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Watson levered his screwdriver into the crack between the carapace and insect wings and wiggled it up and down, trying to find the jam. The left wing creaked, smacking him with a face-full of phantom polymer. He hissed in frustration, batting it aside, but managed to dislodge the pebble in the joint. This time when he pressed the button on his belt, the wings whirred and tried to drag the whole pack onto the ground. 

Thank the fucking gods. He was mobile again. Small comfort while he was stuck waiting for night, hoping the Crimson folks who'd shot him down wouldn't find where he'd landed, but he'd take the relief where he could get it. A working escape route was anything but trivial.

The beetle setting on his wings was ready to go, but the dragon setting was what he'd need in a real fight. He pressed the button to swap out features, insect wings vanishing and larger spoked wings appearing as if from inventory-- that had been a mess and a half, getting the shulker casing to keep that magic-- and nodded at it, satisfied with the speed of the transition. The dragon wings were meant for gaining altitude fast and hard, especially in battle. He'd added spiked claws where the alulas would be on a bird, had reinforced the bony bits with netherite. They were bulky, though, a solid weight on his back, and the nerve connections were ridiculous. If they got damaged and he couldn't detach them, Watson would be in for a world of pain.

They'd been damaged in the past few weeks, before he'd properly escaped pursuit, but Watson didn't need to dwell on it now that he'd gotten away. Just needed to fix his wings so he could get out of this mess, and then stay out of the area until things washed over. Until a lone inventor like him might be left in peace, without anyone coming after him for whatever good but illegal deeds he might theoretically have done.

"C'mon, mate, work with me here," he told the elytra pack, gritting his teeth, and shucked it up onto his back. A shock twisted through him, crackling like the first bite of electricity from a charged trident, but the elytra found the spinal connectors after an agonizing moment, plugging into the sockets he’d implanted in his back. Watson's nerves lit up like sparklers once it did. He took a moment to breathe, hands clenched in the fabric of his pants. 

Then he raised the wings and lowered them, pulled them close and snapped them back, testing their responsiveness. No grinding or weird clicking noises-- no snags where there should've been smooth motion-- yeah, he was good. They were good. He could fly.

All he had to do was wait for sunset, when the Crimson’s servants would be hiding underground to avoid monsters like everyone else, and he could be on his way. He had his mask up over his nose and mouth, filtering the infectious particles from the air; he had his bow, and his sword at his hip; he could manage. He’d lived through worse, he was sure.  

The red sands reached up at him, trickling suggestions into his brain: Come down from your cave and rest, wait where loved ones will save you. Watson hissed under his breath, edgy with revulsion.

By afternoon there was a wolf hybrid standing at the bottom of the mesa, offering Watson a warm, toothy grin.

"You look lonely," they called up, hands raised to show they were unarmed. They were small and plump, elegantly unthreatening, but their eyes gleamed a ferocious scarlet. Watson raised his wings, considered his odds of clearing the wastes before he had to rest. "Are you going anywhere? Do you have somewhere better than this to sleep tonight?"

"Better like your caverns?" Watson called back down. Politeness was risky with the Crimson's servants, but a lot of them liked to talk before taking action. Good for stalling. "No offense, bruh, but I think I'll pass."

"We've got wonderful places to stay," the wolf hybrid coaxed. "Whole gardens of red vines. The Crimson would love an inventor like you. Philza, right?" 

Watson’s wings snapped out without conscious permission. All of a sudden the blood in his veins was liquid nitrogen. “Wrong,” he bit out. “Your Crimson’s losing its touch.”

“Watson,” the hybrid corrected themselves, and Watson resisted the urge to leap into the air and flee. He had no reason to be so thrown off by a mistaken identity. It was fucking good that the Crimson had thought he was someone else, because it meant he almost certainly wasn’t infected. But there was a violent disgust rising in him, a coiled-up horror that’d just now raised its head, and he didn’t know where it had come from, whether it had blended into the background all along or was an intruder, something put in him by the sands. 

He ran a hand over his mask, but it was still in place. He felt no pain. His clothes– he didn’t want to risk glancing away from the wolf, but his clothes seemed intact. 

I can help you , the red sands were whispering. There is no need to be frightened.

"Sorry about that!” the hybrid chirped. “Won’t happen again. The Crimson likes to know all of its servants, we don’t forget each others’ names. You’re an inventor, right, Watson? We have whole workshops back at our village. You could stay for a while.”

The wolf hybrid smiled a little wider. Lots of teeth. They wouldn't eat Watson, though. They'd save that honor for the psychic monster that controlled the wastes, that would control more if it got the chance. The contagion that some long-dead fools had neglected to contain.

"No," Watson managed. His wings twitched, joints whirring, drawing in close to his back. He wanted to pull them around himself and hide in the middle. Had he designed them with that degree of flexibility? It would've been a good idea if they’d been more durable, so he could use them as a shield. Something to consider. "Think I’m fucking good, actually. Where’d you hear that name?"

"What, Philza?" the wolf asked. Watson barely avoided flinching. "The Crimson told me. You should sit down, you look tired. Were you heading to Subbin? That's a long flight to take injured. It would do you good to get some rest first."

Doesn't it hurt? Aren't you tired? Do you think your repairs will hold up?

They might not. Watson had been meaning to treat the polymers with potion dyes, soak them in Strength and Fire Resistance on top of the inscribed enchantments. Feather Falling too, since potions and enchantment runes were two sides of the same coin, but this wasn't-- was this the time to optimize? Survival was the priority. Never go into a ravine alone, never lower your guard, never lower your wings, what was he doing , and the wolf was right fucking there--

"Back off! Back the fuck off!" Watson snarled, drawing his sword, and the wolf lurched back. His heart pounded in his ears.

"Whoa, hey, we're just having a conversation," the hybrid blurted, but Watson could see his hand now, had the brainpower to know what he was seeing. Blood on his palm, trickling down the side of his leg. A long graze across the side of his abdomen, someplace he'd hit a rock when he crashed, a split in the skin surrounded by bruises. A mask didn't fucking matter if the sands reached the bloodstream. Once they reached the bloodstream, they could do anything to you. The Crimson could make you forget the pain.

Relax , the sands whispered, because the Crimson had an opening, had had it the whole time he'd been sitting there. Serve me. I can tell you what you're missing.

The wolf hybrid had backed up farther. Watson pulled his bow and said, forcibly even, "If you don't want an arrow in your neck, you'll fuck off right now."

"We're not threatening you! It's only a request. The Crimson sees so much potential in you. It only wants to help."

"The Crimson can help by leaving me be," Watson said. Finally the adrenaline was having an effect: the failsafe in his arm had started to inject, flushing his veins with Strength, circling through him until exhaustion retreated to a footnote. The voice of the sands faded. "I'll be going now."

"Oh, come on, don't leave so fast," the wolf protested, but Watson lashed out and threw himself past while they were dodging, launching himself into the sky. They shouted after him, but the air stole whatever they said next.

It took ages to reach the altitude needed to escape the red sand's coaxing; Watson cursed to himself for a straight minute once he did, fumbling with his toolbelt, and plugged a dose of Healing into the metal implanted in his arm. His enhancements went to work injecting it into his system, this time manually; combined with Strength it gave him a hell of a headache, but it purged the worst of the red around his wound. He only fucking hoped it’d be enough– that he’d be able to clear the wastes before he grew too tired to stay in the air, that the Crimson wouldn’t be waiting once he did. 

Only one way to find out.

He glided for a long while, letting his potions do their work and scanning his brain for any odd impulses; then he set his course west, away from the bounties that were probably being set on his head, and climbed up toward the clouds.

*

Subbin’s capital city was colorful and loud as shit, with zeppelins and gyropters cramming the airspace and a spiraling traffic jam of carriages and pedestrians below. Market stalls squeezed into alleys, hawking charms and produce and pottery, waylaying any hapless tourist they could get their hands on. Watson would gladly have avoided them-- he'd flown over the border check as he’d left the wastes, not in the mood for human interaction-- but now he had to walk; darting between the airships would get him squished like a bug.

Some of the stalls had commemorative pins alongside their usual fare, which was odd enough to make him curious. "Well, sir, they're for the tournament," one merchant said when he asked. He’d fended off most others with a brisk walk and a brisker glare, but this one had been persistent, and anyway Watson had wanted some street food. "The Emperor's choosing a new general, it's a whole production. Golden carrots for the road?”

"No thanks, mate, I’m good,” Watson said, a little bemused. The merchant shot a curious look at his elytra, tucked in so it looked like a backpack. "What, they're just accepting anyone for this thing?"

She shrugged. "There's a prelim? You have to prove you can shoot and hold a sword. I hear there's still spots open, though, so maybe they’re not getting the cream of the crop this year, who knows." Watson's interest must have shown a little too clearly on his face, because she added slyly, "I'll give you directions to the signups if you buy a pin. You’ll never find your way out of this maze in time otherwise."

Watson bought a pin and landed himself in front of a signup booth, with a bored guardsman checking people into an auditorium once they'd entered. Prospective contestants milled around inside, bragging about their skills or watching the assessments with nervous expressions. Watson shouldered the bow the attendants gave him, stepping into the line for the archery assessment, and paused in the middle of the room, eyes caught on the picture above the door.

It was a propaganda poster of the Emperor. Watson had heard a lot of rumors about the guy-- tales of benevolence and tyranny, some nonsense around various scandals in the Imperial court-- but none of them had involved a solid description.

The Emperor wore a red cape, old military medals, the kind of armor you saw on battlefields. His expression on the poster was harshly neutral, fit for the ruler of most of a continent. It was made all the more intimidating by the cybernetic eye fixed in his face, its metal stretching back so it covered half of his eye socket.

Implanting that would've been agony. The nerve connections would go straight to the brain, and they would have taken ages to put in. Long enough that a piglin boar might not have stayed anesthetized the whole time. Where were the stupid fucks that’d had been guarding the guy, that they’d allowed some bastard to take a chunk out of his face? Who had left this eye in when it was clearly shoddy work, outdated, probably fucking corroding for all anyone knew--

"Uh, can you step out of the way a little," someone said, and Watson moved to the side with an automatic apology on his lips. It stalled out when he saw who'd spoken. "What?"

"Weren't you already on the list of competitors?" Watson asked, and the enderian narrowed his eyes. "Think I saw a poster of your face out in the lobby, mate."

"There's nothing wrong with checking out the competition," the kid said. He was tall and void black, with the brightest green eyes Watson had seen outside of a totem, but clearly not far out of his teens: his scowl was the self-conscious kind, and his prosthetic arm looked adjustable, meant for people who expected further growth. "You know. If you're gonna be competition."

"I play a mean game of chess," Watson offered, stepping up in line. The man ahead of him missed three shots in a row and threw his bow to the ground. At the other side of the room, a woman with light blonde hair chopped a dummy in half. "So who knows, yeah? Anything could happen. I'm not too married to the idea of qualifying."

Truth be told, he wasn't sure why he was auditioning in the first place. The proper thing to do was to lay low for a while, maybe set up a shop in the slums. A high profile situation was the last thing Watson needed. But he'd been wanting a way to show off his skills, restlessly competitive like he got sometimes, and this was as good an opportunity as any to do so. Plus he'd get free food and lodging for the span of the tournament.

"If you're not married to the possibility, why are you here? Being general sounds like a permanent position."

Watson took the arrows held out by the attendant and tested the force needed to pull back the bowstring. "You think so? Seems like it'd have a clear expiration date to me."

"Because of death?"

Notch, pull back, aim, release. The target lit up with a congratulatory ding . "Nah. But if an Emperor can hold enough competitions to replace his staff that they've become a thing, I wouldn't trust my prospects at keeping the job."

