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The first time Noob killed a person is something he never forgets.
He doesn't know why Guest decided to play this game. Sure, they had a horror night from time to time, but it was either on Halloween or with copious amounts of preparation for him to be ready to handle it at all, so they can both enjoy it and he leaves with a smile rather than an upset, twisting stomach.
They played a few nice ones, like the old times. He'd follow them and they'd lead him to a cool experience, he takes a few things away from it and they both leave bonded closer than ever, more and more and more. And maybe he was the one who used to lead them around before and choose where they go, but it's not like he's upset by them picking. He always asks them to pick and they never have any ideas, so it's nice to see them so passionate. A nagging sense tells him something and he brushes it off. Things change, especially when you get deleted and come back from sudden nonexistence! They probably just missed a few things.
There really was no indication when they took him to a survival versus game, though. No discussion or thorough investigation of the game's contents to summarize to him. It wasn't Halloween either, still the middle of July. They're probably just so excited they forgot! It's not like they've done this before, he can forgive them for one time. They'll just leave afterwards, right?
He gets picked as Killer first, which is a little unfortunate, but it was probably just bad luck! It's probably not as bad as he thinks. Guest wouldn't do that kind of thing.
He notices he doesn't get a weapon, so he looks to Guest for a little help. Maybe he'd get like a sword or a launcher like that time they played Doomspire Brickbattle! That was pretty funny, when studs would fly everywhere and players would get flung to completely different sides of the field.
Guest hands him a saw.
He stares at them, a little nervous and also disbelieving. Isn't this a little too brutal? It's got rough edges and the noise...
They smile at him and show him how to put it on his hand. How to wave it around and they even help him adjust it so it fits snug in his closed fist and won't fall off. Swinging it is a little bit like swinging an awkward dagger, and it takes some getting used to, but they're just as gentle and patient with him as ever. He's never been the best at games he's new to anyway. He's sure they just know what they're doing. Guest's always been better at stomaching the more mature experiences than him, and he feels a little bad that he's been holding them back from having fun. If this makes them happy, he'll at least try.
In a minute or two (his anxiety is too high for him to count properly), he's released onto the field with a list of survivors to hunt down. A Shedletsky, a Bacon, a Brickbattler, a Bloxxer and a Jane Doe. He doesn't really know any of these people except for Shedletsky, whom all of Roblox obviously knows. He's a little excited that Shedletsky is here in the game. He's a legendary, well-respected admin after all! And he's really funny! He doesn't talk much to Bacons either, and doesn't know who the other three are. He should probably play fair anyway.
He takes his first step forwards and hears a loud crunch. He looks down, thinking it was a really loud stick or wrappers. It's just grass. Must be really dry grass.
It's a little quiet here. There are two castles on either side of opposing colors, and he notes the flags on them. Maybe a Capture the Flag map? It feels out of place but he doesn't judge. It's pretty open! Good for running.
On that note, he hasn't gone running in a while.
He takes off, feeling himself gaining more and more speed, and a smile breaks out on his face as the wind zips past him. He subconsciously searches for any runners while exploring, enjoying the feeling of exertion in his inactive legs. He used to be pretty fit. He should get back to running more.
He spots a silhouette on the right and switches direction, tails them immediately to the bridge and across it and around ledges. When he finally catches up to them, he lunges at them and pins them to the ground with a laugh of victory.
"I WIN!" he announces, proud of himself for playing the game right. He looks down at the survivor he caught: it's just a bacon, not really someone he knows (despite the fact he knows only one out of the five of the survivors).
He remembers he has to eliminate the runner first to win, and reaches down with his new saw. The bacon's eyes widen as he sees the saw approaching his chest, and he whimpers and cries. Tears stain his cheeks and he scrambles to heave himself backwards, but Noob holds him down with a foot on his arm. He's not sure why the bacon is so panicky. He'll just eliminate him, and they'll respawn, and he can win another round! Maybe he's just sad about losing?
"It's okay, you can do it next round!" Noob says, trying to reassure him. The bacon only cries louder. Noob frowns. "Uh, I'll do it quickly, okay?"
He shoves the saw into their chest and blood splatters his face.
His ears ring. Screaming. There's so much screaming. Why is there screaming? What's on his face? Why does it feel hot and muddy? Is it paint?
