[A/N: This is a story entirely guided by you guys, by the readers. Be sure to vote at the end of each entry! ALSO, if you'd like to be added the tag list, please let me know and I'll be sure to add you next time!]
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(...) “Are you alright?” Jimmy asks, warm and concerned, and it’s so, so tempting to lean on his host for support like he’d already been doing this morning. It’s so, so tempting to let someone else help him shoulder the burden he suddenly woke up with less than an hour ago.
But he doesn’t know them. Smoke whisps past his lips and he swallows past the lump in his throat. It’s too much, too fast, and he needs…he needs time.
Jimmy steps around Shelby, standing between her and Tango, his wings spreading slightly to subtly block him from her view. It’s almost like he can tell Tango is getting a bit overwhelmed. He looks a bit uncertain, almost awkward, but he seems like he wants to help.
“Tango…?”
➤ Ask to talk alone. Jimmy feels safe to talk to, but Shelby’s still a stranger.
Tango’s eyes dart toward where he knows Shelby is still sitting, out of sight behind Jimmy’s wings. He opens his mouth but he fumbles with his words, not sure how to respond. Then–
“Can she go?” Tango blurts it out weakly then immediately regrets it, blanching with wide eyes as he splutters around the smoke on his tongue. “S-Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t - gahk - that was rude, I didn’t mean–”
But Jimmy doesn’t look upset. He looks a bit startled, but he smiles anyway, and when he turns to talk to Shelby, she has a soft, worried look on her face. Jimmy is speaking, low words that Tango feels like he should be able to understand, but there’s blood pounding in his ears and he’s struggling to control his breathing and he can’t quite pay attention. He misses whatever is said, but he sees the result. Shelby’s already tripping over her own feet to stand and she vanishes her teacup with a glowing wave of her hand. Magic, he registers, but it doesn’t seem as important or impressive right now as it would if Tango wasn’t feeling so freaking claustrophobic.
His lungs are still too tight and the house feels slightly too small and nothing is familiar, nothing is grounding. He can hear his own rattling, smoking, wheezing breaths in his ears - and he closes his eyes.
The darkness helps.
He can feel the chair beneath him vibrating slightly from movement, from footsteps. Distantly he hears a door open and shut, and the light rhythmic jingle of something metal sounds muffled through the haze in his head.
His lungs are burning in more ways than one.
Somewhere, something creaks.
…there’s a tap on his knee. A lukewarm touch, light tapping, the slightest bit of pressure. Tango focusses on it like a guiding light, an anchor. Something to center on.
“…gotta breathe, mate. I don’t know what’ll happen if you have to respawn, an’ I don’t wanna risk it ‘til we know for sure. Alright? Tango? Tango, you with me?”
Tango sucks down an unsteady lungful of air and his breath hitches again, sulfur on his tongue. He doesn’t know when his blaze rods appeared but he can feel them spinning rapidly around his head, reacting to his heightened state alongside the flames dancing erratically through his hair.
“I, er…I can talk, if you want?” Jimmy says, uncertain and awkward, and Tango almost laughs. Almost. It comes out as a choked noise, and Jimmy must take that as an affirmation because he taps Tango’s knee again fidgetingly. “Er - right! Right. ‘Kay. Um - well, er…you’re in Tumble Town. Said that already. We’re not a big empire, but we get on well enough. Er…I’ve been here for as long as I can remember. ‘Course, I haven’t been the Sheriff for all that - there was another one ‘fore me, an’ he was around for ages. Dunno what happened to him, honestly. But, uh…I took over a long while back, built this place up from what it was before. Used to be tiny, this place. Pitiful really…but it was home, ya know? I couldn’t exactly abandon it, could I…?”
Something in Jimmy’s voice is soothing and comfortable despite the awkwardness, this light warmth that feels almost familiar to Tango, though he can’t imagine why. He doesn’t have the mental energy to think on it anyway. He clutches his own thighs, trying not to let his claws dig into the fabric of his jumpsuit, and he breathes.
It’s, miraculously, easier with the bubbling sound of Jimmy’s voice filtering through his ears, a centering beacon of sound through the static in his head.
His blaze rods slow their manic spiral, and though he can still taste sulfur on his tongue, his chest isn’t feeling as tight as it was before. Breathing is easier. His shoulders feel less tense.
Jimmy, in the meantime, has trailed off from whatever dialogue path he’d been wandering down.
“...you alright?” he asks, uncertain as ever, and Tango nods roughly.
“Better,” he rasps, much to Jimmy’s visible relief. He wheezes lightly, remnants of smoke still whisping past his teeth, but he can feel the fire in his lungs abating bit by bit.
Jimmy hesitates, taps his knee again, then stands slowly from the chair he must have pulled over when Tango wasn’t paying attention. The spurs on his boots jingle - ah, that metal sound Tango heard before - as he steps slowly away. Either he’s withdrawing from an uncomfortable situation, or he’s giving Tango space. Tango can’t fault him for either option.
“Should I ask what that was about?” Jimmy prods hesitantly, and Tango’s heart clenches for a moment. He swallows.
“...homesick,” he lands on after a moment, and Jimmy lets out what Tango hopes is a sympathetic breath. He doesn’t elaborate yet, his thoughts still swimming and his nerves on edge. He draws his uninjured leg up to his chest and hugs it, burying his face against his knee, and after a moment of quiet Jimmy retreats to the kitchen. Tango watches him through unfocussed eyes, hears the opening of chests and the movement of dishes and the light clang of a pan without really taking them in.
Right…breakfast. That’s why he’d come down here. He’d almost forgotten that was the point of his trip downstairs. That, and finding his ship.
“I wasn’t supposed to crash,” he says hoarsely, and there’s a slight shift in sound from the kitchen, the rustle of feathers and a low birdlike warble that Tango can’t remember the meaning of. He’s heard Grian and False make sounds like that, and Pearl, back on – but he can’t remember.
Anyway.
“...I had a mission,” he says, carrying on in the quiet. “There was a, uh…” Calamity, cataclysm, catastrophe– “...planetary disaster. Back on H-Hermitcraft.”
“Herrmitcraft?” Jimmy asks, soft and curious, and Tango nods against the fabric of his jumpsuit.
“Home,” he specifies. He clears his throat and props his chin on his knee instead, staring off into the middle distance and not seeing much in particular. “Moon crash. Headin’ straight for the planet. I, uh–” He wheezes weakly, his hair still dancing with flames - did they ever stop? - as he speaks. “–I tried to stop it. I was gonna blow it up, divert it, something. Built my ship and got explodification stuff and everything. My buddy Doc built another ship, a bigger one, so we could evacuate if the plan didn’t work. The Hermitheus.” A wry smile quirks at the corner of his mouth. Doc and Ren had bickered for days over that name.
(Across the room, Jimmy jolts, though Tango doesn’t notice. He mouths the word Hermitheus to himself as he flips the bacon.)
Tango’s smile fades as quickly as it had come, thoughts muddled with memories he’s been trying not to focus on all morning.
