Chapter Text

The fields that once bloomed with gleeful souls were long turned to ash and rubble. Mountains that stood tall and majestic, now lay in pieces in the air with unstable energy.

Life once thriving in every crack and corner of this little world was long gone, burned away by titans’ clash. Players that lived and loved now are nowhere in sight. Their homes and shops lay in ruin.

A sign gently swaying in the winds in the once bustling streets is the only sound heard for miles. Just before the horizon, before the crackling buzz of energy.

Hermitcraft.

Once the great world is now the remains of a battlefield. The battlefield of Gods.

A Titan falls as the light of another strikes it down, crumpling to its knees, Ichor watering the soil. Flowers bloom for a mere moment from this barren land before being burned away by angry, bitter magic that radiated from the titan. It stands again, its hand pulling away from the wound that no longer exists.

This land is this Titan’s territory, its home.

It doesn’t plan on backing down. It hasn’t in 2000 years.

 

Somewhere in a pocket of the void, a small piece of Hermitcraft remains. Its people thrive, forgetting their original home. But not by choice.

They continue to build, play, and laugh, but whispers of the clash shake the ground. No one notices. No one notices they are missing one person. No one notices they have one less friend.

That’s until one soul, deep in a dream sees a face in their code, their very being catches a glimpse of a face they never met but know they miss.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

𓆩「 ──── Scar ──── 」𓆪

Scar didn’t feel right all day. He woke up in his apartment overlooking his theme park with an ache in his chest. An aching that only came from mourning. But he couldn’t quite put a finger on who it was.

It bothered him. It ate away at him like a nasty disease. Like a ghost hovering over his shoulder, but it was never there when he turned to look. Like the earring of a red feather stored away in his inventory for as long as he could remember.

As he slaved away on perfecting the fountain that greeted newcomers to the park, his mind lingered back to his dream. The face was vivid in the land of sleeping, but as he walked the world of the lucid the face became blurred and the voice was muffled.

“Scar?”

Scar jumped, slipping into the water, shocking him back to reality.

“Woah, you good?” A round, gentle face hovered over Scar as he pulled his soaking hat off his head.

“Cub! I’m fantastic!” Scar laughed as he looked up to his fellow vex. “What brings you to my fine park today? It’s not open for another week.”

Cub shook his head as he offered a hand to Scar, pulling him from the water.

“You’re a bit out of it. Normally you spot me a mile away before I see you.” Cub chuckled as he wiped his hand on his white lab coat, the edges dusted with redstone dust that shimmered. It had the weird quirk to hold residual power before fading from its bright ruby sheen to a dull, maroon.

Cub, 9 out of 10 times, stops his projects to talk to Scar if he was hitting a dead end. Claiming it helped clear his head and gave his brain reimagine whatever problem that may have popped up.

Scar chuckled, a bit embarrassed by being caught off guard so shamelessly. Strike one.

“Sorry. I haven’t been able to think today. The old noggin is a little slow.” The taller man took off his wet shirt, opening his inventory to grab the back up shirt he always had for moments like this. Though it was a hot day, being soaked in work clothes was not ideal.

“Well, you should get that fixed. Maybe I can pop open that skull of yours and see where the loose bolt is and screw it back with thread-lock.” Cub joked as he sat down on a nearby park bench.

“There are no loose screws here! I’m perfectly fine!” Scar announced as he slipped on the dry shirt, shoving the wet one unceremoniously into his inventory.

“Okay, okay.” Cub smirked as he raised his hands in surrender, leaning back on the bench. “X is wanting to do a headcount later today, so try not to show up like a wet cat.”

“Another one?” Scar paused.

No one understood why Xisuma did a headcount of everyone in Hermitage. Once a week, X would call a mandatory meeting to make a count, ask everyone's progress, before shooing everyone away with a diamond for the inconvenience. This was the second one this week. It was only Wednesday.

“Didn’t you see the ping on your com? It was sent an hour ago.”

Scar cringed under Cub raised brow. "You really are out of it.” Strike two.

“Listen, I have a park to build; sometimes I get lost in the moment. Riding the building flow.” Scar huffed, plopping down next to Cub.

“Maybe it’s the heat. When was the last time you drank water other than a few minutes ago?” Cub asked as he opened his inventory, mindlessly reorganizing his items.

Scar paused. Cub glanced up, “You hesitated.”

Strike three.

Cub grabbed a water bottle from his inventory as if he knew scar hadn’t had Jack shit in a few hours. “You know the rules.” Cub shoved the bottle in scar’s hands.

“I’m fine, Cub.” Scar huffed as Cub opened a line to X.

Scar groaned as Cub typed. Yet another unexplained rule. The dreaded checkup.

Someone acting out of the norm? Someone out of touch with their reality? Not caring for their health or safety? Respawning after a very preventable death? The three strikes method is now in play. After three strikes, a player has to report the offending player to X. Then X spends hours digging around in the offending players code for any hiccups or other issues that may be in play. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just weird and uncomfortable having to lay on your back while the nice admin pulls almost all 2 million lines of code.

Scar didn’t have the time to deal with it. He had only 7 days before the grand opening of his park and he still had a sizable list of things to build and double the triple check. He wasn’t even done planning the firework display for the grand opening night.

