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The crackling of a burning flame was one of the few sounds that made up the room. The sparkles of magic and flipping of pages helped to break up the silence. The deafening sound that’s been a staple for some time now. Any way to break it up is appreciated by anyone and everyone here. Even if it comes from unorthodox and disastrous means.
The soft glow of orange clashes against the intense luminosity of teal. Casting the darkened room with shadows. Long and shaded a greenish hue. The further away, the more blue it faded.
The fire was dimmed. Kept trapped behind a blue pumpkin. Trained to remain at its small size. Although, he knew it would grow intense in a moment’s notice. It always did when he strained for an action and ability out of his control.
The shuffling of papers picked up. Sounds of stationary and belongings flutter. Moving around in an orbit. Some breaking free and smashing into the walls. Glass shattered. Pages flipped. Hardened objects clank into wood. Flickers of flame grew intense.
This is one of the spells he hasn’t tried yet. The being trapping them all here doesn’t know about it yet. It’s a personal mixture he constructed back in the day. Before he found a more stable, commonplace spell. Combining multiple spells together to create one, temperamental blend. A spell that will help everyone trapped, murderers alike.
A touch of speed. Tracing the edges of gravity. Large part healing. All formed around the magic of swapping. The only thing left for him to add is the smallest grace of projectile spells. If it were all to go wrong, if any part were mathematically incorrect, it could all blow up in his face. Or someone else's.
He needs this to work. This portal spell has to work. He can make rifts between servers, both private and public, with ease. He’s worked on this spell for years. Mastered it. Able to perform it whenever possible. No matter the circumstances.
But with his magical prowess dimmed to just a flicker of a flame, he needs to concentrate. He needs time. If he can reach the outside world, even the smallest sliver, then he can harness it’s power. Break free from the restrictions implanted upon him.
No one deserves this punishment they have been dealt. Not even the people sent to kill them all. That traumatized and experimented slasher. The creation of Shedletsky’s hatred. The shell that was known as John Doe. A hacker child sheltered from what he’s doing. A wild beast transformed from a simple, misunderstood guest. And a crazed and broken demolitionist. No matter the pain they cause all the survivors, they don’t deserve this.
He needs to concentrate. To save everyone here.
The fire consumes his pumpkin. Making it out of its shell. Reaching the open air. Oxygen feeds into its power. The smell of burnt pages filling the room. All while the glow of his staff strengthens. The chemical formula of this spell shifts with the intensity. Growing at a consistent rate. Keeping the percentages the same.
There is always a way. If the will of all the survivors, of him, was anything to go by. There will always be a way. The being that is keeping them all here will never keep them forever.
And he will make sure of that.
As his magic grows, so does his fire. Burning brighter and larger than it has before. Everything that made up his cabin swirls around him. Some sizzling out of existence from his flame. Others were destroyed through velocity. But nothing light weight is left against the floor.
His control over his magic is precise. Trained. No shifts in percentages. All in order. All equal.
Shifting all his prowess into his arms. His legs touch the wooden floors below him. His staff firmly planted in front of him. Arms gripping at the grooves in the wand. Knuckles white.
Nothing can mess him up.
Nothing.
Until something does. Because of course the organizer that has them all trapped wouldn’t let him act as freely as they all hoped for.
The ground under his feet disappears. Quickly being replaced by air. Only for him to fall a short distance.
And it’s that distance that breaks his concentration.
His carved eyes widen as his hold on his staff falters. The blindingly bright glow of blue releases from his staff. Launching directly into one of the glass panels of the run down structure he finds himself in. Shattering the fragile mineral as it flies through it.
Dusekkar can feel himself trip forward. Face growing closer to the ever encroaching ground.
With one of the last instances of his magic, he casts a spell over himself. Just barely catching himself inches from the ground. Before his magic wears off, he falls a short distance to the ground. Dust and dirt kick up from under his fall.
He hears his magical projectile grow quiet. Which isn’t a good sign. Magic that is casted wastefully and without supervision never ends well.
His pumpkin rises alongside the sound of a distant explosion. He watches as his conjuration continues its travel. Flying towards the room concealed by the mountain. Flying directly towards the emerging figure.
Magenta colored robes step out of the room. Not quite seeing the arena quite yet. Leading to them not perceiving the spell directly hitting their shoulder. Causing them to falter. Balance shifting backwards from the force. Head bouncing directly off of the step leading into the mountainous chamber.
Builderman will not be pleased at the sight.
Dusekkar attempts to return to his feet. Magic drained from his body. Making him weak and unbalanced. Causing him to resort to using the Staff of Winds as a simple crutch.
He barely is able to make it out of his spawn point. Passing the shattered glass his projectile had fractured. Before his body gave up on him. Collapsing to the floor.
But he can still access his surroundings. And that voice, dripped in sorrow and husky from misuse, is unmistakable. Of course he would be in this round. The one where the monstrous demolitionist got hurt by his own hands.
