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Chapter Text

He has been waiting for an opportunity to present itself for almost five months now. Five long, gruelling months of waiting and watching and a knot working tighter and tighter in the pit of his stomach with nothing to show for it. He’s been playing along as much as possible, pretending to enjoy his new status as a god. There were times where he had to do things he doesn’t care to dwell on, that worked the tangle of thick rope tighter, but he can put it out of his mind now. 

Because tonight - finally - it is time. 

He’s just gotten back from his shift, Watching over an insignificant little cluster of worlds in a sector devoid of excitement. Nothing but slow clearing of dirt and meaningless joy over a moss roof on a quaint, not-too-bad wooden house. And he’s closing the heavy obsidian door on its eerily silent hinges, heaving off his heavy cloak that presses against his chest and steals precious breath from the body he isn’t familiar with anymore. There is no clock, no way of watching time mercilessly march on, so he counts the precious seconds in his head. He has five minutes to pack, and thirty more to get out. After that… 

Well, the present is a gift and live in the now and all that crap. He can’t afford to waste time thinking about its watchful gaze, feeling its eyes boring holes into his skin. 

He throws off his undershirt that rubs at him constantly, tugging on a plain black T-shirt in its place. A sigh of relief escapes his mouth as the soft fabric replaces weeks of discomfort, and he reaches for a sheet of lightweight fabric hidden in the false bottom of his wardrobe, throwing it over his shoulder blades and raising the hood while adjusting his too-white wings underneath. It’s almost indescribable, the slow torture of that velvet undershirt. He hates it and They know he hates it, shooting amused looks at each other whenever he is forced to stand there sweating as it sinks ever so slowly into his skin. 

Three minutes left.  

He rummages through the small drawer in his modest desk, selecting the black silk drawstring bag that he hopes won’t rip. He’s pretty sure that it won’t - They would never use second-rate materials, especially for him. The prodigy.  

 A hollowed-out book on Admin powers conceals a collection of trinkets that he scoops into the bag: several marbles, the glass reminding him of better times; a carved squid; a rusty badge, two letter p ’s barely distinguishable against the dirty brass; and a tiny metal key, gleaming silver. He tries not to look at them, tries not to remember. Not yet. 

A pace across the room is his desk, which he slides open the little drawer in the side of. A false bottom of course, which he removes. An old, leatherbound journal and bundle of photographs sit underneath, though not for much longer – into the bag they go. There isn’t anything else to take, apart from the compass in his pocket that was making him very aware of its presence with its weight and slight warmth spreading slowly through his body. He remembers to make his sparse, uncomfortable bed out of habit, swiftly tucking the sheet into the bedframe and adjusting the pillow.  

Two minutes.  

He’s not going to leave a message for Them. For any of Them. It would be a courtesy expected of him that he, for the first time in a long time, will not deliver. All he feels is white hot anger now, flooding through his veins in an intense surge that threatens to spill out. They took him. They broke him. So now, They lose him. It’s just so simple, so black and white in his mind. Once, there would have been colour in his thoughts: reds dancing through the sky with whirls of yellow and blue, crumbling forts of silvery blended greys and whites reaching for the sunse- 

He shakes his head. They took that from him. Dwelling on it would only hurt. 

One minute. The faintest whisper of footsteps from up the impossibly long corridors, as loud in his head as crashing thunder. 

Rising panic builds in him, aching through his bones, but he can’t let it stop him as his nimble hands pluck the bag’s strings and swing it onto his back with deft precision. He’s ready, desperately working open the lock on the tiny window above the desk. 

The steps are closing in, the steps that grace his nightmares and haunt every moment. All he can hear are the steps along with the frantic click clack of the lock, deciding at the moment that mattered most to give up on him. 

“No no no no no no nononono-” 

It becomes his mantra in those crucial seconds, all he can hear against the lock and the steps and the walls and the cruel laughter of time in his ear before- 

----⍑ᔑᓭ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ꖎ╎ℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ꖎᒷ ʖ╎∷↸ ⎓ꖎ𝙹∴リ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ リᒷᓭℸ ̣ ? ⍑𝙹∴ ↸╎ᓭᔑ!¡!¡𝙹╎ リℸ ̣ ╎リ⊣.----  

Silence. The blissful quiet of the Void, singing to his feathers that stretch to their full span at last. His ears twitch; he can hear the sheer anger in Their outburst of power, but... 

It just feels so wonderful. He’s drunk on adrenaline, cheering and whooping into the ebony everything and nothing. 

His hair raises slightly; some of Them have been sent after him, bearing down already with white robes that suck out the darkness hiding him. 

But he isn’t afraid. He isn’t afraid for the first time in Gods-know how long (which is again most likely the adrenaline, but he likes to think is the euphoria of freedom) and he is, most importantly, flying again. Cutting through the cold and sticky air, a mockery of wind streaming through his sandy hair and tousling it gently. It’s nothing compared to the impossibly fluffy white clouds of the Overworld, but he doesn’t have the precious seconds to complain. He’s taking what he can snatch from that ever-shifting hourglass, and it just feels... wonderful.  

̇” ̇ᓵ⍑╎ꖎ↸!” ̇  

A roar of rage from behind manages to jolt him out of whatever daydream the wind had granted him, his flight stalling for a moment as he checks over his shoulder. 

