Chapter Text
Tick
Tick
Tick
Tick
The sound of a clock ticking echoed suddenly in Chance’s head. Ah… the round’s about to end, he thought. You’d assume a guy who wears unplugged headphones every day wouldn’t be bothered by something like that. But here’s the funny thing—the sound isn’t really there. Not physically, at least. Maybe he’s gradually losing it. Or maybe it’s just something this twisted realm does to its inhabitants. Chance isn’t sure which it is. Either way, having a literal internal clock isn’t the worst thing. He glanced down at his trembling right hand, gripping the coin that would decide his fate for the rest of the match. He was in bad shape, maybe his health was about somewhere near 43% if he had to guess, due taking a couple of solid hits from good ol’ Jason. But hey it bought Elliot and Noob enough time to escape safely. Gotta admit, that damn killer never pulled his punches. But y'know what? so does Chance baby, as he managed to shoot him dead in the noggin, buying himself enough time to make a getaway too. Because after all, he wasn’t like Guest or Shedletsky—those guys could handle close-range fights like pros. Chance preferred to keep his distance, lining up a clear shot from afar. Always have an out, always keep the odds in your favor. That’s how he survived. And so he flipped the coin again once he knows that the coast is clear.
It landed on heads.
Twice more he flipped it, grimacing when one of the tosses landed on tails. But the additional coin toss landed on heads again. Good. That’s exactly what he needed. Three heads already without too much weakness stacking up, the odds were in his favor… for now. It never hurts to be cautious. He was a seasoned gambler, he knew better than to go all-in every time. Lady Luck had a fickle way of turning her back when you needed her most, especially when you’re limping around at less than 50% health. Slipping the coin into his suit pocket, he glanced around. The environment was eerily empty. Sure, the map was big, and this match doesn't have a lot of survivors that took part in, but this felt off. He hadn’t seen anyone in the last few minutes. Strange. But whatever the round was almost over. Besides, he hadn’t felt that unsettling shift in the air that happened when another survivor was killed and the timer extended. Everything should be fine… right?
Right?
He barely finished the thought when a shrill scream tore through the air, echoing from somewhere near the mansion.
Well, shit.
Not long after, just as Chance barely set foot inside the mansion, he felt it—that eerie shift in the air.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The timer had been extended. Someone's dead. And that didn’t bode well, oh not one bit. The round had been seconds away from ending, but now? Now, he’d have to survive even longer. Unless he got his ass near the killer and stalled him long enough for the others to escape, things were about to spiral fast. But as if on cue, another shout echoed through the mansion. But this time, it wasn’t the sound of someone dying, it was the unmistakable cry of someone still fighting to survive. Chance didn’t need to be reminded twice. He bolted deeper into the mansion, flintlock gripped tightly in his hand, index finger hovering just shy of the trigger. The cold metal felt heavier than usual, its weight a bitter reminder of how many times he’d gambled with his life—and won. But Lady Luck wasn’t always kind. Slowing his pace, he pressed himself against a wall, peeking around the corner with cautious precision.
Shit.
There was Elliot, sprinting down the hall with Jason hot on his heels. The killer’s machete gleamed under the dim, flickering lights, and Chance’s stomach twisted. This was bad. Real bad. Elliot was their only healer this match, they couldn’t afford to lose him. But keeping his composure in-check. Chance inhaled deeply, steadying his nerves despite his body protesting to him. His grip tightened on the flintlock as he stepped out from cover, raising the weapon with practiced precision. But just as he was about to pull the trigger, it was too late. Jason closed the distance in a blink. Elliot’s stamina gave out, his steps faltering just as the machete plunged clean through his torso. The sound that followed was a sickening mix of metal slicing flesh and Elliot’s choked gasp. Blood bubbled from his lips, his throat making a grotesque gurgling sound before the light faded from his eyes.
His body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.
