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Black is the color that most people would associate with emptiness. They're not wrong: Black is the lack of color, the absence of light—the vacuity of the very concept that allows humans to simply be able to see.
Derek Hutchins is currently in that emptiness.
Not a perfect emptiness—he would have died if he was in the void—but the sheer silence and darkness of the place does give a close representation. The air is chilly, but the heart pounding in his chest from the build up of adrenaline makes Derek power through.
He doesn't walk for long in this darkness before light peeks out from behind a corner. He sees a sliver of what looks to be a finely decorated stone wall; even from far away Derek could tell that the structure was huge. He takes a few more steps and sees the yellow gates awaiting him. Greeting him. Like it was meant to be.
A haunting chorus starts singing in his ears.
He looks the other way, checking to see if there is anything else on the other side, but there is nothing aside from more darkness. He can only spare a brief glance before he turns his gaze back onto those dreaded doors again.
Derek approaches them slowly. His steps are cautious, each foot just barely hovering off the ground in hesitation before firmly pressing down onto the void-like floor. Despite the large space, his armored boots make no sound when they meet the ground—like the emptiness is absorbing every little thing that can be picked up through human senses, forcing Derek's attention on what matters most.
He keeps pausing at first. He doesn't dare look away from the gates, as if doing so means something bad would happen. Then with a burst of energy, he makes up his mind and walks toward the gates with determination. He straightens his back and faces forward, marching towards his fate like the dutiful knight he is.
The gates approach too fast, too quickly. Stony walls with those golden gates overpower Derek's vision. It towers above him, dominating like a skyscraper. It is a menacing sight, but it lures him towards the half-open gates with such force that Derek feels like he will be swept off his feet if he isn't currently gripping onto his sanity like a vice.
He falters. An internal war rages on in his mind—a deep contrast to the stale, unmoving surroundings suffocating him—about whether this was really the right decision. His eyes burn into the stone walls above as if they have the answers to his problems. They don't.
He looks back down and faces the yellow gates. Strangely enough, it is sparsely decorated compared to the stone walls. It's made of common wood, like a door that could be found in a regular village—except that this one is yellow. And big and tall.
Curiosity kills the cat, the saying goes, but satisfaction brings it back. It was just a matter of whether or not Derek is willing to make a sacrifice.
Only God knows what kind of sacrifice it would be.
Only He knows, but now Derek is about to find out for himself.
The chorus stops as if on cue. Taking one last breath, he resolves himself to step forward and into the gates.
He looks up.
No. That… is not human. It isn't possible that this, this figure could have come from this planet—or any sane world, for that matter.
He is a hulking figure, one that brings envy to the tallest mountains and greater presence than the most prevalent oceans. The entity cannot be defined by mere mortal definitions of space and time. His sole existence is a contradiction to all the forces and laws of life that have ever been created. He is like a bug in the code of the universe. An anomaly. Something that shouldn't exist—no, should never have existed.
That is what awaits Derek. A towering black silhouette stands with yellow rays of an unknown light radiating from behind him with the aura of a king. A crown, with the spikes long and thin like thickened thorns. And his face—or what looks to be a semblance of one. Most of his features are overshadowed, but it cannot hide those terrible, piercing eyes that stabs into his soul with no care for mercy.
Derek's body betrays him. Against his better judgement, he moves forward. A step closer to him.
His eyes do not stretch wide to accommodate all of him; they do not need to, for the moment Derek's vision is filled with him his mind empties completely of inferior, human thoughts. His pupils constrict down to a tiny pinhole, trying in vain to block out the overwhelming sight.
Derek's body teeters on the edge of a precipice, swaying back and forth like a helpless leaf in the wind against the destined storm—whose only saving grace is him. Him, who hasn't moved at all since they met—as if he is not worthy of giving attention to.
He falls to the side again, and everything stills for a long time. For less than a second.
One.
He tips over.
Two.
He falls.
Three.
Down,
down,
down
into the
abyss
holding
everything
D3rLord3 surfaces from the mud.
"Haa!" he gasps, choking on air. It takes all the strength left in his body to not fall to his knees. The pressure from him is still there, weighing on his head and shoulders to force him to break and fall and submit and surrender. The fog that had covered his mind withdraws, but it is only a matter of time twenty-two seconds, depending on sanity before it comes back. D3rLord3 may have freed himself once, but there is no guarantee no possibility that he can do it a second time—especially when he is right there. Watching. Waiting for what D3rLord3 is going to do next which they both know.
D3rLord3 is going to do a lot of things, but giving up is not one of them.
With staggering legs, he makes himself take a step back. Then another. He slowly backs away from him against every nerve in his body screaming at him to fall, to obey, to worship—
He scrambles backwards, almost hitting his helmet on the door three centimeters away on the way out. Fog crawls back in his vision and mind, threatening to cut off any last remaining semblance of reason. He jerks his head side to side; the helmet knocks against his skull with a dull thud.
He runs.
The muscles in his legs burn which will cause aches and pains after. He trips, stumbling in the dark, but he catches himself just in time to not completely fall and keeps going. Every few seconds, he whips his head around to see if that has emerged from those cursed gates to chase him down. To return his devoting gaze to him—
The ink sac bursts in his gauntlets, staining the metal with cold, black liquid.
D3rLord3 retraces his steps. The emptiness gives way to the stone and tuff that he had just passed by sixteen minutes two seconds earlier. His footsteps come back. Loud. Rushed. Panicked. The metal hits stone, just loud enough to drown out the blood rushing in his ears and the pounding of his heart going at 153 beats per minute.
The mud-bricked corridor comes into view to the right. He turns his head, then double-takes, as if expecting something to be there following him.
He doesn't turn right. It's too late to do so.
The cave eventually closes in, forming back into the regular Minecraft cave structure. The usual familiarity, however, is strangely absent.
D3rLord3 keeps running, only coming to a halt as he finally meets the end of the cave. Where everything began.
His gauntlets, still covered in slowly-drying ink, hits the stone. Once. Twice. Again and again, with a desperate force that stings his bones and sets fire to his nerves. The stone blocks, crumbling under his ministrations, become smeared with ink. In return, the gauntlets scrape against the rock with a jarring screech. The metal chips off, little by little—but D3rLord3 doesn't stop.
He can't. He has to do this. He has to push forward. To warn Avery.
And then finally, finally, one of the blocks fall off with a pop.
Light fills D3rLord3's vision. After spending so long in the darkness, the brightness makes him squeeze his eyes shut in pain and disgust. He forces the last few blocks trapping him inside and lurches forward, bracing himself on the floor to stand up again with shaky limbs.
He is back in the mine. Everything looks untouched: the chest in the middle, the uniform doors, the flickering torches. He steps forward, heart still pumping, and looks up the cobblestone stairs. The entrance fades to darkness.
He doesn't have much time left. Two minutes. He opens the chest. Iron and diamond winks in the torchlight, coated with colored traces of other ores—but he has no need for any of that. Instead, he reaches down into the bottom of the chest and grabs a piece of coal. It's chalky and crumbly, practically falling apart in his hand, but D3rLord3's mind is racing too much to fully notice.
The book he summons from his inventory seems to be old. Fifteen centuries ago. The leather is cracked and stiff, the pages yellowed and stained. D3rLord3 opens the book, bringing the piece of coal to its pages.
He writes.
"Huh? What is this?"
Flip-flops walk down cobblestone stairs. "I don't remember making this whole thing."
A chest opens. It closes a few seconds after, and the spine of a book cracks painfully. A few pages rustle.
"Whatever you do at the crossroads," Avery reads out loud, "don't… turn… left?"