Secret Santa

The Illusion Of Love

Pris had messed up.

She'd managed to go on a date with Eloise - beautiful, wonderful Eloise whose smile could light up a room. Okay, maybe that wasn't completely true, but Pris felt like it was. Every word that came out of the Illusionary Witch's mouth was melodious and entertaining.

That damn demon had to ruin it. The demon in her head possessed her at the worst moment. Why did she have to be the one who had a demon? Scott would have been better. A necromancer who dabbled in the dark magic no one would touch. He was a perfect fit. Possession would work incredibly well with his motif. Or maybe Cleo. Lauren? Maybe she could have made a deal with a demon to become a Sand Witch? Or Cleo could have bargained for...something! Anything.

And in that split second the date had fallen apart. Her heart had shattered just as much as the words of that demon that came from her mouth, in her voice that shattered the spirit of Eloise. Pris couldn't bear it. Not the tension. The silence. The agony that tore her apart with every passing second. Now it was awkward between them. The suffocating silence. The unspoken words that begged to be said but neither could muster the courage to do so.

Now she watched from her tower. Pris stared down below at the small congregation of witches gathered at Spawn.

Scott and Joey were walking together, with Scott bright red in the face whilst Joey laughed and laid his head on Scott's shoulder. That could have been Pris and Eloise. They could have been the duo walking together and showing affection in kisses and hand-holding.

She shook her head. Now was not the time for that. Not the right time for jealousy.

Cleo and Lauren were trading with Bertha. The two were laughing together at a joke Pris couldn't hear from all the way up in her tower. But there was genuine companionship written on their faces. She hadn't known they were friends, but Lauren's peculiarity often made people like her. Because the Sand Witch was so unafraid to be herself. Pris envied that. If she'd been proud of her demon from the very start, Eloise could have forgiven her faster and maybe they'd be together. Or at the very least they would have taken longer to go on a date but it would've been successful.

Damn it. Not again.

There was a crack of thunder. Pris hadn't seen the lightning bolt, but rather saw the flaming cluster of trees. Shubble and Tiff were frantically trying to put out the fire. Tiff was yelling in an erratic frenzy while Shubble apologised every few seconds.

And there she was. Perfect Eloise. The Illusionary Witch laughed at their efforts. And how her laugh echoed in Pris's ears. She found herself leaning further forward. If only just to hear Eloise better.

"You okay?" Joey and Scott were behind her. How'd they get there so fast? She would've been able to hear them.

"Y-yeah! Wh-why wouldn't I be?" Her hands were clammy and her heart hammered in her chest. Scott took one look between Joey and her and shrugged.

"You wanna handle this?" He asked Joey. The Fire-Frost Witch nodded and stood on their tip-toes to playfully swat Scott's forehead. The Necromantic Witch giggled for a second and walked down the staircase. "I'll be down here. Scream if you need me."

"So...how are you?"

"F-fine." Pris mumbled, folding her arms over her chest.

"No you're not. What's going on?" Joey asked with a small tilt of his head.

"It's...nothing. Nothing important." She was adamant on this. Pris didn't want Joey knowing how...humiliated she felt. Humiliated because of her damn demon. Because she and Eloise could no longer talk as freely as before.

"Okay. I won't pry. Buuuut, if it's to do with love-" he gave her a knowing look, "-then I can listen. And maybe contribute a solution?"

"Ju-just don't laugh," She hugged her arms tighter. And slowly, she began to explain it all. Joey was uncharacteristically quiet throughout it. If anything it made her more self-conscious. He was only trying not to laugh at her. That was all. He was trying to be polite.

"W-wow. Okay, uhh..." Joey scratched the back of his neck. "I guess, if this helps at all, then she's probably just as upset about it as you are. Try and talk to her about it. Verbally. Tell her everything, maybe give her a gift and ask for forgiveness."

"You think that's not my first thought?"

"Have you tried it?"

"I mean, I left a chest. And signs. And rose bushes in the chest. But there's been nothing." Pris sighed.

"Then just talk to her. Forget the other stuff I said. Talk about it. It may sound dumb coming from me, but talking helps." Joey said. Pris could hear Scott coming back up.

"I-if you don't mind, then can I just say something quickly?" Scott asked. But there was something weird about the way he talked. It was different. Not as deep or intimidating. More light-hearted. Melodious. Upbeat.

"Okay..." Pris made eye contact with Scott. Only to notice they weren't the usual murky green colour. No, his eyes were green and blue. Like-

"I forgive you." And Scott 's appearance shimmered and the illusion melted to reveal Eloise standing there. "B-but...can we take it slow?" Pris might have died then and there. She was forgiven. And Eloise actually wanted to give them a try! Even if they did have to go slow, it was something!

And Pris nodded all too eagerly, practically throwing herself into Eloise's arms, who hugged her back with just as much enthusiasm.

Maybe they could work out.

