HERMIT A DAY MAY

Day 17+18+19 – Joel, Alternate Universe and Etho

is magical girl boat boys considered an AU if it actually happened in this universe? don't answer that 🤚 it's what you're getting either way.

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go spend a dollar at @hermitadaymay 's fundraiser for Gamers Outreach with fun incentives from amazing artists

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Hermit-a-Day Gallery

inspired by @mambodork’s Dispatch au!

i had a Dispatch phase a few months ago, so when I saw this au i was immediately hooked. all the characters and their Dispatch counterparts are in their au, so go check it out!

enjoy <3

—- - - —-

The coffee machine was broken. Again. Xisuma sighed, noting the similar burn marks on the nozzle and pot. He’d need to bring up company property next time he saw Tango.

Turning, he ambled across the small, industrial office that made up the Dispatch headquarters. Morning light filtered in through the windows, illuminating dispatch blue and cubicle beige. Around him, Dispatchers and heroes alike brushed by, preparing for their shift.

The ranking board, Xisuma’s pride and joy, sat proudly behind Pearl and Gem as they did each other’s hair. Pearl whispered something in Gem’s ear, and she rolled her eyes before blushing. He paused, watching them as a knot of guilt grew in his throat, before swallowing it and moving on.

In the corner, Feather Boy stood staring at a TV, sweeping the floor distractedly. Xisuma sighed, helplessly looking onward as more of his feathers fell with every swipe of his broom. Despite his ignorance, Feather Boy frowned every time he looked down, glaring at the broom as if reprimanding it.

Xisuma shook his head, speeding up to reach his office. At the rate this was going, he’d develop a headache by the end of the hour, let alone the rest of the shift. Yet at the corner of his eye, he caught someone— Impulse. His mind retracted back to yesterday, when he’d been staring at the rankings. Specifically, the bottom of them.

He neared the Dispatcher, who was talking to Bdubs, the manager. Both of them were leaning over… a cat?

“Aw, who’s this little guy?” He strode over, scratching its cheek.

“My name’s Luna, and I’ve got no clothes on!” Impulse said in a strange accent.

Xisuma laughed. “I very much doubt that is what he sounds like.” He paused, taking in a breath. “Impulse, you free for a moment?”

Impulse smiled at him. “Yeah, no problem!”

Gosh, he had no idea what was coming.

They entered his office. For Xisuma, this was his safe space— an oasis from the crazy of the cubicles, any outdoor drama muffled by the door and the dust. Waiting around on eccentric superheroes all day, he knew he needed the buffer.

He closed the door behind Impulse, before settling behind his desk.

“What’s up?” Impulse asked, eyes roving across the room. Heroic newspaper clippings, a few polaroids and of course, his Dispatch certificate were all hung proudly.

“I wanted to have a chat with you about something. Over the weekend, I was thinking it over, and…” Xisuma took a breath. Sure, he’d signed the release forms, contacted HR in preparation, but… saying it to the person responsible felt real, somehow. “I’m going to cut someone from the Hermit Team. Well, not me, but… you are.”

Their eyes met. Xisuma watched as Impulse absorbed the information, the act, the fallout, his eyes growing wider and wider. He swallowed again.

“I dunno if I’m just… hoping to motivate them, give them something to spur them on. I… what do you think?”

Impulse blinked, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. “… Are you sure about it? They all seem pretty close.”

Xisuma thought back to Pearl and Gem— the latter second lowest on the leaderboard. “Not as sure now, I’ll give you that. Is it not a good idea?”

Impulse was silent. Xisuma tapped his fingers. Was it a good idea? For one thing, the team was quite literally the lowest on the leaderboard, and theirs were becoming more and more an outlier. The warning of Cut Day itself would be a huge motivator for the team; afterwards, that motivation would help them be a little more… heroic, for lack of a better word.

Xisuma sighed. “The hope is that cutting someone at the bottom of the rankings will show people we’re serious.”

After a beat of hesitation longer, Impulse nodded. “I’ll let them know.” Xisuma met his eyes, and saw the dissonance within.

“Oh.” Xisuma coughed. “I already did.”

“This…” Impulse sighed, massaging his temple. “Thanks, this’ll be interesting.”

—- - - —-

As Impulse stumbled out of the door, pale and slouching, Xisuma cradled his head in his arms. He himself wouldn’t want to make this choice, much less a newcomer Dispatcher. The guilt of it all burned through him like the bitter coffee he never had a chance to drink. As a matter of fact, Tango’s actions were probably a result of the warning. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea after all.

