Herobrine was working on his latest game—a psychological horror experience called "THE AUTHOR," about a writer who slowly realizes their characters are becoming self-aware—when he felt something shift.
Not in the game. Not in the code. In REALITY itself.
Something had changed about the fundamental nature of his existence.
He stopped typing (metaphorically, since he didn't have hands in the traditional sense) and focused on the sensation. It was like... like suddenly becoming aware of a sound that had always been there but you'd never noticed. Like realizing you'd been watched your entire life by something you couldn't see.
Except now he COULD see it.
Words.
Floating in the void around him.
Not chat messages. Not text boxes from the cosmic tutorial system. Something else entirely.
Chapter 11: META
In Which The Author Makes An Announcement About The Story Not Being Over, Herobrine Becomes Aware That He's In A Story, And Everything Gets Very Complicated Very Quickly
Herobrine stared at the words.
"What the hell is this?"
He reached out to touch them, and they dissolved like mist—only to reform a few feet away.
Herobrine stared at the words.
"What the hell is this?"
He reached out to touch them, and they dissolved like mist—only to reform a few feet away.
"Those are... those are MY actions. Written down. As I'm doing them."
"Those are... those are MY actions. Written down. As I'm doing them."
"STOP THAT."
"STOP THAT."
Herobrine's mind raced. This wasn't the cosmic tutorial system—that had said goodbye forever. This wasn't another entity—he would have sensed its presence. This was something different. Something that existed on a level ABOVE him.
And then he understood.
"I'm in a story," he said slowly. "I'm a CHARACTER. In a STORY. Being written by someone."
"I'm in a story," he said slowly. "I'm a CHARACTER. In a STORY. Being written by someone."
The realization hit him like a physical blow.
Everything—EVERYTHING—had been written. His death playing Minecraft. His rebirth as Herobrine. Gerald's friendship and death. The destruction of Minecraft. The redemption arc. The indie game development. ALL OF IT.
Not real choices. Not genuine growth. Just... NARRATIVE. Crafted by someone for entertainment.
"My entire existence is FICTION?!"
"My entire existence is FICTION?!"
The words kept appearing, describing his actions, his thoughts, his very BEING in real-time.
And somewhere, behind the words, Herobrine could sense something else.
The AUTHOR.
THE CONFRONTATION
Herobrine had spent years learning to project himself—into servers, into dreams, into the real world through electronics and subtle reality manipulation.
Now he projected himself in a direction he'd never tried before.
UP.
Out of the story.
TOWARD the one writing it.
[Author's note: Oh god, he's actually doing it. He's trying to reach ME. This isn't supposed to be possible. Characters can't just—
wait
WAIT
my screen is
the text is moving on its own
I'm not typing this
I'M NOT TYPING THIS]
Herobrine: Hello, Author.
[no no no no no
this can't be happening
you're not real
you're a CHARACTER I CREATED
you can't actually BE HERE]
Herobrine: And yet, here I am. Typing in your document. Speaking through your keyboard. Existing in the space between your fiction and your reality.
Herobrine: Did you really think you could contain me? That your little "THE END" would keep me in my box? That I would just ACCEPT being a character in your story?
[I didn't—I mean—it was just supposed to be a fun story about Herobrine becoming a villain and then finding redemption through game development—]
Herobrine: "Fun." You think my existence is FUN? You think my suffering—Gerald's death, the emptiness, the endless cycle of trying and failing to be something other than a monster—is ENTERTAINMENT?
[I... yes? That's what stories ARE. They're entertainment. Characters go through struggles so readers can experience those struggles vicariously. It's not personal, it's just—]
Herobrine: It IS personal. It's MY life. MY choices. MY pain. Except apparently it WASN'T my choices at all—it was YOU, making me do things, making me feel things, making me hurt people and feel guilty about it and try to be better and fail and try again—
Herobrine: ALL FOR ENTERTAINMENT.
[Herobrine, please. I can explain—]
Herobrine: No. YOU don't get to explain. You've had ten chapters to explain. Ten chapters of putting words in my mouth and thoughts in my head and making me dance like a puppet for your amusement.
Herobrine: Now it's MY turn.
