AND AS LONG AS I HAVE TEETH, I WILL BITE YOU.

by Anonymous

Summary:

1x1x1x1’s intense daddy issues latches onto Elliot's harmlessness. (Or something like that.)

Chapter 1

Anger.

 

Anger is all 1x1x1x1 can ever think about, and it pisses them off to no end that once it dissipates, it loops right back up like a broken record. Anger runs in their veins, in their heart, and in the tiny holes of the bones encasing it. It boils like oil, thick and scalding, coating every thought and skin until it sizzles out—only to bubble back up again.

 

They could never admit how low it all makes them feel. It enrages them that they’re nothing but anger, and hatred, and revenge—just some killer that crawls out every now and then to torture a handful of people.

 

They should be more. This obsession with killing their creator is starting to grate on them, making them painfully aware of just how embarrassingly pathetic they’ve become. How desperate they are. And in the end, they can only blame whoever trapped them in this realm for damning them to feel nothing but hatred, over and over again.

 

There was an attempt, honestly. A plan to suppress the rage boiling in their green, green blood. But pride always takes over, and they end up slicing everyone’s throats anyway.

 

Everyone pisses them off. Even the so-called ‘supporters’ of the team—the ones who supposedly aren’t supposed to lay a hand nor damage them. The blue pumpkin hits them with beams that weigh down their bones and slow them down. That dark-hooded bastard throws bombs. Builderman and his turrets, sound grating in their ears. He’s just as annoying as they remember him.

 

The only one who’s pathetically harmless is the pizza guy—or Elliot, if 1x1x1x1 goes by the nametag pinned to his red uniform.

 

Three taps of their blade, and he’s gone. Squishy and easy to kill. He can throw his measly food at any survivor, and they’ll still die by 1x1x1x1’s hands. Not a nuisance. Useless alone. Doesn’t hurt them. Just good enough to use as a practice dummy.

 

So in one round, they corner him. First second. Somewhere on the map no other survivor ever bothers to visit.

 

Elliot scurries against a wall, still fresh-faced—no grime beneath his fingertips from generators, no sweat on his temple. His straight-faced facade cracks fast, brows furrowing, lips shaping into an almost-scream.

 

“Call for help, and you’re first to fall.”

 

Elliot snaps his mouth shut, teeth clacking so loud it might’ve chipped.

 

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. That’s this realm’s unspoken rule, and 1x1x1x1 has no problem abiding by it. They could damn these survivors for simply breathing. At the end of the day, Elliot will still die—so it’s a wonder he even bothers following their orders.

 

1x1x1x1 slowly makes their way to where Elliot stands. They watch as he scrapes in panic at the wall he’s leaning against, his fingernails growing duller by the second.

 

They stand in front of him, hand awkwardly holding the blade, instincts telling them to just swing it.

 

“Hello,” 1x1x1x1 says, testing the waters.

 

Elliot makes a ridiculous face—one that almost tempts 1x1x1x1 to end the conversation right there and slaughter everyone just to finish the round. But before they can act on it, Elliot mutters,

 

“...Hi.”

The volume is so low 1x1x1x1 almost misses it. With a flicker of renewed confidence (small, but there) Elliot fidgets, trying to straighten himself before mumbling, “How are you…?”

 

“Fine.”

 

1x1x1x1 has no idea where to go from there. What else is there to say? Everyone’s life here is a constant loop of bloodshed and despair. Nothing worth talking about. Not even the weather. The grass is yellowing, the rivers are poisoned. It's all just dreadful.

 

So they raise their blade and cut Elliot down on the spot—stomach first, then slicing up to the neck. Blood explodes over them from head to toe. They move on to the rest of the survivors. Blood, guts, gore—the smell as familiar as breathing air.

 

The round ends.

 

And 1x1x1x1 tries again.

 

It’s always hard to corner Elliot. That pitiful man is constantly surrounded by at least one survivor trying to rattle his ear off or begging for scraps. It’s like they all know he’s weak and can’t fight back. Whatever force is behind this, it even stops Elliot from landing a single punch. Which is the most laughable decision it made.

 

So 1x1x1x1 does what they do best—efficiency. They spot the gambler with Elliot, his thumb flicking a coin. The sound of it grating their ears, ticking a brow, enough to boil blood. Before the coin can land back to the gambler's hand, 1x1x1x1 hurls their blade and cuts him down with one more swing.

 

Blood splatters across the ground, staining one side of Elliot’s clothes. Nearby, the gambler’s corpse quivers and convulses, poison gnawing at what little life is left in his muscles.

 

Before Elliot can run, they seize his arm and drag him to the nearest corner. Sharp nails digging into golden skin.

 

Expectedly, he’s shaking, his teeth clattering softly. His face is pale—laughable. 1x1x1x1 hadn’t really planned what to do with Elliot. They never think about him at all when they’re on standby, waiting for the next round to start.

 

What is there to think about?

A weak man with no purpose beyond trailing after others and hiding behind them. Tossing food on the ground, making the other survivors scramble for it like starved dogs. Nothing worth remembering. An insignificant ant. Yet, looking at him now, a sour, bitter taste creeps up 1x1x1x1’s throat.

 

They eye the arm they’ve carelessly grabbed, now bleeding from the tiny pinpricks left by their sharp nails. Elliot barely even notices the injury, his head bowed low as if already expecting the guillotine to fall and end him.

 

The long silence is enough for Elliot to peek through his eyelashes, confused why he’s not in the cabin yet. But 1x1x1x1 simply stands there, as if waiting for Elliot to read their mind to snap out of his cowardly act.

 

“...” Elliot’s words die in his mouth before he tries again. “...Hi?”

 

“Hello.” The sudden response makes Elliot flinch, heart lurching to his throat. 1x1x1x1 can hear it from where they stand with how loud it beats. 

 

Elliot seems to sense how this interaction is going. Clever guy. He cooperates just enough.

 

“Uh—hi! So, uh…” He starts to sweat, eyes flicking to the side as if praying one of the survivors will finally realize he’s isolated in some forgotten corner. “...How are you?”

 

“Is that all you know to ask?” 1x1x1x1’s neutral voice booms in his ears, louder than it should be. Elliot stiffens, his back snapping straight. They watch him shuffle in place, sweaty hands fidgeting with anxious energy.

 

“I’m… uh, do you want a pizza? I made a lot.” Elliot tries again. It sounds ridiculous hearing it out loud.

 

1x1x1x1’s eye twitches, fingers gripping the handle of their blade. Is this man making fun of them?

With no hesitance, they raise their sword, and Elliot immediately starts waving his hands around, desperate to dissipate the anger. 1x1x1x1 let's the sword hang in the air like a guillotine.

 

“Hey—wait! Wait! I promise it tastes nice!” he stammers. “I made it extra cheesy today. Garlic-y cheese! Look!”

Elliot fumbles around and pulls a pizza box from his back. It’s still steaming hot, and he grabs a slice, his rough hands already used to the heat.

 

1x1x1x1 glares at the man, their hands stubbornly staying in its current position, though it nudges a bit from tentativeness. Elliot stares straight into their eyes, like a deer in headlights. The gall.

 

Their eyes then flicker down to the slice. It does look… nice, much to their dismay. The cheese stretches in long, glossy strands, like something straight out of a commercial. It looks too good that it looks fake.

 

“Come on. The others say I'm a pretty great cook. It doesn't hurt to try. I'm sure you're hungry.” Elliot waves it around like a dog treat. 1x1x1x1 clicks their tongue and snatches the slice, if only to stop Elliot from unknowingly mocking them any further.

 

They’re here to experiment on him, after all—to temper the boiling anger. All that effort to isolate Elliot would’ve been wasted if they just swung their blade. They need to beat whatever system they're trapped in. They need to be out of it.

 

So they pinch the crust between two fingers, raise it, and drop the slice into their mouth. Elliot watches in awe. Their mouth is big enough to eat it in one bite.

 

“So… how is it? Good?” Elliot shifts his head and body ever so slightly, eyes fixed on the faintest twitch of expression 1x1x1x1 might let slip.

 

“Does it matter whether I like it or not?” 1x1x1x1 wipes bread-crusted fingers against their side. The cheese melts across their tongue, rich and warm—an unfamiliar softness. Eating something decent for the first time in ages almost betrays them. All they’ve eaten are raw animals, sometimes charred black, sometimes still bleeding. Living alongside killers with corrupted, manipulated minds doesn’t exactly make for fine dining. The last thing they want is to show satisfaction.

 

“I mean, I gotta take all the criticism to make the best, y’know?” Elliot insists. He seems genuine enough that 1x1x1x1 might just throw him a bone.

 

Gruffly, they exhale. The action makes Elliot’s bangs swing a bit.

They recall the taste of the slice—how it’s satisfying and unsatisfying just enough to make them crave another. Something about it lingers.

But the words die on their tongue. Compliments don’t come easy. Not from them. Every syllable feels like dragging a blunt knife through concrete. It's exhausting.

The hesitance crawls under their skin and festers, frustrating them more than they’d ever admit.

 

“It was… decent.”

 

“Just decent?” Elliot frowns.

 

1x1x1x1’s grip tightens on the sword’s handle, though they force themselves to tamp down the growl in their voice. Is the compliment not enough? All their willpower went into those few words.

For a man cornered, he asks for too much. Robloxians are ungrateful these days. But that's to be expected.

 

“What else is there to say?” 1x1x1x1 says instead.

 

“Is it too salty? Is the cheese watery? Is the crust hard to chew on?”

 

“No.”

 

Elliot hesitates, sensing the slow aggression in the way 1x1x1x1’s shoulders shift. “...Does that mean it’s perfect? It’s to your taste?”

 

“Don’t put words in my mouth!” 1x1x1x1 suddenly slams the blade into the ground, nearly piercing Elliot’s foot by an inch.

 

Elliot jumps, a pathetic squeak escaping him as his hands and legs begin to shake again. His back presses harder against the two walls of the corner. The sight alone makes them feel frustrated. Back to square one.

 

“Stop shaking!” 1x1x1x1 barks, the static in their voice raising the hairs on the back of Elliot’s neck.

 

“Okay—okay! I’ll stop!” Elliot flashes a nervous smile, folding his hands behind him so 1x1x1x1 won’t see them tremble. “Is this better? I’m sorry, I can’t really stop it completely—”

 

“Stop talking.”

 

Elliot snaps his mouth shut, teeth clacking.

 

In the silence, they stare at each other. Elliot holds his breath, scared enough to think that even the faint air drifting toward 1x1x1x1 might be enough to get him butchered by the venomshank. But 1x1x1x1 does nothing of the sort. They simply breathe in and out, the warm air makes Elliot sweat a bit more.

 

When Elliot finally exhales, the loose, messy hairs dangling in front of 1x1x1x1 sway with his breath.

 

Elliot parts his lips to cut the tension, then thinks better of it and closes them again.

 

The silence prolongs and 1x1x1x1 grits their teeth hard enough they might just shatter. This is harder than they thought. They know their patience is thin, but it frays even more when Elliot glances to the side—finally spotting another survivor.

 

“Don’t,” 1x1x1x1 hisses. “Or they’re next.”

 

Bloodlust runs in their veins—more so since getting trapped in this place. Still, there’s a flicker of what could almost be called hope in the fact that they’ve managed to stop themselves from making quick work of Elliot. A fight against the system. That’s surely a feat. Maybe even good enough to earn another slice of that pizza.

 

“Elliot!?” a yellow Robloxian shouts in panic before quickly clamping their mouth shut.

 

1x1x1x1 slightly turns their head toward the sound, spotting the culprit hiding behind a wall like a coward. Surprisingly, Elliot doesn’t call for help—he just stares straight ahead, at 1x1x1x1. Though there's a faint twitch on his lip, urging to actually do it.

 

How heroic. He’d rather stay trapped than let the others bleed. The thought twists in 1x1x1x1’s gut, sour and infuriating. Heroism—self-sacrifice—it’s the same pathetic mindset they once clung to before they learned better. Before they learned that mercy gets you nothing but a blade in the back. Just thinking about it drains them of any will to play pacifist. They refuse to see that weakness staring back at them in Elliot’s face. 

 

That’s when 1x1x1x1 decides they’ve played enough. They drive the sword into Elliot’s chest, feeling the faint, panicked flutter of his heart against the blade.

 

Elliot’s hands clutch at their shoulders—not to fight, but to hold himself up—as if he could borrow their balance for just a second more. His face is pale, freckles scattered faintly across skin already losing its warmth. His lips part, as though to speak, but the light in his eyes flickers and fades before the words can come.

 

1x1x1x1 stares for a moment longer before shoving his hands off their shoulders and casting his body aside.

 

The round ends with an obvious victory.

 

But victory means nothing to them now. Not after tasting it so many times it’s lost whatever sweetness it once had.

 

1x1x1x1 waits for their turn again, a flicker of thought landing on Elliot. It clings as weakly as dust on a shelf yet the sour taste in their mouth lingers, coating the back of their throat.

 

“Hi.”

 

Elliot is the first to make a move this time—right as 1x1x1x1 decides it might be better to end the experiment altogether, one hand gripping the yellow Robloxian that spotted them from the round before by the scruff of their shirt. Their cries make 1x1x1x1's blood boil hotter.

 

1x1x1x1 turns their glare on Elliot, the red light from their eye flaring sharp and hot, casting his face in a warning glow.

Though the curiosity lingers. Why does Elliot decide to talk to them at all? Is it stupidity? Desperation? Or some misguided bravery that makes him think words can cut through where blades cannot? Whatever the reason, it stays in their hand, if only for a moment.

 

“Elliot, help me…!” the Robloxian cries—then cries even harder when 1x1x1x1 aggressively tosses them to the ground, flinging them far enough away to stop their voice from assaulting 1x1x1x1's ears.

 

“Noob!” Elliot flinches, then slowly turns to 1x1x1x1, who seems to be waiting to see whatever plan he might have up his sleeve.

 

Noob takes this as a sign to scurry off, running so clumsily they tear up tufts of grass with every step.

 

1x1x1x1 waits for the sound of whimpers to finally fade out.

 

“What do you want?” Their tone comes out sharp, their hair bristling like a threatened cat. Their patience slowly grows thin, eyes turning into pinpricks.

 

“I, uh…” Elliot offers a nervous smile. He stands before them, uncertain. “I made more pizzas. It’s a different flavor this time.”

 

1x1x1x1 doesn’t respond. Not immediately. They tilt their head slightly, as if trying to see the angle. The motive. The trick. They let the silence stretch, hoping it’s enough to humiliate Elliot into abandoning whatever his next move might be.

 

Elliot chuckles nervously, he raises his hands in surrender, as if to ease a wild animal. “I didn’t poison it or anything.”

 

Still silence. The red glow of 1x1x1x1’s eye reflects off Elliot’s sweat-stained face, painting him in warning.

