Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rice was, unfortunately, a college student—perpetually broke, perpetually burnt out, and a little too emotionally invested in a mobile game called Identity V. It was an asymmetrical horror title, and Rice—the resident "lore eater" of their friend group—had devoured every scrap of its lore. Their DMs were a constant stream of questions about character backstories, map stories, and skill breakdowns. Rice could recite half the game's lore like a literal wiki, often while multitasking something completely unrelated.

Other games had tried to lure them away, but none ever truly stuck. Not after two years of Identity V's unique blend of kiting, rescuing, decoding, and the occasional burst of frustrated screaming. It scratched an itch no other game could—in the worst, yet most satisfying, way.

Their PC, however, was in its death throes. Not "on its last legs," but actively, dramatically dying. Blue-screen death spirals were a regular occurrence, always, always right as they locked in for a match.

"NOOOO! I LOCKED INNN—" Rice would wail, a soul betrayed, as the screen froze. A hush would fall over their Discord voice chat. Their friends already knew what had happened.

"Maybe I should just get it repaired," Rice mumbled to themselves one night, followed immediately by the cruel, familiar realization: they didn't have the money. Just another L in the broke college student lifestyle.

They couldn’t even play games properly on their phone—crashes every time. Their PC was all they had. Ahh yes, the cycle of life still prevails.

Then, like a beacon of divine algorithmic intervention, salvation appeared. During a lunch break, Rice was aimlessly scrolling through Instagram when they paused at their sibling's story. It was a Roblox game—normally not something they cared about. But then, a skin flashed on screen.

It was from Just Shapes & Beats.

Rice froze, a half-eaten bite comedically suspended mid-air. That game. Their high school hyperfixation. The one that had gifted them rhythm-based bullet hell trauma and an impeccable taste in chiptune music.

Without a second thought, they mashed out a reply:

You replied to their story

OH MY GOD I'M GONNA JOIN WAAAAHHHH

Metris: OML YASSS

Naturally, Rice took to their own story, unleashing an all-caps declaration of chaotic intent: 

"IM GONNA JOIN FORSAKEN WOVHKSC"

A friend immediately responded:

Replied to your story

Mints: Not u joining Forsaken now HAHAHAH

ARE YOU KIDDING? I LOVE JSAB!!! 🔥🔥

Rice laughed, finished their lunch, and made a mental note: I'm playing that. Soon.

The next four weeks dissolved into a blur of classes, stress, and repetition—but every day, for at least two hours, Rice dedicated themselves to grinding Forsaken. It wasn't IDV, no, but it came so damn close. Within a few matches, Rice was completely hooked.

They instinctively gravitated towards support characters. Their absolute favorite?

Elliot.

Fast, friendly, and armed with infinite pizza.

Maybe with cooldowns, but we don't talk about that.

"This man is a walking delivery system, and I love him," Rice declared to their screen. "We stan a food-based support system."

And they were good. Exceptionally good. But when teammates ignored the glorious pizza?

"HELLO??" Rice would scream, incredulous. "The pizza's right there! It's literally—WHY ARE YOU RUNNING AWAY FROM THE PIZZA?!"

Sometimes their throw was a masterpiece—a clean arc, a direct hit. And still, the survivor would just… stand there. Then promptly get obliterated, much to Rice's profound disappointment. 

One time, someone emoted next to the pizza instead of grabbing it.

"GET OUT—"

If Elliot was overpicked, Rice would seamlessly switch to 007n7. A survivalist. A legend. A tragic, lore-rich, ex-exploiter dad-figure. 

Peak.

Still, the sheer volume of Elliot players was getting out of hand. "Okay, I get it, he's good," Rice grumbled during a queue. "But he literally gets nerfed when you spam him. STOP. PLEASE." Half their teammates couldn't aim a throw to save their lives. The other half just wouldn't pick up the support. So Rice, true to form, carried. If no one else could support properly, they'd do it themselves.

They even managed to contain killers now and then. But their inevitable downfall always came down to a few things: Entanglement, Digital Footprints, and—

C00lkidd.

"I WAS HIDING!" Rice cried one night, their voice climbing an octave with each word. "AND HE JUST—HE BURNT ME?! HOW? I WASN'T EVEN NEAR HIM??"

"AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN I GOT HIT FROM FOUR SHEDLETSKYS AWAY?! WHERE WAS COOLKIDD EVEN AIMING?!"

Lag. Lag was the real killer, ruining more matches than any killers ever could.

Despite all the frustration, Rice kept coming back. "This game is so stupid," they'd mutter, then immediately add, "I'm playing again tomorrow."

Their brief stint playing as a killer lasted maybe a week. Jason was fine; cool weapon. But chasing survivors with their ping? Unplayable. Survivors would blink out of reach as if the Lag Gods themselves were personally punishing Rice. Survivor was simpler. Less humiliating.

They did buy John Doe, though. For the JSAB skin, obviously.

Four weeks of pizza, lag spikes, screaming, laughter, sweat, and more screaming. Rice wasn't top-tier. They weren't invincible. They weren't a killer main. But they were in.

This was their life now.

"Elliot... please get the medkit."

Rice said it aloud, a plea tinged with despair, even though they knew he couldn’t hear them through the screen. Elliot, inexplicably, had just sprinted past the medkit for the fifth—no, sixth—time this match, even though the healer was clutching his arm, implying that his health was low. Playing as 007n7, Rice sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. They trudged over and picked it up again.

They trailed Elliot into the carnival map's red tent, sticking close as they worked on a generator. For now, the killer was distracted. But the moment they were out of the place, Elliot got hit and immediately died.

Rice let out a harder sigh. "Okay. Guess I'm playing babysitter."

After reclaiming the medkit— again —they scoured the map for the second Elliot. It took a full two minutes and an uncalled-for Entanglement from seemingly nowhere, but they finally found him. He was tucked behind a booth near a stall… hiding as if the killer owed him money.

"Elliot," Rice coaxed, easing closer. They gently dropped the medkit at his feet—a clear offering, a gift, a lifeline.

Elliot bolted. Right past it.

Rice stared into the digital void, inhaling deeply through their nose, exhaling through a wave of profound disappointment. "Okay," they muttered, their voice flat. "You want hand-delivery? Fine."

They followed Elliot all the way to the next generator, standing guard like a frustrated parent at a kiddie game. Rice clutched the medkit, working with Elliot to fill the progress bar, letting Elliot finish the last part as Rice readied themselves to shove it directly into Elliot’s character model the instant the generator popped.

Instead, Elliot finished the generator, turned around, and— thwip .

Pizza.

It slapped Rice square in the face, healing a negligible 10% of a scratch that barely existed—like a pity Band-Aid.

Rice blinked. 

“The healing is not necessary, omg…” they thought, the attempted support only deepening their disappointment. Elliot's pizza cooldown was now active. He could have saved it for Shedletsky, who was still kiting 1x1x1x1 through the map's outskirts like a beast, or for Guest 1337, who was backing Shedletsky up.

"Please just take it…"

Finally, Elliot took the medkit as he bolted off again. Rice stood still for a beat, then turned and headed towards the next nearest generator. It's the last generator left as Rice crouched by the machine, focusing on the connect-the-colors minigame—green to green, yellow to yellow—

Then came the familiar, dreaded sound of Mass Infection.

Rice immediately ejected from the generator, watching as the horizontal digital split trailed directly toward them. Lady Luck—bless her—was on Rice’s side; they dodged it. But Taph, who was with them, wasn't so fortunate. Rice winced. Worse, Elliot and the others hadn't been so lucky either. The timer seemed to climb like something out of a horror movie. 

This is why you heal the people distracting the killer.

Rice found Elliot’s crumpled body a minute later—the medkit still beside him. Still unused. Still perfectly fine. They stared at it, feeling the ancestral disappointment surge in their chest.

"Why didn't you use it when you had time?!"

Their Asian blood boiled. With mechanical precision, they scooped up the medkit and spun on their heel. "Taph," they said, rushing back. "Here."

Taph was crouched inside the Lost and Found building, gratefully accepting the medkit to begin healing. Rice was about to leave to distract—

And that's when it happened.

WHIRRRRRRR.

An Entanglement came flying in from off-screen and slammed into Taph. A direct hit. The healing demolitionist didn't even have time to finish patching themselves up before dropping instantly. Rice stood frozen as the "Last Man Standing" music began to play in the background.

"... OH COME ON— "

Somehow, through a desperate sprint and a few killer-confounding clones, Rice survived the round as the last survivor standing. And, miraculously, without a single lag spike—even though their ping was around 200 ms.

God bless that unnecessary pizza a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶m̶e̶d̶k̶i̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶f̶i̶n̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ ̶g̶o̶t̶ ̶u̶̶̶s̶̶̶e̶̶̶d̶̶̶.̶

They checked the match results, then left the server. Usually, Rice would have immediately queued for another lobby, but tonight, they decided to open their private server to test out a different survivor. 

Before the game could even load, their computer delivered its final, fatal blow: a blue screen of death. Rice stared, stunned, for a few seconds.

"...Are you for real?" Rice grumbled aloud. This was the third crash today. They leaned in to read the stop code, expecting something like "PAGE_FAULT_IN_NONPAGED_AREA" or "KMODE_EXCEPTION_NOT_HANDLED," or whatever Windows liked to throw at them when it threw a tantrum.

Instead, the screen simply displayed:

Rice squinted. "Well, that's scary," they mumbled, "but you know what's more scary?"

A terrifying thought, a gut feeling, a prickling sensation on their neck: the definitive presence of a boogeyman directly behind them.

"He's right behind me, isn't he? "

“...” 

Silence.

“...”

Stillness.

“...”

Yup.

Rice slowly, deliberately, rose from their chair—then bolted. They dashed towards the kitchen, halfway to vaulting over the counter before a calm, warbling voice echoed, cutting through the panicked silence.

“There’s no need to be afraid.”

Rice froze, turned—and instantly regretted it.

Standing where they had just been was a figure that defied perception. His form glitched like a corrupted video file, a jagged silhouette fringed with fluttering wings of static. His face remained indistinct, a visual paradox that their brain refused to process—like trying to recall a dream just before waking. Thank God Rice didn't have epilepsy. 

They rubbed their eyes before speaking up. "Okay. Nope. Nope, nope, nope," Rice declared, pointing an accusatory finger. "Stranger danger is a real thing. You're in my house, I don’t know how you got in, and I absolutely did not invite a demon cosplayer.”

The figure held up what appeared to be hands—or were they wings?—in a gesture of peace. His form shimmered, pixels crackling as he coalesced into… Taph? From Forsaken?

Rice blinked. "Bro, what."

He didn't acknowledge the question. Instead, his voice deepened, resonating with a sound that felt alien to their dimension. "I've chosen this moment for a chance to finally speak with you, Chosen One."

Rice stared blankly. "Are you a demon who's gonna possess me or something?"

"I—no… It's a different matter."

"Then am I dead…?"

"No. Please listen."

The guy—thing—entity pinched the bridge of his nose, or where a nose would be. Rice tried to comprehend, but failed. He then straightened, his voice shifting back into something more formal.

"My name is [■■■], and I'm here to offer you something good."

Rice narrowed their eyes. "…This is literally kidnapping."

“…I assure you it’s not—”

“Sure, bro. I mean, you broke into my house, said some cryptic ‘Chosen One’ shenanigans—it’s cringe by the way, and your name glitched like a corrupted file.”

He paused, visibly "sweated," clearly embarrassed. "Fair point. Cautious child. My apologies.” He adjusted his form with another shimmer. “How about you call me… [UNKNOWN]."

“That’s the cringiest name I’ve ever heard in my life,” Rice muttered.

“…”

"…Okay. Mr. 'Unknown,' sir. Very original gamer tag, ten out of ten,” Rice conceded. “Why are you here? And who even are you?"

He beamed, looking as if he’d rehearsed this part in a mirror. "I am a God,” [UNKNOWN] replied smoothly, “and I’ve come to offer you work. A win-win deal, for both of us."

