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Chapter Text

---

The weight of his helmet felt heavier than usual. Xisuma sat in the dim glow of his base’s core, the gentle hum of redstone and brewing stands a familiar comfort. He replayed the event in his mind for the hundredth time: the sudden dizziness, the world tilting on its axis, the concerned shouts of his friends muffled as the void claimed his consciousness. He had fainted. Right in the middle of a server-wide meeting about the upcoming season's projects.

'It was just a faint,' he reasoned with himself, the thought a stubborn mantra. 'A momentary lapse. A result of three consecutive nights patching a critical chunk-loading error. It's not that serious.'

At least, that's what he desperately needed to believe.

So why had the atmosphere shifted so profoundly? The Hermits, his family of chaotic, brilliant builders and redstone engineers, had become... smothering. Their usual playful jabs were replaced with hushed, careful tones. Offers of help, which he usually welcomed, now felt like assertions of his incapability. They orbited him like anxious guardians around a precious, fragile artifact—a piece of fine glassware on the verge of shattering from a single misstep.

It made his skin crawl beneath his netherite armor. A part of him, a hot, coiling ember in his chest, burned with a quiet fury. He wasn't a fledgling just leaving the nest. He was a grown man, the Admin of this entire world. He had single-handedly wrangled the code of reality to keep their server stable. He could protect himself. So what if he got carried away debugging? So what if he prioritized a Hermit's call for help over a full night's rest? That was his duty. That was who he was.

So, why? The question was a maddening loop in his processor. Why did this have to happ—

“Oh, X-Eye-Zoo-Ma! Come out here!”

The familiar, chirping voice of Grian sliced through his spiraling thoughts. Xisuma took a steadying breath, the filtered air of his helmet hissing softly. Pasting on a practiced, easy-going smile, he stepped out from the iron-reinforced depths of his base into the midday sun.

Grian stood there, his red sweater a vibrant splash against the grassy landscape, his brightly feathered wings twitching with restless energy. He was waiting, a picture of impatience barely held in check.

"Hello, Grian. It's nice to see you here. Is there something you need?"

Grian’s eyes darted for a fraction of a second, a calculated pause. "Well, actually, yeah! Mumbo wants you to see his new redstone contraption! He says it's a real head-scratcher and needs the Admin's expert opinion."

Xisuma’s smile tightened imperceptibly beneath his visor. "I'm sorry, Grian, but could you tell him I'll come by later? I've... got a lot on my mind at the moment."

The cheer on Grian’s face melted away, replaced by a theatrical pout. "Aw, come on, X-Eye-Zoo-Ma! You have to come! Mumbo will be so sad if you don't. You don't want to make Mumbo sad, right?" The question was laced with a subtle, manipulative pressure.

Xisuma startled slightly at the sudden stubbornness. "No, of course not! I'll—" He cut himself off, his Admin instincts kicking in. He stared at Grian, who now wore a smug, victorious smile. The ember of fury glowed hotter. He sighed in defeat. "I'll go see him. If it makes him happy."

"That's great! He'll be thrilled!" In a flash, Grian darted forward and clamped a hand around Xisuma's armored forearm, his grip surprisingly strong.

"Let's go! I'll lead the way!" Grian began to pull, but Xisuma planted his boots firmly on the ground, forcefully removing his arm from Grian's grasp.

"X-Eye-Zoo-Ma? Is something wrong?" Grian's voice was light, but his eyes were sharp, analyzing.

Xisuma rubbed his arm where the grip had been. "I can walk on my own, Grian. You don't need to escort me like a prisoner."

A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the wind. Grian was the first to break it, his voice unnaturally bright. "Oh! Okay then! I won't hold your arm for today!" Xisuma felt a wave of relief, but it was short-lived. As he looked at Grian, he saw the briefest flicker of something dark—a tight, fake smile and clenched fists—before the cheerful mask snapped back into place. The sight sent a chill down his spine.

"Now that's settled! To Mumbo's!" Grian announced, his tone leaving no room for further argument.

---

After an awkward, silent flight, they landed on the sprawling terraces of Mumbo Jumbo's mega-base, a towering structure of modern architecture and exposed redstone. Grian stretched his wings dramatically. "Ugh, finally! Took us long enough! X-Eye-Zoo-Ma, wait up!"

Xisuma, who had already started walking toward the main entrance, stopped and turned. He opened his mouth to speak, but a new voice interrupted.

"Hey there, X! I'm glad you made it." Mumbo emerged, wiping redstone dust from his suit jacket. He walked over and clapped a familiar hand on Xisuma's shoulder. The gesture, once brotherly, now felt like a claim.

Xisuma forced a smile. "It's no trouble, Mumbo. Grian said you had something to show me."

"Ah, yes! The new redstone contraption!" Mumbo's mustache twitched with excitement.

"It's a TNT cannon!" Grian interjected, bouncing on his heels. "For pranking Scar and Bdubs!"

Mumbo and Grian shared a conspiratorial laugh. Xisuma could only muster a weak chuckle. "You two are a menace."

Grian placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "Xisuma! I thought you were on our side!"

"Looks like you were mistaken, Grian," Xisuma replied, the banter feeling hollow.

Mumbo grinned. "Now, now, enough yapping. Let's go see the—"

"SHASHWAMMY!"

The trio turned to see Keralis, with his wide, unblinking eyes, waving enthusiastically. But he wasn't alone. Docm77 stood beside him, his cybernetic arm glinting in the sun, his expression grim.

"Keralis? Doc? What are you two doing here?" Xisuma asked, a knot of dread forming in his stomach.

Doc took a heavy step forward, his hoofed foot crunching on the gravel. "We're supposed to be the ones asking that question, X. What are you doing here?"

Xisuma hesitated. "Mumbo asked me to take a look at his redstone. It's a TNT cannon."

Doc's single organic eye narrowed, shifting its gaze to Mumbo. "That's not a good enough reason to be out of your base. You still need rest."

Mumbo looked genuinely offended. "I say it's a brilliant reason!"

Grian pouted. "It is! And we'll take care of him, Doc! We promise!"

"No," Doc's voice was final, a low rumble of authority. "X is coming back with us. Now."

"Doc, I'm fine," Xisuma insisted, his patience wearing thin. "It was one fainting spell. It's not that serious."

"We have different definitions of 'serious,'" Doc countered coolly. "The common causes are sleep deprivation, extreme stress, and dehydration. Sound familiar?"

The silence was damning. Xisuma had no rebuttal.

"Okay, you have a point. But I'm fine now," he argued, desperation creeping into his voice.

Doc sighed, a sound of utter exhaustion. "The answer is no, X. You're coming with us, whether you like it or not." In one fluid motion, he drew an ender pearl. Before Xisuma could protest, Doc's strong hand clamped around his arm again, and another around Keralis's. His final glance at Grian and Mumbo was a promise of unfinished business. "I'll deal with you two later." The world twisted into a nauseating purple vortex, and the trio vanished.

Back at Mumbo's base, Grian and Mumbo stood in the sudden quiet.

"Hey, Grian," Mumbo said, adjusting his tie. "Want to bet something goes horribly wrong with their plan?"

Grian's eyes sparkled with manic glee, his wings fluttering. "Absolutely. The winner gets to blow up the loser's latest build."

"It's a bet, then."

---

The disorienting lurch of teleportation ended at the edge of the forest bordering Xisuma's base. Doc never loosened his grip, practically dragging the Admin forward. Keralis trailed behind, wringing his hands.

"Let me go, Doc," Xisuma growled, trying to dig his heels into the soil.

Doc didn't even acknowledge him, his focus solely on the path ahead.

Annoyed, Xisuma looked back at his oldest friend. "Keralis! A little help here? Tell him this is ridiculous!"

Keralis gave him a pained look. "No can do, Shashwammy. If we let you go, you'll just run off again."

"I won't! What are you—Ah!" Xisuma yelped as Doc tightened his grip, the metal of his cybernetic fingers pressing painfully into the gaps of his armor.

"Don't lie to us, X," Doc said, finally stopping to level a glare at him. "We all know you'll bolt the second you get the chance. You've been avoiding us for days."

Keralis let out a frantic sound. "Doc, stop! You're hurting him!"

"I'll stop when he starts being cooperative. We're doing this for his own good."

Xisuma met Doc's glare with one of his own, the fury now an open flame. "For my own good? Elaborate. Please."

"You want the list? Fine." Doc's voice was cold and precise. "One: you're a workaholic who treats sleep as a suggestion. Two: you internalize all the server's stress until it breaks you. Three: you push away every single person who tries to help you carry the load. We're your friends, X, not your subordinates. Start acting like it."

The words, sharp and true, struck a nerve. Xisuma fell silent, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a hollow shame. After a long moment, he gave a single, curt nod.

Doc's expression softened marginally. "Good. Now, let's get you home." There was no response from the Admin. Doc hadn't expected one.

Keralis scurried up to Doc, his voice a worried whisper. "Doc... are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Trust me, Keralis. It's the only way."

As the imposing obsidian walls of Xisuma's base came into view, Keralis scratched his neck nervously. "Hey, Doc..."

"What is it now?" Doc sighed.

"It's just... isn't this a bit too easy? Shashwammy gave up very quickly. That's... not like him. Don't you think that's suspicious?"

Doc frowned, his processor whirring. "Now that you mention it, it is—"

It was then that Xisuma made his move. With a swift, practiced motion, he pulled a splash potion of blindness from his inventory and smashed it at their feet. A thick, inky blackness enveloped Doc and Keralis.