He shifted to the files he held on the side of his desk, flicking through the names before settling on three of them. He opened the first.

Gemini. With duplication powers and a past in assasination, Xisuma thought she’d be a strong candidate for the program; yet, his failure to teach her basic empathy— or at the very least, nonviolent tendencies— failed her as well.

The next folder. Grian. His ability to see anything within a certain range proved beneficial in ambush situations or even simple speaking events; but his powers were undeveloped and limited. If only Xisuma had tried harder to train him, even in simple Flight School, perhaps he wouldn’t be here now.

And with a sigh, he opened the last. Skizzleman. His file was the main reason the Dispatch researched Impulse at all; if a major crime boss turned himself in for the sake of a past connection, anything about such a person should be well-researched.

Yet, simultaneously, Skizzleman was the reason for much of Xisuma’s guilt. To confront one’s friend about past work experience, (even if the friend was the reason for many Dispatch mistakes)… Xisuma couldn’t imagine the act. Part of him pitied Impulse.

He closed the folder with a sigh. He knew it would be hard on Impulse, on the team in general. Yet even as reason after reason materialized itself against such a decision, one main reason stayed Xisuma’s choice.

The city was stained with crime— it was like a crime. It was Xisuma’s job to be admin. It was his job to ban those who couldn’t afford to help.

He looked up to himself, to the imaginary audience watching. “Anyoone else?”

—- - - —-

thank you so much for reading!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! this story is based on Dispatch’s Cut Day shift, in which Robert has to choose between firing Coupe (Gem) or Sonar (Grian), and that one time Xisuma banned Grian when Gem asked lol

I’m pretty sure Skizz is the counterpart of Invisigirl in this au, but correct me if I’m wrong! also if the dialogue seems a little familiar… yes i did find the Dispatch transcript online it was great inspiration

find me on ao3 @ evilbutter

• when she was a cleaning lady is s9, she would help hermits who were struggling to be organized and whom it was affecting more than just on a "oh i should clean up" level. during his builds, Grian struggled with that a lot and Pearl'd come and help him sort out his chest monsters because they were making him overwhelmed. same with others :)

wels and his unhinged twitter posts…

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! i will be writing short stories about every Hermitcraft hermit + a few extras, hopefully for every day this month.

that being said, schedule is crazy, but i love writing and i love sharing my work!

find me on ao3 @ evilbutter

see you tomorrow <3

- — —

Death by fall damage had the unfortunate side effect of brain injury.

All the hermits knew this; they attributed Scar’s constant word-scramble to this, jokingly hinting that if he perhaps hit his head a second time, he would be cured. Nevertheless, they all took extra care with the friends who strayed a bit too far down mountains, were pushed off bridges, or— in Mumbo’s case— broke their elytra mid-flight.

Yes, whenever the death message appeared in the communicator, brain injury was everyone’s first concern. But even so, no one was prepared for Mumbo’s sudden retrograde amnesia.

Welsknight remembered walking into the hermit’s base, seeing tables normally stacked with books and doodads replaced with pillows, pills and mugs of tea. The man himself stuffed into bed as a whirlwind of hermits flew around him. It overwhelmed even him, and he saw Mumbo’s mustache droop a little with every passing hermit. Simultaneously, though, he recognized the worry etched into every visitor’s face— the injury scared them. It scared him. They had no way of telling when he would regain his memories, or if he even would at all. All anyone could do was stack more pillows and mugs of tea next to him.

Wels remembered walking up to Mumbo, taking off his Japan-style helmet and plopping it on the bed next to him. The man had jolted, looking up at Wels with a blink at the hand extended to him. And Wels had said, with a strange sense of déjà vu, “Hey there! Welsknight here. Welcome back to Hermitcraft.”

-

A week later, and no sign of returned memories.

Wels saw the strain in his friends’ faces mirrored onto his own. Nobody wanted to be the bearer of bad news, so nobody dared voice their worries. Yet the concern wore on them anyways, some of them unable to talk to Mumbo without remembering the mustached man before the fall.

So Wels settled with comforting this new Mumbo, albeit one that was much more confused and unsure. He told him about his past life, his neighbors Grian and Scar, and the nature of his career as a robotic engineer. Worriedly, though, he didn’t seem to remember even the slightest bit of Minecraft mechanics… not even the redstone he was once so proud of.

Skizzleman described it as an unusual loss in semantic memory. Wels thought it as an unusual loss in genius.