“Cub seriously, I’m fine. Please don’t tell Xisuma.” Scar begged. “I have a lot planned. I promise to drink more water while working.”

Cub simply pointed to Scar’s shirt, not even bothering to look up from his com.

“The third strike wasn’t even the lack of water intake, It was you putting your shirt on inside out. The water was your fourth.”

Scar looked down at the seams of the shirt and sure enough, inside out. He must have been really out of it. Cub nodded as his com pinged with confirmation that X saw and replied to Cub’s message.

“Alright, he called the headcount early so he can get a look at you.” Cub smiled before pushing himself from the bench. “Come on, space boy.”

The walk to the town hall wasn’t far and was peaceful as always. Flowers were planted along the path with gentle care inconsideration Gem: Roses, oxeye daisies, lilacs and poppies.

As they grew closer to the center of the town, more and more shops crowded together, all in hopes of grabbing potential customers' attention. Then there was the town hall, a grand white building with red concrete and stained glass windows popping out, surrounded by a large lawn of neatly cut grass.

Lumbering in after Cub, Scar took his seat at the table. It was a wooden chair with plush green pillows and a purple crystal at the top, as if meant for an elf or a fairy. All the chairs were themed. Cub’s was a more science oriented design. Sleek, but comfortable. The future to his left and an empty chair to his right. The chair was empty for a long time. Yet, another mystery that remained unsolved due to X cutting down any question about it. It was a plain chair, nothing fancy about it. It was simply carved from jungle wood. It did have a name plate but the name was smudged out and impossible to read.

Scar felt it was wrong for it to be empty.

The muffled voice from his dreams the night before whispers in the back of his mind.

Someone is supposed to sit there but who? It never bothered him before. He simply saw it as an empty chair that didn’t belong to anymore yet. But today - it was someone’s.

Scar groaned as he buried his head in his arms as a headache set in. It wasn’t anything bad, just enough for Scar to rest his head while he waited for everyone else to show up.

“Scar?” Cub poked as scar. “You good, buddy?”

“Fine, just a headache. I didn’t sleep well last night.” Scar replied as he peered over his arms.

Cub narrowed his brows. “Stayed up late?”

“Yeah.” Scar lied. Cub’s attention was pulled away before he could pry further by another hermit. Scar thought a silent thank you as he sank back behind his arms. He felt as if an arrow hit deep into the center of his brain, but bit back a groan.

After everyone trickled in and was seated, X started a roll call. One by one, each hermit was called, asked about their progress or problems, paid a diamond, then set on their merry way.

Bdubs. Then Cub. Then Doc. Then Etho. Then False. Then Gem.

Scar sat up, ready to raise his hand, reciting his announcement about the grand opening for his park.

“Hypno?” X didn’t look up from his book. Scar paused.

No, it was supposed to be Bdubs, Cub, Etho, False, Gem, Scar, then Hypno. Hypno jumped as he wasn’t expecting to be called before Scar either.

“Here, but it's Scar tallied before me?” Hypno asked as he gestured to Scar. X looked up before looking back in the book. “I know.”

“Okay then, well, I have had a good week so far.” Hypno started, Scar didn’t care to listen as stared at the table confused.

One by one, everyone was tallied. One by one, Scar was soon the last one left.

“I’m sorry for skipping you.” X said as he closed his book. Scar looked up from behind his arms, his gaze met with a diamond waiting patiently in X’s hand for Scar to take. “Want to do the check up in the check up room, or your base?”

Scar groaned as he sat up and took the diamond. He was tired and was restless at the same time. His headache didn’t seem to help.

“Here, I don’t feel like walking back right now. Tired.” Scar admitted.

X nodded before guiding Scar down the hall to a small room with a comfy red bed and a holographic screen.

Scar knew the drill and didn’t even wait for X to say anything before falling face first into the bed.
The check was going to take forever, but at least the bed was nice and warm and had a weird but pleasant smell of waffles.

Scar pulled his shirt off and rested into a light nap as the tingle of code danced on his back. Flashes of lilacs and poppies, bright colored feathers of a macaw, and light brown hair danced behind his eyelids.

“I don’t care about who you were before.”
“Really?”
“You are ____, that’s who you are. You’re my friend and that’s what you’ll always be.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”

Xisuma let out a soft, sad sigh as he held up a small line of red and purple code.

It hurts every time. But he had made a promise, and he wasn’t one to break any promises. The code let out a squeak as it was crushed in Xisuma’s hand. The pieces drifted as it crumbled. Like redstone, its bright colors fade to a muted palette, before being consumed by the ambient magic in the air.

The pillows lost its smell of waffles and warm sand.

Chapter Text

So I had made the decision (totally didn’t have a nightmare of being mauled by people for not finishing the book) to not make this a one shot. So yeah, lol.

Be ready to suffer ☺️

Chapter Text

Grian's dry tongue tasted the rancid air, filled with the stench of burned flesh and putrid ichor as he took a deep breath to calm himself. His wings instinctively flaring against the wind, the cool breeze in the desolate wasteland offering a brief respite. A small blessing.

His gaze fell upon a mangled body, adding to the growing collection of defeated challengers. A Watcher seeking territory to call their own, all the same to him yet worlds apart. A sense of pity washed over him; they had succumbed just as swiftly as they had materialized, breaking through the filmy like barrier only to be struck down moments after. Dreadfully similar to the instinct of a wild animal finding the means to survive rather than the gods dressed in ivory, gold, and deep bleeding purples they claim to be.

