When Tango notices it, lying down maybe a dozen blocks away from the Factory's entrance, he jumps so high he hits his head into the upper blocks.
He lands butt flat on the floor, dull ache in more than one part of his body now. Gasps for air; fear slowly receding in his lungs is replaced by disbelief. Tango scrambles back to his feet, whips a torch out of his inventory and steps closer to look.
The snail shell, highlighted by the flickers of fire, is still there.
Unmoving.
Tango chokes down a distressed sound and makes one step closer, looking the shell over. He can clearly see the red-and-black patterning on the shell, the leather accessory that imitates his vest pockets. It's gotta be the same one, from the Life server, or a very good replica.
Is this some sort of a prank? Why now? ...Why him? Tango notices the first wisps of anger settling inside him, his breathing starting to taste like smoke. You don't prank people with something that chased them to death so many times, that's evil and traumatic and -
The shell moves.
Tango screams and attempts to flee, tripping over his tail and falling face first in barely ten steps.
He pushes himself on his back, gasping every tick, and watches as the snail emerges, plopping out a first long, redstone-torch eyestalk, then another. Mind going blank from fear, Tango tries to crawl backwards, make some distance or -
He expects the directed movement, the jump, but the snail doesn't seem to pay attention to him. It stretches out its body, waves its eyes around a bit, and starts making its way towards the Factory wall. Oh - oh, maybe it's gonna eat the walls, Tango's brain supplies. That's kinda - normal? Considering that's what snails do. And what Tango did in that Life game, too.
He lets out a shaky laugh, and tries to reach for the comm. It's unlikely that anyone else is awake and free, it's kinda night o'clock outside, but - what if. His hands are shaking so much he almost drops the comm; Tango steadies them, and types in chat, watching the foul beast crawl all over his wall.
[Tango:] Question to all Lifers: does anyone hve a snail around?
The creature seems to decide vertical surfaces are overrated, and crawls back down, settling on a patch of grass and munching on it. The comm beeps, and Tango jolts with a squeak again, dropping it this time.
[GoodTimeWithScar:] what do you mean a snail
[GoodTimeWithScar:] OH MY GOD A SNAIL
Not to say that someone else's misery makes Tango feel better, but - It does. It honestly does.
Then, the snail makes an eye contact with him.
Tango tries to get moving, scramble away, as it starts moving towards him. Eerily silent, too - no weird vocalizations it had back then, no heralding its approach. Another push of his limbs fails, he freezes, as if paralyzed, terror pounding in his skull, and the murder snail closes the distance.
Nothing bad can happen to him, right, Tango tries to frantically reassure himself. It's Hermitcraft. He just respawns, and everything will be fine. Right?
The snail approaches his outstretched leg - Tango tries to pull it closer to himself, but fails - raises its head, waving it around unsure for a couple seconds, and nuzzles his boot.
Tango stills his breath, waiting for a flash and a yank of respawn.
Nothing happens.
The snail pulls its face over his boot, nipping at the shoelaces and wiggling its eyestalks. Tango forces himself to start moving - after several long unsuccessful attempts, he manages to bend enough to sit up, raise his stiff paralyzed arm, and touch the snail's face.
It contracts on itself, eyestalks retracting into the face, but nothing else happens.
No murder.
Relief washes over him so fast that Tango simply flops on the ground, an approximation of unstuffed plush toy. His heart still pounding in his head, mouth feeling like ashes - he takes a breath, and another, and lets out a long, tired groan, closing his eyes.
He still feels the snail crawling further up his leg, very interested in that part of his pants where he knows the biggest redstone stain sits, - and he can't hold a gaspy, shrieky laughter.
Cute snail. Cute little hungering beast.
That's a change of plans for tomorrow, though - he gotta go murder Grian.
don't ever look up what your childhood friends are up to now!!!!!!!!!! like girl you're a nuclear safety engineer. i put on matching socks today. we played tag a thousand years ago.
I have nothing against trans girl headcanon stuff where people are like "this character would dress and present exactly the same as they did pretransition" but its always applied to characters it absolutely would not apply to
"if jesse pinkman transitioned she'd still dress the same and stuff she'd be a masc lesbian" jesse pinkman is extremely self destructive, infatuated with self image, prone to becoming attached to older men, has had zero healthy conduits for expressing femininity, and has an obscene amount of drug money to drop on plastic surgery and tiny black bodycon dresses she would not be fucking masc she would end up on mugshawtys 6 months into her transition
I see a lot of designs out there in which tango has red tinted glasses/goggles (mine included) but I don't think enough of us acknowledge how much that would affect his vision
“I’ve been a massage therapist for many years, now. I know what people look like. People have been undressing for me for a long time. I know what you look like: a glance at you, and I can picture pretty well what you’d look like on my table. Let’s start here with what nobody looks like: nobody looks like the people in magazines or movies. Not even models. Nobody. Lean people have a kind of rawboned, unfinished look about them that is very appealing. But they don’t have plump round breasts and plump round asses. You have plump round breasts and a plump round ass, you have a plump round belly and plump round thighs as well. That’s how it works. And that’s very appealing too. Woman have cellulite. All of them. It’s dimply and cute. It’s not a defect. It’s not a health problem. It’s the natural consequence of not consisting of photoshopped pixels, and not having emerged from an airbrush. Men have silly buttocks. Well, if most of your clients are women, anyway. You come to male buttocks and you say – what, this is it? They’re kind of scrawny and the tissue is jumpy because it’s unpadded; you have to dial back the pressure, or they’ll yelp. Adults sag. It doesn’t matter how fit they are. Every decade, an adult sags a little more. All of the tissue hangs a little looser. They wrinkle, too. I don’t know who put about the rumor that just old people wrinkle. You start wrinkling when you start sagging, as soon as you’re all grown up, and the process goes its merry way as long as you live. Which is hopefully a long, long time, right? Everybody on a massage table is beautiful. There are really no exceptions to this rule. At that first long sigh, at that first thought that “I can stop hanging on now, I’m safe” – a luminosity, a glow, begins. Within a few minutes the whole body is radiant with it. It suffuses the room: it suffuses the massage therapist too. People talk about massage therapists being caretakers, and I suppose we are: we like to look after people, and we’re easily moved to tenderness. But to let you in on a secret: I’m in it for the glow. I’ll tell you what people look like, really: they look like flames. Or like the stars, on a clear night in the wilderness.”
titsay
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