The grass pressed cool against his back—deceptively gentle, like a lullaby hummed through clenched teeth. Each blade bent beneath him in reluctant surrender, edges trembling as if resisting the weight of his presence.

007n7 lay still, arms folded beneath his head, gaze fixed on the fractured canopy above. Shafts of gold sliced through the leaves in razor-thin slivers, catching on motes of dust that shimmered and vanished midair like half-formed memories. Too precise. Too deliberate. Like the forest had been frozen in the moment of remembering itself—almost real, almost natural, but not quite.

Nothing moved.

Even the breeze seemed to hesitate, caught between breaths. Wildflowers—bright, stubborn things—bobbed in stuttering motions, their petals twitching as though unsure if they were meant to sway or wither.

The scent was faint. Sterile. That sharp, antiseptic bite of a clinic long abandoned—clean, but not safe. It crawled into his lungs with every breath, whispering of spilled ether and metal stretchers left under dust.

Somewhere distant, the brittle clink of wind chimes echoed. There was no visible source—just the land’s fractured acoustics, bending sound into something unnatural. Like the air had learned to mimic ghosts from forgotten zones, replaying their whispers in hollow, metallic tones.

For a single breath, the world held still.

Not peaceful. Never peaceful. Just paused. As if the world had inhaled—and forgotten how to exhale.

He blinked. The sunlight shifted across his face in slow, stalking arcs—warm, but not kind. The kind of warmth that lingers on bruised skin, humming with leftover heat from a fire someone else set.

And then he opened his eyes.

It was there.

A grin.

Not above him. Not exactly. More like in the sky, part of the sky—a colossal, idiotic grin stretched across the heavens like some personal solar apocalypse. The sun had teeth. White. Blinding. Grinning. Jagged at the edges, too wide, too eager, like a wound stretched into a greeting.

“No,” 007n7 muttered. His brow furrowed slowly, like the thought itself was protesting. “No, that can’t be—”

But of course, it could.

Of course, it would be him.

The air warped, thickening with sudden heat. Clouds peeled away like drawn curtains, revealing the full, unholy vision: Shedletsky—his golden, smug face grinning down like a sun possessed—loomed high above, radiating theatrical warmth and unrelenting charisma. His features were exaggerated, too polished, as if rendered by an artist who only knew how to draw smiles.

“Helloooo down there, gorgeous~!”

The voice rang out in that unmistakable, sing-song tone, stretching across the sky like sugar-pulled taffy. Each syllable bent and wobbled as if the air itself was struggling to hold the weight of Shedletsky’s theatricality.

“Mind if I shine a little extra on you today? Gotta keep those vibes warm, you know?”

007n7 squinted upward.

His fingers curled reflexively into the soil—already too warm, already shifting beneath him. Each grain of earth felt like it wanted to crawl away, rebelling against the radiance above.

“This has to be… something I’m imagining,” he whispered to no one, voice hoarse. “I wouldn’t have… asked for this. Not like this.”

“Oh, don’t be such a thundercloud!” came the reply—cheerfully invasive. Shedletsky’s grin—still blinding, still too wide—lit up the sky like a second sunrise, all heat and hubris. “Let me beam some charm into that tragic little soul of yours! Shedletsky-branded warmth—guaranteed to leave a mark.”

And it did.

The temperature climbed fast—one degree, two—then leapt beyond numbers. The air shimmered, distorting the horizon into rippling waves. It was like watching reality melt in front of him.

A spiral of flare-light coiled downward from the clouds like a sunbeam with too much ego. It waved—not with a hand, but with some luminous intent, exaggerated and giddy. Mocking.

007n7 pushed himself upright, heart thudding. His cardigan clung to him like wet fabric, suffocating, saturated with heat. His breath came in short, sharp bursts.

“Please. Just... stop,” he said tightly, the plea torn from his throat. “I’m asking you. Whatever this is… I can’t. I don’t want it.”

“Face it!” Shedletsky purred, doing a slow twirl mid-sky, “I am your daily dose of vitamin D—D for devastatingly irresistible. And slightly dangerous. Comes with sparkles!”

The field beneath 007n7 rippled. Soil turned soft, sucking at his boots. Flowers wilted around him like dominos, petals crisping into ash even as he watched. The air dragged nails down his lungs.

“I don’t think I can… handle this right now,” he said, backing up a step. His knees shook. “Could you maybe… not do this? Please?”

The laugh that followed was thunder painted in glitter. It rumbled through the sky, bright and loud and unforgiving.

“Oof. Right in the ego.” He clutched at his nonexistent chest in faux agony. “But darling, I am the weather. You don’t ask the sun not to shine. You just slap on SPF 90 and pray.”

And then the heat hit.

Not sunlight. Not anymore.

This was wrong.

A molten weight pressing down on his back, searing through fabric, through flesh, down to the metal beneath. His cardigan blistered with the contact, threads curling like dying insects. Skin prickled, bubbling at the edges. Pain bloomed deeper than the flesh—beneath the wiring, in the places where code met consciousness.

007n7 staggered, gasping. The grass beneath him hissed, blackening in seconds, smoke curling upward in thin, desperate ribbons. His breath caught in his throat as the air turned to flame. It crawled into his lungs, licked his eyes, seared into his mouth, tasting like burnt sugar and static.

And then—

Nothing.

…

…

007n7 jolted upright with a sharp inhale, vision swimming as the ceiling above resolved into cracked plaster and a grid of low, splintered beams. For a heartbeat, his internal sensors screamed alert—adrenaline spiking—until familiar details filtered through: warmth, scent, weight.

Too much weight where it shouldn’t be.

Blankets. Sheets. Skin.

He was pinned to the far edge of the bed, spine taut, shoulder blades nearly pressed flat against the wall. Not restrained—just thoroughly, inescapably contained.

The reason lay draped over him like a weighted blanket with wings.

Shedletsky.

Out cold. Dead to the world and sprawled across him with all the possessiveness of someone who’d paid for premium snuggling privileges and wasn’t about to offer refunds. One leg was slung across 007n7’s hips at a strategic and extremely smug angle. An arm curled beneath his ribs like it belonged there, fingers splayed with the confident sprawl of ownership.

Worst of all, his head was nestled perfectly into the crook of 007n7’s neck—and he was purring.

Not metaphorically.

Actual, low, self-satisfied vibrations thrummed through his chest like a feral cat who’d discovered the radiator and claimed it as divine right.

A single, sad excuse of a blanket clung to the lower halves of their bodies, draped askew and utterly failing to preserve what little dignity the night had left behind. The air was warm—overheated, really—but not from the firelight.

From the wings.

Shedletsky’s plumage had reflexively folded forward sometime during the night, encasing the bed in a fortress of layered browns and charcoal blacks. It wasn’t just cozy—it was isolating. A nest. A padded, soundproof cocoon of admin origin. Outside sounds had dulled to a hush. Even the faint crackle of the nearby fireplace was reduced to little more than a memory of warmth and woodsmoke.

Shadows clung thick beneath the canopy of feathers. Every breath felt borrowed.

007n7 swallowed, carefully evaluating the limited space available for maneuvering. One wrong move and he’d risk waking the flamboyant rooster currently using him as a mattress extension. He shifted slightly—testing, inching his hip—

The wings immediately tightened.

Shedletsky groaned softly, pressing closer with a blissful sigh, his voice muffled and thick with sleep.

“Mmm… claimed~” he mumbled. “By royal decree of Shedletsky, first of his name… cuddler supreme… sultan of spooning...”

007n7 closed his eyes briefly.

Of course he was talking in his sleep.

The admin shifted again—more of a nuzzle than a movement—burying his face deeper into the side of 007n7’s neck like he was trying to tunnel for warmth. His leg hooked tighter. The arm around his ribs flexed, pulling him closer in that infuriating way that felt both unconscious and deeply intentional.

“…This is undignified,” 007n7 muttered, mostly to himself.

But his hands—hovering midair, uncertain—betrayed him.

He should push. He should.

Instead, his fingers twitched, hesitating over Shedletsky’s bare shoulder. The admin’s skin was warm, almost feverish, the faintest sheen of sweat glistening where moonlight slipped between feathers.

“…Shedletsky,” he tried softly, voice just above a whisper, “could you maybe… let go now?”

There was a soft noise. Not quite a reply. Somewhere between a hum and a satisfied croon. Then, drowsily:

“...mmm... fried chicken…”

007n7 exhaled, half-exasperated, half—

Something else. Something he wouldn’t name.

His hands hovered midair, unsure if he should push, poke, or simply surrender to fate. He considered several escape tactics, including pressure point manipulation, wing dislocation, and blunt force.

Ultimately, he settled for lightly tapping a knuckle against Shedletsky’s spine.

“I’d really appreciate it if you let go,” he said, voice still hushed but firmer.

No response. Not unless you counted the dreamy sigh Shedletsky let out—followed by a disturbingly blissful smile curling across his lips.

“…I’ll turn your wings into a coat rack,” 007n7 mumbled. It was meant as a threat. It barely qualified as one.

“Mmm… nope~” came the slurred reply, rich with drowsy satisfaction. “We’re nesting…”

“N-Nesting?” 007n7 echoed, voice hitching. “I think you’ve… got the wrong species…”

“You are nesting material…” Shedletsky murmured fondly, voice starting to drift again. “Kinda coarse. But stable. Reliable. Good weight distribution…”

“I’m—uh—losing airflow here…”

“You’ll die radiant,” the admin whispered, burrowing further into the crook of his neck with theatrical solemnity. “Statuesque. A martyr of aesthetics. Very on-brand.”

007n7’s head hit the pillow with a dull, defeated thump. He closed his eyes and reached the final, inevitable stage of coping: immobile, naked, wing-entangled, and spiritually defeated.

His hands folded stiffly over his chest, caught in the no-man’s-land between guarding his modesty and preserving the last shred of his tactical dignity.

Silence pooled around them. Dense. Undisturbed. The kind of silence that blanketed—not comforted. The fire’s glow flickered faintly through the gaps in Shedletsky’s wings, casting shifting shadows across their skin. The only sounds were the rhythm of their breaths and the occasional sigh from the glorified furnace glued to his side.

Then—from the dark—Shedletsky smiled in his sleep.

Not his usual grin. Not a smirk. Not the cocky beam of a man who knew he could get away with anything. Just… warmth. Unguarded and soft. He must’ve remembered the moment—must’ve carried it into sleep, tucked between dream fragments like a secret.

Despite himself—despite reason and rules and the very concept of self-preservation—007n7 hesitated.

That face. That smile.

Shedletsky, in all his absurdity, looked utterly human when he slept—no grandstanding, no flamboyance, no gravitational need to make every room revolve around him. Just warmth and quiet and a faint, contented sound in his throat, like the weight of the world had finally let him rest.

007n7 sighed, low and reluctant, and let his arms settle around the other man’s broad torso.

His fingertips brushed idle, thoughtful circles along his back—his shoulder, really. A massive, unfairly solid expanse of muscle that was, frankly, excessive for someone who mostly misused admin commands and monologued too much. Still... it felt real. Grounded.

His gaze drifted—just once—and lingered on that familiar face. Shedletsky’s lashes flickered with each breath, a little too long for anyone’s good. His cheeks were flushed from the heat, mouth parted in a way that made him look—

No.

007n7 banished the thought before it could finish forming.

But his hands didn’t stop moving.

And for once, his mind was quiet.

This idiot—this absolute menace—had gone to hell and back. Had gotten himself killed. Resurrected. Torn apart. Rebuilt. And still, somehow, had come back—not with apologies, not with reason—but with that same maddening grin and an uncanny ability to fill any space 007n7 left unguarded.

What he’d called betrayal… maybe it hadn’t been. Maybe Shedletsky hadn’t left.

Maybe he’d just waited.

Loud. Stubborn. Constant in his own broken, backward way.

007n7 exhaled slowly and let his body relax—just a little.

Just enough to stay.

Then the body beneath him shifted.

“Sooo…” came a groggy murmur, scratchy and soaked with sleep, “what’s the endgame here, hot stuff? Keep doodling poetry on my back ‘til I start reciting it?”

007n7 froze.

His hands—still resting along Shedletsky’s bare spine—went rigid. Incriminating. Caught in the act.

A beat.

Then, slowly, one of Shedletsky’s eyes cracked open—dark, smug, and devastatingly awake. A single brow arched with almost infuriating grace.

The expression didn’t need to say anything.

But it said everything.

007n7 did not move. Did not blink. Did not breathe.

Caught.

“I wasn’t—that wasn’t intentional,” 007n7 muttered, his posture stiffening like reinforced alloy. Each word dropped with surgical precision—clipped, defensive, as though any hint of softness might trigger an alarm.

Across the tangled sheets, Shedletsky’s smirk deepened like spilled ink blooming through silk—slow, wicked, utterly unrepentant.

“Oh, you absolutely were,” he drawled. “Dot-dot-dash, darling—I was getting serenaded in Morse. Repressed and poetic? Tragic. But adorable? Devastatingly.”

007n7 didn’t respond at first. His hands twitched—caught halfway between restraint and reflex. Then, almost inaudibly, “…Weren’t you asleep?”

“I was,” Shedletsky sighed, the sound curling into something half-melted, half-mocking as he rolled onto his back. His voice was hoarse with sleep and smugness, like velvet dragged across gravel. “Until someone started tracing apologies in Braille across my spine. World’s gentlest confession. Honestly? Ten outta ten confession. Would decode again.”

