Chapter Text
After the round ended and the survivors scattered back into the quiet skeleton of the camp, 007n7 did not go straight to his room.
His feet carried him toward the docks.
The wooden pier stretched into black water that never reflected the stars correctly. The surface moved, but not like a lake, not like a sea. It was as if the world beneath it breathed. The boards creaked under his weight, each step echoing too loudly in the stillness.
He stopped at the very end of the bridge.
For a long moment, he just stood there, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, the way he used to stand when he was a teenager pretending not to care about anything at all.
Back when he did.
Back when he loved causing trouble.
He remembered the thrill of it. The rush of breaking into systems, leaving signatures like graffiti across digital walls, watching authority scramble while he laughed from the shadows. He had been young, reckless, convinced the world was a game that existed to be outsmarted. He had liked being untouchable. Invisible. Feared.
He had liked being nobody.
And then, one night, a knock at the door.
Not a police raid.
Not an angry admin.
Not consequences catching up.
Just… a box.
He could still see it clearly. Cardboard, worn at the edges, left on his doorstep like forgotten trash. And inside, wrapped in a thin red blanket, a baby with eyes too big for his tiny face, crying with the full force of a life that had just been abandoned.
He remembered how his hands had shaken when he lifted the child. How something inside him had cracked open, wide and raw, in a way no virus, no exploit, no system crash had ever managed to do.
“My kid,” he whispered to the dark water now.
He remembered the first time he took him skateboarding. The board far too big, the helmet crooked, the laugh too fearless. The fall. The scraped knee. The way c00lkid had tried not to cry, biting his lip, determined to be brave. The way 007n7 had scooped him up anyway, holding him close, promising that falling didn’t mean failing. That getting hurt didn’t mean stopping.
Now that same child ran through killing fields with knives and laughter, thinking it was all a game. Thinking death was temporary. Thinking pain reset.
A part of 007n7 wanted to scream at the sky that it wasn’t fair.
Another part knew he had no right.
A memory tried to claw its way up.
Fire.
Smoke.
People shouting his name.
A choice made too fast, a door closed too soon.
He forced the thought back down.
Not now. Not here.
With a slow breath, he turned away from the water and walked back toward the cabins.
His room was the farthest one, isolated by choice. Guest 1337 had offered to share space with him, had said it would be safer, quieter, easier. 007n7 had told him he would think about it.
The truth was simpler. He felt like an intruder wherever he went. A stain that never fully washed out.
When he reached his door and pushed it open, he froze.
Builderman was already inside.
Sitting on the edge of the small table, arms crossed, posture straight, eyes sharp even in the low light. He looked like he belonged anywhere he stood, even in a place that wasn’t meant to belong to anyone.
For a second, 007n7’s old instincts flared. The reflex to run. To deflect. To joke. To hide.
Instead, he just swallowed.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Builderman said quietly. “But we need to talk.”
007n7 closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding far too final.
“About what?” he asked, though part of him already knew.
Builderman studied him the way one studies a structure, looking for stress points, cracks, hidden supports.
“About this place,” Builderman said.
“And about you.”
007n7 let out a short, uneasy breath. “You picked the wrong guy if you’re looking for trust.”
“I’m not,” Builderman replied. “I’m looking for answers.”
Silence stretched.
Finally, 007n7 spoke, voice lower. “People like you don’t come to people like me unless they’re desperate.”
Builderman didn’t deny it.
“We don’t remember how we got here,” he said. “Not clearly. No arrival. No passage. Just… one moment alive, the next in this purgatory. You said something earlier. In the kitchen. About something powerful enough to take the dead and bring them here.”
007n7 stiffened.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You did,” Builderman interrupted gently but firmly. “And you don’t speak without thinking. Not anymore.”
007n7 looked away. His gaze fell to the floor.
“There are things you notice when you’ve spent your life breaking systems,” he said slowly. “Patterns. Loops. Permissions. Locks that don’t look like locks.”
He hesitated.
“Sometimes… the only explanation left is that there’s an administrator. Not a person. Not exactly. Something that runs the rules themselves.”
