Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alan moved the cursor slowly and carefully, away from the box where the stickmans—his kids—were taking shelter, along with Chosen. All of them were injured and exhausted. Chosen and Yellow were the ones who looked the most hurt.

He brought the cursor near the edge of the box, letting the stickmans climb out one by one. The only one he had to lift out was Yellow, who could barely move. They didn’t even need facial expressions to show how affected they were. Alan was certain none of them could fake a limp for that long, let alone the dark bruises and marks covering their bodies.

Chosen, Yellow, and Orange had several of those.

But Chosen’s looked more like whip lashes. Just like the ones Alan’s cursor had… plus the spear stuck through the center.

Once he got Green out of the box, he moved toward Chosen. True to form, Chosen waved him away and climbed out of the box himself, landing ungracefully outside.

Alan just rolled his eyes at the proud stickman.

Then his gaze turned to Orange—his precious kid—curled up in the corner of the box, staring blankly, hugging his knees, head down. Alan slowly moved the cursor closer, giving him a gentle tap, guiding his hand as delicately and slowly as he could.

Orange responded sluggishly, but let Alan carry him out of the box.

Outside, Alan saw the other programs on his computer, trying to help, with Blue taking the lead. Green tried to stay composed while wrapping Yellow’s wounds. Red approached Chosen with the same kind of bandages that the Google program had provided.

Firefox approached Orange with what looked like a healing potion—Alan guessed it was something to ease the pain.

His eyes scanned the entire screen, counting the stickmans for the fifth time—fifth time in what must have been six hours.

They were all there.

All of them were on his computer.

All of them were safe.

Finally, he let go of the mouse, removed his glasses, and rubbed his face, sighing heavily while closing his eyes—burning from keeping them open for six hours straight.
The six most stressful, awkward, drama-packed, twist-heavy, bite-you-in-the-ass hours of his life.

HOW THE HELL COULD HE HAVE FORGOTTEN ABOUT VICTIM!?

He blamed himself… and yet he didn’t. Victim’s case was eighteen years ago. Eighteen years of radio silence. Eighteen years thinking all of this was just a game. Thinking they were just animations.

The memories rushed back through his head like a storm.

Chosen showing up in his computer—strangely hurt and glitching.

Now he knew where those glitches had come from.

Then Chosen dragged Orange away through the strange portal of the internet—not before setting Adobe Animation’s program on fire. After that, the color gang followed Chosen through the same portal, leaving Alan alone with a massive hole in his animation software.

About three hours passed. He even managed to finish the rough sketch of the flower animation Virabot had destroyed.

That’s when he realized the stickmans still hadn’t returned. And even though he appreciated the drama-free time, something in the back of his mind kept nagging at him—

Like he was missing something.

Maybe another adventure. Like the one they had in Minecraft.

Then came a distress message from Yellow. His first reaction was to laugh—not a full laugh, more like a smirk followed by a tiny chuckle. One of those “I knew it” kind of laughs.

And then he clicked.

But instead of reappearing on the cliffside, he found himself in a white void.
Confused, he moved around, looking for Yellow—or any of his boys who might’ve called him—but nothing.

Until he saw it.

A gray figure.

A gray figure with a hole in its head—like Second.

He remembered raising an eyebrow and muttering a drawn-out, “Oookay…” as he tried to figure out what situation his little color stickmans had gotten him into this time.
He didn’t get much time to think, because the gray figure moved—wielding a black lasso with white edges.

Was that the Lasso Tool from Adobe?

It swung the tool skillfully before throwing it in Alan’s direction. At first, he didn’t really move. He wanted to see what the hollowhead thing was up to. That thought disappeared the second the lasso tried pulling his cursor down.

That was a hard NO.

With not much effort, he managed to free himself from it, but all that did was make the gray figure more persistent. It kept attacking, forcing him to dodge and struggle loose—until there weren’t just one, but six gray figures. Each wielding different weapons that looked all-too-familiar.

They attacked, one after another, leaving visible black streaks across the cursor, trying to take him down again and again.

Until his patience ran out.

At first, it was kinda fun—but it was getting repetitive.

He got tired of dodging and clicked on the gray stickman holding a large shuriken, flinging it across the white room. The figure vanished on impact.

He hoped that would serve as a warning.

It didn’t.

The others kept attacking—until they, too, started vanishing one by one. Leaving behind the one Alan figured was the original.

The original one kept trying to catch him, moving swiftly around, dodging and lunging at him—disappearing and reappearing almost like a glitch. Until it finally grabbed him and threw him across the room, making him lose the lasso tool.

Alan reached out, trying to grab it—only to vanish the moment his hand touched it.

Annoyed, he turned his eyes back to the gray figure, which was now standing up with slow, tired movements. Then, a Text Tool appeared.

—I knew it... you never changed... Noogai.

His eyes widened at the sound of that name.

His old username. Only DJ, Programmer96, and Chosen knew that name.

He reached for the mouse again, blinking as he tried to remember who this gray figure was. The figure pushed the Text Tool toward him—a signal to communicate.

Alan accepted it and typed, —Who are you?

The figure stood tall, its body trembling slightly as if it were laughing. —You forgot me? It's me, Father!— it said, throwing its arms wide. —I'm your first test subject! VICTIM!

Alan let out a long, tired sigh at the memory of how they’d gotten to this point.

What came next happened so fast, so suddenly, that his brain barely processed any of it. He remembers having another brief exchange with Victim. But for the life of him, he can’t recall what they said—just that they started fighting again.

The white room resembled a workspace.

So, using the keyboard, he began spinning—rotating the view—until he spotted an exit. Strangely, he couldn’t just drag the cursor out of the white screen.

He left. And outside, he saw more stick figures—but with different styles and animation.

Then he saw Chosen, trapped in another white box.

He made his way toward it—but of course, he got attacked.

And yes—he admits it was kind of thrilling to punch, throw, and slam some of those stick figures around. But all he really wanted was to get Chosen out of there and find his boys.

He freed Chosen, who was injured and completely disoriented.

Then Chosen pointed toward the other cells, and that’s when the brown figure, drawn in a primitive style, jumped onto the cursor and stabbed it right through, the tip coming out the other side.

He was starting to feel sorry for his poor cursor—it had been through a lot.

He ignored the massive spear stuck in it, although he could feel the mouse sensitivity had gone down a bit.

With what little strength he had left, Chosen broke off the part of the spear sticking out from underneath and wielded it as a weapon, preparing to fight at Alan’s side.

Together. Again.

But beyond the rows of gray stickmen with weapons drawn, Alan saw him. Victim.

And in his arms—

He was holding Yellow.

HIS BOY. YELLOW.

He pointed at him with one of those weapons Alan guessed delivered electricity. And he saw Yellow trembling, with black and purple marks all over his small body. He looked further back, and there was Orange too. His little Orange. Trying to reach Yellow, possibly screaming for them to let them go.

Alan got angry, but he was also confused about what he was supposed to do.

His fist hit the desk out of frustration.

—This isn’t supposed to be happening. This isn’t supposed to be happening.

Then the wall to the left shattered—blown apart by an explosion, sending everyone flying, including Victim’s group. And just like a Fast & Furious movie, he saw a massive cargo truck crash in and destroy everything in its path like it had lost control, finally slamming into Orange’s cell.

Snapping out of his shock, Alan rushed over, Chosen keeping pace behind him. Once the smoke cleared, Alan’s lips curved into a smile. Inside the truck, Green, Blue, and Red stumbled out, dazed. The impact had been enough for Orange to break free and throw his arms around his friends.

Alan spun around, counting—one stickman was missing.

Yellow was on the ground, trying to get up despite a machine pressing down on his leg, and Victim stood behind him, approaching with a gun.

Alan saw red. That same sensation he got whenever someone hurt his children.

He grabbed Victim—and hit him. Just like he had years ago.

The other stickmen on Victim’s side ran, realizing they couldn’t stop him.

At some point, the place started filling with fire… and then smoke. The truck’s gas tank exploded, and flames consumed everything. But Alan could only focus on Victim, who was crawling, slowly trying to get away from him.

He was going to kill him.

He was going to kill him.

And this time, it would be for good.

And just as he was about to land the final blow—Orange stepped in between them. Alan blinked, his finger still pressing the left-click on the mouse, halting his final attack.

He saw Orange standing in front of Victim. Arms wide, using himself as a shield.

They stayed like that for a few moments, while the fire devoured everything around them. Alan snapped out of his trance, tossing his weapon aside and finally releasing the left mouse button. He picked up the TEXT tool scattered on the ground and typed:

—What are you doing? —Alan asked.

He stopped typing and passed the tool to Orange, who lowered his arms—arms covered in purple bruises, signs of earlier beatings. Orange took the tool, and the text line appeared above his head, and he spoke.

—Please… Alan. Don’t kill him again. —said Orange, and Alan could guess it was a plea. —…Let’s go home. Please.

Then he used the Circle tool and threw it at the wall of the building, creating a large enough hole for the cursor to pass through while carrying the box with the stickmans inside, the Lasso tool wrapped around the cursor, holding the box.

He put his glasses back on and looked at his desktop screen again.

His eyes focused on the cursor. The remaining part of the spear was still there, along with some scratches. He hoped that once the computer restarted, the cursor would show up healed.

He saw Red jumping, like trying to get his attention. He put on his headphones and moved the cursor toward Red.

—Do you need something? —Alan asked.

Red shook his head, scratched the back of his head, and spoke, —Do you… do you want me to take that… thing off? —referring to the spear.

Alan brought the cursor closer to Red, nodded, and Red began pulling the spear, apologizing in advance in case it hurt. Alan didn’t say anything, but he smiled at the concern. After three tries, Red finally pulled it out completely, climbed down from the cursor, and raised both arms with the spear in triumph.

—Anything else you need? —Alan asked.

—Oh yeah, Yellow wants to talk to you. He says… he says it’s important.

Alan blinked for a moment. —Important?

—Yeah, he didn’t explain much. But he said it’s important… that it’s about… something Victim told Orange.

His eyes opened wider than they should have. No. No. No. No.

He was supposed to be the one to tell them when he was ready.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

—O-okay, where is he? —he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

—In the Music folder. He said he wanted some time alone once we finished bandaging him up.

—Thanks.

He clicked on the Desktop folder, catching a glimpse of Blue preparing more potions for Chosen, who was lying in the corner of the folder. He didn’t even care about his presence—he headed straight for the Music folder. And there he was. His smart boy. Wrapped in a blanket, with Green’s headphones on. Yellow looked up, letting Alan know he saw the cursor.

—Hey, Red said you wanted to see me. Everything okay? Do you want me to call Blue?— he asked gently, the way he usually did with his eldest son when something was bothering him.

Yellow seemed hesitant, slowly moving his head before finally lifting it.

—Victim told me a lot of things, Alan. He showed me what Chosen did… what Dark did…— That last part came out in a trembling voice.

He wanted so badly to hold him and comfort him. But all he could do was move the cursor closer and let him lean on it. Until Yellow sat back up and touched his cheek, where a purple bruise was starting to show.

—He also… told me other things… things about… you— he said the last part almost in a whisper.

Alan’s jaw tightened.

He wouldn’t have.

He wouldn’t dare.

Yellow let out a small, nervous laugh, —But, those were things you’d never do, right? Those… those were actions of someone really, really crazy. A heartless madman. And that… —he looked back at the screen— That’s not you… right?

Alan opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wanted to speak. He wanted to deny it. But he knew it was already too late.

—L-listen, Yellow… everything’s going to be fine. I promise. You… you just rest —he said, trying to keep a reassuring smile on his face.

Yellow nodded, but even he could hear the nervousness in Alan’s voice. And Alan knew, Yellow was never a dumb kid.

—He showed it to Orange too.

No.

NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO.

PLEASE NO.

—I’ll talk to him, don’t worry —he tried to sound as confident as possible while minimizing the File Explorer.

Back to the home screen.

Orange was still there, in the bottom right corner. Alone. Orange usually didn’t like being alone. Unless he was waiting.

Alan swallowed hard and slowly moved the cursor toward the orange figure.

—Hey… buddy. —He tried to sound cheerful, the way he used to—but his voice shook.

Orange barely turned his head, just enough for Alan to notice.

—The others are recovering well. Blue’s working with Google and Firefox. Red and Green are helping Chosen but… well, you know how he is… ha-ha…

Orange didn’t answer right away. He only mumbled in a slow, quiet voice.

—…Oh. That’s good.

He was still staring into nothing.

Alan felt that knot in his stomach. Orange already knew. He could tell by the way he refused to look at him.

He forced himself to speak.

—…Yellow told me that… he… told you some things.

—Yeah… he did. —Orange replied, still not looking at him.

The discomfort itched on Alan’s skin. He wanted to close the screen, look away, escape from it all. His body was screaming to run. To get away from the screen, from the tension.

But he couldn’t.

Not this time.

—I… I didn’t know about Chosen and Dark either— Alan tried to sound understanding, as if there was still something that could soften the moment— That must’ve been a hard hit. I’m sorry, Orange.—Shifting the focus of the conversation. Alan was good at that.

Orange stood up slowly. His bandages tightly wrapped around his left leg and arm.

—You’re sorry?—he repeated, and for the first time turned to Alan. His gaze cut through the screen like blades—What exactly are you sorry for, Alan? Or should I call you… Noogai?

Alan felt the air leave his lungs. His throat dried up in a second.

—I-I can explain…

—EXPLAIN WHAT, ALAN!? —Orange shouted, his rage so raw that Alan instinctively pulled the cursor back. He had never seen him like this. Orange had never spoken to him like that. —That you tortured Victim for an entire year?! Is that what you want to explain?! 

—Orange, I swear it wasn’t like that… not completely, things were more complicated...

—COMPLICATED?! —he said with a broken voice. He began limping toward the cursor, slowly but with determination, like Alan was standing right there in front of him— You locked Chosen in a chest for three years! Three! You chained him and used him like a slave!— Alan couldn’t even move. —And not only that! You CREATED DARK LORD!

Suddenly, footsteps. Whispering voices.

Alan noticed the others approaching from the edges of the screen.

Blue, Red, Green… even Chosen, who watched from inside a folder, arms crossed. Alan felt that stare. A mix of contempt and satisfaction.

—Liar! Liar! Liar! —Orange shouted— You said you didn’t know him! That you hadn’t made more creations! We trusted you!— He stomped the ground, finally letting out everything he had been holding in. —THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!— He grabbed the Pencil tool and threw it toward the cursor, barely missing it.—I HATE YOU! —he yelled, walking past the cursor to go back to his friends.

—Orange, please, wait! —Alan moved the cursor quickly, almost without thinking, catching Orange by the arm.

But then the fire ignited. From the left side, the others reacted. Their wounds didn’t stop them from rising in defense. Chosen lit up his palms.

The atmosphere changed.

It was pure hostility.

Alan immediately let go of the mouse button.

Orange froze… shaking. His eyes wide open, breath ragged.

He pulled back, like Alan was a monster.

He covered his arm.

—Orange…— Alan’s voice was nothing but a whisper now —Please… I know you hate me. I know I have no right to ask for anything, but…— He had to fix this. He had to try something.
—Give me four weeks. That’s all. Four weeks… and on Friday, six o’clock, I’ll tell you everything.

Orange looked at him with suspicion, not moving.

—Give me four weeks, and I’ll answer any question you have. No lies. I promise.

Silence. Orange seemed to think it over.

The pain was still there, visible in every part of his body. But more than anything—in his eyes.

—Why should I listen to you? —Orange asked.

—Because of the friendship we once had, Orange —Alan pleaded— Please.

—…Any question? With the truth? —he asked, his voice somewhere between anger and distrust.

Alan nodded with the cursor. He could barely contain his desperation.

—Yes. The truth. No more lies.

Another long silence.

Finally, Orange lowered his gaze slightly.

—…Fine. Four weeks. But if you lie again…

He turned toward his friends, who were waiting inside the folder. He walked a few steps, but before entering, he stopped and looked back at the screen.

—I wish… you had never been my creator.

And he left. The last one to enter was Chosen. He didn’t say a word. He just looked at him.

And that look… was worse than anything he could have said.

Leaving Alan alone, sitting in front of the desk.

He took off the headphones and rolled the chair away from the computer until it bumped into a piece of furniture. The hit was light, but it startled him.

His body trembled for a moment.

He blinked, confused, and brought his hands to his face. His eyes were burning.

He didn’t understand why he wanted to cry.

They were just stick figures.

Just characters on a screen.

Just data, lines of code, animated movements.

Just…

The tears came out without permission, breaking apart that lie he tried to force into his mind. He felt ridiculous for crying. Guilty. Empty.

They weren’t real.

Then why does it hurt like they are?

He was just grateful his wife and kids weren’t home to see him like this: Broken, by something he didn’t even know how to explain.

Chapter Text

Anger was a feeling Orange had only ever experienced casually.

Sometimes because of something dumb his friends did, or because they wouldn’t let him sleep enough. The longest grudge he’d ever held was when Green played that mean lava prank on them.

That one had lasted exactly six hours.

But they always found a way to make up. To laugh again. To keep having adventures together.

Those were his only references for what it meant to be angry.

Anger, sure — but fleeting. Never more than a day.

Now, though, it had been more than 24 hours with that burning feeling stuck in his chest. Anger. Resentment.

A heavy, bitter mix he didn’t know how to get rid of.

Sleeping was the only way he could feel even a bit free from it. He had spent nearly three days sleeping most of the time, only to wake up and feel the rage invade him all over again.

And it wasn’t just the rage. His body protested too.

He rolled once more in his bed and let out a frustrated sigh. His back tensed as he tried to move, and the tight bandages on his leg made him limp to the door. The bruise on his cheek stung with even the slightest touch of the pillow.

Even so, he got up.

He’d go look for his friends.

They were the only thing that still brought him some sense of calm.

The only feeling he could still tolerate for the coming weeks.

— Hey, Orange. Good afternoon — greeted Blue from the kitchen.

Orange lifted a hand in response and dropped himself into the chair, resting his head on the edge of the table. A groan escaped his throat as his ribs still ached when leaning forward. He had to be really careful with that left side… and the bruise on his cheek.

— How are you feeling? — asked Blue, placing a steaming bowl of noodles in front of him.

Orange made a sound between exhausted and half-asleep. Though the smell of the food perked him up a little.

— My arms still hurt, but at least I can move my legs better — he said, grabbing the chopsticks and sipping the soup slowly. — What about you?

— Same, I guess. I mean, I don’t have ugly bruises or injuries that make me limp. Just an annoying dizziness from how bad a driver Green is, and some burns from the fire. But nothing as bad as the rest. So… I’m fine, I guess — she shrugged with an indifferent expression.

— Oh — Orange muttered, not too enthusiastically.

— Red’s still trying to get Chosen to cooperate with his recovery, but it hasn’t gone well — explained Blue, sitting down in front of Orange. — Yellow… well, his leg is getting better, but he’ll have to use crutches for a while. He hasn’t said much. But Green’s letting him use his headphones freely, so… I guess he’s improving, little by little.

Orange huffed as he slurped up the last drop of soup and wiped his mouth with his tongue.

— Thanks. I’ll talk to Chosen… I’ll take care of him.

Blue nodded, but Orange immediately noticed something else was bothering her. He could tell by the way her feet swung like she was on a swing, and how her thumbs fidgeted awkwardly, as if her hands were searching for words that didn’t dare come out.

— Is something wrong, Blue?

She made a face for a few seconds, sighed, and finally spoke. — Alan asked about us, and…

— Don’t tell him — Orange cut her off immediately.

Blue blinked, surprised. She tried to reply, but he jumped in again.

— He doesn’t care about us! He’s only asking because he feels guilty now — the anger rose like bottled-up lava — If he asks again, tell him it’s none of his business and to go torture stick figures somewhere else!

And with that, he stood up abruptly and slammed the door behind him.

A second later, he awkwardly opened it again.

— …Sorry.

He closed it carefully this time, leaving Blue with a strange pressure in her stomach. It wasn’t just sadness. It was something deeper. Like something was slowly breaking.

Orange walked toward the desktop, silently begging that Alan wasn’t online. Luckily, he wasn’t. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside before facing Chosen and Red. He didn’t want to explode again. Not with them.

It didn’t take long to find them.

Red was busy trying to get Chosen to stay still.

— Cho! Please! You still need to rest! — pleaded Red from the taskbar, accompanied by Ruben, in a voice that sounded more and more like resigned desperation.

Chosen was flying across the desktop in erratic, clumsy movements. The fire around him flickered on and off uncontrollably, making his flight look more like a floating stumble than a display of power. But clearly, he didn’t care. With a growl, he started throwing fireballs at random, setting parts of the desktop ablaze without a second thought.

Red let out a choked gasp and ran to grab a bucket of water, rushing to put out the flames before they could spread too far.

Orange watched the scene from the taskbar. Compassion was clear in his eyes, but so was the firm determination as he stepped forward.

— CHO! YOU HAVE TO STOP! YOU’RE SETTING EVERYTHING ON FIRE! — he shouted.

— I don’t care! — Chosen barked back without even looking, throwing another fireball.
This time, it hit a folder named “Warning” directly.

— No, no, no, no, NO! — Red shouted, clumsily climbing over the folders in a desperate attempt to save whatever he could.

Orange clenched his fists. He was furious with Alan, sure—but he couldn’t keep watching Red run around like a maniac, trying to stop disaster after disaster. His friends had already been through enough. He couldn’t let this keep happening.

— CHO! — he shouted again, this time with more authority. — You have to stop! You’re burning Alan’s files!

— HE CAN SHOVE HIS FILES UP HIS A—!

A fireball came from the left and hit Chosen square in the chest, slamming him into the taskbar.

— CHO! — Orange yelled, running toward him alongside Red, who kept apologizing in a panic, clearly feeling guilty for being the one who was supposed to be watching him.

Chosen slowly sat up, dazed, holding a hand to his head. His bandages were singed, and he groaned from the burning pain.

— Who the hell…? Oh.

In one corner of the desktop, Firefox glared at him, eyes narrowed. Her fur bristled like a cactus, smoke puffing from her nostrils. A silent threat, ready to strike again if necessary.

— Stupid fox… you’ll pay for th—

— Leave her alone, The Chosen One — Alan’s voice interrupted, echoing from the desktop speakers. His tone was firm, but not aggressive. — That’s enough, Firefox.

Firefox growled once more at Chosen before returning to her spot.

The three stick figures watched as the cursor moved toward a folder with scorched edges. Alan pressed F5, and the screen refreshed, bringing parts of the desktop back to normal… all except the folder, which was now dusted with ash.

Orange stared at the cursor in surprise. Even though the computer had restarted two days ago, the cursor still showed scars. Normally, after Minecraft explosions—or any game—the cursor would come back good as new after a reboot.

But this… this was different.

The only logical thought he had was happened… it wasn’t part of any game.

— Are you all okay? — Alan asked cautiously.

— LIKE YOU EVEN CARE?! — Chosen barked, struggling to stand and limping back toward the folders.

Red shifted awkwardly, still clutching the water bucket like it was a safety plushie. Ruben, noticing his unease, started nudging him gently toward Chosen.

Leaving Alan and Orange alone on the desktop.

Great, Orange thought, dripping with sarcasm.

— H-hey… — Alan tried, forcing a sheepish smile.

Orange didn’t respond to the olive branch. He didn’t even look at him. But he also didn’t walk away immediately—he didn’t want to come off as too rude.

— You wanna… maybe do some animating?

But humans are known for being stubborn.

— …no… — he finally answered, flatly, not even bothering to be polite.

Alan looked down, clearly hurt. But he said nothing.

— Don’t talk to me until week four — Orange added, folding his arms. — You still remember that, or do your promises mean nothing?

— Orange, come on… that’s enough — Alan muttered, quieter this time, like the words had started to hurt just to say.

And even though Orange knew he might’ve crossed a line, he didn’t apologize. He simply turned and walked toward the folder where his friends were waiting.

Just three more weeks.

Three weeks to see if the anger and resentment would fade—just a little.

— AGAIN!?! ARE YOU SERIOUS, CHOSEN?! — Blue’s voice thundered the moment Orange opened the door.

He stopped in the doorway, just in time to see the chaos: Blue had Chosen cornered in a chair, her fury practically visible. Chosen, on the other hand, wore a pleading look, silently begging for help. Red was coming down the stairs with fresh bandages in his hands.

Chosen’s eyes met Orange’s.

Pure pleading.

Desperation.

Orange looked back at him. Shrugged. And muttered, — Your fault. Bye.

Then calmly closed the door, just as Chosen’s expression shifted from pleading to betrayed.

— Are you listening to me, Chosen?! — Blue kept going, her scolding relentless as the black stickman turned his gaze away, defeated.

He gave in completely, dropping his chin into the palm of his hand, elbow resting on his knee. He let her patch him up without resistance, as Blue replaced the scorched bandages with precision… and without stopping the lecture.

Chapter Text

—Feeling much better, Yellow? —asked Blue.

Yellow was trying to walk properly; he wasn’t limping like he had been a week ago. That was good. Everyone was healing steadily and properly.

Everyone, except for Chosen, who had been pushing himself harder than recommended, leading to occasional run-ins with Firefox. Orange didn’t blame Firefox; after all, he was just doing his job as the PC’s guardian. He had even gotten more affection from Alan, which made Google jealous.

It was only after Blue threatened to bring Firefox as a "watchdog" that Chosen finally agreed to take things easier. But that didn’t magically make him heal at the same rate as the others. Still, Orange wasn’t about to side against his stubborn older brother.

Sitting on the other side of the room, Chosen nodded with a small smile, keeping his hands busy playing with a color cube. At least his burns were healing properly.

—Phew, I'm so glad I don’t have to use those crutches anymore —said Yellow with satisfaction.

—Yeah, but it’s still not safe for you to run or do anything too strenuous —warned Blue, turning to face Chosen with his hands on his hips. —Same goes for you, Chosen.

Chosen let out a nervous chuckle, a bead of sweat sliding down as the other stickmen silently laughed.

—Alright, I promise —he muttered, focusing back on his color cube.

Yellow stretched his arms and smiled. —I want to walk a little more. I’ll go out for a bit.

—Just don’t push yourself too hard —warned Blue.

Yellow stepped out of the Minecraft house with a sigh of relief. It felt so good to finally leave the house.

His first obstacle of the day: the stairs.

He carefully stepped down the first stair, then the next, and the next, until he finally made it to the taskbar. He raised his arms in victory and kept walking. Step by step, slow but steady, he couldn't stop smiling, happy to finally be able to walk on his own again.

He reached the edge of the Explorer folder and once again raised his arms triumphantly.
Now he just had to turn back and—

—How’s Yellow doing? —asked Alan.

Yellow flinched slightly. He looked back—outside the Explorer folder, across the desktop, Alan was talking to someone.

—He’s doing fine. He’s supposed to start walking without crutches today. So that's good news —another voice replied.

—Was that Red!? —Yellow thought.

He heard a sigh; Yellow guessed it was Alan. —Thanks, Red. I appreciate knowing that —Alan said.

Even though Yellow couldn’t see what was outside the desktop, he could guess that Alan was smiling. He listened as they said their goodbyes and knew he was about to get caught. So, he simply started walking back toward the Minecraft house at his own pace.

—YELLOW! —shouted Red, running toward him with his arms wide open to hug him. —You're walking!! —he exclaimed, waving his hands around excitedly and happily.

Yellow smiled nervously as he saw him approaching.

—Y-Yeah, I'm still trying to stay upright, ha-ha-ha —he said, feeling his knees tremble. —Hold me, Red, I think I'm going to fall.

Quickly, Red grabbed him by the arms just as Yellow's knees gave out. Patiently, he supported part of Yellow’s weight as they headed back together toward the Minecraft house.

As they walked, Yellow’s mind began to wander about the situation.

Red had been talking to Alan.

He had told him everything that Orange —and the rest of them— had forbidden to share, as part of Orange's request to Alan until the four weeks passed.

But Red, clearly, had ignored that request.

And that made Yellow wonder if he was doing the right thing.

Could he hide this from Orange and the rest of the group?

Alan had asked about his health.

That meant he cared… right?

Should he just let it go?

—Do you really think he cares about you? —he then remembered the conversation he had had with Victim.

It was moments before bringing Alan to the white box, long before reuniting with Orange in that cell, but long after being beaten and locked in a dark room, tied to a chair, with white lights glaring down on him and an empty table in front of another empty chair. His arms hurt from the forced position, his cheek burned from the slap, and the anxiety of not knowing where his friends were was eating him alive.

Despite his nerves, Yellow had answered firmly.

—Yes… he does care about us.

Victim had laughed.

Not a loud laugh, but a restrained, amused, and sinister chuckle all at once, making Yellow’s stomach twist unpleasantly.

—I don’t see what’s so funny —Yellow had said, frowning.

Victim, sitting across the table, simply waved his hand dismissively.

—It's just funny... but also worrying —he replied, this time with a tone that hid a hint of real concern.

—What do you mean? —asked Yellow.

Victim slowly stirred the spoon in his cup of tea before answering.

—Listen to yourself, kid —he murmured, stirring the tea—. You say he's kind, that he cares about you, that he worries about you... —he took a sip before adding—. Clearly, he’s manipulated you all into believing whatever he wanted you to believe.

Yellow looked at him, confused. What was he even talking about?

—You're so sure that Noogai is... that kind of person —Victim said in a venomous murmur, just as a worker entered the room carrying a projector—, that you can’t even see the truth anymore. Neither you. Nor your orange friend.

—And you can? —asked Yellow, trying to sound defiant, but his voice trembled.

Victim didn’t reply.

He just stood up, dismissed the worker with a simple wave, and clapped his hands once, switching off the lights.

Yellow tensed when he saw Victim walk behind him and then point at the video that started to project onto the wall.

—Yes. I saw it —Victim said, his voice heavy as he gestured toward the image on the wall.

The video showed someone’s perspective, a black stickman. Just like Chosen.

—That was me —Victim added, with a bitter smile—. Long before I went through my... curious transformation into gray.

The video began.

Through the eyes of a black stickman: running, falling, exploding into pieces again and again. Crushed by rocks. Drowned. Slashed. Shot. Run over. Erased piece by piece.

Yellow felt a wave of nausea climb up his throat. He looked away, unable to take any more. He turned his face to the side, gasping.

An iron hand grabbed his cheeks.—No. Don’t look away —Victim murmured, squeezing tightly.

Yellow whimpered.—I-I can’t… —he begged, broken.

Victim’s scream boomed in his ears. —YOU WILL!!!

The violence in his voice made Yellow tremble.

—THIS!! THIS is what your beloved creator really is!!

—YOU’RE LYING! ALAN ISN’T LIKE THAT!! —Yellow whimpered, right as Victim's fist struck his cheek.

