Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Elliot was always happy to lend a helping hand. In fact, ever since they got here, he's the one cooking most of the meals around here—except for the occasional fried chicken dinner whipped up by Shedletsky, or Noob’s experimental food concoctions that somehow always tasted amazing, despite looking... otherwise.

Meal times were Elliot’s favorite part of the day. Seeing the laughter, the chatter, the way everyone’s faces lit up with warmth whenever food was served—it filled him with a quiet kind of joy. You could call it a sense of purpose—it felt like he had a place to belong.

Well… everyone except for one.

Two Time.

They always joined for meal times, sitting at the table with the rest of them—their hands folded neatly, their posture still, eyes quietly scanning the room, always keeping to themselves. Recently, Elliot had started to notice they hardly ever touched their food. They never looked unhappy, just… distant. Like they feel a little out of place.

And today?

Today, Elliot was going to figure out why.

He was on his way to their room, a small towel slung over his shoulder and sleeves still dusted with flour from baking earlier, when he passed by the kitchen—and paused mid-step. Someone was rustling through the cabinets. He tilted his head, curious, and walked quietly toward the sound.

He peeks into the kitchen, before freezing in his tracks.

There, hunched over the counter was a figure. Pale hands clutched a small packet, their face ghost-white… no, dusted with something white.

And they were eating it. Straight out of the bag.

“…What the—?”

The figure spun around, startled. A thin trail of powder wafted through the air.

“Two Time…?” Elliot blinked in disbelief. “What are you—?”

He rushed forward, nearly slipping on the ground in his haste. Two Time backed away slightly, clutching the packet protectively.

Elliot reached for it, but the bag slipped and burst slightly, showering his shirt in fine white powder. He grimaced, brushing it off with one hand, then dipped a finger into the remnants and tasted it with a cautious sniff.

“…Rice flour?”

Two Time stood frozen, their expression unreadable beneath the dust. They turned away, averting their eyes from him. “…Apologies,” they muttered. “I was… hungry.”

Right on cue, a low growl came from their stomach, embarrassingly loud in the quiet kitchen. They made a move to retrieve the packet again, but Elliot gently placed a hand over theirs, stopping them.

“I don’t think you should be eating that, Two Time.” His brow furrowed, concern growing in his voice. “If you’re hungry, why don’t you eat during mealtimes?”

Two Time froze. Their shoulders slumped as they slowly withdrew their hand from the packet. Shame flickered in their eyes—and they seemed almost afraid to admit the truth.

“I… can’t handle greasy food,” they said softly. Their voice was low, almost apologetic. They lowered their head, avoiding his gaze as they rubbed at their flour-covered palms. “I’m not used to it.”

Elliot’s expression softened. He gave a quiet nod, then grabbed a cloth and started wiping up the mess on the counter, his movements slow and thoughtful. “What kind of food are you used to eating, then?” he asked, his words gentle—he wasn't judging them, he was just... curious.

Two Time hesitated for a moment, before answering, “Not much. Plants, fruits, wild animals, sometimes… But never anything like this.”

Their voice faltered, and they peeked at Elliot, finally meeting his gaze. “I truly am grateful for your pizza, though! It’s just… The issue lies with me."

Elliot quickly folded up the flour-stained towel and tossed it besides the sink—he'll wash it later. He approached them again, this time with a kind smile on his face.

“Don’t say that, Two Time. I’m sorry—I should’ve asked you sooner.” His voice remains gentle, as he places a reassuring hand on their shoulder. “How about I make something else for you? Something you can actually enjoy.”

Two Time blinked. Their eyes widened slightly, as if they couldn’t quite believe what he said. A glimmer of surprise mixed with something softer—hope.

“Oh—I don’t mean to inconvenience you!”

But Elliot was already moving. He donned on his apron with practiced ease, and rolled up his sleeves with determination. “Don’t worry about it,” he exclaims with a grin. “It’s almost time for dinner anyway!”

He turned his back slightly, holding out the apron strings. “Could you help me tie the back, please?”

“…Alright.” Two Time murmurs, before nodding quickly. They stepped forward, brushing the excess flour off their hands against their pants before tying the apron neatly into a crisp, tidy bow.

“Thanks!” Elliot glanced over his shoulder with a grateful smile. “Now, let’s get started. What fruit do you like?”

Two Time tilted their head, thinking, their fingers tapping against their chin.

“Hmm… Strawberries.”

“Strawberries it is! Could you grab them from the fridge for me?”

They moved across the kitchen with surprisingly quick steps, opening the fridge with careful hands. A moment later, they returned, presenting the box of strawberries to Elliot.

“Perfect! Now, the red bean paste, please?”

Two Time handed it over, their posture slowly relaxing, the tension in their shoulders beginning to ease.

“And finally, the flour…” Elliot gave a soft chuckle as he opened a fresh bag and began to work.

