Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

a rolling stone gathers no moss: proverb - A person who wanders or travels often and at length will not be burdened by attachments such as friends, family, or possessions. Can be used as a negative (to suggest that such a person won't find a fulfilling place in life) or as a positive (to suggest that they will have a more interesting and unpredictable life). 

Earth, intergalactic designation Terra Humanis , is a fledgeling planet; the dominant species, humans, have only just started the cultivation of their local moon, and establishments on their neighbor planets are roughly hewn. They don’t even have the means to travel outside of their local system yet! No redstone, no magic — but they’re sapient. Intelligent. It’s enough to welcome them into the greater cosmos: a world of trillions of lives, endlessly unfamiliar sights, galaxies, and species. 

Humanity, though, isn’t quite ready to make the venture. 

It’s a completely natural reaction! It’s a dangerous world for a species so bland as humans, but it’s soon evident that their innate ferocity and unwieldy strength makes them a threat in their own right. The first visit to humanity led to the representatives barely speeding out of their atmosphere alive, and were much more careful in later contact. 

The rest of the cosmos is kept at arm’s length by the Watchers – an intergalactic council, chosen by the Universe Itself to maintain peace and balance – and they guard the local system. When it’s time for humans to make the leap, they’ll open the gates. 

It's the incoming ships they worry about. 

The rest of the universe is fascinated with the newly discovered species, miraculous survivors on a volatile planet. 

The black market adores them. 

Fierce, fascinating, a paradox of being both fragile and deadly. They’re smaller than many races, fitting neatly into cages, shipped like cargo to the highest bidder. It’s a fate that befalls many newcomers to the intergalactic community. For study, to be kept as pets, or tossed into the pits for entertainment — there’s never a shortage of demand to spur the reckless poachers.

And yet… some humans, as bland and powerless as they appear, carve a place in the universe for themselves. Slipping out of the hands of their captors, wrenching control of a ship from their own poachers, humans are an uncommon, but not unheard of, sight in intergalactic ports. Speaking accented Galactic, piloting ships, opening shops and surviving. It’s the tantamount attribute of humanity: 

The stubborn, determined refusal towards giving up. 

Word travels far on the exploits of wandering humans; a new gladiatorial king that won their way out of the pits and starting a settlement for other refugees. A redstone genius that revolutionized ships and machinery by incorporating human engineering and wiring. 

The rest stay low. Stay safe. 

After all, no one leaves Terra Humanis on their own accord. 

“Dude — you in there?” 

A hand waves in front of his eyes, and Bdubs flinches, retreating into the mossy cloak… before laughing. “Ha, sorry! Got a little lost up in my own head. It’s sooo big — easy to make a wrong turn, y’know how it is.”

Ren chuckles back, reaching across the table between them and swiping a glowberry off of Bdubs’ plate — hmph. “I was asking if you’d heard of the new ‘sculk’ thing that’s been discovered.” He pops the stolen berry into his mouth, snapping the firm surface with a fang. A flash of white that would strike fear into many, but Bdubs knows the only fellow Ren is at risk of biting is his own lip. Ha!

Bdubs leans in, eyes gleaming. “ Oooooh?” 

“It’s actually a newly discovered species, folks think: some kind of… plant? Slime mold? Eugh, I’m not a science guy,” — Lies, he totally is — “But there’s a fractured planet down in the Deepslate Void that’s been dubbed the ‘Deep Dark’ — Oh, hush, I didn’t come up with the name — and this ‘sculk’ grows there, right up close to the dead core of this planet.”

Bdubs steals a berry from Ren’s plate. 

“My crew were recommended to go swing by and see if we could get a sample, see what’s up with that , but it’s outside of any of our specialty. So…” Ren nudges an elbow into Bdubs, the bony limb poking against the soft mossy shroud. “I thought I’d pass the coords onto you!” 

“I thought you had some science boys on board — didn’t you say Scar was a big plant guy? Or wasn’t Cub?”

“They’re both more inclined to magics, Vex stuff.” The name vaguely rings a bell — he knows they’re a magic species — or a power source? Bah, that’s not important! “And…” 

Aha! There’s that lingering something in Ren’s tone! “Go on…?”

 Ren huffs. Is he… nervous? Bdubs will admit, he’s a geeeen-i-us,  but reading others’ emotions is a different battle. “We are lacking a horticulturist on board — a plant guy.  Just saying, m’dude, the offer is still open and relevant.”

Huh. Bdubs…. kinda expected it to be some mysterious revelation or a newfound empire to try and build. 

He kind of wished it was, instead of being faced with this decision again. 

Listen – he loves Ren. Big silly guy, super chill and a lot of fun to be around. He just has this infectious, dog-like enthusiasm that’s… nostalgic, really. And he’s talked at length about his crew — those aboard The Hermit Craft, a notable vessel that carries a talented, varied crew throughout the cosmos. 

But Bdubs has spent too long building up his own life, making his own little corner of the world. He doesn’t need to join a big ol’ crew! He’s his own big man! 

His bravado does nothing to quell that sinister want in his chest. 

“I dunno, Ren. It’s tempting, yeah, buuuuut … I dunno.” His shoulders shrug. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a crew.”

Ren hums. He makes a tch sound — there’s no harshness or judgment to it, bless him. “But — I’ll keep thinking on it!” There we go! Ren’s ears perk up at the notion. “Yeah! And maybe I will take a visit to the Deep Dark — if it’s a plant, I could grow a bit, see how it sells. Ol’ Moss O Menos could do with new stock.” Bdubs’ gaze travels down the coastline of the spaceport, settling fondly on his rusty ol’ beaut. The copper siding has long since oxidized, and years-old vines cling defiantly to the sides, even after all the space travel they’ve endured. It’s his baby! A rickety thing that hasn’t let him down yet. 

Ren grins, pulling out his communicator. The redstone inside hums as he turns it on, and taps it against Bdubs’ own extended comm. The coords pop up on Bdubs’ screen. Would you look at that! A pinprick of life, deep within a sparse void. It’s actually pretty close to one of his usual markets — and by close, he means several days travel — and he should have some empty planters ready to go by the time he arrives. 

He smiles back at Ren, hoping his friend catches the white of his teeth from beneath his hood. 

They exchange a hug as they get ready to go, thanking the cafe owner (a Guardian who waves back at them, fins fluttering) before heading down to the docks. He feels Ren’s paws squeeze around his mossy shroud, lifting him up—! “HEY!” Ren gleefully cackles as the green blob wriggles in his grasp before his feet touch the ground again. 

“Stay safe, Bdubs!” Ren grins. Bdubs waves back, and watches as the Canid disappears into his vessel, “GIGACORP” — a cylindrical, swift beast. 

Bdubs enters his own vessel — “MOSS O MENOS” — and he sinks to the ground, back against the door. 

It happened… ten years ago, right? Yeah — he spent the time learning the Galactic calendar and converting the time, right when he got his ship and moved off-planet. Ten long, lonely years. 

He remembers it so, so clearly — painfully so. He remembers how the moon dust felt between his fingers, how the newly-imported glowberries felt in his hands. They were a welcome gift from the so-called “Watchers”, who seemed… almost desperate for humanity to like them. It was so funny before he was involved — how the first day, these biblically accurate angel types came down in a pristine ship and scurried right back out. Sure, maybe opening gunfire on these creatures wasn’t the best option, but they were the ones that landed in rural America. 

They tried again in better, calmer circumstances, and opened the universe to humanity. 

It was so poetic . Humanity did it! They solved the last puzzle and now the answers are revealed. They weren’t rushing anyone — they stated clearly that they were only there to Watch, to make sure their species had a goal and a world waiting for them, and that they’d be within arm’s reach, keeping them isolated until they could escape their solar system alone. 

The glowberries were a gift. If he were a religious man, maybe he’d call himself blessed. 

He was stationed on the moon — Terra Humanis Luna 1 , according to the naming conventions at large — and a member of… gosh, what did they call themselves? Ah, yes! The Moon Terraforming Foundation, Flora Division. He was part of the second group they sent up, the first to board the rocket out of 100 members. Hence, designation B00100. 

Of course, when you go by a code all the dang time, you find shortcuts. B00100 became BDouble0100, became BDouble0, became Bdubs, a nickname that became as familiar as if he were born into it in the coming months.

It was around… the second month? Maybe the third, when he met the Watcher. 

They were standing there awkwardly, and were… delightfully human. Wings nestled behind their back, a small pair extending from their ears that covered their face, and a tousled mess of brown hair barely visible. 

Bdubs had been planting a new, resilient breed of fungi that clung to the moon’s rock formations when he turned the corner and saw them. The Watcher had perked up and dashed over, and thrust a box into his hands. 

“Special delivery!” they said in perfect English, and when Bdubs blinked — they were gone. 

It was a welcoming gift, specifically for the Flora Division. Warped roots, Crimson Fungi, and Glowberries—the universe’s common staples that thrived in impossible environments. They proved successful — the first harvest occurred two months later. 

It must’ve been his fifth month on the moon base when it happened, then. The glowberry vines hung around his shoulders as he wove them into metal supports, set into the underside of a craggy overhang. The moon was starting to live — the Fauna Division had been having a bit more trouble with their livestock, even within the artificial atmosphere. The Flora Division gave them space, planting on further fields and darker corners. 

He had almost finished when it happened — he’s not sure how it went down. He… he knows they landed nearby. 

He remembers the flash of innocent curiosity at the grunting sound, far from the Standard Galactic he was starting to learn. 

He remembers the cool, gray hand covering his mouth, and how the glowberry vine fell from his grip. How he felt scared… and upset at the plant being abandoned, in some primal, stupid empathy. 

He gets up from the floor.

Dinner’s not going to make itself. 

His breath shudders, catching in his chest. It’s a self-inflicted angst, trying to remember, but the notion of leaving his humanity behind feels worse. Cowardly, even, and Bdubs is no coward! He’s playing it safe and smart, that’s right! He’s got to remind himself of his humanity, even… 

Even when it hurts. Right?

In, and out. 

His fingers catch around the clock that hangs around his neck, feeling the hum of magic within. 

He lifts the pendant off and warily gazes at a mirror, watching the glamour sink away. 

Two months later, they decide he’s more trouble than he’s worth. They didn’t even have a buyer lined up, and with the Watchers on their tail… It was better to leave a body for them to find instead of a poacher’s crew. 

Of course, they made sure he was conscious when they did it. Ripping a tooth out, root and all. Cleaving off portions of flesh, draining a pitcher’s worth of blood. 

They tossed him out the back of the ship, onto a distant, overgrown planet.

They had left the atmosphere before he hit the ground. 

He landed in the moss. Limp, bloodied. 

And then the moss moved, and took him in. 

His shroud lay on the table as he looked in the mirror. He’s always paler than he remembers — something attributed both to the glamour enchantment that kept his features concealed, and because he hadn’t felt a sun’s light in years . It was worth it, because it kept him alive. It kept him safe. Sure, there are some humans around… but never for long. Sooner or later, they get snatched right back up and sold to the next in line. 

The solution? Don't be a human. 

Thank the stars that, generally, aliens recognized and followed other species’ conventions. You don’t meet an Enderman’s gaze. You keep the Rotten and the Husks away from direct sunlight. You don’t touch an Avian’s wings, and you never look at a Glare beneath their shroud. 

Bdubs plugs the new coordinates into his ship — no asteroid belts in the way, just a long trip that his ship can mosey along. He’s got plenty of time to raise a new crop of crimson fungi, get the glowberries sprouted, and most importantly… 

Shleep. 

Chapter Text

In the wide, open universe, time is… wacky , to say the least. The longest, most arduous journey is nothing in the grand scheme of the universe. An infinity is nothing within another infinity.

Bdubs enjoys this. There’s simply no rush. A simple call to abide by his needs, and the rest can come second. That’s how the universe works for those cradled within it. 

He can’t bring himself to give up time , though. He abides by the same schedule he had, back on the moon’s fledgling compound. Every planet weighs differently, every community has a different idea of dividing time. He’s loyal to hours, to minutes, to seconds. 

The clock hanging around his neck ticks in agreement. 

It was a fun little trinket that he simply liked to keep on hand, all those years ago. He’s pretty sure he found it in a flea market, back before he joined the terraforming crew. The human clockwork inside has long since rusted — it never actually worked to begin with — but the enchantments inlaid upon it moves the hands in perpetual, rhythmic motion. 

It was another Glare who recommended it, one that caught a glimpse beneath his shroud when a burst of wind knocked him astray. It was… yeah, it was within his first months of being on his own, human visage hidden beneath a fake shroud. They had stopped him, tugging his shroud back over head to cast him back in shadow. They smiled beneath their shroud, understanding, forgiving, hand nestled in the soft moss of his shroud to read the story within. 

They gave him the coordinates to a gritty, underground market, specialized in… unusual, hard to acquire goods. Stuff for those who don’t want to be found. They told him that a lot of Glare actually use glamour enchantments: those caught in fires who had the short layer of fur burnt off, or those with less pigment than the rest. 

The enchanter — an Evoker from the Illager system — gave him the time enchantment for free, so long as he got to take a peek inside. It was a startling gesture of kindness from the cold, unforgiving universe, from the very market he might have been sold at. 

The clock ticks quietly, a constant fluttering feeling against his chest, moving in constant earth time. Twenty four hour segments that are meaningless far from their native star, but a reliable, comforting constant that he clings to. 

He allows himself this one attachment to home. 

It takes five days, six hours, and thirty-five minutes to reach the outer market of the Deepslate Void. Named after the mottled patches of dark, stony asteroids that surround a territory many lightyears across, the Deepslate Void is notably barren — most voids have at least a few stars, a few dozen planets at their sparsest, but with practically nothing here… It was no wonder this “Deep Dark” had gone unfound for so long. 

The Deepslate Border Market is a pleasant little place, right on the edge of an absolute abyss. It’s surprisingly warm and welcoming for its circumstance. Built on a large asteroid several miles long, it’s been heavily terraformed. Deepslate rocks peek through lush growth of lichen, glowberries, some mossy-like growths that creep up the sides of buildings. Flattened craters are filled with market stalls, established shops built into the deepslate. Species of all systems bustle in one of the most remote marketplaces, and it’s wonderful.  It’s this lovely site that greets Bdubs as he descends into airspace, leaning over and tuning his console. The dock manager’s bot joins the frequency immediately. 

“BORDER MARKET TO INCOMING VESSEL, ID: B00100, CUSTOM ID: MOSS O MENOS. STATE YOUR INTENT AND PASSENGER COUNT.”  

“Bdouble0100 reporting in: merchant vessel, one passenger. Selling some plants to a couple shops and plan on going shopping myself!” 

“ BORDER MARKET TO INCOMING VESSEL,  ID: B00100, CUSTOM ID: MOSS O MENOS. LANDING APPROVED. PROCEED TO DOCK 14.” 

Bdubs grins. His hunk of junk descends to the docks, finding himself nestled between larger merchant vessels. They’re both more advanced and futuristic than his own, that’s for sure — one is a beautiful chrome with glowing blue accents (maybe some kind of soulsand engine, powered by the energy of the unique cool flames?), while the other he’d describe as steampunk. Beautiful bronze and copper siding, pipes and tubes snaking around the side in an expert display of welding. 

And there he is, little Moss O Menos — a one room, rectangular ship with moss growing on the side, and galactic shakily painted on the side. Standard Galactic, it turns out, is the universal language of the shared universe. It’s wonderfully intuitive, and follows a lot of grammar structures that English abides by. The script itself, though, was another matter that took him a good few years to master. 

Thankfully, those in the universe are patient; Standard Galactic isn’t really anyone’s first language. 

Bdubs grabs a rope as thick as his wrist, made from dried and woven vines that he grew himself, and secures Moss O Menos to his little dock, gently patting its side as she bobs in the air. Unlatching a panel in the side, he’s granted entry to the storage chamber in the underbelly of his little ship, and starts unloading the shulker boxes within. 

He’s long since stopped questioning the how s of the universe’s conveniences. Scientists back on Earth would have a field day if they got their hands on just one of these, let alone the dozens that most ships keep on hand. They’re made from shed shulker shells, the key to the magic of the Shulker’s themselves. Shelled creatures, kinda like isopods, with thick purple plates. They latch onto asteroids, carving out the stone inside… and there’s something magic going on there that lets them turn small rocks into entire homes nestled within. Shed shells get turned into boxes with their own little pocket realms of space. 

Great for transporting stock, and even better — he can dye them green. He hefts one over his shoulder, another under his arm, and (with mild struggle) kicks the latch closed, making his merry way down the docks. 

Lulu’s is a cute little place, ran by a centaur (???) that he’s made a wonderful connection with. Sure, she towers over him and looks like a creature from Earth mythos (with a sprinkling of uncanniness in there), but she’s never lorded it over him, never tried to swindle him. He pushes the door to her shop open, stepping into the greenhouse. 

He leaves with his burden lightened, wallet heavy, and spirits high. 

She took a big ol’ shipment of golden roots — an expensive but fantastic food, especially favored by herbivorous species — and he makes a few more stops to other shops; a potion brewer to sell some nether warts, shroomlights for a home goods store, and a paying a favor back to a Strider’s repair shop who fixed up ol’ Moss O Menos when her engine decided to give up — they got a shulker box of their own, chock full of warped fungus. 

By the time he starts heading back to his ship, he’s back to lugging around a full shulker box. Some tinted glass jars, a handful of Amethyst shards, and a bundle of freshly-mined redstone to refuel his engine, just for starters. 

It’s as he’s musing about getting a new chorus fruit sapling when someone bumps into him. He’s NOT SHORT and a big man , but that means nothing when the average height starts around 6 feet tall. The offender is quick to apologize, looking back at him as the rest of their crew, another group touring the void turns to look —

and oh —

There’s a Glare. 

They can’t be much taller than him, but their posture makes up for it, standing tall and cheerfully laughing. Their shroud is far more well-kept than his own, with fresh flowers speckled throughout it. 

One of their crewmates notices Bdubs staring, and nudges the Glare. 

From beneath their shrouds, their eyes meet. 

He’s… not a real Glare, obviously, but spending several months among them does something to you. He knows their habits, their communication, their greetings. 

The other Glare steps forward. He steps up to meet them, and their hands slip from their shrouds, clasping together. It’s an Exchange. 

Bdubs can’t read like a Glare. He doesn’t have the mysterious sense that the other does, but… he knows the power, the significance behind the action. His fingers weave into the Glare’s shroud, feeling the soft, tender fibers within until his fingertips sink into the root layer. 

The Glare does the same, glowing eyes shut. 

A beat. Two. 

They open, and oh, there it is — a mess of emotions. Confusion. Realization. Understanding. Sympathy. 

Bdubs weakly smiles back at them. 

The Glare have a universal language, silent and unspoken, told through their shrouds. A three-layered cloak: Roots, your given shroud, and the outer layer you grow yourself. He learned how to do it, too: he knows how to encode , to weave new growths into his own shroud, but not how to translate. 

His cluster tells the rest. 

He falls. 

His body is limp, blood trailing through the air as he plummets through the intense gravity, dangling on the fringes of consciousness. 

They wrenched blood and bone from his body, and refused to let him slip away. Made him endure, just to be awake when he fucking died. 

And — he doesn’t splat. He expects it to be an instant end to his suffering, to be reduced to a splotch of unknown viscera speared onto a mountain. 

Instead, he falls into the soft cradle of moss. 

It’s the first softness he’s felt in … months? He doesn’t know. Couldn’t keep track of time between periods of unconsciousness, between their harvests. Too far from his sun to ever know. But the moss is soft beneath his slashed back, and the moss moves . It shifts. It coos , a sound so universally kind and sympathetic that Bdubs can’t help but sob. 

They hum and croon, and the blanket of moss unravels, taking him into their weave. They patch his wounds with vine and lichen. They hide his body from the threats above with a mossy shroud. 

Glare live, primarily, in clusters : communal groups connected by their shrouds, mossy cloaks that grow from their bodies. Each cluster weaves in their own style, grows their own specific type of moss. Among the cruelty that the wide, beautiful universe greeted him with… He fell into the cradle of a species innately averse to loneliness, to the dark, and welcomed him into their fold. They didn’t care that he was a human, weeping, hurt, and lost. 

They wove him a shroud all the same, and welcomed him to their cluster.

The other Glare coos. They reach down, dark and fuzzy fingers brushing over their shroud, and they pick a frond from the surface. It’s a startling white, with a slight translucence to it. They tuck it into Bdubs’ shroud. He does the same— picking a sprig of a glowing blue vine that’s woven into his side — and the two part. 

The universe is wide and cruel, and yet… the Glare persist.

Bdubs persists. 

Four days, eleven hours, and twelve minutes: Moss O Menos reaches the Deep Dark. It’s… more grandiose and more horrifying than Ren’s description. It’s a completely shattered planet, with large chunks split down to the center free floating, but still tethered in, weakly orbiting the cold, dead core by its gravity alone. The planet’s surface is, obviously, dead; nothing but the void’s signature deeplate forming rocky crags and broken mountains. 

But with this shattered form, the floating chunks of continents provide ample places to dock. He pilots ol’ Moss O Menos down to the rocky cliffs on the inner sides of the shattered landmasses. He works safely, meticulously: he gently rests his ship on a cliff, establishing an atmosphere radius; it’s not that big, since his ship is a tiny vessel, but it’s enough that he can step outside, feet settling on the barren cliff. Beneath his shroud, he still dons a mouthpiece — a simple thing that every world-traveler had, enchanted to protect against foreign atmospheres, air content, and pressure.

He hasn’t the slightest clue as to how it works, buuuuuuuut … it works! He’s happy enough to leave it at that. 

A big breath in — and a long sigh out. 

Something chitters in response. 

His head snaps to the side, and… oh! Would you look at that? A growth out of the ground, right at the border of what must by sculk. A sea of deep, endless navy creeping down the rocky sides, twinkling spores blinking like stars. There’s one right at the edge, raised above the rest. Tendrils flutter in the air, reacting to his footsteps as he draws near, crouching down. 

He pulls the clock out from under his shroud — tick, tock , the sculk… thing waves in response — and he smiles, tucking it back away. 

He’s got plenty of time to figure out these little fellas. 

No rush, no worries. 

GIGACORP reaches the Hermit Craft’s idle space, and Ren greets it with a tired smile. They don’t have a set destination at the moment, using the unoccupied space and time to drift about and work on some minor repairs — according to Doc’s grumblings sent to his comm, someone tinkered around the redstone engine (and it's probably a certain Avian aboard…) — and they’re just waiting on the last wandering hermits to get back on board. 

AKA: Ren, landing in the Hermit Craft’s bay nestled in the underbelly of the ship, fashionably late. 

He flips off his console as GIGACORP settles, gaze affectionately lingering on the buzzing console as it drifts asleep. While the hermits are the crew of the Hermit Craft and prioritize her, everyone’s attached to their own private vessels, too — to the extent that some took theirs apart and added it onto the Hermit Craft. It’s a jumble of beautiful machinery, and… yeah, it’s a visual mess sometimes. 

That’s just a symphony. 

Ren clamors out of his ship and finds that there’s a crowd of hermits already assembled! Most have turned to him, beaming and waving as he jogs over. One face stands out among the crowd. 

“Cub, dude! You’re back!” 

The canid sprints into the crowd and tackles the man, the Vex screeching in alarm before the panic fades to glee. “I can’t believe you, dude! You’re making me seem late!” Ren admonishes, but the two are laughing and cheery enough that there’s absolutely no sense of irritation or malice. Just happy reunion between unlikely species in this weird family. Cub’s pallid skin is flush and warm, his sharpened grin wide as he ruffles the hair between Ren’s ears. 

“Where’ve you been, man!” Cub grins back at him — the Vex left as soon as they started their drifting session, and Ren was getting worried that he wasn’t going to make it back in time! 

“Yeah, man — I’ve been visiting Shubble in the Empires system. Martyn’s staying there, same with Jimmy and other folks.” Ren knows them — he hasn’t actually visited their system in a while, despite Martyn being there. As far as he remembers, the system is a collection of tiny moons circling around a peculiar, livable star. “Shubble — she’s a witch, remember? — has been doing a lot of research on the sculk we’ve just started hearing about, and things got… a bit out of hand.” Cub laughs. There’s an underlying exhaustion to his amusement. “She needed some help cleaning them up, and it’s all under control. She’s working on some reports to publish through the Galactic Network and the Watchers, because phew— the sculk are wild.” 

Ren’s ears start to flatten on his head, but the rest of the hermits are listening intently. “What do you mean by ‘wild’?” he probes. 

“She’s got a good amount of sculk — an asteroid rife with them got sent into their system, so she’s had plenty to study. They’re harmless in small enough amounts — they’re just a sort-of-fungus with a connected but limited consciousness.”

“But,” he continues, turning from Ren specifically to explain better to the rest of the hermits assembled. “When in a large enough group, though — Shubble’s calling them clusters, kinda like Glare — they can generate sculk ‘catalysts’ and ‘shriekers’. They’re different cogs in a defense system.” Cub’s passionate, clearly invested in what he’s talking about, but — Ren’s heart is sinking and falling faster. He’s hoping. Praying. 

