Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ever since he was forsaken, Shedletsky has felt… something missing.

He’s not even sure what it is. He still has his trusty sword from his SFOTH days, he still has the remainder of his wings on his back, he can still feel his godhood, as chained as it is here. The clothes on his back are as he remembers, the calluses on his hands familiar, and his endless appetite are all things he can count on, small things carried over from a life he can only dream about now. 

But… there’s something wrong, he thinks. He can tell, a piece of him is gone, there’s a-- a tingling that he should know something when Builderman gives him a certain look. When their tormentors start to look a little worse for wear. When anger soars so high in him and he can only clench his fists. 

It’s not something he focuses on, except in rare quiet moments. He’s too busy dying, or distracting whoever is killing them this round, or learning how to console, or making plans for future rounds to really worry about it. It’s something he keeps in the back of his mind, a phantom sensation that he tastes on the back of his tongue as he tries to sleep at night. 

The round, another sick game, starts as usual, and he finds himself next to a crumbling castle bearing the scars of their previous skirmishes here. He takes a deep breath, and tries to feel the air-- it’s quiet, indicating it’s not that red demon or his friends, and he doesn’t feel the sense of wrongness that follows 1x1x1x1 and John, so it’s probably not them, either… Jason, then, though something in him sings erroneously. 

He makes his way to what they’d all dubbed the south part of the map, hoping to catch as Jason’s first target, if Guest hasn’t done so already. That’s always the plan with this killer, as he always focuses until his target is dead, even if it costs him the rest of them escaping unharmed. 

Shedletsky doesn’t see any of the others, and though that’s not uncommon, it still makes his heart beat with worry. 

He… actually doesn’t run into Jason-- the killer must’ve went the other way around the area. He jogs to hopefully catch up, to hopefully make sure no one has died while he’d taken an unexpected stroll, but he’s also getting more worried. No killer, no other survivors… and he hasn’t even heard the sound of a chainsaw, a favorite of Jason’s, even if he’s prone to missing with it. 

As he rounds around a structure, he comes across his first body-- Noob. Unfortunate, but not surprising; if they were caught off guard by Jason’s silent stalk, then there’s not much they could do, especially with the reach on that machete. Though, a few steps away is Elliot, maybe having died to-- to heal Noob?

He doesn’t have time to play detective, though he can’t help but notice both of their wounds are severe -- there’s amputations, lacerations, and… burn wounds? He can’t help himself as he takes a step closer, and something crunches underneath his foot. Like a damsel in a horror movie, he slowly lifts his foot to take a peak. 

A… feather?

It’s golden, and has a strange aura that makes him want to run, abandon everything way more than seeing 1x1x1x1 here again had. It calls to him like a lost memory, like the word lost on the tip of one’s tongue. What is this doing here? He reaches for it, though as he gets closer, his hands shake. What’s going on? This obviously isn’t Jason anymore, and instead some new beast hellbent on killing them all. And-- he’s sitting here just looking at dead bodies while the others are still fighting for their lives . 

He stands straight and immediately sprints back towards the castle, the place where all the survivors try to meet up. He can’t dally any longer, even if it might cost him some damage trying to recover his breath when he gets there. 

As he reaches the top of the castle, he witnesses Guest get stabbed through the heart, and hears the blaring of music their captor plays when it’s just one of them left, like this is some sort of sick entertainment game. Guest’s killer turns around, and it’s like the world stops, even as angels’ choir sings in his ear. 

It’s tall, standing with such casualness it could rival the trees in center Robloxia. A hood covers its head, casting a shadow not unlike ones cast by sunsets he no longer can view. Its wings are on its back, mirroring his own in all ways but their color and damage. It tilts its head, and he feels the world tilt with it. 

It hums, oddly in tune with the holy chants, as a wide grin stretches across its face. “Telamon’s worser half shows up, at last.”

“Who-- Who are you?” He breathes, pupils blown wide. He knows this god-- he knows he should know this god. 

It looks oddly displeased, frowning greatly. “A pity. He does not even remember our greatness.”

Like a moth drawn to a flame, he can’t help but take a step closer, even as it raises its sword-- the Illumina -- pointing directly underneath his chin. He’s moving, thinking , through molasses; he can’t even bring himself to feel scared. He needs to be here, like a nail that needs the hammer, like a worm that needs the bird, like… like a lamb that needs the slaughter.

“Draw your blade, disciple. Telamon will not ask twice.” It commands, and who is he but to follow?

Their fight is-- it’s a dance. The god is obviously toying with him, letting him block and parry as it moves through his own attacks like water. They flow through the currents, his arms shaking in exertion, and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t try to run away, because he hasn’t been told to, hasn’t been allowed to, and--

And…

Wait, what is wrong with him? Is this this new killer’s power? Unrelenting devotion? The very inner of his being is singing, screaming , to do as this god says, to let it flay him alive, to sacrifice all that he is in its name. He refuses to sink back underneath whatever this is-- this thing killed his friends, the people he swore to protect in these awful games. 

He falters in their waltz, and Illumina slides across his shoulder, cutting and cauterizing his wound in the same breath. He cries out even as he blocks another blow, taking more and more steps back until he’s on the edge of the castle. His foot briefly slips, but the god doesn’t take advantage, instead watching him with a cold smile.

“Why fight it?” It asks. “You know Telamon is greater. Devotion will only bring you peace. Telamon can bring you higher, can restore you as you should be.”

He stays silent, panting. The choir crescendos.

It hums dangerously. “As you desire. Let Telamon see you fly, disciple. Soon you will know your place.” In less than a blink of an eye, it shoots forwards, and he barely manages to block its sword as the force pushes him off the edge. 

It’s strange, he thinks. He’s died so many different ways in this purgatory, but never by falling-- he used to be unstoppable in the skies, used to love soaring the skies and PWNing noobs in the same breath, before his battle with 1x1x1x1. His wings used to be his freedom. He’s… no longer the admin, the god , he used to be, though, and the being looking down on him over the edge proves that.

As the tips of his wings touch the ground, he manages to catch a glimpse underneath its hood-- bandages cover its eyes, its hair--

The music stops, his vision swims, and he finds himself gasping as he falls to the floor of the cabin. Hands reach for him but he flinches away, unable to catch his breath. He feels his nails dig into the wooden ground, and he blinks and blinks and blinks until he manages to spot Guest kneeling in front of him, and he lets the man help him to stand, even as it feels like the world is weighing down on him.

“Shed--” Builderman starts, like an officer outside a widow’s door.

He shakes his head, pushing past everyone to reach the outside, to get away from their stares, the truth. He knows whose hair he saw underneath that hood, whose scars he doesn’t remember getting, and he doesn’t-- can’t deal with that knowledge. Not now-- not ever. Not ever . He needs a moment, before going back to the unfazed admin everyone here knows him for. 

And-- and maybe he saw it wrong. How crazy would it be, right? That someone in these games could be both a survivor and their killer?

Chapter Text

They don’t talk about it.

Or maybe, no one knows how to talk about it. He can’t bring it up-- for the fear of speaking it to truth or revealing things that the others maybe… maybe don’t know yet. He’s not even sure what he knows. That killer… it has to be him. It has to be the piece he’s felt missing ever since these games started, but he doesn’t know how . He doesn’t know where this ‘Telamon’ fits into his life.

1x1x1x1 is easy. He had felt so much hate that he’d needed to rid himself of it-- a way of self improvement that, in hindsight, had not been his best move. He knows 1x1x1x1 like a butcher knows the trimmings of fat it clears off a slice of meat. He doesn’t know Telamon. He can’t even begin to know Telamon. What part of him did he remove from himself to get this monster?

The games continue. He fights, he dies, he takes hits for others, and occupies the killers. He does his best to protect their supports, he soothes Noob when they’re inconsolable, he lets himself die knowing he wasted more time than what is added. Their killers are familiar, like Telamon was just a fever dream he’d had one day, and though it’s hell, it’s a hell he knows like the back of his hand. 

He knows it won’t last forever. Every round adds to the feeling building in his chest that the other shoe is about to drop. 

It’s a round that starts like any other, but-- he’s alone. It happens, he knows it’s normal, but their battleground is once again Brandon6875935’s Place, and he can’t help the way his wings floof up, as he looks around for anyone nearby. It’s silent-- it’s too silent , and his heart is already pounding in his chest as his breath picks up. He, he almost can’t believe how fear clamps his throat like a vice. He can’t help but think of how ridiculous it is, that he , Shedletsky, is so afraid of- of some being that can’t even kill him permanently. 

His vision tunneling, he forces himself to take more and more steps away from the castle until he’s following the very same path he had last time. ‘ This is stupid ,’ he thinks between pants, hand reaching out to catch himself on a nearby wall. His nails dig into the concrete as he clenches his eyes shut. ‘ I’m being stupid. There’s no reason to panic this hard. I’ve got people to protect. I’m wasting time. ’

Still, it takes him precious seconds-- minutes , even-- to move again, to catch his breath enough to stop the feeling of his heart bursting from his chest. ‘ Stupid ,’ he thinks over and over as he takes newborn lamb steps across the southern area, and back towards the castle. He passes by bodies he can’t look at, nauseous at the thought of, while he was being selfish, the others suffered for it. 

Golden feathers litter the ground like bread crumbs, leading him once more back to where he’d started. He should’ve stayed here from the beginning, he thinks to himself. If he wasn’t a coward, if he didn’t flip his shit over absolutely nothing, over a killer that just seems familiar . 

Choir blares in his ear as he reaches the top of the castle. A body flings past him, and he catches the murky eyes of Elliot as the healer slides over the edge and out of view. He swallows, breathing harshly-- he owes it to the others, to not let this killer win, however hollow the victory will be now that he’s failed this hard. It’s something everyone repeats to themselves here; don’t give up, even when things are helpless, even when you think you deserve it. 

The god stands in the middle of the roof, Illumina neatly at its side. It looks at him as if it has been waiting this entire round just for him to appear before it. 

“Disciple,” it greets.

He feels drunkenness on his tongue as he laps a reply, “ Telamon .” The panic on the edges of his vision fades as his very inner being symphonies at being so close to the other again. He feels the way he calms, the way he wants to sink underneath whatever power this being has, to let himself be at peace with whatever it desires of him. 

He knows its tricks now, though. He stands tall, ready to fight tooth and nail for any sort of avengement for the others, any redemption that he can earn for being gone. He struggles through the seas to stand without his panic and without its control. 

A wide, unhappy grin stretches across its face. “One does not need to struggle,” it says, “Submit to Telamon, know the peace that is in your heart.” 

He feels sick, from more than his panic and inaction. “No,” he replies firmly, and prays he is only imagining the shake in his voice. “You killed them-- my friends. You force this devotion onto me, you willing hurt and torture us; you’re a monster .” 

Telamon coos like it saw a particularly cute kitten. “Telamon is no monster; Telamon is the inevitable, your God and your devotion. Telamon has purged the nonbelievers and left just what is needed. Must Telamon teach one through action? Your… companions are not like us. They will never reach such greatness.” 

Anger rises in him, and his knuckles turn white from the grip on his sword he doesn’t remember drawing. “ Greatness ,” he all but spits, “is nothing like you.”

It hums, voice washing over him like waves upon a shore. “Anger, yes… That is good. Show Telamon,” it says, and jumps forward in the next breath. 

Their fight, this time, is not a dance. It’s a backpedal as he blocks blow after blow, desperately trying to gather his footing. Even still, he can tell the monster is holding back, letting him stand alive even as he unwillingly leaves openings in his stance. It’s infuriating-- he used to be a SFOTH god , he used to make Robloxians rage quit at the sight of him, and pull tricks others couldn’t even fathom. Why is he so- so nerfed here? Why can he barely keep up with its attacks? Why ? It's pathetic. He's pathetic.

“He could have even a fraction of this,” it churrs, “if only he would take his place as Telamon’s.”

At last, it seems to tire of the charade and knocks him on his back in one swell move. He’s breathing heavily again, though he’s not sure if it’s because of exertion or rage. It steps on his wrist until it cracks, and he cries out as he releases his sword. He wants to rage, to claw at its smug face until there’s nothing left, and he knows he can’t as he writhes from the continued pressure on his surely broken wrist. Even more, the devotion is back, grasping at his chest, his mind, to stop fighting, to accept whatever punishment is in store for him, to grovel at its feet. 

“... Pitiful,” it says as it calmly watches him, and it’s as if his puppet strings are cut, the rage draining out of him as he can’t help but agree. Here, in this place, he’s a shell of his former self, and no amount of fighting back is ever going to change that. He can fight and protect and take hits all he wants, but here, he can’t do much, he can’t do anything . 

He chokes on a gasp as Telamon grinds its heel across his wrist again.

Its smile is almost soft, if not for the smugness tinting it. “So you understand,” it says, “You are nothing without Telamon.” It puts no emphasis on any of its words, speaking as casually as one discussing the weather. “You are but a babe fumbling through these games when you are missing so much.” It kneels, putting more pressure on him, and its frown is great. “You will accept discipline and you will devote yourself to Telamon.”

Shedletsky finds himself laughing, suddenly, through the fog of its power. “ Fuck you ,” he giggles out, closing his eyes and losing it even as he feels the world swirl, as his wounds heal and as he finds himself standing again. He hears people shuffling around him, words murmuring below his ability to care right now as he lowers back onto the ground. His laughs turn into sobs, and-- he’s embarrassing himself, isn’t he? He’s making a fool of himself, ruining the trust the others have in him to protect them. Ruining the image they have of him as an unflappable admin.

His tears turn silent, and he feels a familiar hand on his arm. “Shed, we need to talk,” Builderman says, as grave as a funeral. 

He nods, and rises from the floor. He can’t bring himself to lift his head as the other leads him out the back door like a man on death’s row. He thinks-- fuck, he knows he’s ruined everything.

They settle close to the cabin, but far enough to stop any eavesdroppers. His eyes are already drying, and he feels crusty as he tries to wipe his face on his sleeves. There’s only one thing this conversation can be about, and… and he’s not even sure how it’ll go. Builderman is his oldest friend-- they’ve been admins together for as long as he can remember. The man’s seen the good, the bad, and the ugly of all the aspects of his life. But this… he doesn’t even understand it himself; how can he even begin to explain it?

“Be honest with me now,” Builderman demands, accent strong, “Are you that killer? Telamon?”

“ No ,” he says, as honest as anything. “I don’t-- it’s been leaving me for last, and both rounds I hadn’t run into anyone alive.” 

The other admin sighs through his nose, closing heterochromic eyes in what he can only hope is relief. “Alright. Okay.” His eyes open, and his mouth presses into a line. “I know you, Shed,” he starts, “better than anyone, I reckon. Do you know Telamon? Remember it?”

