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bloop-im-a-frog-now · 1 year

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If The Gods Were Kind — cave pt.1

Hello! Welcome to the first part of this massive fic I have been writing for the past 3 months. This was part of the @lifefanworkexch and I had a ton of fun writing this! The prompt (given by the lovely Jupiter, my secret soulmate) was Desert duo Hurt/Comfort in Third Life, following canon closely. This first batch focuses on me playing with Minecraft world-building and adding some headcanons about the life series, since I’m following canon. I just can’t help myself, following the content creators’ videos.

Enjoy!

Master Post

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Content warnings: graphic description of animal death and dissecting process, gore, graphic description of violence, description of tending injury done badly and blood.

If the stars were aligned, maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess. If the universe had any pity for him (which he was certain it did for making him live this long), he would be sitting, looking at the sunset—looking at him. If the gods above wanted kindness, he shouldn’t remember what happened, shouldn’t remember a yearning that will never be fulfilled. A hole in his chest, forever empty, and an underlined anger, bubbling closer to the surface every day. Then, and only then, did the gods deserve his kindness.

He woke up in a clearing, full of colorful flowers. Some red, some yellow, but most were purple. He couldn’t name them all, even if he tried. He couldn’t remember how he got in this clearing. He couldn’t remember why he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and where all these scars in many shapes and forms came from. Actually, his mind was drawing on a blank when he tried to dig deep in his memories. The only certain thing he knew was his name.

Well, not really, but he did find a sort of communicator with a name engraved in the back.

GoodTimesWithScar.

He figured his name was Scar, if the engraved name indicated anything. The communicator itself was quite bland, a metallic shine to it. There was a keyboard, but he didn’t look at it for very long. The letters seemed to change shape every time he looked at it, and the back of his eyes ached. While the device wasn’t a box, it wasn’t thin either. He wondered how it fitted perfectly in his pockets.

The screen was black, making him search for a power button. How did he know he needed to find a power button was beyond him, but he needed to find one. He looked back at the keyboard and saw a button with a circle and a line cutting across half way. He pressed it. The screen became white, then gray.

There were two things written on the screen. “Punch a tree” and “You have no contacts”. First off, it took him an embarrassing amount of time to read those two things (not to mention the slight ache behind his eyes spreading to his temples), and second, he did not understand them. Punching a tree? Was that even possible? Scar looked around him, searching for trees, and saw some up on a hill. Might as well try.

As he climbed the hill, he was often losing his balance, almost falling every time. He kept looking at his hips, thinking maybe he was wearing something heavy, as his hips felt like they weren’t able to move to their complete capability, held back, but he was only wearing a belt with brown cargo pants. He had to take breaks, mostly to not fall over. When he arrived at the top, a wave of fatigue submerged him, and a sharp but short ache pierced his lower back. Scar stretched his back, hoping it would dim down, and was only left half satisfied. He slightly frowned, wondering what was up with his body.

He brought his focus back to the tree in front of him. He rolled his shoulders, glad he didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary (though, how would he know what was normal and what was not), and started punching the brown tree’s bark. He felt incredibly stupid when punching the trunk, but after a couple of punches, a part of it disappeared.

Scar yelped when the wood vanished. Where did it go? He ignored how heavy his shoulders felt, and walked frantically around the tree to find the wood he’d been punching.

“C’mon, c’mon, where are you?” he singsonged, desperately looking, even tearing grass. Maybe it shrunk. Maybe it was still stuck on the tree.

Scar got up from his crouched position with great difficulty. He had to sit down on his butt, and try again to hoist himself up with the help of the trunk. He looked inside the hole he punched and couldn’t see any wood hanging around. He groaned.

He took his communicator out of his pocket. He really didn’t want to touch the thing often, but he had no choice. He opened it and saw that the first message on his communicator changed. Scar took a deep breath and closed his eyes, bracing himself to read. This first message read: “Punch a tree: Achieved”. Scar’s eyebrows shot up. Did he get the wood? Where would he find the wood he supposedly got?

His communicator buzzed, drawing his attention back to the text. While the letters were still jumbled, he recognized certain shapes of certain letters and was able to get “Taking Inventory”. Inventory? As in, having a secret pocket dimension on his person? How would he find that? He patted himself, hoping it would activate something, but he got nothing except a dull ache in his calves, heavy and trembling.

He looked around. He couldn’t rest, he needed to understand what was going on. Or, at least, have a basic understanding of how this world worked, not that he had any previous knowledge of its rules.

