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He’s up to his eyeballs in blueprints and planning and fearification, tapping a beat of song Skizz won’t stop singing, and all Tango can focus on is this little tiny annoying voice in the back of his head telling him to get out of the sun, holy crap.
But the thing this is he’s busy, so Tango dives back into the beginnings of his redstone noodles until a pinching burn on the back of his neck forces him to stop.
He shoves back from line-planning, huffy. Does the swamp suddenly have pesky mosquitos that are biting him? Because what the heck, why is he burning.
It’s zipping down his back, tingling at his fingertips, and Tango squawks as he scrambles for a water bucket.
Nothing, seriously?
He trips into his storage, and by the time he’s finally found a bucket the burning has…stopped?
“I haven’t even really started building,” he muses, “I can’t be losing my mind yet.”
He steps out of the overhang and the sun slips right back under his skin.
“Ow, ow, ow, okay.”
Break time it was, then!
The bucket needs to go back into its proper place, and Tango sees the flash of white flame—
White flame.
His reflection ripples into scattered distortions while he stares.
Mirrors weren’t really a need, but Tango beelines towards a small one he keeps just ‘cause.
His flames were—different. His eyes were different.
He grins. His canines are sharp enough to puncture.
Oh this is so much faster than last time.
“Hiya,” Tango says.
His reflection bursts apart, scrambles back together like redstone dust that makes itself better when you turn your back.
A voice, small, so new and unused and the low pitch of a haunting melody.
Hello, Decked Out says back.