Rice tilted their head. “A god who breaks into houses to give out jobs? Definitely not shady.”

[UNKNOWN] offered a half-smile. “It’s not what you think.”

“…What is it, then?”

A beat.

“A game.”

Silence.

“A job, within a game,” he clarified. “You play, possess someone, and in return… you’re paid.”

Rice raised their hand like a diligent student in class. “What game?”

“…”

“What game?” Rice pressed.

“…Forsaken.”

They locked eyes for a full minute.

Rice blinked. "Ngl, this sounds exactly like one of those self-insert Forsaken fics I just read on AO3."

[UNKNOWN] blinked. "Wha—"

“So you’re telling me: I play Forsaken. I possess a character. I make chaos. You gods get entertainment. And I get paid.”

“Yes,” [UNKNOWN] confirmed.

"And?"

"And…?"

“…You’re not elaborating.”

He sighed again. “You’ll play Forsaken like usual—but not on a screen.” With a snap of his fingers, a plushie of Elliot materialized, floating mid-air in a slow spin, twinkling with magic sparkles.

“You’ll possess a survivor. Talk like them. Move like them. Survive like them. But only one.” He raised a finger. “Any more, and the Spectre will notice. That, we can’t afford.”

Rice paused. They didn’t like how he said that.

Another plush appeared—Jason this time, wielding a tiny plastic chainsaw that buzzed pathetically. "You create chaos for the sake of entertainment. You can sabotage, manipulate, punish them, trigger events… whatever sparks the most emotion, you name it. Make your thoughts wild."

Then, with a flick, the Jason plush lost its chainsaw. Instead, the Elliot plush suddenly clutched a GUN .

“…WHY DOES ELLIOT HAVE A GUN??”

“Entertainment. Chaos. That’s what the Gods want.”

Rice stood there like a dumb mannequin, processing the utterly surreal situation. [UNKNOWN] chuckled.

“As for the work—” The entity snapped his fingers, conjuring up a fat stack of bills in his hands. “This is your bonus. A gift. Whether you accept or not is up to you.” He held it out, walking(?) toward them.

“…Just put it on the desk.”

“Fair.”

“Is this legit?” Rice finally managed to ask, eyeing the money. This is definitely not a scam, right? It's even their currency for goodness’ sake!

[UNKNOWN] chuckled, "Very. And just the start. You’ll make far more once you begin.”

Rice stared at him, convinced he was blabbering nonsense.

“Now…” [UNKNOWN] said, extending a hand(?), requesting a handshake. The plushies immediately clung to him like gum to cloth. “Are you up for the job?”

Rice didn't even blink.

"No."

“…”

“…”

"N-no??"

"No," Rice clarified.

“H-hold on for a moment—” [UNKNOWN] panicked, his voice cracking like glass under pressure. The plushies almost fell as he scrambled to recover, his posture faltering briefly before returning to poise. “I mean—if there's an issue, we can negotiate—!”

“Give me a contract. I don’t trust an approach like that.”

The entity froze mid-spiel, then smiled faintly, oddly… relieved. “Then why didn’t you say so?” he chirped. With a snap of his fingers, a scroll and quill floated in front of Rice, the parchment unrolling mid-air like a breath being let out.

Rice read it without hesitation, like a dried sponge absorbing water. Most of it was as explained—some parts self-explanatory—but a few clauses made them wrinkle their nose.

“First of all, this money could make the highest-paid people in the world faint. Anyone’s gonna find me, a broke student, suspicious if I suddenly get this much cash. Can you at least lessen it?” Rice needed money, but not enough to paint a neon target on their back.

"Are you sure abou—" Rice stared at him. Flat. Expectant.

[UNKNOWN] sighed, dropping his formal air like a prop. “…Say no more.” He raised one gloved hand, and the quill shifted on its own, adjusting the text. 

“Lessening the salary by half. Is this to your liking?”

“It’s doable.”

"Done. Any other concerns?"

"I'm looking through it."

They skimmed again. Private server linked. Real-world time moves slower while playing. Neat job benefits. Life insurance—neat.

"Can I do this job on my phone? I don’t want my mom or anyone seeing me laying like a couch potato on my desk in the middle of midnight."

“Of course,” [UNKNOWN] replied smoothly. The sudden shift to professional almost made Rice snort. “You get to play anytime, anywhere.” Like a tech ad but Rice didn’t care.

“I’m done reading this EULA. I think I’m ready.” They confirmed.

The entity made a confused noise, clearly baffled by the term "EULA." He didn't ask, but the confusion lingered in his silence.

"Then take the quill to sign the contract. This will bind us to an agreement."

Rice plucked out the quill, leaning over the floating contract. They paused for a moment to ask the entity once more. "Are there any puppeteering shenanigans hidden here?"

"No strings attached."

"Am I able to talk to you after this?"

"I have all the time in the world."

He really has no life, omg.

“These gods you mentioned. Is there a chance they can break this contract?”

“Not that I know of,” he said carefully. “They don’t care about other people’s business. They only seek entertainment.”

"Okay…?"

Rice signed their name. He clapped the contract shut—a sharp, almost ceremonial sound. The plushies unlatched and fluttered into the air, drifting like happy ghosts. [UNKNOWN] straightened his gloves.

"Glad to have your acquaintance, ■■ ■■■■."

…You don’t need to say my full name like that. That’s creepy as hell.

Just as he turned to leave, Rice stopped him. "Wait. One more thing."

He paused mid-step. "Continue."

"...Can I have... Elliot and 007n7 plush?"

“…”

The entity summoned two plushies near Rice, who snatched them with visible embarrassment.

“I’ll… leave you be now. Have fun out there.” [UNKNOWN] said awkwardly, but then paused. “Ah. One last thing.”

He reached into the air as if unbuttoning reality itself. From that rift, he pulled out a strange pendant—a dull obsidian coin strung on a black thread. Etched onto its surface was a tiny spiral of eyes and threads. It seemed to shift when looked at too long.

“A sign of your employment,” he said, flipping it towards Rice, who caught it out of reflex. “Should you ever be questioned.”

Rice squinted. "…What does this symbol mean?"

[UNKNOWN] just smiled, his fingers twitching like he wanted to snap them. “ Nothing you'd find in a Wiki.”

Of course. Of course he’d say that.

Rice stared at the pendant. No matter how hard they focused, the sigil slipped their understanding like water through fingers. They’d spent hours researching obscure lore threads with their friends, but this? This doesn't make any sense. That made their grip on it tighten. Something told them they’d need it soon.

Behind them, [UNKNOWN] finally vanished into silence.

Rice stared at their phone in their room, eyes unfocused, lost in thought. On the bed, the plushies sat like innocent, squishy secrets. That weird entity was… unique? Peculiar? He acted all formal, then completely fumbled the second things didn’t go his way. Still, he'd crafted those plushies with such perfect detail—the faces, the clothes, the expressions. It was too perfect. 

What a strange guy.

Rice knew they couldn't trust him. Not fully. But at least he wasn't overtly cruel. And the fact that they could ask him questions was a small comfort.

They looked down. Along with the plushies, something cold weighed down their pocket. 

The pendant. 

Rice pulled it out between thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the light. It shimmered like obsidian fractured with thin, glowing cracks. The markings etched into its surface made their head throb. It looked like the Forsaken UI if the UI had a seizure on an ancient runes forum post. Every time Rice blinked, the shape shifted—one moment it resembled constellations, the next, glitched circuit board lines.

"Okay, what are you…" they muttered, rotating it in their palm.

The back of the pendant showed a quill, spirals wrapping it into a snapped infinity loop. Rice squinted. "This has to be a symbol. A mystery icon or something, right?" They tried to recall anything like it from Google, the wikis, even the weird conspiracy threads they used to lurk but nothing came up. Not even close.

Rice tapped it lightly against the nearby wall, half-expecting it to beep or open a UI. Nothing. It just sat there—quiet, but undeniably watching. 

Creepy.

Still, it felt important. It had that distinct weight, like a key item in a game. A chill ran through their spine.

"…Why would he give me this?" they whispered. Proof of employment? A badge? Or perhaps… a tracker? Their brain spun in frantic circles, trying to pin meaning to something seemingly designed to defy it.

No strings attached, [UNKNOWN] had said. Rice squinted with doubt, replaying that promise in their head.

"…I’ll keep an eye on you," Rice muttered, stuffing it back into their pocket. It pulsed once—like it heard them. Rice really didn’t like that.

Could they even show the contract to their mom? Probably not. Their mom just wanted them to finish school, not get tangled in… whatever this was. But if she saw the money…

"I guess I'll tell her about it soon…"

Wait—can their phone even handle this? Especially when it’s basically an absolute potato phone. Well, another question for later.

With the slightest bit of hesitation, they pressed play.

What could go wrong?

We don't know.

But in the Forsaken world?

Shenanigans ensue.

Chapter Text

Rice hesitated, eyeing the play button on the private Forsaken server that [UNKNOWN] had sent them.

With a deep breath, they pressed it.

The screen from their phone flickered, a pop-up flashed on their screen: 

「 Joining server... 」

Then—a pull , followed by a violent TUG .

It wasn’t physical, not in the ordinary sense. It was as though their very soul had been lashed to a cosmic bungee cord, and some unseen force had yanked it straight out of their spine. The sensation rattled them to the bone, worse than any rollercoaster drop, more jarring than their stomach free-falling into their feet. 

It felt like they were being atomized into static, forcibly squeezed through a keyhole in reality itself.

Rice gritted their teeth, jaw locked tight, trying to endure the intolerable. Light flared at the edges of their vision. The void split open—

And then—

Thunk.

—they landed.

Not on their feet. Not even on the ground. 

Just— there , floating, incorporeal as a ghost, somewhere high above the survivor cabin in some sort of spectator mode, suspended like a player waiting to be slotted into the match.

Below, the cabin was already buzzing with activity. The intermission timer was ticking down.

“Yep,” Rice whispered to themselves in a dry, rather bewildered voice. “This is definitely the weirdest thing I’ve ever done. And it… might become a daily thing.”

Down below in the wood-paneled warmth of the main cabin, the survivors were getting ready. The intermission timer pulsed, nearing its end.

Shedletsky, legs kicked up on the couch, crunching into a hot chicken drumstick. “Mmm. Chicken before a match is always a chef’s kiss. Better when we win, though,” he muttered. Then, mid-bite, he froze.

A cold breeze, impossible and unsettling, swept through the cabin. Posters rustled on the walls as an unnatural chill crept up everyone’s spine.

"...Must've been the wind?" Shedletsky mumbled, glancing over his shoulder. But the wooden door was shut tight. The windows were sealed, and no draft in sight.

Builderman, who's standing at the match board, furrowed his brow, “That’s odd… don’t suppose anyone opened the door on their own, did they?”

Across the cabin, 007n7 sat at one of the kitchen tables, instinctively looked up from the stale bread he hadn’t touched—tasteless, as always. Opposite him, Noob hunched over the same bland meal, tugging their hoodie tighter against a chill that seemed to seep through the walls. They shivered, shoulders trembled.

Their eyes met for just a moment. Noob gave a faint, uncertain shrug, almost apologetic, before glancing back down. Guest 1337, only a few feet away, didn't flinch at all. He blinked once, slow and unbothered—like nothing had happened at all.

“All good?” Guest 1337’s voice broke the silence.

007n7 hesitated, then nodded with the weariness of someone too used to hiding things. Noob followed with a halting, stuttered, “Y-yeah.”

That was enough for Guest 1337 as he gave a small, satisfied nod in return. 007n7, though, let his gaze linger for a beat longer than he meant to, the faintest crease in his brow.

Builderman double-checked the door, inspected the lock, and then the windows. “Still shut tight,” he muttered. “Reckon you’re right, John—no way these things open themselves.”

Shedletsky snorted from the couch, “Yeah, like that’d ever happen."

Then the air had gone completely still. Almost too still. 

Now that's ominous.

From the loft, Two Time leaned dramatically over the railing, their long scarf fluttering like some kind of divine banner.

