GMOD: Player From Sandbox to Sanity Break

[Somewhere in Babel – Rhodes Island, Personal Lounge A-7]

The low hum of engines and faint chimes of the medical bay echoed through the polished halls. Somewhere deeper inside the vast, mobile fortress known as Babel, a quiet lounge had been claimed for a rare moment of peace.

Seated beside a small coffee table stacked with old books, Theresa—the Founder of Babel—sat cross-legged, with a rabbit-eared girl gently dozing across her lap. Her smile was distant, warm.

Beside her, leaning into a too-small chair, was the Doctor, flipping through a slightly tattered paperback.

The title read: [Henry the Engineer: The Whiteveil Chronicles – Vol. 2]

[Doctor]:…This guy either pioneered interdimensional transmission or licked too many paint buckets. Theresa, tell me this isn't real—he ate cement to 'understand its structure'?

He held up the book like it had personally insulted his IQ.

Theresa, who had a smile and a little rabbit girl sleeping on her lap, looked at him.

[Theresa]: Some of the Outers were… unique. Henry just happened to be a genius with dietary problems.

[Doctor]: That's not 'unique,' that's a cry for gastrointestinal help.

He thumbed to the next page and read aloud.

[Doctor]: —' and when he completed the 19th Silver Node Tower, he celebrated by chewing rebar as an appetizer.'...WHAT?

Theresa only nodded fondly.

[Theresa]: Some of them are... unique. Take San, the Dual Master—you know, the one who single-handedly held the Mirror Gate for three days? Apparently, he drank vinegar like it was fine wine. Said it "tasted like concentrated regret," and that it made him see the truth.

[Doctor]: Charming. So, genius mixed with masochism. That explains why half of his battle plans looked like fever dreams..… Please don't tell me that Hast was worse.

[Theresa]: Hast would clone you, fuse the clone with a mantis, and send it to assassinate you just to observe your 'psychological recoil under mirrored predation stress.'

[Doctor]:… I suddenly regret asking.

[Theresa]: You should. She stalks people she finds interesting.

[Doctor]: Wonderful. So, the god-tier gene-sorcerer is a yandere biologist. What about your personal hero? Adam Von Flama, right?

Theresa smiled again, wistfully.

[Theresa]: As for Adam Von Flama—my hero? The man who unified Whiteveil? He adored children's laughter. It reminded him that hope still existed. Also, he had a severe addiction to… bread and butter. Would eat twenty slices in one sitting. Called it his "spiritual armor."

[Doctor]: He built the Whiteveil system and got addicted to toast? …I can't decide if that makes me feel better or worse about humanity's future.

He set the book down, eyes squinting at the words Node and Salvation Project stamped across a footnote. The flickering holographic projector behind them quietly cycled through old surveillance photos—some of SAM Bar, others of ancient outer structures.

[Doctor]: So these… misfits built the Nodes. Created dimensional bridges. Founded Whiteveil, the utopian cross-world city... And here we are—picking up after their cosmic hangover. It's hard to believe people like that—eccentric, unstable, bizarre—built things like the Nodes. Entire civilizations trace their bloodlines back to their decisions. Whiteveil, the Salvation Project, the Sky Bridges... All of it born from the minds of bread addicts and vinegar connoisseurs.

Before Theresa could reply, a gust of dry wind swept through the lounge, ruffling papers and stirring steam from their untouched mugs.

One of the Fallen guards—winged, pale-skinned, adorned in polished bone-plate armor—stood alert near the door. His silver eyes narrowed behind his ceremonial helmet.

[Fallen Soldier]: Doctor. It is unwise to mock the architects of the Outer Realms. Their minds broke, so yours wouldn't have to.

The Doctor blinked. Then sighed.

[Doctor]: Was that poetry or a threat?

[Theresa]: Both. From him, it usually is.

A humming sigil sparked to life on a crystal pedestal, casting flickers across the room. The rabbit girl stirred, then nestled deeper into Theresa's lap as she hugged a black bird with horns plushe. The chime resolved into a voice—urgent, formal, but strained beneath layers of static.

