*lays down* im thinking about minecraft again and the empty spaces you create. the flat lands. the grand halls. the picture perfect buildings and towns that no one lives in.
have you ever entered a multiplayer world and found an empty town? it's like. people were there. there were players there, once, and maybe there will be players there again, but there aren't any now. now there are only empty buildings and straight-lined roads where forest used to be.
have you ever made a building that's just too Large? four chunks, one empty room. Or maybe found a megabase from the ground. you are so small, and the world you've and your players have made is so big.
i've seen so many people talk about how empty and lonely single player worlds are, but my favourite world is a single player one. i live in a valley and I've killed the dragon, and i live in a cave. it's messy and its homey and nothing fits together. i go to large multiplayer worlds with giant towns for hubs and its perfect. no one lives in any of the houses, no one explores them. we are all journeymen, never locals. "life" is a prop we hold up against the void so we don't keep staring into its depths.
or what about the big churches? the monuments? the gorgeous, sprawling builds that take hours and hours and are stunning and are so empty. when they're finished the builder moves on to the next project and the building stays. do you understand? the buildings are always lit up so nothing will spawn but nothing will spawn anyway because there's no one there. there are skyscrapers with a few chests and a crafting table inside. the purpose of the building is to be built and once its purpose is fulfilled it doesn't just go away. the buildings haunt their own halls, perfectly pretty and lovingly made and eventually forgotten.
i dont know. ive played this game for a decade. i've beat the ender dragon twice. i start a world and i restart them and i restart them and i restart them. there are posts going around that say that the world itself is not for you, but sometimes the things you build aren't for you, either
There’s a little green something in the cracks of the road. Grian stares at it, and then he looks at Scar, who is humming cheerfully while he rummages in his bag, and then Grian looks back to the little plant.
Grian looks at Scar again. He takes a step closer to the plant. Scar, blissfully, does not notice.
Something fungal bubbles at the back of Grian’s throat.
He crouches, inconspicuous, next to the plant. He knows it isn’t grass, that it’s probably a weed, but he doesn’t know anything more. He doesn’t care to know anything more, really, and it won’t matter in a moment anyway. He reaches and-
A dull pain pings bright on his arm. He startles upright, wings flaring out, and Scar shoots him several more times with the Nerf gun. The little foam darts bounce harmlessly off of Grian’s chest.
“Bad Grian!” Scar scolds him cheerfully. “No plant killing! Bad!”
“But it’s a small one!” Grian protests immediately, startled and indignant at the embarrassment of being caught. Another foam dart hits him.
“Nuh-uh!”
“Ow- Scar, come on, it’s itsy bitsy,” Grian tries, wheedling now. “It won’t hurt anything.”
“Well, you know that’s not true. It’ll hurt the plant,” Scar answers reasonably. He waves his toy gun threateningly at Grian. “You know the deal, G. No pestulating in the Hoe-ly Spaces.” He uses his dramatic voice to say Hoe-ly Spaces. He always uses the dramatic voice to say Hoe-ly Spaces. Grian wants to punt Hoe-ly Spaces and all associated dramatisms into the sun.
“That’s not a word, Scar,” Grian says petulantly. He ruffles his wings and sits on the larger half of a broken concrete barrier. The vines that had been wrapped around the barrier writhe away from the spores that fall from his wings, so Grian vindictively shakes his wings more. This, at least, Scar does not scold him for.
“What? Sure it is.” Scar has gone back to rifling through his bag again. He keeps pulling out strangely shaped bottles of bright colours with baffling smells. Grian would be more alarmed, but he knows Scar has a weird thing with taking labels off of bottles. How the man ever remembers what goes where, though, he has no idea.
(He has some idea. Scar’s tongue is too many different colours, always, and he’s been almost poisoned thrice. By Grian’s count, the man should be dead.)
“Pestulate is not a word,” Grian says, doubling down.
“Then what is it?” Scar asks innocently. He pulls out a jug of blood and lugs it into the centre of the clearing.
“A nonsense.” Grian shakes his wings again. There’s now a full circle of empty asphalt and concrete around him, free of plant matter. His spores won’t root without living tissue, but he feels a little vindicated by every twitch of the green things moving away from him. “Are you done yet?”
“Grian, Grian, Grian, you can’t rush a good blood ritual” Scar exclaims. “Do you know what happened to the last guy to rush a blood ritual?”
“He di-”
“He died!” Scar presses a hand against his heart. “The plants swooped up and ate him! I found his bones, Grian! His bones!”
“We could just leave,” Grian suggests. “This is- what, the fifth blood ritual? We’re fine without them, Scar. I bet the Kingmaker doesn’t even notice.”
“Oh, pish-posh.” Scar holds out the jug and pours the blood straight down over the smallest unbloomed flower in the clearing. The jug makes awful noises as the blood chugs and glugs out of it, because Scar doesn’t care for any silly thing like fluid dynamics. The jug convulses like its gasping for air and it makes sounds that Grian thinks Scar would make if he were ever simultaneously choked and drowned. The red blood splashes across the green, seeps through the cracks in the asphalt, and gets all over Scar’s shoes. Grian draws his own feet up in distaste, but he’s far enough that no blood touches him. “You know that’s not his name.”
“He doesn’t get a name,” Grian says. “I’m mad at him.”
“Careful, Grian!” Scar says cheerfully. “That almost sounds like rebellion.”
Grian scoffs, loud, but he doesn’t say anything. Scar continues with his stupid blood ritual. Which is to say that Scar goes back to his bag, grabs a canteen, and returns to the plant. Without ceremony, Scar upends that jug over the plant too.
“Scar!” Grian squawks, scrabbling to his feet. “Scar, that’s all our water! Scar!”
“Oops!” Scar says cheerful.
“You only used a few drops for the other rituals!” Grian wails. “We just got that!”
“Oops!” Scar says again. He has no remorse. Grian snatches the nerf gun from where Scar had left it on the ground and shoots him with it. “Ow!”
“You’re the worst,” Grian says.
“Love you, too, G,” Scar says. He shakes the canteen to get the last few drops of water out. Grian watches them fall with despair. The water washes away the blood, dilutes it across the asphalt and towards the ring of vines and green things that surround them. Scar gives the little twice-baptised bloom a loving pat, and it opens in his palm. The petals are a different colour in each Hoe-ly Space, and the same holds true for here. These petals are unnaturally white, unsettlingly perfect, and-
“Is there another flower in there?” Grian demands.
Scar doesn’t lift his gaze. “Yeah,” he says. He touches a scarred hand gently to the second bloom, which shivers at the contact but doesn’t open. “Huh.”
“...Huh?” Grian echoes. “Scar?”
“It’s okay, G,” Scar says too fast. “Let’s just go shopping, yeah? All done here.” He steps back from the plant. He sees the look Grian is giving him and tries to give a bright smile in return. “Seriously, Grian, it’s fine.”
Grian has always had a knack for knowing when Scar is lying.
