Chapter Text
The Player crawled out of the shredded earth like something spit back into a world that hadn’t been waiting for them, arms solidly thrown on the ground to keep them from collapsing. They were caked in dirt, stinking of ant musk, skin raw where mandibles had raked too close. Their lungs seized on the first breath of jungle air, the heat slamming into them like a fist. It was thick, syrupy, wet enough to drink—clinging to every inch of skin until it felt like they were suffocating all over again.
And then came the itch. God. The itch!
Phantom bites still crawled across their arms and legs, every welt angry and bright as if the insects were still there, feasting. Each breath pressed needles into their ribs. The buzzing lived on inside them even though they were full-sized again, no longer toy-small, no longer drowning in tunnels that reeked of soil and poison. They never want to touch that shrink potion again
Being face to face with bugs on a personal level while shrunk is a humbling experience, rusty and untrained got them to underestimate those damned bugs. But now, they were full-sized again. Finally.
A what a… mercy. Or a joke? Hard to tell with the universe anymore. It hadn’t handed them victory, just spit them out into overgrowth instead of a grave. A stalemate? …If you could call it that. Sweat-slicked, dirt-smeared, lungs rattling, they collapsed back against the bark of a tree. The wood grinded under their weight, like sandpaper against their spine, and they let themselves sink. Just sit. Just breathe for five seconds.
They were running low on supplies, and their sword was little more than a splintered stick now, a prop that belonged in a child’s playset more than a battlefield— Damn it! If only they’d asked for something better back in Blackrock. Too late. The thought stung harder than the insect bites.
A groan dragged out of their chest as they sat there, every muscle trembling, every tendon asking for surrender. Their hands looked even worse than from the treatment from Blackrock; purpled and torn at the knuckles, pink with dried blood, lined with crescents of dirt jammed deep under the nails. Those hands had clawed through those tunnels, from the frantic clawing it took to escape the nest, from the jumping, climbing, and falling, dirt was not out of the question to be caked on them.
By David, it has been a long couple of weeks since they’ve had to fight some stronger enemies. They were getting rusty, and they hated to admit that. They had been so busy just going back and forth between those two love birds that they completely forgot they were and have been stuck here.
God, How stupid.
Bites still itched, still ached, like infected needles pressed into the skin. The player trailed the bumps and scabbing wounds, wincing at every scratch along their arms told a story they didn't want to recall. Still, they were breathing. Not shrunk to the size of a coin. Not being gnawed apart by chittering mouths in the dark. Not dead. Not yet.
...Not yet, this time; Was what they had to remind themselves with every time.
The canopy above was loud with life, splashes of green, flickers of blue, wings stitching through branches like quick brushstrokes. The smell of fruit and moss, the musk of animals, the perfume of wet dirt all clung to the air. It was a gorgeous sight, no doubt, just, right now they had no time to bask in it’s view.
Somewhere nearby, maybe a mile off if they were lucky, the silhouetted shapes of Turitopulis cracked through the green like broken teeth. It sounded like a very tropical place, thatched roofs and dirt roads, something new that they haven’t seen recently as of late.
That, Kyoko girl spoke of the place very optimistically, totally leaving out the part where you practically drown in bugs; The player recalled, growing a little bitter in retrospect of the thought, before their mind trailed back to more important things.
The Player should move. They knew they should. Get out of the jungle before something bigger than oversized bugs and critters decided they looked like a snack. But their body stayed pressed into the tree, pinned under weight that wasn’t just exhaustion. Their ears rang. The canopy blurred. And in the the only thing louder than the ringing in their ears, one thought carved itself out, hard-edged and ugly:
I'm going to kill him.
No personal reason. Not for any glory. Just the thought itself, heavy as the stings burning their arms Just a simple, ugly thought, as bone-deep and stubborn as the ant stings still pulsing under their skin. It held little to no remorse, much unlike the last man they had to strike down.
Griefer.
The name slid through their mind like glass over stone, scraping cold. They could understand the vitriol of those who spoke the name. Though they didn't know much—not yet, just hearsay and how that sort of name was spat out with the kind of hate that twisted faces who spoke it; into an ugly visage.