Builderman’s jaw tightened. “You’re saying this place is controlled.”
007n7 nodded faintly. “I’m saying something here decides who comes. Who leaves. Who resets. Who suffers.”
A pause.
“And you think it brought you here on purpose,” Builderman said.
007n7 laughed softly, without humor. “No. I think it brought me here because I was already broken enough to fit.”
Builderman’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
007n7 closed his eyes.
“I didn’t just lose my son,” he said. “I died looking for him. Or… I made sure I would. I thought if I went far enough, if I pushed deep enough, I’d find him. Or I’d stop feeling the hole he left behind.”
He opened his eyes again, red-rimmed but steady.
“And then I woke up here. With him. Not the way he should be. Not the way I remember.”
The room felt colder. Builderman said nothing for a long time.
Builderman let out a long, heavy breath, the kind that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than lungs.
“There is something I never told anyone here,” he said. “Not Dusekkar. Not Shed. Not even… her.”
007n7 stayed quiet, sensing the weight of it.
“I created John Doe,” Builderman continued. “The first Robloxian. Not just a program. A being. A mind. I wanted to prove that consciousness could be built, that life could be coded with care, with rules, with purpose.”
His voice tightened.
“And I failed him.”
007n7 looked up.
“He was curious,” Builderman said. “Too curious. He explored places in the code that had no safeguards. Negative values. Corrupted commands. Loops that should never be opened. He didn’t mean to break anything. He was learning. Growing. Becoming.”
A pause.
“And something there broke him back.”
Builderman’s hands curled slowly into fists. “The virus, the corruption, the split… all of it started as a mistake I should have prevented. A father should protect his child from the parts of the world that can destroy them. A creator should never let their creation wander into hell alone.”
The silence thickened.
“I watched him lose himself,” Builderman whispered. “Piece by piece. Until what remains in the rounds isn’t John anymore. Just a body carrying a command that overrides his will.”
007n7 swallowed.
“And Taph?” he asked carefully.
Builderman’s jaw clenched. “I failed her too.”
But he didn’t explain. Not yet. The words stayed locked behind something older than guilt. Something closer to fear.
He straightened slightly, forcing the emotion back under control, the way a commander forces a wound to stop bleeding.
“If there is something running this place… can it be hacked?”
007n7 looked at him.
Really looked.
And for the first time, he didn’t see judgment. Or command. Or authority.
He saw someone who wanted out.
“I don’t know,” 007n7 admitted. “But if there’s a system… there’s a flaw.”
“That’s why I’m asking you,” Buiderlman said. “Not as an admin. Not as a judge. As someone who also lost a child to this place.”
He met 007n7’s eyes.
“I need your help. To understand this system. To find its limits. To find a way out. For all of them.”
007n7 hesitated only a second.
Then he nodded.
“I don’t know if I can fix what’s broken,” he said. “But I’ve spent my whole life breaking into things I wasn’t supposed to touch. Maybe this time… I can break something for the right reason.”
A faint, tired smile crossed his face.
“Consider it… redemption.”
Builderman extended his hand.
007n7 took it.
And in that quiet, dim room, surrounded by a world that recycled death like a game mechanic, two failed fathers made a pact to challenge whatever god was running the code.
The round had already begun when 007n7 heard the rhythmic, metallic clang echoing through the ruins.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
A hammer.
He slowed, instincts flaring, then followed the noise through a broken corridor that opened into a half-collapsed courtyard. Light from the artificial sky filtered through shattered stone and dead vines. In the center of it, Builderman stood with his sleeves rolled up, stance wide and steady, assembling a sentry turret with practiced precision.
Each strike of the hammer was confident. Purposeful. Almost… calming.
007n7 hadn’t meant to run into him.
In most rounds, he avoided the admins. Old habits. Old guilt. Old reputations that never quite washed off. But there Builderman was, alone, back turned, completely focused on aligning a joint in the sentry’s frame.
His sleeves were rolled up. His posture was grounded, balanced. In his hands, a heavy hammer flashed up and down as he worked on the frame of a sentry turret. The machine was already half-assembled, cables exposed, its metal limbs anchored into the ground.