The pain was sharp. Still, Victim grabbed his cheeks again, forcing him to keep eye contact.

—Do you see it now? —he hissed, his breath hot against Yellow’s skin—. This is what I mean. He’s got you so tightly under his control… you can’t even see it anymore. —At last, he let go.

Victim leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, as the video kept playing. An endless torture.

Yellow wanted to scream.

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to get out of there.

But his body wouldn’t respond. It just trembled, like a leaf about to snap.

Still, he summoned all the courage he could muster.

—How do I know you’re not lying? —he stammered, weakly—. How do I know you didn’t… didn’t get the wrong animator?

The silence that followed was worse than any hit.

For a moment, Yellow thought Victim had given up...

—Because —Victim said, opening a folder, each word heavy like a sentence— he’s the only one who created four Hollow Heads. He created me. He created The Chosen One, the boy Orange... —he showed two sheets—. And he created The Dark Lord.

Yellow saw the image.

He saw the sheet.

He saw that red mark, that scar burned into his memory, that shadow that still haunted him. His lips trembled. His eyes overflowed. The blade was still there, stabbing him again and again, even though nothing was left.

Yellow lowered his gaze, his hands clenched into fists.

He couldn’t cry.

He couldn’t give him that satisfaction.

But then Victim leaned in, his shadow swallowing Yellow whole.

—You know what the worst part is? —he whispered, low and poisonous—. Deep down, way deep down… you already know it’s true.

Yellow gritted his teeth.

He shook his head.

No. No, no, no.

—You feel that fear —Victim continued, his smile twisted—. That nausea. That sting in your chest. It’s not because you hate me. It’s because part of you… believes me.

Yellow choked back a sob.

He wanted to scream that it wasn’t true. That Victim was wrong.

But his throat was dry. Empty.

Victim straightened up, satisfied, like an executioner who had already finished his work. He dropped the folder onto the table with a hollow thud. But he wasn’t finished yet.

—He didn’t tell you, did he? —Victim chuckled under his breath, a laugh dripping with venom—. I figured. How could his perfect, kind, loving image ever survive a stain like this in front of those who adore him?

Victim shut off the projector with a snap and turned on the lights. The abrupt change made Yellow blink, dazed.

—That’s why you’re so pitiful —Victim murmured, his voice slithering into Yellow’s ear—. You’ve lived your whole life in a lie... living with a monster right behind your back.

Yellow tried to shrink into himself. —How do I know you’re not lying?

Victim smiled sideways, his eyes narrowing like a cat playing with its prey.

—If you doubt it... then ask the Angel of Death.

—Who’s that?

—The black stickman. Your beloved orange friend calls him: The Chosen One. —Victim shortened the distance between them until they were almost nose-to-nose—. Ask him. He’ll tell you the same thing. And if you still don’t want to believe it... —his voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with anticipation—, you can always ask Alan yourself.

—He doesn’t know how to get here —Yellow mumbled, barely a breath.

Victim chuckled, almost shyly.

—Oh, I know. You’ll bring him. I don’t expect you to do it now… but eventually, you will.
And when you do, he’ll probably take you all back to his precious PC.

Victim straightened up and started circling him, like a wolf closing in on its prey.

—And when you do… —Victim turned his head, smiling broadly— when you confront him with the truth, your dear Alan will go into damage control mode, —he began circling around Yellow—. First, he’ll say, “I-I can explain...” —he mocked in a shaky, broken voice that made Yellow’s skin crawl.

Alan had said that.

—And then, when he sees that it doesn’t work… —Victim’s voice dropped to a poisonous murmur— he’ll beg. “I-I swear it wasn’t like that... things were more complicated...” —he repeated, perfectly mimicking Alan’s stutters.

Yellow remembered those exact same words... directed at Orange.

Victim crouched down to his level, getting way too close.

—And when he sees he can’t run... when he knows you’ve seen his real face, when he can’t manipulate you anymore... —his voice became a harsh whisper, like the edge of a blade grazing skin— he’ll act like a cornered animal.

Yellow’s eyes trembled.

Victim smiled, a sweetness that chilled the blood.

—Do you know what animals do when they feel cornered, Yellow?

Yellow shook his head weakly.

Victim patted his head like he was a small child, a gesture sickeningly tender.

—They attack —he whispered.

—ORANGE, PLEASE, WAIT! —Alan’s voice screamed in his memory, Alan grabbing onto Orange by force.

Red’s voice dragged him back.

—Yellow? Are you still there?

Yellow blinked. He was home. He was home.

Not in that dark room.

Not with Victim.

—Dude... you're scaring me —Red said, taking a step closer.

Yellow swallowed hard, and finally managed to speak.

—Red... don't talk to Alan again.

He had to protect them.

Protect his friends from Alan.

Chapter Text

—How are they doing? —DJ asked from the other side of the computer screen.

Alan let out a dramatic sigh, dragging his hands down his face and then through his hair, messing it up in frustration.

—Still no change, huh? —DJ gave a sympathetic smile, his eyes soft with understanding.

Alan shook his head slowly, like someone defeated, letting out a quiet sound of resignation.

—Well, man... you really screwed up this time.

Alan groaned in frustration. —Come on, DJ. Are you my friend or my enemy?

—I'm just stating the facts, Alan —he shrugged, as if it were obvious—. And you say you don't even know how they're doing now.

Alan fixed his hair and adjusted his glasses. —I knew they were angry. I knew I shouldn’t try to explain myself right away, so I gave them space to cool off. I thought three days would be enough.

He rested his head on his crossed arms on the table.

—And then I found Chosen messing around on the computer. Firefox tried to stop him, but I didn’t want a fight that could damage the PC, so I stepped in. Orange was there... and I tried to start a conversation, but he ignored me.

DJ stirred his mate with the straw, something he’d recently become obsessed with because of its strange taste. His eyes followed the bits of mate swirling around, but when he heard that Orange had ignored him, he looked up, trying to tell if Alan was being dramatic or serious.

But Alan wasn’t lying.

—I even asked him if he wanted to do some animation, since it used to help him relax —Alan said, his hands falling into his lap—. He told me not to talk to him until the fourth week... and asked if I still remembered my promise, or if my word meant nothing.

He let his head fall back.

DJ blinked at Orange’s words. He hadn’t expected him to be that harsh… at least not with Alan.

—And you haven’t heard from them since then?

—Not since two days ago —Alan replied, still staring at the lamp above the table.

—...That’s... not a lot of time to be freaking out —DJ tilted his head, a bit puzzled.

—But they always tell me everything! —Alan exclaimed, throwing his hands up and turning toward the screen—. It doesn’t matter if everything happens in a single day or a few hours. Always, I repeat, always, they tell me everything...

DJ wasn’t surprised by how close Alan had become to the stickmans. The hours Alan spent talking non-stop about their adventures were honestly adorable. Sure, he also bragged about his two kids now and then, but talking about the stickmans was like talking about a favorite show he loved and couldn’t stop watching.

So he could see how badly this silence was affecting him.

—Didn’t you say you talked to Red two days ago? —DJ asked, trying to ease his friend’s anxiety—. Why not ask him again?

Alan looked down. DJ had a bad feeling about that look.

—...He’s not talking to me anymore —Alan’s voice came out as a soft, regretful whisper—. Yesterday I asked again how Yellow was doing, since he told me he had started walking without crutches...

His gaze drifted away, avoiding his friend’s eyes.

—But... he told me, ‘I don’t think we should keep talking from now on,’ and then went back into the folder.

DJ blinked in surprise on the other side of the screen. He hadn’t expected that from Red, the most mischievous one in the group.

—And what about Yellow? You have his number, right?

Alan picked up his phone, opened WhatsApp, took a screenshot, and sent it to DJ.
DJ checked his phone. The image showed the most recent conversations— nearly all the messages were from Alan, asking and begging for some sign that everything was okay. But there was no response. The unanswered messages stretched back a week.

DJ winced. —What about Blue and Green?

Alan simply set his phone aside, a gloomy aura surrounding him, and leaned back in his chair.

—None of them want to talk to me right now. Red... was the only one who said anything this whole time. And... now...

DJ now understood how bad things really were.

He hadn’t imagined they were this bad.

Not to the point where all of them would agree to silent treatment with Alan.

—...I lost them, didn’t I? —Alan’s voice was so small, DJ had to strain to hear him—. I lost them… completely?

—What!? No! —DJ tried to sound upbeat, forcing a smile—. No, Alan, don’t be so dramatic. They… they just need more time to recover.

Alan’s eyes met his, searching for a spark of hope—something to tell him it wasn’t too late.

—Just... give them more time to sort out their thoughts. From what you told me, it’s a lot to process. They’ve been through a lot. Just... give them a little more time —DJ smiled gently, trying to project calm reassurance.

Alan turned his eyes toward the table. His hands started tracing the patterns in the wood, as if they had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. DJ remained quiet, giving him the space to let those words settle into his overthinking mind.

—...Alan, you've changed... I know it, and you know it. I was there. We both grew and changed together —he said while looking at a photo in a frame. A group of college students, freshly graduated, wearing blue robes. —You're not that person anymore.

Finally, Alan inhaled and then exhaled, his shoulders rising and falling with the breath.

—Besides, you still have that four-week opportunity. How’s your explanation coming along?

—I’m still gathering some pictures... and writing a lot of scripts, really —he said, pointing at the Word files he had open.

—Hey, you know you can count on me for anything. If you want, I can read what you’ve got and see if you missed anything —DJ offered with a smile.

—Thanks, man. I’ll keep that in mind.

—By the way, I heard you asked Skim for a favor —DJ commented as he took a bite of his lunch.

—Ah, yeah. It’s something for the meeting I’ll have with Orange. Nothing big, but... I want him to know I really mean it.

—It’ll all work out, man. It’s just that…

DJ let that last word hang in the air with a long tone, which made Alan raise an eyebrow.

—Just what?

—You know how you get when you overthink stuff —his voice had a teasing tone.

—Oh please, DJ. I’m not in school or college anymore. I’m 33, I have a family, a job —he said, crossing his arms.

—And you still have terrible ways of dealing with uncomfortable things.

—That’s not true —Alan grumbled, shrugging like a kid in denial.

DJ let out a clear, disbelieving noise. Alan rolled his eyes, blushing. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, DJ was right: his attitude always shifted when he was pushed out of his comfort zone.

—I don’t even drink excessively anymore.

—Which I’m really glad about —DJ admitted, pointing his fork at him—. But that doesn’t change the fact that you isolate yourself when something weighs too heavily on you. I’m worried that… this might start affecting Kaori and the kids.

—I’ll be fine, DJ. Thanks for worrying —he said, rolling his eyes but with a small appreciative smile. He glanced at the clock—. I have to go. Still got work to do.

—Without Orange? —DJ asked, raising an eyebrow.

Alan sighed, his shoulders slumping with sadness.

—Yeah… without him. Bye, DJ. Thanks.

He ended the video call after seeing DJ wave goodbye.

He leaned back in his chair, quietly staring around his office. The idea of animating without Orange... felt weird. Not that his drawings were bad. They weren’t anymore—he’d improved a lot since meeting him. In fact, they’d gotten to the point where they animated just for fun, to hang out.

You could say... he didn’t need Orange anymore.

Alan shook his head forcefully at that thought.

Sure, maybe he didn’t need Orange to draw or animate.

But Orange... was his... friend Son.

He patted his cheeks, trying to shake off those intrusive thoughts. He had work to do, projects to finish, and above all, a family that depended on his income just as much as Kaori’s.

So he had no choice but to swallow the discomfort, sit in that chair, grab the stylus and...

And...

And.

When was the last time he cleaned the house?

—

—Hi! I’m home —Kaori called out as she stepped through the door.

—MOM, IN THE KITCHEN! —yelled both kids from inside.

Kaori set her keys and bag down on the side table, and immediately noticed something odd: the couch covers were different. It smelled fresh, like a recently placed air freshener. She turned to the TV and saw some new decorations, carefully arranged and sparkling clean. She approached the table— the decorative centerpieces were in new positions... and spotless.

She walked down the hallway and glanced at the family photos, then looked up at the wall clock.

Everything was clean.

Even the cobwebs she had planned to remove that weekend... were gone.

The pleasant scent filled the whole house, not just the living room. When she reached the kitchen, she saw the kids eating —were those burgers?

—MOMMY! —the kids shouted, their mouths smeared with sauce and their hands sticky.

Kaori kissed both their heads with a surprised smile.

—Hi, welcome home —Alan greeted, placing another plate with two burgers on the table before sitting with them.

—What’s the occasion? What are we celebrating today? —Kaori asked as she sat next to him and kissed his cheek—. I don’t remember today being a special day.

—What? Any day can be special, can’t it? —Alan replied, taking a bite of his burger

Kaori couldn’t argue with that logic. For now, she decided to just go with the flow… and spoil the kids a little.

Later that night, freshly showered and ready for bed, Kaori wasn’t expecting to see her husband walk into the bedroom stretching wearily. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

—The kids are asleep,— Alan said, flopping down on the bed with a tired sigh, stretching his back.

—Long day?— Kaori asked, settling in next to him.

—Actually… I wasn’t in front of a screen,— he admitted, placing his glasses on the bedside table. —I spent the day cleaning the house, then the kids got home, I helped with homework, made dinner… and here I am.

—Ahh, that explains why the house smelled so good,— she said, giving him a kiss on the lips and wrapping her arms around his chest. —Now you’re the man of the house, huh?

Alan struck a pose, flexing his almost-defined muscles. They both laughed. A notification pinged on Alan’s phone. Kaori saw how he quickly grabbed it, and from her spot in bed, she noticed how his smile slowly faded.

She looked around the room… everything was clean. Too clean.

—Is everything okay, Alan?

Alan blinked. And just as quickly as the sadness came, a fake reassuring smile appeared.

—Yeah! Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. Just… work stuff, nothing serious,— he lied.

Kaori could only smile softly and snuggle up beside him. While Alan was good at hiding emotions, she was even better. Her job as a nurse demanded it.

—Tomorrow you’re going back to work, okay? I don’t want to drag you to bed half-asleep.

Kaori sighed and fell asleep beside him. But even though Alan’s body was exhausted, his mind kept racing. And his thoughts wouldn’t let go of one thing: no matter how many times he refreshed WhatsApp, the Color Gang still wasn’t replying.

He didn’t know what hurt more—being ignored, or knowing they had read his messages and chose not to answer.

He tried to ignore the tight knot in his chest as he put the phone aside and tried to sleep.

Tomorrow… he had to get back to animating.

THURSDAY

Kaori was starting to suspect something was off.

—You cleaned out the storage room?— she asked, standing in the doorway in her white uniform.

—Huh? Oh! Yeah! I was looking for some old sketches, and then I saw how dirty it was… so I ended up cleaning it with the kids. We took the chance to toss or donate a few things,— Alan replied, carrying a stack of books tied with string.

—Look, Mommy! These are my toys from when I was a baby, — their son said, showing her a faded wooden toy car. “Daddy says we can give it to another kid.”

Kaori shook off her surprise and focused on her son and the old car.

—Of course, sweetheart. We just need to repaint it, and it’ll be good as new for someone else.

“Daddy said that too. We’ll paint it together tomorrow,” the boy smiled, placing the car in a box.

One box was labeled Things to Donate. Another one, Things to Throw Away.

Kaori hesitated for a moment but decided to let it go. Alan was just being a good husband. What harm could there be in him cleaning for two days in a row?

Well… she just hoped she had enough medicine for her dust allergy.

FRIDAY AND SATURDAY

One day of cleaning was fine.

Two… maybe just coincidence.

But three? In a row?

Kaori was now certain something was going on with her husband. It wasn’t normal to see him so anxious he had to keep his hands busy with anything but drawing.

On Friday, Alan painted and fixed up everything that needed repairs before dropping off donations at various foundations. But he didn’t go to just one. No. He took six bags… and delivered each one to a different place.

He basically crossed the whole city that afternoon. Came back late, cleaned the kitchen, helped the kids with their homework, and cooked dinner.

Kaori knew he could’ve saved time by taking everything to just one place. But no… he had to do more.

And Saturday was when she knew for sure.

Alan… started mowing the lawn.

THEY DIDN’T EVEN HAVE A LAWN.

He was mowing the neighbor’s lawn.

Kaori knew confronting him wouldn’t help, but she did know how to help him. She knew him too well. This was his escape pattern: exhaust the body so the mind doesn’t have to think.

She might not fully understand Alan’s work, but she knew how much it meant to him. Something was falling apart, and Alan didn’t know how to fix it. Or maybe he did… but was just trying not to think about it too hard.

But she knew better than anyone…

That wasn’t going to fix anything.

—Do the kids really have to go to your parents’? — Alan asked, handing them their backpacks.

—I told you already, yes. I’ve got the night shift, Alan, — Kaori replied, stuffing her white uniform into her bag. —Besides, this is a good time for you to finish your work.

Alan’s expression turned uneasy at the thought. He clenched his jaw, looked away, and kept his arms stiff at his sides. Kaori instantly knew the problem had something to do with something he didn’t want to face in his animation career.

—Hey. — Kaori gently cupped his face in her hands. —Whatever it is that’s going on in that overthinking head of yours… I want you to know I’m here.

Alan’s expression softened a little. He placed his hands over hers, holding them gently.

—You’re a good person, Alan. And a great husband. Don’t forget that.

Kaori saw something shift inside him at her words. Alan sighed and smiled—a small but sincere one.

—I promise nothing’s really going on… I’m just… a good husband and… neighbor, — he added, blushing at the last part.

Kaori laughed, gave him a soft kiss, and picked up her bag.

—Remember: focus on your work. No distractions. This might just be the cleanest house in the whole neighborhood.

Alan waved goodbye to his wife and kids, who waved back as they left. Finally, he closed the door and leaned against it. Silence filled the house. He checked the clock: 8:00 PM.

There was nothing left to do now.

He glanced toward his office with a hesitant grimace, running a hand over his neck. He rolled his head, inhaled deeply… and exhaled. Defeated.

He couldn’t avoid them forever.

He walked slowly toward his office door. He opened it slowly… the door creaked, betraying him. That sound used to alert his Stickmans that he was there.

I should really oil that door, he thought.

His gaze immediately went to the monitor. No one was there.

He sighed in disappointment. —Still mad at me…

He sat down, grabbed the glove and stylus, and settled in front of his drawing tablet. He opened Google, praying Green wasn’t online. Thankfully, he wasn’t. He put on some music to calm his nerves and launched his animation program.

Back to work. That unfinished commission.

Time passed—maybe two hours. He wasn’t sure; his focus was completely locked on the character’s fighting movements. Finally, he decided he’d done enough and set the pen down, reviewing the result.

That’s when he saw an orange blur slide out from one of the folders.

It was Orange.

His breath caught. His eyes widened, unmoving, as the orange figure walked toward the animation program. Alan thought he saw Orange glance at him briefly, but it happened so fast he couldn’t be sure.

Orange grabbed the Pencil tool, hit play on the animation, stopped at a frame, erased, and redrew. Then repeated the process on another frame.

Alan, almost instinctively, put on his headphones—hesitant, bracing for a verbal attack.

But nothing happened.

Carefully, he scooted his chair closer to the desk. Picked up the stylus again and moved the cursor toward Orange as slowly and non-threateningly as he could.

Neither of them said a word.

—What’s the next move? — Orange asked, without looking at him.

Alan hesitated but replied.

—A flip… a triple jump.

—…Okay, — Orange answered, continuing to draw.

Alan didn’t know if this was Orange’s olive branch—or if he should take it or try to say something clever.

—Hey… I’m not gonna be able to animate the whole scene on my own, — Orange said, gesturing to the canvas.

Alan blinked. In the end… he would take it.

They kept animating until they were halfway through the movement. Alan let Orange handle whatever errors he missed. Even with music playing in the background, Alan felt like he needed to say something.

—…Orange… um…— He couldn’t finish.

—…Can we… just animate together… in silence? — Orange asked. But at least this time, Alan knew he looked at him. —…Please…

Alan gave a small, sad smile, but replied, —Sure.

He didn’t know if this was a new beginning, or just a casual effort to move forward with the job. But at least Orange was talking to him again.

Just like that, Orange left. An awkward goodbye. A simple “bye.”

No sign that they’d talk again tomorrow.

Alan ate in silence while staring at the final sketch, feeling something strange churning in his stomach. He shook his head, trying to clear away any thoughts about Orange’s behavior. He finished his food, cleaned up a bit, took a shower, and got into bed. He stretched his back until it popped.

I need to fix that bad habit.

He checked his phone: Kaori had wished him good night. He replied with a picture of a sleeping kitten. He did the same with his kids.

He was about to put the phone down when another message came in.

It was from Yellow.

He blinked. He couldn’t believe it. He thought maybe it was the exhaustion… but it wasn’t.

—Hey, sorry to message you at this hour. —Yellow replied. The white spots keep showing up, —I’m okay. Blue told me I need to start putting weight on my knees. We’ve been going on walks in Minecraft.

Followed by a picture, likely taken by Green. From their perspective, another stickman could be seen, this one purple. Alan assumed it was the new friend the others had met.

—Purple has been helping us with some parts of my recovery. So I think that by week four, I’ll be able to walk normally.

Alan blinked. He hadn’t realized he was crying. A smile formed on his face as he let the tears fall, reading the messages over and over again.

DJ had been right.

They had been through too much in such a short time. And after so many truths had come to light, they just needed space.

In time, they would talk to him again.

They’d come back to him.

(They had to… right?)

He shook his head, wiped his face, and returned to the last message. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until a small sigh escaped his nose. He smiled with a tension so deep it almost hurt.

—We haven’t been on the PC much, in case you didn’t see any activity ha-ha 😂 —Yellow continued, with some emojis. —Actually, today’s the first day we’ve been back after a few days away. I think Orange mentioned you two made an animation.

Alan wiped the last tears away, still smiling. He thought carefully about what to reply. He didn’t want to sound needy or too eager, so he decided to match the tone.

—Hey, good evening. I’m still awake. I’m really glad to hear you’re getting better 😊 —he wrote, and sent it. Then continued, —And I’ve been away from the PC too these days, doing human stuff with Kaori and the kids. And yeah, Orange and I hung out for a few hours.

He hit “send,” and waited.

And waited...

And he waited.

His smile began to fade slowly, as if the silence on the other end was draining the warmth from the moment.

Had he been too quick? Too enthusiastic? Had he come off as desperate? Had he already messed it up?

He started nibbling on his thumbnail.

He needed to break the silence. Anything, just something.

—And Chosen? I mean, is he getting better? —he wrote impulsively. The moment he sent the message, he regretted it.

Why had he asked that?

He wasn’t even sure why he’d brought him up. They weren’t close. They had barely exchanged words beyond what was necessary.

They weren’t close at all.

He barely knew him.

But he worried.

Even if… it felt out of place to say so.

But… he couldn’t help it. Chosen had gone through all of that, too. He’d seen it.

And even if Alan didn’t know exactly how to reach out, something inside him needed to know.

Even if he had no right to ask.

The image of Chosen tied to that chair, wrapped in all those lines, still haunted his mind in the most unexpected moments.

Was he just using his concern as an excuse to keep the conversation going?

Then the reply came.

—Chosen? Ah… well, he’s… like you said, getting better. Not completely, really. Blue threatened to tie him to a chair if he doesn’t stop training while his body’s still healing.

Alan sighed. He felt relieved… but also a little silly for worrying so much.

—I’m going to sleep now. Blue also said I need to rest properly. So… good night.

Alan read the message with a pang of disappointment. A part of him wanted to be selfish, to say he couldn’t be left hanging like this, not after so much silence. But he just reacted with a thumbs-up.

He saw Yellow go offline almost immediately.

He set the phone aside and tried to sleep, with a strange mix of relief, emptiness, and pain twisting in his stomach.

The next morning he woke up feeling heavy. He hadn’t managed to fall asleep until after 3 a.m., when his mind finally shut down.

Kaori had sent him a good morning message and told him she had ordered breakfast for him. Alan smiled and texted back a kiss.

When the food arrived, he went straight to his office. He sat down in front of the monitor and blinked at the screen: Orange was there, along with Red, playing with the pig pet.

He smiled to himself.

—Maybe DJ was right… —he said quietly.

Orange animated with him again. Not with the same energy as before, but the silence didn’t feel as heavy anymore.

Red talked to him again—awkwardly, maybe a little ashamed from their last conversation.

Green sent him new songs.

Blue shared links to books he liked.

They were talking to him.

They were letting him back into their lives.

Halfway through the third week, Alan had already made up his mind: no more lies.

He wrote everything he needed to say in a Word document and sent it to DJ, just in case he still needed to be clearer, more understanding.

His stick figures were giving him another chance. And this time… he wouldn’t let them down.

—BUT YOU’RE STILL NOT HEALED! —he heard Orange yell from the other side of the desk.

Alan paused the music, alarmed, and looked to his left. Orange was trying to hold back Chosen, who was wobbling on his feet.

—What’s going on? —he asked.

Chapter Text

—Ask him if we were just animations to him, — Green said, his voice low but dripping with venom.

—Also if all those birthdays were a lie, or if they ever meant anything!— Red burst out, torn between rage and uncertainty.

—Was our friendship real… or just some duty he had to fulfill?— Yellow added, arms crossed on the couch, like he was trying to hold back the weight of the question.

—ASK HIM IF WE’RE A BURDEN TO HIM!— Blue suddenly screamed, no longer able to keep it inside.

Orange was furiously writing on a makeshift whiteboard. The title, written in bold letters at the top, read: “Questions for Alan.” It had all started with him. Just a few lines at first, scribbled in a fury he didn’t know where else to put: “What were we to you?” “What other creations did you kill?” “Was it all just a game to you?”

Questions like knives.

Questions like truths too painful to ignore.

Chosen watched them from a corner, arms crossed, heart in knots. At first, it had just been Orange’s questions. But then Green saw what he was doing and added his own. Blue joined, then Yellow, then Red, and after that… there was no going back.

Each of them had a question, a wound.

And every wound brought a question.

—Ask him if he liked my songs,— Green said suddenly.

Silence fell over the room. Everyone turned to look at him. Even Orange froze mid-stroke.

—Green… not to be rude, but…— Blue began.

—WHAT THE HELL DOES YOUR PRIDE HAVE TO DO WITH THIS?!— Red snapped, ending in a shout that shook the walls.

Green just huffed and looked away, arms now crossed tighter. —Don’t you get it? Alan lied to us. He lied about the other creations, about the stickmen he killed… about Dark Lord. He lied about everything.

The name dropped like a bomb.

The Dark Lord.

A name that left a bitter taste on all their tongues. A shadow that, even in death, still loomed large over them.

Chosen lowered his gaze, drilling it into the floor like he could bury his pain there.

They didn’t know the whole story.

They didn’t know who Dark had been before becoming a threat.

They didn’t know that, to him… Dark had been a friend.

A brother.

The only reason he hadn’t completely broken down.

And part of him wanted to scream it, to throw it in their faces… but he knew they wouldn’t understand. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t blame them.

After all, how do you forgive the one who murdered your friends right in front of you?

He himself couldn’t forgive Victim. Not for the chair. Not for the pause button. Not for the humiliation. And yet…

He blamed Noogai.

Blamed the man who created him… blamed himself for not saving Dark.

Even though he knew it hadn’t been his fault. That Dark’s own choices had led him to that end.

And still, seeing Noogai utterly broken, emotionally destroyed by his own creations—that was something Chosen and Dark had dreamed of for years.

Now only he remained. And even without Dark, Chosen was living that dream.

He knew that wherever that idiot was… he’d be eating chocolate with a crooked smile, enjoying the show.

Enjoying how, in the end… the creator fell because of what he had most loved to protect.

—How do we know he really liked the books Blue shared with him? The AI stuff Yellow researched? The trends Red showed him so excitedly?— Green’s voice trembled at the end. —And how do I know… that he truly liked my songs? And not just tolerated them to say: ‘Fine, I’ll accept you, just please stop bothering me’?

The room fell into a thick silence. Not the kind you break with laughter. The kind that wraps around your throat like a knot. Orange scribbled the question down while murmuring under his breath.

Angry voices. Frustrated ones. New questions, old resentments, wounds left open. Orange didn’t speak—he just kept writing harder on the board. The questions multiplied. As if writing them made them real. As if finally facing them gave some sense of control.

Chosen sighed from his corner. The brainstorm wasn’t just an emotional storm anymore. It was a hurricane.

He sank deeper into the soft beanbag, trying to find a moment of quiet in his head. But then, like every night since that final fight with Dark, one question returned. A question he could no longer ignore.

—Why did he help me stop Dark?

The words slipped from his lips effortlessly. But the effect was immediate. Everyone froze. For the first time since the meeting started, Chosen had spoken.

Yellow was the first to react. —…um… because he wanted to destroy the entire internet with his virus,— he said, like it was obvious.

—Yeah, I get that part of the story —Chosen shook his head slowly—. But… why did he do it?

Orange looked up from the marker for a moment. —I told Yellow to bring Alan so he could help you… that’s why he agreed —he answered, as if trying to follow along.

—No, you’re not getting it —Chosen sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was lower, but every word landed like a sharp blow—. Noogai.

—Who? —they all asked at once.

—…Alan. He used to be called Noogai —he answered, not hiding the nervous twitch in his right eye. —As I was saying… he only agreed to help me because he thought the one who needed help… was Yellow.

Yellow lowered his gaze, hugging his pillow with a murmured apology that no one really heard.

—So… why did he help me? —Chosen insisted, looking at each of them. His eyes were filled with something dark, a mix of doubt, anger, and a desperate desire to understand—. Was it guilt? Was it because he knew he couldn’t beat Dark? Was he trying to get revenge on me for destroying his PC years ago?

His hands clenched into fists, knuckles turning white. Because deep down, he knew.

To Noogai… he didn’t matter.

He was nothing more than a walking file.

A last-minute rescue project. His quality test case.

—Even when we escaped from Victim, he could’ve saved you guys. So why me?... does he want something from me? —he murmured—. And if he does… what is it?

Silence returned, heavier than before. Orange looked at Chosen… then turned back to the whiteboard. Without saying a word, he wrote down the new question.

The room didn’t descend into chaos again. Only tense breaths and eyes fixed on that wall of doubts. The board seemed endless.

—…He’s a monster. —murmured Green. But everyone clearly heard it. And no one dared to deny it.

Chosen closed his eyes.

Hmp… Monster.

What an interesting word.

A word that could cover so much… yet wasn’t enough to describe him.

Chosen felt a chill run down his spine. Somehow, that word made him think of something that had happened just three days ago.

