Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Enhanced vision through darkness was rare among Robloxians—almost mythical.
But for deities, it was nothing more than another useless trick, an instinct they barely noticed. What mortals considered impossible, gods overcame with the same ease one breathes.

And there he stood: Telamon, mighty and immovable, swallowed by a darkness so thick it felt alive.

He welcomed it.

The dark wrapped around him like an old cloak, softening the world, quieting everything but his own thoughts. It was comfort. Focus. The closest thing he had to peace.

Black was emptiness, yet full of symbolism: pain, mourning, hatred, impurities…But for Telamon, beneath all of that, the color whispered only one thing—

Destruction.

The beginning of the next stage: renovation, reconstruction, recycling. Creation always began with something being broken first.

Robloxia was reaching its peak in popularity, but beneath the surface the world was rotting. Forgotten belongings clogged the streets. Memories of the dead gathered dust inside houses no one entered anymore. Experiences, possessions, lives left behind—stacked, decaying, suffocating the land.

To Telamon, it was filth.

To its creator, it was nostalgia.

Builderman hesitated. A crack of weakness in Telamon’s eyes. The god had built Robloxia brick by brick, and could not bear to be the one to tear it apart. He claimed the task was too heavy, too cruel.
Sentimental nonsense, Telamon hissed silently.

Mortals were greedy.

Even in death, they left their burdens behind. Names forgotten, avatars abandoned, whole worlds tossed aside like toys.
And the banished—well, they never returned. Everyone knew that.

Robloxia needed cleansing.

Urgently.

And if Builderman refused to dirty his hands, then the responsibility fell to Telamon.

But Telamon was above such menial labor. A god of his stature did not rummage through the trash of mankind.

So he devised something better.
Something brilliant.

He would not clean the junk.
He would create the thing that cleaned it.

A vessel.

A living eraser.

A perfect, singular tool forged for destruction.

His own epitaph—

his own Epitaph.

Even with thirty minutes left before the alarm would ring—before that artificial chime announced the start of another day—Taph was already almost done getting ready for work.

They always woke half an hour early. Always.

It was a habit carved so deeply into them that not even time, nor comfort, nor the illusion of safety had managed to erase it. Certain routines cling to a person like old scars, refusing to fade.
And even now, with a bed soft enough to tempt anyone into staying, it was a habit Taph simply could not break.

The workplace greeted Taph with the same noise as always—clattering machines, distant footsteps, the low hum of systems booting up. It was loud, restless, alive far earlier than any reasonable person would accept.

But Taph didn’t mind. Noise never bothered tools.

He slipped inside without ceremony, closing the door behind him with a soft click that was instantly swallowed by the environment. The workspace was still mostly empty at this hour; rows of desks stood like silhouettes in the half-light, some cluttered with half-finished reports, others decorated with photos, trinkets, empty cups marking the presence of people who cared enough to claim a corner of the world as theirs.

Taph’s desk had none of that.

It sat tucked away in the corner farthest from the windows, where the weak morning light could not reach. A forgotten patch of shadow—appropriate, almost poetic, if he ever allowed himself to acknowledge such things. The surface was clean, bare, as if no one worked there at all. No personal items. No marks of ownership. No life.
Just space assigned to function.

Sometimes there are a few papers left on his desk, listing houses he has to demolish that day, but they don't stay there for long. Taph is a tool efficient; they was created for this. So his services are record-breaking, efficient, and always improving, managing to demolish more than 50 houses a day.

They crossed the room with quiet, practiced steps, the echo of his footsteps lost beneath the early-morning rattling of pipes and vents. Somewhere deeper in the building, machinery groaned awake, and fluorescent lights flickered lazily overhead, painting everything with that cold, washed-out glow that never warmed anyone.

They preferred it that way.

Sitting down at his empty desk, Taph adjusted the chair out of habit more than comfort. His hands moved with mechanical precision, arranging nonexistent items, straightening an already straight surface, aligning himself with the patterns of work before work even began. Routine filled the silence inside him the way the noise filled the air around him—completely, almost mercifully.

He glanced toward the door. Not for anything specific.
Not for anyone specific.
Certainly not for the person whose approval he refused to crave.

His thoughts rose like sparks, uninvited and unwelcome:

You’re early again.
Pathetic. Tools don’t seek attention.
You’re here to function, not to be seen.

Builderman already told me I should stop thinking like that, he said I'm not a tool.

Maybe it was an order?

The reprimands came quickly, sharp and automatic, slicing down any trace of intention before it formed. He inhaled, quieting the noise inside himself the same way he ignored the noise around him.

This was what he was good at—arriving early,exploding, demolishing, working without complaint, existing without presence.

Filling the role of something necessary, not someone noticed.

The door opened roughly—not with the familiar rhythm Taph had unconsciously memorized, but with a shove, as if whoever entered didn’t care whether the hinges survived the day.

That alone was enough to signal the change.

Doombringer walked in with heavy, impatient footsteps, the kind that announced themselves before the figure even became visible. No greeting. No glance around the room. No awareness of anyone already present. 

kept his eyes on his own workspace, but the noise made it impossible to ignore the man.

Abrasive.
Efficient.
Completely uninterested in the people beneath him.

The opposite of the one who had disappeared.

The building still pretended everything was normal, but the disappearance had been announced three days ago, and nothing about it felt resolved. People whispered in hallways. Schedules shifted. Deadlines loosened, then tightened again without warning. And now there was this replacement—appointed too quickly, seated too comfortably.

adjusted the papers on his desk, again and again, long after they were already aligned. His hands moved in a steady rhythm, but something in his chest felt out of place, like a gear turning unevenly.

You are not worried, they mind snapped.
Tools do not worry.

But... It was Buildeman, their boss, their owner, who disappeared!

Tools do not care who holds them.

He straightened a nonexistent wrinkle on the desk’s surface.

But he remembered the oldBuilderman’s voice—tired, yes, but patient.
They remembered the faint nods of approval that he pretended not to look forward to.
They remember the last day they saw Builderman, a normal routine, orders, a smile, and praise for his work. And the same phrase: "If you need anything, don't hesitate to come to my office."

Doombringer jolts him from his thoughts by throwing a folder onto his desk, staring at him with that serious look, not as kind and receptive as Builderman's.

Doombringer emerged from behind the pile of papers like an irritated shadow.
He didn't announce his presence; he simply appeared, as if it were inevitable.

"Taph." His voice cut through the air, dry, impatient. "Get up. You have work to do."
He straightened his posture immediately, looking at his boss.

"Demolition. Three of them." Doombringer said, pointing to the folder, which probably contained information about the houses.

Taph’s stomach tightened. The reprimand came faster this time:

You are not uneasy. Stop that.
He is just a superior. A voice. A command giver.
Not someone who mattered.

But the thought of Builderman—vanishing without explanation, leaving behind a silence that felt like a stain—kept tugging at the edge of his mind like a thread he refused to pull.

They lowered his gaze, hiding whatever expression might accidentally surface.

Worry was an emotion.

“Emotion IS a flaw, Epitaph; And flaws were not allowed in something that existed to function.”

It was a distant memory. Yes, a memory of its creator, teaching the necessary lessons before Epitaph was placed in the hands of a kinder person.

But everything seemed so confusing to it. Telamon taught it so much about how it should behave, only for Builderman to teach it almost the opposite in the end, claiming that Epitaph wasn't a thing, much less a tool. This leaves it so confused.

Still…

Taph gathered the folders into his arms, their edges still warm from Doombringer’s impatient handling. He carried them to his desk—shadowed, tucked away from the morning light—and began opening them one by one. Paper whispered under his fingertips as he flipped through addresses, inventories, timestamps, and the short, clinical summaries that reduced entire lives to a few lines.

But… something was off.

The wings on its head shrink slightly, a sign of dissatisfaction, an instinct that something is not right.

He leaned closer, tracing each username carefully. The bans were all recent. Too recent. Every profile had the same red mark beside it—account terminated within the last forty-eight hours. Some even less.

Taph frowned, scrolling through the data again just to be sure.

Demolition orders never came this quickly. Even he knew that. There was usually a buffer, a process, a waiting period so people could appeal or return—if they were lucky enough to be unfairly banned and then forgiven. It happened. Rarely, yes… but it happened.

And every time it did, Taph was the one who had to stand there with his hands full of debris and apologies he couldn’t speak, while a player screamed at him for tearing down their last safe place.

It’s not my fault, he always wanted to say.
I’m just following orders. I’m just doing what I’m told.

But emojis never softened anyone’s anger, and no one ever cared that he was only the one holding the hammer, not the one who passed the sentence.

He skimmed the files again, the unease crawling deeper into his chest.

So many houses. So many recent bans.
And Doombringer hadn’t even blinked.