Then, something clicked. He instinctively searched in his inventory for the piece of wood he just punched. Scar sighed, relieved he wasn’t as hopeless as he thought he’d be. He put the wood in his hand, feeling the rough structure of the bark. He wondered if he could do anything with this. Why did his communicator feel it was necessary to indicate to him he needed to do that? He looked at the tree with a hole. What other treasures did this tree hide?

He continued his punching, even punching the leafs to find some sticks, saplings and rarely, some apples. Scar looked back to the clearing. He went deeper into the forest than he originally thought. He should probably head back, who knows what this world would be beyond it. His eyes squinted when he saw a flash of blue, deeper than the color of the sky.

He went back to the clearing, wanting to know what this flash of blue was. He tried to step down, but immediately lost his balance. He grunted, a dull ache on his butt blossomed. He had to figure out how to go down the valley, into the clearing without losing some of his gait and feeling like his legs were gonna give out. Scar sat on the hill and started slowly sledding down. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but it was better than falling and rolling without any control.

When his butt reached a flat surface, he used the hill to hoist himself on his feet. He limped his way to the flash of blue, who has grown more prominent and frequent. His eyes fell on a little pond close to it, but he turned his attention back in front of him. It was a transparent wall, oscillations of blue and white moved in tandem. He could see the other side of the wall, a whole landscape before him. He was stuck inside a world. Whatever put him here didn’t want him to go very far.

He huffed and decided to check his inventory out of curiosity and boredom. In it, he saw crafting recipes. This might be useful, he could craft something to protect himself or even something to sleep on. His legs were wobbly underneath him, and he noticed a cliffside, filled with coal and different types of stone. He could maybe settle close to it before he went to explore the world. He circled the pond and sat close to the cliff, his back to the rock. He shimmed into a more comfortable sitting position and looked at the crafting recipes.

As Scar tried to craft something to protect himself, his communicator buzzed in his pocket. He stopped his crafting—which was growing less fruitful than he hoped it’d be—and looked at the screen. A key word he could decipher was “crafting table”, and the feeling of foolishness came crawling back, realizing what he needed to do. He went back to his crafting, this time making planks with the wood he collected. It was easier to manipulate planks than the trunk of a tree. With the planks, he used some of it to make the crafting table.

Scar placed it right beside him and swiveled to face the cliff. One of the recipes he looked at said he needed charcoal for torches. He figured torches were important, especially to see in the dark. He stood up, using the grip of the rock to help him, and feeling a soreness in his shoulders. After rolling them back, he made the necessary tools to survive, with the help of the crafting table and crafting recipes: a sword, an ax, and a pickaxe. He mined the coal and some stone. Could he use the stone to make better tools?

He heard an oink behind him. He turned around swiftly, and inhaled sharply. It was only a family of pigs. He sighed of relief and glanced at his stone ax, then back at the pigs. He slowly approached them, ready to swing. His calves spasmed and made him wince, forcing him to stop and wait for it to pass before swinging his ax to the animals.

“Aaaaand, gotcha,” he said as his ax cut one of the pigs’ heads off. The other two squealed and ran away from him. “Oh no, you won’t you little—” he chased them and raised his ax to chop one of their heads, “—rapscallion.”

One of them managed to escape while the other’s head was rolling on the grass, almost landing in the little pond. As he bent down to grab the head, Scar saw a mop of brown hair reflected in the water. He fell to his knees when he couldn’t stay in his crouched position, and decided to look at his reflection as he waited for the ache and the soreness that took over his lower body to pass.

He carded his short brown hair with his hand, fluorescent green eyes darting around his face. His hand went down to brush the jagged scar that ran from his temple to his jaw and traced the one on his nose to his cheekbone, surprised he didn’t feel any pinching sensation while he was talking to himself. His skin was sun-kissed, his arms were quite muscular, he had broad shoulders and quite a large form. Not to mention the beginnings of well-toned abs. He wondered what he did in his other life to end up in a shape like this.

When he could get up, Scar took the bodies of the two beheaded pigs to the cliffside, and placed them on the ground close to the crafting table. He sat down and poked at the dead animals.

How could he make them edible? He snacked on the apples he found, feeling energized every time he ate one, even making his lower body feel weightless. He poked the skin of one of the dead pigs, wondering how he could make them edible while munching his apple. He wanted the meat of the pigs, so he had to find a way to have access to said meat.

He took his stone sword and cut the body of the pigs in half. His knees cracked when he crouched and almost fell, as if his hips could not hold him in this position. But nausea caught in his throat as coagulated blood ended up everywhere before he could focus on the instability of his hips.

