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“So the first thing you’re going to do is draw a line of redstone here…”
Mumbo paced around the ditch, tracing an imaginary line in the freshly-displaced earth. A few metres away, his jacket and tie were draped over a fencepost, collecting dandelion seeds with BigB’s woolen jumper. Without the added layers of the suit, he looked much less clean-cut, and much more… practical was the only word B’s mind could supply, and even that wasn’t right. His hands were poised as if to grab something; every gesture seemed purposeful. There was a smear of redstone on his thumb, and his rolled-up sleeves accented the graceful movements of his wrists.
“... and you’ll want to place a torch roundabouts here.” Mumbo stopped at the far edge of the trench. “We’re just working with one main current, so we don’t need to worry too much about positioning. If we had a grid, we’d be wanting to place one there, and one over there. Does that make sense?” He glanced back at his teammate.
BigB gave his most convincing nod. He knew he should be focusing. Redstone was a basic and useful skill, and, more importantly, Mumbo was passionate about it. When B had suggested he teach him how to build a trap, his entire face had lit up. That was all it was, really: You like redstone, and I like you.
Unfortunately, he’d underestimated just how much he liked Mumbo.
Mumbo wasn’t usually a confident speaker. If there were too many people watching—and really, too many meant any people at all—he’d disintegrate, floundering over his words and restarting sentences. It was something B had grown to find endearing; and, more selfishly, entertaining. It was fun to catch his ally off guard with a touch, or to see how his voice trailed off if he looked at him a certain way. The Mumbo in front of him now was nothing like that. This Mumbo spoke quickly, with a startling combination of direct language and measured cadence. There was patience in the way he slowed himself, condensing his language into something understandable. The kind of confidence that could only come from someone who knew precisely what they were talking about.
In someone else, it might have been annoying. But from Mumbo, whose speech was normally undercut with uncertainty, it was striking.
“When you’re making the line, you’re aiming for as smooth a movement as possible.” Mumbo resumed his walk around the ditch. “A lot of beginners hesitate, and that’s when dust goes everywhere.”
“And that’s bad because…?” B tilted his head.
He got exactly what he was fishing for; Mumbo launched into an explanation. “Well, for one thing, it’s wasteful. Redstone’s easy to come by in this biome…”—he indicated the silvery mosaic of birch trunks around them—“... but it’s difficult when there’s no natural caves.” He ran a hand thoughtfully over his moustache. “The other thing to think about is what it actually does. Redstone dust conducts energy; if you light a torch while there’s grains of it floating in the air…”
“... you blow up?” B finished for him.
Mumbo laughed. “Sometimes. With this amount, it’s more likely to zap you a little.”
He stepped into the trench, and BigB realised that was his cue to join him. He made his way over carefully, feeling a little awkward as he navigated his way down the knee-height wall. Mumbo just smiled at him, seeming more delighted by the redstone than anything else
B returned the smile hesitantly, not quite sure what the next instruction would be.
A soft laugh. “Give me your hands.”
BigB did, then wondered at how readily he did. Was a confidential but commanding voice really all it took for him? Mumbo hovered his hand over B’s, then loosened his fingers, releasing a stream of redstone dust. Static electricity nipped at B’s skin as the redstone collected in his palm. It was ruby red, rich like blood in sunlight. When he’d watched Mumbo gather it, he’d expected it to be light; fine and textureless, like the clouds of red dust that whorled in from the nearby mesa. The dust that settled in a fine layer over the windows; their clothes; the wool of the sheep in the paddock they’d built out the front of their base. Instead, he was struck by how heavy the redstone was. Its weight pressed down on his palm, like someone had handed him a stone. It didn’t have the granularity of sand; it was smoother, and sharper, all at once. Like pouring glass through his fingers, or finely-crushed metal. Almost liquid. Too uniform.
“Steady,” chided Mumbo, placing his other hand under B’s. The warmth of Mumbo’s palm against his knuckles was a startling contrast to the metallic cold of the redstone. B blinked down at their hands, confused for a moment, before realising some dust had spilled through the gaps between his fingers.
“Now you’ll want to make a line. Go on—you’re doing well.”
B held his hand out and started walking, casting a line of redstone through the centre of the trench. He loosened his fingers carefully, trying to mimic the easy way Mumbo handled this stuff: smooth movements, no hesitation. It was harder than he’d expected; stopping the redstone from slipping through his fingers was like trying to hold onto water, or very soft silk.
Despite this, a snakelike line of crimson formed in the centre of the ditch. It was a little wobbly, but, to B’s pride, mostly all connected.
“Good,” said Mumbo. The approving note in his voice sent a flustered spark through B. It was such a simple word of praise, and so unlike Mumbo’s usual rambling. It made him want to hear more—
Stop thinking about Mumbo like that. What’s wrong with me?
Before B could say anything more, Mumbo stepped past him and knelt in front of the redstone line. With a concentrated frown, he began to trail his fingers along the redstone line, gently tidying the edges of the glittering red line.
Indignancy sparked in B’s chest. “What was that about good?” he asked, peering over Mumbo’s shoulder to check what he was fixing.