It was the first day Yellow managed to walk again. He was still limping, but his smile was radiant… until he walked into the room and said that Red had been talking with Alan.

They had all agreed not to answer Alan. To ignore his messages, full of concern no one believed was real anymore.

But Noogai, in his desperation, had turned to Red. He had been smart.

And in that desperation, he had gone to the one most likely to give in, the most friendly, the most ruled by emotion. Red. The one who, in Chosen’s words, had the attitude of a cat.

Red had been playing at the desk when he fell for the trap.

Just a few soft words and a gentle voice were enough to get Red to tell Noogai things he shouldn’t have known.

—WHY did you talk to Alan!? —shouted Orange, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

Chosen felt a pang of sympathy. Red was sitting on the couch, head down, while everyone stared at him with disappointment. For a moment, he thought he saw Dark in him.

—We agreed not to speak to him until the fourth week passed! Why did you break the deal!?

Red didn’t lift his head. His legs curled up against the couch, uneasy. —He… he looked worried about us —he whispered.

—HE’S NOT! HE’S JUST ACTING OUT OF GUILT! —Yellow exploded, his fury freezing the room.

Even Chosen flinched.

—YES, HE IS! —Red snapped back immediately, raising his phone and showing them the screen—. He’s sent messages. TO ALL OF US! Asking how we’re doing, if we need help. But no! You’re so mad at him that you just ignore it —he looked at Orange with reproach—. You treat him like he’s a monster!

Orange opened his mouth to say something, but it was Yellow who stepped forward.

—That’s because he IS! —he shouted.

Silence fell over the room, eyes turning to Yellow. His breathing was heavy. His shoulders trembled with each breath. His legs were shaking. He raised a trembling hand, asking to sit. Immediately, the others tried to calm him down.

Chosen didn’t say a word. He felt out of place.

Then Green spoke. —Yellow… I know we’re all mad at Alan. Especially Orange, and with good reason. But… calling him a monster… don’t you think that’s going too far?

Yellow looked up. For a second, it looked like he was about to scream again.

But he didn’t.

He just covered his face with both hands. Shook his head. Side to side, as if trying to erase something that was already tattooed in his memory. And then… he began to cry.

—H-hey… I’m sorry —Red mumbled, voice shaking—. I didn’t mean to yell at you. It’s just… Alan’s been our friend for years… and… —he hugged his own arm, as if trying to contain the guilt—. It doesn’t feel right to push him away like this, when he’s clearly trying to reach out to us.

Yellow drew in a breath. He let it out in a shaky sigh. Once. Twice. Three times. Until he managed to speak.

—No… it’s not worry. He’s… trying to control the damage.

Everyone looked at him, confused.

Everyone… except Orange and Chosen.

—Yellow, this isn’t the time… —Orange tried to stop him.

—No, Orange. If we keep hiding this from them, they won’t know the danger they’re in just by being near Alan.

—What are you talking about? —asked Blue, frowning as he looked at them. —What are you hiding?

Chosen lowered his gaze. In silence.

Yellow, on the other hand, began to tell them. To explain what Noogai had done to Victim. The torture. Not everything. Not the darkest details. But enough to make their trust begin to crumble.

Good thing, Chosen thought, that Victim didn’t tell them anything about me and Dark. About how we attacked the network.

After all, his revenge was against Alan.

With me… he just wanted to humiliate me. Expose me.

Now, they see you in a different light.

—Why didn’t you ever tell us, Chosen? —asked Orange, with that mix of hurt and betrayal in his eyes.

Of course, he thought. You had to drag me down with you, didn’t you, Noogai?

—…It wasn’t my secret to tell… —murmured Chosen.

He wanted to slam his head against the cement. What a pathetic lie.

He sighed, faking shame.

—Besides… if I told you, you’d ask too many questions. And I… I don’t have the answers.

He prayed the group would swallow the bait.

And, luckily, they did.

Yellow returned to the main topic. His voice was firmer now. —That’s why I’m asking you, Red. Don’t talk to Alan. Not until we know what was true… and what was a lie.

Red looked down. Alan’s chat was still open on his phone. He glanced at the last message. Then at his friends.

His voice was barely a whisper. —…I can’t block him. It doesn’t feel right.

—You don’t have to block him —Green cut in, pulling out his phone and showing it—. I didn’t. I just muted his messages.

On screen: 30 unread messages.

Red trembled slightly. He swallowed hard. Moved a finger… and tapped the option. Mute.

A simple gesture. But as heavy as a sentence.

Yellow received a group hug while Red apologized. Orange asked Chosen if he wanted one too.

He declined.

He couldn’t stand feeling cornered.

Noogai was now indefinitely erased from their lives.

Chosen felt a sick kind of joy in his stomach.

By the second week, on a Tuesday specifically.

He was just eating an apple while flicking the seeds at Firefox, just to annoy him. Firefox remained in statue mode, though Chosen could see his tail bristle with every seed that hit his head.

Red was playing with his pet pig on the desktop, also creating more animals. Until a sound came from outside the desktop. The sound of a door opening. The cursor appeared, and Chosen hid deeper into his secret folder.

The cursor quickly moved toward Red, who jumped in fright.

—RED! Hey, good morning, are the others doing okay? —Alan began cheerfully. His voice sounded happy—. I sent you messages yesterday, but I guess you were busy. Which is fine, but… I’d still like to know how you’re all doing.

Chosen could barely stop himself from laughing at that pitiful tone his creator used.

A mix of happy and desperate. Because, of course, Noogai isn’t stupid. If Red wasn’t replying to his messages like he did three days ago, it only meant he was losing control over him.

Red, to his credit, tried to avert his gaze while silently packing the animal eggs.

—Red? —Alan said again.

Red looked tense, Chosen could tell by how quickly he was putting things away.

Chosen had to cover his mouth at the pitiful tone his creator used while calling the stickman.

Then Alan moved the cursor in front of Red, stopping his path back to the folder.

—…Red, please… I just… I just want to know what’s going on —Alan pleaded—. I want to know if everything’s okay.

Red gripped the box where he’d put his pet pig’s toys tighter. Ruben even looked unsure of what to do. Because, of course, he couldn’t go against the cursor. So Red spoke, without looking at the screen outside the desktop.

—I don’t think we should keep talking from now on —Red said.

The cursor didn’t move. Red didn’t look at the desktop, he just walked past the cursor and went back into the folder.

Chosen smiled in satisfaction. He couldn’t see perfectly what was happening outside the computer from his position either. But judging by how still the cursor was, and the slight movement it made as if hesitating to open the folder Red had gone into or not… in the end, it didn’t. It moved away from the folders.

And Chosen has to admit something.

Victim did a good job hitting Alan where it hurt the most.

His trust. His pride. His need for control.

He doesn’t really know how much control Noogai had over the color gang. Or if that control theory was even true. Or if it was just an idea Victim planted in Yellow’s head.

A seed that grew, and now was spreading its roots into healthy trees, poisoning them.

But Chosen wasn’t going to be the one to prune those roots.

He loved watching his creator suffer.

What he didn’t like was not being part of that suffering.

But Chosen could still strike the fallen man.

—You look so pathetic, Noogai —Chosen said, stepping out of his hiding place.

The cursor moved slightly, a motion upward, right where Chosen was. Now he could see his creator’s face more clearly. Very different from the one he knew 13 years ago, though he no longer remembers exactly how his creator looked back then.

—Acting like a kicked puppy curled up in a corner —he added, with a mocking whimper followed by a cruel chuckle.

Noogai didn’t reply. But in his eyes, Chosen saw the intent: “ignore him.”

He only looked at him. Like background noise. Like he was just that.

A barking dog that doesn’t bite.

Chosen clenched his fists. He wasn’t going to allow that.

Today he was going to bite.

This dog was done barking.

—Ha… they call you a monster now —he threw the first stone of provocation—. You know? It’s really amazing how they went from loving and adoring you, to simply tossing you aside.

Nothing. Not even a blink.

—And just to be clear, I’m not putting any ideas in their heads to make them hate you —he added, raising his hands in feigned innocence—. They came to that on their own.

Ignore the barking. Chosen finally attacks.

—And they’ve got common sense. They’re trying to save themselves from the monster they used to call: creator, friend… father —he smiled as he saw Noogai’s eyes. There was a tremor, a crack, a twitch—. After all, you are a monster to them now.

Chosen smiled. He had bitten, and crossed his arms triumphantly.

This dog wasn’t barking anymore.

He was striking from every direction, at the weakest points.

—…Monster… —Noogai replied, to Chosen’s surprise—. What a curious word you use.

But when the barking dog finally attacks, the one being threatened is expected not to strike back.

—As far as I recall in my Spelling class, the word monster covers many subtopics —Noogai straightened, adjusting his glasses with a calm gesture—. Murder, betrayal, kidnapping… even terrorism.

But when the threatened one strikes back, the one who started the fight should be able to counter it. Because if he doesn’t, he’ll remain what he’s always been.

A dog that barks but doesn’t bite.

And Chosen had nothing.

His body tensed, as did his muscles.

He didn’t expect Noogai to strike back.

Noogai’s glasses, as he lifted his head straight toward the screen where Chosen stood, gleamed with a threatening light.

—I know what you and Dark did. And in case you don’t remember, you’ve got “Terrorist” stamped on your forehead, just like the wanted posters.

Chosen lowered his gaze. Not out of guilt. But because of something worse.

Instinct.

Conditioned reflex.

It wasn’t guilt.

It was that damned authority that man still had over him.

The buried obedience, the conditioned reflex, the father’s voice judging without raising it.

He lowered his head. Not out of shame. Out of instinct. Because Alan still had that power.

A power that made him lower his gaze like a small child being scolded by his father.

But Noogai kept attacking. —The only reason you’re still here is because this monster —pointing at himself— has changed, and allows another, smaller monster to stay, for the same reasons.

A loud thud was heard from outside, on the desk.

Chosen trembled, but said nothing. He didn’t move either. His body couldn’t move.

No answers. No barking.

—And I’ll say it again, and I hope it’s the last time. My NAME is ALAN —he declared with a voice that echoed inside Chosen—. Get out, I need to work.

And that was the push his body needed to react.

It was the command that made his body move again.

He started breathing again. He hadn’t realized he wasn’t.

His legs moved shakily back to the folder he had come from.

Before going in, a new fury overtook him.

He grabbed a random document, crumpled it, and threw it at the cursor before running away like a coward.

No matter how much time passes.

Chosen will always be a dog that barks and never bites.

He shook his head to return to reality. To see the color gang looking at the chalkboard, trying to decide which questions were worth asking and which weren’t.

Chosen felt a strange feeling in his stomach. And for the first time, it wasn’t his weird eating disorder.

The memory of the confrontation with No—ALAN!

…

Oh, crap. That bastard got into his head.

He growled as he ran his hands over his head quickly.

—You okay, Cho? —asked Orange from his spot near the board.

Chosen looked away, embarrassed. The memory of the confrontation with No—ALAN! DAMMIT!—was crashing down on him like a storm. He imagined Orange in that meeting. Just him and Alan. With no one else to rely on if Orange started asking those questions that so easily made Alan feel threatened and uncomfortable.

And Alan would strike.

He wouldn’t care if it was one of his favorite creations.

The moment Alan saw he could no longer manipulate his younger brother and lost control… he’d kill him.

He’d erase him.

—I think… I think you should remove the most stressful questions from your list —he finally said. He had to protect his younger brother somehow.

He had already lost one.

Even if that younger brother had been the one who killed his twin. Even if it had been an accident.

STILL! He didn’t want to lose him.

—Why? That would defeat the purpose of why we’re making a list —Red interjected.

Chosen stood up, resting one knee on the floor. —I know, I know… but, if what Yellow said is true… and Alan is a manipulator —he approached the board and scanned the first few questions—. These kinds of questions will make him nervous and possibly lose his temper and...

—And attack —finished Yellow, still hugging his pillow.

Just the image of Orange being alone with Alan…, now that they knew what they knew. It made each of them imagine a different outcome if Alan lost control.

Maybe he’d threaten to delete them if they kept asking questions.

Maybe he’d lock Orange in a box until he submitted again.

Or, in the worst-case scenario...

Maybe he’d erase him forever.

—Guys, guys, guys —said Orange, getting everyone’s attention—. Listen, Alan might be someone with little patience, stubborn, a musical theater lover, with a terrible sleep schedule… and recently, a liar —he added with regret—. But he always, always, I repeat, always keeps his promises.

—Orange... but, now—Yellow tried to cut in.

—...now… everything just feels so strange —added Green, arms crossed—. What if keeping promises was also part of a façade?

Silence returned to the room, until Orange spoke again. His voice sounded resolute.

—If everything is a façade… then he’ll maintain it until the end of the meeting.

And with that statement, he grabbed a piece of chalk and circled the title on the board. The others accepted his decision. Orange, even if he didn’t say it out loud, was becoming the leader of the group.

—Can we… at least have an escape plan in case things go wrong? —Blue suggested.

Chosen had to admit it: his little brother was… brave.

Braver than him.

Even knowing nothing was guaranteed, he still walked into the lion’s den. Hoping to find honesty… or to be bitten.

Of course, the group dedicated themselves to coming up with an escape plan in case the room was sealed. Chosen just watched in silence. He was still recovering.

It was Thursday morning, and his stupid left knee could barely hold him. Flying was fine, but it drained him too quickly. And using crutches made him feel vulnerable.

So he just let himself fall onto the middle of the desk, lying down. He tried to sleep… but couldn’t. His nerves were on edge. He didn’t want to scratch. He didn’t want to freeze himself.

Those methods were harmful.

And there was no one nearby who could stop him if he hurt himself. He growled to himself, running his hands through his hair again.

—CHOSEN!

—WHAT! —he jumped up, looking toward the folders. Red was peeking his head out from his hiding spot. —Don’t worry, he’s not at the desk!

Relieved, Red stepped out and approached the black stick figure. —The guys asked me to tell you something.

—And what is it?

—We’re still testing several emergency escape options. But we don’t have many ideas and folder space is limited, so Blue suggested going to Minecraft, and with Purple’s help, building something.

—Who’s Purple? —Chosen asked.

—A friend we made outside the PC. The point is, we’re leaving, and Orange asked me to see if you wanted to come.

Chosen thought about it for a moment.

The idea of being alone in the PC… sounded like a blessing.

It’s not that he hated the color gang, it’s just that… they were very imperative. There was always noise in the house and not a single moment of silence. Something Chosen desperately craved.

—No, no thanks.

—You sure? It’s also a good chance to get some fresh air and step out of the PC for a bit —Red scratched the back of his head—. The atmosphere in the PC has been feeling kinda suffocating lately.

—I’m good, Red, go and have fun. I’ll be fine. Besides, if Alan showed up, he’d probably ignore me. I’m not important to him, after all.

—…Okay, if you need anything, just call us on the phone.

That was the last thing Chosen remembered before waking up again. He looked around to find himself under a pile of trash. He shot up quickly with a banana peel on his head. Confused, he looked around, only to hear the sound of animals laughing.

He lifted his head to see Firefox, Google, and of course, that stupid Clippy with eyes, along with the yellow stick figure. Laughing.

—YOU DAMN BOOTLICKERS! —he grabbed some random trash and threw it at them, and they scattered across the PC.

He returned to the house with garbage juice running down his shoulders. Disgusting. He muttered curses while heading to the shower. At least the house was silent. A silence he had missed so much. While making his way to the shower, leaning on the stairs, he saw the leaning picture frames.

They were dusty.

…

When was the last time they cleaned this house?

–

He had to admit he felt proud. Proud of how the Minecraft house turned out.

Everything clean. Everything in order.

He sat down, exhausted, on the couch and moved his left leg. He hadn’t even noticed the pain. He supposed that by focusing so much on his thoughts and cleaning, he simply ignored it.

Now everything felt good.

Clean.

…

…

Does the PC need cleaning too?

–

—AAHH, I really needed a few days outside the PC —said Blue, stretching his arms with a smile.

The others crossed the portal too, expressing the same feeling of relaxation.

—Yeah…, too bad we couldn’t stay with Purple —Green finished, opening the door to the house—. These next weeks are going to be diffic— —a smell reached his nose—. Ah… do you smell that?

The rest of the group started sniffing. It was… air freshener?

—Aaahh…, guys…, I think we’ve been robbed —said Green, looking into the house.

Or at least that’s what they thought.

The walls had changed color, the furniture was no longer red, now it was blue. The chairs, the paintings, the kitchen, the living room, even the windows: everything was in a different place.
Besides being clean… the shine was so intense it almost hurt to look at.

Each of them entered, with Red and Blue going up to their rooms. The rest looked around the lower floor. Everything was clean. A sickening kind of clean, really.

—NOOO!! —Red screamed.

—RED!! —everyone shouted as they ran upstairs, finding their friend on his knees at the end of the hallway.

—WHAT HAPPENED!? WHERE'S THE DANGER!?

—They're gone… they're gone forever —Red pounded the floor.

—WHO!?

—MR. AND MRS. CHARLOTE SPIDER!! —Red wailed, pointing to a top corner—. Their home was right there, and they were just about to have babies and—

—RED! THAT'S NOT AN EMERGENCY —they said while putting away their swords and going back downstairs.

Red looked at them with the expression of a soaked and betrayed cat. —EVICTING A SPIDER FAMILY FROM THEIR HOME IS A CRIME AGAINST INSECTS!

As Red’s whining echoed, the group went down the stairs… until they heard the door open.

Chosen appeared with his crutches. The same ones he had sworn never to touch again. And a leash in hand, dragging Firefox, who now wore a muzzle.

—Oh. Hey guys, you’re back —he smiled, waving.

The group blinked in confusion, wondering what on earth had happened in just four days.

—Why is Firefox—?

—Pretty? Yeah, she was hard to catch on the first day, especially since she bites really hard —he showed a bite mark on his arm—. But look at her now, shiny and sparkling —patting the fire fox on the head.

Who, in Orange’s words, looked like she wanted to kill someone right then and there.

—Besides, I cleaned the house and the desktop —he said proudly—. Even the icons. They resisted at first, but one by one, they all fell into my improvised digital bathtub.

—You did what?

—WAIT! —Red appeared above the group—. YOU EVICTED— Is that Firefox on a leash and muzzle?

—Clean and perfumed —Chosen answered calmly.

The group blinked again at that mental image.

—You bathed her? —Red exclaimed, horrified—. SHE DOESN’T EVEN LET ME TOUCH HER!! —he added, looking both sad and betrayed.

—Why do you think I put a muzzle on her?

Firefox began spinning wildly, desperately trying to break free from the leash and remove the muzzle, while Chosen just rolled his eyes. Red looked down, clearly more affected by this than by the spider eviction, and scooped Firefox into his arms.

—She… looks uncomfortable —he murmured, as the fire fox gave him teary puppy eyes.
Red carried her to his room, leaving the group to process why Chosen had gone on a cleaning spree.

Before anyone could speak, a sharp screech came from outside the desktop. Then, Red’s yelling and fast footsteps down the stairs. They all saw Firefox bolt past them, straight to the desktop.

—What’s going on? —Chosen asked.

—Alan’s in the room —Orange replied with slumped shoulders.

Chosen smirked with disdain, leaning back on the couch. —Now? That idiot hasn’t shown up for a week. What does he want now?

—Wait… are you saying Alan hasn’t been in his office for a whole week? —Yellow asked, surprised.

Chosen nodded, settling fully into the couch, not noticing the glances the others exchanged. After murmuring among themselves, one by one they headed to their rooms, leaving Chosen alone.

He had to admit, it was strangely relaxing being in the PC. Especially without Alan outside, watching them. He stretched after another nap. He was in a good mood. His antisocial battery had recharged.

He felt better. Tidy. In control. He didn’t know why, but cleaning helped him think better… or at least helped him not think too much. Alan would probably hate this… or would he?

And speaking of their creator. It was a good time to go bother him a little.

He left the Minecraft house without using crutches, smiling. His left knee felt much better. Still needed rest, but short distances were fine.

But when he peeked into the desktop… his smile vanished.

Orange was… animating with Alan.

—What the hell…? —he whispered in disbelief.

Orange was heading back to the folder, moving away from the cursor and the animation program. He felt the impulse in his throat to say a proper goodbye to Alan. Like they used to.

But nothing was like it used to be.

—I don’t really get you guys —Chosen whispered, making Orange jump as he stepped through the house door.

Their friends were waiting inside, clearly uncomfortable.

—Can you explain what all that was out there, Orange?

Orange grimaced, clenching his fists before speaking. —I know I said no one would talk to Alan. That we’d stay away from him. But Chosen… during the days we spent in Minecraft, he made my anger calm down a bit…, and I also started seeing things from another perspective.

—And what exactly is that perspective? —Chosen asked, crossing his arms.

—We can’t stay over there forever, — Green intervened. —This… this is our home. It’s the only safe place we know.

Chosen seemed to understand their reasons, but still grimaced at the idea of them interacting with their creator again.

—We started thinking about what would happen after the four weeks,— Blue added. —What do we do then? Where would we go? None of us wants to talk to Alan again, but…

—But we don’t want to make him angry either. We don’t want to have to hide every time he shows up on the desktop,— said Red, pointing outside, where Alan’s cursor was still visible. —This is his computer too.

—So we decided that… no matter how bad things are, whether it’s real or not, — Blue continued.

—We have to keep in contact with Alan, — Orange finished. —Not with the same trust as before… but more cautiously. Trying not to trust too quickly again.

—Just be polite with him. Keep interactions limited. Be respectful,— Yellow added, swinging his legs.

Chosen clenched his jaw.

—Alan won’t focus on you, Cho. Only on us. As you already know, he’s desperate to… do damage control,— Orange said, scratching his arm.

He was trying to understand. He really was. But he couldn’t.

It felt like betrayal.

He had finally gotten some peace. One win in his favor—no longer having to see his creator. And now they were taking that from him.

If the stickmans started talking to Alan again, that meant he’d have to do it too.

And he couldn’t take it.

He walked away from the group, clearly disappointed. —I need to be alone… please,— he asked, laying back on the couch.

The group nodded, murmuring among themselves. Chosen thought he heard something about Yellow sending a message to Alan. He didn’t care. He just wanted to sleep again.

Though sleep only helped when his body felt tired… not his mind.

—Alan asked about you,— Yellow said, handing him his phone.

Chosen looked at him, incredulous. At first, he thought Yellow or Orange had made him say that.

But no.

Alan had really asked about him.

It felt… weird.

Out of place.

Was this really the Noogai… Alan, he once knew?

Had he really changed for the better?

He shook his head and decided to ignore the news. He didn’t want to know what kind of mind game his creator was playing.

But he also couldn’t stand seeing the color gang and his younger brother playing —best friends,— the messages being sent again, and his little brother continuing to animate with Alan.

He couldn’t take it.

—I’m leaving,— Chosen declared in front of the group, who stared at him confused. —Thank you so much for saving and healing me, but… I have to go.

He didn’t care if he was still injured. He had to go.

—WHAT!? — they all shouted.

Chosen began walking out of the house, hearing protests behind him. Until he left the folder, heading straight for the internet icon. Still limping, less than before, but still inconvenient.

—BUT YOU’RE NOT RECOVERED YET!— Orange shouted behind him, catching up.

Chosen was about to snap back when —What’s going on?— Alan spoke.

Oh great, he’d forgotten he was still out there.

—I’m leaving, that’s what’s going on,— he said, looking at his creator on the other side of the screen. —Thanks for letting me stay, but I have to go.

Orange was about to speak, but Alan got there first. —You’re still injured, Chosen. You’re not recovered.

Chosen felt that same anger return. The same fury from days ago.

—Oh, yeah? And what are you gonna do? Stop me?— Chosen snapped with a crooked grin, slowly stepping back toward the internet icon. His voice dripped with mockery, but his eyes… his eyes were pure defiance.

But then the cursor moved in front of him. Chosen’s heart sped up, and his smile faltered.

He has to be joking.

—Ha… do you really think you can keep me locked in here against my will?— he scoffed toward the screen, taunting. —What’s wrong… Noogai?

—…

—…

Orange looked between the two sides. —Uh…, guys, I’m sure this isn’t—

—I’m not going to let you destroy yourself again,— Alan said in a low, almost calm voice, but with a cold hardness that chilled the air.

—And you think you have that right?— Chosen growled. The fire in his hands flared up, crackling fiercely. —You can’t decide for me!

—…I can if I want to,— Alan finished.

Bastard.

Chosen shot himself forward with fire, aiming straight for the internet—It was useless. Alan’s cursor grabbed him and flung him far from the icon.

—ALAN, NO! Please! Don’t hurt him!— Orange begged, reaching out for the cursor and holding his head.

—I’m not going to hurt him… I just want him to stay still and stop being a headache,— Alan huffed.

—GO TO HELL, NOOGAI!— Chosen hurled a fireball at the cursor.

Alan moved the cursor out of the way, dragging Orange with it, narrowly avoiding the attack.

—YOU HAVE NO CONTROL OVER ME ANYMORE!— Chosen kept launching fireballs.

—AVAS ANTIVIRUS!— Alan called out.

No. No. No.

NO. NO. NO

IT WASN’T GOING TO HAPPEN AGAIN.

—GET HIM!— Alan ordered.

—ALAN, NO!— Orange pleaded.

The moment the command left his mouth, a boom echoed across the desktop. An Avas antivirus icon appeared at the center of the screen, blaring a red flashing alarm. A wave-like energy shield expanded from it, surrounding every program on the desktop, including those in the taskbar. Orange watched as his friends looked out from their translucent bubbles, pounding on the shield, while he covered his ears trying to block out the alarm’s shriek.

Chosen froze in place at the memory.

He reacted when the same rays that had trapped him years ago transformed into three figures of bright yellow energy with orange-tinted limbs. They buzzed with contained power, like electricity.

They weren’t simple processes.

They were enforcers.

The first charged like a spear. Chosen twisted, dodging it with a quick step, and countered with a fireball straight to its chest. The impact knocked it down, but the stickman dissolved into sparks as it hit the ground.

The second came from the opposite angle. Chosen shot without hesitation, freezing its core mid-leap. The body shattered into glowing fragments that faded away.

Without slowing down, Chosen descended in a burst, flames wrapping around his feet, aiming for the Internet icon. The third one stood waiting. Motionless. It didn’t need to fight. It only had to be dodged, just reach the icon. Just escape—

The screech of chains stopped him cold.

The two fallen stickmen hadn’t disappeared. They had transformed into energy bonds—electric chains swirling through the air.

In an instant, they wrapped around his arms and legs, tightening with force.

—NO!— Chosen struggled, writhing with all his power.

The shadow of the third stickman loomed over him. Its body opened like a hatch, revealing the mouth of a digital chest. The chains dragged Chosen toward it. The stickman threw itself forward with all its weight, and shoved him inside.

And the chest swallowed them both.

Then…

Silence.

The shields surrounding the programs vanished. The bubbles popped harmlessly.
Everyone stood still, watching.

The chest let out a small digital burp and stuck out a holographic tongue as if licking its lips—which were the edges of the box. The three stickmen reappeared, bowed to the cursor, and disappeared along with the chest, dissolving into fragments of code.

The entire desktop returned to normal.

Everything fell silent.

Alan had to close his mouth in disbelief. —I didn’t know they could do that.

—LET ME GO! LET ME GO! — Orange thrashed in Alan’s grip. Alan gently set him down on the taskbar.

—WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM!? WHERE IS HE!?

—He’s fine, Orange.— With a couple of clicks, Alan activated the name of the file where Chosen had been confined. And, as if falling from the sky, Chosen reappeared, crashing hard onto the taskbar. —Here he is.

—CHO!— Orange rushed to his side. —Are you okay? Does anything hurt? Are you—

—What’s on my leg?— Chosen asked. Orange looked at him, confused. Chosen gave him a trembling smile. —It’s not… it’s not a prisoner’s ball, r-right?

Orange looked away, and his face couldn’t hide the truth.

Chosen lowered his gaze and saw it. An orb of energy anchored to his ankle, heavy, pulsing.

A prison.

Chosen dragged his leg.

Which led him to have nightmares constantly. It had returned.

—…Alan… please let him go,— said Orange, looking at the cursor.

—No, — Alan replied immediately.

—LET HIM GO!— he shouted.

—HE’S INJURED! IF I HADN’T STOPPED HIM, HE WOULD’VE HURT HIMSELF EVEN MORE!

—THAT WASN’T YOUR CHOICE TO MAKE, IT WAS HIS! — Orange looked toward the screen. —Let him go!

—No,— Alan repeated again. —He’ll stay like that until he stops being a headache and starts putting his well-being before his pride.

—YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE ME HERE, NOOGAI!— Chosen screamed, standing up while trembling.

Alan moved the cursor toward them in a threatening manner. —…Watch me,— he commanded. The cursor disappeared, and he walked away from the desktop screen.

Leaving them both with a strange sensation in the air. Feeling everyone’s eyes on their backs.

Chosen began dragging his leg, slowly but without stopping.

The sound of the energy prison ball scraping against the taskbar was unbearable. He approached the Internet browser icon. His goal. His way out. His escape.

He reached out.

But all he got was a pop-up window.

ACCESS DENIED.

He frowned. Tried again, now with more force. He slapped the icon with an open palm. Nothing.

He hit it again. And again.

Each strike harder. More desperate. As if he could break that barrier with the sheer fury of his soul.

—COME ON! OPEN UP! — he screamed, throwing a fire-covered punch.

The system only responded with a cold, mechanical.

ACCESS DENIED.

Orange approached carefully, not knowing what to say. Fear, guilt… sadness, he tried to touch his older brother’s shoulder.

But Chosen slapped the hand away. —I TOLD YOU NOOGAI IS A F***ING CONTROL FREAK!— he yelled louder. —You… MONSTER!— His scream echoed across the entire desktop.

It vibrated through the code. Through the windows. From inside one of the folders, the Color Band watched the situation unfold without being able to do anything. Only Green managed to speak.

—This is going to be a very long third week,— the others nodded in silence.

Chapter Text

DJ should seriously consider going back to college. Especially for Psychology. He was convinced he had a knack for being a therapist.

—No matter what I do, to him I’m still the same idiot he met 17 years ago! FOR GOD’S SAKE, I WAS EIGHTEEN!— Alan yelled from the other side of the screen, pacing like a caged tiger. —I DIDN’T KNOW THEY WERE ALIVE!

DJ adjusted his glasses the way movie therapists do. He had to get into character… or at least that’s what he kept telling himself while pretending to write in his notebook. In reality, he was just doodling.

—AND HE STILL CALLS ME BY THAT STUPID USERNAME!— Alan finished, collapsing into his chair and burying his face in a pillow as he screamed.

DJ wondered if there was a specialized class in therapy for rebellious stickmen and their creators.

