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BadTimeWithScar pings Scar hopefully for the third time, the cam account buzzing with audience members coming online, and Scar puts down his diagrams with a beleaguered sigh.
That’s just typical of Watchers, always wanting more from the players they peer at, clamoring for tidbits like ducklings in a pond– but can Scar be upset, really? It’s not every day that a builder reaches the fame necessary to attract the universe’s attention. In the earliest years of Scar’s existence, when he was still a little concept trailing after experienced players and fighting zombie apocalypses, his idols raved about the possibility of Watcher attention. They arranged their castles and custom trees like holiday dioramas, complete with cotton-fluff snow.
Today we’ll be doing a build tutorial for custom willow trees, Scar mouths to himself as he levers out of his seat, leaning gladly on his cane. He can hear the other player’s voice, still, if he listens closely: we’ll need three stacks of oak wood, and remember that for the leaves we’ll need shears, an axe just won’t do it, the instructor said, her mellifluous voice pitched to carry across her workshop and to anyone else listening in. Her cam account had been a pink and purple robot, perfectly spherical, bobbing companionably around their heads.
It’s a cool, misty morning, cold enough to get into Scar’s bones, just the perfect weather to lie in bed all day and dream of sunny skies. The trials of a terraformer are never-ending, though, aren’t they? Always something to do! Always something to improve, whew, Scar could not begin to list all the times he’d been clapping dust from his hands after a hard day’s work and only then noticed the asymmetry.
It’s the early days of Season 9. Scar’s starter base looks more like a piece of abstract art than a woodland home, scaffolded by dirt blocks, and he’s going to have to do some finagling to make his building interesting for an audience today.
He clears his throat, rolls his shoulders to loosen his joints. The air from his open window is heavy with fog, dew gathered on the glass and visibility low. The coolness perks Scar up some, so he has a pep in his step once he clambers out onto his scaffolding.
BadTimeWithScar, emerald green this season and shaped like a little droid from Star Wars, hovers outside with propellers whirring. The camera focuses on Scar’s face, recording for an audience of players– Scar’s going to edit that later, clumsiness and hijinks removed unless they’re especially silly, only premium silliness is good enough for his viewers within the universe– and he rubs his eyes again, preparing for a broadcast.
Smile wide. Scrunch his eyes just a bit, to seem extra sincere, and straighten his shoulders– let the joy run through him, another beautiful day with magnificent weather and other Hermits bustling about, probably, or playing around with the mist, if Ren or Bdubs isn’t hailing people with an ominous lantern Scar will eat his nonexistent wood elf hat–
“On in three,” Scar says, letting the warmth flood his voice, “and a-two, and a-one… Well, hello there, everyone, and welcome back to a very foggy day on the Hermitcraft server!”
The words flow from his mouth like pearls. The universe scoops them up delightedly, its attention bathing him like moonlight over an ocean, filtering through waves to blanket him. A cool, scintillating display, a spotlight angling to land directly where Scar is standing, taking in his green cloak and his carved wooden cane, his sleep-tousled hair and his wind-chapped face– love, caressing excitable love, curious and adoring and prepared to be critical. Hoping to be impressed.
The viewers from outside the universe get to see Scar building live.
His practiced smile widens into something more real.
*
The fog thickens as the day goes on, blocking so much sunlight that Scar starts to see mobs spawning below him, zombies shambling up to growl ineffectually at the base of his build. He’s actually not sure how well-lit the inside of his base is at the moment, which is a problem for Tomorrow Scar if he ever saw one, but he has a cat or two loitering for treats, and his very favorite cat is perched above him with a leg hanging over the edge of her dirt block, watching him placidly.
He waggles his eyebrows at her. Jellie yawns and tucks her little paws under her chest.
“With our sweet Princess Jellie here, we should be safe from creepers,” Scar assures his audience. “My elven haven is a creeper-free zone, I have laid spells and enchantments on every available surface and wouldn’t you know it, but they have turned out at least seventy percent effective? Working seventy percent of the time, every time. Those are some very good odds!”
New branches stretch out from the main trunk, gnarled with artificial age and blossoming with fresh leaves. It takes practice to build out a custom tree so it looks natural, like it spawned in an old forest and grew as a server did: the terraformer has to convince the tree it wants to splice together, graft bark to bark and bring nutrients to its new limbs. Scar’s kind of an expert, if he does say so himself– not that he’s the best of the best out there, there’s always somebody better when you get down to it, but he can coax a build into looking alive.
There’s a story that floats on top of the world. Scar can taste it if he closes his eyes. Like a player can feel the health bars humming under his skin, or get so conscious of his own heartbeat that he can’t ignore how it pounds against his ribs: the story on top of the universe feels like that, when he roots around for it. Concepts that want to be built. Buildings that want to be lived in. Landscapes that want to exist, even if a builder has to carve out the space for them first.
BadTimeWithScar bobs around as Scar directs it, picking up new angles and blinking green to signify it’s noting when Scar remarks that something needs editing– that’s always useful, Scar loves to put his best face forward and not every Watcher has the time to see him live in action– and abruptly swivels, dipping into the fog like a buoy overtaken by a wave.
When it whirs back up it’s not alone. Scar yelps, takes a step back from the new bot suddenly in his face, and his cane slips into open air. His stomach barely has time to lurch before someone’s yanking him back onto solid branch.