Another target flared to life at impact. Third bullseye, fourth, fifth, trajectories like math equations in the air, fucking beautiful--

The attendant gave Watson a long look, then handed him ten more arrows. "Fire one after another, as fast as you can while maintaining accuracy."

The calculations flew through Watson's brain: wind speed, air resistance, weight and velocity, and none of them were necessary, archery wasn't the kind of thing you had to do math for every time, but they brought a smile to his face. The beauty of flight, of battle skill, never failed to surprise him. Competence was an addicting thing. Much easier than being addicted to people.

Three targets, ten bullseyes. He split his first arrow down the middle with his last one, just for show. 

A hush had fallen over the other entrants, eyes turning from the enderian kid to Watson. The attendant surveyed the targets and said, "Come with me."

*

"He's never chosen a general," Ran said later, after an excruciating orientation where they'd all learned each other's names. The competitors had been shown to basic gladiatorial cells, not suited for more than a couple days’ living, but there was enough space to set out some belongings, properly meet the crowd. The blonde woman from the prelims was Genevieve, and there was Edward, Levi, and John, all straightforward enough. Then came some weird ones: Laggius Maximus, who seemed a little disconnected ; Bartholomew, so constantly drunk that Watson was half certain he'd been meant for a night in an actual cell; and Jackie, a light-haired boy who looked even younger than Ran.

Jackie was at the table with them, inhaling the soup they'd been provided. Ran had spent the past three minutes glaring at an apple. "It's a whole thing, is what I hear," Jackie volunteered, elaborating where Ran had been content to shrug. "Every year he has this contest to decide who's general, and every year they end up lieutenants and shit, getting basically every rank but the one they wanted. Word on the street is it's an elaborate psy-op meant to confuse the masses, bread and circuses style. Frankly, I'm surprised you don't know this."

Watson shrugged. "I'm not from Subbin. I was just passing through, saw a thing, thought I'd show off my skills. Have to admit a job in the imperial army sounds like it could be good, though." Something in him wanted to see where this would lead him. He prodded at the inclination like a loose tooth, rooting for some deeper explanation– sometimes he got hints of this seems untrustworthy or I’d be good at this – but gave up fast. Conversations weren’t the time for introspection.

"What about you two, what brought you to the competition? You're a little young for generalship."

"I'm here for my own reasons," Ran said, crossing his arms.

"I was taken off the streets against my will," Jackie chirped. “That’s my story, anyway, and I’m sticking with it.”

Watson eyed them both. "So do you two really want jobs in the Emperor's army?"

"What, killing people for money? Can't see why not," Jackie said. Watson had to laugh. "What's that thing on your back, by the way?"

"Just a little science project I'm working on. Not explosive, if that's what you're worried about."

"I don't worry about explosions," Jackie said, obscurely smug. He'd finished his soup already, even though it'd come out steaming. "I was just wondering 'cause it looks like shulker shell, and I haven't seen that in a while."

"I've got an expensive hobby," Watson agreed. "But if you're thinking of snatching anything of mine while I'm asleep, I'd suggest you fucking don't."

"Is it that valuable?"

"Is it a weapon?" Ran cut in. "Competitors aren't supposed to bring our own weapons."

"It won't be seeing use here," Watson said, a bit brittle. "We're going against each other one on one in the arena, aren't we? No way we’re allowed to bring our own weapons."

"Tell me you didn't listen at the orientation without telling me you didn't listen at the orientation," Ran said. Watson flipped him off and was rewarded with a glower.

"It's fights and tests of skill," Jackie said. "Also a party or something, I think? After we're done with the main shit, there's this big shindig with all these nobles in the arena, so they can come look at us show off. Then they choose the last two people and have the final round with everyone watching. That's what I've heard, at least. On the streets, where I customarily reside."

"Right, the streets ," Ran said, and Jackie shot him a bright, threatening grin.

Later on a couple of attendants went down the cell row, knocking on doors to let them know to get ready. Watson pulled his wings in and stepped out, dressed as sharply as he could manage on short notice: green plaid over a white button-down and black slacks, his toolbelt settled against one leg, and some leather round his arm to cover the circuitry there. No need to advertise his combat enhancements, if he was serious about the game.

Genevieve's cell was across from his. She sent him a perfunctory smile, shifting foot to foot with obvious impatience. Edward was next to him, squinting through a monocle and fidgeting with his shirt hem; apparently something important was happening. Watson would've known if he'd listened to the orientation, probably, but he'd been too busy mulling over ways to make his wings more useful. Responsiveness was good, but he didn't like how the dragon wings caught the air: too much flap and not enough glide, unless he made them significantly larger or  hollowed out his anatomy.

He could try losing weight, but the skeleton was the issue. Potion injections could do the trick, maybe, if he let himself be more cavalier with them: Feather Falling before he flew, combine that with the switch to dragon so it injected automatically, the problem turned to storage space then-- maybe synthesize artificial feathers from phantom membrane so they'd catch the air better and let him use a lighter dose, and while he was at it he might as well try and use the leftover shulker bits to see if that could expand the inventory in his enhanced arm, so he could add Water Breathing, Fire Resistance, and Invisibility too, a whole arsenal--

"Oh wow, that's a lot of interesting looking people," the man in the doorway blurted, making all the competitors straighten up. He had a patchwork hoodie and white goggles, with a camera slung over his shoulder. A pair of well-dressed individuals trailed in behind him. "Hey everyone! I'm Karl, the cameraman, and these are Lady Lyaria and some other guy. I'm here to interview people, and they're here to look around and get in the way." 

Lady Lyaria, a light-haired woman in an elaborate blue dress, made a face at the sudden insult. The man beside her said, "My name is Lord Sebastian, you could at least try to remember that--"

"So, uh, we can do this in order of where you're standing, or you can raise your hand if you wanna go next," Karl the cameraman said louder, "and I'm supposed to tell you guys that the first match is in an hour and we're choosing people for it now and that's my job as well, so if you're-- you know what, I'm just gonna-- you look like a strong, capable warrior, what's your name?"

"Uh, John," the competitor said, visibly resisting the urge to step back.

Karl grinned at him, pointing the camera in his face, then made a face. "Oof. That's kind of a boring name, actually, were your parents phoning it in? I can't interview a guy named John first. You look cool, though. I bet if we give you a second name you'll do a lot better on camera, how's Handsome sound? John Handsome? I think that could fit."

"I could be John Handsome," John said, blushing hard. It was like watching two carriages swerve on an empty street to crash directly into each other; Watson couldn't look away. "Or, you know, Grievous or something. That's a general name, right?"

"I don't think there's ever been a General Grievious," the cameraman said, wide-eyed, "but that sure does sound cool. John Handsome Grievious--"

Lady Lyaria cleared her throat. "I actually think you're supposed to choose two competitors first."

"Oh! Oh, right. Well, I don't want you to get knocked out this early, you're too hot, so it'll have to be someone else." Oh, for the love of Prime. Karl gave John Handsome Whateverthefuck a flirtatious grin and said, "I'll circle back to you ," then walked down the line, chatting a little with each contestant as he went. Lord Sebastian looked over all the contestants and grumbled, going to stand by the door; Lyaria made a face and slipped down to talk to Genevieve, casting Watson a curious glance.

Karl directed Laggius Maximus to the doorway, and after a pause and some conversation, Jackie joined him. The cameraman worked his way to the end of the line until there was only Watson left, then blinked hard, shifting almost immediately into a smile. "So what's your deal?"

"I'm a marksman, mostly," Watson told him. "And mate, you might wanna take off your lens cap before you do any individual interviews."

"Fuck!" Karl blurted, scrambling it off. "Thanks, sorry, I'm not at all qualified for this position! What did you say your name was again? Philza?"

Nerves shot alight across the connectors on Watson's back, a burst of cold shock. Of anxious shock, the explosive heartbeat of looking at a clock and seeing you were an hour late with no way to make the rest of the meeting, or of waking up at night without knowing what pulled you from sleep. What the fuck. This didn't fucking feel like a coincidence.

"Watson,” he bit out. “It’s– it’s Watson.”

"Watson, right," Karl said with a nod. His gaze was too cheerful, too interested; it was like being under a microscope in a primary school, kids exclaiming over basic fucking features and prodding at points best left alone. "And you're a marksman... inventor? What's that thing on your back?"

"Just a little project of mine," Watson said. "I'm not from around here."

"No, you definitely aren't," Karl agreed. "You're the one who got all the bullseyes, that'll be fun to see in a fight. I'll have to think who to put you up against, now that Ran's not in the running... oh, shit, I need to make that announcement, don't I? Sure are a lot of things I have to do today."

Watson frowned. "Ran's not competing?"

"The guy he would've gone up against decided to sleep through the competition, so he's being pushed ahead to semifinals on the strength of his preliminary evaluation," Karl explained. "And Jackie and Laggius Maximus are up first. We can do your interview now or after their fight, whatever works."

"I think I'll wait for after," Watson said, on edge and not sure why. Karl's eyes were brown, he didn't look like a servant of the wastes. But there was something-- if he thought about it hard enough, he was sure there was something -- "Are we gonna be able to watch that match?"

"Yeah! Just ask which way to the balconies."

Karl wandered off to make his announcement and pull his crush aside for an individual interview. Watson went back into his room to check over his things, wrap his enhanced arm more tightly, and collect himself; then he put all inexplicable emotions to the side and asked an attendant where he could go to spectate.

They ended up in a box set low above the arena, close enough to make out faces if they squinted. The platform with the Emperor's throne, where he'd be spectating, was above them to the right; Watson resisted the urge to try and catch a glimpse of him and made himself hang out with the other competitors instead. He couldn’t stop noticing details, though: how fast he could get up there if he had to, how loud he’d have to call out to get the man’s attention, how it didn’t seem like the Emperor traveled with guards. 

Negligent. That was odd. An emperor should’ve known better than to assume he could always watch his own back.

The two nobles were in a box across from them, deep in conversation. Watson bet they could see the Emperor from where they were sitting. He glared at them, more annoyed at his own inexplicable irritation than at what they might’ve been doing; Ran sidled up next to him and said, “I think that guy's the architect. Maybe her, too."

"Architects of what? The arena?" The enderian nodded. "Huh, okay, guess that makes sense. It's weird that there's not more of an audience, though, isn't it?"

"They have a cameraman," Ran said. "Maybe the Emperor doesn't want it to be like a gladiator match."

"What, but he's selling it as a movie on the side?"

“I mean, profits are a nice enough motivator,” Ran drew out, “and he can get people to edit the fights so they’re all zoomed-in and cooler, and put in some thematic music for extra pizzazz.“

“That’s reasonable,” Watson agreed, “but you’d think he’d have more than one cameraman if that were the—“

"Who do you think will win?" Edward interrupted, asking the group in general. Ran drew himself up haughty again and went silent. Watson stifled a sigh.

"Neither of them really looks threatening," Genevieve said doubtfully. “What about you, Watson, what do you think? Do you have a prediction?"

"Jackie," Watson said. He pulled his goggles down, adjusted them for magnification as the contestants entered the arena. Laggius Maximus was staring around, jerky and uncertain; Jackie bounced on his heels, idling in the way athletes did to keep limber. "Hands fucking down."

"I concur," Ran muttered.

Levi wrinkled his nose. "What makes you think that?" 

“Just a feeling, mate, don’t look too deep into it.”

A tower with a chest in its center rose up in the middle of the arena. Jackie and Laggius rushed up to it– or rather, Jackie rushed, Laggius wandered aimlessly until Karl's repeated announcements got his attention--and ascended, picking through the goods once they reached the top. Watson magnified more and saw that the chest contained two identical swords.