"A divine draft!” they cried with wide-eyed reverence. “The breath of The Spawn!" They held their hands skyward, fingers pressed together in solemn prayer. "O Spawn, who guides the lost, who blesses the forgotten—your presence stirs the air! Your presence beckons from beyond!"

Dusekkar, leaning silently against the banister beside them, floated down the stairs, and landed near the fireplace with barely a whisper of sound. Taph sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, watching the flames. She looked up and waved in greeting.

"Do you think the match's about to start?" Taph signed to the pumpkin admin.

Dusekkar gazed at the fire, the light flickering across the carved hollows of his face.

“The fire forgets how warm it used to be, the roots twist deeper beneath the tree.” he murmured in his low, steady voice. "Something stirs beneath the rounds we play… tonight may end what never slipped away."

Taph blinked, tilting her head in confusion. They turned back to the fire, but suddenly the warmth felt… thinner. She hugged her knees a little closer to their chest away from the cold.

The flames snapped quietly—as if in agreement.

"A change…?"

She signed again, but this time with a pause, their eyes searching Dusekkar’s face but the pumpkin admin didn’t reply.

Just then from the hallway, Elliot strolled in, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve. 

"If it's different, then let's just get it over with. Win or lose, I've still got pizzas to make."

Ting!

Chance strutted in behind him, coin already flipped in the air with effortless flair. He caught it with one hand, then covered it with the other like he’d just made a masterstroke. 

"This time—we win with style," he said, grinning as he revealed the coin.

The coin revealed heads.

"Told ya! Luck's finally turning around," Chance winked. "And I only flipped it like… 130 times today."

A pause followed. The sound of posters flipping in the wind echoed through the room.

Shedletsky barked a laugh from the couch. "Hah! A hundred and thirty? That's how I pick dinner."

Elliot barely looked up, "That’s wild. Maybe try flipping your way to a generator next time?"

Chance didn’t seem to care—his blissful grin unbroken like the thought hadn’t even registered as criticism and raised his arm with pride. "Alright, squad! Operation 'Break the Streak' is on!"

Shedletsky, still half-lounging on the couch, blinked slowly… then stood. From the side, Builderman stepped forward, clipboard in hand, giving Shedletsky a single approving nod. 

With a flourish that defied all logic, Shedletsky unsheathed a gleaming sword from absolutely nowhere, holding it high for all to see. The room gleamed as the blade caught the light of the hearth.

“Good luck to all of you,” he said, voice suddenly serious, “If we die today, we die historically.” 

Then, like a bolt summoning a storm, he thrust the blade toward the ceiling for dramatic effect. “Strike down the losing streak!”

"YEAH! LET’S GO, SURVIVORS!" Chance whooped like a robloxian whose only plan was vibes.

“All for the record,” Builderman said, lifting his clipboard with a little grin, like it was a prize. Guest 1337 nodded once, a rare sign of approval—whether by the speech or by the energy in the room, it wasn’t clear but it was probably both.

Around them, the others clapped and cheered.

Taph gave a single clap. Dusekkar raised his staff, and the flames seemed to reach toward him. He whispered, "May courage guide your fleeting breath, and keep you far from pointless death."

From above, Two Time spread their arms wide.

“May The Spawn grant mercy upon your hitboxes!”

"Wait wha— "

The match began.

One by one, the survivors disappeared, teleporting into whatever cursed map "It" had created for them. As each one disappeared, a single thought lingered in the air.

“Matt said something was changing… I hope it’s just wins.”

Hoo boy. He hopes Dusekkar is so, so wrong about this.

Shedletsky frowned before he, too, vanished.

At the same time, Rice blinked incredulously, realizing something.

“Wait—hold up, you’re not—”

But it was too late. The same force grabbed them, ripping them along for the ride.

“Oh, come on! At least give me a breather before teleporting me!”

No respond. 

Rice should have known that.

“DANGITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!—”

The lights flickered on. The haunting silence of night echoed through the halls of the Horror Hotel, a rotting place of bad dreams and worse design choices. 

Moldy wallpaper peeled like old skin from damp walls, and the smell of mildew clung to every surface like a warning no one heeded. 

In the distance, a grandfather clock ticked irregularly, as if it was struggling to remember time.

With a rush of static and displacement, the survivors blinked into existence, scattered across the map like unlucky dice rolls.

All except one.

Rice hit the ground like a sack of literal rice. The sudden chain-teleportation finally caught up to them, and this final stop hit like a semi-truck to the soul. Reality snapped into place with a violent jerk, like a rubber band pulled too tight, and Rice staggered sideways, their balance momentarily betrayed.

“Ow…”

Everything was blurry. Their pulse raced. The ground beneath them felt... different.

As their vision cleared, Rice realized they were outside. The air was damp, the subtle, yet distorted melody seemed to seep from the very air, warbling around them like a distant echo. Rusted walls jutted from the ground like broken teeth, and shadows stretched long beneath the moonlight.

“Oh… it’s that map.”

Horror Hotel. A place they knew too well. But something was off. It felt... wrong .

Then it hit them. They weren’t floating like a ghost anymore. They were grounded, their feet pressing into the grass beneath them. They steadied themselves, inhaled shakily—and looked down, expecting to see their usual body.

But what greeted them were yellow hands.

They didn’t expect that.

Those hands are definitely not theirs, thank you very much.

Did they get jaundice or something?

Definitely not. Nope. Nuh uh.

Rice stared for a full five seconds, unblinking.

"Oh… my god," they whispered. Their voice finally realized being tinny and foreign.

The voice wasn’t theirs. It didn’t even feel close. Panic rose in their chest.

With a sharp breath, they bolted to the closest room—floorboards creaking underfoot as they raced through an open door and into the dark. They needed a mirror. A wall. A shadow. Anything.

They found a somewhat visible window. The glass was old, warped, and streaked with years of neglect. As they leaned closer, a distorted silhouette emerged in the glass—blurry but unmistakable.

"Noob…?" 

Rice’s heart dropped.

“No no no no no—” they muttered, their hands— Noob’s hands —scrambling at their face, trying to peel themselves out of the nightmare. They pinched the cheek hard, and the sharp pain shot through them instantly. Rice winced, and the warped figure in the glass grimaced in perfect sync.

It was no dream.

Rice had possessed Noob.

They staggered backward, their breath quick and shallow.

“What the heck is going on?”

Panic swirled in their chest, their new knees weak—but then a dry, cosmic voice echoed from their memory like a long-lost voicemail.

["You’ll possess a survivor. Talk like them. Move like them. Survive like them."]

Right. [UNKNOWN]. The job. This was the job.

Rice sank down on a dusty pink bed, muttering to themselves, trying not to freak out. 

"Okay. It's fine. Totally fine. It’s… oh god , it’s Noob…"

They are very close to attacking [UNKNOWN] but they didn't because where on earth would they see him?

They quickly opened Noob’s inventory and started looking through it, hoping for something to ground them. A couple of Bloxy Colas, a Slateskin Potion, and… a Ghostburger.

Rice stared at it, holding the transparent burger in their hands. “…You really eat this?”

Curiosity won over caution, and they took a bite. It tastes… nothing . It had no texture, no flavor, just… absence. 

Rice held it at arm’s length, deadpan.

"That's what I get for trusting food that's dead."

Well, at least it wasn’t rotten.

For a moment, Rice just stared at the burger like it held the secrets to the universe. And in a weird way… it kind of did. Their mind flashed back to those first four weeks of playing Forsaken on their PC—misclicks, blunders, and clueless moves that baffled killers. 

Back then, they played as Noob. Now they were them. Sort of.

Rice stuffed the burger into their inventory with a resigned sigh. "Welp, here goes nothing."

They got to their feet—then nearly stumbled as their legs betrayed them. Thank god the bed was still there to catch them. "Oh my god... Why does this Robloxian walk like their knees are scared of each other?" Rice grunted, adjusting their stance, trying to find some kind of rhythm. 

"Okay. Noob walk. Waddle-walk. Don’t look suspicious. You're a professional amateur."

With a determined nod to themselves, Rice set off toward the first generator they could find, trying to mimic Noob's awkward, almost comically uncoordinated gait.

Noob floated, motionless, eyes wide, pupils reduced to pinpricks of disbelief. Silent gasps slipped through their ghostly form, as if trying to speak, but no sound came. 

Everything was visible— too visible . Their body, moving around, interacting with things, even talking. Talking like it wasn't even them anymore.

Noob reached up, fingers trembling as they tried to touch their own face. But their hand passed through it, like mist, like they were no more than a fading memory. 

"I… I-I’m d-dead?" they whispered, or tried to, but their voice didn't exist. It was as if even sound had abandoned them.

They watched in horror, eyes watering as the not-Noob pinched its own cheeks, squinted at the distorted reflection in the window, then slumped onto the bed. The possessed body lifted Noob’s own Ghostburger and took a bite. The sensation jolted through them, like someone else was breathing through their lungs. It was violating, but… oddly gentle?

The possessor sat there with the burger in its lap, muttering softly, not quite talking to themselves, but close. 

"Sorry… I hope you’re not upset with me…"

Noob nearly flickered through the nearby wall. 

It knows I’m here.  

Fear surged in their incorporeal chest, but something else curled beneath it—curiosity. They couldn’t tear their eyes away. 

They watched it stand, shuffle around awkwardly, even trip once. But… it’s moving differently. And then, Noob saw it: a confident kind of awkwardness. The possessor wasn’t just stumbling through Noob’s movements; it was making them its own.

And then—

Noob’s eyes widened.

W-wait... th-that’s not… h-how I fix things…

The fake-Noob crouched at a nearby generator. In just a few moments, the progress bar climbed steadily, quickly, and efficiently. It was methodical and precise.

Noob whispered, voice cracking into silence.

It’s… better than me…

Back at the generator, Rice wiped the sweat from Noob’s brow, then tucked a Bloxy Cola into an easily accessible slot for emergencies. They moved cautiously—hesitant, deliberate. Head down, eyes low. They weren’t looking for attention. No smart plays, just pure, classic Noob energy. 

This was their match. Their first real match.

"Okay," Rice muttered to themselves, sounding like they were taking mental notes. "Just play it cool. Just Noob things. Get smacked around a little, fix a gen real slow, jump when startled. Easy."

A cold shiver ran down their spine. They froze.

"Oh… that’s Jason," they whispered, a chill crawling over them as their hair stood on end. They didn’t even need to look to know. It was instinct—probably leftover from Noob’s Survivalist role, stitched into this body.

The killer didn’t need to be seen to be felt. The air grew thick with profound silence, a suffocating static that clung. It's just pressure and that sensation of being watched, like a camera lens trained too tightly on them. That eerie, suffocating presence.

And the music. That extremely faint, chilling Jason music that only Rice could hear. Maybe a perk of being a player who spent weeks on Forsaken?

Rice gulped. "Yup. That’s Jason. Fantastic. Of course, it’s Jason. This is so over."

The generator's lights turned green, finished. Rice blinked, eyes wide. 

“...Oops.”

Had they really just completed it that fast? They’d been expecting a slow progress, a few screw-ups, maybe a spark or two—but this was a bit too smooth.

Well, too late to undo it now. Rice thought, squinting at the hallway ahead. They stood up and crept low, toward the well room.

"Hey, buddy," they said under their breath, "We're gonna try not to die, yeah? Let's see if we can be useful..."

A distant thump echoed from behind a wall as Rice exhaled slowly.

“Starting now."

“Not as many today, huh? What’s the deal now?” Shedletsky muttered, gnawing on his chicken with a crunch that almost sounded louder than his words. 

Normally, "It" would throw eight survivors into the mix, but today? And they had the audacity to say this lineup was the one that would “break the losing streak.” 

Boost morale. Right. 

Fewer survivors didn't boost anything—it made things harder. With a deep sigh, Shedletsky slung his sword back into its sheath—wherever that came from—and started heading off to find the killer himself.

Meanwhile, Dusekkar lingered, motionless as he hovered over the edge of the ball pit. Neon light spilled bright colors across his robes. His carved-pumpkin face tilted, as if listening for something.