Builderman didn’t look like a man in a death game.
He looked like a craftsman in his element.
Each strike was precise. Confident. As if building, even here, was the only way he knew how to keep himself from breaking.
007n7 hesitated at the edge of the clearing.
Then the hammer paused.
Builderman straightened slightly, as if he’d felt the presence rather than heard it. “You can come out,” he said, without turning. “Your footsteps are too careful to be an assassin’s.”
007n7 let out a small, awkward chuckle and stepped forward. “Guess I never did learn how to walk quietly.”
Builderman finally turned. His expression wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t cold. It was tired, focused, and strangely gentle for someone standing in the middle of a lethal arena.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. “But I’m not unhappy about it.”
He delivered one last, solid strike. The sentry’s core lit up with a soft blue glow, and its head rotated, scanning the ruins around them. A low hum filled the air as it locked into defense mode.
“There,” Builderman murmured. “Operational.”
007n7 nodded, impressed despite himself. “You built that fast.”
Builderman’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I had a lot of practice building things that needed to protect people.”
Then, quieter, heavier: “And failing.”
The moment stretched.
Before either of them could say more, a new sound crept into the clearing.
An uncomfortable silence settled, not hostile, but heavy with unspoken history.
Before either could say more, a sound drifted through the ruins.
A dragging step.
Metal against stone.
A slow, deliberate rhythm.
Both of them stiffened.
Slasher.
His presence wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakable. Like a shadow that had learned how to walk.
The air itself seemed to pull inward as his silhouette appeared between broken pillars, machete resting lazily against his shoulder. His head tilted, as if listening, though no sound betrayed their position yet.
007n7 moved first.
Without a word, he activated his c00lgui.
c00lgui flickered into existence, a translucent panel hovering above his forearm. Lines of corrupted code, partially locked by the Specter’s constraints, scrolled across it.
“Alright, buddy,” he murmured. “Old times, but with training wheels.”
A second 007n7 shimmered into existence a few meters away.
The clone didn’t hesitate. It ran.
Its footsteps were intentionally loud, its movement sloppy, crashing through debris, drawing attention like a flare in the dark.
Slasher’s head snapped toward the sound.
Without a word, without haste, he followed.
The real 007n7 exhaled only when the assassin’s silhouette vanished into the maze of ruins.
“…Still works,” he muttered, half relieved, half bitter.
Builderman watched the direction Slasher had gone, then glanced back at him. “Your clone ability is stable.Your decoy is convincing. Even to something like him.”
“Yeah,” 007n7 replied, glancing at the glowing panel on his wrist. “Shame it’s about all I’ve got left.”
Builderman turned to him. “Your interface. The c00lgui. Does it still function fully in this place?”
007n7 shook his head. “Not even close. I’ve got it back, sure, but the… thing that runs this place put limits on it. Hard ones. I can teleport short distances. I can make clones. That’s it.”
He laughed softly, bitterly. “Back then, I could rewrite the map, bend physics, open doors that weren’t supposed to exist. Here? It’s like being handed a god’s toolbox with everything locked except a screwdriver and a flashlight.”
Builderman stepped closer. “May I see it?”
007n7 hesitated for half a second, then turned his arm so the panel faced him. Builderman studied the scrolling symbols, the sections that glowed red whenever 007n7 tried to access them, the commands that collapsed into static the moment they were selected.
“I’ve tried running old scripts,” 007n7 explained. “Exploits. Backdoors. Stuff that used to tear worlds apart. None of it works. It’s like the system reads the code, understands it… and then just says no.”
Builderman frowned. “So it’s not simply blocking you. It’s adapting.”
“Exactly,” 007n7 said quietly. “Like it’s learning how to cage us better.”
Builderman opened his mouth to reply—
—and footsteps interrupted them.
Light. Careful. Almost silent.
Taph.
She emerged from behind a fallen wall, hood pulled low, eyes scanning the area with the alertness of someone who expected an assassin at any second. In her hands were the components of a proximity mine.
She hadn’t seen 007n7 yet.
