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His fate was designed the moment a somber gray materialized below him, paired with a navy blue backdrop, barely noticeable against hurdles of trees. Sure, he’d seen this exact setting countless times during resets, always impractical for what he was ever so desperately reaching for. However, something about the dull tint of this world piqued his interest.
Soot-like cover, heavily morphing what could be described as the sickly lime hue of grass. Thankfully, he wasn’t broadcasting this run. The unfamiliar way Feinberg stopped to grind the blades and pines - fallen from the weirdly daunting trees - would have any one of his audience concerned.
Feinberg was known for his coordination, speed, and maybe even agility. What he wasn’t known for was the fond look just slightly intelligible behind that pink visor. Blue and pink accustomed gloves gently sifting through gray leaves, tracing grooves in the wood. Amber sprouted out of pale bark, casting an eerie orange tint across the horizon. Dips in the oak deepened with time, visually creaking if he looked hard enough.
If this biome wasn’t already eerie enough, the feeling of being watched constantly taunted him.
It’s not unusual for an associate of the Universe to be keeping an eye on Feinberg, but this didn’t exactly feel like the Universe’s doing. What should be a holy observer felt more anonymous. Whoever they were, their intentions were a mystery, one that Fein wasn’t willing to solve just yet.
As he traveled further, the disappointing reality gradually gave way to a clearing, dry leaves crumbling beneath his feet with every step. Faint sounds of water rippling accompanied Feinberg until he reached a more colorful end, green surrounding an active waterfall. Viridescent nature, seemingly unnatural considering the current circumstances.
The corrupt world generation wasn’t too concerning to Feinberg, though he’s never seen something like this. Before this seed, Fein had thought he had explored everything 1.16 has to offer. Yet on a day unlike no other, he stands corrected.
Royal feathers scattered in between greenery, if Feinberg had to guess, he’d say a goldfinch produced them. They settled homely in his pocket; the apparent ache noticeably eased the second he picked them up. Tracing the rachis with delicate movements, ones he’s previously reserved, used only when necessary. The quill was thick, keratin bending with enough pressure.
Fein mumbled to himself, hands gilded with residue. The adrenaline of a new spawn finally fled after waving his hands through the running water, that feeling of content still lingering, though evidently weaker.
Directly adjacent to the waterfall lay an abandoned village. Feverish Lichtenberg scars flaring at the sight, the neglected need to optimize becomes more obvious.
Strings of lily pads guide him along, following from the safety of the shore.
The crafting table underneath his hands faded away from his vision in a daze. Feinberg’s mind subconsciously replaced it with the smooth rim of glasses, overly round and familiar to the touch. Wide-tinted lenses reflecting Feinberg’s self-proclaimed embarrassing expression.
Every nerve in Feinberg's body relaxed, a soft shine glazing over his eyes. His fingertips danced with desire; he could practically feel tender skin against his calloused hands. Abnormally pale, similar to the oak bark, though a rough contrast in texture. Inviting wings, an enchanting hue of yellow, plucked and protected with wax-like paste, covered his vision.
What the fuck.
He blinked and it was gone. Iron making a reappearance on the crafting table, situated in the shape of a bucket. His shoulders shook carelessly; a pair of hands grounded him back to reality. Rattling of heavy-grade metal overpowered the relentless ringing in Feinberg’s ears, the source somehow more surprising than the first half of this run.
The silhouette in his peripheral became less recognizable the more Fein turned around. Another player, friendly blue eyes darting around Feinberg’s character. A blurry rectangle sat above their head, displaying the name Rekrap2. He’s seen nametags a handful of times during co-op runs, though his eyes never seem to properly register them.
The letters flickered in and out, as if Feinberg’s eyes were still trying to get used to them. His visor didn’t prove much help, obviously. He didn’t program them to awkwardly stare at some random person in his single-player world. Cope of it being a weirdly sentient villager completely left the moment his eyes focused. Familiar yellow accents flushed their outfit, sitting on top of a blue and black undershirt, steel epaulettes sat proudly, barely scathed whatsoever.
Gone again. As if someone was teasing him with unpresented knowledge.
This abandoned village suddenly didn't seem too vacant after all; though it already lacked cobwebs, plus all the torches were still lit.
Feinberg looked around for signs of habitation, but something else caught his eye. A small group of people, maybe two or three; gathered around a shallow pit, a 1 by 1 glass rectangle above it held a villager, constantly bouncing against the box walls.
As soon as Feinberg saw them, they started leaving, elytras prepared and spread in one swoop. Quick on his feet, he followed behind, visor software highlighting their characters with a single tap.
Not too far away they landed in another village, decked with countless half-built farms and resources, upwards of 6 people sorting through shulkers, mining trees, and trading with villagers.
A few of them looked familiar, Feinberg couldn’t exactly tell why, but suddenly he needed to know who every one of them were, and what their purpose was in whatever type of coop run this fleshed out to be.
Multiple people glanced back at him, paying little to no attention, too engrossed in their own tasks at hand to spare Feinberg more than a wave or nod. After waddling around near hurdles of random chests, a duo walked up to Fein, grins worn proudly. One opened their mouth to talk, most likely to greet him, stopping abruptly to look above Feinberg, inventively staring into the letters spelling out his name before picking back up on speaking.
“Feinberg!” The same player dragged out each vowel in the name, as if they were childhood best friends just reuniting. Feinberg, of course, mimicked their same action, staring at their nametag with a blank expression, not bothering to look back down before replying. “Dylqn”
Feinberg stood beside them, helping himself through the chests presented behind a practically meaningless sign, the only words being “DO NOT TOUCH”. random stacks of items filled in rows, varying through things as unique as 64 end rods, all the way down to multiple stacks of random wood types.
