Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Slivers of light reach into the far corners of your cave; peeking signals of hope through the rugged walls.

One by one, you cover it.

One by one, you stuff the holes with pebbles. Boulders and rocks and patches of dirt, mud and sticks, concoctions of material just to block out that light.

To keep yourself enclosed.

To save that light for those outside. You don’t need the sight; you can’t see just fine.

What?

And just like the close of an oven, the gentle shut of a pizza box, cardboard scraping your fingertips, it loses access to all that is hope.

It changes inside.

You change.

What’s happening?

Dear Elliot,

you interest me.

-

Elliot can feel his conscious flicker in and out; a broken lantern trying to keep its edge, to keep itself shining throughout the darkened trees.

There’s a cloud fogging his thought. Like a rainy morning, everything feels heavy, five feet in front of him he can’t see past. It swirls around his head and he can’t think straight.

Where was he last?

The docks? He was sitting there. He was thinking. He was thinking for too long. He felt the way his chest weighed on him like a ball and chain; the pull of gravity wanting him to sink deeper into the pit in his stomach.

He can’t remember the feeling. Enraged? Saddened? Not anything lovely, he can conclude.

Now he’s dissociating. He thinks. He’s not sure. Everything around him blurs like a thick smoke from a pizza oven left shut just a little too long. He can smell the sharp stench of burnt cheese.

It could be a delusion. A hallucination of the mind, something he didn’t doubt would happen sooner or later. One might be driven mad down here, with the constant cycle of life peril. The constant feeling of rock through your chest, code seeping through your vision, the constriction of breath, the sharp blade slicing a clean cut through your skull.

It never pleased him. He didn’t want to die. He never wanted to die. He would cry and beg for his life and seek mercy like a sinner in church. But they were no pastor, and he was no saint.

No, they were demons. The anti-christ given form into beings, the imps sought to torture him for all of eternity. Tearing into his limbs and forcing him to relive his worst.

He was in hell.

He wasn’t meant to be here.

He’d treated everything as he should have. He offered the kindest to his kin and to strangers. Lived by the golden rule. Following rules with perfect leniency. Only breaking it for the benefit of others.

Being a victim was never in his best interest.

Then the assailant, would you seek?

That's strange. That’s his thought, but it feels forced upon him. Words that isn’t his own, echoing through his head with his own voice.

-

Elliot was a healer. He sought to help.

With a hop in his step he traced the battlefields, his eyes scanning the fields for his fellow damned.

Who was hurt, who needed him, who pleaded for a savior.

And like the descent of angels upon the world, he rose, he rose to the challenge. Head first into conflicts, he’d toss them a decadent shape, slathered in dairy and meat and they’d accept it, refreshing themselves and feeling good as new.

To continue their fight.

Something he couldn’t.

Purposeless rings true. Couldn’t they just heal their own?

You’re just convenient.

-

He loved his job. He felt useful. He felt needed. His colleagues threading through the halls and kitchenry in the establishment, fretting over late orders and right timing, but he was always perfect.

He was always the best.

The thanks from his employees when he reminded them where stock was, the relieved sighs when he’d pull out a pizza none had paid attention to, the rings of laughter echoing in his ear when he’d crack a joke to a customer.

Delivering pizzas to homes was his favorite.

Hearing the warm chuckle of family gatherings, the blaring of chaotic house parties, sometimes the gentle melody of older, vintage homes and a couple ready to indulge for a night and talk their ears off.

Kids answering the doors was his favorite, too.

From the shy to the boisterous, to the snotty and the busy, he loved the younger ones.

He loved seeing their faces light up as they opened that front door, beaming with joy at their food coming home.

Their tiny hands passed wads of cash and change into his palm, oftentimes he’d drop tons and tons and he’d laugh it off and reassure the kid it was okay as they picked it up for him. Thank them for the money.

Sleepovers with teenage girls with snotty attitudes, tapping a card reader and rolling their eyes as they grab their meal. Then, as the door closes, the squeal of excitement echoes behind the wood, and he hears them gather for dinner.

