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He wonders, idly, if anyone knows he's out here. Intuitively he knows a few things about this place, things he had only learned after-- after it was over, he supposed, but they were as such: one, the border was gone, revealing an entire server around him-- one he had likely been hidden from until recently. He hasn't even glanced at the player list; the thought itself of all the missing names is unbearable. The sacrifice of all his friends' lives seems to have freed him, the last man standing, though he would trade his freedom for them back in a heartbeat. The price of his freedom was not one he paid willingly.
Two, the game, in a way, is still going. Something went wrong. He's not quite sure what. He thinks he was supposed to die at the end, but when he tried, he just woke up bloodied, sore, and oddly enough, winged.
Three, he was likely to recieve visitors soon, because if he could see their messages on his communicator, then it was more than likely they could see him on the list. And his many, many death messages. Death became a bit irrelevant after the first go around, it seems, because he always wakes up in his bed after he should have lost his last life. Still, his name stubbornly stays Red, and thus so does he. He remains in this desolate land, surrounded by empty homes and ghosts, no matter how hard he tries to follow his friends. The sand is red around the crumbling remains of the tower. He sleeps there regardless.
Grian is about to hop down from the tower when he sees them in the far distance, just behind the wall of cacti and lava-- figures he doesn't recognize, ones approaching steadily despite his defenses. A familiar fog of panic and fear engulfs his mind, Red like an old friend as he methodically checks his inventory for food, armor, and weapons. He shifts his TNT and flint and steel into his hotbar, crossbow in one hand and sword in the other. His mind is simultaneously clearer than ever and drowned in Red as he mentally reviews the traps he'd set for this exact scenario. Random pressure plates scattered across the sands. Mostly TNT. He doesn't think about the crater beside him, nor does he look at the cacti ring with red spattered sands. There is a button in his inventory. The sands at least thirty feet in diameter around his crumbling tower are rigged with a stack and a half of TNT that, if he presses the button, will explode and kill his intruders, hopefully, but possibly also him. That would be fine. He'll come back. And he will still be Red. Because he hasn't truly died, he supposes, the Red stays stubbornly alive. Just like him.
Sweat drips down his forehead. He looks down at his trembling hands and doesn't see the redstone dust streaked messily from his sweat, but instead the crimson of Scar's-- He shoves the thought far, far away and swallows back bile. The cacti to his right don't even exist. The sand is boringly tan and Scar-- Scar is. He is. He is just gone. Grian is the only one left. And these strangers, whoever they are, are surely coming to kill him, he just knows it. And maybe-- maybe, Grian never truly died, because it wasn't at the hands of a player! Maybe the last one is supposed to die from something a player did.
Grian is suddenly very, very afraid.
They're coming to kill him, just like Dogwarts did-- and he won't let them. He won't. They have to die before they can kill him. He ducks down behind the sandstone wall, breathing quietly in a way that can only be learned from several experiences similar to this. He remembers dirt all around him and sweaty hands as he sets TNT and for a moment is back there, back when he was still Green and yet somehow loyal to Scar, but Grian blinks hard a few times and digs his nails into his arm deep enough to draw blood and he's back. His blood is red.
Grian tries to distract himself by listening to the strangers' faint voices at they approach, straining his ears and wishing, for just a moment, he had Ren back and on his side so he could listen better. But Ren is dead, the king fallen and his throne long abandoned, and Grian is alone.
"-- can't Dream come in-vest-i-gate himself?" The voice says, sounding out "investigate" for no discernable reason. They sound a bit scratchy, and definitely sound like Mumbo. Wait-- who? Grian doesn't-- he isn't--
"Apparently not." Another voice with same accent responds dryly.
"At least we get an adventure out of it." A third voice with a different accent offers optimistically.
"Of course you'd be excited about it, Phil." The unexcited one says, though not unkindly. "You're the only one here who would look at a desert warzone and think it would be fun to explore."
"I'm Philza Minecraft and I think stupidly hot deserts are cool, mimimi." The first voice teases. Phil, Grian assumes, sighs.
"Back me up here, Techno, are you just gonna let them bully me?" Phil says, exasperated. Techno, Grian assumes, laughs.
"If you're letting Tommy and Wilbur bully you then that's on you." Grian, for a moment, aches at the familiarity between the four strangers. He is reminded strongly of friends come and gone far too quickly and shifts minutely, wings trembling without him realizing. He wonders, briefly, the color of their names. They must be at least all yellow if they're joking around, he muses, still refusing to look at his communicator.
