Chapter Text
Portals, dimensions, voids, world — they’re a fickle thing. It takes an admin with a stubborn resolve and an immense familiarity with otherworldly magics to wrench the universe into place, to form a server. Multiple worlds are bound together like a patchwork quilt, nether portals and end strongholds threading between the cloth. Even an admin so renowned as Xisumavoid, able to shoulder the bugs, code, and the sheer capacity of the server, falters sometimes.
Maybe a reincarnated AI robot child of one of his server member’s, coming from an alternate dimension and winding up having them all thrown into a different server isn’t his fault, but Xisuma still has to repair the cracks. He tends to the weave and weft of the server like a gardener to his crop. He tends to the messy strands of code, he makes sure every player gets home in the end, and he keeps a distant eye on the flickering frame of the rift.
Energy still pulsates from the obsidian frame, but the matter strung between it is cool, solid. Sure, crying obsidian doesn’t normally bend and flex under his touch, but it shouldn’t be a problem. It’s entirely disconnected from anywhere beyond the server, and he gives Grian a gentle reminder to not make another one before he crosses the whole rift situation off of his to-do list, and moves onto the next task.
Life goes on for the Hermits; pranks are had, dragons are wrangled, and a new TCG hits the markets. The exchange between the Hermitcraft and Empires server settles into a fond memory. Grumbot and the rift slumber beneath the ground.
Deep in the night, the rift churns . The cooled substance within warps and bends, remnant energy clawing its way out. Fluid obsidian drips, spattering onto the stone cavern floor. It hisses and bubbles, rejecting… something from its inner depths.
It heaves , and a body is thrown from the mass.
Fuck .
His chest hurts . An inescapable, stabbing pain, as if his very ribs were rebelling against the flesh they’re held within. It’s a never-ending ache , of suddenly being thrust into an existence where he has to breathe .
He hasn’t had to breathe in so, so long. All he’s known for so long is the crushing yet weightless pressure of the void. His chest heaves from the act of breathing, molecules filtering into stale chambers. His chest expands. A singular breath is forced out, a Herculean task performed into the cold night. Then another.
Evil Xisuma pulls himself to his feet, shaky as a newborn fawn. His legs buckle. His face slams back into the stone.
He’s—he’s out? Blearily, he looks around, gaze flickering, unsteady. He doesn’t care about the details, mind racing in adrenaline, panic, the unquenchable drive for impossible survival—and sure , the first thing he sees is Grian and Mumbo’s weird robot son. That’s par for the course.
The towering, distorted portal is a different matter. He stares up at it, blood dribbling from his nose. Some weird experiment, perhaps? A freak accident? It’s not a new creation; there’s enough supports on the frame, nearby chests and signs, all indicating that it’s an established structure.
The air is cool, crisp.
He’s out of the void.
His breath hitches.
No. No! He—he didn’t do this! He didn’t break out! Ex stumbles back onto his feet, nearly toppling backwards before he lurches, fists hitting the pulsating rift. The inky black and mystical purple surface, obsidian in nature, bends and flexes under his hands. The warmth of its momentary activation cools just as quickly as it came, its quiet hum filtering into ominous silence.
He’s alone.
Xisuma… Xisuma wouldn’t just break him out, not like this . He—he had long since dashed the hopes of a peaceful, amicable release. Anything the admin would do, for one last bait of mercy, for a final trial? It would be done in an obsidian chamber, or at the world spawn where a legion of Hermits have their weapons drawn. Not… not just tossing him out of a random portal in someone’s basement.
They would think he broke out. Ex heaves.
He—he fucking gave up! He had been done! He had been fucking cast into the void, into his imprisonment, and he accepted that. He decided he was done trying, done fucking around, and done ruining everything! He had resigned himself into that timeless hellscape of a purgatory called the void, and that was supposed to be it. He should be good as dead.
And now? A hysterical laugh bubbles in his throat amidst the bile and blood. Xisuma and his Hermits are going to think he broke out, and they’re going to fucking remove him. X had made it clear that he wasn’t to be seen again, not when he was cast beyond the bedrock. They’re not going to take his reappearance kindly, no matter how much he could insist that he didn’t mean to break out.
He had given up, and by some freak accident of magic or divine intervention or whatever , his shackles had been broken against his own will, leaving him to reap the consequences. The scythe’s swinging down one way or another. Ex stumbles back from the portal, trembling as he vies for balance. He—he just has to get out of this cave-basement thing, and then he can go toss himself into the ocean, or the Boatem hole, or whatever else they’ve got going on.
Getting out of that fucking pit is a miserable experience. Ex knows the Hermits are high and mighty and advanced and all that, and that everyone has a stash of Elytra, but these fuckers need to consider accessibilty for unintentional fugitives. He stumbles around, leaving a bloody trail in his wake, until he finds a rough-hewn staircase. A one-block wide disaster that winds nonsensically around the walls, eventually leading to the surface.
He’s met with the stars. The void was so endlessly dark, infinite space without anything to inhabit it. It’s a place that serves as the antithesis of existence. The stars are beautiful , gleaming, speckled across their endless canvas.
