Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Title: And then you make me think you're wanting me

Summ: Caring, protective, thoughtful—Elliot sees Guest1337 as a kind of father figure. Guest can’t say he feels the same.

“There’s nothing wrong with filling the holes in your heart,” Elliot had once said to Guest—albeit drunkenly. He was mostly paraphrasing something his coworker had told him on a random Tuesday at the pizza place, when she was feeling particularly philosophical.

After that, Guest had grown noticeably more wistful in the rounds that followed.

Elliot follows the same advice, too—loneliness creeping up his spine the same way fear strikes him in every waking moment. He misses his family. His sister. His mother. His father—begrudgingly, his father. That gray-haired fool who used to chastise him over the smallest things… and yet, he’s grown to miss it.

As a way to cope, he seeks out Guest’s company—a reliable guy. Robloxia’s hero, Elliot’s good company. The kind of presence that settles the nerves without needing to say much. Definitely knows how to fix pipes and things, like all fathers somehow mysteriously seem to know.

“Guest, the oven is malfunctioning.” Elliot walks out of the kitchen, apron in hand—some random thing he found. No one ever claimed it, so it’s his now.

Guest lets out a silent grunt as he stands from the table, cutting off his conversation with the other survivors. “On it,” he says.

“Hey, hey, hey! Hold it!” Chance calls out. “You can’t just suddenly walk outta a poker game!”

Guest simply raises a brow. “Yes, I can,” he says, and walks into the kitchen with Elliot.

The oven’s not exactly the most high-end thing—nor is it well-maintained. Its sides are slightly rusted, and leftover grease clings to the edges. Burn marks stain the bottom tray, and the knobs feel loose, like they might fall off with one wrong twist. Whoever owned it last clearly didn’t believe in cleaning, let alone caring. It smells faintly of burnt cheese and something unidentifiable, like a dozen failed meals cooked one after the other and forgotten just as quickly.

It’s no surprise that it malfunctioned—but with one hard thud of Guest’s fist against its side and a brutish twist of the loose knob, the oven sputters, clicks, and reluctantly roars back to life.

“Oh!” Elliot gapes, the apron folded on his shoulder nearly slipping off. “I thought about hitting it too, but I was scared it might fall apart.”

“If it didn’t work, I doubt we’ve got any spare wires to fix the damn thing,” Guest says with a faint smile. “We could always resort to grilling—plenty of trees around the perimeter.”

“Well, I’m definitely not the one chopping them down,” Elliot sighs, hooking the apron around his neck.

“No need to worry about it.” Guest is already behind him, tying the straps at the back without being asked. Elliot twitches slightly, the ghost of Guest’s fingers making him feel oddly ticklish. “Shedletsky and I would’ve handled that. Maybe even Builderman—if his back’s treating him kindly.”

“You sure about Shedletsky actually following through?” Elliot chuckles.

“He may be one of the two people leading our group,” Guest says with a short laugh, “but I’ll make sure he gets ordered around.”

Elliot lets out another laugh before glancing at the hares laid out for dinner—several of them, already cleaned and defurred, thanks to Two-Time’s strangely extensive knowledge of butchery… for reasons no one’s quite figured out yet. Elliot isn’t exactly thrilled at the thought of doing that to the poor creatures himself.

“Thanks, by the way. You can head back to your poker game—sorry for the interruption!”

“I don’t mind.” Guest leans against the counter, arms lazily crossed. “It probably won’t be fair once I get back anyway. Chance might’ve already taken a peek at my cards.”

“I doubt it,” Elliot says, dumping the vegetables onto the tray with the hare meat. “He likes surprises. Cheating ruins the fun for him.”

Guest hums in response, and for a moment, only the sound of trays clinking and the ticking oven knob fills the space. The warmth from the oven mixes with the faint scent of herbs and game, wrapping the kitchen in a kind of silence that feels lived-in rather than awkward.

Elliot doesn’t really mind the quiet. He’s grown used to Guest’s company by now—comfortable with the way he lingers in the background, present without pressure. He knows Guest has a lot on his mind, always thinking, always watching. It’s not like him to start small talk just for the sake of filling silence. Well—sometimes he does, when the quiet stretches too long or when he senses Elliot getting restless. But most of the time, he speaks with purpose, each word weighed like it’s got somewhere to be. Elliot’s learned to spot the difference: between the idle questions and the ones that come from deeper places.

“You sure you don’t want any more help?” Guest finally asks, glancing over his shoulder.

“Not that I’m aware of, no. It’s not like I have to keep watch on the oven every second!” Elliot wipes his hands on the apron, then starts ushering Guest out of the kitchen. They stop at the table where Chance is waiting.

“C’mon, I wanna see you beat this guy!”

Chance raises his brows, placing a hand on his chest in mock offense. “Who says I’m losing, kid?”

He’s been fiddling with his own cards the whole time, thumbs running along the edges with the kind of idle focus that betrays nothing. The corners are a little worn from how often he does it, but his face stays unreadable, a small, confident smirk playing at his lips.

“I take it you actually looked through my cards?” Guest mutters as he begrudgingly sinks back into his chair, shoulders finally relaxing.

“As if! That ruins the fun,” Chance scoffs.

“See? Told you so.” Elliot grins, shamelessly leaning over to peek at Guest’s cards while he adjusts them in his hand. When Guest notices him over his shoulder, he lifts the hand slightly so Elliot can see better.

“We’ve been stuck in this hell for god knows how long, and I still can’t believe you don’t know me that well, 1337,” Chance says, wiping an imaginary tear from their cheek. “At least I know Elliot’s got my back.”

“I’m literally working against you right now,” Elliot replies, then taps one of the cards in Guest’s hand. “Play that one after the next draw—he tends to bluff when he’s too talkative.”

“Hey!” Chance squawks, grabbing Elliot by the arm and pulling him over. Elliot nearly stumbles, caught off balance, and Guest instinctively starts to rise from his seat, steadying him with a hand just in case he takes a real fall. “If you’re gonna team up with him—team up with me too! Gotta keep it fair!” Chance insists, flashing a grin that only slightly masks how serious he actually is about the game.

Elliot huffs, reluctantly leaning down beside Chance, their heads level as he eyes the cards.

“They all suck,” he deadpans. “You should give up, man.”

“That definitely means I’m winning this,” Chance hums, leaning back in their chair with exaggerated confidence. “Watch out, Guest. I know Elliot’s tells!”

Guest raises an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Good. Then you’ll know exactly when you’ve lost.”

The game drags on with a theatrical intensity that none of them take seriously. Cards slap the table with flair, Chance dramatically narrates his every move like he’s in a casino tournament, and Elliot keeps giving bad advice to both of them just to stir the pot.

“You’re bluffing,” Chance accuses, narrowing his eyes at Guest.

“I haven’t even played a card yet.”

“Exactly.”

Elliot snickers, leaning on the back of Chance’s chair. “You act like this is a life-or-death situation.”

“It is,” Chance deadpans. “I need my bragging rights back.”

The table erupts into mock groans and exaggerated gasps—mostly from Chance, who dramatically clutches their chest and wails like they've been personally betrayed by the deck. It's all just noise, a last-ditch effort to distract Guest from how badly they're losing. Elliot plays along with a laugh, adding fuel to the fire.

Despite the chaos, Guest remains still, calmly observing the storm of antics around him. He doesn't flinch, doesn't smirk—just watches, reads, waits. And then, without flourish or flair, he lays down his hand. A quiet win. An inevitable one. The kind no one saw coming until it was already too late.