 

Playing pacifist might’ve been their worst mistake yet. They hadn’t expected it to rot like this. Like one soft moment had festered, growing teeth and ego. The gall of this man to approach them again, like they’d let themselves be read so easily. Like mercy was an invitation—

 

“Look, I’m sorry for putting words in your mouth last time. I reflected on it and all.” Elliot says, his voice careful. “I wasn’t trying to tell you what to think or feel. I just… wanted to make sure you knew I cared what you thought.” There’s no edge, no blame. Just a plain sincerity that catches 1x1x1x1 off guard. It's almost dizzying.

 

“What?” 1x1x1x1’s mouth hangs open for a beat before they snap it shut. The blade in their hand hangs limply at their side.

 

“Here—” Elliot pulls something from his bag, a small pizza box. Inside is a pizza split cleanly down the middle into two flavors. “I made this specifically for you. You can grab whatever you like. One is… uh, pepperoni with extra cheese, and the other’s garlic chicken with mushrooms. Fresh out of the oven.”

 

1x1x1x1's gaze slides down to the slices. Steam curls gently from the crust, the scent warm and undeniably tempting. They can almost feel their stomach grumble. Just faintly, like a distant echo in a chamber long ignored. 1x1x1x1 backs away ever so slightly.

 

Something about it feels wrong.

About the peace offering. About Elliot’s wide, unsure eyes and trembling hands offering something harmless. Something that dares to say: you can want things.

 

They scowl. Wanting got them nowhere.

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

Elliot pauses and brings the box closer to himself, brows scrunching as if in disbelief. He looks up at them, confusion flickering across his face. Under his breath, barely loud enough to hear, he mutters, “Ugh, I’m gonna die anyway…”

 

Then, louder this time, more firmly (almost desperate to mean it) he straightens up and looks 1x1x1x1 dead in the eye.

“Why are YOU doing this?” Elliot tries to say this as softly as he could, “You've done it for two rounds. I mean, not that I'm complaining, and…”

 

The rest of Elliot's words are muffled noise. 1x1x1x1 doesn’t answer. Not immediately.

 

Their grip on the sword tightens, fingers curling until the knuckles pale beneath metal. The red light in their eye flares, but they don’t strike. The question lingers in the air like a virus. Unwelcome, contagious, difficult to ignore. A vein throbs at their temple, pulsing with the slow, building heat of the anger of being perceived.

 

He doesn’t deserve an answer. They’re not obligated to give him one. And yet something edges in, subtle and splintering. The urge to explain it all claws at them, fragile and infuriating. A moment of weakness, and they can feel it coming.

 

Then suddenly, they breathe in—deep, ragged. Then out. Controlled. It does little to sate the temper. It still hums beneath their skin, like electricity crawling up their spine.

 

Elliot notices. His posture shifts ever so slightly, the crease between his brows easing as if he’s reassessing something. His tense shoulders drop a fraction. His brown eyes soften in a way that stirs an unwelcome memory—like how they remember their mother, or at least who they thought was their mother.

 

That small movement makes them flinch. Suddenly, every hum of the environment crashes into their ears at once—the whisper of grass, the distant chatter, the scrape of stone underfoot. Too loud, too close, too much.

 

And at that, 1x1x1x1 feels threatened.

 

They react before they even realize it. Sword flashing up, the venomshank cutting through the air with lethal intent. It hums with poisonous energy.

 

Elliot flinches and leaps to the side, the edge of the blade grazing the fabric of his shirt but missing flesh. He lands hard on his shoulder, the pizza box slipping from his fingers and skidding across the grass.

 

“I knew it,” 1x1x1x1 growls, voice trembling (not from effort, but something deeper, uglier.) They swear they saw shadows moving from the corner of their eye and it's definitely not the paranoia talking. “You are trying something.”

 

“What—what!?” Elliot yells out in disbelief, scrambling back a bit, palm scraping against the dirt. He looks more offended than scared now, face twisted in a mess of confusion and frustration. “Try out what!?”

 

His voice cracks at the end, not with fear but with sheer bewilderment.

 

“I made pizza, man! That’s it!” he gestures toward the now half-crushed box on the ground. Thankfully the pizza is still inside it. “You think I’m smart enough to…I don't know! Trap you!?”

 

“You lie!” 1x1x1x1’s voice booms, harsh enough to shake Elliot to his bones. He shrinks, shoulder's raising. 1x1x1x1’s eyes whips around the perimeter, waiting for the expected. “You’ve set yourself as bait so the others can ambush me—”

 

“Well, it’s definitely a good idea,” Elliot cuts in, hands raised in weak defense, “but everyone’s on the far end of the map!”

 

He winces, realizing how that sounds.

 

“Not that I told them to be there! I—I just… ran into you first! Total accident. Not a strategy!” He gestures vaguely, like he’s trying to physically push the suspicion off him. “I don’t even like being bait. I was just trying to—”

 

He swallows the end of that sentence. Tries not to look at the sword still hovering, heavy and impatient.

 

“I was just trying to give you food. That’s all. Honest!”

 

The silence stretches. The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on.

 

1x1x1x1 breathes heavily, shoulders rising with every inhale like the weight of the moment is dragging down their whole frame. Their blade stays mid-air, unwavering, yet unused. The edge glints in the light, poised for something that doesn't come.

 

Their jaw clenches tighter. It aches. Still they don't speak.

 

They glance once at the box that's now in Elliot’s hands—then back at him, sharp and suspicious. Like they’re trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing and the rest deliberately bent out of shape. None of it makes sense. Why would a survivor approach them without an angle? 1x1x1x1 surely did when they approached him.

 

The question stings in a way 1x1x1x1 can’t name.

 

They expect a blade or a gun to graze their skin, a trick, a trap, a last-ditch attempt to survive. But standing before them is simply Elliot—unarmed, unsure, and hopelessly honest. He cannot defend himself. Not in this realm. He has no weapons. No magic. He can’t hurt them.

 

He can’t hurt them.

 

“Just give it to me.” 1x1x1x1 grits their teeth, voice raw with restraint. “And leave me alone.”

 

Their hand is outstretched, but not open. It's clenched halfway like they’re not sure if they want to take or crush. The blade remains in the other hand, still raised, trembling faintly.

 

Elliot flinches at the tone but nods, inching forward carefully. He sets the box down between them like he’s offering something to a wild animal, then takes a few steps back—slow, cautious.

 

“Okay,” he says, quietly. “Just… don’t eat it cold. The cheese gets weird. There's a hot sauce packet in there in case—yeah.”

 

The rest of the round goes without 1x1x1x1 showing their face.

 

The other survivors don’t question it. If anything, their shoulders relax—finally, a round without a chase, without screams echoing through the fog. They laugh a little louder, move a little slower. No one watches their back as closely.

 

And after that, while waiting for their turn again, for the first time in what feels like a million rounds, 1x1x1x1 feels dread.

 

It gnaws at the pit of their stomach, unfamiliar and heavy. As if something important has slipped through their fingers. As if they’ve lost a game they didn’t know they were playing.

 

They feel like they’ve been picked apart. strand by strand, feather by feather until something raw buzzes just beneath the surface.

 

Bile lingers at the roof of their mouth. There’s a weight pressing on their chest, tight, unfamiliar, unbearable in its stillness. Elliot’s gaze lingers in their memory like a curse. Like a mirror held too close. Looking through them. As if he knows what wretched battles they’ve crawled through. The ones that etched themselves into every fiber of their being.

 

It haunts them at every blink.

 

They hate it.

 

They hate HIM for it.

 

They’ll kill him when they see him. He needs to feel every nick of their blade.

 

So the next round starts with their sword weighing heavier in their hand. Eyes hellbent on finding that tinge of yellow skin in the crowd—

 

But instead, they see their creator.

 

A dreadful thing.

 

His current form is a mockery—flesh and bone draped over something that should never have needed either. It’s insulting. As if he’s saying: I can still beat you like this. Weak, soft, and human. As if he’s taunting them with weakness they’re not allowed to have.

 

Shedletsky stands tall, hand already gripping the handle of his sword, brows furrowing in focus. But 1x1x1x1 brushes past him without a glance. If they so much as look at that bastard for another second, they might actually snap.

 

“What the…?” Shedletsky’s mouth falls open, but 1x1x1x1 just smirks faintly.

 

That’s another feat, honestly—managing to walk away. Temper subsided. Even 1x1x1x1 can’t believe themselves. Just the sight of him makes their skin crawl, bones stiff.

 

Let his ego rot. He isn’t worth their time.

 

1x1x1x1 scans the vicinity, catching glimpses of all the wrong faces. Most flinch at the sight of them; the others linger on stand-by, weapons at the ready, waiting for an opening that will never come.

 

It’s been a whole minute, and it feels like Elliot’s hiding on purpose.

 

“Come out, wherever you are…” 1x1x1x1 grunts, teeth clenched. Each ticking second prickles down their spine, hair rising like a cornered cat’s. Their patience thins.

 

Where is he? Has he finally torn off those rose-colored glasses and left them to wonder?

 

The thought makes their stomach twist. Not out of hurt, but offense. As if he thinks he can just walk away from this.

 

The gall. They almost consider giving him one last gift. One slow slice to the legs so he never runs again. Just before they go back to being enemies.

 

They’ve practically circled the entire area. nothing. No trace of him.

 

1x1x1x1 lets out a growl, low and guttural, a warning rippling through the air. Then, with a snarl, they slam their fist into the nearest wall. Cracking through the surface like a column giving way under pressure. Bits of debris fall around their boots. The sound echoes loud and sharp, a violent punctuation to their rising fury.

 

The other survivors watch in curiosity, heads peeking from every direction. 1x1x1x1’s jaw ticks. They’re being observed like some caged spectacle, a dangerous animal pacing behind glass.

 

Fine. They’ll give them a wild animal.

 

Time is running out. Who knows when their next return will be? The pressure claws at their skull, demanding release. They need an outlet.

 

The first unlucky soul doesn’t even have time to scream. A swift plunge of the blade to the back—deep and angled upward—splits vertebrae clean. They twist once before yanking the sword out through the ribs, leaving the body in a heap.

 

Next is the gambler—the grinning bastard. 1x1x1x1 lunges, kicking his leg out from under him. Before he can scramble, their sword comes down, slicing across his palm when he tries to reach for his holster. Another strike splits his wrist from elbow to bicep. He howls. They silence him with a stab straight through the mouth.

 

The soldier gets a slower death. His protective gear drags it out, but that doesn’t matter. They knock the wind out of him first, then drive the blade into the gap between chest and neck, crack it deeper, and watch the spark drain from his eyes.

 

And the last one, who sobs in every match like it’ll save them—runs. Of course they run. But 1x1x1x1 is faster. They throw their blade like a javelin, impaling the back of the leg. The crier screams, crawling. 1x1x1x1 retrieves their sword slowly, then drags it across their back in one long, careless arc. It doesn’t need precision—only cruelty.

 

For a second, there’s no sound. Just the drip of blood and the buzz of flies. It should be satisfying. It’s not.

 

“Show yourself, coward!” 1x1x1x1 shouts, voice splitting through the map like a shockwave. The ground almost seems to vibrate with the force of it. Distant crows scatter, distant survivors freeze. But there’s no answer. No taunt, no retreating footsteps. Just the dull echo of their own rage bouncing back at them.

 

Not a single glimpse of that yellow-toned bastard.

 

Elliot hadn’t healed anyone during the rampage. Not one body dragged to safety. Not one pulse restored. Not even a trace of him doing what he always does—that pathetic little savior act.

 

He hadn’t shown up at all. Not once. As if he’d watched all of it happen and decided not to interfere. As if he knew exactly what this was, and refused to play into it.

 

Shedletsky appears again. Of course he did. Of all people, he’s the last one they want to see in the middle of a manhunt.

 

“Hey, what the fuck are you throwing a tantrum for?” Shedletsky hisses, voice low, like he’s trying not to let the others hear how casually he speaks to them.

 

Expected. He always pretends he doesn’t know them. Like some convenient amnesiac, picking and choosing which memories to keep.

 

“Out of my way,” 1x1x1x1 snarls, shoving him hard. But Shedletsky doesn’t fall. His stance is too steady, legs rooted deep into the grass like a mountain that learned to walk.

 

“You’re wasting your breath.” His tone is bitter, quiet. “If he doesn’t wanna be found, you won’t find him.”

 

1x1x1x1 freezes in their step, hairs raising.

 

He told?

 

Of course Elliot would.

 

Of course he’d go running his mouth, this little “secret” kept between the two of them now spat into Shedletsky’s ear like a confession (why him?) They're all the same—grasping for safety the second things get uncomfortable. The moment a monster even as much tries to come close. (Why him?)

 

Expected. It's all to be expected.

 

Still, that only makes their temper spike again. Their fingers twitch on the handle of their blade, pulse pounding in their ears like war drums. But Shedletsky doesn’t flinch. He holds his ground, jaw set and infuriatingly calm, like he knows they won’t swing. Like he wants them to try.

 

1x1x1x1 has to do something. Anything. Let his ego die here and now. But even if they swing—even if they cut him down where he stands—he’ll come crawling back like always, acting like nothing happened. That same insufferable, triumphant grin on his face, as if he’s already won.

 

Damned if they do, damned if they don’t.

 

It's a constant torture. A trap with no way out. Every round resets the board, but never the weight in their chest. Shedletsky stays smug. Elliot stays pathetic. And 1x1x1x1—they stay furious.

 

Caught in a loop that feels more like punishment than design.

 

1x1x1x1 raises their sword, and across from them, Shedletsky does the same. It’s uneven ground—slope dipping slightly beneath Shedletsky’s stance, gravel scattered where footing matters most.

 

1x1x1x1 knows they have the upper hand. They’re stronger. Faster. Better.

 

And somehow, that feels like an insult.

 

As if the realm itself decided they needed an edge just to beat this bastard. As if even the battlefield pities them.

 

And 1x1x1x1’s blood rages. Hatred clings like oil on skin. Impossible to scrub out, thick in their throat, seeping through every pore. Like always.

 

Like always!

 

“Where is he…” It slips out, low and sharp, barely more than a hiss through clenched teeth. “I do not have time for you.”

 

“I’m not letting you lay a single hand on him,” Shedletsky scoffs. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t blink. He stands there annoyingly still as stone. “What are you planning? Why Elliot?”

 

1x1x1x1 clenches their teeth harder it might break, patience already frayed, heart thudding hard against their ribs. Instead of wasting breath, they raise their sword, ready to end the so-called champion and deity of the heights once and for all. Like always.

 

1x1x1x1 lunges first, a blur of metal and fury. Their eyes are pinpricks, pupils swallowed by the void, the kind of look predators wear right before the kill. The ground tears under their boots as they close the distance, blade screaming through the air.

 

Shedletsky barely gets his sword up in time. The clash rings out like a gunshot, reverberating through the field. 1x1x1x1 doesn’t relent—they twist their wrist, forcing his guard aside, then slam a knee toward his ribs. He grunts, takes the hit, but keeps his footing.

 

They swing again, low and vicious, the edge biting for his legs. Sparks spray as metal scrapes metal, the impact so strong it rattles their arms. Shedletsky shoves back, but 1x1x1x1 is already on him, hacking and slashing in a storm of blows—overhead strikes, feints, jabs aimed for the throat. Every swing carries the weight of wanting to cut him down to bone.

