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Having an argument with a machine is difficult.
It's not exactly that it was easy before. Scar likes a good debate, a healthy back-and-forth over something silly, like scaffolding or bricks through shop windows or campaign promises, where it's clear nobody cares about the outcome nearly as much as they act like they do. But arguments, real arguments? He wraps those up as quickly as he can.
He and Mumbo had a few earlier this season, when Mumbo first started graying.
"I'm telling you, I'm fine, Scar! Just getting older." They were in front of one of Scar's half-built train cars. Scar had long stopped in his building, his tools abandoned in the dirt and his legs swinging off the side of the shulker box he sat on. Mumbo's feet drummed an agitated beat with his pacing.
"But you aren't even thirty yet! You have to admit it's early," Scar said, forcing his voice to stay level. He was the reasonable one here, after all, so he needed to sound the part.
Mumbo turned on his heel, kicking up grass. "It's a few strands. It's nothing."
"It's sudden."
"What, so you think I'm going to—to die?" he sputtered. His face had gone red as the redstone dust still clinging to his suit jacket.
Scar frowned. "I didn't say that! All I said is you should get someone to look at it, because these things can be an early symptom of—"
"Of what?" Mumbo cried. He stopped, spinning about to face Scar. Judging from the rapid tapping of his fingers against his thigh, his anxiety hadn't decreased one bit. "I—what do you think it'll be, Scar? Some horrible terminal illness? Some—some—augh, I don't even know!"
It was a good sign that he was stuttering over his words. It meant he was actually thinking, actually listening to Scar, rather than spitting out the first response his brain could churn out.
He was too far away for Scar to reach out and grab his hand, still. Scar's fingers tightened around the lid of the shulker box. "I don't know either, which is why I think you should go off-world and get a check-up from someone who would know."
"But I did! That is—recently—last year." At Scar's confused look, Mumbo's scowl lightened, just a fraction. "Remember? They asked my height, and I panicked and said, 'Two blocks', like that'd be any help."
Scar cracked a smile. "God, you were insolibi— inconsolili—"
"Inconsolable?"
"Yes! You were inconsolable." He pitched his voice upward in a poor imitation of Mumbo. "'Oh, my dearest Scar, I've made such a fool of myself—'"
"That's not what I sound like," Mumbo shouted, but he was smiling. Scar laughed, and just like that, the tension was eased, if not fully broken.
Mumbo took those few steps closer, enough for Scar to finally grab his wrist and tug him forward. As Mumbo's weight settled against him, Scar wrapped his arms around his waist, guiding Mumbo's head to his shoulder. Mumbo went slack, crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut, still. Finally still.
They sat there—or awkwardly leaned there, in Mumbo's case—for a moment. A breeze blew past them, scattering cherry blossoms down from the mountaintop. One petal landed in Mumbo's salt-and-pepper hair. Scar reached a hand up to pick it out, flicking it to the side, before beginning to run his fingers through Mumbo's hair.
"I don't mind the gray, you know," Scar said. "It fits you. Makes you look dashing."
Mumbo snorted against his shoulder. "Dashing, huh?"
Scar nodded. "Like a refined gentleman!"
Arms came to rest against Scar's back as Mumbo reciprocated the hug, squeezing Scar a touch tighter than normal. He chose not to mention it and merely held Mumbo closer in return.
"Do you think it could just be stress?" Mumbo's voice was muffled by the fabric of Scar's shirt, but the pleading note to it was unmistakable.
"It could," Scar conceded. "Or it could not. I know it's nerve-wracking, but trust me, it's better to know for sure than to be in the dark."
"Yeah, yeah." Mumbo lifted his head, finally meeting Scar's eyes. He looked tired, and Scar felt a jolt of guilt for pushing him so hard. "If it starts happening faster, or if I start feeling ill or—if anything happens, I'll see someone, okay?"