He scooped the rice flour into a bowl, humming softly, mixing it with sugar and water until the batter was smooth. Then, he continued to stir constantly until it thickened into a sticky dough. Two Time stood nearby, eyes wide and curious, watching Elliot's every step like it was magic.

Elliot dusted his hands and flattened small rounds of the warm dough onto the floured counter. One by one, he tucked a whole strawberry and a spoonful of sweet red bean paste into each piece, folding the edges carefully, sealing them into perfect, soft little spheres.

“It’s almost ready,” Elliot said, dusting the last one and placing it neatly on a plate. “Just give me a moment.”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “So… why rice flour? Of all things?”

Two Time shifted awkwardly. Their gaze dropped to the floor. “I wasn’t sure what else was safe to consume…” they murmured. Their hands fidgeted with the hem of their shirt. “I don’t really… know how to read.”

Elliot froze.

“…Wait—what?”

Two Time nodded slowly, their voice becoming increasingly softer by the second. "I can't read, or write... I didn't understand the labels, and I didn’t want to eat something dangerous by mistake.”

Elliot set down the spoon in his hand. His expression was soft—no pity, just quiet understanding. “I’ll teach you then,” he said. “How to read, how to write—everything."

“…You will?” Two Time’s voice cracked with disbelief.

“Of course.” He smiled gently. “Anything for a friend.”

There was a moment of silence before Two Time moved forward and wrapped their arms around him, flour and all. The hug was tight, the embrace full of unspoken emotion—gratitude.

Elliot stiffened for a second, startled—then relaxed, a chuckle escaping him as he returned the hug.

“Careful—I’ve still got flour all over me.”

“I don’t mind,” Two Time sniffled into his shirt. “I’m just… really thankful.”

Elliot patted their back lightly, his voice warm. “I'm always happy to help! I hope you'll enjoy this..."

He pulled away slightly, nodding toward the counter.

“Here. Strawberry daifuku.”

Two Time picked up one, handling it carefully like it might fall apart. “It looks… interesting,” they said, then smiled faintly. “But I’m certain anything you make is delicious.”

They took a cautious bite.

And their eyes went wide.

Without another word, they devoured the rest and immediately grabbed a second, the powdered surface smudging their fingers.

“I take it you like it, yeah?” Elliot asked, laughing.

Two Time nodded rapidly, cheeks puffed out as they chewed, eyes sparkling.

Elliot leaned against the counter, watching them eat with a warm smile.

“Maybe I should make some more for the others…” he mumbled thoughtfully.

When Two Time finally finished, they wiped their mouth with the back of their hand and stood up straighter.

“I shall pray for you tonight, dear Elliot,” they murmured with solemn reverence. “The Spawn is satisfied with your kindness.”

They patted their belly, satisfied. A cheeky smile curls at the corner of their lips.

“…And so is my stomach.”

Elliot laughed, his voice full and bright. He was glad they were happy.

All that extra effort was worth it—just to see them smile.

Chapter Text

It’s just another day in a life’s work for Elliot.

As he starts to pack the leftovers into containers, he lets out a long, quiet sigh. He loved cooking—he enjoyed the feeling of it, the small joy of feeding others—but some days, all the comfort of it brought him—it just wasn’t enough. There was a dish he missed dearly—his dad's home-made pizza. It was the best around town—and he could never quite replicate the taste. Crisp but doughy, tangy but sweet in just the right way—comforting after a long day of work. But no matter how many times he tried to recreate it, it never tasted quite like home.

He closes the last tupperware lid with a click and slides it into the fridge, shutting the door with a soft thud. And just as he turns back toward the sink, intending to begin cleaning up the mess of pans and dishes left behind from dinner, a small, hesitant voice interrupts his thoughts.

“E-Elliot…?”

He freezes, before turning around to the direction of the voice.

Then, he sees it—Noob standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Or—stumbling, rather. Their face is flushed, skin damp with sweat, and their posture is swaying just enough to make Elliot’s stomach twist. Their gaze looks distant, and their eyes are unfocused, blurry.

They look... sick.

“Noob—?” Elliot rushes to them in an instant. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah… Just a little c-cold…” Noob manages, before coughing harshly into their sleeve. But before Elliot can press further, their knees buckle. They collapse forward, and Elliot catches them just in time, keeping them upright.

He presses the back of his hand to their forehead. His eyes widen in disbelief. “You’re burning up—!”

Wasting no time, he hooks one of their arms over his shoulder and supports their weight with his other arm. “Come on. Let’s get you back to bed… You need to rest.”

But Noob weakly resists, their feet dragging, their head looking over their shoulder—glancing right back at the kitchen. “Sorry… I’m just… kind of hungry…”

Elliot softens. He tightens his grip, steadying them before offers them a reassuring smile. “Hey, don’t worry about that. I’ll make something for you, okay?” he says, beginning to guide them out of the kitchen. “But right now, you need to lie down.”