Red spoke his name with a hiss. Blue, eager at the idea of giving the player an excuse of getting a shot in. Even Noobador, who spoke with a certain, low fire in his words, blew out into lukewarm coals speaking about him. As if ashamed that even talking to the man was a grievous, embarrassing mistake.
The Player didn’t feel much sympathy about it. Well, in the regards of; wanting to kill a man.
No sympathy. Not even hesitation.
If anything, if they really dug down, past the exhaustion, past the poison and bruises and the buzzing gnats inside their skull—there was only one feeling: hope. Hope that they did meet him. It wasn't bloodlust. It wasn’t even revenge, really. Just a kind of obligation. Like putting a rabid animal out of its misery.
Someone like that, someone who could make a man frightened just by rumor and hearsay, didn’t deserve a slow fate.
That wasn’t them. Was it? The thought startled them when they recognized it as their own. By David, what had been happening to them lately?
They forced themselves upright, bones popping, muscles protesting, a groan passively leaving their lips in the process. The backpack dug into their shoulders again, heavier now, though nothing inside had changed. They hadn’t had a break in… forever. Maybe never.
The jungle groaned around them, hot and endless. It was about time they pushed forward. And the player didn’t get far before the jungle pushed back.
They’d barely made it ten paces past the haphazardly abundant roots, The player still half in their own head; one side, assessing the long grocery list of their rather mundane upkeep of their items, still and the other chewing on the idea of Griefer, the taste vile and bitter, full of hatred— when the first enemy encounter came crashing through the underbrush, an encounter that the player should have better avoided.
The silverback was first, stepping out with the arrogance of a landlord surveying his property, shoulders bouldering under stripes of sunlight and shadow. His grunt was low thunder, a rolling announcement that the Player was trespassing. Behind him padded the guar, belly low, horns cruel as machetes, vines and mud dangling like trophies from its hide.
The Player’s mouth went dry. Usually if they wanted to see animals as big as this, they'd go to the zoo, or something. Not a jungle… this up close for that matter.
The Player exhaled, half-shrugging the weight of everything— their limbs felt slow, like they’d been asleep too long. Like they’d forgotten how to move in a world where things tried to gore you with weapons and fists, not poison or other status effects.
Still... the weight came back fast.
They flicked a few cards from their pocket, assessing them within their turn. They had since plucked the revive card from their deck. Too many mistakes they had made with their weaker hits… and since replaced it with fireball. Giving their ball a much deserved edge.
Violence sometimes just had to be the answer. The Player didn’t think much about it any further. There wasn’t time to. The sword was in their hands, that light, chipped wood, a joke of a weapon. But it felt solid again in the way an old friend’s hand might. The player had an affinity to the thing, they must admit.
Thunk— the first swing went wide, graceless, air-splitting but harmless. The gorilla sidestepped, swatted a fist at their ribs. They ducked late, pain flared up their side like someone striking a bell inside them.
Damn. Never have they felt their heart drop to their ass quicker in their life. The player's attention quickly changed, the sound of tramping hooves charged in their direction— and they quickly ducked to the side and into the dirt, the ground kicking a breath out of them.
The player turned, giving a weak throw of their ball— the fireball card subconsciously turning the sphere aflame— to hit the silverback. A glint of satisfaction came to them as the ball connected to the gorilla, setting its fur aflame.
They were enjoying this a little too much. They hated that feeling, of enjoying violence, a feeling they’ve had that’s come to the point of hating the joy in even the small victories.
What has been up with them as of late? What’s wrong with them?
No mind had come more to the worry, as the player nearly was grazed by a couple more attacks… This would be a long afternoon, wouldn't it? Was all that came to mind.
They stumbled back, nearly eating bark—spat dirt out of their mouth with a cough that scraped their throat raw. The guar pawed at the ground like it was warming up, and the gorilla, now half-lit like a mad torch, roared in righteous rage. God, it sounded like a building collapsing, and had the awful smell of burning hair.
“Alright,” the Player wheezed. “You’re mad. I get it,” The comment was followed by the player scrambling to get back up, assessing their options. Their backpack was swung over and opened with sweaty fingers to find a stick of dynamite. A couple of weeks ago they would have chastised themselves for trying to hurt another being with dynamite—but it was all instinct now, they’ll assess their SP later, they just needed a quick shot to get this over with.