Burning Flowers

Scott was fed up. He glared at Jimmy, currently squatting on an open trapdoor with his arms stubbornly folded across his chest and a determined look in his eyes. It was a familiar look for Scott, one he'd have seen in the first set of death games when him and Jimmy had been friends - even closer than that - rather than enemies or allies.

But that was in a different time, when Scott was content living with Jimmy.

Now he wanted him out. And quickly.

He tightly gripped his flint and steel, maintaining eye contact with Jimmy's warm brown eyes.

"You've got ten seconds to get out before I set you on fire." His voice was calm, like the sea before the storm. His eyes burned with controlled anger, a wildfire that he would only push inside until he lost all inhibition as a Red.

Jimmy adamantly stood his ground.

Scott began to count down slowly, stepping closer like a predator stalking their prey. With each number ticking down his voice grew lower and lower.

"Three." Sparks flew from the flint and steel. "Two." Fear flickered in Jimmy's eyes as the realisation set in that Scott was serious. "One."

Scott lit the ground around Jimmy on fire, watching the flames climb higher with ravenous hunger. Jimmy yelped and began to jump around. Following, Scott lit and put out fires with incredible speed. When the flames latched onto Jimmy's skin, searing pink flesh, a smile stretched across his face.

Jimmy panted heavily, landing on a higher trapdoor. His arm was singed, the jacket and shirt sleeves practically ribbons.

"I'm not leaving." Jimmy said, his tone convicted.

That only left Scott with more of a challenge. His grin widened with the idea of a new game, a chance to see how long it'd take, how many injuries Jimmy would sustain, before he finally decided to back off.

Scott balled his fists and drew closer. Jimmy tried to jump, but couldn't get past Scott. He fell into a corner, his palms flat against the walls.

He reared his fist back and slammed it into the wall next to Jimmy's head. The blond flinched, eyes wide and panicked, yet still containing that flame of determination.

"Five seconds. Or I'll be punching you instead of the wall." Scott pulled his fist back. He looked at the dent he made in the wall with pride.

Jimmy, in typical Jimmy fashion, did not back down.

"Five." He balled his fist. "Four." Into the wall. "Three." Pulled back. "Two." Grabbing a fistful of Jimmy's shirt, yanking him closer. "One."

Scott slammed his fist into Jimmy's nose.

Thick red blood ran down his face, yet he made no reaction. Scott, frowning, prepared to hit him a second time.

Jimmy sprung into action and darted past him. A growl escaped Scott's lips and he trailed after him, blood staining his hand.

Upon him moving towards the entrance, Jimmy flung himself forward once more and back onto the high trapdoor. He wiped the blood running down his face but didn't clear it away, only leaving a smear behind.

"I. Am not. Leaving." Jimmy enunciated each word with a new wave of fury.

They both breathed heavily, chests rising and falling in unison.

Scott, for a moment, wondered why exactly he was doing this. Greens weren't meant to be particularly violent, yet there was no denying that there was a bloodlust that burned inside him, the kind that only a Red could achieve.

His vision went red.

A familiar weight fell into his hands. An axe, he realised. Scott glared at Jimmy.

This time he gave no warning. He lunged immediately, lifting the axe up and bringing it down in a swift arc on Jimmy's chest. The scream that followed was euphoric to Scott.

Finally, Jimmy fled. He sprinted past Scott, coughing and wheezing and hacking, barrelling out the door and into the open.

The axe dropped onto the floor. Scott stared at it, the blood on the blade and his hands. On his clothes. Even his shoes. Scott left his house with the desire to see himself guiding him towards Gem's diving board and flinging himself off of it.

He landed in the water and swam to the land, climbing onto it. Scott peered at his reflection.

Scott was covered in blood, although some of it had been washed off in the fall. His hair clung to his forehead, his eyes flickered red, then settled back on green. Blood was smudged on his cheek - how had it gotten there? It was all over his shirt, covering the green on it, and splattered on his trousers. The edges of his shoes were stained with a mix of blood and dirt.

He didn't look like a Green. He looked like a Red.

Scott fell to his knees, a laugh bubbling in his throat. He was cackling, bent over and clutching the ground. Dirt crept under his fingernails and each laugh out of his throat was like coughing blood.

He didn't recognise himself. Not really. He wasn't a Green. He was the spitting image of a Red. Of someone who'd lost every ounce of self-restraint. Someone wild.

He looked like Pearl, who went Red early in Double Life, even though she was still on her first life.

He looked like Martyn at the end of the previous life game, dirty with blood and grime and sweat, but cackling and joyful with madness.

Scott looked like a Winner.

The Florist and The Curse

"Do you really want me to hit you again?" Jimmy asked, standing on the terracotta mound, as the grass bled into the mesa. His arm was on his hip, chin jutting out proudly, with his other hand resting at his his side holding the hilt of his sword.

