Anything But Not Everything

by ess_xie

Summary:

You're a songbird who has lost it's ability to sing.

Now trapped in a cage you call your 'eternal purgatory', you are forced to kill people against your will and live with people who aren't exactly the best people on Roblox.

Your only wish is to escape your prison and return to the arms of your loved ones--but will you stay sane long enough to do that, or will you go rogue and remain in your captor's cage?

Notes:

HEYLOOOOOOOOO!!! crappy story cuz i pulled the plot from outta my ass so :(( this is for funsies too so it wont be as high quality as other fanfics on here. probably bad eng cuz im too lazy to read my own works :3 i js really needa practice my writing skills guys cuz i SUCK bum. will probably be abandoned cuz of school and other events i cant disclose 3 also kinda self indulgent so meh. ALSO MAY BE OOC (actually not maybe it WILL be) enjoy ig?

Chapter 1: ...

-.༺☥༻.-

“You can do anything but not everything,” is what grandmother always said—but you didn’t want to believe that, did you?

So you became what you wanted. You did what you wanted.

You became a singer and sang your heart out. You provided for the people you loved most—your sister, your brother, your grandmother, your friends; you spoke into the mic words that others couldn’t. You did something good—at least you thought you did.

But people pay more mind to wrongs than rights.

Don’t we, my little songbird?

Chapter 2

Notes:

sigh. the things i do instead of homework. i have a research paper due this friday and i havent done SHAAATTTT. also idk if this is short or long. uhhhh cuz according to my gdoc *pushes up glasses using index finger and speaks in a nerdy voice* this work is 6 pages long. i cant even write essays that are 2 pages long twin

It’s been… how many days now? Well, you’d never be able to tell due to the lack of materials to tell time—save for the grandfather clock in your room, but you doubt it’s even accurate.

You start humming a familiar tune, that of your favorite song.

You’ve been sent here, to rot in your eternal purgatory for the pleasure of whom you’ve been told was known as ‘The Spectre’, for Telamon knows how long and for what reason. You were as obedient as a Robloxian can get! Right..?

The sound of rhythmic knocking snaps you out of your trance before a glitchy voice is heard outside your door.

“W-w-w4k3y, w4k3y, s-S-s0ngb1rd.” Noli.

He’d been the one who found you in this… otherworldly dimension. Thankfully, he convinced the others to let you stay in this cabin, away from the others until you were ready to face the present; though, you think he’s just doing this for the sh#ts and giggles.

You groan as you get up from bed, your figure leaving ink stains on your bedsheets. You sigh, scratching your head out of annoyance. You’ll fix it later.

“Wh4t i$ 1t,” you ask.

Noli looks you up and down and stares at you. “Y-y0u l00k l1k3 s-sH#t.”

Gasp. No you do not. Well, maybe a little bit. You aren’t exactly what people would call ‘presentable’; afterall, you’re not on stage anymore—you’re in hell.

“4Nd? 1’ll cl34n up l4t3r.”

Noli sighs before walking away, motioning for you to follow. As you fall in step with him, he briefs you about your current situation, though you barely understand what he’s saying due to the constant glitch and stutter in his voice.

“W-w-w3ll, 1t h4sN’t b33n t00 l0ng s1nc3 y-y-y0u’v3 4rr1v3d, r1gHt?” You nod.

“Hm-m-m. 1 g-gu3ss t0 sUmm-4-4-4r1z3 0Ur cUrr3NT s1t-t-u4t1on, w3’r3 k1ll3rs hun-t1-t1ng f4m1Li4r f4c3s c-c-c4ll3d sUrv1v0Rs.”

The color drains from your face. “K1LL3R$!? 1 c4n’t k1ll f0r th3 L1f3 of m3!”

The man—or corpse, whichever he identified as—glancing at you states, “T-t-th4t w0nd-d3rfuLL ‘Sp3ctre’ W1LL m-m4k3 U$3 0f w-w-wh4t3v3r y0u h4v3.”

“Th3 f### d03s th4t m34n?!” You half-ask, half-yell, earning yourself a shrug from the man in front of you.

“4s 1-1-if 1 kn0w. N-n-ow g3t y0ur 4$$ 1N. Th3y’ll 3xpl41n th3 r3sT 1-1-1ns1d3.” He leads you into a three-story cabin. It would’ve felt cozy if you weren’t in what Robloxians would normally call ‘eternal damnation’.

Upon entering the humble abode, you see figures sat by the fire; three to be exact.

“Hey…! No fair.” A red demon-child yells, probably towards his pink and blue playmates.

“How is it not fair?! You landed on my property. MY PROPERTY-” The blue one shouts.