The saw. Oh god the saw. The sounds it makes, churning and gurgling through the other person's torso, ripping through the flesh as red bleeds out onto his skin and- oh god is that the fucking bone?-
He. He can see the other's heart slowly failing to beat. He can see it, he has his eyes locked on his heart. He's not supposed to see that, right? He. He was supposed to just explode on the spot into body parts that would fly everywhere like studs and then- and then respawn-
Oh god he's not moving. The screaming stopped. It's so quiet. It's silent.
He pulls his hands back, and the squelching noises finally, finally stop. He can't hear his heart beat anymore. It's. It's a corpse. At his hands. He was just supposed to eliminate them. It shouldn't have- It wasn't supposed to- He just killed someone.
He gets up, panic surging through his blood and running ice cold. He just killed someone. With his own hands, at his own doing. He has to run. He has to leave. Why would he ever play this? There's so much blood on his hands- his arms- he tries to scrape it off, his nails are digging into his skin and leaving angry marks, it won't come off it won't come off it won't come off-
Guest will apologize though, right? That's right, Guest will see what happened and they'll say sorry, and then they'll go to Happy Home and they'll drink Bloxy Colas and watch Robloxian Drama and he'll be squeaky clean, good as new, fully himself with no one else's body bits on him at all oh god are those pieces of flesh on his hands?
He runs, and runs and runs and runs until he's so far away from the round and he's so blinded by his own horror that he can no longer hear where he's going because of the blood rushing in his ears and the sound of his own heartbeat beating so heavy in his chest. His chest hurts so, so much, his heart feels like it's going to explode. There's not enough air. There's not enough air. Where is the air? His throat burns. Something is rising up his stomach.
He trips on his own two feet and heaves into the grass, coughing and sputtering as the contents of his stomach, his saliva, and his uncontrollable tears mix. He can see the bits of a burger in his mess from the earlier morning. Why couldn't they just stay in that burger place?
The grass in front of him is crushed by familiar, dark shoes. It's Guest.
He wails, pushing himself up and throwing himself into their arms weakly. His legs give out and practically all his weight is thrown onto Guest for support in their meltdown, who is unusually strong. Their arms wrap around him, placing their own head onto his shoulder. They press sign gestures into his back, and then start rubbing the back of his head for comfort.
[You did so well, Noob.]
Their arms feel cold.
-----------------
Round after round after round after round. Guest never apologized. They never leave the game. He grows used to the feeling of the blood on his hands, and has given up trying to scrub it off until his own skin cracks. Stalking around like a mindless predator, waiting to catch their next prey and tear into it for what reason at all? Just a sick, fantastical game?
It's been so many rounds. Why does it have to be now? When he's like this?
He feels sick.
A familiar baseball cap. Pale, white skin and dark grey eyes, staring at him with so much fear. They're shaking. He can see it, visibly trembling limbs barely holding them up. He remembers a smile on that face and nearly constantly tired eyes staring back at him and he'd stare back in admiration. Because of him.
He can hear the nozzle of the spray can in their hands rattling, because that's how hard they've been shaking. He's a little surprised they haven't dropped it yet.
He murmurs their name, stepping closer, suddenly hyperaware of the loud buzz of the saw as they flinch immediately, their entire body repulsing and arms thrown up to shield their face. Their eyes are small, they're small in front of him like this. Why are they so small? They were always the taller one, weren't they? Or maybe about the same height. Or...
Why is he comparing them to Guest? Guest is waiting for him after this. He never lost them. They came back. He can't be doing this. He needs to finish it, they're right here in front of him cornered like a scared animal. Prey and predator, it's just how it works. Just one swift slice, letting the saws tear through the flesh and maul it, making a shredded mess of muscle and tendons and bursting blood vessels as he lets it spray, and then he'd let them drop to the floor and choke on their own blood, grasping their throat for air as they convulse and squirm until they fall limp. Until their eyes darken lifelessly. Their dark grey eyes.
The saw falls from his hand. The buzz becomes muted by the grass, and his hand grasps for something. He refuses to let himself bend down and pick it back up. He's. He's already killed most of them. It's not much of an issue if he leaves now. It won't be a total loss. Quite the opposite. He did a good job, right?