Noob doesn’t argue this time. They simply nod in agreement, already dazed and weary. “...Okay…”

With that, they leave the kitchen. Elliot helps them down the hall, their steps slow and uneven. When they reach the bedroom, he carefully lowers them onto the bed, lifting their legs up and tucking them in beneath the blankets. He pulls the covers up to their chin gently, before brushing a damp lock of hair off their forehead.

“You rest here, alright? I’ll get you something to eat.”

Noob murmurs something unintelligible, already half-asleep. Elliot gives them one last glance—trying to make sure they're okay—before rushing back to the kitchen.

He opens the fridge and peers inside. As usual, the Spectre kept it stocked—but only just enough. Never too much. Never too little. Just barely enough to make Elliot feel like he had options, but not enough to feel secure. It kept him on his toes. Like everything else around here.

He scans the shelves quickly.

Probably something warm... gentle on the stomach...

Then it hits him. The dish his dad always used to make whenever he or Mia got sick—no matter how tired he was, no matter how late it got.

Chicken noodle soup.

Elliot pulls out the ingredients one by one—a couple of carrots, some potatos, lotus root, an onion, a small pack of rice noodles, and some leftover chicken from the night before. It’s not much, but it’s enough for them.

He moves fast. First, he quickly dices the vegetables, tossing them into a pot with a bit of oil and letting them cook. The scent of onions fills the air. Then he shreds the chicken, before adding it into the broth. He seasons it lightly—just salt, pepper, and a little garlic—nothing too intense for the stomach. He watches the steam rise as the soup simmers, and he stirs occasionally, before tasting and adjusting the broth until it's just right.

Finally, he adds the noodles. As they start to cook, the smell of warmth, and of comfort, fills the kitchen. When it’s done, he uses the ladle to pour some of the soup into a bowl—he's careful not to overfill it. Steam curls upward, fogging his vision. Then, he carries the bowl to Noob’s room with both hands, walking slowly so as not to spill the broth.

He gently pushes the door open.

“I’m back,” he whispers softly.

Noob stirs under the blankets, their eyelids fluttering open. They blink momentarily, dazed.

“It smells good…” they murmur, their voice faint, their words raspy.

Elliot walks over and sets the bowl down on the bedside table. He watches as Noob tries to push themselves upright—but the moment they sit up, they break into another coughing fit and fall back with a groan.

“You should rest,” Elliot says, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“B-But the food…” Noob begins, before trailing off. Their voice cracking under the effort.

Elliot sits down, before reaching for the bowl of soup. He picks up the spoon, and dips it into the soup. Then, he blows on it until the steam fades away, before offering it to them with a calm smile.

“It’s okay,” he answers. “I’ll feed you.”

Noob looks at him for a second, their eyes shining slightly. After a moment’s hesitation, they sink back into the pillows and nod weakly. “T-Thank you…”

Elliot scoops the broth carefully, blowing on each spoonful before bringing it to their lips. Noob accepts it slowly, their eyes fluttering closed in relief as the warmth fills their throat. The tension in their shoulders eases with every spoonful.

He keeps going, quiet and steady. Feed, cool, offer. Feed, cool, offer.

No need to rush. He's careful in his movements.

Eventually, the bowl is empty. Noob leans back into the pillows with a small, tired smile on their face.

“T-Thanks, Elliot…”

Their voice is barely a whisper now.

Elliot sets the empty bowl aside. He watches as Noob’s breathing begins to slow, their eyelids slipping closed without much protest.

Within seconds, they’ve drifted off, and fallen asleep.

Elliot rises to his feet, ready to leave—but pauses at the doorway. He glances back at Noob, curled up beneath the blanket, their chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm.

He hesitates.

Then quietly walks back and sits in the chair near the bed.

Maybe he'll stay... just for a while. Just to make sure they're okay.

Chapter Text

It all starts in a round.

Elliot is running—his heart is hammering in his chest, and his lungs are burning from all the effort. He doesn’t know who the killer is this time, only that it’s one of 007n7’s old... friends. He doesn't know how many of the other survivors are down—he's only focused on getting to them in time.

Then—he sees it.

A faint outline in the distance—it's barely visible in the darkness. They look like they're slumped against a wall, in the corner of a corridor. They're injured—and they clearly need his help.

He doesn’t think. He just runs.

“I’m here—!”

He skids to a halt.

Curled into himself, with his back pressed into the wall like he’s trying to disappear, is Chance.

His sunglasses are cracked—one lens missing entirely, the other shattered into a web of broken glass. His right hand clutches his injured left, where torn skin reveals shards of metal embedded deep in the flesh. Blood runs freely down his forearm, dripping onto the floor in steady drops. He’s trembling uncontrollably, while the ground beneath him is already soaked in a deep, dark red.

