Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Life (if you could even call it that) in an isolated cabin with nine other equally exhausted people, Chance found, was growing wearisome, fast. Shocker, he knows. Whoever would have guessed? Well, judging by the bags under their eyes and the perpetual slump to their shoulders, everyone else, apparently.

When Chance had first been plucked from normalcy and dropped in this sick ground-hog Day hide-and-seek love child on drugs simulation, they’d regarded their new companions’ lassitude with a raised brow and hint of skepticism. Sure it wasn’t ideal, but it was what Chance figured they needed: a fresh start, a way to cut himself loose from all the mistakes of his past and the people that haunted it.

And in the form of a game? A high-stakes all-or-nothing type tightrope between life and death? The gambler in Chance had rejoiced. Count him dealt in and ready to play. 

He remembered his first day as vividly as the flashing lights of a casino. One second he was getting skewered in an alleyway like a street kebab by… them, and in the next, he opened his eyes to a sombre field of grass and the familiar weight of a gun in one hand and a gold coin in the other.

Oh, and the blood-red monster of a child hot on his heels. But when he’d felt those claws on his neck and the world fading to black once again, Chance finally had the sneaking suspicion he’d been sent to Hell. Of course, he’d woken up shortly after, but even countless rounds later, Chance couldn’t help but feel that their first impression wasn’t really too far off the mark. Ah, memories.

“Chance, get your head out of the generator and start flipping coins. We have 1x1x1x1 heading our way and I do not want to be the first to die again.” Elliot huffed, snapping Chance back to the present, his own hands fiddling with a first aid kit to bandage a shoulder that was oozing blood like a leaky fountain. 

“Hah, relax kid. Guns already loaded, you’re safe with me,” he grinned back, already back to toying with the spindly wires. The coloured plastic that wrapped the coils had deteriorated with time, and each touch sent little shocks of current shooting down their hunched spine.

Elliot shot him a dry look in return. “Yeah, until it blows up in your face again,” he scowled, ever the pessimist— not that the doubt was unwarranted; Chance’s shitty luck was a running joke among them all, and survivors would let out a collective groan in a chase when they saw him spring up from behind a wall wielding a cocky grin and shoddy flintlock with pride. 

“Hey now, have a little faith in your soon-to-be savior! When have I ever done you wrong?”

“Last round.”

“Didn’t count, accidents happen, eh?”

“My God, you need to be humbled. Just make yourself useful before 1x1x1x1 comes and laughs at your incompetence.”

Chance puffed in displeasure. “It’s not all bad today. At least it’s not C00lkidd, I don’t wanna have to drag 007n7 out another one of his freezes.”

Elliot, for once, grunted in agreement.

It still unsettled them, that C00lkidd was a killer. To say Chance was surprised when he’d found out 007n7 had a kid in this game would be the understatement of the century. It made Chance sick, to think that The Spectre could pick and choose anyone to throw in here. The very thought kept Chance on his toes, dreading the odds that one round the killer would be someone they’d rather never see again.

Elliot tied off the bandage with a grimace. “Just leave him next time. It’s what I would do.” 

Chance let their eye roll speak for itself; he’s bold, sure— but not bold enough to throw himself into the mess 007n7 and Elliot have going. It’s a can of worms he definitely doesn’t want to open.

“Right, come on then. I’ve got some brains to blow out,” the gambler laughed easily, breaking into a light jog, electing to ignore the following grumble that sounded suspiciously like ‘yeah, your own probably’.

Grass crunched underfoot and already the air was saturated with the heavy scent of iron. The wind blew through the glade, tossing unruly strands of grey hair over Chance’s eyes; probably another thing that should’ve made Chance doubt their abilities when lining up a shot, yet it left him unphased. Chance trusted that Lady Luck was on his side— she’d never failed him— not even during that last game of Russian Roulette.

Or maybe she had failed him; everything would’ve been a hell of a lot easier if a bullet had found his brain and he was dead before iTrapped got to him.

Now Chance’s hands shook like a dying car engine every time he cocked a gun; they’d had hated shooting ever since. Funny how it was the only weapon he had now. Yet another tally to the ‘we’re all dead and this is Hell’ theory.

A wounded grunt and a flash of light at 5’clock caught Chance’s attention, so with a too-wide grin and narrowed eyes, he darted into the fray. 

Thankfully, the rest of the round passed without issue. He’d gotten a few good shots in, Guest had saved his ass on more than one occasion, and he had not blown himself up (take that, Elliot).

Taph had died, but hey, it happens. Besides, Chance had long since rid himself of the delusion that they could all survive every round. Depressing, but what in their circumstances wasn’t? At least it wasn’t him this time.

The cabin was the same as always as Chance lets their mind wander in the warm comfort of a beanbag. Dust motes haunted the musty air, and the smell of burning Pizza wafted from the kitchen— no doubt Elliot getting sucked into a new one-sided shouting match with the hacker. Chance rolled his eyes. He loved the kid, but God did he have a fuse shorter than he could roll a dice.

Two Time perched like watchful vulture nearby. They sat guarded on a rickety old chair, because for some unbeknownst reason, The Spectre thought Itself hilarious and didn’t provide them with and luxuries other than the myriad of odd and flashy costumes in their respective wardrobes.

Two Time themselves wasn’t bad company, but Chance never knew what to make of the cultist, from their manic posture to the darkness that wrapped around them like a ghastly cloak. Yet there was something heavier, an air of loss—grief— that loitered at the edge of their figure like smoke. That, Chance could get. Plus, casinos and cults had more in common than you’d think.

“Hey buddy, fancy a game of cards? Whist? War?” 

Two Time simply stared back blankly with those unblinking, all seeing eyes. 

“Oohh-kayyy. I’ll take that as a no.”

Chance sighed, resuming his perpetual coin flicking. Funnily, that was one of the things he began to miss first. Not their parents or their home, they’d admit with embarrassment, but the rush of adrenaline as they unveiled a winning hand or the whoosh of an object ball as it slid into its pocket. Within days his fingers had begun to itch with the urge to place a bet, and his inside felt tight and coiled with the need to roll a pair of die. Elliot called it an addiction. Chance… doesn’t know what to say to that. Maybe that’s why he was given his dodgy flintlock; he used to bet with his parent's money, and now he bets with his life. Realll funny stuff. Nice one, Spectre.

“Hey! Chance! Two Time! Get down here before Shedletsky eats all the pizza.” 

“Pass.” Chance watched listlessly as the golden circle arced in the air before catching it back in his hand. Tails. 

“It’s not as burnt as it looks, I promise!” 

“It’s not fucking burnt, asshole!” 

“Come on Elliot, there’s practically smoke wafting out the crusts-“

The pair dissolved into bickering as Chance shifted in his chair. They weren’t in the mood for pizza right now. Truthfully, they weren’t in the mood for much these days. Life, he’s found, had become somewhat stale, like a slice of Elliot’s pizza left on the ground too long mid-match.

Chance is the newest among them, and it’s beginning to seem like he’d be the last. He hated that; something needed to happen lest he lose his mind.

His hands wavered as he tossed the coin up again. The yellow, flickering, light caught the surface of the grimy thing, and small rays scattered from it like strobe lights. If Chance closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was back home, winning big.

Almost.

It landed back on his hand with a delicate wobble. Tails, he noted with dull resignation. What a winner he’d become, hey? He considered with a small smile, before almost shitting himself as he noticed someone sitting overlooked in the corner, shrouded in the shadows like the grim reaper itself.

“Geez, man! Watch it!” He yelped as 007n7 grimaced guiltily and shuffled closer. “How long have you been there?” 

007n7 shrugged half-heartedly. “Not long. I came up after they all started eating.” 

“Not hungry?”

“Wasn’t offered any.”

Oh.

“I’ll tell Elliot to lay off ya. You don’t deserve half the shit he’s putting you through.” 

And it’s true. Sure, Chance knew about the guy's past (they’d been Elliot’s wall to vent at for a while now. And lord did Elliot want to vent about 007n7), but hey, everyone makes mistakes. All in all, Chance didn’t abhor the hacker as much as he was warned to. 

007n7 just shook his head softly. “It’s fine. He didn’t deserve any of the things I put him through either.”

Slumping back in the beanbag, Chance attempted to be soothing. “He’ll forgive you one day. We’ve got an eternity to kill.”

Truer words were never spoken. 007n7 didn’t respond, but from the way he shrunk back into the moth-eaten cushions, Chance could tell he’d been unsuccessful. Good one Chance, reminding him of his bleak future is a sure way to comfort people.

“Hey, how ‘bout a game of cards? Blackjack and a chat? I could use the company.” 

007n7 wasn’t Chance’s partner of choice, from the distress that his presence constantly exuded to his hesitancy to take risks (seriously, Chance had never known someone to bet less than 007n7) still, he was better than no one, and Chance would take what he got.

007n7 bobbed their head nervously in a nod.

Outside, the moon’s suspended in its crescent halfway between the horizon and the sky. Hung in stagnation between the radiance of the stars and the warmth of Earth. No, not Earth— they weren’t on Earth anymore, just a shoddy, half-assed forgery of it.

Outside the cabin, the further you got, trees stopped swaying and wind stopped blowing. Like they lived on an un-rendered map and its chunks simply hadn’t loaded yet, or its creator just couldn’t be bothered to fill in the missing pieces. Birds never chirped, because there weren’t any birds— no creatures, from tiny insects to hulking beasts. That’s all it was: a cold imitation of life.

They noticed 007n7 eyeing mutely with a jolt.

“Tch… just wishing we had a functioning clock. Since the sun never rises.” He shrugged, slipping the cards between each other like water.

“Hit,” 007n7 swiped another card, deciding to stand at a healthy 18.

Humming, he surveyed his cards in dismay. He was at 17. “Hit,” he said, slipping another card off the deck. Shit, It’s a bust.

“Beginners luck,” they chuckled dryly, “here, you shuffle.” 007n7 obliged. Chance, however, couldn’t help his eyes from stumbling back to the window. 

“Something on your mind?”

Chance licked their lips. “Nothing in particular. You?” He flicked his eyes back to the other. 

007n7 gestured loosely, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You’re at 19. Hit or stand?”

“Wow, way to change the conversation. You’re lucky I like gambling: Hit.”

“Seriously? You’re at 19.” 

Chance just shrugged. “I like winning.” They pull a 5 of spades and groan into their palms. 

007n7’s lip twitched slightly into a smile. “Maybe play it safer next time.” 

“Hah! Never.” 

“How were you not in debt?”

“Perks of rich parents.” He paused, before adding with a smirk, “and of owning the casino.” 

The next time Chance scrambled the cards, his hands shook, and a poorly timed shuffle sent them cascading to the floor. 

“We don’t have to play,” 007n7 offered kindly into the dark, “you seem distracted.”

“Tch! You’re just saying that because you want to win. Hit or stand?” 

Despite the company, Chance found himself… enjoying the night. He’s somewhat glad they don’t have a watch because it let time slip away as swiftly as the cards beneath their hands. Especially like the cards in Chance’s possession. As the rounds passed, it was becoming more likely than not Chance screwed up one way or another. Either hitting at 20 or just plain dropping the cards, it was becoming impossible to ignore that something was irking him— even 007n7, despite the former hacker's meekness, eventually spoke up. 

“Chance, what’s going on?” 

It’s half in his mind to brush the other off like dust off his jacket, but the moment was tender and Chance was unwilling to fracture the careful peace they’d captured. 

“Do you think somethings gonna happen? Soon?” 

“In what way?” He asked with a quizzical tilt of his head. The burger hat slipped a little to the side, and the image is so stupid that Chance would’ve been laughing if the atmosphere wasn’t so damn depressing.

“New survivor, new map, I don’t know, anything.”

“Well, it’s been a while… and, mind if I say something?”

“Shoot.”

007n7 split the deck in two before flicking the cards together again.

“Isn’t it a little weird you have no one?”

Surprised, Chance barked out a laugh. “Gee, thanks, man. Can always count on you to bring a guy down.”

The hacker flushed. "That’s now what I meant. Like, Shedletsky and 1x1x1x1 knew each other, I knew Elliot… and Kidd, the admins all knew each other and Taph worked with Builderman.”

Chance mulled that over. “What about Noob, Guest Two Time?” 