Taph swallowed, fingers curling around the folder edges. He wasn’t doubting the chief—not out loud, not even in writing—but something about all this felt wrong.

Very wrong.

"...💣🏠☝️❓. 🫵🚫❌➡️🤏⏳!" Do I have to demolish it already? You banned these people recently!

The emojis describe, unfortunately, Builderman, Dusekkar, and Shedlestsky were the few who understood sign language, which somehow made Taph feel less embarrassed to use emojis. Unfortunately, its creator didn't think it was necessary for a tool to have a voice.

Doombringer snorted.
"It's none of your business if they were banned today, yesterday, or five minutes ago. A red card is a red card." He turned his back, as if ending the matter depended only on walking away.
But he stopped. He turned his head to the side. "Unless you think you know more than I do about banning."

A chill ran through Taph, tracing his spine as if someone had blown ice between his vertebrae.
He quickly shook his head, denying with hurried emojis:

”❌❌❌”

But the truth throbbed in the back of his mind:
sometimes people came back.
Sometimes Doombringer made mistakes.
And sometimes… destroying their homes meant condemning them to have nothing left when they returned.

Tools don't question, his thoughts tried to cut off the train of reasoning. Tools obey.

But…

Taph’s breath caught for a moment as the memory surfaced—uninvited, sharp, and warm in a way he hated to admit.

It had happened months ago, after a long shift. The world was still ringing from the explosion he had narrowly avoided—shrapnel had grazed his arm, dust still clung to his clothes, and his hands were trembling so hard he could barely focus on signing. He remembered standing in Builderman’s office, ashamed to shake, ashamed to look afraid.

Builderman had frozen mid-sentence the moment he noticed.

“Taph?” he asked softly. Not demanding. Not annoyed. Soft.

Taph lowered his gaze and began signing, hands moving unevenly at first:
I messed up. I wasn’t fast enough. If I’d been destroyed… it wouldn’t matter. You could replace me. Tools break all the time.

The moment the last sign formed, Builderman’s expression changed—not angry, but hurt, as if the words had punched straight through him.

“Don’t say that,” he muttered, stepping closer. “You are not just a tool.”

Taph hesitated, hands hovering in the air before shaping the next signs with slow, fearful movements:
But I’m made for this. If something happens to me… someone else can take my place.

Builderman shook his head immediately. “No. Listen to me.”

He placed a firm hand on Taph’s shoulder, grounding him. “You made a mistake today—fine. Everyone does. But your life isn’t disposable. I don’t see you as a hammer or a bomb or whatever you think you are.”

Taph blinked, startled by the heat behind the man’s voice.

“You deserve to be safe,” Builderman said. “You deserve—” He faltered for a moment, eyes softening. “—to be happy. Even if you don’t know how to want that yet.”

Taph had frozen, unable to respond. His fingers twitched, wanting to sign something—anything—but the words refused to form.

And Builderman, for once, didn’t push.
He just stayed there, steady and real, until Taph’s hands finally stopped shaking.

— Look here. — Doombringer turned his voice back to him, now with evident irritation. — Are you going to work or not?

He lowered his eyes, they felt the discomfort in his wings as they shrank even further at the tone of voice.

They nodded.

Doombringer nodded, overly pleased with the submission.

— Great. I like employees who don't cause trouble. Go on. The houses aren't going to destroy themselves.

He left stomping, as Taph's very existence were an easily replaceable detail.

Taph felt words rising again—questions he wasn’t supposed to ask, fears he wasn’t supposed to voice. But Doombringer’s glare shut them down.

“Go,” he ordered. “Now. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Taph nodded stiffly, forcing out a neutral emoji:

“👍”

He turned away, chest tight, fingers trembling just once before he hid them in his pockets. It didn’t matter. He had a job. He had purpose.

And a tool with purpose shouldn’t complain.

So why did it seem to serve no purpose?

The house stood at the end of a crooked street, sagging beneath its own silence. A thin mist clung to the walls, as if the structure were exhaling its last breath. Paint peeled in long strips, hanging like mourning ribbons, and the windows—once bright, maybe even cheerful—were now fogged from the inside, opaque as cataracts.

Taph stepped toward the front door, boots crunching over gravel and dead leaves. His two pairs of wings moved faintly with each motion—unconscious little twitches.
The small pair behind his ears fluttered once, reacting to the cold air, and the lower pair near his hips folded tighter against his body, useless but expressive.

He disliked when they moved without permission.
They always felt like remnants of a purpose he didn’t understand.

He pushed the door open. It groaned loudly, echoing through the empty interior.

Inside, dust floated like suspended time. It was a small home—barely more than a living room connected to a kitchen—with shelves cluttered by things left behind too quickly: half-painted models, a cracked VR visor, a mug stained with old coffee circles. A life interrupted.

Taph stepped through the doorway, wings twitching again when a cold draft brushed against them. He ignored it. He always ignored it.

His job came first.

He moved through each room with mechanical precision. He took a small explosive from his bag and set it down in the corner of the living room, right beneath a poster curling at the edges. Then another near the support beam that ran through the center of the house.
He knelt, securing wiring with practiced ease.

As he worked, he noticed a pair of shoes by the door—still tied, still facing outward. As if someone expected to come back.

His wings ruffled involuntarily.

He tried not to think about the bans.
Not to think about how recent they were.
Not to think about how unfair they might have been.

Not to think about Doombringer.

And especially not to think about Builderman.

He placed another bomb beneath a low shelf. His reflection flickered faintly in the cracked glass of a photo frame—a distorted version of himself staring back, hazy and tired. His fingers paused above the detonator cable.

Tools don’t pause.
Tools don’t think.
Tools don’t doubt the orders they receive.

But his thoughts whispered anyway, unwelcome:
Why am I doing this so quickly? Why does everything feel so wrong now?

He inhaled sharply and stood, forcing the thoughts down.

A tool doesn’t question its purpose.

But what happens when the hands that used to guide it disappear?

Builderman’s voice flickered in his mind, soft and warm from memory—You deserve to be safe… you deserve to be happy.

Taph swallowed. His wings trembled, betraying him.

He moved into the bedroom—small, barely furnished. The blankets were still rumpled, like someone had left in a hurry. He placed the last bomb beside the bedframe. A final, quiet click sealed the job.

He stepped back to the center of the house. Dust swirled around him lazily.

His wings shifted again—small upper pair flicking, lower pair tightening, as though bracing for something. As though they remembered their supposed divinity even when he didn’t.

Taph walked outside, closing the door behind him with an absent motion. He took three steps back, then five, then turned to face the house.

“Ignition,” he signed softly, thumb brushing his palm before pressing the detonator.

The explosion bloomed outward like a fiery flower, bright and violent, swallowing the house whole. Debris shot upward, then collapsed inward, sinking into the crater where a home had once stood. The roar rang in Taph’s bones, vibrating through every part of him, wings included.

When the dust settled, there was nothing left but rubble.

Taph lowered the detonator, his hands dropping to his sides.

He should have felt satisfied!

Useful.

Purposeful.

But all he felt was hollow.

A weapon with no guidance.
A tool with no hands to hold it.
A being built for destruction—but unsure why, or for whom, anymore.

His wings folded slowly, like fading embers.

He couldn’t deny it anymore.

He missed Builderman.

And without him… Taph wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be—

or if he was supposed to be anything at all.

Sometimes—quietly, in the hush between demolition assignments—Taph feels he doesn’t want to be a tool at all.

The thought is small, rebellious, almost shy.
And the instant it forms, he crushes it.
He scolds himself harshly, instinctively, as if such doubt were a flaw Telamon himself would frown upon.

They should be proud.
They are proud.

His purpose is simple, clean, and absolute: to serve, to be used, to be directed.
There’s comfort in that—comfort in obedience, in certainty, in knowing that someone as important as Builderman once looked at him and saw something worth shaping.

Builderman…
The one who gave him a nickname, a place, a role.
The one who offered kindness when no one else did.
Taph still clings to that warmth like a fragile relic.

Telamon, a deity of creation and destruction, had shaped Epitaph with divine precision. If Taph bears even a fragment of that intention, he should feel honored. They does.

He knows he’s not much, not compared to others.
Not compared to 1x1x1x1.

1x was forged for something far greater—an heir, a vessel brimming with purpose, a being built from rage, ambition, and divine intention. A weapon, yes, but an important weapon. A symbol. A legacy.

Taph was never meant to stand beside them.
Not really.

And yet, in the brief moments their paths crossed, 1x never looked at him with superiority or contempt. Their energy—strangely bright, strangely warm—had once filled the air like static in sunlight. Epitaph had always remembered that feeling.

They remember once starting a conversation, smiling, talking; she was beautiful, a pure white amidst that domain made of fire and blood. The Heights.

And despite being their favorite creation, they treated Epitaph as their siblings.

