Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End
Chapter Text
Azure wasn't dead.
That was all that repeated in their mind now.
Their dagger was clean. The metal of the jagged blade was untainted, cold and unfeeling, the smell of blood and blood and the empty eyes of another and the hoarse wheezes of a strange, large animal and blood and blood and blood– The Spawn had saved Azure. Azure was safe, as Two Time was a good lamb for Them, did their prayers, wasn't selfish. Followed commands. Took only what the giving hand of their Spawn blessed upon them.
Something had happened from then and now, and now Two Time remained inside a creaking, lantern-lit cabin. The dust beneath their feet scattered like ants. They'd been ‘Forsakened’, as hushed murmurs spoke inside the confines of their head, the mindless chatter rushing over their body like the lapping waters of a lake. "Forsaken”, a purgatory, dream-like state–mentioned like a hushed secret in the religious hymns of song and jotted down in sacred holy texts. The grounds between one land and the next, where the forgotten were doomed to rest.
Nine others had also been unwillingly taken- all varied in age and social status–from powerful upper-class entities to average Robloxians. A burly man with shockingly blue hair had pushed through the chattering group to introduce himself first, and the rest of the group clustered around him like ducklings to a mother hen. Two Time lingered in the corner of the cabin, hidden in the lingering shadows of the cast lantern light.
“Guest 1337.” The man had introduced himself as, his rumbling voice deep and reserved. Apparently, he was active in the military, and had been on duty at the time of coming here. He spoke of a war, one that Two Time wasn't privy to. Fortunately, in the sanctuary of the Spawn’s embrace, they never had to worry about war. Conflict was shamed upon. Everything was perfect in the village, every devotee harmonious and united in the equally giving grace of the Spawn.
Hesitantly, they yearned for the ever familiar sight of their own village. The thought was quickly smothered. Selfishness and greed for more than what was given was shunned upon by the Spawn.
A younger boy dressed in a red pizza delivery outfit, lithe body slightly toned from hard labor, judging from his heavy eyebags–murmured his name quietly next, nervously twirling strands of his own curly blonde hair in his fingers. Elliot was his name. An older, tired-looking man wearing a burger hat glanced nervously at him. Two Time's heart tugged inside their chest to comfort them, though they themselves didn't quite understand what they were supposed to be comforting either of the men on. They heard the other people murmuring, but Two Time didn't care enough to tune themselves out of the static of their mind right now. Even if they could, they didn't particularly want to. A yellow-skinned Robloxian going by the name of “Noob” introduced themselves last– full of stutters and quiet anxious movements that told more about their character than their actual shaking words. Nervous, frightened, scared.
After a while, the buzz of chatter slowed to a conclusive halt, the awkwardness of first-introductions fizzling out– leaving Two Time as the only one to not have introduced themselves.
“Alright. Is that everybody?”
“Nope. Still got them to figure' out.”
“I-is everything alright with them?” They heard a small voice echo from the sofa, nervous and shaky.
“I’m not sure. At this moment, they haven't told us their name yet. Or, er… really said anything at all.” Responded another voice.
“I don't think not telling us their name is their first problem…” One muttered sarcastically.
“Change in environments can be challenging. We must be patient to wait for inevitable development, from those out of their element.”
Then… silence.
“What in the hell does that mean, Matt-”
“Hey, leave it to me!” A cocky, crowing voice spiked through their eardrums. Even while dissociated, Two Time didn't get a good feeling from this.
“Alright, come on buddy!” The fedora-adorned man flashed a sharkish grin, cocky and obnoxious. The heavy thud of their fastened combat boots warbled like splashing water through Two Time's ears as the stranger approached the dark back corner they'd rooted themselves in– the gray-skinned Robloxian’s gloved hand slapping their shoulder. “What's your name, pal? Gotta be a good one, since you're hiding it, eh? One for the money?” They grinned widely, tilting their head minutely. Two Time stared back. They'd been too silent for the group’s liking, clearly. All the attention had completely flicked onto them now, each eyeball burning into their skin. Two Time didn't know what to do now. Were they supposed to introduce themselves? Perform some song and dance to please these strange people? What did they expect of them? They stood there, frozen up and doing nothing at all– breathing slowed to a halt.
“Shoot. Not a touchy person?” Their grin faltered, a flicker of something like concern grazing over their expression at Two Time's reaction. “Sorry. That's my bad. I know how that is, er– how that can be.”
“T…Two Time..”
“Eh? Whazzat?”
“M’ name is Two Time.” They repeated themselves. Their voice was ragged, barely even recognizable to themselves through the haze in their head. Not like they could take it back, anyways.
They could never take anything back.