Right. I’m being chased.  

The young man’s slight form suddenly dips in an evasive manoeuvre, his wings snapping close to shut in the process of plummeting towards the nearest sharp spire of obsidian and purpur that grapple with one another for whatever the End thinks sunlight is. He must put his faith in the twist of stone, bridges and shadows that awaits him if he hopes to stand any chance against the forces sent his way, navigating the maze beneath the derelict roofs of the Sancta Visio. 

Heart pounding, his wings open just in time for the almost-wind to catch him. It propels him down a narrow alleyway between two vast cylinders, spidery bridges providing him with tests of dexterity aplenty. His pursuers don’t seem to be fazed, he notices with a growing sense of dread, deftly following in his slipstream. 

He attempts to throw one of Them off with a slick feint, somersaulting over a stone bridge that pretty much just clips the toes of his boot before continuing to navigate through a series of alleyways, desperately choosing thinner and more difficult paths. The number of imposing figures on his tail has decreased, he notices, which grants the runaway a quick buzz. It doesn’t last long though, a near miss with a flagpole jolting him rather unpleasantly back to reality. 

It’s hard to see where to go through the malicious shadows coating every inch of his route, a less than helpful hindrance keeping the butterflies doing the tango in his stomach completely manic, the strangling building with unspeakable intensity. He swears the walls are getting tighter, the supports and beams becoming more plentiful as he goes on. It only rapidly increases his anxiety levels, elevating him almost to the point of hyperventilation. He can’t go back, he can’t can’t can’t can’t- 

“╎ℸ ̣ ’ᓭ リ𝙹ℸ ̣  ||𝙹⚍∷ ᓵ⍑𝙹╎ᓵᒷ,  ̇/ᒷꖎᑑ⚍ᔑ!” 

The name is almost as painful as velvet, suffocating his previous self and strangling out every ounce of air and time – that wretched thing, surely cackling at his fruitless endeavours – that he has left. He can’t can’t can’t listen to Them, however much a tiny part of his brain is tired. He is so tired, and sad, and angry, and a tiny part of his brain thinks that it’s time to give up. Time to let everything go, and fall ever so gently from the air. Float towards the cold hard ground in a halo of his own feathers. 

He could be Icarus, letting the dark sea of void swallow him up like the maw of a great beast and enveloping him in a warm sense of nothingness. 

But he can’t. 

So he raises his head, and flies faster in between the walls that close in on him like the ticking of that infernal clock in the back of his mind, even though he’s feeling so much, too much, everything at once. It all blurs together, the swerves and flips that he performs almost on autopilot, his soul silently screaming within the empty shell of his body.  

It’s too much. He is tired. His wings are aching. It hurts to... think. 

Until, lungs screaming for breath, he shoots out into empty space.  

It’s behind him now, the prison that called itself his home. In front is the ever-present void. Beneath his aching limbs is a smooth, hilly plain of sandy yellow stone. And he is back, despite never leaving. 

He has twenty minutes left, by estimation. The chase through the endless spires and alleys was only ten minutes (it can’t have been, but who is he to judge the Universe), and he lost them. His countless hours spent observing the guards’ movements and weaknesses had been worth it, he hoped with a slight fervour. Now his shuddering lungs could finally gulp their precious air, and he would press on through the sea of shadow. 

Seventeen minutes. Just the frigidly humid darkness and worrying thoughts as company, whispering terrible things to his ears. Not helpful by any means, but he cannot stop. He will not stop. Not now. 

He is nearly there by fourteen minutes. He wonders whether They’ve figured it out yet – where he’s going, and what he’s attempting. They probably have, and it’s probably all for nothing. 

  That’s not good thinking, he grouchily instructs himself. But as he draws closer there’s almost something like excitement building in his oh-too-heavy heart. It’s a strange sensation after so long trapped in his own sorrow, yet he allows himself to smile, welcoming that small beacon of light in the heavy blackness. 

Twelve minutes approach. He can just about make out the imposing pillars of obsidian ahead, once cradling impossibly powerful crystals but now bare and bearing the scars of a long battle. An emotion akin to regret takes hold of his face for a long second before he remembers his purpose; escape should be the only thing on his mind, but he can’t help wondering about the vast, expansive desert that is the past.  

Time takes no prisoners, he thinks and knows deep down in the pit of everything that makes him who he is. 

The egg of the Goddess who once roosted here is displayed atop her shrine of bedrock, exquisitely carved curves and spirals detailing the First Player’s victory. A cruel irony, the runaway thinks, that the fallen deity’s most beloved possession be in the hands of history authored by the victor. He can feel a deep, desolate sadness in the fabled clearing of the Dragon Goddess Jean as he trundles to a semi-graceful halt in front of the shrine. 

Or, as he learned from the journal in his bag, the portal back to the Overworld. His way out. 

Ten minutes left. The slight man’s wings are twitching nervously as he paces the rim of the bowl shape, the pillar holding the egg aloft erupting from the centre. There has to be a clue to how to activate the portal in the inscriptions somewhere, he’s sure of it. There has to, or else he doesn’t really know what to do. 

