Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bell on the door frame chimed as the group stepped out, five brightly coloured stick figures carrying their groceries. Each had one to two large grocery bags in their arms, except for Blue, who was diligently scribbling in his beloved cookbook, tongue sticking out in concentration.

"-Aaaand done! "With a triumphant flourish of his pencil, Blue snapped the cookbook shut and tucked it away, a big goofy grin spreading across his face. "Let's hurry up and get back to the PC! I can't wait to try out all the recipes Mr Mango shared with me!" He took a bag from Yellow—seeing him struggling a bit with its weight—and skipped ahead, bouncing on his feet as he urged others to catch up.

Green and Yellow exchanged amused glances, quickening their steps to keep up with their friends. “If you’re even half as good as Mr Mango, we’re in for a feast!” Yellow chuckled.

"Just as long as Blue doesn’t throw in any netherwarts," Green quipped, “I’m still traumatized from last time when half of us fought for the bathroom! Right Orange?” He glanced over his shoulder for the last member of the group.

"...Orange?"

Lagging behind, Orange’s gaze was lost in the horizon. The setting sun bathed half of the sky in a vibrant gold, while the other half remained a cool, refreshing blue, delicately embroidered with soft pink clouds. The cool, humid air carried the amiable murmurs of pedestrians, the chirping of birds settling into their nests, and distant laughter of children at play. The young hollowhead let his senses soak in the scenery, everything was so different from what he was used to on the PC, yet somehow, it was also achingly familiar, like a forgotten dream, a memory from another life.

"-hellooooo? Earth to Orange?" A green hand waved in front of his vision, snapping him out of his trance.

Orange blinked, smiling apologetically at his friends' curious expressions."Sorry, just caught up enjoying the sunset, you guys were saying?"

“Are you feeling okay? You’re very distracted today.” Blue, always the most considerate, asked worriedly.

“Huh? Yeah I’m fine!” Orange waved him off with a wide smile. “C’mon, let’s get back to Mr Mango’s before it gets too dark!” 

The others shared puzzled looks but decided not to press. Green’s eyes lit up as he saw a CD shop nearby.

“Oh, oh! look at that store!" Green tugged Orange’s arms excitedly, "Let's check it out before we get back!"

"Maybe next time. It's getting late and Alan might get worried if we stayed out for too long-" Orange reasoned.

"Uhhhh...guys?"

"Aww c'mon! Who knows when we'll get to visit the Outernet again! Just for ten minutes?"

"Guys-"

"And having to physically drag you out after? Not happening." Yellow shook his head.

"Hey! I'm not that bad at-“

"Guys!"

Red's urgent shout cut through the chatter. The four of them whipped their heads towards the ruby-colored stick figure, and saw him eagerly pointing towards a shady alleyway across the street. "Is that...who I think it is?" Red asked, a slight edge in his voice.

“Who?" Yellow followed his gaze, his eyes widened. "Oh my gosh, it's him!"

 A black hollowhead was leaning against the alleyway wall, his silhouette almost blending completely into the shadows. The gang could see wisps of smoke drifting up from a cigarette in his hand.

"What do we do?" Red whispered, eyes locked on the stick figure.

“Move. Before he sees us!" Green muttered, tugging hard at Orange’s arm.

"What? No!" Orange pulled free, “We should at least go say hi!"

Blue nervously fidgeted with his hands. "I dunno...he doesn't look like wants to be interrupted..." He mumbled.

"He saved us from the spider virus and that evil red stick, remember?"

"Well if you like him so much go talk to him yourself!" Green snapped impatiently, giving Orange a light shove.

Caught off guard, Orange stumbled back. “…Fine!” He steadied himself with a deep breath, then set his grocery bags down and marched toward the alley.

Fifty steps. Twenty steps. Ten. Still the black hollowhead did not react to Orange’s approach. It was not until Orange was only a few paces away, timidly announcing his presence with a stammered, “H-Hello, Mister!” that the stick figure stirred. He raised his head slowly, almost lethargically. This wasn’t the reflex of the seasoned warrior Orange remembered, something was wrong.

When the black hollowhead’s face came into view, Orange felt something heavy fell through him. The stick figure before him was gaunt and weathered, his cheeks sunken, shadows pooling under his eyes like bruises of exhaustion. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though he couldn’t see anything at all. Those eyes—once fiery and piercing—were now like two dry wells, empty and dull. 

Then, recognition flickered across his face, a strange, haunted look settled in, as if he had seen a ghost.

“…It’s you.” He croaked, voice hoarse of misuse.

It has been only a few months since Orange last saw him. What happened?

“Y-yeah! It’s me, Orange! I’m glad that you still remembered me after so long, haha!” Orange chuckled awkwardly, feeling heat rise up to his face. His hand reached to scratch the back of his head absentmindedly.

The black hollowhead’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you here?”

“I—I mean, we—just visited our friend. They live in the Outernet! We were heading back to Alan’s PC when we saw you, and, uh, figured we’d stop and say hi!” Orange felt a flicker of relief as he heard multiple footsteps approaching, his friends came to stand behind him.

However, the older stick stiffened. Straightening his back, he extinguished the cigarette with a pinch of his hand. “Well then,” He said gruffly, “since you’ve said your hello, you can leave now.”

A hand tugged at Orange’s shirt, silently urging him to leave, but he couldn’t. There was something in Chosen’s eyes—something broken.

“Hold up!” Orange blurted, glancing at his friends before facing Chosen. “Mr.—uh—sorry, I don’t think we ever got your name-“

“The Chosen One.”

Orange blinked. “Uh, what?”

“My name,” the black hollowhead repeated, his tone flat. “The Chosen One.”

Behind Orange, Red made a weird noice like a strangled goose. Orange shot him a quick glare before turning his head to Chosen again.

“Erm, right. Mr…Chosen?” Orange shifted awkwardly, licking his lips before asking gingerly, “D-did something happen? You don’t look so well…”

At the question, veins pulsed visibly on The Chosen One’s forehead, he seemed to be wrestling with some internal fury. “This is none of your business.” He growled through clenched teeth. 

