An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
"AGAIN?!" Grian's enraged squawk is the first thing Martyn heard when he opened his eyes. He raised his hand to shield himself from the sun's glare, waiting for them to adjust. There was a dull pain in his chest - probably from the stalagmite - and his entire body throbbed, probably from the fall. Dying sucked.
But something that didn't suck was winning.
"Two-time winner, coming through!" He called, strolling over to Spawn, where a circle of thrones were erected. Grian was perched on the arm of his, talons digging into the stone so hard cracks were starting to appear. The contained light of the Sun pulsated, golden rays making Grian look positively ethereal in his rage.
Scott lounged in his, the pale light of the twinkling stars making him appear more impish, divine but mischievous. "You're not the only two-time winner here, Martyn. Don't let that ego of yours get too big."
"Yours barely counted," He replied, walking over to his own throne. The red glow of Mars was brighter than the light of the surrounding thrones, and crimson light poured out of the cracks in his. "It was hardly a full season."
Cleo cleared their throat. Their throne was slightly further away from everyone else's in the circle, barely enough to be noticeable, but of course everyone noticed. When you're stuck in a state of limbo for months on end, you start to notice things. "What's that meant to mean?"
He turned a saccharine smile on his teammate. "Nothing!"
"Can't believe I went out so fast," Joel grumbled, slumping into his throne. A comet whizzed around the top of his throne, and if you looked close enough (which Martyn had done, one time, when boredom threatened to tear him to pieces) you could see that the comet was not a rock but, in fact, a car. "No offence to you or anything, Pearl."
"None taken." She was still in her Scarlet Pearl get-up, her hood pulled up and brown hair spilling out. "I was thinking of hunting you later for sport, anyway."
The two of them shared equally bloodthirsty smiles. Volatile, those two were. The waiting affected everyone differently. Grian acted more birdlike, stretching the parrot wings on his back, soaring through the sky more often than not. Scott would rebuild the broken bases, set up a jukebox at Spawn and then dance until his legs gave out. Scar would take it upon himself to tend to fields of crops or flowers. Cleo would bother people into doing something more exciting, be that games or a mini hunt. And Pearl and Joel would go on hunts, alternating between hunter and prey. Sometimes Martyn would join them, sometimes he would make traps to terrorise people with.
It was just a matter of passing the time. The Games themselves didn't leave much room for boredom; when everyone is constantly fearing for their lives, adrenaline runs high, and boredom is almost never an issue. In the aftermath, however, when they have no lives to lose and therefore no danger to concern themselves with, that is when boredom strikes.
So they kept themselves busy. No matter what.
"Where's Scar?" He asked, looking around and noticing his throne to be conspicuously absent.
They all turned to look at Scott. "He's by the cabins," Scott explained, crossing and uncrossing his legs. "I think he's trying to fix the hot tub."
Martyn immediately turned to where the cabins sat, squatting on the surface of the sea. Sure enough, past the empty farmland and the burnt wreckage of the cabins, he could see a tiny glimpse of the grey-green jacket Scar had taken to wearing.
"Does that mean we can all enjoy the hot tub?" Cleo sat up, leaning forwards, excitement playing in their eyes.
A smile curled on Scott's lips. He pushed himself to his feet. "Probably. You're all welcome to pop in, so long as none of you pee in the damn thing." That particular statement was directed at Joel, who had perked up and then slumped in his throne just as fast.
Martyn could see why the Cabin Boys built a hot tub in every base. Really, he could.
Three days after the most recent Game had ended, Scar had spent hours trying to fix up the hot tub. Scott would pass by every now and again to spruce up the outhouse that the hot tub was contained in, being preoccupied with restoring the watch-tower first, and Martyn couldn't help but check in constantly. He wanted in that hot tub now. His bones still ached incessantly from his death, and there was a star-shaped scar in his torso from his landing that stubbornly refused to go away. A hot tub would be perfect for him. For everyone, really, since everyone's body was going to be full of phantom pains and aches for at least a couple weeks.
The area had been spruced up. The outhouse was decorated with climbing vines that had sprouted small flowers, little garlands hung up over the door. The wood was still scorched (it adds character, Scott had said) and the windows were replaced, paired with thin curtains that billowed in the light breeze.
"The hot tub's ready!" Scar had called out, and like a pack of dogs offered a bone, they had all eagerly rushed to the outhouse, pushing past one another to sink in. Scott and Scar claimed their usual corners, Grian went in the middle, Martyn in the corner next to Scar, Pearl between him and Scar, Cleo sat on the edge with only their feet dipping in and Joel standing next to them.
A chorus of relieved groans filled the air. He was in heaven. Literal heaven. The water was delightfully hot, a soothing balm on his skin. For the first time in days, his body wasn't screaming at him in agony, and he could pretend this wasn't happening. That he wasn't trapped in limbo waiting for a new Game to emerge, packed with new and painful deaths and new betrayals. That he wasn't stuck in an 'elite' group without the rest of his friends. Martyn let his head fall back against the stone slabs, his arms bracing the sides to keep himself from fully submerging.
