Chapter Text
Time ticks ever onward.
With so much and so little on the line however, it almost appeared to stop as if it never existed in the first place.
As if it never mattered.
Purgatory was never kind to anyone, survivor nor killer.
The eternal hell was a locked room and despite the illusion of power given to some, it became clear they were all in the same cage.
That notion got to most, hope dying out after ages of holding on. Thoughts of waiting for some sort of miracle or escape fizzled; the tunnel to the exit never seemed to end. It drowned the prisoners in darkness and tore apart the few who let themselves fall deep enough.
Others never stopped searching, the efforts of individuals who simply refused to let it go. Those who decided they were not done living. Even when attempts seemed in vain, the hovering goal was enough to keep a small flame burning.
Chance didn’t know where they stood on this spectrum, hell, they didn’t know most of the logistics of the situation. When they tried to wrap their head around it, they were met with an echo chamber of differing opinions and answers they couldn’t quite make out. The stress of their situation was obvious in every response, so eventually they quit asking.
Instead, they turned to other methods to retain sanity.
Each round became a new gamble, each killer, an opponent. Framing the endless solitude into something familiar worked for them, and regrettably sent them further down a new hole of addiction. They were very aware of the unhealthiness of it, but since they were all trapped in a real dead end, they stopped caring as much.
The rush of adrenaline when facing a killer was simply unmatched, even more intoxicating than any dangerous game Chance had ever found themself in at their casino. Since there was nowhere else to go, how could they give that up?
Flip after flip, shot after shot.
It was as if their warden knew exactly what to give them to make the experience a rush, and what a rush it continued to be.
Riskiness didn’t matter when they all just respawned afterwards. Death became more of an inconvenience or short lived pain received when they lost the gamble. They could just try again next time. Locked in indefinites, there was truly no reason to fear. Right?
Moving quietly in a circle towards a corner of the map, Chance stood on his own, repeatedly flipping a coin between his fingers and in the air, desperate to gain his shot. The rest of the sentinels were mostly able to simply rush in without worry, but the gambler constantly had to work for their shots through each coin flip they landed.
Not that he was necessarily complaining. The inability to guess the next moves of their gun was quite an interesting notion and often led to some graphically funny or embarrassing situations. In some ways, each loss reminded him of his mortality. He no longer won most games or was known for untouchable luck. Now they were just as unlucky as anyone else, and while it stung, they had to admit how much better it made the rounds.
The small gold coin indicated their success as it landed in their palm once more. Their shot was finally ready and the slight nerves of now needing to join the chase began to rise with the hairs on their neck. It wasn’t exactly fun to think about the end result or the pain of each loss, so he tried not to think. Instead, he moved without question.
Chance walked quickly over fake grass, their chest rising and falling with each fast step.
With any hope, no one was dead, but with most of the killers, that was wishful thinking.
Bricks upon bricks of an old ruined past laid about the map, the slight hint of a snuffed fire wafting through the air. Elliot had mentioned many times how little he enjoyed seeing the ruins of his father’s pizzeria, but it was obvious the uncomfortability was intentional. The map settings were made specifically to provide a sense of stabbing nostalgia. A mocking move meant to worsen their performance.
Chance chose to ignore it.
Continuing forward, the gambler listened carefully as the sounds of a distant struggle had been enough to guide them, but they found themself suddenly straining to hear. They slowed. Slowed quickly to a stop.
It was quiet.
The eerie silence wasn’t obvious at first, but now that they had noticed, their heart dropped. It was typically never quiet, not unless…
A slight temperature change in the air announced their concerns without words. It would take an idiot to miss the blood around the corners of some structures. They’d taken too long. Far too long.
It was like they were gone for seconds and yet that was all it took.
Chance gripped their gun tightly in their hand, their breathing short now from stress rather than exhaustion. They were no longer a hunter, but prey.
Where could he be?
The thought hung heavy in the air as they regained their footing, eyes now darting to every space they could, but they knew he wouldn’t be subtle.
In fact, the moment they felt that striking presence, they knew exactly where to look.
There he stood, silent and tall as ever.
A silhouette in the shape of a person from their memory. A cruel and efficient killer with grace and silence. The gambler couldn’t bring themself to look for and meet his eyes, unsure if the obscuring of his face was work of the Spectre or not, but it didn’t matter anyway.
There was nothing there anymore.
That familiar dark blade was gripped tightly in the killer’s hand and remained lowered to his side, still yet foreboding. That cocky elegance to his stance burned a hole through Chance every second longer they stared, and they knew time was ticking. They weren’t going to let him win this. This nagging hole in his memory would close and stay closed for as long as he could help it. No matter who the Spectre threw at them, they’d wear their poker face like it was glued. It was their new face.
