Archive of Our Own ^beta

Grian grabbed a pen from his pocket and corrected the sign.

G-R-I-A-N

He had gotten used to carrying a pen with him wherever he went. The sheer amount of times it was misspelled was unbelievable. It couldn’t be that hard could it? There was a stark difference between him and a loaf of bread, at least that’s what he liked to believe. A single thought surfaced in his mind, at what point did he become the misspellings? If Grain was more common, then was that who everyone else thought he was? Was that who he was becoming? Was that all that mattered? He stuck the pen back in his pocket. What was the point? Maybe he should just embrace who everyone else thought he should be. Maybe that is who he is. Maybe that's who he always was.

Skizz bowed his head as Etho raised the axe. It was better this way, he told himself, he was doing a good thing. Skizz heard a sniffle behind him but didn’t dare to look up, seeing their pain would only make it harder. Each second that passed felt like an eternity. They were going to be thankful. A sharp wind rushed past his ear as the axe came down. It was going to be worth it. The blade bit into Skizz’s neck. He was helping.

Even if it didn’t feel like it.

Is something ever worth enough that you would give your life for it?

For the victory of a friend. To escape?

For the strength of a cause. To strike fear?

For the life of another. To break the cycle?

For safety. For power and profit?

Is it ever truly worth the sacrifice?

Is it ever a good enough excuse?

Etho couldn’t breathe, it was as if his heart had stopped beating. He stared at the message, unable to look away. He fell to his knees. A single thought piercing through his mind, no. No, no, no! It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. But it was. Guilt consumed him. It was Etho’s fault after all, he could have saved him. But instead… Etho had essentially lined up the shot. After everything that he did to keep Bdubs alive. Gone. A single tear swam down his cheek. Etho closed his eyes, trying desperately to blink the pain away. Nothing worked. Bdubs had taken a part of Etho with him.

gg buddy

A bundle of flowers lay wilting in the sand, shriveling in the desert sun. Poppies and lilacs. Their delicate purples and reds faded and worn, a new rusty-auburn pigmenting the fractured petals. Stems crushed and mangled.

Broken flowers for broken dreams.

The canary looks to the light pouring from the entrance, dimed and fading. The air is thick, dragging on their wings. Down, down, down. Poison air fills breathless lungs. The light is closer now. So painfully close. Freedom, so painfully close. Weakness comes in gasps and coughs. The canary beats their wings harder and harder yet they do not move. The cold stone has swallowed hope. The coal mine will take its victim.

The canary will never be free.

Scar felt like he was being watched, not in a stalker-y way, more like someone was looking out for him. He paused and whipped his head around as fast as he could, hoping to catch whoever was staring. Nothing. Scar continued walking, the repetitive sound of his walking stick against the dirt allowing his mind to drift. He had a good guess as to what was going on, but was willing to play along for the time being. Turning his head again, he could see a flash of purple out of the corner of his eye followed by a hushed chuckle.

Scar smiled in the direction of the flash, showing off his sharp teeth. “You know, for a Watcher, you're not that great at the whole watching thing.”

Grian appeared in front of him. “I’m plenty good at watching, nothin’ says I have to be sneaky about it.” Scar rolled his eyes and gestured for Grian to walk with him. The two walked in silence for a while, enjoying each other’s company. Grian seemed to be lost in thought. “Ok I give up. What do Vex do anyway?” The frustration in his voice made Scar grin, he loved the little noises Grian made when he was angry.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Scar tried to make his voice sound mysterious but he just sounded like an over dramatic stage performer. Grian made more frustrated grumbles as they kept walking, it only made Scar’s grin widen.

Scar’s arm felt weak as he pulled the bowstring taut for what felt like the thousandth time. An exhausted gasp left his lips as he released the arrow. Just a little too far to the right. He sighed as he fought the urge to collapse onto his knees. Something wet and sticky splashed onto his cheek, then his leg. Egg yolks. Not the most effective weapon, but with how tired Scar was feeling they might as well have been bullets. Scar used the back of his bow to shield his face as he aimed again. Right on target. The winged man fell to the ground, Scar was surprised at the amount of arrows it had taken before they fell. More eggs hit him as Scar moved closer, the whites dripping down his face made his eyes sting. Another arrow to the arm solved that problem. Blood mixed with the yolks forming an orange-red mess on the ground. The man grunted as he tried to pull the arrows out of his body. When Scar got close enough, the man grabbed at his legs, throwing Scar off balance. Scar lunged at the man’s face, desperate to have his Scooby-Doo villain reveal moment.

“I’ve got you now! Let’s see who’s really the man in the chicken costume!” Scar grabbed the mask and yanked to reveal the broken and battered face of… no no no no! Why hadn’t Grian told him? All of this could have been avoided if he had just known. Grian had lost so much blood, it was a wonder he was still alive.

“Surprise.” Grian muttered weakly. Scar raced to put pressure on the wounds but there were too many. Grian was gone. And it was all Scar’s fault.

Two friends dance in the sand. Betrayal and blood coats guilty fists, shining in the light of the rising sun.

A wizard stands alone, longing for the laughter below. A tap on the shoulder, and the wizard is robbed by the smile he yearned for.

Souls entwined like chains. One pulls and tugs and rips, the other is dragged along. Secrets shatter hearts.

Grief stricken and raging, the sibling left behind shouts and swings. An axe blade sinks into skin, and he goes into the light with his brother.

A trader sits at his post. The door opens to reveal a long lost friend.

Grian held his breath as he walked up to Scar, how could any words make up for what Grian did? Still, he had to try. “Scar” Grian lowered his gaze as he spoke. “I know that nothing I can say will change what happ…” Scar cut Grian off by wrapping him in a tight hug, Grian was startled to say the least.

“It’s ok! You have nothing to apologize for.” Grian’s tears moistened Scar’s shoulder as he pressed his face in harder.

“What do you mean? I-I-I killed you!” Scar only ran his hand through Grian’s hair as if he were a cat.

“I’m right here aren't I? Very much not dead.” Grian looked up to meet Scar’s eyes, he could still see the marks his fist had left on Scar’s face.

Grian sniffed and wiped the tears from his cheek. “I’m so sorry.” He still couldn’t truly believe Scar was forgiving him, he had no right to be forgiven.

Cub was spending the day tidying the museum, tomorrow they would be leaving this all behind. It was bitter sweet, sure there were only better things to come but… it still stung, abandoning everything like this. A loud knocking made his ears perk up and twitch.

“Cub! Cub! Where are you?” An excited voice called out from upstairs. Cub nearly knocked over a small vase with his tail as he spun around in surprise. He tucked the cloth he had been using to dust into his pocket and walked up the stairs. Scar ran to greet him, hugging Cub so tight he couldn’t breathe.

Cub coughed. “Hey man, you mind not choking me?” Scar hesitantly let go. “What happened?”

Scar laughed. “Oh nothing happened, just wanted to spend the last day with my Convex buddy!” Scar wrapped an arm around Cub’s shoulders.

“Well, I can't say no to that.” Cub giggled then shrunk down and leaned into Scar when he started petting the top of Cub’s head. “Scar, you know I don’t like it when you do that.”

Scar only smiled. “I know that you love it! You just pretend that you don’t. You're an awful actor by the way.”

Cub tried to hide the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Maybe moving on wouldn’t be so hard after all.

Etho pulled desperately at the chains around his wrists and ankles that were binding him to a cold examination table, each tug only digging the metal further into his skin. Still, he yanked, barely feeling the blood that was now dripping down his limbs. The room lit up, the bright steril lighting burning his eyes. A figure walked towards him, a surgical mask covering the lower half of their face and reflective goggles covering the upper half. Etho froze, not wanting to seem as pathetic as he felt. Wordlessly, the figure moved closer, soulless eyes scanning over Etho. They reached for a small table beside the metal bed that Etho hadn’t noticed in the darkness and grabbed a scalpel. Etho bit down on his tongue, trying his best not to scream. Screaming was for the weak. A hand grabbed him by the forehead and forced his head to lay flat, a small whimper escaped him. The taste of metal filled his mouth as Etho bit down harder. The scalpel was getting closer now, too close. Panic consumed Etho, he choked on his own blood as his breath quickened. He was coughing now, his head held firm, gravity forcing the crimson back into his lungs. His arms were moving of their own accord, flailing, yet held frustratingly still. The figure did not seem diswayed, only grabbing a towel and wiping the blood covering Etho’s face. The scalpel moved closer and Etho squeezed his eyes shut only for his left to be forced open. Pain. Etho’s vision went red as the blade cut into eye. He couldn’t take it anymore, he shrieked, a blood curdling shriek. The world was swimming now, his already patchy vision fading.

I’m going to die

That was the only thought in his mind, twisting his stomach and tightening his throat. Etho’s whole body was screaming but there was nothing he could do. Nothing but watch as everything around him dissolved and went dark.

It was dark. The kind of dark that fills your lungs with ink and threatens to yank your eyes out, that squeezes your ears and numbs your skin. A pure abyss of black, so black that calling it by that name would be insulting, so black that it forces itself into shades of shadowy blue and purple just to give your eyes something to see. Mumbo wasn't sure how long he had been here, any hope he had of telling time was stolen by the oblivion. It was starting to get to him. Just moments before he could have sworn he heard a voice, an incomprehensible whisper, but one that was distinctly human. He clung to the sound, playing it over and over in his mind. He brought his hands to his face, prodding at his hollow cheeks. Taking pleasure in having something to feel. The voice was devolving now in his mind, distorted by his desperate attempt to make it stay. 

Help

Help

Over and over again, pounding against his brain, causing the return of a splitting headache that had only subsided hours before. Was it hours? It felt like hours. The voice was screaming now, piercing shrieks that stabbed at his bones. Mumbo was sure he was going mad, the cries playing incessantly. He placed his hands over his ears, anything to get it to stop, anything to… the voice was quieter now. Mumbo took his hands away, loud. He put his hands back, quiet. It had to be some sort of mental trick, it couldn't be coming from… no. Mumbo was just crazy.

 He wanted so desperately to be crazy. 

There was a scyth in his grip. The world turned dark, like the light had been sucked out of everything. Then it was red.

Zed woke up, heart beating in his throat, lungs screaming to breathe faster. He forced his breathing to slow. It was just a nightmare. A nightmare about what he was capable of. He tried to sit up, then remembered the rope he had tied around his wrists and ankles as a precaution. The Hermits hadn’t seemed to notice the marks that it left, but he still wore shirts with longer sleeves. He couldn’t worry them, there was nothing to worry about. Yet. Zed shifted so he could press a button with his chin. A whirring sound filled the room as the machine started. Moments later, a sheep popped up from a secret panel on the floor which was coaxed over by some wheat sitting on Zed’s nightstand. After a frustrating few minutes, Zed managed to get the sheep to eat enough of the rope to free one hand, he was then able to untie the rest himself. Sure it wasn’t the most efficient system in the world, but who doesn’t want to have a bit of fun every now and again? That’s why he did it, so everyone else could have fun. Standing, he gave the sheep the rest of the wheat and went to get dressed, tugging his sleeves and pants over the burns. They didn’t hurt anymore, the raw skin numb from many mornings like this. He moved to look at himself in the mirror, staring at his own purple eyes. Was it just him or did they look a little darker than normal? Panic quickened his heartbeat and he forced himself to breathe slowly. He looked back at his eyes, must have just been a trick of the light. He had taken every possible step to ensure that didn’t happen again, to ensure the people he cared about were safe. Zed grabbed a piece of rope and put it in his bag, just in case. If they needed to, would they? Would his friends do what needed to be done to keep the world safe?

Zed wasn’t sure how long it had been when he awoke again, he didn’t remember falling asleep. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. His hands were wet and sticky on his face. He opened them again and looked down. Red. His hands were dripping with blood. No. No no no no no no no no. He had done everything right! He took every precaution and yet… Zed scrambled to his feet, desperate to get away from himself. He backed into a wall. That’s when he truly took in his surroundings, he was in a small box, barely twice the size of him, with a single light in one corner. Zed didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, they had done something, but it wasn’t enough, nothing would ever be enough. How many had died in the process? He sat back down against one wall, processing it all. Should he scream? Let someone know he was himself again? But if he was free, people could get hurt again, people he cared about. Maybe he should just let himself rot in here, that would be the right thing to do, he deserved it. Trying to get out would be selfish. Wrong. Evil.

Evil like him.

“You… you said we could still be friends.” Blood dripped from Mumbo’s mouth as he spoke.

“I…I…” Grian met Mumbo’s saddened gaze, not sure what to say. He wrapped his arm tighter around Mumbo, inadvertently pushing him further into the blade.

Mumbo’s eyes began to glaze over. “If I fell.”

Tears pressed at the backs of Grian’s eyes. It had all happened so fast, he wasn’t even thinking. Why wasn’t he thinking?

“Mumbo I didn’t mean for… I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I wasn’t in my right mind when I said…”

Mumbo’s gurgling voice cut him off. “Why did you lie?”

The words were like a dagger to Grian’s soul. Mumbo’s legs gave out, taking both of them to the ground. The force of the sword hitting the ground pushed it back up towards Grian, taunting him. Blood from Mumbo’s rapid coughing splattered on Grian’s face.

“Why did you lie to me?” The question came again. A question Grian didn’t know how to begin answering. He hadn’t meant to lie.

“I just couldn’t bare to lose you and I thought that if we were both suffering then at least we would be cursed together.” Grian didn’t know if Mumbo could even hear him, his eyes were closed, chest barely moving. Thoughtlessly, Grian wrapped his arms around his friend, pulling their blood soaked bodies as close as he could.

He didn’t have it in him to cry, his soul felt like it was wrung dry. “It wasn’t supposed to be a lie, we’re still friends just… I don’t know.”

Were they? Friends didn’t drain the life from each other. They don’t run a sword through the other’s heart. It was supposed to be a warning, that’s all, but now…

Mumbo’s voice was barely a whispe. “So we can still be friends?” His eyes lit up as he spoke.

“Yeah.” The response came too late, Mumbo’s body sagged in Grian’s hold.

It wasn’t worth apologizing again, to ears that would never hear it. Still, he found the grieving words leave his lips. He grabbed the sword and pulled it out, the new hole only adding to the puddle of blood the two lay in. The blade felt heavy in his grip, wrong. He was wrong. Something deep inside was twisted. He let the sword fall to the ground, not trusting himself to hold it any longer.

Grian’s hands were covered in red. Skin clotted under his fingernails. Cactus needles sticking out of his flesh. He was a monster.

The memory was dizzying, playing incessantly in his mind. It was still true. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, it would always be true.

Grian was a monster.

Pain.

Betrayal.

Death.

Yet they never truly die. Reborn again into husks made purely for sadistic entertainment. Over and over again, unceasing torment.

Blind.

Oh how horrifically innocent, left to drown in their own guilt, suffocate due to so called morals.

Pathetic.

Pretending to hate the taste of the blood they guzzle like wine.

You blame us, yet we do not hold the blades.

Is it so evil to let live what is kept in shadows?

Or are you only looking to absolve the actions of those you ‘care for?’

We simply watch.

Do you think each iteration was not created for your pleasure?

No.

Not even you could be so oblivious.

This is your fault.

Bask in your cruelty.

It was a joke. That was all. Put on a bee costume, mess around with X, and call it a day. Now Keralis was starting to get worried. He had been trying to take the suit off for over an hour, the more he pulled, the more it felt like he was tugging at skin. The costume had been tight when he put it on sure, but certainly not like this. He forced himself to take a breath, it was just fabric, he was panicking over nothing. Maybe he would just sleep in it, and try again in the morning. The thought of having it on any longer was sickening, some primal part of him screaming to get away. He looked at himself in the mirror, had the mask always been molded so perfectly to his face? It was probably just sticking to sweat from a long day, yes, that had to be it. Keralis stepped outside, hoping the cool evening breeze would dry his skin. The city was beautiful this time of night, with all of the lights. He looked over to see a small flower bed, the flowers were even more beautiful, their petals lit by the stars. Tulips. He felt drawn to them, the way they swayed in the breeze. Thoughtlessly, he moved towards them. With each step he felt lighter, the world grew bigger. A sharp pain pierced through his back, but Keralis barely felt it, too far gone into his trance. He reached the tulip, it was far grander up close, the petals larger than he was. He landed at its center. Had he been in the air? Keralis hadn’t noticed he was floating. The tulip took up his entire field of view, that was all that mattered right now.

Not how small he felt.

Not the pain pulling at his skin.

Just the flower.

Joel didn’t have a choice. It was kill or be killed, them or him. One way or another it would have ended with a body on the ground. Even if his actions were a little preemptive, they were justified.

That wasn’t what scared him.

Now, he sat by the river, cleaning the blood off his sword and face. It was sad watching it flow away, the red was such a pretty decoration on his blade. The adrenaline rush was fading and he found his eyes drifting upwards towards the woods, searching. Searching for his next target. He forced his focus back to the task at hand, the pure ecstasy he had felt from the kill slowly draining away.

He refused to admit the joy that came with the crimson pooling on the ground, with the satisfying thunk bodies made when they hit the dirt. He was only doing what had to be done, nothing more. Still, each kill became more gruesome, more fun. Joel had learned quite a bit about anatomy, where the arteries were, which bones could be snapped the easiest, how deep each cut could be before it became fatal.

The screams were soothing, the thrashing only adding to the challenge. This whole thing was meant to be a game right? Was it so bad it was entertaining?

It was self defense. They would have come after him eventually, Joel was just speeding up the inevitable.

Was it so evil to smile in the process?

Find the diamonds.

Build the machine.

Press the button.

Find the diamonds. Build the machine. Press the button.

Find the diamonds, build the machine, press the button.

Findthediamonsbuildthemachinepressthebutton.

It was fun the first time. Scary, but fun, because they were in it together. They were trapped together.

The second time was a fluke. That’s what they got for messing around with time travel. But the others didn’t remember. Why couldn’t Grian get them to remember? Why did they look at him like he was insane? Grian wasn’t insane. He wasn’t. He.

The third time was worrying. They should have been home by now. Why couldn’t Grian go home? He didn’t remember what home looked like anymore. He didn’t remember. He didn’t. He

Grian had stopped counting. It was pointless. No matter what he did it ended the same. It never ended. It never. It.

His friends weren’t letting him into the cave anymore. They were keeping their distance. He just wanted their help. He just wanted. He just. He.

Everything was fading. The world but a sea of mismatched colours and blurry shapes. Scar’s limbs felt like they were made of stone, stiff and heavy. Had the world always been this blue? It was a pretty pale shade, almost grey. What was that noise? Words, someone was talking, each sentence sharp yet soothing. Scar was tired, maybe if he just closed his eyes… shaking. His whole body was shook violently. A murmur of frustration escaped him before his eyelids drooped once again. There was another voice now, this one quick and jumpy. The blue was fading, replaced by darkness.

“Go…water.”

“…Cub…”

“…do?”

The words were devolving too. The voices like wind chimes in the breeze flowing through his mind. Why did the sound so panicked? He just wanted to take a quick nap. Each part of him was growing numb now. There was another voice, this one but a whisper yet still clearer than the rest.

You have done well.

Stop resisting.

Welcome home.

The voice was soft, like a warm hug. Scar let himself fall into the words. The blue was gone, only black remained.

Beautiful, peaceful black.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Grian forced frustration into his voice, trying to cover the pain that lingered in it.

Look at you like what?

Grian turned his gaze away. “Like you're mad at me.”

But I am, aren't I?

“You… you weren’t… I wasn’t.” The words got stuck on Grian’s tongue.

You weren’t what?

He whipped his head back around. “I wasn’t thinking ok! Is that what you want to hear? I never meant for you to die! Isn’t this punishment enough?” The anger in Grian’s voice was real this time.

What’s punishment enough?

Grian gestured wildly in the air. “This! You're still…”

I’m still what? I’m gone, remember?

“Yes of course I remember! What are you…” BigB’s face began to fade in Grian’s mind. “No! Come back! Please. I can’t lose you again.”

You cannot lose what is already gone.

The voice faded away, leaving Grian desperately trying to hold onto those words even if they were nothing more than figments. Even if BigB was nothing more than a figment, and Grian was the one responsible.

That wasn’t what hurt the most. Grian deserved the guilt to haunt him forever.

Why was BigB abandoning him?

No, he couldn’t blame it on anyone but himself. He was the one letting it go. He was the one abandoning BigB.

Everything was his fault.

It was poetic in a way. Each life snuffed out with such violence and prominence yet lasting little more than an instant. It was a sign. A warning, meant to inflict grief like wounds, signal victory or defeat. 

A single lightning strike. 

That was what everything came down to. No matter who you were, or who you hurt, it was the same. A common end. One last ditch effort to be remembered. 

The void was never meant to be remembered. 

The sound echoed throughout the world yet fell of deaf ears. Silenced by their own priorities. There was only one who truly heard. Only one that heard the screams and the crack that followed. Only one who was to blame. 

It was fitting, ignored even in death. Left to suffocate and succumb alone. 

In order for the canary to be free, it must be replaced. 

Someone else’s lungs must be filled with black. 

Someone else must stop singing. 

“Guys! She’s waking up!” The voice was soft, almost muted, like someone shouting through a piece of cloth. That was not unlike how Pearl’s mind felt, like every thought was clouded and distorted.

Another voice came, this one higher pitched but still whisper like. “Pearl! Oh gosh, are you ok? How did you… no, that's not important right now.” Pearl felt her body move upwards, it was strange, the air now at her back felt more stable than whatever she had been lying on before. It was freeing, like she was floating. “There we go. It's ok, take your time. Is there anything I can get for you?” Pearl’s tongue felt like lead in her mouth. That was fine though, she felt no need to respond to the kind voice, just to be.

The other voice was back again. “Give her some space Gem.” The support at Pearl’s back fell away, yet she remained upright, resting against the firm nothing.

“Sorry.”

Another voice, this one pitched somewhere in between the two others edged by a light warmth. “Oh man Pearl! Are you alright?”

The higher voice, Gem replied for her. “She’s awake, that's good right?” Something came to rest on Pearl’s shoulder, it was barely a touch but something about it still felt secure, safe.

“Pearl, can you look at me?” The warm voice was closer now. Pearl moved her head in the direction of the voice, even the small tilt making her muscles feel like stone. “Ok great start, now just open.” The voice was steeped in concern now, almost jittery. Pearl followed the command, lids slowly creeping open. The world was beautiful. Little lights filled her vision, dotting a sea of deep blues and purples. Everything was so big yet so small, filled with potential yet drowning in a sea of it.

Silence.

No more voices.

Her body was shaking, the pressure on her shoulder tightening. The muted voices were back, even quieter, each word lost in the expanse before her. A few words managed to reach her ears. “Get Doc… No, she'll be fine… I think.”

Pearl’s lids drooped again, the darkness returning. It seemed sad now, lonely without all the lights and colours.

A new voice, this one low and gruff. “Let me take a look. Hey Pearl, can you open your eyes again?” Pearl did as she was told, the world regaining its beauty.

“So, any ideas?” The cloth voice was edged with concern, though it was hidden by fake curiosity.

“Let me make a few calls. See if you can get her to talk in the meantime.” The deep voice faded away, followed by the sound of creaking and a soft thud.

Pearl could get lost in this, the never ending expanse before her, it was intoxicating.

“I know this is a lot but… do you think you could tell us what happened? Etho just found you lying in the snow by Decked Out and we don't have much else to go on.” Gem’s voice was almost trembling now. Pearl opened her mouth to respond, the words feeling rough in her throat and coming out as nothing but a small gurgle. “That’s it, take your time.”

Pearl finally managed to speak. “Stars.”

“Uh huh, what about stars?” The cloth covered voice was closer now.

Pearl tilted her head in its direction. “Stars.” She repeated.

A sigh came from her left followed by the warm voice. “Can you tell us anything else?” A long pause. “About your eyes maybe?”

What was wrong with her eyes? Everything was so magical when she opened them, dusted with light.

“It's so pretty.” The words felt slurred as they left her lips.

Everything tightened. Like the air had shattered and each breath threatened to cause another crack.

Gem’s voice was laced with false joy. “What’s pretty? You certainly don't mean Impulse.” A forced laugh echoed through the space. “Ow! I'm just trying to lighten the mood!”

Pearl didn't hear the last few words. “Everything.”

Footsteps, loud and clunky, as if made by metal boots. “Can someone tell me what happened? I just caught Doc trying to…Oh goodness me.” The voice was breathy and muffled, anger quickly dropping to fear.

“We don’t know. I just found her like this and well… you can see for yourself.”

More bulky sounding footsteps came closer. “Pearl.” The whispered word was somber and full of worry. Pearl just made a vague humming noise. “What happened?” Then, lower, slower. “Who did this to you?”

“The stars.”

Wels had seemed… off the past few days. Wrong. His skin was a shade too pale, his movements precise and stern, a deep sense of anger seeming to linger in his eyes. Beef was getting worried. Had it been a side effect of the cloning machine? He didn't think anything like that had happened when he used it, he would have remembered something like that, right? No, the thing didn't even work, it was just a wooden box, that couldn't be it. Even if it wasn't, he still felt somewhat responsible, at a bare minimum he had to go check in on the guy. 

As Beef approached Wels’ base, a chill seeped into his bones. Had the roofs always been this shade of red? He could have sworn they were magenta before. It didn't matter, that wasn't why he was here, Beef needed to focus. 

“Wels! Wels! Are you around here?” Beef wandered around the area until a voice responded. 

“Over here.” It was low and almost sinister, annoyance seeping into the words. Still, against his better judgment, Beef followed it. 

The figure that stood before him was Wels, but it also wasn't. His armour was a darker grey, almost black. The way he stood was best described as eerie. 

Beef sucked in a breath. “Hey Wels! Just wanted to check in and see how you were doing.”

“Why?” The single word response was distorted and irritated. 

Beef shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “You know, we’re practically neighbors, just wanted to check in.” Hurriedly, he added, “and you've seemed a bit off since the whole cloning machine thing and I felt bad and I just…” He stopped, Wels’ piercing gaze taking the air from his lungs. 

Wels held eye contact. “Nothing is wrong. You can go back to your little sand castle now.” he waved his hand and began to walk away

Little sand castle! It was nowhere near little! How dare he! Beef tried to steady himself, something was wrong, Wels would never speak to him like that. “Now I know something’s up. You know you can tell me anything right? We’re friends.” 

Wels huffed and raised his voice. “Nothing is ‘up.’ Now leave, I’m busy.” 

Beef only sighed and turned to walk away, he had done what he could. As he left, he could have sworn he heard a panicked voice coming from beneath him.

It sounded kinda like Wels, but he had made it obvious he wanted nothing to do with Beef. 

He was probably just hearing things. 

“Don’t make a sound or I can make this a lot quicker for the both of us.” The words were filled with poison. Mumbo did as he was told, keeping his shaking body and still as he could manage. Someone was behind him, holding a blade against his neck and a hand over his eyes. “Good. Now you are going to walk, very slowly. Ok?” Mumbo almost nodded before realizing that would have ended with the knife breaking skin. His assailant seemed to take his silence as a yes and began to push him forward, Mumbo’s knees almost giving out from under him. They walked for what felt like hours, Mumbo passing the time by coming up with various methods to escape this situation, only to scrap them all. Most of his focus was taken up by not tripping anyway. “Stop.” Mumbo froze in place, not because of the command, but because of the words that had come only moments before. 

“Mumbo! Are you alright? What did you do to him? What do you want?” Each syllable filled his pain and rage, with Grian’s pain. It took everything in Mumbo’s power to stay silent, and to hold back the tears pressing at the back of his eyes. The hand fell away, revealing they were standing in a cave, Grian was on the other side, eyes swelling with fury. 

The figure’s voice remained painfully steady and monotone. “You need to come home.” 

Grian took a step forward. “I thought I made it very clear I am never going back to that place.” 

The blade pressed further into Mumbo’s neck, drawing blood. “You might want to reconsider.” 

Mumbo and Grian’s eyes met for just a moment, revealing their shared fear. Grian looked back up, if Mumbo didn't know better he would have said Grian’s flashed purple. “Let him go.” Each word was slow and sharp. 

A small chuckle came from behind Mumbo. “All you have to do is come with me, and no more harm will come to him, or your other friends.” The last word was spit with disgust. Mumbo had no idea what was happening, but he certainly didn't want Mr Stern Voice to take Grian away from him. 

He met Grian’s gaze, and silently mouthed the words Its ok, don’t sacrifice yourself for me. I'm not worth it. 

A single tear slid down Grian’s cheek. “Fine.” Mumbo’s heart sank, he had just told Grian not to! He should have known better than to think Grian would have done anything he told him to. 

The blade fell away and Mumbo was shoved to the ground, coughing and sputtering. He barely got up in time to see Grian’s heartbroken face fade to purple and disappear. 

His best friend was gone, and whether he liked it or not, he could only blame himself. 

“Guys I told you, I’m fi…” Tango didn’t get to finish his sentence before his legs gave out from under him and everything went black. 

He wasn’t sure how long it had been before he began to hear voices again. “Zed go grab some… wait no, come here, he’s awake!” Tango made a low gurgling noise and forced his eyes open, only to be met with a face uncomfortably close to his own. Tango tried to sit up, only to fall back down the moment he moved. “Don’t move, you need to rest.” Impulse pulled a blanket over Tango, one of what appeared to at least fifteen others, one of which was just a large towel and another being one of Zed’s spare lab coats (well, one of Cub’s spare lab coats). 

Undeterred, Tango tried again. “Come on Impy I’m fine I just…” He trailed off when his arms once again gave out from under him. 

“Tango I got a bucket of lava somewhere. I was going to use it earlier but Impulse was a party pooper and made me wait to ask before I dumped it on you.” Zed’s fake annoyance made Tango laugh, each breath more painful than the last. 

Tango grimaced. “No lava necessary, I’m…” 

Impulse cut him off. “Say fine one more time and you volunteer yourself to be Zed’s next guinea pig.” Zed’s eyes lit up at the idea. Tango sighed and held his tongue. 

Zed’s gaze shifted between Tango and the corner of the room from which a soft orange glow was emanating. “So that’s a yes to the lava?” Impulse glared at him playfully. “Ok jeez.” Zed held up his hands. 

“Can someone tell me what happened?” Tango groaned. 

Impulse frowned. “I think you know exactly what happened mister ‘I’m going to spend all my time in the freezing cold for a year.’ What did you think was going to happen?” 

Tango felt sleep pulling at him once again, and fought to stay awake if only to prove a point. Still it wasn’t long before darkness consumed him. 

The next time he awoke, everything hurt. Needles of pain poking and prodding at each and every part of him. A small whine escaped his throat, prompting the return of an overly, as far as Tango was concerned, worried Impulse. “How are you feeling?” 

Tango almost laughed at how obvious the answer was. Instead, he put all of his energy into not screaming at the top of his lungs. His silence only made Impulse's face soften. “Yeah I know, dumb question. Is there anything I can…” 

At that moment Zed burst into the room, dropping the bag he was carrying as soon as he saw Tango, spilling its contents on the floor. The contents in question were another lab coat, a flint and steel, a bowl, some assorted vegetables, and a piece of wool. Impulse brought his palm to his face. “Zed! What did I say about the fire? You’re as bad as Scar with that thing. And I told you no solid food.” He sighed 

Zed didn’t miss a beat. “That’s what the bowl is for.” 

A small laugh escaped Tango, sending another jolt of pain through him. This time, he couldn’t hold back his scream. 

The room stilled and fell silent, both Zed and Impulse froze, staring at Tango. Moments later, both were nearly on top of him. “Where does it hurt?” Impulse’s calming words washed over Tango who could only whimper. The second lab coat was then draped over him. 

“Maybe we should get someone. Cub has some medical training right?” Zed giggled, trying to cover the nervousness that seeped into his voice. 

Impulse stood. “Not a bad idea.” 

Another whine came from Tango, the last thing he wanted was more people here. His attempt at communication was not received. “It’s ok, more help is coming. Please promise me you won’t do this to yourself again. We care about…” Impulse didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before the room lit up, consumed in a blazing inferno. 

Now Tango wasn’t the only one screaming. 

Zed and Impulse were shouting but Tango couldn’t make out the words, already too far drawn into himself. The pain was gone now, replaced by an insatiable guilt. 

He should have known repressing his fire for this long would have ended badly. He should have fought harder. He should have told them to leave the room. 

He should have been a better friend. 

Even if he had told them to leave, they wouldn’t have, they cared too much. 

It was Tango’s fault for making them care about a monster. 

Scar stood on the balcony of the town hall building, gazing out over the shopping district. His focus however, was not on the shops. 

“Bdubs.” Scar turned to lock eyes with his advisor. “Do they hate me?” 

Bdubs stepped forward. “Of course they don’t, why do you think that?” As if on cue Jellie came and rubbed up against Scar’s legs. 

Scar picked her up. “I was elected as mayor, by a landslide. But… just look! I’ve put so much effort into making this a beautiful place, that was my whole platform. And yet, purple. The grass is an embodiment of my mayorship, of me! And they hate it.” He sighed. 

“Most people don’t hate it. And I’m sure no one hates you.” Bdubs turned his gaze to the district. 

Scar grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him, staring right into Bdubs’ soul. “Don’t. Don’t lie to me. You're supposed to advise, not placate me.” He stumbled over the word ‘placate,’ pronouncing it more like ‘plaw-cat’ but his message was clear nonetheless.

Bdubs’ eyes went wide, his whole body tensing up. “I’m not… I would never lie to you! Your people care, I'm sure of it.” He forced a laugh. 

A soft blue glow surrounded Scar, but he didn’t notice. Bdubs however, was all too aware. “What do you want me to say?” 

The glow seemed to absorb into Scar, disappearing in an instant. He turned his gaze. “I want you to tell me what you're really thinking, what everyone is really thinking.” Bdubs opened his mouth to speak but he didn’t get the chance. “I want you to tell me I’m not cut out for this. That everyone made a mistake by voting for me. That is my fault we’re in the middle of a war.” His voice was somber, filled with a sort of quiet rage that Bdubs was shocked to hear coming from Scar. It was a voice of guilt, of self loathing. 

It was at that moment Bdubs had an idea. “Yes, everyone does think you’re an awful mayor. But this is your chance to prove them wrong. To make them pay for ever doubting you.” He tried his best to keep his words steady, to hide the near giddiness that was lying beneath. 

Scar’s face turned to stone. “What do you suggest?” 

Bdubs willed himself not to smile. This was his chance to get back at everyone for thinking he was weak. For all the years of teasing that still lingered in his gut. 

And the best part? No one would know it was him.

“Jimmy!” The words left Tango’s lips without a second thought. Pure adrenaline coursed through his legs as he ran. His hands met Jimmy’s back, pushing him out of the way. Out of danger. 

Tango’s ears were ringing now. Pain rippled through him, his singed skin screaming out. Screams that forced their way into his lungs and scratched his throat as they escaped. Everything spun. 

That was when Tango realized he wasn’t the only one screaming. 

He must have not pushed hard enough, that was his first thought. The second? He had just made a huge mistake. 

Tango crawled his way over to Jimmy who was lying only a few feet away, his own lungs trying to relocate themselves as he did. When he finally managed to stop coughing, he looked over Jimmy. There was a gash on Jimmy’s jaw that mirrored the pain in Tango’s own. Though when Tango pressed a finger to the spot, it came away clean. Jimmy was cradling his right leg, the same leg that Tango looked down at himself to find bending in the wrong direction. 

Tango was kicking himself. How could he have been so stupid? He’d only made things worse. If he had just stayed put, they would only have one set of injuries to deal with. One source of pain. 

Jimmy stared at him through half closed eyes, face scrunched in agony. If Tango hadn’t dove in, he would have been able to carry Jimmy back to the ranch house, another quick glance at his leg told him that wasn’t happening. If Tango had just thought things through, the pair wouldn’t be barely clinging onto consciousness. Now they laid together in the crater, the dust beginning to settle. 

