I was watching the ep and thinking about the matrix.

Cuz like. First off, the thing with the pods and them being in the digital circus is reminiscent of how in the matrix, the humans are all in pod things while their consciences are in the fake world.

As soon as Abel mentioned them being in pods, I instantly was reminded of the matrix.

AND THEN THE DAMN BUTTON ROOM.

The idea of "one button will take you back and you can go on with your life, while the other button will let you see what's really going on/let you leave" bring the same as the pills in the movie. And the fact that the buttons were the same colours as the pills: red and blue.

Someone else has probably mentioned this already, and I don't think there's much more to this, but I thought it was funny.

The amazing digital matrix lol :)

Some vsmp doodles before the finale tmrw!

A little fic for the Aviscott nation, after recent events

DOES contain spoilers for ep 7, so if you haven't seen it yet, GO WATCH IT!! :)

Some Scott fanart on this Halloween night 🦇

When Mars Grew Flowers

"AGAIN?!" Grian's enraged squawk is the first thing Martyn heard when he opened his eyes. He raised his hand to shield himself from the sun's glare, waiting for them to adjust. There was a dull pain in his chest - probably from the stalagmite - and his entire body throbbed, probably from the fall. Dying sucked.

But something that didn't suck was winning.

"Two-time winner, coming through!" He called, strolling over to Spawn, where a circle of thrones were erected. Grian was perched on the arm of his, talons digging into the stone so hard cracks were starting to appear. The contained light of the Sun pulsated, golden rays making Grian look positively ethereal in his rage.

Scott lounged in his, the pale light of the twinkling stars making him appear more impish, divine but mischievous. "You're not the only two-time winner here, Martyn. Don't let that ego of yours get too big."

"Yours barely counted," He replied, walking over to his own throne. The red glow of Mars was brighter than the light of the surrounding thrones, and crimson light poured out of the cracks in his. "It was hardly a full season."

Cleo cleared their throat. Their throne was slightly further away from everyone else's in the circle, barely enough to be noticeable, but of course everyone noticed. When you're stuck in a state of limbo for months on end, you start to notice things. "What's that meant to mean?"

He turned a saccharine smile on his teammate. "Nothing!"

"Can't believe I went out so fast," Joel grumbled, slumping into his throne. A comet whizzed around the top of his throne, and if you looked close enough (which Martyn had done, one time, when boredom threatened to tear him to pieces) you could see that the comet was not a rock but, in fact, a car. "No offence to you or anything, Pearl."

"None taken." She was still in her Scarlet Pearl get-up, her hood pulled up and brown hair spilling out. "I was thinking of hunting you later for sport, anyway."

The two of them shared equally bloodthirsty smiles. Volatile, those two were. The waiting affected everyone differently. Grian acted more birdlike, stretching the parrot wings on his back, soaring through the sky more often than not. Scott would rebuild the broken bases, set up a jukebox at Spawn and then dance until his legs gave out. Scar would take it upon himself to tend to fields of crops or flowers. Cleo would bother people into doing something more exciting, be that games or a mini hunt. And Pearl and Joel would go on hunts, alternating between hunter and prey. Sometimes Martyn would join them, sometimes he would make traps to terrorise people with.

It was just a matter of passing the time. The Games themselves didn't leave much room for boredom; when everyone is constantly fearing for their lives, adrenaline runs high, and boredom is almost never an issue. In the aftermath, however, when they have no lives to lose and therefore no danger to concern themselves with, that is when boredom strikes.

So they kept themselves busy. No matter what.

"Where's Scar?" He asked, looking around and noticing his throne to be conspicuously absent.

They all turned to look at Scott. "He's by the cabins," Scott explained, crossing and uncrossing his legs. "I think he's trying to fix the hot tub."

Martyn immediately turned to where the cabins sat, squatting on the surface of the sea. Sure enough, past the empty farmland and the burnt wreckage of the cabins, he could see a tiny glimpse of the grey-green jacket Scar had taken to wearing.

"Does that mean we can all enjoy the hot tub?" Cleo sat up, leaning forwards, excitement playing in their eyes.

A smile curled on Scott's lips. He pushed himself to his feet. "Probably. You're all welcome to pop in, so long as none of you pee in the damn thing." That particular statement was directed at Joel, who had perked up and then slumped in his throne just as fast.