The pink one, looking bored out of her mind, cuts him off. “This is why we don’t play monopoly! We should just play castle!”

As if uniting to go against the pink one’s suggestion, both yell ‘NO’ and the three continue bickering. It’s amusing to say the least; reminds you of your siblings at home.

Oh, siblings.

Will you even be able to go back? And if you do, will they still remember you?

You sigh, pushing those thoughts to the back of your head. Noli, seeing you stare at the three, snaps you out of your daze.

“3-3-3aRTh t0 s-S-s0ngb1rd. Y0u-u-u-u th3r3?” You flinch a bit before nodding, following him upstairs to what seems to be a designated room for discussions. A few others are already sitting—a yellow, corrupted-looking man nods your way and you follow suit. One of his arms and a portion of his face is consumed by some kind of ink.

Hm. Is he like you?

Aside from him, there are two other figures present: a green entity who looks like they’d swallow a flashlight with the way you can see their bones and a man with a fedora that obscured his eyes.

Noli flops down on one of the couches, patting the space next to him for you to sit on. As you take a seat, the yellow man speaks up.

“So, you the newcomer?” You nod slowly, sizing him up and down. His figure is muscular, similar to that of a Mafia boss. “The name’s Mafioso. Nice ta meet’ya, toots.” Sigh. Guess your guessing skills are still in tip-top shape, eh?

“Do they talk?” The green bean asks Noli, who nods at their question. “Then speak up, I don’t bite.”

You smirk to yourself at her comment. Well, you look like you do bite, good sir, you think to yourself.

“Th3 n4m3’s [Y/N] V4l3nt1n3. Pl34sUr3 t0 m33t y0u.”

“Y-y-y0u c4n 4L$0 c4LL ‘3M ‘s-S-s0ngb1rd’. Th3 ch1ck’$ a f0rm3r s1ng3r.” Noli chimes in, earning him a glare from you.

“Another glitchy voice. Great.” Okay, Mr. Green Bean over here is not that friendly.

“Don’t mind ‘em, toots.” Mafioso affirms.

“Y34H! 1x i$ a b-b-b-1t 0f a gr0Uch bUT th4t’s jU$t th3 w4y s-S-sh3 i$.” Noli adds.

“S0, 4b0ut this…” You drag out, what is this place exactly?

“Hell?” Noli continues. Ding, ding, ding! Your guess streak is now two. Amazing, just wonderful.

“...” Why’d you have to be right about being in hell? “Yeah, hell…”

Mafioso coughs, “It ain’t that bad once ya get used to it. Hey, we’ll even teach ya the basics of what goes on in ‘n outta rounds.”

“Rounds?” You repeat. What the actual f### does he mean by rounds?

“Rounds simply put are times when ‘The Spectre’ sends us to specific places to kill survivors.” 1x speaks up, his raspy voice oddly calming you. “There are times between rounds, such as right now, which let us rest.”

Continuing 1x’s explanation, Mafioso adds. “Each round has a chosen killer. Selection process is random so you’ll never know ‘til the last second,” the yellow man says, a grin playing on his face.

Oof. How off-putting.

Noli asks, “D-d-d0 ‘y4 kn0w y0ur m0v3s3t y3t?” To which you reply a simple “no” to. The corpse-ish man before you shrugs before saying, “W3LL, y-y-y0u’ll f1gur3 it s00n 3n0uGh.”

As if on cue, a timer appears and starts to tick. “F1v3 m1nUt3s?”

Crash. The doors to the room burst open as the red child you saw earlier flies and hits the wall. “Ow…”

Yeah, ow. That looks like it definitely hurt, and why are so many things happening all at once?

Your companions merely sigh; looks like a common occurrence to them.

With the red child comes a masked man. “It’s a timer until the next round starts,” he says, answering your question.

You stare at him with a blank face. Who the f### are you now?

“Slasher,” he says, as if reading your mind; though, that wouldn’t be surprising since you’re in another dimension.

“[Y/N] V4l3nt1n3.”

“Valentine?” He asks. “My f4th3r’s a h34rtthr0b,” you say smiling. They don’t have to know he made your mother’s heart throb with pain too.

Turning your focus to the now seated chili baby, you find that he’s been… observing you? Didn’t know he could do that—or think at all to be honest. He looks like he’s just happy to be here.

“You look familiar,” he says, his brows furrowing, as if trying to remember where or when he saw you.

You too, furrow your eyebrows. When the hell did you see him? Surely you’d remember an encounter with a red chili with horns and a tail; plus if you did, it would probably be when you weren’t performing for a crowd. Who lets minors in casinos anyways?

“4-4-4r3 y0U s-S-ur3 y0u g-g-gOt th3 r1gHt p3rs0n k1dd?” Noli asks.

