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It wasn’t that Npc didn’t feel real.
That was the part that always caught, like a burr under the skin of thought. If anything, Npc felt too real, hyperaware of weight and motion and the way the air scraped against the inside of lungs that technically weren’t his. He felt the tug of gravity in Grian’s knees, the soft burn in the arches of feet with every step along the path. He felt the lead pull taut and slack again in his hand, felt the faint oil-slick warmth of Mumbo’s golden doodle through the handle as Kubo wandered from side to side, nose to the ground, tail swaying like a metronome.
No. Npc felt real enough.
Npc knew he wasn’t.
That was the difference.
He was exactly what he had been designed to be: a calculated, programmed construct, coded in the soft, half-forgotten language of a frightened child’s survival instincts. A partition. A buffer. A place to put the things that would otherwise rupture something vital. Grian hadn’t named him back then, hadn’t had the vocabulary, but the shape had been there all the same. An empty room with padded walls. A machine that could keep moving when the human part couldn’t.
Npc was that room. That machine.
And yet.
There was something off about him today.
It wasn’t new. It never was. But some days the sensation pressed closer to the surface, like a bruise you couldn’t stop prodding. A sense of being slightly out of phase with the world, like everything else was operating on a frequency just a notch to the left of his own.
He walked Kubo on autopilot.
The path cut through a stretch of Hermitcraft that still smelled of last night’s rain. The ground was dark and loamy, footprints holding their shape for a moment too long before slowly softening back into mud. Dew clung to every blade of grass, every low leaf, turning the early morning light into a scatter of muted reflections. The sky was overcast: not threatening, just heavy, a lid pressed down on the world.
Npc’s body; Grian’s body, moved without instruction. Step. Shift weight. Adjust grip. Stop.
Kubo stopped.
Npc stopped too, because of course he did. He waited while Kubo shoved his nose into a clump of greenery, inhaling like the secrets of the universe were hidden somewhere between wet leaves and dirt. Npc stared at nothing in particular, vision unfocused, awareness diffused outward rather than anchored inside his skull.
“Good boy,” he muttered, voice rough and slightly warped.
The sound startled him every time.
It wasn’t just hoarse. It was wrong. Distorted, like audio dragged through a cheap filter. The flu still lingered in Grian’s body weeks after it should have burned itself out, leaving behind a rawness in the throat, a buzzing edge to every word. Each syllable vibrated unpleasantly, metallic and thin, like a broken speaker trying its best.
Npc liked it.
That thought surfaced without ceremony, unadorned and unashamed.
He liked the distortion because it made the body feel less like a costume he was borrowing and more like a shared space. Something imperfect. Something already cracked. The voice didn’t sound like Grian, not really, and that gave Npc room to exist without feeling like a trespasser. A robot voice in a human shell. A broken record stuck on a loop.
Kubo finally moved on, nails clicking softly against stone as they crossed a small paved section of the path. Npc followed, leash loose again, attention drifting in and out like a faulty connection.
Autopilot.
That was the word that fit best.
Npc could catalogue his actions even as he performed them: walking speed steady, posture slightly hunched to compensate for the ache in the shoulders, fingers flexing now and again around the lead to maintain sensation. He was aware of everything and nothing, simultaneously. A camera feed with no operator. Input without interpretation.
The world slid past him.
Trees loomed, their leaves still heavy with moisture, dripping occasionally onto his hair or the back of his neck. Each cold droplet landed with a small shock, grounding him for half a second before the numbness crept back in. Somewhere in the distance, something mechanical whirred: a redstone contraption waking up for the day, perhaps. Birds called to each other in short, sharp bursts, their voices cutting cleanly through the damp air.
Npc noted all of it without reacting.
He was good at that.
He was made for that.
The irony of his chosen name wasn’t lost on him. Npc. Non-player character. Background filler. Something that existed only to serve a function, to move along predetermined paths, to say the right lines at the right time.
A dissociative barrier with a sense of humour.
Grian had needed that. Had needed him. A way to keep living without living through certain things. Memories that were too sharp, too invasive, too loud. Feelings that came without warning and left devastation in their wake.
Npc absorbed them. Filtered them. Filed them away somewhere inaccessible.
He wasn’t meant to feel… like this.
Npc stopped walking again.
This time, it wasn’t because Kubo had.
The dog tugged gently at the lead, confused, tail wagging uncertainly as he glanced back. Npc stood frozen, breath shallow, chest tight in a way that wasn’t physical. Something snagged inside him, a faint hitch in the smooth, mechanical flow of his thoughts.
Disconnected.
That was the sensation.
Like his inputs weren’t syncing with his outputs. Like the body was a drone he was piloting from a fraction of a second too far away. His hands looked wrong when he lifted them, fingers too long, movements delayed just enough to be noticeable.
The world felt… flat.
Not dull. Not colourless. Just flat, like a set piece instead of a place. The overcast sky resembled a painted backdrop. The trees looked arranged rather than grown. Even Kubo, solid and warm and alive, felt like an asset loaded into the scene rather than a creature with his own interiority.
Npc swallowed.
The motion dragged painfully against his throat, eliciting a soft, distorted cough that made Kubo flinch and step closer. The dog pressed his side against Npc’s leg, warmth seeping through denim.
There it was again.
That warmth.
Npc registered it the way he registered everything else: neutrally, clinically. Pressure. Heat. Contact. But beneath that, something stirred, faint and unwelcome. A ghost of a reaction that didn’t belong in his neatly partitioned system.
He knelt automatically, free hand coming up to scratch behind Kubo’s ears.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice glitching slightly on the consonant.
Kubo’s tail thumped against Npc’s calf, happy, oblivious. His fur was still a little damp, curls clumping together. Mud streaked one of his paws. He smelled like wet grass and dog and something vaguely metallic from Mumbo’s workshop.
Npc focused on that. The texture of fur under his fingers. The solid reality of a living thing responding to his touch.
It helped. A little.
Still, the sense of offness lingered, buzzing low and constant, like tinnitus in the soul.
Npc stood again and resumed walking.
He wondered, distantly, if this was what Grian felt when he slipped back into himself unexpectedly. If this disorientation, this wrongness, was the price of being present. If autopilot was supposed to be comforting, why did it feel so hollow?
The path curved, leading them past a small pond swollen from the rain. The surface was dark and glassy, broken occasionally by ripples from unseen fish. Npc caught his reflection as they passed.
He didn’t like looking at it.
