Chapter Text
“Condolences.”
Elliot’s father is dead. How he died is lost on Elliot. When the paramedics came and explained all the possible ways it might have happened, it all went over his head. All Elliot could think was that he’s gone. Dead. And his face barely resembled the man Elliot remembered.
Mia never inherited any of their father’s features. She looked almost entirely like their mother. Elliot, on the other hand, was his father’s carbon copy—from the round eyes to the slope of his nose, down to his habits. So whenever he looks in the mirror, all he sees is his father. Just without the mustache.
“Thank you.”
Elliot barely turns toward the man who spoke. He keeps his eyes on the freshly disturbed soil as if something might happen.
Elliot never really knew his father, yet he loved him. His father never raised a hand to him or Mia. He gave them whatever they asked for, loved them to bits. But beyond that, Elliot knew little about him—only that he liked his coffee black in the morning and always smoked while drinking it. The acrid blend of coffee and cigarettes lingered even after he brushed his teeth. Elliot remembers it well because every morning his father would kiss his cheek, the smell clinging to his mustache.
“Are you aware of your father’s debts?”
His father always told him: Stay kind, even in peril. Kindness costs nothing, he’d say, but it can buy you time, mercy, even a way out. Maybe that was his father’s way of teaching survival without ever saying the word.
“Debts…?” Elliot finally turns to look at the man.
Sometimes Elliot wonders if his father only said that so that, if Elliot ever stumbled, someone might forgive him.
Elliot sees a guy wearing a white graphic tee and blue shorts. When Elliot skims his figure, the words Blame John stand out. He doesn't exactly look like a debt-collector guy.
“Yup!” the guy says, popping the last letter.
“Oh… uh, what debt?” Truly, this is the worst time to be asked for money—especially while he’s still mourning. Elliot glances around and realizes: where did everyone from the burial go? Where the hell did his sister disappear to?
The stranger starts, “Well, it’s—”
“Um—Give me a second!” Elliot panics. Did he disassociate so badly that everyone already left? Oh, why didn’t Mia call him? He fumbles for his phone.
“Sure, pal.” The stranger grins and strolls around the fresh burial site. Elliot lifts his eyes from the screen to watch him, wary. The man’s gait is strange—unnatural. He lurches forward clumsily, as if he’s about to trip at any moment, yet the stumble never comes. It’s almost like something unseen is keeping him upright, tugging him along on invisible strings. Elliot even glances up at the greying sky, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of them.
When he looks down again, the stranger is staring right at him. Goosebumps crawl up his skin.
“...Technically, it isn’t just your father’s debt, but your whole bloodline, Builder.” The man stands rooted in place, eyes locked on him. “A little birdie told me you’ve been sheltering a bunch of exploiters and never bothered reporting ’em to the higher-ups.”
His head tilts suddenly, then eases into a sharp, unnatural angle—too far to be comfortable. “Ring any bells? That’s an offense in itself, by the way. Makes you an accomplice.”
“...” Elliot furrows his brows, his heart skipping once, then twice. “I’m sorry—who are you? Just for… ensurance’s sake, y’know. Are you part of Robloxia's HQ?”
“Technically? Yeah. You could say I’m the engineer. The fourth engineer.” He says it with a pride that borders on obnoxious. “I don’t know how you puny Robloxians make sense of that, but… I’m a big deal.”
He pauses, smirking. “I don’t want to break the fourth wall, and I’d rather spare you all that forbidden administrator knowledge, so… you’re under arrest.”
“What…!?” Elliot stumbles back. “Hey, hey, wait! I need a lawyer! Who in HQ sent you!?”
“This realm has lawyers? I thought you guys just made pizzas and designed houses.” The stranger walks toward where Elliot stands, arms folded neatly behind his back—too casual for the weight of his words. “To answer your question, I’ve been looking into this realm and… well, barely a report comes in even when the whole place is in shambles. The others didn’t care enough, so I took the matter into my own hands.”
The stranger’s hand clamps around Elliot’s arm. He jerks and twists, but the grip holds fast—unyielding, like iron shackles. The stranger only snickers.
“Name’s Shedletsky. Unique enough for a Robloxian, right? Thought hard about it.”
“Well, Mr. Shedletsky, if you could—” Elliot grunts, tugging against the hold until it feels like his arm might pop right out of its socket. “—just let me go and…!”
“I will be the change that turns Robloxia’s lousy security into something better. The one to make the first move.” His tone sharpens with conviction, though his grin never falters.
“Elliot Builder, you will be a part of history.”