That did it.

007n7 locked up—entirely. His face ignited in red, a bloom of heat rushing from neck to ears with merciless speed. He opened his mouth, shut it. Tried again. A flustered sound emerged and immediately strangled itself into a sputter.

“I—I didn’t—That wasn’t—I mean—!”

With a short, frustrated exhale that sounded dangerously close to a whimper, he rolled onto his side and retreated. A full tactical pivot. Arms folded like armor. Back to Shedletsky. Tail curled into a tight loop at the edge of the mattress like a locked gate.

It was supposed to look indifferent. It did not.

Shedletsky, sprawled like a smug deity basking in divine vindication, stretched luxuriously beneath the covers. He looked downright radiant—eyes glinting, lips curled into a smile that knew far too much and cared far too little.

“Aww, don’t go all shy on me now, Seven,” he crooned, dragging himself an inch closer with exaggerated care. “I nearly died. Of love. You wouldn’t leave poor Shedletsky to perish alone in a bed this warm, would you?”

Still no answer.

But there was movement. Just a flick—subtle. The tip of the tail, twitching once like a suppressed pulse.

Not an invitation. But not a rejection either.

Shedletsky’s grin twitched wider.

He leaned in, voice dipping to something velvet-dark—nestled between reverence and mischief.

“Forgive me? I’ll make it worth your while. Or, at the very least, mildly entertaining.”

His hand followed the words—trailing slow and deliberate toward the curve of 007n7’s tail. He stopped at the base, hovering, then brushed a single finger across it. Feather-light. Calculated. A gesture balanced precisely between apology and provocation.

007n7 shuddered.

His back arched faintly—instinctive, unguarded. The tail snapped with mechanical precision, betraying more sensation than dignity allowed.

“…If you touch my tail again,” he warned, voice brittle and low, “I’ll—I’ll do something unfortunate. Please don’t test me.”

“You’ll what?” Shedletsky purred, slipping closer. The warmth of his body radiated through the covers now, breath ghosting along the shell of 007n7’s ear. “Moan into the pillow? Melt like butter? Maim me lovingly? I’m flexible.”

One more brush—down the spine, up again. He stopped just before repeating the crime. Tempting fate. Tempting him.

“…Y-Yes,” 007n7 whispered, each syllable forced through clenched embarrassment. “All of them. Maybe not in that order, but… still valid.”

Shedletsky chuckled, a rich, velvety sound that thrummed against his back like a second heartbeat.

“Careful,” he murmured, close enough to feel. “Shedletsky is a man of excess, not restraint. Threaten me with a good time, and I will take notes.”

Then—slow, deliberate—he leaned in and pressed his lips to the nape of 007n7’s neck.

A kiss so soft it barely qualified as contact. Just the faintest breath of warmth, a suggestion of touch.

But the way 007n7 shivered—how his breath hitched and stalled—

Shedletsky smiled against his skin, eyes half-lidded. “Absolutely worth it,” he murmured against his skin. “Five stars. Would commit again. Might even leave a glowing review.”

Still, 007n7 didn’t turn. Didn’t strike. Didn’t crumble.

Not yet.

Which, of course, only encouraged Shedletsky further.

His mouth moved lower, peppering slow, open-mouthed kisses along the flushed curve of 007n7’s neck, each one hotter, wetter than the last. His tongue flicked out, tracing the shell of his ear before sucking lightly—just to hear that sharp, bitten-off groan.

"Come on, Seven," he whispered, voice uncharacteristically soft, as if half-apology, half sin. His fingers, however, were far less remorseful—stroking in maddening circles at the base of 007n7’s tail. “Forgive me. For crimes of affection. And maybe a few misdemeanor war crimes of touch.”

007n7 quivered, his hips jolting forward with a strangled sound that betrayed him completely. “Y-you—ah—you’re insufferable…”

"Mmm, that’s the idea," Shedletsky teased, his free hand sliding down 007n7’s chest, nails scraping over his soft chub before dipping lower, lower—

007n7 arched, a broken moan slipping past his lips. “You absolute—hnnh—You’re awful…”

Shedletsky grinned, victorious. “Yours,” he whispered, shameless. “Signed, sealed, seduced.”

Then—without a shred of shame—he bit down at the juncture of neck and shoulder, sucking until a bruised bloom surfaced beneath his lips. His hand still worked slow, damning circles until 007n7 was squirming, breath ragged, the silence filled with things neither of them dared to say out loud.

At last, the breaking point.

Ultimately, 007n7 caved, his body thrumming with need, and turned to face Shedletsky—who laid there with the most infuriating, shit-eating grin plastered across his smug face.

Without another second of hesitation, 007n7 grabbed Shedletsky by the back of his neck and yanked him forward, crashing his lips together in a blistering, filthy kiss.

Their naked bodies collided, skin sliding against sweat-slicked skin, every inch of them pressed together in desperate friction. Shedletsky’s hands roamed greedily down 007n7’s back, fingers digging into the firm muscle of his ass, pulling him even closer until their respective body parts ground together in a molten-hot tease.

The kiss turned messy, tongues tangling in wet, sloppy strokes, saliva glistening on his lips as he gasped for breath between each feverish connection.

But slowly, the edge dulled. What began rough and impatient began to melt—tongues tangling in gentler strokes, touches softening into something quieter. Something dangerously close to tender.

007n7’s fingers threaded through Shedletsky’s hair, tugging just enough to keep him grounded. Their mouths moved with a rhythm no longer driven by lust alone.

When they finally parted, breathless, 007n7’s face was flushed, lips swollen, eyes half-lidded in disbelief.

Shedletsky, meanwhile, looked completely wrecked. Glowing. Pupils blown wide, heart-shaped and hopeless.

“…You look like you just discovered religion,” 007n7 muttered, half-mortified.

Shedletsky blinked slowly, dazed. “Correction,” he said, beaming. “I just remembered it.”

He leaned in again, voice husky, hands already wandering—

“Round eight?” he breathed, grin crooked. “Emotionally or physically? I’m game for both.”

“SHEDLETSKY! GET YER’ ASS OUT HERE, NOW!”

Builderman’s voice detonated through the cabin walls like a sledgehammer dipped in gravel and boot polish.

007n7 froze.

Every nerve in his body lit up—fight, flight, and faint all triggering at once. His heart slammed into his ribs like it was trying to eject itself from this timeline entirely.

Then—reflex.

“Get down. Now. Please—before he kicks the door in!”

There was a heavy thud as Shedletsky was dumped unceremoniously onto the hardwood, limbs sprawling, breath punched from his lungs.

“Ow! Treason by mattress ejection!”

007n7 scrambled to secure the blanket over himself, face burning. He peeked toward the cracked door like it might explode inward at any second.

Meanwhile, Shedletsky lay sprawled on the floor, limbs tangled, one wing flopped open like a crumpled tent.

“That was betrayal with prejudice,” he wheezed, rubbing his lower back. “Shedletsky expected post-coital cuddles, not blunt-force floorboarding.”

“Builderman is literally outside,” 007n7 snapped, eyes wide, voice low. “Please—for the love of all admin protocol—put something on.”

Shedletsky made a dramatic show of sitting up, rubbing his lower back and groaning like the world's most inconvenienced martyr. “Ugh. Rude. And I was this close to offering you breakfast… emotionally scrambled, of course.”

He yawned—stretched—a gratuitous display of flared wings, bare chest, and zero urgency. Completely nude. Entirely unbothered.

007n7 turned away so fast his neck popped. “…I may be reconsidering some of my decisions.”

“Only slightly?” Shedletsky quipped, reaching for the doorknob. “Great! I can work with that. There’s room to make you regret it less.”

007n7 didn’t answer. Just sighed. Deeply. But there was no real bite to it, as he was quite fond of Shedletsky by now. And now they were officially together.

Builderman’s boots thudded somewhere on the porch.

Time was running out.

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The knock at the cabin door had long since faded, but its echo lingered—low and heavy, like a pressure drop before a server crash.

007n7 sat hunched at the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, face buried in his hands. A sigh escaped him, long and hissing, like steam leaking from a cracked vent pipe. Every breath carried weight—every second, the room felt tighter, the air too full, like the walls were listening.

He didn’t know what was worse: the physical aftermath… or the certainty of who had come knocking.

Of course it was the admins. The only reason Builderman hadn’t kicked the door in was probably sheer pity. Or mercy. Or—more likely—he’d heard the walls screaming last night and decided to pretend he hadn’t. Self-preservation disguised as courtesy.

The thought drew a sound from deep in 007n7’s throat—half a laugh, half a groan, all pain. He shifted.

Molten agony flared through his spine, hips locking like seized machinery. He hissed and braced a hand against the sheets, the other rubbing at the tense, screaming muscles low in his back.

“…Damn that man,” he muttered.

Shedletsky hadn’t even pretended to hold back. Rough didn’t begin to cover it—more like enthusiastic demolition with a side of egomania.

It had felt… good. Too good. But 007n7 was no rookie anymore, and keeping up with a man who treated lovemaking like a competition was becoming less passion and more personal injury.

He rubbed at his lower back with a grimace, fingers digging into the tense muscle—then froze.

Something was wrong.

There’d been a strange pressure since he’d woken—an unnatural tightness coiled deep in his abdomen, heavy and insistent, like something pressing from the inside. At first, he’d brushed it off as Shedletsky being overbearing in his sleep, those wiry arms locked possessively around his waist. But even after the admin had untangled himself to answer the door, the sensation remained. A dull, persistent ache.

And now—

A sharp twist lanced through him, stealing his breath. His fingers clawed into the sheets, knuckles bleaching white. A choked sound escaped him—half gasp, half whimper—as his body bowed forward, muscles locking. The pain crested, ebbed, then surged again, deeper this time, worse, like something inside him was tearing.

His vision flickered, static fizzing at the edges. Every inhale was ragged, every exhale a shudder. He barely registered the dampness clinging to his skin, the way his shirt stuck to his spine in cold, clammy patches.

Move. Get up. Call for—

Another spike of agony—white-hot, blinding—and his legs gave out. He collapsed back onto the mattress with a thud, fingers twisting into the tangled blankets like a lifeline. His teeth sank into the fabric, stifling a cry as his body wrenched around some unseen force.

Then—

A sudden, sickening shift, a sensation too visceral to name, and—

Release.

Wet warmth spilled between his thighs. The pressure—god, the pressure—snapped like a severed cord, leaving him gasping, trembling, his lungs gulping air like a man surfacing from deep water.

Silence.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of his own stuttering breaths, the creak of the mattress beneath his weight, the distant hum of the base’s systems. His vision swam, ears ringing, body limp with exhaustion.

Then—slowly, dazedly—he looked down.

And stopped.

There, cradled in the hollow of the sheets, glistening faintly under the dim light—was an egg.

Smooth. Pale. Curved perfectly, impossibly, like it had been shaped by unseen hands. A delicate lattice of glowing code pulsed beneath its surface, threads of light weaving in and out of the shell like a living thing. It was warm against his skin. Alive.

His throat closed.

No scream came. No frantic scramble for answers. Just—

Static.

His mind stuttered, caught somewhere between wonder and sheer, malfunctioning disbelief.

This wasn’t possible.

And yet—

There it was.

Then—footsteps.

Heavy. Familiar.

The floorboards outside groaned in rhythm. Slow. Confident.

Shedletsky.

Getting closer.

007n7’s heart rocketed into his throat.

No. No, no, no—

This couldn’t be happening now.

He scrambled upright, grabbing the blanket with both hands and pulling it tight over the egg, shielding it instinctively like it was some sacred relic—or a landmine.

He glanced wildly around the room. Nowhere to hide it. Nothing to explain this.

Another footstep. Closer.

Then—

The doorknob rattled close.

007n7 flinched.

He braced.

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

By the time Shedletsky reached the door, Builderman’s fist was already cocked back—knuckles white with restraint, ready to knock the damn thing off its hinges. The wood groaned beneath the pressure, late-night light slicing through the gaps in jagged lines, like blades of judgment.

Then—click. The door swung open.

And there he stood. Naked as a newborn and twice as pleased with himself, Shedletsky leaned casually against the frame, wings half-flared, catching the moon in white and slight gold. His smile was blinding, weaponized.

“Morning!” he sang out, shameless and incandescent. “You’re early! Or I’m late. Or maybe time’s a capitalist illusion. Either way—look who’s come knocking~!”

Builderman didn’t blink. His expression was granite—unyielding, unimpressed. The kind of look that could freeze lava mid-flow. His voice dropped like a brick in a pond.

“Put some damn clothes on,” he growled. “’Fore the whole server gets corrupted just lookin’ at ya.”

Behind him, Dusekkar froze mid-step, his cloak snapping as he spun on his heel like someone who’d walked into an open flame. “Is your shame so nonexistent it must be broadcast to the cosmos?” he muttered, tone clipped and frigid. “Cover yourself. There are things even magic should not be made to witness.”

He turned sharply and strode away without another word, boots whispering across the floor, the tails of his coat trailing like an exorcism in progress.

A beat of silence followed.

Not peaceful. Punitive.

Shedletsky blinked, watching Dusekkar’s hasty exit with mild amusement before glancing down at himself. Ah. Right. Maybe he should have thrown on a pair of boxers. Not that he was ashamed—Shedletsky had never known shame, not truly. But even he could recognize when he’d crossed from bold into blatant.