He entertained the idea of sparing one for a moment, sending them back as a warning after shattering its mask. However, he knew watcher-born were not as vigilant or astute, more likely to return with even more numbers. They thrived on cold efficiency and logic, but they would discard the messenger in favor of sating their hunger. These appearances, these challenges, were becoming increasingly frequent, a prospect Grian dreaded but knew was inevitable.

Grian's instincts compelled him to shift, feeling the soft steps of another presence behind him, through the ground. The hair on his neck on end.

“Xelqua.”

Grian hummed softly in response, his gaze fixated on the aftermath of battle. There was no need to turn to identify the approaching man standing behind him thanks to his numerous projections. the deep purple sparks that served as his many eyes, were spread across the expansive plains. Grian cycled through each eye, opening the one next to the man in green and white robes that cascaded with the passing of time. The man stood with a relaxed demeanor, his eyes closed yet betraying subtle fluttering movement beneath his eyelids.

“Martyn.” Grian sighed.

“I know you are going to not like I have to report,” Martyn huffed as he stepped next to Grian, gently brushing aside Grian’s violet wings. “Their numbers have increased by 38%.”

Grian removed his mask with a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose as he felt a headache growing.

“BigB has been having trouble shaking watchers from his trail through the doors. I’m afraid he won’t be able to run for long. They are learning his pattern. They almost cornered him earlier this week.”

“Have BigB lay low.” Grian muttered as he lowered himself to the ground, his legs under his robes aching from days of fighting. He could feel the ache in each and every fiber of his being. “We can’t risk losing contact with Xisuma or other admins.”

Martyn kneeled next to him, running his fingers through Grian’s feathers. Grian felt his muscles uncoil and his shoulder relax as the soothing motion of finger straightening out of place feathers and knocking away loose ones. Grian hummed as a particular chump of dried ichor and dirt.

“Geez dude, you are a mess.” Martyn muttered as he combed through other’s wings. “You promised to not run yourself thin. You know Jimmy and I can take your place if you need to rest.”

“No.” Grian snapped, his wings puffing up in response to his sudden burst. “I can’t have you or Jimmy trying to take them on. You two are Listeners, not Watchers. They could easily kill you, juveniles or not.”

“Grian.” Martyn hushed, his hands stopping in his work. “You are running on fumes.”

Grian knew it was true. He could feel the push against his chest as his energy waned. He knew the two Listeners could take on a juvenile or two, but with the rate they showed up was bothering him on an atomic level. It ate at him like an infection, starting in his chest, slowly creeping into his skull over time.

“When was the last time you preened?” Martyn’s voice cut through the silence that had settled and the thoughts that ran rampant in Grian’s mind.

“I don’t exactly remember.” The false blonde muttered, switching between all the sparks around the area. He lingered on one in particular as the winds whipped violently, kicking up dust and smaller debris. He could see something but nothing of concern…yet.

Martyn sighed deeply before slapping his hands on his knees before standing, grabbing Grian by the collar.

“Alright, you asked for it.” Martyn shrugged as Grian hissed instinctively, turning to swat at Martyn’s hand, failing miserably.

Watchers and Listeners were naturally enemies, hunting each other in a vicious and brutal cycle since the beginning of time. A sick version of a double ouroboros. But Martyn and Grian couldn’t give less of a shit to traditional standards.

They were brothers and if you told them any different, then it was to be expected that you would get a jab to the nose or throat. Even after Grian was forced to become a watcher, fighting in the void for years, veiling his true self with a solid projection of how he looked to everyone else Martyn still greeted him with open arms. Even after Martyn became a Listener, hearing whispers of worlds beyond his understanding, Grian never raised a hand to him. Even in the death games of years past, Martyn and Grian hesitated, regretted and apologized.

“Put me down!” Grian whined, not realizing that he had shrunk down from his combat form, taking on a smaller, less energy spending, simple player form. Martyn just laughed, watching as Grian attempted to wiggle his way to freedom from his red sweater.

“Oh gods, I’m lightheaded.” Martyn wheezed as he wiped a tear away from under his mask before placing Grian on his shoulder.

“Serves you right!” Grian retorted, landing a half assed slap to Martyn’s ear, causing the titan to flinch slightly. Grian sometimes forgot the lingering sensitivity that came with being able to hear other beings in other dimensions that came with being a listener.

“Watch the ears, G.” Martyn warned as he started to the south. Each step was a rumble in the terrain, almost a heartbeat in the dead landscape.

Though the land was flat from the years of explosions and erosion from acid like rain and occasional violent winds

Grian didn't realize he had drifted off in the folds of Martyn’s hood, lulled by the rhythmic sway and soft rumble until he was woken to another familiar face shaking his shoulder.

“Come on.” Jimmy whispered as he helped Grian to his feet. “Let's get you down so Martyn can size down.”

“‘M not a baby, Jimmy.” Grian grumbled as he hopped down from the titan’s shoulder, gilding down as he rubbed his eyes. He could still feel the sparks around the area blinking and watching. Jimmy hopped down after him, landing next to him before smacking him with his own yellow wings.

“You fell asleep on the way back.” Jimmy retorted, “Martyn and I are worried you are pushing yourself too hard.”