His creations bring people together.

He was proud of that.

A home of the mind, the warmth of family.

Would you go back, given the chance?

-

The dissociative episodes became more frequent. He’d function just fine outside of his clouded mind, tuning out passing conversation or concerned words as he performed duties or took care of his own.

The only one he ever focused on was Noob. He took care of Noob. They’re young, they're scared, they need it.

They reminded him of a girl.

Everything else blurred. Even that certain smirk he’d come so far to recognize and return, a friendly finger gun aimed at a confident man hidden behind sunglasses and a fedora. He never raised a hand to him anymore.

He's not sure if they noticed.

He's not sure if anyone noticed.

He reminded himself of 007n7.

So distant.

He didn’t like that. He’d never be like that man.

What’s happening to him?

Safe-kept memories, far lost into the depths of your mind.

Creating more only clouds it further.

-

His heart beats loud in his chest. Sweat runs down his forehead, heavy breaths screaming loud in his ears. There’s a glow ahead of him.

Hurt. They’re hurt. They’re in a round and Noob’s hurt.

Cooldown. No, no, I need it now. I need to help them.

Rush to your destination. Run. Run like a late delivery order. Run like your work car has broken down and you need to get it to the property in time. A family can’t go starving.

His legs pick up, a rhythm in his desperate chase beginning and he swears he’ll fumble if he even shifts slightly in direction or speed. His head is heavy, but he knows he’s needed.

The cooldown ends.

The glow disappears and Elliot sees Noob in the distance, an imp following. One of them. Masked features and the blaring rev of a chainsaw.

This can be his hell, but not theirs. Not Noob’s. They’re limping. They’re hurt. Red stains their cerulean sweater as they hug their own arm. No one else is around.

There’s a shout; he can’t make it out. He doesn’t know where it came from, or who said it, but what he does know is that a pizza spawns from his hand, and it’s swiftly called to that robloxian in that desparate state.

It flies through the muddied air, and for a brief moment, time doesn't move.

Their hand reaches to grab it.

Then, everything stops.

The loud buzz of a chainsaw rings through the battlefields.

Elliot watches a body fall.

They’re not here anymore.

He failed them.

You could help them, if you chased harder.

They are your customers. This is your restaurant, and you're a good employee.

-

He’s back at the docks. His gaze focuses on the water beneath him. His face twists and contorts with the waves of the sea. He can’t recognize himself.

Noob forgave him. Noob didn’t mind.

Elliot didn’t forgive himself.

He’s meant to help. He’s meant to help but he can’t.

And when he can, when he tries, it’s always for naught.

The cycle just starts again.

All he’s here for is to repeat his life.

Throw half-tasteless delectables to those who don’t need it. Who can handle themselves.

Fail those that can’t.

He wants to help more.

He can help more.

He can, can’t he?

You’re a hard-working machine, never given a thank you.

All you’re meant to be is scraps of metal. Expendable pieces put together to serve a purpose. A purpose no one appreciates you for.

No more than a pizza oven, no?

No. No more than a pizza oven.

These feelings were so unfamiliar. He didn’t feel like this before damnation.

Before…

Mia… how is she?

He wishes he knew.

Can’t you?

…Could he?

Come here, dear Elliot. This world has been too, too cruel.

I’m scared. I’m scared for the people I love.

You don’t have to be. You can protect them.

Your hands form the dough of this opposite Earth, detailing the surface with toppings of grace.

You are a brother.

You are an employee.

I follow my service.

That’s good.

How far would you follow it?

Only to help them. Only to serve them. All I want is to be good.

You are. You’ll be better. Let me help.

My hand twitches.

I can’t selfishly accept.

Too much, you hurt yourself too much. You give and you give and you throw and you don’t receive return.

It’s okay to accept repayment. Accept mine.

I reached out.

And no longer is Elliot anywhere. And no longer is Elliot nowhere.

