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Snow is the last thing ParrotX2 expects to see in the Nether.
But he’s not in the Nether anymore, is he? The Underworld is some twisted, upside down mirror of the Nether, so maybe it makes sense that instead flying sparks that leave dark sooty marks across his feathers, there’s cold white flakes.
It’s still unusual, and Parrot’s travelling companions all make sounds of awe. Some of them stoop down and touch the snow, to make sure it’s not some trick. The air is cold and thick with swirling snowflakes, limiting Parrot’s vision to the line of thick-trimmed trees in front of him.
Parrot glances skywards, squinting against the snow. The trees stretch upwards until he can no longer see the tops, their pointed canopies somewhere far above.
The whole scene sets him on edge. Like the faint silky line of a tripwire, the world around Parrot feels deeply tense and wrong. The snow is so wet it saturated his clothes and feathers and feels like it’s drowning him. Some sort of primal, prey-like fear starts at the base of Parrot’s spine and works its way upwards towards his skull.
“C’mon, guys.” Parrot calls out to his crew, shielding his face from the wind and storm with a raised arm. “Watch your step, don’t slip.”
They make it fifteen steps into the snow before Parrot catches movement from the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he raises his sword and tightens his grip on his spyglass. Someone behind him cries out in shock, and a few people dash past Parrot’s shoulders, stumbling and floundering into a pit of powdered snow, trying to reach the dashing shape.
The shape is a blur of different greys, the colour sucked away by the cold around them. It’s running, footfalls far too light and sure to actually be running across the snow. Parrot catches half a dozen different pieces of a face and a person—white, twisting embroidery on a thick, grey jacket; dark, dusty brown hair; eyes crinkled with a smile; a smear of purple—and they all fall together in a way that feels far too familiar in the cold.
Parrot chokes, dropping down to one knee. The people behind him are screaming, trying to reach those dying in the snow below them, but it all sounds so far away, that it might as well not be happening at all. The world seems to spin around him, swirling and twisting like a tornado.
It’s fake. It’s fake. It has to be fake.
“It’s not real,” Parrot gasps, his words dry and pained. “It’s not real!”
This is worse than a warden. Parrot stumbles to his feet, and the only thing that stops him from charging after that piece of his past is the pit of powdered snow separating them. He might have forgotten about that too, if it were not for the thunderclap sound which announces the death of a player, repeating over and over again.
“It’s a fake player.” He says, throwing out an arm to stop anyone else from moving forwards. Still, someone behind him tries to move forwards, perhaps to dig out their dead and dying teammates. Parrot twists to glare at the player, and something in his face causes them to flinch back so hard they almost fall. “They’re dead. It’s no use throwing yourself into the snowpit.”
“I… I saw my friend.” The player says, eyes wide and brimming with tears. A few others make similar statements, and Parrot turns to stare at the spot where the apparition disappeared behind the tree.
“That’s just not possible.” Parrot says, the ringing in his ears growing louder and louder until he can no longer hear what the people around him are saying. His vision glazes over too, in a strange, esoteric way where all he can see is a blur of white and grey and purple, and a face which isn’t a face but it’s still utterly devoid of emotion and then a moment earlier it’s filled with mirth and joy.
It’s fake. This is the Underworld’s cruelest trick, and Parrot will survive it yet. He places one foot in front of another, barely seeing the snow before him. It’s pure luck he doesn’t lead his group into a death-pit, but Parrot can’t force himself to bring the world into focus when every few minutes someone gasps and calls out a strange name and there’s a familiar blur in the corner of his vision— a blue-green shape walking way from him, a pair of white blurs standing side by side as they watch him, a green smile swept away by the wind. It’s all too much. It’s all too much.
Parrot makes the mistake of looking up when he feels a pair of eyes on him, boring into his own.
Leowook stands beside a boulder, tucked out of the worst of the storm, and yet his hair is untidy and his tie and blowing in the wind. His wide yellow eyes stare at Parrot like the mercenary hasn’t slept in years. He stands like a puppet, joints stiff and muscles limp.
Leowook doesn’t blink.
Parrot clenches his jaw so hard his teeth squeak. He wrenches his gaze away from his dead friend and walks. There’s nothing to do but walk.
There’s nothing to do but keep going.
Parrot doesn’t raise his eyes from his boots until the snow has given way to sludge which itself has given way to muddy soul-sand. Not until the hot, stale air of a real Nether burns his throat.
It’s all fake . It’s some sort of wicked game meant to keep him here, running after fragments of his past. If he tries, Parrot knows he’ll only end up dead in a pit, and so he just. Keeps. Walking.