Before Elliot can protest, Shedletsky’s grip tightens. Without the use of a teleportation pad, both of them vanish from Elliot’s realm, leaving only a scatter of dust to tell his tale. The gray skies and green grass collapse into a twisted panorama of red earth, black skies, and jagged spikes. The air itself feels hostile. Elliot recognizes it instantly—from books, from propaganda posters, from the what-if nightmares that played in his head.
The Banlands.
Elliot squeezes his eyes shut as Shedletsky drags him deeper, their bodies plunging through vast concentric rings—each one more oppressive than the last, tumbling through the circles of hell itself.
Elsewhere, a lone figure watches the descent through a great screen. With every ring breached, a heavy iron chime reverberates—deep and resonant, like the tolling of a colossal funeral bell. The sound ripples through the Banlands, felt by Elliot and Shedletsky alike.
The Warden rises abruptly, massive hands curling around the haft of his Banhammer. His presence looms like judgment itself, vast and inevitable. His gaze fixes on the descent below, watching as Shedletsky and Elliot plunge through the collapsing rings.
The tolling bell continues. With each ring they pass, its voice grows heavier, the sound scraping against Elliot’s ribs as though it were echoing inside him. The colors shift—scarlet flame, coal-black stone, burning iron, molten glass. The air grows more oppressive, thick enough that Elliot feels he’s choking. He dares not open his eyes.
Down they go—past Violence, past Greed, past Betrayal—until the rings blur into nothing but a vertigo-inducing spiral. Finally, the plunge halts at the deepest circle. Treachery. The air here is different. Cooler. Like the cold breath of a cavern that hasn’t seen light in centuries.
Shedletsky finally releases him. Elliot’s knees buckle when his boots scrape the jagged obsidian floor. He doesn’t dare open his eyes—doesn’t want to see what Treachery looks like. His lungs shudder as he drags in the frigid air. Then a hand clamps down on his shoulder. It’s heavier, larger—too large. That's not Shedletsky’s, is it?
“Can’t wait for your trial, little criminal.”
It’s Shedletsky’s voice. The cadence, the playful lilt—it’s his. But it sounds wrong. Ominous. Deeper, stretched wide, as if spoken through a cavern. Larger than it should be, echoing inside Elliot’s skull rather than the air around him.
Elliot’s breath hitches. For a split second, he can’t tell if it’s really Shedletsky standing behind him, or something else entirely.
From the gloom in the distance, a figure steps forward. Alone.
DoomBringer.
The very weight of his presence warps the silence around them. He carries no retinue, no guard, no herald—only the Banhammer slung across his back, its surface glinting faintly in the dim red light. His approach makes the ground itself seem to tighten, as though the Banlands hold their breath.
Elliot forces himself to look, and he pales. DoomBringer looks even bigger than he did on the propaganda posters. His armor looms dark and polished, his helm obscuring all but the sharp set of his jaw. Elliot is practically shaking out of his skin, the searing heat of another ring above still licking at his neck despite the cool air here. Sweat runs down his temples, soaking through his shirt.
Behind him, Shedletsky only rocks back on his heels, easygoing as ever, a lopsided grin playing on his lips.
“You dare trespass into the Banlands unbidden?” DoomBringer’s voice rumbles like thunder rolling beneath the earth, the threat in it unmistakable.
Shedletsky only chuckles, low and careless, as though the accusation were nothing. “Relax, Doom. Don’t get all high and mighty. I’m just doing what the others were too lazy to do.”
He shrugs, still far too casual for someone standing in Treachery. “He’s under arrest for being a passive witness. Accomplice, technically.”
DoomBringer’s helm tilts, his frown audible in his tone. “Telamon, you can’t just— you can’t just kidnap Robloxians and send them to the Banlands! There's a whole process he must undergo first!”
Elliot’s eyes go wide at the name. Telamon!? This Shedletsky guy is actually the eternal SFOTH champion? The deity!? Oh, what in the Heights did he do to deserve this? He’s just a humble delivery man—and pizza boxer—and cashier—and cook—and… manager. Ah, hell, is this where kindness leads him!?
If only he had reported that Father-and-Son duo. Or that masked guy (though Elliot barely sees the guy anymore—is he even alive still?) Maybe then he’d have been spared from all this nonsense!
“This is for a great reason—as well for the greater good,” Telamon says. His presence behind Elliot feels suddenly heavier, pressing down like a physical weight. Even his shadow seems thicker than Elliot’s own. “Robloxians have become disobedient and—dare I say—barbaric. You’ve grown soft ever since the public was introduced to you. Where’s that hard, nasty shell of yours? Don’t you want to show the citizens what you’re really made of?”
