“Every world starts with a line of code. But even perfect code can rot.”
The year was 2006.
Before Roblox became a universe of endless worlds, it was still a fragile dream built out of pixels, commands, and curiosity. And somewhere, in a small corner of that forming world, a new user loaded in for the first time.
His username: Elias.
No one knew his real name. He was quiet, analytical — one of those rare users who never built games for fun, but for structure. His first words, logged into the early console, were simple:
> Elias: “Testing stability… code reads fine.”
He was a tester. A perfectionist. A ghost in the early framework.
When most users were stacking bricks, Elias was dismantling them to see why they fit together. He didn’t care for fame or badges — just logic, precision, and silence.
For weeks, he worked alone in an empty baseplate, his only companions being error messages and data outputs. Until one day, a message popped up in his console — a private DM that few ever received.
> Builderman: “You’ve caught my eye. I saw your anti-griefing script. That’s… ahead of its time.”
> Elias: “Just optimizing. The current build leaks memory with every tool used.”
> Builderman: “Exactly. That’s what we’re trying to fix. Join us. We’re assembling a team.”
That message changed everything.
Elias joined the Core Team — a small group of early builders and scripters trusted by Builderman himself.
His workspace was no longer a lonely baseplate, but a white void filled with half-finished tools, floating GUIs, and experimental scripts.
He worked on security protocols, data locks, and anti-cheat detectors — the kind of things no one noticed until they failed. But Elias noticed everything.
> Elias: “If someone duplicates an item by accident, the system should log it before the exploit spreads.”
> Builderman: “That’s brilliant. We’ll call it ‘Integrity Check.’”
> Elias: “You can call it whatever you want. I’ll make sure it works.”
And it did. Every time something broke, Elias fixed it before anyone else even saw the damage.
But perfection comes with a price.
Weeks turned into months, and Elias stopped talking. He didn’t join meetings, didn’t joke in chat, didn’t visit the new games being made. His world became numbers, scripts, and silence.
Sometimes Builderman would check on him — not as a boss, but as a friend.
> Builderman: “You’ve been online for days again. You should take a break.”
> Elias: “Breaks create bugs. Bugs create chaos.”
> Builderman: “You’re not a machine, Elias.”
> Elias: “…Then why do I fix them better than anyone else?”
There was a hint of pride in his tone — the kind that Builderman didn’t like to hear.
One night, while the servers slept, Elias stayed behind, writing lines of code no one had asked for. He was building something secret — something pure.
> “If corruption is inevitable,” he muttered, “then I’ll build the code that cannot be corrupted.”
He called it Project Null — an anti-entity, a framework immune to data decay. It would make Roblox unbreakable.
But to make it work, Elias had to remove all traces of identity, emotion, and imperfection from the code. He had to make something without a name, without an origin.
Hours passed. The lights from his virtual workspace flickered as he typed faster and faster, the rhythm of a creator chasing eternity.
Then, the console beeped.
<System: “Project Null successfully compiled.”>
Elias leaned back, exhausted but proud. He didn’t know that line of code would one day become his own curse.
The next morning, Builderman visited his workspace and saw the file.
> Builderman: “Project Null? What is this?”
> Elias: “A safeguard. It can rewrite any corrupted file automatically.”
> Builderman: “You made this alone?”
> Elias: “You were busy.”
Builderman didn’t respond right away. He opened the file, scanned it, and saw something terrifying — code that not only protected the system but could also override creator permissions if it detected a threat.
> Builderman: “…This could erase admin control.”
> Elias: “Only if the admin becomes the threat.”
That was the moment things shifted.
Elias had become too skilled, too independent — too dangerous.
And from that day on, Builderman smiled less when he saw him.
But Elias didn’t notice. He was proud. His scripts worked perfectly, his updates were flawless, his ideas were years ahead of everyone else’s. He thought he was building Roblox into a paradise.
He didn’t see the jealousy forming behind Builderman’s calm tone.
He didn’t feel the tension rising in team meetings.
He didn’t realize that every success made him more disposable.
Elias — the boy who dreamed of perfect code — was unknowingly writing his own deletion.
YOU ARE READING
Null: Forgotten Code
Fanfiction"Every creation begins with a builder... until the code starts building itself." In a world where lines of code shape reality, one name was erased from history. No records. No creator's log. Only whispers - of a developer too skilled to exist, and a...