He looks off to the side. “Its hair, its wings-- they’re just like mine. It uses the Illumina,” he says.

“You’re avoidin’ my question.” 

He cringes, closing his eyes. “No,” he rasps out. And he doesn’t. 

“It’s you. Was you.” Builderman tells him.

“So, what, like 1x?”

“Different,” he says with a shake of his head. “I don’t know the details. All I know is that you came to me one day an’ said you wanted to change, for the better. Changed yer name to Shedletsky an’ started wiping yer hands clean of yer past misdeeds, tryna correct things.”

‘ Why ,’ he wants to ask, though he knows the other doesn’t have the answers. ‘ Why don’t I remember? Why is it here ? ’ 

Builderman throws him a pitying look, thankfully shifting the conversation, “We should figure out what to tell the others.”

Shedletsky looks back towards the cabin, wondering what they think of him after his absence and small breakdown. “Are we just supposed to-- to tell them that I know another killer?” He doesn’t want to lie, not again after withholding the truth about how deep his relations to 1x1x1x1 goes. 

“ Shed ,” he says, as serious as he is exasperated, “the others already think you are the killer. They ain’t seen you around those matches with it. It’s got yer voice, yer wings, even that sword you used to brag about at story nights.”

He takes a step back, voice cracking. “ What ?” 

“Guest says he saw you right as he died,” Builderman explains, “but the others think he’s just coverin’ for you. They’re scared it’s gonna happen to them. They’re worried for you.” He puts a hand on his shoulder, grounding him more than his words had. “They’re not gonna condemn you for what’s in yer past. Look at that hacker fella, everyone’s alright with him now, even Elliot.”

“That’s because he looks like a kicked puppy in the rain,” he refutes, trying to crack a smile and barely managing a quirk of his lips.

His friend laughs, clapping his shoulder as he turns back towards the cabin. “There’s the Shed I know. Come on, I’ll be yer moral support in tellin’ them, alright? Better sooner than later with this one.”

“Wait, Builds, one last thing,” he says, suddenly. 

“Yeah?” 

A cold wind blows, and it’s times like these he wishes he still had his primary feathers to wrap around himself. “What do we do about its power?” he asks.

“Ain’t nothin’ to do ‘cept get better at dodgin’,” he replies.

He shakes his head, curls bouncing. “No, the devotion thing-- once I noticed it, it’s easy to ignore it, but if I stop paying attention, it’s even easier to fall back underneath. To just… give up.”

Builderman looks at him for a long, hard moment. It’s quiet, though he can hear the muffled voices from the cabin. “I ain’t personally experienced that power,” he says cautiously, like walking on glass. 

He can read in between the lines well enough. “... And the others haven’t, either.” 

“No,” he agrees. 

“ Fuck ,” Shedletsky mutters. Is it a power it only uses on him? Or… is this a result of Telamon being him, in some form? 

“One step at a time,” Builderman says, snapping him out of his thoughts. “We’ll tell the others about who Telamon is, first. Just--” he takes a deep breath, “Just be careful, alright? Try an’ stick to the group instead of seekin’ the killers out, just until we can prove to them yer not Telamon,” he offers a smile, “anymore, that is.”

He shakes out his wings, and nods. “One step at a time.”

Chapter Text

They walk back inside the way they left, and find everyone waiting for them at the dining table. There’s a silence in the air as if they’d only just stopped talking, as if he’s a teacher and they’re the kids trying to cover up their misbehavior. In a way, it’s almost the opposite. He feels like a child about to confess his misdeeds to a group of teachers.

“Hey,” he says, unsure where to start. 

Elliot stands, leaning forward on the table. “Tell us what’s going on,” he demands. He looks even more tired than usual, and Shedletsky remembers he was the last to die the previous round. 

No small talk, then. His wrist aches, and he tries to rub out the phantom pain. “I’m not that new killer, Telamon,” he announces, to the very obvious relief of the room, “but… I sort of am?”

It’s so silent one could hear a pin drop. It’s… he shouldn’t find amusement in such a serious moment, but it’s a little comical how they gape at him, or turn to one another. It’s just-- the absurdity. What is even their lives anymore, in this place?

Builderman sighs heavily from behind him. “ Shed …” he all but scolds. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes, but he’s really not. The room is tense, but oddly, he feels more relaxed than he had before. “Telamon was me,” he explains, “it’s… I don’t have a very proud past, and I’ve changed since then.” He’s not even sure if that’s true, really, despite what Builderman has told him. He doesn’t remember any of it, and it feels like a lie to speak as if he does. But what’s one more? “I think… whatever trapped us here just took a time of my life, and personified it.”

Elliot nods, and it registers to him that the pizza man is the spokesman of the group, despite both Matt and Guest in the corners of the room. He wonders how that happened. “Alright,” Elliot says, “Do you think this is something that could happen to the rest of us?” He doesn’t break eye contact, doesn’t gesture at all, but 007n7 still flinches behind him. 

“... No,” he says, honestly this time. “I’ve felt a chunk of myself missing since coming here, and didn’t realize quite what it was until we faced against Telamon.” ‘ Until I felt its power, and recognized its face ,’ he adds, inside his mind, ‘ Until I tasted divinity and both wanted more and rejected it all .’ “So unless anyone else has felt something like that, I doubt it’ll happen.” 

Elliot finally turns to 007n7, and the older man shakes his head, to both his own and the other’s obvious relief. He turns his gaze back upon Shedletsky, and says plainly, “Listen, I’m speaking for all of us when I say this; we have to trust you at your word, but it’s also hard to believe you’re not Telamon. It’s… we’re going to have to see it to believe it.” He takes a deep breath. “You haven’t been there, Shedletsky. Both times. And when you came back to the cabin...”

Even knowing it’s coming, it takes everything in him not to flinch. “I know, I’m sorry for that,” he apologizes, and means it this time. “The first time, it was just bad pathing on my part, and the second…” He pauses a moment, and tries not to cringe. “... It doesn’t matter, no excuses.” He catches Guest’s eye, and the soldier nods, as if he knows what was discussed outside. “We’re going to switch up our routine in the rounds. Guest will continue to try and intercept the killers first, but I’ll start meeting with the group first thing, and pair up with someone. Just until you guys can trust me again.”

Elliot gives a smile at last, as tired as it is. “We do trust you, Shedletsky. Just… not Telamon, I guess.”

He opens his mouth, not quite sure what to say, but as if on queue, a timer goes off, and Elliot immediately shoots off to the kitchen. Dinner time, it seems, is the end of the conversation.

The rounds continue on as normal, though with their change of structure in place. After a couple teamwipes, his role is loosened to just ‘stick with a person until that person sees who the killer is’ so he can actually do his job. It still results in many dying unnecessarily with half of their protectors on glorified house arrest for the first bit of the rounds, and it makes him simmer. Not at the others, just-- this whole situation . He’s already been borderline useless, only ever barely able to help the team, but with this restriction, he really is worthless, unable to charge the killer first and lead them away so the team can get a decent head start on fixing generators or getting set up. 

Even worse, the fights with 1x1x1x1 go terribly, with his creation charging him first and drawing out his death as long, and as painfully, as possible. Whatever is wrong with her, he doesn’t want to know-- even if he could ask, anyways. His wrist, despite being healed, keeps flaring up as well, making what should be clean parries into staggering blocks, letting her kill him all that much faster, much to her obvious delight. 

Needless to repeat, anger is at the tip of his tongue even as he interacts with the others, when he helps patch wounds in the rounds, when he talks strategy, and when it’s his turn to cook. He keeps it under wraps, does his best not to let it cloud his judgement or words, but he notices the looks Builderman gives him at times. Sometimes, it’s a bit scary how much the man knows him. 

At last, he appears on top of the oh-so-familiar castle, and he knows in his bones who the killer is. He’s not sure if he wants to run again, or throw himself at it until it bleeds. He-- He’s already so angry , and he feels devotion already licking at his fingers, clenched as they are against his side. It tells him to walk his path, to come back when it is ready for him, to allow the anger to be weaved into prayer and repentance. 

“Shed?” Comes a voice from behind him, and he turns to see Builderman, already hands deep into setting up a dispensary. 

He forces his hands to unclench, and tries to take a calming breath. “Hey, Builds. Looks like it’s you and me, this round.” 

The man looks at him critically, twisting a nut before the machine pops itself up to full height. Builderman stands with it, and walks a couple steps to him to put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s gonna be alright, Shed,” he says, “You just gotta get through this, an’ things’ll go back to normal.” 

His next breath actually is calming. “I know, it’s just…” he trails off.

“Frustratin’?” Builderman finishes. “I know whatcha mean. Only havin’ access to two blueprints--” he cuts himself off, grumbling underneath his breath.

At last, Shedletsky huffs a laugh. “Careful, Builds, you’re showing your age.”

Builderman rolls his eyes, finally removing his hand. He moves over to the edge of the roof, squinting out into the darkness. “Who do ya reckon it is this time?”

He steps up next to him, leaning against the railing of the machicolation. “Telamon,” he answers, plainly. 

In the corner of his eye, his friend turns to him, staring a long moment. He’s sure he wants to ask how he knows, or if he’s sure, or-- or anything else, but the man just hums, leaning with him. The silence is almost worse, though he knows it’s an act of mercy.

He shuffles a moment, the urge to be alone singing in his bones. “Shouldn’t we go find the others? Try to see if we can-- can survive it?”

His red eye flickers a moment, an indication that Shedletsky knows is him accessing the area’s code to see the others’ statuses. It’s something he knows only Builderman, Elliot, and 007n7 can do, though he’s not sure why it’s only them and not everyone. 

After a moment, the man sighs wearily, looking so much older. “Too late,” he says, “Just us left, now.”

A bolt of anxiety shoots through him, followed quickly by fury. He’s not even sure if he could’ve protected anyone from Telamon, but-- but he could have tried . He could have at least been there. Let the others live even a minute longer, and not be… be so useless .

“Just get through this,” Builderman repeats from earlier, “an’ everythin’ll go back to normal. You’ll help us more next time.”

“I-” he starts, but between one second and the next, he feels the devotion that has been prodding at his skin sink in like binding shackles. He struggles through it to turn around, finding Telamon gracefully stalking towards them, Illumina poised at its side. “Builds…” he chokes out through a heavy tongue, chest heavy with what he knows will happen.

“We need to run,” Builderman urges quickly, pulling on him even as it feels like his feet are glued to the floor. “Shed? We need to--”

“Step aside, disciple,” Telamon commands. 

Despite himself, despite how tense his muscles are from trying to stay , to protect his closest friend, he does as he’s told, dodging smoothly underneath the path of its blade. 

Builderman barely has time to scramble, to strangle out a “ Shed --” before Illumina digs into his throat. And he’s forced to watch, unable to look away or blink, even as his friend chokes, even as his eyes start to water and he realizes he’s crying. He wars against the devotion, but it doesn’t matter when he knows his thoughts would be the same: he deserves to watch this . 

At last, the light leaves Builderman’s eyes and his body sluggishly slows in bleeding on the floor. It’s a scene he’s seen more times than he can count now, but-- but it’s his fault this time . If he wasn’t a coward, if he was stronger, if he was there the last times Telamon was the killer, if he didn’t destroy the trust everyone had in him and force them to put him in this situation.

Telamon turns to him. “Bow to Telamon,” it orders, as the music starts for them once more.

He can barely push himself to laugh. “ No ,” he says, “You-- you keep killing them. You make me watch, force me to stand aside.”

“He blames Telamon for his own inadequacy?” it actually laughs, a grating noise that makes his ears ring. “Telamon does not force one to do anything. Telamon is greater than such cheap tricks, and one is blaming his own incapabilities on it.” It tilts its head, head wings flicking in curiosity. “One could stop Telamon at any time, but Telamon believes you don’t want to.”

He tries, and fails, to clench his fist. Has… has he really not tried hard enough to break free? Or is Telamon just lying, trying to- to get him angrier?

It continues on, shifting topics, “You truly don’t remember Telamon, do you?” Its voice drips with pity even as its smile cuts razors. “If one did, one would not be so blasé with one’s words. Telamon remembers you , a small thought that consumed all that Telamon was. You destroyed Telamon, and yet Telamon chooses to forgive you, to allow you to bask once more in our greatness.” It steps closer, and his limbs tremble. “Kneel, disciple, and allow Telamon to bless you.”

He can’t help the way his knees feel weak, allowing himself to fall to them. He can’t-- he doesn’t know what to think. Is he allowing himself? Or is it the devotion, forcing him to contort in ways he normally never would? His thoughts are swirling so much that he’s not even sure he can still feel its power on his bones.

Even as it draws closer, even as it puts a comforting hand on his cheek, he can’t bring himself to move, to do anything but stare up at his own face. “Relax,” it commands, but he can’t , so tense that his limbs feel numb. It raises the Illumina above his head, tip pointed directly at his left eye. 

There is no light in this place, but the blade shines well enough on its own as Telamon hums thoughtfully. Then--

He can’t help the way he screams as it pierces, pulling away from nothing as he writhes on the ground of the cabin. The pain is already fading, but it still burns , and he presses against it desperately to try to get it to stop. Several people call his name, but he keeps flinching away, noise making his eye throb. 

“Shedletsky, Shedletsky ,” Guest calls again and again until he manages to blink through tears to look at him. Fuck , is his eye gone now? Why did he allow that thing to do this?! “Shedletsky, look at me,” Guests commands, and he realizes he clenched his eye shut again. “You’re going to be fine. Remove your hand, let me take a look.” 

Shakily, he does as he’s told, left eye slowly opening. Guest’s face is as impassive as the soldier’s always is, but he spots Elliot flinching in the background. He sees a shine in the bottom of his eye, and furrows his eyebrows as he looks down and spots gold covering his hand. 

“His EYE! ” Noob shrieks in the background, and his head shoots back up, eyes as wide as a deer’s. Everyone is gathered around now, looking at him with concern, or-- or fear?

“What happened?” Guest asks, just shy of a demand, over the murmurs of the others.

“I…” He feels almost dizzy, his vision feeling- feeling odd in a way he’s not sure how. “It stabbed me,” he breathes. “In the…” He gestures, catching sight of his gold-stained hand again. All of sudden, everything is all too much, and he scrambles to his feet. “I need to- to--” He doesn’t even finish, can’t think of an excuse, other than the need to get away . 

He rushes out of the room, past the stares they leave on his back, and into the hallway bathroom, closing and locking the door. ‘ Fuck, fuck, fuck ,’ he repeats in his mind, nauseous at the thought of what he let happen, what the others saw, just… everything . He clenches his eyes shut and, slowly, opens them to look in the mirror. 

