Lost and Found

by demor

Summary:

When three of Roblox’s most important admins vanish, chaos consumes HQ.
Taph, a mute demolitionist with no past, refuses to accept their disappearance as unsolved. Their search pulls them closer to the truth and closer to danger.

As the tension in Robloxia spirals, Taph begins to suspect two things: the admins didn’t just vanish… and something is hunting them too.

Chapter 1

Notes:

💿🎶 William Basinski - Melancholia III

The sun over Robloxia never set the same way twice. Some days it burned gold against the jagged skyline of half-finished places; today it was pale, muted, struggling to pierce through the haze that hung above abandoned servers. The demolition zone was an entire plot flagged for removal after its owner’s sudden termination. The place was already dead when Taph arrived. They could see it in the hollow storefronts, in the jagged floorboards that were unanchored and no longer aligned, in the way corrupted neon signs spasmed with their last sparks of light. Fragments of scripts—broken loops and corrupted assets—ran in the background like dying heartbeats. Terminated-user places always carried a kind of emptiness that felt different from ruins of natural decay. This was forced. Someone had cut the cord, and the whole world withered in an instant.

In the middle of it all worked Taph.

Their figure cut a sharp, unsettling image against the ruin. A recruit in all black, as if they were attending a funeral rather than a demolition. Their hood was drawn low, shadowing most of their face, and a bandana veiled the lower half—erasing anything that might reveal who they truly were. In the choking dust, the fabric clung close, turning their presence into something faceless, unreadable. The black gloves matched, hiding even the smallest details of skin, and the boots left no sound when they moved across broken stone. To the recruits, they must have looked less like one of them and more like a specter folded into human shape. The only thing that stood out—what betrayed their humanity—was the precision in their hands. Every motion was purposeful, deliberate, almost reverent, as if even the rubble deserved respect in its final collapse.

They adjusted the pack on their shoulders, pulled out their demolition charges, and set to work. Their hands moved the way they always had—quick, certain, exact. Measure the frame. Step back three paces. Place the charge at the seam, not the center. Clear debris into neat piles so nothing strayed where it didn’t belong. Then signal for removal. Repeat. Their movements were so fluid they sometimes forgot anyone was watching.

But they always watched.

From the corner of their vision, the other recruits had slowed their own work to watch them. They didn’t need to look at them to know. Their stares pressed at their back, prickling like grit under their collar. Unease had a texture—it thickened the air, made every breath feel heavier than the dust choking the ruins. They had felt it before. Everywhere they went.

The silence was almost worse than the explosions. Silence was different. It lingered. It judged. They didn’t speak to the other recruits, didn’t nod in acknowledgement, didn’t even grunt with the strain of their work. When they finished setting a charge, they stepped back with ritualistic neatness, folding their hands behind their back like a soldier waiting for orders—though none ever came.

“Efficient,” one recruit said.
The scrape of a shovel paused, hesitant.
“Creepy, though.” they muttered afterwards.

“Has anyone spoken to them?” one asked curiously.

Silence answered them. A silence that confirmed what Taph already knew. Nobody spoke to them. Nobody knew them. They were a nobody.

 

Their whispers bled through the dust, but they let them slide past them. Routine steadied them, so they returned to it. Same pattern, same rhythm. The charge went off with a clean roar, collapsing the ruined café inward. Dust bloomed outward like a wave, and the other recruits flinched back, coughing, muttering, some shielding their faces. Taph only raised an arm to shield their face, calm, measured. Then they stepped into the rubble without hesitation.

Every detail mattered. Each splintered plank, each fractured brick, the angles of collapse. Their eyes traced them with the same deliberate care. Breaks where they should be. No shrapnel cutting farther than intended. No excess damage spreading. The building folded into itself like paper. Controlled. Perfect.

Most recruits destroyed blindly, swinging hammers for noise or setting charges for spectacle. But their work was careful. Practiced. They moved like someone who had rehearsed the destruction a thousand times, every gesture memorized, every pause purposeful.

Taph moved on to the next building, falling back into the rhythm of their work. But when they straightened from setting the charge, a prickle ran up their spine—someone was watching. They tried to ignore it, the way they always did, until the final charge was in place. As they signaled the detonation, their eyes flicked upward. For the first time all day, they found Dusekkar—their recruit group’s assigned supervisor for the day—watching from above.

On the upper ledge of a crumbling balcony stood Dusekkar. His arms were folded, his expression unreadable. Not disapproving, not amused, not skeptical like the recruits. Just intent.

Taph froze. For a moment, their routine faltered. They hadn’t expected to be seen this way—not really. They knew the eyes of recruits, wide with discomfort, quick to whisper when they thought they couldn’t hear. But this was different. When their gazes locked Taph felt caught, like the pumpkin had seen something beyond the work, into the rhythm that steadied them, into the silence they carried everywhere. Dusekkar’s gaze carried weight, sharp and steady, like he saw more than rubble being cleared away. It made their chest tighten in a way they couldn’t name. Unease, they diagnosed.

It was brief—just a second, maybe less—but there was a weight in it. A silent acknowledgement.

Taph held the look, then turned back to the charge. They stepped away with their same measured precision. The detonation cracked through the half-empty server like thunder, and the ground gave way beneath the ruins, folding down into the void. Dust and static rose together, erasing what had stood.

The recruits whispered again, but their voices blurred to nothing. All Taph heard was the static hum of code unraveling into silence.

When Taph turned back, Dusekkar was already making his way down the rubble. He didn’t glance at the others. Didn’t speak to them. Passing them as if they weren’t even there. He walked straight through the dust until he was standing beside Taph at the edge of the void where the place had once stood. Both of them facing the blank sky where the café had been.

Silence hung between them again. Heavy, but different this time. Not judgment. Recognition.

Then, without a word, Dusekkar extended a gloved hand.

Taph stared at it, a flicker of tension pulling at their chest. None of the recruits had ever offered that. Not once. They looked at Taph like they didn’t belong, like they weren’t one of them at all. But here, now, someone was offering acknowledgement.

They reached out. His grip was firm, steady, measured. And for the first time since they had set foot in HQ, the silence didn’t feel like it belonged to them alone.

When their hands broke apart, Dusekkar didn’t move right away. He lingered at Taph’s side, pumpkin catching the pale light of the void. The recruits in the distance had already started packing their tools, their chatter rising thin through the dust, but here at the edge there was only silence.

Taph shifted, uncertain. Supervisors didn’t linger. They gave orders, barked corrections, logged performance reports. But Dusekkar only stood there, arms crossed again, gaze still fixed on the ruin below as if reading some pattern in the wreckage.

Taph followed his stare, trying to see what he saw. The collapse was perfect—they knew that. Clean edges, no stray damage, no wasted material. But maybe it wasn’t the ruin that held Dusekkar’s attention. Maybe it was them.

The thought made something coil in Taph’s chest. Uncomfortable. Heavy.

The supervisor’s pumpkin-light flickered faintly in the settling dust, throwing long, uneven shadows across the broken ground. Taph kept their eyes forward, on the blank stretch of sky. But they felt the weight of Dusekkar’s gaze shift toward them. Measuring. Testing.

“You work with care, not flair,” Dusekkar said at last, voice even, the rhyme subtle but deliberate. “That sets you apart. It’s rare.” His voice was low, almost swallowed by the static hum of the empty server. A rhythm in the words, strange but purposeful, like an equation spoken out loud.

Taph blinked, caught off guard. They weren’t used to being addressed directly. Their instinct was to lower their eyes, to stay silent. Words weren’t theirs—they had none to give. It was always like this. People spoke, filled silence with noise, and they had nothing to give back. Usually it was easier to let them drown in their own discomfort until they gave up. But Dusekkar didn’t move away. So they only dipped their head once, a short nod.

Dusekkar didn’t seem bothered by the lack of reply. If anything, he seemed to expect it. His gaze lingered a second longer before shifting back to the rubble. “Most recruits swing wild, to prove they’re strong. You don’t—you’re precise, where each strike belongs. Careful, too careful, for one so new… Makes me wonder what’s guiding you.”

They tried to understand what the words meant, what this man wanted from them. Nothing about Dusekkar’s stance suggested dismissal, though. His arms were folded still, but not in impatience. More like curiosity.

The weight in Taph’s chest grew tighter. Their fingers brushed unconsciously at the dust on their gloves, buying themself a moment. Did Dusekkar mean suspicion? Or recognition?

It wasn’t praise exactly. Not approval. But something about the tone—the lack of mockery, the fact that it was observation rather than accusation—pulled at Taph in a way that was unfamiliar. He kept his gaze fixed forward, but his pulse ticked faster in his throat.

The silence stretched again.

Dusekkar finally turned, boots crunching over shattered tiles, each step punctuating the silence that had settled over the ruin. Dust clung to his sleeves, and the faint glow of the setting sun caught the edges of his robes, giving him an almost spectral presence. He didn’t glance back as he spoke, voice steady, almost musical in its rhythm.

“HQ demands, it tests the strong and keen. Moderation’s hard, but demolition’s mean. Most recruits crumble, lost before they start. But I sense you’ve got the grit, the steady heart.”

Taph stayed frozen at the edge, hands still behind their back, feeling the weight of the words settle over them like the lingering haze of smoke from the detonations. They weren’t exactly praise, not quite encouragement—but they struck deeper than any approval they had ever been offered before. A shiver ran through them, though they did not move to acknowledge it. Still, there was caution embedded in the words, a warning more than comfort. Moderation in ever-growing Robloxia was demanding, relentless, and demolition work mirrored its overload of work yet lack of employees.