---

Martyn could see why the Cabin Boys built a hot tub in every base. Really, he could.

Three days after the most recent Game had ended, Scar had spent hours trying to fix up the hot tub. Scott would pass by every now and again to spruce up the outhouse that the hot tub was contained in, being preoccupied with restoring the watch-tower first, and Martyn couldn't help but check in constantly. He wanted in that hot tub now. His bones still ached incessantly from his death, and there was a star-shaped scar in his torso from his landing that stubbornly refused to go away. A hot tub would be perfect for him. For everyone, really, since everyone's body was going to be full of phantom pains and aches for at least a couple weeks.

The area had been spruced up. The outhouse was decorated with climbing vines that had sprouted small flowers, little garlands hung up over the door. The wood was still scorched (it adds character, Scott had said) and the windows were replaced, paired with thin curtains that billowed in the light breeze.

"The hot tub's ready!" Scar had called out, and like a pack of dogs offered a bone, they had all eagerly rushed to the outhouse, pushing past one another to sink in. Scott and Scar claimed their usual corners, Grian went in the middle, Martyn in the corner next to Scar, Pearl between him and Scar, Cleo sat on the edge with only their feet dipping in and Joel standing next to them.

A chorus of relieved groans filled the air. He was in heaven. Literal heaven. The water was delightfully hot, a soothing balm on his skin. For the first time in days, his body wasn't screaming at him in agony, and he could pretend this wasn't happening. That he wasn't trapped in limbo waiting for a new Game to emerge, packed with new and painful deaths and new betrayals. That he wasn't stuck in an 'elite' group without the rest of his friends. Martyn let his head fall back against the stone slabs, his arms bracing the sides to keep himself from fully submerging.

"Hey! Who the hell just kicked me?!"

Sharp, playful laughter rang out. Martyn jabbed his foot at Pearl's knee. With an affronted gasp, she ruthlessly began attacking in kind, kicking his shins relentlessly. Grian began to lift himself out of the water with his wings, kicking his talons to and fro, spraying water in his face. Scar remained conspicuously silent.

Joel scooped a handful of water and dumped it down Scott's neck. Scott whipped around and splashed Joel down the front of his shirt.

Within seconds, everyone devolved into hysterics, flinging water at one another and flinging water everywhere. It had taken roughly two minutes before they fell to chaos. A new record.

---

Martyn was placing down some rails when he heard Joel screaming gleefully. He was standing in the ruins of the Rejects' base - specifically at what remained of their TNT cannon. After bridging forwards for a while, he was probably within range to shoot TNT at Spawn. They had tried to break the thrones before, to no avail, and blowing them up didn't work either, but it'd be funny. Scott, Cleo and Scar were at Spawn currently, all three dancing around a jukebox. Martyn could hear the distant notes (damn Lava Chicken, whoever gave Scott that disc would receive a painful death next time Martyn saw them) even from afar. If it didn't blow up the thrones, it would at the very least shut the damn jukebox up and give the others a right scare.

"Hey! No! Stop! Damnit, Pearl, wolves are cheating!" Below him, Joel was frantically fleeing a frankly impressive pack of wolves all snapping at his heels. Pearl strolled at the back of the pack, shooting arrows up ahead. They all landed at Joel's feet; warning shots, just shy of teasing. She was whistling a jaunty tune aloud.

A swoop of air caught his ears from behind. "You need to push it a little further," Grian instructed, feet hovering off the ground, "otherwise it won't hit." He squinted at Grian, then broke the rail he had been placing to elongate the platform.

Martyn chuckled. "You sick of the music, too?"

"I hate Lava Chicken."

"It's worse when you know Scott has multiple discs and just chooses to play that song."

"He does?" Grian squawked, his feathers ruffling indignantly as he did. Martyn couldn't help but laugh at that.

"Yeah. Cheeky little shit just likes riling people up." As he said so, as if knowing he was being talked about, Scott looked up at them and waved. Cleo and Scar stopped dancing to join in, waving exaggeratedly up at him.

Martyn's shoulders sagged. Damn. Damn Scott and his irritatingly good perception.

"You'll get 'em next time," Grian said commiseratingly.

