The concrete sidewalk felt unnaturally smooth under Herobrine's feet—no jagged edges, no telltale blockiness, just a seamless stretch of gray that stretched toward the horizon. His void-white pupils dilated slightly as a yellow taxicab screeched to a halt inches from his shins.
"Yo, what the *fuck*!" The driver—a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a Knicks jersey stained under the arms—leaned out the window. His breath smelled of onion bagels and nicotine. "You tryin' to get flatte—" The words died in his throat when he saw the creature's face.
Three pedestrians collided into each other trying to backpedal:
1) A college student clutching a stack of philosophy textbooks (Marcus Greene, NYU sophomore, currently questioning his materialism)
2) A nanny pushing a stroller (Rosalind "Roz" Carter, left knee aching from arthritis, grip tightening on the stroller's handle)
3) A street vendor hawking pretzels (Salvatore D'Ambrosio, garlic powder clinging to his apron, right hand instinctively reaching for the baseball bat under his cart)
Roz's charge—a toddler named Eli—giggled and pointed. "Mommy, *glowy man*!"
Herobrine's neck creaked as he turned toward the sound. The movement lacked the organic fluidity of human joints; it was more like a marionette adjusting its strings. Marcus's philosophy books hit the pavement with a *thwap*.
Salvatore's calloused fingers wrapped around the bat's grip. "*Madonn'*, what *is* that thing?"
The taxicab's engine stalled with a wet *gurgle*. The driver frantically turned the key—nothing.
Herobrine reached out one alabaster hand toward Eli's stroller. Roz's pulse hammered in her jugular. "*Don't you touch him—*"
His fingers passed *through* the stroller's canopy. Not phasing physically—*rendering* through it, like a graphics glitch. The fabric flickered between solid and translucent for three heartbeats before stabilizing.
Eli clapped. "*Again!*"
A delivery cyclist swerved around them, nearly colliding with a fire hydrant. "*Cheezus*—!" His cargo of sushi takeout tumbled onto the pavement, spilling miso soup across the asphalt in a steaming arc.
From a second-story apartment window, an elderly woman (Margaret O'Leary, widow, cataract in her left eye) crossed herself with trembling fingers. "Saints preserve us..."
Herobrine's head snapped upward. The air hummed—not the mechanical whine of Stark's repulsors, but something deeper, like the vibration of a world loading new chunks.
Marcus finally found his voice. "*Is this an ARG?*" His fingers twitched toward his phone. "Did Stark Industries—"
Salvatore's bat clattered to the ground. The pretzel cart's warming lamp exploded in a shower of glass.
Roz's stroller wheels locked.
And then—
—the *screaming* started.
Not from the crowd.
From *underground*.
A sound like thousands of pickaxes striking stone reverberated through the pavement. Manhole covers rattled like coins in a tin can. Somewhere near 34th Street, a sinkhole yawned open, vomiting up a cloud of pixelated dust.
Margaret O'Leary's teacup slipped from her fingers. It shattered against the windowsill just as the first *block* breached the surface—a perfect cube of cobblestone pushing through asphalt like a mushroom through damp soil.
Salvatore's knees gave out. "*Mamma mia...*"
Roz clutched Eli to her chest, her arthritic joints screaming in protest. The toddler squirmed, reaching toward Herobrine. "*Wanna play!*"
Marcus's phone screen displayed a single line of corrupted text:
`[WORLDGEN ERROR: BIOME NOT FOUND]`
The taxicab's radio crackled to life, spewing static and—beneath it—the unmistakable *moan* of an Enderman.
Herobrine tilted his head.
Somewhere in the distance, a cow lowed.
Not a real cow.
A *Minecraft* cow.
Roz's tears dripped onto Eli's onesie. "*Oh God...*"
Herobrine exhaled.
The sidewalk beneath them turned to dirt.
herobrine stands in front of eli (not the nanny she can die for all he cares) protecting him and a netherite sword appares in his handThe Netherite sword materialized with a *shink* that reverberated through the air—not the metallic ring of forged steel, but the digital hum of an item pulled from an inventory slot. Its dark purple edge pulsed with enchantment particles, casting jagged shadows across Eli's chubby cheeks as the toddler giggled and reached for the shimmering blade.
"*Nonono*—" Roz's arthritic fingers scrabbled at the stroller's brake release, her knee popping audibly as she threw herself between the weapon and the child. The scent of lavender detergent from Eli's onesie mixed with the acrid sweat blooming under Roz's cardigan.
Salvatore's garlic-stained fingers found the baseball bat again. "*Pazzo!*" He swung wildly—not at Herobrine, but at the cobblestone block now jutting from the pavement like a rotten tooth. The bat *thunked* against pixelated edges with a sound that shouldn't exist in three-dimensional space.
Marcus's philosophy textbooks lay abandoned near the curb, pages fluttering in a sudden wind that carried the unmistakable musk of damp cavern air. "*What is happening?!*" His voice cracked on the last syllable. The delivery cyclist's spilled miso soup began evaporating into blocky steam particles above the asphalt.
Margaret O'Leary's cataract-clouded eyes widened as her windowsill sprouted oak planks in perfect 16x16 segments. "*Blessed Mary, Mother of—*"
The taxicab's hood ornament warped into a carved pumpkin. The driver (Manny Rodriguez, two divorces, overdue on his alimony) gaped at his suddenly square hands. "*Mis dedos—my fucking fingers—*"
Eli clapped as Herobrine's void-white pupils contracted. The sword tilted—not toward the child, but toward the sewer grate vibrating near Roz's orthopedic shoes.
*Clang. Clang. CLANG.*
Something massive moved beneath the streets.