They lobbed the stick with an overhand toss—
—BOOM—The blast cracked through the trees like how thunder split bark. The guar reeled back, staggering on buckled knees. The gorilla took most of the blow in the chest, already smoldering, now with blackened patches where its fur once shimmered.
And still, it moved. That kind of pain, that big of an explosion, should have put even an armoured man down. But, obviously, this was no man.
The Player readied their sword again—arms screaming at them now in exhaustion, their breath growing ragged and uneven, chest rising like a drum. They were shaking, but they weren’t sure if it was fear or just too much adrenaline. They needed to get this over with. They’re just so tired—
The guar rushed once more rather quickly. The sudden noise reminded them that they have no time to complain.
The Player threw themself sideways and hit a root, rolled their ankle just slightly for the pain to burn, and came up gasping. Their leg throbbed, some kind of slice or scrape—unimportant now. The world narrowed. Dirt, breath, sweat, the smell from the fire, and once more, they scrambled back up and off of the grassy dirt.
They ran at the gorilla. Not in an act of bravery. Not even smart in any sort of way. Just committed to getting this over with, and the sword hit this time—square across the jaw, then again across the arm. Taking their second turn to evoke a fireball, the ball spinning back into their open palm like a loyal dog. They chucked it again—flames licking at the gorilla’s face, now snarling, blinded, burning—
The guar tried again to ram into them. So did they, to dodge and use their sword. God, these animals would just not back down!
There’s something about rhythm in a fight—when your heartbeat becomes your tempo, that just felt so satisfying. The Player moved faster now. Not really gracefully. Not even well, give or take the rust. But correctly, just enough to get a nice hit in, and not be grievously hurt in the process.
Duck. Slide. Hit. Hit again. Their sword cracked against ribs.
The guar slammed into a tree when it missed—shaking the canopy, sending birds shrieking skyward. That felt good. Too good to be able to get that over with. They hated that again. The player took a sip from a lukewarm stinky latte, raising their SP to a comfortable hike.
Before throwing another fireball—this time for the guar. Its back lit up like it had been dipped in oil. The smell was awful, but it stopped in it’s tracks. Just enough. The gorilla finally gave out—knees first, one slow slump. A sound left its mouth—less a roar now, more a sigh. The kind of sound you’d make when the fight finally leaves your bones.
The guar fled. Not brave like its partner. Smoke trailing behind it.
And the Player dropped, collapsing back down to one knee, coughing, bleeding, breathing, “…God.” They laughed. Just a little. Not out of joy. Just… the absurdity. They hadn’t felt alive in a while. They’ve gotten complacent.
Good to finally be back into the swing of things. They’d be ready now.
If the Player could describe the sight that was Turitopulis, it'd be; fitting. Well, they reasoned it as, it's a jungle! Of course the place here would be a jungle village. A village woven out of wood and green, every roof angled and alive with vines. A city that grew with the jungle, not against it. For a moment the Player forgot themselves, slack-jawed in awe.
But from the intricately designed homes, the dock on the bay… how the nature surrounding the view and terrain were put into consideration instead of being plowed over— it certainly was no plainsville. Definitely not Bizville either, modern OR classic. It had life within it, detail. It was the kind of detail-rich place you’d take pictures of just to stare at later with amazement.
Taking it all in, The Player squinted against the sudden sunlight. The view of a jungle canopy giving way to a cluttered skyline, all woven wood towers and tilted red shingles— All rather beautiful in detail, vines crawled up everything like the town had grown with the trees instead of against them.
Not even places around Robloxia nowadays appear to be this pleasing to the eye, and that was saying something. The player’s eyes drifted over to the familiar figure beside them— Nearly jumping out of their skin from how quick she had appeared.
Kyoko. From plainsville. And already here without a scratch— Frankly, the player was a little jealous she had trotted here without a problem. Regardless, shaking away envy, The player gave a smile when she recognized them.
“Oh! Hey, man!” Kyoko gave a broad, warm laugh. Swinging her suitcase to her shoulder with an energy the player could only define as “lively,” before she continued talking, “I wouldn’t forget a face like that! Glad you could make it to Turitopulis!” Kyoko extended her arm, patting the player on the shoulder as if they were familiar friends.