"X!" Doc roared, his grip instinctively loosening as he swatted at the darkness.

It was all the opening Xisuma needed. He wrenched his arm free, deployed his elytra, and with a powerful leap and a blast from a rocket, he was airborne and gone before the potion's effect had even faded.

As the world cleared, Doc and Keralis stood alone.

"He's gone!" Keralis panicked, spinning in circles. "Doc, we have to find him!"

"Quiet!" Doc commanded, raising a hand. His face was a mask of cold anger. "We can't track him alone." A grim, determined smile spread across his face as he pulled out his communicator. "It's time to call in backup."

[Docm77] Code Red. X has escaped custody. All available Hermits, we are initiating a server-wide search. Report any sightings immediately.

The responses came in a rapid, worrying chorus.

[Iskall85] Again? Why does he do this? We're trying to help!
[Rendog] He's stubborn, man. That's our Admin.
[StressMonster101] Don't worry, love. We'll find him.
[ZombieCleo] I'll sharpen my sword. He won't get far.

Doc put his communicator away and began strapping on his netherite armor, the pieces clicking into place with grim finality. He looked at the terrified Keralis.

"With the whole server looking, he can't hide for long."

Keralis managed a weak, worried smile. "That's... good."

"Now," Doc said, his voice a low growl. "Let's go find our wayward Admin."

---

Xisuma flew until his rockets sputtered out, landing in a secluded, overgrown taiga biome far from the server's central hubs. He found a shallow cave behind a waterfall, the roar of water masking any sound. He slumped against the mossy wall, the adrenaline crash leaving him trembling.

"Finally... some peace," he whispered to the damp, dark space. He could wait here. They would get bored, see reason, and this suffocating protectiveness would fade. He was sure of it.

He sat in silence for a long time, the knot in his stomach tightening. An idea, a desperate, technical one, sparked in his mind. "Maybe... maybe it's not them. Maybe their behavior is a glitch. A corrupted variable in their code!"

With renewed purpose, he summoned his Admin panel. A shimmering, blue-hued interface of scrolling text and complex data trees materialized in the air before him. For hours, he scoured the code, line by line, searching for anomalies, misplaced commands, anything that could explain the Hermits' sudden shift. He checked Grian's pranking algorithms, Doc's protective protocols, Keralis's social interaction parameters.

He found nothing. Every line of code was pristine, perfectly optimized. It was all... them.

He closed the panel with a sharp gesture, the light vanishing and plunging the cave back into gloom. "What am I thinking?" he groaned, leaning his head back against the stone. "Of course it's not the code. It's... me."

The realization was a crushing weight. He was the variable. He was the problem.

He had to make them understand. He pulled out his communicator, his fingers hovering over the keys.

[XisumaVoid] > Hello everyone. I just want to assure you all, I am perfectly okay. There is no need to worry or search for me. I just need some time alone.

The responses were immediate and dismissive.

[Rendog] Dude, no you're not. Stop lying to us.
[XisumaVoid] I'm not lying, Ren. I am okay.
[Grian] > That's great! So, can you share your coordinates? Just so we know you're safe! :)
[XisumaVoid] No.
[Grian] Aww, why not? :(
[BdoubleO100] It's 'cause he wants it to be a game of hide and seek! Right, X?
[XisumaVoid] No, Bdubs. That's not it.
[FalseSymmetry] Don't worry, Bdubs. We'll find him soon.
[BdoubleO100] Thanks Falsie!

Xisuma sighed, the sound lost in the waterfall's roar. They weren't listening. They had decided what was best for him, and his own voice no longer mattered. Annoyed and restless, he stood, drawing his diamond pickaxe. The solid, methodical work of mining—the thunk, thunk, thunk against stone—was the only thing that could quiet the storm in his mind.

---

Days passed. The server was a powder keg of tension. Hermits crisscrossed the map, following false leads and dead ends. Keralis was a wreck, pacing the community area they were using as a base camp.

"You said this would be easy, Doc!" he cried, his eyes wide with exhaustion and fear.

"I said easier, not easy," Doc corrected from where he was calibrating his cybernetic arm. "Finding a seasoned Admin who doesn't want to be found is like tracking a phantom."

"But what if he's hurt? What if he's in a ravine, or surrounded by mobs, or—"

"Keralis," Doc interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. "He's fine. He's Xisuma. He's probably living off baked potatoes in some hole in the ground, monitoring us all through the back-end." A grim smile touched his lips. "But he's not infallible. Pearl says she saw him."

Keralis froze. "Pearl? How?"

"He got sloppy. Didn't check his perimeter. She was gathering chorus fruit on the outer islands and spotted a figure in elytra landing in a specific taiga biome. She was too far to intervene, but she got a direction."

"Where?" Keralis demanded, hope flaring in his chest.

"A cave system. Behind a waterfall."

"A cave!?" Keralis's panic returned. "Is it secure? Is there enough light? What about creepers?!"

"Keralis. Breathe." Doc stood up. "I've already assembled a team. Ren, Cleo, Grian, Iskall, and Tango are moving in as we speak. The rest of us need to be ready here. We all need rest, especially X."

Keralis finally sat, deflating. "You're right, Doc... you're always right."

"I know," Doc said. He watched Keralis for a moment. "You should go work on your build. Distract yourself. I'll message you the moment we have him."

Keralis nodded, forcing a smile. "Okay. I will. Thank you, Doc." As he hurried off, Doc pulled out his communicator, his expression turning severe.

[Docm77] [Private Message to Grian] > Status update. Are you in position?
[Grian] [Private Message to Docm77] > Almost! Just a few hundred blocks out. Getting impatient, Doc? ;)
[Docm77] [Private Message to Grian] > Just get it done. Clean and fast.
[Grian] [Private Message to Docm77] > Don't worry. He won't slip away this time.

---

Deep in the taiga, the retrieval team moved with a quiet, predatory grace. They touched down silently, their elytra folding away.

"I see it," ZombieCleo whispered, pointing to the waterfall cascading down a rocky cliff face. "That's the one."

Ren cracked his knuckles, a low growl in his throat. "Finally. When we get him, I'm gonna—"

"We," Tango corrected, his eyes glowing with a faint, mischievous light.

Ren shot him a glare but nodded. "We are going to have a very long talk about the meaning of 'self-care'."

Iskall, ever the pragmatist, crept to the cave entrance and peered inside. He immediately pulled back, his face etched with shock. "He's here. I saw his name tag. He's deep inside. Let's move, and for the love of diamonds, be quiet."

Grian, practically vibrating with excitement, had to be physically held back by Iskall. "Once we're in, not a sound," Iskall warned, his gaze locking with Grian's.

"Sure, sure, quiet as a mouse," Grian chirped, his promise utterly unconvincing.

Cleo led the way, sword in hand, the others following in a tight, tense formation. The cave was damp and narrow, the only light coming from the occasional patch of glow lichen. They moved deeper, the sound of the waterfall fading, replaced by the drip of water and the scuttle of spiders.

Then, they saw him. Xisuma was standing before a wall of raw stone, his pickaxe in hand, frozen mid-swing. He had heard them. He turned slowly, his dark visor reflecting the five determined faces of his friends.

The Hermits fanned out, blocking the only exit.

Tango broke the silence, his voice a singsong of false cheer. "Oh, X! Look who finally decided to stop by!"

Iskall stepped forward, his expression stern. "You're in a world of trouble, X. Come with us. Don't make this difficult."

Xisuma looked from one face to another—Grian's triumphant smirk, Ren's predatory grin, Cleo's unwavering frown, Tango's gleeful menace, Iskall's disappointed resolve. The fight left him completely, replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness. He managed a weak, conciliatory smile.

"Hello, friends. Thank you for... checking in. If you'll just let me grab my things, I'll be right with—"

THWIP! A crossbow bolt embedded itself in the stone wall mere inches from his helmet. Ren lowered the weapon, a fresh bolt already loaded.

"Oh no you don't," Ren rumbled, his voice a low growl. "You're coming with us. Now."

Xisuma flinched, the sound echoing sharply in the confined space. "I take it... negotiation is off the table?"

Grian flapped his wings, stirring the stale cave air. "Yup! You're all out of options, X-Eye-Zoo-Ma!"

Cleo took a step closer, her voice softer but no less firm. "There are five of us, X, and you're unarmed. You can't win this. Please, just come home."

Xisuma's shoulders slumped in utter defeat. He looked at the unyielding circle of his friends—his captors. The Admin of Hermitcraft, the master of this world, had been cornered in a hole in the ground by the very people he swore to protect. The irony was a bitter pill.

He let his pickaxe fall to the ground with a dull clatter.

"Fine."

Chapter Text

--

The word "Fine" was not a surrender of his spirit, but a tactical retreat of his body. Xisuma felt the fight drain out of him, replaced by a heavy, leaden exhaustion that seemed to seep into the very core of his code. He stood motionless as Cleo efficiently collected his pickaxe and Iskall moved to his side, not with aggression, but with a firm, unyielding presence that made it clear any further escape attempts were futile.

"Good choice," Iskall said, his voice losing its earlier sternness, now just tired. "Let's not make this harder than it has to be."

Grian, however, was practically buzzing. "See? Was that so hard?" He darted forward, but a sharp look from Cleo stopped him from touching the Admin. "We've got rockets for everyone. Doc's waiting."

