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Flame assumes this is the Law’s latest trick. Hard to mistake it for anything else, with the mask that his opponent wears. A full flat surface, the Law’s yellow sun painted onto it—he can’t even tell if there’s anywhere to look through, but they seem to be able to follow his movement to the twitch as he moves.
“So, Lettuce has a new toy?”
He studies them for as long as he’s allowed. Pristine netherite armour, a neat outfit that has to be custom-made by the Law, a distinct lack of personal features. This person, whoever they are, is a weapon.
There’s also no reply. They don’t want to be heard, so their voice must betray something. Whether it be an identity or a fear he’s not supposed to pick up on. Either way, Flame grins. He works best when there isn’t an ounce of personality behind his kill. And of course, since they represent the Law, any chance he would’ve shown mercy gets thrown right out the window. He doesn’t need to hold back on a person who’s obviously purely there to deliver Lettuce a head on a silver plate.
He shrugs. “If you’re looking for a fight, take it, bro.” Intimidation like this doesn’t work on him. He’s the strongest player around, even now. Despite everything, he’s alive, and despite everything, no one has killed him yet.
His hand wraps around the hilt of his sword and he pulls it from a beaten scabbard, the shrill noise of netherite filling up the emptiness of the plains. Hundreds of thousands of blocks away from spawn, the loneliness really kicks in. It’s just him and this stranger from the Law.
He wants to kill them. The fire that runs hot underneath his dominant arm flares up, steam escaping through the cracks in the plates of his armour like vents. He doesn’t even mean to, at the slightest mention of a fight his body locks in for him, full automation, his muscles doing the work of getting ready. He already feels the taste of blood on his tongue.
Isn’t that what Lomedy despises about him? He doesn’t want to ask questions in the face of battle, all he wants is the rush of traded blows and his blade coated red. Well, he won’t deny it.
They reach behind their back. He raises his chin like it’s a challenge. What is revealed to him brings nothing but disgust to his stomach. Really? Really? If there were any doubts left, they disappear like snow in the sun.
A mace. Their hand fits around it like it’s comfortable, the gauntlet they wear curling around the handle as if they’re one. The painful end of it is adorned with sharp edges—it almost looks more like a morningstar, now—made to hurt instead of the usual blunt power the user wields. They’ve sharpened it purely for him.
Wemmbu crosses his mind. He’s almost like a plague, how the shape of that specific mace has been burned into his mind. But Wemmbu would gag at the mere thought of standing under the Law’s symbol. Holding a different mace, one that Flame can tell is detailed beautifully with that same symbol, is especially out of the question. He’d never. Their chapter is closed anyway.
That’s the last thought he manages before the silence of the plains is broken. His opponent gets a split second head start, but Flame sees the shine of bottles fast enough that he finally understands again why he’s called a demon by so many. His own claws shoot over to the arrangement of potions hanging from his belt and his nails cut the strings so they fall and douse him in effects. Instantly, his blade catches fire too, and the weight of it feels like a breeze in his strengthened hands.
He feels like he can hardly breathe until a wind burst is thrown, his opponent shoots up into the sky and the mace is brought down in a horrific arc. He catches it on his blade. He’s shoved down into the earth, his knee catching him on the ground.
Just like that, the battle has begun.
His shoulders burn from the force of the mace, and yet he’s quicker to recover from the attack. Shoving the other away, he slashes across their chest, directly through that stupid sun symbol. The move gives him just enough time to yank a golden apple from the pouch on his side, a dwindling supply, and he backs away to bite his teeth down into it.
A swing and a dodge. A swing and a hit. They’re trading blows, back and forth, the only thing that’s ever said being Flame’s complaints at the stupid use of the mace. But by some miracle, the wielder isn’t a pitiful and annoying as Wemmbu is with the weapon; they use it less, more as an accent, to catch him by surprise every once in a while, but mostly they seem to stay on the ground to swap to their sword and clash with him that way.
It’s perfect. For the first time in who knows how long, he’s able to have a proper fight. He can’t even remember how long he’s been asking for this. The sun illuminates the grin on his lips showing off his sharp teeth as he twirls his sword in hand and drives his opponent back hit by hit.