“Everything went wrong,” he says, whispers, his eyes tingling with tears and his fingers digging into his arms where he’s still half-hugging himself. “I lost contact, and I couldn’t stop the moon crash, and it–”
A shockwave collision, their home tearing itself apart, the crumbling of the server as Tango watched on from a faulty ship that he couldn’t even use to stop what he was watching happen right in front of him.
Then - spiraling, freefall, his ship out of control, alarms blaring, red lights flashing, smoke in the cockpit and Holsten in his ears–
“...Tango?”
Tango flinches, his eyes focussing on the Sheriff, who had turned away from the stove to watch him worriedly. His wings are ruffled against his back, and now that Tango can see the backs of them, his eyes widen ever so slightly. Jimmy’s right wing is burned, scorched, many of the feathers blackened and uneven at the edges. There are a few bare patches too, feathers notably missing and disrupting the even pattern of yellow-gold that’s meant to be there.
Jimmy blinks at him, glances toward his own back, and seems to realize what Tango’s staring at because he chuckles sheepishly and his wings shift against his back.
“Oh…right. That. ‘S all good, the crash site was just a bit hot. Fire an’ all that.”
Crash site.
Crash site.
Tango’s breath hitches.
“Well, I did drag you out of a rocketship” Jimmy had said, and oh, Tango is definitely picturing that a bit differently now than he had been this morning. Much more fire, much more explodification.
Hels.
Jimmy is setting a plate of food in front of him before he fully processes the fact that the Sheriff had probably risked his own life to save Tango’s, and he never really gets the chance to ask for more details about his rescue before Jimmy’s joining him at the table.
“So…you lost contact? With your server?” he asks, derailing multiple trains of thought Tango is trying to wrangle, and Tango stares across the table at the Sheriff blankly for a moment or two. Lost - right. Right.
The Hermits.
The Hermitheus.
Tango picks up the fork he’s been given on autopilot and pokes at the sunny-side-up eggs on his plate, popping one of them and watching the yolk run toward his bacon.
“...yeah,” he sighs hoarsely. “Before the moon even…yeah. I, uh…I never heard if they got off planet before–” Don’t think about it. He clears his throat. “...I have no idea where they are.” If they are. If they made it. Shut up.
Jimmy’s expression flits through a few emotions in quick succession, so open and obvious, no poker face at all. He lands on something that looks like concern and sympathy and the feathers around his ears flare.
“D’you want me to message our admin?” he asks, bacon hanging from his fork. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “Fwhip’s…a good guy. He might be able to help you get in touch with them again. It’s worth a shot, right?”
Tango doesn’t know this Fwhip. He doesn’t know anything about this server beyond the few things Jimmy and Shelby have told him, honestly. But both of them have been kind enough, so surely Fwhip must be as well…?
Except, of course, Tango’s still itching to go back to his ship. He needs to know how much of his tech survived the crash - and subsequent fire - and if he can use the communications system to reconnect with his servermates. He’d had a direct line to the Hermitheus before this. If their ship is still out there, he should be able to repair his end to get in touch again. Right?
What does he ask to do?
Visit the crash site first. He already has a communication setup; why waste it?
Message Fwhip. He’s the server admin; he must have some idea of how to help.
Voting ended onMay 13, 2025
[A/N: We back baby!!! I've been bitten by the writing bug again! :3 Poor Tango's going through it, man...though considering he's under the impression his entire family might be gone, I think he has good reason to be having a bit of a breakdown ^^;; Jimmy's an awkward bean who doesn't really know if he's doing the right thing to help this random wayward astronaut, but he's trying. Big Man Jim coming in clutch!
And we WILL see what's happening on the other side of the rift again, I promise! We'll get there ;3 For now though...where do you think Tango should go? I know I have my preference here, as I always do...but what do you think?]
[A/N: This is a story entirely guided by you guys, by the readers. Be sure to vote at the end of each entry! ALSO, if you'd like to be added the tag list, please let me know and I'll be sure to add you next time!]
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➤ Stay. The stranger seems friendly, and Tango could use a friend right now.
Tango never does stand up from the bed, though he’d sat up with that in mind. He slouches and sinks slightly into the mattress, taking another dry breath and clutching at the edge of the bed beneath his fingers. His toes curl against the rug inside their HASA-issued socks, and he just breathes.
The stranger seemed kind enough before. It would be worth asking for his help to find the remains of Tango’s ship. And beyond that, after how long he’d been stuck up on that deadly rock in the sky, Tango can’t deny he’s craving some friendly company right now.
There are footsteps outside and the door opens again before Tango can fully register them, though his reaction is far less extreme than it had been the first time. He flinches slightly and his focus snaps to the door, where the blond stranger from before is peeking cautiously into the room at him. The man smiles awkwardly and, when Tango manages a tight smile in return, he finally opens the door fully and crosses the threshold.
He isn’t human. Not that Tango isn’t used to inhuman players - pot, kettle - but the massive golden-feathered wings at the stranger’s back catch his attention straight away. They hadn’t been visible from behind the door. They’re the color of sunshine and larger than those of the avians Tango is used to. He must have been staring too long, because the stranger’s wings ruffle and he chuckles, drawing Tango’s eyes back to his face.
“Hope you don’t have a thing against avians,” the guy says brightly, a tad sheepishly, as he approaches the bed and carefully sets the pitcher of water he’d been carrying on the cluttered sidetable. He holds an already-filled glass out to Tango, who takes it with shaking hands. Tango brings it to his lips without hesitation, the blessed feeling of cool water down his throat a voiddamn relief after the sandpaper sensation he’d been dealing with until now.
It’s only afterward that he thinks he probably should have checked to see if it was poisoned or something…but frankly, if the guy had wanted him dead, he would’ve done it long before now.
“Nah, nothin’ against avians,” Tango denies with a quirked smile, his speech not nearly as taxing as it had been before. “I’ve got a couple o’ bird-brained friends back on–” His breath catches and his smile wavers, and against his better judgment he clears his hoarse throat.
Back on a planet that no longer exists. Tango swallows thickly and brings the glass to his lips again, avoiding the stanger’s curious eyes.
“Back home?” the guy guesses, his voice sounding warm and intrigued alongside the dull dispondance churning in Tango’s chest. Tango’s heart squeezes, and he hums noncommittally. He doesn’t need to talk about it with a complete stranger, no matter how kind. Not right now.
Tango takes another slow sip and avoids the guy’s gaze, feeling the bubble of awkwardness build in the silence. Until his host decides to pop it.
“Er - I’m Jimmy, by the way,” he says, just as brightly as everything else he’s said so far. “Sheriff of Tumble Town.”
He holds out a hand to shake, and Tango squints at him, one of his ears flicking. Sheriff, huh? The guy certainly looks the part, with his cowboy boots and large-buckled belt and the trademark brown leather vest. The gold star-shaped badge on his chest glints slightly in the morning light. Tango hesitates before offering his own hand to shake in return. The Sheriff’s hand is slightly calloused, like he’s a man used to manual labor, but not so dry that he spends most of his time that way. Interesting.
“Uh - Tango,” he mutters. “Of the Tek variety.” Something alights behind the guy’s - Jimmy’s - eyes, something like recognition or intrigue, but it’s stifled almost as quickly as it comes. Tango does his best to turn the analytical part of his brain elsewhere. There’s no reason to be so suspicious of his host…yet. He withdraws his hand and fiddles with the water glass he’s still holding. “...Tumble Town?” he asks instead.
