Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Secrets We Carry
The server was quiet tonight. No players racing to build castles, no laughter echoing in chat, no chaos of half-broken mini games. Just the low hum of the admin hub, a place where all worlds converged if you knew the right commands.
Builderman stood at the edge of the control console, its shifting code reflected in his glasses. He wasn’t alone.
Shedletsky lounged on the railing nearby, swinging his legs as if the endless void beneath his feet was a harmless puddle. His grin looked effortless, but his eyes—caught for a second in the glow of the console—were far heavier than he let on.
“You always brood like that?” Shedletsky asked, tossing a cube into the air. Mid-flight, the cube warped into a duck, which landed with a sharp quack. “Or is this just a special performance for me?”
Builderman let out a quiet chuckle. “Maybe both.” He paused, then added, “You… remind me of someone I used to know.”
“Dangerous line,” Shedletsky said quickly, eyes narrowing. “Sounds like you’re about to get sentimental.”
“Maybe I am.” Builderman’s gaze lingered on the console, softening. “His name was Telamon. My best friend. We built worlds together once, before—”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Shedletsky’s smirk flickered, gone before it could be named. He twirled the cube back into his palm, reshaping it into a sword. “Sounds like a guy worth missing,” he muttered.
“He was,” Builderman said quietly. He turned, studying Shedletsky with an intensity that was gentle but piercing. “You even sound a little like him.”
For a heartbeat, Shedletsky froze. Then he laughed, sharp and hollow.
“Don’t flatter me,” he said, waving it off. “I’m just the clown in your circus. Your tragic nostalgia trip doesn’t fit me.”
Builderman didn’t press. He just kept watching, steady as stone. Shedletsky hated that.
He shoved off the railing, brushing past. “You talk too much,” he muttered. His fingers brushed the console, typing a command so instinctive it felt like second nature.
Builderman’s breath caught. Only one person had ever used that command.
And Builderman’s grief whispered that he already knew who.
Chapter Two: Jokes and Silences
The admin hub wasn’t meant for loitering. But Builderman found Shedletsky there again the next night, sprawled across a console like it was a couch.
“Welcome back, O Glorious Leader,” Shedletsky declared with a dramatic sweep of his arm. A burst of code sparked, and a dozen ducks scattered across the floor, quacking in protest.
Builderman raised an eyebrow. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”
“Sure,” Shedletsky replied, deadpan. “I take ducks very seriously.”
A small, reluctant laugh escaped Builderman. That was the problem with Shedletsky—he was both irritating and oddly endearing.
They cleared the glitch together. Builderman’s method was careful, precise. Shedletsky’s fixes were flashy, almost reckless, but startlingly effective. Watching him, Builderman couldn’t shake the familiarity—the way his hands moved across the code like an old rhythm.
“You work like you’ve done this before,” Builderman said lightly.
“Maybe I’m just a fast learner,” Shedletsky replied too quickly. His grin stayed in place, but his eyes didn’t match.
Builderman let the moment pass. For now.
Later, the two of them sat on the edge of the platform, staring into the void. Builderman’s voice was low, hesitant.
“I had a friend once. He used to twist commands into nonsense just to make people laugh. Reckless, but brilliant. He was my best friend.”
Shedletsky leaned back, arms behind his head. “Sounds like a real pain.”
“He was,” Builderman admitted, smiling faintly. “But I miss him every day.”
Shedletsky didn’t joke back right away. His shoulders were tense, his gaze fixed on the dark.
“Must’ve been a long time ago,” he said finally, his voice flat.
Builderman studied him. It wasn’t mockery. It was grief.
“Yes,” Builderman murmured. “A long time ago.”
For a heartbeat, Shedletsky’s mask slipped. His face was raw, guilty. Then, with a snap of his fingers, another duck appeared between them, quacking loud enough to cut the silence.
“Alright, enough tragic backstory,” he said, feigning cheer. “Any sadder and you’ll start writing poetry. Nobody wants that.”
Builderman chuckled, but his eyes lingered. The jokes were loud—but the silences were louder.
And Builderman had always been good at listening.