“Yeah! She even has those marks on her hands!”

Mark? Oh, that.

You look down at your hands and see what the chili child’s talking about.

On your palms are oddly shaped marks caused by your illness. You remember how it appeared due to how painful it was—who could forget such a traumatic experience?

-.༺☥༻.-

It was a great day outside when such a horrible thing happened to you.

You were 24 when it happened—at the peak of your musical career, and just a few months before everything went downhill and you were sent here. After a weekend of performing non-stop, you decided to pay your sick mother and your grandmother a visit.

It was as normal as any other visit you made; your siblings, Exo and Alexis, were there as well to help around the house. Exo and your grandmother were in the kitchen while you and Alexis talked to your mother, catching up and just talking.

As you conversed with the two, you felt an acidic taste rise to your throat. The liquid bubbling inside you was thick—you couldn’t breathe. Seeing your expression, your sister checks in on you.

“But you don’t look fine,” Alexis worriedly says. “I’m fine, Lexi-”

Sh#t.

You vomit what appears to be some kind of acidic ink onto your hands, the burning sensation too much for you as your eyes start to tear up.

Your head is spinning, your vision is blurry, and your ears are ringing.

Your sister is shaking you as she calls for your older brother who rushes in with a wet cloth to wipe away your inky puke. If it were just a normal one, you’d never be able to live this incident down, but you’d prefer that over having to give up your dreams any day.

Your hands were permanently marked after that incident, but you didn’t let that stop you.

After a week’s break you were back on your feet, ready to sing for people, but something was off. Occasionally, you’d strain your voice, rendering you unable to sing for a few days. This continued until you physically could not due to that same inky bile that scarred your hands—only this time, less acidic.

You coughed ink every time you felt nervous, which was every time before you went up on stage—and every time this happened, you’d feel more nervous, causing more and more ink to spew out of your mouth.

You lost your job that month. Management said that your illness was delaying performances and irritated guests who had come to hear your song; but you didn’t stop there. You wanted your life back, so you went to doctors—so many doctors, but none of them could cure what you had. They could only tell you what was to come.

They said that it would slowly get worse, but only when you experienced great emotion.

First it would only be when you were stressed; then it progressed to anger, fear, joy—until your tears were ink themselves, blurring your vision even more than normal tears.

You slowly spiralled into nothing. After losing your passion and your ability to express yourself normally, you became a shell of who you used to be. The shy but expressive child your family knew was gone. They died right before their eyes and they could do nothing about it.

You couldn’t blame them though, they did everything to support you—and you’re grateful for that.

You just wished time would go back so you could be normal again—so you could live normally again.

But not everyone gets a happily-ever-after. It just so happens that you were part of those unlucky Robloxians who didn’t get one.

How unfortunate for you.

-.༺☥༻.-

“Ah, I remember now!” The chili child exclaims, snapping you back from your thoughts. “You’re the singer my dad watches! He loves your voice. Could you sing for me sometime?”

You’re confused by what the boy tells you. Your performances were never recorded nor broadcasted, how could his father have watched your shows?

“1’m s0rRy k1dd, 1 th1nk y0U h4v3 th3 wr0nG p3rs0n. 1 d1d us3 t0 s1ng, bUT th3y w3r3 n3v3R br04dc4st3d,” you explain, leaning forward to get closer to his level on the floor.

“No. I’m sure it was you!” Damn, what a persistent little boy.

“Relax, c00lkidd. Whether or not the newcomer’s a singer or not, you shouldn’t press them about stuff like this,” 1x says, saving you from what you think would be a never-ending rant on how you are that person he’s talking about and how he isn’t just imagining things.

“Fine… I’m sorry.”

“1t’s 4lr1ghT, k1dd,” you say, waving at the pouting child to gesture that all was fine.

“Looks like time’s running out. Let’s see who this round’s killer is,” Mafioso says as the timer runs down.

Five, four, three, two, one.

This round’s killer is: [Y/N] Valentine.

Notes:

Ok so clarification on mc cuz i feel the need to put this here:

- mc (reader) has this ink disease that starts out as coughs of ink during times of stress. it soon progresses to affect the person whenever they feel strong emotions (eg.: ink tears when crying, ink sweat or smth when nervous/panicking, ink enveloping the person when mad, etc.)

- this ink disease also causes ink to leak out of body entrances (or wtv u call them) so the person doesnt get ink overload inside of them (eg.: ink leaking out of nose, ears, eyes, pores, etc.) << this is why mc's bed is stained in the beginning

- the ink was only painful for mc in the beginning cuz all the acidity was from their stomach acids coming up with the ink