Archive of Our Own

“You’ll call out for me when you get back, right?”

Egg feels a little awkward when the words leave his mouth. It’s a stupid request, he knows, because when has Wemmbu not done that? When has he not practically slammed through his roof, broken his dark stained glass, and dropped down with a thud so loud it always manages to ruffle Egg out of his trance no matter how many times he’s witnessed it?

It’s a little stupid, proves to be so, when Wemmbu looks at him and laughs with those little hacks that’s exasperated and fond all the same. 

“Like when have I not done that, bro?” Wemmbu reiterates his point, waving dismissively. “But yeah, whatever, I’ll make sure to break your ceiling and get splinters on your head. Happy?”

“Yo, chill. I never said all that,” splutters Egg, laughing.

He knows Wemmbu is capable of holding himself. Time and time again, it has always been him dragging the two of them out of combat; always him who raises his sword and mace and elytra whenever someone threatens their peace and freedom. With a devotion so deep it feels like watching a sword lunge off a cliff and down the air, through and through, gravity as his only compass because Egg knows Wemmbu would dive as deep and far as he could if it means they’ll be together again.

But most of all, Wemmbu is capable because he’s his best friend. His one constant in this server that’s full of everything but permanence. He’ll always have him, if not anything else.

That still doesn’t help with the nerves, though. He knows what chasing an invisible player is like. A lead with cuts that’s always knotted at the end—he’s seen it happen to Wemmbu before when he used to move around with invisibility and a veil so thick the potions might as well have been cosmetic. 

“Helloooo? Legendary Warrior? Unstable to Egg? To Eggchan?”

Egg is hit with the sudden urge to tell Wemmbu he shouldn’t chase that blue-trimmed player.

Instead, he closes his book and pushes at the crooked cape on Wemmbu’s shoulders, adjusting it upright.

“The warrior’s here. I heard you the first time,” Egg shoots back, then retracts his hand. “Stay safe, bro.”

“You’re like— so weird today,” Wemmbu rolls his eyes, but he walks closer and intertwines their fingers into a pinky-promise anyway. “I’ll be fine though. You’re the one that should watch yourself if anything.”

The last part is said with a slanted grin. Egg blinks, once—twice, before he loosens and squeezes their pinkies tighter. “I’ll be fine,” he echoes. “Now go. You know the drill. Early birds get the worm.”

“Yessir. See ya.”

When Wemmbu strides out, there’s a hop to his steps. It makes Egg feel a little better, but he knows he won’t be able to stop worrying until he hears the crash above his rooftop again.

Egg has a ritual for the weeks Wemmbu is away.

It’s pretty simple, and it starts with going through the notebook he’s given Wemmbu the day the server’s chat gets locked. Before this became an addition to their little communication bubble, Egg would just get dragged into an intercom with him or be damned to walls of text blowing up his communicator. At least he could hear Wemmbu’s grumbles, and Wemmbu could hear his own commentary whenever they got roped up to some stupid chain of events.

During his brief stay at Mane’s treehouse and the in-between of whatever that was being taught between those two, Egg’s choppy stone enclave and his choppier makeshift door opened to the notebook in front of his steps one day. It was a little moist from dew, damp but dry enough that he believed the drop-off happened in the middle of the night.

He always wonders why that happened.

“This is supposed to be for chatting or something,” writes in Wemmbu’s scrawl on the first page, “Not sure why we’d need it considering we’re always attached by the hips, but after seeing some guy failing to bucket clutch off a cobblestone tower and died as I wrote this, I think I understand why. There’s just stuff you have to write down.”

“Why are escape rooms built like escape rooms? Okay don’t get me wrong with that hook, because here’s the thing: there’s always twenty niche facts I’m supposed to know per room to even operate the freaking course. And there’s at least thirty million rooms each with their own facts. Just absurd, bro. Also spider eyes taste like rotten grapes smudged in mud. 0/10 way to go out.”

“This Straight guy is notoriously annoying. God forbid I wander around and spread my wings a little. And if I try to fly down and away, well, that’s just too bad.”

“Pangi built this structure for me two steps into my hand-picked living room. It’s supposed to convince me to stay and enjoy this homecoming or something? Like housewarming? Open-house? Whatever. It’s basically for new tenants. The thing is my head. It’s built so ugly that it’s actually kinda nice.”