Chance stood frozen, heart pounding in his chest, the weight of his failure pressing down on him harder than the trigger ever could. And with a weary stare he looked up at the killer with ragged breath, his composure wilting. Hand gripping the flintlock aimed at the killer even tighter than before as the weapon creaks, threatening its owner it just might break from his grip alone. "Yo-you.. YOU! Fucking bastard I'm gonna—!" but before he could continue the sentence, he stopped himself. Gulping down his rage and fear and sprinted off. It's not a good strategy to vent at a person who is gonna target you next in their who-to-kill list. And wasting the bullet just like that when he's not in any immediate danger is just purely irresponsible. He had to make distance, fast. And if he can't make that distance, he'll just have to give this son of a bitch of a killer a run for his damn fucking money. He just needs to survive 1 minute and 40 seconds, he can do this.
He can.
One step. Two steps. And he’s off.
As expected, the moment Chance bolted out of the mansion’s vicinity, Jason followed close behind.
'So we’re really doing this, huh?' Chance grimaced internally. 'Got no choice—gotta distract this fucker as long as I can.' Mindful of his stamina, he weaved and dodged the killer’s relentless swings, narrowly avoiding each brutal arc of that blood-stained machete. His breath came in sharp bursts, but his mouth never stopped.
“Aww, you missed, buddy! What, can’t hit me? You’re losing your edge~!”
It wasn’t the brightest idea to taunt the killer, but hell—it was working. The rage in Jason’s movements was palpable, each swing becoming sloppier, more desperate. And as Chance expected, the taunts only fueled that fury. Jason’s next swing came down hard, missing Chance by inches as he vaulted over a finished generator at the last second. The machete struck metal with a loud clang, sending vibrations up the killer’s arm. Chance didn’t stick around to enjoy the moment, he darted around the corner, taking a sharp turn.
'Where the fuck is Guest when you need him?! Holy shit—!' His mind screamed as loudly as his legs burned from exertion. He sprinted across the bridge, his heart pounding when the graveyard came into view. Good. This is a decent looping spot. He could make use of the gravestones and narrow paths to buy more time. But just as the thought crossed his mind, his foot caught on a loose stone.
He stumbled.
That split-second mistake cost him dearly.
A searing pain tore through his back as Jason’s machete found its mark. Chance’s scream echoed through the night, raw and guttural. The blade sliced deep, sending him sprawling onto the grass. His hands clawed at the dirt, trying to anchor himself against the overwhelming agony. His fedora almost toppled off, sunglasses knocked askew, but he didn’t bother fixing them. Not now. Not when he was this close to death’s door. His vision blurred, dark spots creeping into the corners of his eyes as blood soaked into the earth...hell? beneath him. The pain from the new wound mingled with his other injuries, becoming unbearable.
'This isn’t good. Not good at all.'
'Am I really about to fail… again? ' The weight of it crushed him more than the wound itself. 'I already failed a couple of my teammates. I can’t… I can’t…'
Jason loomed above him, a towering figure that is going to be his executioner, his gaze cold and unfeeling, like Chance was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. The killer raised his machete high, ready to deliver the final blow. Chance didn’t even have time to close his eyes, still kept that grin of his despite his death is imminent, keeping up his faltering poker face. His expression twitching every few nanoseconds or so as he grew somewhat manic at the fact that this round was going to ruin his win-streak. But just as the blade began to descend, a shout rang out then and a blur of blue shot into his peripheral vision.
THUD!
Jason was knocked sideways, stumbling from the sudden impact. Chance’s breath hitched, his mind barely processing what had just happened.
Someone had come for him.
Someone had saved him.
“CHANCE! Come on, get up!”