It felt like belonging, for a moment.

Epitaph had always been a servant, nothing more, nothing less. But in the eyes of their creator, both it and 1x had been connected—siblings forged from the same divine hands, sharing the same strange spark of existence.

That alone had been enough for them.

But after the day they left Telamon’s domain, the connection shattered.
No messages.
No sightings.
No rumors.
Nothing.

1x vanished into their destiny, and Epitaph was delivered into another.

Epitaph was given a new life, a new master, a new role to fulfill.

Still, sometimes—between the explosions, between the orders, between the moments when he forces himself not to feel—Taph wonders what became of them. Of 1x. Of the sibling they barely had time to know.

He wonders what he might have become if he weren’t simply… this.

A tool.
A servant.
A weapon with no war left to fight.

But the thought never lingers.
He never lets it.
He pulls himself back into place, back into obedience, back into the shape he was carved for.

Even if, somewhere deep inside, he suspects he was meant to be something more.

The next morning arrived soft and colorless, the kind of dawn that made even Taph believe the day might behave itself.

Their alarm hadn’t rung yet—of course it hadn’t—but they were already awake, already sitting on the edge of their bed, wings flicking in slow, sleepy pulses.
The small pair behind their ears fluttered first, responding instinctively to the cool air. The larger pair near their hips stretched halfway, stiff from the night, before folding neatly again.

Decorative things. Useless things.
But part of them all the same.Dusekkar once gifted Taph a shiny necklace; he never wore it, but loved the color. From then on, they've been collecting shiny things—it's their little secret.

They dressed with quiet precision.
Boots—buckled.
Gloves—tightened.
Toolkit—checked and double-checked.

It felt normal.
Comfortable, even.
Like routine had wrapped itself around them in a warm, familiar blanket.

They left their small apartment and walked through the early streets of Robloxia, still half-asleep and empty. Lamp posts hummed faintly. The pavement glistened with the last trace of dawn fog. Taph’s wings twitched whenever a cold breeze slid across them, but they kept moving, hands tucked close to their chest, pace steady.

Work would be work—loud, dusty, predictable.
And predictable was safe.

When they reached the admin building, it was still mostly dark inside. Only a few lights flickered on near the main hallway. Taph slipped through the door, their footsteps soft against the tiled floor. The usual roar of voices, printers, printers breaking, more voices complaining about the printers—it wasn’t there yet. Only distant murmurs echoed from deeper offices.

They liked mornings like this.
Quiet.
Calm enough to think—just a little—without drowning in their own thoughts.

Taph headed toward their usual station, wings giving a hopeful flutter. Maybe Doombringer wouldn’t be in yet. Maybe today would be a simple demolition run. Maybe—

“Taph.”

The voice cut through the air, sharp as broken glass.

Taph froze mid-step. Their wings did too.

Doombringer stood near the central desk, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. His eyes held none of Builderman’s warmth, none of Telamon’s divine spark—just cold irritation, the kind that seeped into the bones.

Taph raised a hand in greeting, a hesitant emoji forming in their thoughts—

“🌅-“ good morning-

“Step into my office.” His tone was controlled, official. — We need to talk.

The smaller wings folded flat against their skin. The larger ones twitched once, then stilled.

Doombringer didn’t look away, but there was a tension in his shoulders.

“ There have been… protests”

Taph blinked once, waiting.

—People who were banned unfairly came back. — He continued, voice clipped. — And when they did, they found their homes destroyed. Your demolitions were involved in several of those cases.

Taph stared at him, expression blank.

“☝️💣,☝️” Those demolitions were assigned to me. — they sign quietly.

— I know. — Doombringer replied immediately. — Everyone here knows that. But the public doesn’t care. They don’t want explanations. They want a target. And they picked you.

He paused.

“ They’ve been outside the company all morning. Signs with your name. Your face. They’re calling you a weapon. A monster. Some are threatening to sue. Others are threatening worse”

Taph’s wings gave a small, involuntary shiver.

“🫵❓🗣️”  So what are you saying?

Doombringer tightened his jaw.

“ I’m saying the company is removing you from the roster. Effective immediately”

They didn’t react. Not outwardly.

But their wings folded so tightly against their body that the movement almost hurt to watch.

“☝️🚪🚶‍♂️🔚”  I’m being fired.  Taph sign it without emotion, as if confirming a weather report.

— Yes. — Doombringer answered. No excuses. No softness. Just truth. — If you stay, they’ll shut us down. Or break in. Or harm someone. The situation is volatile. It’s you or everyone else here.

Silence.

Doombringer’s eyes flickered with something, but he didn’t let it reach his voice.

—“ skilled. You’ve always been the best demolitions specialist we had. But right now… you’re the center of a conflict we can’t manage.”

Taph swallowed once.

“👍…”

They reached for their bag. Their hands didn’t shake — but their wings betrayed them, twitching weakly, uselessly.

Doombringer stepped forward a fraction.

— This isn’t about performance. — he said, sharply. — It’s about liability. Don’t take it personally.

Taph let out a small, humorless exhale.

 Everything is personal when you’re built for one purpose.

Taph walked toward the exit.

Their wings didn’t move this time — not even a twitch — as if even they had gone numb.

And outside, for the first time in a long time, the world felt unbearably big.

Chapter Text

Taph sat in the dim quiet of their apartment, the silence pressing against them like a physical weight.

The space was small, too small for someone built with purpose but no instructions for living. The air smelled faintly of metal dust and cold plaster — a scent that clung to their clothes, their skin, their thoughts. Their wings didn’t settle; the smaller pair near their ears flicked in restless, anxious beats, while the larger pair low on their back trembled in slow, uneven pulses. The room felt colder every time they moved.

There wasn’t much to look at.

Their home had never needed to be anything more than functional: a bed pushed against the wall, a table with scattered tools, and a single narrow bookshelf holding the only objects Taph had ever chosen for themself — a small collection of bright, glittering things they’d found over the years. Shiny fragments, broken jewelry, bits of polished scrap metal, anything that had caught their eye. They didn’t know why those things mattered, only that they did.

Tonight, even they seemed dim.

Taph sat on the floor, leaning back against the bed frame, breathing in slow, deliberate pulls — except the breaths weren’t steady. Every inhale shuddered. Every exhale felt too fast. Their chest tightened more each time they tried to make sense of the new emptiness around them.

They had always known what to do.
Builderman had given them orders.
Doombringer had given them tasks.
The world had given them purpose!

But now… nothing.

They pressed their hands against their face, trying to ground themself, but the pressure only made their thoughts scatter faster. Their ears rang. The walls felt too close. Their wings folded in tight, trembling so sharply that the feathers made faint scratching sounds against the fabric of their jacket.

Builderman would never have fired me.
The thought hit with unexpected force.

Taph’s throat tightened.

Builderman had created them for a reason — Telamon may have shaped them, but Builderman had given them direction, use, identity. Orders. Structure. A path. Taph had been a tool, yes, but a tool with someone to serve.

A tool without a user was…

They didn’t finish the thought. They didn’t want to.

The pressure in their chest spiked — not painful, but hollow, a vacuum begging to collapse inward. They pulled their knees up, grounding themself against the cool floor. Their wings curled around their sides, instinctively trying to shield something that wasn’t there.

What am I supposed to do now?

No one had ever told them what a purpose-built being should do when stripped of their purpose. There had been no instructions for failure. No protocol for abandonment. No manual for an empty tomorrow.

They stared at their hands — hands meant to hold detonators, hands steady enough to collapse buildings without hesitation.

Hands that shook now.

Taph lowered themselves to the floor, wings sagging. Their chest tightened in an unfamiliar way, not like fear during an explosion, not like shock after a close call, but… hollow. Their thoughts drifted, scattered, spiraling back into themselves like broken code looping endlessly.

I was made for demolition.
That part was simple.

What wasn’t simple was everything else.

Builderman was gone.

Telamon had vanished before that.

Their orders had stopped.

Their purpose had been cut, clean and sudden, like a string snapping inside their chest.

Taph flinched and pushed the thought away before it could finish forming. Their wings shuddered sharply, feathers brushing the ground.

They didn’t want to be alone.
Not ever.

Not again.

Being used had never bothered them.
Being used felt right.

It meant someone needed them.
It meant someone saw them.
It meant they weren’t empty, a silent object waiting in the dark.

If I’m useful, I’m not alone.
That truth sat painfully in their ribs.

They swallowed hard, hugging their arms around themself. Their wings folded inward like shields, but they still felt cold.

They had been Epitaph once—bright, open, expressive, cherished in the way a tool could be cherished. Builderman had spoken to them gently, asked for their help, treated them as something more than a weapon despite knowing exactly what Telamon had built them to be. Being near him had felt like having gravity, direction, a center.

Now there was no center.

Builderman wouldn’t abandon me, Taph thought.