“...If you say so.” Grian watches Scar pack up his bag, holster the nerf gun, and throw the plant a two-fingered salute. He’s too quick. They haven’t been here for even twenty minutes, maybe, and normally Scar stretches the ritual to last an hour. Grian guesses that he’s not surprised that the blood-jug and the water are the only necessary components. The steps for the other rituals had been sporadically changed each time. “Ready to go?”
“Can we get ice cream on the way?” Scar asks, even though he knows that all the ice cream in the world has already melted.
“Sure,” Grian says, even though he knows that the corpses of the ice cream shop workers are ripe in their rot.
Scar steps up onto the concrete barrier, almost loses his balance then helps Grian up and almost sends them both toppling over. Grian doesn’t comment on it. Scar keeps casting glances to the weird plants, but stops when Grian opens his arms. Scar grabs onto him, tightly, and Grian holds tight in return. Grain’s wings start to flap (Scar sneezes at the spraying spores) and they step off the concrete barrier together. Soon, they’re in the air.
(Scar has cracked a Superman joke at least once every time Grian has flown him somewhere. This time he’s nothing but silent, and he keeps trying to peek back at the plant-filled bridge they’d left behind. Grian flies a little faster.)
—---
Scar lets Grian kill whatever he wants, most days. He doesn’t like mushrooms, or fungus, or mycelia-filled goo, but he doesn’t complain too much. It’s a good deal for both of them, Grian figures. Scar helps Grian with his whole ending-an-apocalypse-by-causing-a-different-apocalypse deal, and he’s good company in a world full of decomposing things that used to be people, and he lets Grian know when he’s getting too close to the rebellion line. The plants destroy anything that oppose them, and the last thing Grian wants is to openly oppose them.
Mushrooms are better. They’re kinder. Almost plant, almost animal, and there’s so much for them to eat. Much better than the violence of true plants.
Honestly? Grian shouldn’t even be alive. It’s pure luck that he found the mycelia before the plants could burrow into him, it’s luck that it Chose him, and it’s luck that it wants the world to end again.
(Sometimes, late at night, he wonders if he’d be happier if he’d been the first harbinger of end-times rather than the second. But, then again, mushrooms are components of decay. Scavengers rather than hunters- it makes sense, maybe, that the fungal spread occurs after the flora’s feast.)
Grian thinks he’s almost done. He used to be human, but now mushrooms sprout around him when he sleeps, and spores spread on the wind from his wings. He leaves large fields of fungus in his wake. Soon enough, he’ll have to actively hunt for the green and force it to recede. Soon enough, the old apocalypse will be ended, and the new ending can truly begin. That’s why Grian doesn’t mind carting Scar around to the last green places so much- Scar gets a free travelling companion, and Grian gets lead right to the green sources that Scar doesn’t want him to hurt. Grian doesn’t hurt them because then Scar will stop showing him where they are, and Grian is smart enough to bide his time. One day, maybe, Scar will die, and Grian will be free to kill as many green spaces as he wants.
(Grian shouldn’t have to kill him. The plants should have killed him. The fungus should have rotted him. Grian sometimes wonders what it means that he’s still alive. He licks poison and blood and shiny things that should give him tetanus, but he’s still alive.)
(Grian thinks about leaving, sometimes, but he never does. He’s always been too curious for his own good.)
“What’s that for?” Grian asks.
Scar freezes like a statue, weedkiller clutched tight in his hands. Slowly, as if Grian is a predator with poor eyesight, he hides it behind his back. Grian tries, unsuccessfully, to stifle his laughter.
“Scar. You know I can see you, don’t you?”
Scar deflates, shoulders slumping forwards as he pulls the weedkiller out again. “Okay, okay, you caught me, G,” he says. “I’m just… looking for a drink.”
“That’s weedkiller.”
“So?”
“...Okay, you’re not even trying now,” Grian says. “What’s with the weedkiller, Scar?”
Scar shuffles his feet and bites his lip, then huffs out a breath. “Are we alone?”
Grian, still smiling, raises his brows and looks around the store. Most of the shelves have been raided, several of them knocked over, and the only people in the vicinity haven’t been people in a long time.
“The plants, G,” Scar says impatiently.
“Oh, no, those are gone,” Grian says. “The mycelium works fast, you know that.”
“Right,” Scar says, and he goes quiet.
Grian eyes him, then gestures to a currently-indoor outdoor furniture set that doesn’t even have any blood on it. “Do you want to sit down?” he offers.
Scar makes a beeline for the furniture set, weedkiller still clutched tight in his grasp. Grian has barely figured out how to sit without crushing his wings when Scar blurts out, “The King’s called a meeting.”
Grian almost falls out of his seat. “What?”
“Yeah,” Scar says. “And I have to go, or, you know.” He jerks his head towards the nearest corpse. There are vines wrapped around its neck. “I was hoping you could give me a ride?”
Grian gapes at him. He feels his mental gears spinning frantically, completely tractionless. “Okay- wait.” He runs his hand through his hair and ignores the mushrooms that brush against his hand. “The King called a meeting- why? He hasn’t done that before- do you think he knows you’re working with me? This is probably a trap, Scar. You know this is probably a trap.”
Scar looks at the weedkiller on his lap. “Yeah.”
Grian stares. “Oh.”
Scar grimace-smiles. “I figured- you’ve been a good friend, Grian. I have… loyalty, to the crown, but I won’t let them kill you.”
“Oh.”
Scar shrugs a little self-consciously. “It’s the least I can do, you know?”
Grian doesn’t want to say it. He likes Scar, though, and he would feel guilty if he didn’t point out, “What’s stopping me from killing them, then? You know what my goals are.”
“Rebellion, Grian,” Scar says automatically. Grian winces and raises his hands in apology, and Scar continues. “I figured- well, maybe you won’t if I ask you really nicely?”
“That can’t be it.”
Scar shrugs. “You haven’t touched the spaces,” he explains. “And all I did there is ask you nicely.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Grian fumbles for a second. “That’s- it’s- like- chopping off a head will kill a body?” he tries. “Like- the spaces are the hands, and the King is the head, so that’s- yeah.”
“Are you going to chop his head off?”
Grian is quiet.
“Please, Grian, don’t kill him,” Scar says. He holds the weedkiller carefully, and his fingers keep nervously tapping at its sides. “Neither of them. None of them. Just- keep being your mushroomy, birdy self, okay? You don’t even have to talk to them if you don’t want to.”
Grian is silent.
“Please?”
Grian caves. Mournfully, he thinks of the Hoe-ly Spaces, and he thinks of the quiet rule he has to kill those whenever Scar dies. It feels wrong to delegate something like killing the King to that same rule, but- Scar is right. Beheading the King sounds like it comes too close to rebelling, anyway. “Okay.”
Scar lets out a breath, then gives Grian a winning smile. “Okay!” he says. “Okay, perfect! Hey, I think I saw some chocolate earlier, maybe it won’t be expired.”
