Aquinnix

I finally got around to updating this intro post!

My name is Aquinnix, and I’m an MCYT fic author. I mainly write for the Traffic Life Series, Hermitcraft, and Vampires SMP but I’ve also done a few things for Empires, Newlife, and Witchcraft.

My ask box is always open! I’m more than happy to get writing suggestions, questions regarding my works or just questions in general, and anything else really. (Please do keep in mind that I’m not all that comfortable writing romance, and anything NSFW is a big no)

Some of my longer works include…

Gilded Moonlight: A Pearl centric Hermitcraft fic (with references to Empires), involving past mistakes and mythology

Picking the Pieces up off an Empty Floor: A Tango centric Hermitcraft AU that asks the question, what if Tango became king?

Skin of Theseus (part of my ongoing series The Soles of your Shoes Tell a Different Story): A Cleo centric origin fic with more than a smidge of body horror

I WAS SORRY TOO: Grumbot Prime's POV of the world he came from, and things aren't as simple as they seem

The Hippocratic Oath (As Recited by Someone with Nothing Left to Lose): After his turning, Legs becomes the monster Owen wanted him to be

Hit the ground running. That was the only way to survive. Look in the mirror and search through his memory for the right cadence of speech, for the right way to hold himself, for the right way to be. 

And pretend. Never ever let the truth slip. Even if they started squinting, even if they asked questions. Brush off and deny and be who he now was. He wasn’t Mumbo. This wasn’t Mumbo’s face and Mumbo’s body. How could it ever be him? 

Ignore that wanting, ignore that desire to think and act and be, that was someone else now, be quiet. 

Hit the ground and run and run and run and run and run and don’t ever fall. 

Why? Don’t ask questions. He looked in the mirror and he had a green streak in his hair and he was someone else. He looked in the mirror and he was aflame and he was someone else. Be someone else. This was the only way to get close. 

Pretend to feel that hate because certainly it must be somewhere in this blood. Pretend to know because certainly it must be somewhere in these bones.  

Mumbo wasn’t here. Mumbo never had been. Mumbo was somewhere else. In the back of this mangled mind. Feel it. Hear it. See it. Be instinct. Lie and lie and don’t fall and only tell the truth. It wasn’t him. Be this body and this blood and these bones. 

Hit the ground. Get up. Get up. Get up! 

Tango couldn’t see. Tango couldn’t see past the smoke, couldn’t see past the red consuming his vision. After everything. After everything that Tango had done for him, everything that Tango had given up in a desperate attempt to hold this team together because that was all he was good for, just a resource, just a check to cash in. 

And now this? Not even a sliver of gratitude, quite the opposite. A blade slashing through his back, as on the nose as this broken metaphor could possibly be. 

Tango was going to kill him. 

Tango was going to take it all back, everything Tango had given, everything Tango had convinced himself had been taken from him willingly. Fire, blazing bright and hot and all consuming, this light that cast out endless shadow and chased away everything else that had even a chance at mattering. 

This rage. This uncontrollable, beautiful, oh so well deserved rage. How could they not see it? Was his own beating heart really nothing more than a convenience? A heart that now beat so loud and fast it was all Tango could hear. Thump thump thump the sound of panicked footsteps on a staircase, the sound of metal bashing against skin and bone, the sound of shouting, over and over again. 

Tango was done. 

The reflection of his face in crystal, every muscle tensed, his eyes burning. Unleashed. 

Pearl pulled back the string of her bow. It was a tension that extended to the rest of her body, every muscle held taut and ready to be let loose. Waiting. Anticipating. 

This was her moment. After everything, this, here, right now, this was it. This was what it had all led up to. And after all the pain that Scott had caused her, Pearl could finally take her due. 

Her hands shook slightly as she steadied her aim. Making certain that the arrow, when she finally let loose, would hit its target perfectly. 

Pearl was ready to kill him. 

And then Scott started talking. They weren’t words of anger, of war, of anything that Pearl had been expecting. After all, Scott hated her, right? 

“You deserve this more.” 

What was he talking about? Of course it was true, after everything she had done to get here. She deserved it. But Scott shouldn’t be saying it like that, like it was some sort of defeat. 

Pearl’s hands began to shake even more but still she maintained her aim. What was Scott doing? That look on his face… what was it? Resignation?

