Chapter Text
It started with a simple walk.
It's strange, Scar would think, later, when he was in the comfort of processing it all alone, how the big things in life start with something simple.
Something easy. Something that won't keep you awake at night.
But then, all of a sudden, it happens. Something in your life fundamentally changes and it's up to you to decide if it's for the better or for the worst. It's up to you to take a bad thing and turn it into a great one.
Scar wanted this to be great, even if it was impossible to ignore all the bad mixed in.
And maybe that was the point. Maybe nothing is great. Nothing is really truly good. It is all a kaleidoscope of colours and sounds and experiences. Good and bad and anger and pain and joy and happiness all mixed together in a jar we label life.
But never, in all Scar's years of living, did he imagine this would happen.
It was a quiet afternoon, almost evening, depending on your perspective. Scar had approached Mumbo rather shyly, with a small proposition, a distraction, a walk through the woods.
Mumbo had accepted. They left.
Scar doesn’t like to think about what would have happened if Mumbo had said no. If either of them had been too busy. If they decided to go the next day instead.
Would someone be dead? Would they be none the wiser?
But the duo did go, walking through the blanket of leaves littering the ground, and talked amongst themselves as they went.
Mostly, they discussed early season prep.
"How is your starter base going?" Scar would ask.
"Quite well," Mumbo would reply, and Scar would try not to snicker at the stilt of the man's accent. (All in good nature, of course.
Everything always was.)
They continued on, further than Scar had originally thought they would walk, but he wasn't complaining. The chance to catch-up with a friend he hadn't seen in a while was wonderful, and he was grateful for the distraction from everything.
Besides, the way the sun shone through the canopy of leaves was very pretty. Scar thought that perhaps this moment would grow to become a very good memory. Something to think about when things seemed hard.
Until two innocent words: "What's that?"
They came from Mumbo, and they dripped of instant hesitation and concern, a sharp contrast to the former merriment and teasing.
Anxiety bubbled in Scar’s stomach.
"What do you mean?" he replied. His tone was a desperate mix of forced cheerfulness and confusion as he scanned the rows of trees on either side of their self-made path.
Nothing.
"Up ahead," Mumbo guided, and the taller man was already heading forward.
Scar stumbled after him, cane sticking into the soft ground as the forest floor grew muddier and muddier. He still couldn't see what Mumbo did.
“C’mon, dude, are you kidding with me? Ha, ha, ha, I’m so very amused. You can, uh, cut the act, you know--”
"Oh my stars," his friend whispered, suddenly, and even though the noise wasn't very loud, it felt as if the entire forest went quiet.
Even Scar, who had been so sure (almost positive, begging it to be true) that the taller man was playing a joke, froze in his steps. He looked ahead, once again searching, once again finding nothing. He opened his mouth to tell Mumbo off, but. . .
. . . but then he saw.
And he wished he didn't.
Up ahead, around a slight curve, in a tangle of limbs and sticks, laid a person.
A person.
An unconscious person, someone who was not moving at all.
"Who is it?" Mumbo murmured, clenching his hands into little fists and back again. He looked like he was caught between feelings; between running forward or backward.
Abandoning or staying.
"They're hurt," Scar realised, not bothering to answer his friend’s question. He surged toward the person again, Mumbo hot on his heels, neither risking the previous time of processing.
Neither abandoning.
"Hello?" Scar called ahead, hoping his voice didn’t scare whoever it was.
The figure didn't stir.
Bile rose in Scar's throat with his panic. Were they a Hermit? And what had happened?
His awkward gait made it difficult to stray from the path at all, but now that Scar was closer, he could see that whoever it was actually laid to the side of the walkway, off in the brush and deep in the mud. Still, the disabled man shook off his hesitancy and stumbled ahead, leaves crunching underfoot.
Wordlessly, Mumbo wrapped an arm around Scar's middle, offering support, offering stability against the uneven terrain. Together, they made their way forward, until they were right in front of an. . .
