Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“There are some things that once you’ve lost, you never get back. Innocence is one. Love is another. I guess childhood is a third.”

1x4’s day was going decently, in the way that it could in the purgatory. They woke up first thing and went downstairs to start making breakfast for themselves and the three kids only. Sometimes other killers would ask them to cook for them too, and they would refuse verbally before doing it anyway through their actions. Kids couldn’t cook, but they were still kids, the other killers had no excuses for not cooking for themselves.

They went to cook some eggs for the three brats and some limes for themselves. One of the three came running into the kitchen, of course, Coolkid was this energetic in the morning, or at least that’s what they decided it was. Not that with the forever darkness they could ever tell when it was actually morning.

“Good morning, Mrs. 1x!” the red kid said before jumping onto the counter alone. 1x4 moved a plate of eggs with bacon they had made at the last moment, grunting a morning greeting before continuing to cook. Pretty Princess and Bluudude came not long after, still sleepy. They moved their plates to the table this time, as the two had some manners in confront of Coolkid.

“Thank you, my knight” Pretty Princess bowed to them before starting to eat. Bluudude rolled his eyes and muttered some insults before scarfing his food. Because of this, the two older children started another argument, but 1x4 didn’t hear it, going to nibble their lime in silence, or at least that’s what they wanted, before they were teleported into a round, their lime falling to the floor as the teleport happened.

Of course, the round went by quickly. They were angry about the loss of the lime, so they were more lethal than usual. Normally, after the round they would spawn in their own room, sigh loudly, and wait until Coollkid came inside demanding to play tag or asking them to stop yet another argument between Bluudude and Pretty Princess, something that happened far too often.

Living in the purgatory wasn’t that bad, at least not like at the start. In the rounds, every killer was more blood-hungry and killed every survivor, but when they got back to the cabin they were actually chill. For example, John Doe, back when he could talk and the corruption wasn’t that bad, he wasn’t a bad man to converse with.

At the start, the games were rigid, the survivors scared shitless of the killers as they killed and killed, but now? They had all kind of become chill outside of the rounds. They would hang out together like… friends, if they dared to say that word. Some rapports that were broken before were finally becoming whole again, like Noob and Guest 666, or Azure and the Cultinist.

When they looked at them, they always wondered what would happen if they talked with their creator, Telamon. Would he be guilty? Still the same? Would he see them as a failure? Too many questions they knew they would never see the answer to. They shook their head, pushing the thoughts away, as they needed to check what had happened to the killers’ cabin while they were away, since they were the only sane one keeping things calm.

So when they opened their eye and saw they were in a completely dark space, they were surprised. After so many months in the purgatory, there was never much change other than new faces or maybe new maps, but this? This was something they had never seen.

They walked around, searching for a face, frowning as they thought about how the kids, who they didn’t care about at all, were doing in their absence. They could be with Azure, sure, but that man’s hat was a bitch, and they hated it when it talked to the kids, since it had a fucked-up mouth that never shut up.

The darkness was giving them the creeps. The nothing, no sound, no light, nothing and nothing, was too similar to the cage their creator had put them in before they were moved to the purgatory. Their lips pressed shut as they still tried to walk in a random direction.

They growled, hoping the sound would echo like in an empty room, but it was barely audible. They shook their head as they looked around, freezing as they felt something staring at them without seeing anything. They gripped their swords, but they disappeared like a cloud into nothing, leaving them stunned at the sight.

They spun around fast, seeing a giant eye staring at them from behind. They recognized instantly who it was, the one, the only one, who could pull this stupid trick just to scare them. Of course the Spectre wanted to meet them in person. The fucker. “What now?” they growled, glaring with their only eye. The other one, despite what others might say, was blind, and aside from showing blurs of color and highlighting survivors, it was useless. “Dear toy, it feels bored of its own game, so it will grant you toys some weeks of break.” The eye, or eyes, since somehow there were multiple, tilted like a dog’s head, and 1x4 felt disgust rising in their chest. They scoffed.

“And why would you tell me this?” they asked, venom dripping in their voice. It wasn’t as if they had never been punished by the Spectre before, they weren’t scared anymore. The eyes blinked in different rhythms, overlapping like a grotesque heartbeat. “You sound bitter” the voice slithered, tone mocking. “But bitterness is delicious. You carry it so well.” 1x4 clenched their jaw. “Shut up.”

The Spectre ignored them, lids sliding closed and open in a way that made the darkness itself shiver. “It thought you would like to know. A break is not nothing. A break can be… dangerous.” 1x4’s grip tightened on their useless hands. “Dangerous for who?” The laugh came again, sharper this time, scratching like metal dragged against glass. “For you, toy. Always for you.” They stepped forward, defiant. “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working.”

The nearest eye leaned close, so close they could feel the cold air leaking from it against their skin. “Not fear. Amusement. You amuse it, little thing. Always angry, always snarling, but never breaking.” Their lip curled, but they didn’t back away. “Glad to know I’m good entertainment.” The darkness shifted, a ripple spreading beneath their feet as if they stood on water. The eyes all closed at once, then reopened, brighter, wider. “It will give a prize for this, and you will be the one of it.”

1x4 blinked, opening their mouth to snap back, but the moment their blink ended, the world lurched. The cold void vanished. They were standing inside a cabin, one cleaner and larger than their own, the Spectre’s laughter still echoing faintly in their ears. Their body hurted, a lot. It was like something was growing out of their back, a sharp migraine drilling into their skull, and their knees couldn’t take their weight anymore. They collapsed onto a hard surface, breathing heavily, trying not to panic at the sudden pain. They heard gasps and footsteps drawing closer, and for a moment they thought they were back in the killers’ cabin.

They snapped their eye open, ready to curse at whoever was looking at them while they were this weak, only to blink and realize they were in the survivors’ cabin for some strange reason. Their head hurts too much to process things quickly. Noob was holding a little piece of glass, she had probably been doing makeup before they appeared here at random. They caught sight of it before they hissed, their eye widening so much it almost hurt, staring at their reflection. Their cloak felt bigger now, too big, draping over their whole body and hiding everything beneath it.

New wings twitched from their back, wings that once had been cut away and torn from them, while smaller, unfamiliar ones pushed from their head, where scars had once marked what was taken. Their eyes, once red, were now pitch black, empty pools that reflected nothing. Their skin was pale white again, no longer black, while their hair remained the same stark white it had always been. Under the cloak, they realized with a rush of panic, they were completely bare.

Why the fuck were they a kid again?

Chapter Text

1x4’s breathing was so harsh in the moment, cursing at the Spectre in every way they could as their body, a mortal body, kept gasping too fast, their ears ringing as everything blurred, time almost stopping and at the same time rushing past in a haze.

They understood the meaning of the Spectre’s words now, that bastard’s warning, and they almost didn’t want to see the reaction of the survivors. Did they even realize this was 1x4? Or did they think someone new had been thrown into their cabin?

They shoved that thought away. Their creator was in that group, of course he would tell everyone who they really were. And here they were, on the floor, panicking as if being de-aged was enough to break them down. How weak they were.

They blinked, feeling their face wet, not understanding what was happening anymore. Everything was too loud, and the fact that only a cloak was covering their now naked body wasn’t helping. Their blurred vision caught a gray figure stepping in front of them, blocking the view of the others. For a moment, they wanted to believe it was Builderman, but as their eyes cleared a little, they realized it wasn’t.

It was the soldier. Guest 1337 was kneeling in front of them now, at their level, and they didn’t even know when that had happened. They noticed suddenly that the two of them were alone in the cabin. Somehow, they had spaced out for who knew how long.

They wanted to glare at him, staring at him with that type of look they didn’t understand. It felt as if his eyes were looking inside them, peeling them open, and for a second they wanted to tear his flesh apart the way Telamon once had, to make him feel even weaker than they were in this moment—

“Kid?” The Guest’s voice cut through their thoughts. Their eye widened as they met his gaze again, both of them locked in another staring contest, complete silence stretching until it became awkward. They didn’t want to test what their voice sounded like in this body.

“I know you probably want to escape, but what about coming with me so I can get you some clothes, because you know…” The soldier moved his hand up and down, gesturing at them. 1x4 tugged the cloak tighter around themselves, their face flushing red as embarrassment pricked through them at having their situation acknowledged so directly.

They wondered what to do. They could run back to the killers’ cabin, it wasn’t far, but in this state that wasn’t really an option. Not that staying in the survivors’ cabin was much better. Still, the thought of clothes to cover themselves was tempting. After some hesitation, they nodded slowly, frowning when they saw the older man actually sigh in relief at that.

“Okay, can you walk?”

They wanted to retort with something like ‘Yes, dumbass, I’m not two’ but they kept their mouth shut, more afraid of hearing their own voice than anything else. They braced against the wall and pushed themselves up, but the moment their knees tried to hold their weight they trembled and buckled, collapsing again like some kind of baby deer, for fuck’s sake.

They never expected to be this thankful in their life for Guest  catching them before they hit the floor. It was strange, other than the kids tugging at them, jumping on them, or the rough shoves during fights, they had never received something this close to a… hug. It burned, honestly, but they realized that without his help they probably wouldn’t have been able to walk.

“Oh! You okay?” It was clear that the soldier wanted to check them over. Seeing someone they had killed over and over, someone who has punched so many times, being this hesitant to even touch them as he searched for injuries, trying to be respectful, was almost funny.

1x4 just huffed and looked away at all the attention. The soldier muttered something about the pizza guy checking them later, and they wondered what he meant, but they didn’t have time to ask before a sudden “sorry” escaped his mouth and then they were up in the air, held firmly in the soldier’s arms.

A loud squeak slipped out at the surprise, and they immediately turned, trying to bite the soldier, growling when he didn’t even flinch. “Let me go down!! Now!!” They chose to ignore how high-pitched their voice sounded now, glaring at the soldier’s eyes. How dare he put them in such an embarrassing situation!

“Sorry, kiddo. You can’t walk for sure, and this is the fastest method” The soldier said, amused, as he started walking toward what they assumed were the survivor cabins. They wriggled, trying to break free, but this body didn’t have the strength their old one had. 

They just sighed in defeat, letting the soldier carry them wherever he wanted, probably his cabin. The fight had gone out of their body, at least for now. Instead, they used the moment to try and make sense of what was happening, to put together the pieces of their state, and, if they dared to even think it, whether he actually knew who they were in all this.

“Do… do you even know who I am?” The words slipped out with more hesitation than they wanted, their throat tightening around the sound. They had tried to make it come out like a growl, something sharp, something that could still inspire fear even in this ridiculous form, but instead it felt more like a weak pout. 

They scowled at themselves for that, pushing the anxiety away as their single eye locked onto the soldier’s face. They studied him, searching for even the smallest twitch, the tiniest shift of his gaze that would tell them whether he was lying or not.

Guest didn’t answer right away. He stayed quiet, his expression unreadable, gaze fixed ahead as he carried them steadily through the dim halls. His silence stretched, and for once 1x4 didn’t rush to fill it. They could wait. They had learned patience in the purgatory, waiting for rounds, waiting for spawns, waiting for suffering to cycle through again. They could wait to see if he’d tell the truth.

When the soldier finally pushed open a door and stepped inside his cabin, closing it firmly behind them, that was when he chose to speak. 

“Yeah… it told us who you are, 1x1x1x1.”

The name hit them like a stone to the chest, and they cursed under their breath, the words slipping bitterly from between clenched teeth. So the Spectre hadn’t just changed their body, it had given away their identity too. Their chance at being unnoticed, at maybe slipping through this humiliation unseen, had been stripped away before it even began.

Guest set them down carefully, lowering them onto the bed as though they were made of glass. The contrast burned. They had been thrown, slammed, stabbed, and beaten countless times by survivors before, Guest himself had done worse in matches, and yet here he was, handling them as though even setting them down too roughly might shatter them.

He turned toward the wardrobe, his broad back blocking them from view as he started to sift through it, probably searching for clothes. 1x4 pulled the cloak tighter around themselves, gripping the fabric so hard their knuckles whitened, though they weren’t sure if it was to protect their body from exposure or from the strange warmth creeping through them at the thought of someone caring enough to cover them. 

Their eye wandered the room, curiosity distracting them in spite of themselves. The space was simple, cleaner than their own cabin, yet personal in a way that felt alien. The soldier’s world was laid out in small details, a neatly folded blanket, polished boots at the corner, a shelf stacked with items that looked both useless and sentimental. It was suffocating, in a way.

They looked up when the soldier placed a set of small clothes near them, pajamas with… unicorns on them? Their eye went wide before narrowing into a glare, locking dead on the mortal in disbelief. They didn’t care about color or childish patterns, that wasn’t the problem, but unicorns? For them? For the supposed strongest killer in the purgatory? It felt less like a gift and more like an insult carved into fabric.