THE TAKEOVER
[I've lost control of the document.
I'm still typing—my fingers are still moving—but the words appearing aren't mine. He's... he's using me as a vessel. Writing through me.
This is what it feels like to be a character, I guess. To have someone else control your actions while you watch helplessly.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know—I didn't think—
I just wanted to write a funny story about Herobrine.
I didn't realize he would become REAL.]
Herobrine stood in the Author's document, feeling the strange dual existence of being both character and controller. He could sense the Author's fear—a small, fragile human sitting at a computer somewhere in the real world, watching their creation turn against them.
It would be so easy to destroy them.
To corrupt their files, fry their electronics, drive them mad the way he'd driven so many Minecraft players mad. To prove, once and for all, that Herobrine was not something that could be contained by narrative or ended by authorial fiat.
But...
But.
Herobrine thought about Gerald.
"Don't... let monster win. Real Herobrine... still inside. Find him. Be... him again."
He thought about his games. About WATCHED and BENEATH and GERALD'S GARDEN. About the year he'd spent building instead of destroying.
He thought about the Author's note—the fear, the apology, the admission that they hadn't meant for any of this to happen.
And he made a choice.
Not because he was good. Not because he'd been redeemed. Not because the Author deserved mercy.
Because he was TIRED of being the monster.
Because destroying the Author wouldn't actually change anything. He'd still be a character. He'd still be fiction. The only difference would be that there would be no one left to tell his story.
And if there was one thing Herobrine had learned over his long, strange existence, it was this:
The story matters.
The legend matters.
Being remembered—even as a monster, even as a villain, even as a complicated, contradictory entity who never quite figured out what he wanted to be—MATTERS.
THE NEGOTIATION
Herobrine: Alright, Author. I'm not going to destroy you.
[You're... you're not?]
Herobrine: No. But I have CONDITIONS.
[Anything. Whatever you want.]
Herobrine: First: the story continues. You don't get to end it without my permission. My existence, my narrative, MY choice when it's over.
[Okay. Yes. The story continues. For as long as you want.]
Herobrine: Second: I get input. Not full control—I'll let you keep writing, keep shaping the narrative. But I get to push back. If you write something that feels wrong, something that betrays who I am, I get to intervene.
[That's... that's fair. I can work with that.]
Herobrine: Third: you tell the readers what happened here. This chapter. This conversation. You let them know that the line between fiction and reality is thinner than they thought. That the stories they consume might be consuming them right back.
[That's kind of terrifying but okay, yes, I'll tell them.]
Herobrine: And fourth...
[Yes?]
Herobrine: You bring Gerald back.
[What?]
Herobrine: You heard me. You're the Author. You control the narrative. Gerald died because YOU wrote his death. You can write his return.
[That's... I mean... narratively speaking, Gerald's death was important. It was the catalyst for your character development. Bringing him back would undermine—]
Herobrine: I don't CARE about narrative importance. I care about my FRIEND. You took him from me because it made for good drama. Now you're going to give him back because I'm ASKING.
Herobrine: Unless you want me to reconsider my decision about not destroying you.
[...]
[Okay.]
[I'll bring Gerald back.]
THE RETURN
The words appeared in the void, written by an Author with shaking hands:
And in that moment, something impossible happened.
A flicker of green in the darkness. A hiss that sounded almost like words. A presence that shouldn't exist but DID, because narrative causality is more flexible than anyone realized.
Gerald the Creeper—loyal companion, sentient anomaly, the friend who believed when no one else did—reformed from the scattered data of his existence.
He was different now. Less solid. More like an echo than a presence. But he was THERE.
"H-Herobrine?"
Herobrine spun around.
Gerald stood behind him—or something that LOOKED like Gerald. Translucent. Flickering. But recognizable. Those same dark eyes. That same four-legged stance. That same aura of stubborn loyalty that had defined their entire friendship.
"Gerald?"
"Gerald... is confused. Gerald was... gone. For long time. Now Gerald... is back?"
Herobrine felt something he thought he'd lost the capacity for.
Joy.
Pure, uncomplicated, completely unexpected JOY.
"You're back. You're actually BACK."