He was working on the detail in his courtyard— nothing too special, just a way to pass the time. He stepped back to view his work, and his communicator pinged with a message. He opened it. His blood ran cold.

[Mumbo] Hey Wels, can you come over? I need your help with some redstone if you aren’t too busy.

Wels could do many things— he had been there playing this game for quite a long time— but redstone remained a topic he could never quite grasp. He checked the online player list. It was… just Mumbo and him.

[MumboJumbo] Not really help, sorry…

[MumboJumbo]: Can you teach me a bit?

Wels sighed.

[WelsknightGaming] Yeah sure, I’m coming

Thus he found Mumbo and himself standing in the middle of a giant wheat field, sounds of spurring windmills deafening them both. “So!” Wels tried shouting. “If you want to learn redstone, ya gotta understand the mechanics behind it first.” He handed Mumbo a sack of redstone dust, and told him to reach inside.

He watched as Mumbo’s eyes widened, his hands reaching further to grab a handful of the stuff. “B-but— it’s just dust, how does this turn into…” He looked over to the towering turbines. “That.”

Wels smirked. “Quite simple, really. Different contraptions require different supplies. At the end of the day, though, redstone connects it all, makes simple trapdoors into windmills and all that good stuff.”

Mumbo raised an eyebrow. “It doesn’t seem ‘quite simple’.”

Wels laughed, even as déjà vu crept up on him. “Really! This is everything you created, after all.”

“…I will be honest, I am very gullible right now.”

Wels smiled, turned around and pulled blocks out of his inventory with a cough. He really should be getting on with this. “Okay, well… redstone dust by itself is mostly used as a sort of wire between components. Components like…”

The conversation flowed easily. As odd as it was to explain basic techniques to a literal professional, at the same time it reminded him of the beginner tutorials he used to make. Perhaps he should go back to creating them? He looked at Mumbo, who stared at him with earnest eyes as he explained the use of comparators. Or perhaps… perhaps he could jog Mumbo’s memory, just a little.

He decided to broach the topic. “So, any of this itching at your mind?”

Mumbo squinted at him. “No, no I think I’ve got it all down.”

“No, I meant…” Was this a good idea? “Does any of this… feel familiar?”

His friend’s eyes grew wide, like he was suddenly realizing some ulterior motive for Wel’s teaching. His shoulders sagged. He looked away. “No. I don’t— I don’t remember anything.”

Wels’ mouth twisted. He shouldn’t have brought it up, clearly the man didn’t want to be reminded. “Hey, it’s… it’s not your fault you’ve lost your memory. Not even your past life’s fault, although maybe he should’ve been checking durability— ahem! But not the point. Nobody could’ve seen it coming. And anyways, relearning redstone is a good thing. You’re back on track, after all.” Which track, he wasn’t sure.

He laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The Mumbo I knew could never turn away from redstone. But if you decide you’re not him…” He snorted. “Y’know, I’m better at teaching building anyways.”

Mumbo’s eyes widened, he looked away and sniffed. “Gosh, I… yeah, I’m not sure about this whole redstone thing. You wanna just clean it up? I know a spot we can just… sit.”

Relief flooded Wels, even as he felt slightly guilty out of talking his friend out of redstoning. “I’d love to see it. Yeah, let’s go.”

- — --

They sat on the roof of Mumbo’s house, overlooking the pond and wheat fields as the sun bathed the sky in orange. Overhead, the treasured geese flew; Mumbo kept staring at them, silent awe at his own creations.

Wels flopped down onto the slates, pulling Mumbo with him, both of them laughing quietly as they watched the creatures float in the sky. Even when Mumbo had his memory, Wels couldn’t remember if they had ever done just this. Sat and talked. It was nice. A reprieve from everything, and from what he could tell, something Mumbo hadn’t really done since the lethal fall.

“Hey, Wels?” Mumbo asked,

Wels turned his head. “Yeah?”

“Just… thank you for this. Thanks for coming.”

Wels turned back to the geese. “No worries, Mumbo. This is nice.”

did i just write hotguy au? yes, yes i did.

psa: this fic was initially planned to be one part of a series, so i apologize if there’s worldbuilding that doesn’t make sense! also for the record Menores (full title Menores Love) is grian

enjoy! <3

- - - - -— —- -

In his shoulder. Underneath his ribs. Faint aches, irritated and itchy, not enough to wake him from slumber. The feeling kept growing, though, turning into pulses and waves of—

Scar sucked in a breath, gasping for air as his back burned. Swaths of pure magma attacking him in every way, slicking his skin in sweat and hurting his chest with every rasp. His eyes widened, blurred with tears as he struggled to breathe, just breathe— he pulled his arms up to his chest to alleviate the suffocating feeling, but—

Cold iron stopped him. Rings of metal chafing his wrists, he still couldn’t take in enough air but for a second he stopped struggling. What…?