“She’s found that, if you get loud enough around a shrieker, then it will fire the alarms. The sculk’s limited consciousness comes together and it… coalesces into a much larger, much more powerful beast to defend the cluster as a whole. Shub dubbed them ‘Wardens’.” 

He can’t breathe. 

“Ren?” 

“Ren, dude? You there?” 

He’s not. He’s on that distant market with a wonderful little Glare, stealing glowberries from his plate, listening as he talks about visiting the Deep Dark. 

He sent Bdubs — loud, bombastic, wonderful Bdubs — into a death trap. 

He — he stumbles. One foot falls in front of the other, and — he’s in front of his Captain, arms reaching forward to catch him. Xisuma. 

“X,” he begs quietly. “We — we need to head to the Deepslate void. Please.” 

Chapter Text

Honestly? Sure, it’s in the middle of absolute nowhere, and sure , the Deep Dark is, objectively, horrifying, but… Bdubs likes it out here. It’s so devoid of anything that the hanging dread and paranoia simply lifts from his shoulders. There’s no one else out here.

He keeps his shroud on, of course — it’s so much more than just a hiding thing,  now. It’s warm. It’s safe. It’s something he cares for, and it covers him in return. 

There’s something… symbiotic, something meant to be about it. Screw him, it just feels right! He doesn’t know how to explain it. Undeniably, he’s not a real Glare. He knows that. 

He’s not quite human anymore, either. Not mentally, not visually. He’s in an inhuman, inbetween state, and he’s okay with that. 

It’s been ten years since he’s had the right to call himself human. He can’t claim that he’s been one all this time, not when he’s hiding during every waking moment. It’s so much safer to give up being human. 

( It’s the coward’s way , a nagging part of his mind hums. He can’t say it’s wrong, so he shoves it to the back of his head.)

Now that he thinks about it, it’s been… four, maybe five years since he’s even seen a human, and that barely counts — a human, almost unclockable among a large, diverse crew in the markets. They brush past, accidentally stumbling into each other, and — there’s the human. A mask covered half his face but those eyes were squinted, smiling. 

A quick “Whoops! Sorry ‘bout that,” in perfect Galactic… and off we went, never to cross paths again. 

Bdubs can pretend he didn’t stare. If he did , he can simply excuse it away with a Glare being unfamiliar, perhaps curious about the other species. Or for it to be worry, unsure in the proximity of such a wild card species . 

Sometimes, Bdubs wonders what would happen if he followed that human and his crew. If he found and joined another person after being alone for so long? 

He couldn’t, of course, for both his own safety and for the other human’s. It’s dangerous enough as if for a human to walk around in public, even with a well-armed crew protecting them — let alone two. 

No human left Earth on their own, anyway. Really, he should only hope that he never sees any other human again, no matter how loud that clawing, desperate feeling in his chest cries. 

The best case scenario for him and for others is to welcome a lifetime of loneliness. That’s just how the universe is, sometimes. 

“Psspspspspspsps.”

The sculk’s vines waggle in response. 

Bdubs laughs, watching the sculk continue to twitch and wave, light gently pulsing in response to the sound. He loves these little guys! He hasn’t really encountered anything else based around being sound-reactive like this , so he’s kinda in the dark about their physiology. They’ve got some capacity to detect sound waves and respond in kind — for what purpose, he hasn’t found out yet. They’re just pretty , and that’s enough for him to welcome them aboard Moss O Menos. 

They’re easy enough to take care of, he’s found out. He can’t tell if they feed off of traditional elements and nutrients, or whether they generate energy through sound. But , they seem to be liking the mineral-rich substrate he has on hand, and they’re responding well to the isolation tanks he’s settled them into. He’s got a fair amount on board already, including some of the wiggly guys, plenty of the spongy sculk layer, and a new type he’s found. It seems to be affixed to a larger ‘root’ of sorts, and it was a whole ordeal getting it out of the stone. 

He really ought to be heading off, but he’s got one last thing to investigate before he does. He doesn’t want to upset the natural balance of the Deep Dark (at least, anymore than he already has). As far as he’s familiar with, the Watchers don’t want folks running amuck on undeveloped planets until they’ve been properly evaluated. Buuuuuuut everyone kinda does it anyway — if you don’t push it, you won’t get caught. For example, if you try to establish a monarchy on an unstable new planet with a particular Canid friend. 

… ANYWAY. 

He makes sure to latch the isolation tanks shut before he departs Moss O Menos , hopefully for the last time! His shroud is absolutely covered in dust and dirt from wrangling all this sculk, and he really, really wants to get that washed out. The roots that line the inside of the moss layers are starting to get scratchy, too, in dire need of watering and pruning. 

He probably should take the time to weave soon, too; it’s how the Glare tell their life stories, by adding in new plants to decorate their shrouds. He wants to properly weave in the frond that the other Glare gave him during the Exchange at the border market, and he’s got a few sculk tendrils loosely threaded in that will need proper affixing. 

But! First things first! He shuffles his way down a rough path that takes him down the cliffside, to the lower terraces of the broken landmass. It’s a terrifying, breathtaking sight: walking down a natural staircase that has a chunk of a dead planet to one side, and an endless, pitch-black void to the other. If he peered over the side, he’d see the round, cold sphere of the planet’s long-dead core, having cooled into smooth, polished bedrock. 

His feet scuff against the path, and — Aha! He prances over to one of the waggly sculks that chirped in response, which means he’s close. He heard it around here before… 

Bdubs claps his hands. The wiggly sculk chirps, and… a different sculk shrieks. There’s no other word for its cry as it’s calling out, loud and hissing. Bdubs beams, scrambling over some rubble as he makes his way to the peculiar sculk. Four sprouts of a hard, off-white material jut out from a raised base, centered around some kind of hole in its center. There’s the shifting blue sculk inside, but it’s moving — swirling, pulsing… 

He supposes that a species centered around sound would have both a receiver and an emitter, but… What for? Some kind of alarm? The sculk aren’t particularly mobile, besides a few waving tendrils here and there. 

He really should know better — he kinda does know, but the voice of curiosity is much louder and much more convincing. Bdubs reaches forward, fingers outstretched as they brush against the odd sculk. 

It WAILS , and the world is cast in darkness. 

Holy shit — holy shit. Bdubs recoils, lurching backwards. He — he can’t fucking see! He can see the ground right in front of him, but anything past a few inches is cast in complete and utter void . Not even the stars slip through. He stumbles back, falling as he scrambles away, but — but he doesn’t know how far he was from the cliff. The worst fate is one lost to the void, falling eternally. 

The rumbling of the stone below him isn’t any less foreboding. There’s… something moving on this dead planet. 

Bdubs’ unseeing eyes widen. 

Not on — from within. 

His blackened vision begins to clear, horrifyingly slow. Each foot of vision is gained through agonizingly slow seconds, and he wishes he didn’t, if it means he wouldn’t have to see the monstrosity before him. A towering form that wrenches itself from the sculk, pulling a body from the earth with arms the size of tree trunks. A beast-like head — no eyes, a gaping void for a mouth, twisted horns — lurch upwards. Its chest is pulled out of the ground, gashed open and gnarled, thick ribs exposed —

Bdubs doesn’t care enough to see the rest. He runs. 

There’s no thought to it — just the primal, universal desire to get away from the threat . It’s a clawing desperation in his chest that threatens to wrench a scream from his throat. There’s nothing his mind can throw at it — an unthinking barrage of threat, danger, death , wailing as loud as the shrieking sculk he stumbles past. 

Footsteps thud behind him — alarmingly heavy, alarmingly fast — stone and sculk alike crunching beneath every step, utterly pulverized beneath the weight. Bdubs scrambles upwards, along the shitty, rocky path. His heart pounds in his chest, threatening to escape through his throat. 

Behind him, it echoes — thump, thump. 

He stumbles his way onto the cliff he docked at. Moss O Menos is right there . It’s his lifeline, the only thing his mind claims as SAFE. He’s right there, he’s right at the threshold when the fist connects to his chest. 

He flies across the cliff like a ragdoll. The only mercy he’s granted is that it wasn’t over the edge, but slamming into a stony wall isn’t particularly kind , either. He hits the floor with a thump , a wheeze forced from his chest. Holy shit. 

There’s so much blinding pain welling up in his chest that he can’t even tell what’s broken — he knows his chest shouldn’t feel like that , and that the copper on his tongue isn’t great either. He’s cast in an endless hurt , eyes wide, teared, unseeing. 

The beast shuffles towards him, huffing. It tastes the air like a snake pursuing its prey, leisurely narrowing in on the weakness below it. The shuddering gasps are music to its ears.

The fist slams down, silencing the gasps. The flesh is quiet, unmoving. 

The Deep Dark returns to its blissful silence. The warden sloughs its way back into the sculk. 

…

Nnngh… 

His … his thoughts are slow . Heavy. 

It’s dark. Something childish and simple protests in the back of his head. It’s dark , and he doesn’t like the dark. 

There’s bone and blood in places they shouldn’t be . Untethered, floating beneath his own skin.
…

He's dying , isn’t he? 

God, he can’t die like this. There’s a flash of panic igniting in the back of his mind, but his fingers only twitch. One refuses to move. 

If he doesn’t want to die, he’s got to move . There’s a desperation clawing at his throat that breaks into a weak, breathy sob. He — he doesn’t have anyone, anything. He doesn’t have a goal, he doesn’t even know who he is. He doesn’t have to fight anymore. He can just sleep , he’s earned it.  

His fingers dig into the rocky cliff. His knees shift, and he drags himself forward. A streak of red follows close behind. 

It’s — he’s not sure if it’s hours or minutes that it takes for the rocky surface, one that might as well be daggers grinding into viscera that’s never supposed to see starlight, to transition to smoother metal — still rough, scattered dirt being ground into open wounds. 

And oh — there’s a silly thought, clinging to the forefront of his mind. Blood dribbles down the side of his face, tricking into his mouth. 

He really ought to sweep more often. Maybe stop tracking mud around while he’s at it. 

He’s — he’s in the main chamber… right? It’s — yeah, it’s a small, long room. The ship’s console’s at one end. A table’s at the other. 

Bdubs knows it’s on the table, right where he was repotting the sculk. His — his communicator. If he could just … get to it…

His fingers brush against the cool metal, pulling the device to the ground. It clatters, echoing in his head. He — he can’t tell if he’s calling for help, if he already has — he doesn’t know how. He can’t even remember making it inside the ship — is he, even? Or is he still slumped against the deepslate cliff? He’s leaning against the metal wall, trying to read the blurred text, watching, unfeeling, as it slips from his fingers. 

And… that's it, then. He reaches out, but… he can’t move enough. He can’t will himself enough. His hand slumps back to his chest, fingers weaving into his damp, matted shroud. His hand finds the clock pendant resting against his chest. It ticks quietly — more consistent than his heartbeat. More peaceful.

He listens to time.

Tick. 

Tock. 

“ —I mean, I didn’t push him to go to the Deep Dark, I just recommended it! But he said he was gonna check it out, and now he’s not replying to his communicator, and I don’t know if that’s just bad signal or the wormhole or if he’s—” 

“ Ren!” 

The Canid’s head whips around, meeting the calm, level gaze of his captain through his helmet. Xisuma offers him a gentle smile, hands still resting over the ship’s console. “ Breathe , Ren. We’re almost there. You don’t need to defend yourself — we’ll arrive any moment now, and assess the situation from there.” 

Cub, the only other being in the room, nods. “You couldn’t have known — Shubble hadn’t published anything yet, most of the local galaxy — let alone the rest of the universe — doesn’t know about the sculk, and we might just be needlessly worrying. We had trouble replicating the conditions for a ‘Warden’ to appear in a controlled environment, let alone what it might be there.” 

There’s a grim stiffness to the glassy feathers on Cub’s ears and wings that doesn’t escape Ren’s notice. 

“I know, dudes. He’s just a really sweet but loud guy, and he travels alone. No crew, no one to help him out if something goes wrong,” Ren sighs. A pale blue, clawed hand settles on his shoulder. It gently squeezes. He’s thankful for the comfort, but doesn’t avert his eyes from the console. 

Ren swears that no one besides the Watchers themselves (...and Doc, probably) know how wormholes actually work. Mumbo tried explaining them to Ren once, and Doc loudly disagreed with that explanation. Something about space, despite being millions of light years in any direction, is actually flat, and if it were theoretically folded then two points would be much much closer, and that theoretical proposal just kinda works? 

He fell asleep long before they finished talking. 

Leaving a wormhole is a dizzying experience, being thrust from a theoretical position to a point in space. The Hermit Craft shudders for a moment, but all systems hold fast. Radar and communications are switched back on, Xisuma’s fingers dancing over the keyboard… before they freeze. His head cocks towards Ren, inviting him to view the newest logs: 

‘PUBLIC DISTRESS SIGNAL - VESSEL MOSS O MENOS - COORDINATES FOLLOW:’

Ren’s already bolted from the control room before Xisuma can warn him. 

He’s sprinting down the ship’s main corridor, barreling towards the hangar. He stumbles straight into Doc before stumbling past — “Prep the med bay!” he shouts — before scurrying the rest of the way down and practically tossing himself into GIGACORP. It’s not a particularly fast vessel — he uses it to lug around lumber and crates more than winning races — but it’s reliable and familiar. That’s what he needs when he’s blinded by panic, engine kicking to life as he falls from the ship and revs towards the shattered planet. 

Ren loves seeing new planets, new sights that very few are privy to. The Deep Dark would’ve been one of them — he’s been looking forward to it, even, seeing a broken up planet with a solid core. 

The sight, now, fills him with sinking dread as he rushes down towards the planet, coated with endless sculk. GIGACORP lurches to the side as he pulls the wheel to the side, narrowing in on the coords. He’s getting deeper into the shattered landmass. There’s more sculk. 

Moss O Menos sits alone on a cliff, and Ren slams his ship forward, uncaring as the stone grinds into the bottom of his vessel, throwing himself out the door before the ship even comes to a stop. 

The sharp tang of blood hits his nose before he sees it, tasting it in the air. A quiet part of his mind hums contentedly. The rest screams in panic. Numbly, Ren follows the trail into the ship, and

there’s Bdubs. Sweet, wonderful, loud Bdubs. 

Quiet, unmoving Bdubs.

He’s slumped against the wall of his ship, darkened liquid pooling beneath him. His shroud is stained, soaking in the excess blood, and Bdubs is silent . 

Ren bolts forwards, knees splashing in the blood as he crumples. His paws reach forward, desperate — and freeze. He — he doesn’t know what to do . Where’s he bleeding from? How standard is a Glare’s anatomy?! His digits seek out Bdubs’ wrist, feeling the slick, matted fur, and the faint heartbeat within. 

Ren doesn’t know how to save him . 

But he knows someone who does. His paws hook under the mossy shroud — one under his legs, the other his back — and he runs . 

Doc’s waiting for them.

Chapter Text

 There’s voices. Soft, quiet, unintelligible — Bdubs hears them so, so faintly. 

They worry and fret, fluctuating, shifting into each other. They’re tender, kind, genuine concern and diverse accents buzzing at the edge of comprehension. They sound like friends , in a pure essence, an ichor that begs for him to drink from. 

He hears Ren . 

Ren, soft and worried and scared Ren, murmuring in the distance. Language is lost to the drifting man, but the tone makes it through. Why’s Ren upset? It strikes a dissonant chord in his muddled heart. What’s wrong? It begs to help. 

A murmur slips from Bdubs’ lips. Softly, quietly. He tries to ask what’s wrong — what offender would dare upset Ren? 

A hand interlocks with his own fingers, stiff and bandaged. A sigh dies in his throat, musing at the feeling of rough fur and worn pawpads. Familiar. Warm. 

“Ren ,” he slurs. He can’t feel his lips, handing control to muscle memory that falters under the responsibility. The muscles barely respond anyway. It takes long, sluggish moments to realize that he is making sound: a long, anguished whine that pulls from his throat. 

The fingers laced with his squeeze gently, soft murmurs distracting him from the cold metal that traces its way up his wrist. Deft fingers find the vein. The needle slides in cleanly. 

One voice rumbles, low and content. The other coos, quietly, softly. Bdubs relinquishes his consciousness, passing it back to the void. 

Touches dance over his skin. Gentle, trepidatious. The delicate intent held within leaves tingling paths in their wake, their voices just as tender. There’s three, now. Low and thunderous and purring. Soft and quiet. Ren. 

They’re careful, so careful. Something in his mind worries as a cover shifts over his skin before it’s dampened back down, quiet and easy to tuck back into the haze. 

Does he move? He doesn’t know. He’s hazy, left to grasp for wisps of consciousness. Someone’s saying something . They’re… talking to him, unlistening. They’re talking about him. 

And yet, words slip through the veil. Vague, incomprehensible, syllables without meaning. 

“You’re alright,” as a cold pinch enters his wrist. “Almost better, just one more step,” as he feels the shroud sway in the air. His head throbs over the next words, shifting upright, and then — weightless. Not in the demanding way that unconsciousness pulls him towards, but… gentle. Floating. As if he’s settled on the surface of a pool, gentle waves lapping at his sides. 

“He’ll be alright.” 

“The potions have done all they can, his body needs some time to rest in the restoration chamber.” 

“You’re not helping him by staying awake the whole time. C’mon, go sleep: we’ll watch over him.” 

When Bdubs opens his eyes, it’s to a world of soft, dream-like blues, shifting and ebbing. Light dances through the haze. 

He blinks. 

He’s… behind glass? His gaze sluggishly flits around. He’s… floating. Not in water, not in dead space, but in a small, upright chamber. He’s warm and weightless, the remnant aches in his bones are unbothered, perpetual. 

He blinks. Someone’s looking at him through the glass. Yellow curls. Curved ram’s horns. Gleaming eyes that meet his own before widening. 

He blinks. They’re gone. 

He blinks, slower. They flutter shut. 

And suddenly, gravity catches up to him. Weightlessness is snatched away and Bdubs falls, boneless, into the grasp of sturdy arms and soft fuzz and the smell of wood and bark. Ren pulls him close. 

“Shh, shh, you’re alright,” Ren murmurs into his shroud. Bdubs vision is blurred, unfocused. Ren’s thumb brushes over his cheek, and carves the path for a tear to trickle down. Ren’s crying too, graced by a soft smile. There’s dark rings under his eyes. Those silly diamond glasses are resting on his forehead, askew. 

He denies that he clings back tightly onto Ren, as if he’d drift away. 

“Um,” a voice rumbles. There’s a weight of exhaustion deep in his bones that prevents him from jumping, but his gaze flickers up. They’re not alone. 

There’s some sort of green-furred alien in the room with them. There’s some obvious creeper traits that he recognizes, but far too much of a snout to guarantee. There’s something distinctly goat-like about him, although the metal plating over half his face dissuades any conviction. The sheep-like fellow stands beside him. 

An air of exhaustion hangs between them. 

“You’re aboard the Hermit Craft,” begins the goat-creeper-thing. His voice is startlingly deep and a twinge familiar, although he can’t figure it out. “Ren found you critically injured, and thankfully brought you on board fast enough that you should have no major lasting damage.” His voice is steady, practically emotionless. There’s a casual, assured certainty to it that Bdubs leans on.

“You’ve been unconscious for several days, but have made good progress. Your ship is in our hangar, and we’re far from the Deepslate Void. You’re safe,” he ends. 

Ren echoes it with a squeeze, hugging him close. 

If tears begin to streak down his cheeks, no one says anything about it. Ren’s forehead presses against his own.

“This wasn’t how I wanted to get you on board,” Ren wetly laughs. 

Bdubs laughs too, and leans back into his embrace. 

By the time that the ship’s captain hears that he’s awake, they’ve managed to get Bdubs onto his feet, if only for a few moments before they sit him on a cot. Bdubs’ head swirls from the movement, but apparently that’s normal from being in a weird, magic/sciency stasis chamber for a few days.

Now on the outside, he can see the chamber nestled in the corner of the infirmary, glass window open and tubes strewn about. The creeper-goat-alien — introduced as Doc — had started taking it apart nearly as soon as he was out of it, insisting there’s room for improvement. Judging by Ren and Zepaph’s (the sheep fellow) reactions, this is entirely normal behavior. Bdubs laughs with them. 

The captain of the esteemed Hermit Craft arrives, pushing through the curtain over the med bay entrance, and… Bdubs isn’t sure what he expected. He’s heard of Captain Xisuma from Ren, of course, but still — the captain of such a vessel seems like he’d be imposing, intimidating. 

Instead, he’s just a guy in a helmet, hesitantly stepping through the doorway. A face is barely visible through the tinted purple glass, looking over the inhabitants of the infirmary and settling into a smile. The purple visor is set into a metal gray helmet with a pointed piece on either side, almost like large, blocky ears. They’re probably just antennae of sorts, but they make his whole ensemble surprisingly emotive as he steps forward. 

“It’s wonderful to see that you’re alright,” says the captain. He takes a seat on the other cot in the room, sitting upright and nonthreatening. “You gave us all quite the scare! I’ve heard much of you from Ren,” he adds. Ren snorts, averting his gaze. His tail thumps behind him. 

“He’s told me plenty ‘bout you, too,” Bdubs smiles back. 

“I’m sure. I’ll still give you my proper, formal introduction,” says Xisuma, although there’s enough levity in his tone to indicate it’s anything but. “I’m Captain Xisuma, but please, just Xisuma or X. Or whatever bastardized version Grian and Keralis say,” he chuckles. “And you’re aboard the Hermit Craft. First things first: no matter what you’ve got planned, we invite you to at least stay long enough to let yourself fully recover. You were in… quite the state.”

“But on that: Ren’s probably tried to shill our crew to you before, and with his recommendation you’re welcome to join for as long or short as you’d like.” Several amused glances are cast the Canid’s way. Bdubs’ fingers fidget with his shroud. “We’ve just got a few rules on board.” 

Xisuma raises a gloved digit. “One:  don’t tinker with the redstone. You could be an expert, but the wiring on this ship is complex and unconventional. More importantly, the ship isn’t sealed most of the time, so we don’t want to have any interference with the atmosphere engine.” Bdubs nods. 

“Two: there’s a lot of banter and… mischief on board.” Bdubs can’t parse if there’s more fondness or exasperation to his tone. “Simply put: only dish what you can take, and that goes both ways. If one of the others teases or pranks you, you’re free to do it back. Just don’t do anything that can’t be fixed in an afternoon.” 

“And three: respect the privacy and boundaries of other hermits. There’s a lot of species on board, and be mindful of the quirks of each species. Likewise, you’ll be equally respected. You’ll figure that out by meeting the others, but just keep it in mind,” X smiles. 

“Again: you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. The horticulturist position is open, but obviously, there’s no pressure to join. You can simply stay a while, no pressure, no obligation.”

X stands back up from the cot, extending a gloved hand towards Bdubs. His hand stills, and only moves to gently squeeze his shoulder when Bdubs gives a slight nod.

He steps out from the infirmary, Zedaph following behind. Bdubs shakily sighs, hand clasped in Ren’s. The Canid squeezes back. There’s that desperate, cloying conviction threatening to spill over, deep in his chest. 

Might as well tip it over.

He leans his head against Ren’s shoulder, and murmurs.

“Hold me to staying,” he asks. Ren’s quiet chuckle is warm, it’s fleece and cotton and moss. 

“Of course, m’dude.” 

It’s later — he thinks it’s sometime in the evening, whatever that means out here. He sits upright in the cot, supplies scattered around him; a small pair of scissors, a sponge, a bowl of water, a comb — he had Ren go down to his ship earlier, collecting a few things from inside. 

It’s as good a time as any to trim his shroud, after… everything it went through. It’s a therapeutic act, fingers threading through the outer layer of moss and plant matter, feeling for the loose tufts to snip and weave back in. The edges are damp, a darker shade of green as they dry. Some parts are notably stained, a rusty tint to the moss where the blood won’t wash out. 

He’s not as dismayed at that as he perhaps should be. It’ll regrow soon enough.

Hey! The extra touch of red is kinda nice — it matches (very slightly) the vibrant red headband that holds his shroud away from his eyes. He picks away at the dirt and pebbles nestled within his shroud, running the comb through tangled patches and snipping away the matted clumps. 

Ren had left after a while, at Bdubs’ insistence. He can still hear his voice, just across the way. Apparently the kitchen is right across the hall, conversations about various nonsense (and about him) slipping through. They’re giving him some space until he’s on his feet, something that he both appreciates and has gnawing at his chest. The hermits are a very tight-knit group, lively and friendly and loving and — is it really his place to ask for a spot among that, even at Ren’s invitation?

Doc clears his throat, the ‘glare’ jolting before looking over. Despite Bdubs insistence that he’s fine, he thinks they’re still trying to keep an eye on him. Or Doc’s just that much of a workaholic. He’s got a plate of food on the ground being ignored in favor of the mess of cables, redstone, and wiring from the gutted restoration chamber. 

“I probably should get it out of the way, before I get too caught up in all… this .” Doc’s metal hand vaguely gestures at the mess of mechanics. He picks himself up from the ground, moving to sit onto the neighboring cot. Bdubs finds himself shifting back, his limbs disappearing back into the safety of his shroud. It’s not lost to the notice of Doc’s artificial red eye, but he says nothing of it. The cot creaks beneath his size. 