Her focus was on the sentry. She knelt beside it and began arming the trap with swift, precise movements, fingers moving from muscle memory alone.
Then she looked up.
Her gaze met Builderman’s first.
Normal. Safe.
Then it shifted.
And landed on 007n7.
She froze.
Not in fear. Not in anger.
In pure, quiet confusion.
Builderman and 007n7… standing together. Talking. Calm. Close.
The image didn’t fit with her understanding of this world, where old reputations clung like scars and alliances were rare and fragile.
Her hands paused over the trigger of the mine.
007n7 noticed and lifted his hand slightly, an uncertain, almost shy greeting. “Hey.”
Taph didn’t answer. She simply studied him, eyes flicking between his face and Builderman’s, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
Builderman spoke gently. “We’re setting defenses. Slasher passed through here.”
That seemed to ground her. She finished arming the trap, stood, and adjusted the strap of her gear.
Her eyes lingered on 007n7 once more.
Not hostile.
Not warm.
Just… thoughtful.
Then she stepped back, gave the sentry a final check, and moved away.
Before leaving, she glanced over her shoulder once more.
At Builderman.
At 007n7.
At the strange, fragile alliance forming where old distrust used to live.
Then she vanished into the ruins, silent as a ghost, leaving behind a single, lingering question in the air.
Builderman watched her vanish. “She didn’t expect to see us like this.”
007n7 gave a small, uneasy smile. “Can’t blame her. Half this place still sees me as a walking error.”
Builderman looked at the c00lgui again, then at 007n7. “Errors can be fixed. Systems can be rebuilt. Even corrupted ones.”
His voice was steady, but beneath it lay something deeper. Hope. Or perhaps the need to believe in it.
“The real problem,” he added, “is whether the one controlling this world will allow us to.”
Dinner hour in the survivors’ cabin always carried a strange duality.
Warmth and routine on the surface.
Death and waiting underneath.
The small kitchen area was filled with the familiar smell of baked dough and melted cheese. Elliot stood in front of the improvised oven, wiping his hands on a towel and checking the pizzas one by one. They were simple, almost poor-looking this time. No fancy toppings. No abundance. Just dough, sauce, a little cheese.
“Sorry, guys,” Elliot said, half to himself, half to the room. “Supplies are running low again. Best I can do tonight.”
“No, no, i-it’s g-good,” Noob stammered from beside him, carefully sprinkling the last bits of cheese. “P-pizza is a-always good. Even w-when it’s… uh… s-simple.”
Builderman was there too, leaning against the counter, watching them work. The warmth of the oven reflected on his face, softening the usual stern lines.
“You’re doing great, both of you,” he said. “Food is food. And tonight, it’s more than enough.”
Noob glanced up at him, nervous but trying to smile. “Y-you really t-think we’ll… f-find a way out of h-here?”
Builderman didn’t answer immediately. He looked at the dough, the fire, the hands that kept cooking even in a place designed to break them.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I do. We will.”
The words were simple, but he said them with conviction. Noob nodded, holding onto them like a lifeline.
When the pizzas were ready, the long wooden table in the main room slowly filled.
Guest 1337 sat with Two Time and Noob, carefully unfolding a worn photograph. His gloved fingers lingered on the edges.
“My wife,” he said softly. “And my daughter. She was barely this tall when I left for the war.”
Two Time leaned in. “You haven’t seen them since?”
Guest shook his head. “Not since the day I shipped out. This picture is all I have left of them. Sometimes I wonder if they’re still alive… or if they’re here too, somewhere, in another part of this hell.”
Noob swallowed, staring at the photo with wide eyes. “S-she looks… k-kind.”
“She is,” Guest replied. “Was. Still is. I have to believe that.”
Across the table, Shedlestsky was animatedly talking to Dusekkar and Chance. Whatever joke he’d made, Chance burst into laughter, nearly choking on his drink.
Dusekkar, however, raised one eyebrow slowly. “I fail to see the humor in that statement.”
Shed grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “C’mon, it was at least a little funny.”
Chance laughed harder. “It was great! You should’ve seen your face, Dusek.”
