Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Requests Open

Will write:

• 007n7 centric (preferred requests)
• Chance centric (not my favorite but i will write them if the prompt interests me!)
• fluff, angst, hurt no comfort, suggestive content 
• graphic suicide, sh, gore (i can’t guarantee it’ll be amazing, though)
• all 007 ships… except 77noli. very on the fence about pizza burger, but i will write it if the prompt intrigues me, if it’s strictly implied, or very background
• abuse, murder, implied rape/sa

Will not write:

• smut/explicit sexual content. too much effort.
• scat, omorashi, vomit fetish, inflation fetish
• pedophilic content (unless mentioned in a flashback/backstory, but never as the main focus unless trauma recovery)
• pizzadebt, ships non centric to chance/007/taph/two-time
• i won’t write azure time centric fics unless the prompts are GOOD. i’m very picky about my azure time.
• fav characters as dom unless with each other

Request log/progress:

STATUS: COMPLETE  - chance-centric: paycheck, chance & 007n7, eating disorder, self esteem issues, survivors are rude to chance

STATUS: COMPLETE - 007n7-centric: no slash, no platonic relationships w mc, insomnia, pstd, survivors are rude/uncaring of 007n7

STATUS: COMPLETE - 007n7-centric: no slash, 007 & c00lkidd, emotional vulnerability, 007 is unable to bring himself to survive c00lkidd when he is killer

STATUS: NOT STARTED - chance-centric: no slash, chance & everyone, first day in forsaken, dissociation/panic attacks

Chapter Text

Everyone had their jobs here. In a place where survival was all that they’d come to know– everyone had their own crucial role to play, only having each other to depend on. There were the primary protectors, labelled as sentinels. Those with the most violent ways to stun the killers, able to buy the most time and or save their fellow survivors. There were the supporters who were able to heal, slow, or hurt the killer in indirect ways, staying on the sidelines to support each other and the sentinels. Then, there were survivors with abilities suited to only help themselves survive. That’s not to say that the survivors weren’t useful to the others– acting as distractions and finding items for others were simpler ways they assisted. 

The sentinels were prodigies in their craft, in this world. Shedletsky only missed his sword swings on bad days. Guest never missed his punches, but occasionally blocked too early. Two-time was only known to be caught when the killer was paranoid of their backstabs. Chance never seemed to stop messing up. 

His flintlock wasn’t faulty– it functioned perfectly fine. The issues lied within them– always too eager to save, shooting when he only had one flip on heads. Too eager to try and help, too eager to try and save, only for his gun to explode because he packed it too tightly.

No one said anything for a while. But doesn’t it always start that way? Chance felt bad enough as is. They put others in the way of harm, however unintentional, when their gun didn’t fire or exploded in their face. Or maybe they couldn’t aim due to the darkness of the map worsening his already terrible eyesight. Chance gave himself enough crap for his poor performance in rounds. Not that the others knew this. Chance had his persona– his poker fact that they were never able to remove even after benign forsakened. It felt like survival. Never let the other players know your true feelings– they’ll use it against you. Never let your guard down– they’ll look over your shoulder. Hold your cards tight to your chest, and keep your expression calm. If you can’t fool yourself– fool the other players. It worked too well, it seemed.

There was nothing special about this match. Jason was the killer– with the worst issue for the survivors being the extensive range that his machete had, whipping survivors out even when it felt like they were out of reach. Chance, however, shouldn’t have had a problem with that. They were flipping their coin furiously while Guest and Shedletsky tag teamed the killer, weaving between each other in a recited dance instead of jerking away from the weapon. Jason took notice of Chance and jerked, moving furiously and unpredictably in an attempt to dodge the shot he had yet to fire. The gambler swallowed, their hands sweaty as they pulled out their gun, furrowing their eyebrows and taking a bit more care in carefully inserting the–

“ Chance ! What the hell are you standing around for? Help us!” He jolted, inhaling sharply, closing the hatch, and raising the gun. Narrowing his eyes, he bit his lip and shot the gun. It missed. Guest glared at him sharply from where he stood before the killer, his limbs shaking from the ringing sound of the gun yet also from his gashing wound on his arm. He turned, racing away with Jason hot on his tail, Shedletsky not far behind.

For the remainder of the round– he tried. He really did! They hit nothing despite their repetitive attempts, even going in closer only to have their shot knocked off target from a survivor racing past towards a medkit they spotted. Chance held their breath. Guest didn’t hold his.