Most recruits avoided it, opting for safer, steadier tasks at HQ. The rare few who tried demolition quickly learned why it was considered brutal: the combination of risk, precision, and responsibility could crush anyone not built for it. HQ had tried to entice workers with higher pay and benefits, but it was rarely the reward that mattered—it was the mettle required to survive.

Taph followed after Dusekkar, boots crunching with rhythm, heading back toward the “safe zone” at the demolition site—the small fenced area where all recruits had left their belongings before starting. The others moved aside, whispers trailing after them like shadows. Taph barely heard them. The murmurs of the recruits seemed distant, drowned beneath the echo of Dusekkar’s words, which lingered sharper than any explosion.

Taph watched as the recruits prepared to leave the server, some casting quick glances before looking away when they noticed Taph was watching. Even as the site emptied, the hum of tension lingered in the air, thick and unshakable. Yet the words they’d heard from Dusekkar still settled over them, carrying a quiet weight that gave their solitude an unexpected sense of purpose.

Notes:

we are so back

Planning on updating at least every week! i suck at commitment so consider this to be a loose plan.
Though im hoping to post more often once october hits. Currently the real world calls me to do very important real world things. Though this is my passion, and in my spare time i’d love to work on this.

Chapter 2

Notes:

💿🎶 William Basinski - Melancholia XII

The morning began the same as the ones before.

That was what comforted Taph most—routine.

They woke before the alarm, dressed in black, and laced his boots tight. The mask and hood were always the last step. They paused in front of the mirror, not to check their reflection but to make sure no part of themself slipped through.

The small apartment given to new hires at Roblox HQ who needed one was plain and without warmth: a small bed pressed into the corner, a narrow desk with a lamp that flickered when it powered on, a single window looking out onto the endless digital skyline of Robloxia. They washed their face, then checked their toolbelt, even though they would not need it today. Their hands worked with the same precision as when setting charges: they tightened the buckle, every socket in their toolbelt checked twice. Always the second pocket first. Always. It wasn’t habit—it was compulsion. The day couldn’t start otherwise.

Breakfast was a protein bar and some bread taken in silence. They didn’t eat so much as refuel. By the time they stepped into the HQ’s wide halls, the clamor of keyboards and the low murmur of voices already pressed in against them. Taph kept their head low, walking past bulletin boards plastered with notices and project deadlines. They caught the murmur of other employees in the distance, voices too many, overlapping into static. The sound followed them until they reached the conference hall, where the real noise began. The closer they got to the designated meeting room, the heavier the atmosphere seemed to grow, as if expectation itself thickened the air.

Inside, the meeting room was alive in a way that rattled them. Shoes scuffed and echoed against tiled flooring; the low thrum of a projector filled the background with a constant, insect-like buzz; the air itself was close, thick with the warmth of too many bodies in too small a space. Their eyes adjusted to the dimmed light, catching flashes of faces they half-knew from demolition rotations—Sorcus seated in the middle left side of the long table chatting with Tarabyte. Dusekkar standing with his usual reserved posture, stationed like an anchor in the room’s corner. Builderman himself was already seated at the head of the table, his presence heavy without effort. And then there were the ones Taph had never stood so close to before: Doombringer’s sharp-eyed watch brooding in silence, ReeseMcblox with an air of calm authority, Brighteyes tapping notes onto a laptop, Stickmasterluke slouched as if bored, Clockwork adjusting the glinting rims of his glasses leaning back with an easy grin.

And then—Shedletsky.

The name meant nothing to them, yet the face pulled at something inside. It wasn’t recognition, exactly, but a sensation of a memory buried under layers of static. The man laughed too easily, his voice sharp enough to cut through the noise, his presence oddly magnetic. Taph’s gaze lingered on him too long, searching, expecting something—recognition, perhaps. Instead, their thoughts struck nothing but blank space. Every attempt to remember snagged against a wall of emptiness, as if the past itself had been erased before they could reach it. The harder they pushed, the more it resisted, until their temples ached.

Builderman cleared his throat and began the session. His tone was even as he introduced the topic, but the words pressed heavy: The surge of new users. With that growth came chaos. Robloxia was growing faster than ever, and moderation was straining under the weight. More resources were needed. More demolition. More work for every employee sitting there. Taph listened, silent, every number and estimate burning into their mind. Charts flashed onto the projector screen—rows of numbers climbing higher, estimates of flagged accounts, the frequency of takedowns. The heat of the room seemed to rise with every statistic. When Builderman read out the quotas for each sector, the table shifted uncomfortably. Dozens of places scheduled for demolition per week, maybe more. It was impossible, and everyone knew it. But when Builderman’s eyes landed on Taph, his voice softened. Then came the question.

“You’re new. This would be your quota. Think you can handle it?”

The other admins looked on, curious. Sorcus’ brow furrowed. Brighteyes leaned forward to see Taph from where she sat. The silence pressed in, heavy. Taph met Builderman’s gaze with their usual stillness, then gave a small, firm nod.

It wasn’t bravado. It was loyalty—an instinctive, binding force. If the work was impossible, they would still attempt it until their hands gave out. They were new, and yet they already knew there was no other answer they could give. A few admins traded looks, some skeptical, others curious. Dusekkar, from across the table, watched without blinking. Builderman studied them for a long second before leaning back. 

“Good. Then we’ll keep you monitored for a few more days, but your performance speaks for itself. Less supervised demolitions than most recruits need.”

Relief didn’t come. The echo of the impossible task hung in Taph’s chest like an anchor, but so did the quiet satisfaction of being seen.

The meeting shifted after that. The talk loosened; papers shuffled; the weight of quotas gave way to lighter tones. Discussions sparked; plans for Roblox’s expansion, upcoming events, administrative adjustments. The tension softened into something more casual when Shedletsky leaned forward with a grin.

“Now, before we all drown in numbers—RDC is this week. Don’t forget your name tags.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Some sort of inside joke? Taph blinked. The words meant nothing to them. They tilted their head slightly, their silence obvious enough that Shedletsky caught it. They glanced around, searching for context, but only found Shedletsky’s amused stare. 

“You don’t know what that is?” Shedletsky said with mock shock, laughter curling around the words. 

The tone was playful, it caught the room’s attention. A few admins chuckled. Not cruel, but it stung all the same. They felt heat rising in their chest, the weight of eyes on them. But before the silence could stretch too long, ReeseMcBlox spoke. Her voice was steady, even. 

“They’re new, it’s not their fault they don't know it yet.”

The laughter softened, dissolving into the low thrum of side conversations. A few of the admins leaned toward one another, voices muted under the steady hum of the projector. Builderman, however, did not join them. He rose from his chair and moved deliberately across the room, boots clicking against the polished floor.

When he stopped at Taph’s side, it was as though the room itself quieted around them. He placed one hand lightly on the back of Taph’s chair, leaning just enough to make the words feel like they were meant only for them.

“It’s our biggest annual event, Taph,” Builderman said, his tone gentler now, free of the performative energy he carried when addressing the whole room. “RDC—Roblox Developer Conference. It’s where we step out from these walls and meet the community. Developers, creators, partners… people who shape what we build next. We present upcoming features, future goals, and share plans. It’s not just a conference—it’s where the future of Roblox starts taking shape.” A proud smile pressed into his face as he explained.

His gaze softened, and he added with a faint smile, “It’s important. You should go. I think you’ll find it’s less of discussions and more about belonging. And you’ve earned your place here. Even if you're new. It's a great way to meet new people.”

Taph’s eyes flicked upward, but they couldn’t hold the look for long. The weight of Shedletsky’s half-familiar grin still lingered in their peripheral vision, like a thorn at the edge of memory. The hum of the projector pressed against their ears, the scrape of a chair leg somewhere in the back grated sharp, and for a moment, the noise tangled inside them until they weren't sure where to look.

Their hand drifted down almost on its own. Fingers brushed once more against that same pocket on their toolbelt, checking that it was in place. Everything else shifted, blurred—but that detail stayed constant.

Only then, with Builderman’s words echoing against the static in their chest, could they breathe again.

The meeting wound down in fragments—papers shuffled, chairs scraped against the floor, laughter rose and fell like waves as people filtered out in groups. Clusters of admins gathered in twos and threes to keep their conversations going. Some drifted out the door, already absorbed in the next task. Others stayed behind, voices carrying low and sharp. Dusekkar gave Taph a passing nod before slipping into a quiet conversation with Sorcus and Tarabyte. Shedletsky stretched, yawning like the meeting had been more amusement than work, and called after Brighteyes about some inside joke that Taph couldn’t catch.

Taph stood slowly, their body tense from sitting too long, though the weight in their chest hadn’t lessened. They could’ve gone home—their day was over, technically. The scheduled meeting had cut their hours short and they had the whole afternoon off. But to leave now, to step into the silence of their room, felt like surrender. 

They wandered the halls without direction, letting the echo of their footsteps steady them after the long weight of the meeting. The stiffness in their legs unwound with each turn of the corridor, and for a while, walking became its own quiet rhythm—something mechanical, almost meditative, like gears turning in the back of their mind. A rhythm they could trust when their mind still felt tangled.

Time slipped away without them noticing. What felt like minutes stretched into something far longer; when they finally checked the wall clock at a passing junction, nearly an hour and a half had dissolved into the silence of wandering.

The halls weren’t empty, though. Faint traces of life carried through the building—laughter bouncing off walls, the rise and fall of half-muffled voices, the scrape of a chair somewhere ahead. Drawn by that current, they adjusted their course. The sounds grew clearer the closer they came, spilling warmth and energy into the otherwise sterile hall.

