#3rd Life fic

[waveridden]

Ren awakens to the sound of a bow and arrow. A king, his hand, and lots of blood. For @treebarkweek day seven: blood, sweat, and tears.

[roseddraws]

Everything stays (but it still changes)

Chapter one

There is a man watching Martyn.

He caught sight of the man out of the corner of his eye a few minutes ago, a glimpse of red fabric at the edge of the firelight. He stays in the shadow of the trees on the edge of the clearing, completely hidden if you don’t know where to look. He doesn’t know he’s been spotted— or at least, Martyn hopes so.

He hasn’t attacked him so far, so Martyn can only assume the man is also struggling to decide what to do with him (i.e. whether it would be worth it to kill him). He slowly moves his hand to his hatchet, keeping his head facing forwards as he nibbles on his hard-earned fish (he’s not sure what kind it is. A sardine? Anchovy?). The smart thing to do would be to move first, while he still has the upper hand. The smart thing to do would be to attack the man before he attacks first.

“You gonna say hello or just watch me from the shadows like a creep?” Martyn turns his head to look at the figure, who jolts and steps back. He’s never claimed to be a smart man, okay?

The man hesitates, then steps out into the light, revealing himself. He’s wearing a torn red flannel that’s half-buttoned and rolled up to his elbows, as well as ripped jeans held up by braces, but the most unusual part of his outfit (despite how completely impractical it already is) are the dark sunglasses over his eyes, in the middle of the night. His dark brown hair is long and similarly unkempt, all tangled up with leaves and twigs, and it’s not even tied up: he’s just letting it fall into his face. His stubbly beard and the plastic bag over his shoulder only complete the homeless look— though Martyn’s in no place to judge; it’s the apocalypse, not a fashion show.

“Uh… hi,” the man says awkwardly. “Mind if I—?”

“Steal my stuff? I think I would mind, actually,” Martyn cuts him off, stuffing the rest of the fish into his mouth and grabbing the other one that had been cooking over the fire, other hand still gripping his hatchet. “Get your own fish.”

The other man holds his hands up placatingly. “I won’t! I’m not gonna rob ya, dude, I was just wondering if I could sit by your fire a bit? I’ve brought my own, uh… meat.” He pats the bag at his side.

“That’s what he said,” Martyn mutters as the unkempt man says the same thing out loud. There’s a beat of silence as the two stare at each other with wide eyes, before Martyn cracks and erupts into giggles.

The man grins. “I’m gonna take that as a yes,” he says, moving to sit across from Martyn, who doesn’t try to stop him. “The name’s Ren, by the way.”

“Martyn,” Martyn replies, eyeing the bag as Ren reaches in and pulls out a huge hunk of something wet and red. “What, uh… what kind of meat you got there?”

Ren tears off a chunk and stabs a stick into it, resting his arm on his leg as he holds it over the fire, avoiding eye contact. “Just… some animal I hunted. Not patient enough for fishing, y’know?”

Martyn opens his mouth to question further, then snaps it shut again. He’s seen the “animals” that wander the city nowadays, and while they’re not the kind of thing he could ever see himself eating (just the thought of it makes him nauseous)… well, it’s the apocalypse isn’t it? You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do to survive. And if he doesn’t want to talk about it, he won’t push.

“Fair enough,” he says in answer. The conversation goes silent as the two each get on with their own meals, Martyn trying to stretch out his last little finger-sized fish for as long as possible, which is not very long. He forces himself to look away from the mystery meat, which is beginning to smell delicious.

“So, how long have you been travelling alone?” Ren asks finally.

“A bit of a personal question,” Martyn says. “I dunno, I guess. I’ve been part of a few groups here and there, but they’ve never really stuck. They all kind of fell apart, or… died. Or I just got bored of them and left. I’ve been on my own for a month or two by now.”

Ren looks a mixture of distressed and amused. “Should I be worried that at least one of your groups has died before?”

“Should I be worried about how vague you’re being about your meat?”

Ren opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, changes his mind and closes it, then settles on, “Touché.”

He pulls his stick back from the fire, though Martyn is sure the steak isn’t cooked through yet, and blows on it for a few seconds, before getting impatient and ripping it off with his hands. It must be burning hot, but Ren ignores that and tears into it like a starving lion, blood vessels popping and spewing their contents all over him. The steak is gone in seconds.

Martyn just gapes at this disgusting spectacle, speechless. “Um.”

Ren’s head snaps up from where he was licking the blood off his fingers, reminding Martyn of a wolf interrupted mid-meal. Then his face turns pink and he’s a human again, hurriedly wiping bloody hands on his shirt. “Um!”

Martyn forces himself to look away, concentrating on picking as much meat as he can from the bones of the fish. “Hey man, I don’t judge. I get being a little enthusiastic if you haven’t eaten in a while, which I assume is the case since you apparently can’t make your own fire.”

Ren splutters, but the tension eases from his body when he sees that Martyn isn’t disgusted. “You don’t know that! Maybe I just wanted company.”

“Mhm,” Martyn hums, not convinced. “What happened to your group, then?”

Ren rips off another fistful of meat and sticks it over the fire before answering. “Never had one. I’m a bit of a… lone wolf.” He smirks as if at some private joke.

“You’re telling me you survived alone this long without knowing how to build a fire?!”

“Honestly, raw meat isn’t as bad as you’d think.”

Martyn grimaces. “I’ll take your word for it.” He sets the fish bones on the ground, having picked them clean. Ren follows the movement with his eyes.

“Do you, uh, want a bite?” He asks. “I’ve got plenty to spare.”

To his surprise, Martyn actually considers it. It’s been a while since he’s had a proper meal, and, though he’s loathe to admit it, that meat looks good. But he can’t; he’s not that desperate yet.

“No thanks, I’m good. Not hungry.” He manages, then after another awkward pause, turns and pulls a blanket out of his bag. “‘Night, Ren.”

“Wait, you’re just gonna… turn around and go to sleep? In the presence of a stranger?” Ren asks.

Martyn turns back to face him, confused. He sees that the other man’s expression is baffled, and slightly hopeful. “I mean, yeah? I kind of assumed you’d be staying for a bit, unless you really did just come here to cook food.”

His face lights up like a puppy that’s been handed a bone. “Sure! Alright! I don’t mind sticking around for a bit!”

Somewhat bemused, Martyn can’t help but smirk. “How on Earth did you survive this long on your own?”

Ren smiles back. “I have no idea, dude.”

***

Ren would call himself an extrovert.

