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An apocalypse.
Fantastic.
If Scott has his story straight (ha), this week has gone like this: Gem was given a task that, somehow, made her some sort of zombie-Boogeyman. (He’d thought they left that wretched curse behind in Limited Life. Apparently not. Figures their hosts would find a way to bring it back worse.)
Gem got Bdubs killed. Somehow? Likely something to do with the strange “spawn eggs” that were a part of the prize pool from the Secret Keeper, as he’d died to zombies yet went on to join Gem.
Bdubs killed Impulse. The details were questionable, a few claiming he’d let the shorter murder him, but it didn’t truly matter. He joined the horde either way.
The trio seemed to be all they needed to begin a true rampage. People were dying back to back, hunted like cattle only to join the murder party immediately after. Scott had been incredibly confused until the Roomies kindly explained the situation, and thank goodness for Cleo— he would’ve spent far too long being lost if it weren’t for her continued friendship beyond memory blocks. (Gods he hated those. Hated the subtle references that slipped by only to get a questioning, wary look in return. It hurt.)
Scott had managed to evade the horde twice now, and wasn’t that something? Nothing new, truly, he’d done it twice in Limited Life too.
The thought gave him pause.
This makes three times now, doesn’t it? He’s been hunted three times now. For his time, for his life. This is the third time he’s had to spend an obscene amount of days evading a large group of people that were after his blood.
Gem was with them this time.
Leading them.
For a task, sure, but that hurt. At least last time he’d had Martyn watching his back, refusing to betray him even for the extra time until Scott asked him to so it would end. So his time would go to his teammate.
Now Gem and Impulse were both hunting him. Gem and the Scott’s no more, all that mattered was getting Scott to join in the murder task. To become a Boogeyman again.
Why did that hurt so badly?
(Maybe because Gem had always been the biggest advocate for his well-being. Maybe because she’d been the one checking in on him after the Empires fiasco, and again after finding out about the games and what he’d done to himself. Maybe because they both knew how much he hated the Boogey curse, hated it so much that he’d killed Skizz immediately during Limited Life just to be rid of it.
Maybe because they were both his friends, and now they chased after him with eyes blazing violet and calling for his blood. Violet eyes like Martyn had when he stabbed Scott in the back to protect him.)
Pressing himself against the cold stone of the Secret Keeper, catching his breath, Scott thinks. He’s tired. This is exhausting. He’s finished with his task, joining the horde would do nothing for him. He is so, so tired of all of this.
He’s had more than enough of these games.
“Okay Jimmy, love you!”
…
“Yeah, because I love you..”
“Aww, that’s sweet!”
“The Florist sends his regards!”
“Jimmy stop it-“
“I’ve just witnessed three deaths…”
All these games. This suffering.
“Say love you back-“
“Thirty seconds, Scott.”
“Nah, I don’t wanna play this silly game-“
It burns. It hurts. His chest hurts again, a sword is in his chest again-
When will it end? Ever? Will they ever leave? Will it ever stop hurting?
It’s cold.
“I’m doin’ a little tickle Scott!”
It’s cold it’s so cold it hurts help please
Will he ever stop hurting?
It’s cold.
“Home?“
”Ḥ̴̖͉̌͌̇ȏ̵̺̒͠ḿ̶͈͍͎̈́̀ĕ̸̡͉͎̊.̸͎̤̠̋̌”
It’s cold.
“Mum what’s going on with Xor? Why’s he look like that?”
“Return to your room, Ã̴͕m̵͚̐a̸̡̐l̵̙͆r̶̗̄ȗ̷̢á̵͔ḙ̵̄r̸̼͠n̵͙̓.”
“Mum-“
“Go.”
He wants-
“Useless.”
He needs-
“Useless!”
He needs this to stop make it STOP-
“USELESS-“
MAKE IT STOP!
Martyn has concerns. Often.
Oh he certainly doesn’t show it much, preferring to show his true nature to his teammates and only his teammates, but still. He has concerns. Usually pertaining to the games themselves, though until recently that’s only been outside said games.