Chapter Three: Shadows of the Past
The next evening, Builderman didn’t find Shedletsky in the hub. He found him in a forgotten server instead, one of the earliest builds.
The map was half-rendered—terrain broken, textures missing, buildings dissolving into static. To Builderman, it looked like a memory that never fully saved.
Shedletsky stood in the middle of it all, motionless for once. No ducks, no jokes. Just him, staring at the broken skyline.
“You built this one, didn’t you?” Builderman asked softly.
Shedletsky didn’t turn. “Maybe. Hard to tell. They all start to blur after a while.”
Builderman stepped closer, eyes tracing the jagged outlines. “Telamon and I built one like this. Back when everything felt new. He used to say every block was a piece of ourselves.”
Shedletsky scoffed. “Sounds pretentious.”
“It was,” Builderman admitted with a faint laugh. His voice gentled. “But he wasn’t wrong.”
Silence stretched. Builderman felt the old ache clawing its way out, pressing against his ribs until he had to let it free.
“I never told him goodbye,” he said. “I thought there would always be more time.”
Shedletsky flinched, just barely. His hands curled into fists.
Builderman turned to him. “You act like nothing touches you. But I can see it. You’re carrying something, Shedletsky. Grief. Guilt. I don’t know what—but it’s there.”
For a split second, Shedletsky’s eyes burned with recognition, sorrow, and fear. Then the mask slammed back down.
“You’re terrible at small talk,” he said, his voice brittle. “Next time, ask me my favorite food.”
But it cracked on the last word. Builderman heard it.
He didn’t push—not yet. But suspicion was taking root.
Because Shedletsky wasn’t just hearing his grief. He was sharing it.
Sorry I Lost chapter 2 and didn't feel like rewrite it
sadder and you’ll start writing poetry. Nobody wants that.”
Builderman chuckled, but his eyes lingered. The jokes were loud—but the silences were louder.
And Builderman had always been good at listening.
Chapter Three: Shadows of the Past
The next evening, Builderman didn’t find Shedletsky in the hub. He found him in a forgotten server instead, one of the earliest builds.
The map was half-rendered—terrain broken, textures missing, buildings dissolving into static. To Builderman, it looked like a memory that never fully saved.
Shedletsky stood in the middle of it all, motionless for once. No ducks, no jokes. Just him, staring at the broken skyline.
“You built this one, didn’t you?” Builderman asked softly.
Shedletsky didn’t turn. “Maybe. Hard to tell. They all start to blur after a while.”
Builderman stepped closer, eyes tracing the jagged outlines. “Telamon and I built one like this. Back when everything felt new. He used to say every block was a piece of ourselves.”
Shedletsky scoffed. “Sounds pretentious.”
“It was,” Builderman admitted with a faint laugh. His voice was gentle. “But he wasn’t wrong.”
Silence stretched. Builderman felt the old ache clawing its way out, pressing against his ribs until he had to let it free.
“I never told him goodbye,” he said. “I thought there would always be more time.”
Shedletsky flinched, just barely. His hands curled into fists.
Builderman turned to him. “You act like nothing touches you. But I can see it. You’re carrying something, Shedletsky. Grief. Guilt. I don’t know what—but it’s there.”
For a split second, Shedletsky’s eyes burned with recognition, sorrow, and fear. Then the mask slammed back down.
“You’re terrible at small talk,” he said, his voice brittle. “Next time, ask me my favorite food.”
But it cracked on the last word. Builderman heard it.
He didn’t push—not yet. But suspicion was taking root.
Because Shedletsky wasn’t just hearing his grief. He was sharing it.
Arc Two: Ghosts in the Code
Chapter Four: The Glitch Garden
The hub had seen better days.
Tonight, its pristine floor had sprouted jagged vines of corrupted code, branching out like veins across stone. Builderman crouched beside the spreading corruption, steady hands guiding his commands into the console. Every keystroke was careful, deliberate, as though one wrong move might send the whole hub crashing into the void.
He had gotten used to silence here. It was easier to think when no one else lingered.
Then came the quack.