If Egg reads the notes carefully enough, he thinks he can catch the emotions sprawled into these months old pages, too. A huff when he writes this, a scoff when he writes that. Something that’s distinctly so Wemmbu that even smears on paper is their own charm.

He hasn’t added his own ink to accompany them in a while. He doesn’t need to anymore.

“Eggchan. You’re going to come with me.”

Even though he’s been through this capture and hostage drill a hundred times already, it really never gets better. Nor do they use new lines either.

The person is different each time, though. And today, for the first time ever, it’s someone who’s not supposed to be here. 

Egg knows whoever this player is should’ve been occupied with Wemmbu at god knows where while he’s to be cooped away, idle to the world until safety thrashes in again. This is bad, his brain supplies. Very, very bad.

“Uh,” he laughs awkwardly, looking around the dimly lit room that’s even more dim because of his haphazardly shaped construction of a house. “Can I say no or like, y’know. Bail?”

“You have five seconds,” the crackly, distorted voice changer voice says to him. A sword flashes into their hand, and the blue-trimmed player side-steps closer.

“I mean, like. Surely we can talk this out, right? I’m not that rich or anything because Wemmbu leeches off everything I have; but there’s still a few bags up my alley, so if you want, I could—”

“Five,” sizzles a long, dreary pause. “Four.”

“I can offer you knowledge?” Egg tries, and the sword slashes at the empty space right next to his left ear. He thinks he can hear himself swallowing when he glances over and sees how close the blade is. The shiny, sharpened thing is hardly a centimeter away, Egg has no options.

“Three.”

“Okay, okay. Chill, chill. I’m with you, bro,” he throws his hands up, barely suppressing a flinch as the sword flickers and disappears into thin air. 

“Good choice, Eggchan,” The player says, nodding to the exit. “Follow me.”

The hand that drapes itself on his shoulder as he’s guided out is cold. Though Egg knows it can’t even compare to the endless pit in his stomach. It just drops, and drops, and—

—Wemmbu, Wemmbu, Wemmbu; the depth chants. Be safe. Be safe. Be safe.

It’s an easy process once he gets used to it. Really, really easy. So much so that it almost scares him how fluid and automatic his body can get.

Egg’s holding his book this time. The new one, at least. As far as he’s aware, his old book with nearly over two years of documentation, writings, essays, and all of the server’s fruitful history is gone. The leather-worn clasp, the front skin with sparse purple and blue stickers, the faded ink of his name being dented in the back. The smudged and slightly peeled up hardcover from tear and wear. All of that is in some trimmed player’s hands. Not disposed of yet, but it’s gone.

He’s been trying to write down what he can remember from that decrepit book these days. It’s slow so far, the progress, but he has some pieces recited already. They’re definitely not his best work, and they’re definitely not as good as they were back when he was journaling them in real time. But they work—they recount memories. He can deal with that.

Today, however, his pen isn’t hovering on the next page he’s supposed to fill. He’s all toward the back, lingering at a section that doesn’t even have a real page.

The endpaper is nice. Smooth and hard and steady. It doesn’t flutter or needs to be held down when he scribbles woes and snarks, completely detached from the rest of all contents in a tidy, unique little way. 

In other words, it’s where Egg and Wemmbu write down their exchanges because he refuses to have Wemmbu draw his pen anywhere else. Wemmbu is a constant, but his book is, too. They’re both sacred.

Looking back, Egg doesn’t think he’d care nowadays if Wemmbu had placed his messy scrawl everywhere. Much less in the middle of the page he’s working on.

And looking back, he vainly wishes he had a bigger backbone to ask for more of Wemmbu’s words, to be in more of his faraway adventures.

He hovers, then dips, then hovers. Dips. Hovers. Dips.

I miss you. 

The ink is still fresh when he pulls the quill away to look. Three tiny little words, eight wistful letters, spaced at the very top of their otherwise empty conversational page. 

Summer wind has always been harsh and warm, refreshing occasionally but rarely for long. Egg sits with his back against oak wood, leaning all of his weight into the one place that’s grown into Wemmbu’s safe haven over time. He’s surprised Wemmbu even managed to build a house in it; but freedom does things, and so does peace; Egg supposes. He’s learned that.

The tree is unchanging, shades as abundant as ever. When the next wind comes swirling by, it runs with fallen leaves and dandelions in its cradle, tripping all over the front door. The greeting is cooler for once, rare, but finally kind with seasonal greens. 