Taph followed it until they reached the breakroom door, where the hum of conversation and the clatter of cups announced a different kind of gathering altogether.

It was brighter here, noisier. The breakroom was less formal, more alive. It was their first time seeing them—admins, moderators, developers—without the rigidity of assignments or supervision. The room itself buzzed with casual chaos: half-empty coffee cups scattered across tables forgotten in the midst of a conversation, the faint smell of pizza crusts left in open boxes, the keystrokes of laptops blending with laughter and the low hum of vending machines.

Sorcus leaned against the counter, cracking jokes at Tarabyte, who swatted at him with a rolled-up napkin. Dued1 sat hunched over a small device, its wires spilling like veins across the table as he tinkered with quick, deft movements. Ultraw hovered nearby with a curious gaze. Stickmasterluke scribbled in a sketchpad, erasing, then re-drawing with a stubborn intensity. Loleris, Taymaster and Nikilis wandered in mid-argument, half-smiling, half-serious about some new feature update. 

Taph lingered near the door first, then eased further in. They didn’t know how to fit into it. Instead, they watched. Sorcus tapped the edge of his mug every time Tarabyte interrupted him. Dued1’s left foot bounced in restless sync with the ticking of his screwdriver. Stickmasterluke pressed the pen too hard, the paper creasing with every line. Each detail slotted into place like puzzle pieces Taph couldn’t yet see the full picture of.

They found themself in the corner of the room at an empty table. They sat quietly, as their eyes darted across the scene. The room buzzed around them, but their focus was tuned to smaller things—the way condensation slid down a glass, the way the air conditioner hummed and cut, hummed and cut. They could notice everything—textures, sounds, patterns—but none of it told them how to be.

Then someone from across the table—Merely, maybe, or Seranok, their voices blending in Taph’s head—looked up and asked casually, “You’re the one that breaks down buildings, right? So, Taph… where’d you work before here?”

The air shifted. Just slightly. A silence, quick but cutting, rippled through this half of the room. Eyes shifted. Nobody actually knew.

Taph froze. The question rang inside their skull like a struck bell. Their hand twitched as if they wanted to speak, but their throat was too dry to shape an answer. Instead, they reached for a nearby pen, scrawling something vague into the corner of a napkin: not sure.

The silence stretched, brittle, until someone laughed—a quick deflection, a joke about losing track of time working here too long. The tension thinned, the room warming back to its rhythm, but Taph felt it still. Like a knot pressing against their ribs.

They kept their head down, staring at the pen with barely any ink left as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. Their thoughts screamed at them from embarrassment.

A weight sank into the chair beside them, pulling Taph out of the inward echo of embarrassment and forcing their focus sideways. Their hand drifted, almost automatically, to the pocket on their toolbelt, brushing over it as if to anchor themself. Shedletsky had plunked down next to them, grin broad and voice buoyant, tossing out a teasing remark that looped Taph back into the conversation with an easy flick of humor.

“You’re quiet, huh? Don’t worry, they’ll get used to it. You just need to loosen up.” 

His eyes sparkled as he leaned in, voice dropping into something between a joke and an analogy: “Breaking down houses all day—guess it makes sense you’re sturdier than the bricks. Only difference is, the bricks don’t fight back, so you’ve got it easy, right?”

Taph answered the way they always did—with absolute seriousness. They pulled the stray napkin back to themself to write again and replied as if it weren’t a joke at all—laying out some technical note about bricks collapsing depending on weight distribution and how some walls give more resistance than others.

The burst of laughter from Shedletsky was quick and genuine. Still, it left Taph blinking, stiff and uncertain, heat rising up the back of their neck as if they’d missed a step in a dance everyone else knew.

Before the moment stretched too far, Dusekkar’s voice cut in, calm and deliberate. 
“They’re sharper than you think, and steady as steel. Not every man needs a jest to reveal.” 
The words, half lesson and half shield, laced into a quiet rhyme that drew the attention away from Taph’s silence and onto Dusekkar himself. The cadence softened the laughter still lingering in the air, settling it into something more reflective. He offered Taph a glance—protective, grounding. The knot in Taph’s chest unwound just enough for them to breathe again. Their hand eased away from the socket at their belt, fingers uncurling from their anxious check. For the first time since stepping into the room, their shoulders slackened, the air around them a little less sharp.

Shedletsky caught the shift. He leaned back, tilting his chair dangerously as he glanced at Dusekkar nearby, “Alright, alright, I’ll behave.”

Shedletsky then turned back to Taph, and the grin softened. “You know,” he said, lowering his voice so only Taph caught it, “if you ever want to sit around, hang out, talk nonsense—door’s open.”

It was said lightly, tossed off with the same ease as his jokes. But Taph felt the offer land heavier than intended, like a small rope tossed across the gap between themself and the others. It wasn’t pity, though Taph wasn’t sure what it was either. But it was something. Enough to keep the knot in their chest from pulling tighter.

Taph nodded, not trusting their voice.

Shedletsky gave a quick nod of acknowledgement, then sprang up from his seat in one fluid motion. He caught the chair before it could topple backward, steadying it with a practiced flick of his hand, and made his way toward Dusekkar, who was waiting by the door. Before stepping out, both he and Dusekkar turned, lifting a hand in an easy wave to Taph as they left the breakroom.

The room continued to buzz around them, but they kept their eyes down, tracing the faint imprint of the words they’d written on the napkin: not sure.
They looked back at Taph like a scar they hadn’t realized they carried.

Notes:

"i suck at commitment so consider this to be a loose plan."

well, well, well...

anyways... i merged two chapters together (its pretty obvious i fear).
Also, RDC mentioned. gods i need someone to record it. this year’s RDC is gonna be so fucked up i know it. It’s gonna be so buns with the schlep situation happening right now. On top of this david bazooka, builderman, ceo of roblox, wants to do a Q&A, WHY is he adding fuel to the fire🪫we all know what questions people are gonna submit. Im gonna shut myself up before i rant about it anymore. #freeschlep

I’m trying to add music to each chapter as an ambience to listen to while reading. It is completely OPTIONAL (i cannot hunt you down for it sadly) but once we get deeper into the story i totally recommend it. It took me like 4 hours to find something for chapter 1 solely because i hold music to a high standard. I love music. It is a key part of my LIFE. i listen to music all the time. I write music. I make music. I’m musicing it all over the place. 🪫ignore that last part. But yea, once we reach more emotionally deep chapters you guys should check it out. 🙏

Chapter 3

Notes:

💿🎶 Adrianne Lenker - forwards beckon rebound

The annual Roblox Developer Conference was nothing short of spectacle. Screens glowed with looping trailers of upcoming features, projectors cast shifting lights across banners that hung like flags of some digital kingdom, and the steady hum of conversation filled the vast hall. Developers clustered in circles, badges swinging from their necks; content creators filmed shaky clips for their fans; Roblox employees darted between booths, answering questions with rehearsed confidence.

It was the sort of environment designed to energize, to spark connection.

But Taph remained at the edges.

They lingered in the main hallway before the event began, half-shadowed against the wall where the light didn’t quite reach. Glass cases of Roblox merchandise caught the glow of the overhead fixtures, casting fractured reflections across the marble floor. Groups hurried past Taph, their conversations bubbling with excitement.

“Did you hear about the new studio tools?”
“I can’t wait to see the showcase this year.”
“They’re announcing something big, I know it.”
“I’m totally not ready for the game jam.”

Taph absorbed the voices like echoes in a cavern, but didn’t let them reach them. They shifted their weight against the wall, adjusting the sleeves of their long coat, drawing them further down over their hands. Their eyes never lingered on any one group for long. Every cheer or sudden laugh sent a twitch through their chest, an instinctive flinch at the sharpness of sound. The bright badges and lanyards swung like pendulums when people passed, catching glints from the overhead projectors; they kept their gaze lowered, trailing over the folds of their own clothing instead. Among the brightness and clamor, they seemed almost misplaced—draped in shadow where everyone else chased the light.

Taph didn’t belong to the whirl of handshakes and half-shouted greetings. They existed beside it, watching.

Taph’s presence was almost spectral compared to the neon polish around them. Where most employees wore crisp polos with Roblox logos, or business casual trimmed for networking, Taph’s attire was unmistakably their own: a long, black coat that hung past their knees, tailored enough to look formal but draped like a cloak. Beneath it, they wore dark slacks and polished boots, the shine dulled from use, and a high-collared shirt fastened tightly at the throat. They still wore their gloves, bandana, and hood, though cleaned of the dirty work that was demolition. No insignias, no patterns, nothing that caught the light. The layers gave them an air of formality, but also distance—shielding them from the brightness of the event.

As minutes ticked on, the flow of people thickened. A ripple of motion through the crowd pulled Taph’s attention. Excited chatter swelled as attendees began drifting toward the great double doors that opened into the main stage. People were funneling down the main corridor toward the convention hall, a wave that signaled the event was about to begin. Taph followed at the very end of it. Their coat swayed with each step, heavy enough that they felt grounded. They remained close to the wall until the stream carried them into the vast auditorium. 

The room was massive. Tiered seating rose in clean arcs, every row marked with neat white place cards for different groups—developers, partners, content creators, press. The air buzzed, electric with anticipation.

Taph veered to the far right edge, toward the seats reserved for employees. They were closer to the back, away from the stage. Perfect. They slid into the end seat, hands folded over their lap, the press of others only grazing them here at the margin. The front seats, they noticed, had already begun to fill with developers, partners, and content creators, chatting eagerly while adjusting cameras or straightening badges. Taph sat stiffly, folding their coat around them, eyes lifted toward the vast screens above the stage. From this vantage, they could see the sweeping stage framed by glowing blue panels, its center lit in anticipation.

