Chapter Text
The path back up the ravine Orange had fallen down is slow-going, but at least the Warden seems to know the way. Once again, she's grateful for her new friend. Her experience in supposedly-impossible communication had come in clutch with the haphazard flute she'd assembled, somehow earning her the Warden's loyalty. The guy's almost twice the size of King and undoubtedly stronger, so she's betting on the advantage they'll provide to her and her friends.
. . . Her friends.
Is everyone else okay? Orange had been so busy battling King, she hadn't even noticed what happened to them. She trusts they're okay—her friends can look after themselves—but she's never dealt well with the uncertainty of separation.
They're probably alright.
(They better be alright.)
It is then, an hour into the start of their arduous climb, that the Warden . . . halts. Their head swivels, as if searching for something, and Orange opens her mouth to ask what's wrong when—
When—
The air turns cold, turns heavy, as the pressure plummets fast enough to pop her ears. All of her instincts start screaming wrong wrong wrong wrong, matching the pace of her quickening heartbeat. The Warden rears back with a shudder Orange feels run down their whole spine.
What's going on?
She reaches for her flute, but then—
Then—
T H E N —
Around them, the surface of the world UNPEELS, CRACKS OPEN, and Orange can't find the breath to SCREAM when five impossible large fingers—more light than substance—snaps around her and the Warden—
There you are, my love. An unfamiliar voice booms in Orange's head, rattling her teeth. Let's fetch you both up as well, hm? Won't be a proper show without the star.
—star.
Stars, stars, stars.
This is not black, this is an emptiness so severe even color cannot exist, and yet look, there is light—
—won't you reach out for it?—
(Orange screams, and nobody hears)
. . .
"O—"
. . .
"—ra—g—"
. . .
"ORANGE!"
Orange gasps, bolting up. Her head collides with Green's face and the two recoil from each other, clutching their respective injuries.
"Ow, ow, ow," Green moans, hand on his aching nose. "Windows above, O, you have a one hard head for it being hollow."
"Hollow or not, I will eat your note blocks," Orange instinctively snaps back, but freezes, registering the voice.
Wait—
Green?
"GREEN!" Orange body-slams her best friend in a hug, sending them both crashing back to the ground. "You're okay!"
Green's fond laugh eases some of her tension. "Of course I'm okay, you doofus. What about you, huh? You were taking on the big bad himself back there."
Orange's grin becomes a little harder to hold onto. "Been better," she admits, "but we've survived worse. Oh, and I made a new fr—"
Out of nowhere, something clamps on the back of Orange's shirt and lifts her up. She finds herself set back on the Warden's shoulders, staring down at an equally startled Green. The Warden growls protectively, shaking the floor with the sound, and Green tenses, reaching for a sword that isn't there.
"Wait!" Orange pulls on the Warden's horns, halting their charge forward. "Wait, wait, he's a friend! He—right, damnit, you can't understand me—"
"I understand you."
Orange, who had been rummaging her pockets for her flute, stops dead at the low, raspy voice. "You what?"
The Warden turns their head up to Orange. Their face is unreadable, but they seem just as bemused as she feels. "I understand you," they repeat, slow and surprised. "Since when do you know Deepik?"
"Deepik?" she repeats, bewildered.
"Deepik?" says another voice. A new stranger appears out of nowhere at the Warden's side, unfazed by the instinctive swing that barely misses his head.
The man is . . . familiar, somehow, though Orange can't quite tell how. He looks stunningly average—brown hair, dark skin, blue shirt—save for eyes like shining pearls that feel like they're boring into Orange, even when the face is turned away.
"That's the language of the Ancient Cities," says the stranger. "You're a Warden, aren't you?"
The Warden nods. "I am the last of the guardians of the Avgrund Fortress. My guide"—they tap the side of their head, indicating Orange on top of them—"was the first outsider in almost twelve hundred years. Who are you, that you know our history?"
"Professor Herobrine, of Monster School." Herobrine studies Orange and Green, the focus of his eerie white eyes like an anvil around their necks. "You two—I remember. You're Red's friends, aren't you?"
Orange jumps down from the Warden's shoulders. "You know Red?"
"Have you seen him?" Green cuts in. "Is he okay?"
What might be a smile crosses Herobrine's face. "He's my transfer student. He's here as well, last I checked, just talking with his classmates—"
"OOOOOOORANGE! GREEEEEEEN!"