Besides the golden crust from drying tears, his left eye now sports a golden ring outline, with a star shaping his pupil. Morbidly curious, he stares at himself as he shakily turns the light off, and-- it glows. ‘ Fuck ,’ he thinks again, turning light back on.

What did the god even do to him? It has to be more than a weak glow, but-- fuck , he hates to admit it but he’s scared . What did he even get into? Why did he allow it to-- to do whatever this is?

More importantly, he doesn’t remember seeing Builderman in his mad scramble out of the room. He needs to-- explain himself? Apologize? Grovel? ‘ Make sure he doesn’t tell the others ,’ a dark part of his mind whispers, and he can’t help but agree.

Nothing good will come out of telling the others.

Chapter Text

The others give him space when he finally comes out of the bathroom. Or maybe a wide berth is more accurate. He… he can’t tell, and he’s not sure he wants to know for sure; he doesn’t want to see their trust in him become even more shaky.

Elliot briefly pulls him aside to let him know that he doesn’t need an escort any longer. It’s good news-- great news, even. He doesn’t have to be useless anymore, he can actually help everyone again. But the moment is ruined already by what’s happened, by Elliot pointedly staring behind him instead of at him, by the heads he can see poking around the corner, trying to get a good look at him. 

He just thanks the pizza man, and heads upstairs to his room. It’s a shared room with Matt and Builderman, but neither are in right now. He needs to talk with Builderman, ask him what he told everyone, but he’s just… exhausted. He doesn’t want a confrontation, not right now when his vision feels like it’s swimming and he can’t think of a way to start that mess, especially since it’s… completely his fault, and there’s no excuses why he keeps letting this happen. The only saving grace is that it seems like the man hasn’t told anyone what Shedletsky let happen-- that he’s in the direct fault only one of them survived that round-- and he can only hope it stays that way.

He curls into his nest-like bed, watching impassively as the room lightly glows from- from him . He closes his left eye and the room plunges into complete darkness. Fuck . Maybe… maybe he can wear an eyepatch? Everyone already knows about his eye, but them not being able to see it might settle their fears, at least for now. Until he knows exactly what exactly the god did to him. 

At some point, he falls asleep. When he awakes, Matt is wrapped up in blankets, but Builderman is still nowhere to be seen. He tries to look for the man at first, but Chance flinching in the corner of his eye as he passes the living room reminds him that he still needs to make himself an eyepatch. Instead, he pivots on a dime, deciding to find… Guest? Surely as a soldier, he knows how to make an eyepatch?

After an oddly pitying look, Guest thankfully makes him an eyepatch. Immediately as he puts it on, though, he feels almost dizzy, like he’s just gotten out of a three-day SFOTH battle and knows he’ll have to go through it again in just a few hours. He pushes through it; he’s gone through worse, even if he’s used to dealing with it at full power. A little dizziness won’t stop him from fulfilling his job. 

As soon as he spawns in the round, though, he almost loses his balance, the ground feeling like it’s warping underneath his feet in a ploy to bring him into it. The rolling movement makes his stomach turn, and stepping forwards nearly makes him puke. He takes a moment to lean against a nearby tree, holding a hand to his mouth. Clenching his eyes, he breathes deeper and deeper until he’s able to- to just handle this sensation. 

No one has ever gotten sick since coming here, and he knows there is only one thing this could’ve come from. Experimentally, he lifts his eyepatch and the feelings immediately go away, so fast it almost feels like whiplash. His fists clench and heat pools between his ears. So he’s being… punished , now, for trying to hide what it did to him? Perfect . Great. Just what he needs.

He flips the eyepatch back down and grits his teeth through the sensation. He needs to get out there; he’s already wasted so much time . 

Turning a corner, he comes across that red demon, doodling on the ground next to 007n7, whose face is doing an almost hilarious twitch between distraught and proud father. It seems it’s one of the creature’s ‘break’ rounds where he doesn’t want to ‘play tag’ and instead just draw. Thank all the admins above, he can try to get used to this eyepatch situation first. 

“Hey, kid,” Shedletsky says as he tries to lower himself to the ground and all but falls. 007n7 gives him a concerned look, but he ignores it, hoping the man will think it a small stumble instead of the overwhelming sickness he feels right now. 

c00lkidd looks up from his drawing of… shapes? Squiggles? Black-out poetry without the words? “Hey, chicken man! I don’t wanna play tag so we’re drawing instead,” he explains, and looks hopeful as he asks, “Do you wanna join?”

He’s not sure if he could grip his sword, let alone a half broken crayon. 007n7 is giving him an intense look, so he shrugs sweaty shoulders and says, “Nah, why don’t you draw the best thing you can. We’ll hang it up back at our cabin.”

He’d said it sarcastically, but the thing starts vibrating in place, excitement coloring his words, “Really? Yay! I’ll start right now.” c00lkidd turns to 007n7, holding up his current drawing that Shedletsky can now vaguely make out a sun and trees, or maybe a weird giraffe, or-- “Dad, do you want this one, too?”

“I would love this one, kiddo,” 007n7 says softly, and Shedletsky feels like he’s intruding on a moment . “Is this you, at-- at your cabin? With the rest of…” The ex-hacker takes a deep breath. “It’s beautiful, son; do you guys have a campfire over there?”

Shedletsky squints, and through burning vision, he can sort of make out a fire with the demon standing next to it. Or maybe c00lkidd in the fire. Though he’s pretty sure he can still see the giraffe-- or is that 1x1x1x1? 

“Yep!” c00lkidd replies. “We had a party last night with everyone. Miss 1x even brought these peanut butter marshmallow cookies that smelled soooo good.”

007n7 takes a sharp breath. “ c00lkidd--”

c00lkidd sighs dramatically, leaning over to begin drawing again. “I know , dad, I didn’t eat any.” He grumbles underneath his breath, “ They smelled really good, though… ”

Shedletsky looks between them. His brain feels like it’s melting, but he also feels like he’s missing something here. He lightly clears his throat, and intelligently asks, “What?”

“I’m allergic to peanuts ,” c00lkidd whines, sticking his tongue out of his mouth as he reaches for a brown crayon. It’s just out of his reach though, so Shedletsky sluggishly picks it up and tosses it at the demon, causing his tail to wag rapidly. He didn’t know the killers could even be allergic to things. “You know, you’re much nicer than the new guy back at my cabin.”

He swallows down another urge to puke, only half paying attention as he responds, “Oh?”

“Yeah,” c00lkidd nods, switching crayons and going crazy with the stub of the red one. “It’s mean and doesn’t play tag right. It tags really hard. Like you! But worse, sometimes…” 

007n7 turns to him, and Shedletsky shuts his eyes, grimacing. “Sounds like a sore loser,” he says. 

“Yeah…” c00lkidd hums. He looks up, and squints at him. “Are you sick? You look sweaty and gross. And you’re wearing a mask, but only on your eye.”

“An eyepatch,” 007n7 seems to correct idly, though he’s also looking at him critically.  

“Just fine,” Shedletsky replies perhaps a bit too quickly, judging by the furrowing of 007n7’s wispy eyebrows. “It’s a little hot, is all, kid.” He stands on shaky legs, trying to fake a nonchalant stretch. “How about I go find the others, see if any of them want to draw with you, yeah?”

“Yeah!” c00lkidd exclaims, scrambling to stand and breaking several crayons underneath his feet. He bounces on each foot for a second before shooting forward. 

Shedletsky flinches, but-- c00lkidd just gives him a hug. He sends a panicked glance towards 007n7, but the father looks… sad, like the man’s thinking about something long past. Looking back down, he slowly raises an arm, hesitating before patting him a couple times on the back. 

The… kid pulls away at last, frown big and nose scrunched. “You really are sweaty,” he says, and Shedletsky is suddenly reminded of why he and Brighteyes never had children. c00lkidd skips back to his dad, laying next to him. “Bye, chicken man!” he says with a wave. 

“... Bye, kid,” Shedletsky replies, and does his best to stay straight as he walks away. 

The effects of the eyepatch haven’t lessened at all, he notes to himself, though he’s getting used to the feeling. He hopes with more time, it’ll be easier to deal with, but for now he knows he’s going to be off his game. Is that something he can afford? ‘ No ,’ he thinks as he sits and leans against a wall, ‘ but I have to try, to not scare them more than I have .’

The round ends shortly after, and there’s just enough time until the next one for lunch. He’s not hungry though, not with how nauseous he is. He should probably look for Builderman, but he doesn’t see the man waiting with the others, and he’s not sure where he could be otherwise. He’s also… not sure he can handle walking around more right now. Taking off the eyepatch would fix that, but he can’t . He needs to get used to it, needs to be normal again; he needs to get over this stupid, what, curse ? He needs to be stronger than this . 

Clenching his fists, he takes a step to the door.

“Shedletsky?” comes a voice from behind him, and he looks over his shoulder to see Noob twisting their fingers. He watches them meet his eye and then flinch, looking towards the ground. “Aren’t you going… going to eat?”

With all the casualness he can manage, he shrugs and turns towards them fully. “Nah, not hungry,” he says, and it’s not even a lie, really. Sure, he hasn’t eaten today and missed dinner yesterday, but with his stomach rolling, he’s not sure he could even manage a bite. 

They press their lips together, eyes still firmly on the ground. They hum, and he realizes he’s going to need to explain more, or at least lie.

“I ate both of my chickens at the end of last round,” he says, the words weighing heavy on his tongue. “Couldn’t eat another bite. In fact, you can have my portion, if you want.”

Noob stops fidgeting, still avoiding eye contact as they nod. “Okay,” they say as they take a step away. They pause one more time, “... Thanks.”

He gives a mock salute, hoping they can’t see how clammy he is. “‘Course, Noob. I’m gonna get some fresh air.”

They nod once more, and Shedletsky almost stumbles his way out of the cabin. Outside, the air that is normally slightly too cold feels like a godsend, and he realizes he might be getting a fever with how hot he feels. The urge to rip off his eyepatch screams from his very inner being, to let its mark be viewed and feared by the others, but he is better than this . He just has to keep repeating it to himself until it sticks and becomes true. 

He sits down on one of the chairs on the porch, closing his eyes and doing his best to try to wade through the swimming feeling. Even with his covered eye closed, he still feels awful, so somehow, someway the god must know he’s still got the eyepatch on. Or… or something . He hates this. He hates not knowing what’s happening with himself-- he, at this point, hates himself . Which must be some divine form of humor, he thinks, because he remembers cutting that feeling, that hatred , out of himself.

He guesses even cleared weeds still come back eventually. What a waste of-- of everything . He almost died in creating 1x1x1x1 and the reason he did so-- still came back! 

Manic laughter builds up in the back of his throat, and he swallows it down harshly. He doesn’t need to make everyone inside even more concerned about his mental state. What he does need is to find Builderman. They need to have their talk, he needs to apologize, and they need to figure out where to go from here. Solving problems has always been easier when he can talk through it with his friend.

He opens his eyes and through aching joints, he stands and begins his search. He doesn’t want anyone else inside to ask him why he’s not eating, so he avoids the cabin and just searches outside. He checks around the main cabin, around the others, behind the missing posters, even where they talked last time, but he can’t find the man anywhere. 

At last, he circles back to the cabin, and spots his friend sitting on the edge of the pier. 

“Builds!” He calls when he’s close enough, but stops a few feet away when he notices how hard the other stiffens. “Builds…?”

“Shed--” Builderman starts, and then sighs, turning to face him. He looks between Shedletsky’s eye and eyepatch for a few tense moments, as if searching for something, before sighing again, this time more heavily. “We ain’t havin’ this conversation now,” he decides.

Shedletsky blinks, confused. “What? Why ? We-- I need to--” He’s stumbling over his words he knows, but he doesn’t understand. If not now, then when ?

“No,” Builderman replies, with finality. “Yer not ready for it, not yet. ‘Sides, we ain’t got much time before the next round.” 

He can feel his wings bristle. “I’m not ready for it?” He repeats, with indignation. The fury makes him lightheaded, but he can’t help how it builds in him. 

“Calm yerself,” his friend says, as if scolding a child, “and look at ya-- you can barely stand straight an’ yer sweatin’ bullets. This ain’t a conversation yer prepared to have right now.”

Builderman is right, but that only makes him more angry. He thinks he’s keeping his face pretty neutral, but he knows his wings are twitching, trying to flare. “I’m fine,” he states tersely. Builderman gives him an unimpressed look, so he grits his teeth and takes several deep breaths. He’s not really that much calmer as he continues, “You’re right, we don’t have much time before the next round. We can talk tonight.” He tries to pose it as a question, but it comes out as a demand instead. He can’t bring himself to care too much, though. 

Builderman squints at him, frowning. “We’ll see.”

The round starts before he can repeat that back. We’ll see? We’ll see?! His knuckles turn white from how tightly he grips his sword. They need to have this conversation-- if not now then as soon as possible. Sure, the man hasn’t told anyone else, but how long will this truce last if Shedletsky can’t apologize ? This is important-- more important than him feeling a bit under the weather due to this stupid eyepatch. Can’t Builderman see that? They need to have a united front for this, they need to trust each other . 

( Does Builderman not trust him anymore? Is this just a setup for him to weaken the others’ trust in him as well? Does he know something Shedletsky doesn’t? Why did he blue-ball their conversation? Is he planning something? WHY WON’T HE TALK TO HIM--?!)

“Shedletsky?” Guest calls beside him, knocking him out of his thoughts.

He loosens his grip on his sword, smoothing his expression out to something neutral as he turns towards the soldier. “We should get going,” he says with forced casualness, and does his best to try to feel the air for who the killer is. Before he can come to a conclusion, he hears the windup of 1x1x1x1’s swords, and dodges out of the way with Guest as they fly by. “Looks like it’s on me this time,” he tries to smirk, but he can tell it comes out as more of a grimace. 

Guest still nods curtly, anyways. “I’ll be ready to step in.”

He feels as if he’ll fall out of the world if he runs, but he does anyway, trying his best to stay straight. It’s dizzying and makes him sweat more, but he pushes through it. The rage still simmering in his stomach does its best to distract him, and he focuses on that as he rounds the center pillar in Glass Houses, and finds 1x1x1x1 waiting for him. She immediately swings for him, but he stumbles through a dodge to her side, missing her sword more by pure luck than any sort of skill. 

“ Shedletsky ,” she hisses. 

He immediately starts to run and she takes chase-- it’s so normal compared to everything that's happened recently that it fills him with relief, even as his running is one misstep away from a trip. He leads her away from where the others typically start, glancing behind him, and-- she looks a lot closer than where she’d usually be at this point. His weakness must really be hindering him, so he pivots on the spot, swinging his sword.

It… completely misses. 