A faint heat rippled through the air, the temperature around them had spiked a few degrees.

“S-sorry! I didn’t mean to-” Orange blurted, taking a step back. His friends’ hands gripped his shoulders, gently pulling him away. Their reaction seemed to snap Chosen out of whatever had seized him, he exhaled sharply and rubbed a hand across his bleary eyes.

“…Why do you care?” he muttered, softer now.

“Because you saved our lives a few months ago, remember?” Orange’s voice softened, too.“Without you, we wouldn’t even be here. I just thought…if something’s wrong, maybe we could help? I want to help you, just like you helped us.”

Chosen’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze dropping to the ground. For a fleeting moment, he looked like a candle caught in a storm, its flame trembling against the wind. He inhaled deeply, eyes closing.

“You can’t help me, kid.” Chosen said, voice tinged with exhaustion. He turned away, the shadows seeming to close around him. “Go back to where you belong.”

"Wait!" Orange hurriedly called out, but Chosen did not spare him another glance. Lost for what to do, the leader turned to his friends, his eyes silently pleading. The four solidheads exchanged uncertain looks, Red and Green shrugged while Yellow looked thoughtful.

"E-excuse me, Mr Chosen?" 

A soft, hesitant voice broke the silence. Blue took a tentative step forward, clutching his grocery bag tighter. "We just bought a lot of groceries from a store nearby, and it's almost dinner time. So, um, I thought maybe we could go to your place and...cook something for you! I-if you want, that is..."

"Yeah! Blue's a really good chef!" Red added quickly, resting a hand on Blue’s shoulder.

For a long, tense moment, Chosen remained still, the air seemed to shift subtly around him. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Chosen turned his head, casting a glance at the cyan stick figure.

“…Can you cook spicy food?”

Orange smiled.

Chosen regretted, for the umpteenth time, agreeing to bring these kids back home. Not home. This place stopped being a home after Dark died.

The second they walked in, they scattered everywhere like it was a theme park, gawking and gasping at everything. No sense of decorum whatsoever. A headache was already clawing its way up his skull. He should make them sit down, maybe offer something to drink—except the shelves held nothing but a few bottles of booze, and even he knew better than to serve them that. What now?

He was never good with people. Definitely not kids. Here he was, stuck in front of the door like a mannequin, feeling more and more stupid with every passing second. If only Dark was here, he would have figured something out by now-

"Woah! Where’d you get that?!” 

Chosen turned his head toward the shouting. Green was staring, wide-eyed and starstruck, at the giant Apple Inc. logo mounted gloriously on the wall. Its silver surface gleamed with a metallic sheen.

That logo was one of the most prized souvenirs from Chosen and Dark’s old cyberattacks. Back in the day, they had grown tired of the usual antics—burning up websites and messing with silly video games. They craved something bigger, something that would force humans to take notice.

“Hey, Cho!” Dark had said with a mischievous grin. “How ’bout we swipe something from one of their biggest tech companies? That’ll teach those self-righteous humans not to mess with stick figures!”

It had been the most fun Chosen had ever had. That day, the Apple logo mysteriously vanished from every virtual platform, leaving behind only a dark outline where it once was. The humans never discovered what had happened, and, in the end, they had no choice but to adopt that silhouette as their new logo.

“This is just the first great victory in our saga!” Dark had declared, his eyes blazing with manic fire as he mounted the logo on the wall. “We’ll make the entire internet tremble at our presence, you’ll see!”

And Dark’s collection only grew from there, bits and pieces scavenged from each cyberattack: key lines from famous programming codes, rare achievement badges, unique buttons from iconic sites… Chosen once joked that Dark must have some code of a dragon in his programming to hoard treasures like this.

Dark had teased him in response: “If I were a dragon, where in my hoard should I place you?”

After their relationship soured, Dark had moved most of his collection back to his room. Chosen couldn’t help but wonder if this Apple logo had been left deliberately in the living room just to spite him. Now, the once gleaming trophy of their daring feat had faded in his eyes, a pale and ugly reminder of the chaos they had wrought, the mistakes he could never undo.

As the globe was disintegrated into bits of data along with the cabinet it was placed upon, Dark turned to him, the sting of the virabot still in his hands. Something frantic and unfamiliar flashed in his eyes, a glimpse of his true self that Chosen could no longer ignore.

“Chosen, let’s tear this world into pieces.” He whispered, and Chosen’s whole body went rigid with terror.

He had thought about throwing it away more than once, but each time his hand brushed its surface, Dark’s smile, wide and carefree, would flash before his eyes, along with the reckless joy they once shared in tearing down the world together. And he’d pull his hand back, as if burned.

A beam of black and crimson shot up into the sky, splitting the clouds as it painted the heavens with apocalyptic darkness. Immense energy surged from Dark in every direction, sweeping all in its path like a furious storm. At the heart of the chaos, Dark’s face was a blur, unrecognizable beneath the whirlwind of his power.

The Dark Lord must be eliminated.

“How come he had one in his home?” The kids crowded around the logo, staring at it in awe. “I thought this version of the logo all disappeared back in 2014?”

“No! STOP! PLEASE!” Their cries rang out, desperate and pleading as Dark’s virablade sliced through their bodies with horrifying ease. Their anguished pleas were like wind brushing against stone, utterly ignored by the ruthless hollowhead. And one by one, their bodies disintegrated into thin air.

"No..." Chosen breathed.

“Yeah! I heard they never found out why!” 

“Look at the texture! I wonder if it-” 

The kids' excited chatter blurred and crumbled, sentences collapsing into words, words unraveling into syllables, and syllables fading into meaningless noise. Chosen stared at them as though he was peering through several feet of deep blue water.

Dark crashing through concrete walls as he punched Dark with full force. 

Dark flying with him side by side with a toothy grin. 

Dark’s virablade plunging painfully into his torso.

Dark’s hand shooting up for a high five.

Dark looming above, poised for the final strike.

Dark drooling onto the cluttered work desk as he slept.

He took a step closer. The children’s chatter abruptly ceased. Their wide, curious eyes turned to him.

