Chapter Text
"I think you should leave now. You can talk to him later when he's better."
The command haunts him, stabs at his aching spaces when he forgets, and reminds him over and over again that this is his fault. It doesn't matter how many hours he had spent, how many favors he had called in, how close he had come to tearing a world apart to save someone so dear to them. Nothing he did mattered, not after a mistake from years, from a decade ago that had culminated in direct hurt to someone he was supposed to protect. Resulted in emotional hurt and pain to so many others, and shattered any last trust or goodwill they had ever felt for him.
Only Keralis had left him any kind of hope. "You can talk to him later when he's better."
No one defined 'better', they didn't have to. Not when a newly-presented hybrid was trying to learn how to coexist with friends, and manage new instincts while discovering his body all over again. Not when every hybrid on the server had turned their backs to him, and the actions he had taken and defended from the past.
Actions he was determined to correct, if only to win back their friendship. (It's possible. He has to believe that it's possible, or else he.. has nothing. And that's not something he can live for.)
He’s shaking by the time he reaches his base, his glide wobbling horribly as he aims for his honey farm, instead of the storage tower, not wanting to chance a rocket-powered slam into the side of the concrete. He hasn’t had an anxiety attack this bad in.. in a while, actually. Just thinking about what had caused those makes his legs nearly give out, and he grabs at the iron railings to steady himself, hanging his head to try for a few deep breaths. An unstable update is a far cry from what’s happened today, what he’s been accused of, but the memory still haunts him. And when his stomach clenches and roils, he remembers this, too, and knows it’s gonna be one of those nights.
He stumbles into the bubblevator in the back, curling into the force of the pounding water as it propels him upwards, landing on his knees on the upper floor, helmet latches already undone so that he can pull off the helmet and cough up the bitter bile and what’s left of the little lunch he was able to choke down before world-hopping with panic in his throat. He’s shaking even harder by the time his stomach is empty, but the sour smell is enough to make him move away, to give in and crawl over to the ender chest in the corner beside a long-abandoned bed. Two shulker boxes later he has cleaned up his mess, the flint and steel warm in his hand after the fire burns out.
The bed is cold and dusty as he leans against it, turning his helmet over in his hands as he contemplates.
Something has to change, and it’s not his Hermits. They’ve been through enough; he has put them through enough. He’s one man, and on the wrong side of everyone’s anger and frustration. So many mistakes, so many coming back to hurt them, and so many decisions he’s made on his own have turned out so, so wrong.
The helmet fits back into place when he realizes it’s not the sun going down that’s making the room darker. The filtered cold air makes it easier to breathe, though the confined space only makes the sound of his gasps echo around him. He fumbles the blanket off the bed, and wraps it over himself, helmet and everything. Nobody’s going to come looking for him, not here, not tonight. He can indulge in this little breakdown, and get to work fixing his mistakes -all of his mistakes- in the morning. When his hands and lungs are steadier.
It starts with purging every admin-locked file he has. All uploaded to their private chat server, and available for everyone to look through. Mods and tooltips, player files, hybrid files and notes, histories and logs of their worlds. Every change and modification that has ever been done, including all of the glitches he's fixed, even the ones he'd caught before anyone else knew they were there.
Even the ones that would damn him further, for upholding his misguided protection, and continuing to hide the secrets that have been brought to light.
(Buried in the data there is his own truth, and he wonders how long it will be before a Hermit calls him on that. )
He continues, spending his time alone with creating care packages for everyone. Food and drink, wool blankets and beds and soft clothing for the safe place of the SS Hermitcraft. Potions and food for bases, extra shulkers and armour and weapons for the respawn room and world spawn. Anything and everything he can think of, shulkers-full of items left where the Hermits can find them.
He forgoes his own rest, knowing that it'll only be broken by nightmares and remembered anxiety and terror. Awake, he can keep control of himself, can work to contain and reduce the damage he's done, and hope that it's accepted and recognized.
He mutes world chat, turns off his reminders of mundane tasks that don't really need to be done. Leaves on only the server warnings, and the alert that would bring everyHermit running. (And hopes, hopes and prays that his help will still be accepted there, if all else fails.)
He begins work on a massive brewery, something that he had already been building in his head, a season-long project that can create full shulker boxes of potions at a time. Complicated redstone that he can now sink his thoughts into instead of worrying how his gifts are received, instead of wondering how everyone is doing, or pushing down the urge to check in on them, or to ask if he's been forgiven. The Hermits have always valued action above words, trust given easily but grudges kept and nurtured until reparations have been made.