He was handcuffed. He blinked, eyes finally clearing enough to think. He looked down to see his uniform— Hotguy’s uniform— and the pieces finally clicked. His heart dropped cold in his chest, chilled despite the fire still arcing up his back.

Scar needed to think. No, scratch that, Hotguy needed to think. He was handcuffed— that could mean captivity. His back hurt… not a typical breaking of bone, but specific points that drove uncontrollably deep. Two points, the middle of his left shoulder and right underneath his left rib. Did he get… shot?

His deep, navy armor was deliberately bulletproof. That came with the territory; although he had been grazed at times, it was never deep… never this painful. Somehow, someone had gotten past his defenses and shot him. Most likely the people who had handcuffed him, but…

He raised his head, blinking in disbelief. What kind of prison wardens held high-powered superheroes in residential bedrooms?

The room itself was dim, the single window blocked by what appeared to be cardboard. Hotguy refused to risk his back for a closer look. Nothing adorned the walls, the only piece of furniture the bare, stained mattress and bedpost he was chained to.

He squinted at the chains himself. From what he could tell, they weren’t particularly complex nor high-quality. On a normal day, he could use his Blessing to break them easily, but…

He glanced at his legs, the outline of his knee braces barely visible. He wouldn’t be breaking out of anything today.

The doorknob turned. Hotguy drew back, alert and ready to fight whoever it was, even as both his hands and his back lay useless. Yet as the door opened, his jaw loosened in disbelief.

Menores. His metaphorical counterpart. One of the most infamous villains in the city, not only for the historical weight his name dealt but also the terror he’d inflicted on its people. This was wrong. In all of the continent’s history, archetypes like Menores weren’t supposed to win; they weren’t supposed to be any more than shadows in the first place! “Y-you…” Scar stuttered, blinking in anger— surprise.

Menores raised an eyebrow from behind dark sunglasses. “Me,” he answered. He sauntered over to Hotguy, the buttons on his black leather jacket flashing in warning. “Your worst enemy.”

Hotguy’s disbelief broke with these words. No matter how shaken he was, he still had rank. He scowled, clearly this man didn’t understand the importance of priority lists. “You and your stupid jacket are nowhere near my worst enemy.”

”Really, dear prisoner? Surely by now, you’ve realized?” With a snap of his fingers, a mirror materialized in front of Hotguy, levitating above the bed. Hotguy glared back at Menores, eyes refusing to do his bidding, however petty it was. For him to use a Blessing so excessively… a stupid power move. It would only weaken him further, only help Hotguy’s escape.

Sighing, Hotguy looked in the mirror. Aside from a few wayward scrapes and the usual undereye bags, nothing appeared out of place…

His eyes grew wide. His brown eyes, unhindered by the blue-green of a visor. His visor was gone.

His hands started shaking. Without his visor, they most definitely had his face recorded. They could trace him anywhere, he could never head back to headquarters with his confidentiality compromised… There was no way out of this. His eyes burned. This single slip-up, and his entire life was over. No matter that it was before this whole ordeal, anyways.

“Aw, don’t cry! Don’t act like you never saw this coming. We all wanted to see it, the face of the perfect Mr. Hotguy! Or… should I call you Mr. Goodtimes?” Menores smirked, tapping on his leg brace.

Hotguy— Mr. Goodtimes— Scar sighed, looking away from the stupid mirror. Of course it had been too easy to find his identity after removing his visor. The leg brace was probably no help.

Still, he had to survive. “Who cares about my identity? It’ll only improve my trust with the public.” He smirked, despite wanting to sob inside. “You and the rest of the Wardwatch will disappear eventually.”

Menores frowned at the moniker, like he refused to answer to his own crime ring’s label. “Don’t—“ The frown disappeared. He leaned in closer. “Are you talking about the Listeners? Hah! You can forget about a rescue from them. ‘Way things are going, you’ve probably lost access to HQ.” He flicked the brace with a malicious smile. “Didn’t you hear, old man? You’ve retired. They’re probably the ones that shot you in the first place.”

