Chapter Text
The last thing 1x1x1x1 was expecting upon opening their eyes was to be in another round of killing. They weren't opposed to it, but the last round was so shit that even Builderman, who was a half second away from keeling over and dying, staggered up to them to land a punch. Anger bubbled in their chest, and the stabbing pain between their brow only got worse.
All in all, they just wanted to go sit in the mansion’s designated sensory deprivation corner and brood the migraine away. And yet, here they are, on a dock near some big, fancy wilderness retreat. Great.
They stalked their way over to the lodge, each step lancing pain up their legs as they ascended the ramp (stupid fucking Spectre and its stupid fucking punishments they’re going to beat its ass if they ever have the displeasure of seeing it face to face--). Idle chatter that they hadn’t noticed before suddenly ceased, replaced by hushed whispers and someone shushing them before silence overtook the building. Quiet footsteps swiftly moved out of earshot, as if they were trying not to be heard over the stomping that drew closer to the door. Too late for hiding, though.
The glint of crimson from his one good eye reflected off the glass as he peered in the narrow window beside the door, watching the people inside tensed. He only counted three at first, Shedletsky (he was going to savor tearing the man limb from limb) and the other the sentinels, as he had expected, but he soon spotted the other admins (and the adminling he detests) lurking behind a corner further in. Glancing up he noticed the off-putting one watching from the balcony, not even bothering to hide, with their horrible little grin plastered across their face. This is going to be… obnoxious at the very least, if not painful and rage inducing.
They stepped into the doorway, barely long enough to utter a, “hello,” before the gambler had raised his gun, which promptly exploded in his face right after they had managed to duck out of view. The fool really needs to replace the damned thing if he wants a chance at survival, but alas, his hand is already charred and shaking from the pain as he runs up the stairs.
They promptly sprint into the room, completely ignoring the soldier bracing for impact and darting out of the way of Shedletsky’s (whiffed, as legendary swordsmen do,) slash, instead skidding to a stop in front of the poorly hidden admins to unleash an entanglement. The conniving little demolitionist attempts to leap over the table to escape, but it’s nowhere near quick enough to escape the pierce of their blades. People behind them are shouting, and footsteps approach rapidly as they wind up to hit the three immobilized survivors with mass infection. Someone slams into them, the soldier, knocking them off balance, but it wasn’t enough to prevent all four of them from getting hit, and they could practically hear the Spectre purring with delight.
1x rebalanced themself just in time to notice that the terrorist had managed to free himself and toss a bomb at their chest. Fuck. They threw their arm over their eyes in an attempt to block out the flash of pink as too many sets of injured, limping footsteps escaped elsewhere. Cowards , all of them.
Their vision cleared up within a few seconds, as it always does and always should, allowing them to watch the soldier disappear outside, ugh. But they did see the weird, creepy one upstairs earlier, before the gambler ran up there. Surely it’d be worth checking out.
They heard a coin flip when they started ascending the creaky staircase, followed by feet shuffling as they neared the top. The gambler was waiting in the doorway, gun drawn and aimed at them, while the pizza man and the newbie tried to hide away in a corner next to a purple machine. The gambler seemed to be hesitating, probably from the pain, allowing 1x the opportunity to close the gap, only for the little bastard to fire the gun nearly point-blank into their chest, knocking the air from their lungs and causing them to fall to one knee.
There was a shout, shouting something about jumping, as the gambler skirted around it and bolted down the stairs. 1x stood up just in time to watch c00lkidd’s father climb over the banister and drop down to the floor below with a loud thud and a groan. No matter, there’s still two survivors conveniently lined up. It prepares to hit them with a mass infection, but the duo burst out of their hiding spot, just barely managing to escape in time, with only the pizza man having a small gash in his calf.
The new one attempts to recreate what c00lkidd’s father had done, only to fail miserably and tumble over the side with a yelp. The pizza man, with only the slightest bit more grace, follows suit. 1x launches itself after them, eyes flicking over to a dark movement in its periphery that it was unable to identify before starting its fall.