The flight back was a silent, grim procession. Xisuma flew in the center of the group, flanked by Iskall and Ren, with Tango and Grian taking the lead and Cleo bringing up the rear. It was a prisoner escort, and the sheer absurdity of it, the Admin of the server being treated like a volatile commodity, tightened the knot of shame and anger in Xisuma's chest. He watched the familiar landscapes of the shopping district, the mega-bases, and the community farms pass beneath him. This was his world, his masterpiece of code and community. And now he was being forcibly returned to it.

They landed in the central plaza, a place usually filled with the sounds of bartering and laughter. Now, it was ominously quiet. Docm77 stood waiting, his arms crossed, a stark figure against the colorful builds. Keralis was there too, wringing his hands, his face a canvas of relief and fresh anxiety.

"X," Doc said, his voice a low, neutral tone. No triumph, no anger. Just a simple acknowledgment.

Keralis rushed forward, but stopped short, his hands fluttering nervously. "Shashwammy! You're back! You had us so worried! Are you hungry? Tired? Do you need a potion?"

"I'm fine, Keralis," Xisuma replied, the words automatic and hollow. He looked past them, at Doc. "What now, Doc? Am I under house arrest?"

Doc's single eye narrowed. "Call it what you want. You're going to your base. You're going to rest. And you're going to let people help you. This isn't a punishment, X. This is an intervention."

"The entire server hunting me down like a mob feels an awful lot like a punishment," Xisuma retorted, a spark of his defiance returning.

"Then maybe you should have stayed and talked to us instead of running!" The voice was StressMonster's. She stood at the entrance to her shop, her usual cheerful expression replaced by one of deep concern. "We're your friends, love. We're not the enemy."

One by one, other Hermits began to emerge from the surrounding buildings and teleport in. FalseSymmetry, her wings tucked neatly, watched with a critical, assessing gaze. Cubfan leaned against a lamppost, his expression unreadable. Impulse and Tango stood together, their usual joviality subdued. The weight of their collective gaze was immense. This wasn't just Doc's decree; it was a consensus.

Xisuma felt the walls of his helmet closing in. He was surrounded, outnumbered not by force, but by a unified, suffocating wave of concern.

"Alright," Doc said, breaking the tense silence. "Show's over. Everyone, back to your business. X, with me."

Doc didn't grab him this time. He simply turned and started walking toward Xisuma's base, the expectation of compliance hanging heavy in the air. After a moment's hesitation, Xisuma followed, the silent procession of Hermits watching him go.

---

The interior of his base, once his sanctuary, now felt like a gilded cage. Doc had stationed himself just inside the main entrance, a silent, cybernetic sentinel.

"For how long?" Xisuma asked, removing his helmet and placing it on a stand with a quiet clink. The face that looked back from the reflection in a nearby copper panel was pale and etched with fatigue.

"For as long as it takes," Doc replied, not unkindly. "Until you have a full set of health potions in your system. Until you've slept through a full night, two in a row. Until you can look me in the eye and tell me, honestly, that you're not one coding session away from collapsing again."

"And how will you enforce that? Will you watch me sleep, Doc?" Xisuma's voice was laced with a bitter sarcasm he rarely used.

"If I have to," Doc said, his gaze unwavering. "Yes."

The first day was a study in quiet torment. Hermits visited in a rotating schedule, each with a different tactic. Keralis brought soup and fussed over the lighting. Stress arrived with a stack of blankets and a playlist of "calming ocean sounds." Bdubs popped in to dramatically re-enact the time he stayed up for three days building a clock tower and the "profound philosophical lessons" he learned from crashing afterward. Their efforts were well-intentioned, but each visit was a reminder of his perceived fragility.

Xisuma played the part. He drank the potions. He ate the food. He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling while the "calming ocean sounds" played, his mind racing through server logs and error reports. The powerlessness was maddening.

It was on the second evening that the dynamic shifted. The visitor was not part of the scheduled rotation. A soft chime announced a player entering the base's perimeter, and a moment later, Joe Hills stepped into the main chamber, a book in his hand.

"Joe," Doc acknowledged from his post.

"Doc," Joe replied with a calm nod. He then turned to Xisuma, who was sitting at his enchanting table, listlessly rearranging lapis. "Administrator Xisuma. I come bearing not a potion nor a platitude, but a proposition."

Xisuma looked up, intrigued despite himself. "What kind of proposition, Joe?"

Joe held up the book. "This is a draft of the latest volume of 'Hermitcraft Histories.' Specifically, the chapter detailing the Great Mycelium Resistance. I find my account lacks a certain... administrative perspective. The burden of leadership in such a chaotic time. I was hoping you might provide some insight."

Doc shifted, a low whir coming from his arm. "Joe, he's supposed to be resting his mind, not reliving server-wide conflicts."

"On the contrary," Joe said, his tone gentle but firm. "A mind needs engagement as much as a body needs rest. Repressing one's thoughts is not the same as quieting them. I propose a trade, Xisuma. Your perspective on these events for... my silence on any other server matters you might feel the need to 'fix' while we talk."

It was a lifeline. A recognition that he was still the Admin, still a repository of knowledge and experience, not just a patient. Xisuma looked from Joe's earnest face to Doc's skeptical one.

"Alright, Joe," Xisuma said, a genuine, if small, smile touching his lips for the first time in days. "Let's talk history."

As Joe sat and opened his book, the atmosphere in the room changed. The oppressive, clinical concern was replaced by the warm, rambling cadence of Joe Hills' storytelling. They spoke for hours, not just about the mycelium war, but about the politics of the Civil War, the technical marvel of the Season 7 shopping district, the simple joy of the first Hermitcraft world. Joe listened, asked thoughtful questions, and wrote in his book. For the first time, Xisuma wasn't being treated like a broken thing, but like himself.

Doc watched the entire interaction, saying nothing. When Joe finally left, promising to return for more "research," the silence that remained was thoughtful, not stifling.

Later that night, as Xisuma lay in bed, he heard Doc's communicator chime softly. He couldn't hear the words, but he heard Doc's low, rumbling reply.

"He's stable. Joe's method... seems to be working. Stand down the watch for tonight. Let him breathe."

It was a small victory, but it felt monumental. They were starting to see him again, not just his collapse.

The next morning, it was FalseSymmetry who arrived, her PvP-honed gaze missing nothing. She didn't bring soup. She tossed him a set of practice swords.

"Your form is getting sloppy," she stated bluntly. "An hour of sparring. No powers, no potions. Just swordwork. Doc can be the referee."

Doc, to Xisuma's surprise, nodded in agreement. "Physical exertion is acceptable. As long as it's monitored."

The sparring session in a cleared-out area of his base was brutal and cathartic. False was relentless, her movements a blur of efficiency. Xisuma, rusty from days of enforced idleness, was pushed to his limit. But with every parry, every dodge, every clash of diamond swords, he felt the frustration and helplessness being beaten out of him. He was sweating, his muscles burned, and he was alive.

Afterwards, panting and leaning on his sword, False gave him a rare, approving smile. "Not completely hopeless, Admin. We'll do this again tomorrow."

The "treatment" was evolving. It was no longer about coddling him, but about challenging him in controlled, constructive ways. Impulse and Tango came by with a complex but non-essential redstone problem, "just to pick your brain." Mumbo, looking chastened, visited with blueprints for a new, safer TNT cannon, genuinely asking for feedback. Grian even showed up, uncharacteristically quiet, and simply helped reorganize a chest monster without a single prank.

The message was clear: We need you. Not just your code, but you.

The breakthrough came on the fifth day. Xisuma was working through a particularly tricky bit of redstone logic with Tango when a critical alert flashed across his Admin panel, which he had open on a secondary monitor. A chunk corruption error in the Deep End, the server's oceanic monument grinding area. It was causing severe lag and risked wiping out hours of Hermit progress.

His old instincts kicked in immediately. "I have to go," he said, standing up so quickly his chair scraped back.

Tango looked at the screen and paled. "Yikes. That's a bad one."

Doc, who had been observing from across the room, stepped forward. "X—"

"No, Doc," Xisuma said, his voice firm but calm. He met Doc's gaze squarely. "This isn't me being a workaholic. This is a genuine server emergency. If I don't patch this now, it could cascade and take down the entire Nether hub. You know I'm the only one who can fix it."

The room was silent. Doc studied him—the determined set of his jaw, the clear focus in his eyes, the complete lack of the frantic, exhausted energy that had preceded his collapse.

"Alright," Doc said finally. "But you're not going alone. Tango, you go with him. You're a competent coder. You can assist. I'll alert the Hermits in the area to steer clear. You have two hours. If you're not back, or if your vitals dip, I'm coming to get you myself. Understood?"

It was a compromise. It was trust.

"Understood," Xisuma said, a real, full smile spreading across his face for the first time in what felt like an eternity. "Thank you, Doc."

The fix was tense and required all of Xisuma's concentration, but with Tango acting as a capable assistant, running diagnostics and fetching resources, they stabilized the corruption in just over an hour. When they returned, covered in prismarine dust but triumphant, a small group of Hermits was waiting, including Doc, Keralis, and a visibly relieved Mumbo.

"Well?" Doc asked.

"Server's stable," Xisuma reported, pulling off his helmet. He was tired, but it was the good, honest tiredness of a job well done, not the soul-crushing exhaustion of before. "The lag should be gone."