Why does it almost feel like they’re too attuned to each other? Like this person has spent days studying him and his fighting to match every hit. He can feel the power and the knowledge they have, the control.
And yet, he feels like there’s something frantic to their attacks. A hesitation whenever they grab their mace, not like they’re unsure how to use it but a strangely aware hesitation.
“What are you up to, bro?” he asks when they both back away from each other. His hand skillfully conjures up a few more potions to throw at his feet, and his whole body rejuvenates with all the strength, the blaze bringing that burning sensation to his tongue which he greedily swallows down. “I know you have some kind of plan, you’re being weird.”
With the bite of another gapple, the bruises on his body start to heal. The only real cut so far is from a lucky hit on his hand. He reaches over to tighten the strap, then looks back over at the other. They seem to be doing the same, copying his movements. He wants to scoff, but saves it.
There’s still no reply. His grin freezes a little. Silence from his enemies really grates on his nerves, and not because it scares him. He’d love to see whoever’s underneath that mask. The anonymity … he’s not a fan of it, not since the Mafia.
But that’s drive enough to fuel his aggression into each swing of his sword. The next clash has his opponent staggering back, followed up by one that screeched awfully over their armour. He’s starting to make dents. Even the sword he catches with his own has some ugly dents in it. Not long now and they’ll have to mend, and Flame will be able to use that moment to crit them out to no end.
Except, they choose that exact moment to wind-burst up into the sky. He stays locked onto them, but their silhouette blocks out the sun, the light bending around them like judgement from above. He shields himself, braced against the ground, the trust he has in the protection entire and whole. When the attack comes after both a split second and an eternity, the wood groans under the onslaught but it holds strong.
What Flame doesn’t expect is the boot that rises to kick him in the stomach. He rolls, surprised by the unfair attack. He makes sure to roll over his shoulder and land on his feet again, sword stuck into the dirt once he gets the chance to regain his balance.
He glares at them. “What was that for?” He should’ve known better than to expect the fight to stay fair. The shrug they give brings a snarl onto his face. “Okay bro, whatever.”
He shoots forward again. If playing fair is off the table anyways—ignoring how the mace already took away part of the fun—he’ll be dirty too. With their mace in hand, the tip of his sword aiming straight for their stomach is an unexpected move they can’t dodge. Before either of them can so much as blink, the blade sinks through the layers of his armour and catches on their chainmail.
The attack knocks the breath from their lungs and sends the both of them sprawling onto the ground. He catches a glimpse of his blade. The tip of it is coated in beautiful red, and the storm in his mind turns into a raging one. He might not have drawn first blood, but this is a win in his books.
He sits up, hunched over them, the pain from the fall shooting up his knees into his spine, but the strength gets him to move well enough. He doesn’t miss the way they reach for their mace and he’s quicker to wrap his hand around the hilt and drag it out of their reach. There’s struggle. There’s a punch weakly thrown in the direction of his face meant as a means to get his weapon back. He just bares his teeth at them and keeps it out of reach.
Gloved fingers slide past his armour. Whoever dressed them up did one hell of a job concealing every nook and cranny of the player. Even now, thrown down and messed up, nothing is revealed about their character.
He raises the mace higher. Shield and sword discarded, he wraps his gauntleted fingers tight around his mace as he raises it above his head, the shadow of it blocking out the sun on the mask perfectly, and there’s nothing more satisfying than that right now. His grin is manic, the heat under his skin a blazing fire.
Their arms reach up to shield their head. A gasp even escapes them—it has to be the quietest thing he’s ever heard. Flame’s almost surprised to see they’re an actual person underneath all those layers.
Is he going to have mercy? The word tastes bitter on his tongue. He doesn’t want to. Like a child being told off, he doesn’t want to listen. And in that split second, he hates the morals in the back of his head, that small force battling against the chanting bloodlust screaming for a kill. He hates them because he doesn’t want to listen.
He shakes his head. A yell tears from his throat, filled with all the frustration caught in his veins. He pours every bit of strength into sending the mace down, arc deadly, muscles tense and burning.
