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As the final shot rang out and the sound of something falling limp reached his ears, Scar hitched in a breath.
“Pearl?”
His voice rang out across the quiet. He waited. And waited. Then, he whispered it again.
“...Pearl?”
Yet again, he got silence as a response. Finally, he worked up the courage to move. Step after step, he made his way up the hill that he had been almost cowering behind.
Gone was the adrenaline that had pumped through him as he had shot down person after person. Blood was on his hands, on his chest, on his face, and it was almost all he could think about.
Until…
He reached the top of the hill.
And there lay a body.
On the other side, at the bottom of the pit, was a limp, now grey-skinned figure. Brown hair splayed across the ground, and bright blue eyes faded into a paler shade.
Pearl.
Arrow piercing her back, legs bent at an unnatural angle due to falling.
Scar limped over. It was the closest he could get to running, what with the sensation of numbness tingling up his legs. Nearly throwing himself at the ground, he cupped her face in his hands.
“Pearl, I’m so sorry,” he said. His heart, much like his legs, felt numb and almost completely sensationless. The breaths that he inhaled were small, the cold biting harshly. “I didn't want to- it wasn't me.”
And it was true. It hadn't been him. It was almost as though he had been being held at gunpoint, his body forced to move and hurt and kill. At least, that's certainly how it felt.
--
The paper had been practically burning a hole in his pocket, ever since… then.
It hadn't been too long, to be fair. Not even a week, not even the length of a ‘session’. But he hadn't touched it. He couldn't bear to look at the words and accept his fate.
Maybe that was why he hadn't been allowed to leave yet.
As he walked out of his door, he passed his sunflowers. They had wilted in this time; he hadn't been able to bring himself to water them. He was nearly the only life in this world, now.
The grass had already begun to dry up, trees shedding their leaves and rotting from the inside. He had killed all of the animals a few days earlier. Out of anger, maybe. Anger, because he was trapped here unless he accepted himself as a monster, because he was a monster, because he had killed so many people. Or, maybe it was because he liked the feeling of slowly starving to death.
Scar shook his head. He had zoned out again. That had been happening more often lately, but he didn't care. There was nothing to do in this now-desolate world, other than stare and starve and cry.
He walked on.
As he got closer to the Secret Keeper, a strong stench wafted into his nose. He didn't react, there was no reason to.
He had taken too long to clean up the bodies. They had rotted, much like the trees, and were puffy and bloated when he had finally gotten around to it.
Though, he only remembered faint moments of that day.
Only bits and pieces: digging a few of the graves, writing some of the memorials, burying Gem and Pearl.
Gem had been so innocent. It had been her very first time in these blood-fueled games, and at first, she had been having so much fun. Then, of course, the tables had turned and she became bloodthirstly like the rest of them. On the outside, at least.
(Scar had seen when she had killed Scott. He had seen the tears trickle down her face, heard her pleading and apologetic tone, seen her hug his limp body tightly before gently removing one of his bracelets and one of hers and switching them.)
Pearl was innocent too, if traumatized from previous seasons. She hadn't put on the charade- the one where she was insane and unhinged- as much this season, it had still been donned.
(Scar had seen her talk to her group. He had watched as they joked, smiled, grinned together. As they asked each other questions and laughed at each other's and their own bases.)
But they were gone now.
Along with everyone, their bodies had been laid down to rest. He could only hope that their souls could get said rest in peace, before returning to Hermitcraft. Unless the ghosts were trapped along with him, of course.
He doubted it: he felt completely and utterly alone.
But he kept walking. His long-sleeves were pulled down, though they didn't do much to cover the blood dripping down and soaking into them.
Battle wounds, he had been calling them. Not that he needed an excuse, what with no one here to care. They wouldn't anyways, being the monster that was. He could really just call them what they were.
Cuts. Rows and rows and rows of cuts. Uneven and ugly and tearing across the length of both of his arms. His right arm also sported them, though they were so much less put together. He wasn't left-handed, after all.
They were plastered around his hips as well, and his belt dug deep into them whenever he had the strength to change into his usual attire.
Scar had given himself these cuts across the five days that he had been alone, and there were still fresh ones every morning, every night. Every time he thought bad about himself, the world, or anything ever, it counted for a cut.
A black hood shrouded his face in a darkness that he felt he was swimming in. Sunflowers, dried and still splattered with blood, adorned his shoulders and wrapped around the cloak.
His steps were falsely, feigningly confident. Prickling, crunching grass fades into coarse dirt and dried mud. His boots paused, just for a moment.
Scar could stay here.
Alone, with no company but the rising and setting sun and moon.
Grian, the Sun, and Pearl, the Moon.
Gem, the innocent.
Etho, Cleo; his parents, in a past life.
Bdubs, his brother.
Tango, BigB, Skizz; all friends gone at different times.
Scott, Impulse; friends of the innocent.
Jimmy, Martyn; some of the bravest he’s ever met.
Mumbo, the most oblivious of them, and yet the smartest.
Lizzie, the new Canary.
He wished he could stay.
That he could starve to death, or bleed out, or drown or fall into a pit or be suffocated. He wished he could feel all the pain in the world, so that his friends would never have to, ever again.
But he knew that that wasn't how the games worked. Probably not how they ever would.
He stepped up onto the stone.
He wished to shield everyone else, everyone he loved and most everyone that he ever had loved, from the pain and suffering. From the betrayal, the deception, the agony, and anything and everything in between.
And yet he couldn't. He would never be able to, no matter how desperately.
So he made a deal with himself.
No matter how close the gun got to his head, how cocky the shooter got with their threats, he would always try to protect his friends. Try, because what if he couldn't? What if the person with the gun shot? Even if it was a blank, a fake shot, he might not be able to protect them anymore, just because of the threat.
But he would try.
No matter what was thrown at him.
So, in his final moments on the server, he looked around. He saw the graves, the trees, the few animals that had escaped his hands who were struggling to survive.
A tear made its way down his face. Not the first today, but perhaps the most meaningful.
Win Secret Life, the task had said.
And at last, he accepted that he had won.
He didn't know where, exactly, he would be taken once he pressed the button. He doubted that it would be Hermitcraft- they weren't that nice.
He could only hope that it was somewhere less lonely than here.
Yet another tear escaped from his dull green eyes.
But Scar didn't want his final words here to be sobs.
At last, he murmured two, raspy words.
“Thank you.”
The ‘succeed’ button glowed under his palm as he pushed down on it.