Chance raised their gun, flipping it between his fingers, a confident grin adorning his expression like showy jewelry. They aimed their flintlock.
It was just another gamble.
Like always, they would win.
A bright blue sky.
The first different thing Chance noticed as they opened their eyes on the grass.
For a moment, they wondered if they were hallucinating as they stayed lying down. They hadn’t seen a real mid-day sky in… however long. The air was noticeably different. Not stagnant or stale, it was almost completely rejuvenating, though breathing in felt difficult for the moment.
Chance waited for it.
For the moment their captor would arrive again to put them back in their places. To send them into a new round. To do anything. It didn’t matter what. If it got bored, it would simply change up its toys. Adjust the settings. Add new additions. The entity was cruel in that way, as if somehow creating a stagnant world of torture was all but a game, but it wasn’t to its players.
They waited. Held their breath. Laid as still as they could manage. Perhaps if they slowed their breathing, it would even decide that Chance was no longer useful, but is that what he really wanted?
The spectre never appeared.
Had they truly done it? Escaped?
The world seemed dim again… which was sort of odd. The gambler didn’t seem to recall when the sky would just darken like that, but the answer for why was of course now slowly regaining consciousness as if it were dormant.
Pain began in a wave, as if it’d just happened. The sensation was all too distant and at the same time all too familiar. Right in the chest. Like…
God this hurts.
They began to feel their mind slip away… why were they slipping away? They just got back, right?
In all the worst things that could happen, why did they feel as if they were truly dying for a final time?
Chance didn’t have the answers. God he couldn’t even move to check what was happening.
Maybe this was it. Maybe they hadn’t made it after all.
After everything, perhaps the only peace they’d find was in finality. The last act of the Spectre.
Staring up at the sky, Chance blinked and took in the striking color as they let their body relax, almost hoping to bury themself in the sight of something that once seemed so far away.
Once their vision began to swim, it was then and only then that they finally noticed the sounds of a familiar pizza worker calling their name.
If only they could make out what he was saying…
He couldn’t even if he tried.
ITrapped felt a burning sensation in his chest.
This was odd to him, as for the longest time, he hadn’t felt all that much pain, or well, anything to be completely honest. The survivors didn’t appear all that strong next to him, so most of their attacks wouldn’t do all that much to harm him, especially not to this degree.
The feeling traveled through his body like the spark to a flame about to spread, its eagerness too deadly to cease. Something about it felt so eerily, sickeningly, familiar. ITrapped had forgotten something. What was it?
The years wore down on him. Everything he once knew or regretted, it all seemed like some sort of distant yet vivid dream. Any attempt to recall memories properly seemed almost futile. He only knew how to kill anymore. So what could’ve changed?
In fact, where was he?
The hacker felt himself lying down on something soft, but somehow without any other indicators, he knew he was somewhere foreign. This couldn’t be his bed.
Last he recalled, he wasn’t lying down anyway.
Had the spectre finally decided to adjust the playing field? Maybe ITrapped had done something wrong in a round. Even with eyes closed, the hacker felt entirely exhausted in all ways. It was as if he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in hundreds of years, like gravity was the only thing working to actively hold him down while still being more than enough. Unconsciousness gripped him tightly and dragged him down further, gaps appearing in his mind as he remained still. As much as he found himself trying to fight it, he couldn’t seem to hold onto his consciousness long enough. He began to fade quickly. Instead of continuing this obvious, losing battle, ITrapped laid idly by and allowed himself to rest.
He was so cold.
.. . .
This kept happening for what felt like ages.
ITrapped would somewhat awaken, trying to assess what might be happening before getting dragged down by sleep again. The cycle was almost as bad as rounds only this time he was entirely alone with no immediate goal. How was this even interesting? Was the Spectre really that bored?
After some time in this cycle, ITrapped shifted his thoughts. He paid attention.
Now that he was focused each new time he awoke, he noticed something, many things, that were new.
First in one of his conscious moments, it was the sounds of distant footsteps.
They seemed even across tile floors, a decent pace, no concern in their step. Whoever this was had to be somewhat far from his current position. The sounds had a slight echo to them indicating a low amount of objects to absorb the sound around them. He didn’t exactly have long to wonder beyond that before falling into unconsciousness again, but it was something.
Another time he woke up to distant talking.
The sounds were like hushed whispers that carried through the air of wherever he was. These voices reminded him of what he was used to, that familiar voice noticeably quiet during this.