Builderman looked up to see Shedletsky materialize with his usual swagger, balancing a cube on one finger. He tossed it high into the air, and in mid-flight, the cube warped into a duck that landed in the mess of corrupted vines. The duck gave a disgruntled quack before waddling off, unconcerned by the decay.
“Nature reclaims everything,” Shedletsky said, almost solemnly. Then, grinning, he added, “Even bad code.”
Builderman exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You’ll never take this seriously, will you?”
“I am serious.” Shedletsky crouched, tugging at one of the digital vines with exaggerated delicacy. When the duck nearly got caught, he bent down and scooped it up like a knight rescuing a damsel. “I’m serious about ducks.”
Builderman’s mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. “You’re impossible.”
“Thank you. I will work hard at it.”
But when Shedletsky brushed past him a moment later, something in the man’s profile caught the light of the console. The slope of his jaw. The way his brow furrowed for just a second, only to smooth over into practiced levity.
For one breathless instant, Builderman’s chest tightened. It’s him.
Then he forced the thought down, grinding it into the earth of his heart before it could grow. Not him. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t hope.
Chapter Five: Commands We Don’t Forget
The server was broken again—terrain crumbling, patches of sky flickering in and out. Builderman worked patiently, feeding in stabilizing commands like stitching an open wound.
Shedletsky leaned over his shoulder, too close, humming tunelessly as though mocking his precision.
“You’re too cautious,” Shedletsky finally said. “All this… gentle doctoring. Here, let me.”
Before Builderman could stop him, Shedletsky’s fingers flew across the console. Reckless, rapid, a cascade of commands Builderman hadn’t seen in years. The server shuddered violently, nearly tipping into collapse—then snapped back, stable.
Builderman froze. His hands hovered above the keyboard, his breath caught halfway.
That sequence.
That rhythm.
The little flourish at the end.
No one else typed like that. No one else had ever known that string of commands.
“…Where did you learn that?” Builderman asked, his voice quieter than he meant.
Shedletsky smirked, shrugging with practiced ease. “I’m just good with buttons.”
Builderman wanted to laugh. I wanted to believe it was just luck, just clever improvisation. But the memory was alive in his chest now—Telamon’s hands moving across a console just like that, grinning with reckless confidence.
Hope clawed at his ribs. Builderman pressed it down, forcing himself to breathe. Not him. Can’t be him.
But the ache of recognition lingered long after Shedletsky had sauntered away.
Chapter Six: Ducks and Silences
The next night, Shedletsky filled the air with words.<
He lounged across the console like it was a couch, spinning stories about nonsense servers he claimed to have visited. He made jokes at Builderman’s expense, conjured ducks until the hub echoed with quacks, and talked as though silence itself was an enemy he had to strangle with noise.
Builderman let him go on, listening without interruption, until finally he asked:
“Why do you hide in the noise?”
Shedletsky stilled. Just for a moment. His grin faltered, the rhythm of his chatter breaking like glass. Then, with a snap, it was back in place.
“Because silence is boring,” he said, voice light, flippant.
“No,” Builderman said softly. His gaze didn’t waver. “Because silence tells the truth.”
For a long, brittle heartbeat, the hub was utterly still. Shedletsky’s eyes darted away. His fists curled against his sides until the knuckles whitened.
Builderman didn’t press. He looked back at the console, resuming his work as though nothing had happened.
But in his chest, the knife of hope twisted deeper.
Chapter Seven: The Cracks Beneath
They walked together through ruins of an old map, a half-rendered world left to decay. The terrain stuttered where it should have stretched, textures bled into static, and fragments of buildings dissolved before they could be touched.
To Builderman, it looked like memory itself—unfinished, dissolving.
“You’ve been here before,” he murmured, watching the way Shedletsky slowed.
Shedletsky barked out a sharp laugh. “All old maps look the same. Don’t romanticize it.”
But Builderman saw the truth in his movements: the way his hand brushed against the crumbling wall, trailing across it as though his fingertips remembered its weight.
The sight made Builderman’s throat ache. His voice nearly cracked on the words he didn’t dare say: It feels like you built this with me.