“Telamon, let’s not drag pride and ego into this.” DoomBringer sighs, his tone clipped. “Justice requires none of that. We’ll hold a proper trial. I’ll decide what happens. Not you.”
Elliot wipes the sweat from his brow, every motion careful, though DoomBringer’s eyes still slide toward him. The Warden looks conflicted, brows furrowed, frown crooked, as if weighing Telamon’s words. Elliot can’t shake the feeling that DoomBringer is silently asking how someone like him could possibly be a criminal.
“We’ll start in… two days,” DoomBringer says at last, voice heavy. “I have a few matters to settle first.”
“Well, hear that, Builder?” Telamon grins, nudging Elliot as if they’re old friends sharing a joke. “You’ll be contained in this scaaary realm. No cozy distractions, no little routines to shield you. Just you, stewing until the verdict.” He laughs, sharp and grating, clearly enjoying himself. If his purpose is to piss Elliot off, he’s definitely succeeding. “Anyone to look after him, DoomBringer?”
The man shifts uneasily. “We’re understaffed at the moment… unfortunately.”
Telamon raises a brow. “No worries. I don’t mind watching over a CRIMINAL.” He spits out the word like Elliot is a stain on the realm.
Elliot bites back the urge to click his tongue. “I’m not a criminal.”
Telamon exhales, shaking his head. He even tuts at him. “We’ll see about that. No verdict’s been made yet, no? Guilty until proven innocent.”
Elliot stares at him, exasperated. It’s hard to glare properly at someone that tall—and that terrifying. “This is insane! Isn’t it supposed to be innocent until—”
“Enough, you two.” DoomBringer rubs the bridge of his nose, exasperated. Elliot swallows his annoyance quickly, but Telamon mutters something under his breath anyway. DoomBringer snaps a glare at him. “Telamon, don’t you have a realm to look after? The Heights? I’m sure you’ve got far better things to do.”
“There’s no need, because I’m not understaffed.” Telamon huffs, arms crossing over his chest. “My realm has long been secured—safe from bothersome pests like exploiters. And besides, I need a little entertainment. The swordsmen who dare to challenge me these days fall by my blade while I sleep.”
His eyes flick lazily to Elliot, a grin tugging at his mouth. “But this puny Robloxian… well, at least he’s entertaining in his own pathetic way.”
“I barely did anything entertainment-worthy,” Elliot mutters, heat rushing to his face as he turns his head away like a sulky child.
Telamon’s grin only widens, as if Elliot’s indignation is part of the show. “Ha! You did a lot of things. I have been watching over you,” he counters. “Your funny little routines—like when the ovens exploded, when you tripped carrying that delivery stack, when you kept working doubles even though your hands shook.” His grin sharpens. “And then there’s the fact you’ve been entertaining pesky exploiters.”
Elliot shudders. No wonder he’s always felt eyes on him. He’d blamed it on the exploiters—never realizing it was someone much worse.
DoomBringer’s brows shoot up. “You’ve been stalking him!? Telamon—”
“Stalking is such a harsh word. It’s called moderating,” Telamon scoffs. “Making sure this… nonsense I’ve been hearing is actually true with my own eyes.” He waves a hand dismissively, “And now suddenly two people are against me. Truly a pain.”
“If you were already watching me…” Elliot grumbles. “Why didn’t you just grab the exploiters yourself while they were still there?”
“Your foolishness distracted me.” Telamon laughs, sharp and unkind. “And exploiters have their ways of being elusive. If I stepped into your realm to grab them, they’d vanish in an instant—as if they were never there at all. They're cockroaches, I tell you.”
“Alright, enough. Save it for the trial.” DoomBringer adjusts his helmet, his tone steady but courteous. He looks towards Elliot. “I’ll escort you to a… waiting area. Or rather, a building that will serve as one. Forgive the lack of proper accommodations. I simply hadn’t anticipated such a scenario.”
“It's fine…thank you, Mr. DoomBringer, sir.” Elliot sighs deeply before muttering. “Unlike this guy.”
“Mind repeating that?” Telamon’s grin turns crooked.
“I said: It's fine, thank you. That's all.”
DoomBringer sighs at the hostility between the two. He doesn’t blame Elliot for the sharp attitude—after all, the man has just been wrenched from his world, accused without warning, and dropped into the Banlands. Fear makes people spit fire.
He lowers his Banhammer slightly and extends his free hand to Elliot.
Elliot flinches at the sudden motion before glancing down at the massive hand, then back up, confusion written all over his face.
“Let me guide you,” DoomBringer says evenly. “The path ahead isn’t easy.”