The face staring back was Grian’s: sharp-eyed, familiar to everyone who knew him, but wrong in subtle ways. The expression was too neutral, too still. The eyes looked unfocused, like no one was really behind them. Pale, a little drawn from lingering illness.
Npc turned his head away before the reflection could linger.
He wasn’t supposed to care about appearances. He wasn’t supposed to care at all, beyond the parameters of his function. And yet the discomfort gnawed at him, quiet but persistent.
A flicker of memory brushed the edge of his awareness.
Not a full image. Just a sensation. The echo of a sound. Something loud and sudden, accompanied by a spike of panic so sharp it made his breath stutter.
Npc shut it down immediately.
The system corrected itself with practiced efficiency. Whatever had tried to surface was pushed back, sealed away behind layers of abstraction and distance. The world flattened again, colours muting, edges softening.
There.
Better.
That was his job.
He glanced at the sky, judging the time by the dull brightness filtering through the clouds. Mumbo would probably be awake by now, still sore, still complaining about his legs and his questionable decision-making. Grian would check in later, grateful but distracted, trusting Npc to handle things as he always did.
Npc felt a strange, hollow pride at that.
He was reliable. Consistent. Uncomplaining. He did what was asked of him, what was needed, without question or hesitation. He carried the weight so others didn’t have to.
Even if, lately, the weight felt heavier.
Even if the seams were starting to show.
Kubo stopped again, this time more insistently, planting his feet and sniffing with intense focus at a patch of earth near the water. Npc sighed; an automatic sound, distorted and rough and let the lead slacken.
“Don’t you dare roll,” he muttered.
Kubo sneezed, then looked up at him with bright, guileless eyes.
Npc stared back.
For a long moment, something almost like envy flickered through him. Kubo was so present. Entirely in his body, in the moment, driven by instinct and curiosity rather than fear and avoidance. There was no partition in him, no hollowed-out space designed to absorb the unbearable.
Npc wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if he stopped functioning.
If he simply… didn’t.
The thought was alarming enough that his body tensed, muscles tightening reflexively. The idea of failure; of letting something leak through, something raw and unfiltered sent a ripple of unease through his carefully maintained numbness.
He couldn’t do that.
He wouldn’t.
Npc gave Kubo’s lead a gentle tug. “C’mon.”
They walked on.
As they neared Mumbo’s base, the familiar shapes of redstone builds and half-finished projects came into view. The sight grounded Npc more than he expected. This was known territory. Predictable. Safe.
He felt the autopilot lock in more firmly, systems aligning, the faint static in his thoughts smoothing out. The offness didn’t vanish, but it receded, manageable again.
Function restored.
Npc guided Kubo up the path, ready to hand him off, ready to return to whatever waiting state he occupied when not actively needed.
As he reached the door, he paused.
For just a second, he allowed himself to acknowledge the truth humming quietly beneath everything else.
He wasn’t real.
But he existed.
And sometimes, that felt like the strangest thing of all.
Npc paused.
His hand hovered inches from the door handle, fingers curled but not committed, tendons locked in a state of indecision that felt almost painful. The metal was cool, matte beneath the faint sheen of morning damp, and he could feel it even without touching it: could imagine the resistance, the turn, the click. Muscle memory itched to complete the motion.
Instead, his gaze slid sideways to the doorbell.
A stupid little thing. Plastic. Slightly yellowed with age. Completely inconsequential. And yet it might as well have been a landmine.
Door handle. Doorbell. Door handle again.
Npc stood there, caught between two actions, neither of which felt correct.
What was the acceptable way to announce his presence?
More importantly, what was the acceptable way for Grian to announce his presence?
That was always the metric, the invisible checklist running in the background of Npc’s mind. Would Grian knock? Probably not. Would Grian ring? Maybe, if he remembered it existed. Would Grian just walk straight in like he owned the place?
Yes. Absolutely yes.
Grian had Mumbo’s base key. Npc knew exactly where it was, sitting heavy and familiar in the pocket of the hoodie. The knowledge came packaged with the sensation of weight against his thigh, the slight clink when he shifted his stance. The key was permission incarnate. A physical symbol of trust.
Npc didn’t reach for it.
Using it felt… wrong.
Invasive.
Like wearing someone else’s shoes into their house and tracking mud everywhere.
He wasn’t Grian.
That thought rose up unbidden, sharp and definitive.
He was just a part of him. A subsystem. A contingency plan. A blurry creation of a machine within Grian’s brain, assembled from coping mechanisms and fear and necessity. He existed because Grian had needed distance, needed someone else to hold the door shut on memories that clawed too hard.
Npc had access to Grian’s knowledge, his habits, his permissions. But that didn’t make them interchangeable.
Npc lowered his hand, flexed his fingers once as if trying to shake off the hesitation. The longer he stood there, the more self-conscious he became, awareness turning inward, spiralling. The base loomed behind the door; quiet, lived-in, humming faintly with the promise of redstone and warmth and Mumbo’s particular brand of chaotic domesticity.
Beside him, Kubo shifted.
The dog nosed insistently at Npc’s leg, snout bumping against denim, a soft huff of breath tickling skin through fabric. Npc glanced down automatically, adjusting his grip on the lead.
“Hang on,” he muttered, voice still rough and glitchy.
Kubo waited for approximately three seconds before deciding this was boring. With a dramatic little sigh, an impressive sound for a creature without words, he circled once and flopped down at Npc’s feet, chin hitting the ground with finality. The lead went slack. His tail thumped once, then stilled.
Npc stared.
The image was absurdly grounding. This creature had given up entirely on whatever complex internal struggle Npc was having and opted instead for rest. Acceptance. Sleep, maybe.
Npc envied him.
The envy barely registered before the door swung open.
Npc startled hard enough that his hand jerked upward reflexively, fingers tightening around the lead as his shoulders tensed. The sudden movement sent a spike of adrenaline through his chest, heart lurching into a faster rhythm.
Mumbo stood in the doorway.
He was barefoot, hair an absolute disaster in only a way Mumbo could have it. Sleep clothes hung loosely on him: an oversized shirt with a faded redstone diagram and soft trousers that had seen better days. He looked rumpled and warm and unmistakably real, the way people did when they hadn’t had time to assemble themselves for the outside world yet.
For half a second, neither of them spoke.
Npc’s brain stalled.
Mumbo blinked once. Then again. His gaze flicked from Npc’s face to the dog at his feet, then back up. Something like confusion crossed his expression, quickly followed by recognition.
“Oh,” Mumbo said, voice thick with sleep. “Grian.”