As the seats filled, the lights dimmed. A hush fell across the room, broken only by the thrum of bass from the speakers.

A cheerful murmur spread through the audience as a spotlight cut across the stage.

Then—cheers erupted as a familiar figure stepped onto the stage. Builderman. 

The founder’s presence radiated warmth, dressed simply in his signature jacket, his smile wide and genuine. He waved as the applause rolled over him, pausing to let it crest before leaning toward the microphone.

“Welcome, everyone! It’s so good to see you all here—our developers, our creators, our community.” His voice carried an ease that filled the space. “This conference is about you. About celebrating what you’ve built, what you’ve imagined, and what’s coming next. Together, we’re shaping the future of Roblox.”

The crowd erupted again, whistles and claps rising like a wave. Cameras flashed. Phones lifted into the air to capture the moment.

Taph sat still. Their gaze didn’t linger on Builderman, not for long. Instead they studied the wash of light that fell across the stage. The shifting beams through the air drew attention to the faint motes of dust flickering in their glow. The colors shifted in soft gradients, spilling into the faces of the audience. They noted the shimmer of excitement on those around them: eyes wide, mouths open in cheer, shoulders leaning forward as if to drink in every word. Their reactions said more than the words on stage ever could.

The presentation was a tide carrying the room, but Taph stood on its shore. They absorbed the rhythm of the applause, the vibration in the floor beneath their boots, the way laughter rippled through the crowd when Builderman cracked a gentle joke.

But the words themselves—Taph let them drift past, half-heard.

What struck them more was the human storm around them, its energy threatening to drown them if they lost their grip on the quiet edges of their mind.

So they focused instead on the lights. The glow of the stage panels. The way the spotlights swept briefly across the audience, dazzling white beams fading back into blue shadow. Safe patterns, mechanical and predictable. Something they could hold onto, while the room swelled louder and louder with Builderman’s enthusiasm.

For Taph, the pressure was different. The noise was sharp, the clapping relentless. Their seat at the back edge of the employee rows gave them space, but not silence. Their eyes drifted from the stage to the way light fractured along the metal fixtures, how it spilled in pale ribbons across the floor tiles. When the audience erupted again at the promise of some new tool, Taph flinched before steadying themself, realizing too late that their gloves had balled into fists. The heat of attention, even when not directed at them, was unbearable.

After a while, Taph stood from their seat. No one noticed—too absorbed by the presentation. The aisle became a narrow escape route, their boots clicking against the tile in rhythm with their quickened breath. They didn’t look back, just followed the same path they took to get there until they reached the familiar grand double doors they had passed through not long ago.

Near the door stood Dusekkar, his pumpkin head tilted slightly, as though he had been waiting. His voice came low, deliberate, each word touched with its rhyming cadence.

“Alone you wander, shadows near. Tell me, friend, what brings you here?”

His voice carried calm curiosity, not judgment.

Taph froze. Their first instinct was to shake their head and retreat, but the steady, unhurried tone rooted them in place. They hesitated, shifting their weight, searching for words they couldn’t give. Taph opened their mouth, but as always, no sound followed. Their hands hovered at their sides, restless. Dusekkar, noticing the falter, reached into his cloak and produced a small notebook, holding it out like an offering. The familiarly same offer as the gentle handshake from when they first met. A pen was clipped to the cover of the notebook.

“If words won’t flow, don’t let them sink. Your voice can live in lines of ink.”

Tentatively, Taph took it. They opened the notebook carefully, finding small notes already written in it. They flipped a few pages down to find a blank page before writing a response.

The words scratched unevenly across the page: It’s too much noise.

Dusekkar leaned over, reading, then gave a low hum of understanding. 
His tone softened, “I see the crowd, its noise, its weight. Not all must join to celebrate.”

Taph blinked at him, unsure if it was comfort or simply poetry. Taph lowered the notebook, uncertain if they should write more. Then, with a flicker of curiosity, they scribbled another line and turned it back: Why aren’t you with them?

“The noise I’ve heard a hundred times, I helped script those practiced lines. But you sat still, apart, sincere, like silence carved against the cheer. So tell me, friend, what else to do, but trade the noise to sit with you?”

The words sat heavy between them, but not uncomfortable. Something stirred in Taph—confusion, curiosity, a strange kind of warmth. They weren't sure what to do with it. Their pen hovered before they scribbled, hesitant: I don’t know how to talk.

Before Dusekkar could reply, the stage thundered with another round of applause. The admin tilted his head toward the noise, the sound rolling like a wave through the walls, before turning back to Taph with a faint tilt of his head.

“Come on. Let’s get some air before we both suffocate.” 

Without waiting for argument, he pushed off the wall and started toward the doors. His long strides carried him confidently that made it hard not to follow. Taph lingered, clutching the notebook to their chest, as though the flimsy pages were a tether holding them still. But the swell of voices in the room made their ears ring, and before long they moved after Dusekkar, their steps quieter, hesitant.

Together they slipped through the main entrance doors, the roar of the conference fading into muffled echoes behind them. The hallway outside was dimmer, the hum of fluorescent lights and the sigh of vents replacing the chaos of clapping and chatter. There was a faint smell of old carpet, dust baked by heat, and the bitter edge of coffee carried from some nearby lounge.

Dusekkar walked with easy certainty, as though he had traversed these halls a hundred times. His voice floated back over his shoulder, rhythmic and warm:
“Noise like that can grind you down. A thousand voices make you drown. Better to walk where silence stays. Then choke inside that endless maze.”

At last, they reached the heavy glass doors. Beyond them lay the main entrance of the building. They stepped outside, and the atmosphere shifted.

The air was cooler, open, edged with the faint scent of pavement still warming in the late afternoon sun. Rows of benches stretched beneath tall glass windows, their shadows striping the stone in neat patterns. A handful of trees, evenly spaced and pruned into geometric order, lined the path that led toward the street. The roar of the conference was now just a ghostly murmur through the walls.

Dusekkar sat on a bench nearby, his hands folded neatly in his lap with practiced grace. “Better?”

Taph nodded once.

For a long stretch, their conversation unfolded slowly, traded in pen lines and easy replies. Taph wrote deliberately, carefully, almost as though the act of forming words gave shape to their thoughts.

“What’s the tallest thing you’ve torn down?” Dusekkar asked first, eyes glinting with curiosity.

Taph’s pen moved carefully, the letters precise: Five-story building. Concrete reinforced. It took three days by myself.

Dusekkar hummed softly.
“Three days to pull down stone and steel? Your hands must tire, your nerves must feel. I’ve watched walls crumble, floors give way, but nothing moves quite like your sway.”

Taph tilted their head slightly, reading the rhyme as if it were an equation. Then they wrote back about the delicate demolitions they’d handled; the timing, the weight calculations, the way they listened to the creak of beams as if they were alive. Taph’s sentences were tight, technical, almost clinical—but Dusekkar’s responses wove humor and metaphor through them, painting the numbers and procedures with color.

Afterwards, Taph asked about what Dusekkar had been working on.

The pumpkin looked up in thought for a moment before replying to the written question, “I’ve been working on the new update for players—mostly helping with moderation. But long before that, I crafted lobbies where gravity played tricks, built games with just a baseplate and a few gears to tinker with, and… you might not like this one, given what you’ve explained—but I also made skyscrapers that felt infinitely high when you tried to reach the top.”

Taph’s eyes flicked to the notebook, writing cautiously about the odd scripts they’d seen or participated in while demolishing builds, floating rooms, glitching staircases, walls that refused to fall unless handled in the exact right order. Taph described them with the same care they applied to a structural analysis. 

Then they added at the end: Large or tall builds, no matter how long it takes, it’s still an enjoyable process to me at least. Their destruction being the most satisfying.

“What of the conference, the sights and the sound? The banners, the lights, the voices all around. Tell me, my friend, what here makes you stare. What lingers with you, what’s caught in the air?” Dusekkar asked, tilting his head.

Taph paused, fingers hovering over the page, then wrote slowly: The lights shift too fast. The noise is heavy. People move in patterns I don’t understand.

Dusekkar laughed softly, the sound warm, not mocking.
“Patterns, yes, like currents in the sea, each moving, weaving, all rushing past me. But even currents can guide a boat, sometimes you drift—sometimes you float.”

They lingered there, circling each other’s thoughts with words and pen scratches. Then Dusekkar shifted slightly, his tone gentling further.

“Beyond your work here, what’s your story?” he asked, phrased carefully. 

Taph froze. The pen hung over the page, hesitant. The weight of absence pressed against them, a hollow that no memory could fill. Every thought seemed to vanish before it could take form. Finally, they wrote, the letters cramped and tight: I don’t know.

The admission silenced them both. Dusekkar’s expression softened. 

He leaned back slightly, letting the words settle before speaking again. His voice carried the rhythmic warmth that always seemed to comfort Taph, a rhyme that made the hollow pause feel less sharp.

“No need to dig where answers hide, some doors are locked from the inside.”

Relieved, Taph changed the subject, finding the courage to scribble awkwardly: Why is your head a pumpkin?

Dusekkar barked out a laugh, the sound startling in the quiet air. 

“At last, the real questions!” His tone was light, teasing.

His eyes gleamed with amusement as he leaned closer.

“Bold to ask, and I’ll not delay—but know the weight must match each way.”

Taph blinked, misunderstanding immediately. Their pulse quickened. They straightened instinctively, shoulders stiff, as though bracing for an interrogation. They gripped the notebook as if to anchor themself.

