Chapter Text
Chance does a lot of things. They flip their coin, smooth talk their way out of uncomfortable situations, put on an excellent poker face, give winning smiles to dismiss concern. They are a jack of all trades and a master of none; they are an enigma in their own right. They are a masterful liar and a great shot.
One thing Chance does not do is get sick.
Ever since they were little, their immune system has been one doctors constantly complimented them for. Most likely due to the constant dotting of their overbearing parents, but even after they (got kicked out) left the nest they kept up with the familiar dietary and self-care habits. It was an easy thing to uphold- they’ve always preferred to have familiarity towards what they do.
The only time he’d gotten sick was a long, long time ago- and he’d hardly count that as an actual illness.
“Alcohol poisoning again?” iTrapped sighs, disappointment dripping off his words and burning Chance’s skin. “You’re such a deadbeat, you know that? Creators above, you’re going to drink yourself to death one of these days.”
They ignore the insults in favor of focusing on how iTrapped holds their hair back, puking once more into the toilet.
All of this to say Chance hasn’t felt genuinely sick in a while. Which makes it exceedingly difficult to recognize symptoms.
When he “wakes up” into a round, the first thing he notices is how the world feels like it’s off-kilter. The wave of nausea that usually queues him into the start of a round remains inside it with a vengeance, and he instantly grips the shoulder of whoever’s next to him to try and get his bearings.
Whoever they’re grabbing onto with a grip like their life depends on it is merciful, helping right them into a proper standing position. They turn, ready to thank their saving grace, when the fast motion gives them so much whiplash they need to be corrected again.
“Are you alright, Chance?” The voice- which a distant part of his recognizes is Guest’s, beneath the fog that’s blurred his mind- has a hilt of concern at its edges, but stays relatively neutral. “You look rather pale.”
“Haha-! Uh, I’m fine, boss!” Blearily, the other sentinel rights themself into what they believe to be a standing position, trying to play off their intense grip as a clap on the shoulder. “Just that pre-round nausea, you know? Sometimes it really gets ya, don’t it?”
Guest furrows his eyebrows. “You never call me boss.”
Chance goes rigid. In the cotton that’d blocked his ears, Guests voice had sounded eerily similar to a certain someone’s-
“You’re looking quite pale, Ace. Everything alright?”
-who he elects to not think about right now. Instead, he laughs again, an ingenuine and pitiful thing. “Well, there’s a first time for everything, right?” He elbows Guest in his side, ignoring how he misses the first time he tries. “What, you’d rather me call you colonel?”
The corners of Guests' eyes crinkle as his lips upturn in a slight pout, the expression commonly found on him when he’s concerned. Chance darts their eyes away as if the man beside him could even see them, and his eyes catch on a visibly wounded 007n7 running away from this round's killer.
“Ey, maybe it's time to stop being such a worry-wart and get to your job, huh?” Chance lightly slaps him on the shoulder with the back of his hand, using his head to gesture over to where the retired hacker is running to, the green killer hot on his tail. He turns his head (although a lot slower this time, Creators forbid he makes the same mistake) to Guest with a grin he hopes looks reassuring and not like a grimace. “I’ll be fine. I swear it. It’s just taking me a bit more to adjust, alright?”
Guest regards them for just a second longer until a yell can be heard from 007n7, to which he caves and nods his head. “I trust you. Take it easy for this round though, okay?”
Chance nods, keeping up the expression until Guest has left his blurry vision. He heaves out a sigh, feeling a rampant chill hit him with a vengeance. Thankfully, a generator happened to be right near the location he’d spawned into, so he allows himself to collapse to the ground next to it.
They try their best to get some of it done, but the world continues to sway and spin from under them and their vision is still littered with dark spots from earlier. Creators above, this moment feels worse to them than most times they’ve ever died in a round. They keep their grip firm on two wires as they wrack their brain for what could’ve possibly caused them to feel like absolute shit.
Well, he attempts to, anyway. His thoughts are muffled in an inescapable brain fog that makes thinking feel like lifting a 200 pound weight. He squints his eyes as if it’d help him focus, but the result just has him staring dumbly at the wires in front of him, trying to force the neurons in his brain to fire.