“The killer is near, the shadows creep. A blade will strike, no time to sleep.” 

Then, silence. Just the creaking groan of something moving in the walls.

Elsewhere, Taph crouched low in the Theater Room, carefully setting a tripwire in place. His winged ears twitched, the faintest sound catching their attention.

Thumpthumpthumpthump—

Elliot came charging through, a pizza-fueled blur of motion, too fast to track. “Nope, nope, nope! That’s a Jason noise —I know that noise!” he whisper-shrieked, accidentally triggering Rush Hour as he ran with a pizza box clutched in one hand and a medkit in the other. His legs blurred as he made a sharp turn down the hallway.

Then stopped short—just for a moment. A shiver danced down his spine. “…Huh?” He glanced around, scanning the hallway. No killer. No eyes peeking from corners. 

But something was there. A presence. Not Jason nor a ghost either, but something in-between.

“Did I do something wrong…?” Elliot muttered, his voice a mix of confusion and nervous energy. “Okay, okay, it’s probably just last match's regrets catching up to me…” He added, then took off again, hoping to outrun whatever was creeping behind him.

Somewhere else on the map, Chance was doing what he did best—flipping his coin. The generator? Nah, that wasn’t his problem. Elliot might have a few words about it later though… but for now, it was just him and the coin.

Ting. Heads. 

Ting. Heads. 

Ting. Tails.

“Aw danggit, just two streaks stacked. Not bad though!” he smirked, spinning the coin again. “Now let’s see if a big, tall, and chopped-up fella named Jason wants to tango.”

He flipped once more, but then someone jogged past. Noob—except… not?

“You good, pal?” Chance called out, raising an eyebrow. “You look like you saw a ghost... or like you’re not Noob. Haha.”

The figure froze, jerked, and then gave a stiff, awkward shrug. They didn’t say a word and shuffled off.

Chance blinked. “Weird,” he muttered, flipping his coin again.

Meanwhile, Rice was quietly dying inside. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic. They kept telling themselves—Chance's eyes were still on them. The joke hit a little too close to the mark. 

Rice forced a grin on Noob's face and ducked their head, praying the dim light would hide the embarrassing heat crawling up their cheeks as they worked on the generator.

Way too close.

And Noob—

[Noob just watched, helpless, trapped outside their own body like an abandoned camera. Their gaze followed as their body shuffled away, awkward and twitchy.] 

[The possessor is definitely not Noob, but it's trying so hard to be. It fumbled, stalled, made silly mistakes. Hesitating just long enough to pass as clumsy. To pass as them.]

[And yet… when no one was watching, its hands shook.]

[ W-why? Noob thought, shrinking back. It’s the one in c-control… so why does it l-look… scared? ]

SLAM.

A door nearby crashed open. Rice yelped—forgetting to calm down—and spun around. 

Shedletsky, chicken drumstick in one hand, sword in the other, stepped into the hallway with a deep frown. 

“This place looks like an admin beta build that failed QA. Who made this map—Guest 1337 on Nyquil?”

He paused for a second, brow furrowing.

“...Wait. What the hell is Nyqui—”

Then the footsteps came which are not like the others—slow, heavy, and wrong.

Jason had arrived.

As if on cue, Elliot’s scream ripped down the hall. 

“I DON’T WANNA BE BALD!!!”

Pizza slices exploded from his box like wedding confetti as he ran. Taph signed a quick warning to Shedletsky across the hall, then activated his tripmine. The swordsman, never subtle, kicked over a fallen bookshelf, barricading the path. Jason would have to break through.

Rice was mid-sprint, Bloxy Cola fizzing in hand, nearly slipping on pizza grease. 

They didn’t dare look back. Rice couldn’t look back.

Jason lunged for Rice—

BOOM. Taph’s tripmine detonated. Jason reeled back.

SLAM. Shedletsky hurled a destroyed door—because of course he did, slowing the killer down, buying another second.

Ting. Heads! Chance fired off his Lucky Shot.

BANG! His shot connected. 

“Headshot!” Chance crowed, triumphant.

Jason grunted in frustration, his frame staggering under the stun. Chance didn’t stick around and dashed off to reload and pray. The killer then turned—not towards Noob anymore. His eyes locked on to Shedletsky instead.

“Chi chi chi… ma ma ma…” Machete lifted, then swung—going to activate Behead.

Shedletsky grinned like a maniac, sword raised. “OH, YOU’RE ON, JASON!”

CLANG!

Sparks flew. Sword met machete. Shedletsky grinned widely—until—

Jason activated Gashing Wound. 

Shedletsky’s smile dropped.

“…Crap, forgot the cooldown—”

SLASH.

Memoriam.

His body hit the floor. Jason stepped past without pause, already locked on his next victim: Chance. The gambler was still nearby. He triggered Raging Pace, closing the distance as Chance frantically flipped his coin, desperate for another stack even as his weakness climbed.

Chance fired—

BANG! 

His own flintlock backfired.

Memoriam 2.0.

There goes another minute added to the clock. Jason loomed over the corpse, staring down at the unlucky survivor as if even he was disappointed—then moved on without a word.

Rice stumbled into the Outdoor Field, breath sharp, vision rimmed in red. Their shoulder slammed into the nearest wall, sliding down until they slumped behind it, gasping. Noob’s body—their body—shook with each gasp, fingers trembling around an empty Bloxy can. Stamina bled out faster than it should’ve—faster than they expected.

A distant scream tore through the air, a scream that sounded like Shedletsky, ragged with pain. Followed by the crack of Chance’s gun. The timer on their watch ticked upward in the killer’s favor. Another nail in the coffin.

Their right hand clutched their arm, torn open by Jason’s blade. It had taken a hit from Behead, barely interrupted. The sleeve of Noob’s hoodie clung damp and tacky to the wound. It really hurt . It's real and heavy . Each heartbeat pounded through it, hot and insistent, like the blood was trying to crawl free. Every throb of their pulse was another reminder that this body was alive—bleeding, hurting—and if they failed, it would die.

Rice’s stomach turned. They jerked their eyes away, refusing to look at the mess. They hated looking at it. 

[Even Noob could feel it—the tremble, even the sharp spike of fear. They already knew that feeling too well…]

[But their possessor?]

[Noob blinked, stunned.]

[I-it’s… scared. Scared of… d-dying…]

Rice curled in tighter, forehead pressed to their knees, breath spiraling into shallow gasps. Their chest felt caged, cracking. They don’t know if they can win this. They weren’t cut out for this. Not in this body. Not with death this close, not on their neck. The thought coiled like barbed wire.

I don’t want to die.

Their fingers dug into their sleeve, nails biting fabric. Their body rocked with the motion, desperate to steady itself, to cling to something.

They glanced at the timer again. The timer is still moving.

They shuddered, whispering so softly the words nearly vanished.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck like this.”

[Noob is the only one who heard it. And even if they couldn’t speak, they listened.]

"Okay," Rice muttered through clenched teeth. "Okay. Time to go. You’re not dying here. Come on. Get up. Get out there."

It took every ounce of resolve to peel off the wall, legs shaking as they forced themselves upright. One step, then another. Survival was all that mattered. Another generator—anything to keep moving.

They found Elliot in the kitchen, kneeling at a generator. His gloves were half-torn, sweat streaking down his brow. “Ugh,” he groaned, exasperated. “These things are harder than my finals. I swear they twist themselves just to spite me.” 

He paused, glancing up. His eyes widened at the sight of Noob—standing awkwardly, good arm clutched desperately to the bloodied one. Then, without missing a beat, he flipped open a grease-stained pizza box with a wave. 

“Behold: the ancient power of cheese and tomato. ”

Rice blinked. “...Pizza?”

“Yeah. YEAH! Ugh … Jason was crawling up my spine like some kind of fungal infection, I swear. Then pumpkin guy—y’know, Dusekkar—shows up like he’s in an action movie and leads Jason off me. I threw pizzas, we both got chased. Dude shielded me just to stall for time so I could patch the others. I patched up and found another medkit. Gave me chills, man. Anyway—slice?”

Rice hesitated… then took it. The crust was warm. Really warm. The cheese melted perfectly. 

Rice wasn’t sure what was weirder—nearly getting slashed to death, or receiving a perfect slice of pizza in the middle of a death game. The pizza is still hot, even though it had been baked who-knows-when.

Was that part of Elliot’s ability or just some kind of Forsaken nonsense?  

They bit in. It was the best thing they’d tasted in weeks. The pizza was cheesy and buttery. The warmth spread through their chest, pushing out the haze and clearing their vision. As they chewed, the pain in their arm ebbed, muscles relaxing.

[Noob felt the warmth too. A strange, heavy warmth… like home.]

[ I-it’s… pizza… they thought, almost smiling through tears. The taste clung to their ghostly tongue even though they weren’t eating.]

[They remember the times where they and—]

[Noob stopped, the thought stinging too much to finish.]

“You good?” Elliot asked, voice softer. “You’ve been real quiet. Even for you.”

Rice nodded quickly. “J-just... tired. But thank you… for this.”

“Hey, no problem. Gotta keep each other alive somehow.” He offered a crookedly smile. “Plus, you looked like you needed it.”

Rice’s grip faltered on the crust. They looked down, swallowing hard. Their throat tightened. 

“...You need help with that?” they asked instead, gesturing to the tangled mess of wires.

Elliot lit up like someone turned on a lightbulb inside his head. “ YES . These wires are actually trying to kill me. One of them shocked me earlier. I think I lost a finger and gained another one. Thank Telamon I had gloves on.”

He scooted aside with a groan. Rice crouched carefully, moving slow, adjusting wires with precision. They watched Elliot from the corner of their eye.

Elliot hummed beside them, filling the silence with chatter. He was easy to talk to, in a weird way—loud, dramatic, but kind. He gave warmth without asking but it was something Rice didn’t know how to receive. 

They worked in silence. At one point, Elliot elbowed the panel too hard and hissed, shaking his hand like a cartoon character. Rice let out a soft chuckle—almost involuntarily. Elliot noticed, grinning wider in response.

Eventually, Rice handed off the last connection. Elliot leaned in, brow furrowed, tongue poking out the side of his mouth.

Click.

The generator hummed to life. 

“YES!” Elliot fist-pumped like he’d won the lottery. “We’re geniuses. This is a certified brain cell moment.” 

Rice stood, brushing off their knees. Elliot stretched with a groan, then glanced at them.

“Y’know… you’re acting kinda weird today.”

Rice froze, eyes snapping up. “...Huh?” 

Elliot blinked, like his brain only now realized what his mouth had done. “I mean—match stress, probably. I’ve been so fried I keep thinking vending machines are watching me, so—” He waved it off with a nervous chuckle. “Don’t mind me.”

Rice forced a laugh. “R-right. Cheese’ll do that.”

“Anyway!” Elliot said, bounced back on his heels. “Let’s not become toppings ourselves. You go for the next gen—I’ll check who’s still bleeding.”

They nodded, and he jogged off. Rice lingered for a moment, watching him go before turning toward the next area. The hum of the powered generator faded behind them.

[Noob saw the slip. The tremble in the possessor’s hands—again.]

[Their eyes softened. “W-why do you k-keep shaking…?”]

[But the body kept going. Still playing its part. Still pretending as them.]

[Noob didn’t know why.]

The clatter of footsteps had faded. Rice, done with the last generator, crouched low behind a rusted luggage cart someone had shoved from the Theater Room into the corner of the Play Area. Half-hidden between the ball pit and the stage wall, they waited in the flickering hush.

The air buzzed with static. Lights buzzed above, swallowed by the vast silence. Rice strained their ears, trying to catch every sound they could possibly get.

But there was nothing.

[Noob was used to silence—just not this kind.] 

[Not the kind where something felt missing. They weren’t in control, but they could feel everything . And whoever is possessing them… was afraid of that too.]

Rice yanked open the survivors’ stat screen, desperate for reassurance. A glitch. A visual bug. A delay. Anything.