The head lands with a deafening thud.
He sits back on his haunches and stares down at that damn mask. The mace sits inches away, buried deep into the grass. His claws graze over the hard material when he slips past the trembling hands and reaches over to grab it. With a harsh tug and a toss, the mask is off and reveals a face to the sky, to him.
“I fucking knew it.” Anger heats up his fiery arm. More steam escapes through the cracks in his armour.
Wemmbu doesn’t answer. He swallows heavily, the gulp almost audible, his expression set into a tight frown. Flame isn’t so sure it means anger. His hands fall to his sides to rest on the grass and he lets his head drop back against the ground too. It has to mean anger, it has to mean he hates his guts. What else do people feel towards him?
“What the hell are you doing, bro? We finished our fight. You didn’t have to join the—you could have just told me you wanted another rematch instead of joining the Law, bro! What is wrong with you?”
“You suck. You didn’t fight hard enough to kill me. No wonder the Law thinks you’re an easy target. I could’ve taken you out and it would’ve been easy.” Wemmbu’s voice is rough, and it’s strained from the odd angle as he glares up at him.
He regards him for a moment. His heart sets fire at the blatant insult. He should’ve gone for the kill. The mace would’ve killed anyone in a single hit with those edges. He knows blood would’ve been splattered all over the ground and his armour, even his face, if he’d just taken the chance. He grits his teeth. It would be so easy to grab the mace again. He could finish the job.
He knows from experience purple and red are a good sight together. There’s hardly ever been a time where he hated seeing Wemmbu hurt. If anything, he’s always deserved it.
Now, sitting atop him, strings in his hands, the fate of Wemmbu woven between his fingers, Flame feels powerful again. He’s missed it.
“I could kill you right now. You didn’t even try, bro.” He’s not stupid. Bloodlust may reign over his mind, but he’s still able to see when someone pulls their punches. “Where’s your elytra?”
If Wemmbu had wanted him dead, the scene would look very different.
“I’m stalling,” the man beneath him bluffs. The lie is obvious to Flame.
Yet he nearly falls for it. Adrenaline still pumps through his veins, and his ears flick as he listens out for anything at all. He would’ve heard a horn if they were anywhere near. So he grins, shaking his head. The plains are empty save for them and a few cobwebs they’ve strewn about.
“You’re alone, bro. You lost.” With that knowledge, his arm cools a little. He’s the strongest player, and he’s once again proven that in front of his rival and in front of the universe itself. Whoever needs to know knows. This is over.
“Yeah?” Wemmbu’s face … falls. He sees it happen right in front of him. A dull look catches Wemmbu and holds him hostage. His shoulders fall. He’s resigned. He’s tired. He’s done. Flame recognises the expression, if only because he’s worn it while they ran from Law before and from the last time he defeated him. This isn’t so different, Wemmbu underneath him once again, and yet it is. The fight has left him entirely. Where there was surrender to preserve his own life, his eyes have now lost their edge, their struggle.
“So end it. You won, finish it. Or are you scared all of a sudden?”
He frowns. “Bro, what?” he chokes out. Wasn’t this an honorable fight? Didn’t he defend his title fair and square? Killing him now seems pointless, unnecessary. All the drive to pierce a blade through his opponent’s heart has left him now that he knows it’s him. He has already won.
“Who are you, bro?” he asks when he finds his voice again. “You’re not—you wouldn’t just roll over and let me kill you, bro. What happened?”
He asks the wrong thing. A gloved hand slips past his defenses, to where it knows a weapon sits tucked against his side. Hidden away but visible, the sheath reveals a dagger the size of his forearm. Sunlight catches on the metal. He can just barely make out the engraved lion’s paw crudely drawn into the silver, the sight of which sends a jolt of agony through his nervous system to make him flinch.
He grits his teeth. Both of them struggle, a mess of limbs as Flame tries to grab the knife. It grazes against his netherite.
The surprise of the attack gets Wemmbu so far that it slips close enough to tease the vulnerable spots between his armour but he’s not quick enough to anticipate how Flame pushes back. The grip he gets on his wrist has to bruise with the way Wemmbu curses at him.