“Mr. Chosen?” Orange asked hesitantly.

“Pathetic, The Chosen One, just look at you now, powerless, useless! Tell me, what good have your precious ideals done you? Have they helped you defeat me? Have they saved these kids from being shredded into pieces?”

“Hey Cho! Do you know why programmers like me prefer dark mode? Because light attracts bugs! C’mon, what’s with that face?”

“M-mr Chosen, what’s with that face?” Orange’s voice was laced with fear. His bright, innocent eyes were just inches below him, he stared into them, and saw-

-the blinding green light, impossibly radiant. It surged toward Dark, engulfing him entirely, a cosmic force obliterating everything in its path. When it was all over, he found a giant crater where a mountain once stood. At its center, Dark lay still, his body cold and lifeless.

“Stop it! What are you doing?!”

“Chosen, it hurts!”

Chosen gasped, his gaze dropped to his hand. It wrapped around Orange’s arm with a grip so tight his knuckles had turned white. He released the kid instantly, recoiling as if he had been the one injured.

Orange stumbled back, face scrunched in pain as he cradled his arm, shielding it from Chosen as though afraid that he might hurt him again. The others closed ranks around him. Blue gently placed a hand on Orange’s back, coaxing him to show the injured arm. Red, Yellow, and Green stepped between the two hollowheads, their faces a mix of anger, fear, and disbelief.

"What's wrong with you?!" Red shouted, eyes aflame with rage.

“I-” Chosen’s breath was ragged, the room felt cramped and suffocating, as if being pressed by an unrelenting vise.

“I need... some time alone.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and fled, footsteps pounding up the stairs.

He really shouldn’t have brought these kids here.

Chapter Text

Chosen sat in his usual spot on the rooftop and pulled out a cigarette. With a flick of his fingers, the tip ignited, glowing faintly in the evening light. A single inhale burned half of it away. He closed his eyes, letting the smoke coil through his lungs before exhaling in a slow, deliberate stream. It curled and thinned, vanishing into the orange sky.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He messed up everything.

Orange remembered nothing about the Showdown. The kid didn’t know he had blasted his only friend to his death, and even if he did, Dark probably deserved it anyway. Yet Chosen had let his emotions get the better of him, lashing out like a rabid dog…

He took another drag like a drowning man gasping for air—only to be wrecked by a sudden fit of coughing.

Shit. He grimaced, wiping his mouth. How the hell did Dark make this look easy?

“Mr. Chosen? Where-”

A voice. Then, an orange head popped out from the window below, scanning the area before glancing up. The kid’s face lit up.

“Oh! There you are!”

Before Chosen could respond, Orange was already hoisting himself out the window.

“Wait, kid, your arm-” Chosen jolted to his feet, dropping his cigarette in the process, but Orange had already climbed up with impressive dexterity, all while using only one arm. Now standing face-to-face, the kid seemed to finally remember what had happened earlier. His shoulders hunched, and he subtly tucked his injured arm behind his back.

“S-Sorry to bother you, Mr. Chosen,” he mumbled. “I just… wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

A fresh wave of guilt crashed over Chosen. He looked away, unable to meet Orange’s eyes.

“…What do you mean?” He asked stiffly. “You’re the one who’s hurt.”

“It’s okay! I know you didn’t mean-” Orange said hurriedly.

“It’s not okay!” The words came out sharper than he intended. He took a step back, shaking his head.

Can’t the kid see how dangerous he was? Kids like them shouldn’t mess with someone like him—someone with powers, someone too strong, too uncontrollable. He wasn’t safe to be around.

The only person he could trust himself with was gone now.

But before he could retreat any further, Orange stepped forward. To Chosen’s surprise, the kid lifted his injured arm and pulled back his sleeve, revealing the bandages wrapped snugly around it. An ice pack was secured against the bruise, tied neatly at the end of the wrappings—was a small, carefully made bow.

“We get hurt all the time while sparring and doing dumb stuff,” Orange said lightly. “Blue’s practically an expert at treating injuries by now. He said it’s just a bruise, nothing broken.” He looked up at Chosen, gaze steady, warm, and utterly unafraid.

“Everyone gets angry. Everyone makes mistakes. You don’t have to feel bad about it, really!”

Chosen opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His chest felt tight—like something unfamiliar had lodged itself there. Instead of speaking, he sighed and sank down onto the rooftop, pulling one leg to his chest.

“…What about the others?” he muttered. “They didn’t seem happy that I hurt you.”

“Pssh, they totally overreacted!” Orange plopped down beside him, mimicking his posture. “Now Blue’s cooking dinner and the others are in the living room. I think he’s trying out some new recipes from our friend’s dad.” His grin widened. “Just look forward to it!”

Chosen sighed, resting his chin on his knee. "You kids are too nice to me," he muttered.

Orange tilted his head, frowning. "Huh? What are you talking about? You're my brother, of course we’d—" He stopped abruptly, eyes widening as if his own words had betrayed him. His face turned red in an instant, and he slapped a hand over his mouth.

Chosen blinked, giving him a puzzled look. "...What?" He narrowed his eyes. "Where did you get that idea from?"

"I-I, well—" Orange darted his eyes around, as if expecting an appropriate excuse just floating in midair for him to use. When none presented itself, he exhaled in defeat, rubbing the back of his head with his good arm. "I... asked Alan about you guys after, you know, the incident." He admitted quietly, "Since you seemed to know him, and, well, we kind of look alike..." He gestured vaguely to his hollowhead. "At first, he didn’t want to tell me anything, but eventually, he said that you were drawn by him too.”

Orange hesitated before meeting Chosen’s gaze, something shy but hopeful flickering in his eyes. "That means we’re brothers, right?”

Chosen chewed the inside of his cheek. The logic made sense—after all, their origins were the same. But the word brother... That wasn’t something he had ever associated with himself, or with anyone else. Dark had been created by Alan too, but he was never a brother. He was a friend. An enemy. Something in between.

Brotherhood was... foreign.

(And yet, the word left a strange warmth in his chest, one he wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge.)

