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undyingdevotee · 1 month ago

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i read this fanfiction and it inspired me to read more, i truly love how 1x is written in this

glances around. read my builderman/1x1x1x1 fic

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Builderman is tired. He is angry. 1x1x1x1 knows this and seeks him out when he is vulnerable and alone to feast.

content warnings: character death, some gory descriptions, self deprecation

word count: 2.5k sweet sweet words written in a half awake haze

-> ao3 link <- (or read it below the cut)

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Builderman could hear its footfalls well before he could sense its presence. The rolling waves of pure energy that both enveloped and made up their shifting form seemingly reaching out to him as they stood behind him. He didn't need to turn to know what was casting the looming shadow over him as he knelt beside a generator he had given up focusing on. It didn't deserve the satisfaction of his fear anymore- he hoped it made them furious.

After all, he had long lost the ability to feel terror, resigned to the bitter truth of knowing that all of this was meaningless. No matter how much he and the others could fight to escape, to win, it wasn't a feasible goal. The former admin pretended to believe in them all, letting words he had once spoken truthfully spill out of his treacherous mouth like a broken record. It was sickening. He knew all that remained of him was a simmering anger, one that made him bow his head and stare pointedly at the wires still clutched in his hands.

Why give it the satisfaction of prey that ran, cowering away from the inevitable?

It was all so laughably futile. The games, running around trying to repair generators that didn't actually power anything. Builderman would know. When he had still thought his efforts would maybe finally be acknowledged he had reached out to try and work with one of his teammates. A pathetic wretch of a man, too scared of the past to even consider what his actions would mean for the future. In this place separated from reality they had tried to crack open its coding, to track down what they could possibly be powering with these endless tasks. To think he had stooped down to a hacker's level, just to be confronted with nothing made him want to scream until his throat was so raw it cracked and bled until he choked on his own viscera.

A heavy footstep broke him out of his spiraling thoughts, the shadows around him seeming to grow darker. Colder. They were like smoke, lazily coiling their way around his kneeling form before pooling on top of the dying grass.

Enveloping him.

The former admin sucked air in through his teeth slowly. Alone, everyone else had left him behind. Builderman can handle himself, Builderman knows what he's doing. His jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it shut, as if trying to stop the fury that wanted to so desperately claw its way from his throat into the world beyond. Builderman would forgive them if he died, just like he always did. No matter how hard he fought, he was never high enough on their priority list to bother protecting unless he was on death's door-

Metal slowly sliding against- no, through, flesh and fabric was the only audible sound other than the quiet hum of the machinery in front of him.

-not even Shedletsky bothered to stand by his side anymore. The others needed him more, they were weaker than the former admins. He fucking hated how easily the former God could lie through his teeth. The prick simply relished in being wanted, of being idolized so thoroughly he grew drunk on the feeling alone of being useful. Gluttonous, forever living in the spotlight, his outstretched wings casting great shadows on what had once been his equals.

He could feel the cold press of metal resting against his spine, just the tip of the blade leeching what little warmth remained in his body. This was the end of Builderman, again. The cycle would repeat.

It used to make him despair, knowing that he would be leaving his team in an even more compromised position. He’d fight tooth and nail to make sure that his death wasn't in vain, a desperate attempt to be acknowledged for all of his work. It was always outshone. Undermined. His work behind the scenes, making sure they had safeguards in place, was never enough. He was never enough.

"Tsk."

Builderman blinked, steadfast gaze finally leaving his hands still entangled in the chassis of the generator. Traveling up the path of the tall shadow cast upon him, the moonlight that filtered through tinged green. He watched as it shifted, the blade that had been pressed against his back withdrawing.

“If you must lay yourself down like a lamb for the slaughter, look upon me.”

Was rasped out, its voice a chorus of whispers. Each one building upon the next, a cruel symphony in its own right, forming one true voice amidst the chaos. It inhaled, the chains that bound their twisting form rattling gently, before continuing.

“Give yourself the dignity to be granted this death.”

Its words dripped with venom, a demand of its unflinching prey. Builderman laughed in response, a mirthless sound, slowly untangling his hands from the pathetic distraction from the manifestation standing behind him. There was no dignity in this, just the self-satisfaction it found in being able to watch the life leave his eyes. If anything, this acknowledgment added further kindling to the heavy weight that was his wrath coursing through his veins. He did not grace it with his thoughts on the matter.

Hands free from their self-inflicted bindings, he paused for just a moment.

He could run, find the others. Catch the thing behind him off guard long enough to get away, to have support. Do literally anything else but lay down and die. None of this matters. It was sickening to even think about prolonging the inevitable, a spear of self-hate digging straight into his stomach. Was he really this pathetic? The question bounced around in his head, answering itself as he shifted to slowly turn around. Awkwardly, still on his knees after being hunched over the generator for so long. Kneeling before his executioner, 1x1x1x1. It only felt right if he were to be compared to nothing more than a piece of livestock to be snuffed out by it.

Hands resting behind his back, he sat up straight with his head held high. Eyes normally so apathetic burned with a fury that would have made anyone else flinch away, looking upon its face. Dignity. Builderman was a husk of what he once was. Empty. His insides had been scorched, burned into ashes, with nothing new to take their place. There was nothing noble in the way that still only one blade was leveled to his chest, the other held loosely in its resting hand.

It watched him, head tilted to the side with an unreadable expression. The shadows that danced off of it traveled down the sword, dancing along its pristine edge. The tip of the Daemonshank found its way pressing against him once more, right above his heart. Slowly, deliberately, it pressed the blade in, unblinking. Bypassing the thick jacket and undershirt he wore, sinking easily into his flesh. Resting just barely under the skin as they drank in the immediate reaction.

It hurt. It was agony.

