Chapter Text
The clock had struck midnight an hour or so ago. He couldn’t really be sure; he didn’t keep any clocks in the room. The only reliable source he had to tell the time with was the grandfather clock in the corridor outside of his room. Every now and then, when the days were slow and sleep took him willingly in its frothing waves and aquamarine glow, the clock would begin its afternoon alarms. Restless and fitful as he was, internal chimes reverberated and rattled the walls of the manor as its wild arms clanged against each other. What woke 1337 on the nights that the clock would break was not a crash, nor a bang— but a song. A song: eager to rise to the occasion, but much too ambitious for the midnight air. The repair process ran like clockwork with the chimes. Sometime in the middle of the night, Builderman would shuffle out of his room with bleary eyes to put the others to rest and euthanize the dying, strangled songs of the clock. They disturbed the others, no matter how helpful they might’ve been in the midday. It was the right thing to do; they all needed their rest. The clock would gurgle as life was suffocated out of it with a wrench and a few screwdrivers.
1337 was not a sensitive man by any means. He never really had any reason to break into tears as others so often did— he had only really cried at funerals and deaths, and these were cathartic enough that such (dare he say it) stereotypical sadness never plagued him. Just because he didn’t personally sob at much didn’t mean he didn’t have his own share of mental turmoil: at times, the heaviness of duty would weigh on him, but it was a motivator more than a burden, and he never let it drag him into the depths of his bedsheets and wait for the troubles to pass. Troubles didn’t pass; if nobody took care of the problem, it would simply continue forever until someone else decided they got sick of it. Years could pass, and that clock would still be ringing. He wasn’t sure anyone else knew how to fix it, when Builderman was away on matches, nobody fixed it. Freely, it would ring into the night, howling for company, hardwired to desire companionship in the form of shuffles and grumbles and affirmations and ‘yes, I know’ and silences. Lessons hidden in ornate decoration and elaborately carved faces were masked by the chime that everyone remembered the clock by. He’d pass by that very clock on his way to breakfast in the morning. If anyone else thought of the surgical scars that ran from the open panel in the back to the nape of its neck where it must’ve once been held in nurtured, regularly dusted esteem, they didn’t make it obvious. He wondered if anyone else woke from their nightmares just to hear the golden warbles of the clock, sometimes.
The chimes being lulled back into abyssal dreams with Builderman’s soft shushing and pleads seemed to make his heart wrench in ways he hadn’t previously thought possible. Maybe it was the idea that once, he’d been so close to a death without glory; a quiet death, for the betterment of everyone else. The ‘right thing.’ The ‘good thing:’ his death, a thing that nobody would miss. A life that somebody would roll over and grumble at before pulling a pillow back over their ears. A creaking armchair that nobody wanted to sit in— lest they get laughed at— whose leather had not been conditioned in the years worn on it. Open scars that showed signs of infection. Shoes that had been worn and didn’t fit anyone’s shoes, suffocating under the weight of a massive landfill of worn things. Imbued with beautiful life and left to rot. Ornate clock faces that chimed deep into the twinkling, beautiful night, wanting to sing with the crickets outside that sang for only each other.
The worst part of listening to the clock go silent was that he couldn’t make himself move and get out of bed to silence it so someone else didn’t have to. The boulder of sleep he shoved in front of him weighed him into the bed more often than not, and the clock never rang every night, so he never knew when to be ready; only intermittently, in bursts of suffering only rejuvenated when he was getting too comfortable. Only when he didn’t expect it. Somewhere inside of him rang the Liberty Bell, crack widening every time, gongs whispering in tarnished excuses not to go out in that hallway and face the clock. Builderman had quieted it a few hours ago, now. 1337 had been meaning to ask him why he never silenced it for good, but he supposed Builderman always got up too fast— like he kept that toolbox of his at the ready, waiting by the door in case it rang for him. He supposed everyone liked feeling needed in the most hopeless of situations. He couldn’t willingly take that away from someone else, he’d have to admit that he didn’t need to take every hit for someone else. He couldn’t admit that he couldn’t take a life himself, no matter how inanimate it was.