(And if he has a few more quiet little breakdowns in the basement of the build, well, no one's looking for him anyway. Redstone can't keep away the anxiety attacks, but neither does it make accusations he can't defend against, nor hold him and make reassurances he can't believe yet.)
He surfaces from yet another stupid panic attack, and doomscrolls through the muted world chat while he chokes down a bottle of honey to settle his stomach. But the messages aren’t comforting, not the usual daily chatting that goes on. It seems to start with Grian inviting Scar over for something near the Barge, then an hour later Joe and Cleo are asked to bring potions, and Cub asks Hypno to join them. There's no mention of what exactly happened, but a general unease makes him want to dig into the player files, and verify for himself that everything's okay.
The honey sticks in his throat, acidic and burning when a new message comes through.
Scar and Jellie are fine, they'll be resting at the SS Hermitcraft tonight. Raw fish and cakes are welcome if anyone wants to stop by.
Scar and Jellie? What happened? Why wasn't the code used? Why wouldn't-
He has to tear his helmet away, nearly breaks his own neck trying to get it off quickly enough to vomit up the sickly-sweet liquid he'd just had onto the stone floor beside him. Deepest void, did they no longer trust the code he had put in place? Had he broken that much of the bedrock that held them together? Could Scar and his beloved Jellie have been hurt worse by his failure?
He spits, trying to clear his mouth while ignoring the tears dripping silently down his face. He truly has ruined things, and even fumbling for a bucket of water to clean away this tiny mess doesn't absolve him of his guilt. Washed away redstone can be replaced, and now there's even more reason for him to complete the brewery project, even more reason to keep working to mend the damage he's caused.
(And if his hands tremble as he resets the redstone line, or his knees shake as he climbs up and over scaffolding and stone and wool, well, he's no shakier than the relationships he shares with the Hermits.)
By the time the Code is used again, he's nearly done with the brewery project. The redstone is all in place and working beautifully. Even though his armours have been set to the side so he can crawl around the narrow workings, he's nearly finished something that can be beneficial to the entire server.
He's nearly giddy to respond to the summons, still strapping on the somehow-loose chestplate as he exits the portal at spawn, and finds what looks to be the entire server gathered and waiting, no one in immediate trouble. "Sorry I'm late!" he babbles, trying not to notice Zedaph's strangely smug smile, or the confused looks from other Hermits. "I haven't had to wear the armour in a while so it took a bit longer to assemble. I-"
He loses his train of thought as he realizes that they are indeed waiting. Waiting for him, unputtogether as he is.
For him, even though there's a doppelganger of himself already here, already standing at the head of the group.
xB makes a joke about poisoned soup, and even if he didn't want to relive that particular nightmare again, it's almost preferred to the nightmare he's living through now. When an imperfect copy of himself (imperfect only because he's not that clean, not that kempt, not after a week hiding in a redstone-dusted basement) transforms in a familiar glitched sequence into a well-known form, he's not sure that he hasn't fallen asleep in the redstone. He wants to reach out, to try again, maybe, somehow, to make the right choices this time, and hope that he can wake with a smile instead of a scream.
Except he's not.. he's not dreaming. Someone falls into another's lap, there's cheering and low cursing, and False springs up with deadly intent as Keralis turns deathly pale.
It's all on him again. Every single time, he is the fulcrum that the server turns on and looks to, when the world starts to collapse around them.
It's the bucket of lava in his chest, when he turns to the smirking Zedaph, who is waiting with a defiant stare. A ringleader, a friend he had wronged, a man pushed to revenge by his own despairing mistakes. "What is this? What have you done?"
Zedaph ignores him, and gives his full attention to the once-brother that knocks what's left of his world from its pedestal.
"If any of you have seen Xisuma walking around the Cowmercial district this whole day, that has been me pretending to be him,” Ex explains, pausing as various Hermits gasp and murmur before continuing. “After hearing what all of you had to say about me, I figured it was worth a try to try and plead my case for being whitelisted.”
He can barely pay attention to what comes after. 'Me pretending to be him.' 'What you all had to say about me.' Was this.. on purpose? What did Ex and the Hermits talk about? He didn't.. he didn't even think they wanted to talk to him, how did..? Why would they talk to his brother, and not himself?