"I'd better."

Besides, it'd be a shame for all his effort to go to waste, wouldn't it? Martyn finished the track, placed the TNT minecart down, then sent it on its way. The explosion wasn't as satisfying as he had wanted it to be, given that the surprise was spoiled, but he managed to blow up the jukebox.

Both he and Grian breathed a sigh of relief as Lava Chicken stopped.

Cleo placed down a crafting table. All three of them gathered around it, shoulders shaking with barely-contained laughter as they contributed items to the cause. They made a barrier so neither he nor Grian could see what they were doing. Then...

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

---

Weeks had gone by. The initial thrill had since gone by and the novelty of winning a second time had faded pretty fast. Not that he didn't continue lauding the fact over everybody else (much to their irritation and his continued entertainment) but eventually they all got bored of that song and dance.

They went through games quickly. After a couple goes at King of The Ladder (during which Scar and Scott had departed quite quickly at the end, both a little teary-eyed, although nobody said anything about it), they swapped to games of tag, to bridging competitions, to some improv games. Someone mentioned leprosy and silence fell over the group briefly, a choking fog, before it was dissipated by Pearl suggesting they go to the lighthouse.

The Square Hole had been covered up. Nobody wanted to walk past it and think of how they died (wind whistling in his ears, the only sound he could hear over the rush of blood thumping in his ears, the eventual painful landing, the stalagmite piercing his chest, explosive agony, his body convulsing as he died) so it was quickly concealed by dirt. Scar had started planting sunflowers in the land. Scott came by to plant some poppies. Grian and Pearl placed lilacs and rose bushes. Martyn and Joel didn't plant any flowers, but they would help water them, keep them maintained and healthy, which was appreciated enough.

On bad days, Joel would hunt Scott down and kill him over and over again. On bad days, Grian would be glued to Scar's side, constantly either perched on his shoulder or holding his hand, trying to reassure himself he was real. On bad days, Pearl would isolate herself with her wolf pack. Cleo would freeze and stay somewhere for hours at a time, looking more like a ghost than a zombie.

On bad days, Martyn would feel as though his head was splitting in two. He would wake up, half expecting to feel the chill of winter, cool steel in his hand, to see the rolling head of his King upon an altar. He would walk around and hear voices clamouring for attention in his head, voices that refused to let up. On those days, hid ears would start bleeding, and they wouldn't stop.

But on good days they all congregated together. They danced together. They sang songs. They made dumb gags that would continue on for weeks. They played games and made traps and kept on living, because that was the only thing they could do.

Live, until they were asked to die.

KINGER ACTING LIKE A DAD TO RAGATHA OH MY GOD THIS IS NOT A DRILL I LOVE THIS GOOFY LITTLE CHESS PIECE MAN

Some doodles of ted and pete (+tiny tinky) :)

Normal Oak dressed as Owen Carvour (saf)

The idea is based on the fic "and my branches fill with doubt (oh, you're there)" by finnsmoose

(sry if the quality is bad, it's my first time posting fanart of, like, anything!)

Secret Valentine's

This is my entry for the event hosted by @writeblrcafe! It was fun doing something like this again :)

This is my gift for @kittrrrr.

Word Count: 1610

---

"Can you cut it out?" Aren snaps, breaking his concentration. The cobalt glow emanating from his calloused palms shrinks to a pinprick. A soft sigh escapes his lips as tension leaves his body. "I don't know if you can tell, but I'm trying to get this done, and if you distract me, it's gonna go wrong. I don't fancy having to deal with another zombie, thanks very much."

Gracie-Mae crouches down. "Why don't we just leave this guy here? It's not like we're getting paid." She unsheathes a jagged dagger with a gleaming topaz embedded into the hilt.

He glances at the limp body in front of him. By all means, Gracie-Mae was right. Nobody was paying them anything. They had no obligation to offer their services. He could just stand up now, say he did what he could. Maybe they could hit the pub on their way back. There was a drink somewhere with his name on it, probably accompanied by bad decisions and a faceless figure in bed with him. Then he'd find Gracie-Mae later on, figure out what he got up to, then move onto the next village.

And yet...