“Rigged,” Chance mutters, tossing his cards with betrayal.

“Totally rigged,” Elliot echoes mockingly.

Later that night, the cabin has settled into its usual hush. The ‘poker’ table is empty, a few cards left scattered like fallen leaves. Elliot steps outside, needing some air, and immediately catches a faint glow in the darkness—orange ember flaring at the end of a cigarette.

Guest stands just beyond the porch light, shoulder propped against the side of the cabin, smoke curling around his silhouette.

Elliot leans against the railing beside Guest, watching the curl of smoke rise into the night. He remembers when the cigarettes first appeared—some random pack left on the kitchen counter like a ghost had gifted it. Guest never commented on the brand, just took one and lit it like it was routine. Chance, on the other hand, had complained immediately, saying they tasted bitter, like chewing bark. Guest had only shrugged. Now, the ember glows at the end of the cigarette as he exhales slowly, his expression unreadable in the dark.

“Evening,” Guest’s furrowed brows raise slightly as soon as he notices Elliot. “Anything you need?”

“Nah, just company.” Elliot leans down beside him, resting his cheek against the cool wooden railing. “How many hours before another round starts?”

“Possibly in an hour or two,” Guest replies, eyes following the slow drift of the moon. “I lost count. Might be off by thirty minutes.”

“You’ve been keeping count?”

“Yeah,” Guest exhales a stream of smoke, deliberately blowing it away from Elliot’s direction. It curls upward into the night sky. “I’ve been keeping track of how many rounds we’ve had. Safe to say I’m starting to lose count. And hope.”

The words are enough to make Elliot glance at Guest helplessly. He had always seen him as the balance between optimism and realism—grounded, but never bleak. Hearing that sliver of resignation in his voice unsettles him more than he'd like to admit.

"You think we're making it out alive, Elliot?" Guest asks, taking another slow drag from his cigarette. The ember flares briefly in the dark. He exhales smoke in a long, steady stream. "The last thing I saw was a grenade explosion before I got here. I'm starting to doubt I'm actually still alive. You?”

“Um…” Elliot straightens up, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. “I got strangled to death.”

Guest instinctively glances at Elliot’s neck before quickly averting his eyes. “That must’ve hurt.”

“Not as much as getting blown up by a grenade,” Elliot snickers.

Guest lets out a soft huff, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost smiled. “Pain’s still pain,” he mutters, flicking the ash off the cigarette. “No leaderboard for who died worse.”

Elliot leans back on the railing again, voice quieter. “Guess we’re both dead, then.”

A long pause hangs between them, filled only by the chirp of bugs and the faint ticking of the broken cabin clock behind the wall. Then Guest murmurs, “This topic is too dreary, don't you think? Sorry for bringing that up so suddenly.”

“Hm, yeah. Not exactly good for the team morale.” Elliot purses his lips. “How’d you learn how to play poker?”

“Someone snuck a pack of cards into the army. We played in secret,” Guest says with a faint smile. “We did get severely punished for it.”

Elliot imagines Guest in his younger days, back when his uniform was probably too big on him and his eyes didn’t carry the weight they do now. It’s hard to picture—Guest, wide-eyed and unscarred, maybe even laughing too freely, still unshaped by the war that would eventually leave its mark in the lines on his face and the quiet way he moves. For a second, Elliot finds the image strangely endearing. Guest doesn’t look like someone who was ever a soft infant, let alone a rookie messing around with contraband cards.

“Oh, wow, I didn’t expect you to be quite the rebel,” Elliot’s eyes widen in mock surprise, a grin tugging at his lips.

“I’d say I’m a disciplined soldier. But there are times when I think my own decisions are always right.”

“Like playing poker in secret?”

“I was itching for entertainment.”

Elliot laughs at the dry remark, the sound soft in the quiet night—just enough to make Guest chuckle along.

“Speaking of poker,” Guest says after a beat, his tone casual but his eyes briefly flick to Elliot’s, “you and Chance seem to know each other pretty well. I didn’t think there’d be time to form… that kind of relationship, considering how tense things are.”

“What kind of relationship…?” Elliot blinks, then realization hits. “Oh! No, no—nothing like that! We just play cards together sometimes. They said I’ve got a pretty solid poker face.”

It was really just his customer service smile. Turns out, years of dealing with angry customers over wrong pizza orders builds the same nerve it takes to bluff your way through a flush.

“Ah.” Guest’s shoulders ease, his fingers idly smudging the end of his cigarette against the railing. “Didn’t mean to assume. You two just… look rather convincing.”

“Are we?” Elliot pouts. “My dad wouldn’t approve of him. I can just feel it.” Then, half-jokingly, “Do you approve of him?”

Guest exhales through his nose, a thin thread of smoke curling into the cold air. “No.” A pause. Then, as if it needed clarification: “Feels like a bad time to be associating with someone who gambles for the thrill of it.”

[A/N: There's supposed to be a part here but I accidentally deleted it lol]

Guest huffs out a breath, almost a laugh himself. Elliot could almost smell it from where he stood—the faint bitterness of smoke curling off Guest’s lips, familiar in a way that made his chest tighten. It was the same breath his father used to have when he kissed him on the cheek before work: stale instant coffee and the acrid bite of a cigarette. He used to hate it, wrinkle his nose and pull away. Now, standing there beside Guest, he only hoped he wouldn’t get sick from the secondhand smoke—with how much he was trying to keep it in his lungs, as if it were treasure.

“He's probably heard enough from me.” Guest says.

“He doesn't hear enough,” Elliot huffs.

[A/N: there's a cut on this part so consider it a timeskip]

“Ah…” Elliot stops in his tracks. A shadow-like substance is pooling beneath the generator he was planning to work on—one of John Doe’s abilities he’s grown especially wary of, having died to it several times now from wandering around so aimlessly.

He stares at it helplessly, then glances around for any of the other survivors. He could… probably ask 007n7 to throw his clone at it and be done with it, but there’s still hesitation tugging at him.

“Elliot, are you alright?” Guest rounds the corner, his gait casual. Elliot can only assume John Doe is currently passive—judging by how Guest’s brows aren’t furrowed deeply enough to leave an indent.

Elliot weakly points at the digital footprint John Doe left behind, and Guest steps on it without hesitation—boots crunching the grass, the shadow seeping beneath them. Lines of code crawl across his rough skin like termites biting into bark. He lets out only a silent grunt before patting the generator.

“That should do it,” Guest says with a dim smile. Elliot’s eyes widen at the sight of him kneeling to work on the generator like it was nothing. Now he just feels more like a wuss for standing there, staring at the damn shadow thing. Before he can reach out to heal him, Guest speaks again, “You can save your pizza, Elliot. Just a small scratch.”

“But…” Elliot bites his thumbnail, glancing around and straining his ears for any sign that someone else might be hurt. Once he’s sure there isn’t, he still tosses the pizza straight into Guest’s hand—who catches it on reflex.

“I’m still healing you!” he insists.

Chapter Text

Title: Takes two to follow

Summ: 007n7 becomes the unignorable pest in Elliot's routine.

Or: 007n7 takes a strange curiosity towards Elliot. Stalking ensues.

[This one's out of the WIP book now]

“07, why the fuck are you littering our dorm room with pizza boxes?”

Noli can only assume that 007n7 is either running some underground pizza business, spiraling into a depressive state where all he can eat is pizza, or he just really likes the way the Builder Brothers’ pizza place cooks. Or all of the above. One can never truly tell.