A collective sigh of relief went through the group.

Keralis beamed. "I knew you could do it, Shashwammy!"

Doc walked over and placed a hand on Xisuma's shoulder. This time, the gesture felt like it used to—a sign of camaraderie, of respect. "Good work, X. Now, I believe you have some soup to finish."

As the Hermits dispersed, chatting amiably, Xisuma looked around at his friends. The overprotectiveness wasn't gone, but it had morphed. It was no longer about treating him like glass, but about being a safety net, allowing him to fly high but ensuring he wouldn't fall alone. They had forced him to stop, and in doing so, had reminded him what he was fighting for. It wasn't just about keeping the code clean. It was about preserving this—the chaos, the care, the unbreakable, sometimes infuriating, bond of Hermitcraft.

He wasn't just the Admin. He was a Hermit. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

---

The "soup mandate," as Xisuma had privately dubbed it, continued, but the atmosphere had irrevocably shifted. The Hermits' vigilance remained, but it was now tempered with a renewed respect. They had seen him handle a crisis, and the brittle, fragile image they had of him had been replaced with the sturdier, more familiar one of their capable, if occasionally overzealous, Admin. The watchful eyes were still there, but they no longer felt like the bars of a cage.

It was in this new, more balanced environment that Etho slipped in. He didn't announce his arrival with a chime or a shout. One evening, as Xisuma was cross-referencing the server's mob-spawning algorithms with a bowl of Keralis's mushroom stew going cold beside him, he simply looked up and Etho was there, leaning against the doorframe of his workshop, his masked face as unreadable as ever.

"Etho," Xisuma said, not startled, but pleasantly surprised. Etho had been notably absent from the parade of caregivers, which had somehow felt more respectful than the constant attention.

"X," Etho replied, his voice a quiet rasp. He pushed off the doorframe and ambled in, his gaze sweeping over the organized chaos of redstone components and open code interfaces. "Heard you've been through the wringer."

"You could say that," Xisuma said with a wry smile, gesturing to the half-finished stew. "I'm currently being fattened up like a prize hog for the fair."

A faint crinkle at the corners of Etho's eyes suggested a smile beneath the mask. "Looks like it. But you know, a hog that's too cooped up gets ornery. The meat gets tough."

Xisuma blinked, then let out a genuine laugh. It was the first time anyone had acknowledged the absurdity of the situation with him, rather than just preaching its necessity. "Are you comparing me to a poorly raised farm animal, Etho?"

"Just making an observation," Etho said, his tone light. He stopped beside Xisuma's desk, picking up a stray comparator and turning it over in his gloved hands. "Doc means well. They all do. But sometimes the best way to heal isn't to sit still." He placed the comparator down with a soft click. "You look like you could use some real rest. The kind you get from being busy with something that doesn't matter."

Xisuma leaned back in his chair, intrigued. "What did you have in mind?"

"My base," Etho said simply. "The monolith. I'm working on the interior redstone for the storage system. It's... fussy. Could use a second pair of eyes. Nothing critical. Just a puzzle." He paused, letting the offer hang in the air. "No potions. No soup. Just some dust, a few sticky pistons, and a problem that needs solving. If you're interested."

It was a masterstroke. It was an invitation to work, to use his mind, but on a project that was purely for fun, with zero server-wide consequences. It was a challenge, but a low-stakes one. It was, Xisuma realized, exactly what he needed.

Doc, when consulted, had been skeptical. But after a long look at Xisuma's hopeful expression and Etho's calm, unwavering stance, he'd relented with a grunt. "Fine. But I'm setting a waypoint. Four hours, max. And I'm checking in."

The flight to Etho's massive, imposing monolith was a breath of fresh air. The wind whipping past his helmet felt like freedom. Inside, the cavernous space was a stark contrast to his own cozy base—all dark, polished deepslate and echoing halls. Etho didn't lead him to a bed or a potion stand. He led him to a sprawling, incomplete redstone contraption, a beautiful, complex mess of dust, repeaters, and hoppers.

"The logic's sound on paper," Etho murmured, scratching the back of his head. "But the item sorting is getting cross-wired. Every time I try to filter out rotten flesh, it jams the cobblestone line. It's... annoying."

Xisuma felt a familiar, pleasant click in his mind. This was a language he understood. He knelt, tracing the redstone lines with his eyes. "The pulse is too long. You're overloading the hopper clock here. See?" He pointed. "If you add a repeater set to two ticks right there, it should create the separation you need."

Etho leaned in, his head tilted. "Huh. You might be right."

For the next three hours, they worked in comfortable silence, punctuated by the soft click-clack of redstone components and short, technical exchanges. There was no pressure, no looming server crash, no life-or-death consequence for a miswired torch. It was just two engineers solving a puzzle. Xisuma's hands, which had felt clumsy and useless for days, moved with their old precision. The mental fog that had clung to him since his collapse began to lift, burned away by the clean, logical fire of a well-defined problem.

Etho didn't coddle him. He didn't offer constant praise or watch his every move with hawk-like concern. He simply worked alongside him, treating him as an equal. It was the most normal interaction Xisuma had experienced in over a week, and it was more healing than any potion.

During a break, sitting on a stack of smooth basalt blocks and sharing a bucket of mushrooms Etho had produced from a shulker box, Etho finally broke the comfortable silence.

"They were scared, you know," he said, his voice quiet in the vast space.

Xisuma looked at him, the mushroom halfway to his mouth. "Who?"

"Everyone." Etho gestured vaguely with his own mushroom. "Seeing you go down like that. It's one thing when it's Grian falling off a build for the hundredth time, or Ren getting blown up by his own cannon. That's... Hermitcraft. But you? You're the constant. You're the bedrock. When the bedrock cracks, it shakes everyone."

The simple, stark truth of it landed heavily on Xisuma. He had been so focused on his own feelings of emasculation and frustration that he hadn't fully considered theirs. He saw it as them treating him like a child, but Etho was framing it as them being terrified of losing their foundation.

"I... I didn't think of it that way," Xisuma admitted softly.

"Course you didn't," Etho said, not unkindly. "You're too busy being the bedrock to notice when it's under strain." He took a bite of his mushroom. "Doc's methods are blunt. Keralis frets. Grian tries to distract. But it all comes from the same place. We need you, X. Not just your code. You."

It was the same message Joe had hinted at, but delivered with Etho's characteristic, unvarnished clarity. It didn't feel smothering this time. It felt like a fact. A responsibility, yes, but also a connection.

When Doc's four-hour timer went off, signaled by a ping on their communicators, Xisuma felt a pang of genuine disappointment. The storage system wasn't finished, but the core issue was resolved, and they had a clear path forward.

"Thanks, Etho," Xisuma said as they prepared to leave. "This... this helped more than you know."

Etho just gave a short nod, his eyes crinkling again. "Anytime. A tough hog needs to root around in the dirt sometimes. Keeps 'em happy." He tossed a small, smooth stone to Xisuma. "A souvenir. From the monolith. To remember that some problems are just about cobblestone and rotten flesh. Not the fate of the world."

Xisuma caught the stone, a simple, weighty thing. It was the most Etho-like gift imaginable—meaningful, understated, and a little bit odd. He pocketed it with a smile.

The return to his base felt different. The watchful presence of the other Hermits no longer felt like a siege. When he walked in, Doc gave him a long, appraising look.

"You look... better," Doc conceded. "Less like you're about to glitch out of existence."

"I feel better," Xisuma said, and for the first time, it was the complete truth. The furious, caged animal inside him had been calmed. The shame had been acknowledged and was beginning to dissipate. "Etho's... surprisingly good at this."

Doc let out a short, sharp laugh. "He's good at everything. It's annoying." His expression softened. "The 'mandatory rest' protocol is still in effect, but... we can renegotiate the terms. You've proven you can handle a measured amount of stress without crumbling."

It wasn't total freedom, but it was progress. It was a partnership. As Xisuma lay down that night, the smooth stone from Etho's monolith sitting on his bedside table, he didn't feel the oppressive weight of their concern. Instead, he felt the sturdy, interconnected net of their care. They were his Hermits. And he, for all his Admin powers, was theirs. It was a balance, fragile and constantly shifting, like redstone dust in the wind, but it was the most stable and precious thing in the world.

---

The smooth stone from Etho’s monolith sat on Xisuma’s bedside table, a tangible promise of a return to normalcy. The "mandatory rest" protocol had been relaxed. Doc no longer stood guard at the door, and the constant stream of soup-bearing Hermits had slowed to a trickle. Xisuma was even allowed to handle minor server alerts himself, his communicator chirping with manageable issues, a stray chunk error near the Perimeter, a minor villager pathing bug in the shopping district. It felt good. It felt like he was finally, carefully, being trusted again.

But trust, once fractured, is a delicate thing to rebuild. And the Hermits, for all their love, were walking a tightrope between care and control.

The shift began subtly. It was Grian who started it, though he would never see it that way.

"X-Eye-Zoo-Ma!" Grian's voice was a familiar, cheerful singsong as he fluttered into the base. "I've had the most brilliant idea! Since you're still on 'light duties,' we could build a little relaxation area on the roof of your base! A nice garden, some comfy chairs. A place you can be outside without... you know, overdoing it."

