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Seconds, Fragile as Glass

So Mumbo just has to kill everyone in less than half an hour, without dying, and win before he fails. Quite simple, really. Just win.

My contribution to the incredible @mumbozine - the piece for Second Life, the series that is totally real and Mumbo totally won! A collaboration with the lovely @snerd-khes-draws, originally their idea even; their incredible art can be found right here!

Read it here on AO3!

Want an unnecessary amount of information on the mechanics/teams/behind-the-scenes? See my fake wiki notes here!

-----

Mumbo isn’t even sure if his heart’s started beating again before he stumbles away from the bed, shoving hands into pockets to find the task book. The combination of the Fragile state sapping half his health, and the Red state filling him with adrenaline, makes his chest feel like it’s going to burst. If he’s going to have any chance at all at getting to Red Second, he needs to start on the task now. The book falls open in his hands, its ribbon unbinding and bookmarking the page he needs. (He doesn’t need the explanation of how Fragile lives and tasks work–not now, on the last one.) Mumbo’s eyes scan quickly down.

To earn your Red Second Chance Life, you must: Destroy every bed on the server. You have: 30 minutes.

Mumbo runs the numbers in his head–factor in the people left alive, their last known locations, the spawn rates at this time of night–and closes the book. And tosses it on the bed, shaking his head. There’s no way he’s pulling that off. There’s too many beds on the server. A single one in a mine somewhere, and any effort is wasted. Besides, if Mumbo tries to destroy even the beds of just the active players, he’ll be spotted, and the others know how quickly one can be taken from Fragile to Dead. And Mumbo has no illusions; he is not good enough to take any of them in a head-on fight at this kind of handicap. (It’s questionable even without the handicap.)

The bell hanging on the wall stares at him, and Mumbo stares back. It’s just him and Scar left from the Bluebells, and Pearl knocked Scar onto Fragile minutes ago. They’re running out of options. He can’t do the task. So Mumbo just has to kill everyone in less than half an hour, without dying, and win before he fails. Quite simple, really. Just win.

Mumbo’s still rifling through chests when he hears footsteps. The shield comes up first as he turns, fumbling to get his axe in hand before Scar moves to att– Wait. It’s Scar. Mumbo’s guard drops; further still when he sees that Scar’s waving a shovel, not a sword. Scar smiles. “Been gathering sand for some good ol’ TNT. Thought I’d find you here, plus, you know. Outside at night is a bad call.” “Not going for your task either? Might almost have a chance with both of us.” Mumbo doesn’t mention that Scar could’ve gone for him. The bell hanging over the doorframe still rings in his mind. A promise made. Scar shakes his head as he closes the door. “Nah. Told me to kill someone with an anvil. Even if I could get close enough to try, I checked. We don’t have the iron for that, and I’m not spending my last hour mining.” He stretches, chest flexing, and grins. Red flares in his eyes. “So, if I’m goin’ out, might as well go out with a bang, yeah?”

Something in Mumbo’s brain clicks. Resources. Beds. Their chests filled not with iron, but with gunpowder, and tripwire hooks, and bright blue dye. Go out with a bang.

“Scar,” Mumbo says, already turning to the chests and running the numbers, “do you happen to remember the crafting recipe for a crossbow?”

-----

The arrow thwips into the snow, inches from Pearl’s foot. Impulse jumps, but Pearl doesn’t flinch–just lifts her head to stare down the mountain. She calls, “Back for more, Scar?” Scar waves his bow good-naturedly, even as another arrow falls into his hand. “Oh, just thought I’d return the favor, Pearl! Task for a task, it’s only fair, right? Then we’ll be all squared away!” Impulse moves between them, shield already raised. “You want her, Scar, you’re coming through me first!” His nametag is heartless; still at the beginning of the end. Impulse and Pearl–the last of the Hi-Rise and the last of Peak–do not plan to go down easy. A grin. “Sure, I’ll take a volunteer!” The arrow nocks, draws back. “Just hold still!”