Grian simply rolled his eyes as he waved his hand in front of him. Nothing happened. Grian tried again. Nothing.

“It’s to the left, isn’t it.” Grian asked in defeat, leaving Jimmy and Martyn gasping for air as both laughed.

“Oh my gosh, here.” Jimmy waved his hand and the air wavered, shimmering in a golden hue before revealing a small base.

It wasn’t much, nothing compared to Grian’s mega bases, but it was cozy, easy to veil and had a back. So Grian never complained. It came with all that Grian needed to survive the wasteland. A small kitchen with ingredients restocked weekly by BigB, a library with a cozy fireplace with an interdimensional mailbox hidden in the couch, and three bedrooms.

Jimmy huffed as Grian walked in without wiping his shoes, before following, making sure to wipe his feet in an obvious manner, before disappearing into the kitchen. Martyn was the last to enter, staying outside the door for a moment, listening to the whispers in the wind before closing the door behind him. As the door clicked shut, the veil bloomed over the base once more, blending the build in with the wasteland.

Grian sighed deeply as he opened the door to his room, plopping down into his nest of blankets, jackets, shirts, and pillows. Shimmying into the center of the nest, Grian settled down with a small chirp.

Grian couldn’t lie, he was tired. The fatigue ran deep in his ribs and rested heavily on his shoulders. He didn’t have the energy to even shower himself from the blood that stained him and his favorite sw— “Ah man.” Grian looked down as his finger under his sweater poked through. Sometime during the fight Grian must have sized down to get an advance and caught his sweater. He could patch it later but he wasn’t one for sewing.

That was Cleo’s thing. Cleo’s hobby, their talent.

Grian remembered the times Cleo had spent hours trying to teach him how to make a proper stitch, a catch stitch specifically.

“Maybe I could use the ladder or zigzag stitch.” Grian huffed as he rolled over to a small compartment of tiny drawers, opening the one labelled ‘Cleo’, and taking out a needle and a spool of red thread.

Mumbo fidgeted with his hands in annoyance as he tried to satisfy a relentless itch buried deep under his skin. However, no matter how much he scratched the itch persisted. The redstone he worked with daily only seemed to make the problem worse, clinging to his hands and arms with a stubborn spite. Despite his efforts to wash away the residue, the redstone stains remained etched into his skin.

Mumbo stepped back from his workstation, taking a pause to savor the cool breeze and survey his progress with the redstone timer he was working on. The heat of the season seemed to be unusually relentless, making the atmosphere feel like a room full of blast furnaces. It wasn't typical summer heat; it was stifling. Mumbo wiped away the sweat that dripped down his face and on his mustache.

He rolled down the sleeves of his dress shirt, shielding himself from the scorching sun as best he could, making sure to adjust the burlap hat. As a nocturnal diurnal hybrid, Mumbo had his limits when it came to exposure to sunlight, and he made sure to take every precaution to protect himself from its harmful effects after prolonged exposure. He could feel the tingling of a growing sunburn on his neck and arms.

Mumbo stared up at the sky, sensing his magic responding to the world around him, like two magnetic forces repelling one another. His magic was different from others on the server; instead of summoning entities or manipulating basic elements, it guided him through the world. He could follow the natural flow of magic to locate resources, such as iron. However, in recent days, the sense had become overwhelming, his instincts struggling to separate the scents of different ores. The strongest scent was redstone, but Mumbo found it peculiar that he couldn't sense or feel its energy anymore. This sensation was nothing less than troubling.

Mumbo's redstone projects became more challenging to complete as he struggled without the aid of his senses to identify issues within the circuitry. He found it difficult to locate redirection of energy or recognize recurring signatures to maintain the flow. Even basic engineering principles, which he had once understood effortlessly, were now slipping from his grasp, leaving him feeling like a novice all over again.

A sense of uneasiness, growing into a looming shadow, haunted Mumbo. As he exhausted himself by delving deeper into his senses, he stumbled over to his suit jacket and some nearby shulkers, finally taking a break. The simple word "why" echoed in his mind, tormenting him. He would typically seek help from Xisuma, thinking it was an error in his code, but an unfamiliar, nagging voice in his mind made him pause, making him question his usual course of action.

I can’t find anything.
I can help with that.
What?
I can smell it.
How do you smell diamonds?!
I just can.

"What has the grass done this time?" Doc's deep, husky voice cut through the air, jolting Mumbo back to the present moment.

Mumbo flinched, realizing he hadn’t noticed Doc's approach. He quickly apologized, "Oh! Sorry, I didn't see you."

Doc's laughter echoed, his red cyber eye flickering intermittently. Despite his tank-like build, he possessed an uncanny ability to move with grace and stealth. Just as creepers had a knack for sneaking up on unsuspecting targets before exploding, so too did Doc. His tall, broad frame and lime-green fur stood out starkly, yet when he desired to remain unheard or out of sight, he could effectively disappear.

“Sorry, habit.” Doc replied as he tossed mumbo a wrapped sandwich. “Saw you having a bit of a crisis.”

Turning to look at Mumbo’s project, Doc raised a brow. “What are you even building, anyway. Seems a bit…big.”

Mumbo followed Doc’s gaze to the thorn in his side. “I'm not even sure myself.”