Hope gives way to panic as he scrambles around the hard grey base, praying for a lever or button to somehow appear and save him. He feels every inch, every nook and cranny again and again through the haze that has set. Dust flies into his eyes, coats his black clothes by the time he hears a loud thud behind him, and the panic devolves into a sheer sense of dread. 

“So, Xelqua.” 

The low, gravelly drawl is terrifying at such a low volume, especially when They aren’t speaking in Galactic Common, instead reverting to his naitive tongue. 

“You decided to run.” 

The runaway turns slowly, holding his head with much more courage than he actually feels and shedding his cloak. No need for that anymore, since steath wasn’t the attribute needed to stare down his self-proclaimed ‘mentor’, but he feels somewhat rueful as it lies limply on the ground. 

They are an imposing figure at the littlest description, gleaming white robes flowing down Their body like a crashing waterfall and held together by a brooch on the unmistakable shape of a fractured Nether portal. 

The symbol of the Watchers. 

Their eyes are, of course, that unsettling shade of violet that tear into him, twin wolves feeding on their prey. There is no choice but to face this particular being with feigned bravery, for They take no prisoners.  

“Xinnua,” He greets Them coldly, channelling all of his built-up hate and vitriol into his speech, adjusting his posture to be more confident. 

“So I did.” 

The elder towers over him, reaching probably seven feet at a stoop, and narrow Their eyes. They scour his face, expression, hand movements for anything that might give away his intentions, but They had trained him too well. 

Never give away what you are thinking, They had instructed him in their first lesson. 

They sigh deeply, with almost a sadness, and lean back. 

“...why did you run?” They inquire after a long silence filled only by his stare, Their eyes taking on an almost human nature.  

He can’t help but pause, taking in Xinnua’s demeanour. It is extremely out of character for Them to even look at him like he’s worth keeping alive. 

But he can’t help the intense burst of anger that washes over him, filling him with fuel and flame. 

“I don’t BELIEVE you!” he screams, shedding all of his composure with one lapse of control. 

He feels cornered, a wild animal on a leash needing to be set free. And he doesn’t deny that it feels exhilarating. 

“I RAN,” he hisses, “Because you’re sick. You Watch and do nothing. You let innocents suffer -” 

“As is the way of the universe.” 

He can’t believe what he’s seeing and hearing. They’re just Watching him with now empty eyes, a shadow of the wraith that has a chokehold on his sleep. 

Two minutes. The nagging voice in his mind has returned, despite it quite frankly being the worst possible time for his internal clock to make an announcement. 

He shrugs it off, returning to staring daggers at Xinnua. 

“I have to leave,” he warns, slowly backing away with careful steps. 

They silently plead with Their eyes one final time, but somehow make it look insincere. 

“You know I can’t do that.” 

It’s a final insult, Xinnua pretending to care, and he realises: They don’t mean anything to him. He doesn’t know why They are showing him affection suddenly and doesn’t care to know why. So he sneers, ever so softly, letting it sink into Their big immortal psyche. 

“Try me.” 

Xinnua shakes Their head with a tut, mouth contorting back to the uncaring smirk the runaway knows so well. 

“Well, I did warn you.” 

They launch at him with a shriek, arms gracefully whipping out from Their robes and shifting into wicked claws that they attempt to rake down his face, only missing because of his well-timed sidestep. He deftly turns on his heel and attempts to sprint towards the shrine, but not before Xinnua snags the fabric of his T-shirt and yanks him back towards Them. 

One minute!  

Time sings to him in a jaunty march, mocking his futile attempts to evade it. 

“If you won’t come willingly I’m going to have to drag your dead body back to the Sancta,” They spit in his face, firmly grasping his left shoulder and raising Their right talon up in preparation for a finishing strike. But They don’t account for the smaller god’s strength and worm-like movement, Their whole body slipping and missing another blow as the runaway beelines toward the shrine once more. 

He’s desperate, They can taste it on the air. 

And They are right. The runaway is more scared, more hopeless, than he has ever been.  

He is running, stumbling towards the dry basin that could’ve, in another life, spirited him away to safety.  

He is crying, tears streaking his face in raging tides as Xinnua laughs, a godsawful sound that rattles his bones and sets his teeth on edge. They’ve won, and They know it. 

He is out of time, he is powerless to stop its never-ending march and  is almost ready to surrender. 

He offers a final prayer to the universe, a desperate plea from a dying man. 

ᔑリ↸ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ⚍リ╎⍊ᒷ∷ᓭᒷ ꖎ╎ᓭℸ ̣ ᒷリᓭ.  

In the grave of a long dead God, a Watcher is taken and crushed into a fine cosmic dust, scattered amongst trillions of stars. 

In the field of the First Player’s hopes and dreams, a lonely egg slips into a shimmering void. 

And in its own bloody beating heart, the Universe gives a runaway a second chance.  

Chapter Text

He’s falling. 

He can’t tell which way is up, or where he is, but he knows that he is plummeting through a silent nothingness and his relentless pursuer has fallen silent. Which he deduces means that whatever saved him from death at Xinnua’s malicious hands possesses more power than time itself. 

Absolutely fantastic.  

