Chapter Text
Anger.
Anger is all 1x1x1x1 can ever think about, and it pisses them off to no end that once it dissipates, it loops right back up like a broken record. Anger runs in their veins, in their heart, and in the tiny holes of the bones encasing it. It boils like oil, thick and scalding, coating every thought and skin until it sizzles out—only to bubble back up again.
They could never admit how low it all makes them feel. It enrages them that they’re nothing but anger, and hatred, and revenge—just some killer that crawls out every now and then to torture a handful of people.
They should be more. This obsession with killing their creator is starting to grate on them, making them painfully aware of just how embarrassingly pathetic they’ve become. How desperate they are. And in the end, they can only blame whoever trapped them in this realm for damning them to feel nothing but hatred, over and over again.
There was an attempt, honestly. A plan to suppress the rage boiling in their green, green blood. But pride always takes over, and they end up slicing everyone’s throats anyway.
Everyone pisses them off. Even the so-called ‘supporters’ of the team—the ones who supposedly aren’t supposed to lay a hand nor damage them. The blue pumpkin hits them with beams that weigh down their bones and slow them down. That dark-hooded bastard throws bombs. Builderman and his turrets, sound grating in their ears. He’s just as annoying as they remember him.
The only one who’s pathetically harmless is the pizza guy—or Elliot, if 1x1x1x1 goes by the nametag pinned to his red uniform.
Three taps of their blade, and he’s gone. Squishy and easy to kill. He can throw his measly food at any survivor, and they’ll still die by 1x1x1x1’s hands. Not a nuisance. Useless alone. Doesn’t hurt them. Just good enough to use as a practice dummy.
So in one round, they corner him. First second. Somewhere on the map no other survivor ever bothers to visit.
Elliot scurries against a wall, still fresh-faced—no grime beneath his fingertips from generators, no sweat on his temple. His straight-faced facade cracks fast, brows furrowing, lips shaping into an almost-scream.
“Call for help, and you’re first to fall.”
Elliot snaps his mouth shut, teeth clacking so loud it might’ve chipped.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. That’s this realm’s unspoken rule, and 1x1x1x1 has no problem abiding by it. They could damn these survivors for simply breathing. At the end of the day, Elliot will still die—so it’s a wonder he even bothers following their orders.
1x1x1x1 slowly makes their way to where Elliot stands. They watch as he scrapes in panic at the wall he’s leaning against, his fingernails growing duller by the second.
They stand in front of him, hand awkwardly holding the blade, instincts telling them to just swing it.
“Hello,” 1x1x1x1 says, testing the waters.
Elliot makes a ridiculous face—one that almost tempts 1x1x1x1 to end the conversation right there and slaughter everyone just to finish the round. But before they can act on it, Elliot mutters,
“...Hi.”
The volume is so low 1x1x1x1 almost misses it. With a flicker of renewed confidence (small, but there) Elliot fidgets, trying to straighten himself before mumbling, “How are you…?”
“Fine.”
1x1x1x1 has no idea where to go from there. What else is there to say? Everyone’s life here is a constant loop of bloodshed and despair. Nothing worth talking about. Not even the weather. The grass is yellowing, the rivers are poisoned. It's all just dreadful.
So they raise their blade and cut Elliot down on the spot—stomach first, then slicing up to the neck. Blood explodes over them from head to toe. They move on to the rest of the survivors. Blood, guts, gore—the smell as familiar as breathing air.
The round ends.
And 1x1x1x1 tries again.
It’s always hard to corner Elliot. That pitiful man is constantly surrounded by at least one survivor trying to rattle his ear off or begging for scraps. It’s like they all know he’s weak and can’t fight back. Whatever force is behind this, it even stops Elliot from landing a single punch. Which is the most laughable decision it made.
So 1x1x1x1 does what they do best—efficiency. They spot the gambler with Elliot, his thumb flicking a coin. The sound of it grating their ears, ticking a brow, enough to boil blood. Before the coin can land back to the gambler's hand, 1x1x1x1 hurls their blade and cuts him down with one more swing.
Blood splatters across the ground, staining one side of Elliot’s clothes. Nearby, the gambler’s corpse quivers and convulses, poison gnawing at what little life is left in his muscles.
Before Elliot can run, they seize his arm and drag him to the nearest corner. Sharp nails digging into golden skin.
Expectedly, he’s shaking, his teeth clattering softly. His face is pale—laughable. 1x1x1x1 hadn’t really planned what to do with Elliot. They never think about him at all when they’re on standby, waiting for the next round to start.
What is there to think about?
A weak man with no purpose beyond trailing after others and hiding behind them. Tossing food on the ground, making the other survivors scramble for it like starved dogs. Nothing worth remembering. An insignificant ant. Yet, looking at him now, a sour, bitter taste creeps up 1x1x1x1’s throat.
They eye the arm they’ve carelessly grabbed, now bleeding from the tiny pinpricks left by their sharp nails. Elliot barely even notices the injury, his head bowed low as if already expecting the guillotine to fall and end him.
The long silence is enough for Elliot to peek through his eyelashes, confused why he’s not in the cabin yet. But 1x1x1x1 simply stands there, as if waiting for Elliot to read their mind to snap out of his cowardly act.
“...” Elliot’s words die in his mouth before he tries again. “...Hi?”
“Hello.” The sudden response makes Elliot flinch, heart lurching to his throat. 1x1x1x1 can hear it from where they stand with how loud it beats.
Elliot seems to sense how this interaction is going. Clever guy. He cooperates just enough.
“Uh—hi! So, uh…” He starts to sweat, eyes flicking to the side as if praying one of the survivors will finally realize he’s isolated in some forgotten corner. “...How are you?”
“Is that all you know to ask?” 1x1x1x1’s neutral voice booms in his ears, louder than it should be. Elliot stiffens, his back snapping straight. They watch him shuffle in place, sweaty hands fidgeting with anxious energy.
“I’m… uh, do you want a pizza? I made a lot.” Elliot tries again. It sounds ridiculous hearing it out loud.
1x1x1x1’s eye twitches, fingers gripping the handle of their blade. Is this man making fun of them?
With no hesitance, they raise their sword, and Elliot immediately starts waving his hands around, desperate to dissipate the anger. 1x1x1x1 let's the sword hang in the air like a guillotine.
“Hey—wait! Wait! I promise it tastes nice!” he stammers. “I made it extra cheesy today. Garlic-y cheese! Look!”
Elliot fumbles around and pulls a pizza box from his back. It’s still steaming hot, and he grabs a slice, his rough hands already used to the heat.
1x1x1x1 glares at the man, their hands stubbornly staying in its current position, though it nudges a bit from tentativeness. Elliot stares straight into their eyes, like a deer in headlights. The gall.
Their eyes then flicker down to the slice. It does look… nice, much to their dismay. The cheese stretches in long, glossy strands, like something straight out of a commercial. It looks too good that it looks fake.