Despite his poor performance, the survivors had won, with Shedletsky later dying while eating his chicken. Guest must’ve been fed up. He looked furious, biting his lip as if trying to stave off further fury. He walked up to Chance, anything but kindness in his eyes. 

“Have you been doing this on purpose?” He said briskly, his voice quiet but his tone sharp. Chance blinked. 

“What?” He asked stupidly. 

“Are you messing up on purpose? Do you not care if we get hurt, or worse, die? It might not be permanent, but I promise you, we feel every bit of it, Chance. It fucking hurts.” The gambler takes a step back, his expression faltering before a nervous grin is slapped onto his face, “hey man, I tried, alright? Sorry you got hurt, but I can’t fight like y’all do. I’m more like Two-time, you know?” Guest narrowed his eyes further, seemingly unamused, “then why do you run like you have no way to fight? Where’s your shame, soldier?” Chance had no reply. Guest seemed pleased by this, pulling back and walking up the stairs. They glanced towards Chance, but no one made a move to approach him, or debunk anything that the sentinel said. Guest was one of their main protectors, why would they want to get on his bad side by siding with someone he was having a disagreement with?

“Yeah… can’t lie, you kinda threw. What the hell was that? Don’t you do more damage at close range? Why were you back with the supports?” Elliot rolled his eyes at being addressed by his general role instead of his name. Taph wasn’t in the main area anymore, having left after Guest spoke to Chance.

“There was no one else down there and you guys were still running over, if I went over there and tried to take a shot, he would’ve–” 

“Hit you? Killed you? All of the injuries you get from the rounds are from your own gun , man. If you don’t know how to use it, you’re better off not doing anything at all. You’re just causing more problems, getting hurt, dying, then adding more time to the timer. Maybe you should start sticking back,” Shedletsky waved his hand as he spoke, as if not really registering what he was saying, or simply not caring at all what came out of his mouth. Chance watched him walk up the stairs, his mind feeling far away as he watched the remaining survivors– Dusekkar, Elliot, and Noob, glance at him before the former and latter turned to each other, beginning to quietly converse. Elliot caught his eye, biting his lip. The gambler looked away, walking out of the cabin. 

They didn’t want to go to their room– they would see Guest. They didn’t want to be in the kitchen– Shedletsky would later appear. They didn’t want to be in the living room– everyone would be staring, wondering when he would start being useful to the team. Chance walked further, sitting on the dock with their legs crossed, simply staring at the water as his mind slowly darkened, as murky as the water.

He was never much when he was still alive. Itrapped made him feel important, but he was gone now. There was no one to grab his hand and tell him that Guest was wrong. There was no one to tell them that they don’t have to be better– the others need to be more considerate. There was no one for him anymore. It felt like he’d just realized that. And while he felt the waving pain of loneliness churning in his gut, there was a soft weight that felt almost like relief. They had no one to look out for them. No one cared what would happen to them.

His mind was buzzing, his body slowly moving and twitching while he felt unaware of it all, as if his body was numb. He skipped dinner that night, falling asleep at the docks, uncaring if they turned over in their sleep and found themself drowning. When they woke up, there was a blanket on them, and the corner of a pillow stuffed under their head. Chance slowly awakened, blinking in increments as his eyes fought to close once more. There was a note by his head; the round was starting in an hour. The note was stamped with the time 8:34 AM. Chance slowly picked up their hand, checking their watch. 9:29. His eyes snapped open and he quickly stood up. The match started not long after that.

Although Chance tried and tried, it never seemed to be good enough. Every time he hit his shots, no one seemed to be around, but every time he missed, it felt like the world was watching. Everyone was slowly losing hope in him, although it started out as just Guest and Shedletsky. Dusekkar would mutter passive aggressive phrases related to their shots. Two-time would blatantly state his inaccuracy and terrible luck with their flintlock, and no one else would try and defend him. Try as he might to disagree or to congratulate himself, the words were getting to him. Chance felt hopeless.

Even worse than hopeless, he felt like a failure. No one stuck near him during rounds, everyone herding to the three other sentinels who were actually adequate at their jobs. Chance quickly became outcasted. However, he found something similar to a friend– more like a necessary acquaintance– from their unofficial exile.