When, well, they had met twice. The player resisted the urge to furrow their brows, not in irritation, but more in thought. The future wasn’t so distant, wasn’t it? Well, they knew Jerry had grandkids in the future— But he’s a penguin! Penguins have short lives. Perhaps they could have met Kyoko or… Red and Blue somewhere else in the future?
Give or take, a… decade, God. Red and Blue would be, their age? 20’s? This time-travel stuff was confusing to wrap their head around. Their train of thought was directed back to Kyoko when she had began talking again, “I’m really excited to explore the rainforest, I’ve heard the wildlife is super active this time of year!”
Yeah. The player winced, giving a pleasant smile to cover it up. Active.
“Oh! Oh–! And another thing—” Before Kyoko could continue, the panicked hollering of an elderly man reached across the terrain— The player whipping their head to see the commotion, and stumbling as the ground shook, pedestrians ducking for cover— Including Kyoko.
The player glanced back, wetting their lips in worry, before gripping their ball and trying to see where the old man was. Slowly they spotted him in the distance, appearance matching his voice— an old man, dangling in the distance like a fish on a hook, held upside down by the ankle, courtesy of one very irritated gorilla.
Of course. Another gorilla.
Well, might as well play good Samaritan. You fight one silverback, you fight them all… right? That’s how the saying went? Either way, the Player jogged toward the commotion, trying to brush off the pit of hesitation chewing at their gut.
They didn’t even bother checking their surroundings, a rookie mistake in hindsight—before they lobbed the ball at the gorilla’s hand, aiming for a cheap shot. It could’ve worked, too, if someone else hadn’t stepped into frame.
Pale. Wrapped in a chemical-green jacket. And topped off with the stupidest hat the Player had ever seen. The kind of fashion crime that screamed “cocky asshole” before the wearer even opened their mouth. And, judging by the vibe rolling off him, this had to be the so-called Griefer people kept spitting about.
In less than a second, One swing. Just one lazy swing of his crowbar—and the Player’s ball went skidding across the dirt with a sad little thunk. There went that plan. The player could only watch with disgruntled gaze as the ball rolled through the dirt before stopping at a rock.
And of course, their gaze flicked back to the smug expression of the assailant of their poor, poor ball. Now that they had a closer look at their face, it was not hard to discern the red eyes and almost bloody-hued fangs. All in that amused grin.
“L0L. Y0U TH0UGHT Y0U C0ULD PL4Y TH3 HER0?” Griefer chuckled, shouldering his crowbar, “D0N’T TRY 4NY FUNNY BUSINESS, PUNK!” He sneered. The Player didn’t bother responding. Threats didn’t crawl under their skin anymore, not after everything else they’d been through… But the guy’s voice was irritating enough to make their jaw clench.
“IF Y0U D0, I’LL BRE4K Y0 KNEEC4PS!” Was assumedly the second part of that ultimatum. It reminded the Player of Bizville’s nastiest types back in the 2010s… loud, petty, desperate to be important, maybe it was the bias, but they had always assumed it was worse back in the day. The jungle humidity made it worse, too. Their patience was wearing thin, and the bruises screaming across their arms weren’t helping.
“Look,” the Player finally sneered, hand brushing the hilt of their splintered sword, “I’ve got better things to do. If we gotta fight just to get this over with—”, Before they could finish, a finger was jabbed at their face, cutting them off.
“IF Y)U'RE T4LKING AB0UT TH4T PRECI0US SW0RD—” The griefer’s words came out rather mockingly, “IT’S MINE. 4ND HE,” He jabbed a finger at the elderly man still dangling upside down by the foot by the silverback, “IS G0ING T0 LE4D ME T0 IT..” Was what the Griefer had finished with.
Brilliant. Genius move, really.
So much for asking around, Mr. Smartypants over here just blurted out his entire plan.. The Player’s hand fell from their hilt, arms crossing instead as they gave him their most unimpressed look— Trying to ignore the bruising pain covering their arms at the moment. Apparently, wearing a jacket in the middle of a humid jungle is sweaty, unbearable, and sweaty as well, so. Frankly this entire situation was starting to grate on their body and mind.
