Chapter Text
The glitching doesn't happen again for a week and a half, though Scar spends the entire duration of those days tensely anticipating it. He wanders around the server like some sort of apparition, simply going through the motions, completing small tasks with anxious energy and disjointed thoughts. He spends several days at Cub's base, helping him out with a few projects and keeping him company. Quieter company than he would usually offer, but company nonetheless. It has the added benefit of calming Cub's nerves about the situation, his best friend easily able to look over at him and see that he's fine.
Well. Fine-ish.
Cub takes his uncharacteristically somber mood in stride, and when he finally seems pretty sure that Scar isn't going to keel over and die at the drop of a hat, Scar bids him goodbye and heads back to Scarland. He's calling it a 'tactical retreat', despite how much it just feels like running away.
The interior of the castle still needs a lot of work, though his passion for it has waned significantly. He does some resource gathering and decorates a few rooms, but the fear of the glitching is always lurking at the back of his mind. Enough time passes that Scar begins to think that maybe he'd imagined it, some cruel byproduct of stress. He starts to relax.
And then it happens again.
It happens in the middle of the night — has him waking with a gasp from a warped memory turned nightmare. The sharp pain in his arm draws his frantic gaze downwards, and his stomach drops. His entire forearm is engulfed in the glitching effect, the strange agony of it pinching at his nerves. For a long while he just stares at it, sweat dripping from the ends of his hair, heart beating fast in his ears. Jellie looks at him with wide eyes, ears flattening back, and then she leaps from the bed and flees the room.
It lasts for maybe a minute, in all — a bright spot of wrongness in the dimly lit room — and then it stops. Scar closes his fist and opens it again, slowly, feeling his muscles stretch and contract. There's a dull ache, barely there, but other than that it feels… fine. Normal.
Okay. He had not, in fact, imagined it. It's a good thing in regards to his sanity, but somewhat of a letdown in the category of his continued existence. A rough blow to his chances of survival, to be sure. A bit of a tough one for morale.
Scar laughs weakly, tears prickling at his eyes, letting his head fall into his trembling hands. It's still dark outside, the distant sounds of hostile mobs just barely audible. He hears a zombie groan, and he laughs again — more of a sob. He hasn't been afraid of zombies for a long time. Not these ones, anyway. But they still… remind him.
Scar opens his eyes, taking a steadying breath as he sits up straighter. He looks down at his arm again, and finds nothing out of the ordinary. There's no sign that anything had happened. But it's going to keep happening, Scar realizes. He knows that for sure now, even if he still doesn't really know what it means. He's afraid to find out.
He rationalizes it. Maybe it's simply a side effect — annoying but relatively harmless. Maybe he'll adjust to the presence of his younger self and it'll stop happening on its own. Maybe it's a problem that will solve itself. He will either live with it or die from it. Either way, only time will tell.
Scar gets out of bed and lights a lantern, sitting at his desk and flipping open his notebook to a blank page. He makes a To Do List. There's a few things he wants to make sure he gets done, just… just in case something happens. Which it won't. Really, he just wants Scarland to be as finished as possible, and the — slim, he's sure — possibility of his imminent ejection from this mortal coil is shaping up to be a pretty good motivator.
So for the next few weeks, Scar works on the interior of the castle. He throws himself into it like a man possessed, gathering entire shulker boxes of materials and hauling them from room to room, placing and destroying blocks until he can be satisfied with the outcome. He designs the grand dining room — spends a painstaking few days meticulously creating a stained glass window that resembles Jellie.
Jellie herself comes and goes as she pleases, spending a noticeably longer amount of time away. Scar doesn't worry about her. He knows exactly where she is.
The glitching doesn't go away, but it doesn't get much worse, either. Maybe it covers a bit more of his arm each time, but it's hard to tell. It only occurs every few days, and he begins to be able to recognize when it's about to happen — sort of in the same way you can tell when you're about to sneeze. He has time to set down what he's doing and wait for it to pass. It becomes a part of his routine, a part of his life.
He's realizing that it's possible to get used to anything.
