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The stale air in The burger man’s cabin hung heavy, each breath he took feeling like a struggle against an invisible weight.
Dust motes, like tiny, indifferent stars, danced in the sparse, anemic beams of sunlight that pierced through the grimy window, illuminating the disarray within. Empty wrappers and the skeletal remains of forgotten meals littered the small table, remnants of days blurring into one another, indistinguishable from the last.
He hadn't ventured outside in what felt like an eternity, the world beyond his broken door a chaotic symphony of fear and loss he simply couldn't face. He barely registered the passage of time, the sun rising and setting a distant, meaningless cycle. His existence had shrunk to the four walls of this small, suffocating space, a prison of his own making.
His stomach gnawed at him, a dull, insistent ache that intensified with every passing hour, a relentless predator within, its claws tearing at his insides. He ignored it, just as he ignored the frantic, hammering thumping of his heart against his ribs.
Hunger was a familiar companion now, a constant, physical reminder of his self-imposed solitude, his penance.
He was starving himself, he knew, a futile, pathetic attempt to punish himself, to feel something tangible amidst the suffocating numbness that had become his default state. Each pang of hunger was a self-inflicted wound, a small, controlled pain to distract from the gaping chasm within, a futile sacrifice to appease a grief that could never be satisfied.
He deserved this, he thought, this slow, agonizing dissolution
...
A sudden, sharp, searing pain lanced through his head, an ice pick to his temples, hot and cold simultaneously, and the cabin walls seemed to shrink, pressing in on him, suffocating him.
His breath hitched, turning into short, ragged gasps, each inhale a struggle, each exhale a choked sob, tasting like ash and despair. The corners of his vision blurred, a creeping, inky darkness encroaching from the periphery, consuming the edges of his awareness, and the familiar, terrifying sensation began to creep up his throat, a cold, icy tendril of dread, tightening its grip, squeezing the life out of him.
Panic.
It was a monster, always lurking in the shadows of his mind, waiting for the opportune moment to strike, to consume him whole, to tear him limb from limb. And strike it did, with a vengeance that stole the air from his lungs, the light from his eyes, the very sanity from his grasp.
It was a descent, slow and agonizing, into an abyss he knew all too well. His mind, a cruel, relentless tormentor, dragged him back to that day, that exact moment, replaying it with horrifying fidelity.
The day c00lkidd went missing. The frantic, desperate search, his voice hoarse from shouting his son's name into the indifferent silence, the echoes of "c00lkidd!" ringing in his ears, mocking him.
The gnawing dread, a corrosive acid eating away at his insides, twisting his stomach into knots, making him feel physically ill.
The desperate hope, a fragile, flickering flame, so small it barely registered, that flared and died with each fruitless hour that stretched into an eternity, each passing minute a crushing weight. He remembered the rain, a cold, relentless downpour mirroring the tears that streamed down his face, blurring his vision, making the world a watery, distorted mess, washing away his hope.
He remembered the deafening silence of the forgotten sector, a silence that screamed louder than any noise, a silence pregnant with foreboding, a silence that held a terrible truth.
007n7 saw it again, vivid, horrifying, as if it were happening right then, right there in the cabin, forcing his eyes open to witness the unspeakable. The small, lifeless form lying amidst the debris, a broken doll, discarded and forgotten.
c00lkidd.
His son. His beautiful, mischievous, brilliant son.
So full of life, now so utterly still. Gone.
A choked sob escaped his lips, raw and tearing, ripping through his throat, a sound he barely recognized as his own. The memory was a physical blow, a brutal punch to the gut, sending him reeling, doubling him over. His legs suddenly became useless and collapsed under him, unable to bear the weight of his despair as he staggered backwards.
He collided with the worn wooden wall with a dull thud, the impact barely registering through the haze of agony, and slid to the floor, his knees buckling beneath him, unable to support the weight of his despair.