"Think they both look fucking stupid," Bartholomew mumbled. "You know why I'm here? I punched a man. Fucking jawed that guy. I'm great at fighting."

"I'm amazed you're conscious," Watson said. He had to admire the guy's ability to process alcohol, if nothing else. And by Prime was there nothing else. "How many of those flagons have you had? Where are you getting them?"

"Fuck do you care?"

"I might like a drink or two," Watson said, though what he really wanted to say was you're gonna be such a letdown for whoever you fight, aren't you . "Long as you don't give it to the kids."

"Why not?" Bartholomew asked, bewildered. "The drinking age is three."

"Why the fuck did I come to this country."

Genevieve snickered. Edward blurted, “The fight’s starting!”

Lava pooled around the base of the tower, and the structure itself descended, settling bare inches above the molten rock. Genevieve sucked in a breath between her teeth, cramming in between Ran and Watson to lean over the balcony railing. 

Dry, painful heat pushed up at their faces, convection making everyone sweat. It must’ve been a hundred times worse down in the arena— Laggius looked like it, face going flushed— but Jackie was glancing around with just a faint furrow in his brow, sword held loosely in one hand. Watson would have judged him for the bad stance, but Laggius had barely pulled his weapon, still stumbling from the heat and the descent. 

"Let the first fight of the competition begin!" Karl announced from the control platform, and Jackie turned on a dime and lunged.

The fight was one-sided from the start. Jackie teased out some blocks and feints, letting Laggius get a couple blows in, and steadily pushed him to the edge of the lava. Laggius grabbed him and dragged him over when he reached it, a last-ditch effort to make it a tie, but Jackie emerged a second later with a triumphant grin. His leather armor was ablaze, crowning him in fire; he raised his sword above his head and shouted, pumping both fists in the air, not a hint of agony crossing his face.

Lady Lyaria whooped, starting up a cheer that spread to their box. Watson called out, "Fuck yeah, go Jackie!" and saw Ran perk up beside him. Jackie waved at them all, grinning hotter than the molten rock.

The lava drained out as fast as it'd appeared. Karl announced, "And the winner is Jackie, who is still on fire! Do we have any fire extinguishers? Uh, wave your non-sword arm if you need a fire extinguisher--"

*

The interviews started as soon as they filed back to their cells. Watson barely had time to congratulate a beaming Jackie before the kid got pulled aside for what was undoubtedly age-inappropriate drinking, and was only in his cell for ten minutes before Karl came knocking at his door.

"Everyone else got drunk impressively fast," the cameraman explained. "I'm gonna do the interviews when they're super drunk to mess with them, but I figured I might as well interview you now since you're sober."

“Seems like sound reasoning, come on in," Watson said, and Karl filed into his cell, glancing around with bright, unabashed curiosity. "I have a single chair, so I'll go ahead and sit on the cot."

"We really should've extended the budget to include an extra chair," Karl observed, plopping himself down. He settled the camera in front of him and pointed it in Watson's face. Watson nudged his elytra pack further under the bed. "So there's a list of questions I'm supposed to go down, and then you get to ask questions! I'm editing this later, so if you want something off the record you can just say."

"What're the odds of you actually cutting that shit out?"

"Sort of fifty-fifty," Karl admitted. "So maybe don't confess to any crimes. Unless you want to, of course. I’m a proponent of free speech, and besides that I’m incredibly nosy, so if you have anything juicy, please feel welcome to spill.” Watson snorted. “First question: can you tell us what brought you into this competition?"

The interview went by fast, standard questions and simple answers: I’m from a village east of here, I have two younger sisters, I’ve liked Subbin quite a bit so far. "Okay, your questions now."

"Is this really the usual interview format?"

"You're an interesting guy! Also, I'm gonna be really honest, I'm not at all qualified to be a cameraman. I've only been in Subbin for like a month."

"Oh, really?" Watson asked, interest piqued. He’d thought Karl looked familiar. "Where were you before, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Here and there, some small towns, some larger ones," Karl said. "I've seen a lot of things, Mr. Inventor, so I can definitely answer any questions you have. It'll be nice to share information."

"Alright," Watson said, because he knew when not to push. "Mind telling me a bit about this empire, then? I hear a lot of weird shit about the Emperor, but there's no way that guy has time to spectate silly tournaments and rule a place this size.”

Karl brightened. “That’s the thing, all he has is veto power," he said, putting his camera aside. The little light was turned off; hopefully it wasn’t recording anymore. "The Emperor is technically the ruler of the whole situation, but he just has the final word on laws and trial outcomes. Otherwise everything goes through elected officials. Really he's only here in case of mind control. It's a hundred-year-old tradition spanning from the end of the Greater SMP after the Eggpire got, uh. Weird."

Watson’s stomach twisted. “I've never heard that name for the Crimson."

"A lot of records were lost after the collapse," Karl said with a shrug. Watson's fingers twitched. "But that's why the Emperor's the Emperor, because back then, he was one of the few people who didn't have trouble with the red voices when they got in his head. He led a ton of battles against the Egg to drive it back. You know the Battle of White Creek was one of them? That was a major skirmish where the battalion had to team up with a group of actors to get out of the siege they were in, and an enterprising bystander who will remain unnamed managed to take one of their skeleton horses and distract the Egg people enough to create an opening even though he died in the process-- but that's not the point! The point is, the Emperor's a martial thing, not a government one. He doesn't like governments."

"Okay then." Watson digested that information and decided it tracked. "What's with the never choosing a general thing?"

"Oh, that's simple," Karl said. "He just wants someone to guess his name. That's the final test, but no one passes it because all the records were lost and everyone he knew back then is dead."

"You’re kidding,” Watson blurted. 

“No, it’s a thing,” Karl said with a shrug. “He’s… holding out hope, I guess? It’s only been a hundred years. People could be alive.”

“They won’t be,” Watson said. His skin prickled, horror and anger coiling low in his gut, like some twisted creature raising its head, making its presence known. “Not after the Crimson, not if they haven’t come forward already. Anyone left would be an enemy or a stranger, not a fucking— he can’t be waiting for that. That’s not a reason to, to fucking stagnate, to stay in a position where he does jack shit and doesn’t tell anyone his goddamn fucking name— he has friends, right? It’s been a hundred years, he has to have friends .”

“Not that I’ve seen,” Karl said brightly, “but it’s only been a month that I’ve known him, he could have friends who’re out of town.” Something crashed in the hall, followed by a hail of shouting and mortified laughter, and he added, "By the way, you're fighting Bartholomew tomorrow. I wasn't sure if it'd be fair, but he said he can use a bow, so you're all good! I'm gonna interview some drunk people now."

"Have fun," Watson managed, not sure he could trust himself to say any more. Karl ducked out of his cell with a jaunty little wave.

*

Someone thumped into his cell door, a scrambling thud like they'd tried to catch themselves and failed. Watson squinted past his pounding headache, trying to figure out when someone had turned off all the lanterns, and heard a muffled curse, some scrabbling. There were two shadows under the door.

Somehow it wasn't all that surprising to find Ran and Jackie together on the other side. "'S there a reason you're knocking on my door so late at night?" Watson inquired, rubbing his eyes. Ran bristled at him halfheartedly. Jackie had his hands clenched in Ran's shirt, leaning on him like he'd lost control of the muscles in his legs.

"We weren't knocking," Ran informed him. "I was trying to get Jackie down the hall."

"'M fine, I can walk," Jackie said, making a face at the ground. His whole face was flushed. "'S just-- spinning. Vertigo, that's all."

"What the fuck were you two drinking?"

"Death liquid with additives," Ran said, at the same time Jackie volunteered, "It smelled fruity?"

"Right." Nothing for it. "You two want to come in for a moment, I've got some Healing I can dilute to take off the worst of it. Otherwise I expect you're gonna be feeling like complete shit in the morning, Jackie."

"Much oblige-- obligated," Jackie said, and slumped down into the one chair. Ran went to stand beside him, crossing his arms. "Are you fighting tomorrow? You should sleep. No sabotage here."

"I didn't think you were here to sabotage me, mate," Watson said, amused. He took out one of his potion capsules and mixed it with water and a bit of honey-- helped it mix evenly, fuck knew why-- before handing it over to Jackie. He expected a brief pause, some test to see if the little cup was poisoned, but Jackie tossed it back like a shot. "I know you aren't from the fucking streets, though. Did you two come here together?"

"What?"

"I'm no snitch, if that's what you're worried about. You can assuage my curiosity." His head pounded worse. He blinked hard, trying to dispel the feeling, but his skull felt heavy, compressed, hot like a room full of smoke; his fingers struggled to receive messages from his brain. He must've been more tired from traveling than he'd thought, for it to come back at him now with such a vengeance.

Ran said uncertainly, "I only met him here. We aren't friends. He's a competitor and I don't know him."

"Mm," Jackie agreed in a mumble. "Ran's just some tall fucker. Spindly, like a tree. Fuck, I feel sick."

"Actions, meet consequences," Watson said. "Sit a moment, put your head between your knees." Jackie did as he said. "Take deep, slow breaths. No harsh movements, just let yourself settle. Ran, you can sit down on the cot if you want, there's room for two if we treat it like a bench."

Ran settled down on the cot, looking between him and Jackie with narrowed eyes. "I don't have friends."

Watson said, bemused, "Okay?" but Ran only huffed and turned to watch Jackie breathe, chin in his palms. "So, ah. How's it feel skipping prelims?"

"It's fine. I'm not planning to stay long, anyway."

"Not even if you win?"

"No."

Jackie suddenly doubled over, retching. Watson shot to his feet to get a bucket, pat his back, something, and a feeling of doom slicked through him like an oil spill before he took more than a step, red flushing behind his eyes until he was drowning in lightheadedness. Gravity flipped sideways.

Stinging behind his eyes, an ache through his blood like a deep-set transfusion, like something hard snaking through his muscles and pushing out until they burst, flooding him apart with internal bleeding. Watson pushed up from the floor-- the floor?-- and stumbled, legs refusing to support his weight. "Don't stand," Ran said sharply, kind of panicked. "Jackie, are you done throwing up?"

"'M fine," came Jackie's voice, somewhere to Watson's left. Fuck, his sight was fuzzed to shit. "You weren't drinking, were you, Watson?"

"No," Watson said, struggling upright. "No, I– fuck– chronic condition. Bit of a flare up, is all."

"Right," Jackie said. "So you usually vomit blood?"

Blood? "I'll be fine." A cool arm helped him up, and Watson smiled at Ran, close-lipped in case he really did have red on his teeth. "Why do you think I have so many potions? I'll be right as rain by tomorrow."

"If you say so," Jackie said dubiously, still looking a bit sick himself. "Just take it easy until then, yeah? We'll all be waking up pretty early, I expect." He clapped Watson lightly on the shoulder, mouth twitching into a frown. "But you know– you've got skills, bossman, it's pretty obvious. I think you wouldn't have trouble finding a job, if you had to drop out. Not that I'm saying you should drop out, mind, since regardless of my usual pursuits I'm not– well, I'm not here to hurt anyone? But I could drop a few words in the right ears."

"Why?" Watson asked, startled into honest confusion, and Jackie shrugged.

"You seem like a nice enough guy.” 

He and Ran left Watson alone, Jackie more solid on his feet, and Watson pulled himself back onto his cot, hunched there with his arms around his abdomen. When he brought a hand up to his mouth, his fingertip came away red.