“Oh! Okay, sorry—I thought you were asking me to hand you something.” Elliot laughs weakly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Do you not have easy travel?” Telamon complains, the wings at his back twitching, itching to be used. He flicks open an admin panel, scrolling through its lists with growing annoyance. Nothing useful. “Ah, you are old school as always, Doom.”
“You’re the engineer here, not me. I’m but a simple administrator,” DoomBringer grumbles. He keeps one hand steady on his Banhammer while the other steadies Elliot, letting him lean his weight as they move forward. The path ahead groans and splits under their steps, jagged obsidian crumbling into the void below. Each stride feels borrowed, fragile, but DoomBringer doesn’t falter—his grip makes sure Elliot doesn’t either.
Telamon chuckles, eyes glinting. “Perhaps if you did better, you’d become… oh, I don’t know, the fifth engineer.”
“Say what you will, Telamon,” DoomBringer mutters, gaze fixed ahead.
The path narrows the farther they go, obsidian teeth jutting like broken glass beneath their boots. Every few steps, stone cracks away and plunges into the void, vanishing into a haze of red mist below. Elliot keeps his weight tucked against DoomBringer’s arm, legs trembling, certain that if he slipped, there’d be nothing left of him but dust.
Up ahead, the path ends in a gap—wide enough that Elliot feels his stomach sink. On the far side, more jagged obsidian waits, but between here and there is nothing but an endless drop.
Telamon clicks his tongue, almost bored. Then, without hesitation, his wings flare wide, light scattering off each feathered edge. He leaps, sails effortlessly across, and lands with an easy flourish.
DoomBringer ignores him, gaze narrowing on the gap. He doubts Elliot could make it across on his own. Not unless the boy wanted to vanish screaming into the void. Granted, the Banlands were built so that no Robloxian could escape.
He crouches down, massive frame lowering until his eyes are level with Elliot’s. “Forgive me.” His voice rumbles the words, but he doesn’t wait for permission. One arm sweeps around Elliot, settling him in the crook of his elbow, lifted as effortlessly as a bundle of cloth. Elliot’s legs dangle, his hands pressed against DoomBringer’s chest for balance, close enough that he could have wrapped his arms around the Warden’s neck if he dared.
Elliot stiffens, breath caught, as DoomBringer straightens and prepares to jump.
When Doom’s boots push off the ground, Elliot yelps and panics, clutching at whatever he can reach. His fingers fumble against the Warden’s armor before hooking into the edge of his helmet, tugging it in a blind scramble for security.
“Builder—” DoomBringer’s voice reverberates under the metal as they sail through the air, but he doesn’t shake him off. His grip only tightens, steady as stone, until their boots strike obsidian on the other side.
Elliot keeps his eyes screwed shut, heart slamming against his ribs. He doesn’t loosen his hold until DoomBringer rumbles, low and even, “You are safe. Breathe.”
It takes a moment, but Elliot finally pries his hands off the Warden’s helmet, cheeks burning with shame. “So sorry! I just—heights—I don’t…” He trails off, ears hot.
DoomBringer studies him for a beat, then simply nods. He doesn’t put him down.
Much to Elliot’s embarrassment, he remains cradled in the crook of the Warden’s arm as they continue forward. He tells himself it’s better than tripping over some jagged rock and tumbling into the void, though the thought does nothing to cool the flush on his face.
The day had already marked itself as the most unfortunate in Elliot’s life. One disaster piled onto another, each more absurd than the last, until it felt like misfortune itself had him in a chokehold.
Seriously—if only he’d reported those bastards who burned down the pizza place, he wouldn’t even be here!
They finally reach what looks like a house perched in the cracks of the Banlands—a squat structure of dark stone, small enough to look comical beside DoomBringer’s towering frame.
“What in Robloxia is that building?” Telamon points, smirk already tugging at his lips.
“My house… supposedly. Someone once sent an architect, but the poor fool was so spooked by the Banlands he forgot to account for my size.” DoomBringer’s reply is clipped, his shoulders squaring as if bracing for the inevitable jab.
Telamon doesn’t disappoint. He barks out a laugh, loud and grating. “That’s it? Such a tiny house for such a massive Warden? Or is that where you keep your pets? Ha!”
DoomBringer shifts the Banhammer against his shoulder, unbothered. “I don’t need luxury. I don’t sleep. My office is my home.”
Elliot, still cradled in DoomBringer’s arm, can’t help staring. He kind of relates to him. He knows what it’s like to live where you work, the blurred line between exhaustion and responsibility. At the pizzeria, he keeps a pillow and a thin blanket stuffed into the lockers—his makeshift bed for nights when the ovens burn too late or morning shipments demand his presence before dawn. He forgets he even has a home.
