You can refer to me as Mel, Melercies, or anything that you're comfortable with calling me by. I go by any pronouns. :]
â§ What am I currently writing for?
As of right now, I'm only writing Forsaken, specifically the survivors, until I manage to understand and try my best to write for the killers, killers will be hold off. I have been contemplating writing for Block Tales in the future. My writing will consist of x readers (Gender-Neutral), SFW content, headcanons, oneshots, drabbles, and scenarios. This is only a small fun hobby of mine that I will do when I have the motivation to do so.
â§ Am I taking requests at the moment?
Unfortunately, no. I have thought about it, and I'm sure that requests will eventually come to this blog, allowing everyone to request freely (with more direct rules that will be added for what I write and don't). I will announce when they will open once I'm in a more comfortable setting.
My ask box is currently open for any rants/comments/headcanons/ideas you'd like to share as of right now!
â§ Small Note About My Writing...
I do sincerely apologize as English is not my first language. My writing takes time since I like to edit, revise, and reread my writing to make sure that characters aren't mischaracterized and are interpreted well for my audience. Comments are always highly appreciated to help me for future purposes when it comes to writing/interpreting characters. Please do not hesitate to ask/comment.
One last thing I like to clarify, I am someone who is against the idea of using/feeding AI to improve or write for me, which includes chatbots. Yes, I do acknowledge that I have the usage of using em dashes, but I can assure you that I prefer using em dashes (which I usually google online for them to copy and paste) to make my writing more appealing than the simple "-". I find it more appealing when it comes to a cut-off of a scene or a character being cut off in dialogue. All my writing is always written in a Google Document that gets edited, revised, and reread before it gets finalized and posted.
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Author's Note: Please let me know if I mischaracterized anyone. WHEN I TELL YOU THAT I WENT ON BOTH OF THEIR WIKIS AND TRIED TO WRITE MY BEST FOR THEM. OUT OF ALL THE CHARACTERS, I STRUGGLED WITH THESE TWO. Likes, reposts, and comments are highly appreciated! <3
For some unknown reason, after a brutal round, you find yourself standing in front of your cabin. Gone and demolished for what reason? You donât know, and frankly, I donât either, but here we are! Thanks a lot, Spectre. All that was left was the pathetic remains of the foundation, some twisted wood still crackling with dying embers. Just great. Youâre utterly exhausted, drained physically and mentally, as you wonder where youâre going to sleep. Out in the cold? Absolutely not, especially not with the repetitive cycle of hell that you have to go through daily. At least at the end of the day, you need to find yourself in comfort. So, with really no other option, you turn and walk yourself over to a fellow neighborâs cabin. Sure, it was embarrassing, but itâs better than sleeping outside in the cold.Â
You couldnât care less as to who you were knocking, feeling too tired to even think properly. You just needed a place that isnât destroyed to get some sleep, especially for tomorrow. It takes a moment or two until the door opens, revealing the individual.
Noob:
Youâre freezing. The state of your cabin? Gone. Absolutely flattened and splintered, smoke still coiling off the remains, and the smell was already a nuisance to your senses, it was almost as if Spectre left a personal signature just for you. There goes the only place of comfort that you had in this forsaken place. All that was left behind was a melted door hinge and a trail of blackened crumbs.
Youâre too tired to mourn it properly. Instead, you drag your feet through the dark toward the only cabin with light still insideâsoft, flickering orange, and aliveâa warm glow behind thick, grimy windowsâa complete contrast to your breath that fogs the air and the night chill that bites deep. You donât want to be a bother, but your feet start wandering anyway towards the closest place that brings shelter.
The cabin itself was wonky from the outside. The roof leans. The doorknob looks like a spoon, but itâs still standing, somehow.Â
You knock gently. Thereâs a sudden scuffle, then something thuds behind the doorâ like someone tripped over their own feet. A second later, the door creaks open, just ajar as the individual peeks out.
Itâs Noob. They stand there â small, blocky, nervous. Their bright green legs shuffle awkwardly, and their big, round eyes widen with concern.
âHâHelloâŚ?â They blink at the sight of your figure, the tired expression that was written across your face like you just babysat 15 kids all at once.Â
You speak plainly. Youâre exhausted. âSpectre destroyed my cabin.â
Noob gaspsâhand flying up to their face. âOh no!! Thatâsâ Thatâsâ thatâs awful!! Oh gosh, uhâ wait, wait, come in, come in!!â
They scurry backward, stepping over snack wrappers and a pillow fort half-collapsed in the corner. You step inside, taking in the interior. The cabin is cozy in its own disorganized way â snack wrappers, cans of Bloxy Colas, and a lopsided picture frame showing a drawing of all the survivors. Thereâs a desk nearby where a couple of papers are scattered, scribbled words on each one that seem to resemble a letter to someone, but were never delivered. How curious.Â
Oh, and how can I forget? Thereâs only one bed, of courseâa nest of blankets, some mismatched pillows, and a couple of plushies here and there.