Xisuma looked up from his code interface, forcing a polite smile. "That's a very kind thought, Grian, but my base's infrastructure isn't really designed for—"

"Oh, don't you worry about a thing!" Grian interrupted, his wings fluttering with excitement. "Mumbo and I have already drawn up the plans! We'll handle all the building. You just have to approve the location." He unfurled a schematic, revealing an elaborate, multi-tiered garden complete with a waterfall and a custom-made sun-lounger. It was beautiful. It was also a gilded cage, an open-air version of the prison he was just escaping.

Before Xisuma could formulate a gentle refusal, Mumbo popped his head in, redstone dust smudging his suit jacket. "Grian's right, X! It'll be good for you! A bit of fresh air, a controlled environment. We can even wire it up with a beacon for regeneration. Doc already approved the concept!"

Doc already approved. The words landed with a quiet, final thud. The decision had been made for him. The collaboration he'd felt with Doc was, it seemed, conditional.

"Right," Xisuma said, his voice tight. "Well, if Doc approved..."

The construction began the next day. The constant sound of blocks being placed and broken above his head was a grating reminder that his sanctuary was no longer entirely his own. He tried to retreat into his work, focusing on a complex bit of code for the upcoming server-wide game night.

That's when the second lock clicked into place.

A soft ping came from his admin panel. A new access restriction. He could no longer directly manipulate the core server code outside of pre-approved, non-critical hours. The restriction was filed under "Health and Wellness Protocols." The author of the protocol was a combined signature: Docm77, ZombieCleo, and FalseSymmetry.

A cold dread seeped into him. They hadn't just built a garden on his roof; they had built a firewall around his purpose.

He stood up, his hands trembling with a mixture of hurt and fury. He needed to talk to Doc. Now. He strode towards the entrance, only to find his path blocked by a familiar, broad-shouldered figure.

"Going somewhere, X?" FalseSymmetry asked, her tone deceptively light. She was in full netherite armor, her sword sheathed but her presence an unmistakable barrier.

"I need to speak with Doc," Xisuma said, trying to keep his voice level.

"Doc's busy," False replied, her gaze unwavering. "He's dealing with a creeper incident over at the Barge. He asked me to make sure you didn't overexert yourself. You know, after all the 'redstone stress' with Etho yesterday."

"The 'redstone stress' was the most normal I've felt in weeks!" The words burst out of him, sharp and desperate.

False's expression softened, but it was the pitying softness that made his skin crawl. "We know it feels that way, X. But you have to understand, we can see the bigger picture. You can't. You're too close to it. We're just... managing your recovery."

Managing. The word was a cold splash of water. He wasn't a person recovering; he was a server asset being managed.

The final, horrifying escalation came that evening. Exhausted, defeated, and feeling more trapped than ever, Xisuma retreated to his bedroom. He needed the simple, mindless comfort of sleep. He lay down, the sounds of Grian and Mumbo's "relaxation garden" finally silent above him.

As he drifted off, a faint, almost imperceptible sound reached his ears. A soft, rhythmic click-clack. It was a sound he knew intimately. It was the sound of an observer.

His eyes snapped open. He sat up slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He scanned the dark room. There, cleverly integrated into the redstone piping that fed into his brewing stand, was a small, black obsidian face. An observer, wired to a redstone lamp hidden behind a painting. It was monitoring his bed.

They weren't just managing his work. They were monitoring his sleep.

A wave of nauseating violation washed over him. This was no longer care. This was surveillance. This was paranoia dressed up as compassion.

He didn't scream. He didn't break the observer. He just sat there in the oppressive silence, the truth crashing down on him. The Hermits truly believed they were saving him. But in their terrified, overzealous attempt to keep their bedrock from cracking, they were slowly, methodically, burying him alive. The love was real, but its manifestation had become a waking nightmare. He was their Admin, their friend, their family. And he had never felt more alone, or more terrified of the people he called home.

Chapter Text

The soft click-clack of the observer became the metronome of Xisuma’s sanity. He lay perfectly still in the dark, his body rigid, every sense screaming. They were watching him. Not just outside his door, or from the garden on his roof, but here, in the one place that was supposed to be private. The violation was so profound it felt like a physical chill, seeping through his armor and into his very code.

He didn't sleep. He pretended. He timed the observer's pulses, learning its rhythm. Every forty-two seconds, a soft click, a faint red glow from behind the painting. A report. A data point in their grand, terrifying experiment to keep him "safe."

When the first grey light of dawn filtered through his window, he moved. He was methodical, his movements precise and silent. He didn't look at the observer. He dressed, pulled on his helmet, and walked out of his bedroom as if it were any other morning.

The base felt different now. The hum of redstone wasn't comforting; it was the sound of his cage. The chests of supplies weren't for his use; they were provisions for a prisoner. He saw the world through a new, horrifying lens. That repeater on the wall, was it just for the lighting, or was it part of a monitoring system? The item frame holding a mundane piece of cobblestone, was it angled just so to see down the hallway?

He found Doc in the main chamber, reviewing a holographic schematic of the server's chunk borders. "Morning, X," Doc said, not looking up. "You're up early. Sleep well?"

The casual question was a landmine. A test. Xisuma’s grip tightened on the edge of a crafting table.

"Fine," he said, his voice filtered and neutral through his helmet. "The new garden must have... helped."

Doc finally looked up, a satisfied smile on his face. "See? We know what we're doing. A little controlled environment, a little less stress. You'll be back to your old self in no time."

My old self, Xisuma thought, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. The one you don't trust to sleep without supervision.

He needed to get out. He needed to see the sky without a net. "I'm going to take a walk," he announced, his tone carefully casual. "Just around the perimeter. Get some of that 'fresh air.'"

Doc's smile didn't falter, but his single eye narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Of course. But take this." He tossed Xisuma a small, polished stone with a rune carved into it. "It's a linked waystone. Just a safety precaution. If you feel faint, or if anything seems off, just squeeze it. We'll know exactly where you are."

Xisuma caught the stone. It was warm, almost alive, in his hand. It wasn't a safety device. It was a tracker. A leash.

His fingers curled around it, the urge to crush it into dust almost overwhelming. Instead, he pocketed it. "Thank you, Doc. That's... very thoughtful."

The walk outside was a mockery of freedom. The sun was bright, the birds were singing, but every step felt monitored. He saw Iskall in the distance, ostensibly mining, but his position gave him a clear line of sight to Xisuma's path. Stress was tending her bee farm, but she looked up and waved a little too quickly as he passed. They weren't even hiding it anymore. They were a distributed surveillance network, a living, breathing panopticon built from friendship and fear.

He found himself at the edge of the shopping district, near the lake. For a moment, he just stared at the water, the one thing that seemed unchanged, unprogrammed. He felt a desperate, childish urge to wade in and just keep walking.

"Shashwammy!"

Keralis's voice made him jump. He turned to see his oldest friend approaching, his wide eyes full of a concern that now felt suffocating.

"I saw you on the player list and came right over!" Keralis said, his voice a rushed whisper. "You shouldn't be out here alone! What if you get dizzy? What if a phantom spawns? It's almost night!"

"I'm fine, Keralis," Xisuma said, the words tasting like ash. "I just wanted a moment of quiet."

"Quiet is good! But quiet alone is dangerous!" Keralis insisted, grabbing Xisuma's arm. His grip was firm. "Come on. Let's go to my base. I've built a new, very safe, very cozy room. No redstone, no bright lights. Just soft beds and lots of soup. You can have quiet there. Safe quiet."

The phrase "safe quiet" echoed in Xisuma's mind, a perfect summary of his hell. He was being led away from the open world, back to another customized, controlled cell, all while being told it was for his own good.

He looked at Keralis's face, at the genuine, terrified love in his eyes, and he felt his last shred of resistance break. Arguing was pointless. Running was impossible. They had built their prison not with obsidian and iron doors, but with love and worry, and it was inescapable.

He stopped pulling against Keralis's grip. He let his shoulders slump in a gesture of defeat that wasn't entirely an act.

"Alright, Keralis," he whispered, the fight draining out of him. "Safe quiet sounds... nice."

A brilliant, relieved smile spread across Keralis's face. "I knew you'd see reason! Oh, we're going to take such good care of you, Shashwammy. You don't have to worry about a thing anymore. We'll handle everything."

As Keralis led him away, chattering happily about soup recipes and blackout curtains, Xisuma looked back one last time at the lake, at the unmonitored sky. He felt the weight of the tracker-stone in his pocket and heard the ghostly click-clack of the observer in his mind.

Keralis’s base was a masterpiece of organic architecture, all flowing curves and warm, glowing lights. The "safe room" was exactly as described: windowless, softly lit by sea lanterns filtered through blue stained glass, with a deep carpet and a bed piled high with blankets. A small, simple brewing stand sat in the corner, emitting the faint, soothing smell of a regeneration potion.

"It's perfect, Keralis," Xisuma said, his voice flat and tired. The performance of gratitude was becoming the most exhausting part of his day.

"I knew you'd like it!" Keralis beamed, patting his arm. "I'll be right outside if you need anything. Anything at all!" He backed out of the room, closing the door with a soft, final click.

Xisuma stood in the center of the room for a long moment, then slowly removed his helmet. The air was still and silent, save for the faint bubble of the potion. He ran a hand over his face. This wasn't a dramatic prison break scenario. There were no glitches in the world, no world-ending threats. This was a quieter, more insidious erosion. It was the death of a thousand cuts, each one administered with a smile and a "we care about you."

He sat on the edge of the bed, the plushness of it feeling like a trap. His communicator buzzed.