This time he has the.. privilege.. of being concerned within the game. Because he won. He’s a winner, alongside three of his good friends. Two of which he’s teamed with already, Grian and Scott.
Scott.
The man’s not doing too great, anyone with half a brain could see that. Martyn, though? He learned specific tells from his friend, those subtle things that just drive that point home.
Scott’s not okay.
Why would he be? Who knows what happened to him in that Citadel? Nothing good, that’s for sure.
That’s.. not all there is to it, to be fair.
Something is wrong with Scott. Something has been building in the man for weeks now, since they first appeared in this new game. Something bad.
And now the fella’s being hunted for sport again, if he’s spotted right. Some sort of apocalypse? Something to do with Boogeymen, he wasn’t paying the best attention really. Whatever it is, it can’t be fun for the guy. At all.
It’s cold.
Martyn stops dead in his tracks as those two little words cross his mind. Cold. It is cold. Why? The area he’s in is meant to be mild on a good day, sweltering at the sun’s peak.
It doesn’t feel like winds, this feels.. familiar. It’s not weather, this chill takes him back to the Dogwarts days. The Red Winter.
Artificial. Something ancient in the air, giving it a cold that seeps into your very bones.
Magical.
It seems to pick up by the second, and then there’s wind, whistling and bolting past the surrounding trees, nearly knocking him off his feet. Dear lord what’s happening?
Then he sees it.
Just off in the distance, the Secret Keeper. A not-so-subtle reflection of their captors, the keepers of the game. A statue of self-importance made by the beings forcing them to kill each other.
More important, however, is the massive white cyclone right in front of the damn thing.
His feet are taking him toward it before he can truly even register what he’s seeing, something pulling him toward it. Which is so wrong on so many levels because why is he going toward the windy death trap?!
He can’t seem to make himself stop though. And he gets a little less desperate to do so when he catches a glimpse of bright cyan hair right in the middle of the spinning white vortex of utter doom.
Scott. Curled into a ball right in the center of the storm.
It’s snow. Blue frost and pure white snow, swirling in a tight windy formation as if protecting him. It isn’t pulling anything in, it’s pushing everything out.
Ice magic.
Oh.
Oh.
Fuck.
Gem can confidently say things are going pretty great so far.
She’s managed to infect nearly a whole server of people! How awesome! Being a general is so much fun, she’s loving this task!
She’s in the middle of trying to convince Cleo to join the horde when things become.. less awesome. By a pretty wide margin, actually.
It’s freezing! Which isn’t normal! It’s usually pretty darn warm around this time! Weird…
Oh there’s a snowstorm by the Secret Keeper whattheactualheck.
She only manages to shout in surprise as she realizes her feet are moving. Toward the storm instead of away from it. The same can be said for everybody else, apparently, as pretty soon there’s a massive gathering of the horde (as well as Cleo, and Martyn for some reason?) near the storm.
Oh and Scott inside the storm.
…
Scott inside the storm.
Inside it.
What. The. HECK.
“Scott?!”
“Martyn what the blummin’ ‘eck’s goin’ on ‘ere?!”
“How should I know mate, I just got here!”
“Is that Scott in there?”
“Scott!”
“Obviously it’s Scott, are we not seeing the same thing?!”
“Scott-“
“Well why is he in the middle of a blummin’ snowstorm?!”
“SCOTT!”
Cold.
Familiar, comforting cold.
Cold like home. Like Ŗ̵͈͛̉͐i̵̖̞̐͗v̶̱͊̏ȇ̴̻̝̏n̵̽̀͜d̵̢̢̀̀̕e̵̝͌l̶͔͍̈́̔l̴͚̊͛͝.
He likes the cold.