“I’ll clean it up later,” 007n7 dismisses him, hushing him to top it all off.

“Uh-huh,” Noli deadpans as he tiptoes over the stack of pizza boxes—some closed, some half-open, one with a hardened crust still clinging to the edge. “I know damn well these have been here for three days. I’m not a clean freak, but I’d love not to catch cockroaches watching my phone with me on my bed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” 007n7 mumbles, tapping away on his laptop. Noli eventually gives up and flops onto his own mattress.

“What are you even looking at?” he grumbles, trying to peer past the privacy screen protector plastered over 007n7’s laptop.

“Egg hunt event,” 007n7 replies.

“You’re still on about that shit?”

“It’s the best event Robloxia’s made yet, and people are still complaining,” 007n7 fumes as he types out another long-winded paragraph to send to some poor sap. “Ungrateful pieces of shit, if you ask me.”

“Wow. Patriotic, aren’t you?”

“Not really. I just really liked the egg event. Got my time’s worth out of it.”

The tapping stops, and 007n7 copies the whole paragraph he was writing before refreshing the page. He scoffs—there’s already a new reply under his post from just seconds ago.

“I knew this ungrateful guy responded. I could already feel it before I even finished ranting.”

He pastes his unfinished paragraph into the comment section before reading whatever this so-called ungrateful guy posted.

Noli couldn’t really give two shits about this and rolls onto his side, his phone already open to Bloxtube as he taps on whatever random creepypasta video shows up.

007n7 mutters under his breath as he reads the reply, loud enough for Noli to catch and grate his ears:

“The event’s damn near unplayable. Full of bugs. Some of us have jobs and actual lives. We don’t have time to waste on a broken event that Robloxia didn’t even bother to test the realm before releasing it. Crappy buildings, tiny map, and I had to wait nearly an hour just to get the damn Flawless Egg even though we already had ten people standing on the plates and I still got nothing! Total waste of my time. Took me 2 hours before I could enter the event. ‘Save The Eggverse?’ More like save the event bruh.”

Then 007n7 snaps,

“Well, fuck you too. Skill issue. Go get a job. Go back in time for the 2011 event.”

“There weren’t any 2011 egg hunts,” Noli says flatly.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to say.”

007n7 pauses and reads the username. “I’m not wasting my time with this…EofTheCentury guy. I need to finish my little project before we graduate.”

“The c00lGUI?”

007n7 clicks his tongue. “Don’t say it out loud. They might hear us and infiltrate our shit. We almost got in trouble with all your yapping.”

Noli just grunts and restarts the video he was watching. Behind him, he hears 007n7 shuffle around in his chair—the empty fizzy soda can clattering as it hits the floor, then the rustle of it being picked up and half-heartedly tossed (and missed) toward the university-issued trash bin.

“…Actually, no. This can wait. I’m going out,” 007n7 says, leaning back in his chair. He taps the space bar on his laptop, like he’s still mulling it over.

Noli raises a brow, peering over his shoulder. “To where?”

“Nana,” 007n7 replies, brushing off crumbs from his black shirt—good enough to wear outside.

“What?”

“Nana your business.”

The last thing 007n7 sees before closing the door is Noli flipping him off.

The way to Builder Brother’s Pizza Place is a long one, but it’s a path 007n7 knows like the back of his hand. A decent bit of exercise, too—probably needed, with all the grease, sugar, and fat he’s been shoveling into his mouth lately. Not that he’s a glutton or anything. He just doesn’t like wasting food.

Still, buying them feels like a need.

“Welcome to Builder Brother’s Pizzeria!”

The name tag reads Elliot, and the guy flashes him a smile that never dims.

Yeah. Definitely a need.

007n7 pretends to read the menu, though his eyes drift just past it—toward the blurry shape of Elliot’s frame, barely visible at the edge of his pink-framed glasses.

Not many customers today. Just him, a loud group of friends—probably from his university—and sweet, smiling Elliot.

“Not even gonna say my name? Thought we’re past the customer phase?” 007n7 snickers out his nervousness, eyes flicking up to finally look at Elliot’s bright face. He probably should’ve washed his own—it feels oily, though maybe that’s just the overstimulation talking.

“Oh! Sorry, it’s just customary,” Elliot scratches his head. “So… uh, 007n7, right?”

007n7 bites the inside of his cheek—just a little restraint to keep from smiling too wide. He likes the way Elliot stumbled over his name, since it’s really just a bunch of numbers.

“Hey, you remembered.”

“You’re a frequent customer, so that helped,” Elliot laughs, a little sheepish. “May I take your order?”

“I’ll have the usual,” he says, testing him.

Elliot’s finger taps thoughtfully against the countertop, brows scrunched in concentration. 007n7 watches him, eyes tracing the way his hands move—slightly calloused, probably from lifting trays or dough all day. There’s a flicker of satisfaction when Elliot lights up with recognition.

“The classic?” he grins. “Green pepper, onion, pepperoni, mushroom. Luckily for you, we just restocked! Your pizza will be ready in… five minutes! Dine in or to go?”

“Dining in this time. But that depends.” 007n7 slips his hands into his pockets, voice casual but deliberate. “Doesn’t look like there’s much of a crowd. Planning on taking a small break? My treat.”

Elliot hesitates. The "Employee of the Month" plaque with his face plastered on it seems to scrutinize him from the wall behind. “The manager isn’t going to like that… so, no. Sorry!”

007n7’s shoulders dip for a brief second before he straightens up, masking the disappointment. “S’all good. I’ll take it to go, then. Got a cat back home to watch over.”

Small white lie to save the ego.

“You have a cat? What’s its name?” Elliot perks up, visibly brightening.

Shit.

“Uh, M—N. Noli.” He stumbles. Ah, yes. His cat named Noli.

“Aww, cute name!”

Yeah. He’s sure his roommate would love to hear that.

“You can take a seat while you wait for your pizza. I’ll have to check in with the chefs!” Elliot flashes the usual customer service smile, dropping the topic like it's dust, before disappearing through the door leading into the pizzeria kitchen.

007n7 merely nods into the air, sluggishly making his way to the seat nearest the counter, quietly mulling over his apparently adopted cat named Noli. Surely, that wouldn’t come back to bite him.

Besides that, he still can’t seem to break through Elliot’s hard-walled professionalism. It feels like walking in circles, trying to get him to talk about anything other than customer service. What a monotonous guy. A pretty, patient, and monotonous guy.

Shit that 007n7 would rather not waste time on—but there’s got to be some potential in someone with eyes that interesting. Something like a weird hobby. Or a sob story.

Whatever. There’s always next time.

007n7 takes out his phone, fingers tapping and swiping across the screen without actually clicking on anything—just playing it cool. He makes sure to look busy, like he’s got places to be, for all eyes to see.

In the corner, the friend group huddles together, laughing loudly, grating on his ears. Something about failing a quiz they hadn’t known they’d be having.

He rolls his eyes and taps his screen in a random rhythm. His thumb then hovers over the camera app. It opens to a shaky view of his shoes, impatiently tapping against the tiled floor of the pizzeria.

He stares at the screen for a moment before slowly raising the phone, angling it toward the small window that peeks into the kitchen.

Elliot’s head pops into view, blond hair shining under the fluorescent light, and 007n7 taps the capture button like it’s muscle memory. Not exactly the first time he’s done this.