Maybe everyone else was right. Maybe they were doomed to fail. Doomed to die. 

“Please.” Scott ran his fingers along the edge of Jimmy’s pale jaw. “Please don't let this be the end.” His eyes drifted up to Jimmy’s forehead, and he forced them back down again. It was just a little blood, both of them had been through worse. Jimmy would wake up. Scott’s hand fell to Jimmy’s arm, squeezing his wrist. Jimmy was just resting, the battle had taken a lot out of him. A poppy was lying beside them, it must have fallen off when… when Jimmy went to sleep. Scott fumbled for it and tucked it back behind Jimmy’s ear, for when he awoke. Scott stood, hoisting Jimmy up with him and wrapping Jimmy’s arm around his own shoulders. They needed to get back home, that way Jimmy could be more comfortable. He staggered over the desert sands, the ground littered with pits and red. A glance back revealed a trail of crimson following the pair, Scott must have gotten some on his shoe or something. The sun was high in the sky, the heat making Jimmy feel heavier. They were almost to the forest, it would be easier to walk on solid ground. Maybe Jimmy would be up by then, and they would laugh about Scott having to carry him like a body bride. They would clean up in the river, Scott might even let Jimmy cook tonight, he wasn't really that hungry anyway. 

It would be peaceful, away from all the death.

Just the two of them.

The way it's always been. 

“You weren't supposed to see that.”

“Did you really think you could keep something like this a secret?”

“How do you think I've kept you all safe?”

“You call this safety?” 

“It's better this way.” 

“I can’t believe you of all people could possibly think…”

“Come here and I can explain.”

Joe woke in a cold sweat. Broken pieces of conversation echoing in his mind. Who had he been talking to? The more he thought about it the more distorted the image became, nothing but a smudge in his memory. He reached for the notebook he kept beside his bed, scribbling down every detail he could. It wasn't just a dream. It was real, he was sure of it. The face had been grey, or was it a deep brown? There was a bit of blue too, or was it a soft purple? Joe hated this feeling, knowing all the answers were buried deep in his mind if only he could dig them out. Something else was off too, the papers on the floor were scattered in the wrong direction, his bed sheets pulled over him at the wrong angle. He looked around the room, taking note of every little detail. Satisfied he had recorded as much as he could, Joe stood and walked over to his bookcase, looking for anything that might provide answers. Before he knew it, the sun was high in the sky and Joe closed the back cover of his twenty second book, “Landscaping Your Mind.” It was all fascinating, sure but… not what he was looking for. Now, the consequences of his day at his desk were starting to catch up to him, namely his growling stomach. He reached for his communicator, it would be good to get out and meet up with someone. 

<Joehillssays> hey does anyone want to meet up for lunch? 

<ZombieCleo> Joe it’s 4pm

<Joehillssays> early dinner then? 

<xisumavoid> sure 

<xisumavoid> meet at spawn? 

<Joehillssays> see you in 7 

Exactly seven minutes later, Joe stood waiting for X. He didn’t mind having to wait, it gave him time to ponder. 

“Hey Joe!”

Joe turned. “Howdy Xisuma!” A deep sense of unease took root in Joe’s stomach, hunger twisting into nausea. 

Suddenly he remembered whose voice it was he heard in his dream. 

It wasn't unusual for Mumbo to disappear for a couple of days. Sometimes he got overly obsessive over some redstone project of his, or spent too many days without sleep and was found passed out in a corner somewhere a week later. Grian was used to occurrences like this, but it had been far too long for comfort. Everyone else kept assuring him that Mumbo was just busy with a farm or something but it had been over a month now. The “oh I’m sure he’ll call tomorrow”s turned into “just give him a week and he’ll get back to you.”s. Grian was starting to panic. Even since they met they’d never go more than a week or two without any sort of communication. Grian knew Mumbo better than anyone, and he knew something was wrong. 

He started by checking around Mumbo’s base, inspecting his farms or the places they usually hung out. Nothing. Grian’s search began to get more frantic, busting into people’s homes, muttering about Mumbo having to be around there somewhere. Everyone was worried now, and they should be, that’s what Grian spent months trying to get them to do. 

But they weren’t worried about the right person. 

Why didn’t they care? Mumbo was their friend too, he could be in danger! He could be… Grian forced the thought from his mind, but it didn’t budge. That was the only explanation for what was happening. That was the only reason Mumbo would ever cut communication like this. 

If there wasn’t someone left to communicate with. 

Did Mumbo have a will? Grian should probably talk with Cleo, they had more experience with funerals and the like. Those ideas alone were enough to bring tears streaming down Grian’s face. 

At least he wouldn’t have to search anymore.

“Go.” Pearl and Tilly’s eyes met, one pair blurry with tears, the other painfully ignorant. “Please.” Pearl’s frantic gestures seemed to have no effect, Tilly only wagged her tail. “They're coming,” more sobs, “I’m just trying to keep you safe!” Tilly was undeterred, pressing herself harder against Pearl’s lower leg. The sound of galloping horses echoed in the distance, they were out of time. Pearl’s hand moved to grip the handle of her axe that was still caked in dry blood. She waved it around wildly, missing Tilly’s head by no more than a centimeter. Now the dog’s ears were pressed flat against the back of her head, tail between her legs, paws inching backwards. Pearl was screaming now. “Why won't you hate me? Everyone else doesn't seem to have a hard time with it!” Tilly continued to back away, slowly, still unwilling to leave Pearl’s side. The axe fell to the ground, and Pearl with it. She was begging on her knees. “If you stay… I can't have anything happening to you! I don't know what I would do with myself.” Tilly’s ears perked back up and she began to lick Pearl’s face. The shouting in the distance was getting louder. With a revived sense of desperation, Peal reached for the axe, swinging it in the air in front of Tilly. The blade met resistance. Her cloak was no longer the only piece of red in her vision. Tilly yelped, a shrill and world shattering sound, and ran into the forest, a small trail of blood chasing her paw prints. This was what Pearl wanted. Right? Tilly would be safe, it was only a small wound. They would be able to reunite after. 

Pearl was protecting her. 

It burned 

That was all Tango could think in that moment. His skin fizzing as the water splashed onto his face, his lungs trying desperately to escape as they were coated with liquid. 

This is what burning must feel like

His frantic gasps only pulled in more water, more pain. Tango flailed blindly in an attempt to strike whatever was making the world spin. His hand met something solid and he hit again and again and again, as hard as his melting limbs would let him. He realized, far later than he would like to admit, that what he was pounding did not respond, and it was hard, far harder than any living thing had any right to be. He began to thrash once again, this time meeting something solid, and squishy. Tango hit again, digging his nails into flesh. A scream of pain echoed through the room, and it wasn't Tango’s. He continued beating what must have been an arm until the water stopped consuming him. Tango sat up, coughing violently, eyes swollen to near blindness. Searing pain still coated every part of him. Air. Beautiful fresh air. Whoever had been pinning him down had fled by the time Tango forced himself to stand, locking the door behind him. Tango pounded against the door with raw, bleeding fists. His own screams echoed in the room now, pleading with the universe for it to be over. 

The ocean shall provide 

It was a never ending expanse of beauty. A deep, rich blue that shimmered like the soul of the world. The ocean breeze took the breath from his lungs and filled them with peace. The sea was loving, calm, it was life. 

You will pay for your disrespect 

This was so much bigger than the two of them. It was a matter of principle, of protection. They needed to put him in his place, to show him there was a limit to his power. The blood spilled only fed its hunger. 

Do you hear that call?

It was a magical place to call home. A fresh start, a new beginning. Just her, in a boat, free from all the expectations she left behind. The deep blue held secrets, it was unnerving, terrifying, welcoming. She hadn't felt sweet fear like this in as long as she could remember. It was liberating. 

Do not resist

The rivers flow through the world, like veins breathing life into the earth, connecting those that lived amongst its shores. The ocean its beating heart, the water the collective mind of those who seek its mighty serenity. 

Help them see 

See what they are missing. See what they have overlooked. See what they truly desire. See what they must be a part of. 

Everything froze, like time itself was held captive by the shock coursing through Grian’s veins. It wasn't supposed to end this way, then again, what is ever truly supposed to happen? Still here he stood, Scar kneeling before him, a sword reaching out to him in offering. Instantly, all of his anger faded. It didn't matter that Scar had run him through with the same blade only moments earlier. It didn't matter that Scar had allowed him to die. All that mattered were the words slowly making their way from Scar’s lips. 

“You may slay me and take the enchanter.”

Grian had always envisioned him and Scar at the end, just not this kind of end. He imagined their bodies falling side by side in battle. He imagined slicing Scar’s throat when their alliance finally crumbled, and following soon after. He imagined taking an arrow for his friend, but the sacrifice not being enough. Every possibility ended with them sharing a grave. Now, Scar lowered his gaze, not capable of holding Grian’s broken stare. Grian’s hand moved to take the blade, and paused, unable to take up the offer.

It couldn't end this way. 

It needed to be a fair fight, Scar deserved that much. 

It hurt just to think about having to harm him. To have to think about only one of them moving on, and the other left alone. It was an impossible situation, after everything they did, after all the lives they ended to get the far, only one could survive. Grian couldn't bring himself to take the easy way out. 

One thing about his dream came true. In the end, it would be just him and Scar. 

Doc couldn't think. Every thought filtered through the dizziness filling his body. He sat up, slowly, holding himself upright with his arms. Or arm to put it more accurately. The realization froze him in place, he couldn't move his right arm, and more worrying, he couldn't feel it. He attributed that to the numbness coating every muscle. That was at least, until he looked at it, or the lack thereof. In its place was an intricate piece of machinery, wires sticking out of exposed panels, it was clearly unfinished. The fact that an arguably janky prosthetic limb was now a part of him was concerning to say the least. He continued staring, and his heart dropped like a rock into his stomach. That was his arm. The arm he had built for a project he had been working on until…

A blinding red light filled the room, sounds of whirling machinery and metallic footfalls echoing in Doc’s ears. 

It was coming. 

Doc forced the image from his mind, he had more pressing matters to worry about. He raised his left hand to rub his eyes, trying to clear his blurry vision. It met something hard. Panic. Doc steadied his breath, he wasn't one to panic, he needed to get his act together. He gently tapped at the metallic feeling piece that now rested where his left eye was, that explained the blurriness. His remaining eye looked around the room, finally taking in his surroundings. It was his workshop. The same workshop he had been in when…

He just needed a bit more time. It was almost finished. Then he could keep everyone safe. 

Now he would never get the chance. 

The more he looked around, the more pieces started to fit. The faded blood stains on the floor, the broken bottles and pieces of metal, the hastily opened drawers, the blueprints scattered around the room. 

Someone had been here. Not just something. 

Someone had put him back together. Even if he didn't deserve it. Even if it was all his fault. 

Doc staggered to his feet, dragging the metal arm up onto his work table and reaching for a screwdriver. Looked like he would get a chance to finish it after all. 

He couldn't die like this. He didn't deserve for it to be over yet. 

There are a lot of voices in the world. Many try to claw and scratch and bite. They sink their talons in and rip in an attempt to pull themselves upwards, even just an inch. A cacophony of anger and bitterness. 

But sometimes, there’s another voice. Small and unassuming, but impossibly beautiful. Words that hug and warm and brighten. Words that try so desperately to cut through the noise and reach crying ears. 

If enough people weld it, the voice can grow and thrive and amplify. What’s even more powerful however, is a single sound. One single sentence that screams and shouts and refuses to be drowned out. A single word that turns into thousands on a single tongue.

That is a voice that will never die.

Skizz wasn’t normally the kind of guy to get self conscious. He was the one who put a smile on everyone else’s face, who showed insecurities who’s boss. But every once and a while, Skizz would stand in front of the mirror. He only had one that he kept covered with a sheet. If he didn’t look, he could pretend, he could forget, even if just for a few moments.

Now, he forced himself to look, to run his eyes over his reflection. Peering at the thick black scales that covered the outside of his arms and peppered his chest, poking out at his neck. His eyes kept going upwards, to the deep purple horns that barely stuck out of his thick hair, only the bottom half of the right one remained, the left little more than a nub. Skizz turned around, craning his neck to look at his back, at the two long and messy scars that still hurt when he thought about them too much. A tail that was dotted with far too many scrapes and faded bruises hung limp and numb against his leg. He turned back around, opening his mouth and running a finger along his teeth, along the pointed tips he used to spend nights trying to file down before giving up and going to bed with bleeding gums. 

A deep sigh escaped him, a soft shudder working its way through his bones. He was in a better place now, he didn’t have to hide anymore. He reached for a pair of shears, putting the hair covering his horns between the blades. He took a sharp breath, he used to like to keep his hair shorter, why was it so hard to cut it? The shears fell to the floor, slipping through his shaking fingers. 

Old habits die hard.

This was fun, at least, it was supposed to be. The whole thing was a joke, let's go find some ghosts. It was a goofy little bonding experience, they were going to wander around an old house for an hour, scare each other a few times and then laugh about it for a week or two before the whole experience was relegated to the absurd scrapbook that was their lives. 

Now Skizz stood clutching a flashlight with shaking hands like it was the only thing keeping his heart beating. In a way, it was. He wandered through the hall, forcing his gaze away from the bodies of his friends that sat slumped against the wall, covered in… strawberry jam. Yes, that was it, yummy innocent jam. He wanted to curse Impulse for bringing them here, for suggesting this idea in the first place, but he couldn’t bring himself to blame someone who was now…taking a nap. 

The door was now mere feet away, he could do this. Then the light went out. Skizz slammed the flashlight against his palm, begging the universe to turn it back on. Everything was pitch black, the dark silence squeezing him and stealing his breath. Skizz forced himself to remain calm, well as calm as he could manage. The door was in front of him, it was a straight shot to freedom. He walked slowly with his hands out ahead of him, not wanting to trip or bump into anything. Just a little further, he could see the crack of moonlight under the door. 

Then the silence broke. A piercing and blood curdling shriek echoed through the hall, startling Skizz so bad he fell backwards. His back was now soaked with something warm and sticky, must have just been a puddle of jam. Skizz crawled on his hands and knees, not having the time or the courage to bother trying to stand again. He bumped into something solid, the door, it had to be. Skizz reached up, feeling blindly for the handle. There. He yanked hard, pushing his whole body weight into opening the door. 

Nothing. 

Skizz jiggled and jiggled but the handle wouldn’t budge. The screaming was getting louder now, if that was even possible. He pounded against the wood, willing it to swing open wide. 

In one swift and frozen sensation, all his fear left him, as did his gasping breath, and his racing heartbeat.

It was freeing, getting to let loose like this, to feel the strength coursing through his veins like this. Everything was so excitingly fast and beautifully slow. Skizz’s fingers twitched, his tongue coming out to wet lips. A soft giggle worked its way up his throat, twisting into a full and shaking laugh, some deep part of him unshackling.

No one else seemed to see it the way he did. The way they looked at Skizz, eyes ever shifting and feet inching back. They were scared. They were scared of him.

Skizz brought the back of his hand to his forehead, wiping away the sweat. It came away sticky and red. Why was everyone so afraid? Why did their bodies tense when he came close? Why did they look at him like he was a monster?

He was their friend.

Right?

Skizz felt strangely empty, watching everything disappear like this. He was angry, sure but… part of it was almost numbing. This was his whole life, he had put everything he had into this, into helping people when everyone else told him he was crazy. Now, it was gone. One simple senseless act that took everything. But Skizz didn’t cry. None of them did. Bedside him were beacons of rage or panic, not grief. In some twisted way, this was always the plan. Mission statements were always going to crumple and rip and fade. 

And Skizz smiled.

Whether or not they were technically allowed in the kitchen was… debatable. No one had been explicitly keeping them out so what could possibly go wrong? Skizz got his answer about ten minutes later when he, Impulse, Tango, and Zed all stood covered head to toe in flour along with the cabinets and half the countertops. The four’s stomachs hurt from laughter as they continued to throw various baking ingredients at each other. Soon, they were dripping with eggs and milk. Once the sugary dust settled, and Tango and Zed stopped slap fighting in the corner of the room, all of them were sticky and out of breath and faced with a whole new problem. They had absolutely nothing in the bowl, and nothing left to put in said bowl. The four looked at each other, then at the bowl, then back again, all with comedic synchronicity. 

If they hadn’t been banned before, they were definitely going to be now. 

Impulse ran to find some towels or anything they could use to clean up their mess. After a group consensus that a large bundle of wheat would not work as a cleaning implement, the four settled on one of Zed’s spare lab coats. (Well, one of Cub’s spare lab coats, but who’s counting?) This led to the vast improvement of the baking ingredients strewn about the room becoming slightly smudged and more spread out. 

“No one’s going to notice right?” Impulse winced. 

Tango looked at him. “Sure, no one is going to notice the room suddenly being a few shades lighter.” 

“Okay here’s an idea, what if we leave and pretend we were never here?” Zed already started inching towards the door. 

Skizz paused. “Don’t you think we should…” 

The other three cut him off with a collective “no.” 

At least they hadn’t burned the place down this time…

They say every time a bell rings, an angel gets their wings. 

Skizz couldn’t count the number of times he wished that were true. 

He had gotten in the habit of hope and disappointment. Always ringing doorbells more times than was strictly necessary. (Much to the annoyance of those around him). Some days he would just sit in his home or with his back against a tree and a bell in his hands. 

Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring. 

Skizz knew all too well it was pointless. He would sleep weird and wake up with a back ache and think, just for a moment, that miracles were real. 

Now, he was waiting in a field, foot impatiently tapping. He could just see Impulse in the distance, and as he neared Skizz could see his expression. Impulse’s face was twisted with annoyance and regret in an attempt to cover the smile that only widened the closer he got to Skizz, his eyes lighting up. In that moment, Skizz couldn’t help but feel a grin tugging at his own lips. 

Skizz never truly regretted his choice. Sure he spent sleepless nights wondering if there was some other way, thinking about what could have been. 

Having Impulse around was worth it. 

Pearl sat on her knees on the floor of her tower. Tilly sat across from her, tail wagging. Between them sat a small cake. It wasn’t much, Pearl had never claimed to be a good baker, but it was something at least. Plus, trying to use dog safe ingredients made the whole thing a bit of a mess, but it was still edible, probably. Peal took off her hood, shaking her head and letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders. A soft whine came from Tilly, the dog shuffling her paws anxiously. 

Pearl laughed. “I know, I know, just one more second.” She stood, grabbing a pair of small hand made wooden cups and filling them with some water that had been heating over the fire. She then dropped a few leaves into each cup. Placing the cups on the floor, one on each side of the cake, she sat down once again. 

“Alright.” Pearl raised her cup and tapped it gently against Tilly’s. “Happy dumping day!” Tilly immediately stuck her nose in the cake. 

Pearl tried to pull the cake away, but it was too late. “Oh come on! Save some for me!” Tilly let out a joyful bark. “Well at least someone likes my baking.”  She rolled her eyes and took a sip of the impromptu tea, nearly burning her mouth. 

“You know,” Pearl began, setting the cup down and leaning back, propping herself up with her arms. “I thought celebrating it like this would help take the bite out of the whole thing, but I guess not.” She let out a sigh, sinking down with her back against the floor. Tilly, as if sensing Pearl’s sudden change in mood, ran over and started licking her face, nose still covered in cake. Pearl tried to fend her off to no avail. Tears pressed against the back of her eyes and were promptly licked away. 

Maybe this whole idea wasn’t such a bust after all. 

Scar was used to being alone. It used to sting, but he stopped caring long ago. At a certain point he just had to accept that no one wanted him around. It wasn’t his fault, at least, he didn’t think it was. There was always something out of his control. Even when he managed to gain allies, they always left, or made it clear that they would if they could. But that didn't stop Scar from trying. Sometimes, there would be a few magic moments, and it felt as though someone truly cared about him. Scar wasn’t sure why he kept believing those lies. Now, as he sat on the hard stone with his back to that cursed button, he couldn’t help but smile. Near manic laughter fell from his lips as he leaned further into the rock, so lost in his own thoughts that it felt like a warm embrace. 

At least this time, he wasn’t stuck on the sidelines watching everyone else have fun. He felt less lonely in the company of dead bodies, than being surrounded by smiling faces just out of reach. 

Do you remember the flowers that bloomed? I remember how they peppered the countryside. I remember how they hid the bloodstains in your hair. 

Do you remember a towering spiral of stone? I remember how it kept us safe. I remember how it was supposed to keep you safe. I remember how the grey stone turned red when you smiled. 

Do you remember wooden floors that creaked? I remember how we built this home together. I remember when I didn’t recognize who you were. I remember how the blood never left my hands. I remember how I kneeled. 

Do you remember the beautiful sky? I remember the sunsets kissed by golden light. I remember the sand under my nails. I remember your blood mixing with mine. I remember wilted petals. I remember how I couldn’t bring myself to cry. 

Do you remember how it ended? 

I remember.

I don’t want to remember. 

That’s the thing about sand. It gets under your fingernails and sinks into every wrinkle. It clings to every piece of fabric and fills your shoes. It stays with you, no matter how far you go. For the next few days and months you will wash and wash but there will always be a few grains left.

And alongside those grains sticks a memory, a moment that replays with each step that digs the little specks into your feet. You get used to the pain, the constant itch, because no matter how bittersweet, it's nice to reminisce.

But the little pricks don’t come with the cool breeze of the ocean, with the laughter of children and the relaxation of tired muscles. They come with hot summer sun that was never really summer. They come with shaky breath and screams. They come with red.

The desert stays with you.

No matter how hard you try to leave.

What happens when the clock loses its purpose? When its ticking becomes no more than a phantom drumbeat driving one further into insanity? When its hands are those of a metronome that goes back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and? When its numbers fade and twist because they have lost their purpose as well? When there is nothing but the dark? 

But it’s not just dark. No, it is so much more. It has countless agonizing dimensions that fold and swim and blind. 

Did you forget you can’t move? Of course you did. Memories have lost their purpose here. 

There is no purpose left, it is swallowed up by the not quite dark because you know that you will never experience true darkness ever again. 

There is only one thing that remains beside you in that room that was never truly a room and its locked door that was never truly a door. 

Pain. 

White hot agony. 

But that’s fine. Because the sting is a hug and you are so desperate for a distraction. 

The walls are closing in, but there are none. Yet it is still getting harder and harder to breathe. Because there is no air, and you have no lungs. Blood and organs have lost their purpose too. 

And then They come, and you can see now for the first time but you never stopped seeing. 

They ask you a question.

Would you like to play a game? 

You try to speak but you can’t form words without a mouth. But They still know, They always know, you know too. 

Yes. 

It was nice, unexpected, sure, but nice. It was never really Beef’s intention for this to devolve into well, whatever you wanted to call it. But it still felt so good to finally have a place to belong. It was almost too good to be true. None of that mattered though, Beef was just happy not to be alone anymore. He had a habit of driving people away, and he knew it. Beef never wanted to be alone, he wasn’t sure why everyone else had that idea. Maybe it really was all his fault, maybe everyone else just hated him. 

But all of that was in the past. He had a home now. That was all that mattered. 

He had a purpose. 

So why did it feel like he was still driving everyone else away? 

Beef hadn’t seen xB in weeks, he just filled the shelves of an empty room and went on with his day. When was the last time he spoke with Etho? He couldn’t remember now.

But Beef always came home to a message in his inbox. He always came home to praise and words that told him just how valuable he was. He barely noticed how the messages were getting shorter, how they felt like the same sentences over and over again. 

They cared about Beef. 

So why had he started to hesitate? Why did he stare at the words blinking on his screen and wonder if he really should? 

It was probably just the long days in the sun getting to him, that had to be it. But they never got to him before.

Doc was one of his oldest friends, they had known each other for years. But Doc didn’t care about him, no one else cared about him, so why was this so hard? 

How far was Beef willing to go to be loved? 

The answer was stained a shade of crimson that hung at the edges of his vision for days afterwards. 

None of that mattered anymore. They cared about him. 

And Beef wanted so desperately to feel that warmth again. 

It got boring after a while. At a certain point Keralis had seen enough empires fall that it was nothing new. Once he’d been to a couple hundred funerals, it had become nothing more than the same old thing over and over again. Still, it didn’t make things any easier, one would think he would be numb to it all by now but the tears still burned his cheeks all the same. 

Sometimes, he wondered what it would be like to die. Would it hurt? What comes after? But he stopped asking long ago, it was easier to just ignore it when he could. So he made friends and watched them wither over and over again because no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get his stupid heart to close. 

Knowing was the hardest part. Knowing that no matter how much time trickled past, death would never carve out a space for him. In the end, it would just be Keralis. 

He was destined for loneliness. 

Then, one day, he made a new friend, one that did not wither like all the rest. Keralis didn’t bother asking why, he had lived so much of his life begging for ignorance that he wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity. That friend gave him a home, a true home that didn’t fade with the hammering of years against its walls. 

More came. More that were like him. More that held their curse like a blessing. 

Keralis wasn’t alone after all. 

Legend speaks of a man, down in the deepest depths of the earth. A guide for the weary who dare to make the trek. Through those endless winding tunnels echoes the sound of steel against stone, rhythmic beats of times gone by and perhaps times yet to come. Sunlight is no more than a distant memory there, but the light of flames fixed to the walls still dances against the rock. Those little flickers are eternal, kept fed by the sweat on the man’s brow. 

Few have met the man, those who have weave tales of a wide smile that chases away the shadows, and of a laugh that shakes the earth. Soot coated fingers offer a calloused hand, the warmth of his grip seeping into one’s bones. There is something comforting about the specks of dirt that pepper his beard and the winkles that frame his kind eyes. 

One does not need the sun in a place as bright as this. 

He is the guardian of mines long forgotten and caves yet to be touched by human hands. And as he paves the trail back to the surface, one cannot help but leave with a heavy heart. As the sky gets closer, soft blue eyes get further and further away. 

But one cannot stay forever. 

And the memory of the man is held by the rock and stone, immortal. 

Then you remember, he never said goodbye, only offered you a place to rest. 

That was the one thing about being a slime, it took a surprising amount of effort to stay solid. If he lost his focus for just a moment, his fingers sunk back into his hands and his shoulders began to drip down his arms. No one knew how hard it was, and Jevin liked it that way. It was so much easier to move and work like this and he was squeamish at the thought of getting pitty. 

He washed his sheets every single day, ridding them of the little spots of slime that he hadn’t been able to pull back into himself in the morning. Ridding them of little pieces of him. He didn’t feel pain like the others did, but he couldn’t help but feel hollow as he scrubbed at the fabric. His mind drifted, and the brush he had been using began to make its way into his palm. The tickle sharpened his focus and he cursed himself. He slowly pulled the brush out, wincing at the foreign yet all too familiar sensation. 

Two weeks passed before he was no longer able to reach the top shelves of his home. He could stretch and reach it just fine, but as the thought crossed his mind, so too did the images of his friends’ faces if they saw him like that, legs abnormally long and torso unevenly drawn out. 

Jevin could never let that happen. People didn’t look like that. People didn’t look like him. So he made his way down into a cave, one he had been to a sickening number of times before. The sound of squelching echoed through the cavern, but it was not his, not when he wore shoes with extra thick soles so he would never make that noise. People didn’t make noises like that. Jevin followed the sound, a small green blob came into view, tucked away in the shadows. It was so painfully small.

It was just a child. 

But Jevin needed this, even if his eyes that were never really eyes burned at the thought. He needed to be normal. He watched as green faded to blue. It was part of him now, so why did it feel so alien? 

The sun had set by the time he made it back home. Jevin grabbed his sheets, they weren’t quite dry yet but that didn’t matter. They would be even more wet soon anyways. As Jevin lay down, he allowed himself to relax. His body melted down onto the mattress and his features were left to shift aimlessly about what used to be a face. 

Because when the doors were locked, and everyone else was asleep, Jevin could finally give in. 

Jevin could finally be himself. 

A soft breath escaped xB as he slipped his jacket off his shoulders, tugging his arms free of the fabric. He folded it carefully and placed it on the shoreline before stepping into the water. Just his feet at first, watching as it ran over his toes. He continued to wade into the river, soon he was up to his waist, then his shoulders. The cool blue enveloped him, a gentle hug that filled his bones with a sense of calm. 

He leaned back, letting the water support him as he floated to the surface, laying on a soft bed of glass. It wasn’t quite the same as the ocean, nothing was, but it was nice nonetheless. It just felt right. xB wasn’t sure when it first started, he had always felt drawn to the water. 

xB could feel himself melting into the blue, it was beautiful, just him and the water, one in the same. A voice, barely more than a whisper at first, made its way over the gentle ripples. 

It welcomed him home. 

When xB awoke, he was sprawled out on the sand. He coughed, water dribbling from his lips. Sitting next to him, was a book shining with a deep and ancient magic. On his other side lay a salmon with its head chopped clean off. 

Weird. 

Skizz stood on the top of Magic Mountain, looking out towards his pyramid. Well, the bottom half of a pyramid at least. That didn’t mean he wasn’t proud of his progress, just getting this far had been a decent amount of work. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, not the type of thing normal people based their projects on. But then again Skizz had never been normal, or a person for that matter. 

This was a way to become more human in a sense. Skizz wanted to learn more about humans, and what they needed to survive would be a good start. It was a way to become closer to his friends, to find out how to care for them. 

Even if that meant causing them a little bit of pain. What was science without trial and error? It was worth it, and they understood that. 

But it did start to make Skizz wonder. If all of this was to learn how to avoid pain, then was causing it really the right thing to do? 

And if angels were supposed to stop pain, then what did that make Skizz?

Pearl layed down on the grass, its soft cushion providing protection from the bumpy dirt below. Her gaze was fixed on the sky, tracing imaginary lines between the stars. She didn’t get a chance to just relax like this in the night all too often. No one else seemed to appreciate the night the way she did. It was strange, how could they not want the sky to be this beautiful forever? She shifted her focus to the moon, a puddle of golden light in the cosmic ocean, the thumbprint of some overly curious child. 

She always felt better when she was able to look up at the night, it was refreshing, energizing. Pearl shifted, trying to dislodge a rock that had been digging into her spine. It still refused to leave her be. She reached a hand back and fiddled with the rock, bringing it up to look at it closer. 

It was a small and smooth stone, a deep grey that almost had a bluish tint to it. Pearl held it up high, aligning it with the stars. It caught the moonlight in a way that made it look like it was glowing. 

The sun started to creep its way up over the horizon and a deep sigh escaped Pearl’s lips. She wished the night could last forever. Pearl slowly got to her feet, brushing the grass off of her legs and back. The more she looked at the stone, the more it looked like the moon itself. She tucked it away into the safety of her pocket. 

Now she had a little piece of the night to carry with her.

It was different now, the world just seemed so… quiet. The wind still carried the sound of what used to be normal, what used to leave everyone content. Strange as it seemed, that wasn’t enough anymore. One never notices how deep a hole is until they know what it’s like for it to be filled. 

After all, what is a sheriff without his deputy? 

What is a disciple without his god? 

What is a twin without her mirror? 

What is a witch without her apprentice? 

What is a pirate without his crew? 

What is a slayer without her party? 

What is a miner without his engineer? 

What is a kingdom without all the people that make it a home?

Cub could still feel it under his skin when he thought hard enough. The way it had wrapped itself around his bones and ate away at him from the inside. 

The way it made him part of it. 

When he looked up at the night sky it would take on a teal hue that sent a deep nausea crawling up his throat. Cub always carried a mirror with him now, just to remind himself that his eyes still had whites. 

Just to remind himself that he was still in control. 

Cub didn’t remember much from then. Nothing but the endless chanting that puppeted his limbs and forced its way into his mind until he couldn’t think of anything else. Had he even breathed? 

And he had caused so much pain, that was the part that kept him up at night. He tried to tell himself over and over again that it hadn’t been him, but it was his hands that were coated in teal and black. 

Sometimes, he would zone out for a moment, let himself be carried away by his thoughts. He could never truly convince himself that those thoughts had been his own. 

It had been a part of him, and no matter how free he felt, he knew deep down that he was still a part of it. 

Doc jolted awake, breathing harsh and rapid. He blinked hard, focusing on the details of the room around him. No white walls. The door was wide open. A deep sigh worked its way up his throat. 

It was just a bad dream. 

Still, he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. Well, hand, singular. He pulled the covers up over himself, pulling his knees to his chest and tucking his chin in so his head was hidden under the sheets. All of that was over now, he was safe. 

That didn’t change the fact that he didn’t recognize the man who stood in the mirror anymore, no matter how hard he tried to move past it. Whenever he walked into a room, he could feel the way the air shifted, the way a hint of fear still echoed no matter how hard everyone else tried to disguise it. 

He knew all too well how the others saw him, no matter how much they said otherwise. 

It was the same way he saw himself. 

A monster. 

A mess of flesh and machine that loomed over them and made their gaze falter. An ungodly concoction of metal and bones, both man and animal. A terrifying beast. 

Doc had never been the warmest person, he remembered how his colleagues used to joke about how stern he tended to come across. A man of few words, a real mad scientist type. They didn’t care about the real Doc, the Doc that would spend his evenings ranting about his latest project to whoever would listen, the Doc that opened his arms wide to anyone who passed by his desk without cracking a joke. 

Look where that got him. 

He had tried to open himself up more, he really had, a futile attempt to combat all the shifting glances. That hadn’t really panned out. No one was willing to get close enough to see. 

Maybe that was for the best. 

Doc forced himself to uncurl, pulling the blankets off with a defeated sigh. He rolled out of bed, wincing at the clinking his arm made against the bed frame as he braced himself. No, that would never truly be his arm. 

He walked across the room, gaze landing on the mirror hanging from the wall. The mirror that was decorated with cracks and fist sized dents. He really just needed to get rid of the thing, it didn’t serve any real purpose. 

It was easier to just ignore it. 

But as he moved, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of an arm that wasn’t truly his. He couldn’t help but blink and notice how only one eyelid moved. He couldn’t help but feel the pressure of chipped horns at the side of his head. 

He couldn’t help but notice all the ways he was no longer himself. 

False wasn’t afraid of blood. Shades of crimson had decorated her vision for as long as she could remember. Sometimes it would just be a scratch, or a few drops from her nose when it got cold and the air got dry. 

But most of the time, it wasn’t her own. 

The others revered her for her way with a sword. False didn’t understand why something like that deserved so much praise. Something about the way the blade glittered in the sunlight made a deep nausea bubble up in her stomach. Knowing now much pain had been caused by a flick of her wrist… But it was fine. It was something False was good at, something that made her valuable. 

And False liked the feeling of being wanted. 

It was so surface level and self centered, but False needed to know she was useful. Just why did she have to be so damn useful with blood on her hands? A good soldier wouldn’t care, they would have blocked out those feelings years ago. 

But then again, False had never been the best soldier. So why did everyone think she was? She didn’t deserve such accolades. 

Murder didn’t deserve celebration. 

Maybe False was just soft, maybe she was just some exception, maybe this wasn’t truly as wrong as the twisting in her gut seemed to suggest. 

So as she grabbed her well worn cloth from its hook on the wall, she forced her breathing to slow. This shouldn’t bug her, False had done it countless times before, Void how she wished to be numb already. She ran the fabric down the length of her blade, watching as it was slowly stained crimson. Well, it wasn’t that much of a difference from the hue it already bore. No matter how much she scrubbed, False had never been able to return it to its original creamy shade. 

By now she had stopped trying. 

Wels had developed a bit of a habit of looking over his shoulder. Every time he rounded a corner, or stood up, or went inside, he would take a glance. He never really expected anything to be there, not anymore at least,  but it still provided a sense of comfort. One little thing he could do to make sure everything was alright. 