Egg lets the page in his lap dry and flutter along the breeze. His message isn’t going to be answered. He’s learned that, too.

“Dude, isn’t this—”

“Flamefrags’ base?” The raspy voice changer interrupts. “Yes, it is. We’re keeping you here until I sort out other matters.”

There are so many questions waltzing through his head that Egg doesn’t even know where to start. Why are they at Flame’s base—this mega construction he doubts is even by his hands to begin with—if the last few bases of Flame are any references to go by? Why is there a gaping hole into some trap at the entrance? Why is Flame working with this guy and why is he in Flame’s custody again?

“I know you probably have a lot of questions,” remarks the blue-trimmed player, hand still firmly gripping his shoulder as they skirt around the drop. “My sincerest apologies for that, but I promise you, things will make sense in due time.”

Ominous. Creepy and weird and ominous. That’s what Egg’s brain decides to interpret while he’s being led to some upper level, listening to the resounding thud of stones underneath his feet.

Hypothetically, he could definitely wiggle his way out of the palm constricting his shoulder. They only have a single-hand leverage over him, and he can definitely run far enough to make them lose his track. Realistically, however, he has no armor, was stripped of them, and will definitely miss his bucket clutch from this drop-down before being dragged back to captivity again. That is if he even has a bucket—which he doesn’t.

So he walks, and walks, and walks. Wishes then hopes, until they stop at some tucked-up room by the far left side.

“You’ll stay here until further notice,” Egg hears before he gets ushered to the furthest corner. “A familiar face will greet you soon, they’ll be watching until I get back.”

“Uh,” he starts, turning around. His voice twists, scrunched dry with confusion and the lack of barriers surrounding them. “You’re not going to, like, block me up or anything, dude? I can just leave the second you’re gone, y’know.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” the armor clanks as they turn around. “Which is why I never said I will be watching.”

Before Egg can stall any longer, a rod flashes into their hand; and as the stick breaks apart with a fizz of static, they’re gone. Egg blanks at the remnants of where they once stood, purple particles limping through the air. Fuck. He should’ve struggled more to make them stay longer, because now they’re at wherever the hell Wemmbu is in this sick little back-and-forth game and there’s nothing he can do to help him. 

Wemmbu, his mind runs over the name again, Wemmbu. He will be fine, he will be safe. Egg knows he will. He’s promised him so.

Wemmbu, who will swoop in and scoff at his display before they have a jailbreak again, laughing like the capture was but a yesterday’s joke. Wemmbu, who’d scold him to the ends of the Farlands and back, before dragging them back to their homes with nothing but a relieved smile. Wemmbu, who hasn’t broken a promise to him yet, who he prays won’t.

“Yo, Egg.”

He glances toward the door, raising his brows at the strangely playful lilt before they prop higher with recognition. “Oh. Flame, hey. What’s up, bro?”

“Nothing much, jus’ y’know. Popping around here and there,” Flame replies, striding closer. “This is nothing personal, by the way. I mean I like you. It’s like, I’m in a contract and stuff.”

Egg laughs nervously as he’s gently guided back to the corner. He isn’t sure when he’d walked toward the door in the first place. “You sure I can’t bail myself out?”

“Nah, bro. Sorry. It’s business,” Flame mutters apologetically. Egg has promptly three seconds of brightness before obsidian surrounds him completely. 

“Sorry, again. I promise it’ll be quick,” he hears again, lower this time as the footsteps shuffle away. 

There’s a tiny peep hole in the cramped box, just enough for light to fit through if he ever wants to lean back and read or whatever else. Flame has always been nice like that, at least. Leaving little mercies.

Wemmbu’s notebook is always next to his, placed neatly side by side. 

It’s decorated, too, unlike Egg’s new journal after the whole post-everything period. And it’s almost just as old as his other one, only a couple months younger because they had no reason to get a communication book for Wemmbu yet. Then, the chat system is wiped on a random afternoon many, many days later, and the back-up he has automatically made its way into Wemmbu’s unwilling hands.

Egg uses his book often. Wemmbu, however, does not. 

