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The Hermitcraft server had always thrived on a delicate balance of chaos and camaraderie, a sprawling digital world where redstone wizards, master builders, and mischievous pranksters coexisted in uneasy harmony. Among the many unwritten rules that governed their lives—things like "don't grief Impulse's redstone contraptions unless you want a lecture" or "always check for TNT before entering Scar's base"—the yearly health checkups stood out as one of the few that had been formally codified. I
t wasn't just a suggestion; it was a server-wide decree, etched into the admin chat logs and reinforced with the occasional reminder from Xisuma himself. Mostly, this was because Scar kept forgetting and trying to schedule "fun" alternatives, like turning the checkups into obstacle courses where you'd have to dodge falling anvils while answering trivia about potion effects, or potion-brewing contests where the winner got to skip the actual exam.
Doc, the cyborg creeper hybrid who doubled as the server's unofficial medic, had put a stop to that nonsense after Scar's third attempt resulted in a minor explosion and a lot of singed eyebrows.
In the end, Doc always won out. He'd transformed an abandoned guardian temple deep in the ocean biome into a makeshift clinic, a sterile fortress of white prismarine walls and humming redstone machinery. The place was a marvel of engineering: automated dispensers for bandages, a scanning array that could detect everything from broken bones to low iron levels, and even a recovery lounge stocked with snacks and potions.
Every hermit had to show up once a year for bloodwork, full-body scans, and whatever else Doc deemed "basic maintenance." It was all in the name of keeping their ragtag community safe—after all, with the kinds of stunts they pulled (void jumps, elytra races through thunderstorms, and Scar's infamous "experimental" farms), accidents were inevitable.
Grian hated it. Absolutely loathed it.
Not the underlying care, of course. He appreciated that his friends wanted him healthy; it was touching, in a weird, overprotective way. Hermitcraft was his home now, a far cry from the cold, watchful eyes of the watchers back in his old world.
But the clinical part?
The cold metal tables, the sharp antiseptic smells that reminded him of sterile labs and forced experiments, the way everyone suddenly treated him like a fragile specimen instead of the chaotic bird guy who built upside-down farms and pranked his way through life? That was unbearable. He'd sit through vaccines without flinching—he'd endured far worse during his watcher days, with their endless tests and manipulations. But the moment someone mentioned drawing blood, his wings twitched involuntarily, and his brain kicked into survival mode, scanning for the nearest exit, window, or conveniently placed elytra.
This year's checkup was no different. Grian had tried everything to dodge it. He'd faked a sudden "mysterious illness" involving "phantom chicken noises" that only he could hear, claiming it was a curse from an ancient artifact he'd "accidentally" unearthed.
When that didn't work, he'd buried himself in a flurry of "urgent" build projects—a new automated chicken cooker farm that spanned three biomes, complete with redstone-powered egg sorters and a fireworks display for hatching celebrations. He'd even attempted to bribe Doc with a crate of rockets, promising enough TNT to "redecorate" the clinic into something more "festive."
Doc had just stared at him with those glowing red eyes, muttered something in German about "stubborn flugvögel," and walked away.
Eventually, Xisuma had shown up at his base, his calm, patient admin voice cutting through Grian's latest excuse like a diamond sword through cobblestone.
"Grian, it's time," he'd said, standing in the doorway of Grian's house, arms crossed,
"Doc's waiting, and we've got the whole server backing this. No more delays."
Grian had protested, of course—vehemently. "But X! I'm fine! Look at me—wings intact, no broken bones, and I haven't even gotten into a proper fight in months. Scar's the one who needs checking; he probably inhaled half the smoke from his last explosion."
Xisuma had just sighed, his voice gentle but firm. "You know the rules. And after last year's incident, we're not taking chances. Come on, I'll walk you there."
Reluctantly, Grian had followed, grumbling the whole way as they flew across the server on elytras.
As they soared over the waves, the guardian temple looming like a drowned prismarine beast, Grian's mind wandered unbidden to places he'd rather forget. Cold rooms, not unlike Doc's clinic but sterile and echoing with distant, watchful eyes.
Needles that weren't for health, but for testing—drawing samples while voices murmured observations, as if he were just another experiment in a long line of them. He'd escaped that life, found freedom in Hermitcraft's absurdity, but the sight of medical tools always dragged him back.
No watchers here, he reminded himself, gripping his elytra tighter. Just friends who care too much.
At the clinic entrance, Grian made one last stand. "Wait, X! What if we compromise? Half a checkup? Or I let Doc scan me remotely with one of his redstone drones?"