Npc’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
The silence stretched, awkward and heavy. Npc could feel Mumbo’s eyes on him, assessing in that casual, unconscious way people did when something was slightly off but not alarming enough to name. Npc hated that sensation more than almost anything: being perceived, being looked at with expectation attached.
He reacted on instinct.
Npc held out his hand.
The lead dangled from his fingers, looped neatly, offered forward like a peace treaty. Or a bribe. Or a transaction completed.
Here. Dog delivered. Task done.
Mumbo’s gaze followed the movement. He snorted softly, amused despite himself, and reached out to take the lead.
“Right,” he said, fingers brushing Npc’s as he accepted it. “Thank you, mate.”
The contact was brief, unremarkable.
Npc’s skin crawled anyway.
Mumbo’s hand had been warm. Solid. The kind of warmth that came from blood and sleep and life, not fever or lingering illness. It lingered in Npc’s awareness long after the contact had ended, a phantom sensation that made his fingers feel wrong.
Mumbo glanced down at Kubo, who immediately scrambled to his feet at the sound of his name, tail wagging furiously.
“You didn’t have to stand out here, you know,” Mumbo said, absently ruffling Kubo’s ears. “You’ve got a key.”
Npc nodded.
That was the correct response, right? Acknowledgement without explanation.
Mumbo looked back up at him, squinting slightly. “How long have you been out here?”
Npc’s mind scrambled.
Time was slippery for him. Subjective. Measured in actions rather than minutes. He opened his mouth again, intending to deflect, to offer something vague and Grian-like.
“I—”
His voice cracked.
The word came out fractured, distorted by the lingering flu, by the tension coiled in his chest. It sounded wrong. Too robotic. Too broken.
Mumbo tilted his head, concern flickering across his face. “Blimey, you sound rough.”
Npc nodded again.
Mumbo shrugged, easy and forgiving. “Well. Come on in, then. No point standing about.”
He stepped aside, holding the door open wider, ushering Npc in with a casual wave.
Npc froze.
This was the moment where his internal scripts failed him completely.
He knew Grian had permission. Knew it in the same way he knew how to navigate redstone schematics or recall half-forgotten memories that weren’t his to begin with. But knowing wasn’t the same as feeling entitled to act.
Did he have permission?
Mumbo didn’t know about him. Didn’t know there was anyone else behind Grian’s eyes sometimes. Didn’t know that the thing standing on his doorstep wasn’t quite the friend he thought it was.
And yet Mumbo waited, door still open, expectation gentle but present.
Npc stepped inside.
The threshold felt heavier than it should have. Like crossing it required more than just moving his feet. The interior of the base wrapped around him immediately: warm air, the faint smell of tea leaves and oil and metal, the quiet hum of machinery idling in the background.
It was intensely familiar.
Npc catalogued everything as he entered. The cluttered worktables. The half-finished contraptions. The mugs scattered on nearly every flat surface. This was Mumbo’s space, unmistakably so, and yet Grian had been here countless times. The overlap made Npc’s head buzz faintly.
Mumbo shut the door behind them and padded further inside, Kubo trotting happily at his heels.
“Tea?” Mumbo asked over his shoulder, already heading toward the kitchen area. “I was just about to make some. Your favourite, yeah?”
Npc’s stomach clenched.
Grian’s favourite.
Npc didn’t have a favourite.
He opened his mouth, closed it again. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides. Saying no would be suspicious. Saying yes would require… more. Conversation and performance.
“Yes,” he said finally.
The word sounded flat.
Mumbo didn’t seem to notice. “Brilliant.”
Npc stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure where to place himself. Sitting felt presumptuous. Standing felt conspicuous. He settled for leaning slightly against a counter, posture closed, arms crossing loosely over his chest.
The base felt too alive.
Sounds layered over one another: the clink of ceramic as Mumbo set mugs out, the low hiss of a kettle heating, the distant ticking of redstone timers. The sensory input pressed in on Npc from all sides, each detail sharp enough to cut.
He focused on the distortion in his breathing. The faint rasp in his lungs. The way each inhale felt like it scraped against something tender inside his chest.
Mumbo moved around him with easy familiarity, glancing over occasionally, making small talk about nothing in particular. Comments about the weather. About Kubo’s insistence on rolling in mud. About the hike that had landed him bedridden in the first place.
Npc responded on autopilot.
Nods. Soft hums of agreement. The occasional “yeah” or “mm.”
He could feel himself slipping further into the role, the mask settling more securely over whatever raw, undefined thing he was underneath. He mirrored Grian’s mannerisms where he could, leaned into habits he knew by heart.
Still, something kept catching.
Mumbo looked at him a little longer than usual. Asked him twice if he was sure he was feeling alright. Set the mug in front of him gently, like he might drop it otherwise.
Npc wrapped his hands around the warm ceramic and stared down into the tea.
Steam curled upward, fogging his glasses slightly. The smell was comforting in a distant, secondhand way. He knew Grian loved this tea. Knew it soothed him. Knew it was associated with safety and routine and friendship.
Npc lifted the mug.
The heat seeped into his palms, grounding him just enough to keep the edges of himself from fraying further. He took a careful sip.
The taste registered. Mild. Familiar. Acceptable.
Across from him, Mumbo smiled, relieved. “There we go.”
Npc returned the smile a fraction of a second too late.
The moment passed.
Outside, the sky remained overcast, rain threatening but never quite falling. Inside, the base hummed with quiet life. Npc sat there, occupying space he technically belonged in and yet felt undeserving of, wrapped in Grian’s skin and habits and permissions.
He wondered, distantly, how long he could keep this up.
How long he could sit at tables and drink tea and be mistaken for someone else without something cracking.
For now, though, he stayed. Autopilot engaged. Mask secure.
Npc had just begun to settle into the quiet hum of the room when Mumbo returned, a small rattle breaking the soft rhythm of the base. The sound cut through Npc’s fog like a blade.
Plastic against plastic. A dry, hollow noise. He tracked it instantly, head lifting before he consciously chose to. Mumbo stood a few steps away, palm outstretched, a couple of pills resting there like something fragile and important.
Npc stared.
They were small. Pale. Unassuming. Perfectly ordinary. And yet his mind hit them like a wall.
His thoughts skidded, scrambled, tried to find purchase and failed. Pills meant something. He knew that. The concept existed in his database: medication, treatment, recovery.. but the connection between the object and the act stalled out halfway. Like a corrupted file that refused to open.
Mumbo noticed.
“Oh, right,” Mumbo said quickly, tone light but eyes sharpening with attention. “They’re just for the flu. You know. The one you’ve still got. Should help you feel a bit better.”