Doc walked over, looking over the mess of redstone and repeaters. He could see what mumbo was trying to start, but didn’t understand what Mumbo end goal was. The tangled mess of redstone and the haphazardly placed observers confused him. The Mumbo he was familiar with was a neat engineer, never letting lines cross unless it was necessary for the power flow. But this was an utter mess.

“This is a mess.” Doc muttered as he kicked a stray line making sure it wasn't close to any dry patches of grass. Mumbo felt a ping of concern as Doc’s brows furrowed in thought, not realizing he was picking at the grass again. Doc’s eyes flickered as he racked his brain of all the machines and generators that mumbo could be trying to make, but nothing followed the lines, or the items needed.

“Maybe it's just one of those days,” Mumbo started as he peeled back the foil of the sandwich, “Just some redstone jumbo.”

Doc and Mumbo sat in silence as Mumbo ate under the shade, enjoying the breeze that chased away the heat.

The moment of peace cut short when Mumbo felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. He groaned as he leaned forward, bracing his chest with an open hand, setting the half-eaten sandwich to the side.

“Mumbo?” Doc starred in concern as mumbo wheezed as if he was out of breath. The world felt as if it was trying to crush Mumbo under its weight, his ears ringing loudly. No matter how big of a breath he tried to take, air seemed to evade him.

“Mumbo!” Doc shouted as Mumbo fell to his side, curling in on himself in an attempt to relieve the pain.

Magic lashed out, trying to lick away the pain. But no matter how much mumbo tried to ease the crushing sensation against his ribs, it wasn't enough. Mumbo could feel a tear run down his face and he looked up to the creeper hybrid for help.

“Hold on.” Doc shushed as he knelt down, placing a hand on mumbo’s chest. “I’ll call for X.”

Mumbo could feel his heartbeat in his chest and for a moment, a fleeting moment he saw a red sweater and ash blonde hair and deep violet eyes bearing into his soul. It bore into his soul, his code, his very being. Like a string on a harp being plucked, like the single tick of power running through a circuit, he felt something flicker. Mumbo stared into those eyes, locked in what felt like a stalemate of consciousness and concentration before Mumbo was jolted back to reality, hands shaking his shoulders.

“Mumbo! Breathe!” Doc begged as he kept a hand on Mumbo’s chest as a grey helmet came into view. Mumbo drank the air around him greedily, his lungs burning with burning ache.

Chapter Text

Martyn had always hated yellow. Too bright. Too cheerful. But this? The way the dying sunlight gilded the cracked clay earth, ichor not his own painting the wasteland into something almost beautiful?

Yeah. That he could stomach.
Did he enjoy it?

Another wretched screech tore through the air. A Watcher, or what was left of one, dragged itself toward him, fingers bent at impossible angles, bones jutting through grayish skin. Martyn tilted his head, observing the thing with detached curiosity. It was almost pitiful.

Guilty as charged.

"Shut up already," he muttered, hefting his axe in one smooth motion. The blade came down with a wet crunch, severing the vertebrae with the crisp finality of a church bell tolling midnight. The silence that followed was sweeter than any prayer.

Martyn allowed himself a cold, fleeting smile as the echoes of that final, wet crunch faded into the evening air. He should really thank Ren for drilling him so ruthlessly in the art of the clean beheading strike. Like how to put your entire body weight behind the swing for maximum force. How to keep your feet planted, shoulder loose and leading the arc of the blade's descent. How to follow through without hesitation.

A childlike giggle sliced through the dusty evening air. With almost playful passion, Jimmy twisted his hand tighter around another Watcher's primary wing joint until there was an explosion of splintered bone and viscous ichor. The mangled watcher dropped from the sky like a broken marionette, falling with a piercing wail.

"Finally!" Jimmy exclaimed, hovering beside Martyn. His usual timidity was nowhere to be found. "Jeez, they just won't quit. I see why Grian was getting so frustrated."

It was easy to forget, in moments like these, that Jimmy had once been painfully timid - soft-spoken, avoiding violence when he could. But that was a lifetime ago, before the Watchers' parasitic rampage had consumed and reshaped their servers and homes. Before the relentless onslaught that threatened to strip away everything and everyone he loved.

His brilliant yellow wings fluttered softly as he touched down beside Martyn, unbowed and resolute.

“Stubborn lads." he muttered, more to himself than Martyn. A hint of a rueful smile played across his lips.

Martyn stared at the carnage, the littering of watcher bodies across the desert, flicking his axe with a quick twist to rid the blade of rapidly rotting blood. He let out an exaggerated sigh before crouching beside one of the corpses, cracking open the rib cage with a sickening crack.

"You going to stand there and watch like a creep, or you going to help with the cores?" Martyn called over his shoulder, already elbow-deep in gore. "Or do I gotta do all the gross work myself again?"

Jimmy made a disgusted noise, wrinkling his nose as he reluctantly approached. "Fucking nasty," he muttered, nudging a corpse with his boot like it might lunge at him again. "Why do I always get the ones that smell like a swamp’s armpit?"

Martyn snorted, flicking a chunk of something unidentifiable at him. "Because you’ve got the delicate sensibilities of a princess. Now quit whining and dig in, unless you wanna explain to Grian why we came back empty-handed.”