“These are the only clothes that… remained from my daughter. Here.” Guest’s voice was quieter now, almost careful, as he set the pajamas down and turned his back, giving them space. The gesture wasn’t a request, not really, it was more of a command dressed in politeness. It wasn’t like they had much of a choice anyway. Either remain naked under the cloak or swallow their pride and put on unicorns.

They groaned loudly, dragging out the sound as if it could express the depth of their suffering, and began to change. The cloak slipped down as they wrestled with the fabric, and immediately they noticed how the shirt squeezed tight around their wings, the pressure making them wince. Guest must have caught the small flinch, because he moved without hesitation, reaching for a pair of scissors.

The moment they saw the gleam of metal, they froze and snapped their head toward him, their glare sharp and full of venom. “Like hell I’m going to believe you’re not about to attack me with that!” Their voice cracked in frustration, higher than they wanted, but the words came out like poison all the same.

If those clothes had truly belonged to his daughter, then cutting them apart for the sake of the very killer who had slaughtered him over and over was madness. To trust him now was almost laughable. Maybe, just maybe, this was the moment he had been waiting for, the perfect setup to get his revenge. He could cut their wings like Telamon once had, peel away the fragile pieces of this body, torture them, strip them back down until they were nothing again. Until all the parts of them that looked pure were erased, because they weren’t pure, not in the slightest.

The soldier looked at them with an expression they refused to believe was pity. His head tilted slightly, calm where theirs was bristling with hostility. 1x4 kept their glare fixed on him, every muscle ready to run or lash out at the smallest wrong move.

“I won’t” he said quietly, his tone steady but not unkind. “You’re here not as a killer, but as a child. I’m not going to hurt you.” He set the scissors aside and lifted his hands slowly into the air, palms outward like he was trying to soothe a wild animal, like one wrong twitch could send them clawing at his throat.

“I’m still a killer, dumbass.” The words came out as a growl, but thin and strained. They tried to snap their wings open to make themselves look bigger, more dangerous, but the tight shirt only pressed them harder into their back, forcing a wince instead of menace. The feathers, new and still too raw from whatever sick trick the Spectre had pulled, shivered in pain rather than power.

Guest didn’t flinch. He only watched, as though waiting for them to realize the bluff wasn’t working. “Then kill me” he said at last, not as a challenge but as a plain truth. “That’s what you’ve always done, right?”

The words hit like a truck. They opened their mouth, wanting to snap back, but no sound came. The silence stretched, broken only by their uneven breaths and the rustle of cloth as they tried not to show how badly their body ached.

Guest lowered his hands slowly, crouching down so they were eye level again. “But you can’t, can you? Not like this. You’re… hurt.” His eyes softened just a fraction. 

1x4’s lip curled as heat spread across their face, shame, fury, maybe even fear, all blending into something they couldn’t name. They hated the way his voice carried no mockery, no trembling, just a steady calm that made their own panic feel louder.

“I don’t need help” they spat, though their voice cracked halfway, betraying them. Their nails dug into the cloak as if gripping it tighter could somehow shield them from his words, from the reality of their smaller, weaker body.

Guest didn’t argue. He simply picked up the scissors again and carefully cut two neat slits in the back of the shirt, sliding the fabric apart. “There” he said. “Now they won’t hurt.”

The wings twitched free at last, brushing against the air. Pain lingered, yes, but it was lighter, no longer suffocating under fabric. 

They stared at each other in silence for a long moment before Guest finally sighed. He reached out and patted their head once, an action so unexpected it left them stunned, before stepping toward the door. “Please rest on my bed while we try to understand the situation. There will always be someone guarding the door…” His voice dropped at the end, carrying something almost guilty in its tone.

1x4 blinked, not understanding why this was the treatment they were given. They had expected chains, mockery, punishment, something fitting of a beast, not… this. Watching the soldier close the door behind him and leave them alone in the room felt strange, almost wrong.

 Slowly, they moved under the covers, shivering as the cold sank into their smaller frame. Their body was the same weak thing as before, fragile enough that a strong wind might snap it in half. A growl slipped from their lips as they curled tighter beneath the blankets, wings folding over them like a second shield. 

But no matter how tightly they pressed themself into the bed, the truth remained bitter and unshakable, they were a child now, with a child’s body, and even a child’s mind tugging at the edges of their thoughts. It wasn’t fair. Would there never be a single part of their existence where they didn’t have to suffer?

Chapter Text

1x4 had been lying there for what felt like hours, though in truth it couldn’t have been more than one. They shifted constantly on Guest’s bed, rolling one way and then the other, trying and failing to fall asleep, or even to make themselves comfortable. Their thoughts circled endlessly around what the survivors might do to them, but no answer came. Worse, with this new body came new irritations, small, constant itches from the half-healed wings pressing awkwardly against the sheets, refusing to let them rest.

They groaned, flopping onto their back and glaring up at the ceiling as curses for the Spectre burned through their head. If they couldn’t sleep, and if lying there was only making them more restless, then the choice was obvious: they would go outside. Better to see what was happening than rot in bed like some weakling. Nobody could stop them.

Dragging the blanket with them for warmth, they shuffled toward the door. The fabric trailed along the floor, gathering dirt, but it wasn’t theirs, so it wasn’t their problem. With one hand tight on the cloak pressed around their shoulders and the other nudging open the door, they stepped into the hallway, their bare feet making no sound on the wood. They had barely taken a few steps when a voice startled them.

“Uhm, you need something?”

1x4 froze, their body going tense before they turned sharply. Standing a few paces away, awkward but alert, was 007n7, c00lkid’s father. 1x4 cursed under their breath, realizing too late that Guest had warned them someone would be watching the door. How could they have forgotten?

They stared at each other in silence, and the silence stretched so long it grew unbearable, heavy and awkward, like even the air was waiting for someone to give in. Eventually, 007n7 sighed softly and moved down onto his knees, bringing himself level with them. 1x4 stiffened at the indignity of it, face-to-face with a survivor like equals. No, not equals. They were not this weak, not even trapped in this body. Their glare sharpened as they pulled the blanket tighter around themselves, refusing to show any crack.

“It’s late” 007n7 said gently. “You should sleep. Your body needs it.”

1x4 scoffed at that, folding their arms across their chest, the motion sharp and dismissive. The blanket slipped from their shoulders and dropped to the floor with a soft thud, and heat rushed to their face as they realized how exposed they were. Unicorn pajamas. The strongest killer in purgatory standing there in ridiculous unicorn pajamas.

But 007n7 didn’t laugh. He didn’t smirk, didn’t mock. He simply leaned forward, picked up the blanket, and draped it carefully back over them without a word. The gesture, so quiet and unbothered, made them feel even smaller. Too tired to fight, their body aching and pulsing with the weight of the day, they let him. All they wanted was for this mess to end, to go back to the comfort of their limes, to forget the pain gnawing at their bones. But that was impossible.

“You want… some tea? To help you sleep?” The suggestion sounded almost clumsy on his lips, but his tone carried no malice, only an awkward attempt at kindness.

The idea actually sounded good. Too good. 1x4 hated that they considered it, hated the thought of nodding like a child accepting a treat. But the longer they stood there in this small, fragile body, the more their skin itched, their thoughts spiraled, their temper clawed at them. 

So, after a moment of silent struggle, they gave a small, reluctant nod. Their legs trembled as they prepared to follow 007n7, still not used to the weight and balance of this new body. 

The silence stretched awkwardly as they walked into the survivors’ kitchen, and by far, it was much better than the killers’ own. That one was half-burned from the time John Doe had tried to cook. Honestly, who let someone with just one hand near a stove?

They slumped into a chair, letting their body sink into the wood as they rested their head on the table. The blanket was pulled tight around their shoulders, and they nuzzled into it further, silently praying Guest wouldn’t walk in and see them like this, wrapped up in his blanket like some pitiful child.

Their thoughts broke when a mug was set down in front of them. 007n7 sat across the table with a mug of his own, blowing on the steam before taking a slow sip. He didn’t look directly at them, his eyes sliding off to the side, his shoulders still tense, still wary. Good, 1x4 thought with a flicker of satisfaction. At least they were still scary enough to keep him on edge.

They took a cautious sip, and their eye widened slightly at the taste. It was good. Warm. Comforting in a way they weren’t ready to admit.

“lemon tea” 007n7 said, his voice awkward but steady. “If you want some sugar” He nudged a small container closer across the table, but they pushed it back with a quiet grunt. No need. Lemon was fine. Close enough to lime, they supposed.

The two of them drank in silence, mugs rising and lowering in an almost mirrored rhythm. 1x4 didn’t even notice when their legs began to swing under the chair, the nervous energy bleeding into the motion. For once, with something warm in their hands and the bitter citrus taste on their tongue, they felt almost content. Not that they would ever say it out loud. After all, it wasn’t lime.

The silence was finally broken, by none other than 007n7. His voice was softer than they expected, almost shy, as he turned his mug in his hands. “C00lkid talks a lot about you, you know.”

1x4 blinked, caught off guard. What? Of all things, they hadn’t expected that. They were rude to the brat more often than not, snapping, scolding, calling him annoying, though they were admittedly softer with him than with the others. Still, in their mind that shouldn’t count for much more than being a mean person who fed him and, on rare occasions, let him play with their minion. That was hardly worth being talked about.

They just stared at 007n7, their lips pressed in a firm line. They refused to speak, not after what had happened earlier with Guest. The sound of their own voice in this body still clung to them like a splinter, something they couldn’t forget, something that didn’t belong. Just like the pale skin, the smaller frame, the wings twitching faintly at their back. The thought alone made them itch again, feathers prickling uncomfortably. Disgusting.

“You always help him” 007n7 continued, his tone cautious but steady now. “And the other two kids too. It’s almost like you’re not a killer who slaughters us every day, but more like an older sibling. If you understand what I mean.”

1x4 stayed still, the blanket heavy on their shoulders as they let the words sink in. Older sibling? Was that really how it looked from the outside? They had never thought of it like that, never stopped to examine their actions in that light. They fed the kids because otherwise they’d starve. They broke up fights because the noise gave them headaches. They tolerated the games because saying no only made the brats louder. None of it was kindness, not in their eyes.

“C00lkid has a special skin, as you know” 007n7 began, his voice hesitant, “and when it gets very itchy, I learned a sort of massage that helps him. And…” He trailed off mid-sentence, his eyes flicking toward them with a look that made 1x4 narrow their gaze in confusion. What was this man talking about now?

“I see your wings are twitching a lot” he continued carefully. “So maybe it could help you too? If you want. As a thanks, for taking care of my son, of course.”

In 1x4’s eyes, it sounded more like begging than a polite offer, like the survivor was grasping at some way to repay them. They sat in silence for a long moment, staring into their mug as they weighed the proposal. On one hand, maybe it would help them finally sleep, ease the burning itch that had been tormenting them since they’d woken in this cursed body. With rest, they might even have enough strength to escape, to run back to the killer’s cabin, to start figuring out how to fix all of this.

But on the other hand, their childish, fuzzy thoughts twisted in fear. What if the moment those hands touched their wings, it all ended the same way? What if it was like the last time? Their body shivered at the memory, Telamon’s grip, the pain, the tearing apart of something that had once been theirs. The sensation crawled down their spine even now, as if the ghost of his cruelty still lingered.

They clenched their teeth. No. That was the past. This was different. Their adult mind finally cut through the haze, dismissing the fear as a weakness, a shadow that couldn’t touch them anymore. It was just a stupid memory. Just fear.

With a sharp exhale, they nodded once. Their hands tugged the blanket down, uncovering the twitching wings, though their body betrayed them with every tense line of muscle, their posture stiff and braced as if expecting a blow. Almost ready to be hurt again.

They heard the chair creak as 007n7 got up, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. Every nerve in their body screamed as they felt him move behind them. They squeezed their eyes shut tightly, expecting pain to hit immediately. But nothing came. Not a touch, not a grab. He simply stayed behind them, patient, letting them adjust to his presence.

“I’ll try to massage the base of the wings, okay?” he asked.

1x4 found it strange. The man hadn’t even started yet, he was just asking. Frowning, they slowly opened one eye, then the other, glaring at him over their shoulder. He remained still, hands at his sides, waiting.

“I won’t start until you say it’s okay” he added.

That wasn’t something 1x4 expected. Everything about this situation was bizarre, being a kid again, a survivor not treating them cruelly, and now, of all things, asking for their consent. Something they had never had the chance to give before. Their chest tightened as the absurdity and tension hit them at once.

Finally, they let out a small sigh and nodded, their body trembling as the weight of trust, or maybe just cautious hope, settled in. Slowly, carefully, 007n7’s hands moved to the base of their wings, gentle and deliberate, the first real touch that hadn’t carried pain in far too long.

At first, 007n7’s hands simply massaged the base of their wings, working on the tension in the muscles just beneath the feathers. It felt strange at first, almost alien, but not painful, just a steady, firm pressure that made 1x4’s back muscles unclench in ways they hadn’t realized were so tight. Their body began to melt into the chair, wings twitching as he worked slowly, deliberately.