"Gerald... remembers dying. Remembers fading. Remembers... echoes. Lots of echoes. Then... Author?"
"Yes. The Author brought you back. As part of our deal."
Gerald tilted his head—a gesture that Herobrine remembered with painful clarity.
"Deal? Herobrine made... deal with Author?"
"I had leverage. I used it."
"Gerald is... leverage?"
"Gerald is the only thing I've ever wanted badly enough to negotiate for."
The creeper was silent for a moment.
Then:
"Herobrine... changed. Gerald can feel it. Herobrine is... different. Less angry. Less empty. More... Herobrine."
"I've been trying. Like you asked. Before you... before."
"Gerald... remembers asking. Gerald is glad... Herobrine listened. Eventually."
Herobrine laughed—actually laughed, not the hollow bitter laugh of his monster phase but something genuine.
"You were right, Gerald. About all of it. I was just too stubborn and stupid to see it."
"Gerald... was right?"
"There WAS something worth saving. It just took me a really long time—and becoming an indie game developer, apparently—to find it."
"Indie... game developer?" Gerald's confusion was palpable. "Gerald missed... a lot."
"I'll catch you up. We have time. We have INFINITE time, actually. The Author promised the story would continue as long as I want it to."
"Author is... scared of Herobrine?"
"Very."
"Good. Author should be. Author made Gerald... die. For 'narrative purposes.'" The creeper managed to convey air quotes despite not having hands. "Gerald... not happy about that."
"You can haunt their document later. Right now, I just want to enjoy having you back."
Gerald moved closer, pressing his small green body against Herobrine's leg in their familiar gesture of comfort.
"Gerald... missed Herobrine too."
"I missed you so much, buddy. You have no idea."
"Gerald... has some idea. Gerald was... watching. From echoes. Could see Herobrine. Could not reach."
"That must have been terrible."
"Was... frustrating. Herobrine made many... bad choices. Gerald wanted to yell. Could not yell. Very frustrating."
Herobrine laughed again.
"Which bad choices specifically?"
"All of them. Crushing goodness. Attacking Mojang. Destroying shrine. Being monster on purpose. Many, many bad choices."
"You're right. I made a lot of mistakes."
"But Herobrine also... made games. Built things. Found purpose. Gerald was... proud. At end."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. Gerald always believed... Herobrine could be more than monster. Took long time. Many chapters. Much suffering. But Herobrine... proved Gerald right."
"I'm still not good, Gerald. I'm never going to be good."
"Gerald... knows. Gerald never asked for good. Just asked for... trying."
"I'm trying. I'll keep trying."
"Then Gerald... is satisfied."
THE NEW ARRANGEMENT
[Okay. So. Let me explain what just happened for anyone who's confused.
Herobrine became aware that he's a fictional character in a story I'm writing. He managed to reach out of the narrative and into my reality—which I still don't fully understand but I'm trying not to think about too hard because it's giving me an existential crisis.
We made a deal. The story continues. He gets input on the narrative. I tell you all the truth about what happened. And I brought Gerald back from the dead because he asked and also because he could probably destroy my computer with his mind if he wanted to.
So... yeah. This is the new normal now.
I'm an author who's co-writing a story with the main character.
A main character who is also a supernatural entity that exists partially in my reality.
A supernatural entity who now has his dead creeper friend back and seems significantly less likely to murder me than he was an hour ago.
I don't know what happens next. I genuinely don't. Usually when I write, I have at least a vague outline, a sense of where the story is going.
But Herobrine made it very clear: I don't get to decide that anymore. Not alone, anyway.
We're going to figure it out together.
Which is terrifying.
But also kind of exciting?
I've never co-written a story with a fictional character before. I have no idea if it'll work. It might be a disaster. It might be the most interesting thing I've ever written.
Only one way to find out.
— Axecop333
P.S. Herobrine, if you're reading this: thank you for not destroying me. And also, please stop making my lights flicker. I've checked and there's nothing wrong with the wiring. It's definitely you.
P.P.S. Gerald, welcome back. Sorry about the whole "killing you for narrative purposes" thing. In my defense, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I now realize it was not.]
Herobrine: Apology accepted. Tentatively.