You donât even need to ask as Noob is already flapping their arms nervously.
âOhh no. Oh no. I only have one bed. Itâsâitâs okay though!! I-I can take the floor! Or⌠or the window ledge! I-Iâve done it before, i-itâs not so badâ!â
âNoob.â
They freeze mid-flail.
âWe can share,â you say, deadpan. âYouâre not sleeping on the ground. Let alone, in your own cabin. Itâs not like Iâm gonna kick you off your bed.â
They freeze like you just suggested a boss fight. ââŚR-Really?â
You nod again, already sliding your shoes off. âReally. Just no crumbs in the bed.â
They give a tiny, sheepish laugh as his cheeks flush just subtly. âHeh⌠no promises.â
They practically dive under the covers first and glue themselves to the far side, making a perfect 2-inch margin between you like a polite wall. They donât make eye contact as you lie back under the soft pile of blankets. You feel Noob stiffly lie beside you â completely still at first, like theyâre scared to move or breathe.Â
Thereâs a long silence, their small, warm presence curling up like a puppy trying not to be a bother. But eventually, they turn and whisper:
âUhm⌠Iâm g-glad youâre okay.â
You glance sideways. Noobâs already clutching a plushie shaped like a slice of pizza, eyes blinking slowly as sleep takes hold.
ââŚMe too,â you mutter, finally letting the comfort of warmth and safety wash over you.
You fall asleep to the sound of a small bag of chips being opened quietly under the covers.
007n7:
Spectre burned your home to cinders.
You donât even flinch anymore at the sight of your destroyed cabin â the cracked remnants and Spectre-burned beams just another casualty in the daily hell loop. The embers still glow in your memory, warmth replaced by numb wind on your neck. The fire didnât take you, but it took everything else.
Your legs are jelly, lungs sore from sprinting, and your brain too fried to feel embarrassed. You need sleep. Somewhere.
Your knuckles rap against the nearest cabin door, barely conscious of whose cabin it is. The cold nips at your skin, your breath fogging in the night air as you stand and wait. You turn to glance at your cabin, where it once stood. Still smoking. Still hot to the touch. Spectre mustâve been feeling theatrical tonight.
Youâre done. Physically drained. Mentally fogged. Your body wants sleep more than it wants food or clarity or answers. You turn back your attention to the solid surface of the cabin door.
Nothing. No answer.Â
Youâre about to turn and leave to find someone else when the door swings open with a startled, mechanical squeak.
Youâre met with the familiar sight of a nervous, slightly wide-eyed man wearing a Burger Bob hat thatâs just somewhat crooked from panic. His shirtâs got a Thomas the Tank Engine edit across it, and you swear his pupils dilate a little when he sees your tired state.Â
007n7.Â
Itâs clear that heâs concerned as he scans your face.
âOhâ uhâ whoa,â he stammers, voice soft and strained. âYouâyou okay? You donât lookâ I meanâ you look tired. Real tired.â
You gesture vaguely behind you. âCabin. Gone. Thanks to Spectre.â
His brow furrows, and his whole posture folds in guilt, like itâs somehow his fault. âAh⌠I know that feeling.â
You just nod absentmindedly.
He hesitates for a beat before stepping aside and opening the door wider. âYou, uh⌠You need a place to crash?â
You nod again, silent. He gestures for you to come inside.
âCome in.â
The inside of his cabin is⌠surprisingly clean and simplistic. A map of the area is pinned to the wall, worn furniture, a few random posters, a desk covered in little sticky notes, scrawled teleport coordinates, old printouts, and scraps of code in faded ink. Some tools lay strewn on a nearby bench, and a worn photo of him and his son, c00lkidd, rested on a nightstand.
Oh, yeahâŚThereâs only one bed. A thin mattress thatâs seen better days. Two pillows, one clearly newer than the other, and a blanket folded neatly over it. You both notice it at the same time as you both stare.
ââŚIâll take the floor,â he offers quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.