Eventually, he had stopped seeing shadows out of the corner of his vision. Wels had stopped seeing him. But the feeling of being followed never truly faded away. 

He had also gotten in the routine of sharpening his sword every night, even the days he hadn’t used it. The metal was starting to wear thin at this point, but even paper could make someone bleed. It was just a precaution, an unnecessary one, at least that’s what he kept telling himself, but it was a precaution nonetheless. 

It always felt better to be prepared. 

Because one day, Wels was certain that he would look behind and see him again. 

But it had been years, but that didn't mean it would never happen again. Wels had gotten off easy, but simple words wouldn’t be able to keep an anger like that at bay forever. And when it happened, it would all be Wels’ fault. He needed to live up to his title, he needed to protect his friends, this was all for them. 

So why did they look at him like he was crazy?

It was perfectly reasonable that he was on edge for three years straight. It made complete sense that he couldn’t go to the nether without an extra weapon and a deep and clawing fear in his gut. 

Because when he looked in the mirror, all Wels could see was him. All he could see was piercing red eyes and sickly pale skin. 

Wels didn’t want to hurt his friends. 

Not again. 

Etho always came back to the jungle. He knew how the others joked about it, he knew about all the decidedly one sided betting pools. The grass was just greener, it just made sense, it meant he would never be low on wood. There were countless logical reasons he had spewed over the years, and those seemed to satisfy everyone. 

He didn’t tell them about the pull he felt, about the voices that would start whispering in his mind the moment he stepped too far away. 

He didn’t tell them how desperate he was to see even just a different shade of green. 

But it was fine, there was nothing wrong with the jungle. It was beautiful and vibrant and provided the perfect backdrop for a whole host of different projects. The thick canopy hid the sun enough that he could sleep in without getting woken up by blinding light. The sound of chirping birds provided decent company. 

There wasn’t a specific reason why he wanted to leave. 

That was the hard part. How could he explain how he felt so at home and so trapped at the same time? No matter how comfortable he was, the back of his mind screamed that something wasn’t right. It shrieked and shrieked and drowned out all the other whispers. 

But it was fine. 

Because nothing was wrong. 

Because this was where he was supposed to be.

Because he liked the jungle, just as much as it seemed to like him.

Joe didn’t mind being a puppet. It was pretty nice all things considered, larger injuries were no more than an inconvenience. Just a little bit of thread and he was good to go. 

He couldn't remember what pain felt like.  

Logic told him that he shouldn’t miss the feeling. Pain was bad, people purposely avoided the feeling. This numbness was a gift. But somehow, he still felt like he was missing out on something. 

Was it sharp? Was it dull? Did it last long? It depended on what happened, that’s what the small part of him that was still human told him, it could be all those things. But that answer didn’t truly answer his questions. 

But it was fine, because he wasn’t supposed to miss something that was so obviously bad. A felt hand rubbed at felt skin but didn’t feel anything. It was as if he was simply rubbing two sticks together, but he wasn’t, he was rubbing two parts of himself. 

That sparked a new question, if he couldn’t feel them, were they truly a part of him? His limbs moved when he wanted them to, but the same could be said for a stick he was holding. 

What made something part of him? 

And did a definition even matter? 

Words could twist and mold, they could carry all sorts of different meanings. So did they truly have any meaning at all? 

No, words had meaning, he could talk and communicate and others could know what he was saying. But if he couldn’t feel the words as they made their way up his throat, if he couldn’t truly breathe, were those even his words to begin with? 

Was he truly himself if he couldn’t remember what his body looked like?

EX didn’t like being called evil. People always threw the term around with such carelessness that it made his skin itch. It was as if that was something that he just was, an identity decided for him by countless others who never even bothered to get to know him enough to know his real name. 

EX forgot his real name a long time ago. It hadn’t been spoken for longer than he could remember. He was always just Evil Xisuma, a twin destined to live in his brother’s shadow, some wicked creature that didn’t deserve a chance to explain. 

He had a book that he kept by his bedside, writing down every single word that he thought could possibly be his name, hoping that it would one day come to him in a dream. Of course it would never be that easy. 

And EX was running out of paper. 

Was it similar to his twin? Did it start with the same letter or ring with the same sounds? Or was it something completely different? All he had left to distinguish himself was that horrid prefix. 

Evil. 

That’s all he was. There must have been something deeply and irreversibly wrong with him, something that made him vicious and depraved like everyone else seemed to think he was. 

Maybe he didn’t have a name, maybe that was all he was, the evil twin, nothing more. He never wanted to hurt people. Sure he had made some mistakes, he certainly wasn’t above admitting that. Was a few screwups all it took to make him unredeemable? Make him worthy of a label that would hang over his head for the rest of his life? 

EX was just going to have to do for now, at least that way he didn’t have to hear that word every single day. 

Gem stood on her beach, looking out over the ocean at the now setting sun. The soft orange glow washed over the sand, making it shine as though it was made of flecks of pure gold. 

It was easy to forget what had happened there mere hours prior. 

Sure they had laughed and joked and smiled, but that didn’t wash the blood stains that dyed her jacket a deep purple. On the sandy shore, laying atop a bed of gold and bathed in warm sunlight, was a pile of severed heads. Crimson dripped from the skulls adorning the top of the stack and tattooed the pale faces of those resting below. 

The whole scene was oddly beautiful in a macabre sort of way. 

Gem played absentmindedly with the wooden blade in her hands. Its original hue was lost to a shade of off red. That was the thing about wooden swords, the blood soaked into the material and refused to come out no matter how hard she scrubbed at it. 

She had never intended for things to go this way. The whole thing started out as little more than a housekeeping project, a bit of landscaping to brighten up the place. Bright was certainly a word for it.  

As soon as she was done watching the sunset, she ought to tidy up the place, find somewhere to put her new trophies. That was a better way of thinking about it, the soulless eyes of her friends starting back at her were her rewards. 

Why did she always end up like this? Blood stained and out of breath? Although she did have to admit the space was practically built for the activity, flat soft ground being overlooked by the giant skull carved into the mountain side. 

It was almost as if the space had been created for this very purpose. 

But it hadn’t. 

Right?

Tick tock goes the clock, rhythmic beats that echo. 

Tick tock goes the clock, it’s not too late to let go. 

Tick tock goes the clock, the sky nears and brightens. 

Tick tock goes the clock, freedom called like sirens. 

Tick tock goes the clock, when did you last see your friends? 

Tick tock goes the clock, is this really how it ends? 

Tick tock went the clock, before it lit ablaze. 

Tick tock went the clock, this is the reward for your praise. 

Tick tock went the clock, why did you not leave?

Tick tock went the clock, ask and you shall receive. 

Tick tock. 

Tick. 

Tock. 

Tick. 

There were some days Tango could still feel it. The cold that clawed its way up his arms and sunk sharp tendrils into his skin. The way the frost placed an icy hand over his mouth to keep him from screaming, from breathing. 

But that was all in the past. Hallways of dark stone that never seemed to end no matter how fast he ran were no more than a fading memory. Well, not as fading as Tango would have liked. He turned his gaze to the sky for a moment, reminding himself that the sun hung just above his head. 

Tango had missed the sun. 

As he looked over his latest project, he could hear a deep and layered voice calling to him. He needed to work. He needed to finish it. He needed to make it real. He needed to give it life. 

He needed to feed it. 

Tango shook his head, blinking hard. He was free now, he didn’t have to worry about that anymore. He wasn’t subservient to his own creation that shoved a gag down his throat before he even knew it was alive, before he knew it could speak. 

That had never been the plan, yet things rarely ever did go to plan. A soft breeze blew through his hair. It was nice on a day as hot as this, but all Tango could think about was how cold the gust was. How it stuck needles into his bones and made his limbs grow numb. Because Tango couldn’t get too tired to work if he was too numb to feel pain, if his eyes were frozen open so he couldn’t fall asleep. 

He forced himself to take a breath, focusing on just how soft the warm air felt in his lungs. As he placed another line of redstone, he was comforted by the fact that he could stop whenever he wanted to. 

So why didn’t he? It was starting to get late, and Tango could feel his eyelids beginning to droop. So why didn’t he take a break? 

Force of habit he guessed.

Cleo sat on a small wooden stool, hunched over a table. On said table lay her left arm which she was awkwardly trying to clean up the end of. It was much easier to reattach it if the shoulder was cut cleanly, and it never got any easier to deal with the uneven tear lines one handed. Cleo wiped up the last spot of long since congealed blood and tried to angle herself so that their arm could stand upright on the table with the nub leaning against her shoulder. That way their other hand could be free to work with the needle and thread. 

After a decent amount of fiddling, she was able to sew it back on. Each time the needle pierced skin, all Cleo could think about was how she felt nothing. Pain had died with the rest of her long ago. What would have been a life altering injury for some, was no more than an inconvenience, albeit a frustrating one. 

Every flinch-less puncture was a reminder of how much of their humanity had been lost. 

Sometimes Cleo wondered if things would have been better if she had died that day.

She flexed her fingers, making sure the arm had been attached properly. It wasn’t like there was a wrong way to do it, as long as it was a part of them they could control it. Standing, she continued to play with her joints, feeling the stiff fluidity that all their motions seemed to carry. 

It worked just fine. 

Everything was just fine. 

Even if everything was screaming that it shouldn’t be.

Ren wasn’t making it back in time. 

The realization hit, mirroring his thudding heartbeat. Ren’s legs gave out. A warm tingle, then a burn washed over his skin, sinking into his bones. 

Pain, sharp and spreading. A snapping made a sound between a screech and a whimper shoot up his throat. The desperate cry was lost to the moonlight, alone. 

Ren forced himself to open his eyes. His skin was covered in scruffy brown hair, his thoughts melting and swirling together. 

He began to walk on clawed hands, one thought sticking out among the rest. 

Hunger.

Ren needed to feed. 

Hypno stuck his hand into his pocket, running his thumb back and forth across the piece of cold metal that sat there. The motion was comforting, a nervous habit really. He pulled his hand back out, taking the object with him. 

It was a small silver pocket watch. The chain ran over his fingers, falling between the spaces like water. Hypno continued to stare, watching as the hands ticked. Time always seemed to pass slower when one was intensely aware of its flow. Every second hung in the air, waiting to be examined. 

Hypno wrapped the end of the chain around his fingers with practiced ease, tilting his palm and letting the watch fall and swing gently in the air. 

The soft tinking as the chain in his hand clinked against itself mirrored the ticking of the little watch. He moved his hand slightly, encouraging the swing. 

Back and forth. 

Back and forth. 

Back and forth. 

It was a simple motion, yet it held so much power. Its easy swing could bring someone to their knees, or solve their deepest issues. 

Which would it be today?

The pocket watch continued to swing. 

Back and forth. 

Back and forth. 

Glazed over eyes followed the motion. 

Back and forth. 

Hypno cleared his throat softly, lest the noise disturb the process. 

“Wake up.”

“You’re sure this is a good idea?”

“The goodest!” 

“And it’s safe?” 

“No less than clipping a toenail! Probably…”

Impulse should have realized his mistake the moment Zed bound his arms and legs to the table. If not then, he should have started to have concerns when the needle that was supposed to be “just a pinch” was more akin to a stab. Somehow managing to get through all of that, he should have worried when his whole body went slack while his mind remained perfectly awake.

But none of that raised his suspicions. In fact, Impulse didn’t start second guessing until Zed grabbed a knife. 

“Alright, now for the fun part!”

Zed pressed the blade against Impulse’s skin, then sunk it in deep. Impulse couldn’t move his mouth to scream, but the paralysis was far from accompanied by numbness. Blood that was closer to black than red dripped down the side of Impulse’s chest, Zed having cut a line right down the middle. Zed placed the knife down on a nearby table before sticking a finger in the wound. The movement was slow and deliberate, eventually Zed had his whole hand inside. 

“There it is! Cheeky little thing.” 

Zed began to remove his hand, carrying with it something inky and pulsing. It was getting harder to breathe with every passing second. 

Then Zed yanked. 

Something snapped, and Impulse began seeing spots. The blob was placed on a plate, and Zed left the room. He returned within a minute, holding something that looked suspiciously like a human heart. Zed stuck his hand back in Impulse’s chest, opening it wide enough he could fit the new object in. That was followed by a needle and thread. 

“Almost done!”

Impulse didn’t stay conscious long enough to see the wound get stitched closed. 

Joel tended to carry himself with a certain bravado, his chest puffed out and his face painted with a near permanent smirk. Some might have called it an inflated ego, hotheadedness, arrogance. 

Joel preferred the word confidence. 

Was it so wrong to prioritize himself? It wasn’t like he didn’t care about anyone else, he did, sometimes too much. So why did everyone give him such a hard time? 

Maybe they were just looking for excuses to tear him down, to use him as a stool to push themselves higher. 

But isn’t that just what everyone else says about him? 

It was impossible really, there had to be some way out, some way to prove to people he wasn’t as unapologetically self centered as they seemed to think. 

But was it worth it? Was proving his supposed innocence actually going to do anything? Or was trying to show himself as caring really the most selfish thing to do? 

Afterall, he was really the only person who would benefit from that.

Maybe he shouldn’t bother.

Ren had a habit of getting a bit too far into character. It was fun, to put on a different hat and be someone else. It was freeing, to have so many opportunities and stories. 

If he had enough stories, one would eventually end the way he wanted it to.

It was the whole monkeys and typewriters idea, someday, all the pieces would fall into place given enough attempts. So Ren kept trying, he kept creating, he kept sewing different costumes and practicing different voices. 

He was a one man show, theater kid incarnate, he could be anything anyone ever wanted him to be. Anyone and everyone other than himself, because where was the fun in that? 

All these other personas were so much more interesting, so much more creative, so much more worth everyone else’s attention. 

Why would he want to be his boring old self, when he could be so much more?

A king. 

A warrior. 

A traveller. 

A reaper. 

He could be powerful, he could finally be in control, all it took was letting a few words fall from his lips that would never truly be his own. 

Or were they? 

Because sometimes, when he was just about to fall asleep, and there was nothing else to keep him from his thoughts, Ren would wonder. 

Which one of these fantastical people were truly him? Were any of them? 

Or was what he thought of as himself just another creation of an overactive imagination?

Mumbo sat on the floor, folded in on himself so that his knees were tear stained. The room surrounding him was in complete disarray, the now crooked shelves had gifted their contents to piles against the walls. Blueprints and notebooks and plans, so many plans, were crossed out with a heavy hand and ripped apart, left to litter the space with failure confetti. The cabinets had been relieved of their draws, and cupboard doors swung open on worn hinges. 

It was as if some horrific disaster had occurred in that room. 

But no, there had not been an earthquake or a tornado or some other act of a deity whose name had been lost to time. 

No. 

Mumbo had occurred in that room. 

Days of frustration and self pity had occurred in that room. 

It was almost better this way, at least Mumbo would have to clean this mess up before he had to try again. 

Mumbo didn’t think he had the will to try anymore.

Pearl never understood why no one seemed to like the rain.

They said the rain was sad, with its darkened skies. Though Pearl admitted the theme was fitting, like the heavens themselves were crying, there had always been something more to the rain in her eyes.

It watered the farmland, breathed life and vibrance back into the grass. The sound of those little drops was soft and calming, the echo of thunder seeping into her bones. And the lightning, a bright and otherworldly spectacle that carved lines of gold into the stone sky.

Sometimes Pearl would just sit next to an open window, watching and appreciating the cool air in her lungs. Other times she would grab a coat and stand under the open sky. If it was warm enough, she would forgo the coat entirely, feeling the raindrops against her skin.

The rain had never done anything wrong.

So why did everyone speak its name through barred teeth?

Time stood frozen.

No, that was not quite right. It still flowed and ebbed like the great sea of nothingness before him. It still ticked on, unfazed by the moonless sky. Yet, somehow, each second hung there, waiting. Each minute peered down at him with curious eyes, wondering.

And he too wondered, but not for the same reasons as the hours. He held the same questions as the days, as they tilted their heads at him, but not with the same intent.

For he knew the answers, yet he still could not stop asking why.

Why are you still here?

The answer was simple. The answer was the phantom pains squeezing at his neck. The answer was the hole in his heart that would never quite be filled again. The answer was a piece of broken thread.

It’s over.

But as the past played over and over in his mind, memories of warmth for all the right reasons and all the wrong, he found himself staring off into the distance. There had been a face there, long ago. A face that smiled and scowled, a face that meant so many things that slowly drifted away with the tide.

Go home.

Where was home? Home was not there anymore, nor was it here. Had he done something wrong? Sometimes it felt like it, other times the weeks offered forgiveness. The months stretched out an open hand as they passed, an invitation. But he could not accept.

Not when there was still a chance.

And as the years’ soft smiles of compassion creased with worry, he only tucked his knees tighter into his chest. What would happen if he cried here? In a world where he did not need to breathe? That was a new question, one he did not know the answer to, and one far from the one the decades were asking.

Why are you still here?

Because.

Because he did not know the answer.

It was around midnight, the moon hanging high in the sky. The exact time of night however, was lost to Etho. The stars offered no indication as to the number of hours that had passed. Etho could have looked at a clock, there was one on the wall across the room, right above an empty bed. But Etho couldn’t bring himself to look at those ticking hands, couldn’t bring himself to touch the fabric of that bed. 

You could have saved him.

He sighed, falling back onto his own bed. Etho needed to get some sleep, tomorrow was only going to be harder. It was almost as if a switch had flipped, his sleep schedule going out the window the moment that bed lay empty. So much of what he had built had already crumbled, what was one more crack? 

So why didn’t you? 

Etho closed his eyes, pressing himself as hard as he could into the mattress. It was all for the best, he needed to move on. He had already given so much, he had already sacrificed so much. 

What was one more? 

Could you truly call what you did sacrifice? 

This would all be over in a few days time anyway, all he had been doing was delaying the inevitable. It wasn’t like either of them were going to make it to the end anyway. 

Would he have said the same thing? 

Was this all truly broken enough to justify what you did?

Don’t you care about him? 

Etho ran his hands down his face, pulling at his mask, struggling to take a full breath. Didn’t, not don’t. That was the past now. 

He needed to get some sleep. 

This is a story that has been told countless times. You, reader, have heard and seen it over and over again. Yet the tale never seems to grow old.

But you know how it ends.

You know who survives and who is left behind.

You know the motivations and the mistakes of every single name that lines the page.

You know every beat and twist and turn.

Its words have been squeezed dry of every drop of symbolism and meaning.

There is nothing left for you here.

So why do you keep coming back?

Do you hope the something changes? Or do you find joy in their pain?

Because every single time, it ends the same.

And you know this.

So let me ask again, why do you keep coming back?

There is a small wooden box. It is hidden under layers of dust and clutter, left to be forgotten. The box itself is nothing special, a simple wooden thing with a silver clasp. From that clasp, hangs a lock, the key to which has only faded with the memories the box contains. But that is alright, the box’s purpose is not to be opened, it is simply to be filled.

If you ask someone what they think the box contains, they will answer without a second’s thought. Though they will not be able to name all its contents, they will be able to recall at least a single item in exquisite detail. 

A glass bottle, stopped with a cork, filled with sun kissed sand. 

A small golden clock, its face cracked and its colour worn. 

A poppy, wilted and withered. 

A shard of green glass. 

A spyglass, its glass scuffed. 

A torn piece of fabric, white and red. 

A goat horn, carved hollow from end to end. 

A dog collar, the leather broken in two. 

A cookie, stale and crumbling. 

A pair of sunglasses, one lens shattered. 

A piece of coral, grey and decaying. 

A book, its binding worn and its pages stained. 

A half burned torch. 

The box holds all these items, and more, and less. It holds the past so that it may be forgotten by those who wish to let it rest. No one opens the box, and no one closes it. The box simply exists. Whether it ever had a key in the first place is a mystery. No one opens it, and no one closes it. Yet the box is closed, and it is open. 

The box is simply what it needs to be.

Small shoots of grass were beginning to poke out of the dirt around the edges of the patch. The sun was starting to set, emphasizing the shadow that the stone cast. Everything else was dusted in golden light, but the patch of dirt remained dim. There was a single flower growing out of the patch, a poppy. It was watered daily, but not by cupped hands or a pot. 

Scott wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, drawing in a shaky breath. The air stung in the back of his throat. He forced himself to his feet, brushing the dirt off of his knees. He then smoothed out the patch, ridding it of the indents he had made. 

The walk inside was slow, Scott’s feet dragging behind him. Just before he opened the door, he looked out across the river. The wooden construction on the other side of the river was boarded shut. It was Scott’s own doing, but part of him still wished he hadn’t bothered. That way, he could look out for a moment and pretend. But then again, the stone out of the corner of his eye made fantasy a distant memory. 

He sighed, opening the door. Scott should get some sleep, he needed to be ready for whatever tomorrow was going to bring. And maybe, if he was lucky, he would be able to retreat into his dreams. 

He would dream of blond hair, and a wide smile. He would dream of an awkward laugh, and a stern gaze. He would dream of a bucket, and a flint. 

He would dream of a time when everything was still worth it.

Scar’s eyes are wild, pupils just a bit too dilated as they dart from left to right to up to down to every other direction, even some that don’t seem to exist. He takes a step, small and limp as he drags his weary form behind him. There is a strength to the motion, the kind of strength that comes only from pure and wretched desperation. Another step, and a wince, and a hiss.

“I tried. I tried so hard. I tried with every tear and every drop of blood.” 

As if to prove a point, a drop of crimson runs down his damp face, falling into the corner of his lip and running into his gaping mouth. It tastes of metal, almost sickly sweet. Scar swallows, the drop joining many down his dry and swollen throat. 

“I’m supposed to be the guy that makes people smile!”

He drops to his knees, the coarse dirt burning his skin. It digs and bleeds and stings. The pain blends into that of the rest of his body. Each muscle is held taut by burden, yet forced loose by sleepless nights. His palms dig into the ground, scratched and tearing and oh so numb. 

“What do you want from me? To admit I’m selfish? To admit I’m impulsive?” 

It’s dark. It’s dark and red and purple. Right, purple. The flowers he had taken the time to painstakingly sew into his cloak are wilting. Funny, how that seems so far away now, happy and sunkissed. There is no sun anymore. 

“Every story needs a villain huh? Is that it? Am I nothing more than a plot device?” 

Scar’s eyes drift shut, the action burning as dirt and crust are forced deeper into his eye. His face is wet now, soft tears dissolving the salt that had dried on his cheeks. His forehead is against the ground. It’s cool, a comfort from the heat swirling up inside of him. He collapses into its embrace, cool and damp. 

“Well if you wanted a villain, you got one didn’t you?” 

“Didn’t you.” 

His hands drift to his arms, nails digging into his flesh as he hugs himself tighter. He pulls his hands away, but his grip doesn’t lessen, tearing small chunks of skin away and leaving bloody claw marks behind. At his side, is a blade. It’s scarlet, dull, worn, used. It’s not at his side, it's in his palm, its tip is pointed towards his chest. 

“I’m done playing your game.” 

It’s a whisper, not quite a plea but not a surender either. Pain, far too numb and dull. There is a hole in his chest, red and blooming. Like a poppy. His body sinks into the ground again, only pushing his blade deeper. It’s over now, his vision bleary as the sound of tearing flesh rings in his ears. 

And then the world grows dark. 

And then he wakes up once again.

The room was set. Lizzie took a step back, hands on her hips. The invites had all been sent out hours ago, she had wanted to give everyone enough time to get ready. She smiled, this was going to be fun, a nice break form the chaos of it all. Was there going to be enough cake for everyone? Hopefully. Lizzie placed her hand on the door handle, taking a deep breath. She was excited, all of the work she had put in was going to be worth it. 

The door opened. 

There was only one shy smile waiting for her.

There was definitely going to be enough cake. 

Fear. 

That was Jimmy’s first though. 

Not fear for himself. No, he had grown numb to that long ago. Fear for Tango. 

There was not a single day that went by where Jimmy wasn't beaten over and over again by words and thoughts. It was just a joke, a coincidence, and he told himself that he shouldn’t care as much as he did. Sticks and stones. But it didn’t matter how many times he looked in the mirror and cried himself to sleep. 

Failure. 

Worthless. 

Weak. 

Cursed. 

Just his luck that now he had someone to take down with him. And the thing was, every single time he apologized, Tango told him there was no need. What did Jimmy need to do to get him to understand? Did he really want him to understand? Because the thing was, the painfully pitiful and selfish thing was, Jimmy didn’t want to give it up. Jimmy didn’t want to risk Tango’s kindness in the hopes that some imaginary debt would be repaid. 

But that was his job wasn’t it? To warn, to be an omen. 

Jimmy just hoped he could bring himself to warn Tango before it was too late. 

Dark eyes glowed, glazed over and flickering. Sweat beaded on a forehead, quickly disappearing into fabric. A sharp and repetitive sound echoed against walls and ears. Hands twitched, not out of fear, but out of methodical discipline. Over and over again, the movements themselves small, but their ripples large. The sound continued to tap and ring. Louder. Softer. Ebbing. Flowing. The room was void of light, but it was not dark. Followed, back and forth and endless. A smile, weak and victorious. The sound stopped, but it could still be heard. 

Control.

Grian never wanted to hurt anyone.

And as he stared down at his own hands, rubbing sticky crimson between his fingers, he wanted nothing more than to move one. 

Next time. 

Next time he would have more control. Next time he would think. Next time he wouldn’t let things go too far. 

Or maybe. 

Just maybe. 

There wouldn’t have to be a next time. 

Grian stood at the edge of a cliff. The sun was hot against his back. Sand scraped at his skin. Red fell into his eyes. 

And Grian took a step.

The air rushing past him was a cool reprieve, that feeling of weightlessness stealing the burden from his shoulders. For the first time in far too long, a soft smile tugged at the edges of his cheeks. Time froze, the sun hanging still in the sky above. Grian’s smile grew. 

Then there was a sharp cracking sound.

He was doing this for them. 

Grian’s footsteps echoed far too loud against stone as he ran, breath quick and grating. He reached out a hand, grasping blindly for the ladder that he prayed was in front of him. 

A deep and otherworldly screech cut through the air, sending Grian tumbling to the ground, skin scraped free from his knees and palms. Bloody hands flew to his ears, body folding in on itself in a pitiful attempt at protection. 

Another screech, this one followed by the cracking of bones. And as Grian’s breath got stuck in his lungs, he could feel his heart being pulled out of his chest. 

He could hear a gasp that was not his own. He could feel the cold as a body that was not his fell into snow. 

And as the world went dark, Grian screamed. And the sound echoed back to him in a different voice. 

Maybe. 

Just maybe. 

Next time would be different. 

Oh who was he kidding?

It wasn’t like he deserved another chance anyway. 

So why did he keep asking?

EX had spent their whole life trying to be good enough. 

Always pushed aside. Always the ‘other’ twin. Always needed to be fixed and taught and punished. Always alone. 

But they were never good enough. 

They could never live up to perfect Xisuma.

Because Xisuma could do no wrong. Because Xisuma always deserved forgiveness. Because Xisuma had a heart made of gold where EX had a hole in their chest. 

If EX took one step off the tightrope that was their life, there would be nothing but cold left to keep them company. 

So now, as EX sat, hands stained by green paint, staring at their chance to be free, they didn’t hesitate. And as muffled screams reached their ears, EX pretended not to hear it. 

If EX could make-believe, only for a moment, then EX could finally belong.  

Zed was starting to get impatient. Zedeath wasn’t exactly an unwelcome guest, but he actually been invited in the first place. When death shows up at your door one day, and offers you a deal, you don’t just say no. 

If Zed had to compare it to something, he would say it was like dealing with an annoying roommate. Like coming home to find the dishes still in the sink, but replace the dishes with blood and the sink with a corpse. Maybe that wasn’t the best metaphor, but it got the point across. 

So Zed had been forced to make some hard decisions. 

He stayed home most of the time, isolating himself from his friends. Because being alone was better than seeing your friends’ pale faces staring back, even if he was starting to forget what their voices sounded like. 

Zedeath was starting to get impatient. He needed fresh souls. But when the opportunity for a new and willing host arises, you don’t just say no. 

If Zedeath had to compare it to something, he would say it was like dealing with an annoying roommate. Like coming home to find a bloody corpse, but replace the blood with dishes and the corpse with a sink. Maybe that wasn’t the best metaphor, but it got the point across. 

So Zedeath had been forced to make some hard decisions. 

He stayed in control most of the time, not letting Zed hear or see. Because exhausting himself like that was better than letting his job go undone, even if he didn’t know how much longer he could keep going.

Humans were strange. 

Grian had grown up hearing all the stories. These creatures who were so delicate, but acted as though they were made of iron. And they caused themselves so much pain. 

Soon, it would be his duty to take all that pain away. He would get his very own humans to Watch. Grian was excited, this was his chance to finally prove himself, to earn his place. 

He walked down the hallway, looking for the door he had been assigned. Grian ripped the door open, rushing through, opening his eyes. 

Humans weren’t as fun as he thought. 

Humans hurt each other. And they bled. Oh Void there was so much blood. 

Were all humans like this? Why did no one tell him? 

Humans hurt themselves. And they screamed. Oh Void it was so loud.

This was all too much. Grian rushed back to the door. Maybe he could ask to be reassigned. 

The door wasn’t there anymore. 

The movement was automatic, a soft click parroting back into metal ears. Over and over again, satisfying tick after satisfying tick. To say it was a trance would imply something magical, would imply something other. Yet there was nothing, just Sparrow.

Click.

No, that was untrue. He was not alone, numerous friends stared back with unblinking eyes. But all their clockwork judgments faded into the background now. Metal against metal. Cold against cold. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else could steal away his gaze.

Click.

Orange, washed out and bright. This was his purpose, it was why the machine had chosen this for him. This was why his joints creaked and his touch grew numb. There was no such thing as thought, just command and execution. Just programming.

Click.

Cantaloupe and pale green, peppered and smeared. Something grainy and red coated his hands, product, success, reason. Draw back, push forward, listen, repeat. It was beautiful in a way, a dance, leaning into and responding to one another.

Click.

Emerald and avocado, crusty and covered. Keep pushing through. Keep moving. It was slow and strained, the screeching now drowning out all other sounds. But the noise was not a complaint, it was motivation.

Click.

Teal, consuming and authoritative. Stillness. Frozen. A statue. A memory. He could feel his limbs begging to move, but they would not. He could not turn his head to peer at the circumstances of his near end. The sound still seemed to echo, taunting, teasing.

Silence.

“Try harder!” 

“I’m trying as hard as I can!” 

The pair were screaming at each other now, the past few hours of quiet frustration boiling over. 

“Well then stop trying and just do it!”

“Just give me a minute!” 

Scar doubled over, hands on his knees as his whole body shook. Grian glared at him, then reached forward, pulling Scar’s hands off and forcing him upright. 

“Let’s try something different then.” 

Grian reached into his pocket, pulling out a thick strip of fabric. Before Scar even had the chance to flinch, Grian wrapped it around Scar’s head, blindfolding him. Scar began to claw at the fabric, but Grian tied it tight. 

“Stop scratching at it. I’m helping. This is for your own good.” 

“How is blinding me supposed to help?”

“Because it will force you to see.” 

“Grian! Cut it out!”

Scar barely had a chance to finish speaking before he felt a push from behind and the ground gave out from under him. And Scar screamed. He grasped for the elytra on his back, pulling the wings out and hoping he wasn’t too late. Thankfully, he didn’t immediately crash into the ground. He tried to remember what the course looked like. Was it up first? Or through the loop? The air rushed past him, cold and biting. Up, that seemed like a good idea. Scar tilted his body upwards, feeling gravity fighting against him. 

Then he hit something. 

Scar heard something snap, and he felt it. He felt the pain, scorching and stinging, as it made its way through his body. The blindfold still held fast, and he could only struggle to breathe as he felt warm blood dripping down his arms. 

“Why didn’t you go left?” 

“Be-becus… because. I. C-can-n’t. See-ee!”

Hands came and grabbed Scar under his armpits. Scar let himself collapse into the hold, groaning. The blindfold was removed, letting Scar look down at the gorey mess that was the lower half of his body. 

“You should have turned left.” 

Doc placed a hand on his hip, staring at his latest creation. It was beautiful. An intricate tangle of wires and lights, each and every piece serving its purpose. But no matter how long he stared, Doc could not bring himself to smile. 

A long time ago, he would have not been able to wipe a stupid grin off his face. But now, it felt different. He had done the same thing so many times, it just didn’t have the same ring anymore. 

But he wasn’t supposed to feel that way. He was supposed to be proud of all he had accomplished. He was supposed to be Doc, the man who rips holes in reality with the flip of a switch. The man who could bring the whole world to its knees if he so wanted. 

He wasn’t supposed to wish to be anywhere else. 

And no one would understand. 

He was far too good and what he did to be sad. 

So why couldn’t he bring himself to smile?

“You know Mumbo, there’s a way we can still be friends.” 

Grian reached out for Mumbo with his pickaxe. Mumbo stood frozen, hands shaking but refusing to do anything more. A step forward, now the tip of the pickaxe was touching Mumbo’s face, running gently down his cheek. Grian pressed harder, now breaking skin and watching as a single bead of crimson dripped down Mumbo’s chin.

He drew the pickaxe back, slashing a deeper wound as he did so. Now a thin river marked the side of Mumbo’s face. Grian hoisted the tool high in the air, bringing his whole body into the motion. 

Then he brought it down. 

It broke through stone with ease, a gap in the bridge crumbling into being, large enough to fit a person.

“You could join me.” 

The spell broke, and Mumbo took a step back, then another, never taking his gaze off Grian’s tear ridden face. They matched now, with their streaming cheeks, both made up of an entirely different pain. 

“You could– you could join me.”

Grian tilted his head ever so slightly as he sank the pickaxe into stone once again. His legs gave out from under him, sending him to his knees. 

And the pair met eyes. 

Wide yellow met buzzing red. 

Grian was laughing now, a rolling and manic sound. The scarlet stained air filled his lungs with each broken breath. The pickaxe fell from his grip, clattering onto the stone. Mumbo opened his mouth to speak, a variety of fearful noises making their way out in place of words. 

Mumbo was afraid. 

Mumbo was afraid of him. 

And Grian loved it. 

Pearl could still hear them. 

When she was alone. 

Pearl, you are an evil demoness!

There is something wicked within you!

She’s losing her freaking mind! She’s crazy!

Pearl sat with her head on her knees, hands clasped firmly over her ears. Harder. Anything to make it stop. Anything to give her the quiet back. 

Welcome home, cheaters!

You sound unhinged!

A breath, slow and shaking. Tilly nuzzled against her side, a futile effort. Why won’t they just stop? Pearl would give anything to make it all stop. But she couldn’t give away the only thing that would make that dream real. 

It turns out, he didn’t hold the same reservations.

“Etho?”

“What are you doing?”

The words were distant in Etho’s mind, drifting away. All he could hear was the voice in his head, the voice that screamed that things would be so much easier and everyone would be so much happier if he just…

A touch. Gentle but firm, wrapping around his wrist, pulling him away from the edge. 

“Etho?”

There it was again, soft and far away. And Etho took a step forward, because his ears were ringing, because that was the only thing that would give him silence. But the touch held, and now Etho was laying flat on his back, bruised but not broken. 

“Can you hear me?” 

Etho could hear but he wasn’t listening, gaze fixed towards the sky. A shadow blocked out the blue, a face. The screaming hadn’t stopped. He swatted the face out of the way, scrambling shakily to his feet. 

“Etho!”

He ran. He jumped. He fell. 

And everything was finally silent. 

It wasn’t creepy per say. 

No, creepy would be far too much of an understatement. It would lack all the other feelings that squeezed at one’s lungs in a place such as this. Doorways and winding tunnels. Endless. It wasn’t the kind of endless that disappeared into the mist, it was the kind of endless that was on full display, nothing to hide the fact that the hallways just kept going. 

