Chapter Text
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺ ꥟ ༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
He was everything to them. They saw everything about him; his smile, his laughter in those brief moments of levity, his anger that ran red through his cheeks and down his wounds in the rounds, his love in every swing of his sword, in every time he jumped in front of another to protect them, in the gentle firm love from his hands.
They saw it all, and they knew he could only be holy; he was the Spawn, or at the very least a messenger sent by them; Shedletsky was their reward for their actions, their second life’s purpose.
They put the final touches on their shrine; every little piece of him they could find, every trinket and bone he left behind, every outfit he didn’t wear, every drop of blood that had clung to their clothes that they could collect.
They set candles around the shrine, lit them all at once; they praised his name as if he was their Spawn, and felt no guilt for doing so. Why would they? He was their salvation. Outside, they heard his footsteps, they heard him mutter under his breath at what he considered their “crazed ramblings”. But it was not so; they were perhaps the only sane one there, to understand what Shedletsky was and what he meant.
They made routine out of this; every round they returned to the altar in his name; they sacrificed their own blood, and their time, and they kept careful bandages because they feared he would find out. They feared his wrath as much as they craved it; the warmth of the fire, yet they too knew it would burn if they touched it too fervently.
It was secret, perhaps even to them. They could not admit their own sacrilege, though it was not sacrilege. They could not bring themself to admit to flaws that were not there. For Shedletsky was god, the Spawn himself in the flesh sent down by the heavens above for them, he was the Spawn’s most ordinary form and he was there to bring them to deliverance.
Shedletsky was no man, no ordinary admin; he was the beginning to the end.
They watched the wax drip down one of their candles; they watched the smoke fill their cabin and their lungs until they themself could hardly breathe for the sheer majesty of it. Shedletsky had given them this, this opportunity to become closer to their dearest Spawn than they had ever hoped for; the Spawn had given them their second life, but Shedletsky filled them with a third wind.
There was a knock at their cabin; an invitation to dinner by Shedletsky himself, and who were they to decline? They would be a coward, a freak to refuse such a perfect being’s beck and call. He was an angel.
They could not, had not been, able to take their eyes off of him. His hair bounced as he spoke, his blue eyes were like the sky at daybreak; his banter, so friendly, was the extension of Hestia’s hand at the hearth, inviting them to partake in the god’s ambrosia.
After the dinner, they ruefully returned to their cabin. They worshipped him further, for that was their only goal; in the rounds, they served him, and outside, they sang low hymns in his honor.
This day was different. This day, he came into their cabin uninvited. His smile, normally so effortless, was just ever so slightly strained.
“You’re,” his voice was birdsong, “stinking up the cabins with the smoke. Could you keep it down? Noob has a headache.”
They nodded, a bit too quickly and furiously to keep up that hint of normality. But why would they nod like one of the heathens when they could nod as a saint?
Shedletsky looked down; his eyes widened at their shrine. Shock? Perhaps. But they chose to believe that he was grateful, grateful for their efforts to worship and praise him as he deserved to be.
“Two Time, what is that?”
He pointed at the shrine, the shrine that was as opulent as they could have possibly made it, and even they could not deny the expression on his face was not one of love. No, his face shone with the tell-tale heart of disgust; their heart began a rhythmic thumping in their chest, flushing their pale skin.
“It is…” They began, “My devotion.”
“Why does it have my clothes in it?
They were, for a moment, silent. In that moment, it did not take much for Shedletsky to pierce together the facts and arrive at a conclusion. He made a face as if he had just bitten down on a lemon, and he spoke.
“I’m not some sort of god.”
They couldn’t believe he was ignorant of the truth sitting right in front of his face. Their hands reached for the hilt of the dagger they had set aside to spill their own blood.
“You cannot truly believe such.” They said, wounded by his suggestion. He noticed the weapon in their hand and backed towards the door nervously. “No, you would sooner have your second life than admit who you are, would you not?”
“I'm not the Spawn, because the Spawn isn't-”
They were at his back in an instant, thin arm wrapped around his neck to keep the swordsman in place. It was truly a shame that they had to do this, had to prove the truth to him when he ought not to deny it.