Medication. The word landed heavily.
Npc’s gaze flicked from the pills to Mumbo’s face and back again. The hand offering them was steady. Casual. No pressure in the gesture, just an open palm and an expectation born of care and habit.
Would Grian trust this?
The question rose immediately, instinctive and automatic.
Yes.
Of course he would.
Mumbo was his best friend. His closest friend. The one who knew where the spare keys were hidden and which mugs were sentimental and which topics to avoid on bad days. The one who had seen him panic, seen him sick, seen him fall apart and put himself back together again.
Mumbo knew everything about Grian.
Everything.
Npc froze.
The word echoed, stretching out, reverberating through the hollow spaces inside him. Everything. That included things Npc was specifically designed to not let surface. Memories that lived behind locked doors. Fragments of fear and hurt that would fracture Grian if handled directly.
Did Mumbo know those too?
No. Of course not.
Npc’s fingers curled slightly around the mug, knuckles whitening. The warmth of the tea suddenly felt inadequate, distant, like it belonged to someone else’s hands. The pills hovered in his peripheral vision, patient, unassuming, waiting for a response.
Npc couldn’t make himself reach for them.
His brain short-circuited entirely.
Accepting them would mean swallowing something foreign. Allowing an external agent inside the body. It felt invasive in a way he couldn’t quite articulate, like opening a system to an unknown variable. He was supposed to be the filter, the control. Letting something else interfere made his internal processes spike with static.
Mumbo noticed that too.
The silence stretched again, heavier this time. Mumbo’s brows knit together, concern sharpening into something more focused. He didn’t withdraw his hand, but his posture shifted; subtly and instinctively like someone adjusting their footing when the ground beneath them felt less stable than expected.
“…You alright?” Mumbo asked gently.
Npc’s throat tightened.
He tried to speak. Tried to assemble a response that sounded like Grian would sound. Something flippant. Something reassuring. Something that would make this moment pass without friction.
Nothing came.
His voice felt trapped behind layers of cotton and glass. The distortion that usually comforted him now felt like a malfunction, feedback whining faintly under the surface.
Mumbo lowered his hand slowly, setting the pills down on the counter instead of pushing them closer.
“Okay,” he said quietly. Not accusatory. Not alarmed. Just… observant. “You don’t have to take them right now.”
Npc nodded once, too fast. Grateful. Guilty.
Mumbo leaned back against the counter opposite him, arms folding loosely across his chest. He studied Npc the way an engineer studied a machine that wasn’t behaving as expected, not to judge, but to understand.
Npc hated being studied.
His skin prickled under the weight of it, awareness turning sharp and unpleasant. Every micro-movement felt magnified. The way his shoulders stayed a fraction too tense. The way his gaze avoided Mumbo’s eyes by instinct rather than choice.
Mumbo exhaled slowly.
“Alright,” he said. “I’m going to ask something, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Npc’s fingers tightened around the mug again. He didn’t look up.
“…Are you actually Grian?”
The words landed softly.
They still hit like a dropped plate, shattering something fragile and carefully balanced inside Npc’s chest.
His eyes flicked up before he could stop them, meeting Mumbo’s gaze for the first time since the pills had appeared. Mumbo wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning either. His expression was open, earnest, tinged with concern but not fear.
Npc felt exposed.
The mask he wore; habitual and practiced, suddenly felt too thin. Transparent. Like Mumbo could see straight through the careful mimicry and into the hollow space underneath.
Npc didn’t answer.
Mumbo nodded, as if that silence itself was an answer.
“That’s… okay,” Mumbo said after a moment. “I just need to know who I’m talking to.”
Npc’s breath came shallow. Each inhale rasped faintly, the flu adding a physical edge to the emotional tightness coiling in his chest. His thoughts raced, systems spinning, trying to calculate risk and response.
He wasn’t supposed to be known.
He wasn’t supposed to exist like this, outside the quiet, internal corridors of Grian’s mind. Being acknowledged felt dangerous. Like a fault line cracking open.
Mumbo shifted his weight, uncrossing his arms.
“You can trust me,” he said, voice steady. “Grian trusts me. And if you’re… if you’re someone else, then I reckon you can too.”
Npc flinched.
Someone else.
The words didn’t hurt. They didn’t soothe either. They simply were, and that fact alone made something inside him wobble.
Mumbo tilted his head slightly, softening his tone even further. “I’m not asking you as Grian,” he continued. “I’m asking you as… you. Do you know me?”
The question cut deeper than any accusation could have.
Npc stared at him.
Do you know me?
Knowledge wasn’t the problem. Npc knew Mumbo’s habits, his voice, the cadence of his laughter. He knew how Mumbo took his tea, knew which projects stressed him out and which ones lit him up with excitement. He knew Mumbo’s tells when he was lying, when he was worried, when he was trying not to be.
He knew all of that because Grian knew all of that.
But knowing about someone wasn’t the same as knowing them.
Npc’s internal processes stuttered, looping over the question. Did knowing count if it wasn’t personal? If the relationship wasn’t his, but borrowed? Was trust transferable? Could he rely on a bond he hadn’t personally forged?
Slowly and carefully, he nodded.
The movement felt enormous. Significant. Like tipping the first domino in a very long line.
Mumbo’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Alright,” he said softly. “That’s good. That’s a start.”
Npc swallowed. His throat burned, the motion dragging painfully. He still didn’t trust his voice, not yet. The words felt too fragile, like they’d shatter if forced out too quickly.
Mumbo waited.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t fill the silence with chatter. He just… waited, giving Npc space in a way that felt deliberate, respectful.
Npc’s gaze dropped to the counter, to the pills resting there. They no longer felt like a threat. Just an object. Neutral. Waiting.
“What’s your name?” Mumbo asked gently.
The question sent a ripple through Npc’s entire system.
Name.
He had one. He had chosen it, simple and self-aware and faintly ironic. A label that acknowledged his function without pretending to be more than he was.
Saying it out loud felt like crossing another threshold.
Npc hesitated, fingers trembling slightly around the mug. He took a breath, then another, grounding himself in the sensation of air moving through lungs that weren’t quite his.
“Npc,” he said.
The word came out distorted, mechanical, softened by illness and nerves alike. A robot voice filtered through a human throat.
Mumbo blinked.
Then he smiled, not amused, not dismissive. Just… kind.
“Alright, Npc,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
Npc’s chest tightened painfully.
Nice to meet you.