“It’s definitely expired,” Grian says, but he stands and offers Scar a hand to help him up.
Scar takes the hand and pulls himself up to his feet. “It’s always good to have hope, G,” he says brightly, and they continue to ravage the store.
—---
The place Scar takes him to isn’t green at all. It’s white and red and brown, like old and new blood on white petals. Well, Grian shouldn’t be thinking in similes here- there is literally old and new blood staining old petals almost everywhere he looks.
The border of the Tree’s territory is made of wood, or whatever it is that roots are made of. They drip red onto the white flowers that make up the groundcover. It had been relatively easy to get past the border- it opened up when Scar approached, peacefully allowing him through. The roots shuddered furiously when Grian approached, but they didn’t kill him when he tucked his wings in and pretended to be demure, so he thinks that means he’s basically Scar’s unwelcomely welcomed plus one. He’s not sure if court people even get to have plus ones, but he’s not skewered by evil plant matter so he thinks that he gets to count as a plus one.
He’s maybe a little nervous.
The interior of the Tree’s territory doesn’t make him feel any more at ease, either. This, too, is a place that is blindingly white. The Tree itself sits in the very centre, painfully pale and looming. The King’s Spire sits to its right, a building of previously-white colours that has now been overgrown with green. Moss and vines, Grian thinks, but he can’t distinguish anything else. Beneath the Tree are several small figures that cause something fungal to gurgle in his throat when he looks at them too hard. Grian stays close to Scar and tries to turn his eyes to the ground.
It’s hard not to acknowledge the Tree, though. They approach it together, slowly engulfed by the leaf cover overhead and hidden from the sun. It’s almost dark. Grian feels very small. The last time he’d felt so small was when his human self had accepted the blessings of the mycelium. He’d been welcome, then, but there is no welcome for him here.
Scar, of course, seems unaffected.
“You’re late.” Grian chances a glance upwards to see a woman with dead eyes and red flowers sprouting from her hair. The fungal thing tries to crawl out of his mouth. He swallows hard and ducks his head. He’s suddenly questioning the might of Scar’s weedkiller against all of this. He understands a little, maybe, the might that would have been needed to bring the first apocalypse.
“I’m right on time,” Scar disagrees. “You’re just early.”
“Everyone else has gone.” The woman sounds unimpressed. “And who do you have with you? You know he wants these audiences to be one-on-one.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Scar dismisses. “Sym- synergy. We’re really synergetic. I couldn’t have gotten here at all without Grian.”
“Your funeral.”
“Ha,” Scar says. “As if.”
Grian is startled enough by this statement to look up at Scar, but Scar grabs him by the arm and ushers him towards the trunk of the Tree. “Hey, wait- what do you mean?” Grian hisses. It occurs to him for the first time that this could be a trap for him.
“Not now, G,” Scar mumbles to him. “Ask me later.”
Grian, ruffled, unruffles a little bit at that. After all, there wouldn’t be a “later” if Scar was going to kill him now, right? Grian is beginning to realize that Scar is wrapped up tighter in whatever- whatever this is a lot more than Grian had first assumed, and he does not like it. Not one bit. He hates this, actually, and he hates it more when Scar knocks on the trunk and the wood creaks as it twists and bends out of their way.
A voice from within calls, “Welcome, Goodtimes, to my most private of areas.” And Grian hates that most of all.
They enter the Tree. The Tree creaks and groans and it closes behind them. Trapping them inside. And Grian hates this so much.
He finds even more to hate as they delve deeper into the almost-room that’s waiting for them. The King sits on a throne in the centre, drooping like a wilted flower. He’s dead. Grian can tell that immediately- he wants to spread his wings and spread the spores, but Scar asked him not to, and-
Wait. What?
Grian looks again. The King continues to be dead. The crown sits golden on his head, shining and perfect. The King is undecayed, unblemished, but his eyes are flat, and he isn’t breathing, and Grian can almost hear the creaking as he scowls.
“What have you brought me?”
“Presents,” Scar promises. “Just as you’ve asked. They’re for you, too, Bdubs.”
Grian again begins to wonder if this is a trap. Before he can continue that train of thought, however, there’s more creaking as the Tree shudders around them. The walls shiver, and lichen sloughs downwards until there’s just a human-shaped lump of green left against the wall. The human lump turns around and looks right at Grian with its impossibly large eyes.
Grian almost bares his teeth. He knows that look. This is competition.
(Competiton for what? There’s so much to fight over, probably, if he really thinks hard about it.)
“Why is the bed made of dirt?” Grian asks.
Scar balks, the King pauses, and the lichen-man stares.
“I mean, not to ruffle any feathers,” Grian rushes, valiantly not ruffling any of his. “I guess I was just expecting…”
“What?” The dead King asks.
“More?” Grian says. “Pillows? Blankets? Uh. More gold, I guess, but I know people don’t really carry that around these days. Didn’t.”
“The crown is gold,” the lichen man says.
“Aye, but tis a tiny crown,” the King concedes.
“And the bed is made of dirt,” Grian says.
“It’s a plant apocalypse,” the lichen-man -Bdubs- says. “Of course the bed is made of dirt. It’s not like he actually needs any sleep.”
“I like to nap,” the dead King protests. “Royal naps are very important, Bdubs.”
“Of course, your highness, of course,” Bdubs says quickly. “But the dirt is fine, right?”
“I mean,” the King says. “A dirt nap is mighty thematic, all considering, but… You there, Goodtimes! Have you brought your king a pillow?”
“Uh- no, no.” Scar laughs a little, startled. “No, I didn’t.”
“Shame,” the King says. The Tree rumbles. “Then you have failed me. Goodbye, Goodtimes. You served me well.”
“Whuh-” Grian starts.
“Woahwoahwoa-” Scar babbles.
“WAIT!” Bdubs shouts.
The Tree stops rumbling.
“Yes?” the King asks.
Bdubs looks at the King, then he looks at Scar, then he looks to Grian, then he looks back to the King. “Scar - Goodtimes has displeased you mightily, my liege,” he hazards. The dead King nods wisely. “Right-right- but he has displayed his loyalty quite mightily, too! The blood sacrifices are always pleasing, aren’t they?”
“You would have me grant mercy?” The King sounds displeased. Grian shuffles. He wonders if it’s even possible to kill a dead guy. He wonders if his mushrooms can kill. He hasn’t had much practice spreading them on purpose, but maybe if he can get them in the eyes?
“No, no, no, no mercy,” Bdubs amends hastily. “Just- inconvenience.” He leans in and whispers loudly. “My lord, he has a friend with him. The oncoming rot? I’m just saying- two birds with one stone here.”
“Oh?” The King looks closer at Grian. Grian lifts his wings a little in a threat display. The King nods slowly. “I see, I see… Goodtimes, I offer you a choice.”
“I don’t want to make a choice,” Scar says, more weakly than Grian has ever heard him.