Usually, Elliot’s too damn sharp to miss a phone vaguely pointed in his direction—but this time, maybe he’s too busy, or just not looking. His face is flushed, and it doesn’t look like it’s from the oven heat. His laugh rings like tiny bells and 007n7 is curious at whatever caught his attention.

Either way, 007n7 lowers the phone like nothing happened, thumb already swiping to the next app. A messaging app.

He messages Noli: “U want pizza?”

Noli replies: “Your treat? So nice of you.”

“No, you’re paying half of it, dimwit.”

It takes Noli two minutes to respond: “No thx. Fix ur pizza addiction.”

007n7 ends the conversation with silence.

The recent picture he took of Elliot is enough to get him through the grueling minutes left to wait for his pizza:

He zooms in and notices a tiny pimple, probably a few days into healing. Moles he hadn’t seen before. Baby hairs that curl and catch the light—almost white under the fluorescent glow. The photo would've looked great if it weren't for the pizzeria’s greasy kitchen background behind him.

When his name is finally called from the counter, his thumb quickly hits the power button on his phone. A brief cold creeps up his neck and vanishes just as fast—like a light pinch. Some anxious part of him wonders if Elliot somehow knows he’s been staring at his image.

“Here’s your order! Have a good rest of your day!” He smiles. Plain, boring Elliot.

007n7 has half a mind to pull out the c00lGUI and trash the place right then and there—just to see something, anything, other than that annoyingly clinical smile.

He sends Elliot a straight-faced nod and goes about his day—not that he has anything better to do than head back to his dorm and add another pizza box to the growing pile.

It takes Noli ten seconds to complain about the new addition.

“You’re joking,” he says, shooting 007n7 a sour look.

“Told you I was buying pizza,” 007n7 replies, settling into the cheap office chair he bought online. It took him thirty minutes to build the damn thing—and now it has the gall to creak when he leans back. “Fifty robux a slice. Your choice.”

“Not interested,” Noli scoffs, opening his laptop and setting it on his lap as he sits on the bed.

He’s probably working on some extracurricular nonsense just to scrape by with passing grades.

Unlike him, all 007n7 has to do now is chill and stay a good little boy in the eyes of the university—which also means not touching his c00lGUI until after graduation.

Though that proves to be rather difficult when he hears that light laugh drifting out from the kitchen window on his next visit to the Pizzeria.

Elliot isn’t working the register today—which, by most workplace standards, is a bit questionable. You’re supposed to stick to one role at a time, not bounce around like that.

But what does he know? It’s not like he’s ever worked minimum wage. Not with all the money he and Noli have “borrowed” from their little exploits.

“Welcome to Builder Brothers Pizza Place! What can I get ya?”

Jordan—according to the name tag slapped on his green sweater. A brunette guy with the same clinical smile, though not as warm as the one Elliot pastes on. He should practice more.

“Fizzly,” 007n7 says, his posture slumping a bit.

Jordan taps at the register. “Will that be all?”

“Yeah.”

“That'll be 10 Robux!”

“Uh-huh.”

Conversation as dry as the Sahara. Though, to be fair, talks with Elliot aren’t much better. The only difference is that Elliot’s voice is more tolerable than the nerd standing in front of him.

“One Fizzly, please!” Jordan calls through the window.

A yellow hand reaches out from the kitchen window—Elliot’s. Somehow, even his hand carries that same never-ending energy.

“007n7! Hello there!” Elliot's face pops up, eyes wide in recognition.

007n7 snaps his back straight—he’d almost given up hope of catching a glimpse of him.

“Uh, yeah... hi. Got thirsty, so I made a small visit.”

Elliot merely flashes him a grin before turning back to work—brushed off immediately, like he’s dust.

What a cold-hearted guy.

“Here’s your Fizzly! Have a good day!” Jordan says, his stupid hair blocking 007n7’s view of the kitchen window.

“Thanks,” 007n7 mutters.

Chapter Text

Title: The reason why

Summ: No one would have ever guessed what the next round would bring: a Shedletsky from another timeline appears, and it seems the world, time, and their lives are at his mercy.

The next round starts as usual.

Chance flips his coin—again, it lands on tails, like it always does. Taph watches the gambler with mild curiosity, then casually tosses a subspace tripmine into a corner the killer wouldn’t expect.

Several paces away, Elliot kneels beside a generator, beginning repairs. Guest1337 stands next to him, arms crossed, keeping watch.

It takes Chance four seconds to realize someone is watching them from afar.

A cold glare cuts through the distance—a figure standing there, glowing bright green with flickers of red.

At first glance, it looks like 1x1x1x1.

Chance flinches, dropping their coin, instincts screaming. They’re just about to bolt in case the figure starts throwing swords. But then they squint, heart pounding, trying to make sense of what they’re seeing.

“Huh?” Chance mumbles, recognizing the brown curls beneath the skull mask.

“Shed? That you, buddy? What the hell are you standing there for!? Gave me a damn heart attack!”

Taph peers over Chance’s shoulder, eyes narrowing at Shedletsky in the distance.

He clutches his robes before tapping Chance and signs, “Did he eat something bad? He looks like he’s in a bad mood.”

“Yeah, probably. Ate like one and a half of our dinners,” Chance snickers, then saunters toward Shedletsky. Taph quietly sighs, a bead of sweat forming as he cautiously follows behind.

Chance raises a hand, waving to catch Shedletsky’s attention. “Hey! C’mon, why’re you acting like an outcast? Come help with the gens—”

His words are cut short—

a sword slices clean through his throat.

Taph trembles and falls flat on his back, Chance’s blood resembles rain and begins splattering across his robes, staining the gold linings deep crimson. The dark cloth, darker.

In a wild panic, he fumbles for a Subspace Tripmine. His hands shake as he tries to press the red star in the center. But before he can, a blade slices through his hands.

The Tripmine drops uselessly to the side.

It explodes—

a flash of blinding light, bright enough to mask the horror beneath. Taph’s torso has been sliced cleanly in half. Poison floods his body, a numbing burn crawling through his exposed intestines.

“Shedletsky” stands over the two corpses like they’re vermin. In his hand, he holds a greatsword taller than himself. He plunges it into the soil, the blade slicing clean through Chance’s fedora.

His eyes lift, locking onto something in the distance—Guest1337.

And the soldier freezes, body tensing under the weight of that glare. He can feel the bloodlust radiating from where he stands. It compares to the war he once fought. It churns his stomach. Without wasting another second, he grabs Elliot’s shoulder and gives it a firm shake.

“Run,” he whispers. “Throw the pizza and run. I’ll distract him. I’ll grab it when he hits me.”

“What?” Elliot blinks, still processing. “Wait—what’s happening?”

“Just do it,” Guest hisses. “Run! Alert Dusekkar if you find him!”

Elliot stumbles to his feet, heart pounding in his throat. He places the pizza beside the generator, then bolts from the spot without looking back.

Behind him, the sounds blur—but he catches flashes of green slicing through the air. Metal clashes. A sharp grunt. A scream he prays doesn’t belong to Guest.

He doesn’t look back. He can’t.

His legs carry him farther than he thought possible, lungs burning, shoes scraping against broken dirt and cracked concrete. His breath stutters, but he doesn’t stop—not until he spots the shimmer of robes ahead.

Elliot is quick to spot Dusekkar, standing beside Two Time. The mage looks visibly uneasy, his ornate robes fluttering with restrained tension, as if the air itself is warning him. Two Time notices Elliot first, folding their hands together in a gesture of greeting, head tilting ever so slightly with curiosity.

“Mr. Dusekkar!” Elliot pants, knees wobbling as he tries to stand tall.