He pauses. 1x1x1x1 pauses. It missed so bad that it wasn’t even in the right zip code-- fuck, she’s still three or four sword lengths away . Does the eyepatch really mess with his depth perception that badly? Fuck .

She doesn’t even say anything. She laughs loudly, static coating the edges, and hits him with her entangling move, followed immediately by a long slash of her sword. 

He stiffly sits up after appearing back in the cabin. The sweating and building nausea stops the second he takes off the eyepatch, and he stares at it a long moment. He… he can continue wearing it in the cabin, but in the rounds, it needs to stay off. He can’t afford to keep fumbling this bad, to keep failing the others. 

No more weaknesses.

The next few rounds go better-- more than better, actually; the next rounds are a breeze . With the eyepatch off, he feels at the top of his game, weaving around attacks like he’s back in his SFOTH days. He feels strong again, like he can take on the world. Sometimes he still dies, of course, but it feels more like a mistake on his part than the killers having an unfair advantage. The rounds are still horrible things to go through, but he almost… doesn’t care. He’s borderline giddy that he can do his job again, that he almost has his strength back from before coming here. 

The others… blanch when they see his eye, sometimes, but they don’t say anything since he’s not useless anymore. Besides, he wears it in between rounds, so he doesn’t think they have much to complain about. The only bad part is that it kills his appetite, but he doesn’t need to eat that often, anyways. More food for the others, at least. 

Another half dozen rounds pass, and still Telamon does not appear. Shedletsky is… anxious, he thinks, for that confrontation. Every round that starts, he reaches for the part of himself that sings with devotion, and clings to the relief at its silence, at not having to witness the god in that moment. It’s a foolish wish, but he hopes he never sees it again. 

The next round is against Jason. It’s brutal, as it often is against him, and the killer unfortunately managed to kill Elliot and Guest pretty early on. His next target is Noob, and no matter how many times Shedletsky stuns him or tries to take hits, the killer keeps his slow stalk towards them. Them downing a slateskin potion seals their fate as Jason waits it out and swings with his chainsaw the moment it’s over. 

Shedletsky grimaces as their body crumples, and takes a couple steps back as Jason turns towards him. He’s already worse for wear for trying to take hits for Noob, so all it takes is one misstep for him to join them in the lobby. 

‘ I could’ve done better ,’ he thinks with a frown, as he puts his eyepatch back on. It still brings a hint of nausea, though he’s finally getting used to it.

Looking around the cabin, he does a mental headcount. He can smell Elliot stress baking, but everyone else is still within eyesight. Even Builderman, though the man catches his eye before pointedly looking away. Frustration flares inside him, but that’s how it’s been going since their last talk, what had to be days, if not a week, ago. As much as he hates it, he’ll have to wait for the man to approach him first. 

Wait… not everyone is here, he realizes. He does a second glance around and sees Noob missing. It’s not uncommon-- they’d just died brutally, and out of all of them, he’s noticed that they’ve had the hardest time adjusting to being stuck in this hellscape. 

Shedletsky heads outside and towards the lake. Noob usually sits on the bank, and when he notices them missing, he usually joins them to see if he can bring some comfort. It’s… a new skill he’s picked up, since coming here. Consoling Noob, or anyone else really, is difficult as well. He can’t say ‘things will get better,’ because they won’t, nor ‘the next rounds won’t be as bad,’ because they always are, if not worse. Usually, the most he can do is just sit there or awkwardly pat their back if they decide they’re in a hugging mood. Maybe tell a joke, or talk about the times before or what they’re both going to do when they escape this place. It’s the little things, he’s learned, that end up helping the most. 

Noob smiles lightly when he sits down next to them. ‘ They’re not doing too bad, then ,’ he notes. 

“Hey,” he greets, matching their pose as he settles his arms on his knees. His wings stretch out before relaxing against his back. 

“Hi,” Noob says back, glancing at his head wings before turning back to the waters.

It’s quiet, for a long while. That’s another reason he doesn’t mind doing this-- it’s relaxing, and he can let his mind think of nothing. No future strategies, no worries on how to handle Telamon; just the starless sky and the still waters that would pull him in and drown him, if it had half the chance. 

“Shedletsky?” Noob starts after what has to be at least thirty minutes, though time has always been hard in this place. 

He hums, “Yeah?” He’s still watching the waters; Noob usually responds better when he doesn’t watch them as they talk. 

They turn fully to him, and he follows suit, though he does his best not to look like he’s pressuring them to talk. It’s always a balance, trying to follow their lead while not pushing too hard. Their gaze goes from his eye to his eyepatch, and they flinch, looking back towards his head wings. He tries not to take it personally, but it’s hard -- he’s doing everything he can to minimize the consequences that his actions with the god have on the others, but it still feels it’ll never be enough. 

“Sorry…” They mumble, and he forces a casual shrug instead of the tired sigh he wants to release. 

It’s quiet again. Shedletsky can hear the wind rustling the trees and something shuffling deep in the forest. He stretches his wings again, wondering if they really used to look as grand as Telamon’s. 

“Do you think…” They start again, and he turns his attention back to them. “Is…” He watches as they swallow harshly. “Will it… something like it, happen to us? To… me?” They’re staring intently at his eyepatch now, eyes wide. 

He doesn’t hesitate as he answers, “Nah. Just a me thing.” He’s telling the truth, too. He doesn’t think anything like his eye thing could happen to anyone else, and he knows the god wouldn’t take an interest in any of the others. 

( He tries not to think about how the only reason it doesn’t care about them is because of how weak they are, no matter how truthful it is. )

He shakes his head as he adds, “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

Noob hums, and their conversation ends there. After a while, Elliot calls out for them for dinner, though Shedletsky waves Noob to head off with him. He can’t eat with his rolling stomach, anyways. He’ll sneak back inside later, once everyone’s headed to bed.

The next day, the first round starts right after a breakfast he decides to miss, though Noob forces an overripe apple into his hands, that he begrudgingly takes a couple bites out of, if only to stop their worrying. It makes him have to harshly swallow to avoid puking, but at least Noob looks a little more happy than before. Maybe they’re finally starting to settle into this hell? He can deal with a mother hen if it helps them deal with everything here better. 

After a disorienting teleport, he tears the eyepatch off the instant he recognizes he’s in Yorick’s Resting Place. He doesn’t even have time to try to feel who the killer is before he hears a windup and has to roll to dodge 1x1x1x1’s ranged attack. They’re nothing if not predictable, though as he sees them run across the poisoned waters, he realizes they’ve decided to, once more, get him out of the way first. 

It’s the first time they’ve been killer since his horrible miss with his sword. Shame from that memory burns in his stomach, swirling around until it heats itself into anger. ‘ Because of what the god did to me, because of my own weaknesses, because my creation still feels nothing but hatred towards me …’ He grips his sword tightly. 

Taking off, he meets them halfway, once again dodging around their attack to book it away from where he knows the others are. 

He glances behind him to see them throw their entangling move, so he pivots from the front entrance of the mansion to head towards the back. The attack barely misses him, and he pushes around the corner, ready to stand his ground and fight while the others work on the generators. 

1x1x1x1 stalks after him, Daemonshank slung across their shoulder. “What’s wrong, creator ?” They ask, mirth masking their words. “No sword this time? Afraid you’ll miss again ?” They shoot forward and swing one of their blades, forcing him to raise his sword or be skewered. “How far the great Shedletsky must have fallen, to have lost the little skill he had before.”

Irritation adds onto his anger, but he forces a smirk. This is no different than any of their usual taunts, even if it’s built on something sustainable this time. “What about you? For someone who wants me dead, you sure haven’t even scratched me.”

They growl, he strikes with his sword, and their battle begins in earnest. 

The problem is, 1x1x1x1 is strong . They always have been, but even with his renewed strength, he’s struggling to keep his footing. It’s more than annoying-- it’s infuriating . He has already been at his weakest in this place, but even though he’s been fighting at his best with the eyepatch off, it’s not enough. Especially with their second sword ready to attack his openings, forcing him on the backstep when he should be clear to lunge. 

1x1x1x1 swings from above with both of their swords and from his position, he has to guard from just above his shoulders, or risk losing his head. They open their mouth, probably ready to insult him again , when he watches their gaze focus on his left eye.

“How curious,” they croon, instead, “You’ve seen to become that thing’s playtoy. Were you not already at rock bottom?”

With renewed strength, he pushes them back, gaining his footing once more. “ Shut up ,” he hisses, trying to blink past a sudden light spot in his vision. “I’m not-- you don’t know anything .” 

“I know enough,” they laugh with ear-grating static. “Your allegiance shows clearly in that mark-- I wonder, what do the others think of your blatant depravity?”

He stays silent. The grip on his sword tightens until he hears the metal creak. 

They relax their stance, smiling wildly. “They don’t know anything,” they say, in almost awe. They study him a moment and add, “... and you don’t either, do you? You have no idea what you have gotten yourself into. You truly are an idiot.”

The fury that has been swirling in his stomach builds and builds until it’s ready to burst. 1x1x1x1-- doesn’t know anything . They don’t know what he’s trying to deal with with his god, or how he’s trying so damn hard to protect the others from his apparent past mistakes given form, or how his former godhood is dangled in front of his eyes, so close he can take a bite, and he still chooses to turn away from it when he could do so much with it .

He can’t even think of a thing to say as he wordlessly yells, forcing them to guard as he swings over and over and over and over again. He’s so-- so angry that half his vision whites out, but he doesn’t care. He’s advancing on them and it feels good that they’re the one on the backstep for once, unable to do anything but block and shed his attacks. 

A bad retreat backwards on their part causes them to stumble, falling on their back with swords out of reach. Shedletsky doesn’t care, though; in fact, his entire being is singing at another battle won, and a wide smile stretches across his face at the fear widening their eye. 

He swings and as the blade reaches their neck, the sword fizzles out of his hand as the cabin disorientingly comes back into view. As he hears familiar chatter around him, he has to rein in his anger. He ran out of time to claim his prize--

…

… his… prize…?

All at once, the anger fades into confusion, and he realizes he can see out of both eyes again, though he feels something dripping down the left side of his face. He wipes at it with his fingers, and finds the tips covered in gold. 

His heart beats faster. What was that ? That fight-- even before coming here, his legendary battle with 1x1x1x1 was brutal and he still feels he only managed to win by pure luck. The fact that he was on the advance… He’s not stupid, despite what his creation thinks. He knows this has to be what the god did to him, and what, it made his eye turn his anger into power??

He almost killed them out of just… pure fury. Fuck, he’s been angry at Builderman for the past week , would he ever--?

( He can’t even say it was awful. He enjoyed it. He loved being so much more powerful than he ever remembers being. Besides, he asked for this, didn’t he? He’s been allowing the god to brutally murder his friends, to control him just for a hint of its divinity, right? )

“Are you okay?” He’s not sure who’s asking, can’t quite see the faces around him. On autopilot, he puts his eyepatch on, then turns as he gives a-- a smile, a reassuring one he thinks but he feels he can’t really control what his face is doing at the moment.

“Yeah,” he hears himself say, “Just a bit sore-- 1x doesn’t pull their punches. I’m gonna go walk it out before the next round.”

He thinks he hears someone call his name, but his swim to the outside continues, the area around him blurring until he’s seated at the base of a tree. His mind is blissfully blank as stares up into the looming branches. Idly, with an almost childish mindset, he wonders if he even remembers how they would look with the sun shining through them. 

“Shed? Shed ? Dagnabbit, Shedletsky, where are you ?” A voice calls over and over, getting closer and closer to him.

He hums, trying to wrack his brain for who’s getting nearer, when it feels like he can barely remember his own name. “... Builds?”

The man comes around his tree, his expression melting into something Shedletsky can’t name. “ There ya are, Shed, I--” he cuts himself off, staring for a long moment. “What’s goin’ on?”

‘ I don’t know ,’  he wants to say, ‘ I don’t know anything .’ Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, “I almost killed them. 1x.”

He thinks can make out the man’s surprise, before it settles into something… neutral? “How’d that happen?” Builderman asks.

Shedletsky picks at the gold flakes on his fingers, scrunching his face to feel there’s still dried gold on his cheek. “I…” Clarity hits him like a cold bucket of water, and he realizes he can’t reveal everything-- that’s a sure way to get everyone to fear him, if they know he becomes this… monster when angry. “I don’t know, I just-- felt stronger while fighting them, and at the end, I swung and I think the only thing that kept them alive was the round ending.”

Builderman doesn’t hesitate, “You’re leavin’ somethin’ out.”

‘ Why must he know me so well ,’ he groans in his head. “Noo….” he says, and then adds, “Nothing important at least. Listen, sometimes a man gotta keep his secrets.” He’s doing all he can to channel his usual, careless front. 

“Even when the secrets could harm the team?” Builderman’s not taking any of his shit, it seems. “Ya need to start trustin’ us more, or at least me. I can’t help ya if I don’t know what I’m dealin’ with.”

Shedletsky grimaces. “I know ,” he admits, and tries to pivot the conversation, “With Telamon, from-- from last time. I’m sorry.” Builderman opens his mouth, so he rushes through his words, “Listen, I know I fucked up big time, but I’m trying-- I’m going to do better. I won’t let its power catch me off guard like that again. I promise.”

The man is quiet for a decent while. There’s not much of any other sound around them, either, except the creaking of wind through the branches that sound like guttural groans. 

At last, Builderman gives a heavy sigh. “‘s alright, Shed. But we made a promise to protect the others an’ with this god, you ain’t helpin’ protect us. Do better .” 

Shedletsky bites his tongue, but the words still slip out, “I’m trying my best, Builds.” It comes out quiet and a little broken, but he is . Even with everything that’s happened, he’s trying to be a good leader, a good protector, someone the others can look up to.

His friend puts a hand on his shoulder. “I know, I know. But ya can’t take on the world alone, alright?”

Shedletsky nods, wings uncurling from a position he didn’t realize they were in. “That’s why I have you, isn’t it? To keep me from being too much of an idiot.”

Builderman studies his expression, and then nods firmly. “That’s right. Now, c’mon, let’s get ya back inside ‘fore the next round. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how ya ain’t been eatin’.”

“Alright, alright,” he agrees, hands up, knowing he won’t be able to eat much, if at all. 

Once back at the cabin, Builderman gives him a slice of buttered, burnt toast that he pretends to nibble on. As he sits there, he can’t help but feel an unscratchable itch underneath his skin, like the moment before jumping off a cliff with his wings flared-- the expectation of freedom or death to come. He’s filled with unease, emotions a mixture of anticipation and fear, for when Telamon appears again.

He can only hope he’ll be able to keep his promise.

Chapter Text

The next day, the next round, he activates his eye again.