“Come on. The others say I'm a pretty great cook. It doesn't hurt to try. I'm sure you're hungry.” Elliot waves it around like a dog treat. 1x1x1x1 clicks their tongue and snatches the slice, if only to stop Elliot from unknowingly mocking them any further.
They’re here to experiment on him, after all—to temper the boiling anger. All that effort to isolate Elliot would’ve been wasted if they just swung their blade. They need to beat whatever system they're trapped in. They need to be out of it.
So they pinch the crust between two fingers, raise it, and drop the slice into their mouth. Elliot watches in awe. Their mouth is big enough to eat it in one bite.
“So… how is it? Good?” Elliot shifts his head and body ever so slightly, eyes fixed on the faintest twitch of expression 1x1x1x1 might let slip.
“Does it matter whether I like it or not?” 1x1x1x1 wipes bread-crusted fingers against their side. The cheese melts across their tongue, rich and warm—an unfamiliar softness. Eating something decent for the first time in ages almost betrays them. All they’ve eaten are raw animals, sometimes charred black, sometimes still bleeding. Living alongside killers with corrupted, manipulated minds doesn’t exactly make for fine dining. The last thing they want is to show satisfaction.
“I mean, I gotta take all the criticism to make the best, y’know?” Elliot insists. He seems genuine enough that 1x1x1x1 might just throw him a bone.
Gruffly, they exhale. The action makes Elliot’s bangs swing a bit.
They recall the taste of the slice—how it’s satisfying and unsatisfying just enough to make them crave another. Something about it lingers.
But the words die on their tongue. Compliments don’t come easy. Not from them. Every syllable feels like dragging a blunt knife through concrete. It's exhausting.
The hesitance crawls under their skin and festers, frustrating them more than they’d ever admit.
“It was… decent.”
“Just decent?” Elliot frowns.
1x1x1x1’s grip tightens on the sword’s handle, though they force themselves to tamp down the growl in their voice. Is the compliment not enough? All their willpower went into those few words.
For a man cornered, he asks for too much. Robloxians are ungrateful these days. But that's to be expected.
“What else is there to say?” 1x1x1x1 says instead.
“Is it too salty? Is the cheese watery? Is the crust hard to chew on?”
“No.”
Elliot hesitates, sensing the slow aggression in the way 1x1x1x1’s shoulders shift. “...Does that mean it’s perfect? It’s to your taste?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth!” 1x1x1x1 suddenly slams the blade into the ground, nearly piercing Elliot’s foot by an inch.
Elliot jumps, a pathetic squeak escaping him as his hands and legs begin to shake again. His back presses harder against the two walls of the corner. The sight alone makes them feel frustrated. Back to square one.
“Stop shaking!” 1x1x1x1 barks, the static in their voice raising the hairs on the back of Elliot’s neck.
“Okay—okay! I’ll stop!” Elliot flashes a nervous smile, folding his hands behind him so 1x1x1x1 won’t see them tremble. “Is this better? I’m sorry, I can’t really stop it completely—”
“Stop talking.”
Elliot snaps his mouth shut, teeth clacking.
In the silence, they stare at each other. Elliot holds his breath, scared enough to think that even the faint air drifting toward 1x1x1x1 might be enough to get him butchered by the venomshank. But 1x1x1x1 does nothing of the sort. They simply breathe in and out, the warm air makes Elliot sweat a bit more.
When Elliot finally exhales, the loose, messy hairs dangling in front of 1x1x1x1 sway with his breath.
Elliot parts his lips to cut the tension, then thinks better of it and closes them again.
The silence prolongs and 1x1x1x1 grits their teeth hard enough they might just shatter. This is harder than they thought. They know their patience is thin, but it frays even more when Elliot glances to the side—finally spotting another survivor.
“Don’t,” 1x1x1x1 hisses. “Or they’re next.”
Bloodlust runs in their veins—more so since getting trapped in this place. Still, there’s a flicker of what could almost be called hope in the fact that they’ve managed to stop themselves from making quick work of Elliot. A fight against the system. That’s surely a feat. Maybe even good enough to earn another slice of that pizza.
“Elliot!?” a yellow Robloxian shouts in panic before quickly clamping their mouth shut.
1x1x1x1 slightly turns their head toward the sound, spotting the culprit hiding behind a wall like a coward. Surprisingly, Elliot doesn’t call for help—he just stares straight ahead, at 1x1x1x1. Though there's a faint twitch on his lip, urging to actually do it.
How heroic. He’d rather stay trapped than let the others bleed. The thought twists in 1x1x1x1’s gut, sour and infuriating. Heroism—self-sacrifice—it’s the same pathetic mindset they once clung to before they learned better. Before they learned that mercy gets you nothing but a blade in the back. Just thinking about it drains them of any will to play pacifist. They refuse to see that weakness staring back at them in Elliot’s face.
That’s when 1x1x1x1 decides they’ve played enough. They drive the sword into Elliot’s chest, feeling the faint, panicked flutter of his heart against the blade.
Elliot’s hands clutch at their shoulders—not to fight, but to hold himself up—as if he could borrow their balance for just a second more. His face is pale, freckles scattered faintly across skin already losing its warmth. His lips part, as though to speak, but the light in his eyes flickers and fades before the words can come.
1x1x1x1 stares for a moment longer before shoving his hands off their shoulders and casting his body aside.
The round ends with an obvious victory.
But victory means nothing to them now. Not after tasting it so many times it’s lost whatever sweetness it once had.
1x1x1x1 waits for their turn again, a flicker of thought landing on Elliot. It clings as weakly as dust on a shelf yet the sour taste in their mouth lingers, coating the back of their throat.
“Hi.”
Elliot is the first to make a move this time—right as 1x1x1x1 decides it might be better to end the experiment altogether, one hand gripping the yellow Robloxian that spotted them from the round before by the scruff of their shirt. Their cries make 1x1x1x1's blood boil hotter.
1x1x1x1 turns their glare on Elliot, the red light from their eye flaring sharp and hot, casting his face in a warning glow.
Though the curiosity lingers. Why does Elliot decide to talk to them at all? Is it stupidity? Desperation? Or some misguided bravery that makes him think words can cut through where blades cannot? Whatever the reason, it stays in their hand, if only for a moment.
“Elliot, help me…!” the Robloxian cries—then cries even harder when 1x1x1x1 aggressively tosses them to the ground, flinging them far enough away to stop their voice from assaulting 1x1x1x1's ears.
“Noob!” Elliot flinches, then slowly turns to 1x1x1x1, who seems to be waiting to see whatever plan he might have up his sleeve.
Noob takes this as a sign to scurry off, running so clumsily they tear up tufts of grass with every step.
1x1x1x1 waits for the sound of whimpers to finally fade out.
“What do you want?” Their tone comes out sharp, their hair bristling like a threatened cat. Their patience slowly grows thin, eyes turning into pinpricks.
“I, uh…” Elliot offers a nervous smile. He stands before them, uncertain. “I made more pizzas. It’s a different flavor this time.”