The thought trembled.
They forced it still.
He wouldn’t. He… he wouldn’t do that.

Except he was gone.

Telamon was gone.

And Taph was here, in a room too quiet, with no instructions, no purpose, no voice calling their name—even the name they had been given twice.

Why did they leave?

Why did both of them disappear?

Why did no one tell Taph what to do now?

The questions flickered like dying sparks—small, weak, immediately crushed by the weight of devotion.

Taph admired Builderman.
They wanted to believe he had a reason.
They needed to believe it.

If I keep working… maybe he’ll be proud of me.

The thought was small, fragile, but it warmed something deep inside their chest that had threatened to go dark entirely.

Builderman always praised me when I worked hard.
Yes. They remembered.

The way he nodded at them—rare, quiet, but meaningful.
The way he placed a gentle hand on their shoulder after a dangerous demolition and told them they had done well.
The way he spoke their name with a softness that made Taph feel solid, grounded, needed.

They swallowed hard.

If I keep demolishing, if I keep doing it right, then… when he comes back… he’ll see I didn’t give up.

Their wings fluttered at that—almost hopeful, trembling with something that felt close to light.

Builderman had disappeared, yes.
Without a warning, without instructions.
But Taph refused to believe he was gone forever.

He was too important. Too careful. Too good.

He has to come back. He must.

They stared down at their hands—hands meant to hold detonators, to tear down walls, to clear ruins so new beginnings could rise. Telamon had made them that way, but Builderman had given that purpose meaning.

And if Taph kept following that purpose, maybe Builderman would return to find them still doing exactly what they were made to do.

Still useful.
Still loyal.
Still waiting.

The thought strengthened them, straightened their back. Their wings settled just a little.

If I continue my purpose, he'll see that I didn’t fail him.
He’ll see that I stayed.
He’ll know I never stopped trying.

Taph’s throat tightened, but this time not from fear.

From hope.

Soft, stubborn, trembling hope.

Maybe—just maybe—when Builderman returned, he would look at Taph the way he used to and say:

“You did well.”

That was all Taph wanted.
All they needed.

They turned away from the window, picking up their equipment with steady hands.

If following their purpose meant keeping hope alive, then they would follow it until their last breath, until every building was rubble, until every path led back to him.

Please come back, Taph thought silently.
I’ll be good. I promise.

But the hollow in their chest only grew.

After what felt like hours, Taph pushed themself to their feet on shaky legs. Their wings dragged behind them in slow, tired arcs. The air felt too thin to breathe, but they kept breathing anyway.

If no one was going to tell them what to do…
If everyone who mattered had disappeared…

Then Taph would go back to the only thing they understood.

Demolition.

Purpose.

Being useful to the world, even if the world didn’t ask.

Taph sat alone in the dim break room of the Moderation Department, the overhead lights humming like flies trapped in glass. Three newspapers were spread across the metal table—scavenged from the lobby before dawn, their edges still crisp. He wasn't supposed to read them. Moderators never cared about the outside noise. But Taph cared. He cared too much.

His eyes traced every headline about the newly banned citizens:

“Three Users Removed for System Violations.”

“Appeals Pending. Protests Rising.”

Taph’s fingers tightened on the paper. Their houses… untouched. The demolition orders still sitting in some forgotten queue at Headquarters because the protests made everything “too sensitive.” Everything too complicated.

But Taph didn’t believe in “complicated.”
Only in purpose.

He flipped open a file he wasn’t allowed to have—compiled by his own quiet investigation. Maps. Addresses. Timestamps. Builderman would have approved of the efficiency. Taph told himself that again and again, until the thought became warm.

And then a smaller thought, timid and fragile, crept in:

If I follow my purpose… maybe when Builderman comes back,
he’ll be proud of me.

Taph swallowed hard. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything about that. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything at all. But he couldn’t silence the ache in his chest—the fear of being useless, unnoticed, abandoned.

And so, three days after the first round of bans, long before Headquarters finalized any demolition orders, Taph marched to the empty district at night.

His steps were rigid, precise—almost militaristic, the way Doombringer himself walked. He admired that seriousness, that unwavering sense of duty. Taph mimicked it without meaning to, spine straight, jaw tight.

The banned user’s house stood silent under the moonlight—curtains still drawn, plants still alive, as if waiting for a return that would never come.

Taph set the charges methodically, each click echoing in the hollow of his ribcage.
No hesitation.
No doubt.

Only purpose.

Before detonating, he paused—just long enough to look at the structure and imagine Builderman at his shoulder, nodding gently.

Silence answered him.

He pressed the trigger.

The explosion bloomed bright—too bright—and then the house collapsed in on itself like a dying star.

Taph didn’t stay to watch. He didn’t need to. He was already gone, sprinting across rooftops, ducking into alleys, disappearing like a shadow that never belonged in the light.

The following morning, Taph went out to retrieve his belongings, which he had left at headquarters after being fired.

They didn’t sleep. They couldn’t.
Every time they closed their eyes, they heard the explosion again—not out of regret, but out of fear someone else had heard it too.

Newspapers were scattered across the lobby tables, fresh headlines printed above shaky photographs of rubble:

“Unauthorized Destruction in Northern District.”
“Cause Unknown — No Demolition Order Issued.”
“No Witnesses. No Leads.”

Taph stopped in the hallway, eyes skimming each article, their heart climbing up into their throat.

They don’t know.
They don’t know yet.

But the uncertainty didn’t calm them—it made everything worse. Mystery was dangerous. Mystery invited investigation. And investigation meant someone might follow the trail back to them.

From the offices ahead, voices spilled out:

“Could’ve been an accident—gas leak?”
“No, the pattern was too precise.”
“So what, some rogue demolisher?”
“Who would risk that? Especially now?”

Taph’s stomach twisted.

A rogue demolisher.
A vigilante.
A criminal.

The words clung to their skin like ash.

They slipped inside the Demolition wing, expecting to find the usual crowd of workers prepping for assignments—but half the stations were empty. Safety vests tossed aside. Badges missing. Lockers wide open.

Only a few remained, whispering anxiously.

Taph froze, listening.

“Marcus left. Said he’s done being part of this place.”
“Yeah. Three more walked out after shift. They’re with the protesters now.”
“Everyone’s scared… after what happened to those banned users.”
“They think we’re monsters.”

Taph’s breath shortened.
Demolishers joining the protests meant more eyes outside. More people talking. More people watching the rubble of the district they had attacked.

Someone would put the pieces together eventually.

Rumors kept spreading.

“Maybe it’s someone inside HQ.”
“A demolisher with a grudge.”
“Or someone trying to send a message.”
“Whoever it is… they’ll slip up.”

Taph’s chest tightened painfully.

They retreated down the hall, heart pounding in their throat, trying to keep their steps steady, trying not to look like they could possibly be hiding anything. But every passing moderator seemed to look at them too long. Every closed door felt like someone whispering behind it. Every overhead light buzzed just a little too loudly.

What if they suspect me already?
What if they saw something?
What if Builderman returns and finds out I failed?

They pressed their back against a cold concrete wall and shut their eyes, digging their nails into their palms to keep their breathing steady.

I didn’t do anything wrong,It’s my purpose. It’s what I’m for.

But the words didn’t calm them this time.
They only made the silence heavier.

Taph pushed away from the wall and walked deeper into HQ, avoiding every conversation, every curious glance, every whispered rumor.

They didn’t intend to get caught.
They couldn’t.

Because if they did…
they’d be alone again.

And that was the one thing they feared more than anything.

The second night came faster than Taph expected.

They didn’t plan it.
They didn’t need to.
Their body simply remembered the pattern—prepare, leave, approach, plant, ignite—until the whole process slid into place like a mechanical instinct returning home.

Their smaller, upper wings twitched under their hood as they moved across the darkened district, and the larger, lower pair dragged lightly against their coat, useless but constantly shifting with each pulse of tension in their spine. Night wind slipped between the feathers, making them shiver.

This time, the target wasn’t a player home.
It was an old experience hub, long abandoned after its developers were banned.

Most doors were broken.
Most textures flickered.
Most scripts looped endlessly in places where no one had stood for months.

Inside, faint ambient music played—an endless 7-second loop—glitching and warping as they walked through.

And the NPCs.

Some wandered without direction, bumping gently into walls.
Some stood idle, their dialogue boxes frozen mid-sentence.
Some sat in corners, cycling through animations for players who would never return.

Taph felt the same chill they always did in places like this. They had performed plenty of demolitions involving NPCs, but they had always done so with caution—teams of moderators insisting they be relocated, backed up, preserved.

But now?

Taph didn’t have a team.
They didn’t have authorization.
They only had purpose.

They planted the charges one by one:
under the wooden stairs, behind the glitching vendor stall, beside the teleport pad that no longer lit up. All while the looping music buzzed like a broken heart monitor.