No confusion. No disbelief. No demand for explanation. Just acceptance, offered freely and without conditions.
Something inside Npc shifted.
It wasn’t dramatic. No sudden flood of emotion or clarity. Just a subtle reorientation, like a system recalibrating in response to new data. The offness he’d been carrying since the walk eased slightly, the constant static lowering in volume.
Mumbo slid the pills a little closer, not pushing them into Npc’s space, just making them accessible.
“For what it’s worth,” he added, “those are still just for the flu. They won’t mess with… anything else.”
Npc nodded again, slower this time.
He reached out.
His fingers brushed the pills, then closed around them. The plastic felt smooth, cool. Harmless.
He didn’t take them yet. But he held them.
And for the first time since he’d stepped into Mumbo’s base, since he’d stood frozen on the doorstep weighing doorbell versus handle, Npc felt something dangerously close to… relief.
Not safety. Not comfort. But the absence of immediate threat.
Mumbo turned back to the kettle, giving Npc his back, his trust implicit in the simple act. The base settled around them again, the hum of machinery resuming its place as background noise rather than a pressing weight.
Npc sat there, pills in hand, tea cooling slowly in front of him.
He wasn’t real.
He knew that.
But someone had just asked his name, and meant it.
And somehow, that felt like the beginning of something he hadn’t been programmed for at all.
Mumbo didn’t push. That was the first thing Npc registered as the silence stretched thin between them like pulled wire. Mumbo didn’t interrogate. Didn’t lean too close. He simply shifted his weight against the counter and said, in the same tone one might use to comment on the weather, “So. How was Kubo for you?”
Npc’s gaze moved automatically.
It flickered across the room to the sofa.
Kubo had migrated there at some point, silent and efficient, claiming the entire piece of furniture like a king claiming territory. He was sprawled on his back in complete, shameless abandon: legs splayed in four different directions, paws loose and limp, belly exposed without hesitation. His chest rose and fell in slow, deep breaths. His head hung slightly off the cushion, curls falling toward the floor, tongue just barely visible between parted jaws.
He was already asleep. Not half-asleep. Not wary. Fully gone.
Npc stared.
The question dissolved somewhere on its way to processing. Mumbo’s voice became background noise, a soft waveform with no semantic weight. All of Npc’s attention tunnelled toward the dog.
Kubo’s ribcage expanded. Contracted. Expanded again. His entire underside: soft, vulnerable and unguarded faced the ceiling.
Npc tilted his head slowly, mirroring the angle of the dog’s.
It was… strange.
That was the only word his system supplied at first. Strange.
The animal was completely at ease. Entirely comfortable being exposed in that position, throat and belly and organs presented without defense. There was no tension in his limbs. No twitch of anxiety beneath the skin. He trusted the space so thoroughly that he had surrendered to it.
Npc felt something tight coil in his own abdomen. The concept was something he had never experienced before..
To exist somewhere without scanning for exits. Without cataloguing threats. Without measuring the distance between yourself and the nearest barrier. To fall asleep with your chest open to the world.
His gaze lingered on the subtle movements: the way one hind leg twitched faintly in a dream, the soft puff of breath that made his whiskers flutter. The sofa cushion dipped beneath his weight, fabric wrinkling around him like it was trying to hold him in place.
Safe.
The word felt dangerous.
Npc’s mind tried to dissect it the way he dissected everything else. Safety as a variable. Safety as a location. Safety as a set of predictable parameters. Mumbo’s base met those criteria. Structurally sound. Familiar. Occupied by a trusted individual.
And yet.. Safety as a feeling was something else entirely.
Kubo had it. Npc did not.
“…Npc?”
The sound of his name cut gently through the static.
He blinked.
Mumbo was watching him again, patient as ever. Not irritated. Not alarmed. Just… waiting for him to return.
Npc’s head straightened slowly, the world refocusing in degrees. He realised belatedly that he had not answered the question.
“How was Kubo?” Mumbo repeated, tone light.
Npc opened his mouth. “He functioned within expected parameters,” The words left him before he could reformat them.
Mumbo’s eyebrows lifted.
Npc’s brain lagged a fraction of a second behind his speech, replaying what he’d just said. It sounded clinical. Detached. Like a field report.
Kubo had not “functioned.” Kubo had sniffed and tugged and wagged and breathed and existed.
Npc corrected himself, voice still distorted by lingering illness. “He was… good. He walked. Stopped frequently. Sniffed.”
Mumbo’s mouth twitched. “Right,” he said. “Sounds like him.”
Npc nodded once, relieved to have landed on an acceptable answer.
Mumbo continued, filling the air with small comments about how Kubo had probably tried to eat something he shouldn’t have, about how he always did that after rain. The words weren’t particularly important. They were scaffolding; gentle structure to keep the conversation upright.
Npc tried to follow.
He cradled the mug in both hands, lifting it carefully and taking another sip of tea. The liquid was lukewarm now. Slightly bitter. Fragrant in a way that clung to the back of his throat.
He knew Grian adored tea.
Adored the ritual of it. The warmth. The familiarity. The way it anchored him.
Npc swallowed.
The taste did nothing for him.
It wasn’t unpleasant. It simply… didn’t land anywhere. No comfort. No spark. Just a neutral sensation sliding down his throat, leaving faint heat behind.
He took another sip anyway. Politeness protocol.
Across the room, Kubo let out a small snore. Npc’s eyes drifted back to him despite himself.
“Npc.”
Mumbo’s voice again. Gentle, persistent.
Npc forced his attention away from the dog and back to the human in front of him.
Mumbo studied him carefully.
“Do you know where you are?” he asked.
The question shifted the air.
Npc straightened slightly, something in his posture snapping into alignment. This was concrete. This was answerable. “Yes,” he replied immediately.
Mumbo nodded. “Alright. Where are you?”
Npc’s response came without hesitation. “Hermitcraft server. Seed: -573947210438921. Region: central continent. Structure: Mumbo Jumbo’s primary base of operations. Coordinates: approximately X 214, Y 68, Z -1342.”
The words flowed in a clean, uninterrupted stream.
He could have continued. Could have listed the composition of the surrounding blocks, the number of redstone components within a ten-block radius, the structural integrity of the walls.
He stopped only because Mumbo’s expression shifted.
It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even alarm. It was… taken aback.
Npc recognised it immediately. The subtle widening of eyes. The fractional parting of lips. The recalibration of expectation.
“Oh,” Mumbo said softly.
Npc’s chest tightened. That had not been the desired outcome. He tried to adjust. “Your base,” he added, voice flattening slightly as he simplified. “You reside here.”