[Beacon Message – Kal'tsit]: Babel High Command, this is Kal'tsit. Priority One alert. The skyfall readings from Kazdel confirm it—multiple Outer Constructs have activated, and SAM Bar is active. So is the Grief Engine. Twelve hours until full convergence. Laterano has launched; Kjerag and Sargon are in motion. Columbia has... legalized privateer recovery.

[Beacon Message – Fallen Soldier]: SAM Bar has changed trajectory. It is no longer descending—it's hovering. Pulsing. We believe it is scanning for its former command node.

The Doctor's eyes widened. He stood immediately, the haze of amusement gone from his tone.

[Doctor]: It's… alive? Wait, is it searching for Whiteveil's old node system?

[Beacon Message – Fallen Soldier]: We detected a ping across all frequencies. One phrase repeated: 'Awaiting Host Signature – Designation: Sniper.'

Silence.

[Beacon Message – Fallen Soldier]: Sniper. That name hadn't crossed his mind in decades—not since Whiteveil's last sunrise,... was he the one who liked to sniff glue.

[Back to Hogun]

[Hogun POV]

Darkness surrounded me—weightless, formless. A silence so deep it felt alive.

And then… light.

A figure stepped forward, walking like memory, shaped like loss.

Jodie.

The bastard stood there with his stupid lopsided grin, arms wide like a long-lost saint.

[Jodie]: Missed me?

I didn't answer. Just stepped forward like I was about to return the gesture.

And then, punched him. Hard. Right in the face.

[Hogun]: That's for the money you still owe me, you glorified ghost.

He staggered back, laughing, which only made it worse.

So I grabbed him by the collar, yanked him close, and slugged him again.

[Hogun]: And that's for all the cursed nut jokes. Remember? 'Let's nut the nut?' YOU STARTED A CULT WITH THAT ONE.

[Jodie]: It was a spiritual movement—

Another punch.

[Hogun]: And this—this is for dying in my arms and making your last words 'Bury me with a chestnut seed so a tree can grow and people will eat from my nuts for generations.'

My fist shook, but not from rage.

Tears were already spilling down my face.

I held this idiot, trembling, angry, and shattered.

[Hogun]: You lame-ass… brilliant… bastard.

[Jodie]: Still better than 'bury me with my mech so I can respawn.'

[Hogun]: Shut up.

He patted my shoulder—face bruised, eyes soft. That familiar, infuriating smile was still there, like he'd waited years just to throw one more punchline at me.

[Jodie]: Took you long enough, man.

[Hogun]: Don't make me punch you again.

We both sat down in the endless dark. No ground. No stars. Just a void that felt like memory. I didn't know if it was a dream, a vision, or something worse—but I didn't care.

For a few minutes, we said nothing. Just breathed.

[Jodie]: So... how long's it been? Since I died, I mean.

[Hogun]: Five, maybe six years since the Whiteveil disaster. You died four years ago, when that investor drove that spike through your lungs.

His voice dropped, quieter.

[Jodie]: Back when we still thought saving people was a plan, not a gamble.

There was a pause.

Then, his eyes—sharper now—searched mine.

[Jodie]: How many made it? After I went down. Last I was breathing, we had sixty-one survivors... How many made it past that?

He didn't say it outright, but I could hear the weight behind the question.

Was it worth it?

Did we hold the line?

I let the word hang like smoke.

[Hogun]: Only ten made it out alive. The rest were… cut down. Vaporized. Buried alive. Burned. Torn apart. Whatever hell had a name, they met it.

Jodie blinked.

Once.

But he didn't look away.

[Jodie]: Ten out of sixty-one... There used to be 250 people in Whitneveil

He exhaled through his nose, a quiet, broken thing trying not to sound like grief.

[Jodie]: Damn. I was hoping for at least a dozen.

Hogun: Yeah, well... Hope got buried under the west trench.

He chuckled. A low, bitter sound, cracked with something ancient.

[Jodie]: Still worth it, though.

[Hogun]: You sure? You gave everything.

[Jodie]: If even one of them's still breathing and cursing the sky, we did something right.

He leaned back into the dark, hands behind his head, like it was all just another battlefield nap.