âYou donât have to,â you say. âItâs cold out, and besides, the ground will probably hurt your back. Weâve been through worse. Iâm not gonna let you sleep on the floor.â
He blinks. âYou sure?â
You nod. âJust sleep. Iâm too tired to care.â
Heâs hesitant â not from discomfort, but from guilt. You can see it in the way he glances at the c00lgui sitting quietly on his desk like a relic. He moves carefully, like he doesnât want to disturb the space youâve both agreed to share.
You lie down first, facing the wall. He follows a beat later, awkwardly tucking the blanket around himself while making sure thereâs room between you. His spine was stiff like a scared cat. Even under the covers, he doesnât relax, hands folded over his stomach like heâs trying not to breathe too loud.
The room is quiet. Thenâ
ââŚWhen c00lkidd was still here,â he murmurs, barely audible, âI used to sing him to sleep. Dumb songs. Old ones. Heâd laugh, say they were cringe.â A pause. âIâd give anything to hear that again.â
You glance toward him, but his back is turned and faces towards you, his shoulders trembling just slightly beneath the blanket.
You whisper, âIâm sorry.â
He doesnât reply.
But eventually, you feel the tension in his back ease. Just a little.
Heâs quiet again untilâŚ
âThank you for listeningâŚSorry, this happened to you.â
You hum a tired sound, eyes already shut.
âItâs not your fault.â
ââŚStill feels like it. A lot of things do.â
You open one eye as you reach over and flick the little Noob head on his hat gently. It wobbles.
âThanks for the bed, n7.â
You hear a breathy, surprised chuckle â the first one from him in what feels like forever.
the way u characterize the characters just feels so right... yk... i always feel iffy when i read something and the character is just a dom tough person who is just completely mischaracterized and written in a way that only caters to women... like brođ but the way u write is so. like. realistic.
i genuinely look at ur writing and go like "oh hell yeah. they would say that/do that".
gulps. sorry for ranting euegqibf have a nice day :3 sorry for the lack of punctuation & stuff i cant be bothered rn sighhh
No need to apologize for ranting! I actually enjoy it tbh.
When it comes to characters, I try my best to not mischaracterized them especially with the lore that is provided for each of them. Usually, I like to go into the Wiki, look at their appearances, personalities and trivia to get more of a background of the character.
anon cus m scared... BUT UR SO FUCKING COOL... the way u write makes me feel silly and whimsical ^_^ (positive i promise)
AW, THANK YOU! It means a lot, truly! I love hearing people enjoying the way I interpret characters or my writing style. Every time I write, I try my best to make the character itself feel alive. Also, I like keeping a gender-neutral reader so that way all individuals would be able to enjoy reading a perspective with their favorite character!
Donât be scared, my inbox is always open for questions and rants! ^^
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Author's Note: Please let me know if I mischaracterized anyone. I was practically fighting for my life trying to write for these guys. It was fun to write them, but trying to rhyme with Dusekkar made me lose brain cells every second. Survivalists are next. Likes, reposts, and comments are highly appreciated! <3
For some unknown reason, after a brutal round, you find yourself standing in front of your cabin. Gone and demolished for what reason? You donât know, and frankly, I donât either, but here we are! Thanks a lot, Spectre. All that was left was the pathetic remains of the foundation, some twisted wood still crackling with dying embers. Just great. Youâre utterly exhausted, drained physically and mentally, as you wonder where youâre going to sleep. Out in the cold? Absolutely not, especially not with the repetitive cycle of hell that you have to go through daily. At least at the end of the day, you need to find yourself in comfort. So, with really no other option, you turn and walk yourself over to a fellow neighborâs cabin. Sure, it was embarrassing, but itâs better than sleeping outside in the cold.Â
You couldnât care less as to who you were knocking, feeling too tired to even think properly. You just needed a place that isnât destroyed to get some sleep, especially for tomorrow. It takes a moment or two until the door opens, revealing the individual.
Elliot:
Youâre barely standing by the time you get to the nearest cabin, the smell of smoke still clung to your clothes, and the ruins of your shelter fresh in your mind. Spectre really did a number this time. You raise your hand and knock, only half expecting whoever was within their cabin to be there.
Thereâs the sound of muffled clutter before the door swings open.
