Chapter Text
How many times had IT witnessed this spectacle? Respawning, dying, living, stunning, killing, losing, winning… The Spectre had grown tired of it all. What once was an endless show had turned into a tedious job. Nerfing this, buffing that, re-working it—there was no longer any enjoyment in a game like this.
IT thought for a long, long time.
How could this become amusing again? How could IT laugh at the misfortune of others’ again?
Perhaps it was time to end this torturous charade. IT could release them. IT could free them of this torment and allow them all to finally pass on peacefully. Even the killers could be forgiven and given a second chance at living a good, honest life.
But where was the fun in that?
No. Of course not. Hell would have to freeze over before the Spectre finally granted them mercy. The games would never end. The sinners would be trapped in this purgatory forever. IT just needed to figure out what to change about the purgatory.
Again, IT thought.
Something finally appeared.
…
Hm.
Now that was a good idea.
—
Slasher did not know a life outside of violence.
Perhaps it was from the cruel experiments performed on him, or the ongoing war during said experimentations, or the motherly voice in his ear that gave him orders—but killing came naturally to him. Even when something (Or was it someone?) stole him from the outside world, he did not mind. After all, in this new realm, there were still plenty who could fall victim to his machete.
Search. Chase. Slash. Stab. Kill. Search. Chase. Slash. Stab. Kill.
Again. And again. And again. Over and over, in an endless loop, until it became a mere blur to him. Faces grew unrecognizable. Counterattacks became less painful. Blood was like his water now, and his machete an everyday tool.
Pleads of mercy, cries of fear, screams of anger—nothing deterred Slasher from continuing his daily routine. Eventually, though, his victims learned to stop begging. All that was left were the words of his mother.
He slaughtered mercilessly, the feeling of blood all-too comforting for him. It wasn’t anything personal; Slasher had no special disputes with any of the survivors unlike his fellow killers (Well, that blue-haired one always seemed especially disturbed by him, but that was his own issue). He was only following his mother’s orders. He listened obediently to the sweet voice from the book that he found after escaping Area 51. Was this wrong? It couldn’t be.
His mother could never be wrong.
A shot rang out. There was a ringing in his ears alongside Mother’s voice, the scent of burnt gunpowder filling the air. Slasher held his head in agony, forced to stay still in place for four seconds.
“Make them remember!”
His mother could never be wrong.
A slice of pizza, discarded on the grass, only to be picked up by a survivor in chase. Frustration bubbled dangerously within Slasher as he watched the food miraculously close up wounds he had caused moments earlier.
“Kill them!”
Yet one day, after a particularly humiliating match, his mother’s voice disappeared.
The Survivors won.
He lost. And now she was gone. The book was gone.
At first, Slasher was devastated. Was this his punishment for losing? Had he failed her too many times now? Was Mother disappointed in him? Was he alone again, left with his own thoughts? No, no. He couldn’t be alone again. He didn’t want to be alone again. Alone in the cold facility, alone with the beeping of machinery, alone with prying hands of doctors—
“Jason?”
A small voice spoke out to him. Quiet. Pitiful. Slasher glanced towards the source of it, meeting the frightened gaze of a small boy. A familiar boy. But he didn’t remember him being so small. His memories were fuzzy, but this boy was supposed to be tall and monstrous, with clawed hands and a thrilled smile permanently etched on his face.
Instead, in front of him stood a trembling child. C00lkidd looked relatively the same, as red as ever, but there were no remnants of the killer he once was. The ridiculous advertisement of his own team was no longer carved into his very skin, but rather sloppily written onto a Drakobloxxer onesie he was now wearing.
Slasher paused, now finally taking in his surroundings. This wasn’t his limbo. Instead, the two seemed to have spawned in what appeared to be a log cabin. Cozy, yes, but with the ever-lingering dread that accompanied everyone trapped in this realm.
He turned back to C00lkidd and thought for a moment. Then, with slight hesitance, he awkwardly patted the boy’s shoulder in a poor attempt at comforting him. It only made C00lkidd even more nervous.
It was strange. Slasher didn’t feel… Bloodthirsty. He felt no rage, no need for vengeance. Without Mother, he didn’t feel the urge to slash at such a weak being even though he very well could. He let go of C00lkidd’s shoulder and instead reached for his own machete—not to hurt C00lkidd, just to check if the weapon was still there—and instead, he grasped at nothing. Quickly, his hand leapt to check if his chainsaw remained on his back, but again, it wasn’t there.
If his hockey mask hadn’t been hiding his face, C00lkidd would’ve been able to see the way Slasher’s eyebrows furrowed and how his jaw clenched. Not in fear or shock, but rather irritation by the loss of his beloved, blood-stained tools.
C00lkidd didn’t mention it. He lifted his head up to look at the taller man. He never realized how… Scary Slasher looked. Like, straight out of a horror movie his dad banned him from watching kind-of scary. It was as if a child safety filter had been turned off! Or maybe it was Halloween, and everyone but C00lkidd remembered? How could he have forgotten Halloween?
The appearance of another person suddenly materializing from thin air interrupted the staring match between them. The clattering of (one) sword and multiple chains, alongside the body hitting the wooden floorboards with a loud thud, followed not long after.
“AUGH, my head..!” the person groaned. They brushed their hair out of their face, revealing the glow of a red eye. Oh. It was the one and only creation of hatred themself.
