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Shedletsky felt—no, Shedletsky is going insane.
Knowing—and not knowing this would happen. Sometimes, Builderman was right. Only sometimes.
No, he is almost always right. Shedletsky doesn't wanna outwardly admit his wrongs.
This constant, aching—dastardly feeling of déjá vu hitting him like a massive truck in a traffic jam.
How could he get over it? Was it Groundhog-Day type deal? Was 1x1x1x1 the groundhog, or was Shedletsky the groundhog?
Honestly, that felt more like a Chance type question. Is there a little a Chance demon on his shoulder getting to him?
Was there a Builderman angel and a Chance demon—lurking, watching—enjoying and not enjoying his every damned move?
Why did his heart ache so bad about something he didn't even know happened?
And why was it every time he saw 1x1x1x1?
…No. He knew why. It's not like playing stupid will help Shedletsky more than he currently is. That's too many internalized questions to answer in one whole night. He felt a little out of his prime.
It was his consistent game of flirting with 1x1x1x1, and then being so unsure whether or not his emotions—regarding the whole situation—that he HIMSELF had made—got Shedletsky pondering hard enough if it were romantic or platonic.
A joke. It's a joke.
It's truly not that serious.
Builderman still scoffs at Shedletsky, even when the guy returns back to the cabins as last man standing, knowing Shedletsky got up to something with that physical manifestation.
However… Déjà vu. A, “however,” because this time—after what felt like millions of times of dying uselessly, or failing to advance with 1x1x1x1—has been too oddly familiar.
He knew this endless purgatory had some type of way to mess with him: this endless purgatory knew Shedletsky potentially knew.
Yada yada, it knew he knew, he knew it knew—was this downward sense of spiral necessary to continue questioning?
“Lost in th’sauce there, are ya?” Builderman’s voice echoed through Shedletsky’s mind, from ear to ear.
Shedletsky feared no man—not even 1x1x1x1—the random interruption of thought by Builderman did slightly terrify him.
Prior to Shedletsky’s endless spiral of questioning his life, for once, he's still laid on the couch in the middle of the whole cabin.
His arms met his face and he could only remain silent. Absolutely no one’s used to this sight for sore eyes Shedletsky questioning his every thought and morale.
“Was there any morale to even begin with?” Shedletsky groaned, rolling to his side. He knew he meant to keep that thought internally, but this self conflict was genuinely eating him up inside.
Like, his digestive system felt as if it was eating itself up, eventually on its way out of Shedletsky’s throat and built as an alien parasite.
“Don't think there is one here t’begin with,” Builderman sighed, scooting past the couch, sitting himself on the other side, man-spreading. “Yer’ way of entertainment has always, I dunno, not concerned me, rather… The way yer goin ‘bout doin this.”
Shedletsky remained still on his side of the couch. A lecture or not, he just didn't know if a reality check from Builderman was gonna help him anymore.
“What yer doin? Sorta, savin’ our butts. On the other hand, it's clearly tearin’ ye to part. Didn't I mention—”
“Yes, you mentioned it'd tear me apart. I know this.”
Builderman kept his silence for a couple of seconds. “Aaaaaaaand?”
“And, yes, it is tearing me apart. Limb from limb. I get it,” Shedletsky sighs tiredly in defeat. “The mistake has begun since day one of this whole nonsense.”
“‘N’ here I thought ye’d never openly admit t’yer mistakes.” Builderman swished around his fizzy cola in hand. Since when the hell did b-man get a fizzy cola? Are there any left for Shedletsky to drown himself in?
“I don't know what to do anymore, man,” Shedletsky dragged his hands across his face—a windshield wiper, in comparison—failing to wipe the actual problem. “I've dug too deep to the point where this entire thing feels like déjà vu.”
“Don't everyday feel like déjà vu at this rate? ‘Yer not strayin’ too far from the plot ‘ere.”
“What kinda plot is there at this rate?” Windshield wiper Shedletsky, back at it again.
“I've say there's some potential. The rate ‘yer goin, definitely.”
Each word felt like stepping through a sludge of snow for Shedletsky. “What. Does that. Even. Mean.”
“I got some faith in ‘ye.” Builderman gets up from his spot of the couch, twisting around and making his way to pat the side of Shedletsky’s spot on the sofa. “Get some rest ‘n’ we can talk more later. Not even m’own words are makin’ enough sense t’me right about now.”
Shedletsky sat himself up, right before Builderman left the living room. “When do any words make any sense ever? What is is—what is what—what is not?”
