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Jimmy was a strange case: a canary born without his wings, usually he didn’t mind too much—flying seemed like a lot of a hassle—but then he met Scott.
So really all this was Scott’s fault.
At least that’s what he told himself.
Scott was so…bright, it was the only way Jimmy could describe it, his laugh, his smile, they could light up the whole server, it seemed so effortless. Jimmy envied him, even as they built hobbit holes together, even as they made allies and enemies and fought through neutral ground, he thought the feeling was envy.
When Scott accepted his poppy of love, that was when Jimmy recognized the feeling bubbling up inside him, that was when he first wanted to fly.
Somehow Scott knew.
Maybe he saw him sneaking more glances at Grian gliding from tree to tree, even with his flight restricted he looked so… natural up there, like it was as easy as walking. Or maybe he noticed how Jimmy felt drawn to the high, high, high walls around their peaceful flowering home. Or maybe he’d seen that Jimmy had started wearing the stumps of his wings that had never grown outside his clothes rather than hidden under them.
They were together now, and Jimmy had died, had come close to dying again a few times, and Scott said he had a surprise for him.
The flickering yellow light in his soul cried out for him to be wary, not to trust this bright, colourful, beautiful man who whispered sweet nothings until he was calm enough to sleep.
He ignored it. Some days he wonders what would’ve happened if he’d never gone into Scott’s hobbit hole that day and seen them, would he have lasted longer? Was a canary without his wings even still a canary? Would he still have felt that omen in his heart?
Most days he ignores those thoughts.
Scott covered his eyes and walked him carefully down the stairs—Jimmy saw paint on his hands, dyes made from the flowers he’d grown so beautifully.
The wings were the first thing he saw, the only thing he saw, they made his heart soar and his stomach tumble into the caves below him.
A hesitant step forward. A wary glance back. Fears washed away in that glorious bright smile he’d fallen for so helplessly.
“You want to try them on?”
Jimmy nodded mutely, gaze back on the wings like he couldn’t look away:
Canvas pulled tight between a spruce wood frame, shining iron holding it all together, and now he understood why Scott had paint on his hands, for the canvas was painted to look like…
“It’s home.”
“It’s Home?”
“This is what I want the area to look like, if I don’t run out of time,”
“Home..” the word felt strange on Jimmy’s tongue. Sure they’d built this area together, lived here together, were together, but… it hadn’t really clicked that it was home.
He didn’t feel the tears on his cheeks, only saw his vision get blurred, shifting his new wings into swirls of colour, of green and blue and pink and purple, the sky under his feet, the ground high above, the flowers holding him tight with a promise to never let go- oh- That was Scott holding him, he breathed him in like petrichor in the summer and held him so close he could hear their hearts beating just slightly out of sync.
“Can you help me?”
“Always,” Jimmy hadn’t needed to ask, Scott would’ve done it anyway, he knew that, but made his head feel just a little more in control of his emotions. Just a little.
They fit like a glove, comfortable around his stumps and secured around his shoulders—Scott had even used some of their precious leather to make sure it was comfortable, which nearly made Jimmy cry again—with extra ties around his waist for more stability. Jimmy was glad for that, he felt like he might fall over if he tried to walk right now, let alone fly.
Scott was shorter but strong, it was his arm on Jimmy’s that made sure he didn’t trip even once as they climbed the hills around their quiet slice of heaven. If he hadn’t been so distracted maybe he’d have noticed the sweet sting of electricity in the air: a storm was coming, and Jimmy would be the first to fall. Fall. Fall. Fall.
It was a lot higher now that he faced the prospect of jumping off it.
Jimmy looked back, unsure, and felt his fears melt to calm at the sight of Scott, hair blue and eyes shining green and full of love, confidence, hope.
He pulled out his wings manually, not nearly confident enough to try moving them with the feathered yellow flickers that were supposed to be his wings; then he leant forwards and stepped off the edge, the wind whistling past his face, eyes scrunched closed bracing for the ground that never rose to hit him.