A red blur rams into them both, knocking the wind out of them. Slightly dazed, Orange looks up to find Red's grin barely an inch from her face. "I missed you both so so sooo much!" he cheers.
"Missed you too," Orange wheezes. The knot of guilt in her gut unwinds at her friend's familiar cheer—she'd half-expected at least some hostility for the fight in the desert they'd had, but there's not a trace of resentment on his face. She frees a hand to squeeze his shoulder, and his expression softens, like he can read the comfort she's trying to say.
While Green had looked the same as the last time Orange saw him, Red has some noticeable differences—Orange takes note of a half-healed black eye and a fresh scrape down his arm that she knows hadn't been there earlier. And just where did he get that bandana? Reuben's here too, trotting along at Red's heels. Orange isn't sure how the pig's here, considering it's been missing for the whole fight with King and she'd honestly assumed it had been killed somehow, but Red looks over the moon to have his pet back.
"Red, don't break their ribs," a familiar voice laughs. Orange's heart skips a beat. "Leave some for the rest of us, yeah?"
Red's boa-constrictor grip loosens enough for Orange to straighten. Right there, finishing up their family, are Blue and Yellow—who have gotten a noticeable upgrade. Blue's changed into more combat-friendly gear, dull leathers and mended fabric, hair tied back under a headscarf. On the other hand, Yellow is wielding a lapis-blue replica of King's staff.
Green says what Orange is thinking: "What in the 404 were you two been up to?"
"Busy leading a revolution." Ignoring Green's sudden coughing fit, Blue scans Orange over, shoulders slumping in relief upon seeing no serious injuries. "You're all okay?"
("We're just skipping over the revolution bit?")
"We're okay," Orange assures. "Just . . . it's really good to see you all again."
("Looks like we are.")
Yellow crosses her arms. "Not that I'm disagreeing, but surely we agree there's something questionable about the set-up of this reunion?"
"The creepy hand was pretty ominous," Blue agrees.
Red perks up, finally sliding off Orange and Green. "Wait, you saw that too?"
"A giant ghostly hand that grabbed me, Blue, and our friends right as we were about to enter the portal, all without saying a word?" Yellow grimaces. "Unfortunately."
Orange frowns at 'without a word'. She could have sworn there'd been a voice when she'd been taken . . .
"Yes, the same happened to the both of us."
Red, Blue, and Yellow all jump at the sound of the Warden's voice. Apparently, they hadn't noticed the ten-foot eyeless monster right behind Orange.
"Uh, Orange?" Red squeaks. "Who's that?"
Orange smiles reassuringly. "That's the Warden. They're a friend, they agreed to help with the whole King mishap." She decides to skip over the part where the Warden had tried to kill her the first time they met.
"Phylax." This time, all five of them jump, and the Warden rumbles a warm laugh. "My name is Phylax, actually. It's good to meet you all."
"Well, you're not the only addition to the ensemble." Red points a thumb over his shoulder. "The professor and some of the students seem to be here too."
"Oh, yeah." Green snaps his fingers. "Herobrine, right?"
Red's smile flattens. "You know him?"
"He was just here a few minutes ago. He told us you were here—guess he recognized us as similar to you."
". . . Yeah." He sounds uncharacterically distant. "That must be why." He seems to shake himself out of his funk. "Herobrine's the teacher for Monster School, for advanced mob juveniles. It's a been a bit tough, but I made friends with Endie, Skell, and Webber—oh, they're an enderman, a skeleton, and a spider." He points at Blue. "You guys?"
Blue frowns at Red, looking concerned about his earlier mood change, but answers obligingly. "Yellow and I returned to a village we'd visited earlier. They'd been invaded by pillagers, so we helped overthrow them."
"I saw some of the villagers here too," Yellow adds. "The Titan Ravager also seems to have followed us."
Green pales. ". . . Titan Ravager?"
"Buster's friendly," says Yellow, and does not elaborate. The rest of them look at Blue, who only shrugs helplessly. Clearly, she knows as little about the Ravager as they do, but she doesn't correct Yellow's trust, so it's probably safe.
Red nods, his beam back on his face. "Cool. Cool-cool. That's cool and all, Blue, but—what about the piglin?"
Piglin? Orange does a double-take—like Red had said, there's a piglin child hugging Blue's leg. Blue, though, doesn't even seem concerned, only shakes her head fondly as she pats the top of the child's head.
"This is Padol. I met him while I was in the Nether. Not sure why he's here, but none of the other tribe members are, so he's been sticking with me."