He couldn't just leave this guy here. He probably had a family or something. Not quite old enough for a wife and kids, but maybe a pet? Or he might still live with his parents and siblings. In which case, Aren definitely couldn't just leave this guy.

Cobalt light floods the entirety of his palms as he lays them flat on the man's chest. Aren breathes in, then out, then in again. With each breath, the man's body begins to glow with that same light. He keeps going. In his gut, he feels the familiar tug of a rope and he grabs onto it, following the rope to wherever it shall lead him.

On the other side was an ugly, black mass of gunk latched onto the guy's lung. It pulsates with each breath Aren takes, convoluted green light spilling out from the gaps and spreading towards him. It creaks and groans like an old squeaky door, but moves at an incredible speed. He stamps his foot down on it, wincing in disgust at the atrocious squelching noise it makes in response.

He approaches the black gunk and, with a swift flick of his wrist, causes it to dissipate in an explosion of blue. Aren is yanked back out and into reality. He heaves, leaping to his feet and peering over the man's face.

"Did you do it?" Gracie-Mae whispers. She, too, stares at the corpse in front of them. "He still looks kinda dead."

"Give it a minute."

And, surely enough, there's a quiet groan and two green eyes stare up at the two of them. They're hazy and unfocused, but then the man blinks a few times and his pupils thin. He sits up. The man studies the two of them silently, his expression remaining blank and unreadable. It's mildly surprising; a man dressed this well shouldn't be so good at hiding like this from criminals.

Maybe he's dipped his foot into the criminal world enough times for a few instincts to be ingrained into him.

"Who are you two?" The man's voice is hoarse, as most newly-resurrected people's voices are at first, but sweet. It washes over Aren, coating him in that sickly sweetness. The mild accent there caused inflections on the vowels.

"Aren," He says, holding out his hand. "And that's my sister, Gracie-Mae." The man slowly lifts his shaking hand and takes Aren's, pulling himself up with it. "What's your name?"

The man looks startled at such a question being asked. His eyes go wide, lips parting in thought, and if that isn't just the sweetest thing he'd ever seen. A moment passes, and then he responds, "I'm Carter."

"Pleasure to meet you, Carter." Aren says.

Gracie-Mae rolls her eyes. Her eyes flash with an electric yellow, the air around her crackling and sparking. Carter swallows nervously. She presses her thumb to his forehead and mutters under her breath. Carter winces, then stands up straighter.

"To give you the rundown, here's what happened to you: a guy - drunk, lazy, unimportant - got mad at you for something. I dunno if you owe him money or had an affair with his wife, but he was pissed. He saw you leaving the tavern-" She points at the building behind them- "and got an idea. He whacked you on the head with a broken beer bottle. It wasn't pretty. He hit you a few more times to get the job done." Gracie-Mae pauses. She meets Aren's eyes. "We saw you, and decided to give you a hand."

Carter fumbles for an apology, but Aren cuts him off. "It wasn't easy, mind you. You had this weird thing on one of your lungs I had to get rid of. Real creepy, that thing. But the point is, you're alive and well." He slings his arm around Carter's shoulder and starts to walk him down the street. He glances over his shoulder at Gracie-Mae, and winks. She sighs but lets him go. He knows she'll still be watching.

To his credit, Carter doesn't look uncomfortable or scared at being taken down the street by a complete stranger. In fact, he seems completely relaxed. He walks without a care in the world, like he hadn't been lying on the ground a mere minute or two ago.

"Why'd you bring me back?" Carter asks. "I'm sure there's tons of people that deserve to be brought back more than I do."

Aren shrugs. "You seemed interesting." He left it at that.

Carter gives him an inquisitive look. "But why?"

He waves his hand dismissively. "Look at it this way: you have another chance at life, thanks to yours truly. All I ask is that you don't tell anyone that me or Gracie-Mae were here. Alright?"

"Alright." Carter looks like he wants to ask, but doesn't.

He didn't want to tell Aren the real reason he brought him back, but it was a glaring issue. Every time his eyes drift in that direction, he brings them back to facing forwards. More and more similarities crop up by the second. He isn't happy to admit it, but Carter has his eyes, and his hair was styled the same way he loved. He wore the same sort of clothes as him, and even his voice was similar to his. If he looked at Carter for too long, Carter would cease to be there; in his place, he would stand, arms open and a warm smile on his face as he welcomes Aren home.