He wondered what the new voices were saying, hoping for them to speak the slightest bit louder, but he was quickly out again. It frustrated him each time.
The dreams were odd now, too.
ITrapped recalled that dreams often took aspects from life to create scenes for its story, but this place he did not recognize.
It kept replaying. It was dark and cold. A long stretch of forested, snowy land surrounded him tightly, almost claustrophobic in its structure. The ground was no longer visible under the blanket of snow, and its only proof of existence was that nothing fell through.
Someone was there. It took a few times of the dream occurring before it finally became obvious, but with each loop it seemed to clear away the uncertainty of the view. Someone was really there.
He had first noticed the figure in front of him as something blurry and unrecognizable, and still as the rest of the dream became clearer, the figure did not. He couldn’t make out features, no clothing choices or hair, and somehow he didn’t really want to. In fact, the silhouette became the one unsettling part of the dream. Something he couldn’t entirely look away from in the center of the supposed calm. It felt like a trick. A mockery. The dream kept looping and the silhouette remained. An interruption in the clearness; a stain on the psyche. Then he’d feel a stabbing pain, and it was over. It all seemed to bleed away as if it had never happened in the first place. The last thing he’d feel would be the cold snow against his skin.
After a while of this cycle of wakefulness and not, the darkness arrived once more one time, but differently. After ages of just sounds, ITrapped found himself with a certain level of consciousness he hadn’t found before. It was relieving to be more in control. He silently hoped this torment would end.
He would do better for the Spectre; whatever he needed to so he didn’t have to experience that paralyzed hell again. Like in a dark ocean, he finally seemed to be rising back up, the light becoming clearer and clearer before—
ITrapped opened his eyes.
For once in what seemed like forever, he squinted from the brightness of a light.
It was not the same kind of lighting the Spectre loved to use, that trademark dim and dreary, but instead something sterile and blinding. After a moment of trying to adjust his vision, ITrapped was almost convinced that he was going blind. All he could think about was getting these damn lights off. A migraine had to have been forming just by staring at them.
Breathing was slow and difficult.
He felt heavily fatigued and his limbs weighed down on him as he lay motionless. He didn’t have much energy to move or talk, but he needed to confirm his surroundings. No knowledge of the unknown was somehow worse to him.
Half lidded eyes relaxed a bit further, the hacker not wanting to fall back into the lull of sleep yet still too exhausted otherwise. He let his vision adjust.
Beep. Beep.
Rhythmic sounds of machines whirring and working filled his ears as his world seemed to suddenly expand in a moment. The ceiling tiles were speckled like gentle static as he stared upwards. The air was sterile and cold. Nothing like the dusty air of forgotten cabins in an unknown realm. His body was still cold yet hidden under a blanket. He could feel attachments on his arms, their presence far away in his mind, but otherwise he felt majorly numb.
That was all he needed to know. There was no doubt about it.
ITrapped lay in a hospital.
A hospital.
Of all places…
It was as if he woke up from another life. Both realities felt equally as terrible. His bones ached.
In fact, it was like old fears rose to the surface like absent triggers once each piece started to click in his mind.
Oh god…
I’ll be sick…
Just the idea of the location began to seriously bug him.
How silly, ages of nothing but senseless killing and still even the thought of hospitals made him nauseous. He wanted to laugh at himself for the absurdity of his priorities, but the thought of that action brought a distant pain back to his chest that faded quickly.
The killer laid there for a moment, his eyes glued to the ceiling as he processed everything: Purgatory, what he’d been doing, all that. It was fuzzy. Distant. Blurred.
He couldn’t recall what happened before this moment, but he didn’t recall getting hurt or hitting his head. So why couldn’t he remember?
Probably the work of…
It's still oddly quiet.
ITrapped shook off those thoughts as he bit his tongue lightly to try to wake himself faster. He wanted to sit. He wanted to walk.
He needed to leave.
Not that it would be easy. He felt miserable, but for whatever reason every cell in his body felt all too uncomfortable in its current bedding.
With any strength he could muster, the hacker tried using his arms to push himself up, his limbs shaking wildly at the pressure suddenly forced upon them. However long he’d spent in this bed, whatever time passed, had done a number on his body. He couldn’t feel his hands.
He was so used to the fast pace matches that battling himself this much didn’t feel logical anymore.
God why couldn’t he just sit up???
The heart monitor he guessed was on his right began to beep like crazy, the sound audibly pacing faster and faster until some sort of an alarm sounded. It all seemed to occur in seconds, the beating in his chest rising faster and faster until his vision began to blur again. His torso pounded with sharp pains arriving in stabbing intervals, the shock of it throwing him out of his focus. ITrapped couldn’t hold himself up. In fact, he flopped right back to where he started, facing the ceiling once more.