The pillow had been his idea—to keep the neighbors from hearing every emotional outburst about Chosen. It helped. It muffled the yelling. Once he calmed down, Alan grabbed his stress ball and began crushing it like he wanted to destroy it.

This already felt like a session of a dad complaining about his magically rebellious teenager.

—I still don’t get why you let Chosen stay,— DJ commented, jotting down “Chosen” in his notebook along with a doodle of him as a swearing Pac-Man. —I mean… he wanted to leave. I thought you’d be thrilled. You know, after he destroyed your computer and all…

Alan grimaced before sighing. Still clutching the ball, he muttered,
—You didn’t see him the way I found him. When I got out of that box, the first thing I saw was Chosen tied to that chair… marks all over his body…

He started tossing the ball from hand to hand.

—Shit… I even saw fire in his hands.

—And what was wrong with that?

—It wasn’t like before. I don’t know how to explain it without sounding vague but… it just flickered. It didn’t have the same intensity I remembered.

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

—You know, you never really told me what happened in that box, when it was just you and Victim. What went down?

Alan focused on the texture of the stress ball. Blurry memories flickered through his mind. He remembered what had happened… but not how.

—…I… still don’t fully remember, he said, scratching the top of his head and messing up his hair. A chill ran down his spine, making him shudder. —I have memories… but they’re not exact. Just flashes.

—Do you think the stress made you block out certain details?— DJ asked, writing amnesia from trauma. Pretty common, really.

Alan shrugged.

—Maybe. Sometimes, when everything’s quiet… when I’m helping the kids with homework or cooking… some fragments come back. I remember an argument with Victim, right before I got Chosen out… but it’s still blurry.

DJ sat there, thinking.

Damn, I should go back to school. I’m actually getting good at this.

What if he crossed his legs? That would give him a more professional vibe.

He placed his right leg over the left, trying to look wise.

—Did you just cross your legs?— Alan asked, raising an eyebrow from the screen.

DJ looked like he’d been caught stealing cookies.

—…no…

Alan sighed dramatically.

—And I was just starting to fix things with the boys…

—Do you think maybe… there was something in that box, something you don’t remember, that made you want to protect Chosen?

Alan went silent. He didn’t exactly know why he wanted to protect Chosen. He just knew he couldn’t let him go again. Thinking about it gave him a very specific feeling. The same one he had years ago, holding his babies in his arms for the first time.

That need to protect.

No reason. No logic. Just instinct.

But… what if it was guilt?

—…you might be right, — he said, letting go of the ball. —But every time I try to get closer, he… bites me.

—Don’t you think you’re exaggerating?

—No, DJ. I mean it. He bites me.

DJ blinked, processing the image.

—…ok, I need context.

It was barely Monday morning. Alan was writing ideas for a commission, drafting an email to send it to his other computer. Everything was peaceful.
Keyword: was.

He saw Chosen clumsily fall out of a folder, get up like nothing happened, and walk directly toward his Word document dragging the energy prison ball. Alan froze, watching every step like he was seeing a gremlin approach his most valuable file. Chosen stopped right at the bottom of the document.

And laid down next to the button that said: Reading Mode.

From his point of view, Chosen just seemed like he wanted to watch, so he left him there and kept writing. It didn’t take long before Chosen started randomly pressing the Reading Mode option.

Forcing Alan to hit a key every time just to go back to Print Layout and return to work.

He should’ve known that was the beginning of the war.

Chosen did it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

He tried to threaten him by moving the cursor menacingly toward Chosen, but he just shrugged. Like he didn’t understand why Alan was in such a bad mood now.

The next time the layout changed, Alan moved Chosen far away from the Notebook option and the Language one too. Just in case Chosen decided to randomly switch the language.

For a moment, everything was calm and Alan kept writing, ignoring Chosen and his attempts to provoke him.

Eventually, Alan stopped typing and stretched his back, letting out a big satisfied sigh at his brainstorming success. He looked back at the screen to read his ideas. Only to be very surprised to see that the last few lines of his brainstorm were no longer there.

He followed the sound of chewing.

Chosen was eating the letters.

He stopped mid-bite on a capital A when he noticed he’d been caught.

And they locked eyes.

A full-on staring war, really.

Alan looked at Chosen, and Chosen knew he was being watched. So he slowly opened his mouth as he brought the letter A closer to it.

—Chosen no — Alan said in a warning tone.

Chosen opened his mouth wider and moved the letter even closer.

—DON’T. You. Dare — Alan said in a slow, threatening voice while moving the cursor toward him.

Chosen moved the letter A away… then brought it back closer to his mouth. As if testing just how much patience Alan had left while the cursor inched forward.

—…screw you — said Chosen.

And then Chosen began swallowing the letter A. Alan grabbed the other end of the letter.

They started tugging back and forth.

Alan felt like he was fighting a dog — LET GO! CHOSEN, LET GO!

With a sudden pull upward, the letter A snapped in half, sending Chosen flying toward the upper paragraphs. Being close to more letters made him start eating them fast. Alan quickly tried to stop him from eating more. He moved the cursor up, but hesitated at the idea of just grabbing Chosen and flinging him away.

Alan’s goal was not to hurt Chosen in the process.

BUT HE COULDN’T DO THAT, BECAUSE CHOSEN WAS THE OBSTACLE HIMSELF!

Besides, he was sure that if he threw him to the other side of the desk, Chosen would rat him out to Orange, and they’d treat him like the villain. Again.

So he just opted to smack him on the head. Hopefully not too hard. And kept telling him to stop eating the letters. Then Chosen did something Alan didn’t know whether to get mad about or just wince.

Chosen bit the cursor.

He blinked in disbelief, moved the cursor left and right—Chosen’s body dangled like a ragdoll. He hoped the motion would be enough to make Chosen let go. But he didn’t. He shook the mouse again, this time all across the screen.

But Chosen still wouldn’t let go.

—CHOSEN, LET GO OF THE CURSOR NOW! — he finally shouted.

Since he couldn’t speak, Chosen raised both arms toward the screen.

Alan might not fully understand stickmans, but he absolutely understood human body language. And it wasn’t that different from the stickmans’. So he knew damn well that Chosen just gave him the middle finger.

He growled with his mouth shut, left the cursor hanging in the air and grabbed his phone to search for Orange’s name.

—HEY! Tell Chosen to stop biting the cursor before I YEET HIM ACROSS THE DESK. AND I’M NOT TAKING RESPONSIBILITY IF HIS CONDITION GETS WORSE!!

He typed it without thinking. He was just mad that now he had a half-eaten document.

What happened next was watching Orange and the gang trying to get Chosen to let go of the cursor.

First Orange tried reasoning with him, but clearly that didn’t work because it only made him cling tighter. The next idea was for all of them to pull Chosen from his legs to the right while the cursor went left.

—That didn’t work either. Red used one of his chicken feathers, tickled Chosen’s feet, and that was finally what made him let go of the cursor — Alan finished recounting as he crossed his arms in frustration.

DJ had to force himself to cover his face with his notebook to avoid laughing at the image of Alan just trying not to throw Chosen across the desk. And how hilarious Chosen must’ve looked refusing to let go of the cursor. Like a dog with a chew toy.

—DJ! —Alan exclaimed on the other side.

DJ cursed himself for not muting the mic. —I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It’s just… PUFF, IT’S TOO FUNNY!

Alan seemed to reconsider. He couldn’t deny it—it was funny, actually. But only because he was remembering it now; at the time, it wasn’t even remotely amusing.

DJ calmed his laughter and turned the mic back on. —A-HA-HA —cough, cough— so what happened next?

—I told Chosen that if he tries to interrupt my work again, there will be consequences.

—A punishment? —DJ asked.

—Yes —Alan replied, dry and firm.

That gave DJ a strange feeling.

—Okay… but you know that if you start punishing Chosen, the others are just going to believe even more in that narrative that you’re controlling and mean, right?

Alan, hearing that, softened his gaze. He hadn’t thought about it that way. His relationship with Orange and the gang was already hanging by a thread, and there was only a week left until his judgment day, as DJ had called it to cheer him up.

He sighed, tired.

—I don’t know what to do to stop them from seeing me as the enemy… I just want him to get better —he took the stress ball back in his hands—. Is it too much to ask for him to care about his own well-being? Can’t he put his health before his pride!? Why can’t he understand that I just want what’s best for him!?

DJ looked at Alan with a raised eyebrow while his friend poured out all his worries about the black stickman. And, somehow, everything Alan was saying… felt deeply ironic.

From Alan’s side, the sound of a doorbell was heard.

—That’s the door, I’ll be right back —he said, and left the room.

DJ wrote in his notebook: "Alan and Chosen are alike in so many ways. Like a father and a rebellious son, huh?"

He remembered perfectly when Alan had the flu, and his right wrist needed rest. And what did Alan do?

He didn’t care about his health and kept animating when he thought no one would see him.

Watching him self-destruct, with a wrist brace, a sweaty forehead, and a terrible diet, made Kaori call reinforcements. And by reinforcements, she meant calling DJ to stay at the house for a few days while she returned to work.

—I’M GONNA TIE YOU TO THAT BED IF YOU KEEP GETTING UP! —Kaori had shouted in a moment of desperation, seeing that Alan kept trying to work despite his condition.

Like a small, sulky child, Alan stayed in bed, arms crossed and pouting.

DJ wished Kaori had actually tied him up. Because when he got back after dropping the kids off at school, he found Alan on the living room floor, shaking. He cursed under his breath.

He carried him back to bed while Alan struggled with the little strength he had left. Of course, he didn’t want to take his medicine. Which, to be fair, smelled horrible and probably tasted even worse, so DJ could understand why Alan was so reluctant.

But, like dealing with a dog, DJ had to open his mouth and pinch his nose shut so he’d swallow the medicine. Alan cursed him afterward, but at least he fell asleep.

He only started cooperating when his daughter and son played doctor with him. The girl pretended to be a doctor like her mom, giving him a shot with a toy syringe, while her little brother played assistant.

—All done! —the girl announced—. You’ll be better tomorrow, daddy —both kids smiled.

Having worried his children was what finally encouraged Alan to stop fighting and let the flu run its course. DJ remembered a movie night, with him on the left side of the couch, Kaori on the right, and Alan in the middle.

In the end, Alan fell asleep on his shoulder, drooling, while holding Kaori’s hands.

—Why can’t you put your well-being before your pride? —Kaori murmured, with a tired smile, but happy to see her husband recovering.

When he got better, Alan paid DJ. He didn’t need to, but he did it anyway. He had done it because he cared about his friend, and because Kaori’s desperate voice had softened him too much.

SO YES!

The fact that Alan and Chosen are so similar in that aspect is just too ironic.
Which makes sense: he’s his second creation. Not his firstborn, but surely Victim also threw prideful tantrums instead of caring for his health. At least Alan never had that problem with Orange or the color gang.

Or… at least not one he’s told DJ about.

Wait a minute…

If Chosen is so much like Alan… does that mean he’s his father?

DJ doesn’t really know how ESSENCE works between a creator and their creations. He just knows that Alan made them. But… is it possible for creations to inherit traits from their creators?

Chosen’s rebellious attitude is just like Alan’s. Literally everything Alan said lines up with how he and DJ were as teens.

Alan used to be very defiant, especially with his dad.

With Orange, Alan shares a love for art and animation. Both are silly and naive in some ways. And they both feel… different.

Whatever that means.

He doesn’t know much about Dark Lord’s or Victim’s personalities, but he can guess.

That means Alan… DID AN MPREG WITHOUT EVEN REALIZING IT?!

His phone buzzed with a message from Alan. DJ, confused, opened it.

—I’M PUTTING HIM IN THAT CHEST EVEN IF HE HATES ME MORE!

DJ blinked at the message. What the heck happened out there?

—So… should I end the call? —he asked.

—Yes —was all Alan said before going offline.

DJ ended the call and looked at his notebook again.

He chuckled at his own thoughts about Alan doing an MPREG by accident. Smiling to himself, he began drawing Alan’s avatar—the one that acted as the cursor, with glasses.

DJ moved his lips as a mischievous grin slowly spread, while he drew a circle in the middle of the cursor. Simulating Alan… carrying Chosen in his cursor-womb.

In the end, he ended up laughing quietly to himself at the mental image.

But that didn’t stop him from drawing the same theme with even more intensity, wearing a wicked grin.

—Oh guys! The medicine is ready! —Blue said, entering the house with five potions in her arms.

And of course, there was no one in the living room.

Blue slammed the door shut. She knew she’d have to go find her friends and Chosen and force them to take the medicine.

She looked at her only ally—one who could be bribed with food, no matter how loyal he was: Ruben.

Red’s pet pig was easily swayed with abyss warts. He very quickly understood what Blue wanted and followed the scent. To the farm.

He opened the barn, door by door, and Ruben pointed to the watering cans. Round, red watering cans.

—Ohhh, Red… I’ve got a little gift for you —Blue said, closing the barn door behind her.

Ruben could only hear a faint “gotcha” from outside.

What followed was a struggle, watering cans scattering everywhere, a fishing line whipping through the air, Red screaming for help. Then Blue came out of the barn with Red slung over her shoulder, looking bitter, and holding an empty bottle in her hand.

—One down —she said, tossing Red into the cart where she had the rest of the potions.

—HE’S GOT RED! RUN! —Green shouted from somewhere inside the shared house.

—GOT YOU! —Blue yelled as she grabbed another potion and ran back into the house.

She dropped Red on the living room couch—who was still woozy from the medicine—, handed a plate of abyss warts to Ruben, grabbed two more bottles, and raced upstairs.

Ruben happily accepted the offering… in exchange for his betrayal.

From below, another —GOT YOU!— was heard, followed by Yellow and Green’s screams, things crashing, hurried footsteps across the second floor. More yelling. Another chase. Yellow even screamed:

—TRAITOR! —when Green ditched him to save himself.

Ruben saw him scrambling down the stairs in desperation. Upstairs, Blue appeared with the medicine in hand. Like the good little traitor he was, Ruben kicked the door shut just as Green reached it, slamming it right into his face. He clutched his nose—probably hit it hard.

—OPEN YOUR MOUTH! —Blue shouted, launching herself at Green. They rolled across the floor, struggling.

In the end, Blue won. Green swallowed the medicine begrudgingly.

Blue sighed, exhausted. She hadn’t woken up that morning expecting to spend her Tuesday afternoon chasing her friends around just to make them take their meds. She left Green sprawled on the living room floor, where the potion began to kick in, and headed back upstairs. She came down a moment later, dragging Yellow, who hadn’t managed to resist either.

Blue looked at the two remaining bottles. They were for Orange and Chosen.

—Okay… —she cracked her shoulders and looked at Ruben—. Where to?

Ruben pointed with his chin toward the toolbox in the corner.

Blue walked over, opened the lid, and found Orange crouched inside, trying hard not to move.

When he realized he’d been discovered, he gave a shy wave.

She handed him the potion without saying a word.

Orange simply accepted his fate. He climbed out of the toolbox with a resigned sigh and drank the medicine with a grimace.

—Tastes disgusting —he complained, sitting down next to Red, who was slowly returning to normal.

—I tried to change the flavor, but I’m no miracle worker —Blue replied, grabbing the last bottle. She looked around the room until her eyes landed on the kitchen. She walked over, opened the refrigerator door… and found Chosen stuffing himself with whatever was inside.

He froze when he saw her.

Blue stood still, one hand on her hip. Chosen looked at the half-eaten loaf of bread in his hands and offered it to her like it was nothing.

—Want some?

The moment he opened his mouth, Blue didn’t hesitate and shoved the potion in.

Of course, Chosen fought back. He wasn’t going down without a fight.

Blue held his face and tried to pinch his nose shut, like she’d done before, hoping he’d swallow it by reflex.

But something was different this time.

Chosen was stronger. Much stronger than Blue, and she realized it the moment her hands began to shake.

And though she’d never say it out loud… she was afraid of him.

She let go.

He looked at her in confusion, the potion still in his mouth, cheeks puffed out like a hamster. Blue stared him down, trying to keep her expression firm. She wanted to seem confident. Determined.

But the truth was, she was trembling.

—Please, Chosen —she said with a shaky voice—. Just drink it.

Chosen heard her. And he noticed the trembling.

He noticed the fear, the tension in her eyes, the way her fingers curled. And he noticed something else: the clear difference between them.

And that difference… weighed on him.

Not because he felt superior. But because, in that moment, he understood the impact his strength could have on others, and that they only wanted to help him.

With a sigh, he swallowed the potion. He made a face. —What the hell is in this stuff?

—The usual —Blue replied, regaining her composure—. You and the others are all such drama queens and—

BANG!

The door on the other side of the desk slammed open and crashed against the wall. Everyone went on high alert.

—Oh no… here he comes,— Orange muttered nervously. The others reflexively covered their ears.

Alan put on his headphones, turned on the mic, and—

—THE SECOND COMING ORANGE BECKER IV!!— he roared from his desk. —GET OVER HERE THIS INSTANT!!

Orange slumped in defeat. He looked at Chosen, who was watching from the kitchen like none of this was his fault. Now he got it. He finally understood why Alan lost his patience so fast with Chosen. And he couldn’t blame him.

With no other option, he stepped out of the folder and walked toward the center of the desk. The others cautiously followed from a distance.

—Would you care to explain what the hell this is?— Alan asked in a tight voice, visibly trying not to explode.

Orange glanced at the screen.

—That’s… your PayPal account. The transaction history, I think?— he joked weakly, trying to lighten the mood.

Alan ran a hand down his face and let out a long, exhausted sigh. —You know that’s not what I mean.

Orange shifted uncomfortably.

—Tell me what happened.

But he couldn’t answer. He averted his eyes from the list and stared at the floor. Then, Alan selected the origin of the purchases. Opened Google. Pasted the address in the search bar.

Cold sweat broke out on Orange’s forehead.

—Okay, I’m gonna hit Enter…— Alan raised an eyebrow. Orange immediately tensed up. —And if this is what I think it is—and for the love of everything, I hope it’s not—you are in serious trouble.

With that, Alan moved his finger closer to the keyboard. Orange twitched, stretched his arms out like he wanted to stop him—but held back. He was desperate to keep up the act, to pretend he had no idea what was about to happen.

And of course, Alan pressed Enter.

The page loaded.

The first thing that popped up was an image of a human woman, barely covered in a sheer fabric, set against a hot pink background with red accents and animated hearts flashing in the banner. The rest of the site appeared quickly, showcasing a very colorful collection of oddly-shaped, highly suggestive objects whose purposes were… better left to the imagination.

—OKAY OKAY CLOSE IT!! JUST CLOSE IT!!— Orange yelled, covering his face, red as a tomato.

—WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING BUYING THIS KIND OF STUFF WITH MY MONEY!?— Alan shot up from his chair, visibly agitated, pacing back and forth. —Do you have any idea how humiliating that was for me?! Looking the delivery guy in the eye as he handed me those boxes—with pink tape and labels that described the contents. In great detail.

—I tried to cancel them, I swear!— Orange stammered. —B-but some of them weren’t refundable and a-a-and—

—Do you know what would’ve happened if Kaori or one of the kids had received that package instead of me?! What was I supposed to tell them?!

Alan sat back down, rubbing his face with both hands, then slumping forward with his elbows on the desk, his head buried in his palms. He looked absolutely drained, like he’d just experienced one of the most mortifying moments of his life. “I had to tip the delivery guy double to take the boxes back before anyone else saw them…”

Orange had no excuse. He just curled in on himself.

—I’m sorry… I really am. I did everything I could to stop it but… I’m sorry.

—Who did it?

Of course, Orange wasn’t going to say. But Alan already had a pretty good idea. Still, he wanted to see if the real culprit would let Orange take the fall alone.

—I’ll take the punishment,— Orange said, just as Alan expected. —Whatever you decide—I’ll take it. They’re my responsibility, and—

—IT WAS ME!

They both turned toward the folder entrance.

—I did it… I went to the site and placed the orders,— Chosen admitted, leaning smugly against a floating folder with his arms crossed.

Alan inhaled slowly. Counted to four. Exhaled.

—Would you care to explain why you did that?— he asked, in a voice so calm it was downright threatening.

Chosen shrugged, completely unfazed.

—I just thought your wife deserved something that could make her blush in bed… since clearly you don’t.

A collective gasp echoed through the entire PC.

The stickmans all slapped their hands over their mouths in horror.

The apps rearranged themselves in their windows like they were trying to look away—some even froze with their jaws dropped. Even the antivirus minimized itself out of secondhand embarrassment.

Orange just covered his face with one hand.

Alan slammed both hands down on the desk. Everything shook.

—ENOUGH! YOU’RE GROUNDED!

—WHAT!?— Chosen threw his arms up. —YOU CAN’T GROUND ME! I DON’T EVEN LIVE HERE!!

—AS LONG AS YOU’RE UNDER MY ROOF, ON THIS PC, USING MY INTERNET, YOU FOLLOW MY RULES! GET TO YOUR ROOM!

—WHAT PART OF ‘I DON’T LIVE HERE’ DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?!

—THEN SLEEP IN THE BARN WITH THE ANIMALS! — Alan shouted, pointing toward the Minecraft house.

—YOU CAN’T FORCE ME TO SLEEP IN A BARN!

—It’s that or the chest! Your choice! But you’re not getting out of this without punishment!

Chosen trembled with frustration. And then, as if he couldn’t hold it in anymore, he let out a blast of fire that scorched the Google page, leaving a giant hole in the middle of the screen.

—I HATE YOU, NOOGAI!!— he screamed, arms raised, before storming into his folder.

—IF YOU EVER PULL SOMETHING LIKE THIS AGAIN, OR WORSE, I’LL REVOKE YOUR POWERS!!

—I HATE YOU!!

—FINE!!

And with that, Alan stormed out of the room, muttering a long string of curses under his breath. Orange could only sigh, completely defeated by everything that had just happened.
Meanwhile, in Red’s Minecraft barn, the animals quietly watched as their home was overtaken by a furious black stickman shouting obscenities into the hay.

Coincidentally, on the other side of the desk, Alan was also yelling… though into a pillow.

Alan finished washing the dishes and entered his room, ready to sleep beside his wife. Kaori was still in the bathroom. Alan let himself fall onto the bed, exhausted both physically and mentally.

Damn it... he just wanted to sleep.

He was only thankful that this day was finally coming to an end.

He turned when he heard the bathroom door open. He saw Kaori come out wearing her loose pajamas… and holding a box in her hands. She didn’t say anything, but her look was enough. It was one of those looks that said: “We need to talk,” without using a single word.

—…Um… everything okay, Kao? —Alan asked, sitting up with slight discomfort, mentally preparing himself for whatever was coming.

Kaori sat beside him on the bed. She placed the box on her lap and laced her fingers in front of her lips. She was pensive. Chose her words carefully before speaking.

—Alan… —she finally looked at him—. Is there something you want to tell me?

He blinked, confused.

—Huh? No… why are you asking?

Kaori then handed him the box. Alan took it and opened it… only to close it immediately, as if something had exploded in his face. His face turned red instantly.

Lingerie.

A delicate, elegant piece, far too flashy to be considered just “underwear.” Clearly not something one would expect to find by accident… let alone receive by mail if they didn’t order it.

One package had arrived early.

—Alan… I know it’s a nice gesture, and if the idea was to surprise me, I appreciate it —Kaori said with a slightly shy smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—. But next time… ask for my size, okay?

Alan let himself fall backwards onto the bed and covered his face with the sheets. Embarrassment wasn’t enough. He wanted to disappear.

—PUUF!

He hid under the covers as if they could shield him from the world, while Kaori let out a soft laugh. She gently rubbed his back, trying to comfort him for what, in theory, was a gesture of affection… that he had never actually planned.

—H-hey, I’m not mad. Some brands have weird sizing. We can exchange it if you want —she said while trying to calm down her husband, who at that moment could only think about digitally murdering Chosen. Whether he liked it or not.

Alan eventually pulled his head out from under the covers before he suffocated. Kaori hugged him from behind, thanking him for the gesture without knowing it hadn’t been his idea. Alan finally calmed down enough to fall asleep.

He was exhausted.

Mentally, physically, and emotionally drained.

Too tired.

The screen was burning.

The screams pierced his ears like blades. Alan clenched his teeth, his jaw trembling, unable to look away. A girl with black hair, a gray dress. She stumbled through the ruins of a digital city. She was trapped under debris… and a fireball reached her.

She died screaming.

—THIS! —Victim’s voice was a roar—. THIS IS WHAT YOUR ANGEL OF DEATH DID!

Victim stood before him. The gray figure pointed at him in rage, while the screen froze on an image of Chosen descending, his hands wrapped in fire. Alan trembled, unsure if it was from fear or shame.

—I… I didn’t know.

Victim let out a broken laugh. A humorless laugh, raspy and venomous.

—Don’t give me that crap, Noogai.

—NO, really! I didn’t know that Chosen… —he tried to explain.

—LIES!

The screen changed again. Now Alan and Chosen appeared together, with the cursor floating between them. The moment seemed casual, almost complicit.

—And what’s this? —spat Victim, his voice now shaking with rage.— A date? Your casual murder session? Did you go kill stickmans and then have tea over their corpses? Pick new victims for your twisted games?

—NO! —Alan regained his voice—. It wasn’t like that! The Dark Lord created a virus. A virus he wanted to release across the Internet. I was his first target. He sent spiders, thousands! They infected my system. Chosen and I… we barely tolerated each other back then. But he was understanding and brave enough to save my PC. He did it despite everything!

Victim was silent for a moment. Maybe out of respect. Maybe because he wanted to hear how he would try to justify himself.

—Yes, I helped him! —Alan continued—. I helped him defeat the Dark Lord. But that was it. We weren’t a team. We’re not friends. And we have no plans to destroy more lives.

Victim’s laughter returned, deeper.

—“Brave”? “Understanding”? —he repeated with scorn—. For a monster like you… those words mean nothing.

The screen changed again. More fire. More screams. Stickmans falling, trying to escape, trapped by the flames or the debris from collapsing buildings, red lines, explosions. The classic Newgrounds icons were now ash and smoke.

And then, she was back.

The stickman girl in the gray dress. Trapped under rubble, screaming, struggling to free herself. Her face was full of terror.

She wasn’t code. She wasn’t just a drawing.

She was someone.

—He took everyone… —Victim said with a voice full of deep pain—. Innocents. Maybe some guilty. But… why her?

The girl’s harrowing scream echoed. The pain in Victim’s voice was louder than any sound effect.

—She was innocent.

Alan swallowed hard, praying the next words wouldn’t be what he feared.

—She was my everything.— His eyes locked onto the screen. —...She was my wife.

Victim’s voice shook. It trembled with pain, with rage… with helplessness. Alan felt something crushing his throat, unable to swallow, unable to breathe.

—Do you have any idea what it was like to lose her?

He didn’t look away from the screen. He couldn’t.

—DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IT’S LIKE TO LOSE MY ONLY REASON TO LIVE?!— Victim hurled a spear at the cursor. —DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IT’S LIKE TO LOSE A WIFE?!

Alan barely managed to dodge it.

—YOU COMPLETELY DESTROYED ME!— Victim shouted, launching more weapons, one after another, mercilessly. —ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?! YOU TOOK EVERYTHING I EVER LOVED!!

—I DIDN’T KNOW THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN!— Alan tried to defend himself.

—Alan?— a soft, familiar voice echoed around him.

—YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE TO BLAME FOR ALL THOSE DEATHS!

—Alan. Alan, wake up.

—YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE RESPONSIBLE FOR THAT TERRORIST!

Kaori…?

Alan’s eyes flew open, gasping. His throat was so dry he coughed, his eyes burned, and his head throbbed with every heartbeat as if it would burst. But there were hands. Warm, human, alive. Stroking his back. Then those same hands gently cupped his face with urgent tenderness.

—Alan! Alan! It’s me. It’s okay. It’s okay.— Though his blurry vision could barely make out her face, the voice was unmistakable. Kaori. Surely looking at him with her soul twisted in a knot.

Alan barely managed to whisper her name. His eyes widened in panic as he saw fire behind her. Not the one from the dream. A real one.

Behind Kaori, flames rose.

Like that time.

Like with her.

The girl with black hair.

About to die.

—NO!— he hugged her all of a sudden, tight, desperately. —He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t-

He had to protect his family from the fire.

He had to save her.

He had to—

—ALAN!— Kaori’s voice snapped him out of it. —Sh, sh, shhh! It’s okay. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.— Her hands on his face again, forcing him to look at her. —I’m here. Can you follow my breathing, love?

He nodded, trembling. They inhaled and exhaled together. Once. Twice. Three times.

Kaori watched him. His eyes were focusing again. He was coming back.

—It’s okay, Al,— she whispered, brushing his hair. —It was just a nightmare. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s alright.

Alan finally blinked. And the image cleared.

It wasn’t fire. It was the lamp on the nightstand. Kaori had probably turned it on when she saw him tossing in his sleep.

—Feeling better?

Alan sat up, leaning against the headboard. He was still shaking.

—My head hurts… I’m thirsty.

—I’ll get you some aspirin and water, okay? I’ll be right back,— Kaori said, taking his hands and giving him a gentle kiss. —I’ll be right back.

Alan nodded. He tried to smile back, even as his lips trembled. He watched her leave the room.
He sighed. Once more.

But it wasn’t just a nightmare.

It was a memory.

A real one. One his body didn’t know how to forget.

What he lived inside that box… was real.

The stickwoman with black hair… was Victim’s wife.

Victim had had a life inside that world. He had loved. He had found peace.

And Chosen destroyed it.

His own creations destroyed it.

And he, Alan…

…was the author.

Kaori came back with the glass of water and the pills. She sat beside him, spoke gently, handed him a pill.

Alan looked at her. Felt his heart shatter.

He couldn’t imagine losing her.

Not like that.

Not the way he lost her.

He lay against her shoulder and began to cry. Not with pride. Not with rage.

He cried like a broken man. Like a coward. Like a hypocrite who was only now starting to understand the damage.

Kaori said nothing.

She just held him.

Stroked his back.

Let him cry until the trembling became a sigh, and the sigh became sleep.

And as he fell asleep in her arms, she held him tightly. Feeling powerless against whatever her partner was going through.

Chapter Text

—What are we animating today? —Orange asked as he opened the animation program.

Alan looked at him in silence for a few moments. His eyes blinked, his mouth twisted into an expression Orange couldn’t quite describe, and then he said, —No... there’s no need for you to join me today. I’ll handle it. Thanks.

That was what Alan had said half an hour ago.

Orange felt the urge to ask again, but he took Alan’s words as final.

However, now he was starting to doubt.

