lifeaftr | minecraft is unrealistic

Entry tags:

minecraft is unrealistic

Who: Héctor, anyone
What: His spirit is as dead as he is.
When: July 25th
Where: Enso
Warnings: Mild injury, and a truckload of d e s p a i r to start with.

It's mid afternoon, one year and then some after he first arrived on the beaches of the island. The thirteenth month. Thirteen's been said to be an unlucky number. Certainly it's not doing him any favors.

As good and kind as everyone is... it's just not enough. Not every day. There's only one thing that ever will be, one thing which he always seems to be denied, one way or another. Granted, not much about his situation is new, when it comes down to it, but then neither are these deep black moods. There were no failures this year. No bridge. Nothing to try. Everything's perfectly fine until he can't fake it anymore, because everything is not fine.

He had four pleasant days with his family, after so long dreaming of them. Was that it? Is that all he'll ever have? And there's no reason for it, seeing as there's very little he can do someone else can't do better. Of course, if he hadn't been so stupid, he would have had many years with them before being drawn to this world, not only four days... stupid, stupid, stupid. He's always been stupid. It explodes outwards as anger first, for a few minutes, but that's hard to sustain for him. So...

He's just lying on the ground, in the leaves underneath a tree, no smile on his face and cracks spiderwebbing through all the bones of one hand. Don't punch trees if you have no padding on your hands, you won't like the results. He doesn't want to get up, he doesn't want to goof off, joke around, play games, none of that. There's... nothing. No point at all.

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"It wasn't great, no. But that's not the point. The point is that I was...pretty useless there. Getting in people's way. Actively making shit worse, a lotta the time. But if I was stuck there, I was gonna try and help, so I finally asked what I could do."

Rin Tohsaka. He still remembers. Didn't know her for long, but the people you meet under life-changing circumstances tend to stick.

"A friend showed me how to make compost. So that's what I did. Not a big deal. Not a real important thing. It was small, but it wasn't nothing."

Ah. It doesn't take a genius to work out what Tim's probably going to say next. The bright side is there's very little negative anyone can say Héctor hasn't been telling himself for decades. And it's a valid point. Do something, you fool, don't lie here and throw yourself a pity party.

He nods slowly, not dismissively, fiddling with that ratty necktie. He's listening. "No. Not nothing. I get what you're saying."

"You don't have to be a genius. Just 'cause you don't see yourself as useful doesn't mean you're not. Doesn't mean you don't help."

He scratches at the rough stubble that's been crawling up the line of his jaw, the underside of his chin.

"I mean, take the cornfield. I'm pretty sure you're the only person who knows how to manage that thing, and actually make something outta it."

Oh. Not what he expected. What he should have expected, though. Enso Castaways, all wonderful people--besides one or two exceptions. Most of the cruel things said about him come from his own mean thoughts.

He sits up slowly, with relatively little rattling. "I... guess I am. And you guys need to eat. I've been meaning to show a few of you what I know, in case I do disappear one of these days."

"See? I'm a pretty miserable cook. Could always stand to learn something about how to actually make something edible. I mean, there's a reason that I'm not the guy who does food prep at Denny." Has he ever officially told Héctor there's a place for him there? He's seen him around, sure, but if he knows how to cook, knows how to make something - and hey, Muffet could even help with that, maybe. She can make food magic, right? Probably make it so he can even eat it.

"You know you can make stuff there whenever you want. Pretty sure Muffet won't mind."

"Ah, about that, I might have already been." Without being invited, Tim's right. It's not a small thing to ask permission when you're used to being told no... but he's not just one of the forgotten anymore, is he? Or that lunatic who causes scenes and makes a pest of himself once a year in a city with a long memory.

Normally he'd be more apologetic about it. He isn't, all he does is shrug. "We don't get the chance much in the land of the dead. I missed it. I could teach you... you built the place, I was just taking advantage of it."

"I didn't, really. Just fixed it up a little." It was a building like any other. He just took the time to patch it up, is all. People are doing it all over the place, now.

"Hey, that's why it's there. You're not taking advantage. You're using it like it's meant to be used."

"Right, right, you know what I meant. I'm not the best at... actually asking before I barge in."

He folds his arms, resting his chin on the long bones and is quiet for a moment. Not long.

"Do you want a few lesson some other day?"

"Always useful to learn new things, if you're up for teaching someone with no experience in farming or cooking at all." He lived on a college diet, and then he lived on a diet characteristic of someone who ate on the road frequently. None of that was ideal in terms of learning some useful adult skills.

He learned to survive. That was mainly what he had going for him.

"That's fine. It's all pretty simple." He's miles away from his usual tone, though he does sound less blatantly miserable. "Lucky for you guys I was alive before appliances and electricity were a thing, I guess. That's probably half the reason I have the slightest idea what I'm doing."

"Hey, I used to work in construction. Doesn't mean I had any idea how to work with raw materials. It's a learning curve."