He gasped for air, but his lungs refused to obey, tightening, squeezing, as if crushed by an invisible hand, leaving him breathless, suffocating. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, irregular drumbeat of terror, so loud he thought it might burst from his chest, shattering into a million pieces.
A suffocating pressure built in his chest, making it impossible to draw a full breath, each inhale shallow and unsatisfying. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, the world spinning around him, threatening to drag him down into an even deeper abyss of unconsciousness.
But even that offered no escape.
His devil-like tail
A part of him he rarely consciously acknowledged, lashed out uncontrollably behind him, a furious, panicked whip.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
It hit the wooden floor repeatedly, a dull, rhythmic thumping that echoed his racing heart, adding another layer to the cacophony of his internal torment. It was an uncontrollable outburst of sheer terror, a physical expression of his distress.
Desperate for an anchor, anything to keep him grounded in the here and now, to pull him back from the whirlpool of his memories and the edge of madness, he gripped his arms and fingers, trembling uncontrollably and digging into the flesh.
He squeezed, harder and harder, until at last the searing, sharp sting of pain broke through the debilitating fog, a brief moment of clarity amid the confusion.
But it wasn't enough. It was never enough.
He needed more. He needed to feel something other than this suffocating grief, this crushing emptiness. He needed proof that he was still alive, still capable of feeling.
His nails, ragged and untrimmed, began to tear at his skin, small, crescent-shaped marks blooming into angry crimson beads, then slowly, sickeningly, into thin, crimson lines. The blood, warm and sticky, seeped into the tattered fabric of his shirt, a stark, visceral contrast to the cold dread that permeated his very being, saturating his bones, chilling him to his core.
Each tear of skin was a confession, each drop of blood a penance. He continued to sob, a broken, guttural sound ripped from the depths of his soul, echoing in the silent cabin, mocking him, reverberating in his ears.
– c00lkidd… no… no… not again… not like this…" he whispered, his voice hoarse, a ragged plea to a cruel, indifferent universe, a prayer to a God he no longer believed in. Every sob caused his body to tremble uncontrollably, with every muscle screaming in protest.
However, the pain was a perverse comfort, a diversion from the unfathomable anguish of his loss, a tiny, manageable torment in a world that provided none.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he wished he could erase the pictures from his mind and forget about them. But there, in a never-ending, agonising cycle, they were burned.
He dragged his nails down his forearms, feeling the sting, watching the blood well up, a macabre painting on his skin. He needed to feel it, to feel something, anything, to prove he was still tethered to this horrific reality. The room began to spin faster, his breathing became even more shallow, and a desperate, animalistic whimpering escaped him, completely beyond his control.
── •✧• ──── •✧• ──
Outside,
The faint hum of life in the survivor encampment carried on, oblivious to the silent torment within 007n7’s cabin.
The rustle of leaves in the light wind, the clanking of tools, and the sounds of distant conversation all stand in sharp contrast to the internal storm that is raging just outside the wooden walls. Shedletsky, a figure of quiet strength and unwavering resolve, was making his rounds. His broad shoulders, usually relaxed, held a subtle tension as he surveyed the camp.
He was naturally inclined to see how the others were doing; this was a habit he developed from his time as a leader, a guardian, and a former admin who recognised the importance of responsibility — not just for code, but also for the well-being of people around him.
His keen ears, accustomed to the subtle nuances of the environment, picked up a faint, strained sound as he passed 007n7’s door.
It was a cry, muffled but distinct, laced with a raw anguish that sent a jolt of genuine concern through him, making his own heart clench in sympathy, a familiar ache for a pain he understood all too well.
He understands but never admitted it. He paused, his brow furrowed deeply in worry. 007n7 had been withdrawn for days, a shadow of his usual nervous self.
Shedletsky had noticed the untouched rations left outside his door, the perpetually darkened windows, the eerie lack of his usual shuffling footsteps or mumbled complaints.
He had given him space, understanding that grief was a deeply personal journey, one that often needed to be walked alone at first, to be processed in solitude.