Xisuma landed gracefully, his armor clinking softly. "Nice try. Doc's already prepped the full suite. And remember last year? You promised you'd 'be brave' after the third delay."
Grian groaned, following him inside. The air hummed with machinery, and there was Doc, arms crossed, a data pad in one mechanical hand.
"Ach, the prodigal parrot arrives," Doc said with a smirk. "I was about to send a search party. Or a goat."
"Don't you dare," Grian shot back, but his wings betrayed him with a nervous flutter.
The checkup started innocently enough—height, weight, basic scans. Doc ran a handheld device over Grian's wings, checking joint flexibility.
"Still overusing the elytra, ja? These feathers are frayed. You need more rest days."
"Rest is for people without mega-bases to finish," Grian quipped, though he winced when Doc prodded a sore spot.
Xisuma watched from the side, offering encouraging nods. "You're doing great. Better than last time—no escape attempts yet."
Then came the blood draw setup. Doc laid out the vials, the needle glinting under the lights. Grian's stomach dropped.
As the needle hovered closer, glinting coldly under the redstone lamps, a violent flash tore through Grian’s mind—blinding white walls closing in, rows of masked figures leaning over him with emotionless precision, the icy bite of restraints pinning his wings while tubes drained something vital from his veins.
Not health. Never health. Just data. Just observation. Cataloged, labeled, reduced to numbers on a screen.
*Not real. Not anymore.*
But his body remembered. It always remembered.
The prick was sharp but brief—a fleeting sting he could have laughed off any other day. Then came the pull. Slow, deliberate, the dark red rising into the vial like a betrayal. It felt wrong, invasive, as if something essential was being siphoned away, leaving him hollow. His heartbeat stuttered, then plummeted. The room tilted violently, colors bleeding out until everything dissolved into grayscale shadows.
*Not again…*
His wings drooped, feathers brushing the table with a soft, defeated rustle. The strength drained from his legs in a sickening rush, and he sagged forward, only Xisuma’s sudden iron grip on his shoulder keeping him from pitching face-first onto the prismarine floor.
“Grian!” Xisuma’s voice cracked with urgency, all trace of calm shattered. His arm whipped around Grian’s back, catching him as he folded like a broken marionette. “Grian, look at me—stay with me!”
Doc’s head snapped up, his single glowing eye flaring wide in alarm. The syringe trembled in his mechanical hand for a fraction of a second before training kicked in. “Scheiße—verdammt, he’s dropping fast! Hold him, X—don’t let him fall!”
Xisuma’s other arm locked around Grian’s waist, hauling him upright against his chestplate. The admin’s breathing was ragged now, visor fogging slightly as he pressed close. “I’ve got you. You’re here, you’re safe—breathe with me, come on, in and out—”
Grian’s head lolled against Xisuma’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, pupils blown wide. The clinic spun in nauseating loops: machines blurring into streaks of light, the ocean’s distant murmur roaring in his ears like the void itself rushing back to claim him. He clawed weakly at consciousness, fingers curling into Xisuma’s armor, but the world was slipping, tilting, falling away—
He was floating again. No ground. No sky. Just endless nothing and the cold certainty that if he let go, he’d never find his way back.
Doc’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding despite the undercurrent of fear. “Second vial—almost there. Stay with us, Grian! Talk to me—your farm, remember? The chickens. How many now?”
A broken sound escaped Grian’s throat, barely words. “…T-two… hundred…” His voice cracked, fragile as spun glass. “…secret… vault…”
Xisuma’s grip tightened, almost painfully grounding. “Good—that’s good. Keep talking. Tomorrow you’re giving me the full tour, yeah? The egg vault, the sorters, all of it. No excuses.”
The final vial filled with a soft, damning hiss. Doc yanked the needle free in one swift motion, slapping gauze over the puncture and securing it with trembling fingers. Only then did the tension in his shoulders ease a fraction. “Done. Lower him—slowly, X. Easy.”
Xisuma guided him down with agonizing care, cradling the back of Grian’s head until he lay flat on the cold prismarine table. His wings sprawled awkwardly beneath him, crumpled and trembling like a bird caught in a storm. The chill of the surface seeped through his sweater, shocking enough to drag a faint flicker of awareness back.
Grian’s eyes fluttered, glassy and distant, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. When he spoke, his voice was small, slurred, laced with stubborn defiance even as his body betrayed him completely.
Doc stood frozen for a moment, staring at the filled vials as if they’d personally offended him. Then he dragged a stool over with a metallic screech and dropped onto it heavily, rubbing a hand over his creeper snout. “Verdammt… that was too close. Next time we do this lying down. With potions prepped. And maybe a bucket of water to slap him awake if he pulls that again.”