Jimmy’s expression brightens tenfold and he smacks his own forehead lightly.
“Right! O’ course! You’re not from around here, you wouldn’t know–” He chuckles sheepishly and his wings puff up slightly, rustling at his back. The feathers around his ears (have those always been there?) flare, and he grins. “You’re in Tumble Town right now. ‘S my Empire! Town. My town.” He rocks back on his heels and steps back from the bed a bit, casting a glance out the nearby window. Tango’s eyes flick in the same direction, curious. “We’re in the mesa right now,” Jimmy carries on. “S’ppose that’s a good place for a netherborn, eh?”
Tango knows he really doesn’t feel up to standing right now. Despite his earlier temptation to just flee the scene and find his ship, he probably wouldn’t have made it far in his current state, not without help. But he’s curious. Sue him. He sets the half-empty glass of water on the table beside the bed and he eases himself to his feet, wincing at the way his left ankle protests having weight put on it. The Sheriff looks concerned. Tango, to his credit, does fairly well for the first few steps.
It’s the fifth one that does him in.
His ankle buckles just enough to send him off kilter, and it’s only thanks to the Sheriff that he doesn’t go down completely. Jimmy’s quick, catching him by the elbows with a startled chirp and letting Tango cling to his arms in a desperate attempt to keep himself upright.
“Oh my gosh–” Jimmy’s wings have flared out for balance and he tugs Tango toward him, looping one of Tango’s arms over his shoulders to better support his weight. “Geez buddy, you alright?”
“Ngh–” Tango lets out a pained, wheezing little sound of frustration in response, his hand shaking slightly where he’s clutching the Sheriff’s shoulder. His ankle is throbbing now where it hadn’t been before, agitated from his stupid attempt at mobility before he was ready. Idiot.
“Mate…?”
“Fine,” Tango grumbles, his ears pressed back against his hair. He holds his left foot gingerly just above the ground, splitting his balance between his host and his uninjured leg. Void. Okay. Don’t do that again. Noted. His tail darts out behind him to help keep him stable.
“I wanna see outside,” he says, his voice slightly raspy, and Jimmy makes a quiet sound that Tango can’t identify.
“You sure you don’t wanna sit down–?”
“In a minute,” Tango huffs. He doesn’t know where he is, hasn’t seen anything beyond this room since his ship crashed. He needs to know. Needs to get his bearings in a foreign world. A smokey wheeze whisps from the back of his throat. “Please. Just - wanna see.”
The Sheriff seems to think about his request for a moment, but eventually he seems to acquiesce, sighing softly as he folds his golden wings neatly against his back. He takes it slow, helping Tango to the window and keeping him upright all the while.
Jimmy wasn’t lying. The sight outside the window is as sandy as Tango expected it to be, the world seeped in a dusty red-brown that screams mesa more than anything else could. They’re enclosed in a bowl of red rocky cliffs, wooden structures built into the walls of the canyon and scattered across the flat ground at the bottom of the basin, buildings pulled straight out of an old western movie. There’s a barn in the distance, and pens for animals, and fenced-in crop gardens - and a tunnel, a tunnel cut right through the cliff wall with a train track leading off to who-know-where. Out of town, Tango supposes, though he doesn’t know for sure.
Tango lets out a breath, taking it all in. Suddenly Jimmy being a Sheriff feels extremely fitting for the place he’s found himself in.
“Glad I crashed here,” he finds himself saying, the smallest hint of amusement and gratitude lacing his words. “I don’t wanna know what woulda happened if I’d gone down in an icy tundra or something. Me an’ cold don’t exactly get along.”
Something about that sentence tickles his brain the wrong way, like he has been on friendly terms with the cold before. A mental image dances across his mind of freezing caves and an icy castle, blue soul flames dancing out of the corner of his eye - but it’s gone between one blink and the next.
“I can’t imagine why,” Jimmy says lightly, jokingly. It’s an awkward thing, like he’s trying to test the waters. His wings shuffle and fidget at his back, tickling Tango’s arm. He coughs. “Er - right! Well. Let’s get you off your feet, eh? I think I’ve still got a healing potion ‘round here if you want one. We only did topical stuff last night. Didn’t exactly wanna go force-feeding you potions when you weren’t even awake, did we?”
Tango blinks, turning his attention to his host.
“We?”
“Me an’ Shelby!” Jimmy says, brighter this time. He’s already easing Tango back toward the bed as he talks. “She’s our local witch. She’s great with potions, as long as she’s not in a creative mood. Gettin’ better at it though! I called ‘er over last night when you fell out of the sky. I didn’t have anything left to help you, mind, so I’m just glad she was still awake.”
Tango settles back on the edge of the bed with a relieved sigh as Jimmy starts clinking through the bottles cluttering the bedside table, eyeing their colors in the light from the window. He hands a rich red one over to him with a smile, looking a little victorious at his discovery.
(Tango’s not dumb enough to blindly drink whatever some random stranger has given him in an unlabelled bottle, but it sure smells like spiced melons when he pulls out the stopper. It’s familiar enough for him to sip at it cautiously, and when the familiar taste of a healing potion touches his tongue, the relief he gets from it is palpable. His ankle is already starting to hurt a little bit less when he finally caves and starts to down the potion properly.)
“I’ll fix up some food for you, if ya like,” Jimmy is saying now, and Tango is so fuzzed by the warm comfort of the potion’s healing properties that he only now notices that his host is already at the door to leave. “D’you like eggs an’ bacon? It shouldn’t take long to make, if that sounds alright.”
Tango’s nodding before he can really stop himself - but then he pauses.
He’s going to be left alone in this room again. It isn’t that big of a deal - he knows he needs the rest - but he’s feeling antsy. He’s feeling claustrophobic, the window doing little to help with that. He wants to get out, even if it’s just for a little while.
A part of him is itching to get back to his ship. The food Jimmy is offering is so tempting - he hasn’t eaten real food since his ship left Hermitcraft for its lunar mission - but he’s starting to get impatient. He doesn’t know if his friends - his family - are even–
He needs to know. Needs to find a way to contact them. His ship might be in ruins, but it might not…and the Schrödinger status of his spacecraft is making his brain itch. Alone he wouldn’t have been able to make the trip, but with Jimmy’s help he could.
Food does sound good though, and if Tango wanted to leave the room and eat downstairs instead of in bed, surely Jimmy wouldn’t mind…
Tango sets the empty potion bottle aside just as Jimmy opens the door to leave. He clears his throat, his hair sparking, and he opens his mouth to speak.
What does he ask for?
To go to his ship. Food can wait. He needs to know how bad the damage is.
To go downstairs. Food is a good idea, but he can't stay cooped up in this room.
Voting ended onJan 30, 2025
[A/N: I've officially moved into my new place and gotten through the holidays! My writer brain is FINALLY working again, which I'm very excited for! Sorry for the long wait, but welcome back to the adventure! Tango's going through it a bit, isn't he? Poor guy. Don't worry, Jimmy's here for him, even if he's a "stranger" right now.]
