Chapter Text
When Scar pressed succeed, he expected everything to fade away. The game would end and he would continue his life back home as if nothing happened. All his memories, alliances, rivalries, everything from this game, would simply cease to exist, just like they always did. His wounds would fade, leaving only more scars without any story to tell. He would go back to his normal life, with his friends, free from all the chaos of the games. Before the cycle would repeat once again.
What he didn't expect was nothing. He stayed where he was. His wounds continued to bleed. His memories remained. His surroundings were unchanging. Absolutely nothing changed.
Instead, Scar heard the whispers he'd become accustomed to from the endless cycle of tasks from the days--or was it weeks? Months prior? He had lost all track of time.
He can't recall how long he--anyone--was stuck here for. But the games always do that. Always messing with your mind. Scrambling around memories from the past who knows how long into an unsolvable puzzle. As time goes on, your sanity depletes. You lose yourself, your morals, everything that makes you…you. You are shaped into a monster with an appetite for blood, until you win or until you lose your final life. Then it all ends and the games take everything with them.
In their wake, remain scars---both mental and physical. Scars with no explanations. Not even the slightest indication of where they came from. Who caused them. Just a constant cycle of confusion, game after game.
Scar knows there's been prior games. Everyone does. But no one can ever really recall what happened in any of them. Typically, they just know that they know each other and that they've been stuck here before. The only way out was to come out on top. To eliminate everyone else, and to be the last man standing. Betray any alliance, your closest friendships, just for the sake of winning.
But what does it matter anyway? No one ever remembers exactly what happened in the prior games. No one except for the "winners", but they rarely ever speak on what happened. They’re very secretive and reserved when the topic is broached. Seemingly haunted by the events, what they saw, what the others did—what they did themselves—they shut down any and every conversation linked to past games. Whether they’re shielding everyone else from the truth or just saving themselves from reliving those events, Scar will never know. But what he does know, was that the winners were not who they once were after their wins.
Despite being unable to recall everyone throughout the games clearly, there's enough familiarity to notice when there has been a change.
Martyn was the last winner of a game with mechanics Scar is still unable to recall. He was known to be a rash player across every game, a true force to be reckoned with. But with this game, he was almost sloppy with his actions, more hesitant yet twice as aggressive. There was an obvious change. And it wasn't just him.
Scott changed. Pearl changed. And so did...
So did..?
Was there another?
Scar's mind had completely drawn a blank. There was another winner, he's sure of it. But why can't he remember who?
An all-too-familiar scroll appeared before him, tearing him away from his thoughts. He opened it on instinct, eyes skimming over the task it presented. It was routine at this point. An action he repeated day after day.
Win Secret Life.
Scar was the last one standing. Scar was a winner. And Scar had changed.
There was no forgetting everything that happened here today, and yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that, and--
Scar slammed a fist onto the button, eliciting the whispers that filtered out in response. There was a pop of another scroll appearing.
Scar picked it up and opened it once again.
Win Secret Life.
Another thud. Followed by whispers, a pop, and the crunch of paper being held.
Win Secret Life.
A Thud. A Whisper. A Pop. A Crunch.
Win Secret Life.
Thud. Whisper. Pop. Crunch.
Win Secret Life.
There was no escape.
Win Secret Life.
There was no forgetting.
Win Secret Life.
Scar was left with all of his memories, all of his actions.
Win Secret Life.
He hurt his friends.
Win Secret Life.
Friends? He had no friends.
Win Secret Life.
He was completely alone. Not an alliance to his name.
Win Secret Life.
And he did that to himself.
Win Secret Life.
It was all his fault.
Win Secret Life.
There was a crack, and Scar hissed in pain. He looked down upon his now bloodied hand. Scrapes and gashes were seeping with a deep crimson that fell to the rough, stoney surface of the podium below.
From the looks of it and the pain shooting through his hand, he definitely broke something, or fractured at the very least. Scar cursed at himself for getting so carried away. For getting so overwhelmed by his emotions. It was so stupid.