Grian managed the ghost of a smirk, eyes still half-closed. “…try it… and I’ll… fill your clinic… with chickens…”
Xisuma laughed, the sound watery with relief, and didn’t let go of his hand.
“…’m not… scared of needles…”
Xisuma’s breath caught sharply. His hand lingered on Grian’s forehead, brushing away damp hair and stray feathers, but the motion slowed, as if the simple act had suddenly become too heavy. “We know,” he whispered, voice cracking just enough to betray him. “We know you’re not.” His fingers stilled against Grian’s skin, and for a moment he didn’t move at all—like he was listening for something only he could hear.
Doc had gone very still. The vials sat forgotten on the tray, his mechanical hand hovering above them. His single glowing eye dimmed, then flared, then dimmed again, cycling through intensities as if the scanner in his head was running calculations he didn’t want to finish. When he finally dragged the stool over, the screech was slower, deliberate, and he sat heavily, shoulders hunched forward.
He didn’t go to the diagnostic screen right away.
Instead he looked at Grian—really looked—his gaze tracing the tremor in the wings, the way Grian’s chest rose too shallowly, the deathly pallor that hadn’t quite faded. Something shifted behind Doc’s eye, a quiet, terrible understanding settling in.
“This isn’t just vasovagal,” he said at last, voice low, almost to himself. “Not entirely.”
Xisuma didn’t ask what he meant. He didn’t need to. His hand tightened fractionally around Grian’s, protective, grounding, but his visor stayed fixed on Doc. The silence between them stretched, thick with things neither had ever said aloud.
Grian felt it—the shift in the room, the way the air itself seemed to still. He swallowed, throat dry. “…What?”
Doc exhaled, a rough, mechanical sound. “Your reaction—it’s too extreme. Too fast. Heart rate didn’t just drop; it… hesitated. Like something else triggered it. Something older.” He paused, choosing his words with care. “I’ve seen trauma responses before. This looks like one.”
Xisuma’s jaw flexed beneath his helmet. He didn’t speak, but his thumb traced slow, steady circles over Grian’s knuckles—reassurance for both of them.
Grian tried for a weak laugh, but it came out brittle. “It’s just a stupid blood thing. Happens to lots of people.”
“Not like this,” Doc said quietly. “Not to you.”
Another beat of silence.
Xisuma finally spoke, voice soft but firm. “The watchers,” he said. Not a question.
Doc didn’t nod. He didn’t have to. The name hung there between them, unspoken for so long it had almost become myth. But they had both noticed—over seasons, in quiet moments—how Grian flinched from certain scans, how he avoided anything that felt like being observed too closely, how the word “sample” could make his wings snap shut like a trap.
Grian’s grip on Xisuma’s hand tightened until his knuckles went white. He stared hard at the ceiling, refusing to meet their eyes. “Don’t,” he warned, voice small. “Just… don’t.”
“We’re not pushing,” Xisuma said immediately, gently. “Not now. Not like this.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was just for Grian. “But we see you. And we’re not going anywhere.”
Doc rubbed a hand over his snout again, the gesture weary. “Next time,” he said at last, “we do this lying down. Potions ready. No needles until you’re stable. And if you ever want to talk about what really happened back then…” He trailed off, then added gruffly, “Door’s open.”
Grian didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The room felt too full—of fear, of care, of memories he’d buried deep.
Doc finally stood, moving to fetch the regeneration potion with deliberate slowness. When he returned, he pressed it into Grian’s hand without commentary. Xisuma helped him drink, one careful sip at a time.
“I hate you both,” Grian muttered eventually, but there was no heat in it—only exhaustion and something perilously close to gratitude.
Xisuma’s answering smile was small and sad. “Liar.”
Doc handed over the apple juice next, then a cookie, movements gentle in a way that didn’t suit his usual blunt efficiency. “Stay there until you’re steady,” he said. “No rush.”
They didn’t talk about countermeasures or next year. They didn’t joke about fireworks or egg vaults.
Instead, they sat in the quiet hum of the clinic, two anchors refusing to let go while Grian slowly, carefully, found his way back to solid ground.
Some things, they all understood now, ran deeper than blood.
A few days later, the hermits gathered at Joe Hills’ hillside café—a cozy, sun-warmed build perched on a flower-strewn slope, mismatched chairs scattered around long wooden tables, poetry signs dangling from the rafters, and the endless smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls drifting through the air. Scar had insisted on calling it “Post-Checkup Victory Brunch,” stacking pancakes higher than anyone could reasonably eat and declaring it a celebration of “Grian’s heroic swoon, the most dramatic faint in Hermitcraft history!”