He slowly peeled his eyes open and laughed, he was gliding, it wasn’t quite flying but he was actually in the air , he sounded giddy even to himself as he fumbled a turn to face Scott, the bright smile he was given the only thing he needed, he felt like the pair of them could light up the world better than the sun.
The sun beat down, down, down, on the desert as the battle raged around him, bloodlust surged through his veins but he couldn’t seem to land a hit, too scared, too cautious.
The arrow caught him right in the chest and suddenly he was falling and he knew he was dying, but it didn’t really matter, all he could think as blood soaked through and his vision went dark was how sorry he was that he’d destroyed the wings Scott had worked so hard to make sure were perfect. He missed his home.
He opened his eyes in a forest, it was loud, but it was easy to fit in, to pretend he couldn’t remember the last game, but imprinted on his back were the memories, inked in colours bright enough to make him remember the smiles, the flowers, the bloodstains when he lay awake at night listening to the people he’d chosen to surround himself with.
He had friends this time around, like, more than one, it felt nice? He hadn’t been sure if he could smile again at the start, but being the butt of the joke came as easily as pretending he didn’t remember last time, if it weren’t for the bright smiles carved into his back he may have been able to forget.
He didn’t like to dwell on the memories anyway, what difference would it make if he couldn’t revisit them each night? It might make the bags under his eyes a little lighter, might make him a little more willing to trust Martyn, might make him a little more willing to hurt Scott.
But the best he could do was pretend. You know what they say about faking it until you make it? Jimmy had to admit it had some weight when he was sat between Grian and Martyn around a campfire, his heart light as he laughed, laughed, laughed and smiled. He still wasn’t used to how loud they were, but he was starting to match their volume, not all the time, but sometimes it felt possible.
Flying felt sacred to him now, it was something between him and Scott, and since Scott couldn’t keep their secret he’d been doing a good job of keeping it all alone—at least if you asked him. Those memories burned the most when he thought about them, though all he’d done was glide it was the most free he could ever remember feeling. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise when he found himself at the top of the Southlands towers more often than not, until one day his friends, his new family, caught on.
It wasn’t a surprise like Scott’s, they sat him down by the campfire and boarded up the exits and got to work, materials prepared beforehand like builders.
It wasn’t neat like Scott’s, with four people working at once it never could’ve been, redstone fingerprints, slightly askew joints made from tough cobble.
It wasn’t bright like Scott’s, there weren’t as many colours, they definitely didn’t blend in the same way, details all loud, but not bright the same way.
But they didn’t make fun of him once as he sat there, staring into the crackling flames, his heart racing, and when they salvaged enough glass and iron to make a mirror to show him, Jimmy felt his heart soar and stomach twist in that way it only had once before.
The frame was different, wider, giving him a broader wingspan than last time (Grian made it known that this had been his idea, claimed it would let him go further before he hit the treetops), and made from the same dark oak that had been cherished so dearly last season—Jimmy wondered if they remembered this on some level or if it was just the wood they had on hand—with cobblestone rivets and screws (that Mumbo and Impulse claimed were because it would provide a better redstone signal so he could extend them faster); the canvas was a patchwork of patterns, messy redstone lines spread everywhere like blood, fragile amethyst shards layered along the edges like feathers; and when Jimmy stumbled into the sun, the light filtered through to reveal ‘SouthlAHAnds’ carved into the purple crystals.
Martyn hadn’t known why he was skilled enough to make the writing look good. Jimmy remembered the Red King’s book of enemies, closely cared for and updated by Martyn himself. He said nothing.
Then he slipped up, it was expected really, he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t seen it coming, why he’d thought they’d all be friends until the very end; the only thing he hadn’t expected was that he would be the fracture in their group. It was his fault.