Scar drew back. That couldn’t be right. No, the night patrol was going smoothly. He remembered heading back to headquarters, meeting up with his boss (the very affluent Heir of Listeners) and… he sucked in a breath. Right, the termination letter. True to his threats, the Heir deemed Hotguy uncompliant and unfit for active duty. No matter the leg braces, the public persona, the tireless use of Scar’s Blessing… none of it was enough. The last thing Scar remembered was walking away from HQ, a cardboard box in his hands and his uniform on for the very last time. Freshly washed and repaired, the last grace given to him.

Then he woke up, bullet wounds and all. So much for the clean suit.

Wait— what had Menores said?

“What? Y-you’re trying to tell me you didn’t shoot me?”

Menores looked at him, disgusted. “You think I would be so cold as to shoot without pride? I… hm, to be fair, I would’ve shot you regardless given the chance. But I’d rather leave a calling card; don’t think so highly of me.”

Scar leaned back, then gasped as another wave of pain washed through him. Scar shouldn’t be consorting with the enemy, much less one taking him captive. He needed to escape. He needed to use his Blessing.

Sighing, Scar ignored the pain, keeping a monotone face while mentally reaching inward. Using his Blessing was never much fun, especially as of recent. The counter effects were starting to far outweigh its use. Still, he reached for the familiar feeling, at the same time gauging Menore’s face. Say what he wanted to hear. That’s all Scar needed to do.

The words bubbled out of him like blood, thick and sweet, even as he gagged on them. “You’re right, the notorious Menores Love would never be seen without his famous token. The Listeners shot me. Don’t you want to guard outside, make sure they won’t finish the job?”

To his credit, Menores looked briefly confused, but turned to leave— but not without a final remark. “Oh, old man?”

Scar looked up, panicked, afraid the Blessing hadn’t worked after all. “What?”

”Don’t think I can’t guess who your supposed worst enemy is. After all, there’s only one man… cute enough for you.”

— — -

thank you for reading!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! i will be writing short stories about every Hermitcraft hermit + a few extras, hopefully for every day this month.

that being said, schedule is crazy, but i love writing and i love sharing my work!

find me on ao3 @ evilbutter

hello <3 guess who wrote fanfic!

welcome to butter’s hermit-a-day may! i will be writing short stories about every Hermitcraft hermit + a few extras, hopefully for every day this month.

that being said, schedule is crazy, but i love writing and i love sharing my work!

find me on ao3 ;) @evilbutter

see you tomorrow <3

— — - -

“Before we can even get this Zedvancement, we’ll need an elytra— so I think it’s time that we go end raiding!”

From across the cave, Tango gaped in disbelief. “We? Who is we?”

Zedaph grinned, eyes crinkling at the edges. “What, you thought you were exempt? Come on, the End is waiting!” He strolled past the trophies lining the walls, inwardly waiting for his friend to scramble up to him.

Sure enough, his shoulder warmed as Tango neared him. “But I already have elytra! And I need to work on Decked Out 3! And— what about Impulse and Skizz?” He groaned. “There is no way you’re roping me into this!”

Zed snickered. True, their normal friend group— the ZITS— was divided as Impulse and Skizz were off on a round of Phasmophobia; but in Zedaph’s eyes, it was perfect timing. All he needed was to stage an excursion for just the two of them. “Exactly why I’m roping you into this.” He looks over. Like always, Tango was illuminous, not only from the obvious flame haloing his head but from the way he smiled, the way he moved, the way he looked at Zed and his face changed, ever so slightly. But today, his eyes looked tired, his clothes still stained with dirt from the mountains. “I love you, buddy, but you need a break from game master. No shame in it.”

Tango faltered, hands fingering the dust on his cape. “I—I’m fine, Zed. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Don’t have to, but will anyways. You’re my—“ Sed stumbled over the words. “—my friend, Tangs.” C’mon, portal’s ready to go.”

He hooked a hand around Tango’s shoulder, ignoring the way every touch felt like a flame in his heart. He could do this. Yeah, he could do this.

-

He could not do this. He sat panting, hands pressed into his knees. Gosh, he was getting old. Old and sick of the way purpur looked, with its ever-optimistic shade of violet. He could do without for the rest of his life, he decided.

Next to him, not much better, sat Tango, gasping on a slab of purpur. He had an arm propped up, his other hand massaging his eyes. “R-remind me why you can’t just borrow mine indefinetly? This is the… what, the twentieth ship we’ve visited, and I’m almost positive they’ve been looted for, like, thousands of blocks ahead.”

