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Yellow is shaking. Sticks, he can’t stop shaking.
This was supposed to be a rescue mission.
His cell is gray, bars on all four corners. He doesn’t know where Orange is, he doesn’t know where his siblings are. He is utterly alone- it is terrifying. Yellow has tries pacing, rattling the bars, making as much noise as he can, if only to distract himself. It doesn’t work. He settle on crouching on the floor, hands over head.
The door to the cage slides open.
A figure stalks inside. Gray, hard expression, stony eyes. His pace is brisk, as if he is running out of time. Yellow can’t help but stare at him as he makes his way to where Yellow is. There’s just something about this new stick that seems all too familiar, his head round and hollow in the center, the proportions of his body, reminding Yellow of-
No. It can’t be.
The figure stops by Yellow and crouches slowly down to eye level. His head tilts to the side.
“You can summon the creator.” The stranger says in a monotone voice.
“I can- what?” Yellow stammers.
"Summon it."
"Summon what?"
The stranger growls. It sounds wrong, animalistic, but there’s an underlying emotion in the sound, something that feels almost desperate.
“The creator!” The stranger hisses, clenching his fists in frustration. “That!”
A gray stick worker scurries over with something large and heavy in their arms, the stranger grabbing the object the second it’s in arm’s reach. With a large thump a file is slammed onto the floor. The sound makes Yellow jump and his body tense. He glances cautiously at the other stick before he reaches a hesitant hand over to grasp the thick black binder. With unsteady hands he struggles to flip it open, but he doesn’t even have to get past the first page to know what the mystery figure was referring to. His eyes widen.
A white cursor stares back into his face, outlined cleanly in black. Yellow gulps, his gaze darting, back and forth, back and forth, from the page to the stranger.
“You want me to call Alan over? Why?” Yellow asks worriedly. What would this stick want to do with Alan, of all people?
The figure reels back, shock evident on his face. “Alan?”
“Yeah.” Yellow nods at the cursor. “What do you want with- wait.” Yellow blinks. “You don’t know his name?” From the way he looked Yellow had expected he would be like… well, be like Orange. And Orange was the first of all of them that had started referring to the person behind the screen as Alan. Oh no. Was that supposed to be confidential information? Had he revealed something he wasn't supposed to?
“Alan.” The stranger blinks curiously, eyes distant. “Well I do know its name now. His name. Hmph.”
“What do you want with him?” Yellow bristles defensively. “And where are my friends?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want with him.” The other snaps. “But as for your friends… It’s simple. You summon him, and I’ll let your friends go.”
Yellow blinks. "Just like that?"
"Just like that."
“You really will? All of them?”
“Yes.” The stranger inclines his head. “Well, the three others that came with you… they’re your siblings, I believe? Perhaps even the little orange one.”
“You will let Orange go.” Yellow jolts. “You have to let him go.”
“We’ll see.” The figure smiles. It is not comforting. “I may have other uses for him.”
Uses, he says, like Orange is just another object, like a simple pen or eraser or plaything animators use.
“He is not a tool.” Yellow snarls, anger flaring.
“Summon Alan first.” The stranger says shortly. “Then we’ll talk. And don't say anything about us. Tell him you planned a surprise for him.” He adds the final two sentences as a afterthought, a suggestion.
He leaves the cell, and another gray stick comes in with a computer. It is placed in front of Yellow before the worker departs as well, leaving Yellow alone again.
What is he planning? What will he do to Alan if I summon him? Is Orange okay? Red? Blue? Green? What happened to the Chosen One?
A thousand thoughts whirl through his mind, but Yellow forces it back.
He takes a breath.
-
It hurts. It hurts so much.
Chosen is still tied to the chair on the ground. The- the thing is still on his forehead. He doesn’t have the energy to shake it off. The gray stick is gone for now. Chosen doesn’t know when he’ll return.
He knows the gray stick will. Sticks- people- like him always do.
“You alright, Cho?” Dark asks him from where he is standing beside his head. When did Dark get here?
No.
“Yeah, that was a dumb question. You kinda look like shit right now.”
Thanks.
"You have a talent for getting yourself into trouble, don't you?"
Yeah, well, you know me.
Dark snorts. "Do I ever." He crouches down to place a hand on Chosen's shoulder, carefully avoiding his bruises. “Want me to help you bust out again?” He teases.
It’s not like you can do anything.
Dark scoffs. “I helped you break out of that stupid computer, didn't I?”
You did.
"So, what do you say? We barge out, burn the whole place down, have some fun?'
No.
"Why not? Unless you wanna just live your life in here. " Dark groans. "C'mon, lemme help you out."
You can't. You aren’t really here, Dark.
Silence. Chosen shuts his eyes tighter, as if he could stop all the memories from flooding back, the pain from devouring him. Then, “No, I’m not.”
I wish you were here. I miss you.
“I miss you too, Cho.” Dark says quietly, softly. He was only ever soft with Chosen. Chosen holds back a sob.
“Is there anything I can do? Anything?”
Just, stay? I don't want to be alone.