Fiddling with his glasses, 007n7 let the corners of his mouth flutter. “Well… I’m not sure Two Time has anyone to take.”

“Hah! I didn’t know you could be funny! But what are you trying to say?”

“Just, maybe it’s your turn. Maybe the next survivor will be someone you know. Or the next killer.”

He shivered, “eugh, don’t say that pal. There are people I’d rather not see again, especially not here.”

“That didn’t stop The Spectre from doing it to me. Just saying.” 

“Man, It must really hate you.”

“It’s not all that bad… at-least I deserve it. Anyway, why were you asking? What’s up?”

Some last shred of empathy twitches inside.  “I’m just... tired, I guess. It’s all so repetitive. Boring,” they groaned, waving their hand flippantly around the cabin and the now sleeping members that occupy it. “I used to think I’d never get bored. It’s like this experience was made for me, Ya’know? But I’m done. I want out.” 

Through the shadows, Chance doesn’t miss how the hacker’s shoulders tightened.

“Believe me, I know,” he replied with a gentle sigh. And suddenly Chance feels bad for ever complaining. Out of them all, 007n7 had it the worst. His child twisted into an unrecognisable killing machine, the way his past haunts him, and Elliot’s ever-burning resentment. 

“I’m sorry-"

“It’s not your fault.” But his voice was tight, like a rope that’s been pulled and pulled and now gone taunt.  

Moment shattered by their clumsy hand, with a groan of finality, Chance heaved themselves to their feet. 

“C’mon, man. They’re all asleep now, let’s just get you some pizza,” Chance smiled weakly, and mentally made a note to tell the others to be just a little kinder.

In his dreams, Chance was there again. He’s sat like a fool with the biggest grin slapped on his face like the cocky bastard he was. Atop the rough, distorted mess of wood that served as a table sat the gun. Six chambers, one heavy with a bullet. And across from his, hidden by the twitching shadows, lounges Chance’s killer. iTrapped’s grin was wide and cruel, yet Chance didn't pull away. He swung the gun to his head and pulled the trigger, oblivious to the imperceptible twitch of iTrapped’s eye when nothing fired and Chance’s brain remained securely inside his skull and not splattered across the pavement like strawberry jelly. In the end, Chance is an idiot, and he died like one, in the shadow of a friend.

He wakes up sweating. He always does.

“Two Time wants you to cover them this round while they go for a backstab. You up for it?” 

Chance shrugged with one shoulder, already elbow-deep in the generator he and Elliot had spawned next to. He’s bumbling with the wires, making a right mess of a supposedly simple task.

“Depends on who the killer is.”

“Dunno yet, no-one’s seen them. And it wasn’t a question, by the way, get out of here.”

Today’s map was what the group had dubbed the ‘Ultimate Assassin Grounds’. Not the worst, not the best either. Those rocky caves were always a good place for a dispenser, or a quick pizza break. It’s just a shame it was so damn dark, but then again, most of the maps were.

Though something felt odd, Chance’s nerves frazzled. Probably just the ominous conversation from the night before, so they brushed it off without thought. Just behind one of the thick spikes of the gate, Chance spots a familiar burger hat.

“Sure thing. Ya’know, speaking of… 007n7 also mentioned wanting some help this round.”

Elliot quirked a blonde brow. “With what?”

“…something.”

“And how is that my problem?” He frowned. Chance grinned.  

“Nope. I’m not helping him. He can deal with his own problems.”

“Elliot,” they warned.

“No! He burnt my place to the ground!”

“And he’s died a million times over because you’ve not given him a pizza!” A grey finger jabbed into Elliot’s uniform. “Just go or I’ll never cover your ass again.”

“Impossible.”

“You love it.” He winked.

With a grunt, Elliot trudged off to find his new victim mumbling obscenities under his breath. 

“Be kind, sunshine!” They called after with a snort; it wasn’t a lot, but it was a start. 

Chance couldn’t find Two Time, which shouldn’t be surprising, seeing how the cultist moved like an uncannily insane shadow: there one second, gone the next, so Chance just wandered aimlessly, tossing his coin as he did, his feet following the familiar thumping nose of a sentry being constructed. But Builderman looked stressed.

“Hey, ‘doc, what’s happening’?” 

“Two Times ran off to some corner of the map. Somethings spooked ‘em, and Shed reckons there’s a new killer. On my way to check it out now, feel free ta join.”

Chance felt like he’d been shot.

“What?” 

Builderman simply shrugged. “That’s what Shed is saying. But you know him, probably just a joke.”

“What did he say they looked like?” 

“Dunno. Tall guy, hat, big sword. Shedletsky said he couldn’t even see the guy’s face. Hidden by shadows or some—“

Electricity ran down his spine, sharp, paralyzingly so, and the world stopped spinning. His limbs felt like dull blocks of lead, and he swore he lost consciousness for a second.

“— Chance? Chance? You alright?” 

He’s not, but he couldn’t say it: his tongue was frozen. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't stop breathing. He was going to be sick. Something deep and primal uncoiled in his brain and rolled through him like waves: fear, pure and undiluted.

Their odds have rotted and soured, and Lady Luck has turned her back.

They’d wished for change, and God had The Spectre granted it. Their heart fizzed and buzzed like TV static— harsh, grating, and immobilising.

Something warm and greasy is being forced into his clammy palms. 

“Builderman, what happened?”

“I don’t know, they just collapsed. I think it’s a heart attack.”

A sword, thin as a needle, unsheathed.

“Chance, chance! Can you hear us? Try eating the pizza.” 

Two fingers were against his neck.

“His pulse is fast,” a new voice added

Their stomach burning.

“The killer’s coming. Looks like Shed wasn’t lying, it is a new guy.”

The alleyway was slick with blood. Their blood.

No no no it can’t be. It can’t be him. Chance can’t see him again. A strained whimper escaped his lips. 

“Shit, Builderman get out of here. 007n7, can you teleport him? Good, go.” 

Something jolted and Chance hit the floor, hard. 

“You- you alright? Gosh, what am I saying?! Of course, you’re not!” 

Something cold was abruptly thrust to his lips.

“Drink this. It’s a cola. It might help.”

And then it’s ripped away before Chance can even process the demand.

“Aw wait, maybe it won’t help. Don’t sugary things increase your heart rate more? That’s bad, right? Right?! Oh, Elliot’s going to kill me.”

“Man,” Chance managed to croak, “how the hell did you raise a kid?” 

“You’re awake! How are you feeling?!” 

By now, the world had stopped its annoying spinning, and they could now see their current guardian, 007n7, pacing back and forth like a mother hen, hair ruffled and stupid burger hat askew. He’d teleport them to the caves by the looks of it. They should be safe for the time being.

“Like my heart’s been fucked by a chainsaw, so pretty shite I’d say.” 

“Hah… uhm- cola?”

Chance’s hands still trembled when he went to brush the offer away.

“Best not. What happened to Elliot and Builderman?”

007n7 bites his lip and flicks his eyes away. “Builderman managed to run, and I tried grabbing Elliot during the teleport but he just pushed me away.” Right, so probably dead then. “I hope they’re ok… did you hear that it’s a—“

“— new killer, I know,” he grumbled bitterly, tugging his legs closer to his chest. 

“You know them?”

The room spun again as he shook his head. “Haven’t seen the bastard yet. But from the descriptions I’ve heard and my rotten luck…” 

“You think it’s the guy you were talking about yesterday?”

Chance smiled weakly. “Timing would be right.”

The can tumbled to the floor with a dim crash. “Oh gosh, This is all my fault! I’m sorry, Chance I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t asked you yesterday, The Spectre wouldn’t have put them in… my God, Chance I’m sorry-“

“Hey man, slow your roll, I don’t even know if it is him yet. And even if it is, it isn’t your fault. ‘Doc told me Two Time got spooked too, maybe it’s someone they know.”

“Maybe… hey, is that why you had that, uhm, panic attack? Because you thought it was-“

If looks could kill, 007n7 would be a rotting corpse. He raised his hands like he was comforting a wounded animal.

“Not that I’m judging! I get the fair share myself.” 

Yeah, Chance knew.

“Tell the other survivors and you’re dead to me.” 

Chuckling nervously, 007n7 opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, only a bubbling of slick, red, blood. The last thing Chance saw before he crumpled to the ground was his wide, frightened eyes and the sword that slid out his throat with a wet thwip.

A black sword. The same sword that had found a home somewhere between Chance’s small intestine and pancreas.

Oh shit, it’s him. It really was him.

Eyes shut like the fucking coward he is, Chance fumbled for his flintlock.

“Hey, old f-friend! Long time no see! Ha-ha!” Their fingers hit something cold and metal at the same time his back hit the wall. Got it. “iTrapped, please- let’s just talk-“ 

“Who,” the voice cut through the air with a sense of finality. It’s deep, powerful, and does nothing to slow the rivers of sweat that were currently pouring off Chance’s forehead. It’s also, unmistakably, undeniably, British.

iTrapped was American.

“-the fuck, is iTrapped?”

Chance opened his eyes to one of the scariest men he’d ever seen. He was a silhouette of a man, really. A thick black coat hung off his shoulders like dripping tar, the collar lined with fluff so dark and soft Chance wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d found out it was made of dead puppies. A black fedora tilted dangerously over his eyes, casting his face in an impenetrable shadow. And great Spawn, they were tall.

They were also not iTrapped. A breath Chance didn’t know he was holding finally puffed free. 

“Oh, could have sworn you were an old buddy. Same menacing demeanour, sketchy vibe, murderous aura,” they chuckled anxiously.

This was still bad, terribly so. This man was clearly no C00lkidd, who didn’t know what game he was really playing, or John Doe, whose mind was no longer his own. This new man was brutally aware of what he was holding, and what he’d just done.

Their posture a trained killer’s.

“By the way you were whimpering,” the beast of a man smiles, pushing 007n7’s limp body out the way with a swift thud of his boot (eugh, yuck), “they didn’t sound like much of a ‘buddy’”

Oh God, Chance’s gun was empty. What the fuck.

“Well, Ya’know how it is… one second your best buds, the next, their knife is so deep in your abdomen you wonder if you’re gonna die. Then you do, and you’re like ‘Oh shit, maybe they aren’t actually my friend’. Hah- and speaking of knives, can you point yours away from my neck, please, and thank you-“

“Quite your rambling.” The new killer breezed closer. Chance flipped his coin. Tails. “Pay the debts you owe.” 

“Debts? The fuck are you on? Big guy, I’m rich! Loaded!”

Their unhurried walk faltered for a moment. Yes, this was what Chance needed. “What? I was told…”

Tails tails tails. C’mon…

“Hmph! That’s just The Spectre talking! Makes up all kinds of lies to get you to kill people. This one kid, poor guy, thinks he’s just playing tag. Little does he know the punishment for being caught is having your head popped like a balloon!”

“What? What are you saying? I was given this job by my boss, not one of your fairy tale creatures.”

“Youch, they won’t like that. Anyway, whatever job you had before, you don’t have it now! Congrats on the early retirement, Tommy Shelby, but you’re not there anymore.”

Tails, tails, tails. 

“Then where,” he growled, low and predatory, now close enough to kill, “are we?” 

Tails, tails, heads! Yes!

Chance grinned, whipping out his not-so-trusty flintlock, and aimed it right at the mafia guy’s big ole’ forehead. 

“Hell.” They pulled the trigger, and Chance’s brains splattered against the wall. 

Chapter Text

“Awe shit.” Is the first thing Chance managed to roll off his heavy tongue as he rose from the dead in the cabin, head swaying drowsily and ears ringing like an alarm system.

That, by far, was one of the worst rounds he’d ever had; he’s honestly surprised he didn’t immediately drop dead a second time upon waking from embarrassment.

It takes a while for the harsh light to dim into something less grating on his eyes, and within seconds of waking, the others are on him immediately like hounds. 

“Didja win?”

“What’s the new killer like? Any crazy abilities they used?”

“What happened? Are you OK?” 

The last voice is Elliots, and it cut through the buzz of the others with the cold command of an army general. 

“No, I didn’t win,” he groaned miserably, “gun exploded. Again.” He stretched his hands high above his head with a shark crack while awaiting another snarky jab about his flintlock. None came. They cracked an eye open, peaking out over the top of the black lenses. 

“What, no laughter? Tough crowd.” 

“Chance, we thought you were having a heart attack!” 007n7 blurted,  “What happened?!” 