Martyn rolled the marble-sized core between his fingers, his throat tightening with the almost physical need to just swallow it whole. The purple sheen glinted under the dim light, the dense energy inside humming against his skin. A core this size? One wrong move, and boom! No more 130-meter radius! No more them!

His grip tightened.

"Greedy much?" Jimmy chuckled, already tucking his own harvested core into the small pouch hidden under his robes. He shot Martyn a sidelong glance, eyebrow raised. "You’re staring at that thing like it’s the last biscuit in the tin."

Martyn exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his fingers to relax. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no real bite to it. He tossed the core into his own pouch with deliberate slowness, just to prove he could.

Jimmy grinned, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Knew you had some self-control left. Proud of you, mate."

"I will end you," Martyn said flatly.

Jimmy just laughs.

---

The base was too quiet when they returned. Martyn's bootsteps echoed unnaturally loud against the metal flooring as he made straight for the kitchen, ignoring the rule of removing his shoes in favor of coffee, his Listener-enhanced ears already picking up the rhythmic draw of Grian's breathing from two rooms away. Too deep. Too slow.

Jimmy hovered in the doorway of Grian's room, one hand gripping the frame like he might fall over. "He's out cold," he whispered, though Martyn could hear him perfectly from the kitchen. "Like... really out. Doesn't even have his sparks up."

Martyn paused mid-pour of stale coffee, the hairs on his neck rising. Grian never slept without his telltale violet sparks dancing at his fingertips, their makeshift security system and nightlight rolled into one. The absence felt wrong, like finding a sword still sheathed during battle.

"Probably just exhausted from holding the wards all day," Martyn called back, forcing nonchalance into his voice as he stirred three sugars into his mug. Too many. He didn't care. "He pushes himself too hard."

Jimmy appeared in the kitchen doorway, shadows pooling under his eyes. "Since when does that stop him from being paranoid?" His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against his thigh. One-two-three, One-two-three. Their old signal for unease.

Martyn shoved the coffee mug into Jimmy's hands. "Drink. You're jumpier than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs." The familiar insult lacked its usual bite.

As Jimmy sipped, Martyn strained his hearing beyond Grian's room - out into the barrier, the hollow winds outside, the hidden places where threats liked to lurk. Nothing but the hum of BigB’s door and the distant drip of a leaky pipe.

"Place is clean," Martyn muttered. "Probably just actually resting for once."

Jimmy's answering hum vibrated against the ceramic mug. "Or he's dead."

"Then we wouldn't hear him breathing, would we, genius?"

"You know what I mean." Jimmy set the mug down with a clatter. "I'm checking on him."

Martyn rolled his eyes but followed, because someone had to keep Jimmy from accidentally smothering Grian in his concern. The sight of their friend curled tightly under a mountain of blankets, face smoothed of its usual tension, made him pause.

Jimmy froze, his fingers still tangled in Grian’s sweat-damp hair. The heat radiating from the avian's skin wasn’t just sleep-warm. It was wrong, feverish, like touching the lid of a boiling pot.

"Martyn," he hissed, voice low but urgent. Martyn was already moving before his name fully left Jimmy’s lips, his Listener senses sharpening as he crossed the room in two strides. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. One glance at Jimmy’s tense shoulders and the way Grian’s breaths hitched slightly told him enough.

Kneeling beside Jimmy, Martyn pressed the back of his hand to Grian’s forehead. Then immediately jerked it back with a quiet curse. "Burning up," he muttered. "Like, actually burning up. What the hell?"

Jimmy’s throat tightened. Grian never got sick. Not like this.

"Sparks," Jimmy whispered suddenly, eyes darting to Grian’s limp hands, usually alight with violet energy just under his skin, pulsing with his heartbeat. "They’re not just down. They’re gone."

Martyn’s jaw tightened. "That’s not possible."

Grian stirred weakly at their voices, his face twisting in discomfort, but he didn’t wake.

Jimmy’s hands hovered uselessly, torn between shaking Grian awake and letting him rest. "Do we-Should we…?"

"Medicine first," Martyn decided, already standing. "Then we figure out why the hell his magic’s offline."

Jimmy nodded, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not when Grian was right there, too still, too quiet, too un-Grian-like.

Martyn paused in the doorway, glancing back. "Jimmy."

“I know, I know," Jimmy muttered, finally forcing himself to stand. But not before carefully tucking the blankets tighter around Grian’s shoulders. Just in case.

Even with Grian being an all-powerful Watcher, it was easy to forget that beneath that cosmic mantle, he was still just a Player at his core. Still vulnerable to the same frailties and illnesses as the rest of them.

As Jimmy helped Martyn sort through their meager stash of potions, his mind raced, replaying their recent jaunt out into the Wasteland. They'd been extra cautious - hadn't taken any unnecessary risks or scouted unstable zones. Yet here they were, with Grian burning up and his magic completely depleted.

"Could just be a nasty virus," Martyn muttered, dumping a handful of unlabeled pill bottles onto the counter. "Been too long since any of us got properly sick."

Jimmy grunted, already working to decipher the array of ingredients and potions. His hands stilled as a thought struck him. "You don't think...?" He swallowed hard. "The Watchers…could this be a different type of attack?"

The words hung heavy between them. Martyn leaned back, dragging a hand over his face as he considered it. "Wouldn't put it past them," he finally admitted. "We haven't let them advance or gain any ground in the past 253 years.”