[Docm77] > Just checking in. Keralis says you're settled. Get some rest.
[Grian] > Ooooh is the safe room comfy? We put so much thought into it! <3
[Iskall85] > Glad you're taking it easy, man.

He didn't reply. He just stared at the screen, a cold stone of isolation in his gut. This was his family. And they had collectively, without malice, decided that his own judgment was so fundamentally broken that he needed to be managed like a faulty piece of redstone.

The door opened a crack and a different face peered in. It was Beef, his expression unreadable.

"Hey, X," he said, his voice low. "Mind if I come in?"

Xisuma just gestured wearily. Beef slipped inside, closing the door behind him. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and looked around.

"Nice room," he said. "A bit... sterile for my tastes, but nice."

"It's very safe," Xisuma replied, the words dripping with a bitterness he couldn't fully conceal.

Beef was quiet for a moment, studying him. "Yeah. I get that a lot lately." He sighed. "Look, I'm not here to fuss over you or force-feed you soup. I just... I was working on the storyline for the next Life series and it got me thinking. About group dynamics. How easily a mob mentality can form, even with the best intentions."

Xisuma looked up, genuinely surprised. This wasn't the script.

"I'm not going to pretend I know what's best for you," Beef continued. "I'm not a doctor or a therapist. But I have eyes. I see how Doc and Keralis and Grian are... hovering. And I see how you're... not here anymore." He tapped his temple. "You've checked out."

The accuracy of the observation was like a punch to the chest. Xisuma looked away.

"They're scared, X," Beef said, his voice gentle. "You're the constant. When a constant fails, it makes everyone else question their own stability. Their reaction isn't really about you. It's about their own fear."

"That doesn't make it right," Xisuma whispered, his voice raw.

"No," Beef agreed firmly. "It doesn't. But understanding it might help you feel less... targeted. It's not a conspiracy. It's a panic response."

He pushed off the wall. "I'm not going to tell you what to do. But if you ever need an escape that isn't running to a cave... my cinema is always open. No observers. No trackers. Just bad movies and popcorn." He gave a small, genuine smile. "Think about it."

With that, he left as quietly as he came.

The encounter was a tiny crack of light in the oppressive darkness. Beef wasn't part of the "management team." He was an observer himself, but a neutral one. It was a reminder that not every Hermit had signed onto this suffocating protocol.

Later that evening, the "care squad" arrived. Doc, Keralis, and a unusually subdued Grian. They brought dinner.

"We thought we'd have a meal with you," Keralis said, setting out bowls of stew. "Keep you company!"

It was a kind gesture, in a vacuum. But in context, it felt like guards eating with their inmate. Xisuma ate in silence, listening to them chat about server business he was no longer privy to.

"So, the perimeter expansion is on hold until we get the new slime farm optimized," Doc was saying. "Iskall and I are handling it. Don't you worry about a thing, X."

Xisuma put his spoon down. "The slime farm. I had a design for that. I was going to implement a new chunk-loading algorithm to—"

"Whoa, there," Grian cut in, holding up his hands. "No shop talk! Doctor's orders! That's the kind of stress we're avoiding, remember?"

The frustration finally boiled over. "Looking at a slime farm algorithm is not stress, Grian! It's my job! It's what I do!"

The room went quiet. Doc placed his own bowl down with a deliberate calm. "X, we've been over this. Your health is the priority. The server can function without you micromanaging every block for a few weeks."

"The server, or you?" The words were out before he could stop them.

Doc's face hardened. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I feel like you're not just protecting me from work," Xisuma said, his voice trembling with pent-up emotion. "You're protecting yourselves from the inconvenience of me being human. It's easier to lock the problem in a safe room than to actually deal with it."

Keralis looked horrified. "Shashwammy, no! That's not true!"

"Isn't it?" Xisuma stood up, his chair scraping back. "You installed an observer in my bedroom, Doc. You gave me a tracking stone. This isn't care. This is control."

Doc met his gaze, and for the first time, Xisuma saw a flicker of something beyond clinical certainty in his eye. It was doubt. And maybe a hint of shame.

"That was..." Doc began, then stopped. He took a breath. "The observer was a step too far. I'll admit that. It was... an overcorrection. But the intention was never to control you. It was to have data. To know you were safe."

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Doc," Xisuma said, his energy suddenly spent. He felt hollow. "I'm not a set of data points. I'm a person. And you're treating me like a bug in your code that you need to patch out."

He didn't wait for a response. He just walked out of the safe room, past his stunned friends, and back into the main part of Keralis's base. He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he couldn't sit in that soft, silent room for one more second.

He expected to be stopped. To be gently, firmly guided back.

But no one followed him.

The silence in the grand hall of Keralis's base was louder than any explosion. Xisuma stood there, his back to the "safe room," his shoulders tense, waiting for the inevitable, a hand on his arm, a pleading voice, a logical argument about his health.

It didn't come.

After a long minute, he heard the soft scrape of a chair from the other room, followed by low, murmured voices. He couldn't make out the words, but the tone was strained. He had thrown a stone into the still pond of their collective certainty, and now the ripples were spreading.

He didn't wait to see the result. He walked out of Keralis's base and into the cool night air. No one followed. He was alone.

It wasn't the triumphant freedom of his cave escape. This was different. This was a fragile, uncertain truce born from his own confrontation. He made his way slowly back to his own base, half-expecting to find the door locked or another Hermit standing guard. But it was just as he’d left it. The observer in his bedroom was gone, he noted with a cold, detached satisfaction. A small, tangible victory.

The next morning, the dynamic had shifted. His communicator was quiet. No good morning check-ins, no schedules for supervised activities. The absence was both a relief and strangely unnerving. It felt like being given the silent treatment by an entire server.

He spent the morning in his workshop, not working on server code, but on a personal project, a simple, automatic honey farm. It was mundane, required just enough focus to keep his mind occupied, and had zero stakes. It was a test. Could he exist in his own space without being perceived as a problem?

Around midday, a shadow fell across the doorway. It was Impulse, holding a shulker box.

"Hey, X," he said, his tone cautiously normal. "I was clearing out my old storage system and found a double-chest full of redstone components I don't need. Thought you might have a use for them. No pressure."

He placed the shulker box just inside the door. It was a peace offering. Practical, useful, and with no strings attached. It acknowledged Xisuma's competence without forcing an interaction.

"Thanks, Impulse," Xisuma said, and meant it.

"No problem." Impulse gave a small, easy smile and left.

This, Xisuma realized, was how it was supposed to work. This was the Hermitcraft he knew. A community of individuals, not a monolithic hive mind.

The overprotectiveness didn't vanish, but it fractured, revealing the individual personalities beneath.

Grian, for instance, couldn't help himself. He didn't come inside, but Xisuma would occasionally see a flash of a red sweater and colorful wings zipping past a window, or a parrot left conspicuously on a fence post outside. It was Grian's version of "I'm giving you space but I'm still watching you," and it was almost endearing in its transparency.

Keralis was a ball of visible anxiety. He would appear at the edge of Xisuma's perimeter, wringing his hands, sometimes leaving a plate of cookies on a nearby stone wall before scurrying away. His fear was pure and unadulterated, untempered by logic. He wasn't trying to control; he was just genuinely, desperately worried.

The real change was with Doc. He didn't visit. But a day later, a book and quill appeared on Xisuma's desk. It was a draft of a new, collaborative project: a server-wide resource sharing network. Doc's technical notes were precise, but scrawled in the margin, in his distinct handwriting, was a single line:

'The observer was a violation of trust. It won't happen again. Your input on the packet routing logic would be valuable, when you have the capacity.'

It was as close to an apology as Doc would ever get. More importantly, it was an invitation. Not a demand, not a managed task, but a request for his expertise. It acknowledged the breach and offered a path back to partnership.

Xisuma understood then. The possessive protection came from a specific place: from those who saw the world in systems and vulnerabilities. Doc, the engineer, saw a critical system failing and applied a brute-force patch. Keralis, the nurturer, saw a sick friend and smothered him with care. Their methods were flawed, even harmful, but their core motivation was a twisted form of love.

Others, like Beef and Impulse, and he suspected Etho and Joe, had simply been swept along, unsure how to challenge the "consensus" formed by the most vocal worriers.

That evening, Xisuma made a decision. He couldn't let the fear—theirs or his own—define his place on the server. He crafted a simple message.

[XisumaVoid] > I'm going to work on the resource network design with Doc. I'll be at my desk if anyone needs me. I am fine.

He braced for a flood of concerned replies.

Only two came.

[Keralis] > Don't work too hard, Shashwammy! I'll bring you a snack later!
[Docm77] > Acknowledged. I've sent the preliminary data to your terminal.

It wasn't perfect. The road back to trust would be long. Keralis would still fret, and Doc's "help" would always carry the risk of tipping back into control. Grian would probably always be a little too observant. But the siege was over. They were learning, just as he was, how to navigate this new, fragile understanding. He was their Admin, and he was fallible. They were his Hermits, and they were capable of error. The server wasn't breaking. It was just becoming, like any complex piece of redstone, a little more complicated, a little more human. He opened the data file from Doc, and for the first time in what felt like an age, he began to work, not as a patient or a prisoner, but as himself.

---

The work on the resource network design was a careful, deliberate dance. Xisuma and Doc communicated primarily through written notes and shared documents, their interactions stripped of the emotional weight that had poisoned their face-to-face conversations. It was professional, productive, and deeply impersonal. It was exactly what Xisuma needed.