Alan stared at the computer screen with disinterest. He moved his tablet pen along the guide lines of the animation. It wasn’t something that required too much attention or care... but even that was important for the animation to come out right. Orange knew that.

Something was wrong with Alan.

He noticed it every time Alan closed his eyes or blinked—he’d shudder, wince, or his hand would tremble. Then he’d open his eyes again, sigh, and return to animating.

At another time, Orange would’ve gone straight to ask what was wrong. But now, it didn’t feel right to worry about Alan. Not anymore. Maybe not ever again. He wasn’t sure.

All he could do was sigh, tired of being angry and disappointed with Alan.

It felt like he’d lost him.

But Alan was still there. Alive.

But as Purple had explained, that was normal—because what he’d lost was the image he had of him. That idea that made him admire him, trust him... now replaced by a new version, one he could barely look in the eye without remembering what he did to Victim.

He shook his head, trying to push those memories out.

The only good thing about all this was that at least his friends could come out of the folder and freely play across the desktop screen.

The beach ball Blue, Red, and Yellow were playing with rolled away from Blue and bounced toward the area where Alan was animating.

Blue stopped a few inches from the program window, unsure whether to go in. Alan, on autopilot, pushed the ball back to Blue and returned to his work.

Blue just picked up the ball and went back to the others.

And yeah, that’s where they were now.

At a standstill.

One where they didn’t know whether to trust Alan or just ignore him.

—It’s weird, isn’t it? —said a voice from above.

Orange looked up. Chosen was watching him from a higher folder, crouched down, hunched over, arms dangling at his sides—like Batman. A depressed Batman.

Which made sense—he’d recently stumbled across a page full of DC comics.

—Are you always this dramatic? —Orange asked.

Chosen dropped his theatrical pose, crossed his feet, and looked down, embarrassed.

—Uhm... He’s acting strange today.

Orange could only sigh silently. —I know.

—Aren’t you going to go over there and say something?

He shifted uncomfortably at the same question he’d asked himself. —...I don’t know... Everything feels weird since we got back. Victim, the secrets, the lies... you...” —He rubbed his face with both hands, frustrated.

He didn’t notice Chosen glance away guiltily.

Chosen looked at the screen again, watching his creator still with that distant gaze. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or not that Alan hadn’t exposed his past as a terrorist yet.

But he had seen what secrets like that did to relationships.

They broke trust. Broke loyalty.

It almost felt wrong that Alan was the only one carrying all that responsibility.

Key word: almost.

Alan could very well carry his own sins and Dark’s, and their names would be cleared. As far as he knew, their creator knew that he and Dark had been terrorists—but not what they had done. So that still worked in his favor.

He could still control the narrative.

He could even lie to Alan himself!

That way, he could avoid guilt. Avoid the group seeing him as a monster. Avoid Orange and the others hating him.

He just didn’t know what kind of story to make up yet.

Dark was the one with the ideas—he just followed.

Orange only watched as his brother sank into his thoughts. Probably planning how to keep bothering Alan.

He sighed, unmotivated, and went back to his room inside the house. He opened the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out some blank sheets of paper. He needed to do something—anything—or he was going to lose it.

His hands paused when they found a drawing.

A drawing of the girl with gray hair.

He’d drawn her when his insomnia had gotten unbearable. No matter how long he waited, he couldn’t sleep.

So he started drawing... and he drew the girl with gray hair.

He closed the drawer with the drawing inside, slamming it shut, and went back inside the folder where he’d been hiding. He sat in the empty space and began folding paper birds.

He finished one origami, and it started flying around.

Happy with his creation, he kept folding. His goal was to make an entire flock of origami birds. One, two, three, six, ten flew around him. Not enough for his taste, so he grabbed more paper and kept folding.

It was enough to keep his hands and mind busy for now.

—They’re pretty, —Chosen said, walking into the room with one of the origami birds in his hand. —Did you make them?

—...I wanted something to distract myself with, —Orange replied, a little embarrassed but flattered, with a shy smile.

Chosen let the bird keep flying and sat in front of his younger brother.

—Can you teach me how to make them?

Orange looked at him, surprised by the request. Chosen just clasped his hands together awkwardly.

—Sure, come here, —he said, moving closer and handing him a sheet. —Follow me.

Fifteen, twenty, thirty, forty... fifty?

He’d lost count of how many birds they’d made together. But he didn’t care. Spending time with his older brother, even if it was in silence, just folding paper that only flew when Orange touched it... It was the closest they had been in a long time.

Chosen watched in awe at Orange’s skill and went back to making origami with a smile.

—You know… I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day.

Orange looked up after releasing another origami bird. —About what?

—About your safe place. The desktop… it’s been your lifelong home. I didn’t quite get it at first because… —Chosen looked away nervously; the memories dragged him back to his wandering days with Dark. They never had a fixed place until they found that abandoned building— Well… I’ve never really had one. Or at least, not one I could truly call home.

—Why not?

Chosen shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t ready to talk about his life as a pyromaniac with Dark.

—Just… stuff. —Pathetic excuse— The point is, while I was out in the Web, I found several places that seem safe. No cursors, no surveillance. Places where all six of us could live.

—...Live? —Orange tilted his head, confused.

—Yeah! Forgotten Facebook games, Dragon City—Red would love it. Also Encarta, which used to live with old computers. And KIZI! It’ll be like our digital playground. Perfect for starting over.

—Wait, wait. ‘Live’? What do you mean by that?

—When we’re free! —Chosen exclaimed with enthusiasm. —Ever since you said the desktop was your only safe place, I started researching. I began to understand how you guys feel. And now I get it. It’s normal to be afraid of leaving what you’ve known your whole life.

Chosen started pacing, waving his hands passionately. Orange followed him with his eyes, silently.

—And that’s okay. But… it’s not healthy to live in fear and walk on eggshells in your own home. That’s not freedom.

—…Where did you read that?

Chosen scratched his arm, embarrassed. —Yellow let me use his computer and I started digging.

—Uh-huh… —Orange murmured.

—The point is, when the six of us are free, we’ll go to those places and start again. All six of us. We could even start our relationship as brothers from scratch, —he gestured excitedly— like we were never separated.

Orange smiled softly at the idea…, but one word kept buzzing in his mind.

—But… free?

—Oh, yeah. Yellow’s been helping me get this damn thing off, —he said, motioning to the metal ball he was still dragging— Once I get it off, I’ll open the portal and we’ll leave. —He placed both hands on Orange’s shoulders— We’ll finally be free. Together.

Orange smiled slightly at the thought. But something stirred inside him.

The idea sounded… nice. But something didn’t add up.

Freedom?

Didn’t they already have it?

They had never felt like prisoners of the desktop. Sure, it was full of half-finished files, keys, sticky notes, forgotten coffee mugs, and unfinished animations. Yes, things were complicated and stressful now. But it was also the place where they shared games, jokes, silly ideas, and unpolished dreams.

But trapped?

He’d never felt that way.

He had always felt… free.

But… what if we were trapped? What if we just got used to it?

—It’s a good plan, right? —Chosen concluded, sitting down beside him.

Orange took a moment to answer, blinking as if waking from his own thoughts. Feeling a knot in his chest.

—I… wow. It’s an excellent idea, but… what about Alan?

Chosen frowned, confused. —What do you mean?

—He… he’ll be alone. No one to help with his animations and…

—Orange… HE’S AN ANIMATOR! I’m sure he can create new stickmen to torture.

Orange instantly took offense. —He’s not like that anymore. He’s changed.

Chosen scoffed. —Oh sure, he’s really changed, —he said, shaking his chained foot.

—He did it for your sake! You wanted to leave and you were still limping! —he raised his hands in exasperation— Besides, he had the decency not to lock you in the trunk and gave you options despite those weird purchases! How the hell did you even know about those pages in the first place!?

Chosen looked away, embarrassed.

—Why do you keep defending him? —he asked, hurt. —It’s literally his fault you all had to go through torture with Victim. —Orange clenched his jaw— And your friends only tolerate him so he doesn’t get mad!

Orange puffed out his cheeks, visibly angry. —No one’s obligated to talk to Alan! They do it because of me—because… because— a word he couldn’t say got stuck in his throat— because it’s the right thing to do!

He finished with arms crossed, lips pressed into a trembling line. And Chosen noticed.

—Orange? —Chosen looked at him suspiciously. —…Are you hiding something from me?

Orange started sweating. He looked around, lips sealed tight.

—…Mmmmmmm… I…

—ORANGE! —Blue screamed, bursting in with his arms raised and a horrified expression— IT’S TERRIBLE! EVERYTHING’S A MESS OUT THERE!

Both hollowheads stood up and followed him out of the folder.

Chosen braced to attack the cursor—it was the only threat he could think of. Orange had the same thought: maybe whatever had been bothering Alan had finally gotten to him and he was taking it out on them.

But… they weren’t prepared for what they saw.

The flock of paper birds they’d created had escaped the folder and now invaded the desktop.

Some pecked at Green. Others pestered the computer icons. Firefox was trying to burn them, ALO wielded a sword trying to drive them off, and Yellow struggled to stop the birds from taking his computer. The antivirus had detected the birds as a threat, and the same little figures who had once captured Chosen were now chasing the birds with a net.

And Red… well… he was feeding them.

Maybe he thinks he’s Snow White?

—This… isn’t something you see every day, —Chosen said, unsure how to help.

—HEY! —they saw Blue trying to snatch some books back from the birds— DON’T EAT THOSE!

—Um… can you burn them, please? —Chosen moved his foot again, remembering he couldn’t fly with the prisoner ball still attached— Oh… uh, I mean the ones close to the ground… please?

He shrugged and accepted the task. It had been a while since he’d used his powers to destroy anything.

And while Chosen helped destroy the origami birds, Orange remembered that Alan was still working. When he looked in his direction, he saw that Alan had put a thick bar over the animation he was working on—of course, using keyboard shortcuts to quickly switch back to the brush.

And Alan still had that distant stare.

Whatever was going on with him. It was serious enough that he didn’t care paper birds were wrecking his computer.

It was already night, and everyone was gathered in a circle in front of the screen, watching videos titled "How to recognize signs of manipulation in a person?" It had been Blue's idea, who had proposed it in a calm yet determined voice, wanting to protect Orange and keep everyone else safe. Especially Orange, for the upcoming conversation with Alan.

They had already watched three videos from different creators, some with animations, others with exaggerated dramatizations that Green found alarmingly addictive, oddly enough.

Each one of them had a notebook in hand. They were taking notes as the video played, pausing it now and then to comment or write things down that others hadn’t noticed—whether due to differences in perspective, experience, or simple distraction.

Like when Orange got stuck watching an animated example because he liked the background music.

But the goal was clear: work as a team. Together.

When the fourth video ended, they all closed their notebooks and placed them in the center, side by side so the others could read their notes.

— I feel like Alan might change the narrative —said Yellow, pointing to one of his notes—. It says, Make us feel guilty for defending you.

— I think so too —agreed Chosen, and read aloud from his list—. “Say he did it ‘for your own good’” or “If you had told me earlier, none of this would’ve happened.”

— I have something similar —added Blue, flipping through his notebook written in neat handwriting—. “You’re imagining things” or “You’re exaggerating, I’m not like that.” That’s emotional gaslighting, according to video two.

— The one with the lady and the puppets? —asked Red, frowning.

— Yeah, that one —said Green.

— I wrote down... —Orange hesitated while flipping his notebook, which had drawings instead of words on some pages—. “I only did it because I love you”... and “Everyone left, only you understand me.” Does that count too?

— Yes —everyone replied in unison.

— Whoa! —said Orange, eyes wide—. That sounds so sad!

— And manipulative —added Chosen, raising an eyebrow—. Those phrases prey on guilt.

— What if he says something like… “I thought we were a team”? —asked Green, sounding uncertain.

— That too —answered Yellow—. If he says it right when you're complaining or defending yourself, it's emotional blackmail.

— And what if... he gives you a cookie and then yells at you? —asked Orange innocently.

— Manipulation through positive-negative reinforcement —said Blue as if it were obvious. Then he hesitated—. I think.

— I wrote one down that scared me —murmured Red, flipping through his wrinkled notebook—. “After everything I did for you...”

Everyone fell silent for a moment.

— Alan has said that —Green said quietly. The others stared at the floor, sad.

— ...Mhm —Confirmed Chosen. Then he closed his eyes for a moment before looking at Orange—. You need to be careful if he starts using these phrases when you confront him, Orange. You mustn’t let him win.

— And what do I do if he does? —asked Orange, hugging his notebook to his chest, feeling the weight of the situation for the first time.

— LEAVE! You leave that meeting immediately, take the escape route we planned, and we hide —answered Yellow with an oddly mature voice. Then he looked at everyone—. And if he starts looking for Orange, we’ll refuse and defend ourselves.

— Should we write that down too? —asked Red.

— Yes —replied Blue, writing a new section at the end. “What to do if it happens?”

Orange looked at his notebook full of drawings, crooked arrows, and underlined words like “guilt,” “responsibility,” and “control.” He didn’t fully understand everything, but he knew one thing.

Alan wasn’t evil... not completely. But his actions had made him rethink his entire existence.

Their friendship.

And now, just in case, he wanted to be ready.

Beside him, Chosen listened in silence. He heard the phrases, the analysis, what they would do if. Everything they were planning in case Alan said any of those things. Trying to protect themselves, trying to protect Orange.

And inside… something twisted in him.

Was he doing the same thing Alan had done?

Wasn’t he also shaping the narrative?

Because while Alan had failed and was finally caught and faced with his past…

How long until his own past caught up and bit him in the ass?

He bit his lower lip, remembering how he’d dragged these kids into his battles, hiding things—important things—from them. And yet here he was, letting the focus drift away from the monster in his own mirror… to the one everyone knew.

It’s easier to blame him. Easier to point fingers, easier to build a story where he was the victim who had to become strong. Even though he had also been the executioner, destroyer of things... people.

He sighed softly. No one heard him.

There’ll be time to confess later... if I dare.

While Chosen was lost in thought, he didn’t notice that Orange and Yellow were glancing at him from the corner of their eyes. Not in a threatening way. It was a doubtful look, almost shy.

Eventually, it was time to sleep. Their friends went to their rooms, and Chosen took the couch as his sleeping spot. At first, they had offered to build him a separate room while he was living inside the computer.

He declined, saying he was already used to sleeping on the couch.

But Orange couldn’t sleep. His mind kept going back to the gray-haired girl. He opened the drawer of his nightstand, turned on a flashlight, grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil. He started drawing her again.

Victim hadn’t told him her name.

He only knew she had been someone important to him. And that she died.

He looked through the edges of his door, seeing Chosen sitting in the dark with a blanket over his body. He was playing with a Rubik’s cube. Probably in the same state as Orange.

Thinking about everything.

He turned back to his bed, sat down and stared at his drawings again. In one, he had drawn the gray-haired girl with a try at a happy expression. He thought maybe drawing her that way would erase the image of the rocks falling on her.

Killing her.

He hoped she didn’t suffer much.

He slid under his covers, a storm of emotions rushing through his head. He felt angry, betrayed... but also disappointed. He remembered Chosen’s words: It wasn’t his secret to tell.

Were Chosen’s actions motivated by the pain he felt toward Alan?

Did he do it because he was a bad person at the time?

And if he really had been someone evil, like Victim said... why did he help him?

Why did he help protect Alan’s computer?

Why did he even fight alongside Alan to defeat him?

…

Why did he hide his powers from him?

He covered his face with a pillow and groaned out loud. Then started rolling around on his bed, flailing his arms and legs. THIS IS SO FRUSTRATING. Finally, he lifted his head to catch his breath, wiping away a few tears that had slipped from his eyes. He grabbed another sheet of paper nearby. On it, Alan’s cursor was holding a giant circle and throwing it at a gray figure.

He stared at the image, feeling a knot in his chest as he remembered his interrogation.

Orange was inside the same box where he had seen Chosen. Right before they blocked his vision with an image of himself with powers. Until a door opened and the same hollowhead he’d seen before walked in.

—Very well. I hope you’ll cooperate faster than that terrorist— he said. An image appeared in his hand—. Tell me. Where is he?

Orange looked at the image, not quite understanding what the man wanted—. …That’s… a cursor.

Victim chuckled under his breath at the stickman’s apparent innocence, —No, kid… I mean his user. You and the angel of death were created by this very same creator—. He began walking around him, —including The Dark Lord… and me.

Orange frowned—. Alan created you?

Victim smiled, satisfied. Orange cursed himself internally for revealing that, —So you do know him—. He snapped his fingers, and a chair appeared behind him, —Alan? What a common name for a monster.

That pissed Orange off, —Who are you to talk about Alan like that? —he said firmly, ready to defend the honor of his father/creator—. He’s a really good person a-a-and, and a good creator! He’s the kindest person I’ve ever met!

Far from what Orange expected this stranger to do, he didn’t expect his expression to twist into one of deep disgust. And then he laughed. That made Orange even angrier.

—T-There’s nothing funny about this! Who are you to talk like that about my dad?!

And the laughter stopped. The man turned his head toward him with a gaze so intense it made Orange tremble. Then he sat down, an aura of danger surrounding him.

—My name is Victim… and I was that monster’s first creation of that monster you call father—the last word he spat out like venom.

Orange stared at him in pure confusion, scanning him up and down, trying to spot a lie in his face. But reading Victim was like staring at a mask—unbreakable… and it gave him a really bad feeling.

—Where is he? —Victim said, stepping closer—. Where is Alan?

Despite the fear gnawing at him, Orange wouldn’t let this man get near his father. —I’m not telling you anything.

Victim rolled his eyes with an annoyed growl, head tilted back.

—Of course you’d refuse, just like the other one—. In his hands appeared the same thing Chosen had on his face—. Do me a favor and stay still.

—NO! DON’T PUT THAT THING ON ME! —he yelled, struggling.

—The first thing I say and that’s the first thing you do—. Rolling his eyes dramatically as he raised a hand to his temple.

Three cube-shaped figures appeared behind and to the sides of where Orange was tied, locking him in place. Victim placed the mind-reader, causing Orange’s head to slam against the cube behind him.

—REWIND! —Victim barked to someone outside the box.

Orange looked up at the screen displaying his memories. Chosen had gone through the same thing. It showed his fight against the mercenaries. The moment Chosen pulled him out of the PC and dragged him through the portal.

HE WAS GOING TO SEE ALAN’S ENTRY!

Orange clenched his teeth and started banging his head against the wall behind him.

—OH COME ON. ARE YOU TWO BROTHERS OR SOMETHING?! —shouted Victim, grabbing Orange’s head to hold it still—. KEEP REWINDING!

Despite the pain, Orange was satisfied to see they didn’t witness the entrance into the PC.

But they did start seeing their little battle game with weapons, before Chosen arrived and took him away.

Victim laughed.

—This is your so-called father? —he let go of Orange’s head, staring with a cruel smile—. What kind of father tries to kill his own children? That’s the act of a monster.

Orange puffed up his cheeks at that comment.

HOW DARE HE KEEP CALLING HIS DAD THAT?!

—KEEP REWINDING! —he shouted, leaving Victim baffled—. Keep rewinding and I’ll show you.
Victim stared at him, measuring his resolve. Orange didn’t look away. Finally, Victim stepped back, now wearing an expression that looked almost… uncertain. Orange smiled.

Victim turned to someone behind the box, —Keep rewinding.

The images kept playing, with Victim watching Orange’s memories, his face shifting through various expressions.

From Orange surfing on the cursor all over the desktop. Then the other stickmans climbing on, wanting to ride too. Memories shifted to everyone playing a game called LOL, cheering Alan on. Another memory where it was just Orange and Alan drawing, then giving each other a high five.

And finally, a memory showing Alan’s face.

He looked tired, sad, and Orange was trying to call to him, along with the other stickmans. The scene moved to the sounds of a pencil scribbling. A satisfying sound followed, and the image showed the human and the five stickmans… hugging him.

The screen ended with the human placing his index finger on the screen along with Orange laughing happily, followed by the others.

A moment of unity.

Victim froze the image. He stayed silent, eyes locked on the scene.

—See? Alan’s not a bad person— Orange broke the silence—. I don’t know who you’re looking for, but it’s definitely not Alan.

Victim slowly turned his head toward him. His gaze was ambiguous. Then, he yanked the mind-reader off Orange’s head, making him whimper.

—…Please, just…, just let Chosen and me go. We didn’t mean to cause trouble. We’re sorry for trespassing, we didn’t kno—

A blow cut him off. Orange only managed to groan in pain from the sudden strike to his cheek. With trembling lips, he looked at Victim. Victim’s gaze was distant, his breathing heavy, lips tight… until he sat down again, conjuring another chair.

He kept breathing sharply. And like activating a mask.

He became the same Victim as before. Stern. Cold. Unyielding.

—You must’ve done something— he muttered, trying to collect himself. But his voice trembled with contained rage.

Orange could only squirm uncomfortably in the ropes tying him to the chair, his cheek aching—. W-we didn’t do anything.

Victim shook his head, unsatisfied.

—Do you think I’m stupid, kid? —he got closer. Orange trembled—. A monster like him doesn’t magically change overnight. So tell me, what did you do so he wouldn’t kill you?

Orange flinched at how close Victim’s face was. He tried to shrink, to make himself smaller. Victim finally pulled back and sighed in disappointment.

—Do you know why I’m looking for him?

Orange, unsure how to respond without getting hit again, shook his head silently. Victim took the mind-reader, and immediately, Orange began trembling again. That thing already gave him a headache. But this time, Victim placed it on himself… and the screen changed.

Everything was from Victim’s point of view.

And there it was, Alan’s cursor.

And then, it all turned into a horror movie. Torture. Again, and again, and again. Orange couldn’t keep watching after they drowned him. He had never seen a lifeless body float before.

He didn’t even know that could happen.

—That monster you call father is nothing but a wolf in sheep’s clothing— Victim muttered, looking at him again with fury barely contained—. So…, I’ll ask you again—. He leaned in—. What did you do so he wouldn’t torture you? You… and your friends.

Orange could barely process what he had just seen. His mind was spinning relentlessly.

Victim was a creation of Alan.

Alan had told them he hadn’t created any other stickmans.

But Victim existed. Chosen too. The Dark Lord… they were Alan’s creations.

That meant… Alan had lied to them.

A scream of pain escaped him as he felt something sharp stab into his leg. Victim grabbed his cheeks roughly, squeezing hard.

—STOP IGNORING ME AND ANSWER!

Orange was gasping. His voice trembled when he spoke, —I-I don’t know! W-we just drew together just… just…—a memory surfaced. One from long ago—. One time he killed them.

Victim finally let go, but the shuriken was still embedded in his thigh.

—Speak.

Shaking, he forced himself to grit his teeth, despite the pain and tears—. O-one… one time he killed them, when we first met, h-he tried to kill me too, b-b-but… I resisted, and, and, and then we talked—. He started breathing hard again—, we managed to communicate through the text tool, and, and a-and…—he shook his head, unwilling to say a certain detail. —T-then he revived my friends—

—Wait… revived?

—YES! H-he revived them and, and, and then we became friends— he swallowed hard, teeth clenched—. A-and that’s all.

—That’s all? —Victim asked, leaning in, a hand on the shuriken. A silent threat.

Orange trembled.

—YES! THAT’S ALL I SWEAR! WE LEARNED ABOUT EACH OTHER’S WORLDS AND SINCE THEN WE’VE LIVED ON THE DESKTOP.

His eyes stayed fixed on the weapon in his leg. He only dared look up when Victim lifted his chin. The older creation stared directly into his eyes, searching for lies.

—I-i-it’s the truth.

Victim held the gaze for a long moment. He studied him in silence, digging through his face for any sign of deception. But all he found were tears… and fear. Finally, Victim pulled out the shuriken. Then he began to walk away, leaving Orange trembling, trying to cradle his wounded leg.

—He never told you about me, did he?

Orange looked down, —…he said… he hadn’t created anyone else before… me.

Victim laughed. A dark, broken laugh. Maybe wounded. Maybe bitter.

—Of course he wouldn’t confess his sins. What kind of role model would he be if he told you he tortured his firstborn? Really now… what kind of father lies to his children about his past? —he said as he walked away.

Orange could only lower his head and whisper, —…he changed.

Victim stopped halfway and turned his head, —Did he really?

And the question hung in the air, like an open wound that refused to close.

Orange could still feel the sting of the weapon in his leg, even though he was already back home. He was safe, yes… but the danger was still there, hanging in the air. And he didn’t know if it was because Alan was nearby… or because Victim’s words still haunted him.

He looked again at the image of the gray-haired girl in silence.

If Alan needed this time to tell him the whole story… did that mean Chosen needed time too?

Should he also give him a deadline to speak the truth?

His young mind was tired of thinking and remembering.

-

-

Alan felt like he was going insane. It was the third time he got up that night—he simply couldn’t sleep. The gray-haired stickman kept circling his mind, haunting it to the point where he’d started drawing her. He was trying to give her form.

Because imagining her was very different from drawing her.

He already had several scribbles on different sheets scattered across the table, some scratched out from how wrong they were. His body was screaming, and his eyes were begging him to go to bed, but he couldn’t. He had another reason not to sleep—and it was the one that terrified him the most.

—Alan-

—JESUS CHRIST! — Alan jumped at Kaori’s touch. —God, Kaori, don’t do that— clutching a hand to his chest.

She looked guilty, —Sorry, I thought you heard me— She glanced at the papers on the table. —Is… that a new character?

Alan made weird noises as he gathered all the drawings under his arms, starting to pile them up. —No…, it’s nothing, just… ideas.

She looked doubtful but eventually accepted it, —Alan, it’s really late. You need to sleep. You can keep working tomorrow.

Alan’s eyes clearly showed how reluctant he was to sleep. —Yeah…, I’m sorry… I…

In the end, Kaori took his hand and led him to the bedroom. She was the first to lie down, and Alan followed her lead. But while Kaori slept, Alan lay awake under the covers, his brain fixated on details.

Had he checked all the stove knobs to make sure they were off?

He vaguely remembered doing it. But… what if he hadn’t?

He got up, went downstairs, and headed to the kitchen to check. He saw them, touched them, turned them on and off to be sure. Satisfied, he went back up and laid down again.

Had he turned off the oven too?

He got up again, went downstairs, turned the knobs on and off again, and finally the oven. Everything was off. He went back upstairs and just sat on the bed.

Maybe he should unplug the stove?

With that thought, he went downstairs again, found the outlet, and unplugged it. He went back up—but didn’t sit down this time.

Maybe he should flip the kitchen circuit breakers too?

He went back downstairs again, opened the breaker box, and looked for the one for the kitchen. He didn’t want to turn off the fridge, just the stove. HE FOUND IT. He shut off power to that area and finally went back up to the bedroom.

…Wait.

The gas tank.

HE HAD TO DISCONNECT THE GAS.

He went downstairs again toward the kitchen. But stopped upon realizing that disconnecting and reconnecting the gas tank took time, and Kaori had to make breakfast quickly for the kids. It would take too long and they’d be late.

But… but he couldn’t just leave it there.

WHAT IF THE HOUSE BLEW UP!?

WHAT IF THE HOUSE FILLED WITH GAS AND THE KIDS TURNED ON THE LIGHT AND IT EXPLODED!?

WHAT IF—!?

As he stepped back, he stubbed his pinky toe on the furniture, snapping him out of his thoughts. He cursed silently from the pain until it passed. He took a deep breath, counted to four, and exhaled slowly. He ran his hands over his temples and messed up his hair.

This was ridiculous.

He was becoming paranoid.

Exhaustion was catching up to him, his brain demanding sleep, just like his body. With heavy steps, he climbed the stairs again, breathing deeply and—

Gas.

Was that gas?

Did it smell like gas?

THE HOUSE WAS FILLING WITH GAS!!

—KAORI! —he began shaking his wife. —KAORI WAKE UP! THE HOUSE IS FILLING WITH GAS!

Kaori jolted awake from the yelling and the shaking, —W-What!?

—THE HOUSE IS FILLING WITH GAS— pacing back and forth, clutching his head. —WE HAVE TO GET THE KIDS, CALL THE FIRE DEPARTMENT, AND—

—ALAN BECKER YOU SIT DOWN THIS INSTANT!! — Kaori ordered, startling Alan. With his hands clasped to his chest, he sat down wide-eyed. She, on the other hand, put her hands over her face, inhaled, and sighed. —Alan… there’s no smell of gas.

—YES THERE IS!

—LOWER YOUR VOICE! — she also covered her mouth. —Lower your voice, you’re going to wake the kids and they have class tomorrow. — Alan felt guilty and received a stern glare. —Alan… it doesn’t smell like gas.

—But… but I smell it. — he insisted, pacing again.

—Alan, I have a more sensitive nose than you. I can still smell the warm milk you made yourself— Alan seemed to reconsider. He hadn’t told Kaori he had a glass of milk.

Alan ruffled his hair again, closed his eyes, and smelled.

There was no gas.

In fact, there was no smell at all.

And that made him exhale in exhaustion. He trembled for a moment, and his lips did too. Kaori gently placed a hand on his arm. —Alan… what’s going on? You’re worrying me, you haven’t slept all night.

He looked away. He wanted to cry.

Damn it, he wanted to cry. But… he couldn’t.

—S-sorry…, I… I don’t know what’s happening to me. I…— he stood up and went downstairs again.

In the end, he sat on the couch, which he had moved to face the kitchen entrance. He couldn’t go back upstairs and sleep peacefully. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

The death of Victim’s wife had been haunting him all day. His traitorous brain couldn’t stop imagining Kaori in that same situation. He hated himself for having that thought. But… he couldn’t help it.

—Alan— Kaori’s soft voice in her One Piece pajamas called from the stairs. She sat next to him and said nothing. She just waited. And waited. And waited. —Does this have to do with that dream you had the other night? — she asked gently, cautiously.

And Alan didn’t know how to tell her he was scared she’d die like the wife of a stickman he tortured when he was a 17-year-old punk. So instead, he said, —…I dreamed there was a fire. — He didn’t dare look at her, only stared at the kitchen. In case he was missing something. —I didn’t know where the kids were… but you were there.

She didn’t move from her spot. —…Is that why you hugged me? Tried to pull me away from the fire? — he nodded.

Then Alan watched as Kaori got up and went upstairs.

He simply laid back down where he was, with no intention of moving. Staring at the kitchen like it was his enemy tonight. Then a large blue-striped blanket with sheep designs passed before his eyes.

He looked to his left to see Kaori with a pillow and another blanket just like it. She draped it over his back, shoulders, and head. Then she sat down, placed a pillow near Alan’s legs, laid down, and covered herself with the blanket.

Alan had to blink, trying to make sense of what was happening. —Y-you don’t have to do this… you’ve got work tomorrow.