Grabbing a random assortment of bottles, Jimmy stalked back towards Grian's room with grim purpose. "Well, we're about to find out," he growled. Martyn fell into step beside him without a word.

Martyn's focus narrowed, his ears attuned to every whisper, every rustle, every faint vibration. He stood guard, a sentinel protecting their fragile sanctuary. His grip tightened around the handle of his axe, a comforting weight.

Juveniles, maybe. Just a few. He could handle it.

But his gut churned with unease. Something didn't add up. The silence was oppressive, heavy with anticipation. It was as if the entire Wasteland was holding its breath, waiting for...what?

The firewall, normally a steady hum, seemed to flicker—just once. A flicker that might've been nothing, or everything.

Martyn's instincts screamed danger. Yet again, it always did. Aged and Elder Watchers were smart, unlike the juveniles who jumped at the slightest chance to claim or consume. They were patient. They were more sentient. And they had a way of making you feel like you were always one step behind.

He exchanged a glance with Jimmy, who was hovering near Grian's bedside, unsure whether to stay or join the Martyn.

He stood, his decision made. "Jimmy," he said, his voice low, "I need you to stay with Grian. I'm going to reinforce the barrier."

Jimmy looked up from where he was sitting, a frown creasing his forehead. "You sure? I can—"

"No," Martyn interrupted, his tone firm. "You need to stay here. With Grian. I can handle it."

Jimmy's frown deepened, but he nodded. "Be careful, alright? And if you run into any—"

"I know, I know. Just a juvenile or two. I got it." Martyn forced a grin, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

With a final glance back at Grian's prone form, Martyn slipped out of the room, his footsteps quiet on the metal floor. The Watchers were out there, waiting. And he was going to make sure they stayed out there.

Because if they got through, if they somehow managed to break through the firewall...

Chapter Text

So I didnt realize A03 could have bots??? i saw some comments that were really hateful. But i did some talking to some other writers, a bit of research, and found out they were bots. If you see them in the comments after i post a chapter please try to ignore them. i know some of you have shown more interest in the fic then i realized and i thank you for that love. you dont have to defend me. thats not your responsibility. i promise you ill be okay. thank you again.

another thing i would like to warn moving forward in the fic or any update.

I will be having a hard time for the next for weeks or even months due to breaking off my engagement. I saw the screen shots and was hurt in a way i thought wasnt possible. so the updates may be either rushed or every far apart. i will be taking more time to recover emotionally. dont worry, im okay. i roll with the punches as they come.

spoiler: someone will die :)

Chapter Text

Out, out, brief candle. Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Macbeth, Act V, scene 5

Martyn was really, really starting to lose his cool.

Martyn slumped against the out crop of boulders, chest heaving as his Listener senses slowly faded back from their heightened state, leaving his temples sore. For now, at least, the barrier was secure and the other two were now safe, the watchers seemingly driven back into whatever fucking crevices they lurked.

He would need to find the weak spot in the fire wall and fast, but he knew better than to expect a break long enough to patch it.

"You're kidding me!" The huff exploded from his lips. Yanking the core pouch free with a frustrated growl, Martyn stared at the dense purple marble he'd been saving nestled innocently inside. He'd meant to ration it, use it for a day that the normal food had run too low or completely out, but that plan went out the window as fresh waves of nausea began to become more aggressive. He was running himself dry and ragged. He just needed to outlast this wave.

“Fuck it!” Martyn hissed.

Without hesitation, he crammed the core into his mouth and swallowed hard. A rush of energy detonated in his chest, sending violent shockwaves of power shooting through his limbs. Martyn grunted, doubling over as the physical sensations of sudden regeneration and strength that no potion can provide ricochet through his body. It was a painfully pleasant sensation, balanced perfectly between the two.

He could already feel his own core absorbing the energy as it reknit every strained muscle fiber and frayed nerve on a molecular level.

Pushing off the rock, Martyn straightened and flexed both hands into fists before heaving his prized axe over his shoulder.

"Alright you little shits," he growled, teeth bared in a feral grin. "Let's dance."

“Martyn?”

Martyn's entire body went rigid, that feral snarl freezing on his lips as the painfully familiar voice cut through the haze of new born bloodlust.

"Ren?"

The name slipped out in a hoarse rasp, both hope and dread tangling in his throat. Because standing there, bathed in the harsh glare of the wasteland sun, was indeed the unmistakable silhouette.

Ren.

Just like Martyn remembered, from the stupid red shirt barely clinging to his lean frame, to the battered sunglasses perched atop messy brown locks, to those ridiculous suspenders he always insisted on wearing.

Martyn swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat as Ren approached the escape portal, eyes lined with a bravado that didn't quite ring true. He could see the nervous twitch in Ren's fingers as he tugged absently at his suspenders.

"Ren!" Martyn called out, pushing through the crowd of players. He forced a smile, trying to project every ounce of confidence he wished he felt as Ren's head snapped over his shoulder toward him.

Their eyes met from across the courtyard, a thousand unspoken words passing between them in that moment. Martyn lifted his hand in a solemn wave. "I'll see you on the other side!"

The promise hung in the air, heavy and uncertain. They both knew the sheer audacity of what they were attempting. But Ren's expression smoothed out into one of easy nonchalance, his usual front of unwavering bravado slipping back into place like a well-worn mask.