If you’d asked him a year ago, he would’ve said that was a good thing: he had plenty of friends, and his job was all the more enjoyable when he got to chat with customers. It was fun! His life was good.

Except, these days, it’s more of a curse than a blessing. He wants more than anything to find a group of people and stay with them, to protect them as they protect him, to have a shoulder to lean on and a friend to turn to as the world collapses around them.

But he can’t.

The apocalypse was slow to start. He can’t pinpoint the exact day it began, but if he had to, he’s sure he’d name a much earlier date than most people. Most people would mark the beginning of the apocalypse as the day tree roots started cracking through pavement in the middle of the city, or the day the storms started and didn’t stop, or the day they first saw those wretched not-animals on the news.

Ren marks it as the day he grew a tail.

In hindsight, it wasn’t the first sign: his senses were already stronger than they should’ve been, he was significantly hairier than usual, and he swore his previously brown eyes were starting to look almost yellow. But it was the first thing he couldn’t write off as his imagination; it was as if the universe had gotten sick of him ignoring everything it threw at him and decided to drop all tact and just punch him in the face.

By the time society had officially collapsed, Ren was permanently wearing his hair down to hide his furry ears, and wearing sunglasses to hide his now very clearly yellow eyes, because at this point everyone had heard enough about humans becoming animals to be absolutely terrified if they knew what he was. But even then, it was easy enough to hide his… affliction.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the full moon happened, and he woke up in the ruins of an unfamiliar building, hands and teeth stained with blood. The most disturbing part was that he wasn’t hungry anymore, for the first time since rationing had started; it was like blacking out drunk and waking up with more money than you’d started with.

Since then, he’s gotten better at remembering what he does when in wolf form, and better at switching between forms when he needs to— key word is better, not perfect. There are still relapses, when he gets frightened or angry, and of course full moons, when his control is at its weakest.

Which is why he can’t stay with any group: they’d find out, and they’d be terrified and run away, or just kill him to his face. It’s not worth it, he tells himself time and time again.

And it was easy enough to stay mostly away from people for the first few months, only seeing them in passing, maybe staying for a day and disappearing when they slept. But after a while, people became more and more scarce. Now Ren can go whole weeks without seeing anyone, and when he does they’re more hostile than before.

Last night was a full moon, and he’d spent the whole night and most of the following day as a wolf, not having any reason to bother turning back. The sun set, and he reluctantly switched back to slice up his most recent kill to save for later, when he caught a scent on the wind. He hesitated only a moment, before curiosity got the better of him and he followed his nose down what used to be a street, to what was now a dense wood, to a clearing lit by firelight.

The air was filled with the smell of cooking food, and it made Ren’s mouth water. He hadn’t cooked food since before he’d left home. He hadn’t known how much he’d missed it until he found himself glued to the edge of that clearing, staring hungrily at that fire and the man on the other side of it.

He wore a faded lime green hoodie, rolled up jeans and black trainers, and his chin-length blonde hair was held back by a black bandana. Besides him was sat a white rucksack, open but turned away to hide its contents.

And Ren had meant to leave, he swears, but then Martyn spotted him and spoke to him, and… he wasn’t afraid. He was wary, sure, but he let Ren sit across from him, and he laughed along with his stupid jokes, and he didn’t press him about where he’d gotten his meat (and how human they’d been), and Ren wouldn’t call himself clingy, but… in all honesty, he’d almost teared up when Martyn asked him to stay.

He’s a little attention starved, okay? It’s lonely in the apocalypse.

And not to mention dangerous! It would be irresponsible of him to leave Martyn to wander the city on his own. Strength in numbers, and all that. He’s just keeping him safe, Ren thinks, watching Martyn’s sleeping form as he tears into his second steak.

He firmly refuses to think about the future as he curls up by the fire, clinging to this moment like a lifeline: the smell of good food, and the warmth of the fire and the company follow him into sleep.

[arts-and-drafts]

AFK (Limited Life)

(A tiny little snippet I wrote after Martyn confirmed in his Lore that Grian's AFK session was the work of Watchers. Enjoy!)

CW: Death mentions, disassociation(?)

-

Joel fretted back and forth in front of Grian's rigid form.

He and Jimmy woke up to a sunny sky, a fresh harvest on Bread Bridge, and a very still Grian sat atop a llama in a boat. His arms were slack at his sides, and he stared straight ahead in a worryingly blank expression.

Every once in a while, his eyes had swirled with a purple magic that put Jimmy right on edge, though he wouldn't say why; he just told Joel "not to say their names". Whatever the bloody hell that meant.

He looked frozen in time, almost, if Joel hadn't confirmed that the clock was indeed still ticking down on Grian's inner forearm.

The Boogeyman thunderclap rang out above Joel's head as he was preoccupied keeping Tango and Impulse away from Grian's body (gods know what they would do if they realized what a state he was in) and a chill ran up Joel's spine.

There was a chance it could be Grian.

Joel frantically started theorizing how they would even do that. Grian could be moved, that Joel already figured out, and Joel highly doubted that his friend had just happened to fall asleep in a mob in a boat.

3.

Grian was probably expecting this to happen to him, whatever this was, which meant he was probably expecting his fellow Bad Boys to figure out what to do if he had in fact been selected Boogeyman.

2.

Okay, fine. Maybe Joel could make a sort of 'piggyback' arrangement where Grian's hands were wrapped around an axe and he was wrapped around Joel, and Joel could just puppet him around to kill people. Yeah, maybe that could work. Joel was pretty strong.

1.

You are...

NOT The Boogeyman.

Joel didn't feel any relief. He whipped around to Grian after seeing his own message, staring him in the eyes to see if there was any change. Maybe there's a flash of red that he'd never noticed until now. Something like that.

Grian moved.

Joel fell off the boat edge he was perched on in shock.

It was really more of a spasm, but it was more movement than Joel had seen out of his friend since they woke up.

"Grian, are you the Boogeyman?" Joel asked, his voice hitching with desperation. Could he hear him still? Nothing he'd tried before had illicit any response, but maybe that's because Grian couldn't respond.

Grian twitched again, a jerky motion that could vaguely be interpreted as a shake of the head.

Well, definitely more of a shake than a nod. It was good enough for Joel.

"Alright," Joel sighed, and prayed to whoever was left that he interpreted that right. Grian was not the Boogeyman, and Tango and Impulse weren't either, if their words could be trusted.

Which they couldn't. Joel ran them back through the portal.