“Don’t worry,” he assures, voice low. It’s a disconcerting combination. “I’ve just got some leftover questions for you, now that we’re alone.” His furred hand pecks at his metal arm, and – oh! A screen materializes above it, his fingers already pecking at a holographic keyboard. 

“X was extremely serious about one of the rules: we hold a respect of boundaries and privacy. We have a ton of species on board, each with their individual quirks, dangers, and difficulties. Some here try to live quietly, hidden from the rest of space, and we respect that, here.” 

Inside the shroud, Bdubs bristles. 

Does Doc know?

 Unbothered, he continues. “I’m not a certified medic, per se, but I’m what we have on board, and I need to be … nosy , for medical purposes. Ren’s given us a brief on the Glare, but I’ve never personally gotten to know one. I’m… aware that your cloak is important and there’s a focus on staying hidden, but…” 

Intimidating, bulky Doc sounds nervous. 

“I want to brief you on what happened while you were unconscious, and for you to inform us on your boundaries — both personal and species-wise.” 

Oh. That’s… a lot kinder, softer, than he expected. Bdubs nods. 

Doc scrolls through the holographic screen, galactic darting past as he pulls up the specific log. 

“Ren and Cub can explain the specifics as to the situation on their own time — frankly, it’s less relevant for us. What matters is that Ren found you, unconscious and injured on your ship, and rushed you on board.” Doc flicks further down the log. “I administered potions through an IV, and Ren was present for the initial assessment. We did not look under your cloak,” he confirms. “The Warden — the sculk’s… defense entity? — caused a lot of bludgeoning and impact injury, which thankfully needs less hands-on treatment. A lot of potions, bedrest, a bit of magic from Scar, and several days in the restoration chamber followed.”

Bdubs tucks the extra, familiar but unassociated names into the back of his head; Cub and Scar and Warden . 

“Now that you’re awake, however, I need some questions answered to better help: what I’m allowed to do, how standard your anatomy is, and I’d like to do a proper check-over before you’re allowed to leave.” 

Doc’s voice is firm, but… delicate. Considerate. “Whenever you’re ready,” he invites. 

Okay. Okay. He can answer this. He thanks the stars that his glamour is enough to keep his body hidden, and the simply anatomy of a Glare means he’s not lying through his teeth.

Despite the intimating form, he doesn’t think Doc would press him on any of it, either. 

“ Well ,” he starts. His arms emerge from the shroud, fiddling with a vine.  “A Glare’s shroud is extremely important. It’s both protection, privacy, and it’s a key part to one’s cluster and communication. It shouldn’t be removed, ever — it’s like removing a limb.” 

Bdubs pauses. Might’ve not been the right comparison, as his eyes trace along Doc’s prosthetic. “UM – y’know, what I mean, I…” he stammers. Doc snorts, and he takes the amusement as his excuse to MOVE PAST THAT TOPIC. 

AHEM.

“Besides all that — pretty standard bipedal humanoid,” he shrugs, gesturing out a hand — not quite offering, but Doc accepts it anyway. Doc’s longer, darker green fur brushes over the short black fuzz that covers Bdubs, brushing a fingertip over the short, nub claws. 

Distinctly NOT thinking about that contact, he pulls his hand back into a wide gesture. “ Soooooo , anything else?” 

Averting his gaze from Doc’s face, he finds himself glancing at the holographic screen and at the galactic swiftly being typed. Doc follows his gaze. 

“Don’t worry — this isn’t going anywhere outside of the ship,” he assures. “Anything else about the Glare?” 

“I mean, Glare are pretty diverse. Generally we’re omnivorous? Clusters’ specific diets vary by planet, so it’s a lot of harvesting and scavenging. Biology is pretty simple? Gender isn’t super a thing but there’s binary sexes.” Bdubs pauses. “...I’m male, by the way.” 

Doc wasn’t even accusing him of anything, insinuating anything, but that teasing, competitive need to tease and banter is thrilled to return to the surface. Doc chuckles. 

“Oh, you shut it!”  

And just as soon as it came, the moment passes. Doc moves down a couple lines in the log. “Anything individual?” Doc asks. Bdubs freezes. “Allergies, preferences, triggers?” 

He weaves the vine with another, braiding it as he definitely totally doesn’t avoid eye contact. 

“I… might have to think on that. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a crew,” he admits. One thing stands out, though. “You just… can’t remove the clock.” 

Doc hums, a curious noise. Bdubs moves a hand back beneath his shroud, fishing the golden clock from within. It ticks in his hand. “It’s a… really personal trinket I got a long time ago,” he murmurs. “It’s enchanted, and you can’t remove it. You just can’t.” 

How else can he defend it?

And… Doc doesn’t press him. “Sounds good. That’s… pretty normal for this ship. If you’re hiding something—” Bdubs flinches. “---That’s perfectly fine. The past is behind you when you’re a Hermit, so long as you’re alright now. A lot of hermits have their own precious items, enchanted medical aids, and the like.” He types away, pecking at the holographic keyboard without looking away from the ‘Glare’. “No one will steal from you if it’s important. You might want to tell Grian and Pearl about it, though — sometimes their hoarding instincts act up, avian things.” 

He catches Bdubs’ questioning gaze. “They get clingy,” he says, as if that explains it. He clicks something on the prosthetic arm, closing the document before standing up. “Now, last thing: Permission to check over your injuries?” 

With all the gentle questioning and careful conversation, it feels… almost out of place, uncouth for him to even consider denying Doc. If he didn’t figure out his secret from earlier treatments and medical scans, then surely he can endure this. The sooner it’s over with, the sooner he can be out of the infirmary, right? Bdubs shakily nods. 

He’s not asked to remove his shroud, and while the ‘inspection’ is far, far closer than he’d ever be comfortable with… it’s less invasive. Doc is quiet, methodical, impersonal. His hands — one furred, one metal — carefully trace along his hidden frame, moving by touch alone. He hums as his fingers feel over bandages plastered over his sides, digits pressing into the bruises. Bdubs doesn’t move, body stiff and tense. 

And… Doc starts talking. Simple, informative, comforting, as if baring his own biology while inspecting Bdubs’. “I’ve got my own mess of genetics, an odd species — part caprine, part creeper.” A metal finger rests on the center of his chest, pressing in slightly, feeling the heartbeat within. “We’ve got a few species on board descended from the Mob system — are you familiar…?” 

Bdubs gives the slightest shrug through the palpable tension. 

“It’s a planetary system whose star corrupted some centuries ago, emitting magic and radiation. A lot of the non-sentient species within that system were thrust into high intelligence as a result.” His hand moves, helping Bdubs sit upright as his fingers trace along his spine. “A lot turned feral and violent, and the rest assimilated into the nearby galaxies and beyond. Both of my own parents came from descendants of the Mob system. We’ve got Cleo, one of the Rotten — kind and delightful with a touch of bloodlust, you’ll like her — and there’s Zedaph, a satyr desecnded from the Ovis lines.” 

Doc’s hands slip away, although Bdubs sleepily finds himself leaning into the vanishing touch. “ I ‘member seein’ him,” he murmurs. Doc chuckles, helping reposition Bdubs back down, lying into the soft, comforting cradle of the medical cot.

“You did. You’ll get to talk to him tomorrow, along with the rest of the crew. For now,” he says, fingers drifting to a dial on the wall. The room dims, leaving only light to seep in from beneath the dividing curtain and from the faint cast of distant stars. 

“Rest up.” 

Chapter Text

…So, when Bdubs’ delirious, exhausted, injured mind had said “hold him to staying”, he did mean it. 

But he doesn’t have to  like it . 

“ Rennnn,” he whines. He’s pacing in the infirmary, ignoring the limp that he trudges with in favor of dramatic worrying. “I know I promised, and I’d love to stay— you’re all lovely, ” he assures, mouth moving far ahead of his mind. He doesn’t think there’s any braincells active within his panicking, actually. He does want to stay, desperately so. 

“What if the Hermits don’t like me? What if I don’t fit in?” He reaches the other side of the small infirmary, shroud flowing as he paces back the other way. “What if I fuck up or something, or—” Ren cuts him off with a laugh. The Canid is amusedly watching the charade from the spare cot, tail lazily wagging. 

“I think you’re overthinking,” Ren answers obviously. “Bubs, you’re a delight. They’re going to love you.” Bdubs makes an anguished sound, head thumping against the wall before he buries himself in his shroud. Ren pats his head. “I’m telling you, dude, the wildest things you could do would be tame compared to the rest of this ship’s nonsense.” 

Bdubs sinks back further with an exasperated cry. Ren laughs.

“I’ll tell you what; I’m gonna phone in Scar, who you’ll get along … dangerously well with.” Ren hesitates, realizing the potential of the combination. But Bdubs perks up at the suggestion, and Ren can’t bring himself to back out now. His paws peck at his communicator, quickly sending off the request. 

Bdubs’ eyes blink through the cover of his shroud. “...Mind telling me about him?” The name’s familiar—he thinks Doc mentioned ‘Scar’ yesterday, and the name seems … rather intimidating. Apparently, the nervousness isn’t absent from his voice, as Ren’s ear twitches. 

“Don’t worry,” he quickly assures. “He’s a silly sweetheart. Super dramatic, ridiculously clumsy and accident-prone.” 

…A thump from down the hall has Ren’s expression morph into an obvious ‘as I was saying’. 

A few moments later, and the infirmary’s curtain parts. A man steps through. 

He’s… startlingly familiar, startlingly human , Bdubs realizes with a jolt. He looks like just some guy before he takes in the specific details; pointed ears, a sharper nose and brow, eyes a bit too off to be familiar. Long, silken hair rolls down his back, and every step thumps and creaks. He’s wearing some kind of exosuit, albeit compact; There’s hefty mechanical supports on his legs, and a breathing tube connects between his nose and an apparatus on his back. 

The name makes sense now , seeing the dozens of scars littering every piece of exposed skin. Notably, there’s a large slash across the center of his face, and a few other marks on his cheeks, reminding him of cat-like whiskers. 

“Well, hello there!” Scar grins. The energy is instantly infectious, Bdubs finding himself grinning back. “I’m sure Ren-diggity-dog has mentioned me,” he says dramatically, a hand gesturing to his own chest. Ren snorts. “Buuuuut, in case he hasn’t : I’m Scar!” 

He extends his hand — lithe fingers covered in faded scars and rough calluses. Bdubs shakes it. “Bdouble0100 — Bdubs to you!” 

Scar’s grin somehow widens — distantly, Bdubs realizes that his teeth are almost human, but more pointed. “B-double-O,” he purrs, rolling the sound around. “Wonderful to meet you! Ren’s told me all about you.” A pause, a smirk. “ Particularly your foray into royalty.” 

Bdubs cackles. “Now hold on , I wasn’t royalty — I was my liege’s right hand, I’ll have you know!” 

Ren buries his head in his paws. 

Soon enough, the group departs from the infirmary — Bdubs bequeathed to Scar’s touring jurisdiction, while Ren promises to meet him down in the hangar, apparently needing to check on GIGACORP . Or, so he says — Bdubs can’t tell whether it’s more of an excuse for Ren to avoid being teased, or an effort to get Bdubs to socialize. 

It’s efficient, accomplishing both. Scar leads Bdubs out, making grand, dramatic gestures as his gaze sweeps over the ship. Bdubs had gathered that the infirmary and the kitchen were connected by the same room; what he didn’t realize is how open the space is. The upper floor of the Hermit Craft seems to be one giant space divided up by walls and ramps. The infirmary and kitchen connect in one large space — infirmary sectioned off by clean white walls while the kitchen is open, stretching along the wall. Bdubs gets a quick glance at a large, open storage room before Scar pulls him the other way, down a hall. 

“The layout’s mighty confusin’, but you’ll get the hang of it! There’s the more shared, always open spaces on this wing,” he says with a wide gesture. “While a lotta the rest of the ship is facilities and private bedrooms. There’s… a lot of stuff crammed in this ship,” Scar chuckles. “Off the top of my head, we’ve got engines, labs, the hangar doubles as a garage and workshop, and a lot of us do jobs planet-side, too!” 

“I myself work a lot in terraforming projects — consultation and design, mainly, with a focus on nature and livability. Got my start back on my home planet, word got around, and eventually — I found my way aboard.”

Bdubs perks up at that — that was his job, all those years ago. He wants to jump in passionately, but… that might mean more questions that he’d like to answer. “Where’re you from?” he asks instead. Scar seems delighted either way. 

“Oh, I’m glad you asked,” he purrs. “I’m from the planet —” Scar’s mouth moves, but Bdubs… can’t really describe the sound. It’s a muddle of elegant syllables that he nods at, processing nothing. “It’s an old planet, mighty advanced and pretty early to space. Most of us are Elves, long living bipeds — more specifically, I’m what’s called a sun-side elf. Our planet acts more like a moon to our native sun, and its rotation-locked. Half of the planet is constantly in the sun, while the other is always dark—resulting in ‘sunless-side elves’.”

“Mumbo — one of the other hermits, he’s a delight — is a sunless-side elf. We met at the solar border, actually! He was trying to create artificial day and night for each side. We… didn’t get too far with that project, but hey! If we didn’t try, I’d never have gotten here with him,” Scar muses, a soft, nostalgic fondness settling in his tone. “You’ll meet him soon enough,” he promises. 

It’s rather mesmerizing to hear the elf talk — a faint part of his mind muses that it could be some sort of charm or magic, but he’s unbothered. In fact, he’s so caught up in Scar’s storytelling that he nearly misses the figure standing at the end of the hall. 

Their eyes meet. The figure raises a clawed finger over their beak, the ends curling into a mischievous grin. The feathers on his ears flick towards Scar. 

Bdubs catches on. 

“ Soooo , Scar,” he butts in, stepping a bit further along, dragging his gaze away from the hall. The figure advances. “What exactly do you do?” It’s pretty direct, but Scar practically lunges for the bait, grin widening. 

“I work a lot in climate control for environments, but my specialty really lies in incorporating natural magics,” he grins. “Right now, I’m working with amethyst shards— turns out they can hold both magic and redstone power with some minor transmutation! The hope is that we can store spells inside to be released upon a signal — it’d work fan tastically for emergency purposes, like to stop a fire, or to counter a drought with a storm spell, or—” 

Wings spread wide, the Avian swoops down upon Scar, slamming right onto his shoulders. Scar screams in alarm, something warbled between a shout and a wail, and is sent tumbling straight to the ground. Bdubs narrowly sidesteps the impact, but not without the tumble of limbs catching onto his shroud and yanking him down, too.

…

The three burst into laughter—there’s simply nothing else to do but grin and cheer over the new bruises. “Oh, Grian! I can’t believe – betrayal, Bdubs! Oh, you’ve schemed against me!” Scar cries out with a grin—Grian and Bdubs devolve into more giggles. The trio untangle their limbs from each other — one of Grian’s wings wack over the back of Bdubs’ head. Bdubs’ shroud catches against one of Scar’s leg supports, nearly sending both tumbling to the ground before they separate. Stars, Bdubs’ chest hurts .

He hasn’t laughed like that since Earth. 

Grian’s the first to get to his feet, helping Scar and Bdubs up. Bdubs has to thank himself for making the headband part of his outfit — Glare aren’t usually athletic, risking their shrouds being knocked astray. Still, the mossy tendrils over his face are messier than usual — he’s more than alright with that. 

Finally, Bdubs gets a look at the newcomer. Avian’s are actually fairly common ‘round the universe, quickly evolving in hundreds of different environments. This “Grian” looks to be more like a common variant — field or forest, perhaps? His skin is a deeper gray, not unlike the beak of a parrot or the scaled flesh of talons. The upper half of his face leads down into beak, a pointed upper lip. A mop of fluffy tan hair is interlaced with little feathers. 

And obviously, the two large wings that jut from his back. They twitch when Grian extends a hand forward. “Great to finally meet you! We’ve all been waiting to meet the newcomer aboard!” Bdubs takes his extended hand, feeling the rougher skin against his own. He notes that there’s little talons in place of fingernails. “I’m Grian,” he smiles. “And you’re the Bdubs I’ve heard to much about!” 

They get along swimmingly — a bit of mischievous chaos is a wonderful icebreaker, and before long the tour turns into a trio, the two Hermits explaining as they go. At the end of the hall is two larger bedrooms, one of which Grian welcomes him into. It’s messy but homey, obviously lived in. Bdubs is caught by surprise at the fact that there’s a whole second level within the bedroom, and a balcony that leads right over to the upper deck. “There’s a lot of Hermits, all needing different accommodations for their species,” he explains. “Pearl and I — both Avians, although different types — have bedrooms styled like this, with elevated lofts for our nests.” 

When Grian’s gaze looks upwards, his eyes are fond. 

“I wouldn’t take a look,” Scar warns with a smirk. “It’s a mess up there.” Grian squawks indignantly, wings ruffling behind him. Scar pays him no mind. “He’s got a bit of a hoarding problem. Keep your shiny things close to you, he’s prone to snatching — oh, I don’t know — the jewelry I had left on my desk for one minute. ” 

Grian squawks again, but can’t hold back a cheeky grin. “I’ve got no idea he’s talking about,” he says to Bdubs, putting no effort into his actual argument. “Can’t believe the lies and slander being spread on this ship.” Bdubs laughs, but Doc’s earlier warning comes to mind. 

“Oh! About that, Doc told me to tell you…” He pulls the clock pendant out from his shroud, letting it sit against the mossy exterior. Grian’s eyes zero in on it, slit pupils narrowing. Ha! “That because you’ve got a tendency to take things…” Grian grins. 

“No idea what you’re talking about but please go on.” 

“And that I should tell you that… Please, never take this.” His hand closes over the clock. “I… I don’t like to talk too much about it, but… I need to have it on at all times, like the shroud itself.” The other two take the simplified explanation like it’s the universe speaking, nodding at the suddenly dire tone. 

“You’ve got nothing to worry about from me , but I assure you that no pesky birds will come along and mess with it.” He stands tall and valiantly… still barely reaching Scar’s height. Bdubs snorts, and suddenly, the tension is gone. 

They continue just past Grian’s room, up a small staircase, and… there’s a breeze. There’s simply a large entranceway, completely unblocked and leading right to the outer deck of the ship. Bdubs pauses, and Scar immediately catches onto the brief confusion. “We’ve got a really good atmosphere engine on board, so we can safely open windows, go outside, and have a stable gravity. Just try not to fall off, y’know,” he advises. They move along the staircase, stepping onto the deck of the Hermit Craft, and—

Oh. There’s a little garden. 

It’s rough; a lot of messy sprouts, a few weeds straggling along. A mushroom-shaped tree with an off-white stem and a red-cap stands just a few feet taller than Bdubs; a little wilted, but definitely more than a few years old. He can hear Scar apologize — something about him and ‘Gem’ usually tending to it, but that they’ve been slacking. Bdubs doesn’t care. 

To him, it’s beautiful, and he says as much. 

“No one’s going to say no if you want to spend some time tending to it,” Scar invites with a soft smile. “It’s a cozy little outlook that… Gosh, I ought to spend more time out here,” he remarks, thin eyes gazing up. 

The sky is full of shadow and light, of stars and moons. 

It’s a wondrous, breathtaking moment, interrupted by the thudding of footsteps. The sting of sulfur hits his nose. 

“Oh my goodness,” pants a voice, and the trio turn around to see a man trudging up the stairs. Bdubs’ eyes widen — there’s bright red splatters all across the newcomer’s face and clothes, he looks exhausted —

He starts forward, but Scar catches his shoulder. “It’s alright, Bdubs!” he laughs. “It’s just Redstone — Mumbo, what happened?” Bdubs blinks. Sure enough, upon closer inspection, it’s just that pigmented red dust. Bdubs’ heart still pounds in his chest. 

Grian pipes up with what he was thinking; “Man, it looks like a massacre! What’d you do?” ‘Mumbo’ huffs, a hand reaching up to brush the hair from his forehead, leaving a streak of red in its wake. He sighs. 

“I need a shower,” he deadpans… before he, too, laughs. “It’s nothing — I was just doing a little maintenance on the atmosphere engine, refilling the redstone reserves, and, well: spilling just a little gets everywhere.” Beneath the red splotches, Bdubs gets a good look at the man; he’s quite similar to Scar, actually, but his skin is tinted a grayish navy. His hair is deep black (with a peculiar white streak), and best of all: he’s got a very nice mustache. 

“Oh! You must be Bdubs,” Mumbo perks up, pointed ears twitching as he notices him. “Ah, pleasure — oh, boy.” He starts reaching a hand out to shake, before trying to dust the lingering redstone off on his pants, and … yeah, it’s getting everywhere. Grian cackles.

“No worries!” Bdubs laughs. “So you’re the redstoner Scar mentioned!” Scar’s grinning in amusement at the other elf’s predicament, and it widens at the mention. “I don’t know how you do it— if I look at redstone too long, I’ll lose it.” 

Mumbo chuckles. “That’s how it goes. Most folks here have at least a slight knack for it, sans Grian,” he pointedly says. Feathers ruffle and there’s a slight squawk behind him, but Bdubs hears no actual protest. “How much do you know?” he probes, and Bdubs is happy to share. 

“Enough to keep my ship together. I’ve had Moss O Menos for … quite a while, now.” He almost says the actual answer, almost nine years. Time’s tricky to refer to in space, when everyone has a different definition, perception, and actual length of a year. “She was a fixer-upper when I first got her, and she’s still doing good! Although, after the whole… Deep Dark thing,” he adds, voice trailing. “She might need a bit more tuning. I… don’t know if it actually got damaged.” 

The three notice the hollowness to his tone, the realization of facts unknown — ship’s are people’s babies, it’s extremely common to be unreasonably attached. Scar’s hand squeezes his shoulder, glancing between him and Mumbo. “How about we head down to the hangar? You can check up on it, Mumbo can snoop, and we can probably catch Ren and some other Hermits down there?” 

The group agrees, and makes their way into the bowels of the Hermit Craft. 

Sure enough, there’s quite a few folks in the sizable hangar, standing around or moving between the docked ships. Bdubs recognizes three of the four: Ren, Doc, and Zedaph, standing beside GIGACORP and an unknown figure. Ren’s ears perk up at the sight, tail swishing behind him (Aww). “Bdubs!” he waves. “How’s the tour?” 

“Pretty good — it’s a maze down here,” he says. It very much is; it took backtracking through the hallway, going down a spiral staircase, moving past the console room, and heading beneath the atmosphere engine to get to the hangar. His legs have long-since started aching. 

“It is, it is,” Ren agrees. “You’ve met Doc, and kinda met Zed?” he questions. The blonde fellow nods, velvety ears bobbing from the movement. “Vaguely? I wouldn’t say I was entirely conscious when we did, buuut ,” Bdubs extends a hand. “Nice to meet you! Thanks for, uh, making sure I didn’t die.”

Zed snorts, and Doc interrupts first. “It’s a welcome change—it’s usually the other way around. I’d say he’s the most injury-prone, second only to Scar.” Both make an indignant noise, met only with laughter and gentle teasing. Stars, it’s wonderful . 

“We haven’t met,” says the final figure; tall, a bit stocky, light gray skin with teal undertones. His ears are webbed and pointy, with… floating, shimmering flecks hovering off of them? “But I’ve got to apologize; I was researching the Sculk with a friend in another system, and we only just learned about the whole ‘Warden’ thing when Ren already told you.” He smiles apologetically. His teeth are a bit too sharp, too thin, soft smile stretched a bit too wide. It’s genuine. “I’m Cub. High Vex,” he adds. That explains a lot, he’s not used to seeing these bodily traits on a full-fledged person. Vex are usually like little devilish sprites, but he’s heard of some larger lines. He didn’t think he’d actually meet one anytime soon, if ever.  

“Bdubs,” he smiles back. “Glare. And, uh — don’t worry about it? I’m alive, I’m getting better, and I probably should’ve been a bit more careful, since— oh, wait a minute.” Bdubs tenses. “I’ve still got some on my ship! And my other plants, oh dear.” Ren laughs. “Uh, do you mind if I get them out? I think the Sculk are still fine in their tanks, but I’ve got plants needing watering, and…” 

Within moments, Ren guides them to Moss O Menos , settled near the hangar’s entrance. Thankfully , there’s enough redstone charge that he’s still able to punch in the passcode, leading the crew into his ship. 

The thick smell of copper hangs in the air. Stale, musty, undeniably organic. Bdubs;’ body is still as he leads them into the body of Moss O Menos . He walks over his own blood trail, days old. Ren says something , once, twice. It’s only when the paw settles on his shoulder that he actually listens. 

“You don’t have to go in, Bubs,” he offers quietly, but Bdubs shakes his head. A slight hum pulls from his throat. 

“Let’s just get the Sculk and plants out. I’ll… I’ll be alright.” He smiles back at Ren; a slight, pitiful thing. Ren nods and smiles back as if it were holy. 

Despite the palpable tension and the hanging smell… the group moves on, working efficiently. Isolation tanks full of different Sculk varieties are brought outside, tendrils waving gleefully at the sudden noises. Planters are set beside them, wilted and dry at worst; they’d only need a bit of care to be back to normal. Latches are unhooked, windows are opened, panes are set on the floor, letting starlight stream in for the plants that can’t be removed. 