Dusekkar noticed the tension and softened his expression, tilting his head in quiet reassurance. “Relax, friend. It’s a joke.” He tapped his hollow pumpkin gently, a faint thump accompanying the gesture. “This is just me, from the very start. Never thought to change it, it’s part of my heart.”

He studied Taph with careful curiosity, voice lower now, more conversational. “So now I’ll ask, since it’s my turn. Where did you learn your style so stern?”

Taph blinked, caught off guard. They had expected something heavier, sharper, more personal. Their shoulders tensed as if bracing for a blow. But the question was disarmingly simple.
Their pen scratched the paper slowly: I’ve always dressed this way. I like being covered.

Dusekkar’s lips curved into a gentle smile, the rhyme falling effortlessly from him, “Fair enough, cloak and glove. Armor worn is armor loved.”

The silence settled again, softer now, a gentle pause between the two of them. Time stretched, and neither seemed eager to break it. Taph sat still, the weight of the notebook loose in their hands, the pen resting idle across the page.

Around them, the muffled sound of the conference drifted faintly through the walls—distant laughter, bursts of chatter, the echo of hurried footsteps. But here, just outside the crowded halls, the noise was blurred, softened into something almost harmless. A draft of cool air whispered along the front entrance, carrying with it the faint smell of summer. It brushed against their hood and gloves, light enough to remind them that they were away from the press of bodies, that there was space here to breathe.

A quiet calm rooted itself in their chest, fragile but real.

Only then did Dusekkar move. He shifted his stance, slow and unhurried, before raising his gloved hands. His movements were deliberate and steady—a language in motion. First, he pointed to Taph. Then both hands rose, crossing in front of him before lowering slowly and spreading apart.

“You are quiet,” he said softly, voice low and calm, no rhyme, just observation.

Then he repeated the gestures, a steady echo, giving Taph time to notice, to process. The rhythm of the motions lingered in the air.

Taph’s eyes widened as the realization struck—it was sign language. Their hands twitched, unsure at first, mirroring Dusekkar’s shapes. Stiff and hesitant, they felt foreign in their gloved fingers. But Dusekkar’s smile—the warm fire light beneath the hollow pumpkin shell—softened the edge of his unease, easing the knot in their chest.

“Notebooks help, but signs can too. A language made for me and you.”

For the first time that day, Taph felt something like relief, a small anchor in the unfamiliar storm. They gave a tentative nod, their hood dipping low as they absorbed the moment. Beside them, Dusekkar stayed, patient and unhurried, as though there was nowhere else he would rather be.

Taph wrote in the book: Thank you.

When Dusekkar read it he smiled and raised a single hand in front of his mouth and brought it out. Taph, once again, copied the gesture. This time a bit more confident in the movement.

Dusekkar’s smile only widened as he responded with the same gesture, “You’re welcome.”

“The gesture for ‘thank you’ can also mean ‘you’re welcome,’” he explained. “Repeating it back to the person who signed it is like acknowledging it, returning the kindness.”

He lifted a hand, fingers enclosing all but the thumb and pinkie, moving it side to side with deliberate grace. “It’s the same.”

Taph nodded in understanding.

For the first time all evening, the noise of the conference seemed far away.

But it didn’t last. The doors down the corridor swung open with a sudden clap, spilling laughter and chatter into the hall. Groups of attendees trickled out in waves, their voices carrying the relief of an event finally finished. Some still clutched flyers, others half-empty cups of soda. Their footsteps echoed against the tile as they filed out the exit.

Taph lowered their head, letting the brim of their hood shield them. They watched the shifting light instead—the way the orange glow stretched across the floor, pulling long shadows of the departing crowd. The warmth of the fading day brushed their gloves and sleeves, and though the voices had returned, the storm inside them remained quiet. The silence they had found with Dusekkar still lingered, even if more fragile now.

It was broken when someone’s voice rang out, theatrical and familiar.
“There you are!”

Shedletsky stormed towards the bench, arms thrown wide in exaggerated complaint. “I was looking for you the whole time after the conference!” His voice rose above the others, brash and unashamed. “I can’t believe you missed Game Jam! Half the projects were disasters, the other half were brilliant! And you—” he jabbed a finger toward Dusekkar—“weren’t there to roast them with me. Do you have any idea how much I suffered alone?”

The words washed over Taph in half-heard fragments—something about missed panels, judges bickering, one entry involving a cursed physics engine that crashed the stage lighting. Shedletsky’s voice filled the space without pause, his rambling a steady current that Taph floated through without catching every word.

“—Why are you even out here?” Shedletsky finally ended his rant.

Dusekkar folded his arms, unbothered by the outburst. “The crowd wasn’t where I wished to be,” he said evenly, tilting his head toward Taph. “I’d found good company, as you can see.”

Shedletsky blinked, only now noticing Taph at Dusekkar’s side. “Oh. Uh—hey.” 

A beat passed, then he leaned in closer to Dusekkar with a mischievous smirk. “So this is why you vanished.”

Dusekkar deadpanned at Shedletsky, almost comically. 

Shedletsky only bursted out into more laughter.

Taph’s hand twitched while holding the pen against the notebook, though they didn’t bother to write. 

The sun had slipped further by the time the crowd outside thinned, dusk swallowing the colors of the sky.

Beside them, Dusekkar only stood with that same easy patience as if the noise no longer mattered.

At last, Shedletsky gestured dramatically toward the doors. “Come on, I’m dragging you back before they clear out the snack table. If I miss the last of the pizza rolls because of you, I swear—”

Dusekkar gave a final glance toward Taph. “I’ll see you again soon, friend.” he said simply, his tone unhurried even if Shedlteksy’s rush left no room for rhyme. Then he let himself be pulled along, Shedletsky still filling the air with exaggerated woes as they disappeared into the long entrance hall.

Taph remained seated in the sunset’s quiet, the echo of their exchange still resting with them. Though the voices of the departing crowd pressed in again, the weight of the moment lingered, steady as the fading light of the sun.

Notes:

Over the Dead Sea, keepin' you company
Thinkin', "I'm not afraid of you now"

Taph and Dusekkar play 21 questions i guess.

I learned a little bit of asl a few years ago when i was bored. But it was only the basics in how the grammar works and simple phrases like, “i like ___”, “my name is ___”, “how are you”, “nice to meet you”. And some words. Writing this legit gave me flashbacks 😭

its 2am. i just finished writing this. im not rereading all that. ggs guys. writing stuff this large only produces brain farts so im hoping there aren't any massive mistakes.

Chapter 4

Notes:

💿🎶 Chris Remo - Hidden Away - from “Firewatch”
LSPLASH - Guiding Light - from “DOORS”

Taph moved through the demolition list with the same steady rhythm as always. The buildings blurred together after a while—walls crumbling, dust rising, debris swept aside into piles that would soon vanish like they had never stood there at all. Taph was used to the silence of the work, the solitude, but today felt different. Today, Dusekkar had tagged along.

The pumpkin-headed figure leaned against a half-broken wall as if it were a casual seat, arms crossed, cloak hanging loosely around his frame. He claimed he was “checking progress,” though his tone made it sound more like an excuse than a genuine order. The demolitionist hadn’t received any messages prior to Dusekkar’s appearance which made it all the more suspicious. Taph kept expecting some kind of correction or supervision, but none came. The only thing Dusekkar seemed intent on was being there. Taph didn’t mind. They welcomed the company, even if they didn’t fully understand it.

Midway through clearing another structure, Dusekkar piped up.
“So, why return the notebook and pen?” His voice carried easily in the empty lot. “The secretary passed them back this morning again.”

Taph stiffened at the question, unsure how to explain. They simply shrugged, head dipping slightly, hands tightening on their gloves. In truth, they hadn’t thought of it as theirs. It felt borrowed—like something Dusekkar had lent them in a fleeting moment. They didn’t want to assume it was permanent.

Dusekkar’s hollow eyes glimmered faintly before he reached into his coat. From within, he produced a fresh set: a brand-new notebook, its cover unscuffed, and a pen heavy with ink. He extended them without hesitation.
“Then keep these,” he said. “No debt to be harrowed—They’re yours to hold, not merely borrowed.”

Taph hesitated for only a breath before taking them, their gloved fingers curling around the smooth cover. The clean pages felt like a promise.

After a moment, Dusekkar’s tone shifted. “Back at the conference… you didn’t speak. Was it the crowd, or something more bleak?” His words were gentle, without accusation, but they struck close enough to make Taph’s shoulders tighten.

Dusekkar tilted his head, pumpkin-shell reflecting the dim light of the fading day. “If you’d like, I could teach you sign. After hours, in your own time. Notebooks help, but hands speak faster. A quiet voice both sure and vaster.”

The idea caught Taph off guard, but the warmth behind it lit something small and eager inside them. Their nod was immediate, sharper than their usual slow replies. They wrote quickly in the new book: I’d like that.

“Good,” Dusekkar said, with a pleased note to his voice.

That night, Taph rushed through the last of their demolition assignments. The work came easily—walls fell at the swing of their arm, supports cracked and toppled without resistance. They worked with unusual speed, not because they wanted to be done, but because they didn’t want to keep Dusekkar waiting. Even though the pumpkin had said “anytime,” the thought of showing up late left them uneasy.

When they finally stepped into Dusekkar’s office, the difference struck them immediately. The space was nothing like the rest of the sterile, tiled admin floors. The cold glare of fluorescent lights was replaced by the glow of a tall standing lamp in the corner, its light golden and soft. A wide rug spread across the floor, muffling footsteps, and the walls were lined with shelves of books stacked high and uneven, their spines worn from use. There was even a faint scent of parchment and ink, a kind of warmth that clung to the room like it had been lived in for years.