“Okay. Two Time it is!” The cocky man seemed pleased to end the conversation there, happy they'd said something , at least.
“--I'm Chance! Good to meetcha, even if this ain't the best situation!” The Robloxian, no, Chance grinned, the corners of their mouth crinkling in an imperfect smile. That smile, framed by the shadows of the flickering lantern– was probably the most authentic thing he'd shown them so far.
Two Time smiled back.
───※ ·❆· ※───
Divvying up the living areas had been easy enough at the start of their new lives. Figuring out everything else was harder. The three cabins outside fit enough room for three survivors each, and the excess person would sleep in the main larger cabin. It wasn't the most luxurious, but the upstairs area had enough space to be comfortable– even hosting a battered television and a Dance Dance Evolution machine (Nice copyright save, Spectre!) even if both were in desperate need of repair.
After a scrounged up breakfast, some quickly whipped up pancakes made from cake mix found by 007n7– repairing the television was the first thing Elliot directed his attention towards to distract himself for a little while- Chance and Builderman staying alongside him. Elliot had insisted on doing it himself, but the two had insisted they'd be there, and Elliot wasn't willing to fight them on it. Builderman offered his wisdom and technical skill with machinery, and Chance was too stubborn to be kicked out, remaining there simply to ragebait. Frustratingly, even with three people, little to no progress had been made. The damned thing seemed to reject all outside communication, completely and utterly useless.
“It just doesn't make sense!" Chance had exclaimed, "For a TV to work, ya need cable, don't you? Electricity!”
“Not all things require electricity! It is… a bit retro, though. Seems that it replays information it's already taken in from the outside world, like a really weird version of a radio.” Elliot stuck out his tongue, eyes narrowed in concentration as his fingers wriggled through the delicate wires. He hadn't expected his old man's obsession with teaching him how to handle electronics to work out like this, but it sure was a handy skill. Elliot was glad Builderman was keeping a watchful eye on his work to make sure he wouldn't muck it up, though it was a bit intimidating to have the older man observing him so closely.
“Why don't we just, I dunno, give it a real good smack, eh? That'll fix it right up!” Chance grinned, lounging further into one of the soft beanbags that littered the floor.
“Chance, that'll break it.”
"Says who?”
“Says me.” Deadpanned Elliot, tone not leaving any room for debate. “I'm lucky you didn't volunteer to fix this yourself.”
“Luck, eh?” Chance grinned, a smooth ‘Pling!’ sound echoing in the space as he flipped a signature golden coin–. “That’s summat I'm familiar with. You're one to tell me about luck.”
“Telamon damnit, you’re a gambling addict, aren't you.” Elliot sighed loudly.
“Hey, not addicted, just really good at it.” Chance shot back quickly voice echoing from where the beanbags laid. “– Come on’, lemme have a go at it!”
“Not happenin, Chance!” Elliot called back over his shoulder, hands deep in tangled wires.
“Kid, watch where you're pullin.’” Builderman's stern voice echoed behind Elliot, jolting him back to focus on his actual task.
“Shit, sorry Builderman.” Elliot hissed. He had nearly snapped an important wire. He'd been lucky that Builderman had caught that in time.
“No problem.” The man laughed, “Just try not to get distracted because of… outside influence.”
“You can say my name, Builderman! I know you're talking ‘bout me!”
“Tell ya’self that, Chance. Can't confirm nor den–”
Builderman was interrupted by a loud, creaking rumble. The earth quaked beneath their feet, cabin shaking loudly as if the cabin itself was warping and flailing, warped by a strange outside entity.
“Guys! There's– there's something outside!”
Something?
Elliot scrambled down the upper staircase faster than his mind could process the words, Chance and Builderman following close behind. The wood creaked beneath the thud of his sneakers against the flooring, past the porch and onto the soft imprint of grass. Despite the earthquake, there was no damage, no evidence that the quake had even happened at all. While running outside Elliot had expected to see some beastly animal, a bear or raccoon or something – but instead, a translucent message warped over the sky, covering the entire cabin in a blaring-white shine like a sun's ray.
It read: “Rounds will begin in five minutes. Gather your wits, strength, and unity. Ten… ‘participants’ maximum.”
“An admin announcement?” Builderman murmured quietly, eyebrows furrowed into each other. “... Even here?” There was utter, stunned silence as the message slowly faded away, like it had never existed at all. Staring up into the sky, the survivors' faces turned slowly to meet the others' gazes–full of fear, panic, apprehension– and for some, unreadable. Almost as an aftershock, the wind whistled, a dusty layer of leaves kicked up by the force. Then, a final message appeared, with less fanfare than the first.
‘Enjoy the game. :-) ’
───※ ·❆· ※───
Chapter Text
Hunter and prey. Killer and survivor.