The soldier’s voice was fierce, cutting through the fog of pain clouding Chance’s mind. Guest dropped to one knee, grabbing the weakened survivor and hauling him upright. Chance stumbled, barely catching his footing, but Guest’s firm grip anchored him in place. He took a shaky breath, his wide eyes locking onto his savior’s face before flicking over Guest’s shoulder. Jason was already on the move, regaining his footing and striding toward them with murderous intent. Once Chance found some stability, Guest gave him a sharp nod and shoved him backward, positioning himself squarely between the killer and Chance. “I’ll hold him off. You need to get as far away as you can,” Guest ordered, his voice steady and unwavering. Chance couldn’t help but feel a flicker of awe. This guy… Guest was truly one of the best sentinels among them. Hell, the best. The sheer disregard for his own safety in favor of protecting a teammate—that was something rare. Admirable, even. And Chance wasn’t the type to care about that sentimental crap. Still, he nodded, legs twitching to sprint. But before he took off, he stole one last glance at Guest. Even though the soldier didn’t look nearly as disheveled as Chance, it was obvious the strongest among them was struggling too. His movements weren’t as sharp, and his posture sagged just a bit.
He’s probably under 50% health, too…
“What are you waiting for?! GO!” Guest’s roar snapped Chance from his thoughts. Jason was almost on them. Chance forced his legs into motion, but as he moved, Jason swerved around Guest, making a beeline straight for him. The soldier grunted, lunging forward. He grabbed Jason by the collar and yanked him back, halting the killer’s progress. “Oh no, you fucking don’t—!” Guest snarled, blocking a wild machete swing with his forearm. He countered with a quick parry and drove his fist into Jason’s head. The force of the punch nearly dislodged Jason’s mask, stunning him. Afterwards Guest’s eyes darted toward Chance—and his expression twisted with frustration when he saw the other sentinel still hadn’t run.
“What the HELL are you doing?! Didn’t I tell you to GO?! NOW!”
But Chance couldn’t move. He couldn’t.
He’d failed too many teammates this match. Failed to fulfill his role. Watching Guest throw himself into danger like that... maybe Chance hadn’t been doing what he was best at.
Gambling his life away.
Jason recovered faster than expected. With a guttural snarl, he lunged again, fully intent on ending both of them right then and there. Guest braced himself, body blocking Jason’s relentless attacks. But whether it was due to his injuries or a rare miscalculation, Guest slipped. Jason seized the opening, grabbing him by the neck and slamming him to the ground. The machete raised high, moonlight gleaming off the few clean patches of its blood-streaked blade.
But Chance was quicker.
He dropped into a shooting stance, fingers tightening around his flintlock. His bullet was still fully stacked from before—the odds were in his favor. He knew that the flintlock still has a chance of shooting a blank or exploding in his face despite it being fully stacked, but honestly? He didn’t care. Even with his health at rock bottom. Not when Guest was about to die because of his failures again.
“Jackpot.”
Chance pulled the trigger. The flintlock shout out, the sound piercing the night air. The bullet didn’t hit Jason’s head—his hands were trembling too much—but it struck true enough to send the killer staggering, momentarily stunned.
That was all Chance needed. He rushed forward, grabbing Guest and yanking him out of Jason’s grip. They both stumbled back.
Tick
Tick
Tick
Tick
The countdown echoed in their heads as the round’s end neared. Jason let out a guttural howl, stumbling toward them again. But before Chance could fully retreat, the machete found its mark. The blade sliced into his midsection. Chance’s scream was wordless, raw, his breath hitching as he hacks out the blood that has been building up inside his mouth. He gasped, hacking up more blood, his body crumpling.
“CHANCE!” Guest’s voice broke, filled with panic as he scrambled to catch his teammate’s limp body.
The clock’s relentless ticking grew louder in Chance’s ears as his vision blurred.
I really fucked up, didn’t I?
His hand, shaking and bloodied, reached out toward Guest’s face.
And then—darkness.
The final tick echoed, signaling the end of the round just before Chance’s life fully slipped away.
The match’s winners: the survivors.
It had been a good hour or so when the survivors claimed another victory due to two survivors lasting until the very end of the match, the ones who died had once again been revived and their injuries were already automatically healed as if nothing happened. However as for the ones that survived last match and teleported into the lobby…
"Chance, stay still. I can’t patch you up if you keep squirming like that," muttered Elliot, his voice low but firm. The former Builder Brother's Pizza employee worked with a quiet focus, gently unwrapping another bandage from the medkit and securing it around Chance's bruised, exposed midsection. His fingers were steady, despite the chaos they'd just experienced.