The piling wax on the base of the candles he kept on the desk gave meager light in the slow hours of the night, each drip a minute he’d spent staring at the flickering glow that painted the peeling wallpaper in a fiery glow that was long absent from his mind. When he lived in the orphanage, they’d only bring out the candles if the power went out. The Bacon Army usually only attacked major infrastructure on the outskirts of Robloxia, but if they were in reach, any area was susceptible; from the sleepy suburbs of Bloxburg to the city streets of Brookhaven. If they happened to be caught up in an attack, Daisy, Matt, and him would pass the time by telling spooky stories and holding the candles beneath their faces to cast long shadows across their faces. They’d smile as the flames licked their chins, long grins widening as they angled the candle just enough for the corners of their lips to appear knife-sharp, gaps between teeth too wide. After that, they’d go to bed while the adults made commotion in the hallway: breaking out the generator, filling it with gas, gathering non-perishables. Builderman would send backup and watches to survey the perimeter and look out for Bacon soldiers, but in those 15 minutes, the world seemed to leave them alone, turning a blind eye to the things that could be creeping on the outskirts of Robloxia. Guest 1337 had figured out that it was easier to tell stories about things crawling their way out of the Banlands than soldiers breaking into innocent Robloxians’ homes— not just for him, but for everyone involved. Though the danger was real, bringing it forth from their latent subconscious seemed to be taboo.
The ledger on the wall in the bar was a reminder of that. Some time ago, someone got the idea of keeping track of all the killers they’d been put against, as well as the duration of matches to see if there was a pattern. He remembered Chance making some snarky comment about how ‘tracking probabilities only confirmed those probabilities, it didn’t change them,’ but he was the first one to confirm that (with their current statistics) the match placement was completely random and evenly distributed. There was even some sort of chart drawn on the chalkboard in the bar showing the distributions of matches amongst survivors.
It was then that the time struck him: hours after midnight. The others would have returned from their match soon, and he wanted to be there to patch up any bleeding wounds, as well as get the ledger so nobody else had to. That was the least he could do to ease their minds, take off one of the responsibilities. He knew what it was like to trudge home alone, rucksack heavy with scrap and food for the others, and have to update the ledger with muddy and bloody hands. (They’d learned to laminate it after an incident where Chance got bits of his fingers on the ledger, making a portion unreadable.) Plus, he hadn’t heard any noises yet, and he wanted to intersect them when they got home. The bed creaked as he got up from his watchtower and started for the door.
As it swung open, he could see that the hallway was empty— of course it was. The clock’s hands read three, it’d be unusual for anyone to be up at this time of night if they weren’t coming home from a match. His slippers were muffled on the carpet that wound around the circular upper floor of the house. Strange. On the outside, the longhouse was a rectangle. He was never going to get used to that. He supposed it was one of those little things that he willingly turned a blind eye to: that he knew didn’t exist, couldn’t exist, but couldn’t stand maddening himself over. Optimism needed some kind of miracle or blind faith, and divinity was stored in the cracks of uncertainty where hope persisted and grew green leaves. The carpet sprawled like roots, spreading to every end of the infinite hallways he was sure the house contained. No, he wasn’t ever going to get used to it. Telamon forbid he got used to anything, if everything could be taken away so easily; if the walls could shift, if his room could disappear, if familiar comforts could leave him.
The doorway to the stairs offered some respite to the darkness of the hallway, and he walked through to bathe himself in the glow of the main room.
The light of the chandeliers stung his bleary eyes after hours of sitting and staring at the flames licking his walls, but he showed no sign of it besides a long blink. It seemed the television area had been completely eliminated in favor of optimizing the path up to the stairs— sometimes, the doorway to the bedroom corridor would be right next to the television room. Sometimes, it wouldn’t be there at all. Sometimes, it would be laughably out of reach, just beyond the balcony over the bar, and they’d have to climb their way over the railing and fall flat on their faces to the other side.