But it wasn’t.

Elliot is dying.

His health dropped fast. Rice stared, willing the numbers to stop. 

He had a medkit. He should’ve—

The icon blinked red. Then crossed out.

[ELLIOT - DEAD]

The screen flickered, exhaled like a dying breath before replacing itself with a single string of text.

[Last Man Standing: NOOB]

Rice’s stomach dropped. Cold and sharp.

I’m… the last one?

[Noob felt it too—the shift, the pressure. That cold, sudden, horrible realization of being alone. ]

[They wanted to whisper: Y-you’re not the only one…]

Jason’s footsteps echoed. Once distant, now thunderous.

Boom. Boom. BOOM.

Rice didn’t panic—not really. But their breath caught. There were no survivors left. No one to get help with.  No staying in character as Noob anymore. No more excuses. It wasn’t “Noob” anymore—it was them.

Just them against Jason.

They breathed, slow and steady. Inhaled and exhaled.

And within a second—

Rice locked in.

[Noob watched as the possessor stopped pretending. And strangely…they didn’t mind. Yes, its trying to win to survive but that wasn’t all of it. Something else was driving it.]

[Eyes are determined, like it would try its hardest to win. And Noob—somehow—trusts it. Even if they don’t know why.]

Out of the corner of their eye, Rice spotted the red outline of the killer from afar—then bolted. Out of the Play Area, and through the Kitchen. They slid sharp into the Gift Shop, snagging a cola from a dusty chair mid-run. They cracked it open, letting the hiss of the can opening echoed loud in the narrow First Hall.

Nice. Jason got the bait. The chase was on.

Jason lunged into view, machete raised. Rice sprinted through the Field, weaving between crumbled stone ruins, hugging corners to avoid dead ends. Their stamina dropped to 40%—they gulped down the cola while regenerating their stamina, speed then surged and bolted again.

Their legs move like Noob’s—but cleaner, sharper, and precise . Every step planned five seconds ahead. This wasn’t panic, this was precision.

And Jason doesn’t know what he’s up against.

He gained ground in the First Hall. Rice darted into a nondescript bedroom, juked left, baited a swing—then slipped out through the opposite door. 

The slash missed by inches.

Everything was used up. Taph’s mines were gone. Shedletsky’s door, unhinged from slamming it into Jason from a while back. The map was stripped bare of resources.

But that didn’t matter. Rice was the resource.

Their movements were crisp. They juked Jason through the Party Room, skimmed up the ball pit ramp in the Play Area to disorient him, vaulted the shoe container, then dove across the stage. 

Jason followed, slower but relentless. His blade lashed behind them, wild and furious.

[Noob has never seen movement like this. Not even from their own body.]

[It was like… a dance—every dodge, every slide, every juke saying the same thing: I want to live.]

Rice baited him deeper—through the Second Hall, skidding past the Changing Room, doubling back into the Theater. They lured him to the fork, then cut right, toward the Well Room.

Jason hesitated. Just one second.

And it was enough. Rice kept moving. The chase stretched on minute by minute.

‘My name is Jason! I’m gonna kill you! And when I do…’ Rice mouthed the lyrics with every step—tight and sharp, like a drumbeat.

‘…it’s gonna hurt.’

The killer is still chasing them. Jason used his Raging Pace—faster lunges. The turns tightened.

He’s learning. Good.

So they tricked him. Rice looped through the Kitchen, passed back into the Play Area, slid behind the ball pit, and vanished from line of sight. Jason hit the top step wrong—stumbled just a second. But a second was all Rice needed.

[Noob can feel their own heart pounding. Feels their own hands shaking.]

[Yet—there’s no fear. Just awe.]

Jason recovered and catched up. He swung—Rice slid. 

He broke a shoe rack—They vaulted over a foam divider.

The chase burned to its final seconds. 

The timer ticked down.

The music shifted then came the fade. Jason’s last swing glitched in the air, then he disappeared into thin air.

[The Survivors won.]

Everything fell still. The silence after was deafening. There is no music, no sounds. Just silence.

Rice stood in the Play Area, doubled over, gasping for air under their oversized hoodie. Their hands braced against their knees. Sweat dripping onto the foam floor.

Their lungs burned. Their pulse thundered in their ears. The silence roared than the chase ever had.

And slowly—softly—Rice smiled. 

Not from victory but from relief as the world blinked to black.

The cabin lights were warm. Unnaturally warm.

After a match like that, even the dim gold of the lobby felt too bright—like it hadn’t caught up yet. Like the whole space was stunned. 

Jason lost. 

Jason. He lost.

It was a win for the survivor side—after what felt like endless defeats.

When Rice reappeared in the cabin—still in Noob’s body, hoodie soaked with sweat, heart pounding like a hammer under their ribs—they rose from the victory table that is most likely coated in dust from disuse, and walked into the main area.

Silence is all they could hear. But all of the sudden, it shattered.

“YO—”

“NO WAY!”

“We won?!”

“I thought you were Noob! ”

That’s kinda offensive, Chance . Rice thought, rolling their eyes internally.

The survivors swarmed them.

[Noob saw the survivors again. Their friends. Their team.]

[They wished they could speak. Wished they could say—It wasn’t me…]

[But maybe…]

[Maybe they didn’t have to.]

Chance was the first to lose it. He practically flung his coin across the cabin and whooped, eyes wide with disbelief and joy. 

“That was YOU?! You went— pwoosh ! Like ‘bye-bye Jason!’ I swear, I thought the round glitched! No way Noob solo’d that! We can’t see the others after we die, but—holy crap!” 

He paused, drawing in breath, practically vibrating. 

“How did you do it?! ”

Rice raised both hands sheepishly, half a shrug. “I—uh—just ran.”

“You ran ?” Shedletsky appeared, striding into view with his sword slung lazily across his shoulders. 

“You ran away from Jason for five straight minutes . Looping him so hard I bet he’s probably still chasing shadows.”

Wait what—five whole minutes?! Rice blinked, caught off-guard. They rubbed the back of their neck, trying to play it cool. They’d completely forgotten about the whole time difference—probably because of the heat of the moment.

“I just… got lucky.”

Shedletsky paused, raised a brow, and then grinned. “Well then. Here’s to luck.” 

With a dramatic swing, he turned to the “LOSING STREAK” board nailed to the wall, lifted his sword and— CRACK! —cleaved it clean in half. The wood splinters sprayed the floor.

Builderman let out a groan. “John… that was good data you just wrecked—”

“We make new history now!” Shedletsky bellowed, raising his sword like a championship flag.

Rice tried not to laugh. It came out anyway—choked and snorty. 

Chance retrieved his coin and flipped it. “Guess the odds were adding back up.” 

Dusekkar whispered something about fate and weeping stars. Taph stepped forward silently and clapped a hand on Rice’s shoulder, silent but firm.

“Haha… T-that was close, huh?” Rice stammered. Perfect Noob impression and none of them noticed.

Elliot, now respawned in his work uniform wrinkled and askew—leaned in the cabin doorway, grinning with arms crossed. “I had a medkit, y’know. A MEDKIT! Was gonna patch myself up. Then Jason blinked behind me and— boom . Gone. That’s on me.”

“No.” Rice’s voice softened. “You bought me time. …Thank you, mister.”

Elliot blinked. His grin eased into something gentler. “Then I guess that makes us even, huh? No problem.”

Taph signed something quickly, hands a blur of practiced movement. Dusekkar translated, staff in hand. “Taph says: ‘That was one hell of a match. You held your own. Jason’s mad. I love that.’”

Taph added more, slower this time. Dusekkar paused, then looked directly at Rice. 

“He also says Noob looked… different. Not bad-different. Just… more focused.”

Rice stilled. And in that silence—they felt it . Someone was watching them.

They didn’t turn their head—not too fast, not too obvious. Just enough to catch sight of the dining table. 007n7 was there, silent and watching the whole thing unfold. His eyes held no judgment, only a quiet weight that settled heavier than words ever could.

When Rice finally met his gaze, he gave a small nod, as if it were a gesture of acknowledgement or perhaps to congratulate them.

Rice’s throat tightened. They forced themselves to nod back, though their hands felt clumsy doing it.

Two Time didn’t speak either. They rarely did—unless it involved Spawn. But they stepped forward silently, resting a hand on Rice’s shoulder. Their gaze wasn’t at Rice but through them, as if divining shapes in a night sky only they could see.

“You carry the rhythm of a new loop,” they murmured. “The Spawn marks you… blessed by a stranger divine.” Without elaborating, they vanished into the shadows, as if swallowed by prayer.

“…????” Chance blinked. “What was that? ”

No one answered.

Guest 1337 placed a steady hand on Rice’s shoulder before sitting beside 007n7.

Soon, the others began to disperse, energy finally breaking like a storm passed. Chance flopped onto a couch with an exaggerated sigh. Elliot wandered to the fridge and yelled about no soda. Taph went to fiddle with traps. Shedletsky began polishing his sword with something that looked suspiciously like shampoo and Builderman grumbled under his breath about “vandalizing the records” as he swept up the splinters.

And Rice… just stayed there, letting the warmth wash over them like rain after a storm.

They still felt it—Noob’s body trembling faintly from the memory. The phantom ache in their legs, the adrenaline in their hands.

“Noob.” 

Rice looked who called for them. It turns out it was Guest 1337.

“Y-yes, m-mister?”

“You held your own.” The soldier’s expression was calm, unreadable, but not unkind. “If you feel any discomfort, ask me or Elliot for assistance. Don’t push through it alone.”

Rice nodded quickly, a little shy under the weight of his presence. Guest 1337 towered over them, every bit the soldier his title carried. They couldn’t help but sweat internally, that he'd punch them if Rice slipped out of character.

Elliot or Guest, huh… guess I should remember that for later.

When the cabin quieted, and the others drifted toward their rooms, Rice gave Guest 1337 a small wave goodbye before heading to Noob’s. It was quiet and cozy. The lights dimmed to a low glow. Rice didn't have the mood to look around as they saw the simple bed tucked into the corner, waiting for them. 

Rice dropped into it with a slow sigh, tugging off the hoodie and fingers combing through sweat-matted hair. They were exhausted. They were tired. Yes. Not just physically, but all over. 

Yet… they were safe.

For a while, they sat for a long moment. Neither a winner, nor a survivor. Just someone who barely made it out alive.

And then…

Then softly, they placed a palm to their chest, closing their eyes.

“…We did it,” Rice whispered. Their voice cracked—soft and raw. “They didn’t win. Not this time.”

Nobody answered.

But something did.

The warmth in their chest. Not from adrenaline. Not from relief.

From Noob.

[Powerless but omniscient, Noob saw everything in that round. Every movement, every risk, every decision, even those last five minutes. Noob never had a choice at that time.]

[But now?]

[They whispered into the air, voice quivering but sincere.]

[“Th-thank you… Rice. I… I t-trust you…”]

Rice didn't get to hear it—but they felt it.

Exhaling, they curled up small beneath the blanket, tucking it under their chin, and smiled.

They had survived. Together.

The adrenaline was gone. Only warmth remained.

The next round could wait.

A survivor escaped.

Jason stood alone, disoriented. Still ever silent beneath his mask. It's been a while since the survivors win. Jason wasn’t angry—just… confused.

Something was completely wrong. Off.

That hadn’t been Noob. It’s not the same survivor he knew. Not the one who clutched their hoodie and fidgeted every last second. Not the one who yelped or cried whenever they were cornered or hurt.

It’s like an entirely different person. Like someone else had taken over.

A new presence. A ripple to the lake—the code the killers knew. 

The match didn’t say its name.

But Jason knew.

Something was changing.

Chapter Text

Noob was laughing.

Not the quiet chuckle everyone knew now, but something bigger, brighter—the kind of laugh that echoed like sunlight itself. Their legs carried them across a field that never seemed to end, grass brushing their ankles in waves. Sixer kept pace beside them, smiling softly, as their hands locked together, each step in perfect rhythm as though the world had been built only for the two of them.