The new one was picking themself off the ground as the pizza man tried to drag them out of the way of 1x’s venomous blades, but their cry of pain was more than enough to inform him that he was too late to prevent it from cutting their forearm to the bone. c00lkidd’s father was starting up his teleporter in the same corner the admins had attempted to hide in, subtly (not subtly enough) waving the terrified duo over. It readied a mass infection as the two inexperienced survivors launched themselves at the father to hold onto his arm for dear life. Like dominoes, they’ll fall.
Something sharp stabbed into its back, twisted, and was ripped out, causing its attack to veer off course as the father and his equally useless companions disappeared. Its brief pause as realization set in allowed for the object to be plunged in and torn out again. It whipped around to see the creepy, pale survivor grinning at them, bloody blade poorly hidden behind their back.
“You fucking WRETCH .” It snarled, teeth bared, as it slammed its fist into the freak’s temple, knocking them onto their side and sending them skidding across the floor into the wall. Blood dripped from a cut it had left on them, but even the daze it seemed to have left them in didn’t stop their smile from growing. They staggered to their feet, barely dodging out of the way of the first decapitation attempt, and the second was interrupted by its least favorite terrorist darting in and thowing another fucking bomb .
Their vision cleared and their ears stopped ringing quickly enough to hear footsteps fading into the distance and the robes of the little bastard disappearing outside. They’re going to break every bone and sever every tendon in his hands before chopping the damn things off. They fling their daemonshanks at him, the venom working its magic and forcing him to stop running. Before they know it, they have a death grip on his throat as they drag him down the stairs to a rock, bashing and bashing and breaking until there’s little left of his head but red splattered across the surface of the stone. They growl to themself, holding the hilt of their blades as they kick the headless corpse off their weapons.
Footsteps run up to them, and they turned their head just in time to watch Telamon’s blade rip into their flank, leaving a deep gash that scraped against bone (what a vile sensation), shouting something they couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to over the blood rushing in their ears. They watched with mild fascination as his sword pierced the wound, puncturing their lung. Despite the festering in their chest and pounding behind their eyes, their worthless, insignificant, inferior creator still managed to evade their sloppy (it would have connected if they were faster, they’re normally faster, why aren’t they faster?) retaliatory swing.
Blood dripped down from the wound, their side burned, and their arm wasn’t reacting the way they expected it to, but it didn’t matter, because Shedletsky hadn’t run away (he should fear them, why hasn’t he learned yet?). Rather, he was still pointing his sword at them, blathering on about something, so focused on whatever he was saying that he didn’t bother to block their blade. It brushed across his face, making him falter for long enough to follow up with their daemonshank cleaving through his neck.
It flicked the blood from its blade (they’re such a pain to clean), and watched the body fall for half a second, which was apparently plenty of time for the bastard gambler to send yet another bullet into its chest. It hissed, and drew back to unleash a mass infection, which may be overkill for the swaying gunman, but they’re long overdue for a reality check. But someone had to ruin it, as it was thrown off balance by the soldier bashing into it. It changed trajectory, slashing at the man, only for him to block the blades and throw a punch that hit hard enough to send it to the floor.
Every breath they took resulted in them making a weird, wet, wheezing noise while they struggled to pull in enough air to function, but no matter. They pushed themself off the ground, barely finding their footing (were they really that weak ? What a fucking failure they are, the Spectre will not be pleased, and they are not looking forward to what awaits them after this round). They sent an entanglement the gamblers’ way, barely managing to hit him, watching as he convulsed before collapsing. Dead, finally.
They nearly lost their footing, turning to watch as the soldier approached them, hands raised slightly above his head with his palms open, saying something they couldn’t hear in a low tone. As though he thought they were too weak to be a threat. Eugh. Something wet and metallic rose in the back of their throat and they bit down on the urge to cough. They’re 1x1x1x1, they will not show weakness to such a lowly man. (Are they dying? It’ll certainly be a first.)