Scar's working on the entryway one morning when he finally sees the kid again. He's up on some scaffolding — well, dirt blocks — working on a chandelier when he hears a firework rocket going off nearby. He turns toward the wide entrance on his left, mild curiosity sharpening into alarm as he watches a small figure come flying erratically through the doorway, crashing to the ground with a high-pitched yelp. Scar almost topples off of his dirt tower as the shock jolts his limbs, but luckily he's able to keep his balance, peering over the edge with wide eyes as he takes in the situation.
It's Rift, sitting up with a muffled groan, rubbing at his head. There's a small pair of elytra attached to his back, though one of the wings is now bent sideways. Considering the number of times that Scar has crashed into things while flying, this shouldn't be a surprising development, but he hadn't exactly expected it to happen right in front of him. The shock freezes him in place for a few seconds, long enough for Rift to look up and spot him, his expression taking on a sheepish quality, crooked grin on his young face.
"Hi," Rift says, giving him a little wave. There's a pair of flight goggles hanging loosely around his neck, clearly too big for a child. Scar recognizes them as an old pair of False's.
"I— Hello there," Scar replies, swinging his legs over the side of his scaffolding and leaning forward with a tilt of his head. "That was quite the landing."
Rift giggles, the sound a little breathless, his face still pink from the wind. The roiling mass of confusing emotions in Scar's chest finally gives way to something… tentatively amused. He jumps down from his dirt pillar and makes his way over to where the kid is sprawled on the floor.
"I'm still just learning," Rift says, a shy explanation as he looks up at him.
"It happens to the best of us," Scar says, voice light and playful. "Sometimes the ground is closer than we think."
Rift grins up at him, wide and mischievous in a way that reminds Scar of Bdubs. He can tell he's been spending time with the others.
"It's my first time using the rockets," Rift explains, pushing himself clumsily to his feet. "I did good at— at gliding."
"You'll get the hang of it," Scar says. "Mostly, anyway, if you're… anything like me."
Ha. If irony was lethal he'd be six feet under. He thinks that finding subtle ways to acknowledge it should be considered a coping mechanism. Joking about it helps him keep it in that tightly sealed box where it belongs, the knowledge of the situation pacing in its mental cage like an angry beast, always growling and snapping its teeth in the back of Scar's mind. He has to keep it contained. There's no way he can let it go free without someone getting hurt.
Besides, the whole thing really is funny, if he tilts his head and squints and lies to himself.
"D'you have any… tips?" Rift asks him, and the uncertainty with which he says the last word has Scar thinking that he'd just recently learned the meaning of it. (It makes sense. Scar had actually had a pretty good vocabulary for someone who'd grown up in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, but there'd still been quite a lot that he'd had to learn later, once he'd gotten out.)
"Always know where the horizon is." Scar says, adopting a playfully solemn expression.
"The horizon?"
"Exactly." Scar nods. "Otherwise you'll lose track of what's up and what's down. You'll get super dizzy. Trust me."
"That's a good tip," Rift says, nodding. "Mum— Mumbo just said that I should try to keep my eyes open."
Scar laughs, the sound of it surprising him, the noise sounding odd in his own ears. He hasn't laughed in… a while, and it's his younger self that brings it out of him now. It's weird. It's beyond weird. But then, he always had been pretty good at making himself laugh. From a young age, he'd had to get very good at being his own entertainment. A one man band, performing for an audience of undead critics.
"That's good advice," Scar says. "Mumbo's a very wise man. With a very fancy mustache."
Rift giggles, glancing up at the sky behind him before turning back with hopeful eyes. "Do you think I could grow a mustache one day?"
Scar resists the urge to laugh again, pressing his lips together, corners of his mouth twitching. He'd tried to grow a mustache, once. It had not gone well.
Rift is looking at him expectantly, eyes bright and innocent, Scar's own reflection from a better world, and his stomach does a funny little twist, almost painful.
"Oh! Well…"
He's saved from having to answer by a whoosh of air as Mumbo himself comes flying into the entryway. He lands at a stumbling run, looking frazzled. Scar and Rift turn towards him in perfect sync, watching as Mumbo's worried gaze falls on Rift, who shuffles in place sheepishly.
"Oh my goodness— Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Mumbo is next to the kid in the blink of an eye, kneeling next to him and grabbing his shoulders, frantically scanning him for injuries. "Did you hit your head?"