"Ugh... how can I sit still when you— OW!"
Elliot tugged the bandage just tight enough to make a point. It wasn’t enough to worsen the pain, but enough to remind Chance who was in control here. His touch was gentle, but his patience wasn’t limitless.
"O—kay, okay... I get it. Sorry for being ungrateful.. sheesh" Chance grumbled, finally resigning himself to stillness. But every brush against his tender ribs felt like fire beneath his skin. Despite his complaints, Chance knew better than to question Elliot’s skill. For someone whose past life revolved around pizza orders and late-night deliveries, Elliot’s meticulous care was something to be thankful for in this nightmare of a reality. In a roster full of whackjob survivors, at least he was one of the few who knew how to handle a medkit. Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the crackle of the indoor fireplace and the soft rustle of bandages. Once satisfied, Elliot secured the final wrap and gave Chance’s uninjured shoulder a light pat. "There. That should hold. I’m no medic, but it’s better than nothing..." Elliot muttered, offering a hand to help Chance to his feet. Chance grunted, leaning into the shorter survivor for a moment longer than necessary until he found his balance. As soon as he did, he shrugged off the support, limping toward the main cabin’s door without a word. The unprecedented action caught Elliot off guard, and he quickly closed the distance, placing a hand on Chance's shoulder to stop him.
"Hey—where the hell are you going? You’re still banged up man! You should rest here, at least until we know when the next match is. Could be any minute." The gambler let out a weary sigh, the weight of exhaustion clear in his voice. "That’s exactly what I’m tryin’ to do, pizza boy. One of those small cabins outside’s gotta be empty. Reckon they’ve got a bed, or somethin’ soft to lay on." Elliot frowned, unsure. Yes, the outer cabins were quieter, but wouldn’t the warmth of the fire and the company of familiar faces be better than solitude? The main cabin was rarely loud—just the occasional quiet chatters from other survivors, a fragile reminder that they were still alive. But maybe that wasn’t what Chance needed right now. "Well... you’re not wrong," Elliot admitted reluctantly. "But at least take one or two pizzas with y—"
"Nah, keep it," Chance cut him off, waving a hand dismissively. "Give it to the big guy."
And with that, Chance limped out into the perpetual night, his silhouette shrinking as he made slow, stubborn strides toward one of the empty cabins. Elliot stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching his friend disappear into the darkness with a frustrated sigh. But Chance wasn’t the only stubborn one here. “Hmph!” Elliot huffed, grabbing the box of pizza he left on a nearby desk. Determined, he stepped forward, intent on following the gambler to ensure he ate something. But before he could leave the cabin, a bandaged arm shot out, blocking his path. Elliot blinked and looked up—way up—into the grim face of Guest. The tall sentinel’s expression was almost unreadable, shadows clinging to the hard lines of his face. For a long second, they just stood there, the silence heavy between them. Then Guest let out a low sigh and dropped his arm from the doorframe once he had Elliot’s full attention.
“Could you…” Guest’s voice was somewhat hesitant, edged with exhaustion. “Hand over the box to me instead? I’ll make sure he eats.”
Elliot’s frustration melted into relief. He perked up, thrusting the pizza box into Guest’s hands with a grin. “Sure thing. When it comes to talking sense into that guy, I think you do a better job than I do.” He gave Guest a pointed look before adding, “But hey, make sure you eat some too. We’re gonna need you in tiptop shape.” Guest gave a slight nod, the closest thing to a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Without another word, he turned and followed after Chance, his long strides eating up the distance. And as soon as Guest’s face was out Elliot's of view, any hint of warmth vanished. His expression settled back into that neutral, unreadable mask, the weight of something pressing down on his shoulders as he followed Chance fairly quickly.
Hearing the extra pair of footsteps behind him, Chance perked up slightly but didn’t bother to look back. He already knew who it was. When he reached the door of the outer cabin, he swung it open with little care and didn’t bother closing it. Someone else would take care of that for him—he would take care of that.