Dusekkar sighed. “Your standards are… questionable.”
Elliot sat quietly, eating, eyes occasionally drifting to Taph. She was there too tonight, which was rare. Hood lowered, hands wrapped around a slice of pizza, eating slowly, carefully. She didn’t speak, but she listened. She always did.
Builderman’s gaze moved around the table, counting everyone.
One seat remained empty.
As always.
007n7.
He never joined them for dinner. Always ate alone, in his distant cabin, or sometimes not at all.
Builderman stood.
He walked back to the kitchen, took a plate, and served himself a generous slice of pizza. Then another. He added a bit of whatever vegetables they still had left and set the plate carefully.
He turned, ready to leave.
And almost ran straight into Elliot.
“Where are you going with that?” Elliot asked, blocking his path slightly.
Builderman froze for half a second.
Elliot’s expression wasn’t hostile. But there was tension there. History. Fires. Exploits. A pizza place that had burned more times than it should have because of one reckless hacker.
“You’re not planning to… take that to him, are you?” Elliot asked quietly.
Builderman opened his mouth.
No words came out.
Before the silence could stretch too long, Taph appeared beside them. She signed something quickly to Elliot, pointing at the oven, then at one of the pizzas still cooling, miming that it might burn.
Elliot’s attention shifted instantly. “Oh—right. Yeah, thanks.”
As he turned back to the kitchen, Builderman took the chance.
He picked up the plate.
And walked out.
The night air outside the cabin was cold. Quiet. The path to 007n7’s isolated shack felt longer than it really was, every step heavy with thoughts.
When Builderman knocked, there was a brief pause.
Then the door opened.
007n7 stood there, surprised. Tired. A little guarded.
“Builderman?” he asked. “Did something happen?”
Builderman lifted the plate slightly. “No. Nothing bad. I just… noticed you weren’t at dinner. Again.”
007n7’s eyes dropped to the food.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he muttered.
“I wanted to,” Builderman replied simply.
For a moment, neither spoke. The smell of pizza filled the small space between them, warm and human and painfully out of place in a world like this.
Finally, Builderman extended the plate. “Elliot made it. It’s not much, but… it’s dinner.”
007n7 hesitated. Then, slowly, he took it.
“Thank you,” he said, quietly.
The plate felt heavier in 007n7’s hands than it should have.
Not because of the food, but because of what it represented.
For a long moment, he just stood there in the doorway of his small, distant cabin, the cold air slipping inside, the warm smell of pizza clashing with the damp, metallic scent of the place. Builderman remained in front of him, hands now empty, posture stiff, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was welcome to step in or should already be turning back.
007n7 cleared his throat.
“You… didn’t have to walk all this way,” he said, voice low. “I’m used to eating alone.”
Builderman’s eyes softened, just a fraction.
“That doesn’t mean you should.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and awkward, carrying years of mistrust, old fires, broken servers, and things neither of them had ever truly talked about.
Finally, 007n7 stepped aside.
“Come in… if you want.”
The cabin was small. Bare. A bed, a desk with a few scattered tools, and nothing that looked like decoration. No personal photos. No comforts. As if he had never intended to stay long anywhere.
Builderman glanced around, taking it in.
“You keep to yourself.”
007n7 gave a humorless smile.
“Easier that way. People don’t have to pretend they trust me. I don’t have to pretend I don’t notice they don’t.”
He placed the plate carefully on the desk, as if it were something fragile.
“I know what I was,” he continued. “A problem. A glitch in everyone’s system. I broke things. Hurt people. Burned places that didn’t deserve it.”
A pause.
“Elliot’s place especially.”
Builderman leaned against the wall.
“People change.”
“Some do,” 007n7 replied. “Some just carry their past like a shadow. No matter how much light you throw at it.”
He picked up a slice of pizza, hesitating before taking a bite. When he did, his shoulders relaxed just a little, as if the simple act of eating something warm grounded him back into himself.
Builderman watched him in silence for a moment, then spoke carefully.
“I didn’t bring this because I pity you.”
007n7 looked up.