âWhoaâ!â Elliot blurts out. His visor is tilted slightly askew, eyes wide as he takes in your soot-smudged state before his expression softened into that classic worried Elliot look. âAre you okay?! What happenedâno, wait, donât answer that yetâcome in, come in.â
Youâre too tired to explain much beyond the words: âSpectre. Cabinâs gone. Burned down.â
Elliot ushers you in like a panicked restaurant host. âOkay, yeah. Thatâs⌠awful. You shouldâve come sooner, IâI can make something warm, Iâve got pizza. Or, uh, water? Youâre not hurt, are you?â Heâs already moving around the room, grabbing mismatched things, tripping slightly over a pizza box, and muttering, âSmooth, Elliot. Real smooth.â
The moment you step inside, heâs already clearing a spot for you to sit down. âSorry about the mess! I was reorganizing my stuffâuh, gear. Same thing, sorta.â
His cabin feelsâŚweirdly cozy, even if itâs a little messy. Warm light glows from an old camping lantern, and the entire place smells faintly like garlic bread. Piles of rolled-up maps, energy drinks, empty pizza boxes, and extra red-colored visors clutter the corners. Still, itâs homey. Lived-in. Human, especially in a place like this.
You clock the single bed instantly. Elliot follows your gaze before scratching the back of his neck, trying not to meet your eyes.
âI, uh⌠Iâve got another blanket? And a couple of pillows. And I can totally take the floor ifââ
You cut him off. âNo need. We can share.â
That seems to give him a moment to process. âOh. Okay. Yeah, I meanâI donât snore or anything. I think. Probably.âÂ
He approaches the bed as he spends the next few minutes nervously straightening the bed, fluffing the pillow twice before realizing you just want to lie down already. When the lights are finally off, you expect him to roll over and go quiet.
But he doesnât.
ââŚHey,â he whispers after a while. âI know this place sucks. Like, it's basically hell. But youâre not alone, okay? Iâve got you.â
Hearing such words of reassurance and comfort. Itâs a practical contradiction in this repeated cycle of survival thatâs filled with constant bloodshed, but itâs enough. Everyone needs it as of right now.
A moment of silence passes after his words. Then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of foil nearby.
ââŚAlso. I saved a slice.â
You smile faintly, not even looking, just reaching back until your hand touches warm pizza. And honestly? Maybe this night wasnât all that bad.
Dusekkar:
The ruins of your cabin smolder in the distance, blackened wood hissing under the slow creep of night. The Spectreâs chaos had left nothing behind. Perfect. Letâs hope the Spectre had a good laugh about it. With exhaustion dragging limbs like weights and frost biting through your clothes, you approach the one cabin with a flickering lantern still glowing in the window. You barely think about whose cabin youâre standing in front of, only that itâs intact and has a door that might lead to warmth.
You knock once. Twice. Then, pause. Youâre about to leave, thinking the individual has long gone to slumber or isnât in the mood to converse with anyone, when it creaks open.
Standing in the doorway is Dusekkar.
His antlers cast jagged shadows behind him, robes rustling. The orange fire inside his dark blue pumpkin head flickers once as the firelight casts strange glyphs across the inside of his pumpkin head, and then he speaks, voice like a lanternâs flameâsoft, warm, and ancient:
âA visitor calls on ashen breath,
Cold and burnt from the trialâs death,
Spectreâs rage, your home undoneâŚ
Rest you seek, until the next sun?â
Too tired to even make sense of the rhyme, you just nod. âI don't care where I sleep. I just ratherâŚnot freeze out here.â
Dusekkar doesnât move for a second â simply studying you with that eternal, flickering stare. Then he steps aside, gesturing with the tip of his staff. You cross the threshold.
The interior is sereneâmore of a shrine than a home. Glowing runes shimmer along the walls, and the air carries a subtle scent of smoke and lavender. Deeper inside the cabin, shelves and tables are softly illuminated by flickering blue candles. Nearby, a single bed is tucked carefully beside a stack of scrolls and ancient-looking books that probably seem to have existed long before Telamon.
âThereâs only one bed,â you mutter. âOf course there is.â
Dusekkar tilts their head, seemingly hearing what youâve said. His staff clicks softly against the floor as they move to stir the fire.Â
âThis realm allows what fate permits.
One bed, one soul. The tale now fits.â
He motions you toward it but makes no move to lie down himself. Instead, they settle cross-legged in the corner of the room, staff resting across their lap.
You frown. âArenât you going to sleep too?â
âI dream while wakingâsleep, I lend.
The fire burns for you, my friend.â
He gently taps his staff against the wooden wall â two knocks, pause, then one. A steady rhythm.
âA signal known, a warding spell,
To shield your mind where shadows dwell.
So sleep, my friend, while fire glows â
And when you wake, weâll strike our foes.â
You donât understand everything he says. But the warmth from the fire, the eerie calm of the room, and the sense that he truly is watching over you â itâs enough. You feel protected, strangely.
