Chapter Text
Chance sits on the couch, staring at the grandfather clock in the corner as they feel a lurch in their stomach — a telltale sign of a round starting. He idly flips and tosses his coin about, shifting his eyes for a second to look at the typical preparations: Builderman passing Two Time’s dagger over, Guest tightening his gloves, Noob anxiously fiddling with their boots and sweater.
Twenty seconds until noon.
…There are more routines to the pre-round preparation than Chance could wave a stick at, let alone describe, to be honest. He stands up, walking over to the stairs and adjusts his hat and tie. It never does to enter a match looking improper.
Ten seconds until noon.
Chance fixes their smirk on their face, pocketing the coin.
Five seconds until noon.
Vee gives a lazy salute to Chance.
Three.
Two.
One.
…
. . . ?
Chance feels the air shift, no longer being heavy and nauseating as it is before a round — but nobody seems to have gone into the match. He huffs a little in confusion.
A cacophony of screams ring out near the fireplace, making Chance whirl around. Standing in the lobby are eight — no, nine — completely new people: two cowboy-looking people with guns drawn, an armored man with a heavy-looking shield, a scared-looking doctor, a green-suited fellow with a hardhat, a shrouded figure in green-yellow clown attire holding a strange revolver-esque weapon, a woman with a skating helmet and wheel-less skateboard, a man in a blue hoodie, and a cloaked lady in a white tank-top wearing a white headband and a knife. Everyone seems to be behind the guns and the shield, and beyond that it gets a little difficult to see where all the newcomers are from.
Chance responds on instinct, pointing his flintlock at the group (it’s empty, Chance realizes, but nobody else knows that). Similarly, Shedletsky raises his sword; Guest, his fists; Taph, a tripwire stake; Two Time, their dagger; Jane, her axe; and Dusekkar, his stave. Most of the new people hide behind the armored one, with the exception of the two cowboys standing on his sides.
Dusekkar abruptly lowers his staff and laughs quietly. They rhyme, “Ah, my apologies. You all appeared too suddenly for our knowledges. Come, friends; do not raise your weapons toward those at wit’s end.”
Slowly, hesitantly, the other survivors listen and incline their weapons (or fists) slowly, and Builderman moves to take Two Time’s dagger. Chance tilts their head, but follows suit and drops their gun. The newcomers don’t seem the least bit eased.
The armored man shouts, “State your businesses, civilians!”
Chance takes a moment to collect himself, then grins and strides forward, gesturing widely with their arms as if to hug the armored one. “Hey, c’mon! Ol’ pumpkin said to not ‘raise our weapons’ or whatever, right? So, why don’t we just calm down a sec, an’ we can explain everything."
“Why are we here?” demands the armored man.
“If I had to guess, I’d say ya died. I can tell ya what ‘here’ is, if ya want.” Chance offers, drawing his arms back to his sides and drumming one hand along his flintlock.
One of the cowboys, the one with a scarf and more pinkish clothing, raises her revolver and jerkingly tilts her head for a moment. (As if to say “Go on,” maybe? He couldn’t tell.)
“Long and short is, this is where you go when Lady Luck decides you need a lesson taught to ya. Buncha nutjobs rearin’ to kill everyone, and dying doesn’t stop that.”
“You are not one of them, I would hope?” the magenta gun-wielder asks.
Chance laughs, and hears a few agreeing chuckles behind him. “Nah, not yet.”
The doctor in back squeals, “Yet??”
“He’s pulling your leg,” Guest interjects behind them.
(The beige-clothed cowboy simultaneously drawls a quick and sarcastic, “Well ‘at’s reassurin.’”)
The other revolver gets pulled away from the survivors, as two satisfying clicks signify both firearms’ disarmament. Chance smiles a little wider, tipping their hat and saying, “Name’s Chance. How ‘bout you all?”
“I am called Loveshot,” the purplish cowboy answers, bowing slightly with both arms across her chest and to their side.