“Tilly death do us part Pearl.” 

Where did he get that stick of dynamite? Pearl flinched back when he lit it, ready to dodge and duck for cover. But Scott held onto it. Why wasn’t he letting go?

“Tilly death do us part!” 

Pearl’s vision went white. She could feel fire searing her skin, the force of the blast tearing her limb from limb. It was excruciating, drowning out everything else. But eventually Pearl was able to open her eyes and see that no, she had not been thrown apart. She was standing mostly unscathed, aside from a bit of dust darkening her cloak. 

But Scott was gone. And Pearl could still see the blood, and some of those pieces. 

Pearl let the arrow loose and it struck only air. Tears began to stream down her face. 

Lizzie was so excited. She had spent all day making preparations, giving out invites. It was important to make that effort to take advantage of those little quiet moments. Soon enough everyone would be too busy with blade and blood. But now, right now, they could come together and just have fun and be free. 

Lizzie could barely contain herself as her hand reached for the door handle. She couldn’t wait to be greeted by smiles and cheers, by sweetness and peace. Lizzie turned the handle. She tried to open the door slowly, give them an extra few seconds to prepare whatever surprise they must have had planned. Because Lizzie knew her friends, and she knew they would never pass up such an opportunity. 

But when Lizzie opened the door, there were no cheers, there was no laughing, there was no collective "surprise!" Instead, a lone voice and a lone apology. Somehow, that was worse than if the room had been completely empty. 

All that time, all that effort, just to be abandoned. Like no one cared. Like she meant nothing to those she cared the most about. 

Not completely abandoned, not completely alone. At least one person cared enough about her to make the effort, didn’t just throw her aside. 

Maybe that was just how things were always meant to be, this lone state of broken empathy. 

Midnight was so dark, a void closing in. Swallowing. Down down down. 

Knowledge was such an important thing. Without it, one had nothing. Without it, the world was lost and stuck treading water. 

And without history, there was no such thing as knowledge. And without knowledge, there was no such thing as history. 

And to dig that history back up, to put the pieces back together, that was the job of the earth’s librarian, the archaeologist. Cleo wasn’t one by trade, but then again, very few end up as what they imagine themselves to be. Very few. 

Cleo wasn’t sure what she imagined herself to be, but here and now she was this. Bringing dirt back into colour. Knowledge of the earth and of history. That in and of itself was a sort of magic. 

Cleo was familiar with crawling back up from the dirt, with stitching all those pieces back together, with being forgotten. Cleo knew how important it was to come back to the surface. 

The pain of dust getting in all those little cracks. Of seeing. Of feeling. Of being. Of life. Of unlife.

Be bigger than the pain. 

Be better than it.  

Know more than it. 

Dig it up and stitch it back together. All those fragments of what used to be known. 

To reach the sky. 

It seemed like such a uniquely human goal. Birds were already blessed with such a life, and all the other creatures of the earth didn’t bother thinking about how it could be different. But people, people always wanted more than they had, more than they were capable of. 

To touch the sky, to sprout wings, like those of a dragon, and fly. 

Gem couldn’t fly. Sure there were elytra but those were just false wings, gliders. Those were made for a starless, midnight sky, not this beautiful blue. 

That was alright, Gem didn’t care so much about flight in and of itself. She wasn’t jealous of those with natural born wings, or some other way in which to take to the sky. 

Gem wanted to reach the sky. Gem wanted to push a monument to its limit and stretch high, a reaching hand made of stone. A cathedral. 

It was one thing to be up in the sky, it was another to be able to reach out and touch it. 

Gem’s arm itched. She tried her best not to scratch it, she heard that wasn’t good for new tattoos. But it was so hard when it started to feel like her arm was on fire. 

She stared at it, willing herself to put up with the discomfort. Stared at the beautiful red dragon inked into her skin. The colours seemed to shift with the light, giving it the illusion that it was moving. That was what it was, an illusion. 

What, really, was a paintbrush? 

Simply bristles on a stick? Or some greater tool? Something with greater meaning and greater purpose beyond. 

If anything could be art, then anything could be a paintbrush, and anything could be a canvas. It was all simply a matter of perspective, a matter of squinting just right and seeing potential, seeing past what was physical. 