He shrugged, keeping his voice indifferent. "Yeah, I guess we are.”

The flicker of excitement in Orange’s face dimmed almost instantly. His shoulders slumped as he looked away, his legs dangling off the edge of the rooftop. The two of them sat in silence, the evening breeze carrying the distant chirping of crickets.

Chosen glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He had the nagging feeling that he’d said something wrong—but what? Did the kid expect a different reaction from him?

Suddenly, Chosen’s heightened senses picked up the faintest creak from the window below. Years of vigilance kicked in, he shot to his feet and rushed to the roof’s edge, eyes scanning for any sign of an intruder.

But the window was empty. No one was there.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Chosen?” the kid’s puzzled voice called out behind him.

Chosen narrowed his eyes. “No... just the wind.” He turned back, retreating slowly to the kid’s side.

Whatever spell had settled between them was broken. Chosen watched the kid take a deep breath, his voice quieter than usual as he finally spoke again.

"The truth is... I was really worried about you, Chosen." He squeezed his hands together in his lap. "When we saw you earlier, you looked so tired. So... sad. And I—I just..." He took a deep, shuttering breath, and looked at Chosen with an expression so raw with sorrow that it hurts to watch.

Then, as if he were about to leap off a cliff, he squeezed his eyes shut and blurted, "Please—we’re brothers, right? And brothers help each other!”

The words tumbled out in a rush. "I need to know what was bothering you! Although I'm not as strong as you are and I don't have cool powers like you do, I have a bunch of amazing friends and we are all good at different stuffs so I'm sure if you let us work together we can figure things out!" He sucked in a breath, his face now completely flushed from the outburst.

A brief silence stretched between them. Orange hesitantly cracked one eye open, as if bracing for a harsh reaction.

But Chosen didn’t say anything.

He just stared, speechless, while a million thoughts ran through his head.

No one—not even Dark—had ever shown him such unfiltered kindness before. Not after everything he’d done. Not after physically assaulting Orange just moments ago. And yet, here the kid was, looking at him shyly, hope slowly growing in his eyes.

Was it because Orange really took this “brother” thing so seriously? But they barely knew each other.

And what was he even supposed to say?

“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just that the red stick who slaughtered your gang happened to be my best friend. You killed him with some godlike power, revived all your friends, then conveniently forgot everything.”

Hmph. Yeah, that would go over well.

From what little Chosen understood about the kid, he was certain—Orange would take the truth hard. It would gnaw at him, make him question himself, weigh him down with guilt.

It would be...unnecessary.

Better that he stay ignorant.

“…Sorry, kid.” Chosen dropped his gaze, letting his bangs fall over his eyes to shield him from Orange’s expression. “I really can’t tell you.”

“But—!” There was a crack in Orange’s voice, Chosen winced at how hurt the kid sounded. “Why—”

“Because knowing won’t change anything.” Chosen cut him off, more forcefully than intended. He pushed himself up, brushing dust from his clothes. The air around him compressed and warmed.

Behind him, Orange scrambled to his feet. “But I’m not finished—”

Chosen ignored him. Flames burst from his palms as he prepared to take off.

“No, wait—!”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“Chosen—!”

“And that’s final.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Is it about that red hollowhead?”

Soft. Barely above a whisper. But to Chosen, it may as well have been a thunderclap.

"He's the reason of all this, isn't he?"

The flames beneath his hands flickered, then extinguished into smoke.

Slowly, he turned.

“…How did you know?”

Yellow hadn’t meant to be nosy. He really hadn’t. But once he noticed the strange things around Chosen’s house, it became hard to ignore them.

First, there was the Apple logo mounted on the wall—how had Chosen even gotten his hands on that? Then came the cracks snaking across the upper corners of the walls, the scorch marks darkening the ceiling, and—strangest of all—the massive contraption jutting out from a second-floor balcony, something Yellow had spotted before they stepped inside. It looked suspiciously like a launcher of some kind.

It wasn’t that Yellow distrusted Chosen, don’t get him wrong. After all, Orange seemed to take a liking to him. Even after getting hurt by Chosen just moments ago, that knucklehead didn’t hesitate to reach out again, even asking them not to follow. Oh well, Yellow thought reluctantly. A friend of his friend was a friend of his, even if things had been less from smooth so far. He trusted a friend's judgment. Purple was proof of that.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Chosen was hiding something from them. Something important.

And Yellow was never good at leaving questions alone.

While Green and Red were distracted with the gaming consoles in the living room (though honestly, why were there two if Chosen lived alone?) and Blue working his magic in the kitchen, Yellow crept upstairs to the second floor, careful not to make the slightest of noises.

The staircase led to a quiet hallway. Four doors—two open, two shut. A quick look showed the open ones were a bathroom and what he guessed was Chosen’s bedroom. He crept closer to the latter and peeked in.

No one. That was odd.

That’s when he heard faint voices, drifting in from the open window. He crept closer.

“—That means we’re brothers, right?”

“…Yeah, I guess we are.”

Yellow inhaled sharply. That was definitely Orange’s voice. And Chosen’s.

He inched forward, wanting to hear more, and leaned toward the window—

—which gave a sudden, sharp creak.

Yellow flinched.

Footsteps. Quick and heavy. Coming from above.

Panicked, Yellow spun around and bolted out of the room, heart hammering, carefully closing the door behind him as fast and quiet as he could.

Phew, crisis averted.

He leaned against the wall, trying to breathe slowly. He didn’t know why the idea of being caught made him so nervous. Maybe part of him still didn’t know what to make of Chosen. The black hollowhead was just to powerful, too unpredictable, too...mysterious.

But right, he still had to check out the suspicious looking launcher.

Taking one last deep breath, Yellow glanced around, calculating. Based on where the launcher jutted out from the house, and the layout he’d observed so far, he figured it must be in the room at the end of the hall.

One last glance at Chosen’s door (he was so gonna make Orange spill everything once they got back to the PC), and Yellow tiptoed toward the door farthest down the hallway. This has to be it, he thought. He wasn’t snooping around, not really. Just checking for potential threats. That didn’t count as trespassing... right?