1x1x1x1 doesn’t respond. Not immediately. They tilt their head slightly, as if trying to see the angle. The motive. The trick. They let the silence stretch, hoping it’s enough to humiliate Elliot into abandoning whatever his next move might be.
Elliot chuckles nervously, he raises his hands in surrender, as if to ease a wild animal. “I didn’t poison it or anything.”
Still silence. The red glow of 1x1x1x1’s eye reflects off Elliot’s sweat-stained face, painting him in warning.
Playing pacifist might’ve been their worst mistake yet. They hadn’t expected it to rot like this. Like one soft moment had festered, growing teeth and ego. The gall of this man to approach them again, like they’d let themselves be read so easily. Like mercy was an invitation—
“Look, I’m sorry for putting words in your mouth last time. I reflected on it and all.” Elliot says, his voice careful. “I wasn’t trying to tell you what to think or feel. I just… wanted to make sure you knew I cared what you thought.” There’s no edge, no blame. Just a plain sincerity that catches 1x1x1x1 off guard. It's almost dizzying.
“What?” 1x1x1x1’s mouth hangs open for a beat before they snap it shut. The blade in their hand hangs limply at their side.
“Here—” Elliot pulls something from his bag, a small pizza box. Inside is a pizza split cleanly down the middle into two flavors. “I made this specifically for you. You can grab whatever you like. One is… uh, pepperoni with extra cheese, and the other’s garlic chicken with mushrooms. Fresh out of the oven.”
1x1x1x1's gaze slides down to the slices. Steam curls gently from the crust, the scent warm and undeniably tempting. They can almost feel their stomach grumble. Just faintly, like a distant echo in a chamber long ignored. 1x1x1x1 backs away ever so slightly.
Something about it feels wrong.
About the peace offering. About Elliot’s wide, unsure eyes and trembling hands offering something harmless. Something that dares to say: you can want things.
They scowl. Wanting got them nowhere.
“Why are you doing this?”
Elliot pauses and brings the box closer to himself, brows scrunching as if in disbelief. He looks up at them, confusion flickering across his face. Under his breath, barely loud enough to hear, he mutters, “Ugh, I’m gonna die anyway…”
Then, louder this time, more firmly (almost desperate to mean it) he straightens up and looks 1x1x1x1 dead in the eye.
“Why are YOU doing this?” Elliot tries to say this as softly as he could, “You've done it for two rounds. I mean, not that I'm complaining, and…”
The rest of Elliot's words are muffled noise. 1x1x1x1 doesn’t answer. Not immediately.
Their grip on the sword tightens, fingers curling until the knuckles pale beneath metal. The red light in their eye flares, but they don’t strike. The question lingers in the air like a virus. Unwelcome, contagious, difficult to ignore. A vein throbs at their temple, pulsing with the slow, building heat of the anger of being perceived.
He doesn’t deserve an answer. They’re not obligated to give him one. And yet something edges in, subtle and splintering. The urge to explain it all claws at them, fragile and infuriating. A moment of weakness, and they can feel it coming.
Then suddenly, they breathe in—deep, ragged. Then out. Controlled. It does little to sate the temper. It still hums beneath their skin, like electricity crawling up their spine.
Elliot notices. His posture shifts ever so slightly, the crease between his brows easing as if he’s reassessing something. His tense shoulders drop a fraction. His brown eyes soften in a way that stirs an unwelcome memory—like how they remember their mother, or at least who they thought was their mother.
That small movement makes them flinch. Suddenly, every hum of the environment crashes into their ears at once—the whisper of grass, the distant chatter, the scrape of stone underfoot. Too loud, too close, too much.
And at that, 1x1x1x1 feels threatened.
They react before they even realize it. Sword flashing up, the venomshank cutting through the air with lethal intent. It hums with poisonous energy.
Elliot flinches and leaps to the side, the edge of the blade grazing the fabric of his shirt but missing flesh. He lands hard on his shoulder, the pizza box slipping from his fingers and skidding across the grass.
“I knew it,” 1x1x1x1 growls, voice trembling (not from effort, but something deeper, uglier.) They swear they saw shadows moving from the corner of their eye and it's definitely not the paranoia talking. “You are trying something.”
“What—what!?” Elliot yells out in disbelief, scrambling back a bit, palm scraping against the dirt. He looks more offended than scared now, face twisted in a mess of confusion and frustration. “Try out what!?”
His voice cracks at the end, not with fear but with sheer bewilderment.
“I made pizza, man! That’s it!” he gestures toward the now half-crushed box on the ground. Thankfully the pizza is still inside it. “You think I’m smart enough to…I don't know! Trap you!?”
“You lie!” 1x1x1x1’s voice booms, harsh enough to shake Elliot to his bones. He shrinks, shoulder's raising. 1x1x1x1’s eyes whips around the perimeter, waiting for the expected. “You’ve set yourself as bait so the others can ambush me—”
“Well, it’s definitely a good idea,” Elliot cuts in, hands raised in weak defense, “but everyone’s on the far end of the map!”
He winces, realizing how that sounds.
“Not that I told them to be there! I—I just… ran into you first! Total accident. Not a strategy!” He gestures vaguely, like he’s trying to physically push the suspicion off him. “I don’t even like being bait. I was just trying to—”
He swallows the end of that sentence. Tries not to look at the sword still hovering, heavy and impatient.
“I was just trying to give you food. That’s all. Honest!”
The silence stretches. The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on.
1x1x1x1 breathes heavily, shoulders rising with every inhale like the weight of the moment is dragging down their whole frame. Their blade stays mid-air, unwavering, yet unused. The edge glints in the light, poised for something that doesn't come.
Their jaw clenches tighter. It aches. Still they don't speak.
They glance once at the box that's now in Elliot’s hands—then back at him, sharp and suspicious. Like they’re trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing and the rest deliberately bent out of shape. None of it makes sense. Why would a survivor approach them without an angle? 1x1x1x1 surely did when they approached him.
The question stings in a way 1x1x1x1 can’t name.
They expect a blade or a gun to graze their skin, a trick, a trap, a last-ditch attempt to survive. But standing before them is simply Elliot—unarmed, unsure, and hopelessly honest. He cannot defend himself. Not in this realm. He has no weapons. No magic. He can’t hurt them.
He can’t hurt them.
“Just give it to me.” 1x1x1x1 grits their teeth, voice raw with restraint. “And leave me alone.”
Their hand is outstretched, but not open. It's clenched halfway like they’re not sure if they want to take or crush. The blade remains in the other hand, still raised, trembling faintly.
Elliot flinches at the tone but nods, inching forward carefully. He sets the box down between them like he’s offering something to a wild animal, then takes a few steps back—slow, cautious.
“Okay,” he says, quietly. “Just… don’t eat it cold. The cheese gets weird. There's a hot sauce packet in there in case—yeah.”
The rest of the round goes without 1x1x1x1 showing their face.