He's pretty old, then, huh? Technically, anyway. He...does he count as all that old when you stop aging once you die? Do you stop aging?

He needs to stop thinking about this. Afterlifes don't really hold much promise, in his opinion, so he just kind of hopes that in his world, there isn't one.

"It's not hard." He's shooting for encouraging, in a subdued way.

"It wasn't what I did for a living, actually. Just a few times when we needed the extra money. Anyone can learn how to cook." Maybe not be a master chef, but at least make something edible. "Or grind corn, that's easy. Doesn't take much strength, I mean... look at me."

"What did you do for a living?"

Making conversation, right? Good stuff, normal stuff. That's probably safe enough as a topic of discussion. God, but Tim has no idea how normal people are meant to relate to one another. He's never been normal or relatable, in his experience.

"I was a musician. Played music for parties or weddings or in church... whatever came up. It was a pretty small town, sometimes I'd go a while without anyone needing a guy with a guitar." Two guys, but. Hell. If anyone deserves to be edited out of the story, it's Ernesto, not Héctor. He grimaces for just a moment. "But that's not as useful where we are."

"It's not always about useful. People used to do live music at Denny, I think." Mira, he's pretty sure. Tim...he'd never have that kind of confidence in his skill to commit to something like that, but she can't be the only one to want to, right?

"You like doing it?"

He smiles a bitter smile. Music. A blessing and a curse.

"I loved it. Some part of me still loves it. Which is crazy, there's no reason I should. That's--that's a long story." A beat. Another wincing face. "Okay, no, that's not true, not exactly a long story, but it's... something. It's complicated."

Which more than likely means it's not a happy story. He's never one to hold back any good feelings, that's just plain silly.

No reason he should love it, huh?

There's not enough context to know for sure what he means by that. Something bittersweet. Something difficult to reconcile, maybe. He won't pretend that he's any good at this, talking about shit. But he's learned to try.

"You don't have to get into it if you don't wanna. But if you do, I mean...it's not like I'm doing anything time sensitive."

"It's not the worst thing some people on Enso have been through. But it's... not great, either. And it's mostly my own fault, no matter what anyone says. You sure you want that on your head?"

It's surprising, really, how few castaways ask him why he's such an eyesore. Why he looks like shit and can't be bothered to remember to change clothes more than once a year.

"Anyone who wants to turn shit into a contest over who's had it worse isn't someone you need to talk about your problems to," says Tim, speaking as someone who was that kind of person until life taught him one better. "And they're not someone you probably wanna talk to at all, period."

Tim shrugs with one shoulder, offhand and deprecating.

"If it makes you feel better, I've got pretty bad memory problems. Might as well tell this stuff to someone who's got a fifty-fifty chance of forgetting, right?"

"You've got a point there. About myself, anyway." A shadow of a grin, also self-deprecating. "I'll talk to anyone, I'll talk their ears off. Haven't you noticed?"

Memory problems. That gives him a start, throwing him off for a moment. Well. Here goes nothing. "I wrote some songs of my own, once. Went on tour with my friend, I'd known him for as long as I could remember, since we were still losing baby teeth. We were out to become famous, he was obsessed with it. Only he wasn't quite as good as me. My songs were what was going to bring us success. He didn't think he could do it on his own. So when I said I had enough, I wanted to go back to my family..."

He trails off. Take it away from him, Tim. Figure it out on your own. Use your imagination, and don't make him say it.

Someone else can talk. Tim's better at listening, anyway. He resists the urge to dig at a cigarette. He's been trying to quit. He's still not really sure about what else he should be doing with his hands, though, so eventually he slips a flip-knife from his pocket and opens it and closes it without any seeming pattern to the motions.

It holds everything in place and keeps his thoughts from drifting while he listens.

"He didn't like the sound of that, I'm guessing."

"No."

It's surprising even himself how steady his voice stays, talking about these things. It's only been a year since he learned the truth. He can count on one hand how many times he's gone over it with another person. Most of his friends who happen to have been murdered knew straight away... this, his situation, it's something else entirely. Something unresolved, because he's been trapped on a goddamn island since finding out.

"And that was it. That was my death. He went on to become famous with mangled versions of my songs, so..." He fiddles with the rim of his hat, also wanting to keep his hands busy. "I don't play anymore."

"He killed you?"

Héctor doesn't spell it out, but he doesn't need to. That was my death. A jealous partner, a disagreement. It's easy to pull together the pieces.

"Low blow." Tim blows out a breath to the effect of well, damn. "Don't want to, or afraid to?"

"He poisoned me." And who drank the poison, naive, trusting his 'friend'? This idiot did. He had everything he wanted, he walked away, he deserved what he got.

"I don't want to. I don't want to enjoy it. But I still do, no matter how hard I try."

"Jesus." It's said with a sort of blunt acknowledgment. Fucked up, but not all that surprising. Given that murder is, apparently, involved in this backstory, it was never going to be pretty.

"That's not really something you can change."

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