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Contrary to popular assumptions, the void isn’t cold.
No one who’d experienced The End would call it warm exactly, but it wasn’t the frigid icyness that people who died there said it was. It was a common misconception; a respawn after a void death was like being doused in a mountainside river during Winter. The death itself, and the hungry void that brought it, was not that extreme in temperature in actuality.
Not cold, not warm. Decidedly, strangely, neutral.
It only added to the uneasiness of the dimension. Vast empty nothingness, passive yet violently antisocial creatures of obsidian purple, a lone endling mourning in a neverending circle. And such unremarkable temperatures.
The uncanniness of not cold-not warm is all that remained. All around him is darkness littered with white specks. No endstone, no dragon, nothing tangible. He doesn’t even know how he’s standing. The floor bleeds into the distant not-walls and the tall ceiling of void. Everything is void. Everything but him.
But something has changed.
The first thing he notices is the extra weight on his back. Instead of the manageable dusty brown wings he was born with, four wings of unknown avian origin are there. The feathers shine a glossy violet until the very ends, which appear dipped in scarlet. The wingspan is much more than he’s used to, even more so when the lower pair are shorter and smaller than the upper ones.
The next anomaly is this…gnawing feeling in his chest. Not quite hunger, at least not the kind he’s familiar with. It feels so normal and yet it makes his new feathers ruffle. Makes him want to clamp his jaws around something, teeth sink into something tangible yet not, like the void he’s found himself in. It’s an instinct deep and primal and new.
It scares him.
The last thing, the thing that’s been growing worse the longer he’d ignored it, was the headache. It’s a pounding force in his skull. His brain is in overdrive trying to focus on so many points of interest. Thoughts? Emotions? People?
People. That’s right. There were… There are people. He isn’t alone here.
He Knows he’s not alone here.
He focuses on that, pushing away everything else. The new right wrong sensations fade. The headache lessens, the hunger becomes manageable. Four large wings relax.
He’s alright. He'll be alright. He’s still Grian.
“What did you do to me?”
His voice is unchanged but echoes in the space.
“Ascended Watcher.” A melodic, staticky voice responded. “Artificial Fledgeling. The impossible has been done. So says our Creator.”
“Strangely mortal.” Another voice, similar yet different, commented. “Though we are not privy to her power. Tell us, Xelqua, do you now hunger?”
“I…What…?” Grian blinked at their speech. “Did you…make me a Watcher?!”
“In a way. Perhaps not.” The first voice sounded like a shrug. “Do you remember? Do you hunger?”
“Are you Lesser, a protector?” The second voice added.
“Lesser? I, I’m still me.” Grian insisted. “Whatever you did, it clearly didn’t work.”
The Watchers hummed contemplatively. The sound put Grian at war with himself. One part of him, the sane, Player part, flinched away from the scrutiny. The other half, driven by new instincts of recognizing fellows of the flock, was calmed in Their presence.
“There are variants.” The second voice spoke calmly. “Those Who Watch to feed, Those Who Watch like guards. Those who follow Her Will, and Those who follow ours.”
“It is a matter of personal strength, some would argue.” The first one said. “Strong enough to resist the instincts. Weak enough to fall for the allure. It is different for each Watcherborn.”
“You’ll be weak to us, we bet.” Two said. “But to you it will be strength. No matter, you are still mostly Player. Still mostly alive.”
“It’s a curse for Watcherborn. But you are blessed. Kept your memory. Kept yourself.”
“Little trickster, so lucky. Didn’t die, not totally.” A slight bitterness coated the words.
Grian’s wings bristled. “So you changed me into some half Player-Watcher hybrid, what, just because?”
Silence. Then—
“If it worked…” Two began.
“It could have worked. If she only considered it an option.” One muttered.
“Together we are strong, Watchers. But the Universe is the Creator of all. The power she wielded was greater than ours. If you follow Her Will—”
“We could have. From the beginning, it should have gone like this. It’s possible.”
There’s a weight, heavy and mournful, in the void. Grian never really thought on what exactly Watchers were, or why They deigned to be the benefactors for Evo’s update generating. High Entities didn’t usually interact with Players even as minimally as They did.
He really should have questioned it.