The other survivors don’t question it. If anything, their shoulders relax—finally, a round without a chase, without screams echoing through the fog. They laugh a little louder, move a little slower. No one watches their back as closely.
And after that, while waiting for their turn again, for the first time in what feels like a million rounds, 1x1x1x1 feels dread.
It gnaws at the pit of their stomach, unfamiliar and heavy. As if something important has slipped through their fingers. As if they’ve lost a game they didn’t know they were playing.
They feel like they’ve been picked apart. strand by strand, feather by feather until something raw buzzes just beneath the surface.
Bile lingers at the roof of their mouth. There’s a weight pressing on their chest, tight, unfamiliar, unbearable in its stillness. Elliot’s gaze lingers in their memory like a curse. Like a mirror held too close. Looking through them. As if he knows what wretched battles they’ve crawled through. The ones that etched themselves into every fiber of their being.
It haunts them at every blink.
They hate it.
They hate HIM for it.
They’ll kill him when they see him. He needs to feel every nick of their blade.
So the next round starts with their sword weighing heavier in their hand. Eyes hellbent on finding that tinge of yellow skin in the crowd—
But instead, they see their creator.
A dreadful thing.
His current form is a mockery—flesh and bone draped over something that should never have needed either. It’s insulting. As if he’s saying: I can still beat you like this. Weak, soft, and human. As if he’s taunting them with weakness they’re not allowed to have.
Shedletsky stands tall, hand already gripping the handle of his sword, brows furrowing in focus. But 1x1x1x1 brushes past him without a glance. If they so much as look at that bastard for another second, they might actually snap.
“What the…?” Shedletsky’s mouth falls open, but 1x1x1x1 just smirks faintly.
That’s another feat, honestly—managing to walk away. Temper subsided. Even 1x1x1x1 can’t believe themselves. Just the sight of him makes their skin crawl, bones stiff.
Let his ego rot. He isn’t worth their time.
1x1x1x1 scans the vicinity, catching glimpses of all the wrong faces. Most flinch at the sight of them; the others linger on stand-by, weapons at the ready, waiting for an opening that will never come.
It’s been a whole minute, and it feels like Elliot’s hiding on purpose.
“Come out, wherever you are…” 1x1x1x1 grunts, teeth clenched. Each ticking second prickles down their spine, hair rising like a cornered cat’s. Their patience thins.
Where is he? Has he finally torn off those rose-colored glasses and left them to wonder?
The thought makes their stomach twist. Not out of hurt, but offense. As if he thinks he can just walk away from this.
The gall. They almost consider giving him one last gift. One slow slice to the legs so he never runs again. Just before they go back to being enemies.
They’ve practically circled the entire area. nothing. No trace of him.
1x1x1x1 lets out a growl, low and guttural, a warning rippling through the air. Then, with a snarl, they slam their fist into the nearest wall. Cracking through the surface like a column giving way under pressure. Bits of debris fall around their boots. The sound echoes loud and sharp, a violent punctuation to their rising fury.
The other survivors watch in curiosity, heads peeking from every direction. 1x1x1x1’s jaw ticks. They’re being observed like some caged spectacle, a dangerous animal pacing behind glass.
Fine. They’ll give them a wild animal.
Time is running out. Who knows when their next return will be? The pressure claws at their skull, demanding release. They need an outlet.
The first unlucky soul doesn’t even have time to scream. A swift plunge of the blade to the back—deep and angled upward—splits vertebrae clean. They twist once before yanking the sword out through the ribs, leaving the body in a heap.
Next is the gambler—the grinning bastard. 1x1x1x1 lunges, kicking his leg out from under him. Before he can scramble, their sword comes down, slicing across his palm when he tries to reach for his holster. Another strike splits his wrist from elbow to bicep. He howls. They silence him with a stab straight through the mouth.
The soldier gets a slower death. His protective gear drags it out, but that doesn’t matter. They knock the wind out of him first, then drive the blade into the gap between chest and neck, crack it deeper, and watch the spark drain from his eyes.
And the last one, who sobs in every match like it’ll save them—runs. Of course they run. But 1x1x1x1 is faster. They throw their blade like a javelin, impaling the back of the leg. The crier screams, crawling. 1x1x1x1 retrieves their sword slowly, then drags it across their back in one long, careless arc. It doesn’t need precision—only cruelty.
For a second, there’s no sound. Just the drip of blood and the buzz of flies. It should be satisfying. It’s not.
“Show yourself, coward!” 1x1x1x1 shouts, voice splitting through the map like a shockwave. The ground almost seems to vibrate with the force of it. Distant crows scatter, distant survivors freeze. But there’s no answer. No taunt, no retreating footsteps. Just the dull echo of their own rage bouncing back at them.
Not a single glimpse of that yellow-toned bastard.
Elliot hadn’t healed anyone during the rampage. Not one body dragged to safety. Not one pulse restored. Not even a trace of him doing what he always does—that pathetic little savior act.
He hadn’t shown up at all. Not once. As if he’d watched all of it happen and decided not to interfere. As if he knew exactly what this was, and refused to play into it.
Shedletsky appears again. Of course he did. Of all people, he’s the last one they want to see in the middle of a manhunt.
“Hey, what the fuck are you throwing a tantrum for?” Shedletsky hisses, voice low, like he’s trying not to let the others hear how casually he speaks to them.
Expected. He always pretends he doesn’t know them. Like some convenient amnesiac, picking and choosing which memories to keep.
“Out of my way,” 1x1x1x1 snarls, shoving him hard. But Shedletsky doesn’t fall. His stance is too steady, legs rooted deep into the grass like a mountain that learned to walk.
“You’re wasting your breath.” His tone is bitter, quiet. “If he doesn’t wanna be found, you won’t find him.”
1x1x1x1 freezes in their step, hairs raising.
He told?
Of course Elliot would.
Of course he’d go running his mouth, this little “secret” kept between the two of them now spat into Shedletsky’s ear like a confession (why him?) They're all the same—grasping for safety the second things get uncomfortable. The moment a monster even as much tries to come close. (Why him?)
Expected. It's all to be expected.
Still, that only makes their temper spike again. Their fingers twitch on the handle of their blade, pulse pounding in their ears like war drums. But Shedletsky doesn’t flinch. He holds his ground, jaw set and infuriatingly calm, like he knows they won’t swing. Like he wants them to try.
1x1x1x1 has to do something. Anything. Let his ego die here and now. But even if they swing—even if they cut him down where he stands—he’ll come crawling back like always, acting like nothing happened. That same insufferable, triumphant grin on his face, as if he’s already won.
Damned if they do, damned if they don’t.
It's a constant torture. A trap with no way out. Every round resets the board, but never the weight in their chest. Shedletsky stays smug. Elliot stays pathetic. And 1x1x1x1—they stay furious.
Caught in a loop that feels more like punishment than design.
1x1x1x1 raises their sword, and across from them, Shedletsky does the same. It’s uneven ground—slope dipping slightly beneath Shedletsky’s stance, gravel scattered where footing matters most.