The first time he got to use his new wings was fleeing with the life he’d stolen . Grian had been right, he could go so much further on these ones, of course that didn’t help when arrow after arrow was being notched, aimed, fired, right at them. They tore through the fabric and he fell down, down, down into the forest, which was so much quieter when he was alone like this.
Martyn was there, he thinks, he knows, he gave him the life, that cursed life he wishes he’d never had, hoping they could run together, hoping they could fix his broken wings together.
Then he was alone.
His exile shack was too small for him, though he supposed it was too late to consider his wings part of him, he’d thrown that away himself when he ran, but he didn’t take them off.
He was just waiting at this point: Waiting for the fall, the stab in the back, the mob that would do him in. He was a canary—he knew it was coming—it was inevitable.
His shack was so quiet.
Jimmy hadn’t bothered to try and fix his wings after they’d been ruined in his flight from the Southlands, he hadn’t felt like he was worthy of them anymore.
When he was red he knew who he was going for: the man who’d torn away his only friends, who was the reason he was alone, who he’d foolishly thought could be a friend this time around. Martyn.
If his wings hadn’t been broken… no, it was pointless to think like that, the only way his wings would be fixed was if he’d never left, and if he’d never left then he wouldn’t be here, fighting Grian and Martyn.
Swords clashed as he dipped and dodged as best he could, trying to land a hit, trying not to die, he wasn’t going to be the omen of the end, not this time.
Grian sword found a chink in his armour and Jimmy fell off the edge of Mumbo’s basement, it was the fall that killed him—he’ll think later—if his wings hadn’t been broken maybe he could’ve survived, maybe he could’ve fought that bloodlust and apologized, maybe maybe maybe. They looked down at him with disgust , but all he could think as his vision blackened was that he wished he would have fixed the wings before they saw him.
Jimmy opened his eyes and learnt something new.
Dying to a soulbound hurt , you might not think it would, just your hearts dropping until you die, right? No actual injuries, right? Not quite, as Jimmy quickly found out. It felt almost like suffocating, but you can still breathe, your body just…refuses the oxygen, your heart stops beating, you crumple to the ground from no visible damage and then you die. And it hurts.
Jimmy felt.. conflicted about having Tango as his soulmate, if he was being honest he’d hoped it would be Scott, but then he saw Tango between Scott and Cleo’s shoulders as they led him to him and his heart stopped. Had he even really seen Tango in the past two seasons? Was this because of the soulbound? Or was he finally moving on?
His mind drifted to the lives inscribed on his back, the bright colours of home and loud patterns of betrayal and wondered if he could let a third join them.
No.
Not this time. This time he couldn’t afford to fall first, not when he’d be pulling this clever, curious, creative flame down with him; he had to fight this time.
And fight he did, fought with the people, the world, the demands around him. But you know what he didn’t fight, for possibly the first time? His feelings. He knew it wasn’t the clever choice, but since when was he half as clever as Tango?
The man could talk for hours and Jimmy understood barely a word of it, but he felt so lucky to be able to listen to him as he sat with a horn by his side, suddenly not caring that Tango was the only one who’d respond. He was the only one Jimmy needed to respond. At night Tango would trace the outlines of Jimmy’s wings, unaware of the pasts the canary pretended not to remember right beneath his shirt.
They talked as they worked, building an area to call their own, though Jimmy couldn’t quite bring himself to call it home; The Ranch, their area, their house, anything but that one word that would make the inks on his back burn with grief and regret.
It was the fire, in the end, that made him realise… everything: that he loved Tango, that the Ranch had been their home, that he craved flying again. He held Tango in the ashes of their home and confessed:
“I love you, I miss our home, I want to fly.”
It was only later, when it was far too late, that he knew that was the first time he’d admitted it aloud, and that was when he’d sealed his fate again. Again. Again.
It wasn’t a surprise, it wasn’t random, it was smart, planned out, Tango showed every plan, every scrap of paper with an idea, every blueprint carved into their walls to Jimmy and every time it made Jimmy’s heart soar as a messy, clever collage of love grew on the walls of their new home, Tango made Jimmy feel like he understood what was going on, if only for a moment.