Rift's cheeks go slightly pink from the attention, and he gives Mumbo a reassuring smile, bright and unrestrained.
"I'm fine!" Rift says, but doesn't fight the hands checking him for injuries. "I think I'll just have some bruises, but I'm— I'm okay."
It's strange to watch. Scar has to swallow and blink, eyes flitting between the clear concern and relief on Mumbo's face and the small, embarrassed smile on Rift's. A kid who has never had someone to worry about him before. Scar would have killed for it, at that age. This version of him doesn't have to.
Something sad and bitter burns at the back on his throat, the feeling of muted jealousy in his chest making him feel childish and irrational. In all of his oldest memories, he's bandaging his wounds alone. He watches Mumbo press a colorful band-aid onto a scrape on Rift's — hishishis — palm, and he has to fight to keep his breathing steady. This is ridiculous. He's being ridiculous.
(There's a part of him, deep down, that is warmed and comforted at the sight of it all. Something very old and very broken starts to heal. He steadfastly ignores it.)
"I'm sorry about the ellie-tra," Rift says. He pronounces it the way the Mumbo does, which says everything about where he learned it. "I didn't mean to break it."
Mumbo hums, examining the damaged wing with gentle eyes. "It's alright," he says. "We can fix it."
Scar wishes that everything else were that easy to fix.
Finally satisfied, Mumbo stands up.
"Hey, Scar," Mumbo greets sheepishly, turning to him. "Sorry to drop in like this, mate."
Scar waves a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it," he says. "My day was feeling a little boring anyway."
Mumbo grins. "Nothing like a failed flight test to spice things up, I always say."
"And you gave such detailed advice," Scar teases. "I don't know how anything could've gone wrong."
"I kept my eyes open!" Rift pipes up, bouncing over to Mumbo's side. "The whole time! Promise."
"Alright, alright, I— Look, I maybe should have explained a bit more," Mumbo says, fighting through laughter. "Maybe I should look into adjusting the rockets. Make them less, um, extreme."
"Cub could help with that, if you want," Scar suggests. He glances over at the elytra still on Rift's back, curious. "You made that? They look custom."
"Sure did," Mumbo says, grinning. "Can't exactly find child-size elytra organically."
"I helped!" Rift states proudly. "It was our secret project."
"He was a very good helper," Mumbo says warmly, ruffling the kid's hair. "I trust him around my projects more than I trust Grian. Or you, for that matter, Mr. Tunnel Bore Destroyer."
It's clear that Mumbo is teasing, his voice light and eyes crinkled at the corners. One of Scar's best friends.
"Are you saying he's better than me?"
The question escapes him without his permission, the tone of it playful and mischievous — the intent behind it anything but. It's not a fair thing to ask, especially when Mumbo doesn't know. Doesn't know that it's not just some fun banter. Not really. Not to Scar.
He shouldn't have asked. He's so stupid. He's so stupid—
"That's exactly what I'm saying," Mumbo replies, grinning and nudging Rift's shoulder. "No contest."
Beyond the sharp flash of pain in his chest, Scar is almost relieved that someone has finally said it aloud.
Rift turns and beams up at Mumbo, eyes sparkling with awe and admiration, looking at him like he'd hung the moon. Like he'd given him wings. It's adorable. Scar wants to shout at him to stop wearing his heart on his sleeve. It's a hellish kind of secondhand embarrassment.
"I see how it is," Scar manages, voice just barely trembling. He forces an amused smile, giving Rift a playful wink. "Can't say I blame you."
"So what have you been up to, Scar?" Mumbo asks, peering around the large entryway. "Haven't seen much of you since the meeting last week."
Attending Hermitcraft meetings is a crucial part of his 'everything is normal' facade he's been building. It would be strange if he avoided them. He's highly aware that he's already been acting strange enough.
"Oh! Well, I've been working on the interior of the castle, of course!" Scar says brightly, gesturing to the space around them. "I've been protask— procrastinating doing it for long enough. I've been trying to get most of it done."
"It's looking amazing so far," Mumbo says, honest admiration in his voice. "That chandelier is— I wish I could do something like that."
"Oh, you're too kind, Mumbo," Scar says, smile turning into something softer, more genuine. "It's pretty much done, actually. I just have to light the candles."