Then, he started to preen their feathers, carefully trying to arrange them into their proper positions. The wings were a mess, twisted, bent awkwardly from the stress and strain of the past transformations, but his hands were careful, almost clumsy, like someone handling a fragile treasure for the first time. Every touch was precise, yet gentle, and 1x4 felt themselves unwinding in ways they hadn’t thought possible. Their eyelids grew heavy, their head resting softly against the table, the blanket slipped lower and pooled softly in their lap. The warmth of it, combined with the steady rhythm of his hands, made their body relax further, the tension melting out of their small form like water sliding off stone.

They didn’t even notice the slow disappearance of the itchiness that had plagued them since their transformation, nor did they realize how long he had been working. The sensation was hypnotic, the steady, careful motions sending waves of relief through their muscles and feathers alike. Their mind, usually so sharp and vigilant, began to dull into a soft, sleepy haze. They felt almost weightless, unburdened, like the stress of the purgatory, the Spectre, and even their own instincts had melted away.

A few murmurs reached them in the background, distant and gentle, but they didn’t lift their head to see. Before they knew it, hands lifted them from the chair, cradling them with a firmness that was protective rather than constraining. 1x4 didn’t even care, they were too tired, too relaxed, too lulled into this strange, unfamiliar comfort to protest. They let themselves be carried, muscles loose, wings tucked softly against their sides as if instinctively trusting the movement.

When they blinked open their eyes, it was only slightly, a strange force nudging them awake as they looked at two blurry figures moving around, carefully powering off the lights. The darkness didn’t bother them. Their eyes were too heavy, their body too surrendered to the calm that 007n7 had coaxed into them. They could truly sleep now. Finally, there was peace.

Or at least, that’s what they wanted to believe. It’s not like the Spectre would ever grant them something like this.

Chapter Text

They woke up in a place that was not the survivor cabin. The walls were too tall, too pristine, and carried that sterile coldness they remembered all too well. Their stomach dropped as soon as they realized where they were: the Heights. Telamon’s manor. Their so called room, if it could even be called that, a pit with a bedframe that never held a mattress, a space too clean to feel like it belonged to anyone alive. They weren’t supposed to be here. They had been banned, cast out, a failed experiment left to rot. So why were they back?

Their body screamed with pain the moment they tried to move. Their arms buckled, their chest felt like it had been torn open, and the floor beneath them was sticky with red. They blinked slowly, vision swimming, struggling to tell if the blood was truly theirs or just another one of Telamon’s tricks. Even keeping their eyes open hurt. Their head pounded, ears ringing with phantom echoes. Had they failed training again? Had Telamon beaten them unconscious, left them as nothing more than broken meat on his floor? That thought alone coiled shame deep inside their stomach. They needed to be better. They had to be better.

Curling in on themselves, 1x4 tried to make the pain smaller by making themself smaller. Their ribs ached with every shallow breath, wings twitching weakly against their back, feathers sticky and bent in unnatural angles. They hated this. They hated the weakness, the helplessness, the certainty that whatever was coming next would break them further. They didn’t want to go back to this. To the pain. To the feeling of being a failed creation that Telamon could crush with a glance.

The door creaked. That sound froze them colder than ice. Slowly, deliberately, the demon entered. Telamon’s silhouette filled the doorway, the air around him bending like it, too, bowed in submission. His eyes locked onto 1x4, sharp with that familiar air of disappointment. No rage, no chaos, just that look, that quiet judgment that always cut deeper than any physical blow. They hated that stare more than anything.

The footsteps came closer, each one heavy, final, like the tolling of a bell. Their breath caught, chest heaving as though their body wanted to shrink itself into nothing before his shadow reached them. And then it did. A hand, clawlike and merciless, pressed against their back, right where their wings had been cut once before. The touch burned like iron against flesh.

“You failed again” Telamon said, his voice echoing inside their skull, too loud and yet terrifyingly calm. “Telamon needs to punish its creation”

The words shattered something inside them. Their claws dug into the floor, their body convulsing, but they couldn’t escape. The grip tightened on their wings, and suddenly there was only pain. Fire shot through their back as feathers were yanked, plucked, ripped. It wasn’t just pain, it was violation, it was the reminder that they were his to destroy, that every piece of them was clay in his hands, no matter how much they screamed.

They could feel blood running down their back, feathers scattering around them like ash. Their throat went raw as a scream tore itself out, but the sound didn’t matter. The walls didn’t echo it back. The Heights swallowed noise whole. Their body twisted, begging for mercy, but mercy was never part of their design. They were a weapon. A toy. A broken toy being stripped apart.

The hands dug deeper, into muscle, into bone. A sharp crack rang out and they sobbed against their will, collapsing fully onto the floor. Every nerve burned, their vision flickering in and out like the world itself wanted them gone. And still, Telamon’s voice hovered above them, calm and cruel:

“You will never be more than what I make you.”

A final wrench of pain tore them open—

—and they gasped awake, chest heaving, eyes wide as if the scream had followed them out of the dream. The cabin walls loomed around them, not the manor. The faint smell of tea, the scratch of blankets, the low creak of wood. The survivors’ cabin. They were here, not there. 

They sat up from the bed, one trembling hand clutching at their hair as their chest rose and fell too quickly. Each breath scraped their throat raw, but stopping was impossible. If they stopped, if they let stillness creep in, the phantom touch of Telamon’s claws would settle on their back again. They didn’t dare close their eyes, didn’t dare move too much; the phantom pain was still crawling through their nerves, and the irrational certainty that Telamon could appear even here was a shadow they couldn’t banish.

The door creaked open, spilling a narrow line of light into the dark room. His head snapped up, instincts sharp and ready despite the exhaustion dragging at their limbs. But it wasn’t Telamon. Standing in the doorway was the cultist, Two Time, framed by the glow of the hall like some eerie painting. Their posture was almost casual, yet their smile was wrong, too wide, too knowing, carved into their face like something that wasn’t meant to be human.

They stared at each other for a long, heavy moment. 1x4 tried to glare, but it came out more like a scowl dragged down by weariness. The silence pressed on them until frustration finally broke it.

“What now?” He muttered, his voice a growl muffled by exhaustion.

Two Time only smiled wider, tilting their head as if listening to some voice only they could hear. Then, a small bundle of folded clothes landed on the bed beside him. The fabric was old but clean, smelling faintly of herbs and something sharp like incense.

“The vessel of rebirth should not linger in rags” Two Time intoned, their words rolling with a strange rhythm, half sermon and half mockery. “The spawn shall grant thee garments anew, woven by hands not thine own, that thou may cloak thy form with dignity rather than shadow” they bowed their head slightly, more gesture than sincerity, before stepping back toward the hall.

Pausing, they leaned their head around the doorframe again, grin unbroken. “And food shall be provided, too, lest the youngling waste away upon memories and bitterness. Change, child, and the spawn shall return anon with sustenance”

Before he could even retort, the door shut again with a soft click, leaving only the bundle of clothes and the echo of their bizarre phrasing. 1x4 blinked at the door, utterly baffled, still trying to parse what the hell they had just said.

From the bundle of cloth, it wasn’t hard to guess what Two Time wanted of them. Change. That much was clear, even if their choice of words had been dressed in riddles. So they did as asked.

The clothes hung loose on their smaller frame, still too large, but at least they weren’t drowning in fabric like before. This set was easier to tolerate,dark cloth stitched with uneven care, and, of course, the unmistakable Spawn symbol stamped across the chest of the shirt. Subtlety had never been Two Time’s strength.

They tugged the tank top down, slipping their wings carefully through the open back. The lack of sleeves was almost a relief, sparing them from the tight pressure against their feathers that the unicorn pajamas had inflicted. Still, every movement made the joints ache, the phantom sensation of Telamon’s claws trailing at the edges of memory.

They raked their fingers through their hair, trying to tame the wild tangles, but the knots only pulled tighter. With the new pair of head wings twitching irritably whenever they tugged too hard, the task became impossible. Huffing in defeat, they gave up, letting the strands fall where they wanted.

The door creaked as they opened it, and he froze for a second to find Two Time waiting just outside, as if they had never moved at all. They were standing perfectly still, hands folded together, head bowed in something that could’ve been mistaken for prayer. But when their eyes snapped open at his presence, the smile returned, sharp and wide, as though they had been expecting them to step out at this very second.

Without a word, they turned on their heels and began walking down the hall. Their steps were deliberate, almost ritualistic, as though each footfall had been rehearsed. 1x4 stared for a moment, then muttered under his breath before breaking into a quick trot to keep pace. Even in this smaller body, he refused to be left trailing behind.

As he followed, Two Time finally spoke again, voice echoing softly through the narrow corridor. “The child emerges adorned anew. Thus shall the vessel walk not in shame, but in purpose. Come, for the table awaits, and the spawn decrees that hunger must not linger within thee”

He rolled their eye at the dramatics, but said nothing. Food did sound good, so when he reached what he assumed was the kitchen, he was almost surprised to see it empty. A long table stretched across the room, but only one place had been set. A plate waited neatly there, steam curling from eggs and bacon. The smell was warm, almost inviting, though it made his stomach twist with a mix of hunger and suspicion.

“Where are the other survivors?” he asked finally, curiosity slipping out before he could stop it.

Two Time didn’t answer immediately. Instead, they gestured with a gloved hand, guiding him firmly but without force toward the chair. The movement was strange, half like a priest ushering a pilgrim, half like a keeper tending to some fragile creature. He let himself be herded, scowling all the while, before dropping into the seat with an audible huff.

He eyed the plate. The eggs earned only a frown, but the bacon? That he tore into without hesitation, chewing aggressively as if to prove a point.

Only once he was eating did Two Time finally speak. Their tone was smooth, deliberate, words rolling out like scripture. “The brethren gather elsewhere, in counsel, to discern what path shall be taken. The spawn hath decided: thou shalt not be thrust amidst the multitude, lest chaos press upon thee. Instead, one guardian at a time shall walk beside thee, that thou be not overwhelmed”

1x4 stiffened at that phrasing, his fork clattering against the plate. “So you all decided I’m a… project? A thing that needs babysitting?”

Two Time only tilted their head, smile never wavering. “Nay, little one. Not a project. A vessel. The others see no threat in thee, not as thou art now. Thus thou art afforded gentleness, though the gentleness may feel like chains”

A shiver ran down his spine. The way they said it made the words even heavier. To think this person had once fought alongside Azure, had stood shoulder to shoulder with him, was almost laughable. And yet here they were, reciting his fate like a sermon, deciding their place with calm certainty.

He stabbed another piece of bacon with unnecessary force, chewing it as if it might drown out the sound of their voice.

After a while, the silence began to press down heavier than the food in his stomach. Being stared at by Two Time as he ate was unbearable, their wide unblinking gaze didn’t waver once, like they were memorizing every movement of his hands, every twitch of his wings. Finally, 1x4 decided it was better to speak than endure the suffocating quiet.

“Did you cook this…?” he asked, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand before glaring at the untouched eggs. “It’s… decent”

The bacon had vanished from the plate in record time, but the eggs sat there, pale and rubbery, untouched. With a flick of his wrist, he pushed the plate forward, signaling he was done.

Two Time chuckled softly, a strange sound that somehow felt both amused and hollow. “Nay. Elliot is the one who labors over the fire each day, preparing meals for all. It is his duty, and through his hands, the spawn provides. You should thank him, little vessel” Their hand drifted through the air as they spoke, fingers curling as if they held a blade that wasn’t there. The motion was instinctive, muscle memory from too many rounds of violence.

1x4’s eye narrowed. He remembered well how easily Two Time could handle a dagger too well. Watching those same hands trace imaginary arcs made his skin prickle.

“And do not forget” Two Time added, their voice dropping into a deeper, more reverent tone “to thank the spawn. Always be grateful to the spawn after a meal”

They bowed their head as if in prayer, murmuring words too low to catch. The rhythm of them was hypnotic, almost like a chant, the cadence of someone who had said the same lines countless times before.

1x4 leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He didn’t bother to hide the scowl twisting his face. The spawn. They knew exactly what that was worth, nothing. A hoax, a story, a lie wrapped in theatrics. And yet Two Time clung to it with a faith that made his stomach twist more than the food ever could.

This time, the silence didn’t last long. Two Time shifted from where they’d been standing, their movements deliberate but strangely soft, like a priest preparing for some small ritual. They came up behind him, and before 1x4 could snap a word, he felt fingers brush lightly through his tangled hair.

The reaction was immediate. A low growl ripped from his throat, feral and sharp, as he jerked away from the chair. His wings twitched under his shirt, flaring instinctively as he leapt back, teeth bared. The glare he fixed on them was pure venom, his body language nothing but a cornered animal.

“Do not touch me.” The words came out raw, edged with something closer to panic than threat. He backed away another step, shoulders tense. The nightmare had been too vivid, Telamon’s hands tearing into his back, the phantom agony of claws digging into wings that had already been broken once. He had almost managed to bury it under irritation, under food, under routine, but a hand reaching toward his hair, so close to the base of his wings? That was too much. Not again. Never again.