They work well, and… Bdubs feels that gnawing weight in his chest begin to lift, even though the stale smell of copper lingers. The Hermits stay lighthearted, teasing each other as they help; tails and wings and horns all duck around each other, occasionally getting in the way and only met with warm exasperation. Huddled beside the ship’s console, Mumbo’s having a field day, lifting floorboards and inspecting the redstone beneath. When he peeks his head up and asks Bdubs if he could invite another Hermit to take a look, Bdubs doesn’t even have to consider it; he smiles, and says sure. 

After everything — a week of stale air and no watering — there’s only a few plants he deems unsalvageable; namely, a few Azalea sprouts that he just could not get to like him in the first place. The Sculk are relocated into one of the ship’s labs that Cub promises to show him later, and the remaining plants get hosed down. 

With… substantial fanfare. Grian insists on Mumbo getting that shower now , and it’s not long before half the group is soaked through. 

Bdubs laughs, and he laughs loudly, among others . There’s no fear. No heavy lead in his chest. His earlier trepidation about staying, about being liked , are simply washed away. 

Shaking the water from his hair, Mumbo glances over to the entrance of the hangar, perking up as another Hermit arrives. Mumbo calls him over with a grin. “Bdubs! This is who I invited; meet Etho.” 

Bdubs turns, grin wide, and —

A human stands before him. 

Chapter Text

Bdubs stares. 

It was an encounter, brief but startling, just as memorable as it was five years ago. Bdubs had been doing well for himself; Moss O Menos just got some much needed upgrades and it’s been his most profitable year of sales yet. His spirits couldn’t have been higher, given the circumstances. 

He was more nervous, then. He had been through less, seen less, met less. At the time, he would’ve still considered himself a human in hiding, rather than the current in-between state he considers himself. He remembers the market — the Birch Port Market, a place he’s avoided since that day. 

It was so brief. but it changed everything. The universe is impossibly large, infinities upon infinities, and yet— he bumps right into a human. Alive. Warm. Light peach skin, desperately familiar eyes quickly looking him over. How his gaze softened, his eyes squinted. The implication of a smile under a mask. The sway of messy white hair. 

He had never seen another human amidst the universe before or since. 

And that hasn’t changed — it’s not another human he’s come face to face with. It’s this human. 

Etho, on the same crew as Ren, on the same crew as him , now. 

The aforementioned Canid is jogging over, standing between the frozen Bdubs and the soaked Mumbo. “Etho, bud! Meet Bdubs — our new horticulturist!” Ren grins, teeth bared gleefully. 

Bdubs is unmoving. Glowing white eyes blink. 

Etho coughs. His eyes glance to the side and back. Stars damn it, it’s such a human gesture. Everything is cloying, desperately familiar. Bdubs wants to fucking weep. 

Etho speaks first, his tone light and joking. The underlying nervousness would’ve slipped by, undetected, by anyone else. Instead, it makes Bdubs’ chest ache. “Do I have something on my face, or…?” he tries. His eyes squint; his head tilts, ever so slightly. There’s a flicker of recognition. 

There’s no reason for that encounter to mean anything to anyone else besides Bdubs. Desperate, silent Bdubs. Still, the words tumble. “I mean, yes , you do,” he replies, unthinking. Etho quietly snorts. “Sorry, it’s been … years since I’ve seen a human,” he tries. He doesn’t know what he’s implying to the others; fear? Hesitation? Anger? Worry? 

He doesn’t know, but Ren’s quick to placate. He steps ever so slightly between the two. “Don’t worry, Bdubs,” he assures. His tail stills from a lazy sway. “Humans aren’t as dangerous or chaotic as the rumors say,” he says, immediately garnering a snort from Doc a short way across the hangar. 

“That does not apply to Etho,” The Creeper corrects. “He’s probably the reason that reputation exists.” Etho sends an amused glare back before looking at Bdubs. 

“Don’t mind their bullying,” he says. “Humans… aren’t too common around here, or anywhere.” Duh. “And most folks haven’t ever seen one of us.” Incredibly ironic. “So I don’t blame you if you’re nervous? Um. Anyway, Mumbo called me here to look at your ship’s redstone? I don’t usually work directly on the engines, but I’ve gotten myself a little reputation for redstone wiring and circuitry. I don’t really consider myself a redstoner — more of a tinkerer,” he tries with a smile. He extends a hand — pale, human, scarred. “Welcome aboard, Bdubs.” 

Bdubs, who’s still. 

Bdubs, whose heart is racing , thundering in his chest. Bdubs, whose mind is cycling, spiraling. His realization from all those years ago still ring true, from when he had watched the unknown human, Etho , walk away with his crew at the market. 

You can get away with one human, if your crew is strong enough to protect them. 

Two, though? There’s no smuggler who wouldn’t risk that prize, Two is a death wish, and Bdubs realizes his hopes of being human are dashed. Not here. Not on the Hermit Craft. 

He blinks. Shit. He must’ve been staring for a minute , Etho fidgeting under his gaze. “I’m just … gonna go take a look. Nice to meet you,” he says quickly, moving towards the small crowd outside of Moss O Menos. Mumbo jogs after him. 

“Don’t worry,” Ren says, paw settling into Bdubs’ own hand as it hangs limply to his side. “You and Etho will get along swimmingly; he’s used to dealing with reactions, it’s just a little awkward.” Bdubs shakes his head. 

“Sorry, I… just got a little caught up in my own head,” he says with a tired smile. It’s not an excuse; he couldn’t imagine dealing with everything that being human entails out in space. He’s taken the coward’s way out, and, even if unintentionally, disrespected the one human willing to brave what he did not. 

The solution, obviously , is that he’s going to make it up by being besties. 

Ren laughs, but Bdubs stands by it. He… he doesn’t have much of a defense for the sudden plan, besides a gnawing hunger in his chest begging to be satisfied, to stick close to the nearest human forever. 

Unfortunately for Bdubs, both the Glare and Humans are deeply social creatures. He’s been starving both. 

He’s back in the infirmary soon enough — turns out, being unconscious and injured for a week does a number on your muscles, and Doc was quick to admonish him and Ren for the lengthy tour. Again, there was no malice, but Ren still reacted with his tail between his legs before laughing — predictably dramatic as ever. 

According to his clock, it’s still pretty early in the evening; thank the stars that after everything in the Deep Dark, the enchantments were undamaged, although there’s a large crack in the glass face. 

Still, it ticks and it keeps him safe. That’s all he needs it to do. 

He’s brushing his thumb over the splintering crack when a soft knock sounds out from the doorway; Bdubs looks over in time to see Captain Xisuma walk in, followed by another man. On first glance, he’d think he was a sunless-side elf, like Mumbo; his skin gray with a rich purple undertone. The hair , though, is a startling shift, a dappled mix of purples and blues that blur together. He’s got himself a lumberjack build, Bdubs thinks; the red flannel’s a fitting touch. 

(and maybe the first two buttons on it are undone, exposed. Bdubs totally doesn’t sneak a glance.)

“Good to see you’re doing well,” X says warmly, taking a seat on the cot across from him, much like the night before. The other alien stands, but his posture is calm, relaxed. “I hope the other Hermits haven’t been giving you too much trouble for your first full day—they can be a handful even when you’re used to them.” The other man laughs — a hearty sound, accented by some otherworldliness. “Oh, Shishwammy , that’s an understatement.” X huffs, but Bdubs catches a glimpse of a smile through the purple-tinted glass. 

“I assume you’re here to iron out some details…?” Bdubs offers; Xisuma nods. Still doesn’t explain the unknown Hermit; judging by the silly nickname, they seem close. “And are you the first-mate, or…?” 

The other man bears what can only be described as a shit-eating grin. X whacks him over the head, grin unwavering. “ Not like that, you shush,” he admonishes. “Well — the first thing to know is that we don’t abide by typical crew structure. I’m technically the captain, but in the sense that I’m the only one willing to pilot, do the paperwork, and wrangle the Hermits when need be.” Bdubs laughs. “Keralis is the first-mate on the paperwork, and the back-up authority. He’s just another Hermit like the rest of us, all part of the same collective.” X explains, voice unhesitating. “A collective that the door is open to.” 

Xisuma holds his wrist in front of himself, pulling up a holographic screen; Bdubs catches a glimpse of a floor layout, although it’s hard to decipher backwards, let alone normally. “You’ll get space for a bedroom, and whatever reasonable space you need for research, growing, whatever — we could build a greenhouse along the upper deck’s green space, I think,” X explains; the particular emphasis gives Bdubs reason to believe that that’s a rule with a story to it. “And obviously, you’ll be given space for your own bedroom. We established basic rules yesterday; things are productive, but lax, here. You can still head off ship as much as you want, sell your goods and services as we pass by different markets. The Hermit Craft isn’t a battleship or a factory; it’s a home to come back to.” 

“In return… maybe provide some supplementary fresh food, help out your fellow Hermits, chip in whenever we need to restock on supplies or make repairs, and be kind. That’s it, Bdubs.” 

It’s the easiest decision he’s ever made. 

As it turns out, Keralis wasn’t there only for introductions, but because the available bedroom Xisuma mentioned is right across from his own. It’s nestled along a hallway the tour had passed through, connecting between the atmosphere engine, the console room, and the path down to the hangar. It’s well-traveled, but Keralis assures that it’s easy to get used to. The Hermits might be terrible at sleeping and notorious workaholics, but they tend to do that in the confines of their labs or bedrooms. 

Keralis shows him the room; sure enough, it’s an unassuming door right across from yet another unassuming door. Bdubs notices the nameplate he had missed during the tour this time (simply reading ‘Keralis’ Quarters’), and an empty nameplate beside the door he’s led to. 

Keralis, knowingly, gives a slight nod towards it, a smile on his lips. He opens the door. “All yours,” he invites, and Bdubs takes the first step into his new bedroom. 

…

He’s not sure what he expected, to be honest. He’s a very vision-based guy, having an image in his head and working towards doing it, but he had nothing to pull from, no reference of a ‘normal bedroom’ in space, let alone on this ship. 

Funnily enough, the room matches that hazy nothing. There’s a few rough shelves, some matted carpet. The windows are tinted a soft white, though, letting in a lovely muted light. Keralis coughs awkwardly. 

“We’ll help get you settled,” Keralis promises, rolling up his flannel sleeves. “We’ve got some extra furniture on the storage deck, and I’m sure we can grab some other Hermits for help along the way.” Bdubs nods, and lets the taller man lead the way, all the way back up the convoluted route of staircases. 

Soon enough, word spreads through the ship, and it becomes a ship-wide operation. 

A very, very, very chaotic operation. 

Upon Doc’s orders, he’s told to stay on the lower level, and the Creeper carries down a shelf in his stead. Zedaph comes up from the hangar, heading to the storage deck, and the satyr comes back down in a mess of limbs and lumber. Bdubs has to sidestep the bedframe careening down the staircase, nearly crashing right through the floor. 

Zed waves at him, hair tousled. Two more heads pop up from the fallen bed, and that’s Bdubs’ first introduction to ‘Team ZIT’. He’s met Zedaph; Impulse, an Underdweller (who looks like some mix between an elf, a dwarf, and a horned demon), seems to be the rational one of the trio… which isn’t a high bar. Then there’s Tango, a Netherborn (rocky folks who live near active planet cores), who Bdubs meets with a cheeky grin and a bout of fire atop his head, excitedly licking through the air. 

They’re delightful, Bdubs decides. His cheeks hurt from smiling by the time they manage to get the bed through the bedroom door, and they dash right back up the stairs. He warns them not to get hurt on his behalf, that he’s fine. 

That doesn’t stop them from nearly careening out a window when they try to get a bookshelf down. 

Faces and people blur together. He can’t quite remember full conversations, only flickers of memory through the veil of exhaustion. The room comes together. There’s a lot of patchwork furniture, different planets’ furniture aesthetics coming together in one mess—much like the actual ship. Scar asks him on his plans to decorate; Bdubs shakily responds that he doesn’t know , that he’s never had a space like this in a long time. He lets Scar take the lead, he lets him bring another Hermit, Gem, onto the task. 

They bring his plants from the hangar. Glowberries hang from the ceiling, tall roots jut from moss that they tuck into the nooks and crevices of the room. Scar procures a few crystals, letting Bdubs watch wide-eyed as magic swirls into it. He doesn’t recall the explanation, just that they’re imbued with natural light. Good for him, good for the plants. 

His legs tremble. His head swims. 

He can’t remember feeling this safe, and a thought sprouts in his head. Slowly, ever so slowly, until it grows into a torrential wave. 

It feels like his cluster.

A hand, soft, gentle, unknown, settles on his shoulder. His legs wobble, and soft words from an unknown Hermit assure him. They laugh, they breathe, they’re warm amidst the cold expanse of space. 

Gentle hands guide him into his new bed, covered in green pillows and soft gray sheets, and they smile as he curls into his shroud. 

Bdubs drifts off within the moss nest, and he sleeps, dreamless. 

Chapter Text

Time goes on. What’s more to say? 

Within the first week, several hermits demand his opinion on a greenhouse space; a location is designated on the upper deck, accessible both from the shoddy garden (that he’s repeatedly encouraged to do whatever he wants to it), and from the third (fourth??) level. It takes only a few days for a design to be whipped up by some of the hermits (Grian, Scar, Gem… he thinks the other two are Pearl and Impulse?), insisting on sparing no expense. They plan on getting additional supplies at the next market; a ship full of builders and artisans isn’t lacking materials, but Scar insists on using glass panes that he can infuse with magic. There’s apparently a type sold with a crystalline structure, and he’s been wanting to try to enchant artificial light in larger objects, and— 

Listen . Bdubs is fascinated by magic, but a man can only listen to so many magic technical details before it becomes lost on him.

In the meantime, when the builders aren’t stealing him away to look at blueprints, Bdubs works with Cub in the Hermit Craft’s labs. They work on sculk and propagation; he’s been expanding upon the notes that Cub and a friend of his, Shubble, took together. It’s substantial, but not in the way Bdubs needs; they were reasonably focused on safety and how they operate, while Bdubs is trying to investigate through a lens of cultivation and care. 

It’s… interesting, working with the substance that nearly killed him, but — he can’t hold it against them. He was the one to intrude upon their planet, after all. They’re plants , or at least, close enough to them. He can’t hold evolutionary nature against them as much as himself. 

He tries not to think about it too much; Cub is a good help in that effort, driving forward their research efforts. 

The sculk act much like a living creature, although lacking intelligence or consciousness in any capacity when disconnected from the bulk of the species. They react to stimuli; to warmth, energy, and essence— the basis of magic. Scar offers a box full of crystal scraps and they adore it; Bdubs grinds the purple shards into slivers and mixes it into the substrate, the cultures planted in it flourishing. The more magic, the more they grow. They seem similarly reactive to redstone and the persistent energy within. 

A tiny repeating circuit is particularly enthralling to the wiggly sculk—they’ve startled calling it the “sensor” variant. 

Bdubs has learned enough functional redstone, but Cub sees something of potential in that reaction that he doesn’t. He sends for someone to bring down some extra amethyst and raw redstone via the crew’s communicator system; Doc, who’s refitting one of the spares they have on hand for Bdubs’, is apparently having some fun tinkering with the insides, so that might take a little while. 

He doesn’t mind, really; it means he gets to take a bit more time between interactions. It’s a greedy thought, but… the hermits don’t seem to mind. 

A knock sounds at the lab door before promptly pushing open. 

Etho pushes the door open with his back, a shulker box held in his arms.

“ Oooone box of supplies, courtesy of raiding the storage room,” Etho calls, looking over the lab. The tables are covered in blue sprouts and various pots of substrate. Glass tanks of sculk cultures line up along the floor. 

His gaze travels to Bdubs. He blinks. 

“Ah—here you go.” Etho moves over Cub, handing over the shulker box — they’re a marvel of technology, crafted by the peculiar, space-warping magic of the shulker species. The one he hands over has been dyed blue, edges dented and worn with use. He looks Bdubs’ way, offering a polite nod. “ Welp, I’d better get going,” he trails, darting out the door as soon as he came. The awkwardness left in his wake is palpable.

Cub nudges Bdubs with his elbow. He cocks his head towards the closing door. 

Bdubs chases after Etho.

The human hadn’t gone more than a few steps when the moss-covered fellow nearly slams into him, stumbling to a stop. Etho jolts, whipping around, and meets the wide, glowing gaze from within the shroud. “Oh!” he realizes simply. “Don’t let me keep you,” Etho offers, stepping to the side of the hallway; Bdubs shakes his head. 

“No, no— I want to apologize,” Bdubs insists, Stars above, it’s far more awkward than he rehearsed, playing out this conversation between bouts of restless sleep, but he’s saying it . It’s more than anything. “For the whole awkwardness back in the hangar, when we met? I have nothing against you,” Bdubs assures. “I was just… very overwhelmed at the moment. You—you saw the inside of Moss O Menos ,” Bdubs sighs. He averts his gaze 

“We’re part of the same crew now, and I’d like to clear the air— to be friends, if you’ll let me.”

Etho stares, a moment that stretches on, 

And he’s so, so human, so much of pale flesh and calloused hands and red blood, of eyes that narrow as they’re pushed into a smile. 

“I would like that,” Etho agrees. He extends a hand, fingerless gloves and shortened nails and scarred fingertips and all. 

Bdubs reaches for it with a black, short-furred hand that emerges from beneath the shroud. He takes his hand and shakes it with a grin. 

“Bdouble0100,” he introduces. 

“Etho Slab. It’s nice to meet you.”

They part. The warmth of his skin lingers in Bdubs’ palm. Etho continues down the hall, his pace lighter, holding less tension in his body. Bdubs feels that same relief, that same weight being plucked away. 

“ Bdubs?” Cub’s voice calls after him, muffled through the lab door, and the moss-covered man returns to work.

By the end of the first week, they come to their first market since Bdubs’ arrival, and it’s familiar . The Mycelium System is a popular one, but hard to come by; its star slowly spins, and the surrounding planets follow an equally lackadaisical pace. Everything’s quite lukewarm, and while higher orders of species never evolved on their own, the whole system became densely populated with nutrient-rich fungi, bulbous caps reaching high. It’s a system that was a perfect candidate for neutral grounds and civilization; the first cosmological travelers settled in, and soon followed business. 

Among the dozens of tiny planets that circle the star, most are populated by different living communities, farms, maintenance sites, cities — but there’s only one market hub, one that the Hermit Craft comes to dock at: the Shopping District. 

Bdubs always loved the Mycelium System’s Shopping District, and apparently , so do the rest of the hermits! The system’s authority might like them a little less — the voice that answers Xisuma’s docking request sighs upon hearing the ship’s name. Xisuma promises they’ll behave. Market days are a lot bigger of a deal than Bdubs expected, though, almost all the hermits departing their home ship to peruse the sprawling streets. 

Some come down to peddle their own wares, visiting various establishments to sell wholesale; others offer services, magic, machinery, blueprints — the Hermit Craft is practically a floating enterprise, and her crew moves in familiar habits. Some take the opportunity to repair the ship, tuning up the beast of her engines; others head out with shulker boxes in their hands, either full of goods to sell or waiting to be filled. 

Bdubs gets the whole rundown before he’s allowed off the ship — Safety first , Xisuma presses. They stick to a buddy system; preferably three or four, but at least two together at all times. Keep communicators on hand — Doc had just finished updating his — and don’t be afraid to call for help at the first notion of danger, even a gut feeling. And, Xisuma smiled: try not to get scammed, or if you do , try to keep it to your own wallet. 

“It was one time ,” Etho protests, but Xisuma grins and waves him off. Doc huffs with a rough chuckle. Bdubs stands between them as their captain joins back with Keralis, and the day is theirs to behold. 

Despite only knowing some of the hermits for a couple days at most (Joe being the last, having randomly appeared in the kitchen during a late night snack run), he feels that flutter of recognition and fondness as he spots their faces among the bustling crowds. Keralis and Xisuma have settled among a group of other pilots, standing among the docks and gesturing to their ships. Gem, Pearl, and Impulse are heading towards a store offering bushels of vegetables, colorful meats, and mountains of spices — they’ve claimed responsibility for the crew’s dinner tonight, insisting on soup. Cleo and Joe stay aboard the ship, legs dangling off the side. He only catches sight of Grian, Scar, and Mumbo for a moment before the avian drags them off in a blur of feathers and cheer. 

Bdubs, Doc, and Etho head out together; Doc has an orderly shopping list pulled up on his prosthetic, guiding them to a nearby redstone shop. Etho’s excitedly looking around, like a kid in a candy shop — Bdubs gets an idea of what Xisuma was teasing him about. 

Bdubs doesn’t think he has the heart to really tease him. Not when he’s happy. Etho’s barely disguised, something Bdubs couldn’t even begin to stomach doing himself. He wears a simple shawl, a hood loosely over his head, but puts no effort in disguising his features, no urgency to cover himself when the hood falls back from time to time. 

There’s a sting of jealousy, striking against Bdubs’ chest. That Etho found all this? That Etho has the right to this comfort, and… what? Bdubs doesn’t ? 

Of course he knows that’s not the case. He’s thought about it, of course. Playing out the scene of him asking to speak to Xisuma alone in the console room, of taking off his glamour and asking for true refuge. He knows Xisuma — his captain , endlessly kind — would defend his right to be himself with his life. 

But he doesn’t, because Etho is safe here, among this crew. He can’t bring himself to taint that, to worm his way into the bubble of safety; it cannot sustain two . 

He can, however, revel in the fact that Etho can . 

Bdubs pulls himself from his own head; Doc finalizes a sale with a disgruntled vendor, leaving with an armful of comparators, repeaters, and a shulker box full of raw redstone that he effortlessly hefts under an arm. 

“Where to?” Doc’s rumbling voice asks, and Bdubs leads the way. It takes a good few minutes, weaving between an infinite variety of species, an endless array of accents and dialects that he could never familiarize himself with within a lifetime. Down an alley, up a crowded staircase, across a bridge — 

He pushes through a curtain of vines, and into the shop of flora. There’s a shopkeeper further back, one who’s ears perk up at the sound of incoming footsteps; she grins. 

“Oh, Bdubs!” the Mooshroom’s ears flap. Most of the system’s inhabitants are only a few generations in, but some are more native, more mutualistic with the planets. A species (Bovinius? Not sure, he just thought of them as cow-people) immigrated early on, and grew alongside the newfound planets. Fungi grows from her fur, spores trailing as she embraces Bdubs. 

“How have you been, Azalea?” he smiles back, spores dancing in the air as they part. There’s something… universal, something shared between those who tend to plants more than the rest. Something tender, something there. 

“Just wonderfully, dear. What’d you bring me?” Her hooves clack together as she claps. He only shrugs in admission. 

“Ah, nothing today. I ran into some trouble, trying to look into a new plant species, and have been out of commission for a bit. I have , however,” he grins, and it’s genuine. “Landed myself among a crew as their horticulturist, so I’ll be buying quite a lot, if you don’t mind.” 

Azalea looks past him, ears twitching. Etho gives a little wave. Doc nods. 

“Oh, Bdubs,” she suddenly sighs, and she laughs . “ Really?!” Her tone is incredulous but fond. “The Hermits?” 

“You’re familiar?” 

She laughs. “Oh darling, you’d be hard-pressed to find a shopkeeper who doesn’t know about them. Depending on your wares, it’s either the best day of business you have for a while, or you close up shop to watch the chaos in their wake.” 

Etho snorts. Doc shoves him. 

“They’re… the good sort of infamous,” Azalea decides, ignoring the antics happening behind Bdubs. “They’re not bad, but they’re a potent crew to keep all in one ship.” 

“You’re in for it now, Bdouble0.” 

“I know,” Bdubs replies with a tired smile. 

The sun’s long since set by the time they return to the ship, arms full. He’s got many varieties of seeds, narrowed down from an extensive list; not everyone can eat the same foods, and certainly not the same diet he’s grown for himself. An order of soil is waiting for them when they return to the docks, along with sheets of reinforced glass being hefted up to the deck. 

They’re staying for at least a day; Scar insists on getting the greenhouse set up before they depart, in case they need anything else. Mumbo seconds the suggestion, to get some extra maintenance done before the redstone engine is turned back on. 

It’s not late enough to turn in for the night, following the time-zone on the ship (thankfully, a lot of ships go by the same approximately-20 hour day systems, so the docks are still lively), and they get to work. The greenhouse is finished under lamplight and hovering crystals, and most of the hermits cradle bowls of soup as they linger among the upper deck. 

Bdubs, Cub, and Etho move between the levels of the ship, transferring the results of their lab work — sculk cultures happily settled in tanks, new sprouts planted in seedling trays — up to the new greenhouse. It takes longer than it really should, since Scar keeps pulling him away to ask questions — does he want constant light? (no, a lot need partial light), hey can you reach this switch to turn on the full panel lighting (YES, he’s not that short) — and by the time they move the sculk and new supplies in, Bdubs is about ready to die. 