Oh. They sighed, leaning back in the chair so far that their back crunched, and ran an almost steady hand through their matted locks. 

“Just… I panicked, that’s all.” Panicked: the understatement of the century.

A fragile hush descended on the cabin. Noob quirked their head, Builderman’s brows furrowed, and Taph’s hands stilled. He knew what they were thinking; Chance didn’t panic, he’s not meant to.

You see, each survivor had their own role in this eternal purgatory, their own character to play hand-picked and molded by The Spectre. Elliot was the dry-humoured, quick-witted boy whose healing didn’t come from only his piping hot pizza, but also his warm smile. Shedletsky was the obnoxious admin with a dark past who always had a guffaw bubbling and greasy leg of fast food wielded in one hand, and a sword in the other. Guest the stoic no-nonsense solider, Taph the meek yet passionate demolitionist. And Chance- they were meant to be the funny one; the one who seemed like he could bounce back from any injury unscathed and with a poor joke spilling from their lips like honey. They were supposed to have a permanent grin spread across their face like butter, a sharp retort ready on their quick tongue. His hands weren’t meant to shake when he loaded a gun, and he definitely wasn’t supposed to break down mid-round.

They were all actors, and Chance had fumbled his lines.

The tense silence was broken by forced, raucous laughter. 

“Well! Happens to us all, doesn’t it?” Shedletsky thundered, chicken-greased hand slapping Chance on the back with an oomph. “What matters is you’re feeling better! Right?” 

“Sure, man.” Something like that, anyway. A simple smile crawled back onto Chance’s face, a deformed mimic of the usual. 

“Elliot, get this guy some pizza!” Shed commanded jovially.

And like that, the survivors shuffled awkwardly back into their roles. Elliot muttered some dry comment along the lines of ‘fat admin can’t do anything himself’, 007n7 darted outside while the eyes were off him, Dusekkar conversed in that whimsical tongue of his to a Taph who paid rapt attention. And Chance, they… didn’t know what to do. They felt stupid, broken. Like a warped puzzle piece trying to fit back into a space it couldn't.

“Excuse me,” they mumbled, rising with a wobble from their seat, “I need to get some air.” 

———

Chance walked for a while in the forest, his head pounded like a snare drum. His face burnt like a bonfire—less of embarrassment, but something more akin to a permanent phantom pain from the constant exploding of his flintlock. Their hands still itched and fizzed like an aggravated bee hive or the static of a long-dead TV; the memory of pain still seared across his neurons like a tattoo.

Other than the mental ones, no scars ever littered their bodies from the rounds. No burn scars creeping up his face like vines, no stumps of flesh where limbs should be, no gaping, bloody wounds ravaging their arms and legs. Seems like The Spectre could just wish away their wounds with a flick of It’s wrist and a dream.

Yet the ugly mess of scar tissue that split across Chance’s stomach like a lighting bolt persisted. Filthy, ugly, repulsive. The Spectre would let them outrun the killers, but never their past.

Mind spiraling, Chance didn’t even realize he wasn’t alone until his boot fell hard on something that was definitely not a rock. Oh shit, what if it’s a trap, what if a killer was here? What if Chance had wandered into where they stayed by accident? A sharp intake of breath sounded below them, and Chance realized he’d just stepped on someone’s foot. 

“-ack! Sorry! Didn’t see ya’ there pal. What brings you to the forest, eh’? Shedletsky’s company getting too much?”

That’s when Two Time raised their head blearily, the tear tracks down their face subtle, easily missable if it weren’t for their reddened scleras and puffy under-eyes. 

“Ah! Sorry man. I’ll… uhm… go.” Chance was mentally preparing to bolt. Two Time was a solitary creature known to enjoy their time alone. Them seeking refuge in the forest meant they were seeking silence, and silence was something that could never quite stick to Chance. 

“…No,” Two Times fingers curled possessively around their tucked knees. “I would… appreciate the companionship in this moment.” 

Surprise flickered briefly across Chance’s face, the offer from Two Time’s mouth foreign— unheard of. 

“I’d be glad to join you. Could use some company myself.” He slid down the tree bark settling uncomfortably next to the other. God, it was really dark out here—the fake moon could only provide so much light— but they’d never really noticed just how dark it was. They didn’t come out often, electing to stay tucked away in their nest of a cabin hiding in whatever sliver of normalcy they could find.

Little ghosts of breath puffed out their lips before their little images fused with the thick blanket of blackness washing over them. Goose-flesh rose on Two Time’s bare arms, yet the cultist didn’t move a muscle, lips wavering slightly, still as a worshiper locked in prayer. 

Chance cleared his throat. “Hey… I heard you scattered mid-round? You feel like talking about it?” He offered hesitantly.

Two Time’s gloved hand twitched. Voice tight, they answered, “I… I had heard rumours of a new killer. I feared it to be a… companion of mine. I heard of black hair and a hat, and presumed the worst.” Their gaze shifted to the floor.

Huh. So Two Time did have someone for The Spectre to hold over their head. An old friend with enough potential to become a killer? Sounded achingly familiar. 

“That true? Well, don’t feel ashamed or anything. I did the same thing. Heard the description of the new guy and just… froze up, ya know?” 

Two Time’s eyes found his behind the dark shades. 

“You did?”

They nodded briefly, fedora bobbing like a boat upon the sea. “iTrapped, was their name. They sent me here the first time… thought they’d come back for seconds.”

The cultist huffed lightly in acknowledgment, taking a moment before they spoke again. “Azure.” They mutter simply, eyes already back to the floor, skeletal fingers tracing little patterns into the dirt. “Their name was Azure.” They mumbled quietly, a whisper fleeting into the secretive holds of night.

Chance thought back to the scarily tall killer from earlier. He’d never caught a name. “And was it them?” 

“I was not bestowed the ability to check. Their knife was in my back before I could glimpse their figure. Surely a sign from the spawn, a mirror of my own misdeeds.”

Chance ignored the last part, shifting against the base of the tree with a rustle. “Maybe I could describe the guy I saw to you? I got a pretty good glimpse before I clocked out.” He’s encouraged by the dip of their head, so cast his mind back to the last round. “Hmm… Tall fella. Like, very tall. Looks straight outta a British mafia drama, or a film-noir, or… or a documentary on gang violence. Like the type of guy your ma’ shows you a photo of to warn you to stay off the streets past 3’.”

Ok, probably a bad description seeing as it was extremely doubtful that Two Time had been binging TV dramas in a cult.

“They had a furry black coat, golden skin, light stubble… very sharp jawline, annoyingly so. Punchable face— smug, self-righteous expression. Rest of their face was shadowed out like a cartoon villain though. Ring any bells?” 

Two Time visibly relaxed a little. “No. It is not them. And I assume it was not the man whom haunts you either?”

“Nope.” He breathed with a gloomy sigh.

“You sound upset.”

He did. Why? “Trust me, I’m not upset, I never want to see that asshole again.” He huffed with stubborn conviction.

Chance could tell they weren’t believed when Two Time cocked their head quizzically like an owl.

Fatigued, Chance ran a hand down his face. “Man, I guess it’s just… it’s hard to forget. Hard to forget I once considered him a friend, y’know? I think my brain just doesn’t want to move on, and it’s still stuck there— at my casino with his hand in mine and a dice in the other. Thinks that maybe seeing him again will make me feel more normal.” Now it’s Chance's turn to pull his knees tight to his chest, his other hand unconsciously seeking the coin from his pocket like a hunting dog. A considering hum floated above the silence. 

“I think I can understand. Some part of my being longs for the past I can no longer have.” Then, in a small, rare moment of vulnerability, Two Time’s voice rippled with sadness. “I wish to go back.”

Ouch. Homesickness— Chance felt it in each bone of his body because God, didn’t they all. A small, obvious admission that none of them had been willing to expose. Because it hurt, because it forced them to all acknowledge that there was no home anymore, no way back to what was. 

“Hear hear.” He forced with a weak twitch of his lips.

Through the gaps in the trees, he could see the warm glow spilling out the cabin windows, could imagine the smell of fried chicken and the sound of bright, ringing laughter. “But hey, there’s no use dwelling on the past. We just gotta to live each day, survive one round at a time. Uhm- something about trying to make the best of a bad situation… all that sorta stuff.” He thought back to his ma’ and the things she used to say whenever the days seemed a little too dark. “You gotta remember you have friends here, Times. Don’t push away what you do have because of what you used to have, Ya’know?” Chance smiled wistfully. “Let yourself move on.” 

“Thank you. It is good advice. So I wonder why you do not take it.” 

Huh. 

“Well, I’m just glad to be of use. Makes up for my disaster of a round today.” As Chance began to stroll back to the cabin, a voice halted him. 

“Gambler?”

“Huh?” 

“Thank you, for your comfort. May the Spawn bless you eternally.” 

———

Appreciate what you have, was a motto that rang like a stubborn bell through Chance’s head for the next couple of days, and he followed the advice like a well-trained soldier. Whether it be between rounds by roping in the others into a card game or throwing themself into chases to protect their teammates, Chance was, for the first time in weeks, trying. 

“You seem happier than normal. How much did you swindle Shedletsky out of this time.” Chance paused his humming to let out a mock gasp. “Must you assume the only time I’m happy is when I’m gambling?” 

Elliot stared back through half-lidded eyes. 

“And you look miserable. 007n7 not injured enough for you?” Chance fired back. 

Elliot scowled, “Despite popular belief, I don’t want our teammate dead.”

“Better to find him then; he might be low on health.” 

Adjusting his grip on the pizza box, Elliot shot a poisonous look over his shoulder. “What are you trying to do?” 

“Me? Nothing! Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, kid.” Voiced Chance, tone affronted at the very much true accusation. 

“Same age as you, but whatever,” he scoffed, ditching Chance to go do something useful. A sentiment Chance should probably get to following.

Tails, tails, heads, tails, heads, heads, re-roll… Once certain Elliot was out of sight, they allowed their crooked smile to drop into a more comfortable frown. Chance did seem happier than normal. It’s just a shame he didn’t feel it. Because he had a job to do and he wouldn’t fail them again.

Tails, tails, tails, heads— what rotten luck, they think with a gentle scowl as they roam around the map.

Giant health hazard of a Ferris wheel, quaint but rundown food stands, and a cute little cutout of a certain ex-hacker; yep, it was the ‘C00l carnival’. Not their least favorite map, but definitely 007n7’s. They could only hope this round's killer wasn’t C00lkidd.

That’s partly why Chance had sent Elliot to accompany the man again; the other part was that Chance wanted to be alone.

Heads, heads, hat flip, tails… whoomph! Chance flinched as the side of the van he’d been slumped against crumbled like a tin can. Seemed like he’d been found. Stuffing his gun with powder and legging it out of there, Chance heard another object whizz past his headphones. A very near miss. So, it was C00lkidd then; only the demonic red child could throw cinderblocks at them.

A deep huff sounded behind him, but Chance couldn’t afford to look back. Though, that… didn’t sound like C00lkidd, unless the boy had suddenly gone through puberty overnight. 

A cold voice cleaved through the air behind him, deep and sonorous. “I love knocking out teeth.”

Shit, definitely not C00lkidd.

Panting heavily, Chance ducked behind a wall, coin already spinning through the air. Heads, heads, heads… he dared a peek out. Yep, the new guy; this was only his second round and clearly not messing around (like seriously, what freak says they love knocking out teeth other than a deranged dentist?)

A subtle ping rang across the map and the killer’s head perked up like a rabbit’s: a tripwire strung into place at just the wrong moment. Oh Taph, you idiot.

Losing interest in their current chase, the killer made a beeline right for the noise, and even from afar, Chance could see Taph’s stamina deplete as they slowed to a clumsy walk.

“Pay the studs you owe, demolitionist.”

Again with this debt shit? Chance would just have to drill it into their thick skull that no one (with maybe the exception of single-father n7) had money due— maybe with the help of a bullet. Lips pressed in a thin line and hands trembling on the gun, Chance lined up a shot. Do it for the team, Chance. Don’t let him get to you. 

“Hey, new guy!” They mocked, voice ringing loud and clear across the carnival. It worked. Slowly, the killer turned, Taph forgotten behind him. Posture straightening with recognition, a wicked grin curled across their face, splitting it like a dagger. 