[Jodie]: Ten's not zero. And that means the bastards who did this? They lost.

[Hogun]: They're still out there.

[Jodie]: Then go finish the job.

Silence settled again, thick and personal.

And then he smirked.

[Jodie]: ...but maybe wait until I finish haunting you first.

I didn't even think.

I raised my arm and started punching him. Over and over.

Hogun: You absolute nutcase.

[Jodie]: Hogun—no—och—STOP—okay I—AAUGH—

Each hit was catharsis. Each swing carried four years of guilt and grief.

He flailed, half-laughing, half-choking.

[Jodie]: I SAID I WAS SORRY ABOUT THE NUT TREE THING—

I reeled my arm back for one final hit—

And then something grabbed me.

A hand.

Not Jodie's. Not mine.

A hand of light burst through the dark like a blade, wrapping around my torso, yanking me back like I was prey in a nightmare.

[Jodie]: Hogun! Hey! HEY! No dramatic exits without a hug, you bastard!

The last thing I saw was his dumb, bruised grin… getting further away.

Then—

Light.

Pain.

A sound like glass shattering across the inside of my skull.

I woke up.

Flat on my back, gasping, drenched in venom-sweat and desert heat. The sky above was no longer black—it was red, glowing, on fire with falling stars.

W was slapping my face.

[W]: Welcome back, sleeping beauty. Thought you croaked. Yeah, we figured. You were crying in your sleep and muttering something about nuts and ghost punches.

She handed me a water flask. I drank it like it owed me money.

[W]: You alright, or do I need to strap another duck bomb to your chest to jolt your soul back into place?

[Hogun]: ...Don't you dare.

[W]: No promises.

[Hogun]: Alright, where are we now?

W just smiled, far too pleased with herself, and extended her arm like a street magician about to pull a grenade out of a hat.

[W]: Don't make me wait, Mr. Sniper—Hogun—whatever alias you're wearing today. Aren't you going to reward the one who saved your sorry ass?

I stared at her the way one stares at someone openly chewing batteries in public.

[Hogun]: W... are you sick? Mentally, spiritually, emotionally—take your pick. You "saved" me? I remember you trying to kill me. Repeatedly. Also, pretty sure I kicked you. Twice. Right between the legs.

She didn't flinch. Just kept grinning.

And then—

A burst of laughter echoed from outside the tent. Not just one voice. Multiple.

Low, loud, and far too amused.

A shadow fell across the tent flap.

[???]: Ah… so this is the great Hogun. The one who supposedly built the impossible… and survived W's "tender" affection.

W crossed her arms, smirking even wider.

[W]: Told you he had charm. Like a war crime wrapped in a trench coat.

Another voice joined in—deep, calm, with a hint of danger.

[??? 2]: And he's awake just in time. The stars are falling faster now. The Outers are moving. So is Theresis.

I was already pulling on my coat.

[Hogun]: Great. I've been awake for two minutes, and already the apocalypse is back on schedule.

W handed me my weapon with a wink.

[W]: Better keep up, Silver Phoenix. The world's not gonna break itself.

[Hogun]: Just Hogun, please. Also… who are these two supposed to be?

[W]: Oh, right—introductions.

She gestured dramatically like a talk show host.

[W]: Potato Head over there is Ines—big fan of the Silver Phoenix Squad, and your old boss, Adam Von Flama.

She pointed at the tall man beside her.

[W]: And this is Hoederer. Equally obsessed. You're basically standing in a fan club meeting.

Hoederer stepped forward first, tall, broad, sharp-eyed. Without a word, he raised his hand, then slammed it to his chest.

[Hogun]: ...My the Phoenixes burn white.

I returned the salute before I could stop myself. Muscle memory. The motion hit harder than I expected.

He smiled, calm and measured.

[Hoederer]: I can't believe it. A member of Adam the Hopebringer… truly here, walking again.

I glanced at him, then at the symbol on his cape—a black bird with curled horns, stitched in silver thread. "Ash Wings."

[Hogun]: Are you familiar with Captain Adam?

I chose my words carefully. The way Hoederer spoke, you'd think Adam personally dragged them out of hell. And maybe… maybe he did.