Elliot’s home.

There’s boxes of pizza sitting in front of him. They smell delightful; freshly made, a waft of nostalgia dancing through the air. Paper notes taped on top of the cardboard, addresses and numbers and order details.

Almost on instinct, his heat-protected delivery bag slings its way into his arms. On instinct the boxes go in.

He’s hopping into his favorite Mo-Ped. Placing the bag safely in the compartment on the back. Racing to the addresses in his neighborhood, with no care for the hair on his face or the wind passing him by.

He’s happy.

He’s home.

He’s in his favorite place in the world.

He’s useful again.

I will return when you are ready. Then, you can help more people.

That voice echoes one final time. Elliot accepts it, absorbs it, and continues on his shift.

Chapter Text

Where is he?

The thought echoes, reverberates in 007n7’s mind.

It’s unnatural, he shouldn’t be caring as much as he does. As far as he knows, that boy wants nothing to do with him. A flame he was, bright and burning and lit up every corner of a room.

007n7 saw himself as water. Nearing him, that bright spark left almost instantly. Filtered down, only to the nub of a match.

Now, he’s left with a matchbox, with nothing to strike. He’d seen the match dull overtime, the strike against reddened phosphorus tiring and burning out the wood until it’s nothing but a crisp of once was.

He’d seen the exhaustion in the younger’s eyes.

He always saw it in himself.

Regret seeped into his veins, a guilt carrying in his chest. He watched as days passed, as Elliot stopped responding to people, starting keeping to his own, as his gaze flickered from here to there, there to wherever.

A lost moth in the night. Pulling itself only to the moon.

007n7 knew he couldn’t say anything. He knew he wouldn’t.

Even if he had, he wouldn’t have accepted it.

He tried, at least, approaching the employee’s dependent, pleading for a check-up. For them to mention anything to him.

Noob seemed nervous at the request. Blabbering on and on about trying not to worry, trying not to invade privacy. 007n7 knew they were timid, moreso he knew he wasn’t the right person to ask about things like this. He didn’t blame them, but he needed that assurance.

That assurance that Elliot wasn’t going down that same, dark slope he had. Where the bottom held light, but the more you descended the more you couldn’t escape. Stuck to this false sense of hope.

After all, it’s how he ended up here, anyway.

The idea of their constant respawn didn’t help. He couldn’t imagine that yearn with no escape, reaching for a goal that repeatedly slipped from your grasp. You wish you were tall enough to reach that shelf.

007n7 assumed Noob had mentioned it, hoped they did, at least, but likely not with the force the former pizza employee needed. The urgency of alarm.

He returns from his own dissociated state by a distressed grumble to his right, looking at a man adjusting his darkened sunglasses. His eyes glint through the reflective surface. They crumple together, pupils flashing with the unease of a slowed circuit.

“When was the last time anyone saw him? ‘Couldn’t have gone far.” He vocalizes, quickly returning a confident smirk to his own face. False expressions from the gambler, his own actions betray him as he shifts his fingers to rub his temple.

One of their moderators slings an elbow over the stair railing. His head hangs low, construction hat shaded over their eyes with an exaggerated sigh. Their posture limps like a towel from a rack, supported mostly and only by the railing and his similar: the other moderator, with a hand to his back.

“Yesterday. ‘Fore bed. He was by the fireplace, ‘fer a while.” Builderman usually speaks with much more competence, a professionalism about him. But here, today, his sentences are fractured, pressure building underneath and blowing cracks through his words and leaving behind fragile ground. “I went to bed ‘fore him. I shuldn’t have. ‘Thought he’d be fine.”

Shedletsky keeps a supportive hand behind him. He’s got on a smile, a little more genuine than the gambler’s, but in a more of a reassuring manner. 007n7 can only barely hear a whisper, the admin trying to support the very obvious distress coursing through him. Something about it not being their fault.