Although thereâs also a strange comfort in the way he speaks.Â
You lie down, letting the warmth soak into your skin as the fire crackles beside you, eyes growing heavy. Just as sleep begins to take you, you hear his voice again â quieter this time, almost a lullaby:
âThe bed is small, but dreams are wide â
And in this cabin, youâre safe inside.â
Builderman:
Honestly, you barely remember dragging your feet back toward where your cabin once stoodâ a hollow, scorched impression in the natural ground now. Smoke clings to the ruins like a bitter memory. Thereâs nothing left. The Spectre couldâve done it out of their enjoyment or anger. Who knows?
You stand there for a while, just staring at the ash until the cold sets into your bones like ice.
Thereâs no time to feel sorry for yourself. Tomorrow is just another day, and the next round will come like clockwork. You wonât survive it if youâre not half-frozen and unrested.
You donât think â you just walk. Not toward anyone in particular. Your mindâs too fogged, your legs too tired.
By the time you approach a door, knocking once, twice, then lean your head against the doorframe, eyes half-closed. You expect silence.
Instead, the door clicks open.
Builderman stands there, gray-skinned and underslept, hoodie slightly ruffled, his Turbo Builders Club hat tilted just a bit from where heâs probably been dragging his hands through his hair in stress. His default expression â somewhere between disappointed and exhausted. Not at you. At the world. This situation. At the weight heâs been carrying for years.
â...Cabinâs gone?â he asks, already knowing the answer.
You nod.
â...You look like hell,â he mutters. âGet in.â
The cabin is exactly what youâd expect â minimalistic, neat, and functional. There are workbenches tucked in the corners, plans scattered across the desk, and blueprints pinned with bent nails to the wall. A half-assembled generator lies in pieces on the floor, half-finished as if heâd given up mid-build. The air smells like solder and printer paper.
And there it is.
In all its glory.
The one bed.
You eye it, then glance back at Builderman. âDonât suppose youâve got a backup plan for this, too?â
He exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair before slumping against the wall. âIâll take the floor. Youâve done enough rounds. I canât afford to have you limping tomorrow.â
You scoff. âYou think Iâm gonna let the founder of Roblox sleep on the floor?â
He frowns. âThat title doesnât mean much anymore. Besides, itâs not like I sleep much.â
But later, when the fire burns low and the weight of the day finally pulls you down, you find Builderman sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing his hoodie, staring into the firelight with a thousand-yard stare.
You open one eye. âYouâre gonna break your back sitting like that.â
He huffs, lips twitching like he might laugh. âIâve built buildings and worlds from nothing. Iâll survive a night with poor posture.â
Silence before he speaks again.
âJust take the bed. Iâll be up most of the night anyway.â
You open your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off with a look â the same one he gives Shedletsky when heâs about to do something stupid.
âDonât argue. Iâve made worse sacrifices.â
So you shut your mouth, brain too exhausted to even think of sentences to say.
The sheets are surprisingly warm. Not soft, exactly, but warm â and thatâs enough to suffice. Builderman returns to the desk by the window, scribbling notes, calculations, or even plans by lantern light. You watch him from under the blanket as your eyelids grow heavier.
But eventually, the cold wears him down. With a muttered âScoot,â he lies beside you, stiff as a board, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling.
You both lie there in silence for a while â until his voice breaks the quiet, barely above a whisper:
âWeâll rebuild it. Your cabin. Iâll help you design it.â
You donât respond at first â youâre already fading into sleep â but the corner of your mouth tugs up.
âThanks⌠Boss.â
He grunts. âDonât call me that.â
But the blanket shifts slightly more in your direction anyway. Just enough to share.
Taph:
Youâre so tired that you barely feel your feet dragging through the grass. The sky is a heavy black curtain above you, and the burnt-out remains of your cabin still glow behind you like the dying embers of a failed promise.
Thanks, Spectre.
You donât know whose cabin youâre knocking on. Youâre too cold, too exhausted, and clearly, too far past the point of caring. You just need four walls and a roof.
The door opens without a word. No quick movement, no startled reaction.
Taph stands there.
His hood cast his face in deep shadow, the yellow runic lines across his robes faintly glowing under the moonlight. His bandit mask concealed any chance of reading his expression. Not that it mattered. Heâd never said a word anyway.
Still, the meaning in his stillness was clear: What happened?
You gestured vaguely behind you. âSpectre. No cabin. No roof. JustâŚfire.â
He tilted his head slightly, then stepped aside. Thatâs an invitation enough.
