Chapter Text
Run. Assist. Survive.
That’s all they’ve done since all of them ended up in this god forsaken purgatory, the constant loop of the rounds bringing exhaustion upon the survivors. No one seems to know who or what brought them here, however, they know there’s no way to escape this hell.
In the lobby, a few survivors were spending their limited time either strategizing or interacting with each other, with the exception of one former admin. Shedletsky sat on the couch, fiddling with the handle of his sword out of pure boredom, the mask of confidence plastered on his face stuck on like worn-out glue.
Ever since Shedletsky ended up here, he’s been getting these faint headaches that increase after every round. He obviously hasn’t told anyone about it being his stubborn self, too arrogant to even admit that these headaches were actually affecting him.
The first time he got one was during a round with that red kid, the former hacker's son, 007n7 was it? Well from what he remembered, he almost felt like he was in a trance, the edges of his vision black like some sort of framed picture that was being projected by his eyes.
Next thing he knew he was dead by those dumbass pizza delivery clones, so much for keeping his pride huh? Not like he’d let that affect him.
Though the aches started to really get to him later on, he was missing his slashes more often than he usually would be as well as him dying every time he was left in last man standing, he usually won those when his creation wasn’t the round's killer.
One specific admin that noticed his recent displays was Builderman, one of his best friends and the one that created Roblox alongside him. He wanted to know why Shedletsky wasn’t up to speed as well as what was going on with him.
Walking down the steps of the upstairs part of the cabin, Builderman stopped on the middle step, looking over at Shedletsky worriedly.
“‘Ey there Shed, have ya been doin’ alright? Ya seem to be performing pretty rough out ‘dere lately.” Shedletsky perked up at his voice, letting out a frustrated mental groan.
Rubbing at his temples, Shedletsky sat up from his slouched position on the couch slightly, turning his head over to Builderman. “I’m fine, Builds. Just..tired as hell.” He squinted his eyes for a moment, noticing that the headache had just completely disappeared.
The former admin obviously knew that he wouldn’t buy his lie but now Shedletsky was left confused himself, that’s not how normal headaches go away, he knew that from the stress he had from being an admin. Shivering at the thought of his past just made him shrug it off, maybe it was just him thinking too much.
“Well if ya say so, bud. I’ll be helpin’ the others out with coming up with a plan fer the next round.” After waving Builderman off he watched as he stepped back up the wooden stairs, every creak torturing his head. “Yeah, yeah,” Shedletsky grumbled in reply, looking at the timer as it ticked down painfully slowly.
As Shedletsky sat on the worn-out couch, he couldn’t shake the feeling of discomfort that lingered in his chest. The pain felt like a heavy weight, threatening to pull him beneath the surface of his thoughts.
He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to entertain the faint glimmer of hope—that perhaps, with time, this ache would subside. Maybe the next round would bring something different, a shift in fortune he desperately craved.
With that thought in mind, he let out a long, weary sigh, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease just slightly. Gathering his strength, he took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool air around him, and slowly pushed himself up from the couch.
As he stood, the familiar creaks of the furniture echoed in the stillness of the room, reminding him of the countless hours he had spent there, wrestling with his emotions.
Making his way over to his room and shutting the door, the rusty lock clicked on as he turned the knob, not even taking the time to chat with the other survivors.
He collapsed onto his bed with a weary sigh, the soft thud of his body against the mattress barely breaking the stillness of the room. His wings unfurled dramatically, feathers fanning out in a chaotic yet graceful display, a testament to his weariness.
Each plume appeared slightly ruffled, glinting softly in the dim light; they whispered of long hours spent navigating the day's challenges.
Shedletsky was engulfed in fatigue, the weight of his exhaustion pulling him deeper into the welcoming embrace of sleep, where the world's worries faded away, and dreams began to weave their gentle tapestry around him.
A gentle rapping at the weathered door pulled Mr. Shedletsky from the depths of his restless slumber. As he slowly stirred in the well-worn bed, the familiar creaks of the old frame whispered through the room.
He blinked several times, his dark eyes struggling to focus as he pushed himself up against the lumpy pillows.
“Mr. Shedletsky? It’s Elliot. Supper is ready whenever you feel like joining us,” came the voice from the other side, warm yet insistent. Elliot, ever the caretaker, always took it upon himself to serve meals to the others, even if the menu rarely strayed from the realm of greasy pizza.
Shedletsky sighed, knowing that the sameness of the meals was better than going hungry, but it didn’t make them any more appealing.
Rubbing his eye with the back of his hand, Shedletsky felt the familiar throb of a headache making its unwelcome return, dull but persistent. “I’m not hungry...” he muttered, the words slipping out in a hushed whisper as he sank back into the pillows, willing the ache to fade away.
On the other side of the solid oak door, Elliot lingered, his brow furrowed in concern as he absorbed the weight of his words. The faint rumbling of his stomach served as a constant reminder of his insatiable appetite, a testament to his gluttonous nature.
He took a moment to gather his thoughts, mentally conceding to the reality that the obstinate man behind the door wouldn’t be swayed by his pleas. "Well, it’s out here if you change your mind," he called out, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and resigned hope.
With a heavy sigh, Elliot turned away from the door and stepped back into the dimly lit main room. He couldn’t shake the unease settling in his chest, and he cast one last anxious glance over his shoulder at Shedletsky’s door, his expression clouded with worry.
The silence that lingered in the air felt oppressive, amplifying his concern for the stubborn individual inside.
Elliot ambled back into the bustling main room, a furrow of concern etched across his brow. He glanced around, assessing the atmosphere filled with laughter and chatter, before raising his voice slightly to catch everyone’s attention.
“Has anyone else noticed that Shedletsky seems a bit… off lately?” His tone was a mix of curiosity and worry, cutting through the noise as he looked at his friends.
At that moment, Chance perked up from his seat, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Maybe he’s just sulking,” he responded, a smirk dancing on his lips. “Did you see how many slashes he missed during the last game? Like, come on!” He burst into a loud, boisterous laugh, the sound echoing in the room and drawing a few amused glances from nearby survivors.
Builderman, sitting nearby with his arms crossed, shot Chance an unamused expression, eyebrows raised in disbelief. He clearly wasn’t taking the gambler’s antics seriously, his focus shifting back to the ongoing game.
The contrast between Chance’s light-heartedness and Elliot’s concern painted a vivid picture of the tension hanging in the air.
“Chance, I’m not joking around here. I really mean it… I can’t shake the feeling that Shedletsky has been behaving strangely lately.” Elliot insisted, his voice steady yet laced with urgency. He glanced around the room, his eyes darting from one face to another, searching for any sign of agreement or shared concern.
The atmosphere felt thick with tension, and he hoped someone else would voice what he feared – that there was something unsettling about Shedletsky’s recent actions.
Builderman raised his voice above the murmurs of the group, clearly intent on shedding light on the matter at hand. “I’ve been keeping an eye on Shed, and I can tell you he’s been acting strangely for a while now,” he began, his tone serious.
“Just earlier today, I had a conversation with him, and he looked really off—like something was gnawing at him from the inside. It’s honestly concerning. I’ve never seen him miss as many slashes as he has lately. He’s usually so precise and focused. It’s like he’s lost his edge,” he added, glancing around at the gathering of weary survivors.
His words caught the attention of nearly everyone present, drawing them into the unsettling reality of Shedletsky’s recent decline.
He was definitely not okay.