-

Grian did the mental equivalent of an exhale of relief, his mind stinging from the lengths it went to to just move his head. Joel had thankfully correctly interpreted what little Grian was able to do with his body before he was once again forced out of it, and he at least put that worry to rest.

Grian had bigger problems to deal with now, he mused with annoyance, as he turned his attention back to the massive web of purple magic he was encased in.

This was going to take a while.

END.

[canarydarity]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: 3rd life | Last life smp series, double life smp Rating: Teen Audiences and Up Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archival Warnings Relationships: Jimmy Solidarity & Martyn inthelittlewood, Jimmy Solidarity & Scott Smajor, (eventually Jimmy Solidarity/Tango Tek) Additional Tags: 3rd Life SMP Spoilers, 3rd Life SMP References, POV Jimmy, Jimmy | Solidarity-centric, Canary Jimmy | Solidarity, jimmy solidarity as a harbinger of death, Introspection, Angst, Not Canon Compliant, or not completely i mean, this will eventually be a team rancher fic, when it gets to dl, Jimmy | Solidarity Needs a Hug, Social Anxiety, Jimmy | Solidarity Has Self-Esteem Issues, Dissociation (additional tags to be added) Summary: A bit of a different interpretation of the canary curse throughout the seasons of the life series. We already know the story of the canary—dying first, dying always. But what of the harbinger of death?

___________ I graduated college, so here, have the first chapter of my Jimmy harbinger of death au: Sentinel Species

[arthropod-concoctions]

Uprooted: chapter 6

(ch 1 - ch 5 - ch 7)

“So, first things first, what are you fine gentlemen called?” Scar asked as the four of them continued walking.

“I'm Scott. This is Jimmy,” Scott said, feeling Grian's eyes drilling into his back. He was walking a few feet behind the rest of them.

“So, uh, first question,” Jimmy said. “If we join the Red Desert... what does that mean for us exactly? Like, do we have to live in the desert from then on, or can we stay in our own house?”

“Well, a lot of us live in the desert, but you're welcome to stay in your own home if you have one,” Scar said.

“Assuming Sanguacanis hasn't burnt it to the ground already,” Grian added.

Scott whirled around to face Grian. “They're gonna do that!?” he asked.

“Nah, probably not. They might ransack it though. It depends on the mood of whoever showed up, to be honest. The discipline of that army is-”

“Oh, that reminds me! Grian, I was going to tell you, Joel told me just now he saw Martyn skulking about earlier. He's in our territory! We've gotta do something about that!”

“Who's Martyn?” Jimmy asked, at the same time as Scott asked: “Wait, wasn't Joel the guy who was shooting us earlier? The one that lives with the wolves?”

“Martyn is a commander of the Red Army. He's basically the highest-ranking green-lifed they have,” Grian explained. “And yeah, Joel lives in the forest with- wait, that's weird. If you two were getting hunted by Joel, when would he have seen Martyn?”

Scott said: “Well, to be fair, I don't think Joel was really hunting us. He was aiming more for the Red Army recruiter, I'm pretty sure.”

“I would hope so, we did tell him to- Wait!” Grian's head turned sharply to face Scott. “What did the recruiter look like?”

“Um, blond hair, a little bit of beard, and he had this uniform with a really high collar-”

“Yeah, that's him. That's definitely Martyn,” Grian interrupted. “Oh wow. Alright, you guys should not go back to your house today. If Martyn's still around, he will hunt you down. That man holds grudges like nobody else.” Grian's voice was grave, in sharp contrast with Scar, who had started to laugh.

“Oh, that's amazing. You know, I was gonna ask what you could bring to the table, but never mind. Anyone that's annoyed Martyn is welcome in the Desert.” Scar held out his hand to Jimmy. “Shall we make it official?”

Jimmy looked at Scott, who hesitated. He hadn't missed the way Scar was only addressing Jimmy.

“Well what's going to happen to me if we do?” Scott asked.

“Hmm?” Scar turned to Scott, still smiling. His smile hadn't faltered at all for the entirety of the conversation.

“Well, it's called the Red Desert. You two are Red, and every other member I've heard of is Red. But I'm Green. So is that going to be...”

“Oh, that's not a problem at all!” Scar responded, just as jovial as before. “Like I said on the note, Reds, Greens, whatever, they're all equal in the Red Desert.”

Well why is it called the Red Desert then? Scott thought, but he didn't say it out loud. He didn't want to antagonize this group. Joining them might not be the safest option for him, but it was the safest option for Jimmy. That's all that mattered now. So instead he said: “Okay. That's great.”

“Wonderful!” Scar clapped his hands, having seemingly forgotten about the handshake he'd offered Jimmy. “Two new faces join the Desert. Oh, this is going to be great. Grian, you can show them around, right?”

Scar didn't wait for an answer, he just turned around and began jogging back towards the desert. Grian let out a long sigh, then turned toward Scott and Jimmy.

“Right. Well, like I said, it's probably not safe for you two to go back to your house quite yet, so it's probably best if you sleep at the compound we have in the desert instead. Follow me.”

And so the three of them continued walking, Grian leading the way. They too headed towards the desert, but in a slightly different direction from Scar. As they walked, Grian continued talking.

“So, we have a few rules in the Desert. One, no member of the Red Desert is allowed to harm another. Two, you've gotta tread red-lifed the same as Greens or Yellows.”

“Do you even have any non-Red people aside from me?” Scott asked. “I've yet to see any.”

Grian looked at Scott through his shaded spectacles. “Yeah,” he said, “We've got a couple.” He seemed strangely amused by the question.

“Also-- I know Scar glossed over this bit, but it would be great if you could... like, contribute anything to the community we've got going on here?”

“We've got cows,” Jimmy said. “We usually barter some of the beef with the village off in the north, but... it's probably better to go here now, huh?”

“Ooh, that's very useful, actually,” Grian replied. “Alright, let's go see what the status of your home is tomorrow, and we'll make a deal from there.”

“Sounds good,” Scott said. “You know, I can also-”

Scott was interrupted by a powerful rumbling sound coming from the distance. He could feel the ground beneath his feet shaking slightly.

“Oh!” Grian called out. “I totally forgot to tell you guys: do not step on any suspicious-looking rocks in the desert.” his voice was suddenly full of energy-- almost giddy. “We've rigged certain... precautions to prevent any folks from Sanguacanis getting funny ideas.”

Scott completely forgot what he was going to say; he was mortified. And just when I thought this man was somewhat sane! He shared a look with Jimmy; he seemed equally nonplussed.