Instead, he forced silence, biting down on his grief until it tasted of iron. He could not afford to let hope take root.
Not yet.
Chapter Eight: Almost Recognition
They sat together on the platform’s edge, the void stretching beneath their feet. Ducks clustered near them, quacking softly as if sensing the tension between the two admins.
Builderman’s voice was quiet, almost reverent when he finally spoke.
“Telamon used to sit with me like this. Reckless. Brilliant. My best friend.”
Shedletsky didn’t answer right away. His shoulders tightened, his head bowed slightly. Builderman saw his hands curl tight in his lap, nails digging into his palms.
The silence was a confession all on its own.
Builderman turned to him, breath caught, hope rising like a wave too strong to hold back. For a dangerous, aching second, the resemblance was unbearable. The voice, the gestures, the way the mask slipped—it’s him.
But he shut it down. He had to. Belief without proof would destroy him.
Beside him, Shedletsky forced out a laugh, sharp and hollow. “Ducks don’t like tears, you know. Keep it light, or they’ll abandon you for some happier pond.”
Builderman chuckled faintly. But the laugh was shallow. His gaze lingered on Shedletsky, steady and searching.
Because every joke, every silence, every slip of the mask was drawing him closer to a truth he didn’t dare name.
Chapter One: The Shape of Silence
The hub was quieter than usual. Not the ordinary quiet of sleeping servers, but the kind that pressed against the air like a held breath. Builderman sat at the console, its code flowing in neat ribbons across the surface. He told himself he was working, but the truth was simpler—he was waiting.
And, as always lately, Shedletsky arrived. Not with ceremony, not even with sound. Just suddenly there, as if he had always belonged to the silence.
“You’re staring at that console like it owes you money,” Shedletsky said, leaning against the railing, hands stuffed into his striped shorts. “Should I be worried?”
Builderman gave the smallest of smiles. “It’s the same old code. But sometimes… it feels like I’m looking at something unfinished.”
Shedletsky tilted his head, watching him. For a fleeting moment, his grin softened, becoming something dangerously close to tenderness. Then, just as quickly, it snapped back into place.
“Everything’s unfinished if you squint hard enough,” he said, flicking a cube into the air. It reshaped into a quacking duck before waddling off into the void.
Builderman chuckled despite himself. But when his eyes drifted back to the console, his chest ached with a thought he dared not speak. The rhythm of Shedletsky’s movements—the way he flicked commands, the way his fingers danced across the keys—was achingly familiar.
Too familiar.
He forced his gaze back to the screen. Don’t hope.
Chapter Two: Fault Lines
Later, in a forgotten test server, Builderman found Shedletsky sitting on a fragment of terrain where the skybox had collapsed. Half the world was missing, jagged edges dangling into the void.
“You like broken things, don’t you?” Builderman asked quietly.
Shedletsky didn’t move. “They’re honest,” he said, voice flat. “You can see where they cracked. Nothing’s pretending to be whole.”
The words pierced sharper than they should have. Builderman sat beside him, careful not to let the silence collapse.
“This place,” Shedletsky murmured, gaze fixed on the shattered skyline, “it looks like something I built once. Or maybe I dreamed I built it.”
Builderman’s heart stuttered. Telamon said things like that.
He wanted to ask, but his throat tightened around the words. So instead, he said, “There’s beauty in things that don’t last.”
Shedletsky barked a laugh. “Careful, you’re starting to sound like me. Tragic metaphors and all.”
But there was no bite to the joke. His hands were clenched tight, knuckles white.
And when Builderman glanced at him, just briefly, he saw not the smirking clown—but a man who looked like he was holding a ghost by the throat.
Chapter Three: Masks That Don’t Fit
Shedletsky slipped into the hub later that night, alone, and for once there was no smirk. Just exhaustion. He slumped against the console, staring at his own reflection in the shifting code.
“You’re not him anymore,” he whispered to the glass. His voice cracked like static. “Builderman doesn’t need Telamon. He doesn’t need—”
He stopped, jaw tight. His reflection sneered back at him.