He wanted to rip this agony out of himself. Words couldn’t form in his mind. God, the light’s still so bright.
Bright.
Labored breathing.
That familiar clawing sensation. The one on his heart.
Ten times worse than average.
It burns. It burns. It burns.
ITrapped wasn’t even aware of when the nurses had run in. He had no idea how long he’d been in agonizing pain. No idea what was happening. Not even what they were saying. He only really gained clarity when the pain began to subside at a rapid pace. As quickly as it came, it was gone. No more sharp pains in his chest. Just nothing. Numbness and silence.
His breathing returned to normal and his muscles relaxed, but now the sounds beyond the ambience of the room became clear. ITrapped was no longer alone.
A doctor stood next to him, her face hiding thinly faced relief just barely in his vision. Her lips were moving; she was speaking to him.
“...Can you hear me…?”
As his head began to clear, her words slowly formed, though he was still processing only pieces and not very quickly. When she asked, the first thing he did was blink at her confused, nodding only as his understanding of the words came to settle on his arguably fragile mind. Who could blame him though?
“Wonderful, welcome back, Mr. ITrapped.”
Mr? I feel decrepit…
“I know you may have a lot of questions, and we will answer them, but please let us do further checks before we make calls and inform you of the situation.”
Well it’s not like he was in any condition to argue. If anything, it was integral that he listened to not put himself in any more possible spotlight or danger. He was no longer in the Spectre’s realm. Any power he held there was null and void for the moment, not that he had a lot of power there to begin with. As further testing was performed, ITrapped had finally slightly spotted the reason for his embarrassing struggle to sit up easily from earlier, as they were hidden under the blanket.
Restraints.
Restraints??
For some reason, the workers deemed him enough of a threat to put him in full arm cuffs. Was he somehow unruly before he consciously woke up? If only he had looked over in his struggle, he would’ve probably stopped trying to leave sooner. The nurses shone a light in his face, drew blood for tests, essentially anything he could think of for a general check up and then some. He didn’t mind all too much; he felt like he was hit by a truck. A really large Spectre branded truck.
Luckily, in sitting up partially for these exams, he finally got a better view of the room.
A window. A large window with closed curtains lay to his right, signs of sunlight gently cascading in. He began to guess the time before spotting a clock on the wall. 10:56 am.
The sheer amount of machines in the room irked him deeply; the clutter was distressing to look at. It was as if the sight made him feel sicker. The walls weren’t any better, all of them bare and depressing. How was this a room you were meant to heal in?
Outside, ITrapped noticed the long hall of patient dwellings, medical staff passing by to reach their stations. The footsteps of the doctors had to be the ones he had been hearing in his subconscious state. There was relief in finally having a better idea of his situation, though he’d prefer it if he knew everything going on. No one was telling him anything. Most just came in, did a test and left, but he could see their hesitance to approach. Their emotions bled into their expressions clear as day. It wasn’t something easy to hide, and they knew something he didn’t. Well, probably a lot of things. It had to do with the Spectre’s realm, unless he somehow dreamt the whole thing. Even still, he silently awaited someone who would tell him the truth. Luckily for him, his thoughts would soon be answered.
After hours and hours of countless tests and questionnaires, Trap finally sat silently in his room, no one bothering him anymore, unable to fully process what he had just undergone. The IVs in his arms had begun to bother him even after the length of time they’d been there, though the nurses had said their presence would soon fade from the forefront of his mind. He wondered if this was what the rest of his life would look like: confusing, painful and bothersome in a small, sterile hospital room. These thoughts of inevitability and foreverness really began to bug him; the numbness and frantic agony from earlier stuck in his mind almost driving his heart rate back up, but thankfully he didn’t code again. Only then, in one of those moments of silence, did someone enter the room, immediately destroying any thoughts he had. They didn’t even knock, their steps into the room now being the only indication of their entrance. ITrapped suddenly had an idea of who it might be.