“Revolver,” says the other of the two gunslingers.
Chance twirls his wrist and hand around in a spiral, prodding with “Go on.”
The man in the blue hoodie pushes the armored one aside, one hand on his hip, and waves with a wink. “Taunt,” he says. “I’m Taunt. Real curious ‘bout your friends ‘ere, too, though. They got names, or am I just callin’ the yellow pipsqueak there ‘T-Shirt?’ Or, uh, ‘Cut?’” Taunt asks, gesturing to Shedletsky. He puts his hand to his chest in mock offense, then laughs.
Noob’s voice whispers a “Sheesh,” possibly in response to the strange nature of their names. Chance couldn’t help but agree. Were they all named after weapons? Actions?
“Nah, I gotta admit, ‘T-Shirt’ sounds funny. I’m John, but I get called Shedletsky most of the time.” Shedletsky walks up beside Chance and smiles with him.
Introductions continue, with all of the bizarrely-named newcomers eventually slipping past the armored man. All the while, the general atmosphere seems less tense.
Another victory for Chance’s million-TIX smile.
Caretaker, as soon as they’re able, slips out the doorway. They hear Hotdog slip out alongside them. The outdoors region of the cabin (“Lobby”, someone called it?) is fairly cold, and seems to be a dimly-lit forest — a pair of smaller cabins, one which has two main halls and another with just one, stand directly opposite the main one. Looking up and leaning over the railing, there are unusually few stars and almost no clouds.
Caretaker doesn’t recognize the type of trees, nor do they know the wood used for the cabins, but they smell nice. The main bulk of the forest, with far more trees, has a small wooden fence erected as though to keep the trees out. Well over on the side across from the fence is a petite dock overlooking a pond. A thick cover of fog envelops the horizon, though it’s only visible when looking pond-ward.
Hotdog takes a breath, leaning on the railing next to Caretaker. She pauses for a moment, before turning and asking, “Hey, you alright, dude?”
No. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Just wanted to know. You, uh…
Caretaker can’t help but laugh. “Kheheheh! Who are you, Taunt?”
Hotdog groans, burying her head in her hands. “Friggin’ answer the question, dude,” Hotdog implores, muffled and exasperated.
“…I said I’m fine, Hotdog.”
“Caretaker,” Hotdog gently (but incredulously) prods, looking up from her hands.
Caretaker feels… angry? Indignant? They can’t tell.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
“Y-You got skewered, Hotdog! Your head was so bloody I couldn’t tell if your skull was even in one piece! And… and—”
Hotdog punches Caretaker in the arm. “Hey, dude, spare me. I know. But… you also died, yeah? More or less painful doesn’t really… matter, does it? C’mon, man, you can tell me if you aren’t doin’ too hot. At least promise me you’ll talk to Carepad about it, if not me.”
“…okay.”
“‘Okay,’ as in, ‘I understand I can talk to you,’ or as in, ‘I will tell Carepad about this?’”
Carepad releases a slow breath, trying to calm themself. “I can talk to you about it.”
Hotdog smiles expectantly at Caretaker, then says, “Go on.”
Two Time is really appreciating the new Cloak fellow! It seems that the word of the Spawn has graced regions they have not even heard of (what even is a Baseplate?), which in their mind is a very pleasant affirmation that his love and grace truly can be all-encompassing.
It is a shame, though, that few others among the survivors understand this! As it is that Sister Cloak seems to wholly disavow many of the tenets and fundamental ideas which guide Two Time and other duly pious servants of the benevolent Spawn, although she does still seem to follow it in general.
“I do not believe thy understands my words, Sister! Have you no knowledge of the Spawn as a loving entity?”
Sister Cloak rests her hand on her forehead, apparently though inexplicably frustrated. “No, sweetheart, and please stop calling me that. All I know is that this symbol is for teleportation. We used it for getting supplies, you see. It is just a pleasant little design, I thought.”