Right on cue, the heavy thud of boots followed him inside, the wooden floor creaking beneath their combined weight. Chance didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge the presence behind him as he drifted deeper into the room. Behind him, there was the soft thud of the pizza box being set on the nearest flat surface, and then… silence. It didn’t take long before Guest’s footsteps resumed, steady and sure, crossing the space between them. Still, Chance made no move to react. His back remained turned, eyes fixed on the blank wooden walls ahead, as if they held the answers to questions he was too afraid to ask. Minutes passed like that. The silence stretched between them, taut and fragile, teetering on the edge of something neither of them wanted to name. It was starting to feel awkward, even embarrassing, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on both of them. Just as Chance opened his mouth to break the silence, he felt it, the warmth of Guest’s presence suddenly closer, the solid weight of arms wrapping around him from behind. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hesitant. Those protective arms circled him with a gentleness that almost didn’t match the hardened soldier they belonged to, firm enough to ground him but soft enough to remind him he wasn’t alone. Guest’s head rested lightly against Chance’s uninjured shoulder, his breath slow and steady, as if anchoring them both in this moment. They stood there, locked in that quiet embrace, for a few more seconds—seconds that felt like both an eternity and not nearly long enough. Finally, Chance’s voice broke through the stillness.
“I’m sorry. I worried you, didn’t I?”
But Guest didn’t respond. No nod. No hum. Nothing.
Just the steady rhythm of his breathing against Chance’s shoulder, as if his silence spoke louder than any words ever could.
The silence stretched on, heavier now, settling between them like a weight neither of them wanted to lift. Chance could feel it—the tension coiled in Guest’s arms, the unspoken words that hovered just behind his steady breathing. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t disappointment. It was something deeper, something that sat in the space between fear and frustration. Chance let out a shaky breath, his fingers twitching at his sides. He wanted to say more. Needed to. But the words felt stuck, caught in his throat like the pain from earlier that still throbbed beneath the surface. Just when he thought Guest might never respond, he felt a subtle shift. Guest’s arms tightened, just slightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure Chance felt it.
“You’re an idiot,” Guest finally muttered, his voice is also low, like gravel grinding against steel. But there was no venom in his words, just a quiet exhaustion, the kind that comes from caring too much for someone too reckless to care for themselves. Chance let out a dry chuckle, though it hurt more than he expected. “Yeah… I guess I am.” Guest finally pulled back, just enough to turn Chance around and face him. His eyes, now without the clear combat visor, usually so guarded and unreadable, were now stormy with something raw—fear, anger, relief—all tangled together in a way that made Chance’s chest tighten. “You could’ve died, Chance,” Guest said, as his face deadpans. “Again.”
The words didn't really hit that hard, but it still got Chance to drop his gaze, unable to meet other sentinel's intense stare. “I know,” he whispered. “But I couldn’t just leave you there. Not after everything. Plus, even if I did die, we all get revived every new matches.”
Guest’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking in frustration. “That wasn’t your call to make.”
Chance finally looked up, meeting Guest’s gaze with a stubborn fire in his own. “And what, it was your call to throw yourself at Jason like that? You think I’d just run and leave you behind? After all the times you’ve had my back?”
Guest exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand down his own scarred face. “That’s different.”
“No,” Chance shot back, his voice steady despite the pain still radiating through his body. “It’s not.” the room fell into silence again, the weight of their words hanging heavy in the air. But this time, it wasn’t awkward. It was something else—something unspoken but understood. After a moment, Guest sighed, his shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of him. “You’re impossible, you know that?” Chance allowed a small, tired smug smile to tug at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. But you keep coming back for more.”
Guest rolled his eyes, thoroughly done with Chance’s bullshit. Letting out what felt like his thousandth exasperated sigh of the day, he nudged Chance toward the bed with a firm but gentle shove. Without a word, he started peeling away the gambler’s accessories—first the fedora, then the headphones, treating them with surprising care for someone usually so rough around the edges.