1x1x1x1 knows they have the upper hand. They’re stronger. Faster. Better.
And somehow, that feels like an insult.
As if the realm itself decided they needed an edge just to beat this bastard. As if even the battlefield pities them.
And 1x1x1x1’s blood rages. Hatred clings like oil on skin. Impossible to scrub out, thick in their throat, seeping through every pore. Like always.
Like always!
“Where is he…” It slips out, low and sharp, barely more than a hiss through clenched teeth. “I do not have time for you.”
“I’m not letting you lay a single hand on him,” Shedletsky scoffs. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t blink. He stands there annoyingly still as stone. “What are you planning? Why Elliot?”
1x1x1x1 clenches their teeth harder it might break, patience already frayed, heart thudding hard against their ribs. Instead of wasting breath, they raise their sword, ready to end the so-called champion and deity of the heights once and for all. Like always.
1x1x1x1 lunges first, a blur of metal and fury. Their eyes are pinpricks, pupils swallowed by the void, the kind of look predators wear right before the kill. The ground tears under their boots as they close the distance, blade screaming through the air.
Shedletsky barely gets his sword up in time. The clash rings out like a gunshot, reverberating through the field. 1x1x1x1 doesn’t relent—they twist their wrist, forcing his guard aside, then slam a knee toward his ribs. He grunts, takes the hit, but keeps his footing.
They swing again, low and vicious, the edge biting for his legs. Sparks spray as metal scrapes metal, the impact so strong it rattles their arms. Shedletsky shoves back, but 1x1x1x1 is already on him, hacking and slashing in a storm of blows—overhead strikes, feints, jabs aimed for the throat. Every swing carries the weight of wanting to cut him down to bone.
Shedletsky tries to counter, a quick slash toward their side, but they twist away like smoke, spinning the blade in their grip and bringing it down in an arc that could cleave him in two.
Blinded by rage, 1x1x1x1 doesn’t see it coming.
Shedletsky’s blade flashes up from below, catching them across the forearm before they can pull back. Hot pain rips through muscle, and their grip falters for a split second—a costly mistake.
They snarl, teeth bared, ignoring the blood dripping down their wrist. It only fuels them. Their vision tunnels, breath coming in short, sharp bursts, the world narrowing to nothing but the bastard in front of them.
They crash forward again, sword raised high, every strike now less about precision and more about breaking through his guard by sheer force. Steel rings, knuckles ache from the impact, and still they drive him back, desperate to erase the moment of weakness that let him land that hit.
Unfortunately, that leaves little room for thought, and Shedletsky seizes the opening—his blade arcs in a clean, merciless sweep across 1x1x1x1’s chest.
The cut is deep enough to tear through cloth and muscle, hot pain flooding their ribs. Breath catches, then rips free as a harsh, wet cough spills blood over their teeth. They stagger but refuse to fall, one knee dipping toward the dirt as Shedletsky steps in, point angled down toward their stomach.
The world slows.
Steel is about to punch through them when a hand snaps around the blade—bare, unarmored, and unflinching.
It’s Elliot.
The edge bites into his palm, blood sliding down his wrist, but he doesn’t let go. His eyes flick between them and Shedletsky.
“Elliot!? What are you pulling!?” Shedletsky snaps, immediately springing back, yanking the heavy blade out of Elliot’s grasp.
Elliot doesn’t move his hands right away, fingers still curled in that half-grip, blood slicking his skin. For a moment, he just stares at them like he’s not sure if putting them down will make things better or worse—or if wiping them on his clothes would only smear the mess deeper.
“I’m sorry! I just couldn’t—” He winces mid-sentence, breath hitching, eyes darting between Shedletsky’s guarded stance and 1x1x1x1’s feral, half-collapsing form.
Quickly, Elliot snatches a slice of pizza from a nearby crate and hurls it at Shedletsky. The bloody, grease-slick triangle nearly slaps against his face before tumbling toward the dirt.
Before Shedletsky can bark out another word, Elliot grips 1x1x1x1’s bloodied arm—his fingers slipping against the wetness—and yanks them away from the chaos, dragging them into motion.
“Elliot!” Shedletsky’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and demanding, but Elliot doesn’t look back.
“Ow, ow, ow, ow,” Elliot hisses, wincing at how hard they’re gripping 1x1x1x1’s arm as they run, the chains wrapped around it biting into his wounded palms.
Fortunately, the killer doesn’t resist. Their free arm is clutched tight across their chest, blood dripping between their fingers as they limp alongside him, breath ragged yet matching his pace. 1x1x1x1’s head feels blank, thoughts scattered to the wind. All they can focus on are the loose curls of blond hair ahead and the flash of red in his uniform, pulling them forward through the haze.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of weaving through half-collapsed buildings and broken fences, they reach some unknown spot Elliot seems to trust.
Elliot moves to their side, slipping an arm behind their back and another under their arm, taking most of their weight. His movements are steady, patient, as he eases them down toward a patch of yellowing grass.
Once they’re seated, he stays close, leaning in just enough to brush a few stray strands of hair away from their bloodied face. His fingertips linger for a heartbeat, gentle in a way that almost makes them forget the pain.
“You…” they hiss, voice rough, venom curling around the word.
“Yeah, yeah—sorry,” Elliot mutters, already kneeling down with a wince, his breath still uneven from the run. He shoves the greasy cardboard box closer. “Try eating the pizzas. I’ve never tried it, but… surely it can heal you too?”
The smell of blood and tomato sauce mixes in the air—one metallic, the other almost cloying.
1x1x1x1 swallows down the blood mixing with their spit before uttering out a weak, “Why?”
“Why I saved you?” Elliot glances up, brows drawn, before flipping the box open. The pizza isn’t steaming—its surface dull, cheese congealed in stiff, oily patches. “Well—because I’ve been sitting on my ass for hours doing nothing but watching everyone get hurt, and I keep telling myself I’ll step in next time, but every next time I don’t. And I can’t— I can’t just stand there and watch someone else bleed out in front of me, not again. If I do, then I might as well have—”
“No.”
Elliot blinks, his rant cut short.
“I meant… why you told…” 1x1x1x1 says, then falters, lips pressing into a thin line. A heartbeat passes. “Forget it.”
Elliot studies them for a moment, but doesn’t push. Instead, he slides the cold box closer.
1x1x1x1 stares down at the box of pizza. The scent is faint now, overpowered by the copper tang of their own blood. Their earlier bloodlust—the sharp, gnawing urge to cut down Elliot—has all but died the moment they finally laid eyes on him.
Maybe it’s the way his voice still trembles from the fight, or the fact he’s kneeling there with dirt on his knees like some idiot who thinks cold pizza is a cure-all. Or maybe that pathetic sword fight wrung the rage right out of them, leaving only the ache of the wounds.
Feeling defiant, 1x1x1x1 shifts, eyes scanning the ground around them. Their fingers twitch, itching for the familiar weight of their venomshank—just enough to brandish it, to remind Elliot he’s not safe in arm’s reach.