But this sound.. This was different.
This was the unmistakable sound of a soul in profound, agonizing distress, a breakdown, a desperate plea for help that wasn't consciously being made. He raised a hand and knocked gently on the worn wooden door, his knuckles making a soft thud, a hesitant intrusion into what felt like a sacred, painful space.
– Seven? Are you alright in there?" he called out, his voice laced with gentle concern, an uncharacteristic softness that only those close to him ever heard.
Silence.
Only the ongoing, albeit now softer, more frantic sobs from within broke the heavy, pregnant silence that was thick with unsaid pain. They were the sounds of a man who was completely shattered, clinging to what little remained of himself after being splintered into a thousand pieces.
Shedletsky knocked again, a little louder this time, his movements becoming more urgent as his concern increased, "Seven, it's Shedletsky. Please, answer me. Let me in. I heard you."
Still nothing.
The sobs continued, growing fainter, more desperate, as if 007n7 were slipping further and further away, receding into an unreachable depth of despair. A cold knot of dread tightened in Shedletsky’s stomach.
He couldn't stand by while someone was in such agonizing pain, drowning in their sorrow, losing themselves to it. His instincts, honed over years of facing threats and defending the innocent, surged to the forefront, overpowering any hesitation, any thought of privacy.
The door had to come down.
– I'm coming in, Seven," he announced, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument, a statement of intent, a promise.
The admin braced himself, then with a powerful heave, he slammed his broad shoulder into the door.
The old, neglected wood groaned in protest, splintering with a sharp, sickening crack, tearing along its grain, and the door burst inward with a resounding crash, ripping free from its hinges and tumbling into the cabin, sending splinters flying.
The scene inside was heartbreaking, a tableau of utter despair that ripped at Shedletsky’s own heart. 007n7 was huddled on the floor, curled into a tight, trembling ball, almost fetal, his body shaking with convulsive sobs that racked his entire frame, uncontrollable tremors.
His hands were clutched to his arms, red streaks stark and horrifying against his pale, clammy skin, small beads of fresh blood welling from the self-inflicted wounds, glistening wetly in the dim, dusty light, a stark testament to his agony.
His face was contorted in a mask of pure agony – eyes squeezed shut, swollen and red, dark circles beneath them, tears streaming down his cheeks in endless rivulets, soaking his shirt, his hair matted to his forehead with sweat and tears and then Shedletsky noticed the devil-like tail thrashing erratically behind him, hitting the floor with dull, repetitive thuds, a violent punctuation to his silent suffering.
Shedletsky’s heart ached with a profound, almost physical, sympathy that hidden inside him for too long.
He understood this kind of pain, the kind that gnawed at your insides, the kind that made you feel like you were drowning in an ocean of grief, utterly alone, with no hope of reaching the surface.
He had felt it, too, in a different form, a different loss – the complex, heartbreaking loss of 1x1x1x1, a creation he had poured all his hatred into.
But still, he still sees them as a child in all but blood, and the devastating void it left behind, the crushing sense of responsibility and failure that came with it. But the raw ache, the soul-deep despair, was universal.
He stepped carefully over the broken door, his wings, usually kept folded neatly against his back, now instinctively unfurling slightly, a subconscious expression of his deep concern, radiating a gentle, comforting warmth into the cold, still air of the cabin.
He knelt beside 007n7, his movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to startle him further, to avoid exacerbating the fragile state he was in. His presence was calm, a stark contrast to the turmoil within the smaller Robloxian.
– Seven?" he said softly, his voice a gentle balm in the suffocating silence, a stark contrast to the earlier crash. He reached out a hand, hesitating for a fleeting moment, then gently placed it on 007n7's trembling shoulder.
The touch was light, comforting, a silent reassurance, an offering of solace, a lifeline. Though he didn't fully pull away, the man in front of him flinched violently at the contact, his body tensing and recoiling as if hit by a sudden blow, a primal reaction to an unexpected touch.
