Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sky above the Heights was the color of bruised peaches, soft and rotting at the edges. Dusekkar blinked against the light, his antlers catching the last rays of sun like antennae tuned to a dying frequency. The wind whispered in tongues he almost understood, brushing past the blue pumpkin he cradled like a relic. Inside it, the scrolls rustled. Urgent. Sacred. Builderman was waiting.

He stepped away from the market stall, leaving behind the scent of crushed thyme and the echo of a voice—was it Shedletsky’s? No, no. Shedletsky was in the sky now, sword raised against the moon. Dusekkar had seen it. He had seen it.

“Dusekkar,” came the voice again, low and metallic. “Stay close.”

He turned.

The crowd pressed around him, faceless and humming. Their robes shimmered with runes he couldn’t read. Their mouths moved in reverse. Dusekkar ducked beneath a hanging lantern shaped like a screaming face and slipped into an alley, the walls breathing gently as he passed.

The alley narrowed, then widened into a courtyard paved with memory. The stones were etched with Builderman’s sigil—he had carved them himself, hadn’t he? Back when the world was still made of code and kindness. Dusekkar knelt, tracing the lines with a trembling finger.

“I bring the plans,” he said to the wind. “The new modules. The expansion. He must approve them before the eclipse.”

The scrolls whispered again. He kept them to his chest like a prayer, staring down at them.

“List-”

He blinked. The word shimmered, then vanished. A trick of the ink. Or the curse. The hat—yes, the hat. The cursed blue thing stolen from 2x2, the god of recursion and madness. It pulsed against his scalp, a heartbeat not his own.

A shadow passed overhead. Dusekkar looked up. The sky had turned to glass, and something moved behind it—an eye, vast and lidless. Watching.

“They know,” he muttered. “They know I’m here.”

He stood; scrolls clutched to his chest and began to walk. The buildings leaned inward, whispering secrets. A door opened to reveal a staircase spiraling upward into nowhere. He ignored it. Builderman was not there. Builderman was somewhere else. Waiting.

Footsteps echoed behind him. Slow. Deliberate.

1x1x1x1.

He fled.

The streets twisted. He was in the Heights, but not the Heights he remembered. The cobblestones shifted in directions unfamiliar. The lampposts wept oil instead of the usual light magic. His heart thumped against his chest like a frightened rabbit. 

Builderman’s voice called from a window: “Dusekkar, you old fool. You’re late.”

“I’m coming!” he cried. “I have the scrolls!”

But the window was empty, and silent in response.

He turned a corner and found himself in a garden of rust. Flowers bloomed in reverse. A statue of Shedletsky stood in the center, wings spread, sword buried in his own chest.

“Traitor,” Dusekkar whispered. “You joined the birds.”

The sun was gone. The sky was a wound. Dusekkar’s feet ached. He sat on a bench carved from forgotten code and opened the scrolls.  They were blank.

“No,” he said. “No, Builderman needs them.”

A voice called gently behind him. “You’re lost.”

He turned. 1x1x1x1 stood there, crown glinting, eyes unreadable.

“You followed me,” Dusekkar said. “Get away! I know what you did. I’ll give you only one warning!”

“I want to take you home.”

Dusekkar stood, backing away. “You were made from Telamon’s hate: creation of hatred. You don’t understand. You never built anything. You only destroy.”

“I didn’t destroy you.”

The words hung in the air like frost.

Dusekkar ran. The world blurred. He was in the old HQ now, corridors lined with memories. Builderman’s laughter echoed. Shedletsky’s sarcasm danced like fireflies. He opened a door and found a room filled crates.

He chose the safest looking one and placed the scrolls inside. “Safe,” he said. “Safe until the meeting.”

A hand touched his shoulder.

He turned, ready to cast, to burn, to erase.

But it was 1x1x1x1. No spell came. Only silence.

“You wandered,” the creature said. “You always wander at sunset.”

“I was delivering,” Dusekkar said. “Builderman—he’s waiting.”

“He’s gone.”

“No. No, he’s in the Heights. He carved the courtyard. He—”

“He died, Dusekkar. Long ago.”

Dusekkar blinked. The scrolls were a grocery list. The courtyard was empty.