The mention of the fireplace has 007n7 gazing at it. Their eyes fixate on it like a cat’s to a bell, watching its stream of flame and ember hunger for more, for more wood, more fuel. It burns warm, crackles loud, keeps them from freezing in the otherwise unconditioned cabin.

Elliot was that warmth. Never receiving that fuel, yet he burned on until he couldn’t.

007n7 only pleads he’s still burning.

“...can’t die in the lobby, right?” The conversation filters in and out in his head. Little moments and phrases phasing itself in strange patterns, almost like a low connection. The rest loses itself to the stream of 1s and 0s, no different to the sea of digits that make up a whole.

Lines of code are sorting itself through his head; creating input from scraps in conversation.

class 007n7 {
private String OfThoughts;
private Flame exists;
public String getStringOfThoughts() {
return OfThoughts;
}
public Flame FindElliot() {
return exists;
}

class Brain {
public static void main(String []args) {

System.out.println("Hmm..."+007n7.getStringOfThoughts());
> "Hmm... Elliot's gone, he was last seen yesterday and seemingly just disappeared in the night. I know he wasn't doing well."
007n7.FindElliot(); }
}
> Exception in thread "007n7" java.lang.NullPointerException: Cannot invoke "007n7.FindElliot()" because "exists" is null
> at Brain.main(Brain.java:2)

…The fire flickers. It burns images into his vision, his staring just a little too long.

He excuses himself from the conversation. Not a word is said from 007n7, but he doesn’t need to. They accept his absence like a player to an NPC, his existence absent until he is in the room or involved. They do not talk of him. He doesn’t suppose so.

If they do, it’s not anything good.

The chill of the wind outside contrasts with the warmth from inside. It no longer feels like Elliot. Ice spikes down his spine and across his skin, enveloping himself in the colder temperature.

That’s what he is, after all. It doesn’t bother him.

He walks, hands stuffed in his pockets. He considers possibilities in his head, reasons for the boy to disappear so suddenly like that.

Supply runs were common within the group, venturing out into the surrounding wood for more material, wood for fire, stone for tools, the like. They were well off with most of the existing tools in the cabin, but it didn’t house everything they wanted.

Want. What did Elliot want?

007n7 doubts it was just a supply run he was off to. He would have told someone, wouldn’t he? Certainly not himself, but someone else. Someone trustworthy. Guest 1337 seemed a good candidate.

Yet, proving from his half-conscious listening to the survivor group just a minute prior, that output proved false. No one saw him leave.

As he approaches the water’s edge, his kin in spirit, the surface ripples with an air of unease.

…Another possibility creeps into his head.

That light… Did he seek it? He wondered of its probability, the chances of theories proven true, Elliot acting on a whim and seeking its truth.

Finally succumbing to that exhaustion.

The thought sends a pit into his being. A darkness grows, festers, lingers in his mind and in his heart and he can feel his head pound. What difference was he to that boy, then he was to his own?

Had he failed him just as he failed his kin?

A boy in a bright red top smiles at him. His face is the brightest in the room, the most positive presence past the buzzing overhead lights.

This feeling dampens as swift as it arrives. The lights dim and the world overtakes itself with shadow. No longer does he recognize that figure.

That smile.

That smile he had ruined.

Ideas and visions swarm into his mind, flashes of C00lkidd’s bloodied face, the blur of sirens, sharp glass embedded into sickly reddened skin. Waters suddenly fill and sink him and he sees Elliot disappearing into the fog of the ocean.

His throat closes.

That smile.

That innocent, loving smile.

Did you miss me?

Hands clasp around his throat, constrictive hold on his person. He can see spots in his vision, patching messily in blurs until it overtakes and all he can see is the curved mouth of his son.

Snap!

007n7 returns to himself sat on the ground, knee held up to his torso and hand on his chest, checking for some kind of confirmation he’s alive, he’s breathing. The buzz in his head still whirring like fans in a computer. The thumping of his heart against his palm like little electric shocks coursing through his veins.

He can breathe.