[A/N: This is a story entirely guided by you guys, by the readers. Be sure to vote at the end of each entry! ALSO, if you'd like to be added the tag list, please let me know and I'll be sure to add you next time!]
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➤ [He asks] to go downstairs. Food is a good idea, but he can’t stay cooped up in this room.
“Mind if I come downstairs with you?” Tango asks, his voice just a little bit raspy, and Jimmy pauses in the open doorway to look back over his shoulder. He looks pleasantly surprised, the feathers around his ears flaring, and Tango carries on: “I, uh…I wanna get out of this room.”
“Oh–! Yeah, ‘course!” Jimmy smiles brightly, and his eyes dart down toward the floor at Tango’s feet. “D’you need help walkin’ down there?”
…ah. Right. His ankle. Tango looks down too. He rotates his foot experimentally, and he decides it hurts decently less than before thanks to the potion Jimmy had given him, though it’s still a bit sore. He might have to wait to go look for his ship until he knows he can stand on his own, as much as it pains him to admit it.
“Probably smart, yeah,” he smiles weakly. “If you don’t mind?”
Jimmy just smiles and nods.
It takes a little effort to get downstairs, though not as much as Tango had been expecting. He can put more weight on his leg than he could before, and Jimmy is patient as they take it a step at a time. By the time they’re stepping down into a modest living space that’s a living room, dining area, and kitchen all in one, Tango is already casting an eye around for a chair so he doesn’t have to keep using his host as a crutch - and he does a double-take.
There’s a woman sitting at the table near the kitchen half of the room, a woman wearing moss-green overall shorts and a purple shirt with puffy-looking sleeves. There are a few flowers that look like they’re growing out of her dark hair, her colors and the greenery reminding Tango (rather painfully) of Bdubs. (He tries not to think about it.)
He blinks. She turns and blinks back. Then her eyes go wide.
“Oh!” she says brightly, jumping out of her chair and nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. She gives off a bubbly vibe, eager and excited. “Hi! The Sheriff said you were awake, but I didn’t think you’d be up! Or - down. Here. Down here. Not that you can’t be down here, I’m just surprised, and - wow, your eyes are red–”
“Shelby,” Jimmy huffs, sounding fondly exasperated and just a little bit out of breath. He adjusts his hold on Tango, who grips Jimmy’s shoulder a little tighter to compensate. “Mind pullin’ out a chair? He’s got a bad leg.”
“A bad leg?” the woman - Shelby - repeats, taking a long moment to process the words. Then– “Oh - OH! Right, right! Chair. On it!”
Shelby spins on the spot and tugs her own chair away from the table, turning it a bit so Jimmy can more easily help Tango settle onto it. It, like the rest of the furniture, is wooden and looks handmade, the tied-on cushion that pads the seat feeling just a little uneven and adding to the homespun feel of the entire house.
It’s…cozy. Pleasant. Homely and warm. Tango can’t deny that it’s comforting, after everything he’s been through as of late.
Shelby drops into another chair at the table with as much energy as everything else she’s done, trying and failing to hide the fact that she’s staring curiously at Tango. He sinks back in his seat and his ears flick back, nervous firelight rippling through his hair. Her eyes follow it, wide and intrigued, before Jimmy clears his throat and Shelby jolts.
“Sorry,” she says, yanking a cup of unfinished tea across the table that Tango hadn’t noticed yet, and pointedly focussing on it instead. Tango chuckles lightly.
She reminds him of someone, somehow, though he can’t be sure who.
(Gem, his mind supplies…though even as he thinks it, the name slips away before it can stick, memories blurring at the edges until he can’t remember why he felt melancholy in the first place.)
Jimmy had called her Shelby, right?
“You’re uh–” Tango shifts in his seat, his eyes darting to where Jimmy is now puttering around the kitchen. His ear feathers keep flicking in their direction. “You’re Shelby. You helped Jimmy save me last night?”
Shelby’s eyes are back on him again, still bright and curious, but he’s grateful that she seems to be trying to act less nosey.
“Mhm!” she hums, nodding. “Well, he did most of the saving. I just showed up afterwards with potions. I didn’t even see the crash…it’s kinda hard to see much of anything from inside the Evermoore.”
The what? Tango must look confused, because Shelby carries on:
“It’s my Empire! In the swamp. Lots of trees, lots of fog - and magic! Lots of magic!”
“And frogs,” Jimmy supplies from where he’s fussing with the furnace. “So many frogs.”
“That too!” Shelby says brightly. She twirls a finger in a circle above her cup and the tea inside begins to stir itself, drawing Tango’s attention. Magic. He’s not entirely unfamiliar with magic thanks to…thanks to Scar. (His chest aches at the thought. He tries to pretend it doesn’t.) But even if he’s seen it before, natural magic abilities are still rare. It’s enchanting to watch.
“Where are you from?”
Tango drags his focus back to Shelby.
“Uhhh–” He stumbles over her question in his mind. “I’m, uh…” He almost blurts out ‘from Hermitcraft’ by force of habit…but that’s not entirely true anymore, is it? He’s fairly certain there’s not a Hermitcraft to go home to anymore. True, ‘Hermitcraft’ is a name that was carried from place to place, and it had been for years, having less to do with location and more to do with the people who lived there…but…but Tango doesn’t even know where the Hermitheus is, where the other Hermits are. And there was a chance there wouldn’t be another Hermitcraft if they hadn’t managed to–
If Tango’s warning message hadn’t made it through to–
If the moon had–
“...Tango?”
Tango jolts, a netherborn wheeze whistling at the back of his throat. There are eyes on him. Shelby looks concerned, almost apologetic, and Jimmy’s no longer in the kitchen. He’s standing at Shelby’s shoulder with a worried look on his face that Tango awkwardly avoids.
He barely knows these people. He doesn’t need to trouble them with his issues.
“Are you alright?” Jimmy asks, warm and concerned, and it’s so, so tempting to lean on his host for support like he’d already been doing this morning. It’s so, so tempting to let someone else help him shoulder the burden he suddenly woke up with less than an hour ago.
But he doesn’t know them. Smoke whisps past his lips and he swallows past the lump in his throat. It’s too much, too fast, and he needs…he needs time.
Jimmy steps around Shelby, standing between her and Tango, his wings spreading slightly to subtly block him from her view. It’s almost like he can tell Tango is getting a bit overwhelmed. He looks a bit uncertain, almost awkward, but he seems like he wants to help.
“Tango…?”
How does he respond?
Ask to not talk about it. Maybe he’ll tell someone later, but he can’t yet.
Ask to talk alone. Jimmy feels safe to talk to, but Shelby’s still a stranger.
Tell them both what happened. It’s a weight off his chest, isn’t it?
Voting ended onFeb 12, 2025
[A/N: Ohhh, three options this time! :D This'll be fun, folks! And rest assured, all answers lead to Tango eating some food, so even though it hasn't happened yet in THIS entry he will still be fed! I saw you all worrying in the tags and comments last entry. I wonder I wonder, how will this go...?