"Wait," One of them, Techno, speaks up. Grian curses his luck-- they probably noticed a pressure plate. Clearly his traps and this game don't mix well. Instead of the good natured exasperation he'd felt as a Green and Yellow name, he's instead flooded with irritation. He curls his nails into his palms. His blood is warm on his sticky skin, sweat coating him from the unforgiving desert sun.
"That's suspicious." Wilbur remarks.
"Sus." Tommy snickers.
"I want to trigger it." Wilbur decides, ignoring Tommy completely. Tommy sputters comedically, indignant, but is quickly spoken over by Phil's immediate protests.
"Mm. I kinda wanna see what happens." Techno muses curiously. Grian grins. Maybe his luck is about to change, he thinks, resisting the urge to cheer. Wait, something urges him, and Grian settles into the familiarity of it, staring at his red, red, red blood.
"I'll throw something on it, don't worry." Wilbur dismisses, shuffling through his inventory for the perfect item. Grian prays to whatever deity is listening that they're standing close enough to the TNT even if they throw something.
"Your chestplate? Really?" Phil groans, exasperated.
"It's about to break anyway. Don't you worry, Philza Minecraft, it'll be fine." He hears Phil sigh, but they all step back regardless, footsteps audible on the sand.
"We're so gonna die." Tommy groans. I hope so, Grian responds mentally.
"Nah." Techno responds simply. Grian waits with baited breath for what he desperately hopes is their demise. He hears Wilbur make a fun little "hyup!" noise, and then there is nothing but the sound of explosions and maybe faint yelling beneath. Grian hopes, and hopes harder for good measure, popping up from his hiding space. It's hard to see through the thick smoke, but as it clears. . . Grian is almost knocked over by the wave of Red inspired fury that courses through his veins, hot and overwhelming in his head. It feels like his skin is crawling as he sees the four of them completely unharmed, though clearly shaken.
"Come on!" Grian groans, stabbing his sword into the top of the low sandstone wall out of irritation. It's sharp enough to bury itself a few inches into the wall. Grian's red eyes fixate on the intruders with a fierce glare, his wings spread behind him and feathers bristling with anger.
"What the fuck?" Tommy screeches up at him, and for a moment, Grian is taken aback at the teenager's tone-- he should know that Red names are hostile-- before he really looks at the group and slaps a hand over his mouth. He knew he should've checked the player list! Tommy and what he guesses is Wilbur, by his proximity to Tommy and Techno's earlier comment insinuating they're usually a pair, are both Red like him! So is Phil, as it seems.
Grian scrubs his face with a blood and redstone covered hand, accidentally smearing it across his chin, before flying down to them. His wings, unkempt and pained, barely get him down safely. He ignores the fact that half his health was taken from that fall and smiles apologetically at his allies. "Ah, that's my bad!" He exclaims, ignoring Wilbur's quiet "no shit" as he continues, "I didn't realize you three were Red. I would've warned you otherwise." There's a short silence as they stare at him.
"Red?" Phil eventually repeats apprehensively. Did he not know Grian was Red. . .?
"Now hold on a moment," Grian says, taking notice of something new, "What is a Green name doing here? You know all alliances are broken once you go Red." And it's just stupid to trust a Red name if you're not one, Grian keeps to himself. It would be surprising and possibly bad for him if that were the case. A Red-Green alliance would be probably shaky anyway, he reasons, and adjusts his grip on his sword.
"Heh?" Techno eventually says, evidently confused. Grian frowns. Maybe they're new? But how would Wilbur, Phil, and Tommy already be Red? Grian would've-- well, actually, he wouldn't have seen their death messages as he'd been ignoring his communicator. So they must be new.
"I see." Grian muses, and finally pulls out his communicator. He pulls out the player list, stalling for only a moment at both all the new names and the lack of others, before showing it to the four. "See? My name is Red, and so are theirs. Yours is Green. That means that--" Grian stops. It's strange to be teaching new people. He hasn't seen new people since-- since the beginning, he supposes.
"It means?" Phil prompts, and Grian shakes himself back to reality. Focus.
