Chapter Text
The Chosen One sat on the edge of the cliff, looking out over the water which stretched out far, far away. He kicked his legs gently against the earth, dust spiralling into the air from where it was dislodged. Overhead, clouds drifted by lazily, pushed by a gentle breeze that ruffled the grass around Chosen's hands. But despite this peaceful scene, he just couldn't get rid of the hollow feeling that had settled in his chest ever since. . . he shook his head, trying to keep his mind from returning to that fateful day, but it was no use.
He glanced to the side, his gaze fixing upon the jagged slash that tore through the earth, before settling at the huge crater - where The Dark Lord had been defeated. Chosen couldn't suppress a shudder at the memory of the orange stick figure (SC was it?) literally crackling with power, landing the final blow on Dark, finishing the fight, once and for all. While he was glad Dark hadn't taken over the Internet, or Outernet, the empty feeling had arrived later, on that very same day.
As much as Chosen hated to admit it, he had enjoyed Dark's company. Even though the other stick had been sarcastic, and slightly too fond of death and destruction, the two of them had bonded irrevocably over their many years together. To Chosen, being without hands or feet. When Dark had first revealed his plans for world domination to Chosen, they had fought. That hadn't been their first time fighting, so both had assumed the argument would be forgotten in a few days. But that wasn't the case.
Chosen sighed and closed his eyes. A cloud passed overhead the sun, casting a shadow over the land, and he shivered as the gentle heat was blocked out, replaced by an unfriendly breeze. He chuckled softly. Just like his thoughts, his day had also become darker. With a sigh he stood up, opening his eyes, and turned around, ready to head back home. The journey was short and uneventful, which he was grateful for.
Reaching the door, Chosen opened it, revealing a dark room. He stepped inside, flipping the light switch as he did so, and shutting the door behind him. The dim yellow light flickered on, bathing the dusty room with its sickly glow. Chosen stiffly walked into the kitchen, turning the light on there too. The small window opposite the door had its raggedy curtains drawn, and the sink was piled high with dirty dishes. Chosen made a mental note to wash them later. He opened the fridge and instantly got a blast of cold air in the face. Suppressing a shiver, he peered inside. It was empty.
Letting out a heavy sigh, he rubbed his face wearily. What was he doing? He knew he needed to get more food, but it was just so, so . . . hard. He slouched into the sitting room and turned on the TV.
"- a week since the explosion, nicknamed 'Sparklefire' by witnesses. This infamous event has puzzled many sticks -"
Chosen turned the telly off, interrupting the reporter mid sentence. With yet another sigh, he lay back on the sofa. The memory of when two inquisitive stick figures arriving at his house, the day after the Showdown, arose in his mind. He had politely but firmly told them that he had no idea what happened, and would like to be left alone. The second part had not been a lie.
He was so tired of thinking about that event. Chosen closed his eyes, not bothering to move. When the thick blanket of sleep rose up and enclosed him, he didn't fight it.
He dreamed. Flashes of light, red and green, flickered around him. Fire burned, flaring high as screams rang out, loud and long. A rumbling undertone shook shook the ground, and Chosen fell to his knees, into the flames. Then he was falling, falling into the void.
With a gasp, he jolted awake, hands instinctively reaching for his chest. Heart pounding, his eyes darted around, but he forced himself to calm down, slowing his rapid breathing until the room once more was still. Chosen groaned, slumping back down on the sofa. He lay there, unmoving, for a few minutes, just looking up at the blank ceiling. Then his phone rang again, and he absentmindedly realised that it was what had woken him up.
He reached out his hand, groping around on the coffee table. It landed on his phone, and he grabbed it, holding it up to his face.
"Hello," he croaked not bothering to glace at the name. He knew it had to be The Second Coming - as he was the only living stick who had his phone number. A small knot of apprehension twisted in his stomach at the thought of talking to the person who ended his best friend, but he suppressed it for the time being. He knew that it was Dark who was the one at fault, but the way that SC had completely and utterly annihilated him had - and still - haunted him.
"You sound like shit," commented SC, though he sounded amused. Chosen wondered why he had decided to call him. He really wasn't in the mood for socialising.
"Thanks," he said, humouring the younger stick, "I just woke up. What do you want?"
"Straight to the point, huh?" came the reply. There was a pause. Chosen could practically hear the cogs turning in SC's mind, but he waited patiently. It wasn't like he had anything better to do anyway.
"How have you been?" asked SC finally. He said his his words carefully, as though he were walking around a bomb about to explode. The irony made Chosen chuckle slightly. It was SC who was the dangerous one, not him.
"I'm fine," he said, hiding his laugh.
"You don't sound fine," a sort of maternal hardened the reply. "When was the last time you spoke to somebody?"
"Errrrr. . .," Chosen hesitated. It had been six days - the two stick figures wanting to question him about the Showdown. He had just kept o himself since then. "One second?"
"Not including this conversation," said SC, not sounding amused.
"About. . . six days," admitted Chosen reluctantly.
SC sighed. "Come on Chosen, stick figures are social creatures. What about the last time you ate?" At that moment, Chosen's stomach chose the worst time to betray him, letting out a loud growl. He glared at it for a second before turning back to the phone.
"I ran out of food three days ago," he said innocently.
"Chosen!" yelled SC, and he jolted, "You need to eat!"
"Relax," he said, "I can last at least two more weeks."
2Dying of starvation is NO joking matter!"
"Really?" he smirked.
Another sigh could be heard. "Alright Chosen, I have a plan. Here's what you're going to do." Chosen cringed slightly at the authoritative tone in SC's voice, feeling almost too tired to argue back.
"You are going to the city to buy and eat some food." Chosen opened his mouth to say that it would be a waste of time and money because he wasn't hungry, but SC continued, saying "You are going to take a selfie of yourself doing that and send it to me."
"But-"
"AND," interrupted SC, as an extra challenge, you are going to start a conversation with a stranger (it's good to be social)!"
Chosen rolled his eyes. At least he was gelling more awake than he had been a few minutes ago. He guessed it had something to do with someone yelling at him through a phone.
"Do I have to do it?" he asked, wondering what his life had become if he was even considering taking orders from the pushy young stick.
"If you don't , I'll come over there and make you," said SC threateningly.
Chosen froze. Make me . . . He could feel his heart starting to pound at the thought of that stick, coming back, even after what had happened to Dark. It was still hard to believe that he was gone. . .
". . .fine," he said, then hung up, not bothering to hear SC's reply.
He lay back on the sofa, one arm over his eyes, the other dangling down, the phone held loosely in its grasp. For a few minutes he lay there, silently cursing himself for being so curt with SC. Finally, he groaned and rolled onto the floor. He had a job to do.
I might as well get this over and done with, he thought to himself as he got up.
He staggered to the bathroom. The small space was well lit up, bright sunlight shining through the windows. Chosen squinted through them, realising that it was mid-morning. It seemed that he had slept for quite a while, as it was around early evening when he first fell asleep. It only took a few seconds to splash water on his face but was already feeling much better after doing so. And after brushing his teeth and hair, be almost began to feel optimistic. Almost
Chosen walked out of the front door after changing his clothes. The sun shone on his face, feeling pleasantly warm. He stood there, for a few minutes, taking in the view, and thinking about the day before. He had enjoyed sitting on the cliff (even if it reminded him of how things used to be). And, he thought, determination swelling in his chest, he would try to enjoy this day too.