“You,” They said, lips curling into a sneer 

Glad to have left an impression, the gunman grinned cockily. “The one and only.” 

“You planning on shooting, eh? Didn’t work out too well for you last time now, did I-“ 

The shot ripped through the air, finding home right in the killer’s chest. A small seed of triumph blossomed in Chance’s heart; see, he’s not a sadist, but Chance sure hated losing. “Hah! Bullseye!” They squawked as the killer brought a gloved hand to the wound with a grimace. 

Knowing how little effect his shots had on killers, Chance wasted no time in pulling his coin back out and running. Heads, tails, heads: either Lady Luck was feeling generous today or The Spectre was finding this exchange somewhat entertaining. Fortunately, so was Chance. Call this a redemption from their first encounter. 

“Chance! Behind you!”

Whipping their head around for a split second saved Chance a sword through his chest. They’d hoped the killer being new and all would delay their recovery time. Obviously not. Mentally thanking whatever survivor had warned them, Chance lined up another shot while the killer recovered. Only two charges, but hey, they were feeling lucky tonight. 

“Why you little-“ Bang! Another bullet tore right through the killer’s flesh. 

“Oooh, score! Looks like I’m winning, big guy!” They cackled, nerves lighting up with the familiar sensation of adrenaline. Now this is what Chance loved. This high was why Chance could never resist betting more, why he couldn’t resist round after round after round of Russian Roulette. Most people were addicted to nicotine or heroin; Chance was addicted to adrenaline. 

Giddy, they stumbled out of view and almost ended up tripping over a generator, and the survivor working at it. Noob stuttered, eyes wide, “C-Chance! Are you ok?” 

“Never been better pal!” Chimed Chance, already waltzing dizzily away. 

Heads, heads, tails, heads.

To his left, the electronic buzz of the C00lgui being booted up hummed through the map. Assuming the killer was after n7, Chance turned left. A mistake. 

“Wha-“

Oomph! Chance’s back hit the wall with a dense thud, their head swimming. “Ow, ouch.” 

Chance writhed, pinned to the wall like a taxidermied bug. The new killer smiled down at them. “Quit while you’re ahead, gambler.” 

Through bloodied teeth, Chance grinned. “But I don’t seem to be losing.” 

Click. Silence. The gun didn’t go off. 

“Are you kidding right now?” 

“‘I don’t seem to be losing,’ eh? Someone needs to teach you how to load a gun,” the killer sneered. God, at least iTrapped didn’t laugh at him when he was down. iTrapped was a rotten bastard; This new guy was just an arsehole. 

Chance sneered back, “Sure, but you’re the one with two bullet holes in ‘em. And I do know how to load a gun, thank you. It’s The Spectre messing with it all, tryna give you scumbags a better shot at winning.” Against Chance’s will, their scowl dissolved into a wobbly grin; they just couldn’t help themselves. “Ha-ha, get it? ‘Shot’?”

The killer either didn’t get it or didn’t find Chance very funny (probably the latter, let’s be honest) because within a second their hand was lifting Chance up against the wall and constricting around Chance’s windpipes like a serpent going in for the kill— which is exactly what the killer is doing: going in for the kill. 

“Enough talking. You bore me.” They muttered, face just inches away from Chance’s own. The black fedora still hung over their eyes, casting shadows that clung like an oil spill to their face. No eyes, no nothing. This man was the type of guy Chance would’ve thought to ban from his casino but never would’ve, because adrenaline is oh-so addicting. And for a moment, the man was iTrapped.

So as Chance’s brain fogged with lack of oxygen, in a small suffocating part of his mind, his stupidest idea yet sprung forth like a flower blooming out of season.

See, you could call Chance many things from moronic, to lazy, to a pain in the ass— but you could not call him boring. Welling a pool of saliva and blood behind their clamped teeth, Chance opened his mouth and spat, right where the killer’s left eye should be. And hey, let it never be said that Chance can’t aim. 

The killer’s grip loosened significantly as they recoiled in disgust. “You filthy bastard-“ their string of curses was cut short by a knee to their groin.

By the time they’d recovered, Chance was already way out of reach. “Better luck next time boss!” Their cackles faded as they rounded a corner. 

———

Mafioso stood seething as he wiped the saliva off his cheek. Every muscle was taunt with rage; no one had ever played a trick on him like that— ever. Mafioso might off not known where the hell he was, or who these people were— but one thing was for certain: he wanted that gambler dead. 

———

“You kneed them in the balls?!” Shedletsky boomed, eyes wide and alight with humour. 

“And spat in their face, yeah.” Chance replied smugly, reclining in their chair. 

“You moron! You think The Spectre’s going to let that slide?” Elliot warned. 

“It hasn’t done anything yet. I think It liked it!” 

“Well, the killer definitely didn’t!”

“Yeah kid, that’s one way to get yerself targeted forever.” Builderman chided, voice imbued with caution. 

“That’s why I,” Chance announced with a flourish, “Am going to try something new!” 

See, Chance’s dirty play had sparked an idea in his mind: maybe the rules weren’t as strict as they all imagined. What if this sort of thing was encouraged? Just what other stuff could Chance slip past The Spectre’s punishment with? After all, after that last round, Chance had never felt more alive. Now this was what he needed! Entertainment, and more importantly, change. Ecstatically, Chance debriefed the others on his new idea. The reception was not what he’d hoped. 

“You’re an idiot, you know that right?” 

“Yeah man, and people say I have stupid ideas.” 

“Because you do, Shedletsky.”

“Well, it’s worth a try, right? If it stops you guys getting killed” Chance argued vehemently. 

“You don’t wanna upset The Spectre again, man. Remember the time you had to spend a week wearing those cardboard glasses and rags for each match?” 

“Yes Shedletsky, I remember it vividly, thank you,” Chance muttered dryly. How could he forget? As penance for climbing up trees almost every round one week to act as some sort of sniper, The Spectre had taken all his clothes and replaced them with dirty moth-eaten rags. It was wear those or nudity, and Chance still had some dignity remaining, so rags it was. Not one of his proudest moments.

Needless to say, Chance had figured out pretty quickly trying to abuse the way the maps worked was strictly off-limits. But what he was doing was different, right? This, like his trick last round, was using what was given to them, not exploiting the maps or anything. Call this having a tactic. Thinking outside the box, or whatever. 

“Well Dusekkar, you up for it?

“The notion you have suggested is the most foolish you have supplied, yet for the sake of change, I will comply.” 

“Awesome! I promise you all, this will work!”

Chapter Text

Chance’s plan, though relatively simple in its nature, actually took a few rounds to be able to put to the test. Which gave him a lot of time— time to think.

Think about what he was doing, why he was doing it, and what he wanted to achieve with it. 
Chance hummed idly in between a round as he walked in bored circles around the cabin. They had a horrible thrumming in their head (no doubt caused by a chainsaw to the skull) and were finding the cold bite of outside air to be somewhat of help. 

Chance considered; the unlucky target of their new plot was none other than that insufferable new killer themselves due to the simple fact that they were… well, different.

During their two rounds, Chance had seen something they hadn’t seen in the other killers: awareness. The subtle twitch of a muscle when a survivor drew a weapon, or the unconscious tilt of their head when choosing who to pursue in a chase— all things Chance hadn’t seen in other killers. A spark of hesitation Chance wanted to exploit before it was stomped out. 

Chance smiled to themselves in the dark; this killer was alive in the way the others weren’t, and that itself was enough for Chance to latch onto like a ravenous vampire. 

For all the other killers, this was all a just game; 1x1x1x1 puppeteered by their blind hatred to bother pushing against the strings that bound them to this place, C00lkidd so lost in their blissfully naive daydream to realise they want to escape, Jason content to gorge on their bottomless vengeance for eternity. But this killer wasn’t yet controlled by the same strings that tied the others. In fact, they even seemed willing to talk.

Chance huffed a laugh— Well, maybe ‘willing’ was a stretch. And maybe Chance could admit that ok, and maybe a small part of the reason they chose the new guy was that Chance now held a very personal grudge on account of being called boring.

Chance was not boring! He was not losing his spark! Because what else did Chance, a flamboyant, annoying gambler, have if he wasn’t at least intriguing? That’s right- nothing. 

Mood soured and teeth grit in frustration, Chance stopped his listless pacing and made for his cabin. This plan wouldn’t be a dead end. This wouldn’t lead to more dull, repetitive round. So curled tight in his bed, Chance fell asleep clinging to small hope that change would come, and he would finally feel alive again. 

—

The round started at a time so early that if they were still in the real world, Chance would have labelled it the ass-crack of dawn. They’d barely slugged off their heavy duvet and trudged into the main cabin to grab something to eat before the usual swell of nausea that accompanied teleporting began to surge and the next time they’d opened their eyes they were greeted by the sickening neons of the Horror Hotel. 

And let it be known, Chance was never a morning person (casinos don’t open until 10). 

Chance plodded uselessly around the map, scavenging for a cola or maybe even a medkit to hand off to Elliot later. Maybe this would be the round where they could put the plan into action. 

Ah, the plan. In reality, calling something as simple as Chance’s flimsy idea a ‘plan’ was deeply misleading. To title something a ‘plan’ implied plan-ning, not a slew of words spluttered in a moment of manic victory while still riding the high of adrenaline. ‘Plan’ suggested finess, calculations, logic. All things this idea lacked. 

Chance used the word plan in the same way a salesperson would describe their new product as ‘state of the art’: a flashy attempt to glorify some obvious bullshit.

Because Chance’s ‘plan’ was straightforward: get the new killer to talk to him. Or more accurately, become a target. Just really, really piss the killer off. 

Obviously, his pitch of the idea to the group had included a lot more flamboyance and pizzazz, and promises of death-free rounds. Chance had sold his ‘plan’ to the panel of investors (the survivors) and they’d brought it. Probably out of pity, but a win is a win. All the others had to do was help him. And all Chance had to do was talk— an area he was blessed in. 

Following routine, Chance found a secluded spot in the map to just stand and toss his coin because apparently getting one shotted 30 seconds into a round due to skyrocketing amounts of weakness was not a good tactic. They slouched against the fluorescent blue closet wall, fedora tipped low across their face while they bit their lip in thought.

Man, these re-rolls sucked; he could feel himself getting frailer with each one. Which got them thinking: how did the spectre just change how much strength they had? With that insane amount of power, surely an admin would be on It’s case (well, the admins that weren’t here with them) maybe that’s why three had ended up here, so It could avoid detection— 

“Greeting, gambler! May the spawn bless you!” Chance flinched as Two Time sprang out from behind a wall, a smile plastered cheerily across their face despite the solemn conditions. 

“FUCKING HELL! I mean- Telamon, man! You’re lucky I had no charges or I woulda shot you in the head!” He panted, hand already curled around his flintlock in reflex. 

Two Time, seemingly oblivious to the tension, slid into the closet opposite them. “Ridiculous! The Spawn would have never allowed it!” 

“Yeah, sure pal. Whatever,” he said, already shuffling to accommodate the other. “What brings you to this fine closet?” 

Two Time crouched lower to the floor. “This closet is a fitting place to both place my spawn and search for a generator.”

Chance flinched again as Two Time suddenly lunged at the scant amount of floor space between them with their knife.

“Times!” He yelped, “mind my shoes!” 

“They would heal. All things in this accursed place do.” Two Time said, somewhat smugly. 

“Yeah, ok. It was more the sentiment, but whatever.”

The cultist, however, was already moving on. “And while I found no generator, the Spawn has blessed me with your whereabouts! I simply wished to inform you that the man who drips black and reeks of smoke is the killer for this round. You may enact your ‘plan’; the Spawn smiles upon it.” 

Finally! Exuberance surged through Chance’s veins, but the idea of ‘the Spawn smiling upon it’ set him on edge.

“Hey, thanks Times! But, uhm, whaddya mean the Spawn likes it?” The Spawn liking something was never normally a good sign. 

Two Time beamed. “How honourable it is to accept your fate of becoming a target rather than running from it! By drawing the attention upon yourself, you shield others!”

“Yeah, but doesn’t The Spawn like death and all that? Isn’t that kinda like… your thing?” Chance questioned while scratching the back of his neck. 

“No, not death,” Two Time’s smile reflected on their dagger, stretching it into something sinister in the dark closet,

“sacrifice.” 