"I mean, you only did, like, a heart and a half of damage," Scott said with a shrug. He wasn't scared of Jimmy, no matter what the Red Life tried. He knew Jimmy for what he had been and who he is now; a kind, loyal and energetic man with room in his heart for everyone yet no one at all. "After all that-"

"Do you really want me to hit you again?" Jimmy repeated, more sternly this time. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

"-effort." Scott finished.

"You really want me to try again?" His voice grew deeper, slightly confused but remained firm and threatening.

"I mean, is your task to just hurt me? I'm so confused." Scott blurted out. "Also by shouting a weird catchphrase of 'the florist is gonna get me."'

"Yeah?" Grinning, Jimmy edged a little closer. There was a hazardous tone to his voice that set Scott's nerves on edge. He couldn't help it.

"You have thirty seconds."

The memory of the previous game left a bitter taste in his mouth. Obviously Martyn deserved the win. That was never in doubt. But being stabbed in the chest, then burned alive by his closest ally was not on Scott's bucket-list.

Nor was having Jimmy betray him like that. But, ah well.

He moved on.

Scott hadn't, cursed with too many memories and burdened with pain, blood and remembrance.

"Okay." Scott said. He gently tapped his heels against the horse's sides, urging it a little back. "I- is that your name, The Florist?"

"N- no? Dunno what you're talking about." Jimmy tilted his head like a puppy, his hair falling over his eyes. The usual honey brown was rimmed with bloody red.

"Oh, 'kay, okay." His horse moved further back, at his own insistence.

"Watch your back, Scott, alright? Watch your back." Jimmy warned.

Scott didn't stick around much longer after that.

---

He watched Lizzie fail to kill him. He knew it from the moment she tried to have him step up to the ledge; it was obvious from how her voice was pitched, the tone, the way her hands seemed to twitch urgently at her sides.

Scott hadn't thought she would fall. Maybe trip a little, get hit by an Enderman.

But not fall.

He heard the crackling of the lightning bolt and looked away as it struck at the empty Void, the space where Lizzie had fallen. In her memory and honour, Scott listened to the rolling boom of the thunder that followed.

Jimmy's curse was gone.

The Canary Curse was broken.

He felt something bubble in his throat, a hoarse laugh of joy and pain mixed together in a horridly lovely cocktail. He thought of how Jimmy would react to it. He thought of the shocked widening of his eyes and how his mouth would fall a little. He imagined the shocked huff of breath, pursued by hysteric giggles as he ran forth and proudly declared the curse gone.

Scott was happy for him, truly.

...He still had questions about the whole 'florist' thing, but at least Jimmy had lost his curse.

It was an odd feeling, when it happened. Scott looked fondly upon the last game because of the tether that had snapped when he'd died; the knowledge that the curse was broken, that he'd no longer have to live until all his allies and friends were gone, that the weight had finally been lifted, had relieved him.

He had laughed and smiled and actually felt happy for the first time in years.

Two curses down. Now to break the rest of them.

Darkest Before The Dawn

Teleporting into walls didn't really phase him much.

The crippling fear was dead and buried along with the many other hatchets lying six feet under. He no longer was sent into a frenzy when he made a mistake. The walls welcomed him with a suffocating embrace. They gripped him tight and squeezed the air out of his lungs with little to no remorse.

It didn't mean it didn't shock him, though.

Accidentally teleporting into a wall wasn't pleasant. It slammed into him like a bucket of icy water he hadn't been prepared for. But it didn't frighten him. More like a minor inconvenience.

Scott's body tingled as he teleported out from the mound of dirt and grass he'd unintentionally managed to teleport into. He was lucky he wasn't claustrophobic. Being trapped inside the dirt and grass wasn't nice. It was as if he'd been buried alive and couldn't escape. Like no matter how much dirt he clawed his way through, there was always more to get through. He'd never be able to get out. It was just an endless purgatory he could never flee from. The weight of the dirt would crush him.

His knees buckled and he collapsed.

Shaking, Scott tried to stand. His legs seemed uncooperative and refused to hold his weight. Many times he fell to the ground. Many strings of curses passed over his lips and swirled on the breeze.

Eventually he succeeded in standing.

Slowly, he approached his house. The path of grass and dirt underneath his feet served as a reminder. Dirt clung to his clothes. The ground's grubby fingers grabbed at his feet repeatedly. Scott did his best to ignore it. He kept walking, drawing nearer and nearer to the door.

He made it inside.

---

Jimmy still felt himself falling.

It was just meant to have been some friendly revenge. Nothing more.

It wasn't meant to end in him plummeting to his death.

He should have been more careful. He should have watched where he was stepping. He should have been able to make it out unscathed rather than dying.

He was a world class idiot.

Panic had overtaken him. His senses screamed at him to do something over then just freeze. To run. To try and find something in the walls to hold onto. To move in any way possible that meant he might be able to live.

At least he didn't have to feel much more than his body falling.

He died soon after he touched the ground.

But he hadn't been respawned yet. For now, he was floating in some kind of limbo that he couldn't escape from. Just existing. No point or purpose other than to exist. That was all he could do for now. Exist and wait for himself to be reborn as something new.