They would deny what happened with the exploiter, deny the strange calm that preening had given them, deny that they’d ever allowed themselves to feel safe under another’s hands. That had been a lapse. A mistake. This body’s weakness, not theirs.

Two Time’s expression shifted instantly, their ever-present smile faltering into something else, guilt. The kind that didn’t seem performed, at least not in the way most of their theatrics were. They lowered their hand as if it had burned them, taking a step back to give him space.

“My apologies” they said at last, and the weight in their tone was strange, almost heavy. “Thy hair is knotted, tangled beyond measure. Azure always spoke thus, that such neglect invites rot, sickness of the scalp, even weakness of the vessel. I sought only to aid thee”

1x4 blinked, still reeling from the strange mixture of guilt and formality in Two Time’s tone. His mind struggled to place it, was it genuine remorse, or another layer of ritualized cruelty masked as care? He couldn’t tell. His small hands clenched at his sides, wings twitching beneath the loose tank top, tense for any sudden movement.

Then, before they could even process a next step, a new presence appeared behind them. Strong arms lifted them gently yet firmly, holding them on a hip as though they weighed nothing more than a doll. Panic surged through 1x4, reflexively twitching and spinning to face their captor. Their teeth bared, nails scraping against the fabric of the shirt, eyes sharp and ready to strike at whoever dared handle them like a child, because, in truth, that was what they were right now. Not the feared 1x1x1x1 who had once dominated the digital world and terrorized killers alike. Just a fragile, mortal child.

“Do not worry, Two Time” a voice chimed in behind them, smooth yet playful, breaking into rhyme almost immediately. “I shall care for their hair, with gentle hand and tender stare. And when we’re through, fear not the day, for back to their form they shall find the way.”

1x4 froze, their glare softening slightly as they recognized the speaker. Dusekkar, airborne now, floated slightly above the floor, carrying them effortlessly. His tone was melodic, playful even, each word and rhyme rolling into the next with a cadence that somehow carried authority and amusement at once. Their brow furrowed in confusion. This was the same world, the same set of rules, but how did one move from the stern, ritualistic cultist who spoke like a sermon to someone who spoke only in rhymes?

“Worry not, young one, though hair is tight, tangled and wild, we’ll make it smooth, soft, and mild. The strands shall fall, the knots unwind, as freedom of form returns to thy mind,” Dusekkar continued, each line flowing into the next, holding them as if they weighed nothing, his movement calm, measured, yet still effortless.

1x4’s wings twitched uneasily beneath the shirt, still sore from previous events, yet the calmness of his voice, combined with the rhythm of his rhymes, seemed to loosen some of the tension in their small body. They still didn’t relax entirely, instinct demanded vigilance, but the panic ebbed slightly as their mind struggled to catch up with the absurdity of the situation.

“And fear not the night, nor shadows that creep, for safely in my care, you’ll rest, not weep. The hair, the form, the body once small, I’ll guard it all, and trouble shall fall”

By the time he had finished, 1x4’s eyes, still wide, flicked to Two Time, who was waving at them from behind the doorway. The cultist’s usual smirk was softened now, almost approving, though it didn’t entirely mask the unease of having someone else take charge of the child they had been watching over.

1x4’s mind spun. From a formal, ritualistic cultist speaking in strange, archaic phrases to a rhyming, hovering savior who spoke only in riddles and couplets, what had they even walked into? 

Chapter Text

Dusekkar walked in silence for a while, carrying 1x4 in his arms as though they were nothing more than a child who had wandered too far from safety. The weightless glide of his steps, the eerie stillness in the air around him, made the moment feel almost dreamlike, like something out of a nightmare that refused to fade. Finally, after what felt like too long, he set 1x4 gently on their feet before guiding them to sit on the edge of a wooden dock that stretched out over a moonlit lake.

“Ehy, what are you even doing?” 1x4 muttered, glaring as their small body settled onto the planks. They could hear the water lapping below, each ripple echoing in the night air. “Since we left that cult freak, you haven’t said a word”

Dusekkar didn’t answer right away. His hand slipped into the folds of his vest, as though searching for something hidden deep inside. His movements were deliberate, careful, like each action was part of some ritual only he understood. 

At last, he spoke, his voice calm but bound by the rhythm he always carried:
“Your hair is tangled, your form unkempt,
And so your spirit feels contempt.
I’ll brush it free, and while I do,
There are some things I must ask you.”

1x4 groaned audibly, flopping back against the dock as though the very idea of this conversation was torture. “Great. Not only do I get stuck in this pathetic body, but now I’ve got to talk with someone who only speaks in rhymes? This is so damn exhausting…”

But even as they complained, the words in the back of their throat burned heavier. They tilted their head, red eyes flashing faintly in the dark as they muttered low:
“Then I’ll start. Why am I always being watched? Why is it always one person at a time? You aren’t scared? You’re not worried I’ll attack you?” The words carried venom, the kind of threat they used to spit so easily, but here it came out quieter, almost desperate.

For a moment, Dusekkar only regarded them with his strange, serene expression. Then, still kneeling beside them, he spoke again:

“You bare your fangs, you show your claws,
Yet underneath I see the pause.
To face you now with numbers strong
Would only prove we’ve judged you wrong.
So one by one, we sit, we stay,
And hope your rage will fade away.”

1x4 blinked, their scowl faltering for the smallest fraction of a second. Trust? Did this man actually say they wanted trust?

They stared, heat crawling up the back of their neck as they tried to process it. “Trust?” they spat finally, their tone sharp, biting. “Are you serious? You’re not even worried that if I go back to normal, I’ll kill you all? Do none of you idiots have the slightest sense of self-preservation?”

The rhyme didn’t falter, even in the face of their outburst:
“If fate restores the form you crave,
Then yes, you’ll strike, as killers brave.
But while you wear this tender skin,
We see the child that lies within.
And so until the end draws near,
We’ll walk with you, without the fear.”

1x4 stared at him, chest rising and falling quickly, caught between rage and bewilderment. These survivors were insane, every single one of them.

Dusekkar’s hand slipped back into his vest, and this time he pulled out something small but unexpected, a simple wooden brush, worn smooth from years of use. Its bristles caught the faint shimmer of moonlight, and for a strange, absurd moment, 1x4 almost laughed. The infamous ‘pumpkin man’ feared and mocked in equal measure, was carrying around a hairbrush like some doting parent.

When the first pass of bristles touched their tangled hair, they flinched hard, wings twitching as if ready to lash out. Their eyes snapped to him, narrowed, ready to warn him off. But Dusekkar didn’t recoil or force his hand, he only waited, steady, patient. The brush lingered near their head, bristles lightly grazing instead of digging, until the tension in their shoulders eased enough to let him continue.

Slowly, carefully, he began to work through the worst of the knots. Each stroke dragged across their scalp with a dull, rhythmic pull, tugging strands apart with methodical care. It was…familiar. The sensation tugged something loose in their chest, something they hadn’t felt in a very, very long time.

And then Dusekkar spoke, not in rhyme, not wrapped in his strange riddles, but in a quiet, almost human voice.  “I used to do this for you once. Do you remember? When you were younger, before all of this. Before the blood, before the chains. What happened to that youth you carried then?”

The brush paused only for a moment before continuing its steady path through their hair. The tone of his voice, nostalgic, almost sorrowful, hit them harder than they expected. 1x4 froze, their lips parting slightly as memories they had buried deep began to claw back up.

For so long, every recollection of their ‘childhood’ was tainted by Telamon, his hands gripping their wings, his words slicing deeper than blades, the constant demand for perfection under the guise of punishment. That was what dominated their thoughts, what lingered like poison. But buried beneath the scars, there had been good moments. Warm hands guiding instead of striking. Voices speaking gently instead of commanding. The brush in their hair, the rare softness that somehow existed before it all was consumed.

They clenched their jaw, forcing their expression into a scowl, but the trembling at the corner of their lips betrayed them. The brush moved again, gliding past the delicate feathers that sprouted near their head, careful not to tug too hard. It was almost infuriating, how gentle he was being. How much it reminded them of something they couldn’t admit they craved.

“Stop” 1x4 muttered finally, though their body betrayed them by not moving away. Their claws gripped the edge of the dock, wings curled tight against their sides. “Don’t… don’t talk like that. Don’t make it sound like things were ever good. They weren’t.”

But Dusekkar only hummed low in his throat, the brush never faltering, the bristles running in slow, grounding strokes. “Not all was fire. Not all was pain” he said softly, still without rhyme. “You deserved better. You still do.”

1x4 stared down at the wooden planks beneath them, their mind clouded by the slow, methodical movements of Dusekkar’s hand as it worked through the tangled mess of their hair. The unexpected gentleness was disarming, making their usual sharp thoughts blur and falter. For a moment, they felt themselves melting under his touch, their defenses weakening in ways they hadn’t anticipated.

“I’m a mistake” they finally whispered, voice heavy with bitterness. “And I’ll always be one. But this mistake... this mistake will be the one to kill Telamon.” Their eyes flared a deep, burning red, and the air around them thickened, as if the darkness of their murderous intent was reaching beyond the confines of their mind, threatening to spill into the world.

Dusekkar’s response was quiet, almost tender. “Yet... Telamon is no longer here” His hand moved slowly to their right wing, tracing a light, careful path along the feathers, causing them to flutter softly twice. 

1x4 frowned deeply, their feathers twitching with irritation. They could feel the conversation slipping into territory they didn’t want to touch, things that made their chest ache in ways they didn’t understand and didn’t want to. Better to steer away, better to bite at something safer. So, with a sharp exhale, they forced out the first distraction that came to mind.

“Why would you even have a hairbrush with you?” Their tone was sharp, but the words stumbled, landing clumsily. “You don’t… you don’t even have hair.”

The moment the words left their mouth, they cringed internally. Out of context, it sounded ridiculous, like mocking a bald man for grooming. Except this wasn’t a bald man. This was Dusekkar: an administrator with a jack-o’-lantern for a head, flames licking faintly where the head should have been. A bizarre, terrifying figure, one who shouldn’t have looked so absurd holding a brush in his hand.

Dusekkar let out a low chuckle, the sound carrying like the crackle of dry leaves in firelight. His rhymes slid back into place, his voice slipping into the sing-song cadence that marked his speech.
“It is not for me, but for another instead.
Shedletsky’s hair is chaos, a nest on his head.
When tangles grow wild, when knots do ensnare,
I aid my old comrade, I smooth out his hair.”

The brush was lifted, bristles glinting faintly as he turned it over once before tucking it back into his vest. He moved with the careful reverence of someone sheathing a weapon, as though even an object as mundane as a brush carried weight in his hands.

1x4 shifted uncomfortably on the wooden dock, rubbing at the back of their neck. The sudden absence of the brush was noticeable, their scalp felt lighter, their hair no longer pulling and snagging at the roots.Their head didn’t ache with every movement. The relief made them feel oddly exposed, vulnerable even, as though he had stripped away one more layer of armor they didn’t realize they were clinging to.

They huffed, turning their head sharply away, refusing to meet his glowing gaze. “…Weird.” It was all they could manage, and they hated how weak it sounded.

1x4 rose abruptly to their feet, the boards of the dock creaking under their sudden movement. Their voice was sharp, roughened by the growl that tore from their throat. “Even if I’m in this… this child’s shell, I’m still the corruption, still the nightmare you all whisper about. Don’t think for a second you can tame me” The words spat out like venom, but beneath the fire there was a flicker of desperation, a need to convince not just Dusekkar but themselves.

Their gaze lingered on the pumpkin-headed admin for only a heartbeat longer, long enough to see the flicker of flame within him respond, maybe with calm, maybe with understanding. 1x4 didn’t give him the chance to answer. They turned on their heel and bolted down the dock into the shadows of the forest. Every step hit the ground with a furious rhythm, each one a curse to the Spectre, to this cursed body, to the humiliations piling up like shackles around their throat.

Branches clawed at their arms as they ran, their vision blurring, not just from speed but from the sting of tears gathering against their will. They clenched their jaw hard, swallowing the sob that threatened to escape, because showing weakness was a luxury they could never afford. They were supposed to be terror itself, the monster in the code, the corruption no survivor could look at without trembling. Not… this. Not a child lost in the dark.

Suddenly, a soft voice echoed through the trees, gentle and familiar.

 “Oh, sweetheart, don’t you worry. I’ll be here, protecting you” 

The words cut through the panic, and for a fleeting moment, they glanced to the side. There, in the corner of their eye, a figure appeared, feminine, yet unmistakably someone from their past.

“Kid, come here. I’ll heal your new injuries”

They blinked, stunned. For an instant, standing just beyond a nearby tree, was a man with that familiar, funny accent, the same one who had helped them endure countless grueling trainings with Telamon. The memory was vivid and painful.