The trio walked in silence across sandy dunes, until they eventually reached a stone structure partially buried within the sand. Grian crouched down and wiped away some sand, revealing a wooden trapdoor. He knocked on the door in an odd rhythm-- two taps in quick succession, then two taps with longer pauses between them, ending with a flat-handed slap. A password. Scott tried to remember the sequence as he saw the trapdoor get pulled open with a rope from inside.

Grian didn't climb down the ladder beneath the trapdoor, but he waved for Scott and Jimmy to go ahead. “You guys should get comfy in the bunker-- there's beds, and there should still be some rations if you're hungry. We'll talk tomorrow. Now, I'm gonna go see the result of that explosion!”

With that, Grian dashed away, leaving Scott and Jimmy to climb down into the bunker. Jimmy went first-- Scott followed right behind.

The inside of the bunker was lit with lanterns hanging form the ceiling. There were straw beds across the floor, and various items strewn around. In the corner of the bunker was a pile of loaves of bread, with one person sitting next to it, seemingly in charge of guarding the bread. Scott caught her eye-- yellow-- and nodded at her. She nodded back, but didn't seem interested in conversation.

Meanwhile, Jimmy had made his way to a pair of beds that still seemed unoccupied. “You know,” he said as Scott caught up with him, “I think I preferred the haystack.”

Scott laughed, but he didn't feel happy at all. Looking at the stone walls around him, and knowing the surrounding desert was a literal minefield, it was hard not to feel like he was being imprisoned.

This is the safest option, he reminded himself. This is the only way Jimmy can live as a red-lifed.

This was their best option.

[hermitcraftficrecs]

Title: jellies and cows, canes and pains

Fandom: 3rd Life SMP,

Ship(s) Y/N: No

Centric Character(s): GoodTimesWithScar,

Centric Tag(s): Agere, Little! Scar, CG! Grian,

Summary: in which scar regresses from the stress of 3rd life, and goshdarnit grian is going to take good care of him even if the timing is absolute pants and he has no idea what he's doing. fluff ensues.

[unkn0wnnn06]

I felt like posting chapter 1 of the 3rd life rewrite for my Immortal!Jimmy AU

[yyuuraii]

happy pride month or something

[theminecraftbee]

Once upon a time, there was a cave, and there was a tree.

Oh, that's not how most people like to start to tell the story. The thing about telling stories is that it's often easiest to start from the ending. From tumbling down cliffsides and rings of cactus and dying just barely out of reach of your king, just barely after him. Of things constantly burning, of the first time being the first to die, of bunkers in the desert and a group of five standing around an enchanting table, waving a flag. Of clocks, and betrayals, and things that weren't actually betrayals (even though they seem like they should be), of firing squads--

That is not how the story starts.

It doesn't even start with a creeper, although I would guess if you asked them about it, more than one of them would probably say it did.

No, if I were to tell the story, I would tell it like this:

Once upon a time, there was a cave. Everyone had gathered in it, with crafting tables and beds. They were being attacked by phantoms. They're chatting about how to solve the phantom problem, because they are friends. They step outside to kill the phantoms, because they can, and because it's funnier, and because they don't know how to be afraid yet.

Once upon a time, there is a tree. It grows right under one of them, trapping them in its branches. "Help!" she cries out. "What's happened?" Everyone scrambles to help cut down the tree together. When she escapes, they all agree it was a close call. It would be awfully silly, they think, for someone to die this soon, and besides, aren't they all working together?

They go back inside and they laugh. They are all green. None of them have an idea of what happens when they aren't any longer. They are all happy.

This changes. It also doesn't.

I start this story with the tree because they all, together, agree that the tree is ridiculous and silly, but all help to cut it down anyway. I start this story with the tree because by the end--

Well. My point is that the tree is a far happier story, in my opinion. My point is also, maybe, that starting with what it would become, well, that won't do at all. Starting with the part of the story that's sad, dramatic, ridiculous--that rather misses the point.

The point is that it started with a cave, and a tree, and everything else came collapsing down after it. It's easy to bury the memory of a time it would be safe to all hide in a cave together, laughing, and save one another from a tree.

It does not do to forget.

[hei-n1cky]

A taste of your own medicine?

Grian from There Are Monsters Nearby ! by @uhohbestie

Ok Chapter 16 is killing me I am literally obsessed with this fic rn I need to know what is going on aaaaaa

[waveridden]

Once, in the days of green eyes and birdsong, Ren had said that they would fight to the death with fists. No armor, no defense, just them and their hands.

Martyn can’t imagine that now. The two of them are exhausted, heartsick, recovering and uncertain. Maybe there will be a day where the fight happens, but for now — Dogwarts is half-fallen, damaged in the siege.

Ren and Martyn, a victory and a truce. A 1.2k Dogwarts Wins AU, written for @treebarkweek day three: build.

[roseddraws]

Everything stays (but it still changes)

Chapter two

Ren is a strange man, to put it lightly.

After that first night, he’s been following Martyn around, which is normal enough: he’s been in groups before, so he understands the “strength in numbers” argument. The strange part is that he keeps wandering off then showing up again covered in blood, with a bag full of meat.

Now, in normal circumstances this might be concerning.

But to be fair, Ren was pretty up-front with his suspicious eating habits. Martyn doesn’t bring it up, but they both know there’s only one way to get red meat around the city these days.

It’s a few days after the night the two first met when they encounter one of the animals in question.

Martyn is sat on a low-hanging branch beside the river, trying to fish with little success, while Ren sits on the ground talking.

“I’m just saying dude, society’s pretty much gone by now; who says I can’t be the king?”

Martyn laughs. “I mean, I’m not gonna stop you. Still not calling you ‘your highness’, though.”

Ren starts to respond, then suddenly goes silent. Martyn glances down and sees him frozen with his head slightly raised, as if sniffing the air. Pulling his legs up, Martyn crouches defensively as he lays a hand on his hatchet.

He can’t immediately tell what Ren spotted, but after a second of tense silence he hears a twig snap. Then with no more warning, something grey darts out from a half-ruined building and barrels into Ren with a shriek.

The man lets out a shout that borders on a snarl as he goes flying backwards into the water. The creature stills, standing on the riverbank and panting heavily, giving Martyn a full view of its grotesque form.

It’s hunched over so far that its head almost touches the floor, bowed under the weight of antlers it wasn’t designed for. What’s left of its hands are planted on either side of its body, curled into fists held shut by a crust of keratin. Its body looks like someone tried to mold a human into the shape of a deer: bones stick out from places they shouldn’t be, a jumbled mess of useless parts; muscles writhe under its skin like maggots, and each of its vertebra sticks out white as pus. It screams again, and now Martyn recognises it as a sound of pain.