There’s a flurry of movement. Then the dagger is between them, Flame using his weight to push down against the weapon and it sinks lower and lower. His eyes blaze fire as he twists the blade around. Suddenly, it points down at Wemmbu, and a state of panic takes over, eyes wide, eyebrows caught together as he seethes and struggles and hisses.
Now Wemmbu doesn’t seem so eager to die.
The dagger inches closer. Usually, either of them have some witty remark, some kind of comment to piss each other off more. But here, with the wind ruffling the grass and howling in the open air, alone under the cloudy sky and only the universe as witness, all that can leave them both are sounds of struggle.
The dagger aims for Wemmbu’s neck. His teeth have to be chipping with how hard he clenches his jaw. His hands are shaking, losing their grip, trying to dig their nails into his arm but his gloves and Flame’s armour are in the way.
The dagger sinks past the armour protecting the weak flesh of Wemmbu’s neck. Inches, there’s mere inches between the tip of the blade and the end of a life. One slip of focus, one shove … and he’s gone.
But there’s something in the way. Flame’s gaze slip down from Wemmbu’s to latch onto something iron, a dull, ugly kind of iron. The item sits around his neck not like an adornment, more like a prison, obviously tight and in the way of every breath he sucks in through chapped lips. He frowns down at it. The longer he stares, the more he notices.
The scratch marks along the iron. The redstone light buried somewhere on the side, glaring a mean red. The damaged skin underneath, with intricate patterns to rival a strike of lightning in the sky.
“What is that?” The sight brings an awful taste into his mouth. He watches Wemmbu close his eyes in what can only be shame, and that says enough. Bracing himself, he forces out a breath just before he knocks the dagger out of both of their hands. It falls somewhere in the grass beside them to be found again later.
Wemmbu falls back against the grass, his whole body goes limp. He makes no motion to reply in any way.
Now that he can stare, he notices a lot more. Most of all, he takes in the exhaustion weighing heavily on his face. Eyebags sit under eyes that have become dull over time, and the fight in them seems to have been left behind a while ago. It’s gone alongside most of his hair, which had once flowed to the back of his knees and now falls just below his chin in a cut, too-controlled way. This kind of look on him of all people is … wrong.
“Who did this?” His words are hushed now, yet still too loud here in the open. He already knows the answer but he dreads it like nothing else.
Carefully, more careful than he’s ever dared to be, he trails the iron making up the device around his neck. Heavy enchantments are etched into the underside. The mere sight of this very specific combination of letters makes his stomach twist. And although he can name a few people who could possibly treat another player like this, the realisation doesn’t become any easier.
Curse of binding on a shock collar. He feels sick.
“I can’t get it off.” Wemmbu rolls his head over until it taps against the mace by his side. Not once do his eyes leave Flame. A hint. A silent question, and he’s begging. Flame has already shown the solution; all it takes is a swing.
“You were sent to kill me by Lettuce?” he asks instead of acknowledging the weapon. In the face of what Wemmbu is implying, he won’t look at it. Even if the kill—and the title and power that come with it—is handed to him on a silver platter. He’s still demanding answers, knowing the heat in his arm is dying down.
A shrug. “Kill or be killed, he said. Only one of us can come out of this alive. I think we both know who it has to be. Between the two of us … we know who can actually kill him.”
He shakes his head before he knows it. Kill or be killed, and Wemmbu’s not fighting anymore. “No, what? Bro—”
A punch is thrown, hitting him square in the jaw. He rears back, the attack earning a shout of surprise, but he’s quick enough to recover and shove Wemmbu back against the ground with two hands on his shoulders before he can properly sit up. Satisfaction glints in Wemmbu’s eyes, dull as it is.
Then Flame feels the cold metal against his throat. How did he—?
“I don’t want to die,” Wemmbu admits, and he lets out a breath that comes shakily. The confession is quiet again, like he’s terrified of saying it out loud.