Not really. Etho’s got the right idea, collapsing onto the new greenhouse’s roof (“Stress-testing,” he defended). Bdubs hands the last seedling tray to Cub with a knowing nod, and he scrambles his way up to the oxidized copper roof. 

He lies back, right beside Etho. The hermits are lively, chattering below them; the nearby ships are equally active, but up here? It might as well just be him, Etho, and the universe. 

Bdubs learned early on that, technically, ‘Terra Humanis’ and her system are located in a void, an area of space with a lower density of stars. It's why it took so long to find humanity. It’s why the night sky, back on Earth, meant darkness and shadow, with the comparatively sparse sprinkling of stars. 

Here? The sky is full. Gleaming beacons shine, swathes of space dust and endless astral clouds stretching across the expanse, like a garden, like a meadow peppered with wildflowers. 

And they lie there, quiet, looking up at infinity. 

After a few minutes, Etho makes a sound — something wordless, something inquiring. Bdubs looks over. 

His brow is furrowed, looking up into the cosmos. 

“Bdubs,” Etho says quietly. There’s something in his voice, lying in wait. Bdubs hums back. 

“...Your clock,” Etho says. “It’s… it’s a human clock, right?” He says it like it's a question; it’s not. Bdubs glances down at the golden mechanism, the Arabic numerals visible past the cracked glass face. 

“...Where did you get it?”

And oh — Bdubs suddenly knows. Understands that tension boiling beneath the surface, the slight lilt of anticipation, of fear in Etho’s voice. Human goods… they’re collectibles, far easier to smuggle out than the living thing. It’s not terribly uncommon for some stores of weird, random goods to have some items. 

Of course, a smuggling crew doesn’t go to Terra Humanis for just trinkets. 

Man and Clocks alike are stolen all the same. 

Bdubs’ breath hitches; he turns to his side, propping himself up with an elbow. 

“No, no.” He almost shouts. “No, it’s … it’s not what you’re thinking,” he promises. Etho’s head turns, eyeing him as if prompting him to defend himself. Maybe he’s not.

Bdubs continues anyway. He has a story for a reason, he’s dealt with years of paranoia—finding the story is easy. 

Telling Etho feels harder. 

“A while ago — maybe… ten, eleven years ago, Earth-time?” he offers. Maybe he lays on the uncertainty a little thick. “I was very close to a human. He… used to work on their moon, on their terraforming team, when he got, um,” C’mon, fuck . His breath shudders. “Taken, by an Illager ship.”  

The edge of his shroud is suddenly much more interesting, weaving his fingers into it instead of meeting Etho’s gaze. 

“...He’s not around anymore. The clock was all that was left from Earth, and it became something… really, really personal, before I got it enchanted.” 

All of which is true. 

John’s been gone for a long, long time, ever since Bdubs got snatched all those years ago. 

Etho hums, nodding slowly. His head turns, facing the sky again. 

Silence stretches for a long few moments. The sounds of the hermits below seem to fade. 

“...I was one of the first,” Etho breathes. 

“The Watchers only touched down about a year before the smugglers came—almost immediately after the news of a new species spread.” Etho’s gaze is unwavering, eyeing the expanse. “I wasn’t anybody notable, just... a guy. I was pretty young, fresh out of an electrical engineering degree and working odd jobs for machine maintenance.” 

“I remember that night—that week, even— so clearly,” he says quietly. “Mid-spring, when the days started to be consistently warm. Warm enough to talk to and from work. I traded shifts with a coworker, and was heading home late. They just… flew in, grabbed me, and left before anyone knew they came.” 

Etho pauses. He sighs. 

“I got out of their hands eventually,” he settles on. “Worked some odd jobs at markets, and when word got around that a lone human was there, traffickers came after me. Chased me until I hid in a random ship, and…” 

He smiles, something strained and distant. “I never quite left.” 

His gaze flickers down to the small crowd on the glowing deck. Voices, warmth, love, it all flows freely as they work beneath them, putting the last touches on the greenhouse’s interior. 

Etho shakily exhales; it’s a wet sound. 

Bdubs reaches over, putting his hand over Etho’s open palm. He squeezes. Etho squeezes back. 

The two humans lie there, stargazing, looking up into the infinite, unfamiliar cosmos. 

Chapter Text

In the amorphous time of space, life goes on.

A lot of Bdubs’ time in the following weeks is spent between the Greenhouse and Cub’s lab, which is a whole exercise in patience and actual exercise, because that’s a three flights of stairs each way. Alas, the controlled lab environment is really good for initial propagation of the sculk, while they grow up and thrive in the top-deck Greenhouse. In the bowels of the ship, Bdubs spends his time dividing the roots of the sensor sculks, sealing the ends with amethyst dust and enriched waters. It takes only a few days for new growth to begin, and a couple weeks until they’re big enough to transfer to the Greenhouse. His arms are full with trays of the tiny, wiggling sprouts more often than not. 

Quite a few have taken root in his shroud along the way. He can’t find it in himself to be bothered. 

They’ve been thriving , something so, so difficult to coax any plant to do when outside their system. To strengthen the sensor’s tendrils, they keep a constant level of sound; Etho makes a tiny redstone circuit that constantly plays a chime. 

It feels like a bigger deal than it should. Bdubs thanks him profusely. Etho asks for nothing in return; his eyes betray the smile beneath his mask. 

When not in the lab, not asleep, not helping the other Hermits, he’s in the Greenhouse. 

There’s… something about having his own space, a place tangible and his . Moss O Menos is his baby, yes, but… she started as a shitty old ship that he negotiated for in broken Galactic and learned the written script just to paint her name on the side. She’s his baby, but not in the truest, hand-crafted sense that the Greenhouse is. The Greenhouse is built for him, and the Hermits treat it with just as much sacred respect as they do his bedroom. 

As he extends an open invitation to the entire crew, it becomes a frequented spot. 

Today, it’s Gem and Pearl who provide the working ‘glare’ company. They’ve been regular helping hands, helping out with choosing produce to grow and harvesting the very first crop. The whole ‘soup group’ thing means they’re very enthusiastic about helping with Bdubs’ work, and in turn he’s happy to put a little extra focus on planting heartier vegetables for later soup-ening. 

Pearl brought over a peculiar flower that was formerly in her room, one with an oddly thick stem and petals that gradate between an almost metallic teal and a pearly lavender from her home planet. Apparently, it’s a favorite for the moon-bound avians, emitting a soft glow that the moth-like avians like. 

“It’ll probably be happier in here,” Pearl explained when she brought the pot over, and Bdubs helps get her started in replanting it into a deeper garden bed. He’s not going to tell her that she’s probably right, judging by the slight wilt to the edges of its leaves. 

Meanwhile, Gem is more interested in the sculk. He doesn’t know too much about her past, her affinities, but he presume she’s got a lot more naturalistic and plant stuff going on than the others; she definitely looks the part, with a couple larger flowers seemingly growing from her hair, and vines connected through the jewelry on her antlers. She’s a faun, he thinks — a distant relative to Zedaph’s satyr origins Her deer-like ears flick with amusement as the sensor’s tendrils wobble in response to her hooves clacking together. 

Something strikes her. She turns to Bdubs. 

“Hey, Bdubs?” she asks, voice light and curious. “Mind if I grab Impulse real quick? I’ve got an idea,” she explains. 

She’s out the door before he can answer, leaving him and Pearl to laugh in her wake. 

Sure enough, she returns after a short while, practically dragging the horned alien in after her. Honestly, Bdubs really needs to talk to Impulse more — he’s a big silly guy who’s fiercely intelligent and has a heart of gold. Visually, he’s some interesting combination between a demon and a dwarf; Impulse had explained that he was something called an ‘Underdweller’, a subterranean race, so… not far off. He’s holding a red-dyed shulker box labeled ‘Redstone’ that he sets down once Gem releases her grip. 

“Okay ,” he huffs with a laugh. “What’s going on?” 

In response, Gem walks back over to the table of sculk propagations that Bdubs is working on, reaching for a shallow dish with a few larger growths on it. Bdubs had been testing growing without substrate; those were the successful ones. She questioningly raises a brow, and as soon as Bdubs nods, she brings the tray to Impulse. 

“Can you set up a simple circuit? A redstone line for a lamp or something similar,” she requests. Impulse looks just as confused yet curious as Bdubs feels, but surely Gem’s thinking about something , so he obliges. Bdubs and Pearl, meanwhile, set their work aside, dusting off the dirt from their hands to watch the show. Impulse works on a clear patch of floor; redstone dust is carefully poured from a vial with an expert, unwavering hand that comes from years and years of experience. It’s the perfect amount to carry a current like a potent, unprotected wire. 

A small, square lamp is placed on one end of the circuit. The other end, he reaches to nestle a lever into the dust; Gem stops him. 

She scuffs the unfinished end with a hoof (Impulse scoffing with fake offense), and she takes the sensor from the dish. As she brings it closer, the roots seem to reach for the line of dust, easily connecting to the other end. 

Gem claps her hooves; the sensor warbles, but doesn’t do anything… beside the slightest red sparks that rise from the roots. Impulse’s eyes widen. 

“Is there anything that…” He snaps his fingers, looking for the word in Galactic. “That powers up, that amplifies the response?” he asks Bdubs; in response, the ‘glare’ darts to a shelf; he returns with an amethyst chunk that Scar had given him, and Impulse passes it to Gem’s waiting open palm. A discerning eye scans the peculiar growth, before nestling it into the center of the tendrils; they seem delighted by it, cradling it in their center. 

 Gem claps again; the redstone line glows . 

The lamp turns on. 

“Okay, okay, okay.” Impulse grins. He shoos Gem back a few steps, moving with her; a several feet away, he claps again; the signal is weaker, the redstone line emitting a weaker glow, but the lamp still turns on. He’s grinning ear to ear, bouncing between his feet. 

Obviously he sees something to the reaction that Bdubs does not, because all he thinks on the matter is that it’s neat. 

“Okay, okay, so!” Impulse nearly stumbles over his own words. “Okay — could I take a few sensors to the hangar? I – I need to show the others this, this is so good—” His voice is full of glee, of something more , of invention at its birth. How could Bdubs deny him that? So he nods with a wide smile, shroud swishing as he bolts to the back of the Greenhouse, returning with a tray of grown sensors — still young and adaptable, but enough to sustain without a substrate. He puts the tray in Impulse’s arms, before giving Gem a handful of amethyst chunks. 

“Have fun, kids!” he calls after them as they bolt from the room. “Just don’t blow them up— they’re gone,” he huffs. Behind him, Pearl snorts. 

“Let’s finish up here and then go see if they’re still in one piece,” she suggests, and Bdubs agrees. The last of a potato-like plant are planted and watered, Bdubs checks over Pearl’s flower, and they’re working on cleaning up the wayward cuttings and dirt when a knock rings out. 

Through the glass door, Grian waves. He pushes the door open, just enough to stick his head through. 

“Ready to go?” he asks with a grin. His wings ruffle behind him. “Because you really should take a look.” 

Following the avian’s lead, they make their way to the hangar. It’s a sight to behold. The greatest minds in the galaxy… essentially looking like little kids surrounded by scrawls and circuits. The open floorspace of the hangar is absolutely covered in redstone circuits, different odd machines in various states of disarray, several shulker boxes left open and scattered about the room. Every one has a sculk sensor embedded with an amethyst chunk or a gap where one has been taken and set into another circuit. The redstoners themselves are practically tripping over each other, working out different combinations; noteblock machines and redstone blocks and wool coverings. Doc, Mumbo, Etho, all of ZIT—

It’s delightful, inventive chaos. Grian and Bdubs settle onto the sidelines, watching it all unfold. All around the sculk, the beast, the circuitry. 

A shulker box in his arms, Bdubs follows Doc. To him, it’s an unfamiliar, intimidating market they walk through; to the Hermits (and soon enough, to him), it’s another place of home. 

It’s the Hermits’ only planet-side establishment. Their solid ground, their hub. Sure, they sell to the markets they visit, they build on their ship, but if you want to seek out the Hermit Craft… you come here. 

It’s beautiful. Ornate, extravagant buildings reach into the shallow atmosphere, colorful and diverse and so purposeful that the intent is nearly tangible. If the Hermit Craft is the patchwork collage of their lives, personalities, and rooms, then this is its elaboration,  the Hermits unrestrained. With the ship docked, the whole crew is given the rare chance to run around a place that’s theirs . They check on their shops, their homes, their peoples. 

Apparently, it’s still pretty new, despite the grandeur that could have outlived eras. Their last establishment was impacted by a wayward moon, and they’ve rebuilt here, bringing along societies and families and becoming a safe haven not just for them , but for thousands. For the citizens, and for the Hermits who stay on solid ground. 

“DOC!” Shouts a voice. Bdubs turns just in time to see a green blur slam into his companion, taking him to the ground in a flurry of green and gleaming metal. Bdubs would be concerned if it wasn’t big, intimidating Doc being taken down.

Instead, he laughs. 

“Iskall!” Doc cackles back, pulling himself back onto his feet and embracing the man in a hug. Bdubs… can’t really tell what Iskall actually is, and no one has told him; to him, he looks pretty human, but the oddly slender build and the fact that he’s mostly made of metal throws him off. 

Standing next to Doc, the two look like they could combine to make two whole beings; one all metal, the other all flesh. 

“And you must be Bdouble0!” 

The ‘glare’ jolts; the cyborg is looking at him, beaming grin and accented Galactic and all. A metal hand extends; he shakes it with his own warm, furred hand clasped into it. “Doc told me about you,” Iskall says. “And this ,” he peers at the green shulker box in his arms. “Must be the sculk! Come, come, let's get you situated,” he ushers, quick to lead them off. 

They meet more planet-side Hermits on the way, those who simply chose to settle down and work on the community they’ve built. False, Stress — he almost mistakes her for another Glare by the sheer amount of flowers on her person — and a hulking figure named Wels, who turns out to be strikingly similar in mannerisms to old earth knights. 

He barely knows their names. They already feel like family. 

Iskall leads him and Doc to his redstone shop, an establishment renowned across the galaxy. There must be a dozen travelers perusing his wares, who keep their distance, warily looking at them with some sort of reverence. 

“All the redstoners on ship have been keeping me updated,” Iskall says, leading him to an open table near the front of the shop. “And the applications of the sculk are absolutely mega,” he continues. “The wireless capability, the configuration, and — ah, there’s just so much!” he grins. “I’ve got a few contacts interested in private buys, and I’m sure they’ll sell fantastically on the floor.” 

He leaves the shulker box, full of the first few mature sensor cultures, with the cyborg. In return, Iskall stacks a trio of boxes in Doc’s arms, threatening to smother the hybrid under their weight, and the promise of all profits for Bdubs. 

They’re walking away, back towards the distant outline of the Hermit Craft, when Bdubs looks back at the shop, at the cyborg starting to set up the display in the front window. There’s something in his chest. Pride? Worry? 

A paw cuffs him over the head. “You look like you just dropped your kid off at school,” he teases with a toothy grin. 

Bdubs yelps, and like a yappy dog, chases him back towards the ship. 

They don’t stay planet-side for long — they plan on staying within the nearby systems for the next short while, so it’s an easy day trip to and from if they need to head back down. Instead, the Hermit Craft drifts into nearby space, settling back into her nomadic passage. The boxes from Iskall were a regular shipment, which is apparently a whole process; the cyborg delivers with it a bunch of weird components and gifts from the planet-side hermits. 

The unboxing is a group activity, a sort of ritual shared between them. Most of the crew is scattered about the hangar, keeping an eye on the chaos, and they tend to their ships in preparation for briefer planet-side trips. 

It’s… nice. Working together, but separately. Always in arm’s reach of family, of infinity. 

Bdubs isn’t alone in just watching the entertainment — Moss O Menos isn’t in need of any tune-ups, and frankly, he doesn’t intend to go anywhere anytime soon. He and a few others watch the chaos, while he absentmindedly weaves his fingers through his shroud. He picks at the wayward sprouts and tucks loose vines back into the weft. Stress, despite the brevity of their interaction, had slipped a bushel of small pink flowers into one of the boxes, a delightful pop of color to add against the green. 

Without a mirror, though, he struggles to work beyond the front of his shroud. His arms reach back, twisting — and suddenly, he’s not alone. Two figures approach, standing beside where he sits. Pearl and Grian. Watching the chaos, watching him. 

Pearl shifts from foot to foot, as if holding herself back. 

“Are you preening?” she asks. He raises a brow she cannot see. 

“What?” 

Pearl and Grian exchange a look. Their feathers rustle. They look… nervous, but unable to pull themselves away. Grian sighs. 

“It’s… it’s a familial thing for avians, tending to each other’s wings. Picking out unwanted tufts and dirt, getting everything back in line…” There’s something silent in there. An implied question, a hidden want . 

Stars, how Bdubs wants that too. He pats the ground beside him, scooting over slightly, and the two avians are quick to fill the space. They arrange themselves carefully; Grian behind Bdubs, Pearl behind Grian, Bdubs behind Pearl; a triangle of shroud and wings. 

Bdubs gently guides Grian’s hands, how to use his talons to gently tug out the matted strands, which ones to braid and which to weave and which to trim. He takes to it easily. One of Grian’s wings lie in Pearl’s lap, and in turn she shows Bdubs what to do, her own talons deftly sifting through the honey-brown feathers. What to pluck, which to align where. Her wings rest on his lap; he follows along, motion by motion in delicate quiet. 

A sappy, tear-filled fondness wells in his chest. It’s… it’s been a long time since he’s partaken in a Weave , the communal act of the Glare. It’s familial. It’s safe. It’s the deciding act of a cluster, weaving that promise into their very shrouds. 

the walls of the cage rattle and shake. his body impacts the side as the ship is thrown into turbulence. one of them, the gray-skinned aliens, barks in a language foreign in guttural. bdubs can’t make out any words, not through the haze of fear and pain they translate into. thick fingers grab his hair. they dig into his scalp. he yelps. they slam his face into the metal bars. his nose crunches from the impact. 

they were cruel but they were careful, and now? they’re just cruel. he doesn’t know what the change is. they’ve taunted him in thick, broken english before. telling him that they’re going to sell him for whatever the buyer wants. something happened. 

they no longer value his life. 

the chase is on. one day, bdubs would know it’s because the watchers have caught the illagers’ trail, beings who are the living hands of the universe. beings who ensure new systems get the privacy they need to develop. 

bdubs is yanked through the open cage door, gurgling on the blood that pools in the back of his throat. the hand is in his hair again, shoving him forward, order a bucket. blood pours from his mouth and nose alike, into a waiting bucket. one of the illagers drags a vial through the ichor. caps it. reaches for another.

they’re… harvesting. if they can’t keep a whole human long enough to make it to their markets, then they just have to take what they can. split him up. 

to them, he’s just exotic meat in the trade. 

a blade digs into his side. takes a chunk of flesh. a hand squeezes around the fresh wound. they seal another jar. 

he wails, he sobs. a blow impacts the side of his head. one of them shouts at another and is quickly handed some sort of tool. pliers. clamps. the metal piece is shove at his mouth. fingers pry it open. the invader grabs onto one of his upper teeth. 

the alien wrenches their arm back, taking tooth and root with it. 

and Bdubs screams — he’s on a ship, he’s on his ship, he’s on their ship, he’s in the sweat and tear-soaked blanket of moss and he wails . Lurches upright. Delirium and panic swirl in his lungs and he heaves , choking on the bile and vomit that appears in his throat. He gags. 

There’s — there’s someone beside him, he shoves them away, he pulls them close, he doesn’t know . Their skin is deep and gray and purple , not that pallid color that reaches for him. The voice is accented and soft and in a tongue he knows and its — it’s not the Illagers. It’s Keralis. Keralis, whose hand rubs his back, helping him upright, coaxing the tears and vomit out with endless patience. 

It’s Keralis. Kind, large, mysterious Keralis who calls him Bubbles and laughs with him over dinner and helps braid his shroud. Keralis, who Bdubs leans and sobs into, hiding from the incoming figures to his cage his ship his room — 

But they’re not the Illagers. They’re the Hermits. They’re colorful and he knows their faces, he knows their words. He knows it’s Zedaph and it’s Impulse and it’s Tango, all disheveled from tumbling out of the same nest. It’s Xisuma, his captain who means safety. It’s Cleo and Pearl and they blur together in a blend of colors and concern and familiarity, muddled under teary eyes. 

And Keralis scoops him up, just like Ren did all the way back in the Deep Dark. He holds the moss-covered form close to his chest and leads them across the hallway, into his room — a space that’s clean but homey, small but large, as intangible and peculiar as the being himself. 

But there’s a large spread of blankets and cushions waiting for them, that Keralis places Bdubs on and settles bayside, that the Hermits converge around, and when he reaches for his cluster they’re there. His sobs quiet into sniffles, into snores, sinking into his shroud, into his Cluster. 

Chapter Text

Within the next few day-cycles, Bdubs hears back from Iskall. The cyborg (who… no one gives him the same answer about his original species) is gleeful over the phone, a familiarly Swedish-ish accent blaring out as he works in the Greenhouse. Apparently, they’re selling ‘mega’! Word travels fast around the redstoners of the universe, and there’s been an increase in warp traffic to the Hermit’s planet. 

Before the call’s even over, Bdubs starts working on a new germination tray, and sends a message down to Cub for help. Once they’ve figured out the proper husbandry, they’re pretty consistent to grow, much like the fungi they resemble. So long as they’ve got airflow, darkness, sound, and a grounding crystal or other source of magic, they grow from loose spores to sustained sprouts in a month. 

From there? 

Well… Bdubs knows enough redstone to get by, to show off a little here and there, but he’s not a redstoner. He’s more than happy to leave that title to Mumbo, to Etho, to Doc, and he definitely doesn’t mind if they sing his praises. According to them, the ‘sculk sensors’, as they’re quickly becoming known as, are a staggering development in redstone. Information could be transferred wirelessly before, but not energy in the way that the sculk can. It’s streamlining ships that can’t afford the space for extensive redstone lines, and some experimenters are already working on methods to ‘tune’ the signal for specificity. 

Etho pats him on the back with a laugh. “You’re in the big leagues!” he says with a grin, hidden beneath the mask. “Making a name for yourself.” 

Bdubs laughs back. “Oh, absolutely not — I don’t need a circuit named after me, Mr. Etho Clock.”

He really doesn’t. He’s happy settling, tending to his plants, to living . The credits pour in as more cultures are delivered to redstone shops, and he pours his earnings into the ship that took him in. 

The ship’s accounts are a trust system. It’s a group balance that all the hermits feed into to keep the ship running, but there’s no bill offered to each of them. Oftentimes, it’s the excess from a day of shopping dropped in that they keep a mental tally of; outside of their personal wallets, it’s a communal bank account for anything besides personal purchases. Ren explained it to him pretty early on, and how they call it the ‘Diamond Pile’, a kiosk and system of tubes, pipes, and wires nestled near the console room. The universal currency, ‘credits’, is … some weird magic thing, able to be converted from a virtual amount to solid, crystalline matter. 

Bdubs doesn’t need much. He can’t ask for much, surely. He only withdraws what he needs for purchasing sprouts, seeds, and soils, and gives everything else he has. 

Ren catches him, one of these times, walking into the console room beside Xisuma. Silently watching as he returns from a brief trip to the Hermit’s market, dropping all of his credits into the receptacle. 

“Bdubs…” he murmurs; the ‘glare’ whips around, a handful of the crystalline bits falling to the ground. They stare for a moment, before Xisuma waves a hand as Ren, gesturing for him to go . Ren does; Bdubs still stares. Frozen. 

And he doesn’t know when X moves in front of him before his hands gently rest on his shoulders, nudging him aside. “ Hey,” the captain says softly. “You with me?” 

Bdubs blinks. Nods. 

“You’re… giving a lot ,” X says slowly. Carefully. Bdubs’ thoughts feel rushed, yet sluggish — why’s he panicking? Was he not giving enough? Doing something wrong ? “It’s a nice gesture and … I get it, but you don’t need to feel indebted just because you’re the newest here. We’re not hurting for credits, you can keep a stash for yourself.” 

Bdubs blinks. “...Shouldn’t I? You — you didn’t have to take me in or heal me, and I don’t need much. It’s — it’s the least I can—” 

With the hold on his shoulders, Bdubs lurches forward as X holds him close. 

“You owe us nothing,” he says, soft and sure.  “Bdubs, you’ve paid for your place a thousand times over just by being here. You’re part of the family,” Xisuma promises, as if there were nothing more certain in the universe. 

Bdubs sniffles. 

“You should go out, spend a little on yourself. It’s not one of our usual stops; the market is… a bit rougher than most,” X says carefully. “But Ren and Doc have some projects operating there, and Cleo’s planning on picking up some species-specific supplies.” A very nice way of saying unconventional meat. “You should head down with them. Have some fun — captain’s orders,” Xisuma smiles, and Bdubs nods. 

…He can do that. 

The next day, a group of Hermits head planet-side upon the GOAT, Doc’s personal vessel. From the docks (a sprawling, shoddily constructed arrangement of metal scaffolding and scrap), they split into two groups; Ren, Doc, and Cleo, and Etho, Keralis, and Bdubs. 

