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For being the guy known for always going to the Nether, Martyn has never stopped being weary of it. He’s not scared of the Nether, but it’s a kind of respect, he knows he has a bigger chance of dying than surviving in there, but since he went once, he now has to go every time.
Mostly, the Nether makes him uncomfortable. It’s too hot. Too dry.
Way too hot. Even when you’re far from the lava, it feels like the air is boiling and contains too little oxygen.
BANG!
Martyn is seriously trying to not scream. He’s hiding in between some walls, the sneak that he is, and the Piglins in the Bastion around him clearly know he’s there, and are trying to drive him out. He’s unsure if they’re banging at the blackstone walls with their fists, or if they’re stomping at the ground.
Either way, horrifying.
He draws back his pickaxe and sees a smidge of light from a small hole in the wall. He aims there again and a bigger piece comes out.
He hits again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
He can fit his whole arm through, but can’t find anything to help him break through on the other side. He puts his shield down to grip the pickaxe with both hands, and lays down another hard blow.
He could maybe squeeze through now, but if there’s anywhere in the whole universe he doesn’t want to risk getting stuck, it’s right here. In the Nether, and in the middle of a very hostile Bastion.
He swings again. 50% chance of getting stuck. He leans on his pickaxe for a moment, catching his breath and opening and closing his mouth multiple times, trying to ignore the stinging burn of dehydration. When he gets back to the Overworld, he might as well drink the whole lake around the Heart Foundation.
He holds the pickaxe with one hand and shakes his other arm, trying to get the exhaustion out. He does the same on the other hand, and shrugs a few times, trying to get the stinging out of his shoulders.
He swings again. He wants to be fully sure. If he went in head first and got stuck by the shoulders, he wouldn’t be able to reach the communicator in his back pocket.
He aims higher up. A hole big enough for two people emerges finally, and Martyn lets out a very brief grin before he feels his pickaxe drop, pricking his foot.
What the fuck is that.
The Piglin stares him straight in the eyes.
No, not the Piglin.
The Piglin Brute.
Martyn’s hand somehow manages to move on autopilot, trying to snatch his shield from the floor beside him.
He briefly sees the flash of gold before the blade tears into his shoulder, knocking him down on the ground, and he can’t stop the literal screech that his throat involuntarily lets out. He hears footsteps all around for a brief second, clearly more Piglins want to play.
He manages to deflect the second strike by pretty much throwing his shield at the Piglin Brute, and the janky wooden shield that has already seen far past its best days breaks in two, the iron rim hitting his knee and making it sting.
The third strike seems to take a year to hit.
The word “yellow, yellow, yellow” chants through his head, almost mocking him at this negative achievement.
The Piglin Brute’s face is nonhuman enough that Martyn can’t make out its expression, but he has a feeling that it’s grinning.
The third strike hits, digging into Martyn’s throat and chest. The realization of “this is what Ren felt all those seasons ago” manages to flash through his head before he can, vomit-inducingly enough, feel his lungs fill with blood.