But that’s not what stops Elliot cold.

It’s his eyes.

They’re glowing—a strange, unnatural violet—and it's nothing like his usual eye colour. There’s something wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Chance…” Elliot says softly, carefully, as though approaching a wounded animal. He takes a cautious step forward.

Chance doesn’t react at first—until he does.

“My g-gun…” he mutters, his voice low. His fingers twitch toward the weapon lying beside him. He winces as pain fills his body, but he doesn’t stop. Slowly, he lifts his head—and looks straight at Elliot.

Only… he’s not looking at Elliot.

There’s no glint of familiarity in his eyes—it's almost like he doesn't recognise him. His gaze is distant. Instead, it's locked onto something else.

“iTrapped…?” he breathes.

Elliot’s breath catches. “No, Chance. I’m not—”

But Chance jerks back violently, eyes wide with panic. He scrambles against the corner, pushing himself as far into it as he can go.

“P-Please—I didn’t mean to!” he cries. “I'm sorry—!"

His voice cracks.

And for the first time, Elliot sees it—

Chance's true self.

The mask he always wore finally breaks. What's been hidden behind the sunglasses is laid bare—his unguarded expression, raw and vulnerable. A desperation swallows his voice whole, and a storm of memories bleed into the present, unstoppable and cruel.

“I’m sorry…” Chance gasps, his words strangled with pain. “It’s all my fault—it’s all my fault—I didn’t mean for that to happen—!”

His fingers tremble as he reaches for the gun with his other hand, his wrist barely functional. He tries to raise it, but it wobbles dangerously. His grip is all wrong, and his aim is off. But he’s shaking so hard, the gun quivers in place, pointing not just at Elliot—but at everything and nothing all at once. At iTrapped—for all of his regrets, and all of his guilt—he wants it all gone.

Elliot’s heart beats loudly in his chest, but he doesn’t move back. Instead, he moves forward.

He takes one step. Then another.

“Chance,” he murmurs, his words quiet but firm. “Whatever you’re seeing… it’s not real. You’re not there. You’re here. With me.”

But Chance doesn’t respond. His eyes flicker like static, haunted and unfocused. His hand tightens on the gun—

Elliot drops to one knee beside him. Slowly, he reaches out for them, and places his hand on Chance’s shoulder.

“Please,” he says again, his tone softer now. “It’s me. It’s Elliot.”

There's a long pause of silence.

And then—

The glow in Chance’s eyes dims.

The purple fades away, disappearing like it had never even been there in the first place. His hand goes limp, and the gun falls from his grip. It hits the floor with a heavy clatter.

Chance stares at it in horror, then at his hands. He sees the blood. Then, he looks back at Elliot, realising what he almost did. What he was planning to do.

“I—I didn’t mean—” he chokes out. “I didn’t know—I thought—”

“It’s okay,” Elliot cuts in gently.

He doesn’t wait for Chance to continue. Instead, he reaches into his bag, before pulling out a cardboard box. Then, he opens it—revealing a slice of slightly crumpled, still-warm pizza.

He offers it to them.

“Here, eat this. It'll help.”

Chance stares at it blankly. He glances back at his own hands. One still dripping blood, fingers shaking too much to hold anything.

Ah.

Elliot doesn’t hesitate. He tears the slice gently into smaller pieces, before bringing one up to Chance’s lips.

“C’mon. I got you.”

Chance opens his mouth, dazed. He eats slowly, and with every bite, the trembling eases. His breathing slows. The blood begins to vanish—seeping backward into his skin. The wounds in his hand close, and the bruises quickly fade away. One by one the metal shards push themselves free and clink to the floor, one by one.

By the time the slice is gone, his hands are whole again—healed, and good as new. But his mind... that's a different story.

“…Sorry,” Chance murmurs. “I—I dunno what got into me…”

He lifts one shaking hand to adjust his shattered glasses, but stops halfway. There’s no hiding anymore. Not now, not when Elliot’s already seen past his facade. Not when he's seen everything.

The mask—the charm, the bravado, the cocky confidence—it’s gone. All that’s left is the broken man underneath it all—a man terrified to his very core.

And Elliot—without thinking—leans forward and pulls him into a hug.

It's an awkward one—and maybe too sudden for Chance.

Chance flinches instantly, and every muscle in his body goes stiff. Elliot starts to pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, loosening his embrace on them. “I thought you needed it—”

But before he can finish, Chance pulls him back and hugs him tighter. His breath hitches—just for a moment.

And then, the dam finally crumbles.

He crumples forward, his shoulders shaking violently. He buries his face in Elliot’s chest, and the sob that escapes him is raw, ugly. Something deep from the soul—like a guilt that's been haunting him for years. He sobs, letting every single one of those buried emotions finally break free.