It was too late to think about this. It was internal damage from the crash in the wastelands, more likely than not, but potions could fix internal damage if they were administered quick enough. Watson mixed a bit more of the Healing he'd made for Jackie and downed it, shuddering at the taste-- too many injections hurt his skin, it wasn't worth it outside of an emergency-- and slept without undressing.

*

Karl brought him a pack of arrows and a standard bow the next day, trailing the two nobles behind him. Lady Lyaria was dressed in pink this time, wearing practical boots underneath her skirt; Lord Sebastian held himself separate from her, glowering with the force of a thousand pampered suns.

"They like to talk to the contestants before they fight," Karl explained. "Or at least Sebastian does, Lady Lyaria's just here because she's bored."

"It's Lord Sebastian," the architect said. "And I'm just curious about the people experiencing my technology here, instead of anywhere it would be useful. Are you grateful for this once-in-a-lifetime chance, Watson?"

"Sure am," Watson said easily. "So you're the one who made the automatic lava pit? That's sleek as hell, good going there."

Lord Sebastian faltered, losing some of his haughty demeanor. "Oh, um. Thank you. I try." He fidgeted. "Do you think you'll win this fight?"

"I think I have a pretty good chance," Watson told him. The queasiness from the night before had gone, replaced with a floaty okay-ness: the kind of equilibrium you got when you were ill but warded it off by laying rigid in bed, breathing shallow. Watson was trying not to think about it too hard. The lingering discomfort went away more when he met Lord Sebastian's eyes and noticed they were fully cybernetic, with none of the clunkiness of the Emperor's. "Those are some fancy fucking eyes you've got there. You design those, too?"

"Language!” Lord Sebastian scolded, apparently on autopilot, and brought a hand to his face. He had a diamond on his ring finger, a little chip that looked more shoddy than the rest of his outfit combined. "That is, I mean– no, these were custom ordered. There are some skilled artisans in the city."

"We really don't have a reason to be down here, Sebastian," Lyaria said, tugging his arm. Sebastian winced and pulled it away, and she made an apologetic face. "I think we should go to the boxes now instead of harassing random contestants." She turned to Watson. "I'm sorry for interrupting you here. I know you'd rather prepare for your match."

Lyaria was built slight, with delicate hands, but a little voice told Watson she wouldn't be awful with a sword. A steeliness in her eyes, maybe, like a weapon slipping free of its sheath. She'd get along well with Ran. "I don't mind talking shop," Watson told her, offering a smile. "Don't worry about it, just enjoy the match. I'll try and make it something worth watching."

The noblewoman smiled back, a flicker of surprised warmth. "I'll count on that," she said, and left with Sebastian at an impatient huff from Karl.

Watson took the weapons from him at last and asked, "Is this cell secure enough to leave my things in while I fight?"

"Oh, definitely," Karl assured him. Watson pulled off his elytra pack, wincing at the disconnection-- always felt like severing a limb-- and locked it down so no one else could access it, seams pulling in on themselves until they disappeared. Karl watched him the whole time. "I could ask the Emperor if you can use that in your fight, if you want."

"Nah," Watson said, though the thought of it was tempting. Seeing how the elytra held up in a real knock-down drag-out fight would– but no, not if there might be lava, or who knew what else. He’d put too much work into them, and they weren’t fire resistant enough yet. If they caught fire at his back, it’d be a liability. "Wouldn't wanna damage them. Thanks for the offer though, mate, I appreciate it."

Karl led him down a different passage, to a waiting room outside the arena gate. "You'll have about twenty minutes here, if you need to go to the bathroom or something," he informed him, "and then when the gate opens, you'll go out into the center of the arena. I'll announce when to start the match."

"Any idea what we'll be up against?" Watson asked, figuring he might as well.

"It's a surprise," Karl said with a grin. Watson rolled his eyes, amused despite himself, and the cameraman dipped out of view.

Still no audience. Watson looked up at the empty coliseum seats and mentally populated them with people, entertaining himself with imagining. His brain placed thousands in the stands, hybrids of all sizes and colors, shrieking fans, whooping giggling teenagers, floating spectator cameras– the rumble of hundreds jumping up and down in unison, roaring cheering heckling, waving foam hands and throwing flowers and jostling for better views, and for a moment he was there , standing up under a wave of noise, grinning with exhilaration and knowing, knowing he had the skill to earn that applause--

The seats were empty. Watson swallowed, inexplicably bereft, and steeled himself, testing the bow in his hand again. His existence had never felt so small.

The gates opened. Watson walked out into the arena, smiling at Jackie's supportive little cheer, and saw Bartholomew across from him; even at their distance, he could tell the other man had his eyes narrowed, a vicious set to his shoulders. He held his bow like he knew how to use it.

"Alright, you two," Karl announced, "for this match, please each walk about a third of the way across the arena." Huh, okay. Watson did as he was told. "Your only permitted weapons are the ones you have in your hands right now, and the match will go until one of you despawns! Please for the love of Prime do not canon kill each other!"

Bartholomew muttered something too low for Watson to catch. Watson sent him a combative smile-- was he still drunk -- and received a dark glower in return. "Now if all that is settled, and you're in your proper places--" Watson glanced up at Karl, caught a glimpse of a piglin in a deep red uniform, and froze down to marrow– "Let the second match of the tournament begin!"

Gravity vanished. Watson's stomach lurched, feet lifting off the ground, instinct clamoring to activate his elytra pack and fly higher. Then an arrow shot past him, a long parabolic fall, and Watson's mind crashed back. He took an experimental shot-- projectile motion was fucked, his aim went wide and his target was floating, all his muscle memory was off-- and curled up in a ball to escape the next arrow that flew towards him, ducking to pull off a shoe and toss it at the air. The pushback sent him to the ground; he skidded, relying on friction, and shot off another two arrows, skimming Bartholomew's side.

His feet wouldn't hold him down. He floated up again, inexorable, too high, and–

And for a split second that felt like eternity, Watson met the Emperor's eyes. His heart leaped into his throat. His bow leaped into his hands, and it would be a perfect shot a perfect shot what did it matter he had to take it and the threshold should have been too high but his arm enhancements were flushing Strength into his veins, like he was fighting the Emperor instead of someone at his actual level, and gods fucking gods he knew those eyes--

Watson clawed at the metal beneath the leather wrapping, wrenching a finger in and yanking, and the fizzing in his veins lightened up. Bartholomew got him from behind with an arrow, stabbing into his shoulder, and he contorted to grab him-- too close, idiot-- and tore an arrow from his bow, wrapped his bow around the other man's neck to yank him forward and stabbed the arrow manually into his throat. Bartholomew gurgled and tried to scream, but Watson had him caught. He vanished into particles. 

Watson drifted down, panting hard; his arm was shrieking at him from the aborted injections, jammed with exposed nerves, and his shoulder bled freely down his torso and upper arm. His thoughts were light in the way of blood loss. He heard the declaration from Karl-- "And the winner of the second round is Watson, wooooo!"-- but his attention was pinned on the armored figure in the command chair.

His goggles were cracked. He pushed them up to his forehead and shot the control platform a sharp, bloodied grin, feeling wrong, all wrong; wrong down to every cell in his bones.

*

An attendant gave Watson a healing potion and some bandages. He retreated to his cell as the other competitors socialized in the hall. It was a strange kind of loneliness, hearing other people laugh and cheer when you weren't there to share the mirth: a ghostly, left-out feeling, a hollow in his breastbone that tasted like longing.

Didn't matter. More than half of them had congratulated him outright; Ran had nodded, Jackie had grinned, they'd both been having fun. Recognition of hard-won skill was all he needed from social interaction.

Watson peeled the torn leather from his arm. His enhancements were undamaged except for the part he'd torn out: he had the needed components on hand, and the Healing he'd been given could replace the Strength he'd spilled. Injected potions were significantly more potent than ingested ones anyhow, so letting his arm enhancements administer them was the more efficient option.

He spent the next two hours making painstaking repairs, chewing on a torn piece of his sleeve to keep himself from crying out, and by the end of it had a respectable mix of potion implants for his efforts. His shoulder wound started to close up once he had the first bit of Healing in his bloodstream, shifting until it resembled a weeks-old wound.

Eventually the light under his door disappeared, and the sounds outside faded to restful silence. 

Watson decided against sleeping. He was on edge, and there were faint, barely-there shadows passing across the crack beneath his door. Someone was walking around out there.

Watson levered himself off his bed, pulling his elytra pack on, and went to follow them, pushing his door open slowly so it wouldn't creak. Ender particles lingered in the hall air; Watson caught sight of a thin black figure flitting between doors like a wraith.

He followed the figure to the arena and paused, caught off guard by a third person sitting kneeling at the far edge. Ran faltered at the sight of him too, slipping around the audience levels and out to the exit behind him-- out towards the rest of the palace-- but Watson failed to go after him. He should have, if he planned to join the empire. Spies weren't good for business. But that was the Emperor kneeling there, and air caught in Watson's throat at the sight of him. Rumors said he'd slaughter people for interrupting him at prayer, and that bell was definitely a religious one, but he wasn't ringing it. Was just staring at it, ears back, hunched like he was injured.

One of his ears had twitched toward Ran as he slipped by, though. Whatever the kid's motives, the Emperor probably had his eye on him already.

Watson let his feet scuff the ground as he approached. "Something on your mind?"

The Emperor stared at him for a strange minute, red eye glowing in the dark. "Not a thing people usually ask me," he observed. "Usually it's a lot more cringing and groveling. Maybe screaming if there's violence."

"Yeah, well, I'm not from around here," Watson said with a shrug. Then he winced, because ouch , hurt shoulder, he'd forgotten about that. The Emperor twitched, and he sent him a reassuring grin. "Could call you Your Imperial Majesty if you want, though. I figure I can manage that much for an emperor, even if he's not quite mine."

"Stick with Emperor , it's a solid descriptor," the piglin drawled. His whole posture radiated tension. Watson wondered if his instincts thought Watson was a threat. "You're the guy from the low-gravity fight. That was a good match."

"Thanks," Watson said dryly. "I did my very best." He risked a step closer to peer at the bell, engrossed by the engravings on its surface. "How old is this, by the way? Or is it just worn?"

"About a hundred years," the Emperor said. "I got it from a god."

"You should've asked for a better eye," Watson said, and the Emperor snorted. "You've got some strong death cyborg vibes going, real Terminator hours, but that's about it. Can you even see out that thing?"

"Uh. Yes," the Emperor said after a telling pause. 

Watson couldn't resist the urge to smile at him. "Lemme guess," he said. "Colors, lights, and general shapes, back when it worked?" The Emperor blinked at him. "I'd offer to help, but I don't think you'd want me getting that close to your brain."

"Eh, you seem trustworthy," the Emperor said with a shrug. Watson's breath stuttered, gut giving an eager lurch. Watson was a stranger, an outlander from a land across the wastes and the Emperor was practically giving him his back, his sincerity, he was too relaxed around him and it  was right but it wasn’t, he shouldn't have--

"Don't just fucking say that," he snapped, and the Emperor startled a little, staring at him. Felt like kicking a puppy. A dangerous puppy, or a dog who– who trusted you– Fuck. Fuck . That wasn’t right, either. Like turning and snapping at a beloved comrade. "I could be anyone. I'm sneaking around here at night same as that spy kid you let in for some fucking reason, you shouldn't consider me for brain surgery ."

"The greatest risk brings the greatest rewards," the Emperor said lightly, like it didn't mean anything. And maybe it hadn't. Maybe it had been a joke. "I mean, what's not to love about brain surgery on the go? It's fast, it's convenient, you only risk a motor function or two, and if you lose a hemisphere, hey, you've got another one right there next to it! It's foolproof. We should all cancel our insurance and go to the nearest back alley at once."