Sure, Jimmy knew what each piece looked like as Tango built it, but it was nothing in comparison to seeing it finished, seeing it real , resting on a specialised armour stand.
It was so cleverly crafted, Scott’s had been gorgeous but the actual technical design had been amateurish (Jimmy wasn’t certain when he’d gained the perspective to realise things like that), and the Southlands wings had been so at war with its own nature from the different hands working that it had been barely any better. But these… every wire pulled taut, every screw oiled, perfectly proportioned to fly through the narrow canyons that characterised their map this time around; and the design, oh the design.. it was so clever . A geometric pattern of sharp angles and exact lines, it brought to mind stained glass windows, but rather than portraying some saint or hero—of which Jimmy was neither—it showed their animals, then Jimmy tilted his head and it was them holding hands, then he stepped to the side and it was home, before it had burnt down.
Tango had even managed to get a firework rocket, though they weren’t really meant to have any, he held Jimmy’s hand and walked him right to the edge, flames jumping in the harsh wind that was caused—according to Tango—by the high and low air pressure in the valley that looked very far below them.
Jimmy trusted Tango. (There was another revelation he hadn’t noticed sneaking up on him).
He trusted his brilliant mind, trusted the damage taken from tests, trusted him, him, him.
It was still a very high cliff.
Jimmy’s wings opened with just a twitch and he marvelled at how easy it was, it was almost (but not quite) natural. Jimmy was still anxious.
He took a deep breath and launched himself off the cliff, spinning almost out of control and accidentally firing the rocket in his panic, the wind screamed past his face, a fate’s warning of what was to come, and Jimmy laughed.
He spiralled down into the canyon and pulled up at the last second, the heavens opening in thunder and he landed, barely tripping over, and letting Tango catch him, warmth kindling in his stomach as they ran inside.
This rain was cold. This rain cut through Jimmy’s thin clothes, burning like powder snow on his skin—it was this season that they had powder snow right? They seemed to blur together right now—as he chastised himself for not being smart enough to bring a coat. Then the rain cleared, like it had never been there in the first place, and Jimmy felt the unsettling sensation that he was being watched.
It was a stupid mistake.
He was cold, exhausted, on edge; that was it. But it was still his fault. Later, in another place, he’d play every moment, every action over and over and over in his mind, but he wasn’t clever like Tango, he could never figure out what he could’ve done differently.
Dying to an enderman’s scream hurt , you might not think it would, but the paralysing fear, feeling the life drain from your body as it held you in place with just its gaze. You feel your blood pressure drop and your heart beat out of rhythm and it’s hard to stop it unless you can get out of its sight, and Jimmy tried. He tried so hard, he thought it had worked, he thought he was safe, he thought he had saved Tango for just a little longer.
But he couldn’t, he couldn’t save them both, and as he dropped down with his vision flickering like a flame, all he could think was how he wished Tango could’ve seen him fly one last time.
Jimmy opened his eyes and wondered if that one burnt more, or if it was just his imagination.
Joel was different, he was exciting, he was fun , he was a distraction, and if there was anything Jimmy needed by this point, it was a distraction.
Grian was… more of a struggle. Joel had been his own force of chaos in the past, a little unsettling and dangerous at times but he’d never exactly been one of Jimmy’s enemies (a tormentor with bad jokes maybe, but never a blatant enemy). Grian however, Grian had won Third Life, Grian had killed him in Last Life after his betrayal of the Southlanders. That was hard to look past.
But not impossible.
This season was strange to Jimmy. There were far fewer actual bases , sure Scott (it still hurt to think about him) and Martyn (it hurt in a different way to think about him) had their little coral reef, and the Clockers had their tower, but there was no Hobbit Holes, no Southlands walls, no Ranch. And Jimmy was the only one who remembered them. (It hurt to remember them though, so he smiled and laughed like it was funny, whatever ‘it’ happened to be).
