bdubs' fucking voice on "the tumblr", god, he knows, he's afraid, he also knows it can only do so much but he has to try
they are all ***so clear*** now about what happens here.
highlights of what is said
bdubs: "you want it now?"
gem: "yeah, please make a baby, etho and bdubs"
etho: "wait what?"
bdubs:"clarify that it's the horses, please, for the tumblr"
<stuff>
<grian in chat: make me a horse please>
<scar complains, repeatedly> "nobody wants to breed with me"
bdubs: Grian wants to
<bdubs regrets saying that>
gem: Grian will make a baby with you, Scar
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Xisuma checks over his scripts three more times. Both Joe and Jevin have claimed they’d be online until the moment the server kicked them, and he wants to make sure his scripts for doing that are sound, and won’t do anything strange. His hands are shaking as he does. Everything is neat and tidy. Everything is neat and tidy.
Hypno comes up behind him, glancing over Xisuma’s shoulder. He whistles. “Man, you’re really baby-proofing server close, huh?”
“Oh, Hypno! I thought you were packing,” Xisuma says.
“Nah. I’d moved most of my stuff over to Iskall’s sever for the break like, a few weeks ago. Only had enough stuff here for playing Decked Out.”
“Really? That’s good,” Xisuma says.
“Anyway, what about you? You can be packing too, this whole shutdown process is automated. We’ve literally done this six times before. Sort of seven, if you count the whole moon thing, but like, you know.”
“Yeah, but…”
He trails off. He’s not sure why he’s still standing here. The shutdown scripts have, truthfully, been ready for months. Everyone’s been packing for at least a month (at least, everyone who hasn’t procrastinated away the time). They’d gone around cleaning up the server just the other day; it’s been left neat and tidy. Everything is as it ought to be, at the end of a season.
“…you know what? Yeah man, I get it,” Hypno says. “I’d want to stay a little longer, too.”
“Just a little longer,” echoes Xisuma.
“If you’re anxious, I can check the safety script again, make sure you aren’t causing another apocalypse for everyone staying until it closes.”
Xisuma laughs. “Gosh, am I that obvious?”
Hypno flings an arm around Xisuma’s shoulder. “Nah. I’ve just known you long enough. You’d think the helmet would make you more mysterious, but…”
“I’m cool,” Xisuma says.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Hypno says.
“I might take you up on that,” Xisuma says. “I think—I think I want to do one more fly-around, you know? Say goodbye to some things. Even after all these years, it never stops being… I’ve had so much time to do it. You’d think after not getting a warning last time, I’d know to do it. It’d feel easier. But…”
Hypno squeezes Xisuma’s shoulder once before removing his arm. “I’ll check your script for you. Go on. Go look over your kingdom, oh glorious leader.”
“I really am not that,” Xisuma says. “Don’t call me that. I’m not in charge. You know I’m not in charge.”
Hypno chuckles and opens an admin log. Xisuma takes a deep breath and looks down over the spawn village. The wind blows past him. It’s an ordinary day. Everything is fine. Everything is neat and tidy. It feels like it’s been a long time since he’s been there, and yet…
“Here’s to season ten,” Xisuma says, and something unknots in his chest for the last time.
i just watched scott's session 7 and noticed a pattern: every single person forgot about grian.
grian hasn't been caught yet, cleo and scott establish. barely a minute later, scott is leading cleo and bigb by the hands to his secret spot and saying "i think we're the last three." like the name has slipped right out of his hands.
as etho tells the other zombies that no, actually, he doesn't want to kill cleo, it occurs to him suddenly. "actually, i kind of want grian to succeed on this, don't i? he's my teammate," he says, not like he doesn't care for grian, but like he's shocked he even forgot in the first place. (seconds later, he lifts his gaze to the sky, and he sees where grian is hiding. he's the only one who sees. he carries this secret with him as he watches grian run, an apology of sorts; sorry I forgot. I hope this makes it better.)
but it got me thinking: this is what grian does, isn't it? even since 3rd life, where he hid in the shadow of scar, whose face was always, always in the light, as he burrowed under doorways, covered in redstone and days-old blood. no one thinks of him as scar sells them the coffins grian will put them in.