It's not something he means to do; he's leading Jason away from the others, having managed to snag his unrelenting attention after he'd decapitated Chance, despite Shedletsky's best efforts. He's keeping his anger carefully burning in his chest, trying his best not to feed it when he can't take the time to extinguish it. He knows he can't do much when Chance's gun blows up on them, but it infuriates him that he can't protect them better.

The lid on his anger gets harder to hold, though, as he deals with miscalculating how much reach the killer's machete has. It catches on his arms, his wings, and even his chest once as he fails to bait a swing to get some distance. He's tired from his efforts and Jason just won't stop and so, he doesn't try to stop it when he feels the rage fill his bones. He doesn't pause when half of his vision whites out or when he feels the golden tears drip down one side of his face.

He turns on his heel, stands his ground, and attacks back.

Unlike last time, he doesn't feel he loses himself. Or… maybe he loses himself in a different way-- he feels floaty, like he's not quite there, but his thoughts are cold, calculating, like this is a job he knows he must get done, no matter the cost. He's going through the motions, sure, but… he feels that since he recognizes what's happening to him, that if he really tries, he can pull himself back.

More importantly, he doesn't want to stop. He's protecting the others as he's wanted since entering this hellscape; he's actually fighting back against one of the killers that have given him and his friends the biggest grief. Every fiber of his being harmonizes with putting the other in his place, below Shedletsky himself.

The round ends with Jason looking worse for wear, and the remaining of them alive appearing in the cabin. It's easier to shake the cold anger off his skin than the boiling rage of last time as he flips his eye patch back on, almost relishing in the lightheadedness it brings him. If he concentrates hard enough on it, he can ignore the guilt chewing at his chest for using the god's power for his own, for enjoying it as much as he does. He wipes his face with his sleeve, hoping the gold is less obvious on his shirt than it would be on his face.

He vaguely listens to Elliot berating Chance for their recklessness as he looks around, catching Guest's eye. The soldier seems surprised to have been caught staring, but still nods at him. “Good job out there,” he says lowly.

Ice cold fear strikes at him, at the thought of any of the others having saw his performance with the killer. “Just business at usual,” he forces out, feeling as if the floor's given away underneath him. He tries not to rush as he adds, “He must've been off his game, I baited him more than usual.”

Guest just… stares at him, unblinking in the way that guests often are. “He must have,” he says, then walks towards Chance to give them his own lecture.

Shedletsky is pretty sure the rising bile in his throat has nothing to do with his covered eye right now. He goes through the kitchen to exit the cabin, hoping to avoid prying eyes as he makes his way down to the lake shore. Sitting at the edge of its waters, he lightly tugs at his head wings, resisting the urge to preen when he knows he'll end up pulling feathers that he can't afford to lose.

He's out of his depth. He feels as if he's floundering, and-- and he knows he promised Builderman to be more open, to keep the man updated, but he doesn't even know where to start, let alone that he knows that he can't admit that he’s actually relishing in his- that god's power.

‘I'm trying my best, I'm trying my best,’ he chants to himself, wishing he could believe it.

He hears footsteps pattering closer, and he does his best to look like he's not losing control of himself, forcing his taut wings to relax. He doesn't want anyone near him right now, but he's starting to realize that in this hell, he's never going to get what he wants.

When he glances over his shoulder, Noob is there, carrying a plate that his nose says has toast on it. There's nothing less in this place he'd rather do than eat, but he can't risk looking weak to anyone right now.

They sit next to him, and hold out the plate with a small hum. He takes it with his finger tips, and has to harshly swallow when they just… continue to look at him expectantly. He doesn't want this, he doesn't want to eat, he doesn't want anyone here right now. He wants to jump into the lake, to swim to the bottom and not come up. He almost wants the killers to be released upon the cabin so everyone would have something to worry about other than him and how he's failing at everything, at being a strong protector.

He feels at his wits' end, but he forces a smile upon his face and takes a bite. It's both soggy and burnt, but he doesn't really register the flavor in his mouth with how fast he has to swallow to avoid the nausea building up. A gag builds up that he chews around, making himself go through the motions of eating until his plate is empty. He resists the urge to throw the stupid plate into the murky waters, and gently sets it beside himself.

As if him finishing was permission, Noob scoots closer before leaning against him. He frowns over their head-- he still feels sick and clammy, and having another person in his space doesn't help with that. Still, maybe they… need some comfort? He can do that, he's used to doing that, especially before that god showed up. He puts a wing around them, not that its missing feathers do too much against the chill.

The next round starts soon after, beginning with him flipping his eye patch up. It's quiet, and he doesn't take two steps before meeting the mask of Jason from across the map. He's scared of a repeat of someone seeing him, but… he still allows himself to sink into the cold anger that nips at his finger tips, as the alternative is allowing the others to die from his inaction. It's easier this time.

The killer stalks towards him immediately, sidestepping at one point to dodge Two Time's back stab. The typical strategy is to run because Jason will always chase, but… Shedletsky did so well last round, and running only ever prolongs the inevitable of his death. He can occupy the slasher with this power; he has to, if only to put that god's marking towards something good.

And at first, he does. He dodges, he counters, he dances to a tune even he can't hear but his feet know the beat to on their own. But at times-- he sees someone in the corner of his eye, and he falters, fear fluttering over the iced anger giving him power. The urge to hide and the need to protect rage against each other in him, and he can't keep up with it all, and Jason's attacks.

Just when he's sure that he's going to fail and die, Elliot tosses him a slice of pizza. He hesitates, though; his stomach rolls at the idea of eating anything, and though he's the only one injured now, what if Chance's gun had blown up on them? What if someone tries to body block for him?

Shedletsky doesn't have enough time to hesitate in a fight, and the consequences prove themself true as Jason's machete rakes across his neck, and he finds himself back in the cabin in a few disorientating moments. He rubs at where the wound once was, but like injuries not given to him by that god, it's already completely healed, without an ache to be had.

A few minutes later has the rest of them appearing in the cabin, which means unless Jason somehow managed to kill everyone at once, Shedletsky was the only casualty. He flips his eye patch back down, feeling the tightness in his chest immediate loosen; he didn't fail anyone this time.

Elliot gives him a look bordering on exasperated as he catches her eye. “Try a little harder to get the pizza next time, okay?” She closer demands than asks.

He holds his hands up, quirking a smile. “A little hard to think while I'm being mauled,” he says, hoping his voice is as casual as he needs it to be, “but I'll try.”

The pizza worker narrows his eyes, but nods curtly. "I'm starting dinner," he announces to everyone, receiving a cheer from Chance as he leaves for the kitchen.

As if waiting his turn, Guest comes up to him next, gesturing for him to follow the other outside. Like a man on death's row, he has no choice but to follow.

The air is cool, and he pretends the goosebumps are from the temperature instead of his rising heart rate.

“You need to stick to the plan next time,” Guest tells him, with no preamble. “If things were different, it could've led to your death and others. Running gives everyone more time.”

He tries to curb the way his wings bristle, folding them tightly against his back. What is he, an unruly child that Guest needs to scold? He's years-- fuck, probably tens, if not hundreds of years older than guests existing in the first place. Shedletsky doesn't need to be treated like he doesn't know what he's doing.

Besides, everyone else was fine, so what did it matter that he died?

He bites his tongue to stop himself from saying something he knows he'd regret. Guest continues on, “But… good job out there. No one else got hurt.” He gives Shedletsky a curt nod. “Just try to think about the team more.”

He forces himself not to react. He does think of the team. He does nothing but think of the team, these days. Why does no one ever understand that he's trying his best? “Yeah, yeah,” he says, making sure to wave his arm casually. “Just seemed like the best option at the time, I had him.”

“Until you died,” Guest reminds, perhaps trying for not unkindly but falling flat to Shedletsky's own ears. The soldier nods at him, then points with his head to the door. “Don't miss dinner,” he orders, turning to leave.

He salutes mockingly and waits for the other to enter the cabin before glaring. Then, he sighs deeply, rubbing a hand down his face, his simmering rage leaving his body immediately. He can't let his anger control him, no matter how unfair he finds this situation, let alone his whole life recently. His joints ache from clenching his muscles, and all at once he feels his age.

After that shit show, he decides a small nap is in order. Dinner probably won't be ready for at least half an hour, and as much as he doesn't want to pretend to eat more than two bites, he definitely doesn't want to cause any worry in the others just because he hasn't been eating. A nap will at least give him the energy to pretend to be his normal self.

Shedletsky enters the cabin, throwing a quick wave to Chance, who's sprawled on the couch, and Taph and Dusekkar, who are conversing by the fireplace. He takes the stairs briskly and soon enough, finds himself in his shared room. Fatigue hits him hard as he lays eyes on his nest, and between one blink and the next, he finds himself curled in it, already drifting off.

When he wakes up, he rubs at his uncovered eye, and suddenly realizes that, by his roommates' bodies in their respective beds, he definitely ended up sleeping the night away. It's always been hard to tell the time in this place, but nonetheless, he's sure it's actually morning. He feels he could probably close his eyes and doze some more, but his nausea rears its head, and he reluctantly gets up, idly straightening his eye patch.

He makes his way downstairs and towards the door, trying to keep to himself but still managing to catch Guest's eye on the armchair. The other is staring at him, lips turned into a thoughtful frown. Shedletsky adverts his gaze, but he still feels those eyes on him as he brushes past Noob, exiting the cabin with his skin crawling. He hopes the soldier doesn't make a big deal out of him missing dinner, but surely the other would see him getting some sleep is a higher priority than eating food he doesn't need.

He was originally going to sit on the porch, but thinking of Guest's gaze… he pivots and heads down the stairs and to the lake, once more.

Like a constant echo, Noob appears a few minutes later, holding a couple of browning bananas. He's handed one as they sit down, closer than he'd personally like. He peels his, doing his best not to heavily sigh as he takes a small bite.

He's so… tired of this. Of eating, of failing his duties, of being afraid, of being scrutinized. It seeps into his bones, like the weeks after his defeat of 1x1x1x1, where he was bedridden with poison yet still feeling as if he was in that fight, with Brighteyes at his side-- everything above, Brighteyes. He misses her, especially now, when he doesn't know what to do. He'd never wish her here, but… he wishes he could just hold her, even just for a moment. He misses her.

He distracts himself from the tears that want to fall by shoving more of the banana in his mouth. It's grossly mushy and he's never been too much of a fan of the taste, but methodically chewing over and over serves as a great diversion to the ache in his heart.

Noob doesn't say anything, which is normal sometimes. Shedletsky doesn't really understand why, but sometimes they just… can't speak. It's not that they don't try, because they do, sometimes choking on words they try to force out, facial expression baked on the end of blankness with frustration. Usually, he'd try to fill the silence, but he thinks his voice might croak out with his unshed tears right now.

And really… the silence isn't too bad. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend his toes are digging into the sand of some faraway vacation area, that he's taking a moment of silence for himself at work, or that he doesn't feel the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Or if he really imagines, he can pretend Noob's presence by his side is Brighteyes, and he can almost believe everything is going to be okay, that the two of them are sitting out on their porch and his biggest problem is Builderman's ire when he slacks off at work.

It's in that false peace that he finds himself put into the next round, and he finds his tranquility shattered as the worm of devotion starts wriggling through his veins, demanding his piety to his god. On instinct, he flips his eye patch up and almost falls to his knees as the feeling intensifies, all of his attention calling for absolute submission.

Like a mockery of last time, Builderman's voice calls out to him, “Shed?”

He tries to shake off the devotion, doing nothing more than splashing in its waters. “It's Telamon,” he says, and cringes at the croak at the end of the god's name. “I need to--” protect everyone, he wants to say, but cuts himself off with, “I'm going.”

Builderman moves to the edge of the castle's roof, kneeling and building his turret. “Do better,” he reminds, voice low.

Shame and anger mix in one, but Shedletsky knows he has no one to blame but himself, and that god for putting him in this situation to begin with. He pulls his sword out, and sprints down the castle.

Brandon6875935's Place has never had much in the way of daytime light, not like Glass Houses, but as he spots the god across the way, he swears he sees the sun. Its four wings flow behind it like silk scarves, emitting a soft glow that appear like a beacon. A wide, delighted smile is on its face, just poking out of its hood, the Illumina firmly in its hands as it stalks forward.

He's frozen in place and… and he's not even sure why. Devotion licks at his limbs, sure, but it-- it feels different.

As if sensing his gaze, it pauses in its stride, slowing turning to him. Its smile turns more grin, and as it waves, it sends a golden feather out, penetrating Two Time, who was approaching from behind. The cultist stumbles and has no chance to run before the god's sword is separating their head from their body.

No matter how many times Shedletsky sees it, it's never an easy thing to witness his friends being murdered. He has to compartmentalize, though-- he can't think of how he already failed Two Time, or else he knows the others will suffer the same fate. He rushes in and swings, stumbling when the god is already on its way to its next target. Turning, he spots Chance fumbling with their coin, and Telamon leaps forwards, slicing them neatly in half.

His heart stutters as he tries not to gag, keeping his eyes firmly on the god.

Using the god's power is already dangerous enough and because of that, he doesn't want to try using his eye in its presence. But as the god sidesteps his swing again, he can't help but feed into the agitation, rage pooling from his feet to the tips of his winged ears. His grip on his sword tightens, and he readies himself to feel the devotion that begs him to his knees.

Strangely though… it's as if the world is silent, like he can focus for the first time in days-- weeks, even. It's weird enough to give him pause, to allow the god to get a few paces away, but he can't help it; he feels as free as he used to when his wings weren't mangled. His relief is almost enough to knock him out of his anger, but he hears Noob's scream and the rage blocks out everything, once again.

The sight that greets him as he rushes over is a normal one-- a killer waiting out Noob's slateskin, even if he hasn't seen the god itself wait yet. Shedletsky manages to place himself between the two, forcing the Illumina to slide down his own sword and away from Noob's fading protection.

They take the opportunity to run, but he doesn't even glance at them as the god stares down over him, an oddly… pleased tint to its smile. He holds his sword in a guard, but it doesn't move. “There is no need for one to rush,” it says, the wings underneath its hood flicking oddly. “Telamon will allow your worship once your God has purged the unworthy.”

He opens his mouth to retort, he won't ever worship a damn thing about it, but he spins as he hears a choking noise. Noob stumbles to the ground and his eyes catch on the golden feather lodged in their throat. They're crying, making him realize that this is going to be a slow death, as they claw at their wound.

(In the back of his mind, he can't help but feel that this is punishment for him protecting its prey.)

“NOOB,” he yells, stupidly leaving himself open for an attack that Telamon doesn't take. He scrambles to their writhing form, grabbing their bloodied hands to stop them from making it worse. He should leave them, continue trying to protect the rest that are still able to live, but-- dammit. They're looking at him with blurring eyes, mouth moving with unspoken words as they keep rocking back and forth, like they're trying to pull away from the pain.

