"How Much is Equal?"
--TRUD!John Doe & TRUD!Builderman
WARNINGS: manipulation, neglect, dehumanization and discrimination of guests, builderman's an asshole
NOTES: guys you won't fucking believe ts
WC: 2843
Although the day was young, Builderman’s office was obscured in shadows, salvation rendered only by the luminescence of a table lamp, and the cracks between shut-up blinds. His father lived like a skeptic in his mancave, rarely receiving visitors, lest their visit was related to work — his work, which he buried himself in 25/8. In his drawers were stacks of papers thick enough to craft into his next statue.
John never thought he’d get the chance to be here, not with the strigency the admin ordered his schedule with. Often, there was barely any space left on his timetable for him and his sister. Only situations that threatened their well-being would even hope to gravitate any attention back to them. But even if their father showed up, he’d busy himself with the paperwork needed for their admission into the hospital.
However, notice of John’s truancy was urgent enough to earn him his father’s gaze, admitting him into the office without the need for these intricate formalities.
The delinquent’s hands were planted firmly by his sides, the facade of a good son so deeply embedded into his system, that it took root in his unconscious behaviors. He’d worn this costume so often that it became his skin — what was expected of him instead of appreciated. As such, it produced no effect.
Much like his son, Builderman’s countenance, always ironed out into a smile, was a rigid imitation of composure. His elbows were stamped onto the desk, his hands clasped together with a false sense of calm.
Builderman let the silence distort into an uncomfortable stillness. The anticipation burrowed itself into John’s skin like termites.
“John.” His voice boomed.
His son straightened up instinctually.
John wasn’t a gullible onlooker, or a forgettable face that meshed into the crowd of other faces when announcements took place.
This was a one-to-one session. And up-close, the illusion lost its power.
“You’re aware of what you’ve done.” he tilted his head patronizingly, “Let’s not take each other for fools.”
“Yes. Of.. Of course.” John replied sporadically.
The words rebounded off the waves of his tongue, following the tumultuous path of a ship on a stormy day. There was another storm, brewing in his heart, and as though he were thrown overboard, he felt himself choke on brine.
It was rather difficult to force out words today.
Builderman acknowledged him with a hum, “Then I needn’t waste time on your excuses.”
“Now...”
The eaves on his forehead ridged, and his facial muscles had grown tired of supporting appearances, dropping into a frown. The one thing his father’s honest to him about is his displeasure, and today, he has it in waves.
“Explain. Properly. What’s gotten into you?” His father’s scrutinizing glare cut through the darkness, the shadows elucidating his judgement.
John’s breath hitched.
It’s true, he knew exactly what happened. He has the raw, unfiltered version in his mind on loop.
It started when he chanced upon one of the rallies on his way home.
In spite of his father’s firm orders to steer clear of the unrest, there was another voice in the back of his head. One he often kept locked up and silenced.
And when he stuck a finger into the lion’s den, his whole hand was attracted into the cage. Then his arm, then his body; until he found himself pulled toward the crowd, a moth drawn to light; Icarus to his sun.
There, he met a young, promising scientist, hindered only by their resources and identity as a Guest. They filled him in on the places that light skipped.
What started out as a silent protest devolved into a chaotic ruckus. Legions of moderators pulled mothers away from their children, lovers away from their betrothed. They called them rule-breakers, anarchists. People who threatened the future of Robloxia.
In the dystopic world that the admins had envisioned, there were more victims than justice.
And the corruption in Robloxia’s system filtered this truth, implanting distorted versions, into the minds of the ignorant. Those lies curled its roots into Robloxian soil, where it was no longer an abnormality, but an established part of day-to-day harvest.
By being a long-time bystander, his inaction tilled the land into a suitable environment for the fruits of evil.
And when he merely watched the brilliant scientist be dragged away, those proclamations of guilt clawed deeper into his heart.
How can this level of injustice be reworded into a version pleasing to his father’s ears? His father, who had played the largest role in this harvest, had personally oversaw its growth, and he would not advocate for its destruction.
That was the conundrum. So the man’s throat went dry, and he went as dumb as a mule — very disappointing, he knows; his father’s face says it for him.
The rest of the reaction was a sigh, and he took off his glasses to relax the throbbing muscle between his temples.
“Have nothing to say for yourself, Mr. John Doe? You’d resign to being a deviant, a sympathizer to those exploiters?” He spat. Sympathy was said with such venom that it felt like an illness.
John had nothing to say, because he had too much to think about. Is this more trouble than it’s worth? he thinks, Am I helping the wrong people? Those thoughts multiplied, tumbled, like the little weeds they were, and a strong gust of wind dispersed them in all directions — where they crashed against their enclosure, his mind, pleading for his silence.
