#yes we only have one screenshot and the vague knowledge they’re doing a collab

[theminecraftbee]

Joe, of course, takes plenty of notes on exactly what Other False wants him to take notes on. He’s fully committed to being an Enemy Of The State, after all, at least until Scar gets him in writing that he isn’t, and spying on his friends in order to help protect a strange simulacrum of one of his friends is an easy enough duty that, hopefully, won’t hurt anyway.

(Except maybe Jevin, but if Joe stopped people from killing Jevin, he and Cleo wouldn’t be much of friends anyway.)

So he takes notes. He tells Other False about the people of Hermitopia, and about home. He also tells her about his projects at home and, uh, maybe ends up on a tangent about pinball for an hour at one point, but she’d hired him based on a resume that mentioned the pinball thing anyway. He should be allowed to use his expertises!

He gives her the notes, both the big notes about things like how his fellow hermits have no appreciation for totems of undying and the little notes about things like how he misses how wheat smelled and looked and tasted at home and the medium things about how Grian is the kind of guy to shrink people and the yet-to-be-sized things about cats and—

“You know, I don’t know how much your guide on which cats purr best will help me protect myself,” Other False says.

“I mean, I don’t know! It’s certainly protected me. From sadness.”

Other False laughs. “You’re a strange man, aren’t you?”

“Well, some people might call me strange. Some people might even call me a man,” Joe responds.

“You’re taking notes on me too, aren’t you?” Other False says.

Joe goes silent for a moment. “I mean, I’m writing poetry.” He looks out over his room for a moment. “I guess this feels sort of like symbolism.”

“…do you think it means something?” Other False asks.

“What?” Joe says.

“That it’s like poetry. That there’s this—that you’re here with me instead of your friends, and that I don’t know anyone, and that all of you recognize me. I mean, I hired you to figure it out, and isn’t poetry about meaning things?”

“Sometimes it’s on things that don’t mean anything at all,” Joe says, and quietly, he doesn’t show her the list that sounds like poetry in his head of all the ways Other False and False don’t quite match up. It’s a messy list. It would need major revisions before it would be nearly as good as the poem he shared with Other False about flowers.

“I don’t like that,” Other False mumbles. “I don’t like that. I want it to—to mean something. I want…”

“I took some notes about Cub’s favorite kinds of tea, too,” Joe says.

“You’re an awful spy,” Other False says. “I actually—you know, I don’t remember what kind of tea I like either.”

“Well, I wouldn’t trust Cub,” Joe says immediately. “He likes tea with almonds in it, and everybody knows that means Stress has messed with it.”

“Tea doesn’t do well under pressure?” Other False says, baffled.

“Yeah, see, exactly! You get it!” Joe says.

“I mean, sure?” Other False says. “What kind of tea is your favorite?”

“Sweet tea,” Joe says, and he almost says ‘but I know you think sweet iced tea is an abomination’, because he supposes he doesn’t, because this is Other False, not False.

Other False considers. “You know, that sounds like symbolism too. I’m getting the hang of this.”

“Yeah, exactly!“ Joe says, nodding. He has no idea what she’s talking about, but that’s okay. That’s why he’s taking notes on this, too. He’s getting the hang of this whole spy thing. He’s glad she read his application. If he squints hard enough, it almost feels like home.