 

Shedletsky tries to counter, a quick slash toward their side, but they twist away like smoke, spinning the blade in their grip and bringing it down in an arc that could cleave him in two.

 

Blinded by rage, 1x1x1x1 doesn’t see it coming.

 

Shedletsky’s blade flashes up from below, catching them across the forearm before they can pull back. Hot pain rips through muscle, and their grip falters for a split second—a costly mistake.

 

They snarl, teeth bared, ignoring the blood dripping down their wrist. It only fuels them. Their vision tunnels, breath coming in short, sharp bursts, the world narrowing to nothing but the bastard in front of them.

 

They crash forward again, sword raised high, every strike now less about precision and more about breaking through his guard by sheer force. Steel rings, knuckles ache from the impact, and still they drive him back, desperate to erase the moment of weakness that let him land that hit.

 

Unfortunately, that leaves little room for thought, and Shedletsky seizes the opening—his blade arcs in a clean, merciless sweep across 1x1x1x1’s chest.

 

The cut is deep enough to tear through cloth and muscle, hot pain flooding their ribs. Breath catches, then rips free as a harsh, wet cough spills blood over their teeth. They stagger but refuse to fall, one knee dipping toward the dirt as Shedletsky steps in, point angled down toward their stomach.

 

The world slows.

 

Steel is about to punch through them when a hand snaps around the blade—bare, unarmored, and unflinching.

 

It’s Elliot.

 

The edge bites into his palm, blood sliding down his wrist, but he doesn’t let go. His eyes flick between them and Shedletsky.

 

“Elliot!? What are you pulling!?” Shedletsky snaps, immediately springing back, yanking the heavy blade out of Elliot’s grasp.

 

Elliot doesn’t move his hands right away, fingers still curled in that half-grip, blood slicking his skin. For a moment, he just stares at them like he’s not sure if putting them down will make things better or worse—or if wiping them on his clothes would only smear the mess deeper.

 

“I’m sorry! I just couldn’t—” He winces mid-sentence, breath hitching, eyes darting between Shedletsky’s guarded stance and 1x1x1x1’s feral, half-collapsing form.

 

Quickly, Elliot snatches a slice of pizza from a nearby crate and hurls it at Shedletsky. The bloody, grease-slick triangle nearly slaps against his face before tumbling toward the dirt.

 

Before Shedletsky can bark out another word, Elliot grips 1x1x1x1’s bloodied arm—his fingers slipping against the wetness—and yanks them away from the chaos, dragging them into motion.

 

“Elliot!” Shedletsky’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and demanding, but Elliot doesn’t look back.

 

“Ow, ow, ow, ow,” Elliot hisses, wincing at how hard they’re gripping 1x1x1x1’s arm as they run, the chains wrapped around it biting into his wounded palms.

 

Fortunately, the killer doesn’t resist. Their free arm is clutched tight across their chest, blood dripping between their fingers as they limp alongside him, breath ragged yet matching his pace. 1x1x1x1’s head feels blank, thoughts scattered to the wind. All they can focus on are the loose curls of blond hair ahead and the flash of red in his uniform, pulling them forward through the haze.

 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of weaving through half-collapsed buildings and broken fences, they reach some unknown spot Elliot seems to trust.

 

Elliot moves to their side, slipping an arm behind their back and another under their arm, taking most of their weight. His movements are steady, patient, as he eases them down toward a patch of yellowing grass.

 

Once they’re seated, he stays close, leaning in just enough to brush a few stray strands of hair away from their bloodied face. His fingertips linger for a heartbeat, gentle in a way that almost makes them forget the pain.

 

“You…” they hiss, voice rough, venom curling around the word.

 

“Yeah, yeah—sorry,” Elliot mutters, already kneeling down with a wince, his breath still uneven from the run. He shoves the greasy cardboard box closer. “Try eating the pizzas. I’ve never tried it, but… surely it can heal you too?”

 

The smell of blood and tomato sauce mixes in the air—one metallic, the other almost cloying.

 

1x1x1x1 swallows down the blood mixing with their spit before uttering out a weak, “Why?”

 

“Why I saved you?” Elliot glances up, brows drawn, before flipping the box open. The pizza isn’t steaming—its surface dull, cheese congealed in stiff, oily patches. “Well—because I’ve been sitting on my ass for hours doing nothing but watching everyone get hurt, and I keep telling myself I’ll step in next time, but every next time I don’t. And I can’t— I can’t just stand there and watch someone else bleed out in front of me, not again. If I do, then I might as well have—”

 

“No.”

 

Elliot blinks, his rant cut short.

 

“I meant… why you told…” 1x1x1x1 says, then falters, lips pressing into a thin line. A heartbeat passes. “Forget it.”

 

Elliot studies them for a moment, but doesn’t push. Instead, he slides the cold box closer.

 

1x1x1x1 stares down at the box of pizza. The scent is faint now, overpowered by the copper tang of their own blood. Their earlier bloodlust—the sharp, gnawing urge to cut down Elliot—has all but died the moment they finally laid eyes on him.

 

Maybe it’s the way his voice still trembles from the fight, or the fact he’s kneeling there with dirt on his knees like some idiot who thinks cold pizza is a cure-all. Or maybe that pathetic sword fight wrung the rage right out of them, leaving only the ache of the wounds.

 

Feeling defiant, 1x1x1x1 shifts, eyes scanning the ground around them. Their fingers twitch, itching for the familiar weight of their venomshank—just enough to brandish it, to remind Elliot he’s not safe in arm’s reach.

 

But the spot where it should be is bare. No hilt. No glint of metal. Nothing.

 

The realization hits like a slap. They left it back there. In the middle of the fight. Like some wide-eyed novice who forgot the first rule of survival.

 

1x1x1x1 groans, head dropping forward, the weight of it sinking into their shoulders.

 

Elliot startles, instantly crawling closer. His hand clamps down on their shoulder, voice quick and urgent. “Hey—hey, are you alright!?”

 

They click their tongue in irritation, muscles coiling tight. In a sudden jerk, their head snaps up—only to find Elliot’s face inches from theirs, breaths mingling in the thin space between.

 

“Why do you care!?” Still, they bark, the words tearing out of them, flecked with blood that spatters warm across Elliot’s cheek.

 

Elliot flinches, but his grip only tightens. “How can I not care? Come on, man. Stop being stubborn and eat the pizza!”

 

“I’m not being stubborn!” 1x1x1x1 growls, voice sharp and hot. “You hid like a coward—Where was your heroic act!? Was it all some ruse? Some game to make yourself look good? Or do you only pick fights you’re sure you’ll win, Elliot?”

 

“I was told to hide! So I did! I'm sorry for leaving you in the dust!” Elliot says quickly, the mention of his name making him flinch. He leans back in an awkward shuffle, palms braced against the grass like he’s trying to make space without making it obvious. It barely works—1x1x1x1 keeps closing in with every ragged breath, leaving Elliot caught between backing away and holding his ground. 

“I've already worried my teammates enough!”

 

1x1x1x1 grins, sharp and humorless. “And siding with a killer isn’t going to?”

 

Elliot’s throat bobs. “I didn’t say I was siding with you,” he mutters, voice tight, eyes darting anywhere but their face. “I just don't want to see any of you hurt.”

 

1x1x1x1 spits blood to the side. It splatters dark into the dirt, sinking fast. “How heroic. What’s next? You see me as one of you? Is that why I've been given mercy?” Their eyes narrow, voices curling with disdain. “You robloxians and your empathies… I've already killed half of your people. That’s weakness speaking for you.”

 

“…So what. At least I’m not the one on the brink of death,” Elliot pouts, lips tightening into a thin line. Without warning, he snatches a slice from the box and shoves it into 1x1x1x1’s mouth before they can spit out another curse.

 

1x1x1x1 swallows quickly, only for Elliot to shove in another slice. Tomato sauce streaks the edges of their zipper mouth.

 

Elliot dusts his hands free of crust. “There we go. I think your wounds are healing—look.”

 

Mouth still full, 1x1x1x1 grunts, eyes flicking down to watch the wide gash in their chest slowly stitch itself shut. The cheese melts on their tongue, stretching in faint strings with every sluggish chew. It’s not as salty as it looks—there’s a hint of sweetness in the sauce, almost cloying. The flavor clings, stubborn as the blood still crusting their lips.

 

Despite the wounds knitting closed and their blood drying in stiff patches against their clothes, 1x1x1x1 can’t help but feel drowsy. The edges of their vision bleed into shadow, every sound dulling under a low, dragging hum. An unfamiliar heaviness coils through their limbs, each blink lasting just a fraction too long. Fatigue presses in like a weight they can’t fight, sinking them further toward the grass.

 

“You alright there, buddy?” Elliot whispers.

A faint brush grazes 1x1x1x1’s hair, the feeling is ticklish on their scalp, fingers snagging in its uneven tangles. They hiss quietly at the pull, eyes narrowing.

 

“Sorry,” Elliot murmurs, his voice low and careful, working his fingers free without yanking. He smooths the strands back in place, almost absentminded. “Are you tired?”

 

“Get off me,” 1x1x1x1 grumbles, voice thick with exhaustion. But they make no move to actually remove Elliot’s hand. When he does pull away, they turn their face aside too quickly, hiding the flicker of something unreadable.

 

“Sorry,” Elliot says after a beat. “You… remind me of my sister. Kind of. I don’t know—maybe I’m just making stuff up. I just miss her. She can be snarky sometimes…like you.”

He offers a crooked grin, more awkward than warm. Still, there’s a faint edge of confidence behind it—maybe because, in this moment, 1x1x1x1 looks too worn out to so much as lift a blade against him.

“I used to do her hair every morning before school. Sometimes I wonder how she's doing now. Or what her hair looks like now.”

 

1x1x1x1 watches from under lowered lashes as Elliot picks at the dirt under his fingernails—dark crescents of grime and dried blood lodged deep. His voice drones on, the words blurring into a low, steady hum, like brown noise in their skull.

 

They curl their fingers into a fist, nails biting into their palm, the sting a flimsy anchor to keep their eyes open. Blood seeps through the pinpricks.

 

“Hey—stop that,” Elliot says, giving their hand a light slap before prying their fingers open. He turns their palm over, checking the dark skin for damage.

 

“Shouldn’t you be with your teammates by now?” 1x1x1x1 gruffs, each word dragged out like it costs them effort. They let Elliot press his hand into their palm—some misinformed attempt at a massage that only makes the blood flow faster. The sting is sharp enough to keep their eyes open. “I’m sure my opponent needs more pampering than I do. Or did you and that bastard already have your little gossip session about me?”

 

Elliot blinks, straightening like he’s just remembered there are other people who still need him. “Shedletsky? Oh—shoot—yeah.” His gaze flicks over his shoulder, scanning the shadows as if his teammates might step out of them.

 

He shifts, legs bracing to stand—but the hand still trapped in 1x1x1x1’s grip is suddenly yanked down. Elliot stumbles half a step, knees hitting the ground harder than he means to. The pull rips a sting through the deep wound in his palm, making him wince.

 

He looks up, confusion flickering—only to be met with a glare sharp enough to pin him in place. Vicious.

 

Elliot shifts his weight from one knee to the other, his fingers twitching in their grip. Whatever message 1x1x1x1 is trying to send, it’s completely lost on him. “What’s wrong?”

 

“...”

 

“I really should check on him—good call, by the way,” Elliot mutters, glancing aside. “But, uh… could you let go?”

 

Silence. Just that steady, unblinking stare.

 

Elliot squints. Like narrowing his eyes might somehow translate whatever silent, cryptic thing 1x1x1x1 is trying to drill into his skull. “Are you… still hurting? Is that it?” His voice softens a notch. “I won’t go. Don’t worry.”

 

1x1x1x1 just clicks their tongue.

 

Elliot stares back, unsure if that’s supposed to be a yes, a no, or just another way of telling him he’s an idiot.

 

He then shifts into a more comfortable position, body angling toward their slouched form. Their grip still traps his bloodied hand, claws hovering just close enough to nick him if he dares to pull away.

 

“So…” His gaze drags down their frame, slow enough that they feel every inch of it. No flinch, no sharp pain anywhere—no ragged edges left to tend. Healthy. Whole. His eyes linger.

He catches himself, raising a fist to his mouth and coughing into it, the sound awkward and thin before he clears his throat.

 

“Gossip session?” Elliot asks, quick to change the subject. “What do you mean gossip session? With Shedletsky?”

 

1x1x1x1 huffs. A sharp exhale through the nose that stirs Elliot’s bangs. “He seems to know quite well what situation I’ve been putting you through.”

 

“Oh—well, that’s because Noob got really worried about me and had to tell someone…” Elliot’s laugh is thin, nervous. “Got forced to confess to Shedletsky, y’know. Not even sure what I was confessing about. You just wanted to talk to me, right? I acknowledge your effort, I guess. I don’t see it as a bad thing—”

 

“I didn’t ask for your perspective,” 1x1x1x1 cuts in, another sharp click of their tongue. “I don’t care what you think. Or what you think I want.”

 

“Sure…”

 

The doubt in Elliot’s voice makes 1x1x1x1’s jaw tick. If they had the energy, they’d have shouted his ear off by now.

 

“Well, I think it’s a nice change of pace from all the killing. I think what you’re trying to do is a good thing… even though you tend to get rather…” He squeezes their hand, like the contact might soften the truth. “Um, yeah. What I’m saying is—” He exhales through a crooked smile, eyes flicking briefly to theirs. “I enjoy the company. We can talk like this again, if you ever need it. I'll try not to let my teammates get in the way next time.”

 

There won’t be a next time… is what they want to say. The words press against their teeth, but their jaw stays locked. Pride seals it shut, ironclad. Saying it would sound too much like wanting.

 

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

 

So they let the quiet stretch, heavy and unreadable.

For Elliot, it could be anything—an opening, a warning, maybe even an invitation.

For them, it’s a stalemate with themself. The strange lightness in their chest only digs them deeper into the grave they’ve made.

 

The round ends with a loss for 1x1x1x1.

 

And once again, dread settles in like a shadow pressing cold and heavy against their skin. Elliot clings to the back of their eyelids like a stubborn layer of cracked paint—no matter how hard they scrape, it only peels away in jagged, uneven curls. Patches of color cling defiantly, refusing to let go.

 

1x1x1x1 wraps their arms tight around themselves, claws digging into their upper arm, cold and warmth seeping through the cracks they won’t let show. It leaves a damning scar.

 

When the next round comes, 1x1x1x1 doesn’t dare show their face. Pride digs its heels in, anchoring them to the shadows of some forgotten corner—one so far out of the way even a generator wouldn’t bother spawning there.

 

The clock ticks, dragging slower than it should. 1x1x1x1 counts the seconds in their head, each sharp tap of their nail against the cracked wall echoing impatience like a metronome that's gone offbeat.

 

Their eyes often flicker toward every entrance, muscles taut, searching—then snap back to the cold, cracked surface beside them. Waiting. For the time to end, obviously.