. . . an avian.
Scar could see that now. The wings were dirty and coated and all the feathers were bent in different directions, but it was clear as day.
An avian.
"Holy stars," Mumbo said, staring, and Scar could imagine he wasn’t much better. In fact, he was fairly sure his jaw had dropped.
They stood there. They were frozen, rooted to the ground, as if movement would cause this fragile creature before them to vanish into the air.
Or wake them up. Which would be dangerous.
“There’s blood,” Scar noticed, and even he could hear the panic lacing his tone. He was caught in a grip of uncertainty, unsure of what to do or say.
Because there it was, plain and easy to see now that he had pointed it out. The liquid was seeping into the leaves around, sprinkled in the mud--the horrific red colour that could mean so much. It leaked through the thin, robe-ish apparel the stranger wore and splattered both pairs of their tattered wings.
(Scar hadn’t known that it was possible for avians to have wings on their head, as well as a pair on their back.
He’d never spent much time researching the creatures. He hadn’t wanted to.)
And even if it was a horrible thought to think, Scar thought it anyway: What if the blood belonged to someone else and not the avian?
What if this creature was simply resting after completing a task?
The doubts were almost enough to make him turn back. To run to another Hermit, to tell them to deal with it, to leave Mumbo to the decisions while he sank back to his base and hid from it all.
It was tempting. But as he scanned the stranger lying in front of him, breathing out of pace and skin ashen, he couldn’t bring himself to leave.
Instead, he fell forward, dropping to his knees in the cold of the mud. Mumbo remained standing.
Shakily--tentatively--Scar reached forward, fingers frail and paler than normal in the backdrop of blood.
Whose blood?
And even though he almost didn’t want to, even though he knew he probably shouldn’t, he touched the stranger’s shoulder, intent on rolling him over, on finding the injury if there was one to find.
But the instant he made contact, the avian shot up.
The sudden movement made Scar fall back, and Mumbo--almost too quickly--pulled a sword from his inventory. He gripped it with firm hands. They both braced themselves for the attack they were sure was coming.
The attacks that avians were known for . Everyone knew avians were ruthless. They were killers. They were trained in their colonies to fight and defend and survive.
This one was no different.
Scar should have known. He shouldn’t have been so naive, so stars-forsakenly bent on helping whoever he found whenever he found them.
Kind to a fault.
And now he was going to have to fight--to kill-- an avian he didn’t know.
Because avians were killers first. They attacked their prey with no mercy, with no thought of sympathy.
Every. Single. Time.
Except, this avian. . . this one, didn’t attack. All he did was scramble backwards.
He wasn’t standing, and his eyes were wild and wide, hair mussed against his head in all different angles. He stared at Scar and Mumbo with overwhelming terror, panic traveling through his entire small frame in the form of suppressed shaking.
For a moment, they all looked at each other. The avian’s breath heaved ragged and sharp and much, much too fast. It was so heavy that Scar could hear it from where he sat in the mud and where Mumbo shook behind him.
Shock coursed through Scar, and he studied the shuddering man before him. Looking closer, he could see bruises littering the exposed skin, as well as several small cuts. He thought that perhaps that was it until he let his eyes fell to the torso, and he had to choke back the vomit trying to crawl towards his mouth.
He knew where all the blood was coming from.
A large, deep gash slid across the avian’s middle. It was hard to judge exactly where the slash began and ended around the robe-like garment the avian wore, but if Scar focused, he could see the wound stretching from the bottom left rib, over the stomach, and finally ending with a cruel curve at the start of the right hip.
It was easy to tell that the cut had been done to cause pain.
Maybe even to kill.
“You need help,” Scar mumbled, not really meaning to, stating something supremely obvious and feeling like an idiot immediately after.
He just, he couldn’t not stare at the slash. It was a deep, inflamed red, and it looked all too fresh. The instinct to reach out, to press his hands against it in a pitiful effort to stop the bleeding, dug into his hands and he had to remind himself that this was still an avian.
