Chapter Text
The survivors returned little by little, spreading out through the main corridor like a tired but victorious tide.
Their footsteps echoed against the floor, hollow and almost mechanical, clashing with the low murmur of restrained laughter, overlapping comments, and nervous jokes slipping between them.
There was dust on their clothes, stains of dried blood—some their own, some not—and that very specific kind of exhaustion that only comes after being far too close to death… and walking away alive.
It had been a successful run.
The doors sealed shut behind the last person to enter, cutting off the outside with a hydraulic hiss that sounded almost comforting. Inside, the air was warmer. More stable. The yellowish glow of the internal lighting washed over the corridors, creating a false sense of home, as if that artificial dimension could, for a few hours at least, pretend it wasn’t built atop ruins, mistakes, and piled-up corpses.
Elliot was the first to break the lingering tension.
“Well,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “I think this calls for something better than tasteless rations.”
He didn’t need to say anything else. Everyone knew what he meant.
Hours later, the smell of hot pizza seeped through the base, slipping through cracks, corners, and memories. Elliot had used what little remained of the “real” ingredients—the kind saved only for special occasions. The dough wasn’t perfect, the cheese melted unevenly, and the sauce had a faint metallic tang… but it was hot food, shared food, made with intention. And in that place, that meant everything.
The main table slowly filled up. Chairs scraping. Improvised plates. Laughter that sounded more genuine now, less forced. Chance shuffled the poker cards clumsily, letting the sound of cardboard sliding against itself set an odd but familiar rhythm.
“No cheating,” Chance warned, even though everyone knew someone would try anyway.
“Since when are we fair?” Shedletsky replied, earning a round of laughter.
For a moment, the atmosphere almost felt… normal.
Too normal.
Meanwhile, outside—separated by a wall, a door, and an unspoken decision—007n7 sat alone.
It wasn’t the first time.
It probably wouldn’t be the last.
He had taken his slice of pizza and settled onto one of the external platforms, where the yellow light from inside blurred and blended into the perpetual darkness of the dimension. The surface beneath him was cold even through his clothes. There was no wind, but there was a constant pressure in the air, as if the entire place breathed out of sync with him.
He took a slow bite.
The cheese was too hot. It burned his palate a little, but he didn’t react. It wasn’t worth it.
From there, he could hear the others’ voices. Not the exact words, but the tone. The laughter, the soft thuds against the table, the unmistakable sound of cards being tossed carelessly. Every noise reached him muffled, distorted by the structure, as if it came from another plane of existence.
Maybe it did.
The interior light cast long shadows outward, stretching and warping them across the ground and walls. Human figures that elongated and broke apart, blending into the infinite black beyond. The border between the two worlds—the “home” and the void—had never been clearer… or crueler.
007n7 chewed slowly.
He knew exactly what he was to them.
It wasn’t a surprise.
He was hated. Feared. Silently despised and, sometimes, not so silently.
His past followed him like a stain that couldn’t be scrubbed away. It didn’t matter how much time had passed, how many times he had helped, how often he had put his own body between danger and the others. To many of them, he would always be that.
The hacker.
The screw-up.
The father of the monster that kills them.
Because that’s what his son was to them. A monster. Something forced, shaped, manipulated until it became a weapon of death.
And even though 007n7 knew—understood every step, every conditioning process, every implanted lie—the world didn’t care about nuance. It only saw results.
Blood.
Screams.
Consequences.
He could feel the stares even when they weren’t there. That constant sensation of being watched, evaluated, judged. As if every breath he took needed justification. As if his very existence was a debt he would never finish paying.
But everything was fine.
It didn’t affect him at all.
It didn’t affect him at all that his son had been forced to kill. That his childhood, identity, and ability to choose had been ripped away. That he had been made to carry acts he never chose to commit.
It didn’t affect him at all that they treated him worse than a cockroach. That they whispered when he passed. That voices dropped, shoulders tensed, that no one—never—sat beside him if they could avoid it.
Everything was fine.
He told himself that as he swallowed another bite.
And another.
The pizza was cold by the time he reached the last mouthful.
He gave it one last look, as if it were more than food. As if it symbolized everything that never quite fit. Then he finished it and wiped his hands on his pants without much care.
He looked up.
The stars were there. They always were.
The sky of that dimension was a mockery of nature. Too perfect. Too symmetrical. Constellations repeated with mathematical precision, patterns that never changed. Everything looked robotic, artificial—like a simulation frozen in time.
And yet…
It was nostalgic.
Because once, that hadn’t mattered.
Once, just looking at them had been enough.
Because once, that sky had been different.
Not because of what it was—but because of who he watched it with.
He remembered c00lkidd.
Not as a distant figure. Not as a blurred memory.
But as his son sitting beside him, clumsily pointing at the sky, inventing stories where none existed.
“That one looks like a horse,” c00lkidd had said once, with that childlike certainty that didn’t need proof.
“It’s not a horse,” he’d replied. “It’s the constellation Leo.”
“Then it’s… A horse called Leo?”
his son had insisted, laughing.
They always watched the stars together.
It was one of the few moments when c00lkidd seemed… calm. Where there were no rounds, no violence, no imposed killing. Just him, his father, and a sky.
007n7 swallowed.
Something felt… off.
He narrowed his eyes.
There was something in the sky that didn’t fit. An irregularity. A point that didn’t follow the pattern. It hadn’t been there before. He was sure of it. He knew that sky better than most. He had stared at it too many times not to notice an anomaly.
The point grew.
Slowly at first. Then a little faster.
A shadow against the black.
He stood up.