"Save on operation costs," Watson offered, trying for equilibrium. "Loot every fucking corpse, who gives a shit. Long as fifty-one percent of patients survive, you're golden."

"That's economics," the Emperor agreed. "Trust me. Trust me. I once pursued a degree in something completely unrelated to that." Watson snickered, unable to help himself. The Emperor said, eyeing him carefully, "So you, uh. Karl says he told you the test for being general."

Hearing it aloud was like an anvil to the skull. Watson flinched, red flooding his vision like sunspots, and the impulse that'd been digging at his brain shot to the forefront, clawing at the space behind his eyes like it could get out and attack directly . Three syllables, on the tip of his tongue. He could say them. Give voice to that certainty rising in his throat, step in close to press their foreheads together-- and there were daggers in his inventory, a knife strapped to the inside of his boot. How easy, how fucking easy it would be, to say those words and get into the Emperor's guard. He'd never expect it, not from Watson. Watson alone disarmed him utterly.

Watson had cut himself in the wastes and forgotten about it, flying over the checkpoints and never looking back at the injury he was sure he'd treated. Watson could feel himself dying, and felt such friendship for the man before him that it crawled up to eat him alive, declawed him just as completely. But he wasn't the only thing rattling around in his skull. If he had been-- if he'd seen the poster, if he hadn't signed up afterwards but had gone to the palace directly-- he could have found a way in, sent a goddamn letter, wouldn’t have wasted so much time --

"Let’s not talk about that right now," Watson managed, and he would have screamed kill me now if the thing in his blood hadn't quashed it down, would have taken his dagger and slit his own throat. The Emperor's ears had flinched down like he'd received a blow to the face. There was no point having a poker face, when he had those ears. He was too fucking easy to read. "'You have to admit it’s a pretty strange test, though. You sure you want to keep it up? I mean, the odds of someone knowing after all this time-- you'd get a historian if you got anyone, mate. Better to make new friends at this point and get some more people watching your back.”

"Maybe," the Emperor said. "But who needs new friends? People are boring these days, they’ve got no bloodlust at all. They write poetry .” 

Watson could drive a knife through his eye. 

"You should try Jackie," Watson suggested. "Or--" Ran , he meant to say, but the new thought overwrote it, so curious that he let it take priority. "Or Lyaria, actually. Have you met her? Noble girl, hangs out with that Sebastian kid?"

"I think I know her parents," the Emperor said, frowning. "Fairly sure she's been out of the city, though, so I haven't met her personally. What, is she a historian?”

"Nah," Watson said. "I get the feeling she'd like... hm. She's an architect, but I expect she'd like to bake." The piglin stiffened. Watson’s mouth twitched. "Let me guess. Cake is your natural enemy."

"Oh, no," the Emperor said, deadpan. "You've found my one weakness. Forget hamartia, who has time for personality flaws? I've got food allergies, which are clearly superior. Only oddly-shaped proteins can stop me now."

Watson had to laugh. The motion sent pain shooting up his side. "You wanna know what this thing on my back is?" he asked, refusing to think about it. The Emperor blinked at him. "'S an invention of mine, pretty pog if I say so myself-- it's got a couple settings. I wanted to fly, but I didn't want to limit what I could do based on how much room there was around me, you know? For combat and shit."

"Hold on, that's an elytra?" The Emperor stood, leaned over Watson’s shoulder to peer at it. He was a head and shoulders taller than Watson, arguably standing too close for a stranger, but Watson didn’t step back. He could offer to do the surgery after all, put the Emperor to sleep right here and cut into his brain, fly off before anyone discovered the body. He could cry. 

"Based off one, sure," he said, not letting it enter his voice. "I've got it jacked into neural ports in my back, connected to muscles and the spine." He took a step back, pulled out the dragon wings with a whir of machinery. They settled in his peripheral vision, folded behind his shoulders.

"That sounds incredibly painful," the Emperor said, staring at him. "I'm guessing they work pretty well?"

"Good as can be expected," Watson said. He could disembowel the Emperor right here. “They give me six limbs to work with, three dimensions. It's easy to catch people off guard with that shit, never mind mobs, and that's not even the only enhancement-- you know injected potions are way more fucking potent than ingested ones?"

"You'd have to be careful with the doses there," the Emperor said. "I mean, what is that, milliliters? Microliters? You go off by five percent, you're overdosed."

"Yeah, it needs prepared nodules," Watson said. He unwrapped his arm, held it out for show. The Emperor blinked at the damaged metal, right into the workings of the thing that weren't usually on display. "I've got a good amount of storage, though. Can't use it much or I'll blow out my veins, but it’s a lifesaver for emergencies."

The Emperor was quiet. "You know, for a guy who's definitely a stranger to me, you sure are spending a lot of time outlining all the cards up your sleeve. Am I missing something here? Intimidating you somehow?"

"I'm not that easily frightened," Watson scoffed. The Emperor's ears perked. “I like talking shop, is all. You seem like you’d appreciate a good war machine.”

“Aside from the machinery of empire?”

“Subbin hasn’t expanded in ninety years, don’t try me with that shit,” Watson said. He wrapped his arm again, but kept his wings out and loose, enjoying the weight of them at his back. The city lights blocked out most of the stars he could see through the circle of the arena stands, but he could catch a few here and there, trace the paths the constellations would make if he could see the rest of them. He could stay in this quiet space for a little longer, just him and the Emperor and the night settled round. “How’d you end up being Emperor, anyway? If you don’t mind me asking.”

The Emperor shrugged. “Fought some battles, picked up some refugees. You know how it goes.”

Watson didn’t. “Does it take up a lot of your time?”

“Eh, I have hobbies,” the piglin said. “Hard to indulge in ‘em when you’ve got random jerks coming in every five seconds to ask about logistics or whether a bridge here is better than a bridge there or should we go to war, your majesty, I want to send a bunch of eighteen-year-olds out to fight my battles while I cozy it up in my tower – but I find the time, I improvise. Improvise, adapt, overthrow, that’s what I always say. What about you, what do you do with your time? Can’t all be tinkering, unless you’re ten times the nerd I am.”

“You’re a fuckoff huge piglin who calls himself the Emperor and carts around an eye in his face that doesn’t even fucking work for the intimidation factor,” Watson said. “That’s nerd behavior. Me, I just invent shit and wander the world. I’ve got two sisters back home, though. I send them back money when I can.”

“You have sisters?” the Emperor blurted, voice going high, and somehow the conversation meandered from there, true as a river winding through a canyon. Yeah, Watson had two younger sisters, one married and one in school– yeah, he wasn’t from Subbin, he was from way east– no, he wasn’t sure where he’d gotten the idea for the wings. 

He learned that the Emperor’s scar wasn’t from the Crimson at all, but from an assassination attempt a couple years after the wastes had been created, someone creeping in on him while he was hibernating. He learned that the Emperor didn’t hibernate anymore.

He learned– learned?-- that he liked stories. Mythology especially, for its applicability in a variety of situations. 

“Hear me out here,” the Emperor told him. “You got a problem? You know a dude? Mythology has the needed comparison. You can make anything into some kinda classical parallel if you know like, two basic facts and are willing to argue your case, and then you sound a hundred times smarter than your opponent. It’s a mind game.”

“Sounds like a shortcut to villainous monologues,” Watson observed, and the Emperor made an acquiescent hand motion. “You got any good ones?”

“Villainous monologues or stories? ‘Cause if you want a monologue I’m gonna need a bigger cape, and I’m definitely gonna need the high ground with some kinda fire at my back to frame me from behind–”

“Shut the fuck up, you know what I mean,” Watson laughed. “Come on, you have to have something. Entertain me.”

“I seem to recall that I’m the Emperor here,” the piglin said, stretching his arms. He’d moved to a more comfortable position, sitting on the ground instead of kneeling, cape laid down beneath him like a picnic blanket; Watson was beside him, wings tucked close but out, brushing against his shoulders. “Right, so. Lemme think.”

“No pressure,” Watson said, though really there was some pressure: he wanted to see what the Emperor came up with. “Just whatever comes to mind.”

“Right,” the Emperor said again. “How about this: Er, the son of Armenius– these names are gonna mean nothing to you, it’s window dressing– got killed in battle, but his body didn’t rot for twelve days. On the twelfth day, he got up and said he’d seen the afterlife and knew what happened to people there, and that he’d seen this intermediate space where a bunch of judges were deciding who was just and who was not. On one side, people were going up to the heavens, and on the other side, people were going down. And then there were some people coming back from those places or from the earth..”

It was a long story, meandering from descriptions of sin and punishment– the Emperor made a face at those– to laundry lists of mythical beings, until it arrived at reincarnation: everyone choosing their new lives, either based on what sounded nice or what would make their souls more just, with various famous figures choosing to be animals and whatnot based on their past experiences. And everyone with their new lives went and drank from water meant to make them forget–

“‘Course, that’s not how it actually works,” the Emperor observed, cutting himself off. “I met guys who came back, death’s a lot different than myths tell us. Maybe less weird now, given, uh, everything that went down a while back, but it’s not like people are getting wiped down to blank slates all the time. If someone came back– y’know, if that was a thing that death let happen, say, for reasons involving fixing a mess of an afterlife– I’m fairly sure they’d be like they were before. Some base nature shining through, that sort of thing.”

Watson’s chest tightened. They were facing the same direction, floating in the liminality of the day before sunrise, but he wanted to skid his gaze away from the Emperor’s anyway, to blink hard and fight back tears. His whole fucking body hurt. Anger burned in him like a red-hot knife, and if he’d been smarter he’d have come here sooner, would have preempted this whole situation and made it into a triumph– but he couldn’t make the words pass his throat. He couldn’t say he was compromised. And if he said the Emperor’s name now, that would be one acquiescence too many– one yielding that would lead to another, until the Crimson wielded him as a weapon against someone he got the feeling was a friend. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said, light. “People are their experiences, as far as I can tell. If you take all that away, what the fuck is left, vague tendencies towards gentleness or being a dick? You could get a totally different person. Like a fucking– chicken, with its head cut off.”

The Emperor said, a little strangled, “I’m gonna need you to elaborate on that simile.”

“Ooh, simile , someone’s using fancy words,” Watson teased. He couldn’t make it sound sincere. “It’s something I saw once, that’s all. Someone fucked up killing a chicken, cut its head off too high so part of its brain stuck around. Kept it around until it starved to death. It was just a lizard brain, reacting on autopilot like a machine. I figure that’s how someone might be, if they got thrown into a new life– all the reactions with none of the context, all ingrained and shit. Except maybe they’d be more like a plant, so they could grow back different. A regenerative chicken.” He breathed out a laugh. “Shit. I might be more tired than I thought.”

“I dunno, I think regenerative chickens are a solid vein to mine,” the Emperor said. “Please, elaborate on this. I wanna hear about chickens regrowing their heads.”

“Fuck off.” Watson leaned his head back, closed his eyes. His head pounded. His fingers itched for a weapon. “You shouldn’t live in the past, Your Majesty. It’s a bad fucking habit. Too much change, you’ll get pulled under if you don’t go with the tides.”

“Maybe I’m waiting for the water to pull back a bit,” the Emperor said. “You can find some interesting stuff on the ocean floor. Things you thought you lost, even.”

“Decayed things,” Watson said. “Things the fish have eaten. Fuck, we’re drifting metaphors. I need to go to bed.”

“ Lame .” 

Watson turned to the ruler of half the continent and flipped him off. Stood and stretched, wincing at the pull on his injury. “It’s been good talking to you,” he said, wanting to say more, holding it back. “You aren't gonna do anything to Ran, are you?"

"To who?"