Mumbo let out a short, awkward huff of breath that might have been a laugh if it had been less uncertain. “Right.. Yes. I do.”
The silence that followed was heavier than the previous ones.
Npc became acutely aware of his own posture again. Too rigid. Too precise. His responses were efficient but not… human. Not casual. He lifted the mug once more, attempting to anchor himself in the familiar script of sipping tea during conversation.
Mumbo’s gaze dropped to the mug.
Npc followed it instinctively.
His hands were wrapped tightly around it, knuckles faintly pale. He was holding it like one might hold an object during an interview, something to occupy space rather than enjoy.
He took another sip. It was colder now. The bitterness lingered more strongly. Mumbo watched him swallow.
“You don’t actually like that, do you?” Mumbo asked gently.
Npc paused mid-motion. The question landed softly but directly. His first instinct was to say yes. To maintain consistency. Grian liked tea. Therefore, he liked tea.
But Mumbo’s gaze was steady. Not accusatory. Just observant.
Npc lowered the mug slowly.
“It is… acceptable,” he said.
Mumbo’s lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. “That’s not what I asked.”
Npc hesitated. He examined the sensation honestly. The taste. The temperature. The absence of emotional response.
“No,” he admitted quietly. “It is not… preferred.” The admission felt small but significant.
Mumbo nodded once, like he’d expected that answer. “Alright,” he said simply. “What would you prefer?”
Npc’s mind blanked. Preference implied ownership. Individuality. Choice outside of inherited patterns. He searched internally and found… very little. Water, perhaps. Neutral. Functional.
“I do not require—”
Mumbo cut him off gently. “I know you don’t require anything. I’m asking what you’d like.”
The distinction hung between them.
Npc’s fingers tightened around the mug reflexively.
Like.
The concept felt fragile.
He glanced back toward the sofa again, toward Kubo’s sprawled form. The dog shifted slightly, paws twitching as if chasing something in a dream. His mouth opened wider, a soft huff escaping him.
Comfort.
Npc’s throat felt tight again. “…Something cold,” he said finally. The words were hesitant, as if testing themselves in the air. “Water. Or… juice.”
Mumbo’s expression softened further. “Juice,” he repeated. “I can do juice.”
He stepped away from the counter and moved toward the kitchen area again, movements unhurried. He poured something into a glass. Npc tracked the sound automatically. Liquid hitting glass. Ice clinking softly.
Npc set the mug of tea down carefully.
He felt… exposed, in a different way now. Not because he’d been questioned, but because he’d deviated. Chosen something not aligned with Grian’s known preferences.
Across the room, Kubo rolled slightly to one side, still asleep, still unguarded. Npc watched the rise and fall of his chest again.
“How is he doing that?” Npc asked suddenly.
Mumbo glanced over his shoulder. “Doing what?”
“Sleeping,” Npc said. “In that position.”
Mumbo followed his gaze to the sofa and huffed a soft laugh. “Oh. That. He does that when he’s completely knackered. Means he feels safe.”
Safe.
There it was again.
Npc’s gaze lingered on the dog’s exposed throat, the vulnerable curve of his belly. “He is not concerned about threats?” He asked.
Mumbo turned back to him fully now, glass in hand.
“There aren’t any threats here,” he said gently. “Not for him.”
Npc processed that. Logically, yes. The base was secure. Doors locked. Environment controlled. But Kubo wasn’t calculating that.
He simply felt it.
Mumbo crossed the room and handed Npc the glass. Their fingers brushed again, brief and warm.
Npc accepted the drink.
The glass was cold, condensation already forming along the outside. It felt sharp against his overheated palms. He lifted it and took a cautious sip.
Sweet.
Bright.
Immediate.
The sensation landed differently than the tea had. It cut cleanly through the lingering bitterness in his mouth, through the dull haze of illness. It was simple and direct and undeniably more pleasant.
Npc blinked. Mumbo watched his reaction carefully.
“Better?” he asked.
Npc nodded. “Yes,” he said, and this time the word came easier. “Better.”
Mumbo smiled properly then, relief flickering across his face. “Good.”
They stood there in the quiet hum of the base, Kubo snoring softly in the background, the air thick with the scent of machinery and faint citrus from the juice.
Npc held the glass and tried to understand the unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest.
It wasn’t the drink. It wasn’t the environment. It was something else.
Mumbo hadn’t corrected him when he’d spoken like a machine. Hadn’t flinched away when he’d listed coordinates instead of something casual. He had simply adjusted. Asked different questions. Offered alternatives.
Npc glanced at the sofa one more time. Kubo slept on, utterly defenseless. For the first time since stepping into the base, Npc felt the faintest flicker of something that might, one day, resemble that.
Not yet. But close.
Somewhere between the coordinates and the juice, between the clinical answers and the patient questions, a tiny space had opened. And Npc found himself wondering what it would take to lie down in it.
At some point, something in Mumbo’s posture shifted; subtle, barely there. The tightness in his shoulders eased. The careful calibration in his expression softened into something more natural. He picked up his tea again and finally took a proper sip instead of letting it cool untouched in his hands.
Then he moved toward the small dining table tucked against the wall and pulled out a chair, sitting opposite Npc. Not beside him, opposite. Eye-level. Open. Equal.
Npc tracked the movement with mechanical precision. The scrape of chair legs against the floor registered sharply. The quiet exhale Mumbo released as he settled into the seat felt louder than it should have. Across the room, Kubo snored softly from the sofa, a small whistle on every third breath.
Mumbo rested his forearms lightly on the table and regarded Npc with something close to curiosity, not clinical curiosity, but personal.
“So,” Mumbo said gently, cradling his mug, “if I’m getting to know you… what are your favourite things?”
The question felt enormous.
Favourite. Preference. Choice.
Npc didn’t hesitate.
“Rustic houses,” he blurted.
The answer left him so quickly it startled even him. There was no internal cross-reference with Grian’s known preferences, no pause for calculation. It simply erupted.
Mumbo’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Rustic houses?”
“Yes,” Npc said, leaning forward unconsciously, juice glass forgotten in his hands. “Specifically medieval-inspired builds with asymmetry in roof structure. Overhangs. Visible support beams. Textured stone foundations, cobblestone layered with andesite and occasional moss blocks for depth. Slightly warped walls so it doesn’t look too clean. It’s important that it doesn’t look too clean.”
He paused only to inhale before continuing.