Elliot only holds him tighter, saying nothing. He just wraps his arms around him, steady and warm, a quiet comfort in the storm in Chance's mind. Gently, he rests his chin against the top of their head—grounding him, reminding him that he’s here. He feels their tears soak through his uniform. How their fingers firmly clutch at the fabric like a lifeline.

“I never meant to hurt anyone,” Chance chokes out between sobs. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—”

“You’re okay now,” Elliot murmurs quietly. “You’re okay.”

Eventually, the sobbing slows. It becomes shallower breaths, followed by a hiccup. And then... silence.

Chance pulls back, slowly, wiping his face with his sleeve. His blazer is rumpled, stained with dried blood and wet with tears. His cheeks are blotchy, his hair disheveled. But then he meets Elliot’s eyes—he really looks at them—for the first time.

“…Thank you,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse, but his words are honest.

Elliot smiles faintly.

“No problem.”

Chapter Text

Elliot wakes up, drenched in cold sweat.

Some nights are harder than others. Sleep doesn’t come easy—sometimes he just lies there, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts seemingly neverending. His body may be still, but his mind would continue to race, dragging him through fears and questions that refuse to let him rest.

When will be get out? Can they even leave this place?

Will he ever see his family again?

He squeezes his eyes shut, before counting to ten—he tries to will himself back to sleep. But it’s no use—nothing works.

The nightmare this time had been worse than usual—more vivid, more suffocating—to the point it almost felt real. There was no falling back asleep after that.

He sighs, before turning on the lamp beside his bed. The sudden brightness stings. He squints, rubbing his eyes until the blur in his vision fades.

3:00 AM.

Great. Just... great.

He coughs, his throat scratchy—it feels dry, almost raw from crying. He reaches for the mug on his bedside table, intending to drink some water—but it's empty. Of course it is.

With a groan, he shoves the blanket off and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He slips into his red slippers, grabs the mug, and leaves the room. He doesn't feel the need to freshen up—after all, who would even be awake at this hour?

Turns out, someone is.

As he shuffles down the hallway, careful not to creak the floorboards, a soft light spills from the kitchen.

Weird, he thinks. It's definitely 3 AM.

So... who else could be awake at this hour?

He peeks inside, curious.

He recognises them immediately, just from the back of their hood. It's Taph.

He's sitting on a chair near the table, his hood drawn up, and his back turned to Elliot. For once, Taph isn't wearing his gloves. Instead, they lie on the table beside him, and a half-empty mug of water rests in his hands.

“Tapho…?”

They stiffen immediately, instinctively hiding his hands from view. Elliot takes a cautious step forward—just enough to see over his shoulder.

And then he sees it—the state of their hands.

The skin is cracked and raw, blotched with angry red burn marks. And in some places, it’s peeling—thin layers curling away. Dried blood crusts around the knuckles, tender and unforgiving.

Before Elliot can open his mouth to speak, Taph sets the mug down and quickly reaches for his gloves, fumbling to put them back on—but it’s too late. Elliot’s already seen his hands.

Taph finally turns around, hesitating when he meets Elliot’s gaze. He signs a response quickly.

“You're still awake? Why?”

Usually, Taph uses a pager to communicate—typing out short, quick sentences for others to read. But with Elliot, he signs—he knows Elliot understands him. Back when he worked at the pizzeria, he had learned sign language. It was a company policy—no one should be excluded from the joy of having good pizza. Knowing various types and forms of communication, they believed, was crucial—especially when it came to food.

Elliot had taken that to heart—trying his best to pick up the language. And now, he was especially glad he did.

Elliot signs back, already easing into the conversation. “Couldn’t sleep. Nightmare. You?”

“Same.”

Elliot's eyes drift back to Taph’s gloves, now pulled back over his hands. Taph avoids his gaze, wringing his fingers nervously.

“Are you okay? Your hands…”

Taph hesitates. His hands hover mid-air, signs half-formed. Then, the tension finally melts from his shoulders as he finally replies.

“It’s no big deal. Comes with the job.”

Elliot frowns, a confused expression on his face. Then, the realisation clicks. “From making the tripmines?”

Taph gives a small, solemn nod.

“Doesn't it hurt?” Elliot signs back, clearly concerned.

Another nod. “It’s normal.”

Elliot hesitates. The burns look anything but normal—they look extremely painful. Taph shouldn’t have to bear that kind of pain alone—not without someone to care about him. So, he watches him quietly for a moment, his gaze steady, before finally replying.

“I’ll be right back.”

Taph tilts his head, curious—but Elliot has already begun making his way out of the kitchen.

Elliot hurries back to his room, heading straight for his drawer. He rummages through it quickly, pushing aside a clean handkerchief, a half-used notebook filled with scribbles, journal entries, and old recipes. His visor rests right at the bottom. But none of it is what he’s looking for.

Where is it...?