He surveyed the main room downstairs. The door was closed and locked, so someone was surely here. His eyes traced and swept over every inch of the room, but not before falling on a hunched figure perched on the edge of a couch cushion. Dirt stamped around the printed Botox-injected face on his back, leaving it pristine while the rest of his shirt went crumpled. There was a bandage wrapped around his elbow, and he looked to be staring towards the fireplace— or, at least, that’s where his head was pointing.
It was 007n7; 1337 would recognize that shirt anywhere. No matter what outfit he seemed to be wearing, he knew him from the posture alone. He knew him before he walked into the room— the unease that’d caused his insomnia was branded with the face on the back of 007n7’s shirt. Hours worth of sleepless suffering staring at a starless ceiling through bleary eyes were given sacred meaning as he laid eyes upon him. He breathed easier now, seeing that he was alive. It was one less thing to worry about, but what a monumental thing to worry about.
He took careful steps down the stairs, practiced from years of sneaking into the kitchen late at night with Daisy and Charlotte. He might not have brought sweets for 007n7, but maybe his presence would ease him after a match. Creaks rang out as his weight dropped onto each step, yet the figure on the couch below didn’t turn or acknowledge that the room was changing.
Camaraderie was necessary in their situation (it was common knowledge that if the team just sat around and ignored each other, they’d all die, which nobody really wanted to happen), but true confidence in another person seemed rare to come by. Sometimes, he’d hang out with Chance, or go fix things around the manor with Builderman, but they’d never descend into talk of their sentiments or pasts. There was no use reminiscing on a past that was slipping through their fingers as quick as sand, after all— the only thing that mattered was the future and how they would handle it. The only survivor he saw not connecting with anyone or making an effort to cultivate the teamwork environment was 007n7. Builderman had instructed him to go pass on teamwork strategies to him one day, and the two seemed to click near immediately. 007n7 was an excellent listener, coaxing him into sharing old war stories as they bonded over the mutual experience of fatherhood and watching their children grow up. Peering at 007n7’s quilt of memories and seeing similarly cut squares brought him warmth and ease: here was someone who had shared so many experiences with him, who came from an entirely different path of life and perspective. It was like the universe took some pity on him for being the last guest and brought him someone else who might’ve understood.
He knew it’d become more than that when he began holding his breath, hoping that 007n7 would walk through the door of any room. They’d already shared long nights, uncovering long timelines of gossip and secrets while deliberating strategies for survival— trading quilt squares. All of a sudden, he couldn’t sleep without being reminded of the threads where 007n7 wove themselves into 1337’s blanket. Dialogues, jokes, and rambles wound their way through his head on skeins, tangling him in red thread that bound the two together. Everything he saw connected back to him.
He thought they’d reached a certain point of camaraderie that he could approach him about anything but the match— maybe even ask him what was wrong, or why he hadn’t retired like the others had.
“007n7.”
He spoke his full name, but the figure still didn’t stir from self-made seated slumber. Either the others were respawning in their beds, or had already gone up. This was no place to rest his eyes. Maybe the match really had been that bad.
“What happened?” 1337 stepped closer, floorboards creaking under his weight as his words fought with the crackling of the fireplace. At even the slightest hint of an environmental hazard, 007n7’s head whipped around, and he found himself stumbling on his feet.
As quickly as he stood, though, adrenaline and the exhaustion of the night seemed keen on taking him down as his knees buckled. 1337 rushed forward to catch him and ease him back onto the couch, letting the rightmost corner of the sofa cradle his weight. 007n7 looked up at him with pacified fear— pupils large enough to serve a feast on and eyes porcelain-glazed shiny, but body limp and pliant to his will. Maybe that was just the result of the toll stress had taken from him, taxing as he crossed back into the realm of peace and settled back into the longhouse.