It was terrifying. 

It was unsettling. 

It was everything and nothing at all. 

And those entrances that lead to nothing more than more entrances, were home. This place was home to a single man. A man who, despite all of the allegations pointing to the contrary, saw no problem with the space. 

It was safe, no one else was willing to get so unabashedly lost. 

The man found comfort in the fear that seemed to hold so much power over everyone else but him. 

Because that fear… 

That was power.

How was she expected to behave? As far as Pearl was concerned, she had every right to feel the emotions that were tightening her fists. He abandoned her, he pretended she didn’t exist, and everyone acted like it was her fault, like something was so deeply wrong that she couldn’t even hope to be forgiven. What had she done to deserve this? Anything she had done was just a desperate attempt to cope. But no, none of that mattered, none of those injustices compared to her supposed crimes. Apparently she wasn’t allowed to do anything. 

Well, she was already too far to turn back anyway.

You are not perfect, but you are us.

Let us teach you. 

Do not fight this. 

Scar turned his head around, looking for the source of the voice, it was cold, and strangely melodic. 

We are here. 

We are you. 

Scar began patting down his body, searching frantically for a speaker or even a crystal or anything. As he did so, he noticed how his skin had lightened to a shade of satin blue, and as he opened his mouth to yell or gasp or perhaps both, he noticed how sharp his teeth felt against his tongue.  “What are you?”

We are called many different things. 

Scar turned his gaze to the sky, deciding that was the best thing to give a stern yet terrified glare. “Could you list a few?” 

Some call us gods. 

Others demons. 

Most however, call us Vex. 

Scott used to like the rain. 

There was something calming about the sound of raindrops against the rooftops and the smell of grass in the air. It was beautiful, both nature’s power and restraint on full display. The more Scott thought about it though, the more he realized that, for all its merits, he didn’t truly like the rain. No, he liked the things the rain used to mean. 

The rain used to mean a warm smile beside him. 

The rain used to mean cozy nights laughing by the fireplace. 

The rain used to mean time together. 

And now…

It meant nothing. 

Not in the sense that it was void of meaning, in the sense that it embodied nothingness, empty. The rain meant loneliness, loss, heartbreak. 

Maybe this was just Shelby trying to get into his head, take out the competition. 

Since when had he started thinking that way? Did that really matter? He needed to start accepting who he was becoming, it was all for the greater good. 

Was it so wrong to want a happy ending? 

Was this really going to be a happy ending? 

Grian hadn’t expected things to last this long. 

It had been nice the first few days, having someone to watch his back. Or more accurately, having a back he needed to watch. Still, they had to betray each other eventually, right? It was in their nature, it was written in the rules carved into their hearts. Yet somehow, the desert was still home. Despite the impossibility, they were here. 

Until the very end. 

And even then… 

It was impossible.

They weren’t always so different. Even now, if things had been handled differently, they might have ended up identical. But of course, life had not been so kind. And X had to make a tough decision, a decision that would follow him into his dreams and press on his shoulders for years to come. 

But somehow, an all too familiar face stared back at him. A face that had changed so much yet not at all. A face that was like a mirror, however distorted and cracked. And X knew he had failed, he had mouthed the words planed to say every single night since, but now, none would fall from his lips. 

The pair locked eyes, and time froze and stretched. And finally…

“I missed you.” 

“Don’t make me get all sappy.” 

“I just— I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done what I did and…” 

Slowly and suddenly, EX wrapped his arms around his brother. And X did the same. And somehow, everything had changed, and everything had stayed the same. 

“I’m sorry too.” 

X hadn’t been entirely unwilling. 

Maybe it was just him trying to see the best in people, or wishing he hadn’t caused as much damage as he did, but either way, he had begun to follow. It started simple, innocent even, just another in a long line of silly schemes that intended no harm. 

But then X tried to look through the fog, tried to see what was really happening behind closed doors. Doors that, by all accounts, he should have been on the other side of. And X felt a shock. Small at first, like static, a quick prick. 

It didn’t stay that way for long. 

And X couldn’t remember what it was like to not be in pain. 

And he started to wonder…

Had he truly been so willing in the first place? 

For a split second Mumbo felt conflicted, guilty even. He hadn’t exactly taken pain into account in his design. But it was working, the blood and screaming and crunching meant it was working. 

It meant Mumbo would be whole again. 

Everything went dark. Not as if someone had simply turned off the light. No, it was as if someone had filled the space with ink, taken away Mumbo’s ability to see at all. 

And then the darkness shattered. Blinding and empty and sharp and fluid.

And Mumbo could see everything. 

The screaming stopped, though Mumbo wasn’t quite sure when. Mumbo took a breath, deep and cool and warm. 

He was whole. 

Yet he had never felt more torn apart. 

Etho knew he needed to let it go. Let him go. This was just the nature of things, it was inevitable. It was Etho’s fault for getting so attached in the first place. But as hard as Etho tried, that line in the sand never stopped looking so deeply wrong. It never stopped feeling so empty this way. 

There had been a thousand little mistakes on both sides, and there were a thousand little chances for things to have gone differently. And as Etho watched a face that would never be quite so warm again disappear over the horizon, he couldn’t help but wonder. 

But no matter how hard he tried, one way or another, things ended right back where they started. Maybe he should just take the hint, stop playing with something that wasn’t his to control. 

He should have just taken the hint. 

This was all his fault wasn’t it? 

Tango couldn’t feel his hands. He couldn’t feel his feet. He couldn’t see. Everything was aflame, crackling and scorching. It filled his vision, his soul. Screaming, someone was screaming. No, that was his voice. He was the one shouting and spitting and scraping his throat raw. It was gone. Everything that they worked so hard for. Everything that they had built in spite of everyone else. 

Gone. 

It would have been one thing if this was just his. But this was theirs. It was hurting his rancher. Wait, there was another voice, panicked yet gentle. And a hand wrapping around his arm. And a flinch before the hold tightened. 

And Tango could see again. 

He could see a tearstained face begging him to stay. To calm down. To SNAP OUT OF IT! TANGO TANGO SNAP OUT OF IT! TANGO SNAP OUT OF IT! PLEASE TANGO! LOOK AT ME!

They were going to pay for this, for hurting his rancher like this. But right now, he had a home to rebuild.  

He couldn't breathe. Each desperate inhalation got caught in his throat, forced out, burning, long before it could make it to his lungs. The saliva in his mouth had gone thick, sweet and warm and salty. More, faster. Each step pounded sharply against the ground, ricocheting up into his bones, slightly off beat with his heart. Thump step thump step. Each sound throbbed his ears, pressing against his skull. It echoed and rang, twigs and stone and dirt. 

Pain, suddenly he was on the ground, face scraping against the earth, palms and knees screaming. Up. Again. Feet under. Go. He was seeing spots now, every movement aching and searing. 

His body was refusing to go. 

But his mind wouldn’t give up so easily. 

Crawling, dragging, anything, just away. Then he could hear breathing. Breathing that was not his own. It was slow, rugged. It was above him. 

“You didn’t think you would get away that easily did you?"

A hand came and grabbed at his hair, pulling him up off the ground. 

“It needs to spread.” 

The world got colder. And darker. And it pulsed. And it spoke. And it fed.

There had to be a reason, why everything had turned out like this, why everything always turns out like this. A curse maybe, or just plain bad luck. Either way, it ended with broken bones.

Until.

It didn’t.

Someone else took the canary’s place. No longer a warning, but an omen. One day all would dissolve into darkness, forgotten, ignored. But it was victory was it not? An ending finally cause for celebration?

Was an ending ever cause for celebration?

Must be.

It must have been worth the sacrifice for things to have changed, given even a moment longer to draw breath.

Even if it only turned out to be another empty promise.

That sound. 

It seemed to echo, ringing in Martyn’s head over and over again. A gory noise, of bone and tendon snapping, flesh being torn in two. A noise that he was responsible for. 

And the blood. 

The stone below was crimson stained, the puddle soaking his feet growing by the moment. His hands and face were splattered scarlet, sticky and slick. 

He knelt down, letting the unsettling warmth soak into his legs as they grew wet. His fingers reached out, looking for some place to hold, some place that wouldn’t be so disrespectful to the dead. No, not dead. Different. Better. 

He settled on the hair, lifting his King’s head up out of the gore. Next came the body, forced upright, leaning against Martyn’s own. It was still so painfully warm. 

Martyn ripped off a piece of fabric from his shirt, using it to try and clean up, a futile attempt, only smearing the red that just kept coming. 

The head was placed back on its neck, a face frozen in victory staring back with unseeing eyes. One stitch, then two, three. Martyn had never claimed to be the best with a needle and thread, but it would get the job done. Four, five, six, seven. It was hard to keep a good grip, his fingers getting more slippery by the moment. 

It was as if the whole world had taken on a scarlet hue, it was leaking out over the stones, bathing Martyn as he worked. So unnervingly warm. Almost done now, just a few more to go. In and out, piercing this skin for yet another time. Strangely, Martyn found himself muttering soft apologies with each prick, as if they had caused pain. 

Part of him wanted to think that they did, it would have made everything just a little less real. 

Done. He pulled back, letting the body lay down once again, in that dreadful pool. Now to wait. How long would it take? A minute? Two? Ten? Martyn simply stood there staring, letting the coating on his skin go dry and brittle, feeling it begin to pull at him, as if it were attempting to rip him apart. Quite unsuccessfully, but it still refused to let up its effort. 

Then his King’s eyes blinked back at him. 

It was beautiful, especially in the night, each glimmering light breaking out of the dark. Everything glowed, the rich greens of the forest, even the clouds seeming to light up as they passed by. Scar had had high expectations of course, but somehow, this exceeded all of them. Something about the simple majesty of nature on full display just took root deep in his soul. Then, all at once, it got brighter, too bright, hot and painfully bright. Scar squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught, and once he finally wedged them open again, the blinding crack had vanished, but it had left behind a burning stamp in front of him. 

The trees were on fire. 

Scar froze, held still by shock and fear and a variety of other emotions that his sputtering mind refused to name. The spell broke, and he rushed towards the flames, ripping off his cloak and using it to fan the flames. Futile. Useless. Empty. He stepped back, looking down at the tattered remains of the cloak, feeling the strands of hair that had caught flame as they burned little pricks into his scalp. 

There was nothing he could do but watch. 

It took two days for the last of the embers to die out. 

It took five Scar to get feeling back in his hands. 

It was funny, in that first moment, time seemed to freeze. Waiting, just a few extra moments, to give Cub a chance to fully process what was happening. Hazy at first, though of course at the time he had no way to tell, nothing to compare it against. Sight. That’s what this was. A blink, that was strange to think about, and things became clearer, sharper, as if he was getting closer. But no, he stood right in the same spot. What colour was this? It felt familiar, welcoming, safe. It sounded melodic, ringy, but not quite metallic. And it hurt, everything was too loud, but not hearing loud, seeing loud. What was the word for that? There had to be one, surely. Cub just wanted to make it go away, go back to the dark, the comfortable, sensible, dark. Oh! Bright. That was the word, he had heard that once. One mystery solved. But that didn’t make this go away, how could he just make this go away? A voice, soft, coming as though it was inside his own mind. 

It is alright, take your time. 

You are us now. 

Consider this a gift. 

Gift, that was one way of thinking about it. Maybe he could get used to it? Like how gentle sounds get louder the harder you listen? But in reverse. Yes, that made sense. 

Welcome. 

Bdubs. Horn. Surprise. 

Innocent. 

This whole thing was a series of jokes, just yet another way to run off with tears of laughter and a happy memory. That was all it was. Until, it wasn’t. But it was fine, because even if things got a little bit out of hand, they could always be reeled back in one way or another. 

My Grian was sorry too. 

Was that forgiveness? Must be. Must be a solution that would allow him to sleep at night. Was that how it started? With the other him? In some other world? Wouldn’t be much of a surprise.

Finally. After everything. This was Bdubs’ chance to prove himself. The weapon felt weighty in his grip, threatening to throw him off balance with each small motion. He toed the edge of the rooftop, rocking, ever so slightly, back and forth on the balls of his feet. Imagining the looks on all those mocking faces when he landed that blow. A breath, sharp and cold. All of a sudden, the world seemed much further away than it had been. It began to swim within his gaze. He blinked hard, shaking his head, tightening his grip. No, he needed to do this, he needed to focus. 

With a single step, there was no longer firm ground beneath him. It all happened so fast, the wind in his face and the floor rushing up to meet him. Swing! He kept trying to force his arms to obey but they refused, frozen around him. Swing! He was running out of time, he could hear their voices clearly now. Swing! If he missed, he would never be able to live it down, he would lose this one chance to stop the jeering. 

Swing! 

Bdubs didn’t swing. 

The frosty air turned Tango’s breath into clouds before him. Little puffs that hung for mear moments before they dissipated, his own breath being stolen by the walls around him. It was quiet, save for the gentle drip of melting ice and the sound of his own heart pounding against his chest. This was his creation. So why did the eeriness seem so unfamiliar? He pushed the feeling aside. This was just a quick job, in and out. Tango turned left, guided only by the map in his mind, a map honed to perfection after months of work. 

A dead end. 

That was strange. Maybe he just made a mistake? He turned back, going right instead. An honest slip up, that’s all it was. He was close now, just around this corner and… 

Another dead end. 

Now Tango was getting worried. There was no way he could be mistaken twice. He knew this space! There was a gap right here! Right where his fingers were pressing up against ice that felt just as solid as it looked. This was impossible. Maybe he just took a wrong turn somewhere further up, all these walls looked the same anyway. Same to the untrained eye, but Tango knew better, he knew every crack and divot and he knew this was the right place. He decided to head back, deal with this tomorrow once he had a chance to clear his head. Tango turned around. 

Dead end. 

There was something strange about the feeling of being watched. The hair on the back of one’s neck stranding on end, eyes swiveling, steps uneasy. Grian had gotten used to the feeling, a sense of numbness taking its place. And that was almost worse, like yet another thing had been lost in these cursed halls. Another piece of humanity fracturing under all those eyes he could no longer feel. 

So when he made it out, finally saw the sky again, finally got out from under all those wide pupils, it was as though nothing changed. Grian still felt nothing. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, if he had assumed that if there was nothing to be numb to then he would feel safer somehow. But no matter how many corners he turned, no matter how many reassurances were given, he could never be sure he wasn’t being watched. 

Grey. A world void of colour. Some emptiness filled only by monotone dread. That’s what people thought the afterlife was. That couldn’t be further from the truth. It was bright, underneath a pastel sky. But only the ghosts knew the truth, and they had lost their voices long ago. Well, the ghosts, and the thing that brought them there. 

It never showed its face, shadowed by a heavy hood. Its voice was gruff and echoey, carrying between realms. The only piece that was not dark and flickering, was what it held in its gloved hand. A scythe. Sharp and shining. 

But rumor has it, that when it lets that scythe fall from its grip, and that cloak from its shoulders, there is simply something human beneath. A freckled face, framed by curly blond hair. And when death stares at you, and you know your time has come, it is with purple eyes. 

The leaves trickled down from tree branches, a fiery waterfall. The breeze rushed and nipped, somehow both warm and cold. Green began to leech from the grass, and blue drained from the sky. It was as if the world was making itself dimmer, giving room for all the oranges and reds to take their place. This was a time of change. Difference rode on the wind and adjustment settled between the stones. 

Etho never liked change. 

All he could think about as he walked was how much he missed the green, how dry the air seemed, how cloudy the sky was. There was safety in the familiar, knowing what to expect, having that intrinsic advantage. But now brittle branches snapped beneath his feet, no longer offering their support. How fast could he run if he didn’t know if the ground would give out from under him? Uncertainty was danger. 

And even as Etho tried his best to look past it, to remember how many falls he had gotten through, how many winters, how many changes, he couldn’t stifle the tightness in his chest. 

Everyone had something to hide. 

That was what was expected, when you gave runaways a place to stop running. Not everyone was so open as to what they were running from. Sometimes that was for the best, it was better to forget, to move on, to start anew. Other times…

X really wished he had asked just a few more questions. 

That giggling, that manic echoing sound, it was all X could hear. It filled the air, choking out the wind and the birds, a physical thing that X had to work to move through. It seemed to cloud his vision, giving the world a shadowy blue tint. He coughed, trying to rid his lungs of the thickening air. Just a little further, just enough to see what was happening, just enough to help. 

There, a figure, shaking, like their whole body was phasing in and out of visibility. Please, that was what X kept repeating to himself, please. He wasn’t quite sure what he was asking for, but it felt good to try and ask for something, try and do something. Broken stories danced in his mind, begging for attention, hoping to be the one that would make things make sense. But nothing lined up, nothing mentioned this Void forsaken laughing that was melting his thoughts. 

As he got closer, the voice began to sound less and less ethereal. More human, more recognizable, more… Oh Void please no. 

Why didn’t Scar say anything? 

No, he couldn’t blame Scar, X had secrets of his own. The real question kept hammering him no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. 

Why didn’t X say anything?  

EX never wanted things to end like this. From the looks of it, X didn’t either. Masks hid both of their faces, but they knew each other well enough to pick up on the small things, stiffened limbs, drooped shoulders, tightened fists. There was something in the air too, not quite disappointment, but close. Regret, deep and choking regret. But why? Nothing had happened yet. But it was going to happen. So much had already happened. No words were spoken, none were necessary. 

I’m sorry. 

No you're not. 

I am. 

I know. I am too. 

Maybe if things had gone differently. 

But they didn’t. 

You're right, they didn’t. 

See you soon brother. 

Not soon enough.

It flew past quickly, far too quick to see more than just a flash, just a blurry shape. Something dark and eerie. And big, too big to be a leaf or a bee or a bird or anything that would have made sense to be racing about in the air. Mumbo stared at the path it had followed, trying to make heads or tails of the strange encounter. After far too long staring up at the sky, Mumbo opted to try and ignore it. 

Then it happened again, now accompanied by a screech. Not quite the screech of some horrific creature, something much more familiar was hidden beneath that scream. Something far more human. Well, close to human at least. 

The next time it flew past, Mumbo reached an arm upwards, trying to knock the thing out of the air. The moment he made contact, the screech was replaced by an exclamation of pain from both parties. Mumbo fell over, landing on the dirt. The not-creature fell too, landing right on top of Mumbo. 

“Now look at what you’ve done!” Mumbo laughed, trying to squirm out and back into his feet. 

“Me!? You’re the one that grabbed my leg!” Grian stood up, dusting off his pants. Then, he opens his wings wide, revealing that they were no longer a pattern of bright primary colours, but a dark grey. Grian turned back and forth, showing them off. “What do you think?” He beat them once, just enough to lift himself off the ground for a moment, while making a claw-like motion with his hands. “I’m a bat!” He smiled, clearly proud of his costume. 

Mumbo only face palmed. 

Tango took a deep breath, a truly deep breath, not those shallow humid heaves he was forced to in the overworld. He savoured the warm air in the base of his lungs, holding it there for as long as he could before exhaling. No matter how long he lived in the overworld, his body never seemed to completely adjust. He supposed he should count himself lucky, being able to breathe there at all. Others weren’t so fortunate. He took a step, feeling the netherack beneath his feet. It was warm, unlike stone, and solid, unlike grass. The sound of lava bubbling and cracking echoed through the roofed space. It felt so much safer, with something above his head, not having to worry that anything could come crashing down upon him. 

No matter how long he lived in the overworld, this place would be home. 

Flying and falling were alike in many ways. Both were weightless, airborne, free. Both came with the feeling of cold wind against skin. But there was one big difference. 

Control. 

Flying meant choosing the direction, knowing that if something were to happen, you could do something to fix it. Falling didn’t come with the same power, the same certainty. 

For the longest time, Grian didn’t know what it meant to fall. Sure he knew the definition, had seen it happen many times, had even been knocked off a roof once or twice himself. But he had never truly fallen. 

That was, until this moment. It might have simply been the shock of the situation, maybe pain, maybe both. But for some reason, no matter how much he tried to force his wings to open, they refused. 

Fear stole his breath, a new kind of fear, one that seemed so alien yet so instinctual. The feeling when he hit the ground, that snapping stinging screaming feeling, was one he would never forget. 

It was cold. The kind of cold that does not feel like an actual thing, rather the sheer lack of warmth. The absence of something, not something in and of itself. Emptiness. That was a good word to describe the landscape, empty. Though not entirely true, it certainly seemed empty in comparison to all the other places that existed outside. 

Still, for everything it seemed to miss, to X, it was home. It was soft and quiet and dark, leaving only the important things to take up space. Only things that mattered had the ability to take up his vision. It was calming, it was easy, it was simple. 

Everywhere else was chaotic and overwhelming. Too many colours, too many moving parts, too many lights, too many sounds, too many things to try to focus on. Too much.

But this, this was just enough. 

That’s how things like this always started wasn’t it? A mistake? Well, not quite a mistake, just intentions and actions misaligning. Still, either way, things weren’t meant to end this way. With friendships snapped in two like twigs, with the landscape half alight. No turning back now. It was worth it, a means to an end, just to make it stop. One. Last. Push. 

Please let this be enough. 

The world erupted in sound, screaming, crying, metal against metal, fire crackling. Time flew past, wanting to move on just as much, not wanting to see. And with one final echo, as everything slowed, Grian looked out over the battlefield. 

Somehow, this didn’t feel like a victory. 

It was strange. Mumbo was staring at his face, that face that looked exactly like he remembered, despite the bruises and burns, that was him. But it wasn’t. There was something wrong, something different. There was this look in his eyes, glazed over, scared. So impossibly tired. They both stood there for a moment, looking, waiting for the other one to make the first move. Mumbo took a step forward, and Grian flinched. Mumbo quickly stepped back, putting his hands halfway up in surrender. Grian’s gaze darted around, never landing on Mumbo for more than a few seconds, but somehow never leaving either. It was then Mumbo had a realization, did Grian even recognize him? Suddenly, Grian collapsed, his knees buckling out from underneath him. Mumbo rushed forward, catching Grian just before he hit the ground. As soon as Grian looked up, he moved to jerk away, this look of crazed desperation in his eyes. True fear. A fear that Mumbo had never seen in his friend before. 

Mumbo let go, drawing his arms back against his chest. And it was then that Mumbo knew that his Grian was gone. What sat shaking before him was nothing more than a shell, a ghost. And with that, not matter how much the rest of him screamed for him to do otherwise, 

Mumbo ran. 

Scar cocked his head. There was a soft rustling sound coming from somewhere a room over. His hand drifted to his bow, hanging just above the handle. Slowly, he made his way towards the noise, hoping to catch whatever it was off guard. It was getting louder, he was getting closer. He turned the corner, and saw something small moving about in the shadows. He drew his bow, knocking an arrow but not yet pulling the string back. Even closer, watching whatever it was as it scuttled back and forth, scraping against the floor. He drew the string taut, aiming at the creature. Scar shouted at it, trying to coax it out into the light. To his surprise, it almost immediately began running towards him. Well, not quite running, more of a jerky speed walk, but it was coming right for him nonetheless. It was then that Scar could see it for what it was. 

A pumpkin, upside down so that its top was against the floor, clearly missing its stem. Right, Scar had started carving the thing only to get distracted and leave it only hollowed out. Had it come alive? Wanting revenge for being left unfinished? Or maybe some horrible creature had taken to it for a shell, about to have a Scar flavoured dinner? He drew the bow even further back, arms now shaking. Wait, what was that sound? It was soft, muffled by the sound of the pumpkin rubbing against wood. A meow? 

Scar dropped the bow, letting the arrow sink into the flooring. He knelt down, grabbing the top (bottom?) of the pumpkin and tossing it aside. Two very apologetic and thankful faces stared back at him. Katy Bee and Mr Finnegan jumped up at him, attempting to nestle themselves into his chest. Scar opened his mouth to reprimand them for the near heart attack they had caused, then quickly closed it. How could he stay mad at these little cuties? 

The hermits had a betting pool, well all of the hermits save for Mumbo for obvious reasons, as to what Mumbo actually was. It seemed like a simple question at first, he was human, of course he was human. He had a normal amount of limbs, and human skin, and human teeth, and human eyes. But there were a few things that caused suspicion. He was able to go without eating for days, touch redstone without getting burned, not to mention that weird off stare he had sometimes. 

This had been going on for years now, and everyone was starting to get a bit impatient. For reasons that definitely didn’t have anything to do with that, Grian and Scar sat hiding behind a bush watching Mumbo. 

“Why did you bring a water bucket? There’s a river right there!” 

“And how easy do you think it will be to get him in that river huh?” 

It was a miracle that Mumbo hadn’t noticed them yet, with all their not-so-whisper shouting at each other. 

“So what? You’re just gonna dump it on him?”

“It's still better than your idea. What are you going to do? Try and get him to bite you?” 

There was silence after that, only broken by the occasional frustrated sigh. Then, the second Mumbo moved out of view, Grian jumped up, bucket in hand, and began running in the direction Mumbo had gone. Scar followed suit, desperately trying to catch up. 

“You were supposed to count to three!”

“I did! You never said I had to do it out loud!”

Mumbo, finally aware of the commotion, stopped and turned around, only to get a bucket full of water to the face. 

“What was that for?”

He used his shirt sleeve to clear the water out of his eyes, then looked to Grian who was now holding an empty bucket for an explanation. Grian only offered an exasperated and down right disappointed expression. Cue Scar tilting his head as he approached, far more than could possibly be considered normal. 

“It’s almost lunch time Mumbo, you must be getting hungry.” 

Why did that sound like a threat? What was Scar doing? Why had Grian just drenched him? 

“What are you two doing?!”

Scar and Grian looked at each other, then Mumbo, then back again. 

“Nothing!” 

They shouted in unison before running away, Grian dropping the bucket in his escape. 

Weirdos.

“Come on, just a little further, that’s it.” Zed crouched down, holding a bundle of wheat out in front of him, arm outstretched. A small lamb followed him, its steps slow and timid. Still, it kept moving, neck poised in an attempt to grab the wheat as soon as it got close enough. Each time it opened its mouth for a bite, Zed pulled the wheat away sharply. They were almost home now. Well, they were almost at Zed’s home. He should give the little guy a name. Fluffy? No, too generic. Floof the World Eater? No, that was a bit too much. Maybe he’d save the naming for later. 

Zed stood, taking the final couple of steps before drawing the wheat behind his back and pressing the button to his side. The floor gave out from under the lamb, sending it plummeting down into the abyss. Okay, it wasn’t really an abyss, just a few meters down, with a nice comfy landing to boot. The lamb let out a half squeal as it landed, and Zed looked out over the edge to make sure it had landed safely. Everything seemed to be in order. 

“Welcome to your new home Bartholomew! Nope, that’s not it either.” Zed tossed the wheat down, finally giving the little sheep its reward. He then turned his attention to the lever at the other side of the pit, reaching over to give it a flick. The lamb looked up at him as the sound of redstone sparking to life echoed around them, fear in its eyes. 

“Let the experiment begin!” 

You walk, slowly, painfully aware of every step, along the edge of the forest. Every crunch of dry leaves and snap of twigs sending another bolt into your heart, freezing your body for those few precious seconds that drag this journey out into eternity. It’s getting dark now, too dark. Even the moonlight seems hesitant to tread within these soulless trees, afraid, flickering, just like the beating of your heart. Then you hear it, a rustling sound, twigs and bark rubbing and cracking. You stop again, eyes fixed on the wood, looking deeper. You are not alone in these woods. Faster now, silence no longer the priority. Just out. There it is again, creaking and groaning and closer, too close. This time, when you look through the branches and vines, there is something glowing. Orange. A deep and unearthly orange. And as you continue to run, you hear it chasing after you.

You turn around.

It’s an old friend, though the two of you would disagree as to the exact status of your relationship. It ended poorly, and then it didn’t. But those eyes…

Like a hole that you could lose yourself in, endless possibilities and doorways opening up to confuse and empty the mind.

It’s an old friend.

No matter what Tango did, he couldn’t seem to get them to go away. The nightmares. The fear. He couldn’t look up at the night sky without getting the breath stolen from his lungs, without feeling that deep and lonely cold. It was fine, he tried to tell himself, it all worked out in the end. They’re all safe. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw a sky filled with nothing but moonlight, he saw thousands of tiny eyes staring at him, he saw all that hope burning away before him. 

He saw them die. 

Again and again and again. 

Burned and crushed and broken and gone.

But it was fine, they’re all still here. Everyone else seemed to have moved on so quickly, left it all behind without so much as second thought. Some had thanked Tango too, jokingly, for his efforts. What had he done that was worth thanks? I failed. 

Why did no one seem at care?

X never told anyone he had a more than mild fear of insects. Why would he? It had never come up in conversation. Surprisingly, he was just fine with those giant arachnids. One always knew where they were, and they were a pretty big target to stab. Those little things however… it was like he could feel them crawling under his skin when he was just looking at one. No thank you. He would set up a large amount of insect traps around his home, then proceed to never check or replace them. As long as he didn’t pay too much attention when he was outside, he rarely had to worry, rarely being the key word in that sentence. Today was one of those rare days. 

On the wall in front of him, was a little spider. X took a step back, searching for anything he had on him that he could use to kill the Void forsaken thing. It moved, crawling up onto the roof. X took another step back, wanting to look away but not being able to bring himself to lose sight of it. His hands and legs were shaking now, the creature getting closer and closer. X’s back was against the opposite wall, cornered, he had nowhere to run. His hand flew to his comm, typing blindly without taking his gaze away from the roof. He must have sent something, because his comm buzzed not a moment later. He didn’t look at the message, just hoping that help was coming, not caring about potentially being made fun of for such a silly thing. 

So he waited, pressing his back against the wall, watching the spider as it crawled and stopped and crawled and stopped and crawled and crawled and oh Void it was getting close. Then, suddenly, he heard something breaking in the room over, then a muffled shout, then the sound of something mechanical revving. X let out a muffled noise of his own, and soon Tango stood in front of him holding… Was that a flamethrower? X simply pointed at the creature on the roof. 

Tango smiled as he pulled the trigger.

It was here. There was no denying it. They had what, two minutes? Maybe ten at most. But it was fine, because they had a plan, and Scar had built that ship, and they were all going to fly away and be safe and happy and… oh who was Grian kidding? This was Scar they were talking about, chance of a clean escape as a fifty fifty at best. Still better odds than they had if they just stayed here. No more time to think, just run, just escape. Under had to be just as safe as above, right? It was just as cold and empty and dark. No time to worry. This was the plan. The suit felt itchy and tight, each breath heaving and drawn out. 

He could hear it, echoing and falling to pieces above. Hopefully the others had their own way out. 

It was night, the sun just having finished setting and its light having faded over the hills. All was quiet, save for the gentle whistling of the wind through the trees. All in all, it was a pretty picture but a horrible time to have decided to go out collecting flowers. In Scar’s defense, it wasn’t his fault some of the prettiest ones bloomed under the stars. So there he was, walking, eyes on the ground and ears listening for the tell tale groaning of danger. So far so good. The moonlight was just enough to guide his path, though it didn’t stop him from tripping over the odd root or stone. He knew this part of the woods well, having scouted it out the day prior, and he was getting close. Just a few more steps. Then he heard it, a strained rustling sound. Scar fumbled for his bow, looking around, trying to figure out where to aim his shot. It was silent again, must have just been a bird or something. He continued onwards, grip still tight around the handle of his weapon. There it was again, louder this time. He froze, eyes darting. Silent. He picked up his pace, hoping to outrun whatever this was. Again. Closer. Scar swallowed hard, he could feel his heartbeat thumping against his ribcage. Again. He was running now, all thoughts of the flowers having been pushed from his mind. He pivoted, running back to the entrance of the forest, back to safety. His breath burned his throat with each desperate heave. He had to be getting closer now, any second and… Again. The loudest yet, as if made right beside his ear. 

The woods didn’t seem to be getting any less dense. 

Jevin was not born with a skeleton. It seemed like a fairly innocent fact, with him being a slime and all. That was, until one looked through the blue goo that was his skin and saw that beneath there was, in fact, a spine and a skull and all the other hallmarks of a very human looking skeleton. It helped him keep his humanoid shape, give his body a bit more solidity, let him show more emotion with the movements of the skull suspended in the area that stood in for a head. Some people had asked where he had obtained it, and Jevin always just brushed them off, or said he stole bits and pieces from the creatures that lurked in the woods at night. That was not the truth. And those who knew him well knew that much. Those bones were just far too perfect to have been taken from the undead. They just had to come from somewhere else. Maybe Jevin was just being mysterious on purpose, having fun playing with the mystery of it all. Maybe all those bones were just fake, painted pieces of wood or metal. 

But that long scar-like mark on the skull… 

It was probably nothing. 

Jimmy knew Tango told him not to go. Jimmy knew the risks. Jimmy knew he was being stupid. Jimmy knew this was the wrong choice to make. Jimmy knew he wasn’t just endangering himself. Jimmy knew. But he did it anyway. Because he could already hear those taunting voices that would surround him if he didn’t. Was it so wrong to not want to be a coward? It was the pressure, it was getting to him, it was bending and twisting and snapping and Jimmy knew. Despite everything everyone else thought Jimmy knew. Everyone except Tango. 

Tango knew too. 

Jimmy took a breath, letting the cold murky air settle in his lungs. Just one step at a time, just be careful, and he would be able to come out of this alive. He would be able to repay Tango for all this undeserving kindness. Just be careful. Just BE CAREFUL. It was the quiet that was getting to him, this sudden shrouding silence. But he could still hear that second heartbeat that echoed in time with his own and pounded against two chests. And he could imagine the voice that came with that thumping. 

And as hard as he tried, he couldn’t imagine it being angry. 

That voice would never be angry. 

Not at him. 

Never at him. 

Just be careful. 

Another breath, this one thicker and darker and deeper. Maybe it was the fear, or the spores in the air, or the silence gaining physical form. Maybe all three. Maybe none. Maybe it was simply the ever present echo of death. 

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the feeling of two breaths being drawn as one. Two lungs and two hearts and two minds and two voices. 

Be careful. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Zed looked at the book on the floor, then at Tango, and back again. 

Tango knelt down and began flipping through the pages. “Certainly not the worst idea I’ve ever had.” 

Zed let out a half giggle. “That’s something at least then.” He joined Tango on the ground, looking over his shoulder at the text.

Tango stopped flipping, and jammed his finger at the page he had landed on. “Ha! There it is! Now we just need…” He trailed off, reading through the list. “Some chalk, an eyeball, a bit of blood…” 

Zed cut him off, having read through the list on his own time. “Where are we going to get all of this?” 

Tango smiled. “You're not going to ask any questions is how.” He tilted his head slightly before jumping to his feet and running off into the other room. Zed sat there waiting, befuddled. Not even five minutes later, Tango returned, arms laden with various macabre objects. Zed opened his mouth, remembered what Tango had said, and closed it again. 

The pair spent the next while drawing on the floor and laying out all the items as the book instructed. “So what do we do next?” Zed stood, wiping chalk off his knees. Tango didn’t get a chance to answer before the ground exploded into flame in front of them. When the fire died down, a figure stood in the middle of the ashes. It coughed.

“Impy!” Both Zed and Tango shouted in unison, running to wrap their friend in a bear hug. 

Impulse turned around just a moment before he was almost knocked off his feet. “I told you guys not to summon me when I was on vacation!” He tried to sound angry, but his voice betrayed him. “I thought I prevented the ritual.” He looked around, puzzled. 

“You did.” Zed elbowed Tango. “But Tango found another one!” 

“I can’t believe you two.” It came out as anything but a scold.

Fire. 

