It feels so weird. So wrong. Wasn’t he supposed to die in the end? Scar is pretty sure he was. He saw it with his own eyes: every winner before him died in the end. But for some reason, Scar didn’t.
At first he was confused. Maybe there’s been some kind of mistake. Maybe he’ll drop dead any minute now. But then a day came by. Two days. A week. And no god struck him down with a lightning. Scar was becoming more and more weirded out by that. He tried taking matters in his own hands, but no amount of jumping from a cliff to his death led him to freedom. He respawned again and again, wearing the same clothes with poppies and lilacs, having the same red eyes looking back at him from the river, staring at the same shade of red his name had every time he took his communicator in his hand and typed, "Hey?", "Anybody alive?", "Hello?", because what if the reason why he’s still alive is that he’s not actually a winner yet? What if there’s another player, and all he has to do to end this is to find and kill them, or let them kill him? But he never found anyone, and two weeks after the day he won, he stopped searching.
Three weeks after the day Scar won, he already had a new house going on. He settled at the edge of the map near mesa. "Screw this," he figured, "I’m not going to just wander around the land for months if the gods forgot to kill me. I’ll do things!" And things he did. After he was done with his new house, he fixed his old base, and tore down Mumbo's tower, and built a couple of things here and there. It was nice.
The next week was spent relaxing. He tended to his crops and fed cows he’d stolen from someone (not that the person would mind; they were dead). He died once that week and woke up in his bed again, but at that point it was starting to feel normal.
Five weeks after the day Scar won, he finally had to admit that the gods were not going to kill him. That for some reason, they decided to trap him there. Or maybe that’s what their idea of a happy ending was, maybe Scar happened to become the winner of the final game, the final round, and this was his reward. Maybe all the other players have gone home. Maybe Scar’s the only one left behind, and they live on without him.
There was no use in thinking about possibilities. It was only upsetting him. No - terrifying him. Instead, he took the matters in his own hands once again, and paid a visit to The Secret Keeper.
"I don’t want that," he said to it. "If this is my reward, I don’t want it. I want to go home. To Hermitcraft. Back to my friends. Back to where they’re alive."
The Secret Keeper didn’t seem to react. Scar felt his chest heat up with rage.
"Get me out of here!" he yelled, voice wavering. "You psychos! I- I miss my cat!"
The Secret Keeper didn’t answer.
Scar went home, laid down on his bed, and spent the evening thinking about Jellie's warm fur and his friends' smiles.
There were people. Not all of them were seated, some stood around and held drinks.
There was a bar and there was a grumpy barkeeper.
Some people looked over at the ‘newcomers’ and Mazin smiled at them, waving. We made our way to the bar without much incident.
Then a man stood before us. He was taller than my companion. And even though I only just today realised he is tall, he was basically a giant.
And barked something at my beanpole.
The beanpole laughed, good-naturedly, then seemed to insult the guy, since he… vibrated, spat a few words and stormed off.
“What… what just happened?”, it honestly looked like he would come back. With friends. I tugged at Mazin’s sleeve. Maybe we should prevent that.
“… why did he look at me like that?!”, because that’s what he did: He did a glance at me before storming.
“Because he doesn’t believe me that you can beat him any time”, my grip tightened and my eyes widened. He laughed.
“Mazin, I do not know how it escaped your simple mind, but I, in fact, can not beat him”, I hissed. Because he lost his mind.
He chuckled some more and said: “I could”, and smirked at me.
“Yeah, and you are a spider, that crawls through windows, you probably poisoned him or something”, I was being irrational.
He laughed a little more: “Well, you are not wrong”, because that was a reassuring thing to say!
I stared at him. And he laughed some more, ordering… three shot-glasses and three bottles of something I was sure was illegal in my own country.
He placed a glass and a bottle on a table, put me on it, set down another set opposite of me, turned a chair and sat himself backwards on it, chin on the backrest.
“…. You really don’t think we should… leave?”, people started to come a little closer. I heard Mazin’s name. And ‘Naba’ is something that repeated itself, too. So… that’s probably the big guy.
“It would be a great insult”, he grinned some more.
“… I… guess we are not going to… brawl”
It made him laugh: “No, no, you’re not. That would be my task if things went wrong. But you are going to beat him. I chose this day for a reason”
But he was not sharing with the class.
I was busy staring unhappily, when ‘Naba’ came back. He brought a box. And let it fall on the table. He barked some words. I was bewildered.
Then the box got unpacked and the pieces put on the checkered board.
It was a chessboard.
Mazin looked as amused as ever.
“… I guess whenever I lose a piece I have to drink?”, I raised my brows, because: illegal alcohol! This stuff was not healthy. And I would lose some pieces.
“Mmmmmhmh, that’s what he said. ‘The usual rules’. And I need to drink, too. I have to take over for you with that level should you lose. I doubt it, though”, he looked entirely certain I could beat a hulking man with slight issues at chess.
… I wouldn’t underestimate him. There was a bit of an obsessive streak there if you played chess in a tavern.
I’d be on guard.
He gave me white. And sneered.
At my opening. Which… was terribly stupid, but probably a tactic.
And I... notice that something in me is very much against pouncing him.
It had crossed my mind, for a moment, to use my state as an excuse to show.... 'catlike behaviour', as he had put it.