They arrive at the place Aren and Gracie-Mae have been holed up in for the past few days, and he ushers Carter inside.

"Your injuries are mostly healed, but not fully," He explains, guiding Carter to a chair and getting him seated. "You'll need time to let them heal before going out."

Carter nods, then shuts his eyes. Aren, rather foolishly, in his opinion, bends down to quickly check Carter's pulse. It is sputtering, stopping and starting at random, but it seems consistent enough. It'll even out after a few more hours.

He just needs to make sure Carter doesn't get injured in that time.

"Well, you're royally screwing us over," Gracie-Mae comments as she slides in through the window. "The guards know where we are now. No thanks to your little stunt."

Aren rolls his eyes. "Maybe if you'd been quieter when I was getting it done, they wouldn't have found out." He shuffles around the dinghy space they call a flat in search of their first aid kit. He pulls it out and returns to Carter's side. The wounds on his body aren't hurting him, but they still need to be cleaned and tended to. Aren cracks on with it as he always has done.

Gracie-Mae falls silent. She normally does, when she wants to vent but has no words to vent with. Aren quickly finishes off tying some of the bandages around Carter's abdomen, then stands up.

"I'll meet you outside later. We can work this out when I'm done."

She relents, and slinks off to a hidden corner, either to sulk or do... whatever it is she does when she's alone. Aren's never around to find out what her hobbies are. For all he knows, Gracie-Mae just stares at a wall for hours. He has no way to know, and if he's honest with himself, he doesn't want to. It's her time to do with what she wants. He doesn't need to know every little thing she gets up to.

Aren stares down at Carter. He examines his work, then his hands glide across Carter's torso, gently adjusting the man so he can see what he's looking for better. A canvas of smooth skin, marred by the occasional blotches or scars or marks. His fingers stutter to a halt when they encounter something so small he almost misses it.

It's a tattoo, barely the size of his thumbnail, and yet so intricate in detail. It's a tiny ram's head, the horns gushing with thorns and petals. The eyes of the ram are hollow, staring up at Aren as if to ask who he was.

A grin overtakes his face. This is unbelievable. Lady Luck is truly on his side. Aren contemplates calling for Gracie-Mae so she can see it for herself, then looks down at Carter's face. He can't bring himself to do it yet. Later down the line, perhaps.

For now, that information was a valuable asset. He'd find an appropriate time to reveal it later.

I'm not gonna lie, I was terrified Pentious was gonna die permanently. Knowing that he's in heaven had me SO happy. This man deserves the world, and I can rest happy knowing that he got probably one of the best outcomes of the situation.

I just started watching this show and I instantly loved it. Please please PLEASE sign this petition. Get the show back. The pirates need their real ending.

Secret Santa

This was really fun to write, and was also my first time doing something like this, so for my first ever thing like this, I'm pretty happy with it. I hope my person likes this a lot :)

@writeblrcafe hosted the event

This is my gift for @kittrrrr - hope you enjoy!

A Recurring Face

Word count: 979

At first his name had been Kestrel. He’d liked it; for what reason, he couldn’t quite say, but when he first heard the word he knew he loved it. Later on, he found out that a Kestrel was a bird, but he didn’t mind it too much. They were lovely birds.

Over time that name had to change. It was only natural. As humans developed, so did their languages and the names they went by. His name would be seen as unusual or strange, and thus it had to change to something else. In his heart, though, he was always Kestrel. No matter what name he took, he was always just Kestrel.

Humans had nice literature, Kestrel decided.

They were amazing; artfully woven words into strings of sentences. Each word was carefully selected to have an intended effect. They could make him laugh or - on rare, memorable occasions - make him cry.

Some of his favourites belonged to the Greeks.

Kestrel walked through the town, his eyes wandering across the shops and men walking around him. The sun was high in the sky, its golden rays beating down on him pleasantly, if a little too hard at some points in the day. There were no clouds that would drift by. The fact made him frown a little, but he recovered soon afterwards when his attention was captured by a man arguing with a vendor.