Still someone, some thing, to fear.
As if to reiterate that, the avian opened his mouth and bared his teeth, which looked slightly sharper than a human’s. He heaved a few venomous words, but he spoke in a language sounding ancient and impossible to decipher.
Which of course begged the question could he even understand Scar?
Wary, but with less trepidation than before, Mumbo edged closer to the panicked stranger, finally putting away his sword. He was braver than Scar, and the disabled man tried not to let that sting.
But he also knew Mumbo had encountered avians before.
Mumbo put his hands out in the universal gesture of I mean no harm, but either the avian was too out of it to understand or didn’t know what that meant, because he tried to back away even farther. He released a sound terribly close to a growl, but it was weak and filled with pain.
Scar winced as he watched the wound stretch and bleed with each movement. His heart pounded in his ears.
This avian needed help.
Now.
Prejudices and forced stereotypes forgotten.
“Mumbo,” Scar said, slowly, and waited for his friend to turn and look at him. “Mumbo.”
He hoped his voice conveyed the urgency he felt, hoped his tone let the taller man know just how much trouble the stranger was in.
Said stranger was looking worse by the minute. His tired, unseeing eyes darted back and forth between Scar and Mumbo, but he didn’t seem to comprehend what was happening, only that he felt threatened by it. His skin looked pale and damp, robe sticking to his mud-covered body, and even though he wasn’t standing, he seemed to be swaying dizzily.
He pressed a hand against his stomach, as if to stop the bleeding.
The avian’s eyelids fluttered. He leaned forward and let out a pained grimace.
And promptly passed out.
Startled, Mumbo jumped back, but Scar was standing up and immediately rushing forward again. He didn’t want to risk touching the avian again, but he knew there was really no choice.
There wasn’t time for fear.
“Mumbo,” he called, and the taller man seemed to understand instantly. He rushed closer, bending down and only hesitating a moment before tucking his arms under the avian’s knees and shoulders.
Scar half expected the injured man to wake up again.
He didn’t.
(Scar tried not to think about the implications of that.)
Mumbo braced himself and lifted, but he shot-up much faster than Scar had been expecting. Surprised, he watched Mumbo’s expression, which shifted from stunned to concerned in seconds.
“He’s so. . . light,” the taller man whispered.
Something in Scar’s heart pinched and he took a moment to study the avian curled into Mumbo’s chest. He cringed at how small the stranger seemed.
Eventually they snapped out of it, and, carrying the injured man bridal style, Mumbo hurriedly made his way back to the path. Scar did his best to keep up, cursed leg burning with every rushed step, but he refused to be left behind or to hinder their speed.
This guy needed help, and even if Scar didn’t know him, and didn’t trust him. . . he wasn’t about to waste time.
Not when a life was at stake.
After what felt much longer than necessary, the three emerged from the tree line, partially blinded by the sun that had seemed so pretty moments before.
Now, it only served to highlight the destruction carved into the skin of the avian. Wounds, old and new, hidden and exposed, spread across him like a tapestry. His sickly, pale skin stretched taut over his much too skinny frame. And even though he wasn’t awake, Scar could still make out the faint echoes of pain displayed on his features.
What in the--?
How--?
Why would someone want to--?
So many questions bubbled in his mouth, but Scar shoved them away along with his fear and only picked up speed. His cane clack clack clacked on the ground, a background to his concern and anxiety.
“Help!” he called out, voice raw, and woah, that was a lot of panic.
Since when did he panic so much?
“Comm,” Mumbo wheezed out, exerted from running through the woods. He readjusted the avian slightly and continued forward anyway.
Scar wanted to hit himself. Why didn’t he think of that before? The amount of time that could have been saved. . . would those precious minutes mean the difference between life and death?
Shoving those thoughts away, Scar whipped out his Communicator. He typed as fast as his dyslexic brain could manage.