Builderman’s expression remained unchanged. If looks could delete avatars, there’d be a scorch mark on the floor.

“Y’all missed briefing,” he said, each word as heavy as a hammerhead. “Matt tried savin’ you two breakfast. I told him y’all didn’t earn it.”

He shoved a tray into Shedletsky’s chest with the grace of a blacksmith throwing iron into a forge. The metal was still scalding.

“OW—!” Shedletsky yelped, nearly dropping it. He juggled the tray like it was radioactive, wings flapping in protest. “Hot tray! Hostile delivery! One-star rating! Where’s the manager?!”

Builderman’s eyebrow arched, slow and deliberate. His eyes flicked pointedly past Shedletsky, into the cabin—their cabin, the one he and Dusekkar had been sleeping in before… this.

“Do you reckon you deserve a warnin’?”

That made Shedletsky pause. Briefly. His grin wavered—just a touch. “Yeah, fair. I earned that. And possibly several citations.”

Builderman’s jaw tightened. He could see it—the way Shedletsky’s eyes glazed over, the way his smirk twitched, no doubt replaying whatever indecent symphony he’d orchestrated with 007n7 last night.

With a sharp exhale, Builderman turned on his heel, his boots thudding against the wooden floor like a judge’s gavel. Just before rounding the corner, he paused—then growled, low and dangerous, “We’ll talk later.”

The words landed like a storm warning. A disciplinary hurricane was brewing, and Shedletsky was dead in its path.

He scratched the back of his neck, feathers ruffling. “Yeah… the air smells like consequences.”

Builderman didn’t look back. But his voice carried, cold and final.

“And don’t think about runnin’ from it, Shedletsky.”

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The door clicked shut behind him—too quiet, too gentle, considering the chaos he’d just left in his wake. Shedletsky turned, one wing dragging slightly behind him like a feathered cloak, already halfway into a speech about love, fate, and possibly the long-term effects of head trauma—

And froze.

007n7 sat upright in bed, pale but luminous in the half-light. The blanket had slipped low, pooling around his hips like a fallen halo, his shoulders trembling with something not quite cold and not quite fear. Cradled in his hands was something impossible—something small, something round, something glowing with a soft, otherworldly pulse.

An egg.

Not hypothetical. Not metaphorical.

Real.

Warm to the touch, its shell a rich, speckled brown threaded with faint, flickering lines of C00lgui code—like it hadn’t quite decided if it belonged to this world or the next.

Silence, thick and molasses-slow, settled over them. Even the wind outside had paused, as if watching.

007n7’s throat moved. He swallowed. Then, very quietly: “I—I can explain—”

Shedletsky’s brain blanked.

That’s my egg.

The thought hit like a lightning strike, simple and overwhelming.

And then he moved.

One moment he was across the room; the next, he was on his knees beside the bed, hands hovering like he was afraid to touch something sacred. His fingers trembled, his breath shallow, eyes locked on the egg’s shimmering surface.

“It’s perfect,” he whispered, reverent. “Look at it. It’s so round. It’s healthy. It’s—Seven, it’s fertile. We did that.”

007n7 stared at him, caught somewhere between shock and the visceral memory of pain. “I… I wasn’t informed this was biologically feasible. It really shouldn’t be.”

“Shhh,” Shedletsky murmured, cupping 007n7’s face with a gentleness that belied every ounce of his usual bravado. He kissed him—soft, slow, sincere—nothing like his usual performative smirks or teasing bites. “Don’t ruin this moment with facts.”

This kiss was messy. Desperate. Tear-streaked and tender in a way that made his chest ache.

When he pulled back, his voice was raw. “You’re perfect. We made an egg, Seven. A whole spherical, lore-breaking miracle. Do you realize what this means? I’m a father. You’re my—wait—”

He blinked.

“Are we married now? Do I need to propose? Is this a shotgun wedding scenario or a magical prophecy thing? Because I can do both, preferably in velvet.”

“Please—stop talking,” 007n7 mumbled, face burning as he buried it in his hands. “It’s only been five minutes and I’m already questioning my entire life’s framework…”

Shedletsky ignored him—not out of dismissal, but out of pure, unfiltered joy. He pulled 007n7 into a crushing embrace, his wings wrapping around them both like a living shield. The egg rested safely between them, cradled like the most precious thing in the universe.

He buried his face in 007n7’s hair, breathing him in, his heart so full it threatened to burst.

“You’re gonna be amazing at this,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Even if Builderman banishes me to the Loading Zone for the next century—totally worth it. I’ll write you postcards.”

007n7 exhaled, shaky and overwhelmed, his forehead pressed against Shedletsky’s chest. “…We don’t have anything prepared,” he whispered. “No protocols. No systems. Not even a soft surface.”

Shedletsky laughed—soft, warm, loving—and kissed the top of his head.

“We’ll improvise. It’s what I do best—usually with explosives, but I can pivot to parenting.”

Then,

Shedletsky slowly pulled back from 007n7’s embrace, his gaze lingering—unusually quiet, unusually reverent. No clever quip. No wink. Just that look. Softness, rare and unguarded, like he was seeing something sacred and couldn’t quite believe it wasn’t disappearing.

Wordlessly, he reached over his shoulder, fingers slipping through the folds of his wing. There was a careful pause—then a sharp tug, a hiss through clenched teeth. One of his primaries came loose between his fingers: long, brown, haloed with faint gold edges that shimmered in the low light like it had been dipped in starlight.

The feather nestled against skin still flushed from sleep, fluttering softly with each breath. It looked oddly natural there, like it had always belonged.

A mark. A declaration. A vow.

To those who understood the symbolism, the meaning was unmistakable: taken. Courting complete. Mine.

007n7 blinked, startled. His hands instinctively tightened around the egg in his lap, as though any sudden movement might unsettle everything again. “…That’s very… symbolic,” he murmured, cautiously brushing a finger over the feather. “I’m not sure what it means, but… thank you.”

He wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered, mildly alarmed, or both—but Shedletsky’s nerves were written all over his grin, and that earnestness tipped the scale.

“It’s not just romantic,” Shedletsky said, his voice laced with theatric pride. “It’s wearable affection. You’ve officially got premium Shedletsky real estate behind your ear—limited edition, only one in circulation.”

007n7 exhaled slowly, resigned. “…Right.” He leaned forward and pressed a soft, dry kiss to Shedletsky’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Both of Shedletsky’s ear-wings fluttered upright with a delighted fwip, followed by the dramatic flare of his main wings behind him—arching high like twin solar panels catching praise.

Their moment was cut short by the faint pulse of light from the egg in his arms. It warmed, flickered, calmed. Still whole. Still inexplicable. Still theirs.

The tray Builderman had left—pity breakfast, sympathy toast—sat forgotten on the side table, its contents still faintly steaming. They hadn’t touched it. Everything else had come first.

And now, reality caught up.

007n7 shifted uncomfortably beneath the blanket. The mess from the night before still clung to his skin—dried, tacky, cold. There was no way he could put on his uniform in this state, not without grimacing through every seam.

Shedletsky, naturally, noticed.

“Decision made,” he announced, stretching with a luxurious yawn, his wings flexing behind him like a cat arching after a victorious nap. “Drastic measures are needed.”

Before 007n7 could protest, Shedletsky bent down and—with alarming ease—scooped him up into his arms. Bridal style.

007n7 nearly choked. “S-Shedletsky?! What are you—!?”

“Emergency transport,” Shedletsky declared with the overconfidence of someone who absolutely should not be trusted with transport of any kind. “Shedletsky is not letting you juggle our fragile miracle like a hot potato. He doesn’t do shattered dreams—only dramatic reveals.”

“Please… I can manage on my own, really…” 007n7 squirmed, doing his best to keep the egg steady. “This is—this is humiliating—!”

“We’re not even dressed!” he added, clinging tighter to the egg and the last threads of his dignity.

“I know.” Shedletsky grinned, utterly unbothered. “It’s called ‘fashion-forward minimalism.’ Makes a bold impression. Blanket chic? Very in this season.”

The only thing covering 007n7 was a single, thin blanket draped haphazardly over his waist. It barely counted as coverage—more suggestion than solution. He gripped the edge with white-knuckled desperation, trying to tug it tighter, but gravity and indignity had formed a pact against him.

Then Shedletsky—barefoot, smug, and still unapologetically naked—strode out the cabin door like this was a victory parade.

007n7 audibly squeaked.

He shoved his face against Shedletsky’s chest, mortified. Unfortunately, said chest was warm. Comfortingly so. Infuriatingly so. He tried not to think about how broad the man’s shoulders were. Or how his chest was slightly rounded, like a man who worked out inconsistently and still somehow looked better than he had any right to.

“This is… deeply inappropriate,” 007n7 muttered against his skin. “If anyone sees us like this, they’ll—there’ll be consequences.”

Shedletsky hummed as if serenading the moon.

“They’ll know I scored the legendary drop: you,” he said, self-satisfied. “Besides, the beach is dead quiet. Either they’re still looting or my radiant nudity did what no admin patch ever could—clear the zone.”

007n7’s fingers tightened around the egg, cradled close to his chest. His eyes darted across the shadows ahead. The trees whispered like something half-listening. He shivered. “…Just—don’t linger, alright? I’d prefer we keep this… discreet.”

Shedletsky grinned but obliged, picking up the pace. His bare feet whispered over the grass trail, carrying them beneath moon-dappled branches. The light filtered through the canopy in trembling pieces, catching briefly on the gold of his wings, the sheen of 007n7’s blanket, the soft lines of their silhouettes.

The ambient hum of the zone trailed behind them—gentle, distant, slightly off-key. The waves whispered ahead, rhythmic and steady, brushing the shoreline like an old lullaby.

As they approached the beach, 007n7 risked a peek up.

No witnesses.

Just wind. Sand. Quiet.

He exhaled. Still, his voice came out grumbly. “…You just wanted a reason to carry me, didn’t you?”

“Guilty as charged,” Shedletsky said brightly. “But listen—Shedletsky loves Seven. And Seven just blessed the universe with a perfectly egg-shaped bundle of Shedletsky-approved glory. I’m ecstatic.”

“…I understand.” 007n7’s voice dropped to a murmur, heat flushing his face. “That’s enough.”

Shedletsky chuckled—quiet, proud.

They reached the shoreline, the air thick with salt and distant static. Waves lapped lazily at the sand, frothing like soda foam beneath the sunrise. But Shedletsky didn’t stop at the water’s edge—instead, he veered slightly off-course, toward a small, curved outpost tucked behind a jagged outcropping of stone and driftwood.

A structure had been built there. Neat. Precise. Almost… elegant?

A smooth arch of metal and stone rose from the sand, humming faintly with filtered light. Pipes curved out from the ocean, feeding into runes etched into its frame. Water shimmered through the system like liquid glass, falling in a delicate curtain—almost too graceful for its setting.

A makeshift shower. Hidden. Precise. Private.

007n7 blinked. “…Was this Builderman’s work? It looks… carefully constructed.”

Shedletsky set him down gently on a sun-warmed rock beside it. “Admit it—it’s gorgeous. Builderman whipped it up after too many of us started smelling like regret and smoke damage. It’s hush-hush tech, tucked away like a secret spa for dramatic exits.” He flicked imaginary dust from his nonexistent sleeve. “Shedletsky didn’t waltz into the cabin just now because he respects your privacy. Sometimes.”

“…Thank you,” 007n7 murmured. “I do appreciate the consideration.” He kept his gaze down, fussing with the blanket, one hand still wrapped protectively around the egg.

Shedletsky didn’t speak. He just watched, quiet for once.

007n7 glanced between the egg in his lap and the crystalline stream of water now cascading from the arch like it had been built for this moment.

“…Do we have a procedure for this?” He asked softly.

Shedletsky didn’t answer.

Before 007n7 could protest, Shedletsky stepped under the arch of streaming water. The cascade hit his wings first—light and droplets scattering like thrown glass. It trailed over his shoulders, his chest, and his bare skin, catching on the golden shimmer of his feathers until he looked less like a man and more like some absurd, drenched seraph that had crash-landed mid-fashion show.

He turned his head, blinking through rivulets of water, and extended one hand toward 007n7.

“Come bask in the aesthetic with me.”

007n7 stared at him like he’d just asked him to walk into the core of a reactor. His eyes flicked down—first to the hand, then to the egg in his lap, still pulsing faintly with that strange, living warmth.

“You can’t be serious. What if something happens to the egg—?”

“Nothing’s getting past me. I’d body-slam the breeze if it even thought of trying.” Shedletsky said, utterly unshaken. “Shedletsky has entered Dad Mode—final form. Also, shower dates are sacred rituals. Vow-level intimacy.”

007n7 groaned softly. “You are… profoundly exhausting.”

But the words had no bite. Just weariness wrapped in affection.

With a small sigh, he stood, careful and slow. He adjusted the blanket, folding it around the egg and nesting it on the rock beside them like it was made of spun glass. He hovered a moment longer—fingers lingering, reluctant—before finally stepping toward the water.

His cheeks burned, but the air was warm. The filtered stream looked impossibly soft where it fell, more mist than downpour. As Shedletsky’s fingers closed gently around his, the warmth of contact was almost grounding.

“Relax,” Shedletsky murmured, tugging him close. “Your safety, their safety, and my flawless track record of making everything weirdly intimate? All secured.”