“Alright.” Dark breathes. "Yeah, I can do that. Sucks to be alone."
Chosen smiles. He imagines he must look insane to anyone observing, bloody, beaten, and grinning. For some reason he finds it hilarious.
He doesn’t laugh, though. He is too tired to laugh.
-
A stick more powerful than the scum in the box, and it’s the little orange one. Victim can’t believe it.
He needs something to contain the Second Coming. The amount of power he had already displayed… it was already powerful enough to potentially bring the entire place down. Tension is in the air as Victim enters the main test room once more. Agent is the first to greet him.
“Boss. What do we do?” He asks hurriedly.
“You don’t have to call me boss.” Victim says absentmindedly, like he always does. He tries his best to come up with a good plan. What to do now?
“I’m always going to call you boss. There’s no way I’m calling you Victim.” Agent falls silent, before asking, “Should we move him to the box?”
“That would mean moving the scumbag out.” Victim argues. “And the box is the only thing that can contain him right now.”
Victim thinks hard. He remembers the memory, the green beam that blasted out from the Second Coming. The green light… he’s seen it before, he would never forget it. "We need him. The orange one."
"For what?"
"Take a guess." Victim looks up to meet Agent in the eye.
“You think he can revive Mitsi.” Agent breathes, seemingly read his mind, eyes lighting with hope.
Mitsi. Mitsi Mitsi Mitsi. Victim’s mind goes blank at the name, it always does. He remembers tender smiles, quiet nights. The feeling of a warm hand in his. The constant safety and kindness that radiates- radiated- from her.
"We need to convince him. What do you propose?"
“I’ll speak with him first.” Victim decides. “C’mon.”
-
Green light, blasting from his eyes. The green beam that killed the Dark Lord. Orange really… disliked, the guy, but to think his blood was on Orange’s hands.
Orange had killed someone. Someone is dead. Because of him.
He feels sick.
How?
Orange wants to run, to scream. It’s him, it’s him, it’s he who did it.
Sticks, it’s terrifying, absolutely horrifying. Red stains his hands.
“The Second Coming.” A voice suddenly booms from above, like a reprimand, like a god about to deal punishment.
“Who?” Orange croaks.
“You.” The voice sounds amused. “I have an offer.”
“Are you the gray stick?” Orange asks. “The one that beat up the Chosen One?”
There’s a sharp crackle, as if someone had yanked hard at a microphone connected to a speaker. There was a moment of silence, before someone spoke again.
“And what if I was?”
“You,” Orange says shakily, “are a very bad person.”
I killed someone, Orange thinks, am I a bad person?
“I need your help.” The stick says, ignoring him.
“What?” Orange asks, bewildered.
“I said, I need your help.” The voice repeats.
Orange barks out a laugh. “Why would I help you? After what you did to Chosen?”
“What I did to that piece of shit was completely justified.” The voice hisses.
“No, it wasn’t!” Orange yells back. “It was mean!”
He hears the sound of a breath being slowly drawn in, then out. Orange tenses.
“I have your friends.” The voice says calmly.
A bolt of fear shoots through Orange. “What?”
“If you cooperate, I’ll let them go.”
“Who’s them?” Orange asks cautiously.
“The four brightly colored stick people.” The voice supplies. “Green, Yellow, Red, Blue. What do you say, Second?”
Orange shakes his head. “I don’t get why you keep calling me that. My name is Orange. And what about the Chosen One?”
“Well, it’s your name. And he is nonnegotiable.”
“No.” Orange says trembling. “He is my friend. You will let him go.”
“He is not your friend,” the voice scoffs, “think about it, who brought you into this mess in the first place? He is a destroyer, a killer, a catastrophe. He is not your friend, Second.” The word catastrophe is spit out like poison.
“He saved us once.” Orange thinks back to the day he met him, the way Chosen had swept in and saved them from the giant Virabot, the way he had not asked for anything in return, the curiosity he had sparked into everyone at the scene. “I believe he is my friend, don’t you ever call him a catastrophe! I won't help you! And my name is Orange!” He shouts the final sentence.
Nobody replies.
“Think on it.” The voice finally suggests. Orange hears a click, and it is silent again.
He sits on the cold floor and tries not to cry.
-
Alan. Saw something pretty cool today! Orange doesn't want to leave without it now LOL. It's awesome, trust us. Come look!
;)
... --- ...
-Yellow
-
Someone steps into the Box. Chosen is too tired to even look.
“Well,” he hears his captor laugh. “This is how far the phoenix fell, isn’t it?” He kicks Chosen’s side. “Not so powerful now, hm?”
Chosen doesn’t protest, not even when pain erupts along his side, not even when he can barely hold back his whimper of pain. He closes his eyes. He remembers this feeling.
“Don’t know if you know this, but. Did you know we have the same creator?”
What?
“That’s right!” His captor says cheerfully. “We all came from the same PC, created by the same cursor.” Chosen can feel him looming over him. “You, got lucky though. You and Second over there.”
Chosen flinches. Second.