Maybe the world would be cruel and give him wings or immunity to fall damage.

Or maybe it would make him even more vulnerable to it.

Fate was fickle, but fate was also cruel.

---

Martyn would kill for his colin-y.

The snowy and semi-friendly creepers in boats in his house. He'd slaughter every single person on sight if someone even petted one of them wrong.

And currently, surrounded by their soft snowy coats, their warm eyes and their curled horns, he couldn't be happier.

He could lose them. All of them. The reality of it would never escape him. If one player saw the colin-y and got spooked and attacked when he wasn't around, then they'd be gone. Permanently.

At the thought, he approached Colin E and hugged the snowy creeper tight.

Martyn couldn't afford to lose them.

Any of them.

He hummed quietly, a song he'd heard in passing. He hadn't paid much mind to it before, so many parts of the song were lost, but he recalled the main bits of it. It was far from complete, but it was still a song.

Colin E made a small noise as if joining in with the song.

Smiling foolishly, Martyn's humming crescendoed. Other Colins joined in. He'd made himself a choir of creepers.

He pushed the thoughts of losing them out of his mind.

Martyn was content to be in the moment with them.

Morning Sunshine, Evening Moonlight

Scott blinked back at the tears. He couldn't risk it now. He was meant to be one of the strongest witches in the competition! The Necromantic Witch! Every one of his competitors either feared him, was stupid enough to make him an enemy, or was an ally. Most feared him. He had taglocks of everyone. Nobody was safe from a curse. Not even Bertha, the...weird being that Scott didn't quite understand.

Case in point, Scott was meant to be powerful. Crying was a sign of weakness. He couldn't afford to be weak.

That wouldn't bring Milo back.

So he wiped his eyes and continued on. He flicked through the Book of Shadows, analysing every word of every line until he understood the ritual perfectly and could do it blindfolded. The chalk on the ground was right. He had the right ingredients. He even had a sacrifice like the book said!

Taking a deep breath, Scott began the ritual.

---

None of the other witches had heard a peep from Scott in a bit. No curses, no pranks, nothing. He hadn't tried scaring Bertha, he wasn't on some sort of journey to collect ingredients or spells. Nobody knew where he was.

Cleo paced back and forth at Spawn. She gesticulated wildly to Bertha as she ranted on end. Scott had said he'd meet her there ages ago. He hadn't turned up.

"What if something bad happened to him? He's my ally! Not to mention he's not...mentally stable," Cleo shook her head. "No I'm sure he's fine. Maybe he's just resting?"

"Scott doesn't have a bed," Bertha helpfully supplied. "He doesn't sleep anymore after Joey and Pris tried getting his taglock."

"Oh. Right." Cleo mentally screamed. She was no closer to discerning where Scott was than before!

"But we could take a look at his base," Bertha suggested, gesturing at the Waystone in the centre of Spawn. "Maybe he's there?" Cleo frowned, but, seeing no other option, complied.

The two stepped up to the Waystone and teleported to Scott's house.

---

Scott's home was silent. Usually there was at least some small semblance of noise. But not anymore. Instead it was just uncomfortably silent. Suffocatingly so.

Bertha cautiously tread on the decayed ground as if it would catch fire at any second. Cleo's brows furrowed. The decay was pretty bad. It stretched incredibly far, almost halfway to the lake. Had Scott's magic caused this?

As the two of them looked around, a chalk circle caught their eyes. In the centre of it stood a figure hidden behind sinister black, gold and crimson robes. A hood was pulled over their head, but Cleo could easily guess that it was Scott. By the look of it, he was performing some kind of ritual.

"Scott?" She said, slowly approaching the chalk circle. In between the red and purple chalk were thin lines of salt. Odd. Scott stood, unmoving and unattentive. There was a swirl of shadows and darkness at his feet, growing and growing. Shadowy tendrils shot out of the depths, sapping the life out of the world around it. The decay on the ground groaned and spread, edging closer and closer to the lake.

"Scott." Bertha's voice was loud and firm, unlike what cleo had heard before. It sounded more...ethereal. Less human and more like an entity of some sort. "Stop this." But Scott didn't seem to be listening.

"I'm gonna try something, but I think I'll need your help." Cleo held out her hand to Bertha, and they readily took it.

She drew nearer and nearer to the chalk circle. With a sharp breath, Cleo stepped over the lines of chalk and salt, careful not to accidentally disturb them. Breaking the ritual could have dire consequences. She reached out and took hold of Scott's hand. Bertha gasped and uttered something.

Before she could blink, Cleo was no longer at Scott's house.

---

He was home. Home with Milo and Maxwell. Home with his family. No more disasters. No more magic. No more death. Instead, he was sat at the table with Milo, both of them happily eating and talking. In his mind, it was like nothing had ever happened. Perhaps none of it had been real. Maybe he'd just been living a nightmare and only just woke up to his actual reality.

Whatever the case, Scott had missed this.