But he looks at you like he knows.
A scream clawed its way up his chest, but he swallowed it down. Instead, he typed out commands until his fingers burned, reshaping blocks, spawning ducks, tearing them apart, reshaping them again. Anything to drown the thoughts. Anything to keep the mask intact.
By the time Builderman arrived, Shedletsky had already painted his smile back on.
“You missed the show,” he said, gesturing to the chaos of shattered code around him. “Performance art. I call it: ‘Man Slowly Losing His Mind.’ Critics love it.”
Builderman frowned, scanning the mess. “You’ve been here long.”
“Eh, I get lonely,” Shedletsky shrugged. “Even clowns need an audience.”
But when Builderman’s gaze lingered, searching, Shedletsky’s smirk faltered—just for a heartbeat.
And Builderman thought, God help me, it hurts to hope.
Chapter Four: Ghost Code
Builderman stood in the archive hall, where old fragments of code drifted like dust motes suspended in air. These were scraps of prototypes, abandoned experiments—things left behind when the game moved forward.
And Shedletsky was already there, sprawled across a corrupted bench, tossing a cube in his hand that kept changing form with every flick. A sword. A chicken leg. A duck. A hat.
“You ever think about what happens to all this?” Shedletsky asked, not looking at him. “The worlds nobody plays. The avatars nobody remembers.”
Builderman hesitated. “They linger here.”
Shedletsky chuckled darkly. “Yeah. Half-dead, half-alive. Just floating around, like they’re waiting for someone to notice them again.”
His voice wavered, too heavy, too raw. Builderman felt his chest ache at the sound. He wanted to say I noticed you. I never stopped noticing. But instead, he whispered, “Maybe they’re waiting for someone to bring them back.”
Shedletsky flinched. The cube in his hand twisted into a jagged mess and fell apart into static. He clenched his fists, looking away.
“Not everything’s meant to come back,” he muttered, and his voice sounded like it was breaking.
Chapter Five: The Crack in the Mask
The night dragged on. Builderman sat in the hub, half-asleep at his console. He didn’t hear Shedletsky enter until the other man was already leaning against the glass, staring down at the city of servers below.
“You ever wonder if any of this was worth it?” Shedletsky asked suddenly. His tone was too sharp, too serious.
Builderman straightened. “What do you mean?”
“All this,” Shedletsky gestured at the endless architecture of servers. “The games. The rules. The… myths we built out of ourselves. Did we actually make something lasting? Or did we just… waste time?”
Builderman studied him, unsettled by the rare vulnerability cracking through his facade. “I think it mattered. To them, at least.”
Shedletsky laughed bitterly. “Them. Always them. Never us.”
The words stung. Builderman wanted to reach out, to ask Who are you talking about? But he forced himself to stay still, afraid the wrong question would send Shedletsky fleeing.
And then, for just a second, Shedletsky slipped. His smirk fell away, his eyes glassed over, and his mouth moved like he was going to say something important.
“Tel—”
He caught himself. Choked. And then he laughed too loud, too sharp, covering the silence with false bravado.
“Sorry, Builderman,” he said, his grin snapping back in place. “Didn’t mean to get all sentimental. You know me. Just a clown with a duck problem.”
But Builderman couldn’t un-hear it. That is half-syllable. That almost-name.
Don’t hope, he told himself again. But the command was losing strength.
Chapter Six: When the Servers Sleep
Later, when the servers dimmed and the hub fell into night, Shedletsky sat alone on the edge of a skyplate, staring into the void. His wings twitched restlessly. His hands shook.
He hated nights like this. Nights when the jokes didn’t work. Nights when his own mind turned against him.
“Telamon always talked in third person,” he whispered into the darkness, his voice rough. “Telamon never broke character. Telamon never let anyone in.”
His chest burned, his throat tight. He dug his nails into his palms.
“So why can’t I stop breaking?”
He remembered Builderman’s face, the way he looked at him—not just like an ally, not just like a survivor—but like someone staring at a ghost he desperately wanted to touch.
And for the briefest, most terrifying moment, Shedletsky wanted to let him. Wanted to drop the mask and let himself be seen.