That’s the word anyone who knew him would use to describe Tango. It encompassed his physicality, flame tips for hair that danced and crackled against his scalp, skin that was always just a few degrees below boiling, crimson eyes that flickered and glowed. It described the clothes he wore, always a mix of bright red and ash grey. But most of all, it described who he was, how he acted, how he felt. Tango was passionate, quick to latch on and consume. Quick to react, to light up and lose control. Quick to burn. 

Tango was fire. In every sense of the word, in every aspect of himself. 

Jimmy was afraid of fire. 

It had taken one too many homes from him. It had destroyed everything he had built and come to love. Fire was dangerous. Fire hurt people, people Jimmy cared about. Fire left burns and scars on his skin that still hurt if he looked at them too long. It was better to stay away, not to take that chance, snuff it out before it had a chance to grow and cause so much pain. Kill it before it could kill. 

In a way, Jimmy was ice. 

It encompassed his physicality, sharp blueish brown eyes, pale skin that was often cold to the touch. It described the clothes he wore, shades of light blue and white. But most of all, it described who he was, how he acted, how he felt. Jimmy held his cards close to his chest, hesitant to let anyone in, to give himself another thing to lose. Hesitant to assume anyone truly cared about him. Hesitant to truly trust. 

Yet here they stood, looking at each other with those mismatched eyes, without choice. But the way Tango apologized, there wasn’t that undertone of sarcasm, he wasn’t stifling a giggle. As much as Jimmy hesitated to believe it, Tango was genuine. Tango cared. Fire cared. 

Maybe fire didn’t have to burn, only melt. 

It had definitely been worth it, Tango thought so at least. Sure it had been an absurd amount of effort for such a small detail, but it really was perfect this way. An empty sky filled with hundreds of little stars. Their glow did little to light up the space, shadows still seeping into the pathways, but it was beautiful. It was his. It was almost hypnotic, just staring up at the faux night, letting it warp your vision and wash over you. Somehow, it even felt colder than that library otherwise would be, given the location and all. Something about that endless darkness that engulfed and fed on the little wisps for fiery light. 

Beautiful. 

More than worth the fighting and the pain. More than worth the blood and sweat and tears. 

Beautiful. 

“Tango! Get over here!” Jimmy’s voice was muffled by the distance, but it still carried urgency all the same. Tango broke into a sprint, worry thumping against his chest. What was happening? Was Jimmy in danger? No pain prickled at Tango’s skin or tugged at his bones. He needed to get over there before it did. His head was on a swivel, but he could see nothing out of place, no swords or snarls. 

“What happened? Are you alright?” Tango’s words were broken up by heaving breaths. His hand found the handle of his sword, ready to slice open anything that dared to hurt his rancher. 

Jimmy placed a hand on his shoulder. “Tango, calm down, it's alright.” He let out a soft giggle. “I just needed your help getting someone,” he glared at the horse standing behind him, “to behave.” The horse let out an disinterested snort. 

Tango stood frozen for a moment, mind buffering in an attempt to process the true nature of the situation. “You scared the happy fun sauce out of me!” 

“Sorry.” Jimmy kicked at the ground sheepishly. He looked up, only to notice Tango’s reprimand was not directed at him. Tango was instead looking daggers into the horse, hands on his hips. Jimmy burst into laughter. “I don’t think he cares about your ‘happy fun sauce.’” He finally managed to choke out a coherent sentence. 

“No extra treats for you!” Tango waved a clawed finger at the horse who continued to stand with complete disregard to anything that was happening. 

Jimmy doubled over with laughter. 

Halloween had always been Etho’s least favorite holiday. He never liked dressing up, pretending to be someone else, something wrong. The whole candy thing was just for kids, and the decorations had never been his thing either. Always either too real or too fake. Obvious fake spiders that just looked awful sat next to lifelike ghosts and ghouls that jumped out and… No, they didn’t scare him. He wasn’t scared of some wood and paint. He wasn’t weak like that. Etho just avoided them because well… it was just personal taste, that was all, no point looking into it further. It would be one thing if this horrid day was just that, a day. But no, people took things too far, took over the entire Void forsaken month. How could anyone enjoy fear like that? No, not fear, Etho wasn’t afraid, just… mildly uncomfortable, yes, that was it. If only he could just shut the doors and stay inside until snow hit the earth, hiding away from it all. Not hiding, that was what people did when they were scared, but Etho wasn’t scared. 

For the last time, Etho was not scared. 

No matter what his own mind and body said. 

“Why are you still here?” Tango sat down next to Jimmy, the pair now dangling their legs over the cliff side. 

Jimmy turned slowly to look at him with grey and empty eyes. “Why are you? It’s over.” 

Tango shifted, now leaning to Jimmy. “I asked first.” 

“This is where I always end up. Alone, watching everyone else hurt. Waiting for it to truly be over.” Jimmy turned his gaze back to the river below. 

“But you’re not alone.” Tango placed his hand over Jimmy’s. 

“Only because I took you down with me. You don’t deserve to be here.” Jimmy gently moved his hand away. 

Tango pulled his own back. “This has nothing to do with what either of us deserve. And I know you know that, deep down. I know my rancher knows that.” Jimmy tentatively moved his hand back, letting Tango take a hold again. “Why don’t you want to go home?” 

Jimmy looked Tango in the eyes once again. “This is home.”

Gem had been watching some of her friends lately. Well, she wasn’t watching them, not in some creepy stalker way at least. She was doing research, an entirely different and much less questionable activity, in her eyes at least. What better time to learn more about her friends than the time of year when everyone pretends to be someone else? She sat on a hilltop, kicking her legs back and forth, pencil in mouth and notepad in hand. Just below, was a gathering of a few different odd creatures. A blond bat. A bipedal cow. A very damp vampire. A short glare. An opaque vex. A legged blaze. There were a few others, but she couldn't make out the details from such a height. It was fun, watching them run around like little ants. So excited. Maybe she should go down there, see what happens if she added another variable into the mix. Gem took the pencil out from between her teeth and resumed her scribbling, making note of each oddity she could identify, and loosely describing the ones she couldn’t. 

Halloween really was her favourite time of year. 

“I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.” Tango walked up to Jimmy slowly, as if afraid that if he moved too fast he would break this moment in two.  

Jimmy took a step forward, not breaking eye contact with Tango. “I didn’t either.” They both stood there for a moment, a few meters still between them, a few years still between them. Then, in one swift and sudden motion, they ran and wrapped their arms around each other, both sobbing. Tango’s tears were cold, and Jimmy’s dry. 

“You’ve got a new look.” Jimmy let out a small laugh, running a hand over the fabric of Tango’s robe. 

Tango tapped the brim of Jimmy’s hat. “I could say the same to you.” 

Jimmy looked down at himself. “It’s a long story. I’m guessing it's the same for you.” 

“Amazing detective work.” Tango giggled slightly, motioning towards Jimmy’s badge. 

Jimmy ran a finger over the metal. “Sheriff actually.” He took another look at Tango’s outfit, frowning slightly at his now icy blue hair. “And you are…?” 

Tango pulled his hood up, letting his face fall into shadow. “The Dungeon Master.” He dropped his voice down an octave as he spoke. He drew the hood back again, revealing a goofy smile. 

“That’s way cooler sounding.” Jimmy gave a smile of his own. 

Tango put a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “Oh come on, ‘The Sheriff’ is really cool too.” Tango then grabbed the brim of Jimmy’s hat, pulling it down over Jimmy’s eyes. 

“Hey!” Jimmy’s hands flew to readjust his hat. The second he could see again, he reached over and pulled Tango’s hood over his face. 

“You want to play this game?” Tango let out a slightly maniacal laugh. Jimmy turned and began to run, but not at full speed. Tango chased after him, quickly getting close enough to knock Jimmy to the ground. He then flopped down right on top of Jimmy, wrapping him in another giant hug. 

Neither of them could stop giggling.

Grian was annoyed to say the least. He had gone through all this effort. He had put himself in harm's way for these people! And here they were interrogating him like some sort of criminal. Was this how things were going to be?

Grian didn’t deserve to be offered so little trust. 

Everything was slick and sticky with blood and sand. His fists were bruised. He could feel skin beneath his finger nails. 

It was warmer than he had expected, this sudden weight pressed against him. He watched the life drain from those eyes, crimson bubble up from those lips. 

That crash rang out, echoing. No time for screams. Too quick. Too thoughtless. It took a painful few heartbeats to realize what he had just done. 

It was in his nature, that simple victimless action. No. Not victimless. Not now. He could hear the bodies breaking. He could hear the shouts. Everyone was shouting at him. 

It wasn’t his fault this time. It wasn’t his fault this time. It wasn’t his fault this time. Even if it was. He was the one who put it there, who let it loose. 

Grian didn’t deserve to be offered so much trust. 

Once again. Up on a mountain top. Looking out over the world. On top of the world. Alone. No, Scar had Jimmy and Lizzie. Scar had friends. But he had friends before didn’t he? And they never wanted anything to do with him. This time would be different, even if he had already hit the ground just like he had so many times before. 

Different. 

It had to be. 

He had the board up again. Things were going according to plan, except they weren’t again. 

Different. 

Again.

Hunger. 

It was all consuming, pushing past common sense and self preservation. It was one thing to rip flower petals between lips, but that wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. Not this newfound panicked strength that could crack rocks at the expense of teeth. And it hurt, all those pointed ends. 

But the blood tasted just as sweet as stone. 

It was bitter, of dirt and earth and the dead. But it was so intoxicatingly sweet. 

More. Always more. Despite the cramping, despite bodies begging to stop. Can’t stop. Ash and dirt and rock and bark and metal. Gum and tooth and blood and tongue. 

So nauseatingly bitter. 

So addictingly sweet. 

Grian could hear it. That slow, squishing, dragging sound. Distant now, but never distant enough. How could he ever have thought this was a good idea? And to top things off, he had dragged Mumbo into this darkened mess with him. He no longer felt the safety that came with being surrounded by such thick walls, deep below, hidden from the world.

Not hidden enough.

Grian could hear it. That quick, crunching, digging sound. Close, too close. There was only one thought in his mind now. Run. Metal bit into stone with panicked fervour, dust and pebbles scratching at his throat and filling his lungs. It was fine, breath was secondary now. Mumbo was screaming behind him, Grian was screaming too, but it was all drowned out by that slippery sticky noise.

Not quiet enough.

Not fast enough.

Torchlight. Grian nearly fell through the gap in the stone, throwing his body into the wall. It was then that he risked a glance behind him. It was then that he saw it, fire lit and never still. Him, in some twisted way.

Not far enough.

Grian ran through those winding tunnels, praying that his memory served, that he wouldn’t hit a dead end. Just out. Just away. Mumbo was following him, right? Or had Mumbo gotten in front? Or had he gotten cornered? Or had he… It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the pounding of footsteps against stone.

Not caring enough.

Every move was strained. The air was thick, pushing back against him. The shovel was heavy in Grian’s hands, this wood pressing deep into his palms, nearly splintering. And the dirt, stiff and solid, more akin to stone. It only took a few swings to steal his breath, and a couple more to force him to brace and grunt.

But this was going to be worth it, the sweat and burning muscles. Because this was his chance to help, to keep his teammates around just a little longer, to put off that grief just a little longer. Grian could have sacrificed, he could have made this a guarantee.

Deep down though, Grian knew he could never bring himself to make that sacrifice. He just couldn’t give up something so precious like that.

Grian couldn’t help like that.

But he could help like this.

He could strain and stifle screams and keep pushing until his body gave out from underneath him. Because all that pain was easier. For some empty reason, that pain was simpler.

Even if he couldn’t do selflessness. True selflessness.

Grian could do pain.

“We’re even now, right?” 

Of course they weren’t even! Scar had ended Grian’s life. And all Grian had done was blow up some chunks of wood! It was symbolic more than anything. A show of anger. A way to blow off steam. To force Scar to realize how useless and empty all of this was.

Grian had only got a fraction of the payback he craved. 

But then again, those were more than just chunks of wood weren’t they? They meant something to Scar. And they used to mean something to Grian, all that time ago. 

On that day, on the mountain, under the blistering sun, a debt was made. One that wouldn’t be repaid. One that would be forgotten. One that would be bolstered with blood time and time again. 

Of course they weren’t even. 

Grian still had so much he owed. 

Grian could still feel the heat in the air for those first few moments. The smell of smoke scratched at his throat. A patch of charred grass sat before him. Lingering. The aftermath stood still, free of time, but an echo of what had transpired only moments prior. That’s what it had been, just shy of a moment, too fast to think or breathe or do anything. 

Mumbo had been right in front of him. And Grian hadn’t done a thing. Again. He hadn’t even realized! The heat was just from the car, the screams were from someone else, the fire was further off in the distance. 

It wasn’t his problem. 

But it was. 

And now Mumbo was gone. Again. 

When would Grian learn to pay attention?

“We can still be friends here.”

Grian laughed as he spoke, a joking, pained laugh. It wasn’t manic, it wasn’t quite desperate, but it was close.

And he could see the way Mumbo’s eyes widened for one, frozen second.

But it was fine. Because they both knew it was different. They both knew blood wasn’t going to be spilled. They both knew.

But Grian ran anyway.

He couldn’t trust himself with that memory, with these giant fists that could break bones if he wasn’t careful enough.

He didn’t want to laugh like that ever again.

Jimmy held no respect for the dead.

No, that wasn’t quite true. He knew what it was like, to be gone, he empathized with that empty pain. But in the same vein, it was a celebration.

It wasn’t him.

Why shouldn’t Jimmy be allowed to cheer at his own fortune? It wasn’t like it was his own team anyway, there were others left to mourn. Others held that burden of tear shed.

It hadn’t been Jimmy’s fault. Yet it wasn’t Jimmy’s innocence. But it was Jimmy’s victory. Against everything that was against him in this blood stained world.

Jimmy was still here.

So he rejoiced.

“You don’t disrespect Mumbo!”

Grian’s throat was raw from that single scream. He hadn’t even finished digging a grave! He could still hear Mumbo’s last words echoing in his ears. He could still smell the gunpowder. He could still feel that stupid tear running down his cheek.

Gods this whole idea had been so stupid! This was supposed to be Scar and Lizzie’s grief. If only he had just been a little more risky and had taken a little more payback a little bit earlier.

And they didn’t care! They just walked all over Mumbo’s memory like it meant nothing.

Monsters.

The second Grian hung that tag around the golem’s neck, he felt something click, deep in his soul. He studied the metal creature, noticing how the vines growing in and around its face almost resembled a mustache. And those eyes, no longer empty and iron, but warm, familiar.

It tilted its head, peering down at him, its long arms coming to rest behind its back for a moment. Then, as quickly as it had come, that connection dissipated. It stood ridged, breaking eye contact and wandering off in some unknown direction.

Maybe Grian had just imagined it, some grief struck fantasy.

But then, when he saw it again, with crimson crust on its iron fists, the same look echoed in its dark eyes.

Accomplishment.

Satisfaction.

Revenge.

Etho couldn’t take his gaze away from the ground. It was stupid, this should have been a victory for him. And it was, in a way.

Tango’s misshapen victory.

So Etho’s victory.

Why was he doing this again?

Grian had asked if he wanted to say a few words. So he did. Just like before. He never had the right words. He said them to the wrong grave for Void sake! What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just be thoughtful? Say he would miss Skizz and be done with it.

Easy.

Not easy enough.

If only Skizz was better at the game.

The moment Grian walked away, his nervous laughter fading as though speckled on the wind, Gem turned to Joel.

“Are you sure we can trust him? Look how fast he abandoned his first alliance.” Her gaze followed Grian down into the rock.

Joel didn’t bother doing the same, looking absentmindedly up at the sky for a beat before locking eyes with Gem. “We can trust him.”

Gem shifted in her seat. “How do you know?”

“He’s desperate. We give him a good enough reason and he’ll stick around. I know him. The only reason he’s left is because he had to.” Joel stood, dusting off his pants.

“There’s a difference between trust and loyalty you know.” Gem followed suit, taking the first few steps onto the bridge.

Joel gave her a sad smirk. “Oh I know.”

It was strange.

Not seeing them again, that had been expected. Grian had planned all of this for Void's sake. But seeing them like that.

It had been a stupid ploy to apologize for his own lack of grief. To see them again one more time before the world folded into itself.

But it wasn’t them.

And Grian knew. It was obvious they would be different. Everything ever said about necromancy warned about things being different.

He had expected those gorey skin tones, those burned chunks of flesh and legs that didn’t bend quite right.

He hadn’t expected that emptiness. Those tilted heads ready to follow without true thought and mind.

Turns out Grian wouldn’t get his true apology. He wouldn’t get to see them again.

At least this was a chance to burn off steam without pain.

Other’s pain.

Everything was finally falling into place. Zed had put the work in. He built this stage from the ground up, stayed up all night writing a script, scoured the pastures for the perfect sheep…

It was beautiful.

It had always been nagging at the back of his mind. Zed had never been one to dwell on the past, but this…

Some things just couldn’t be forgotten.

He smoothed out his suit for the last time, the one that he had convinced Cleo to teach him to sew just to make. He wanted it to be personal. He wanted this whole thing to bear his fingerprints. Zed looked out, just staring at the empty stage. Appreciating it. Loving it.

This was it. This was his moment. All this work, and now this.

He stepped out onto the stage, taking his place and lining up his papers on the podium. He adjusted the light and peered into each of the cameras, ensuring that the angle was perfect.

He clicked them on.

He cleared his throat.

He swallowed those last fleeting nerves.

“Contestants! Please take your places!”

Zed stood in front of the mirror, turning his head back and forth, stretching out his skin. He dropped his hand back to his side, a deep sigh escaping him. He sat back at his desk, stabbing a pen at the empty notebook page a few times.

Why did everyone else get to have the fun? Imagine how much he could get done if there was another one of him to lend a hand? Or a hoof or tentical or anything really, he wasn’t picky about the appendage.

But nope. It was just Zed. Plain old boring Zed. Maybe he could get Beef to rebuild that machine? Assuming he even remembered how after all this time. Zed could give it a shot himself, and just hope he didn’t liquify his bones or something.

How did X do it? Did it just happen? Zed really should have asked EX when he had the chance. That way he’d at least have something to point him in the right direction.

Another sigh. He had begun just doodling on the page, random shapes, a vague outline of a person, a sandwich, when was the last time he ate? A swirl. There had to be some trick to it, some way to get the universe to listen. A ram’s horn. What was he missing? A triangle. He heard something about False when all those strangers came through the rift. A scythe. Maybe if he could open another portal… A rectangle. Sure X would be mad, but would he really be that mad? A worm.

Zed threw the pen at the desk. Why couldn’t this just be easy? Like it was for everyone else. He banged his forehead against the desk a couple of times. He rolled his head over, staring unfocused at the mirror once again. Wait, what was that shadow?

He blinked hard, straining his eyes so much they hurt. Then, just when the shape was becoming clear, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Or no, it might not have been a hand. A hoof? A tentacle? Something. Zed sat up with a jolt, and the touch offered no resistance. He stood, looking where he saw the shadow in the mirror.

It was him. No it wasn’t. It was just a shadow. No it wasn’t. It was bright pink. No it wasn’t. It was just shapes. No it wasn’t. It was short. No it wasn’t.

In fact, the harder Zed looked, the harder it was to make out what this thing actually was. He reached out, trying to touch it. The moment he made contact, it became solid in that spot only, a little patch of brown in a swirling mess of shapes and colours.

And somehow, Zed knew this was what he had been looking for.

Zed stared out the window, pen between his teeth. He tried to keep a purely scientific mindset, to ignore this tight feeling in his gut.

It wasn’t working.

He pulled the pen out of his mouth, now fidgeting with it between his fingers. How big did that make it? Two times more than yesterday? There was only one logical explanation for this, the moon wasn’t exactly a balloon after all.

No. It still looked exactly the same in every other facet. Everyone else was panicking for no good reason. Zed had better things to be doing than staring out this window. He was just going to go on with his day and everything would be fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Zed clipped the pen back to the clipboard, pivoting sharply on his heel. There were still so many things he needed to do! So many inventions that needed to be checked! The moon was still the same size if one ignored how much of the sky it took up.

Plenty of time.

Fine.

And that was what Zed did. He ignored his gut because there were better things to do. He ignored the earthquakes and gravity shifts because there were better things to do. He ignored the banging on his door because there were better things to do. He ignored that rumbling sound because there were better things to do.

He ignored that burning pain because there were better things to do.

“Please?” Zed put his hands together.

“No!” Tango shook a finger at him.

“Pretty please with a glow berry on top?” Zed was kneeling now, giving Tango the biggest puppy eyes he could muster.

Tango paused for a moment, almost seeming to succumb before shaking his head. “For the last time, I’m not letting you reap my soul!”

Zed stood, letting out a little annoyed snort. “Oh come on! It will be fun! I promise!”

“Yeah about as fun as getting dunked in a bucket of happy fun sauce.” Tango rolled his eyes, beginning to walk away.

Zed grabbed the shoulder of Tango’s vest. “I’ll bring you right back, you won’t even know it happened!” He began dragging Tango back towards his ravine.

Tango pried himself free from Zed’s grip. “Why don’t you ask Skizz? I’m sure he'll be more than happy to help.”

Zed kicked at the ground. “Stupid angels don’t have normal souls.”

“And what? Mine’s perfectly average?” Tango tried to sound hurt. He failed.

Zed still played along. “Oh no no no! Your soul is the most non average soul to ever soul!”

“Mmhmmm.” Tango then noticed how Zed had been holding one hand behind his back for the past minute or so. “Zed… what are you hiding back there?”

Zed’s eyes widened. “Nothing!” He tucked his hand even tighter against his body.

“Sure.” Tango rolled his eyes before moving to get a peek. He didn’t move more than an inch before…

“Hadjah!” Zed swung his whole body around, slashing Tango across the chest with the scythe that he had been hiding behind his back. The wound began to glow, and before Tango could speak, his body crumpled to the ground. Zed reached into the wound, pulling out a small flame.

“So Tango, what are we going to do for the rest of the day?”

If there was one thing to take away from this whole experience, it was that it hadn’t been Zed’s fault, this time at least. The guy was just a little slippery, that’s all. Zed had only been at this job for… Actually, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t quite sure.

Zed knew there was a time before. And he knew it couldn’t have been that long ago considering how awkward this crook still felt in his hands. But in that same way, it felt familiar, like this was what he was meant to do.

Just like herding sheep.

Herding sheep?

Zed shook the thought away, pulling his hood back over his head and clearing his throat. He gripped the crook with both hands, turning it over a bit, watching its sharp edge glint in the moonlight.

This time he would get it right.

Stupid mailman.

That thunder crack. It seemed to echo deeper than all the others, breaking bones and screams. A laugh, a manic, wild, laugh escaped Joel, forcing itself from his lungs despite the lack of breath supplying it. He turned his gaze to the stars, smiling in the face of whatever deity forced this end. I did it, his eyes said, despite everything I finally did it.

And in that moment, as his arms grew heavy from the strain, he knew how he wanted this to end, to truly end.

Joel wanted to be in control.

He wanted to know what would have happened, if things had gone differently. Turns out some things never truly change.

But this changed.

Joel made it change.

He felt his legs give out from under him as he hit the grass once again, green turning red. Fitting, this had been his shot.

And everyone else had made being wild seem like such a bad thing.

Zed had begun to notice something strange. 

More strange than usual at least. He had never been the most social guy by any means, but recently, when he went out to do some errands and whatnot, it seemed like everyone was actively avoiding him. 

What was the deal? Had Zed done something wrong? Were they all about to vanish through some portal again? If nothing else, Zed was a scientist. He was going to get to the bottom of this. 

But every time he tried to talk to someone…

“Oh sorry, I have something I need to do.”

“I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

“I’ve gotta do the thing… in the place…”

“Have to go. See you later!”

He couldn’t get five words out before they ran away! At this point he was just getting plain old annoyed. Was it national ignore your friend week? 

Then, the next day, when Zed was just starting to walk down into his ravine…

“Surprise!”

Zed definitely wasn’t startled, nope. He looked around the room, watching as confetti fell onto the smiling faces of nearly everyone he had ever known. A large banner hung from the ceiling in the middle, echoing the words that were now being chanted at him. 

“Happy birthday Zed!” 

Zed would take the fact that he forgot about his own birthday to the grave.

For a split second after the angered words had left his lips, Grian eyes shone purple. It was an outburst, the stress of it all, annoyance.

Lizzie had heard him say it.

Lizzie had heard him claim his creation.

Grian giggled awkwardly, thinking, trying to save the situation. Maybe she hadn’t been close enough to hear, maybe she would just think he had lost his mind like so many others.

Maybe.

“What do you mean you made it?”

May be.

Void why had he been so stupid? Why couldn’t he have controlled himself just a moment longer? No one could know. They would hate him. They would break him. They would break this.

Don’t they know there are things so much worse?

Grian ran.

Tango tried not to smile as he revealed the last sign. It was completely serious business! This was an important plan that would help them prepare for the inevitable bloodshed.

Pancakes.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t entirely serious. But humor was still important, keeping morale high.

Pancakes had kept things light, before. When he was alone, waiting, until he wasn’t anymore. Perfectly cooked and golden brown, just like those eyes he had given everything to see again.

Etho and Bdubs laughed. So did Tango. It was good that they were laughing, it was good that they had something to joke about.

It wasn’t like Tango cared that they didn’t understand his silent message. It was impossible anyway, in this situation.

That had been forever ago anyway, Tango shouldn’t care anymore.

Maybe someone else would see the signs.

The sky was lit ablaze, for that single thunderous second. It echoed, a booming crashing sound. A message, an omen. That was the one thing that could be expected. No matter what happened, no matter how much pain or joy one's end may bring, at its core, it would be the same. 

This single, piercing, burning shiver. 

As things went on, the sound was less noticeable, drowned out with repetition, but alike in its earthward haunt. 

This time though, it came with music. It came with anticipation, with risk and opportunity, not finality. And even after the chorus faded, it still meant something different. 

Revival. 

It hadn’t taken long for the sky to lose its meaning. When the clouds cracked again, when blinding light lit fire, it was hard to say. Was this death? It had been death before, but even that small promise had faded and shaken.

Maybe, forgetting was simply being encouraged. 

Maybe, even that no longer mattered, in this burning wild world. 

That light had lost its power.

Grian shouted the words to the sky, to himself. A promise.

“I’m not going out like that.”

He was going to be in control.

“Not on that tower.”

This would not be an end of his own making.

“Not like Skizz.”

He wouldn’t let anyone else get the best of him.

“Not like Mumbo.”

He wouldn’t be reckless.

“Not today.”

Grian was finally going to have the ending he deserved.

A happy ending.

“Bdubs, I wish your eyes were bigger.” 

Bdubs just laughed it off. Of course Etho would waste an opportunity like that on something so stupid, on something completely impossible. Maybe Bdubs could get a large pair of glasses, he’d love to see the look on Etho’s face when he saw that. Surely Ren had a decently sized pair of sunglasses laying around. Bdubs could just get some clearer glass and swap out the lenses. 

Perfect. That was the plan. 

However, that was a plan for tomorrow. The sky had begun to take on an orange hue at the horizon. Night was coming. Bdubs kicked off his shoes and snuggled under the covers, staring out the window and watching as the world turned from orange to red to black. 

His eyelids grew heavy, and with one last shift of the pillow, Bdubs fell asleep. 

He awoke to a dull aching sensation at the front of his skull. A pressure. He turned over, rubbing at his temples for a moment before trying to fall back to sleep. 

It wasn’t an ache anymore.

And Bdubs let out a scream. 

His hands flew to his face, clawing, trying to find the cause of this savage piercing pain. It felt as though his eyes were about to pop, his eyebrows about to rip from his face, his cheek bones about to snap in half.

He forced his hands down, giving him a chance to open his eyes. To see blood. To see bone. To see anything. 

Bdubs couldn’t open his eyes. 

Or maybe his eyes were already open, but his vision was empty. Not quite black, just empty. He couldn’t feel his muscles moving beneath the pain, unsure as to whether his eyelids were doing anything at all. 

He screamed again. This one louder than before, a wordless cry for help. 

Bdubs couldn’t think. All he knew was that he wanted whatever was causing this out of him. 

His hands came back, nails now scratching and digging. Just out. Just make it stop. 

In this blind frenzy, Bdubs noticed something. Something that, for a moment, broke through all this shrieking pain. 

His fingers were sticky and slick and warm. And feeling around, he realized that this ball-like shape that could have been nothing other than his eye, was a lot larger than it should have been. 

It was just the pain diluting his senses. Maybe it wasn’t his eye that he was feeling. Maybe his fingers were just too slick to even tell. 

Was he sobbing? Was that the source of this liquid? His whole body was shaking, curling in on itself. Everything was wet and warm and why won’t this just stop he just needed it to stop please…

Slowly, far too slowly, the pain began to dull. No longer this sweeping agony. Eventually, it ebbed to a potent ache. 

Compared to before, it was bliss. 

Bdubs became aware of how tightly he had been clutching the sheets. He unwrapped his fingers, taking a few shaking breaths, just listening to the sound, his ears ringing of his own doing. 

When he put himself together enough to open his eyes, everything was red. 

He brought his hands back to his face, trying to wipe away the… oh, yup, that was definitely blood, and a lot of it. He forced his face into the pillow, rubbing his head back and forth until it felt as clean as he was going to get it. 

Then he looked around. 

This room seemed so much larger than it had been before. Or was it smaller? He could see that lamp that he would normally have to crane his neck to view. It was light outside, but he couldn’t tell how far along the sun was from here. 

And for once, that was not his priority. 

He stood, slowly, on shaking legs, trying to ignore how much red was soaked into his bedsheets. As he made his way across the room, he grasped at the furniture for support, leaving behind bloody handprints with each step. 

A murder could have taken place in this room. 

Some deranged killer that liked to make their mark. 

Finally, Bdubs made it to a mirror. 

He wished he hadn’t made it to the mirror. 

Ignoring the caked on blood and tears, the claw marks in his skin, all those self inflicted wounds, there was something else that made things click into place. 

I wish your eyes were bigger. 

His eyes were bigger. 

Between the two of them, they took up half his face, giant pupils and irises and whites. He blinked, noticing that half second longer that the action took. When he opened again, the eyes were still there. 

Not the eyes. 

His eyes. 

Still half high on adrenaline, Bdubs made his way back to his nightstand, grabbing his comm, leaving crimson fingerprints on the device. 

<You have opened a private chat with Etho> 

<BdoubleO100> wJAT HAVE YYOU DONR TO ME!!!?!?!?  

<Etho> what are you talking about?

<Etho> is everything alright? 

<Etho> should i come over? 

<BdoubleO100 sent an image> 

<Etho> i’ll be there in two minutes

Bdubs let his comm fall to the floor, the screen was barely usable now anyway. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, and his legs came out from underneath him. And there he sat, bloodstained and shivering, until Etho arrived. 

“Bdubs? You in here?” Bdubs didn’t look up from the floor, only making a soft groaning sound in response. He could hear Etho’s footsteps as he approached. A hand came and tilted Bdubs’ chin upwards. When Bdubs looked at him, he saw that small shudder that Etho tried so desperately to hide. “Oh boy… Does it hurt?” Bdubs nodded, a small forced motion. 

Etho reached into his pocket, pulling out a cloth and beginning to wipe Bdubs’ face. Bdubs just stared off into the distance, blinking slowly. 

Then, everything came into focus in an instant. This blurry bloody haze clearing, his thoughts clearing. Bdubs batted Etho’s hand away, standing up quickly, too quickly, and backing away. 

“What did you do.” It was spoken as a statement, not a question, a stern and shattering tone. Etho stood, staring at Bdubs for a moment, stuttering. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME!?” Bdubs was screaming, his whole body shaking, his hands clenched into fists. 

Etho raised his hands in surrender. “Oh come on Bdubs, you know I would never do something like that! It was just a joke!” 

For a split second, Bdubs lurched forward, ready to tackle Etho to the ground. He caught himself, freezing, letting his shoulders relax. 

Etho took that as an opportunity. “Whatever happened, I’m sure we can fix it. I can go talk to X or Doc or someone who knows what to do okay? Can you see?”

Bdubs walked back towards Etho, letting him see his eyes. “Kinda, everything looks weird.” He blinked, tilting his head slightly. “Wrong.” He repeated the word a few times, running a hand down the side of his face. 

Etho grabbed his wrist, pulling Bdubs into an awkward hug. Bdubs couldn’t help but smile at the uncommon comfort, the motion feeling as though it stretched his face far more than it should have. “You're not some backward genie?” He forced a small laugh into his voice. 

“Not that I know of anyway.” Etho forced the same shaky giggle. 

Bdubs pulled out of the embrace, walking back over to the mirror. 

“I think…I think I like this way.” His voice was whisper quiet. 

“Huh?” Etho moved closer, trying to hear what Bdubs was saying. 

Bdubs didn’t repeat himself. Instead he stood in front of the mirror, staring at his new face, and placed a bloody hand on the glass. Instead…

“Thank you.”

The pain.

Ren could feel it as flesh that was not his own attempted to knit into his skin. This burning stretching sensation. His movements were stiff, two bodies attempting to move as one. But the bubbling at his core didn’t matter. All that mattered was through some miracle, through some freak of fate and blood, he was still here. And if Ren listened hard enough, he could hear a soft and scraping voice in the back of his mind. He could feel his lips trying to move on their own. He could feel a hand that wasn’t his scraping at skin and stretching outwards towards a blade.

Sweet, that he still wanted to protect him.

That’s what this was, right?

But then Ren saw Martyn, all of Martyn. But not the real Martyn. No, this couldn’t be what this twisted world willed into being. This empty shell with a rotten face that didn’t even seem to recognize him. Eyes, hungry, with no mind behind them.

Not him.

Couldn’t two halves make a whole?

Mind and flesh and body?

Ren listened again, to this whisper in his head, to its comforting song.

To his scream.

Everything was set, the lights hung and the fireplace crackling. Snow fell softly outside, coating the world in a sparkling white. But in here, with mugs of various steaming beverages, it was warm. All the hermits had gotten together to have a little holiday party, take a break from the busyness and take a breath in each other's company. All save for one. 

Come to think of it, no one had seen X all day. 

Maybe he was just getting some surprise ready? But this just didn’t seem like him, there was no poorly thought out excuse or sign that something was to come. They had agreed on this date a month ago! Surely X didn’t have anything else going on. Someone had told X, right? Yes, yes they had. 

So where was he? 

<GeminiTay> X? Are you coming? 

<Keralis1> Shashwam? Hello? 

<Docm77> If you don’t respond in the next minute we will send out a search party. 

<Zedaph> A very festive search party! 

X did not respond. Now everyone was starting to get a bit worried. X had a tendency to get caught up in whatever he was working on and forget to do basic things such as eating or sleeping or breathing (X had taken his helmet off one time to better fit into a tight spot in a contraption of his and Doc had to force the thing back onto him).

Search party it was. 

It didn't take long to find X hunched over his admin panel in a dark corner of his base. He didn’t seem to notice the group’s presence until Grian tapped him on the shoulder. X jerked upright, nearly bashing his head against the wall. 

“Suma, you promised you wouldn’t do this to yourself again.” Doc’s voice was stern, but understanding. 

X reluctantly tucked the panel away. “Sorry.” He stood, hand coming to rub at the back of his neck. “Why are you guys here?” 

The group all took turns exchanging glances before Zed finally spoke up. “You didn’t forget about the party did you?” He put his hands on his hips playfully. 

X’s eyes widened. “That was today wasn't it…” A few nods. 

“Is, not was.” Zed pulled a string of paper snowflakes out of his pocket. 

It was finally done. 

Well, maybe not done. Scar’s vision had certainly been a bit more… grand. But even this small thing was a victory in a place like this. It was his, despite what everyone else said, despite the lack of faith, it was his. Scar did this. He got through everything the world threw at him and did it. He reached down, running a finger down the track, a tingle of excitement making its way up his arm as he did so. 