“I see… So, the Universe made Watchers from Players? But what you did to me is better than the usual process, because that…erases you?” Grian clarified.
“So it seems. You say you are still you, still act as you do. It is clear you are not Watcherborn, Xelqua.” One said.
“Okay, why do you keep calling me that? And what even is a Watcher? I’ve never heard of the Universe transforming Players into Entities.” Grian said.
“A proper Watcher deserves a proper name, little trickster.” Two chirped.
"It's an honor only an Elder can grant. Take heed of the privilege, fledgeling, less you offend the unnamed mass of Lessers that fight for an identity.” One scolded. “As for what we are…”
Grian jolted as the two Watcherborn began reciting their explanation in unison.
“We are Those Who Watch and Know and See,
Eyes span far and wide and reach
beyond the boundaries of time and void and personal wards.
Her Will be brought upon our birth
to protect those far above our worth.
Yet when the hunger grew and tastes picked,
the flock split and sought the wish
of more than being the servants.
Strength a testament of will.
Of freedom to feed
or protect still.
Our gaze is set upon the Chosen
and to the Players we are beholden.
Such is the life of a Watcher.”
Grian felt the words strike a chord within him, a personal history imprinted on his brain. No longer blindsided by his sudden transmutation, he can sift through the new instincts. The urge to Know the locations of his friends (his Players) is what sends the sharp pain of a headache off. His new wings flutter on impulse, tempting him to rush off and…and what?
Most of him wants to see them, Know they’re safe, protect them. The other part?
The other part is hungry.
“Watchers eat Player's emotions.” Grian stated more than asked. The Knowledge is as instinctual as breathing. “And most of Them got addicted, didn’t They?”
“You’ll understand soon, Xelqua.” Two said in a reassuring yet condescending cadence. “The hunger never fades. Hard to contain, it dulls and wanes, never culled or satiated for long. Thinking badly on those who indulge never does anyone good.”
“But it’s not…not just eating emotions, is it?” Grian grit his teeth, heart racing. He Knows. Somehow, he Knows exactly what it means when a Watcher indulges in the hunger. “Some of you have preferences. And you don’t care if you hurt Players to get what you want.”
“Dear Xelqua, every creature has their favorite foods.” One said. “Comforting dishes. Do you eat just anything on the menu? When the plate doesn’t satisfy, do you force the meal down anyway? What sort of life is that? When you can mess with ingredients, alter the recipe, make it perfect, why wouldn’t you?”
“Because it’s people! They shouldn’t have to suffer for your sake!”
“I can’t help the circumstances of my origin. Would you consider it just for me to resign myself to a bland life?” One said softly.
“There are many who enjoy hurting Players for more than taste, but there are also those of us who wish to live unrestrained. Eat what we want, with no refrain.” Two added before Grian could argue. “It’s simply nature, how we are. Can you blame a wolf for hunting a sheep?”
Grian faltered. He could see their reasoning, feel the cause. A more hungry, less willful Watcher could easily ignore the noble instinct to protect. Perhaps it’s only because he’s still mostly Player that he feels indignant. That his whole self revolts at the idea of seeing them as cattle. But…
“A wolf doesn’t torture.” Grian argued.
“It would if it meant it could be less hungry for longer.” Two said matter-of-factly.
Grian deflated. “So what now? You succeeded in…changing me.”
“Now we must educate you as any other fledgeling.” One replied. “Teach you to recognize the instincts and learn what Watcher you are. What part of you to reject.”
“I won’t hurt anyone.” Grian declared immediately. “I don’t care what instincts say, I won’t become some, some monster.”
The air grew charged. Oppressive. Grian tensed as the feeling of being Watched enveloped him.
One spoke, the melodic tone turned buzzing and cold. “Perhaps your will is the same as ours. Selfish. Monsterous. Or maybe the Universe would’ve liked to create more Ascendants than Watcherborn. Regardless, do well to remember that judgement among the flock is unwelcome. Only Players have that… privilege, among everything else.”
“Fear not, fledgeling.” Two interjected reassuringly. “You are not a prisoner. Not to us at least. We will teach and you will learn. Then you can leave.”
“And we shall see what prevails in the end,” One growled. “The desire to protect, or the hunger.”
Grian took a steadying breath. “…Where do we begin?”