H̶͍͗̂ͅe̸̟̫̊̈́ ̵̥̈́h̸̬̏ä̸͉̟́ẗ̴͎́ḙ̸̍͜s̶̻̒ ̶̢̩̃t̵͙͗h̴̛͓e̴̡̟̒͝ ̶̨̱͊c̴̩̍̈o̸̫͛́ĺ̵͔d̷͈̜͒.̴̩̈́
Why is it cold? He does not know. He does not care.
Į̷̋͝t̶͓̿͜ ̸̛̖ṣ̷͠h̸̯̘͋̉ỏ̷̆͜ŭ̸͈l̶͓͙͂̈́d̷͈́́ ̷̣͗̄ṉ̵͑̇o̷̥͎̎̋t̵̞͔͒ ̴̝̍̎b̶̠̈́ë̸̗̳ ̶̘͎͗̓c̸̺͍̉̚ǫ̷͑̅l̶̞͠d̵̦͒̐.̵͇͛
Cold is home, though.
N̴̗͈̅̓o̷͎̍͒.
Cold is comfort. Cold is no more pain.
Ē̷̛̖ṿ̴̰͋̅e̶̡̪̍̕ṙ̸͙ŷ̵̨́t̴͔̽h̷͚͗ḯ̷̱̂͜ǹ̶̻g̸͚̖͘ ̶̲͍͗͆ȋ̷̮̂s̶̳͋ ̶̮̉́p̷̝͝a̶͉̖̔͒ḯ̷̗ň̶̮͜.̴̡̮̽
Does it have to be?
Ÿ̸͉̦́͝e̸͉̟͊s̴̹͗͑
But why? Why shouldn’t it be cold? Why should it continue hurting? Why must he hurt?
W̸͓̐e̵̯͘ ̵̪̓ẃ̵͉é̶̮ń̷͈t̴̜̀ ̵͚͊w̴͈̎ị̶̅t̷̡̽h̷͈̒o̴̳͊u̴͖̿t̶̻̚ ̴̨̈i̷̳̿t̴͙̍ ̶̳̎f̷̻͒ŏ̴̮ṙ̷͍ ̴̤̈f̸̰̚ȃ̴̤r̸̤͌ ̴̹̃t̴̝͆o̷͖͑o̸̦͒ ̸̹͘l̸̝͛ö̸͔́n̶̤͝g̷̗͝.̵̤̈ ̷͈̆Ȉ̸̦t̸͕̚ ̷̼̓i̴͔͝s̸̱͋ ̶̦̚p̶͓͛a̴̲̐ṛ̸̆t̴̓͜ ̶̯̇o̷͚͂f̷͇̾ ̴͔̍ụ̷̚ś̵̥ ̴̜̈́n̵̠̿o̷̼͐w̶̘̾.̵͕͠
But why?
Y̶͚̆ŏ̵̳ǔ̵͈ ̴̤̿c̸̳͂a̸̡̋r̴͔̓e̴̝̔ ̴̮̈f̵̧̚ò̴̲r̶̖̿ ̴̟͝t̶̺̆h̴̡̀e̷̼͌m̶̢̽,̵̣͗ ̴̱̿Ã̴͕m̵͚̐a̸̡̐l̵̙͆r̶̗̄ȗ̷̢á̵͔ḙ̵̄r̸̼͠n̵͙̓.̵̀͜ ̵͓͘D̶͚̅ǒ̵̙n̵̫͂’̸͇́t̴̞̐ ̴̹̕y̴̢̽ỏ̴̧u̷̩͠?̶̘͠
..yes.
Ť̶̻h̵̳͂ḙ̶͒ṉ̷̑ ̶̖̒y̶͎͘ơ̴̡ṳ̵͠ ̷͖͐n̵̹͋ě̶̯ḙ̷̑ḍ̷͌n̸̲̑’̵̘̽t̶̲͐ ̶͕̔b̴̛͍e̶̺͠a̴̳̔ȓ̸̜ ̵͈͑í̷̪ṱ̴́ ̸̺̈a̴̤̿l̷͎͛o̴̺̾n̵̨̒e̸͈̒.̴̻͝ ̸̡͐Ȁ̶͕l̶̪͐l̵̲͝o̸̟͆w̴̲̏ ̸͉̌ț̶̇ḧ̵̗e̴͕͂m̷͓͊ ̵̉͜t̴̜̊ò̷̖ ̵͚͘h̴̳̃ẻ̶͍ḽ̷͝p̸̭̿ ̵̱͗y̵̥̕o̵̹̿u̷͎̕.̷͉͐
He can’t.