Bdubs had a knack for such things, for looking past what was there and seeing what it could be. Fingertips were paintbrushes, the earth a canvas, and Bdubs was an artist. Bdubs’ eyes were wide and willing to see the future. 

See the world for what it could be. See. See. See. See! 

A vision of colour and texture and shape and form and hue and weight. A vision of art and being. 

Of a beautiful, perfect, picturesque reality. Of peace and calm and the oh so gentle breeze. Of a place made entirely his own and entirely an art piece. A painting that one could be a part of, living and breathing around him. 

The gentle breeze and the birds chirping and the leaves slowly drifting to the grass. Perfect. Artistry. Every stroke considered. 

Here's the third installment in what has become a yearly tradition for me at this point! Team ZITS hides behind a bush!

Purple was such a beautiful colour.  

ᒷ⍊ᒷ∷ ᒷ ̇/!¡ᔑリ↸╎リ⊣ ᒷ||ᒷᓭ 

And Grian could see everything from up here. 

╎ℸ ̣  ∴ᔑᓭ ᔑꖎꖎ ℸ ̣ 𝙹𝙹 ᒲ⚍ᓵ⍑ ℸ ̣ 𝙹𝙹 ↸ᔑ∷ꖌ ℸ ̣ 𝙹𝙹 ʖ∷╎⊣⍑ℸ ̣ 

Check on his friends, make sure they were safe, check on their progress. 

⍑⚍∷ℸ ̣  ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷᒲ ᓭℸ ̣ ᒷᔑꖎ ⎓∷𝙹ᒲ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷᒲ ᒷᒲ!¡ℸ ̣ || ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ╎∷ ᓭ𝙹⚍ꖎᓭ

But don’t look too close. 

ᔑꖎ∴ᔑ||ᓭ ∴ᔑℸ ̣ ᓵ⍑╎リ⊣ 𝙹リꖎ|| ᒷ⍊ᒷ∷ ᒲᒷᔑリℸ ̣  ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ∴ᔑℸ ̣ ᓵ⍑ 

Leave his body to die in the river. 

ℸ ̣ ⍑ᔑℸ ̣  ᓭ⍑ᒷꖎꖎ ↸╎↸ リ𝙹ℸ ̣  リᒷᒷ↸ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ʖ∷ᒷᔑℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ 

Wouldn’t want anyone to think he was a watcher. 

リ𝙹 𝙹リᒷ ᓵᔑリ ꖌリ𝙹∴ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ᓵ∷⚍ᒷꖎ ᔑリ↸ ʖ⚍∷リ╎リ⊣ ℸ ̣ ∷⚍ℸ ̣ ⍑ 

(Translated version under the cut) 

The outside world was dangerous. Outside was cold and burning and there were so many things that wanted to hurt. 

But here, here Impulse was building a safe place. A refuge from the horrors that he ran out of time to find resolution for. 

But here, here in the ground, behind closed doors and locks and keys there was safety. They could stop running and could finally hide. Finally take a full breath of the darkness chased away by artificial light. All contamination washed away. 

But here, here fear and pain could be forgotten in favour of routine and the same comforting shade of grey. The same stretching hallways that always ended just a little too soon. Down down down because that was better. Stone and earth were far better than sky. 

But here, here, here, here! 

But here it was safe. Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to fear. Nothing to be frightened of. Nothing to dread. Nothing to be terrified of. Nothing to panic about. Nothing to worry about. 

Because here, here, here, here, here!

Tango was tired. 

To say he had worked hard would be an understatement. To say he had pushed the limits of his progress would downplay all that he had done. And yet, there was still so much left. Tango had barely scratched the surface of his plans, of this creation that would be his magnum opus and then some. 

It was becoming part of him, again. As Tango built more and more he once again felt it start to breathe. These ragged wheezing gasps drawn by half formed lungs. Calling. Calling. Calling to him. And oh how Tango had missed the sound of its voice. 

Finish it. Push a little farther. Think of how incredible it will be in the end. 

Sweat and blood and tears were nothing. Were food devoid of flavour. Were empty of rigor and fight and now, only now, only empty and bloody and sweaty was there greatness. 

Fractions still. Only fractions. Only a shell. Only a casket. Only greatness. 

And Tango could see it. Tango could see it when he unfocused his vision just a little, when he looked through its eyes he could see the future. He could see a world built for fear and death and pride and joy and Tango could see it. 