A sharp chime interrupts the moment. Telamon flicks open his panel, Builderman’s name flashing bright across the interface. He scowls, wings flexing in annoyance. With a wave of his hand, he tries to silence the call.
“I don’t think it’s wise to ignore the man you work under,” DoomBringer warns, voice low.
Telamon mutters through gritted teeth, “If I had the choice, I’d choose myself to be the ruler of Robloxia instead.”
DoomBringer only grunts, but Elliot has a hunch. That wasn’t agreement—it was disapproval.
Another chime comes, then another. And another. Until Telamon finally accepts defeat, stabbing the air with his finger as he takes the call. He stalks a few paces away, scowling, his voice too low to catch.
The Banlands are never quiet, but for a stretch the only sound between the two is the distant groan of shifting stone, the hiss of cracks splitting somewhere deep below. Elliot shifts, awkward in the Warden’s hold, heat prickling his ears.
“…Mr. DoomBringer,” Elliot ventures at last.
A low hum answers him, rumbling from the man’s chest.
“I’m sure it’s safe here now,” Elliot glances at the ground rushing beneath his dangling boots, then back up at the Warden’s unreadable face. “…can you put me down?”
“Oh!” DoomBringer jolts as if realizing only now what Elliot meant. He sets him down hastily, hands surprisingly careful as Elliot’s boots hit the uneven ground. Elliot stumbles, arms pinwheeling before he steadies himself.
DoomBringer adjusts his helmet, the gesture stiff, almost sheepish. “Apologies. I… forgot I was carrying you.”
Elliot looks up at him, and despite himself, he smiles. It’s a small, wry thing—half awkward, half sincere. Under his breath, the words slip out, tinged with envy. “If only I had that kind of problem…”
“Let’s go inside. You must be tired.” DoomBringer’s hand settles at the small of Elliot’s back, ushering him gently but firmly toward the door. “As I said, I rarely use this building. Treat it as your second home… a waiting area, until the trial comes.”
Elliot swallows hard. Second home? He can’t even imagine treating a place in the Banlands as livable, let alone home. Every step inside feels like walking deeper into enemy territory.
DoomBringer holds the door wide for him, waiting until Elliot crosses the threshold before ducking through himself. The house is sparse to the point of bleakness—a table with a single chair, a bare living room, and a kitchen stripped of any warmth. No pictures, no trinkets, not even curtains. Just walls and silence.
Sliding a finger across the tabletop, DoomBringer frowns at the faint smear of dust that clings to his gauntlet. “Tch. I may need to send an inmate to clean the place.”
Elliot pointedly pretends he didn’t hear the word inmate.
DoomBringer continues to look around, helm tilting as if he’s inspecting a place he’s never truly lived in. “Everything seems to be lacking. Please tell me you don’t have asthma.”
“Uh, I don’t think I do,” Elliot says warily. He can practically see dust motes floating thick in the stale air.
With a low grunt, DoomBringer strides into a back corner and rummages around. The sound of metal scraping wood and something heavy being shifted fills the silence before he returns, a broom clutched in his massive hand. He thrusts it toward Elliot without ceremony.
“…Thanks?” Elliot mutters.
DoomBringer doesn’t answer. Instead, he seizes the sofa cushions and marches outside. Elliot peers through the doorway just in time to see the Warden raise both cushions high and slam them together. The crack echoes like a hammer on stone, sending up a massive cloud of dust that bursts outward into the crimson Banlands sky. From a distance, it looks almost like smoke from an explosion.
At least he thought to do it outside. Elliot lets out a shaky breath, lowering the broom. “…Well. That’s considerate, I guess.”
When DoomBringer returns, he sets the cushions down with exaggerated care, though dust still clings to his gauntlets. He eyes the broom in Elliot’s hands, then sweeps his gaze across the floor. “It’s yours. I’ll handle the rest.”
So Elliot sweeps (it seems he's the inmate unfortunate enough to clean), while DoomBringer busies himself with wiping surfaces and shifting furniture with the care of someone unused to domestic work, but unwilling to leave the place unlivable.
When they both finally finish making the place at least passably clean, DoomBringer straightens his massive frame with a low exhale. The motion carries his helmet horns straight into the ceiling with a loud CRUNCH.
Elliot jumps at the noise, broom slipping from his hand.
DoomBringer freezes, then drops into a squat so quickly the floorboards groan. The image is so absurd—this towering Warden hunched down like a scolded child—that Elliot has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.