Mumbo’s cheeks flushed. For a moment, the confident, mentorly facade slipped. “You are—I’m just—well, you’re new to this—I’m fixing up—oh, I’m awful, aren’t I?” He rubbed his brow forlornly. “You did fine; I’m just making it neater. If the redstone grains get too scattered, the energy can transfer elsewhere. It might not be important now, but when red lives pop up…”
B swallowed. In the lull of the past few days, it was almost too easy to forget where they were: the summery dawn of a death game. It had been two weeks since they’d all woken up here; eighteen players, familiar, but also not. Things were peaceful now—the pendant around B’s neck showed a glowing green heart—but he knew there would be a time where it wasn’t. One day, he might actually need to use redstone to protect himself. To protect his strange, eccentric teammate, and the little base they’d built together.
This is important. I actually should be focusing here.
Which was hard, with Mumbo looking at him so intently on his knees.
B took a slight step back, hoping that some space would calm his distracted mind. “Okay. I’m focused. Show me what to do next?”
Mumbo nodded, briskly standing up and offering B an unlit redstone torch. B rolled it in his palm, testing the uneven weight. He’d seen redstone torches before—they smelled of metal and glowed unnaturally crimson—but he’d never held one before. It was cold. When he swung it, the surrounding air crackled.
“Careful, there.” Mumbo steadied him with a hand on his wrist. “It’s not a toy.”
“You’ve got, like, six in your pocket,” B pointed out, but he held still anyway. Mumbo’s fingers were warm over his wrist, lightly calloused, not quite touching the pulse point. He guided B to the end of the redstone trail, pointing out a notch in the earth where he could place the torch. B set the torch down carefully, packing it with soil for a foundation.
In the meantime, Mumbo had rolled a line of gunpowder into a palm-sized square of paper.
“Is this meant to be our dynamite?” B asked, watching a few grains of smoky powder trickle out one end. It looked more like the world’s most noxious DIY cigarette. Briefly BigB wondered whether he could convince anyone to smoke a roll of gunpowder. Skizz would try it, I bet. Or Scar.
Now that would be a creative kill.
Mumbo laughed softly. “Not too spectacular, is it? It’s not that I don’t trust you with a full stick of dynamite. It’s more… well, um… you’re still learning, and this is… well, it’s just in case…”
“I blow us both up?” B finished for him, recognising the start of a nervous talking loop.
Mumbo gave him a sheepish but grateful smile.
They placed the gunpowder at the end of the redstone line. Mumbo handed B a shovel, nodding encouragingly as he began to scrape dirt back over the trail. It felt counterintuitive, burying something he’d made so carefully. How does Mumbo put up with this?
When he finished digging, he drove the shovel into the ground and leaned on it, fighting to regain his breath. Behind him, Mumbo hummed approvingly. “Good. We’ll make a landscaper of you yet.”
B swallowed. Mumbo was so preoccupied, he seemed to completely miss how close he was standing behind him. Every time he inhaled, their bodies brushed together.
“Go ahead,” said Mumbo cheerfully. “You can light the torch.”
B fished through his pockets for a flint and steel. When he struck them over the torch’s head, his vision was instantly flooded with sparks. A blood-red flame lit up the torch’s head, emanating a glow that sunk deep into the soil. BigB stepped back and blocked his ears, bracing for an explosion.
One breath. Two breaths.
A breeze whistled through the grass.
“Odd,” said Mumbo. “Lighting the torch should’ve triggered the explosion. I normally use a lever, but hand-lighting shouldn’t…” He knelt down beside the torch, red firelight licking across his face.
“No, it’s probably me,” B conceded. He stepped away from the torch, gaze trailing up the line of exposed soil. “Maybe I messed something up when I covered the redstone.” He traced his steps back along the ditch. This should be where the dynamite is, right? “I'll start digging,” he called, reaching over for the shovel they’d discarded beside the ditch. As his fingers closed around the handle, he tuned back in to Mumbo’s voice:
“Oh, I see! You didn’t push the torch in deep enough. If you dig it too shallow, it can’t find the redstone. If I just push it in... WAITSHITGETBACK—”
I’ve never heard him swear before, thought B, as the ground erupted at his feet.
Red light seared through his vision, plunging the world into glittery crimson nothingness. Soil slammed into the side of his head, the impact reverberating through his skull. A wave of heat crashed over him, and he scrambled away, one arm raised to shield himself.
White-hot pain erupted across his wrist. This time, when he fell away, it wasn’t by his own volition, but his body’s; he was doubled over in the grass, wrist clutched to his chest, shaking uncontrollably as his nerves lit up in agony.
The light pulsed and faded. Pulsed and faded.
A hand on his shoulder was shaking, and shaking, and shaking.
“Look at me, BigB. Look at me.”
Red fractals clung to BigB’s vision. A blade of grass distorted itself in front of his face. He became aware of his fingers, curled tightly against his collarbone; the numb end of a burning limb. WOW, that hurts. In the grass in front of him, the foggy shape of a knee; Mumbo was next to him, shaking him, speaking:
“Can you hear me? I’m so sorry. I should’ve briefed you on explosives—I didn’t think you’d walk right up to the dynamite—please tell me you’re alive.”