“…You’d better,” 007n7 whispered, so quiet the words barely reached past his lips. “If anything happens to them…”

“I know,” Shedletsky said simply.

007n7 stepped into the stream.

The water hit his skin, and the tension melted on contact. It wasn’t just warm—it was perfect. A caress instead of a cleansing. It smelled faintly of sea salt and vanilla—Builderman’s signature, unmistakably. Efficient. Gentle. Reassuring.

The ache in his hips dulled.

He exhaled, slowly, finally. Like a sigh that had been waiting since last night to escape.

“See?” Shedletsky murmured, brushing a soaked lock of hair out of 007n7’s eyes. “We’re radiant, dripping, and framed like a romance cover—nature’s spotlight included. Tell me this isn’t cinematic.”

“…Sometimes, I truly don’t know why I tolerate you,” 007n7 muttered, his voice muffled by steam and proximity.

But he didn’t move when Shedletsky leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth—soft, lingering, almost reverent.

“Liar,” Shedletsky whispered, lips curling into a grin against his skin. “You’d miss me in five seconds if I stopped being your problem.”

The ocean spray arched above them, a glittering curtain of salt and sunlight, casting fractured rainbows over their slick, tangled bodies. For a fleeting, reckless moment, beneath the rush of water and the haze of mindless pleasure, 007n7 let himself believe it was okay to smile—to surrender.

Shedletsky didn’t give him time to second-guess it.

The admin’s mouth crashed against his, swallowing his gasp as calloused fingers dug into his hips, pulling him flush against a hard, fever-hot body. Their tongues slid together, wet and filthy, the taste of salt and sweat mingling as Shedletsky licked deep into his mouth, possessive.

Water cascaded down their skin, rivulets tracing the dip of 007n7’s spine, the swell of his ass, the trembling curve of his thighs—still sensitive, still aching from the stretch of the egg he’d pushed out not long ago.

But Shedletsky wasn’t done with him.

A rough palm slid down 007n7’s stomach, fingers splaying over the soft, quivering flesh of his lower belly before dipping lower—too low.

007n7 jolted when those clever fingers brushed his swollen clit, the touch featherlight but electric. His legs snapped shut instinctively, thighs clamping around Shedletsky’s wrist as a sharp gasp tore from his throat.

“W-We really shouldn’t… not now…” He protested, his voice ragged.

Shedletsky whined, nuzzling into the damp crook of his neck, teeth scraping over the pulse point there. “Shedletsky detects hesitation. That’s suspicious. Unsexy. Explain yourself.”

“B-Because I’m still recovering… after the egg, I—please, not so soon…” 007n7 shuddered as Shedletsky’s thumb circled his clit again, teasing. “I’m still sore… my body isn’t ready, and we—we can’t risk another one…”

The admin groaned, nipping at his collarbone in frustration before pulling back just enough to fix him with a look—dark, hungry, downright predatory.

“Then let Shedletsky offer you a compromise. Fingers only. Low stakes, high reward," he rumbled, voice thick with want. "Look at you—you’re already a puddle, and I’ve barely touched you."

007n7 hesitated, breath hitching as Shedletsky’s fingers traced his slit, gathering the slick that had already begun to pool there. The admin’s gaze was molten, pupils blown wide with need, and—god help him—007n7 couldn’t say no.

With a shaky exhale, he spread his legs, one lifting as Shedletsky hooked it over his shoulder, exposing him completely.

And then Shedletsky devoured him.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses trailed down his throat, teeth leaving possessive marks in their wake. Every suck, every bite sent sparks shooting down 007n7’s spine, his back arching as Shedletsky’s fingers returned to his clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles.

"Stars, look at you.” Shedletsky growled against his skin. "Glowing, dripping, divine—and you hatched for me? You really are a masterpiece—signed, sealed, and stretched."

007n7 moaned, fingers tangling in Shedletsky’s hair as pleasure coiled tight in his gut. He was wet now, slick coating his thighs, and when Shedletsky finally—finally—pushed two thick fingers inside, he nearly sobbed.

“Ah—w-wait—nngh—!”

The admin’s fingers curled, stretching him, filling him, the rough pads dragging against his walls with every thrust. It was too much—his body was still tender, still throbbing from the strain of laying an egg, but the pleasure was dizzying, overwhelming, and he couldn’t stop.

“That’s it, Seven—take it,” Shedletsky murmured, lips brushing his ear. “You pushed out a whole divine artifact this morning. Now let me make you feel even better."

The praise went straight to his core, heat pooling low in his belly as Shedletsky’s fingers fucked into him harder, faster. His prostate throbbed under the relentless assault, his tail lashing out to coil around Shedletsky’s wrist, pulling him deeper.

He was so close—teeth gritted, thighs shaking, his entire body tensing as pleasure spiraled toward its peak—

And then Shedletsky pulled out.

“N-No—please—don’t stop—!” 007n7 writhed, a broken whine tearing from his throat as his orgasm was denied, his cunt clenching around nothing.

Shedletsky just smirked, licking his fingers clean with a filthy, purposeful suck.

007n7’s eyes were glazed with desperation, his lips trembling as he stared up at Shedletsky, his body already a wreck of need. His thighs glistened with slick arousal, his vagina clenching around nothing, aching to be filled. He had been teased for too long—Shedletsky’s fingers had worked him open, stretching him just enough to make him sob, but never giving him what he truly wanted.

“P-Please… I need… just—please…” 007n7 begged, his voice breaking as he spread his arms wide, his chest heaving, his entire body trembling with frustration. Tears welled in his eyes, threatening to spill over—he couldn’t stand it anymore. He needed to be fucked, needed to feel Shedletsky ruin him, consequences be damned.

Shedletsky’s breath came in ragged, uneven bursts, his muscles taut with restraint. His cock—thick, heavy, veins bulging—stood rigid against his stomach, leaking precum in obscene streaks. He growled, low and rough, his fingers digging into 007n7’s hips hard enough to bruise. "Okay, pause. You’re not thinking straight—neither am I—we can’t—"

But 007n7 was done waiting.

With a snarl, he reached down, his fingers wrapping around Shedletsky’s cock in a punishing grip. He gave it a few rough, slick strokes, smearing precum down the length before yanking him forward, aligning that throbbing heat with his dripping entrance.

And then—in one brutal thrust—Shedletsky was inside.

“Nngh—!”

007n7’s back arched violently, a scream tearing from his throat as his cunt clamped down, his body convulsing in instant, shattering pleasure. His vision whited out as he squirted, his thighs shaking, his nails raking down Shedletsky’s back. He nearly collapsed, his legs giving out—but Shedletsky caught him, his arms locking around him like iron, hauling him up as 007n7’s legs wrapped tight around his waist.

The new angle forced Shedletsky deeper, his cock burying into that molten heat with every shift of their bodies. 007n7 sobbed, his walls fluttering helplessly around the thick intrusion, his oversensitive nerves alight with too much—but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but take it as Shedletsky pounded into him, each thrust sending another gush of slick between them.

“T-Too much—can’t—”

Shedletsky crushed their mouths together, swallowing 007n7’s broken cries as he fucked into him with reckless abandon. "I said I’d be gentle, but then you started moaning like that, okay—Shedletsky’s sorry! But only halfway! You’re too tight, too perfect—how was I supposed to behave?" He groaned between kisses, his voice raw, his hips snapping forward with brutal precision. His promise to be gentle was long forgotten, lost in the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin, in the way 007n7’s hole gripped him like a vice, milking him with every desperate roll of his hips.

007n7 could only scream his name, his fingers tangling in Shedletsky’s hair, his body burning, his mind gone. Every thrust sent sparks through his nerves, his orgasm building again too fast, too hard—

“S-Shedletsky—!”

And then Shedletsky roared, his thrusts turning erratic before he ripped himself out, his cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum splattered across 007n7’s stomach, his thighs, his ruined vagina. The sight alone was enough to send 007n7 over the edge again—his body seized, another flood of slick gushing out as he shook through his climax, his vision blurring at the edges.

For a long moment, they stayed like that—breathless, trembling, their bodies still tangled together. Shedletsky pressed a tender kiss to 007n7’s forehead, his arms tightening around him as he felt the way 007n7 melted against him, completely spent.

He knew 007n7 wouldn’t be able to walk.

Carefully, Shedletsky lowered him onto the nearby rock, his touch gentle now, a stark contrast to the brutality of before. He washed 007n7 with slow, reverent strokes, cleaning the mess between his thighs, the streaks of cum on his stomach—his own release, 007n7’s slick, everything.

007n7 could only stare up at him, dazed, ruined, his body still twitching with aftershocks.

And Shedletsky—smug, satisfied—cleaned himself off last, his gaze never leaving 007n7’s wrecked form.

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

007n7 refused to narrate how they got back to the cabin.

There had been… logistics. Missteps. Several undignified yelps. He was fairly certain Shedletsky flew part of the way—despite the looming risk of Spectre interference—possibly while humming some horrendous ballad at full volume. The man was clearly in a good mood.

Which only made it worse.

007n7, meanwhile, had suffered the consequences of Shedletsky’s unfiltered affection and poor impulse control.

But now?

Now he was dry. Clean. Swaddled in a fresh blanket that smelled of sun-warmed linen and—if his nose didn’t deceive him—admin-tier fabric softener. The kind locked away in the main safehouse, which Shedletsky must’ve raided between bouts of being unbearably extra.

The cabin’s fire crackled gently nearby, casting long shadows across the red carpet. The sound was soft, constant—like static slowed to a lullaby.

007n7 sat on the floor, legs folded beneath him, the egg nestled securely in his lap. One arm cradled it beneath the folds of the blanket, while the other held a small bowl of the breakfast Builderman had left for them—likely out of a complicated blend of pity and slight concern.

And then there was Shedletsky.

Wrapped around him from behind like a living blanket, arms curled possessively around his waist, wings folded forward in a protective arc. His breath warmed the side of 007n7’s neck, and his hair—still damp and vaguely feral from the shower—kept brushing against his shoulder.

He was purring.

Not metaphorically. Not subtly. A real, vibratory hum thrummed through his ribs like a power core in domestic overdrive. Every so often, he let out a soft, contented sigh and burrowed in closer, as if 007n7 might vanish if he wasn’t actively attached to him.

“…Could you stop that? Please… I’m trying to eat.” 007n7 muttered, cheeks pink as he tried to focus on his food. “…I mean it this time.”

It was the sixth time he’d said it.

Shedletsky had not stopped once.

“You’re so warm,” Shedletsky whispered, brushing his nose along the curve of 007n7’s neck. “And soft. And alarmingly edible. Not in a creepy way—in a ‘my domestic bliss is peaking and I might cry into this blanket’ kind of way.”

“That’s… objectively worse,” 007n7 mumbled, ears red.

But he didn’t move away.

Shedletsky shifted just enough to angle his face, watching 007n7 chew with rapt attention. His eyes gleamed like he was witnessing divine revelation.

“You’re not even eating,” 007n7 pointed out, warily.

“You said watching was enough…”

“It is,” Shedletsky said dreamily. “You look like a banished deity wrapped in silk, feeding the flame of my hearth with divine sustenance. It’s deeply moving. I might write a hymn.”

007n7 groaned. Quiet, suffering. The kind of noise one makes when divine punishment takes the form of a wet, affectionate admin refusing to leave your spine alone.

But then he paused.

Shedletsky had been rough the night before, and early too, yes.

Now he looked utterly content.

Sated in a way no wild flight or witty quip ever left him. Like this—this stupid, quiet little moment wrapped in warmth and oatmeal—was everything.

So 007n7, half-embarrassed and half-resigned, scooped up a small spoonful from the bowl and twisted slightly in Shedletsky’s arms, lifting it toward his face.

“…Here. Eat something,” he muttered, almost scolding but not quite. “You’re going to fuse with the carpet at this point…”

Shedletsky’s eyes lit up like rare loot had just dropped from the sky.

With exaggerated elegance, he leaned forward, eyes wide and mouth open.

“Aaaaah~”

007n7 rolled his eyes so hard they nearly clattered out of his skull.

The spoon slid past Shedletsky’s lips. He closed his eyes and hummed dramatically.

“Mmm,” he sighed. “My angel feeds me. I’m cherished. I’m blessed. I’m—mm, that’s good—enlightened.”

“You’re absolutely absurd,” 007n7 said, but the warmth in his voice betrayed him. “But… I suppose that’s not new.”

“And you adore it,” Shedletsky replied, still half-chewing.

007n7 didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away either.

The egg shifted in his lap, a soft pulse of warmth, steady and quiet.

Outside, the wind moved through the trees in long, low hums. Somewhere beyond the walls, the island murmured with ambient energy—neutral, undisturbed. For now.

And inside the cabin, tangled in wings and silence, there was something rare.

Peace.

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Shedletsky alternated between dragging his sword behind him and resting it theatrically over his shoulder—not because the weight demanded it, but because the drama did.

The blade scraped against the cracked asphalt, leaving a serpentine trail in its wake, a temporary scar on the battlefield. His pristine white cape—ironically spotless despite the carnage—billowed with every exaggerated stride. It caught phantom gusts like it had been coded specifically for cinematic flair.

And yet…

He was moping.

Which, frankly, was a betrayal of everything he stood for.