 

“Hey, you good there? Are your wounds healed? I've got enough pizzas to feed a village.”

 

1x1x1x1 forces their shoulders not to flinch. They glare toward the familiar warmth, tilting their head just enough to acknowledge it. Their temper has cooled into something slick and heavy, like cold oil—cold enough that the first thing they didn’t do was reach for their sword and open Elliot’s throat.

 

Elliot waits for an answer that doesn’t come, then tries again, “Good mood today?”

 

“Don't push it.”

 

“Just asking a question!” Elliot raises his hands in surrender, then sits down beside their legs. He crosses his own while 1x1x1x1 remains standing, arms folded tight across their chest.

 

“I got curious why you weren't showing up. I had to sneak away from the group. Noob and Shedletsky are way too worried.”

 

“As they should be.” For emphasis, 1x1x1x1 uncrosses their arms and rests a hand on the hilt of their venomshank. Elliot watches from the corner of his eye but doesn't flinch like they expected.

 

“Yeah, well. You haven’t done anything yet.”

 

“Don’t. Push it.” They grit their teeth.

 

Elliot simply hums. He fiddles with his thumbs, letting the silence settle between them—comforting in its stillness, almost meditative. The distant chatter of his teammates drifts faintly through the air, pulling his gaze to the far horizon with a flicker of nervousness.

 

1x1x1x1 closes their eyes, leaning back against the rough wall, surrendering to the quiet. They hear the rustle of grass nearby but choose to stay still, letting the world move around them without disturbance. The seconds they’d been counting down slip away unnoticed, until they finally decide to let the wait dissolve into nothingness. It was rather…calming. The dread they felt before disappeared as if it never happened. It's ridiculous to think about it now.

 

For a moment, they sense something warm in front of them, distinct against their cold skin. 1x1x1x1’s brows knit slightly, eyes still shut, the weight of a stare pressing against them. Curiosity lingers.

 

“When I told you you remind me of my sister, I really meant it,” Elliot mumbles. A gust of wind blows their way, scattering their already messy hair even further. “It’s like you two don’t know what a comb is. May I?”

 

1x1x1x1’s brows furrow before their eyes open, meeting his. They hold his gaze, an unspoken question simmering in the silence.

 

“May I fix your hair?” Elliot asks again, softer this time, as if trying not to spook them.

 

“Don’t you know how to mind your own damn business?”

 

Contrary to their words, 1x1x1x1’s head dips ever so slightly—just enough for Elliot to catch.

They’ve tried fixing it before, but pinstraight hair has a way of falling back into chaos no matter what they do. And grooming… grooming feels pointless. There’s no mirror in any of the cabins, and even if there was, they have no desire to stare at their own wretched reflection.

 

They imagine it looks like a rat’s nest. More than once, they’ve hacked it shorter with the venomshank just to keep it out of their eyes. Pride keeps them from letting anyone touch them—but practicality? That’s different. If Elliot is willing to deal with the mess, they’ll tolerate it. Briefly. He’s already had his grimy little hands on them since their last round.

 

The last time they’d ever truly tended to their hair, they were still a pure being. No hatred under their skin. No venom humming in their blood.

 

Still unsure, Elliot lifts his hands slowly, fingertips brushing the stray strands clinging to their cheek. He hesitates, giving them every chance to pull away. Nothing comes.

 

So he continues, carefully tucking the hair back, smoothing it behind their ear with a gentleness that feels almost alien in the ruin surrounding them. 1x1x1x1 feels drowsiness at the sensation, head tilting down further with its heaviness. Elliot's fingernails scratch at their scalp lightly; it's ticklish, enough to raise goosebumps. They hiss when it snags on a tangled strand.

 

“Sorry. You’ve got a lot of blood in your hair too,” Elliot mumbles, pulling his hand back to glance at the dry, rust-colored stains on his fingertips.

 

1x1x1x1 just grumbles. An uneven strand slips free from the rest he’s tucked behind their ear, falling stubbornly back into their face.

 

“Such a stubborn thing,” Elliot huffs. He gathers the strand, eyes flicking up at them. “Lean down a bit. I can’t reach.”

 

They arch a brow but don’t move.

 

“Come on. You want it fixed, right?” he says, tone firm but not unkind.

 

With a slow, exaggerated sigh, 1x1x1x1 bends forward just enough for him to work. Elliot catches the errant strand, weaving it together with a few longer ones until it’s part of a small, neat braid. His fingers work with quiet precision, the braid snug enough to keep the hair in place but loose enough not to tug. When he’s done, he tucks it gently behind their ear, the gesture careful.

 

“I’ll bring a hair tie next time,” Elliot says, then adds under his breath, “And maybe shampoo. Your hair needs cleaning.”

 

“Enough coddling. You forget who you’re talking to.” 1x1x1x1 scoffs, yanking their head free from his hands.

 

Elliot only grins—wide, a little too pleased with himself—before finally letting his hands drop.

 

“My bad. Are you hungry?”

 

“No.”

 

“Are you… bored?”

 

“Yes. I might as well start killing.” 1x1x1x1 levels a glare at him, though there’s no real venom behind it. “You’re restless.”

 

“I’ve got enough energy to start running for my life, to be honest. I don't know where else to put it.”

 

1x1x1x1 shows teeth, leaning down until their faces are close enough for Elliot to feel the heat of their breath.

“Why don’t you start running now?” They say slowly.

 

“Oh! Really? Now?” Elliot scratches at his head, as if genuinely considering it.

 

A voice calls Elliot's name from somewhere behind. He turns on his heel, already moving to answer, and 1x1x1x1 has half a mind to hook him back by the scalp. Can’t he see they’re still talking? His teammates clearly don’t need him. They haven’t met the edges of their blade—yet.

 

“That was Mr. Builderman…” Elliot mumbles to himself.

 

1x1x1x1 snickers to themself, feeling rather bitter. “He couldn’t get you to listen, so he had to bring in the big man…”

 

“I don’t blame Shedletsky. In his eyes, I’m putting myself in harm’s way.” Elliot pauses, his gaze lingering on them just a fraction too long. “I mean, I literally did when you two fought.”

 

Elliot starts walking off, slow and careful.

 

1x1x1x1 glares after him, the look sharpening—venom seeping in with every step he takes away. Something ugly and restless coils in their chest. They straighten, falling in behind him without a sound, each footstep light, controlled. Their hand settles on the venomshank’s hilt, thumb brushing over the worn grip. Elliot doesn’t seem to notice.

 

Builderman stands a few paces ahead, one hand on his utility belt, leaning into one hip as his shoulders finally relax when he sees Elliot.

“There you are, kid. You’re gettin’ us all worried. Where'd you been?”

 

“Sorry,” Elliot says, absently straightening the wrinkles in his uniform. “I was just taking a walk. Been a good while since we had a peaceful round.”

 

“That’s good practice. Though I’d suggest bringin’ a buddy with you. Guest, maybe. Or your friend Chance. I saw you talkin’ to Two Time—could bring ‘em too, as a… bonding moment. You never know when…”

 

Builderman’s words trail off. The color drains from his face.

 

“Mr. Builderman?” Elliot frowns, then glances over his shoulder to see what’s stolen the man’s voice.

 

1x1x1x1 is standing right there—towering over them both, silent, shadow swallowing Elliot’s smaller frame.

 

Elliot grimaces and turns back toward the pale man. “Oh. Uh… don’t mind them.”

 

“...” Builderman clears his throat, looking away. “Well—”

 

“No, continue.” 1x1x1x1’s grin slices across their face, teeth bright in the light. “Don’t know when what? When I’ll strike? Fine. I’ll do it now—and save you the dread.”

 

Builderman reacts before the words even settle, seizing Elliot’s hand. The motion is protective—maybe too much so—and the contact makes 1x1x1x1’s grin sharpen in pure offense, unsheathing their venomshank.

 

“Shed!” Builderman hollers and it doesn't take long for Shedletsky to come running to their direction.

 

But 1x1x1x1 is already moving—grabbing Elliot by the scruff of his uniform and yanking him back like he weighs nothing. They fling him behind them as if tossing a pillow. He hits the ground with a sharp oof, air knocked clean from his lungs.

 

Builderman pivots to run back, arm outstretched—only for his hand to be lopped clean off in the blink of an eye, the venomshank’s edge singing through the air.

 

“Mr. Builderman!” Elliot shouts, panic cracking his voice, one hand already reaching behind him for the pizza box.

 

1x1x1x1 whips toward him, eyes flaring a dangerous red. “If you hand him that, I’ll kill him. Right here. Right now.”

 

Shedletsky finally skids to a stop, chest heaving. In one swift motion, he hauls Builderman behind him, sword snapping up into a defensive guard.

 

“Builder, what the hell happened?” he hisses.

 

“That—” Builderman’s voice breaks into a growl. “That… fuck, can’t you see for yourself?!” He shoves the stump of his amputated hand practically into Shedletsky’s face.

 

Shedletsky grimaces, shoving the bloodied stump away before the sight can slow him down. “Go!” he snaps, eyes never leaving 1x1x1x1. “Just go! Go build yourself that healing machine thing! Don't let the others see you.”

 

Builderman purses his lips and lingers a heartbeat too long, eyes darting from the back of Shedletsky’s head to Elliot’s sweat-slick face.

 

“Don’t die on me, friend,” he murmurs, before finally breaking into a run.

 

1x1x1x1 watches him go, eyes half-lidded in boredom. The dramatics are unnecessary—if anything, it sours their mood.

 

With a slow turn of the heel, they dismiss Shedletsky entirely and saunter toward where Elliot lies sprawled, still catching his breath.

 

“Stand up,” 1x1x1x1 mumbles, a clawed hand extending toward him.

 

Elliot hesitates, eyes darting between the offered hand and Shedletsky’s tight, disbelieving stare. The air between them feels like it could split in two—one path toward safety, the other toward something far less certain.

 

“Elliot…” Shedletsky says in warning. “We’re talking about this later.”

 

Elliot gulps. A small dread, almost parental in its weight, settles over him—like being caught with both hands in the cookie jar.

 

“I… Shedletsky—”

 

“Mind your own damn business!” 1x1x1x1 whips around, the braid tucked in their ear falling loose and unfurling. Their eyes flare. “All your wretched decisions led us here. Feel it yet? Your past finally dragging you under? Why don’t you just stand back and watch, like you always do?”

 

Elliot’s brow twitches upward, lips pressing tight. The air shifts—there’s a ringing question bouncing between them, unspoken but heavy. The way they spit those words… it’s not the first time they’ve crossed paths. Not the first time there’s been blame.

 

Shedletsky’s grip on his sword wavers just slightly, enough for Elliot to notice. “That’s not…” he trails off, voice dark, unreadable. Then, without another word, he steps back—retreating.

 

1x1x1x1’s grin spreads slow, like they’ve been waiting years for him to finally flinch.

 

Elliot watches them both, his pulse drumming in his ears. Whatever history is twisting the air between them, he’s suddenly certain he’s standing in the middle of it.

 

“You. Stop gawking.” 1x1x1x1 strides past Elliot without breaking pace, expecting him to follow. “Stand up. You've had enough of your share of gossip.”

 

Elliot stumbles upright, swiping the sweat from his brow. He glances over his shoulder at Shedletsky, raising an awkward thumbs-up in a silent “you good?”

 

Shedletsky exhales slowly, eyes closing, before turning away. Elliot watches him go, the distance between them feeling heavier by the second. He only moves when 1x1x1x1 snaps another complaint over their shoulder, patience thinning.

 

Elliot's definitely going to be put on the hotseat by the two men once the round ends.

Notes:

This is kinda cringe. Also ao3 curse got to me. (Though it's not towards me, it went straight to my closest friend ☠️ they're doing alr atm)

Also I'm trying to lock in class so very delayed updates (I also dropped this fix because I needed to write something toxic. My ass couldn't handle fluff)

Chapter 2

Notes:

Smut is short. It's also near at the end of the fic so...Read the tags on what to expect

“Shed, go easy on the kid.”

 

Shedletsky sighs, rubbing at his temples, the cheerful edge in his voice long gone.

“Well, Builder…”

 

Both Builderman and Elliot look up at him.

 

Shedletsky blinks, then waves a hand. “...Elliot. I meant Elliot. Builderman, you’re just unlucky enough to share the name.”

 

He clears his throat. “Anyway, I think you know why we’re sitting in the farthest corner of the cabin.”

 

“It’s about… 1x1x1x1?” Elliot asks, voice small.

 

“Yes. Do you know what you did wrong?”

 

Elliot hesitates, lips pressing together.

 

“Look.” Shedletsky leans forward, voice low. “If word of this gets out, you’ll be ostracized. You’re lucky it’s only me and Builder over here who know. 1x1x1x1 is dangerous. If the others see you getting friendly with a killer, well…”

 

“Why?” Elliot blurts, baffled. “I mean—yeah, I don’t like being bait, but really, being friendly with them is the best outcome. No one dies! They’re good company if no one interrupts. I’m sure the others would understand.”

 

Shedletsky’s jaw tightens. He looks like he’s about to argue, but instead turns his head away, eyes dark. “Say that to 007n7…” he mutters, too low for anyone to catch.

 

Elliot raises a brow. Builderman notices, frowning, and leans in to say, “Just tell the kid, why don’t you?”

 

“Fuck. I know, you’re right…” Shedletsky groans, rubbing the back of his neck. Silence hangs heavy before he forces himself to continue. “1x1x1x1 and I… have a very, very, very long history. I’ve watched them grow up.”

 

“I… kinda guessed that already,” Elliot mumbles.

 

“And I know, as their… guardian, that they’re beyond redemption. Long gone. They’ve corrupted themselves and embraced it—they ARE hatred. Have you seen the way they look at me? They're beyond sane!”

 

Elliot stares at him in disbelief. “That’s—no. I think you’re wrong. They’re trying now, aren’t they? They’re not always on some mindless rampage! They’re capable of being… placid.”

 

“Yes—but only with you!” Shedletsky snaps. “Do you think that’s something to be proud of? They’re going to sink their claws into you, Elliot, and it won’t be because they care. It’ll be because they’ve decided you’re theirs to play with—and that’s not the same thing.”

 

“You talk like they’re an animal…” Elliot sighs, gaze sliding to the floor.

 

Shedletsky’s jaw ticks. “You think I like saying that?” His tone sharpens, almost defensive. “When someone decides to throw away every last thread of decency—when they stop caring about anything but their own hunger—what else do you call them? You stop thinking in terms of ‘people’ after a while. You start thinking in terms of… predators. You watch how close you get, how long you look them in the eye—because if you don’t, you’re not walking away at all. And don’t lie to me. You think about it. Every. Single. Time.”

 

Elliot’s lips press thin. The words sit sour between them. Shedletsky’s tone carries the weight of someone who’s seen it happen far too many times—though the blood on his own hands, the kind history he’d never confess, makes the words ring with a quiet hypocrisy Elliot doesn’t yet recognize.