"Hey! Who the hell just kicked me?!"
Sharp, playful laughter rang out. Martyn jabbed his foot at Pearl's knee. With an affronted gasp, she ruthlessly began attacking in kind, kicking his shins relentlessly. Grian began to lift himself out of the water with his wings, kicking his talons to and fro, spraying water in his face. Scar remained conspicuously silent.
Joel scooped a handful of water and dumped it down Scott's neck. Scott whipped around and splashed Joel down the front of his shirt.
Within seconds, everyone devolved into hysterics, flinging water at one another and flinging water everywhere. It had taken roughly two minutes before they fell to chaos. A new record.
Martyn was placing down some rails when he heard Joel screaming gleefully. He was standing in the ruins of the Rejects' base - specifically at what remained of their TNT cannon. After bridging forwards for a while, he was probably within range to shoot TNT at Spawn. They had tried to break the thrones before, to no avail, and blowing them up didn't work either, but it'd be funny. Scott, Cleo and Scar were at Spawn currently, all three dancing around a jukebox. Martyn could hear the distant notes (damn Lava Chicken, whoever gave Scott that disc would receive a painful death next time Martyn saw them) even from afar. If it didn't blow up the thrones, it would at the very least shut the damn jukebox up and give the others a right scare.
"Hey! No! Stop! Damnit, Pearl, wolves are cheating!" Below him, Joel was frantically fleeing a frankly impressive pack of wolves all snapping at his heels. Pearl strolled at the back of the pack, shooting arrows up ahead. They all landed at Joel's feet; warning shots, just shy of teasing. She was whistling a jaunty tune aloud.
A swoop of air caught his ears from behind. "You need to push it a little further," Grian instructed, feet hovering off the ground, "otherwise it won't hit." He squinted at Grian, then broke the rail he had been placing to elongate the platform.
Martyn chuckled. "You sick of the music, too?"
"It's worse when you know Scott has multiple discs and just chooses to play that song."
"He does?" Grian squawked, his feathers ruffling indignantly as he did. Martyn couldn't help but laugh at that.
"Yeah. Cheeky little shit just likes riling people up." As he said so, as if knowing he was being talked about, Scott looked up at them and waved. Cleo and Scar stopped dancing to join in, waving exaggeratedly up at him.
Martyn's shoulders sagged. Damn. Damn Scott and his irritatingly good perception.
"You'll get 'em next time," Grian said commiseratingly.
Besides, it'd be a shame for all his effort to go to waste, wouldn't it? Martyn finished the track, placed the TNT minecart down, then sent it on its way. The explosion wasn't as satisfying as he had wanted it to be, given that the surprise was spoiled, but he managed to blow up the jukebox.
Both he and Grian breathed a sigh of relief as Lava Chicken stopped.
Cleo placed down a crafting table. All three of them gathered around it, shoulders shaking with barely-contained laughter as they contributed items to the cause. They made a barrier so neither he nor Grian could see what they were doing. Then...
Weeks had gone by. The initial thrill had since gone by and the novelty of winning a second time had faded pretty fast. Not that he didn't continue lauding the fact over everybody else (much to their irritation and his continued entertainment) but eventually they all got bored of that song and dance.
They went through games quickly. After a couple goes at King of The Ladder (during which Scar and Scott had departed quite quickly at the end, both a little teary-eyed, although nobody said anything about it), they swapped to games of tag, to bridging competitions, to some improv games. Someone mentioned leprosy and silence fell over the group briefly, a choking fog, before it was dissipated by Pearl suggesting they go to the lighthouse.
The Square Hole had been covered up. Nobody wanted to walk past it and think of how they died (wind whistling in his ears, the only sound he could hear over the rush of blood thumping in his ears, the eventual painful landing, the stalagmite piercing his chest, explosive agony, his body convulsing as he died) so it was quickly concealed by dirt. Scar had started planting sunflowers in the land. Scott came by to plant some poppies. Grian and Pearl placed lilacs and rose bushes. Martyn and Joel didn't plant any flowers, but they would help water them, keep them maintained and healthy, which was appreciated enough.
On bad days, Joel would hunt Scott down and kill him over and over again. On bad days, Grian would be glued to Scar's side, constantly either perched on his shoulder or holding his hand, trying to reassure himself he was real. On bad days, Pearl would isolate herself with her wolf pack. Cleo would freeze and stay somewhere for hours at a time, looking more like a ghost than a zombie.
On bad days, Martyn would feel as though his head was splitting in two. He would wake up, half expecting to feel the chill of winter, cool steel in his hand, to see the rolling head of his King upon an altar. He would walk around and hear voices clamouring for attention in his head, voices that refused to let up. On those days, hid ears would start bleeding, and they wouldn't stop.
But on good days they all congregated together. They danced together. They sang songs. They made dumb gags that would continue on for weeks. They played games and made traps and kept on living, because that was the only thing they could do.
Live, until they were asked to die.