The air felt heavier now. A low hum began vibrating in his ears, as if the dimension itself were reacting to whatever was approaching.
“What the fuck…?” he muttered.
The object was descending.
Too fast.
Too big.
There was no time to warn anyone.
No time to run.
Just one second of absolute understanding.
And then—
CRASH
007n7 was clearly not the only one who heard it.
The sound had been far too violent, far too out of place to ignore or dismiss as anything else. It wasn’t a distant echo or a subtle vibration—it was a brutal impact, a roar that tore through the base and shook the walls as if the dimension itself had been struck.
In seconds, everything changed.
Laughter died instantly.
Conversations were cut off mid-sentence.
Hands reached for weapons on pure reflex.
The doors flew open, and one by one, the survivors rushed outside, forming an improvised but solid front. No one needed to give orders. The body remembered what the mind hadn’t caught up with yet: something unknown had arrived, and that was never a good sign.
Everyone was outside now.
Fully on guard.
The sentinels moved first, positioning themselves at the front like a living wall. Their bodies tensed, sensors active, weapons raised and ready to fire at the slightest sign of hostility. They weren’t just protecting the others—they were protecting the idea of control itself, of not being caught off guard again.
The air was thick.
Dense smoke hung before them, obscuring their view, saturating everything with a metallic, foreign smell, as if whatever had crashed didn’t belong to any known place. For several long, unbearable seconds, no one could see clearly.
Only the lingering hum of the impact remained.
Then, slowly, the smoke began to clear.
Silhouettes came first.
Then shapes.
And finally… the truth.
What had crashed wasn’t an ordinary ship.
It wasn’t a combat vehicle.
It wasn’t a recognizable mechanical structure.
It was a UFO.
Its surface had no straight edges or sharp angles. It looked organic, as if it had been grown rather than built. Light slid across it in iridescent hues—greens and turquoises that shifted depending on how you looked at it.
A heavy silence fell over everyone.
“...0k4y,” Veeronica murmured, barely audible, “Wh4t th3 fuck?”
Before anyone could react, an opening formed in the ship with a wet, almost biological sound. The hatch opened slowly, like the UFO was breathing.
And then they came out.
Several creatures descended from inside, moving with unsettling coordination. They were humanoid, without question, but something about them was deeply wrong. Their bodies were covered in smooth, luminous skin in various shades—mostly green and teal—that seemed to emit a soft glow of their own.
And then Builderman noticed.
“…They look like us.”
It wasn’t an exaggeration or stress-induced hallucination.
One of the creatures stepped forward.
Its posture.
Its height.
The way it tilted its head.
It was Elliot.
Or something dangerously close to Elliot.
“Wherarp ararp weep durp?” the creature said, its voice bubbly and strange, as if each word were being forced through a throat not built for that language.
007n7 frowned immediately.
That language didn’t resemble anything he had ever heard. It had no recognizable roots, no familiar patterns. It was completely alien.
Before anyone could respond, another creature moved forward, partially positioning itself in front of Elliot’s counterpart.
This one looked like Chance.
“eep durp kneep sweetorp beep thesurp mortorp lorp eerileep similorp torp eep eep,” it said, raising its hands in a clear calming gesture, as if trying to soothe both its companion and the group.
They weren’t the only ones.
More creatures emerged from the UFO. Some clustered together, touching shoulders, exchanging soft, nervous sounds. Others watched the survivors with focused curiosity.
Several of them looked far too much like the people standing there.
Too many.
The sentinels didn’t lower their weapons completely, but the initial tension eased by a fraction. Sensors shifted from offensive mode to observation. It didn’t seem like a direct attack.
Still, no one trusted it.
Guest stepped forward.
Slowly. Carefully. As if afraid any sudden movement might shatter a fragile balance. The teal-skinned counterpart of Elliot tensed immediately.
The green Chance counterpart moved fast, stepping between them and forming a strange, organic weapon aimed directly at Guest.
A murmur rippled through both sides.
But Guest didn’t back away.
He didn’t raise a weapon.
He didn’t shout.
He simply reached out and took the creature’s hand—firm but calm—trying to convey something that didn’t need translation: he didn’t want to hurt them.
The contact was brief.
But it was enough.
The green Chance hesitated.
Then, slowly, it lowered its weapon and stared at Guest, as if trying to understand him beyond words.
“Theep reallurp larp likurp urp partnorp Ellarp,” it said, turning its head toward Elliot and the others.
A shiver ran through the group.
“…Did it say ‘like’?” Shedletsky whispered.
“Partner…?” Dusekkar murmured.
God.
Did everyone have an alien counterpart?
Guest’s counterpart stepped forward, studying him closely.
“Thurp dorp seep likeep eep thrarp tarp orp. Barp apparentlorp theep curp arp.”
Guest felt a knot form in his stomach.
“…That was me,” he said quietly. “That… is me.”
Then it happened.
Shedletsky’s counterpart spoke.
“arp marp burp gorp crazorp borp urp thurp Sevorp?”
There was no immediate translation.
But something in the tone shifted the air.
Like a forbidden name had been spoken.
Like something that should not have been pointed out… had been.
One by one, the aliens turned their heads.
Their gazes moved away from the group.
And locked onto 007n7.
All of them.
The silence became absolute.
Noob’s counterpart spoke next, its voice soft but firm.
“Definiteleep burp heep larp surp surp urp tirorp arp darp kneep.”
The aliens slowly backed away from the survivors, creating a clear space between the two groups.
They didn’t raise weapons.
They didn’t attack.
They simply… focused.
On him.
007n7 felt the weight of those stares hit his chest like a physical blow.
Because what he saw in them wasn’t hatred.
It was recognition.