Two Time considers, briefly, that the Spawn is in a way responsible for teleportation — albeit only for his followers and only post-mortem.
They do not voice this, instead answering “My, I must concur; it is an appealing vessel through which we may view his splendor.”
Sister Cloak mutters something inaudible with the timbre of a vulgar expression, then stands up.
“Be you leaving, Sister?” Two Time asks, still sitting. The floor at the top of the stairwell was quite the pleasant seat, after all.
Sister Cloak sighs and pauses, as if considering her words. She then replies, “Oh, it does pain me so, dear, but yes. I am needed elsewhere.”
Two Time can barely conceal their surprise at Sister Cloak leaping over the fence to reach the lower floor. May Spawn protect her from his own tool of gravity, they suppose.
Builderman, truth be told, has no idea how to handle the situation. Nine new survivors (nine!), none of which seem to share the memories of the same Robloxia as the other eleven, appearing all at once, cannot be a good sign. Talking things over with Shedletsky and Dusekkar was a necessity.
A bit of idle chatter precedes the discussion, but Shedletsky is the first to properly start the meeting. “Soooo, anyone wanna address the elephant in the room? None of them recognized… anything from Robloxia, right? Or, uh, us.”
“Though your statement does disturb, its veracity mere conversation can confirm,” Dusekkar answers, to which Builderman also nods.
“All o’ ‘dem seem t’know each other, too. I reckon the obvious conclusion is ‘at dey’re from some sorta different world, but I don’ think we should be jumpin’ the gun on anythin’,” Builderman remarks, mindlessly twirling his hammer about in one hand.
The possibility, hanging heavy, was not entirely surprising. The groups had such a monstrous gap in knowledge of the world that it became immediately apparent; everyone was only lucky to share a language (let alone a common system for sign language).
Dusekkar manages to dredge up a response before anyone else fills the silence. “As much as the estrangement of a universe may inflict woes, we should also concern ourselves with their foes. First I heard of the hunter of white and black; second was the statue which makes the mind go slack. The third was the magician of shame and disdain; fourth, the construct of silence and of pain. Fifth was the golem, which lacked relent; and the sixth were the viruses, shy to repent.”
“Can’t say I know any of them. They sound like bad news, though. We’re worried about them being killers, yeah?” Shedletsky answers-slash-asks.
“Verily.”
“Yup.”
“Greeeat. What’s our plan?”
“SO… WH4T’S Y0UR NAME, SH13LD GUY?” Vee asks the armored fellow, who has recently moved to sit on the couch (but has mostly avoided talking to anyone).
“…I am Block, robotic civilian.” He answers, taking a brief pause and then sighing heavily. “You, the suited civilian. Chance.”
Vee walks off, seemingly uninterested. Chance, looking up from their cards, turns to face Block. “That’s me.”
“You said something about ‘nutjobs rearing to kill’ earlier, correct? Elaborate.”
Chance shrugs and adjusts his hat. “Alright, alright. So about once a day, we get pulled into somewhere else and there’s some crazy person with a buncha’ powers trying to kill us. We usually cycle ‘tween seven of ‘em, but occasionally there’s an oddball or a completely new one we gotta account for.”
“And of the dying you mentioned?”
Chance plops themself down onto the couch. “If ya die, or if ya live a few hours, y’get sent back here. And the next day, everyone gets thrown back in.”
“…My, you are strikingly upbeat for such a situation.”
“Call it a poker face.”
“A what?”
“Nevermind.”
Block narrows his eyes and drums his fingers along his shield, pausing a moment before asking, “Do you know if escape is feasible?”
“I don’t know, per se, but I’ve got a feeling it is.”
Block slams his fist onto his shield, making Chance jump. “Then why, prithee tell, are you not spending all available resources on pursuing the knowledge of how to escape?”