Except his once-brother is telling a different tale. Stories of friendship and care, subversion of every good feeling he had held for his family and friends, and sentiments that come much too close to his own recent feelings of guilt and despair.
"I may be broken, and I may be beyond saving, but if I can make sure that Hermitcraft- the one last good thing in my life- sticks around, I can at least say I did something good.”
The anvil has twisted to a sword in his gut, glitched directly into every open wound he has been hiding, pulled into the light simply to make a mockery of him.
“Stop playing your games." Stop hurting me, he can't say, not anymore. "Stop pretending you care about things." How could he know, how could he stare right into his own soul, and bare all of his feelings and deepest wants as if they’re toys to play with. Mocking him, and his care for this server, his friends and family.
He loses track, after that, his own bedrock shaken and cracking. He spits his words by rote, arguments had again and again that he knows like the back of his gloves. Except Ex has brought new weapons, has thrown down a fresh gauntlet and reopened wounds badly healed over. Uses his own shock and history to paint a new picture, a new world that is squeezing him out of it. Resets Xisuma as the fault, as the inattentive brother, as the cause of the destruction of their family.
Of both of his families.
“Your parents didn’t love me the way they loved you.” Calls him ‘brother’ with one breath, and denies that they were family the next. Left him, accused Xisuma of leaving him behind, of driving him away.
Like he had done to the Hermits.
Because they were taking Ex's side, was turning without question to another point of view, swayed by a story of abuse and miscare that he had unwittingly participated in.
And just as before, his past actions and inactions have already damned him. He has no excuse, no defense, and his pleas are once again swept to the side and ignored as worthless. He wants to curl into a ball and disappear, but he's sure that somehow he'd still be blamed for whatever happened next, for whatever damage has been or will be done by the end of this waking nightmare.
Instead he is the silent witness, as each Hermit takes their turn in comforting his once-brother. His replacement, in every way, as they support him and comfort him and give away the love and support that he ached to have directed at himself. At his world, that is now upside down, leaving him floating, unmoored, and wondering what his new place will be, what he can do to have any hope of reclaiming his lost place in their hearts.
He doesn't think he has a chance, not when Zedaph pushes his chair back, and pushes his own dagger of pain back at Xisuma's own silence.
“On that note, I say we put to a vote, as a server-” deliberately taunting him to disagree, to say anything in response. “-On whether or not we whitelist Evil X.”
So this was the plan, all along. He had hurt Zedaph, like he'd hurt Ex, and Bdubs, and every other Hermit before that. This was his punishment, maybe the only way they could forgive him, if he did this thing for them. If he remained silent, and followed their lead, and paid his recompense by doing what he was told, and earning their forgiveness.
He's shocked into silence anyway, when Ex makes his pretty speech to Keralis. Demonstrating a skill with words Xisuma didn't know he had, and showing the Hermits a new level of selflessness while all that he can feel is another sense of loss, as Keralis unwinds from his fearful huddle and visibly blooms at the apology.
Like he hadn't, when Xisuma had made his. Like no Hermit had, when he was shouted down and chased away and left to his own darkness.
He's only a little shocked, startled even, when Keralis addresses him at the end.
"Shishwammy?"
"Yes?" Please don't let him fuck this up, please, dear void…
"Please whitelist Evil Shishwammy."
They want him to.. they trust him with this? "K, are you sure?"
It's only his sinking heart that makes him pause and ask, not even listening to whatever it is Keralis says to his once-brother, instead of to him. He isn’t even needed for this, but they’re making a point.
Giving him a single opportunity, to fix a mistake.
He adds EvilX to the whitelist, ignores the shock to his fingers as he sends the command. He makes himself watch, as the world-code welcomes a new member, as it seals the harshest of the glitches, mends the worst of Ex's..
The shape of his once-brother's code changes. Heals and becomes solid in places he's never seen it smooth out before. There's nothing in his stomach as he takes a step back, shrinking out of sight, but not losing the visual - the changing, evolving, living code of..
Of a brand new player. Of a living, breathing, non-glitched Player, and void below and stars above, but how had he missed this? How had their parents.. their Admin.. how had he..
No wonder there were so many glitches, trouble that brewed like a storm wherever Ex had gone, that receded when he left and crashed like waves when he 'knocked' against the firewalls that couldn't keep him out. There's even a piece of himself, that's no longer tethered, that snaps back, broken and unhindered now, no longer blinded by being pulled away from him, and used by another.