ALSO! Question! Would you like shorter poll deadlines? I've noticed that, since starting this series, a 3 Day poll option has been added...so I COULD make it shorter in future entries if you so wish. What do y'all think?]
[A/N: This is a story entirely guided by you guys, by the readers. Be sure to vote at the end of each entry! ALSO, if you'd like to be added the tag list, please let me know and I'll be sure to add you next time!]
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
➤ Watch Tango
Tango awakes slowly. It’s a fog, and a blur, and a static, and an ache. He registers the general soreness before he registers his surroundings, a weak and tired wince making his face tick for a fraction of a second.
Soft. Whatever he’s lying on, it’s soft. Bed, he thinks, as an abstract concept more than a word, even before his ears decide they want to work again. Bed, soft, comfortable. He’s sore, but he’s comfortable. And the air is warm. Sound reaches him a moment later, quiet and muffled from somewhere else. Distant murmuring voices, and the lowing of cattle, and a cicada making the air buzz.
One of his ears twitch.
…his head hurts.
Tango sucks down a sharp breath at the pulsing pressure he can feel behind his eyes, and he instantly regrets it, the dryness of his throat making him cough and making his head throb with pain. He winces and rolls onto his side, the blankets that he’s only now realizing are over him shifting with him as he moves. They pool in his lap as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. He tries to catch his breath and only struggles to do so the first two times before finally, finally, his lungs stop protesting against air.
He wheezes and takes a slower breath, licking his lips to wet them, and finally opens his eyes.
He doesn’t recognize the room he’s in. He’s lying on a bed in the center of a rustic-looking bedroom, wood walls and wooden floors and a homespun rug, a simple wooden dresser shoved up against one wall. There’s a chair nearby and a table beside the bed, all wooden, all looking like they might have been crafted by hand. There are potion bottles - some empty, some not - lined up on the table, and a hat straight out of a western movie is hanging on the back of the chair.
Sunlight is pouring in through a window, dust dancing through the rays, and there are other details in the room that Tango would be more interested in if he wasn’t so focused on the biggest questions beginning to spiral in his head.
Where is he? How did he even get here? The last thing he remembers…
“...to HASA, Tango Tek to HASA, do you read me? … Bdubs, you down there…?”
Feral creatures on the moon, disguised as something friendly but most certainly not. Sharp teeth, red eyes - an explosion–
“...is Tango Tek reaching out to Hermitheus, come in Hermitheus– … Doc? Do you copy? … Zedaph? Anyone?!”
Cold metal, stale oxygen, dark skies. The vast emptiness of space. And no time, running out of time. His own panicked breathing filtered back to his ears inside his helmet.
“...ship was damaged, but I’m making repairs. I’ve got an idea to get my bits off this rock, but I don’t know how long…”
(Desperate attempts to make it right.)
“...if I can time it right, I can still detonate, and we can deviate the moon’s trajectory…”
“...more damaged than I thought. The numbers Holsten is giving me aren’t great. I don’t know if I’ll even be able to take off if–”
Arguments with a snarky AI, and dread pooling in his veins. Fear. Panic.
“–got my ship up and running, but something’s up with the radar–”
“–Moon’s traveling at a higher velocity than expected. … Doc, I don’t know if my messages are reaching you, but our original ETD won’t cut it. You’ve gotta get everyone off the planet, pronto. If you don’t–”
He didn’t mean for it to go this way.
“–mayday, mayday! Tek to Hermitheus, Tango Tek to Hermitheus– … –going down– … –know if you made it out– … –let you down. I’m sorry, I should’ve–”
A knock at the door startles Tango from his thoughts and he snaps back to himself, suddenly very aware of his rapid breathing and the wheezing coming from his throat and the smoke and sulfur on his tongue. He’s wound tight as a spring, and when the bedroom door opens he scrambles back, nearly toppling over the far side of the bed in his rush to get away.
“Oh - gosh, I’m sorry!”
A startled voice cuts through his panic, a bright voice with an accent like Zedaph’s. There’s a man in the cracked doorway with blond hair and wide brown eyes, watching Tango with an apologetic look on his face.
“I’m so, so sorry,” the man says quickly, “I didn’t mean to–” He gestures to Tango, to the door, then jerks a thumb back over his shoulder, before awkwardly clutching at the edge of the door he’s half-hidden behind. “...are you alright?”
Tango blinks at him, his breathing slowly leveling out, not quite sure how to respond. Is he alright? It’s a complicated question. Silence hovers between them, and the man clears his throat.
“Er…do you speak common?” he asks, sounding awkward and unsure. “I mean Shelby said you might be an alien, which sounded a bit insane at the time, not gonna lie, but - well I did drag you out of a rocketship, so she might not be far off–” For the first time since waking up, Tango almost smiles. “But you look kind of human-ish, an’ the letters on your spacesuit look like ours, so…”
The stranger trails off, his face going a soft shade of pink, and Tango swallows past the dryness in his throat.
“Not an alien,” he mutters hoarsely, and the man at the door perks up. He opens the door just a little bit more, hiding behind it just a little bit less. Tango swallows again. “...blazeborn.” The man’s eyes light up in recognition. Tango clears his throat. Dry, so dry. “D’you have water?”
“Oh!” The man jumps slightly. “Right, o’ course! Sorry, I can–” He jerks a thumb back over his shoulder again. “Be right back.”
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
…you could leave, a voice at the back of Tango’s head whispers to him. He’s gone. You could escape.
It’s a tempting thought, in some ways. He’s in an unknown situation, so getting out might be smart. Tango doesn’t know where he is, or who that man is…though he can imagine how he got here. “Well I did drag you out of a rocketship,” the man had said…meaning his ship must be somewhere around here.
Probably in pieces, he reminds himself, grimacing at the memory of his ship spiraling through the atmosphere of some mystery planet. This mystery planet. But a ship in pieces is still worth something. Holsten is on there somewhere, and his communications line, for all that it had been faulty even before the crash. Tango doesn’t know how long he’s been on this planet, but the sooner he reaches out to the Hermitheus and her Hermits, the better.
(He ignores that traitorous voice in the back of his mind reminding him that his warning never reached Hermitcraft, that his friends and family never knew they had to leave sooner, that they’re probably already–)
No.
Tango sucks down a dry, shuddering breath. He can’t think about that now. He should leave.
…or he can wait for his host, he ponders, even as he swings his legs off the bed. The man seemed friendly enough. Maybe he could help Tango get back to his ship, and get some proper clothes, seeing as he’s still in the jumpsuit he normally wears beneath his spacesuit. (His spacesuit that he’s only now realizing is piled in the corner of the room, and he’s a bit impressed that his host managed to get him out of it, as complicated a thing as it is to put on in the first place.)
So he could wait, and hope that his host is kind. He could. Or he could leave and find his ship himself.
Leave or stay?
Leave. He doesn’t know this stranger, and he needs to get home as soon as he can
Stay. The stranger seems friendly, and Tango could use a friend right now.
Voting ended onOct 12, 2024
[A/N: I'm still trying desperately to move, so I'm not going to promise that I'll have the next part posted next week, but I'm keeping this story going no matter what! It's too fun and I love having something easy to write and work on when I need it! Also I'm a sucker for the crossover man, it's just too good.]