Normally, Chance wouldn’t let anyone lay a finger on his (admittedly expensive) stuff, but this time? He let Guest have his way. He owed him that much, after all. Shrugging off his ruined suit coat—probably gonna stitch itself back together before the next round starts anyway—Chance tossed it aside without a second thought. Guest followed suit, unstrapping his bulletproof vest with the same careless ease before kicking off his combat boots. With a sigh, he sank down next to Chance, waiting patiently as the gambler worked off his own shoes. Once that was done, Guest leaned forward, his hands firm on Chance’s shoulders as he eased him down onto the bed. Careful of the injuries marring Chance’s back, he positioned him to lie on his side, making sure he was comfortable. The only thing left was the gambler’s sunglasses. Guest reached out, fingers grazing the frames—but Chance jerked his head back slightly.
“I wanna keep that on just a little longer, man.”
Guest raised an eyebrow but relented with a small shrug. “Alright. If you say so.”
Satisfied, Chance flashed a wide grin, that familiar glint returning to his eyes. Before Guest could say anything else, Chance leaned in and kissed him. At first, it was soft, almost tentative—a simple gesture of gratitude, maybe. But that wasn’t enough. Seconds stretched, and Chance wanted more. He deepened the kiss, tilting his head for better access, savoring the warmth of the connection. A low groan rumbled from Guest’s chest, and that reaction sent a jolt of giddy pride through Chance.
Gotcha.
Smirking against the kiss, Chance started to slide his hands up, fingers aiming for Guest’s shoulders—but then, suddenly, Guest pulled back. Chance blinked, disoriented by the abrupt loss of contact. He clicked his tongue in irritation. “Hey… what was that for? It was getting good.” Guest just gave him a look, one brow arched in that are-you-serious-right-now? way of his. He shook his head, voice firm but gentle. “You’re still injured, Chance. It’s best we don’t do these kinds of activities when you’re supposed to be recovering.” Chance furrowed his eyebrows at that, lips curling into a pout that was equal parts annoyed and mischievous. That certainly WON’T do.
Without warning, he gave Guest a light shove, pushing the soldier backward until his back hit the mattress with a soft thud. Before Guest could protest, Chance was already on him—straddling his waist, his hands pressing firmly against the soldier’s chest to keep him pinned down. “And I’m in need of a distraction,” Chance purred, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a low, teasing whisper. “I don’t exactly like the feeling of pain, so could you please entertain me for just a bit… please?” His words dripped with mock innocence, but the glint behind his sunglasses told a different story. That stupid fucking glasses, always giving him that infuriatingly cocky edge, as if daring Guest to refuse him. Guest’s jaw tightened, his hands instinctively gripping Chance’s thighs, muscles flexing beneath his gloves. “Chance…” he warned, his voice rough, voice heavily restrained, “You’re not making this easy.”
“That’s the point, soldier boy.” Chance grinned wickedly, rolling his hips just enough to make his intentions crystal clear. The friction was subtle but deliberate, sending a shiver down Guest’s spine. “Come on… You gonna let some injury stop me? you?”
Guest’s breath hitched, his self-control slipping by the second. His fingers dug into Chance’s thighs, not hard enough to leave marks, but he still didn’t flip the tables—not yet. His gaze darkened, his restraint a thin, fraying thread.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Guest hissed out
“And you love it.” Chance’s grin widened, leaning down until their lips were barely a breath apart. “Now, are you gonna help me forget the pain or am I gonna have to convince you?”
That was the final straw. With a sharp, fluid motion, Guest surged upward, giving the gambler exactly what he wanted. The gambler let out a surprised gasp at the kiss, but it quickly turned into a laugh—breathy, exhilarated, inviting. “You’re impossible,” Guest muttered again into the kiss, his voice low and rough, and when they briefly parted his eyes burned with something—something that sent a thrill racing through Chance’s veins. “Yeah?” Chance whispered, his grin softening just a fraction. “But you wouldn’t have me any other way.”
Guest didn’t reply—not with words, that is.