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007n7 stood inside the main cabin, staring out the window. Outside, almost everyone was gathered around a campfire, socializing as normal. When the change to their surroundings first happened, 007n7 had joined them and stood nearby, just in case there was some sort of new threat lurking. Not too close, though. Never too close.
But now, it’s been a couple of weeks, and the retired exploiter has realized something. Since everyone’s begun gathering outside after rounds, he has the cabin to himself. 007n7 could exist without disturbing the other survivors, and even if it pushed him farther away to not join them, the peace was something he was grateful for. The Spectre’s ‘kindness’ truly wasn’t exclusive to the majority.
The retired exploiter finds himself having to force his eyes away from the other survivors, who are gathered around in their new ‘costumes’ that they had been given for the holiday. 007n7 wasn’t wearing his at the moment, despite Chance’s compliments of the vampire outfit. He didn’t feel comfortable in it, since Elliot already had his on… Man, he really couldn’t do anything without potentially upsetting someone. That thought leads him down another rabbit hole in his head, though.
Pushing himself away from the window, 007n7 takes a seat on the couch he rarely finds himself on, the plush surface foreign. He’s almost never inside the cabin, save for the time in-between rounds, so it was a welcome change… The other survivors—save for a few exceptions—didn’t take too kindly to his presence. Never hostile, but just… He doesn’t know how to explain it. Untrusting? On-edge? Something along those lines, at least. Even his very presence seemed to upset them…
Everything 007n7 did upset them. If he dropped items, he’d never receive a thanks unless they felt obligated to do so. But usually, he’d be greeted with either silence, or a comment about how someone else needed it more. And whenever he’d be too slow with generators because of his lack of glasses, they’d either give him a comment about the time, or ignore him more than they already do. Mess up a cloneblock? The survivor’s death was pinned on him. Mess up a bodyblock and die? They’d hardly even acknowledge that he’d died trying to save them. The unspoken expectations were infuriating. He didn’t want to be praised for the bare minimum, but... Something—anything...
The brown-haired survivor sighs aloud in the silence. What was the point anymore? 007n7 tried to help so much. Tried so hard to prove that he was trustworthy. But no matter what he did, it never made a difference. Why even bother anymore? Why even try to survive? They were never getting out of here. This hell never ended. Dying did nothing, in or outside of rounds; the retired exploiter had found that out the hard way. Losing was shameful, but when he won, he was seen as nothing but a selfish coward who hid all round. Again, it was infuriating. Draining. Exhausting…
007n7’s eyes flick to the grandfather clock off to the side. He knows what’s happening. Knows he’s spiraling. Knows he should seat himself in front of the furniture piece before he completely loses it. But why? Maybe losing his mind for good would be better than this. No more pain, no more mistakes, no more regrets, just the absence of thought and consciousness… Maybe that was the Spectre’s goal all along. To see how long it would take for them to realize that madness was the solution to infinity. If you can’t tell the passage of time, what harm can eternity do?
007n7 hated to admit it, but he felt like this was for the better. He couldn’t be blamed for not trying anymore. Plus, it would give the killers free time. At least he’d be doing something right. Besides, they usually deserved it… 1x was created with no hope of ever being able to properly feel, John Doe is just a maddened and corrupted man, Guest 666 doesn’t seem to be sane either, Slasher likely has his own motives for revenge, and C00lkidd… Oh, C00lkidd…
His son didn’t even know what he was doing. He couldn’t. To his kid, it was all just a game… And it’d be best if it stayed that way. C00lkidd wasn’t doing anything wrong; he was just misunderstood. Too young to know, and blinded by the Spectre’s ‘rules’, the poor child didn’t understand the situation. He just wants to play… He shouldn’t have to go through this...
Maybe if 007n7 had just given him more attention, or took the night off to watch him… If he’d let go of his sentimentality and codependency on the C00lgui and truly destroyed it… There was so much he could’ve done, so many ways he could’ve saved his beloved son…
But he didn’t. He didn’t do anything. What kind of parent couldn’t even take care of their kid? He truly was a failure. He couldn’t fully commit to being an exploiter, he couldn’t raise C00lkidd properly, he couldn’t keep a job for more than a year, he couldn’t get rid of unhealthy addictions, he couldn’t watch over his son, he couldn’t help his teammates properly, he couldn’t even help himself most of the time. He really was incompetent, wasn’t he?
007n7’s eyes lock onto the wooden floor. He wasn’t useful. He couldn’t save anyone, not even himself. The least he could do was nothing, because trying only ever made things worse…
Maybe they were right about him. Maybe he never truly changed. Maybe he’s still that same, egotistical, selfish, insecure, hopeless excuse of a person he was all those years ago. That would explain everything that was wrong with him. And then, at least, he could return to something terribly familiar: destruction.