Trapped in this realm, people were either one or the other. No more, no less– designated roles that were strictly abided by. Survivors had to be strong, able to search- provide and help the team. Killers had to be quick on their feet, smart-witted, and subdue the weak first.
Prey would be chased. Hunters would hunt.
And that would never change.
Yet hunter and prey were more alike, linked together. Both sides knew the burning rush of adrenaline like a familiar friend-- wore the ache of lungs after a chase, whether escaping a killer or chasing a survivor-- a scar they'd never asked for carved into memory.
Change is a funny thing. It’s obvious, right in your face– yet quiet. Like the flicker of a light, the flash of lightning in an eternal cloud- sometimes change is only noticeable for those with the eyes to see it.
Once the rounds had begun– forced into a deathtrap with one killer with the single goal to eliminate them all- safety had all but disappeared from the survivor's minds. The dim, midnight hours after the rounds had finished for the day had become unpredictable. The dusty, cobweb-littered walls, their owners nowhere to be seen– a painful comfort.
Sometimes, even through the burn and aches that lingered on the body and the heart alike, the survivors had enough in them to celebrate their survival. Stories of close calls and thankful words were retold in the space of the main cabin, shared by glasses of poured mocktails scoured up from whatever ingredients they could find inside the basement or from outside.
But now was not that time.
John Doe had absolutely devastated their unity in the last round. Killed every survivor like their efforts were for nothing.
The first to die had been Builderman, his half-built sentry crushed along with his body-- impaled by one of John Doe's spikes. Dusekkar had been trapped with him, the magic-caster using the last of his time before he too was killed to shoot out a fiery-red spell into the sky. It had been something the wizard had discussed before-- to use his magic as a warning tactic, or to quickly communicate with other survivors.
Red was desperate, distressing. A signal to hide.
So this time, Guest had run. His legs carried him with practiced ease, running with the history of a man who knew this suffocating feeling far too well.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For the others.
Hearing the heavy thud of footsteps behind him, Guest didn't stop. As long as he could keep the killer's attention on him, the fewer people John Doe could find. The longer that John Doe was left on the loose, the more chances he had to kill.
To kill people who didn't deserve it. The ones that couldn't fight back.
Guest didn't stop running, even as his heartbeat pounded in his chest, John Doe's roar angrily sounding right behind him. Corrupted claws hooked in deep, each layer of skin tearing apart underneath Doe's assault. The corrupted beast slammed him to the ground, claws still spearing him–and pulled his claws out just as quickly. Sheer, unadulterated pain came crashing through every nerve in his body. And then John Doe's claws pierced through his chest again. And again. And again.
John Doe was planning to finish him off here.
Fueled by adrenaline, Guest scrambled back up. His back screamed in agony. He could feel the blood trailing in angry red rivers down his spine, tinged in red, ichor seeping into his already bloodstained military gear- testament quite literally bled into the fabric from older rounds, remaining like death-marked soil after a war. Quiet- yet tellingly devastating.
Guest's movements darted around rubble and broken landmarks,
the side of his hip catching on the sharp edge of a pillar. Guest could handle himself, defend himself on his own for a little more, barely. But the longer his wounds remained torn open, the longer he was forced into a broken limp-- he wouldn't last long.
Guest's chest heaved-- hands clamming against the wall, sweating wildly. Pulling himself out of visible eyesight, Guest lay hidden in the corner of a broken wall, obscured behind a wall of stacked boxes. Luckily, he'd collapsed somewhere not easily spottable by John Doe. Ears foggily keen for any sound, he heard the distant monstrous sound of John's roar, mixed with the dull sound of a swung sword missing its target.
He closed his eyes.
He was tired.
The sort of tired that pounded dully in his ears, warm and lulling-- almost kind. He slid down the rocky, jagged wall, and gravel crumbled to the grass along with his limp body.
Like this, if he stayed perfectly still-- he could almost pretend he wasn't here, hiding himself away in an abandoned corner like a fledgling soldier on their first day out on the field-- one who'd realized what they'd gotten into. That honor didn't come without sacrifice.
He could almost hear Daisy's calming voice in his head, soothing his aching heart like chrysanthemums on a sunny day. Could almost see his beautiful little girl, her eyes wide as saucers as she yelled his name in pure, childish joy. Her small arms, barely grown enough to wrap around his leg– holding him tight like a starfish, pledging to never let go. To never let go of him.
His chest shuddered in a weakened sob, but he refused to let the tears burn down his cheeks. Even after his retirement from the military, Guest still upheld his duty to protect. His promise to be strong, to always be strong, was eternal. One he would carry until the day that he died. And that eventual day wouldn't be here.