They swing their sword at one of his hands, saved from a mortifying fall only by the blade they planted into the ground. (Something deep down in the recesses of their hind-brain screams at the idea of dying. They ignore it. The Spectre wouldn’t let one of its toys die permanently.) The man’s hand twitched away, but he didn't back off. He’s reaching for their shaking hands (why are they shaking? They’ve had worse wounds in rounds, this shouldn’t be affecting them this badly, it hardly even hurts), and it takes a moment for them to process that he’s attempting to disarm them. To leave them defenseless.
An unnamable emotion forced them to spring into action, lashing out with both swords, forcing him to back off or be gutted like a pig. They slipped on the continuously growing pool of their own blood (are their wounds that bad? surely some of it is Shedletsky’s and the demolitionist’s) but continued to advance on the blue haired warrior, who looked unconcerned. As though they aren’t worth the effort to attack. They prepare an entanglement, watching the man tense in anticipation, but they barely managed to raise their swords before something pierces through their back.
They gurgled ( undignified, pathetic ) as they collapsed onto the ground. The soldier was speaking loudly at their attacker, hands moving to emphasize whatever he was saying. They barely processed that the person who stabbed them was Telamon.
(hatehatehate hate hate, why is he alive, the round isn’t over, he should be dead ) through the fog dulling their senses. Telamon planted his foot on their back to rip the sword from their spine, leaving them to gasp for air and choke on blood as he walked away.
The soldier glanced down at them, sighing deeply before stealing one of their daemonshanks (how dare he). They had hardly managed to get one arm beneath themself before their sword pierced their neck, severing it in one drawn-out, crude motion.
1x1x1x1 awoke with a gasp, only to discover they were not surrounded by air. They could hardly see through the murky water, the darkness surrounding them not helping as they attempted to orient themself. Their lungs ached as they clawed their way toward the surface, only to find silt and mud beneath their fingers as darkness closed in on their vision.
They woke up again, with hardly enough air to even process they were back underwater. They swam in the opposite direction to last time (they tried, they can’t swim, why can’t they swim, Shedletsky knows how to swim, why don’t they?) but they weren’t even able to brush the surface before they were gone again.
Their eyes open and they feel weak as they struggle to ascend to the surface. A single hand manages to breach the surface with a splash before the waves dragged them back under.
They’re tired when they wake up next. They seem to have sunk to the lake floor in the time between revivals. The cool water almost helps alleviate their various aches and pains. Warped plants brush against their legs as they try to jump off the substrate and reach the surface. They fail miserably.
They can’t say they expected to wake up in a round after drowning who knows how many times in a row. Not that they could do much, on account of their lungs being full of water.
Surely the survivors were going to gloat to each other , they thought as they wheezed, '1x was incapacitated this round,' '1x can't swim,' they're sure they'd say. Ugh. They coughed up more water. There were footsteps behind them, someone making the foolish mistake of approaching, not that they could see who it was with their hair creating a curtain around their face. But that would not stop them from retaliating if they tried shit.
They were murmuring something (eugh, he’s not a stray animal), promising that they weren't here to hurt him (liar, it's only a matter of time until a sentinel finds him and secures a survivor win). Despite all of the violent, bloody scenarios racing through his head, what 1x1x1x1 was not expecting was for them to try to touch him, or, more accurately, his hair.
"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!" Was the only warning they got before he had attempted to claw them open.
He failed miserably at said clawing, instead collapsing and nearly hacking up a lung onto the (dirty, unhygienic, disgusting) tile. The idiot, apparently deciding that attempting to approach the thing that wanted them dead AGAIN was a good idea, scooped up his hair (surprisingly gently, considering... everything), and tugged on it lightly for a few moments (they better pray they don't pull too hard, otherwise not even the Spectre would be able to save them), before letting it fall to the ground.
He turned his head to glare at them, mildly confused when his hair didn’t fall into his face, and they (the new one with the ugly ass outfit, seriously, GREEN pants with a blue sweater? unhinged behavior) waved, obviously nervous. Terrified even. As they should be.