DoomBringer tilts his helm back, inspecting the jagged hole with grim concentration. “...Unfortunate.” His voice rumbles as if he’s announcing a death sentence, even though it’s just a punctured ceiling.
Elliot, lips twitching, mumbles, “Did you even have a say in making the house?”
DoomBringer slowly turns his head toward him, silent. Elliot swallows his laugh and raises both hands in surrender.
“I was too busy,” DoomBringer admits, almost sheepish beneath the rumble of his voice. “I’ll have a talk with Telamon. He’s been outside for a good while.”
“Maybe he left?” Elliot offers hopefully. His chest lightens at the thought, though only slightly. He does not like that guy—the smug grins, the way he says “Builder” like it’s an insult, the fact he treats this whole thing like a joke. Just thinking about him makes Elliot’s stomach twist.
Slowly, DoomBringer rises again, careful this time to mind the ceiling, and steps toward the door. He ducks outside, massive shoulders brushing the frame, and scans the horizon. The Banlands stretch out before him in all its desolate, hostile sprawl—jagged stone ridges and rivers of faintly glowing magma, nothing but ruin and silence. No winged figure in sight.
“It seems he did,” DoomBringer says at last, his deep voice carrying a note of certainty that reassures, if only a little.
Elliot exhales in relief, though he still glances warily at the gray-red horizon, half-expecting Telamon to just drop from the sky again with another smug remark.
“Sit down, Elliot. We have much to discuss… while Telamon is still away.” DoomBringer gestures toward the sofa, his tone leaving little room for argument.
Elliot almost forgot why he was here in the first place. His back stiffens. “Is this… about the trial?”
DoomBringer exhales through his helm, heavy as a sigh. “Sit, and I will explain.”
Elliot hesitates, then obeys, perching on the sofa. DoomBringer lowers himself onto the far end, the seat creaking faintly beneath his weight.
“I will not be holding you to trial.” DoomBringer’s voice is steady, deliberate. Relief nearly escapes Elliot in a shaky breath—finally, someone who believes he’s not guilty.
“I know you to be an honest man,” DoomBringer continues, fixing him with that unyielding gaze. “A hard worker. So please—answer me truthfully.”
Elliot’s shoulders drop, tension easing just enough for him to give a small nod.
DoomBringer leans forward, Banhammer resting across his knees. “Tell me. Why do you not report the exploiters? Were you threatened?”
Silence stretches. Elliot stares at the floor, his expression a storm of conflict—guilt, doubt, and something softer he can’t quite name. The weight of it makes DoomBringer’s brows furrow.
“Take your time,” the Warden rumbles. “You have plenty of it.”
“No, no, it’s okay.” Elliot forces a thin laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… haha, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know…?”
“I don’t know why I don’t do it!” Elliot blurts, as if trying to convince himself as much as DoomBringer. His voice cracks on the words. “The exploiters—they were mostly children, or at least they looked like it. Teenagers, maybe. Dumb kids breaking things for fun, not masterminds trying to ruin everything. The pizzeria, the place I worked—yeah, they burned it down. But even then, I thought… maybe they just didn’t know better. I was a dumb kid once! I know how it feels! And I kept thinking—if I stayed kind, maybe someone else would step in and show them the right way.” He trails off, shame tightening his chest, the reasoning sounding thinner the more he hears it aloud.
“I see.” DoomBringer’s tone is measured, but his gaze sharpens. He thinks for a long moment, then speaks with the finality of stone. “Leniency is what allows corruption to spread. If you cannot draw the line, Elliot Builder, then evil will draw it for you. You must realize—the world will never change if you cling to kindness alone.”
Ouch. That single statement shatters everything Elliot’s father ever drilled into him: Be kind, even in peril. But hearing DoomBringer’s words now, they cling to him in a way his father’s didn’t. Cold. Heavy. Uncomfortably reliable.
Maybe he just dug himself into a deeper grave with the admittance. Sentenced for life because he was soft and stupid and a pushover. Ugh…what a day. He didn’t even get enough time to mourn his father before Telamon swooped in and dragged him here like some prize criminal.
His eyes sting, the faintest blur of a tear. He quickly rubs at them, but DoomBringer notices. The Warden straightens, the weight of his presence pulling back as if he’s afraid he’s frightened him.
“…Did I unsettle you?” DoomBringer asks, his voice quieter, careful.
“No! No, it’s just—” Elliot waves his hands quickly, a weak laugh catching in his throat. “Before this, I was still at my dad’s burial. Haha… what a day, huh?”