He’s pretty sure X put Keralis up to this, to make sure he actually goes, and that Etho’s just tagging along for funsies. 

There’s obviously something more, and Bdubs has all the time in the world to poke holes in his ‘stoic, stalwart defense’. 

“No, no!” Etho protests, unable to restrain a laugh. Keralis walks on the other side of the man as they make their way through a crowded marketplace. There’s hardly an inch of space not filled by an alien or a table of goods, hundreds of different species moving around them. The air itself is alive and electric, filled with sound and energy; endless languages and accents flow into a steady buzz, broken only by sellers shouting their advertisements into the air. 

“Are you suuuuuuure?” Keralis grins. He leans forward, looking at Bdubs past the man standing between them. 

“I think , Bubbles,” Keralis croons. “That Etho wants to visit a certain little scavenge shop—” 

“ Nooooooo.” 

“That specializes in human goods.” 

“Keralis…..” 

Bdubs perks up. “ Oh?” he says, curiosity thoroughly piqued. Etho slumps dramatically against the cackling Keralis. 

“ Fine. Okay. It’s this sleezy-ass seller who sells stuff from Earth—Terra Humanis— and it’s super expensive, but… he doesn’t engage in human trade and only objects, and sometimes it’s nice to get stuff from home.” 

Etho definitely doesn’t need to defend himself anymore; Bdubs is already convinced, and the sentiment rings true. Sometimes it is nice to get something from home, and… he can always cover it up with fascination and curiosity. 

That doesn’t mean he isn’t going to relish in a little embarrassment. 

“Oh, we’re definitely going,” Bdubs says loudly, marching forward. Keralis' laugh booms out between them, while Etho sighs, grabbing Bdubs’ shoulder, and guiding him in the right direction. 

It’s almost literally a stone’s throw away, but still takes them the better part of an hour to actually get there, shuffling through the crowd and occasionally needing to duck into a shop simply to catch their breath and find their bearings. Etho eventually gets over his own sappiness and leads the way; covered in a black coat and hood, he’s more careful than usual about his species than most markets. They don’t tend to frequent ones as seedy as this, but he still seems comfortable. 

And if Etho’s comfortable, then Bdubs has nothing to worry about. 

They arrive at the shop, a nameless hole in the wall that they manage to burst through the crowd to get to. An insectoid fellow stands at the door, multiple body segments leaving him towering over the crowd. It’s an establishment that’s juuust out of the way enough to be emptier than most, with only a few various aliens perusing his wares. As the trio walk in, Bdubs takes a moment to take in the sheer amount of everything offered. Every shelf and table seems like it’s dedicated to the goods of a different system, planet, culture, species — some are distinct and steampunk, others are translucent and gummy, others are jagged and crystalline. Different languages are written on every surface, books of texts from every corner of the universe filling each shelf, and —

Bdubs catches a glimpse of English out of the corner of his eye. He nearly stumbles off of his feet. 

There’s a book within a full shelf, seemingly disorganized. It’s… Bdubs squints at it. An old-timey Farmers Almanac? The text on the spine is chipped away, pages wrinkled and worn. 

“You there!” 

Bdubs jolts; Etho tenses slightly, but he and Keralis chuckle as Bdubs catches his breath, turning to see the shopkeep waving at him. With large, domed eyes, it’s hard to make out where his gaze is focused, besides generally on the ‘glare’. “Come, come, friend!” A curved claw gestures him forward. Points to his chest. “What’s that, my friend?” 

Bdubs glances down at himself — what, was the shopkeep accusing him of stealing? Is his shroud open? Did a vine get loose? 

The claw taps on the glass of his clock, resting on the outside of his shroud. 

“Oh!” Bdubs blinks. He glances at his crewmates. “Go ahead and browse,” he invites, and Etho needs no further convincing; seemingly knowing where to go, he darts towards the back of the store, Keralis quick on his heels. He turns back to the shopkeep. 

“A human clock,” they chitter, mandibles curiously clicking together. “My little Glare friend, where did you find that?” 

Bdubs instinctively rests a hand over it, feeling the worn mechanisms within it tick . “An… old friend,” he says simply. “A human who’s not around anymore.” 

A sympathetic tch. “An unfortunately common tale, my friend. I’m particularly intrigued by humans. Their peculiar behaviors, their volatile yet artistic minds, their intriguing biology…” the shopkeep says dreamily. He nods his head towards a couple of shelves towards the back of the store, with glass casing that Etho and Keralis had bolted to. “Your companions seem to have a similar intrigue,” says the insectoid alien. “I offer some scavenged goods, taken from humans lost to the cosmos or from the planet itself.” 

“Do you go yourself?” 

The shopkeep laughs. “No, no,” they say. “Much too far of a journey for my tastes. Connections and bartering with some… ah, unfavorable folks helps with my stock.” 

Bdubs hums. “It’s… really dangerous out there, for humans.” The shopkeep nods in agreement. 

The conversation draws to a stop. Bdubs glances aside. The shopkeep’s antennae twitch. His eyes flicker towards the two looking at the shelf of human goods. 

“I’ve seen your companions around here before. Hermitcraft folk,” they hum. “You one of them?” 

Fondly, Bdubs doesn’t have to doubt his answer. “Yes.” 

“A real mysterious lot, you are,” they chuckle. “I’ve seen those two here before, but not you. New?” Bdubs nods. “They’ve got an awfully high interest in Terra Humanis exports.” 

Bdubs nods along. “Yeah — it's for one of our crewmates. Stuff from home,” he says, before — he shuts his mouth with a snap. The shopkeep smiles knowingly but says nothing of it, nodding with him. “Very interesting. Tell ‘im to swing by,” they say, before making their way back behind the counter. 

“Well, you’re a plant guy — check out where they’re looking. I got a recent shipment of various human seeds ‘nd such, might be of interest to ye.” 

Politely, Bdubs nods and says a quick thanks before shuffling his way through the packed shop, towards the two Hermits. Most of the goods are kept behind glass casing, and Etho’s face is practically pressed up against it, browsing one shelf, and then the next. From beneath the hood, his gaze is focused… and fond. 

There’s books, a few tools and implements, some random objects and toys; a Hot Wheels car. A dictionary. A copy of the Hobbit. A few books in languages Bdubs struggles to recognize; Arabic, he thinks? He knows another one is in Russian. There’s a couple spines with Japanese text, a plastic DVD case, a couple clothing items—

Bdubs blinks. 

There’s a very familiar guy on the cover of what he recognizes as manga.  

…So, listen. Maybe this is the golden opportunity he’s been waiting for, because Etho made his home in space and willingly went around in cosplay because literally no one could call him out on it—no one except Bdubs , who’s been biting his tongue the whole goddamn time lest he break his cover. 

He smiles sweetly at Etho, who hasn’t noticed the shelf yet. “Oh, Etho? Is this you?” He asks, delighted and voice thick with intrigue. Etho’s eyes follow his pointing finger, towards the copies of fucking Naruto in stock, and his eyes widen in absolute, wonderful horror. 

They leave in barely-withheld hysterics. Oh, he’ll forever treasure the memory of Etho scrambling for an explanation that isn’t “I’m cosplaying an anime character” while Bdubs feigns ignorance, poking and prodding for more of an explanation. According to the shopkeeper, a crate of someone’s personal effects was… acquired in-transit to the moon colony, and… well, they had a few copies of these “printed, illustrated historical texts of humans wielding supernatural abilities”, as well as a “replica garment of one of these beings’s clothing”. 

Bdubs leaves with his arms full of goods, passing the last object to Etho. He receives it begrudgingly. 

It’s a cheaply made, mass-produced version of Kakashi’s headband. Etho slips it on his forehead from beneath his hood. 

It was a very, very productive trip, in Bdubs’ opinion: other than bullying material, he did buy a lot of seeds. The shopkeep had a significant stock of seed packets, even some flower bulbs! Bdubs was able to use the ‘I was super close to a human’ reasoning to defend his ability to read the English labels. Tulip bulbs, sunflower, carrot, melon, potato, and wheat seeds… He definitely fulfilled his “spend money” quota because they were expensive, but… from here, he can always grow more. 

Oh, the soup group is going to absolutely love it when he gets them the first crop of potatoes. 

The three make their way back through the bustling market, ducking into a shop or towards a table now and again. Keralis, taller than the rest, stands upright, looking over the crowd… and he perks up. “Ah! I see the others! Bubbles, Mr. Slab — do we want to head back now?” 

They elect to split up; they hand their shopping off to Keralis before he makes his way through the crowd, towards Cleo, Ren, and Doc (Etho assures Bdubs that Keralis can defend himself and not to worry about him). Meanwhile, Etho and Bdubs aim to pop into a couple more shops, find a food market to pick up something for the crew’s dinner, and promise Keralis that they’ll be there soon.

“Okay, so what’s a Nah-roo-toe?” Bdubs stretches out the word with a grin; Etho responds with a dramatic, anguished groan. Oh, Bdubs is loving this. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Etho grumbles lovingly. 

“What a way to go!” Bdubs cackles. 

Arms laden with a couple bags of meats and grains, Etho manages to worm an arm free and peek at his comm; he grumbles. “Signal’s down,” he sighs. “Probably some species with an electrical field.” 

They duck into an alley. They’re… almost to the small docks, but it’s incredibly easy to get lost in the maze of market streets, still overflowing with aliens. The alley is a good way to go, suddenly away from the bustling mass of bodies and… enter a courtyard. A small, peaceful nook, overgrown with vines and mosses that shroud the distant starlight. 

It’s… wonderful. 

Etho sets the bags down, starting to tap at the communicator screen. Bdubs’ gaze lingers on him: his hood is still up, secured in place by the Kakashi headband… much like Bdubs’ shroud, held in place with his headband. They kinda match! It’s absolutely not a perfect disguise, not like Bdubs has, but… it’s a good look. Kinda Grim Reaper-y. Kinda cute. 

His gaze is torn away as he jolts. 

“Hail and well met!” shouts a new voice. They both whip around; at the mouth of the alley they came from, a couple figures stand. In fact, there’s aliens at… every entrance to the courtyard. The speaker is — is a grey-skinned alien with a tall forehead and a boney, furrowed brow. 

It’s — it’s an Illager. 

Bdubs — Bdubs knows the Illager subrace is wide and diverse. Illagers, Ravagers, Evokers, Witches, High and Lesser Vex, and probably more he doesn’t know, and stereotypes are bad — but… he can’t help the cold chill down his spine. 

Those gray hands — he remembers their texture, how they grabbed around his throat and dug into his wounds and — they gesture broadly, open, dramatic and friendly. Cautiously, Etho waves back. “What can I do for you?” he asks politely, straight to the point. 

Blocking the way they came is the speaking Illager and a Ravager, a hulking, minotaur-like species. He can hear the breathy huff of another one at the end of an alley behind him. Nearby — he can’t place where — is the hissing of an Evoker’s whispering voice, the crackling of magic. 

“Ah, take it easy, my friend,” the Illager purrs, stepping forward. “We caught wind of a potential opportunity, wandering around the market today. Tell me, friend,” he says. He’s… he’s only talking to Etho, but his gaze focuses on Bdubs. 

“How much?” 

Etho’s still. His brow furrows in confusion. 

“How much for what?” 

“For your companion, there.” 

And — Bdubs freezes and his blood is still and he can’t breathe because. Because they’re here for him. For the human in shrouds, ten years after he escaped their grasp, and

“You’re… asking me how much for him?” Etho barely hides the disgust, the disbelief in his voice. 

“Yes,” the Illager responds simply. He’s smiling . “The Glare.” 

He starts to walk a couple more steps forward; as soon as Bdubs flinches back, he stops. “They’re an elusive species, you know,” the head Illager muses aloud. “And it’s quite the challenge to find one able to survive away from their colony. But… the price is always worth it. They make for wonderful workers at some… farms of a particular nature,” the Illager purrs, smiling warmly, genuinely , as if he’s delivering good news. “And— well, we know of this one. The one who farms the sculk. They’re easy to read, if you understand their shrouds. Anything they care for is added right on the surface.” 

“And I have some very, very interested buyers for the means to grow their own sensors. So…” 

The head Illager digs a hand into their coat and pulls out a large, crystalline cube. 

A gleaming block of blue diamond. Of consolidated credits in its purest form. 

Bdubs — frozen, unbreathing Bdubs — knows that’s… an insane amount of credits in his hand. 

“Of course, we’d be happy to pay you for your investment,” offers the Illager. “You could easily live off this thing for years and years in a whole ‘nother system! Your crew would be none the wiser. Or, you run back and tell them you were jumped once we’re far from this market. I don’t quite care which you go for,” the Illager laughs. He holds the block forward. “So…?”

They—they don’t want a human. They want a Glare . A slave to the gardens. Bdubs had heard tales from his first cluster, that there’s an interest , a market, for who he became. He left being human behind to avoid… this. 

He trusts Etho with his life, and that’s exactly what he holds in his hand. Bdubs… Bdubs knows human greed. He knows temptation.

He certainly knows selfishness. 

And he doesn’t know if Etho feels the same weird way about him that Bdubs does. 

Etho steps forward; his warm, pale hand grabs Bdubs’ hand, clasping tight and pulling him behind him. Beneath his hood, Etho’s gaze burns into the Illagers’. 

“Not in your life ,” he snarls. 

The Illager shrugs. His nose scrunches. “Eh,” he grunts. He tucks the diamond block back into his coat and cocks his head to the Ravager beside him. “Ight—kill him, take the Glare.” 

The two Ravagers — one in front of them, one behind — charge towards them. The Evoker’s magic bubbles to life in a cacophony of devilish giggles and hissing energy, lesser Vex springing to life, and suddenly — the tranquil courtyard is lurched into a battlefield. 

The Hermits dodge and move — Etho darts out of the way, Bdubs stumbles after him. They didn’t come armed, they didn’t expect a fight . Sharpened horns ram through places they stood a moment prior. Gray hands reach. Silvery jaws snap up from the ground before sinking back under. 

Bdubs — Bdubs can’t think. He lets Etho guide him through the chaos, a guiding light in the abyss. He’s lagging behind by just a moment. He lends his eyes, looking for any way out . They can’t get out from above, covered in a canopy of cloth and vines. The connecting alleys are blocked by either debris or a figure standing in the way, the Evoker and the head Illager. The Ravagers engage directly, barreling after them, reaching with hooved hands to main and grab . 

Etho stumbles; the edge of a Vex’s blade swipes at his arm, cutting through the cloak with its echoing, impish giggle. It’s enough of an opening for Bdubs to see the head Illager aim his crossbow, and click—

Three bolts fly through the air. 

It’s an unthinking, easy decision. 

The bolts fly through the air. Bdubs squeezes around Etho’s hand and yanks him forward, lurching him out of place. The momentum throws Bdubs upright. 

A wet thunk . Bdubs staggers. 

Something’s in his chest, something piercing and blinding — and it only lasts a moment. 

A chilling burn oozes through his veins. His heartbeat thunders and yet, it moves sluggishly. 

His clock ticks. 

Time catches up. 

The arrows settle in his chest. Evoker jaws snap at his feet, silvery and translucent. They clamp onto his ankles. Like a beartrap, he crumples. 

Etho shouts. The Illagers shout. 

Bdubs slumps to the ground. He doesn’t make it. 

He falls into arms. Pale, human arms. 

“You—” The arms hiss. A voice responds, oozing just outside of his awareness. He’s — he’s cradled in Etho’s arms. 

Silly, stoic Etho in his Kakashi getup. He looks so out of character, so scared… 

Looking up through pained, unseeing eyes, at Etho , Bdubs has to wonder why. 

There’s more voices. More shouting. Familiar voices, fierce and outraged and powerful and Bdubs cannot hear them, because Etho’s talking, quietly and soft. Bdubs can’t make the words out but he listens. He can do nothing but look and listen and how wonderful it is. 

Etho brushes a vine away from Bdubs’ face leans in, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to his forehead. 

Bdubs hums. A wet cough bubbles up. 

Maybe, if getting fatally injured earns him a kiss, he should try it more often. 

Magic thrums through the air, powerful and old , even to the universe. The shouts are snuffed out. 

Etho… Etho looks relieved, and that’s all the solace Bdubs needs to shut his eyes and drift. 

Bdubs wakes with a start. 

Zedaph, standing by the lightswitch, freezes as he groans. 

“Bubs?” 

He blinks. Tears have dried around his eyes; he brushes them away with a shaky hand. “‘daph,” he murmurs, making out the satyr’s stature through bleary eyes. He swallows. His throat’s dry. 

“ Doc ,” he breathes. 

Zedaph vanishes between his blinks. 

A few moments later, Doc appears in the doorway. 

He blinks. Doc’s beside him. 

“You had to go and wake up as soon as he managed to convince me to take a break, huh?” Doc chuckles. Weakly, Bdubs smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

His chest hurts. 

Every inhale pulls against bandages; every exhale has his chest shuddering. 

“Wh’appened?” he murmurs. Doc’s green-furred ear flicks. His hooved hand gently rests atop Bdubs’. 

“Jumped by traffickers,” Doc says simply, never the one to shroud the truth. Bdubs hums. “Ren, Keralis, Cleo, and I fucked them up. Etho’s recovered—he only had a small wound that’s bandaged, and he’s in his quarters, sleeping off a healing potion.” 

Doc bites his lip. Swallows. 

“You were hit with multiple bolts in the chest. A Multishot enchantment crossbow.” He pauses. “To… remove the arrowheads, we had to move your shroud out of the way. We… we didn’t remove it entirely, but… you should know.” 

Bdubs… doesn’t care as much as he should. He doesn’t react to Doc’s words, not as his last moments of consciousness catch up to him. Gray hands. Reaching. 

He can’t find it in himself to worry any more about being unconscious and being unable to be double-y triple-y sure that his glamour kept up.

Because… what? What does it matter when despite everything , he was almost taken. 

He’s… not safe. Not even as a Glare. 

A metal hand waves in front of his eyes. He blinks but doesn’t stir. 

Doc sits beside him on the cot and pulls him close, green moss against green fur and a white lab coat. 

The blood hasn’t been washed from it yet. Bdubs nestles in. 

Head against Doc’s chest, he feels the hybrid’s voice rumbling. 

“I know, I know,” he rumbles. A whimper rises in the back of Bdubs’ throat, and Doc’s rolling purr rises to quell it. “We won’t let that happen. Once you’re a hermit, no matter how close a call,” he murmurs. “They’ll never let that happen, Bdubs. Even if you get taken, they… they always come.” 

Bdubs has the feeling that… that ‘you’ isn’t just him. 

Doc’s quiet, just for a moment. His prosthetic fingers twitch.

“They took me, once," Doc murmurs. He pulls Bdubs even closer. Somehow, he knows its a different them. “Just a few day-cycles. Grabbed me when out alone. Took my arm, thought that would stop me.” 

He’s purring, still. Bdubs doesn’t know who it's to comfort. 

“There was nothing left, once the Hermits were done with them. And just like before... Keralis and Cleo fucked up those traffickers,” Doc says, sure as anything. “Nothing more than a smear on the ground. Ashes. They can’t hurt you.”

“You’re safe, Bdubs.” 

Bdubs draws back, just enough to look up. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he says softly. 

Doc just holds him closer. 

Chapter Text

The night draws on peacefully; the day cycle drifts into the next morning, when the Hermits (that actually went to sleep) begin to wake, drifting sleepily into the kitchen or the labs. 

In the infirmary, Bdubs slowly drifts awake. He — he fell asleep on top of Doc, he thinks. The creeper hybrid is nowhere to be found, but the ‘glare’ finds that he’s been tucked into the soft blankets of the cot, nestled in cozily. 

… Maybe he sinks in, reveling in the comfort offered while he was unconscious for just a moment longer. 

“Comfy?”

Bdubs jolts; his head whips to the doorway, and sure enough — there’s Keralis, flannel shirt and soft smile and all. A moment later, another form stumbles through the entryway of the infirmary, barreling towards the cot and —

Etho. 

Pale, scarred arms pull him close. 

“You’re okay,” the human breathes; whether an assurance or a realization, Bdubs isn’t quite sure. “You’re okay?” He releases, hands hovering over the shroud, hesitant. “Doc knocked me out with a potion pretty quick but I know they had to operate, are you — did they — “ 

“HE’S FINE, ETHO!” A voice shouts from the neighboring kitchen. Etho’s eyes widen as he tenses; Keralis cackles. “ YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BE IF YOU DON’T LET HIM REST.” 

Bdubs looks up at Etho, who looks rather sheepish. 

“I think Doc’s going to drag me back to bedrest if I run again,” Etho chuckles quietly. “Technically, we’re both on bedrest,” he continues, glancing at Keralis. “Because someone overexerted himself and nearly gave Doc a heart attack.” 

Keralis shrugs. “Worth it,” he hums. Bdubs’ brow furrows. 

“What’d you do?”

Etho and Keralis exchange a silent look; Etho cocks his head. Keralis nods, certain, and that’s apparently the whole conversation; Etho leans in, and with a gentle bonk , taps his forehead against Bdubs’. “I’ll give K some privacy for this conversation.” Etho smiles. “And I'll distract Doc.” 

With that (and one last unspoken squeeze of his hand), Etho limps out of the infirmary, leaving Keralis and a very confused Bdubs alone.

“Okay,”  Keralis huffs. “Storytime!” He moves away from the doorway he was leaning against and takes a seat on the cot beside Bdubs; the ‘glare’ shuffles around, sitting upright, and leans against the other Hermit. 

“So…” Keralis hums. “A lot of the Hermits are… more than they let on, Bubs. You’ve probably gathered that. Cleo’s terrifying, Etho’s a human, Shishwammy is a voidwalker, and you…” He pauses. “I haven’t figured you out. You’ve got your own little brand of mysteriousness going on, and I’m…” He pauses, looking down at his own hands, as if fascinated by the simple motion of him opening and curling his fingers. “ Something . Something old and rather horrifying, if I’m being honest. We think the closest species would be the Starborn.” 

Bdubs blinks; Keralis is referring to the godly, elusive system-shapers so casually that it sends a shiver down his spine. “We — at least, Shishwammy and I — suppose I’m whatever’s beyond that. Etho, once, described with an old human word: ‘Eldritch’.” The English is foreign on his tongue. “I suppose it’s accurate.” 

Keralis’ hand finds Bdubs’. Squeezes. 

“What I’m trying to say is that, no matter what happens, we’ll always be here for you. And no one can stop us , no matter who comes after you. We’ll find you.” he says it with such certainty, as if describing the core laws of reality, the unbreakables. “And… it takes a while to really understand that you have a place here . It did for me,” Keralis says. “Even you, even me.”

“I’m… something beyond and incomprehensible and I don’t even really know, but I like it here. I chose to stay in this weird little family who welcomed me with open arms, and you’re part of that. I know, no matter when or where I am, that I’ll have a place here with Shishwammy and Ladders and Brian and Bubbles, antics and mysteriousness and all.” 

Bdubs… can’t really stand the genuine fondness that saturates his tone; he squirms under the certainty, so he clings onto the teasings he can find; “Can you give me any hints of that mysteriousness?” Bdubs says with a grin, and is rewarded with Keralis’ booming laugh.

“What, you want me to rat out the others? You’re gonna have to unlock those backstories on your own, mister.” 

A silence, full and unspoken, hangs between them. Bdubs finds himself leaning his weight against Keralis, and the … entity’s hand settles atop his shroud, gently scratching his scalp through the covering. 

It’s a gentle silence, wherein they both revel in a moment of peace, of solace, of having nothing left to do but sit and rest and listen. 

There’s… a buzz among the Hermits outside. Their voices grow distant. There’s a few shouts, unintelligible. 

Their communicators ping in unison. 

Messages sent throughout the general chat are silent; direct messages and prioritized pings are audible. While Bdubs struggles to untangle himself from his own shroud, Keralis pulls out his own communicator. Bdubs catches a glimpse. 

[XISUMA] Did anyone do anything to draw the Universe’s attention? A Watcher vessel is landing in our hangar. 

Bdubs’ brow furrows — the Watchers ? 

Keralis laughs, pulling himself to his feet, and helps Bdubs up onto shaky legs. 

“Don’t worry, Bubbles,” he smiles, he promises. “Let’s go down to the hangar: this is going to be interesting.” 

The hangar is bustling; in fact, it seems like every Hermit has made their way down by the time Bdubs and Keralis arrive. Some linger at the edges, distanced but still watching the show; Pearl’s moth-like wings flutter anxiously, Etho stands near her with a wary eye cast over the … figures? Bdubs follows his gaze, towards where the crowd of Hermits gather. 

Past Grian’s tense wings and Joe’s casual stance, two entities stand. 

The Watchers. 

Bdubs stares, because… how couldn’t he? Of course he knows about the Watchers, the nearly-divine beings who serve as the Universe’s caretakers. But here, in their full glory… they’re nearly incomprehensible. Rings and planes of shifting whites and blues form a vague figure, the only definition found by their mask-like faces, covered in feathers and wings that shift in and out of dimensions. They’re crystalline and fragmented, and completely, utterly breathtaking. 