Food felt too good for him. Food felt like something that told him he did good during the rounds. Food felt like success. Slowly– he leeched away. Not that anyone noticed. It was more of a hassle than anything to grab food, having to wait until there was no one in the kitchen if there were even left overs– which, oddly enough, there were. Enough left for him to eat and be satisfied– but 007n7 was more successful than him during rounds. He was a fantastic distraction out of pure skill. Not getting himself, or anyone else killed. Chance started leaving a plate of leftover pizza outside his door, knocking before running away.

It was starting to wear on him. During rounds and out of them, no matter how much he died or in what way, his hunger was never removed and satiated. That’s how he learned that whatever state you were in at the lobby, is the state you would appear to be in the rounds. You weren’t brought back to full health or hunger if you were already hurt or hungry before. 

They found it oddly satisfying. They learned something new, although likely useless, it was still something. Not that he told anyone. No one really bothered to speak with him anymore. Someone part of the main group would always glance at him sadly, but never defended them verbally. He wasn’t angry. He deserved it– he deserved it all.

But, it did hurt a bit. To lose all of his friends. To lose where he felt belonging. In this place, they only had each other, but now it felt more like Chance had nothing. 

Who knows how much time passed, staying like this. Chance was only getting hungrier. It was hard to focus during the rounds, with just how badly he felt hunger. For a few days, all he could think about was how hungry he was. He didn’t know if they could die between games, but if it was possible, they’d be the first one to find out. 

It got easier, given he couldn’t tell the time. Who knows when he last ate, but it just made him die faster. He lost more stamina. The weakness was only more effective on him. But it was easier to dodge the killers with how much slimmer he had gotten– not that he could keep it up for long, given how quickly they’d get winded from exhaustion. 

Everything was fine within the main group. Elliot, however, seemed oddly on edge, the coil to his anger getting tighter and tighter. Eventually, it snapped. After a round with 1x4, Elliot approached Chance before he had the chance to slip out the door. 007n7 lingered by the doorframe, curious, as everyone else dispersed.

“Chance,” he muttered quietly, looking up at Chance from where his head was angled downwards. The gambler tilted his head, a light smile on his face. He was too tired to fully act.

“Yeah, Elliot? What’s up?” The worker narrowed his eyes as if the words were suspicious, “you haven’t been eating. I left pizza for you, but you look… frail, weak, and frankly, pathetic.” Chance’s smile twitched, urged to fall off his face. Elliot gradually took notice, “not pathetic in– oh God, you’re not pathetic, Chance, despite what everyone’s been saying. I don’t know what’s gotten into them, but I’m saying you look ‘pathetic’ because of how frail you are. Why haven’t you been eating? The pizza’s been gone, but you look like this?” The healer questioned, the intensity in his expression saying that he would take no excuses from them. Chance glanced off to the side, exhausted emotionally, but not wanting to concern his friend further.

“Uh, it’s been slipping my mind a bit. But I’ve been fine, I look worse than I feel, promise.” He didn’t believe him. Elliot looked more concerned, if anything. Internally, Chance began to panic. It was more obvious than he would’ve liked, given his exhaustion. 

“Why… why are you lying to me, Chance? I’m worried about you. I can help you. No one else knows how to cook, somehow. I can get you food, just… tell me what’s wrong.” He was tempted. Chance was so tempted to ask for help. To ask for praise– Elliot was too kind. He knew that the healer would help him without a second thought, but… it wouldn’t be genuine. Chance hadn’t earned it. They just want to feel better about something they haven’t fixed. He needs to be better before he’s praised. The gambler backs away from Elliot’s outstretched hand.

“No, really, I’m good. Thanks, though, Elliot. See you next round,” he says quietly before darting outside the cabin. He sees blue in his peripheral vision, but doesn’t question it, darting towards the outer doors that lead to the basement of Dusekkar’s now unlived house. He didn’t come out. 

Elliot bit his lip when he saw Chance’s swiftly retreating figure. He walked towards the front door, tempted to call out, but decided on staying silent. It was too dark out to see where he went, but he knew it couldn’t have been far. His eyes darted over to 007n7, standing on the porch, looking so out of place as he stared out to where Chance had once been. Elliot sighed internally– he couldn’t believe he was worried to the point of speaking with the ex-hacker.