“Guest told me to alert you—he’s with the killer right now and… and…!”

Dusekkar places a steadying hand on Elliot’s shoulder. The mage watches as Elliot tries to catch his breath. “If one needs a forcefield, then I shall provide,” he says calmly. “To the soldier in peril, I now shall stride.”

“I shall follow as well,” Two Time says, offering Elliot a smile—warm in intent, though eerier than they probably mean it to be. “I have an offering to fulfill. Rest easy, pizza man.”

Dusekkar hesitates, casting a wary glance at Two Time. For a moment, it seems he might object—but then he gives a slow, solemn nod. Without another word, he lifts from the ground, floating with practiced grace toward the direction Elliot had pointed—where Guest is.

Two Time offers Elliot a final, unsettling smile and a small wave.

“Don’t fret, Elliot. We’ll handle the storm.” Then they turn and follow after Dusekkar, steps silent, presence trailing like a shadow behind the mage’s drifting form.

Elliot watches them go, throat dry as he gulps down another shaky breath.

It feels like he’s sending them into a den of wolves—while he stands there, useless.

Whatever’s out there… it’s stronger than all the killers combined, if it’s enough to make Guest tense.

But now’s not the time to freeze.

He still has a few seconds before he can throw another pizza, and finishing another generator would do more for the team than giving in to panic ever could.

He steadies himself, forces his legs to move. One step. Then another. Keep going.

He crouches beside an unfinished generator, fingers trembling as he connects the wires. He’s so focused, he doesn’t even notice 007n7 working beside him—not until the man speaks.

“…Are you alright, Elliot? You look worse for wear.” His tone is light, maybe trying to ease the tension.

Elliot gives only a noncommittal hum in response, eyes locked on the final connection. The generator roars to life with a sputtering hum and a surge of light. Without a word, he bolts toward the next one.

007n7 follows closely—too closely. It doesn’t help Elliot’s frayed nerves. Every footstep behind him feels like a countdown.

Fix wire, reroute spark, align timing—repeat.

His hands move on instinct now, muscles twitching with the strain, mind racing faster than the machine he's repairing. Thank goodness 007n7 remains silent the entire time. Elliot doesn’t think he can handle even a single extra word. 

Elliot finishes connecting the last wire.

The generator kicks to life with a low, steady hum. He lets out a heavy sigh—like a weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders. For a moment, just a moment, the world feels still.

“I’ll be going now,” Elliot mutters, standing up and brushing off his slacks. His hand still trembles from anxiousness. “I need to check up on Guest and the others, and—”

He turns to 007n7.

But the words catch in his throat. The man is slumped over beside the generator, eyes wide and vacant. His neck is twisted at an unnatural angle, blood pooling silently beneath him.

A corpse. Cold. Silent.

Right beside him the whole time.

It must’ve happened at the last second. Elliot swore he felt 007n7 exhale through his nose, a final, almost imperceptible sigh.

Elliot lets out a strained whimper, his chest tightening as if ready to break. 007n7’s body slips onto the cold grass, cracked eyeglasses falling askew beside him.

Suddenly, Elliot’s eyes catch a pair of unfamiliar boots. His legs weaken, and he collapses to the ground. His gaze drifts upward—Shedletsky.

Supposedly Shedletsky.

Half of his face is hidden behind a bright green skull mask. He wears a crown strikingly similar to 1x1x1x1’s. His expression is grim, stained with blood. Clad in tattered dark clothes that whisper with each movement, bright green chains wrap around his shoulders, clinking softly like a haunting melody.

Elliot half expects him to drop the act. To crack a joke or lighten the mood but his face remains hauntingly dark.

“Elliot.” He looms over the trembling man.

“Sh… Shedletsky…?” Elliot’s mind races, struggling to process seeing his friend’s face on the killer who just took a life.

“You’ve done great things for me—when I was at my lowest. So I will spare you. But you must tell me…” He kneels onto the grass, eyes sharp and unblinking, ignoring 007n7’s corpse lying just beside him.

“Where is the man who failed to protect her?”

“Th-The… man?” Elliot’s voice is barely a whisper.

“Shedletsky,” he spits the name like poison as if it's not his own. “The me who is incompetent. That foolish bastard.”

Elliot swallows hard. His throat is dry, his lips cracked.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Then you’d better find out—fast.”

He rises, chains clinking, tattered clothes rustling like dry leaves.

“Lure him out. Whatever it takes. And you will be spared the same fate as these men.”

Elliot shivers under the weight of his stare—cold, piercing. He doesn’t dare look at the bodies around him. If he did, he doubts he’d recognize them anyway.

“Just kill me, please,” he whimpers, bowing his head, eyes squeezed shut, neck bared like he’s bracing for a guillotine. Tears sting. It would destroy him to betray a friend. He’d rather die than become a pawn. He wouldn’t even do this to his worst enemy.

This Shedletsky exhales through his nose, breath curling like smoke. There’s a tiredness in his eyes, like he’s faced this moment a hundred times before.

“Sweet Elliot,” he murmurs, disappointment threading through his voice. “Just as I expected. Shedletsky truly doesn’t deserve people like you.”

Before Elliot can make a sound, a single hand clamps around his wrists—iron-strong, merciless. In one sharp motion, he’s yanked upright.

He stumbles, crashing into Shedletsky’s chest. It's firm like stone, and the impact knocks the breath from his lungs. Dizzy, disoriented, he doesn't even realize what's happening until the cold bite of metal cinches around his wrists.

Chains.

He’s been taken hostage.

“Just kill me already!” Elliot rasps, throat dry. He struggles, trying to push him, but Shedletsky remains stoic.

“After we find him, I will,” he says calmly, as if offering a warm meal and a soft bed.

Shedletsky lifts Elliot like he's nothing more than a pillow, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Elliot struggles in his grip, twisting and squirming, trying to roll off—but it’s no use.

“If I were me, where would I be hiding…”

The way Shedletsky says it is almost comical, like he’s playing a game.

He glances around, eyes scanning the forest of trees with eerie calm. “A corner, most likely.”

Chapter Text

Title: Unpaid Leave

Summ: During the round, Elliot gets sick. It seems Taph's the only one with a mask on to not get infected.

While the world is busy running from every slash and swing of killers, Taph usually takes on the job of finding medkits and Bloxy Colas…after he’s done dilly-dallying with the flimsy traps the Spectre decided to give him.

Before getting stuck in this limbo—though he swears it's the Banlands (even if that wouldn't make sense, since his all-time favorite hero, Builderman, is stuck here with him)—he had all the gear he could want and a job he loved: Destruction, exploding things, and even more destruction. All with legal, officially approved permits, of course.

Now? All he gets is some flimsy tripwire that, no matter how well he tries to hide it, gets obliterated by the killer without even granting him the courtesy of stepping on it. Oh—and a knockoff toy.

His beloved Subspace Tripmine does nothing but explode like a firework. Minus the whole “explosion injury” part.

Taph raises a Bloxy to the moon as if toasting, “Here’s to the loss of my adrenaline provider.” At least Chance gets to keep his—that singular coin he can’t seem to not bring down before shooting himself in the foot. Taph finds it funny and sad at the same time.

“Comin’ through!”

Taph steps aside just in time before Elliot bumps into him and topples them both over. The pizza guy seems to be receiving a hell lot of adrenaline that Taph could ever wish for.