—

Gun loaded with hopefully the right amount of powder, Chance took to the rest of the map searching for the new guy. He whistled a jaunty, upbeat melody as he did so— a happy little song that he figured the new killer would probably despise. Not that Chance knew the guy. But he would soon. Hopefully. 

“Gambler.”

That low voice echoed down the hallway, the only warning Chance got before he was slammed against a wall at what felt like terminal velocity.

He crumpled immediately upon impact with only seconds to gather his wits before a fist came swinging at his jaw, hard.

While the killer reached for his sword, presumably to finish the job, Chance gathered his breath and ran.

And though he did have the advantage of knowing the map, it didn’t do much help considering the way his head spun like a washing machine and his eye was already squeezed half-closed from swelling.

It wasn’t long until Chance backed into one of the play area’s walls.

Fuck, it was always embarrassing to die next to a ball pit made for kids. 

“Wait!” Chance gasped, hands flying out in front of his face, “Don’t kill me yet! Let me talk, I won’t shoot.” 

Still, the killer paced closer, silent in their approach like a panther.

“Hey man, I said wait! I just wanna chat!” 

Chance’s plea was answered by the cruel thrust of a sword right towards their chest— only for it to bounce off with a harmless sizzle and a flash of electric blue.

Chance almost cried. Thank Dusekkar and his beautiful admin powers; Chance could just about kiss their shiny blue pumpkin head right now.

It worked. 

Chance snorted, palm coming up to crudely wipe away the blood dripping from their nose before falling comfortably back into their pockets.

“A ‘no’ would have been sufficient, but whatever fits your mysterious persona works too, I guess,” they shrugged. 

And then the sword was back out again, this time curving in a deadly arc down on Chance’s cranium. And again, it was deflected, sending a ripple of energy through the air between them.  

The killer growled “What is this-“ 

Casually, Chance pulled out his already loaded flintlock and cocked it at the killer’s twitching jaw. “Oh hey, looks like you have to talk now! Shame!” 

“Are you trying to blackmail me?” He narrowed his eyes in stony disbelief. 

“Uhh…” 

“Ridiculous,” he muttered darkly, “once your force field is gone, I will rip your head from your body.” 

Chance chuckled uncertainly. “Unnecessarily graphic, buddy. It’s a pity that the forcefield stays the entire round.” They smiled innocently.

A bluff, but many nights wasted hanging around a casino had taught Chance how to make one and how to do it well. “You’re free to test if you want, but-“ 

Not wasting a second, the killer immediately followed Chance’s suggestion. Not a scratch. 

He glared. “Right, is it out of your system yet, tough guy? Because the clocks counting down and all you’ve achieved is looking like a moron.” Chance deadpanned, patience wearing thin. “Now will you talk?”

“What’s in it for you, gambler? Why are you so keen on this?” 

“Have you ever considered the rest of us have been here a hell of a lot longer than you have, and that I’m bored out of my fucking mind? C’mon, give me something to do here!”

Carefully veiled desperation finally slid into Chance’s voice. He was laying his card on the table here and hoping the killer would respond kindly. A risky gamble— luckily, Chance’s favourite type.

Dusekkar’s spawn protection was also almost definitely up, but nobody had to know that.

Whether out of pity, or human decency, the killer finally lowers their sword a fraction.

“How long?” They hesitate, “how long have you been here?”

The smile that broke across Chance’s face could have challenged the sun in its intensity. 

“Too long.” 

“A number, gambler,” he sneered.

“I have a name ya’know, tough guy.”  

“As do I, gambler.” 

The killer clearly wasn’t happy, but by Telamon, it was working. None of the survivors were dead, and Chance was getting his kick of adrenaline. Confidence bolstered, he continued. 

“A name for name then? How ‘bout that?” They grinned, which could have looked charming if it wasn’t for their busted lip and swollen cheeks. 

“I don’t care about you or your name,” he dismissed, already trying to find a way out of this situation without being shot in the head.  

“I could come up with a nickname. I think you’d hate that more.”

“If I tell you, will you take the gun off my head?” 

“Aww, but then you’d leave me and go kill my friends!”

“You will remove the gun or next time I’ll find whatever one of your ‘friends’” he spat the word, as if finding the very notion of Chance having friends ridiculous,

“cast this spell upon you, kill them, then spend the rest of the time making your life hell.” He leant closer, warm breath curling along the shell of Chance’s ear.

“And believe me, I know how to cause pain that will have a rich boy like you begging for it all to end.” 

Yeah, fuck. Chance was probably way out of his depth here. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever man,” he muttered, head angled ever so slightly away from the killers. “Just tell me your name and I’ll move the gun.” 

The choice hung heavy between them, a simple question turned into something much more loaded. Despite the killer’s weighty threats, they both knew Chance had the upper hand here. 

Finally— “Mafioso.”

The name tore reluctantly from his lips, drenched in accent and unwillingness. The name flowed like honey when spoken, a perfect descriptor of the handsome man with a voice like velvet and words that kill.

Chance beamed like he’d won the lottery and let the gun fall to his sides. 

“Chance.” 

“Chance,” Mafioso murmured, seeming to taste the name, twisting it around his mouth like sampling a vintage wine.

“Fitting, for a man who plays everything like it’s a game.” He tipped his head slowly in a nod before turning, already on the move to hunt another.

But the timer was already at 20 seconds.

Chance could have left it there, but he had to cement the fact that he should be targeted, so he called after him. “Hey, Mafioso?”

Mafioso didn’t turn.

“See ya next time.” And as the timer ticked into the single digits, Chance let his shot go, right into the back of the killer’s head.  

Chapter Text

Chance rose with a flourish, waist bent and hand raised in a delicate, but proud bow like an actor on their closing night after the performance of their life.

“And that, my friends,” he announced, “is how you hit a jackpot!”

Nine astonished faces peered up at him, awe and disbelief tainting the air of the cabin. 

“How— actually how— on Robloxia did you do that?” Elliot shook his head as he leant back, bemusement scrawled onto his face, messy and prominent, while his blond hair fanned around him. 

“It’s all in the charm, dear disciple!” Chance said smugly. 

“It’s not your so-called ‘charm, ’ you moron. You’re just good at lying.”

“Aha- it’s called ‘bluffing’, actually. There’s a difference.” Chance corrected, grin teetering on obnoxious in its length.

No, but seriously. How did you manage to convince them not to kill you for that long? Or us, for that matter. Taph signed as the wings by their face fluttered discordantly in euphoric bewilderment. 

“Blackmail!” Chance beamed. “Threatening to shoot a guy tends to get them to listen.” Taph’s hands stilled, unsure whether to applaud or condemn. 

From his seat across the table, Dusekkar chimed in placidly. “Though your means of coercion may not be… true, I wish to give my thanks to you.” 

Dusekkar jolted as Shedletsky slapped him on the back. “Well said, Matt! It’s been a while since we’ve all made it out a round.”

Builderman nodded sagely. “Though it’s a marvel we hadn’t thought of somethin’ of these likes before. Then again, I don’t see someone riling up, say, Jason the way you did to this new guy, Chance.” 

“Cheers to being insufferable, I guess,” Elliot added. 

Guest spoke before Chance could retort. “Did you find anything out? Before the round ended? We still don’t know a whole lot about this stranger, bar their choice of fighting,” he noted, pragmatic as usual. 

Chance righted his posture before decreeing, “Ah! I did get something: a name.” They announced.

“Mafioso.” 

The cabin was silent for a moment, and 007n7, surprisingly, was the one to break it.

“He sounds… familiar.” n7 furrowed his brows, and Chance could practically see him shifting through his memories. “I remember Nol- one of my old friends mentioning them back at college.” 

“Another hacker then?” Elliot grunted in displeasure.

007n7 flinched slightly, but shook his head. “No, not a hacker, but in similar circles. We never met him ourselves; didn’t wanna get caught up in mafia business. I know he had a title, though, something everyone knew him as. It begins with a D… I think.”

7n7 bowed his head.

“I’m sorry, I can’t remember.”

Chance clapped his shoulder encouragingly. They really shouldn’t have been surprised that 7n7 knew the guy, but he was, regardless. It’s easy to forget that the meek old man in front of him was somewhat of a terrorist.

Though it did make Chance wonder: who else did n7 know?

“Hey, no probs, man. Just let me know if ya’ remember anything, k? Keep me updated.” 

007n7 smiled gratefully.

“So what’s the plan? For Chance to just keep getting targeted by the guy?” 

“Well, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” Shed shrugged, already elbow deep in a bucket of fried chicken. “At least that’s what Builder says, anyways.” 

Builderman rolled his eyes at the other admin, gaze softening before turning back to Chance. “You wouldn’t be wrong. But Chance, are you sure you’re ok to do this? It’s a huge risk.”

“If it means saving you guys a couple rounds of pain and agony, I’m down. Besides, I’m enjoying it. Finally gives me somethin’ ta do.”  

7n7’s eyes caught his under his shades.

“Trust me,” they said, quieter this time, “I need this.” 

Builderman smiled tightly, concern palpable, “Well, if it helps bring yer spark back, I can’t tell yer not ta’. As long as The Spectre has no qualms with the whole thing.” 

Right. Chance’s shoulders slumped a little at that, because if The Spectre disapproved, there was nothing to be done about it. 

“Friends! I don’t think we ought to worry about that!” A voice preened from the balcony above them. Two Time leant over in ecstasy, eyes alight and mouth stretched in a wide grin, their hands gripping the wood like it owed them something. 

“And why’s that, Times?” 

“Come, see for yourself!” 

*

As it turns out, Two Times' excitement wasn’t unjustified. While they were all in the round, the cabin not only changed, but upgraded. And seemingly in Chance’s favour.

New photos adorned the walls, from an image of Chance as a stuffed toy (a picture that earned many confused glances) to an unsightly photo of 007n7 hanging proudly that Elliot found hysterical. 

“Hey, look at this one!” Elliot guffawed from upstairs as Chance surveyed his one photo (why would The Spectre add that? The entity gaining a sense of humour? Some kind of voodoo doll?)

had also been added, and much to Shedletsky’s delight, so had a small stage and a microphone.

But most importantly, there were now fucking slot machines. A whole row of them. Hell. Fucking. Yeah.

To Chance, there was no better cosmic sign he was doing well than this. If they weren’t sure their new strategy was being greenlit, they sure were now. 

*

It had been a fair few rounds since Chance’s stunt, Mafioso not being present since. Amused, Chance wondered if they’d already been retired by The Spectre, the lucky git.

But Chance was feeling… less than ideal. It seemed the second Chance had laid their eyes on those slot machines, their luck had been flipped on its head. More often than not, their gun would misfire horribly or just straight up not shoot.

Chance cursed out Lady Luck, Elliot cursed something else. 

“Chance, do us a favour and stay away from the machines.” Elliot confronted brazenly one round while John Doe patrolled nearby. 

Chance squinted. “Huh- the generators? Sheesh, I’m not thaaat bad-“

“The slot machines, you idiot,” Elliot sighed, shooting them a withering glance. “They’re messing up your performance.” 

“How can you blame machines for my gun not working?” Chance deadpanned. “Next, you’ll be blaming Shedletsky missing his slashes on the pizza oven.” 

“Listen, Chance. I’ve said it before, but you won’t listen. You have an addiction!” 

Seriously? This was what Elliot wanted to talk about mid-round? Almost unconsciously, he could feel his lips curling into an angry scowl. “No, I don’t-“ Chance’s objections were lost as a wave of spikes surged between them, and heavy footsteps grew louder. 

Elliot turned back to him briefly, his eyes narrowed. “We’re talking about this later.” 

And, much to Chance’s misfortune, talk about it later they did.

Naturally, Chance died. Because he couldn’t put down the damn coin while being chased.

But it wasn’t his fault; his cooldown was up, and he just needed one more charge, and he could have shot John Doe there and then.

So as his weakness climbed higher, all it took was one swipe from a claw, and he was already a dead man.

Now, Chance sat at the dock under the oppressive forever night, legs hanging limply into the bottomless lake below. He stared. His reflection stared back. He peered over his shades into the water.

Dead eyes stared back. 

“Hey.” 

Chance jumped. “Fucking hell, Elliot. Has anyone ever told ya you walk like a ghost?” 

“I told you I’d meet you, didn’t I?” 

Chance turned back to the lake sullenly. “Right.” They replied flatly. 

