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Parrot always imagined being exiled would be… well, more. More dramatic. Something that happened to villains, to traitors.
People everybody hated.
Not him. Not after everything he’d done, after every server fight he’d survived alongside people he genuinely cared about – people he loved. Yet, somehow, here he was. Stood in the middle of absolute chaos, surrounded by ever-louder voices, all of them blurring into nothing but noise.
They'd started off arguing over something small - hell, most shit that blew up on Unstable SMP was small - but it had gotten out of hand, fast.
People were angry. Distrustful. Tired.
Everyone knew the server had been on its last legs for weeks, everyone felt it. Parrot tried to explain, he tried to make them understand. Every word he uttered just made it worse.
He looked over at Spoke, who was engaged in a fierce shouting match with someone, so loud and fast that Parrot couldn't even follow the conversation.
FlameFrag's face was screwed up so tight he looked like he was about to punch the wall. Saparata was just… quiet. And somehow, that quietness made everything a thousand times worse. Nobody was laughing anymore.
Nobody was making jokes.
There was this palpable weight in the air that Parrot couldn't articulate, but it felt heavy, oppressive. When someone finally mentioned exile, it was as if a collective switch had flipped in the room. Not total silence, of course – there were still whispers and distant arguments – but the air was thick with a hushed anticipation.
Silent enough for Parrot to hear his own heart pounding. He remembered staring at the ground. Just… couldn't bear to look at them.
He just waited.
Waiting for someone to laugh it off, to say it was a joke. Waiting for Spoke to loudly declare how stupid that was. Waiting for FlameFrag to tell them all to chill the hell out. Waiting for literally anyone to say no.
But… nobody did.
That’s the thing that really got him, though. It wasn’t the accusation. Wasn't even the vote.
It was the pause. The consideration. The hesitations of the people he trusted to be on his side.
His stomach plummeted, so hard it felt like he’d been drop-kicked.
He risked a glance at Spoke and saw pure, unadulterated rage. FlameFrag’s was a frustrated snarl. And Saparata… Saparata just looked sad. And that’s when Parrot realized he might actually lose.
That this wasn’t something they’d forget and laugh about tomorrow.
This was it. The vote was a blur after that. He couldn't remember half of what anyone said.
Just snapshots. The thrum of his own blood in his ears. His shaking hands.
The horrific feeling of standing still while everyone decided whether he was worth keeping.
He hated how pathetic he felt. Hated how his eyes were starting to sting. Hated how desperately he just wanted this to stop. Seconds felt like hours as he stood there, the anticipation building, before a decision was finally made.
Exile.
One word. A ridiculous, insignificant, tiny word that managed to obliterate his world. For a split second, his brain refused to process it.
Exile?
Him?
After everything?
After all the stupid inside jokes, the grief over server members lost, the arguments that nearly ended everything and only strengthened their bond?
After surviving countless server raids and betrayals together?
Then it crashed down. Vision blurred. Throat constricted.
He tried to speak, tried to say something – anything – but no sound came out.
The first tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. He instantly turned away, rubbing furiously, but it was no use. More came.
And more. And more. The room itself became an unbearable landscape.
Each friendly face was a fresh stab wound.
Spoke was shouting again, he remembered that. Anger, disbelief. FlameFrag was probably arguing something just as loud. Saparata might have been trying to soothe frayed nerves.
The specifics faded into a messy collage over time, but the overarching, soul-crushing truth remained: it didn't matter what they said.
The choice had been made. His home, his people, no longer wanted him. The thought broke him.
By the time he finally started walking away, he was openly weeping, tears streaming freely down his face no matter how hard he scrubbed. His chest ached as if it was about to crack open, he couldn't see straight. All he could hear was the distant, muted babble of voices behind him, the sound of people trying to mend what was irrevocably shattered.
Somewhere in that blur, he thought he heard FlameFrag call his name, maybe Spoke screaming.
He never turned back. If he’d seen their faces, he might not have been able to keep walking. Months later, crouched beside a dying fire in the depths of exile, Parrot still found himself reliving that day in his dreams. Some nights, the memories hit with an almost physical force, stealing his breath.
Tonight was one of those nights.
Tears rolled unchecked down his cheeks, falling silently into the dirt. There was no one to see. No one to judge him.
No one to tell him to suck it up. Oh god, he missed them. He missed Spoke’s insane, probably doomed plans.
He missed FlameFrag’s incessant complaining.
He missed Saparata’s earnest attempts to stop everyone else from killing each other. He missed them so much it hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heel of his hand against his orbital bones in a futile attempt to hold back the tide of sobs. It was no use.
The loneliness was crushing.
The grief was a heavy blanket of lead. Everything was crushing him. “I miss you,” he choked out, his voice cracking on the last syllable.
The words were swallowed by the darkness. Only the hiss of the fire and the sigh of the wind answered him. Parrot let out a weak, broken laugh, the sound raspy and teary.
“You idiots,” he whispered, wiping a sleeve across his wet eyes.
“I hate that I miss you this much.” Another wave of tears cascaded down, followed by another burst of the desolate, hysterical laughter. Maybe Spoke was out there somewhere, still kicking. Maybe FlameFrag, still annoying the hell out of everyone.
Maybe Saparata, still trying to make peace.
Maybe they were looking up at the same stars. Maybe they missed him too. The thought stung, but for the first time in weeks, it also offered the smallest glimmer of something that felt almost like hope.
Parrot woke up to tears already smearing his vision. For a few bleary seconds, he didn’t understand why. The dream’s fragments still clung to him – the laughter, the shouts, the familiar faces gathered around a campfire, Spoke passionately lecturing about something inane, FlameFrag yelling something equally ridiculous, Saparata’s face a mask of exasperation trying to keep the peace.
It had all felt so vividly, painfully real.
Then his eyes focused, and he was alone in a cold camp, hundreds of miles from home. It always did this to him. Parrot rolled over, burying his face in the scratchy wool of his blanket. He was just so tired.
Not in a physical sense.
He was capable. He'd been surviving for months. This was an exhaustion that gnawed at your soul, the deep-seated weariness of missing people.
The kind that seeped into your bones and settled there like a persistent fog. Some days, it felt like the entire server’s weight rested on his shoulders. Other days, it felt like he was dragging ghosts.
Neither was exactly ideal.
He lay there, face buried, for nearly an hour, the exhaustion a palpable, heavy presence.