Taph notices him every now and then. How he just can’t seem to stop moving: Feet tapping, leg shaking, hair dreadful. His eyes are always somewhere else, scanning the surroundings, while his hands work on the generators like it's second nature. He always looks like he's sweating, anxious about where the killer is.

Not that Taph isn’t worried about the killers too, but it must be exhausting being some kind of mother hen when idiots like Chance—and (excuse the language) Shedletsky—seem hellbent on sabotaging themselves.

Taph does try his best not to get hit. No need to worry Elliot more than he already is, but he’s been noticing he’s always rusty when it comes to activating his tripmines. No matter how many times he’s done it, it’s starting to feel like threading a needle in the dark.

Most of the time, it gets him hit.

And don’t even get him started on the tripwires. The killers seem to love bullying him whenever he’s trying to set those up.

Eventually, he had to force himself to stop placing them at the start of the round. Now, he just waits—biding his time until the killers are busy chasing someone else. Wasting his time, wasting everyone's time!

With a medkit in hand, Taph tries to follow Elliot. How he runs so fast is beyond him. He’s tall, with legs for days. So really, Taph can only blame that.

He runs past Two Time, who’s busy setting up his freaky ritual thing. He runs past the familiar (and annoying) sound of a coin flip. He runs past a plasma beam that blasts his way and misses by inches. He runs past the hum of a sentry getting built. He runs past—

Great heights above, does Elliot ever run out of stamina?

Chapter Text

VERY rough concept ahead. 

-Taph is a licensed uh house destroyer of permanently banned Roblox players. I forgot what it's called

[Edit: Demolitionist]

-A lot of people don't really like his profession and he's a very well known face…despite not showing his face anymore due to the job

-so he orders his food online under different kinds of alias (he's a complete recluse and now only goes outside to do his job. Job job job.) though it doesn't really help when he keeps ordering from the same pizza place and keep seeing the same pizza delivery guy. Does no one else work in that pizza place?

-When he first saw Elliot he had to double check the Pizza brother coupon given to him because the mascot on it has his exact face and smile.

-Anyways Taph likes the fact that Elliot does not give two shits about him and why he's doing the diff alias thing. Also he's kinda handsome but that's off topic. Taph can only blame the fact that Elliot's the only guy he's consistently seeing in the weeks of locking himself in his house.

-but still there's trust issues bcs what if his pizza is laced? people are petty and think the mfs in his profession are terrorist (also due to the fact that exploiter's use the same bombs to ruin people's lives)

-They meet at the grocery (somehow) and Elliot still doesn't give two shits about him. Because why would he say hi to a customer. kinda weird.

-Taph meets Elliot again and Elliot STILL doesn't give two shits about him.

-Insert Taph pining one-sided which leads to Taph finally growing some balls and greet Elliot.

-They somehow fuck? Guys I think Taph’s a virgin.

Chapter Text

VERY rough concept ahead:

-Elliot gets falsely banned because some exploiter made him fling and got his ass get sent straight to the Banlands (Forsaken false ban reference)

-Elliot’s ass is shaking the moment he lands in some sort of courtroom. Doombringer is at the very center of the room doing the judging. Insert very descriptive description of the place.

-Elliot pleads his innocence in the same manner as the song Charlie's inferno (lol) He's practically crying and shaking because Doombringer looks incredibly horrifying from his perspective.

-Doombringer considers his plea because there's no way this pizza guy is a terrorist right…?

-In the next two days, Elliot is stuck in some tight cage with a few guards to watch over him. Overthinking and dread ensues.

-Doombringer finally comes back and Elliot is triple scared now. Is he gonna die fr?

-Doombringer apologizes for the false ban after talking about it with a few important people. Whoops. Robloxia’s security system is still a bit flawed.

-Elliot is no longer permanently banned! But! He still has to stay in the Banlands for a week for the ban to completely be lifted.

-Insert beauty and the beast where Elliot is living with Doombringer for a short while because no one considered adding some kinda Hotel in a place that's practically hell. You know how the rest goes.

Chapter Text

TITLE: Dear Diary

DESC: Chance learns how to trust again.

Dear Diary,

I just got fucked over by someone I thought was a dear friend. You'd think a couple rounds of Russian roulette would’ve brought us closer, but clearly, I miscalculated. Got my ass robbed. Might end up in debt. Who knows.

Chance reads the scribbled mess over and over until it starts to feel like a joke. These entries never seem to carry the same weight as the feelings in his chest—that deep, overbearing pressure that feels both full and hollow, gaping all at once. His ex-therapist once suggested writing things down, and he still clings to that advice, even though he writes these with the sneaking suspicion that someone else might read them someday.

Chance snaps the little notebook shut and wipes away stray tears with the back of his arm, skewing his (expensive and limited-edition) shades in the process.

Fuck iTrapped. That bastard might’ve been the best and worst thing to ever happen to him—and that’s probably saying something. Hell, even his gambling buddies have their suspicions about the guy, and Chance is just too blind to see it… even with the damn shades on.

They sniffle, nose sore and bruised from how often they've been wiping snot off it. Chance isn’t exactly an alcoholic, but something heavy and dirty sounds good right now—something strong enough to knock him out in one drink, just so he can sleep off the aching in his chest.

Maybe iTrapped was someone Chance should’ve met sooner—a cautionary tale and a wake-up call. Because no matter how smart Chance is, love has a way of making you blind… and painfully stupid.

A fresh stream of tears rolls down their face without permission, hot and relentless, tracing over skin already raw. That annoying burn flares up in his tear ducts—the one that comes when you’ve cried too much but your body insists on doing it anyway.

“Be a man and suck it up,” Chance whispers to himself, voice hoarse, barely more than breath. He pushes off the couch, shaky but determined, and makes his way to the kitchen. The cabinets creak when he opens them. He grabs the heaviest bottle he can find—something dark, half-full, and mean enough to turn off his thoughts for a while. No glass. Just the bottle. He doesn’t want to taste it, only to feel it burn all the way down.

He stops drinking when his stomach growls—loud, angry, and impossible to ignore. Of course. He hasn’t eaten all day. Just moped around and cried into his stupid little notebook like it was going to solve anything.

With a groan, he sets the bottle down on the coffee table and pulls out his phone. He scrolls through the food apps, not really thinking, just tapping on muscle memory. Builder Brother's Pizza place is the first thing to pop up. Of course it is. Always so damn generous with the toppings. The kind of greasy, over-loaded mess that feels like a hug when everything else sucks.

They order without thinking. Extra cheese. Extra pepperoni. Hell, even throws in garlic knots. If they're going to be miserable, they might as well be full too.

The order’s set to arrive in twenty minutes, but Chance doubts they'll still be conscious by then. Their head’s already buzzing, stomach swaying, and there’s a warm flush rising to his cheeks that feels more sick than drunk.

Looks like he’s got time to mope around.

They sink back onto the velvet couch—soft, ridiculously expensive, and suddenly suffocating. Their gaze drifts toward the notebook again, still lying there on the table like it’s mocking him. They stare at it for a long moment, chest tight, jaw clenched.

Now he’s starting to question everything.

Are they all using me? He knows he’s rich. Rich-rich. Not the kind you flex online, but the kind that gets you invited to the kind of parties where everyone smiles a little too wide and never pays for anything. He always thought his friends liked him for who he was, not for what he had.

But now? After iTrapped?

He thinks about all the times someone “forgot their wallet,” or needed a “small loan,” or latched onto his connections with that overly grateful tone. He used to brush it off—generosity was second nature to him. But now there’s a sour taste forming in his mouth, thick and bitter.