Even though his sobs were still tearing and ragged, there was a slight easing of the panic's suffocating hold, as though a tiny, invisible crack had appeared in his wall of despair. Although it still trembled, the furious thumping of his tail against the ground slowed and became less forceful.
– It's okay," Shedletsky murmured, his voice a low, soothing hum, a steady anchor in the storm that raged within 007n7. "You're safe.. I'm here. Just breathe, 007n7. Try to breathe with me."
He took a slow, exaggerated breath himself, hoping the man in front of him might subconsciously mirror it. Slowly, carefully, Shedletsky began to wrap his large, soft wings around 007n7.
The feathers, surprisingly warm and remarkably gentle, enveloped him in a protective cocoon, shielding him from the harsh reality of the outside world, from the perceived dangers that his tormented mind had conjured, from the crushing weight of his memories.
The soft rustle of the feathers, like a comforting whisper, the gentle pressure of the wings, was a tangible weight, a physical embrace that grounded him, a solid, undeniable reality amidst the swirling chaos of his thoughts.
The frantic wagging of the ex-exploiter's tail finally ceased, becoming still, resting against the floor within the warm enclosure of Shedletsky's wings. 007n7’s frantic, desperate breathing began to slow, the sharp, jagged edges of his panic attack blunted by Shedletsky’s calm, unwavering presence.
He still trembled uncontrollably, his body wracked with residual fear, but the immediate, soul-shattering terror began to recede, replaced by a profound, aching sorrow, a deep, weary sadness.
He leaned into the warmth, finding a strange, unexpected solace in the unexpected embrace, a comfort he hadn't known he desperately needed, a tiny spark of relief in the overwhelming darkness.
Shedletsky continued to hold him, whispering words of comfort, letting his presence be a steady, unwavering anchor in 007n7's storm-tossed mind. He didn't try to force explanations or offer platitudes, knowing that in moments like these, what was needed most was simply presence, understanding, and unconditional support.
He gently stroked 007n7’s back, a slow, rhythmic motion that further helped to calm his racing heart, to soothe the tumultuous ocean within him, to guide him back from the precipice.
Slowly, agonizingly, the violent shudders that racked 007n7's body began to subside, his muscles slowly relaxing their vice-like grip. His sobs lessened, though they didn't completely stop, dissolving into gasps and hiccups.
The panic attack was receding, leaving in its wake a profound, aching sorrow, a grief so deep it felt like a physical wound, an open, bleeding gash in his soul. He finally opened his eyes, red-rimmed and swollen from endless tears, eyes that held the pain of a thousand lifetimes, and looked up at Shedletsky, his gaze unfocused, lost, like a child adrift at sea, desperately seeking a lighthouse.
– He's gone," 007n7 whispered, his voice barely audible, choked with grief, raw and broken, a mere thread of sound. "He's gone.. I lost him. I lost C00lkidd.." The name was a lament, a curse, a prayer.
Tears streamed anew down his face, though they were no longer frantic, but slow and heavy, each one a testament to the unbearable depth of his pain, each one a silent lament for a future stolen, a life unlived.
He clutched at Shedletsky’s shirt, his grip surprisingly strong despite his weakened, exhausted state, as if Shedletsky were his last link to sanity.
– I miss him. I miss him so much. So, so much.. Every single day. It hurts… it hurts so bad."
He kept muttering c00lkidd's name, a litany of sorrow, a heartbroken lament for a love lost too soon, a name etched onto his very soul, an unceasing echo in the hollow chambers of his heart. "My son… my boy… what did I do? What did I do wrong?"
The admin listened, his heart heavy, a familiar ache mirroring 007n7's anguish. He didn't need elaborate explanations. He understood.
He had known loss, a unique and complex loss of a creation he had poured his hatred into, but he still see them as his own child in all but blood, and the devastating void it left behind, the crushing sense of responsibility and failure that came with it. He knew the hollow ache, the constant yearning for what once was, the phantom limb of a love violently severed, leaving an unbearable emptiness.