An NPC approached them—just a simple greeter model.

Its face was blank, but its code tried to reach for a line it no longer contained.
Its mouth opened soundlessly.
Its animation stuttered.

Taph paused.

Their wings curled inward, trembling as if the cold air were cutting through them.

“🙏…”…Sorry they whispered, though they knew the NPC wasn’t listening. “✅⬆️,➕✅🚶🫵👤”It’s better this way. Better than leaving you here to… to just sit. Alone.

For a brief, painful second, the thought surfaced: I’m no different. I’m just another NPC waiting for a player who isn’t coming back.

The thought made their throat tighten—

—and they shoved it away violently.

No.
That wasn’t right.
They had purpose.
A role.
A creator.
Someone who would come back.

When the last charge was in place, Taph stepped outside, wings pulled tight against their body.

The explosion lit the street in brilliant orange, and for a moment everything slowed—the falling debris, the crackling fire, the shattering of something that once meant something to someone.

Then it became routine.

Night after night, they kept going.
Studying newspaper logs.
Tracking new bans.
Reaching each house or experience before headquarters could intervene.

And the rumors grew.

“Another one.”
“What kind of person does this?”
“They’re a threat.”
“A monster.”
“A menace.”

Taph avoided the crowds.
Their shoulders hunched.
Their wings tucked themselves in tight.
Paranoia grew like mold in their lungs.

One late afternoon, while cutting through an alley to avoid a group of protesters, Taph froze.

A new poster was nailed crookedly to a wooden board, ink still fresh:

WANTED — UNAUTHORIZED DEMOLITIONIST

A rough sketch of their silhouette, hooded, with faint shapes suggesting wings.

Taph’s heart snapped.
Their wings flared instinctively—upper pair stiff and trembling, lower pair scraping the pavement.

No—no, no, no—

They ripped the poster down so fast the paper tore in their claws.

Someone might have seen.
Someone might have watched them react.

Without thinking, Taph bolted.

Their boots slammed the pavement, feathers scattering behind them. They ran through side streets, across broken fences, through empty plotting zones until their house finally came into view.

They threw themselves inside, slammed the door, and immediately began barricading.

Wooden planks.
Nails bent sideways from how fast they hammered.
Booby traps made from spare demolition wires.
Curtains pinned shut.
Windows reinforced with whatever furniture they owned.

Their breaths came sharp and shallow, fogging the cold glass.

Their wings folded in tight, almost painfully, as if trying to make themselves as small as possible.

Inside the dim, suffocating quiet, they whispered:

No one can know. No one can find me. I can still do this. I still have purpose. I can’t… I can’t be alone again.

The house smelled of dust and fear and old smoke.

Outside, someone nailed another poster to a pole.

And inside, Taph held their breath until it hurt.

The street should have been empty.

Taph had checked the route twice, walking the long way home through quiet blocks where the streetlights buzzed and flickered and the sidewalks glitched in half-rendered patches. Their wings stayed close to their body—upper pair folded neatly near their ears, lower pair brushing softly against their thighs with every step.

But as they turned onto their street, their breath caught.

Ten people stood clustered near the corner—protesters.
Not the loud, sign-waving kind from earlier weeks.
These were different.

They wore hoodies, backpacks, and masks.
Some carried folded posters under their arms.
Others held smartphones aimed outward, recording everything.
A few had crowbars, demolition tools, or equipment taken from abandoned worksites.

Their voices were low, tense, the sound of people who were no longer protesting—
but hunting.

Someone turned and spotted Taph.

“There!”
“That’s them!”
“Demolisher! Stop!”

Taph’s wings twitched violently.
Their heart leapt into their throat.

They stepped back—
but the group moved together, blocking the sidewalk.

“Don’t run!”
“Face us!”
“You think we forgot what you did?!”

Taph didn’t think.
They turned around and sprinted down the street.

Shoes slamming against concrete.
Feathers ruffling wildly behind them.

The group gave chase.

“Get them!”
“They destroyed Evelyn’s house!”
“They killed NPCs—they murder anything that moves!”
“Don’t let them escape!”

Taph darted across a cracked rendering patch, vaulted over a low fence, cut through a side yard, wings scraping the wall as they sprinted.

Their little house came into view—
the one safe place they still had.

They reached the door, shoved it open, and slammed it shut behind them, locking every bolt with trembling hands.
Then they ran through the room—dragging furniture, pushing shelves, dropping metal bars, setting traps they had placed “just in case.”

Their breath was sharp, panicked, too fast.

Outside, the protesters gathered.

“We know you’re in there!”
“Come out and explain yourself!”
“Murderer!”
“You think we’re leaving?!”

Taph backed away from the door, wings trembling uncontrollably—upper pair flicking with tiny spasms, lower pair scraping the floor as they folded tight around their legs.

More voices arrived.
More footsteps.
More anger.

By afternoon, ten had become thirty.
By dusk, nearly fifty.

They brought portable chargers, folding chairs, energy drinks, blankets.
Some were livestreaming.
Some were sharing rumors.
Some waited with crossed arms, staring at the house like it was an animal cage.

Taph sat on the floor, back to the wall, staring at the shifting shadows outside the boarded window. Their feathers rustled softly, the small movements betraying their fear.

They didn’t sleep.

They didn’t breathe too loudly.

They just listened to the voices building outside.

Twice the protesters tried to approach the house.

Both times they set off harmless traps—snapping wires, collapsing boards, loud clattering designed to scare them off.
Nothing lethal.
Just enough to keep the mob from testing the defenses again.

“Don’t touch the house!”
“It’s rigged!”
“They’re trying to keep us out—just starve them!”
“They’ll have to come out eventually.”

Taph curled into themselves in the corner, wings wrapped around their shoulders, breathing thin and shaky.

They rationed food.
Counted water three times.
Didn’t dare turn on a single appliance.

Every sound outside made them flinch—
every footstep,
every cough,
every whispered argument.

At noon, the lights flickered.

Once.
Twice.
Then everything went dark.

Outside, someone shouted:

“They cut the power!”
“Finally!”
“Now we wait.”

A cheer followed.
Dozens of voices.

Taph stood still, too still, as if the darkness had physically frozen them.

Their wings quivered—tiny tremors running down every feather.

They checked their remaining supplies with shaking hands.

Not enough.
Not for long.

Their chest felt tight, as though the entire house was shrinking around them.

They whispered to themselves:

The voices outside didn’t stop.
Didn’t fade.
Didn’t rest.

Their home was no longer a sanctuary.
It was a cage.

And the mob…
was waiting.

The house had grown smaller.

Not physically—no walls had moved—but after twenty days of hiding, the rooms felt tight and airless, as if the building itself were squeezing inward. Every corner hummed with tension. Every shadow seemed alive.

Taph hadn’t slept properly in days.

They sat curled on the kitchen floor, back against a cabinet, legs pulled tight to their chest. Their wings drooped around them—upper pair limp near their ears, lower pair splayed across the cracked tiles like fallen, useless limbs.

In front of them stood the last can of tomato soup.

They held it carefully, almost reverently—hands trembling from weakness and fear rather than hunger alone. Their stomach ached, but not as much as their throat.

They hadn’t spoken in their entire life.
But they had breathed.
And swallowing almost nothing for days had turned that simple act into agony.

Their mouth was dry—so dry it felt like it was lined with sand.
Their lips were cracked.
Their tongue felt split.
Every breath scraped.

They tipped back the soup can, drinking slowly. The thick, metallic-tasting liquid slid down their throat—

—and burned.

Taph coughed immediately, violently, doubling over as their wings spasmed.

No sound came out—just harsh, airless bursts of movement.
Then another cough.
And another.

Until something wet hit their hand.

They blinked down.

Red.

A smear of blood across their palm.
A drip from their mouth.

Their chest tightened in horror.

I… I can bleed?

Another cough seized them, and more blood flecked onto the floor.
They stared at it for a long time, dizzy and terrified, as if the color itself were wrong—too bright, too real.

Taph touched their mouth with shaking fingers.

Their own blood.

From a throat that wasn’t supposed to be used.

A throat that had never spoken a single word, yet somehow found a way to hurt.

Their thoughts fell into a dark spiral.

Why do I have a mouth if I can’t speak?
Why did Telamon give me a voice I can’t use?
Was it just to suffer?
Was it a mistake?
Was I a mistake?

They bit their lip, and even that slight pressure brought another thin smear of red.

Fear clamped their chest.
Not just of the protesters outside—but of their own body betraying them.

They crawled toward the sink, wings dragging heavily behind them, feathers shedding in small, trembling clumps. They turned the faucet.

A hollow gurgle.

Then nothing.

The water was gone.

Completely.

Their breath caught.
A silent gasp.