He really needs to get himself bandaged up. If his hand wasn’t enough of a concern, the rest of the cuts and gashes throughout his body from the final battles definitely were. Someone might have some healing potions in one of their chests lying around. He should go look for them. While he’s at it, he should go look and scavenge for necessary resources since it seems like he's stuck here for the time being.
But Scar did not move. Instead he watched the blood drip on the stone surface below, forming an increasingly large puddle.
He should leave before he succumbs to the blood loss. After everything, it would truly be a laughable way to go out. His friends—no not friends, his victims—would be so upset by losing to a man who died to a wound from his own, foolish emotions. He needs to go.
But he remained. Watching every drip. Every drip reminding him of what he lost; what he did.
The lives he took with his own hands. The hands he's looking at right now.
Tears burned at the corner of his eyes, threatening to fall and mix with the ever-flowing pool of blood. He felt lost in a trance. He needed to fix himself up.
He willed himself to leave.
He crumpled to the earthy ground. The dirt mixing with his newly opened wounds.
He needed to get back up.
He broke out into heavy sobs.
And the world around him slowly faded away.
—
Scar awoke a short time later, not even realizing he'd fallen asleep in the first place. He hadn’t realized just how exhausted he was from everything. It wasn't a refreshing slumber by any means. The hard ground gave no comfort to his aching limbs. His busted hand felt numb and was more of a mess then he'd left it prior. But the bleeding had stopped. Not if that mattered any. The effects from it were much worse than the bleeding itself.
Scar was dizzy from blood loss. With his sudden unconsciousness, he hasn’t a clue the amount of blood he lost. Certainly not a lethal amount, but the potential of teetering the line between life and death was alarming. He needs to get himself fixed up now before he truly finds out how close he is to death’s door.
Death was something Scar had unfortunately grown familiar with. He had his fair amount of encounters with it on the regular. Deaths from previous games, deaths from this one. There’s some sort of respawn mechanic making it where the players could never truly die. But that doesn’t spare you from the pain nor the trauma. The process between dying and waking back up is by far the most painful thing Scar has ever experienced.
When you die, the game shapes your body back into its healed form. To do that, it splits your body into millions of little pieces, pulling you apart from the seams. Then the game molds you back together, as if nothing ever happened, sending you back to reality. The process is agonizing. That mixed with the pain of whatever death you experienced is beyond explanation. While the process only lasts a minimum of two seconds, it feels like hours.
If he remembered anything from prior games, it would always be that pain. It was his sole motivator to win, to avoid death in any way possible. Scar knows that he needs to get himself fixed up before he faces that fate.
Using the crimson-stained podium as leverage, he willed his shaking body into a standing position. He hissed as closed wounds reopened with his sudden movements.
Perhaps pushing himself too fast and too soon, Scar faltered slightly, laying his whole weight onto the stone. His vision failed him temporarily, diving him into an inky pool before the splotchy resurfacing. He blinked once, then twice, then a third as everything slowly cleared up. After a few moments of reassurance that he caught his balance, Scar had certainty in taking steps forward.
It wasn’t a graceful walk by any means. Not to the standards of the typical stride Scar usually carries himself. His once confident character, now shadowed by that of a wounded animal that barely managed to break free of its trap. It was an unstable shuffle, legs stumbling occasionally as Scar moved as quickly as his body would allow him.
He had tripped himself more times than he could count. It was pitiful how desperate he’d become when faced with imminent death. With his body slowly failing on him, Scar wished that he didn’t find it in himself caring how he looked. He was here all alone, but the voice within the depths of his mind was painfully aware of just how pathetic he had become. Desperation painted across his face, in hopes of finding something left behind by his fallen peers. Something that could save him from his own stupidity.
Relying on the dead. It’s real laughable. Scar almost wanted to laugh himself if his consciousness wasn’t fading by the second. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted chests near the shambles of what was left of someone’s base. There was hope.
He continued his shuffle towards the rubble, hoping to whatever gods or power there may be that there will be something. Anything.
Please please please please please, he repeated in his mind or mumbled to himself. He couldn’t tell anymore.