Beauty is a luxury he can’t afford. He doesn’t have time . He takes a quick glance around— terraformed landscapes tower around him, jagged stones float weightlessly in the air— and he stumbles into the nearby forest.
The rift, far below his feet, hums one last time and settles for good.
In the dead of night, he stumbles onward for… what, an hour? It’s a pitiful distance he hobbles through, not even out of sight of the towering bases he emerged from. Not even a mile away, and he feels that fucking tug in his chest. That panicked dismay, a beast of many names. He thought he fucking left it, back when he was first lost to the void.
It’s a fucking cloying desperation that begs him to consider — consider what?! It screams, because… he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He can run. He can stumble his sorry ass to the furthest border, and then fucking what? Survive? Fat fucking chance. He’s weak, both in body and in spirit. He knows this.
He can’t just turn around and knock on the door to the nearest base and not expect to be sent right back where he came, or even permanently killed. His name is Evil Xisuma. He’s the whole antithesis to his brother! He’s only meant to be fucked up and evil and flawed, where his brother is responsible, sensible, caring, and fucking loved.
That word claws at his chest, wrenching itself up his throat before he can stifle the sob. Was that all it was? His crimes were just pitiful, unfortunate attempts for attention. He fucking knows that, no matter how much he defends himself against Helsknight or anyone else. He’s a desperate fucking fool who ruins everything in his path, and he still wants to be there.
…
Ex stands in a field, in the dim light of a torch randomly left there. It’s his only defense against the nearby mobs, spawning in the murky night. They don’t pay him much mind.
What did he do?
He’s frozen in place. Something wet and stinging runs down his cheek. What did he do wrong? What else could he do? Is… is he just meant to be a bad example? He’s left no mark but scorn on the Hermits’ grandiose world because that’s all he’s meant to do . His very nature, his default, is bad. He’s fucking inexcusable.
A deep, childish, tired part of his mind wants to sulk. To dig himself a hole and mope there, where not even the zombies and creepers can judge him for crying. Not much it’ll do; he doesn’t even know if he’ll have the strength to dig himself back out if he does. He barely has a grasp on his form, on keeping his body from breaking down into the raw celestial matter of a voidwalker. Staying conscious and staying human is hard.
…
…Why does he insist on being human?
For as long as he remembers, he followed Xisuma’s lead for their forms; he loved the standard human, and as his twin, Ex followed in line. A voidwalker holds customization over their shape and matter; it’s the nature of being a creature of the End’s hidden depths, a chaotic entity fished from a kinder void and wrenched in two. They called themselves twins, brothers , because there was nothing else to define them as. They’re the same eldritch matter split into two different people; almost literally cut from the same incorporeal cloth.
For as long as he remembers, they’ve been opposites, nemesis. Because Xisuma was so easily beloved and human, and Ex tried so very hard to be that too. He thought he was doing a good job, for a while. He was red where his brother was green. Crass where his brother was kind.
Hated where his brother was loved. Forgotten while his brother lived.
Fuck. Fuck! There’s nothing else but that desperate, pathetic sob that threatens to burst from his guts. He wants to throw it all away and he can’t. He’s barely here . He doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know when he is. He—he doesn’t think they’re in the same world with a hole gouged into bedrock and a moon bearing down upon the land. He can’t leave . He’s not even a true player; Xisuma had taken that privilege; why would he let his vile brother spread destruction elsewhere? Ex can’t say he blames him.
But he’s stuck . He’s tethered to the server’s very code. He can’t even hope to kill himself; he’d just reappear, somewhere else, with a noisy death message to announce his presence.
He needs to start over. He needs something , he can’t… be alone. He rushes himself past that thought as the ache in his head pulses . If he doesn’t want to die or be caught, then he’s going to need a disguise and resources. He needs establishment. He can’t just shift into a different looking human and expect it to last; he’d be caught within moments, and he’d probably die from the effort of creating a new form. Staying in this one is hard enough. What else, then, what else…!
An image comes to mind. He can’t tell if he wants to laugh or vomit.
It’s the image of a little gray and white cat who persists between seasons and dimensions.
Jellie . Scar loves that wretched little thing, as do all the Hermits. The important pets—they’re protected, they’re taken from world to world, so… he can buy himself some time, right? He can’t just kill and replace Scar’s cat; he has a peculiar bond with that thing, and killing a beloved pet definitely wouldn’t help his case. But , he can become one of those little bastards and pretend to be cute and get on their good side. It wouldn’t even be that suspicious; Jellie’s definitely more intelligent than the average cat, and there’s plenty of mobs a bit more sentient than the rest.
He can try this. He can hang up his dignity — he’s pretty sure he left it back in that basement, limping his way up a shitty staircase. Stumbling through the forest, he pursues the small village in the distance. He just has to make it there before day.
It’s a close call. The morning sun is creeping over the horizon, dawn’s hazy light casting blurred shadows. Being so close to the bases, it’s an obviously discovered village; there’s some redstone monstrosities hanging over pits; obsidian, lava, water flows, a caged zombie, and several trapped villagers. They grunt at him as he limps past, towards a row of chests bedside a pulsating nether portal, dust on its frame.