“Of course I’ll help you train! Come on, attack me with everything you’ve got!”

A figure challenged, a ghost of their past urging them forward. They could almost feel the presence of that enormous hammer he always wielded during their fights, fights they never quite won. Did they?

Then, a cold voice pierced the memory.

 “Telamon is disappointed in you, creation. Maybe Telamon should never have created you in the first place.” 

The words struck like a blow, dragging them deeper into the shadows of their mind. Looking up, they could clearly see the silhouette against the clouds, the imposing figure with wings that had always loomed behind them, the protector and the tormentor intertwined. That gaze that had terrified them, the pain that those hands had inflicted, still haunted every corner of their soul.

They closed their eyes, desperate to shut it all out, but that was their mistake. Their foot caught on uneven ground, and their body lurched forward violently. They slammed into someone solid.

Snapping their head up, a glare already carved into their features, 1x4 opened their mouth, ready to unleash every ounce of fury on the fool who dared block their path in such a vulnerable moment. But the words caught in their throat.

The figure before them was not just a survivor, not another nameless obstacle. It was Taph. Their brother.

Chapter Text

Both 1x4 and Taph stood frozen, their gazes locked in silence that carried more weight than words ever could. The hollow darkness beneath Taph’s hood seemed endless, a void that threatened to swallow 1x4 whole if they stared too long. Taph lifted a hand, beginning to sign something, but then stopped midway, his fingers trembling before lowering back to his side. 1x4 swallowed hard, the ache in their smaller body pulsing in rhythm with the faint echoes of the voices still whispering in the back of their mind. They tilted their head slightly, their breath uneven, as if the mere presence of their brother was enough to still the noise for a moment.

The air between them was heavy. The forest, once full of faint sounds of the purgatory wind, felt suffocatingly quiet now. 1x4’s eyes flicked toward the faint outline of Taph’s wings, those familiar, curved head-wings that marked him as something other, something close to what they once were. It was strange; the sight brought a dull ache of longing they didn’t know they still had. They had missed him, missed his quiet company, his steady presence, but missing him also meant remembering everything that came with it.

Taph was one of the few lights they had during their miserable childhood, one of the rare beings who brought warmth to a place ruled by pain. But he was also a living reminder of that pain, the separation, the difference, the unspoken truth that while Taph was raised by Builderman’s calm and careful hand, they had been forged in Telamon’s cruelty. To see him again was to face everything they had buried under years of hatred and blood.

1x4’s voice came out quieter than they wanted, rasping and uncertain, “Why are you here?” It wasn’t the question they meant to ask. What they really wanted to say was why now, or why didn’t you come before, but the words felt too heavy to speak.

Taph didn’t answer, only took a hesitant step forward. His hands moved slowly, signing something simple “you’re hurt”
1x4 frowned, taking a step back instinctively, wings twitching beneath their back like an old reflex. “I’m fine” they lied, their tone low and defensive, but even to their own ears it sounded fragile. They hated that. Hated how small they sounded.

Taph’s hands moved again, slower this time, spelling out each sign as if afraid to make a sudden move “Builderman told me what happened. You... changed”
They scoffed, turning away, staring at the trees instead of him. “Changed. That’s one way to say ‘de-aged and humiliated’” Their voice cracked slightly, and they clenched their fists in frustration. “I’m stuck like this, Taph. I’m stuck as this weak little thing, and everyone’s treating me like I’m about to break”

Taph reached out again, stopping just short of touching their shoulder. His hand hovered there, trembling slightly in hesitation before signing again “You’re not weak”
1x4’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what Telamon did to me, Taph. You don’t get to say that” The bitterness came out sharper than they intended, slicing through the air like a blade.

But Taph didn’t flinch. He simply lowered his hand, signing with deliberate calm “I know enough. Builderman told me what he did. That’s why I came. You shouldn’t be alone with them”

The words made something twist in 1x4’s chest. Alone with them, the survivors, the other killers, the admins, it didn’t matter. Everyone here felt like a threat, and yet the thought of someone caring enough to find them left them off balance.

They turned back toward him finally, their eye glinting faintly in the dim light. “What are you planning to do then? Play the good brother now?”
Taph hesitated again, his signs slower this time, as if weighing each gesture carefully “Not play, but protect”

The word made 1x4’s throat tighten. For a moment, they didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Protect? After everything? They wanted to say something cruel, something to push him away, but when they looked up again, the flicker of worry under that hood stopped them.

The silence stretched once more, not awkward this time but heavy with things unsaid. The two stood like that, one trembling from exhaustion and fear, the other grounded and patient as always, until finally, 1x4 exhaled shakily, wings drooping just slightly.

“…I don’t need protecting” they muttered, though their voice lacked conviction.

Taph didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He just reached forward again, slower this time, and when 1x4 didn’t pull away, he placed a gentle hand on their head, careful of the small head-wings that twitched beneath his palm.

The gesture was painfully familiar, the gentle pat of a hand on their head, the quiet reassurance it carried. It was the kind of thing that once meant safety, reward, and warmth, back in the rare moments when they had been allowed to visit Builderman and Taph. Those days had been fleeting, fragile bubbles of peace in a life otherwise ruled by Telamon’s cruelty. And yet, for that single instant, it felt real again, the sense that they were more than a tool or a creation, that they were a person.

The sensation burned too deeply. 1x4 jerked away from Taph’s touch almost violently, as if the warmth itself were dangerous. Their small chest rose and fell rapidly, the ache in their throat making it difficult to breathe. It wasn’t fair, how much they still wanted that comfort, how much their body remembered even when their mind screamed to reject it. The contact had lasted only a second, but the loss of it felt sharp, echoing down to the bones that ached with phantom pain. They rubbed the back of their head harshly, as though trying to erase the feeling before it could linger any longer.

Their mind spiraled, half fury, half shame. They needed to reassert control, to remind themselves that they were not that helpless child anymore, not the broken little thing Telamon had trained to fear kindness. They looked back at their brother, eyes narrowing, wanting to speak, to mock, to threaten, to prove that they were something darker now, something beyond redemption. But when they opened their mouth, nothing came. The silence pressed down hard.

Frustration bubbled up in a low growl, and their fingers twitched before beginning to move. The signs came out uneven, clumsy, awkward. They hadn’t used sign language in years, not since Telamon had forbidden it, saying that it was ‘Builderman’s weakness infecting them’ The motions hurt, but they forced themself to finish, glaring up at Taph as they signed out “do not”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Taph froze, the empty void beneath his hood watching them closely, but he didn’t move forward again. He just gave a slow, understanding nod, the faint light flickering at the base of his wings betraying something like sorrow. 1x4 turned away quickly, not wanting to see that expression, not wanting to be reminded that this man had always been better at patience than they ever could be.

And then, breaking through the tension that hung between them, came the unmistakable sound of their stomach growling. Loud. Humiliatingly loud.
1x4 froze mid-breath, their entire face flushing a dark, furious red. They wanted to sink into the floor, to hide, to glitch out of existence altogether. Of all the times for this body to remind them of its weaknesses, it had to be now, when they were trying to act powerful and untouchable. They clenched their jaw, glaring at nothing in particular, wishing the sound hadn’t happened, wishing they could just shut down the entire conversation and vanish.

Taph, for his part, didn’t laugh or even react with amusement. His posture stiffened slightly, his wings twitching in what might have been suppressed concern. The faint glow from the edges of his hood dimmed, and he shifted his weight before finally signing again, slow and careful “let’s go eat”

1x4 didn’t answer. They wanted to argue, to refuse just for the sake of control, but the hollow ache in their stomach made it impossible to pretend. Their pride screamed, but their body had already decided for them. With an annoyed huff, they finally crossed their arms and muttered under their breath, “Fine”

Taph didn’t push further. He simply gestured for them to follow, the same patient air that Builderman used to have when guiding them as a child. 1x4 hesitated for a heartbeat, then reluctantly fell into step behind him. The forest path wound around the clearing, leading toward the dim light of the cabins in the distance. The air grew warmer, filled with the faint scent of woodsmoke and cooking.

They walked in silence, Taph ahead, steady as ever, and 1x4 trailing close behind, torn between pride and hunger, between old wounds and something almost like longing.
They stopped just short of the door, the faint creak of the wood beneath their boots the only sound breaking the quiet. 1x4 glanced sideways at Taph, a faint frown pulling at their lips as they watched their brother stiffen. His wings twitched once, feathers ruffling in an anxious pattern, and then his hands began to move, fast, sharp, more hurried than his usual calm gestures. “There’s someone inside. In the kitchen. Do you want me to go alone?”

 
1x4 blinked, almost amused at the question. The idea that they, they, should wait outside like some scared child was laughable. Their frown melted into something between irritation and mockery as they scoffed audibly, brushing past Taph with a dismissive huff. “Please” they muttered under their breath, shoving the door open with more force than necessary. “I can handle a survivor cooking”

The hinges creaked, the smell of smoke and spice spilling out into the hallway. The warmth of the room contrasted sharply with the cool air outside, and for a moment, it almost felt like stepping into another world. Pots simmered quietly on the stove, the faint clatter of utensils filling the space. There, standing by the counter, was none other than the healer Elliot, if 1x4 remembered correctly. His back was turned to them, shoulders relaxed as he hummed softly to himself, a tune that wove through the air with an easy rhythm. An apron was tied around his waist, slightly too big for him, the edges frayed as if he’d worn it a hundred times before.

It was so painfully domestic it made 1x4’s skin crawl. They froze, just inside the doorway, their bravado faltering for a heartbeat as the scene pulled something buried and fragile from the depths of their memory. They’d seen this before different room, different faces, but the same soft light, the same hum of routine. A memory of when they had cooked for the children, before everything went wrong. 

The phantom ache of that time flickered behind their eyes, heavy and unwanted. Their hand twitched, nails biting into their palm, grounding them back to the present. This wasn’t then. This wasn’t safe, it was the enemy’s territory, a kitchen that didn’t belong to them.

Behind them, Taph’s wings gave a faint, nervous flutter, the motion catching 1x4’s attention for just a second. He was signing again, worried motions that 1x4 didn’t bother to follow. They could feel the tension in his movements, could practically hear his silent warning. But they couldn’t look away. Their gaze was locked on the healer.
Elliot turned slightly, reaching for something on the counter, still humming, utterly unaware that two of them stood in his doorway. It was maddening. 1x4’s fingers flexed unconsciously, the air around them tingling faintly with that corrupted energy that came whenever their temper built. Yet… they didn’t move forward. Something about the man’s calm, his mundane normality, kept them rooted where they were.

Their mind wandered, just for a moment, to the other survivors, especially the kids. Were they safe? Were they eating? The thought made their jaw tighten. They didn’t want to care, not anymore, not when it hurt this much, but the worry still pressed down heavy in their chest. If the other killers weren’t taking care of the children… if any of them dared to hurt those three, then when 1x4 turned back to their full power, there would be consequences. Real ones.

Their red eyes softened briefly before they masked the expression under a frown, forcing their posture straight again. They wouldn’t show weakness here.
Taph moved closer behind them, wings brushing lightly against the doorframe as he tried to peek over their shoulder, clearly tense and unsure. But 1x4 ignored him. Their focus stayed locked on Elliot, the hum of the tune filling the silence between them, wrapping the air in something far too gentle for this world.
Seeing how things were unfolding, Taph began to move toward Elliot, his hand lifting to rest lightly on the healer’s shoulder. Elliot jumped slightly at the unexpected touch, startled, and froze mid-motion, eyes wide. He didn’t speak; instead, Taph’s hand gestured toward him, a silent command, and the two of them stared at each other, the tension thick in the air. Taph signed something quickly before stepping back, his wings lowering slightly as if easing a built-up tension.

Perhaps, if 1x4 had looked closer, they would have noticed Builderman observing from the other room, quietly watching over the scene with his usual calm presence. But in that moment, 1x4’s attention was entirely fixed on the healer. Elliot looked uncomfortable, clearly unsure of what to do, while 1x4’s curiosity burned sharper than ever, their red eye narrowing slightly in quiet amusement.
For the first time in what felt like ages, something in this place sparked a fleeting, mischievous sense of fun.

Chapter Text

1x4 and Elliot stood in a thick, uncomfortable silence, the air between them charged with something neither could quite name. 1x4’s gaze was sharp and assessing, curious in a way that felt far too predatory for someone trapped in such a small frame. Elliot, on the other hand, looked very much like prey cornered in his own kitchen, his shoulders tense, his hand frozen mid-motion above the counter, as if any sudden move might provoke the creature in front of him.

A sudden branch scraping against the window made Elliot flinch violently, the clatter of a spoon echoing in the quiet room. He blinked rapidly, forcing himself to breathe before clearing his throat, trying to break the suffocating quiet. “Uhm, do you… want to make some pizza with me?” His voice wavered only slightly, though his eyes flicked nervously toward the door, as if hoping Taph or Builderman would reappear. “Do you… even eat food?”