“I remember,” he said. “I remember the launch. The modules. The sky was—”

“You remember pieces.”

Dusekkar sat. The bench was cold. The stars above flickered like dying code.

1x1x1x1 stepped closer, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “It’s time to go home.”

Dusekkar hesitated, eyes flickering like fading stars.

“Come,” 1x1x1x1 said, extending a hand not just to hold, but to guide.

Slowly, Dusekkar reached out, fingers trembling as they met the cold strength.

Together, they began to walk away from the shadows, the night folding quietly around them.

They walked in silence. The streets softened. The terror of the dark fading with the gently lit lampposts. The quiet of the night a soothing balm to the moment of terror.

“I saw Builderman,” Dusekkar said.

“I know.”

“He was proud of me.”

“He was.”

“I miss him.”

“I know.”

They reached the apartment. 1x1x1x1 opened the door. Inside, the lights were warm. The walls hummed gently.

Dusekkar sat at the table. The scrolls lay beside him. He stared at them.

“Did I deliver them?”

“Yes,” 1x1x1x1 said. “You did.”

Dusekkar smiled. “Good. He’ll approve the project.”

1x1x1x1 nodded. “He always did.”

The apartment smelled of worn stone and faint herbs. 1x1x1x1 moved quietly to the small kitchen, his movements deliberate and calm. The soft clink of utensils punctuated the warm silence as he prepared a simple meal. He added ingredients with care, the steam rising in lazy spirals that seemed to carry whispered secrets.

Into the bowl, he mixed Dusekkar’s prescribed medicine, the bitter powder dissolving silently, unseen but potent.

"Eat," 1x1x1x1 said, placing the bowl before Dusekkar with a steady hand.

Dusekkar’s fingers trembled as he reached for the food, eyes flickering between the bowl and 1x1x1x1’s unreadable gaze.

"Why do you stay?" he asked, voice fragile.

"Because you need me," 1x1x1x1 replied softly, the words carrying a weight beyond their sound, as if holding back from saying more.

The room held its breath.

Dusekkar ate slowly, each bite a strange mix of familiarity and bitterness, the medicine weaving its quiet spell.

When the bowl was empty, 1x1x1x1 rose and said, "Come. You need to get ready for bed."

He guided Dusekkar to the bathroom. The tiles gleamed cold under the flickering light. As 1x1x1x1 began undressing him, Dusekkar caught his reflection in the mirror.

The face was the same as always—blue hair, antlers proud and curling, robes faded but intact. He looked immortal, untouched by time, with only the faintest trace of weariness on an otherwise wrinkle-less face.

But the eyes—those eyes were lost. Glazed over, distant, as if staring through the glass at a world he could no longer grasp. His tail flicked once, a subtle twitch betraying his confusion and unease at the sight.

1x1x1x1 moved with quiet efficiency, filling the tub with warm water that steamed softly in the cool air. He helped Dusekkar ease into the bath, the archmage’s limbs heavy and reluctant. The water embraced him like a fading memory, soothing yet fragile.

Hands steady and sure, 1x1x1x1 began washing Dusekkar’s hair, fingers tracing gentle patterns through the tangled blue strands. The scent of herbs and something faintly metallic filled the room, mingling with the quiet drip of water.

Dusekkar’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused and drifting. Words tangled on his tongue, fragments of thought slipping away before they could form. "Water... warm..." he murmured, voice thin and distant.

1x1x1x1’s touch was patient, steady, a tether in the swirling fog of Dusekkar’s mind. "Relax," he said softly. "You’re safe."

A faint shiver ran through Dusekkar’s frame, his tail flicking once in confusion as his gaze caught the mirror’s edge. The reflection stared back—unchanged, eternal—but the eyes were hollow, lost in a sea of forgetfulness.

"Who... am I?" Dusekkar whispered, voice barely audible.

"You are Dusekkar," 1x1x1x1 replied, continuing to wash the blue strands with gentle care. 

“That’s a nice name.” 

The water lapped quietly around them, a fragile sanctuary from the unraveling storm within Dusekkar’s mind. He closed his eyes again, surrendering to the warmth, the touch, the momentary peace that slipped through the cracks of his fading memory.