In front of them, Xisuma stands. His posture is straight and tall, exuding the Captain’s air of confidence, of control… and he’s just casually talking to them, as if they were any other wayward travelers. 

Like he’s met them before. 

“They visit now and then,” Keralis suddenly says quietly, voice thick with amusement. “Largely because those aboard the Hermitcraft tend to bend the rules of the Universe, and sometimes they pop by to remind us to reel it in.”

Perhaps that’s valid, but Keralis’ words are hardly heard; instead, Bdubs is instead focused on the pure, languageless voice he can hear. It’s the conversation with Xisuma, and it’s thought and intent simply flowing from them like pages fluttering in the wind. 

They carry a certain tenderness that Bdubs can’t begin to describe. 

Eyes shift towards Bdubs, and luminescent, ethereal pupils focus on something behind him; Bdubs glances over his shoulder to see Cub walking in, who tenses under the focus. A hum resounds through the hangar, the Hermits falling silent in its wake. 

“Cub,” purrs the languageless voice of one of the watchers, one with diamond-like plating over their ‘head’. “And Bdubs. Your audience, please.” 

They — they don’t say their names, but they evoke them, consolidating their names, lives, existences into a thought, a strum.

Keralis nudges him forward. “You’re alright, they’re not going to try anything,” he says, like he has any say in their doing. Maybe he does. Bdubs starts slowly, but a tug on his arm from Cub brings him to the front of the assembled crowd. 

Dozens of eyes look over the crowd. 

“And if the ‘redstoners’ would lend an ear, that would be most appreciated,” hums the second Watcher. The emphasis on the title, raw and borderless, is… humored? In any case, a few figures weave through the group, stepping closer to the front; Doc, Etho, Tango, Impulse… their expressions range from amused to trepidatious. 

“There’s a new one among you,” the second Watcher, less angular and with an ovular, porcelain-white mask, muses. “And you’re already leading him to trouble, poor thing,” they say. Under their voice, their gazes, their sheer intent , Bdubs trembles. 

Cub’s hand settles into his and squeezes. 

“We stand as the Watchers, guiding the cosmos and keeping order. We serve to keep everything even, to guard from interference as to keep time flowing as it should.” They speak in haunting yet graceful unison. “We tend to new planets, and protect the fledgling ones.” 

“Of course, in most cases, mortals do not intend to disturb this order— most are unaware of their interference,” purrs the angular Watcher. “And we offer the newest among you the benefit of the doubt that he did not intend to disturb the Deep Dark as he did.” 

“We are here to simply inform the crew of the Hermitcraft that the Deepslate Void is under Watcher Guard. You’re not in trouble, little thing,” the ovular Watcher…. smiles (???) down at Bdubs. “But many ships followed in your wake. Magic from a much, much slower timescale began to rise, and it deserves the time to evolve at its own pace.” 

“Of course, once Redstone develops, there’s nothing to be done that can fully stop its spread.” Dozens of eyes flit over to Doc and Etho, who pointedly avoid their gazes and hide their smirks. “But you are not to spread word of the Deepslate Void or its location, nor are you to revisit. As the tenders to the Sculk, you are at enough risk with the upcoming demand.” 

He can’t stop himself, the mutter under his breath that’s hardly as quiet as he hoped: “We know ,” Bdubs finds himself saying. The bandaged wounds twinge. The Watchers solemnly nod. 

“...Is that all?” Cub hesitantly asks, and the Watchers nod once more. “Of course, we wish we didn’t have to frequent this vessel for such announcements. You lie in the Universe’s good graces, but…” An ethereal sigh rings out. Stifled giggles break out from behind clamped hands. 

“The need for your presence is satisfied,” says the angular Watcher. “And we ask for a moment alone with your Glare.” 

Bdubs tenses from the momentary relief squandered; Cub’s hand squeezes tighter. Keralis stands behind him, even as the rest of the Hermits filter away. 

“It’s only for a brief conversation,” the angular Watcher purrs. Cub’s hand leaves his. “That includes you, Keralis.” 

In their wordless, universal tongue, Keralis’ name is… different from the rest of the words, something old and accented, something corrupted and forgotten. Keralis squeezes Bdubs’ shoulder. “I’ll be right outside the hangar, Bubbles,” he promises, before he too leaves. 

It’s just Bdubs and the Watchers. They stand in silence. 

The Watchers’ heads bow, ever so slightly. Their voices echo less, as if their words were spoken in secrecy, in reverence to something else. 

“On behalf of the Watchers, we wish to apologize to you , John Booko, designation B00100 of Terra Humanis.” 

Bdubs blinks. They speak in English, so effortlessly, so accentless. His question is unspoken and yet heard. 

“Of course we know — the Universe knows all, for you live within it. You and I — we’re all the Universe.” 

The ovular Watcher nudges the angular one, as if a teasing jab. “Despite the rumors we try to maintain, the Watchers are not fully omniscient. We’re the hands of the Universe, but not Her. In our service, we held the responsibility to guard Terra Humanis, and in that we failed.” 

“But,” purrs the ovular Watcher; their head tilts, as if in a cat’s affectionate gesture. “We and the Universe are happy that you’ve found a place for yourself. We cannot interfere — so how wonderful, amidst infinite odds, you live with another.” 

“They can’t know,” Bdubs finds himself saying, voice hushed and desperate. The Watchers stand, unflinching. “They can ,” they promise. “But that is your choice. We Watch and Guide and Guard but cannot act in mortal’s stead. Not for a Glare, nor for a Human.” 

Under the beautiful, ethereal gaze, Bdubs stands silently. These angelic, deitic beings… stand before him casually. Conversationally, in their wordlessness. 

It’s… familiar. 

Bdubs jolts. It’s — it’s the memory of home , of ten years ago, of the moon. Of the fateful night that changed everything for humanity. There was someone else on the moon, deep into the dusty plains, who stood pale and ethereal and winged and angelic and they gave him plants . Who interfered. 

He doesn’t speak, yet the Watchers react; one sighs aloud. “ We know. That instance was against the rules, Joe Hills!” 

From a doorway into the hangar, it’s — It’s undeniably, fondly, Joe Hills . His crewmate. Family, his heart hums. 

The resemblance feels so, so obvious, now. The glow and pallor and ethereal blue streaking through his hair, an implacable, warm uncanniness threaded between every action, every smile. 

Joe Hills, the Hermit, the Watcher, waves. The visiting Watchers decidedly ignore him. 

“ We wish you well, Bdouble-0. Stay safe.”

Their bodies shift , as if melding back into the ether they came from. They vanish from the hangar of the Hermit Craft, and a few moments later, their ship drifts out of sight. 

Joe Hills is standing there. 

“...Want to go talk about it?” 

They wind up on the upper deck, settled beneath the mycelium tree in front of Bdubs’ greenhouse. After months of dedicated care, it’s thriving, spores drifting like petals around those who sit beneath it. 

“I’ve got a lot to explain,” Joe chuckles to himself. Despite everything , Bdubs laughs, too. 

“Once you’re a Hermit, Bdubs… Your past and your species doesn’t matter so long as you’re kind. Some of us are okay talking about it. Others less so. We respect it all the same.” 

His hand — pale, glowing veins beneath the surface — rests on Bdubs’. His thumb grazes over the thin coating of dark fur. 

“You’re a man who’s safety relies on mystery, or so you believe. I don’t intend to lift that veil before you’re ready — I promise,” Joe smiles. “But… I can talk about myself.” 

“A lot of Hermits are far more than what we let on. Keralis, Etho, Cub, I…” he laughs, leaning back against the trunk-like stem of the tree. “I can’t speak for them, but I can speak for myself. I am — or, well, was , really — a Watcher. It’s both a species, an entity brought into existence, as much as it is a job title. I was pretty new to the universe, just a few dozen millenia into the role, when I visited humanity.” His gaze is set upwards, towards the stars and the void beyond. “Watching them develop civilizations from afar with a complexity rare in the universe, and… sue me, I like your species and all of their quirks and conflicts. I was so, so excited to see you break into space, that when you were struggling on the moon… I couldn’t help but give you a nudge in the right direction.” 

“Being a Watcher… it’s being an entity formed by the Universe, tasked with guarding her creations among her endless disorder. “

“And, sometimes, she lets a Watcher go. Left untethered, to live among the universe, to experience herself.” 

He smiles, so fondly. “I didn’t know we’d cross paths again, especially not this closely, but… I can’t really believe in coincidence anymore. Fate’s just kind and funny like that.” 

Beneath his shroud, Bdubs fidgets. It’s not that he thinks any different of Joe — to be honest, the reveal that he’s an entity of the universe itself isn’t too startling. It’s Joe Hills, after all. But… there’s a question weighing on his mind. 

Joe, of course, knows something lies unspoken. “Bdubs?” 

The human in shrouds sighs. “Are you as knowledgeable as the rest of them? Omniscient-ish?” Joe smiles, chuckles. 

“ Maybe ? It depends, really.” 

“...How’s Earth doing?” 

Under the mycelium tree, Joe falls silent. 

“Thank the stars that the universe lets me get away with… this.” He vaguely gestures. 

“Earth’s doing good, Bdubs.” His tone is so, so certain, it sounds like a promise. “Humanity has just managed to leave their system on a manned ship. Their vessel development is improving at a staggering pace. Green life can be seen on the moon from the Earth’s surface. They’ve just entered an era of exploration and peace, globally united for the first time. Detectors and defenses against trafficking ships have been developed, and meeting points for amicable trade have been established near the asteroid belt.”

“...Some still slip through the cracks, but… smuggling has become much, much more rare, Bdubs.”

“They’re safe,” Bdubs breathes, and Joe echoes him. Grabs his hands, holds them close. 

“They are,” Joe promises. “And you should worry instead about taking care of yourself . Let yourself live,” Joe asks.

“...I’ll try,” Bdubs promises. 

“I’ll… I’ll try giving being human a shot again,” he says. Joe Hills beams. “I… I don’t know how, or when, but… I’ll try. Soon.” 

Chapter Text

Bdubs is tired. 

It’s a very underwhelming statement for the sheer exhaustion that settles in, especially in the days after the Watcher visit. Physically overwhelmed, emotionally exhausted — getting shot and then visited by deitic powers is more than enough to fuck any man up. 

On the plus side, though, it means he’s stuck shipbound, and gets to take it easy. 

…Moreso because he’s scared of Doc following through on his threats if he doesn’t get sufficient bedrest. 

He tends to the sculk in this time, of course, but they’re pretty self-sufficient when he’s waiting for them to grow up, and both Gem and Cub have been helping take care of them. Confined to his quarters, though, means he gets to give his own bedroom some much-needed TLC. After all, his own room was filled with plants when he first decorated it, and they’ve kinda gone wild since then. He definitely didn’t mind — it felt like he was under a canopy once again — but practically, he does need to tend to it. 

A pair of shears snaps, cutting through a thick vine; he hums as he dabs a powder on the open end before hefting it back up, weaving it among the beams before tying it off. Harvests some wilting glowberries, tucks drooping moss back into the woodwork. He can’t thank Scar enough for all the enchanted crystals lying about; a comforting humidity and no risk of rot is a blessed combination. 

The space has evolved so much since that day, Bdubs muses. It’s … it’s been months since he joined, hasn’t it? Sure, he hasn’t been keeping meticulous track, but he’s got a good sense of time passing. He was so scared to welcome them in, but they barged into his walled-off defenses, made themselves at home, and took him in. 

Sure, Bdubs can’t exactly say that he isn’t still scared, but… it’s a different scared, y’know? 

In the depths of this night, the ship feels like it breathes around him. It’s late into the night-cycle at this point. Most hermits are asleep, although he wouldn’t be surprised if a few are still awake, working away. Sleeplessness tends to be a common condition aboard the Hermit Craft, be it through insomnia, overproductivity, or simply forgetting to sleep in some folks’ cases.

Bdubs knows he’s one of the rare few to get consistent sleep, but he’s not quite upset about that failure tonight. He’s enjoying it, the time spent between him, his plants, his thoughts. He’s spent a lot of time thinking nowadays. Perhaps it’s the brush with mortality, or the talk with immortality. His conversation with Joe has been weighing on his mind because he wants to be open, to be honest, but he can’t , but he knows they’d let him—

Ugh. 

He feels terrible for lying to everyone. 

…Okay, so mainly Etho. But also everyone. 

He just doesn’t want to risk ruining the peace that Etho found here, but —

Ugh . Bdubs shakes his head with a sigh, dusting his hands off on his shroud and moving onto his feet. He needs to grab more ties to clean up the last few dangling vines. He knows he’s got some in the greenhouse, but that’s a couple flights of stairs away and the hangar’s closer, and he thinks there’s some left in Moss O Menos . Quietly (wouldn’t want Doc to catch him moving around, especially so late at night), Bdubs slinks out from his quarters, stepping through the empty halls as he makes his way to the belly of the ship. 

He may be walking away, but the thoughts still follow.

It was a long, lonely ten years on Moss O Menos . He still remembers picking her up, buying a shitty old ship being towed by a group of travelers who just so happened to stop by his cluster’s planet. 

His Cluster — stars above, how long has it been? 

There’s always a deep, psychic connection between the Glare, linked by the roots of their shrouds, and … Bdubs doesn’t quite have that, but the feeling is all the same. The grown link between them, the tenderness and care put into the shroud that still protects him to this day… 

It — he doesn’t know, it feels wrong to return to being human, like it’s betraying one family for another. He knows it’s not like that, and he knows he can keep the shroud on, that he can still pretend to be a glare when in public. He could just tell them, remove the clock, drop the glamour enchantment, have a big fuss over the reveal… and then go back to normal. 

It’d be so easy. He doesn’t know why he won’t. 

Moss O Menos creaks as he walks through her, quickly finding the flexible plant ties amidst the mess of a supply closet. He hasn’t driven her in months , he muses, letting his fingertips brush over the walls as he walks through them. It’s not her fault — he just can’t shake the feeling of his guts shifting over themselves, dragging along the floor. 

The bloodstains are still there, ever so faintly; he doesn’t know if he’s imagining them, and he doesn’t stay to confirm either way. 

It takes a little bit of effort, a little bit of strain on the healing wounds to close Moss O Menos back up, but the hangar eventually settles. Stepping down to the floor, Bdubs looks fondly over the mismatched arrangement of ships, just as eclectic as the Hermits that pilot them. The GOAT and Gigacorp are sat next to one another, similar in their construction. Grian’s vessel, the Barge , is a lightweight thing made to glide and maneuver, settled beside the exact opposite with Scar’s Swaggon . 

His gaze continues to travel, closer to the hangar gate. There’s Pearl’s, Cleo’s, Cub’s… and sidled up next to Cub is a ship he doesn’t recognize. It looks a bit similar, attributes of Vex-inspired construction inlaid into the light silver siding, but a bit boxier than Cub’s elegant ship. 

With a curious hum, Bdubs pads across the hangar, peering up at the vessel. 

It’s… familiar. 

Not exact, but familiar. Too familiar. 

Too similar to the ship he plummeted from, bloodied and harvested , dropping into the alien canopy far below. To the cluster. 

His breath hitches; a crossbow emerges from the shadows, leveling with his face. It’s held by a pale gray hand. 

“Shh,” says the figure. “Let’s not cause any trouble, huh?” 

The pirate crew moves efficiently; a hand, large and calloused, clasps over Bdubs’ mouth as they move through the ship’s lower level. They guide him forward; he can’t see any more than the illagers holding him and the two ravagers leading the way; there’s more footsteps following behind, and Bdubs… can’t think about it. Numb, stumbling forward, barely breathing through his smothered face. 

They move through the belly of the ship quickly, efficiently. The Hermit Craft hums around them; they move past Bdubs’ quarters, only poking their head in before carrying on. It’s easy enough to tell who that occupant is, dragging along the mossy figure. 

They move to Keralis’ door. The head of the pirates – a standard Illager, tall with gray, calloused skin, a high forehead, a forward, heavy brow – drags Bdubs’ with him, cracking the door open. 

And… the pirates know their shit. They don’t enter the quarters of the eldritch man, only nudging Bdubs into the entryway. The hand moves off of his mouth. 

“Go on,” the captain says, sickly gentle. “Invite him out. Tell him to play nice.” 

There’s a quiet hum, a chuff from a disturbed snore. Bdubs trembles in the doorway. 

An arrowhead nudges against his back. He swallows. Speaks. 

“Keralis?” Disgustingly fearful. It hangs heavy in his throat. “Keralis, would you…?” 

There’s the shuffle of blankets. The crossbow moves as Bdubs’ is tugged backwards, point leveled against the side of his head, just in time for Keralis to sleepily step into view. 

Wide eyes meet. 

“No funny business,” the pirate captain says simply, a smile audible in his voice. The arrowhead nudges in, cutting through the hood of his shroud. Bdubs is frozen. Wide, scared eyes beg Keralis, the eldritch beast and the kindest man, to not give in. 

Keralis offers him a smile, as one would do a cornered animal. He comes willingly, relief palpable as the crossbow is pulled away. The two are pulled to the center of the pirate crew, surrounded by armed crossbows and sharpened ravager horns. A fake glare and an eldritch being, each exhausted from the marketplace incident, shuffle through the lower level of the Hermit Craft, to the pirates’ final stop for this level: the Captain’s quarters. 

Keralis is forced forward this time, knocking softly on the door. 

“Xisuma,” he calls out, a name Bdubs’ has never heard from his mouth before. “Please come out.” 

The sounds of scrambling, frantic and hurried, sound through the door; their captain appears in the doorway a moment later. 

And of course, kind, generous, caring Xisuma is already complying before they even properly threaten Bdubs. 

Bdubs stumbles forward in a haze; He’s… he’s bunched between Xisuma and Keralis as the three are dragged along, as if the protection of the newest crew member were an unspoken agreement. It might be. They’re brought upstairs, quietly shuffled along to the largest open space, the common area between the kitchen and the infirmary. Lights are turned back on, and the ship continues to hum around them. Distantly, Bdubs can hear the Hermits begin to rouse, can hear metal clanking from Scar’s chambers, can hear some thunks from down the hall. 

Illuminated, Bdubs can take in the pirate crew. They’re… professionals. Maybe ten or so, Illagers, Ravagers, High and Lesser Vex… they’re not the ones from the marketplace who simply sought a Glare and an easy opportunity. 

They’re in pursuit of a pricier game. 

In the depths of the night cycle, more and more Hermits are pulled from their quarters. Bdubs – Bdubs’ knows the Hermit Craft has plans set for such occasions. Knows that everyone is drilled to handle these situations, to play along, to play it safe until there’s an opening. To give them what they want, that the Hermits can always rebuild or seek revenge on their grounds. 

Doc is shoved into the center, the low hiss of a biological fuse cut short with a warning shot. Cleo’s brought out, stoic and seemingly unbothered; her gaze constantly shifts, taking in every detail. Her hand finds Bdubs’ and gives it a reassuring squeeze without averting her gaze from the pirates. Cub is next, supporting Scar, without the leg bracers. 

As most of the crew is dragged out, the pirates become less stealthy; they don’t need to, when the threat of a bolt through one of their heads is convincing enough. They shout down the halls; there’s a few clustered groups, cornered and trapped. Grian, Pearl, and Mumbo, backed into a bedroom. ZIT, blocked in their shared bedroom. 

In the common area, it’s Bdubs, Keralis, Xisuma, Doc, Cleo, Cub, and Scar, all backed into a cluster, under the threatening aim of enchanted crossbows and blades. 

Bdubs is caught in a haze. A static hum. A cool numbness nestled in his throat, his lungs heavy in his chest. He’s… uncomfortably okay with complying, and it seems the rest of the Hermits agree. He’s nestled between the cluster, a defensive air between them. 

He’s not too keen on being on the receiving end of a crossbow again. Not so soon. Not ever, frankly. 

The Illager captain storms back to the main group; Bdubs doesn’t know if it’s been a few minutes or even an hour, time is weird and he’s –

“Where is he?” the captain hisses, stepping right up to Xisuma. His expression is flat and even. “The fucking human. Where. Is. He.” 

and Bdubs is lost again, yet uncomfortably thrust into being present in this moment. Drifting and unable to escape. 

They’re looking for Etho . 

And they haven’t found him. 

The captain snarls . “We’ve got good info, Captain Xisuma,” he hisses. “You’ve got a human. We’ve got a buyer. We’re not leaving until we’ve got him.” The certainty in his tone makes Bdubs’ gut roll. “If you comply , then we’ll leave, nice and easy,” the Illager grins. “If not , then we’ll kill your crew, one by one, until we find it.” 

Across the ship, ricocheting down the hall, a shout rings out — a startled, pained squawk. It’s Grian. Instinctually, Xisuma lurches forward only to be met by the swing of a sword, slashing up at his chest before shoving him back the Hermits. “Ah, ah, ah—” The Illager speaks like admonishing a wayward dog. 

“From one captain to another,” the captain says, too comfortably. “It’ll be easier and better for your crew – and their lives – if you just… give up one member for the rest. ” 

Bdubs’ throat dries up. The Illager… has a point, in its twisted, roundabout way. 

After all, two humans on board is a death wish… 

but the pirates don’t know there’s two, and they never have to. 

Weightless. Bdubs pushes forward from the clustered group, rising back onto unsteady feet. He clears his throat; the Hermits around him pause. 

“If you get the human… You’ll leave for good and leave everyone unharmed?” 

The pirate captain grins. Delighted. “You have my word,” he promises, sweet and sick. “Well – Besides whatever’s happening down there. Don’t you worry, they’re ordered not to kill.” He winks. “Yet.” 

The surrounding Hermits still; the exchange catches up to them. Cleo’s “Bdubs — what are you thinking?”. Keralis’ “No, no, don’t go there.” Doc’s disbelieving hiss. “Don’t you dare,” “Bdubs, stop—!”, “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t —”. 

They’re so aghast. Disbelieving. It comes from a place of love, of love betrayed. Bdubs wonders just what they’re thinking, in a distant flicker of curiosity. He knows the supposed implication: that they think he’s selling out Etho , after all this time? Their tones are marked with despair, with ferocity, with the hollow string of true betrayal. 

“Okay,” Bdubs breathes. They swear, they respond. They’re playing the part so, so well, even if they don’t know it. The Illager is smiling. 

He wonders what they’ll be thinking now. 

He supposes he’ll have all the time in the world to think about it, away from his crew. 

His cluster. 

Bdubs moves slowly, given space – the illager stands before him. The rest of the Hermits are caught between pulling closer and stepping back. 

Bdubs reaches back. Hands, clawed and inhuman, finds the string, finds the knot. Deft fingers follow numb motions, letting the golden clock fall to the floor with an echoed clang. 

He reaches for the mossy hood with flesh-toned hands, dark fur and inky black splotches slipping away in favor of tanned skin and faded, white scars. He pulls the hood off. Unthinking. 

Etho will be safe. His family will be safe, even without him. 

Bdubs, human, stands. 

“Just leave them all be, okay?” 

Chapter Text

It’s been ten years since Bdubs has been in a cage. 

There’s a difference, in his mind, between a jail cell and this . The jail cell was for theatrics, mainly. Where Ren swoops in, disguised as a king, and the two are long gone from the planet’s elaborate castles and dungeons by the time they realize they’ve been swindled. 

This is a cage. 

This is a fenced off pen, a small box with bars stretching from floor to ceiling, stuck in the middle of a sparse storage room. It’s just out of arm’s reach from anything beyond. Inside, there’s a tattered blanket. A thin mat. A bucket. 

He can’t even describe what the process of leaving was. It feels like a dream, with weightless, gliding steps. Where nothing exists but the next step forward. Numb. The Hermits were silent. The captain boomed out a hearty laugh. Ordered his men to load their cargo into their vessel. 

Bdubs didn’t turn to face the others. Didn’t want to immortalize their faces in anything but those sweet moments before. What if they were angry? Relieved? Betrayed? So instead he leaves their faces up to his imagination, preserving them as blissfully hopeful, unknown. 

The cage door shuts behind him. The Illager captain is at the door, thick fingers pressing on a keypad. An electrical hum fills the air, beeps chirping over it. Bdubs doesn’t care. He only has eyes for his shroud , held limp in the captain’s grip, just on the other side of the bars. 

They tore it away for a physical examination. Bdubs doesn’t remember it. Dreamlike, blurred. Doesn’t know if it was minutes or hours. 

Satisfied with whatever lock has been set in place, the captain steps back. Looks at the shroud in his hands and huffs, holding it out. Limp, it hangs from his grip, as it no more than a corpse held aloft. 

It’s hollow. Bdubs — Bdubs should be in it. There’s a feeling in his chest, amidst the numbing haze. It claws. It gnaws.

“It’s a unique disguise, I’ll give you that,” the captain comments. His fingers brush through the mossy layers; it feels like Bdubs’ is being flayed. He takes another step back, he’s not giving it back—! Bdubs lurches forward, body slamming against the bars. His arms fly through the gaps in the bars, shocks racing through his body. He barely realizes he’s speaking. Barely realizes he’s screaming. 

“C’mon, no, NO—! Leave me this, please, please , it’s all I’ve got left of my cluster—!”