His ankles were shaking, it was getting harder to keep his position, so he placed his knees on the ground, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath before continuing this awful process. He needed food, the apples weren’t going to last him long, and he’d need to find a shelter before the night came.

Scar took out the organs he could see. They were covered in blood, squishy in his hands. He swallowed the bile that threatened to come up. The pigs were quite big, he ate an apple in order to use the little energy he had to skin them and make them edible.

He turned the dead animals around while getting rid of the skin that protected them, placed the organs to the side, and got as much meat as he could from the bones.

He sat on his butt with a big sigh, taking a breather from the horrid smell and the vicious sight. It’s only when the sun had passed its zenith that he put the meat on the stone. His hands were bloody and his pants dirtied.

He groaned and tried to get up. Nothing moved except his arms, and even then, it was hard to get them to grasp the rocks on the cliff to help him stand up. The last apple he ate was probably a couple of hours ago, and no way he was gonna eat raw meat.

He tried a second time, his legs buckled underneath him, landing on his butt harshly. He needed to cook the chops he made. He looked at the recipes, chanting “c’mon” under his breath to find something that would help him cook the meat. His eyes landed on the word “Furnace”.

“A-ha! Furnace!” He grinned at his victory.

The description was exactly what he was looking for. He rolled his shoulders back to soothe the soreness and tenderness he felt, closed his eyes to dim the ache behind them, and brought his focus back on the recipe, mumbling the instructions to himself. He needed the stone he mined earlier and his crafting table.

Scar glanced at the crafting table beside him. It would be hard for him to use it while sitting down, but getting up wasn’t an option when he knew his legs would buckle underneath him and wouldn’t be able to hold his body weight. He tried getting on his knees to at least see what he was doing.

He used the cliff and the crafting bench to help him, and with great difficulty, managed to be on his knees. He crafted the furnace and placed it beside the crafting table, using its support to scooch around. He put the coal he mined earlier and the pork chops in the furnace, waiting for them to cook.

Scar observed his surroundings, finding something to occupy his hands. Maybe getting more stone wouldn’t hurt anyone. He took his stone pickaxe in one hand and tried to raise it above his head to break the stone. Before he could even do that, the pickaxe became heavy in his grip, making it almost impossible to raise it above his head. Like his arm couldn’t go further than a certain angle. He rolled his shoulders, massaged them a bit and tried again.

Fool him once, shame on him. Fool him twice, shame on him again, apparently, because his arms still couldn’t reach above his head in order to swing at full force against the stone.

He groaned, giving up, and crafted more tools with the stone he managed to mine. He sat down close to the warmth of the furnace. He looked at the sky and couldn’t see the sun anymore. He saw hues of orange and a cool blue submerging most of the sky. Night was coming soon and he didn’t even have a shelter. But first, he needed something to stabilize himself, to help him move around with minimum energy.

Scar searched in his inventory for anything and found a couple of sticks from the branches of the tree he punched. He took them in his hand, inspecting them. He used them to stand up and measured every one of them to see which one would be best for his height. The one he chose was just below his waist, but it’d do for now.

He inspected the stick, unconsciously sitting on the crafting table. He couldn’t wrap his hand around the stick, it was too short for that, he would need something on top of it to hold it properly. How could he attach two different pieces together? He checked his inventory and found some residual leafs, some long enough to wrap around.

He winced. It wouldn’t stay for long, but it was all he had, so until he could find a better way to attach them together, this would have to do. He placed a small stick on top of the longest stick he had, wrapping leafs around it to temporarily secure it. He used the wall and the stick to stand up, legs trembling slightly at the weight on them. He grunted, stabbed the stick to the ground, and tested his balance. Scar had to bend in order to use his walking stick correctly, but not to the extreme that it would bother his movements.

He wondered how he managed to hurt himself so badly. He dug and dug in his memories, but just couldn’t grasp the reason. Did he get stung by an insect that affected muscles' articulation? He hadn’t seen any insects so far, it wasn’t a likely possibility. Clearly, he had a life before appearing in this clearing. A life that still affected him and left him clueless about what was going on with his body.

A burning smell reached his nostrils, and he sniffed the air to identify it. It smelled strong and sweet, like something tender and juicy was being cooked.

“Oh my gosh,” he realized out loud, “the pork!”

He landed on his knees in front of the furnace (much to the detriment of his calves), and searched inside for the pork chops. He let out a “a-ha!” when he found them and took them out with his bare hands.

