Draw and stuff

The scream doesn't even have the decency to echo; it's absorbed by the wool criss-crossing the cavern. The torches shine impassively, flames aglow in the perfectly still air. Tango is sick of dying so meaninglessly, so uselessly. Just once, he'd like to go down fighting.

"Whatever. I knew it was coming," he tells no one. If there's a silver lining, it's that he's alone. There is no Scar lingering too close, the scent of blood on his breath. There are no red names lurking in the walls, or—earlier still—yellow names giggling and speculating. Being able to talk freely, even if it is to himself, is quite relieving. "I knew something like this was gonna happen."

The anger is already fading. The disappointment will stay till the end of time.

Tango grits his teeth; his ankle throbs when he tries to stand. Void, Ultra Hardcore takes a while to wear off. Not even when he was getting mauled daily by ravagers in Season 7 did respawns hurt this much. There are bruises on his arms from endlessly hefting a shield, and his ears ring with the crackling of Wither skulls and the sonic booms of the Warden. Tango thinks he might not be able to face the Deepfrost citadel for a while.

The redstone-spaghetti that he calls a ceiling wobbles as he stands, pulling hard on the cave walls as his legs give out. It takes him a moment to find his rockets, another moment to breathe as he finds them where the Secret scroll was—not that he needed it, really; Win Secret Life? That was the plan, buddy, and it was doomed from the beginning of the session.

His elytra trails dust as he takes off, the overhead swoop as it unfurls unfamiliar after weeks of walking. He lands clumsily on the highest perch, scrapes his arms as he pulls himself to his feet. The blood wells, bright red, and Tango feels a brief jolt of panic—no, his hearts are fine. They're regenerating, albeit slowly since he hasn't eaten in a while.

Hasn't been much time to, has there? Amidst all the chasing and running and hunting, Void, the hunting—

Tango won't forget the feeling of hounds baying at his heels any time soon.

Everything feels different in a world where mistakes are final. Where every tiny hit, every careless blow is set in stone. Stone, like the constant, judging presence of the Secret Keeper, and doesn't that just make Tango want to take to the statue with a stack of TNT and some flint and steel.

He had better go hand in his task, hadn't he? He's failed. Tango laughs to himself, tries to store that joke to tell when the rest come back. It won't be long, if that's any comfort, but they'll have battles and betrayals and blood to spill, unlike him. Tango might look for Mumbo, but even he died in action, early death or otherwise.

The worst thing is that he isn't even mad he lost. He's mad because he's gone.

Just. Like. That.

Burnt from under his feet. Moss and smoke in the air, Scar shouting, a duel in the distance—he envies the loser of that fight, if only because they have a killer to name, a revenge to seek, something apart from his own damned stupidity to blame.