[Hoederer]: "Familiar" doesn't cover it.

He shifted, voice heavy with reverence.

[Hoederer]: A hundred years ago, one of Adam's clones came down during the first starfall. He led a caravan—called it the Ash Wings. Took in Sarkaz like me, Ines, and many more. Taught us, trained us, gave us steel and reason. Peace.

His jaw tightened.

[Hoederer]: We had one whole year where we didn't have to fight like animals. One year of dreams. Then... he expired.

He spat the word.

[Hoederer]: Damn that foul Hast. Couldn't even make a clone that lived longer than a breath. You see this cape? This sigil? Sarkaz would kill to wear it.

I looked at him and closed my eyes, remembering the old times were Adam took us on adventures and game suggestions and many more,... he was a Saint with a head full of flowers... and those flowers were full of thorns when needed to.

[Hogun]: What is the motto?

[Hoederer]: May those who fell in fire find flight in the skies once more.

[Extra: An Angel at the Library]

[??? POV]

My head throbbed like I'd been headbutted by a charging horse. Where the hell was I? The last thing I remember is me being eaten by that black hole... Why did I enter something suspicious again? No, now is not the time for this. Let us see.

Books. Just books. Stacks and towers of them, rising to a ceiling I couldn't even see. The air smelled like old parchment and tension.

I sat up, but my back ached. Heavy. Weighted. I twisted awkwardly and froze.

Wings.

Four of them. White, gleaming... divine?

Blood streaked the pristine feathers like ink on snow. My robes, once ceremonial, were soaked in red. And next to me on the polished floor—a familiar shape.

[???]: No way... that's... the EX-Five. My handmade spear... from GMod?

A mirror shimmered into my hand with a mere thought—instinctive. When I glanced into it, I didn't see myself. I saw him. My old RP character: Light Angel Mechanical. A construct of holiness and wrath. Half-divine, half-synthetic. I dropped the mirror, breath caught somewhere between awe and dread.

[Light]: Did I get isekai'd... into the Library of Ruina? But I was just with Hogun and the rest before that black hole ate me...

The books. The endless shelves. The oppressive quiet like the eye of a storm—yes, it matched. There was only one way to be sure.

I moved forward, boots echoing on marble, wings twitching behind me. I stepped through the corridor into a grand atrium lined with bookshelves and memories, and there they were—exactly as I remembered from hours of gameplay and lore-diving.

Angela, standing tall and perfect in her dark librarian's coat. Hair pale-blue and eyes like polished gold, sharp enough to cut steel. Her pendant gleamed with a knowing light. Beside her stood Roland, arms crossed, scowl firmly in place—every inch the "angry-wife-man" I knew and feared.

[Angela]: An uninvited guest... and one who carries not one, but many books? Intriguing. Such beings are not often born outside the Library's will.

Even Roland blinked. He leaned slightly forward.

[Roland]: You sure this guy's not a Distortion? Feels off to me. Way too chill for a real Abnormality...

The tension coiled around us like a spring. I could feel the danger like heat at my throat. Speak now, or get turned into page confetti.

I straightened, lowered my spear, and offered a slight bow—enough to be respectful, not submissive.

[Light]: Greetings, Angela. Roland. It's... good to see you both. How is Angelica?

Angela's gaze narrowed. She clutched her book a little tighter, the edges of her coat ruffling as if reacting to a sudden shift in the air.

[Angela]: That's... unusual. You know our names, yet we do not know yours. And that name—Angelica—why do you speak it like a memory?

Roland's expression changed instantly. His usual sardonic edge vanished, replaced with something raw. His arms slowly uncrossed, a subtle twitch at the edge of his jaw betraying his internal reaction.

[Roland]: ...What did you say?

His voice was quieter this time. Not calm—cautious.

The tension built in the silence like a growing firestorm. Even the books felt like they were listening.

I stepped forward, lowering my spear entirely now, wings gently folding as I placed one hand over my chest.

[Light]: My name... is Light Angel Mechanical. But you can call me Light. I've existed in a thousand stories, in fragments of data, divine scripts, and broken servers. And yet, in all of them, the same purpose remains: I am here for you, Angela.