Big mistake.

“Ow!” he yelled, dropping the burning meat on the ground. He put his fingers in his mouth, salivating around them to cool down the burn.

Scar cursed at himself for not thinking clearly and took one of the last sticks in his inventory to bring the pork chops closer to him. He took the coal out of the furnace, stepping on it to minimize a fire risk. It was a beautiful clearing, it would be sad for all of it to burn down. He waited for his food to cool before eating it with his non-burnt hand, landing on his butt after finding it difficult to sit on his knees for too long.

A wave of energy engulfed him, relaxing the tension around his lower neck and relieving some ache in his hips and shoulders. He could start working on his shelter if he felt better. He put the other three pork chops he managed to make edible in his inventory and took his walking stick.

Much to his dismay, with his frantic movements, the two pieces that were barely holding together separated. He groaned, and put them back where they were, wrapping the long and lean leaf around them, tying a knot. He stood up, still using the furnace and the stick to help him.

When he found his balance (even when the small stick was threatening to fall off at any moment), the sky became darker. Night was coming, and he forgot to craft torches and still didn’t have a shelter. He mentally slapped himself and quickly made some as the world submerged in twilight.

Scar placed one torch when he heard a groan. He looked behind him and couldn’t believe his eyes. Was that a zombie? It was slowly approaching him. He froze, not knowing what to do. Then, something sharp pierced his shoulder. He grunted, shoulder pushed back, and used the torch to see who shot an arrow at him.

His eyes widened.

A skeleton was on top of the hill, readying its bow once again. The zombie was getting closer, and he needed to get out of here. He hastily grabbed his crafting bench and his furnace, put them in his inventory, and began mining a hole in the cliff. It’d have to do as a shelter for now.

Something grabbed him and ate a piece of his flesh, right on his injured shoulder. He screamed and elbowed the thing behind him with as much force as he could muster. The zombie backed away with a sharp groan. Scar took out his stone sword and plunged it in the monster’s stomach. Another arrow hit his bitten shoulder. Again.

His legs were shaking, his hands trembled, and he forgot how to breathe. He took out his sword from the monster, not looking at it to see if it was dead, and quickly dug himself in a hole. He closed it when he had enough space for his body, dodging the arrows the skeleton shot mercilessly at him. He tried to bring his breathing back to normal, but it took him much more time than he would’ve liked.

After composing himself, Scar placed a torch, mined a larger hole (with great difficulty), and looked at his shoulder. Blood trailed down his chest, and he regretted not getting water from the pond. He didn’t have anything to clean the wound. He looked down, questioning why he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and saw his ripped pants. It was the best thing he had for the job.

Scar sat down, his body stiffen with tension, feeling every bit of pain the injury inflicted on him as he tried to cut the bottom of his pants. With laborious efforts (it was a feat and a half to bring his legs up towards him), he managed to get a piece and cleaned the blood off of himself. The piece of clothing was immediately soaked the closer it got to the wound. He also needed to get the arrows out of his wounded shoulder.

It was a painful process. Cutting the bottom of his pants, trying his best to clean the wound, pulling the arrow out, screaming, using the cloth to hold the blood in. Repeat.

In the end, his body slumped against the harsh stone wall, exhausted, adrenaline drained. He let out a big exhale and ate a pork chop. His mind wandered. If there were zombies, that meant there was civilization somewhere. That meant having supplies to heal his wound. That meant getting better materials for his walking stick.

His eyes landed on an iron ore. Could he collect the iron and forge armor? He really needed protection after that encounter, and tools weren’t gonna protect him from flying arrows and zombie bites. He gasped.

“Will I turn into a zombie?” he asked out loud. How did he know you could turn into a zombie if they bit you was beyond him, but he knew it. Scar figured if he was gonna turn into a zombie, he would’ve felt the effects by now. Fortunately, he didn’t turn into a brain-eating monster after minutes of holding his breath.

He ate another pork chop and felt his energy regenerated. He could mine, find out what sort of ore there was deep down, below him. He stood up, using his stick and the stone to help him up. His legs trembled, and he felt exhausted, but he needed to get out of this place, needed to find a village.

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#tw: animal death #tw: badly mended injury #tw: internalized ableism #tw: blood #tw: gore #tw: violence #third life #3rd life smp #goodtimeswithscar #gtws #scar #here we go #every batch will come every 4 days or every week #depending on how close i am to finish #:D #trafficblr #bloop's attention seeking strategy

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