That’s what he told himself as he reached for the doorknob. The handle was coated in a thin layer of dust. No one had touched it in a while.

The knob turned easily, a soft click and the bolt slid free.

Yellow slowly pushed the door open.

The only light in the room came from the fading twilight pouring through the wide balcony on his right. For a few seconds, Yellow couldn’t see anything beyond vague, shifting shadows. But as his eyes adjusted he can't help but took a step backwards.

Whatever he’d imagined this room would be—it wasn’t this.

It looked like a wrecking machine had gone berserk in this room! Two gaping holes tore through the walls, and the floor was covered in a dense network of cracks, all radiating from a deep impact mark near the center. That probably explained the damage he’d noticed on the ceiling downstairs.

Yellow stepped in cautiously, covering his nose and mouth to keep from coughing on the dust swirling in the air. A hundred thoughts raced through his mind, but none of them could answer the one question screaming the loudest:

What the heck happened here?

The machine he’d been looking for stood on the balcony, partly silhouetted against the dimming sky. Yellow pulled out his phone and switched on the flashlight, sweeping the beam across the wreckage-strewn floor as he picked his way carefully through the debris.  Up close, he saw a massive hole had been blasted into its cuboid body, like it had taken a direct hit from something explosive. But even in this state, it was still a giant, intimidating thing. The base was wider than Yellow’s arms stretched out, and its long barrel pointed skyward, crowned with four concentric scarlet discs. The way it loomed, even broken, made the pit in his stomach grow heavier.

Why would Chosen keep something like this in his home? Did he build it? What was it for?

Yellow bent over to inspect the control panel. The glass was shattered, and the display was dark. He tapped the edge, but it remained lifeless. Not surprising, considering the machine’s condition. He sighed and stood up again. If this machine couldn’t tell him anything, maybe the rest of the room could.

He swept the flashlight around the walls—and then froze.

There was something pinned up near the corner.

A...poster?

No. Blueprints.

Yellow’s breath caught.

They depicted a mechanical spider. But not just any spider.

The Virabot.

The one that attacked Alan's PC months ago.

He wanted to bolt—right here, right now. Run downstairs, find the others, forget he ever came up here. But a small, naive part of him clung to the hope that maybe he was just imagining things. That this was just some weird coincidence.

With stiff legs, he walked up to the wall for a closer look.

There was no mistake. The exact articulation of the legs. The fangs. The attack pattern diagrams. And beside it all, a world map littered with small, circular stickers—each one stamped with the virus icon that had invaded Alan’s desktop.

Memories came flooding back.

The feeling of being trapped in sticky web, the stench of smoke and burning, the helplessness of being held by the neck by an iron grip, the freezing burn of a black, ethereal blade sinking into his head, his own screams, so loud they didn’t even sound like him anymore...

His phone slipped from his hand and hit the floor.

The room spun around him.

And even as panic clawed at his chest, his brain just kept going—fast, frantic, piecing everything together whether he wanted it to or not.

The trace of another person who'd lived here. The wrecked state of the room. The virus launcher on the balcony. The blueprints.

This was not just a damaged storage room.

This was The Dark Lord's lab.

The Dark Lord had lived here.

Chapter Text

The air crackled faintly, charged with static under Chosen’s influence. His gaze sharpened on the younger hollowhead. Orange must have felt it—he instinctively took a few cautious steps back, the worry on his face giving way to something closer to fear.

“Um… I—” Orange fumbled, then forced a shaky laugh. “I just guessed!”

Chosen narrowed his eyes.

“I mean,” Orange added quickly, “you’re one of the strongest sticks I’ve ever seen. If someone could mess you up this badly, it’s gotta be him.” He spat the last word with bitterness, like it left a bad taste in his mouth. Chosen remained silent.

"And judging by your reaction," Orange continued, straightening himself and took a step towards Chosen, "I'm right, aren't I?" He asked confidently.

Bright green eyes met scarlet, and before long Chosen sighed in defeat, resisting the urge to slap his own mouth. "You little shit..." He muttered, though there was no real heat in his voice.

Orange beamed, flapping his arms in excitement (he had to admit, it was kind of cute), before quickly catching himself and putting on a serious look. "So, what exactly is going on?"

Chosen’s stomach twisted. Damn it. He’d really cornered himself this time. The kid deserved an answer, but where to even begin?

He sat down on the rooftops again, feeling Orange's expectant gaze boring into his back.

What could he even say?

He’d spent the past few months sleepwalking through his own life, drowning out thought with smoke and cheap liquor. He tried not to think about those disgusting arachnids, the buzzing black blades, the anguished screams of these kids. He tried not to think about that blinding green light, or it's aftermath. More than anything, he tried not to think about the suffocating emptiness in his chest Dark had left in his wake.

But those memories still came to haunt him every night.

"Chosen? "

He flinched at the touch—something warm resting gently atop his hand. He hadn’t noticed the kid move closer, settling his uninjured hand on his own.

"You okay?" The kid asked carefully.

For once, Chosen didn't want to pull away. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the sensation of the kid’s hand over his—the flowing warmth, gentle pressure, the quiet steadiness of someone who wasn’t afraid of him.

"Thanks kid," he said finally, then sighed. "It's just...hard to explain."

"He's back, isn't he? And he's stronger than before?"

"Yes—wait what?"

But Orange didn’t notice Chosen’s surprise. “You’ve been fighting him all this time, haven’t you? That’s why you’re like this.” His hand tightened around Chosen's. "I, I mean, it's okay now! We're here, aren't we? And we'll help you! We'll come up with a plan! A real one this time, not just..."

His voice faltered, and he sucked in a shuddering breath.

"Kid?" Chosen's voice was laced with concern, but Orange just kept going.

"A-and Alan will help too! You know how powerful he is! If we just tell him about what's going on, surely he will..." Words spilled from him like a dam breaking, he lowered his head and Chosen realised he was trembling.

"Kid—"

"It's okay! If, if we beat him once, we can beat him again, for, for good this time!"

"Kid!"