It's only when a blade slices directly into their side that they jolt, although seconds after what would be considered a normal reaction time. They stand up, dizziness stunning them in time for another hit. They cough, blood and bile scratching at their throat and escaping through their mouth, and they’re positive this is another death to be tallied until Two Time stabs the killer in the back, promptly taking the attention off of Chance and onto the cultist.
He sees their permanent grin soften slightly as they give him a glance before running off, leading the green killer away from his current location.
They can’t help but slump in relief. The idea of having to run away to a new spot mortified them.
Bleeding, dizzy, and vision blackening, he crouches back down at the generator, staring pathetically at the wires as if he can will his mind to make them move.
“Admins almighty, Chance!”
A voice from behind them. They groan, the harsh tone of whoever’s speaking digging at their eardrums and shooting through their skull. Once they turn around and see Elliot, however, a pit of guilt forms in their stomach.
Did he just think Elliot’s voice was ear grating?
“Elliot! Hey…” They grin, lazing back from the generator and flipping their coin to seem casual. “What’s, uh, what’s up?”
Elliot is next to them in an instant, a scowl on his lips in upset. “You don’t just “what’s up” me when I can see your stomach, Chance!”
Oh. Chance looks down to see his own organs spilling out from under him. How had he not noticed?
“How did you not notice?!” Elliot takes the words directly out of Chance’s head, angrily handing him a pizza and getting a medkit ready.
The sentinel in question huffs out a breath meant to be a laugh. “Sorry. I’m just, uh, not really all there right now.”
They take a bite of the pizza as Elliot grumbles, the way the food item instantly dissolves in their mouth sending another wave of nausea through them. Creators above, can they pull it together already?
“I knew something was off when I hadn’t seen you at all,” Elliot sighs, carefully wrapping a bandage around Chance’s midriff to attempt to keep the organs inside, “you’re the first to keep track of who’s in the round and who isn’t. I’d assumed you died, Chance.”
The sentinel scoffs. “Sorry to have you waste your thoughts on me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Elliot’s voice is a bit less rough around the edges, softening in sympathy. “If I didn’t worry about you, there’d be a problem.”
Chance gives him a sly grin. “What, are you a mother duck looking after his hatchlings?”
Elliot rolls his eyes. “Shut up, would you? Once I get done bandaging you up, you can go back to distracting the killer. I was originally going to give this medkit to Guest, you know.”
In the feverish and hardly-there state of Chance’s mind, he interprets the joking command as an order.
“There’s the target. Distract them, Ace.”
“Oh, you don’t need to bandage me up for me to be a distraction.” They grin, holding up their flintlock.
Elliot’s eyes squint in confusion. “The hell are you talking about? The killer’s studs away, you can’t hit them from here.”
Chance tilts his head. “I’m not aiming for the killer.”
Before Elliot can respond, he sloppily aims his gun and fires-
-directly at him.
The man in question flinches, though it seems he was never actually hit by a bullet. An empty chamber, then. Or maybe it jammed?
“What the hell was that?!” Elliot practically screeches, the words like nails on a chalkboard to Chance’s ears. Well, they think it’s still Elliot. He’s become less and less robloxian and more and more blurred blobs. “Did you just try to shoot me?!”
Chance laughs. His own voice scratches at his throat and claws out of his mouth. “What, never played russian roulette before?”
The abstract shape that Elliot’s transformed into freezes, ceasing all movement. “What.”
Chance shrugs. “You tell me to take care of the guy, I distract him!”
Elliot’s confusion and upset is visible on his face, and he presses his lips together. “Since when has be a distraction become synonymous with russian roulette?”
Chance is feeling more and more lightheaded, and they doubt it’s just from the blood loss. They lean against the wall with a grin. “Just go with it, okay? I’m a natural at this.” They put their gun up to their head. “Look, I’ll do it too!”
Elliot pales. “Chance, put the gun-“
Before his sentence can finish, the gun is fired, bullet shooting right through Chance’s skull-
-and then he jolts to awareness, body collapsed over the table. He blinks, whiplash from the fast location change not lost on him. He plops his head back onto the cool wood of the furniture, sighing as the chill spreads through his body. He doesn’t know how touching a cold surface helps the cold that’s taken root in his bones, but Chance has never been one to look the gift horse in the mouth.
“Ah… Bad luck, huh?” Noob’s voice carefully floats to Chance’s ears, and they’re grateful for the fact that they talk in such a soft tone.