They seemed to be dressed in a strange new outfit, one that the other killers had never seen before. A new skin, perhaps? Encased in armor like a chivalrous knight, 1x1x1x1 laid on the ground, doubling over in pain. A not-so very knightly sight.
“1x! Where did you come from!?” C00lkidd exclaimed. Slasher watched as he ran towards 1x1x1x1, only to get pushed away, silent as always.
1x1x1x1 finally glanced at C00lkidd as she stood up and grabbed her daemonshank (Where was the other one?), obviously confused and frustrated. But when was she not frustrated?
“..Why do you look like THAT?” muttered 1x1x1x1. “Ugh… I was in a round on Glass Houses, and right before the timer ended, I was stunned by him… Why does it hurt so bad? It isn’t normally this painful. And where is my other sword!? Is this the work of that damn Spectre again?”
C00lkidd shrugged. Slasher didn’t have a response either. She slowly took to her feet, not yet used to moving with the heavy armor. Finally, she spoke, “Where the hell are we?”
That was a good question. One that reminded them that they should investigate the strange lobby. Did the Spectre finally decide to give them a space where the killers could interact? And what was with the new designs?
Minutes passed. They searched—or, well C00lkidd and Slasher searched, 1x1x1x1 was instead quietly brooding in the corner—and eventually found three important details.
Firstly, this cabin seemed to be where the survivors resided. Based on the conversations on the chalkboard and an absurd, framed picture of C00lkidd’s father hung proudly on the wall upstairs that made C00lkidd burst out laughing, the killers had accidentally found themselves where the survivors rested instead of their own personal limbo the Spectre curated after rounds.
Secondly, there were other non-survivors inside of the cabin, but they weren’t alive nor conscious; 1x1x1x1 had found this out when he angrily stabbed the Pizza Guy who looked an awful lot like that one survivor after he kept repeating the same line over and over again. He didn’t drop dead. He just kept standing there.
1x1x1x1 gave up on trying to help with anything else after that.
Lastly, they were able to exit the cabin, but they couldn’t go far. Slasher could clearly see the sea of trees and the endless ocean ahead of him in the perpetually dark night, yet he was physically unable to wander off. Possibly to prevent the survivors and killers from being at each other’s areas and creating this exact scenario the three killers were in right now…
Slasher sat himself in front of the fireplace, feeling the warmth of the perpetually lit flames. How fortunate the survivors were, to be able to easily converse with each other outside of the games… The killers were not so lucky, it seemed.
Slasher didn’t want to go back.
He didn’t want to go back alone to that void of a home the Spectre created. He didn’t want to do nothing except wait in anticipation for the next round. For the next massacre.
The cabin was peaceful. The silence was calming. All that was there was the ticking of a clock, the flickering of the fire, and C00lkidd’s quiet humming from the couch behind him. For once, Slasher’s shoulders relaxed and his fists unclenched. He could grow used to the lack of Mother’s whispers.
There was a knock at the door.
Gentle and hesitant, as if they were afraid to enter. Immediately, Slasher tensed up and 1x1x1x1 instinctively gripped their daemonshank. They didn’t move from their spots.
“I’ll get it!”
Unlike the other two, C00lkidd immediately hopped off of the old couch and rushed towards the door, his feet pattering against the floor and sending dust into the air. With one quick motion, he slammed the door open, only to let out a high-pitched scream and run away into 1x1x1x1’s unwilling arms.
“AHHH! It’s John Doe!” he cried out. “He’s here to hack us all!”
1x1x1x1’s eyes immediately shot up to meet the gaze of the familiar figure at the door. A figure now uncorrupted by defunct code, unshackled by the Spectre’s control. Where his body was once overrun with corruption now had bandages covering them, as if they were merely wounds that could be easily healed.
John Doe frowned nervously, taking a step back in fear at the unusual cast of characters beyond the creaky door frame. C00lkidd yelped, hiding behind the 1x1x1x1 arm like they were a protective shield.
“Calm down. That’s just a myth,” they hissed, pushing him away, earning tearful whining from said boy in response.
“But… My dad said John Doe comes to take away kids who misbehave!”
1x1x1x1 rolled their eyes, lifting one hand to tiredly rub their temples before sending C00lkidd away. He didn’t need to hear their discussion about the purgatory they were in.
“I, uh,” started John Doe as C00lkidd hurriedly raced upstairs, pausing until he was out of earshot. “I don’t know how that kid knew my name.. Nor do I kidnap children, I swear! But I think I’m lost here. Do any of you know the way to the nearest city? Or, uhm… Or have any of you got a phone?”
Blinking, Slasher slightly sat up. His eyes narrowed—not that anyone could see them behind the mask. John Doe didn’t remember? He didn’t remember that this was purgatory, where the four of them would constantly hunt down sinners in a sick game for an even sicker entity’s enjoyment?
John Doe grew worried at the silence that fell upon the group. He had no memory of his hundreds of slaughters. The code had been puppeting his unconscious body with a single goal for destruction like a parasite infecting the dead, and now without the defunct code overwriting his own, he had little recollection of the past beyond becoming corrupted by something.
“If none of you have a phone, that’s fine. I just need a map and—”
The chime of the clock interrupted him. Slasher looked up towards the source of the sound. 0:00? A round was starting? Right now? But they had no clue who was going to be the killer… He glanced around the cabin cautiously. Three-fourths of them didn’t even have their weapons!
Yet before anyone could voice their protests, there came a familiar darkness that clouded their vision.
This round’s killer is…
Noob