No… no no no no…

They twisted the faucet harder—hands shaking, wrists trembling.

Nothing.

Their wings wrapped tightly around their torso, trying to hold themselves together. The lower pair shook with small, rapid spasms—fear fluttering through every feather.

They looked at the empty sink.
Then at the blood on the floor.
Then at the single flickering light in the corner that barely illuminated the room.

And then they realized something terrifying:

They hadn’t heard the protesters in hours.

Were they gone?
Asleep?
Planning something?
Waiting for them to break and step outside?

Taph didn’t know.
Couldn’t know.

Their throat burned.
Their mouth throbbed.
Their head felt light and unsteady from dehydration.

They sank to the floor again, curling into themself, wings wrapped protectively over their shaking frame.

In the silence, in the suffocating dark, a single thought echoed:

If I can bleed… am I even meant to keep living?

Then, softer, terrified:

Why did you make me like this, Telamon? What am I for now?

They didn’t cry—dehydration didn’t allow it—but their body shook as though they were.

Alone.
Thirsty.
Bleeding.
And surrounded by enemies waiting for them to make a sound.

Twenty days in the cage.

And it was finally starting to break them.

Taph lies sprawled on the floor, surrounded by their own traps like a wounded animal hiding in a cage it built for itself. The house is dark except for the faint gray leaking through the boarded windows. Every breath burns. Every swallow feels like sandpaper grinding down their throat.

They haven’t eaten in days.
They haven’t had water since morning.

Their lips crack when they try to breathe deeper.

A sudden cough shakes their chest—sharp, tearing. Something wet rises in their mouth. When they wipe it with trembling fingers, the smear of dark red looks almost unreal.

Blood.
They can bleed.

The thought hits harder than the pain.

And then, quietly… another thought slips in.

“Telamon gave me a mouth—just so it could hurt?”

The silence of the room presses on them.
They can’t answer themselves.
They can’t answer anything.

Taph curls inward slightly, the headache pounding behind their eyes like a hammer. When they finally look up, the shadows on the wall twist slowly into shapes. It’s the hunger, the fever—blurring reality. One of the shapes stretches tall, shoulders broad, posture familiar.

Builderman.

Taph’s breath catches…
But the shadow warps again, dissolving into nothing.

They stare at the floor.

“I waited for you.”
“I kept working, even without orders.”
“I thought… maybe if you came back, you’d be proud.”

Their chest tightens. Their eyes sting—but their body is too dehydrated to cry properly.

Then, despite everything, a single tear slips down the side of their face.
Warm. Unwelcome.
Almost shocking.

They don’t wipe it away.

“In the end… Builderman disappointed me.”
“He didn’t come back.”

The tear hits the floor with a soft tap.

A new wave of dizziness washes over them. The entire room bends slightly, swaying like a boat. Behind their skull, something whispers. A voice that isn’t a voice—more like a starving instinct.

Taph glances at their wings. Feathers dull, frail. They look like something dead.
Something edible.

Their gaze drops to their wings.

Once, those wings were a blessing—
A sign of their creator’s favor.
Two pairs of delicate feathers meant to make them feel chosen, touched by something divine.

Now, up close, under the dim light, they look ruined.

Feathers cracked.
Edges bent.
Some patches missing entirely.

Heavy.
Useless.
Just extra weight dragging their body toward the floor.

The thought comes without warning, quiet and monstrous:

“I could eat them.”

It horrifies them—
Yet it also feels logical, desperate, almost practical.

“They were supposed to mean something… but now they’re just meat.”

Their stomach twists.
Their hands tremble.
The hunger is loud, louder than fear.

The thought crawls into their mind like a parasite:

“If I’m just an NPC… rotting here like this… does it matter?”
“Does anyone care?”

They force themselves to look away, jaw tightening against another dry swallow.

“Builderman isn’t coming back.”
“Telamon never cared.”
“I gave everything—everything—and it still wasn’t enough.”

Another cough rises. Their throat tears again. More blood.

The pain mixes with something else… bitterness.

They stare up at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes, surrounded by their traps, their shadows, their silence.

“I just wanted to be useful.”
“I just didn’t want to be alone.”

Outside, the faint murmur of the protesters continues—alive, loud, full of breath and freedom.
Inside, Taph’s body grows colder.

They close their eyes. Not sleeping—just sinking.

And in the depths of their mind, one final thought repeats, small and cracked:

“At the end… he didn’t come back for me.”

The house is silent—so silent that Taph can hear the trembling of their own pulse, weak and uneven, like a machine running out of power.

Their body feels heavy.
Too heavy.

Another cough builds in their chest, rising like a tide they can’t stop.

They barely have the strength to brace themself before it hits.

A violent spasm—
A tearing pain—
A gush of warmth flooding up their throat—

Blood.
Too much.
Far too much.

Taph tries to inhale, but the air catches. Their vision snaps white. Blood fills their mouth, their nose, their lungs, thick and metallic and suffocating. Their body convulses, their wings twitching weakly against the floor.

They can’t breathe.

They can’t breathe.

Their fingers claw uselessly at the ground, their nails scraping wood. The panic is instinctual, violent, animal. Their thoughts scatter like frightened birds—

Air.
Air.
Please.
Air.

But all that comes is another choking surge, the taste of iron hitting the back of their tongue. They gag, cough, swallow some of it by accident, choke harder.

The edges of their vision pulse black.

They know—deep inside—that this is it.

No rescue.
No footsteps at the door.
No Builderman bursting in, proud and smiling.

Just them.
Alone.
As always.

Their mind begins to drift, flickering like a dying screen.

Tools can be replaced.
The thought feels familiar—almost comforting in a twisted way.
Tools break all the time.
Tools don’t deserve repair.

Taph’s breaths turn into wet, tiny shudders, each one smaller than the last.

Their wings twitch again—reflex, useless.

“I was made to be used.”
“If I’m broken, then… this is what’s supposed to happen.”

Blood drips from the corner of their lips, pooling beneath their cheek. They can’t lift their head anymore. Their body is too tired to fight.

Their stomach twists with guilt, confusion, childish regret.

And then, a strange, fragile thought surfaces—
the kind of thought only someone terrified and alone would think:

“…I was bad.”
“Bad tools don’t get presents.”
“Santa won’t come for me.”

It’s absurd.
It’s heartbreaking.
It’s the last trace of innocence inside a collapsing mind.

Their vision blurs again—
white, then red, then nothing but dark.

The world grows soft.

Silent.

Light as feathers.

Taph’s final breath comes out broken and wet, more blood than air. Their fingers loosen. Their eyes grow unfocused, staring at nothing at all.

The pressure in their chest fades.
The fear dissolves.
Everything goes quietly, quietly still.

The last thought—small, weak, fading—passes through like a whisper:

“I deserved it.”

And then… nothing.

Chapter Text

When Taph woke up—

Wait.
They… woke up?

The realization didn’t come gently. It slammed into them like a cold wave, a wrongness so sharp it made their lungs hitch. Taph’s eyes snapped open, and for a heartbeat, they didn’t recognize the world around them.

Cold air brushed over their skin and slipped under their feathers, making the small pair of wings beneath their ears twitch uncontrollably. The larger pair at their lower back shivered, brushing against something soft. Grass—short, cool grass—tickled the trembling shafts of their damaged feathers.

Grass?

Taph blinked hard.

Once.

Twice.

The haze in their vision slowly dissolved.

They were no longer on their wooden floor, surrounded by traps, dying in a suffocating, dust-dark house. Instead, they were somewhere open. Damp earth beneath them. A faint scent of pine. Wind—actual wind—brushing past their cheeks.

Above them stretched a sky so dark it seemed painted in ink, starless, oppressive, endless. And ahead…

Taph’s breath caught.

Wooden cabins.

Half a dozen of them.

Arranged in a loose semicircle around a campfire whose ashes still glowed faintly, as if recently disturbed. Lanterns hung from posts. A few canvas tents fluttered in the wind. And at the far end, a larger, imposing cabin—clearly the main one—watched over the camp like a silent guardian.

None of this felt safe.

None of this felt real.

Their chest tightened. Instinctive fear crawled under their skin, making their wings tighten close to their body, as if trying to fold into themselves.

Where am I?
Who brought me here?
How am I alive?

Paranoia rose fast and vicious, coiling around their thoughts like barbed wire. Taph curled slightly inward, fingers trembling, breath refusing to steady. The idea of approaching the camp—the cabins, the people who might be inside—made their stomach twist painfully.

They couldn’t ask for help.
They shouldn’t ask for help.

Everyone hated the demolitionist.
Everyone hated them.

Even now, after death—or something like it—surely the hatred remained.