[A/N: This is a story entirely guided by you guys, by the readers. Be sure to vote at the end of each entry! ALSO, if you'd like to be added the tag list, please let me know and I'll be sure to add you next time!]
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
➤ Examine the patches. He could learn something new about the familiar stranger.
Learning more about the stranger Jimmy rescued can only help the situation…right? The more they know about him, the better they can handle the situation…and the better they can help him.
The spacesuit the pilot is wearing used to be pure white, Jimmy’s sure, even if it was now dusted in gray and black and red, ash and soot and mesa sand. But even then it’s in fairly good condition despite the crash, and the patches stitched into the fabric and their accompanying lettering are still legible. Jimmy squints at the text, reading past the damage.
The word H.A.S.A. is stitched on a round blue-and-red patch at his shoulder, though the logo isn't one he recognizes. And there's another string of letters across the man's chest, backed in red and sewn in black - something Jimmy can only assume must be a name.
T. TEK
It’s familiar, much like the stranger himself. This, too, feels like something Jimmy should know, and it tugs at his mind, at a memory just out of reach.
"...of the Tek variety. Nice to meet ya! So he dragged you into his game too, huh? Heh, should be a good time..."
There's a cocky sort of grin hovering out of sight, and eyes he can't make out the color of that sparkle with a chaotic sort of mischief. He pauses and pulls the cleaning cloth away to stare at the still and expressionless face of the man on the bed. He swears he knows him.
"...welcome, contestants! This is Dare to Flare..."
"...called You Bet Your Life. Basically, what it is..."
Jimmy reaches out against his better judgment and runs his fingers over the nametag, the stitching raised beneath his touch. He frowns, chewing his lip, a flurry of familiar words and voices running through his head like an echo as he puzzles over what that first initial might stand for. Then–
“Noooo! No, I’m so sorry–”“What happened, Tango? Take me through it…”
Tango.
Tango.
Tango Tek.
Jimmy lets out a breath with wide eyes, tracing the letters again with his fingertip and letting that revelation sink in. He doesn’t know how he knows it’s right, he just knows. He can’t explain it. He’s still staring in wonder at the soot-dusted nametag when he hears the sound of approaching rockets and jolts from his thoughts.
Oh, void, right. The crash. Shelby. Potions. Gods, he’s being an idiot–
Jimmy carefully cleans the rest of the blood and soot from the pilot’s face with all the gentleness he can muster, and he’s only just depositing the cloth back in its bowl when he hears Shelby calling from the front door.
“In here!” he returns, his eyes lingering on the stranger - on Tango. “Bedroom!”
Now that Shelby’s here, he feels a little (a lot) more confident that Tango’s going to be alright. For now, he can focus on helping patch him up. For now, he can shove the odd familiarity of the not-stranger from his thoughts. Later, he can ponder at why he even knows Tango’s name and why his face feels so achingly familiar…but later. Later. Maybe when Tango is finally awake. Maybe he’ll gain some answers to his questions then. Later.
The door clicks open and Shelby nearly trips into the room, clutching her oversized hat to her head with one hand and scrambling to catch her broomstick with the other, just barely managing not to fall.
“Who is it? What happened? Whaddaya need?” she asks in a rush, clumsily kicking the door shut again and leaning her broom in the corner of the room. “What’s – oh my gosh.”
Jimmy sets the water and rag aside as she comes closer, smiling sheepishly at her wide-eyed expression.
“So, er…” He gestures toward the pilo- Tango. Toward Tango. “Funny story. A spaceship crashed outside Tumble Town an’ this is the pilot.” Shelby’s wide eyes turn to him instead and he chuckles weakly. “Trust me, I know how crazy it sounds,” he says, and she comes over to stand beside him and stare down at Tango’s unconscious form.
She pokes his leg with her finger.
“Is he an alien?” she stage-whispers, and Jimmy almost laughs. Almost. Instead, he twitters weakly and gestures to Tango’s non-human features.
“I don’t know!” he says, a bit hysterical. “He fell out of the sky! And he was unconscious when I found him, it’s not like I could ask! He’s - look,” Jimmy yanks off his hat and rakes his fingers through his hair, sighing heavily. “Look, all I know is he’s hurt, alright? I just wanna help ‘im.”
At this, Shelby jolts.
“Oh! Potions! Right! Sorry!” She swipes through the air, summoning her inventory and rifling through it for what she needs. Colorful glass bottles fall into her hands and she sets them on the bed one by one, red and pink and orange clinking softly against each other. Health. Regeneration. Fire resistance.
The last one makes Jimmy pause. He hangs his hat on the chair by the bed and picks up the orange-filled bottle from the collection. He tilts it in his hand, the light of the lanterns overhead reflecting off the glass and making the potion inside look like lava. He recalls what he thought he’d seen on the flight over, the dancing light in Tango’s hair that he was so sure were flames. Then his eyes fall on Tango, remembering the bruises and the scrapes he’d acquired…but no burns, as far as Jimmy could tell. No burns.
“...I don’t think he needs this one,” Jimmy murmurs, and that same certainty stirs in his chest that he’d felt upon realizing Tango’s name.
Shelby doesn’t notice, too busy darting around the bed to get a closer look at Tango - what little of him wasn’t covered by his spacesuit.
“Hmm…we probably need to get him out of this thing to see how bad it is,” she muses, her head tilting to the side and her hat tipping precariously. Her eyes widen. “Oh, geez - he’s bleeding. Hang on–”
Jimmy’s breath catches and he abandons the fire resistance potion where he found it. Right! The head wound. Void, he’d forgotten–
Jimmy quickly offers her a clean cloth across the bed and she pours bright red potion onto it, tugging aside Jimmy’s makeshift bandage and replacing it with the healing-doused rag. Shelby sets the open bottle on the bedside table and reaches for a pink one instead, tugging out the cork with her teeth.
“Any chance you know how to get this spaceman armor off?” she asks, dripping regen carefully onto the rag she’s already using, the scent of sweet melons and nether spice wafting into the air.
“Er–” Jimmy blinked down at the spacesuit, at the odd stiff collar the helmet had been attached to and the thick material the suit was made from. He can’t see a zipper or buttons of any kind at a glance - though he’s sure he can find an opening somewhere if Shelby really needs him to.
“I dunno,” he tells her with a wince, taking up a cloth of his own to start tending to the other scrapes and cuts littering Tango’s face from his shattered visor. “But he got into it somehow, right?”
Shelby nods, her tongue sticking out between her teeth as she focuses on her task.
“Let’s get this sorted first, then we can take a look,” she tells him, taking a tick to glance up at him. Maybe she can tell how concerned he is, because she flashes him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Sheriff! He’ll be fine. I’m great at potions, and you’re great at taking care of people. We’ve got this!”
Jimmy lets out a soft, tired breath and returns the smile.
They’ve got this. The stranger will be okay.
Tango will be okay.
...
At the maw of a glowing purple rift that cuts a jagged shape into the wall of the massive cave it calls home, an avian with macaw-colored wings stands gaping at its purpureal light. A pair of well-worn goggles is clutched in his grip, flecks of redstone dust rubbing off onto his skin. He’s quiet. He’s quiet, and his eyes mirror the rift before him in both color and luminescence.