Not letting himself overthink any further, he leaps off the branch, hatchet held high. He lands on its back to the sound of cracking bones and snapping sinews, and it jolts as its elbows cave and its chest hits the floor. Martyn’s knees hit the concrete hard, causing him to drop his weapon with a cry. Panicking, he grabs the creature’s neck instead, wincing at the pitiful sound it makes as his fingers sink into the flesh.

The two wrestle for what must be seconds but feels like hours, until the creature throws itself into the air, knocking Martyn off its back. Just in time, he grabs the hatchet and spins to stab it into the thing’s shoulder, knocking it back just as it had been diving for his stomach. It wails but doesn’t falter when it leaps forward again, this time aiming for his neck, jagged teeth bared for Martyn’s viewing pleasure in its open maw.

Its face looks human, he realises. And it does. Its skin is the pale grey of a corpse, and stained with blood, and the nose is all but missing, but the eyes, and the fury in its expression… they’re painfully human.

And in that moment, he hesitates. If Ren wasn’t there, it would’ve killed him.

But he is, and it doesn’t.

Instead, the monster is knocked out of the air mid-tackle as Ren makes a sound that is definitely a snarl this time; if Martyn didn’t know any better, he’d think he was trying to take a bite out of its neck.

No matter how he does it, by the time Martyn has grabbed his hatchet and turned back to the fight, the monster is dead, and Ren is hunched over the body.

Panting, Martyn lets himself drop to the floor and rolls onto his back. He’s honestly embarrassed by how exhausted he is. Isn’t the apocalypse supposed to make you tougher?

“If you’re gonna eat that, could you at least cook it first?” He jokes, trying his best not to sound like he’s fighting for his life (he fails).

“I’m just catching my breath!” Ren splutters defensively. “I wouldn’t— okay, I might, but… uh, you okay my dude?”

Martyn holds out a thumbs-up, still breathing heavily, and manages to sit up. “Thank you for the assist, milord,” he says, turning to Ren and trying his best to bow while sat down.

Ren beams. “Yer welcome, laddie,” he says in possibly the worst Scottish accent Martyn has ever heard, surprising a laugh out of him.

Once his heart has mostly slowed down, Martyn clambers to his feet— or at least, he tries to. The moment he’s stood up, his vision swims, and he has to crouch down to stay standing. That is… not ideal.

“Okay, I’m not blind dude,” Ren says, sounding worried. When did he get that close? “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Martyn lets himself sink to the floor with a sigh. Ren’s hands hover by his shoulders, ready to catch him if he collapses. “When was the last time you ate?” He asks.

“I dunno, mum,” Martyn replies sarcastically. “Like, last night?” Just the thought of food makes his stomach grumble, which would be mortifying if Ren hadn’t just watched him collapse after very little physical exercise.

“Let me rephrase that,” Ren says, sitting beside him. “When was the last time you ate anything that wasn’t a sardine?”

Martyn scowls in lieu of an answer, telling Ren all he needs to know.

“Martyn, I know what you’re gonna say, and I don’t want to force you into anything, but…” Ren begins, and Martyn already knows where he’s going. “You’ve got to eat something, man. They’re not people anymore.”

Martyn sighs. “I know, I know, but… I dunno. I can’t really explain it. It just feels so… gross. Wrong, I guess.” Ren looks like he’s about to protest, but Martyn cuts him off. “I know it’s stupid. Can’t afford to be emotional in the apocalypse, right? I… I can put my health first.”

Ren looks unsure, but nods. “Good. As long as it’s your decision.” He stands and holds a hand out to Martyn, who takes it tentatively.

He manages to stand up and walk with him into the relative shelter of the building to set up camp early, and if he has to lean on Ren’s side a bit, at least the man has the tact not to mention it.

***

Ren watches Martyn closely as he eats— which, okay, doesn’t sound great. But in his defence, he looked like he was gonna drop dead a few minutes ago.

Thankfully, once the food is cooked, Martyn has no trouble getting it down him. It’s honestly impressive how quickly he eats without fangs.

Martyn looks up to see Ren staring and raises an eyebrow. “You’ve still got blood on your face, y’know.”

Ren spits on his hand and rubs his cheek, then looks down to see his fingers covered in blood. He licks it off without thinking.

“And the other side,” Martyn adds, lip twitching. Ren rubs at his other cheek, and his hand comes away with even more blood. “And aaall over your chin.”

Sighing, Ren stands. “I’ll go wash off in the river.”

It’s getting dark outside, though it’s not sunset yet. Ren looks up to see storm clouds gathering overhead and grimaces. That’s not ideal.

He starts to wash his face in the river, catching his reflection right as he’s about to leave. Jesus, is that seriously what he looks like?! He’s in dire need of a deep clean.

He strips off his clothes and washes them as best as he can, getting most of the dirt and at least a little bit of the blood off. By the time he’s done washing himself, the water runs red. When’s the last time he had a bath? He can’t believe Martyn’s been putting up with him for so long: he must smell terrible. His hair is the worst part: it’s a full-on bird’s nest up there, and he doesn’t even have a hairbrush! Eventually he decides it’s good enough, and wrings out the water until it curls enough to hide his pointed ears. Pulling a face, he puts on his still-wet clothes, opting to leave the shirt open until he dries off.

Martyn raises his eyebrows as he reenters the building (he’s digging into his second steak, but Ren doesn’t comment). “Wow. You look almost presentable!”

Ren twirls to show off his comparatively clean appearance. “I’m glad you noticed!”

He grabs a moth-eaten pillow and lies back on it, hands behind his head. “You checked the other floor for valuables yet?”

Martyn shakes his head as he swallows the last of his food. “Explored this floor a bit, though. Not much left: I think this used to be the living room, and the one next door was the kitchen, but obviously all the furniture is covered in mould and tree roots now. I did however find-“ he pulls a handful of something out of his pocket and tosses them at Ren. “-hair bobbles! For the love of god, please use them.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?!” Ren protests, internally panicking. Wearing his hair down is a huge pain, of course, but it’s the only way he can think to hide his ears. And if Martyn sees his ears, he’ll know his secret. And if Martyn knows his secret—

“I mean it looks fine now, but if you keep it down while we’re going through the woods it’s gonna get all tangled again!” Martyn says, cutting off his thoughts. “Do you really want to keep dealing with that?”