"Flame bow?" Mumbo suggests, giving him a friendly nudge with his elbow. "You could HotGuy it."
Scar chuckles, putting his hands on his hips. "That's the fun way, for sure."
"What's… Hot Guy?" Rift's voice chimes in, and Scar blinks, looking to his left to find the kid standing right next to him, looking up at him with an expression of childlike curiosity.
"Hm," Scar begins, floundering a little under the gaze of his younger self. "Well, it's…"
After an awkward pause, Mumbo jumps in to save him. "It's his superhero name," he says, voice lowering like he's telling a secret. "He flies around with a bow and arrow, shooting bad guys."
Scar laughs a little, sneakily raising an eyebrow in Mumbo's direction. 'Bad guys' was a pretty egregious exaggeration. More often than not, he just shot his friends.
"Superhero?" Rift sounds excited, eyes going wide with awe, practically sparkling. "You're a superhero?"
Something about having that expression directed at him is making him feel vaguely sick. He pushes that feeling to the side, giving the kid a nod and a shrug.
"Sure am!"
"Whoa."
Scar laughs uneasily, stepping away for a moment to remove the dirt scaffolding around the chandelier. He needs something to do with his hands before his heart takes that energy and runs with it.
He can't remember knowing about superheroes at that age. Someone must have taught Rift about them, and it seems the kid had latched on to the idea. It makes sense. What child wouldn't?
"Guess we'll be getting out of your hair then, Scar," Mumbo says, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "It was good seeing you, mate. We should hang out soon, yeah?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure!" Scar gives him a strained smile. "Of course."
Mumbo smiles back at him, so incredibly genuine that it makes the guilt in Scar's chest coil tighter. The redstoner turns back to Rift and tugs teasingly on the kids elytra, grinning wider when the boy giggles.
"Ready to head home, bud?" Mumbo asks.
Home. Scar has to swallow against the sudden knot in his throat. He's so busy focusing on regulating his emotions that he almost misses the sudden, uncertain silence. He comes back to reality to find Rift looking at him, shuffling nervously, glancing back and forth between him and Mumbo.
"Um, Can I…" The kid pauses, and only continues when Mumbo gives an encouraging hum. "Can I maybe, um— Can I stay here for a while?"
Mumbo's face melts into something soft and fond and proud. Scar is just thankful that neither of them see him wince.
"If it's alright with Scar," Mumbo says easily.
The two of them turn to him, eagerly anticipating his answer. Rift is smiling, a nervous little tilt of his mouth as he fidgets with his hands. Scar's eyes catch on the green bandana tied around his neck, and a rush of confusing emotion almost pulls him beneath the waves. He'd worn that thing every single day for years. He still has it, stuffed in the bottom of a chest somewhere, old and faded. Some things follow them from world to world, no matter how hard they try to leave them behind.
Mumbo is looking at him with a far more relaxed expression, head tilted slightly in a sort of hey-what-can-you-do expression. In his mind, there's no reason for Scar to refuse. Scar can't refuse. There's only so much avoidance he can get away with before someone starts to question it. He's well aware he's been walking a fine line, here.
"Fine by me," Scar says, clasping his hands together to hide their trembling. He pastes a mischievous grin on his face, looking down at Rift. "I'm sure we can find some trouble to get into."
Rift's face lights up, movements fast and energetic as he wiggles out of his elytra and hands it off to Mumbo, promising in his youthful voice that he'll come back and help him fix it later. Mumbo takes it back with light laughter, ruffling Rift's messy hair on his way out the door, tossing a goodbye over his shoulder.
"Have fun!" Mumbo calls, sunlight bright against his dark hair, and then he's gone, his own elytra engaging along with the whine of a firework rocket.
Scar watches him go, absently wondering how it had all gone so wrong so quickly.
Rift beams up at him, all sunshine, and Scar… feels a bit too much like a black hole. Still, he smiles back, taking a deep breath, steadying his nerves. He can do this? He can do this.
He's been left to babysit his younger self. What could possibly go wrong, he thinks dryly.
"Do you have a superhero costume?" Rift asks.
Right. Here goes nothing.
"Come on," Scar says, shoulders dropping as he grins. "I'll show you."