“T-aph!” His speech cracking as he runs. Directly towards the killer of this round. Hands fumbling around like they’ve never used them before.
“It- It’s okay… I’m here. I can…” The man, dressed in days old jacket and unkept hair, kneels down next to the demolitionist. Hesitating on what to do.
Eventually pulling a hammer from his belt. He starts to bring metal out. Pinning them next to each other as he hammers them together. Quickly constructing one of his iconic dispensers.
The machine starts to produce a pink mist. It flows down in the small radius. Landing on top of Builderman, yet through the killer. Like they were never there. It doesn’t work on them.
“Shoot… uh… Well… shoot.” The chief executive producer starts to fumble once more. Chaotically digging into his pockets. Checking his belt. Something he would never do on a normal basis. He typically projects an air of calm and knowledge. Plans running through his head constantly. It’s hard to catch him off guard.
But not here. Not now.
Builderman clicks something off his belt. Placing a white box next to him. Dusekkar can’t quite tell what it is from this distance, but there are very few objects that match that description here. And it all but confirms his suspicions when he sees Builderman pull out some gauze.
“I got yer’ Taph. Yer’ goin’ t’ be alri’ht.” He can hear the shutter in his boss’s tone. He can imagine Builderman’s hands shaking. And it’s a terrifying visualization.
Will they all fall as harshly as Builderman has? Will the pressure get too much for them all? Will one thing cause everything around them to shatter?
No. He can’t let that happen. He will make sure it never reaches that point for everyone.
Builderman hasn’t fallen too far. He can climb back up. Resurface from below those dark, murky waters he finds himself in. Become a shining phoenix, leading them all once more. Without all the pressure he had before.
Builderman isn’t one to let a problem control his life for long. It will just take time. Time and patience. Something they all have in abundance here.
Explosions radiate from their previous subordinate. Slower than normal. He wouldn’t entirely be surprised if the impact of his spell and the floor didn’t do any permanent damage to Taph.
He wasn’t entirely sure what combination of magic had shifted to cause such drastic results. He could deduce that the projectile component could have taken priority. Overpowered the recipe. But the harm shouldn’t have happened with the contents his spell contained.
His mind is too sluggish to comprehend exactly what he had imbued the magic he cast in detail. At least, not yet. Not without rest.
He looked up from the grass below him — since when did his attention slip? — and back to the pair in front of him. Builderman had applied bandages around the demolitionist’s head and shoulder. Now sitting next to them, digging through the medkit in their lap.
The sound of explosives breaks from their slow, periodic rhythm. Appearing more frequent. More active.
He watches as Taph attempts to prop himself up. Only for his hands to explode in that moment. Launching him careening back to the floor. Head once more hitting the edge of the raised platform below him. Causing them to curve their back, likely from the pain.
Builderman throws the medkit to the side. Neglecting safety as he reaches out for the killer’s hand. Likely acting on instinct alone. After all, his boss has lifted many of the survivors to their feet via their arms. But in this case, it could lead to disaster.
He needs to do something.
Dusekkar rises to his feet as fast as he can. Leaning against the Staff of Winds heavily. Before using the last of his magic reserves. Projecting a shield onto the chief executive producer.
The barrier shatters upon contact with the demolitionist. Their hands exploded at the very same moment. And yet, it doesn’t seem to disturb Builderman. Who continues to lift Taph to their full height.
Without the strength in his body anymore, Dusekkar collapses to the floor once more. Exhausted. As much as they try, their eyes close. Flame growing dull. Consciousness fading at the sound of machinery getting destroyed.
Yet, in the next moment, he’s awake. Propped up against a soft surface. A distant fire crackling. A discussion happening not far away. But too muffled for him to clearly hear.
Instead, he brings one of his arms up. Resting it against his eyes. Encasing his vision in the soft, dull oranges that his own flame provides. All while his joints lightly ache.
“Matt?” A voice draws near. One of the sword master. As only he and Builderman are allowed to speak of his real identity. “I know you’re up.”
“That thy is, John.” He grunts out. Voice laced deep with the crackle of his fire. “Thy assumes there’s bound to be a verbal lashing upon?”
“You bet.” Shedletsky’s voice turns serious. A rarity. “What were you thinking! We need you in rounds! You can’t just try and kill the killer and then pass out and die right after!”
Ah, so he did pass. It was the likely option. Passing out mid round, causing distraction when unneeded, and being in the wide open. Yeah, sounds about correct.
“It was not thy’s first choice. But it was a learning opportunity to voice. Our spectator will stop at nothing to ruin thy’s chances. Any attempt at escape will lead to thwarted advances.” He closes his eyes, arm still resting over them.
“So… what?” Bless Shedletsky and his idiocy. Brighteyes would have understood faster. But, that’s what you get for exchanging godhood for mortality and pleasure.
“Thy attempted to reach escape. The spell was forming its shape. Only to be thrown off. A round starting with a scoff.” Dusekkar lowers his hand, now staring at Shedletsky’s form, hovering over his own. “It was not thy’s intention to harm our ex-worker. Components interlaced in casting are as finicky as fervor.”