1x1x1x1 finished rinsing the last of the suds from Dusekkar’s hair and gently helped him out of the tub. Water dripped from his robes and antlers as he stood unsteadily, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him.

"Let me get you into something comfortable," 1x1x1x1 said softly, producing a set of faded pajamas from a nearby chair. The fabric smelled faintly of lavender and old stone.

He moved with careful patience, making sure Dusekkar wasn’t dripping wet, dabbing at the dampness with a soft towel before beginning to dress him. The simple act of pulling the soft fabric over Dusekkar’s arms and legs was slow and deliberate, a quiet ritual of care in the dim light.

Dusekkar’s fingers trembled as 1x1x1x1 carefully dressed him, the simple act of pulling the soft fabric over his arms and legs grounding him in the present. His tail flicked once more, a subtle sign of lingering confusion..

"There," 1x1x1x1 said, adjusting the collar gently. "Rest now."

Dusekkar nodded slowly, eyes heavy but still distant, as 1x1x1x1 guided him toward the bedroom, the quiet hum of the apartment wrapping around them like a protective spell.

“I need… need to… call… John.”

“Tomorrow.” 

1x1x1x1 made sure Dusekkar was settled into bed, the soft sheets rising and falling with his shallow breaths. His hands moved with careful precision, smoothing the blankets over the archmage’s frail form.

"Sleep now," 1x1x1x1 said gently, voice steady and low, a quiet command wrapped in tenderness.

Dusekkar’s eyelids fluttered, words slipping from his lips in broken fragments. 

The exhaustion weighed heavy, pulling him deeper into the shadows behind his eyes.

1x1x1x1’s eyes darkened with a shadow of anger, a storm beneath his calm exterior. He thought of Telamon. Shedletsky—their cruel creator—who had cursed Dusekkar with that cursed pumpkin helm, binding him to endless torment of a deteriorating mind in an unchanged body. The same man who formed them as an excuse to not face his own emotions. 

"Dead," 1x1x1x1 whispered to himself, voice low and bitter. "And yet even past his death his torment remains."

He lingered a moment longer, watching the slow descent into sleep, then turned quietly toward the door, the soft click of it closing a final note in the evening’s fragile symphony...

Shedletsky was dead.

Builderman was dead.

But the unjustly immortal mage remained, and for the first time the creation of hatred felt more than detestation for others.

Chapter Text

The lamp sputtered on the workbench, its flame bending against the draft. 1x1x1x1 sat hunched over steel, crown tilted, red eyes steady as they drew the whetstone across a blade. The rasp of metal against stone filled the apartment, steady and deliberate, a rhythm that had become their livelihood- or at least what they tried to make their livelihood.

They worked with mechanical precision. Each tool was lifted, examined, turned in skeletal hands, then pressed against the stone. A carpenter’s chisel dulled from use. A knife nicked at the edge. A plane blade worn smooth. All of them waiting to be sharpened, all of them destined for robux. Sparks caught in the lamplight, brief flashes against the green glow of their ribcage.

This was their commission work now. Once, they had been a terror—an exile born of hatred, feared across Robloxia. Now, they honed chisels for builders, knives for merchants, blades for craftsmen. The irony did not trouble them. They did not dwell on what they had been- they had no choice. Not after… They thought only of the task: press, draw, lift, repeat.

The apartment was quiet except for the hum of old enchantments and the rasp of steel. Outside, the city flickered with neon, but inside, the world was narrow: stone, steel, silence.

They paused occasionally to test an edge against their thumb, feeling for the bite of sharpness. When satisfied, they set the tool aside, stacking it neatly with the others. Their movements were efficient, economical. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

It was not pride that drove them. It was a necessity. Commissions meant robux. Robux meant food, herbs, warmth.

They worked without thought of themselves.

Then the silence broke.

“…Luke… Luke was smiling… too much… it wasn’t him, it wasn’t—”

The voice was cracked, trembling, broken into fragments.

1x1x1x1 froze, blade halfway across the stone.