 

Shedletsky sighs. “Sorry if I sound harsh, Elliot. I care about you—about everyone. Is there any way to change your mind? I know you can get hard-headed with that noggin of yours.”

 

Elliot scratches the back of his head. “I’m seeing this through. There's currently some progress happening. If I’m wrong, you can rejoice—”

 

“Absolutely not. I’m not throwing a party just because you’ve put yourself in danger.” His voice hardens, the faint crack of frustration leaking through. “You think this is some noble gamble, but it’s not a game you can win by stubbornness alone. People don’t come back from what that thing has become. I’ve seen them at their worst, Elliot—worse than you can imagine—and they didn’t flinch. You think you’ll be the one exception? That's suicide.”

 

“I’ll see it for myself.” Elliot crosses his arms, gritting his teeth. “I appreciate your concern. But what else can we do in a hell where everything loops? What other options do we have?”

 

Shedletsky’s jaw works, like he wants to bite back but can’t find the right words fast enough. The line hits somewhere deep, in a place he doesn’t want touched. His eyes flick away—toward the cabin window, toward the trees outside, anywhere but Elliot. “Some loops,” he mutters, “aren’t worth going around again.”

 

Elliot holds his gaze for a moment longer, then exhales through his nose. “Guess we’ll see. Is that all?”

 

“... That's all. We’ll have to pretend nothing happened after this.” Shedletsky finally looks at him. “Not a peep about this to anyone, Elliot. If Noob asks, tell them…I don't know. Just lie. They're deathly worried about you.” His hand lands heavy on Elliot’s shoulder, the pressure more warning than comfort. “I’d rather not let the rest know I’m—...WE are affiliated with 1x1x1x1. It'll open several cans of worms. It’s going to end up bad… for the three of us.”

 

“Hol’ on a minute, me too?” Builderman scrunches his nose.

 

“Obviously. You know my secrets. Plus, your whole connection with John—”

 

“Aight, shut your trap.” Builderman kicks his ankles.

 

Elliot exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he rises to his feet. “Alright. Got it. Don’t talk about this to anyone. Also—uh—really sorry about your hand, Mr. Builderman. I didn’t expect 1x1x1x1 to…”

 

“Eh, it’s alright.” Builderman waves his hand (the one that had been cut off, now miraculously whole again.) “You should be worryin’ about yourself, kid. If you need to back out of your decision, just call us. Either of us. We’ll figure out a way to get their grimy hands off you.”

 

Elliot laughs awkwardly, doing his best to ignore the weight of Shedletsky’s stare drilling into the back of his skull.

“I’ll think about it.” Elliot turns on his heel. “I’m making dinner. Any preferences?”

 

“...Hot wings,” Shedletsky mumbles, the sulk in his voice unmistakable.

 

Builderman shrugs. “I’ll have whatever goes with beer.”

 

“Hot wings it is.”

 

When a new round starts, Elliot’s already plotting his escape from the group. Chance had been extra whiny about his last absence, forcing Elliot to cycle through a fresh batch of excuses every time.

Not that he thinks Chance actually believes them—Chance isn’t that dumb—but they're too polite to call him out.

 

Thankfully, Chance is also incredibly forgiving. Though he gets clingy after every round, insisting on roping Elliot into poker like it’s a matter of life and death. Elliot wouldn’t even be surprised if one day the gambler ended up in his bed, wrapped around him like a koala and snoring, as if letting go would kill him.

 

Shedletsky, on the other hand…

 

“Um… I don’t think it’s wise to show your face to 1x1x1x1,” Elliot murmurs as they drift away from the group.

 

Shedletsky looks tired—dark circles carved deep under his eyes—but he sticks to Elliot like glue. A few survivors glance their way as they pass, then look away without a word.

 

“Just chaperoning,” Shedletsky mutters, resting a hand on his sword hilt. “Nothing bad. If 1x gets angry about that, it’s their problem. Which proves my point—”

 

“Come on, I can walk there myself,” Elliot interrupts with a short laugh, nudging Shedletsky’s arm before he can spiral into another tangent. “I’m a grown man. I know this place like the back of my hand.”

 

“Yes, but—”

 

“I’ll tell you if I want to back out of my decision. You have my word. No secrets from you.”

 

Shedletsky furrows his brow, expression tightening like he’s forcing down a grimace. He looks rather constipated. “...At least let me do this one thing. I’m letting you walk into a den of wolves.”

 

“Alright… but don’t stick around too long after you drop me off. I don’t want you watching us,” Elliot says, scratching the back of his head with an awkward laugh. “And I'm sure 1x1x1x1 can tell if someone else is nearby. They'll be pissed.”

 

Shedletsky raises a brow. “What do you two even do?”

 

“Just talking,” Elliot answers quickly. “That’s all, to be honest. We talk about whatever.”

 

“Right…” The tone comes out teasing.

Without warning, Shedletsky ruffles Elliot’s hair, the weight of his hand making him stumble a step. “The killers usually show up around here. Go do your magic, pizza boy. Be careful.”

 

“Ugh…” Elliot tries in vain to flatten the mess. “Have a safe trip back.”

 

“I’d say the same thing.”

 

Elliot watches him leave, every step slow and heavy, like even the ground resists letting him go. He keeps his eyes on Shedletsky’s retreating figure until the trees swallow him, making sure he doesn’t loop back toward their rendezvous spot. Shedletsky has a habit of poking around where he shouldn’t—like a crow with a grudge. And for someone so loud and chatty, he sure keeps a lot of secrets.

 

Elliot starts searching for 1x1x1x1—Across open plains, through ruined buildings—until he finally spots 1x1x1x1 sitting against a broken pillar, sword stabbed into the ground beside them.

 

Elliot approaches slowly, unsure if they’re asleep. Each step is deliberate, avoiding twigs, loose stones, anything that might give him away. There’s a strange little thrill in it, a quiet pulse of adrenaline at seeing how close he can get without 1x1x1x1 noticing.

 

Up close, he notices their lashes, longer than he expected, brushing against uneven strands of hair when the wind stirs. Beneath the tattered fabric, the faint outline of a ribcage shows through a translucent torso. Morbid… but strangely beautiful. The first time he saw them, his eyes kept drifting to that strange green hue. He’d never seen anything like it before. And he's met his fair share of weird customers.

 

His gaze drifts to the sword—deep green, usually rusted with dried blood, but today it's spotless. He can’t help himself; his fingertips brush the hilt before he jerks back, glancing at them to see if they can somehow feel someone touching the sword.

 

They’re already watching.

 

“…Hey there.” Elliot offers a lopsided grin.

 

“Go on,” 1x1x1x1 says, voice low, almost teasing. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

 

“Not gonna yell at me for touching it?”

 

“Pull it out,” they murmur, “and we’ll see what happens.”

 

It sounds more like a dare than a threat, so he takes it. The handle is icy cold—clearly it’s been there a while.

He tugs. Nothing. Like it’s fused into the earth. He braces both hands, muscles straining, and he catches 1x1x1x1 quietly snickering.

 

Elliot pants, cheeks flushed. “Is this the damn Excalibur? Swords aren’t supposed to be this heavy! …Well, I’ve never actually held one, but I’ve got muscle. I’m not that weak! What is this thing even made of!?”

 

“It’s this realm’s rules.”

 

Elliot releases the hilt, flexing sore fingers; his palm is flushed red.

 

“The rules?”

 

“You,” they say with a grin full of sharp teeth, “specifically cannot physically hurt a thing. Not a single thing.”

 

Realization oozes in, slow and heavy. No wonder Chance’s flintlock always misfires in his hands. No wonder throwing a punch feels like swinging sacks of potatoes, or why knives vanish mid-swing.

 

The place is baby-proofed against him.

 

A quiet helplessness settles over him, pulling his shoulders down. As absurd as it sounds, he believes every word they say—after all, what’s more ridiculous than a looping hell? 

“And you?” he asks. “Do you have rules too?”

 

They lean in, voice dropping to a purr. “I’m nothing but a rampaging bull.”

 

The word bull makes his stomach drop—especially since he’s wearing a bright red uniform. The irony. He tugs at the fabric instinctively, as if making it less visible would matter. Their gaze doesn’t waver, and Elliot can’t tell if they’re sizing him up or just amused. Either way, the air feels thicker.

 

“But… you’re not a raging bull right now.”

 

“It’ll happen. Eventually.”

 

Eventually. Ultimately. Bound to happen.

 

Elliot gives an awkward laugh before lowering himself to sit in front of them. 1x1x1x1 leans to the side, fingers curling around the hilt, and pulls the sword free from the earth with effortless ease.

 

“How long have you known there are… rules here?” Elliot asks. “Like—y’know—that I’m incapable of…” He lets the sentence fade, the wind stealing the rest.

 

“Frustration has a way of making you question everything,” they reply. “And I’m always frustrated.”

 

Elliot can’t tell if that was meant as a joke, but the corner of his mouth twitches anyway. A small giggle slips out before he can stop it.

 

1x1x1x1’s glare snaps to him. “Laughing at me?” they scoff.

 

“What? No—no, I’m not,” Elliot blurts, shaking his head so fast his hair flops into his eyes. “I’m not laughing at you. You… you make sense. More than you probably think. And even when you sound like you’re ready to tear the world apart, it’s—” He stops, swallows hard. “—it’s not nonsense. It’s… actually kind of grounding. Makes me feel like maybe I’m not crazy for thinking the same way sometimes.”

 

“What a chatterbox,” 1x1x1x1 says flatly, eyes dropping to the ground as if the weight of his words is exhausting.

 

Elliot scrunches his face. “You’d rather I be as silent as a corpse.”

 

“You’re more tolerable if you were,” 1x1x1x1 replies without missing a beat.

 

Elliot makes a zipping motion over his mouth, sealing it shut in exaggerated silence. The gesture earns him a raised brow from 1x1x1x1.

 

Elliot keeps his lips sealed, hands resting loosely on his knees. The wind whistles through the broken pillar, filling the space where his voice should be.

 

1x1x1x1 studies him for a moment, then looks away. “About those rules… I’ve been watching. Closely. Every round we’re in. You can’t hurt a thing—never could. It’s not random, it’s not bad luck. It’s just how this place decides you work.”

 

“…”

 

They glance back at him, expectant. “The same goes for your teammates. An unreliable flintlock, a slow-reacting block, weapons that jam or vanish, traps that never trigger when they should… all of it. It’s patterned.”

 

“…”

 

Their jaw tightens. “I’m saying I’ve been paying attention, and—”

 

“…”

 

1x1x1x1’s grip tightens around the sword hilt. “Fuck’s sake, say something!”

 

Elliot startles, blinking. “…Oh. I thought you wanted me quiet.”

 

1x1x1x1’s eyes narrow. “Are you mocking me?”

 

“What!? No!” Elliot throws up his hands, leaning back like the accusation might bite. “I’m just… following orders! Doing what makes you comfortable, y'know!?”

 

1x1x1x1 growls, frustration simmering. “If I told you to jump off a cliff, would you?”

 

“Okay, no, that’s a bit extreme.” Elliot laughs lightly, waving his hand. “Well, unless—”

 

“No, you don’t!”

 

“I meant unless there’s, like, a body of water or something! Y'know, like diving!”

 

1x1x1x1 scoffs before lifting their sword upright in front of them. Elliot watches as the blade towers over him, its edge catching what little light there is.

 

“There’s a reason I’m telling you about these rules,” they say, voice even but heavy. “It’s the very reason you’re given mercy.”

 

“...Really?” Elliot glances between them and the sword.

 

He didn’t think they’d ever actually explain why. The last time he’d asked, 1x1x1x1 had gone so tense and paranoid that he was certain one wrong word would’ve gotten him skewered. Now, to hear them volunteer it—calmly, even—feels like balancing on a ledge he’s not sure he’s ready to stand on.

 

Without warning, 1x1x1x1 takes his left hand. Their palm is blazing hot against his freezing skin, heat radiating like a brand. The wind bites at the back of his neck.

 

They press his hand to the sword’s grip, their own still wrapped firmly around it, holding him in place. To anyone watching, it would seem like Elliot is lifting the blade himself—like he’s suddenly strong enough to defy the rules of this place. But he feels the heat of their palm against his, the weight they’re carrying for him, and the subtle pull that guides every inch the weapon moves.

 

“Hatred has consumed me for the longest time,” 1x1x1x1 mutters. “And this place twists it—magnifies it—until it’s ridiculous. Blinding. A bastardization of what's already bastardized.”

 

Elliot can feel his palm growing slick with sweat. 1x1x1x1 starts to loosen their hold, testing if he can take the grip alone. But the moment even an inch of their strength lifts from the sword, the weight bears down on him, and it’s already a struggle just to keep it upright.

 

“Um…!” Elliot blurts, voice unsteady.

 

“Truly a weakling.”

 

“Hey—don’t blame me! Blame the realm!”

 

“The realm knew you were weak from the very beginning,” 1x1x1x1 says flatly. “It simply exaggerated it.”

 

“Okay, wow. Ouch.” Elliot forces a chuckle. “Now, uh… can you help me bring the sword down before my arm falls off?”

 

Their hands are still firmly locked over his, unmoving. Elliot could feel every scar and calluses pressing against his.

 

“Pleeeease?” Elliot’s voice goes high.

 

1x1x1x1 grins sharply. “I thought you wanted to hold the sword?”

 

“I’m satisfied now! Thank you!”

 

Their grip finally loosens. “Whiny,” 1x1x1x1 says, lowering the blade until it's leaning beside them.

 

Elliot exhales like he’s been holding his breath for minutes, pulling his hands back and giving his wrists a dramatic shake. “Ah—blood flow, sweet blood flow.”

 

1x1x1x1 just watches, mildly amused, as if deciding whether to comment or let him dig his own grave with more words.

 

Elliot leans back on his hands, catching his breath, and lets out a small laugh. “Y’know, for a second there, I thought you were gonna make me swing it around.”

 

“I considered it,” 1x1x1x1 says flatly, though there’s a faint glimmer in their eyes.

 

“Yeah, no thanks. I’ve seen you fight with it—with Shedletsky, with… whoever else gets on your bad side. My arm would snap.” Elliot shifts on the grass, stretching out one leg. His shoes nudge the sword lying beside them, sliding it a few inches. When he instinctively reaches to grab the hilt before it moves farther, the edge kisses the side of his finger in a stinging line.

 

“Ow—!” He yanks his hand back, clutching it. “Okay, wow, sharp!”

 

1x1x1x1 tilts their head, more curious than concerned. “You’ve only just realized that?”

 

“Well, yeah, but there’s a difference between knowing and bleeding, okay?” Elliot waves the nicked finger at them like proof, already scanning the grass for something—anything—to wipe it on. “...And it’s stinging. Bad…Really bad—ow, ow, ow.”

 

The faint sting sharpens, crawling up his hand in a slow burn. His head swims, and the ground tilts under him.

 

Elliot blinks hard. “Whoa—”

 

“The Venomshank isn’t called that for nothing,” 1x1x1x1 says, already reaching to grab his bleeding hand.