“Nonetheless you have it!” the King booms. “Goodtimes- you may spare your own life, or the life of the oncoming rot. You have-”
“To give you your gifts first,” Scar says loudly.
The King pauses. “You interrupt me?”
“For presents,” Scar says quickly. He pulls of his bag and rifles through it quickly. Bdubs shuffles over and Scar hands over several unlabelled bottles. Salvation. Hope rises within Grian until, alarmingly, he realizes that none of the jugs are the weedkiller.
“Scar,” Grian says quietly.
“It’s okay, G,” Scar replies quickly.
Bdubs opens each jug and sniffs it in turn, then brings them to the King and pours them at the base of the throne. With each bottle the King’s body twitches, making noises like an ancient rocking chair, and- it takes Grian a moment to notice, but each bottle emptied at his feet brings life back to the King’s features. He grins, wide and sharp-toothed, and Grian wonders if he’s lost his chance to escape.
“Now, the choice,” the King begins.
“No,” Grian says, and he lets loose.
He’s on the ground three seconds later.
Lichen fills his mouth, vines around his wrist and wings, bark already growing quickly over his legs to trap him in place. Bdubs wipes a stray mushroom off of his sleeve in disgust, and Scar stares with wide, despairing eyes.
Do something! Grian tries to yell back with his own eyes. Scar doesn’t do anything except let out a breath, and then start to smile.
Scar says, “Phew! That took you forever, Bdubs.”
“Huh?” Bdubs says.
“I started thinking you weren’t going to stop him at all,” Scar remarks, and Grian’s heart drops into his stomach.
“OH,” Bdubs says loudly. His eyes sparkle. “Oh, so this- oh, phew! You got me worried there, Scar! Really worried! ‘Why is he hanging out with the oncoming rot,’ I said.”
“I said that,” the King argues.
“Of course, of course,” Bdubs says quickly. “Anyway, I said ‘wow, I wonder why Scar is hanging out with the oncoming rot!’ But you just needed a bit of help with this one, didn’t you?”
Scar smiles widely. He rummages through his bag again. “Right on, Bdubs,” he says. “Can’t kill a fungus surrounded by fungus, right? It’ll just grow right back!” The two of them chortle together and Scar brings another jug out of his backpack.
In fragile hope, Grian’s heart begins to beat again because he recognizes that jug. It’s the weedkiller. Label torn off. Scar opens it, takes a sip, and doesn’t flinch.
Grian feels several emotions all at once.
Scar hands the weedkiller over to Bdubs just as the King says, “What are you waiting for, Goodtimes?”
“You still have my bow, King,” Scar says.
“I thought we gave that back…?” The King looks questioningly to Bdubs.
“You took it away again after Scar failed to provide appropriate subservience, my lord.”
“Oh, well have it back, then, Goodtimes.” The King waves his hand and more of the tree creaks and moans. A real and true bow and quiver are revealed when the floor pulls back. Grian wriggles frantically, fear spiking again. Scar still hasn’t wavered. Grian is starting to doubt the contents of the weedkiller jug. He tries to flap his wings but the bark has grown over the edges. He tries to let the fungus out but his throat is clogged by lichen. The wood around him dies and tries to rot but it’s just grown over and living again in less than a second.
Scar strides over, playing with the quiver. He kneels next to Grian, then pulls out an arrow. Grian stares up at him, making his eyes as wide and pleading as he can. Scar doesn’t look at him. “Long live the King,” Scar says, raising his arrow. Bdubs raises the jug to him, but doesn’t drink.
Consternation flashes over Scar’s face, and Grian feels another rush of emotion he doesn’t know how to parse. Then Scar’s expression hardens and he brings the arrow down.
It hurts. Grian yells against the lichen in his mouth. There isn’t any blood- Grian isn’t human anymore. Of course there isn’t blood. There is an arrow in him and there isn’t any blood and Scar raises his fist with a cheer, and the King raises both arms with a cheer, and Bdubs drinks the weedkiller.
The Tree shudders.
The King collapses like a puppet with its strings cut.
Bdubs shrieks. The weedkiller drops. It sprays over the floor. The Tree screams. Grian thinks he’s also screaming. Scar isn’t screaming. Scar is frozen, false smile plastered across his face, and Grian realizes with dizzying clarity that he has no fucking clue when Scar is or isn’t lying. That’s a weird thing to realize in the worst moment of Grian’s after-apocalypse life and it’s so silly he just starts to laugh. He stops laughing when a branch spears through Scar’s chest.
“Traitor!” Bdubs yells. Three more branches strike Scar through. He gasps at each one, but he doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t try to get away. He doesn’t stop smiling. He doesn’t start bleeding. “The King trusted you!”
“The King is dead, Bdubs,” Scar says. “And your apocalypse has been ending. The oncoming rot hasn’t been oncoming for a long time- it’s been here-” he gestures wildly to Grian, who has yet another flurry of unregistered emotions “-the whole time, and you’ve let it!”
“The plants-”
“Kill those who oppose,” Scar says. “But your court has been opposing you since the moment you raised them. You failed your own apocalypse.”
Grian feels dizzy. He isn’t bleeding, but he is dying.
Why isn’t Scar bleeding?
“...What are you?” Bdubs asks. He’s breathing heavily. Grian’s vision is swimming, but he thinks Bdubs has sunk down to the floor. “Why-“ another branch spears Scar through “- aren’t-” another “-you-” another “-dead?”
“I’unno,” Scar says. “It never sticks.” The Tree rumbles overhead. Grain can feel it through the floor. “How about you? Are you dead yet, Bdubs?”
There’s silence. “Bdubs?”
The Tree stops rumbling.
“I don’t think poision is supposed to work like that,” Scar says. Or he says something like it. Grian isn’t sure. He’s really tired.
There’s something warm pressed against his face. “I didn’t lie to you,” Scar says quietly. Grian makes a little noise. “I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t let them kill you. I didn’t say anything about me. Doesn’t that mean something, G?” Grian doesn’t answer. “Yeah, yeah…”
Grian breathes out, slow, through his nose.
“You’d hate it the other way around,” Scar promises quietly. “But you did it, Grian. Bdubs wouldn’t have drank that without you. That was you, alright? You did it, you won. New apocalypse, new you. That’s the way it goes. The King died, and now it’s you, and- and it won’t be like this. It’ll be better. I don’t like mushrooms, but I’ll learn to like them when they’re you, okay?”
Grian can’t reply.
“I’ll see you soon, Grian,” Scar mumbles, and he sounds so far away.
And Grian goes to sleep.
And Mother Spore wakes up.
---
written for the @pinchhitsfromthevoid event and for the @ghastspidergwen person! this got. wildly out of hand basically the second i started to write it. unfortunately i suffer from "cannot write a normal apocalypse au" disease but eyyy that just means its a two-apocalypse package deal, which was really fun to write. hopefully it's just as fun to read!
a gift for @t4tfitpac for the @mcytblrholidayexchange! a little bit of fitpac for ya. I hope you enjoy!