Pearl draws her own bow, and arrows begin to fly. They’re both good shots, but Scar’s onslaught is far more interruptable, having to dodge without an Impulse to take arrows for him. “Why don’t you come up, Scar?” Pearl calls, ducking under a near-miss. “You’d get a clearer shot that way!” Scar scoffs, mock-offended. “Up? Through all that powdered snow and pit traps? I’m not falling for that twice in one day!” “Y’mean you didn’t learn to change out your booties before coming here all alone?” “You know me, Pearl!” A manic laugh as his shot cracks Impulse’s pants down the leg. “I don’t learn from my mistakes!”

“But I do.” Mumbo’s voice comes from behind Pearl. She barely catches a glimpse of him as she turns, leather-booted heel braced on the hilltop, before something blurs towards her face. Red and white, and suddenly light blue.

PEARLESCENTMOON went off with a bang

The blast engulfs Impulse as well, and by the time he wafts the smoke away with his shield, Pearl is gone. “NO! PEARL!” His cry echoes from the mountaintop, and he glares murderously at Mumbo, still in the act of tossing aside the spent crossbow. “That’s it, you’re-” A bowstring releases behind him.

Impulse’s regular Red life gives him more hearts than the Fragile pair; he’s sturdier. But not sturdier enough. And Scar’s aim is true.

IMPULSESV was shot by GOODTIMEWITHSCAR

-----

Impulse slams back into his body, immediately yanking the book out of the pocket it always appears in– And blinks. “Spawn? Why am I–” His head swivels, too confused to mourn. “Did I forget to replace my bed when I moved it, or did someone br–”

Click.

Impulse looks down at his foot, tipping just onto the edge of a wooden pressure plate. One of a ring of pressure plates surrounding him. He can hear the redstone pulse zip underneath. And a familiar sound follows.

Hsssss.

“Oh, COME O-”

IMPULSESV blew up

-----

Mumbo hears the thunderclap, and the message ping on his communicator echoes it. He stumbles down the Snow Mountain path to meet Scar, practically dancing as his veins course with the adrenaline of something finally going right. “It worked, Scar! It actually WORKED!” “Of course it did!” Scar flexes, his grin still holding battle-madness at the corners. He points towards the sky as if he can spot her ghost staring back. “Who’s bait NOW, huh Pearl?” “...you, Scar.” Mumbo laughs incredulously. “Explicitly you! It was your idea to be! The whole point was–” “Eh, point, schmoint,” Scar laughs in turn, “it worked, and they’re dead, and we’re alive!” A pause as his eyes flicker sideways, widen, and his smile falters. “Well. YOU’RE alive, Mumbo.” “We actually d–Wait, what?”

Scar slips out of Mumbo’s lax hold and steps back. Mumbo’s brow furrows, but the book that Scar produces puts the pieces together. His eyes shift to his own timer, trying to do the math. How long before him did Scar become Fragile? “You’re…you’re almost out of time, Scar.” A chuckle. “Not almost, buddy.” Scar takes another step back, turns, and throws the book aside. The rest of his inventory follows; crossbows, ender pearls, half a stack of gunpowder. Finally, Scar pulls out one more thing: a single blue orchid. Scar tosses the flower to Mumbo. The smile is back on his face, but it’s not sharp with adrenaline–it’s calm. Acceptance, and a mote of grief. “Bring it home, Mumbo.” A declaration; a farewell. “For the Bluebells.”

The lightning strikes before Mumbo can answer him. A blinding flash, a sound like an anvil cracking, and the echoing ping on his communicator. He opens his eyes. Scar is gone; only the pile of items remains, and a scorch mark on the stone. Mumbo clenches the orchid tightly in both hands, and moves to gather anything he can use. Time, resources, allies, targets–they’re all running thin. He does not wipe his eyes, or look at the message. He knows what it says.

GOODTIMEWITHSCAR died of a broken heart

-----

Bdubs hears the messages, one after another, doubled by those coming through Joel’s communicator next to him. Final echoes over the grass. His eyes flick up, and meet Joel’s rising as well. They both check the List. Pearl gone. Impulse gone. Scar gone. Mumbo Fragile.