The chest grew closer and closer. The hope in Scar’s heart grew. He is going to be okay.
He stumbled to the ground as he was only inches away from the chest. The chest whose contents were a complete mystery. But Scar knew whatever it had was going to save him. It just had to.
Please please please please. Just an arms width away from the chest now, Scar reached over to lift the lid. He peered inside to view the contents.
It was completely empty.
Scar wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry and scream. He used the last of his energy to get to this chest and it was all for nothing. He was going to die here.
He began to brace himself for the inevitable atomization. He’ll probably respawn in Trader Scar’s. Or maybe he’ll get lucky and wake up back home, far away from this game.
As if. When was luck ever on his side? This world was just an endless cycle of suffering for him. But he did think that maybe this once the universe would be on his side. Just this one time.
But it was hopeless anyways.
Scar let his eyes fall shut, attempting to take deep, controlled breaths as he awaited his fate. He was terrified, but there was no escaping it now. All he could do was wait. He waited for everything to fade away before finding himself in that painful void between life and death.
Instead that darkness was met with light. A strange, purple light.
Scar’s eyes fluttered open. He wasn’t expecting to see anything. Maybe the sun had caught glass, causing it to glare into his eyes. That or he’s just hallucinating from the blood loss, fully succumbing to his wounds.
Before him stood a figure. He was absolutely hallucinating.
It wore a long purple cloak, with two large, white wings sprouting from its back. Matching those were two pairs of wings—one resting atop its head, and the other covering what Scar could assume to be its face.
Scar was at a loss for words regarding the sight before him. If he had to explain it, he would say it was downright heavenly. The figure stood before him resembling the elegance of an angel. It was surreal. Scar was completely captivated.
Scar was so entranced by the sight before him, that he barely registered the hand that slowly reached forward cupping his cheek. He had jumped slightly at the unexpected touch, but with the slight rubbing of a thumb, he felt all of his concerns simply fade away. It had a warmth that reminded him of desert sands and was as soothing as a flowing river after a long day of work. There was familiarity in the touch of this figure. A familiarity Scar couldn’t quite decipher.
Scar couldn’t ever dream of looking away. If death always met him this way, then he would die a million times over to meet this presence. No matter the pain, it would all be worth it for this.
The clink of a glass bottle was the only thing that could tear away Scar’s gaze from the beauty of the figure in front of him. He looked down to find a bottle filled with a mysterious pink liquid, propped against the chest beside him.
It was a healing potion. The figure had given him a healing potion.
Scar rushed out to grab it, turning to where the figure stood. But nothing remained.
The calming presence Scar experienced all but vanished. All that remained was the potion—the evidence of its visit.
Scar lifted his hand to brush against his cheek where the figure once held. He was met with a wetness that trailed from his eye. Scar hadn’t even realized that he’d been crying during that whole encounter. It was all so strange to him.
Who was that—person? What were they doing here in a world where Scar was supposed to be alone? Not that Scar’s complaining by any means. He doesn’t mind the company. Especially not with that of such a calming demeanor. One who offered him a chance to live.
The potion. Scar was so lost in his thoughts that he completely forgot about the potion resting in his hand.
He quickly unscrewed the lid, placed the bottle to his lips, and practically chugged the contents, swallowing the solution down within seconds. The effects were immediate.
Scar felt the relieving sensation throughout his body, taking special care of where the cuts and gashes remained open. Scar watched as the wounds along his hand slowly began to close. Blood and dirt still remained in their wake, but the cuts were almost completely gone. Fatigue still ate at him, but the pain diminished significantly. He felt confident to move once again. He could now find the necessary food and resources to restore his energy and health to its fullest, without worrying about death taking its course.
It was all because of that mysterious figure. The ethereal presence that Scar doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget. Maybe he’ll meet them again. He really hopes so. It would definitely make being stuck in this world easier to bear. But for now, he needs to make sure his new friend’s kind gesture won’t go to waste.
So with that, he made his way towards Trader Scar’s.