His brother had never been welcomed, truely. Never been whitelisted into their original server-home, never been whitelisted on Hermitcraft or any other world. Never had a settled code, a home to call his own, or a world to escape to, wouldn't have been able to create one himself.
He backs away from the now happy gathering, already feeling the burn in his eyes and throat, and if he stays here any longer it will undermine the whole thing. He can’t have a breakdown here. He can't have them turn against him more than they have. To mock him for not noticing, for driving one more wedge between friends, for not being able to control himself, for not letting them enjoy this moment. Not again, and not now, not since he's seen what will make them happy, what can heal the hurt he's caused so many.
Doc catches his eye as he leaves, giving a slow nod of what could be recognition, or thanks. No one else comments or even seems to notice, and ticks later he's in the nether and out of the tunnels, racing along the flight path he'd marked out to his witch farm, far from any other build or Hermit.
He doesn't quite manage to hold himself back, and staggers forward from the portal to dunk his helmet in the ocean, rinsing it from the little bile that stained the inside.
The laughter of spawning witches above him and water below are no comfort to one more breakdown. It's not even for himself, this time, but for the brother he could have been, could have had , and kept, and the lost time and years between them. For his failure yet again as an admin, who should have known better, could have looked harder, been more thorough. For what his brother could have had, had he truly been wanted, and cared for, and loved.
He swings his sword through his tears, timing his sobbing gasps with his swing, allowing the energy spent at the farm to soothe the fear and despair until it’s become mind-numbing exhaustion. He doesn’t think he can stay for long, not with the way he hasn't been able to keep solid food down long enough to sustain the physical grind. The little bit of resources will help though, with finishing his brewery. A project with new meaning, to give back to the Hermits, to right the wrongs he's made, and be more mindful of what he hasn't been noticing, to no longer be 'the derpy admin', so lost in his own little world and harming everyone around him.
No more mistakes, no more driving the Hermits away, no leaving anyone behind, including him.
It's still easily days later, shaky and exhausted when he returns to the brewery. He's refilled his inventory with supplies, shulkers full of redstone and glowstone dusts, gun powder and sugar, along with plans for several new farms to round out a complete set of every available vanilla potion. The brief burst of sugar from a few bottles of honey gives him the energy to store the items away, ever closer to filling the hoppers. Giving him purpose, when haunting nightmares turn him back out of his bed too soon.
He builds the farms, and finishes work on the brewery, and on expanding his base in the quiet hours that he's left alone. In the days that pass without remark, without visitors, the sun rising and falling and rising again, and hours spent in more physical labor and placing blocks and even more redstone.
(He works at the phantom farm on nights that Bdubs is in the Nether, or another Hermit asks for time to work on lighting their bases. He doesn't dare ask for himself, and since he rarely sleeps, the phantoms will be there at nightfall regardless. The dragon's breath farm is a little more tricky, and he has a couple of close calls with totems, but is ultimately successful. The honey helps, though he hates to admit it. He isn't keeping solid food down anymore anyway.)
He cautiously makes his way back into server life. He monitors world chat again, keeping it muted but watching for opportunities to help out his servermates. Keeping his distance, but offering help when he can, with what he has or can do. Stopping his own work to gather resources, to drop off items from his farms, keeping up his self-sufficiency to stay clear of being a burden on anyone else on the server. Keralis already had free-reign of his farms, and he can easily offer the items he already has in plenty.
He's still rarely asked directly for any assistance. Evi- no, Exiona earned his way into the Hermits' hearts by what he did for them, and supporting them when he had made his mistakes. Now Xisuma has to follow his lead, and step back, and work hard not to fall back on derping and inattentiveness. And he does, he does work hard to gain back their favor. He catches his almost-mistakes before they can happen, he fills every request that he can catch in chat, he keeps himself scarce from everyHermit until they can forgive him and maybe, maybe welcome him back some day.
They haven’t left him yet.
It's weeks again before the next crisis. The next use of the Code, and he thanks the stars and void that maybe it was only a one-off, or that the Hermits can at least trust themselves to answer the call even if they don't trust him .
He's not the first to arrive, but neither is he the last this time. But he is prepared, and digs out his potion box that's prepped for the kind of unknown situations that a Blue Creeper call can be.