“Terrible luck.” Chance lifts his head up slowly to see both Noob and Dusekkar staring at him, to which they both wince as they get a good look at him. He tilts his head. “What, something on my face?”
Noob glances to the side, rubbing their neck. “No, it’s just-“
“-you look like you’re close to biting the dust,” Dusekkar finishes, to which a weary Noob nods in agreement. “Could the round have been so harsh? Even after the worst deaths, you hardly ever look the part.”
Chance blinks. “I guess I’m not feeling too great. It’s nothing too bad, though-” They push themself out of their chair a bit too fast and the world warps around them. Their vision goes black and their ears ring loudly in their mind, and once the moment has finally passed they seem themself grasping the wood so hard it’d be a miracle if they didn’t get splinters.
Dusekkar and Noob share a look. Chance pretends like he isn't still recovering from vertigo.
“You look a mess.” Dusekkar says, his words holding a weight of finality to them. “You need to get some rest.”
“I’m sure the others will understand!” Noob clasps their hands together, visibly trying to fix their expression to seem comforting. “I mean, you’re always looking out for us when we’re not feeling good, right? So you should do the same!”
Chance barks out a laugh, pretending it wasn’t a way to cover up a cough. “Of course I do, but that’s because it’s you guys. I don’t feel bad ever, and I’m certainly not starting now!”
Dusekkar manages to raise an eyebrow despite having no eyebrows to work with. “If you’re sure you’re feeling alright, you should have no issue standing straight without using a support, right?”
Chance blinks, looking down to see their hands still gripping onto the table. Slowly, they lift them up, holding them in front of themself and trying not to let their gratitude that it only slightly gave them whiplash on their face. “See? I’m fine!”
Noob frowns. “You’re swaying.”
Chance scoffs, crossing his arms. “Well if the two of you are just going to stand here over analyzing my every action then maybe I should go to my cabin!”
They turn around, prepared to march out of the cabin, only for the simple action of putting one foot in front of the other to make their world turn upside down once more, nausea and vertigo tugging at their limbs and not letting go. Distantly, they feels someone rush to their side, soft hands guiding them out the door.
He thanks his muddled mind that he can’t fully process what’s happening, embarrassment being saved for a more lucid, healthier Chance. For now, he leans against the other person with a sigh, feeling their colder body temperature like a drink of water in a hot desert.
Shedletsky is worried. More specifically, worried about someone. More specifically, worried about Chance.
While it’s not like the other sentinel is attached at the hip to Shedletsky, it’s common for Chance to at least check up on him- especially when the killer is 1x. It’s like an unspoken truce; he checks up on them when the killer adorns a fedora, they check up on him when the killer radiates a green glow.
So for Chance to not show his face at all is causing warning signs to blare in his head. And when the round finally ends to the sight of his seat remaining empty from the table, it only makes those signals increase their volume.
Chance is not the type to leave the main cabin. Even when they’ve died in a round, they usually linger around the lobby- recently, they’ve taken to staying put in their seat, a sly grin on their face and a joke on their tongue as the survivors of the round teleport in. They’re always the first to greet anyone and the last to retire to their personal cabin.
So this is abnormal. This is strange. And it’s worrying Shedletsky immensely.
“Been a while since we had a death from you, Dusekkar.” Elliot reports mostly to himself, filling out the tally’s in his notebook. “Though that green killer is no joke.”
The support in question nods his head solemnly. “All those efforts in vain, for the killer made sure I was slain.”
Elliot’s face softens. “None of that. You did good, Dusekkar. A simple streak break doesn’t diminish your efforts to us.”
“Did Chance die?” Shedletsky tries to casually add to the conversation, ignoring the way his leg bobs up and down from nerves.
Elliot stiffens as Chance’s name pierces the air, though it’s only for a split second until he sighs, adding another tally to his notebook. “Can’t believe I forgot them,” he murmurs to himself before speaking louder, “yeah, they did.”
Shedletsky hums, still trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. “Why isn’t he here, then? He’s usually hanging out in the lobby.”
Noob perks up at this, fingers picking at the dirt under their nails. “Actually, I helped lead them to their cabin a bit ago.” They scrunch up their nose. “They’re kinda… not doing too hot.”