The turnout was bigger than usual. Gem had shown up with her antler circlet catching the light, Impulse nursed a steaming mug like it was the only thing keeping him upright, Pearl teleported in fashionably late with a basket of moss-covered treats, Cleo lounged with her arms crossed and a wicked grin, Tango and Bdubs were already arguing over syrup distribution, and even Etho had slipped into a corner seat, hood up but unmistakably present.
Doc waited until everyone had full plates and the first wave of contented eating noises had settled in. Then he leaned back, metal fingers drumming once on the table.
“So,” he began, voice carrying easily over the chatter, “who wants to hear exactly how close our favourite parrot came to face-planting into my scanner this year?”
A ripple of interest swept the table. Grian groaned and sank lower in his seat, pulling his sweater up over his mouth. “Et tu, Doc?”
Gem’s ears perked. “Wait—this is the fainting story? As a fellow hybrid, I get light-headed too. Deer blood pressure is brutal during scans.”
“See?” Grian latched onto the lifeline immediately. “It’s a hybrid thing! Totally normal!”
Scar, never one to miss a cue, leapt to his feet with theatrical flair. “Normal? Oh no, my friends. Allow me to demonstrate.” He clutched his chest, eyes rolling back as he collapsed sideways into Cleo’s lap. “Alas—the blood! It abandons me!”
Cleo shoved him off with a laugh. “Get off, you overgrown drama llama. Though yeah, Doc, give us the details. Was it as epic as last time?”
Doc’s expression stayed carefully neutral, but his single eye flicked briefly to Xisuma, who sat quietly at the head of the table, visor angled down toward his coffee. The usual spark of amusement wasn’t there.
“It was… worse,” Doc said simply.
The table quieted a fraction.
Impulse paused mid-bite. “Worse how?”
Doc folded his arms. “Faster drop. Lower heart rate. For a second we weren’t sure he was coming back up on his own.” He glanced at Grian, something careful in the set of his shoulders. “Let’s just say X earned his admin cape that day.”
Scar’s dramatic pose faltered. He sat down slowly. “Wait. Seriously?”
Xisuma gave a small shrug, but his voice was quieter than usual. “He’s fine. We handled it.”
Pearl tilted her head, mossy antennae twitching. “But… he is fine now, right?”
Grian forced a laugh, though it came out thin. “I’m sitting right here, you know. Perfectly alive. Stop talking like I exploded.”
Tango leaned forward, brows drawn together. “Mate, you look like you’ve seen a ghost every time someone mentions needles. We’re allowed to worry.”
Bdubs nodded vigorously. “Yeah! We’re your friends! Worrying is literally in the job description.”
Gem reached across the table and nudged Grian’s arm gently. “You don’t have to tell us everything. But if something’s up—if it’s more than just a hybrid quirk—you know we’ve got your back, yeah?”
Even Etho shifted in his seat, giving a short, affirmative nod from the shadows.
Grian swallowed, suddenly very interested in his pancakes. The teasing energy had shifted into something softer, heavier. He felt Xisuma’s gaze on him again—steady, patient—and Doc watching too, both of them silent but unmistakably present.
Joe, ever the gentle host, raised his mug with a warm smile. “To Grian,” he said simply. “May your wings stay strong, your friends stay close, and your secrets stay yours until you’re ready to share them.”
The toast was quieter this time, mugs clinking with more care than chaos. Someone—Impulse, maybe—slid an extra pancake onto Grian’s plate without a word. Pearl nudged a little pot of honey closer. Cleo reached over and flicked one of his wings lightly, affectionately.
Scar, for once subdued, just rested a hand on Grian’s shoulder and squeezed.
Grian exhaled, tension easing from his wings. “You lot are the worst,” he muttered, but his voice cracked just slightly on the last word.
Cleo smirked. “And yet you keep us.”
As the brunch wound down, conversation drifted carefully to safer topics—new builds, upcoming games, Scar’s latest landscaping disaster. Laughter returned, lighter now, threaded with something deeper.
When most of the hermits had wandered off, Grian caught Xisuma’s eye across the table and mouthed a quiet, sincere “thanks.” Xisuma just nodded once, small and understanding.
Later that week, alone in the dim glow of his base, Grian sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by shulker boxes. In front of him lay the small bandage kit he’d quietly lifted from Doc’s clinic.
He turned a sterile lancet over in his fingers, wings tucked tight against his back.
Baby steps.
One careful prick at a time.
Hermitcraft had pulled him from worse voids than this—and they always would.