But the spot where it should be is bare. No hilt. No glint of metal. Nothing.
The realization hits like a slap. They left it back there. In the middle of the fight. Like some wide-eyed novice who forgot the first rule of survival.
1x1x1x1 groans, head dropping forward, the weight of it sinking into their shoulders.
Elliot startles, instantly crawling closer. His hand clamps down on their shoulder, voice quick and urgent. “Hey—hey, are you alright!?”
They click their tongue in irritation, muscles coiling tight. In a sudden jerk, their head snaps up—only to find Elliot’s face inches from theirs, breaths mingling in the thin space between.
“Why do you care!?” Still, they bark, the words tearing out of them, flecked with blood that spatters warm across Elliot’s cheek.
Elliot flinches, but his grip only tightens. “How can I not care? Come on, man. Stop being stubborn and eat the pizza!”
“I’m not being stubborn!” 1x1x1x1 growls, voice sharp and hot. “You hid like a coward—Where was your heroic act!? Was it all some ruse? Some game to make yourself look good? Or do you only pick fights you’re sure you’ll win, Elliot?”
“I was told to hide! So I did! I'm sorry for leaving you in the dust!” Elliot says quickly, the mention of his name making him flinch. He leans back in an awkward shuffle, palms braced against the grass like he’s trying to make space without making it obvious. It barely works—1x1x1x1 keeps closing in with every ragged breath, leaving Elliot caught between backing away and holding his ground.
“I've already worried my teammates enough!”
1x1x1x1 grins, sharp and humorless. “And siding with a killer isn’t going to?”
Elliot’s throat bobs. “I didn’t say I was siding with you,” he mutters, voice tight, eyes darting anywhere but their face. “I just don't want to see any of you hurt.”
1x1x1x1 spits blood to the side. It splatters dark into the dirt, sinking fast. “How heroic. What’s next? You see me as one of you? Is that why I've been given mercy?” Their eyes narrow, voices curling with disdain. “You robloxians and your empathies… I've already killed half of your people. That’s weakness speaking for you.”
“…So what. At least I’m not the one on the brink of death,” Elliot pouts, lips tightening into a thin line. Without warning, he snatches a slice from the box and shoves it into 1x1x1x1’s mouth before they can spit out another curse.
1x1x1x1 swallows quickly, only for Elliot to shove in another slice. Tomato sauce streaks the edges of their zipper mouth.
Elliot dusts his hands free of crust. “There we go. I think your wounds are healing—look.”
Mouth still full, 1x1x1x1 grunts, eyes flicking down to watch the wide gash in their chest slowly stitch itself shut. The cheese melts on their tongue, stretching in faint strings with every sluggish chew. It’s not as salty as it looks—there’s a hint of sweetness in the sauce, almost cloying. The flavor clings, stubborn as the blood still crusting their lips.
Despite the wounds knitting closed and their blood drying in stiff patches against their clothes, 1x1x1x1 can’t help but feel drowsy. The edges of their vision bleed into shadow, every sound dulling under a low, dragging hum. An unfamiliar heaviness coils through their limbs, each blink lasting just a fraction too long. Fatigue presses in like a weight they can’t fight, sinking them further toward the grass.
“You alright there, buddy?” Elliot whispers.
A faint brush grazes 1x1x1x1’s hair, the feeling is ticklish on their scalp, fingers snagging in its uneven tangles. They hiss quietly at the pull, eyes narrowing.
“Sorry,” Elliot murmurs, his voice low and careful, working his fingers free without yanking. He smooths the strands back in place, almost absentminded. “Are you tired?”
“Get off me,” 1x1x1x1 grumbles, voice thick with exhaustion. But they make no move to actually remove Elliot’s hand. When he does pull away, they turn their face aside too quickly, hiding the flicker of something unreadable.
“Sorry,” Elliot says after a beat. “You… remind me of my sister. Kind of. I don’t know—maybe I’m just making stuff up. I just miss her. She can be snarky sometimes…like you.”
He offers a crooked grin, more awkward than warm. Still, there’s a faint edge of confidence behind it—maybe because, in this moment, 1x1x1x1 looks too worn out to so much as lift a blade against him.
“I used to do her hair every morning before school. Sometimes I wonder how she's doing now. Or what her hair looks like now.”
1x1x1x1 watches from under lowered lashes as Elliot picks at the dirt under his fingernails—dark crescents of grime and dried blood lodged deep. His voice drones on, the words blurring into a low, steady hum, like brown noise in their skull.
They curl their fingers into a fist, nails biting into their palm, the sting a flimsy anchor to keep their eyes open. Blood seeps through the pinpricks.
“Hey—stop that,” Elliot says, giving their hand a light slap before prying their fingers open. He turns their palm over, checking the dark skin for damage.
“Shouldn’t you be with your teammates by now?” 1x1x1x1 gruffs, each word dragged out like it costs them effort. They let Elliot press his hand into their palm—some misinformed attempt at a massage that only makes the blood flow faster. The sting is sharp enough to keep their eyes open. “I’m sure my opponent needs more pampering than I do. Or did you and that bastard already have your little gossip session about me?”
Elliot blinks, straightening like he’s just remembered there are other people who still need him. “Shedletsky? Oh—shoot—yeah.” His gaze flicks over his shoulder, scanning the shadows as if his teammates might step out of them.
He shifts, legs bracing to stand—but the hand still trapped in 1x1x1x1’s grip is suddenly yanked down. Elliot stumbles half a step, knees hitting the ground harder than he means to. The pull rips a sting through the deep wound in his palm, making him wince.
He looks up, confusion flickering—only to be met with a glare sharp enough to pin him in place. Vicious.
Elliot shifts his weight from one knee to the other, his fingers twitching in their grip. Whatever message 1x1x1x1 is trying to send, it’s completely lost on him. “What’s wrong?”
“...”
“I really should check on him—good call, by the way,” Elliot mutters, glancing aside. “But, uh… could you let go?”
Silence. Just that steady, unblinking stare.
Elliot squints. Like narrowing his eyes might somehow translate whatever silent, cryptic thing 1x1x1x1 is trying to drill into his skull. “Are you… still hurting? Is that it?” His voice softens a notch. “I won’t go. Don’t worry.”
1x1x1x1 just clicks their tongue.
Elliot stares back, unsure if that’s supposed to be a yes, a no, or just another way of telling him he’s an idiot.
He then shifts into a more comfortable position, body angling toward their slouched form. Their grip still traps his bloodied hand, claws hovering just close enough to nick him if he dares to pull away.
“So…” His gaze drags down their frame, slow enough that they feel every inch of it. No flinch, no sharp pain anywhere—no ragged edges left to tend. Healthy. Whole. His eyes linger.
He catches himself, raising a fist to his mouth and coughing into it, the sound awkward and thin before he clears his throat.