Joel moves first, lunging with his blade out, and Bdubs barely blocks it in time. His free hand reaches for his sword– Past, to a golden apple, shoved between his lips in the moments between Joel’s swings. He dances back, and practically swallows it whole. The regeneration thrums in his veins, and Bdubs grins, drawing his sword. He’s not going out like Tango did.

The forest fills with yells and the sound of diamond-on-diamond as the two trade blows. Their world narrows; there is nothing but here, nothing but them, nothing but now. Shields crack. Guards slip. Blood stains. It’s close. Close enough that Bdubs knows he has the upper hand–and Joel knows it too. They trade heart-for-heart, and on even footing, two hearts of Absorption makes the difference. Joel is better at PVP, but not better enough.

And Bdubs sees something streaking towards Joel from behind. A flash of red and white and– BOOM-BO-BOO-BOOM-BO-BOOM! Heat. Sound. The lights consuming them both are a blinding shade of blue.

-----

SMALLISHBEANS went off with a bang while fighting BDOUBLEO100

-----

Mumbo throws the empty crossbows away, raining down from his pillar in the trees; the only way he could get a clean shot. His ears are ringing from six fire-charge-stuffed stars going off so close; his vision doubles as he checks his communicator, coughing. Is that two deaths, or– No, it stabilizes into one. Only one death message. Oh no. He fumbles in his inventory, taking stock in the beat between heartbeats. Out of paper and rockets. No shield, no iron. Too few hearts for ender pearling away. “YOU!” From the lingering smoke, Bdubs emerges like a phantom, covered in blood and char. His sword lifts, pointing right at Mumbo’s heart. “That was MY kill! This is MY victory!” Deliriously, Mumbo laughs. His hand wraps around the haft of the diamond axe. The one thing he has left. “Oh yeah? What…what are you gonna do about it, Bdubs?” No defense. No time. Just attack. Just win. Bdubs grins, recognizing the challenge. “Guess I’m just gonna have to kill YOU!” His grip on the sword tightens, ready to swing up– Mumbo doesn’t let him. He leaps forward, and swings first, bringing the axe down with both hands. It finds a crack in Bdubs’ shield. THUN-CRRRK The shield splits and splinters apart, and the axe-head digs into Bdubs’ forearm just inside of the grip. Momentum carries Mumbo to the ground with it, pulling back as Bdubs curses and throws away the remnants before they both swing forward. Mumbo hears his chestplate crack before he feels the sword sink into his stomach, crying out. Pain laces the adrenaline, sharpening the world like a bad filter. The blade pulls out, and Mumbo tastes iron. His arms burn as the axe arcs high. He can see Bdubs lifting the sword again. They both aim for the heart. Swords are faster.

But not faster enough.

BDOUBLEO100 was slain by MUMBOJUMBO

Mumbo staggers as the axe thuds into the dirt, momentum carrying through the space where a body no longer exists. He yanks it back out, gripping tight and whirling, waiting for the next blow to fall. Who’s next? Who’s left? Who must die? The adrenaline drums in his heart, pounds a litany into his mind. Who’s next? Who’s left? Who must die? He flickers his mind up, summoning the List in his vision. It blurs, names blending into one another as his fresh gut wound lurches in protest, but Mumbo grits his teeth and bears it. He doesn’t have time to bleed out.

The names are grey. All of them. All names are grey. All but one, beating red.

MumboJumbo

It’s just him. Mumbo is the last one alive.

“I won.” His mouth moves, and his brain catches up. “I…I won?!” Mumbo wants to throw his hands in the air and cheer. Instead, he only feels the axe slipping from his grip to clunk on the grass, and the sound that leaves him is closer to a whimper. The wave of joy inside him crashes against a wall of pain rearing above the fading battle-adrenaline, and it’s all his body can do to stay standing. Standing and staring at the List. His eyes glaze a moment, seeing flashes of everyone in their final moments.

