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Abruptly you would like to ask why. You know the answer already. You would like to ask much more than just that. Furious questions rise bubbling to the surface at once, useless without words to ask them. “Where did that happen,” is the question that your mouth forms, small enough that even if anyone else were around, no one but you would hear it. And no one is around.
There is a liquid hate in your black eyes, a heady feeling that crowds all others out, soaks up all of the energy you have to give to any feeling at all. You wonder if you felt the end of the last game this intensely.
Then you remind yourself that you always wonder that.
Stop— take a breath. Lift those hateful black eyes to a star-studded skybox, a moon glowing at its center. It’s the last time you’ll see it like this for a while. This session will be over soon, and the season with it.
Everything is about to move very quickly for the audience. You imagine that this episode is more than half over.
Your name is red again and now so is hers— a warning that glows against the black sky, like a glimpse underground of that crackling electric stone, and the thought hurts like a blade drawn through your body. Mumbo isn’t here. You don’t know when you’ll be able to snare him for another game. [snare], you echo, and you turn the phrase over in your mind. That’s a choice word. Is that what you’re doing? Snaring them? Is that how you think of yourself, little admin?
Or wouldn’t you call yourself responsible?
“She’s gonna respawn back at the lighthouse,” your mouth says, dazed, as your feet jump down a grassy slope, boots skidding against dirt to control your descent.
Responsible— or guilty— [That’s a choice word], you snark.
It’s a synonym. [a choice [synonym], [Then]], you decide. You raise your wings a slight fraction, shaking out red feathers, and the ones high up on your neck bristle, like you’re bracing for a fight. It’s ridiculous. You couldn’t win it. You’ve always been like this.
No one is around. Not very many people are going to be around anymore. Not ever again, in this lifetime, on this version of the server. Not until your name is green again. That thought tickles— your mouth twists into a scowl, pinched pixie features furrowing, and you flex your wings again as though you can shake the feeling off. You usually try not to think of next season when you’re still in the middle of this one, because the other players don’t ever seem to— you gleaned a long time ago that the other players couldn’t if they wanted to— but it gets difficult, near the end. One day soon this will be over, and Gem’s name will be green again. Scar’s name will be green again. Mumbo might be here again.
[Stop], you say, petulant.
They’re only your own thoughts, and I am only noticing them.
[Stop] [noticing them], you say, sounding like you might cry.
The forest between the tower and the lighthouse is unlit, teeming with mobs. Thunder cracks again, and Bdubs has killed BigB, and you wonder if your alliance might be the last one left.
You would like to ask why. You know the answer already. You would like to ask much more than just that.
You look up. In the distance long lines of cobblestone stretch across the sky, far enough away that a player’s eyes render them in white. Scaffolding for combat, sparking with powered rails, loaded with minecarts.
Beloved, this is your kingdom.
[this episode is more than half over.]
You scroll over a sword that you are going to use to kill your only ally. [when] [[s]he] [is] [the last one left], you snap, and I don’t know who you think you’re arguing with. You wanted to play the game, and so here you are, a player, and so you can’t help that filthy red longing to win it. You don’t know that you could call it fair: you remember calling the end of a session to save Mumbo’s life. Mumbo is not here, and you never know when you’ll see him again. Somewhere a version of you and a version of him might play a thousand little games with a thousand respawns to spare, but that has never been your lot and I cannot give it to you. You try not to think about him, towards the end, on your final life, red in your bones. You try not to think about Mumbo with green eyes and smiling at you, face crinkling as his mustache furrows up, saying ah, I’ve just hidden my diamonds right here—
[Stop] [it], you scream, going shrill with desperation the way you always tend to, as though they aren’t your own thoughts, your own memories.
[[one] game] [[one] lifetime] [[one] version of the server] [and then] [I] [jump[ed]] [and then] [[a thousand [more] games] [you] [cannot] [call] [fair][.] [liquid hate in [red] eyes.] [longing][.] [bracing for a fight.] [No one is around.] [this is [my] kingdom]
Jump cut— scene break, from footsteps in an unlit forest to more footsteps in the same unlit forest. Inside of that cut, you are silent for a long time.
Release 1.21.8. 17 July 2025. Ancient cities glittering blue, cherry trees that crack open like blush pink geodes, auto-crafters ticking diligently on— one gleaming copper chamber underground that you could have known the location of, if you’d only asked, but instead you asked to play the game again. Does this game remind you of your old server? Do you remember PearlescentMoon younger— do you remember InTheLittleWood and SolidarityGaming bright-eyed and asking questions— do you remember Taurtis?
You were a good admin. You couldn’t see everything yet, with only a player’s eyes in your head, but you were a good admin. I would not have asked you to endure this, if you were not.
Little admin.
Beloved.
[wi[ll] it] [always [be] like this], you say at last, shifting the weight of the sword in your hand so that it flashes in the moonlight.
Beloved.
[wi[ll] it] [always [be] like this]
You wanted to do more than watch.
[wi[ll] it] [always [be] like this]
I only gave you what you asked for.