Chosen reached out and gripped the kid’s shoulder, Orange froze. Slowly, he looked up, and Chosen gazed steadily into the pair of scared, confused eyes.

"The Dark Lord is dead,” he said flatly. “He’s not coming back.”

Orange blinked. “…The Dark Lord?” he echoed. The name didn’t seem to fit right in his mouth. “You’re serious?”

Chosen’s throat tightened. “Yes. He’s gone.”

“Then… why did you say—”

Chosen let out a long breath, hand falling back to his lap. He gazed far into the distance, carefully choosing his every word.

“Let me ask you something, kid. Say you have a friend, a really good one. Been with you through everything—victories, failures, all of it. But one day, you realise he’s about to do something terrible. Something that goes against everything you stand for. So you try to stop him. And you do.”

Another pause.

“You stop him. But you also watch him die.”

Chosen looked over at Orange.

“How would you live with that?”

Deep breaths. In and out...in and out...

Orange's voice echoed softly at Yellow's ear. As he followed the breathing technique his friend had taught him, the icy grip around his chest began to ease. Slowly, his muscles loosened, and he could stand up again.

That's right, let it pass, like a river over stone...

The Dark Lord's gone, Yellow reminded himself, Chosen beat him, he could no longer hurt us anymore. There's nothing to be afraid of.

Still, the blueprints send fresh waves of unease pricking down his spine just by looking at them. They were too well done: immaculately drawn projections from multiple angles, intricate cross-sections revealing every mechanical joint and weaponized appendage, each part labeled with chilling clarity. Every page was a vivid, painful reminder of its deadly nature.

Still, a small, small part of him couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship. The designs were…clever. Brilliant, even. He stepped forward and traced the lines with a hesitant finger. With the right materials, and enough time, he could probably build one himself—

No!

Yellow jerked back, shaking his head vehemently. What am I thinking?! No matter how ingenious the virabot is from an engineering perspective, it was still a weapon made to harvest people’s lives, a diabolical creation.

With a deep breath, he picked up his (thankfully unharmed) phone from the dusty floor and and turned the flashlight toward the rest of the room.

There were still so many questions. Why would The Dark Lord be living in the same house with Chosen? How could two people that literally tried to kill each other have ever been…roommates?

Could he even trust Chosen now, knowing that he and The Dark Lord used to be on the same side?

Yellow’s fingers tightened around his phone.

He needed more information.

Now that his nerves had settled ever so slightly, Yellow gained a better picture of the room. It was…strangely bare. A few dusty cardboard boxes slumped in the corners. A single computer sat alone on a desk, wires snaking from its ports into the ceiling, where a few metal arms hung down—probably used to suspend the virabot in place. No chairs. No shelves. No signs of daily life.

It was as if the Dark Lord had stripped everything away, cut out every distraction, only to focus solely on this one thing: the virabot project.

But why?

Yellow crept toward the desk, flashlight beam narrowing on the computer monitor. If there were any answers in this room, they would be in here.

The computer, though coated in a fine layer of dust, booted up with surprising ease. A soft blue glow spilled across the desk, casting long shadows over the lab. A few seconds later, the login screen appeared:

The Dark Lord

Please Enter Password: _

Yellow chewed on his lips.

"admin123"

Incorrect Password.

"virabot"

Incorrect Password.

“imtheultimateedgelordandihateeveryone”

Incorrect Password. Please try again in 3 minutes.

He sighed, crossing his arms. “Bummer. I’m sure the last one had a shot.” He chuckled.

However—Yellow pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, a sly grin forming—He wasn't going to let this mild inconvenience deter him from getting the answers.

He pulled a USB cable from his pocket and plugged it into the mainframe. With a few taps, he launched an app he’d built months ago.

A simple interface popped up:

Target System Detected

Login Bypass? [YES/NO]

He tapped YES.

The screen darkened, then lines of code began to crawl across it like digital insects.

Attempting password crack…

Using local dictionary + hybrid permutations

Estimated time: 5 minutes 47 seconds

That's not too bad, he turned around and leaned on the desk, allowing his tense muscles to relax. He'll just have to wait a couple more minutes.

The silence was thick, broken only by the faint whir of the computer's fan. He glanced up at the ceiling. Orange was still up on the rooftop, probably chatting with Chosen. The others were downstairs, going about their day, blissfully unaware that Yellow’s entire worldview had just flipped upside down. He exhaled.

Should he tell them what he’d found? That the evil mastermind that haunted their nightmares was once allies with their saviour?

Yellow fidgeted with his fingers. Every byte of his code was screaming to share what he’d discovered, to bring it to the group, so that they can plan their next move together, like they always did. With them, he was safe. Protected. But here, in this dark and ominous lab, he was alone—shouldering a truth too heavy for him.

But if he told them, would they still trust Chosen? Would they even look at him the same way again? The fragile relationship they’d barely started building would shatter instantly. And Yellow didn’t want that either—not after watching Orange go so far to reach out to the stoic hollowhead.

Wait.

Yellow shot upright, heart skipping a beat.

Didn't Orange said that Chosen was his brother? And Chosen had confirmed it! So that meant… he was drawn by Alan too? Just like Orange?

The Second Coming: The Chosen One's Return...

Is that what Orange’s real name meant? Or was there something deeper, something more?

How far did their connection go? Was that why Orange seemed so drawn to Chosen—even when everyone, even when Chosen himself, told him to stay away?

And now, the two hollowheads were up on the rooftops, sharing secrets Yellow didn’t even know.

A sharp pang bloomed in Yellow’s chest. Was Chosen really so special to him, even more special than Yellow and the others?

Yellow clutched his head.

No, no, that couldn’t be right. Orange wouldn’t choose someone he barely knew over his best friends …would he?

Ugh! Yellow let out a frustrated groan and started pacing back and forth. He hated waiting around with nothing to do! He glanced at the monitor.

4 minutes 53 seconds remaining.

He needed something, anything, to distract his spiraling thoughts.

Yellow’s eyes ran down the rest of barren lab. The only things worth checking out are the dusty cardboard boxes beside the walls. With a sigh, he crouched in front of one and pulled off the lid.