Grian, Red early through bad luck, and knocked into the End Void during his last task. Skizz, obliterated by a Warden in a Fragile-forced panic. Etho, failing every Fragile task and timing out on his front porch. BigB, finishing a Fragile task and getting exploded by a creeper hiding outside the B-Team base, twice. Martyn, whose early Nether trip failure snowballed and lost a Fragile fight to Scott. Scott, whittled down by nearly every Red and finally failing a water clutch. Cleo, whose last task told her to fight a Wither, and decided to say proper goodbyes instead of scrambling. Jimmy, the whole Pack falling in a dripstone trap on Snow Mountain. Tango, who woke in the Pack’s base alongside Joel after Jimmy died, and lost the battle of immediate mutual betrayal. Pearl, pincered by the last ride of a Fragile Alliance. Impulse, bed broken, shot, and spawn-trapped. Scar, giving everything for his Bluebell. Joel, taken out by six fireworks to the back. Bdubs, his blade touching Mumbo’s armor before it and he disappeared.

His timer still ticks in the corner of his vision as it returns to the present. Less than thirty seconds. Whatever ghosts are watching him will not have long to wait. Mumbo dips a shaking hand into his jacket. Wraps it around a blue orchid, pulling it into the moonlight. A breathless smile. He lifts it high. “I d–”

MUMBOJUMBO died of a broken heart

-----

“Mumbo!” The sound of Grian’s voice makes Mumbo’s eyes fly open. He’s in Spectator mode, judging from the particular weightless feeling, and Grian is floating in front of him. Grian looks more solid than he should–Admin. “Grian!” Mumbo tries to straighten, overdoes it, and flails a somersault in the air before righting himself. The rush of battle adrenaline courses through him still, and with no real body to slow it down, he feels downright giddy. “Grian, I did it! I won! I actually won!” Grian smiles at him. He almost sounds happy. “Yeah, you did it, buddy! Congratulations on winning Second Life!” With a grin, Mumbo looks around. “Where are the others? Oh, Grian, the look on Bdubs’ face, you should’ve seen–I mean, I’m sure you did, from up here, but from down there–he’s not too mad, is he? Oh, do I even care? I–”

“Mumbo.” Grian cuts him off. “The others aren’t here, and…that’s what I’m here to talk about.” “What? Did they all leave already?” “No,” Grian sighs, adjusting his glasses, a violet glint playing at the edges. “No, Mumbo, they…something went. Wrong.” Mumbo’s non-beating heart sinks. “Wrong? What do you mean wrong? Are they okay?” Grian holds up a hand, and Mumbo stops rambling. He recognizes the look. A moment passes, both jaws tight, before Grian speaks. “I don’t. Know, exactly, what happened. Something about the code for the server, the mechanics, got…corrupted. It’s trying to keep them Fragile after death, which is, well, I can’t say what it’ll do to player memory code if it tries to Fail Spectators, but it wouldn’t be good.” He shudders, and the whole world shudders with him. “I felt something off after I died, but it didn’t seem serious until I saw it happen to Skizz when he got here, and then Etho, and–I’ve had to pull a lot of strings to lock everyone in stasis until I can fix it.” Mumbo feels cold. The blood in his nonexistent veins has turned to ice. “That…it got into their memory code? You’re right, that’s…but you can fix it?”

Grian sucks his teeth for a moment. “I…I have an idea. It’s the only way I can think of. And if this doesn’t work, it’ll at least buy us time to get help.” “That’s good!” Mumbo tries to sound more relieved than he feels. “So problem solved?” “Maybe. The idea is to reset everyone’s code to what it was, before Second Life began. If it works like I think, it’ll cut off the infected code from the rest of their memory. Can’t treat them as Failing on Fragile if they never were Fragile, functionally, you know?” A nod. The idea sounds…sound, but Mumbo can tell there’s more.