This time, they look at Yellow, who also shrugs. Then again, they're all a little unclear on what happened to Blue in the Nether, seeing as the Witch and the parkour trap had distracted them from questioning her.
Meanwhile, Green is looking somewhere behind Orange, eyes narrowed. "Looks like Minecraft's not the only guests invited."
Orange follows her eyes—
Oh.
Not too far away, a familiar figure is pressing burning hands into the walls. The flames are nearly white with heat, but the plaster isn't so much singed.
Orange cups a hand around her mouth to shout. “Chosen! Is that you?”
The older visibly startles, whipping around the call of her name. “Second?” The fire on her hands extinguishes itself. “And the rest of your colorful crew, I see. What are you all doing here?”
"No idea!" Orange chirps. "Just plopped here while we were all busy. What were you doing before this?"
Chosen's eyes shift to the side. "I was . . ." She briefly considers telling the truth, but decides that fleeing government mercenaries was likely not a child-safe answer. ". . . busy. And then a ghost hand pulled me out of the fi—out of nowhere, I mean. Then I woke up here."
Green huffs, crossing his arms. "Well, that breaks the pattern. You're not a Minecraft native, but you're still here."
Chosen almost smiles. "Well, I'm not the only one." She offers a hand. "I saw someone you've been wanting to meet. Would you like me to take you to Alan?"
Alan is. Having a day.
Listen, he knows his life is a bit unusual, okay? Christ, he has stick figures living on his desktop who regularly break the laws of reason and physics for the sake of having fun. He'd accepted his life by the fourth time he woke up to an impromptu karaoke night on his computer.
But a glowing hand and a menacing voice that transported him from his house to . . . here, is a little beyond his pay grade.
It's the biggest room he's ever been in—more like a one-room mansion than a room. Rows of cushy couches all face one of the walls, which he recognizes as an extremely oversized TV screen. More interesting than the setting, though, is the large variety of people, none of whom he recognizes. Wait, scratch that—he does recognize some, but not in any meaningful way, because he is slightly concerned for his mental stability if that really is an enderman and a living skeleton right over there. An assortment of large-nosed strangers in medieval dress are whispering in the corner, and he considers going over to ask what's going on until he sees the shiny blue swords several of them are holding and the wall they're leaning against moves, revealing itself to be a giant bull-like beast.
The first hint he gets is the two stick figures sitting a little ways off from the rest. They're not his stick figures—the taller is dark orange and full-headed, and the shorter is purple, which does feel familiar—but still, does that mean the others are here too?
An unfamiliar voice answers that question:
"Alan."
Alan spins around, eyes wide, and stills at the sight of—Orange. Orange, because of course he recognizes her, even when she's not a mere circle and lines on a computer screen. Of course.
"Oh," he manages to say. "Hey, Orange."
"Hey, Alan," Orange echoes. "It's . . . you. It's actually you." She swallows. "I, uh, it's good to meet you. Finally. Face-to-face."
Alan wrings his hands, as anxious as his creation is. "Yeah, same. I—" He steels himself, then opens his arms.
For a moment, Orange just stares. Face burning, Alan starts to lower his arms, but lets out a breathless oof when she lunges forward and wraps around him in a tight hug.
(She's young. She barely reaches his chest, and the sniffles she's making into his shirt is very child-like. Has she always been this young?)
Before he can get the chance to recover his breath, he's bowled over by four more small bodies, sending him toppling backwards onto the floor. He barely glimpses the colors—red, blue, green, yellow.
It's them. After all these years, it's actually them.
Further behind, he sees another stick lingering. Catching his eye, the Chosen One only nods at him—not dissimilar to their first reunion a handful of years ago. She makes no other attempt to get closer. He nods back in acknowledgement and nothing more, and she seems to relax a bit at that.
"Hey, guys," he gasps through the tight grip they all have around him. They reluctantly let go, letting him stand up, though Orange refuses to stop clinging. "It's great to see you, really, but—what the he-eck is going on?"
The one who must be Yellow—the colors are a giveaway—scoffs, hands planted on her hips. "We've got as much idea as you."
"Most here are people we've met," Blue offers helpfully. "Besides that? . . . Yeah, Yellow's right."
Green groans dramatically, sprawling over the ground and not even flinching at the solid kick Red gives his side when most of his legs end up on his face. "Like, please! If we're going to be stuck in a creepy wherever, at least give us some explanation?"