"Thank you," Scar said, and watched as Mumbo's pinched expression softened. Scar kissed him once, slowly, sweetly, and then they were done. Argument over.
That's what Scar always appreciated about fights with Mumbo—he was easy to read, and if you could catch him before he spiraled too much, easy to talk down. Scar knew he himself could be… less than open, at times, holding grievances in until he broke under the pressure of them. Mumbo never did that. Maybe he simply couldn't lie to himself like Scar could. Or, he didn't use to be able to lie to himself.
Because, of course, Mumbo never went to see anyone. Even as his hair went ghostly white, he insisted again and again that he was fine. Eventually, Scar had to stop pushing. With Mumbo spending an increasing amount of time holed up in his base planning some computer system he refused to give Scar the details of, every moment they could spend together was too precious to waste bickering.
Scar tried to tell himself it was just a thing Mumbo was doing this season. Everyone went through odd phases at one point or another, some of them incomprehensible from the outside. Mumbo was only being cagey about it because he was self-conscious. His town was coming along splendidly. Surely that meant Scar had nothing to worry about.
That complacency is what brought Scar here.
The chill of early fall grips the air, fiercer this high up the mountain than in Scar's zoo at the base. He knows the computer module before him is new. He saw it go up only a week or so ago, watched Mumbo slip away with the bone blocks he pilfered from Scar's storage car. It looks old, though, the base stained yellow like it's been left in the sun for too long. It's a cool effect. He wishes he'd gotten the chance to compliment Mumbo on it.
Earlier, he was forced to run back to his base to grab a spare book and quill. Between old shopping lists and doodles, he's found a few blank pages to scribble a record of their conversation on.
HI MUMBO.
HELLO SCAR.
THE SERVER IS CLOSING.
I KNOW.
WERE LEAVING TODAY.
(There is no apostrophe, an oversight on Mumbo's part. Scar could have told him that if he'd helped test the system. Any of the Hermits could have, if only Mumbo had asked for their help. He hadn't.)
Mumbo's response is scrawled below. I WILL STAY HERE.
Scar thought about how to reply to that for a long time. Ignoring everyone's concern about your rapid aging is one thing. Putting your brain into a computer (or into a chicken in the computer? He isn't clear on that part) is one thing. But when it's time for the server to shut down, everyone needs to leave. Mumbo should know this.
And yet he's remained in that bulky machine of his, mechanical eyes darting back and forth across the landscape Scar watched him build.
What can he even say to that? I WILL STAY HERE—No, you won't, not over my dead body. I don't know why you're doing this, but I want to help you. You've grown so much this season. You inspire me every day. Please don't do this to us. Not to me.
There's a character limit to the messages. Twenty-seven characters, enough to fill a chest. Scar writes his response in his journal, then opens the chest at the base of the input module and carefully sets the letters in place. Even for such a short message, he triple-checks the spelling. Mumbo's brain is repeaters and pistons, now. Scar can't be sure he'll understand if a word is misspelled.
The inner mechanism of the device begins to click and whir. With the burst of a rocket, Scar takes off, his elytra catching the air as he coasts to the other side of the valley. Mumbo's set up a little bench, which Scar sits on as he watches his message flick across the screen.
WHY.
There's a plaque next to the bench. A view that Mumbo loved, it says. While he waits, Scar crosses out the final letter and writes an 's' in its place. Mumbo's still here, so it should be in present tense. A view that Mumbo loves.
(Even if he's trapped himself in a grotesquely large machine, too big to ever look out at his town from this ridge again.)
The display across the valley changes, and Scar reaches for his quill. It takes a long time for the message to flicker across the screen, making it easy to copy each letter as it appears. The final character disappears, and the mechanism pauses before repeating the message.
He reads the full sentence.
THIS WAS MY PLAN. IM HAPPY.
Scar can't even summon anger. How can he be angry when he's talking to a brick wall? The machine that is Mumbo sits still, save for the occasional pre-programmed movement of its eyes or the twitch of its mustache. Its pink cheeks are rosy, not the splotchy flush of embarrassment or frustration or any other Mumbo-like emotion. It looks happy.