The sky above shimmered. The kind of sky that makes everyone brightens up their day.

They stopped beneath a tree that allowed them to take cover from the rays. Noob turned, grinning wide, ready to say something—

But the grip slipped and the warmth was gone. Sixer’s smile wavered, blurred at the edges like wet ink.

The silence disturbingly pressed in. Then came the first fracture—a voice they are unfamiliar with breaking apart akin to glass, syllables falling sharp and useless, dissolving into something incomprehensible before it could form. The sound shuddered and warped until it hurt to hear.

Noob reached out, but their hand caught only shadow. The warmth of their friend slipped away, leaving behind a shape that bent where it should not bend. The blur elongated, lines tearing across skin like cracks in a screen. 

What stared back wasn’t Sixer anymore—a new shape trapped inside something unreadable, and wrong.

“You left me.”

“Why did you leave me…?”

The words rang hollow, too heavy to belong to the person they remembered. They echoed through the field, sinking into the ground, into the air, into them.

Noob’s mouth opened, attempting to speak, to answer, but no sound followed. Their voice had been stolen, feeling like something had stitched their mouth shut by silence.

Silence stretched as the figure leaned closer, body unraveling into strips of code that bled across the grass. Eyes glowed where eyes should not be, cutting past Noob as if they were no longer the one standing there.

Past the memory.

Past the dream.

Fixing on something else.

The voice whispered—not one voice but many, folding and unfolding, familiar and strange all at once. 

The words sank like hooks. Someone’s lungs seized, as the world shattered around them.

Rice woke up with a sharp inhale.

They tore awake, air scraping their lungs as though they had been drowning.

The lobby was silent when they opened their eyes. Their senses felt sluggish, like they’d been swimming through tar. For a moment, Rice wasn’t sure if they were awake—their body didn’t feel like it belonged to them. A heavy weight pressed against their chest, vision swimming.

Then they realized that it wasn't theirs.

It was Noob’s.

A pit opened in their stomach. They tried to move their hand, but the gesture came clumsy, uncoordinated, like wearing oversized gloves. Each motion felt foreign and disconnected. Rice clenched their fist just to remind themself that they could.

So this is what possession feels like, huh…

They sat up slowly. Something had chased them out of sleep. They knew it. The memory was fresh—too fresh—like something that clung to their skin, yet when they reached for it, it slipped like water through their fingers.

What was it?

A face? A voice? Something had spoken to them, hadn’t it?

Rice pressed their palms against their temples and squeezed their eyes shut, forcing their mind to rewind, to replay. But the harder they searched, the more the dream bled away into nothing. Like someone had taken a knife to the reel and carved out the middle.

And a question followed that chilled them. 

Was that their dream… or Noob’s?

All that lingered was dread. 

“Dammit,” Rice whispered under their breath. The word felt too small for the weight in their chest.

The lobby’s pale lights flickered faintly above them, buzzing like flies. The others weren’t around, at least not nearby. Relief swept over Rice, albeit thin and brittle. They needed time to breathe, to adjust, to shake off whatever this was.

The match was over. No screaming. No footsteps pounding after them. Only phantom echoes clung to their limbs—and a certainty that something had been there, watching, even if they could no longer remember what.

And now it was gone.

Every nerve felt stretched between two realities. Above all else, one thought clung tightly.

That actually happened.

The room was quiet. A lantern flickered softly on the desk, casting little shadows across the corners. From outside, muffled voices drifted in—the others, tucked away in their own rooms.

Alive. 

The lantern flame pulsed gently, as if in rhythm with the silence.

They were alive. Thank goodness.

Rice let out a long breath.

Okay. First match is done. I didn’t die. That’s good. That’s... really good. Cool. Coolcoolcool.

They rolled Noob’s shoulder experimentally, then hissed. It was still sore. They moved slower this time, careful of the pain.

Rubbing their face—Noob’s face—they tried to reorient. 

Wait. Wait— Their eyes widened. Is Noob watching?

Rice had no idea when or where Noob would watch. Just like the first time after the match ended.

Rice froze, scanning the ceiling, the walls, even the faint reflection in the window.

“...Noob?” they asked out loud, just to hear the voice. The sound startled them. It wasn't theirs—rougher, yet higher pitch than theirs, but it was undeniably Noob's.

Silence followed.

How were they supposed to talk to them?

“Uh…”

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” Rice said, words clumsy, “but... hey?”

They gave a little wave with Noob’s arm, then immediately slapped their own forehead.

“Right. Sure. Just do a little seance next. Who needs social skills when you can just talk to ghosts. I should get a ouija, maybe?”

Then it hit them.

“Wait—write it. WRITE it down. Duh.”

They spun toward the desk, apologizing under their breath as they rummaged. Loose sheets. Crumpled notes. A half-filled notebook with doodles of generators, scrawled faces and what looked like C00lkidd drawn with devil horns labeled “scary kid”. Rice snorted, then flipped to a blank page.

Perfect.

Rice plopped down on the seat and took a nearby pen. The pen felt oddly heavy in their hand—no, in Noob’s hand—but they held steady, swallowing their nerves. They began writing.

After a while, they paused, grimaced. “No, wait—shoot. That’s creepy. Don't be too blunt, Rice. Don’t do that.” They scratched it out and then wrote again.

They scratched their head with the pen cap before adding some more.

Finally, satisfied, they signed it with their name. Rice stared at the page, then folded it neatly and slid it into Noob’s pockets, hoping the real Noob would find it later. Hopefully, they’d understand.

Rice stood and paced around the room, thoughts spiraling too fast for their feet, thinking about what to do next. And then—

The GUI blinked into existence.

It hovered in the air before their eyes like a holographic console, a window they weren’t supposed to see. Rice tilted their head.

“…A GUI, huh?” they muttered.

They reached out instinctively. Commands, drop-downs, strange syntax flickered past their fingers like half-written code. Rice squinted, scrolling as if they were debugging a bad script. It looked like Roblox’s Command Bar mashed with an admin panel—but raw, brittle, like the world itself was exposed in layers.

“Feels like a Roblox admin panel, but—nah. Too raw. Too deep. Call stack’s got layers,” they murmured, sitting on the bed. “Like a cursed onion.”

“Okay, let’s see.” They tapped a command and hovered over an empty line. Buttons unfolded before them.

Rice’s eyes widened. “Oh woah—it’s like 7n7’s… but clicky. Thank god I don’t have to write Lua.”

They wanted to find something first. Rice scrolled the [SUMMON] menu, looking through items until they found what they wanted.

A sketchpad, for god's sake.

They clicked it. Particles flickered—and a sketchpad dropped neatly into their lap.

“…No way. That worked?,” they whispered, picking it up. It felt papery and clean and exactly what they needed. They could draw, leave notes, and communicate.

Rice paused for a bit.

Just in case. They thought before they set access.

[SetAccess: “Rice”, “Noob”]

They doodled a waving rice grain in the corner of the first page before glancing back at the GUI. An Alias field blinked.

[Set user alias]

Rice bit their lip, before typing something out.

[Ende]

“Ende,” they whispered. It didn’t sound right like pulling on a sweater that almost fits but not quite. Using their username felt safe… they weren’t sure if that would work for others but still! It was something for emergencies.

Rice noted that they need to remember some coordinates of the location in the future in cases of summoning items going wrong like summoned items getting no-clips.

A growl from their stomach cut the thought short.

“Oh. Right. Food.” They looked around helplessly.

“...Let's go grab some food. I hope there's something good here.”

They opened the door and wandered out into the Lobby, shoes quiet against the floor, until they found the so-called “kitchen.”

They found it buried in the side hallway of the Lobby, past the pantry filled with stale snacks and a rock hard gray-ish bread that had long since eaten, making it a weapon if thrown to an unsuspecting target.

Rice opened the fridge and slammed it shut like something awful lived inside.

“…You’re got to be kidding me.”

They opened up the fridge again slowly, looking at the contents closely. Inside is a single box of hard bread rolls, a bucket of salty biscuits, and several slices of pizza that were not only cold but tagged with notes:

“Pizza leftovers. Do not reheat unless you’re Elliot.” 

“Ps. Please ask Elliot if you want pizza.”

“Ps. Ps. Two Time, if you're reading this, don't try to cook. Don't eat it cold either.”

“Ps. Ps. Ps. You too Chance, you're banned in the kitchen.”

Rice sweat dropped at that suspiciously long note. There is also a mini note from Chance as a response to the last note saying “awhhh” with the attempted sad face with a hat drawing on it. There is also another note underneath in the reply that said, “Ask Guest about the last kitchen incident,” which Rice tucked away mentally and did not comment on.

It looked like someone had invaded and left without leaving crumbs. They shut the fridge as they began to find more food.

They opened a cabinet. Empty.

Checked the pantry. Empty.

Rice sighed again as they pressed their forehead against the door’s fridge.

“This is it, huh? This is the real horror. No killer, no death—just carbs.”

They opened it again for effect and held out their hands like a preacher.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn the tragic demise of basic nutrition. Survivors everywhere will now perish, not from Jason’s weapons, not from the killers’ killings, but from… cholesterol.”

Rice bowed their head solemnly. “Taken from us too soon. Rest in pizza.”

They shut the fridge one last time, face deadpan.

“This is a death sentence. The killers don’t have to try. Just give me three weeks of this diet, and I’ll surrender willingly.”

That was the moment they bolted. “I’m gonna get real food...” they called to the empty room, hoping Noob could somehow hear. Back in Noob’s room, Rice pulled the GUI up again and found the leave command.

[SWITCH: Outside]

The GUI blinked once. Rice gave the air an awkward salute. “Be right back.”

And just like that, they exited.

The moment Rice disappeared, Noob gasped. Their body snapped back like rubber—fingers tingling, chest burning with something they couldn’t name. Noob sat very still, palms on their knees, waiting for the small shock of being whole to fade. In their lap lay the sketchpad, warm where Rice had been. In their pocket was the folded note.

Noob stared at both until the quiet felt too loud and finally unfolded the paper.

—

Hi. I’m Rice. Which may or may not be my real name (close enough though), but I’m using it anyway because it’s better than “Hey you inside my body.” which felt weird and kind of rude.

Sorry about… this. I’m not trying to take over or... whatever it looks like. I didn’t choose this. I got offered something weird by an even weirder admin guy—a god or something? I dunno. He looked like some kind of cosplayer who roleplays as a businessman

I think I’m supposed to “entertain” him? Them? Or someone else. I don’t really know. Either way, now I’m here in your body. Uh. That sounds worse written out, but it’s weird, right? Me too.

You’re probably watching or maybe I’m just writing to myself like an idiot. But if you are there—hi. I’m not a threat. Just awkward—extremely awkward. I’ll help however I can. Promise.

—Rice (Yes, like the food.)

—

Noob read the note twice. A ghost with a name. Maybe that made them less of a ghost at all. The words were small, shaky, yet honest. They felt less like an occupation and more like an entreaty.

Rice had left a sketchpad open on the bed, the first page stamped with the tiny doodle of a waving rice grain. Noob traced the cartoon with a fingertip. It felt real—ink raised slightly on the paper, the faint heat of a human hand. The sketchpad was a tether, a thing Rice had summoned and then entrusted to them.

They remembered Rice’s hands on the GUI—the way the interface had obeyed them. “They have a GUI?” Noob whispered to the empty room. “Like… 007n7’s? Like a real one?”

It wasn’t exactly that, but neither of them knew the difference. That made Noob’s spine itch—if someone could summon things into this world, set access and aliases and switch locations—then whatever this was could be important, dangerous or maybe both.

Noob wanted to call out, to say something—anything. But they could only watch unless if Rice did something for them.

They also remembered Rice standing in front of the nearly empty fridge, how their face had gone through combinations of disgust, bafflement, and something like pity. Noob knew the kitchen didn’t hold much besides Elliot’s pizzas. They couldn’t tell Rice that. They could only fold the note back, set the sketchpad on their knees, and smooth the page flat as if that small cartoon wave could anchor them to whatever plan was forming.

They waited.