Guest swore on it.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled twice more. Two others had died in quick succession. Probably a pair travelling together, caught off guard by one of John Doe’s traps. The electric shrill down his spine resonated in tune with the crackling thunder that laid dormant on this map--the angry crackle of thunder laughably fake, never truly striking--instead it goaded, almost hinting that one day it might just decide to strike.
The Spectre was cruel. When he'd first been taken to this realm, the pain it forced each survivor to endure when their fellow survivors died was torture, each nerve struck alight with a searing burn-- as if the very code inside their bodies was bending and twisting to grieve their comrades fall in a seething new form. But now, the group of survivors had adapted- had taken the pain and used it as a tool. A silent count of how many survivors were remaining, and of how many had died.
In a way, Guest was… fortunate he only dealt now with a sliver of pain, instead of the agony he'd faced before. He wasn't thankful, wasn't grateful, not that he should be grateful to the being that had caused the pain in the first place. He would never thank the same hand who slapped before it gave, destroyed before it rebuilt.
His skin had prickled four times. There had been a full team of eight going in, so that meant that now there were only four people still alive-- three, if he didn't include himself. He took a breath. Short-- not enough to drive away the edge of being hunted. Not enough to force back the dull emptiness of loss. Enough to get himself somewhat together and continue moving.
Guest pulled himself up.
The grass he had been on was dark, practically seeped with blood. Darkened green blades of grass had molded, pushed back into a faint outline of where his body had previously laid. His body shook with exhaustion, his head light and fuzzy. Symptoms of blood loss, his mind recognized.
His eyes closed once more.
He heard the quiet rustling from the soft blades of grass beneath his feet.
His back pressed against the sturdy wall of a broken pillar for support.
He was lucky he'd been able to pull himself out of sight, into some corner of the map. But not really.
…
Silence. Then--
“G-Guest?” A voice called softly-- close by to where he half-laid, half-sat up. Guest let out a sound, muffled. “G-Guest, is that-”
“O-oh goodness..!” Their voice shook.
“Sorry kiddo…” His voice slurred, eyes weakly flickering back open. “Probably’ don't look the greatest right now.”
“Y-yeah, no crap!” Noob's voice hitched, wavering as they quickly moved to kneel at his side. “H-here, take this..! Oh, goodness… this is badthisisbad!”
He vaguely felt the cold plastic of the medkit beside him, pressing against his exposed arm. The coolness felt nice against the burning feeling that struck through every nerve of his body.
“H-hold on, you probably can't even move with all that b-blood. C-can you? Ohhhh…” Noob let out a little whimper of fear, hands yanking back, fidgeting with the latch of the medkit. “Ok, okayokay, you're doing this, Noob. You can do this.”
“Kid, you're freaking me out with your freaking out.”
Noob made a little sound. Worried and small– like the squeak of a mouse.
Their hands travelled anxiously, unsure where to bandage first. There was so much blood that Noob didn't know where to even begin to start. Their hands hoisted up heavy military gear with tremendous effort, requiring a whole lot of pushing. They smothered a little wince of their own at every pained grunt Guest let out, the gear digging in his skin–still burning and bleeding.
“S-sorry!!! Um. Guest.” Are you okay with me taking your shirt off to bandage you?"
“Yeah,” Guest hoarsely hissed out, “Are you okay with it? You're panicking.”
They hesitated. Kneeling besides the veteran's weakened body, they let out a trembling breath. Guest could feel the warmth of their breath ghosting over his skin, their dark yellow brows furrowed deep with concern. One silent beat passed, then another- the moment spread far too long. Then, Noob's voice, once hesitant to reply–was firm.
"Y-you're in pain. If I can help you in any way, I'll do it."
"....Attaboy." Guest's smile quirked up weakly.
"I- I'll… um. Lift your shirt. Now.” They looked around, checking their surroundings. No sign of John Doe.
Noob worked in tense silence, pouring isopropyl over a large cotton swab, taking careful time in cleaning the deep wounds. If Guest moved too quickly, or Noob didn't clean the scratches properly,- he could risk getting infected. Not just from bacteria, but from John Doe’s broken and infective coding. Even now, red trails of binary continued to seep from the scratches.
Noob stared down at the angry red binary trailing almost like blood down Guest's back and, almost practiced in their motions, pressed another isopropyl-soaked swab against the wound. The swab quickly soaked in blood, quickly joining a growing pile of similarly stained swabs.
"Who died?" Guest breathed out, gritting at the pain- the flutter of eyelashes ghosting over his cheeks.