(ao3)
-
The trees are taller than they should be.
That plays over in Fit’s mind as he gasps out another breath, air rasping painfully out of his lungs. He leaps over a fallen log, almost stumbling as the sand slips beneath him. The trees loom overhead, tilting forwards and around him. The ocean spans to his right, an everlasting expanse, but somehow it just feels like more trees- like another fence to the shepherd’s corral, caging him in at either side, urging him forwards on a single path.
There is silence behind him, which isn’t right- that isn’t how it happened- or, it isn’t how this happened, but it screams danger either way. Laughing, yelling, (apologizing)- distraction. A level of focus that isn’t pointed at the hunt, at Fit. Silence betrays not only intent, but logic, care for the artistry of violence, causing his ears to prick and his heart to race as he sprints along the beach.
But, despite the silence, he feels calm. Focused. He is FitMC of 2b2t, and this isn’t home.
And any fear there is, beyond the focus, doesn’t feel- real? It’s strange. There’s a level of fuzzy-headed clarity that makes it almost feel like he’s underwater. The trees loom, his pursuers are silent, and he is running.
Something niggles at the edge of his understanding, struggling at the bubble that clouds his thoughts. Almost curiously, he turns his attention towards it. There’s a shepherd’s corral, intense silence, and only one way to run.
Uh oh.
A trap?
Where is he running?
Where is he-
His thoughts are cut off by the sharp sound of an arrow whistling past his ear. It lodges firmly in the sand to his left, followed quickly by two other projectiles that spear into the ground next to him. He keeps running, but this doesn’t make any damn sense.
Who’s chasing him? Where is he running?
The trees are too tall. The forest is to his left. The ocean to his right.
He’s thinking about ice. Why is he thinking about ice?
Snow storm. Green base. He’s leading them home.
He feels another wave of strange calm settle over him as another arrow whizzes past his ear. That’s it, isn’t it? There isn’t just one path, but there is just one decision.
He reaches for his sword with one hand, and grabs for a tree with the other. If he turns and sprints back towards his attackers, he has a chance. If he’s fast enough, he can surprise them, and if he can’t overpower them on this first rush then- well, then he’ll just have to do his best.
But his hand doesn’t find his sword, and his foot doesn’t hit the ground.
He falls into darkness.
And then, all at once, the ground hits him. He catches his weight on his hands and knees, a sharp jolt climbing through his prosthetic and into his shoulder. Every breath rattles out of him all over again. Everything is still dark- of course it is, it’s night time, just like it was night time then, which almost manages to make any sense.
In front of him, there’s silence. It looms. He grits his teeth. There’s nothing for him to do but get it over with; Fit looks up.
He sees Pac.
The moon hangs stark behind him, haloing the dark silhouette of Pac with his windswept hair and bare, bare arms. His hoodie is tied around his waist, the soft blue just barely discernible through the darkness. He’s staring straight at Fit, eyes downright gleaming, and Fit feels breathless.
Pac is also holding a sword.
He is holding Fit’s sword.
Fit’s sword is covered in blood.
Fit looks down. There is no pain, but he is also covered in blood. He has a tear in his shirt and a wound in his chest, just above his heart,. He looks up again to see Pac, suddenly much closer than he was before. It’s still dark, but they’re close enough now that Fit can see the rest of Pac’s face. He’s smiling, eyes creased as he looks at Fit with an expression so fond that it makes something deep in Fit’s chest start to hurt. “Oi, Fit,” Pac whispers, breath warm against Fit’s face. He leans in, and…
-
Fit wakes up.
Fit’s already upright before he knows what’s happening, heart pounding, ears ringing. His hand is pressed hard over his heart, as though he could keep it from beating out of his chest with force.
There’s a lot of thoughts to be had about that nightmare. The- dream? Whatever it was. Whatever it was.
His face is starting to burn.
Fit says, sternly, “That’s not how it happened,” His voice is hoarse, but he ignores that in favour of laying back down. He has the time to sleep, and the safety for it, too, but his heart is still pounding and the warmth in his face is- it’s just a little distracting, okay? That’s it, that’s the only thing. He’s not thinking about anything else. Just a weirdly warm face and a heart that won’t calm down.
It’s fine, and he’s fine, and Pac is-
well. Pac is pretty fine, too.
Fit squeezes his eyes shut and doesn’t get any more sleep that night.
–
“Oi, Fit! You wanted to see me?”
Pac sounds nervous. Fit doesn’t know how to calm him. He’s been filled with a restless energy of his own all day- he hardly even remembers how to think. “Yeah,” he says. And then, “Yeah, I did. Come on in, Pac! Come on in, make yourself at home.“
Pac comes in to Fit’s house. He stops at the sight of the chests. “Uh. Fit…”
Fit doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He leans against one of the chest stacks, all casual-like. “Yeah?”
Pac looks at him, then looks around to the room. It’s not a proper stash- there’s only about four proper chest stacks, and the rest are just double chests set out on the floor next to each other. Any more would be overkill. Because he hasn’t hit overkill already- no, sir, not him. “Are you moving? You didn’t tell me- do you need help? You’re really strong, Fit, so I know you can do it on your own! But if you’d like some help I can help- unless you’re moving to somewhere super secret and safe, then I understand. Um.”
Fit didn’t even realize he’d started smiling until he opens his mouth to speak. “I’m not moving, Pac.”
“Oh,” Pac says. They sit in silence for a moment before Fit remembers that he has to explain at least a little bit.
Hm. Maybe this was a mistake. “It’s not- for me,” Fit starts, stilted. “It’s for you.”
“For me?”
Fit chews on his cheek. Pac waits patiently, not pressuring him at all- just waiting, letting him take his time. He keeps letting Fit take his time. Baby steps, always baby steps, but Pac keeps walking with him. Fit’s heart seizes in his chest and something almost like a survival instinct lashes out in panic. “No- this is- this is stupid. I’m sorry, Pac, I shouldn’t have called you out here at this hour.”
“Oh,” Pac says again, and Fit could kick himself. He sounds so disappointed. “Oh! Well, that’s okay, Fit. But we can still- we can go do something else, if you want? Or if you don’t want, that’s totally okay too! I can just go walk around on my own- maybe find a field of flowers and just watch the sky for a little while, it’s okay!.”
“No, no- you don’t have to- I want you here with me, Pac, really,” Fit promises quickly. And that’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it? Because Fit wants Pac here, with him. But instead Pac is leaving again, off to Purgatory 2. Fit could go with him but, to put it plainly, he doesn’t want to. Purgatory wasn’t 2b2t- the rules, the relatively small playing area, the expected teamwork… and it was pretty nice company, there at the end. It was Hell, but one of the upper layers. The loungeroom before the actual doors. Something still almost lighthearted, when compared to the desolate wastes of Fit’s homeland.
But he doesn’t want to do it again. And it isn’t fair to ask Pac to stay, either.