“Hey, hey. Eyes on me, cadet.”

There’s a snapping that catches his attention. Rough hands swim to his vision, and ahead is a man, a worn hero, stained and bruised and shadowed by his past, similarly to him.

Their shadows fuse with one another.

A huffed exhale escapes him, though sounding strained and weak. He didn’t smoke anymore, but he’d recognize himself of his mistakes by voice alone.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” The voice ahead is gruff, solid. Well recognized within the sea of their fellow damned souls in that cabin.

“...Two.” He answers. Obliges. Follows directions.

Something he learned to do just a little too late.

The man nods, his hand falling to his side. “Good. Your name?” Directions. More of them. Orders to obey.

“Ah…” He almost doesn’t want to say it. Like some kind of curse, or child’s myth, his name repeated within the stories of younger. Fear him, they’d say. He’ll only cause armageddon.

“007n7.” It tastes bitter.

“And mine?”

“Guest… Guest 1337.” Like the sharp aftertaste of cranberry.

007n7 can barely see Guest 1337’s mouth curve into what might be a smile. There’s a shift in expression, something changes in his face but it’s something not recognizable.

“Nice going. Where are we?”

Questions… Simple inquiries thrown about here and there. They’re general knowledge, little things never thought about twice. Pointless answers solved by only an instinct.

He knows why he’s asking. To fuse him with his position. Return his mind to his being; prove that he’s still conscious.

He seems to not be there very often.

String[] locations = new String[] {"Horror Hotel", "Planet Voss", "Ultimate Assassin Grounds", "Yorick's Resting Place", "Glass Houses", "Brandon6875935's Place", "The Lobby"};
String destination = new String("The Lobby");
for (int i = 0; locations[i] != null; i++)
{
if ((locations[i].equals(destination)) == true)
{
return true;
}
else
{
continue;
}
}

“We’re in the lobby.” 007n7 concludes. The air clears, dusky skies filling his vision. Neither fire nor water exist here, the mid-ground of dirt and wind call instead. He sees himself getting picked up by that breeze, wafting away in waves.

Guest 1337 serves as that ground. A staple of being alive, stuck to a surface. Gravity weighs you down and keeps you put against the sedimentary surface. The rock nods, builds itself, and stands tall as that of a great oak.

A branch extends itself to the hacker.

The hacker, the airy self he is, accepts it.

They stand.

Guest 1337 flashes a glance to him. He doesn’t say anything; the man simply staring up and down the hacker. Studying him, his movements.

It’s silent between them. Sickeningly so.

007n7’s the first one to break it. Simply, with a “Thank you.”

Guest 1337 nods, rolling his shoulder. “‘Could tell you were in your own head. Can’t have one of our own breaking on us.”

“Hah, well, I don’t think the rest of them would care very much if I had.”

The veteran responds only with a grunt. His gaze follows to the horizon of the lake. The fog obscures the surface; makes the water seem never-ending.

007n7 can’t really read him. Stiff as a board, he was, taking so many hits yet never altering, never cracked or chipped, the same man he is. On surface level, at least. He could never tell what’s going on in Guest’s head. The only consistent being that he treated 007n7 with a little more grace than the rest of the survivors.

His reputation never served him well. He assumes that Guest 1337 had just never heard of him in his lifetime. Otherwise, why would he extend that hand?

“They’re sending a search party in the nearby woods.” Guest 1337 blurts out, gaze still fixated on the rippling edge ahead of him.

007n7 lets his own follow. “Ah. Who?”

“Shedletsky, Builderman, and Chance.”

Sentinel, Support, Sentinel.

“That’s a good group… I hope they find him.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Huh?” 007n7’s head snaps to look at Guest 1337, the hacker’s face scrunching together as a confused look befalls his expression.

Guest 1337 pauses, huffs out a long breath. He puts one of his rough, calloused hands to his cheek, rubbing it up and down as a sort of grounding. Feeling the soft spikes of his own stubble. “You have to be prepared to lose people.”

