Work Text:
The streets of Rhata were never kind to dogs or children.
Oliver Mumbo had grown up with the same label as both—filthy, unwanted, forgettable. The nobles called him “street scum” when they bothered to notice him at all. Most of the time, he was a shadow darting through alleys, snatching crusts of bread and spare gears from trash heaps before vanishing again into the maze of the lower city.
He was ten the first time he saw a bird up close—a hawk, tethered to a noble’s gloved wrist. It looked him in the eye, head tilted like it was trying to remember him.
He’d never forgotten it.
At fifteen, he was starving.
That was the day he met her .
Pearl Rhata wasn’t wearing silk that day, nor did she carry the air of a princess. She had mud on her face and fury in her eyes as she stormed through the streets, lightning in the wind behind her.
Mumbo had been digging through the remains of an exploded cart when she nearly bowled him over.
“Watch it!” he snapped, ducking.
“Move faster next time,” she bit back, brushing dust from her jacket.
He recognized her face— the Princess. Or she had been, until they’d exiled her for the wind that followed her every step.
He’d heard the stories: a girl born with air magic in the empire of birds. They feared she would become like the old witches of flight—wild, uncontrollable, too close to the sky.
“You’re her,” he said aloud.
She didn’t deny it. “You’re Mumbo, right? The junkyard kid who fixed a palace lamp with a spoon and a watch spring?”
“…Maybe.”
“Good.” She grinned. “Come with me.”
And so he did.
It turned out that Mumbo wasn’t just a scavenger. He was something more.
Redstone magic was common. What wasn’t common was turning a pile of broken clocks and copper wire into a walking guard automaton in under ten minutes.
Pearl took him to meet Gem and Owen. Gem’s smile was warm, her conviction warmer. Owen studied him with sharp eyes that saw too much. Scott didn’t say anything—just raised a brow and flicked frost off his glove.
“Captain Redstone,” Owen had said after a moment. “Welcome to the Resistance.”
Mumbo was sixteen.
He was eighteen now.
In the Hollow, he worked endlessly, surrounded by copper conduits and rune-inscribed gears. His fingers moved faster than lightning, guiding the red glow of his magic through wires like blood in veins.
Above him, Katy’s iron supports held the ceiling steady. Around him, his creations pulsed with power: lightning cannons, signal beacons, heat boxes for the freezing barracks. Every nail hammered by magic. Every invention an answer to the cruelty of the world that raised him.
Outside, it was cold. Rhata always was. Even in exile, even in victory, the frost never left.
But down here—where gears ticked and crystals glowed—Mumbo had built himself a furnace.
“New trigger core’s ready,” he said, sliding a glowing disc across the table to Shelby.
The Thunder Captain raised a brow. “Will it explode again?”
“Hopefully not.”
She gave him a crooked grin. “Sweet. Let’s find out.”
Mumbo sighed as she left, shaking his head. His tools levitated back into their holders, guided by a flick of his hand. He reached for the half-finished transmitter on his bench but paused as the door creaked open again.
It was Pearl.
She looked windblown—always did—but her smile was soft. “You’re not eating again.”
“I had soup. Last week.”
“Mumbo.”
He groaned, waving his hand. A small floating plate buzzed out of a storage chest and hovered next to her. “See? Efficiency. That’s what I bring to the table.”
“You also bring insomnia and wiring nightmares.”
He chuckled. “Is that a compliment?”
Pearl stepped closer, pulling her cloak tighter. “Do you ever think about going back?”
“To Rhata?”
“To... a life without the Resistance.”
He looked at her. For a moment, the Redstone hum faded.
“I tried that,” he said finally. “It left me in the gutters.”
“And now?”
“Now I build things that matter.”
Their next mission was near the border of Vividale.
The enemy had blocked one of the Resistance’s hidden tunnels—an old transport path Gem had used during her early raids. Mumbo volunteered to lead the demolition.
They thought he’d bring explosives.
He brought something better.
A machine, six-legged and powered by Redstone pulses, crawled beside him as he approached the mountain pass. It looked like a spider, but its heart was a glowing cube of compressed magic. It tapped the earth, found the weak points in the structure, and dug its limbs into the stone.
The soldiers laughed when they saw him.
Until the mountain started to move .
The spider-construct collapsed the tunnel entrance behind them, isolating Vividale’s troops and opening a path above. Mumbo rode the machine like a prince on a steed, laughing through the dust as Katy’s iron spikes finished the assault from above.
“Captain Redstone,” Scott said later, clapping him on the shoulder. “Next time, maybe give us a warning before you ride death-machines into battle.”
“No promises,” Mumbo replied.
But he was smiling.
That night, he sat with Pearl on a rocky outcrop near the edge of the Hollow.
Below, the mountainside twinkled with lanterns and magic sparks. The Resistance was tired, but alive. Still fighting.
Still theirs .
Pearl reached into her pocket and handed him a small bird carved from driftwood.
“It’s a raven,” she said. “From Rhata. Thought you might like it.”
He turned it over in his hand. It was rough, uneven—she’d clearly carved it herself—but the wings were open, as if in flight.
“Thanks,” he said softly.
She didn’t reply, just looked out toward the stars.
After a while, he said, “You think we’ll win?”
“We have to,” she said. “Because if we don’t… no one else will.”
He tucked the bird into his pocket and leaned back against the stone.
“Then I guess I’ll build us the future.”