And… it is, isn’t it? All he has of the cluster he fell into, beaten and alone and painfully human and ten years younger. The cluster he joined, years later. A woven manifestation of both homes. The base moss cover that kept him hidden for so long. The early sculk sprouts. A tuft of Ren’s fur. One of Grian’s feathers. Colorful flowers from Gem and Stress. The smell of redstone and gunpowder. 

The Illager captain doesn’t even flinch, looking down at him, unbothered and out of reach. His expression is that of judgment. Maybe a bit of amusement, maybe pity. He scoffs. “Oh, you’re in it deep ,” he laughs, before tossing his shroud to one of the other pirates standing by. “Pack it with the rest of the stock. I know some folks who’d pay good money for a nice Glare shroud, and they won’t be able to tell the difference.” 

They leave, locking the storage room behind them with a series of redstone clicks and pulses. Bdubs… Bdubs pulls back, shocks still running through his arms as he brings them back through the threshold of the bars.

He falls back, leaning on the other side of the cage. Slides to the ground. Tucks himself into a corner, and pulls the thin, ragged blanket over his shoulders. It’s torn in many places, threads unraveling in others. 

His fingers find these unwound threads, and silently, numbly, he begins to weave. 

In empty space, the Hermit Craft hovers. Its occupants are quiet. 

The Hermits take stock of the damages, of their crew. Engines forcibly disengaged, the pirates successfully stalled an immediate departure. An eerie, rare and pure silence hangs over the ship. 

The crew themselves fair just as well. Most Hermits were only held at gunpoint, now collected outside the console room. Most are unscathed, bar Grian and Xisuma; Grian from a nasty whack over the head after trying to bolt, and a roughly bandaged slash over X’s chest. It’s far from enough to stop the latter from moving, stumbling his way into the console room, calling the all clear over the ship. 

The last Hermits emerge; Mumbo emerges from the engine room after checking the systems, followed by Etho and Ren stumbling out from their hiding spots, covered in redstone, dust, and soot. With Joe being off-ship at the time, having left to “reconnect with some folks”, everyone’s accounted for and finally assembled in the console room. 

Everyone but Bdubs. 

Questions rise from the assembled crew, as the final headcounts go through. Some confused. Most frantic, especially from those who weren’t held before the pirate captain. Impulse speaks up; “Were they from the marketplace fight?”, but Keralis shakes his head. 

“They might’ve been let on by someone there, though. They… they knew we had a human on board; it’s not the biggest secret, but…” 

Ren blinks. “But they… they took Bdubs? Why?!” 

Beside him, covered in redstone and soot, Etho stands. Motionless. Silent. 

No one can hear his shuddering breaths over the commotion, besides Ren. His paws clasps into his hand. 

Doc is the first to respond, with a quiet, languished sigh. He looks at Xisuma. At Keralis. They nod in kind. 

“Bdubs is human. Hid as a Glare for many years, and he… let them take him.” 

He’s entirely unsurprised as shocked responses rise from those not present at the reveal. He can see it, more than just hear it. Grian and Pearl’s feathers stiffen. Gem and Ren’s ears alike both fall flat against their heads. 

Etho is the loudest of them all, remaining chillingly silent. 

A quiet, “Oh my god.” 

Etho lurches forward, as if a marionette on strings that were thrown into action. “NO!” he screams. The silent ship lets him roar. “ NO, there—there shouldn’t have been another, what the fuck! There—there wasn’t supposed to be!” A man taken from home. The open night sky. “No one fucking made it out of there unless we’re products, if —” heaves. “He’d—” sobs. “He’d know what they’re going to do to him—!” 

Etho’s eyes are wild. He whips around to Xisuma, to his captain , who catches his arms as he lurches forward. “Did—did you know?!” 

Xisuma rubs a thumb against his arm, holding him up. It’s the slightest grounding motion. “Etho, we didn’t know. We weren’t hiding it from you.” 

Doc coughs. The assembled Hermits’ gazes shift to him. 

“Bdubs was wearing a very high quality glamour enchantment, bound to the clock he wore. It kept him hidden, and I don’t blame him. It was a perfect disguise… against those who don’t know Glare or Human anatomy.” Doc shifts in place. “I… got suspicious after taking an X-ray, after recovering him from the Deep Dark. Reached out to some folks. Glare don’t have the same organs as humans, and the glamour didn’t change that.” 

Etho heaves for every breath, his entire weight resting in Xisuma’s arms. Xisuma remains steady. Ren steps forward, putting a paw on Doc’s shoulder. “It… it wasn’t my place to say. He probably knew the risk of having just one human on board, let alone two, and… wanted to stay hidden, I suppose.” 

The to keep everyone safe, to keep you safe goes unspoken. 

Etho’s white-knucked grip digs into Xisuma’s armor. “Then why—why’d you—” He heaves. Sobs. Deep in panic. Calm, stoic Etho. Xisuma remains that beacon of certainty. 

Xisuma looks over his crew. 

“We have policies for… events such as this for a reason,” he says. “We can’t rescue one of us if all of us are dead. Etho… you and I both have had our experiences with smugglers. We’ve dealt with them before. They chase the highest profit, and that requires Bdubs being alive and uninjured. They’re not going to kill him, and most likely, they’re going to the auction houses in the Farlands.” 

The chatter grows. Mumbo, with his suit sleeves rolled up and face dappled in redstone dust and soot, steps forward, clearing his throat. “Slight problem with that,” he interjects. “We… we can’t make the jump. They slashed up the wormhole stabilizer before they left, and the engine still needs time to reboot…” he sighs, dusting his hands off on his pants. It leaves streaks of glittering red in their wake. X only nods, helping Etho to Ren’s arms, before limping his way to the console table. 

The Hermits fall silent, because he’s their captain. 

He’ll lead them through this. 

Xisuma speaks, even and sure. “I can send a message to the planetside Hermits, who can prepare the necessary repairs for our stabilizer, and set up a wormhole manually that we can ride back. It may take a few day cycles, but we’ll get home.” 

His hands hover over the controls. 

“Ambush vessels are small, so they won’t be able to make the Farlands jump in one go. At a minimum, it’ll take them over a dozen cycles to account for resting times. We can catch our bearings planetside, arm our personal vessels, and deal back what they’ve done to us.” 

Despite everything, Xisuma manages a smile for his Hermits. Bittersweet, hopeful bloodlust. 

“With interest, of course.” 

Etho shudders in Ren’s arms. “We’re just — we’re just going to let them keep Bdubs for over a week ? They—” 

Xisuma’s hand reaches out, meeting his. Holds it tight, meets his frantic gaze with a calm smile. The voidwalker squeezes. 

“Of course not,” he assures. “I’ve got a call to make to a crew who can get there, much faster. Who can make sure they cause no harm to our Bdubs, and who’ll make sure they don’t get close to making the jump to the Farlands.” 

Galaxies away, the Hels Craft receives an incoming signal. 

Chapter Text

The Illager ship ambles along, almost lazily making its way through empty space. Bdubs can’t make out their tongue, but occasionally he’ll overhear a brief conversation in Standard Galactic; that it’s a lengthy journey to the Farlands, and small vessels can’t support wormhole jumps that far. According to one ( taunting, teeth spared, steel-toed boot connecting with his shin) , they’ve got a week of travel left before they make it to the final wormhole jump. 

He’s heard of the Farlands before, when he didn’t know their tongue. It was merely a sound in the last cage he sat in. 

Now, it settles in his mind as a haunting destination; no matter how far he ran, it was all simply a detour for the distant markets, wasn’t it? 

His hands dig into the knotted ends of the thin blanket. Coarse, uncomfortable, itchy. 

If he closes his eyes, he can imagine that he’s just at a sleepover. That the guttural laughs down the way are simply an overheard conversation, that the chill is an open window that lets in the autumnal breeze. That the knots his fingers are intertwined with are fingers of a hand, calloused and warm against his own. 

They come and go. The lights remain ever present and dim, and he doesn’t know if it’s all the same day cycle when they do. 

Time has become nebulous. The end of the week is a distant destination, and he can’t be certain how far it is.

Depending on if he managed to sleep, it’s either torturous or a blessing. 

Today, whenever that may be, an Evoker steps into the room, a Ravager beside them. Bdubs shrinks into the corner, but besides a sly smirk, they pay him no mind; the panel on the cell is pressed. The door opens, and the Ravager beckons for him to follow. 

Those horns aren’t something he ever wants to be familiar with. Despite his internal protest, he stumbles onto his feet, and follows them down the hall. 

The blanket remains around his shoulders. 

It’s a simple room, a medical bay of sorts. A couple cots. A couple boxes. Nothing much. The Evoker — a gaunt, pale race, mages by blood — already has a hologram pulled up, typing into a document as they look him over. Instructions are muttered in Galactic — “Turn,” and “Open your mouth” — and Bdubs complies thoughtlessly. 

On a nearby counter, his shroud lies. Limp. Hollow. 

It feels like a corpse. 

The Evoker leans in, reaching for him; he doesn’t dare fight when the Ravager stands over him, but he squirms under the touch, sharp nails and bony fingers pulling his cheek back. They eye the missing teeth, humming as they make note of it. 

His shroud lies on a nearby counter. Small pieces sit in isolated dishes and vials. 

He barely notices as the Evoker inspects his eyes, the scar slashed over his nose, the mangled scars over his hands and wrists, his pulse, his breathing. Meat ready for market. 

They turn away, reaching into a drawer. 

A needle slides into his wrist and pulls —

…

He’s in the cell. Blinking. Shaking. Sobbing. Conscious, barely, teetering bask over the cusp. 

The Evoker and Ravager are leaving. There’s another Illager with them, the last to leave. 

The Illager pauses. Looks back. Casts a long, cautious look over him, with a cold, analytical gaze. 

Bdubs heaves. “ What?” he snarls pathetically. 

The Illager smiles, ever so slightly, and closes the door behind him. 

The Illager slinks away, to the corner of a random storage room. He doesn’t know, nor does he particularly care — all he needs to know is that all the security on this vessel is on the outside, but not a single camera on the inside besides the cell. 

The Illager’s form melts away, limbs shifting into their rightful place. Celestic matter shifting and molding, until a man with nebulous skin and white hair stands in his place. 

The voidborn stretches, shaking out his hair with a grin. The communicator bound to his wrist flickers to life. 

[ HELSKNIGHT ] s tatus? 

[ HELSKNIGHT ] did you fucking die

[ EXISUMA.VOID ] the swap went unnoticed, thank you very much! 

[ EXISUMA.VOID ] did you take care of the illager?

[ HELSKNIGHT ] the og pirate has been taken out, getting cozy on a random asteroid

[ HELSKNIGHT ] update on bdouble-0? 

[ EXISUMA.VOID ] their internal security is shit but there’s just enough that i’m not optimistic about sneaking him out

[ EXISUMA.VOID ] i’ll buy time here while you set up their wormhole, k?

Hidden in a neighboring asteroid belt, the Helscraft’s engine hums. The being at the helm moves stoically, evenly, barely shifting the armor he’s donned. Coordinates are sent. The wormhole engine bursts to life, its quiet hum rising to a steady roar as it clefts space in two, carving a path between reality. 

Galaxies away, the Hermit Craft springs to life, rising from the port of their planet. Repairs in place, the vessel moves with ease. Those remaining planet-side stand at the ready; a signal from a distant vessel pierces through the distance, and Iskall meets the wormhole at the other side. 

A moment of held breath; the gateway holds . 

Within the hangar, the Hermits ready themselves in their vessels. Xisuma stands at the helm. Moss O’ Menos remains, inactive and still in her dock. 

The E. S. Survivor flares to life, armed to the teeth. Etho stands at the helm. 

“Let’s go get our boy,” Tango’s voice crackles over the comms. “...Before Etho experiences withdrawal.” A confident, teasing lilt smoothly hides the remaining nerves. 

Etho, despite everything, manages a faint smile. He reaches down, clasping a pale hand around the golden clock hanging from his belt. “Shut up,” he says fondly. 

The Hermit Craft makes the jump. 

Chapter Text

Bdubs sits against the bars. Bile stings his throat, the bitter taste heavy on his tongue. 

The pirate ship is ambling slowly through space, in no rush; after all, they’re just a day-cycle’s travel to the last wormhole that’ll take them right to the Farlands Market. Bdubs doesn’t know what’s in the slop and scraps that they feed him, but it takes issue with his stomach. He’s trembling as his gut empties again, cold and unprotected without his shroud. 

In the quiet, cold room, he finds himself longing . Longing for the simple things: the fresh produce of his greenhouse, the constant, distant chatter he could always hear, the fresh soup that Impulse, Pearl, and Gem were so proud of… 

And he’s a human. Do they know? They must’ve told the rest of the crew, they must… be betrayed? Bdubs’ thoughts swim, muddled. They – they wouldn’t hate him for it, but they’d be deceived, surely? Maybe they understand that it’s safer with him gone, that they’ll prioritize Etho, who they’ve known for so much longer. He wouldn’t blame them. He couldn’t. After all, he’s another human, and they both know how it ought to end. 

No matter what detours he managed to worm his way through, his fate is undeniable; bound for the markets, left only to remember the better times. Sunsets on Earth. Sleepovers with Keralis. 

There’s a cough, brief and obvious. Bdubs’ head snaps to the side; the room continues to spin long after he stops. 

There’s an Illager, standing in the doorway, and Bdubs pales. The form grins as he’s noticed, sharp teeth curling into a smirk. He walks closer; Bdubs shuffles backwards, narrowly avoiding a coagulated pile of vomit. What, haven’t they done enough?!  He’s got plenty of little cuts, a handful of electrical burns, and enough mottled bruises from blood being drawn. He’s nestled deep into the back corner, but the Illager doesn’t stop. He reaches through the bars , even as electricity arcs up his arm, and tosses something at Bdubs. 

A bundle of fabric hits his side, rolling to the floor; the Illager yanks his hand back, shaking off the aftershocks. 

…The impact didn’t hurt Bdubs. He blinks, sluggishly looking between the bundle and the Illager. 

The Illager nods. “Go on,” he says, in a voice that’s… familiar. He can’t place it, but… it’s close to a voice he trusts. A voice that, upon its prompting, he feels okay to reach forward with shaky hands and unwind the fabric. 

Tucked inside is a small screen, with a fabric band around it. 

It’s his communicator . Wha–? 

Bdubs’ brow furrows. He gapes at the Illager, and he only winks with a pleased grin. 

“Don’t worry,” the Illager purrs, crouching down. “The surveillance in here is down. Your comm’s outta signal range of your ship, buuuuut the tracking works long-distance. All you gotta do,” the Illager says with a grin. “Is stay put . Don’t get yourself killed, ‘kay? It’d bum a lot of folks out, and then I’ll have to hear X angst about it.” 

The Illager leans in, and for a moment — his form wavers . It’s hard to describe; one moment, Bdubs is looking at the gray skin and heavy brow of an Illager, and the next, he’s suddenly face to face with… X? But… without his helmet, and not X. 

He winks; his face resettles into that of an Illager, and as if nothing happened, he walks off. 

Bdubs is left to sit, frozen and huddled in the corner. His body cradles around his comm, and all he can do is wait. 

Etho’s at the helm. 

In empty space, the E. S. Survivor hovers, redstone engine idling. The Illager vessel is visible in the near distance. 

His hands are white-knucled, gripping the controls in an irontight grasp. Still, it doesn’t quell the trembling. 

Etho… Etho knows it’ll all be okay. It’s an odd certainty, amidst the nerves. The Hermits are competent: they have a plan, a fleet of ships, and the most wonderful, most talented, most fierce minds in the cosmos… and it’s a peculiar mix of curiosity and fear that wells in his chest. They were caught off guard before; now, they’re on the offense. 

The Hermits are known for being inventors and artisans. No one expects their ferocity until it’s far, far too late. 

Etho knows, with utmost certainty, that everyone will be home by the end of the day. 

And yet? He fears. 

He’s — he’s known Bdubs for months. Lived with him, lived beside him, more —

In all that time, he didn’t fucking know that he lived alongside the only other human on this side of the cosmos. Can he even say he knows this gentle, teasing, lively, excitable… person?

Gem nudges him with a hoof. “I can hear you thinking,” she comments, ginger locks brushing against his shoulders as she leans over. The sword she’s been polishing has been returned to its sheath. “You… know it’ll be okay, right?” she asks, and he nods with a tired sigh. 

“I know,” he echoes. 

What binds humanity together but boredom? He can’t imagine what Bdubs is experiencing; locked in a cage for days at a time? Waiting if someone will come find him? 

…Well, he actually does know that first experience, but dreads the idea of Bdubs thinking they wouldn’t .

The fleet of Hermit ships wait right outside, hovering in position, all tuned into their private communicator network. It crackles amidst the inactivity, waiting for the final signal from the Hels duo. They’re… a more peculiar pair than most, resulted from an encounter with a black hole that Xisuma and Welsknight were in, far too close for comfort. 

For every matter, there’s an antimatter. For every being, there’s an anti-being. 

And so, when Exisuma and Helsknight were pulled in from the other side, less lucky than their Hermit counterparts… Well, mysteriousness and mischief served them well, and it was easy enough to start identifying as suddenly inherited twins. 

X’s voice crackles over the comms. 

“E-X here.” Scratch that. “He’s got his comm, cams are down, and the redstone locks are weakened enough that force can release them. Backup defenses are mysteriously offline, so… go blow that shit up!” 

The same voice replies, after a moment — actually Xisuma, this time. His voice is thick with gratitude. 

“Thank you.” 

A pause. 

“ ...Ew.” 

A few laughs, anxious and strained as they may be, sound out. “Everyone in position?” X checks. Confirmations come through a moment later. 

Two Hermit vessels are preparing to board: one to fight and distract, the other to get Bdubs out of there. 

The rest of the fleet is stationed nearby, armed to the teeth and ready to prevent any escape. The ‘distract and fight’ crew sounds out — Keralis, with his magic reserves recovered, Doc, and Cleo, all aboard the GOAT. From the E. S. Survivor: Etho, Gem, and Ren. 

X exhales. He steadies himself before the pilot console aboard the Hermit Craft. It’s practically an extension of himself, after all of these years. Her people, his own. He’s proud of their ingenuity, their ferocity, and craves that hollow spot to be restored. 

“Alright,” he says. “Stay safe, be quick, and absolutely no more self-sacrifice.” 

“Doc: the floor is yours.” 

The hybrid grins , and presses in. 

The underbelly of the vessel hums , low and gruff. Pipes and tubes shudder and hiss. Electricity faintly crackles. The Illager vessel sounds like any other body, but shambling, decrepit. Etho’s crew races through its guts, passing through thin, gray hallways; above them, the fighting rages. Two mobs and an eldritch being, now without a hostage, are a primal force to be reckoned with. 

Ironically, the carnage overhead, with all of its gore and cries, brings Etho a sense of comfort. The metal floor thumps beneath every heavy step. To his right, Gem comfortably holds a sharpened, enchanted blade. To his left, Ren’s claws are bared. 

They run uninterrupted for a blessed few minutes before they encounter the scant line of defense; obviously, their primary focus was the beasts tearing through their forces above. Etho slides to a stop, his own blade brandished before the two figures in their way; a Vex and an Evoker. 

His mind races in cold calculations; they’re both magic-wielding races. Advantage over distances, disadvantaged in close-quarters combat. Largely ineffective against races without magic in their veins. but still pose a threat. 

As soon as they came, he casts away all of his battle plans; Gem’s stepping forward with a grin, faun antlers held high. Her blade swings comfortably in her grasp; despite humans being known as dangerous wild cards, he’s got nothing on her. Her head cocks to the side. 

“Go on ahead, boys; I’ll take care of ‘em.” 

They don’t doubt her for a moment; Etho is very sure she can handle herself in this two-against-one, and both he and Ren waste no time sprinting further into the ship. Following the blip of Bdubs’ comm, it doesn’t take long to come to a locked door. 

It’s… sickeningly easy, isn’t it? Etho dreads what he might find.

But, haven’t they deserved easy ? 

Ren’s claws slash the panel. The door slides open. 

On the other side is a small room is a cell in the center. 

Inside of it there is a man, and Etho feels silly for ever doubting — how could he ever not recognize his Bdubs? 

“Hey, dude,” Ren says breathlessly. 

Bdubs’ head lifts sluggishly; he blinks, eyes widening… and he smiles . 

And Etho sees home. 

Chapter Text

Nngh… 

Bdubs’ nose scrunches. Something light and fluffy smacks against his face. Brushes away. Smacks back on. Through the haze of sleepiness, Bdubs blinks, slowly returning to consciousness. 

Ren’s tail whacks him in the face again. 

It takes a long few moments to realize where he is; not in the cage. Not in his bedroom. 

It’s… one of the Hermit Craft’s common spaces.

A few moments pass before he starts to move, slowly extricating himself from the tangle of limbs. The mass of Hermits making up the cuddle pile are a tangle of limbs, with a constant murmur of snoring, breathing, and the hissing of Scar’s oxygen machine. 

It takes a few minutes to pull himself up to his feet without waking anyone else up; it’s easier without the added bulk of his shroud, eventually tip-toeing out of the pile, moving through the silent halls. 

In the belly of the sleeping ship, Bdubs knocks on the console room door. 

“Come in,” returns Xisuma’s voice, soft and quiet; Bdubs does. 

His captain stands at the helm, confident and relaxed. His head turns as Bdubs walks in, smiling with such a rich, genuine fondness that it makes him queasy . 

Bdubs stays towards the back of the console room; Captain Xisuma doesn’t force him any closer, but takes his hands off the controls and turns to face him. 

“Can’t sleep?” Xisuma asks. 

Bdubs can, and he hates it. 

Shouldn’t he be more careful? At a time like this, by being such a danger — how can he sleep easy? 

Etho snores down the hall, hands grasping at the empty, still-warm space. 

Xisuma takes his silence as an answer — Bdubs isn’t sure what — and he leans against the console deck. 

(“Tea?” he offers; Bdubs takes the cup.)

“The report just came in from the Hels’ Craft,” Xisuma says. “The pirates’ ship is destroyed, and Ex and Hels are off to redeem the bounty on their heads.” 

He shifts his helmet off, drawing a sip from his own cup. He’s pale. Shimmering. Celestial. Bdubs doesn’t get a good look on purpose. 

“Joe’s on his way back from shaking answers out of the insectoid shop owner, who sold the information of humans on board,” X continues. “The parties informed have been… dealt with, and the shopkeep will be keeping their mouth shut from now on.” 

Bdubs asks, “What about me?” 

X pats a glove against the counter beside him; Bdubs shuffles forward. 

“Bdubs,” X says, soft and quiet, the only noise in the universe. “Being human changes nothing . You know that, right?” He smiles. “Maybe we’ll have a bit more combat training for everyone, and get you a shiny new weapon… plus an updated wardrobe, probably.” He laughs. Bdubs, unshrouded and in one of Keralis’ old flannels, finds himself cracking a smile as well. 

“The universe is vast, Bdubs,” X says. “And you are not alone.” 

Bdubs stands in the forest, the hood of his shroud resting on his shoulders. 

Moss O’ Menos, freshly named and repaired, sits on a boulder in a clearing. It had been a lucky find from a merchant towing it behind them, left only with the barest of parts and unrefined redstone. 

He’s prepared to go, and not ready at all. 

In the palm of his Cluster, his forehead presses against theirs. His shroud is raw around the edges, cut from the rest. 

“What if I get caught?” he murmurs, voice wet and quiet. The forest shuffles around him. “I — I’d just end up back where I started, or worse, or —” 

His Cluster hums. Deafening. Enveloping. 

You should go, his Cluster calls, giant and melodic. You’re a seedling, caught in the wind. You seek the urge to sprout in other forests, they muse. Even in the far corners of the universe, our Fallen, you will always be a part of our Cluster. No matter your humanity. No matter your shroud. 

The forest holds him in their palms, and tells him that the Universe is endlessly vast, and yet, you’ll never be alone. 

Isn’t that wonderful?

Bdubs sets his cup in the sink, the ceramic clinking against plates left to be cleaned. X still holds his own cup of tea, and holds it away from his body as he gestures Bdubs close, pulling him against his chest and holding tight. X leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to the human’s forehead. 

“You should head back to the sleepover,” Xisuma recommends with a smile. “And I should head back to the console. By the time everyone wakes up, we should be back to our planet.” 

“Y’know…” X muses. “You should build yourself a base there. Something permanent.” 

Bdubs smiles back. “Maybe I will,” he says. Promises. And he makes his way back up the steps, into the common area. With eyes adjusted to the dark, he gazes across the field of bodies, shifting, slumbering. Everyone’s used as a pillow, as a stuffed animal. Blankets from different bedrooms, different star systems, different materials are shared between the Hermits, like one giant shroud enveloping them all. 

There’s a spot left empty, tucked between Etho and Ren. Bdubs tiptoes through the crowd, narrowly avoiding stepping on Grian’s splayed out wings, and he shimmies his way back into their fold. The bodies around him move; Ren grabs onto his arm, snout nuzzling back into the crook of his neck. Etho turns over in his sleep, head resting on Bdubs’ chest like a pillow. 

One unified group, covered by their blankets and intertwined, interwoven. It’s a cluster. 

Bdubs falls asleep.