But then the thought of what would happen next tore through him like fire.
So he laughed instead—low, broken, humorless.
“Telamon’s dead,” he told the void. “And Shedletsky’s all that’s left.”
But the words didn’t stop the ache in his chest.
The Quiet Between
Chapter Seven: The Council of Silence
Builderman had gathered with a handful of the admins in the dimly lit strategy hall, the walls lined with glowing grids of enemy movements. But Shedletsky lingered at the back, leaning against a support column, feigning disinterest.
The others talked of defense and patrol routes. Builderman listened, contributed, but his gaze kept flicking back to the man at the edge.
Shedletsky never looked at the maps. His eyes stayed on the cracks in the walls, the empty corners of the room, as though he were seeing ghosts no one else could.
“Do you have anything to add?” Builderman asked finally.
Shedletsky smirked, deflecting. “Nah. You’ve got the whole think-tank thing down. I’ll just… punch whatever needs punching.”
The council ended. The others left. But as the hall emptied, Builderman stayed. Shedletsky stayed too. Neither spoke. The silence stretched so long it became almost unbearable.
And then, as he passed Builderman on his way out, Shedletsky whispered too quietly for anyone else to hear
“Telamon wouldn’t have sat in silence. He’d have said something stupid, just to fill the air.”
And before Builderman could respond, he was gone.
Chapter Eight: Memory Crash
Shedletsky found himself wandering an abandoned lobby, one of the first ever built. The textures flickered, half-rendered. Old chat logs whispered faintly, caught in corrupted loops.
He pressed his hand against the faded wall, his fingers trembling. “Telamon was here,” he muttered, the third person slipping into his voice. “Telamon made this place. Telamon laughed here.”
The words fell heavy. He sank against the wall, burying his face in his hands.
He hated himself for saying it out loud.
But then he heard footsteps. Builderman.
Shedletsky jolted upright, forcing a grin, forcing the mask back on. “What, you're spying on me now?”
Builderman looked at him with something between worry and sorrow. “No. Just… making sure you weren’t alone in here.”
Shedletsky laughed sharply, bitter. “Alone’s where I do my best work.”
But inside, his chest screamed.
Chapter Nine: Broken Jokes
The base came under attack. Fragments of Forsaken code slammed into the defenses, tearing holes in the grid. The admins fought hard, but the lines were breaking.
And then Shedletsky leapt in. Not with a weapon—just with his own fists, wings flaring, eyes blazing. He fought like someone with nothing to lose, laughter spilling from his mouth in wild bursts.
“Telamon’s got this! Telamon never loses!” he shouted mid-battle, voice raw.
The words slipped. Too loud. Too revealing.
Builderman froze for a fraction of a second at hearing it.
But the fight drowned out everything else, and when it ended—when the invaders finally crumbled—Shedletsky collapsed to his knees, exhausted, his smirk faltering.
Builderman stepped toward him, hand outstretched. “You almost—”
“Don’t.” Shedletsky snapped, voice sharp and shaking. “Don’t say it.”
Builderman withdrew his hand. But the question burned in both of them, unspoken.
Chapter Ten: The Weight of Silence
Night again. The servers dimmed, the world quieted.
Builderman sat in his quarters, staring at the faint glow of unfinished code. He replayed every word, every slip, every laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.
He told himself not to hope. But hope clawed through anyway, raw and unstoppable.
Meanwhile, across the hub, Shedletsky sat alone, head buried in his arms.
“Telamon wouldn’t cry,” he whispered into the crook of his elbow. “Telamon never broke. Telamon never let anyone see.”
But his shoulders shook, silent and vio
Chapter 2: I'm in pain
Chapter Text
Hay guys so bad news I have a sickness of some kind right after I got heat sickness so I probably won't update for a while my bad but don't worry I will be working on it you will be longer than the first chapter and better trust 💯🙏
Server588 on Chapter 2 Tue 26 Aug 2025 11:16AM UTC
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Geek_freak1000 on Chapter 2 Tue 26 Aug 2025 01:57PM UTC
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