He spent his days in a new rhythm. Mornings were for the resource network, afternoons for his own small projects, and evenings were often spent at Beef's cinema or visiting Joe Hills to discuss his latest poetic interpretations of redstone logic. These interactions were quiet, normalizing. They were a balm.

But the memory of the observer and the "safe room" was a ghost that lingered in the server's code. The overprotectiveness hadn't vanished; it had just learned to be more subtle, and in some cases, more insidious.

One afternoon, while collecting honey from his new farm, he heard the familiar fwip of an ender pearl. He turned to see Ren landing a short distance away, his tail giving a friendly wag.

"Hey there, X!" Ren called out, his usual boisterous tone dialed back to a respectful volume. "Just, you know, passing through. Checking the perimeter for... mobs."

Xisuma nodded slowly. Ren's base was on the other side of the server. This wasn't a patrol route; it was a wellness check disguised as a coincidence. "Appreciate it, Ren. All clear here."

"Right on, dude," Ren said, not meeting his eyes. He shifted his weight. "You, uh... you look good. Rested."

"I am," Xisuma said, his voice even. He waited.

Ren cleared his throat. "Well. I'll leave you to it. Holler if you need anything!" He threw another pearl and vanished. The encounter was brief, harmless, but it reinforced the invisible fence they had built around him. He was being monitored by a rotating, unspoken schedule. It was less confrontational than Doc's direct methods, but in some ways, it was more stifling. There was no one to argue with, no single person to hold accountable. It was just the quiet, constant pressure of their collective anxiety.

The most complex dynamic remained with Keralis. His friend's worry was a raw, open nerve. He didn't pretend to be "just passing by." He would arrive at Xisuma's base with a shulker box of building materials or a new type of flower, his wide eyes full of a desperate hope for approval.

"Look, Shashwammy! I thought your base could use more color! It's so... grey. Grey is sad!"

"It's functional, Keralis," Xisuma would reply, trying to keep the exhaustion from his voice.

"But you deserve pretty things!" Keralis would insist, already placing pots of alliums and lilacs around the entrance. It was a love language of suffocation. Every flower felt like another bar on the window, a decoration for a cage he was still trying to make comfortable.

Xisuma knew he couldn't reject it outright. To do so would be to break Keralis's heart and likely send the man into a fresh panic. So he accepted the flowers, thanked him for the materials, and tried to gently redirect.

"Keralis, my friend, I appreciate this. But you should focus on your own mega-build. I can handle my own decor."

Keralis's face would fall for a moment before brightening again. "Of course! But it's no trouble! No trouble at all!"

It was a slow, draining process. He was constantly having to manage their emotions about his well-being, which was, in itself, exhausting.

A turning point came a week later. Xisuma had decided to finally tackle a project he'd been putting off: repairing the roof of his base where Grian and Mumbo's "relaxation garden" had been partially constructed and then abandoned. It was a symbolic act—reclaiming his space.

He was high up, carefully replacing a line of blocks, when his foot slipped on a loose piece of cobblestone. It was a simple, clumsy mistake. He wobbled for a heart-stopping second, his arms pinwheeling, before regaining his balance. No harm done.

But the reaction was instantaneous.

From the forest below, Iskall, who had been ostensibly gathering wood, dropped his logs and shot a grappling hook onto the roof, scaling it in seconds. "X! Are you okay?!"

Simultaneously, Stress, who had been tending her bees several hundred blocks away, was suddenly in his comms. [StressMonster101] > X, love? I just got a ping on the vitals monitor Doc set up, your heart rate spiked! What's wrong?

Xisuma stood frozen on the roof, Iskall's hand on his arm, Stress's worried voice in his ear. The vitals monitor. Of course. Doc's "safety precautions" were still active. He wasn't just being watched; his very physiology was being logged.

He took a deep, slow breath, forcibly calming the panic and indignation that surged within him. He looked at Iskall's genuinely concerned face.

"I'm fine, Iskall," he said, his voice carefully calm. "I just slipped. It happens."

Iskall's grip loosened, but the worry didn't leave his eyes. "Right. Yeah. Of course. Just... be careful up here, man. Maybe... maybe I should stay and spot you?"

This was the crossroads. He could accept the help, reinforcing their belief that he couldn't be trusted alone on a ladder. Or he could push back and risk undoing the fragile peace.

"No," Xisuma said, his tone firm but not unkind. "Thank you, Iskall, but no. I need to do this myself. Please tell Stress I am perfectly fine and that I would like the vitals monitor disabled. Now."

Iskall looked conflicted, but after a moment, he nodded. "You got it, boss." He relayed the message into his comm and gave Xisuma a final, appraising look before descending.

A moment later, a new message appeared.

[Docm77] > Monitor disabled. The data was inconclusive anyway.

It was another small, hard-won victory. He had drawn a boundary, and it had been respected. He finished repairing the roof alone, the sun on his back, the silence feeling a little more like his own. The path to normalcy wasn't a straight line. It was a series of these negotiations, a constant, gentle pushing against the walls of their concern, proving his stability not with words, but with the simple, quiet act of being okay, one uneventful day at a time. The Hermits cared, deeply and genuinely. And he was slowly, patiently, teaching them how to care for him without caging him.

---

The silence after the roof incident was different. It wasn't the tense, waiting silence of before, but something more thoughtful. Xisuma had drawn a line in the sand, and to his immense relief, the tide of their concern had receded from it, if only by a few inches.

Days turned into a week. The resource sharing network was taking shape, a testament to the fact that he and Doc could work together professionally, even if their personal interactions remained stiff and carefully polite. Xisuma made a point of being visible around the server, flying to the shopping district to trade, helping Tango troubleshoot a minor issue with a Decked Out game element, even attending one of Scar’s chaotic, impromptu bazaars.

He was performing wellness, and he knew it. But with each passing day of him simply existing without incident, the performance required less effort. The tightness in his chest began to ease.

It was during one of these "wellness appearances" at the Barge that the next, more nuanced challenge arose. He was discussing the price of prismarine with Impulse when Grian swooped down, landing with a dramatic flap of his wings.

"X-Eye-Zoo-Ma! Perfect timing!" Grian chirped, his eyes alight with a familiar, manic energy that usually preceded pranks or massively convoluted building projects. "We're starting a new game! A server-wide tag, but with a twist! You have to be 'it' for at least an hour before you can tag someone else, and you can only tag while standing on a specific type of block that changes every day! Isn't that brilliant?"

It was the kind of chaotic, community-building nonsense that was the lifeblood of Hermitcraft. And for a split second, Xisuma felt a genuine spark of interest. Then he saw the flicker in Grian's eyes.. not just excitement, but a calculated, watchful hope. This wasn't just a game. It was a test. A "fun," low-stakes way to see if he could handle "stress" and "social interaction."

The spark died, replaced by a weary frustration. He was tired of his every action being a data point in their unspoken psychological evaluation.

"It sounds... very creative, Grian," Xisuma said, his voice carefully neutral. "But I'm going to sit this one out. I have the resource network to finish."

Grian's face fell, the cheerful mask slipping to reveal genuine disappointment, and something else, worry. "Oh. But... it'll be fun! It's not stressful, I promise! It's just running around! It'll be good for you!"

And there it was. The subtext, now text.

"Grian," Impulse interjected gently, having been a silent observer. "If X doesn't want to play, he doesn't have to play."

"But—" Grian started.

"I'm not fragile, Grian," Xisuma said, his tone firmer than he intended. He was so tired of saying it. "I don't need to be coaxed into having fun like a skittish horse. I just don't want to play tag today."

The market stall fell silent. Grian looked like he'd been slapped. His wings drooped slightly. "I... I was just trying to include you," he mumbled, his voice small.

And Xisuma knew he was telling the truth. That was the cruelest part. Grian's possessiveness was born from a place of inclusion, of wanting his friend back in the chaotic fold where he belonged. His methods were just... Grian-shaped: overwhelming, slightly manipulative, and full of theatrical concern.

"I know you were," Xisuma said, the fight going out of him. "And I appreciate it. But the best way to include me is to let me choose when and how I join in."

Grian stared at his boots for a moment, then nodded, a jerky, unhappy motion. "Okay. Yeah. Okay." He spread his wings. "Well. I've got to go tell Mumbo the rules. See you around." He launched into the air, his flight path less exuberant than usual.

Impulse let out a low whistle. "That was rough."

"It's always rough," Xisuma sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Every conversation feels like I'm walking through a field of tripwires."

"He'll get over it," Impulse said confidently. "Grian's like a rubber band. He stretches to his limit and then snaps back to normal. He just needs to learn what the new 'normal' is with you."

The new normal. That was it, exactly. They were all learning. Grian was learning that inclusion couldn't be forced. Doc was learning that safety couldn't come at the cost of autonomy. Keralis was learning that love sometimes had to take a step back.

And Xisuma was learning the hardest lesson of all: that after a breach of trust, recovery isn't a return to how things were. It was the construction of something new, something more conscious and perhaps more fragile. The unconditional, thoughtless trust was gone. In its place was a careful, deliberate trust that had to be earned back, day by day, conversation by conversation.

He finished his transaction with Impulse and flew home. As he approached his base, he saw a single, new pot of blue orchids sitting by his door. No note. But he knew it was from Keralis. It wasn't an attempt to decorate his cage this time. It felt more like an apology. A quiet, wordless acknowledgment that he was trying.