It’s hard to open his eyes, or even know if his eyes are open at all, since the space around him appears to be the same colour as the insides of his eyelids. That certainly doesn’t help with orientating himself, so he just has to wait for as long as he must. It’s a while, and his mind starts to run wile with all sorts of fears and theories, but it eventually all begins to brighten slightly, a tiny twinge of orange light in the very corner of his peripherals just about illuminating his limp arms above. He wonders where the universe is sending him, a cowardly refugee from everything he knows. 

For he knows that only the Universe could shape his reality this way, grant him a second chance on the doorstep of Lady Death Herself.  

He’s grateful, of course – eternally grateful – but there is a nagging feeling gnawing away at his bones that he’s not going to be sent on a chariot of clouds and rainbows to peacefully farm smiles and hope for all eternity, in short. 

Wind closer to what he remembers whistles in his ears as he attempts to turn onto his front, tucking in his wings to avoid snapping the bones. He winces; it hurts like hell the moment he moves them a single inch, shuddering cramps rippling through his upper body, but he manages it in the end. The actual manoeuvre itself unfortunately requires a lot more effort than just sticking through pain, forcing him to put every fibre of his being into flipping over. 

A sharp intake of breath signals the moment his efforts are rewarded, the runaway’s face instantly being battered with air resistance. The light is brighter now, threaded with yellows and reds in a semi-vibrant sunset now that he’s facing it.  

The pinprick is both achingly far and so close, beckoning to him with an edge of malice. 

Come here, little one, it seems to whisper. Let me see what you have to offer.  

He doesn't know how long it has been when the tiny speck of light starts to become an ever-increasing ring of wasteland, every inch barren and dry. It’s... uninviting at the least, a couple rotting wooden shacks and carts specking the landscape the only evidence of any past human civilisation. Tiny wisps of cloud dot the royal blue sky, leaving rain as an impossibility, and the sun is almost too bright as it beats down onto the vast stretch of desert, badlands and savannah with little mercy. 

He yelps as he’s yanked out of the void, the tightening blackness replaced with a rush of real, delicious air. An initial rush of exhilaration is abruptly halted by the realisation that his wings are still awkwardly cramped and he’s still falling. Fast. Towards a maze-like heap of old rubbish that most certainly does not look comfortable to land on. 

Adrenaline kicks in once more (thank every God with mercy in Their immortal hearts for biological drugs) and his wings frantically catch what little wind they can, acting as a sort of glorified parachute. They slow him enough that he hopefully won’t break his neck on impact, but at the rapid pace that he’s hurtling towards the ground it would be a miracle to escape unscathed. 

Oh, joy. Which limb would he miss the least? 

It appears that not being in the End has jumpstarted his dry sense of humour, he notices with a snort. At least he’ll go insane on his own in this Gods-dammed desert a little slower. 

The pile of assorted junk furniture and equipment is too close now, looming below his helpless form. He can spot a reasonably flat surface, most likely a wardrobe, and decides that his best option would be to aim for that rather than end up skewered on a wayward table leg. Tucking into a haphazard barrel roll, the runaway grits his teeth and braces for impact. 

He slams into the polished would with a sickening crunch accompanied by a starburst of pain through his left wing that could only be a clean break. He groans painfully, struggling to breathe; a broken wing will hinder him drastically and be a pain to clean up, wet and warm blood already starting to pool around him. Eyes parallel with the sapphire skies and sprawled out atop the back of a thankfully rather intact wardrobe with his wing at an incredibly odd angle beneath him, he’s off to a fantastic start. 

It’s later in the day by the time he feels okay enough to shuffle upright, the dried blood coating his wing and clothes screaming at him to stay still. His legs dangle off the edge of the block with palms firmly in contact with the wood below. Several ideas begin to enter his mind, promptly overtaken by the decision to locate a splint of some sort. 

He heaves himself off the wardrobe, using one hand to steady himself, and initiates the painful task of navigating through the deathtrap of broken wood and metal that could only be this server’s spawn. 

How promising. Not that he held much hope to begin with, he’ll admit, but the sentiment is there. The sharp, splinter-filled, unnecessarily hostile sentiment. 

As he works his way to a collection of perfectly shaped, slender wooden poles, he wonders whether this layout is meant to deter newcomers, kill them off, or just be a place to dump unwanted rubbish.  

His foot sinks into a stinking pile of mush, instantly releasing bile into his mouth. 

Probably all of the above, he concludes with a retch. 

Finally he reaches the bundle of wood, selecting the perfect ones and deftly shaping and snapping them into a splint which instantly is attached to his throbbing wing dangling behind him. A sigh instantly escapes his lips the instant is goes on. The pain is much more manageable now, and he can turn his attention to finding at least one of three things: food and water (his mouth waters at the thought; how long has it been since he last ate?); a weapon, to fend off hostile mobs; and player contact, if there even is any. It’s highly likely that item two will be useful against both neutral mobs and any intelligent life that crosses his path, so instantly a weapon is his top priority. 

In hindsight, black clothing seems like an awful choice as he now rummages through the mountainous piles of garbage around him for any sharp or pointy implement or (if he’s incredibly lucky) some sort of firearm, the sun unfaltering in its pounding heat. His head is throbbing, hair hot and sticky with sweat against his neck. The heat is briefly stalled by a leather canteen he scrounges up, two mouthfuls of water drained from its sandy interior within five seconds with greedy gulps. He slings its handy leather strap over his head, concluding that it will be useful eventually if he finds more water. The trek through spawn continues throughout what he guesses is the afternoon, according to the sun’s movements and the gradual decline in temperature. Every now and then a useful item is scrounged, going into his leather satchel (from the same box as the canteen) or the pockets of the more lightweight trousers he had, cheeks flushing, changed into behind a rusting iron door propped up against a mound. 