"The enderian kid. The one you're letting sneak around."

"No,” the Emperor said, caught off guard. “That's-- his name is Ran?"

"Yeah, he's like the fifth enderian I've met with that as part of their name. Usually it's a prefix, though. Met a Ranbrook a couple towns back, she was chill. Are you telling me you don't know any of our names?" A thought occurred. "Do you know mine?"

"Uhhh," the Emperor said, as good as confirmation that he had no fucking clue who he'd been talking to this whole time. "Does it start with a P."

"Nah, mate, I'm called Watson." He afforded the Emperor a smile, horror moving in him like a shambling creature. Digging in teeth. "Get some rest yourself, alright? And– ask me again. After the tournament’s over."

“Not sure I need to know that much about chicken regeneration,” the Emperor drawled, hope so bright in his eyes that it hurt Watson to see. “But if you wanna try and guess my name at some point, I’m game. We can roleplay Rumpelstiltskin for a while, I don’t have anything better to do.”

Watson couldn’t make himself respond. He raised a hand instead, some approximation of a wave, and the Emperor’s ears twitched back again. He was getting sloppy with that tell; he must not have hung out with other piglins for a while, to be neglecting it like he was. 

“Go to bed, old man,” the Emperor told him quietly. “I’ll see you around.”

That’s just what the Crimson wants, Watson didn’t say. He put his wings away and turned his back, went back into his cell. Stared at the ceiling until morning, breathing slow, and felt the red creep through his veins at an inexorable crawl. 

*

Lyaria was at the balcony when they all filed out to watch Levi and Genevieve fight. She greeted Ran and Jackie with a smile and said to Watson, “Sebastian wanted to see you about his eyes– you don’t have to go talk to him, of course, I’m just passing on the message, but it’s a good view from our box if you want to do so now.”

Watson certainly wanted a closer look at those cybernetics, but somehow he doubted that was why Sebastian wanted to see him. “Sure thing, I’d love a closer look,” he said, making himself smile back. “Was it you or him who designed the arena, by the way? I know he said it was his tech, but you’re an architect as well, aren’t you?”

Lyaria lit up. “Yes, I– well, I did the living things, mostly,” she said. “Zombies, rabbits, that sort of thing, and much of the design of the coliseum was mine as well. Sebastian was more interested in area effects, since those are his specialty.”

“There’s rabbits?” Jackie cut in. “What the fuck are there rabbits for?”

“Sometimes rabbits can kill,” Ran said. “I saw a rabbit kill a human once.”

“The odds of that are very, very low,” Edward said scornfully. Ran narrowed his eyes

“I saw it,” he repeated. “It jumped up and tore out his throat–”

“I’ll incorporate that into my worldview,” Lyaria said, giggling a little, “but the rabbits were a test run for spawning in mobs, that’s all. They’re still an option in the arena controls, but they don’t have any particular purpose. We just managed to find a spawner for them and thought it would be nice to practice on something harmless. And now that I consider it I likely shouldn’t have told you that living creatures were an option for this arena, but I suppose since the tournament is nearly over it’s not such a big deal. Who’s left to fight– you are, Ran, and Edward, and… John?”

“Grievious,” John corrected her, because apparently they were fucking running with that, okay. Watson nodded to everyone and slipped away to the other balcony, asking directions from servants and attendants when he got turned around. 

Lord Sebastian was waiting at the other balcony, dressed in stuffy black and tugging at his collar. His cybernetic eyes were a brilliant, unnatural green. Watson willed himself to lunge forward and grab that stupid fucking collar, bash the noble’s face in on the balcony railing, but his body only walked forward and stopped, elytra closed at his back. That was it, then. 

“It’s funny,” he said, seething with helpless rage. “Something tells me you should be a lot taller than you are.”

“I get the same feeling,” Sebastian admitted, motioning him in. The curtains swished shut, cutting their balcony off from the hallway. Below them, Genevieve and Levi were leaving their respective gates. “I’m sorry if you were under the wrong impression out there, Watson. I didn’t actually call you here to talk about my eyes. They’re nice eyes, though, aren’t they? I wanted them to be white, but the shading never looked right, it looked all grimy. Off-white, which wasn’t the right color. I feel like color is important in design, you know? Otherwise it’s sloppy. So I thought a nice Easter green would be pretty.”

“Better than red, for living in the middle of the fucking Subbin Empire,” Watson said. Sebastian gave a reflexive grimace. “How long have you worked for the Crimson, Lord Sebastian?”

“You know the answer to that already, Watson ,” the architect said, sounding incredibly tired. “I’m sorry this happened again. The Egg doesn’t like to let go of people, once it has them in its clutches once, but you should have been safe as long as you stayed out of the wastes. Its reach is limited these days. Scattered. Everyone who– everyone should have been safe.”

“Fat lot of good those should-have-been’s are doing me,” Watson snapped. “It sent me here as a fucking weapon, didn’t it? I wasn’t coming to fucking Subbin. I wasn’t about to join a tournament when I was running from bounty hunters. It brought me here to kill–” The name caught on his tongue. “To kill him.”

“Well, if it helps, I actually sent people to take care of the bounty hunters–”

“It does not fucking help!” 

Karl had made his announcements. Watson could see him from where they were standing, a pastel figure with a remote control and a camera propped at his side, leaning recklessly over the edge of the observation platform. He could see the Emperor, too, snout twitching as he leaned right beside Karl, whole posture screaming interest. The Emperor raised a hoof to wave when Watson caught his eye; Watson smiled, a fragile hopeless thing that he prayed the Emperor couldn’t see too clearly from that distance, and waved back. 

Sebastian watched him miserably. He must have been sweltering in his outfit, but he kept all his layers on. Black on black on black. “I did send people, though,” he said. “I want to help you, Watson. The Egg will have its way, but there’s– it’s not too picky about specifics. The Emperor only has one life, and he’s been marked for death, but other people don’t have to be. It likes to make its move on groups, to maximize, well, chances of infection, but it doesn’t have to catch all of them. Some fish can slip the net, you know?” 

“What,” Watson said bitterly, “you’re telling me you don’t want Jackie on the Crimson’s side? Or Genevieve?” Below them, in a spiral of water, Genevieve was cornering Levi far from the ground. “How about your friend Lyaria? Don’t tell me you haven’t been spiking her food with red sand for months.”

“I haven’t!” Sebastian shouted, whirling on him. Watson yanked a knife out of inventory and froze, muscles trembling with the effort to raise it. Sebastian barely gave it a glance. “You– I– I’m trying my best here, okay? It doesn’t want Lyaria. We’re both architects, it’d be redundant. And maybe it wants the others, but it doesn’t have to get them, not if the main objective is satisfied! You can prepare. You can save anyone you want to, as long as you do the job it sent you for. That’s why I called you here, so I could tell you that.”

“So it sent you to give me a sop,” Watson gritted out. “Some little bit of comfort, at least you won’t kill everyone you’ve met here? Would you think that was a fair trade, giving someone the option to save everyone but their best fucking friend?”

Sebastian was quiet. “Of course not,” he said finally. “Of course not. That’s the worst decision in the world to have to make.” He tugged at his collar again. At his sleeves. “It’s what he did to you,” he added, after a long enough pause that Watson knew the Crimson had fed him the line. He winced as he said it. “The Emperor saved– everyone. A lot of people. He had the option to save you, and he refused.”

“The Crimson had me then,” Watson said, feeling like he was observing himself from a telescope, so distant he was another planet. “Didn’t it? I was one of its weak-willed fucking servants.”

“All it wanted was him,” Sebastian said. “It would have let you free entirely, if only he accepted it in his heart. And he turned his back and left you, without even the option of a clean death. He let it have you.”

Copper in his mouth. “I won’t be its good little soldier again,” he managed. “I won’t– I stopped once, one way or another. I can do it again.”

“Do you remember who killed you?” Sebastian asked, sounding genuinely curious. “I don’t remember who killed me . It’s all kind of a blur.”

“It wasn’t anyone I knew,” he said. “I was up against an army, and someone got off a lucky shot. I went down.”

Distant. So very fucking distant, like the words were coming from someone else’s mouth. Watson wasn’t himself, really. He was twenty-five years of experience to well over eight centuries, and all the best parts of him had been sliced off uneven, left to founder in grotesque, stifled instinct. He missed things he didn’t have names for. 

“It was his army,” Sebastian said, with the same slight pause. “He didn’t even give you the courtesy of killing you personally. You’d be giving him more than he gave you.” He perked up. “And hey, if you follow the Crimson now, you might find him in another life, right? Because of that thing with death, a long time ago. You could be happy then.”

“Death won’t let this go on forever,” Watson said. “It’s against her nature. Against this server’s nature. Don’t fucking tell me what to expect from Death. Don’t fucking try to make me think that he betrayed me, when I was the one to falter. Don’t call me here just to parrot the Crimson and gloat, you fucking cultist, you cowardly fucking bastard–”

Too loud. His voice cut off without permission, strangled, and Sebastian said censoriously, “Language.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“The servants might hear you,” Sebastian said. “Do you really want to subject them to vulgarity?”

“If I could take this knife and shove it through your eyes until you were electrocuted, I’d do it,” Watson told him, bright and vicious. “I don’t give a shit who’d see, or what the consequences would be. I would tear you to pieces where you stand. I’d feed what’s left of you to crows so they could shit you out on your rigged fucking arena. Serving the Crimson in one life is its fault, maybe, but serving it in two is yours. I don’t believe you didn’t have the option to refuse.”

“Yes, well, I have attachments too,” Sebastian spat. “I have someone too, and he’s– and it’s been forever, and he wouldn’t even know me, I’m not right– option to refuse? At least your person got a hundred years after you. At least the Crimson didn’t have him this whole time, just waiting to be dangled in front of you again where you can see but can’t touch. I have my reasons like you do, Watson.”

Movement in the hallway, the bustle of after-fight cleanup. Watson took a step back, pain shuddering through him like fire ants under his skin. “I doubt he’d care for you now if you did get him out,” he said. “Take a leaf from Techno’s book and leave him to rot, will you? I wouldn’t have thanked him for throwing people away to save someone too weak to save themselves. If this friend of yours would think otherwise, he’s as much of a coward as you are.”

Sebastian hit him across the face. Watson reeled through it, breathing past the unexpected agony, and the noble snarled at him, shoulders raised, sword slipped quiet-like into his off hand. For a moment Watson could see a shadow behind him, a dark lashing silhouette supplied by memory to take Sebastian’s place, older and temperamental and despairing– but he blinked and it vanished, leaving the plain form of a human behind. 

Blood dripped from Sebastian’s ring. Warmth trickled down Watson’s cheek. He met the noble’s eyes and sucked in a breath, trying to force his adrenaline down so his enhancements wouldn’t react. “If I were still him,” he managed, “I would kill you for that.”

“If I were still me, I’d have killed the Emperor myself,” Sebastian said darkly. He shoved past Watson into the hallway, walking briskly and purposefully until he disappeared from sight. 

*

Genevieve had won her fight. Watson stopped by to congratulate her, firmly ignoring her questioning glance at his face. The losing contestants were still hanging around, slumped in corners to lament their defeats or taking the opportunity to party with other warriors, and Bartholomew had brought out a whole fucking keg to share with the others; Watson stepped out on what promised to be quite the shindig, confident that no one would follow him, and was nearly clotheslined by Karl’s camera on the way to his cell.

Karl smelled like soot and redstone. “I was interviewing Lyaria on how the build works,” he explained without prompting, shooting Watson a grin. “It’s interesting stuff! Did you have a good conversation with Lord Sebastian?”

