandon nods. Then his face gets caught in a frown. "Train? We're training?"

"Yes, bro." Minute smiles—the fondness dispels all the remaining fear. "In this world, outrunning your problems isn't an option. You'll need to learn how to use your weapons and harness the magic of this world if you want to survive. There's a lot to learn. As soon as you've rested up, we're starting."

He just nods. The idea both excites and terrifies him; conjuring up the mental image of himself in full armour wielding weapons of great power twists his stomach into knots. What if he can't do it? What if he can? He's not sure he can stand the idea of killing again.

Minute's look softens and he moves the set elsewhere. "Don't worry about it, I'll let you get some rest. There's a bedroom upstairs, you can stay there if you want? I'm going to be working on some gear, I don't want to keep you up."

A good offer he considers taking. Minute's house is safe, and he'll be able to sleep for as long as he needs. But then again, is there any safer place than right here? If anything happens, he doesn't exactly trust in his own abilities to fight. Plus, he's beginning to see the outlines of ancient words against his eyelids again every time he blinks. Staying here with Minute won't protect him from that, but it's a comfort he can't deny.

"Can I stay here?"

The other shrugs, not without his own gentleness. "Your call, bro. I don't mind."

Brandon makes himself comfortable after that. Minute is perfectly content to quietly get to work when he's sure they're both fine. A silence only broken by methodic and tedious work settles between them, not leaving him much of a chance to stay awake. Exhaustion gets his eyelids to shut themselves after a while of watching the other work.

And he's safe. He's safe here now.

His dreams are filled with these strange but not unfamiliar lands. Biomes that he knows but hardly recognises without their blocky textures. Magic that tingles on his hands. Laughter that fills his lungs.

Minecraft is a beautiful place. His dreams show him the technological wonders possible here. They show him mystical places that fill him with overwhelming joy.

Then he finds himself in a shadowy vale enshrouded in mist and the magic of it all shatters. Purple-yellow eyes turn to him. He can't count them, so many. When he breathes in, the taste is wrong on his tongue. Are these eyes speaking to him? Tears prick in his eyes. It's a language he still doesn't understand and one that sounds painful to speak, low and guttural tones he'd never dare to make because it might rip his throat apart.

"Get away from me!" he shouts at the eyes but it only gives the chance for more mist to enter his lungs. Coughs rip from his throat. All it does for him is have the eyes inch closer in curiosity, circling around him like hungry vultures waiting for him to drop.

He turns away from them. His worst mistake yet. Instantly, his own eyes are caught on the mountainous figure looming over him. For the first time since this started, Brandon feels the weight of it's presence like he's actually standing in front of it.

He knows it's impossibly large. He knows the power it holds over this world is unimaginable. He knows the longer he stares at the shadows underneath it's hood, the less he'll understand about what it means to be alive in such a presence.

But he can't look away. Tears well up in his eyes.

His insignificance compared to Minute is already pathetic. This? He's hardly an ant at the foot of a giant. What does it want from him? What does it want? What does it want from him?

"Brandon!"

He heaves for air. His own voice is coming from the mist somewhere, and yet he can't get himself to turn to it. He's useless, too small, too weak, too—

"Wake up!"

A bucket of water is thrown over him and finally, finally, his eyes snap open. He sits up, a gasp torn from his throat, body rigid at the freezing cold droplets soaking into every inch of his upper body. The misty valley is gone in the blink of an eye. He has to squint against torchlight, such a harsh contrast from that dark and gloomy place.

Minute is standing in front of him. The second their eyes meet, the bigger of the two's gaze hardens from worry to something he can't name. Brandon is pulled to his feet, shivering as he is, and given a full look-over. He's even turned around like a damn doll.

"What the hell?" he asks, though his voice cracks. He wraps his arms around himself, making a show of telling Minute just how cold he is.

"Corruption."

Brandon turns to watch Minute hurry away from him only to scavenge through a couple chests. He almost asks him what the hell he's up to, though snaps his mouth shut when a familiar helmet is pulled free from the storage.

"Is that the Helm of Chaos?" Why the fuck does he sound like he's run a marathon and sung a whole concert?

Minute barely replies with a hum before he's putting the helmet on Brandon's head, who gives him a long, odd look. But Minute just keeps him where he is. The frown on his face is serious, calculating.

"Corruption," he repeats. He crosses his arms and backs up to get a better look. "I think I might know how you ended up here. But if that's true it's really, really bad. For you, for me, for both of our worlds and who knows how many more."

He bites his tongue before a sarcastic comment can slip out. In his silence, he can admit that the helmet has some weirdly calming effects despite it's name. Those letters on the insides of his eyelids become fainter with each blink, that constant feeling of despair leaving space to be calmed by Minute. He knew the Helm of Chaos battled corruption, he'd just never thought of how it would actually feel to have a debuff be battled with good effects.

"What did you see?" Minute urges, as unsure as he says it, seemingly uncomfortable having to ask him this at all. Like he shouldn't ask. Like it's dangerous.