Y̶̻͌õ̷̧u̷̢̔ ̸̩̊c̶̗̊ȃ̵͉n̶̞͌.̷̼́ ̶̞̏Y̶̞̐ọ̸̑ụ̵̂ ̸̛͍w̸͎͘i̷͕͛l̴͕̑l̸̡͌.̸͙̈́
He can’t.
Ä̸͍n̵̰̈́d̷̻͝ ̵̺̀ẃ̴̺ȟ̷̳ẙ̶̲ ̶̠͝n̸̒͜o̸̟̚t̸͔̊?̵̲͒ ̴͈̉T̶̪͝h̵̭̒ī̷̡s̸̡̈́ ̵̖͑f̷̤̓e̶͈͂ä̷̞r̷̙͊ ̸̤͑g̶̦̉e̷͒͜t̶̙̕s̴̥̈ ̷̪͘ȳ̵ͅo̶͉̒ú̴͇ ̶͚͝ņ̸̾o̴̰͛w̷͔͝h̸͈͋ë̵́ͅr̶̨͂e̵͚͒.̵̬́ ̶̫̅Y̸̙͌o̶͚͂ư̴ͅ ̴̟͒k̶̮͌n̵͍̚o̷̤̓w̷̥̍ ̸̱̇t̸̔ͅh̸̫́ě̶̯y̶̟̚ ̶̻̎w̷̪̚i̵̯͠l̷̯̿l̸̼̑ ̸̟̋n̸̙͆ő̶̹t̴̮́ ̵̯̃r̵̹̅ë̴̤́ĵ̵͓e̸̜͑c̸͚̓t̴̯͗ ̷̮̀ý̴̗ô̴̹u̸͖͊.̴͚̈
She almost did. She was afraid. They will be afraid too.
Y̴͔͗o̵̤͝ų̸̛ ̷̤̏c̷̪͊ḁ̵̓n̷̾͜n̵̙͗ȍ̴̼ṱ̵̃ ̴͖̏k̵̬͠n̴̟͌ǒ̸̬w̷̫̆ ̸̳̾t̷̩̎h̴̭͌a̴̩͂t̵̡̎ ̷̟̎f̴͚̉o̴̧͝r̵̥̿ ̸͍̅c̷͖͐e̸͖͊r̵̘̃t̴̼͆ǎ̴̢i̵͓͊n̸̳͝.̷̺̾
Yes he can.
…t̴̮͘h̶̻͌e̷̛̙y̶̖̓ ̸̭̓c̴͎͂à̸̡l̴̩͒l̴̙͝ ̸̪̃f̴̮͋ö̷̰ŗ̸̊ ̵̘̏y̵͕̋o̶̩̅u̴̡̍.̷̩͒ ̸̯͠Ć̸͉á̸̮n̴̠̂ ̷̬͠y̵̢͠ò̴̥ṷ̶͆ ̸̝͗h̷̥̊e̶̢̔ä̶̰r̶̫̐ ̷̬̓t̸̮̏h̴̝͒e̶̮̍m̶̖̀?̷͉̉
No.
Y̴̢͊ò̴̥u̷̦͗ ̶̖͐c̸̻̅a̷̩̎n̶̥͘.̷͔͝
And why does it matter?