"Shedletsky and Elliot.. and C-Chance is wounded. Badly." Noob shakily responded. Their voice trembled even more as they continued retelling the story. "It felt like everything went wrong at once- Chance's gun backfired, and Elliot couldn't give the pizza in time-- and oh." Their voice quivered in a sob- and tears, wet and hot- trailed down their cheeks. "I wish I was like you. I wish I could protect them like you can."
"Hey." Guest called, snapping their attention back to his face. Guest met their eyes firmly, "Hey, Noob."
He continued, eyes softening with a crinkle. "You did protect someone. You saved me with that medkit."
"B-but that's nothing!" They rebutted instinctively. Guest was making it seem like they'd done something spectacular, when all they felt like they could do was run. Even now, they hadn't intentionally been looking for Guest, searching for the sentinel to heal him like Elliot did. They'd just been fortunate enough to be in his way.
Noob looked like they would've needed the medkit more, with how much they were nervously fidgeting- but Guest knew them well enough by now. Outside of the rounds, they bloomed. They were kind, friendly to the others in a gentle, humble way that Guest honored. But in rounds? Complete 180 shift in their confidence. Their body hunched- nervousness completely obvious from them, as if they were being hunted by their own mini-sized John Doe at all times.
If anything, Guest felt a need to protect the younger Robloxian. If they wanted him to, he'd take him under his wing--teach them. It'd been years since he'd been a mentor.
Maybe he'd suggest it to them.
"You deserve this more than me. I can't do anything but run." Noob mumbled weakly, barely a murmur as they spoke their true doubts. A nagging part of their brain felt like they were unable to help the team, just a burden to the sentinels that risked their lives protecting them--and that they were indebted to repay the sentinel's protection. That even as they wrapped the veterans wounds, it still wasn't enough.
"You showed up when it counted." Guest interjected,- "Saved me. And that right there? That's what really makes a soldier.”
"And hey!" Guest chuckled, oblivious to Noob's internal struggle. The veteran's laughter was sweet and sticky, like warm marmalade on a sunny day, and strangely... Noob found themselves entranced by that sound. "Runnin's a real strategy, y'know? Ya’ can't win every battle."
"Y-yeah..." Noob’s cheeks flushed, their voice catching in their throat.
Both of them fell silent with unspoken words.
Shedletsky and Elliot had died, and Chance was wounded. That left him, Noob, Chance and…? Guest quickly counted each person who'd entered the round. 007n7 and Taph had stayed back at the cabin this round, leaving Dusekkar, Builderman, Shedletsky, himself and Noob, Chance, Elliot, and…. Two Time. That meant Two Time was the only survivor unaccounted for of the final four still alive in this round. What were they doing?
"Thanks." Guest filed the idea off as he cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. His scarred arms reached around his back a final time,- tightening the wrap just a little more. "I appreciated that."
“Though, I got a quick question for ya’, Noob.” The yellow Robloxian’s eyes perked up at their name, and Guest continued. “I haven't seen much of Two Time this round, have ya’ happened to see ‘em’?
“A-ah.. no, I'm sorry…... I've been doing generators this whole time.” Their eyebrows furrowed apologetically, before flicking back up. “I could keep an eye out for them, if y-you’d like! I’m gonna go and try to find this l-last generator…”
Guest nodded slowly, affirming. "That sounds like a plan. You want me to come with you?"
"I'm a-alright--!” Noob stammered out quickly, before cutting themselves off. “I-I mean, if that's okay...?"
"Of course it is. You just watch out for yourself, okay kiddo?"
"Y-yeah. Thanks, Guest..! I'll try and find you after this last generator is f-finished..."
"Got it. I'll keep an eye out for you."
The majority of his health healed back, Guest moved slowly to not disturb the freshly wrapped bandages. Spotting the tunnels that led to the underground section of the map, Guest moved softly. Gravel crumbled under his feet, striding past abandoned swords that told of a war once fought. The back of his neck prickled again. The dull thud of his heartbeat throbbed, his breath hitched. Everything felt too enclosing.
Only four of the generators had been completed.
The last generator, the one Noob had been searching for–hadn't been completed.
Had the death been Chance's? Weakened by his own gun, an easy target for John Doe? Guest grit his teeth, anger bubbling in his system. He wouldn't expect anything less from John Doe, if he really had left them weakened to pick them off easier later.
John Doe's fangs clacked together animalisticly– gargling rasps echoing in the damp undergrowth of the tunnels. Rumbling laughter, or a sick, growling imitation of it–bubbled unpleasantly from the killer's throat.
The bubble of a yell died in his throat before it had even formed.
Guest couldn't block.
Couldn't run.
Couldn't scream.
…
-Before the jolt of pain, cruel in its embrace–flooded every one of his nerves.
He was tired.