So far he had collected an old spyglass, gold leaf flaking off, and several other small items that may come in handy. The drawstring bag that had come with him was unfortunately not immune to travelling through perhaps several dimensions, splitting apart on impact. His photographs and keepsakes were scattered among the many heaps, so far that he only found the journal in the end. To be honest, that journal is possibly the only thing he didn’t want to lose, so even though a slight pain twanged through his heart when he finally let them go, those old memories could now be just that, and eventually forgotten as all things are. 

His stomach is still empty by the time the sun begins to dip below the hazy horizon, casting shadows across his face through the mountain of junk. His heart sinks with it – no food and no weapon is never good, especially during the hours of the night where zombies and skeletons on the hunt roam the darkness.  

Of course, there are no torches to ward off monsters (why would one light up spawn?) so he’s on his own. 

A ratty old red jumper he grabbed from the pile just as temperatures dipped will keep him somewhat warm, and he halfheartedly hopes that the creatures after his blood would be frightened by the colouring. 

Foolish, he knows, but he’s excusing himself at this point since he’s half delirious from the heat of the day and the anxiety gripping his heart like iron.  

The moon has just risen when he first hears gruesome moaning from behind, a glance over his shoulder revealing a pair of zombies. He had rather stupidly decided to rest in a corner with no way out, so it appears that a fight is inevitable. 

“Stay away!” He yells at them, praying that loud noises would scare them away. It ends up being fruitless of course, the two beasts baring rotting teeth riddled with cavities at him and lurching closer. 

The first lashes out, throwing itself into a forceful punch that lands on his right shoulder. It hurts, and after the rather traumatic day his body seems quite content to just give up to those two zombies. 

Bad, he tells himself. This is no time for his survival instinct to up and vanish. 

He ducks the second monster’s attempt at an attack, landing a neat and sharp blow into its stomach before dodging to the side and clocking the first around the head. The monsters both groan louder, emphasising their pain. They go for him again, but his still sharply painful wing and bruised shoulder scream at him to get out of the damn way, allowing him to dodge and weave around both mobs. He lands hit after hit with cold precision, eventually felling them both. 

He’s tired after the fight, panting clouds of breath heavily into the frigid night air. And of course, at the worst time possible, a skeleton decides to shoot an arrow into his already broken wing. 

He screams in absolute agony, blood pouring out once more in an odious tide. He can’t fight another mob, so his only choice is to run. 

Shoes rubbing at his bare skin, mind narrowly focused on where to place his feet, the runaway runs away from the clattering skeleton, reduced to a fleeing mess of blood and feathers. Tears once more threaten to spill from his eyes with the very real threat of imminent death looming over him for the second time in twenty-four hours. He’s pretty sure that it shouldn’t be a regular occurrence, but he resigns himself to running for his life. 

He’s quick and nimble, but the skeleton has friends, one of which being a spider that leaps out of nowhere from above and tackles him into the side of a large double chest. 

Its furry legs gouge at him, teeth sinking into his leg with a screech from the avian at yet another wound. His hands flail, yanking off the lid to the chest and closing around the hilt of... is that a dagger? 

A rush of hope erupts in his gut as he plunges the short yet wickedly sharp blade into the spider’s throbbing abdomen, ripping a gaping hole from which several litres of oozing black blood and gut pour out at his feet. The odious sludge luckily avoids the majority of his clothing, but his shoes are not so lucky. He swallows rising vomit and silently resolves to replace his shoes later. Not too difficult seeing as he now apparently lives in rolling hills of trash, a bit like a feathery raccoon. 

The skeleton is not finished with him yet however, letting loose a clattering roar as it nocks another arrow and lets it fly. It misses its mark by an inch, embedding itself into a table leg just to the right of his head. 

He’s armed now, turning to face the mob and rushing it with a guttural yell. The thing’s bow struggles to lock onto his erratic movements, his slight frame zigzagging like a maniac until the iron blade of the dagger sinks into the skeleton’s heart and it collapses into a pile of bones. 

Gods, he’s had enough of today. 

The runaway struggles to his feet, still covered in a mixture of his own blood, the spider’s bodily fluids and the skeleton’s rotten teeth sticking to his sopping wet self. All in all he feels disgusting, trudging away from the corpses in search of a place to finally sleep.  

It takes shorter time than expected to locate a suitable makeshift bed – a slightly mouldy old single mattress in a little sheltered clearing – and instantly fall into slumber, the moon gazing down with a semblance of sympathy. 

He awakens to an object, cold and cylindrical in nature, being pressed to the back of his head. Heart sinking, the neat click it makes when he shifts tells him everything he needs to know. 

“Keep very still and there’s no need to blow your brains out,” A jovial voice sounds in his ear, strangely menacing through the happy facade. 

“Now who are you?” 

Chapter Text

Scar Goodtimes is not what you would call a pragmatic man. 