Shedletsky raises an eyebrow. “Not doing too hot?”
“He’s under the weather,” Dusekkar sighs, glancing over from where he’s seated on the couch. “We suggested he go to his cabin and rest up to feel better.”
Shedletsky feels his shoulders slump in relief. Sick. Chance is just sick. Thank the swords on the heights.
“That makes sense, actually. I was wondering why they acted so strange earlier.” Elliot turns in his seat, pointing his pen at the sentinel. “You should go check up on them. If they’re anything like when I saw them, they’re probably suffering.”
Shedletsky blinks. “Me?”
“Who else fits the job?” Elliot furrows his brows, sighing as he crosses his arms. “Especially since you two are… Well. You know.”
Shedletsky raises an eyebrow. “We’re what?”
Elliot squints at him as though he’s grown two heads. “Are you fucking with me?”
The sentinel tilts his head. “I truly don’t know what you’re talking about, Elliot.”
The man in question’s jaw almost fully drops open, pure shock and confusion present on his face. He grumbles out a noise of frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course you’re oblivious. This is Shedletsky I’m talking to.”
Shedletsky furrows his eyebrows. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t miss the “Admins almighty…” that Elliot mutters to himself before straightening his posture, sighing and giving Shedletsky a look. “It’s nothing, alright? You’ve got bigger fish to fry anyhow. Chance needs someone looking after him.”
“Tell them I hope they feel better!” Noob adds with a smile, and Dusekkar nods in agreement.
Shedletsky groans, though a part of him feels relieved he’s given an out to go check up on Chance. “Since everyone’s decided I’m the best caretaker in this place…” He sighs. “Whatever. I’ll go make sure he’s not puking his lungs out.”
Chance takes desperate, greedy breaths, clawing at their own throat and gasping at the pain.
Everything hurts. Everything hurts so bad.
What could he have possibly done last night, acts so irrational and dangerous he can’t even remember them now? He must’ve been drinking, that’s for sure- but your limbs don’t turn to pins and needles over a couple shots of vodka too many. Your throat doesn’t feel like a dagger is piercing right at the corners simply by being intoxicated.
They can’t recognize the room that they’re in. It's too dark to see much of anything, but even in such a state can they tell that this location isn’t familiar to them. They’d discarded their headphones and shades long ago, the fedora they typically wear going alongside them. The feeling of having anything on their skull was torturous.
He grabs the pillow at the top of his bed, shoving his face into it in hopes it’ll give a slim amount of comfort. It does not. His body is freezing from the inside out, his head is full of cotton, his lungs are collapsing in on themselves-
Footsteps. From the main entrance.
Their whole body goes a new type of rigid- the way your muscles seize when you feel fear. They don’t recognize where they are. What if Mafioso finally caught up to them? What if they put some poison in their drink, what if this is their last living moments? What if the lead mafia boss wants to instill the same pain their family did to him so many years ago? What if he wants to make this hurt?
What if he returns him to that home, full of stares from people who will see him only as a-
A hand. A hand is on their forehead.
He practically nuzzles against it, the chill from the person’s skin stopping the freezing fire that prickles his insides. The hand stiffens as he does this, but it doesn’t leave, staying in place as the person remains still.
They can make out a voice, but not its contents. A single eye slowly opens, picking up a face.
“iTrapped…?”
He can’t tell if the words actually leave his mouth or if they’re simply thoughts, but the person responds again, this time by quickly removing their hand as if they’d been burned. He whines, now opening both eyes to take a better look.
Shapes and colors blur together, but in the light of the night he can see the shine of an icy crown.
“iTrapped, it hurts…” Chance knows they’re being pathetic right now, knows that this is the last thing iTrapped wants to see out of them. But they can’t help it. Their body is on fire in a raging snowstorm. “Help me…”
The person speaks again, and even through the stuffing in his ears he can make out confusion. He’s positive it’s his deluded and sickly mind that’s making up the concern.
“Please, iTrapped…” They try again, knowing their partner is the only person who can help them in their state. “It’s so cold…”
Footsteps. The person has walked away.
An agonizing sob wracks Chance’s body, both physically and mentally painful as it releases. Hot tears stream down his cheeks and he grabs the pillow tighter, desperate for any sort of comfort.