Therefore, following the laws of cinematic timing, that is exactly when the screen making up the entirety of the front wall lights up.
"Welcome, darlings!"
A white hollow-headed stick figure towers over the audience, all of whom jumps at the sudden sound. It looms terribly large over them all, even Buster, a grinning mouth sketched over the hollow head.
"You're all here now!" it chirps. "How delightful, wouldn't you agree?"
Yellow's scowl clearly disagrees. "Who even are you?"
The smile turns distinctly condescending. "Oh, none of you could possibly even think my name without your feeble heads collapsing in on themselves, dearest. But for convenience, you may call me Lady White."
"White." Herobrine stands up, hands clasped politely over his chest, but his expression is nothing less than grim. His students cluster behind him, unafraid as long as their teacher is with them. "I would like to ask you return me and my students back to our realm."
White ignores him. "How lovely it is to finally get to this point! Oh, I feel like I know you all already, don't you agree? I mean," she laughs, high and pretty and awfully cold, "we've been watching you for a long time."
Alan stiffens, as do most people. "You've been . . . watching us." He sounds as disturbed by the notion as he feels.
"Why, yes! We are the Watchers, little ones. And your planet of humans is so very fun to watch. It was such a pleasant surprise to discover you had become Watchers yourself. Just look around you—here is the proof of your digital universe."
"Yes, we know all about the Outernet, yes, yes, I don't care." Chosen's fists are on fire again. "Now, like the teacher said—let us out now."
Instead of fear, elation shines over White's expression. "What pluck!" she marvels approvingly. "But I promise you'll want to hear what I have to say, Chosen One." Chosen doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. "After all, I'd like to make a deal with you sweet things."
Red raises his chin, looking White in the—well, White doesn't have eyes, but he makes an effort to make eye contact nonetheless. "What kind of deal?"
"My charity, freely given." White opens her hands. "I offer you what no mortal has ever before been granted—a glimpse of Fate."
"Fate," King repeats, skeptical.
(He'd stopped believing in Fate years ago.)
"It's what we call our streaming service," says White, somehow still cheerful. "It transcends the linearity of time; with it, you may observe both past and future."
After everything, Purple knows better than to think any offer—much less one that comes from a multidimensional being—comes without strings. "Why are you doing this?" he demands, shrinking back a little when everyone's eyes turn to him.
White's languid smile turns sharp. "Like I said—I am a Watcher. I do hope you'll put on a good show to make my efforts worthwhile."
One of the villagers actually hisses. "Good show, my behind, I'll make a good show out of your—" Another villager slaps a hand over her mouth and whispers something, which is enough to make her reluctantly back down.
"You want a show," says Orange. The sheer weight of White's attention slams into her like a sledgehammer, buckling her knees. At the edges of her fuzzing vision, she's aware of her friends—Alan and Chosen included—closing ranks around her, but White's ink-lined smile cuts straight through their futile attempt at protection.
When White speaks again, it's with a fondness more disturbing than her blithe apathy. "Oh, my darling Second Coming."
Orange winces. "I really prefer being called Orange."
"Your name is Second Coming?" Purple sounds incredulous. "What were you named for, a movie title?" His mouth clicks shut when four glares snap in his direction. Ah, shit. He really needs to remember to watch his words around the ex-friends he just betrayed.
To her credit, Orange just laughs awkwardly. "Yeah, it's a bit pretentious, isn't it? I like my nickname better."
"You know," says White, speaking over any other attempted interruptions, "out of everyone, you and that creator of yours"—Alan jolts, not having expected to be mentioned—"are my favorites."
Orange opens her mouth, then closes it. She tries to think of what to say. "I, uh, appreciate the thought, but . . . divine favor is not exactly something I want?" Next to her, Alan nods fervently. If a creepy stalker goddess likes him, he really thinks he should do a lot more self-evaluation.
"Oh, precious treasure of mine, there's no denial necessary with me," White cooes.
"But—"
"Ah-ah-ah! Question time is over now—so sit down, lovelies!" The audience suddenly finds themselves forced into seats, trapped by some invisible bindings. White beams in the face of their growing fury. "Before we get into the meat of the plot, I think it's important you all understand where our Second Coming and her little company come from, wouldn't you agree?"
"Orange," Orange absently corrects again, then nearly chokes as the rest of the sentence properly registers, as does the rest of her friends. "Wait, what do you mean by—"
"Toodle-oo!"
White disappears from the screen.
Black.
And then—
A scene flickers to life.