"Right, sorry. Um. It means we four have one life left and you have three." At that, they seem to perk up, probably familiar. Grian continues, "Green names-- and also Yellow names-- are friendly, and can only attack if attacked first. Self defense only." Grian pauses again. His throat hurts. His lips are painfully chapped. He can't stop thinking about his friends and whose names-- stop, Grian. "But Red names are hostile." It feels like a confession. "And paranoid. We can kill anyone. We have to."
They look alarmed at that, so Grian changes the subject abruptly, ignoring how he's shaking or how his bloody hands look almost exactly the same as they did when he killed Scar-- "Red buddies!" Grian chirps, sudden and loud enough to make them all jump, "You should probably go inside. It's quite cozy, really-- there's even a button at the top that's quite fun to press." Grian says, nodding encouragingly. Wilbur and Tommy exchange unnerved looks. Grian doesn't like their silent conversation, and certainly doesn't appreciate the way Techno puts himself in front of them. The Red prods at him. Push further, it tells him, a thousand voices layered over each other. Grian grins. It's all teeth. "Come on now, we're allies! Us Reds stick together." They still aren't moving. Why aren't they moving? Grian laughs.
"You know he's going to kill you." He tells them lightly.
"He is not!" Tommy snaps suddenly. Grian's brows furrow. "Stop-- stop lying." Tommy hisses.
"I'm not!" Grian exclaims, indignant. "You're Red. You're going to attack him--" Tommy just looks more infuriated at that, so Grian quickly adds, "and that's okay because it's not your fault! But then he can kill you and--" Grian's breath hitches, "and he will. He's Green so he will."
"Techno would never." Wilbur argues, steadfast. Frustration heats Grian's chest to a blaze.
"It wouldn't be your fault!" He shouts, "It wouldn't. It wasn't. I swear-- it wasn't my fault. It wouldn't be yours." It wasn't his fault. Grian can't stop shaking. His hands are Red. The cacti around them feel like they're closing in. It's suffocating.
"Mate--" Phil tries, but Grian is done listening. He pulls out the remote for the explosives, hands trembling, blood smearing on the smooth metal.
"Shut up!" Grian shouts, "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" He drops his sword to tug at his hair sharply. The Red is so loud and he needs to kill them now. "If you won't join me--" He holds the remote like it's a lifeline, "then we'll all just die, right here, right now! And then-- then you'll understand, Yellow names get it. You'll get it."
"What does the remote do." Techno asks, voice hard, and Grian can't help but laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And then he's sobbing.
"There's a stack and a half of TNT under us," He tells them, "And no way to run from it. It goes far, far out." He sees their faces pale.
"Fuck." Wilbur hisses, shocked. "Is this a bad time to say I get it now?" Tommy laughs at that, whatever it was, but Phil and Techno are on edge. Good. They're going to die. Grian composes himself with a few last giggles, sniffling. He wipes his tears with his sleeve and relishes in the way they track his hands, waiting for him to move to press the button. He raises his thumb, hoping that this time will be the last--
"Grian!" A familiar voice shouts, desperate, and Grian freezes in place. It buys just enough time for Techno to tackle him to the sands roughly, the remote tumbling from his grip. Someone else quickly snatches it up and to safety. Incensed at his failure, the Red in his veins and in his chest and in his head screams through his mouth, fighting against Techno with a strength he hadn't even known he'd had, but the man barely budges. Grian absently notices that Techno has red eyes before he hears that voice call his name again and can't help but halt, his chest clenching. He whips his head towards the source, suddenly desperate to know if it's really him--
"Grian." Scar breathes again, mournful, and Grian falls limp. He can't speak. He can't do anything but stare because--
"You're dead." He says, "You asked me kill you. You-- you begged me to kill you."
"I know." Scar says, kneeling beside him as Techno holds him in place.
"I couldn't wash the blood off for days." Grian says, feeling oddly numb. Detached.
"I know." Scar says again. His hand is cold in Grian's greasy hair.
"I tried to follow you for weeks. The sand--" Grian's breath hitches, "The sand is red, now." Someone sucks in a sharp breath.
"I know." Scar keens, voice breaking, and Grian quietly registers that they're both crying. "I-- Grian." Scar cards his hands through Grian's hair. His hands come back bloody. He hadn't had the strength to wash the blood out last attempt. "Just rest." Scar pleads quietly. "They can help you. So just-- just rest."
Grian had sworn himself to Scar all those months ago, had heeded his call to the very end. It was easy, then, to listen to Scar once more and succumb to the darkness gently coaxing him down.