İ̴̳s̵̘͌ ̶̟̾ḯ̷̠t̶̬͘ ̷̙̆n̵̻̎o̵͓̓ṯ̵͝ ̴̹̿p̴̮͂r̸̳̒ȍ̷̠o̷͎͊f̷̮̄ ̸̢̍ė̴͕n̵̰̄o̸̦̒ȕ̶̲ḡ̵̟ḩ̴̄ ̴̰͑t̷̟̏h̶̡͠á̸ͅt̴̯̐ ̶̼̑ẗ̸̪h̵̡͆e̵̛̠y̷̲̓ ̴̛͕c̴͖̉a̴͔͝r̵̗̕e̸̤̍ ̷̹̽f̶̣͆o̵̙̐r̵̼̆ ̸͕̓y̵̦͊ȍ̸̢ų̶̿?̶̯̒
…
T̸̘̉ḣ̸̜ė̶͈y̵̧͑ ̵̰͌c̴̜̕ạ̴̚l̷̦̈́l̷̑ͅ ̷̦͘f̷̱̏o̵̲͐r̸̛͈ ̸̳̈y̵̻̚o̸̝͑u̷̢̽,̴̥̉ ̵̣͝c̴͍͝h̶̘̋i̶͇̾l̷̙̚d̴͜͝.̸̯͐
He’s not a child.
P̶͖͋e̴͉̐r̴͚̄h̶̰͒ȃ̸ͅp̸͑ͅs̶͔̀ ̴͈̓ṅ̵̥o̸̪͒t̴̨͊.̵̳̅ ̵͉̒P̶̙͂e̴̻̐r̶͕͝ḧ̶̝́a̸̦̐p̵̻̚s̷͙̿ ̷̺̄y̶̛͈ǫ̷͋u̷̱̐ ̶̹̄w̵͓̐e̵̛ͅr̷̙̿e̶͛͜ ̸͇͝n̵̞͂e̷̤͆v̴̰́e̶͚͝r̶͎̒ ̴̢̀g̴̤̓i̸̧̒v̴̮́ẽ̸̺n̶̟͂ ̴̰̾t̸̖̂h̵̪̕ă̵̮t̸̹̽ ̶͓̒l̶͚̈u̵̡̿x̵͚̒u̷̿͜r̷̘͊y̵̧͒.̷̬̌
He wasn’t.
P̶̙͒ë̵̖r̸̯̓ḧ̸͇ả̵̻p̵͍͋s̶͖͗ ̵͔͝t̵̤͂h̶͍͒a̴̳͗ṱ̷́ ̵̈́͜í̵̱s̸̲̈́ ̷̱̋a̵̻͝l̷̮͑r̶̞͝ȋ̵̺g̶̮̈́ḩ̴̒ț̷͐.̴̖̓ ̴͎̈́P̴͓̏ë̷͖́r̶̡̍h̶̼̀ḁ̶̕p̶̝̍s̷̫̀ ̸͇̓y̵̜͠o̷͓̊u̶̺͝ ̴͛͜c̷̬̐a̶͔͌n̴̻͊ ̷̫̏l̴͕̓e̸̺͆ä̵̮ṅ̵͈ ̵̗̌o̶͉̊ṇ̴́ ̷͎͑t̷̞͠h̴̬̋ĕ̵̜m̶̧͑,̷̜̈́ ̸̍͜A̸͔̔m̶̟̋à̷̟l̴͔̈́r̸̖̒ù̵͈a̷̳͌e̴͍̒r̸̩̓n̸̻̈́.̷̫͛ ̷̛̙Ạ̶͠ḽ̸̀l̴̲͝o̶͍̅w̷̼͂ ̵͈͊y̶͈͑o̵̘͛u̴̦̓r̸̡͂s̷͇̈́e̶̬̓l̸͚̈f̸̹̃ ̵̫̉t̶̪̽ỏ̷̹ ̵̳̈́ḷ̸͑ẹ̴̒á̷̱ņ̵̌ ̶̺̆o̶̗̽ǹ̵̞ ̸̫̎t̵̘́h̸͔͊e̶͍͝m̸͍͑.̴͙̒
He doesn’t know how.