The man was not dressed like the other men and women roving around. He wore a white button-up shirt underneath a leather waistcoat, accompanied by pinstripe grey slacks and shiny shoes. His hair was a ruddy red and his eyes bright green, like moss in a forest. The man was trying to bring down the price of an urn, to which the vendor was trying to maintain his composure whilst explaining to the man that “This urn is incredibly valuable, it cannot be sold for such a price.”

Smiling, he approached the two men slowly. His arrival caught the attention of the vendor.

“I can pay for it,” he said. Kestrel took out some drachma and handed them to the vendor, taking a glance at the strangely-dressed man beside him. “Is it enough?”

The vendor’s eyes bugged out of his head. “This is too much.”

“Consider it a bonus, for putting up with my friend’s antics.” Kestrel turned to the man with a smile, hoping he would play along. “Come, let’s go back home.”

He placed his hand against the man’s back, but not before taking the urn and handing it to him. Kestrel escorted the man away from the shops and people and down a more private road.

He stopped when they were far enough from other people that no one would overhear.

The man looked at him curiously, his gloved hands shaking a little as he held the urn. He rotated it, tilted it, looked at it from every angle imaginable, then began to smile brightly. “Thank you,” he said, “I do not think I would have made it out of that unscathed.”

Kestrel laughed. “I’m sure you would’ve managed it.”

“I’m Thomas,” the man - Thomas - held out his hand. “And who are you, good sir?”

“Kestrel.” he answered, shaking Thomas’s hand with vigour.

---

His love for Greek literature was threatened by the appearance of Shakespeare. He couldn’t help but adore the man’s craft; his way with writing and creating likeable and repulsive characters; his amazing skill for both comedy and tragedy; the way he had risen to fame and even earned the favour of the queen herself.

He had arranged tickets to see one of his favourite plays and took his seat. It was a more private area, since he found that sitting with other people was quite tedious, at times, and that  plays were far more enjoyable with less clamour.

A man walked in. “My apologies, sir, but there aren’t many more seats available. Would you mind sharing with another?”

Kestrel nodded. “I see nothing wrong with that. Tell the fellow that he is welcome here with me.”

Bowing his head in response, the man scurried away, then returned with—

Oh.

The man disappeared, and Kestrel was suddenly alone with Thomas. He hadn’t aged a day; no wrinkles, no crow’s feet around his eyes, nothing. He was just as youthful as the day Kestrel first met him.

Which couldn’t be possible, since it had been several centuries since their last encounter. Unless Thomas was also…?

“I recognise you,” Thomas said, breathlessly. “You— you’re that man. From Ancient Greece.”

“How are you still alive?” he blurted out.

Thomas’s brows furrowed in thought. His eyes took in Kestrel’s clothing, his hair - which he had to cut short, sadly - and his face, lingering a bit too long on certain features.

Kestrel felt his cheeks colour, and looked down at his lap. He nervously fidgeted with his hands. “Why don’t we enjoy the play?” he suggested. “Then we can talk afterwards. Perhaps go for a nightcap.”

Hesitant, Thomas sat down beside him. Their shoulders brushed against each other for a brief moment.

“I think I would enjoy that very much, indeed.”

He wanted to never see Thomas go. He wanted to learn everything he could about the man who had disappeared for centuries and then came back.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

It took a short while for that to sink in. He wasn’t alone anymore. Kestrel didn’t know what to do. He could sing, he could cry, he could dance for hours on end and never stop!

“Are you alright?” Thomas asked, a nervous smile on his face.

Kestrel beamed back at him with an expression akin to a child on Christmas day. “Yes. More than alright, in fact.”

Their attention was snatched by the commencing play as the actors rushed onto the stage.

He was not alone anymore. Maybe things would be different this time.

Ballad of Secrets

The Canary fell, but was not the first

An age of deceit, a broken curse

Slain at the hand of his ally another time

The light of The Stars has dimmed, gone past its prime

The Moon has set, a new era come

As The Sun shall rise, all pain undone

And as Mars died in a final war

Putting an end to the blood and gore

The Slayer's sword fell from her hand

And she joined the chorus, the rest of her band

And as Earth stood at the Secret Keeper

Ready to meet the grim reaper

He was not yet done

He never would be

But Earth was among them now

Now, and for all eternity

Calm Before The Storm

There were no more Yellows now. Which as a result meant no more mercy, or grace periods. No one would show kindness anymore, not when the entire world was against you. Allies would only be standing in your way. Hindrances to success.