“I shall see you in your second life, Shedletsky.”
His blood was red, hot, warm, everything that the fire that was Shedletsky embodied. They were lucky to be able to have it spilled over them; even Amarah had never been so intimate with their god. They let the dagger fall to the floor and dragged his unconscious- not dead- he wasn't breathing, but he was not dead- they dragged his body into his cabin and laid it to rest on his bed.
The proper rituals had not been performed. Spawn, how could they have forgotten the proper rituals? They ran back to their cabin and found their chalk, drawing the Spawn's symbol on the floor of Shedletsky's cabin and pulling his too-cold body onto it.
They burned the candles and chanted. He would only wake back up, they knew, if they did this; otherwise he would be dead, dead as a doornail, just like Azure had been until Two Time had found themself in this place where he was alive.
After completing it, they knew the proper end would only come about if he could rest; they placed his blanket on top of him and left the cabin.
They were excited to see him shed his mortal disguise.
⋆₊༶𖤐━━━━⊱⚔༒︎⚔⊰━━━━ 𖤐༶₊⋆
He was falling. First it had been to the floor, into Two Time's arms, and then the sparks had flooded his vision. The world had gone black. He was still falling, into a void filled only with red hot laughter and sick amusement; he tried to move, or twist in the air, but his limbs refused to respond.
He was dead.
This was purgatory.
He was in that void for ages before he hit the floor. It felt wooden, but still he could not move.
He had been in purgatory for years.
He tried to scream, to call out for anyone, and nobody came; but he was able to reach out a single arm into the darkness and try to grasp something. He was able to peek open, just so slightly, his eyes; there was nothing to see in the void except for a softly glowing red square.
'Respawn?’ the panel asked him, and he tried to think of an answer to the question. Thinking, he noticed, was so much more difficult than it should have been.
Anything was better than nothingness.
He pressed the respawn button and light flooded back into the world. His name came back to him, John Shedletsky, and so did what had just happened.
He was sore; the ache permeated every corner of his body, especially his chest where he felt like pins and needles were being drove into it repeatedly. He blinked, and looked around.
He was on the floor, in his own cabin, surrounded by one of Two Time's chalk sigils. That was concerning enough. His vision was sharper than it should be; every single grain of the wood was in high definition, and a headache already bloomed at his temples.
He groaned and startled at his own voice. It was undeniably his, but there was a crispness to it that sounded unmarred by the rounds, a clarity only a singer had. The small sound could have been the opening to a song and he would not have bat an eye.
Experimentally, he twitched a hand. He was glad that it moved at his command, that he had control of his body.
He struggled himself onto his stomach, and that was when he realized that something was horribly wrong. There was a weight on his back that had not been there before. He felt his own breath on his arms. He hadn't realized how quickly it had been coming, but it was hard to stop.
He looked down at his hands, positioned under him, and instead of hair there were the smallest of feathers on his arms; instead of fingernails there were claws; down to the tips of his hands his yellow skin faded to black.
They weren't his hands. Whose hands were they, and whose arms were they attached to? He was just visiting this strange body, after all; he ought to know who it belonged to.
“Telamon.”
He whispered, and knew he was right.
He tried to stand, but he slipped on the blanket and fell on his face. The blood that ran down his nose was still red.
Still red.
He clutched onto the side of his bed and pulled himself up onto it.
The mirror on the opposite wall taunted him, and he reached his hands up to his face with an immediate urge to claw it off; but he knew that wouldn't do anything to help.
He carved a jagged line down his cheek and felt himself smile at the sight of it. That was wrong. He knew that.
He clenched Telamon's hands in Telamon's lap and stared at Telamon's smiling, bleeding face in the mirror. He stretched out the wings, wincing at their existence; they were unnatural.
He'd already overstayed his welcome here.
Somebody knocked at his door, and he took struggling steps over. Telamon's legs were as in-robloxian as the rest of him; they were birdlike, and Shedletsky had no idea how to properly move them. Through trials of tripping and catching himself on the floor and walls, he managed to open it.
Builderman's concerned expression very quickly became one of shock.
“Telamon?”
“No.”
“Shedletsky? What happened?”