The lack of wear and tear shows that, almost wordlessly. Where Egg’s reverent touches leave slight peel ups, Wemmbu’s own has none, skin still stubbornly clinging into the leather. Where Egg’s texture would crinkle in rush or the few places where he’d dog ear the page for quick marking, Wemmbu’s own print has none of the chasteness to document everything he’d seen.

Maybe it’s because Egg’s memory has always fallen short in comparison to his best friend. Maybe he’s just not as impassive as he is when it comes to charading different wonders of the world into little stories and tidbits. Either way, it’s just how they had always worked in the end. He fills where Wemmbu lacks and Wemmbu fills his.

His hand absently moves toward the blue and purple stickers on the front of the cover. The matching ones they both have. They’re the only thing that look visibly weathered, but they’re still as clean as ever, always in the protection of Wemmbu’s graces like Egg has been.

Sometimes, some days, Egg stares and examines those two stickers, and wonders what would’ve changed if the book was held more often; the stickers more aged.

What would have been different if they were.

“You’re Egg, right?”

Egg perks up from where he’s seated, back against the small window hole. It’s been too short of a minute to have anyone checking on him again. Especially if that anyone’s voice is leagues different from the hearty, fiery snark that usually belongs to Flame’s cadence.

It’s hard to make out anything from the tiny crevice. Everything is squeezed and squished, compacted into a hole he can barely see through.

“Yeah, uh,” Egg squints, tilting his head down and catching a blur of yellow and brown outside the gap. “Sorry, dude. I can’t really see anything from here. You are…?”

“Lomedy!” Lomedy chirps. “Haha, my bad. I should’ve realized that. Considering I can’t see you that well either.”

“It’s chill,” Egg blinks. Lomedy takes a few steps back, just enough for his appearance to get settled in Egg’s eyes.

It’s cute—his outfit. He has a yellow sweater vest, some long sleeve shirt underneath that’s clearly well-loved. There’s a satchel on his side with what Egg can only assume are decorative tassels in red and yellow, loosely hanging off the leather strap. If he stares harder, he thinks there’s a smaller, duller blue tassel tucked inward. Everything is a bit faded, time-kissed, and a bit earthy, too. Almost like—

“A farmer?” Egg mumbles, before he catches himself.

“Huh?”

“Oh, sorry. I dunno what came over me, dude,” he half-laughs, waving his hand dismissively. “I just thought you looked like someone who’d enjoy, like, planting stuff and— y’know? Didn’t mean to assume or anything.”

“No, it’s okay. I am,” Lomedy smiles. “It doesn’t look it right now because I’m kinda caught up in all kinds of things, but when everything rolls over, I do want to, uh…” his voice softens, unsure but sure at the same time. “...Go back, maybe? I still have a home to fix and things I haven’t done. It’d be good to return for a little while at least.”

Egg nods, hesitant on what to say. A home to go back to sounds nice. Familiar, too. He wonders what Lomedy’s version of home is; because his begins with a tall evergreen tree and an oddly shaped structure; one is carved into logs while the other is plunged under stones.

“I don’t know why I dropped that on you actually,” Lomedy’s voice prances by again, sheepish. “I haven’t even told Flame yet, but I told it to someone I barely know first. Crazy, right? He’s my best friend.”

“Seems like you needed that relief anyway,” Egg says. He doesn’t know why he said that. Maybe it’s because people are more inclined to tell strangers their secrets. There’s nothing to break or lose between each other, if there’s nothing to begin with. When he recites that to Lomedy, he just gets a small chuckle in response.

“Yeah, guess so. I— I think he’ll understand, though. When the time comes, I mean.”

He will, Egg wants to say. He will because he’s your best friend, your closest teammate. After all, if there’s anything in this world that’s more precious than survival, it’s the warmth of someone else. Shoulder to shoulder during spring, side by side during summer, knocking elbows during autumn and tucking close during winter.

He wants to say that, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t know why. Lomedy seems to catch the scrapped meaning of his silence regardless. 

“Well,” Lomedy clears his throat. “Let’s get you out. Shall we?” 

“Get me out?” Egg echoes. A nod greets him, and he’s only more confused. “Wait. You’re serious? I thought you’re like, allied with Flame and stuff. Why’d you let me out?”

“‘Cause I want to,” answers Lomedy as he digs his pickaxe into the obsidian right beneath his peephole. “Besides, I’m sure you have a home you’d rather be at, no?”