Creators. They really are pathetic, aren’t they? It’s no wonder iTrapped left, who’d want to even entertain the idea of taking care of such a childish-
The pillow he’s been digging his nails into is ripped away, stuffed with something, and then gently placed back in his lap. The cold hits him instantly.
They hadn’t left after all. They’d just gotten some ice.
They collapse onto the bed with a sigh, curling up around the pillow and disregarding how wet it is. As soon as they lay down, two blankets are placed on top of them and another placed gently underneath their head.
Chance is being pampered. They feel shame swell in their chest as they realize they’d ever doubted their partner.
“Thank you, iTrapped…” He sighs, feeling consciousness slowly leave him. “Thank you…”
The last thing they hear before fully slipping under is a voice. One that does not belong to their partner.
“You’re welcome, Chance. Feel better.”
Shedletsky stares at the now sleeping form of Chance, thoughts running rampant.
First of all: they were in a way worse state than he’d originally thought. Grey skin turned a sickly pale hue, sweat practically drenching their suit, skin almost scalding to the touch… He regrets taking those few minutes to bicker with the others once he spawned in. He should’ve been by Chance’s side right away.
Second off: the sentinel is the farthest thing from lucid. Words barely comprehensible as they fell out of his mouth, eyes (which he’s never seen up close before, the very act of looking at them feeling like an invasion of privacy) glazed over as he murmured things that only made sense to his feverish mind.
Third off: they kept naming someone. A name that physically hurts to hear leave their mouth.
Shedletsky sits on the corner of Chance’s bed, watching as his chest rises and falls. Whoever he kept naming must be someone of grave importance, someone that he trusts- someone that he assumed would come to his aid once he fell sick.
The fact that he didn’t recognize Shedletsky makes a bitter, ugly part of him unfurl and poison his thoughts.
Chance never talks about their past. Besides cryptic teases and offhanded mentions of events from days gone by, they’ve never had a proper sit down to discuss things that they went through. One thing they specifically do not bring up is names, even going so far as to cut themself off from a happy memory in order to avoid it.
But Shedletsky is certain what they were saying was a name, despite never actually clearly hearing the words. After all, they’d always said it while looking in his general direction, as if they were calling out to him.
It raises quite a few questions. The major one on his mind is how can one try and say something and the words physically hurt to hear?
He wonders if it’s the fault of whatever trapped them here. The being is definitely at fault for how sick Chance is regardless; nobody gets this sick this quickly. But why now? What could’ve possibly prompted the devil that dragged them down to hell to instill such a severe illness onto the sentinel?
Shedletsky sighs, getting up. He’s going to have to tell the others about this-
“Wait.”
A hand reaches out to his arm, grabbing it with as much force a sick person can muster. He turns to stare into determined and hazy eyes (aniridia is what they have, the word finally coming to him) as their bottom lip quivers, desperation taking over their expression.
“Don’t- Don’t go…” Chance whispers, a soft and delicate thing that visibly takes effort to say. “Please, st- stay with me…”
Shedletsky furrows his eyebrows. Chance takes his silence for an answer, grabbing on even tighter.
“Please, iTrapped.” The other sentinel winces at the name, biting his tongue to repress a yelp. “I won’t ask again. Swea- Swear it.”
Shedletsky pauses for a moment longer before caving, turning around and holding Chance’s hand. How could he never say no to him?
“Okay. Okay, I’ll stay.” Even though Chance doesn’t think it’s him, even though this is their ill-ridden mind producing a person from their past to give them comfort- Shedletsky sits back on the bed, allowing himself to be whatever person they keep calling out to. No matter how much an ache in his chest forms everytime they say a name that isn’t his own. “I’m not going anywhere, Chance.”
A light smile forms on the aforementioned sentinel’s face. “Thank you… so much…”
In hardly any time at all, he falls back asleep, the reassurance of having someone watch over him lulling him back into unconsciousness.
Shedletsky stares at them as they return to their dream, and a greedy part of him imagines curling up in bed beside them. Hugging them close to his chest to help warm them up, chuckling as they tell him he’s going to get sick if he keeps this up…
He shakes his head, removing the daydream from his mind. As if Chance would ever let him do such a thing.
For now, Shedletsky simply squeezes his hand, content to watch over him as he rests. This is enough.