Sure, he’s the best of the best at what he does, but you don’t have to own a sensible head on your shoulders to get the client what they want. He supposes that it actually helps, in some ways, to be just toeing the line of sanity when dealing with various drug lords and gang leaders who some richer bastard in this hellhole wants dead. 

He’s been doing it for a good couple years now, hunting down one of two things: it’s always a valuable artifact or other in some place scattered across the wastelands of the Barrens, or some particularly nasty individual who ends up dead in a ditch with a clean bullet hole in their head. Either way, he gets it done. Often in a mad chase for several days, with Scar himself tripping over various roof tiles and stones, but the dead men he leaves behind can’t tell anybody that their killer was a blundering idiot who just so happens to be a good shot. 

He doesn’t even look that dangerous! If he says so himself, he’s a reasonably good-looking and strong young fella! If not for the scars woven across his skin, a tapestry documenting his various and terrible misfortunes. And his simple cane, a thing that he almost resents due to the looks of pity it draws from those souls who occupy the couple settlements he can find work. 

As if he needs it to stay alive – he's got money. Quite a lot of it, probably enough to buy a nice little house in one of the less crime-ridden towns and leave everything behind, but he’s not in it for the money, or the fame. He’s in it because it’s simply the best way for him to try and find a way out. Leave, and go back to the life he had before. 

But why a hardened killer like him is currently rifling around in the Dumping Ground at the crack of dawn? 

That’s a story for Scar, his reputation, and nobody else. 

He hums a jaunty little tune as he searches, the cool hours of the early day protecting his skin from the harshest of the sunlight. His trusty pistol sits in a stylised holster on his hip, one large but clumsily elegant hand positioned on its handle and absentmindedly fiddling with the strap connecting it to his belt.  

“Doobeedoobeedodod- ah, Jellie!” 

Soft yet indignant, a mrow sounds from his feet as a gaunt, fluffy shape emerges. It slinks around his ankles, purring softly in pursuit of praise and food. Scar’s fond smile is brighter than any rays of golden light gradually starting to pierce the mounds of discarded junk, eyes caving in to the creature’s will. He scoops her up in one smooth motion, tucking the silky grey-and-white cat into one of his obscenely large pockets so he can tickle her ears in the process of walking.  

“Oh Jellie, just can’t be without me can you?” He laughs as he strolls on, eyes darting between shadows and corners on either side of him and boots crunching into the dirt in the eager search for his quarry. 

“Ah, there we go!” He quips to himself. The slight glint of whatever is behind the loose layer of scrap and shrapnel to Scar’s left sings to him, his deft hands forming a tunnel through the material to snatch the near-dull silver locket in the heart of the wreckage. 

A grunt escapes his throat in the retreat from the tangle his upper torso is currently wedged into. Jellie, unimpressed with Scar’s useless scrap with a pile of rubbish, decides to escape his pockets before he can drag her integrity any further through the mud behind his. 

“Aw, come on Jellie,” He whines, left arm just about free. “I’m not that bad, surely!” 

The feline manages to raise one superior eyebrow behind his struggling back. 

It’s only after he’s shimmied out of the pile, Jellie trailing behind him and the little bit of treasure in his pocket, that he sees the feather. Slim and a sickly too-white, gently floating next to the fractured table leg it’s snagged on. He has enough sense to know that whatever left this was either an extremely large bird or (the much more likely scenario) a winged humanoid.  

How very interesting.  

This is spawn, after all, though the last people to arrive did so years ago. He would know, being one of them. 

So what did a person – let alone an avian – do to get sent careening into the Dumping Ground after everything got shut off? 

Well, Scar Goodtimes is anything except a pragmatic man, so of course his insatiable curiosity demands answers. 

He stops to scoop Jellie up into his pocket once more, much to her protest, before straightening up. 

“C’mon, Jellie!” His voice is unbearably cheerful to her, signalling that he’s on the hunt. She huffs moodily inside the pocket, curling up while he gets to work. She know’s what’s likely to come, and prays to whatever God out there that listens to cats that the blood doesn’t get on her fur. 

Mid-morning shadows are dancing across Scar’s face at the moment he sees him.  

He’s short, really quite short for an avian, with sweeping wings draping tenderly over the sleeping shape. He can see that one is quite badly broken, blood still oozing from the painful fracture, and something that strikes him immediately is how off the wings are. It’s all he can do not to shiver in the growing heat when faced with the colour that strikes such a sense of wrongness in him, like a great leech had sucked all vibrancy and life from the appendages and spat out a mockery of what once was. 

He begins to realise that the little avian is categorically in terrible shape the closer he gets, his ribs still visible through the barely held together strands of faded red wool that envelops his upper body. Scars dot his nose in a messy pattern, obscuring the many freckles emerging in the new light, and his hair is matted with dry blood from his wing.  

Scar almost feels pity looking at him. The poor thing has obviously been though a good deal of battering, both physically and emotionally, judging from his fitful sleep. 

But something is just so clearly not right about him! Any assassin, bounty hunter or even just a normal person could pick that up!  

Scar is careful not to wake him until he’s right there, silently drawing his pistol from its holster and pretty much breathing on the other’s face. The avian’s out like a light though, twitching on through a nightmare. 