Inside, Taphâs cabin smelled of gunpowder and old books. Dim lanterns flickered overhead, illuminating his intricate setup; trap schematics, disassembled mechanisms, spare wires, and trip lines hung with precision across the workbenches. And off to the side, one surprisingly neat bed, tucked into the corner.
Just one.
Your shoulders sag as Taph watches.
âOnly one bed,â you mutter aloud. âOf course.â
Taph looks at you briefly. Then he gestures, a two-finger flick toward the bed.
You raise an eyebrow. âSeriously? Are you okay with that?â
He pauses, then nods once.Â
âI can sleep on the floor,â you say quietly, a little unsure.Â
He slowly shakes his head.Â
You sigh, too drained to argue.
The mask reveals nothing, but the gesture itself is calm from Taph. Itâs less about âyou owe meâ and more âyouâve been through enough.â You found yourself smiling a little at the comforting gesture.
You approach and ease down onto the edge of the bed, removing your gear. The bed is simple: wool blanket, faint scent of iron and dust, but undeniably warmer than the outside.
Taph joins you a moment later, setting down a quiet clinking of traps and parts. He lies back against the wall beside you, arms resting on his lower half. Still saying nothing. Just watching the window, the horizon, the stars beyond the fog. His breathing is soft, nearly inaudible.
Even in his presence, thereâs something watchful about the air. Youâre used to survivors speaking, venting, even shouting during rounds. But Taph is different.
In the quiet, your voice slips out.
âYou always wear that hood, even to sleep?â
He doesnât move.
But eventually⌠a single nod.
You chuckle faintly. âFigures.â
Stillness.
Then, you feel something â not a hand, not a gesture, but a subtle shift in the mattress. Just enough for your weight to balance more evenly.Â
You stare up at the ceiling. The wind howls outside.
â...Do you ever wonder if weâll make it out of this for good?â
He doesnât answer with words.
Instead, he reaches out slowly, signing towards you.
âI hope so. Whatever happens, weâre in this together.â
You watch his gloved hand linger for a second before resting. No words. Just that.
ur writing is amazing!!! hope to see more from you in the future :)
AHHHH! Thank you! It means a lot. I tend to get slightly stressed when it comes to characterizing characters, and to make them feel alive when it comes to writing. I'm glad that people like how I interpret them!
love ur characterisation, it feels so fitting. do you take requests for writing?
At the moment, no. I have contemplated in opening them which will be soon, but as of right now, unfortunately no. I apologize for any lack of clarification.
Iâm so happy that people like how I characterized/interpreted the characters. I genuinely had a hard time writing for Shedletsky and Two Time, personally. But they were all fun to write for! Thanks for asking! My inbox is open for any other questions or just rants. :]
Pairing(s): Two Time, Shedletsky, Chance & Guest 1337
Author's Note: This was particularly inspired by the Tumblr user: cannibal-alien. Please let me know if I mischaracterize anyone. All likes, reposts, and comments are appreciated. :]
For some unknown reason, after a brutal round, you find yourself standing in front of your cabin. Gone and demolished for what reason? You donât know, and frankly, I donât either, but here we are! Thanks a lot, Spectre. All that was left was the pathetic remains of the foundation, some twisted wood still crackling with dying embers. Just great. Youâre utterly exhausted, drained physically and mentally, as you wonder where youâre going to sleep. Out in the cold? Absolutely not, especially not with the repetitive cycle of hell that you have to go through daily. At least at the end of the day, you need to find yourself in comfort. So, with really no other option, you turn and walk yourself over to a fellow neighborâs cabin. Sure, it was embarrassing, but itâs better than sleeping outside in the cold.Â
You couldnât care less as to who you were knocking, feeling too tired to even think properly. You just needed a place that isnât destroyed to get some sleep, especially for tomorrow. It takes a moment or two until the door opens, revealing the individual.
Two Time:
The door creaks open slowly, revealing Two Time standing in half-shadow. A dim lantern flickers behind them, casting warped silhouettes across the cabin walls. Their eyesâunreadable, distantârest on you for a long, heavy pause.
â...You,â they say, voice low and void of emotion. Their gaze flicks toward the smoldering ruin behind you. âI saw smoke. The Spawn warned of fire. It seems they were right again.â
You donât have the energy to respond. You just blink slowly, face covered in fatigue. For a moment, Two Time doesnât moveâthen they step aside wordlessly, allowing you in with a flick of their wrist.