Something else spoke up, this time from his chest.
They were wronged. Robloxia was wronged. By giving up on the truth, he gives up on them. They who suffer because of injustice, they who continue to suffer because of silence.
This issue is far, far bigger than his feelings.
His hands gathered at his front, clammy, sticking together like paste.
He began, his grip on his hands tight, “Sorry. I needed time for my thoughts, father. I’m ready now.”
“Go on.” Builderman prodded, the words kinder than their delivery.
John hoped he could produce a more equalized effect.
He clears his throat to debar any reckless choice of language from slipping through. Now, if he could just play his cards right, he had a chance to turn things around. For now, he needs to focus on getting his father on the same page as him.
“If I remember correctly, the admins were planning to “renovate” the Banlands on October 2, 2017.”
Builderman nodded.
John continued, “But shortly before that date, the Guests were branded as terrorists and threats to Robloxia because of a virus that allowed them all to exploit, and a nationwide manhunt for the entirety of the Guest race was mandated.”
“When I saw that rally, I went with the intention to defend your name and the admins’.” He said, with a sincerity that reflected in both pupils.
But his gaze dropped, those same pupils now sodden with conflict.
“But I met a brilliant scientist of the same race. They gave me a whole new perspective, and I just couldn’t refute their points.”
His gaze lifted.
“They called the evidence insufficient, and the story given to supply the people’s doubts absurd.” He concluded.
Builderman tilted his head, “Absurd how? Guests aren’t restricted to the same limitations that Robloxians are, they have a greater capacity to exploit.”
“Yes, but the autopsies—” John saw shock torment Builderman’s face, “—the autopsies revealed that the Guests’ structures were barely altered. When a Robloxian starts exploiting, their code structure changes to adapt.”
The older man murmured to himself about ‘unauthorized trespassing’, before intervening with an argument of his own.
“Exploiters, they adapt to the growth of Robloxia’s security system. How do you know their tricks haven’t evolved?”
“I suppose… but if it could hide their tracks, why wouldn’t they use it? Last month, the number of reported hacking incidents involving Guests stayed the same. In fact, they significantly decreased toward the end of the month.”
Builderman clicked his tongue, “We did well to contain the rest of them before they could pose a threat. It pays to be careful.”
Careful left a bitter tang in John’s mouth. And before he could stop himself, his next argument came from the heart.
“... Why did the children need to die, too?”
The darkness masked the majority of subtleties in Builderman’s body language, but John Doe caught his expression stiffen. The terseness in the room returned.
Builderman’s gaze fell, and his forearms fell on his desk completely.
“They…” He tapered off.
Disillusioned by the “better cause” that he’s worked hard to construct, Builderman’s conviction returned — as unwavering and cold as the hardy materials he uses for his inner walls.
“Those aren’t children.”
“What— what do you mean?” John furrowed his eyebrows.
He thought he heard wrong. Builderman rose from his desk.
“Guests aren’t real Robloxians. Your sympathy’s misguided toward things that don’t deserve it.” He spat.
This was the man who taught him everything had the right to exist.
This was the same man, who encouraged him to defend what he thought was right, who took all his arguments into consideration; who pushed him to his point not to see him break, but to make room for him to grow.
Builderman, who John based his principles on, was the first to disobey them.
Shadows slid across the man’s face, hiding in the crevices of his eyes, morphing him into an unrecognizable stranger.
And he looked at John, dead in the eye, with the narrow, deep-set eyes he inherited.
“You’re too fragile now. What will become of you when you inherit my position?”
For the first time in his life, John felt small.
He towered over his comrades, he towered over his sister; the boys of his highschool Brickbattling team longed for the presence his height commanded.
But his father — his father made him feel like he would never compare. Made him feel like he still needed help reaching the cupboards, or like he was dependent on his first-aid skills to bandage a boo-boo on his knee. Without realizing it, the boy shrunk inwards, and his head hung low. The resistance that he started with was doused into embers.
Builderman’s blunt tone softened, but the firmness — the stubborn, faux lies; they remained in the mold, “Not everything deserves to be shown kindness.”
John bit his tongue.
“Freedom is built on peace and true unity. Sacrifice presupposes these values, and you will learn to understand that it is the foundation for many, many more.”
“We stand on the shoulders of giants.”
He rested a hand on John’s shoulder. It was cold.
“Don’t waste their work. Don’t waste my work.”
Builderman stepped aside.
John’s gaze was directed to what was behind the desk. The miniature replica of Robloxia, often hidden behind Builderman’s chair, was now in full view, proud and strong. The shadows brought justice to its height and majesty, but even then, this imitation couldn’t its real splendor.