Brandon holds his breath for a moment. His hesitance gives Minute the chance to offer a blanket which is wrapped around his shoulders—he's already drying up, these game mechanics are so weird to live with. Then, he blows out the breath and glances back and forth between the other and anywhere else.

"There was … a valley," he starts out, uncertainty tainting his voice. There's no wrong answer here, yet he still feels so damn intimidated by his other self. "The valley was covered in mist. It was—it was dark, even though the sun shone." He stares at the wall as the memory of the nightmare comes crawling back to the forefront of his mind. "There were eyes everywhere, just floating and staring at me."

He pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders. With a wince that betrays his fear, he continues. "When I tried to look away there was this thing. I don't know how to describe it. It just—it was so tall. Like a mountain dressed in some kind of ceremonial robes. I couldn't see it's face but I know it was looking—it was staring at me."

Minute rubs at his chin, the worry only deepening on his face. The sight isn't the most comforting, and Brandon clicks his mouth shut, hiding away in his blanket. By no means does he feel genuinely safe, not after putting whatever he just went through into words, the feeling of a watching presence not leaving him, but he'll take any comfort he can get.

"Right. Right. Yeah, that's bad, bro." Minute laughs bitterly before pulling the helmet from his own head and carding a hand through his hair. "Assuming what you saw is what I think it is … fuck. It wants you for a reason. It pulled you here for a reason. Whatever those reasons might be, your life is in danger."

Brandon swallows the lump in his throat. Finding out he can respawn only to hear his life might still end is one hell of an emotional rollercoaster. Plus, he doubts it'll be as simple as a death. Whatever this thing wants, it's worse, it has to be so much worse.

"Who did I see?" he asks, unsure why. The words simply flow from his mouth as soon as they appear in his mind.

That doesn't go unnoticed. Minute, pulled from his thoughts, doesn't move beyond glancing over, eyes narrowed. The tension in the room grows. Minute straightens his back, gives him another look-over, then turns on his heel to his chests once again. When he pulls out a weapon, Brandon's eyes zero in on it like he needs it in his hands immediately.

"I don't think I should be telling you it's name." Minute returns, slowly, dragging his own gaze over the weapon like it disgusts him. Corruption wafts off it like smoke, ominous eyes on it connecting with Brandon's, the image of it shifting within Minute's black claws. "But this? How does this weapon make you feel?"

He knows this is a test. It's one he's failing. The blanket falls from his shoulders before he feels it and he steps forward, hand raised, breath held, unable to look away. There's no words to say what he feels, he simply needs to hold the weapon, like he's the one the blade has been waiting for. Maybe he is. He probably is. He's meant for it. He just needs to hold it. If anything, just a touch.

Minute pulls the weapon away before Brandon can touch the cursed blade. Their eyes meet, shock meeting anger.

"Okay, it must want you really badly."

"It does," Brandon answers like it's an easy answer. He steps forward to reach for the weapon again. Even if there's warning bells going off in his mind, he's never been so sure of what he needs to do. This is his calling.

The Dreadtide disappears into the other's inventory at the same time a hand gently wraps around Brandon's own. Like an electric shock, he flinches, head ducked, shoulders raised, teeth gritted as if he's just been caught doing something he's not supposed to. He's unable to look at Minute without guilt weighing heavily in his expression.

"Come on," Minute says and his face softens. "Let's get you back to bed. I've got a few more baubles that might help battle the corruption. We can deal with this tomorrow, okay?"

He nods softly. The guilt that lingers feeds all the negativity in his mind, the dark parts of his brain that the helmet on his head seems to be actively fighting. Rest is good. More baubles also sounds good. He shivers, everything in his body is fighting each other, suddenly no longer knowing what it wants, and he's left wondering whether some of those wants are actually his own. This corruption is messing with him, making his growing headache spike up the more he thinks about it.

Minute guides him back to bed. It's swapped out with a new one and he even helps him out of his still wet shirt. Then, after gathering some trinkets, Minute starts decorating him with necklaces, rings, things to hang from his belt, it's hard to keep track of.

And when he finally gets to lay down and try to rest once again, a warm presence settles against him in bed. Awkwardly at first, arms wrap around him, though they find a place to settle and promise him protection no matter what, no matter who.

Brandon sucks in a shaky breath. This might be the first time he's sharing a bed with someone. It means he's tense, unsure, unable to find a comfortable place. He ends up just fiddling with the slightly oversized rings. Minute doesn't mention it. He's glad he doesn't. This promises to be a long night, he's not sure he can deal with Minute being hyper-aware of every single action. He'll be glad to feel him relax as he falls asleep later.

He closes his eyes despite the restlessness. There are no letters. He sighs in relief.

Out of anyone, why is he the one stuck in a video game right now? What does this world want with him? He knows these questions are gonna remain unanswered for a while. At least he's not alone in figuring them out. At least, in some insane roll of the dice, he ended up by the side of someone who has hands-on experience in this battlefield.

Banning the topic from mind will be impossible. He's just going to have to deal with it. Maybe … hopefully … this will end soon.