Everyone's focus is on Grian, as it should be. The day-cycle is reset, and Cub gleefully takes out the undead fliers that hurt their friend, leaving the others to tend the wounded. And wounded he is, Grian's bright plumage dirty and torn from his fall and roll in the dirt, the wing itself bent unnaturally.
Xisuma pulls up the anatomy files from their server, offers them to Impulse, only to find Mumbo already here, and walking the stronger man through resetting the delicate bones of the wing. So he turns his attention towards bandages instead, leaving a pile of them beside Impulse, who grabs without looking as Mumbo's long fingers help him wrap.
The distracted 'thank you' is the kindest thing anyone's said to him in ages, even if Impulse wasn't looking at him, or even noticing who it was said to.
That tiny flame of warmth is held close to his chest as more Hermits arrive, and he steps back to silently nurture it, moved further and further away as Hermits press close and ask questions and quite nearly get in the way. He bites his tongue, determined not to make the mistake of snapping at anyone, certain that his voice will not be welcome even at the expense of Grian's careful treatment.
False arrives, and her no-nonsense tone has Hermits laughing in relief as they're directed to gather more supplies, potions, to clear out space at the Safe Space so that Grian can recover there, surrounded by friends. She spares only a glance his way, though he can't make out the emotion that passes across her face as he steps further back, and away from some of their newly arriving Hermits.
A litter is made, Grian bundled into blankets to keep him warm from shock setting in, and there's still plenty of volunteers to carry their friend back to spawn through the Nether hub. Xisuma is already making a mental list of potions and food to feed everyone, figuring he can leave more shulkers at the entrance to the cozy ship as soon as they've got the patient settled in.
Mumbo surprises him, breaking away from the moving group to stand hesitantly before him.
"I know the Hermits are Grian's family," Mumbo starts, and Xisuma could cry for the uncertainty in his tone, hoping and yet knowing that he's been the cause of it. "But he has a, not quite a, that is, someone he thinks of as a, a sister, of sorts. And, um, this is kind of a scenario, that is," he takes a deep breath, and lets it out in a rush of words. "WouldyouwhitelisthissisterPearllescentMoonsoshecanvisithim?"
He knows all of the emergency contacts listed by the Hermits. He knows PearlescentMoon, and knows that Grian holds family dear to him, and can only imagine how much he would love to have his sister there, even if he was severely injured. Temporarily. Temporarily injured, he corrects himself. Xisuma starts to nod, interrupted before he can find out if his voice will work today.
"Oh! I should, uh, we should make sure.." Mumbo trails off, searching his many pockets before he pulls out his comm and types out a quick message. "There, that should do it. Can you contact her? I think he'd really appreciate it, and it'd only be a temporary thing, I mean, she’ll be a Hermit soon, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility, right? Just a few days, I think, or a week. Maybe? I'm not-"
He prays his voice stays steady. "Mumbo I'll take care of it." Thank the void, even if his stomach feels like it wants to empty again, the tremors along his spine letting him know he's got only a little bit before this turns into a full-blown attack. "As long as she wants to come, I'll make sure she can be here."
Mumbo nods, and nods again, relief and concern and joy and worry chasing across his expressive face. "Okay, okay. Thanks, I mean, for Grian, or his sist- oh, goodness. Listen to me ramble. Thank you, I'm gonna, I'm gonna head for the Cowmercial district then, and meet up-"
The lanky man interrupts himself, turning and wrapping his arms around Xisuma for a quick tick, squeezing once before rapidly backing away, tripping over his tongue and feet.
"Thanks. Thank you. I'm, uh, I'm gonna go now." And he rockets away, narrowly missing the top of a tree a dozen blocks out.
Leaving Xisuma standing alone in the little clearing, his chest and back and arms still tingling from where Mumbo had pressed against him, chest heaving from the silent sobs of not-pain and deep, abiding sorrow, for what he had lost.
He follows through, shoves off the bout of anxiety and worry and contacts Pearl directly. The first message is sent from the Respawn room at World spawn, just in case she demands to come immediately. Which, of course, she does, calling him up on the private line he'd given her, and asking how long until he can portal her in.
It's only a matter of minutes to whitelist her and locate the nearest Universe hub, pull a few strings due to his admin status, and commandeer a portal that he himself programs to their locked and protected world.
She's there as he finishes, bold and brash and just as effusive as Grian, and he can see in a heartbeat how well they must get on. Her black and white moth wings flutter behind her in anxious excitement, and she graces him with a small smile as he bows at her introduction.