But isn’t this what he’s proven all along? He does anything to live, it’s something Flame has grown to admire about, the pure instinct to survive surpassing anything else, keeping him alive in a world that’s always wanted him dead. He doesn’t want to die, he’s lived this long to prove it.
And yet … he’s still lowering the dagger from Flame’s throat to let him take it, the hint more than clear. Curse of binding on an item that doesn’t have any indication of durability, something that’s already damaged him beyond repair because who knows how long it took to break him? Wemmbu wouldn’t wear these clothes nor this symbol willingly. How many days did it take? Flame has travelled for weeks to get this far without an elytra, and even more time has passed since their fight against the thousand player army.
He takes the dagger. With a heavy swallow, he tilts it down to aim at Wemmbu’s neck. When it rests against the iron, he glances up into those eyes and finds regret, exhaustion, everything that tells Flame he doesn’t want to keep going like this if it means going through all that pain again.
The tip trails down the iron until it rests over the hollow of his neck. Wemmbu’s breath hitches. He can’t help himself when his hand shoots up to grab at Flame’s wrist, the panic, the survival, not allowing him to rest.
This wouldn’t be an honorable death, would it? Flame grimaces. People might praise him for taking down a terrorist—if they ever look past his own flaws—but he’ll know, he’ll know it was mercy instead, not a fight he wanted to win. He’s going to have to live with a death on his consciousness he didn’t want, that neither of them wanted.
He grits his teeth. With the shake of his head scolding himself for his stupidity, he lifts the dagger up to scrape along the collar until it catches an edge, and then he’s carefully prying it loose with gentle motions back-and-forth.
“What are you doing?” is choked out like the motions hurt him physically—and maybe they do, if they drag over bruised skin. His hand remains locked around Flame’s, but even now, he’s too scared to stop him. Almost like trying to stop people messing with him has done nothing but harm him.
But he’s still fighting, Flame almost scoffs. No one will ever see just how admirable and impressive Wemmbu is as a person except for him.
The curse of binding doesn’t let him take off the top plate from the collar. Flame works it open as much as he’s allowed, tongue stuck out between his lips as he focuses. His efforts give him a view of circuits and lights. And trust him, he’s no redstone master, but he’ll figure something out, Wemmbu deserves as much.
“Uh, do you have any idea how they made this? Is there an off-switch?” he asks, just to be sure. Who knows? Maybe Lettuce’s engineers made it easy for them. Wouldn’t that be perfect?
But Wemmbu sighs. “I don’t know. You’re the one looking at it, genius. Do you see an off-switch?”
He glares at the mechanics. Surely an off-switch would be obvious enough to see instantly. “I don’t think so, bro.” He purposely dodges the incredulous look he gets. “Do you think there’s any chance of triggering it if I do this wrong?”
Wemmbu goes rigid beneath him, as if the mere thought sends a shock through his body. Flame frowns at him, a strange and unfamiliar feeling coursing through his veins at the sheer agony on Wemmbu’s face at the idea. Sympathy? It might be sympathy.
The tip of the dagger hovers over the lines of redstone carefully aligned to make this piece of machinery work—something he’d call impressive if its existence didn’t make him feel sick. He’s never learned redstone, never one to get into such complicated things when the concept of picking up a sword was much more interesting to him. All he really knows is that lit up redstone means on, and if the dust doesn’t glow, the redstone is off.
Maybe that’s all he really needs to know, though. Swallowing the nerves down, he scrapes the blade gently across a line of redstone that sits against the collar walls, dark and unpowered. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, squinting to see better as he works.
Slowly but surely, he undoes the work of that damn collar. At some point, Wemmbu’s hand relaxes around his wrist, up until the moment it goes slack and falls back onto his own chest. He ignores the stare he gets.
“I think …” he starts, and sucks in a breath between his teeth at his own uncertainty, “I think it should be off?”
“Why is that even a question, Flame?” Wemmbu shoots back, lips drawn back into a snarl. But the anger is a win, because there’s that fire he’s missed the whole time. He glares up at Flame, hands twitching where he struggles not to reach out. “Is it fucking off or not?”