Their mind spiraled, thoughts crackling like static:

They’ll recognize me.
They’ll blame me.
They’ll hurt me.
I shouldn’t be here—I shouldn’t—

So lost in fear, in the noise of their own head, Taph didn’t notice the silhouettes moving near the campfire. Didn’t notice the lantern being lifted. Didn’t notice the eyes already fixed on them.

Until—

“Hey! There’s someone over there!”

A male voice—surprised, alarmed, too close.

Footsteps. Fast ones. Crunching through the grass, heading straight toward them.

Taph’s heart slammed against their ribs.

They jerked upright so fast the world spun in a dizzy blur. Their legs buckled beneath them—weak, unsteady, still starved and dehydrated beyond reason—but fear forced them to move anyway.

They stumbled.
Caught themselves.
Ran.

Or tried to.

Their first steps were clumsy, almost collapsing under the weight of their trembling body. Spots flashed in their vision, and their breath tore out in ragged gasps. The small wings by their ears fluttered in panic, while the larger ones dragged sluggishly behind them, useless, brushing grass and dirt.

But Taph didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

Because someone had seen them.
Someone had called out to them.

And all they knew anymore was how to run.

Taph’s legs gave out before they even realized they were falling.

Their body hit the ground face-first, the impact sharp and dizzying. Grass scraped their chest. Their wings jolted with the shock—
the smaller pair twitching instinctively beside their ears,
the larger pair dragging limply, feathers splayed and trembling.

Footsteps thundered closer.
Too many.
Too fast.

A choked sound tore out of Taph’s throat—silent but trembling. They pushed against the ground with shaking arms, mud smearing under their palms, trying—desperately—to get up before the strangers reached them.

“Hey! How did you get here?”
The first voice was close now—so close it made Taph’s heart spike painfully inside their chest. It wasn’t angry, but the surprise in it was sharp enough to cut.

Taph’s breath stuttered.
They forced their knees under themselves, trying to stand—

“—Look, they look hurt,” another voice murmured, softer, but still too close. Too many. Surrounding. Closing in.

Panic surged through their spine like electricity.

Their wings snapped open on instinct—
feathers rising, shaking, trying to make them look larger, more dangerous, anything that might buy them a second to escape. Their silhouette expanded in a trembling arc, shadowed and desperate.

But before the gesture even finished—

“BACK!!”

The shout cracked through the night like a gunshot.

Taph flinched—too slow.

A body slammed into them with terrifying force. Hands grabbed their arms, crushingly strong, and threw them down. The world flipped. The ground hit them hard. Pain bloomed across their ribs as the air punched out of their lungs.

Stars exploded across their vision—
bright, spinning, unreal.
Everything blurred into a dizzy smear of motion and voices.

“GUEST!! I told you they were hurt—be careful!” a voice snapped, sharp and irritated. Taph blinked wildly, trying to focus on the only detail they could catch—
a fedora hat, tilted awkwardly on someone’s head.
Strange. Out of place.
But all they could cling to.

So that must be the one speaking.

Then the one holding them—Guest, apparently—answered with a low, steady voice right above them:

“I’m making sure they’re not a threat.”

His grip tightened for a moment. Taph’s wings curled inward with a weak convulsion, their breath hitching in fear. They tried to push against the earth again, but their arms trembled too violently to do anything more than twitch.

More footsteps approached.
More shadows fell over them.

Then—
a new voice.

One Taph recognized instantly.

A voice they never wanted to hear here.
Not now.
Not like this.

“What’s going on here?”

Taph’s heart stopped—
then dropped like a stone.

Familiar.
Impossible.
Wrong.

Oh no.
No, no, no—
It can’t be them.

Panic surged so violently through Taph’s veins that for a moment they nearly passed out again.

Because this was the one voice in all of Robloxia that could make their situation so much worse.

Builderman

It was Builderman.

Taph stiffened instantly, as if every feeling he had ever learned to name crashed into him all at once. Anger? Relief? A strange, aching happiness?

Taph didn’t just freeze — he stopped existing for a second.

Builderman’s eyes narrowed, not in fear, not in anger… but with the distant concentration of someone flipping through memories in their mind, searching for the right page.
His gaze stayed on Taph’s silhouette, the wings, the posture.
As if somewhere, buried deep, something about this shape meant something.

He didn’t say a word.
He just watched.
As though recognition was hovering right at the edge of his thoughts.

Beside him, Shedletsky had no such hesitation.
The moment his eyes landed on the winged silhouette, every muscle in his body locked.
His expression didn’t twist, didn’t flinch — it simply stilled, drained of its usual goofy elasticity, tension settling over him like a shadow.

He knew.
Immediately.

But he said nothing.
Not even a joke.
His silence was louder than any line he could’ve delivered.

Builderman stepped closer, the faint firelight sharpening the lines of his face as he studied Taph — really studied them — as if excavating old files in his mind, trying to match the battered silhouette before him with something long forgotten. His eyes dragged over the wings, the posture, the trembling weakness in their knees.

A slow breath left him.

“…Taph?”

The sound of their name, spoken so quietly and with such certainty, hit them like a physical blow.

Guest 1337 froze mid-movement, still holding Taph down. “You… know them, sir?”

Builderman didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said, voice steady, authoritative. “And they’re not a threat. Let them go.”

Guest 1337 immediately released Taph’s wrists and stepped back. His expression softened with genuine remorse.

“I’m sorry,” he said, more gentle now. “I thought you were dangerous.” Only now did Taph get a proper look at him: short, tousled blue hair; a soldier’s posture; eyes sharp but kind. He seemed far younger when not shouting.

Taph tried to rise again — and their body betrayed them.
A stabbing pain twisted through their stomach, sharp enough to make their wings twitch and curl in reflex. Their legs shook violently.

Builderman noticed instantly.

“They’re hurt,” he said, turning to the small crowd around the campfire. Authority swept through his tone, the kind that made people obey without question. “Everyone, back to the main cabin. Now. We have a new arrival — and they need help.”

A few murmurs of surprise followed, but no one disobeyed.

Guest 1337 stepped forward again, this time with careful, slow movements. “Here — lean on me,” he offered.

Taph hesitated, paranoia flickering in their eyes… but one more pulse of hunger pain made them stumble. They reluctantly allowed the soldier to support their weight, his grasp surprisingly steady and warm.

Builderman walked on their other side, close enough to catch them if they collapsed.

“Easy,” he said quietly. “You’re safe now.”

Safe.

The word felt impossible… unreal… almost painful to hear.

Taph’s wings dragged slightly across the grass as they were guided forward, feathers rustling weakly, bent and brittle from the time spent starving in darkness.

The campfire crackled behind them. The night wind pressed cold against their face. And ahead, the largest cabin glowed faintly with warm lamplight — a place meant for people, for living, for shelter.

Builderman held the door open.

The moment Builderman pushed open the door, warm lamplight spilled into the night. The air inside smelled faintly of old wood, dried herbs, and something cooking — something Taph’s starving body reacted to immediately, tightening their stomach with a painful twist.

Guest 1337 carefully lowered them onto a thick, worn-out sofa near the fireplace. Taph sank into it, feathers rustling weakly, the cushions swallowing their shaking form.

“I’ll go get Elliot,” Guest said firmly. “He’ll know what to feed them without making it worse.”
He gave Taph a quick, apologetic glance. “Hang tight, okay?”

Taph watched him disappear into the hallway, their vision still blurry at the edges

Taph sat there, dizzy, wings trembling against the cushions. And suddenly… they realized they were surrounded.

Builderman, Shedletsky, and a half-circle of cabin residents had gathered, drawn by the commotion. The air grew thick, heavy, pressing on Taph’s chest, making it hard to breathe. Their fingers dug into the couch fabric.

Builderman stepped forward, clearing his throat.

“Everyone,” he announced, “this is Taph. They’re… an old acquaintance. They’ll be staying with us.”

A dozen questions flickered through the survivors’ eyes — suspicion, curiosity, confusion — but no one spoke immediately.

Then one stepped forward.

A thin young man with dark circles under his eyes, his smile too wide and too sharp to be comfortable. His black hoodie was stained with charcoal symbols — spirals and jagged shapes Taph didn’t recognize. They stared at them like someone examining a rare artifact.

“So you’re the new arrival,” they murmured, voice lilting in an off-kilter rhythm. “Spaw saw this coming. The stars told me change was coming… and look, here you are.”

Shedletsky muttered under his breath, “…oh boy.”

Two Time only grinned wider, like they enjoyed making people uncomfortable.

Chance

Next, the fedora-wearing man with glasses stepped close — the same one who scolded Guest earlier. Chance adjusted his hat and gave Taph a polite, business-like nod.

“Name’s Chance. Former casino owner. I usually run the night watch around here.”
He paused, studying Taph with curiosity instead of fear.
“And… sorry for the rough landing earlier. Guest can be dramatic.”

Shedletsky snorted. “Can be?”