“The roofs should use gradients; spruce to dark oak, occasionally stripped logs for contrast. Chimneys slightly off-center. Windows uneven. Shutters that look functional but decorative. Lanterns hung at irregular intervals to create warm light pockets at night.”
His hands began sketching invisible outlines in the air between them: angles, slopes, imaginary beams. His voice quickened, tripping over itself in urgency.
“I like when they look lived in,” he continued. “Not perfect. Slightly messy. Crooked pathways. Barrels outside. Flower boxes. Smoke particles if possible.”
He realised, distantly, that he was speaking fast. Too fast.
Mumbo didn’t interrupt. He didn’t laugh or redirect. He simply listened, eyes following Npc’s hands, nodding occasionally as he sipped his tea.
Npc felt something loosen inside him.
“I prefer darker palettes,” he added. “Muted greens. Browns. Deep reds. It feels… stable. Contained.”
The last word slipped out softer.
“Contained?” Mumbo prompted gently.
“Yes,” Npc replied after a brief hesitation. “Contained. Like everything has boundaries. Structure. You know what’s holding what up. You can see the beams. You can see the support. It makes sense.”
He became aware of his hands again and forced them back around his juice glass, gripping it like an anchor. Condensation slicked his fingers.
“Sorry,” he said abruptly. “I am… rambling.”
“You’re not rambling,” Mumbo said with a faint smile. “You’re enthusiastic.”
The word startled Npc.
Enthusiastic.
Mumbo leaned back slightly. “What’s your favourite part of building them?”
“The detailing,” Npc replied immediately. “The small things people don’t always notice. Trapdoors as shutters. Buttons for rivets. Layered slabs so the walls aren’t flat. It makes them feel more real.”
“Like they’ve got history,” Mumbo said thoughtfully.
Npc’s gaze snapped up. “Yes. History.”
The word lingered.
After a moment, Mumbo shifted the topic gently. “What do you think about Grian’s base idea this season? The Legend of Zelda theme. Majora’s Mask.”
Npc hummed faintly, nursing his juice.
“I think it is structurally ambitious,” he began automatically.
Mumbo waited.
Npc’s gaze unfocused slightly as his attention slipped inward.
“I adore the game,” he said suddenly, softer now but certain. “I always have. We always have.”
Mumbo’s smile turned knowing.
“I like the time mechanic,” Npc continued. “The repetition. The reset. The way the world keeps ending and starting again. It’s structured chaos. Predictable catastrophe.”
He leaned forward again, animated.
“I used to watch him play it when we were fronting together. He would get stuck on Majora’s Wrath every time. Panic. Forget to equip the Fierce Deity mask. Go into the fight unprepared. Then complain when he couldn’t defeat it.”
A faint mechanical huff of laughter escaped him.
“He always forgot the most important tool.”
“That does sound like him,” Mumbo chuckled softly.
Npc nodded emphatically. “He would overcomplicate it. Try to brute force it. Forget the obvious solution. I liked watching the adjustment. The pattern recognition. The boss always had a pattern. Once you understood it, it was manageable. It made sense.”
Mumbo rested his chin against his knuckles. “What did you like about it? The game, I mean.”
“The masks,” Npc said immediately. “The transformations. Different identities with different abilities. Each mask solved a different problem. You couldn’t approach everything the same way. You had to adapt.”
He didn’t seem to register the weight of what he was saying.
“The music was repetitive but comforting. The ticking clock wasn’t scary. It was structured. You knew exactly how long you had. No surprises.”
He stopped abruptly, like he had reached the edge of something he hadn’t meant to approach.
Npc became aware of how he was holding his juice: both hands wrapped around the glass, shoulders hunched slightly, knees bouncing faintly under the table with restless energy.
Like a hyperactive, less-than-human toddler trying very hard to sit properly at an adult table.
He forced his knees still.
“You don’t have to sit perfectly,” Mumbo said gently. “You can relax.”
Npc blinked. “I.. do not know how.”
“That’s alright,” Mumbo replied. “We can figure it out.”
Npc glanced toward the sofa again. Kubo remained sprawled on his back, entirely unguarded.
He looked back at Mumbo.
There was no impatience. No discomfort. Just steady presence.
Npc took another sip of juice. Sweet. Bright. Real.
Across from him, Mumbo sipped his tea.
And in the quiet hum of the base, between talk of rustic beams and ticking clocks and boss patterns, something shifted. Npc wasn’t being tolerated. He was being known. And for the first time, that didn’t feel like a threat.
They kept talking.
At least, Mumbo kept talking. Npc responded in pieces: short answers, longer tangents, sudden bursts of information that burned bright and then dimmed just as quickly. The conversation moved like a current between them, gentle and steady.
Npc didn’t realise when he stood up.
It wasn’t a decision. There was no internal announcement, no conscious shift. One moment he was seated at the table, fingers wrapped around his half-finished juice, knee bouncing faintly under the wood. The next, he was upright, glass abandoned, body moving toward the kitchen area with a quiet, purposeful hum beneath his skin.
Mumbo trailed off mid-sentence.
Npc’s hands had already found the first drawer.
It slid open with a soft wooden rasp. Inside, utensils lay in a state of what could generously be called “creative distribution.” Forks tangled with spoons. A stray screwdriver nestled between butter knives. Something sticky at the corner where sugar had spilled and been half-heartedly wiped.
Npc stared at it.
Not in judgment.
In assessment.
His fingers moved before he could articulate why. Forks were gathered first, aligned by size, tines facing the same direction. Spoons next. Knives separated carefully from everything else and placed blade-down into their proper slots.
The screwdriver was extracted and set aside.
The sugar residue was wiped clean with a cloth he located automatically without asking.
Behind him, Mumbo watched.
Npc didn’t notice.
He moved to the next drawer. Tea towels folded haphazardly, some crumpled, one half-damp and shoved into the back. Npc removed them, smoothed each one flat against the counter, folded them into neat rectangles with crisp edges. Stacked them by thickness.
The hum in his chest eased.
This felt… correct.
The fridge came next.
He opened it and paused for half a second, scanning.
Milk near the door. Condiments scattered without hierarchy. Vegetables wilting in a drawer that wasn’t fully closed. A leftover container precariously balanced atop something else.
Npc adjusted everything with clinical gentleness. He checked dates without being asked. Expired items were placed on the counter in a small, orderly pile. Vegetables were grouped. Dairy aligned. Drinks arranged by height.
He closed the fridge.
The quiet click of the seal felt satisfying in a way he couldn’t explain.
Mumbo stood slowly, setting his tea down.
