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You have watched empires fall to dust. You have drawn blood from gods. You have stood by men as they lose games with Atlas and crumble under the stratosphere.
And yet, you are still a fool.
Here is an open secret: on the day L’Manberg died, you swore you would never love anything again.
Here is a closed one: you are not very good at following your own rules.
(“I think,” says Wilbur, a supernova in slow motion, “that you’re a lot like I am. I think you’re going to die alone.”)
Slime, at first, is a tool. A way to get what you want. He’s naive and ignorant and he trusts you.
He’s funny, and he’s sweet, and he’s more than you deserve.
You’re using him. You’re using everyone, really.
(When all you have are problems, everything looks like an answer.)
You’re using him. He tells you he’ll sleep in the walls, and you build him a room. He pretends to be human, and you play along while hiding a smile. He’s just a tool. You give him suspenders, like yours.
His face falls when you talk about death. Yours did the same, once. Then you felt it.
(“You wanna play Achilles?” Techno asks with a laugh. “Come on then! Find out what happens!”)
It’s scary. Of course, it is. Most things are. But it can never be stopped.
“What happens when you die, Quackity from Las Nevadas?” Slime asks, wringing his hands together. He looks like Tubbo when he does that. You wish he would stop.
“I don’t know,” you respond. “You’ll have to ask someone else.”
“What happens to me?”
You raise an eyebrow. “I don’t know what mob afterlife is like either, sorry.”
Slime shakes his head. “No, I mean after you die. How long do I have to wait?”
“Wait?”
“Before you come back.”
You breathe in sharply. “Humans don’t come back, Slime. Or, well, sometimes they do. But I won't.”
His face falls. “Oh.”
You clear your throat. “I should go to bed. I’m tired.”
He lets you.
(“I am as Odysseus,” Wilbur laughs, standing on your skyscraper, throwing his hands to the sky, as if in supplication. “For years I’ve been lost to the sea — and now I am home!”)
You’ve polished Las Nevadas to perfection. Beautiful buildings made with a god’s hands. Brilliance around every corner. You breathed life into this place. You don’t know what you’d be without it.
L’Manberg is a crater, El Rapids is a memory, the Greater SMP has a puppet king with no master. You have yet to find an old friend who isn’t a threat. Las Nevadas is a coffin with no corpse — an empty shell of beauty. Las Nevadas is all that you have.
(“Come on, Sugar Pumpkin,” your husband teases, his hand too tight on your jaw. “Admit it. You’re nothing without power. You’re nothing without me.”)
You don’t need anyone. You worked for this, for what you have. You made it yourself.
You’re different now.
(Human nature is a fickle thing. You cover up the dirt with sand, but it doesn’t get any hotter. You can call it a desert all you want, but you cannot stop the snow.)
“Trust no one,” you tell Slime, and you are past and present at the same time. “They’re all just looking out for themselves.”
Slime looks hesitant, a frown on his lips. The frown looks like yours. You’ve gotten used that that.
“I trust you, Quackity from Las Nevadas.”
You blink, something hot behind your eyes. Goosebumps rise on your flesh. You’re not used to that.
“Oh,” you say, and for once you are lost for words.
(“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” Sam says.
You picture Dream’s face as you pried off his toenails.
“Then you should get to know me,” you reply.)
“You’re not gonna survive by being nice,” you tell Slime. “Your morals aren’t important.”
Here is an open secret: You are not afraid to be cruel to get what you want.
Here is a closed one: You’ve learned not to mind that.
("You probably like Black Jack, don't you, Dream? With that fucking mask and all, I'd bet you'd win a lot of Poker games, but I just get the feeling you're more of a chance kind of guy." You crouch down next to him. "But uh, y'know, I'm Mexican myself, so I prefer Spanish 21. Y’know the difference?”
Dream shakes his head.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. So, Dream, here's the difference: In Spanish 21, we don't like to play with 10s. So let’s play a round. First things first: We gotta get rid of some cards." You kneel on Dream’s wrist, focus on the pinky, and bring down the axe.)
One morning, you wake up and find Slime in your kitchen.
“What are you doing?” you ask, rubbing your eyes. Then, you look behind him and see the coffee pot. He’s dumped coffee grounds in the water. Of course, he has.
“I’m making coffee,” he says with a smile.
With anyone else, you’d be angry. You just feel warm.
(“You care too much,” your husband spits. “Y’know what? I’m gonna tear it down, and y'know what you can do?”
You don’t answer. He doesn’t care. He’s not really talking to you.
“Y’know what you can do? Cry about it!”)
“Legacy is what you leave behind. It’s the only thing left after you’re gone.” You thought that was L’Manberg, once. Later, you thought it was El Rapids. You never seem to get these things right.
“Is this going to be your legacy?” Slime asks, looking up at the casino building.
You mean to look at the casino. Instead, you find yourself looking at him. “Yeah,” you still say. “Yeah, it is.”
(“I want to build something important,” Tubbo confesses to you, one winter night on the docks. “I want something to outlast me.”
He brings his son to work sometimes.)
“Fine,” Purpled snarls, and brings out an ender pearl.
You love nothing. You need no one.
(You can call it a desert but you cannot stop — )
His eyes are wide. You do not hesitate for a second.
(When Icarus falls, Daedalus dives after him.)
He hugs you as he melts, as you struggle, as you beg and cry the only way that you can.
“Thank you,” he says.
(Before Icarus fell, he flew. And it was the most beautiful thing.)