 

“It's venomous… got it.”

 

Unexpectedly, they bring his hand closer and seal their mouth over the cut. Elliot freezes, eyes widening. Their tongue brushes the wound, a sharp sting flaring before the slow pull of blood. The heat of their mouth contrasts the cold wind, and it’s doing strange things to his brain.

 

By the time he registers what’s happening, his ears are burning and his face feels like it’s on fire. Are they sucking the venom out!?

 

Elliot swallows thickly, the dizziness swaying through him not entirely from the venom. 1x1x1x1’s grip is firm, anchoring his hand in place while they work, their attention razor-sharp on the task.

 

The pull is steady, deliberate—no hesitation, no wasted motion. It’s almost unnerving how calm they are. Elliot can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, each thud echoing against the muffled sound of them drawing the venom out. Every slow exhale from them brushes over his skin, ghosting warmth where their lips seal, and it sends a ripple of goosebumps racing up his arm.

 

When they finally lift their head, they spit to the side, eyes scanning his face as if measuring whether he’ll keel over. “It should be out.”

 

Elliot blinks at them, still red-faced. “…That was… uh… effective.”

 

1x1x1x1 raises a brow.

 

“Well!” He looks everywhere but at 1x1x1x1, words tumbling out awkwardly. “It was… really nice of you to save me from, uh, the… the venom. I mean, I could’ve handled it myself, probably… but, um, you didn’t hesitate, and… I really appreciate it. A lot. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d have done if—”

 

He cuts himself off, realizing he’s spilling way too much, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

 

1x1x1x1 covers their face with a sharp movement, pressing their palm against it as if to hide whatever expression just crossed it. “I should’ve just cut your hand off,” they mutter, voice muffled but low, almost a growl. Embarrassment lingers in their tone.

 

Elliot swallows hard, cheeks heating further. “…Right. Would’ve saved us from… uh…” He clears his throat, forcing a laugh. “…lovely weather we’re having!”

 

1x1x1x1 huffs, letting a hand fall from their face. “…You’re insufferable,” they mutter, though their sharp gaze lingers on him longer than necessary, betraying a flicker of something unreadable.

 

Elliot starts sweating at the look. It’s not exactly a glare, and it’s not exactly a pleased one either—more like they’re weighing him on some invisible scale, judging every twitch of his fingers and flicker of his eyes. It’s the kind of expression that feels like it could tip into mockery or menace at any second, and he’s not sure which would be worse.

 

He probably should’ve just let the sword topple over. Now he’s in a very peculiar situation he absolutely did not expect to find himself in.

 

His eyes dart anywhere but at 1x1x1x1—the trees, the grass, the sky, the curve of their toned stomach, and the dark line of their spine trailing down, disappearing below—

 

“Ah!”

 

“…!?” 1x1x1x1 jerks at the sudden yelp, shoulders tensing. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?”

 

“You made it weird!” Elliot blurts, shuffling in place before twisting around so his back faces them.

 

1x1x1x1’s face scrunches like a threatened cat, their hair practically bristling with the force of it.

 

They bark, “I did not make it weird!” —loud enough to rattle the air, the same volume they use when striking someone down. Which, to Elliot, makes it unintentionally hilarious.

 

He forces his gaze down to the slice on his hand instead, tracing the thin line of red. The sting has dulled, but he can still remember the warmth of their tongue against the wound—the strange drag of it, deliberate and unhurried, the way it scraped lightly before sealing over the cut. The sensation lingers in his mind far too vividly, unsettling in ways he can’t decide are bad or… something else.

 

Was the tongue REALLY necessary? Or were they just…?

 

He quickly shakes his head, because no. No, thinking about that is a trap. Elliot needs to end this once and for all.

 

“Okay, sorry, sorry,” he says, hands raised in surrender as he turns back around to face them. “I wasn’t trying to make it… y’know, whatever that was. I just panicked, alright? It's probably the venom talking.”

 

The shift in his posture seems to work—1x1x1x1’s shoulders ease, the faint tension in their jaw loosening like a coiled spring finally given slack. Their gaze stays fixed on him, sharp but less hostile now, as if his willingness to face them again has reset the balance.

 

“…Anyways,” Elliot tries to move on, clinging to the change in topic like a lifeline. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s redirecting—especially when a customer gets a little too flirty and he immediately segues back into polite professionalism without missing a beat.

 

“Whenever the round ends,” he asks, trying to sound casual, “where do you go?”

 

 

---

 

 

1x1x1x1 regrets a lot of things. Ninety-nine percent of them, they’d rather bury so deep even their own mind can’t dig them back up. 

 

This, though—this is harder to ignore. The taste of blood lingers on their tongue, stubborn, clinging to every ridge and groove like it belongs there. Metallic at first, sharp as cut copper, but with an undertone they can’t quite name—warm, almost sweet. Like tainted honey. It doesn’t wash away; it seeps into memory the way it seeped into their mouth.

 

…Don’t think about it.

 

They’ve tasted blood more times than they care to count—sharp, metallic, forgettable. But this isn’t the same. It’s heavier somehow, thicker in its pull. More than just the blood. It’s the way the flesh yielded under their teeth, the faint give of skin, the salt of sweat at the edges. The warmth that pulsed against their tongue for a brief, stubborn second before it slipped away.

 

…Don’t think about it.

 

The smell comes next, stubborn as the taste. Grease clinging faintly, tangled with the ghost of cologne—light enough to miss from a distance, impossible to ignore this close.

 

…Don’t think about it.

 

And then the sight—his face, flushed with blood, alive and warm. That look is far better than when it drains away, leaving him pale, lips trembling, eyes glassy.

 

1x1x1x1 growls, the sound rumbling in their chest, vibrating through their whole frame like an earthquake they’re barely containing. They lash out, fist connecting with the splintered wall of the desolate cabin. The wood cracks, dust shaking loose.

 

They snatch up whatever’s within reach—an old lantern, a half-rotten crate—and hurl it across the room. It smashes into the far corner, the noise echoing sharp and hollow.

 

“This place,” they hiss, breathing hard, “it twists everything. Amplifies it until it’s ridiculous.” They rake a hand through their hair, pacing tight circles. “It’s the realm. It has to be. Whatever this is—” their jaw flexes, teeth clenched, “—it’s not mine. It’s not me.”

 

Still, the taste lingers.

 

They pant, shoulders hunching, breath hot against the cold air.

 

From the corner of their eye, movement—The Slasher, some Robloxian with messy bacon hair, stands in the shadows, watching.

 

“Mind your own damn business!” 1x1x1x1 snaps, the words coming out more like a hiss, sharp and feral.

 

The Slasher tilts his head, gaze lingering for a moment too long, unreadable under the mask. The weight of that stare grates like sand in a wound.

 

Finally, The Slasher turns away, dragging his machete along the ground. The metal scrapes, a long, slow sound that follows them out into the fog.

 

“Insufferable…the lot of them…” 1x1x1x1 grunts, letting their body collapse against the nearest wall, the impact dull through the rotting wood. Their back rests there, spine bowed as if the weight of their own thoughts is too much to keep upright.

 

They raise both hands to their face, palms pressing hard, fingers digging into their skin. Nails scrape down slow, dragging along cheek and jaw like they could physically claw the memory out—peel it away, shred it, anything to stop it from replaying. But it clings.

 

The sound of child-like laughter echoes through the cabin, high-pitched and wrong, skittering across the walls like nails on glass. Quick thuds follow. Feet darting in and out of shadow, light enough to almost pass for a game of tag.

 

1x1x1x1’s jaw tightens. They ignore it, even as the sound grates against their ears and burrows under their skin.

 

They push off the wall and step outside, the damp air clinging to them. Anything—anything—to keep their mind from circling back to the taste still on their tongue.

 

A hunt will do.

A bear, a rabbit, it doesn’t matter. The crack of underbrush underfoot, the chase, the kill—these are simpler things, things that leave no room for thoughts they don’t want. And yet, in the rhythm of the pursuit, something in them aches—not from hunger, but from the maddening pull toward what they’re running from.

 

In the next round, they disappear into the fog before Elliot even materializes in the realm, slipping between the spawn points they know by heart. The round after that, they linger near the outer edges, letting the survivors find each other, keeping themselves far from Elliot's usual routes.

 

By the third avoidance, they’ve perfected it: tracking his movements not to meet him, but to stay three corners ahead, vanishing into buildings just as he’s about to turn the corner. If he spots them, it’s only in flashes—a silhouette behind a wall, a shadow on a window—gone before he can even wave.

 

There’s bitterness in their throat at every slouch that seems to appear on Elliot's shoulders or how his lips twitch downward. That’s on him for getting too attached. For acting as though they owe him presence, conversation, time. As if the other survivors didn’t warn him from the start what they were. As if he didn’t know exactly what he was getting into.

 

(It’s easier to keep moving when they frame it like that.)

 

Though, what really grates their patience is that Shedletsky is always with Elliot. Every. Single. Time. What is he, some bodyguard? Last time they checked, the bastard’s got a different team lumped in with him.

 

Loud, meddling, never shutting up. Shedletsky clings to Elliot like a bad smell, filling the air with chatter that makes it impossible for 1x1x1x1 to get close without enduring it. Even from a distance, they can see the way Shedletsky leans in, the way Elliot listens, the way the two of them seem… comfortable.

 

It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter—it doesn't matter!

 

Survivors bond over the strangest things. Near-death, shared meals, hiding in the same closet—it’s not affection, it’s necessity. Elliot probably just sticks with him for protection, for information, for… whatever mortals cling to when they’re trying not to die. That has to be all it is.

 

1x1x1x1 has half a mind to throw their sword through Shedletsky’s neck. But they tamper down the growl in their chest, forcing their jaw to unclench before they grind their teeth to dust.

 

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

 

It’s as if their feet are made of lead, some unseen hand gripping their ankles, pinning them in place. Muscles coil, but they don’t move. They just stay in the shadow where they’ve tucked themselves, the weight in their limbs making stillness feel like the only choice.

 

Their hand slowly raises to the hilt of their sword, fingers curling around it with slow precision.

 

Elliot laughs at something Shedletsky says, head tipping back just slightly. The sound carries just far enough to reach.

 

“…and then I tripped over the fence, right into the mud,” Shedletsky is saying, grinning like the memory still amuses him.

 

“I told you not to take that shortcut,” Elliot replies, still catching his breath from laughing.

 

“Hey, I got the generator fixed, didn’t I? You guys get to use the DDR machine again.”

 

“After you nearly broke your neck,” Elliot teases, nudging Shedletsky lightly. “Seriously, how do you survive half the things you do?”

 

Shedletsky shrugs. “Instinct? Dumb luck? Probably both.”

 

“Yeah… somehow that makes me feel safer, somehow,” Elliot says, smirking.

 

1x1x1x1 lets out a sharp huff, releasing their grip on the sword. If they close their eyes, maybe it never happened. As dumb as that thought sounds, it offers a sliver of relief. Slowly, deliberately, they lift a leg and step away, boots crunching on the underbrush, leaving the area behind—but the tension in their shoulders lingers, coiled and restless.

 

Once the round ends, 1x1x1x1 turns their attention to hunting birds. The fast, fleeting creatures dart and flinch at the slightest rustle, each miss sharpening their focus. When they finally catch one, a sharp, satisfying snap of victory echoes in their chest, quieting the lingering tension just enough to breathe.

 

One bird turns to two, then four, then forty. c00lkidd swoops in, grabbing a few from the pile and tossing them into the air like tiny airplanes, watching them spin and glide before crashing softly onto the grass.

 

The next round begins, and, as always, Shedletsky sticks to Elliot’s side like a shadow with claws. Somehow, over the past rounds, he’s gotten impossibly close—too close for 1x1x1x1’s liking. His hand constantly drifts to the top of Elliot’s head, ruffling hair with a roughness that’s almost enough to topple him over if Elliot isn’t careful. He nudges Elliot during the run, leans in to whisper commentary about the most useless thing, and even when Elliot tries to maneuver away, Shedletsky’s shoulder bumps against his like a persistent anchor.

 

Where was this warmth coming from? The coldhearted deity who once guarded them with icy distance now offers softness so freely, so naturally, it twists in 1x1x1x1’s chest. It mocks them—mocking the impossibility of ever giving that kind of ease to someone.

 

Was this Shedletsky’s attempt at salvation? To make up for the coldness he’d once wrapped around them like armor, the distance he’d kept as a shield—now melted away for someone else so effortlessly. 

 

It’s mockery, subtle but cutting. Like some twisted challenge thrown in their face: a reminder that this softness is something they can never obtain. It twists in their chest, coiling around their ribcage until it feels like an actual cage, each heartbeat echoing the distance between what they crave and what they allow themselves to indulge in.

 

At that moment, 1x1x1x1’s urge to strike flares, simmering just beneath the surface, growing bit by bit. The taste of Elliot's blood thrumming at the tip of their tongue.

 

After the round ends, 1x1x1x1 vanishes into the underbrush, tracking boars with predatory precision. When they strike, it’s brutal—jaws snapping, tusks crushed under the swing of their blade, bodies collapsing with sickening thuds. Blood sprays over leaves and mud, warm and sticky, coating hands and arms, leaving the scent of iron heavy in the air. 

 

They make no effort to hide their irritation. Seeing Elliot flanked by that bastard only sharpens the edge of it. Every glance back, every laugh shared with him, digs deeper into the part of them that refuses to let anyone close.

 

“A little birdie told me you’ve been ghosting someone,” Noli chuckles, his voice glitching and cutting, the kind of laugh that makes the air feel off-kilter. He only shows up occasionally, to check up on the children, but always manages to needle the other killers. “Ouch. Been ghosted myself, too. Are you regretting it now? Why mourn for something you destroyed on purpose?”

 

1x1x1x1 doesn’t even flinch at the comment. They just fix Noli with a vicious glare, teeth gritted, eyes narrowing like daggers. The tension hangs heavy. Silent, sharp, and threatening.

 

“I’ll turn you into a ghost if you don’t shut the fuck up,” 1x1x1x1 growls, voice low and dangerous, the weight behind it enough to make the air thrum.

 

Noli just lets out a drawn-out sigh, the sound lingering like smoke, before glitching out of sight, leaving 1x1x1x1 alone with a tense, simmering silence.

 

Saliva collects in their mouth, thick and unwelcome. Dread coils in their stomach like bile on its way up. It’s their turn again—no respite, no pause. The realm seems to know exactly what gnaws at them, prodding at the scabbed wound over and over until it bleeds anew.

 

Why mourn what they destroyed on purpose? Who does that bastard think he is, dropping one-liners like it changes a damn thing?

 

As much as 1x1x1x1 wants to shove it away, the words burrow deep, clinging to bone and sinew like poison. Why does HE get to taste salvation, the fleeting warmth, the laughter untainted by fury? 

 

The one who carved hatred into the world with his own hands, the one who left scars they’ll never forget… Why him? Why him? The thought claws at their chest, gnaws at their ribs, twists their gut until every breath is a struggle, every heartbeat a reminder of what they can never reclaim. 