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Elliot moved to sit, his shoulder nudging Chance’s as he shuffled closer to the ledge.

“Frankly, I’m not the best person to say this. But you’ve got a problem, Chance.”

Elliot held up a patient yet stern finger. “Don’t say anything yet, just listen. You can call it what you want, but just don’t deny it. Look, I just wanted to say we’re worried about you.” 

“I’ve been around a casino my whole life, man. If it was an issue, I’m sure it would have surfaced by now, yeah?” 

Chance felt Elliot tense against him. “Well… maybe it has.” 

They froze. “What do you mean by that?” They kept their gaze focused on the lake, at the way the moonlight splayed across it like a blanket. 

“You’ve been… different. For a while now.” Elliot said with an uncharacteristic quietness to his voice. “I’ve seen it. More withdrawn, eating less. You could never keep your hands off that coin.” 

“Bullshit,” They scoffed. “I’ve been hanging around loads.” 

“Recently. Since that new killer has shown up… you’ve changed. This time for the better.” 

At this, Chance startled. “The fuck?” 

“He’s given you something new to focus on, some sort of vengeance or whatever you’re trying to carry out.” Elliot turned to Chance and attempted a smile. “It’s good to see you passionate. Your sparks returning, we can all see it.” 

They thought back to the last few weeks, then the weeks before that. And Elliot had been… right. They were feeling happier— more like themselves. 

“So? How does this relate to the slot machines?” 

Sighing, Elliot continues. “I’m not a therapist, but I don’t want your progress to… regress? I’m telling you, they’re not good for you. The Spectres done this on purpose.” 

“Oh my Telamon! I’m telling you, it’s not an issue. What, can a guy not have a hobby these days?” 

“Hobbies don’t have you awake until 5 every morning, Chance! Don’t be an idiot!” Elliot finally snapped. Elliot, who had the patience of a saint, was snapping at him. 

He sighed, softening slightly, shoulders relaxing as he hunched forward. In contrast, Chance seemed to shrink in on themselves, breathing short and ragged. 

“I can’t stop.”

The murmured gently, voice almost lost in the slow lapping of waves against the bay.

A raw moment of vulnerability; a wound, still raw and bleeding, he was finally showing. The night has a way of easing out secrets— maybe it was because you couldn’t see the other’s face.

When it’s dark, there’s no room for judgment, or embarrassment— only the quiet tension that urged for secrets to be spilt.

Maybe that’s why now, after months of being here, Chance’s facade was cracking. 

Maybe that’s why iTrapped killed him that night.

A steady understanding, and it makes them sick. 

But why? Why can’t Chance put down the coin and step away from the machines? 
In the end, it boiled down to three main reasons: Identity and control.

To Chance, gambling had always been an escape. It didn’t matter who you were, what you did, what was rotting inside you— the house welcomed all. In the casino, Chance quickly found that you didn’t have to be yourself. Nobody knew who you were! Nobody cared, as long as you brought chips to the table. 

Always a quick learner, Chance adapted. Elated with the idea he didn’t have to be himself, he became someone new. A new identity— bold, cocky, confident— one so intrinsically intertwined with gambling that the two become inseparable.

Winning made Chance confident, and without confidence Chance was hollow.

In time, Chance didn’t know how to be himself anymore. And in truth, he didn’t want to— because the last person he’d let see him stabbed him, only enforcing the idea that the real Chance was worth nothing. 

Gambling had always remained a steady undercurrent through his life— a thrum deep in his veins, the lust for adrenaline practically second nature. To ask Chance if he thinks with his head or his heart is like asking if fire is hot.

Elliot thought it was Mafioso who was keeping him ‘normal’; it wasn’t. It was that drive for excitement. An attachment Chance knew was unhealthy, but couldn’t tear themself away from. 

“Then let us help you try.” Elliot’s placating whisper stole them from their thoughts. 

“I don’t think I want to try.” Chance muttered back, the waver in his voice subtle enough not to be picked up on.

They both sat for a moment, silence enveloping their thoughts until only faint static remained in their brains. Neither survivor knew what to say— Chance didn’t know how to be fragile, and Elliot didn’t know how to understand. 

“Just… please try. If not for you, for all of us here. ‘Kay?” He said, before standing up to leave. 

Chance nodded. What he didn’t say was ‘none of you would want me if I tried. I wouldn’t want me if I tried.’

They didn’t look back as he heard the cabin door swing closed. Didn’t move follow. But suddenly, the dock felt a whole lot colder, the space beside them a whole lot emptier. 

*
 
“Morning,” Chance droned as he slunk into the kitchen, hair mussed from a restless sleep.

Truly, they’d listened to Elliot’s advice and stayed clear of the slot machines last night. But still, their signature coin had found its way back into Chance’s palm, and flicking it quickly became soothing, a balm to their itching nerves.

Baby steps, right? 

“Morning.” 007n7 smiled tightly from his seat at his table (the one in the very back corner, naturally).

He still met Chance’s eyes with hesitation, but he was improving.

Hey, months of mistreatment couldn’t be erased in a few weeks. Hell, Chance would know.

But Elliot going out of his way to occasionally make conversation (however stiff and awkward it was) had seemingly flipped a switch in the other survivors. Given an unspoken signal for peace.

Chance was glad. 

“Good sleep?” They asked, sliding into the seat right opposite him.

007n7 shrugged plainly, “Nothing unusual. But I did remember something, nothing important, but-“ 

“Hey guys.” Elliot smiled as he sauntered over, slipping in comfortably next to 7n7, ignoring the way the other man tensed in trepidation.

Out of embarrassment, Chance avoided eye contact; they couldn’t look at them so soon, not after last night.

So, like an animal with its weakness exposed, naturally, Chance avoided confrontation.

Elliot seemed to pick up the tension and respectfully left Chance his space. Which, unfortunately, left the timid ex-hacker to be the focus of their joint attention. 

“Any idea when the rounds going to start, seven?” Elliot asked casually. 

Seven?! That was new. Chance might be self-absorbed, but they’re not blind. How could they miss whatever weird friendship was blooming? Or maybe they weren’t friends. Maybe this was just Elliot attempting to bridge an extremely awkward gap. 

“It’s a morning one. I was just thinking of waking up the others… but…” 

Given his access to the GUI, it gave n7 the privilege of knowing when the next round would start. It was like the timer they all saw during rounds, but apparently glitchier- more unreliable.

7n7 claimed it flickered out of existence most of the time, a bus in the Spectre’s code that he miraculously had access to. Suspicious, but enough time spent in casinos taught Chance not to look the gift-horse in the mouth, so they shrugged it off. 

“No worries, I’ll wake them up for you.” Chance offered, moving to stand. 

“Wait! The thing I remembered!”

 
“Oh, yeah?” 

“Mafioso's name. I remembered his title.” 

“Great! Much appreciated, man!” 

007n7 smiled warmly, “No issue. It’s the least I can do.”

“So what is it?” 

“Ah- The D-“

007n7’s words were cut off by an overwhelming tinnitus in Chance’s ears. It was too late, the round was starting. 

*

“What on Robloxia-“ Shedletsky groaned, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I wasn’t even awake yet, man.” 

“Hah- better luck next time, old man. Did no one ever tell you the early bird catches the worm?” They grinned. While not all that rare for a round to start mid-sleep, it was never pleasant. Trying to stun a killer while your mind was still groggy and your bones still tired was almost always a ticket to getting slashed right back. 

“Real funny. If you're getting chased, I won’t be saving yo- what the hell?!” Shed cried as a gloved hand came hurtling from thin air. But not the stab— to push.

Shedletsky groaned as he hit the floor, sword already raised in anticipation. But the killer wasn’t after him— their eyes were locked only on Chance. 

“Oh, hey, boss! Didja miss me that much? I don’t blame ya-OUCH.”

Mafioso surged forwards, sword outstretched, pinning Chance momentarily to the wall by it going right through his shoulder to the wall like a dead bug tacked onto a display. 

“FUCK-!” 

The sword retracted, and Chance ran. They needed to find Dusekkar now.

In the events Mafioso was the killer again, they’d come up with spots for them to meet, where the admin would wait out of reach.

This was Brandon6875935's place, meaning Dusekkar was at the castle.

Unfortunately, Chance was on the other side of the map.

A cinderblock to the head sent Chance tumbling to the floor, and within seconds, Mafioso was on him. 

“Yes, I’ve missed you.” He exulted, drinking in Chance’s misery like a vampire. “Missed the opportunity to do this.” He drove the sword into Chance’s other shoulder as another wild scream tore from Chance’s throat.

Mafioso twisted the blade, covering Chance’s mouth with a glove as he did. 

“You know something, Chance?” The words practically rolled off his tongue, dripping in sadistic amusement.

“I was thinking something was awfully familiar about you. Those shades, the gambling, the narcissism. But I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until you told me your name.”

Chance panted, almost blind from the sword twisting his muscles inside his shoulder like a blender. This was bad. Way bad.

No killer had ever done this before; it was always a matter of killing, and simply that. Any enjoyment was always kept private, the suffering never drawn out.

But like Chance hypothesised, Mafioso was different.

Mafioso continued, “You’re that stinkin’ rich kid whose folks own that casino, am I right? Because I realised I know you, and you have something of mine that I’m needing back,” he drawled, and a wave of dread suddenly rose around Chance, leaving him utterly immobilised in its current.

They groaned into Mafioso’s glove. “Well, I’m afraid that when I told you my name the other day, I forgot to mention my full name, one you might be more familiar with.”

This was it: what n7 was trying to warn him of earlier.

Mafioso leaned in close. “Don Sonnellino. Does that ring any bells?” 

Chance’s eyes widened in dawning clarity. Understanding trickled across his features like water. Because fuck, did it ring bells. Loud alarm bells, currently blaring in Chance’s ears, screaming at him to run.

So following his instincts, Chance bit down on the glove in his mouth, hard. Before Mafioso could react, Chance heaved the sword from his arm, flipped over, and broke into a wobbly sprint.

He ducked behind a wall, where Guest and Builderman leant near a sentry.  

“Chance, you ok?” 

They both surveyed him, eyes glued to the blood gushing from his wounds.

“I-I may or may not have won a rigged prize from the new killer, and I'm only just aware of it now. And he may or may not hate me a lot more than he hated me previously.” 

“Quick. Find Elliot or Dusekkar, Builderman’s on cooldown, I’ll keep him off you. Builderman, go with them.” 

With no hesitation, Guest raised his fists and Builderman scooped Chance’s arm over his shoulder, supporting his weight. Chance cried out at the movement, but didn’t resist the aid.

They limped around walls, each small move draining more and more of Chance’s energy, their steps faltering each time they fell. Somewhere along the way, Chance must have blacked out, because the next thing they remembered was Elliot shoving a pizza in their mouth. 

“So you’re telling me Chance knows this guy?” 

“That’s what they said, yes.” 

“Telamon, Chance, what did you do to him?” 

Despite the circumstances, Chance’s grin remained proud and unflinching. “Beat him at his own game.”  

Nearby, Dusekkar peeked over the crenels of the castle on watch. 

“If his intent is to horribly maim, surely The Spectre cannot allow this game.”

“Dusekkar’s right. Surely this is unfair.” 

“Exactly. We’re playing the game, he’s ruining it.” Elliot objected incredulously. “This needs to stop.”

Chance, now fully healed, sat up. “Does it, though?”

Four eyes and one pumpkin swivelled to look at him.

“Now that I know what he wants, surely my task has just become easier, yeah?” Silence. Chance tossed his coin discreetly by his side. 

“You can’t be serious.” Elliot deadpanned. 

“Why not?”

“Chance, he’s out for blood!”

“Wasn’t he always? So what if it’s just a little more personal now. Dusekkar, you’ll help me still, right?” 

The admin remained silent.

 
“Dusekkar, come on!” 

Still, nothing. A familiar anger rose in Chance’s gut. 

“Fine, I don’t need any of you. I’ll do it myself.” He snarled before storming away to find The Don. 

*

“Mafioso!” Chance bellowed. “Where are you, you son of a bitch?!” 

3 charges sitting heavy in his gun, Chance strode across the map, fire fuelling every step. 

“Mafioso!”

“Returned for more, eh?” The Don crooned from behind.

Chance spun, flintlock raised, but didn’t fire yet. 