Ren pouts. “I think it looks cool.” (That’s a lie; he likes it better in a plait. This is actually infuriating for him.)

Martyn rolls his eyes. “Can you at least clip it back? It keeps falling into your face.”

“Aww, can’t bear to miss the view?” Ren winks. Martyn tries to stay deadpan, but has to turn his head to hide a laugh. Ten points to Hufflepuff! “I’ll check upstairs to see if there are any hairclips. Just for you, sweetheart.” Ren ends the sentence with finger guns, prompting a full-on cackle from Martyn.

The first floor is also pretty empty, and unfortunately, the beds are unsalvageable. He does find two pillows, though, and the mould is mostly confined to one side. Most importantly, he finds a jar of hair clips by the bathroom sink! They look like they belonged to a young child, which is probably why no one else has scavenged them, but Ren’s not picky. He finds a red one with a little crown charm on it, which he thinks is perfect and makes sure it’s on full display when he puts it in his hair, holding the worst of it back from his face. He also finds a hairbrush, which he doesn’t bring with him due to his lack of a proper bag (he should probably find one soon, now that he’s staying in this form more), but he brushes his still-wet hair until he feels suitably human again.

As he turns to go back downstairs, a crack of thunder almost makes Ren jump out of his skin. It’s almost immediately followed by the sound of torrential rain pouring onto the roof, as suddenly as the flipping of a switch. Fantastic. The ceiling seems relatively solid, but these days, “relatively solid” just means “most of the holes are pretty small”.

He comes down the stairs and tosses a pillow at Martyn, who’s lying on the floor with his hands over his face. Headshot! Martyn sighs, but doesn’t move to push it away. “You doing alright, man?” Ren asks.

“I bloody hate the rain,” comes the muffled reply. Ren snorts.

“It’s not that bad,” he says, lying near him, beside the fire. “It gives us an excuse to stay inside a bit.”

Truthfully, he mostly waits out storms in his wolf form, which isn’t picky about the weather. He remembers, before all this, hating the rain, and the cold, and thunder. Pretty much just extreme weather in general. But he’s not completely human anymore! His wolf form is fine in storms, so it makes sense that his slightly wolfish human form would be at least a little bit better with storms than he had been!

He tugs at his still-damp shirt. It’s beginning to seem rather chilly in this decrepit house. He shifts closer to the fire and pokes it with a stick, wondering if he’ll need to chop off a tree root for extra fuel.

“I mean, I guess it’s fun for a bit,” Martyn sighs. “Unless it lasts more than… what, a week? Probably less now; I swear it keeps getting shorter.”

Ren frowns and turns his head to see Martyn sitting on the pillow, staring into the fire. “What?”

“Y’know, what with the… tree roots and all that.”

“I actually don’t know, my dude. I feel like you’re pulling my leg.”

Martyn squints at him, bewildered. “What, have you never tried to join a settlement?”

“No? Like I said, I’m a lone wolf.”

For whatever reason, Martyn doesn’t seem to believe that. “Dude, I’m a lone wolf, and even I’ve joined more than one settlement; you’ve been following me around like a lost puppy since you first met me in the woods the other day!”

Ren opens his mouth to protest, pauses, then snaps it shut, huffing. He’s right, of course, but he doesn’t like feeling so transparent! It’s been, what, a week? No, less than that (it’s been a while since he tried to keep track of time— wolf-Ren isn’t great with numbers). Is he really that bad at lying?

Martyn grins at his reaction, then relents and explains. “I’ve been in two or three encampments since my home was destroyed. The first one I joined pretty much straight away— it used to be a high school, I think— and it lasted a bit over a month before the same thing that happened to everything else-“ He gestures to the roots sticking through the walls and floor. “-started happening to it. We tried to stop it, of course, but it’s like it just made nature angrier: I went to bed one night, while people were lopping off branches and tree roots and reinforcing the walls, and when I woke up there was a tree growing through the dorm. Everyone was gone by the end of that day. There… wasn’t much reason to stay, was there?” An expression crosses his face that Ren doesn’t have time to identify before it’s gone, and Martyn continues.

“The next settlement was a few weeks later, in an apartment building. I wasn’t there when it formed, so I don’t know how long it lasted exactly, but it was definitely shorter. Same thing happened, about a week after I joined. They were more prepared this time, since a few of us had come there from other settlements that had gone down, but it didn’t help. By the time I left… it wasn’t much of a settlement anymore, but they were still trying to make it work. They spent all day doing nothing but chop branches and mend buildings, and I just didn’t feel like it was worth the effort, so I just. Left.

“The last one I joined was more of an experiment than a settlement: word had gotten around by now about what happens to buildings that people try to settle down in, so they thought ‘oh, what if we start a society without buildings?’, and for some reason everyone including myself thought that was a good idea. Long story short: it didn’t work, so I left.

“I tried a few times after that to stick to one building, make a home for myself, on my own. Needless to say, it never lasted long. You can probably guess what happened.

“I’ve heard from down the grapevine that people have entirely given up on restoring society at this point, and every time someone tries it falls apart faster. I think the last one I heard about lasted around a week.”

There’s silence in the room then, as Ren takes in everything he said. The sound of rain and the steady drip of water from various leaks is all that can be heard. Then Martyn slaps his thighs suddenly, startling the brunet out of his thoughts. “Right! That was depressing! I’m going to bed.”

Ren wants to stop him, to say something reassuring, but he can’t find the words. His skills that he’d been so proud of before the world ended have withered away more than he’d thought.

“Goodnight,” is all he says as Martyn pulls out his blanket, reminding Ren how extremely cold it is. He scoots closer to the fire.

Martyn lies down with his back to Ren, leaving him alone with the rain and thunder and howling wind. He tries to pull his shirt tighter around himself, though it’s not dry yet and doesn’t help much.

He’d never heard anything about people forming settlements since society collapsed. Honestly the thought never occurred to him. How did the thought never occur to him?

He knows how. It’s the same reason no one told him about the settlements.

It’s not that he’s never in human form! It’s just… these days, when people are few and far between, and the only thing he can eat makes him nauseous if he thinks about it too hard, it’s easier to be a dumb animal. Wolf-Ren doesn’t miss being around people, or feel guilty about doing what he has to to survive. He’s still aware of his emotions in that form, but it’s like they’re dulled: all that matters to the wolf is survival, and if it doesn’t help him survive, it doesn’t matter. And maybe he’s been abusing that a little bit these past few months. When’s the last time he talked to a human, before Martyn? The days blend together when he’s a wolf.