—If the fire happens, we can both get the kids and get out together, —she said, adjusting her head and drifting into the world of dreams. —That way… no one gets left behind. Together.

She yawned and fell asleep. And Alan could only try not to wake his wife with his tears.

They would be safe—except for his stickman kids. Though he knew he could send them messages or call them and tell them to get out before the fire reached the computer.

That way they’d be safe.

And… he probably wouldn’t see them again.

He shook his head at that thought.

He didn’t sleep, it’s true.

But at least his anxiety wasn’t making him imagine the house smelled like gas anymore.
He only managed to fall asleep in the early morning hours. His neck was going to hurt, but honestly, he didn’t care.

Chapter Text

—The animated stage is almost ready. I just need you to tell me if you want to change anything or add more details— said Skim on the other side of the screen.

—Thanks, man. I’ll send you the details later today— said Alan as he downloaded the files from Gmail.

The call went quiet as Alan waited for the files to finish downloading. He blinked and noticed Skim was looking at him in a way he had already seen from Kaori, DJ, and—unfortunately—his own kids.

—Alan…

Alan silently begged Skim not to join the growing list of people who were worried about him. But Skim eventually just shook his head.

—Nothing.

Though Alan wasn’t sure what was worse—being told something was wrong, or being told nothing at all.

He was fully aware of how he looked lately. His dark under-eye circles, his pale skin that looked almost sickly, his messy hair, and his hands that trembled every time he tried to lift something heavy.

He sighed tiredly.

—Just tell me, Skim.

Skim twirled his stylus between his fingers.

—...I think you’ve already heard these words more times than you think— he said without looking directly at him.

Now Alan felt guilty. FABULOUS.

—I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. It’s just… — he took off his glasses and rubbed his face and greasy hair — I don’t want people looking at me like that anymore.

Skim nodded quietly. He might not be as close to Alan as DJ was, but he could tell something was wrong. He had heard Alan had been sleeping on the couch lately. At first, he thought maybe Alan had a fight with Kaori, but DJ had explained that wasn’t the case. Alan was just afraid the house would fill with gas and explode.

A dark thought, no doubt.

The result was that Alan spent his days completely exhausted, barely managing to stay awake to work.

—Mmm, you know…, I think I have an idea for what you’re going through.

—I’ll take anything right now.

Skim sent him a link to an online store. —This helped my grandma when she thought someone was stealing her gas. It’s a blocker—you put it on the valve and shut it tight, that way no gas can flow.

Alan looked at him with a spark of hope. —Seriously?

—Why would I lie to you? I use one myself.

—Why?

Skim ran a hand through his hair. —Because... well, living on my own for the first time, with a grandma who insisted no one could be trusted, left me with a few traumas— he chuckled to himself.

—Can you send me the model?

Skim felt a flicker of hope when he saw Alan smile. —Of course. I’ll also send you a video of how mine works. Maybe it could be a nice little project for you and Kaori.

Alan let out a small but audible laugh.

—Why would we do that?

—My grandma and my mom had to help me set it up. It turned into a hilarious family moment because my grandma was so bossy.

The conversation went on a bit longer, until it was time to say goodbye. Alan couldn’t remember the last time he had looked forward so much to receiving a package he ordered himself. Kaori was excited too—anything that helped her husband was more than welcome.

The little device was installed, and there were a few laughs and fumbled hands along the way. Thankfully, gas makes a noise when it’s flowing and when it’s not.

Kaori could see a real sense of relief on Alan’s face.

She made sure to message Skim, thanking him for saving her husband from insomnia—and possibly from a full mental breakdown.

But of course, the device had to pass Alan’s own inspection first. So Kaori had to endure one more night on the couch, keeping watch with Alan. But it would only be until Sunday morning.

Kaori could take it.

—Will Dad be okay if we go to the park? — asked her daughter, already bundled up with a coat and hat.

—Your dad needs rest, but he’ll be alright— she replied, watching her son give Alan his dinosaur plushie to help him sleep. Alan stood silently at the top of the stairs.

He kissed his head and returned to Kaori. Kaori gave Alan one last smile before they left and he climbed the stairs.

Alan had to admit he’d been sleeping a lot lately.

Almost like Orange.

And as his exhausted brain slowly shut down, he wondered what his stickman kids were doing now.

Would they miss him?

Would they ask about him?

...

Would they still love him, after everything?

He couldn’t form any more questions—because his brain finally gave in and let him sleep.

The Minecraft sky had become a kind of visual therapy for Orange. Even if it looked peaceful, his thoughts still dragged him back into everything.

It had been Green’s idea to return to Minecraft and spend a few days at King’s house, after realizing Orange hadn’t been sleeping well lately. And when Orange—lover of sleep—loses rest… the group knows something’s really wrong.

If he could have a pillow that said “sleep” on it, he’d carry it everywhere like a plush toy.

The point is: Orange loved to sleep.

And not sleeping didn’t just make him grumpy—it made him ultra-sensitive and apologizing for literally everything.

Watching Orange say sorry for everything had already stressed the group out too much.

Green was the one who took the initiative and dragged the whole group back through the portal. Not without making sure Chosen would be okay, of course.

Chosen, for his part, was still entirely absorbed in his comic book marathon—DC and Marvel alike. From the classics to the most modern ones, he had found a page with over 500 titles available… and he was already on number 15.

Actually, he was the one who practically shoved them through the portal, desperate to be left alone with his comics.

And so, there was Orange.

Lying on the blocky grass, staring up at the clear, pixelated Minecraft sky. The geometric clouds drifted slowly above him. His arms were folded behind his head, and even though his eyes were open, he didn’t seem to be seeing anything.

He was lost in thought… thoughts that only seemed to get worse by the minute.

—RED! That’s not parkour, that’s a suicide attempt— shouted Green through laughter, barely dodging a makeshift lava pit.

—It’s parkour with adrenaline! — Red shouted back. But Green removed the bucket and replaced it with a rail block.

Purple, laughing from the top of a tree, was trying to place a line of slime blocks in a diagonal.

—If anyone makes it across this without breaking their bones, I’ll give you an enchanted carrot!

Everyone turned to where Orange was lying, waiting for some kind of reaction from him. Nothing.

—Did he die? — whispered Red.

—I’m not dead, Red — said Orange without moving, which startled Red since he hadn’t expected to be heard.

—Uhh… then are you dead inside? — Red added with a sideways grin — ’Cause that would explain the mood lately.

Silence.

Red looked at the others for help, but Green signaled that now wasn’t the time. Everyone went back to finishing the race course—maybe, just maybe, if Orange saw the platforms, he’d be tempted to come play with them.

Orange, for his part, only felt worse.

His friends were trying to cheer him up… and he was just pushing them away.

What kind of terrible friend does that!?

He ran his hands down his face, turned onto his side, and hugged his knees. Feeling like everything he knew was gone forever.

He hated Victim. He hated Chosen. He hated the girl with gray hair.

…He hated Alan…

…

Did he?

—It’s funny — said a deeper voice. Orange looked up to find King—no crown, no staff, just a very tall and very human-looking man. Renewed. —You’d think in a world made of blocks, thoughts would be easier to organize. But they’re still as messy as anywhere else.

King sat beside him, also looking up at the sky, like he was searching for something in the pixelated clouds. It felt… natural. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was comforting.

—Want a useless piece of advice? — King said suddenly.

Orange glanced at him, confused.

—Like what?

—When I was younger… and I got nervous in a meeting or in front of a crowd, someone told me to picture everyone in their underwear. Supposedly helps you relax.

—…but… we’re stickmans. We don’t have clothes.

King laughed at the logic. —I know. The guy who told me that wasn’t very bright.

Orange blinked for a moment before letting out a small laugh.

—So I had to imagine something else. And I thought of cows… explosive cows — Orange blinked again — With capes. Flying over a mountain.

Orange burst into a short, snorty laugh—badly disguised. —And that worked?

—Nope — King smiled, shrugging — Sometimes thoughts don’t get fixed with logic. They loosen up with something absurd.

—Even if it’s a flying cow?

—Even if it’s a flying cow.

A shout echoed in the distance. Then Red’s voice:

—DOOR!

—CANOE! — replied Yellow.

Orange turned his head slightly. Red was standing on a door, refusing to use a standard canoe. Green was mumbling curses under his breath. Everyone had a different idea of obstacles—rails, trampolines, random blocks—it was a mess.

—They’re going to kill themselves — Orange muttered.

—Probably — King agreed, smiling with his eyes — But they’ll die laughing. Together.

Orange looked down. His fingers were twisting a blade of grass without realizing it.

—I want to laugh too. I just… can’t— he said, leaving his dirt-streaked hands in his lap — I feel like I can’t, or like I don’t deserve to. I’m… I’m the one responsible and, and, and, and— he swallowed, throat dry — Everything that happened feels too big.

—I see — said King — But… you’re not alone. That’s what makes it a little easier. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.

Orange took in every word, remembering all the adventures, mistakes, and chaos shared with his friends. No… with his brothers. That’s what they were now. Including Chosen.

…

Chosen.

He pushed the name of his half-brother-by-Alan to the side. He wanted to focus on those who had always been there. The ones who supported him even when everything was falling apart.

—Sometimes I feel like… if I let myself get distracted… I’ll—

—Exploding cows with capes— hummed King. Orange smiled again, until they heard an explosion behind them. —Look at that. A whole band of functional chaos.

Orange pressed his lips together, looking back up at the sky. —It’s just that… my head’s a mess. I can’t focus.

—Then don’t — said King calmly — Sometimes the best thing you can do is not think. Give your mind a break. Jump, laugh, break a tooth if you have to. There’ll be time for serious stuff later.

—Break a tooth?

—Isn’t that what kids say these days? — King asked, slightly embarrassed.

Orange chuckled softly, shaking his shoulders.

Another burst of laughter rang out from far away, followed by a rain of slime blocks falling from Purple’s tree, temporarily flattening Green and Red. One of them screamed something about his ribs.

Orange laughed a little louder now. He covered his mouth but couldn’t hold it back.

—You don’t need to have all the answers today. Sometimes, you just need a good laugh… and maybe a ridiculous parkour race.

Orange sat up straighter, sighing and feeling lighter this time.

—Do you think if I jump onto that slime block right now, I’ll survive?

—Pfft, how should I know? I definitely wouldn’t.

They both laughed, and for a moment, the sky didn’t feel so heavy.

The Color Gang smiled as they saw Orange approaching with a shy expression. Without a word, Blue handed him a slime block, and that was enough to get the group excited to finish the obstacle course.

King was lounging in a beach chair, relaxing and waiting for the moment to act as the parkour race judge. His sunglasses and coconut drink perfectly matched his current aura.

He was fully committed to being lazy.

Until he heard an explosion in the distance. He blinked and realized the kids were charging toward the finish line at full speed—throwing anything they could at each other to gain the lead.

Red riding a chicken, fighting Purple with wings and fireworks.

Blue and Yellow battling with enchantments, Yellow defending with food-based inventions.

Green using his classic fishing rod, and Orange throwing punches and snowballs—despite there being no snow anywhere.

King panicked, realizing how fast they were coming. He scrambled into position, ready at the finish line, prepping the camera flash as they got closer and closer.

Everything felt like slow motion. And then—

They crossed the line.

The camera flash went off.

And everyone collapsed on the ground past the finish.

Exhausted and defeated.

King looked at the photo. He blinked. Looked again. And again. And again. Looking from the group to the picture, sweat starting to drip down his forehead.

A tie.

A weird one. Almost impossible.

Oh no.

And then, one by one, the kids started getting up. King swallowed hard. He knew he was about to face a horde of six angry kids. He wondered if he should favor his own son or not. They all started arguing over who won—until they remembered King was standing right there.

—WHO WON!? — all six shouted at the same time.

King deeply regretted ever agreeing to be the judge.

Night had wrapped the blocky world in a serene calm. The square-shaped sky sparkled with hundreds of starry pixels blinking in silence. The sound of crackling fire filled the air as the group sat scattered around the campfire—some on wooden blocks, others on colorful carpets.

Green and Blue were jokingly fighting over the last pixelated marshmallow, while Red was trying his best to explain why Endermen weren’t that bad back when he went to monster school. Purple just watched him, somewhat amazed, and Yellow simply listened quietly.

King lay back against a log, watching them all with a peaceful expression, as if just seeing them share this moment was enough.

Orange, meanwhile, was lying on his back on an improvised blue wool blanket, hands behind his head, a small smile on his face. His eyes were fixed on the sky, silently. Smelling toasted bread or roasted meat.

—Look, it’s a Wither! Wait— no, now it’s Green with dark circles under his eyes— said Red, making shadow puppets in front of the flames, casting clumsy figures on the trees.

—Oh, hilarious! — Green growled, throwing a stick at him.

Orange kept smiling, enjoying the moment—the warmth, the laughter, the fresh air. He played with his imagination, forming shapes in the stars. A cat. A bird. A star made of other stars. A fox head. And a… cursor.

A cursor.

His body tensed.

The memory hit like a slap. Alan. Victim. The words. The doubts. The anxiety. It all came crashing back. He growled to himself and sat up, burying his face in his hands. Trying to suppress the groans.

—Orange? — asked Purple, noticing the sudden change — You okay?

Orange blinked. He turned his head slowly, eyes wide and filled with fear. —No — he whispered, trembling — I’m not okay.

And then he exploded.

—NO, I’m not okay! — his body was tense, fists clenched — I can’t stop thinking about it! About what Victim said! About Alan! About whether everything was a lie! Whether what we felt was even real or just manipulation! Was it ever real!? — His words came out like lava, fast and hot — What if it was all just a story, written from the start to keep us under control?!

Silence fell, heavy and immediate. Their faces showed visible concern. None of them had realized just how deeply all of this had been affecting him.

—I don’t even know what’s real anymore… I don’t know if I believe his words. And the worst part is… I did love him! I trusted him! We were his family! — His voice cracked — What if it was all just a game to him?

Orange’s legs were shaking. His breathing was uneven. He ended up collapsing onto the blanket, hugging his knees, feeling guilty for ruining the peaceful, joyful mood.

—I’m sorry… I’m sorry I ruined the moment...

—No, no, you don’t need to apologize. It’s okay — said Purple, sitting down beside him — I get it.

Orange wiped away a few discreet tears and looked at him, confused—just like the rest of the group. —What do you mean?

Purple scratched his arm nervously. Something in him seemed to break. He inhaled, then exhaled sharply.

—Sometimes… — he began, voice low — sometimes the people who are supposed to take care of you are the ones who hurt you the most. And they hide it so well… that you don’t even notice until it’s too late.

Orange glanced sideways at him, silent.

—My dad manipulated me for years — Purple continued — He made me believe I had to follow him without question. That everything he did was “for my own good.” That it all made sense. Until… well, until my mom died.

The silence that followed was longer this time. Red, Green, Blue, and Yellow moved closer, sitting down around them without saying anything.

—After that, he left me. Like I never mattered… like I was useless now.

—Purple… — Green whispered.

—Sorry. I’m not trying to steal the moment or downplay your pain, Orange. It’s just… when I see how your creator—how Alan—treated you all, it makes my code boil. He was supposed to be your protector. Your guide. So many programs never even get to meet their creator. I… I used to wish I could meet mine. To ask him why my family broke apart. If he could… give me my mom back.

Yes.

Purple was angry. Angry at this creator who had hurt his friends.

—The way he apologizes, but then justifies himself. The way he acts like he doesn’t understand what he did… it reminds me way too much of him.

The others were already seated close to the fire. The atmosphere turned thick. Almost sticky. The embers weren’t warm anymore.

They felt heavy.

And the air felt uncomfortable on the skin.

—I thought the same thing — said Blue — That whole “I didn’t mean to hurt you” thing… but he never tells the whole truth.

—What if he’s just acting so we don’t leave him? — added Red, staring at the ground — What if his silence is just the cold shoulder treatment?

—I… I don’t know what to think — Green confessed — I want to believe in him. But I also want to protect you all.

—Exactly! That’s what I mean — said Purple, drawing everyone’s attention — That duty to protect is what keeps you all clinging to him. I thought I was doing the right thing by staying with my dad so my mom wouldn’t worry… but he still threw me away. Still abandoned me when I wasn’t good enough for him anymore.

—Not good enough? — Orange asked.

—When he realized he couldn’t mold me into what he wanted, I chose to stay with my mom. And he just told me goodbye. Didn’t look back. If he’d had the power to erase me… he would’ve done it without hesitation.

Purple finished explaining, and the group continued the conversation with more questions.

But one word stuck in Orange’s mind.

Not enough.

Would Alan have killed them… if Orange hadn’t been enough?

He remembered how he and Alan first met… It wasn’t exactly friendly. They only started getting along after coming to an agreement.

Was that the reason they were still alive?

—And he never came back?

—NO. He just threw me away. I didn’t meet his absurd expectations — Purple finished, sitting again with his arms crossed.

King had been watching the entire time in silence, casting a concerned gaze on both his adoptive son and the group. Part of him wanted to say something. But he chose not to interrupt.

Maybe… Maybe they just needed to let it out.

King had hoped that the conversation had ended the night before. He hadn’t expected breakfast to carry the exact same tone.

—Did he ever make you feel like a tool? — Purple asked while Green chewed on a piece of bread.

—What do you mean?

—He always demanded more from me. That I be strong. Obedient. It didn’t matter if I was tired, or scared… all that mattered was doing everything right. And if I didn’t… he made me feel guilty.

—Did he blame you for failing? — Blue asked.

—No. He made me feel like I was the problem. That if I just tried harder, he wouldn’t be mad. That if I obeyed without question, he’d be proud — He stabbed the yolk of his egg with his fork — So I’m asking you… did he ever make you feel like a tool?

The five looked at each other, maybe speaking with their eyes. Orange stared at his plate, trying to recall clearly. Until Red spoke.

—He made us compete against each other for fight scenes.

—YES! He’d get mad if we didn’t perform the moves perfectly — Blue said, hands on the table.

—He’d make us repeat them over and over until it was perfect! Even when we didn’t want to anymore! — Yellow added.

—I can’t believe he demanded so much from us… while lying right to our faces. He tricked us into feeling special — Green said, leaning back with a tight grip on his glass of milk.

Purple nodded. King slowly raised his gaze, as if wanting to say something… but ended up just sighing and looking away.

—And when we confronted him about his lies, he didn’t even deny it. He just sugarcoated it! — Red finished.

—That’s gaslighting! — Purple pointed his spoon at Red.

The conversation kept going, though not with the same intensity. But it left King with a neutral expression, eyes full of thoughts.

He hoped the afternoon would be different.

Maybe he was hoping for too much. He returned from Stickman City after work and found them doing farming activities. For a moment, he thought maybe—just maybe—they had finally moved on from that Alan topic.

—We just wanted to play! But he saw it as an attack! — Red said, holding a shovel.

—YES! It’s like he’s afraid of us! WE’VE NEVER GIVEN HIM A REASON FOR THAT! — replied Yellow, hands full of dirt.

—Ha! He probably just didn’t like seeing you all having fun. My dad was the same. If I did anything besides training, he’d throw it in my face later — added Purple.

King felt concern for his boy. He’d never seen him hold on to so much resentment.

The night didn’t go any better. The conversation continued, jumping from topic to topic. But that feeling returned again—familiar yet unnerving. King was grateful that at least, by bedtime, each of them would get some rest from all those thoughts.

King was clearly hoping way too much by the third day.

That morning, the color crew returned to their tasks, this time working in the front garden of the house. Digging, watering, trimming. Constant movement, dirt in their hands, and thoughts running wild inside their heads.

The chatter started off as a casual joke—probably meant to help King relax—but somehow, it all circled back to Alan.

—Do you think Alan ever felt guilty? — Blue asked in a low voice, tugging at a long root with effort.

—Maybe… but not enough to admit it — Green murmured, kneeling beside him.

—Or enough to stop lying — added Red, tossing a stone into the pile.

—He doesn’t even realize he lied! — exclaimed Yellow, gloves covered in dirt — It’s like he doesn’t see how much it hurt!

—He doesn’t see it… — said Orange, pausing a moment with the shovel in his hands — He doesn’t understand because he didn’t feel the same. To him, we were a project. A job. To us, he was our life.

The words lingered in the air.

Purple, sitting on a wooden crate, kept scrubbing an empty pot with a rag—like the movement helped him think.

—You know… sometimes I think we raised ourselves. We didn’t have a father. Just a spectator.

No one responded, but they all stopped working for a moment.

King heard part of the conversation while passing by the stone path, carrying a tray of lemonade. He didn’t approach immediately, but his pace slowed. His lips pressed together. He hesitated.

Finally, he walked toward them.

—Guys… — he said gently — I’ve been hearing what you’re saying, and I think we should talk…

Some looked up. Others kept their hands in the dirt. Only Purple looked at him directly, though his face was blank.

—I know you’ve been through a lot. And that this pain is real. But… I also think staying only in the anger can be just as harmful.

Silence.

—Your creator made mistakes. Plenty. But that doesn’t make him a complete monster. I mean… he’s human. That’s different from us. They don’t usually understand us fully, and there’s not much information about them here.

Red’s eyes hardened. Orange pressed his lips tight. Yellow dropped his shovel with a sharp thud.

—And what are we supposed to do with that? — Blue asked without looking up — Forgive him? Pretend it never happened?

—I’m not saying that — King replied calmly — I’m just saying… if you let your emotions take over completely, you won’t be able to think clearly. And you’ll only hurt yourselves more. You still don’t know his full side of the story.

—So you want us to justify him? — Purple interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

—No. I want you to defend yourselves. But don’t destroy yourselves trying to punish him.

The words didn’t land. Or not the way he had hoped. One by one, they resumed their tasks. They ignored him. King stayed there for a few more seconds, watching how they avoided him. Then finally, he sighed and turned away silently.

The afternoon passed.

The tension didn’t.

That night, like the one before, the conversation carried on into dinner—though now it came in murmurs by the fire. But this time, it wasn’t just pain. It was resentment. And King began to feel like the sweet, noble kids he had once met—before their redemption—were starting to disappear.

The next morning, King walked into the dining room where the others were having breakfast. He carried a tray with fruit and toast. Not because he expected gratitude, but because it was the only thing he could still do for them.

He set the tray on the table and stood for a moment, silently watching them.

—I thought you might want something more than oatmeal this morning —he said with a soft smile.

—Thanks —Yellow murmured without looking at him.

No one else spoke. The others didn’t even react. Only the sound of cutlery, glasses, and bread. A conversation between themselves—but never with him. As if his presence was unwanted.

King swallowed. He stepped forward.

—I’ve been thinking… about everything you’ve said these past few days. If you want to talk, or clear anything up… I’m willing to listen.

Red slowly looked up. His gaze was sharp. Direct. —You’re not the one we want to talk to, King.

—You weren’t there —Green added, eyes locked on the tablecloth —So please… don’t get involved.

Purple said nothing. But he didn’t lift his gaze either.

And somehow, that silence hurt more than any words.

Blue simply stood and took his plate to the sink. King stayed still. His face didn’t show pain, but something colder. Bitterness. He nodded once, as if accepting a boundary that was no longer his to cross.

He took a step back. Then another. —I understand —he said, voice steady.

He turned to leave the room, but before crossing the doorway, a voice called out behind him.

—K-King…

It was Orange.

The boy looked at him—not with harshness, but with slight concern. Orange didn’t know what he wanted to say. Something deep inside told him this was wrong.

He looked to Purple for guidance, but he didn’t move. He just grimaced, uncomfortable.

King simply returned Orange’s gaze with calm, patient eyes. No resentment. And left.

Orange lowered his gaze to his plate.

Even later, as they gathered fruit in the garden, Orange couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He saw King behind some bushes, barely visible, picking up fallen branches.

Moving silently, not even glancing at the group.

And somehow, that made him feel worse than thinking about Alan.

—You okay? — Blue asked from the stairs.

—Y-yeah… —he lied, picking up an apple from the ground.

But as they kept working—while Yellow cracked jokes to lighten the mood, while Green argued with Red—Orange kept glancing over his shoulder.

—Guys… —he said, in a softer voice than usual. The others looked up.

—What is it? —asked Red.

—What we said to King this morning… —he rubbed his arm, visibly uncomfortable —It was unnecessary.

There was a pause. Not like the ones when they talked about Alan. This one was different. Awkward.

—He just wanted to help us.

—It’s not his business —Green replied quickly.

—Maybe not —Orange admitted —But that doesn’t justify how we’re treating him.

He looked at Purple, who stared at the ground.

—Don’t you agree, Purple?

Purple swallowed hard, ashamed. —I… I don’t know. I-I mean, I…

Orange shook his head. He wasn’t angry. Just disappointed. In his friends… and in himself.

—…King opened the doors of his home to us. To us. Total strangers, really. And we just pushed him away.

No one replied immediately.

They went back to work, but awkwardly. With less energy. The air was quieter now. But Orange’s words lingered in their minds.

Orange, for his part, set the basket down and stepped away from the group.

He needed to be alone.

Night fell faster this time. Orange had been walking to clear his head and hadn’t realized how far he’d wandered. He finally sat on the grass under the dark sky.

An Enderman noticed him. It tried to scare him—appearing and disappearing, making noises. Ignored. It let out a gruff sound and gave Orange a nudge, waiting for a reaction.
Nothing.

It walked away, hoping for some kind of sign. Still nothing.

A spider that had tagged along tried its luck. It approached with what it thought was stealth. Only to get immediately slammed. Grabbed by a leg and whipped like a ragdoll, then thrown far away.

Orange stayed seated on the ground, hugging his knees.

Both mobs retreated, disappointed. They probably needed to go back to mob school.

Orange sighed again, feeling a bit better… and at the same time guilty for beating up the spider so harshly.

—ORANGE!!

Chapter Text

Orange turned his head at the sound of his name. Amidst the trees, King’s tall figure emerged, hands cupped around his mouth to make his voice travel further.

—ORANGE!! —he shouted again.

—KING!! —Orange replied, waving his arms.

King ran to him without hesitation, and the first thing he did when he reached him was hug him. Orange blinked, confused. As far as he knew, King should be angry.

—For the cursors’ sake, Orange. We were worried about you —said King, checking him from head to toe—. Why didn’t you come back?

—Why don’t you hate us?

King blinked. He hadn’t expected that question.

—Why don’t you hate us? We literally insulted you in your room, in your house —he said, hugging his knees—. I would’ve done it… but here you are. Looking for me.

Seeing that the conversation was going to be long, King sat next to him. His gaze wandered to the dark Minecraft scenery, breathing deeply as he searched for the right words.

—Kid… do you know why I became obsessed with destroying all of Minecraft?

Orange looked at him with sad green eyes and shook his head.

—I… had a son. And I lost him here.

Orange blinked. He was seeing King in a different light now. —I’m sorry.

—My pain lasted a long time. Too long —his voice carried a weight of sorrow—. So much that I stopped thinking about others. I was so consumed by my suffering that I believed no one else could understand it. And that pain… led me to do terrible things. Things that hurt others.

—But… you had the right.

—I did. —He paused to look him in the eyes.— But I didn’t have the right to hurt others. I only looked at myself… and only myself. I didn’t care who I used or hurt along the way.

His memories took him back to that moment when he almost lost Purple. When he almost destroyed this world.

—I only cared about getting revenge on my son. For what this world took from me.

A gust of wind blew from his direction, lifting some leaves and making them dance in the air. Several fireflies began to rise as well, floating nearby, softly lighting the scene. Orange raised his hand, trying to gently catch one. One landed on his finger.

—My fury and pain were so intense… that I didn’t notice this world was full of life —two fireflies landed on his head, blinking softly—. I only realized it at the very last moment.

The fireflies took off again, joining the others as they disappeared into the trees. King let out a small laugh—bitter, but sincere.

—If those creatures had said something. A word, a syllable. Something more than weird sounds and predictable movements. Maybe I would’ve been even more afraid.

Orange watched him, attentive.

—Because if they talked… that meant they were alive. That they felt, thought, suffered. And that… would’ve forced me to see them as more than just code. Would’ve forced me to understand them. And I didn’t want to understand them, Orange. I wanted to hate them.

—Why…? —he asked softly.

—Because they were afraid of me too —King admitted, lowering his gaze—. They saw me as the intruder. The one breaking their rules, arriving with fury and fire. To me, they were the strange creatures, the enemies. But to them… I was the monster.

That struck something deep inside Orange. Painful, but familiar.

If they had said a word. Anything.

And King would have been more afraid… because it meant they were real.

That they could understand each other.

And it made him think of Alan.

He remembered their first encounter while King kept speaking. The only moment where both of them managed to communicate was when he said a few words.

—STOP!! —he remembered shouting as the cursor approached.

And in that moment, everything changed.

Both of their worlds changed.

They moved with caution. As if walking on glass. Trying to understand each other in a way neither of them was used to. Not knowing exactly what to do or how to act.

But they searched.

A way to communicate. A way to coexist.

Now he understood.

He was afraid.

Green was afraid.

Yellow, Blue, and Red were afraid.

And Alan…

Alan was afraid too.

Afraid of something Alan knew, but Orange clearly didn’t.

Because for Alan, they weren’t just characters. They were something he couldn’t fully control.

And for them… Alan was the strange being. The cursor. The creator who spoke in a language they barely understood.

They were both intruders in each other’s world.

Orange took a deep breath. His once-confused gaze now carried understanding. Though there was still pain.

—I’m not saying you should forgive your creator —King said gently—. But… if you’ve come this far, to this point, maybe… just maybe, you should give him a chance. Go in with a clear mind and simply… listen to him.

Orange blinked, realizing he hadn’t heard most of what King said. But not wanting to seem rude or like a bad kid, he just nodded and smiled. King returned the smile—calm, warm.

—I understand… thank you, King —he gave him a hug. King patted his back, —by the way. Why did you come looking for me? I thought you were mad at us.

—Oh. Your friends were very worried about you. So they asked me to help look for you.

Orange looked at him, surprised. He hadn’t expected that.

—My friends? T-they really did that?

King smiled kindly, —hey, they’re your friends. They care about you a lot. They’d do anything for you. Even if it means doing things they don’t like or saying things that are hard to say.

Orange scratched his head, embarrassed but happy.

—You’re important to them —King said, patting his shoulder—. Now let’s go, kid. Don’t make them raid an Elder’s cave looking for clues about you.

Orange chuckled softly.

—Yeah… Oh, and King… I’m sorry.

King looked at him, confused for a second, then smiled and ruffled his hair.

—No hard feelings, kid. No hard feelings.

Orange smiled as he took King’s hand, and together they headed back home.

—WE HAVE TO RAID A CAVE! ZOMBIES MUST HAVE SEEN HIM! —shouted Green, diamond sword in hand.