“Ok, yeah. Good luck with that,” they spat back. A twitch of irritation flashed across his face before he turned away with a dismissive, “WH4TEVER. CY4, PUNK.” The gorilla lumbered after him on command, and just like that, they were gone.
For once, luck tilted in the Player’s favor—the old man’s pocket coughed up the keys to a nearby jeep as he stumbled. The Player stooped, wincing as their back groaned, and scooped them up with all the grace of a raccoon in a dumpster. Into the pocket they went. Before their eyes settled on their ball.
They nudged it back to them using their foot before carefully picking it up— And giving it a gentle squeeze. And only sighed in relief once it was clear the thing hadn’t been leaking air.
At least some things are in their favor today.
They exhaled a long breath, shoulders sagging. Maybe saving old men could wait. Right now? An inn. A bed. And a long, long sleep. They turned on their heel, finding their way to the massive building that resided amongst the many.
The lobby hardly made an impression on first glance, and neither did the entrance take much fanfare. The room was warmly lit with lanterns, and the clerk behind the counter didn’t even look up as tix were exchanged. Room key, room number, a grunt. That was all it took. No flourish, no sense of arrival. Just one more checkpoint in a long, dragging march. The turn and walk over to Room Two stretched too far for how short it really was, shoes scuffing against wood, each step heavier than the last. Their arm nearly gave out just slotting the key into the door, covered slightly by scarlet curtains.
The hinges whined as it opened. An oriented room greeted them, the faint smell of dust and some incense that hadn’t quite covered whatever came before. No thought spared to lights or luggage.
The door shut behind them with a thud that sounded final, like cutting themselves off from the world outside. They shuffled past the potted plants, set their backpack by the wardrobe, and glanced at the bedspread that would be disheveled in the matter of minutes. The room wasn’t much, but right now it was an island.
They collapsed onto the mattress, not even caring how the springs bit back against their spine. Their shoes stayed on, dirt pressed into the sheets; their jacket clung stubbornly to damp skin, cooling sweat turning the fabric into something more like a towel than clothing. It didn’t matter. The sheer relief of lying down was like drinking after a week of thirst. The ache in their legs began to sink into the bed, dragging their body down with it.
For a moment they just stared at the ceiling. Cracks zig-zagged through the wood like maps of places they’d never been. Their chest rose and fell too fast, still catching up with the travel, with the travel, with everything. In the quiet, their own breathing was too loud, echoing in their ears. Their mind, though, refused to slow down with their body. It circled back, stubbornly, to what had led them here. To the encounters that felt impossible, people long gone yet suddenly near, brushing shoulders with faces and legends they never thought they’d see. Meeting them had been like walking backward into history itself, only to realize it could hurt, bruise, exhaust you all the same.
And here they were now, the past now the present, sprawled across a mattress that smelled of herbs, shoes grinding grit into fabric, jacket sticking uncomfortably tight. Their body screamed for sleep, but their thoughts dragged them elsewhere—back to the moments replaying without reprieve, to the faces that felt half-imagined yet far too real. It was both comfort and curse: they were alive to have witnessed it, but living meant experiencing it too.
Ruminating was one hell of a drug. The Player had been told their whole life not to get lost within their own head, and yet every thought dragged them backward, into the 2010s.
All they could think about were the events that led them here. The little hotel they’d lived in, tucked between other stone buildings which lacked any color, where the gas station cashier had known their usual habits before he knew their name. The radio that always played the mumbling voice of Robloxia’s favorite newscaster, talking about updates, city expansions, and celebrity game devs with excited fervor. The tiny convention hall that smelled like stale carpet and plastic badges, where they’d wandered the booths hoping to see someone familiar, to find something that felt like belonging.
Stranger still that they’d ended up back in the hotel once again. Another room. Another bed. The same version of them staring at the ceiling, trying to remember who they were before all this started—before seeing that time traveler, before the bruises, before the world began to become so confusing in much simpler times.
They hadn’t lived in Bizville when they were younger, that was for sure. On second thought, they couldn’t even remember where they used to live. Maybe Bloxburg? Maybe one of the small suburbs near the High Schools? They couldn’t even recall their own age, or how much time had passed since they’d been… normal. Yet everything kept dragging them back to that decade like it was the only one that had ever really mattered.