But only until the barrel is pressed forcefully against his head, jolting him awake with the touch of cold metal. Scar readies on his best ‘I am a professional killer’ voice before putting pressure on the trigger and initiating the show. 

He’s spooked; he can tell from the hammering heartbeat of the avian, subtly but surely thudding on as he makes his statement. 

“Keep very still and there’s no need to blow your brains out.” 

Scar cocks his head slightly, adjusting the position of the gun. 

“Now, who are you?” 

The avian keeps very still, every feather in his wings vibrating slightly with fear. His leg is shaking, heart is pumping- 

Scar is already bored of this encounter, but if there’s one thing he loves more than he hates cowards, it’s solving a little mystery. 

“I said who are you ?” 

He increases the pressure slightly and the avian stiffens before struggling to his feet to face him. 

“Where am I?” He croaks out from a sand-parched throat, stumbling over the metal sheet that coats the ground beneath the two. 

An offended gasp leaved Scar’s mouth, accompanied by a step back. His little mystery had gained some gall ! 

“Well, I asked first!” He pouts, the illusion of power vanishing immediately in his slouching posture and drooping lower lip. Jellie mrow s in disapproval. Trust her Scar to falter instantly at the hint of an interesting and possibly tragic character. 

The figure opposite him’s mouth begins to open and close like a fish, instantly baffled by Scar’s sudden change in demeanour before righting himself once more. He subtly moves away from the gun (which Scar has no problems with; if he were threatened by a guy with a pistol, he would also not instantly be super friendly with said pistol-waving maniac) while keeping a still wary eye on the odd man in his coat with too many pockets. 

Finally settling against a rather sturdy wardrobe on the surface of the nearest mountain of strewn items, the avian manages to scrape out another question through his confusion and dry lips. 

“What is this? Who- “ 

He hunches over, racked with hacking coughs and a faint but noticeable chill in the early morning warmth. Scar almost feels alarm before the strange avian steadies his quaking frame, one hand against warm but faded mahogany. 

In a slightly steadier voice – one that Scar, with a start, can tell belongs to a person with at least some power – he asks again. 

“Who are you? Why were you trying to-” 

A subtle glance at his pistol finishes the sentence for the mysterious man. 

All elements of surprise and menace vanishing within an instant, Scar gives up. If the avian knows that he doesn’t really want to kill him, then he might as well strike up conversation. 

“So, where you from?” 

That’s usually the charmer in casual conversation, but the avian just instantly flinches as if Scar kicked him. Like a wounded dog, he muses. 

The other stares at him now, eyes much harder than before. 

“You have no right to ask me that,” he almost hisses, delicate but tough fingers wavering against the wood holding his weight. 

Scar’s getting a bit nervous now; he’s riled the slight avian up, and after all a wounded dog can still bite. 

Always preferred cats.  

Speaking of cats, Jellie decides that this is the perfect time to act on the new scent that graces her delicate nose and leaps out of Scar’s pocket. The avian lets out a mixture between a startled squeak and a breath of endearment as the small and furry shape darts towards him, rubbing against his boot with an irresistible purr. 

All animosity forgotten in his cat-filled vision, the small avian’s eyes light up ever so slightly in a stoop to reach Jellie’s level and gently stroke behind her ears. 

It’s a good few seconds before he jolts back to the moment and backs away, mumbling something that sounds like ohsorryIjusthaven’tseenacatinsolongsorry and tucking his hands into the pockets of his khaki cargo trousers. 

Scar’s eyebrow raises. Good to see that they’re both just useless cat lovers after all. 

Thank you Jellie, for solving all of my awkward conversation problems.  

“So, ya like cats then?” 

The avian blushes, shooting a quick reply of “yes” and shifting on the spot a bit more. 

Scar sighs. This mysterious figure is strangely drawing him in, and he’s way too impulsive to stop himself. 

“Y’know I can’t get you through this place without knowing your name.” 

His head snaps back towards him, bluish-purple eyes brighter than Scar would consider normal boring into his own. 

“Get me through?” 

He’s somewhat no longer hostile after Scar’s subtle yet irresistible offer, face ever more intrigued and hopeful than before. Scar smiles ever so slightly. 

“So, what is it? My name’s Scar.” 

“Wow, really?” The other remarks, dripping with sarcasm. “But,” His face softens. “You can call me Grian.” 

Grian.  

It’s nice to put a face to a name, and Scar has to admit it perfectly suits the figure in front of him. Short and quirky, but carrying a weight to it at the same time. 

“So, Grian,” Scar leans on his cane, easing into the conversation. 

“How did you end up in the hellhole that is Straight Down?” 

Grian stiffens slightly again at this, though not enough to communicate anger. Sadness, trauma and pain, yes (dear Mojang somebody needed to give this guy a hug), but nothing that stops him from giving an answer. 

“I... fell. A really long way.” 

Well, Scar didn’t expect a straight answer. Grian seems like he wants to ask questions anyway, and if it means he can build trust with this mysterious and powerful bird man who dropped out of the sky, he’ll give as many as he can. 

Why does he want to build trust? Gosh darn it he doesn’t know, so he invents some fantasy about Grian being useful for his latest job. He’ll rendezvous with that part of his thought process later, stick it in the box marked don’t want to think about right now.  

Right on cue, Grian asks a question. 