Dusekkar was pacing the corridor, robes twisted, antlers scraping the plaster. His eyes were wild, unfocused, blue hair tangled from sleep. He clutched the replica staff, dragging it against the wall with a hollow scrape. His steps were uneven, frantic, circling the narrow hall like a beast trapped in its cage.

“April Fool’s… the day… everything wrong… faces… faces weren’t right. I saw him. Luke. He looked at me—no, not at me, at something else. His grin… too wide. Like… like the code was laughing. He’s not safe. He’s not safe.”

He stopped suddenly, raised the staff, and whispered a spell. The syllables cracked in his throat, fragments of a teleportation incantation. “Take me… take me back… servers… fix it… fix him…” He slammed the staff down, expecting the floor to split, the air to shimmer, the world to bend.

Nothing happened.

The replica was inert, powerless. Only a dull thud echoed through the hall.

The rasp of steel had stopped. The half‑sharpened blade lay abandoned on the bench, whetstone cooling in the lamplight. 1x1x1x1 rose, crown glinting, their movements unhurried but decisive.

They crossed the room, leaving behind the neat stack of sharpened tools. Their hands, still smelling faintly of oil and steel, reached for Dusekkar’s shoulders.

“Breathe,” they said.

Dusekkar’s face twisted with fury. “Why… why won’t it… it used to… I could… I could go anywhere. I could help. Now… nothing. Nothing.” His voice collapsed into broken syllables. “Gone… gone…”

He staggered, the false staff clattering to the floor. His antlers gouged the ceiling, his hands pressed to his head. His tail lashed once, a nervous twitch. His voice rose again, sharp and desperate: “They’ll kill him. Or… or banish him. Like the shadow one. Like… like the adversary. He’ll be gone. He’ll be gone and I… I can’t… I can’t…”

His eyes darted wildly, searching corners, blind to the figure standing beside him. He did not see 1x1x1x1 at his shoulder, silent and steady, the very exile he feared Luke would become.

Dusekkar shook his head violently, pacing faster. “No, no, I can fix it. I should... I need…” His words broke into a shout. “Teleport! Why won’t it—why won’t it work!”

He slammed his fists against the wall, antlers rattling. “Teleport! Teleport! Tele-”

His breath came in ragged bursts, chest heaving through coughs and sputters, eyes wet with fury and fear. “They’ll banish him,” he repeated, voice breaking. “Luke will die, or be banished, like… like the shadow one. Gone. Gone...”

1x1x1x1 kept steady hands on his shoulders. “Breathe,” they repeated.

They guided him gently back toward the bedroom, each step slow, deliberate. Dusekkar resisted, muttering about grins and death and banishment, but the steady pressure of 1x1x1x1’s hand anchored him. The apartment’s hum grew softer, the shadows retreating.

In the bedroom, 1x1x1x1 sat him on the bed. They retrieved the fallen replica staff, placed it beside him. “Your weapon is here,” they said. “No one has taken it.”

Dusekkar blinked, confusion clouding his face. “Luke… grin… hacked… killed… banished…”

“It ended long ago,” 1x1x1x1 said. “The servers are quiet now. You are safe.”

Dusekkar’s breath slowed, though his eyes remained distant. He clutched the blanket as though it were armor. “Useless,” he whispered again, weaker now. “I… sleep while they… while Luke dies… while Luke is…”

1x1x1x1 adjusted the blanket, smoothing it over his frail form. “Not useless,” they said firmly. 

The word lingered in the air, heavy as a spell.

Dusekkar’s eyes fluttered. His lips moved faintly, whispering fragments. “grin… hacked… banished…”, but the fury ebbed. His body sank into the mattress, exhaustion pulling him down.

1x1x1x1 returned to the workbench. The blade still lay unfinished, the whetstone cooling in the lamplight. They picked it up, set the edge against stone, and resumed the rhythm: press, draw, lift, repeat.

The rasp of steel filled the apartment once more. Sparks flickered, brief flashes against the green glow of their ribcage. Outside, the city hummed, but inside, the world narrowed again to steel and stone.

They did not think about the incident, or about Luke, or about banishment. They did not think about themselves, even if their bared teeth wished to bite back into their thoughts; of their own growing weakness. They thought only of the task.