A middle-aged looking robloxian with curly brown hair and a smile that indicated his lack of fear waltzed in as if he owned the place. It really didn’t take a genius to recognize Shedletsky, but Trap held his tongue in saying absolutely anything. It was like seeing a ghost or someone buried deep in an old memory. Restrained and weak now… if he really had been in the Spectre’s realm with all those survivors, doesn’t that mean he killed this guy countless times? Was he here for revenge? He had more history with this guy besides the realm too as an admin. Perhaps he was here to finally send ITrapped to the badlands and be rid of the May Madness Incident once and for all? The nurses knew his name, so Shedletsky must know his identity too. Somewhere deep down he partially hoped that was it. Now that his mind was clearer, he realized he hadn’t seen his closest friends in so long. They were the whole reason why the period of events went down as they had. His desperation to see them once more drove him mad in ways he couldn’t have stopped on his own. He had forgotten how important they were to him, and the Spectre seemed quite keen on keeping his mind numb, so it was as if the flood gates had been opened and he was slowly re-remembering his entire life. Any fights or disagreements the May Madness Team may have had suddenly didn’t seem all that important. He’d figure it out with them later; for now, he just wanted to see them without the fire of his actions hanging over their heads. He craved that sense of normalcy, but it was wishful thinking. The full extent of the situation he had been dragged into wasn’t fully dawning on him yet. ITrapped just wanted to go back to how it was. In many ways, he felt very emotional now, but he couldn’t show that. Not as the admin slowed his walk as he neared the bed.
Shedletsky made eye contact with the hacker, grinning as he sat down on the stool next to Trap’s bedside, his posture open and laidback. There was not a sign of injury anywhere, just as if he’d spawned into a new round fresh and ready for killing. Any trace of the Spectre’s realm was practically gone as if it had never been there before. ITrapped could tell he wasn’t as lucky with all the numbness and pain everywhere, there had to be a decent amount of injury on his own body. With how calm he seemed though, what was this man here for???
“ITrapped,” The admin finally said, his eyes glued to the hacker’s face, “We meet again.”
Trap knew he was acting calm but truthfully Shedletsky seemed to be scanning his face for some reason. Was he perhaps concerned the hacker would lie or flip on him? With how intently he seemed to look over his expressions, ITrapped knew immediately there was a deeper reason the admin himself was coming to talk to him so quickly. Something just didn’t feel right.
“I know you likely have a lot of questions. Trust me, I did too,” Shedletsky continued, tapping his pointer finger on nearby equipment, “But luckily I’m here to answer them for you. Trust me, we’re on the same side here.”
Despite the stone wall the admin was up against, he figured he’d take the silence as a means to continue going. At least the guy was awake and alert to his speech. That had to mean something. ITrapped on the other hand was shocked he wasn’t showing overwhelming disgust. Same side? This guy had to be crazy. They had been on opposing sides since they’d been aware of each other. From May Madness to being on the run to now, there was absolutely no way he could characterize them as on the same side. They quite literally were the definition of opposing. How could he possibly trust this?
The admin shifted on the stool ever so slightly, his bad posture straightening immediately, “So let’s just talk normally, yeah? No need for anything more. I got all the wisdom we need and I promise to be truthful.”
The man extended a hand, his grin as bright as they were in the dullest moments, a fire that burned like a beacon for the poor, “Nice to properly meet you face to face, you can just call me Shed.”
ITrapped stared at the man’s bright eyes for a moment, studying his face with careful precision, trying to sense any form of malice due to distrust. Despite extensively searching, he just couldn’t find any. He wasn’t sure if it was an incredible mask or if this guy was really extending the olive branch. This calm meeting between them was truly remarkable. ITrapped had no reason to reject this, not that he really could.
“I would shake your hand but mine are restrained.”
“Oh.”
Whatever was about to start, Trap was ready to hear it all. Judging by the faces of passerbys, the expressions of nurses, and even the slight nerves he saw in Shedletsky, it wouldn’t be good. He figured it really couldn’t be after all he’d done and experienced. He was too tired to fight anymore, too fatigued to run. There were so many loose ends he just hadn’t gotten a moment to process, but by then it was already too late.
ITrapped hoped for closure if nothing else.
He stood now at the starting line and all he wanted was for all of this to end. Could he even make it? He wasn’t sure. Even now, staring an admin in the face, he wondered what he could’ve done differently to avoid all this. Something deep within him muttered the thoughts he held close to his chest but would never admit. He’d been warned many times in his life whether it be by LonelyTree, Nicole or Nate… even Chance. They all had been right in their own, twisted ways. What if he had listened? A dark cloud of grief had surrounded ITrapped since the day he arrived in purgatory, and unfortunately it seemed to follow him. As Shedletsky readied himself, standing up and stretching a bit, ITrapped took deep breaths. He absolutely hated feeling this weak, but he had no choice.
He wanted to hear it all.
What had happened and now what would come next. Every gruesome and harsh detail. He wanted to be in the know.
He couldn’t run anymore. Not even if he tried. This was it.
ITrapped waited intently for what Shed had to say.