Builderman lurked his hand on the doorframe, right before heading out to the other cabins within the neighborhood. “Don't think ‘bout it too hard, bud. It's why I insist on ye gettin’ some sleep before rationalizing anythin’. M’kay?”
“...Alright,” Shedletsky huffed out. “Cya soon.”
“Cya.” Builderman waved politely, heading out for leaving the main cabin headquarters. Shedletsky was now truly by himself.
Well, at least in his own head. He knew the other survivors were still in that big room to the right—the one with a pool table, a billion restaurant-like booth-tables—the one below that one dance machine.
Maybe Shedletsky needed to play a little Dance-Dance Revolution to blow off steam—as one does. Gas, gas, gas: he's gonna step on the gas.
Builderman did have somewhat of a point—don’t rationalize stuff when you're already irrational enough. Shedletsky didn't even know what to decipher what and wasn't déjà vu at this point.
He'd ought to borrow Chance real quick and Elliot so there could be some entertaining background noise left in his head to echo throughout his already empty mind.
♪
Same old, same old—spawn in, walk around looking for 1x1x1x1, dying—oh, how he set himself up for failure here.
His toes felt buried within the sand of the Horror Hotel. Really, didn't feel like moving from his spot.
Standing beside a wall, not caring too hard whether or not a killer or survivor found him.
As Shedletsky repeated, and repeated, and repeated the same things, he knew there should be a different type of approach to consider going by.
But didn't he already consider this?
No, that idiot, he buries his hands within his curls. He's just having a little déjà vu. You know, as one normally does, within a purgatory that feeds on his—and everyone else’s—suffering.
He felt like Elliot was probably one of the right people about capitalizing the other survivor’s deaths, or—or however Elliot himself put it, earlier. Shedletsky might've been too tired to remember what Elliot muttered to him.
Really, as much as Shedletsky wanted to keep up his cocky self, he genuinely didn't keep track or what and what progress he didn't keep up with 1x1x1x1 due to how heavy his déjà vu felt on his back.
Even mentioning déjà vu over and over didn't feel like it was a real term anymore. Did he make that up for the time he's been forsaken, or has that always been a medical condition? No, that's just the psychology of the human brain.
As Shedletsky’s internal crisis carried on, he failed to take notice of the ominous 1x1x1x1 standing across from him.
Huh, that's weird. Should've noticed the way 1x1x1x1’s chains are barely quiet. Well, the grunting and hissing, too. It's relatively easy to configure 1x1x1x's movement patterns, yet tricky to outsmart him after a minute. That's when everything gets tricky.
Though… 1x1x1x1 didn't find himself attacking Shedletsky.
Shedletsky didn't find himself flinching or even wanting to move from this same standing spot. He didn't even register what type of place The Spectre placed the survivors in this time for the round.
He, just… Kinda… Doesn't know. Anymore.
Truthfully, it was a little intimidating for Shedletsky for 1x1x1x to not be doing anything; vice versa, 1x1x1x1—someone who barely feels intimidated—was experiencing a similar thing, where not even Shedletsky said a single thing to him.
By now, Shedletsky would've made a cocky remark to the manifestation. 1x1x1x1 would kill him at this point.
Everything was the opposite for this one round.
“VERMIN.”
Shedletsky slowly tilted his head up. “Thanks.”
“…WHAT.”
“I don't know. I'm kinda running out of things to throw right atcha. Got any, like, suggestions? Or something.”
“I COULD PIN YOU TO THE WALL AND KILL YOU. PREFERABLY, NOW."
“Yeah, but, haven't you done that a gajillion times by now? I'm sure both you and I are a little tired of this game.”
“WHAT I'M TIRED OF IS YOU ACTING DIFFERENT. YOU'RE NOT THE SAME JACKASS I WANT DEAD.”
Shedletsky shrugged. “As I said, running out of suggestions. I'm definitely out of my bother you juice here. Y'know, you could probably consider yourself lucky.”
Silence. Just, total silence. Flat out.
Nothing from 1x1x1x1, nothing from Shedletsky.
Shedletsky sighed. His back met the wall, sliding down—a little dramatically—until he sank down right into the sand completely.
Not actually, but he did wish the sand was the sinking kind. Maybe then he'd be able to internalize his thoughts better.
1x1x1x1, watching Shedletsky sink himself down by the wall, was too in a perpetual state of confusion.
He didn't know how to even respond to Shedletsky’s total vulnerability.
At this point, 1x1x1x1 would kill the guy—beheading style—but it did happen to be a little useless if Shedletsky barely fought back.
