Chapter Text
It’s like this: Tango, for months on end, had holed himself up underground. Countless hours of complicated redstone and careful designing of the levels, putting his heart and soul into the creation of his game. It was a passion project, worth every minute that it had taken, but he can’t pretend that it hadn’t gotten tedious at times. A little dark. A little lonely.
But every now and then, Scar would show up. He understood passion projects well, in the midst of one of his own, and he never let Tango go too long without a visit. He’d be carving his masterpiece at the bottom of the world and suddenly Scar would appear with a mischievous grin and a pocket full of sunshine, just to keep him company. Just so that he wouldn’t be alone.
Tango would give anything to be able to return the favor. Would blow the entirety of Decked Out to kingdom come if it meant they had a chance.
As it is, though, there’s nothing he can do. Himself and the other redstoners have been working nonstop since they got home, building and building and building and watching it all fail and fall to ruin. Failure is common when working with redstone, but it’s never hit them quite so hard. There’s never been so much at stake, before.
His emotions flare with each discarded project, heat coming off of him like a furnace, anger and anguish burning brightly in the very core of him. There are times where no one can get close to him for fear of getting burned.
He remembers the heat surrounding him before his final death in the game, torch in hand as he burned Bdub’s globe-shaped base. Scar had convinced him to do it. There’d been something desperate and agonized in his eyes, and it had made it impossible to say no. Even though he’d known where it was going. He hadn’t been the least bit surprised to feel Scar’s hand land on his back and shove. His voice, quiet and unnervingly sincere.
(“Goodbye, Tango.”)
In the few hours a night he manages to sleep, he always wakes up with those same two words echoing in his ears. A goodbye. One he hadn’t known the finality of until he’d spawned back onto Hermitcraft with the others and watched Pearl drop to her knees screaming, watched Grian crack right down the middle.
Fast forward three weeks later, and they’ve barely gained an inch. The portal to the middle dimension had been a relief to see work, but the barrier has them back at square one, throwing darts at the wall and seeing what sticks. Grian disappears into there for hours at a time, sitting and staring at the problem. There’s a catch though, to staring at a problem for too long; you start to see your own reflection. Tango knows. He’s been staring at himself for a while now.
“Making a sculpture?”
A voice from behind him startles him, and he blinks as he’s dragged out of his thoughts, gaze landing on the mangled bits of metal welded together by his heated hands. He sets it down on the table with a huff, turning around to face Jimmy, standing there with an eyebrow raised, bright yellow wings folded behind his back.
“I’m not into abstract art,” Tango mutters, shoulders dropping in exhaustion, irritation at himself rolling in his stomach. He glares at the tangle of metal. “It wasn’t going to be anything important, anyway.”
Jimmy hums, coming up beside him and leaning against the table, the two of them surveying the various players milling around the Dome doing odd jobs. Keeping busy. They’d all developed a sudden allergy to being idle.
“How long you been in here for?” Jimmy asks.
Tango stares ahead, voice dull as he answers. “I don’t know.”
“Need to get Bdubs to install a clock, eh?” Jimmy jokes, an attempt at levity that lands clumsily. He’s got a nervous energy about him, but Tango barely even registers it. Everyone is like that, these days.
“I doubt it would help,” Tango replies.
“I think I know something that would,” Jimmy says.
“Yeah? What would that be?”
Jimmy looks at him seriously. “You need to get out, man. You need some sunshine.”
Tango, ridiculously, feels the urge to tell him that that’s Scar’s job. Scar’s the one that brings the sunshine.
He’d probably be sad, if saw what Tango had been up to. It’s the only reason he agrees.
“Fine,” Tango says, sighing. He gives his mangled project one last forlorn look. Then he turns back to Jimmy and pushes away from the table. “Let’s go get some sunshine, I guess.”
Jimmy smiles, subdued but triumphant, and together they walk outside. It’s almost embarrassing how well it works to put him in a slightly better mood.
They walk down the uneven dirt paths, and eventually Tango glances sidelong at Jimmy, wondering about something.
“I was burning enough to bend metal and you walked right up to me,” he says, raising an eyebrow, question clear in his tone.
Jimmy shrugs innocently, a playful little gleam in his eye. “I mighta downed a fire resistance potion before I came over.”
It’s shocking enough that Tango can’t help his short bark of laughter, Jimmy chuckling along beside him. The sun is bright and burning. He feels guilty almost immediately after. It feels wrong to laugh knowing Scar is somewhere out there, alone and trapped and hurting. Out of reach.
At the bottom of the world building his game, it had been easy to get lost in the mechanics of it all. Easy to get lost in his own work.
It’s like this: Tango gets lost, and Scar comes and finds him. That’s how it had been for a long time.
(“Goodbye, Tango.”)
No, Tango thinks, chest burning with stubborn determination. Not goodbye.
He walks with Jimmy for a little longer, but soon takes his leave and heads straight back into the Dome, throwing his failed project into the fire and drawing up plans for the next one.
Scar may be lost, but Tango won’t rest until he’s found.