John Doe’s wide smile crooked, bringing Guest's impaled body right up to meet his face. Everything faded to black as claws ripped out of him with quick finality- his limp, bleeding body tossed to the ground.
On to the next.
John Doe had eyes on a particular survivor next.
Weakened from a backfired shot, they were an easy target. They were hiding, a quick scan with his searching eye focusing on their form. John Doe knew these types of habits. He could recognize the putrid smell of weakness from a mile away, the desperation of a survivor that was just about to die.
Even now, bruised and bleeding–they couldn't help but gamble. The clean ‘Ding!’ of their coin echoed far too loudly in the sword-littered map. Their body was weakened- (Both due to their backfired gun and the repeated coin-flip losses they were getting…)
‘Shit, shitshit…’ Another coin flip. Tails. ‘Not now of all times…’
Footsteps, loud and heavy, shook the ground beneath them– the earth quaking under a monstrous slam of a foot onto the ground. Chance just needed to hope that John Doe happened to be aiming spikes at a different survivor, one not wearing a fedora and bearing the name ‘Chance.’ A survivor that hopefully had enough strength in them to take John Doe’s corrupted eye off them for a little bit.
They didn't have a medkit, and didn't have the charges for a health reroll, either. Maybe they could further the distance with a Bloxy Cola, but that was a risk in itself as well. Oh well, it's not like gambling has ever done anything bad for them!
Chance took a deep exhale as they aimed their gun straightforwards, bracing for the recoil. If their gun backfired again, they were a goner. Completely and utterly fucked. Sauteed, fried, and cooked every which way by John Doe.
…
The shot hit.
There was the unmistakably sharp bite of a bullet-- metal clearing a hole through John Doe’s shoulder, finding a home within his blackened, corrupted skin. A failure to hit anywhere vital- a pitiful attempt of an attack, made by too-shaky hands and deathbed glares of defiance.
The gunshot had landed, but it wasn't enough to stop his raging path. The gunshot hurt, but pain didn't last for long here- it never did. It dulled, warped into a faint throb, lapped angrily inside his being. But it never lasted.
An angered roar tore from his throat, the ache of pain releasing with it. John Doe's own pupils dilated--focused, finding. Spotting their form, the killer charged toward the fedora-adorned survivor. Killing them was easy, a practiced motion as his claws impaled their form with a sickening crunch.
He tore their lifeless body from his claws, tossing them just as easily to the ground. Their fedora lay abandoned now, its owner crumpled somewhere in the corner. Blood pounded in his ears-- his heart beat frantically, loud in his chest, feet carrying him towards the final person alive. One more.
He waited for a moment, pausing in place as his searching eye focused. He'd come to adapt the tactic almost subconsciously when dealing with this particular survivor, letting them teleport to their so-called ‘spawn point’ before he chased them. Wonderful what some lazy scratches in the ground could do. His sharp fangs ground against each other in annoyance, as he remembered the times the pest had hidden away in final rounds like this, invisible from his searching eye.
It seems like they weren't playing that game today.
Easier for him.
Though- what he hadn't expected, when he'd readied himself and summoned spikes out of the ground- was for the last survivor to not cower at all. They stood up straight as unwavering earth entrapped them, fists held tight to their side. A wary, strained grin plastered on their face--, cautious, yet firm.
Instead of cowering, they laughed.
Not humorous, not pleasant. Rasping– their laughter buzzed obnoxiously against his ears, stinking of surrender.
"Looks like I'm trapped here," they spoke.
A bead of sweat dripped slowly down their brow as they moved to cradle their injured arm, cracked and bent at an unnatural angle.
If they wanted to talk, so be it. It wouldn't take much to kill them. He lunged forward, claws grabbing their neck.
They didn't shut up.
"What--" They heaved instead, voice cracking under the sharp pressure of his claws. "--is your name, stranger?"
"You don't need to know anything about me." He growled slowly.
"Sure, I don't need to." They laughed wheezily, a pained noise escaping their lips as his claws pressed inward, closer-- slowly crushing their throat with the sharpness of his claws. "But I want to. Is that so bad?"
Spit dribbled from their gaping mouth, yet their hands did nothing to fight against the claws wrapped around their throat. It was as if they'd already given up and were just waiting for their inevitable death to come. The two pairs of wings that sprouted from each side of their ribs wriggled against his leg, each sharp point prickling and digging into his skin.
Curious.
Survivors didn't talk to him. They pleaded, begged for their lives-- but never talked to him. His mind reeled in utter confusion. This was obviously a ploy to win some seconds off the clock, a desperate attempt of survival. He shouldn't give in.
But under their gaze, it was as if they knew everything about him already-- and he found himself hesitating. He shouldn't be. His claws itched, all instincts screaming to rip them up into shreds.