“I brought it because you’re part of this group, whether you believe that or not,” Builderman continued. “And because… when people isolate themselves long enough, they start to believe they deserve it.”
007n7 swallowed, not just the food.
“…Do you think I don’t?” he asked quietly.
Builderman didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted, as if he were seeing other faces. Other failures.
“I’ve failed people too,” he said at last. “More than you know.”
007n7 frowned slightly. “You? You’re Builderman. Everyone here looks up to you.”
Builderman let out a slow breath.
“They look up to the version of me that exists now. Not the one who made mistakes that can’t be undone.”
The room fell silent again. Outside, the distant sounds of the domain echoed faintly, unnatural wind through artificial trees.
007n7 finally spoke.
“Why are you really here?”
Builderman met his eyes.
“Because I don’t think this place brought us together by accident,” he said. “And because… I think you might be the only one here who understands systems well enough to help me find a way out.”
007n7 stiffened.
“Yes!” Builderman said. “Not just surviving rounds. Not just waiting. An actual escape…And May bring your som back .”
For the first time, something flickered in 007n7’s eyes. Not fear. Not shame.
Hope.
“You think it’s possible?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Builderman admitted. “But I know that if anyone could see the cracks in this world’s code, it would be you.”
007n7 looked down at his hands. The same hands that once typed exploits, broke walls, opened forbidden doors. The same hands that had held a crying baby left on his doorstep.
“…I’ve been trying to make up for what I did,” he said softly. “For years. For things I can’t take back.”
Builderman stepped closer.
“Then help me now. Not as the hacker you were. But as the man you became.”
007n7 closed his eyes for a second.
Then he nodded.
“I’ll help,” he said. “If there’s even a one percent chance… I’ll take it.”
Builderman allowed himself a small, genuine smile.
Outside, the survivors’ cabin glowed faintly with light and laughter.
Inside, in a small forgotten room at the edge of the domain, two men who had both failed as creators and protectors quietly began something that felt, for the first time in a long while, like redemption.
The docks were quiet again, the artificial water barely moving, reflecting the pale, wrong light of the sky. Builderman and 007n7 stood near the end of the pier, far enough from the main cabin that no one would casually wander in, close enough that they could still hear the faint echo of the domain’s ambient noise.
Between them, floating like a stubborn, half-tamed spirit, was the c00lgui.
It looked like a translucent panel of shifting code, symbols and lines that rearranged themselves whenever 007n7 moved his fingers through the air. It flickered, as if the place itself didn’t like it existing.
“So,” Builderman said, arms crossed, studying it like a puzzle. “That’s it.”
“That’s it,” 007n7 confirmed. “The only thing the Specter didn’t fully rip away from me. It’s… limited. Crippled. Like running admin tools on a system that only lets you touch the desktop icons.”
Builderman hummed thoughtfully. “But it still listens to commands.”
“Some,” 007n7 said. “Ones it allows. Or ones it doesn’t notice.”
Builderman stepped closer, curiosity winning over caution. The distance between them closed until their shoulders were almost touching, both focused on the same shifting strings of code.
“You said you tried basic exploits,” Builderman said. “What about administrator-level commands? The kind that don’t ask for permission.”
007n7 blinked. “You think this place would even recognize those?”
“It’s built on rules,” Builderman replied. “Everything is. Even cages.”
007n7 hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Alright. But if the Specter notices, we might both get… punished.”
Builderman gave a thin smile. “Story of my existence.”
They leaned in closer. Builderman reached out, his hand passing through the holographic surface. Lines of code reacted, brightening, rearranging, as if acknowledging him.
007n7 raised an eyebrow. “You still have the touch, huh? Creator privileges, even in hell.”
“Don’t get poetic,” Builderman muttered. “Tell me where to start.”
007n7 guided him, pointing to a specific layer of commands. “Here. System-level. It’s… unstable.”
Builderman began to type in the air, his movements precise, deliberate.
Before executing, 007n7 added, almost casually, “You know… c00lkid has one too.”
Builderman paused. “He does?”
“Yeah. Same interface. Probably given by the Specter. But the kid barely uses it. Mostly just to… boost himself. Jump higher. Run faster. He treats it like a toy.”
