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. 

“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.