The sword master blinks for a moment. Processing his words. “So a spell gone wrong?”
Dusekkar sighs. “Indeed. Conjuration mislead.”
“Okay… okay.” Shedletsky nods, backing away from Dusekkar’s personal space. “Uhm… get some rest. Looks like you need it.”
“Thanks for the astute observation.” Dusekkar deadpans. Leaning back into the couch below him. Willing to relax until the next moment he is thrown into another unforgiving round.
That was until his thoughts landed on Builderman.
“One question, all thy ask.” He speaks up, pausing Shedletsky in his tracks. “How goes our task?”
“You mean Builder?” Dusekkar nods. “He’s… about the same… No real differences. He came back sad again. I had to escort him back to his cabin. Heard Vee helped you to the couch after you respawned.”
“Thy will have to give appreciation next time we see each other then. Bring morale up again.”
“Alright!” Shedletsky’s signature smile reaches his face once more. “I’ll get back to it!”
The sword master walks off. Heading deeper into the cabin. Leaving Dusekkar all alone. With his thoughts.
It seems odd. Builderman returned to the cabin the same as before. And yet, within the arena, he was caring. Perhaps even doting. He seemed to care heavily for the demolitionist. The very one that kills him every time.
He even used one of the limited medkits on them.
The relationship between the two is a mystery. One he is determined to understand further. It’s not simply boss and subordinate, like he had once imagined. No, this seemed to go further.
But that’s for another time. He must rest and recuperate for the following rounds. He can’t be as useless as he was the prior one.
And maybe, just maybe, Builderman will feel like himself more. Time will only tell.
Pain erupted from the back of his head and shoulder. Only to skyrocket once more as his hands explode. Falling back down to the ground as his body collapses under his lack of hands.
Taph squeezes his eyes shut. Hissing at the burning pain coming from his shoulder and the thudding of his head. Before attempting to get up again. Propping himself up with one hand. He can’t even feel the growing pressure in his hand. Growing nearer to exploding once more.
Only, this time he feels another pair of hands around his free hand. Pulling him up. Stars still spinning around his head, he lets them help.
The sound of something shattering comes from beside him. Just as his hands explode once more. He starts to fall back down before being caught. Pulled back to his feet.
Taph places one of his hands against an object next to him. Leaning against it to regain his balance. Before it blows up. Pieces of metal crumbling in a small explosion. Weak, fragile metal.
He feels himself fumble, quickly catching himself. But two hands help to stabilize him. Unnecessary. Especially from the person whose hands they belong to.
Oh course. Of course it’s Builderman. Why can’t he just leave them alone?! Why is he always here?!
Why is he smiling? Why is he so passive? So… caring…
Builderman rubs both his thumbs over their palm. Staring up at the black void of their face. All while they glare. Hatred embedded in his bones for the person who hurt them the most.
“There y’ go. All bett’r.” His old boss smiles — SMILES! — at him. Closing his eyes, still facing him.
Then explodes into shattered limbs. Cauterized at the joints. The only thing still at his feet are Builderman’s hands. The very ones that held his reforming hand. That burning sensation is back.
Why is Builderman like this? What did he do to deserve this? And why does he still crave it?
Taph’s attention shifts to the blue pumpkin left out in the middle of the open field. The very same that is attached to Dusekkar. A new burning sensation picks up. The one on his shoulder.
That’s where it came from.
That’s why Builderman’s being so nice.
It’s a trick. It’s always been a trick. One to distract him. To make him weak. To make him believe they still like him.
They don’t.
The admins lie all the time.
That’s why he hates them all so much.
Why he hates Builderman.
Why he hates Dusekkar.
The mage should have been in that explosion as well. All of them should have.
His shoulder flairs the closer he approaches the mage. They clearly think that he is an easy and weak opponent to be sleeping.
He’ll show them. He’ll show them all. All those pathetic admins. Show them that he isn’t one to be trifled with.
Taph picks up Dusekkar’s body. Gripping it tightly. Just as his hand explodes. Bringing the mage alongside it. The pumpkin head shatters into thousands of pieces as it lands not far away.
He should feel good now. He killed two admins.
So why…? Why does he not? Why doesn’t he feel fulfilled? Why does he feel conflicted? Why does it hurt? Why-
A loud shot rings out. Just as a bullet pierces his other shoulder. His hands exploded at that moment. Head wings folding in against his face. While his back pair stretched out, threatening.
“Got ‘em!” He hears one of the survivors cheer. One of his head wings lowered enough for him to see that gray one running off.
As his hands dematerialize once more, he rises from his knees. A new target in mind. That gambler will not make a fool out of him. No one is allowed to.
Not anymore.
He won’t let the admins rule his life anymore.
He won’t let Dusekkar escape from this world. He will be trapped here. With him. All for him to kill. To maim. Just like Builderman and Shedletsky.
They will all die by his hands.