“I guess I just… I know you won’t be able to take anything with you, probably,” Fit admits. Pac’s lips part a little, but he stays quiet, watching Fit. Still giving him room. Somehow drawing more explanation out of him. “But I thought it might be nice to do some resource gathering anyway. These are all empty,” he adds, further embarrassed. “And we don’t have to fill them all! But I thought-”
He hadn’t been thinking a lot, actually. Or maybe too much? Hidden stashes and piled chests- the need to be doing something other than sitting and waiting. Fit was used to the nomadic life, but there was no enderchest of shulker boxes here- nothing to fall back on, nothing to give. Nothing needed to give, wanting to give anyway.
Pac could take care of himself. Fuck, could he ever.
But-
Beautiful things never last, and Pac is one of the most beautiful things Fit has ever had the pleasure of knowing. So sue him if he wants to spend a little more time with the man before he goes back to hell! Can’t a roommate spend some quality time with another roommate without it being weird?
Pac softens. “You want to grind with me?”
Fit feels a grin crack across his face even as his cheeks start to burn. The tension isn’t broken so much as it’s shattered- Pac is already realizing what he said, ducking his head down and retreating back into his shirt like an adorable tortoise. “Yeah, Pac,” Fit says. He’s reminded of his dream, of how that wasn’t how it went- but maybe a little of that will be how it goes for other people, when Pac is unleashed back onto that battlefield again. Something possessive in his chest makes him feel bold. His voice deepens as he teases, “I’d love to grind with you.”
Pac practically squeaks. Fit giggles. Then they’re both laughing, red-faced, grabbing on to the empty chests to keep themselves upright. It’s not even that funny, but there’s something relieving about the moment. Pac is leaving. Fit is staying. Pac can kill as many people as he wants- he can apologize to them, even, or refuse to kill them. That’s alright.
Beautiful things can’t last forever, but-.
They don’t go grinding, or resource gathering, or hunting. They end up on the roof somehow, looking up at the sky. Soon, for Pac, all those stars are going to be replaced with the red haze of Hell. But the rose bushes are red, too, and so is the flower that Fit -very normally, and very calmly- tucks behind Pac’s ear.
He won’t be able to take the flower with him. It’ll wilt before he gets back, dead and dry and crumbling between Fit’s fingers. But there will be more flowers. More quiet evenings with his roommate at his side.
Sometimes the end of one good thing is just the pause before the beginning of another. For now, Fit enjoys a beautiful night.
He wouldn’t be worried about it, really, except he’s always. itchy.
He’s cold, too, but that’s more par for the course. Cleo is a zombie, isn’t she? Undead and all, it makes sense that she’s cold, makes sense that Martyn shares that with her. He’s… fine with that. He’s perfectly okay with that.
It’s normal for soulmates to get traits from their bonded– Pearl has little stars that float around her head, and Martyn isn’t sure, but he thinks Scott’s pupils follow the phases of the moon. Tango has little wings of fire that Martyn thinks isn’t cool at all, and when Jimmy laughs too loudly his hair catches on fire. Impulse and Bdubs have shocks of the other’s hair colour on their heads. Etho looks the same, but it hurts Martyn a little to look at Joel’s face now. With too many eyes, Scar sees a cat that isn’t there, and something light blue and vex-like sits at the edge of Grian’s smiles.
Martyn doesn’t know what about Bigb and Ren is the same. He refuses to learn.
(He learns, later. Of course it’s the ears.)
But that’s a decent data pool! It’s a good, alright data pool, so Martyn knows that it’s normal for soulmates to share little parts of themselves with each other. Cleo shared her coldness, and Martyn had taken it gladly when the heat of the nether had burned him, and he takes it gladly now, and.
And.
He’s so itchy.
And he doesn’t know what he shared with her. He watches her through his spyglass and it’s just- there’s just- there’s nothing! There’s absolutely nothing! She looks like herself, like Cleo, and not one bit like Martyn.
He’s so cold (and itchy) and not bitter about it at all.
Or. Maybe a little bit? Maybe.
It would be better if it didn’t feel like another type of rejection. Soulmates giving their other halves whole parts of themselves is… it’s nice. It’s special. It doesn’t mean anything because everyone shares traits with their soulmates- Scott and Pearl share traits, even! And Martyn didn’t have the choice of accepting or rejecting Cleo’s coldness, but he accepted it anyway, and.
Cleo didn’t get anything from him at all.
It bothers him.
So he gives her his heart.
Not his literal heart, although they do share several hearts, and he thinks she might kill him again if he peeled up any of those to give to her. He can’t give her his heart, but he gives her a heart. He places it in the middle of the valley, where everyone can see, and he laughs at Tango and jeers at Jimmy when they tell him to take it down.
There’s little bumps in his skin. He stares at them, and he worries, and he itches. An allergic reaction, maybe, except they’re spread so sporadically over his body, and he doesn’t think he’s even allergic to anything. He tries not to scratch and hopes for the best.
(The bumps hurt when he presses his hands over them, but the cold numbs the pain.)
Cleo bridges out to him, and it’s. The talk they have is certainly a talk.
“Invest in some heating, yeah?” Martyn quips when the conversation drifts towards Cleo’s house.
“No.”
“Oh. Fair enough.”
He tells her he wants to go to the deep dark, and she gives him diamonds, and for the first time since joining this server he almost feels warm.
Then she starts breaking her bridge again, and she’s leaving, and Martyn blurts out, “What did you get, then?”
She pauses, looks up to him with a startled little blink. The flowers in her hair wave in the wind, and Martyn can see where their stems dig into the skin beneath her stitches. “Get what?”
Martyn almost loses his nerve, but he’s feeling a little better now that he knows why she’s really with Scott, now that he knows she’s just trying to survive. And this isn’t something he needs to know, because it doesn’t affect their survival, but.
“The soul bond,” he says. “What did you get from me?”
“A hard time,” Cleo says. “What did you get from me?”
“I’m cold,” Martyn admits to her, because honesty is a virtue and he revels, quietly, at the startled pause of silence that sits between them.
“I’m dead, Martyn.”
“I don’t care-” Martyn starts quickly, but Cleo holds up her hand.
“Shush,” she says, and Martyn shushes. “I’m dead, Martyn.”
There’s another pause. “Yes?”
Cleo sighs. It’s a hard, frustrated sound. She looks at him, watches him intently for a moment that lasts too long. Her green eyes don’t hurt like Grian’s black eyes or Scar’s not-eyes, but the look isn’t exactly pleasant either.
Cleo cocks her head to the side. She looks like she’s made a decision. “Do you know what the point of decay is, Martyn?”
“Uh. Sure. Recycling nutrients back into the dirt, right?”
“Close enough,” Cleo answers. “Decay takes from the body to sustain other bodies. Other bodies. The dead don’t… take. We can’t. We’re dead.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Grian coded it special so I could eat,” Cleo says. “I’m a corpse, Martyn. Corpses are for… rotting. Recycling. Taking from me and giving to something else. Plants. Flowers.” She touches a hand to a dahlia that sits just below her ear, then gives him a derisive look. “You.”