But in the very same moment I looked to aim, my body clamped up and very firmly shut that down. In all honesty, my hair raised a little.
Something told me it would be a terrible idea.
When he looked back to see where I was, I might have shrunk back a little, since he interrupted his “You comi-,” with an “oh”.
He looked a little sad-confused before he came back to offer me a hand to get up.
The feeling was gone. And my ears moved back up.
I... hadn't realised I'd flattened them. Hadn't even really noticed that I could flatten them, but... there we were. I felt them with my fingers.
They are actually pretty big. And twitchy.
That... really was a change I had not yet registered properly. I had been a little out of it, it seemed.
But now I stood, the knight watching me intently.
He hadn't watched me like that before, I think.
Then I frowned.
I was taller.
Like... not as tall as the other man, but... when I stretched I was almost as tall. And stretch I did.
He smiled a bit indulgently and then moved indicated the kitchen as a destination, with a tilt of his head: “Food?”
“Ah... I suppose,” and I walked.
A lot more aware. With those... more massive arms I did walk a little hunched. Maybe because I had a tiny tail now as well. A tiny one. Bushy and tiny. It was odd.
But at least my legs worked the normal way.
Except for the clicking of claws on the floor. Tiny clicking noises every time I made a step.
I even felt it right up my spine.
Not unpleasantly so, but I had... expectations on the ground.
Maybe Ifrit's were one of those races with an inherited memory.
When I asked, Sir Israfil said “Maybe,” with a little shrug.
Which once again made me question how his knowledge came to be. He knows how Ifrits like their roast in every city of their country, but not if they have inherited memory.
He ignored my slight frown and handed me a pitcher of water, then: “Drink up”
I stared at it: “... that's... like... three liters”
“Yes, and now drink up. You won't feel better, but I guarantee you you won't feel worse either”
And so, I shrugged as well. If he insisted...
I just... started to gulp it down.
It felt pretty much like nothing.
Weird.
Really weird.
But then it was empty.
Some things might be a little strange to get used to.
“And that is why you need to make sure to drink, alright?”
“... alright,” and... well... why not. It's not... making me feel worse either.
Hrm.
“So... what's for dinner, then?,” I asked, because I cooked what he or Lady Michelle brought me, “I think the princess might want to eat something... I... somehow neglected my duties”
“She is fine, do not worry. I got ox. And... ah... the market had a few traders from outside. You.... think you can work with it?
He handed me a box. I opened it. And a very familiar smell came over me.
A quick little experiment on plot pacing and research...
There was a soft clicking echoing in the hallway as a pair of fox paws walked its length. The tile floors and concrete walls did little to soften the resounding tic-tic-tic as the fox continued on his journey towards the steel door at the end of the hall.
A loud CLANG rang through the once-empty room as the steel door fell back into its resting position. The fox winced softly at the grating sound as he was taking off his blazer, tossing it onto a nearby chair, metal-rimmed buttons connecting with the steel to create small tings as the coat folded over the back haphazardly. Before the blazer had hit the chair, the fox was already rolling up the cuffs of his shirt, the folded fabric staying put just below his elbows. The fox’s head shook a bit as the tie that had been around his neck was loosened and the constricting top button of the shirt was undone. A relieved sigh broke the silence, a deep breath following in its path.
There was a small clatter as the previously untouched rifle left the top of the table, coming to rest in the fox’s paws. Big, hazel eyes inspected the common firearm, the title AR-15 stamped into the metal receiver. The bolt was opened, cleared, and closed in a matter of seconds before the magazine was released. Another sigh. Eyes darted around the room, ending their movement at the table. 5.56mm the box read, the cartridges visible as the top of the box had been ripped open, likely without care by the looks of it.
A new sound filled the room, that of magazines being filled, six if anyone had been counting. As the final magazine was topped off, it wasn’t set onto the table like the others. Rather, it found it’s way back into the rifle. The rest of the magazines were slipped between the fox’s belt and pants, ready for later use. The lucky magazine that had been put into the gun lost a cartridge as it was chambered into the rifle, a quick, pleasing symphony of clicks and slides as the cartridge was forced into its new, temporary home.
The fox looked across the room to the only other door: another steel barrier, but this door was banged up so bad, one could only imagine what might have caused it. A discordant groaning slipped through the spaces between the door and its frame, the hinges failing at their job to hold the steel in its intended position.
Deep breaths. Tic-tacking of nails on tile. A lung-filling breath. A large THUD against steel. A massive grunt from exertion of force. Hinges breaking. Steel hitting ground. Heads turning. Dust settling. Loud groaning.
The stock flew into the fox’s shoulder, eyes focusing down the sights that protruded above the barrel. A soft click went unrecognized as the safety was disengaged. One more breath in, this time held as his focus solidified. Another click, this time coming from the complete pull of the rifle’s trigger. The firing pin slammed into the cartridge’s primer, the following combustion of the lead styphnate igniting the gunpowder. The bullet met the air, slamming full force into the head of the reanimated office intern. As the body hit the floor, the fox’s shoulder took the resulting recoil, the casing from the spent cartridge falling past it. Another cartridge was chambered, the bolt was shut, and the barrel was pointed towards the next groaning, undead victim.