“How do you expect me to return the money now?! Let it go.”

“Please, like you would have returned it. You had every chance to repay it while you were still alive. You’re lucky you went missing before me and the boys found ya’”.

Mafioso stepped closer. “Where did you go? A tactical retreat? You don’t seem like the type. Or maybe it was something to do with that name you mentioned when I first killed you. iTrapped, was it?” 

Chance tightened his grip on the gun, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”  

“Don’t I?” He drawled. 

“What do you want?” They asked, voice low. 

“Revenge. You’ve embarrassed me, gambler. Back on Robloxia, and now here. You know my boys saw that first stunt you pulled? The one where you spat at me?”

“And I’ll do it again, mother fucker.” 

“Is that a bet?” Mafioso smiled, cold and cunning. Chance smiled back.

“Remember what happened last time you made a bet?” Mafioso scowled at the reference to the stolen prize. 

“I won.” 

He fired. 

*

Builderman sat across from them, a tension to his posture and tightness in the way he interlocked his fingers together.

The round was long over, Chance not having spoken a word since it ended.

A tightness was present in the cabin, and Chance could feel something building, like the gathering of clouds before a storm. Now, Shedletsky had called him over to have a talk. 

Dusekkar was there as well, leaning sagely on his staff, pumpkin head locked on Chance’s every move. He didn’t know why, but his palms started to slick with sweat. 

“Hey, what’s the ambush for? Am I in trouble?” Chance tried for nonchalant, but the waver in their voice betrayed their jittering nerves. Like a rabbit caught in a snare, their eyes darted swiftly between the trio of admins. 

Builderman cleared his throat. “Well, Chance… we’ve been thinking… It’s best you stop your whole ‘thing’ with the Don.”

The shock was immediate. “What? Why! It’s working, isn’t it? Nobody else had died while he was the killer!”

“Yet,” Builderman warned. 

Shedletsky leant back in his chair cooly. “Kid, it was a good idea, but nothing lasts forever.”

“Though the task we must be denying, for your efforts, we thank you for trying.” 

“But-but why?!” Chance cried incredulously. He splayed his hands out in front of him in question. “What changed?!”

“It’s far too risky for you now, especially with your past.”

“So what?! I’ll die anyway, does it really matter how?” 

“Yes, it does.” She’d warned. “Because death is never as simple as just dying, it really hurts. Getting tortured each time Mafioso is the killer is only going to make you break.”

“What, so you think I’m going to go insane?! You think I’m crazy? Because I’ve been through worse. That bastard is nothing!”

 
“Come on, Chance. He doesn’t have the reputation he does for nothing! You know how infamous you gotta be for admins to know of you?” 

“Well, The Spectre clearly thinks it’s a good idea!”

“Yeah, and when has The Spectre ever had our best interests in mind?” 

“Well, It gave me what I wanted, so I’m not complaining.”

“You’re addicted, Chance! Do you really think The Spectre adding slot machines is helping you? No! It wants to break you!”

“Oh, you sound just like Elliot! Wait-“

something clicked.

“Have you guys been talking about me? Behind my back?”

When Elliot had said other people had been worried about him, he didn’t think that meant the whole damn cabin. Chance had exposed himself to Elliot, the weakness he wasn’t ready to show anybody yet, but did anyway, and Elliot went and told everyone else. 

“No, Chance, it’s not like that-“

 
“Seriously? Fuck you all,” they spat, moving to stand. Because if there’s one thing Chance hated the most, it was being lied to.

So with emotion welling thick in his throat, Chance ran, because it all reminded him just a little too much of him. 

Chapter Text

Chance was never one for promises.

Promises were decisive, firm— whereas Chance was made from penny tosses and dice rolls, changes at the drop of a hat.

Chance tried to dodge promises, hiding from them with fervour. They were binding, and Chance preferred freedom— spontaneity.

iTrapped had loved promises; false ones he never intended to keep.

He enjoyed piling empty promises high, like he was trying to see just how many he could stack until they fell and crushed him. Him, or the person he made the promise to.

That was the risk iTrapped lived for.

iTrapped had promised Chance many things: that they were friends, for one. That he would never hurt them, for another. He never promised he loved them, though. Maybe Chance could respect them for that at least. Though they figured it was less out of empathy and more out of disgust to even utter the lie that Chance was something worthy of his love.

But despite his vehemence for promises, the day after they died, Chance made two. They would never be used again, and they would never be like iTrapped.

-

Chance awoke with a gasp. Sweat-soaked blankets clung to his clammy body, and nightmares chased him into the waking world.

His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts of panic while he fumbled for a light.

The cabin swam into view around him, darkness shrinking back into the crannies of the room. They scanned around, eyes squinted yet rapid in their flitting movements.

Chance sighed: they were alone.

Clink. Clink. Clink; the lucky coin was back in the air, cutting through the shadows with derision.

It was dark outside (because when was it not?), but judging from the lack of chatter and movement both coming from inside the main cabin, the rest of the survivors had committed themselves to sleep.

Like a cat, Chance slunk from his own, pushing the door open with silent firmness, and creeped across the grass into the main cabin. The only noises were the ancient creaking of the door and Chance’s uneven breathing.

The stairs groaned under their boots as they ascended, attracted like a moth to the bright lights of the slot machines.

They bit the inside of their cheek guiltily as they approached, knowing damn well they shouldn’t. But Chance was feeling unsteady, like a ship in a storm, and craved control, some way to regain jurisdiction over his life again.

Weeks had passed since their argument with the admins, and a distance had been forged between them and the other survivors, whether by Chance’s hand or the others, they didn’t know.

They had tried to talk to him, Chance thinks. But his temper was thin, patience thinner, and every word shared felt heavy with betrayal. Soon enough, they stopped trying.

Yet occasionally, as Chance blinked over a fumbled generator or yelped over a missed shot, they’d catch a concerned gaze meeting their own before he refuted it with a scowl.

They slunk through rounds in a daze, impatiently awaiting those twighlight hours where they had the cabin to themselves.

It was there that Chance concluded decisively: this was Hell.

But it wasn’t all bad. In the rounds where The Don was the killer, Chance could pretend nothing was wrong. A different form of escapism founded in a cat and mouse chase.

The banter let Chance pretend he wasn’t alone, and each round with Mafioso helped Chance feel like himself again. Taunting The Don, he could almost imagine he was back home, evading the mafia in some back alley.

But then the round would end, and he’d be thrust back into melancholic solitude.

Loneliness hurt. It presses in on you like bars of an ever-contracting cage.

Chance wanted out. He didn’t want to be here anymore. The fun had expired, rotted away like leaves in autumn, leaving only empty memories of what used to be.

But was there even anything for him if he escaped? The only piece of him on Robloxia was a decaying corpse already six feet under, the only memory of him the one iTrapped had. And Telamon, wasn’t that a depressing thought.

It was at these lows, where Chance’s own ragged reflection stared back at him in the screens of a slot machine, that Chance was reminded of those two promises he’d made himself. Never be used, and never be like him.

As their hands fumbled another coin into the slot, they wondered what it actually meant to be like him. Kill people? Use them for your own gain? Pretend to be someone you aren’t? Because if so, wasn’t Chance doing all those things? Wasn’t Chance failing?

He blinked, running a hand down his face, hard, his fingers digging into the skin he was trying to reshape it. At the end of the day, wasn’t Chance using Mafioso for thrill in the same way iTrapped had used him? The realisation sank in his stomach like a stone. Chance was such a fucking asshole. Didn’t Mafioso say himself he didn’t even care about the prize anymore? Chance had started this. 

‘We’re playing the game, he’s ruining it’ is what Elliot had said. But wasn’t that what Chance was doing first? He gulped, swallowing down emotions. Of course, it’s different. This was kill or be killed, and Chance wouldn’t be a sitting duck.

But to turn it into a game… to derive amusement from it… was he really that different from iTrapped?

Chance shook his head, both hands clutching the side of the machine as the floor seemed to sway like the deck of a boat beneath him. For the first time since he arrived, Chance felt completely and utterly lost. 

-

“Where are your friends?” The Don questioned as he circled closer, lining up the best shot to pounce. 

“What, getting bored of me already?” Chance snarked, ducking behind a wall before Mafioso could charge. 

“Not at all.” He mused, “I ask only because it’s getting harder to find you.”

Chance resumed flipping their coin, uncaring of the weakness amounting. “Yeah? How so?” 

“I used to just follow the sound of laughter, and it led me right to ya. Now? Nothing.” 

Their fingers slipped on the coin, and it tumbled to the floor with a plink. That hit like a brick to the face.

Chance’s mask slipped slightly. His brows knitted together for a moment, his lips twitching downwards in a pained frown before jolting back into their usual cocky grin. 

“Well, things happen.”

“‘Things happen’?” Mafioso repeated, tone heavy with doubt. 

Silence was the only response he could give. Chance flipped his coin, letting a little smile of elation slip as it finally landed on heads. Only one charge, but that’s all he needed. 

Mafioso spun round the corner, but Chance was already gone, the sword grazing the spot where Chance’s back would have been a second earlier.

Playing without the help of Dusekkar’s shield as a safety net only multiplied the danger by tenfold. But Chance flourished under high-risk, high-reward type scenarios, so really, jokes on them.

Adrenaline still sang in their veins as they narrowly avoided each slash, though this round, Chance couldn’t shake a second feeling that clung to them like a second skin: guilt. It hammered heavy beside Chance’s heart like a tumour as he weaved between hiding places.

Mafiosos taunting lilt ricocheted off Planet Voss’ walls like a bullet, “‘Friends’ don’t just leave you unless you’ve done something. What did you do, Chance?” 

Chance didn’t feel guilty often; you usually lose the feeling after the first few times robbing someone blind in poker. Yet Chance felt guilty now, and it was a feeling that filled you from the inside like lead, and clung to your skin like a weighted coat. 

Clink. Another heads, two charges.

Recently, the guilt rose at night, when Chance was alone in the cabin, squinting under the abrasive white light of the slot machines. That was when the numbness resided and the loathing came rushing in. Amounting, day by day, like a wave rolling over the sea.

Chance stumbled around a wall, wincing as the map opened into a clearing. They gasped as Mafioso’s sword bit into their back with cold cruelty. 

It was easy to pretend like it wasn’t all their fault as day rolled around. But here, mid-round, Mafioso’s question unfurled that familiar guilt again. What did you do, Chance? 

What did he do? Tormented a man who has no idea where— or what— he was at first, pushed away all his friends, done what he promised himself not to do, all under the guise of helping? All to fuel his addiction to thrill? 

They trudged over to the tree in the centre of the map, leaning against it for support, raising their gun for when inevitably Mafioso would round the corner.

Chance could hear his footsteps now, heavy against the grass. He could shoot him now. Could probably make it, too. He had two charges, the odds favoured him.

The Don ran into the clearing, an easy target. Until he spotted Chance. Footsteps pattered out, his movement stilled, eyes on the gun, as raw, unguarded fear flickered across his face.

Mafiosos pupils contracted slightly in an emotion that was completely and utterly human.

Chance hefted the gun higher, steadying his shot. If he pulled the trigger, he wouldn’t miss. He knew he wouldn’t.

Mafioso knew, too; like a deer in headlights, he froze. Was that what they looked like to iTrapped the day they died?

They swallowed thickly, fingers slowly unclenching and clenching the trigger in a discordant rhythm. He could pull it easily.

So why wasn’t he shooting?

Every moment stretched infinitely. Their heart hammered, their breathing lagged, their wounds bled, and Chance felt it all at once.

Penitence. And it was eating him alive.

His hands shook. He blinked.

And slowly, he lowered the gun. 

Chance leant back against the tree in exhaustion, tipping his head back and scrunching his eyes so he didn’t have to see the Don’s face.

What would he find if he had? Probably mockery, condescension.

Footsteps thumped closer, slowly at first, then faster.

The sword to his jugular killed him quickly after.

Chapter Text

The aftermath of Chance’s surrender wasn’t freeing— it was anything but. He thought surrendering would bring relief, but it didn’t.

Restless, Chance wandered the cabin and patrolled the rounds, replaying the last encounter with The Don in his mind like a broken record.

Each time, he questioned why he hadn’t pulled the trigger. He could have stunned Mafioso and escaped. Instead, he’d lowered the gun, surrendered, and paid the price in full.  