"I love you," he blurted out. "I-I really love you."

"I should hope so," Milo replied with a gentle laugh. He took Scott's hand. "After all, we are living together. How would Maxwell cope?"

"Shared custody?" Scott joked. The duo grinned in the way they only did for each other and burst out in pure, unadultered laughter.

He could almost believe it was real.

The main giveaway was the decay on his hands. The blackened skin that flickered in and out of existence. A reminder. In the corner of his eye, Scott could see the outlines of two figures reaching out for him and calling his name. He shook his head. This was his moment. This was his time to lose himself and believe that Milo was still alive.

"Scott!" The voices called out. They were incredibly distinct, and he knew them well. Cleo and Bertha. It could be no one else.

"Sunshine? Are you alright?" Milo asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. I'm fine." Scott leaned over and kissed Milo on the forehead. "Just...tired, I think."

"Do you wanna go up to bed now? I can clean up." Milo offered with a smile.

"O-ok. Love you." With a quick kiss on the lips, Scott stood up from the table and left.

"Scott, please," Cleo's voice begged. And Scott could see her now. He could see her hand wrapped around his own. "You need to stop. The decay, i-it's spreading. It's hurting you Scott!"

"But-...I'm finally back! With him!" Scott argued. His voice wavered, and tears pricked his eyes. "I-I can finally be happy again! I can live my life here, with him. I've tried to bring him back for so long. Do you know, Cleo? Do you know how long I've tried? Take a guess! Take a guess goddamnit, and tell me how long you think I've tried! Go on! Please!" Scott felt the tears falling down his cheeks. Cleo's hand wiped them away. Bertha stood beside him, their hand resting on his shoulder.

"Neither of us can imagine. But you need to come back. There's another way. Scott, come back." Bertha's eyes glowed with tender sympathy.

"I can't!" Scott pulled away. "I-I can't live without him."

"Yes you can. Please Scott." Cleo wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace.

The world around them fell apart.

---

They were back. Back at Scott's house. Only now, the Necromantic Witch was crying, weeping and wailing, clinging onto Cleo and Bertha for support. They feebly clung onto him, rubbing up and down his back and waiting for him to calm down.

Neither had intended to do this. But they did.

"I'm sorry," Scott hiccuped, his eyes puffy and voice hoarse. "I-I didn't mean to-"

"Don't worry about it." Bertha responded. "Besides, if it works, I can find a better way to bring back, uhh..."

"Milo."

"Yes, Milo." Bertha snapped their fingers in remembrance when Scott said the name.

"Sure?"

"Incredibly so."

"Okay." Scott smiled at both of them.

Those few seconds with Milo were worth it. Milo may not like what Scott's become, but that wouldn't stop him.

Nothing would.

The Clock Is Ticking

The clock is ticking.

Lightning lights up the sky to mark the players that may never come back. They are remembered by the survivors. The threat of death looms over them all.

Eyes are everywhere. Hundreds of eyes crawling over the lands, the mountains, the bridges and the sea. They see it all. They smile and watch in quiet amusement as players perish. Those that watch know that they will succeed. After all, who can defy a game like this, with these rules, with no loopholes? For once, the players must play to perfection. There is no other option.

Bloodlust hit the players. Waves upon waves of the urge to kill. Hands itching for weapons. Bows and crossbows craving an arrow to fire. Blood pulsing through their veins, bubbling under their skin. The newfound reality of permanently dying only provides incentive. No one wants to die just yet.

Alliances fall apart. The so-called "Bad Boys" have been destroyed. Only one of them remains. And now they have joined a new group. So the name Bad Boys is no more than a memory that time has robbed of them.

The end cannot be prevented. No matter how much blood is shed. No matter how hard the players may try. They will die regardless of any efforts to thwart it.

Scott was taken by the sea, now belonging to its domain. The ocean was his and none could take it from him.

Martyn watched the sand of his hourglass. He knew time was running out and he would protect those he cared for until the end.

Grian lost them. Jimmy and Joel were dead. And now they were gone, and he joined the Nosy Neighbours, he couldn't help but curse those that watch for doing this to him.

Cleo feared for her family. She had not only her own time to take care of, but her boys' time too. There was a duty she'd taken up to protect them. And she refused to shirk it now.

TIES had lost Skizz. Now they were just TIE. Deaths were inevitable here, but the loss of their friend hit them. Skizz, who, despite losing over two hours in the first session, despite those that had killed him and despite the revenge that others would've taken, had chosen to instead be kind to the players. He'd made it his duty to complement and assure the others.

The clock was ticking.

For all of them.

Flaming Death

This wasn't the plan.

All Joey had wanted to do was to try and get revenge on the resident Necromantic Witch who'd decided to curse him. That was fair enough. If he got cursed, surely it would be fine to return the favour? So he tried to learn about those curses. It was very complicated, and he didn't understand all of it, but a few curses seemed simple enough. Joey wanted to start simple; to give Scott the burning curse he'd used on Joey not too long ago. From there Joey wanted to get progressively worse, but starting small seemed to be the best idea. He would have to be careful in getting a taglock. Last time didn't go down too well.