“That’s a specific fucking question,” Watson said. “Is there any reason you’re asking it?”

“Usually when someone looks like they’ve been slapped across the face I think a conversation hasn’t gone well,” Karl admitted. “Unless it’s a weird sex thing! You can tell me if it’s a weird sex thing, I’ll only write it down like three places.”

“Tempting, but no,” Watson said, surprised into a semblance of mirth. “Tell you what though, mate, if I find any weird sex things you’ll be the first person I tell.”

“Seems cameraman-like, I’ll take that,” Karl said. He made to leave, but Watson caught his arm. 

Karl blinked at him, cheery and guileless in his pastels, dressed nothing like anyone else Watson had met. “Oh, did you need something?”

“Have we met before?” Watson asked, a little helplessly. “Somewhere– anywhere, really. The back of a fucking alley where you mugged me. A nation far from here. Have we spoken before this tournament? Before I came to this place?”

Karl smiled at him, but his eyes were grave. His camera was slung over his shoulder like he’d forgotten it was there, but he had a notebook in his hands, a pen behind his ear. Ink smudges on his cheek. “I don’t know if I remember enough to say,” he said. “I don’t remember a lot of things, you know? A whole bunch of life just feels like a dream.” Watson could fucking relate to that. “I hope you get what you’re looking for, though. I really do. The future should be more hopeful than the past.”

Watson’s mouth went dry. Karl nodded to him and left, leaving him to curl up in his cell and shake. 

It was several hours before Watson could make himself uncurl from his position on the bed, feeling woozy and light with fever. His muscles ached like broken bones set incorrectly, spasming whenever he moved too quickly; his fingers prickled with nerves, elytra connectors sore like they’d been in the first days, when he’d barely installed them and had had to ward off infection while they healed. 

He peeled his shirt away from his abdomen and found streaks of angry red cutting up and down his torso, creeping across his chest and belly like spider legs. The wound itself was hot and inflamed, leaking fluid; he touched it and his finger came away stained red, brighter than blood would’ve been, with a sick mealy texture like diluted oatmeal.

Watson swallowed back a gag and pulled his knife, ran it through a torch until it was clean, took a rag and bit it, and– couldn’t slice into the wound. His wrist wouldn’t twist that way, arm going limp when he tried. He pressed the hot metal at its edges, the most he could do, and saw some of that red sludge burn away, felt the agony of it tear through his veins like he’d stabbed right into a major nerve, whiting out his own vision. 

If he cried out, he couldn’t tell. His ears were ringing too loudly, his brain scattered to white noise. He had to take a minute to breathe through his mouth, gasping like a hooked fish, until the aftershocks faded; then he wrapped the wound in bandages, ginger and trembling, and pulled his shirt back down. 

Okay then. Tinkering with tech was the next best option, then, wasn’t it? If he was going to fight the Emperor, he would have to be in fighting shape. His wings would have to work. His enhancements would have to be connected properly, so his potion nodules would inject right when he needed them. He pulled out his brewing stand and set to making some new potions, Healing and Slow Falling and– others, chopping up glistening melon, rabbit’s foot, phantom membrane. 

Nether wart. Spider eye. 

It was all autopilot, really. He didn’t have to think about what potions he was putting in his arm, or what they were for. His mind wandered, and his hands worked, and the brews bubbled to completion, noxious fumes rising in the tiny space. 

That was only supposed to happen for potions with negative effects, but Watson didn’t give them a second glance. An inventor was expected to know his trade. He knew it well enough to understand what he intended and what he was forced into, and all the ways he might be clever without letting a plan cross his thoughts. 

He didn’t attend the final fight. 

*

Ran and Jackie came to find him before the banquet, jostling each other in the entrance to his cell until Ran teleported back two feet and made Jackie fall flat on his face. He bounced up like a punching bag and said without preamble, “Watson! Do you have any bowties and shit, anything fancy-like? Ran’s just wearing the same thing he wears every day, but me, I’ve got standards. If I’m winning a position as an officer, I’m gonna be fucking dapper while I do it.”

“There is nothing wrong with what I’m wearing,” Ran complained. “It’s the same thing I wear every day. It has utility.”

“It makes you look like a dickhead,” Jackie said. 

“You mean like a guy who’s going to win ,” Ran shot back. “Just watch me, I’ll succeed in all my plans. I have the layout of this whole place memorized .”

“Do you now,” Watson said, who’d only barely been following the conversation. It was hard to get his thoughts in order. Fuck, he hoped the red streaks had gotten up to his neck or face, somewhere visible where people might question them. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

“Oh, um. I like to be able to teleport everywhere,” Ran stuttered. “And I’ve got a perfect memory anyway, so it’s not like it’s a huge amount of effort.”

“Definitely not something that’d require sneaking around at night a bunch,” Jackie said brightly. 

Ran jumped and bristled at him. “What– you– that is a serious accusation,” he blurted, “and I resent it–”

“Mate, I don’t give a shit what either of you does as long as you don’t intend on killing anyone,” Watson said, “and Jackie, I should have a bowtie somewhere in my inventory, just gimme a sec to find it. Has either of you ever heard of knocking before entering a room, by the way?”

“Enderians don’t have that,” Ran said.

“Humans have it but I don’t do it,” Jackie said, peering at the bowtie Watson managed to produce. “Oh, hey, strider red! I can fucking work with this.”

“Is that why you’re lava immune?” Watson asked, handing the bowtie over. Jackie nodded and took it, smoothed it out. “That’s cool, mate, I was wondering about that.”

“It’s a fun bloodline to have,” Jackie said. “I don’t think I’d be burned if you set off fireworks in my face .”

“Useful, certainly,” Watson said, heartbeat catching in his chest. The familiarity really wasn’t just the Emperor, was it. “You ever hear the Myth of Er?”

Ran tilted his head. “No?” he tried eventually, probably after scouring his perfect goddamn memory. “Is it a human thing, because I wouldn’t know about human things.”

“Nah,” Watson managed. “Just something I’ve heard about. Not applicable to the situation, now that I think of it.”

“Whatever you say, boss man,” Jackie said with a shrug. “Thanks for the tie, though, I’ll be sure to return it after the banquet. I’m gonna see if they’ll let me throw knives.”

The banquet was set in the arena itself, carpets laid out across the floor and the tower lowered to waist height, so it could serve as a buffet table. Watson could see servants dashing back and forth, serving hors-d’oeuvres and guiding the arriving nobility around the different stations: throwing axes and light-up targets and a practice ring, all meant for the competitors to show off to a crowd. 

Karl was nowhere to be seen. The Emperor was standing at the far end, greeting a couple of nobles and dressed in a long red cape, lined with white fur. Goosebumps rose on Watson’s skin. 

Lyaria brightened when she saw him with Ran and Jackie. She came over with words obviously on her lips, but Watson interrupted her before she could speak. “How sure are you that the area effects are deactivated for this thing?”

Lyaria had on a sleeveless blue dress. Watson could see iridescent scales creeping up her shoulders. He wondered if she was immune to fire as well, or if she’d wanted something else– if she’d heard something that made her want to be a noble, someone born into a system where you knew everyone and had some kind of use, some shoes to fill since birth. A place to belong. 

“They should be deactivated,” Lyaria said, frown playing across her face. “I can’t imagine they wouldn’t be. Sebastian and I went over the failsafes ourselves, with the Emperor, when we were planning the banquet. He asked me to tell you that he enjoyed your conversation, by the way. I do appreciate that you took the time to indulge him.”

“That’s good to hear,” Watson said, trying to smile. Lyaria frowned for real. “Let’s, ah, speak in hypotheticals for a moment, though. All four of us.”

“Practical hypotheticals?” Jackie asked. He tugged Ran’s sleeve, interrupting the fizzle of an oncoming teleport, and Ran paused, glancing back at the three of them. They were both wearing suits; Jackie must have tracked some new clothes down for Ran after all. “I’m good at those, usually. Is something on your mind?”

“Depends on whether Sebastian’s here,” Watson said lightly. “But hypothetically speaking, if the area effects weren’t deactivated for tonight, how many people would be caught in the crossfire? How many of those servants wandering around do you recognize?”

“They’re from Sebastian’s estate,” Lyaria said, sounding a little angry. “He organized this banquet as a way to show off the entire tournament, he wouldn’t– surely you aren’t suggesting he means to sabotage it.”

“Did he want you to be here?” Watson asked, and Lyaria paused. “When you were organizing all this shit. Did he think you should be here, or did he have some other invitation for you? A private dinner, that kind of thing?”

“Hold on, you think this is a trap?” Ran demanded. “A trap for who?”

“Not for you,” Jackie said, scanning Watson and Lyaria’s faces. “This Sebastian guy’s the one with the eyes, right? Bright green, not the ones he was born with?”

“Oh, you mean the Crimson–”

“We most certainly do not,” Lyaria snapped. “I’ve known Sebastian all my life. He’s never been outside of the Empire! I don’t know if you quarreled with him when you spoke or what, Watson, but if you persist in making these accusations, I’ll– he did also handle the food– shit. No, he can’t really . This has to be a coincidence.”

“It’s all a hypothetical,” Watson said. His feet itched to take him in the Emperor’s direction. 

“Hypotheticals about the Crimson hit different when you get them from a sick man who threw up red the other day,” Jackie said. 

“If something does happen, I can fight,” Ran said, glancing between the three of them. “And Jackie’s immune to lava. I don’t hear the Crimson, either, so that shouldn’t be a problem for me.”

“You don’t hear the Crimson?” Jackie asked, and Lyaria said, “This is all completely unnecessary , but in case it isn’t, Ran, I expect the best use of your abilities would be teleportation in order to evacuate. And also that none of us should eat the food here, unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Pounding in his head. Watson tried to focus on the conversation instead of swaying on his feet, but he couldn’t hear whatever Lyaria said next. Orange flickered at the edges of the arena roof, at the circumference of the floor. Any moment now. The important guests had arrived, and Sebastian had tipped off the intended weapon too soon. The Crimson wouldn’t want to wait any longer than necessary.

“Watson?” Lyaria asked, and someone– Jackie– caught his arm. 

Watson turned to look at him, mind lagging behind his body, and the strider hybrid said, “Your eyes are red.”

Ran had a spear out, wicked purple with a jagged tip. Across the room, Edward and Genevieve had paused mid-conversation, staring over at them. 

“I’ve got it handled,” Watson said, soft, dragon wings slipping out of his back. “Don’t try and stop me. There’s too many others who’ll need your help first.”

“Watson, you don’t have to do this,” Lyaria said, but the arena seared with heat the next instant, lava crashing down from the ceiling, and the guests all started to scream. The servants dropped their trays and drew weapons, faces blank and cold. 

Watson leaped into the air and landed by the Emperor’s side. 

“Watson!” The Emperor’s voice was thick with relief. Fuck. Fuck. “Okay, this kind of makes the party a bust, we’ll make it up to all these noble dudes later, but we can try to be nonlethal here. We’ll do field promotions, that’s a thing right, make sure all the civilians are out of range before the real fighting starts–”

“I’ve got Ran and Jackie on evacuation,” Watson said, ears ringing. “Lyaria’ll be trying to get the barriers down, most likely– but you’re not gonna be fighting those servants, Technoblade.”

He’d landed on the Emperor’s blind side. The piglin hadn’t bothered to turn and look at him before, but he did now, and Watson tried not to see the look on his face. It was a familiar expression, but it shouldn’t have been. Watson should never have been weak enough to put it there.

“Oh. Oh, Phil, not again.”

Watson made himself shrug. “I was running from bounty hunters,” he explained, sword drawn. He could switch to his bow in an instant, put an arrow through the Emperor’s eye, but he wouldn’t. The Emperor was too skilled for that, anyway, he’d find a way to block it. Better to fight him on the ground, where– where one of them would have the advantage.