"Nice to finally meet you in person, Iksuma." She gets his name as close as anyone ever does, and he adds it to his mental list. "Sorry it had to be under these circumstances."
He nods in agreement, and repeats his warning from earlier. "We'll be in the ocean as soon as we spawn in," he had logged out from there, so he would arrive with her. "Let the bubbles pull you down, and there'll be armor and weapons if you want them, so you won't be unprotected while you visit."
She steps through the portal as soon as he finishes, and he follows as soon as she's clear, expending a fraction of power to pull and shatter the portal behind them, taking no chances that someone could follow. (It'll be a long, long time before he will trust the open hubs again.)
Her delight at his Respawn room is only dimmed by the knowledge of why she was here, and he wastes no time getting her a respawn kit and directing her through the next portal into the Nether hub. She doesn't ask any other questions, allowing him to lead her to the Town Hall portal, and then to the waiting SS Hermitcraft.
She doesn't even notice that he doesn't follow her inside, though welcoming voices mean she's not alone as she meets the Hermits already there. She's in good hands, beside her brother, and well met to Grian's new extended family.
Xisuma flies back to his own base, to his hidden little space behind the honey pits, and succumbs to the anxious nervous breakdown he's been holding at bay.
By the time he calmed down again, napped fitfully and showered, it's been a full day since he whitelisted Pearl. He swallows another bottle of honey, thick and tasteless now, as it's been his only food source for much too long. He scrolls through the world chat, catching up on what he'd missed, thankful to see that the message Mumbo had sent out even before he'd left was simply confirmation that noHermit had any issue with Pearl visiting for the duration of Grian's injury. There's a roster already posted, for everyone to volunteer time spent keeping Grian company, and he's happy to see that it's already filled, their friend will be well cared for.
There are antics posted as well; Grian waking briefly under the influence of heavy painkillers (thank the stars, his brewery is good for something, he's been good for something), and even he has to smile at some of the things Grian has supposedly said and done. It's a good sign, that his spirits are high even though he was hurt so badly.
He can take a measure of courage from Grian. He never wants to see someone so hurt, like Doc had been, or Beef, or even Bdubs after his kidnapping. But Grian was apparently still his happy, perky self, and thrilled to have his friends and family around him.
He'll stop by as well, without disturbing the rotation of Hermits already signed up. Maybe make an apology or two, if Grian's willing to accept it. Just the thought lifts his mood even more. He's been distant long enough, and he hopes that his apologies will be welcome this time around.
They aren't.
He makes for the entrance of the wooden build, pressing the unused bandages into Hypno's startled hands, and gestures toward the center room, not trusting his own voice to explain. He can't even meet Hypno's eyes, unwilling to see either challenge or contempt there, too.
At least he can flee before Jevin arrives, and tears into him further, or throws the whole hybrid-incident back at him.
"If you think I'm broken, you'll ban me. You did it to Exy."
He can't win. He can't outrun the hurt he's caused, and it's going to haunt him every day for the rest of his pathetic life. There'll be no more inflicting himself on the Hermits. No more waiting for them to leave him behind, or drive them off. It’s his turn now. They deserve better than him, they have better than him.
His once-brother, who has grown and proved himself to be better than Xisuma ever was, has been chosen by the Hermits. It's his turn to leave, to leave them to their happy family, to stop being the pain in their hearts that they're reminded of every time they see him.
It’s a quick flight to his base, not that he’s aware of the journey. There’s just one thing to take care of, something that he’s had in the back of his mind for too long, planned out but never acted upon. And all too easy, too quick to complete.
Until now. Until the end. Until there’s nothing left, and no more reasons to stay.
He knows that ZIT has gone to Tango's to stay close to the Cowmercial district, so he spams his rockets and flies high over unseen biomes and land, until he's reached Zedaph's Cave of Wonders. He breaks through the front door, carelessly placing the blocks back behind him, and marches over to the Bumless Pit. The iron trap door is closed, there's no more need for Zedaph to sit here and wait, no one to come up from the Void and be welcomed back, no more anticipated reunion or anger at a friend departed.
Only himself, and the cold worthlessness of whatever is left of him, unwanted and alone, and anticipated by no one.
He mutes everything. His comm, his chat, his connection with the server and the world itself. He'll disappear, like he'd made Exiona disappear, and go unmourned.
The trap door opens with a clank, and Xisuma steps forward.
There is no message to announce his departure.