Straightening his shoulders, Ren turned to fully face the crowd, eyes shining with mischief as he swept into an overly-dramatic, courtly bow. "Until we meet again!" His grin was achingly bright, an almost childish glint shining through as he winked at Martyn.

Once a showman, always a showman.

"Ren...?" Martyn repeated, his voice cracking with fragile desperation as he took a halting step forward. The Watcher all but abruptly shoved aside by the overpowering need for answers, for closure, for something to make sense. Why? Why was he here? He was supposed to be safe and sound in Hermitage, away from all this!

"Is it...really you? You need to get out of here!”

The pain hit him like a sledgehammer. White-hot and feral, radiating from the jagged blade of the Watcher’s hand buried deep under his ribs. Martyn gasped, choking on his own breath as his vision blurred at the edges.

“Fuck!”

HIs core’s energy thrashed inside him, wild and untamed, lashing out in desperate, uncontrolled bursts like a cornered animal. Neon electricity crackled along his skin, but the Watcher didn’t flinch, its grinning stolen mask looming inches from his face.

Gods, the smell was horrid, smelling of sulfur and pure sick, burning his nose.

Ren…no, not Ren, never Ren…dissolved into static, the illusion unraveling like smoke in the wind. Martyn snarled, blood bubbling past his chapped lips as he tried to shove the thing off, but his arms were shaking, his new strength bleeding out alongside the crimson pooling beneath him. A waste. He could feel the tip of the blade digging into his heart, pulling harshly at his own core.

The Watcher leaned in, a hollow, sad attempt of a face, its voice a distorted whisper. "You craved him. We gave you what you wanted."

He could feel the blade twist. He couldn’t scream.

A purple flash.

A scream, not his own, ripped through the air as the Watcher exploded backward, torn away by a blast of searing light.

Grian stood in the dust, violent sparks writhing around his fists, his eyes burning with fury.

"You," He hissed, voice layered with something else, "do not touch him."

Martyn slumped against the boulder, breath ragged, bloodied fingers clutching his side.

"Took you... long enough," he wheezed. He had never been so happy to see Grian so pissed off.

Grian didn’t smile. The Void still clung to the avian like paint stains, his power unstable, wild, violent.

Martyn flinched violently at the unexpected touch on his shoulder. He almost struck out before Jimmy's familiar voice cut through the adrenaline.

"Hey, hey. Take it easy. It's just me." There was a barely-suppressed tremor beneath the calm. Jimmy was scared. They both were. Not a sick, twisted illusion like before.

Martyn exhaled a shuddering breath, leaning heavily against his friend as another pained grunt escaped Grian's direction. "I thought he was sick," he rasped out, eyes tracking the airborne sparks and flashes of purple, different shades clashing for control.

The bitter laugh that huffed from Jimmy's lips carried no mirth. "Well, he woke up and chose violence."

"Let me see," Jimmy murmured, lips pressed into a tight line as he carefully pried Martyn's hand away from the seeping wound in his side.

Martyn hissed, every shallow inhalation spiking shards of fiery pain through his chest. He knew deep wounds, knew how insidious they could be if not treated swiftly. As his head lolled back against Jimmy's shoulder, he could feel the last drips of the consumed energy fading, his body's enhancements sputtering out like a candle in the wind. Most of the energy from the core he swallowed keeping him alive.

Martyn clawed his fingers feverishly into the soil beneath him as Jimmy examined the ragged gash.

"That bad, huh?" he murmured weakly.

“Eat.” Martyn's vision swam as Jimmy pressed the core from his pouch against his lips. Small, warm, and humming. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, mixing with the ozone-sharp taste of raw power as he obediently swallowed.

The effect was immediate. Heat surged through his veins, the energy stitching through torn muscle and fractured bone with an almost violent urgency. Martyn gasped, fingers digging into the dirt as his body arched slightly against Jimmy for balance. Pain and relief crashing together in a dizzying wave.

Jimmy's grip on his shoulder tightened, his voice low and raw with guilt. "I should've come with you."

Martyn coughed, tasting copper. "And miss Grian's grand entrance?" He managed a weak smirk, even as his ribs screamed in protest. "Nah. Worth it."

A distant crack echoed as Grian's power lashed out again, the air itself shuddering under the force, the watcher screaming out.

Jimmy didn't laugh. His expression was grim, fingers pressing a wad of gauze firmly against Martyn's side. "You're an idiot."

"You're an idiot." Martyn shot back, breathless.

Jimmy exhaled sharply. “Shut up.”

Martyn's breath hitched as Jimmy's arms hooked under him, hauling him upright with a jolt that sent fresh agony. His legs buckled…wait, no… everything felt wrong.

“Oh.”

He'd sized down.

Shrunken without even realizing it, his body's last-ditch effort to conserve energy after the brutal stab and the core's violent surge. No wonder Jimmy could lift him so easily. Good on him.

"You're lucky Grian saw you in time," Jimmy murmured, voice tight. Martyn didn't answer. Couldn't. He just pressed his forehead against Jimmy's shoulder, breathing through the pain, listening to the distant crack of Grian's power.

With a sharp snap, Jimmy's wings burst open, catching the dim light like shattered sunlight.

Martyn barely had time to brace himself before the world lurched. The ground fell away beneath them, the wind screaming past Martyn's ears.