DoomBringer stares at him in disbelief. “Telamon did not even wait for your father to be laid to rest…?”
Elliot sniffs, quickly averting his eyes. He tries hard not to look frail in front of the Warden. The last thing he wants is getting blamed for pity points.
“Ah, that man, I swear…” DoomBringer rubs at his temple, muttering beneath his breath. “He's more socially inept than I am. All he knows is swordplay and arrogance.” His helm tilts upward, voice firm but not unkind. “Condolences, Elliot Builder. I’ll give my coworker a stern talking-to.”
Elliot feels himself grow awkward, posture curling in on itself like a cooked shrimp. “...I’d rather you don’t. I’m fine, really.”
“You’re being lenient again.” DoomBringer exhales, heavy and tired. The single word makes Elliot flinch.
“Anyway—uh, so what happens to me now?” he blurts, eager to change the subject.
“I’ve come to one conclusion.”
Elliot leans forward, tense. “You… you believe what I said?”
“Did you lie?”
“Well, no! No, I didn’t!” Elliot shakes his head so fast it almost looks comical, enough to make DoomBringer rumble a low chuckle.
“I just didn’t expect it,” Elliot admits, cheeks burning. DoomBringer believed him so quickly that he almost doubts the Warden’s sense of fairness. He expected harsh, drawn-out ordeals. Shouldn’t he have been grilled until every last detail spilled out? The ease of it unsettles him, makes him wonder if he’s being humored like a child.
Not that Elliot isn’t thankful—he is—but gratitude tangles with guilt in his chest. What if DoomBringer is wrong to trust him? What if sparing him now just proves Telamon right later? The thought makes his throat tighten.
Still, for the first time since being dragged into this cursed place, Elliot feels like the ground beneath him isn’t slipping. DoomBringer’s words had weight, but also a strange steadiness, like iron that refuses to bend. Elliot clings to that, even as doubt whispers otherwise.
“You’ve let multiple exploiters go free,” DoomBringer says, his tone shifting back into solemn gravity. “So it’s only right for you to correct that mistake. Lure them in. Bring them here to the Banlands, where they belong.”
DoomBringer lets the words hang in the air, giving Elliot time to let the thought settle. The silence stretches, heavy as stone. The faint creak of the barren house and the distant howls of the Banlands make it feel like the world itself is waiting for his answer.
Elliot stares at his hands, twisting them in his lap. His stomach knots. Lure them? Bring them here? He’d never even been able to look those kids in the eye when they smashed tables and set things on fire—he just swept up the pieces after. The idea of handing them over to this place feels like dropping them into a pit they’d never crawl out of.
Still… he can’t deny DoomBringer’s words have stuck to him like burrs. Leniency. A world that doesn’t change. His father’s voice echoes dimly—be kind even in peril—but right now, that sounds less like wisdom and more like a curse.
When Elliot finally lifts his head, he finds DoomBringer watching him with that unblinking patience, as though the Warden could wait forever for his answer.
“If I don’t agree…?” Elliot asks carefully.
“Then I will have no choice but to move this to a proper trial,” DoomBringer says with a heavy sigh. “But with Telamon so hell-bent on seeing you guilty, it will not be an easy process. He’ll press every weakness, twist every word. The experience will be…far from smooth.”
“Wait—why not just hold a trial in the first place? Why give me an exception?” Elliot asks, suspicion edging into his voice.
“To spare us both the headache,” DoomBringer exhales, the weight in his tone unmistakable. “I’m sure you don’t want your reputation stained. You’re the next heir to your father’s pizzeria, aren’t you?”
Elliot blinks, startled. “...You know me?”
“Your face is in every commercial,” DoomBringer replies flatly, as though the answer should be obvious.
Before Elliot can respond, the door creaks open. Telamon strides inside, muttering under his breath about Builderman’s endless demands. He dusts off his sleeves, irritation written all over his face.
Then his sharp gaze snaps to Elliot. A sly grin tugs at his mouth. “So. Are you ready for the trial, little Builder? Ready to stand alone before judgment? To explain to all of Robloxia why you cowered instead of acted?” He leans closer, voice smooth as venom. “Or will you crumble before the first question is asked?”
Elliot’s throat works, his lips parting to defend himself—but DoomBringer cuts in before he can sputter a word. “There won’t be a trial. We’ve already talked it out.”
Telamon freezes, his wings stiffening. “…You’ve already talked it out?” His voice echoes in the small room, thick with disbelief. “Without a proper trial you so desperately asked for? Without ME?”