“It’s not like the Dark Lord’s gonna come back to life and throttle me for snooping,” he muttered.

The box was a mess of machine parts and rusting tools, all covered in a fine layer of dust. There’s also several notebooks stained with mechanical oil, making the writings on it hard to read. Yellow almost laughed at a dirty mug that had “WARNING: may spontaneously talk about SCIENCE” printed on its side.

Then, near the bottom, something odd caught his eye: a can of ginger ale. It looked unassuming, but it was… weirdly heavy.

Curious, Yellow brought it over to the desk. Under the glow of the monitor, he noticed something strange: hairline cracks laced across its metallic surface, so fine he had to squint to even see them.

Something was hidden inside.

He glanced around. None of the tools he’d found were sharp enough to wedge into the seams. After turning the can over a few times, he gave the pull-tab a cautious tug.

With a faint click and a soft mechanical hum, the surface of the can split. Thin, segmented panels slid apart along the seams, unfolding one by one with clockwork precision. The transformation reminded Yellow of origami—deliberate, smooth, and elegant.

From the heart of the opened can, three spindly legs extended outward, clicking gently as it braced against the desk. A small cylindrical lens telescoped from the top, followed by a tiny directional microphone like an antenna. The whole thing no bigger than his hand.

“…Whoa,” Yellow whispered.

He nudged it with a finger. The legs retracted slightly, shifting to maintain balance.

Gently, he pressed the panels closed again, watching as they folded back into place like a blooming flower in reverse. The can sealed shut, once more appearing completely ordinary.

Then he opened it again.

Same smooth unfolding, same eerie elegance.

This thing was perfect for spying. Despite the questionable purpose, it was another proof of The Dark Lord’s brilliance.

“Huh… I wonder what this thing’s been spying on,” he murmured.

He grabbed a screwdriver from the box and began taking the robot apart. Sure enough, nestled in its center was a tiny compartment—housing a microSD card.

Bingo.

Carefully, Yellow removed it, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.

This little chip could contain everything the spy bot had ever seen. Now, all he needed was—

"Oh, there you are!"

Yellow yelped, the microSD card slipping from his fingers. If he had a soul, he was certain it must have bid sweet farewell to his poor body. He spun around—only to see Red, Green, and Blue crowding the doorway.

He sagged in relief, clutching the desk for balance. “Jeez, you guys scared the crap out of me!”

“You’ve been gone forever,” Blue said, stepping forward, concern flickering across his face.“What are you even doing in here, in the dark? And where’s Orange and Mr Chosen?"

“I—uh—they—well—” Yellow stammered, but Green had already surged past him.

“Holy cursors, what happened in here?!” Green squinted around, taking in the wrecked lab.

“It’s like a dozen iron golems threw a wild party!” Red followed close behind, a grin on his face as he looked around, more excited than alarmed. “Cool!”

Yellow’s body snapped into motion before he even realized it—he lunged forward, shoving his hands over their mouths.

“Hmmph?!”

“Shhh!” Yellow hissed. “Be quiet you dummies! We’re not supposed to be here! And don’t touch the lights!” That last part was aimed sharply at Blue, who froze mid-motion near the wall switch.

“Wha—why?”

Yellow let out a breath, lowering his hands but keeping his voice low. “Chosen and Orange are up on the rooftop. If we turn on the lights, they’ll see it from the balcony.”

Red gave Yellow’s shoulder a light punch, scowling. “Geez, what’s the big deal?”

Green rubbed his face, frowning slightly. “Yeah, you’re acting like we’re about to rob the place.”

“No, I—”Yellow clenched his fists, “Look, there’s something you guys need to know. ”

“Wait,” Blue’s gaze flickered to the softly glowing computer screen. His eyes narrowed. “Are you…snooping around? In Mr Chosen’s house?” He added incredulously.

“Dude, normally I would be so impressed but…” Red jabbed a finger toward Yellow’s chest, “Do you have a death wish?!” He whisper-yelled.

“I have a reason, okay?” Yellow huffed, crossing his arms. “Do you really think I’d break into someone’s private stuff just for fun?”

“I mean, it depends—”

“That’s not the point!” Yellow resisted the urge to stomp. “The point is—I found something. Something big. Like… it changes everything we thought we knew about Chosen.”

That caught everyone’s attention.

Three pairs of eyes locked on him, wide and waiting.

Yellow took a deep breath.

“Just… promise me you won’t freak out.”

Chosen watched as a storm of emotions rushed across Orange’s face—shock, confusion, disbelief—before the weight of truth finally settled in. Under different circumstances, he might’ve be amused at how expressive the kid was.

But not now.

“You—you mean, that red stick…The Dark Lord, was once your best friend?” The kid’s lips wobbled, broken words fell out. Chosen didn’t answer, he didn’t have to.

Orange’s expression crumbled.

“HOW COULD YOU?!”

He shot to his feet, fists clenched so tight his nails dug deep into his palms. “How could you call that…that thing your friend?! He was a monster! A total psychopath! He nearly killed all of us just because he could! He enjoyed it! And you…you called him a friend?”

Orange’s chest heaved. For a moment, he just stared at Chosen, eyes glassy and stunned, as if he couldn’t recognize the figure in front of him.

Chosen looked away, pretending those words hadn’t landed like a blade in his chest.

“I-I thought…” Orange’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought you were a hero.”

Enough.

Chosen’s head snapped toward him, cold fury blazing in his eyes. “Is that what you think?” he said, voice low and dangerous. “That I’m no better than him just because we stood on the same side once? That I was too blind—too stupid—to see what he was? That I should’ve just ended him the moment I met him?”

Orange flinched. The rage drained from his face, replaced by shock and regret.

“N-no—Chosen, I didn’t mean—”

But Chosen was already turning away, his voice a bitter whisper. “You don’t know anything about him. About us.”

“What d'you mean this place belongs to that evil red basketball hoop?!” Any sense of volume control went out of the window as Red, wide-eyed and terrified, clung to Yellow’s arms like a lifeline.