His usually flamboyant feathers drooped just a touch, the iridescent sheen dulled beneath the heavy drag of a sulk. Even the telltale gleam in his eye—that glint of chaos, of yes-I-am-doing-this-on-purpose—had dimmed. Not from fear. Not even exhaustion.

No. The culprit was something far more devastating:

007n7’s request.

"Let’s keep this private."

Private.

Like they were some side quest he wasn’t allowed to brag about. As if he, the great Shedletsky—wasn’t allowed to brag about this to every survivor, every killer, every respawning nobody wandering the lobby.

He hadn’t even gotten to drop a single “Oh ho ho, guess who’s taken~?” before being shoved into secrecy like a forbidden patch note.

And the insult of it all? They were on his map.

Twisting corridors. Vertical loops. Kill zones disguised as shortcuts. He owned this layout. It was the perfect arena for a Shedletsky-certified rampage. He should’ve been unhinged and unstoppable.

Instead?

He was on babysitting duty.

The hiss of steel-on-steel snapped him out of his brooding.

He looked up—sharp.

Just ahead, framed like an unskippable cutscene, Guest 1337 and John Doe were locked in brutal combat. John’s corrupted arm—an abomination of iron and exposed sinew—came crashing down, each swing fast and mechanical. Guest met him head-on, fist catching sparks with every parry, movement clean, deliberate. Calculated.

All around them, the survivors moved like clockwork. Generators thrummed in the distance, slow but steady. Guest was holding John’s attention flawlessly—too flawlessly.

Shedletsky’s wings flared wide, his whole frame electrified with purpose.

His fingers curled around his sword’s hilt.

A grin spread across his face—sharp. Hungry. Feral.

“Oh ho ho—NOW we’re talking!”

He took one eager step forward—

—and froze.

The egg.

His hand flew to the small, warm weight nestled securely in the folds of his hoodie-cape. Through the fabric, he could feel the faint pulse of life, the delicate curve of its shell.

“If anything happens to them—anything—I’ll be holding you personally accountable.”

007n7’s voice, quiet but iron-clad, echoed in his skull.

Shedletsky deflated like a popped balloon.

His sword’s tip thunked against the ground with a sound that could only be described as pathetic. His wings sagged. His once-triumphant smirk crumpled into a pout so dramatic it could’ve been flagged as a visual exploit.

With the exaggerated sorrow of a Shakespearean hero denied his soliloquy, he spun on his heel, cape whirling like a scorned diva’s curtain call. Then, with a sigh loud enough to be heard in the next match, he stomped away from the fight—toward the edge of the map.

There, he found a rock.

And kicked it.

Hard.

"Stupid egg," he grumbled as it clattered uselessly across the pavement. "Stupid domesticity. Stupid beautiful hacker with his stupid beautiful face and his stupid reasonable boundaries—"

His tirade cut off as movement caught his eye.

Far across the battlefield, half-hidden behind a generator, 007n7 peered at him—nervous, tense.

Shedletsky’s scowl softened.

He sighed again, this time more tired than theatrical, and with the exaggerated weariness of someone far too noble for this world, lifted a hand and flashed a big, dramatic thumbs-up.

Egg secure. Mission accomplished.

007n7 visibly exhaled, sagging into the shadows with relief.

And Shedletsky—though he’d sooner delete his own cosmetics than admit it—felt something warm flicker in his chest at the sight of it. The way 007n7’s shoulders lowered. The way the tight line of his mouth flickered, just for a second, into something that almost resembled a smile.

Maybe the whole “responsible adult” thing wasn’t entirely beneath him.

…Almost.

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

They’d talked it out before the round began.

Well—argued it out. In hushed, frantic tones between the creaking walls of the cabin, with the match countdown ticking in the background like a slow descent into chaos.

The egg was the issue.

More specifically, hiding the egg.

Shedletsky had offered his brilliant first solution with all the wisdom of a man who had never babysat anything sentient in his life:

“Lobby’s got vibes. Just toss it there—it’ll imprint on the spawn point.”

007n7’s reaction was instantaneous. He spun so fast his blanket nearly fell off, eyes blazing.

“Have you lost your mind? What if the Spectre finds them?”

His voice was a hissed whisper, but the panic in it was sharp enough to cut through Shedletsky’s usual nonchalance.

Shedletsky, unbothered, had simply draped himself over 007n7’s shoulders like a particularly affectionate weighted blanket, chin hooking loosely near his collar.

“Easy fix—Shedletsky becomes Egg Transport. Prestige class unlocked.” he said, like it was no big deal. Like he wasn’t volunteering for the most high-risk role a chaos elemental like him could possibly take: Parent.

007n7 had gone still.

Then he turned in Shedletsky’s arms, slowly, carefully—and for one second, one second—he looked…

Lit.

Not just alert, not just calculating.

Lit up. Like someone had rebooted the concept of hope in his core files.

Shedletsky blinked. Alarm bells started to go off somewhere behind his ribs.

Oh no.

No.

He didn’t mean—

That was sarcasm-adjacent, right?

But it was too late.

"You’re right," 007n7 breathed, already nodding, his mind racing ahead. “The back hood of your cape—it’s insulated. Covered. You’re fast, and unpredictable in the right ways—”

Shedletsky’s wings twitched. Oh no. He’d only said it to stop the worrying. He hadn’t actually expected 007n7—the most paranoid, meticulous, overthinker in the entire Robloxia—to agree.

“Wait, wait, that was a conceptual solution, not a binding contract—!”

Too late.

The egg was already being pressed into his hands, warm and solid and glowing faintly like it knew it was being entrusted to a terrible idea.

007n7’s fingers lingered over his own, just briefly.

“Promise me,” he said, voice low but steel. “No fighting. No grandstanding. Just lay low, and run if you need to.”

Shedletsky groaned, wings drooping.

“You’re killing me with caution. Death by lecture. It’s humiliating.”

But then—007n7 looked up at him. Not with frustration, not with his usual exasperated glare.

Just… pleading. Stressed. Trusting.

…Damn it.

"Fine," he muttered, tucking the egg into the hidden inner hood pocket he never thought would see real use. "But if I die of boredom, I’m coming back as your anxiety.”

007n7’s relieved breath hit harder than any accolade.

Now, as he paced the outskirts of the fight zone like a leashed dragon, Shedletsky was starting to regret everything.

The sword in his hands felt criminally underused.

The thrill of combat buzzed on the edge of his peripheral vision—and he wasn’t allowed to so much as pose. No dashes, no flips, no signature kill-line shouted from the rooftops. Just watching. Waiting. Babysitting.

Parent duty was the worst.

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

As Shedletsky stomped off in a flurry of cape-swirl and theatrical offense, his boots kicking up dust like he was personally insulted by the terrain, Guest 1337’s eyes caught the motion in his periphery.

Two anomalies registered instantly.

First—Shedletsky was retreating. Retreating. From battle.

Since when had the admin ever turned down a chance for a glorious fight?

Second—something in his hood was… bulging.

Not just bulging. Pulsing.

Guest’s combat-trained mind flagged it immediately as irregular—possible payload, or concealed tech. He’d seen plenty of Shedletsky’s antics before, but this? This didn’t match the usual spectacle.

His analysis was cut brutally short.

CLANG.

John Doe’s corrupted arm came down like a guillotine, shearing the air with a shriek of jagged steel. Guest barely had time to bring his fist up—the impact sent a thunderclap through his bones. Sparks burst between them in an electric shower, catching for a moment on John’s hollow eye.

Blank. Red. Unfeeling.

Guest's teeth clenched as he twisted his torso, using the hit’s recoil to launch himself backward. Worn boots skidded across broken ground. His breath came sharp but controlled.

Focus.

Whatever twisted project Shedletsky was parading around would have to wait.

The generators were humming—steady now, close to completion. Their low, mechanical growl vibrated faintly beneath his heels like an oncoming storm just below the earth’s crust.

Just a little longer.

Guest adjusted his stance, rebalancing.

Arms still burning, he baited John into another overhead strike—predictable. Brutal. Good.

The corrupted limb came down with raw, unfiltered rage.

Guest met it head-on, fist to metal.

KRANG.

The impact screamed through the clearing, and steel groaned under pressure.

He didn’t budge.

Keep him occupied. Thirty more seconds. That’s all you need.

The thought burned through his mind like a mantra. Behind him, the final generator's completion buzzed through the air like static electricity.

Victory was close. Even if it meant not understanding why the most chaotic survivor was currently sulking at the edge of the battlefield, cradling something in his hood like a...

No.

Not his problem.

John's corrupted arm came down again, and Guest grinned. The others were safe. That was enough.

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Thing was, if they wanted to keep the relationship private… well, they were doing a terrible job.

Not outright public—no dramatic declarations, no grand gestures—but subtlety had never been Shedletsky’s strong suit. Not when he used to barrel into battle like a storm given form, all reckless steel and snapping feathers, caring little for strategy so long as his blade found its mark.

Now?

Now he hovered.

And Shedletsky loathed hovering.

He was a creature of motion—of improvisation, of defiant momentum. Yet there he stood, just beyond the firelight of the fight, his wings twitching like a caged thing, his fingers flexing around the hilt of his sword with all the discipline of a man restraining an instinct. His gaze—sharp, dark, far too focused—kept darting between compromised generators, circling killers, and, most damning of all… one specific survivor.

Every time someone drifted too close to 007n7, Shedletsky’s whole form shifted—feathers flaring, body tensing, jaw ticking with barely disguised threat. He never lunged. But he always looked like he might.

That restraint, of course, was 007n7 himself.

He moved across the map with practiced efficiency, fingers skimming wire and steel, steps precise even as Shedletsky’s presence circled like a stormcloud. But the tells were there—if you knew where to look. And Elliot always knew where to look.

A tap of calloused fingers against his thigh. A pause—not long, but long enough—whenever those familiar wings cast a shadow in his peripheral. A breath held just a little too tight when he sensed those bright charcoal eyes drilling into the back of his neck.

And then there was the feather.

Glossy. Black. Nestled behind his ear like an afterthought—and yet nothing about 007n7 was ever an afterthought. That feather might as well have been a flare gun. We made up. We’re fine. We’re—whatever this is.

It should’ve brought relief. Instead, it made Elliot’s jaw clench like a vice.

Haven’t they confessed already? So why are they acting like two teenagers hiding notes under the table?

Behind a stack of debris, Guest 1337 was crouched down, chewing through the pizza slice with the speed of someone who hadn’t eaten in two rounds. His uniform was scuffed, one arm bandaged, but his eyes were still sharp—watching Elliot’s glare with faint curiosity.

“I swear, if they start holding hands mid-generator, I’m walking into the void myself,” Elliot muttered under his breath, folding his arms like a barrier against the nonsense.

Guest tilted his head. "You alright? Look like you bit into something sour."

"Nothing." Elliot’s voice was dry enough to sand down concrete. "Just watching two formerly competent people turn into a soap opera. Real subtle, those two.”

Guest chewed slowly. Thoughtfully. His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual. “Call it strange, sure. But it means they’ve got something worth holding. Not all of us do.”

Elliot snorted. “Right. Feather jewelry and moon eyes—surefire signs of mental stability.”

Guest’s eyes didn’t move from the pair across the map—Shedletsky turning with theatrical flair, 007n7 smiled tiredly but didn’t move away. “We fight so long, we forget softness isn’t a weakness.”

"...Tch." Elliot exhaled, a sound caught between a sigh and a growl. His hand reached up to rub the back of his neck. “This is above my emotional pay grade.”

The metallic clink of silver spinning across knuckles snapped Elliot’s attention sideways.

Chance.

Leaning against a crumbling outcrop of stone, one foot braced behind them, the gambler looked like the picture of nonchalance—coin twirling between his fingers, head tilted back like he had all the time in the world.

But Elliot knew that trick. Knew the rhythm of it—the smooth, fluid arc that came when Chance was in control.

This wasn’t that.

There was a stutter in the movement. A subtle tremor. The coin faltered mid-flip, just enough to betray the weight behind it. Not physical—emotional.

Elliot’s jaw snapped shut a beat too late. Chance had definitely heard them.

At first, the gambler didn’t move. His smirk stayed affixed, practiced and easy. His eyes half-lidded, unreadable. But Elliot had spent enough time around things that didn’t heal right to know the exact second before they cracked.

Chance’s gaze lingered—on Shedletsky and 007n7.

The way the birdman hovered just outside the reach of harm, guarding the other without touching. The way 007n7, quiet and sharp, never quite told him to leave. They orbited each other like twin stars, bound by gravity, by something unspoken.

And it cut deep.

“If the world burns down again…” Chance murmured, voice low and deceptively calm, “well, at least someone’s got a hand to hold while it crumbles.”

That was when it happened.

That closing off.

A flicker in the eyes. The moment someone pulled shut the vault doors from the inside.

Once, he wouldn’t have noticed. Would’ve been too busy talking circles around his own grief, too lost in cleverness and performance to see the quiet truths in other people’s silence.

But now?

Now he saw it.

And worse—they felt it.

Because it reminded them of him.

The one he’d trusted. The one he’d fallen for.

The one they have lost.

Watching someone else keep what he couldn't—it was like hearing an old song you thought you’d forgotten. One note and you were drowning again.

His throat locked. His chest turned hollow, like a ransacked vault. Empty, except for the ghosts and the dust and the flicker of laughter that used to live there.

The coin faltered again.