What if none of it was real?

What if all the laughter, all the nights out, all the “bro I got your back”—what if it was just noise to distract him from the leeching?

He sinks deeper into the couch, suddenly cold despite the liquor in his veins. The silence in the room feels louder now, thick with doubt. He hugs a cushion against his chest and hates how much it helps.

Chance reaches forward with a wobble, snatching the liquor bottle from where it teeters precariously on the edge of the coffee table. The motion makes his head spin, and for a second, he wonders if he might just tip over with it. But he doesn’t. He steadies himself, barely, and takes another long, reckless swig.

The burn is immediate—scalding down his throat, punching through his chest, and settling in his belly like molten lead. It makes him suck in a breath, jaw tight, eyes stinging. But he drinks anyway, like it’s going to fill the gaping hollow that keeps yawning wider inside him.

He slumps back into the velvet couch, bottle in hand, body heavy. He can feel the alcohol spreading through his system like poison. Every nerve feels duller, every thought heavier, every breath slower.

They stare up at the ceiling for a moment, then let their gaze drift back to the notebook lying open a few feet away. Mocking him. That stupid little diary filled with half-truths, whiny breakdowns, and misplaced trust. He almost laughs. Almost.

The room feels lopsided, like the floor might tilt at any second. Or maybe it’s just their world finally catching up to the imbalance.

Another swig. No flinch this time. Just that familiar burn, working its way deeper. If they drinks enough, maybe it'll cauterize whatever’s breaking inside.

Chance snatches the diary off the table, nearly knocking over a coaster in the process. His fingers tremble as he grabs the pen, grip clumsy and too tight. When he presses it to the page, it digs in deep, the tip dragging with such force it’s a miracle the paper doesn’t tear clean through.

He bites down on his bottom lip, hard. Hard enough that the skin splits, a faint taste of blood blooming on his tongue. His vision is blurred—whether from tears or liquor, it’s hard to say—and the words he writes come out more like scratches than sentences. Crooked. Slanted. Barely legible.

Dear Diary,

fuck this shit. why r ppl like this?? like srsly i dnt get it

i gave everythng i had—money time TRUST—and for what??

so they can just lie 2 my face and smile while doin it???

istrapped u snake. u sweet talkin, lying, fake ass BASTARD

i shuldve known better. shuldve seen it coming.

but noooo i had to fall like some dumb fuckin romcom idiot

god. i hate this. i hate this. i hate this i hate this i—

Whatever happened after that, Chance has no idea.

One moment they were on the couch, hunched over their diary, crying their damn heart out (again) snotty, shaking, eyes puffy and raw. The next, he’s waking up in bed, warm and tucked in, wearing pajamas he definitely doesn’t remember putting on. The room is dim, lit only by the sliver of light seeping in from behind the curtains.

His pillows are fluffed. The blanket’s been pulled up to his chin. Everything feels… cared for. Not like him. Not like how he left himself.

Their head pounds—a deep, pulsing ache that throbs behind his eyes and at the base of his skull. Groaning softly, he turns his head toward the bedside table.

There’s a note.

And next to it, a few neatly placed pills. Painkillers, by the look of them. A half-full glass of water sits beside them, beads of condensation dripping down the side. Someone’s been here.

Someone took care of him.

Who in the Banlands got inside his home???

They blink, then squint at the note. The writing is unfamiliar—sharper strokes, no loops or hearts. Just quick, clean letters that look like they were written in a rush but still steady enough to be legible.

He clears his throat and reads it out loud, hoping the sound of his own voice will make the words sink in:

“Hi, I was your pizza delivery guy and I found you outside your home. I left the pizzas in your fridge! If you have complaints feel free to call our number! Sorry for trespassing!”

He stares at the note for a moment longer, brain lagging behind the message. Then:

“…What.”

They blink once. Twice. Then lets out a small, groggy laugh—more air than sound. His voice is hoarse, dry like sandpaper. “Of course. Of course I passed out on the damn doorstep.”

Their hand falls back to the bed, note fluttering down with it.

So some poor delivery guy not only found his drunk, broken ass outside, but also had the nerve to come in, stash the food, and tuck him into bed like some sad little rich kid in a charity case.

And left painkillers. With a note.

“Heights above,” Chance mutters, dragging a hand down their face. “I need to get my life together.”

He eyes the pills for a moment, then downs them with the water in two big gulps, flopping back onto the pillow like gravity’s reclaiming him.

[Big cut here]

The cashier stares at him like he’s got something to say—but chooses not to. Chance glances down at the nametag clipped to his apron.

“Hey, so uh… Elliot. Hi.” Chance tests the name on his tongue, casual but slightly strained.

Elliot perks up, all practiced customer-service cheer. “Hello! What can I get ya?”

“I—well, I’m not really here to order anything,” Chance mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “One of your delivery guys took care of me while I was… uh, dead drunk. And—yeah.” His eyes dart around the establishment, like he’s half-hoping no one’s paying attention.

He pulls out his wallet and fishes out a wad of bills—far more than necessary. “Here’s a small tip. For the inconvenience. Tell the delivery guy, whoever that was, I said thanks.”

“Oh! Uh—no need to do that! Not that much, at least!” Elliot’s eyes widen as Chance tries to cram the cash into the overwhelmed tip jar, the bills sticking out awkwardly.

“I insist, kid.” Chance manages a lopsided smile. “You guys got great people working here.”

With that, he gives the jar one final shove, tucks his wallet back into his pocket, and starts backing away.

“I’ll try not to be an inconvenience next time. See ya.”

“Have a good day…?” Elliot calls out, voice trailing with uncertainty as he watches Chance stride out the door like he didn’t just drop a financial bomb and a cryptic thanks.

The bell above the entrance jingles faintly behind him.

Chapter Text

WARNING: Very rough concept. 

There's also like planned implied Mafioso's goons/Elliot lolll

[This one's out of the drafts book]

-elliot uses the teleportation service more times than he could count. There's a lot of Robloxians from all around the globe who just really want to get a taste of Builder Brother's Pizza!

-unfortunately, this might be his last time using it. because the moment he steps out of it and into an unknown realm, the teleportation service suddenly goes out of order.

-elliot is now stuck in a realm full of criminals and the damn mafia who's hungry for pizza.

-insert very violent beginning where elliot's ass almost gets gunned down the moment he teleports in by a drive-by shooting.

-anyways, his job is his first priority, so he goes to this one specific club the customer told him to deliver it to. he's immediately greeted by the thick smell of tobacco and other stuff he'd rather not know.

-he almost gets swept away by a woman who's trying to woo her way into his pockets (he has nothing in there), but he quickly excuses himself and rushes to the bartender.

-the bartender is a bald guy with shades. a yellow Robloxian just like elliot, but he doubts that's enough to comfort him. elliot shows the receipt, and the man reads it carefully, lowering his shades in the process.

-"Aye, Soldier! Tell the others the order’s arrived!" the bartender shouts from where he is, making elliot jump. "The big guy is definitely hungry, so he ain't minding the interruption."

-whoever this “big guy” is, elliot doesn't give it much thought. not his business.

-(it's mafioso)

-Insert Elliot struggling with this city he got stuck in and comes back to ask the bartender if there's any teleportation services available.

-theres none. Apparently all teleportation services is currently unavailable according to Intel.

-elliot somehow gets taken in by the bartender (Caporegime) because he looks like a kicked puppy. fast forward, elliot unknowingly gets himself caught in the middle of a mafia nest.