Their hands meet as Lomedy pulls him out and throws together enough scraps for his trip back. They meet again when he gets ushered through a haphazardly dug-out tunnel, barely any chance to say goodbye before Lomedy shuts off the path with a rushed: “Get home safely, okay?”

And oh, Egg realizes, almost stupidly, in the middle of a dark, narrow hallway. The words didn't come back then because he knows Lomedy will always have two homes to return to. And Lomedy seems to have realized that too.

Because Egg’s home has never truly been the shelters he’s chalked up to; says the second, more belated thought. 

Next to purple hair and calloused hands, it has never been.

If there’s anything notable about Wemmbu’s book, it’s that there’s always a smudge somewhere.

They’re all across the pages. Some are clean, some are not, some have so many ink stains Egg has to wonder if the underside of Wemmbu’s pinky and the underline of his hand is also as blotchy when he pulls away.

The smudges that are accompanied by crossed out words are Egg’s favorite, however. They’re never muddy because Wemmbu’s in a rush; more often than not, they’re muddy because Wemmbu has to pause and think of what to say and to write down. A little messy, sure. But when has he not been messy and brash? It’s as much of a charm as it is a tease, back then.

"Parrot is weird difficult to understand. He’s always had such an odd complex but I admire how he’s dedicated to his cause. He gets in his head too much though and gets really one-tracked, that’s really annoying and irritating. Especially when I’m on the receiving end of it. I know he means well, but he’s a little stupid hard-headed. He’s helped me though, here and there. And he’s a bit better than before, too. Still weird rocky though."

"Spoke’s always up to some bullshit crazy stuff whenever I see him. It’s always after some server altering events too. Like the Zam empire, I wonder how she’s doing sometimes, the Mafia and the Law. He always has that chestplate, even back in that first vault, it’s probably years old at this point. I wonder if it’s ever going to break. He’s always been with Mapicc too, it reminds me of me and Egg. Spoke’s always been a bit creepy odd to me, but whatever. Good for him."

"Flame is Flame. He’s always yapping about being a combat master or the strongest or whatever I used to care, too, but that’s back then. Like blalala, whatever, don’t even care anymore. Lomedy does him good, though, he’s still talking about the title stuff but at least it’s less crazy with him around. Their argument during the prison break is kinda funny but not, I haven’t heard him that desperate before. At least he has someone around, it’s a good thing."

There’s more of these notes too, entirely of Wemmbu’s opinion on someone and something. He might be a smidge bit of a liar when he said these were his favorites earlier, because his real favorites aren’t them. 

He has always favored the two, or three liners of Wemmbu’s randomest thoughts. The whatever comments he’s written about the situation he’s in. The occasional material list and the coordinates of places he’s been to. Shops he’s liked and landmarks he wants to see again. They always make Egg feel closer to him. Like they’re sharing laughs and journals again, on a nice afternoon, nestled right under the shade of their tree.

Egg finds himself re-reading those pages more often than he’d admit.

It’s been four days since there has been a crash on his ceiling. Four long, cruel, gruesome days of silence and sitting with his book, waiting for something to happen.

Wemmbu hasn’t gotten back ever since they got separated. Something about it feels off, but Egg doesn’t have a reason to not trust him, aside from his guts. This has happened before, Egg knows him enough to trust in his ability to take care of himself while he’s away.

But then there’s a yell above his roof. Loud but not unfamiliar. Egg is outside within seconds before his brain can reason him otherwise.

Instead of the purple hair and the regal outfit he’s expecting to be greeted by. Or the bone-crushing hug and the tackle that’d send them both tumbling down the grass. There’s a mesh of yellow in his vision. 

A soft plush of yellow sweater vest and dull undershirt, cleaner than they’ve been when Egg’s seen him last. That alone should’ve made Egg feel relieved, because Lomedy has talked it out with Flame and has clearly ended things on a good note. 

He can go back to his farm and resettle and fix up all that he needs to repair, like he’s told Egg many days before. Scared but excited all the same. For a new start. For his new start.

So why is Lomedy standing in front of Wemmbu’s door with a hunch to his back? Cradling something in his arms so tightly even though his face twists like it’s actively burning him? Why is Lomedy’s face scrunched in regret and—

Egg is running over before he can really think about it, stomach churned by the thought that his very first visit in days is by a wilting body stationed in front of his best friend’s doorsteps.