Then Chance exhaled—a half-laugh, half-sigh—and finally spoke. "Love’s a hell of a drug, huh?"

The words were light. His voice was steady.

But his eyes? So, so tired.

And then, with the smile still carved into his face like a scar, he turned and walked into the mist. The coin settled dead in his palm. No more tricks.

Elliot didn’t follow.

Didn’t say his name. Didn’t offer comfort that would feel like lies. Didn’t pretend he could reach someone that deep underwater.

He just stood there and watched Chance’s silhouette fade into fog, then ran a hand over his face, fingers pressing hard into the bridge of his nose.

A breath left him. Long. Weighted.

Beside him, Guest 1337 shifted slightly, his armor clinking faintly as he glanced after the retreating gambler.

“…Chance shouldering something heavy. You can hear it in the way he holds silence.”

Elliot grunted. “Yeah. I’ve been there when it broke loose.”

He didn’t elaborate—but the memories stirred anyway.

Chance, clawing at his jacket in the middle of the night. Cold sweat, soaked collar. Sobs that came from the gut, not the throat—raw, desperate, trembling. The kind of pain that didn’t cry out loud unless it thought no one else could hear.

And Elliot had held on—longer than he probably should’ve. Long enough to think maybe Chance was through the worst of it. Long enough to hope.

Closure. That’s what Elliot told himself.

Guest 1337 didn’t pry. Just gave his shoulder an awkward pat, like a soldier trying to defuse a bomb with a stick.

“You’re carrying your own, too. Just... quieter.”

Elliot blinked, thrown. “Right. Emotional damage detected. Cheers.”

Guest offered a grunt, like he’d just dispensed ancient wisdom. “I’ll take it over from here. Go breathe for a bit."

Then, with the air of someone who’d absolutely rather fight a killer than talk about feelings, he turned and trudged off into the haze, scanning the dark for trouble.

Elliot stayed behind. Let the fog take the silence. Let the ache settle.

Just for a moment.

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The evening air was crisp, edged with the lingering scent of smoke and distant ash. The safe house behind him creaked softly in the wind—old wood shifting like a beast in restless sleep. It wasn’t much, but it was all they had: four walls, a door that stuck on the hinge, and Shedletsky’s stubborn insistence that it was “perfect nesting real estate.”

007n7 wasn’t so sure.

Shedletsky had gone back inside claiming he needed “a victory snack, or possibly twenty for them,” leaving 007n7 to wander alone into the brush just beyond the outer posts—egg in tow.

It was swaddled carefully in his cardigan, tucked against his chest like a secret. His arms curled instinctively around it, shielding it from the cold that clung to the ruined clearing. Each step through the tall, unkempt grass sent soft rustles into the night. The occasional crunch of loose gravel underfoot betrayed his position far more than he liked.

He scanned the landscape—half-fallen ruins, the silhouette of some long-dead outpost, fireflies blinking between the brambles. All of it wrong. Too open. Too exposed. Too far from the others.

Another gust of wind threaded through the trees, and he adjusted the cardigan tighter around the egg. His brow furrowed. This is ridiculous. He could be inside. With heat. And walls. And at least three people between them and whatever fresh nightmare would crawl out of the spawn pits tonight. But Shedletsky had insisted. "Trust me, dove. You’ll want the privacy. We’re nesting, not hosting a LAN party.”

007n7 sighed, ready to give up, when a voice sliced through the dark like a needle through fabric.

“Lost, are we?”

He froze. A chill far sharper than the weather crawled down his spine.

Slowly, he turned.

Two Time stood just a few paces away—still as a statue, framed by crooked tree limbs. Their grin stretched too wide, calm and unreadable, their eyes reflecting the low firelight from a distant torch. They hadn’t spoken to him since... that night. Since they offered him the needle.

“…I was just getting some air,” he said quietly, tone awkward but trying to sound neutral.

“Air,” Two Time echoed, tilting their head ever so slightly. “How nourishing. So too is silence… yet here you break both… to protect a softer one still.”

Their tone was smooth and ponderous, like sermon and joke at once.

“The needle,” they added, hands clasping behind their back with that eerie reverence. “Did you sew a wound closed... or open something that was never meant to be?”

007n7 stiffened. His grip on the bundle tightened.

“…Yeah. I did. I used it. For repair. Not… the other thing.”

Two Time’s chuckle was quiet—soft as rain against stone. “Choice is illusion,” they murmured. “The Spawn teaches: what you carry becomes what you are.”

He hated this kind of talk. Always did.

“I’m not—look. I’m just keeping it warm.”

“Warm,” they repeated. Their voice lingered on the word. Then their gaze dropped to the cardigan—more precisely, to the weight nestled inside it. “Is that what lies in your cloak? A warmth born of shell and whisper? Curious… The Spawn favors those who keep secrets close.”

007n7 didn’t answer. He was too busy watching the lines in the dirt behind them. The grooves weren’t natural. They were deliberate. Fresh. Spawn sigil. And just beneath the hem of Two Time’s robe—was that a blade?

His heartbeat spiked.

“…I should head back,” he said, stepping back a pace. “Sorry.”

But their eyes were sharp. Too sharp. They flicked down to the bundle again. That smile widened.

“I could offer you sanctuary,” Two Time whispered. “One touch. One prayer. I might cradle it for you. The Spawn accepts all offerings…”

Their hand twitched—just barely.

“…especially those still beating.”

That was enough.

007n7 turned on his heel, heart hammering, and—

—crashed straight into someone.

He staggered back, nearly dropping the egg as he caught himself. Cold dread flooded him—until he saw who it was.

Taph.

The mute admin stood motionless, expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hoodie. The forest wind tugged at the edges of his cloak, but he made no move to speak—not that he ever had. Not in words, anyway.

007n7 had never learned sign language.

Two closeted souls in one clearing—one mute, the other mortified—was already bad enough. Throw in a cultist with too many teeth and too few boundaries, and the night was officially cursed.

For a long, brittle moment, none of them moved.

Two Time’s chuckle lingered in the air like incense, sweet and suffocating.

Taph’s masked stare burned through the dark, silent and steady.

And 007n7 clutched the egg in his arms like it might vanish if he breathed wrong.

This night was not going as planned.

“S-Sorry, I didn’t—Are you alright?” 007n7 stammered, taking a step back as Taph straightened. The admin tilted his head, appraising him in silence. Then, with slow deliberation, he lifted a gloved hand and formed an unbothered 👌.

007n7 let out a breath. His shoulders slumped. “Right. Okay. That’s… good to know.”

The egg shifted slightly in his grasp, warm and impossibly alive. He adjusted the folds of his cardigan around it, gaze sweeping the treeline again.

“…Still haven’t found a suitable spot.”

Taph’s head tilted again, the dim glow of his cover flickering faintly—curious.

“I need somewhere out of sight, but…” He trailed off, motioning vaguely to the moonlit brush. “Nothing’s working. It’s all too exposed. Too open.”

Taph responded instantly, hands moving in a rapid flurry of signs—shapes and meanings 007n7 couldn’t catch. He sighed, frustrated. “…I don’t understand. I’m sorry.”

Before he could apologize again, Taph reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Wait—Please—!”

007n7 stumbled, nearly dropping the egg as he was yanked forward. Taph didn’t look back, his grip firm but not painful, leading them toward a stretch of uneven fencing hammered into the dirt—splintered planks marked with red chalk and warning glyphs.

"What are you—? We can’t go in there!"

Taph didn’t so much as pause. He pointed past the barrier, wordless and unwavering.

“No—Taph, we’re not allowed past that—” 007n7 dug his heels in, panic rising. "If the others find out I—"

Then Taph stopped.

And in one quiet, disarming motion, he reached into the folds of his coat—
—and pulled out an egg.

007n7 froze. His breath hitched.

It was smaller than his, cradled like glass in Taph’s hand. Its shell was darker, veined with smoky greys, but unmistakable. Taph’s fingers curled around it protectively before he tucked it away again, as if revealing a badge only to those who’d earned the right to see it.

“…Oh.”

His panic faltered. Something fragile and uncertain bloomed in its place.

“…You have one too?”

Taph didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

His meaning was simple: Trust me.

007n7 swallowed hard. The pounding in his ears faded as he nodded, shakily. He loosened his grip, letting Taph lead them past the line of broken warnings and into the trees.

The forest thickened quickly. Roots twisted underfoot, and the branches above knotted together like clawed hands shielding secrets from the moonlight. The air was damp here—rich with moss, old bark, and the quiet breath of forgotten things. The hum of the safe house vanished behind them.

And then—
Through a break in the undergrowth—a shape.

A shed. Or what remained of one.

Its walls leaned drunkenly, half-covered in ivy, but they stood. The roof slouched in on one side, but the rest still held. Enough to keep out rain. Enough to hide.

Taph pointed to it, wings flaring ever so slightly in what might’ve been triumph.

007n7 stepped closer. He blinked, stunned.

It was perfect.

“…This is…” A breath of laughter escaped him, half relief, half disbelief. “…This is… it’s really good. Thank you, Taph.”

Taph dipped his head in a brief nod and turned to leave, his steps already dissolving into the shadows.

But then—

He paused.

Glanced back.

His hands moved again, slower this time. A message.

007n7 didn’t understand the signs. But he understood the silence that followed. The way Taph held his gaze just long enough to say, You’re not alone.

And then he was gone.

Left alone, 007n7 stepped quietly into the ruined shelter.

The shed, for all its weathered decay, held a strange sort of peace. The air inside was still, insulated by time and moss and wood worn soft by rain. The walls, though cracked and leaning, stood firm against the wind’s probing fingers. Above, the roof had given way in patches, allowing moonlight to slip through and paint the floor in streaks of silvery light.

It wasn’t much—but it was enough.

A little rough around the edges, like everything else in this place, but with a little care... it could pass for intentional. A hideaway. A sanctuary. A nest.

007n7 let out a slow breath, the tension finally bleeding from his shoulders. A small, almost reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he opened his C00lgui—its familiar flicker casting a faint red glow across his face. His fingers moved quickly through the interface, and with a soft whir, a thick, woven blanket materialized in his hands.

It was old—softened by time, frayed at the corners, and scented faintly of smoke and long-gone fires. He shook it out and spread it carefully across the warped wooden floor, layering it near the skeletal remnants of a fireplace that hadn’t burned in years. Beneath the blanket, a faded rug peeked out—moth-eaten, but still bearing traces of its original design, all muted blues and worn-out golds like ghosts of better days.

One by one, he summoned pillows from storage. Mismatched. Lived-in. A few were flattened with use; others still springy and plush. He arranged them slowly, deliberately, circling the center like a protective ring. And when he was satisfied, he eased the egg from the folds of his cardigan and placed it gently at the center.

The shell pulsed faintly—soft warmth thrumming beneath his palms.

007n7 crouched beside it, hands hovering for a moment before smoothing over the blanket’s edges, tucking them just so. His humming—quiet and off-key—filled the silence, just enough to keep the stillness from feeling too vast. It wasn’t a song, not really. Just something instinctual, simple, from some memory not yet buried.

He sat back and surveyed the little makeshift haven. It wasn’t extravagant. It wasn’t fortified. But it was safe. And it was theirs.

That was enough.

Cross-legged on the blanket now, he pulled the egg into his lap again, cradling it with quiet reverence. His thumb traced slow circles over its surface, grounding himself in the rhythm of its heat.

The forest outside remained hushed. Just the occasional rustle of wind in the branches, the chirr of night insects, and a lone bird crying out somewhere distant. No alarms. No sirens. Just time, stretching long and quiet between breaths.

He wondered how long Shedletsky would take.

Whether he’d approve.

Whether he’d bring that ridiculous feather again, just to make a point.

But the thought made him smile. And with the egg warm against his chest, and the blanket cocooned around his legs, the tension in his limbs gave way at last.

His eyes fluttered closed.

Sleep took him gently, without fanfare.

Like the forest itself had reached out, wrapped around them both, and said:

Rest.

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The cabin door creaked open with the barest whisper—just enough for Shedletsky to slip inside without alerting the others huddled outside in the flickering lamplight. His wings folded tight against his back, his gait low, his movements uncharacteristically restrained. The usual theatricality—the flared steps, the dramatic twirls, the smug commentary—was gone now, dulled by urgency and exhaustion.

Supplies. That’s all he needed. Medkits, rations. Maybe something stronger to help 007n7 sleep. The last few nights had been... tense. Fractured. Neither of them had gotten more than an hour’s rest at a time. Every creak of the floorboards, every shriek in the distance—it set him on edge.

They were fraying. Both of them.

He crouched beside the supply chest, rummaging through the clutter with quick hands. Bandages. Stims. The last of the clean water. Maybe if he was lucky, there’d still be—

“So this is what it’s come to, huh.”

The voice froze him mid-reach.

Shedletsky’s hand hovered above a crumpled ration bar, fingers curling slightly before he slowly turned, wings twitching behind him.

Builderman stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw clenched hard. His silhouette was backlit by the moonlight pouring through the cracked window, casting him in cold silver. Calm, composed—usually. But not now.

Now he looked like a man seconds from drawing blood.

Shedletsky straightened, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder. “Oh. Hey, old friend. Fancy ambush. Don’t worry—I’m just liberating the bland snacks. The good stuff’s safe.”

Builderman didn’t even blink. “That supposed to be funny to you?”

There was a beat. The silence thickened.