Is being human even worth it?

This isn’t the first time he’s had this argument with himself, but it’s different now. Now he’s got something to lose. If he stays with Martyn, he risks being found out, and… not dying, no. Martyn wouldn’t kill him. But being abandoned might hurt more. He can’t stand the thought of Martyn being afraid of him.

But what about the other option? What if he left right now, before he got too attached? Turned into a wolf and never turned back? Well, he probably couldn’t stay a wolf forever, but he means it in the metaphorical sense. What if he abandoned humanity forever? Surviving would be a lot easier, but…

“Hey, Ren?” Martyn’s voice is drowsy.

Ren jolts. He looks over to see Martyn awake and on his side, facing him. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think I thanked you properly, for saving my life earlier. Thank you. Seriously.”

Ren doesn’t know how to answer that. “I- it’s nothing. Don’t mention it.”

There’s a pause before Martyn replies. When he does, it’s barely above a whisper. “I’m glad you’re here. Travelling with me, I mean. It was… quieter. Before you came.”

…but he wouldn’t have Martyn, he finishes.

Maybe that’s reason enough to stay.

[arts-and-drafts]

Canary (Life Series)

(Regarding Jimmy waking up in Last Life, and discovering he has been changed. I have a lot of thoughts about Canary!Jimmy and tried to compile them all! This has sat in my drafts for a while and I've decided to just post it instead of nitpicking it any further lol. Enjoy!)

CW: Death mentions, dehumanizing, deprecating thoughts, minor body horror

-

Jimmy didn't move for a long time after he first spawned in.

He felt them there. Wings. Hanging off his shoulders with just as much weight as his other limbs. Even when trying not to move, he would sometimes twitch as a human body does (he's human, he's always been human, and he always will be, he HAS to be, right?), and the wings would move too.

It settled an icy dread deep in his chest, to know he'd been changed like this. Against his will. It was so minor, but the mere fact that it happened paralyzed him to the core. What if this was just the beginning?

(What else would happen to him?)

Eventually, he got tired and cramped from his position, and he reasoned he didn't have time for a crisis right now. He could feel that there was something different in this world, although waking up with no memory as to how he arrived was also a pretty good indicator. He was in a death game. Again.

Well, the W--no, don't talk about them. They love it when they're brought up in conversation, and their attention is never a good thing to have.

Anyway, the...game makers tended to throw a handful of players in, so Jimmy at least knew he was not alone.

He set off to search for others. And, for a while, it was as normal as a death game could be, with a few twists of course. They always felt the need to shake things up.

But, Jimmy made friends, and was soon setting up shop as a member of the Southlands.

He turned his back on Grian to harvest some wood, and his friend froze. "Tim...you've got wings."

"Yeah, I gathered that." Jimmy replied with as much neutrality as he could muster. "I can't fly, though, I tried."

He didn't know what he expected, really. If Grian couldn't fly, with wings as grand as he had, why would Jimmy be able to?

(Good for nothing, as usual, isn't it just hilarious?)

"Are they at least colorful?" Jimmy asked, attempting to stay upbeat. "I can't see them, obviously."

Jimmy's wings were so small that even when he figured out how to move them, he couldn't see them, even when he stretched as hard as he could and nearly broke his own neck craning around for a look.

Grian looked constipated, like he didn't know what to say.

"They're yellow." He finally said. Jimmy nodded thoughtfully. "Fits the color scheme, at least--"

"They're canary wings, Jimmy." Grian interrupted, his tone akin to what it would be when telling somebody terrible news.

Jimmy stared blankly. "Okay? What does that mean?"

Grian looked at him for a long time, his mouth pressed into a thin line, until he finally shrugged and turned away. "Doesn't matter."

And just like that, they were back to normal, making "aha" puns while building up the Southlands base. Jimmy wanted to believe in the peace and the laughter that he knew was precious, so he didn't let his mind linger on their conversation.

He noticed Grian avoided looking him in the eyes from then on, though.

It was only later, when they were on their red lives and Grian's blade ran him through the back, that Jimmy couldn't avoid his thoughts anymore and he finally put together what his friend had been so odd about.

Jimmy was the first to die. Again. As if he was an omen that death was coming for the rest of them, a canary going silent in the coal mine that was this twisted game.

Of course. It was a cruel joke that Jimmy was the butt of. He didn't know what he expected.

The worst part was that the wings stayed when he woke up again.

This game was different, as they all were. This time, he had a Soulmate, who he met through death.

It really couldn't get any more poetic than that. Jimmy knew that the Watchers just loved it. It made his stomach clench with a bitter anger.

But he couldn't be mad at Tango. It wasn't his fault that a creeper dropped on his head. Just like it wasn't Jimmy's fault that he was going to die first.

He still felt crushing guilt at the fact that he took Tango with him.

If Jimmy was the Watchers' new joke, fine. But attaching him to someone else just to have them die too was infuriatingly unfair.

He was relieved when the next game was different. Nobody was bound to him, or his fate. Everybody was on an even field; 24 hours to live.

Going through the motions was easy. Set up camp, get food squared away, find a beginning alliance. This time, it was Grian and Joel.

They decided to call themselves the Bad Boys, and Jimmy kept his wings firmly tucked inside his matching leather jacket.

(Out of sight, out of mind.)

As the sun set on their first night, Jimmy stared at the stars from atop the smouldering mansion, squished between his allies in beds pressed so close together that they might as well be one.

Maybe this time would be different. Maybe the fourth time would be the charm, and next time Jimmy would wake up without the canary wings that sealed his fate from the start.

He'd always been one for hoping.

END.

[chrisrin]

THE RED KING.

[arthropod-concoctions]

Uprooted: chapter 3

(ch 1 - ch 2 - ch 4)

Scott woke up, and was immediately reminded by the empty space in bed next to him of what happened yesterday. His husband was gone. Or at least, the person he used to be was gone. The red-lifed that he'd become had still been sitting outside near the toolshed the last time Scott had looked out of the window. He rubbed his eyes. Sunlight poured through the cracks in the window shutter; he'd woken up far later than usual, though honestly, it's a miracle he'd fallen asleep at all. Scott opened the shutter and peeked through- no sign of Jimmy in sight. Scott went to the door and opened it slowly, then tiptoed outside. What he really wanted to do was go back to sleep and not wake up for a year, but the cows still had to get fed just like any other day.