“Wait, you said- Straight Down ? What sort of moron names their server that ?” 

Scar shrugs. “It’s definitely not the official name. Pretty sure the first no-goods and scoundrels who settled down took to naming it that from the old saying ‘never dig straight down’, as a sort of middle finger to the gods that chucked them here in the first place.” 

Grian’s mouth opens and closes, the parrot hybrid (he guesses) looking ever more akin to a fish than his feathered kin. 

“So this place is just... where the people the universe hates go?” 

Scar dramatically points a finger at Grian, making the avian jump. 

“Bingo! The first ones were at least. Most people here now are descended from the first people to end up in the Gods’ Time Out server, but a couple get sent here every now and again. We see less and less every year, so you must have really pissed someone off.” 

This clearly made Grian think. It also made Scar think – who had Grian pissed off so badly, and what had he done to piss them off? 

“Let’s just say some powerful people who I never want to see again.” 

And for a moment renowned assassin, killer and all-round tough guy Scar Goodtimes feels a flicker of fear from the look in the other man’s eyes. 

I could collapse this server if I wanted to, it said. 

But then it’s gone and Grian is just a tired, injured and probably starving heathen in need of help. And, against his better judgement, Scar is going to help him. 

“Well then, you hungry?” 

The avian looks like a fish again, pulling what Scar mentally names his quizzical fish face. 

“I’ll take that as a yes!” 

Scar takes the moment to whip around, gesturing to the other man to follow him. 

Grian trails after Scar down the barely noticeable path through the wreckage the taller man leaves as he hops and hobbles over various detritus, cradling Jellie in the hand not expertly using his cane, until the heaps of lost things dwindle away to become a sparse wasteland. 

“I can see why the gods would toss me here now,” Grian mutters under his breath from behind Scar, not meaning for the other to hear him. 

Bad luck Scar wasn’t as human as Grian clearly thought he was, and could hear every word reaching his (admittedly disguised) pointed ears. 

Louder, Grian called ahead. “So where’s that food you promised?” 

“Right up a- oh.” 

Trundling to a halt, Scar’s face dropped at the sight ahead. 

“What do you mean- oh, I see now.” Grian sidled up to Scar’s side, taking in the image of two horses – one obviously Scar’s - each with somebody sitting in the saddle, waiting for the owner to return. 

Which he now has, prompting both to instantly raise their guards. 

Both pairs are about two hundred metres apart, nothing but sand, dead bushes and a couple lizards in the way. The other two, a man and a woman around their age, are positioned just in front of a small cliff dropping off from an equally sized hill of orange terracotta, just waiting. 

“Damn it, why can’t I go one job without somebody trying to steal my horse?” Scar’s exasperatedly dramatic sigh is followed by a slow walk across the gap, accompanied by Grian and a lot of grumbling. 

“You see my new friend, the one thing I hate most in the world – besides dying of course – is people taking things that don’t belong to them, it’s just a real pet peeve of mi-” 

His voice dies away as soon as he realises that he knows the pair attempting to steal all of his belongings.  

(That he bought with him, because what moron would keep their valuables on them at all times?)  

Back to his current situation, it appears that the man and woman ahead of him are nothing short of people that he would have considered friends, once upon a time. The man, a shortish but stocky guy with a splash of messy green in his untidy brown hair, yells over at him once Scar and his feathered friend reach shouting range. 

“Scar, you cheeky bastard! Get over here so I can steal your stuff and kick your horse right in front of your face!” 

Ah, classic Joel. Just the same as three years ago with his impulses and tendency towards horse cruelty. 

“You know these two?” Grian hisses into his ear, hand ready on the hilt of a knife he had apparently slipped into his pocket, the sly little guy. 

“Acquaintances. From years back, on separate occasions, actually. Apparently they got married.” 

Scar’s casual reply isn’t satisfying to the man at his side, but he’s not going to say more. Both periods of time were brief, violent and ended in words spoken that should not have been by all parties, and it wouldn’t do to dwell on them right now. 

“Well, long time no see! Both of you!” Scar’s voice oozes cheerfulness and manic glee like always as he saunters up to the husband-and-wife duo. 

“More than I can say to you, Scar.”  

Lizzie’s retort is as curt and to the point as it always was as she gracefully slips off of the saddle of Scar’s horse to face off with the aforementioned, cockily leaning on his cane with a coy grin. 

“Now, you either come with us back to our camp, or we leave you in the desert. To die.” 

As Scar said; straight to the point. 

He sighs, melodramatically conceding to the pink-haired and angry woman in front of him. 

“Very well.” 

After all, getting semi-kidnapped by two old friends could hardly be an unexpected step following his meeting with a powerful fallen God. 

He smiles, for even though Scar Goodtimes is not a pragmatic man, he isn’t dumb. And he’s looking forward to the chaos that follows. 

Chapter Text

So hey guys! Seems I dropped off of the face of the earth for two months again.

This is mainly because school started and it was so much more tiring than I expected, so I haven’t really had a lot of the energy to focus on writing a fic.

SO! I have decided to go on hiatus until the end of 2025, and in that time prewrite as much as possible. I will then hopeful go on a regular schedule for releasing thtf, finish Unravelling and hopefully get onto some new ideas :)

Thanks for reading my fic and see you in 2026!