Inside, the room is surprisingly clean, sparse, and symmetrical. Ritualistic symbols etched faintly into the walls and floorboards, most of them likely carved by hand. Thereâs one bed pushed to the corner, draped in worn blankets that look hand-woven. Nothing else in the room even resembles comfort.
You stare at the bed.
Two Time does too.
They speak softly, almost like prayer: âTwo souls. One chamber. May neither wake alone.â
You raise an eyebrow. âThereâs only one bed.â
âI know,â they say plainly, as if the arrangement was divine fate.
You expect them to sleep on the floor or make some kind of cultist arrangement on the rug, but insteadâŚâYou will take the left side. That is the passive quadrant. I will not cross it. The Spawn does not permit desecration of the boundary.â
Silence.
Until you climb into the bed, not caring anymore, and just wanting to sleep. They follow along and slip under the covers without hesitation and face away from you, posture rigid.
Itâs been silent for a long time. Well, this is awkward.
And still, despite everythingâthe rigid body beside you, the cursed symbols, the heaviness of something long deadâyou sleep easier than you expected. Almost protected.
Almost.
Shedletsky:
You knock with the last of your strength.
The door doesnât so much open as it flies ajar with a creak and a gust of stale air. Shedletsky stands in the doorway, shirt wrinkled, hair unkempt as always. His eyes narrowed immediately.
âYou smell like charcoal.â
Youâre too tired to care at this point, blinking through the smoke and exhaustion. Shedletsky leans in the doorway, youâre unable to tell if heâs annoyed or impressed.
âSpectre torched your place, huh?â
You nod slowly. Thatâs all youâve got in you.
He sighs like a man whoâs seen too many disasters and steps aside. âCome on in. Just donât ruin the rugâ it's older than Buildermanâs sense of optimism.âÂ
You step in and the heat hits you like a wallâ the cabinâs warm, cluttered in the organized chaos kind of way. Tools. Paper stacks. Some swords. Weird half-assembled contraptions. Bloxy colas. Oh, and of course, a bucket of fried chicken. Classic Shedletsky.
And one bed.
A very small, and you guessed it, a very obvious one-person bed.
You glance at it. So does he.
Thereâs a pause.
ââŚAlright, Iâll bite â rock-paper-scissors for who gets it?â he asks with a grin.
You raise a brow. âDead serious?â
âNo, Iâm never serious,â he says. âBut you look like youâll collapse over mid-round tomorrow if you sleep outside, so letâs figure something out.â
You groan inwardly, but follow anyway. At this point, dignity means less than not freezing to death.Â
He shrugs. âNot my fault that the Spectre decided to cosplay as an arsonist. Spectreâs got beef.â Before he adds in reassurance, âDonât worry. I wonât make it weird.â
You raise a brow. âYouâre literally the reason weird exists.â
He laughs at thatâgenuine, warm. âFlattering. But seriously. Youâre half-dead on your feet. You take the bed. Iâll crash in the corner or something. Iâve slept in worse places. Like under the old spawn tower. During a sword tournament. While it was raining.âÂ
But you stop him. âJust share. Iâm not going to play hero over sleeping arrangements.â
Shedletsky pauses, blinks once, and then smirks. âAlright. But Iâm warning youâif I roll over and accidentally kick you in my sleep, thatâs on you.â
You climb in first. The bed is warm, the blankets are⌠surprisingly soft.. You feel the mattress dip as he joins, staying well on his side.
Silence settles. And then, as if he just canât help himself:
ââŚYou know, youâre lucky it was me. If youâd knocked on Dusekkarâs door, heâd have made you answer a riddle before even letting you breathe.â
You almost laugh.
Almost.
He doesnât say anything else that night. Just hums something softlyâsome half-remembered melody from a forgotten Roblox gameâas he falls asleep beside you.
For once, the cabin feels safe. No snark, no fire, no killers. Just two survivors resting before another round of hell.
And somehow, with him nearby, it doesnât feel so bad.
âSleep tight.â
Despite yourself, you do. Though youâre awoken at 3 a.m. by the sound of Shedletsky mumbling about âsword hitboxesâ and his snores.
Chance:Â
The knock you give this time is softer. Youâre too tired to knock hard, and honestly? Youâre half-hoping no one answers.
But the door swings open anyways, almost like it was waiting for you.
Chance stands in the doorway, framed dramatically by the flickering firelight inside. His light grey skin contrasts sharply against the dark of the night, and his back fedora casts a shadow over his headphones and tinted shades. Despite the chaos youâve all endured, heâs still in his full suit and tie with a couple of wrinkles here and there. Thereâs curiosity in his eyes as he stares at your form.