B tried to speak, and discovered, though effortful, that he could. “I’m alive,” he croaked, rolling onto his back. A dizzying blue sky loomed down at him, tinctured by grains of gunpowder and redstone. The scent of metal hung heavy around him. “Well. At least we know the trap works.”
A laugh burst out Mumbo’s chest. His grip on BigB’s shoulder loosened a little.
B went to sit up, and the ground slammed into the back of his head.
“Easy,” said Mumbo. “Stay down for a moment. You went flying.”
B drew in a shaky breath. It was easier to inhale, lying on his back. He closed his eyes, trying to blink away the last red haze, before bracing his good arm to sit up. The world swooped horribly for a moment, but something caught him before he could fall; Mumbo’s arm, wrapped around his back.
As BigB’s vision returned, so did the pain coursing through his arm. He lifted it gingerly from his chest, forcing down the wave of dread before it could stop him from checking the damage. His shirt sleeve was black and tattered. One still-burning ember floated down to the grass beside him. Beneath it was a jagged burn, extending from his forearm to his wrist: twists of angry red, welling with beads of blood, and unnervingly pale stretches where a layer of skin had been burned away. A fine layer of red dust shimmered over them; redstone grains, as sharp as shattered glass.
The longer he looked at it, the worse the pain grew.
That’s my arm. B felt himself gag.
“Let me see,” said Mumbo, in a voice so sharp B immediately obeyed.
Mumbo took his harm gently and rolled up the sleeve, resting one hand under his elbow to balance it. BigB couldn’t bring himself to look at the wound again; instead, he found himself fixed on his ally’s face as he rotated the limb. Mumbo inhaled sharply, eyes wide. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to panic. But then, to B’s surprise, he paused. Closed his eyes. Drew in a long, slow breath.
“All right,” he said, his voice calmer than B had ever heard it. “Stay still. I’ll be right back.”
Mumbo stood up, leaving B to awkwardly catch himself before he could fall sideways. He tried to see where his teammate was going, but his mind felt clouded and slow; everything kept circling back to the pain pulsing through his wrist. By the time he managed to focus his vision, Mumbo had returned. He took B’s arm again and held something over it: a waterskin. “This’ll sting, but you’ll be much worse off if we don’t get that redstone dust out.”
Then he tipped the waterskin over B’s arm.
B hissed through his teeth as the water met his inflamed skin. It was frigid, harrowing deep into the red depths of the burns. Nausea rose in his gut, and the world canted forwards—
“Hey,” came a voice against his forehead. BigB opened his eyes, and found himself looking at blurry white fabric. Mumbo’s shirt; he’d fallen against his chest. His teammate was patting his back gently. “You’re okay. That’s the worst of it over.”
B exhaled shakily, trying to focus. He could hear Mumbo’s voice, not just above him, but through his chest. Feeling more grounded, he sat back; Mumbo allowed him to shuffle away, but kept a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
“That’s the other thing with redstone,” Mumbo said. “It’s, um… not nice with wounds.”
“You can say that again,” B laughed shakily.
Mumbo’s expression turned apologetic. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea. You’re fine without redstone.”
Despite his own dizziness, pity tugged at B’s heart. “This was my idea,” he reminded him. “I wanted to hear you talk about redstone. And you did. It was fun. Until you blew me up.”
“You blew yourself up,” Mumbo corrected. “You turned and walked at the gunpowder.”
“Poor supervision.” B gave his most winning smile.
Mumbo sighed. “Come on, you. Let’s get you off the ground.” He stood up, then offered B an arm to help him up. B gave him his hand, somewhat skeptical, but Mumbo hauled him to his feet almost effortlessly, steadying him when the ground began teetering.
B would’ve been happy to stay there, pressed to Mumbo’s side—but to his surprise, his companion started walking. “Where are we going?” B asked. “I don’t mind an adventure, but my concussion might.”
“Are you concussed?” Mumbo frowned slightly. He reached towards B’s temple, then hesitated, seeming to second guess touching him. (Never mind that B had tipped his head towards him expectantly). “No, no adventures. Your arm’s burnt. We’re fetching a bucket of water and soaking it.”
“Dirty well-water?” B scrunched his nose.
“It’s a burn.” Mumbo’s gaze was earnest. He took BigB’s injured hand gently, rotating it to study the injury. “This is the best we’ve got until I can find you a healing potion.”
BigB felt the weight of their fingers laced together.
It wouldn’t be long before Mumbo caught up to himself. When B was out of danger—maybe when they’d gotten a bucket—the anxiety would crack through, and the authority would vanish. But right now, he was holding B’s hand, full of patience and gentleness and commanding.
Maybe the redstone lesson was worth it. BigB hadn’t learnt a thing about engineering, but he had learned that he could trust Mumbo in a crisis.
(And that Mumbo, when he was confident, was a completely different person).
Trust me, said the urgent look in his eyes.
“Okay,” said B, gripping his hand more tightly. Mumbo blinked down at their hands, looking flustered for a moment. Then he seemed to steel himself, turning towards the woods and starting forward.