Taph lingered at the entrance, notebook hugged against their chest, before stepping inside. It didn’t feel like entering an office—it felt like being welcomed into someone’s home. And for reasons they couldn’t fully put to words, that made their chest feel lighter.

Dusekkar straightened from where he’d been adjusting a stack of books on his desk. “Come in,” he said, his voice calm, measured. “Sit.” He gestured toward the pair of chairs set at the corner, angled toward one another rather than the desk, as though chosen for conversation rather than business.

Taph lowered themself into the seat, their notebook still clutched tight. They shifted, uncertain, until Dusekkar spoke again.

“There’s no need to be nervous, we’ll take it slow.” he assured them. “Signs speak with patience, and gently they flow.”

From the desk, he pulled a small slip of paper. “I made a list, for the tasks you face.” he explained, sliding it across the table for Taph to see. Words were neatly inked in an ordered column—short, simple, purposeful. “Signs to recall at a rapid pace.
No fumbling for pens, just steady grace.”

Taph leaned forward, notebook forgotten for a moment, their eyes tracing the tidy script. Each word was practical, useful—chosen with care. It struck them that Dusekkar hadn’t simply planned a lesson, he had thought ahead about what would make their work easier, about how to bridge the gap between silence and speech. A faint warmth rose in their chest, unfamiliar but steady.

The first lesson was simple, but it carried more weight than Taph expected. Dusekkar began with hello—a small wave, palm forward, his fingers loose and steady.

“Hello,” he said, repeating the word aloud before gesturing again. “You try.”

Taph lifted their hand, wavering slightly, and gave a hesitant wave back.

“Good, that one’s easy.” Dusekkar said.

Next, friend. Two hooked index fingers linking together, tugged gently as though binding. 

Taph imitated the gesture, fumbling at first, but managed. Their lips curved faintly under the mask.

“Better.”

Finish. Dusekkar lifted both hands, palms up, then flicked them outward, sharp and final. The motion had a clean precision, almost theatrical in its flourish.

Taph tried, but their wrists stiffened. The flick came out clumsy. They frowned at their hands.

“Relax,” Dusekkar said, voice softer. “It’s not force—it’s release.” He demonstrated again, slower this time, the movement like brushing dust from the air.

Help. One hand forming a fist with a thumb pointed up, the other lifting it upward like offering support. 

Stop. He raised a hand straight and vertical and struck firmly into the other, which was an open palm. 

Please. His open palm moved in a slow circle over his chest, a gesture oddly tender. 

Danger. Dusekkar lifted one hand to hover flat against his chest, steady and still. His other hand had his fingers enclosed except the thumb, circling above the first in a slow, deliberate motion. His hollow gaze lingered on Taph, making sure they saw every detail.

“This one is vital, never to be mistaken.” he said quietly. “A gesture of meaning, not lightly taken.”

Taph swallowed and tried to mimic him. They held one palm above their chest and lifted the other, fingers curled, but as they began the circling motion, their wrists twisted wrong. The circle collapsed into an awkward scrape of fingers against their own sleeve.

They tried again. Left hand flat, right hand circling. No—right flat, left circling. They couldn’t keep it straight. The motions blurred together, leaving their arms stiff with frustration.

A soundless breath escaped Dusekkar. Not quite a sigh—gentler. He shifted from his chair and moved to Taph’s side. For a moment, Taph thought he would demonstrate again. Instead, he extended his hands toward theirs.

“May I?” he asked.

Taph blinked, startled, but gave a hesitant nod.

His gloved fingers wrapped around theirs, light but unyielding, guiding them into the correct shape. He pressed one of Taph’s hands flat above their chest, holding it there until they felt the firmness of the gesture. With his other hand, he cupped theirs and eased it into the right clawed shape, drawing the slow circle in the air for them.

“Here,” Dusekkar murmured. 

Taph’s breath hitched. The moment his hands were enclosed in Dusekkar’s, their body froze. The warmth was dulled by leather, yet the pressure was undeniable. Their mind stuttered between focusing on the motion and the sudden closeness.

He then backed away. “Try again.”

They forced themselves to follow the circle, heart hammering loud enough they feared it might echo in the quiet office.

Dusekkar didn’t seem to notice. His grip was patient, steady, adjusting only when Taph’s fingers began to collapse. He let their hand move with his, repeating the shape until it smoothed into something more fluid. Only then did he release them.

“Better,” he said simply, returning to his seat.

Taph’s hands dropped into their lap, tingling faintly. They nodded quickly, though they weren’t sure if it was because they understood the sign—or because they needed to move, to breathe again.

Each sign had its own weight, its own tone—firm, decisive, careful, urgent. Dusekkar carried them like verses in a spell.

Taph followed as best they could, their movements stiff at first, gloved fingers not quite obeying. They stumbled on danger, hesitated at please, their circle uneven. But Dusekkar’s patience never faltered. His hollow gaze seemed softer, every correction gentle—guiding their wrists, repeating the motion until it sank in.

When Taph managed to string a few together—hello, friend, help—the pumpkin tilted his head slightly, and though his face gave nothing away, something about the silence between them felt approving.

When Taph managed to get a few right, Dusekkar taught them how to introduce themself. “My name is…” The words transformed into movement, and then, for the first time, Taph learned how to sign their own name. It was awkward at first, but seeing their identity shaped in their hands lit something warm in their chest.

The lesson expanded into the alphabet. Dusekkar demonstrated each letter slowly, his gloved hands steady and practiced. Taph tried to follow along, repeating the sequence, tripping somewhere around the middle, then starting again. Their memory caught on certain shapes, but others slipped through, refusing to stick. By the end of the evening, their notebook was filled with quick sketches of hands, awkward angles drawn in heavy pencil strokes. Yet there was a sense of accomplishment in the way they could at least stumble through half the alphabet without pause. Dusekkar didn’t rush them—he only reminded them that mastery came with practice, not speed.

—

The next morning, Taph found themself awake earlier than usual. They hadn’t meant to rise before dawn, but something about the lesson lingered with them, urging them back. Notebook tucked under their arm, they headed for Dusekkar’s office, walking the familiar hallways of the admin wing while the sun was only just climbing above the horizon. The air in the admin wing was still cool, the corridors echoing faintly with the shuffle of papers and low murmurs of voices. 

The wing was far from empty. Builderman was already stationed in his office, his low voice carrying through the cracked door as he spoke into a receiver. In the main hub of the wing, Shedletsky, Sorcus, and Brighteyes had gathered around the center table, cups of coffee and stacks of papers spread between them. Their chatter stilled when Taph entered.

Shedletsky spotted Taph first. “Well, look who’s up with the sun.” He leaned back against the desk he’d claimed as his perch, mug of coffee dangling from one hand.

Sorcus squinted, tilting his head. “What’s the rush, Taph? Work that exciting?”

Brighteyes glanced up from a folder, waving to Taph welcomingly.

Taph shook their head quickly, pulling their notebook free. They scribbled fast, then turned the page around: Meeting with Dusekkar. He’s teaching me sign language.

That earned him three very different reactions. Sorcus and Shedletsky exchanged sharp looks, a grin tugging at both their mouths as if they telepathically spoke to each other. Brighteyes, on the other hand, just sighed through her nose and muttered something under her breath as if she’d caught the same thought but found it far less amusing.

Sorcus turned to face Taph with a grin. “Lessons, huh? With the mage? That’s cute.”

Shedletsky leaned forward, smirking. “Hiding with Dusekkar during RDC, now private lessons?” His tone carried mock suspicion, the grin on his face all too pleased.

Sorcus gasped and whipped his whole body to face Shedletsky dramatically. 

“What?! You didn’t tell me any of that!”

Shedletsky shrugged, “I had to keep my best friend’s secret—well I guess it’s not a secret anymore.”

Sorcus pretended to wipe a tear from his eye before turning back to Taph. 
“Secret meetings… sounds like more than just lessons.” His tone carried the same playful bite, words carefully chosen to prod without malice.

Taph tilted their head, confusion flickering across their face, not catching the subtext. They tapped the page again, wrote down another note, and held it up: We were just talking.

Sorcus elbowed Shedletsky, repeating with a grin, “Just talking.”

Brighteyes finally looked up, rolling her eyes. “You two sound like children.” Still, there was a faint laugh in her voice.

The teasing didn’t stop there. When Dusekkar finally emerged from his office, cloak trailing behind him, Sorcus and Shedletsky’s grins widened, sharpening like blades finding a target.

“Well, if it isn’t the mage himself,” Shedletsky said loudly. “There he is. Slipping out of his office at just the right time.”

“Or maybe sneaking,” Brighteyes added, her voice lilting with humor. “I heard he’s been visiting demolition sites, too. During work hours.”

Sorcus let out a long, dramatic “oooooo,” which Shedletsky eagerly echoed.

“First RDC, now this,” Shedletsky added, wagging his eyebrows. “Scandalous….”

Brighteyes was unable to contain a laugh at the sight.

Dusekkar exhaled, a sound somewhere between tired and unamused. His fire erupted from the teasing, flames leaking out his carved mouth as if threatening to shoot a fireball at Shedletsky. He didn’t dignify it with more than a sharp wave of his gloved hand. “Enough.” His tone cut through their noise, dry and clipped. “Children.” he muttered, brushing past them. Without sparing the others another glance, he reached for Taph’s shoulder and steered them toward the office.

He shut the door firmly behind them with a click that left the muffled laughter of the admins out in the hall where it belonged.

Inside, the room felt warm again, familiar, the golden glow waiting for them. Taph clutched their notebook closer, strangely grateful for the quiet. Dusekkar gave them a look—half amusement, half apology.