They fall to the ground in front of him onto their arms, their legs giving out from the fear. He dropped his weapon, and they're still so terrified.
Bile rises in his throat and burns as it goes. He swallows, but it doesn't get rid of the sting that makes his eyes water, and he feels it in his mouth as he forces it back down. He's fine. He's fine. He did a good job. He's okay. He did enough. So much blood. It's all on his hands. He feels it drying, how sticky and heavy it feels. Wipes it off on his pants. None of it comes off. He's okay.
He turns around and runs.
-----------------
Guest meets him again, just as they always do. Always standing there with their arms outstretched to hold him in, rubbing his head, signing praises, making him feel like he's doing okay. Like he isn't a disgusting serial killer, with a second skin, redder than his own, if his own hasn't already been stained red beyond recognition.
He slowly inches closer, footsteps sluggish and exhausted when Guest suddenly backs off, lowering their arms slowly. He stops, looking up at them with confusion.
"Guest?" he asks, raising an eyebrow in concern. Why'd they back away from him? Is he being too dependent?
He backs off and straightens up the best he can without feeling the urge to keel over. Guest's eyes slowly move towards his right arm, and then his ha-
Oh. He doesn't have his saw. He forgot he left it there.
Guest's eyes flash for a minute. He knows what the question is already.
"I uh, I dropped it... I'll go and get it after the round ends."
[ You left early? ] is their immediate response. They don't sign it either. He can feel it, somehow, he can understand them just by their eyes-
Their eyes aren't dark grey. They're bleeding into red. A blood-red. Guest's eyes aren't red.
Noob slowly starts to notice all the little things he hadn't before. Darker skin, a little too grey where Guest's grey skin looked more white, snowy and bright. Their eyes were red, their hair a little longer than it should be, reaching their waist. Guest's hair only comes down to their chin.
Oh.
He's stupid.
A sudden fight or flight instinct kicks in. This isn't the real Guest. The real one is back there where he left them frightened and threatened like prey oh he's an idiot for thinking this was Guest. Guest would never bring him here willingly. Guest would never hand him a saw. Guest doesn't look like that.
This "Guest" starts to inch closer. He can feel the glare of their sudden bright red eyes boring a hole into the center of his body, like it's puncturing all of his organs and leaving holes for the blood to seep through and destroy him from the inside. He starts to back away, panic throwing everything he's got into complete overdrive. He hasn't felt like this since that bacon he killed.
"Guest" doesn't stop. They approach closer and closer until he falls backwards onto the dry dead dead dead grass below him and tries to back up. This scene is oddly familiar to him, but he's on the opposite end now. He understands what he did to those survivors all those times now. He's so, so scared.
When they're close enough, they kneel in front of him and stare him in the eyes. Somehow, he can't blink. His eyes start to burn from the strain, like there was a laser boring into them. He can't look away. He can't look away. He can't look away. He can see their left hand grasping his right arm and holding it up in the corner of his vision. There's claws on the tips of their fingers, sharp claws, and his heart drops when he sees them raise their right hand to his arm.
[ You're dropping your weapon, you're quitting... ] they start, and he can feel it reverberating in his skull. [ What's happened to you, Noob? You're getting weak. ]
"Wh-?" he tries to get out, and immediately coughs as his voice cracks and his throat burns. He sputters a little and tries again. "I'm not, I'm still- I don't let anyone get away ever I just- I need breaks, Guest," he says, having to restart his sentences again and again. His mind is scrambled out of coherency and he fears anything he say will make matters even worse. "Guest"'s claws dig into the flesh of the back of his bloodstained hand, leaving marks that rip and tear until they draw blood. He bites back a whimper and feels his thin bottom lip, already so cracked and dry, split. The blood runs into his mouth. It tastes coppery and disgusting and wretched and heavy and he can't swallow it down, it lingers.
The grip on his arm becomes tighter, more painful, and he cries out and gasps at the punctures on his arms that press deeper and deeper and deeper. It feels like they're going to tear his arm off. He tries to pull back at it and fails, eyes darting back and forth between his arm and the red of those eyes. Their skin is slowly growing darker and darker, seemingly endlessly black that it wasn't even black anymore but nothing. The absence of light on their body, sucking it all in and giving back nothing. Their arm is stretched out as far as possible and their right hand extends its claws. His eyes widen and pupils constrict, barely visible while his entire body begins to shake violently.
