He had died to Martyn before. In the first hunt when was the final Green left. He had begged, screaming through the water for his ally, his fellow Mean Gill to kill him. He had smiled as his friend plunged the sword into his chest and finally ended the hunt, bringing on the Yellow Mellow Era.
He wouldn't have had it any other way.
He had lived on, thriving on the Coral Isles. He had watched as they were destroyed. By TNT, primarily. Time and time again his Isles had been bombed by the others. He'd rebuilt it every time with Martyn's help.
He wouldn't have lived his life any other way.
He had gone on a hunt. Recklessly killing those who had tormented him during the hunt for extra time. He'd stolen hours. He'd done so with pride. And yet, he had no regrets. No regrets, even as more and more blood stained his already red hands. No regrets, even when the voices in his mind cursed at him for doing so. No regrets, even when he knew the other versions of him, somewhere in their own SMPs, were frowning upon him for being so primitive.
He wouldn't have killed them any other way.
He stole as many hours as he gave away. Allies came running to him in a desperate plea for the time he had. They would offer a trade for him; items in exchange for time. But that wasn't necessary. He had more than enough time on his hands. He would've given it away regardless of a reward. He'd grin foolishly at how his allies would thnk him graciously for his generosity.
He wouldn't have given away his hours any other way.
He recalled the last few moments he had left. Impulse and Martyn had taken two of his hours, one each. They were all on a level playing field. Equal chances of death. One or so kills would be enough to end their lives and stop their clocks. He had gripped his sword tighter than he ever had before in his life. The roar for blood pounded in his ears. The ticking of his timer resonated with every heartbeat, every breath, every subtle twitch of bloodlust. His entire body ached with the need for blood. For more time. For survival.
He had died to the hands of an ally. He had finally broken his curse. He no longer had to outlive the ones he loved most. He no longer had to look out over an empty plain with an ache in his chest as his heart yearned for the touch of his closest friends, sometimes even lovers. First it had been the sweet, wonderful Jimmy who he had been married to during the first game. Pearl was second, the amazing and helpful friend she was. Cleo, the not-soulmate he had made to spite how their soulmates had mutually abandoned them. And Martyn. Protective, comforting Martyn. A loyal soldier until the end. He had saved Scott's life countless times in this game. He had long lost count of how many times the two of them gave and took lives in the effort of elongating their ally's life. He lost count of the nights they had sat together, warm in each other's arms as they stared at the waves lapping at the shore of the Coral Isles. The traps. The small domestic moments they shared. The joy.
And even as Martyn stabbed the sword through his chest with the ruthlessness of a man so numb to killing it no longer hurt to slaughter his closest ally, he couldn't help how joyful he felt. His curse was broken. He could finally die without grief weighing down his heavy heart. He could be brought back to seeing his friends after the games as their ghostly forms floated about to oversee the end. He no longer had to weep at the sight of his friends.
He watched Martyn win with a warm heart and happiness pumping through his blood. The curse breaking would upset Them. They would be furious. He laughed at the thought. He really had denied them every time. Only on this occasion, it had been with the help of another that he had defied Their wishes.
He gave the order. He told Grian to do it. He watched Martyn be killed in the blissful peacefulness he had experienced many games ago. And he threw himself into Martyn's arms desperately, relishing in how his ally hugged back.
Scott wouldn't have had this any other way.
Not one bit.