Angela tilted her head slightly, her golden eyes unreadable.

[Angela]: Me? You don't even know me.

[Light]: Not in this form, perhaps. But I've watched your story, your pain, your long march toward freedom, trapped in someone else's cycle. And now that I am here, flesh and steel and something beyond... I won't let you walk it alone.

Roland took a step forward, brows furrowed deeply. There was no sword in his hand yet, but I could feel the weight of it hanging behind his back like a storm cloud.

[Roland]: That name. Angelica. You said it like you knew her. Like you meant it.

[Light]: I do. Because I knew what she meant to you. In one of the lives I remember, I saw what she left behind... and how much of you went with her.

Roland staggered just a little. Just enough for Angela to notice.

[Angela]: This is absurd. There are no records of any guest like you... And yet you speak with the weight of a librarian-no, a distorted memory.

She stared at me for a long moment, then finally lowered her book slightly. Her voice was colder now, controlled.

[Angela]: You speak of salvation. Very well. If you're here for me, prove it. Enter the library as a guest and offer your book to the shelves. Show us if you truly belong here... or if your story ends in ink and ash like all the others.

My wings unfolded slowly behind me, casting light through the dim atrium. I tightened my grip on the EX-Five and gave a nod.

[Light]: So be it. Let the pages decide.

I reached into the fabric of my inventory—the space between thoughts and interface—and pulled out an old, golden-etched scroll that shimmered like pixelated sunlight. The air itself pulsed as I held it out to her.

[Light]: Before we begin… a contract. Standard interdimensional protocol. You sign, I fight, we toss books and philosophies at each other. Y'know—Library things.

Angela narrowed her eyes, examining the document as it unfurled in midair with an elegant hum. I knew what she was looking for—terms, escape clauses, any exploit she could twist.

[Angela]: This... these aren't just books, they're tomes of possibility. Of emotion. Of... origin.

She scanned faster, curiosity and hunger surging past her usual composure. The desire to possess knowledge, especially this kind, burned brighter than caution. Without another word, she took a quill that manifested beside the scroll and signed her name at the bottom in elegant strokes.

 A heartbeat later, a red light flashed from the scroll—and a crimson chain erupted from her chest and mine, linking heart to heart, glowing with an eerie divine warmth.

She blinked. Just once. Then her eyes snapped wide.

[Angela]: …What in the hell is this?!

[Light]: With that… the marriage is done. Congrats, wife~

[Angela]: W-WHAT?!

The chain gave a gentle tug, as if mocking her disbelief. Somewhere, I imagined a choir of cursed paperwork spirits celebrating in glee. Roland looked like he was about to choke on his own shadow.

[Roland]: I—what—the HELL—did you just marry the AI?!

Angela's eyes twitched. Her hands trembled for a moment, but whether it was rage, panic, or repressed confusion was unclear.

[Angela]: You tricked me.

[Light]: I offered knowledge, you accepted the terms. You of all people should know the fine print is half the magic.

He stepped closer, his wings glowing faintly.

[Light]: Don't worry. It's symbolic. Mostly. Unless you want it to be more.

Angela looked like she was going to hit him with the book she carried.

Meanwhile, Light turned to Roland and opened his hand. A small, polished ring—glowing with a cool, silver-blue light—hovered above his palm.

[Light]: For you, Roland. Put this on when you want to speak with those who wait beyond. She's still listening, you know. Angelica never left your side.

His hands trembled slightly as he took the ring. He didn't say anything, but the expression on his face was enough.

[Roland]: ...Thanks. I guess.

Angela, meanwhile, had gone full Error 404 Emotions Not Found.

[Angela]: This—This is not binding. This is not logical. This is—

[Light]: "Signed in soul, sealed by intent, witnessed by cosmos." Page 47, clause 3. You really should read the fine print before binding contracts with multidimensional angelic constructs, love.

[Roland]: Oh yeah, this guy's a problem. But like… a fun one?

[Angela]: If this marriage results in any system instability, I will not hesitate to throw you into the Literature of Ruin.

[Light]: That's fair, dear.

Angela let out a very long, very weary sigh.

[Chapter End]