Eventually, one gets bored of looking through the tenth chest to meet the same random assortment of blocks. The other player next to Dylqn, Cube1337x, springs into action. They place down three shulker boxes, mumbling underneath their breath before finding what they’re looking for, emptying the contents into, yet another, random chest.
Cube1337x picks up the now weightless shulker, opening a document on what looks like an advanced communicator. A spreadsheet filled their digital screen, marking off a bullet point before closing the device and flying away almost urgently.
“Well, there he goes, huh?” The small talk from Dyqln was appreciated, unfortunately Feinberg had no interest in participating. Instead, turning his heel to leave. Another player blocked his path.
Gold bands worn snug on their wrist, feathers crowned their head, the same shade as the lush wings idly curled around their torso. This had to be Couriway, everything about the figure looked like him, and as they spoke Feinberg's wish was confirmed.
“Hey! Are you the guy Mime invited to do a stack of all items this run?”
“Yep, Feinberg, did Mime not even tell you my name?” He spoke with confidence, sure maybe his shoulders were hitched just the slightest bit, and yeah if you had a telescope you might be able to see the point in his usually somewhat floppy ears.
“Feinberg! Nice to meet you, Mime was too caught up on the organization and everything to give you an introduction to everyone. Starting late on arguably the biggest task of the run must be pretty difficult, but fear not you have the perfect handyman right here to help you out!” Couriway gestured back to Dylqn, finding no one before finally turning back to look for himself. Blinking a few times as if Dylqn’s shade of green somehow perfectly blended him in with the grass. Nope, Dylqn's gone.
Couriway’s bunny-like ears stood upright, waiting for Feinberg to respond, make a joke, anything. Absolute radio silence. Standing in-front of Fein, the other made useless commentary, throwing out suggestions as to why Dylqn left so abruptly, trying his best to fill the silence while frantically looking around the world spawn.
Fein let him talk to himself, occasionally humming in response while rummaging through newly placed shulker boxes. picking out diamond armor along with the basic tools. Oh my god I need to get out of here.
And, he’s gone, even in the distance Fein can see Couriway waving his hands around, akin to his random steps around the group of chests. Poor guy, can’t even tell when the recipient of his rambling is hundreds of blocks away.
In any seed, the moment you spawn so does a communicator slotted into your character's hotbar, not taking up space, acting as a 10th slot. It serves as a screen, broadcasting your world's advancements. In multiplayer, the rules bend ever so slightly; another tab is created,
allowing you to speak with the other people in your server without having to be in earshot. In complex categories where the goal may be more broad or even niche, you get allowed an additional tab to track your progress. A normal RSG run – which is what fein originally planned for – wouldn’t have this privilege.
But this very much isn’t a normal RSG run. Feinberg browses his hotbar, it’s not often he finds an actual purpose to use it, the sinuous pathing of an all advancements run is practically ingrained in Fein's brain.
He found himself on a document marked “HBG Blaze and Caves 7.2.25” the sheet was passively being updated, quite a few things were highlighted with green. Scrolling through the overworld section, it was hard to find any that weren’t already completed. All items stuck out like a sore thumb; the task barely tinted yellow, showing progress but still as daunting as ever,
assigned under the name Feinberg.
Universe, whenever Feinberg gets the chance to talk to the sick bastard that supposedly invited him to this.
Every item was white, showing no progress, even ones as simple as buttons weren’t done. Ah, whatever, takes too much brainpower to calculate how many blocks are necessary for each
wood craft, brainpower that Fein doesn’t have to spare.
An elytra developed against his back, showing mech attributes in Feinberg’s colors, spread like a cotton candy sunset.
Dark purple boots negated all effects the sand could have on Feinberg’s movement, hot pink and bright blue accents as much as reflected their colors onto pale dunes. Maybe this is what he needed, a nice blank palette to lose time on. Something with no strings attached, no way to backfire and confuse him, no one visible to catch him off guard with a weird look.
Just sand, mostly neutral, but often mixed in with washed out orange.
Holy fuck there is a lot of sand.
Yeah on the other hand, maybe no social interaction for an hour while purely shoveling sand isn’t what Fein needs. so many people to talk to and coax answers out of, yet he’s in a nearly entirely empty field, sand now being replaced with stone of the same color.
How do people not get bored of this? all advancements he can understand, but ‘blaze and caves’? and of course the random person he’s never spoken to has decided he’s the best suited for the most time consuming job.
Grains wrestled with his loose fitted pants, making their way into Fein's shoes and altering his pace. Something as simple as gathering sand should be ten times easier than this.
Accounting for sandstone and a good portion of the amount needed for all the concrete powder variants. He can finally leave, these now barren banks left with nothing to show but pure rock. Leaving them harvested, an exchange for Feinberg’s depleted sanity. Now all he has to do is get back, with two rockets.
By the time he got back, the count on the right of his vision had nearly tripled, starting from a solid 250 and spiking to somewhere around 700. It sounds like a lot, but when you take into consideration the fact there’s 1100+ advancements the progress becomes less motivating.
Not that Feinberg was motivated in the first place.
He stumbles back into the well adjusted village—appearance suggesting he’s on his wits end. Grains of sand can be heard grinding with each step, more embarrassingly, a coat of gravel is slowly shed from Fein’s clothes, a noticeable trail following behind him. So much for leaving so gracefully.
The sign was updated by the time he got back. The name Feinberg, written messily, as if the author was in a rush despite having nothing to do but continue to afk at more mindless farms for hours on end.