Space Man

Sketches

The image of the kid from the painting lingered in my mind as I made my way back inside. His tired, slightly sickly expression was etched into my memory, a puzzle piece I couldn’t fit into place. Who was he? Why did he look so out of place, even in a family portrait? My mind spun with questions, fueled by both the alcohol and my curiosity.

I rummaged through my belongings until I found an old, worn sketchbook buried beneath some odds and ends. It had been ages since I last used it, but tonight felt like the right time to dust it off. Grabbing a pencil, I sat at the nearest table and began sketching, the image of the boy slowly forming under my hand.

At first, I drew what I imagined he’d look like as an adult, taking after his father with broad shoulders and a quiet, imposing presence. But the lack of details gnawed at me—what about burns, scars, or any trauma he might have endured? What about his expression? Would it be weary, guarded, or completely different? The lack of answers made every sketch feel generic, lifeless.

Frustration bubbled up as I crumpled the paper and tossed it aside. Again and again, I started over, each attempt ending with another discarded sheet joining the growing pile around me. My fingers smudged with graphite as I worked, the alcohol dulling my frustration but not my determination.

After about ten failed attempts, I leaned back with a sigh, my head heavy and my vision slightly blurred. The sketchbook sat open in front of me, its pages filled with half-finished attempts and fragmented ideas. Only then did I notice the faint light of dawn creeping through the edges of the curtains.

The sun was already rising.

I let out a low groan, rubbing my tired eyes as I surveyed the mess around me. Crumpled sketches littered the floor like fallen leaves, a testament to my restless night. With a sigh, I stood and began gathering the discarded pages, stacking them neatly even though they still frustrated me.

One day, I promised myself. One day, I’d figure out who that kid was, why he mattered so much, and how he fit into Xisuma’s story. But for now, I needed sleep—and maybe a little less whiskey next time.

2 weeks later

As I made my way through the server, the usual sights and sounds filled the air—buzzing bees, the rhythmic hum of Redstone contraptions, the occasional chirp of a distant bird—but there was something missing today. The familiar figure of Xisuma, with his bee suit and calm demeanor, wasn’t buzzing around the farm like usual. I paused for a moment, confused, and took a slow look around the area, half-expecting him to emerge from behind a building or pop out from one of the hives. But there was nothing.

I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. I hadn’t been back to this side of the server for nearly two weeks, dodging the area where I'd last seen him after the whole Xavier incident. I tried to brush it off at first, telling myself I was just being paranoid, but the longer I stood there, the more it felt like something was wrong. Was he off doing something else? Had something happened?

After a few more moments of hesitation, I made my way into the heart of the farm, eyes scanning for any sign of him. The farm itself was a sprawling mix of honeycombs, Redstone circuits, and wooden structures that seemed to stretch on forever. It should’ve felt bustling, alive with energy—except today, it didn’t.

I reached the entrance to his little makeshift workshop. The door was ajar, and I could hear the faint sound of buzzing inside, but there was no sign of Xisuma anywhere. The place was orderly, as usual, but something felt off. Had he been gone for a while? Or was he just hiding out from the others?

"Xisuma?" I called softly, stepping inside, my voice carrying through the quiet space. The buzz of the bees was louder now, almost as if they were the only thing left keeping the space alive. "Are you in here?"