Arguing with a machine is difficult because it does not react or betray any thoughts. Arguing with a machine is difficult because each message is dragged out over minutes, the clunky interface draining him of any fire he might have had at the start.
Arguing with a machine is difficult because Scar isn't actually arguing with a machine at all, but can do nothing to prevent Mumbo from forcing him to do just that.
Clouds drift across the sky. Their conversation shambles onward like a beast on dying limbs.
WELL IM NOT HAPPY.
IM SORRY.
CAN I CHANGE YOUR MIND.
NO.
CAN I FORCE YOU OUT.
NO.
DONT SOUND SO CONFIDENT.
IM SORRY.
STOP APOLOGIZING.
OKAY.
Scar sighs, dropping his head to his hands. A dead leaf falls to the ground, settling on one of his boots. He doesn't flick it off. He doesn't do anything. The time for that has long passed, and now he's just dealing with the consequences of his own inaction.
If there's nothing for it, then he might as well say his goodbyes.
His knees ache with the impact of once again landing on the packed earth. He's been pushing himself to complete the zoo, and he won't be surprised if he spends the next week in bed trying to recover. Mumbo would usually stop by to help with some of the chores he didn't have energy for. He guesses that won't be happening this time.
He doesn't meticulously check this message, forcing it through the system as soon as the last letter is in place. One last time, he crosses the valley to the bench on the hill and watches his words loop across the screen.
WE LOVE YOU MUMBO. WE LOVE YOU MUMBO. WE LOVE YOU MUMBO. WE
A shudder runs through the trapdoors. The message changes.
THANK YOU. THANK YOU. THANK YOU.
Scar tears his gaze away, no longer able to bear the hole they open in his heart. As one final impulsive decision for the season, he hurtles off the ridge, diving towards the base of Mumbo's stupid computer body. His momentum sends him tumbling across the ground, tiny rocks and twigs slicing at his exposed arms and legs.
He rolls to a stop below Mumbo.
The computer is enormous, so much taller than Scar he can scarcely comprehend the scale of it. He wants to ask Mumbo what it's like to exist as something so alien. He wants Mumbo to be around next season, in his normal body and his trusty red-stained suit, to give him an answer.
Punching the thing might be cathartic. He raises his fist. At some point, though, he must have accepted the computer as Mumbo, because Scar can't bring himself to do it. Instead, he curls up against the great chassis, hands scrabbling for a hold on the smooth surface.
Mumbo is warm against his cheek. Trapdoors flutter above him in an imitation of a heartbeat. The rhythm stays steady, regular, unchanged by Scar's presence. Scar thinks he doesn't need Thank you's or shoddy explanations or reassurances that somehow this is all for the best. He just needs Mumbo's heartbeat to change. He needs arms that will hug him back.
His communicator buzzes in his pocket. Reluctantly, he pulls it out.
cubfan135 whispers to you: three hours until server shutdown
The text is a slap in the face. Still, he forces his fingers to type a reply, each letter a colossal effort.
You whisper to cubfan135: Okay.
It's kind of Cub to check on him. Scar would do the same. That doesn't stop the notifications that vibrate in his hand from getting on his already frayed nerves.
cubfan135 whispers to you: i assume talking to mumbo didn't go well since you haven't said anything
cubfan135 whispers to you: me and some of the others agreed to give it another shot before the server closes for good
It won't do any good, but Scar can't say that. They're all playing at having hope that they can still get Mumbo back. He has to help keep up the illusion that they aren't trying to talk a man off a ledge when he's already hit the ground below.
You whisper to cubfan135: Thank you.
He turns his communicator off. The trapdoors fire above him, clacking open and closed, open and closed.
In and out, in and out, he matches the cycle of his breathing to them. If he tries his hardest, he can pretend that this is enough.