He doesn't want to watch them die, but it's unfairly cruel to leave them here to deal with this alone. He even hears a scream in the distance, a perfect excuse, but he keeps his grip on their hands, vaguely wondering why the god's devotion isn't licking at him when he knows his despair roars higher than his rage.

He… could end them himself, to make sure they wake up in the cabin sooner so they're not suffering more. He doesn't think himself strong enough though, to lift his blade against his team, let alone to Noob, who's always struggled the worst with this place.

(And, he's always been a coward.)

By the time the god's airy footsteps sound behind him, Noob's eyes are glassy and their chest is still. He doesn't know why he didn't leave immediately; it's hardly the first time he's witnessed someone's slow death, even if he's never held their hand before. It's not even the first time he's seen Noob die this way, and he's never thought of trying to comfort them through it.

Maybe it's because this time… it's his fault. Because he couldn't keep Telamon's attention on him long enough. Because Telamon was him, at one point in his past.

“Telamon is proud of one using its gift,” the god says, in lieu of a greeting or staying quiet.

He doesn't say anything, or move at its voice. Noob's probably already respawned back in the cabin, having a panic attack but otherwise bodily fine. But here, in front of him, their body is so still.

The weight of its gaze rests heavy on the back of his neck, despite the fact he knows its eyes are covered. “Stand,” it commands, after a moment.

He does, gently dropping the stiff hands. There's no chains of submission puppeteering his body, no angel choir screaming in his ear. It is just the two of them, alone again, with silence almost loud enough to drown him. And yet, he stands, eyes still on their body.

“Must one have no manners?” it asks, rhetorically. “Turn around, and greet your God.”

His hand twitches, the distraught of his failure starting to fade back into the familiar heat of rage. He doesn't even have time to think about it as he spins on his heel, taking two leap-like steps to throw a punch at the god's face.

It catches his fist, of course, because why not. He tries to pull away, but it holds fast, tilting his hand at an angle that reminds him that despite everything, his wrist never actually fully healed. He hisses, when even putting his full weight into it doesn't get him free.

It grips him harder, pulling his arm up until he's standing on his toes, feeling his bones creak. “Telamon,” it says, just above growling, “does not fight like a barbarian. Grab your sword.”

It tosses him to the ground, looming over him like he's in insignificant bug. He hesitates until its smile twitches dangerously, and he glowers, wings pulled taut. The worst it can do isn't even kill him, and that thought might've scared him, if he isn't so SFOTH-damned angry. What is another blessing to his failure?

He has to turn away from it to see where his sword is, his glowing eye blocking his vision to his left. He grips his sword tight, his wrist twitching painfully. At last, he stands, and doesn't wait for its command to begin attacking.

It's almost easier than fighting 1x1x1x1, he thinks. As it was from the first time, it's like knowing every step of a tango with death, where one misstep will send him spiraling into the unknown. It's not something he concentrates too heavily on, though-- all he can think of is wiping that smile off the god's face, of giving it a new scar to distinguish it from his own.

He swings heavily and it parries; its attacks flow like a ribbon and he has to jump to its side to avoid becoming sliced meat. It's a dance, a tennis match, a back and forth where one action causes an equal reaction. Maybe it would've been something beautiful to behold if Shedletsky didn't want to maim and kill the god.

Despite the lack of song, some instinct in him tells him that the round is nearing its end. With one last swing, he tries to slash it across the chest, but it blocks, interlocking swords with him.

The grin that never leaves its face widens, its wings flaring as it shoves him away. “Better luck next time, disciple,” it says. “Telamon looks forward to our next sermon.”

He growls, jumping towards it and having half the mind to start tearing into it like a rabid dog. But between one step and the next, the area fizzles into the cabin, forcing him to skid to a stop, or risk face planting into the wall.

He clenches his fist so hard that his nails dig into his palms, stinging sharply. He couldn't even land a scratch on the god, even while using its 'gift'. Everything in these awful games have always been unfair, but this feels crazily so, that he can't even get an inch for every mile it takes. He starts pacing; he knows he needs to calm down but he's so agitated that he's not sure the eye patch will even block the power he feels dropping down his cheek.

A hand touches his shoulder, and he jerks back, spinning to see who would dare touch-- oh. Builderman. Light bewilderment fills him, though not enough to drown out the roaring rage.

“Ya need to calm yerself,” his friend says, lowly, then jerks his head to the crowd. “Yer makin' everyone nervous.”

Shedletsky glances to the side, and sees a few of the others staring at him, noticing Elliot and Noob in particular with wide eyes. His anger doesn't quite wane, but he quickly looks away, flipping his eye patch down as he does. It feels as horrible as it always does, like he's willingly putting hundreds of thousands of chains on himself.

“Sorry,” he mutters, wiping his cheek with his sleeve. “That god… it's infuriating.”

Builderman stares at him, like a man trying to decipher a puzzle that can't be solved. “What happened last round?” he asks, after a moment.

Shedletsky tries not to get defensive at the other's tone; he knows he's just angry at that round and that he shouldn't take it out on the other. He says, “It killed Times, and dodged my first swing to kill Chance after. Then, it went after Noob, and even though I was distracting it, it still sent a feather to finish them off.” He doesn't say how he waited with them until they moved no more, doesn't mention the fact no matter how horribly everyone else has died to that god, it has never moved to actually kill him, even when it could so easily.

His friend sighs deeply. “Shed, if ya can't even protect one person from that killer--”

He can't stop himself from interrupting, barely able to keep his wings from flaring. How dare he? “I'm trying my damn best, Builds,” he hisses lowly.

“Now, ya know I didn't mean it that way,” Builderman scolds like Shedletsky is in the wrong here. “Just listen to me, a'ight?”

He can't stop the water from boiling over, scorching everything it touches. “Why? So you can hold another SFOTH-damned mistake over my head?” he snaps, just an inch from growling. “I'm trying so hard and it doesn't seem to be good enough for you.” He should stop here, he shouldn’t say more, but his tongue is flailing faster than he can think of the words, “You scold me when we made that promise, and yet I seem to be the only one actually out there, actually doing something.”

Builderman frowns from one corner of his mouth. He opens his mouth, then closes it just as quickly. At last, he mutters an accented, “fine,” and leaves for the kitchen.

Shedletsky isn't sure if it's worse or not that the other didn't even look back. He turns to the rest in the living room, finding them all staring at him. There's a pause of breath before everyone but Guest and Noob scatter elsewhere, and he tries his best not to sigh heavily.

‘Not that my best means anything to Builds,’ he thinks to himself, making the fury churn in him like a raging storm.

He moves for the front door, but he's stopped as Guest calls his name. “What?” he asks flatly, done with confrontations today.

“You haven't been eating,” the soldier says, staring at him.

Shedletsky doesn't want to have this conversation right now, if ever. He's just so tired and can't stop his lips from saying, “the eye patch kills my appetite.”

Guest's gaze feels almost like a glare. “You need to eat. You don’t need to wear it; you’re ruining yourself for your vanity.”

“You--” he chokes on a laugh, incredulous. “You made me this eye patch. I'm only even putting this thing on for-- for YOU GUYS!” Despite his eye being covered, he can still feel the gold leaking out, pooling around its containment.

“Shedletsky,” Guest starts, and it pisses him off more that he's so-- so calm about it. “We never asked you to.”

“Yeah?” he asks, unable to keep the mockery out of his voice. “You didn't need to say it, with how you all flinched at the sight of it. I'm sorry that that g-- killer marked me permanently while you all thought that it WAS me.”

Noob flinches in the corner of his eye and he swallows harshly, remembering their stiff, bloodied hands.

The soldier frowns, crossing his arms. “We were being cautious,” he defends.

There's a million things Shedletsky could say in response to that. I've always tried my best to be a good leader, for one. You could've just trusted me, for another. Instead, he scoffs. “Okay,” he says, and turns for the exit again. His name is called, but he could not care less, making sure more than anything not to slam the door on his way out.

He half stomps, half stumbles his way to the lake shore, the anger making him lightheaded-- a feeling he's sure would go away if he removed his eye patch. And he's apparently ruining himself with it on anyways, not that he even needs to eat. He hasn't even felt anything worse than some light dizziness, not ever hunger, and he can easily blame that on the eye patch to begin with.

He sits down. The lake is calm, as it always is, but it does nothing to stop him from replaying the conversations in his head, furrowing his eyebrows as it just makes him more infuriated. He can feel the golden tears leaking out of his eye patch, tickling his cheek as they slowly make their way to his chin. He doesn't know how to stop using his eye, other than to stop being angry, and he can't stop being angry, not right now.

Footsteps. And there's only one person it can be since he's gone and pissed off Builderman. He doesn't bother trying to wipe the tears off; he can tell more will just keep coming, anyways.

Noob sits down next to him. He pulls his wings in close, awaiting on them to get close when he doesn't want them to, but thankfully they keep their small distance, and he relaxes slowly. It's quiet for a long few minutes, and he realizes that at some point, his vision has blackened, no longer leaking gold.

“I'm sorry,” they say suddenly, startling him enough to look at them. They're grimacing as they look out into the waters, avoiding his eye. “I know that--” They purse their lips, as if they're trying to find the right words. “It… scared me, when your eye… when the killer…” They swallow harshly. “Haven't really thought about how it's been for you… you always seem so strong, so untouchable.”

“Noob…” he trails off, because he doesn't know what else to say. Maybe he should be glad that even with his fuck ups recently, he's still seen as a good protector, but… he just feels tired.

At last, they turn to him, meeting his eye. “I'm sorry,” they say again, “and…” They reach for him, and it takes all of his willpower not to jerk back, furrowing his eyebrows. They flip his eye patch up, and he blinks as his persistent dizziness goes away. “I think your eye is… it's pretty cool.”

Pretty cool isn't anything he'd use to describe something forced upon him by that god. It's a reminder of his weakness, of his pointless struggle against Telamon. But if Noob, the one who's always scared of anything and everything, is okay with it… the others shouldn't have too much of a problem either, and he figures, maybe he can forgo the eye patch.

‘At least Guest will be happy,’ he thinks, somewhat bitterly. He takes the eye patch completely off, holding the gold-stained piece in his hand. It hasn't done much but bring him hardship, and the only benefit it ever gave a hint of was the slight protection against the god's endless devotion. He’s attached, though; sometimes, it’s like a rebellion against what that god did to him.

After hesitating a moment more, he winds back and throws the eye patch as far as he can into the lake's waters. When it lands it sinks instantly, like inky hands had come from the depths to pluck it for themselves. Even if he wanted to, he isn't sure he would be able to find it again, not that he'd ever step one toe into those stagnant waters. And he's sure he won't be able to get Guest to make him another one…

He suppresses a deep sigh. He can't help but feel he's going to regret it, can't help but imagine the looks on everyone's faces as its brand presents itself for all to see.

Noob hums, and he turns his attention to them again. “… Thanks, also,” they say.

He frowns. “What?”

They don't meet his eyes, picking at a loose thread in their jeans. “I don't like dying,” they start, and then they snort. “Not that anyone does, I don't think, but… it's hard. I don't like it,” they insist, as if trying to convey a thought that he can't understand. “It's worse when it's slow-- I just want it to end. But I wasn't… scared, maybe? Because you were there.” They wrap their arms around their legs, propping their chin between their knees. “It wasn't nice, but it was… almost nice? For once.”

It's kind of horrible that any of them can describe a death as almost nice. He can't imagine the way they died being anywhere close to that, either. He can't describe watching them choke and writhe and whimper as nice. Maybe he should feel better that they had a better experience than usual, but it leaves a heavy feeling in his stomach. They shouldn't have had to die in the first place.

His shoulders are heavy as he shrugs. “Whatever I can to help,” he says. He wants to apologize for not doing more, for not managing to stop the god, but the words get stuck on the back of his tongue until he's forced to swallow them down.

Noob hums again. They twist at their fingers, opening their mouth, but whatever they wanted to say is gone as the next round starts.

Shedletsky stretches out his wings, exhausted to his core. More than anything, he just wants a break. Fighting with Builderman, dealing with Guest, and then that short conversation with Noob… He knows he's not in the right mindset for these repetitive games, and with 1x1x1x1 as their opponent, it spells disaster for his team.

Her weapon winds up, and he dodges out of the way in instinct-- though, the slash doesn't come anywhere near him. She must want to leave him for last, then.

He still does his best to intercept her, swing his sword at the right moments, and though he helps, it's not enough. 1x1x1x1 has always been a formidable foe, and his mind is just not in the game. He can't force himself to feel the rage he needs to activate his eye, and she's apt at avoiding him otherwise, until she's ready for him.

Not… unlike Telamon, he thinks to himself, with a shudder.

He finds the medkit in the round, almost hidden behind a gravestone. He doesn't need it, obviously-- 1x1x1x1 hasn't laid anything more than her eyes on him since the round began. He thumbs the opening a moment; he knows Builderman is injured, having witnessed the other get sniped as he was setting up a dispenser. Shedletsky is still upset at their conversation, but despite his anger, he still doesn't want Builderman to suffer, or worse, die.

He spots Chance flipping their coin, and lightly jogs over. “I need you to take this to Builds,” he says, and without really thinking on it, adds, “He's behind the house on the hill.”

Chance almost drops their coin, turning to him sharply before relaxing. “You almost scared me,” they say, grabbing it from his hands. “Still having trouble in paradise?”

He can't stop the grimace from appearing on his face. Considering it just happened before the round started, yeah he thinks he can say that nothing has been resolved yet, if ever from the look he remembers Builderman giving him. A look that had screamed that after everything, that had been the final straw, that he'd truly gone and fucked up for good. He should feel guilty about his words, but irritation still stirs in his gut, and there’s petty satisfaction at his own words, because he didn’t let Builderman continue to walk over him, the feeling buzzing in his head.

Thinking on it, though, makes an icy lump settle in his chest; he knows he’s in the wrong, even if he doesn’t feel like it. He presses on, glancing in the direction of the mansion, hidden as it is behind the dirt mound. "He's heading down to the pillar," Shedletsky says, looking back at the other. "Elliot's giving 1x the runaround in the mansion now."

Chance flips his coin once, then twice, before saying, "… I don't know how you even saw that. I'll get this to the man, though." They grasp their coin before lightly tipping their fedora. "I'll put in a good word for ya, too, don't worry, pup." They run off towards the pillar.