They’re still not talking to their friends, which is another problem. They have no one to mull over their future with, no one to seek guidance from. They’re alone, and they hate it.

But that round left one thing clear to Chance— he would torment The Don no longer.

He might hate Chance, and Chance might hate him back. He might be a killer, and Chance might be as well, but ultimately, Chance had brought this upon himself.

Everything upon himself.

So no, Chance wouldn’t hunt The Don anymore. In fact, Chance wouldn’t even shoot the man anymore.

So the next round Mafioso was the killer, Chance just ran. No attempts at upping their health, no attempts at loading their gun, only the gold coin flitting between their fingers and their exhausted legs. It ended with a goon body slamming him to the floor, and Mafioso's sword plunged between his eyes a second later.

The round after, while Chance bled from seemingly infinite raw and bleeding gashes, Mafioso rammed him into a wall, instantly ending him. 

This was a shit way for Chance to apologise, but at least he was trying, right? 

The next round was similar: just Chance and his failing marriage to Lady Luck fleeing until a cinder block sent him flying into a wall. And as Chance died, he thought, ‘Maybe this is working. Maybe I am making amends’. 

Apparently not.

After the fourth round of a very obviously now one-sided rivalry, Chance found himself cornered, sandwiched between a generator, a wall, and a furious Mafioso.

Chance sweated bullets as he detangled his hands from the generator wires, trying his best to avoid eye contact with the Mafia boss looming over him like a thunderstorm.

The house in Yorick’s resting place was dark, strengthening the thick shadows pooling below Mafioso’s fedora, and only fuelling Chance’s fear further.

“Gambler,” he snarled, unmoving, sword stretched out by his side as if to block potential escape routes, like he’d probably done many times before this place.

“What is this?”

“What, this?” Chance smiled weakly, gesturing anxiously at the box on the floor. “Uh- this is a generator. We use them to speed up the rounds-“

Mafioso's castigating voice cut him short. “Don’t be an idiot,” he spat, mouth curling in displeasure.

“Hah- I don’t normally try, it usually comes naturally,” he joked pathetically and winced. He righted his fedora, eyes still flittering around the room like flies, folding under the pressure already.

“I show up in this… place,” Mafioso hissed, “and you decide to immediately make me a target. Before you even knew who I was. Why?”

Chance’s smile falls, his shoulders falling lower. He was hoping Mafioso would just kill him; how could he explain emotions he wasn’t even sure of himself?

“You make a fool of me. For no reason. You don’t do this to the other killers.” Mafioso posture was rigid, standing tall. Candlelight caught on his sword, and Chance could see his own startled face glimpse back at him for a second.
The Don continued, anger mounting. “But most confusing of all: you stop.”

Chance braced, awaiting the question they couldn’t answer.

“Why?”

Chance licked their lips, their mind racing with thoughts faster than a roulette wheel. Still, no answer came. Mafioso watched, clearly impatient as Chance stood frozen in fear, unable to force out any words.

“You run away where you used to run towards. What changed?” He growled, voice deepening with every unmet demand uttered.

“Hell, even now you could have shot me! Why didn’t you shoot me back at that tree? Why aren’t you shooting me now?” He seethed in frustration, vexation pulling at the corners of his lips.

…

“…Do you want me to shoot you?”

Chance croaked without mirth.

The sword lowered slightly as Mafioso stepped closer, anger making him sloppy, a word Chance never would have thought to describe the terrifying man before him.

“Is this a ploy to get me to feel bad for you? After everything you’ve done?” He barked.

Here, Chance found his voice, the next words escaping his mouth small and usually timid. In surrender, they finally pulled their sunken eyes to The Don’s burning ones.

“I’m sorry. For taunting you with the prize when I could have paid it back. For making you my target for no reason. It… wasn’t fair.”

Chance could hear his heart beating, could feel Mafioso breathing down his neck, each huff of air shallow and quick. Emotion danced across the Mafia’s face before settling in a deep, mocking scowl.

“Pathetic.” He snarled before diving the sword right into Chance’s abdomen, and letting him bleed out over the cold, dark floor.

-

007n7 found Chance a couple of hours later, perched on the edge of the porch like a crow, fedora tipped low over their face as they looked outwards. They oozed sullenness, posture hunched as their legs tucked up to their chest like a child. Even n7, socially dense as he was, could pick up that something was wrong.

Though now, when was something with Chance not wrong?

“Hey,” 007n7 said softly, sitting down beside them. Chance didn’t stir. “How about a game of cards? Blackjack and a chat? I could use the company.” 

At this, Chance moved slightly, turning his head to face the other. “You have a good memory.” 

“I try,” 007n7 smiled, “it’s one of my few redeeming qualities.”

Chance turned away, back to facing the dense forestry. “Why are you here?”

N7 shrugged simply. “I told you, I wanted to talk. The others have warmed up to me a little, but we’re hardly friends.” 007n7’s newfound bold demeanour cracked a little.

“…sorry if I’m overstepping… I can go,” he finished with a whisper.

Chance relented. “…no. You’re fine, man. What do you want to talk about?”

Smiling softly in relief, n7 replied, “Anything. Or nothing- in particular, I mean.”

The shift in Chance’s posture was subtle, yet there for those who looked. Shoulders melting, the furrow between their brows softening. They were relieved; they didn’t want to talk about that round today, or any of the past rounds, for that matter. Chance wanted to pretend, if only for a moment, that he hadn’t pushed all his friends away. Forget he somehow made his relationship with the man who wanted to kill him even worse.

Returning his gaze to the tree line, Chance asked, “Do you think they’re out there?”

007n7 followed their line of sight. “Who? The killers?”

Chance nodded.

007n7 sighed. “I wish I knew. I- I tried to find out once, when I first arrived. But…”

‘I was too much of a coward’ was left unsaid between them both. Chance could understand. The killers had to be staying somewhere, and to have your child kill you in empty, iron-scented fields was different to being killed surrounded by a cracking fire and a place that looked like a home, they supposed.

“Imagine,” Chance murmured, “if they were all out there together. In a cabin, like our own.”

007n7 sighed wistfully. “That would be nice… I- I could live with that. The others might not be ready to admit it yet, but they’re people, too.”

Chance blinked slowly. “Yeah… they are.” Something he was really only starting to realise.

Shame flushed his face. Embarrassment and regret tinged his cheeks. Cold metal bit into Chance’s raw fingertips as he danced the coin between them in an unconscious habit, like twirling a penny a few times would right all their wrongs.

It was true— none of the other survivors but 007n7 viewed the killers as more than bloodthirsty beasts. Chance had viewed them like that, too, hadn’t he?

They ducked their head in humiliation at the slow dawning epiphany.

A gentle touch to their wrist snapped them out of their trance, n7’s hand coming unnoticed to still their hand, the one spinning the coin. Chance frowned; right, he was meant to be stopping that.  

007n7 continued. “Sometimes when 1x1x1x1 kills me… they tell me I’m nothing like my son. I think that means they must all be together. Somewhere.”

Curiosity got the better of Chance for a moment, a thought breaking him out of his sombre mood for a moment. “Do you not mind the idea of your son being close with the killers?”

Are you not scared of being replaced?

“It used to hurt, at first. Still does, sometimes. But at the end of the day…” 007n7 turned to face Chance, smile soft, but there, “I’m glad he has someone, even if I can’t be there for him. He might not know I love him, might not know I haven’t left him. He might hate me a little for that, but I’ll never stop waiting until the day he gets to see me again.”

Love: pure and whole, shining in the father’s dewy eyes. It’s enough to move Chance to tears.

He thinks back through his own life. He’s never been loved like that before, whether it be familial, platonically, or romantically, and it all makes him feel hollow.

He thought he had, once. Was he really that unlovable?

Before he knew it, tears were already running in small streams down his face. Like a sort of sixth sense, 007n7 knew what Chance was thinking instantly. A hand tentatively found their shoulder before wrapping around and pulling them close.

“You will find someone who loves you, Chance, I promise.”

Chance sniffled wetly, pathetically. 007n7 nodded to the cabin, “Everyone in there, for example.”

They swallowed. “I blew it. I shouted at you all, pushed you away. Said horrible things.”

007n7 nodded sagely, “and they may want an apology. One you can give in your own time. But trust us, we’ll wait for you when you find it.” 

Promise tied between them, the pair continued to watch the ever-black landscape as Chance’s eyes dried behind their obscuring shades. Unexpectedly, as Chance studied the ex-hacker's face, taking in all the forgotten smile lines and inky eye bags, he realised something no one else in the cabin had ever vocalised before.   

“You’re a good man, 007n7.” 

He didn’t move, expression shadowed as he looked onwards. “So are you, Chance. A better one than you give yourself credit for.”

-

On the outside, nothing appeared different with Chance. They still moved sullenly, evasively, around the cabin, angsty and avoiding conversation.

And on the inside… not much had changed either.

Chance was still mad at the others. He still felt used, betrayed. But there was something— a seed planted, a willingness to do better— be better— than he had been.

Rounds still passed, Chance still died, and nights were still spent in the lonely company of a slot machine, but a fog was slowly lifting from his eyes, the knowledge that what he was doing was, like Elliot said, wrong. 

And where to start than properly apologising, not running, to the man he’d wronged several times over. Not while corned, but earnestly.

So as the next round started, Chance did something he thought he’d stop doing a while ago: sought out Mafioso. 

They inched around the map with a silence rivalling Two Times’, stopping only when they found The Don’s hands wrapped around a 007n7 clone’s neck, wringing it dry. There, they stopped.

They waited at the edge of the clearing until Mafioso finally turned. The Don panted, annoyance at the clone leaking from his persona like water from a cracked vase, but stilled upon finding the gambler waiting.

Eyes narrowing, he droned, “I don’t want to talk with you, gambler. Or have you changed your mind about feeling sorry?” 

Chance didn’t move to step closer, but raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “I came to explain, properly, this time.” 

“Oh? Will you start crying this time?” Mafioso jibbed.

“Funny, but I’m serious. I want to say I’m sorry. Genuinely, this time, with a reason. I wasn’t running from you to make you pity me, or to get you to leave me alone… I just… wanted to… I don’t know, I was too scared to apologise, I guess. I don’t want you to pity me; I just want to go back to normal. It's a big ask, I know, but…” Chance trailed off, unsure of what he was saying, knowing what he wanted to say, but not how.

Mafioso started back flatly. 

“… that was a horrible apology, if you can even call it that.”

Chance rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I know…” 

“And you want to just pretend you never stole from me? To go back to normal? What even is normal, here?” Mafioso asked, almost incredulously, tension easing ever so slightly to leave room for Chance to finally breathe.  

“Of course not. And normal as in… you just kill me, without the torturing stuff? And I, uhm, run like I usually would? That’s what we would usually do, right? Back at home?” Chance squinted. 

Mafioso cocked his head, amusement now apparent. 

“You’re saying I have a free pass to kill you indefinitely? And you won’t pull any of those tricks like before?” 

“Maybe?” Chance shrugged in discomfort, “and I can’t ’pull any tricks’ anyway. My frie- the other survivors won’t help me anymore.” 

“And you’re seriously fine with this?” Baffled, Mafioso shook his head. 

“Not really… but that’s just how the game works, right? I’ve been put here to face a punishment of some kind; I might as well face it, I suppose.” 

The wrinkle between Mafioso’s brows ironed out, his stony features softening for a second. “Is that truly why you believe you’re here? To pay some sort of penance?” 

“…yes?”

Was that not obvious? Chance was hardly an angel, and they thought Mafioso of all people would know that. 

Mafioso thought for a second, serious expression returning. “Will you still shoot me?” 

“… if you want?”

…

And that’s all it took for Mafioso to burst out laughing.

A full guffaw, while Chance looked on in horror.

Was Mafioso, The Mafioso, laughing? Like, an actual laugh, not the icy chuckle he delivered right before a killing blow.

Suddenly, the tension fled the room like it had never been there, bleeding away and vanishing. Chance could even feel a smile tugging at his own lips. 

“Are you ok?” 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

Crossing their arms in defence, Chance said, “Well, I’m sorry for trying then. That’s what I get for attempting to be nice. You’ll take the deal or not?”

 
Mafioso smiled. “I’ll think about it,” he chuckled, as the clock ticked down to zero, and Chance ended his first round in weeks without dying.