“007,” the man jumped a bit, “do you know what’s wrong with Chance? Something’s been up with him– I can tell. Don’t try to lie to me.” The father shrunk a bit under Elliot’s demanding gaze. The ex-hacker shrugged slowly, “I… I don’t really know. He’s been leaving food at my door– the leftovers you were talking about, I think. We stick together during rounds, sometimes, and he… talks to himself, sometimes.” Elliot bites his tongue, resisting the urge to criticize 007n7’s unsure speech pattern. Instead, he asks him to elaborate, “talks to himself how?”

The father scratches the back of his head, his expression darkening, “he basically… talks down to himself? Every time he misses a shot, he loudly whispers pathetic, or worthless to himself. Even when his gun explodes, he smiles a bit even when his hand and face’s bleeding. It’s been happening for a while, but I didn’t know how–” Elliot’s eye twitches. Alright. That’s enough being nice for one day.

“You knew about them talking shit about themself, and just… kept it to yourself ? Like no one else would care ? What, do you think you’re all high and mighty now, just because–”

“Because no one else would care, Elliot! That’s why I kept it to myself! I told Shedletsky already, he didn’t give a damn! He laughed ! So why would I think anyone else would care?! Because they sure as hell don’t, alright? I don’t care if you hate me– I know why, I understand . I’ve made peace with that. But I will not let you think that I don’t care about my friends.” The worker blinks, taking a step back from sheer shock. 007n7 quickly raises his hands to his mouth, looking just as shocked as Elliot felt, before his expression gingerly shifted into something just a bit more firm. Defensive . Elliot felt a bit sick with realization, he thought that he wouldn’t care for Chance either . 

Mentally, he berated himself lightly. Of course he’d think that! Both him and Chance had, admittedly, been outcasted by the group. Elliot didn’t feel a smidge of regret for the former’s outcasting, but found himself hesitant to defend Chance in the face of everyone’s hatred for the gambler. He felt like a coward, and now he was reaping the consequences. 007n7 turned away from him, attempting to run to his shabby, small cabin, only for Elliot to step out quickly, grabbing his shoulder tightly.

“I– ugh, I can see why you would think that. Why you’d think I don’t care about Chance,” he started slowly, his face slowly reddening, “but– I care about him more than you think– more than you know . He’s… special to me. His stupid jokes and confident smirks– I miss that. I miss when he wasn’t plagued by all that stupid doubt and self-hatred and… all of the dislike from the others. I want to help him, but– as much as I hate to say it. He trusts you more. Help me help him?” The healer finished hesitantly, biting his tongue unimaginably hard while repeatedly reminding himself that this was for Chance , not for the hacker. 007n7’s expression faltered before he slowly looked up at Elliot. 

“...Fine. I’ll give you a chance, because he cares about you too. More than you know, probably.” Elliot’s face flushed. He snapped his hand back to his side and turned his face away, attempting to hide the redness.

“Stop with your stupid teasing… where is he?” The father gestured for Elliot to follow him, walking him near to Dusekkar’s old house before stopping by the side, near the doors that lead to the basement. Elliot looked down at the doors, his stomach dropping.

“You’re not serious.” 007n7 smiled softly, “I offered him my cabin instead, they said it was cozy inside here.” He reached down, opening the doors leading to a small set of stairs. Elliot grabbed the doors, keeping them open before closing them behind himself as he followed 007n7 down into Chance’s apparent home. 

It was lived in– clearly. Stray, random trinkets– mostly shining items glinting from the numerous cracked lanterns strewn around the area. 007n7 didn’t look around– likely familiar with it, already. He walked straight forward towards a door, raising his hand to knock, before pausing. Elliot opened his mouth to speak, only for the father to quickly raise his hand towards him, a finger in the air. The universal sign for quiet. Begrudgingly, Elliot slowly closed his mouth.

The ex-hacker leaned in closely to the door. Elliot gingerly did the same, away from the man. His eyes were narrowed in confusion, but widened when he heard the undeniable sound of gagging. 007n7 acted faster than he did, testing the door knob before kicking it open when the knob didn’t budge. The knob hung crooked from the door, but neither paid it mind, running past Chance’s small ‘bed’ and into a smaller toilet area. Chance was collapsed on the floor, now dry heaving with a splash of puke inside the toilet. Elliot inhaled sharply, dropping near him and grabbing one of their hands that were tugging at their hair, the other hand going to their back to rub quick, firm circles. 007n7 backtracked out, grabbing a cup from a small dresser before rinsing it out in the sink before filling it with water. 