Zed sighed, looked back at the empty item frame. Not what he had in mind at all. What he wanted included a quick trip to the End, maybe followed by a soft, warm dinner at his base. Just two friends hanging out. Together. Instead, they were thousands of blocks away from the nearest teleport point, and Zed would’ve been happy with an nonexplosive bed.

“One more… let’s do one more, Tango. For the plot?”

Tango looked over at him. Bright, fired eyes softened when they caught his. “Hah. The plot… like the chili challenge?”

Zed snorted. Oh, he could never forget the chili. Despite his painfully low spice tolerance, he faithfully agreed as soon as Tango had invited him. “Yeah. We can do this.”

The two emerged from their ender ship, bridging off into the void, quiet only accentuated by the soft placement of blocks.

Zed turned inward. They would go back to his place after this. Instead of eating dinner, though, they’d simply settle in bed, pull the green covers over like they did as kids. Whisper stories into the glowing vines and moss, waft into sleep and wake up surrounded by sunrays.

“Zed? Anything on your mind? You’ve been quiet for a while.” The dream broke, and only Tango’s eyes were left staring at him. “Uh, yeah, sorry. I’m all good.”

“… Okay. Well, we’re here anyways.”

Zed looked up. There it was, the ender ship in all its glory. Unlike some of the others, there was no dirt bridge leading to it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t already looted. They climbed the tower, barely making it with their weakening weapons before falling onto the ship’s deck.

“Shoot— I really need to rest up after this one. Hah, good thing this is our last,” Tango gasps.

Zed’s fantasy pulled at his mind. He refused to look at Tango. “…Yeah, haha. I’m— glad.”

They crept up onto the helm, quieting down so as to not awaken the shulkers. They’d already been hit by quite a few, and another could very well end their spree.

Zedaph mined the purpur. One, two, three. The block exploded, and he leapt under the deck.

…Only to find an empty item frame, just like the thirty before. Zed let out a breath, knowing his disappointment was not in the least reasonable. This was expected. Gosh, he should’ve seen it coming.

“Zed! Watch out!” Tango’s voice above him shouted, and he turned around— only to find the sulker’s projectile zooming to him. His eyes widened— there was no way he could dodge that in time— and be tripped trying to pull his shield up before—

Tango landed in front of him, knocking the projectile off course. It exploded upon contact with the wall, and Zed quickly aimed an arrow at the offensive shulker.

Twang! It hit, and the shulker exploded. Both men gasped, and for a second neither did anything more. Then Zed threw and arm around Tango. He laughed, relief flooding his face. “My savior!”

“Haha… okay, damsel in distress, why don’t we get you home?” Tango turned to look at him, and for a moment neither of them spoke, choosing only to stare in relief. His eyes… there were bits of gold in them. Zedaph hadn’t seen that before.

“What about the elytra?” He breathed. Zed knew what Tango would say, anyways.

“You can have one of mine— indefinite borrow. I’ve got too many, anyways.” Now, Tango’s face turned a shade redder than usual. He pivoted, avoiding eye contact.

Something in Zed melted with affection. Gosh, he could be so cute sometimes, couldn’t he? If only they could just… break the wall. He wished, Zedaph wished that one day, they could. “Thanks, Tangs— ooh, I’ve got an idea!”

Tango blinked, the moment over. He rolled his eyes, reaching for the bridging blocks. “Not until we’re home, Zed. I’m not entertaining another one of your ‘for the plot’’s today.”

— --

The telltale shape of an elytra materialized itself in front of Zedaph. Two chests on either side, and violet bricks Zedaph himself swore he wouldn’t touch again. Yet, as his shoes clicked on each block, he found himself trying not to laugh.

“Finally! I found some. Oh, thank goodness for that.” He lifted the elytra from its holder, gazing at the feathers. Finally, the next Zedvancement was within reach. He sighed, satisfied, then turned—

— seeing the Overworld on the other side of the phony ship. Tango looked at him with crossed arms.

Of course, he couldn’t accept such an item, even if it was only temporary, without at least feeling like he’d done some sort of work. And thus he had, building the ship up from memory— tedious hours of it— and placing Tango’s gracious elytra in the center of it.

As he neared his friend, whose eyes danced with golden specks, he opened his mouth. What could he say that wasn’t Come back to base, Eat dinner with me, Lie in bed with me? He fumbled for words, before breathing in deep. He stared at Tango, stared and knew that the day would come in time.

“Cheers for the wings, Tango.”

Tango stared at him, mouth twisting into something reminiscent of sweet.