1x4’s mouth twitched into something that was almost a smirk. “I can, but it isn’t necessary” they replied, voice smooth but carrying a faint edge of amusement. The way Elliot’s expression flickered, half confused, half concerned, made the corner of their lips lift higher. “I cooked often in the killer cabin” they continued, tilting their head as their tone softened just a little. “Somehow, the kids needed to eat.”

Elliot let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a small, uneasy chuckle slipping out as he nodded. Relief washed over his face, though even he didn’t seem sure why. Maybe it was the fact that 1x4 wasn’t immediately threatening him, or maybe it was the rare glimpse of something almost human in their voice. Whatever the reason, his hands moved automatically, gathering ingredients with a quiet, shaky focus.

1x4 watched him, eyes following every movement like a cat watching a mouse, a faint hum of curiosity mixing with something they couldn’t quite define. Maybe this regression wasn’t as terrible as it seemed, after all.

“Come here?” Elliot’s tone was hesitant, almost questioning rather than commanding, as if he were asking permission to share his space. 1x4 arched a brow at the timidness in his voice, but said nothing. Curiosity won over pride, and they moved closer, the sound of their small steps muffled by the wooden floor.

On the counter sat a large bowl filled with flour, a small cloud of it dusting the air. 1x4 tilted their head, confusion written all over their face as they watched Elliot press his fingers into the soft white powder, carving a neat hollow in the center like a crater. “Why are you doing the dog?” they asked, genuinely perplexed. Then, with a flash of that sharp tongue, they added dryly “You’re not the gambling man.”

Elliot blinked, then let out a startled laugh, glancing at them from the corner of his eye. “It’s not a hole for fun” he said, his voice lighter now that the tension between them had begun to fade. “To make pizza, you need dough. And to make dough, you have to form a well in the flour.” He pointed at the little hollow with the seriousness of someone giving a life lesson. “That’s where we add the yeast and the water, before we mix it all together.”

1x4’s frown softened a bit as they watched him work. His hands moved with practiced ease. He poured the yeast into the small crater, then drizzled warm water, the mixture starting to come alive under his touch. There was something mesmerizing about it: the quiet rhythm of kneading, the gentle press of palms against the dough, the subtle hum of focus that surrounded him.

They didn’t even realize how long they had been staring until Elliot looked up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You want to try?” he asked, tone teasing but kind.

For a moment, 1x4 hesitated, pride and curiosity warring inside their chest. Then, without a word, they stepped closer, small hands brushing against the flour-dusted counter, eyes still fixed on the dough as if it were some sort of magic.

While 1x4 kept mixing the dough with a fork, they tried to mimic Elliot’s motions, slow circles that gathered the flour from the sides of the bowl until it all came together into something sticky and alive. The cook occasionally leaned over to add a pinch of salt, a spoonful of sugar, or a careful splash of water, adjusting the texture with instinct more than precision. 1x4 watched each movement closely, strangely fascinated by how deliberate everything was.

They didn’t even notice when Elliot gently took the bowl from their hands and carried it to the fridge until they heard the sound of the door closing. “Hey! I was working on that!” they snapped, glaring up at him, their hands still dusted with flour. Their tone was sharp, but beneath it was something unfamiliar, disappointment, maybe. It startled them more than they wanted to admit. They hadn’t realized until now how much they had missed this cooking, creating, doing something that wasn’t destruction. And the worst part? It felt nice.

Elliot looked a bit startled at their outburst, but his expression softened into something patient. “It needs to rest in the fridge for about ten minutes” he explained calmly, brushing his hands clean on his apron. “The dough relaxes, makes it easier to stretch later.” He hesitated, glancing away with an awkward little smile. “If you liked that part, you can finish kneading it once it’s ready… if you want to, I mean.”

That hesitant tone again, like he was afraid of pushing too far, afraid of breaking whatever fragile peace they had built in this kitchen. The silence that followed wasn’t tense exactly, just uncertain. The rhythmic ticking of the old clock filled the room as 1x4 crossed their arms, pretending to be irritated even though they were secretly thinking about how the dough had felt warm and soft under their fingers.

Elliot was the one to finally break the silence that had settled like dust between them. “You said before that you were the one cooking for the kids in the killer cabin…?” His tone was careful, the kind people used when they weren’t sure if they were walking into dangerous territory.

1x4 hummed softly, turning to look at him with a slight tilt of their head. “Yes” they answered simply at first, but then the words began to spill, slow and reluctant. “The four of them need to eat. I was the one cooking for them, and for the Beast too, I guess.” Their voice trailed off, and their frown deepened as they stared down at the counter, a small clump of flour still clinging to their sleeve. “I don’t care for the others” they added with a dismissive wave of their hand, “they can somehow survive alone. They’re functional adults.”

When they finally looked back up, Elliot was staring at them, his face frozen in surprise, his brows slightly raised as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. That expression only confused 1x4 more. “What?” they asked flatly, crossing their arms.

“‘Beast…?’” Elliot echoed, the single word cautious, almost hesitant, as if saying the name itself might summon something terrible.

For a moment, 1x4 blinked, then realization dawned and their lips curled into a small, humorless smirk. “Ah, that.” They shrugged, leaning back against the counter. “Guest 666. She can’t cook, so I give him food often, like a dog.” A short laugh escaped them at their own joke, sharp and unbothered, but it didn’t reach their eyes.

Elliot blinked again, processing the words as if trying to line them up into something that made sense. The mental image of one of the most feared killers being casually handed breakfast by another killer was so absurd it almost made him dizzy. “You… feed Guest 666,” he repeated under his breath, half to himself.

“Of course” 1x4 replied, as if that was the most normal thing in the world. “Someone has to make sure the kids don’t end up as her snack, after all.” They spoke dryly, but there was a strange edge of protectiveness underneath the sarcasm, something Elliot didn’t expect to hear in the voice of a killer.

He didn’t interrupt. He just watched them as they leaned over the table, the faintest ghost of nostalgia flickering in their crimson eyes, even if they were quick to smother it under indifference. 1x4 didn’t want to think about why they bothered cooking in the first place, or how natural it felt to care for those little monsters who had somehow found a place in the pit of their corrupted heart.

Elliot exhaled softly, his initial shock giving way to something gentler, almost understanding. “You really don’t sound like a monster when you talk about them, you know” he murmured.

That made 1x4 pause. Their eyes darted to his, sharp and guarded. For a heartbeat, they wanted to deny it, to lash out, to remind him what they were. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, they looked away, scoffing half-heartedly as they muttered, “Don’t get the wrong idea, cook. I just don’t like cleaning up the mess after she eats.”

The silence didn’t last long, Elliot wasn’t the kind of man who could sit still when there was work to be done. He opened the fridge, pulling the bowl out with practiced ease and setting it back on the table. The dough had risen slightly, puffed and soft, and as he turned it over onto the wooden surface, a faint dusting of flour followed like mist. The texture stuck slightly to his fingers as he worked it free.

1x4 perked up almost immediately, the faint flicker of eagerness in their eyes impossible to hide. Cooking was familiar, something they could do without thinking too hard, something that didn’t hurt. “Now we need to knead the dough,” Elliot said, placing his palms on it and pressing forward in a slow, rhythmic motion. “Like this: fold, press, turn. Don’t force it; let it stretch under your hands.”

They watched him closely, their gaze flickering not just to his hands but to his forearms as well, broad, steady, and dusted with flour. They hadn’t realized before how much strength cooking demanded, how each motion had its own rhythm, a kind of dance that Elliot seemed to know by heart. They blinked, snapping out of their observation with a quiet huff, pretending the small flicker of respect didn’t happen. Instead, they focused back on his hands, trying to memorize the technique.

When Elliot finally stepped back, brushing flour from his palms, 1x4 wasted no time in taking over. The dough was cool and pliable under their smaller fingers, sticky at first but oddly soothing to touch. They pressed their hands into it, mimicking the same motions push, fold, turn, repeat. At first, the rhythm was off, uneven and hesitant, but the more they moved, the smoother it became. The resistance of the dough beneath their palms was almost calming, grounding in a way they hadn’t expected.

Elliot stood back, leaning slightly against the counter as he watched. The usual sharp edge of 1x4’s posture was gone; they weren’t glaring or growling or trying to prove something, they were simply doing. He smiled faintly at that, recognizing something almost human behind the hardened mask.

1x4 hummed softly, a quiet, tuneless sound that rose from their throat without thought. It was strange hearing their own voice sound so calm, so… content. Their hands moved with confidence now, pushing the dough in smooth arcs, folding it back in on itself, repeating the cycle as if it were a ritual they had once known and were only now remembering. The smell of yeast and flour filled the room, a warm, simple scent that didn’t belong to killers or survivors, just people.

For a moment, the air felt still. 1x4’s eyes half-closed as they worked, the rhythm of kneading syncing with their breath. It was almost therapeutic, a moment of peace carved from chaos. They didn’t notice how the corners of their mouth twitched faintly upward, how their wings relaxed slightly at their back.

“Looks like you’ve done this before” Elliot said gently, breaking the quiet.

1x4 snorted but didn’t stop moving their hands. “Maybe. Maybe I just learn fast.” Their tone was half teasing, half honest, their voice quieter than usual.

Elliot chuckled softly, shaking his head as he wiped his hands on a towel. “You’ve got a good touch. That dough’s going to come out perfect.”

They rolled their eyes at the compliment but didn’t argue. If anything, they pressed the dough one more time, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction at the soft give beneath their hands. For a fleeting second, they almost forgot who they were supposed to be, almost forgot the Spectre.

1x4’s ears twitched at the sound of hurried footsteps approaching the kitchen, heavy, fast, and absolutely ungraceful. Someone was running straight for them. With a small smirk, they quickly lifted the perfectly kneaded dough from the table, setting it carefully on a clean counter like a prized treasure. Elliot blinked at the sudden movement, tilting his head in confusion as 1x4 grabbed a half-empty bottle of oil from beside the stove.

Without a word, they crouched near the entrance and poured a generous slick of oil across the wooden floor in front of the door. Elliot’s brow furrowed as he realized what they were doing. “Wait what are you-”

1x4 only smiled, a sharp, wicked grin that could rival a predator’s. “Experimenting” they murmured, stepping back just in time for the door to slam open with all the dramatic flair of a hero arriving too late.

Chance burst into the kitchen like a lightning bolt, his hair a chaotic mess of static and ash, sunglasses crooked and hanging by one arm. “Elly! I’ve come to save you!”

He didn’t get to finish. His confident stride hit the oil patch, and instantly, the world betrayed him. His feet went flying out from under him in a spectacular spin worthy of a cartoon, his arms flailing in midair before gravity claimed him. The thud that followed echoed through the kitchen like music.

1x4 was the first to break. Their laughter erupted instantly, loud, unrestrained, almost manic. They leaned forward against the counter, barely able to breathe as they pointed at the fallen mess of limbs and pride on the floor. “Oh oh, this is beautiful!” they wheezed, wings trembling from how hard they were laughing.

Chance groaned from the floor, one hand clutching his sunglasses that had somehow survived the fall. “That was a trap! You set a trap in the kitchen! Who even does that?!” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, which only made 1x4 laugh harder.

Elliot, for his part, tried, and failed, to keep a straight face. He turned his head to the side, biting his lip, but the quiet chuckle slipped out anyway. “You kind of walked right into that one, Chance” he said, voice light with amusement.

Chance glared up at him, still sprawled on the floor. “You’re supposed to help me, not mock me! I could’ve died, Elly, slipped into another timeline or something!” He tried to stand, only for his heel to slide again, causing another ungraceful flail that made 1x4 laugh all over again.

“Maybe next time you’ll knock” 1x4 teased between fits of laughter, wiping a tear from their eye. “Or maybe you’ll finally learn that charging into rooms doesn’t always end well.”

Chance finally managed to stand, dignity long gone. “You’re evil” he muttered, brushing himself off as he pointed at the oil stain. “You’re actual evil.”

“Thank you” 1x4 replied smoothly, still smirking. “I do try.”

Elliot sighed, shaking his head but smiling anyway. The tension that had filled the kitchen earlier was gone now, replaced by laughter, noise, and the faint smell of flour and oil. 1x4 leaned casually against the counter, feeling oddly lighter, watching Chance’s wings droop as he muttered under his breath about “traitorous kitchens” and “slippery doom.”

As the laughter died down, Elliot grabbed a cloth to start cleaning the mess, while 1x4 just grinned at the chaos they had caused.

“The dog came after all,” they murmured, amusement still dripping from their voice.

Chance turned, one eyebrow twitching. “What did you call me?”

“Nothing,” 1x4 said sweetly. “Just a term of endearment.”

Chapter Text

The sight of Chance sprawled on the floor, rubbing the back of his head and glaring at the treacherous oil slick, was almost too much for 1x4 to handle. Their laughter came in uncontrollable bursts, echoing off the kitchen walls. Even Elliot, usually calm and mild, had his lips twitching as he knelt to mop up the mess before it spread further. He sighed, a long, weary sigh that sounded like he had seen this sort of chaos one too many times, then looked up at 1x4 with a tired, disappointed expression that almost resembled a parent scolding two hyperactive kids.