Chance’s heaving slowly turned into stuttered sharp inhales of sobbing. Elliot took the water from 007n7, holding it up to Chance’s face. The gambler– noticeably lacking his shades and fedora, stared at it with wide eyes before reaching a shaking hand up to grab it. When Elliot’s hand left the glass, he dropped it onto himself, causing his eyes to well up with fresh tears as his lip trembled. Elliot scrambled to grab the glass while 7n7 muttered reassurances, the two switching places given the father’s experience with comfort. Elliot stared at the two with growing jealousy– although he felt unbearably guilty for it given the situation.

When Chance was finally calm enough to speak comprehensive sentences– the first thing they did was apologize. They apologized for everything– their apparent failures, missed shots, gun explosions, for not saving people and more specifically the two of them during rounds that had already left their minds. The two felt terrible for not realizing the extent of his suffering. For not seeing just how badly isolation had affected him. Elliot was overwhelmed with guilt– he loved Chance, and he just let him be treated like this? Saw it all happening, but was too scared to stick up for him, or to even notice how deeply affected he was. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about what had already happened like this– all he could change was the future, but he felt so foolish for not noticing. 

Now moved to Chance’s small, tattered ‘bed’, Elliot held them tightly, but Chance clutched tighter. Their hands wrapped around Elliot entirely, clutching the back of his shirt as he hiccuped, begging Elliot to not leave him or say that he was bad. All that he wanted was to be good. His heart felt shattered. He didn’t need to look at 007n7 to know that he felt the same. All the worker could do was close his eyes and hug Chance just as tightly, telling him that he was useful. That he was helpful, and didn’t deserve to think otherwise. He just hoped that eventually, Chance would believe his words. 

Chapter Text

It wasn’t so bad at first. Being in this place… wasn’t the worst fate 007n7 could’ve had. He had abilities suited to help himself survive, but scoured for items, completed generators with a swift efficiency once he understood them, and made distractions to allow other survivors to get away. However, the first time he was nearby to hear Chance’s gun go off, he froze. As if the gun were aimed at himself, he stood there, every muscle in his body tensed, preparing for the pressure of the bullet– it’s just a ball and gunpowder– Guest shoved past him, alarmed by his sudden stillness, responsibility and determination burning in his eyes. He looked angered at his inaction, or maybe his presence in general, “007, what are you doing? Help, or get out of here,” was all he said before racing off after the killer, landing the perfect charge and forcing the killer away from Elliot, who had intervened to throw a pizza at a previously low health Shedletsky. 

He couldn’t shake this odd fog. Even as he stumbled away from the fight between the sentinels and the survivors, his head pounded. The ringing of the bullet flying echoed through his head. Pulling his hands away from his head– he felt a liquid. For a moment, maybe it was the lighting, maybe it was his mind, but it was red, unmistakably. He blinked– once, then twice. He rubbed his eyes furiously, only to remember getting caught in a brief scuffle with the killer earlier. It had injured him, he… did it? Or did he do this himself? Subconsciously, unaware of his own movements, he reached under his neck, feeling for the hole telling of the bullet’s path. The skin was smooth, if not a bit scruffy from his stubble. He could’ve sworn he felt the edges of a scar… but why would there be a scar? 

The round ended. 007n7 spawned nearest to the door leading outside the cabin, and he took that chance to slip out. No one noticed, and if they did, it wasn’t pointed out. He trekked to his cabin, opened the door before closing it behind himself. He looked at the everburning fire inside the fireplace. Then, he laid down on the floor. He laid there, staring at the fire. Staring at the bricks that made up the fireplace before they transformed into the walls of the pizza place. He stared as the fire consumed the building– even as he tried to run inside, even as he used the gui to put out the fire– the damage was done. The damage of his son. 

He didn’t know how long he laid there. The break between the last round and the next felt long, longer than usual. 007n7 felt immobilized on the floor, or maybe it was just comfortable. When he was teleported into the next round, he was on his side as well. He looked up at the dark sky, his blurred eyes slowly becoming more aware of what was happening. 007n7 sluggishly stood himself up as Chance helped Builderman to his feet. He used the wall near him to push himself up, unsure of why he felt so fatigued.