grian has mastered the art of becoming nothing. he's so nothing, in fact, that his presence glances off the skin of even his friends. his name slips away from them. he disappears time and time again, falling through their fingers like sand. there are brief moments: "where's grian?" someone asks, but their blood is boiling and their fingers are itching. the image is a mirage and the sand crumbles at their fingertips. it's gone as soon as it comes; back to cleo, green cleo, uninfected cleo.
a reminder, perhaps from the universe itself. he is nothing but a ghost of a memory, a whisper of a promise. this is by design. the universe is telling him this, as it strings grian up limb by limb: you were only ever meant to watch.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hermitcraft SMP, 3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Charles | Grian & Charles | Grian, Charles | Grian & Ryan | GoodTimesWithScar, Oliver Brotherhood | Mumbo Jumbo & Charles | Grian, Charles | Grian & Pearl | PearlescentMoon
Characters: Charles | Grian, Ryan | GoodTimesWithScar, Oliver Brotherhood | Mumbo Jumbo, Pearl | PearlescentMoon, TangoTek (Video Blogging RPF)
Additional Tags: Recursive Fanfiction, Watcher Charles | Grian, Charles | Grian is Not a Watcher, Video Game Mechanics, Complicated Relationships, Rescue, Medical Procedures, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Evolution SMP References, Festivals, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Mind Manipulation, background time travel (not in fic itself)
Series: Part 20 of mcyt fic my beloved
Summary:
The bassbeat drowned out conscious thought, and it took language with it. Grian couldn’t tell what people were saying. He could watch them, watch the colors play across cheeks and irises and the curves of strangers’ ears, their earrings, their weapons, but he couldn’t understand them. He was getting overwhelmed, and that was a bad thing. He’d worked too hard to get overwhelmed at concerts anymore.
The Watcher was up in the rafters, huddled in a corner above the sweeping lights. Grian could see him if he squinted, a darker speck of shadow in the dazzled-out gray of the venue’s high roof, but no one else would be looking. They’d go about their concert and the rest of their nights like nothing had happened, the side effects safely dispersed over a crowd of three thousand, and the Watcher would come out healthier. His cheeks would fill out a little.
There are several things Martyn realizes, all at once, when he opens his eyes:
He is dreaming.
It's one of those in-between dreams, the ones that aren't quite dreams.
He is sitting at a green felted table. It is sitting on a stage. The lighting is dim, and no one is watching, but out of the corner of his eye he can see the stagehands dressed in black, waiting.
He is not the only one sitting at the table. There is a Watcher, draped in purple. There is a Listener, draped in yellow. There is someone he recognizes in a red sweater. There is someone he thinks he should recognize, but can't quite, shuffling a deck of cards.
"Right. What's all this, then," he mutters.
We are playing blackjack, the Listener says.
We are deciding the rules, the Watcher says.
"It's not like we have anything better to do. Honestly, I'm glad you're here. Do you know how boring these guys are?" Grian says, and Martyn decides to quietly file Grian away as a dream-Grian, as opposed to real-life-Grian, so he doesn't go insane and/or stab him when he wakes up. He waits for the almost-familiar dealer to say something. He does not. After another few moments of awkward nonsense dream-silence, Martyn sighs and leans forward on the table.
"Sure, this might as well be happening," Martyn says. "Deal me in. How's the betting work, again?"
"You put your bet on the table. If you beat the dealer, you get to add it to the game," Grian explains. "If you don't beat the dealer, it takes it."
"Yeah, but like, that's abstract, isn't it? What does that mean, exactly, me losing what I bet if I don't beat the dealer," Martyn says.
Grian shrugs. "Don't ask me. To be honest, I'm hardly the storyteller you are."
"Me? Why are you acting like I have any control over these things when you're--"
Are you ready to play?
Martyn shuts up, looks at the Listener, and sighs. "Yeah, sure, I'm ready to play. Why not."