“Oh– oh no– wha– Grian,” Scar sputters, and Grian grins at him, hops back with a smug ruffle of his feathers. His cam account looks kind of like a Grumbot and kind of, if Scar’s being honest, like every other bot Grian seems to spawn when he’s in a mood? It has a flat TV-screen face, a square head, and a tendency to choose violence over considered, well-mannered solutions involving exchanges of currency. “What on earth, you scared the life out of me! You almost knocked me out of my base!”
BadTimeWithScar chimes delightedly. Scar lets his smile grow, performance-ready, and Grian winks at him. He’s not actively broadcasting– TwoMuchGrian would have a LIVE scrawled across his screen if he did– but he’s got to be recording, if his cam account’s hanging around like this. Otherwise he’d be harassing Mumbo, probably, and putting little bowties on MumboDrone as it puttered around.
“You’re the one building up here when it’s so foggy I can’t even see, so I’d say the risk’s something you were already taking,” Grian says. He strides down to the base of the branch, flutter-hops across to some of Scar’s scaffolding and inspects the budding leaves with a workman’s air. “Just between you and me, off the record–” The audience thrills at that, Scar has to note, let no one say that Grian doesn’t know how to manipulate a crowd– “I’m not sure it was worth filming today, even for a video. Just look at my poor robot, he’s clouding up his screen. It’s just rubbish! Completely rubbish timing. I’ve been working all day, and now I’m on my break, and I haven’t a single interesting thing to show for it.”
TwoMuchGrian bleeps. Grian wipes his screen with the sleeve of his jumper, making a face when it gets his wrist damp, and draws out playfully, “Soooo, what doing.”
“Just adding some texture to my oak forest,” Scar says with a flourish, never one to miss a cue, “but don’t you worry your feathered head, G, I am being productive enough for both of us. Neither fog nor heights nor mist can stop this elf from completing his tasks, and I am super determined to get this done today.”
“You told me last week that you were super determined to come by my Entity and be a paying customer, but I haven’t seen your face darkening my doorstep just yet,” Grian accuses.
Scar can feel some of his audience starting to smile, or whatever emotion feels like smiling once it’s filtered into a player’s perception-- like the sound of a smile in a player’s voice over the comm. Scar makes his own voice mournful.
“Sadly, I’ve been reduced to window shopping. I love what you’re offering, G, make no mistake, but I am on a budget. Cub put me on a budget this season, can you believe that? He has those rights, not only as my new roommate but as my dear, dear friend. I even left my wallet at home!”
“Oh, really?”
“Really,” Scar promises, “cross my heart.”
He lets his inventory flick a crossbow into his hand when he gestures, for the fun of it, and Grian springs to his feet and takes out a sword. Steady arms, steady mirthful gaze. Grian’s reaction is almost as good as Scar’s.
The Watchers love when players fight. They also love when they play minigames, or when Etho shows up, or any time certain flowers make an appearance. Scar does want to build today, though, so he swaps to his next inventory slot for more leaves and offers Grian an innocent look.
“Would I lie to you?” Scar continues, widening his eyes. “You, my dear friend, my bosom companion–”
“Right, well, I could do without being that,” Grian says incredulously, and Scar turns to place another leaf block and oh jeez TwoMuchGrian’s right behind him–
He yelps! He missteps. The fog engulfs him. Moments later, he hits the ground he couldn’t see and then wouldn’t you know it, there’s a zombie, always half a heart of health left from fall damage and the zombies just home right in-
He respawns in Cub’s basement, gives himself a moment to groan and rub between his eyes, levering himself upright with an effort. His ribs twinge with leftover pain, already healing; Cub’s down here doing– something, Cub_Cam powered down in the corner, the farms chugging along behind him, but he looks up with a furrowed brow when Scar reconstitutes enough to leave the bed.
Cub’s labcoat has redstone stains on the sleeves, smears of sculk across his chest where something splashed up. His hair is sticking up in the back, which means he napped at his desk, and his glasses are a little smudged, and Scar would bet diamonds that Cub doesn’t even know it’s foggy outside.
BadTimeWithScar is definitely filming Grian right now, so Scar decides to take another moment, lets Cub walk over and tug him to his feet. Cane in one hand, body leaning against his good friend’s body– he still has bits of leaves in his jacket, dirt under his nails. The life of a builder is a tough one sometimes.
“Uh, having some trouble out there, Scar?”
“Oh, you know, the usual,” Scar says, a little wistfully. “Gotta give the people what they want, right? That universe of ours gets mighty curious.”
“Alright, dude, but if you want to let the universe get distracted for a while, I could use some unbiased eyes on this project I’ve got going,” Cub says. “Private eyes, let’s say, player eyes with nothing else getting in the way. Gotta keep the people on their toes, right?”
It’s a nice offer. Scar would even take it another day, if he were more tired or filming wasn’t going the way he wanted it to and he didn’t want to tell the universe to back off for a while, because he liked having those eyes on him even when it was exhausting– but he doesn’t mind being Watched today, not really, not when he thinks about what his tree’s gonna look like when it’s finished.
BadTimeWithScar pings his comm again. Is Scar okay? Should it end the broadcast?
The universe loves them. The universe is waiting to see what he does next, thrilling at every glimmer of inspiration.
“Another time, Cub-Cub,” Scar promises, squeezing Cub’s hand tight. “I don’t want to keep my audience waiting.”