But the raw ache, the soul-deep despair, was universal.
He gently tightened his wings around 007n7, pulling him a little closer, offering the silent, profound comfort of shared understanding, of a burden eased simply by being acknowledged.
– I know," Shedletsky said, his voice a low, empathetic rumble, a balm to 007n7's wounded soul. "I know it hurts. More than anything. A loss like that… it changes you. It leaves a mark that never truly fades."
He didn't say "it'll be okay," because he knew sometimes, in the face of such profound grief, it wasn't. Sometimes, the pain stayed, a dull, persistent ache that simply became a part of you, a shadow that followed you always, a silent companion.
But he could offer solace, a shared burden, a moment of reprieve, a gentle hand to guide him through the darkness. The admin continued to hold 007n7, letting him cry, letting him grieve without judgment, without interruption, allowing the torrent of emotions to finally pour out.
There was no need for words, only the quiet comfort of presence, the profound understanding that flowed between them, a silent communication of empathy. He felt 007n7's body gradually relax against his, the tension slowly bleeding out of him, replaced by the heavy exhaustion of grief, as if years of unshed tears were finally being released. The sobs eventually faded into quiet sniffles, then into the soft, even breathing of sleep, the deep, restorative sleep of utter emotional exhaustion.
Overwhelmed by the emotional turmoil, the burger man finally succumbed to unconsciousness, his head resting heavily against Shedletsky's shoulder, a fragile peace settling over him, a temporary escape from his torment.
The admin remained still, a statue of compassion, unmoving, not daring to shift, not wanting to disturb the fragile peace that had finally descended upon 007n7.
He looked down at the burger-donning Robloxian, his expression one of profound, quiet compassion, a softness rarely seen. He noticed the dried tears on 007n7's cheeks, streaks marking his skin, the subtle tremors that still occasionally ran through his frame even in sleep, ghosts of the recent storm.
He gently adjusted his wings, ensuring 007n7 was as comfortable as possible, a warm, protective embrace against the cold harshness of reality, a silent promise of steadfast support, a silent vigil. He carefully extracted one arm from beneath 007n7, stretching slowly to avoid disturbing him.
With a quiet rustle, he reached into his own satchel, pulling out a roll of clean bandages and a small, antiseptic wipe.
Gently, with the utmost care, he began to clean the self-inflicted wounds on his forearms. He dabbed away the dried blood, his movements precise and tender, his brow furrowed with concern.
The skin was raw, red, and angry, but he worked patiently, applying the cool, stinging antiseptic before carefully wrapping the white bandages around each arm, securing them with gentle precision.
He made sure not to bind them too tightly, just enough to protect the fragile skin. It was a small act of kindness, a silent testament to his care, performed while 007n7 remained lost in the depths of his much-needed sleep.
He knew that the man wouldn't remember it, but it was important nonetheless.
He then settled back into his previous position, carefully re-enveloping 007n7 within his wings, resuming his silent vigil. He remained motionless as the minutes turned into hours, his own fatigue a far-off thought, overshadowed by his fellow survivor's more urgent need.
The steady rise and fall of 007n7's chest against his was a comforting indication that he was still alive and breathing. He was aware that the void would not magically fill and that the burning pain would not go away even when 007n7 woke.
But maybe, just maybe, this silent communion, this shared moment of vulnerability, would be a first step towards healing, a tiny crack in the impenetrable wall of grief that would let a sliver of light in.
── •✧• ──── •✧• ──
The first rays of morning light, pale and hesitant, crept into the cabin, painting the disarray in soft, ethereal hues, gently chasing away the shadows of the long night. The air, though still stale, felt lighter, imbued with a fragile hope.
007n7 stirred.
A soft groan escaping his lips as he slowly began to resurface from the depths of his exhaustion-induced sleep, a profound weariness settling deep in his bones. His head felt heavy, his body sore, aching in protest from the previous night's ordeal, and a dull, persistent ache throbbed behind his eyes, a phantom echo of the tears he had shed.