Almost an hour has passed since he arrived to find a friend standing where he now stands, his blue hair ablaze and an untamable emotion spilling off of him in waves. Tango had looked so upset, so desperate…and Grian hadn’t quite been able to talk him out of his insane idea.
“You said it’s a portal to other worlds. Plural. So one of ‘em could be his.”
“Technically, maybe, but - but it’s unstable! Why d’you think I’ve been experimenting with–”
“Screw unstable! You said you sent stuff through, right?”
“Yes, but I haven’t gotten anything back. And I haven’t even tried to send a player through–”
“Then send me.”
“What?! Tango–!”
“I’m going through either way. You might as well collect the data when I do–”
“No! Absolutely not! Xisuma would have my head - Impulse would have my head if I let you–”
“You’re not letting me do anything. I’m going.”
The rest of the conversation had spiraled, had exploded, had careened out of control - and Tango had thrown himself through the rift before Grian could stop him. He hadn’t been able to stop him. So…he’d Watched. He’d kept an eye on his friend, as well as he could when following a speck through an endless and unpredictable schism in space, but he’d Watched.
He’s Watching.
He sees the connection, the transformation, the way the narrative of the Empires server brings Tango into her fold, morphing a piece of his past into the form he takes in the present. He may have been acting as a dungeon master on Hermitcraft, but on Empires he becomes a pilot. He becomes an astronaut. He becomes the desperate not-quite-hero he’d been at the end of the last season, and he crashes.
Grian keeps his Eye on Tango for as long as he can, or at least up until he watches Jimmy salvage him from the wreck and bring him home. It’s only when Jimmy and a witch from a neighboring empire are arranging potions on the bedside table that he pulls away, letting out a breath and massaging the bridge of his nose.
Voidammit, Tango.
At least now Grian has more reason to rush and finish fixing the rift. They’re going to need to get Tango back eventually…he can only hope the narrative doesn’t affect Tango’s memories too much in the meanwhile. And at least he found his soulmate again. He’ll be happy there until the Hermits can reach him. Jimmy will make sure of it, Grian knows.
Soulmates don’t ever stop being soulmates, after all.
[A/N: This is a story entirely guided by you guys, by the readers. Be sure to vote at the end of each entry! ALSO, if you'd like to be added the tag list, please let me know and I'll be sure to add you next time!]
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
➤ Fly. He’s a skilled flier, he can handle a rough landing no problem…can’t he?
He’ll fly. He needs to get home as soon as possible. Shelby’s on her way, and the pilot needs to get to somewhere safer than here. The ship is still burning at Jimmy’s back and he doesn’t know if the last blast that shockwaved through the ship will be the last.
Jimmy steels himself, setting his jaw. He can push through a little bit of pain for the sake of a civilian. He shifts his hold on the pilot and eases himself to his feet, panting through clenched teeth as he extends his injured wing. It burns, but he can handle it. He’s dealt with worse. This time when he spreads his wings, he takes much more care in his liftoff, and the return trip to Tumble Town is a much more cautious one than the rushed flight he'd taken to reach the crash site in the first place.
The cool wind against his feathers is soothing. Night has properly fallen by now and the temperature has fallen with it, the mesa never holding the heat of the day for long after dark. It’s a balm after being near the blazing flames of the crash site. The cold air helps, but his wing is still aching, pain flaring on his right with every downward beat of his wings. There’s a moment, a brief moment, where a reflexive spasm nearly sends him hurtling to the ground - but he catches himself quickly. He doesn’t fall. He won’t fall.
When Jimmy finally approaches his corner of Tumble Town and begins circling low, it’s a voiddamn relief. His landing is rough, his knees protesting the impact, and he has to shift his weight to keep his passenger in his arms - but he stays standing. He doesn’t fall. His wing is shaking horribly and he folds it tight against his back, withholding a yelp at the friction against his burns.
He’s fine. He’ll be fine. He might not fly again for a few days, but he’ll be fine.
“Sheriff!”
Jimmy turns, not all too surprised to see Billy running toward him across the packed sand. Henry isn’t with him, and now that Jimmy’s paying attention the town feels emptier than it had when he’d left.
“Billy,” Jimmy returns weakly, and he knows he sounds winded and hoarse. The smoke he’d inhaled probably doesn’t help. “Where is everyone?”
“Inside, sir,” Billy tells him, coming to a stumbling stop a few feet off and staring at the astronaut Jimmy’s still carrying. “We, uh…well Charlie - Charlie figured it’d be smart to…” He cocks his head to the side, his eyes bright and curious and concerned. “Who’s that?”
“Er…pilot,” Jimmy says, shifting said pilot in his arms. “A ship crashed up on the ridge, that’s what the explosion was.”
“A ship?” Billy’s eyes snap up to Jimmy this time. “What, like one o’ them blimp things they got over in Cogsmeade?”
“Er–” Jimmy chuckled weakly. “Sort of. Listen, he’s hurt bad, and Shelby’s comin’ by with some potions to help. Mind keepin’ everyone away for a while so we can handle this?”
Billy is quick to nod, tugging at the brim of his hat.
“Yessir. Can do, Sheriff. You need anythin’ else, just call.”
Then he leaves, walking backward to eye their strange guest with another look of innocent concern…right up until he nearly trips over the barrels stacked along the side of the street. He stumbles and flushes and turns the right way around, hurrying back into town. Jimmy can only assume he’s on his way to tell Henry what Jimmy told him.
Jimmy manages a smile beneath his wince of pain, sighing softly. Good kid, Billy.
The astronaut makes a strained noise in the back of his throat and Jimmy snaps back to focus.
Right. He’s got a job to do.
The crunch of sand, rushed footsteps, a fumbled doorknob, the creak of worn hinges. Careful hurried steps across a wooden floor and the quiet squeak of mattress springs and gentle hands adjusting pillows and worry concern panic unease and the scrape of a chair across the floor.
Jimmy settles the pilot into his own bed and stands at his guest's side with a crease in his brow and a frown on his lips. In the warm light of torches and lanterns of his bedroom, the astronaut's features are easier to make out than they were by the light of the moon and the burning ship.
He isn't human. Not that it's too surprising, of course...at least half the members of the Empires server are inhuman, or less human than they appear. But the pointed ears and sharp teeth and the way Jimmy could swear he'd seen flames flickering in the stranger's hair on the flight over - it's new. Unfamiliar.
Or...maybe not.
There's something about this so-called stranger that makes Jimmy feel as if he's seen him before. He seems familiar in the strangest way, though he can't be sure why. Jimmy certainly doesn't know any spacemen. His eyes catch on the patches and lettering on the man's spacesuit as he's wringing out a damp cloth over a bowl, and as he gently begins to clean away the blood from the smaller cuts across the stranger's face, he’s tempted to try and read them. He’s tempted to chase the familiarity and his own curiosity. He knows there’s little time before Shelby arrives and that he shouldn’t be wasting it, but…the man before him is a mystery. He fell from the sky right into Jimmy’s backyard, and until he wakes there’s no knowing where he came from.