The question in the back of Scott's mind was answered when he walked around the corner towards the cows' enclosure, as he saw Jimmy lying sprawled out on a pile of hay, face buried inside, snoring softly. Scott's heart broke once again at the sight-- if he ignored the holes in his head and the smell of smoke that still permeated him, Scott could almost imagine that things were normal, that Jimmy was just feeling sick.

It wasn't fair. Being a widower would be hard enough anyways, and it would be so much harder if the ghost of his husband kept haunting his periphery.

A loud moo from the side startled Scott out of his thoughts; the cows were getting impatient. Scott shook his head and went to get some hay-- being very careful to not touch Jimmy, who was still sleeping-- then went into the pasture.

The cows crowded around him, all wanting to snatch their share of the hay. Many of them let out almost offended-sounding moos.

“Calm down, you drama queens. You're not going to starve,” Scott muttered to them. Obviously the cows had plenty of grass to enjoy, but they'd gotten used to the extra batch of hay that Scott and Jimmy would feed them daily, and got very grumpy without it. Scott almost chuckled at the sight, but it came out more like a quick exhale from his nose.

After taking care of the cows, Scott left the enclosure again, taking another glance at Jimmy sleeping on the pile of hay-

He wasn't sleeping anymore. His position had shifted slightly, and he was no longer snoring. Jimmy had woken up, and was now just pretending to sleep. Scott felt his heartbeat quickening. Would Jimmy pounce at him if he walked past?

He didn't want to risk it. So instead he called out: “I can tell you're awake, Jimmy.”

Jimmy groaned, and rolled over in the hay, then opened his eyes to look at Scott. “G'morning,” he said.

“Good afternoon.”

“Didya sleep well?”

“Not really.”

“Neither did I.” Jimmy rolled over again, then sat up, as far as that was possible. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. Scott felt a little guilty about locking him out; that haystack was probably a lot less comfortable than their bed. He immediately cursed himself for the thought. Who was he kidding? Letting a Red into his house at night would be practically suicide.

Scott dashed over the yard quickly, putting a bit of distance between himself and Jimmy, but the latter made no move towards him. Instead he called out:

“I'm not going to kill you, Scott.”

Scott stopped, but didn't turn around. “Why are you still here, then?” he responded.

“Well where else am I supposed to go? If I go back to the village, everyone'll freak out. And if I go somewhere where people don't know me, they'll just assume I'm some feral Red and get rid of me!”

Now Scott did turn around, and said: “But you are a Red! Isn't a fight what you want? Just sticking around here and fighting the urge to attack me the whole time isn't going to help either of us!”

“But I don't have the urge to attack you, Scott! I don't want to attack anyone, I promise!” Jimmy sounded desperate. “I just want things to go back to normal.”

“So do I,” Scott whispered. Then he went back inside the house.

Scott closed the door behind him, and noticed the pot that he was making dye in yesterday. The concoction had boiled for too long, it'd probably be unrecoverable by now; but Scott didn't bother throwing it out. Dye-making was about the furthest thing from his mind right now. He sat down in his usual chair at the table for two.

Jimmy's behavior didn't make any sense. Scott had heard stories of how the red-lifed acted; their character stayed the same, but an uncontrollable bloodthirst overcame them, and they stopped caring about anything except violence. Yet Jimmy hadn't tried to attack anything since he'd come to the doorstep yesterday. Scott had also heard that there were instances of Reds retaining some sort of affection or loyalty for former loved ones; but that usually came in the form of giving them a wide berth as they sated their desires elsewhere. Not staying around the house like Jimmy was doing; and Scott knew him well enough to know he didn't have the patience to pull off a long con, no matter what color his eyes had turned.

Could he be telling the truth? Could it be that Jimmy genuinely didn't feel the red-lifed bloodlust? Scott wasn't sure he could believe that, against all the experiences he'd heard all his life, including from Jimmy himself-- but by the Universe, he wanted it to be true. He wanted nothing more than for Jimmy to be his usual self, after all.

He heard the door opening behind him.

Scott turned around. He must've forgotten to close the lock on the door; Jimmy was standing in the doorway, looking at Scott, the red glow in his eyes more visible now that they were out of the sunlight. And he was holding a scythe in his hand.

Welp, nevermind, Scott thought, I guess this is it for me. But while he debated whether he should run to the kitchen and grab a knife, Jimmy spoke up:

“I harvested the wheat, Scott. I've put it in the silo.” Then he closed the door again.

Scott hadn't moved from his chair. He exhaled slowly. He'd hardly even panicked at the sight of a red-lifed Jimmy with a weapon; he just felt tired. Something has to change here, he thought as a tear rolled down his cheek.

Scott's stomach rumbled, and he suddenly remembered he hadn't eaten anything all day. He stood up and went to the kitchen to grab some bread. What had Jimmy been eating this whole time? He wondered. Do reds even need to eat?

After finishing the bread, he tried to go back to making dye, but he ended up spending the rest of the afternoon just fidgeting with a poppy. Those were always Jimmy's favorite flowers. They would match beautifully with his eyes now.

The sun set without Scott noticing. When he noticed it had turned dark, he walked towards the door. He'd intended to lock it and go to bed. But the thought of laying down in the bed all alone, while Jimmy slept outside on a haystack, made him feel an indescribable emotion. So instead he opened the door and stepped outside, poppy still in hand.

He walked the same route he had done this morning, and saw Jimmy laying down in the haystack again; but he wasn't sleeping yet, and he looked up at Scott as he approached him. Slowly, he slid back down to the ground.

“...Scott?” Jimmy spoke softly. The red sheen of his eyes glittered on his face; he'd been crying.

Scott began tearing up as well at the sight, and he sped up his walk until he reached Jimmy, then he pulled him into an embrace. Jimmy gasped, and didn't hug back; he froze.

“Jimmy,” Scott muttered, “Can you do me one favor?”

“O- of course,” Jimmy whispered back. “Anything.”

“If you're going to kill me- if you were ever going to kill me- could you just get it over with now?”

For a moment, they were both still; then, Scott felt Jimmy's arms wrap around his sides. His skin felt rough, but his movements were gentle; more gentle than he'd ever seen Jimmy before.

“I won't hurt you. I'll never hurt you. I promise you.”

And Scott let out a sob, and they held each other in the darkness of the night, while the difference between green and red was invisible.

[tomatohorse]

Fanart for Echoes by doctortrekkie !!!

I’ve read the whole series so far but I wanted to at least draw something for Infected 🚦might maybe draw more if I get around to it!

(Also, in case you can’t tell, the three sections are supposed to represent each coloured life—e.g green section with the grass, yellow section with scar, red section with dogwarts)