[A/N: written while I was half asleep idk how the plot goes from here but it's gonna be a forced proximity trope. I legit don't want to make something plot heavy so expect these to be like 3 chapters loll]

Chapter Text

Title: Frozen inside without your touch

(Another song lyric title oml)

Semi rough concept. 

“If you heat up frozen pizza too fast, the outside burns while the inside stays cold.”

Itrapped hates people like Elliot. Warm too quickly, smiling too easily. Too perfect, too soon. It’s the kind of politeness politicians give, or the forced charm of salesmen and cult leaders. All teeth. All surface. No weight behind it.

He doesn’t trust that kind of warmth—not when it shows up uninvited, like a hand on your shoulder before the knife goes in.

And as much as he doesn’t want to call himself a hypocrite, he sees too much of himself in Elliot—at least, the version Elliot lets people see. The surface-level charm. The practiced ease. The way it all feels a little too polished to be real.

Elliot was Itrapped’s first victim—before Chance. They met at some networking event for businessmen, Mr. Builder included. Elliot looked uncomfortable in his suit, out of place, like he’d rather be anywhere else. That’s when Itrapped moved in, struck up a conversation.

A sharp smile on his face, blond hair tucked over one shoulder, champagne in hand—“You look troubled. Might I accompany you to the gardens for some fresh air?”

Elliot, with all his experience in customer service, is quick to straighten up and flash a matching smile. “I’m quite alright! Thank you for the concern, Mr…?”

Itrapped ignores the question entirely. “You just looked like you needed saving. From what, I’m not sure yet.”

There’s something detached about the way Elliot laughs. It rings like tiny bells all the same. “It’s my first time at an event like this. Usually I’d be back at the pizzeria, flipping dough, y’know?”

“A pizza business?” Itrapped would’ve pegged him for some spoiled rich kid, leeching off his father’s wallet and playing dress-up for the night. But his eyes drop to Elliot’s hands—and sure enough, they’re rough. Calloused. Weathered by work. The kind of hands that don’t belong in champagne-lit ballrooms.

“Yeah, Builder Brother's pizza place. Ever heard of it?”

Yes. Yes, Itrapped’s heard of it. One of his closest friends always ordered from the same damned place. Greasy, fat-laden junk—exactly the kind of thing he’d love to dump straight into the trash. But when that friend got sent to the Banlands, that contempt had to stay buried.

He swallows it down now too, lips curled into something that could pass for amusement.

“No, I have not.”

“Really? You should visit the place sometime!”

He’d rather not. But instead, he says, “I’ll see if my schedule allows it.”

“You’ll most likely see me in the pizzeria too—though I mostly do deliveries.”

“Mostly?” Itrapped echoes, one brow lifting. “Am I to assume you do most of the work in your pizza business?”

“Uh…” Elliot’s grin falters. His eyes look to the side as if to recall a memory. “Yeah. I man the place—most of the time. The people we hire don’t usually… reach the standards.”

A/N:

Yeah that's all I have. I only made this because of the song lyric lol

In the quote “If you heat up frozen pizza too fast, the outside burns while the inside stays cold.” The metaphor could go both ways. Like Elliot's immediate friendliness and Itrapped love bombing Elliot just so he could trust him yadda yadda yadda

Edit:

I'd like to think that Elliot is so good at deflecting anything related to his personal life that everytime itrapped attempts to get closer, he just fails and he's going insane because he's going nowhere with Elliot lmao

Chapter Text

Title: Rebound

Summary:

Noli can feel his body slowly rotting. His closest friend ghosted him right after he pulled off the impossible—stealing the Void Star.

Now, all he’s got is the enemy of that ex-friend: a stranger named Elliot. Noli shows up at his doorstep like a stray cat, hoping Elliot has enough heart to let him stay. At least for a little while.

There’s a knock on Elliot’s door at 1 a.m.

At first, he thinks it’s a sleep-induced hallucination—some phantom sound from the echo chamber of a restless dream. But then it comes again. Louder. Harder. A rapid, jarring rhythm that rattles the wood like it’s seconds away from splintering.

“Hey! I know you’re in there!”

The voice is distorted—metallic, like it’s coming through a busted intercom or an old tape recorder left too long in the sun.

Elliot’s breath hitches. He’s already out of bed, barefoot on cold tile. Every horror story he’s ever heard runs laps in his head.

He doesn’t have a peephole.

He doesn’t have a weapon.

He’s regretting not replacing that flickering hallway light.

The breeze leaking through the cracks of the doorframe brushes cold against his skin, makes his knees knock a little. His hand trembles on the doorknob.

Still, he opens it.

A stranger stands there, hoodie up, hands buried in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels.

“Finally,” the stranger huffs, like he’s the one inconvenienced. “Took you long enough. So uh… what’s up, Elliot?”

Elliot stiffens. His whole body coils with fear.

“Who are you,” he demands, voice thin and shaking, “and why do you know my name?”

The breeze sharpens against his bare arms, making him shiver. The shadows outside stretch too long in the dim streetlight. He half-expects someone else to lurch out from behind them.

The stranger shifts again, dragging a shoe on the ground.

“007n7. Sounds familiar to you?”

Elliot squints, narrowing his eyes like that’ll help him see the threat more clearly. “Yes,” he says slowly. “And you are…?”

“His friend. Noli.”

A grunt. Then a shrug. “Well, not anymore, but whatever—can I crash in? He fucked me over, he fucked you over. Sounds like we’ve got something in common, right? You’ve probably heard of me through him.”

“I’ve never heard about you. Not even once,” Elliot says flatly. His lips press into a thin, hard line. His foot stays firmly planted behind the door, blocking the entry.

“Oh.”

Noli looks… momentarily thrown off. “Well, uh… can I still come in?”

“You’re a stranger!” Elliot snaps. “Why would I let you in!?”

Noli lifts a hand halfway in surrender, the other still buried in his hoodie pocket. “Because…” He gives a lopsided, half-hearted smile. “You have a big heart?”

Chapter Text

A/N: I was inspired for a bit because of a Nietzsche quote then the fire got snuffed out almost immediately after the last paragraph. I'm not really a philosopher guy.

The spectre is referred to as the spectator.

Title: Elliot's Inferno

Place a rat in water, and it drowns in 15 minutes. Save it once, and it swims for 60 hours.

Hope, in reality, is the worst of all evils—because it prolongs the torments of man.

Elliot is that hope—the kind that drags out the pain of a chainsaw blade, the poison that seeps slow into their veins. The wound that heals just enough to hurt again.

But it all ends the same.

Death—followed by the cruel satisfaction, reserved only for the spectator of their death games.

It loves watching Elliot stare at the ceiling of his sleeping quarters, replaying every smidgen of his mistakes. His teammates’ errors don’t exist in his mind—he blames only himself. Because who else will save them from the torment, when they’re all too busy running for their lives? Someone has to carry the guilt. Someone has to believe it's his fault they haven’t escaped yet.

The searing anger in his chest cools and hardens, like oil left too long in the cold. Then, as he rises from bed, a smile creeps onto his face—tight-lipped, practiced. He carries that stifled anger with him as he cooks breakfast for the others. Because who else would, when they’re all exhausted from the last round? The food chars slightly, but he quickly flips it on the plate, hiding the bitter little mistake. 

Love in Elliot’s heart is splintered and chipped. Round and soft and malleable, but always returning to its original shape. A stress toy in the hands of the spectator. No matter how much it hurts, Elliot still believes there's good in everyone, even in those who’ve ruined his life.