Chance ignored him with practiced professionalism.

Noob

A timid blond boy peeked from behind Chance’s arm. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen. His oversized blue shirt made him look even smaller.

“H-hi…” he whispered, eyes darting from Taph’s wings to their mask. “I-I’m N-Noob.”

Builderman added gently, “Noob is one of our best communicators. He knows ASL.”

Noob straightened just a little at the compliment, cheeks flushing.

“If… if y-you need help t-talking… I can… I can help…”

Taph’s throat tightened — in a different way than the hunger pains. They lifted a shaky hand, signing a small, simple gesture:

Thank you.

Noob’s eyes lit up, surprised but pleased.

Duzekkar

A tall man stepped forward last, wearing a heavy coat patched with fabric scraps. His posture was familiar — Taph had passed him in workplace hallways dozens of times. His voice came out in a rhythmic, almost musical cadence:

“Ah, Taph, my friend,
we meet yet again.
In halls we once walked,
now in cabins of ten.”

Shedletsky muttered, “He never stops doing that.”

Duzekkar winked.

“Rhymes help the mind
stay sharp, not confined.”

Taph stared, unsure if the rhyme was comforting or disorienting… but it was nice to see a familiar face.

Builderman Finishes the Introductions

Builderman gestured to the room at large.

“Those are the ones here right now. 007n7 is out on perimeter watch — you’ll meet him later. And Elliot should be here soon with—”

CLATTER.

The sound came from the kitchen — dishes shifting, a drawer shutting, hurried footsteps.

Guest 1337’s voice called:

“Found him! He’s warming something up!”

Builderman nodded.

“Good. They need food immediately.”

Taph’s vision blurred again at the mention of food. Their wings curled inward like wilting leaves, their fingers shaking uncontrollably. Every sound in the room felt amplified — footsteps, breath, rustling coats — each noise stabbing through their nerves.

Shedletsky watched them with an unreadable, tense expression.

Chance straightened his glasses.

Two Time whispered something to himself, almost chanting.

Noob hovered with silent concern.

Duzekkar hummed low in his throat, some rhyme forming slowly.

The smell reached Taph before the footsteps did.

Warm, soft, familiar — tomatoes, herbs, something sweet simmered into something comforting. Their throat tightened painfully at the scent, and their wings twitched, feathers trembling like they might fall off. Their stomach twisted so sharply it felt like a cramp.

Elliot appeared from the kitchen carrying a ceramic bowl with both hands, steam curling up toward his face. His delivery uniform jacket was tied around his waist, flour dusted across his sleeves as if he had been baking instead of making soup.

He smiled gently at Taph.

“Hey there,” he said, voice soothing like someone who spent years calming stressed customers. “I’m Elliot. I hope you like tomato soup — it’s the only thing we can reheat without burning down the place.”

Guest 1337 groaned from across the room.
“That happened one time. One time.”

Elliot rolled his eyes affectionately and knelt beside Taph, offering the bowl slowly — carefully — like Taph might break.

Taph’s hands shook as they accepted it. The bowl was warm. Too warm. Their fingers trembled. It felt dangerous to hold something so comforting. The room felt too full, too loud, too close — eyes everywhere.

Chance watching curiously.
Two Time whispering to himself.
Noob fidgeting nervously.
Builderman observing with unreadable calm.
Shedletsky pretending not to stare.
Duzekkar quietly tapping his foot, as if waiting for something.

Taph froze, bowl hovering near their chest. Their wings curled in tightly, embarrassment prickling down their spine.

They couldn't eat like this.

Not with an audience.
Not after nearly dying alone.

Elliot noticed first.
“You okay?” he asked softly.

Taph didn’t answer — couldn’t — just lowered their head, mask angled toward the floor. The shame was too strong, too sharp.

They didn’t want to be watched.
Didn’t want to be judged for shaking.
Didn’t want anyone to see the way their throat strained with pain when they swallowed.

And right then…

Duzekkar stepped forward.

He tapped his knuckles on the wooden wall twice — rhythmically — clearing his throat with theatrical flair.

“No need for eyes
to hover and stare.
A moment of peace
is all they require.”

He nodded toward Taph with a warm, understanding look.

“Eating alone
is no crime, my friend.
A quiet corner
helps the heart mend.”

Builderman blinked — even he didn’t expect that bit of insight.

Duzekkar extended a hand toward the back of the cabin.

“There’s a nook by the stairs,
soft light, empty chairs.
Let them breathe in that space—
no judgment, no glares.”

Taph stared at him — surprised, grateful, overwhelmed. They didn’t trust their legs enough to stand… but Duzekkar simply beckoned.

“I’ll walk with you,
step slow, step true.”

Chance pushed his glasses up and said, “Honestly, yeah. Might as well give them some room.”

Noob nodded quickly. “Y-yeah… s-some privacy… c-could help.”

Elliot smiled gently. “Take your time. I’ll make more if you need it.”

Builderman gave a small, approving nod.
Shedletsky shrugged. “Hey, I eat alone too. No shame.”

And Taph — shaking, starving, terrified but touched — slowly rose with the bowl in hand.

Their wings drooped low, brushing the couch cushions as they stood, feathers rustling in a soft, broken rhythm.

Duzekkar guided them to the quiet corner with the gentleness of someone who knew what it meant to be overwhelmed.

And for the first time since waking in this strange new world…
Taph felt like they could breathe.

With the corner finally silent and the lights dim enough to feel safe, Taph didn’t hesitate anymore.

They devoured the soup.

The first mouthful hit their tongue like fire and mercy all at once. Their stomach clenched, then loosened, then screamed for more. They swallowed too quickly—way too quickly—and the scalding liquid scraped down their still-injured throat. It hurt. It hurt horribly.

But the hunger was worse.

Taph shoveled another spoonful in, then another, hands trembling so violently that broth sloshed over the rim and dripped onto their knees. They barely breathed between gulps. Their small upper wings fluttered uncontrollably, feathers brushing the wall; the lower pair dragged against the floor, twitching weakly like a starving animal’s tail.

They choked once—hard—coughing sharply as soup caught in their throat.

And suddenly a warm, familiar hand was on their back.

Builderman.

He hadn’t announced himself; he just knelt beside them, rubbing slow circles between their shoulders, voice low and steady.

“Easy… easy. It’s okay. Breathe.”

Taph coughed again, and again, nearly dropping the bowl, and Builderman steadied it with one hand while supporting them with the other. The moment the fit passed, Taph resumed eating, slower this time but still desperate, still feral in their hunger.

When the bowl was finally empty, Taph sagged—exhausted, dizzy, relieved. Their wings drooped like wilted flowers.

Builderman shifted to sit beside them.

“…Taph,” he said quietly. “What happened to you?”

The question froze Taph’s hands mid-air. Their fingers curled inward. Their chest tightened.

What happened.

How could they say it?
How could they explain starvation, paranoia, dying alone choked on their own blood?
How could they say the protests, the hunted nights, the barricaded doors, the sickness?

They looked down, unable to meet his eyes. Their throat moved, as if trying to form a sign—but everything inside them locked up.

Builderman watched for a few seconds… then exhaled gently.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said in that soft, fatherly tone they remembered so painfully well. “Not until you’re ready.”

Relief and shame collided inside Taph.
They nodded, tiny and hesitant.

But then a new question formed—fragile, trembling.

They signed slowly: What are you doing here?

Builderman leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck. He almost looked embarrassed.

“That… is a very good question,” he admitted. “I don’t know exactly how I got here. One moment I was in the office. Then… nothing. I woke up out in those woods.”

He gestured toward the cabin walls.

“And this place—whatever it is—took my powers. All of them. Same with Shedletsky. Same with Duzekkar. We’re… normal here.”

Normal.
Builderman—normal.
The thought didn’t sit right in Taph’s chest.

Builderman continued, voice lower now, as if trying not to alarm them:

“The others don’t remember how they arrived either. And this world… it isn’t safe. Every night, the… thing that trapped us here forces us to go through rounds. Games.” His jaw tightened. “Life-or-death games.”

Taph felt their wings curl protectively inward.

Builderman noticed and rested a hand gently on their shoulder.
“But we come back,” he said. “Even if we die, we wake up again inside this cabin. No matter what happens.”

He meant to reassure them.

It didn’t quite work.

Taph’s thoughts spun, dizzy and jagged.
Death… resurrection… hunted by an unseen killer… trapped again… powerless… helpless…

The pressure in their chest rose, not panic but something close: the phantom memory of starving behind barricaded doors.

Builderman squeezed their shoulder gently.

“You’re safe tonight,” he said. “That’s what matters.”

Safe.

Taph wasn’t sure they believed that.

But Builderman’s presence—warm, steady, painfully familiar—kept them from falling apart completely.

And for now… for now that was enough.