Philza, his blood whispered, I will tell you the names of your descendants. The Emperor had his axe out and raised. 

“Got shot down over the wastes,” Watson continued, circling. Someone behind them shrieked and gurgled, went silent. The lava made sweat break out on his skin, seared him with heat, dyed the whole arena orange. With luck, it wouldn’t affect a piglin boar the same way. “Came to Subbin after. Your Lord Sebastian chided me for my language, you know that? I’m surprised you never noticed that about him before.”

“I noticed,” the Emperor said. “Thought I was seeing ghosts. You don’t have to do this, old man. You can put the weapon down. We’ll get you medical attention, see to wherever you’ve been infected, go on vacation for a while–”

“You left me,” came snaking up out of Watson’s mouth, the opposite of what he wanted to say. “All it wanted was you, and you left me. I stood by you every minute and you offered me the world and you wouldn’t even give it your service, Techno, I fell over the battlefield and they tore me to pieces and you fucking let them!”

The Emperor flinched so hard he almost dropped his weapon. Watson couldn’t ignore the opening. He flew forward and slashed at the piglin’s gut, braced against the parry and lashed out with his wings, opening long cuts along his opponent’s shoulders. Pulling himself back into the air. The Emperor struck out with the edge of a table and knocked him lower, grabbing at his wings to pin him down, and Watson thrashed loose, slicing at his armor until he had to let go, snarling. 

They exchanged blows, sword on axe on flesh on armor, dancing around each other. Watson’s wings let him stay out of range, gave him an edge. The Emperor fighting to capture gave him more. 

He should have been shot full of adrenaline, but all he felt was eerie, disconnected calm, like he was watching a movie. It wasn’t him stabbing at his best friend’s eye, tearing metal from his face and leaving it to hang loose and bleed; not him with scarlet eating at the corners of his vision, stepping over a noble’s corpse and kicking up a chair to block a blow, using the fleeing guests as cover. Purple flashes in the corner of his vision as people mysteriously vanished, a boy in a red suit fighting to give a blonde with an axe time to get on her feet– these were unimportant. He had a job to do. He had a purpose, as the Angel of Death, as the Egg’s perfect weapon. As a shot in the dark aimed right at Techno’s throat.

“You can’t mean to keep me alive,” he spat past bloodied teeth. The Emperor stared at him, back heaving, punctured with the pair of arrows Watson had managed to loose. “I’d never fucking stop attacking you. I’d want you dead every second of every day. You left me to rot once, mate, how hard is it to do it again?”

“Phil, I’ve waited for you a hundred years,” his opponent said, ears pinned far, far back. “I’m not gonna leave you again. I can’t leave you again, I shouldn’t have left you once! I was trying to get back to you!”

“Fuck you,” Watson spat. At the Egg, at the Emperor, he didn’t fucking know. So many things hurt. “Fuck you, fuck you, you were right to– you shouldn’t have been on that battlefield, not for anything. You should have shot me down first. It’s wanted you dead for so long, and you give it such an opening, your folly and your loyalty– strike me down, Techno, don’t just stand there! Finish this! Don’t fucking stand there and let me kill you, fuck, don’t you dare. Don’t you do that to me, too.”

“You’re injured,” Technoblade said. “Phil, Watson, whoever you are, you’re seriously hurt. I’m not gonna contribute to that any more than I have to. I can handle a lot more pain than you can, old man.”

“I’m fucking younger than you,” Watson snarled, and he was standing too close, the Emperor’s bristles soaked in his own blood, the Emperor’s jugular bared to his sword. Guilt always weighed his friend down like a physical thing. He was wretched when betrayed, more wretched when he felt himself the betrayer. So much of him went into matching loyalty for loyalty, sticking by people for anything, and he thought he’d been the one to falter first. He’d been telling himself that for a hundred years. If Watson asked him to, if he thought it’d save Watson somehow, he’d let him cut his throat. “Get up. Technoblade, Techno– get up. Get up. Fight me, please.”

“Me for him,” Technoblade said, and Watson’s blade nicked his flesh, sent a fine line trickling down. All he could taste was burning flesh. “That’s the deal, right? You take me down, and you let my best friend go. You get out of his mind and stay out, let him live his life like he’s supposed to.”

Watson’s voice said, “You think that’s a fair deal?”

No.

“You got into event planning to kill me,” Technoblade said. “So yeah, I’m gonna bet it is.”

The blade shook. He couldn’t pull it away. He couldn’t– he was too calm, he was– no, no, fuck no, he wouldn’t– 

“Very well,” the Egg said through Watson’s mouth, and a blade drove between his wings and through his elytra pack, shot electricity screaming white through his nerves. The world exploded into starbursts, every nerve along Watson’s spine sparking into agony, lightning in his veins, back arching like he could get away from it and he screamed aloud or thought he did, dropped the sword from nerveless fingers–

And at last, at long fucking last, he felt it hit his veins. Potion of Poison, more potent than anything he could have ingested, stealing the strength from his limbs until he couldn’t get to his feet again, much less lift his weapon. Until he could see Lyaria, standing shocked with a scorched discarded sword in her hands, and Technoblade’s terrified expression, and hear him shouting, “Phil– Phil, don’t you dare, what did you do Phil what did you do–”

“Fucking finally,” Watson breathed, laughing. “God, fuck .” He gasped for breath, choking, bringing up blood. His insides twisted, veins shot through with what felt like magma. “Shit. Technoblade. I’m so glad to see you, I– I told you. It’s potent. I’m so fucking glad I got to see you.”

“That wasn’t supposed to kill him,” Lyaria was saying. “Your Majesty, I hit the elytra, it shouldn’t have killed him–”

Hands on his shoulders, smearing blood across his clothes. Jostling the wings hanging limp at his back. Watson rested his head on Technoblade’s shoulder, breathing in the stench of blood and burning, and Technoblade kept shouting, babbling, calling for someone above his head. The Crimson had faded to a distant shriek of rage. 

“There you are,” Watson choked out. “ There you are. Technoblade. You need to stop calling me by the wrong fucking name.”

Something tore inside him. He wrenched himself back and threw up blood and chunks of flesh, whole body turning inside out, and the veins burst in his nose, deep in his ears, behind his eyes. 

Death followed mercifully after.

*

The sensation of something missing was so surprising that Watson opened his eyes at once, bringing a hand to his breastbone like he could feel the gap if he got his fingers in the right place. It was a metaphysical gap, an empty space where he could’ve sworn nothing had been before, either– but it was gone, whatever it was. He breathed through its absence, surprised at how easy it was to inflate his lungs. 

The enhancements in his arm were laid bare and empty, his back connectors pulsing with dull, persistent pain. He was in his gladiatorial cell, the last place he’d slept, but the blankets were softer than he remembered, more finely woven, and there was a glass of water sitting by the bed. Food, too. Suddenly Watson remembered he was ravenous. 

He had bread in his mouth when the Emperor– when Technoblade came into the room, and the sight of his bloody eye socket made some of it go down the wrong pipe; Technoblade hurried over and smacked him on the back a few times until he coughed it up, almost comically distressed, and Watson forced out, “You didn’t get that replaced?”

“It’s been like eight hours,” Technoblade said. “I was waiting by your bedside, not preparing for invasive surgery!”

“That’s fucking gruesome,” Watson managed, staring at it. “You’d better hope that doesn’t get infected, mate, because it’ll be hell to fix. Tell me you at least got medical attention.”

“I’ve had more important things going on,” Technoblade snapped, stepping back to look him over with a wide eye, “such as making sure my friend who I’d just met again respawned properly after giving me a freaking heart attack. I didn’t even know you had multiple lives!”

“I’ve got three,” Watson said blankly. “I was born on this server, mate, of course I had three.” Technoblade flinched again, just slightly. Bile rose in his throat. “What the fuck happened after I went down? How many casualties are you looking at?”

“Five deaths and a crapton of injuries,” Technoblade said at once, “but no one you personally know, so y’know, it’s fine. Those two kids got a lot of people out. And they’re, uh. Pretty familiar now that I’ve met them, so that’s interesting.”

“Have you considered that you might’ve seen more people sooner if you’d actually tried to meet the contestants?” Watson asked. He pushed himself upright, marveling at how little anything hurt. “I know social interaction can be a bit of a mixed bag, but come on, Techno. If you went outside right now you’d probably trip over half of L’Manberg.”

“So you remember all that,” Technoblade said, tone turning guarded. 

Watson had to think about it. “Some,” he admitted. “I remember who people are, mostly, and who I was. Some of what went down, but that comes in flashes, it’s not in any particular order. Most of it sneaks up on me.” He looked Technoblade in the eye, shifted so he could clasp his hands. “I never fucking blamed you, though. Not when I was in my right mind, and not when I was in the wrong one, either. That was a fucking lie, through and through. I always knew I’d die on the battlefield somehow.”

“I didn’t,” Technoblade said, strangled. “I figured you’d get caught by a baby zombie in a ravine somewhere, hunting for diamonds in your retirement. Or you’d die in bed, when you got tired of living. Or, you know. Statistically, if you’d died in battle, I would’ve died beside you. Given the amount of battles we fought together.”

“But you had an idea that I’d come back.”

Technoblade shrugged, looking away. “It was a possibility.”

Watson thought he remembered something of that, too: a god in white and green, and another in a black veil, and an argument over dying on the server and what it entailed. A nightmare of an afterlife dissipating into nothingness, sometime before the Egg had properly returned, and the deal the gods had struck– but when he tried to hold it up to the light, the memory vanished like mist. 

“You know I’m not Philza,” he said instead, because it had to be stated aloud. “I don’t remember everything, mate, and I’m not even a fucking avian. I don’t have all that he was, just– lizard brain shit. Enough awareness to know who my friends are. I’ve never spoken to Death, never been off this server. I don’t remember my son’s name.”

“Watson, you could have come back as an actual headless chicken and I would’ve been overjoyed,” Technoblade said, and Watson laughed, a burst of sound so bright he surprised himself. “You could’ve come back as a fish! Wilbur fell in love with a salmon, it’s in the family tree, you’ve got precedent–”

“Shut,” Watson choked out, still laughing. “If I’d come back as a goddamn fucking fish, you’d better have killed me so I could start again. I’m not living as something without even the potential to fly.”

“I dunno, if you got picked up by an eagle…” Technoblade offered. “But nah, I mean– you know a lot of that’s fixable. You can pray, you can make your wings again. You can hear stories. And if you wanted to go off the server, well, I’ve just discovered a handy new Ender kid who’s immune to the Egg. We could install a new Emperor, give him a general he might’ve been married to in a past life, leave Lyaria and some nobles to watch over them. There’s options.”

“That vacation you were talking about,” Watson said, a tightness in him softening, drifting loose. Like a knot unwinding. “You know you’ve really only known me for like four days.”

“I believe in efficiency,” Technoblade said, ears perked. “Besides, you’re a century overdue. I expected you before the invention of gyropters , Watson, the least you can do is catch up a little.”

“So you’d begrudge an old man his rest? For fucking shame, Techno, for all you know the afterlife’s full of stairs. A thousand fucking flights of stairs, all of which I had to climb by foot, thank you very much–”

“Uh-huh, but you know, that’s not what Plato says the afterlife is like, and as we scholars know, Plato is always unquestionably correct,” Technoblade told him. 

Watson swatted at his arm, laughing helplessly– grinning helplessly, smile so wide it hurt his face, as his elytra connectors sparkled with phantom sensations, begging him to unfurl his wings.