Being trapped in this realm for so long had made him weak. Susceptible. He was held back by an unknown force, limited by the ticking seconds of a clock that held him like the strings of a puppeteer. The untapped potential inside him held just out of reach--like an itch, an animalistic unfulfilled hunger that could never be satiated.
"I'm....." He found himself fighting to grab onto even the simplest words, a deep growl settled into his voice. It'd been so long since he had to introduce himself, to remember his own identity. He scrabbled at hazy memories that had long glitched over, code rewritten and broken again and again.
John Doe. That had been what they called him, back in the years where his name was only spoken in hushed, fearful whispers. Back when he was in his prime, powerful-- a force to be reckoned with.
But the more time he was confined to this realm, the more his memories began to cross over. Or, were they really his memories?
Memories twisted like vines, shifting into something strange-- foreign ideas that somehow felt like they were his own. Belonging to him. Memories of the open sea, the salty wind brushing against him like a playful whisper of an old friend. Memories of power: how he had once held control over thousands, ruling with the authority of a beastly king.
"I....don't know." He growled. Admitting the honest words was foreign on his tongue, a taste discomforting for the man.
"The others call you John Doe." Their body shifted minutely. "But things can change. Change always comes, whether we want it or not."
"...Either way." They tilted their head in careful consideration of their next words, "I like that name. John Doe.” The repeated name rolled off their tongue like velvet, and John Doe didn't like how much he found himself charmed by their voice– ensnared like a snake to a snake charmer’s tune. “It's a pretty name. I like it."
Pretty?
John Doe didn't want to acknowledge the hitch of his breath, the little punched out gasp from his lungs at their words. They hadn't moved a finger, not even to grasp their hands around the hilt of the sharp blade that rested at their hip– yet he felt stunned in place as if they had done such a thing.
Ticking thrummed inside of his ears, sounding the final few seconds of the match, but he didn't care anymore. He was entranced by the mysteriousness of this one, how bold they were in defying him even in their weakest state.
This particular survivor had never acted like this before.
Their head tilted again, as much as they could in their damaged state- the dark mage hat placed atop their head tipping forward likewise in acknowledgement. That evasive smile plastered onto their face grinned even wider, yet he could sense no joy from them.
"You can call me Azure." They spoke.
'Azure’. A name just as mysterious as them.
The final seconds clicked, and with an ever-familiar jolt, the Spectre teleported him back to the killer's manor.
Biting back a sigh, John Doe trudged heavily back to his room, annoyance already stirring in his gut. He knew he'd hear an earful later from 1x about letting a survivor go free, about how he was "going soft" over some “mortal weaklings”. Noticing gratefully of the silence of the shared hallway of the killer's rooms, he felt a relief that 1x wasn't here. ‘Likely gone to practice sparring’, his mind provided. Or… she was preoccupied destroying something. 1x had a habit of doing that.
Despite the fact that he had let that survivor–Azure, wasn't it? The memories were already fading, replaced by dull emptiness. Entering his room, flopping onto the bed–he pulled out a journal. It'd been something that 1x had gifted to him under the pretence that he'd use it to “actually remember to do his chores for once”, but John Doe recognized that 1x frequently used insults disguised as excuses to give gifts to the fellow killers. She argued with c00lkidd, threw nasty glares at Slasher, snapped at Noli– but she was the one cooked c00lkidd’s safe foods, made an effort to learn sign language to communicate (or more often, argue) with Slasher, and Noli was chaotically-unstable enough that if anything, Noli picked on 1x1x1x1 harder in turn. A match made in… heaven? John wasn't sure.
Appreciation flickered in his mind for a shimmering moment. He was grateful for 1x’s support, even if she frequently was… not the nicest to him. It was this very journal that allowed him to jot his few memories down. Even if he couldn't remember the events he had jotted down onto the flimsy paper when his clawed fingers turned over the pages, it helped in some regard to know that they really had happened.
Speaking of which, he should jot today's events down.
John Doe grasped his claws around the pencil, the wood splintering at the middle under the tension. He grabbed another. The graphite crumbled to dust under the pressure he was putting on the paper. He threw it in the mug he'd gotten them from, the broken pencil clattering with a loud clink as it was thrown in the similarly cracked mug. Third time's the charm, he supposed as he grabbed another, slowly this time.
John wrote.
Well, more accurately–carved- the writing into the paper.
‘Azure’.
John Doe wasn't annoyed. Not at all. Totally. Just a teensy bit.
But more so, he was… confused.
He'd never frozen up like that, never hesitated to kill. Here, killing was normal, a practiced routine–not something to be questioned, and certainly not something to be disobeyed.
...