The SkyNet was also strange, it was dangerous, risky, and—like the rest of the season—fun. Joel wasn’t really a fan of the skinny bridges high, high, high above the ground, but Jimmy and Grian took to them like fish to water (like water running off Scott’s scales as he slipped through the coral), but there was only so far Jimmy could follow with no wings of his own.
Jimmy suspected it was after his sixth or seventh death to falling that they caught on, neither had been the most observant when it came to things like this, but maybe they’d figured it out earlier and were just planning, waiting for the right time? He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
It was done without ceremony, without surprise, Joel simply clapped Jimmy around the shoulders and exclaimed,
“Come on mate, we’re going mining, Gri and I think you’ll be out first if you keep falling off the bread bridge!”
And so they’d gone, met Grian with a chest full of supplies, and headed down.
This was the first time Jimmy had been involved in the materials side of his wings, Joel and Grian joked that he needed to ‘earn’ them, but if he was being honest? Jimmy was just grateful to be included, to be distracted from the last three games, to be surrounded by people who remembered how to have fun with this.
They splashed water down each others’ tunnels, lured zombies out of a cave, muffled their laughter when they heard Scar above them, talking to himself about nothing at all.
Then they breathed in the fresh air of the forest—Jimmy was having so much fun he barely noticed the twinge of memories from another forest with friends—and started gathering flowers—another twinge of memories that was easy to ignore for now—for dyes in vibrant red green and blue, bright and loud and the way Joel and Grian spoke about blending gradients like building sounded so clever that Jimmy couldn’t help but be excited.
A warm breeze blew a warning as Jimmy stood atop the woodland mansion and hammered metal into shape, a smile blazing across his face. It was too hot for the three of them to be wearing leather jackets—Jimmy cowed first—shouting to the other two and throwing himself into the water near Grian, soaking them both.
A cry of “TIMMY” echoed through the now-still air, followed by laughter that lasted until the sun settled below the horizon and monsters growled in the forest.
They painted his wings by torchlight and, in the quiet, Jimmy wondered how they’d fit in with the patchwork of patterns on his back.
They laughed as they scrawled ‘Sad Boy’ in blue but Jimmy just grinned at the irony because he hadn’t felt this happy in a long while. The good moments always felt so short compared to the dull, quiet, predictable pain.
Being red felt strange this time around, and he could see that, even though they didn’t know why, the other reds felt it too.
It wasn’t as lethal this time around, but the underlying bloodlust thrummed with a new power, a new strength, that sent waves of fear crashing over him like the ocean, suffocating him like smoke, especially towards the end.
Jimmy knew the SkyNet had felt strange for some reason.
If he’d said something, insisted they’d moved lower, joined another alliance, practised the water bucket trick more, would it have made a difference?
No.
Something was different this time.
It felt like he was pushed . He looked up, wind rushing only around him as the heated air was still, and saw the regret, the fear, the pain on Grian and Joel’s faces grow and grow and grow as he doesn't open his wings.
Why wasn’t he opening his wings? He tried. He pulled, pressed the button, even tried with the yellow stumps at their centres, it felt like they had heavy rope coiled around and around and around them, only it wasn’t one he could unknot.
Where was his water bucket? He swore he’d had one in case he’d fallen. A stack of empty buckets were all he found.
He was moving faster, falling faster faster faster. He could barely see Grian and Joel above him, Grian dropping in a dive with his own wings, arms outstretched but too far away, too slow.
Jimmy was so close to the ground he could see the singed edges of the explosion he’d just caused.
Jimmy wished he could’ve broken through whatever had forced his wings closed, wished they could’ve seen him do something cool and fun, like it had all been a prank, a joke, a laugh, like he wasn’t about to die.
Then he hit.
At least it was fast.
Jimmy opened his eyes somewhere new and felt his old wings burn themselves into his back. This time was going to be different, he lied.