The lamplight pooled warmly across the desk, chasing away the shadows that clung to the corners of Dusekkar’s office. The air was still, softened by the rustle of papers and the faint creak of the leather chair whenever one of them shifted. Within that quiet, practice became less about memorization and more about presence—the closeness of two people sharing patience, rhythm, and movement.

Dusekkar guided Taph through new signs, his hands fluid and precise, each movement deliberate yet graceful.

See. he signed first, his fingers shaped in a "V", palm in, tip of middle finger in contact with the upper cheek, moving forward once.

Don’t. Hands hovered above each other. Then with a flick of the wrists, a gesture like sweeping something away. 

Want. Both hands held outwards as if grasping something and pulling it towards himself.

Need. A beckoning hook of the index finger, firm and insistent. 

Come. His hand drew inward, curling like an invitation.

Here. Both palm-up flat hands, held in lower space, then moved in a circular motion.

Taph repeated each one, clumsy at first, then steadier under Dusekkar’s attentive gaze.

After a few cycles, Dusekkar paused and let the silence settle, the warm lamp light casting long shadows across the office. Then, with a soft tilt of his pumpkin head, he shifted the lesson. “Practical words serve well,” he said slowly, eyes meeting Taph’s, “but feelings, emotions, have their own tale to tell.” 

He began again, letting his hands float with the weight of meaning. 

Fine. A single open hand, thumb tapping against his chest, swaying outward with the ease of a wave on calm water.

Good. Fingers touched the edge of his jaw, then drifted forward

Bad. The same hand turned sharp, a single hand starting palm-in touching the bottom of his carved mouth then swung downward, like casting aside something bitter.

Excited. Both hands hovered at his chest, middle fingers alternate in forward circular motion.

Happy. He swept his hand twice across his chest, an upward lift.

Sad. Both hands fell from his eyes like curtains being drawn shut, heavy, slow, a weight sinking in the air between them.

Taph leaned forward, studying each motion as though catching glimpses of unspoken thoughts. They mirrored him, halting at first, their hands stiff where his glided.

But Dusekkar only nodded. He paused for a moment, as if thinking about some more signs to teach. Then continued,

Frustrated. Palm facing forwards with thumb tucked in, his hand waved harsh but fluid.

Angry. Fingers curled into claws, surging upward across his chest as if rage itself clawed its way out.

Nervous. A trembling, uncertain rhythm—though intentional, fingertips jittering against the back of his other hand.

Sick. His middle finger pressed against his temple, tapping twice, the weight of illness implied in a subtle slump of his shoulders.

Tired. Both hands rested against his ribs and slid downward, drained, like the day itself was pouring out of him.

Confused. He pointed to his temple, then circled his clawed hands in the air before him, orbiting one another in disarray.

When Dusekkar finished, the silence of the lamplit office seemed to thrum with all those unsaid words now hanging between them. Each sign carried a rhythm of its own. Signs that were more than symbols—they were feelings made tangible, a language of closeness, of trust.

Dusekkar slowed then, meeting Taph’s eyes as his hands spoke: I’m happy you are here. 

His movements were deliberate, not just a lesson, but something that carried weight. “How are you?” he said out loud for translation alongside the gesture.

Taph hesitated. They replayed the signs in their mind, the motions heavy in their hands, before lifting them in reply. First, haltingly, Confused. Their brow furrowed as they tried to recall the exact shape. Then, after a pause, they added another: Nervous. Excited. The word came more easily, their hands moving with a bit more confidence. The honesty of the response made Dusekkar’s shoulders soften, the smallest flicker of a smile touching his eyes.

It had only been an hour and a half, yet to Taph it felt longer—time seemed to stretch in Dusekkar’s presence, each moment deliberate, unhurried. They were surprised at how much they’d absorbed, proud even, having learned far more than yesterday’s lesson, which had lasted longer but yielded less. And when they dared a glance upward, they found Dusekkar watching with something that almost looked like pride etched into his carved features.

Taph shifted under the weight of Dusekkar’s gaze, uncertain at first if they’d imagined the curve of pride in his posture. His expression was subtle—barely there, like the ghost of a smile carved into stone—but to Taph it carried a gravity that words could never capture. Was it approval? Gratitude? Or simply patience wearing a softer mask?

The thought made their chest tighten. They weren’t used to being seen this way, not as a nuisance to be corrected or a burden to be managed, but as someone worth teaching. The hollow gleam of Dusekkar’s eyes lingered, and Taph felt their throat constrict with a nervous warmth. A part of them wanted to look away, to hide in the comfort of their notebook—but another part clung to the rare spark of recognition, afraid it might vanish if they blinked.

They held onto that moment longer than they meant to, their fingers flexing unconsciously against the notebook as if trying to trap the memory of it between the pages. Whatever the look had been—pride, patience, something else—it left a warmth in their chest that stayed even as the lesson wound to its close.

Taph forced their gaze down, then away, finding the clock on the far wall. The hands had crept further than they’d realized. A small jolt of panic stirred in them. 

Dusekkar followed their glance, and though his face betrayed little, there was the faintest shift of his shoulders, a knowing acknowledgement. “Enough for today it seems.”

Taph nodded, clutching the notebook tighter. They rose carefully, reluctant to break the spell of the lamplight and steady gestures. Their gloves felt heavier than before, as if carrying the imprint of his guidance.

When at last Taph stepped out into the corridor, the quiet of the office gave way to the hum of the admin wing. They carried their notebook under their arm, but their hands still moved without them thinking, shaping letters in the air as they walked.

Builderman appeared from a side hall, a stack of papers tucked under his arm. He slowed when he saw Taph practicing the alphabet, his steps faltering just enough to watch the younger one’s fingers stumble through “H” and “I.” A faint smile crept across his face, more subdued than Shedletsky’s antics, but no less genuine.

“You’re learning fast,” Builderman said, his voice calm, steady. He shifted the papers to one hand, giving Taph a nod of quiet approval. “I’m glad Dusekkar’s taking the time to teach you.”

The words lingered as Builderman continued on his way, leaving Taph standing in the corridor, fingers still mid-motion, the faintest warmth in their chest as they thought of the lamplight and the mage’s patient hands.

Notes:

i’d like to imagine shedletsky in this universe reads yaoi with brighteyes.
for whats a better couple bonding activity than yaoi? …..yuri (potentially).

Also NO MORE taph getting embarrassed scenes because everytime i write or read so much as a sentence i have to reconnect with mother nature and get fresh air for a few minutes. Writing this is the equivalence of actively taking out the batteries to my smoke detectors and subjecting myself to inhaling gas.

Anyways, i hope you guys enjoyed learning or re-learning sign with me.

aug/24 Edit: um just found out taph is agender in #sub-announcements of the forsaken discord server. Not surprised. I will be updating the story to reflect that. i’ll be using they/them for taph. Sorry for any confusion this chapter

Chapter 5

Notes:

💿🎶 Surasshu - The Penis (eek!)
Toby Fox - Wrong Enemy ?! - from “Undertale”
Oliver Buckland - icosa

Morning came in the same rhythm as the last few days—mechanical, practiced, almost ritualistic. Taph rose, adjusted their mask, stretched the stiffness from their arms, and set about the routine of small tasks that kept them steady. They were halfway through tightening the straps on their boots when they noticed the blinking light on their inbox. That was unusual—most of their “orders” came through the main queue, sterile directives stripped of personality. But this one looked different.

The subject line wasn’t a mission number. It was a name.

From: Shedletsky
Message: Come by my office today. Let’s chat. Don’t worry—it’s not an interrogation. 😉

Taph’s hands lingered on the keyboard. They weren't sure if this was a command or something else entirely. An invitation? The idea unsettled them more than the strict orders they usually received. After a long pause, Taph logged off and headed to Roblox Headquarters.

—

Shedletsky’s office was a world apart from the rest of HQ. Where most rooms were sterile, blank, and humming with quiet machinery, this place was alive with chaos. Half-finished contraptions jutted from workbenches, gears spilling like guts across tabletops. Tangled cords dangled from ceiling hooks, sticky notes cluttered every surface—covered in scrawls so messy they looked like spells rather than notes. Swords hung on the walls, not as weapons, but as though they were pieces of art. Photographs cluttered around them, almost as if fighting for space on the walls. There were bookshelves, but books were scarce; most of the space was taken up by trophies, gears, strange prototypes, and small trinkets.

A faint smell of solder and stale coffee hung in the air.

“Come in, come in!” Shedletsky shouted, waving Taph inside with exaggerated flair like a ringmaster greeting a crowd. His grin carried mischief, his voice carrying more life than the entire building put together. “Since you’ve been spending so much time with Dusekkar, I figured I deserve a turn. Can’t let him hog all the fun, right?”

Taph hesitated in the doorway, scanning the clutter. It wasn’t just messy—it felt alive. Like every contraption might spring to life if Shedletsky only snapped his fingers. Taph stepped in carefully, their boots crunching on a stray washer.

Without missing a beat, Shedletsky reached under his desk and pulled out a rubber mallet. With mock seriousness, he leaned across the desk and tapped the top of Taph’s head. “Just checking for dents. Version upgrades can be unpredictable, y’know. Gotta make sure you didn’t come with factory defects.”

He made cartoonish “boink” sounds with each tap.

Taph tilted their head slightly, silent, unsure if this was supposed to be a test or some new form of interrogation… or maybe another poor joke. 

Shedletsky smirked. “See? That’s the problem. You’ve got this face like someone superglued you into ‘mission mode.’ Let’s fix that.”