And then Tango would see clearly again and he would run his tongue over sharpened fangs and he would behold how much there was still left to do. A year, more, of sleepless nights and running himself into the ground until he was one with it. Until he was one with it. One with it. One. 

It looks fake. 

Not in a bad way, not in a way that spoke of lack of effort, not in a way that spoke of any lack of intention. Just… fake. Beautifully so, artfully so. Perhaps better, perhaps more, than anything that would have been considered ‘real.’ 

There is a perfection, a splendor, in what is false. 

False does not mean artificial, nor intent on deception. What is false is simply what is not explicitly true, what differs from what one expects. 

False didn’t mind such an identity. Sure it came with a few… complications, now and then. But she had friends, friends that might as well be family, and they knew False was more than a name. And knew that that name was more than untruth. 

It is untrue that the sky is bright green. 

It is false that love always comes with pain. 

And so in this place, this place that was a mirror of itself and so much more, this place that seemed to belong here just a little too much, False was perfectly content. False was where, and who, she was supposed to be. The power of opposites and broken mirrors. 

This was what mattered, here and now and anything but true. 

False. false. 

It had been a long time since Tango had seen Jimmy. 

They lived such different lives in such different places and it was so hard to carve out the time. And Tango missed him. Now, without the connection of death. 

How long had they spent wishing, begging, praying, for it to be over? And yet now that it was, there was a sort of hollowness where that violent connection was supposed to be. Connection was connection after all and the games… 

Tango missed it. Tango missed him. And surely Jimmy missed him too. 

Funny, how that worked. How the worst things and the best things always seemed so intrinsically linked. Impossible to have one without the other, that was what gave either one true meaning and weight. 

One doesn’t realize how important something is until it's gone. Until all that’s left is a single yellow feather and a single tear rolling down his cheek. 

Tango couldn’t be the only one. Surely Grian and Pearl missed their brother. Surely Joel missed his wife. Surely Ren missed his hand. Surely they all missed their friends. 

One doesn’t leave something like that without missing someone. Without finding a community to leave behind. 

Pain and blood and Void below how Tango missed it. How they all missed it. 

Mumbo liked to think he was a fairly smart person. He could work with logic in ways that others seemed to have trouble with, see patterns and circuits like it was second nature. Afterall, it really was quite simple once one got the hang of it.

And yet, Mumbo never failed to make an absolute fool of himself. It really was impressive, how he was able to do things that were so complex they were seen as near impossible by so many and yet so often did he manage to be an idiot. Like there was some block in his mind, some wall where thought should be and instead his limbs refused to do as they were told. 

That was part of his reputation, and might as well have been a part of his personality by now, this dichotomy. This false intelligence. This bumbling spoon that somehow managed to pull together coherence when it came to that red glow. And even then he so often made mistakes. 

But wasn’t that a sign of intelligence in and of itself? Recognizing one’s mistakes and flaws? He could have sworn he heard that somewhere… 

Mumbo readjusted his tie. At least he could look the part, look well kept, look professional. Though it had been a very long time since that suit and tie had been a symbol of competence. Since this mustache he worked so hard to keep perfect had been indicative of genius. 

But Mumbo was okay with that. Mumbo was okay with the dichotomy and the embarrassment and the praise. At the end of the day that was who he was. Not one or the other. Not black or white despite the colour scheme he wore every day. 

Pyramids are the longest standing structures for a reason. Easy, in concept, and yet strong in their shape. Supported by gravity and time, no amount of wear bringing them down entirely to the dirt. 

Hypno had a funny relationship with time. It’s rhythmic ticking back and forth and back and forth with the great pendulum of history and mind. Back and forth and at the apex of each swing that was where Hypno stood. 

These sharp edges stretching into the sky, into blue and clouds, pointing at the ever expanding question. Gigantic monuments to creation that, in spite of their size, did not loom, did not impose, only impressed. 

So easily standing the test of time. So easily becoming both present and history. So easily becoming. 

Back and forth and clocks are in the shape of a circle. The universe has a certain sense of geometry that way, in the strength of the pointing shape. 

Back and forth. Hypnotic. 

Still standing. Still this great monument. Still echoes carved in stone and stretching up up up. It was easy to get lost in it.

And so Hypno looked up up up. Up up up.