Flame grins for just a moment. He sits back on his haunches to survey his work. Letting go of the collar means the enchantment snaps it shut again and he loses sight of the redstone wiring within. A cold breeze catches both of them as he contemplates, and Wemmbu shivers underneath him. He grabs at his arm, if only to steal some of the heat that seeps through his armour.
“I don’t know redstone, bro. It shouldn’t work anymore, but I don’t know!”
Wemmbu narrows his eyes. “And how do you want to test this? What if you did it wrong?”
Well, there’s one way to find out. Flame highly doubts there’s no safety feature built in. With a sigh, he undoes a latch or two on his gauntlet and lets it slip from his hand to give himself extra space before he reaches out, carefully running his bare fingers over the iron. Wemmbu’s chest rises with an anxious breath in. Flame says nothing about it. He searches until he finds the part where the collar has to be clicked together, and shimmies his fingers between the collar and Wemmbu’s neck, ignoring the grimace his actions get him.
Now, if he did it wrong, they’ll both suffer the consequences. If he missed something, he’ll learn just what kind of hell Wemmbu went through.
He holds his breath. With his other hand, he tugs at the collar. Nothing happens … yet. His breath is released.
He sucks in another breath, face caught in his frown. With some effort, he tries twisting the two parts in opposite directions. It makes Wemmbu wince, and he glances over for a second to see him clench his eyes shut in anticipation. Nothing happens again. He can’t help his sigh of relief.
“What usually sets it off?”
Wemmbu pries open an eye. Disbelief settles on his features. He stares at his arm where his hands disappear around his neck, and he lets out a shaky laugh. “It didn’t go off?” he asks, the weakest Flame’s probably ever heard him. “It didn’t go off. That usually did it, bro. Just … just messing with it.”
Flame finally allows himself to grin in proper victory. “I did it?”
There’s some actual glee in Wemmbu’s face now. He shoves Flame’s hands away from his neck, taking the warmth with it. All the energy flows back into his body, the sun peeking over Flame’s head to light up his head, and he lets himself smile too, sharp teeth poking into his bottom lip.
He laughs at the sight. Even when Wemmbu eventually shoves him off with an unexpected push, he’s laughing, rolling over into the grass to lie next to him.
A silence settles between them. Clouds drift by overhead. That breeze that made a chill settle in their bodies—one more than the other—now feels gentle, a relief. Grass tickles their skin.
Now what? He doesn’t bother thinking about it. His fingers twist around a blade of grass and he plucks it from the ground, letting the simple thing rest in his palm. It’ll shrivel up and die if he so much as gets an inkling of annoyance, but now it’s resting easily. He helped. He did something good. Before now, he wasn’t so sure he was capable of doing good.
“All we have to do is wear this stupid thing down until it falls off on its own, then I’m free.”
Free. He feels about the furthest thing from free. They’ll both be hunted down until the ends of the earth. Free. At least they’re not held on a leash by Lettuce, that definitely counts for something. He can’t imagine being treated like a damn dog by the Law in such a way, but he knows Lettuce himself would absolutely dream of something so vile.
Flame rolls his head over until he can stare at Wemmbu. “Where are you gonna go, bro? Nowhere is safe. They’re still coming after me here, even so far away from spawn.”
The other heaves a deep sigh. “You’re not gonna like my answer.”
He snorts. “Really? Orbital strike cannon?” He can’t say he’s surprised. The two seem to go hand in hand at this point.
“Orbital strike cannons. I’m going to the Farlands to prepare as many shots as I need to kill Lettuce for good.” Wemmbu finally looks at him too, like he’s waiting for a reaction of judgement. “What else do you expect me to do?”
“Bro.” He grins. “I think orbital strike cannons are what we need right now. Let’s burn that place to the ground.”
Maybe it’s not all bad. When Wemmbu returns the mirth, his arm heats up. Oh, he’s so ready for this. Their rivalry can be put aside, for now, a second time, to deal with the Law until it’s gone. He’ll take an unfair fight because it’s not like Lettuce plays any more fair than either of them.
Wemmbu grabs at his shock collar. When it does nothing, he laughs, hysterical, free. “Oh, yeah! I’m going to kill him!”