Every muscle in his body locked up, the sudden tension bringing a smile to its zippered mouth. Despite this, he held his unwavering, hateful gaze on 1x1x1x1 as he hissed out a shaking breath between his teeth. The poison that coated the blade made his pierced flesh scream, blood dripping out from around the sword and soaking into his clothes. It leaned in slowly, pushing the blade gradually deeper into his yielding body. It was enjoying this, like it always did. His limbs quickly grew heavy, heavier than anytime before as he was slowly and painfully skewered.

Everything began to grow soft around the edges, body trembling at the pain. He could feel where the sword lay in his chest, a sharp spike of cold that quickly leached away any warm life that his body held.

He tried, truly, to suck in air to his failing lungs. The decay seeping into his bloodstream so close to his heart made him feel numb, almost, his organs quickly shutting down with a ferocity he had yet to know. Builderman’s brain screamed at him to panic, to thrash, to try and get away from this torture but something other than the sword kept him rooted in place. Struggling to keep his head up, to keep his blurring vision locked on to the twisting form slowly killing him. His face felt cold, and distantly he realized that he had started crying at some point.

The agony of dying was never something that he got used to, no matter how much he accepted it. This was something different though, purposeful. It wasn't something done out of the blind need to rip living flesh apart, the call to be cruel for cruelty's sake. It was drinking the sight before itself in, body seeming to grow a little more stable. The flickering edges of shadow and smoke starting to solidify before becoming fluid again.

Had it always done that?

His eyes drifted shut for a moment, head drooping fully forward as he unconsciously sunk further onto his death. Muscles giving out, unable to support himself as the burning gave way true numbness. Oddly, he realized that this was peaceful. The pain wasn't a concern anymore, nor the tears he could barely feel that still managed to fall. The warmth of his own blood coating the front of his body was a dizzying comfort, a stark contrast against the cold in his limbs.

The sword paused in its steady journey, encased firmly in his body. He didn't care, some small conscious corner of his brain supplying him with the knowledge that he would die regardless. The damage was too great to be repaired, thoroughly steeped in necrosis. Even if someone had found him, had saved him, he would wither away in their arms. The far away sound of chains shifting caught his attention, unable to bring himself to move. There was nothing he could do to stop the gradual sink into the frigid comfort of his death.

“Pitiful thing.” It mused to itself, the chorus of voices coming together into one, nearly indistinguishable from each other. “You’ve fulfilled your purpose. They will crumble without you.”

He could hardly hear what was being said, slipping further away from where anyone could hope to reach him. A spark of something happy immediately fizzled out when his sluggish thoughts pieced together the vague reassurance. The frigid bite of the blade against his skin was a distant sensation, disconnected from his rotting body. His lungs rattled with a failed attempt at sucking in air, feeling so very far away. His eyes, unseeing, locked onto 1x1x1x1 as the trembling of his overtaxed body finally ceased.

He was gone within the blink of an eye, body slumping fully onto its swords. It watched for a moment, pondering the potential pawn it had slain. With a shake, it dislodged his corpse with a certain level of care it wasn't known for. A butcher holds reverence for the carcasses they carve. Especially suched prized cuts as this.

It bore no further thought to what remained of Builderman, knowing the body would return to its service soon enough. His voice would join the chorus. Its attention turned to the distance, drawing in a crackling breath it didn't need. Tasting the air.

Death. Bitter fury. Fear.

It took off leisurely, knowing where the cowardly vermin lay in their burrows.

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It was always disorienting coming back to life like nothing happened, especially as the first one to do so. No one to guide you back into your body as sensation returned, nothing to ground you in the moment besides yourself. The faux inviting atmosphere of the cabin was always jarring to come back to, instead of the split moment of pure void death brought.

Builderman let out a shaky breath, the closest thing to a crack in his facade that he’s ever let slip through. Eyes clenched shut against the sudden onslaught of light. He was so cold. Numbness clung to his limbs, taking a trembling step backwards to give himself the stability of the wall against his back.

It felt like the poison was still sluggishly coursing through him as his body slowly turned back on, pins and needles heralding the return of blood circulation. Exhaustion creeped its way in, making his already unsteady body feel heavier. All he wanted was to rest.

That realization made him pause, bringing a hand to his face- rubbing at his eyes. The frustration that usually accompanied respawning was usually the only thing on his mind, a long-standing agitation. He had grown so used to being angry at the world, at his team, that the sudden absence of it was jarring. Only the desperate need for sleep remained, to crawl his way into the rickety bed that he had come to call his own.

Slowly opening his eyes, wincing at the yellow light that greeted him, the former admin slowly pushed away from the wall that was his lifeline. Sleep sounded good, the others be damned. Normally, he would wait for them. He would be the one to ground them in the moment, talk to them softly while they came back. It was part of his job. Keep the team together, keep morale up, make sure no one was left behind.

A flicker of his former frustration started to lick at his insides.

He took small, shuffling steps to the door, hand hesitating at the handle. Selfishness was allowed. Fuck it all. The door was pulled open as the telltale sound of someone's feet hitting the floorboards sounded behind him. He did not turn to see who had returned to life, shutting the door quietly as he stepped into the cold night.

They will crumble without you.

A snort left him at the thought, starting to run through what he could recall of this round's death. He knew that without the necessary foundations he helped provide, they would have fallen apart by now. His footsteps were the only sound his brain registered, mindlessly walking to the cabin he had claimed as his own. Builderman paused in front of his door, taking a moment to actually think about what it had said to him.

It had noticed his work behind the scenes, something his teammates had never acknowledged.

It should have made him uneasy, the thing that had been sent after them having been able to study the groups dynamic enough to point that out. It only brought him a small, aching sense of fulfillment. His efforts weren't in vain. Someone had paid attention, even if it wasn't the intended target.

He was needed.

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