Xisuma picked up the pot and placed it inside. It was a small gesture, but it was a step. The path forward wasn't about winning a war against their care. It was about guiding it, patiently and firmly, until it became something that could actually help him heal, instead of something that made him want to disappear.

---

The blue orchid from Keralis sat on a windowsill in Xisuma's base, a small splash of color in the functional grey and redstone. It wasn't a peace treaty, but it was a token. A sign that the message was slowly, painstakingly, being received.

The following days saw a subtle but significant shift in the server's social ecosystem. The "wellness checks" became less frequent and more transparent. Instead of Ren "patrolling for mobs," he'd message, [Rendog] > Hey dude, just making my rounds. You good? It was still a check, but it was honest, and Xisuma could simply reply, [XisumaVoid] > All good, Ren. Thanks. The exchange felt respectful, not invasive.

The real work, however, was happening in the smaller, quieter interactions. Xisuma made a conscious effort to initiate contact on his own terms. He flew to Mumbo's base to finally see that TNT cannon, offering genuine, technical praise that made Mumbo's mustache twitch with pride. He spent an afternoon with Cubfan, discussing the nuances of a new villager trading hall design, their conversation focused entirely on mechanics, not health. These were safe topics, bridges back to the familiar territory of Hermitcraft.

The most telling change was with Doc. The resource network project was nearing completion, a complex web of hopper lines and sorting algorithms. They were in Xisuma's base, reviewing the final routing logic on a large holographic display.

"The item flow from the industrial district is bottlenecking here," Doc pointed out, highlighting a junction. "Iskall's tree farm output is overwhelming the initial filter."

Xisuma studied the data. "The pulse is too rapid. We need to install a comparator loop here to create a longer delay before the secondary sorter engages." It was a simple, elegant solution.

Doc nodded, a grunt of approval. "Good. I'll implement it." He began inputting the commands, then paused. He didn't look at Xisuma, his focus on the screen. "Your design for the bedrock-level chunk loader was more efficient than my initial concept. We should use it for the nether-side hub."

It was a straightforward statement of fact. But in the context of their recent history, it was monumental. It was Doc not just accepting his input, but actively deferring to his expertise. It was an acknowledgment that Xisuma's mind, the very thing they had tried to put on bed rest, was not only functional but invaluable.

"Thank you, Doc," Xisuma said, equally measured.

Doc finally glanced at him, his cybernetic eye whirring softly. "The server functions better with you operating at capacity." He returned to his work. "We... I... need to remember that."

It was as close as Doc would ever come to saying, "I was wrong." And for Xisuma, it was enough.

Not everyone adjusted at the same pace. Keralis's anxiety was a deeply ingrained habit. He still showed up with food and building materials, but he had started to ask first. "Shashwammy, I have some spare dark oak. Can I leave it by your door?" It was a small change, but it gave Xisuma a sense of agency. The power to say "no," even if he usually said "yes."

Grian remained the wild card. His attempts to "include" Xisuma became less about grand games and more about shared history. One evening, a small, poorly-built cobblestone generator appeared on a hill overlooking Xisuma's base. It was the same inefficient, laggy design from their earliest seasons. Attached was a sign in Grian's messy scrawl: 'Remember this? We've come a long way. Miss building with you.'

It was sentimental, a little clumsy, and utterly Grian. Xisuma found himself smiling. He didn't go build with Grian, but he left the generator there, a quiet monument to their friendship and a promise that, one day, they would again.

The process was imperfect and ongoing. There were still moments of friction, a comment from Stress that was a little too careful, a look from False that was a little too assessing. But the oppressive, smothering blanket of their concern had been pulled back, allowing him to breathe.

Weeks after the confrontation in Keralis's base, Xisuma was working late on a personal project, a fully automated armor stand poser, something with no server function whatsoever, purely for fun. He lost track of time, the familiar, pleasant focus enveloping him. The sun had set, and the moon was high when he finally leaned back, satisfied.

His communicator buzzed. It was a server-wide alert he’d set up long ago. [Server] > Phantoms will spawn in 5 minutes for players who haven't slept.

He had completely forgotten to sleep. A year ago, this would have been a normal occurrence. Now, it felt like a transgression. He braced for the concerned messages.

Only one came.

[Docm77] > Phantom alert. You're on the list.

It was just a fact. A notification. There was no accusation, no panic, no offer to fly over and "make sure he got to bed." It was a simple piece of information, trusting him to handle it himself.

Xisuma looked at the message, then at the dark sky outside. He walked to his bed and slept. Not because he was told to, not because he was being watched, but because he was tired, and it was the logical thing to do.

As he drifted off, he realized this was the goal. Not a dramatic reconciliation, but this quiet, unremarkable moment. He was taking care of himself, and they were trusting him to do so. The balance was still delicate, the trust still a conscious choice, but it was real. He was healing, and so were they. The server, his home, was slowly stitching itself back together, one respectful boundary and one acknowledged expertise at a time.

---

The quiet trust demonstrated by Doc's simple phantom alert was a cornerstone. It set a new, healthier precedent. The following weeks saw a gradual thawing of the server's social climate. The Hermits began to relax, their interactions with Xisuma shedding the careful, deliberate quality that had made every conversation feel like a performance.

He started joining group projects again. He helped Cleo and Joe gather resources for a museum exhibit on server history, his contributions welcomed without fanfare or excessive gratitude. He found himself laughing genuinely at one of Scar's terrible puns during a community terraforming session, the sound feeling foreign and wonderful in his own throat.

The overprotectiveness hadn't vanished, but it had mutated into something more manageable, more nuanced. It was now a background hum rather than a deafening siren.

The true test came during a server-wide game night. It was an event born from a collective desire for normalcy, organized by Impulse and Tango. The game was a modified version of capture the flag, set in a custom-made arena with complex rules involving elytra, tridents, and splash potions of levitation. It was chaotic, fast-paced, and exactly the kind of "stressful" environment from which Xisuma had been shielded for so long.

He could feel the subtle tension as the teams were chosen. He saw the brief, silent exchange between Doc and False. He knew they were worried. He felt a flicker of the old resentment, but he pushed it down. This was his chance to prove, not with words but with action, that he was truly okay.

The game was intense. Rockets screamed through the air, players zipped across the sky, and the comms were a cacophony of shouts and laughter. Xisuma threw himself into it, his movements sharp, his strategies clever. He felt the old adrenaline, the pure, uncomplicated joy of competition among friends.

At one point, he made a daring dive for the enemy flag, dodging a potion and weaving through a forest of bamboo. He grabbed the flag and launched himself skyward, a rocket flaring. As he gained altitude, a phantom, attracted by a different player who hadn't slept, clipped his wing.

It was a minor incident. His elytra wobbled, he lost a bit of height, but he corrected his course easily and landed safely behind his team's lines, scoring a point. It was a non-event.

But for a few heartbeats, the arena fell silent.

Grian, who had been chasing him, pulled up short. Mumbo, from the other side of the field, stopped dead. He saw Keralis's hand fly to his mouth. The game had momentarily frozen, all eyes on him.

The concern was a physical force, threatening to suck the air out of the arena. This was the moment it could all slide back. They could swarm him, end the game, usher him back to a "safe space."

Xisuma took a deep breath. He didn't reassure them. He didn't get angry. He simply raised his voice, clear and steady, cutting through the tense silence.

"What are you all standing around for?" he called out, a note of playful challenge in his voice. "We're still down by two points! Grian, are you going to let me show you up like that?"

The spell broke.

Grian's face split into a wide, relieved grin. "You got lucky, X-Eye-Zoo-Ma!" he shrieked, launching himself back into the fray.

The game roared back to life, the momentary lapse forgotten by everyone but Xisuma. He had done it. He had acknowledged the incident without drama and redirected the energy back to the game. He had treated himself as capable, and in doing so, had given them permission to do the same.

After the game, as everyone gathered to debrief and share a meal, Keralis approached him, holding out a plate of steak. His eyes were still wide, but the frantic energy was gone.

"You flew very fast, Shashwammy," he said, his voice soft.

"I did," Xisuma agreed, accepting the plate. "It was fun."

Keralis studied his face for a long moment, then nodded, a slow, genuine smile spreading. "Yes. It looked like fun." He patted Xisuma's arm, a brief, light touch, and then moved away to pester Bdubs about his flag-capturing technique.

Later, as the party began to wind down, Doc approached. He stood beside Xisuma, both of them watching the others clean up the arena.

"Your maneuver to avoid Tango's trident was well-executed," Doc remarked. "The lateral rocket boost was a smart adaptation."

"Thank you," Xisuma said. "It's a technique I've been meaning to practice."

Doc nodded. "The server's performance metrics during high-activity events have improved by twelve percent since you resumed your full administrative duties."

It was the most Doc-like way of saying, "We missed you. The server wasn't the same without you."

Xisuma looked out at his friends, at Grian trying to balance a stack of pumpkins on Mumbo's head, at Stress and False laughing over a spilled potion, at Keralis finally relaxing enough to doze off in a nearby chair. The invisible fences were gone. The cage door was open.

He was back. Not the same as before.. he was wiser now, more aware of his own limits and the complex, sometimes clumsy, ways his friends expressed their love. But he was back. The bedrock had stabilized, not by being encased in concrete, but by being allowed to settle naturally into the earth it supported. The balance was restored, stronger now for having been tested.