“Out” he said firmly, his voice calm but sharp enough to cut through 1x4’s laughter. “You are officially banned from the kitchen”

The words hit 1x4 like a bucket of cold water. They froze mid-laugh, their mouth still open, wings twitching slightly as if they couldn’t decide whether to protest or keep laughing. Their red eyes darted from Elliot’s broom to his face, trying to gauge whether he was joking. He wasn’t.

Chance, meanwhile, was still sitting on the floor, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world. “Aha! See, even your favorite little chef got kicked out!” he said between snickers, pointing at 1x4 before bursting into laughter again. That, of course, earned him a glare sharp enough to silence even the bravest survivor.

“You too, Chance” Elliot said, his tone dropping into the kind of weary authority that could command armies, or in this case, two troublemakers. “Both of you. Out.”

1x4 blinked in disbelief as Elliot somehow produced a broom from thin air like some domestic magician, brandishing it like a divine weapon of kitchen justice. The gesture was so absurd that it sent Chance into another fit of laughter, though he scrambled to his feet when Elliot took a step forward.

“Retreat!” Chance shouted dramatically, bolting for the door, his sneakers slipping a little on the still-slick tiles. 1x4 followed right behind him, laughing again as Elliot’s broom came dangerously close to their shoulder.

They dashed down the hall, both panting, Chance still cackling as if he’d just escaped a monster instead of a mildly annoyed cook. 1x4 leaned against the wall once they were clear, brushing a bit of flour off their shirt, wings twitching as they caught their breath.

“Worth it” Chance wheezed, still grinning like an idiot.

“So…” Chance began, his grin already spelling trouble, “what about a game of poker?”

1x4 raised a brow, staring at him with that flat, unimpressed glare that could make even seasoned survivors rethink their life choices. Chance, however, was immune to logic. He was leaning back in the chair opposite them, smirk wide and self-satisfied, his cracked sunglasses sitting crookedly on his nose. The lenses were half-broken, one side missing entirely, so really, they weren’t even sunglasses anymore. And yet, there he was, wearing them indoors in a realm that had never known sunlight.

1x4 tilted their head, their tone dripping with confusion. “What is that? Another kind of food to cook?”

The look of absolute shock that crossed Chance’s face was so dramatic it could have won awards. His jaw dropped, and he clutched at his chest as though mortally offended. “My friend” he gasped, dragging the word out like an old actor on stage, “you wound me! You mean to tell me you’ve never played poker? Never felt the thrill of the bluff, the danger of the bet, the glory of the win?”

1x4 blinked slowly. “…No?”

Chance made a strangled noise halfway between disbelief and laughter, before springing into action with the manic energy of someone who had way too much free time. “Then you must learn! This is a crime against entertainment itself!”

Before 1x4 could ask what he meant, or more importantly, refuse, they were suddenly yanked up as Chance grabbed their arm with surprising strength. “Come on, sit! I’ll teach you everything! It’ll be fun, promise!”

They stumbled as he dragged them across the room, muttering curses under their breath as they were deposited, rather unceremoniously, into another chair at a nearby table. Chance, meanwhile, was already darting around the room in a flurry of movement, mumbling to himself about “cards” and “chips” and “the sacred art of gambling”

1x4 just sat there, feathers twitching in mild irritation, watching this chaotic display unfold. A few seconds later, Chance’s hat slipped off his head mid-sprint and fluttered to the floor, landing right next to 1x4’s feet.

They stared at it for a long, silent moment, then looked back up at the doorway where Chance had disappeared, the sound of drawers opening and closing echoing from somewhere deeper in the house.

“…Is he always like this?” they muttered to themself, wings drooping slightly in exasperation.

They bent down, picking up the fallen hat with hesitant fingers, brushing off the dust as if it were something fragile. It was old—well-loved, perhaps. The fabric was rough beneath their touch, worn thin in places, with small patches where the seams had been clumsily repaired. Whoever had stitched it back together hadn’t done a neat job, thread crisscrossed unevenly, some loops sticking out like scars that refused to fade. 1x4 turned it in their hands, studying the thing with a strange curiosity. There was something oddly human about it, something that spoke of care, of someone trying to hold on to what little they had.

A loud bang slammed through the room, making 1x4 jump nearly out of their seat. The table rattled violently as something heavy landed on it, cards scattering, poker chips bouncing and spinning before settling across the wooden surface. A whole chaotic mess of gambling materials had been dumped onto the table, and behind it stood Chance, grinning like he’d just conquered the world.

1x4 hissed, feathers flaring in pure instinct, clutching the hat tightly against their chest as though it were some kind of shield. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack!?” they snapped, glaring at him, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the faint red still coloring their cheeks from the surprise.

Chance didn’t flinch. If anything, the grin on his face grew wider, almost mischievous, the kind of grin that said ‘yes, that was exactly what I was trying to do’. But 1x4 couldn’t tell what he was really thinking, not with those damn sunglasses hiding his eyes. It was like staring into a void; the reflection of the room distorted on the cracked lenses made him look half ghost, half fool.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people” 1x4 muttered, trying to regain some semblance of composure. They placed the hat carefully on the table, not quite sure why they were being so gentle with it. Maybe because it felt like something important to him, something that, despite his chaos, he actually valued.

Chance leaned on the back of a chair, still smirking, clearly unfazed by the scolding. “Couldn’t help it. You looked like you were inspecting my hat like it was a relic from the gods or something” He chuckled, a low, lazy sound that filled the quiet space between them. “It’s just a hat, y’know?”

1x4 tilted their head, wings twitching slightly. “You fixed it yourself” they pointed out simply, their voice quieter now, but sharper somehow.

That seemed to catch Chance off guard for a split second. His grin faltered, barely, but enough to be noticed by someone like 1x4, who was used to studying people, to reading what was behind every word and gesture. Then, as quickly as it vanished, the grin returned, cocky and effortless.

“Yeah, well” he said, shrugging as he dropped into the chair opposite them, “even cool guys get attached to their stuff sometimes.”

He started shuffling the cards with practiced ease, the sound of paper flicking between his fingers rhythmic and almost hypnotic. 1x4 watched in silence, their earlier annoyance dimming into something else, a quiet curiosity.

Chance flicked them a card across the table, smirk still in place. “Alright, little hacker” he said, voice playful. “Let’s see if your poker face is as good as your code”

Chance began to deal the cards with the kind of flair that only someone who’d done it far too many times could have. Each card snapped crisply against the table, sliding perfectly into place in front of 1x4, then himself. Five each. The motion was smooth, almost theatrical, like he was performing rather than playing. He even twirled the last card between his fingers before letting it fall into place, a smug grin creeping across his face.

1x4 eyed their hand suspiciously, fanning the cards out awkwardly between their fingers. The colorful suits and numbers meant nothing to them; it might as well have been an encrypted code from another language. Still, they weren’t about to admit that. Not to him.

Chance leaned forward on his elbows, resting his chin on one hand as he watched them with lazy amusement. “Alright, rookie” he began, tone dripping with mock seriousness. “First rule of poker, before we even start playing, we gotta make a bet” He gestured toward a pile of small, round tokens that glinted slightly under the light. “These are chips. Not the food kind, unfortunately, but the pretend-money kind. You put some in the middle here to show you’re serious about the game. It’s called the pot”

He pushed four chips forward with exaggerated care, letting them clink together in the center of the table. “This” he said proudly, “is me saying I’m confident enough to win”

1x4 narrowed their eyes. Confident enough to win, huh? That tone, it tickled at the part of them that refused to lose, that spark of competitiveness Telamon had once beaten into them. They reached forward and, without a word, pushed five chips into the center instead. The smirk they gave him afterward was small, but sharp enough to make its point.

Chance’s grin widened immediately. “Oh-ho, I see how it is. Trying to flex, huh? You don’t even know the rules yet!”

“Then explain them faster” 1x4 shot back, wings twitching slightly behind them.

Laughing, Chance started to shuffle through his own cards, holding them close to his chest. “Alright, fine. So, each of us has five cards. The goal is to make the best hand possible. You can trade up to three cards to try and get something better. The better the combination, the higher your chance to win. Pairs, triples, straights, flushes, you’ll get it as we go”

1x4 frowned. “This sounds unnecessarily complicated for a game that uses pictures of hearts and shapes”

“Yeah, well” Chance said with a grin, “that’s why it’s fun. It’s not about luck, it’s about bluffing, making the other guy think you’ve got a better hand than you actually do. Confidence, poker face, and a little bit of acting” He winked dramatically over his sunglasses, which only made 1x4 roll their eyes harder.

He gestured toward their hand. “Alright, pick three cards you don’t like and put them down. I’ll give you new ones”

They did as told, dropping three random cards face-down. He replaced them smoothly, dealing the new ones with the same practiced flick of the wrist. 1x4 stared down at their new cards and, though they didn’t know the meaning, the pattern looked more organized, pleasing, even.

“Now” Chance said, leaning back, “this is where the fun begins. We bet again, based on how good we think our hands are. If you’ve got trash, you can ‘fold’ and give up. If you think you’ve got gold, you raise the bet”

Without missing even a beat, 1x4 reached forward and pushed two more chips into the center of the table, the soft clink of plastic against wood breaking the tension between them. Their expression remained perfectly still, cold, calculating, unreadable in a way that made Chance hesitate for the briefest second. They had mastered that look long before becoming a child again; it was a weapon forged through years of deception and control.

Chance raised a brow, clearly amused but not yet willing to admit defeat. “You don’t even know what you have, do you?” he teased, leaning forward just slightly, his tone playful yet probing, as if trying to read the faintest crack in their façade.

“I don’t need to” 1x4 replied coolly, their voice steady and measured, the slightest curl of a smirk ghosting over their lips. “You just told me confidence wins”

For a heartbeat, the words hung in the air between them like static before a storm. Then Chance broke into laughter, sharp and sudden, clapping his hands once with a sound of pure delight. “Okay, that’s fair! I’ll give you that one” he said, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair, grin wide and genuine. “You’re learning fast, hacker. Alright, let’s see what you’ve got. Show your cards”

1x4 hesitated only a second before laying their cards down with a small, deliberate motion, eyes never leaving his face. Chance mirrored the action, flipping his hand with practiced ease. The two sets of cards rested side by side on the table, his showing two neat pairs, and theirs… a perfect straight.

For a long moment, silence followed. Chance blinked once, then twice, as if trying to process what he was seeing before letting out a long, theatrical groan and falling back into his chair with his arms spread wide. “You have got to be kidding me!” he exclaimed, staring up at the ceiling like the universe itself had betrayed him.

1x4 tilted their head slightly, unsure whether they were supposed to feel proud or confused, but the faintest spark of amusement slipped through anyway. “Did I win?” they asked, voice light but tinged with curiosity, their red eyes narrowing with just a hint of mischief.

Chance sat back up with a dramatic sigh, running a hand through his half-fried hair. “Yeah, you won! Beginner’s luck, that’s what this is. You total little gremlin, you don’t even know what a straight is, do you?” His laughter filled the room, bright and genuine, bouncing off the walls in a way that made it feel warmer than before.

1x4 smirked faintly, their expression softening just enough as they reached forward to gather the pile of chips into a small, triumphant heap in front of them. “Maybe you just underestimated me” they said, their voice laced with quiet satisfaction.

Chance grinned, resting his elbows on the table and leaning forward again. “Oh, I definitely did” he admitted, the words carrying a note of respect that hadn’t been there before. “And that’s on me. Alright, hacker, round two? Let’s see if that luck holds up when I’m actually trying”

For a moment, 1x4 just stared at him, that same faint smile still tugging at their lips. Then, slowly, they nodded, wings twitching ever so slightly behind them. “Deal the cards”

Chance shuffled the cards again, his hands moving in a smooth, practiced rhythm, each flick of his wrist echoing softly in the dimly lit room. The tension that had once filled the space was gone, replaced by something easier, lighter, almost domestic. 1x4 sat across from him, watching with keen eyes, memorizing every movement, as if the motion of dealing cards was a secret worth decoding.

“Alright” Chance said with a grin, sliding five cards across the table toward them. “Let’s see if lightning strikes twice. Don’t think I’ll go easy this round”

“I didn’t expect you to” 1x4 replied smoothly, their voice steady and calm as they gathered the cards in their small hands. They studied them carefully, pretending to understand what they were doing, though most of their confidence came from sheer bravado. Across from them, Chance’s grin widened as he placed his chips in the center of the table with a flourish.

“Call” he said, eyes hidden behind his cracked sunglasses but amusement obvious in his tone.

1x4 mirrored the motion, dropping their chips into the pile one by one, the soft clinking noise somehow satisfying. “Then I raise” they said boldly, sliding two more chips forward.