S̶̺͘t̷̺͆a̸͎͛r̷͍̃ț̷̎ ̵̦̉b̶̢̄ẏ̶͙ ̶̬̽l̸͈̃ë̸͕́ṫ̵̳t̵̫̋į̴͗n̶̯͛g̷̦̽ ̵̮̃g̶̻̋o̵̼̅.̸̣̈́
It’s cold.
I̵̠͂t̷̟̾ ̸̤̍i̴̪̓s̵̙̏.̷̯̄
…it’s not meant to be cold, is it?
Cleo can count on one hand the amount of times she’s felt this helpless.
The other four pertain to the four death games she’s experienced now. The fifth is developing right this very moment.
Her friend is in the middle of an unnatural, magical snow cyclone thing.
Gods it’s cold.
“Well he’s obviously upset and his magic’s lashing out for it!”
“Well gee I WONDER WHY!”
“It’s a TASK MARTYN!”
“Does it look like he CARES?!”
The others are bickering like children. Because of course they are, when are they not?
“OI.” She cuts in right as someone goes to retort Martyn again. “Is this honestly the time to be squabbling amongst yourselves?! Scott is in a literal spiral right now, quit acting like children!” They shout.
It freezes the horde in their tracks. Good.
“What do we do..?” Gem mutters right next to her, sounding so much smaller than she did just minutes ago, and the zombie can’t help the pang of sympathy that shoots through their rotted heart. Even if the younger was trying to kill her like ten minutes ago.
“..we keep calling for him.” Pearl speak up, surprising a few. “He’ll hear us.”
“How can you be so sure?” Someone questions. Joel, probably.
“..call it a hunch.” The woman responds with a wry smile, turning to the spinning vortex of snow and turmoil. “OI SCOTT! C’MON NOW MATE, WE’RE DONE! IT’S OVER BUDDY!”
Like a wave, though some more hesitantly than others, the group begins calling for their friend.
“Come on back man, nobody’s gonna get hurt anymore!”
“All good mate, blummin’- sorry I guess! There I said it!”
“Take a breath or two, buddy!”
“You learned this once, just do it again Scott! You’re safe!”
Safe.
That’s it.
“You’re safe, Scott! You hear that?!” She calls, cupping their hands around their mouth. “You’re safe!”
The storm thins just slightly, and there’s just barely enough visibility to catch the twitch of Scott’s fingers from their position in his hair.
That’s what gets the ball rolling.
“Yeah- yeah! Safe, bud, you’re safe!”
“It’s safe to come on outta there, mate! It’s safe!”
“Safe-“
“Safe, Scott, all good and cozy and safe-“
The storm thins. The ice melts.
Scott opens his eyes.
It’s a lot warmer when he opens his eyes.
It’s also blurry. Ah. He’s been crying then, great.
He can barely begin blinking away the lingering tears before he’s being tackled.
His fight or flight response is in overdrive for a good two seconds before he manages to recognize the blonde hair and bright green shirt clinging to him. Martyn. Oh thank God.
“Gods you scared me half to death Scott what was that I didn’t know you could do that mate you-”
“Alright alright back up a bit dude give the man some space…”
The arms around him are gone as quickly as they appeared, as if they’ve touched hot coals, and he must be exhausted because a broken keen exits his throat before he can stop it. There’s hesitation, just for a moment, before the arms are around him again. Gentler this time, but an embrace nonetheless, and he positively melts.
“Gods mate, you.. you gave us all a right scare there, y’know..” he feels more than hears the muttering against his hair. Warm…
“..I genuinely don’t think he’s hearing a word we’re saying, Martyn.” Nope…
“Yeah you’re right.. uh… well gosh I don’t wanna move the guy he’ll just make that noise at me again and- gods did you hear that Cleo it was mental-”
“I think we all did, mate, totally pitiful…”
“Well I wouldn’t say that, Pearl, not—“
He lets the conversation fade into the back of his mind. There are arms around him. There is warmth. The talking does not matter yet, they can wait.
He is safe.