Before he knows it, the survivor’s vision begins to fade at the edges. He feels like he’s about to pass out, but from experience, he knows that’s not the case. When people go insane here, they just stand motionless and stare at nothing, sometimes babbling senselessly about their lives from before. The ramblings range from family, to employment, to friends, to partners, really anything you can think of. And whenever they come back to their senses, they can’t remember anything from in-between. But maybe knowing less in this situation is better. It means you don’t have to think about everything you’ve done wrong in your life…
Before 007n7 loses consciousness, though, he hears the front door of the cabin click open. The other survivors were probably coming back. He’d end up troubling them with moving him over to the clock. He was making them go out of their way to help him… So, with the last scraps of his rapidly deteriorating consciousness, the brown-haired survivor mumbles out a quiet apology—likely inaudible, and pointless either way, yet there nonetheless.
And then everything fades into thoughtless static.
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Twotime opened the front door to the main cabin, ducking slightly to fit through the doorway that they were just barely too tall for. The entryway was just a small inconvenience though, because the rest of the cabin was plentiful in vertical space.
But their height was nearly the last thing on their mind as the cultist’s black eyes immediately landed on the familiar demonic survivor hunched over on the couch, muttering senselessly to himself... An unexpected sight, but not an alien one. This madness was becoming more frequent as of late but had mostly paused for the ongoing ‘event’.
As the cultist steps closer, they hear 007n7 mumble a constant stream of apologies addressed to nobody in specific. But, considering the exploiter’s usual ramblings about his adoptive son while maddened, Twotime assumes that they are apologies to C00lkidd. A shame the two weren’t members of The Spawn; if that were the case, it’s likely the young child never would have left.
“Sorry... Sorry... I’m... M’ sorry...” 007n7 muttered endlessly, words hardly more than incomprehensible gibberish. Empty eyes stare at the ground yet see nothing. The others couldn’t seem to focus on anything while insane: a common trait shared amongst those not under The Divine Spawn’s protection. Fortunately for Twotime, in return for their devotion, The Spawn has not yet allowed them to fall prey to the Spectre’s mind games.
Looking down, Twotime contemplates how to act. In these situations, their fellow survivors have said to inform Guest 1337 as to the location and condition of the senseless survivor, so that the soldier may carry and position them to sit before the grandfather clock. But this sort of thing was always different with 007n7, for clear reasons.
The cultist has observed how wary the others are of the retired exploiter. And though they too could never condone exploiting, as it goes against the will of The Spawn, 007n7 is clearly being forced to continue these vile sins only in order to survive due to the actions of the being that has trapped them all here. Otherwise, he would not be so opposed to using his unholy technology aside from when necessary. Surely The Holy Spawn, in all its grace, could forgive him when this comes to pass, if he is to show enough devotion to its greatness...
Thinking back to the current situation, Twotime finds themselves wondering about something. While it is clear that the others aren’t comfortable around 007n7, they’ve also noticed that the demonic exploiter feels the same, often avoiding his fellow survivors. If the cultist were to go retrieve Guest 1337 now, some others would likely follow, possibly disrupting 007n7’s recovery. That would not be preferable.
So, in a moment of sheer brilliance, the cultist approaches the other survivor. With only a moment of preparation, they use their skinny, scarred arms to lift the larger man, though with a great amount of effort. The Spawn truly must have blessed them just then, because they should have crumpled under the immense weight of 007n7.
(7 isn’t morbidly obese, Twotime just isn’t strong)
With minimal stumbling, the taller finally manages to carry the exploiter about 5 feet, over to the still-ticking clock, and nearly drops him when setting him down... Perhaps they should have thought more about how they would carry the other, rather than should. But what’s done is done, they suppose, and it worked out in the end either way.
“... Hm,” Twotime hums, taking a step back and observing the scene. 007n7 was staring at the ground, still muttering quiet apologies. Should this not begin his recovery? Usually, the person stares into the face of the clock and slowly regains sentience. Why was he not? They themselves usually aren’t around whenever this happens, only ever seeing their fellow survivors sitting in front of the grandfather clock after rounds. The cultist supposes that this is a consequence of not socializing with the others.
“Perhaps..,” they mutter to themselves, reaching a lanky arm out to lift 007n7’s chin. Twotime blinks in surprise when their attempt actually succeeds, the exploiter’s brown eyes locking onto the clock, and moving in time with the ticking second arm. In an instant, the ramblings are silenced. “Ah,” the white-skinned survivor says aloud. That had been easier than expected. Now all that was left was to wait for the passage of time.
So, already having performed their rituals to The Spawn a few times today (if you could even call their night-cycles days), Twotime is left with nearly nothing better to do. The tall cultist seats themselves on the arm of the nearest couch, finding it more comfortable than the worn seat itself, and watches over 007n7 while the minutes tick by. It would only be a couple more hours before the rest of the survivors made their way inside for the night, after all. By then, the exploiter may even have awoken.