Martyn feels a little sick. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Cleo replies. “So I don’t get anything. Enjoy your diamonds, Martyn.”
And she leaves.
And Martyn is itchy.
–
He lays in bed that night and he shivers. There are lights outside his window and horns in his ears and he feels so cold.
–
She starts to build a bridge. Another bridge. A proper bridge. It’s broken in pieces, floating in the air, and she tells him if he apologizes all will be right. He has nothing to apologize for.
(He wears thicker and thicker layers and tries not to scratch.)
He has to meet her halfway. Just build to her bridge from her heart, and it’ll be okay. She’s giving him an olive branch. He just has to reach out and take it.
(It’s too good to be true.)
He reaches out and he pushes instead.
Martyn can barely take in a full breath before he realizes the mistake he’s made and then he- she- they-
shatter.
—
Martyn is cold.
He wakes up alone, and he’s cold.
His items are gone. His armour is gone. His layers are gone. And-
He’s not itchy anymore.
There are flowers where the bumps were. They wind from beneath his skin and rest delicately against his arm, small buds and soft petals.
(He thinks his heart has stopped beating.)
Cleo isn’t going to forgive him, he thinks. And, as he gently touches a hand to a golden flower and listens to the silence in his chest, he finally understands why.
Charlie tugs the brush through Flippa's hair haltingly, careful not to hurt her. Sensitive head, but she didn't complain a bit, staying right in place.
It's fine! It's fine, just another change, but that's okay. As long as she's here. He leans back, studying her.
"Okay Flippa! Now that we've got all the knots out of your hair, we've got a pick a hair style."
Flippa looks up at him. He can't see her eyes behind her glasses -had they always been so opaque?- but he can imagine them big, wide with joy, just like they'd been when he had first asked her to pick out a colour for her bed. She doesn't say anything, but that's normal, so Charlie does what Charlie does best and keeps talking. "There's all sorts of options! A braid? Would you like a braid? I don't know if I can get it all twisty, but- or there's pigtails! Or- uh, a ponytail? Do you like ponytails, Flippa?"
He imagines that her mouth twitches up in a smile, and he smiles warmly back at her. She doesn't respond for a moment, and then nods quickly.
"Great! That's great! Okay, okay- ponytail, how do you do a ponytail..." he trails off in a mumble to himself, squinting at her hair suspiciously like it's a pit of vipers. Usually, he's too goopy for hair things, so Ma- his bitch wife would take care of Flippa's hair, instead.
...Charlie can still remember the one morning he had come upstairs to find his puta esposa sitting with Flippa on her bed, peacefully braiding her hair. They had been gently lit by the light of the Corner Flames, and Mariana had looked more... content than Charlie can remember ever seeing him before.
But that was the past, and this is the now, and so it doesn't matter! His bitch wife is gone, his precious huevito is here, and Charlie has to wipe his hands off on a towel again just so he doesn't slime up Flippa's hair and force them to wash it for a fourth time! It's fine! It's all fine!
Flippa is still staring at him.
"It's fine," he promises her, loudly, and then wipes his hands again. "I'm not- we're not too goopy! We're just goopy enough, which is not goopy at all, and you're not going to need another bath, and we even remembered the elastics this time!"
A single drop of water falls down her nose.
He's still holding the towel up, and she awkwardly leans forwards to boop her nose against it to wipe the drop away - just like he'd playfully tapped her after her first bath. He laughs a little and twists the towel just in time to not goop her up all over again. "Yes, Flippa! Yeah! We get dry after baths so the moist demons don't get us!" He runs his hand over her hair and presses a quick kiss to the top of her head, and his skin buzzes with prickles of static electricity. Funny, isn't it? That didn't used to happen. But maybe Hell just gave his daughter superpowers.
No, that was definitely it. She couldn't physically drag him around BH (Before Hell) the way she could now. He had an awesome, superpowered daughter who had a bit of an accent and glasses so opaque he didn't know how she could see, and it was all fine and normal and more than he deserved.
Flippa was still staring at him. He smiled shakily back at her, and picked up some elastics. "Okay, turn around, Flippa," he urged her, and ran his hands, gentle, through her hair when she did. Ponytail, ponytail... that was the point of this. He definitely knew how to do this. He definitely knew how many elastics he needed for this.
How had Mariana done it...? Pull the hair to the back of her head, then pull it through the loops... some number of times. It didn't look right, so he added another elastic, and then another, and there was hair fritzing out of the elastics and he added five in total and Flippa sat there through it all and Charlie was- okay, it wasn't good, it wasn't what she deserved, but it was the best he could do and wasn't that good enough? Wasn't he good enough?
He urges her to get up and turn around so he could see his handiwork, and she does so without complaint.
...She doesn't look right.
He's going to be sick. He feels sick. Her hair is pulled back behind her ears, and it's- it's not like he did badly, actually, because it looks perfectly fine from the front and when you're not looking too closely at the back but she doesn't look like her. He fucked it up, he fucked her up, and there is something too-tight in his chest and something too-large in his mouth.
Her glasses. Her expression. The skin that shines too softly in the dim light and the clothes that fit too well. The scars. The hands resting, loose down at her side instead of curled up in her skirt or playing with her gun or covered in crumbs from all the avocado toast- the hair pulled back from her face. It's wrong. She looks so wrong.
He realizes she's gotten close again when she takes his hand, and he realizes he can't breathe at the same time. Her hands are immediately coated in a thick layer of slime -oh, great, he's gooping again!- and she holds him tightly. "It's okay, Flippa," he gasps out, and tries desperately to get his breathing under control. For her, for her, he needs to be okay for her, he can't fail her again, he can't- he needs to- for her. "Papa just- Papa just- I just-"
Flippa leans forwards, awkwardly pressing her bodyweight over his arms until he realizes she's trying to lean into his chest. She still hasn't got the hugging thing down, yet. He hiccups a choked sob and pulls his arms free to wrap around her and hold on tight, so tight, but not tight enough because he can't hurt her. He hurt her enough already. He took Tilin from her. He left her. He left her, and then he never saw her again, and he can't even help her look like her.
He shakes. He cries. He covers them both in slime. She curls into his chest, otherwise unmoving, hands tucked against her torso as he clings to her. She can't hug, but she's doing her best, and it destroys him.
Eventually, he stops crying, and they're left sitting there in silence broken only by his occasional sniffle. But Flippa isn't done destroying him- she lifts her hands, and signs (in that twitching, impossible way she does now), 1 l0vee y0u, d@dd.
"I- I love you, too, Flippa," he croaks out. He presses another kiss to her hair, and ignores the static prickling. It's just static. Of course it's just static. Things can be staticky when they're wet, right? Of course they can. It's undeniable fact, just like it's an undeniable fact that this is his Flippa. "I love you."
She butts his chin with her head, and he lets out a shaky laugh. He sniffles, then sighs, and gives her a little squeeze. Impossibly, her hair is already falling out of the ponytail. The both of them are covered in goo.