Give or take around this time they’d be doing that adventuring thing with friends. Their names were fuzzy, but the Player always had this mental connection of relating their personalities to flavors. The bubbly was Rose, Mint and Apple were inseperable… Charcoal was gruff…
And personally, they always considered themselves… Plain. They didn’t shine, didn’t burn bright, they just… were. Background noise in someone else’s story, some other npc. Give or take now that idea has been run-through and into the grave.
But that’s how it’s been.
It’s confusing to ruminate on these sorts of matters. How did one go from dreaming about creative success to being some half-mythic hero out of a history book? Because not even a year ago, they’d been a nobody in a rented room, doodling designs for a game that would never be finished, drawing until the pen left grooves in the paper and their wrist ached.
They remembered the glow of their desk lamp, the half-eaten instant noodles beside it. The home mixing setup they never quite figured out, the rough tracks with too much bass and not enough heart. The weekends were spent surfing when the weather allowed with a board under arm, sun in their eyes, the simple change of waves reminding them that time could move without needing to matter.
They remembered chatting with strangers in Bizville, the friendliness that came easy to them. Little things that didn’t mean much then but now felt like relics from a world that had turned back the clock while they weren’t aware.
And all because they’d decided to go to a convention. One single, mundane decision, and now there was no one left to talk to, no home to return to, nothing left to do but fight, plan, and hoard their food— not for any time of leisure but just when they were practically starving or bruised.
‘
All because they had to go to the past.
All because they had to be a hero.
It was very confusing actually, in the regards of time travel. That penguin—Tutorial Terry, or… they guess “Old-Man Terry,” depending on when they met him, claimed to have known them for ages. Called them an old friend, even. In the context now, it made some sort of sense.
Terry had always been there for them, through game tutorials, quests, or just as a background constant in Robloxia’s weird little world. The Penguin’s brassiness had always been grating, but familiar. Comforting, even.
Still, the Player couldn’t help but doubt it. Were they really the kind of person who left that strong of an impression? They didn’t look like a savior. They looked like every other yellow, red, and blue noob—not exactly colors of legend. If anything, they looked like a retro wannabe of their current time.
Then comes… That statue. The, er, savior statue. No one’s ever been sure of who it was for. No one needed to. They’d walked by that plaque more times than they cared to admit, and the words had etched themselves into their mind:
“In honor of a savior's heart, courage, and bravery …”
“... to restore the peace of ROBLOXIA and its people …”
“... even in its most dire need.”
Those words have been circling their head since they got here. Because if their gut was right—and it usually was—then the statue was about them. A monument to a version of themselves they hadn’t yet become. A self-fulfilling destiny waiting for the right chapter to catch up.
They remained in the 2010s long enough to be remembered, carved in marble, immortalized in a world that had probably already forgotten their real name. And that realization split them in two.
Because it meant two things.
One comforting.
The other… horrifying.
It meant they would succeed, that their mission would be completed.
But it also meant they would possibly never make it home.
The Player exhaled sharply through their nose, burying their face in the inn’s squished, overwashed pillow. The thing smelled faintly of dust and something floral. Probably whatever detergent the place used to mask the used smell. They flipped it over, pressing the cool side against their face, muffling a long, guttural groan that came from somewhere deep within their exhausted body. It was almost comical how a room could feel so safe and so foreign at the same time. The mattress dipped unevenly beneath them, every spring groaning as it shared their misery.
For a moment, the Player just laid there—listening to the muffled hum of bugs outside the window, the creak of wooden beams settling with the night. Every thought they tried to ignore crept back in through the cracks. Time travel. Statues. Old friends who remembered them too well. Futures they didn’t want to fulfill. The pillow didn’t block the noise, or the thoughts.
It only held them there, trapped, until the silence started feeling heavier than sound.
They dragged the pillow tighter against their face, muttering into the fabric, “God, I hate this,” like the linen could absorb their frustration. The air was too hot, the bed too soft, and their thoughts too loud. Every second they spent in this timeline was another reminder of everything they couldn’t go back to, and everything they didn’t want to become.
They were starting to hate being here—not just in Turitopulis, not just in the 2010s, but in this version of themselves.
Hatred is a very powerful thing to ruminate on.