“Easy now—”
As 007n7 settled on the couch, gingerly adjusting his position on one arm, 1337 sat an arm’s length away from him, settling towards the center. Catatonia seemed to have cradled him in its grasp, and bless 1337 for putting in the effort to try to wake him from his wide-eyed slumber.
“Sorry, I—” 007n7 chuckled— “I don’t know what’s, uh… what’s gotten into me.” Even though he’d shown brief amusement, his mouth seemed resistant to forming a smile. It usually was, from what 1337 had seen, but never so much that even when he was laughing, it seemed to be carved into the sacred marble of his body. “It’s late, isn’t it? What are you doing up?”
“I came down to check on you. Is everything okay?”
1337 leaned forward, scanning over 007n7. His face was fine, albeit paralyzed with waking nightmares. His shirt was rumpled, but otherwise clean of bloodstains. His pants were pristine, besides mud caking on the worn, ripped cuffs of them. The one thing that drew 1337’s eyes forth were the bandages he’d spotted from the balcony.
“I wasn’t doing anything, I swear—” 007n7 raised his hands, head bowed in submission and shame of his invisible crimes. 1337 was almost sure that nobody really needed to ‘watch him’ if 007n7 was just going to torture himself like this all of the time, and besides, he wasn’t looking for any remnants of heresy or usury left in him after the fires of repentance had burnt him clean.
“I didn’t think so.” He shook his head, lips pursed uncomfortably. Treating 007n7 like he was anything but a man seemed to be the reference for which all of the interactions they’d had stood. 1337 yearned for a day that they could both find some peace— that he, himself, could be anything but a figurehead, and that 007n7 could be anything but an exploiter. He pointed to the bandage he’d noticed on 007n7’s arm. “Did you get hurt?”
“Yeah, sorry—”
“No need to be. Can I see it? I just want to make sure it’s not infected.”
Though both of them knew he could handle himself, 007n7 offered his left arm forward. 1337 took it in his hands, fingers tracing over hair and trained muscle. 007n7’s eyes traced 1337’s knuckles, leaving a warmth of their own besides the delight of 007n7’s body temperature in the cool night. The bandages seemed to have been wrapped fine, and the wound wasn’t turning a strange color, so he supposed it was fine for now. They’d be able to deal with it later if it didn’t heal overnight. He placed 007n7’s hand back in his lap, then sat back.
“I didn’t suspect anything.” He clarified. “It just looked like you had something on your mind.” He turned his attention towards the fireplace, making it clear he was not letting him off easy. It was a specialty of his: a certain kind of drive that was unique to those who weaseled their way from the iron fists of death and dictators. His friends weren’t spared from that ambition. Nobody in his life was. He’d lost a few friends because of it— he’d even lost Matt because they were born of the same fire that blessed them with the burden of protection.
“Not really.” 007n7 cradled the wound in his arms before adjusting once more, invisible spikes digging into his backside, needles dug deep into the couch that neither of them anticipated. “I was thinking. About the match, I mean.”
1337 nodded. “How did it go?”
“Good. Elliot got caught early. Two Time was trying to distract and led him to Builderman after dying. Shedletsky missed his swing—” 007n7’s chest depressed, as if allotting time for a quick sigh in his recitation— “and Builderman ended up dying right there. Chance was too weak, I guess, and tried to shoot the killer when his gun exploded on him. I wasn’t able to help, but I tried to fix the generators and scavenge where I could.”
1337 nodded. 007n7 seemed to know him well enough to know he prioritized what was etched into the concrete dungeon walls of reality rather than the feelings that floated freely in thin air. He was never one for heights, and the only hypotheticals he dared to entertain were those of the matches. His stomach turned with the fate described to him. So many dead, and only in a few minutes… sand crumbs left in his clothes attracted ants that injected grief into his bones. They weren’t really dead— just respawning. Though, with how the manor tended to change, he wouldn’t be surprised if one day, they just disappeared. It was never out of the question. It could always happen. The fact of it hung over their heads, infiltrating their thoughts and weaving itself in. Though there was love and companionship in 1337’s life, where gold shone and glimmered across the sea of gray, there also stood grief. Grief for things that hadn’t happened, had happened, and would happen.