The memory of the previous night, a terrifying kaleidoscope of grief and despair, slowly began to filter back into his consciousness, like a distant, painful echo, but softened, somehow, by the dawn.
He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind, to make sense of his surroundings, and then he felt it. A warmth against his side, a gentle, comforting pressure, and the soft, distinctive rustle of something large and feathery.
A sense of peace, unexpected and profound, washed over him.
He slowly opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was an expanse of soft, comforting yellow, a vibrant hue against the drab, splintered wood of the cabin walls. He looked up, his gaze traveling from the warm feathers, past a powerful arm, to a familiar figure beside him.
Shedletsky.
He was still there, unwavering, his head resting against the splintered wall, his own eyes closed in peaceful sleep, his breathing deep and even. His large wings were still there, still wrapped around 007n7, a comforting, protective barrier that had shielded him from the world, and from himself, from the very demons of his mind.
He looked peaceful, his usual serious expression softened by the tranquility of slumber, a rare glimpse into a softer side of the stoic admin. The sight filled the ex-hacker with an unfamiliar, profound sense of gratitude.
A strange warmth spread through 007n7's chest, a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long, long time.
It wasn't happiness, not exactly, but something akin to peace, a profound sense of security and belonging. It was the feeling of not being utterly alone.
He recalled the reassuring hug, the silent comprehension that had surpassed words, the silent, resolute assistance that had rescued him from the edge of his hopelessness, and the support that had held him when he felt like he was about to break. The admin hadn't offered him meaningless platitudes, tried to fix him, or passed judgement on him.
He had just been there, a beacon in his darkest hour, a firm, immobile presence in his storm.
He glanced down at his arms. To his surprise, the raw, bleeding wounds were gone. Instead, his forearms were neatly wrapped in clean, white bandages, pristine against his skin.
A soft gasp escaped him.
Shedletsky must have done it. While he was asleep. A new wave of emotion — this time one of overwhelming gratitude rather than pain—was brought on by the silent act of care, which was given without expecting anything in return or even requiring acknowledgement.
A tiny, brittle smile touched 007n7's lips. He did not want this moment to pass.
He didn't want to disturb the fragile calm that had descended upon him — the first real calm he had experienced in months — or break the spell of quiet comfort that surrounded them.
He just wanted to stay like this, safe within the embrace of those warm wings, shielded from the harsh realities that awaited him outside, from the relentless ache of his loss, from the memories that still lurked, but felt, for now, at bay.
He shifted slightly, just enough to get a little more comfortable, to snuggle deeper into the comforting warmth, drawing strength from the silent presence beside him.
And then, with a sigh that was almost content, almost peaceful, he closed his eyes again. He let the warmth of Shedletsky's presence lull him back into a gentle slumber, a deeply needed rest, a true respite.
For the first time in a long, agonizing time, he felt a flicker of hope, a tiny, defiant spark in the vast, overwhelming darkness, that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have to face everything alone.
Perhaps, with a friend (?) by his side, the weight of his grief wouldn't be quite so unbearable, and the path to healing, though long and arduous, might not be walked entirely in solitude.
He drifted off, the image of those soft wings, a symbol of unexpected solace, etched into his mind.
...
Dust motes dance in faded light,
A prisoner's sigh, a endless night.
Hunger's claw, a searing pain,
Echoes of a name, a pouring rain.
A father's grief, a memory's sting,
The broken doll, the lost sweet thing.
Panic's grip, a suffocating fear,
For c00lkidd, gone, held ever dear.
Then gentle knock, a whispered call,
A door that splintered, destined to fall.
Warm wings unfurled, a golden hue,
A silent promise, strong and true.
No words were needed, only grace,
A shared sorrow, a tranquil space.
The dawn now breaks, a fragile light,
A friend's embrace in endless night.
✧