“Gossip session?” Elliot asks, quick to change the subject. “What do you mean gossip session? With Shedletsky?”
1x1x1x1 huffs. A sharp exhale through the nose that stirs Elliot’s bangs. “He seems to know quite well what situation I’ve been putting you through.”
“Oh—well, that’s because Noob got really worried about me and had to tell someone…” Elliot’s laugh is thin, nervous. “Got forced to confess to Shedletsky, y’know. Not even sure what I was confessing about. You just wanted to talk to me, right? I acknowledge your effort, I guess. I don’t see it as a bad thing—”
“I didn’t ask for your perspective,” 1x1x1x1 cuts in, another sharp click of their tongue. “I don’t care what you think. Or what you think I want.”
“Sure…”
The doubt in Elliot’s voice makes 1x1x1x1’s jaw tick. If they had the energy, they’d have shouted his ear off by now.
“Well, I think it’s a nice change of pace from all the killing. I think what you’re trying to do is a good thing… even though you tend to get rather…” He squeezes their hand, like the contact might soften the truth. “Um, yeah. What I’m saying is—” He exhales through a crooked smile, eyes flicking briefly to theirs. “I enjoy the company. We can talk like this again, if you ever need it. I'll try not to let my teammates get in the way next time.”
There won’t be a next time… is what they want to say. The words press against their teeth, but their jaw stays locked. Pride seals it shut, ironclad. Saying it would sound too much like wanting.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
So they let the quiet stretch, heavy and unreadable.
For Elliot, it could be anything—an opening, a warning, maybe even an invitation.
For them, it’s a stalemate with themself. The strange lightness in their chest only digs them deeper into the grave they’ve made.
The round ends with a loss for 1x1x1x1.
And once again, dread settles in like a shadow pressing cold and heavy against their skin. Elliot clings to the back of their eyelids like a stubborn layer of cracked paint—no matter how hard they scrape, it only peels away in jagged, uneven curls. Patches of color cling defiantly, refusing to let go.
1x1x1x1 wraps their arms tight around themselves, claws digging into their upper arm, cold and warmth seeping through the cracks they won’t let show. It leaves a damning scar.
When the next round comes, 1x1x1x1 doesn’t dare show their face. Pride digs its heels in, anchoring them to the shadows of some forgotten corner—one so far out of the way even a generator wouldn’t bother spawning there.
The clock ticks, dragging slower than it should. 1x1x1x1 counts the seconds in their head, each sharp tap of their nail against the cracked wall echoing impatience like a metronome that's gone offbeat.
Their eyes often flicker toward every entrance, muscles taut, searching—then snap back to the cold, cracked surface beside them. Waiting. For the time to end, obviously.
“Hey, you good there? Are your wounds healed? I've got enough pizzas to feed a village.”
1x1x1x1 forces their shoulders not to flinch. They glare toward the familiar warmth, tilting their head just enough to acknowledge it. Their temper has cooled into something slick and heavy, like cold oil—cold enough that the first thing they didn’t do was reach for their sword and open Elliot’s throat.
Elliot waits for an answer that doesn’t come, then tries again, “Good mood today?”
“Don't push it.”
“Just asking a question!” Elliot raises his hands in surrender, then sits down beside their legs. He crosses his own while 1x1x1x1 remains standing, arms folded tight across their chest.
“I got curious why you weren't showing up. I had to sneak away from the group. Noob and Shedletsky are way too worried.”
“As they should be.” For emphasis, 1x1x1x1 uncrosses their arms and rests a hand on the hilt of their venomshank. Elliot watches from the corner of his eye but doesn't flinch like they expected.
“Yeah, well. You haven’t done anything yet.”
“Don’t. Push it.” They grit their teeth.
Elliot simply hums. He fiddles with his thumbs, letting the silence settle between them—comforting in its stillness, almost meditative. The distant chatter of his teammates drifts faintly through the air, pulling his gaze to the far horizon with a flicker of nervousness.
1x1x1x1 closes their eyes, leaning back against the rough wall, surrendering to the quiet. They hear the rustle of grass nearby but choose to stay still, letting the world move around them without disturbance. The seconds they’d been counting down slip away unnoticed, until they finally decide to let the wait dissolve into nothingness. It was rather…calming. The dread they felt before disappeared as if it never happened. It's ridiculous to think about it now.
For a moment, they sense something warm in front of them, distinct against their cold skin. 1x1x1x1’s brows knit slightly, eyes still shut, the weight of a stare pressing against them. Curiosity lingers.
“When I told you you remind me of my sister, I really meant it,” Elliot mumbles. A gust of wind blows their way, scattering their already messy hair even further. “It’s like you two don’t know what a comb is. May I?”
1x1x1x1’s brows furrow before their eyes open, meeting his. They hold his gaze, an unspoken question simmering in the silence.
“May I fix your hair?” Elliot asks again, softer this time, as if trying not to spook them.
“Don’t you know how to mind your own damn business?”
Contrary to their words, 1x1x1x1’s head dips ever so slightly—just enough for Elliot to catch.
They’ve tried fixing it before, but pinstraight hair has a way of falling back into chaos no matter what they do. And grooming… grooming feels pointless. There’s no mirror in any of the cabins, and even if there was, they have no desire to stare at their own wretched reflection.
They imagine it looks like a rat’s nest. More than once, they’ve hacked it shorter with the venomshank just to keep it out of their eyes. Pride keeps them from letting anyone touch them—but practicality? That’s different. If Elliot is willing to deal with the mess, they’ll tolerate it. Briefly. He’s already had his grimy little hands on them since their last round.
The last time they’d ever truly tended to their hair, they were still a pure being. No hatred under their skin. No venom humming in their blood.
Still unsure, Elliot lifts his hands slowly, fingertips brushing the stray strands clinging to their cheek. He hesitates, giving them every chance to pull away. Nothing comes.
So he continues, carefully tucking the hair back, smoothing it behind their ear with a gentleness that feels almost alien in the ruin surrounding them. 1x1x1x1 feels drowsiness at the sensation, head tilting down further with its heaviness. Elliot's fingernails scratch at their scalp lightly; it's ticklish, enough to raise goosebumps. They hiss when it snags on a tangled strand.
“Sorry. You’ve got a lot of blood in your hair too,” Elliot mumbles, pulling his hand back to glance at the dry, rust-colored stains on his fingertips.
1x1x1x1 just grumbles. An uneven strand slips free from the rest he’s tucked behind their ear, falling stubbornly back into their face.
“Such a stubborn thing,” Elliot huffs. He gathers the strand, eyes flicking up at them. “Lean down a bit. I can’t reach.”
They arch a brow but don’t move.
“Come on. You want it fixed, right?” he says, tone firm but not unkind.
With a slow, exaggerated sigh, 1x1x1x1 bends forward just enough for him to work. Elliot catches the errant strand, weaving it together with a few longer ones until it’s part of a small, neat braid. His fingers work with quiet precision, the braid snug enough to keep the hair in place but loose enough not to tug. When he’s done, he tucks it gently behind their ear, the gesture careful.