He blinks, more confused by their first statement than the nickname they often call everyone. He's sure they're right, though, as he turns to the area he knows Elliot is running at-- there's no way he could've seen all of that from his position, let alone still know without a doubt that she's still up there. There really could be only one explanation, and he covers his left eye with his hand, basking in the nausea that rears its head. Immediately, he notices that he feels… something missing. Uncovering his eye, the others still alive (not Elliot, not anymore-- he should've been out there instead of trying to avoid Builderman) slot into his mind, wherever they are around the map.

His eye… He hopes the surprises stop with this one. He doesn't have the time to be upset at an admittedly useful power, so he hikes it to where he knows Matt is fighting a losing battle, and enters the fray.

Despite his best efforts, they all fall one by one, with Chance being the last to die this round, unable to get too far after they'd shot their gun. Though-- the familiar music for him and his creation doesn't play in his ear. It's briefly confusing, remembering the same had happened with Telamon, but he doesn't have time to think on it as she stomps towards him.

She throws her entangling slash, he sidesteps, and their battle begins.

It's never as grand as their battle on the Heights had been, all those years ago. He's not sure he's ever had a battle as great since then, even if he almost lost against her. Their fight now is nothing like it; he's on a constant back step, unable to lean into the god's power with the exhaustion and the ice that buries deep in him, marring his bones. The only thing that saves him is microscopic hesitations as she keeps glancing to his left eye.

“You,” she hisses as their swords clash once more, “are wanting nothing more than to court with danger.”

He wheezes out a laugh. “One might actually think you like me,” he says, just because he knows it'll piss her off.

True to form, 1x1x1x1 growls loudly, swinging fast enough that he has to take some deep cuts across his chest. “I cannot wait to see how much further the great Shedletsky will fall.”

“Didn't you say something like that last time?” He can barely breath around the pain, but he forces himself to scoff, anyways. “Maybe stop worrying so much about me, and find some better insults.”

There's not even a moment before he feels a sharp pain across his neck, and very suddenly finds himself standing back in the cabin. He really can't even begin to understand, but that conversation-- it was weird. He'd said it as a joke, but for her to have any sort of concern over him… He already has so many things to deal with, he doesn't want to try to know why she's so off.

He takes a deep breath to center himself, and heads out of the cabin. He doesn’t see Guest on his way out, and he almost feels ashamed at the relief of not having to rehash that conversation about him eating again. Outside, he takes the familiar steps to his place on the shore, but stops short; as if in punishment for avoiding the conversation with the soldier, Builderman sits on the pier, not noticing Shedletsky as he faces the waters.

Their conversation still churns heavily in him. Of course it does, despite each round feeling as long as a lifetime, their argument had happened not two hours ago. He knows he's not strong enough to go against that god, to go against his past self, but it doesn't give his f-- Builderman the right to blame him for it, when Builderman himself can’t do much more than build a singular turret, when Shedletsky is trying so hard.

Indignation rises in him again, and he swallows down the anger that threatens to consume him. Pivoting, he decides to head deeper into the forest. At least there, the trees won't judge him for his inadequacy.

The woods are as foreboding as ever. The branches above him loom, choking out the little light the moon gives off. Even the light from his eye doesn't go far-- the glowing is mostly a hindrance, really, making the dark feel like it's threatening to grab him. Things move in the distance, creatures that never come close to the cabin, but are a threat to any of them that think the forest is the way to escape.

Still, anything is better than sitting in that cabin, having the others judge him for what that god has done to him, or trying to parse through a conversation with Builderman without the man pointing out every single thing he's done wrong, no matter how much he's doing his best.

He basks in the silence as he half leans against a tree, his wings drooped behind him. It's the most relaxed he's been in a while, and he takes it all in with a deep breath. It doesn’t smell how a forest should, no earthy scents or the smell of the trees themselves. It’s just another reminder that despite how seemingly peaceful out here is, it’s just another… trick, he guesses, meant to unsettle them all.

His stomach rumbles, startling him out of his thoughts. He’s been so nauseous with his eye patch for so long now, he almost forgot what hunger felt like-- not that he needs to eat. He’s always been an avian that enjoys a bite of food, but he’s never actually needed it. Back before he was trapped here, he’d sometimes spend days, sometimes a week, focused on one thing or another and not have eaten. Though, he remembers if he kept up a regular schedule and then stopped, he’d sometimes feel a bit… empty, a little rumbly.

Never hungry itself, though, and he figures the effects of the eye patch might be lingering. He doesn’t really think it’s a cause for concern, more of an annoyance than anything. Once his body is used to not being nauseous, he’s sure he’ll stop feeling any sort of thing for food, at all.

A little later, because of his eye, he feels more than hears Noob stumbling through the twisting trees. Pushing himself from his spot, he makes his way over to them; he doesn't want to risk them missing him and heading deeper into the forest.

Their eyes are blown wide as they see him, gripping an apple so tightly in each hand that he can see small indents in the fruits. They blink a couple times, and then their shoulders drop, sighing heavily. They offer him a smile and an apple, eyes flickering to the tree lightly.

Shedletsky didn’t really mean to stress them out by coming out here; in fact, he didn’t really expect or want anyone to find him here. He still wants to be alone, but he’s not sending them back through the forest alone, and further, he’s sure that by the time the two of them would be able to wander their way back, the final round of the day would have started.

Still, he swallows a sigh and takes an apple. He wants to stop eating completely, save the food for those that actually need it while getting used to running on empty again, but throwing the apple into the darkness is just a waste and he doesn’t need to add more stress onto Noob by making them worry about his eating habits.

“You didn’t have to come out here for this,” he still says, “There’s monsters out here.”

They frown, looking out into the woods as if searching for the next attack. After a moment they shrug, and he senses a creature not too far away, though he’s sure it won’t bother them unless they go deeper. Probably. Either way, he doesn’t want to stress Noob about it.

He gestures to a particularly thick tree root, and the two of them sit down, shoulder to shoulder. Noob wastes no time in leaning against him, almost tucking themself in his side as they stare into the darkness. Wrapping a wing around them, he tries to keep his arm off them-- he’s not really sure why but his nerves feel like they’re on fire, and he doesn’t really… want Noob on him right now.

The quiet almost makes him want to jump out of his skin. Instead, he asks, “Have you ever visited SFOTH?”

They shake their head, which isn’t surprising. Most Robloxians never leave their home Realm-- or even know that there’s other Realms out there. He’s not even sure that most of the others here know there are other Realms; he’s pretty sure most everyone lived somewhere in Robloxia, which is already a pretty big and vast Realm itself. Maybe their captor has a taste for Robloxia, or maybe it couldn’t get into the other Realms. Though with 1x1x1x1 from the banlands, he’s almost positive it can access other Realms.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, because his question was less about their answer and more about filling the silence. “Platforms lifted high into the sky, where one wrong step will send you to an early respawn-- all of it lit by an eternal sunset.” He’s been in this hell so long that it’s hard to remember the exact shades that brightened his Realm, though he’ll never forget the towers he constructed from hand, the magic he’d learned with Matt to make the portals and swords possible. “It’s a fighting Realm, but not like this place. They’re fair, judged by a swordsman’s skill with the blade--” He can’t stop the longing sigh that escapes him. He misses it, even though he can’t fly between its towers anymore, even though he’s not as grand as he used to be.

Noob stares at him expectantly, and he’s not quite sure why until they bring both their hands up, touching closed fingertips together.

“There were gimmicks to each platform, special blades too,” he adds to their ask of more. “All sorts of blades-- everyone started with the one I use in the rounds, the Linked Sword. A great sword in the right hands,” in his hands especially, “but it’s not special on its own. My favorite was always the-- the Illumina,” he stutters a moment, knowing the god now wields it, but Noob’s face doesn’t change from the mention. Almost softly, he continues, “It’s a beautiful piece of work, one of my greatest inventions-- it’s the ultimate weapon, powerful for someone who knows what they’re doing. For someone newer to the Heights, it’d be easier to wield the Ghostwalker or the Firebrand, which is--”

He nearly stumbles as he finds himself suddenly standing in a round. “… is… longer…” he lets out a sigh that gets immediately stuck in his throat as he feels the lick of devotion at his fingers. Did they not already go against the god today? He’s dealt with so much in just the past few hours, did that not call for a break?

He swallows harshly, the exhaustion that had settled underneath his skin being replaced by the thorny adoration that begs him to sink in. At least that is easier to parse through than the fatigue that plagued his mind, as the smallest of mercies.

Just seeing the god cut across Matt is enough to activate its power in him, to feel the lava boil underneath his skin. As he fails to block blow after blow, as his team falls one by one, he cannot help the way he nearly gets lightheaded with the rage he embodies, at just-- just how unfair this is. These rounds have always been a struggle, but against the other killers, they all at least had a chance. There is no world in which Telamon ever fails to kill everyone but Shedletsky, and that is no credit to his own.

Soon, it is just the two of them and Noob, a design that he cannot believe is coincidence. Noob eats a ghost burger, and while he himself loses them pretty quickly, Telamon easily stalks confidently in one direction, reminding him that even if the god doesn’t have some sort of spatial awareness, the Illumina easily reveals invisible foes.

He sprints after them. He barely hears it, but after a moment, Noob opens a bloxy, and the god takes its moment to strike out with a feather. There isn’t a second of hesitation as Shedletsky dives in the way, the feather neatly slicing across his forearm before lodging itself in his right shoulder. He hisses, tightly gripping his sword, but the pain barely registers through the wrath bleeding itself out of his eye.

Noob speeds away as they should, but Shedletsky doesn’t turn to watch. Instead, his eye is focused on Telamon, whose smile turns almost flat, with wings puffed greatly. He’s tense, awaiting for it to try to go after Noob again.

It does not. Instead, between one blink and the next, it is upon him. It grips his injured arm by his wrist, twisting his sword out of his hand, to somewhere he can’t see. He should try to struggle, but-- he pauses, curiosity bleeding into his rage, wondering if because of this, if at last, the god will kill him.

Its attention is solely on him, studying his arm with a deep frown. It’s not unlike a hawk, searching searching searching for the dove it had injured in its hunt, with him ready to let it consume him all at once. And to his surprise, it does-- bringing his arm to its face, and taking a long, singular lick down the length of his forearm. He tries to jerk out of its grasp, but it holds fast, tongue continuing to slide down as it turns his head to him, as if it can see through the bandages covering its eyes.

His face feels warm, hot. Somehow, he’s sure that it has nothing to do with the anger fading from his limbs.

“Telamon will not show such mercy again,” it says as it straightens, licking its top lip as it releases him. He cradles his arm close to his chest, but besides its saliva and some smeared blood, his arm looks… healed, without even a scar left behind. “Do not interfere with your God’s plans, and choose to reach salvation.”

“I-- I’m not just going to let you kill everyone,” he says, voice oddly breathy. He clears his throat, continuing, “I won’t let you. I’m supposed to protect them, I won’t just stand aside, and--”

“One will and one shall,” it interrupts. “Their suffering is not permanent; these games have no holding on the greatness one could ascend to if one’s distractions did not hinder you so. Choose Telamon, know in one’s heart that you have no piety you could give to another, understand that Telamon will always choose the higher interests of us.”

Of course he wants to be grand again, to still have his skills in battle, to-- to be able to fly again. His loathing knows no bounds, to have been cut from himself yet still fester to what it is now-- a pathetic, flightless avian who no more resembles the god he used to be than a hammer resembles a broken nail. But his god-- the god, cannot be the answer to his woes, can’t ever be the solution, because where does that leave him? What would he even have left?

(But… what could he stand to gain?)

“No,” he says, forcing his voice steady. The temptation is there, stuttering in his rib cage-- the mere idea that he could stand as strong as a time that haunts him now… Shame pools in his gut; he shouldn’t want this at all.

Telamon frowns greatly, wings flaring and making it look so much bigger. “One day you will stop this petty rebellion you have against your true nature.” It tilts its head, as if listening to something he cannot hear. Then, it says, “Your God has patience, but it is running thin. Do not displease Telamon much further-- one does not want Telamon’s ire.”

‘What about Shedletsky’s ire,’ he wants to yell, his vision starting to half white out, but he doesn’t have a chance to rise to his anger as he finds himself standing in the cabin, next to Noob. On instinct, he reaches up for his eye patch, but aborts halfway through-- both because he remembers he no longer has it and because of a sharp pain from moving his shoulder.

Did… wounds from the god not heal fully?

It makes sense, in a way. Self-inflected wounds were hardly ever healed to their full; Chance hides their scarred hands underneath gloves and Builderman has several circular scars from leading the killer around his turret. It explains why his wrist still smarts, why his shoulder still hurts. He hadn’t thought of the consequences before, but-- Telamon is him, was him, at one point, and this hell doesn’t seem to care that it gained its own body.

Noob grabs onto him, knocking him out of his thoughts. They’re crying, shaking their head back and forth. “I thought I was going to die,” they bawl, “Thank you, thank you, thank you-- that was the scariest thing that’s happened here.”

He gives them a couple pats on the back. It’s something they always say after a particular harrowing match, but he can forgive them for it this time; he’s sure if he hadn’t taken the hit for them, they would’ve had a far different fate. He doubts that feather would’ve been enough to finish them, from the way Telamon looked ready to pounce with its sword.

“You managed to survive against that thing?” Chance asks from the couch, coin in hand. Next to them is Elliot, who’s thumbing through some sort of microwave cookbook. Shedletsky can’t imagine anything in that book is even remotely good, needless to mention that they don’t even have a microwave.

“Yeah,” Noob sniffles, finally letting him go to wipe at their face. “Shed-- Shedletsky distracted it while I got away.”

Chance flips his coin. “Ya gotta bring some of that luck when more of us are alive, next time,” he says.

Shedletsky resists the urge to grab at his arm, idly scratching at the golden flakes on his cheek instead. “I dunno if it’ll let me repeat what I did,” he says, intentionally vague, “but I’m trying my best out there.”

Chance shrugs, and Elliot picks up in the conversation. “It’s appreciated-- but, what did you do? Why isn’t it repeatable?”

“The killer tried to use its feathers on me, and he took the hit,” Noob tells them both, and Shedletsky is suddenly very sure he needs to interrupt them, before-- “And he--”

“Not much else,” he interrupts, then tries to crack a carefree smile as they all look at him. “I mean, it was surprised at first but it tried going after you again, so we started fighting.” He doesn’t want to lie, not in this way, but things that happen with his god… He knows nothing good will come out of revealing it.

“I didn’t hear any fighting…” Noob mumbles, furrowing their eyebrows.

He shrugs, trying not to grimace at the sharp pain in his shoulder. “Dunno. I think we took it closer to the castle, but I was more worried about being a nuisance than where we were.”

Elliot sets down her book. “But why wouldn’t that be repeatable?” she asks, incredulous.

“It-- told me,” he answers, lamely, “that it wouldn’t ‘show mercy’ again or something.”

