Work Text:
“Noogai?”
Chosen Arrival climbed up the program as they waited for the cursor to acknowledge them. Current, who was doodling with him before this, walked over to them with a wave and a warm smile.
“Hey big bro! How have you been?” She asked, giving them a hug. Chosen Arrival awkwardly returned it, wearily watching the cursor hover closer to the two. Noogai clicked on the empty space beside them.
[what’s up Arrival?]
Chosen Arrival huffed at the causal way the creator referred to them as they slowly detached from the hug. “We need to have a talk.” , they said, glancing at Current before adding, “Alone.”
Current started to loudly protest over being left out before being cut off by Noogai. [if this is about what I think it is, then I agree]
At least we can agree on something , they think, lightly nudging Current to the side. “Go play with the others. We won't take long, I promise.”
“But what if you and Alan fight again!?” She protested, crossing her arms as she got pushed out of the animation program. (They took note of the way she addressed the creator). Chosen Arrival sighed before holding out a pinkie.
“If I pinkie swear that I'll have a nice and civil conversation with Noogai, would you leave us alone?” They laughed at the way Current practically lit up at that statement as she energetically hooked her own pinkie to theirs.
“Alright!! You gotta keep to your end of the deal, okay?”
“I will, don't worry,” they mumbled as they pushed Current closer to the exit, “I heard the others are planning something big later, you might want to catch up before it’s too late!” Current gasped before hopping off the program, racing off to find the colourful group.
They let out a small smile as their adopted sibling faded into the distance, but the sound of typing broke them out of their thoughts.
[so, you wanted to ask me about something?]
Right, Noogai. Time to break this facade.
“...Did you make someone before us?” They started off strong, beating around the bush is not an option here. They watch as Noogai pauses in his typing for a moment, before beginning to type something out. However, that quickly got removed and replaced with something else before even that got deleted. Chosen Arrival took a seat as he watched the god-like figure fumble with his words for the first time since their creation.
They gazed at the world outside the monitor, where they could see Noogai's almost worried expression. They studied their creator’s for a moment before seeing the cursor moving from the corner of their eyes. Startled, they shot a blast of energy at the object before wincing and grabbing their arm.
The cursor, unharmed (of course it would be, when did any stick’s attacks ever do anything more than a scratch to their creator, to their god ?) floated back down slowly to their eye level before moving away. They followed its path over to the text box, where a single word could be seen.
[yes]
“...tell me about them.”
(tell them anything that they haven’t seen, anything that isn’t the days and weeks of torture he had watched and experienced. anything that isn't just chains and pain)
Another long pause, before that single, damning word vanished. Only to be replaced with another.
[okay]
– – –
Chosen Arrival sat there, dazed as they absorbed the stories Noogai had told them.
Stories of a stickman, made only to be a punching bag, some thing to torment , to play with before it broke free. Stories of a child , moulded into basically being a more willing punching bag, until it had served its use, until its creator got bored of it and killed it.
They could vaguely hear the teens playing in the far distance, and Noogai hovered nearby, peacefully cleaning up the animation, like nothing happened. Like the past half an hour (half an hour! Their stories were only worth half an hour to this monster!? ) didn’t rewrite the way they saw their world.
Chosen Arrival wonders how the others would feel, knowing the things they know.
“...my file name”
He stopped doodling. [what about it?]
“You’ve seen it right? The full thing.”
[yes]
“...you didn't tell me the full story, didn’t you?”
Backspace, pause, rewrite. [yes]
“Why”
[because i didn't want to believe my worst fear had come true.]
Chosen Arrival closed their eyes, memories that don't belong to them flashing through their mind.
“Can you change it?”
[what?]
The Chosen Arrival, Freedom Reborn.
“My file name.”
[why?]
“Because I'm sick of being somebody’s shitty attempt at a second chance!”
They didn't know when it happened, but apparently they had stood up, facing their creator (once more. just like he did all those years ago)
“Because I'm sick of having these memories, these NIGHTMARES, flashing through my head every. single. DAY. It never stops, it's ALL THAT I SEE. I tried not sleeping! And yet. YET, IT STILL HAUNTS ME.”
They punched the screen separating the two worlds, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction at the sight of the creator jumping.
“If you are the all mighty God you make yourself out to be, THEN FREE ME FROM MY AGONY.”
Exhausted from their sudden burst of emotions, they slid down the screen, resting right above the taskbar, panting for some reason. They heard the soft whoosh of the cursor near them. They didn’t move to face it, ready to accept their fate for the outburst.
So they were surprised when the cursor slowly and gently flew under their prone form and picked them up, whooshing them to a hastily drawn bed (they would be giggling at the thought of the animator panicky sketching out a bed if they had the energy to do so ). The cursor waited for them to settle comfortably enough in the bed before changing back to the text tool and typing out something new.
[oh arrival…]
They huffed out a scoff, “Don’t patronise me, Creator .”
They could see him sighing through the screen. [im not, i'm only now just realising something that should’ve been painfully obvious from the start]
A pause. [but about your file name. I can’t]
“Can’t…what?”
[Can’t change it. I dont have the authority nor the skills to do so. Plus, i didnt name you, so i dont actually know where did you come from]
Their eyesight blurred, breathing hitching. So this is it, huh? Forever chained to the remains of the past that just refused to stay buried. They hugged themselves, barely registering a hand gently rubbing their back as they broke down in front of their enemy.
It took some time for them to finally calm down. Their aching eyes (please, just let them sleep for once without seeing those horrific visions, those terrifying nightmares-) could barely make out the text on the wall.
[im so sorry arrival. For everything. truly.]
They stared at the text for a while, before standing up and walking away, leaving behind one last parting message.
“...apologizing can't change the past, Noogai, nor can it bring the dead back.”
[Wait!]
They paused at the edge of the tab, looking at the panicked waving of the cursor.
“What is it”, they asked, walking back a few steps.
[please, just call me Alan. Let bygones be bygones, alright?]
“...fine, I suppose.”
They hopped off the program, slowly making their way back to the folder they've taken to calling their home, fiddling with the belts hanging from their arms all the way there.
The green and grey belts, the first thing they drew for fun, for them .
Something of no value other than sentimentality, no purpose other than a whim and the want to celebrate.
Something they’ll never be.
Their gaze drifted to their right ankle. It felt,
Empty.
Like something was missing .
Another memory flash through their head, and an idea struck.
I wonder, can I fit a shackle there?