[ I doubt you will be needing this much anymore. ]
Something tears through his muscles in his arms and he screams, a sound ripped from his throat and running his vocals dry and ragged. His back arches in pain and blood spurts from the wound and oh god he can hear the bone being sawed off crudely oh god it hURTS-
It's over in an instant and the... he glances to his arm and his stomach churns again for the second time that day. The now stump feels as if it was alight with fire. He can't hold himself back from whimpering, the agony too much to bear and it didn't seem as if it were going to die down anytime soon, red-hot flashes of blinding pain coursing through his entire body. He heaves dryly, already having emptied out his stomach earlier on the way here, and now his stomach only contracts painfully like knives in his gut. He hopes it's over. He begs for it to be over.
"Guest" turns his arm this and that way, admiring the new state it is in at their own hands. Noob is so utterly afraid.
[ Let's make that more useful, shall we? ]
He doesn't know what exactly that means, but it clearly means they aren't done. He tries to desperately pull his amputated arm out of their iron grip, shrieking in pain when all it earns him is a claw digging into the exposed flesh of the stump.
Somehow, somewhere, "Guest" procures another saw, and this one looks heftier, rougher, stronger, more brutal. Noob isn't sure what they're going to do with that, or if they plan to kill him with his own weapon, which would be a mercy. He just wants to die. He wants this over with. Maybe he'll die from the blood loss if he's lucky.
"Guest" extends his stump again for easier access, and holds up the saw tool. Noob suddenly understands.
"Wait, w-wait please- please I'm s-sorry please pLEASE DON'T DO-"
The end of the metal tool is shoved into what remains of his arm, the edges cutting themselves a pathway into his tendons and vessels and joint and nerves and "Guest" only digs deeper and deeper as the metal carves itself a home and settles in his flesh like it was meant to sit there, a part of him forever. He can feel the foreign material moving in his flesh, his nerves burning with terrible agony.
"Guest" finds a way to weld it into place and finally, finally, steps back, admiring their work. In his daze, he can see their true appearance now. How did he ever think otherwise?
[ Now you won't have to worry about being unarmed. ]
Hah. They made a pun. Guest always hated those.
They pass out.
-----------------
It's been hours. A day? No, not long enough. Not enough time. Too little. Too little.
He needs more. He needs more time. More time. More time.
Tube in his flesh. Blood seeping out. Metal won't dent. Won't dent won't dent won't dent-
He needs it out of his flesh. Out of his arm. Needs the metal and skin to separate. Needs to return to normalcy. Needs to be fully organic. Needs to come close to people. Needs to stop killing. Needs to die. Out of his arm. Out of his body. Parasite.
Out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out
Get it off
Please
The metal won't dent. He scratches and slams with hammers and nails and wrenches and it won't come off, none of it will come off but he broke the saw, he broke the saw. It won't get off.
Get it off
Get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it off get it o-
Footsteps
Too late. Too late too late. Not enough time.
More time.
Too late.
-----------------
[ Smile more, my doll. Don't you see the other killers? Aren't you having fun? ]
It's having lots of fun.
[ There doesn't seem to be proof on your face. ]
It swears it's having fun.
[ Hm. Don't you want to satisfy me? ]
It answers yes. Of course it does. Anything for 666.
[ Do as I say. ]
Of course it will. It sees no other choice. It is happy to.
[ Carve a smile into your face. ]
Of course it will. Anything to satisfy 666. It knows exactly what to do. It walks to the nearest mirror, determined to carve the perfect smile for 666. Its saw meets its face. The pain is refreshing. The tears pull at the corners of its mouth, forcing them upwards. An eternal smile, just like 666 asked.
[ Good doll. ]
It smiles. 666 is satisfied. It won't have to hurt again tonight.
[ Hacksaw is a beautiful name, don't you think? ]
A name is too much for it.
[ Nonsense. A gift, from me. ]
It thanks 666. It shall respond to no other name. Its name shall be Hacksaw, as 666 says it.
It smiles. It cannot do anything else.