The dealer looks to its left. Grian sighs. "Why are you making me bet first. Again. We should rotate where we're sitting--fine, fine, I know it's an advantage because I'm the worst at this. Uh. Hm. No trading or giving away lives again. Not even as time or something. It makes the dynamics all weird, and I think we could use a nice straightforward death game next time."
(Martyn wants to roll his eyes. Nice and straightforward. Sure.)
The Watcher goes next. I would like there to be deep and wonderful bonds between the players. I would like those bonds to seem unbreakable.
"Coming from you, that's ominous," Martyn says.
Can I not just miss the alliances of the early days? the Watcher says.
"Never left the desert," Grian says, rolls his eyes, and looks at Martyn in commiseration. Martyn just stares back. So sue him, he's a bit more worried about this whole concept than an eye roll and a pithy phrase. Things Watchers want are rarely good.
When the bonds are enforced, they're less interesting, complains the Listener.
Martyn looks over sharply. Hey, wait, he thought--
I didn't say they had to be enforced by rule. I said they had to be deep. Encouraged, as opposed to discouraged.
Just saying. You'll never recapture Third Life.
Martyn swallows. His throat is dry. Weren't the Listeners supposed to be the good guys, here?
Besides, what I want is for each death to be meaningful again. They've felt too meaningless, lately, the Listener continues.
Martyn thinks the dealer raises an eyebrow, but it strikes him he's not exactly sure. Grian snorts. "Meaningful deaths. That's rich for you to say. I mean, I guess they're meaningful sometimes? I don't know, Martyn's the one who understands dramatic sacrifices, I just like killing things."
"Why do you keep on looking at me when you say those things," Martyn says.
"Look, you wouldn't be here if you weren't helping write," Grian says.
"What?" Martyn says.
We're here to play our cards for the story, the Watcher says. Aren't you also one of the authors?
"Me? What? No, I'm--what are you talking about," Martyn says.
Oh, well. I also hope your meaningful deaths make it in, the Watcher says the Listener.
Thanks, even if I disagree on the bonds, the Listener says.
"They hardly ever talk about real, concrete rules they want," complains Grian. "It's easier to understand the consequence if they bring up actual rules. Like boogeyman or no boogeyman."
"We're all just betting on cards!" Martyn says, throwing his hands up. "You're giving me a headache!"
It's your bet.
"Fine!" Martyn says. "Fine! You know what? Screw all of you. I hope this is the last one. I hope we never have to go back to that stupid death game. I hope it's miserable to watch or to listen to or to play and everyone just gives up. How's that for a bet?"
You're no fun.
Is that what you really want?
"Suit yourself," Grian says. "Honestly, if I still had that to bet, I guess I probably would."
"What do you mean, if you still had that to bet?"
"Well, I mean, that's not how blackjack works, is it? I don't just get back my in when I play it."
The dealer nods, and then silently, with a long bony hand, deals the cards.
Grian is dealt the four of diamonds. The Watcher is dealt the nine of spades. The Listener is dealt the five of clubs. Martyn is dealt a jack of spades. The dealer deals itself a seven of hearts. The dealer deals Grian a six of clubs--
"Hey, isn't that supposed to be face-down?" Martyn asks.
"Not here," Grian explains. "They're all face up so we can't touch the cards. So we don't have to. So we can't cheat."
"Who said anything about cheating?" Martyn says.
"Please," Grian says.
The dealer makes a hand motion. Martyn, grumpily, falls silent. He supposes they're playing by casino rules, then. He hasn't been in a casino since--he wouldn't know. Hard to remember anything that isn't this, isn't it? Isn't killing and dying and things out of his control and things very much in his control and, apparently, bizarre dream sequences designed to make him want to strangle Grian.
Anyway. Grian is dealt a six of clubs, giving him ten. The Watcher is given an eight of spades, giving it seventeen. The Listener is dealt a king of hearts, giving it fifteen. Martyn is given a six of clubs, giving him sixteen. The dealer deals its own second card face-down. Martyn stops to try to speak, and then shuts his mouth. Right. Dealer's advantage.
He stares at the numbers.
Grian sighs. "Well, I've got to double down, don't I? Fine. I want the whole 'red lives can kill' thing to be enforced somehow. I don't care how. There's my double down."