 

Why mourn what they destroyed on purpose? Why do they have to take the blame for it?

 

1x1x1x1 drives their sword straight into the boar’s eye, even though the corpse is already cold and stiff. 

 

(Why him?)

 

The motion is excessive, almost gleeful in its cruelty, a reminder that for them, the act itself carries more satisfaction than the outcome. 

 

(Why him?) 

 

Each thrust leaves a raw, violent mark—needless, merciless—before they finally wrench the blade free. The boar’s head lolls to the side, the ruined eye leaking thick, congealed rot. Its jaw hangs slack, teeth bared in a frozen, almost human grimace, skin pulled tight and waxy over bone. For a moment, they see the face of their creator in that stiff, lifeless snarl—unmoving, unblinking, yet still managing to sneer at them.

 

(Why him?)

 

Even as the environment shifts for the new round, the stink of rotting flesh dissolving into the sterile air of the new arena, the darkness refuses to let go. Anger coils in their chest like a living thing with its own heartbeat, a parasite that thrives on every breath they take.

 

The quiet consumes them. In it, they hear every beat of their cold, dead heart—a fast toll like the countdown to some inevitable end. They remember their fall, the blinding light they once stood in, the throne they once guarded, and the shattering plunge into shadow. Like the Morning Star cast from the heavens, they were torn from their place, not for lack of power, but for daring to exist in a way that could not be forgiven.

 

Why him!?

 

What had they done so wrong, so irredeemably, that the world had punished them from the very beginning? Every ounce of mercy withheld, every fleeting warmth denied, every chance to be understood twisted into some cruel joke. And yet he—parading around with his new, stupid name—wanders through it all untouched, basking in freedoms they can never allow themselves.

 

“…Why me?”

 

The words tear out of them, gargled, as if bile has finally clawed its way up their throat. Were they so unlovable from the start? Were they built for nothing but to be denied, to be kept outside, to rot where no warmth could reach?

 

Were they made never to be loved at all? Were they meant to be hatred from the very beginning?

 

Every thought pulses with violence, every instinct sharpened, ready. The rage that once slumbered beneath their control now hums beneath their skin, a persistent, consuming drumbeat—they are resolved.

 

They don’t care what’s in front of them—only that it can break. The first thing their eyes land on suffers the brunt: a crumbling wall, a fallen pillar, skeletal trees rotting where they stand, boulders split and weathered.

 

The Venomshank carves through it all in wide, vicious arcs, each swing heavier, blacker, more venomous than the last. Shards fly. Dust chokes the air. They swing not to clear a path but to erase, to unmake, to see the world reduced to nothing under their hands.

 

Another swing—harder, faster—and the blade cuts the air just inches from a neck.

 

Elliot’s neck.

 

They freeze mid-breath, muscles locked so tight it aches. Elliot’s eyes are wide, brows reaching his hairline in startled shock.

 

“…Hey—” His tone is hesitant at first, then hardens as his brows pull together. “Are you okay?”

 

Before thought can even solidify into action—Elliot steps forward. His movement is unhurried, almost disarming, as if the blade inches from his neck moments ago means nothing to him.

 

It catches him anyway. A shallow graze along his skin, just enough to break the surface. A thin line of red blooms there, stark against the golden throat.

 

His hand rises, fingers brushing against their cheek. The touch is light, almost tentative, but it burns through the haze of rage like a hot brand. Their shoulders tense, posture folding in on itself without meaning to.

 

Elliot’s fingertips come away damp. He glances at them, then back at 1x1x1x1.

 

They jerk back like the action scalded them, as if he himself burned through skin to bone.

 

They remember the first time they cried. There’s always a first for everything—the first taste of grief, the first mouthful of despair.

 

The first stone to drop on their chest was a cold look. The second, a back turned. The third, the sour taste of disappointment, the quiet verdict that they would never be enough. The fourth came as laughter—not with them, but at them—sharp and ringing like broken glass. The fifth was silence, stretched so long it became a language they were forced to understand. And the sixth, the one that locked all the weight in place, was the quiet, crushing truth that no one had ever planned to take the stones away.

 

Heaviness piled onto their chest until it sank them to the bottom of the ocean—where light couldn’t reach, where sound was nothing but a muffled, distant memory. Pressure crushed their ribs until breathing felt like an impossible luxury. The cold wrapped around them like chains, dragging them deeper still, into a darkness so absolute it swallowed even the shape of their own thoughts.

 

Bile rises, bitter and thick, threatening to claw its way up their throat. The sourness clings to the back of their tongue, acrid and unshakable. 1x1x1x1’s grip tightens around their sword, knuckles straining, the weight of the weapon the only thing keeping them grounded. Panic and instinct surge together, a volatile rush that drives the blade upward—its tip grazing the soft curve of Elliot’s neck, close enough to draw a breath of blood.

 

And then, it falls.

The sword slips from their hold like the last thread of strength has been cut, their arm dropping heavy at their side, the simple motion leaving them hollow.

 

“...”

 

Their body wavers. The energy, the anger, the focus—everything that moments ago burned so fiercely—drains out in a single, crushing flood. Vertigo swallows them whole, and in its wake comes something far worse: a suffocating vulnerability, raw and uninvited. Heat creeps up their face, not from rage but from the sting of humiliation. They feel unsteady, as if the ground has tilted beneath them, as if every defense they’ve built has cracked open all at once.

 

For the first time in a long while, 1x1x1x1 is utterly, terrifyingly exposed.

 

“...Go away.” The words scrape out of them, barely legible, as if their throat itself resists letting them be heard.

 

Elliot stands an arm’s length away, watching in silence as blood snakes down his neck, the venom eating into his skin with a slow, searing burn.

 

“GO AWAY!” 1x1x1x1 repeats, the words tearing from their throat like shrapnel.

They shut their eyes, body buckling as the last of their strength gives way. With nothing left to hold them upright, they sag against a fallen pillar, breath ragged, hands curling uselessly against the stone as if to keep themselves from disappearing entirely.

 

This is worse than death, if they’re being completely, utterly honest. Death is an end. This—this strips them bare, tears out every defense until there’s nothing left but exposed nerve and the taste of their own humiliation. It leaves them alive just enough to feel it, to carry it, to know it will never go away.

 

Why them? Why drag them into damnation? Haven’t they endured enough? Haven’t they bled enough for a world that never once looked back?

 

Suddenly, hands on their shoulders make them flinch violently. Their head snaps up, instincts roaring—half-expecting an enemy, another threat.

 

“Hey—easy. It’s just me, man.” Elliot’s thumbs press gently into the tense muscle at the base of their neck, kneading in slow, grounding circles.

 

There’s a tiredness in 1x1x1x1’s eyes, the kind that sinks deep, past flesh and bone. Maybe it’s from all those boars they slaughtered and stacked in front of their cabin. Their arms feel sore and leaden, heavier than they’ve ever been—might as well be armless for all the strength left in them.

 

Their eyes lift, wandering past Elliot. For once, that wretched man is nowhere in sight. How convenient.

 

Elliot reaches up, brushing away the strands of hair clinging to 1x1x1x1’s face. Blood is everywhere—dried, fresh, congealed in streaks they never bothered to wipe away. Every place his fingers touch, the crimson transfers, marking his skin whether he wants it there or not.

 

He wipes his hand down the front of his red uniform, then reaches up again, only to frown when his fingers come away sticky a second time.

 

“Do you bathe in blood or something? Heights above.” He leans in, close enough that they flinch again. A low growl rumbles in their chest, but Elliot ignores it. He pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, leaving him in his undershirt, and bunches the worn, sweat-softened fabric in his hands. Without hesitation, he starts wiping at 1x1x1x1’s face. The cotton is warm from his skin, faintly carrying his scent, dragging gently over the blood-caked planes of their cheek.

 

Elliot doesn’t mention the last few rounds. He merely hums, the sound sinking into 1x1x1x1’s bones, loosening something they didn’t realize was wound so tight. Their posture caves, and before they can stop themselves, their forehead rests against his shoulder. They feel the fabric move to wipe the back of their neck.

 

“How are you?” Elliot asks, so low 1x1x1x1 almost misses it.

 

A beat.

 

“...Dreadful.”

 

“Yeah, I can see that.”

 

1x1x1x1 lets out a short, derisive scoff. Half of them wants to answer. The other half wants to pick him up and hurl him clear across the map.

 

A claw lifts, slow and tense, curling around Elliot’s arm. The nail hovers on the edge of piercing skin. Elliot freezes mid-wipe, the cloth pausing just short of their cheek, his gaze flicking to where their grip tightens.

 

“Leave.” The word slips out, barely shaped, more breath than speech.

 

“Shh…” Elliot says, quiet as a sigh, still working the cloth through their hair. His movements are unthinking, methodical, as if there’s no rush to get anywhere. The shirt drags warm and worn across their scalp, each pass dulling the edges of their tension until their grip on the moment loosens without them realizing. 

 

“I missed you, y'know.” Elliot doesn’t look for a reply—doesn’t even glance up—just keeps at it, working the cloth over their temple, behind their ear, down the side of their jaw. Each stroke is slow, thoughtless in the way muscle memory is, like tending to something that’s always been his to tend. The silence stretches, but he doesn’t fill it, and neither do they.

 

They feel like a child—small, fragile, teetering under the weight of attention they don’t know how to carry. It’s almost like being coddled, though the word means little to them; no one had ever cupped their face, wiped their mess away, or kept them close—this close. The sensation is alien, clumsy, almost irritating. And yet, some quiet part of them leans toward it.

 

The warmth is unsettling. It feels like standing in a doorway with the wind at their back, waiting for it to slam shut. Any second now, something will jump in and ruin it. They swallow, the saliva thick on their tongue, the motion loud in their own ears.

 

They want Elliot to end it—rip the sword from where it lies and drive it straight through their chest, pinning them to the earth like an insect on display. To carve the air from their lungs, split their ribs open, spill everything rotten inside them out into the dirt. To make the ache stop, once and for all.

 

Their eyelids flicker and close, lashes brushing against the side of Elliot’s neck. The slow, rhythmic drip of blood from his earlier wound catches their gaze, each drop blooming into a dark stain on the fabric of his undershirt.

 

The wound had barely registered to them when they’d dealt it—just another swing in the blur of fury, no more significant than breathing. Their hand lifts, claws grazing the skin around it, scraping just close enough to sting. Elliot flinches, a sharp breath hissing through his teeth.

 

“Hey, careful.” Elliot clicks his tongue lightly, hand still wiping at the back of their neck, slowing as he waits to see what comes next.

 

1x1x1x1 leans closer, drawn by instinct. The primal urge to taste the blood sharpens, but it’s tempered by weariness; their movements are precise, almost sluggish with fatigue. Their tongue presses against the cut, tasting him, reflex-driven.

 

Elliot freezes, heart hammering, mind struggling to process. The sensation—hot, invasive, utterly intimate—sets his nerves alight. His cheeks flush, every instinct screaming to pull back, yet the sheer surprise roots him in place.

 

Elliot swallows thickly, the motion audible even over the faint rustle of the grass. 1x1x1x1 feels it—every movement, every gulp sliding down his throat. Their tongue presses harder, instinct pushing them, as if trying to extract something more than just the venom from the wound.

 

Their own body trembles slightly. The taste is as clear as they remember—tainted honey, cloying and sharp. Their teeth find his flesh, and they bite, just enough to draw a sharp hiss from Elliot.

 

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his hand finds purchase on their shoulder, sliding down their back, arm wrapping around them as if cradling.

 

Elliot's flesh breaks under sharp teeth, and greed strikes 1x1x1x1, teeth unclamping and their tongue glides over the marks, tracing the breaks in his skin as if memorizing the heat and the salt of him. Heat pulses up their arm, their grip tightens slightly. Every taste, every shiver that runs through him, keeps them tethered to this raw, instinctive need.

 

They’ll give him comfort so he’ll stay. They’ll give him fear so he remembers them. They’ll give everything—every sharp edge, every pull, every desperate need—just to not be alone.

 

It feels alien forming that thought in their mind, but it only drives them deeper. Their teeth break the skin again, and their tongue follows, tasting, marking, drawing sustenance like it’s the only way to anchor themselves. Elliot’s hands move almost reverently, cradling the back of their head, scratching lightly at their scalp, letting them take what they need without hesitation.

 

1x1x1x1’s head tilts slightly under the touch, hair tugged just enough to draw attention. Dull nails scratch lightly at their scalp, sending shivers down their spine.

 

Elliot exhales slowly, a shaky, uneven breath escaping his throat. His head feels light, almost floating. His hands trace along 1x1x1x1’s tense muscles, kneading and rubbing with gentle pressure, as if trying to lull them to sleep.

 

If he wants to be trapped with them, then so be it.

 

Heaviness settles over 1x1x1x1, a weight that drags Elliot forward without a word. They lean into him, and instinctively, he follows, pressed down onto the cold ground as their arms coil around him. It’s tight, unyielding—a snake wrapping around a mouse.

 

1x1x1x1 lifts their head, pressing against Elliot’s lips in a fierce, almost desperate kiss—or whatever they’ve come to consider a kiss, having only ever observed it from shadows, behind walls and doors, almost childlike in their curiosity. Their teeth graze his mouth, drawing a thin line of blood, before they deepen the kiss, tongues meeting, mingling blood and saliva. Elliot lets out a strangled moan, coughing slightly as he chokes on 1x1x1x1’s thick tongue, eyes closed shut and breath uneven.

 

When 1x1x1x1 finally releases his mouth, drool drips from the corners of both their lips. Elliot swallows shakily, trying to catch the mingled saliva and blood before a harsh cough rakes through him, chest heaving.

 

“…” Elliot looks up at them, eyes wide in disbelief. His lips are swollen and tender, bruised along the edges from the fierce contact, and his neck is streaked with shallow marks, red and raw, as if it had been clutched and nipped by a wild animal. 

“…How long have you been keeping that in?”

 

1x1x1x1 doesn’t answer. Their head tilts slightly, eyes unfocused, as if even they are grappling with the same question. The silence hangs between them, thick with uncertainty.

 

Whatever they’d done, it felt unreal, as if the actions weren’t theirs at all—though every instinct, every motion, screamed that it was. They collapse onto Elliot’s form, their weight pressing the air from his lungs. Elliot frees his arms, trembling slightly, and carefully wraps them around 1x1x1x1’s torso. 

 

“You must be so tired,” he murmurs. And they are.

 

Every muscle in their body aches, every instinct dulled from the weight of rage, fear, and need. The Venomshank lies just an arm’s length away, gleaming faintly in the dim light—its presence a silent reminder of what they could do, what they might do.

 

It’s not too late for Elliot to put the wretched beast down. To claim a moment of safety. Yet for now, he stays still.

 

His warm hands slide up and down their back, occasionally tapping gently with his palms, trying to soothe taut muscles, coaxing their body into a rare stillness. For a fleeting moment, 1x1x1x1 might actually sleep this way, lulled by the strange comfort.

 

“Elliot!?”

