"You don't understand," the old man whispered. "You don't know what you've done by killing me. I was all that was keeping him in there."

"Sure," Rob snorted, "and who's this 'him' I'm supposed to afraid of again?"

The old man managed to choke out, with his last breath, one single word. A name.

"Steve…"

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Did you ever think about how absolutely terrifyingly badass Steve from Minecraft would be in real life? I did. And then I wrote a fic about it.

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An unholy black light crackled, and the skies above Central Park seemed filled with an unimaginable dread, as if all the narrative gods were combining to bring about some vaguely plausible sense of foreboding.

He was here.

The night watchman, whose name it is unimportant to remember (he will not be with us long), hummed the latest pop song by Taylor Swift as he strolled down the lane (I told you he was unimportant). He looked left at the trees, and then right at the other trees. It was a tired routine, but it comforted him these late nights. He looked ahead at the freakish murder giant, and then behind at the geese. A phrase ran through his mind, and he looked ahead again.

Before him stood an enormous man, standing six and a half feet tall. He was tremendously muscular, with a three and a quarter foot shoulder span. He seemed to be wearing gleaming armor that was interwoven with crystal thread – was that diamond? No, it couldn't be… It had an unearthly sheen to it, like mother-of-pearl, and a soft glow seemed to emanate from it.

The night watchman glanced down, and saw that the tall man was carrying a gleaming blueish sword that carried the same sheen. It was long, and looked ridiculously heavy, but the mysterious stranger was carrying it as if it were nothing, bouncing the two-handed blade up and down with an absent-minded twitch of his right hand.

The stranger wore blue jeans, and a cyan shirt that fitted tightly against his bulging muscles. The watchman could only barely make out the clothing underneath the armor, but it did seem surprisingly… modern, for someone armed in such an old style.

That was when the watchman looked up into his eyes. They were completely white, and glowed with an eerie luminescence. The wide mouth below them, barely visible from the shine of the stranger's helm, stretched in a smile as that terrible sharp sword was raised.

Sweeping downwards, Steve's sword cleaved the watchman in half effortlessly, spraying blood on the trees. Quickly searching through his personal effects, he found nothing there of interest, and so left the body where it lay before moving over to the geese. One lightning fast punch later, and a goose with a broken neck lay at Steve's feet. He stored it in his backpack, just in case he needed it later.

He knew, of course, what he had to do – find the person who had opened the portal to this world and kill him. He had killed the Guardian of the portal, he deserved to die. After that, who knew? It was a big world, and all Steve wanted to do was survive in it. And build, of course. Always build, as much as possible, as big as possible. Go big or go home, that was Steve's motto, and he intended to follow it to the best of his ability.

Steve turned to one of the trees, and (quickly putting away the equipment held in his hands) proceeded to punch it until it exploded in a shower of wood chunks. He gathered them up, whistling music disk seven as he did so, and his hands raced through the air as he assembled a crafting bench from the pieces.

Steve briefly wondered how he was going to find his target before remembering that he was carrying a compass and some paper. Tossing them on the workbench, Steve fixed the paper around the compass and moved his hands around it, peering intently at his work as he focused. Slowly a purple glow appeared about his fingers, and with a burst of amethyst lightning, the energy shot into the assembled parts, disappearing to leave behind a clean map.

Steve looked at the map, searching until the found the name he was looking for – Rob Hennessy. If Steve's thoughts had anything approaching coherency, they would have been quite cheerful at discovering his target. Instead, the closest Steve came was a pleasant sensation at knowing that this would be over quickly, and he could get back to building and mining. Things back in his home world had become quite enjoyable ever since he had finally established dominance over the previously hostile species there – the Endermen had bowed the knee first after he killed their king in a pitched battle that had lasted for days. The skeletons had taken a little longer, but after their monstrous leader the Wither had fallen, they too soon surrendered. The spiders and zombies had been slightly more difficult, seeing as how they had no established base, only a cage from which they came forth fully formed at regular intervals. After Steve had drenched said cages in lava, they became – if not sycophantic, at least non-threatening.

The creepers had been the hardest. These sad beings with their miserable kamikaze existence had looked to be a plague on Steve's life for all time, until he researched their beginnings. It looked as if they were mutated pigs of some sort that had come out of a place called Yogslabs (some kind of deadly experimentation facility; Steve was determined to visit one day and set things right), and they had had TNT directly connected to their central nervous system. Whenever they got excited, or experienced any strong emotion, the TNT would explode, and the creeper and their surroundings would as well.

With this in mind, Steve had undertaken a task. One by one, he systematically captured every last creeper, and rewired their brains so they would only move when he ordered it. With that in mind, he stuck them inside a massive pit filled with plenty of gunpowder for food, and promptly went on with his business.

Several people on the street were giving Steve odd looks – it was only to be expected, his armor and weaponry were at top enchantments – but he didn't really care much. If they got in his way, that was what the diamond sword was for. If not, fine.

At last he came to the house of Rob Hennessy, and – casually pulling out his axe – demolished the door with a single swing. It took somewhere around point four seconds. Strolling through the entrance hall, he double-checked the map to ensure that Rob was indeed in his bedroom where he belonged, before walking up the stairs, sword in hand.

What Steve did not know, of course, was that Rob had (shockingly) heard his front door being demolished, and was currently aiming an over-under shotgun at his bedroom door.

What Rob did not know is that Steve gaveth not one single shit about shotguns.

Upon entry to Rob's room, Steve experienced a brief moment of annoyance at his diamond armor being pelted with some kind of projectile weapon, but quickly grew relieved when he realized that his projectile enchantments had ensured no actual damage was done to him.

I must here congratulate Rob on being able to even fire his weapon when confronted with a massively muscled man who could barely fit through his bedroom door. Even more than that, I would congratulate his intelligence on realizing the futility of continued fire and vacating the premises through the nearest window.

Steve followed him, grunting slightly from the exertion of skipping the ladder that Rob had used and instead dropping two stories straight down. He looked and saw Rob dashing towards his car, which prompted a slight smile from Steve.

To be fair, Rob really did think he was almost going to make it. His hand, come to think of it, was actually on the car door when the arrow shot through his heart and out the other side.

Steve allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction at a job well done when he turned and realized that two police cars had pulled up, and the officers that had piled out had their guns trained directly at him.

Holy Notch, thought Steve. I'm going to get a TON of experience from all those.