The dealer nods.
"Why would you want that," Martyn says blankly.
If we all win, that will be interesting with the bonds, the Watcher says mildly.
Grian shrugs. "I mean, we've enforced red names not befriending green names, but not the murder thing before. Figure we should switch up the game, right?"
"Why?" Martyn says again.
Well, it wouldn't do for it to be boring.
"No, not that. Just... isn't it easier to handle when the rules are laid out properly?"
Martyn throws his hands up, but stops arguing. The dealer gives Grian a face-down card. The dealer moves to the next party at the table.
The Watcher looks over at the dealer and makes a cutting-off motion. I stand.
The dealer moves on. Hit me, the Listener says, and is dealt the queen of diamonds. The Listener gestures to Martyn. It seems I bust. Pity. I suppose there will be no guarantee of meaning, then. Not what I'd prefer.
The dealer looks at Martyn. Martyn looks at the other hands. Martyn pauses.
"Wait, this is like, casino blackjack, yeah? I'm only playing against you, not the whole table?"
"Why would you be playing against us?" Grian says. "Writing's a collaborative process."
Martyn looks entreatingly at the Listener, but the Listener is a little too caught up in the bad hand it has been dealt. Martyn looks entreatingly at the Watcher, but the Watcher just looks somehow confused.
"I was under the impression that, I don't know, you all were adversarial."
Why? All we want is the same thing as you: the story to be told a certain way.
Martyn's not sure if he's furious or just numb.
"Fine. Got a sixteen, don't I? Hit me."
Two of spades.
He's furious. He wants to win against the dealer. He wants to win against everyone. He wants his idea to make it through. He has an eighteen, though. There are only two numbers in the deck that will not bust him, and he's no fool. Hitting on sixteen is a risk enough; if he wants his stupid bet of everything finally ending to make it through, he's got to hold here.
"I hold," he says through gritted teeth.
The dealer silently deals itself another card. A three of hearts. Distantly, Martyn's ears rush. He could have taken that. He could have taken the hit. He could have won. He could have had blackjack, and he doesn't know what the extra payout for blackjack even means in a game like this one, but he could have had it, and he held back, he didn't take the risk, he didn't--
The dealer flips up its cards. Seven, eight, three. Eighteen.
Martyn's heart pounds. A stand-off.
Grian flips up his own card and groans. It's a five of diamonds. "There goes that bet," he mutters.
The dealer makes a sweeping motion around the table. The Watcher smiles, a terrible, terrible thing. Martyn, all at once, realizes that he can't ask again. He can't say 'this is guaranteed to be the last one' again. He backs out of his chair. To the sides, he sees the stagehands change the lighting. A spotlight, on him and the dealer--
"That isn't fair," he says. "It's a tie. I should get my bet back, right? It's a tie!"
THAT IS WHERE WE DIFFER FROM THE HOUSES IN VEGAS, the dealer says, and Martyn's heart stops.
(The voice is familiar. Familiar, but he cannot place it.)
YOU SEE, IN THIS GAME, THERE IS ALWAYS ONE THING THAT HAS AN ADVANTAGE. ONE THING THE STORY IS ALWAYS PLAYING AGAINST. ONE THING, THAT INEVITABLY, AFTER LONG ENOUGH PLAYING, WILL WIN.
There, the dealer looks Martyn in the eyes, and Martyn, all at once, knows exactly what the dealer must be.
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I love you decked out. I love you dare stick (TM). I love you blood on the clocktower. I love you twenty ways to fail in the west on hermitcraft. I love you deep field. I love you scarland. I love you tcg hunger games island. I love you soup group collaboration zone. I love you museums. I love you hermitcraft. I love you shopping district and spawn all mapped out and friendly. I love you recap. I love. I love
Grian’s unsurprised, when he heads back into Decked Out, to find Tango in the waiting room. He’s lying on the marble floor, one hand pressed against the moss, staring up at the fake sun shining down. In here, away from the much dimmer, bluer light of the citadel, he looks pale. Far too gaunt and skinny. His eyes seem a little sunken-in.