“Uh,” he started cautiously, watching as Npc crouched to examine the lower cabinets. “You don’t have to—”
“I am aware,” Npc replied calmly.
He opened a cabinet.
Inside, chests were stacked haphazardly: literal storage boxes shoved one atop the other, each filled with an assortment of items that made sense only to someone who thrived in chaos.
Npc pulled one down carefully.
He opened it.
Redstone dust mingled with string. Iron ingots buried beneath random blocks. A single potato sitting inexplicably in the corner.
Npc exhaled slowly.
Behind him, Mumbo’s mouth twitched.
This.. this was familiar territory.
Grian’s infamous chest monsters. The chaotic hoards that appeared and vanished without warning. The storage rooms that sometimes manifested fully organised and then slowly devolved back into entropy.
Mumbo’s gaze sharpened.
Npc wasn’t just tidying.
He was categorising.
Redstone components were separated immediately: dust, repeaters, comparators placed together. Metals grouped by type. Organic materials isolated from technical ones. Each chest emptied, sorted, redistributed into a system that made logical, structural sense.
Npc’s movements were fluid now.
Drawers opened and closed in soft succession. Chests slid across countertops. Items shifted with quiet clinks and muted thuds. He worked with focused intensity, yet there was no frantic energy to it. No stress.
Only precision.
Only relief.
Mumbo leaned against the wall, arms loosely crossed, watching with fascination.
Grian hated tidying.
Grian thrived in creative mess. He built in spirals and left tools wherever inspiration struck. He would shove entire inventories into a single chest and promise to “deal with it later,” which usually meant never.
Npc, however..
Npc reorganised the spice rack alphabetically.
Npc aligned the mugs by handle orientation.
Npc adjusted the angle of the sugar jar until it sat perfectly parallel with the edge of the counter.
His breathing had evened out completely.
The faint rasp from the flu was still present, but softer now, less strained. The tension that had lived in his shoulders earlier had melted into something almost serene.
Mumbo cleared his throat gently.
“So… is this relaxing for you?” he asked.
Npc didn’t look up.
“Yes.”
The answer came without hesitation.
“I prefer when items are where they should be,” he added, stacking labelled containers into symmetrical rows. “When retrieval is efficient. When nothing is… misplaced.”
Misplaced.
The word hung in the air.
Mumbo pushed off the wall and stepped closer, careful not to disrupt the system forming before him.
He tried to follow Npc’s logic.
Dry goods here. Tools there. Decorative items separate from functional ones. Everything with a category. Everything with a place.
It was meticulous without being rigid.
There was thought behind it.
Npc moved to the stacked chests again, reorganising their contents with quiet focus. Mumbo crouched beside him tentatively.
“Alright,” Mumbo said, peering into one of the newly sorted chests. “So this one is… building materials?”
“Yes,” Npc replied. “Stone variants sorted by texture density. Wood by type and tone. Slabs and stairs separate for accessibility.”
Mumbo blinked. “Texture density,” he repeated faintly.
Npc glanced at him briefly, then back to his task. “It reduces visual inconsistency during retrieval,” he explained.
Mumbo couldn’t help it, he laughed softly.
“Right. Of course it does.”
Npc didn’t register the humour as ridicule. He simply continued, hands moving in steady rhythm.
Mumbo watched him a moment longer.
And suddenly, things clicked into place.
The disappearing chest monsters.
The days when Grian would wander his own base looking utterly lost, muttering about not knowing where anything had gone. The sudden appearance of beautifully organised storage rooms that would later collapse back into chaos.
Npc.
It had been Npc.
Not out of obligation. Not out of guilt.
Because he liked it.
Because he found comfort in it.
Npc reached up to adjust a shelf slightly higher, aligning it so the items sat flush rather than slanted. He stepped back, evaluating his work with quiet scrutiny.
His expression was different.
Not the blank neutrality from earlier. Not the forced mimicry.
This was intent. Satisfaction. Something almost like pride, but softer.
“You’re very good at this,” Mumbo said gently.
Npc paused. His head tilted slightly, as if processing.
“It is logical,” he replied. “Disorder creates inefficiency.”
“And you don’t like inefficiency?” Mumbo asked.
Npc shook his head once. “It feels… unstable.”
There it was again.
Stable.
Contained.
Boundaries.
Mumbo’s gaze softened.
He could see it now; the difference between the two of them, despite the shared body. Despite the shared memories.
Grian was impulsive motion, chaotic brilliance, creativity exploding outward in all directions.
Npc was structure. Framework. The beams behind the walls.
He wasn’t cleaning because he felt obligated.
He was cleaning because it grounded him.
Because in a world where identities shifted and boundaries blurred, at least the spice jars could line up properly. At least the redstone dust would sit where it belonged.
Npc wiped down the counter with slow, deliberate strokes. The cloth moved in straight lines, overlapping just enough to ensure no patch was missed.
His movements had slowed slightly now.
The initial urgency had faded into quiet maintenance.
Mumbo stepped closer, leaning a hip against the counter. “You know,” he said carefully, “this explains a lot.”
Npc glanced up.
“When Grian complains he can’t find anything in his own base,” Mumbo continued with a faint smile, “I always wondered how his storage would randomly become immaculate overnight.”
Npc stilled.
For half a second, uncertainty flickered across his face.
“It was inefficient,” he said simply.
Mumbo laughed softly again. “I’m not complaining,” he assured him. “I quite like it, actually.”
Npc’s shoulders relaxed a fraction more.
He closed the final drawer gently, pressing it in until it sat perfectly flush with the cabinet.
The kitchen looked… different.
Not sterile. Not stripped of personality.
Just intentional.
Organised without being lifeless.
Npc stood there for a moment, hands resting lightly on the counter, gaze scanning for anything out of place.
He found nothing.
Slowly, he turned back toward Mumbo. The hum beneath his skin had quieted. For the first time since he’d entered the base, he looked… comfortable.
Not guarded. Not performing. Just existing.
Mumbo met his gaze steadily. “I can tell when it’s you,” he said softly.
Npc froze.
Mumbo smiled faintly. “Grian would’ve left at least three drawers open.”
Npc blinked.
A pause.
Then, very faintly, the corner of his mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile.
But close.
And in that moment, despite the shared body and shared voice and shared memories, the difference between them felt undeniable.
Grian built chaos into art. Npc built order into safety.
And standing in the neatly aligned kitchen, hands still faintly damp from wiping down surfaces, Npc realised that this.. this quiet, structured control was not obligation.
It was comfort.
It was choice.
It was his.