 Not just excitement, pride. 

No matter what happened next, no one could take this away from him. Not in any way that counted. 

Scar stood, doing one last check to make sure everything was in place, everything was perfect, it would work just like it had in his dreams. Now, it was time to have some real fun. 

Now it was time to prove his worth. 

Stories.

No matter where Grian went, no matter who he talked to, he was surrounded by stories. Some were epic tales, and others were simply a taming of the breeze, but either way they still echoed through the land with every step.

And he had his own stories too. But they were always so real, not baked into the world. Did that difference even matter?

So many stories.

Seemingly, none his own.

Maybe that was for the best, last time he tried something more driven…

Yeah, this was probably for the best.

Martyn could hear his voice, in the back of his mind, echoing, thudding against his skull in time with that ever present ticking. It was above those other pointless sounds, the ones that spoke of fairness, the ones that spoke of the past like it was something to idolize.

Nothing had ever been fair.

Nothing back then had been worth idolizing.

Especially those two.

The ones that had made him a villain before he had a chance to make his own decision. The ones that forced him to become something so hollow and cruel.

No.

Martyn wasn’t going to let that happen again.

Martyn wasn’t going to let that traitor get his way.

This was a death match for a reason.

Joel had never minded the taste.

He loved the look on others’ faces, those wide eyes. It just made it taste so much sweeter. The flavour of victory.

Rumours to fear, he was never offended by the exaggerations. It was fun, this crimson game.

But now, as Joel looked down at his blade, in an empty world. A true victor. The sight of the red left an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He brought it close to his mouth, a forced smirk on his face. He stuck out his tongue.

For whatever reason, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He imagined the taste in his mind, sweet and metallic. But that only made the nausea grow.

What about this was different?

So many things.

So so many things.

Joel put down the blade, letting it fall from his fingers.

A true smile spread across his face.

“Please.”

The word was simple. Not quite a plea, but desperate. It echoed from many places, from the pain tearing at Ren’s flesh, from the voice in his mind that he could still hear if he listened hard enough.

Please just end this.

Please don’t let it be over.

He ran, each step crooked and slowed. His arms and legs that weren’t his disobedient and wild. And that voice, still screaming, still trapped in his half hearted fantasy. He fell, on his knees, on the dirt, staining the world beneath his fingers red. One hand grabbed at the other, at the seams in his chest, pressing and pulling and willing these pieces together.

Clawmarks marred this half broken form. Perhaps half was too kind a word. A voice, one from outside, from this porch he had come to die on.

Cleo. Body half made of needle thread. Pieces that made a whole. Ren begged, without words, but not silent, as he coughed and gagged and felt his lips separating and those lips began to beg for an entirely different resolution.

But Ren wouldn’t let it die.

And it seemed, by some unearthly glory, that Cleo understood. He let his arm be lifted from its place on the ground, let a needle puncture skin, though he barely felt those pricks. Whether it was the pain in his muscles that drowned it out, or the pain in his soul, he would never be sure.

But eventually, the tearing stopped. Eventually, those kind hands let go. Eventually, the tears dried.

This.

Despite the looks.

This was Ren’s happy ending.

Grian had a habit of talking to himself while he worked, saying his plans aloud had always been an easier way to think than keeping it all in his head. So as he stretched awake and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he began to mumble to himself, figuring out what needed to be done today. 

Or at least, he tried to mumble to himself. 

It was probably just due to a dry mouth, or he was still half asleep or something. But every word came out silent, no more than a scratchy breath. Grian coughed, once, twice, that didn’t help. Water, that would fix things. He stood up, forcing his legs to stop shaking, and got a glass of water, downing the whole thing in a couple of seconds. 

He tried again. It was better now, he could make a noise, a scratching wheezing groaning sound. Was this better? He focused carefully on the process, on the position of his tongue and the shape of his lips. Wait, where was his tongue supposed to be again? It moved wildly in his mouth, changing the tone of this groan, but doing little to make it sound more like language. He was just getting in his head about it, that had to be the problem, if he just relaxed, let muscle memory take the wheel… 

Now Grian was starting to panic. 

He reached for his comm, fumbling it and letting it fall to the ground with a sickening crack. He kneeled down, inspecting the damage. A large crack spidered out across the screen. His hands were shaking too much to type, and instead, he called Mumbo. He realized almost immediately how bad of an idea that was considering his situation, but hopefully Mumbo would figure it out. 

“Hey Dude. Hello? Can you hear me?” 

Grian began to make as loud of a groaning sound as he could, but as he did so, he could feel something click into place in the back of his mind. His lips began to move and the sound morphed until… “Hear! Hear!” It was a voice that was not his own, the words nearly perfectly mimicking how Mumbo had spoken them. 

“Is that you? Are you alright?” 

Grian tried again to speak, to ask for help, but the words got lost on his tongue. Instead, what came out was a jumble of words in Mumbo’s voice. “Dude! Me! Is me alright?” 

“That’s what I just asked you! Why do you sound like me? Where are you? I’m coming over.” 

Grian made a sickening realization, the pattern starting to click. The words that he was able to say were the ones that Mumbo had spoken to him. How was he supposed to tell Mumbo where he was? “Me! Coming me! I’m hear!”  

“Where is here?” 

“Me here! Is me!” Grian repeated the words over and over again, praying that Mumbo would understand. Tears began to roll down his cheeks, but they did nothing to affect his speech. 

“What’s going on G? You’re scaring me.” 

“G here! I’m scaring!” Grian’s legs gave out from under him, the impact bruising his knees. There had to be some other way! He just needed to get Mumbo here and then they would be able to figure this out together and everything would be better. 

“Where is here!?” 

“Here! Here! I’m here!” Mumbo had to be getting it by now. Right? There had to be some way he could tell him. 

Just tell him. 

“Just tell me where you are and I can come and help!” 

Just get help. 

“Help! Help! Help! Help!” Over and over, each word mirroring the last, a futile echo. 

Grian hung up the phone. 

“Are you alright up here?” Jimmy made his way to the roof of the ranch, Tango had been up there alone for a few hours now. Jimmy knew he needed some personal space every once and a while, but now Jimmy was starting to get worried. He found Tango sitting with his knees to his chest, his body shaking slightly. Without another thought, Jimmy rushed over to him, wrapping his arms around Tango and squeezing. Tango’s body stiffened, but soon half relaxed into the hug. Only half. 

Jimmy only pulled him in closer, noticing how Tango had angled himself to keep his face as far away from Jimmy as he could. Jimmy turned his attention to the flame atop Tango’s head, usually a good indicator of how Tango was feeling, despite Tango’s attempts to convince him otherwise. The flame was low, barely flickering. 

A clear sign of a very sad Tango. 

But why was Tango trying to keep his head away from him? He only ever does something like this when he’s too consumed by rage, that flame burning bright and hot. And even then, Jimmy didn’t care about getting burnt as much as Tango cared about not burning him. 

But a little flame like this? 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jimmy tried to nestle his chin into the crook of Tango’s neck, but Tango pulled away. 

“No.” Tango’s voice spoke of tears. Jimmy reached out an arm, trying to wipe Tango’s face from behind. “No!” Tango jumped up, nearly knocking Jimmy off the roof. 

Jimmy righted himself. “Sorry!” He couldn’t help but notice how Tango’s tail was tucked between his legs. “How can I help?” 

Tango didn’t respond, just seeming to fold in on himself even more. 

“Why do you not want me to see your face?” Jimmy moved closer to Tango. 

“I-It’s not that.” Slowly, Tango turned, revealing a face that was puffy and red. “I don’t want to hurt you.” For a moment, Jimmy was confused by those words until he noticed that Tango’s tears were glowing a molten orange. 

Before Jimmy could talk himself out of it, he walked up to Tango, taking one of his fingers and using it to wipe one of those tears from Tango’s cheek. Tango flinched more from the pain than Jimmy did. 

And within the same moment, Tango let the floodgates open, falling onto Jimmy as he sobbed. Jimmy wrapped his arms around him once again, holding in his own tears as molten tracks flowed down his back and shoulders. 

Tango gripped onto him even harder. 

“You need to learn your lesson” 

Grian repeated the words over and over again, seeming to talk to himself more than he was talking to Mumbo. Mumbo was frozen in place, eyes darting between Jimmy’s still body and Grian’s blood soaked blade. 

All of a sudden, Grian was on top of him, palms digging into Mumbo’s shoulders, pressing him into the dirt. Mumbo blinked up at him, at those wild eyes that he had only seen once before.

When they had been in each other’s shoes. 

Now, Mumbo understood. He understood that pain, he understood that desperation. And in that blurry desperation, Mumbo wiggled his arm out from under Grian, grabbing his blade and pointing the tip at Grian’s chest, though not quite touching it. 

“You know,” Mumbo nearly laughed as he spoke. “There’s a way…” he was cut off by Grian knocking the sword from his grip, tossing it out of reach of either of them. 

“You need to learn your lesson.” Grian was crying now. Had he always been crying? Grian took his own blade, pressing the tip against Mumbo’s neck. 

Mumbo didn’t struggle. He could feel Jimmy’s blood, still warm, dripping from the blade. He let out a shaky breath, preparing himself for the inevitable. Grian pressed the blade a little harder, now breaking skin. Again, he repeated those words, whether justification or some distorted apology Mumbo couldn’t tell. 

But either way, in that moment, Mumbo forgave him. 

Because he knew now. He understood those eyes. And if he could have gone back in time, done things differently that day, he liked to think he would have. 

Not that it mattered now. 

The blade pressed deeper. Almost instinctively, Mumbo began to struggle, to fight against Grian’s hold and pressure. If anything, that just made the blade sink even further. His body relaxed, bleary eyed. 

Blood dribbled from his lips as he spoke his final words. Words that he knew couldn’t save him now. Words that spoke of when everything went wrong. Words that spoke of change and opportunity that both of them knew never truly existed. 

“There was a way we could have still been friends.” 

It was weird, seeing him again, like this, so different. And, supposedly, better. Grian couldn’t stop his mind from wandering, from wondering. What would it have been like, to live in that world? What, truly, had gone differently? Would there still have been the same fight, just with everyone on opposite sides. Or, since that motivation would have been gone, would there have been a fight at all? If one removed the spark, removed him, could there still be a fire? 

And, which would be better? Would it be better to think that things had been inevitable, or better to think that things could have been better? And were better, somewhere. And why did the thought of better things only make him feel more guilty? 

All he had to go off of was one stupid piece of paper. One damning sentence. One promise, that no matter what else changed, one thing would stay the same. 

MY GRIAN WAS SORRY TOO

What was that supposed to mean? How was Grian just supposed to accept that and move on? And why did he feel the need to apologize for some unknown crime that he didn’t even commit? 

Maybe he was just starting to lose it, spending so much time in this cave, staring at this machine that echoed of someone he missed so dearly. He knew that this machine was not truly his, not in the way that mattered. 

This was not his son. 

But, and maybe it was just all those purely mechanical similarities, he could see his Grumbot within this new frame. Somehow, that broke his heart even more, knowing that still, somewhere, he was rusting away in that empty fantasy. 

But that had been the best thing they could have done, and it wasn’t like he was ever going to find out now anyway. 

It was just a glitch, the fact that sometimes this new Grumbot would beep, with nothing to say, as though he was talking to himself. And how sometimes, he would get mad at Grian for seemingly no reason at all. And how every once and a while, a message would come that seemed written in a slightly different voice, and more familiar voice. 

And Grian wanted so desperately to apologize to someone that he would never see again. 

He turned around, to the pulsing purple gash in the stone behind him. In his mind, he said no, and then he said yes. No. Yes. Yes. No. No. No. No. 

Yes. 

Grian took a deep breath as he gently pressed his palm against its surface. A crack, snaking upwards and out and into the rock and causing the ground beneath his feet to rumble and breaking the glass surface and letting his hand sink into the shattered remains. When, instinctually, Grian pulled his hand back out, it appeared unfocused, shifting slightly in the air. 

Without allowing himself time to think, Grian ran full force into the swirling violet, the colour broken up slightly with drops and streaks of crimson. He could feel parts of himself beginning to dissolve, this numbing sting. 

And little did he know, his apology had already been heard. 

And he would never be forgiven. 

It was just the fog. It was getting to him. BigB just needed a bit more sleep, that was all. It was the stress, of course it was getting a little harder to tell which shadows were real. Just adrenaline, natural paranoia, perfectly warranted. 

Nothing to worry about. 

It was just the dry air, making his skin rough like this. He was getting used to the darkness that hung over this place, that’s why it was easier to see, that was the source of this glow. The stiffness in his limbs was nothing, just exhaustion. 

Everything was fine. 

All of this was just an illusion, panicked in the dark, perfectly explainable with a bit of reason. Nothing worth thinking about for more than a second. 

BigB had plenty of experience with illusions. 

He knew how to use them to his advantage. 

He knew how unsettling false reality could be to those who couldn’t see the paint and scaffolding. He knew how to sink into those quick breaths, how to lean into that fear. He knew how to use it as a shield. 

Because he could see the paint, still half wet. 

He could see past that instinct to survive, past those quick conclusions, past that attempt to cope. To be honest, he was surprised he seemed to be the only one. But if everyone else saw bark where there was just dryness, then why would he break that illusion? 

Afterall, no one wanted to mess with the monster in the woods. 

BigB didn’t mind being that monster. 

Because he knew that he wasn’t. He knew that it wasn’t real. He knew it was just an act. 

It wasn’t his fault they got lost in such a small place. 

He should be proud of himself, this was his best trick yet. It was so good that sometimes, when he would see his reflection in the water, even he could see this glowing eye that the others spoke of. 

But of course, he knew it was just an illusion. 

BigB knew the truth. 

He had gotten so good at pretending that he could feel when someone was looking at him, he could feel those eyes like they were stabbing into him. And he didn’t even have to think about stiffening up, it happened automatically now. He was giving Ren a run for his money. 

And if he had a hard time moving under gaze, that was just the act, so believable it had been ingrained into his mind. 

It was just the ripples in the water making all those crooked shapes. 

Just a trick. 

He was in control. 

If there was one thing he could trust in this wild world, it was that, it was himself. 

Surely he was trustworthy. 

Just a little longer. 

X was familiar with those words. Whenever a worried message came through, or an even more worried head popped in the door, those words were X’s excuse. And he was fine with it, it was just his responsibility. It came with the role. 

The others didn’t understand what it took to keep them all safe. 

So X would stay awake all night making sure they could sleep. X would stay by his panel so they had freedom. 

X jolted awake. How long ago had he drifted off? How many things had broken in that time? He pinched himself a couple of times, hoping the pain would be enough to keep himself from sleep. 

He couldn’t rest. 

He had to keep working. 

He didn’t have a choice. 

Just a little longer. 

His fingers were sore, his body stiff, but he could work through it. He had to work through it. Short breaths, not letting himself relax, trying to trick his mind into staying alert. 

Just a little longer. 

And a little more after that. 

And after that. 

“Why?” The figure before X cocked its head, the motion strikingly similar to that of a dog. Though he could not see its eyes through the crimson glass, X could feel them boring into him. And that voice. Distorted, empty of any true emotion. 

X forced himself to take a breath. “Because, this was the right thing to do.” 

In an instant, the figure, a near perfect clone of himself, darted forward in one fluid motion, using one finger to raise X’s chin. Still, its head was tilted, a caricature of robotic curiosity. “What gives you the right to decide right from wrong?” It dropped X’s chin, the glass of its helmet right up against the glass of X’s own. “Morality is such a fickle thing, or so I have been told.” The scarlet glass glowed. Finally, it straightened its head as it took a step back, each movement just a little too large, or a little too small. 

Uncanny. 

X tried to thaw the fear in his bones, straightening his own posture, forcing the nausea in his stomach to settle down. This figure, this creature was not a perfect clone, it was hollow in all the places that mattered, fractured and stitched. X swallowed hard. “What happened to you?” 

Those words froze the figure in its tracks, its hands dropping to its sides, limp. Soon, it regained itself. “Nothing I’m sure, that you are not already familiar with.” It paused, then leaned in. “Personally.” Another pause, as if waiting to judge X’s reaction. A reaction that was, outwardly at least, minimal. Once again, it raised a finger, this time tracing the seams of X’s helmet. With its other hand, it traced the seams of its own. The glass glowed again. X stepped back, swatting the hand away. 

At this, the figure drooped, disappointed. “I expected more from you. Certainly some intelligence comes from simply being born.” It brought the swatted hand to its chest, pretending to nurse it.  

Finally, X had enough. “What are you talking about?” 

It laughed, a distorted, humourless, laugh. The noise seemed disconnected from the body that was making it. “I guess there is a certain innocence that I did not account for.” It hummed. “You really do not know, do you?” It was an accusation, not a question. 

In return, X distorted his own message into one of blame. “What happened to you? Who are you?” 

Under that helmet, X wouldn’t be surprised if it had smiled. “Who am I?” It laughed again, that broken staticky sound. It lunged, its face a fraction from X’s. 

“I am you.”

It jumped back, nearly pushing X away as it did so. Then, in the same breath, it changed its mind, pressing forward again and grabbing X by the neck. X, instinctively, kicked out, trying to free himself. The hold was released, but X had a suspicion it had nothing to do with his efforts. 

“I am what you were supposed to be, what you were made for. To be honest, I’m disappointed.” It moved its head up and down, examining him. “You are soft.” Again, a pause. 

“And you can stop referring to me as ‘it.’ I prefer they.” It, no, they, waved a hand dismissively. 

X froze, he could feel his mind buffering. “How did you… what did you…?” He tried to shut down his thoughts, could they read his mind? 

The head tilt. “Oh this?” They raised a hand, a small bolt of lightning shot between their thumb and pointer finger. “This is what you could have had, if you weren’t weak.” Before X had a chance to respond, another bolt came, this one directed at him. 

Pain, burning and sharp, exploded through every vein. X’s legs gave out from under him, his vision blurring. He heard footsteps, slow and heavy. The sound was nearly above him now. “Oh you poor sweet thing.” A finger came and forced his chin upwards. 

“You could have been so much more.” 

Tango felt a sharp pain in his chest. He looked down, seeing blood trickle from a wound that he himself had not opened. He pressed his hands against it, trying to stop the bleeding, doing whatever he could to aid the cut’s mirror. A punch in his gut, sending Tango to his knees, coughing. He called out, though he wasn’t sure who he was expecting to hear him. 

It always happened this way didn't it? 

Alone. 

Pointless. 

No. This wasn’t going to be the end. It couldn’t be the end. Tango’s hands continued to scramble at his chest. There were more cuts now, larger ones, and his hands were slippery. And the pain, it tore at him every which way. His knees weren’t enough anymore, Tango was just lying on the stone, curled in on himself. Maybe if he curled tight enough, it would keep all his organs where they were supposed to be. Maybe it would keep the blood in. 

Maybe they could survive this. Whatever this was. 

More gashes, and Tango couldn’t see his skin anymore. Red. Everything was red. His vision blurred dark, his screams unheard by the wind. Choking, more crimson spilling up from his lips with each heave. 

And a single thought pierced through the pain. 

Jimmy was out there somewhere, bleeding like this, being torn apart alone. Tango hugged himself even tighter, hoping that Jimmy could feel it, hoping that Jimmy could hear his silent apology. 

I’m sorry I’m not there for you. I’m sorry I broke that promise. 

Everything was warm and sticky. Tango could feel the life draining from him with every heartbeat. 

I’m so so sorry. 

This was far from Scott’s first time in this library. In fact, it was around his fourth time this week alone. It was, however, his first time in this particular section of the library. It was a dark little corner, and he could feel the judgment of the librarian boring into him as he walked towards it. In part, he understood it. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be seen in a five foot radius of the place.

Safe to say, these were not normal circumstances, and Scott was far closer than five feet.

He carefully blew the dust off the first book that caught his eye, the cover adorned with an intricate skull and the title simply “Altering Death.” Perfect, just what he had been looking for. Scott glared at the librarian before opening the book, sending another plume of dust up into the air. He ran his fingers over the page, and as he did, he could feel a gentle thrumming at his fingertips. It was as if he could feel the power within the paper.

It was as if this book were meant for him.

He flipped through a couple more pages, skimming each one until he found what he wanted. He used a finger to trace the diagram, and as he did so, he could have sworn the words began to shift. A hard blink, he must just be seeing things.

No, he wasn’t seeing things, the words were moving beneath his finger. He watched, frozen, as they not only moved on the page, but began to climb up his finger, twisting around his arm, sinking into his skin.

Scott couldn’t move. No, he could move, he just didn’t want to. He was transfixed on this inky dance. And he could feel it, this intoxicating thrumming power as it flowed through him.

This.

This was what he had been looking for.

This was going to fix things.

He took a breath, and only then realized that he hadn’t been breathing since he turned the page. The words, it seemed, were content with their new place on his skin, leaving the page blank.

Somehow, Scott knew he didn’t need that book anymore.

But it was then that he remembered he was not alone, and that the librarian was likely still staring at him. Scott turned. He was correct. Quickly, Scott shut the book and walked out of the library.

Scott had a sinking feeling he wouldn’t be welcome in that library again.

He made his way through the streets towards home, but he couldn’t help but notice all those hostile glares he got on his way. Scott looked down at his arms, at those shifting words in his skin.

He didn’t bother going back home, instead, he spun on his heels and made for the edge of town.

It was fine. They didn’t understand his pain. They didn’t understand why he was doing this.

Scott could deal with the cold.

“Bdubs? Are you in here?” A voice came from somewhere a room over. Bdubs groaned slightly, he really wasn’t in the mood to ‘people’ at the moment. The past week the sky had been nothing but grey and dark and storming, barely any sunlight making it to the earth. The plants in his garden had begun to protest, along with the pots by the window. And it seemed, Bdubs’ own body was just as unhappy. He tried to roll over to see the doorway, but he couldn’t muster the energy.

The voice was getting closer. “Bdubs? Hello? No one’s heard from you in days.” At the tail end of that sentence, the voice became clear. “Bdubs! Are you alright?” A hand came to rest on his forehead. Bdubs tried to bat it away, but his arm didn’t leave the mattress. The voice laughed. “Have you really been asleep this whole time?” Bdubs shook his head ever so slightly.

The laughter stopped. “What happened? Are you okay?” The hand on his forehead moved to mess with the sheets. The fog in Bdubs’ mind cleared slightly, just enough to recognize the voice fussing over him.

“Eeeeee…o.” Bdubs tried to call out Etho’s name, but his voice gave up on him.

“That’s right, I’m here.” Bdubs’s hair was ruffled through. “Did you get hit in the head?”

Right, Etho was trying to help him. Bdubs didn’t get much further down that thought process. It felt like there was something he was supposed to be doing. What was it? Tell. Tell Etho what was wrong. Tell Etho how to help.

“Ssssssssssssssnnnnnnnnnnnnn.” The sound was more akin to a groan than a word. “Sssseeee uuuunnnnn.” No more than a whisper.

Etho’s hand stopped moving. “You're gonna have to speak up.”

Bdubs tried again, this time nothing came out. Again. “Sssssssss…”

“That’s it, you can do it.” Etho’s hand was moving again, comforting circles on Bdubs’ back. “Starts with an S?”

“Uuuuuunnnnnn.” Slightly louder this time, but still wobbly.

“Sun! Is that it? Sun?” Etho’s hand squeezed gently. Bdubs tried to nod, he barely moved. “I’ll be right back.” Etho’s touch left.

Bdubs just laid there, waiting, sore from those small motions he had managed. His thoughts began to fade away from him again, unfocused. There was a reason he was stuck here, what was it?

A voice came from somewhere nearby. “You can be mad at me for this later, but don’t forget I helped you.” Bdubs barely had a chance to process those words before there was a loud crunching, cracking sound. He curled in on himself as much as he could, trying to get away from the horrible noise. It kept hammering, relentless.

He managed to open his eyes slightly. Something was different. What was it? Brighter. The room was brighter than it had been before. The banging stopped. “How’s that? More?” Was the voice talking to him?

Bdubs nodded, the motion bigger and more vigorous. He could feel the energy beginning to seep into his skin and bones. The crashing started up again, every thud letting just a bit more light into the room. Bdubs stretched out, trying to soak up as much of it as he could.

The voice laughed slightly. The world came into better focus, shapes unbluring. Etho. That was the source of the voice. Bdubs slowly began to sit up, blinking hard. Etho had said something about being mad before. Why would he be mad at all this light?

Oh.

“Etho! What did you do to my wall?!”

Impulse had no idea how he had gotten in this situation. It was fairly common knowledge that demons had the ability to possess others, but Impulse just… hadn’t. If he was being entirely honest with himself, he had forgotten that was even something he could do. But now, as he walked back to the Deep Frost Citadel…

Back? Why was he going this way? He had already bugged Tango enough this past week. Impulse looked down at his hands.

Those weren’t his claws. And his skin certainly wasn’t this pale. And what were these sleeves? They were so thick and oversized.

This wasn’t his body.

Where was his body? And why was that his first thought and not why was he currently inside Tango? That worry was a close second though. But still, his body, Tango’s body? Moved towards the citadel as if on autopilot. Impulse it seemed, was just along for the ride.

The more aware of his situation he became, the more aware of Tango’s senses he became. He became aware of the thick robe rubbing against skin. He became aware of the scent of pine and ash in the air. But most overwhelming of all, Impulse became aware of the heat. It was all encompassing, as if his bones were made of fire.

Well, this was Tango’s body.

After quite the struggle, Impulse managed to move these limbs enough to get the robe off, but that did nothing to help with this suffocating feeling. And Tango’s body wasn’t sweating, even the dull hum of flame above was just that, a dull hum, not the inferno that Impulse was sure was squeezing him dry.

Relief. Once he made it into the Citadel, an icy chill wrapped around him. Impulse sank into it, finally free from this melting torture. But then, within mere moments, the chill grew. It grew and stabbed and froze until all that fire was replaced by solid ice. All his efforts at conscious movement seized up.

Suddenly Impulse would give anything for that robe he had thrown away.

“Oh come on Etho, you can do better than that!” Gem’s voice was one of gentle teasing, but the words still dig into Etho’s chest all the same. He pressed his palms into the dirt, his arms shaking under his own weight as he attempted to right himself. They gave out from under him, his face dropping back to the ground, only making the headache pressing at the back of his eyes worsen. He groaned, trying once again, this time managing to make it to his feet. Gem smiled at him playfully, tossing his wooden sword back to him. Etho fumbled to grab it, only adding to the bloodstains on the ‘fake’ weapon.

His blood.

He wiped his forehead with the back of a gloved hand, moving his feet into something resembling a fighting stance before giving Gem a small nod. She began her approach, keeping her own sword close to her body in contrast to Etho who had his sword arm stretched out far in front of him, as if hoping Gem would just impale herself out of kindness.

Instead, Gem leapt forward, punching the pommel of her sword into Etho’s stomach, causing him to double over and drop his blade. When Etho looked up again, he found the tip of Gem’s sword pressed against his throat.

“I win!” The words were cheerful as Gem pulled away, smiling. “At this point, I might have to find someone else to spar with. You really are washed up.” She cocked her head slightly, laughing at her own joke.

Etho retrieved his own sword, trying to catch his breath. Since when had it been so hard to breathe? His hands came to grab at his throat, half coughing half choking. Gem finally seemed to notice. “Are you alright?” Concern, but still half teasing.

As Etho’s vision began to darken, Gem closed the distance between them. And, in one swift yet gentle motion, took a finger and pulled down Etho’s mask, patting him on the back with her other hand. At first, Etho barely noticed other than being grateful for the sudden rush of fresh air. Something flew out of his mouth, and once Etho could fully see again, he couldn’t help but cringe at the new glob of blood on the ground.

“There you go, that’s better.” Gem continued to pat him on the back, talking to him as one would a baby. Instinctually, Etho reached up to adjust his mask, only for his hands to be met with skin, not fabric. He scrambled to pull it back up, scratching his cheek as he did so, gripping the fabric like he was holding on for dear life.

Still holding the mask onto his face, Etho turned around, only to find Gem smiling behind him. Despite his exhaustion, through the sweat and blood and pain and aching, Etho’s eyes spoke of murder. Gem either didn’t realize, or chose to ignore the source of his anger.

“That’s the fight I’ve been waiting for! You ready to go again?”

“Etho? Are you even listening to me?” Bdubs snapped his head around, ready to glare. However, Etho was looking at him with true interest in his eyes, and nodded at Bdubs’ question. Bdubs laughed under his breath. “It wouldn’t kill you to say something every once and a while, you know.” He meant it as a joke, but Etho’s eyes changed to hold something akin to fear. Still, he simply nodded. Bdubs put his hands on his hips. “Are you alright? You can tell me anything.” 

Etho curled in on himself a little bit as he nodded once again, this time more vigorously. And this time, Bdubs noticed, the motion was accompanied by a wince that Etho tried desperately to hide. Bdubs came to sit next to him. “Okay, that’s it, something’s wrong. Are you hurt? I can go grab some bandages…” He was cut off by Etho shaking his head adamantly. 

Bdubs gave him that glare he had been holding in. “Etho.” His voice was like that of a stern parent. “Tell me what’s wrong.” Etho made a small grunting noise and shook his head again, though this time it was a movement of resignation. Bdubs finally understood. “Did something happen to your mouth? Your jaw?” Etho simply made another groaning sound and pointed to his mask. He brought his knees to his chest, not fully meeting Bdubs’ eyes. 

And Bdubs knew why. He knew how touchy Etho was about the subject. He, or anyone he knew for that matter, had never once seen Etho without his mask on. But now as Bdubs’ attention was directed towards the piece of fabric, he noticed how it was slightly darker in places, taking on a reddish hue. “I can get the bandages and leave the room if you want or…” Bdubs’ voice wavered as he spoke, eventually falling victim to the tension as it trailed off. 

However, at that idea, Etho shook his head once again. Bdubs tried to hide his confusion. How bad was this mystery injury? Did Etho not think he could do it himself? What were they supposed to do about it if… 

A tap on his shoulder, bringing Bdubs out of his thoughts. Etho kept one hand on Bdubs’ shoulder, squeezing tightly, as the other began to, slowly, reach for his mask. Bdubs’ eyes went wide. “Are you sure?” Etho didn’t respond, only hooking a finger over the top of the fabric. It was slow going, whether due to the pain, or Etho’s reservations about the action, Bdubs wasn’t sure. Likely a combination of both. Bdubs forced himself to maintain a compassionate smile despite the gore being revealed. 

And gore it was, Etho’s lips were bloodied, his jaw hanging in a manner that made Bdubs think it might be dislocated, and a sizable piece of his cheek was entirely missing. It was impossible to keep a straight face, no matter how hard Bdubs tried, and he could see his shortcoming in Etho’s expression. “Here. Let me get a cloth and some water.” Bdubs stood, nearly running into the other room, not trusting his stomach to keep its contents for much longer. 

He prayed Etho couldn’t hear his vomiting. 

Bdubs tried to get a hold of himself. Etho had just put so much trust in him, and what was he doing with it? Emptying it out into a bucket. Bdubs returned to Etho with a different bucket full of water and a couple of cloths. 

“Try to stay still for me?” Bdubs winced at his own request, imagining how much pain Etho must be in. Carefully, Bdubs began to wipe away the blood, cleaning the wounds. As more of Etho’s face was revealed, Bdubs’ expression softened. Subconsciously, he had always imagined Etho’s face as something grotesque and disfigured, something worthy of being hidden. But, despite its current state, Bdubs saw nothing to hint at such an explanation, no scar tissue or strange appendages. Just a very human face, with a very dislocated jaw. 

Bdubs set down the cloth. “I’m gonna have to get that jaw back into place.” Etho’s eyes widened for a moment before he nodded slowly. Bdubs wiped the crimson that had bled in the time it took him to say that sentence. Then, he put one hand behind Etho’s head, and gently grabbed his jaw with the other. “On the count of three. One. Two.” The pair both braced themselves. “Three.” Bdubs pushed Etho’s jaw back into place, receiving the first true sound of pain from Etho. Bdubs put his hands up. “All done!” He grabbed the bandages, wrapping Etho’s jaw to keep it in place, and cheek. 

When he was finally done. He sat back, unease sinking back into him. “Etho?” He looked up. “Thank you for trusting me.” 

At those words, Etho gave as much of a smile as he could manage, which was next to nothing. Still, to Bdubs it was beautiful. 

And Bdubs was going to dangle this over everyone else’s head for all of eternity. With Etho’s permission of course. 

“Don’t you ever wonder what would have happened, if things had gone differently? That first time?” Martyn’s voice was absent minded, as if he hadn’t just asked a question that sent a bolt through Ren’s heart.

Ren tried to match his tone. “What kind of different?” At the same moment that last word left his tongue, a flash echoed from somewhere deep in his mind. A flash, in which, just before the axe fell, Ren had said that word in something close to wonder.

Martyn kicked out his legs, then he shrugged. “Just different, less…” He met Ren’s gaze, hesitantly. And in those eyes, there was a look halfway between shame and horror.

And within those eyes, Ren found the rest of Martyn’s sentence.

“Yes, sometimes.” Not sometimes, too many times, too many nightmares, too many checks for his own pulse, too many breaks. Ren turned away. “Where we would be, if I hadn’t.”

“No! That’s not what I… That’s not why I…” The certainty in Martyn’s words crumbled the longer he spoke.

Ren curled in on himself even further. “You don’t have to pretend with me, we both know what you meant.”

“Don’t have to pretend?” Martyn echoed the words, soft, hopeful, sad. “Weren’t we always pretending?” Hopeful, empty, knowing.

Ren rubbed at his neck. He didn’t answer Martyn’s question. He knew they both knew the answer. He knew they stopped lying the moment blood stained the stone. He knew it became real the moment they raised that first banner that didn’t come from poppies. He knew it, in those quiet moments, when the haze cleared just for a fraction he knew.

Ren knew what he had become.

Martyn knew it too.

“Theater.” What Ren meant, neither of them were sure.

“Theater.” Martyn echoed the word.

“Because I’m me!” Grian shouted the words with a deep and primal anger. Not at Jimmy, no, he had every right to be mad for what Grian had done. No, that anger was directed solely at himself.

Jimmy was running at him full speed, sword in hand, intent on full display. Grian let himself be pushed to the ground, let that sword come to rest against his neck. He leaned into the blade slightly. “Because I’m me.” The words were soft, a single tear sliding down Grian’s face.

It was a truth he had come to expect from himself. And he had tried this time, he had tried to keep himself away so he couldn’t hurt. He hadn’t tried hard enough. He got caught up in the moment, that was his problem. He didn’t care to think about the consequences. And when he did, he found himself wanting. He found himself craving that blood, anything to put a barrier between himself and the pressure.

And here he was, having done it again, for no reason other than the fact that Grian was Grian.

An inevitability.

Jimmy’s blade hung above Grian’s neck, Jimmy’s expression falling at those pained words. “I-I need my time back.” It was stated as a fact, a hint of regret trailing the single drop of blood beading on Grian’s throat.

Grian reached up a hand, grabbing Jimmy’s sword by the blade and holding tight. Blood dripped from his fist. But he didn’t push the weapon away, only stopping it from going any further. Jimmy’s eyes went wide as he tried to pull away, Grian didn’t let him.

“I can’t let you.”

Because Grian was selfish. He deserved the pain, he deserved to give what he had so impulsively taken. That tick tock tick tock tick that echoed softly in the background had never sounded so loud, pounding in time with his heartbeat. He squeezed harder, watching as crimson dripped down.

And then, in one sudden motion, Grian shoved Jimmy aside and stood, slashing his own arm in the process. Everything was red, so many different shades in so many different ways.