He blinks, eyes squinting on the horizon. There’s a giant fucking goat head jutting out from the neighboring mountain, because why wouldn’t there be?
Ex is pulled from his incredulousness by a meow. There’s a rough cat sitting on one of the chests, hackles raised. It’s a scraggly older tom, sandy pelt littered with scars and snarling over a snaggletooth. It growls when Ex’s arm clumsily swats it away to pry open the chest. His fingers fumble over the materials inside; two iron, a stick. The cat watches, hissing as he stumbles to the crafting table. The sword comes together in his hands.
It’s a simple motion. The hiss is cut off, twisting into a warbled cry before the cat disappears in a puff of particles. His sword is bloodied.
Xisuma’s magic is that of inspiration . He’s a perfect leader for this world of creatives. The act of creation, of borrowing, of developing gives him power. His form was conceived by admiration and study.
Ex’s are limited to taking. The cat dies easily by his hand, and he feels the form settling within him, blueprints of a body not his own. Xisuma had it fucking easy, being able to effortlessly stay human forever. Ex had to struggle for all those years, forcing his body into a mold that he shouldn’t have been able to sustain. He couldn’t create like his brother could.
He feels that stolen soul filter away, code disintegrating as it’s no longer needed. Ex reaches for that bodily blueprint, deep in his chest, and he forces it upon himself before he lets himself reconsider or even brace.
It hurts , of course. Shapeshifting felt like taboo, and the motion is unfamiliar, forbidden. His muscles contort, snapping like dry twine as they wrench themself into place. His bones crack, splintering into the cold morning air. He cries out — a miserable sound that distorts into a pained yowl. His organs resettle into new places, his teeth pierce through newly formed gums, he feels the scars carve themself over flesh and fur alike. He’s being gutted and healed in the same moment as he settles into the body of another.
But… he doesn’t feel the strain that comes with holding his very atoms together in a tenuous hold, so it’s better , he tells himself. The sword he slayed the cat with is lying on the ground, free from blood as the body despawned. Ex blinks at it.
The cat in the reflection blinks back.
Sure, there’s some voidwalkers who live their lives constantly shapeshifting, embracing their formless matter. X never liked to do so beyond his human form, and Ex tried to avoid it, because of course that’s where he felt the need to be a morally upstanding bastard. It never helped his case.
It was also miserable, painful, and incredibly disorienting.
He’s gotta say, it’s almost hysterical how the cat he stumbled upon bears a resemblance to his own prior body; those details don’t carry between forms, but the fucking cat looks back at him with many scars; notably, a couple that cross over his nose to form an ‘X’.
Hilarious. Great joke, universe: you can go fuck yourself.
From their cages, the villagers, zombies, and occasionally golems pay him no mind. The morning sun creeps onward.
… Okay .
Now what?
After miserable attempts to catch a fish in a nearby pond, and discovering the very important need for thumbs when it comes to opening chests, Ex is tempted to go through the whole ‘rip your body into pieces to become human and then back’ if it means he doesn’t have to try and fight a cow several times his size.
It’s a fair bit into the morning as he’s considering this, before his ears twitch on their own volition, angling to pick up on a distant sound.
Rockets. Someone—no, two someone’s— are coming this way. Ex limps his way into the threshold of one of the remaining houses, missing its door and several logs; its innards are gutted similarly. He peers through the entryway as two Hermits land; he nearly trips over his new paws because he thinks its Hels.
Helsknight would probably beat him over the head if he were caught mistaking the clone for the actual Welsknight, but these fickle eyes are hypersensitive and colors look wrong , so give him a break. The upright knight stands beside a tall figure that Ex recognizes as Doc.
His head pounds as he listens in; the heightened senses make every noise a stabbing pain, but he can’t afford to falter. He picks up the gist of their conversation, although he ends up missing most of it; Wels wants to refurbish a village that Doc happened to use for early season farms, and he doesn’t need it anymore. Welsknight offers Doc aid in getting his materials back to the ‘Perimeter’, but Doc waves him off.
The knight flies off in a shower of sparks. Doc gets to work.
… Well , Doc would be one hell of a Hermit to start with. To be honest, he was planning on going for one of the ZIT boys or Scar first—they’re all blind trust and love—but Doc’s interesting. Besides, if an abnormally intelligent cat were to randomly appear, it’d probably have been the product of the madman’s experimentation. He wouldn’t be surprised if Doc had tried to recreate Shrodinger’s cat and solve quantum physics just for a more efficient gunpowder farm or something.
Doc starts sifting through the contents of the chests, completely oblivious to the missing two iron (the man’s beyond rich, Ex knows; he had nothing to worry about anyway) as he packs the supplies away, ending up with two shulker boxes. Instead of trying to fly with the extra weight, it seems Doc decides to take a nice morning walk; he tucks a box under each arm, and starts his way back towards the towering buildings in the distance.
Might as well, Ex sighs. He waits a few moments, stretching his newfound limbs, and follows the creeper hybrid from a distance.