Minutes stretched. The lantern on the desk flickered once, and then twice. They hear the sounds from down the hall—muffled voices. Noob kept touching the page, reading the hurried handwriting again and again, trying to memorize the cadence of the letters.

When the silence grew heavy enough to press against their ears, Noob closed the sketchpad and rested their palm on top.

They had to trust that the sketchpad and the note were enough to prove it wasn’t just a dream. 

And they waited again.

The room was dark. 

Rice’s phone glow cut a pale crescent across the crumpled sheets of the top bunk. A sharp buzz jolted them out of sleep.

They blinked. The time read 2:04 AM. Rice realized that the time does go faster in that world than in real time, since Rice goes there around midnight.

“Ugh…” they muttered, rubbing at their eyes and swinging their legs over the side of the bed. The air was cold, summer be damned. 

They yawned and sat up slowly, phone still clutched in hand, its screen still on the Roblox app but open to that same weird admin interface they'd used to enter the realm. No notifications nor messages showed but there was a button to return which was still glowing faintly, waiting patiently for Rice to go back. They stretched their body.

“Alright alright…” Rice took a breath, then moved quietly, careful not to rattle the frame as they swung their legs over the side of the bunk bed. Their little room was dark. Too dark to risk using the ceiling light. Their fingers found the metal ladder and they began to climb down, bare feet ghosting silently against each rung.

Below, their backpack lay on the floor, half-filled with scratch paper, some notebook, and a few emergency pens. They grabbed a clean notebook and a pen, and tiptoed toward the door.

The door creaked softly through the hallway and Rice winced. Please don’t wake anyone up…

The house is quiet. There are no sounds, just the gentle hum of a fan and the soft breathing of their family in their rooms. They were all still sound asleep.

Down the hall, their mother’s door was shut. The soft rumble of the AC masked their movements as they made their way to the kitchen. Their feet got cold from getting contact with the tiles, but Rice wasn't bothered by it. They relied on their memory of the house as they got into the kitchen. 

The kitchen was dim, it would be too bright if Rice turned the lights on, so they didn’t. Instead, they opened up the fridge, letting it lit with its pale yellow light. Their eyes swept the shelves—leftover rice, eggs, soy sauce, and… nope. Not enough stuff. The kitchen stack was mostly bare. It doesn’t compare to the one in Forsaken because that one is the worst.

They opened up the phone’s flashlight to navigate aka rummage through the cabinets.

Nothing.  

“Of course we’re out,” they whispered, frowning. All the ingredients they needed weren’t here. Their hand tightened slightly around the cabinet handle before they let out a quiet breath. No point in being overwhelmed over it.

They pulled out the notebook they got, slapped it onto the counter, opening up the phone’s flashlight and started jotting down a list with tiny, cramped handwriting.

• Fish (fresh or canned i guess)
• Bread (actual soft kind pls god not those things those survs had to eat on)
• Soup base ingredients or something…
• Oil maybe?
• Herbs and seasonings
• Something sour?? Tamarind?? Vinegar maybe???
• Snacks or sweets for morale lols

They paused mid-scribble. “Should I throw in utensils too…?” Rice thought out loud before they sighed, tearing off the paper, and folded it into a square. Their brain was sluggish, but they weren't going to return empty-handed. Not after that brick of a bread loaf that now haunted their dreams.

By the time they went back to their room, they crept up the ladder again, settled under the covers, they already had the plan formed. They pulled their phone back into view. The interface was still there—like it never left. Their fingers hovered over the button.

"...Let’s get this done."

They tapped a button and the light fractured. Their phone blinked. Their body slumped back against the pillow—empty, asleep—while their mind plummeted back into the data-threaded void.

In the real world, only seven minutes had passed. But in Forsaken, it stretched into what felt like hours.

When Rice slipped back into Noob’s body, it wasn’t instant—it was like slipping on a familiar oversized hoodie. The Lobby lights felt dimmer as its silence became deeper.

Noob was already at the door, hand on the knob. They had waited after Rice for a long time until patience ran out, until they were about to leave.

The sight made Rice pause. Noob had waited. Right up until the very last second. A warmth bloomed in Rice’s chest. “Thanks,” they murmured under their breath.

Noob’s hand stopped turning the knob. They took one last glance at the door, swung it open, then went toward the kitchen with a steady pace.

Inside, Rice made sure the area was still empty, looking left and right, before pulling up the GUI. It shimmered into view with a soft flicker, faint glass panes hovering like an afterimage burned into sight. Their fingers traced through the invisible panel as it glinted to their eyes.

“Sorry about that, should I start?”

They keyed in the list from the note they had made like doing a copy and paste in a computer through the [SUMMON] menu. Not just the basics but actual edible things, actual soft bread and with real ingredients. Soft breads, bagels, canned fish, tamarind paste, lemons, even a handful of chocolates, chocolate-covered crackers, and sour candies. Utensil, too—bowls, plates, spoon and fork. Real stuff.

The items packed themselves neatly into a wooden crate. Rice jotted a quick note of contents inside in crisp handwriting, then tied a tag onto the lid.

[From Ende]

With a final confirmation, the air above the lobby shimmered, then—whump—a crate appeared and landed solidly on the floor.

And Rice, still not moving on from the weird feeling of warping between worlds, leaned against the counter for just a second longer. They steadied their body. The world felt wrong to them. Their stomach twisted oddly, not sure which hunger belonged to which world. But they had done it.

They weren’t going to eat bricks for breakfast today.

The crate landed with a heavy thud in the center of the Lobby.

"...Did anyone else hear that?" Chance called out, flipping his coin as he strolled in.

“It came from the main area,” Elliot said, emerging from his room near the kitchen. “Or the kitchen.”

“It sure sounds heavy,” Shedletsky muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Don't tell me It finally learned how to give us supplies."

The noise had stirred everyone's curiosity. Survivors trickled in one by one until they were gathered around the mysterious crate.

Chance, of course, was the first to act. He marched up, pried the lid open with a loud creak, startling the swordsman in the process.

“HOLD ON! It might be a trap—” Shedletsky barked, already picturing Chance’s fiery doom. Dusekkar is about to cast a shield around the gambler like the crate might explode like one of Taph's tripmines.

But nothing happened. The crate sat harmlessly in the center of the room. 

Chance leaned in, eyes going wide. “...Woah. No way.” He pulled out a loaf of soft white bread, squeezing it carefully. “Soft bread? Like—actual soft bread? Not those rock-hard bread we've been chewing everyday? This is… actually soft!”

Before anyone could stop him, he took a massive bite without thinking that it might have secretly spiked with poison. His eyes lit up. “Okay, this might just save my life.”

“You mean our lives.” Shedletsky corrected sharply.

“...Shed, stop being such a big back.” Chance mumbled around a mouthful. Even he knew how greedy Shedletsky could get.

Shedletsky heard it and smiled.

“What did you just said to me, you little—”

“Don't start.” Guest 1337 interrupted him before a fight could break out. The responsible one, as always.

Two Time picked up the jar of tamarind paste, sniffing it suspiciously. Their nose wrinkled, face scrunching in confusion. “What is this? Medicine?” They glanced toward Noob—Rice, who was watching quietly from the back, only shrugged.

“Please,” Elliot said dryly, plucking up a lemon, “Let’s keep you far away from anything sharp or flammable.”

Chance laughed. “Bet Two Time thinks vinegar is hand sanitizer."

“You are not helping.” Elliot muttered, untying the note from the crate, reading its contents.

“OH COME ON, THAT WAS JUST ONE TIME!” Chance whined.

“That ‘one time’ was that one kitchen incident.” Elliot replied flatly.

Taph poked a bagel like it might bite back, then signed, “This bread is weird.”

Guest 1337 carried the whole crate into the kitchen, the others trailing behind.

Builderman stepped forward, voice low. “Did anyone send this?”

“Besides the note…” Guest 1337 answers, trying to search through the crate after moving it. He then saw the tag tied to the lid and flipped it. 

“‘From Ende’.”

Before Builderman could say anything, Shedletsky interrupted with a snort, “Huh. Weird name. What kind of name is that?”

Dusekkar’s eyes lingered on the tag. "Ende," he said quietly. He then spoke out again, but now with a soft and deliberate tone.

“A gift, a shift, or maybe a key. An end that bends into what’s to be.”

“...That’s even more confusing,” Chance muttered, scratching his head.

Beside the pumpkin admin, 007n7 let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Maybe someone’s watching out for us. Maybe things are finally looking up.”

Rice picked up a pouch of salt and a packet of sour candies, turning them over before setting them down. They stayed quiet, just watching as the group circled the supplies.

Taph passed a stack of plates to Elliot, who set them on the counter.

“...Or maybe it’s a bug,” Shedletsky suggested, shoving a chocolate cracker into his mouth.

Elliot smacked it out of his hand. “No stealing. We're going to cook first.”

“WERE GONNA COOK??? LETS GO GANG!!” Chance whooped, and was about to rush to grab some until Elliot stopped him. 

“OH COME ON—”

“No means no.” Elliot didn’t even blink. “I’m not sugarcoating it.”

“Aw, shucks…” Shedletsky groaned.

Elliot’s glare cut to him. “…What.”

“You are helping, whether you like it or not,” Elliot said firmly.

Shedletsky sighed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll make an exception. Been a while since we had a real meal. Might as well use my special recipe.”

Elliot blinked. “...You can cook?”

“You expect me to beg It for cooked chicken?”

Rice hesitated, then piped up. “U-um… Elliot, c-can I help?”

Elliot’s expression softened. “Sure. You should start by chopping a few lemons for me, yeah?”

Rice nodded quickly, clutching one of the fruits. For once, they felt like they weren't just watching from the sidelines.

Thirty minutes later, the kitchen had never smelled like this before.

Steam billowed gently from the pot Elliot hovered over, brows furrowed as he stirred with the concentration of a man diffusing a bomb. Slices of lemon drifted across the gently simmering fish, garlic oil sizzling just beneath the surface. The tamarind paste melted into the broth like a secret being told. The half-emptied crate sat off to the side, waiting in case they needed more ingredients.

“I swear, if anyone touches this without washing their hands first, I’ll personally set the next killer on them,” Elliot muttered.

“Relax,” Chance said, arms crossed smugly at his back. “I’m your best sous-chef.”

“Can you please get out… you're banned in the kitchen.” Elliot snapped.

Chance put on his most tragic pleading face while already reaching for the can opener.

On the other side of the kitchen, Rice stood near the rice cooker, carefully scooping out freshly steamed white rice into a bowl. It was the only task they trusted themselves with. They paused, eyes flicking between the others as they waited for another assignment.

“Hey, uh… Noob,” Elliot called without looking. “Come here. Stir this with this spoon gently.”

Rice nodded too quickly. “Got it.”

They slid over to the soup pot with awkwardness, holding a long-handled spoon like it was a beloved item and stirred.

Across the table, Guest 1337 sat upright, hands resting firmly on his knees. He hadn’t spoken much, but when the steam reached him—tamarind, garlic, and warm bread—his breath caught in his throat.

“…My wife used to make something like this,” he murmured, more to himself. “Back when we were still all together. Back before…”

No one interrupted him. Taph quietly placed a bowl of bread beside him and gave his shoulder a grounding squeeze. 

On the far end, Two Time picked up a spoon and yelped, dropping it instantly.

“Why in The Spawn is it hot?!” they hissed, shaking their hand.

“It was in boiling water,” Shedletsky deadpanned, flipping a chicken thigh in a pan he’d commandeered. “Amazing how science works.”

“I do not need a lecture from an unreliable swordsman who misses half his swings!”

“Ouch. Rude.” Shedletsky replied, “It’s not my fault killers kept dodgi—”

“You literally set fire to the microwave yesterday,” Elliot cut in.

“I only followed what The Spawn told me!” Two Time argued, indignant. “It said metal cups were holy—”

“Out. Go sit with Chance.”