“Because I’m me.”

This time, as Grian walked away, those words were a threat.

Grian could feel it, this, pulsing, at the back of his neck. It was probably just the stress of this whole thing, just some weird headache. Yes, it was definitely a headache, the pulsing had begun to ache and hurt, spreading up further into his skull. Were headaches supposed to flow into his spine? Probably, nerves and all that. Nothing to worry about. 

His headache was gone now, replaced by a cramping in his stomach. He probably just ate something off, some of the mycelium having gotten into his food or something. Just drink a bit more water. Nothing to worry about. 

It was just the lighting, this purplish tinge to his skin, the dry air causing this change in texture. And the stiffness in his bones? Nothing to worry about. 

Grian couldn’t feel anything anymore besides the pulsing. It consumed him. He lay on the ground, the last of his vision blurring. He twisted his head to the side, the effort at though he ripped it from the dirt. His arm sunk into the grass, thinning and disappearing into fungus. That imaging was quickly gone, removed from his foggy mind. He tried to open his mouth to scream, but he was silent. The pulsing sunk further and deeper, lower than he thought he body was. 

One last thought crossed his mind before everything went dark. 

This might be something to worry about. 

“Mumbo, look at me. Just breathe.” Grian took a step closer, keeping his hands up. Mumbo sat on his knees in front of him, a cloud of glowing eyes phasing in and out of reality around him, body shaking and fuzzy.

A sound came from Mumbo, some attempt at language. A pulse of energy shook the ground, knocking Grian off his feet. “I know, I know, the world is really bright right now.” He kept his voice low. “There’s only one way I know to help you, and it’s not going to be fun for either of us.” He was back on his feet, taking another small step closer.

Mumbo let out an otherworldly shriek, parts of his body moving independently from the rest in quick vibrations. Grian closed his eyes, letting his senses melt away, opening his Eyes. He spoke, but not with his mouth, and not in a language that Mumbo understood, but one that he hoped was comforting nonetheless. “╎ℸ ̣ 'ᓭ 𝙹ꖌᔑ||, ||𝙹⚍ ᓵᔑリ ↸𝙹 ℸ ̣ ⍑╎ᓭ.”

Grian brought his hands back into sight, gently grabbing Mumbo’s. Mumbo shied away from the touch, another pulse, this time taking away Grian’s vision for a moment. “╎ℸ ̣ 'ᓭ 𝙹ꖌᔑ||, ∴ᒷ ᔑ∷ᒷ ᔑꖎᒲ𝙹ᓭℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ∷ᒷ.” Grian braced himself, guiding Mumbo, slowly, towards the one place he knew would help. This close, Grian could feel Mumbo’s pain, his panic. Grian took it into himself, easing Mumbo’s distress. “ℸ ̣ ⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ’ᓭ ╎ℸ ̣ , ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ∷ᒷ ||𝙹⚍ ⊣𝙹.”

They were almost there, almost to the mouth of the Boatem Hole. Almost to the dark. Grian struggled to maintain his grip. With one last push, Grian threw Mumbo over the edge, watching as the purple glow faded into the void.

When Mumbo was ready, he would come back up. That’s how Grian had learned to deal with his new form, with how bright and overwhelming the world was at first. That was what Mumbo needed right now. That was what was going to help. That was the only way.

It only took Grian a few hundred years.

Alone.

For the best.

Grian smiled, that first time his wrist buzzed. He giggled while everyone else panicked. This. This was one he had been looking forward to. So many other things had been rushed. So many other things were simply to appease.

But this. This was his.

He had spent long nights making plans, slowly carving flesh into the perfect shape, taking a paintbrush to shell.

This. This was perfect.

He used a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, looking out over the horizon, searching. For his creation. And there he was.

Beautiful.

Dangerous.

Fun.

To be entirely fair, when he had originally thought of this idea, he had not expected it to be this… successful. He had hoped, somewhere deep down, that those cute faces would ease the pain. But somehow, they just made things worse, more menacing.

There was nothing worse than being cornered by your own creation.

To know that you, and only you, are to blame.

Every aspect of this situation bared your hand.

Grian was the only one who bore responsibility. And still, he laughed. Because it was better to laugh than to cry. Because it was funny, so painfully funny, how absurd this whole thing was.

And as that little squeak echoed in his ears, as he felt that burning pain ooze over his skin, as he fell to the stone, Grian stopped laughing.

Grian smiled, that first time his wrist buzzed. He giggled while everyone else panicked. This. This was one he had been looking forward to. So many other things had been rushed. So many other things were simply to appease.

But this. This was his.

He had spent long nights making plans, slowly carving flesh into the perfect shape, taking a paintbrush to shell.

This. This was perfect.

He used a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, looking out over the horizon, searching. For his creation. And there he was.

Beautiful.

Dangerous.

Fun.

To be entirely fair, when he had originally thought of this idea, he had not expected it to be this… successful. He had hoped, somewhere deep down, that those cute faces would ease the pain. But somehow, they just made things worse, more menacing.

There was nothing worse than being cornered by your own creation.

To know that you, and only you, are to blame.

Every aspect of this situation bared your hand.

Grian was the only one who bore responsibility. And still, he laughed. Because it was better to laugh than to cry. Because it was funny, so painfully funny, how absurd this whole thing was.

And as that little squeak echoed in his ears, as he felt that burning pain ooze over his skin, as he fell to the stone, Grian stopped laughing.

“Please.” Scott looked up at Gem, his eyes beginning to water. He guided the sword in Gem’s shaking hands to press against his chest.

Gem pulled the sword away. “No! Scott, stand up! I won’t let you do this to yourself!”

Scott dipped his head, not moving from his position on his knees. “You deserve this so much more. This is the only way.” He grabbed for the sword again, hands squeezing the blade as he drew it close, crimson starting to drip. “You deserve to have a better chance.”

“Scott! I can’t!” Tears leaked from her eyes, but this time, she didn’t pull away.

Scott smiled, a true, warm smile, but the rest of his expression sunk with guilt. He didn’t have the courage to tell Gem the truth.

That he was doing this for himself.

And as he forced the blade tip against his chest again, he couldn’t stop thinking about how selfish he was being, putting Gem through this pain. All so he wouldn’t have to see her heart stop.

He just couldn’t do that again.

Too many long nights at a grave.

Too many bodies he never got to bury.

“Please.” Scott repeated the word, more insistent this time. He tried to push the sword into himself, but his hands were slick and he did little more than break skin. “Gem, please. We both know I’m not going to make it much longer. I’d rather it was you.”

“Just give me this one thing.”

Gem tried to steady her hands. She took a breath, a sharp, painful breath. A small bloom of blood stained Scott’s shirt. “I can’t.” Gem met Scott’s eyes.

Scott continued to smile. “Yes you can.” Scott knew she could. Scott knew Gem was so much stronger than he was. Scott knew.

Scott knew that he could never do what he was asking of her.

He leaned in, the blade sinking in deeper, a small gasp escaping him. Scott jerked slightly at the sound, trying to hide it, trying to hide his pain, trying to make this easier.

They both knew there was nothing either of them could do to make this easier.

Gem flinched. The reluctance that had hovered in her gaze shifted slightly, a look of preemptive regret. “We can still find another way.” The words were stiff, Gem knew they were useless. “Don’t make me do this.” Under her breath, not meant for Scott’s ears.

Still, Scott heard, and Scott’s heart broke in two. He pulled back and shifted slightly, angling himself so the blade was not merely aimed at his chest, but at that stupid organ that had put the two of them in this situation.

Gem tapped the pommel against the same spot on her own skin. “What would you want your last words to be?” It was a kind way of phrasing the question.

“Sometimes.” His smile was sad now, tears mixing with the blood on his lips as they flowed down his face. “You just have to take one for the band.”

Gem shoved her arm forward.

Bdubs watched as Lizzie continued backwards. He watched as she got closer to the cliff edge. He swung his axe again, a miss. Lizzie took another step, her foot meeting air, not ground.

Thunder drowned out her screams.

A smile cut Bdubs’ face in two. He had done it. He actually did it! Any second now, things would be back to the way they used to be. He did just as Etho had asked, he had proven himself.

He and Etho would be back together again. Just like always. Just like Etho promised.

A sharp pain in his back. Another. The warmth of blood.

Any moment now. Etho would know by now, he would have heard the thunder, he would have figured out it was him. Etho would keep his promise.

Another shot. Bdubs fell to his knees, tears mounting pressure behind his eyes.

Any minute now.

Etho would know.

Etho wouldn’t abandon him like this, out in the cold, alone.

Bdubs did just as he asked. He put everyone else second. He broke loyalty like a stick over his knee because he knew that no matter what happened he could have a home in that fort. He could come crawling back bruised and broken and everything would be okay.

Another pain. Bdubs’ vision began to blur. It was getting harder to breathe, each heave bloodsoaked and choking.

Just one more breath. Then everything would be okay. He just needed to trust Etho, just give him a moment.

Bdubs was right at least, when he thought he would only need to wait for one more breath.

Surely this was a good idea.

Grian itched at the fabric, trying to find a comfortable position in this cage of his own making. It was just marketing, soon someone would come along and pay him to open the door.

Business.

Cold, scratchy, business.

He shifted again, adjusting the hood of his onesie to use as a pillow. If no one showed up soon, it was going to be a long night. Why didn’t he set this up in the morning? Why couldn’t he just think things through for once?

Whelp, too late now.

Grian tucked his face into the onesie, trying to get just a little warmer. The night breeze didn’t even notice the bars around him, biting into every bit of exposed skin. He started shaking his arms and legs, hoping the motion would help keep him from freezing.

He probably looked like an idiot. Sitting in a cage in a guinea pig onesie, wiggling around like this, but in that moment Grian didn’t care. Maybe the stupidity of it all would get some attention, and some sales. Just a little longer, then the sun would come up.

Just a little longer didn’t feel soon enough.

Doc had spent his whole life patching up his own body. He had never been one for the more biological side of things. It was easier than people thought to mimic those same functions with machinery, metal skin and wire veins. His first aid kit held screwdrivers, not bandages.

There was something he had noticed, as more and more of his body had to be replaced, lost to accidents and age. Robotics parts were far superior. They were stronger, more durable, and didn’t fatigue. And, as Doc finished a quick repair on his arm, something that would have taken flesh weeks to heal, he had an idea.

Why wait for his body to give up before it was replaced?

Why not just get those benefits right now?

He eyed the small knife he had used to cut a line of wire. There was a dull pain in his foot that had been bugging him for a few days. What if he simply fixed that problem right now?

Doc grabbed his tools, propping his foot up on the table for measurements. Within the hour he had a working prototype, and another hour later he had something he felt confident with.

Confident enough to make it part of him.

He paused for a moment. Was this really the best idea? To risk when it wasn’t necessary? Well, he had done things far more complex than this and it turned out alright. Only a moment.

Doc drew a line on his ankle, and traced that line with the blade. Slowly. Deeper. The pain, he didn’t mind. The pain, he was used to. It was the blood that bothered him. There was so much of it. Limbs that were already dead, or wounds that had been cauterized in freak accidents, did not bleed like this. Doc had even begun to question if he could bleed like that.

The answer turned out to be yes.

Half his vision began to swim slightly. Quickly, he reached for the first thing that caught his eye, a torch on the wall. He brought the flame to the bleeding stub, pressing the burning wood against flesh.

Now the pain bothered him.

His metallic lungs refused to take breath in time with his panicking mind. Still calm and steady. That was probably a good thing. Biology could be so easily disrupted by emotion.

Doc pulled the torch away, examining the damage. Connecting the nerve endings was going to be a pain. An annoyance, not some physical strain. Doc shifted his position and got to work, methodically digging into his charred flesh, scraping, stitching wires into himself one by one.

He tested the limb as he went, watching it jiggle slightly in response to his will. With each connection, the movement got larger and larger. Good. It was working as intended. So much better than the organic had been. He wouldn’t have to worry about things falling on it anymore, or it getting tired from days of work.

The perfect foot.

The perfect body.

Doc wiped the last of the blood away, bandaging what skin was still exposed. In a day or two he would take the bandages off. In another day he would be able to walk. Another, and things would be back to normal.

Better than normal.

Perfect.

Gem was fairly certain this was not the bed she had fallen asleep in. She was also fairly certain that her arms weren’t a pale green, and her hair wasn’t this bright of a red. She sat up, blinking, rubbing her eyes. Maybe she was just still half asleep.

“Mom!”

Now she was wide awake. Each movement was stiff and unfamiliar as she got out of bed, her senses numbed. Panic began to quicken her heartbeat.

“Mom!”

There the voice was again, louder this time. She recognized that voice, but couldn’t place it. Tentatively, she called out to it. “Hello?” The sound of footsteps getting closer. A head peaked in through the doorway.

Scar?

What was Scar doing here? What was she doing here? “Where’s–”

Scar cut her off. “Don’t worry, Bdubs is off with Etho. I think he spent the night actually… Are you alright? You don’t look too good.”

Gem stared at him for a moment, still trying to get her bearings. Come to think of it, there was a slight nausea creeping up in her. She looked at her arms again, at the stitches that ran down them. “Who am I?”

Scar’s expression fell. “Did you hit your head in your sleep? You’re Mom!”

“Why are you calling me that? I’m not your…” Gem trailed off at the sight of Scar’s near fearful reaction.

“Cleo? You're starting to worry me.” He took a couple of steps back.

Cleo? She wasn’t Cleo, she was Gem, that much she was sure of. But these arms, and this hair…

It was just like Cleo’s.

Scar took another step. “Do you have a cold or something? Should I get Bdubs? Etho? Some soup?”

Soup actually sounded nice right now. Gem Cleo blinked hard. Was it better to just play along? Pretend she had just woken up from some weird dream? Gem Cleo reached out to give Scar a reassuring shoulder squeeze. “Sorry, I just woke up from a really weird dream, I must have still been half asleep.”

Cleo let go of Scar’s shoulder. “Soup sounds nice though.”

Tango wasn’t sure what to do in this situation. It was as though he could feel his mind buffering. What, exactly, was being asked of him? Zed stood in front of him, a step or two away, with his arms held wide.

Tango had seen people do this before. A silent request. Zed, it seemed, wanted to hug him.

Now for anyone else, this would have seemed a normal and kind gesture. A sign of friendship and care. But for Tango, it made his heart leap to his throat, breath quick.

A wide smile was still evident on Zed’s face, but a hint of confusion danced across his eyebrows. He shook his arms slightly, as if that would clarify the message.

Clarification was not necessary. Tango understood what Zed meant by the action, he knew what Zed wanted.

His question was why? And more importantly, how?

Zed was from the overworld. Tango’s body temperature ran high enough to boil water, not to mention the flames that burned on his head and the tip of his tail.

Hot enough to boil water meant hot enough to boil Zed.

“I uhh.” Tango struggled to find the words, not wanting to disappoint his friend. Instead, he settled for simply gesturing towards himself.

Zed was not dissuaded. He dropped his arms, tilting his head slightly. “Yes you! Come here!” He raised his arms again, insistent.

Tango took a step forward. He sighed. “Zed… I can’t.”

Zed pouted playfully. “What do you mean you can’t? You have arms.” He wiggled his own arms around.

“It’s not that. I’m too hot, I’ll—”

Zed cut him off. “Now look who’s Mr Braggy Pants.” He laughed.

Tango did not. “That’s not what I—”

Zed cut him off once again, but not with words. He ran forward, wrapping his arms around Tango and squeezing. The smell of burnt flesh hit the air before Zed’s screech. To his credit, the cry was far less pained than the sound of sizzling would imply.

Tango tried to pull away, but Zed held on. Whether on pure principle or because his skin had melted and stuck the two together Tango wasn’t sure.

Another small, worried noise came from Zed. Tango finally pulled himself together enough to speak. “Let go! I tried to tell you!” He pulled away again, but Zed still stuck to him. Tango looked at Zed, seeing his friend’s skin go from pink to red to black.

Zed said something that must have been an attempt at language, instead it came out garbled and scared.

Eventually, Zed slid down, separating the two. Burnt chunks still clung to Tango. By the time that happened, Tango could see charred bone, and Zed was no longer moving.

A molten tear slid down Tango’s face, landing on Zed’s body, doing little to change its appearance.

Do you ever wonder if there are other ways your life could have gone? Do you ever think that maybe if you had been born in some more fantastical world, things would have gone better? But then you stop and think some more, and realize that in a world with wizards and dragons and demons, the latter would find its way to you, closer than you could imagine, and you would be forced to do the impossible.

Or maybe, if you had been a bit more adventurous, your life would have been more fun. But if you had gone exploring, you probably would just lose pieces of yourself along the way, until your life is just a patchwork attempt at home.

What if you weren’t human? What if you had something more powerful coursing through your veins? Certainly you would have a better shot at fighting back. But could you fight against yourself? When you inevitably become a monster?

Okay, what about if you were smaller, able to hide from the world, able to run from danger. You wouldn’t be able to run from your big heart, from the pain of those you care about. All those things would hurt you just the same.

But what if there was someone watching over you? Or something? But with your luck, those wouldn’t be benevolent eyes. You would just be stuck at the mercy of a world that didn’t care for your happiness, and you’d just be left with the guilt you had no choice in.

Maybe if you were the one in control. If you could hold power even over life and death. But what would you do, when you couldn’t save the one person you cared about? You would just lose yourself, giving everything, even your last piece of humanity, in desperation.

Because you know somewhere deep down, that no matter what world you ended up in, you would find some way to make your life a tragedy.

It’s in your nature.

A curse.

Zed grimaced slightly with each step. It was fine, just a scratch, a hazard of the occupation. Could it be called an occupation? He wasn’t really getting paid… He continued to wonder about the exact definition of an occupation until a buzzing at his wrist brought him out of his thoughts. Right, he was supposed to meet up with Tango today.

He glanced down at his leg, bent slightly in an effort to reduce the amount of weight on it. Well, he didn’t need his leg to fly over, and surely Tango’s plans didn’t involve running a marathon. Zed could totally deal with the equivalent of a paper cut in order to help Tango out.

It would be fine.

Zed landed at the outskirts of Tango’s factory, hand to his forehead to block the sunlight as he looked around. “Tango?” He called out, hoping wherever Tango was was close enough to hear. Zed seemed to be correct, given the fact that Tango appeared in the distance and started running full speed towards him.

Tango wrapped Zed in a crushing hug, nearly picking Zed up in the process, something Zed was very happy about with the growing ache in his leg. Tango released the embrace. “Are you ready?”

“Am I ready for…?” Zed chuckled slightly, leaving Tango to fill in the blank.

Tango stared at him for a moment. “Oh I can’t believe I forgot to tell you! So I kinda lost a bet with Impulse and now I have to bring something over to Bdubs’ base. But! He never said I couldn’t get help!” Tango batted his eyelashes at Zed.

“And what is that something?” Zed glanced around, trying to figure out what Tango was being so cagey about.

“More like who…” Tango gestured at a horse that had somehow managed to elude Zed’s gaze until now. The horse snorted.

Zed began to walk over, trying to get a better look. “I don’t think both of us are going to fit on him.”

Tango rubbed at the back of his neck. “So that’s the fun part. Apparently, he’s a bit of a drama queen and won’t exactly let anyone ride him.” He winced.

Suddenly, Zed understood what Tango meant, and why Impulse would have pawned this guy off in a bet. And with that realization, came a second, far worse thought. Zed was going to have to walk all the way from here to Bdubs’. “Are you sure we can’t drop him off at the city? Bdubs lives there too.”

Tango sighed. “Nope, I already tried that one.”

Zed’s gaze drifted back to his leg, to the ache that was becoming less of an ache and more of a pain. It was probably nothing. “Sounds like a fun way to spend an afternoon.”

Tango turned back to the horse. “Might be a bit longer than an afternoon.”

It didn’t take long for Zed to believe Tango’s statement. They had been at this for what? An hour? And they had only gotten the horse halfway to Gem’s. Zed’s leg did not seem very happy with their lack of progress either, now stabbing into his muscles with every motion. Zed did his best to hide his grimace as they worked. In fact, he did a really good job of hiding said grimace. That was until…

“Zed?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s that red stuff covering your shoe?”

Oh. That explained why his leg was so warm. Zed had just assumed it was something from the horse he preferred not to think about. And with far more confidence than he had any right to have in that moment, Zed offered up an explanation.

“Horse.”

“Horse?”

“Horse.”

Tango wrapped the lead around a nearby tree, now grabbing Zed by the shoulders. “Zed. I’m going to ask one more time. What is on your shoe?” Zed opened his mouth. “And you can’t say horse.” Zed closed his mouth. “Let me see. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Zed pulled away. “It’s just a scratch! You know how paper cuts just bleed far more than they should.” Tango raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m still standing aren’t I?” At that moment, as if the universe had chosen to spite him, Zed’s leg gave out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground.

Tango made no effort to catch him while he fell. “You sure about that?” Zed nodded weakly from the dirt. Tango kneeled down, and ignoring Zed’s protests, rolled up Zed’s bloodsoaked pant leg. “Zed? I’m going to ask you another question, and you are going to be honest with me okay? Is your knee supposed to bend that way?” Tango pointed at the knee in question.

Zed, finally defeated, shook his head. Tango gently prodded at the joint, receiving a sharp cry of pain from Zed in return. Tango put his hands up. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have gotten someone else to help out, you know. You need medical attention.”

“No I don’t.” Zed mumbled the words, having to repeat himself multiple times at Tango’s insistence.

“I’m going to point it the right direction again. Three! Two…!” Zed didn’t hear Tango finish his count, instead overwhelmed by his whole leg screaming bloody murder. Then the whole world went dark.

Scar could hear those words, as if they had been whispered directly in his ear, an echo. Instantly, he fell to his knees, the adrenaline that had been keeping him breathing seemingly gone from his body in an instant. He didn’t register the pain of his knees hitting stone, nor did he feel the bow fall from his grip, the whole world numb for that single moment of realization.

After everything. After what this world had made of him. After all those long nights alone.

He was the one left standing.

A single tear made its way down his cheek. Villains never won. Why should he be any different? Why should he get a happy ending? There were so many others so much more deserving. Now, Scar supposed, he would have the chance to bury all their bodies.

Starting with the one laying mere feet away. Before Scar could get back to his feet, a dull pain began throbbing in his shoulder. He barely paid it any mind, still consumed by his own thoughts.

How did the guy with no friends win?

There was a groaning now. Where was it coming from? Was it his? Scar turned around, only now finding the source of the pain in his shoulder, the joint firmly in a zombie’s grip. He knocked the creature away, the small, halfhearted motion enough to get it to leave him alone.

Finally, Scar stood, making his way out of the ravine, towards the thing that had cursed him with this book in his shaking hands, the thing that had ostracized him.

The thing that let him win.

The guy with no friends.

All those people he had been forced to chase away.

Rotting in the dirt.

Scar paused a moment, as his palm rested on the button, taking a deep breath. This was it. This was what made everything worth it. Was it worth it?

Scar pressed the button.

A book appeared in his hands, identical to the one he had before, even in what cursed words lay on its pages.

Scar fell to his knees again.

At least he had been right about one thing, villains never got happy endings.

“So, about that weather we’re having…” Mumbo cringed at the awkwardness lacing his own words. Just an attempt to fill the silence. He leaned over to reach the table, grabbing a fresh bandage. 

Silence continued to hang in the air. 

He looked back down, searching for the face of the man who had been using up nearly all of his medical supplies. It was still angled away from him. What had he said when they asked for his name? Xel— something. Xe, as Mumbo decided to call him in his mind, did not seem to have any intention of responding. 

Mumbo tied the last bandage in place. “Did I miss anything?” A mumble came from the bed. “Sorry bud, you’re going to have to speak up.” 

“N—no.” Xe shifted slightly, still hiding his face. “Th—thank… you.” 

“Happy to help, and so is everyone else. Is there anything else I can get for you? Some water maybe?” Mumbo stood, moving to clean up his supplies. 

Xe froze at the suggestion of water. “No! Uhh n…o.” 

Mumbo wiped his hands. “Alright then, just one thing if you don’t mind.” He turned back to Xe. “I didn’t quite catch your name.” 

If Mumbo could see Xe’s eyes, he guessed they would have gone wide. “Oh uhh…” he trailed off. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, I just figured it would be nice to know what to call you.” Mumbo laughed slightly. A forced sound. 

Xe’s body uncurled a bit. A long pause. “It’s—it’s…” Another pause. But after a while, and Mumbo guessed a lot of thinking, 

“Grian.” 

Mumbo smiled. “Alright then, welcome to your new home, Grian.” 

At first, Scar had wondered if he was simply seeing things. It wouldn’t have been out of the question. How many days had it been? How many blue skies that faded to a shade of red that only made him remember all those bodies rotting in the ground? He had taken to doing the small things, trying to keep a sense of routine, a sense of sanity. Sewing new flowers into his cloak every few days, removing the ones that had begun to wilt. His garden was expanding, harboring every single plant he had managed to find seeds for. plenty of time to figure out how to grow them all. And he had even gone through the effort of rebuilding and maintaining all the structures littering this cursed world. If he could look upon a horizon without crumbling and overgrowth, he could pretend for those perfect moments when he just opened his eyes. When his sleep drunk mind could be tricked. 

Maybe it was being tricked again. 

Standing before him, was this… shadow. Its form hummed, but it's phantom limbs remained perfectly still. And though he could not make out any features, he could feel its gaze drilling through him. Its ever watching gaze. 

At first Scar had blinked a few times and ignored it. Seemed the most reasonable thing to do. But as the days stretched on, it did not seem to have any intention of leaving. So Scar did the next most reasonable thing. He talked to it. 

He told it about his day, strung stories about what happened here before that last breath that was not his own. And as he told those stories, the figure began to change. 

Some days, it had the echo of huge wings. Other days, it had crackling hair, or a thick tail. And as Scar told more stories, its shape became clearer, without its otherworldly blur. It became a perfect outline, easily recognized by the tears pressing at the back of Scar’s eyes. 

It was less strange as time went by, this creature that kept him company, that silently echoed everything that he had lost. It followed him around, like, well… a shadow, always just a step or two behind, always watching. 

But for Scar, that was enough. He got this feeling though, that despite being there, it didn’t know everything, his true nature. It was distorted, through the eyes of whoever’s hands sat at its sides. Sometimes, those hands seemed angered, other times they seemed saddened, empathetic. 

But one day, those shoulders bore a cloak that flowed like his did, hair that was messy and windswept, hands vaguely scarred. 

And he knew, it was seeing him through his own eyes. 

And those hands were guilty, but that tilted head seemed to cheer. It knew the why, it knew the resentment, the true disappointment in himself. But it was happy for him, in some twisted way. Like it had enjoyed watching his downfall, but found true joy in his smile. 

It was an opinion of himself not his own. 

But it understood. 

Scar hoped it would keep that shape for a while longer.

X undid the clasp at the base of his helmet and pulled it from his head. He took a breath, deep and slow, of the thin End air. It had been ages since he had a chance to just be like this. Where he belonged. It was blissfully quiet, and dark. A vast expanse of peace, serenity. He had gotten used to the brightness and cacophony of the Overworld sure, but that was simply learning to deal with the feeling of being overwhelmed. This, was what his mind craved. 

This, was home. 

Some days, he wondered what it would have been like if he hadn’t left, if he had simply stayed where the world wanted him to be. Those days, he would remember a message from his brother. Those words seared into his memory, no matter how hard he tried to forget. 

But ignore he could do. And ignore he did. 

X hadn’t heard from them since, truly heard from them. Not some simulation. Not some trick of his own guilt stricken mind trying to justify. 

Please. Its dark here. It isnt home anymore. I promise Ill be good. Im sorry. I miss you. Its so cold.

It was the right thing to do. Of course it had been. To protect everything he had built. Everything he had left the darkness for. 

Surely they had learned their lesson by now? If there was still a mind left to learn. 

Better safe than sorry. 

It was the only way. No matter how much they begged. Some evils couldn’t be redeemed. No matter the blood. 

If the tables had been reversed…

No, X was the good one. X had always been the good one. X would always be the good one. 

No matter what it took.

It was strange, this feeling. Etho knew, somehow, by the hair on the back of his neck, that he was being watched. Even as he was alone. Even as the doors were locked and the windows were shuttered. Etho knew.

Yet the strangeness never came from that feeling. The strangeness came from the fact that he enjoyed this feeling. He craved it, the attention. A metric almost, of success or failure. As that feeling waned, it only inspired Etho to do something more, to make himself worthy of that gaze again.

That ebbing and flowing was nearly random in its pattern. When he laughed, or when he cried. It enjoyed both in equal pleasure. And sometimes, a subtle whisper in the wind, was laugher. A soft sound of congratulations, praise.

Etho basked in it.

But then, just as the wind shifted, so did that sound. Angry and garbled. And with that sound, came a feeling of emptiness, of loneliness, true loneliness.

So Etho did what he had to do to make those invisible eyes come back. To shift the wind back into his favour. A behavior, a drive, that was mimicked by everyone around him.

An addiction.

With the fate of this world between its teeth.

How hard, Etho wondered, was it willing to bite? To hold on? Because perhaps, if it sunk in too deep, it would swallow meaning whole.

“The sky’s a beautiful shade of green today!” Tango’s expression dropped, noting the confused look on Mumbo’s face. He replayed his previous words in his mind. He was just trying to make small talk. Had he said something bad? There were so many Overworldly expressions and swears that it was nearly impossible to keep track of them all. 

“Blue.” Mumbo spoke slowly. “The sky is blue, not green.” At the notice of Tango’s own confusion, Mumbo went from correction to explanation. “Green is like the colour of grass or leaves. Blue is things like water or in this case, the sky.” 

Tango looked down at the grass, then back up at the sky. Their colours certainly weren't the same, but they looked pretty similar in Tango’s eyes. Both were akin to the colour of warped mushrooms. Wasn’t the common for that green? Still, he took Mumbo’s word for it. “Blue.” Tango repeated the word a few times, trying to get it to stick in his mind. 

Mumbo frowned slightly, then smiled. “I guess there’s not much of either in the Nether is there?” Tango shook his head. “Just a whole lot of red.” Mumbo chuckled. 

Tango put his hands on his hips, getting slightly defensive. “There’s more than just red! There’s crimson and scarlet and maroon and…” Tango continued to list all the wonderful colours the Nether had to offer, sometimes tripping over the common and sometimes just saying the nether words for them instead. 

Mumbo listened intently, waiting for him to finish. Then… “That’s just a bunch of red mate.” 

The flames on Tango’s head grew bright. He took a breath, and they began to die down again as he made a series of squeaking noises. “Says the guy with a different word for blue and green! I knew the Overworld was weird but…” Tango couldn’t help but laugh at how flustered Mumbo was getting. 

“I’m not weird!” Mumbo smiled despite how insulted his words seemed. “You're the one from a dimension full of walking pigs!” 

“I never said you were weird. I said the Overworld was weird. And your pigs walk too! That is a very normal thing for things to do.” Tango took a few exaggerated steps. 

“That’s not what I–” Mumbo deflated slightly, realizing he was not going to win this argument. 

Tango shook his hand out a bit, making sure he wouldn’t burn Mumbo before putting that hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to finish this farm or not?” Tango laughed. 

Mumbo looked up at him. “Yes please. Pass me that bag of redstone?” 

Tango began to reach for the bag, then froze mid action, the widest grin of all plastered on his face, showing off his pointed teeth. “Don’t you mean the scarlet-stone?”

Mumbo let out an exasperated sigh. Not even a second later, they both doubled over with laughter. 

Beef wasn’t particularly surprised when he heard the news. He had hoped, just a little, that Jevin would have been able to last longer. It only ignited this fire within. It had been a threat looming over all of them, but to actually go through with it? To condemn to such an extreme degree the want for a better future? And now, Jevin was gone. It left Beef in a strange place, the new head of something that, at the moment, seemed to be on the losing side. How long before they caught wind of his position? How long until he was sent off just the same? 

For now though, Beef would just have to work with what he had. And what he had was a red suit in his closet and a determination to finally be a part of something, to have his cause taken seriously. But there was a second scaled head, on the other side of this. How long had it been? Ages. 

They were supposed to be on the same side. 

The world is a cruel and ever changing place. 

How did this all start again? A joke, and an attempt to get things in order. Beef wasn’t cut out for this large scale conflict, was he? Always petty grievances and sidelined advocacy. 

This was a chance to prove himself wrong. 

Just a red suit. 

And a heavy torch scorching his fingers. 

Now or never. 

This is a fresh start. Can we just… move on?

Tango hammered another panel into place. It was just the day’s work getting to him, making him remember things he wasn’t supposed to.

It had been best for both of them, to start over. They both stopped having nightmares. Well, Bdubs said he had stopped and Tango just went along with it. The scars were fading. Though Tango could still see the arrow marks in the mirror if he looked hard enough.

It was better to pretend none of it ever happened.

Every once and a while, someone would come and check in, usually on a full moon.

How are you holding up? You know I’m always here if you want to talk. What happened was just awful. You shouldn’t have had to go through that. Do you want to sleep at my place? Have some company? A warm drink?

And Tango appreciated it. That even after so long they were all still so concerned. And Tango would be lying if he said he didn’t really need that warm drink sometimes.

But not always for the reasons that they thought.

Sometimes when he woke up screaming, he hadn’t been dreaming of the dark.

It was stupid, that such a small thing was still affecting him. That all those small things were still swimming around in his gut.

They were my friends, we were all in it together.

The worst part of that day wasn’t how it ended.

Those efforts to make up for those little things seemed so pitiful that after a while, Tango stopped trying.

It was easier to just move on, to forget. All those small things that weren’t worthy of a warm drink.

But do you think we can?

We don’t have a choice.

“Can we take a break? It’s been a soul’s life!” Tango stretched, cracking his back.

Mumbo paused. “A what?”

Tango frowned. “A soul’s life. You know, like a really really long time.” Mumbo had to know what he was talking about. It was a very common thing.

“Yeah that’s not a thing here. I do agree with the break though.” Mumbo leaned back.

“Flame’s life? Ore’s life? Ender’s life?” Tango pressed on. Mumbo’s expression remained one of blank curiosity. “Oh come on! You guys are the ones so obsessed with time. How else are you supposed to measure the thing?” Tango was certain about his translation, but that certainty was waning with every passing breath.

Mumbo looked up at the sky. “Days? Hours? Minutes? Normal ways to measure?” It was more of a question than an answer.

Now Tango was the curious one. “And how do you know how long those are?”

“Well there’s twenty four hours in a day, and sixty minutes in an hour.” Mumbo shrugged, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Tango could feel his mind buffering. All of this was so much more complicated than it needed to be. What was with the Overworld and time anyway? Way too specific and clinical. “And who’s idea was that? Sounds like a big old noodely mess to me.”

Mumbo seemed genuinely baffled at that. “I don’t know, some guy who looked at the sun ages ago.”

Tango paused. Then, he made the wonderful decision to stare directly into the sun. Despite the near blindness coming over him, it was Mumbo, and not his own will, that forced his head back down. “What are you doing?” Mumbo’s hand dug into the back of Tango’s neck as he forced his head down.

“Sun?” Another question with a question.

“No! Sun is bad! Don’t sun!” Mumbo’s attempt at chiding was foiled by the tears of laughter running down his face. He finally managed to pull himself together. “Are you okay?”

Tango blinked a few times. “That’s it! I’m building a roof! Things are so much easier without all this nonsense!”

Whatever sense of composure Mumbo had scrounged up was gone in an instant. “You can’t just build a roof like that! Do you know how long that would take?”

“I’m gonna do it!” The flames on Tango’s head raged. “I knew sky was a bad idea!”

Mumbo stood back, waiting, hoping Tango would calm down before burning up all of their work. And before actually trying to cover up the entire sky. Still, he couldn’t stop laughing at the scene before him.