“Whaddya mea—”
“Thou know’st what I mean, civilian! You spend your time on playing cards; spend it on counsel! Confer, come up with theories! Under the assumption that our time here is without limit until we abscond, you should have had unlimited attempts at testing those theories!”
“Look, fella. I think I oughta reiterate. I think it’s possible to escape, but spend too much time thinkin’ about it and we start losin’ hope. Talk it over with the admins, yeah?”
Block exhales heavily, massaging his helmeted forehead with an open hand. “These ‘admins,’ they are the ones in charge, yes? Builderman, Shedletsky, and Dusekkar?”
“Yep.”
Block looks off to the side, staring out the window. Chance elects to look out with him; sitting on the doorstep of the double-cabin is Taph, evidently trying to repair Hotdog’s skateboard. Hotdog herself, Elliot, and Guest 1337 seem to be overlooking the project. Chance wonders if maybe they should tell Veeronica about this, to see if she has any insights.
“Do you know names for your hunters?” Block asks, turning back around to face Chance.
Chance swivels their hand in a “so-so” motion. “For most of ‘em, yeah. There’s a really big cat Noob calls ‘Sixer,’ a masked corpse guy named Noli, a buncha’ corruption controlling a suited dude named John, and a vampire who calls himself Nosferatu.”
“…That’s all you know?”
Chance slides their hand out, making a slight clutching motion. “Well, not quite. There’s a green-and-black guy who’s—”
Block raises a hand (showing remarkable restraint in not making a loud noise instead), cutting Chance off before he says the inundatingly useless equation. “Do you have any knowledge of a grey statue with yellowish joints? Or any monochromatically-dressed magicians?”
“Nah. Are they fellas you’ve encountered?”
“Among a few others, yes. They are, I suspect, the reason we are here.”
“Good a reason as any, I s’pose?”
“…Right, civilian.”
Chance waits a few seconds, seeing if Block has anything else to say, before twirling around and calling back, “Well, let me or one of the magic-god-thing-dudes know if ya got more questions.”
There is a very long pause, but Block manages to respond “…Understood.”
Banana slips in through the door, taking a seat at the table of rather grim expressions. Cloak had called for a meeting, to sort out all of the things the so-called “survivors” had told them. Banana, personally, thought it would be way easier to just figure it out as they went, but apparently everyone else has to be boring and slow.
Taunt greets them with his namesake. “Hey, dude, look who’s right on time! Slip on your own peels again?”
“I’ve slipped twice, ever. Your memory is as good as a half-dead goldfish normally, but as good as an elephant for my mistakes. Choose one, Taunt.”
“So,” Block begins, clearing his throat, “A civilian has informed me that we will be engaging in daily death rounds against crazed or otherwise hostile murderers and monsters. There was no mention of any of those who chased us prior to our… demises, and I find it unlikely that any are here.”
Carepad clears their throat, as Block sits down. They dip their head and say, “I have heard similar things from the in-charge civilians. Further, though I can imagine that you all could infer this, death will neither stop these assailants, nor will it stop the rounds.”
Caretaker raises their hand. Carepad gestures vaguely at them, and after a second of nobody moving, Caretaker asks, “Do we know anything about what's, um… hunting us?”
Cloak, a beat after the question, answers. “Seven ‘killers.’ A masked man with a machete and a chainsaw, a huge skinless humanoid with magical abilities, a magically altered man who creates traps, a lesser deity specializing in trickery, a swordsman molded from magic, a colossal feline-esque creature, and a levitating bat-like man with powers bearing resemblance to vampire stories.”
Nobody spoke for a moment afterward. Banana thought they were all being boring and too quiet, but making that thought known before had proven to give… not the best results, all things considered.
Revolver adjusts his hat and stands up. “Gear check. What do we all have?”
Everyone spoke up about their equipment, if they had any. Revolver and Loveshot seemed to have fewer bullets than what they died with, Block was missing his sword, and all of the healers seemed to have just one potion each. Banana noted, earlier, that they had only one peel in the barrel of their launcher, but another was there after a few minutes.