No matter, there was work to be done. He stared at Chance and Builderman, racing off in the same direction. Builderman began creating his sentry, shouting to Chance who threw a thumbs up over his shoulder, flipping his coin with his other hand. He wished he could have their mentality. To finish the rounds as quickly as they could– get back to the cabin and pretend to live a normal life. 007n7 dragged himself toward the nearest generator, practically collapsing onto it. Taph, who had been starting to walk over, quickly turned back. 

He was used to this by now, especially from the admins, Elliot, and Taph, who worked for the admins as a demolitionist. But it never felt any better. They were meant to work together, weren’t they? They were all they had. Not that it mattered to them. 007n7 was no help, his abilities selfishly suiting only himself. He completed the modules before moving on, standing up and dragging himself forward, just one foot after the other. It felt unbearable, at this point, but it was only the beginning. He was one of the first survivors after the appearance of the sentinels. He had only heard Chance’s gun from up close recently– and now it seemed to be a regular occurrence. Doing a generator near the battle, a clone prancing around the field– that echoing, ringing shot would fire, seeming to be a 50/50 on if it would miss or not. Chance didn’t seem bothered regardless, endless explanations of how the killers jerked unpredictably when they saw him raise his gun were given endlessly. Not that they were wrong– he’d seen it himself.

Round after round, 007n7 found himself in the same place, laid in front of his fireplace in favor of sleeping. Laid near his fireplace, letting the hours blur past as his mind repeated the devastation of Builder Brother’s Pizza. This wasn’t healthy, logically. 007n7 seemed to realize this each time his cycle was broken with the start of a round, but did it matter? He would tell himself. No one else cared. He was sure that by now, his sluggishness and uncaring behavior was clear, prevalent even. Guest only told him to make himself useful. Builderman told him to go somewhere else in the rounds, Dusekkar wouldn’t even address his presence, and Shedletsky seemed intent on speaking to him as if he were still a hacker. No one tried to stick up for him, because why would they risk losing the protection of two sentinels for their opinions? Why would they want to get on the bad side of the admins just for a pathetic, no good exploiter? So, he reasoned with himself. This was okay. Their behavior was okay, and he was okay. 

Rounds blurred into his schedule. He always did the same thing– locate generators, locate items– send out a clone when you can, and drop the items in the middle of the map where survivors can easily grab them during a chase. If they knew who was putting the items in the middle, they wouldn’t be reacting as they do; loudly shouting thank you while shuffling a medkit under their arm, or dodging the killer and doubling back for a cola. No one seemed too intent on finding out who this mystery gifter was, simply taking what was given with a simple thank you. 007n7 didn’t mind this, either. He would prefer that they not know– it was better when he was ignored.

Which was why rounds with c00lkidd were so difficult for him. Without a care, his baby would target Elliot immediately if he was in the round, screaming that he ruined their lives, and he made his dad sad, and he would pay. After those rounds, their glares were always colder, the bumping shoulders always shook him a bit harder. After Elliot was dead, 007n7 was always next if he were there. Not that it was on purpose he was sure. His baby shouted the words tag and game enough for his father to understand. He didn’t know, not really. 007n7 never put up a fight. He would see his deformed child, far taller than he remembered, far skinnier than he ever was, barreling toward him, and he’d just weakly open his arms, whispering quiet words of praise as he burned in his child’s arms, even as he tried to teleport him away. 

That’s why he would never hate c00lkidd. He would never fight against his sharpened claws that he didn’t know how to wield. He would just duck his head and accept his fate, whatever it was. The survivors, they hated this more than anything. 

“You’re just adding more time to the count! More time for us to fight for our lives– and for what? To soothe your own guilt? To pretend that your kid hadn’t changed? News flash, pal, we all have our pasts, but you don’t see us throwing down our lives,” a hand waved toward Two Time, “you don’t see them laying down and takin’ hits from Azure,” they were better at disguising it. Better at making it seem like they just so happened to get caught, but the twitching, smaller smile on their face was unmistakable. The way their eyes closed when they were raised up before being impaled, and killed, “and you don’t see me laying down for ‘trapped!” Itrapped hated him— and after finding out about the truth of his death, he hated Itrapped more than the other hated him. He crashed, fully, burning the photos he saved of the two, and ridding himself of any belongings that reminded him of the man. Each time he was in a round with Itrapped, his bullet seemed to go so much farther. He seemed to cling to life that much harder, intent on killing the other, in favor of simply surviving. The others admired their drive during these times, using his determination to fuel theirs.