Thankfully, after a few minutes (or an ore’s life) of yelling at the ‘stupidly coloured menace,’ Tango’s rage died down. Mumbo came and patted him on the back as one would a baby they were trying to burp. “You good?”

Tango coughed up a bit of smoke. “Yeah.”

Mumbo smiled. “Just wait until you see what it’s like in winter. The snow reflects the sun and you can have the same thing happen from looking at the ground!”

“What!?”

Often, for hours, no days at a time, Impulse would find himself staring into the void. It had the most calming sense of beauty to it. Everything else melted away into the darkness. Oblivion’s bliss. 

No stress, no deadlines, no aching muscles. Just endless tranquility. 

He took pieces of it with him, in his mind. Closing his eyes, imitating that perfect form. A cool breeze numbed his fingertips just slightly, just enough that he could feel the tension leaving him in turn. 

And slowly, over years that faded into each other, it took pieces of him with it. Those fingertips no longer needed the breeze, inky in their hue. Impulse’s body felt heavier, but it was not something of harm. Like a weighted blanket, comfortable, safe. 

Eventually, Impulse didn’t have to close his eyes to see it. Always at the edges of his vision, creeping, welcoming. 

The void was bringing him home. 

Or, more accurately, it was bringing home to him.

The mirror was cloudy with age, Scar having no real reason to replace it. Or clean it for that matter. It was a rare day when it came out from under the sheet.

Today was one of those days.

Scar was never sure what caused this feeling, this wet tightness in his gut. Some small part of him felt like going down memory lane. Not wanting all that pain to be truly lost.

So Scar looked at himself in the mirror.

He looked at all those ghosts of all those cuts and bruises and broken bones. Skin that well knew injury.

And he remembered.

He remembered what it was like when that skin was tinted blue. When it was smooth and perfect. When blade nor blaze could do anything to him that mattered.

He remembered that first paper cut. How the blood stopped but that line never went away. A reminder, no matter how much he wanted to forget, to accept, that it could so easily come to an end.

Now.

That he could have made different choices.

He put the sheet back on. It was easier, when he couldn’t see it all at once. But, in the same way, those markings were a victory.

Everything he lost.

Everything he gained.

The salt in the air held a different taste than it did back home. There was something raw about it, something unfinished, something waiting to be damaged. Beef breathed it in, slow and deep, feeling that harsh wetness cling to his beard. What had become of them? Their revolution? Forced away until it lost itself? Until it scared Beef to meet its eyes. 

Until their leader was unrecognizable. 

It was clear now, in a way that cut through all that sickly hope, conversation and appeasement was never going to work. 

But Beef had one thing on his side. People underestimate him. They saw him as the easygoing famer, who’s only penchant for conflict was hidden in a deck. 

Everyone but one other. The one who Beef took in. Who saw what Beef was truly capable of. The lengths he was willing to go to. That coldness, like the deep ocean. 

And that made Skizz the most dangerous of all. 

The funny thing was, if things had gone differently, they could have had the winning hand, together. But after everything, they stood on opposite sides of the same river. Forgotten. 

Well if there was one thing about Beef, one thing that could win them this war, one thing that gave him that coldness he kept tucked away… 

He never forgot.

Gem chose to be here. 

It was a fun little game. A good change of pace. And that taste she had gotten had been so… overwhelming, in all the right ways. It gave her a chance to let off steam, to do whatever the shifting wind made seem so appealing. 

A friendly competition among friends. 

No true hard feelings. 

Just a little bit of blood. 

Just a game. 

But Gem knew these people. And she knew, as things went on, that those screams weren’t tinted with laughter. She could feel that anxiousness, a wild animal behind bars. 

That unwillingness. 

And as she felt that last breath escape from her lungs, she could feel she once again had a choice. 

Again? 

She replayed each moment, each cheer and cry, each bloodsoaked evening and sunsoaked morning. She remembered, all those times people didn’t deserve to die, and all those times they did. All that unfairness and cunning and brokenness. 

And that voice in the back of her mind that screamed for revenge. 

Again. 

Gem chose to be here.

The air itself felt thick against Cleo’s skin, another boundary through which she had to push. It was impossible to keep track of time, no sun or moon, no heartbeat. Still, they had to be getting close now. The threads holding Cleo together were beginning to loosen, each movement requiring just that much more effort and care. 

But it was going to be worth it. To get back home again. To prove the office was not as powerful as they claimed to be. Spite. 

Anyone else might not have been able to. Needing water or more food or thinner air. Needing rest. 

It turns out that the living rest more than the dead. 

And so Cleo kept pushing. Just that much further. Just that much more effort. Just that much more to give. 

Just that much more to take. 

And then Cleo would show them just how big of a mistake they had made. 

X stared up at the sky, at the moon. It nearly filled his vision now, this glowing grey. He knew, what would happen, in little more than a few days' time. 

And he knew that was his responsibility. 

But he had already tried so hard. 

At least, as hard as he could with that distorted gaze leaning over his shoulder. 

Surely, that gaze could do something. This power that was held over his head, forced, burning, through his veins. But they didn’t. 

Difference between could not and did not. 

The same difference between green and red. Between good and bad. Right and wrong. Currency and fraud. The way the night sky was supposed to be, and the way it was. 

Maybe if X was just a little bit more like his brother…

Maybe if he let himself crack, that power would seep in. X would be able to help, protect those he cared about. Even if that connection was strained. 

Would they still be cared for?

If X lost himself for a purpose that would inevitably melt away?  

Would it be worth the risk? 

Red. 

He forced his gaze back to the ground, where it belonged. It was pitiful to think he had a chance at such strength. In both senses. To think he had control. 

Was it worth it? Kindness for weakness? Blissful, blissful ignorance. 

Yes. 

Jevin wasn’t sure why he followed Cub when he asked. Curiosity, mostly, wondering what more he could possibly do on top of everything else. The pair ended up in the comfort room. That Void forsaken place that had nearly driven him to insanity in only a few minutes.

“Cub, what are you—” Jevin was cut off by the first tale beginning to play. The same exact tape that had welcomed Jevin to this awful place before.

Scar’s voice filled the room. Soft, too soft. A thick, suffocating sound. Jevin deflated slightly, in a literal sense. He had been… excited wasn’t the right word but he had been excited to see what Cub had planned. Some absurd scheme that would only provide more motivation.

But as the tape drawled on, Jevin felt something in his mind shifting. Maybe Exile wasn’t so bad after all, it gave him a chance to get away from it all, to reform…

What was he thinking? No! Everything about this was wrong, this system, this place, these words, these people! Jevin moved to turn off the tape, but Cub blocked his way. “Just listen.” The words were anything but reassuring.

Jevin shifted his form, squeezing past what little space was there. Just turn it off. But maybe he shouldn’t, let it run its course. How much harm could some words really do? It was a calming sound… what had he been so afraid of? He brought himself back into a humanoid shape. It was good that Cub was here, otherwise Jevin wouldn’t have tried to relax like this…

There was a soft blue glow in the room, at the edges of Jevin’s vision. It was a calming blue, like the ocean around them, endless and open. How could one feel trapped in such a beautiful place?

This was where Jevin belonged.

Jevin was happy.

Jevin was comforted.

Tango could only watch as the flames grew beneath him. Bright and burning and hot. What little he had managed to create turned to ashes. Only pain as the intent behind this cruel flicker.

Everything. Every time. Gone.

The fire seemed to follow him, fate entwined. It was impossible not to wonder if this was some allegory for his temper. An inevitability that he had brought upon himself. That crackling, an omen.

And the one person he had trusted. The one person with whom he shared his pain. He was the one holding the flint.

His rancher.

The only one who knew how much it hurt. How much that numbness felt so deeply wrong.

But for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to take revenge. He couldn’t harm that way.

It would only make him as evil as those who had done this time and time again.

He who protected him?

Who did Jimmy think Tango was? Desperate like that? Manipulative? Controlling? A poppy flower.

Would it be better if Tango could just blame himself? This curse and not the falseness of trust?

If he could just curl up until his own spark died out.

Until the whole world was ash, nothing left to burn.

Useless, to try.

Always him. Always ablaze. Always burning white hot. Always destroyed. Always alone.

Always embers. Bright, dangerous, potential, small, pitiful, easily extinguished.

It must be his destiny, to be nothing but the ash of his own creation.

There was a sense of control, in his weightlessness. Floating downwards, falling, supported only by air far too thin to care for his lungs. Scott was the one who put himself here. He was the one to make that leap. 

Downwards, in opposition to the will of the sky. 

And as he looked upwards, watching that gap in the earth get smaller and further away, he watched as the stars did the same. Plentiful, as they littered the midnight with their light. 

Defiant, in the face of the endless dark. 

A numbness came over him, slowly, melting his pain away into a cold, empty comfort. Peace. He attempted to count those little pieces of light above. Impossible, with their number and pin prick nature. 

Scott smiled. 

A true and unburdened smile. 

Because some unconscious part of him knew this didn’t matter. Knew this blood would not stain. Knew that this was the best way for things to end. Knew that Scott had done himself a favour. 

Knew that there were so many more stars left in the sky. 

Even as that last bit of air escaped from his lungs and his own light went out.

Tango blushed slightly, when Pearl pointed out his mistake. Within moments of noticing, the metal felt hot against his skull. Tango could almost smell the smoke, hear their voices, feel the pain shooting through his shoulder… He took off the helmet. Pearl didn’t seem to mind. If Pearl didn’t care, then neither did Tango.

Tango looked up, when he heard voices from above. He could see them, standing over him. His whole body tensed. He could almost hear the hissing, feel the burning pain, the screams, the manic laugh… He forced his gaze back to the task at hand. They didn’t seem to be threatening. If they didn’t care, then neither did Tango.

Tango jumped back, when the heat began to thicken the air. He felt the smoke line his lungs. He opened his mouth to scream. He could almost see it all burning down, hear the screaming to go and stop, feel the anger bubbling and consuming…

It had happened so many times before.

If the world didn’t care…

Neither did Tango.

Grian had done it.

He had taken a sharp breath, when he pulled the trigger. Panicked. What if he got caught up in the blast? And he had prepared for that possibility, written the notes, both on paper and in his mind.

He had prepared himself. He had accepted it. He had thought himself a sacrifice, a martyr for the cause.

He had thought that possibility worthy.

But by some miracle, it had not come to pass. He was still standing, amongst the smoke and rubble, the linger of betrayed screams.

Worthy victims. Deserving. Some more than others.

And he let out a sigh of relief, for he realized soon after that he had not been ready. That his acceptance had been nothing but false adrenaline.

Grian left, to sort himself out, to go bathe in this beautiful victory for a cause that was getting looser by the day.

That victory did not last long.

And he no longer had the comfort of meaningful sacrifice.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

The ruiner.

Such a stabbing moniker. Scar tried to laugh along with it. Why did this world hate him so? Kill his friends and splash their blood upon his hands?

How could he hurt so much with such little effort?

The villain. Always on the outside looking in. Always the cause of tears, not smiles. Always empty and feared in this dreadful, pitiful way.

Scarlet Pearl.

Such a poetic description. The colour of the fabric she wore and the pain in her heart and the blood on her skin. Pearl tried to move on from it. Why did that seem to follow her? When things were so much better now?

How could she be remembered only for her brokenness?

A demoness. Always crimson. Always the cause of nervous giggles, not true laughter. Always empty and feared in this dreadful, scattered way.

Geminislay.

Such a fun name. The word carved into the sword at her hip. Gem leaned into it. Why was everyone so nervous? When this reputation was so unlike the rest of her appearance?

How could she be mad at this shield?

A warrior. Always ready to prove. Always the cause of double takes, not underestimation. Always fulfilled and feared in this beautiful, playful way.

Funny. The power of such simple words.

How they stick and stain.

Like blood and glue and dandelion yellow.

Cub headed back to the office. To grab his things and say his goodbyes. To nod, solemnly, at some inanimate object in a way that made it seem important despite its simplicity or lack of use. To say some one liner on his way out for the last time that would somehow be at home in both a western and a romance. Something like “it was always going to end this way,” or “I guess we did take things a bit too far.” Maybe even leave a little kitschy note regarding when he would be back.

A perfect ending to this story.

Instead, Cub made his way into his office, stood behind his desk, looked out of the window that was a mismatch of so many replaced panels, and slammed his fist down on the desk. Hard, hard enough he could hear the bell let out a half ring even from that distance.

A sharp and throbbing pain spread through his fingers and up his arm. But Cub only dragged his hand across the surface, knocking papers and pens and knickknacks to the floor.

He stumbled back into his chair, half sitting down, but too tense to relax into the position. He punched the desk again, this time with the other hand. Now both were screaming at him.

A coin flip? Nothing but luck destroying everything that he had worked so hard to save? To make better? To make some sort of authority to keep everything from falling into anarchy.

Into war.

Sure things had gotten out of hand a bit but reformation was possible without death. Cub should have seen things coming, he should have realized that he wouldn’t get a chance to plead his case. He should have planned for that. He always planned for things like that.

How could he be so blind? Caught up in his own power?

Cub relaxed back into his chair, staring out the window again, gaze sweeping across the rest of the room.

Perhaps there was still time to leave that kitschy sign.

“Be back soon.”

Poison.

Jevin had poisoned them all. Toxic grease between each and every thought. Unnecessary division, splitting these good people in two, the people Skizz had come to think of as family.

It was evil.

Slimy and wet.

And what had come of it? What had stitched this broken land back together? Pure luck and chance. Victory for all those dirty thoughts.

It was obvious, that Skizz was one of the good guys. Things only escalated in response. And sure they might have gone too far but most of them deserved it.

Most of them needed to learn to respect authority. Needed to accept efforts to keep the peace. Needed to believe in something other than anarchy.

When there were no rules, fire and pain followed. Here was supposed to be different. Here there were supposed to be rules, safe guards, peace, prosperity.

Was it so wrong to want to be a part of that?

No.

Nothing could ever be wrong with that.

Skizz was one of the good guys.

Obviously.

It was a cold night. The kind of cold that, although not biting, tickled one’s skin, gently willing the body to shiver. The stars and moon above dusted light upon the earth, as if that light was the source of the chill, just enough to be noticeable, yet easily taken for granted. 

Jimmy was very much taking it for granted. 

Tango sat with him on the roof of the ranch, both of them staring off into the distant horizon. Minds in different places. The glow of Tango’s fire lit the shadows that would have otherwise sunk in around the pair. A warmth that fended off this ticklish air, as one would shoo away a cat who had just knocked over a tea cup. Reactionary, and soft. 

Jimmy leaned into it, resting his head on Tango’s shoulder, his nose just an inch away from being uncomfortably hot. Tango rested his chin in Jimmy’s hair, careful to keep his flames away from said hair. 

The night chill made this warmth all that much more fluid, heavy in the same way a hug was. 

And for once, Jimmy didn’t feel just a few degrees too cold, always like the blood under his skin was designed to run so much smoother. Tango had brought it up before Jimmy had truly asked, connected the dots more than just annoyed curiosity. 

It was how Tango felt. His body built for a world so much hotter. Surprised, that Jimmy could feel it at all, Tango having gotten so used to it over the years. 

But now, Jimmy felt truly warm. “I don’t feel cold.” Slight wonderment tugged at the corners of his words, rounding them. “Do you feel cold?”

Tango paused for a long moment. “I don’t?” Confusion, less an observation and more some unconscious revelation being brought to the surface. 

Jimmy snuggled into Tango more, his nose now threatening to burn. Tango scratched at his own, then again, slightly more aggressive this time. Jimmy could feel that sharp harshness, he flinched. “Why are you…?” Jimmy rubbed at his own nose now, unsure if this itch was his own or Tango’s. 

“Nose feels weird.” Tango continued to paw at it. Jimmy grabbed his hand and forced it down, rubbing Tango’s nose much softer than Tango himself had been. 

“What kind of weird?” The only weirdness that Jimmy felt was the scratchy pain that Tango himself had inflicted. 

Tango let out a noise halfway between a squeak and a sigh. “Not a bad weird, just weird.” 

Jimmy sat up, now staring at Tango’s nose, then trying to look at his own. Tango’s brow furled. “Now it’s gone.” Curious, Jimmy sunk back into Tango, trying to recreate the position he had been in before. “Now it’s back.”

“Tango.” Jimmy sat up again, this time with a smile on his face. “I think what you are feeling is called ‘hot.’” Jimmy moved closer and back again a few times, as if to demonstrate his point. “My nose gets hot because of your fire. And you’re feeling that.” 

Tango paused. “This is what you feel like around fire?” Jimmy nodded. “It’s… nice. Doesn’t it hurt you?” 

“Only if I were to stick my face right in it.” Jimmy laughed, inciting a similar response in Tango. He moved closer, sweat beginning to bead along his forehead. Tango frowned, then smiled. 

“I like hot.”

The sun was hot, bright and shining above. A single figure stood, though not alone in any way that mattered. His face was wet, with sweat and tears and blood. He looked out, gaze sweeping over the broken world he had come to know. 

He can see graves, and bodies yet to be buried. Fire and ash. Proud structures now shells. Homes empty of all but the wind and the feeling that something important is missing. 

He was in pain. The adrenaline is just beginning to wear off. Numbness fading. Bruises and scratches litter his skin, rough sand rubbing against him with each small motion, needle pricks forced deeper into flesh. A few of his fingers are probably broken. 

And he begins to wonder. Was he in the right? Was he the good guy in all this? Was there ever such a thing? Of course there had to have been. There had been evils in this world so much greater than his own. A worthy fight. But did those evils think the same thing about him? Selfish and cruel? 

Not that it mattered now. Not enough breath left here to apologize. 

He clenched his fists, looking now at his bloodied knuckles. Then at the form which had suffered all those blows. Both of them had been equally deserving. That is to say, both of them deserved the same fate, the one beneath. 

Should he dig a grave first? Would that be the right thing to do? Bring upon more hollowness? 

He moved to stand at the edge of the cliff, pausing for a moment. Were all those voices happy now? Was that what this silence meant? Had they already moved on? Somewhere worse than this, or happier? 

Maybe both. That twisted mix of both that made sure you never knew quite how to feel. 

He took a step, the breeze pulling its hands away at the last moment. The sand did not cushion his fall. 

Beginning.

The little creature looked up at Tango, head tilted ever so slightly. It was cute, with its big glowing eyes. Tango could see the physical cogs turning in its head as it considered him.

It was nice to know all the work hadn’t gone to waste. He had done it as a flyer, a fun little project to break up the monotony of all his other work.

And it did help that he just wanted to give the thing a big old hug.

But he hadn’t finished sanding out the edges yet and that would be a terrible idea. It continued to stare at him, following each small motion with a sense of curiosity.

Oh who was Tango kidding. He was no roboticist, it just had some basic motion tracking, nothing more behind that face. Still, it could help him around the factory with some basic tasks and if he made even more of them…

Tango was getting ahead of himself, he needed to finish this one first. He grabbed its arm, securing the final panel with a sharp whack by the heel of his palm.

It hadn’t flinched, had it? No, it was just some other random motion. Had to have been. No way this hunk of metal even knew what was happening to it, let alone felt pain.

Just Tango’s imagination.

Like he was imagining how, just out of the corner of his eye, when he wasn’t looking, he swore he saw it turn to stare at the exit.

Was he really about to go through with this? All of this? All this time and effort and sweat and tears and blood. Too much blood.

It was going to be worth it. It had to be worth it.

Who wouldn’t want to live forever? Wasn’t that the one true goal of humanity? To stop it all from coming to an end? Even just to think about everything he could do without time being a factor… All the good he could do for the world, for his friends…

Nothing to be scared of. No great unknown looming over him with each and every glance in the mirror.

He would be beyond fear. Beyond death. Beyond this cruel world.

To see himself die.

And be reborn. New. Young. Forever. Mind in another body. Soul in another heart.

After all the life he had given to this place, surely he deserved some for himself? Age was just a number after all. Mumbo was good with numbers. Math and science were his happy place, hard lines in a world that just made sense. Right answers and wrong answers, nothing muddling up the middle.

This, surely, was the right answer.

This was the right thing to do. For himself. For the world.

Couldn’t such a selfish desire bring with it the key to utopia?

The perfect home in the perfect town in the perfect world in which to live forever. Peace and bliss. Never having to say goodbye. Free of grief and sadness.

To see nothing die.

Grian sat at the edge of his dock, feet grazing the water as they swung lazily back and forth. A fishing rod was held tightly in his grip, his eyes fixed on the bobber floating in the blue.

For old times sake.

There. It went under. Grian yanking back on the rod, an aggressive, snapping motion that he had honed over the long days and nights spent by this same river. A movement that was now carved deep into his memory.

A fish.

A salmon, to be more specific. A small one. A disappointing one.

No. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t get mad, wouldn’t get invested. Wouldn’t get obsessed.

Just one free hour in which to indulge old habits.

So much had happened since then, so many mistakes, so many pitfalls. And yet, right now it felt as though no time had passed at all. That salty air filled his lungs despite the distance from an actual ocean. The skin of his hands gone thick, ready to pull and sit, immune to the dampness that sunk into everything else, his clothes and his hair.

Memory. A beautiful, storming memory.

There. His time was up. He needed to get back to work. Real work. No bells and faulty promises to keep him from what needed to be done.

And that in and of itself was a problem.

A problem that led to him sitting at this dock again.

Still, he pulled his feet back, squeezed the water out of his socks, and stood. There was work to do. There was always work to do, no matter how unimportant or easy to ignore.

Ignored for too long.

Still, that dampness sunk into him, a reminder of what he used to have. But that at least, didn’t have to end.

Even if it meant more work.

There was no better way to cheat death than being friends with the reaper.

Well, there might have been, but the hermits were yet to find one.

Zedeath was happy to pull a few strings for his friends. ‘Lose’ a bit of paperwork here and there, happen to accidentally let a few loopholes slip.

It turns out the fabric of reality wasn’t as happy.

That made it sound a lot worse than it was. Zedeath had it covered! He just needed to find a few spare souls to rebalance things and all would be well. Easy peasy.

His scythe shook in his grip, hungry, desperate. It took the better part of an hour to get the thing to settle down.

Since when had he lost his edge?

How long had it been since he had taken an unwilling soul?

Use it or lose it…

Zedeath let out a sigh. Surely there was some nice old lady somewhere who was ready to go?

Surely there were a hundred thousand something old ladies who were ready?

Right?

Zedeath was in big trouble.

He let out a deep, long sigh, then forced confidence back into his limbs. He had been able to scrape by for years, why would this be any different? Well now he had the ‘deaths’ of an angel to account for which were far harder to ignore.

Not impossible.

Zedeath repeated those words in his mind over and over again, a mantra. Just one at a time. He still had time.

Anything to protect those he cared about.

Not very reaper of him was it?

Almost… human, that care. There was a human heart inside of him after all. Surely even death was allowed to play favourites?

A couple hundred thousand deaths.

Those precious souls were more important than the whole universe.

It had been over a year since then. If something bad was going to happen, it would have happened by now. Everything was fine. Everything worked out. 

False didn’t make a mistake. 

But sometimes, when it was quiet outside, when all the things that needed to be done that day were complete. She thought about her. 

She slipped into False’s mind, no matter how hard she tried to forget, to ignore. To remind herself that it had been the right thing to do. 

False was the good one. 

False was the hero, in all of this. 

She was probably happier, without all that baggage. And that world seemed welcoming, kind, home. 

No. False wasn’t jealous. False had nothing to be jealous of. 

If anything, the other should be jealous of False’s heart. False had been so merciful. False had been so good. 

Not had been, was. False was so so good. 

And these quiet moments wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for what she had done. 

For both of them. 

Both of them were better off. 

This past year and a bit was proof of that. Proof that, despite every chance for things to turn out so much worse, they didn’t. Proof that, this was how things were always supposed to be. 

Two. 

Indebted to each other in a way neither themselves nor the universe could truly understand. 

One. 

More than a world apart. 

Just the way it was always supposed to be. 

Mumbo had a very unique sense of style. Compared to everyone else he knew at least. He liked that sense of formality, of cleanliness.

It was something to hold onto, something that was always there for him, always the same.

Unlike the rest of him.

He really didn’t understand everyone else’s jealousy with his ability to change his form. Sure on the surface it seemed like a cool party trick, but they didn’t understand everything underneath.

Everything under his skin, threatening to come to the surface.

His features ached, stiff with their forced rigidity. Mumbo liked the way he looked now, this well kept and kind face, worn with use in all the right places.

Some days it was easy, he barely had to think to keep everything together.

Today was not one of those days.

Mumbo stood in front of the mirror, increasingly frustrated as his skin rippled and shifted, his eyes switching colours, mouth too far over to one side, hair… Mumbo didn’t even want to think about what an absolute disaster his hair was right now.

He had a picture of himself in his hands, a picture of the person he thought of when he thought of who he truly was, where he felt comfortable.

Other faces flashed over his own, friends and strangers, all uncanny, all something not quite right with them. Wearing expressions he had never seen them wear, angry, at him. He knew it was his own anger at himself painted onto them but he couldn’t help shrinking back.

Just take a breath. He could figure this out. He had done so many many times before.

Just focus.

Just be himself.

Better now, but something was still wrong. His skin a shade too pale, his eyebrows too close together, his mustache off center.

Maybe he should take a break. Shut himself in his home for a few hours where no one could see him like this and try again later.

When he thought about how they would react, this face that was not truly his shifted with fear.

Don’t think about it. Just think about Mumbo.

Mumbo was this face in the picture.

Just don’t let anyone else see the rest.

Hypno was surprised that no one had thought of this sooner. That no one had taken advantage of this sooner. That no one failed to fall.

He didn’t feel guilty. There was nothing to feel guilty about. All the terms and conditions clearly set out in plainness. Even if they had a bit of a sales pitch, so did everything and everyone else.

They were the ones who signed the paper.

For equal and fair compensation of course.

Hypno flipped through all those pages, counting the names. Counting how much power he held in his hands. So much power. So much control. Willingly given.

Always, willingly.

All those perfectly organized piles, each holding a soul.

No, this wasn’t some hellish contract. Just favours. All just favours. So many favours.

The pitch.

The sleight of hand and tongue.

Something deep inside of Hypno grew giddy. Grew hungry. He already had so much, and he could so easily have more.

More power. To be taken seriously. To be impossible to ignore.

But of course, that was not his motivation. Simply to give away goods at perfectly reasonable prices. What could possibly be wrong with that?

Nothing.

Hypno finished stacking the papers, pushing the piles off to the side. Ready for tomorrow. Ready for more.

Truly, it was a bargain.

Things started to lose true meaning, after a while.

It was fun, being able to explore like this, to see all these different worlds and not just wonder but know how she could fit in them. Gem could be anything or anyone she wanted to be for however long she wanted it.

And that was the problem.

She would get antsy, sometimes, mentally hovering over the trigger. How easy would it be, to give up now? To get all of the good and run from all of the bad?

But no, that was a bad habit to get into. The struggle was part of what made things interesting, what made things worth doing. And besides, how could she leave those she cared about so easily?

For now, her place was here.

But that didn’t stop Gem from wondering. What else was out there still unknown? What was she missing? What if there was something better?

Tempting. Oh so tempting.

And some days she would give in. Live another life for a while, put on some other act. But those things never lasted as long anymore.

Gem would always find herself coming back.

Home.

That was a funny thought. She wasn’t used to truly having a home, somewhere to rest her head for more than a little while, somewhere she could always come back to.

This was her home. Truly, her home. Even if she still went away. Even if she still had days she wished to leave and never come back.

She knew she would always come back.

Even if it wasn’t always the same. Different places, different worlds, still the same heart. Still the one true welcome.

The one place that held true meaning.

Not some act to be abandoned.

Not some short lived fantasy.

Consequences and victories. Lines in the sand and stone that meant something, that wouldn’t fade into obscurity with time’s cruel whip.

Home.

Gem’s home.

Forever.

Cub took a breath, deep and slow, bringing the air deep into his lungs. Holding it, letting it sit there until it burned, and then a little longer. Finally, he exhaled. The air was thick, spores clinging to it.

Cub was almost disappointed.

He wasn’t sure if he had been truly hoping for something to happen. Part of him wanted it. Wanted to let it take hold again. Wanted to be free from the blame of his own actions, free from the stress of it all.

And he knew it was a terrible thing. He knew how much pain he caused. He knew how awful it could have been if things hadn’t ended when they did.

So why did he still crave it?

Was it still a part of him? Waiting for its chance? Would that really be such a bad thing?

Because Cub knew that he had been the villain in all of this. He was always the villain in all of this. He didn’t mind, really, people needed someone to hate, to blame. And genuinely, Cub had done it all in their interest.

Someone needed to step up, to be in control, to keep everything from going under, to prevent such anarchy.

And if that made him the bad guy then so be it.

But it didn’t stop everything from building until it stung. It was unnecessary. Things wouldn't have gotten out of hand if they just listened, if they followed.

If it spread.

No. It was pointless to think that way. It was all over now anyway. Random chance sending everything crashing down. Pointless.

So here he was. Standing in a field of this infectious thing. Breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Hoping, perhaps, for a way truly out. Too late.

They will come to miss authority.

Hopefully before Cub came to miss himself.

The night sky was beautiful tonight, the stars bright and twinkling, vague wisps of purple and blue and green. It was as if that darkness was the sky, hiding itself behind the ghost of all else that swam above.

Pearl always carved out a moment or two to just look up. It helped her collect her thoughts from the day, come up with ideas for what was to come. A relaxing way to cap off all that happened.

Tonight, that was looking out of a window, elbows propped up on the sill, chin resting on the heels of her hands.

Always looking up.

Watching how the lights on the ground played with the lights in the sky, washing out and brightening. A warm glow from below, a cool one from above. A dichotomy, that spoke to the realities of the world.

Pearl had always felt a connection to the sky, felt at peace with it hanging above her head. Unsure of exactly why.

Maybe something to do with all those stories. Tales she could not remember of a woman so similar to herself.

Who rose to the sky and fell again.

A goddess.

But of course, that couldn’t have been Pearl. All those stories were so different, made of fantasy, of fairy tales. Coincidence, and nothing more.

Not echoes, of some other self.

Just a beautiful sky. Just bright stars and swirling colours. Just some simple, human, connection.

Just Pearl.

Joel wandered through these winding streets. He knew every turn and twist by heart. He carved them by hand and sweat. And yet still, every once in a while, when he let his mind wander, he would find himself lost.

No. Joel never got lost. Just turned around for a second or two.

He hadn’t been gone for long, really, in comparison. Age barely had time to rap a knuckle against these walls.

Joel had let himself be taken away, out of pity. He would never have left otherwise, too smart and quick to fall to some trap or sword.

And he should have seen it coming really. No. He did see it coming, obviously. Defiance so open. Testing the waters. Seeing just how much of a home this place has become.

Of course they wanted to knock him down a peg. Just like so many other people. They couldn’t handle his perfection, his greatness, his pride and bravery.

Couldn’t handle how much better he was.

Obviously.

Just a test. Poke the bear. See how hard it bites. And really, those teeth had been dull and weak.

So out of pity. To throw a bone. Give just a fraction of his excellence. Charity. Proof that he really was that kind, that humble, that giving.

All facts that he knew all too well. All facts that weaved their way into his smile and posture and voice.

The gift, of himself.

Of Joel.

Obviously.

It was over.

He won.

All those long nights spent alone. All that sacrifice. All that fight. All worth it.

Everyone knew the truth. Everyone knew justice.

Turned into something so much greater than himself.

Shifted and molded into a leader. Into a rally cry. Melted and frozen over and over again.

Jevin was used to changing shape. It was part of him.

But he would be lying if he didn’t admit how amazing it felt to be home. Truly home. The air holding a smell that was his and his alone.

He didn’t have to be on edge. He didn’t have to live with an eye on his back and a shield to his chest.

And yet somehow, it didn’t feel like a victory. It felt flat, anticlimactic, not genuine. All that effort gone to waste and dirt. Because no matter how hard he tried to hide this feeling, that cause had given him a purpose. It had put him in the light. It had given him his chance to shine. To prove himself worthy.

Had he proved himself in the end? Just a handshake and a coin flip. Such a sudden, happy end.

As Jevin walked through the trees, remaining himself of all that he missed, all that he fought so hard to get back to, something was empty. That spark. That rally. That chance.

What had he made of it truly? Would all of this just fade with time, or would it cling to memory? Since when did he care about being remembered?

Since he got a taste.

No. It wasn’t over. Not yet.

It was said once, that cuts and scrapes scar because the universe thinks they are important to remember. Because those small things are what makes you who you are. Each slice of skin considered, and upon finding meaning, etched into your body just as it was etched into your soul.

It seems the universe thinks Scar is very important.

For as long as he could remember, even a paper cut carved a darkened line, never leaving him. Every injury, accidental or at some other hand, raised. A tome of him. He had forgotten, by now, where some of these lines came from, layered upon each other and buried deep below. All still a part of him, this worn fabric that kept blood from leaking out, until it was time for yet another mark.

Anyone who knew him would describe Scar as accident prone. It would be strange to go a day without almost losing a limb. Maybe that was why these lines stained, a reminder to not make the same mistakes again. If that were the case, the universe certainly underestimated the amount of mistakes he could make.

He had built up a shockingly high pain tolerance by now. Not that he didn’t feel it. Scar felt every little prick and sting, he felt his nerves lighting up and screaming. But Scar just didn’t care anymore. It was worth a few cuts and pinches if it meant getting the job done. An inevitability, anyway. Might as well get something done in the process. Might as well get something done no one else would out of worry for their own safety.

And sometimes he would stare at himself and trace his way down memory lane. A river, ever flowing. That was from when he tried that new cookie recipe. That was from when he misfired his bow. That was from when Mr Finnegan got a little too excited. That was from when he tripped over the carpet. That was from when Grian convinced him to try an elytra trick. That one was from… Scar couldn’t actually remember how that mark had come to be.

A mystery, now. And yet it still must have held some meaning. It still must have been important. It must have had some effect. It must have made him. It must have been part of him.

It still was part of him.

A jagged line, uneven in its thickness, unruly in its shape.

Scar ran a finger along the line, trying to imagine what type of pain might have come from it, trying to jog his memory. Still, nothing. Just another marking lost to time and healing.

Not truly lost. Never truly lost. The universe made sure of that.

The universe liked Scar.

en was, at his heart, at the very core of his soul, a theater kid. 

It was something anyone who knew him knew. Their eyes well used to rolling when he spoke in yet another voice. Laugh, with him. Of course it was with him they would never laugh at him they were his friends they cared of course they cared.

Ren always found comfort in it, in being someone other than himself, of trying on some other mind. To prove, that he could play the part, that he could be anything he wished. Otherwise, none of these beautiful stories could be told. Otherwise he would just be plain old boring Ren. And he wasn’t sure anymore, who that truly was, all these false people twisting and mixing on his tongue. 

Because there were so many worlds to explore, so many tales to be lifted off paper, so many experiences to be had, to be held dear and cradled with the love only commitment to character can give. And if Ren was anything, he was committed. If Ren was anything, he was a fraud. 

Tears of joy and pain were both just made of water and salt. Costumes and crowns just made of fabric and metal. But stories, stories were made of so much more. So so much more than just the flesh that made up people. Stories held soul, held purpose, held emotion, held beauty, held a fullness impossible to otherwise achieve. Held an emptiness that gnawed anyway. Ren held an emptiness that gnawed anyway. 

Ren was made of so much more. 

Ren could be so much more. 

Always, always, more. 

Never, never enough. 

But Ren’s voice was the voice through which all these stories could be told. Brought to life by his mind and hand and his alone. A god, almost, of all these worlds and all these people that would never have drawn breath. They were stealing Ren’s breath, they were stealing his life for themselves.