And finally—he sees it. A fresh tube of burn cream. He had snagged it after a round, when a medkit hadn’t been fully used. Somehow, it slipped past the Spectre’s notice—and he had managed to keep it hidden, all this time. Satisfied, he pockets it and returns to the kitchen.

"I'm back," Elliot signs. Taph perks up the moment he sees him.

“Here,” he pulls the burn cream out of his pocket, before offering it to Taph. “For you.”

Taph raises his hands, shaking his head. “You don’t have to! Really, it’s fine!”

“It’s not fine,” Elliot signs firmly. “You need it.”

“Are you sure?”

Instead of replying, Elliot gently takes Taph’s hand, places the cream in it, and curls his fingers around it.

“Of course.”

Taph gives a small nod of thanks. He looks at Elliot—sees how there's no judgment in his face, no discomfort at seeing his burns. Slowly, he peels off his gloves again and starts applying the cream, wincing just a little.

Elliot pulls up a chair and sits beside him, watching quietly as Taph spreads the salve over his blistered skin.

"I hope you don’t mind me asking... but why haven’t you told anyone about this? Or asked for help?”

Taph pauses, his hands stilled mid-application. Then he places the cream aside and signs slowly.

“I didn’t want to trouble anyone. Sometimes they itch. I can’t help but pick at them.”

He turns his face away, clearly ashamed. “They look ugly. I didn’t want anyone to see.”

Elliot frowns and gently places a hand on his arm. “I don’t think they’re ugly.”

“They’re a sign of how hard you work—how dedicated you are.”

He offers a sheepish smile and scratches the back of his neck. “I have burn marks too—though they're not from as noble reasons as yours. Got them from working at the pizzeria.”

He lifts his sleeve to reveal an old burn scar near his shoulder.

“This one’s from one of my first shifts. Someone dared another player to jump into the oven... it didn’t go well.”

He chuckles at the memory, but it turns into a rough cough—his throat's still dry, after all.

Taph watches him, then quietly offers his own mug of water.

“Water?” he signs.

Elliot hesitates, not wanting to take it—but another cough forces him to. He accepts the mug, before taking a sip.

“Thank you."

Taph nods. Elliot can’t see his smile, but he knows it’s there.

“What was I saying? Oh, right. They're not ugly, Taph—they’re a reminder of how you're protecting us—by building those traps, making those devices…”

He rests a hand on Taph’s shoulder. “But that doesn’t mean you should leave them untreated. You matter too. That’s dangerous, y’know?”

Taph gives a small, apologetic nod. He signs in response, his movements quick but neat. “Okay. I’m sorry for worrying you. And... thank you for the cream.”

He gestures at his hands. “It feels much better now.”

Elliot smiles. “Don’t thank me—I’m just glad I could be of help."

His eyes drift to the kitchen window. The sky outside is still dark.

“We should probably get some sleep. It's a long day tomorrow.”

He stands, pushing his chair back. But before he can leave, Taph reaches out and gently grabs his hand.

“Can I ask you for one more favor?” he signs, looking away, almost embarrassed.

Elliot tilts his head. “Of course. What is it?”

Taph hesitates. His posture is clearly tense beneath the hood. He signs tentatively.

“Could you... tell me a bedtime story? I had a bad dream.”

Elliot blinks, stunned.

Taph’s hands shoot up again. “Sorry! Forget I said anything!” He buries his face in his hands.

Elliot gently pulls his hands away.

“Hey. It’s okay. I would love to tell you a story.”

Taph peeks up at him, surprised, before nodding eagerly. With that, he gently grabs Elliot’s hand and starts leading him out of the kitchen—but instead of heading to his room, he takes him toward the living room.

Elliot tugs at the edge of his sleeve, puzzled. “Wait, this isn’t the way to your room.”

Taph motions toward the living room. “Too many traps. It’s safer here.”

"Oh... alright."

They settle on the couch. Taph sits close beside Elliot, then rests his head gently against his shoulder.

“What kind of story do you want?”

Taph bounces slightly, kicking his feet against the cushion in excitement. Then, he clasps his hands in a silent plea.

“Something about Telamon! I heard he blesses people with good dreams.”

Elliot chuckles, a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “Alright, alright. You got it.”

“Thank you!” Taph signs happily.

He grabs a pillow and places it carefully on Elliot’s lap before lying down across it—he's all curled up, his posture comfortable. Elliot shifts slightly, resting one hand gently on the arm of the sofa. With that, he begins the story, his voice soft and steady.

“So, once upon a time…”

But before long, Taph drifts into a deep sleep, and a soft snore quietly escapes from his mouth. Elliot looks down at him—peaceful and safe, still clutching the cream in his hands.

He doesn’t dare move an inch—he stays perfectly still, not wanting to wake them or disturb their slumber.

He can feel Taph's heartbeat through the pillow—a rhythmic, almost soothing sound. His warmth seems to ease the quiet ache in Elliot's chest.