John was speechless.
He would ruin everything if he continued to complain.
…But there was a stronger feeling that drowned out the tides of guilt.
Because it was those same people, begging for truth, who the minds of Robloxia ran on. Every Robloxian was an architect; every person, a creator. And even if they didn’t create, then they contributed to the support that anchored the existence of these things.
Talent rotting in jail cells, buckets of paint left in abandoned homes. There were blank canvases waiting for artists, baseplates waiting for modifications, and these privileges — these rights to expression were being withdrawn from the very people who deserved them the most.
“Your work is killing Robloxia.” He said.
His father heard him. He knew he did. But turning a deaf ear, he asked him to repeat himself, testing his resolve — giving him the chance to revert into obedient little John, easily manipulated and easily swayed.
He stood firmer.
“The Guests were your people too. No matter how different they were, they followed your rules. They are just as deserving of the right to exist as you and I.”
Like an underutilized engine pushing itself to arrive at the last stop, he kept going, until he could drive his point home.
“When you arrest everyone, who will you have left to occupy what you’ve built?”
“John.”
“When you killed them, was it to spare them from what you would do next?”
“John Doe.” He grit his teeth.
John steeled his resolve.
“Or was it because you’re afraid they’d be the first to call you out on your hypocrisy?”
John released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His fists released their tension, and his fingers laid limp by his side. He did it. He actually did it. Shit.
Builderman went quiet. This was the first time John had directly insulted him.
John watched as Builderman decided the weight of his words.
It seemed as though he was considering. As if, in some capacity, he’d gotten through to him; forced him to think. If he was passive, he would’ve rescinded. If he was quiet, he would’ve been talked over. Maybe it was the harshness of his words that landed the impact.
Builderman thought about it for a while, a good, long one — long enough that the hope in John’s heart rekindled, and warmth melted the numbness in his limbs and heart. He should’ve done this a long time ago.
Then, the admin’s voice, like unwavering, immoveable stone, delivered its final verdict.
“You will never bring up this topic in my presence again.”
John’s hopes were just as quickly shattered as they were molded.
“Leave.”
After all that thinking, that was the decision he came to.
He didn’t object. John rested his hand on the doorknob. The metal was freezing cold.
“I just thought you’d have considered.”
Builderman had nothing more to say on his way out.
…
As John closed the door behind him, he fell to his knees. That was the dumbest thing he’s ever done. Who did he think he was? Selfishly throwing a tantrum, then expecting things to turn out fine?
He thought back to the cliches Jane forced him to read. He didn’t believe in magic or fairy godmothers— but he, like her, was drawn to the beauty of compassion.
He thought it was more realistic than magic.
Turns out, they were just as fantastical as everything else in those books.
He bitterly swallowed the tang of the preceding events, lamenting the consequences of his rashness. He ruined his relationship with his father, he’ll complicate things with Jane, and the cherry on top, his long-winded speech on justice and equality earned him nothing but a restless night of sleep.
He walked through the halls of the Roblox Headquarters, small, hunched, arms tucked in his sides; like he bore something contagious. He felt sick; he was the sickness. He infected others with his idleness, he let them die with his inaction. He heard greetings from people who met him, and people who wanted to, but he couldn’t return them with the same warmth.
His body ran on autopilot. He went to his room. Sunk into his bed.
And there he rotted. He wished his flesh blended into the sheets so he could disappear into them, like he never even existed. He wished the people at the door would stop calling out his name in an attempt to console him. They’re with his father. His feelings never mattered to them. They only matter now because if they were successful in mitigating them, they’d get special favors.
A post-apocalyptic scenario was likelier than John opening his door.
He muffled his hearing with a pillow, so he wouldn’t have to hear them.
But then, the humanity in the voices disappeared, distorted by an otherworldly, demonic presence that he heard with unmistakeable clarity, their whispers penetrated the cotton padding and echoed right into his ears.
He shot up from his bed.
Has he started hallucinating?
As if the voice was aware of what he was thinking, it repeated itself in the same, warped manner — its language an incomprehensible gaggle of glitched software.
What a screwed way to lure him out of his room.
Until the malfunctioning softwares noises turned into a language he could understand. And the language turned warm, promising; yet realistic enough that he believed every word the speaker offered him.
He signed a deal. He doesn’t know what happened after.
But what he does know, is that he no longer has to worry about disappointing anyone ever again. And once his mind was removed, he was given everything he needed.
Freedom from incompetence.
Freedom from weakness.
And a new, better leader. An honest one. One whose orders he’ll never need to doubt.
The world is a lot simpler when you don’t overthink it.