“Red—ow! Keep your voice down!” Yellow hissed, wincing as Red’s grip tightened. “The Dark Lord’s gone, remember? He’s not coming back to hurt us!”

But his reassurance fell on deaf ears. Blue was curled inward, arms wrapped protectively around his torso, scanning every inch of the lab like something might lunge out at him. Green, face unusually grim, strode toward Yellow and tugged at him and Red.

“We need to go. Now,” he said, voice strained. “Grab Orange. We’re leaving.”

“What? No! I still have to—hey!” Yellow yanked free, digging his heels into the floor. “What’s gotten into you?! We’re not leaving! Not until I get some answers!” He pointed at The Dark Lord’s PC.

Green looked at him like he’d claimed to quit Minecraft. "Are you serious right now? We just waltzed our way into the house of a homicidal maniac! What part of ‘let’s not die horribly’ is hard to understand?!"

"I already told you—"

“But what about Mr. Chosen?” Blue interrupted quietly. “We promised we’d have dinner with him…”

"Forget it!” Green snapped. “We never should've trusted him in the first place! I don't know what he has to do with...with The Dark Lord, but it's definitely bad news! I'm not gonna let Orange hang around that guy any longer!”

“Cursors, Green! Use your head!” Yellow pushed his glasses up so hard it hurt. “Chosen fought The Dark Lord! Remember the Showdown? They were clearly sworn enemies! Not to mention he saved our skin multiple times! He’s on our side!”

“Then explain why they literally live together?!”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out! You give Purple the benefit of the doubt, why not give Chosen the same chance?!”

“Don’t you dare compare Purple with—“

“Stop it, you two!” Blue’s hand pressed against Green’s chest, gently pushing him back. He stepped between them before the argument could explode further. “If you keep yelling like this, even Alan could hear you from his PC!” His voice was firm and calm, his earlier fear nowhere to be found.

Green glared but said nothing. Blue softened his tone. “Look, I get it. But Yellow might have a point,” he said carefully. “If Chosen really wanted to hurt us, we’d be scattered code a million times by now. I think we should at least at least try to understand what’s going on instead of immediately assuming the worst, right?” He asked patiently.

Red perked up. “Yeah! Don’t forget Orange likes him! He’s probably the best judge of character out of all of us. That’s gotta count for something!”

Yellow gave a grateful nod to both of them. He drew a deep breath, keeping his frustration at bay. “I just want to see what’s on that SD card. That’s it. If it’s bad, we leave. No questions asked. Is that fair?”

A blend of emotions flickered across Green’s face. But finally, he sighed and crossed his arms. “Fine,” he muttered. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Yellow exhaled in relief, then turned back to the PC, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as the screen displayed:

Password found: megamind031011

Access Granted.

“Whoa, you actually hacked into The Dark Lord’s PC!” Red gasped, latching onto Yellow’s arm and leaning in eagerly. “You’re the best, Yellow!”

“Why yes! Yes, I am.” Yellow couldn’t help but answer smugly.

The desktop appeared, just as minimalistic and no-nonsense as the rest of the lab. Only a single column of icons lined the far left of the screen—no wallpaper, no distractions. His eyes landed on a file named VIRABOT, and his heart gave a small jolt.

That file… it might contain everything: the virus’s original design, its purpose, maybe even its source code. Part of him ached to open it. To study every line, to uncover what made it so dangerous, and marvel at the twisted genius behind it.

But then he felt the tension behind him—his friends, watching him silently. He swallowed hard. No. Not now. Not when they were still recovering from what that thing had done to them.

Instead, Yellow slid the microSD card into the card reader attached to the PC.

A notification appeared:

Device Connected.

He double-clicked to open it.

Inside was a single folder labeled RECORDINGS. Yellow opened it, and his eyes widened.

A list of video files appeared, each one named by timestamp:

2011-10-17_1405.mp4

2011-11-04_1741.mp4

2011-11-13_1116.mp4

…and on and on, dates stretching across years.

He felt his friends lean in closer. No one spoke.

Over twenty clips, each one might hold a secret that was never meant to be seen.

He swallowed and reached for the mouse.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered, and clicked on the oldest video.

»»———— ❋ ————-««

Chosen heard a soft shuffling beside him. He forced himself not to look.

He’s leaving, he told himself. Good. It’s better this way.

No matter how kind, how open Orange tried to be, he was still a kid. A kid who still saw the world in absolutes. Good and evil. Heroes and villains. Of course he’d be disappointed. Of course he wouldn’t want anything to do with someone like Chosen.

It was fine. It was right.

The weight of Chosen’s past belonged to him, and him alone. It's a fitting punishment for all the destruction and suffering he'd caused—the times when he'd rain down balls of fire and flew away without a care in the world, the times when he'd walk out of flaming wreckage and felt satisfied with what he had done, the times when he'd let Dark have his "fun" and listened to the screams of innocent lives and did nothing.

He deserved to rot in solitude.

But then—

A voice. Softer than butterfly wings yet clearer than crystal bells.

"Tell me then,"It said, "Tell me about him. About you."

Orange was still there. Sitting, a few feet away, his smaller frame drawn tight—knees hugged to his chest, fingers clenched around his sleeves. He stared straight ahead, like the courage to speak was fragile and might shatter if he looked directly at Chosen. But in his downturned eyes burned something quiet and fierce.

“What was he like?” Orange asked, voice barely above a whisper. “As a friend?”

Something thick caught in Chosen’s throat. He swallowed hard, struggling to keep his voice from cracking.

"Does it matter anymore? He's dead. Died as an villain. Isn’t that enough for you?"

Orange finally looked up. And those eyes—damn it, how could anyone look at him like that? How could anyone be so goddamn sincere?!

“Because you’re still hurting,” Orange said simply. “So I want to know.”

He held Chosen’s gaze.

“I want to understand what it’s like to miss someone who hurt you.”

That had done it.

Chosen dragged a hand across his face, covering his eyes for a few seconds longer than he needed to. Finally, he let out a low, wet chuckle.

“…Okay, kid,” he murmured. “You got me. You really got me.”

And then, on the floor below, where four friends held their breath, the first video footage began to play.