It’s comforting, really. Especially after such a horrible nightmare… thanks to them, he feels a little calmer now.

Maybe I'll close my eyes, just for a second...

And with that, Elliot lets his eyes close—he finally drifts off, allowing sleep to find him at last.

Chapter Text

What...?

Elliot opens his eyes—and immediately coughs, choking on dirt. He quickly spits it out, hacking into the ground. His throat is raw, and his lungs burn with every breath. Pain blooms across his ribs, sharp and unforgiving—almost like he’s been trampled.

Which, honestly, considering who the killer was this round… he probably has.

His mind spins for a moment. His vision is blurry, but it doesn't erase the fact that he's still alive. Somehow.

It seems like the killer didn’t finish him off this time.

But why...?

Maybe, just maybe… They think he’s already dead. And yet—usually, they’re more thorough.

His surroundings seem to sway as he lifts his head, his neck screaming in protest. He drags himself upright, but his arms still tremble beneath him, barely able to hold his weight.

Then, he sees it.

Just a few feet away, 1x stands with his back turned to Elliot—sword in hand, his focus locked onto someone else.

Shedletsky. He looked... horrible.

He was on the ground, slumped against a nearby tree, with one of his hands pressed tightly against a wound at his ribs. He glanced up to meet 1x’s gaze before coughing up a splatter of blood, and his breaths came in shallow, wheezing gasps. And yet, despite it all, he wore the same annoying grin—like it was just your average day—even as he sat there, beaten to a pulp, blood streaking down his face.

1x's voice slices through the silence.

“You’re the only one left.”

He steps forward, his form towering over Shedletsky. His blade glints under the moonlight. He lowers it gradually, before placing it right at the base of Shedletsky’s neck. It breaks skin—just enough to draw blood. A warning.

"And of all people... it just had to be you."

Shedletsky's breath catches. His grin falters, just for a second. His eyes look past 1x—right towards Elliot. He sees them—bleeding and barely holding himself up—but alive nonetheless. And the moment lasts only a second—but it’s a second too long.

He quickly glances away, acting like he hadn’t seen anything—maybe if he doesn’t acknowledge it, 1x won’t notice.

But 1x already knows.

He turns, slowly, and follows Shedletsky’s gaze until he spots Elliot—with his head lifted, his chest heaving, dirt and blood smeared down his front.

1x chuckles.

"Seems like I missed one."

He begins walking toward Elliot, each step heavy. Elliot attempts to move—he tries to crawl back, stand, anything—but his arms buckle weakly. His whole body shakes in fear.

Then—

CRACK.

A foot slams down into his back, hard, and the air in his lungs is knocked instantly from one brutal blow. His face is crushed onto the ground again, and this time, he can't breathe.

"You failed... and you couldn't even protect your own friends.”

1x leans in, pressing more of his weight down onto Elliot. As black spots flicker and dance across his vision, he struggles to breathe, and ends up gasping for air.

And then, the pressure lifts.

But the act is not out of mercy—1x has no intentions of sparing him. Instead, it's because he’s readying the final blow. He raises his sword up high—right above Elliot's neck, poised to kill.

"Look at you—such a weak, pathetic vermin. It’s a shame, really.”

From behind, Shedletsky shouts something, his voice cracking with urgency. Elliot hears the desperate clatter of metal—he’s picking up his sword, ready to strike—but deep down, Elliot knows.

He won’t get here in time.

So he closes his eyes, and braces himself for the end.

"Once again, you disappoint me—”

"...Creator."

The blade comes crashing down.

It pierces through the flesh of his neck. There’s a horrible, wet squelch, followed by the rush of warm blood spilling out onto the dirt. His vision blurs, and the world spins around him.

Then—he is swallowed up by the darkness.

Shortly after that, the round ends.

Back in his bedroom—safe, at last—Elliot paces about restlessly. His mind was racing, and he couldn't but replay those last moments—the title 1x had called Shedletsky.

"Creator."

That word rings in his skull, relentless. 1x. Creator. Shedletsky. 1x called Shedletsky his creator.

Suddenly, it all lines up now. Why 1x always singles him out. Why he always seems to have extra fun taunting Shedletsky. Why he always goes quiet whenever they appear.

And if what 1x said was true… that means Shedletaky was the one who created him.

He needs to talk to them. Still, he can't go empty-handed—especially not with something this serious. Shedletsky isn't the type to open up easily—he's always deflecting with jokes, never addressing the problem until it's too late. He needed a peace offering of some sorts...

He snaps his fingers, immediately coming up with an idea.

That's it! I'll make his favourite dish—fried chicken!

With that, Elliot heads to the kitchen and gets to work.