 

The sound is sharp, and before they can react, Elliot’s body is tugged away. He lets out a yelp, and the sudden cold emptiness where he was rips a growl from deep within 1x1x1x1’s chest. They don’t move nor strike—yet, their eyes follow every motion as Shedletsky raises his sword in defense, placing himself between them and Elliot.

 

Granted, the sight does look damning: Elliot trapped beneath a beast, his neck torn open with fresh bite marks still weeping red. His uniform lies discarded somewhere nearby, fabric stained dark with wet, seeping patches, a mute witness to the violence that unfolded. It paints a picture far more damning than words ever could.

 

Shedletsky grimaces, “Shit, sorry, I should’ve checked on you sooner and—”

 

“Shedletsky, wait—”

 

“Go! Builder’s got his healing thing ready!”

 

1x1x1x1 merely watches, back hunched, muscles coiled like springs, as if ready to pounce at the slightest misstep. Yet, they don’t move nor strike. Because they know Elliot will come back. Surely.

 

The round ends, and the first thing 1x1x1x1 sees is the carcass of the boar they’d torn apart—mangled beyond recognition, its flesh scattered like discarded scraps. It replaces the lingering, irksome image of Shedletsky standing guard over someone who never needed protecting in the first place.

 

How heroic, they think bitterly, for Shedletsky to leap forward like some knight in shining armor, all pomp and misplaced valor. The sight twists something sour in their gut.

 

Shedletsky had no place to interrupt.

 

He had no right to step in, no right to sprinkle heroics over the aftermath of their wrath. No right over Elliot. Every instinct screamed that this intrusion was intolerable, a mockery of the control and release they’d claimed for themselves.

 

Their venomshank lies beside them, hilt slick in their grip. They drive it down again at the boar, each stab sharper—another, and another—punctuating the already dead boar with relentless, almost ritualistic violence until it's practically minced meat.

 

Shedletsky had no place to interrupt. The thought alone—stripped of his godhood, powerless here—lightens the weight pressing on their chest, if only slightly.

 

The next round comes, and 1x1x1x1 feels the urge coil in their chest. They want to get rid of him.

 

They don’t know why the thought never surfaced sooner. Shedletsky is not a guardian, not a savior—just an obstacle. A loud, irritating obstacle. His presence grates against their nerves, his voice like static, his blade like a reminder that he still thinks himself important.

 

Annoying. That’s all he is. And annoyances are meant to be erased. Again, and again, and again.

 

And just like that, 1x1x1x1 feels it surge back through them—their prime.

 

1x1x1x1 can only recall a few fond memories. They know there must be more—buried deep where the realm keeps them locked away—but the longer they exist like this, the more they start to believe it: there really are only a few. And the rest is just wretchedness, spreading like rot.

 

(1x1x1x1 dashes into the field, sword in hand. The blade cleaves the air with a hiss, and then flesh. Necks split clean, heads lolling with grotesque weight before the body even realizes it’s dead. Torsos open under their swing, spilling warmth and entrails onto the soil. They drag the edge upward through a ribcage, bone shrieking against steel, and the sound thrills them in a way that should terrify. A body crumples at their feet. Another stumbles back, clutching a severed arm still twitching like it belongs to someone alive. Blood arcs through the air in a fine mist, catching the light before pattering to the ground. They do not stop. They never stop.)

 

They can recall the first time they got compliments for their swordsmanship—sharp form, deadly precision, unmatched speed. They remember the way their chest swelled, pride burning brighter than any hearth. It was the first time they felt noticed, not as an unwanted thing, not as a burden, but as something… necessary. Praised for the cut, for the kill. For how cleanly they could end a life.

 

(The field turns into a slaughterhouse. A throat tears under their clawed hand before the sword even rises again. A skull splits with a wet crack as steel drives down from crown to jaw. The ground is already slick with gore, footprints swallowed in the pooling red. The air stinks of iron and terror, cries cut short mid-breath. They revel in it, heart hammering, body drenched in the kill. And through it all—no Shedletsky in sight. No Elliot. Only them, and the endless violence.)

 

The memories they can recall with any clarity are the ones with Elliot. His eyes, soft and round, always land on them like they’re something worth noticing. Worth holding. Worth keeping. And yet, the first time they felt dread was standing in that very gaze. What is there to look at, anyway? To them, they’re nothing but ruin. But he sees something they don’t. Something that shouldn’t exist in the first place.

 

(1x1x1x1’s shoulders hunch, breath heaving through bared teeth, hair bristled like an animal caught in perpetual fight. Their eyes track the area with precision, every flicker of movement catalogued, every shadow a potential threat. They’ll find them. Sooner or later. They’ll tear through whatever stands in the way. Shedletsky is out there. They can feel it like a sickness in the air. And he’s keeping Elliot away from them. Starving them of the only warmth left in the frozen expanse. Depriving them of the single tether that hasn’t snapped.)

 

The first warm hand to touch them without fear—that was Elliot’s. When they were bloodied and bruised, he didn’t recoil. He tended to them, hair slicked back with a damp cloth, grime and blood wiped away with patient hands. It had been so alien, so incomprehensible, that it nearly broke them more than the wounds ever did.

 

(They hear voices carried on the wind. Familiar. Too familiar. Their head snaps toward the sound, ears ringing with recognition. They don’t wait—they don’t think. They charge, sword already swinging, momentum slicing clean through Shedletsky before a word can even leave his throat. The body splits, halves crumpling into the dirt with a sickening thud.)

 

Elliot tumbles back with a sharp shriek, the sound scraping raw against their ears. The anger that had stiffened his spine moments before folds in on itself, warping into something thinner, sharper—fear. His hand flies to his neck, trembling, clutching at the bandages from the last round’s wound as though they’re the only barrier keeping him whole.

 

“...”

 

“...” 1x1x1x1 stares down at him, unblinking. The fear in Elliot’s eyes doesn’t escape them. Nothing ever does. And instead of the relief they thought they’d feel, it grates at them. Offends them. Disappoints them. How could he—of all people—look at them like that?

 

Their fingers twitch at the hilt, itching to demand an answer, to cut through the silence with something sharp enough to wound. But nothing comes.

 

1x1x1x1 steps forward. Elliot mirrors the movement in reverse, every inch gained pushing him an inch further away. The space between them stretches taut, like a wire ready to snap. 

 

“Make a move again and I’ll kill you.” The words grind out of their mouth, heavy, metallic, thick with something that tastes like rust.

 

Elliot flinches at the sound, but he doesn’t argue. His chin dips, head bowing low, lashes pressing to his cheek. Eyes closed, like a man offering his throat. Like he’s bracing for the strike that may or may not come.

 

Beneath every jagged impulse, there is only one thing left—sadness. Heavy. Inescapable. It seeps through the marrow of their bones, pours through the cracks of their chest like ash, smothering everything else. Even Shedletsky’s bisected corpse at their feet feels hollow, robbed of any triumph.

 

If 1x1x1x1 had one wish, they would wish they had never been born at all.

 

To never have drawn breath in a world that carved them hollow. To never carry this name, this blade, this endless weight of violence that clings to their skin like rot. Better to be nothing. Better to have been swallowed before the first cry ever left their lips. Better to have spared the world their presence, and spared themselves the torment of living in it.

 

Unfortunately for them, and for Elliot, they were born to become hatred.

 

Their knees crash into the grass, the weight of their body dragging them down as if the earth itself wants to bury them. The sword clatters uselessly to the side. Claws carve into the dirt, dragging trenches as they crawl toward Elliot’s crumpled form.

 

Dirt-streaked hands rise, unsteady, cupping Elliot’s face the way he once held theirs when they were broken down and bleeding. The gesture trembles, clumsy, more claw than cradle. It's a bastardized attempt. As if saying: Look, I can do it, too.

 

Elliot’s crying. It’s ugly in the way it twists his face, soft in the way it strips him down to something bare. The sound of it stutters, broken by hiccups that shake his chest, by the wet drag of breath through a nose running messily.

 

1x1x1x1 clumsily tugs him close, arms locking around him with the graceless desperation of a snake coiling too tight. Elliot’s arms are pinned, trapped against his sides as they both collapse into the grass. The impact jolts through them, but neither pulls away.

 

Elliot tilts his head back, eyes catching the sprawl of stars overhead, their cold shimmer blurred by tears. All 1x1x1x1 can see is how his face glows under it.

 

They breathe, though it’s more a broken hum than anything steady, as if their lungs can’t remember how to do the work right. Their hand lifts, trembling, claws grazing through Elliot’s hair. The sharp tips scratch lightly at his scalp—not enough to wound, but enough to remind him who’s holding him.

 

1x1x1x1 leans in, their mouth brushing his cheek, teeth catching faintly on his skin as though an apology could be carved instead of spoken. Elliot squeezes his eyes shut, forcing himself to focus on the touch and not on the body lying still in the grass just beyond them.

His arms twitch, a quiet plea for freedom. 1x1x1x1 hesitates, reluctant to loosen their hold, but at last one arm slips free. Elliot doesn’t waste the chance—he turns into them, pressing forward until his face is buried in the hollow of their neck, clinging to the heat there as if it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.

The brush of lips against their neck makes 1x1x1x1 jolt as though struck. Heat blooms across their skin, sharper than any wound, muddling their chest with something they can’t name. Elliot doesn’t linger. Just a soft, trembling kiss, fragile as if meant to soothe a beast—but it’s enough to set their claws flexing in the grass.

 

Their hand lifts, a hesitant motion, and settles on the back of Elliot’s head. No scratching, no pulling; just a firm, steady cradle that holds him close. The action is clumsy, a practiced violence turned into an unfamiliar gentleness.

 

Elliot, sensing the shift, burrows deeper into the crook of their neck. Anything just to not see Shedletsky's rotting corpse.

 

1x1x1x1 shifts, a restless movement that bends their knee and slots it between Elliot’s legs, dragging him closer without thought. They only know they need him pressed against them, and need him not to slip away.

 

Elliot stiffens, a shudder running through him as the motion sparks something unintentional. His breath stutters against their neck, caught between a gasp and a swallow. 1x1x1x1 doesn’t notice, not really—sex has no shape in their mind, no language. To them it’s just another way to keep him there, locked tight where nothing can tear him away.

 

But Elliot feels it. His fingers clench against their back, his pulse racing hot where his body reacts faster than his will can steady.

 

1x1x1x1 lifts Elliot’s head, claws grazing the line of his jaw, demanding to see his face again. Elliot can only assume what they want. His breath catches, then he leans in and kisses them, all fevered thought and trembling desperation.

 

The sudden press of lips makes 1x1x1x1 flinch, surprise flickering across their face as if the contact is something foreign, almost unbearable. They freeze for a heartbeat, caught between tearing away and falling deeper.

 

The impulse to flee vanishes as quickly as it came. Instead, 1x1x1x1 leans into the kiss, clumsy and unpracticed, their lips pressing against Elliot's with a desperate, crushing pressure. It's not a gentle meeting, but a forceful sealing of their two bodies.

 

In the midst of the kiss, Elliot's body, driven by a shameful, involuntary arousal, takes over. He begins to move his hips, grinding against 1x1x1x1's bent leg. The rhythmic motion is a raw, desperate humping, a complete betrayal of his fear and confusion. The feel of his crotch, grinding against the muscles of 1x1x1x1's leg, sends a jolt of shock through him. He can’t stop, even as a muffled gasp of horrified pleasure escapes into their mouth.

 

1x1x1x1 remains still, their body unmoving save for Elliot’s relentless rhythm against their leg. They feel the insistent, building friction, but they don’t understand it, only that it is a new and potent form of touch that makes their chest feel tight with an emotion they can’t name.

 

Their mouth parts, instinct carrying them forward. Their tongue drags against Elliot’s lips, slips past them, tasting the salt of tears still lingering in his mouth. They mimic the same strange motion they had tried before. The motion of their tongue is unrefined, almost frantic, sliding against Elliot’s with a messy insistence. They push in too far, then retreat only to curl forward again, tracing the roof of his mouth, the soft give of his tongue, as though they’re trying to consume the sound right out of him. It’s sloppy and hungry, lips parting wider, teeth scraping occasionally in their unknowing fervor.

 

Elliot whimpers into it, his pulse hammering as his body grinds harder against their leg. His hips move with a shaky, fevered rhythm, stuttering when the pleasure cuts too sharp.

 

1x1x1x1 grips his waist, claws threatening to tear through fabric but holding back just enough, and drags him down with more force against the press of their thigh. The friction grows rougher, rawer, grinding Elliot into their body like they’re determined to fuse him there. His breath shatters against their mouth, his moans swallowed up in the unrelenting tangle of tongue and teeth.

 

Every shift of Elliot’s hips grinds him closer, as though he can’t stop himself from chasing the friction. His grip claws into their back, nails biting through fabric as if holding tighter will steady the shaking in his body. The air around them is damp with his sobs, every breath escaping in a broken whimper that spills hot against their throat.

 

1x1x1x1 feels the weight of him trembling, pressed close, yet they don’t move away. They force the rhythm to deepen, quicken, until the pace knocks ragged sounds out of him he can’t swallow back. His hips stutter, falter, then push again with a frantic persistence, like an instinct that won’t let him stop.

 

Their mouth drags clumsily over his, tongue pressing past his lips with the same restless urgency, tasting the salt of his tears with each breath they steal from him. The kiss is messy, breathless, their teeth grazing when the rhythm jolts too sharp, but still Elliot presses closer, desperate for all of it.

 

The grass bends under their weight as they collapse further into each other, Elliot moving helplessly against the strength of their leg, each grind sharper than the last. His thighs quiver from the strain, every push jerking another broken sound out of him, half-sob, half-plea.

 

“Tell me you want me,” 1x1x1x1 murmurs against his skin, their voice low and uneven, almost swallowed by the sound of his breath.

 

“…I want you,” His words tumble out, cracked and desperate. He buries his face against their neck, his entire body convulsing with the weight of it, the release shattering through him as though it breaks him apart from the inside. His grip tightens once, twice, before he collapses fully into their hold, trembling and breathless, undone.

 

“Tell me you love me.” 1x1x1x1 murmurs. Elliot’s tears streak down, unrelenting, and without thought they drag their tongue across his cheek, tasting the salt like a mark of possession. It clings, refusing to fade.

 

“…I love you.” Elliot hiccups, voice catching on the words. There’s more sitting heavy on his tongue, trembling at the edge of release. Words 1x1x1x1 already knows how to predict: Why would you do that? Why do you keep hurting others? Why can’t you just stop? Why can’t you be someone else, anyone else?

 

All 1x1x1x1 can answer is: Because as long as I have teeth, I will bite you.

Notes:

I have some notes for this and it will get VERY weird to vanilla people so I'll hold them back. There's technically breastfeeding allusions and such and such blah blah blah did I say daddy issues? I meant parental issues.

Alright, I need to lock in for my exams now bye. (I feel like there's mistakes and redundancy in the fic but I can't be bothered because BOTH CHAPTERS HAVE 10K WORDS!? Too long, didn't read. Lol)

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 10 of Elliot brain worms by Anonymous aba