“You distracting it was a mercy?” Elliot asks rhetorically, narrowing his eyes. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Shedletsky opens his mouth, ready to bury himself deeper in this hole, when Chance speaks up, putting their hand on Elliot’s shoulder. “The killers already never make sense,” they say, “Just look at that kid and how they think this is all just’a game.”

He chooses not to mention how Telamon had called the rounds a game as well. Without a doubt, he’s absolutely sure that that would not go over well.

Elliot sighs, slumping into the couch. “You’re right,” he says, crossing his arms. He looks Shedletsky directly in the eyes. “Sorry for interrogating you-- I’m just tired of dying to that guy.”

Chance rubs underneath their sunglasses. “We all are, even ‘letsky-- right, pup?”

“Right,” Shedletsky agrees easily, despite never having done so. He supposes with the way he comes out of its rounds, crying once and with a new eye after another, it’s easy to think that. In the least eloquent way possible, he says, “Well, I’m gonna go get some fresh air,” and heads for the door. He very pointedly ignores Noob’s call of his name.

He crawls underneath the pier on the lake, shivering lightly when the freezing waters touch his feet. He’s only here because he doesn’t want Noob to find him, like the coward he is. He barely pays attention to the way that his heart is trying to beat out of his chest, thoughts spiraling-- what all had Noob seen during that round? He’d thought they’d run away, but if they’d spied on him instead…

He swallows harshly, forcing the idea out of his mind.

‘Unless they were waiting for him to leave to tell everyone,’ a small part of his brain whispers, and he lightly tugs at his head wings to dispel the thought. He doesn’t want to be paranoid, but he can’t afford not to be-- not with that god, not with the being who he used to be, who now toys with him. Everyone was distrustful of 007n7 when Elliot revealed who his son was; Shedletsky cannot go through that, cannot force everyone to lose what little faith they have left in him.

He stays underneath that pier a long time, ignoring Noob’s searching calls for him. It’s not even that he think they would tell, he just-- can’t imagine that they wouldn’t, which he knows is ridiculous, but he can’t stop the way his mind screams that this is the end, that it’s only a matter of time until everything falls apart.

He’s breathing through these thoughts, when he realizes his scenery has changed, that he’s curled up on top of this castle he’s come to despise. There’s no angel’s choir or singing of devotion in his blood, so-- so he’s hopeful. There’s never been a forth round in the day, but maybe this hell is trying something new, trying to break them all more. He-- he feels out of it, like he can’t quite care, but he’s just so relieved his god isn’t here.

Shedletsky slowly makes his way to the ground, heart suddenly pounding. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he thinks, clearer than anything. He brings his wings tighter to his body, but their state of missing feathers does nothing against the chill he feels. It seeps into his bones, making every step heavy and sluggish. What is going on?

The rest of his team is gathered in a tight circle, hunched and whispering to each other. Noob looks up, spotting him, and then they flinch, going behind the rest, who have suddenly become a wall of protection. Everyone’s faces is varying states of glaring or-- or disgust.

‘Did they…’ he aborts the thought as soon as it happens. “What’s going on? Who’s the killer?” he asks, looking at Elliot and then Guest, trying to determine who’s the leader in this conversation.

“We can’t trust you anymore,” Elliot says, as plain as day. “Noob told us you were being friendly with Telamon, cohorting with--”

“I wasn’t--” He interrupts, startled as he shakes his head. “I didn’t.”

“Was Builderman lying to us, then? That you didn’t allow that killer to kill him?” Elliot scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Telamon might be your past self, but you haven’t changed at all since then, have you?”

He feels he can’t speak fast enough, like the words are stuck in his chest. This is-- it’s all wrong, this can’t happen like this-- “What about n7?” he rasps, feeling like he can’t breath. “He and c00lkidd--”

“c00lkidd is just a child,” Guest scolds as he crosses his arms. “And 007n7 never tried to hide his past.” He gestures to where Builderman is turned away, frowning. “About more than just Telamon, Builderman also told us about 1x-- you created them.”

“Builds…” Shedletsky chokes out through sinking coldness in his chest.

“’m sorry, Shed,” Builderman says, not meeting his eyes, “but ya left me no choice-- ya won’t trust us, so how can we trust you?”

“I do trust you,” he says, and he does, just-- just with the god, it’s difficult--

Builderman shakes his head, like he knows Shedletsky’s thoughts. He doesn’t say anything, and that’s worse than anything he could say.

Shedletsky needs-- he doesn’t know what he needs, but more than anything, he wants out of here, he can’t be here, this can’t be real, it’s not-- he can’t--

All of a sudden, he finds himself gasping awake, half soaked in water. It takes him a moment, but he realizes he’s still underneath the pier, and he’d rolled himself into the lake. He’s completely covered in sand, with his back and wings absolutely soaked, causing him to harshly shiver through his harsh breaths.

Despite realizing it was a dream, the claws of anxiety still hold fast in his chest, making his earlier thoughts about the consequences Noob telling what they might have seen… He doesn’t know what to do. Asking them what they saw is as damning as just saying he’d allowed the killer to-- to lick him, to speaking with the killer, to letting it do as it pleases because he’s not strong enough against it.

He needs to do something, though. Would they turn against him-- turn everyone against him? He, he doesn’t know and that scares him. Was he one small mistake from Noob condemning him, making his dream a reality? He wishes he could talk with Builderman about it, but he knows the man has more dirt on him and he’d have to wade through their previous conversation-- it’s too much. Everything is too much.

The sand makes him feel gross and his fingers itch to preen his wings, to rip out feathers until his heart stops trying to escape his chest. He needs to go shower, but he hesitates-- he doesn’t know what time it is, and he doesn’t need anyone seeing him as he looks now. He can’t stay like this though, so, after a moment, he slowly crawls out from underneath the pier and he trudges towards the cabin.

Thankfully, it appears to be the middle of the night-- or, at least, a time that everyone’s in their rooms and asleep. He carefully makes his way up the creaky steps to his shared room, using his glowing eye as a soft flashlight to find some spare clothes. Then, without a glance to either of the occupants in their beds, makes his way out and back downstairs to the bathroom.

He’s quick with his shower, and even quicker to dab dry his wings. He should preen them, especially as they irritate him right now, but he’s not sure he can trust his hands with it right now. Instead, he sneaks back into his room, frowning as he tiptoes to his nest. He doesn’t really want to be in the same room as Builderman, not with the fear that grasps at him or the churning anger in his gut at the man, but there’s no way he could move his nest without the man waking up, and he can’t do it while everyone is awake either, because then they’ll ask questions--

He suppresses a sigh, crawling over the lip and settling himself in his nest. Though his wings bother him, he’s asleep almost instantly and thankfully, he does not dream.

In the morning, he avoids everyone like they’re the plague, taking special care to dodge Noob’s attempt to bring him food. His stomach grumbles lightly, but he pushes through, knowing it’ll pass eventually. He-- he’s worried that the others will condemn him, that they’ll be down one protector, that they’ll learn that he’s even slightly tempted by the god’s promises.

The first round of the day starts with him standing on top of the castle as devotion makes itself at home again. It’s that adoration for the god that stops his chest from sinking, knowing at the very least, his secrets won’t have time to be spilled with Telamon hunting everyone down. It’s horrible, but he relaxes from his spiral, taking a moment to forcibly sink into cold anger before he sprints after the god, who cuts through Builderman first.

Maybe he should feel upset that they’re going against the god, again, in such a short amount of time. Or that it cuts down his team before he can even catch up. But mostly, it’s guilt that eats away at his anger, for the relief that his dream is not coming to fruition.

Strangely, at one point in its warpath, Telamon has the perfect opportunity to kill Noob-- not that Shedletsky would have not tried to save them, but it isn’t needed; the god pointedly turns away, following the sound of Chance’s coin flips around the corner. Shedletsky doesn’t have time to chat with Noob, who looks as scared as they usually do, but the interaction sticks in his mind, giving him a sense of dread; Telamon wouldn’t miss an opportunity to kill the others, he’s sure of it.

He spends the rest of its killing spree waiting for the other shoe to drop. At last, the god throws Elliot’s body to the side, and immediately pivots to where Shedletsky had seen Noob run off to. He chases as it stalks with undeterred persistent, effortlessly dodging his attempts to slow it with his sword.

He’s panting lightly by the time the god has cornered Noob on top of the castle, where their only options are to let it kill them or crawl over the machicolation, into open air. Shedletsky’s heart suddenly starts beating faster-- will it kill Noob horribly again, making him watch like it had with Builderman? Force him to, once more, hold on while they choke and writhe? His grip on his sword tightens, ready to jump in and fight with everything he has; he won’t let the god kill them.

As if his thoughts were loud enough to hear, Telamon tilts its head over its shoulder towards him, gesturing him forwards with one finger. “Come here,” it demands, its smile absent.

Noob’s terrified eyes meet his confused one and for some odd reason, he hesitates. Why isn’t it killing them?

“Disciple,” it scolds, lips tilting into a small frown. “Telamon will not ask twice.”

Stumbling forwards as if he’s out in churning waters and hasn’t quite gotten his sea legs, he swallows harshly. He follows its order less out of the devotion he can’t feel anymore and more because he’s just-- a little lost. He doesn’t know what its goal is here.

It… holds out its weapon. “Take Telamon’s sword,” it commands.

He does, slowly, with furrowed eyebrows, though it ends up being a trade as it takes his sword as well. He stares at the Illumina-- it’s as beautiful as he remembers, almost glittering in the night. Holding the sword at its lengths, he admires the pure craftsmanship of his past self; he mildly supposes, of Telamon’s craftsmanship. It fits well in his hands, balanced to his liking more than the Linked Sword could ever be. He can feel the god’s covered gaze on him as he twists the blade around, tasting the power at his fingertips, remembering the previous battles he had with this blade.

“Disciple,” Telamon calls.

He looks up, slowly, curiously, clutching onto the wisps of his anger just so he can keep himself in its power. He feels he needs some sort of leg on the god, even if this power was given to him by it in the first place, but-- it’s the only way he knows to be able to keep up with it.

“Shed…” Noob whimpers behind him, but he doesn’t turn to them, knowing better than to reveal his back to the god again.

A wide smile lights up its face, and he immediately stiffens-- not out of fear, not really; more anticipation, knowing it will tell him something and he will not like it. It gestures with its free hand behind him, but he refuses to take his eyes off of it. “Kill them,” it says.

Ice fills his body, knocking him fully out of its power. “What?” he asks, because he had to have misheard.

Telamon tuts. “Does one need his hearing checked? Is he deaf? Telamon tires of repeating itself.” It leans its head forward and at last, he turns his head over his shoulder to see Noob’s trembling form. “Kill them,” it repeats, with no room for argument.

He’s already shaking his head, grip tightening on the Illumina. Devotion licks at his finger tips, like starving fish desperate for a speck of food now that his eye isn’t activated. He tries to fall into the familiar heat of the rage, or the icy anger, but something in him prevents it. Fear starts to spread throughout his limbs. ‘No,’ he tries to say, but his mouth does not move. ‘I can’t, I won’t.’ His heart beats faster, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot even muster a hum.

He turns fully to Noob, their wide eyes meeting his. They flinch a step backwards. “Don’t, please don’t-- you don’t have to,” they babble.

Why did they flinch? He wouldn’t-- he couldn’t attack them, could he? Don’t they know that? That-- that even with his god’s devotion snaking up his arm, curling over his chest, he’d never take that step from protector to persecutor.

(‘They’re scared of him,’ a small part of his mind notes. What would their fear mean for him? Would they run, tell the others what a monster he was, even if he abstained here? Would they refuse to let this go, forever tarnish everyone’s trust in him, just-- just because his past self wants them dead? Will they, at last, reveal what his god had done to him, in the last round?)

“Your God grows impatient, disciple,” Telamon says. “One does not want to disappoint it.”

It’s as if those words were what the devotion was waiting for, tightening around his arms and forcing him to almost fall towards Noob, one foot after the other barely catching his weight. They whimper and try to scramble around him, but trip almost immediately, turning on their back and holding a hand up, as if to protect themself from-- from him. In an instant, he is reminded of his dream, anxiety adding onto his fear; but this time, not of Telamon or what it asks him to do-- rather of Noob, what secrets they hold over him, what one word from them could do to the others’ trust in him.

‘I need to silence them,’ he thinks clearly. But-- he can’t, can’t want this-- can he? No-- no no no, he can’t, he can’t want this, he can’t take steps closer, he can’t be lifting his arms above his head, he can’t.

Perhaps the cruelest thing is, is that… it’s not the devotion in his blood that raises his blade. Or-- or maybe it is and he chooses to let it, because he knows he could stop, if he just pushes back, if he throws the Illumina off the castle, if he just-- just stabs himself instead. But it is so much easier to just-- go with it, to give in, to bask in Noob’s frightful expression and think, they deserve this, for daring to be afraid of him when he’s given so much, for trying to run when all he’d done is take two steps to them, for-- for getting so close to him, for feeding him, when he did not want it.

He doesn’t know what expression he wears as he brings the tip of the Illumina into their chest, but his cheeks feel tight and he feels his chapped lips crack. He watches, stares, as Noob struggles and noises and tear their hands into ribbons trying to remove the blade. They cry out, they say his name over and over, they beg.

(Pathetic.)

They die, of course. A sword through the heart doesn’t leave much time for living. The moment that he really registers that, that he actually just-- just killed someone, killed a member of his team, at the whim of his god-- he suddenly can’t stop himself from turning to the side, retching nothing but spit and bile, coughing harshly as it burns.

‘There’s no excuse I can have now,’ he thinks, dread weighing down his body and sinking him to the ground. ‘I did this. I did this. I did this.’

“Telamon is pleased,” the god-- his god says, as if this is a good thing, as if he wants to hear any amount of its voice right now.

“I don’t care,” he spits out, his mouth finally free to talk.

Telamon makes a low humming noise, taking steps closer to him until it can kneel by his side. “They will not understand,” it almost mumbles, making his winged ear twitch at its proximity. “This is for our greatness; for one’s glory once lost and now, able to be obtained again.”

He doesn’t say anything, it doesn’t say anything more. It puts his sword in his empty hands, plucking its Illumina out of Noob’s still chest as it stands. There is loud, ringing silence for minutes, several minutes. Telamon stands at his side through it all, but he can’t bring himself to stop looking at the death he caused.

The world ripples and he finds himself standing in the cabin. Across the empty room, he catches Noob’s eye. There’s a tight, cold grip on his heart as they scramble up the stairs and away from him, mouthing unspoken words. He… There is no returning from this. There’s nothing he can do, can say that will make this better; he’s on borrowed time, until they spill everything.

This is the beginning of the end.