Regardless, the situation was different. Chance didn’t understand that, and Two Time didn’t seem to care for others regardless of the similar situations. So 007n7 simply ducked his head, taking each criticism, taking each thinly veiled hateful word, taking each grief during rounds that inevitably lead to his death. It didn’t matter, he was okay. He couldn’t even feel the pain– he felt like he couldn’t feel anything, now. 

They were all fools. Every single one of them. The Spectre shifted, the large mass of its true form contorting into something more pleasing to the average Robloxian’s eye– not that it would be seen. Not yet, if ever. It was quickly growing bored with them, although at first, it was entertaining. Before the numbness of the hacker, his reactions were entertaining. The lack of internal dispute on saving or leaving another. He was selfless, and The Spectre knew this very well. It was the sole reason the ex-hacker lacked the abilities to save another– the outcome would be something too easily anticipated. But, this didn’t feel any better. Their hatred at his insubordination seemed to be worsening if anything. This would be more fun if the father was reacting to their actions and words. However, he seemed to remain blank and uncaring. 

The Spectre shifted, crossing its Robloxian arms. Something would have to be done about this, if the situation didn’t sort itself out. This was no fun. 

Chapter Text

He can’t do it. He feels terrible about it– but he can’t. And the survivors had noticed quickly. 

No one understood his struggle. Perhaps if Guest were in the same situation, he would’ve been more empathetic, but still, even he struggles to understand. 

It’s not so simple as to run away and ignore him. It’s not as easy to disregard his existence as others find it to be. They may not have had a past with him– but 007n7 did. He can’t put it behind him.

Once upon a time– a past that felt so far, now, that was his child. He had taken c00lkidd in when he was just a baby– and had raised him on his own. He witnessed his first steps, his first word, his first tooth lost, and the first time he came home with a gummy smile, telling his father all about his new friend. 

So, excuse him for his weakness at the face of his child. He’s always given c00lkidd anything that the child wanted, so what’s so terrible about one more death? One more round of being tagged early on? One more time of standing still as c00lkidd comes barrelling forward with his walkspeed override. 

He should feel bad, logically. It’s not just him dying– but his uncaring behavior is adding time the others have to survive for. Making their lives harder. But… every time he elects to try and survive, the look of sadness on c00lkidd’s face stalls his movement. It frustrates him, his emotional weakness. But more than anything, it frustrates his fellow survivors. Builderman and Elliot, in particular.

“–No, I understand yer situation to a degree, but are you really not troubled by all of this? Not only you, but all of us dyin’ over an’ over again at the hands of yer kid all ‘cause you can’t stand to try for everyone? Yer acting like we like this anymore than you do, pal,” Builderman scolded gruffly, the other shrinking back under the weight of his gaze; the weight of his words .

It was always I’ll try harder with him, but he doesn’t even know why he says that. He doesn’t want to try harder– doesn’t even know if he can. Everyone knows he’s useless when c00lkidd’s there, and he can’t even bother to defend himself against their words and whispered accusations. They get the child as the killer so often, that it feels like The Spectre’s trying to break them– testing their patience with the ex-hacker until they inevitably snap at his seemingly careless attitude in terms of the lives of his fellow survivors.

Each time his child shouts his name– each time his arms wrap around him, furry although longer and bigger than he remembered– squeezing so hard, not used to his own strength– the panic in his eyes when he starts to burn, the flicker of the panel behind him before his world goes dark, his vision being the sight of his child above him, gently placing his body down. He can’t hate him after that. All of them are unwilling in their own way– he likes to believe. It helps him to think that in each killer, there is a consciousness under them. They too had a life such as his child, and maybe, they don’t want to kill just as they don’t want to survive.

He would never dare to voice these beliefs, of course. His uselessness makes him enough of a target to both the killers and his fellow survivors, yet somehow the echoing of their words in his skull feels so much worse than the merciless deaths the killers force upon him.

And sometimes, he wonders if this is hell. He wonders if the killers are their punishers– those who were failed in life. He wonders what Guest and Elliot could’ve done. What Builderman and Dusekkar did to get here. He wonders then, if this is his own hell. Being tortured by both the killers, and those who were meant to help him survive. Not only physical, but bearing the pain of no one understanding.