He quickly gathers all of the ingredients he requires—chicken, buttermilk, eggs, flour, oil, and various other seasonings. He works swiftly, pouring the flour into a bowl, before adding the necessary spices—paprika, salt, and black pepper. He dips the chicken in the buttermilk, before coating it completely. Finally, he lowers the pieces into the sizzling oil. They begin to crackle softly as they fry, filling the kitchen with the rich, mouthwatering aroma of freshly made fried chicken. When it’s done, he lays out the pieces on a plate. They’re golden and crispy, fried to perfection.

He doesn’t even bother cleaning up—he can do that later. Right now, he needs to find Shedletsky.

Elliot checks everywhere—but they're nowhere to be found. Now, there was only one place left. The docks.

He steps outside, the plate still in hand. The night air is cool against his skin—it’s a chilly sensation. On any other night, it would be peaceful—but the tightness in his chest makes it hard for him to enjoy. He shakes his head, trying to clearing his thoughts, before hurriedly walking towards the docks, across the woods.

There, at the far end of the docks, sits Shedletsky—all alone. He’s hunched forward, his back facing Elliot, and his arms drape loosely over his knees. For once, there's no confident grin on his face—there's only a tired, wistful look in his eyes.

Elliot approaches them slowly.

"Hey... are you alright?"

Shedletsky doesn’t look up at first. He stays still for a moment, before he shifts his head—ever so slightly.

"...yeah."

Elliot sits beside him, then sets down the plate. "I brought you some chicken."

Shedletsky glances at the plate, then at Elliot. His lips twitch into something faint—it's almost a smile.

"Thanks."

But he doesn't take a piece—he just stares into the distance, lost in thought.

"Sorry... for what happened earlier."

"It's fine—it isn't your fault."

Shedletsky nods, but his fingers continue to tighten around his knees. He doesn’t believe him. Even now, after everything, he refuses to meet Elliot’s gaze—he keeps looking out into the horizon. Above them, the moon hangs in its familiar shape—eternally half-full. Or half-empty. Like two sides of a coin—one cannot exist without the other. But the other side is always missing, forever incomplete. Just like him.

And finally, he speaks.

"You ever made a mistake so great... have a regret so heavy it haunts ya for the rest of your life?"

Elliot stays silent. The wind rustles softly around them.

"Not… not really," he quietly admits.

Upon hearing his response, Shedletsky lets out a dry, bitter laugh.

"Well, I did."

"You know the truth now, don't ya? I created 1x. But creating them wasn't my mistake. No. It was my own damned pride—"

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his tangled hair. His fingers drag roughly against the knots—almost like he's trying to pull out the guilt in his mind by force.

"I never cared for them, at least not how I should've. And now... they're like this. Sometimes, I can't help but think—if I had tried harder, been better, would things be different?"

He shakes his head, and a weary sigh escapes his lips.

"Sorry. You're still young... None of this ain't making sense to ya." He forces a tight, tired smile—one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "I'm just getting old. Gramps yabbering on, huh?"

Elliot gently places a reassuring hand on Shedletsky’s shoulder, stopping them.

“I can't say I understand, but... it’s okay to make mistakes, you know? I think what matters is what you do to fix it. I mean, no one’s perfect—but you shouldn’t keep beating yourself up over the past.”

Shedletsky doesn’t answer at first. He exhales deeply, before dragging a hand down his face, a resigned weariness etched into every motion. "Still... you won't tell the others, right?"

Elliot shakes his head. “No. It’s up to you to tell them the truth—but I think it’s better you do. After all, they deserve to hear it from you… not from someone else.”

Shedletsky goes quiet again, his eyes fixed on the dark stretch of water. His shoulders tense for a moment, then gradually relax. It’s subtle, but something shifts in his expression—like the realization has dawned upon him, and Elliot's words are finally sinking in.

“Yeah... guess you’re right.” He murmurs, his words contemplative. With that, he reaches over and ruffles Elliot’s hair, fondly tousling the already-messy strands. “Can’t believe it—you’re smarter than you look.”

Elliot scrunches his nose and swats lightly at Shedletsky’s hand, feigning offense. "And what’s that supposed to mean?"

Shedletsky chuckles, before giving Elliot’s hair one last tousle. "Relax... Just pulling ya leg."

Elliot sticks his tongue out playfully, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood tonight.”

Then, he picks up a drumstick, offering it to Shedletsky. "Now eat up, before the chicken gets cold."

Shedletsky roll his eyes, but he accepts it from them anyway. “Alright, alright, sheesh! You really are a mother hen, huh?”

He takes a bite, then closes his eyes, savoring the flavor. “Mmm, that’s the stuff. It's good—almost as good as mine."

Elliot laughs, before grabbing one for himself. “Well, there's more where that came from!"

Shedletsky leans back slightly, his gaze softening. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—and this time, it’s genuine.

“Thanks, kid. ‘Preciate it.”

And Elliot smiles right back—his expression just as warm.

"Anytime!"