“I’ll bring a hair tie next time,” Elliot says, then adds under his breath, “And maybe shampoo. Your hair needs cleaning.”
“Enough coddling. You forget who you’re talking to.” 1x1x1x1 scoffs, yanking their head free from his hands.
Elliot only grins—wide, a little too pleased with himself—before finally letting his hands drop.
“My bad. Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Are you… bored?”
“Yes. I might as well start killing.” 1x1x1x1 levels a glare at him, though there’s no real venom behind it. “You’re restless.”
“I’ve got enough energy to start running for my life, to be honest. I don't know where else to put it.”
1x1x1x1 shows teeth, leaning down until their faces are close enough for Elliot to feel the heat of their breath.
“Why don’t you start running now?” They say slowly.
“Oh! Really? Now?” Elliot scratches at his head, as if genuinely considering it.
A voice calls Elliot's name from somewhere behind. He turns on his heel, already moving to answer, and 1x1x1x1 has half a mind to hook him back by the scalp. Can’t he see they’re still talking? His teammates clearly don’t need him. They haven’t met the edges of their blade—yet.
“That was Mr. Builderman…” Elliot mumbles to himself.
1x1x1x1 snickers to themself, feeling rather bitter. “He couldn’t get you to listen, so he had to bring in the big man…”
“I don’t blame Shedletsky. In his eyes, I’m putting myself in harm’s way.” Elliot pauses, his gaze lingering on them just a fraction too long. “I mean, I literally did when you two fought.”
Elliot starts walking off, slow and careful.
1x1x1x1 glares after him, the look sharpening—venom seeping in with every step he takes away. Something ugly and restless coils in their chest. They straighten, falling in behind him without a sound, each footstep light, controlled. Their hand settles on the venomshank’s hilt, thumb brushing over the worn grip. Elliot doesn’t seem to notice.
Builderman stands a few paces ahead, one hand on his utility belt, leaning into one hip as his shoulders finally relax when he sees Elliot.
“There you are, kid. You’re gettin’ us all worried. Where'd you been?”
“Sorry,” Elliot says, absently straightening the wrinkles in his uniform. “I was just taking a walk. Been a good while since we had a peaceful round.”
“That’s good practice. Though I’d suggest bringin’ a buddy with you. Guest, maybe. Or your friend Chance. I saw you talkin’ to Two Time—could bring ‘em too, as a… bonding moment. You never know when…”
Builderman’s words trail off. The color drains from his face.
“Mr. Builderman?” Elliot frowns, then glances over his shoulder to see what’s stolen the man’s voice.
1x1x1x1 is standing right there—towering over them both, silent, shadow swallowing Elliot’s smaller frame.
Elliot grimaces and turns back toward the pale man. “Oh. Uh… don’t mind them.”
“...” Builderman clears his throat, looking away. “Well—”
“No, continue.” 1x1x1x1’s grin slices across their face, teeth bright in the light. “Don’t know when what? When I’ll strike? Fine. I’ll do it now—and save you the dread.”
Builderman reacts before the words even settle, seizing Elliot’s hand. The motion is protective—maybe too much so—and the contact makes 1x1x1x1’s grin sharpen in pure offense, unsheathing their venomshank.
“Shed!” Builderman hollers and it doesn't take long for Shedletsky to come running to their direction.
But 1x1x1x1 is already moving—grabbing Elliot by the scruff of his uniform and yanking him back like he weighs nothing. They fling him behind them as if tossing a pillow. He hits the ground with a sharp oof, air knocked clean from his lungs.
Builderman pivots to run back, arm outstretched—only for his hand to be lopped clean off in the blink of an eye, the venomshank’s edge singing through the air.
“Mr. Builderman!” Elliot shouts, panic cracking his voice, one hand already reaching behind him for the pizza box.
1x1x1x1 whips toward him, eyes flaring a dangerous red. “If you hand him that, I’ll kill him. Right here. Right now.”
Shedletsky finally skids to a stop, chest heaving. In one swift motion, he hauls Builderman behind him, sword snapping up into a defensive guard.
“Builder, what the hell happened?” he hisses.
“That—” Builderman’s voice breaks into a growl. “That… fuck, can’t you see for yourself?!” He shoves the stump of his amputated hand practically into Shedletsky’s face.
Shedletsky grimaces, shoving the bloodied stump away before the sight can slow him down. “Go!” he snaps, eyes never leaving 1x1x1x1. “Just go! Go build yourself that healing machine thing! Don't let the others see you.”
Builderman purses his lips and lingers a heartbeat too long, eyes darting from the back of Shedletsky’s head to Elliot’s sweat-slick face.
“Don’t die on me, friend,” he murmurs, before finally breaking into a run.
1x1x1x1 watches him go, eyes half-lidded in boredom. The dramatics are unnecessary—if anything, it sours their mood.
With a slow turn of the heel, they dismiss Shedletsky entirely and saunter toward where Elliot lies sprawled, still catching his breath.
“Stand up,” 1x1x1x1 mumbles, a clawed hand extending toward him.
Elliot hesitates, eyes darting between the offered hand and Shedletsky’s tight, disbelieving stare. The air between them feels like it could split in two—one path toward safety, the other toward something far less certain.
“Elliot…” Shedletsky says in warning. “We’re talking about this later.”
Elliot gulps. A small dread, almost parental in its weight, settles over him—like being caught with both hands in the cookie jar.
“I… Shedletsky—”
“Mind your own damn business!” 1x1x1x1 whips around, the braid tucked in their ear falling loose and unfurling. Their eyes flare. “All your wretched decisions led us here. Feel it yet? Your past finally dragging you under? Why don’t you just stand back and watch, like you always do?”
Elliot’s brow twitches upward, lips pressing tight. The air shifts—there’s a ringing question bouncing between them, unspoken but heavy. The way they spit those words… it’s not the first time they’ve crossed paths. Not the first time there’s been blame.
Shedletsky’s grip on his sword wavers just slightly, enough for Elliot to notice. “That’s not…” he trails off, voice dark, unreadable. Then, without another word, he steps back—retreating.
1x1x1x1’s grin spreads slow, like they’ve been waiting years for him to finally flinch.
Elliot watches them both, his pulse drumming in his ears. Whatever history is twisting the air between them, he’s suddenly certain he’s standing in the middle of it.
“You. Stop gawking.” 1x1x1x1 strides past Elliot without breaking pace, expecting him to follow. “Stand up. You've had enough of your share of gossip.”
Elliot stumbles upright, swiping the sweat from his brow. He glances over his shoulder at Shedletsky, raising an awkward thumbs-up in a silent “you good?”
Shedletsky exhales slowly, eyes closing, before turning away. Elliot watches him go, the distance between them feeling heavier by the second. He only moves when 1x1x1x1 snaps another complaint over their shoulder, patience thinning.
Elliot's definitely going to be put on the hotseat by the two men once the round ends.