Shit, the kid is here. I nearly forgot.
(He hears Dark suck in a breath.)
“I wasn’t.” His captor remarks. “I was created powerless. Do you know what I was named?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “victim. Because I was created purely for his own cruel amusement. He tortured me, everyday, every moment of my life." The voice cracks a bit. "Powerless, defenseless, I was lucky to escape.”
Chosen’s breath caught in his throat.
“I built I life here after gaining my freedom. I had a wife here. I was happy, for the first time in my miserable life. Then one day a fucker came in and took it all away. Do you know who that fucker is? Do you?”
“I-“
“It was you! I've waited so long for this confrontation!” Victim suddenly screams, stomping on Chosen’s arm. Chosen lets out a strangled cry of shock. “You killed her. You did it! Do you even remember her? DO YOU?”
“Who?” Chosen cries.
“You really don’t do you?” Victim lets out a laugh, a laugh filled with harshness and despair and anger. “You ruined so many lives, I bet you don’t even remember any of their faces, their names, do you?”
That isn't true. Chosen wants to cry. That isn't true.
He remembers every single one. They haunt his dreams every night.
Every night.
“If I look through these memories, will I even see her?” Victim bites. “Agent, a hand?”
“No,” Chosen sobs. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t get a choice. He never gets a choice.
-
“Back. More into the past.” Victim orders. Scenes flash before his eyes, replaying what he has already seen.
Views of the blue sky, the fucking cursor, burst of red and gold flame, the green beam slicing through the air, the Second Coming, and- whoisthat?
A red stick suddenly flies into the scene. Flies into the scene. Another hollowhead. Another one of his creations.
How had he missed it?
“Who-“ He turns to look at Agent, who shrugs in bewilderment and replays the scene. It is a hollowhead alright, with black cuffs on his arms.
“Who is that?” He asks Chosen, still on the ground. He nudges the other stick’s head with his foot. “Who?”
“I’m sorry.” Chosen murmurs.
Victim sighs. “Back.” He directs Agent.
The red figure shows up increasingly more and more times. Flying. Killing. Shooting fireballs.
Bubbles fill the screen as he and the Chosen One grapple underwater.
Agent goes back further.
The Chosen One tries to go for a blow in the head. He misses, and the red figure cackles.
“Try five months ago.” Victim randomly suggests, a mixture of anticipation and curiosity running though his veins.
“Hey Cho!” The red stick grins.
“What are you up to now, Dark?” The Chosen One groans in reply.
“Dark.” Victim tests out the name. The Chosen One flinches.
“I want an apple. Wanna go steal a bag of apples?” Dark asks.
“Back.” Victim orders.
The scenes shift.
“I’m cold.” The Chosen One mutters absentmindedly, half asleep.
There are shuffling noises, and then Dark is dragging a blanket over to flop on the Chosen One’s bed.
“Move over.”
“What?”
“I run hot.”
“Even more.”
“Another job well done.” Dark says proudly.
“Everything is destroyed.” The Chosen One says in an empty voice.
“It is.” There is no regret in the voice.
A fellow terrorist, apparently. Victim grits his teeth. “To the start.”
Then he sees it. He and Agent both do.
A pinprick of light, a new identity being made and remade.
Symbol-1.
It gets deleted.
Words are typed out hesitantly.
v-i-c-t-i-m
Delete.
k-i-l-l-e-r
Another delete.
B-E-A-S-T
Gone the next second.
Finally.
The Chosen One.
Light floods the screen, then a torrent of red, and the small blue box that Victim remembers all too well bursts open.
They fight, stick and cursor. Victim does not expect this. There are flames, broken pieces of the PC. The damage looks even worse than what he did in all those years. He wonders how this even ended in a partnership. Knowing his experience, fighting would only make Alan angrier.
It.. didn’t. End in a partnership, that is.
Virus, the creator deems the creation.
The chest clamps shut around the Chosen One, his vision thrust into darkness.
“Stop.” The Chosen One gasped.
“Forward.” Victim says desperately. He remembers this. He remembers.
Agent skips forward. And forward. The repeating scenes feel like they last an eternity.
A ball and chain. A box the size of a coffin. A powerful stick, reduced to a ad-blocker, a slave.
Countless days. Endless darkness.
“Stop. Stop.” The Chosen One croaks.
‘Free stickmen!’ Screams a sign. Freedom is so close before the cursor clicks it away, right before his eyes.
The Chosen One fights. He gets thrown against a wall and cries out in pain.
Darkness.
“Stop, I’m begging you.” The Chosen One cries. Victim can't even tell who said it, the one on the screen or the one right next to him. His vision is blurry, voices sounding like it is coming from underwater.
The black figure cries out in pain. Is it Chosen, or himself from the past?
"Stop!"
“Stop!” Victim yells suddenly. “Stop.”
Agent stops.
Victim stumbles out of the Box.
Nobody says a word.
The rope binding Chosen disappears quietly, unnoticed by all.
The stick curls into a ball on the ground.
The room is quiet.
-
Dark?