He’s smiling, though. There’s wonder in those sunken eyes. He keeps on looking around with something so fragile in his expression. Grian doesn’t really want to interrupt, but…
“You know you’re not supposed to stare at it, right?”
“Oh! Uh, Grian!” Tango says.
“‘Course, we made it so it wasn’t actually the bright bit. Can look at the sun all you want from here.”
“Yeah,” agrees Tango. “I sure can.”
“Touch grass,” Grian continues.
“I mean, technically it’s moss,” Tango says, drawing his hand away almost self-consciously. Grian swears in his head. Stupid. He wasn’t trying to…
“There were a lot of us hanging out,” Grian says. “It’s a nice room, isn’t it? All fun and cheerful.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it sure is,” Tango says. “Hey, Grian—”
“Nope. Not with me. Not gonna bother you about it. Just—you made something really cool, Tango. Plus, it was nice to see you. Haven’t seen you not in a hole in the ground for a while, you know? This isn’t quite the same thing, but since we’ll all be waiting in here for a while anyway…”
Slowly, Tango puts his hand back on the moss “Don’t worry. I’m happy,” Tango says. “I’m really, really happy. Hey, tomorrow, do you think just as many…”
“Tango, don’t be stupid. There might even be more of us.”
Tango sighs. It’s like some tension Grian can’t even name has left him. It should be nice, but there’s also something almost unsettling about it. The amount of contentment on Tango’s face—well, then again, Grian would be that kind of happy too, if he’d finished something that took over a year, and then it worked and everyone loved it.
“Yeah. That’s good. This is all really good. Yeah, I’m happy with this.”
But there’s something about how he’s showing it.
“Eat some more food while you’re up here. Scar’s been worried about you, and for some ungodly reason he’s been making it my problem. Do you hear me? Do you know how annoying it is when Scar makes something your problem?”
“Trust me, I know. Who else do you think he keeps bothering?”
“Fair enough. And don’t break our queue system! We worked really hard! I think Etho would kill you.”
Tango laughs. There are tears in his eyes, Grian realizes.
“I’m just—it’s so bright in here. And you all were laughing so much. And loved it so much. I’m so… happy. I’m so happy.”
Grian softens. “Yeah. Be proud.”
Tango beams. Grian goes back out of the waiting room. Something about it feels private, like he hadn’t been meant to intrude. He’ll dissect all that later. He’d just wanted to check in, since he’s here to add his decorations to the many cubbies everyone has decorated. Everyone really does love it. Tango’s going to be busy; between maintenance and everyone wanting to talk to him about what they’re doing, he’s never going to get a moment of peace alone. Might as well give him a little bit while he still can.
It feels important, somehow, for Tango to lie there and bask in it, in the moments he can.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hermitcraft SMP
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Oliver Brotherhood | Mumbo Jumbo & Charles | Grian, Charles | Grian & Xisumavoid
Characters: Xisumavoid (Video Blogging RPF), Oliver Brotherhood | Mumbo Jumbo, Charles | Grian
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Watchers, mass surveillance, Admin Xisumavoid (Video Blogging RPF), Mind Manipulation, Illusions, Xisumavoid Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Watcher Charles | Grian, malicious compliance, Hopeful Ending
Series: Part 17 of mcyt fic my beloved
Summary:
Mumbo’s face was a little red, suit disheveled, vitals broadcasting stress and barely constrained panic. Given what Xisuma knew of him, he had probably suffered a panic attack before he’d even entered the office. He’d been standing out there for a good twenty minutes, at least, while Xisuma waited and crossed his ankles and thought determinedly about his secret bamboo farm.
The feeling of being Watched intensified as the silence crept on. Mumbo shivered and hunched in on himself, attention fixed firmly on Xisuma’s hands.
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just watched Tango's new video and um. I will never ever ever be normal about how insanely ALIVE decked out 2 feels. it moves. it speaks. it thinks. IT HAS A HEARTBEAT. it seems impatient to be played, it seems hungry. it's a dungeon of ice and stone but it's a living, breathing, beast made of redstone and skulk. I think the walls would bleed if anyone tried to mine them while the dungeon was awake. i'm going insane