<GoodTimesWithScar:> Xisuma we need you3
<GoodTimesWithScar:> Injured avain found in forets. its bad
The misspellings would have to be overlooked. Scar just hoped he had displayed the urgency of the situation.
<XisumaVoid:> Hold on, I’m going to teleport you guys
“Hold still, Mumbo!” Scar called out, stopping in his tracks. Teleporting was never fun, especially when you were moving.
The taller man slid to a stop, understanding instantly. They waited, out of breath and shaking, for the pull of the code.
Finally, it came, and the three of them were whisked away, leaving the forest behind and materializing at the Community House.
(Scar had remembered almost laughing at building that. It had seemed so dumb, because everyone would have their own base, so why would they need an extra structure for no reason? Much less one with a bed and a medical room?
The irony did not fail him.)
Scar tried to shake off the effects of the Teleport, refusing to be too disoriented. Mumbo looked fazed enough, and they couldn’t both be out of it.
Luckily, Xisuma was already there, rushing outside. He frantically held open the door, ushering them in.
“Set them on the couch,” Xisuma instructed. He was wearing his helmet, and Scar watched as his friend stepped into the role of Admin.
Of caretaker.
Mumbo didn’t question the order, even though Scar wanted to know why they weren’t carrying the avian to the medical room they had literally built for this purpose.
Still, he didn’t say anything, just watched in grim curiosity as the avian was laid out on the cushions. Blood sloshed and sprinkled, but no one seemed to care or even notice.
Scar did notice, though, the ashen, purple tone the avian had taken on. Loose particles seemed to float around him, and he was dripping sweat.
“He’s worse than before,” Scar said, frantically, gesturing to the injured man.
What had changed? Had the Teleporting caused this?
He’d never actually seen anyone Teleport whilst injured.
Xisuma cursed, dropping to his knees beside the couch. He reached out and touched the avian’s face. When he retracted his finger, a discoloured white shape was left behind.
“Oh, my stars,” Xisuma muttered, shock and horror and something else, something like suspicion dancing on the admin’s tongue. He mumbled more, but all Scar caught were words like “shouldn’t have” and “teleported”.
“What?” Mumbo voiced, clearly confused as well. Scar was hit with sudden thankfulness that he was not the only one who didn’t understand.
Xisuma ignored them both and turned his attention to the profusely bleeding wound. He pulled the edges of the robe back to get a better look and angled his body to block Scar and Mumbo’s view.
Scar tried not to be hurt by that, considering they were the ones who had brought the avian here, but he also knew Xisuma had his reasons.
Besides, he didn’t particularly want to look inside someone.
He did, however, watch for X’s reaction, and when the admin suppressed a shiver at whatever he was seeing, Scar felt his hopes plummet.
If Xisuma was fazed, it had to be bad.
Mumbo and Scar exchanged a look. They both, in almost perfect unison, took a step forward. Maybe in an effort to help, or an effort to comfort. Scar wasn’t sure.
But they both stopped when Xisuma ordered without turning, voice steely and filled with dread, “Get out.”
Mumbo blinked. Scar blinked. When they didn’t move, Xisuma whipped around, standing almost. . . protectively over the stranger. He still wouldn’t let them see. “I said, get out!” he yelled, uncharacteristically angry.
Scar flinched back, and so did Mumbo. For a minute, neither of them so much as breathed, just stared into Xisuma’s visor and seeing only their own startled expressions reflecting back.
Finally, Mumbo took a step towards the door, and the spell was broken. Scar didn’t understand (he just wanted to help) but he was in no mood to argue, not when someone was possibly bleeding out in the same room as them.
On their way out the door, Doc was coming in, carrying a bag filled with medical supplies. He didn’t say a word to the duo, but the door shutting sounded final.
And for some reason, as Scar turned to look at Mumbo, he felt like fate had been sealed.
He just didn’t know whose.