—THE ELDERS HAVE MORE VOCABULARY! THEY MUST HAVE SEEN HIM! —yelled Blue.

It had been seven hours since they last spoke with Orange. At first, they had been angry with him for backing out, but no one expected Orange to avoid them the whole day.

—I should’ve gone after him. We shouldn’t have ignored him… —murmured Green, lowering his sword and pacing in circles.

—Is this our fault? —asked Red, hugging a chicken he had picked up from the ground. Everyone looked at him. —Did we really treat King so badly… that Orange ran off because of it?

—NO! I mean… well… yes. UGH! I DON’T KNOW! —yelled Yellow, collapsing onto a rock in frustration.

—W-we just wanted to protect Orange from falling for Alan’s manipulations… like Purple said. Right, Purple? —Green asked, desperation in his voice.

Purple flinched slightly. But he didn’t answer. He was staring at the ground, shoulders hunched, eyes blank.

He remembered… how he had turned his back on King.

King… who had taken him in, protected him, healed him.

Whom he had compared to his biological father—

The man who used him and abandoned him.

Whom he didn’t defend, when everyone spoke to him harshly.

Whom they now had asked for help… like it was nothing.

Who probably wanted nothing to do with him now.

—P-Purple? What we did… it was okay, right? —Blue asked, now visibly nervous.

Then, Purple broke down. He buried his face in both hands and started crying, unable to hold it in anymore.

—I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry… —he sobbed, his voice falling apart, his eyes filled with tears—. I didn’t want this to happen! I thought I was doing the right thing! I thought I was protecting you, guiding you…

—Did you lie to us? Again? —Red asked, confused and worried.

—NO! No, never! What I said about my father was real! He was a jerk who left me when my mom died! That part was real! B-but… King wasn’t like him… and I threw him into the same category…

His voice cracked again.

The words spilled out between sobs, and he couldn’t even lift his head.

—I… I messed everything up. I’m the one who projected my trauma onto him and dragged you all down with me!

And he knew it.

He knew it the moment he avoided looking at King. The moment he let them cast him out. The moment no one said anything when that door closed.

And now, more than ever… he knew.

He had ruined their relationship with King.

And his own.

—You projected your father onto Alan… didn’t you? —Red muttered with a knot in his throat.

Purple didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

He didn’t dare look at their faces.

He didn’t deserve these boys as his friends.

He didn’t deserve to have had King as a father figure.

Everything he touched… ended up broken.

—I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…

The silence that followed was heavy. Even the wind refused to speak. Only insects buzzed in the grass, and a distant wolf howled in the woods.

There they were.

Right back at the beginning.

Lost. More confused than ever.

They had come to Minecraft looking for a sign. A reason. A bit of clarity to understand what they felt.

But all they found… was silence.

More doubts. More guilt. More scars.

And now, after everything they said, everything they did…

They had nothing.

No clear answers.

No plan.

Only the bitter feeling of having ruined the little they still had left.

They were back at square one, and empty-handed.

—GUYS! —Everyone turned at the sound of Orange’s voice in the distance. He was with King. —HEY! OVER HERE!

—ORANGE! —the group dropped their weapons and ran to him.

Orange was quickly engulfed in a hug by several colored arms, holding onto him tightly, with no intention of letting go. First Red, followed by Blue, Yellow, and Green. Orange hugged them back just as strongly. Feeling a faint tremble of relief from both sides.

King, meanwhile, stayed a few steps back, giving them space with a calm smile.

—Da-… King. —King barely heard the whisper. Purple approached with his head down and arms wrapped tightly around himself. —I-I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.

Purple didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

Not after messing everything up.

But King, in silence, pulled him into a strong hug, saying everything without a single word. Purple froze for a second, confused. Then he just… clung to him. Held on like King was the only good thing that had ever happened to him, mumbling tearful apologies between choked sobs.

—King.

The man turned to see four kids with their heads down. —We… we’re sorry too.

King smiled again, still with his own child holding onto his waist like he might vanish.

—Hey, it’s late. Let’s go home.

And that was enough. They went home and crawled under their sleeping bags to rest.

But even though everyone was back together, the silence in the room felt heavy. Cold. They were all staring at the ceiling or into space, with thoughts drifting in and out… but never settling on anything.

Until Orange sat up on the bed and looked at the others. He inhaled deeply, then sighed.

—Guys… are you awake?

One by one, they sat up in their beds, looking at Orange with an expression he already knew well—one of not knowing what to do now.

—I… I want to apologize for being gone so long and making you worry.

—…we… or at least I… —Green started to say, glancing at the others.

—Yeah, us too, —the others added in varying tones of guilt.

—Well, we… we also want to apologize. For how we treated King. For how we treated you when you tried to show us we were wrong.

—We were so focused on protecting you that… —Blue said.

—…that we hurt you in the process, —Red finished.

—We’re really sorry, Orange, —Yellow said, lowering his arms in sadness—. We… we thought we were doing the right thing.

Orange blinked in surprise. He had planned to say something similar, but it seemed like something had changed while he was gone.

—And I forgive you. But… I also want to ask one more thing. —The others looked at him attentively.

—Please… don’t hate Alan.

Everyone blinked, confused. But they were willing to listen.

—Why are you asking us that? —Blue asked.

—Listen… we know Alan’s been a complete jerk all this time. And we all remember how our first meeting with him went.

—He was a total idiot, —Green said, crossing his arms.

—Exactly. I’m not going to sugarcoat it because it’s true, —Orange agreed—. But let’s also remember that, to Alan, we were something unknown. And as painful as it sounds… it’s the truth. To him, back then, we were just lines of code. An anomaly.

He could see his friends looking down at that truth, feeling uncomfortable and sad at having been reduced to a bunch of numbers and letters. But Orange continued, as calmly as he could.

—And to us, Alan was a monster. A tyrant who deleted us for no reason. That’s also true. We can’t deny what we felt. But… what if neither of us really understood each other?

—Where are you going with this, Orange? —Blue asked.

—I’m saying that, to Alan, we were just intruders who broke into his computer and started messing everything up with emojis everywhere— the room filled with a small chuckle, —and to us… Alan was a giant who erased us for no apparent reason.

The room went silent again. Each of them processing the thought.

—We were scared of Alan, —Red said.

—And he was scared of us, —Yellow concluded.

Orange smiled in relief at what his friends were starting to understand. —It wasn’t the best introduction, but… then we made that deal. We tried. We tried to make it work.

—Yeah… like when Alan didn’t understand that we could feel cold and heat too, —Blue recalled with a smile—. When he set a snowy wallpaper and we were all shivering…

—He panicked and deleted every single winter-themed background, —Green laughed—, only to then make us matching winter outfits.

—Oh right, —Red chimed in—. We even did a whole photoshoot with them.

Yellow chuckled, shrugging—, he asked us for outfit references, and spent forever on Green, who couldn’t decide which one made him look the coolest.

Green blushed and laughed along with the others.

They remembered how, one Christmas morning, they had woken up to see Alan in winter clothes and asked him why. That was before they discovered Minecraft. Alan had explained that in his world, snow only fell during certain seasons, and that they needed warm clothes so they wouldn’t get sick.

They had been fascinated by that information, and jokingly wished they could experience snow.

So Alan took it as a personal challenge to design winter outfits for them. Each of them picked Pinterest references for him to use. Alan poured his time and care into making those clothes for them—even with Green’s demands.

Even now, when visiting Minecraft, they were still wearing those outfits.

—And when he found out we could see him through the screen… —added Blue.

Red burst out laughing—. When he was shirtless and Orange asked about the two pink spots on his chest!

Orange covered his face in utter embarrassment while the others laughed.

That day, Alan had explained it was really hot and the AC was broken. Until someone came to fix it, he had been working shirtless in his room, thinking he had privacy.

When Orange asked that question, Alan turned as red as a tomato and immediately ran off-screen to grab something to cover up.

He had genuinely thought they could only see his face—not his entire room.

That day, Alan had to give them a crash course on what a human body looked like.

—Oh, and when he saw us playing around with a bunch of online games. He went nuts when the whole desktop was full of them, —Green said.

—In his defense, we definitely went overboard, —Orange replied with a smile—. Sure, limiting our game time wasn’t fun… but it was necessary.

—Pfft, yeah… we were basically Green, but with video games, —Yellow said, laying back.

Green puffed his cheeks indignantly. The rest laughed.

Little by little, the cold silence became warm. Filled with memories they had forgotten. Memories that had been buried under confusing feelings.

—Do you remember when he got headphones, and we heard his voice for the first time? —Blue asked with a nostalgic look.

Red laughed—. We told him he sounded like an old man.

—And he clarified he was only 26, —Green added with a smile.

Orange shifted under the sheets, remembering a unique moment that, no matter how much he might want to hate Alan, he could never forget.

—Do you remember when he first called us “son”? —Orange asked.

They all smiled with bittersweet fondness.

It had been an accident, really, but… was it, though?

Alan and Orange were just hanging out on the desktop screen. Alan was organizing files, moving folders, and deleting old stuff. Basically cleaning. His wife called him, and Alan responded without thinking:

—COMING! Be right back, son.

And then he left. Leaving Orange alone, staring at the screen in silence. Letting the words settle in his mind.

Son.

He called him son.

With energy bubbling in his stomach and his heart pounding with joy, he rushed off to tell his friends.

Yellow chuckled—. He took forever to come back and check on us.

—But his red cheeks and nervous smile gave him away, —Red said.

And from that day on, the word “son” and “dad” became a running joke between them. They’d tease that Alan now had kids in different worlds—two in the human world and five digital children.

Green was the first to speak his thoughts, —Do you guys think… Alan really never meant to hurt us?

—…he had… plenty of chances to do it, actually, —Blue said, shifting his hands under the blankets—. But he didn’t.

Orange nodded silently. Even though they were still unsure about how to feel or what to do, there was something they were certain of.

They didn’t want to hate Alan.

No matter how hard they tried.

They just couldn’t.

—I want to hear him out, —Orange finally said, looking at his friends—. Dangerous or not, liar or victim… manipulative or not… I want to hear him. There’s more to this story that we don’t know, and if Alan didn’t tell us… it wasn’t because he didn’t want to…

—…it’s because it was hard for him, —Yellow added.

—A past he preferred to hide, —said Green.

—A secret he’s ashamed of, or a part of himself he doesn’t like, —added Blue.

—LIKE WHEN WE ASKED ABOUT HIS HUMAN DAD! O-O-OR WHEN WE FOUND THAT PICTURE FROM HIS EMO PHASE! —Red shouted, flailing his arms.

The room went silent after that.

Alan had told them his relationship with his human father was complicated, and made them promise never to bring it up unless he did first.

And about his emo phase…

Well, Alan didn’t want to talk about it. It had come up after they found a photo of him with black eyeliner, a spiked jacket, and hair covering half his face.

A phase Alan very clearly did not want to revisit.

—Um… yeah, that same kind of feeling… but less embarrassing, —Orange said.

—I think, —Yellow concluded, and the others nodded.

—So… we just have to wait, then?

All eyes turned to Orange. They would respect his decision.

Wherever Orange chose to go, they would follow.

Because the five of them had sworn to protect each other.

No matter what.

—Yeah… I choose to listen. And if everything goes wrong or everything goes right… at least I’ll have peace of mind that I tried, —he smiled. Not a big smile, but a sincere, small one—. That we tried.

They looked at one another, understanding and respecting his choice.

—For the friendship we had, —Yellow whispered, with the others nodding silently.

Orange inhaled deeply, then let it out. Feeling like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

He still had things to settle with Chosen…

But one step at a time.

—Well… I guess we should sleep now. I—

—IS THAT THE SUN?! —Red interrupted, pointing at the window.

They all turned to see the square sun rising slowly, accompanied by birdsong.

—IT’S ALREADY MORNING!? —they all yelled in unison.

Just then, the door opened, revealing King in a bathrobe, eyes still drowsy.

—Oh… good morning, kids. I hope you slept well, —he said as he stretched—. You’re up early today, huh?

They all just nodded with awkward smiles while King disappeared into the bathroom. The group collapsed again with long, frustrated sighs, having stayed up all night.

It was going to be a long day.

—Hey guys… are you okay? You look… tired, —Purple asked, holding a shovel.

—What makes you say that? —they replied in unison, lying in baskets, on trees, or buried in dirt bags.

Purple could only shrug, then took a deep breath, gathering courage to speak.

—Guys… about yesterday… I—

—Hey, it’s okay, —Green said, lifting his head from under his straw hat—. No hard feelings. We understand, Purple.

Purple felt like crying again when he saw his friends’ faces. They all nodded or gave him a thumbs up. Except for Orange, who was already fast asleep.

Purple wiped away the few tears that managed to escape and lay down with the group.

Maybe, just for today… They’d do nothing at all.

The day passed without much to do.

Just resting, laughing a little, being lazy.

While King gave them that disappointed dad look for slacking off. In the end, he lay down with them and simply joined the lazy Color Gang.

Seven days.

They had stayed in Minecraft for seven days.

—Are you sure you have to go? You can stay a little longer, —Purple said, hugging Red tightly.

—We appreciate it, Purple… but it’s been seven days now. And we have to go back for the meeting, —Orange said, referring to the meeting with Alan.

Purple nodded.

After one last hug and words of encouragement, they hugged King too, apologized again, and wished him the best of luck.

Both watched the group walk away until they crossed the mountains… Until they were out of sight.

—Well… those were the longest days we’ve had guests.

King placed both hands on Purple’s shoulders—. Yeah… and it’s not over yet.

Purple looked at him, confused—. Huh? What do you mean?

King just smiled, with a mischievous curve in his eyes and a dark glint that made Purple’s hands sweat.

—I booked an appointment for you.

Purple gave a nervous smile—. An appointment? With who?

King, still smiling—. …with therapy.

—…Eh?

They finally arrived at the purple portal that would take them back to the PC. They stopped in front of it, staring in silence for a few seconds. With a strange feeling.

Green took Yellow’s hand, Yellow took Red’s, Red took Blue’s, and Blue took Orange’s. A firm squeeze of trust.

They were in this together.

They took a step and crossed the portal. They were met by the familiar Explorer folder. They expected the worst. Chaos, ruins, the PC in flames with Chosen and Alan fighting among the wreckage.

But instead…

Everything was quiet.

—Silence, —Blue said, looking around suspiciously.

—…strangely silent, —Yellow confirmed, hopping down from the folder they had appeared in—. Why are there so many fold—

—HELP ME! SAVE ME, HERO!

It was Alan’s voice.

Alan was shouting.

Then, an explosion. And more yelling. They rushed out of the folders, only to see that the PC had now turned into some kind of digital city.

Entirely built from open folders, some moving animations, and Minecraft blocks used as support structures for houses and debris scattered everywhere.

The PC’s programs had masks over their eyes as they destroyed the digital city. Firefox flew overhead launching fire, Clippy fought using some kind of… staples?, and tiny stick figures ran screaming.

—What the heck is happening?! —Orange shouted, clutching his head.

—SAVE ME, HERO! SAVE ME!!

At the top of a skyscraper—which was clearly the Proyectos2022 folder—Alan’s cursor was tied with glowing ropes, dramatically hanging as AOIL, cloaked in black and surrounded by red spiders, struck a villainous opera pose.

—T-the red spiders? THE DARK LORD IS STILL ALIVE?! —Blue cried, taking a step back.

—DON’T WORRY, ALAN, WE’RE COMI—

BOOM!

A fireball landed in front of them.

And then he descended.

Red cape billowing. Shiny gloves. Gleaming boots. A classic superhero landing with one fist on the ground, knee bent, digital wind blowing his cape like something out of a movie.

It was Chosen.

No prison ball on his ankle.

—FEAR NOT, CITIZEN! THE CHOSEN ONE IS HERE TO SAVE THE DAY! —Declared Chosen, pointing at the building.

AOIL sent his spiders to attack. Alongside the spiders, Firefox, Clippy, and the rest of the programs—now clearly playing villains—rushed in.

Chosen flew straight into the swarm, leaving a trail of sparks behind.

The battle was… absurd and epic.

Clippy was the first to fall—after an intense sword duel where Chosen summoned an ice blade and Clippy threw… were those boomerangs?

Next was Firefox and the spiders. Chosen dodged Firefox’s flames, spun like a tornado, and froze him solid with an arctic breath. The spiders tried to surround him, but Chosen used his digital laser vision to blast them one by one.

And yes—he shouted his own name with every move.

Then Chosen soared toward the skyscraper.

AOIL gave a wicked laugh and commanded the Google and Internet Explorer programs to attack. Cornered, Chosen raised his arms to the sky, spun dramatically, and summoned a massive lightning storm.

He literally called it Divine Judgment.

One by one, the enemies fell. The spiders disintegrated.

The browsers were defeated.

AOIL tried to put up more of a fight, but Chosen landed dramatically, cape fluttering.

—There’s no need to fight. You can be good… I’m giving you another chance. Don’t waste it, —Chosen said with a comic-book-cover smile.

AOIL stood still, accepting his defeat.

Then Chosen flew to the top of the building, broke the ropes, took Alan’s cursor in his arms, and lifted it high with a triumphant grin.

—I SAVED YOU!

And with that, all the villains magically stood up and began to clap. Confetti and fireworks burst around them. A quartet of desktop icons played trumpets atop the Recycle Bin.

—Oh, thank you, The Chosen One. You’re truly a hero, —Alan said, drawing out the words with a theatrical tone so exaggerated it was clear he was trying not to laugh.

They had only seen Alan act like that with his human kids when they played.

And with them during their roleplay games.

His voice—playful, teasing, completely in on the joke.

And while all that happened, the five of them could only stare with their mouths wide open, trying to make sense of what they were seeing: Chosen and Alan… playing superhero.

—Um… hey guys, —Green finally said.

All eyes turned toward the Color Gang. Including Alan and Chosen—who was still holding him like a rescued princess.

—GUYS! Hey! Welcome back! —Alan said, excitedly.

—GUYS! —Chosen yelped in surprise—. H-H-HEY… what are you— he noticed he was still holding the cursor—. He quickly tossed it away and hid his cape with a nervous grin—. HEY! HI! You’re back he-he-he.

Orange glanced at the external screen, and something twisted in his stomach.

Alan had dark circles still fading under his eyes, wrapped in an oversized coat hanging off his shoulders. His expression, though smiling, couldn’t quite hide how tired he looked.

Okay, clearly a lot had happened while they were gone.

—…were you guys… playing? —Red asked, looking around at the mess of a setup.

—Yes, Alan replied cheerfully.

—NO! —Chosen yelled.

Orange glanced sideways at Alan. His expression dimmed the second Chosen shouted. He lowered his gaze, his lips trembled just a little… but he kept smiling.

OKAY.

SOMETHING WAS DEFINITELY GOING ON.

Chapter Text

Two weeks ago.

—Orange.

—Yes?

—Who is Superman? —Asked Chosen.

He was holding Yellow’s laptop in his hands.

He had just been browsing the internet without breaking anything in the process. What a miracle. Just wandering through random videos and websites… until he came across a trailer. Of someone called Superman. He was a human.

A HUMAN WITH POWERS!

He started researching more and more. About this human with powers.

There was one word that kept popping up: Superhero.

But Chosen didn’t understand what it meant.

He didn’t find much, only that he lived in Metropolis and had saved the world countless times.

A HUMAN WITH POWERS WHO SAVES EARTH!!

Who was this guy?

Why couldn’t Alan be like that kind and good human?

—He’s a superhero —Orange explained.

There it was again. That strange word.

—…a… hero?

—Yes. A hero is someone who does good things for others without expecting anything in return. He has powers, flies, shoots laser beams, has super strength… even ice breath.

—So… he’s a human who does good things and has powers —Chosen repeated, watching Orange nod. He turned back to the screen.

A hero.

That’s what that word meant.

That human was a hero…

WITH POWERS VERY SIMILAR TO HIS OWN!!

—Are you sure this laptop isn’t his? —He asked, staring at Yellow’s computer screen in awe. —What if he’s my real creator?

—…What?

—Yes! Just look at us; we both can fly, shoot lasers, have ice breath, super strength and endurance. WE’RE PRACTICALLY FAMILY!!

While Chosen spoke, convinced Alan had stolen the laptop from Clark Kent, Orange wasn’t sure if he was joking… or if he actually believed it.

—I MUST FIND HIM!

—…What? Who? —Orange asked, now realizing Chosen meant option two.

—CLARK KENT! He works at the Daily Planet, right? —he exclaimed while typing desperately—. If I can find his email address, explain who I am and tell him about my situation.

—Ah… Chosen-.

—HE’LL COME TO RESCUE ME AND WE’LL SAVE THE WORLD TOGETHER!!

—CHOSEN!!

At the shout, Chosen flinched and slowly dropped the laptop to the ground, raising his hands in surrender. Orange sighed. It was time to break some bad news to his big brother.

—Oh… Chosen… how do I explain this… but…—he placed a hand on his shoulder—. Clark Kent… doesn’t exist.

Chosen blinked. —He… doesn’t exist?

Orange shook his head, —Clark Kent is a fictional character, created for comic books. Just like Batman, Wonder Woman, and the rest of the DC and Marvel superheroes.

Chosen lowered his shoulders and just stared.

Orange felt like he had just told Red that the Easter Bunny wasn’t real and that it was actually Alan who gave Blue his cookie recipes.

After standing completely still for over five minutes, Chosen picked up the laptop again and looked at the screen.

—But… there are images. Videos of him walking down the street and-and-and flying. How can you say he’s not real?

Orange inhaled deeply and exhaled.

This was going to be a hard dose of reality for Chosen.

—Come, I’ll explain it to you.

Hours passed.

Hours in which Orange explained that Clark Kent was a fictional character. That even though some real cities showed up in his stories, they were only used as references to make his world believable. That trailers were acted. That the documentaries were behind the scenes. The costumes were just cosplay. That the planet Earth did exist, yes, but Superman was nothing more than a creation made for entertainment.

And during all that time, Chosen could only process one thing: Alan… was still his creator.

Whether he liked it or not.

And that perfect, kind, generous human who used his powers for good…

…didn’t exist.

—…I don’t understand —Chosen finally spoke.

—What don’t you understand?

—Why do humans create these kinds of things? Why invent someone perfect and kind if humans themselves are horrible?

And Orange didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t have the answer either.

A few days ago, he truly believed Alan was the kindest, most generous human he had ever met, and he was lucky to call him a father.

But now, with everything he knows… he feels like he doesn’t know anything.

And watching his big brother having an existential crisis over a fictional human, he decided to help him… somehow.

—You don’t have to compare Superman to humans —said Orange, taking Yellow’s laptop and starting to type—. If you remember, Superman isn’t technically human. He’s an alien from planet Krypton, which was going to be destroyed.

—Y-Yeah, you’re right.

—And even though he’s not real, a lot of humans see him as a role model for superheroes. Do you remember what the “S” on his chest stands for?

—Hmm… HOPE!

—Exactly! And that is real —he said, showing him a video where an actor dressed as Superman was visiting a hospital—. The presence of Superman, even if he’s fictional, brings hope. It makes people want to be a better version of themselves.

Chosen kept listening and watching in silence.

The little humans with cables in their arms laughed and hugged him. From the video title, he understood those little humans were sick.

And they needed hope.

—Anyone can be Superman, really —Orange explained—. With powers or without them. Anyone can bring hope.

And those words made Chosen’s imagination take flight.

He pictured himself with a red cape, long, shiny, and beautiful. A belt, boots and blue gloves.

Flying through the city of Ournet and saving people, while everyone shouted his name in search of hope.

But his thoughts dragged him back to the fire.

To destruction.

To death.

To the deaths he caused.

He shook his head, snapping out of his thoughts.

He looked again at the screen, where the human children laughed and screamed with excitement at seeing that man dressed as Superman, giving them hope.

And suddenly, he felt so small next to that human.

…

At least he could still feel superior to Alan. He told himself that just to not feel so miserable.

—And he has his own story too!

—Huh? Story?

—YES! His adventures, where he meets his dog Krypto, his cousin Kara, and the Justice League, and—

—HE HAS EVEN MORE STORY!!?? —he shouted excitedly, startling Orange.

—Yeah. His whole story is in the comics. And there are tons of them.

—A-And where can I read them!!?? —Chosen asked, now bouncing in place, excited. Despite the prisoner ball chained to his foot, Chosen was happy.

—Green has the links. You can ask him when—

With effort, Chosen took flight toward the folders. From where Orange was, he clearly heard a muffled scream from Green, just before Chosen crash-landed and flattened him.

—Chosen, what the hell!!

—LINK! I NEED THE SUPERHERO LINK! —he yelled while shaking him.

Once he stopped being shaken like a ragdoll, Green, still dazed, said, —Wha…?

And from that day on, Chosen had been reading every comic he could find on the page. Starting with the Superman ones, of course.

Yellow had no problem lending him the laptop, as long as he didn’t destroy it.

But as Chosen tried to find a quiet place to read… someone, or something, would always interrupt.

He tried hiding in Red’s farm.

The animals wouldn’t stop trying to eat the laptop, the chickens laid eggs on his head, and hiding in the hay didn’t help —the sheep would eventually find him.

And he couldn’t kill them… because Red would attack him with that massive trident.

So he tried hiding in Minecraft’s toolbox. It worked for a few hours.

—Oh… hi Chosen. I just… came to fix my pickaxe— Green said.

—…mmm…

Green fixed his pickaxe, closed the box, and Chosen went back to his comics.

Next came Blue.

—Ah, didn’t know you were here. I’m just going to brew some potions.

—…MMMmmm…

Blue took longer than expected, and when he finally got his potion and closed the box, Chosen had already decided that place wasn’t ideal either.

So he tried his luck at the Recycle Bin.

It was a zone full of incomplete animation projects. Some had already escaped their files and roamed freely. He tried to carve out a spot in the middle of the chaos.

But it didn’t last more than a few minutes before one of them tried to destroy Yellow’s laptop.

He ran out of that zone with the laptop clutched to his chest, panting heavily. Flying with a prisoner ball wasn’t easy.

He tried hiding in the color gang’s rooms. Not a good idea.

Green made a lot of noise trying to sing songs with note blocks. And Chosen hated noise.

—What did you think of that tone? I’ve been practicing it all week to show Purple for Christmas.

—Ah.

—I even made some karaoke tracks! She’s gonna love it! —he explained, putting on his black sunglasses.

—Arghh… —sounding more frustrated.

—HEY! Want to join my YouTube channel? —he said, shoving the camera in his face.

—MMrrrmmhhh —he closed the laptop with a grimace.

—I’ve got millions of subscribers. The audience would love to meet Orange’s older bro— He realized he was hugging a pillow.

Chosen was already gone.

—Hey? Where’d he go?

The next room was Red’s.

Just a glance from the doorway was enough to know this animal-filled room was a bad idea.

He’d already fought off a goat that tried to eat the laptop. Not doing that again.

Finally, he found Blue’s room.

A giant chandelier in the middle, potions on shelves, and… everything was very dark.

PERFECT!!

He sat in a corner and… THE LAPTOP WOULDN’T TURN ON!

WHAT HAPPENED?

HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING TO IT!

WHY WON’T IT TURN ON!!??

—YELLOW!! —he flew straight to Yellow’s room.

Yellow was holding a strange staff, which he quickly hid while forcing a nervous smile.

—Yes, Cho? —he asked with a fake smile.

—THE LAPTOP! —he held it up carefully. —IT WON’T TURN ON!!

—…huh?

—IT WON’T TURN ON! —he started pacing in circles as he handed over the laptop. —I-I don’t know what happened. I was just looking for a quiet place to read, and when I was in Blue’s room and tried to turn it on, IT WOULDN’T TURN ON!

—Ah… that’s because it ran out of battery.

Chosen blinked, trying to understand. —It… what?

—It ran out of battery, so we need to charge it for it to work again.

Chosen half-understood, but stayed close to the laptop. Anything in their creator’s PC could destroy it. Yellow came back with a cable and plugged it into the side of the laptop, where a red light lit up.

—Is it charged now?

—No… I just plugged it in. It’ll take a while —Yellow answered, putting on his glasses and stretching.

—…oh… and how long will it take?

—Mmm… about an hour, maybe. My computer’s a bit old, so it charges slowly. I leave it plugged in without touching it until the red light turns white. —He picked up his teacup from the side. —So now we just wait.

And with that, Yellow left the room, leaving Chosen alone. He stared at the laptop. He sat down in place and watched it. He glanced at the wall clock in the white-walled room filled with bunk beds. He moved his hands and feet in circles, waiting. Looked again at the red light, feeling how it was now becoming his least favorite color.

After a while, he laid down and started rolling on the floor, examining the room better.

The walls were too white for his taste.

Almost like being trapped in that antivirus chest.

Only… white.

He closed his eyes, hoping to nap for a bit while time passed.

When he woke up again, he wiped the drool from his deep 15-minute nap. He stretched and looked at the laptop again.

That red dot was still there.

HE COULDN’T STAND BEING TRAPPED IN THIS WHITE SPACE ANY LONGER!!

He got up, determined to see what the others were doing. He looked back at the laptop and figured, if Yellow left him alone with it, it must be a safe place.

So he left and climbed up to the desktop folder, trying to see what everyone else was doing.

His creator was drawing… with a strange expression.

Almost like he was tired, worried… his hands seemed to be shaking…

Nah, not his problem.

He saw the others playing with a ball. From the height he was at, he crouched down. Hunched his body like Batman, feeling himself slip into character as Bruce Wayne.

He laughed inside.

Below, he saw Orange also watching their creator, probably concerned. So he decided to strike up a conversation.

—Weird, isn’t it? —he said from above.

Orange looked up and met his eyes.

Ok.

OK.

He hadn’t expected to spend his afternoon getting rid of origami birds. But at least that was over. At this point, the laptop should’ve been charged and—

—We have a meeting today, Chosen, and we need the laptop— said Yellow, taking it toward the main room. —Wanna join us? We're still looking for clues that might help Orange in his meeting with Alan.

Ow…

So he’d have to wait longer.

—Yeah… yeah, why not?

He soon wished he hadn’t joined that meeting. It only left him more confused. He didn’t like thinking about his feelings. They were complicated. A complete knot.

He didn’t like his past.

He didn’t like feeling lost.

He didn’t like feeling trapped again.

He just knew he didn’t like his creator. He didn’t hate him anymore.

But he didn’t want to be near him either.

He kept playing with the Rubik’s cube, trying to let sleep settle in his eyes. He felt that strange sensation—like someone was watching him from behind. He turned his head to find that stare.

There was a chicken looking at him through the window.

He sighed in exhaustion and put the cube down. He was just upset he hadn’t been able to keep reading his comics.

—Can I use the laptop?