Not to mention how Scott was taunting him. In his own home no less! And maybe that's caused Joey to resort to some...creative methods of getting that taglock. But it's mostly because he needs Scott distracted by something.

Joey heard Pris from within her tower. He left Spawn and saw her standing there buying upgrades from her...what were they called again? Ah, it didn't matter.

"Pris!"

"Joey? What is it?" She folded her arms and pointed her chin up slightly.

"I want to try and get Scott's taglock again."

"He killed us both last time. What says he won't try it again?" The Water Witch had apprehension and doubt laced within her words.

"Because I'll distract him while you get the taglock. But go invisible when you do it!" Joey grabbed her hand and pulled her out of her tower and into Spawn. "Ready?"

"I'm still not sure this is a good idea..." she muttered, then sighed in defeat. "Fine. But be quick. I don't want to drag this out too long in case it goes south." She pulled out a glass bottle with a translucent lilac liquid in it and downed the contents in one gulp. Pris disappeared from his vision, the only indication of her presence being small particles floating whimsically around her in a tiny shroud. "Ready." Pris had removed her armour and hat to go fully invisible. Joey trusted she was still there.

"Alright then. Let's go."

--------

Scott had been minding his business.

Which isn't the easiest to believe seeing as he'd been grinding to get new armour, spells and weapons from the very start. No, he wasn't doing much. He had enough taglocks of almost every other witch partaking in the contest to become Supreme Witch. So why worry? He could curse anyone who dared cross him with pretty much anything. Misfortune being his personal favourite. Watching his enemies become bombarded with nausea, then blindness and poison, all at random and some simultaneously...it was a great stress-reliever.

But he hadn't been dabbling in dark magic. The Book Of Shadows was firmly shut and resting somewhere in his inventory. For now, all he was doing was gardening. And by gardening, he meant trying to get more plants to grow so he could have more secret rooms. Because really, who doesn't want multiple secret rooms to practise dark magic away from prying eyes? It was perfect.

Until Scott heard a quiet chuckle from behind.

He spun around on his heels to see who it was. To see who he had to threaten with curses to leave him alone. Annoyingly enough, it was the Fire-Frost Witch. And some...weird particles? They didn't seem to rise up very high, which indicated it could be Joey's familiar hidden with an invisibility potion.

"Hello," Scott purred. "How've you been since I cursed you?" To his own surprise, Joey seemed unfazed.

"Fine, actually. Managed to sleep through most of it. Really, find some better curses." The Fire-Frost Witch had an almost playful glint in his eyes. "Anyway, what are you doing? Looks pretty secretive."

"Just some gardening," Scott shrugged. He had a small list of excuses in his head to back himself up. "I figured my area needed a bit more death and decay in some bits. Thus, wither roses." He gestured at the small patch of black flowers with sharp thorned stems. "They weren't too hard to collect. The withering effect wasn't that bad." Which was a lie; it hurt like absolute hell, but Joey didn't have to know that.

"I didn't take you for a gardener," Joey didn't seem convinced. Yet instead of calling him out, Joey let it happen for some reason.

"Not many people do." One person did. One person Scott had lost a while ago. One person he needed to bring back. And Joey was standing in his way of doing so. All the other witches were. "But now that you know," Scott slowly approached Joey, ensuring each step was dragged out, one foot in front of the other. "I can't exactly have you running around telling people. I have a reputation to uphold, just like you. So how about we keep this between us?" Scott was practically leaning over Joey now. Their faces were inches apart, and Scott ensured that Joey could see the power burning in his eyes. The stench of death was carried on the wind, and the Fire-Frost Witch winced from it. Scott was unaffected; he'd become accustomed to it. Joey's moment of weakness gave Scott an edge.

"Really? Then how about we make a deal?" Joey knew he was playing a risky game like this. Pris's potion was starting to wear off, and he could see her figure flickering in and out of visibility. But with yet another potion gone, she was invisible once more. They both shared a silent look speaking volumes on their behalf. Joey had to keep going. The smell of death caused his nose to wrinkle in disgust. Honestly, it was just distasteful.

"What kind of deal?"

"Hmm...well it would be one both of us benefit from," He paused to give himself time to think. Pris was already getting close behind him. He only needed to stall for a bit longer. He stared up at Scott's lifeless green eyes. The necromancer really did embody death in a way. Menacing when he had to be, while also caring to those who'd earned his respect. "How about..." Joey's hand subconsciously reached for Scott's shirt and grabbed a fistful of it. He pulled the Necromantic Witch closer.

What?

Joey didn't know what he was doing. He didn't have to do...whatever this was! He just needed to give Pris time to get Scott's taglock. But since they were here, like this, Joey couldn't help but be curious. Surely it would buy Pris time if he...