“Lomedy?” Egg calls out once he’s closer. And the visceral sight he’s greeted with when Lomedy turns around is enough to make everything in his digestive tract yearn to spill over. “What— what’s up, dude? You okay? What happened?”

Lomedy just shakes his head. The corners of his eyes are so bright and red that it looks like he’s thrown a rod too far and is dealing with the consequences of reeling it back too hard and fast. Egg is confused, but beyond that, he’s worried. Worried, confused, and horrified; there’s a bitter taste of dread running up his tongue that he immediately swallows.

“I’m sorry,” Lomedy splutters out, barely steady. His voice hasn’t broken yet but Egg isn’t going to be surprised if it will soon. 

“Sorry for what?” Egg asks with a small, hesitant laugh. 

“It’s about Wemmbu.”

The world tips, and Egg feels like he’s being thrown off a cliff. Plunging deeper, deeper, deeper.

“I’m sorry,” Lomedy shakes his head again. The more Egg looks and tracks his motion, the closer the ground feels. Wind is in his ears, blazing through every sound; the cliff is already far, far away. “I’m so sorry,” Lomedy repeats—and then there’s a book in his arms—but his head feels like it’s already met the ground with a wet splatter. 

Condolences always feel the worst when the ceremony is over, after all.

Egg continues where he left off.

He puts his book away and picks up Wemmbu’s own, dog-earred near the end of everything. 

To be honest, Egg doesn’t think he’s gotten this far in reading the contents before. The ritual he’s set has never spanned to the last page—isn’t supposed to, really—in a strange, historian longing kind of routine, Egg’s made it to preserve the last mark by Wemmbu. To keep whatever expression he has when he writes the words closed away, to make sure the smudge, if there’s any, is left undiscovered.

But it’s summer again. A year apart from back then. And Egg can only be a dweller for so long before he gets hit on the head by Wemmbu and gets dragged along to whatever excursion is ahead of them once more.

So, he glances at the book in his hands, ignores the dizziness of wind blasting in his ears, and smooths over the dog-earred corner.

"Egg’s been with me for a while, and honestly dude, I’m impressed he even stuck out for this long. His loyalty is as impressive as it is horrifying because he’s willing to join me in almost anything. Key word: almost. There’s a few times he’s disagreed and tried to cue me back. (Like the Ice Civilization thing, I still think they were doomed either way but like whatever I guess) I’m glad he did what he did sometimes, pulling me back and all. Only sometimes, though. Not all the time. That’d be too high of a praise for Eggchan the-not-legendary-warrior out of all people."

"But it’s nice, I think, to have someone so close by. To trust. Oh god that’s so freaking corny, bro." 

"Don’t get me wrong, he's like crazily prone to captivity, has no sense of direction, no sense of danger, no sense of fashion. Spatial awareness is a myth and there’s barely any sense of urgency with this dude even if we’re getting chased down and hauled over by twenty people at a time, he’s still taking his damn time looking at some microdetails that somehow helps us. It’s stupid and stressful and it’s weird. He’s weird. Whatever."

"I guess what I’m trying to say is,"

"Hi Egg. You’re basically the textbook definition of what a chungy is. I hate that it’s easy to laugh with you and harder to joke when you’re not around. Yeah, not very Wemmbu-like of me, huh? Saying all this. But times change and stuff happens, I guess. Not very ideal and very shitty but what can I do honestly."

"Do you remember June 15th? That’s the first day you got on this server, by the way, which means it’s our first day in this world together. In case you need to note it down again ‘cause I know your book got snatched by that guy and all. You’re welcome."

"Sorry the note is smudged, but if there’s anything you know about me, it’s kinda guaranteed to be like that anyway.”

“That aside, I don’t really know how to end letters. If this is even one. It feels more like a note or something. I know you’re supposed to have a line of goodwill before the final wishes or whatever so yeah.”

“From one summer to the next, then. Promises are hard to keep though, I think you'd know why."

Egg blinks, then laughs, then blinks again. The wind in his ears is gone, all he can hear and feel is the light, grassy breeze of the late afternoon’s heat. It presses against his face and swirls around his lids. If he closes his eyes and lets it embrace him for long enough, it feels like the same kind of gust he’d greet whenever Wemmbu thrashes into their safe haven, all over again.

"Hey Egg. Eggchan. Be safe. Stay safe."