"I.. I thought you might want to keep your hair out of your face when you're... um." They wilted under his gaze, "I'll. I'll find somewhere else to be. P-Please stop drowning."
'Please stop drowning,' how the fuck is he supposed to do that? Hm? He wished he had the energy to lunge at them as they scurried away, but the thought of it was apparently too much for his frail body, and sent him into another coughing fit, just as the timer ticked down to zero.
They wake up underwater and have to ask themself if this is their punishment for being killed during the round at the lakeside cabin. It probably is. They hardly even have a chance to see where they are and where to go before everything fades to black again.
They see the moon’s reflection in the waves above them, and manage to surface for long enough to try to gasp for air, but only end up coughing up water before falling back under. They almost made it back up a second time, but they didn’t do it quickly enough.
Their deaths were starting to blur together. Sometimes they thought they heard people talking, but there were too many voices for them to be back at their living quarters, and they slipped back under.
They surface, and something grabs their hand. They yank it back from whatever was trying to catch them and are dragged deeper by a sudden current.
The next time they surface it happens again, this time snatching their wrist in a death grip. It gives them enough time to hack and wheeze above water before the waves grow too strong.
But they don’t die. They’re yanked back up, despite their flailing, and dragged through the current. They attempt to look at whatever has grabbed onto them, but they’re facing away from whoever was foolish enough to manhandle them, and they can’t see anything other than a distant rock formation and reflections of the moon on the water.
The person swimming them to shore stops, and another set of hands grabs their free arm out of nowhere. Water floods their system again as they thrash. The newer set of hands squeaks and multiple people start talking over each other. They barely manage to yank their arm back ( weak ) when the first set of hands roughly pushes them towards some sort of pillar. They leave deep gouges in the wood(?) with their claws as they gracelessly scramble onto the structure.
They’re too busy coughing up their lungs and gagging on air to focus on what the people in the water were saying. They were not too busy to freeze and attempt to suppress their heaving when one of the people in the water jumped onto the platform with them ( weak, defenseless, easy target ). They listened as footsteps and quiet speaking got close (too close, the fool needs to back up), only to jolt when someone touched their shoulder. They swatted at their hand, something that was apparently too violent, which they only discovered upon hearing someone sprinting down the dock to kick them back into the water.
He inhaled involuntarily ( idiot ), squawking ( hate hate hate ) as someone fished him back out. He clung to them (the Spectre is going to kill him. He hopes it does, he does not want anyone to remember this). He made sure to remind them once again that he was dangerous, glaring (as pathetic as it ended up looking while he re-emptied the water from his lungs) daggers at the… new one in the atrocious outfit. Again. They finally seemed to get the hint and scurried off the dock to hide behind Shedletsky.
The swordsman stood between them and the other end of the dock (they need to stand, they need to kill him, they should not keep laying prone, propped up out of their lung water with only their elbows), the soldier observing them from the water beside the dock, and the gambler watching from just off to the side on the sand. Comforting. They struggled to their feet, ignoring the way that the gambler took aim at them, finger on the trigger. They could barely stand, their swaying making them nauseous.
The soldier made eye contact with Shedletsky and the gambler, before hoisting himself out of the water. 1x barely managed to not fall when they took a step away from him, but he didn’t falter. They ducked out of his way, all too aware of the gun trained on their head, when he attempted to grab them the first time, but was too uncoordinated to dodge out of the way a second time. He dragged them across the dock, pausing to ensure they didn’t fall when they stumbled (they should not be this tired, and the world around them should not be spinning), leading them past the large blood puddle to the stairs of the big cabin.
They were dragged inside, and he pushed them until they sat down on a couch, leaving them to try to fight off nausea as he went Spawn knows where. Minutes later something is tossed onto their lap. A towel. They glare at him until he wanders off, not that any of the other leeches who crept in left, before trying to squeeze as much lake water (nasty) from their hair as possible and drying off. The saturated fabric thwaps against the floor as they recline onto the cushions. Clearly the Spectre wants them here, they decided, closing their eyes. They would much rather be unconscious than deal with their spectators gawking.