Two Time sulked, muttering about “celestial flames,” and plopped into the corner, their gaze locked on the vinegar bottle like it owed them something important. Speaking of Chance—

“Yes… Let me cook…”

Chance was secretly making a side dish, without anyone's permission. It looked like… some kind of mashed bread soaked in lemon juice and instant coffee.

Taph took one look and snatched it away from the hands of the gambler.

“HEY! That's my luck's delight sourbread pudding!”

They signed, with exaggerated slowness.

“No.”

Shedletsky, undeterred by past scoldings, attempted to steal a handful of garlic oil to drizzle over his chicken, only for Elliot to smack his hand with the back of a spoon.

“I saw that.”

“It's for the greater good,” Shedletsky grumbled, “This chicken's dry as hell.”

“You dry as hell.”

Eventually, though, he gave in and cooked properly, working on crispy skin and layering flavors with actual effort. And when no one was looking, he even helped Chance properly toast some bread despite Chance being banned.

Near the very back, 007n7 stood with his arms crossed, close enough to smell the food but far enough to stay detached. Rice noticed his eyes flick to the pot, then the bowls, then away.

“M-mister…” Rice called softly, offering a spoon. “Do you w-want to… taste-test the broth?”

He hesitated then stepped forward. He took a sip, then paused. Then quietly, he picked up a second spoon and adjusted the heat by just a nudge. 007n7 added a pinch of salt from the counter and nodded once to Elliot, who blinked in surprise and said nothing.

By the end of it, the survivors gathered in the kitchen, sitting whenever they wanted—chairs, counters, benches, even the floor. Bowls of steaming sour fish soup passed hand to hand, with bread rolls shared, sweets also handed out like trophies, and coffee warmed over the remaining heat.

This is the moment where everyone gets together.

And the food? Didn't taste like bricks at all.

Some time has passed. The clatter of bowls, laughter, and bits of chaos mellowed slightly as Rice stepped away from the group, lingering near the hallway outside the kitchen, bowl in their hands, steam curling up into their face. The soup was hot, tangy, and sharp on the tongue—laced with the faint bitterness of tamarind, and comfortably briny.

It was good. Like… actually good even if the flavor they liked wasn't there.

Something gentle curled in their chest.

“This is my favorite,” they murmured to no one. “Didn't think I'd ever taste it here.” 

Behind them, the others laughed louder. 

Everyone's there. Everyone but Noob and it wasn't right for Rice to be here where everyone is celebrating.

Rice stared down at the half-finished bowl for a moment, and sat it gently on a counter.

“...Hey,” they murmured, pulling up the GUI.

“You take over now.”

They didn't wait and tapped [LOG OUT] with trembling fingers.

And then—black. 

Noob blinked.

The soup was still warm beside them. They hadn't even noticed going back in their own body nor Rice disappearing—they hadn't felt them go.

But they were gone for real this time.

They lifted the half-full bowl, steam curling against their cheek like an old friend’s touch. It smelled like something you’d call comfort.

Noob smiled faintly, then padded over to sit with the others. Chance was in the middle of ranting about something.

“If Taph had just let me finish my masterpiece, someone would’ve cried from joy—”

Taph dipped their bread into her soup without sparing him a glance.

“I dunno what you meant by that,” Shedletsky said, mouth full of chicken, “but yeah—someone would’ve cried. From diarrhea.”

Guest 1337 actually laughed—laughed—at something Two Time muttered, which turned out to be a confusing comparison between garlic and sacrificial rituals.

“No, no, the cloves are separate, you don't crush ‘em unless—oh my Roblox,” Builderman groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me you didn’t actually offer raw garlic to the microwave…”

“It was a holy offering,” Two Time declared solemnly. “To cleanse the demon within.”

“That explains why the microwave reeks of garlic, and why half of it was shoved inside and almost charred when I checked it earlier,” Elliot muttered,  picking out lemon seeds out of the chicken.

In the corner, Dusekkar swirled his soup thoughtfully while watching the crowd.

“The kitchen, a storm, both chaos and flavor, yet in this stew, we find bonds to savor.”

Shedletsky squinted at him. “Are you rhyming again? Because if you start reciting poetry, I swear I’m taking my soup and go home.”

“You are home,” Chance pointed out. “If home had a haunted stove and matches everyday.”

“...Touché.”

Noob giggled softly at the exchange.

“Guys,” they said, almost shyly, “...t-thank you. For the food.”

The others turned to look at them. Chance grinned and raised a bread roll like a toast. “Hell yeah, bucko. Eat up before Taph steals your bread.”

Taph signed with mock innocence, now eating the sweet treats. “I already did.”

Dusekkar gave a spare to Noob, as if expecting that Taph would steal. Noob accepted it with a quiet thanks.

Shedletsky slurped his broth, then admitted, “Okay. Who made this? It’s actually not bad.”

“A l-lot of people,” Noob said. “Mostly Elliot. I… just helped finish it.”

“Then good job,” Shedletsky said, almost sincerely. “Best meal we’ve had, not counting the Kitchen Incident.” He shot a side-eye at Chance.

“Wow.” Chance muttered.

007n7 didn't say anything—but he nudged a dish a little closer to Noob. It tasted suspiciously better than the last version Elliot had touched. Noob only nodded in return.

At the same time, Taph filched a chocolate-covered cracker straight from Builderman’s plate. The admin looked betrayed as the demolitionist signed innocently, “Finder’s keepers.”

The dinner continued chaotically yet peacefully.

The table cleared slowly. Elliot whistled a half-tune as he stacked bowls with a steady rhythm.

“Come on, Noob. You're helping me with these new stuff.”

Noob nodded. Elliot rolled up his sleeves and handed them a towel.

“Dry these,” he said, stacking bowls beside the sink. “And don't chip anything or I'm blaming you in the next match.”

Noob chuckled, catching a slippery plate. For a few moments they worked in companionable silence, broken only by the drip of water and the clink of spoons.

“...Sooo,” Elliot drawled. “Something weird’s been going on lately, huh.”

Noob asked. “Like what?”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe the magical-timed crate drop from the heaven? Or the fact that people are actually talking to each other? Or us eating together like civilized robloxians?” Elliot leaned closer, voice dropping like a co-conspirator. “Not accusing you, just saying… if I had to guess, we’ve got a secret guardian angel.”

Noob stared. Elliot flicked suds off his fingers and added, “Builderman thinks it's one of the new admins. Pumpkin guy's convinced that it will help us to escape. The tag said ‘Ende’—whoever it is, they’ve got good taste in comfort food.”

“...Speaking of weird, I feel like you're acting odd too.”

Noob tensed, and Elliot didn’t miss it. “I mean—you’re quiet as usual, but then you’re weirdly good at dodging, and now you're the rice-cooking messiah? Spill.”

“Messiah?” Noob repeated, baffled.

“When you cooked that rice—” Elliot said.

“I—It was just a coincidence,” Noob stammered, avoiding his eyes. “I measured it. You know….”

“Hm.” Elliot squinted. Noob sweatdrops at that. Then Elliot grinned. “You must be lying. But it's fine. I love a good mystery.”

He almost made Noob drop a plate with that look.

“Okay,” Elliot laughed. “But seriously—keep doing whatever you’re doing. You’re kinda killing it lately… not in the Killer way, of course.” He handed over a washed pot, then leaned on the counter dramatically. “Anyway, now that everything's done, want some tea?”

Noob nodded, curious of what Elliot will bring.

“Okay, okay. First—Chance is banned from the kitchen, you weren't there at that time but did you know it's because he once tried to make ‘Luck Stew’ and it exploded?” 

“Exploded?” Noob echoed.

“Yup. It had coin shavings in it. Coin shavings, Noob.How he got the rest of the ingredients, I’ll never know.” Elliot shook his head.

Noob nearly dropped the pot.

“And apparently Two Time once tried to boil water by lighting the sink on fire. I don't even know how they pulled that off. Guest screamed when that happened.”

“...Wow.”

Elliot grinned. “Also, Taph's been hiding sweets from us. I know it because I caught them hiding in the closet eating some sweets just now.”

Noob nodded, half-laughing. “That’s… actually believable.”

Elliot clapped them on the shoulder. “You’re more competent than half of them. And hey—thanks for helping me with this one.”

Noob nodded again, grateful yet feeling shy about the compliment.

After everyone else had filtered off to their rooms—tired, full, maybe even a little content, Noob lay on their bed. The sketchpad rested on their lap. The opened page was still blank.

They hesitated, then finally began to write.

—

Hey

You're gone now, for real this time huh?

I miss you already, even if it was only for a bit.

I just wanted to say… thank you. For the win. For the soup. For everything.

Everyone actually got along—Two Time included. That’s a miracle. 

I don’t know why you came or what you’re doing out there, but I’m really glad you did.

If you ever come back, I’ll try to make this soup again. I promise.

Rest well, Rice.

—Noob

—

Noob closed the sketchpad and hugged it to their chest, staring at the ceiling until the dark felt familiar.

They'll then wait for Rice to come back again…

Later, as the group debated who would cook this time, Chance insisted on flipping a coin, Two Time tried to boil butter, and Elliot had to rescue a pan from catching fire.

Dusekkar drifted toward the crate. His fingers brushed the hinge, eyes lingering on the small tag.

[From Ende]

He murmured, to no one in particular—

“Only shadows know, where the hidden currents go.” 

Chapter Text

hello!!

today, we're getting two sneakpeeks but different parts

the first parts is for next chapter that ill posting soon and the other is for something else

[Like a rubber band snapping, Noob’s soul jolted free. It was like being shoved out of their own chair and forced to watch someone else sit in it. Just like last time: the sudden lurch, the split, and then watching their own body move without them. Their vision hovered, detached over their own shoulder while the ghost—Rice flexed their fingers and adjusted their stance.]

[“Wait—Already?” Noob’s voice echoed faint and thin, a spectator's commentary no one could hear. Shock hummed beneath their presence, but also expectation.]

_____

“BAHAHA! Did you just—█?!”

1x1x1x1 slammed their hands on the ground, shadows cracking around her. “You think this is funny, Shedletsky?!”

“Oh, I know it’s funny,” he barked, ducking behind a rock. “You, the manifestation of hatred, got ███ █ ███.”

Builderman groaned nearby, crouched by a generator. “You’re just making them angrier.”

The swordsman wiped tears from his eyes. “Worth it.”

As if on cue, 1x1x1x1 stormed after them again—only for ███ ██ to █.

_____

“The Spawn have blessed us with a good round today. Praise to Spawn!” Two Time did a praying pose like praying for the food.

“Yeah sure, praise The Spawn, good uhh they.” Chance’s voice came from the loft.

_____

Rice flopped backward into bed, dragging another pillow to their chest. “Uh, let’s see…” They raised a finger. “One: I saw a demon morph into Taph wannabe in front of me. Two: I’m apparently a ghost hitchhiker now. And three: ███. Lots of █ ██. So yeah. Good and bad. Mostly weird. I didn’t sign up for that.”

“That last part,” he said, almost gently, “was amusing to watch.”

Rice squinted at him.

I stumbled into the kitchen, spotted a gen in the corner, and dropped to my knees like it was a hot slice fresh out of the oven.

Items down. Hands up. Let’s do this.

I reached for a wire when—

I heard something weird, approaching me.

Jason’s already here?!

I snapped upright so fast I almost gave myself whiplash, pulse already sprinting down the hall without me. 

But instead of a chainsaw, I was met with…

_____

“Hey,” I muttered, trying not to sound awkward. “You good?”

They jumped like I’d just thrown a grenade at them. “Uh—yeah. I’m fine!” They tried a smile but didn’t reach their eyes.

“…Okay,” I said slowly, because I didn’t buy it for a second.

_____

Hours blurred after that.

I don’t remember falling asleep but I remembered I heard the sound of Chance yelling somewhere in the distance. But when I woke up, the place was quiet again.

I leaned back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. 

I tried to focus on anything else. My shelves. My own posters. My stupid unfinished crossword on the desk. 

But then—I heard a heavy thud from outside.

“…Huh?” I mumbled, dragging myself out of bed, feeling a bit curious.