Scott stood at the diving board, staring out upon the server. He could see everyone beginning to head back to their bases clearly. His fingers itched, the way they always did when he was Red, slowly finding his bow and holding it up. An arrow was nocked, aimed and ready for someone's head. He didn't know whose head. It didn't matter in the end. They were all just heads on bodies waiting to be chopped off.

Shaking himself out of it, he lowered his bow and put the arrow back in its quiver.

Gem was sat on the floor with her sword in her lap. A strand of hair fell over her eyes and she hastily brushed it away. She stared at her reflection in the sword, a frown tugging at her lips, tilting it this way and that presumably to find a noticeable change.

Everyone felt different as a Red.

No one knew how. There were no physical differences to before, no changes in demeanour or personality. A player didn't instantly grow cold and calculated with an intense thirst for blood. The bloodlust was always inside of them. It just never arose as a Green or a Yellow. It simmered in their stomachs on a low heat, only to have the temperature rocket up and the pot overflow, teeming with the urge to kill. The need to have blood on your fingers. To feel the weight of a weapon in your hands, or to hold the lever to set off a TNT trap.

Many tried to look for a difference. It was quite common for players unfamiliar with the game to do so. They always believed there to be something wrong with them physically, and resorted to searching for changes in what little time they had on their hands.

They never found anything, sadly, but no one did.

"Gem," Scott began, walking over to her. She lifted her eyes to his for a moment, then looked back down at her sword. "Gem." he repeated, firmer. She paid him no mind. Apparently a reflection was more important than her teammate.

Impulse stepped out of his house and sat next to Gem. He stretched his arms and placed his palms in the grass, running his hands through the blades. Like many other players, his hands were riddled with scars, burns, blisters and callouses. "What's up?"

"That's the problem," Scott replied. "Nothing. Nothing is happening."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Impulse asked. "I mean, that means we have time to prepare for an attack, or a trap." He nudged Gem with his arm playfully. "Right Gem?"

She didn't respond.

Scott leaned in a little closer and sighed. Her eyes had glazed over. Again.

"Third time today." he grumbled.

Standing up, Impulse bent down to scoop Gem up into his arms and made a start for the gate. He gestured with his head for Scott to follow, and follow he did. He opened the gate for Impulse, and the two of them descended down the stairs and walked past the Secret Keeper statue. The mere sight of it was enough to send shivers down Scott's spine and make him want to run.

They stopped by Cleo's first. Unsurprisingly, Etho was there too.

"What is it?" Cleo asked. She whispered something in Etho's ear and he nodded, scurrying off quickly.

Once his receding footsteps were out of earshot, Scott answered. "It's happening again. I'm gathering some of the players."

She nodded, gradually understanding. "Alright, just give me a moment to grab my things." she disappeared.

Scott stood there, impatiently tapping his foot until Etho arrived with Grian in tow. Both of them were holding bundles of blankets with some snacks thrown in there for good measure. Grian yawned, attempting to rub his eyes.

Cleo reemerged a short while later with more snacks and some water.

The group left and headed towards Pearl's, where Scott broke off from the group to retrieve an additional guest. Before he could even knock on the door, Martyn was outside with all his stuff, a small smile on his face.

"Cleo messaged me," he explained. Scott walked alongside him back to Pearl's, where everyone was sat waiting. Some of them weren't able to join them, so it wasn't quite as full a group as usual, but it was still something.

He took some of the blankets from Martyn and laid them out on the floor. Everyone else did the same, then sat down.

Gem was the last one to sit. Impulse had to guide her to an available spot and gently lower her until she was perched on the edge. Her eyes were still glazed, but a fraction of light and normalcy was returning to them already.

Scott sat down beside Impulse, with Martyn's head in his lap. He absent-mindedly twirled strands of Martyn's hair whilst humming a small tune. He couldn't recall where he'd heard it; perhaps in passing, in the space between the games, or maybe it had been playing when he was in a different server. It sounded similar to a drinking song, so maybe it had been from Pirates.