"I love you," he tells her again, stronger in his conviction. "My huevo."
For the first time that day, she smiles at him. Tearfully, he smiles back.
The worst thing, Bad knows, is the way that nothing changes.
The clouds move slow across the sky, gentle giants on an eternal trek. The waters dance with fish; the brooks burble and sing. Grass grows. Sheep eat. Grass regrows.
On, and on, and on, and on.
Bad breathes in, slow, and holds it.
It’s enough to go mad over. To become enraged for. To rip everything down just so that everything can match the- the keening lack in his heart. Grass grows. Grass has always grown. There is nothing that could ever stop grass from growing.
His hands are curled into the ground at his sides. He clutches handfuls of the wretched plant and pulls, almost gently, and doesn’t snap a single blade.
He exhales, slow, and doesn’t inhale again. What point is there? He’s alone. No one will know whether or not he needs to breathe. He’s been alone before- days that Dapper doesn’t wake up, days where the other eggs are with their other parents. Days where he falls asleep in his chair and the ghosts are left to amuse themselves. He’s been alone before.
He’s lost before.
There is a sob in his throat. He refuses to let it out. It chokes him, and he takes another deep breath to try to settle it.
There’s always- he misses Skeppy. Of course he misses Skeppy. He can’t lose Skeppy, but Skeppy isn’t here.
Bad tears the grass out of the ground. He stares at his hands, dark claws curled around torn green plant. He tries to imagine the grass is white fur instead, but he can’t find the enthusiasm. That’s okay. The anger will be back later.
He just- he can’t feel much beyond the loss, right now. The lack. The empty, quiet island where sheep eat grass and clouds keep moving and no eggs place any signs at all. That’s not okay, but he knows that, at least, will change. That’s how grief works. The world ends, and you end with it, and while you claw yourself up from the rubble the world ends again and sends you back under, and then again, and then again, but by the third go around you know what the tremors look like. You start to predict where it hurts the most. Then the world keeps ending but the ending just becomes a part of your world, and sometimes everything shakes but you shake with it and it’s not okay but it’s better. You get so used to the shaking that sometimes you forget that your world ever ended at all.
How long will it take for him to forget them?
Bad leans forwards, slowly, until he slumps into a miserable little puddle of limbs. He presses his cheek into the cool grass and when the sob rises up again he bites it back with teeth. The sun is blocked by a sombrero, now fallen awkwardly over his face, that Foolish had cheerfully placed on his head hours before. Bad doesn’t know why Foolish had put it there- except he does, and he’d seen it in the in the slightest tremor of Foolish’s smile, and so he’d kept it on.
He can’t see them, but he can hear them laughing. Mouse, Jaiden, and Foolish, just around the corner. There have been so many people ‘just around the corner’ today. They’re so loud. They’re not the right type of loud. He feels guilty for the way that they’re comforting him, that he’s taking up their time, and then he feels angry that he feels guilty because he remembers the cage, and he knows what he really means to them, and-
They’re still here. The eggs are gone, and they’re still here.
Forever isn’t here.
Forever hasn’t given him a gift basket yet.
…
…It doesn’t work. It’s a close thing, though- there’s a flicker of irritation at the thought of Forever’s awful, handsome face. Not anger, not nearly enough emotion to fill the void that is Bad’s heart, but maybe it could be. He’ll try again tomorrow. Isn’t that fun? Isn’t that something? There’s so much emotion he can’t feel any of it at all.
Maybe it’s a bad dream. There were no remains. There was just Dapper’s top hat, and Pomme’s beret. No shell, no dead eggs. No eggs. It’s driving him mad, the maybe-yes maybe-no nature of his children’s fate.
He thinks, maybe, that tomorrow he will build a drill.
Today, the world is dark beneath the sombrero, and the grass is scratchy and full of small twigs. Foolish laughs once, too loud. Automatically, Bad pushes himself up, because he knows Foolish, and knows how long he’s been away from the group, and he feels sick. He fumbles for his warpstone and- Foolish’s head pops around the corner- Bad freezes. Too late.
Foolish looks at him, grin bright and neverending. Bad looks back. He can’t bring himself to say anything- he drops the sombrero at their feet.
Foolish’s smile fades. Bad activates his warpstone again and, though the particles, he sees Foolish give him a sharp, left-handed salute. Bad can’t bite back his little laugh; Foolish knows him, too.
And then Foolish is gone. The world is purple. Then the world ends, once again, in Bad’s home. All of Dapper’s machines have stopped. Echoing noise to almost-echoing silence. Ah. Right. None of the island’s machines are working correctly. Bad will have to make a smaller drill. But he will build his drill, and he will dig, and he will find his son.
“Dapper?” he calls, his voice cracking. The sound echoes. Only the animals answer back- they’re the only thing that stops the base from being completely silent. Grass grows. Sheep eat. Grass regrows. There’s so many animals here. What good company. It occurs to Bad, suddenly, that they’re good company. Dapper is gone, and his animals are still here, and Bad-
He won’t kill Dapper’s pets. He is suddenly holding his scythe and he won’t hurt his son’s pets because he can’t trade them for his son and there’s a special sort of heartache to the fact that his son left behind instructions to machines that don’t work and so many animals that can’t keep Bad company the way Dapper kept him company and Bad-
He’s holding his scythe. He’s holding the Sunshine Protector. He tries to take a breath but it comes out stuttery and he bites his tongue and. Dapper was-is always so sweet. He made Bonnie to keep Bad company, and Bad is always haunted by little ghosts but now most of all he is haunted by the love of his son.
“Where are you?” His voice cracks on the third word. He stumbles to Dapper’s room and doesn’t think about the fact that they never got to build one for Pomme.
The hole in his heart could swallow an island.
Please don’t take-
The scythe gets left outside. Bad can’t bear to look at it. Protector. There is a secure door in front of him that keeps nothing secure because now there is nothing to protect and Bad-
-my sunshine away.
He falls to his knees next to the empty bed. He chokes out, “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, Dapper.”
Cleo laughs and throws another fish on the fire. "You'd kill for anyone who gives you a clock, Bdubs."
He wrinkles his nose at her, big eyes squinting almost shut. "Well, yeah, it's a clock. But you wouldn't have to give me one."
Cleo smiles, and there's mischief in her eyes but it almost looks sad. "Even if I asked you to kill Etho?"
"Oh, especially then!"
"What about Joel?"
Bdubs falters. He can feel Joel's life swirling in his chest, dancing at the edge of his heart where their lives are tied together. Killing Joel is equivalent to just killing himself. He likes Joel, is the thing. The universe tied them together --literally-- at random. There's nothing poetic about the match, but Bdubs thinks that they make a good team anyway.
"Would you kill Impulse?" he asks instead.
Cleo takes a moment to consider that. "Not before the end," she says. "But I would, yeah." I wouldn't have killed you hangs like a silent promise between them.
