Hermitcraft Oneshots and Requests

Disparity

I'd say "I hope I'm on schedule" except I don't have one. So I'm just gonna say that I hope I didn't keep yall waiting for too long. I've just been super busy with school and a particular art project that you'll probably see relatively soon.

So, this fic takes place in Season 6, during the Civil War, except it's escalated into an actual conflict.

Requested by ArtimisWarrior.
I sincerely hope that this was up to the mark.

Warnings: A lot of swearing, mental breakdown
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Word Count: 2845
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"How in God's name was I ever friends with a piece of shit like you?"

"I could ask myself the same question."

"You're a pathetic waste of space"

"At least I contribute to the server, instead of being a useless troglodyte like you"

"Pathetic... useless... absolutely worthless!"

"Why don't you crawl back into the hell you came from and die!"

A lovely afternoon had quickly transcended into madness as interests began to conflict one another. The situation in Hermitcraft had not been optimal for a very, very long time. This, however, came to him as a slap in the face.

What had started as a simple, civil conversation between friends had made it's slow descent into hell. Words could act as weapons that quickly turned into shots, and the talking slowly escalated into yells and curses that Zedaph couldn't quite catch. He felt distraught, caught in the crossfire of a war that had torn two of his best friends apart, to the point where both of them were almost unrecognisable.

Impulse and Tango were yelling, far too loudly. Their voices peaked repeatedly as they spat insults at one another, their hands hovering over the handle of their swords, ready to unsheath the diamond blades. Zedaph stood at the sidelines, silently begging for them to stop. The two had arrived at the doorstep of his base that day with very different intentions, and for that reason alone all of them were suffering.

The Civil War on the server had turned into something so much more than any of them could have ever anticipated. It was meant to be a fun, server wide event sparked by pranks that no one could quite pin onto a single source. In a frenzy of the classic "he said, she said" argument, people had wreaked havoc on one another and in a blur of events, two teams had formed. Initially, both had simply sworn to win. However, as time went on, the objectives of the two teams had slowly turned towards destroying the other.

Zedaph had visited the battlefield once, simply out of sheer curiosity. He never wanted to see it again. The ground was scorched, damaged by the activities of warfare and burnt by the devices of the very people that trodded along its surface. He wished so desperately that the war wasn't real. That it was just a simple game, and there were no hard feelings. However, not even he could deny the red that stained the dirt underneath the soles of his shoes.

There was a respite between Doc and Grian that far worse than anything he could have ever imagined. That, however, was expected. The two were leading the opposing teams, and butted heads often in the name of war. But Zedaph could only imagine how difficult it must have been for Tango and Impulse to have seen each other on the enemy's side when the groups were first announced. He could practically visualise Tango's seething anger, and Impulse's disappointed glare. The image that painted his mind was unsettlingly vivid. He knew his friends, how they'd react. And they were better than this. They were so much better than this.