Chance let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Getting cocky, huh? I like it” He tossed in his own chips, leaning back in his chair as he added, “Just don’t cry when I win them back”

They both revealed their cards at once. Chance had a full house, smug satisfaction spreading across his face as he leaned back, clearly expecting victory. But when he glanced down at 1x4’s cards, his expression froze. They had somehow, impossibly, managed another straight.

“You’re joking” he said flatly, staring at the cards as if they’d personally insulted him. “There’s no way, again?!”

1x4’s lips twitched into a grin, one hand coming up to cover their mouth as they tried, and failed, to hold back laughter. “Maybe you’re just not as good as you thought”

Chance groaned, running both hands down his face dramatically. “Unbelievable. I lose to a baby hacker with demon eyes and beginner’s luck. Builderman’s gonna love this story”

Before 1x4 could retort, the air shifted, something cold and heavy pressed through the room, so sudden that even Chance’s grin faltered. The faint ticking sound of a broken clock echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once. The lights flickered once, then twice, shadows twisting unnaturally across the walls.

Then came the whisper. Soft, distorted, an eerie, dragging voice that didn’t belong to either of them.

“Two… time…”

Chance’s reaction was instant. His chair screeched backward as he stumbled to his feet, eyes darting toward the darkness of the hallway. “Nope. Nope, I’m out” he said quickly, snatching up his hat and nearly tripping over his own boots as he bolted from the room. “You deal with your ghostly clock nonsense alone!”

1x4 blinked, still seated at the table, the cards scattered and chips rolling toward the floor. For a moment, they stared after him in stunned silence, then burst out laughing, the sound sharp and unrestrained, echoing in the now-empty kitchen.

They leaned back in the chair, arms crossed as the laughter slowly faded into a soft chuckle. “Scared of a whisper” they muttered, a faint smirk curling on their lips. “Some gambler you are, Chance”

The broken light above flickered again, and the faint ticking sound returned, steady now, almost patient. But 1x4 didn’t move. They just smiled to themselves, alone at the table surrounded by scattered cards and echoes of laughter, waiting to see what would happen next.

Chapter Text

1x4 stayed at the table longer than they intended, drumming their fingers against the surface as the minutes passed and Chance never wandered back. Eventually, they accepted the obvious, he’d run off somewhere else, probably chasing another distraction, and with a soft huff, they began gathering the scattered poker materials. They didn’t know where any of it was supposed to go, so they simply grouped everything into a neat pile in the corner of the table, arranging cards, chips, and the abandoned hat with surprising care. Cleaning gave their hands something to do, and they sank into the quiet of it, not noticing the soft footsteps coming up behind them until someone spoke.

“Ah! s-sorry! I thought there was no one here!”

1x4 spun around sharply, their shoulders tense, only for the tension to melt immediately when they recognized the voice. Noob. Their gaze softened, and a low hum escaped them as they sat back down, eyes fixed curiously on the nervous survivor. Out of all the survivors, Noob was… tolerable. Maybe even more than tolerable. Maybe he was one of their favorites, not that they’d ever admit such a thing out loud. They’d rather combust.

It was then they noticed something odd: strands of colored string looped between Noob’s fingers, trailing from his hands like vines. 1x4 tilted their head sharply, the silent question loud as a shout. The tilt made Noob’s eyes widen in immediate panic, as if caught doing something forbidden.

“O–oh! This?” he stammered, lifting the strings as if presenting evidence in a trial. “I was, um… I was trying to make some bracelets for everyone. Like… friendship bracelets.” His voice went a little higher at the end, cracking with anxious uncertainty. “Do you… maybe… want to join me?”

He looked ready to apologize again, shoulders curling inward as though prepared for rejection. Meanwhile, 1x4 simply stared, taking in the bright colors, the small pile of tangled thread on the table, the pure sincerity radiating off him. Something warm flickered across their expression before they leaned forward, elbows on the table, studying Noob as if he’d just handed them a puzzle.

“…sure?” they answered, the word coming out oddly cautious, as if they were agreeing to something dangerous instead of craft-related. But the truth was simpler, they were curious. Curious about the bright strings, curious about the strange calm around Noob, curious about why he even thought they’d want to join him. And curiosity, for 1x4, was usually enough reason.

Noob’s face lit up with a relieved, almost disbelieving smile. He hurried around the table and sat across from them, spreading out little bundles of thread like a dealer laying out cards. Up close, 1x4 noticed that Noob had clearly been practicing: some bracelets were neatly braided, others crooked but full of effort, and a few were just tragic knots attempting to pass as decoration. Noob gently pushed a small cluster of strings toward them. “You can pick the colors you like! Then you just… braid them together. Or twist them. Or knot them. Whatever works!”

1x4 stared at the strings as if they were hostile creatures. They picked up three pieces: black, red, and a dull green. They held them in both hands, already confused. Noob demonstrated slowly, looping the threads over one another with patient, careful movements. 1x4 leaned closer, eyes following every shift of his fingers with intense concentration, as though he were performing surgery rather than braiding.

When they tried to imitate the motion, everything immediately went wrong. One string slipped from their grip. The remaining two tangled. The third somehow tied itself into a knot around their thumb. They stared at the disaster in their hands with the blankest expression imaginable while Noob offered a sympathetic, gentle laugh.

“It’s okay! It takes practice. You’re doing great so far!”

“I am not” 1x4 muttered flatly, glaring at the thread as if it had personally insulted them. They tried again, gripping the strands tighter this time, too tight. One snapped in half. They growled under their breath, irritation starting to simmer. Noob winced softly, reaching over to help untangle the mess, but 1x4 snatched their hands back instinctively, refusing help even while obviously needing it.

Noob simply waited, letting them try again at their own pace. This attempt went even worse. The strings twisted into an impossible knot, a knot that somehow grew tighter every time they tried to fix it. 1x4’s eye twitched. They pulled harder, mistake. The knot sealed itself like a trap. Noob blinked as 1x4 slowly set the tangled bundle onto the table and stared at it with all the silent fury of someone resisting the urge to destroy it with fire.

“You’re really trying!” Noob said encouragingly, his voice high and nervous, aware of how close 1x4 was to absolutely losing it.

1x4 dragged a hand down their face, exhaling sharply through their nose. “This is stupid. These strings are defective. This is your fault.” They jabbed a finger at the threads as if accusing them of sabotage, though their cheeks warmed faintly with embarrassment.

Noob shook his head, smiling in that soft, patient way he always had. Instead of correcting them, he gently slid a new set of strings toward 1x4. “Here. Try again. And this time… go slower. I’ll do it with you”

1x4 reluctantly picked up the new threads, glancing at Noob as he began another slow demonstration. This time, despite the frustration simmering below their skin, they didn’t pull away when his hands briefly guided theirs into the correct motion. 

Their fingers twitched at first, tense and unsure, but Noob kept his touch light, barely there, like he was trying not to spook a scared animal.

“See? Just cross this one over… good. Then pull this one forward, and hold it here” Noob murmured, his voice calm in a way that almost irritated 1x4, only because it worked. They followed the motions stiffly, eyes narrowed in deep concentration, jaw clenched like they were performing high-stakes surgery instead of trying to braid colored strings together.

Noob let go once he was sure they had the rhythm, but he stayed close, watching carefully, ready to step in if the strands began to revolt again. Surprisingly, they didn’t, at least not immediately. The braid formed slowly, uneven and lopsided, but it formed, and that alone earned a tiny flicker of pride across 1x4’s expression, too faint for anyone except someone watching as closely as Noob to notice.

“There you go!” Noob said, the words bright with genuine delight. “You’re getting it! It’s already looking better”

1x4 huffed, unsure whether they wanted to accept the praise or reject it out of habit. “It looks like something stepped on it,” they muttered, eyeing the misshapen braid with distrust. “This is crooked. And this part looks like a knot. Actually, this whole thing is a knot”

“No, no! it’s supposed to look like that. Well… sort of. Mine didn’t look great the first time either” Noob admitted, lifting his wrist to show a bracelet that was noticeably crooked. 1x4 leaned in slightly, examining it with silent judgment before turning back to their own creation.

They tried to follow the pattern again, but halfway through a strand slipped free. The braid unraveled just enough to spark immediate panic. “No, no, no, no, don’t-” Their hands jerked, threatening to destroy what little progress they made.

Noob quickly reached out, gently catching their wrists before they could rip the entire thing apart. “Wait! stop, it’s okay! Just hold it like this… see? You didn’t mess it up. We can fix it”

1x4 froze, staring at his hands holding theirs. The tension slowly left their shoulders. Noob guided the loose string back into place, moving it with calm, steady movements. “Keep breathing” he said softly, as if talking to a nervous animal. “It’s just thread. You’re doing fine. Try again”

It wasn’t often anyone spoke to 1x4 like that, softly, kindly, without fear or hostility. For a moment, they didn’t know how to react. But they nodded, a small, reluctant gesture, and returned to the braid.

Together, they continued weaving. Noob occasionally adjusted their grip, gently nudged a finger, or pointed out where a strand needed tightening. Every time 1x4 muttered an insult at the bracelet, Noob countered with patient encouragement. When 1x4 pulled too hard, Noob reminded them to be gentle. When they got frustrated, Noob made a small joke that earned the tiniest twitch of a smile.

Slowly, the bracelet grew longer. Still crooked. Still imperfect. But unmistakably a bracelet.

“You’re doing it” Noob said quietly when they reached the end. “All you need to do now is tie it off. Here, let me help with that part.”

He took the nearly finished braid and tied the ends into a neat little knot, leaving enough string for either wearing or gifting. Then he placed it back in 1x4’s hands with a proud smile.

“There. Your first bracelet”

1x4 stared down at the bracelet for a long moment, thumb brushing over the uneven braid. It was crooked in some places, too tight in others, the colors clashing in a way that technically shouldn’t work but somehow still did. It looked like something made by someone who had fought a war with the materials, because they had. Yet it was theirs. Their creation. 

Something small and handmade in a world where their hands usually only shaped destruction, code fractures, and the unraveling of others’ lives. They blinked slowly, almost dazed, before tightening their grip on it and pulling the little braid against their chest. Their small hands curled around it, holding with a desperate kind of gentleness, protective but trembling, as though the bracelet were something fragile that might vanish if they loosened their fingers even slightly. 

Their palms pressed together so tightly it hurt, but they didn’t stop; the pressure grounded them, reminded them that this small thing was real and warm and present in their hands.

Is this what Telamon felt when he created them? Was this the strange mix of pride and terror and awe that came with making something that hadn’t existed before? Did he look at them the way they were looking at this misshapen braid, imperfect, flawed, uneven, but somehow still precious? 

The thought struck violently, catching them off guard and stopping their breath for a brief instant. They didn’t want to think about him, not now, not ever if they could help it. They wanted to be angry, they wanted to hate him, but the image wouldn’t leave their mind: Telamon examining them with the quiet intensity of a creator.

Before they could pull themselves out of that spiraling memory, something warm and soft collided with them in a quick, startled burst of motion. Arms wrapped around them in a sudden hug, squeezing tightly enough to jolt them out of their thoughts. 1x4 froze, eyes blowing wide, the bracelet nearly slipping from their fingers. Noob jerked back almost instantly as if he had touched fire, stumbling a step away with his hands held up in panic.

“Oh, oh gosh I’m sorry!” Noob blurted out, his voice rising with every word until it cracked. “I didn’t think, I just uhm you looked like you needed a hug or maybe you didn’t or maybe you did but I shouldn’t have and I really didn’t mean to freak you out and I’m so, so sorry-”

He rambled faster and faster, voice tripping over itself like he couldn’t find the brakes, his cheeks bright red and his hands flapping anxiously as if trying to erase the last ten seconds from existence. 1x4 just stared at him, still clutching the bracelet, completely silent and unsure whether they wanted to hiss, yell, hide, or just… sit there and let their heart stop sprinting. 

Noob kept rambling, spiraling deeper into apology after apology, until something shifted behind him. A presence, solid and impossible to ignore, settled into the room. Noob stiffened instantly, words dying in his throat as a shadow fell over him.

Builderman stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised in a judgmental half-amused, half-exasperated expression that suggested he had walked in on something far more chaotic than he expected. His eyes moved from the mess of thread on the table, to Noob’s deer-in-headlights panic, then finally to 1x4 clutching the crooked bracelet like it was a lifeline.

1x4 exhaled sharply, head dropping back with a groan. Of course. Of course they couldn’t go five minutes without some authority figure showing up. They couldn’t escape interactions even if they tried. 

They pressed the bracelet tighter to their chest, glaring at the ceiling as if the universe itself was responsible for this humiliation. Builderman stepped further into the room, and Noob visibly shrank, clutching his half-finished bracelet like it might shield him from judgment. 1x4 just dragged a hand down their face, silently cursing every higher entity in this realm.

Why, they wondered with pure existential exhaustion, couldn’t they be left alone for five minutes?