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"Well that ends now", SB says and Minute feels the sword pierce his chest.
The world narrows down to that single pin prick, that one point of pure agony.
Minute blinks, the sky above him, blurry.
SB is really taking his time here. Minute thought this would be over quickly. SB really needed some lessons in PvP if he coukdn't manage to kill an unarmoured player who wasn't even fighting back.
"The immortal player is no longer inmortal!", SB exclaims dramatically.
And — What?
"D'allright bro", Minute huffs through the pain, "No wonder", he weezes, "you haven't killed me yet, if you're this bad at it."
He caughs weakly. All his energy is sapped away.
"Minute?"
"Wha'?"
SB was really taking his time. Was this some sick kind of torture show?
Hands grip Minute's shoulders, he sways as someone pulls him up.
His teeth clamp shut over his tongue as the movement pulls at the wound.
SB could stand to do this a bit more gentle. Quicker, too, Minute thinks.
He blinks up at a blob of grey. He blinks again, SB's face slowly coming into focus.
"Are you okay?"
Minute weezes again, then coughs, doubling over into SB's chest. He taste metal, feels liquid dribble down his chin as the coughing doens't stop. "Don't make me laugh", he forces through the pain, "it hurts. You're like", he spits out more blood, falling as dark stains across the shiny dimaond of SB's armour, "killin' me, bro, course'm not okay!"
"Minute", SB sounds serious, "You died already."
What?
"Tha's no' — th's li' 'm—impossible", Minute can feel his life drain away, cruel and slow, and SB holds him. Of course he hasn't died yet. He wouldn't be in pain if he had.
Except...his fingers dig into the ground below him. It's fabric. He blinks again, eyes opening only sluggishly. The white bed is beneath him. Where he set his spawn point.
He stood on the grass when SB pulled out the swors. Did they move him?
"Wha'?", he mumbles. What was going on?
"We need an emergency meeting", that's Clown's voice, calm and calculated and uncaring and cold.
Was this some plan of Clown's? Some— some sick sort of repeat of Season 5?
That death at least had been quick.
Clown had sounded the same. Unfeeling. Minute wondered if Clown ever cared about him.
If nothing else, at least Rek doens't seem to be in on this.
But...none of that makes sense.
This was...this was Minute's idea, wasn't it?
He isn't sure.
Nothing feels real.
SB's hands are far away, the world a blurry picture of what it should be. There are voices, voices asking, voices talking, voices getting louder and louder— and nothing is real.
Nothing is real except for the pain in his chest and feeling of blood on his chin and the taste of blood on his tongue and the smell of blood in the air.
The blood is wiped away.
Minute blinks again.
" 'sssB?"
"Something's fucked with respawn, you gotta stay awake, okay?"
Minute hums, " 'kay. 's aaaall goo' "
His tongue doesn't obey him, stretching the sounds and slurring the consonants, skipping the vocals. A numb lump of flesh rolling around in his mouth. Minute bites down on it, just to see if it's real. He doesn't feel a thing.
"Minute?! Open your eyes!"
" 'm no' sleepin' ", he complains, but blinks anyway. He wants to, though. To rest. His body feels so tired...
Sleep...
"Open you eyes, Minute!", he flinches. That's Clown. Angry Clown.
Minute closes his eyes for an entirely different reason. He can't face him. He doesn't want to see the anger reflected in Clown's body language, his face even, and he doesn't want Clown to see the stupid tears that well up in Minute's eyes.
The heavy swallow he takes throws him headfirst into another coughing fit.
SB's hands are large and warm on Minute's bare back.
He isn't wearing armour? Why isn't he wearing armour?
You gotta wear armour! Always, or you're gonna get killed!
Why isn't he wearing armour?
He can't breathe.
Minute gasps and blood runs down his throat, sending him coughing again, and he can't breathe.
His hand curls around the edge of SB's chestplate, his other fingers dig into the scratchy wool of the blanket below.
"Minute, you gotta calm down!"
He chokes on blood, sending it flying as he splutters, "Fuc' you'ssB."
"Mapicc is coming", Clown says. Why? Was this a torture party? He didn't mean that! Did he?
It's Clown. Maybe it is?
It could be.
The party or Clown?
What was he thinking about?
Minute is so cold. Everything is numb. Powdered snow, it reminds him of. He can't move.
Everything is bright without shapes and loud without distinction, textures blend into each other and fade away, leabing behind only the cold.
Minute blinks again. Where is up? Where is down?
His eyes move past blue and green and grey and black. What is what, what is where, is who? Who's here with him?
Something something Mapicc...
Clown's torture party... Was he drunk?
It feels almost like it.
Maybe he got lucky, that's why he isn't nauseous.
But isn't drunk hot?
Everything is so cold...
His name reaches him as if called through water.
Where was that coming from?
Minute blinks.
And who...
"-nute!", someone repeats again, "Minute!"
He hums, feeling blood bern a trail down his chin. It is hot, uncomfortably so, filling his mouth sticky and thick.
Hot fingers pull at his jaw. Minute offers no resistance. Can offer no resistance.
Cold and numb.
Can someone unburry him?
Why even powdered snow? Where did it come from?
Wasn't he in the plains?
A trap? But..
"Minute!", someone demands, "Look at me."
Hot breath brushes Minute's face and makes him shiver.
Still, he tries to focus. He tries. The world won't unblurr. It stays unfocused and Minute can't force it, can do anything at all. His lips are nunb and so his fingers. He can't feel his toes, his ankles, his legs at all. Everything is numb.
It feels like dying.
His eyes roll back, then fall shut.
His body dissolves, leaving SB's arms hollow, his sunglasses reflecting only an empty bed.