There’s no knowing who he is.
(Unless, by some chance, Jimmy knows. He can’t possibly, yet he feels like he does.)
Does he give in to his curiosity?
Examine the patches. He could learn something new about the familiar stranger.
Ignore the patches. They're not important. They'll find out who he is eventually
For anyone who has been reading/voting on the Fate Entries series (also titled "My Fate Is In Your Hands", aka the Team Rancher poll-lead fic where S8 Tango crash lands on Empires S2)...would you ever be interested in knowing what the other options on the poll would have led to? Often the difference is minor, but the decisions DO change things, and I've never gone back to tell y'all what COULD have happened.
I don't intend to write full posts for the alternate options, but...would you be curious to know what the short-term effects of the losing choices would have been? 👀
[A/N: This is a story entirely guided by you guys, by the readers. Be sure to vote at the end of each entry! ALSO, if you'd like to be added the tag list, please let me know and I'll be sure to add you next time!]
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
➤ Stay. Check his condition first. There's time; you don't want to make it worse.
The fire isn’t spreading quickly in the cockpit, and Jimmy decides that’s safe enough for him. The last thing he wants to do is hurt the astronaut further by moving him with an unstable injury.
But the ship is still creaking and burning around them. He’ll have to do this quickly then.
It takes a few long seconds for him to figure out how to unlatch the helmet from the spacesuit, but once it's out of the way and stowed in his inventory, once he can see the stranger fully, something catches in his chest. He's bleeding. Oh, void, he's bleeding, red standing out in stark contrast against the blond of his hair and the pallor of his temple. Jimmy yanks at his neckerchief and tugs it off, pressing the wad of fabric against the side of the stranger's head, trying to figure out a plan, trying to think.
Potions. He needs potions. He needs potions, and he knows he doesn't have any back home.
Summoning his communicator from his inventory, Jimmy struggles to type out a private message one-handed, not wanting to take pressure off the pilot's wound.
<SolidarityGaming> shelby do yoiu have heasling pots
Jimmy can't help but wince at his own spelling mistakes, but there's not much he can do about it. He's in too much of a hurry to care. It will take a minute or two for Shelby to even see his message, so for now Jimmy banishes his comm again, his focus on the astronaut. He's breathing - thank god he's breathing - and when Jimmy presses two fingers to his throat the guy's pulse seems steady, though he's not exactly a doctor. He wouldn't know if it's slow or sluggish without something to compare it to, and his own heart rate is far too rapid to be a good comparison.
…he’ll have to figure that out later. For now he needs to finish what he was doing. He digs into his inventory and pulls out a spare block of wool, shredding a piece into soft padding and swapping his bandana for the new fluff. Tying it around the stranger's head is a little trickier to do with how sweaty his hands are in the heat of the ship, but he manages well enough, and once he's sure the makeshift bandage is secure he moves on. He feels along the man’s limbs quickly, trying to check for any breaks through the thick material of the suit. He bends his knees, his elbows, his eyes lingering on the stranger’s face all the while. No signs of discomfort, no wincing, no grimaces of pain. There aren’t any splotches of red bleeding through the white of the spacesuit, which Jimmy takes as a very good sign.
(He tries to ignore that traitorous voice in the back of his mind telling him the material would be too thick for that anyway, that he’s obviously missed something. There’s no time to second guess himself.)
It’s as satisfactory as it’s going to get, Jimmy supposes, as a grinding and creaking sound meets his ears from the corridor beyond the cockpit door. An anxious thrumming takes hold in his chest and his jaw goes tense. It’s time to go.
His communicator beeps, but he ignores it. He can respond to Shelby once he and the stranger are safely outside the ship.
Jimmy does his best to hoist the pilot into his arms without jostling him too much, slowly getting to his feet with as much care as he can muster. He’s halfway to the door when the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. There’s a rumbling, a churning of air, a swell of pressure - then a massive explosion goes off at the far end of the ship.
The engine room, he realizes, for a fraction of a fraction of a second, and he has just as long to ponder how he even knows that before a massive wave of flames comes barrelling down the hall. Jimmy dives behind the half-jammed door just in time with the pilot still held in his arms. A blast of burning heat spills into the room and Jimmy lets out an avian cry, his wings coming up to cocoon them both despite the painful scorching he can feel on his outermost feathers. It’s burning agony, for as long as it lasts. The blast shatters what’s left of the front window and sends an inferno shooting out over the cool mesa, then the fuel peters out and all that’s left is a boiling feeling in the air of the room.
Jimmy’s right wing is screaming. He knows he’s lost a few feathers, and he’s sure the skin underneath is blistered if not just burned. It’s going to be a painful flight back to Tumble Town, he’s certain. He blinks the tears out of his eyes. He can’t linger much longer.
He’s not sure how he manages to get off the ship after that, too focussed on keeping the astronaut in his arms and too distracted by the pain in his wing and the smoke in his lungs. It’s only when his knees meet the sand well past the heat of the burning ship that he lets himself breathe.
In the low sound of the crackling fire and the much cooler mesa air, everything is quiet for a moment or two. Jimmy pulls the astronaut close against his chest and lets his wings go lax, the ache in his right wing worsening by the second. He needs to get them both back to town, and he needs those potions from–
–he has a message from Shelby.
The thought crosses his mind and he scrambles to summon his communicator one-handed, his eyes dancing across the brief message quickly.
<ShubbleYT> I do :) are you looking to trade?
<SolidarityGaming> no time
<SolidarityGaming> eemrgency
<SolidarityGaming> how fast canb you get to tumnbl town
His hands are shaking and his typing is rushed and clumsy with the astronaut in his arms, but he ignores the typos. It’s not important right now.
<ShubbleYT> oh wow um maybe ten minutes?
<ShubbleYT> is everything okay?
<SolidarityGaming> someome crash landef outside of town
<SolidarityGaming> cant talk now sorry
<SolidarityGaming> meet me at my housde?
<ShubbleYT> oh gosh okay I'll be there soon
Okay. Okay.
Jimmy casts a look over the astronaut in his arms and nods decisively. Okay. He needs to get this guy inside, preferably on a bed, so he and Shelby can do a better job of making sure he survives this ordeal.
He starts to stand again, but the burning pain in his wing makes him falter.
…is it safe for him to fly? It really would be the fastest option, injured wing or not, and Jimmy’s still worried over the head injury the man had gotten in the crash. His wing is in agony but it wouldn’t be the first time. The faster they get back the better, risks or no.
…or maybe walking back would be the safer choice. There’s a path carved into the cliffside leading all the way down into the bowl in which Tumble Town was built, though the trip would be a longer one. Jimmy is already eyeing his makeshift bandage around the pilot’s head warily, faint red spots already seeping through the fabric.
Which risk is he willing to take?
Fly. He’s a skilled flier, he can handle a rough landing no problem...can't he?
Walk. With his wing injured, it might be worth the extra wasted time...right?
Voting ended onJul 31, 2024
(What to pick, what to pick...the faster route or the more stable route? Take a risk for Jimmy or a risk for the mysterious stranger? Hmmm...🤔)