"Now what?" Grian asked. He perched himself far from the others, but close enough to Cleo and Etho to reach them in case of an unfortunate event. His gaze was on Gem, his eyes narrowing mildly.

Etho chimed in. "We hang out. Eat. Talk. And we wait for Gem to come back."

Cleo nodded in agreement, a small smile curling at her lips. Her hand met Etho's, and their fingers entwined.

---

It took a while for Gem to come back fully. She'd return in brief fits, then leave soon after. It was like flicking a switch on and off repeatedly, only more stressful and each wait seemed to stretch on for eternity.

But once she started to ground herself, it became easier.

Her thoughts were a swirling mass of death, flashes of red every time she shut her eyes. Something was wrong with her. Something had changed, but what? What had changed so drastically about her?

She looked the same. Felt the same. Even tasted the same, which she tested herself (although maybe she did taste different and simply didn't notice.)

But something about her must have been wrong.

She was wrong. A freak. A creature of her own design or maybe someone else's.

Whenever she came to, she was surrounded by people. Impulse's hand on her knee, fingers tapping along to a rhythm. Scott humming a tune, playing with Martyn's hair, his hums occasionally turning into snippets of song lyrics. Cleo and Etho holding hands and smiling, Etho's head on cleo's shoulder, eyes shut in contentment. Grian watching warily. Pearl next to him with a calming hand on his shoulder.

A pang struck her heart when she came to.

They were all here for her. They'd dropped whatever they were doing, for her.

She was important to them.

Gem fell back again into that whirlpool of thoughts. They swirled viciously in her mind, growling and barking and biting like a pack of rabid wolves. Their fur was the colour of blood, and Their eyes were pools of purple. A strange black liquid oozed from Their fangs and dripped onto the ground. They approached from all sides, closing in slowly, leaving Gem less and less time to escape.

Panic bubbled in her chest and she balled the clumps of her shirt in her hands, trying to remember how to breathe.

"You're okay," Impulse's voice whispered in her mind. Was she? She didn't feel like it. "I've got you."

She almost laughed at the thought. He didn't. Not only because she was here and he was out there but also because no one could ever truly have Gem secure in their company. There was always that thin line, that tightrope of danger she was obliged to walk on. One misstep and she fell back into that world of blood, wolves and that rising sense of fear.

"Gem, we're here for you. Take your time." Cleo.

"You've got this," was a half-hearted encouragement from Martyn. He yelped, grumbled under his breath, then hastily added, "I believe in you!"

A hand gently squeezed her kneecap. She saw it, saw the hand, but not the hand at the same time. It flickered in and out of physicality, not wanting to be there for too long. Then it settled into reality with a firm determination.

Something else appeared, too. A shaky apparition, a figure bathed in sunlight. His wings were folded against his back, his red sweater worn and fraying. There was a scar on his temple, and a bruise on his cheek. A second appeared closer to her, gently illuminated by small floating stars, his pointed ears sharp and alert. Then came another, in a cloak of woven moonlight, a toothy smile revealing her elongated canines.

Then finally came one surrounded by a thick outline of red. There was a pendant around his neck of a hand grasping an hourglass.

They all smiled kindly at her, their faces coming into visibility slowly. Everything unnatural about them faded away until they were simply Grian, Scott, Pearl and Martyn, all still in their respective positions.

"Welcome back," Etho greeted.

Scott exhaled in relief, his hand falling to his side. Martyn frowned at its absence, sitting up properly. His hand crept into Scott's lap and rested on his thigh. A grin curled at Scott's lips.

Gem leaned into Impulse. "I'm tired." she whispered, not trusting her voice enough to raise it much more. Still, her words carried across to the others and a blanket was tossed her way. She caught it easily - surprisingly enough, but that must've been a good thing if her reflexes were already coming back - and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"G'night," Martyn said, letting gravity push him backwards. Scott fell with him, letting out a displeased noise when his back hit the ground. "Let's all have a five minute grace period before killing each other, yeah?"

They all mumbled their assent.

Gem and Impulse lay down, close but not touching. She couldn't touch him just yet; her body still didn't quite feel as it should. But when it did, she'd hug him.

Until then, she'd have to rest.

A Red Life was many things; vicious, unforgiving, spiteful, vengeful.

But they were also kind, gentle and merciful when the time called for it.