His claws itched, thinking back on how Azure had squirmed under them, the hitch of his own beastly breath when they had left him frozen with a single compliment. Even thinking about it left a mix of confusion and embarrassment simmering beneath the broken code of his skin.
This was going to be a problem, wasn't it?
───※ ·❆· ※───
Guest paced inside the cabin.
Each footstep was planned. Orderly, controlled.
Eight steps to cross from the edge of the door to the dining area. Eight steps back.
He had control. He had order.
He paced quicker.
His back still ached, like the corruption of John's claws still lingered in him- a flicker of broken digital code that burned inside his body. The corruption was still in him, wasn't it? He was still infected.
His breath quickened. Four shuddering breaths in. Four out.
“Guest.”
A voice. Low and questioning– Shedletsky’s.
“You've been pacing for the past twenty minutes. Honestly, you can tell us what's on your mind.”
When Guest finally spoke, his words were bitten- each word shaking his voice like it hurt to speak. “...We're animals. Animals, trapped in a cage, hunted down for sport. That's all we are."
Guest's anger--though he tried to seem strong--was weak. His words lacked the strength to hurt-- feeble, like the quiet bleet of a sheep that had realized free pastures were a dream, that it too had been chained down to where it never had wanted to be.
Guest was tired.
Elliot's voice perked up, ever in-tune to try to resolve conflicts. It was both one of the greatest strengths and greatest weakness of the man--the fact he commonly self-sacrificed himself for the sake of others.
"That's not what we are! We're not prey to these killers." Elliot's voice was soft, his tone holding an underlying plea. "We're stronger, if we can unite as a team!"
"Unite." Guest let out a small, broken laugh. “Yeah, right- we'll unite. When Shedletsky-" Guest glanced at said man, who currently had his grubby fists full of chicken, - "Misses his swings half the time, 'nd spends the other half eating chicken.”
"You're one to talk." Shedletsky jolted from his seat, gaze burning with equal indignation. The wings on the side of his head fluttered up angrily, as if to physically bat Guest's words away.
"Oh, I am? Tell me. Why am I the one to talk?"
"I-" Shedletsky's eyes widened in visible apprehension.
"Tell me, Shedletsky." Guest snapped, almost deathly quiet.
"Tell me." He growled, “When I'm practically a bodyguard for seven different people at once? And just when I'm on my last legs, bleeding out from a venomshank or being chased down--" Guest halted, letting out a long, low groan of exasperation,- "You're standing doing what? Nothing! Why have a sword if you can't use it?”
"You...!" Shedletsky's back wings fanned out aggressively, before he forced the pesky things down again, albeit significantly more ruffled. Taking a deep breath, Shedletsky's voice sturdied- feathertips still twitching in indignation.
“We all have our responsibilities. You know that, I know that. Provide, search for generators, help the team–
“You missed your swing.” Guest deadpanned, “Three times.”
“Yeah, and that happens! What, am I going to let myself get torn to shreds like you did?”
Guest’s gaze burned. “So you did see that.”
"You didn't even survive the round, Guest.” Shedletsky's voice was flushed with emotion as he defended himself. “–Two Time was the last survivor. And they're not calling anybody out, they're not picking fights--you are."
Guest's eyes darted around the room, before settling on Two Time. They sat in the corner of the cabin, silent as ever. They hadn't added anything to the conversation, nor made any extravagant move to announce their presence, ever content to lay hidden in the outcasted shadows of the lantern-lit cabin.
Two Time's silence felt… different tonight, like they were pondering something, or just… dazed off. As they felt the veteran's eyes burning onto their body, they returned Guest's gaze evenly, neither confronting nor submitting.
"I'm going to bed. Goodnight." Guest quietly murmured, blinking quickly. His face was flushed, his body warm with guilt, regret, and shame. He shouldn't be acting like this. This place was driving him mad, making him argue with his own teammates. The veteran turned without waiting for a reply, walking towards the door.
Eight steps.
"Yeah. You do that, man." Shedletsky glared at Guest's retreating shadow, the faint clink of the man's dogtags and bracelets echoing behind him as the dank wood of the cabin groaned under the weight of his passing footsteps.
"Try to have a better attitude tomorrow, won't you?" Shedletsky muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Elliot and Two Time's ears to pick up on, "For the rest of us."
After Guest had staggered weakly out, it was as if the tension in the room had shifted, bubbling over into something suffocating. No one would agree with Guest. That they were just some playthings for a being that claimed so be grandly to be higher than them. But no one agreed, at least not verbally, to Elliot's rebuttal either.
"Give him some time to rest," Elliot's tone, when he eventually spoke--was quiet, wounded. "We're all tired."
No one replied.