So, 1x1x1x1 lowers his guard, joining Shedletsky in his rot by putting his back to the wall, sitting down beside him. Surprisingly, not a couple feet apart this time.
“I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU,” 1x1x1x1 lowers his two swords, kept at the opposite side of Shedletsky. Despite vulnerability, he didn't want his swords to be randomly taken. He had somewhat of a crazy grip on at least one of them.
Shedletsky makes a small chuckle. Definitely not a happy nor bright one, rather a dim and tiresome chuckle. “Do you think I understand myself either? I don't know what I'm doing.”
“I NEVER EXPECTED TO BE YOUR THERAPIST.”
“Woah! Who said anything about therapy?”
“I JUST. ASSUME THAT'S WHAT THERAPY IS. HAVING TO LISTEN TO YOU SPEAK.”
Shedletsky slowly turned his view to 1x1x1x1 as he spoke, squinting his eyes. “Does that imply every interaction we've had is essentially just therapy sessions?”
“IF YOU COULD CONSIDER IT THAT.”
“I'm asking you.” Shedletsky paused. “Not me.”
“HOW AM I MEANT TO KNOW ANY OF THIS. I'M NOT LIKE YOU.”
“And I'm not like you either!” He tosses his hands out, “You don't see me complaining.”
1x1x1x1 returns the favor of looking straight at Shedletsky. “WHAT WOULD YOU CONSIDER THIS AT THE ONGOING OCCURRENCE?”
“Shoot. You're right. My bad. If what I'm saying is stupid, shoot, throw a sword at my eye.”
“BOWS ARE NOT MY PURSUIT.”
“I said throw, not shoot.”
1x1x1x1 growled. “YOU DON'T THROW AN ARROW.”
“You can, if you really feel like it.”
“DON'T LECTURE ME ON WEAPON USAGE.”
“Why? Are you gonna kill me because I'm teaching you the delights of being able to throw arrows?”
1x1x1x1 laid his own head more comfortably on the wall, bumping his green crown. “NOT YET. EXPECT IT SOON IF THINGS GO WRONG.”
“This is technically wrong the way that we're acting domestically.”
“I SHOULD KILL YOU NOW.”
Shedletsky shrugs. “Not very against it at this point. Go ahead.”
As he spoke, he lifted his arms up, a surrendering type motion. 1x1x1x1 looked at him with annoyed intent, which funnily enough he didn't have the capabilities to express. It just was something you could feel in your bones.
The manifestation groans, putting his hands to his forehead. “I CAN'T. YOU'RE MAKING ME KILLING YOU A DIFFICULT PROCESS.”
“I'm offering my body, having no type of weapon on me, and you're still finding it tough to end me. What about all the other gazillion times you've killed me ruthlessly.”
“THIS 'TIME' IS TRICKER.”
“That definitely makes sense," Shedletsky mocked him.
“HOW IS ANYTHING MEANT TO MAKE ANY SENSE HERE. ALL OUR INTERACTIONS ARE PAINFUL.” 1x1x1x1 snapped.
“If I had a whittier comeback—trust me—I’d say it by now. I'm just not in the greatest usual mood to be myself, or however the kids put it.”
“I DON'T LIKE THIS ABOUT YOU.” Was 1x1x1x1 meant to like anything about him in the first place?
Shedletsky tilted his chin down, glancing up at hatred himself. “I don't think you understand that you're a physical manifestation of my hate. You're not meant to like anything about me. You're supposed to tell me how much you hate me since the moment you've begun to live.”
If Shedletsky wasn't being the extremely unexpected one, it was 1x1x1x1’s turn to catch the poor man off guard; he suddenly turned his body to Shedletsky, pushing into and knocking him over on the sand.
Wrists pinned by sharp claws, most likely to leave a couple of cat-like scratches on Shedlersky’s hands, he straddled Shedletsky and became his only sight when looking up.
Shedletsky barely had any time to react when being pinned down to the ground, an uneasy grin met his face when staring at 1x1x1x1's corrupted eye. He didn't know what else to look at.
The chains of 1x1x1x1 laid on Shedletsky, gripping his wrists tighter as he spoke down to him. “STOP BEHAVING THIS WAY. ALL SOFT AND CHUMMY. YOU'RE MEANT TO FIGHT BACK. DO BETTER. ACT SMARTER.”
“Kinda—” Shedletsky wheezed, “—kinda complicated when you have some other dude pinning you down as if it's the first time he experienced contact. Though, you said you were uncomfy with contact.”