A pause. Neither man knew what to do. They gazed at each other as if asking for mutual permission. Their eyes spoke for them. And before either could blink, their lips were pressed together.

Joey couldn't breathe. His face must've been bright red. He tugged Scott closer and held him there as if scared the Necromantic Witch would run away.

Scott wasn't questioning it. It wasn't hard to do, when thoughts were buzzing through his mind faster than flies flocking to a rotted corpse in the woods. But he didn't have an answer. All he could focus on was Joey. His arms cirlced around Joey's waist.

The two pulled away. They were breathing heavy and were unsure of what to do.

Joey recovered quickly. "Until next time, Scott." He gave the necromancer a quick kiss on the cheek for good measure, then ran away.

--------

"What was that about?" Pris didn't get the taglock. She'd hesitated a moment too long and lost her chance.

"N-nothing," Joey's face was still red from that encounter. "I-it was nothing."

"Really? Because you seemed pretty enthusiastic when you ki-"

"Shh!" Joey clamped a hand over her mouth and dropped it a second later. His gaze settled on the floor at his feet.

"Now what? We don't have a taglock of him."

"I don't know. Maybe we should just get stronger first and come back to it later."

"That's what you said last time." Pris folded her arms. Her eyes scanned Joey with an analytical glint. Her lips curled up in a smile as realisation dawned on her. "Oh, I see. Yeah we don't have to curse him anymore. But, you can convince him to stop cursing us."

"O-okay." Joey nodded. That was a compromise he could work with. In fact, that was probably an outcome he preferred over Pris having gotten that taglock.

If anyone said he made a protective voodoo doll for Scott that night, Joey would say they lied.

What If Scott Was Trying To Resurrect His Child?

Instead of bringing back a dead lover, what if it was his child? Perhaps a kid he'd taken in with a past lover of his. A kid that loved storms and wanted to become a sky witch. Maybe Scott would've indulged in the child's ambitions. He would've bought spellbooks, a staff, runes, scrolls, everything. He would have watched the kid practise and maybe he'd offer pointers to help the child improve.

And then one day, a storm comes. Scott's child had summoned a storm successfully. And the two run outside. They're overjoyed and celebrating, jumping in puddles and dancing, not caring if they get muddy or wet. And then while they're celebrating, the kid tries another spell.

But this one goes horribly wrong. The kid tries to summon lightning. Instead of having the lightning bolt strike the ground in front of them, it hits the child and kills it.

After that, Scott works tirelessly to bring back this child.

And maybe Scott's a tad fond of Shelbie because she reminds him of his child. Maybe he's kind to Lauren because she didn't fit in and in his eyes she acted like his kid. Perhaps Eloise is a bit like his kid, too.

Who knows? But this is fun to think about.

Gaia's Curse

The vines dug into his skin sometimes. An unhelpful reminder of what he had lost.

They were like chains, in a way.

He tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about how his hair changed; from a bright cyan to a pale ivory tainted with blotches of red.

Every time he passed a body of water and gazed at his reflection, he couldn't help but think he looked familiar. He remembered fangs, long and pointed and sometimes uncomfortable in his mouth. He recalled how similar his cloud jump was to abilities he'd long forgotten; sometimes he'd jump up into the air and think about switching places with an angel.

But, as far as he knew, no one on the server was an angel. No one he knew closely.

Sometimes he would feel hungry. Phantom-hunger, if you will. Because he didn't need to eat anymore. But he'd still wish he could eat.

He'd probably kill to be able to enjoy the taste of cabbage rolls or pumpkin soup.

Would probably kill himself in order to get it.

As he sat on the balcony of his house, staring at the starry sky, he remembered.

He didn't remember anything specific; all the memories were murky, and most of the faces were blurred to the point where they couldn't be recognised. But he took note of other details. Like cod, cats called Norman, fields of poppies. Kingdoms of snow and golden antlers. Of rat tails, attics and giant feline catastrophes. Of necromancy, loneliness and dances with time.

They all mixed together in a strange cocktail of memories that both were and weren't his.

Scott clutched at an ache in his chest; a yearning for knowledge.

He sighed and looked up at the sky. Running his tongue along his teeth, he could almost imagine feeling fangs. But they weren't there. Because he was a fungal mage.

His hands itched. The pain of hurting a mob - he couldn't be bothered to remember which one - pulsed through his veins. Gaia had cursed him in that moment. He'd hurt someone, betrayed being a 'peace keeper' and paid the price for it.

How many people had he upset in the past?

Gaia, goddess of the earth. Mother Nature. She had given birth to the Titans and Giants. A powerful entity that was not to be messed with under any circumstances.

There were others, too. In a past life long ago, he'd killed an angel. And as a result, he was cursed to burn in the sun.

His own patron god, Aeor, and his brother Exor. How long had he been a devoted worshipper of the Stag Gods? How much of his life had he dedicated to following Aeor's wishes, to pleasing him, to keeping people safe, for nothing? Because he did everything in the end. He was the one to seal the demon away at the cost of his own life. And neither of the gods batted an eye.