Shedletsky sighed, the smug veneer slipping just a fraction. “Didn’t say it was funny. Just... on-brand.”

Builderman stepped forward, boots thudding against the wooden floor. His presence filled the room like a wall.

“You’ve been off. You and 007n7—duckin’ out, talkin’ in riddles, disappearin’ for hours. Y’all are hidin’ somethin’, and doin’ a damn poor job of it.”

Shedletsky raised a brow, forced a lopsided smile. “Maybe we just radiate intrigue. Some people leak secrets—we leak mystique.”

But his wings betrayed him, twitching uneasily, the tips fluttering like they might lift him out of the room if it came to that.

Builderman wasn’t amused.

“What really burned me up,” he continued, voice low and steady, “was findin’ out the cabin Dusekkar and I were assigned got turned into your damn love shack.”

Shedletsky winced.

“Don’t even try denyin’ it. Feathers, burn marks, your cologne baked into the curtains.”

There was no denial. Just the faintest twitch of Shedletsky’s eye. He lifted a hand in what might’ve been a gesture of apology—or surrender—and replied, “In our defense, we cleaned. Thoroughly-ish. Ambiguously. Let’s call it spiritually sanitized.”

“You sprayed healin’ foam on the stains, Shedletsky,” Builderman deadpanned.

Shedletsky opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Made a vague spiraling motion like the universe itself might offer a better explanation.

“...Shedletsky stands by his methods.”

Builderman, however, did not come for only that.

“That feather he’s wearin’. Tucked behind his ear. He got any idea what it really means?”

Shedletsky's eyes flickered.

He hesitated, just for a second too long. “Totally. We’re official. He accepted the full Shedletsky Experience™. No fine print, just... intense emotional consequences.”

But Builderman didn’t buy it. He stepped in closer, gaze narrowing like a vice.

“Nah. He thinks he knows. Might figure it’s symbolic or somethin’. But not the weight of it. Not what that means to your kind. And I reckon you’re countin’ on him not askin’ too deep.”

Shedletsky’s feathers twitched. He opened his mouth to object—but Builderman wasn’t done.

“You’ve always been a selfish son of a glitch. Take what you want and act like it was yours all along. But he ain’t a trophy. He’s a person. And if you care like you say you do, stop playin’ games. Be honest. You promised him that much—keep that promise.”

Shedletsky didn’t answer right away.

He just stood there, wings folded in, the moment hanging between them like fragile code—one bad input away from crashing.

Builderman exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out into something wearier. “I still don’t get it. Of all people—him? That quiet ex-hacker with more ghosts than sleep and half a soul left?”

There was a pause.

Then, softly—more to himself than anyone—Shedletsky laughed.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s him.”

Builderman didn’t argue. Just nodded once, slow and resigned.

“Then you’d best hope, for both your sakes, it’s worth it.”

He turned away and grabbed a few sealed packs from the shelf—energy gels, heal foam, a full stim injector. He stuffed them into a pouch with practiced motions—but then stopped. Just before the door.

“One more thing, before I go,” he said without turning. “What exactly are you two hidin’?”

Silence.

Shedletsky didn’t move.

Then his wings curled inward—tight, uncertain. When he spoke again, the voice that emerged was hoarse. Quiet. Stripped of all his usual bravado.

“...It’s an egg. Like, capital E Egg. Surprise.”

Builderman turned slightly, brow furrowed. “...Come again?”

Shedletsky didn’t backpedal. Didn’t joke. Just stared at the floor and said, “Ours. Mine and 007n7’s. Look, it just... happened. Don’t ask how. Seriously. I barely survived the explanation myself.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Even the flickering cabin lantern seemed to still.

Builderman ran a hand down his face, dragging his palm across his features like he was trying to reboot his entire worldview.

“You made life—here? In this gods-forsaken dump? With him? Now?”

Shedletsky lifted both arms helplessly, supplies still clutched in one hand. “Believe me, we’re just as baffled. I thought the birds and the bees were metaphors.”

Builderman just stared. Not angry anymore. Just tired.

After a long pause, he shoved a bundle of the healthier rations and foam cartridges into Shedletsky’s chest—hard enough to nearly knock the air out of him.

“Take care of him,” he muttered. “Both of ‘em. And if I find out you’re still lyin’...”

“You won’t,” Shedletsky said—quietly. Sincerely. “Shedletsky won’t mess this up.”

Builderman moved toward the door, then hesitated a final time.

“And for the love of all that’s stable code—tell him ‘bout the feather.”

Then he was gone, muttering as he disappeared into the dark:

“Egg. Of course it’s a damn egg. Why not. Next they’ll be makin’ servers in there.”

And just like that, the room fell quiet.

Shedletsky stood in the stillness, the bundle of supplies held tightly to his chest. For once, there were no jokes. No pirouettes. No witty monologues.

Just fear.

Not of what they had.

But of what he’d become, if he lost it.

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The night was still—unnervingly so, at least by the island’s usual standards. No blaring alarms cutting through the dark. Just the whisper of wind through crumbling stone and the occasional rustle of something small skittering through the underbrush.

Shedletsky stepped outside, the chill brushing through his feathers and tugging at the hem of his cloak. His eyes swept the ruins, narrowed against the star-pricked dark.

007n7 was gone.

He frowned, tilting his head. The air held no sound, but something else stirred—faint. Familiar. A scent.

There.

A whisper of ozone. The dry, metallic ghost of gunpowder. Beneath it, something warmer—feathers, dust, and the subtle musk that always lingered around 007n7 no matter how many times he scrubbed his coat.

Shedletsky inhaled once, deep. Then he moved.

His sandals crunched over loose gravel as he followed the trail past the boardwalk, where the air felt thicker, older. The ruins rose around him like broken teeth, jagged against the night, but he walked without hesitation. He knew this route. He knew him.

Eventually, he reached it—a weathered shed tucked between slanted stone and ivy-choked walls, its crooked door cracked open. A golden light pulsed from within, flickering like a heartbeat. Shedletsky stopped just outside, feathers ruffling with the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He pushed the door open.

Warmth greeted him first. Then the scent—stronger now. Then—

He nearly dropped the medkit in his hands.

The shed was small, cluttered with broken tools and half-mended contraptions, some of them still softly humming. But in the far corner, bathed in firelight, lay something that stopped him cold.

A nest.

Not a mess of blankets hastily thrown together. No—this was constructed. Intentional. Layers of scavenged fabric: stitched uniform sleeves, discarded scarves, a few rare, faded towels. Blankets had been arranged in a spiral, padding the space with almost ritualistic care. Worn pillows lined the edges like sentries standing guard.

And at the center, curled in on himself like the heart of a storm, was 007n7.

Shedletsky’s breath caught, a sharp flutter in his chest.

The hacker was asleep—deeply so, his face softened in a way the island never allowed. One arm draped around the egg, tucked close to his chest, his fingers reflexively curled against the shell. His other arm pillowed his head, trembling now and then with the echo of dreams. His hair had fallen loose across his brow, casting faint shadows over his eyes.

Shedletsky approached on silent feet. Every step felt like trespass. Like worship.

The fire cast him in warm golds and reds, shadows licking at his collarbones. A cracked glowstick on the workbench behind him gave off a faint green shimmer, ghostly and pulsing, reflecting in the curve of the egg’s shell.

It should’ve looked eerie. Temporary. Improvised.

Instead, it looked like home.

Swallowing hard, he knelt, setting the supplies down with deliberate care just outside the makeshift blanket fortress. His movements were unusually quiet—almost reverent. Then, as if compelled by something older than instinct, he reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from 007n7’s forehead.

His fingers lingered, feather-light, tracing the curve of his cheekbone.

007n7 stirred.

A soft inhale. A flicker of lashes. Then—those sharp, golden eyes opened, still hazy with sleep, blinking up at him.

For a heartbeat, they simply looked at each other.

Then—a smile. Small. Drowsy. But real.

“…You returned.” 007n7 murmured, his voice low and rough with sleep, but laced with something quieter beneath it. Wonder, maybe. Relief.

Shedletsky’s throat tightened.

“Of course I did,” he whispered, and before he could stop himself, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to 007n7’s brow—lingering a beat too long, breathing him in like a man grounding himself.

A pause followed. Just the soft crackle of firewood. The quiet rhythm of breath. The warmth of their strange, fragile world folding in around them.

But then his gaze fell to the feather—his feather—still tucked neatly behind 007n7’s ear. Untouched. Pristine. Unknowing.

And his heart clenched.

There was no putting it off anymore.

“...There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, voice low. Rough around the edges. “About the feather.”

007n7’s brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across his face—but he didn’t pull away.

He never did.

Shedletsky exhaled, slow and unsteady, settling beside him. One wing unfurled, almost unconsciously, wrapping halfway over them both in a quiet gesture of protection. His fingers twitched, aching to touch the feather again. But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Not until he said it.

“Where I come from—this feather thing? It’s kind of a big deal. Not just ‘nice accessory’ big. More like… ‘eternally bound, soul-deep, tragic-romance-novel’ big.” He swallowed, throat tight. “Means I picked you. All of you. Means you’re the one I’d fall out of the sky for, wings-first.”

A pause.

“Also it comes with, uh, some light GPS functionality. Real-time updates. Slightly creepy. Deeply romantic.”

007n7’s breath hitched.

His expression was unreadable in the firelight, but his arm around the egg shifted slightly. Protective. Still.

Shedletsky kept going, voice cracking like old stone under pressure.

“I didn’t say anything ‘cause I figured you’d bolt,” he confessed. “Thought if I slipped it on you without the brochure, maybe you’d wear it long enough to grow fond.” His laugh was hollow. “I know that’s selfish. Shedletsky knows.”

He dragged a hand down his face, feathers ruffling with the motion.

“Builderman already chewed me out. Said I was treating you like a thing. But you’re not. You’re—” His voice dropped, raw. “You’re the only person who makes me want to be better. Not louder. Not flashier. Better.”

Silence.

Then—

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Shedletsky botched the rollout. Should’ve told you sooner.”

The fire popped.

The glowstick’s sickly light pulsed, casting green shadows across the walls like ghostly waves lapping the edges of their little world. The warmth of the fire bled into the floorboards, into the nest, into the quiet between breaths.

007n7 just looked at him.

Crimson eyes, soft but unreadable, searched his face—not with suspicion, not with doubt, just with that careful stillness he wore like armor. His fingers remained curled around the egg, its shell gleaming faintly in the shifting light.

Then—

A breath of laughter. Small. Disbelieving. More exhale than voice.

“You idiot,” 007n7 murmured.

And then he kissed him.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fiery. It was warm and dry and slow and true, lingering just a heartbeat too long before he pulled back, resting his forehead against Shedletsky’s chest.

The egg pressed gently between them.

“I assumed it meant something,” 007n7 mumbled, already drowsy again. “I wasn’t concerned with what exactly. You offered it, and I… accepted.” A faint smirk ghosted across his lips. “You overthink everything. As usual.”

Shedletsky’s heart thudded in his chest like a broken drum. Too fast. Too soft.

“I already knew my answer,” 007n7 added, quieter this time.

Shedletsky opened his mouth—but nothing came out.

Then—

“…If we make it out,” 007n7 whispered, words thick with exhaustion, “we should formalize it.”

Shedletsky froze.

His entire being—feathers, skin, nerves, breath—seized like someone had thrown a switch. 007n7 didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Either way, he only nuzzled a little closer, letting his eyes drift shut again, lashes brushing Shedletsky’s collarbone.

“Then it’ll be the four of us,” he mumbled. “You, me, C00lkidd… and this little one.”

He adjusted the egg slightly with one arm, curling the other around Shedletsky’s waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Shedletsky stared down at him—wide-eyed, trembling, undone. Like someone had reached in and rewired his heart without asking first.

“I’m... absolutely, pants-wettingly terrified,” he admitted faintly. “You serious, or is this the exhaustion talking?”

His voice cracked midway, caught somewhere between awe and panic.

007n7 didn’t open his eyes. Just hummed low in his throat, like that was answer enough. His hand found Shedletsky’s and held it without ceremony.

“…I mean it.”

And just like that—

They fell still.

Wings curled protectively around the nest, tucking them into its warmth. Breath synced. Their silhouettes became one shadow stretched across worn floorboards, rising and falling in tandem.

The island beyond the door pulsed with its usual chaos—shouts in the distance, gunfire echoing through the ruins, the low electronic whine of some distant experiment gone feral.

But here?

Here, it was quiet.

Not safe.

But soft.

And for now—

That was enough.

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

It had been a miracle, really.

For the past few rounds, 007n7 and Shedletsky had managed to lay low, slipping just under the radar. No wild gestures. No proclamations. Just stolen minutes, soft exchanges, and endless, quiet tending to the egg that was growing warmer—heavier—by the day. The weight of its presence never left them. It was beautiful and terrifying and all-consuming.

So, in the cool dark corners of the Carnival map, when the generators hummed and the killers hadn’t spawned yet, they took their chance.

Just a moment.

Just a nap.

They’d made a nest of sorts in a shadowy alcove behind the bleachers, half-sheltered by debris. Shedletsky’s wings curled loosely around the two of them like a half-formed cocoon. 007n7 was tucked in beneath one, arms instinctively cradling the egg, face resting quietly against Shedletsky’s chest. His breath came slow and even—peaceful in a way few had ever seen.