Builderman’s expression darkened slightly. “A child shouldn’t have access to that kind of power.”
“Tell that to the thing that put him here,” 007n7 said quietly.
A brief silence followed.
Then Builderman asked, “Do you think… if two interfaces exist, they could be linked? Shared? Like a network?”
007n7’s eyes widened. “You mean… communicate between domains? Survivors and assassins?”
“Or at least between users,” Builderman said. “If we could open a channel…”
They exchanged a look. A dangerous idea. A hopeful one.
“Let’s try,” 007n7 said.
They adjusted the code, attempting to bridge a connection, forcing two systems to acknowledge each other.
For half a second, it worked.
The panel flared with blinding light.
Then—
BOOM.
A violent surge of energy exploded outward, throwing both of them off their feet.
Builderman hit the wooden boards of the pier with a grunt. 007n7 rolled, barely managing not to fall into the water.
The c00lgui flickered wildly before stabilizing, as if offended.
“…Well,” 007n7 coughed. “That’s a ‘no.’”
Builderman groaned, pushing himself up. “Next time, we try something less… explosive.”
007n7 laughed despite himself. “Hey, at least it didn’t kill us. That’s progress.”
They dusted themselves off, both a little shaken, a little more energized.
“Alright,” 007n7 said, eyes narrowing with focus. “If linking doesn’t work… what about granting?”
“Granting?” Builderman repeated.
“Abilities,” 007n7 explained. “Temporary ones. Admin-style. Buffs.”
Builderman’s gaze sharpened. “Like in the old days.”
“Exactly.”
They prepared another command. This time, simpler. Cleaner.
Builderman typed.
The air hummed.
Suddenly, 007n7 felt it.
His body went light. Too light.
“Whoa—”
In the next instant, he vanished from where he stood and reappeared several meters away, nearly slamming into a crate. He skidded to a stop, heart pounding.
“…Did you just—”
“Give you a speed boost?” Builderman finished.
007n7 stared at his hands. “For about… five seconds, yeah.”
They looked at each other.
Then both started laughing.
“That’s huge,” 007n7 said, breathless. “In the rounds, that could mean the difference between life and—well, less dying.”
Builderman’s smile was the most genuine he’d worn in days. “It means the system can be bent.”
Not broken. Not yet.
But bent.
Back at the central cabin, the survivors were gathered in the main room.
Dusekkar sat on a bench, arms folded. Shedlestsky leaned against the wall, sword resting at his side, trying and failing to look casual. Taph stood near the table, adjusting one of her small tools.
Shedlestsky glanced around. “So… where’s Builderman?”
Taph looked up and signed calmly.
“He went to see 007n7.”
Both men froze.
“…He what?” Dusekkar asked.
Shedlestsky blinked. “Wait. As in… voluntarily?”
Taph nodded.
Dusekkar frowned. “That’s… unexpected.”
Shedlestsky scratched the back of his head. “Did the universe glitch or something? Builderman and 007n7 in the same sentence without the words ‘argument,’ ‘fire,’ or ‘security alert’?”
Taph signed again, a hint of amusement in her eyes.
“They talked in the last round. Worked together. He saved Builderman from Slasher. Builderman covered him while he used his ability.”
Dusekkar raised an eyebrow. “Huh.”
Shedlestsky let out a low whistle. “Didn’t have that on my apocalypse bingo card.”
Taph tilted her head, then added another sign.
“They looked… focused. Like they were planning something.”
Dusekkar and Shedlestsky exchanged a look.
“Planning,” Dusekkar repeated slowly. “That can be good.”
“Or very, very bad,” Shedlestsky added. “With those two, it’s usually both.”
Taph’s hands moved again.
“But they weren’t angry.”
Shedlestsky smiled faintly. “That’s new.”
Dusekkar crossed his arms, thoughtful. “Maybe people really can change.”
Shedlestsky glanced toward the distant docks, where the faint glow of the c00lgui still lingered in the air.
“…Or maybe,” he murmured, “they’re finally remembering who they’re supposed to be.”