“Thing is, Mumbo,” Grian continues, half-turned away as if he can’t look right at him, “if I reset everyone, it’ll undo the entire season. Like it never happened. Everyone will forget everything. And I’ve left myself a note to not use the Fragile mechanic, so whatever the season is instead, it won’t be that. Which means–” “Second Life will never have happened,” Mumbo finishes for him. At Grian’s nod, he twists his lip further, mustache tilted. “And, er, you’re not just doing this because it erases you being the first to go out, right?” Grian’s head whips back to glare at Mumbo. “Mumbo! This is serious! I wouldn’t do all this for something that petty!” Mumbo feels guilty for even suggesting it, and Grian’s rage turns to a sulk. “I wouldn’t take this from you unless there wasn’t a choice.” “I know, sorry, I–Wait a minute.” Mumbo squints. “If everyone’s going to forget everything, then why are you even telling me this? I’m going to forget it too!” Grian looks towards the moon, and sighs. “You…might not have to. The fact that we can talk right now means your memory code is stable. Winning the season fixed whatever broke in the rest of us, I guess.” His eyes come back down to Mumbo’s. “If you wanted to, I think I can let you remember Second Life.”

A pause. Mumbo stares at him. Grian stares back.

“...it would be just me, wouldn’t it.” Mumbo follows the train of logic. “I’d be the only one to remember me winning, and considering…” A gesture at himself. “You don’t think anyone’d believe me. That’s why you’re asking. Isn’t it?” Grian nods. “Just you. Not even I’m going to remember what I’ve done once I’ve reset it all, only left evidence to keep it from happening again. You can keep the win, keep the whole season, but none of us will know. Or, I can reset your memory code, and you’ll forget like the rest of us. It might be easier. But you deserve the choice.”

Mumbo’s mind races. “Do I have to decide right now?” The rectangle in Grian’s eyes seems bigger than before, one hand already pulling at strands of purple-green light from nowhere. “I’m sorry, Mumbo, but the longer we wait, the more risk there is that it doesn’t work at all. It’s now or never.” “Right, right,” Mumbo acquiesces. He shifts, feet nervously tapping air, and looks down at the battleground. At the grass stained with blood, and char, and light blue dye.

Mumbo opens his mouth.

Grian sighs over the fire ticks, burning the cursed armor away one durability at a time. “That’s so embarrassing, dude. I should really know this stuff, but I just don’t. As soon as a series is done, it leaves my brain.” Mumbo hums agreement, paging through the enchanter’s options. Wild Life has been a roller coaster of a series. And that’s not even counting the actual roller coaster overhead! “It is true–I mean, I completely forgot what season I had been in, and that is–that is–painfully embarrassing.” “You don’t know–you didn’t remember what series you’d been in?” A snort. “No!” He slams the book shut, following Grian outside the Spanners’ cave. “No, genuinely, here’s–here’s me attempting.”

They stand in the open. The silence stretches between them, uncomfortably long. Somewhere in the distance, Quizmaster’s music echoes faintly.

“...3rd Life.” Grian stares at him, slowly shaking his head. “No.” “3rd Life? No?” Mumbo stares back, brow furrowed. He swears he can recall… “I thought you had started in Last Life.” Grian’s eyes flicker upwards, flashing purple. He nods in confirmation. And Mumbo finally remembers What Actually Happened in 3rd Life. “Oh yeah, no, so I wasn’t in 3rd Life,” he answers almost a little too quickly. Their eyes meet.

They both laugh so hard it sounds more like wheezing by the time they’re done, stumbling further away from the Spanners’ cave. When the fit finally clears and he can breathe, Mumbo shakes his head and tries again. “Okay, so, yep, so. Last Life, that’s the name of it.” Grian nods. “Yyyyep.” Silence stretches. Mumbo’s brain is practically audible in its whirring. Flickering through his memory code, searching for the answer.

It comes out quiet, but certain. “Second Life.”

A long moment.

Grian raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a series.” It’s just as certain. He looks like he’s questioning if Mumbo’s got a brain at all. And Mumbo pauses. Stares at him.

Then he laughs, and says, “Okay.”

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