Their mask gave nothing away, though they touched its edge, as if double-checking it was still there. Confused what Shedletsky could mean, since their face was hidden. Did he mean their body language?

Before Taph could respond, Shedletsky flicked a switch hidden beneath his desk. A loud BOOM! echoed through the room as smoke burst from a corner contraption. A spring-loaded device snapped open and flung a rubber chicken into the air with a sad squeal.

Taph froze, caught entirely off guard, their expression unreadable.

“That!” Shedletsky shouted, his grin widening. “That’s my patented Employee Morale Tester™. You passed—well, kind of. I think you’re supposed to laugh though.”

Taph signed quickly, sharp and short: Not funny.

“Harsh critic,” Shedletsky sighed, tossing the mallet aside. “Alright, guess I’ll have to bring out the heavy artillery.”

He dove into a drawer, rummaging past loose wires and snack wrappers, before pulling out something sleek but strange: a pair of gloves. The fabric was dark, stitched with mismatched wiring that hid faintly beneath the surface. A socketed crystal pulsed weakly on the wrist, flickering like it couldn’t decide on a color. Shedletsky held them up to Taph like a prize.

“Speaking of upgrades…” He held his eyebrows raised with a grin. “I’ve been working on something you might actually find useful. A translator.”

Taph tilted their head, suspicious.

“Not for me—well, kinda for me—but mostly for you.” Shedletsky slipped one glove on and flexed his fingers. 

“You’ve got your signs, your gestures, your… whatever that is.” He waved vaguely with his free hand. “But half the time, everyone’s just staring like you’re speaking alien. These little beauties parse your signing into glorious, public-friendly subtitles. Big, bold, right in the air. Everyone gets the message. Literally.”

He tossed the gloves across the desk. Taph caught them, feeling the faint vibration in their frame. They were lighter than expected, humming like they had a pulse. Was this thing safe to wear?

“It’s a prototype so I still got some stuff to iron out but it works just fine.” The admin leaned back in his chair casually before adding, “Most of the time.”

“Go on, try it,” Shedletsky urged, grinning.

Taph hesitated, then slid them on. They signed a short phrase awkwardly.

The gloves sparked, light stuttering—then projected a massive floating caption in midair:

function Translate(input) 
    local msg = parseSigns(input)
    if #msg > 128 then buffer:clear()
    return "[TRUNCATED]"
end

--DEBUG LOG
UserID: 13645-2
AccessLevel: ███
ERROR_███

The projection stuttered, static rippling across the words before they cut out entirely. Taph froze. The gloves had recognized their ID. What the hell.

For a long second, the office was silent except for the faint hum of Shedletsky’s desk fan.

Then the device rebooted, flickered, and scrolled new text across the air in perfect clarity:

You’re not funny. 😆❌😐

Shedletsky doubled over, laughing so hard he wheezed. “See?! It works! Brutally honest, and now I can’t even pretend I didn’t understand you. Revolutionary!”

Taph lowered their hands, staring at the fading words.

They moved their hands to form another phrase, hesitating on the last word they didn’t know in sign, and instead spelling it out. The gloves once again translated for them.

Why are there emojis? 🤔▶️😐

“Why not?” Shedletsky shot back between laughs. “I must’ve added that at three in the morning. Honestly I completely forgot that feature existed. Thought it’d be funny to have reaction memes or something.”

Taph sighed and tugged the gloves off, placing them firmly on the desk.

“Nonono—keep them!” Shedletsky pushed them back toward Taph. 

“C’mon they’re not completely broken! You can use it in the time being until I'm done with the final version. I'll remember to remove the emojis then, I promise. Besides, I’ve got versions to spare.”

Taph deadpanned. Then signed something without the gloves on.

You have multiple?

Shedletsky nodded, reaching into the same drawer that he pulled the gloves from. Pulling out 3 pairs of gloves and tossing them out onto the desk haphazardly. A single tape holding sharpie lettering labeled them. “V1”, “V2”, “V3”.

Taph leaned in closer, curious. Versions 1 and 2 were scorched at the fingertips. Which made Taph wonder how safe the ones they currently had were.

Shedletsky quickly moved on, tossing a V3 glove between his hands. “You know, you’re so precise with demolitions.” he said while tossing Taph a tool. 

“Almost like you were… I dunno, built for it.” He grinned and quickly changed the subject before Taph could react. 

His tone softened, just for a moment. But he quickly went back to his upbeat persona. “But hey, that’s the beauty of it. I build, you break. Two sides of the same coin. Together we keep Roblox spinning.”

The words lodged in Taph’s mind, stirring something they couldn’t name—a strange warmth, somewhere between confusion and belonging.

On the far table, something caught their eye. A screen flickered with lines of stubborn code that seemed to scroll endlessly. Next to it, a half-empty forgotten cold coffee cup paired with a scattered mess of scribbled notes.

Shedletsky followed Taph’s gaze. “Ah, yeah… that’s my current nightmare. Some server bug that thinks it’s smarter than me. It’s not, obviously, but it’s trying.”

For a fraction of a second, his grin faltered. His eyes lingered on the lines of code as if they carried an old weight. He muttered under his breath, “Should’ve locked it down years ago.”

Then, with an almost violent brightness, he shook it off. “Anyway! Debugging’s just like demolition. Patience, persistence—rush it, and the whole structure collapses. Want to help?”

Taph only shrugged in response.

Shedletsky sat down, motioning for Taph to join him. 

For the next hour, the workshop-like office became a strange sort of classroom. Shedletsky hunched over his desk, wires spilling across the surface like tangled veins, while Taph stood at his side, watching the jumble of code flicker on a grimy old monitor. What surprised Shedletsky most wasn’t that Taph was keeping up—it was that they were actually catching things. A missing bracket here, a redundant line there. Even fixing the long, unnecessary 20 lines of “if else” statements Shedletsky promised himself he would fix eventually, but never did. Taph pointed silently at the mistakes, and each time, Shedletsky leaned back with a grunt, equal parts impressed and annoyed.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered after the fourth correction. “Didn’t peg you for the programming type. Thought you were just the ‘smash first, maybe ask questions never’ kind of demolitionist.”

Taph gave a small shrug, lips twitching almost imperceptibly. They didn’t sign a reply, but the faint spark of pride in their eyes was enough of an answer.

Between these stretches of debugging, Shedletsky couldn’t help slipping into stories. His words came quick, half brag and half confession. He talked about the early chaos of Roblox’s beginnings—the nights spent running on too much caffeine, duct-taping servers together, begging them not to crash under the weight of just a hundred players. He laughed as he described the clunky engines that buckled if you sneezed too hard, and how every day felt like both a miracle and a catastrophe.

But then there were the quieter moments. His tone would shift, his voice lowering as though speaking too loudly might conjure something best left buried.

“Back then,” he said once, fingers drumming restlessly against the desk, “we were experimenting with all kinds of things. Pushing limits. Physics, rendering—hell, we even toyed with procedural identities.” His mouth quirked, not quite a smile. “Some ideas… didn’t stay where they were supposed to.”

The glow of the monitor caught the edges of his face, making him look far older than his usual manic energy allowed. He didn’t elaborate, but the way he said it carried weight—like a warning wrapped in nostalgia.

“That’s the price of creation, though,” he continued, sharper now, almost defensive. “You never know which experiment turns into a masterpiece… or a monster.”

For a moment, Taph almost asked. Almost signed the questions itching at their hands: What do you mean? What do you know about me? But the words stuck in their throat, despite having no voice.

Taph never quite spoke up about it, but there was an undercurrent in Shedletsky’s words—a familiarity that felt too close. Like he had been there for Taph’s first steps, watching from a distance, even if Taph themself had no memory of it.

By the end of it, Shedletsky pushed back from his chair, stretching his arms with a loud crack of joints. He gave Taph a crooked grin, all bravado again.

“Not bad, kid. Guess you’re good for more than just blowing stuff up.”

Taph rolled their eyes, but the warmth in their chest lingered even after they left the workshop. It stayed with them on the walk back, quiet and stubborn. Yet behind it was another feeling—a small, nagging chill that refused to fade. Something in Shedletsky’s words had rooted itself in their mind, like a shadow they couldn’t quite shake.

Notes:

Ive always wanted to make a glove that translates sign language, and was honestly about to start the project a few years back when i was still actively learning asl. But then i found out it already existed. I still wouldn't mind making one for myself as a side project—afterall i live for the experience of making something, but that's if I have the money for it lmao.

I dont know how to program in lua so i had to do some research. Not sure if the lines are correct but whatever 💀. Anyone who knows lua feel free to correct me (please).

I also found out recently that roblox is basically erasing old roblox games. This breaks my heart, especially after writing Until The Servers Fall, which is practically my nostalgia documented (and sprinkled with yaoi). the whole idea of roblox deleting older games because of their lack of players or being viewed as “corrupted” was totally made up fiction by me. but ig that makes me a prophet or psychic now or something. Very disappointed in roblox.

Anyways, i just reworked this story layout/outline very cool stuff to come.

ALSO. UPDATE. FORSAKEN UPDATE. TAPH MILESTONE SKINS. SHE HAS MILESTONE SKINS. ᵀʰᵉʸ’ʳᵉ ˢᵒ ˢⁿᵃᵗᶜʰᵉᵈ 🤤. Who said that.
Speaking of the update…this story is totally outdated now…and not lore accurate. But im in too deep i have like 60 pages worth of notes. 🙏 just know i might write a more lore accurate story once all that juicy lore is released.

Hope whoever chose to listen to the songs alongside reading enjoyed it lmao. Never judge a book by its cover (or a song by its title). The penis (eek!) is peak if you ask me.