He took a deep breath. It felt foreign, even something so simple; the air from it filled both his lungs and his bones.
“Two Time stabbed me.”
Builderman took a moment to process this; his face looked like he had just bitten a particularly sour lemon.
“Two Time stabbed you… and this happened.”
“Yes.”
“Give me a moment.”
Shedletsky needed the same thing. Sitting back down gave him no relief; the cabin's walls were closing in on him, yet he wouldn't dare leave it. Telamon's body was his prison.
The cabin was his asylum.
He forced himself not to move, not to let out that energy as a flap of the wings because it would be utterly wrong to do so. He only realized his teeth were clenched when his jaw began to ache.
Builderman walked back into his cabin and put a firm hand on his shoulder. Not his shoulder, of course, but he felt it as if it was. He shuddered, and felt the wings shudder with him.
“Shedletsky, it's going to be alright. Ya hear me?”
He did, too clearly, even. Perhaps he was just on edge, but he could swear every sense in this body was ten times that of what he was used to. Except for smell; he hadn't smelled a thing since waking up. Even that wasn't a consolation.
Just another thing he'd lost already.
“Yeah.”
“This is probably just temporary, just something to fuel Two Time's whole… cult shtick.”
“Mhm.”
“You need to get up on your feet and talk to the other survivors. I can explain it for ya, if ya want.”
“...”
“We both know you're gonna get pulled into a round, and if ya end up there lookin' like this, everyone needs to know who ya are so they don't treat you like you're new to the game.”
“Fine.”
“Can ya say something more than just one word responses?”
“No.”
“I know this is a lot, but ya can do it, alright? Just fight like ya always have.”
Builderman left the cabin, presumably to tell the others what had happened. Shedletsky felt hollow, like some essential part of him had been drained.
He wasn't a Robloxian anymore. He hadn't been when he'd been Telamon, though he barely remembered that. It was like a fever dream.
This was a nightmare.
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺ ꥟ ༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
They were excited to see Builderman walk in. Perhaps because they knew the look on his face was one of both relief and concern; that beautiful twisted expression could only mean one thing.
“So, there's been a bit of a predicament with Shedletsky.”
He began, and they sat at the edge of the couch to look at him with wide, nigh insane eyes.
“He's looking a little… different. Nobody say anything, alright?”
“Different how?” Noob asked, worried.
“You’ll see.”
Elliot thought to himself, Two Time could see it on his face.
“I need to know the details in case I have to give him pizza in a round.”
“You'll know if he's low on health, just like with everyone else.”
Elliot sighed in frustration.
“And why can't he come see us himself?”
Two Time decided that they had the perfect opportunity to interject, for they knew the ache of every bone upon their second life, and they knew that foreign sensation of wings that weighed down heavy on their back. But it was a blessing.
“He is likely struggling with his new body.”
“What do you mean?”
Builderman gave Two Time the same stern glare one would give to a misbehaving puppy dog.
“Two Time, care ta explain yourself?”
“Ah, of course.” They folded fingers of skin and bone together and leaned into their hands. “See, he was in denial; so I did what I had to.”
“You stabbed him?!” Noob exclaimed.
“By all technicality, yes.”
Guest 1337 sighed. “... Two Time, you can't stab people.”
“He was denying being a blessing from the Spawn. I had to bring him to his senses.”
Dussekar covered his face with a hand as if to spare himself the embarrassment.
“The spawn is a figment of imagination; so what were you thinking, for all tarnation.”
“If the likes of you do not understand, perhaps I would be best going to the killer's cabin and speaking with Azure.” Two Time retorted.
“Perhaps you would; indeed, you could. But the question remains; is it true that you should?”
“Perhaps. Or are you an egg?”
“Oh you did not; the thought! I have centuries; your decades are mere accessories!”
“Ha! It's just like an admin to think so! Is a life so long truly worth it in the end? You've clearly lost all touch already.”
“And you have never had any; compared to you I've touch a plenty.”
“Stop arguing.” Builderman reprimanded. “This is serious.”
“Only as serious as you let it be. It's his second life, he'll learn to work with it as I have.”
The grandfather clock tolled ominously.