âWell, well, well. What brings you here?â
You stare blankly, barely holding yourself upright. âSpectre burned my cabin.â
Chance squints before stepping aside dramatically, gesturing like a showman. âCome in, weary traveler. Lady Luck owes you that much.âÂ
Youâre too tired to comment on how theatrical he is being. The inside of his cabin isâŚnot that surprising. Thereâs dice, playing chips and cards scattered across a desk nearby while a small collection of fedora hats are sitting neatly nearby. Thereâs even a dartboard on the wall.
But youâre too tired to care.
Then your gaze lands on the bed.
One. Singular. Bed.
Of course.
Chance stares at the bed as well. âOh noooo, one bed? What a gamble. Hope I donât roll snake eyes in my sleep.â
âChance.â You speak, âDonât make this weird.â
He raises his hands in surrender. âNo weirdness here. Iâll flip a coin to see who gets what side or maybe who sleeps on the flooââ
âNot in the mood for jokes, Chance.â
âOkay, okay. No jokes. Weâre just playing the hand weâre dealt.â
He pulls out a golden coin, and flicks it into the air with a flair. It spins slowly before he catches it and slaps it to his wrist.
âHeads: you get the left side. Tails: I do.â He peeks. âHeads. Your lucky night.â
Youâre about to protest when he kicks off his boots, loosens his tie, and flops dramatically to the right side of the bed, already muttering about the odds of this happening.
You collapse onto the other side, face-first, barely resisting the urge to scream into the pillow.
After a few minutes of silence, Chance pipes up from beside you, âWouldnât it be wild if we woke up and the bed wasnât real?â
You groan. âChance, please shut up.â
He chuckles and rolls onto his side. âFair enough.â
You found yourself falling asleep, listening to the rhythmic flick of his coin flipping through his fingers. Somehow, that helps.
It feels like perhaps, luck is on your side tonight.
Guest 1337:
You barely register your footsteps as you stagger toward the cabin. The smoldering debris of your former shelter still lingers in the air behind you, thick with smoke and the sharp sting of ash. The Spectre had done itâagain. No real motive. Just destruction. Typical.
Your fist, heavy with exhaustion, knocks once against the door of the nearest survivorâs cabin. Youâre half-aware of who it might be. Too tired to care.
The door opens swiftly.
Guest 1337 stands there, blue hair tousled slightly by the wind, his camouflage uniform creased from activity, not rest. His tan army vest bears scrapes from past rounds, a few dried streaks of grime across the fabric. His eyesânormally sharp with determinationânarrow slightly in concern.
He doesnât ask questions. He doesnât need to.
He looks over your shoulder at the orange glow on the horizonâyour ruined cabin still cracklingâand then back to you.
âInside. Now.â
His tone is firm, military, but not cold.
You enter, the cabin interior dim and sharply organized. A folded blanket on a wooden trunk. His gloves were taken off and placed onto a nearby table. The atmosphere of his cabin doesnât feel like a home, yet somehow, in this moment, it feels safer than anything else.
You glance at the bed near the wall. Neat, but one bed.
Guest 1337 notices your hesitation immediately.
âIâll take the floor.â
You frown. âNot a chance. Youâve had my back in every round since week three. Iâm not making you sleep on solid ground.â
He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze fixed and unyielding. âIâve slept worse.â
Of course he has.
You pause. So does he.
Then, with the exhausted sigh of two people too stubborn to argue further, you nod once.
ââŚFine. We share. I donât snore. Much.â
Guest 1337 doesnât smileâhe rarely doesâbut the corners of his tired eyes crease ever so slightly as he steps back and motions you toward the bed.
You lie down on the narrow bed, scooting over to give him space. He sits first, removing his army vest and setting it silently beside the bed. You notice the way he movesâefficient, practiced, no wasted motion.
When he finally settles beside you, back half-raised against the wall, legs stretched out beside yours, thereâs a stillness to him. Heâs listening. Always.
After a while, your voice cuts through the quiet, barely a whisper.
âYou ever get used to it?â
âThe chaos?â he asks. âNo. You just get better at standing in front of it.â
You let your head fall back into the makeshift pillow. The warmth of the bedâthough thinâcounters the cold outside. The war still rages out there, rounds still await tomorrow, but tonight?
Tonight, youâll sleep beside the one person whoâs never let a survivor fall behind.
And in this hellscape of broken cabins and endless threats, thatâs enough.
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