The nanny's breath came in shallow gasps. "*Please,*" she whispered, her bun unraveling as oak leaves sprouted from her hairpin. "*He's just a baby.*"
Salvatore's pretzel cart collapsed into item drops—floating sausages and mustard bottles spinning lazily in the air. "*Mannaggia!*" He grabbed one instinctively; it dissolved into his palm like wet sugar.
Marcus's phone screen flickered:
`[ENTITY_UPDATE: ZOMBIE_SPAWN_EGG x12]`
The delivery cyclist vomited blocky green pixels onto his handlebars.
Then—
—the *screaming* started.
Not human.
Not animal.
The guttural, looping *groan* of a Minecraft zombie, echoing up from the subway tunnels.
Roz's knees buckled. Eli tumbled forward—directly into Herobrine's sword arm.
The blade dissolved mid-swing.
For one heartbeat, the creature's inhuman features softened into something approximating confusion. His head swiveled toward the toddler now clinging to his leg. Eli's sticky fingers left jam smudges on pristine Netherite greaves.
"*Up!*" the toddler demanded, arms raised.
Three blocks east, a lamppost pixelated into glowstone.
Margaret O'Leary's crucifix morphed into a golden carrot.
And from the depths of every storm drain in Queens, the *click-click-click* of skeleton bones assembling.
Salvatore crossed himself with a sausage link. "*Fuggetaboutit.*"
Roz's arthritic fingers twitched toward Eli. "*Sweetheart, come to Nanny Roz—*"
Herobrine looked down.
Eli beamed. "*Piggyback!*"
The sword reappeared—but this time, its tip pointed outward, toward the manhole cover now rattling with unnatural force.
Somewhere above them, Peter Parker's web *thwipped* against a transforming fire escape. "*Okay, new rule:*" his voice cracked as he landed in a crouch, "*Nobody let the baby touch the Eldritch Minecraft horror!*"
Tony Stark's repulsors screeched around the corner, his faceplate retracting to reveal eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "*What in the actual—is that kid* hugging *Cthulhu's blocky cousin?*"
Eli sneezed.
Herobrine's entire body flickered like a corrupted texture file.
Herobrine's fingers closed around Eli's onesie—not with the crushing grip of a monster, but with the precise calculation of an entity that understood durability thresholds. The toddler dangled like a held item, his strawberry jam-smeared fingers inches from the Netherite blade now humming with Sharpness V.
Roz screamed through arthritic vocal cords. "*DON'T—*"
The first zombie clawed its way through the manhole cover, its green flesh pixelating at the edges. The stench hit instantly—not rotting flesh, but the synthetic tang of a digital mob, like burning RAM sticks dipped in molasses.
Peter's web-shooters *twanged*. "*Kid incoming!*" The webbing wrapped around Eli's waist just as Herobrine swung—
—the blade bisected the zombie cleanly. Upper half disintegrated into glowing XP orbs before they hit the ground. Lower half took two more steps. Tony's repulsor blast vaporized it mid-stride.
"*WHAT THE ACTUAL*—" Stark's HUD flickered with ASCII error messages. "*Friday, are we in a goddamn video game?!*"
Salvatore swung his bat at a spider jockey emerging from the pretzel cart debris. The skeleton's arrow embedded in his thigh—blocky, pixelated, leaking crimson cubes. "*AIIE!*"
Roz snatched Eli from the webbing with a grandmother's desperation. Her bun unraveled completely as oak saplings sprouted from her scalp. "*NONONO—*"
Marcus Greene's philosophy books burst into flame—the pages curling into blackened rectangles straight from Minecraft's fire animation. "*THIS VIOLATES EVERY KNOWN LAW OF—*"
Herobrine moved with the jerky efficiency of a speedrunner. Each swing dropped mobs:
- A creeper detonated prematurely against his blade, leaving a perfectly cubic crater in the asphalt.
- Three zombies collapsed into rotten flesh piles that immediately attracted circling pigeons (now sporting blocky wings).
- An enderman teleported onto the taxicab's roof—only to screech and vanish when Manny Rodriguez hit the horn.
Eli clapped from Roz's arms. "*AGAIN!*"
Peter landed beside Tony, mask lenses wide. "*Uh. Mr. Stark? The baby's eyes are* glowing."
Indeed—the toddler's irises pulsed with the same XP purple as Herobrine's sword. Roz's arthritic fingers trembled against his back. "*Sweet Jesus preserve us...*"
Salvatore limped behind them, bat now dripping pixelated spider ichor. "*Kid's *possessed!*"
Margaret O'Leary's window sprouted vines. "*Tis the devil's work!*"
Herobrine paused mid-swing. His head swiveled toward Eli. The toddler gurgled, reaching out—
—and the XP orbs *streaked* toward his tiny hands.
Tony's repulsors flared. "*Okay,* no,* we are* not *letting the baby absorb soul energy—*"
The ground trembled.
Not from mobs.
From *something bigger*.
A Warden's sonorous *thrum* vibrated up through the subway tunnels, shaking loose manhole covers like dice. Car alarms across six blocks blared in perfect synchronization—each *whoop* matching the Warden's heartbeat.
Peter's spider-sense screamed. "*WE GOTTA GO!*"
Roz clutched Eli tighter. His tiny fingers twitched—and suddenly Herobrine's sword *warped* into the child's grip, shrinking to toddler-scale.
Salvatore crossed himself again. "*Madonn'...*"
The Warden's shr split the air. Glass windows shattered in perfect 16x16 grids.
Tony's faceplate snapped shut. "*Kid. Give. Back. The. OP. Sword.*"
Eli giggled.
Herobrine tilted his head.
And deep below Queens, bedrock turned to creative mode.