He'd upset Them, too. Hundreds of pairs of eyes that Watched eternally. They despised him because he refused to play Their games properly. So he was made to constantly outlive his closest allies. Other than one.

Scott was a danger. To himself and to everyone around him.

The vines - nay, chains - dug into his skin.

He deserved them. He deserved the chains, for they were keeping him from hurting others. A criminal, a thief, a killer - all of those titles belonged to him - deserved the chains that kept them contained. That shackled them to their crimes.

He took a glance at the moon, and the stars surrounding it.

The moonlight shone down on him in a warm embrace. As did the stars.

The stars seemed to form a halo around Scott's head.

Scott curled up and allowed his eyes to droop shut.

Gaia's curse, as all the other curses placed upon him, would never leave him.

Hours To Give

The words took a moment to set in.

Martyn was 25 minutes away from becoming a Red. He was about to become bloodthirsty. Murderous. Hungry for death, no matter who it was that perished. Martyn would crave whatever blood he could get on his hands.

Scott felt a shiver run up his spine. A jolt of fear. His body shook. His fellow Mean Gill, his ally, his best friend, his lover-

What?

No, they weren't like that. Scott and Martyn weren't like that.

He looked up at Martyn, his friend swinging his pickaxe down on stone. Sweat beading down his skin. Scott was not staring. But he couldn't help it. Martyn would become a Red soon.

"Martyn," Scott said his friend's name with as much courage as he was able to muster. "Look at me." Martyn stopped, dropping his pickaxe. The stone he'd just mined lay on the floor. Martyn approached him slowly. Scott could already see the slightest of red in his friend's eyes. The beginning of bloodlust was already there.

"What is it?" Martyn was very close now. The two were practically pressed up against each other. Martyn's hands were on both of Scott's shoulders.

"I-I-" Scott swallowed nervously.

There was something he wanted to say. So many things. So many confessions that it would probably take the rest of his time to admit to them all.

"Take your time," Martyn's voice was smooth and comforting, in an almost loving gentleness. A kind of gentleness Scott had only felt last around Jimmy in Third Life, or his platonic not-soulmate Cleo in Double Life. "We have plenty of it."

"That's the thing," Scott answered quickly. His body shuddered involuntarily. The words were on the tip of his tongue. It wasn't like there were many to speak. Quite the contrary. If anything those words were too few to properly express what he wanted to say. But those were the words he had to say. "Martyn, I want you to trust me here. Okay? Trust me. And I need you to listen. Don't immediately shoot it down."

"Okay..."

"Kill me."

"What." Martyn's eyes were blown wide. His lips were parted in an 'o' and his body twitched. Another sign of being Red; you couldn't stand still withoout wanting to kill.

"I want you. To kill me."

"N-no, I-I get that. But why?"

"Because! You're almost Red, Martyn! And after that, then what? Time will tick. And next time you won't come back. Next time you'll be dead. I can't live without you. I need you here. You cannot die. And if that means I lose half an hour then that's fine." Scott had already reached into his inventory to grab a sword. It wasn't his go-to sword for this, but it would do. Tears bubbled in his eyes. His scales itched and the coral on his body rubbed against his skin harshly.

"Scott, I-" Martyn took a deep breath. "I don't want to kill you. Not again. We already had to do this when you were on green. I can't kill you a second time."

"Martyn, please. Just do it!" Scott felt tears rolling down his cheeks as he thrust the sword into Martyn's hands. He threw his arms wide and waited. He could tell his friend was tempted. The premature desire to kill was there. Scott was just hoping Martyn would listen to it and take the extra time. Martyn needed it more.

Martyn stared down at the sword. Scott tried to smile through his tears as best he could. Martyn's lip trembled and tears pricked his eyes, too. Now they were both crying, but for different reasons.

Red Winter was back. Martyn could only think of him killing Ren. His king. And him killing Scott during the Hunt. Neither of his memories were very highly treasured for being wonderful. Those were probably the worst experiences of his life. Because Boogeyman kills were one thing. So were Red kills. Or even Yellow kills.

Killing one you cared for, per their request, was something very different.

"I can't do it," Martyn admitted. "Scott, I can't do it!" He dropped the sword, ignoring the clatter it made as it hit the floor. Martyn fought against the bubbling bloodthirst. He wasn't Red yet. He could restrain himself.

"Just do it. Take a half-hour."

"No. I won't." And Martyn wrapped his arms around Scott. Scott buried his face in the crook of Martyn's neck, and Martyn rested his chin on Scott's shoulder. Tears stained their clothes.

And so did blood.

Scott looked down.

The sword had been plunged into his chest.

Martyn's sword.

"Thank you." Scott smiled, and pressed a kiss against Martyn's neck.

His heart stopped beating.

Martyn's body shuddered, and he fell to his knees, crying harder than before.

He had to stop getting into these situations.