“I have my launcher! And it summons new peels by itself! It takes a little while, though.”
Block hums contemplatively. “Does the same hold true for our potions? Banana, how long did it take for your peels to come back?”
“Just one, but around five minutes? I dunno.”
“Caretaker, Carepad, and Loveshot. Spray a bottle, and check back in twenty minutes. Meeting adjourned, civilians.”
Everyone but Block, Cloak, and Carepad file out of the room, and the healers open and spray out their bottles. Banana conveniently forgets to warn Taunt about the yellow, slippery peel at the top of the staircase.
They do briefly wonder if his memory is so bad because of head trauma.
Carepad looks in wonder at the bottle held in their hand, its fluid level inexplicably regenerating, albeit so slowly that it was hard to tell. They did not even begin to understand the idea that Ester’s formula could be recreated by what seems to them like magic, though they also supposed it was a gift to be appreciated. Their CarePad is reusable but needs to be recharged, after all.
…They didn’t want to think about the time that it wasn’t charged. Loveshot is alive now. Not battered. Alive. Not electrocuted. Alive. Not bleeding. Alive. Alive. Alive. She’s alive.
The door slides open, Hotdog and Caretaker entering the meeting room. Carepad looks up at them and waves, along with Cloak’s salute and Block’s respectful pound on his shield. Caretaker holds up their full potion bottle, Carepad responding with theirs. They nod at each other.
A few seconds later, Banana and Taunt (the latter a fair bit bruised) enter and sit down. They are followed immediately by Revolver and Loveshot, who wordlessly inclines her head at Carepad and lifts up an obviously filled potion bottle.
Without asking about Taunt’s injuries, Block opens “It seems our supplies which were once limited are now limitless, with time. I suppose for completion’s sake that we should surmise if the same applies to our bullets, but save for that, I shall hear out other thoughts to be heard at this meeting.”
Revolver, twirling his gun around in one hand, taps loudly on the table and stands up. “Should we consider, maybe, the possibility o’ one of th’monsters from reality also bein’ here? Or, if it really gets down to it, multiple? I don’ wanna deal with a black-an’-white, invisible, sword-slingin,’ hungry maniac as much as y’all don’t, but isn’t it possible?”
There is a vague cacophony of agreements.
“While that is possible—” Cloak starts, with Revolver sitting down, “—we at least partially understand the real-world threats, and that alone makes them relatively low on our list of concerns, at least in the short term. The other threats, which are presumably known by the civilians of this location, are also evidently studiable or exploitable, but we know less of them for the meantime.”
“Hm. A’right, so how many of those crazed fellers did they actually—”
Revolver suddenly coughs, and Carepad themself feels like the room is spinning. Looking around, everyone else seems similarly nauseous: Hotdog leaning on Caretaker for support, Taunt tilting backward and holding his head, Banana pressing into the table with both hands, Cloak digging her foot into the ground, and similar sights quickly become visible.
The door is abruptly slammed open, with the red-outfitted one — Pizza? No, it was something weird like Elision — standing in the doorway. He takes a breath, then says, “Okay guys, so you know that nausea you’re feeling? That’s a round starting. Get ready. Fast.”
Carepad barely has time to process the man’s words before collapsing.
[INIT.SYSTEMS]
[BOOTING…]
[Systems online!]
[INIT.DIAGN]
[RUNNING DIAGNOSTIC…]
[All systems and apparatus fully operational!]
[INIT.MAP]
[FINDING LOCATION FROM DATABASE…]
[Location: Unknown]
[Searching locations in database for match…]
[Match found!]
[Matched Location: Builder Brother’s Pizza]
[Mapping match…]
[Location mapped!]
[INIT.PROGRAM.DIRECTIVE]
[Scanning for nearby criminals…]
[No criminals found.]
[Engaging movement apparatus…]