1x1x1x1 sat up on Shedletsky for a small moment to get his daemonshank, the middle of the blade pressed right to Shedletsky’s throat. “NONE OF IT MATTERS WHEN YOU BEHAVE LIKE THIS.”
Shedletsky cringed, eyebrows stitched together. “More like how you behave. You're less and less intimidating, no matter how close you get to my face. I'm not in the mood.”
If 1x1x1x1’s face wasn't already unreadable as is, he'd want to be able to express his confusion. With actions, he expressed it better, placing the daemonshank back down right beside Shedletsky’s head.
At this rate it was only a matter of both being confused with a rough tension in the air.
Not even remotely heavy tension, just… rough.
Time was ticking and it could've been any moment before The Spectre sent the two back to their respective places. Only things more powerful than The Spectre knew whether or not it was watching.
“YOU MAKE ME FEEL. I DON'T. I DON'T LIKE THAT.”
Then, was the time to say something cocky. Probably something along the lines of, “well, obviously I do. You can't resist me. Nobody can. Flies to a light!”
Verbally, Shedletsky remained silent. To some avail, something inside stopped him from an immediate death.
Remember what Builderman said… rationality.
1x1x1x1 could only pant and growl with the amount of anger built up within him—but, was it anger? Was it assumed anger because he couldn't know what other types of positive emotion felt like?
Shaking his head to shake out his voices, he jerked Shedletsky up by grasping him by the collar of his shirt, stabbing through the fabric with his already sharp claws—creating more holes than one—gripping like Shedletsky would run away any moment.
To be frank, Shedletsky couldn't leave 1x1x1x1's deadly grip, even if he tried—the physical manifestation had locked his legs around his thighs, with the world's most deadly grasp on his white shirt. That cookie is going nowhere.
Per last time—rather, first time—when 1x1x1x1 shoved his face onto Shedletsky’s rather than engaging in a full kiss, he wanted to attempt it again.
Mimicking the way Shedletsky went at it, he politely tapped that zipper mouth onto Shedletsky’s. Politely, he thought.
1x1x1x1 shut his eyes tightly. It's not like he could really sweat, but, if he could? He'd be sweating hard at simply not knowing how to initiate a kiss—a second kiss, at that.
Shedletsky caught on with 1x1x1x1's awkwardness, sliding a hand behind that manifestation’s hair, while the other slid beneath his chin to tilt his head a bit down.
1x1x1x1 leaned his chest into Shedletsky’s, Shedletsky having to prop himself up on his elbow.
The real kiss began for a short amount of time, surprised at the fact that the manifestation had actual other organs, such as a tongue.
He didn't feel like opening his eyes—yes, even Shedletsky’s eyes were closed—to decipher what tongue color 1x1x1x1 had. Right now he was more focused on how something can be so human and yet incredibly not.
Despite having such an intimate moment, it was then when the sting of pain finally arrived.
A daemonshank lodged directly into his head. Like, a lobotomy—misplaced, even—that he didn't even ask for.
There was that. A little to no humble closure on why kissing was a solution rather than talking out.
Well, besides the fact that he got stabbed in the head without his permission, he's yet to question that any further.
Shedletsky, however, spawned right back onto his spot within the living room of the main cabin. He immediately jerked up, placing his hand on his lips instead of the top of his head.
While, yes, the injuries were immediately healed—Shedletsky felt like his mouth had been rewired. Even the messy t-shirt that had the same hole marks from 1x1x1x1's claws.
“Had fun?”
Shedletsky turned his head to the source of the voice: Builderman, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed.
Said with a bit more disappointing tone than curiosity. Honestly, not much of a surprising tone to Shedletsky. It came naturally.
He was certain he was losing more sanity by the moment. “I don't even know what to consider fun at this rate.”
Still, Shedletsky kept his fingers to his lips, slightly tugging his bottom lip. Did 1x1x1x1 get overwhelmed, or something? His eyes were closed. Neither did he feel 1x1x1x1 moving away from Shedletsky either.
“Eeh, meant that rhetorically. ‘Ye seem real outta it.”
Shedletsky leaned his back against the couch. “It's not something to worry too hard about. I'm tired.”
“Ain't we all, ‘uh?”
“…Yeah. Sure are.” Shedletsky left a little pain in his agreement. It was the whole feeling of déjà vu again, whether or not it happened. He felt hopeless once more.
Déjà vu might be the only true emotion Shedletsky could feel within this eternal hell.