Shedletsky’s chin rested atop his partner’s head, eyes closed, his sickle feathers flicking lazily beside a makeshift pillow fashioned from cast-off cloaks and carnival prizes. He hadn’t said a dramatic word in five whole minutes. That’s how you knew they were exhausted.

The world, for once, had left them alone.

Until it didn’t.

Footsteps.

Gravel crunching. A faint echo of calliope music dancing through the fog like the map itself was laughing at them. A trio of survivors swept through the rusted stands, hunting for medkits.

Elliot rounded the corner first—and stopped dead.

“Oh, come on. Turn around. Right now. Go.”

Too late.

Guest 1337 stepped up beside him, head tilting slightly. He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed in quiet observation.

Then came Chance, flipping his coin with one hand and a smirk half-loaded on his face. “What’s the holdup—oh.” The coin froze mid-air.

Because there they were.

Shedletsky and 007n7. Asleep. Entwined. Clearly too close for comfort. And between them—

"...Please tell me that’s a hallucination. Because if it’s real, I’ve got questions." Chance’s voice cracked, eyes wide as the coin slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a sad plink.

Guest 1337 squinted.

“…Looks like it.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Elliot hissed, already stepping forward to block their view. “Don’t stare—just—give them some damn space, will you?”

“Too late,” Chance muttered, dazed. “I’m already emotionally compromised.”

Then—

“Noob?!”

The younger survivor skidded into view, limping on a battered leg and cradling a bloodied arm. “J-Jason’s—m-moving!! W-We need backup!” They stumbled forward, spotted the group clustered around something, and—

WHUMP.

Slammed to a halt. Stared.

“Is that—”

Elliot dove in and clapped a hand over their mouth before they could say anything else.

“Shh!” he whispered through gritted teeth. “Inside voice, kid—unless you want to scar everyone here.”

Noob nodded frantically, eyes wide. Still staring.

Behind them, a pair of glowing hands signed urgently.

Taph.

He leaned out from behind a popcorn stand, eyes wide as saucers. He gestured frantically—first at the egg, then at the pair curled protectively around it, then back to himself in a flurry of confused signs.

Chance translated under his breath. “He wants to know if... if that’s biologically possible. And also whether they’re naming it after him.”

Elliot pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not paid enough for this.”

Then came the rest.

Builderman arrived next, trying to squeeze past the crowd with a grimace. “Y’all’re cloggin’ the walkway. What in tarn—” He stopped mid-step. His eyes widened just a fraction. “Well I’ll be…”

Dusekkar followed shortly after, silent as ever. He didn’t speak—but something in his expression shifted. A kind of quiet recognition. Or maybe sympathy.

Elliot made a last-ditch effort to block the view. “This isn’t a show. Move along. Some of us are trying not to die of secondhand embarrassment.”

But the damage was done.

A dozen different perspectives. A dozen different reactions. Like a cursed sitcom gag, heads kept popping into frame—one after another—every time someone tried to shoo the rest away.

And then.

Shedletsky’s eyes cracked open.

He blinked blearily at the gathered faces, one arm still looped lazily around 007n7’s waist.

The murmurs reached his ears.

His feathers fluffed instantly, wings puffing up like a spooked owl on instinct.

007n7 stirred beside him, blinking blearily before realizing—far too late—that they were no longer alone.

Their eyes swept the assembled crowd. Noob stood frozen mid-step, mouth agape. Taph immediately shielded their eyes and frantically signed: “🫣❗👀❗🔞⁉️”

Chance raised an eyebrow, arms loosely crossed, but the usual teasing grin wavered—caught between amusement and secondhand horror. “Well, ain’t that domestic.”

Elliot let out a sigh—the kind reserved for days where sleep was a distant memory and reality just kept getting worse.

“This day just keeps getting better.”

It was over.

Shedletsky sat up slowly, majestic and murderously annoyed, his wings still partially curled around 007n7 and the egg like a scandal he was daring the world to challenge. His voice dropped into a low, velvet-and-grit growl.

“Scram.”

No one moved.

His feathers lifted slightly, posture straightening. His eyes sharpened with a dangerous glint.

“Now. Or Shedletsky starts naming names and leaking secrets.”

That did it.

There was a beat of collective horror—then chaos.

“Yikes—alright, alright! No touching the nest, got it!” Chance yelped as he backpedaled.

Guest 1337 gave a short, respectful nod before vanishing behind a stack of crates. Taph bolted with flapping sleeves. Even Noob managed a panicked “S-Sorry!!” as he limped at full speed into the fog.

Elliot lingered a moment longer, catching 007n7’s eye with a look that said: I tried, before he turned away with the weary gait of a man too sleep-deprived to emotionally unpack this.

Builderman paused just long enough to throw Shedletsky a glare sharp enough to strip paint.

“Called it,” he grunted, already stomping off. “Knew this’d go sideways the moment feathers got involved.”

Silence, at last.

Shedletsky exhaled slowly, tension draining from his frame as the air around them finally settled. The faint buzz of a distant generator replaced the noise. The moment was theirs again.

007n7 groaned into his palm and refused to let it leave his face.

“So much for keeping this quiet…”

His voice was thick with shame, body still curled protectively around the egg. The realization of what had just happened—how exposed they’d been—settled on him like a lead blanket.

They hadn’t meant to fall asleep. They just... couldn’t keep their eyes open. Not anymore.

Shedletsky reached over, gently prying one of 007n7’s hands from his face.

“They were gonna find out eventually,” he said lightly, trying to coax some levity back into the moment. “Better like this than, y’know… mid-chase sequence.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“I thought it was charmingly realistic,” Shedletsky replied, brows lifting in mock innocence.

007n7 let out a hollow sound that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t laced with panic. “I… I don’t know how we’re supposed to explain this. What if they don’t want us here anymore?”

“They won’t kick us out.”

“What makes you so certain?” 007n7’s voice was raw now—quiet, but trembling with the fear he hadn’t let himself say out loud until now.

Shedletsky leaned in closer, expression unusually sincere, all trace of sarcasm gone.

“Because Shedletsky doesn’t do exile,” he said, voice low and warm. “I do declarations.”

He slid his wing back around 007n7 and the egg, gaze firm.

“And I declare: we stay.”

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Back in the lobby, the world was strangely still.

No fog. No threat. Just the soft flicker of code-light against the walls and the low hum of the spawn zone’s idle loops.

The survivors were gathered in their usual semi-circle: some seated, some leaning against spawn pillars, others crouched or cross-armed in the shadows. For once, no one bickered. No one planned. They were just... watching.

At the center of it all, 007n7 sat with stiff shoulders on the worn central couch, the egg resting in his lap. He’d cradled it the entire way here. Now, under the muted light, it seemed to breathe—soft pulses of crimson and black swelling beneath its shell, steady and alive.

His fingers curled protectively around it.

He could feel the weight of every stare.

And beside him—unmissable as always—stood Shedletsky, tall and infuriatingly radiant, arms folded, wings relaxed, smirking just enough to suggest that yes, this had been inevitable, and no, he wasn’t sorry. His posture practically oozed defiance. But also something quieter. A dare. Try to take it from us.

Nobody spoke. Not yet.

So, with a breath drawn deep through his teeth, 007n7 found his voice.

“…It belongs to us,” he said.

The words came soft but clear, barely above the hum of the lobby’s idle track.

No one interrupted.

“We’re not exactly sure how,” he continued. “Not completely. But it’s real. We’ve been… doing our best to care for it. It’s been growing quickly.”

He looked down at the egg, the light from it dancing faintly across the dull metal of his armor.

“We think it may hatch. Soon.”

Silence.

Then—

“I know it’s weird. And I know I’ve never really…” He hesitated, mouth tightening. “...let any of you in. But this… this matters. To me. To us.”

His voice cracked.

“If it makes any of you uncomfortable… I’ll understand. But please don’t ask us to give it up.”

He dropped his gaze. Waiting. Expecting the cold edge of suspicion. A refusal. Laughter. Anything.

Instead—

A hand shot up.

“C-Can I n-name it??” Noob blurted, skidding forward like a rocket on roller skates. “L-Like—Sir Hatchington the Third! Or, or something epic! L-Like… LaserBeak!!”

“Sir Hatchington?” Elliot’s voice drifted dryly from behind him. “They’re gonna need armor, not a title.”

007n7 blinked, thrown.

“You… want to name them?”

“Duh!!” Noob practically bounced in place. “I-It’s like—the first baby ever, right?? T-That’s huge! I-I wanna be its fun uncle!”

Guest 1337, seated near the back with his elbows on his knees, glanced over with a calm, almost mathematical expression. “It’s the shape of what you two care about. That’s reason enough.”

From beside him, Taph raised his hands, fingers flickering in a series of expressive, fast signs:

Taph offered. “💖👶🌱🛠️ 💫🧍‍♂️🧍‍♀️➡️🧑‍🍼”

He paused.

“🫀🫂💡”

Chance leaned over and translated with a half-smile: “He says… love makes the weirdest magic. Two survivors plus an egg equals... hope?”

“Yeah. Or a custody hearing,” Elliot muttered.

A soft crunch of boots signaled movement from the back.

Twotime stepped forward from the shadows, eyes catching the light in that strange, still way of theirs. Their tone, as always, was gentle and ritualistic—like a sermon hummed to an empty temple.

“A life not born by blood nor will of machine,”they murmured, “but by devotion. Not a burden—an offering. Curious… and sacred.”

They stared at 007n7 “So it came to pass. You did not find life… you answered it. And it answered back.”

007n7 swallowed hard. His hands tightened slightly around the shell.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he said, voice low. “But now that it’s here… I’ll protect it. No matter what.”

A long beat passed.

And then Elliot—still half-slouched, still rubbing sleep from his face like he was determined not to feel anything—finally sighed.

“You look better,” he said softly. “Less haunted.”

He scratched the back of his neck.

“That counts for something.”

He gestured vaguely at the egg. “Still gonna be a nightmare keeping that safe.”

Shedletsky clicked his tongue. “You doubt Shedletsky’s parenting skills?”

“Yes,” Elliot said flatly.

Fair.

007n7 let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The tension in his spine bled away, slow and shaky.

“…Thank you,” he murmured. “All of you.”

Shedletsky leaned in, the bravado gone for just a heartbeat, replaced by something gentler. He nuzzled the side of 007n7’s head, voice low and uncharacteristically warm.

“Told you,” he murmured. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

And—for once—007n7 believed him.

Builderman, standing nearby with arms crossed and a skeptical brow, let out a short huff. “Say that again when he stops broodin’ like a weathered chicken,” he muttered, before giving 007n7 a solid pat on the shoulder. “If he starts actin’ up, you come to me or Matt. We’ll sort it.”

007n7 managed a faint, awkward smile—grateful, overwhelmed.

Shedletsky straightened dramatically, placing a hand over his chest like someone had just committed a personal offense.

“Hey!” he declared, affronted. “I’m the friend in question here. Rude! You don’t just replace a Shedletsky. There’s a whole onboarding process. Paperwork. Trials. Emotional damage.”

Builderman snorted. “Exactly my point.”

The group began to lean in, not out of suspicion, but curiosity—tentative, awkward curiosity. The kind that only happened when something unprecedented was unfolding and no one wanted to miss it.

Noob was already knee-deep in an argument with Taph over names. “N-Not LaserBeak! We need somethin’ classy! Like—like Sir Hatchington the Fourth!”

Taph snapped his fingers and signed back rapidly:

“👶💥🌈🧃”

Noob gasped. “N-no! We are not naming it Juiceblast!!”

Guest 1337 approached quietly, a blanket folded over one arm. He didn’t say much—just draped it over the back of the couch with careful precision.

“It gets cold after hatching,” he murmured, then stepped away as if it were nothing.

And in that strange hush, with only the flicker of broken lobby lights and the distant idle hum of another round waiting to start, something pulsed between them. Soft. Warm. Undeniably alive.

A small promise.

A fragile hope.

The egg shifted.

Everyone froze.

Then—crack.

A single fissure traced its way across the shell, thin and deliberate, like lightning caught in slow motion.

Gasps echoed. Someone dropped an energy drink with a dull thud. Taph covered his mouth. Noob let out a squeal and started bouncing on the balls of their feet.

“It’s happening it’s happening it’s happening—”

007n7 couldn’t breathe.

The shell cracked again, a soft splintering sound like a whisper in a storm. He clutched it instinctively, eyes wide, hands steady despite the tremble in his spine. Shedletsky reached over without a word and took his hand—tight, grounding, warm.

Piece by piece, the shell began to fall away.

Golden light spilled into the room in gentle pulses.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t chaotic. It was slow. Beautiful. Like the world itself was holding its breath.

And for once…

It wasn’t an ending.

It was a beginning.

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

If you’ve made it this far, I truly hope you enjoyed the read! As a small token of gratitude, here’s a render of the moment where they dry off in the cabin, and the shower scene. You can also find it on my Twitter page if you’re interested: Theo_dotus! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

ARTWORK BY: OttoMottoRotto

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ARTWORK BY: Lemonade_addiction

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ARTWORK BY: Misc

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ARTWORK BY: Payasi on Discord.

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ARTWORK BY: Telamon

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ARTWORK BY: Cherrisodaz

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ARTWORK BY: ✩K4TZ✩

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LOVELY ARTWORK OF THE EGG AND THE NEST SCENE BY: Eggsandramem