DoomBringer senses the sudden hostility radiating from him, the air prickling with the static charge of Telamon’s temper. He shifts his weight back a step, the floorboards creaking beneath his armored boots. One hand instinctively adjusts his grip on the Banhammer, though he keeps the weapon lowered—caution, not aggression. His head tilts, studying Telamon.
“Now’s not the time to rage over this,” DoomBringer warns.
“I am not raging.” Telamon’s jaw tightens, his words grated through his teeth. “I simply find it offensive that you omitted me from a case I was directly involved in. Do you think me lesser, DoomBringer? That you can dance around my judgment? That you do not take my concerns seriously?”
“Be glad I’ve spared you two days of babysitting a citizen,” DoomBringer says firmly, one hand raised as if soothing a wild beast. “We’ve come to an agreement.”
“And this agreement is one I refuse to abide,” Telamon snarls, his voice booming. “That is MY criminal. How dare you.”
Elliot sinks lower into the sofa cushions. If this is how gods argue, he’d rather take his co-workers bickering about who burned the garlic bread any day. He doesn't want to know what war between them feels like.
“Your criminal is in my realm,” DoomBringer bites back, his face hardening. “And I have the right to judge as I deem fit, trial or no. Elliot Builder did not wield any illegal GUI, nor was he involved in public destruction. We’ve settled on a fair resolution.”
“Pray tell.” Telamon straightens, wings flaring despite his attempt to keep his posture pristine. “What is this so-called fair agreement?”
“Elliot will help us catch exploiters. A lure, some would call it. Once his task is complete, he walks free.”
Telamon stares, unblinking. Then—he laughs. A sharp, jagged sound that sends chills through Elliot. It builds into a manic cackle, filling the room like a death knell. Elliot shudders, certain this is the last thing Telamon’s opponents hear before his sword falls.
“Is this a joke?” Telamon bellows.
“Would you rather lock him here for eternity?” DoomBringer fires back. “Meanwhile the real criminals run rampant, slipping through gaps in our security? Keep in mind—the only reason there are gaps at all is because the engineers of Robloxia lack competence.”
Telamon stills. His voice drops low, no longer angry but almost… dangerous. “You dare lump me with them?”
For a long moment, DoomBringer does not answer. Then Telamon exhales sharply, shoulders loosening just enough. “…Very well. I am here to bring change to Robloxia. Change drives progress. Consider this another change I will allow… for now.”
DoomBringer lets out a visible sigh of relief. Elliot exhales too—if DoomBringer’s relieved, then it must be good.
Telamon tilts his head, eyes sliding toward Elliot like a hawk catching sight of prey. “You’ve made yourself a home. And an ally, it seems.”
“…” Elliot shrinks further into the sofa, shoulders curling, as though the cushions might swallow him whole if he just sank deep enough.
Telamon strolls across the room, every step deliberate. His back dips slightly, wings tucked awkwardly to keep from scraping the ceiling. Even bent, he carries himself with an air of arrogance, fingertips trailing along the barren walls as though the place were his to inspect. “What a bothersome day,” he muses, almost sing-song. Then his grin sharpens. “But one that will make for a far more interesting future. It’s almost… comparable to those foolish Robloxian films about undercover spies. Except this time the spy is sitting right here, wriggling in his seat.”
Elliot swallows hard, his throat dry.
“I’d appreciate it if you stopped trying to intimidate him.” DoomBringer exhales through his nose, weariness edging his voice. “Go back to your realm. Your presence is no longer needed. Elliot will start his task…soon.”
Telamon’s grin widens. “No longer needed? Don’t be ridiculous. I still am. Even you agreed.”
DoomBringer’s brows knit. His grip shifts subtly on the Banhammer’s haft. “Agreed to what, exactly?”
“To that.” Telamon juts his chin toward Elliot, still sunken into the sofa. “That’s MY criminal sitting in your house. He is my responsibility.”
DoomBringer’s eyes flick toward Elliot, a fleeting but heavy look of apology. He should’ve chosen his words more carefully. He's left an opening for Telamon to twist. But everyone gets caught in the heat of the moment, even Wardens.
Elliot only blinks back at him, uncertain if he’s supposed to feel reassured or more nervous than before.
“Now, where are the beds? I’m sure your house at least has one,” Telamon says, strolling about as if he owns the place.
DoomBringer straightens, helm tilting. “…You’re sleeping here—?”
“He’s sleeping here!?” Elliot blurts, springing up from the sofa like he just sat on a spike. His voice cracks halfway through, and he immediately regrets drawing Telamon’s attention.
Telamon smirks, wings flicking lazily. “Of course I am. Someone has to keep watch over the little criminal, don’t you think?”