“I’m sure you did better than you think.” 1337 gave him a smile. His eyes wandered down to the table, where the ledger laid open. 007n7 must have taken it off the wall to update it; he was always helpful like that. “Oh—” He reached towards it— “Who was the killer for that round?”
007n7 looked away, body stiffening. “... It was c00lkidd.”
No wonder the pencil laid next to it. 007n7 had been staring at the ledger. “... Right.” His eyes traced the newest entry, 27 rows down and 81 pages deep. All the members that 007n7 had said were crossed out, and 007n7 was left alive. The unfinished entry of the row sat marble-bare amongst the rest— under the ‘Killer’ column. Picking up the pencil, 1337 took the ledger into his lap and penciled in ‘c00lkidd.’ “There we go.”
007n7 looked at him, and in his eyes, 1337 saw Daisy’s eyes staring right back at him at the moment he’d told her he was leaving for the military. A parent having to accept and take life on as normal after an awful tragedy and loss. Abandonment packaged into a shining prism that glittered in the light of the fire in front of them. He saw the glow of the seafoam as it washed away sand into the ocean. He saw the sun reflecting back at him from the glittering waves.
“... Thank you.”
1337 shook his head. “Yeah, no problem. We have to look out for each other, after all.”
007n7 looked over to him, then back to the ledger. “Guest.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you… really think it’s ever going to work? Tracking it like this?” 007n7 studied 1337’s face. 1337 looked back at him, steadfast in his belief in the ledger.
“Anything we can do to try to get an edge on them. Plus, if anything changes, we’ll know immediately.”
“But…” 007n7 paused, took a breath in, then kept speaking. What came out of his mouth next garnered shock from 1337. “If you want to know what I was doing, I was looking at the statistics.” He summoned his panel with an open palm, then showed the statistics to 1337. A series of graphs splayed themselves across the panel; he enlarged one and showed it to 1337. A line sprawled across the page, striving for the heavens, spiking downwards occasionally when a new survivor would join, marked by a notch and their name. “Over time… our win rates have increased, but not at the day we started the ledger. We know the patterns, but… we’re not doing anything with the data.” 007n7 closed his fist, and the panel disappeared. “I’m, uh—” He looked away, shame forming sweat beads on his face. “I’m sorry, criticizing it probably isn’t helpful. I shouldn’t have said anything—”
“... No, I think you’re right. Maybe not the ledgers by themselves now that we’ve confirmed some beliefs we have about what’s going on. But…” 1337 chuckled, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’ve just never heard anything like this out of you before. You could be a real help towards our efforts, with those graphs of yours.”
007n7 chuckled, and the noise seared itself into 1337’s mind. “If you really think so, then… I’ll believe you.” As 007n7 looked back at him, 1337 noticed how firelight made its way across his face, bathing him in an orange glow. As much as the flames in front of them lit the hairs of his brows in a brilliant glow, they also left shadows in the crooks and nannies of his face— crevices where secrets hid. “Anything I can do to help us get out.” The others believed that 007n7 had something up his sleeve, but what that was depended entirely on the person. It tended to range from hidden malice to repentance that would compel even the strongest believer to crawl through glass and lick their bleeding, open palms. “Get my son out,” he added quietly, mouth tracing the words but making them inaudible in the pine-riddled air of the common room. As 1337’s eyes traced across his face, he knew only love hid within those shadows. Love stood there in the dark; made itself known through the absence of it. Love was a guiding hand. Love deepened the wrinkles of 007n7’s face as he looked towards him. Love was compelling him to speak now.
He wouldn’t make him say it out here. That would be too cruel. “I have something I want to show you. I think you should know what the others and I have been working on.”