007n7’s thoughts swirl. He wasn’t the only person suspecting the worst. That Elliot had possibly…

“Do you think it’s possible?” He asks.

The soldier’s hand naturally finds its spot on his chin. There’s a low hum coming from his throat as he thinks.

“I don’t think we should ignore it, as an option. I don’t want it, but…” He trails off. His gaze focuses on the shore once more.

007n7 can’t help the shaky breath that escapes him. “…It’s just a possibility, hopefully.”

Guest nods. “You can’t be panicking like that, over just a possibility. You have to be strong in situations like these.” He advises.

“I don’t think my reaction matters either way. Now, if it were one of the admins? Maybe.” 007n7 blurts out; it’s as if his mouth speaks before his mind can catch up. Revealing his inner thoughts to this worn man.

“A team doesn’t consist of just one person.”

“And you all already have tons of those.”

“We become weaker as a whole when even one of us is down.”

“Then why do none of them act like it?—“

007n7’s mouth closes shut.

Curse him. Curse him and his code running before the line’s even typed. You come out with unexpected results. Things you hadn’t planned for.

“Sorry. You’re all fine—“

“No. You can feel that way.”

“…”

“I know that kid out there is yours.”

“…Yeah.” 007n7’s unsure how the topic switched to this. It’s like a dagger in his heart, thinking about him again.

Guest 1337’s hand falls to his side once more. His eyes meet 007n7’s, staring into the void that is his irises. “You look at Elliot like you would a child. Like you would look at him.”

007n7 bites his lip. “Is it that obvious..?”

And— for the first time that 007n7’s ever seen from him, Guest 1337 chuckles. It’s a short and sweet action, but nothing that goes missed. “No, not really. I just happen to know what that looks like. I’ve got a baby girl of my own.”

“Huh. Really?” 007n7 questions. He never considered the option— that the others damned here could have families of their own. The realization dawns upon him like clouds on a rainy day.

He’s not the only one suffering.

“…Well, she’s not a baby. Still feels like one— the way their childhoods pass so quickly, it’s strange.” Guest 1337 laments. There’s a strange look in his eyes. Something sad, something hopeful, something knowing. As always, 007n7 can’t quite read through it.

Instead, he musters a lighthearted smile in response. “You’re telling me.”

Children… the light of their lives, they could be. Angels in disguise, leading them onto paths they never knew could be travelled. Teaching their parents, just as much as their parents should teach them.

He’s learned quite the hassle from a certain crimson boy. Yet he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Guest 1337 seems to visibly pause, in his own cacophony of thoughts. Thinking of his own kin… her smile, and the way it always managed to make his fatherly heart swell. It kept him going. It kept him running through the battlefields, missiles steaming and echoing through the deserted fields.

He heard her shout, her laughter. The way she would brighten up any time her father came home and trapped her in a bear hug, not letting her go for as long as he could. Those thoughts guided him up until that final moment. Until he saw that dastardly masked man, until he was pinned down with a shining trigger placed upon his cranium, until…

Guest 1337 grunts as he shakes off the thought, turning back to 007n7. It takes a second for him to form words again. “…Anyway, I can tell you feel responsible… for Elliot. He’s not yours, you know. Hates your guts, too.”

“…”

“…But that compassion, despite it, is a strong factor to own. You should be proud. Just don’t let it get to your head.” He concludes, crossing his arms together as a gentle protection against the cold. Additionally, unknowingly serving as protection against his own head.

007n7 simply nods to this statement. He’s thankful for Guest, for his tolerance with him, the words of advice he’s been offered tonight.

He mimics an absent-minded action and picks at his nails, dirt and gravel underneath his fingertips. The water ahead crashes against the wooden structure of the docks, a rhythmic sound akin to a melody playing in his ears. The outside breeze accompanies this, slowly pushing the waves to the shore.

The fire?

…

Not present.

“…I still hope he turns up.”

“All of us do.”