Chapter Text
Introduction: Choices Are Made
The world did not fall apart after the first clash. It simply rearranged itself around the boy who walked out of the portal with fire in his chest. Months passed in a strange, suspended calm. The SMP rebuilt its walls. The Nethermans rebuilt their ranks. The Endermen watched from the edges of reality, silent and patient.
And Tommy learned. He learned the alphabet of the Nether and the End — the same script, the same symbols, the same ancient geometry carved into the bones of two worlds. He practiced every morning, tracing the letters in soot:
⏃ ⏚ ☊ ⎅ ⟒ ⎎ ☌ ⊑ ⟟ ⟊ ☍ ⌰ ⋔ ⋏ ⍜ ⌿ ⍭ ⍀ ⌇ ⏁ ⎍ ⎐ ⍙ ⌖ ⊬ ⋉
Twenty‑six shapes.
Twenty‑six sounds.
Twenty‑six ways to speak to those who had chosen to stand beside him.
His first full sentence in the shared tongue was shaky, but the Nethermans bowed when they heard it:
⟟⋏⏁ ⊑⟒⋏⎅ ⍀⟒⋏⎅
I stand ready.
And for the first time, he felt like he meant it.
The Endermen taught differently.
They did not speak.
They did not gesture.
They simply appeared — tall, dark, unblinking — and waited for him to understand.
Their writing was the same alphabet, but stretched thin, like the symbols were being pulled through space. When they wanted him to follow, they wrote:
⍙⏃⌇
WAS
But the meaning wasn’t “was.” It was come. Enderman writing was never literal. It was intention.
One evening, an Enderman traced a slow sequence in the air:
⟟⋏⍀
I watch.
Tommy didn’t flinch. He wrote back:
⟟⋏⍀⋔⟟⎎
I watch too.
The Enderman’s eyes glowed violet — approval.
The fire inside him changed with the months.
It no longer lashed out.
It no longer burned without warning.
It had become something quieter, steadier — a companion, a teacher, a pulse of heat that responded to his thoughts.
Sometimes, when he practiced writing, the flame flickered in the shapes of the letters:
⏃
☊
⟟
Almost as if the fire itself was learning the language with him.
He didn’t know if that should comfort him or terrify him. But he accepted it. Acceptance had become easier. He no longer asked why the fire chose him. He no longer asked why the Nethermans followed him. He no longer asked why the Endermen watched him with such unnerving patience. Somewhere in the quiet months, Tommy realized he no longer felt like a lost kid. He felt like someone becoming something.
The first real choice came without warning. A Netherman scout stumbled into camp, heat shimmering off his skin. He knelt and wrote shakily in the ash:
⎎⟟⍀⟒ ⊑⟒⍀⟒ ⌇⟒⎍⍀⟒
They are near.
Tommy didn’t need translation. The SMP was moving again. The Nethermans looked to him — not for orders, but for direction. For judgment. For the decision that would shape what happened next. Tommy inhaled slowly. The fire hummed in his chest. He wrote back:
⋏⟒⏁⍀ ⊑⟒⍀⟒ ⌇⟒⎍⍀⟒
Then let them come.
Not a threat. Not a challenge. A decision. A choice.
The memory hit him like a spark. The portal behind him. The SMP rally alarm screaming. The Nethermans forming a circle around him as arrows rained from the trees. He remembered the moment he chose the fire. Not for power. Not for revenge. But because he wanted to live. He remembered the first Enderman who appeared beside him, silent and tall, writing a single letter in the air:
⏃
A.
A beginning. He remembered stepping forward, flame swirling around him, and the Nethermans roaring in unison. He remembered the SMP’s faces — fear, confusion, betrayal. He remembered thinking: This isn’t the war. This is what makes the war possible. The memory faded. The present returned. Tommy exhaled.
That night, an Enderman approached him. It wrote slowly, deliberately:
⟟⋏⍀⋔⟟⎎
You must see.
Tommy frowned. “See what?”
The Enderman added another line:
☍⟟⍀⟒ ⊑⟒⍀⟒ ⌇⟒⎍⍀⟒
See the path ahead.
Tommy stared at the glowing symbols. He felt the fire shift inside him, warm and expectant. He thought of the SMP. He thought of the Nethermans.He thought of the Endermen.He thought of himself.
He wrote back:
⟟⋏⏁⍀ ⊑⟒⍀⟒ ⌇⟒⎍⍀⟒
I choose to stand.
The Enderman tilted its head.
Then it wrote:
⏁⟟⋏⏁⍀ ⊑⟒⍀⟒ ⌇⟒⎍⍀⟒
Then stand fully.
The next morning, Tommy gathered both groups — Nethermans on his left, Endermen on his right. Two species who had never stood together before.
He wrote in the air, large enough for all to see:
⟟⋏⏁ ⊑⟒⋏⎅ ⍀⟒⋏⎅
I stand ready.
Then he added:
⍙⏃⌇ ⊑⟒⋏⎅ ⍀⟒⋏⎅
We stand together.
The Nethermans roared. The Endermen hummed with violet light. Tommy felt the fire rise in his chest, not violently, but proudly. This was not the war. This was the foundation. This was the moment he stopped being caught between worlds and started becoming the bridge — or the blade — between them.
That evening, alone on a cliff overlooking the Nether’s lava seas, Tommy wrote one final sentence in the air.
Not for the Nethermans. Not for the Endermen. Not for the SMP. For himself.
⟟⋏⏁⍀ ⊑⟒⋏⎅ ⍀⟒⋏⎅
I choose my path.
The fire pulsed in agreement. He whispered the words aloud, letting them settle into the world, letting them become truth.
“Choices Are Made.”