—No, I’m using it right now. Later, Chosen— said Yellow kindly.

But Chosen didn’t move away. He just stayed a few inches behind. And Yellow could feel his stare.

And it was very uncomfortable. And somehow… creepy.

—Um… you can also open the link from the Google icon on the PC, you know?

Chosen looked at the Google icon. The Google icon, feeling his gaze, just started rolling away from its spot until it was out of sight. Same with Internet Explorer.

Chosen looked back at him. —Ah… I’m almost done— Yellow lied.

And so the minutes went by. The slowest and heaviest minutes of Yellow’s life.

He was used to having his friends around, peeking over his shoulder for a few minutes, or just lying near him.

He had never felt that kind of discomfort… with someone stabbing their gaze into his back.

The way Chosen sat there… was exactly how he stayed for AN ENTIRE HOUR.

Without moving. Not even blinking. Almost like a mannequin.

Finally, feeling like he couldn’t take it anymore, Yellow closed the pages and documents.

—I’m done— He didn’t even finish the sentence before Chosen darted forward and grabbed the laptop.

—I’LL TAKE GOOD CARE OF IT, I PROMISE!— he shouted, running out of the house.

Chosen returned to Blue’s room in Minecraft. It was the first dark and quiet place he could find without anyone else bothering him.

But the moment he opened the door, he knew it was a bad idea. The room was literally stained with liquids, there was smoke, a heavy rock song was blasting, and Blue was in the middle of it with a boiling pot, stirring something.

Then she turned around and screamed. —CHOSEN! W-what are you doing here!?

Chosen just blinked, brushing the smoke off his face. —…I… wanted to come here to read my comics.

—Oh… um… I don’t think it’s a good time. I’m… kinda busy hehehe.

—…Yeah… I can see that.

—Uh-huh… well. BYE— and Blue shut the door.

Chosen sighed in defeat.

Now he had to look for another quiet place to read his comics.

He looked at Orange’s room.

PERFECT!

Orange was the calmest of the group, and most of the time he spent sleeping or drawing with the creator.

Although lately, he hadn’t seen Alan on the computer.

BUT WHO CARES!?

He didn’t, of course.

So he went to the room and, just as he expected, Orange wasn’t inside. He tiptoed in and walked straight toward the edge of Orange’s bed.

Only to stop halfway and grip the laptop tighter.

There were drawings on the bed.

Drawings of a girl with gray hair.

The cursor.

Victim…

And him…

He had some kind of red aura over his head, flames coming out of his hands.

Angel of Death.

—He knows…— he whispered to himself.

Victim told him.

Orange knows.

He knows about his time as a terrorist with Dark.

HOW MUCH DOES HE KNOW!?

He felt his arms trembling. His breathing getting faster, too fast.

He needed to leave.

He needed to get out of this room.

HE NEEDED TO GET OUT NOW!

He dragged the prisoner ball out of what was probably the only quiet… and at the same time, torturous room.

He shut the door and collapsed onto the couch that had become his usual sleeping spot lately. Still holding the laptop. He set it aside. He remembered the breathing techniques Blue had taught him when they watched those videos about identifying controlling behaviors.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

He calmed down little by little. Feeling the furniture. Seeing the colors. Smelling Red’s farm scent. Green’s music…, and Blue’s heavy rock. Then he saw the laptop.

A smile formed on his face and he opened it again to continue reading Wonder Woman’s adventures.

Of course, peace doesn’t last long.

—OOOHHH CHOSEN!! WANNA HEAR MY NEW SOLO!!??— Green shouted from the stairs.

Chosen buried his face into the pillow, trying to muffle his annoyance. Not even half an hour had passed today. And he hated that he didn’t have the willpower to say no.

He literally started digging through the desk. Alan hadn’t shown up in days—odd, really. But he didn’t care what happened to his creator.

He kept digging, and digging, and digging…

Until he finally fell into what looked like a mine where everything was pitch dark.

Perfect!

He placed a torch and lay back to dive into his superhero world again.

But his peace didn’t last long, as he started hearing a sound. Something big. Breathing. He sat up, closed the laptop and grabbed the torch, trying to find the source of the sound.

And he saw it.

A tall figure… white, with black lines.

A sort of dirty, white blob. He looked up and saw the white blob had a head, two black dots as eyes, a flat line as a mouth, and what looked like spiral-shaped hair. It also had two arms.

—…ah… is this your room?

The strange creature raised its arms, which oddly grew huge, and he clearly heard a dark whisper.

—BBBBooobbbbb.

—Ah… Bob?

And those giant arms were coming down on him. The only thing he could think about was Yellow’s laptop, so he held it tighter to his chest and ran the way he came. He reached the entrance quickly and clearly saw the weird creature moving like a worm, crawling at full speed with its arms.

He took off flying, with the prison ball scraping the tunnel walls.

He finally made it to the top, panting. He didn’t understand what he’d done to upset that thing.

And he had no idea another creature was even living in the PC.

—CHOSEN! WHAT THE—!? —Green yelled, dropping his drink and clutching his head.

The ground started to shake. Green peeked into the hole.

Bob was trying to climb up.

—NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NOT AGAIN! —He quickly started sealing up the hole with reinforced blocks as deep as he could go.

The ground shook from a sudden impact, then a growl… and then… nothing.

Silence.

Green was breathing hard, hunched over with his hands on his knees, wiping sweat from his forehead. At last, he let out a sigh of relief.

—Ah… what was that?

Green quickly covered his mouth and got very, very close to Chosen’s face, placing a finger to his lips with a long —SSSSSSSHHHHHhhhhhhhh.

Chosen raised an eyebrow, confused.

—Not. One. Word. About that creature, got it? —he whispered, glancing around.

—Ahhh… Why?

—Not… a… single… word —he said slowly. —Promise me.

Still not understanding anything, Chosen just nodded with little interest.

—Not a word about that little white psycho monster —he whispered again. His pupils were oddly small—. Okay?

Chosen blinked, still confused. —…Okay…

And with that, Green walked away. Then stopped to glance back at him. Then walked again… and glanced back again. He kept doing that all the way to the house. Not without opening the door one last time… and giving him the same look three more times.

Weird.

At last, Chosen found a dark spot. Cold, yes. Small too. But comfy enough not to care. He used the prison ball to support the laptop.

His fantasy was crushed again by the sound of the refrigerator door opening. It was Blue.

—Oh… hey Chosen. I just came for some milk. —Chosen handed her the carton—, thanks.

And just like that, the fridge door closed again.

Maybe thirty minutes passed before Red opened the fridge. —Uh… eggs…

—How many?

—…three’s good—. Chosen handed him the eggs that were on his left side—. Thanks.

And the fridge closed again.

Two hours later, Green opened the fridge. —Whoa, this is new.

—What do you want? —Chosen was clearly annoyed.

—Just cold water and—. Three bottles were in his arms before the fridge slammed shut. —…thanks.

The fridge stayed closed for another two hours… until Orange opened it again.

—Chosen! What are you—

—DAMN CURSORS!! WHAT DOES A STICKMAN HAVE TO DO TO READ HIS COMICS IN PEACE WITHOUT CONSTANT INTERRUPTIONS!!!

Chosen marched out of the fridge, dragging the prison ball behind him, while Orange just stared, confused.

—…What were you doing inside the fridge? —he muttered while looking for his ham sandwich. He looked sad when he saw it was all squished—. Noooo… my sandwich…

—NNNNNNNOOOOOO!!!!

When he looked over, he clearly saw Chosen kicking on the floor, screaming, growling, and rolling around. A full-blown tantrum.

Why?

The laptop had died… again.

Orange just blinked, took his sandwich in silence, and walked away from the tantrum, hoping he could sleep better tonight.

Chosen was now hating himself for refusing Orange’s offer to use his room. He kept repeating to himself: Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

Now he was in the middle of the desktop screen, just waiting for Yellow to finish with the laptop. He moved his ankle, where the prison ball was still attached. He sighed, bored.

He’d never felt bored before, but lately, he’d experienced so many feelings he didn’t know he was capable of having… he felt… alive.

—Hey, Chosen! —Green yelled.

Chosen sighed bitterly. What kind of activity were they dragging him into now?

—I wanted to ask if it’s okay if the guys and I take Orange with us.

—Orange? Why? What’s going on with him? —he asked, worried about his younger brother.

Green sighed, looking tired. —Yeah… Orange hasn’t slept well for three days. He’s been really sensitive and looks more tired than usual. He barely eats and just draws.

Chosen scratched the back of his head. This was serious. His little brother loved sleeping, and now struggling with it was concerning.

—Do you know why he’s like this?

—We think… everything finally caught up with him.

Chosen cursed the creator under his breath. —So, what’s the plan? —he asked, already bracing for whatever came next.

—Oh, yeah. We were thinking of taking him to Minecraft and—

MINECRAFT?!

They were going to Minecraft?!

If they went to Minecraft, that meant he couldn’t go to help Orange.

And if he couldn’t go…

THAT MEANT THE COMPUTER WOULD BE ALL ALONE!

AND IF THE COMPUTER WAS ALONE, HE COULD READ HIS COMICS WITHOUT ANY INTERRUPTIONS!!

Just as quickly as the concern had come, it was replaced by pure joy. He would finally be alone! Just him and Yellow’s laptop.

—So I came to ask if it was okay to leave you here alone and…

—YES!

—Eh? But I haven’t even finished—

—I’m sure you all know this is what’s best for Orange. Come on, come on, no time to waste! I’ll help you pack everything!

And after pushing the whole crew into the portal, Chosen clapped happily while bouncing on his toes.

AT LAST, THE PC WAS ALL HIS!!

The first three days were nothing but rest. He enjoyed eating the letters he collected from files lying around, dropping them to the side while he lay back on the Minecraft couch. Best hours of his life.

Watching Green Lantern and other aliens bond with the power ring. Flash, Wonder Woman. EVEN THEIR VILLAINS ARE AWESOME!

But after so many hours glued to the screen, he started getting a headache. It was expected. So he had to put down his comics for a while unless he wanted his head to explode. He began walking around the desktop, imitating Batman's battle poses, until an idea struck him.

Firefox was sleeping peacefully on her planet-shaped bed… until someone lowered the screen brightness.

She turned to see the black stickman lowering the light and then running to the open animation program, moving what looked like a giant spotlight with the bat symbol in the middle. Then he jumped in place and ran back to the Explorer folder.

She didn’t think much of it and tried to go back to sleep… until a bright light suddenly lit up the desktop.

Revealing the silhouette of a bat shining in the darkness of the screen.

—I AM VENGEANCE!

Firefox, now more awake, looked around expecting to find one of the colored stickmans playing. She swore they had left.

—I AM THE NIGHT!!

Firefox looked up to see Chosen with the Batman symbol illuminating the screen. He wore a black cape, a mask, a tiara with points… and the prisoner ball had a yellow mask and a greenish-black cape.

—I’M BATMAN!! AND ROBIN!!! AAHHHHH!!!

And with that final shout, Chosen pounced toward Firefox. She didn’t react in time before Chosen landed on her back and began riding her like a horse. Firefox spun around the PC, spitting fire while Chosen yelled,

—HYAAAHHH!! WOUHH!!

Something the PC programs never expected in their entire existence was to have to hide from a tiny stickman who wanted to play superheroes… with everyone. Whether they liked it or not.

AOL, along with Clipty, hid in one of the unopened folders, peeking out the edges in case the black stickman was nearby.

—You think you can escape our light? —said Chosen, now with a green mask—. NO ONE ESCAPES THE LIGHT OF GREEEEEEN LANTEEEERN!!

AOL and Clipty had to run from the flamethrower Chosen spewed from his mouth.

Over the next few hours… and days, the programs in Alan’s PC felt unsafe in what used to be their peaceful home. Now invaded by a stickman with a superhero alternate reality.

Every day turned into a new game of hide and seek. One day he was Wonder Woman. Another, he was Superman again. Then Batman. Then Flash.

Firefox ended up exhausted after each round of being Chosen’s little horsie.

Until finally, Chosen decided to glue himself again to Yellow’s laptop screen. Those were the only hours the programs could breathe in peace.

And Chosen thought they were being SUPER dramatic.

HE JUST WANTED TO PLAY!

Anyway, he was going back to his comics. With his melancholic Batman, the super-fast Flash, the pretty Wonder Woman, the weird Green Lantern, and of course, his favorite superhero.

The kindest of them all. The amazing Super–

—What the hell!? —he shouted to himself, looking at the comic—. WHAT!? Why!? THE JOKER KILLED LOIS LANE!!?? WHAT!!??

And the more he flipped the pages, the more confused he got.

WHY DID HIS SUPERHERO BECOME AN EVIL DICTATOR!!??

Well… yeah, those guys were criminals. He had a point. But… YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO USE YOUR POWERS FOR GOOD!!

He couldn’t understand why his favorite superhero was now seen as a villain… and Batman as a hero.

WHAT WAS GOING ON!? HE NEEDED ANSWERS!!

—Hey Firefox, I–

Firefox was already on the other side of the PC.

—Hey Google, I need–

Google and the other programs rolled away to hide.

—AOL! I NEED ANSWERS!!

AOL and Clipty dove into the folders.

Chosen stomped hard on the ground and went looking for the other programs.

—WAIT!! I DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU!!

No one listened.

—I JUST WANT ANSWERS!!!

Everyone hid from him.

—STOOOOOP!!!!

He finally tripped and stopped. He was still holding Yellow’s laptop in his hands, watching the programs disappear somewhere on the desktop. Once again. He sat up on his knees, staring at the screen where his favorite superhero massacred a group of teenagers with his powers.

That scene shook him.

It reminded him of when he attacked the Backgrounds.

All the fire he caused…

All the deaths he caused…

All the INJUSTICE he left behind.

And that was the name of the new arc he was reading: INJUSTICE.

The rage gripped his chest again. Emotions he had never felt before…, emotions that made him act in a way that was… childish.

—I JUST WANNA KNOOOOW WHY SUPERMAN IS EVIIIIIIL!!! AAJFSFBSFBSJFJFHEFE!

Tantrum. Orange had called it a tantrum.

He had only seen those reactions in little stickmans, when he went incognito into the city. And he always thought that was ridiculous.

Now he realized he had never learned how to express his emotions properly.

He heard the sound of the door opening, from the outside. He saw the programs rushing out of their hiding spots and quickly returning to the home screen. He closed the laptop and got up to see if it was who he thought.

Alan.

His creator had returned, after so many days of not showing up.

Well…, now he wouldn’t be able to keep chasing programs around demanding answers and–

Wait…, humans made these comics.

What if his creator knew something?

He looked warily at the cursor moving on the screen. Then looked back at the laptop. Then at the cursor again. He inhaled deeply… and let out a long sigh.

There was nothing to lose by trying.

He approached slowly, and looked at the cursor and at his creator.

How should he start this conversation?

Ah, got it.

He picked up a folder… and threw it at the cursor. It bounced off, and Alan looked at him, —hey…

Alan sighed, —…what?

Chapter Text

Alan really hadn’t had a good start to the week.

Yes, he was still recovering from what his wife had called his strange psychotic episode. Alan still hadn’t told her that the reason he was paranoid for three days straight—locked inside the gas-filled haze—was because the wife of a stick figure he had tortured as a teenager had burned alive in an attack carried out by another stick figure he had created and enslaved.

Yeah. Real solid logic.

And ever since then, that image kept haunting him.

And he didn’t tell her because he was ashamed.

Ashamed in a way he didn’t know how to explain.

Because yes, Kaori knew about the stick figures on his desktop. But she didn’t know how many there had been… or what had really happened to them.

And he preferred to keep it that way.

He couldn’t bear for her to look at him the way Orange and the others did now

—Is that Spider-Punk? —Alan lowered his gaze. A child, maybe four years old, was staring up at him with that kind of wonder in his eyes only a kid that age could have—. Mommy! Look, that man’s wearing a Spider-Punk shirt!

Alan smiled. That practiced, fatherly smile you put on when a kid talks to you. But underneath, panic flared.

He hated interacting outside his comfort zone.

Especially now, when he hadn’t fully recovered yet and probably looked awful.

—Aren’t you a bit too old to be wearing children’s shirts like that? —said the woman with the onion-shaped bun.

—…I’m sorry, what?

Oh God no. Please, no.

—Don’t you feel embarrassed? How old are you? Are you having some sort of midlife crisis, or are you just some kind of creep? —Her lipstick-red mouth twisted in disgust, the kind of scolding face you’d use on a child.

Alan wanted to speak. To say something.

HE WANTED TO STAND UP FOR HIMSLEF.

But instead, he did what every introverted adult does.

He looked away, ashamed.

A very mature way to avoid conflict.

The woman grabbed the boy’s hand. The kid looked embarrassed and muttered a quiet sorry.

Of course, the woman then cut right in front of him in line.

—Ma’am, he was here first —the cashier said.

—Well, I’ve got more groceries, and I’m a single mother —the woman shot Alan a side glance—. He’ll probably just go out for a smoke anyway.

And after that, Alan just… disconnected.

Which was a bad idea. It only gave her more reason to keep talking.

The cashier looked at him, and so did the other customers in line.

He felt their eyes on his back. Piercing into his head, into his spine. They were waiting for a response.

And all he could manage was, —…it’s… fine…

He waited. He endured the humiliation like a champion. Paid for his things. Loaded the groceries into the car. Turned on the engine. Drove on autopilot.

Got home. Opened the door. And finally felt like he could—

He walked into the living room, grabbed a pillow, and screamed.

Screamed.

Screamed out of frustration. Out of anger.

Out of that deep hatred he carried inside, because even at 36 years old…

HE STILL COULDN’T STAND UP TO BULLIES!!

—I feel like a complete failure —Alan said, lying back on the bed. Slowly settling into a more stable sleep schedule.

Kaori lay down beside him, staring at the ceiling too.

—Hey, don’t say that. You know if the kids had been with you, that woman would’ve seen the real Alan Becker.

Alan chuckled under his breath —. The real Alan Becker?

—Ohh, you know which one —she ruffled his hair with a smile.

His eyes grew heavy from the touch on his scalp. —Which one exactly? The one who thought he was a worm?

They both laughed.

And even though his week had started horribly, at least it ended on a lighter note. A small hope that maybe this week would be calmer. He hoped Tuesday would be better.

A notification buzzed on his laptop screen.

Four days until Friday.

Four days to fix everything.

Four days to find out whether he’d be forgiven or not.

—Are you sure I can’t just say I had a rough teenage phase?

—No —DJ’s voice came from the other side of the screen.

—But that’s one of the reasons I created Victim! I needed something to take my frustration out on!

—If I came to your house and smashed your door, and then told you it was just because I was having a bad day… wouldn’t that bother you?

Alan mouthed words, trying to find a decent excuse. Nothing came.

—If you say that, they’ll see you’re just making excuses —DJ said without looking up from his sketchbook—. And they’re not looking for excuses. They’re looking for the truth.

Alan leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, already feeling defeated. And it was only 10 a.m. on a Tuesday.

He couldn’t deny DJ was right.

But he didn’t know how to tell his story about Victim without sounding like someone truly cruel and emotionless.

A torturer. That’s what his younger self really was, now that he thought about it.

God… how he wished he could go back and punch himself for being such an idiot.

But then again…

He was just a lonely kid, full of bottled-up anxiety, not knowing what to do with his life. Studying a career he didn’t even like. Drawing at night, trying to build an audience and a portfolio.

He was grateful he’d met DJ.

And yet… he still felt miserable.

And since punching people in public was illegal—and still is—the only way he found to let it out was by drawing that same stickman. Over and over again.

And torturing him. Over, and over, and over again.

But now… that sounded like a cheap excuse. Now that he knew they had been alive all along.

—And how are they?

Alan sighed, snapping out of his thoughts —I don’t know… I haven’t gone in these past few days while I’ve been recovering. But there haven’t been any reports of four stick figures causing disasters in Minecraft, so… I guess they’re still in the computer.

—I see. I made some suggestions for your Word doc —DJ sent the file, and the notification popped up on Alan’s side—. Small tweaks, but looks like you’re on the right track.

Alan opened the file, focusing only on the red notes telling him what to say there.

And then he rolled his eyes at a line that kept repeating itself:

Don’t talk after he finishes talking. Let him speak.

Don’t rush. Let him speak.

Don’t get defensive. Let him speak.

Don’t get angry if they accuse you. Let him speak.

In short: he had to swallow all his excuses and let Orange talk. Even if it meant being accused or blamed.

He swallowed, throat dry.

This was going to be harder than he thought.

Because the worst part wasn’t staying silent.

The worst part was all the things that would run through his head while he did.

 The urge to interrupt, the words that would pile up on his tongue like stones, the imaginary scenes where he defended himself, where someone finally understood him… where he won the argument.

But that wasn’t going to happen in real life.

—It’s not a trial, Alan —DJ said, as if reading his mind—. It’s a conversation. And if you walk in thinking you have to win, you’ve already lost.

Alan grimaced. He hated feeling attacked. It brought back terrible memories. Especially if he felt like he was being painted as a monster.

DJ just kept drawing, unfazed.

—Think of it this way: if they let it all out, maybe afterwards they’ll want to hear your side. But if you cut them off… all they’ll hear is that you can’t own up to what you did.

Alan ran a hand down his face and slumped back in the chair.

He wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

He glanced at the time and sighed, —I gotta go, need to pick up the kids and that order Kaori asked for. Thanks, D.

Back at the shopping center, praying that same woman wasn’t lurking around again. He wore a new shirt this time—one with all the Psychic-type Pokémon from the Unova Region.
It was petty, really.

His daughter was quietly looking at the products around them.

—DAD! I WANT IT! —his son yelled.

Of course, nothing would be peaceful on a trip with kids.

—Champ, we only came for mom’s things. We didn’t come to buy anything —he tried to explain. Of course, logic doesn’t fit inside the brain of a 4-year-old.

—B-b-but I—

—Dad told you to stay home, we weren’t gonna buy anything, dummy —his sister said.

The boy, offended, shot back —I’M NOT DUMMY, YOU’RE STUPID!

—YOU’RE THE ONE YELLING! —his daughter replied.

—YOU YELLED AT ME FIRST!

Oh God, what have I gotten into?

—Yelling won’t get either of you an ice cream, you know? —Alan said, showing the receipt at the pick-up counter.

Both kids crossed their arms, defeated in their failed attempt to get a treat.

But again, they’re kids. And kids don’t accept defeat that easily.

—AAAAAHHHH!!! I WANT CANDY! I WANT CANDY!

Alan glanced sideways at his daughter, who seemed about to go down the same road as her brother. Just one look from him was enough to make her think twice and go back to focusing on her backpack.

He sighed, crouching down to his son’s height.

What did that article say about bribing your kids?

Ah, right.

—Champ… how about we make a deal? —he said in a low voice, pretending to conspire—. If you help me carry the bags without complaining, not even a little bit, once we get home, you can take the Switch to your friend’s house later. As long as you don’t lose it and keep it in its case, okay? Deal?

The boy frowned, still upset, but the chance to play duos with his friend at his house was enough to start calming him down.

—…Deal. —Alan smiled, ruffling his hair.

—You again?

Oh no.

No, no, he recognized that horrible voice.

The woman from before was there, with her cart, fat black purse, same-style hair, same horrible perfume.

God, this really wasn’t his day.

—Is this boy yours? —she asked, eyeing the child with a grimace as she scanned him from head to toe.

His son stopped and hid behind him. Alan placed a hand on his head, protective.

—That’s none of your business, ma’am.

—Oh, but of course it is. That boy looks way too white, it’s impossible he’s the son of an Asian man.

It wasn’t the words that bothered him. It was the tone.

The tone of insinuating something.

—Princess, keep an eye on your brother —he said, raising his voice a little as he placed the boy into the cart—. Now, lady, what exactly is your problem with me?

The woman opened her mouth to reply, but Alan, with forced calm and a cold smile, continued.

—Because if it’s about my kids, believe me, I won’t let a stranger disrespect them. So I’d appreciate it if you went on with your shopping… and I’ll go on with mine.

The woman huffed, turned her cart and walked away muttering something. Alan let out a long sigh, patted his son’s head, and winked at his daughter.

—Well… who’s gonna help me carry the bags?

And so he moved his cart with an air of triumph, his victorious exit. Until the cart decided to get stuck between the tiles.

The kids laughed, but almost fell over.

His triumphant exit turning into a failure.

The house smelled of freshly cooked rice and toasted bread. As soon as they walked in, the kids ran to take off their shoes, but not without starting their epic retelling.

—MOM, MOM! —his son shouted, tossing his coat and backpack onto the couch— Dad fought with a weird lady!

Kaori raised an eyebrow. —Fought? A weird lady?

—Yes —his daughter cut in, throwing herself onto the carpet—, a mean lady, who said bad things, and Dad said “So, lady, what’s your problem with me!” like that, really loud, and everybody looked.

—Really? —Kaori asked, glancing sideways at Alan, who was setting the keys on the table with a triumphant look.

—Yeah! —the boy continued— and then the lady shut up and Dad looked just like a cartoon hero.

—You’re exaggerating… —Alan muttered, but the blush on his cheeks betrayed him.

Kaori smiled, picking up the coat and the backpacks from the couch. When the kids went to wash their hands, she walked up to him and touched his arm softly.

—You know… whether you say it or not, I know you were brave today. The real Alan Becker.

He lowered his gaze, with that small shy smile only she knew. —It’s nothing, just… I won’t let anyone talk to my kids like that. —Resting his knuckles on his waist, puffing out his chest smugly.

Kaori leaned her forehead against his for a moment. —That’s the kind of “nothing” I love most about you.

He let out a short laugh, and for the first time that day, his posture relaxed.

The kids came back, —oh, and we almost fell off the cart too because Dad hit something invisible.

His son stated it already seated at the table. Alan put a hand over his face at that detail and Kaori could barely hold back her laughter.

He closed the door with a sigh, dropped the kids off at their friends’ houses, Kaori was enjoying some free time with her group of friends, and he was finally alone with his peace. The paradise of any introverted adult. But he knew he had to get back to work.

He walked to his office door, pushed it open with that typical creaking sound.

He really needed to oil that door.

Finally he sat down on his work chair. He sighed and looked at the screen.

Nothing.

No colorful dots moving, playing, or just watching something on YouTube.

Nothing.

He sighed again, disappointed. He had hoped to see them.

To express. Selfishly.

That they were worried about him.

And that they were happy to see him again.

Heh. He had gotten so used to that, hadn’t he?

He directed his cursor toward the animation program. Bills weren’t going to pay themselves with sadness. With a quick trick of his digital pen, he started trying to finish the animation sketch.

He was so focused that he didn’t even notice when Chosen slipped out of one of the folders, grabbed another one, and tossed it at him. Well, obviously someone was going to stick around. He sighed, mentally preparing himself for another mini-Karen inside his own computer.

—Hey…

—…what?

—What do you know about Superman? —Chosen asked, pointing at him.

—Superman?

—NOTHING!! —and with that, Chosen retreated into the folder.

Alan just blinked, confused. That had been the shortest and most sophisticated conversation he’d ever had with the black stick figure. Since he didn’t know exactly how to react to Chosen, he decided to stay quiet and get back to work.

It wasn’t long before, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a little black dot peeking from the folders. To Alan it was funny, like Chosen was waiting for a move—or just watching him. He remembered Chosen’s question and decided to answer while keeping his hands busy.

A skill he’d learned over time.

—Before he could fly, he jumped, —Chosen tilted his head, as if listening— Superman. He used to jump really, really high. The flying came later, in the animations.

Chosen perked up, one foot stepping out of the folder. Hesitant, but curious, he leaned out further. —…hm. And who decided that?

Alan found it oddly cute, seeing Chosen try to look threatening.

Not that he wasn’t. He was.

It was like watching a tiger.

Adorable in a video, but dangerous up close.

—An animator, I think. It was easier than drawing all the jumps. —Alan smiled a little. —Though that’s just a detail. Superman has a lot of powers. Some only showed up for a while.

—Oh, and what’s his weirdest power? —Chosen asked, crossing his arms.

—Once… he had rainbow vision.

—…what? That sounds ridiculous. —Chosen couldn’t picture Superman shooting rainbow beams. I mean, come on! It was Superman!

—No, seriously. Give me a sec. —Alan opened Google and pulled up a page DJ had once sent him when they were looking for poses. —Here! A 1964 comic. A classic, actually.

Chosen slipped out of hiding to get a better look at the screen. And Alan swore he saw Chosen show an expression—something beyond his usual static, cold demeanor. Watching from his spot, Chosen’s eyes followed the panels as Alan clicked to the next page.

He looked… happy.

And just as quickly as that childlike joy appeared—the same kind Alan had only seen in Orange—it vanished the moment Chosen remembered they were in the same room.

He backed away awkwardly, eyes glued to the screen until he reached his folder and disappeared inside.

Alan chuckled quietly and went back to his work.

That had been a very good interaction without a fight in the middle.

But Chosen still needed answers. He confirmed now that his creator knew more about Superman. And even if he hated it, even if it felt uncomfortable being this close to him…

HE NEEDED TO KNOW MORE!!

So he waited… a couple of hours, before mustering up the courage to stand before his creator again. He stepped out of the folder with purpose, catching Alan’s attention and planting himself in the middle of his work.

A clear signal; PAY ATTENTION, IDIOT.

—HEY! —he quickly covered his mouth. That shout hadn’t been his intention at all.

—Hmm? —Alan replied. Whoa. He hadn’t expected that.

—I was reading on Yellow’s computer, some Superman comics. But I found one where Superman turns bad, and it makes no sense. —He crossed his arms.

Alan set down his pen and leaned back.

So this was it, huh?

—Evil Superman? You mean Injustice?

—YES! THAT ONE! —Chosen started pacing across the screen. —IT MAKES NO SENSE THAT HE BECAME A DICTATOR! HE’S BEEN KILLED BEFORE AND CAME BACK THE SAME GOOD PERSON! EVEN WHEN THAT BALD GUY LUTHOR SHOT HIM AND DESTROYED A CITY, HE DIDN’T TURN EVIL!!!

Alan discreetly lowered the speakers’ volume. He hadn’t expected Chosen to have so many bottled-up complaints about a comic.

Nor had he expected him to be such a fan.

—So… what I want to know is… is he going to stay evil forever?

Alan shook his head with a faint smile. —No, that only happens in that universe. That’s Earth 22… wait, no —he leaned forward, thinking— in Injustice it’s Earth 0 that splits off. Sometimes they just call it an alternate universe. The point is, it’s not the main Superman.

Chosen tilted his head.

The look of a confused kid.

—Alternate universe? —Alan nodded, letting Chosen piece it together. —So that means… there are more Supermen?

—A ton. There are lots of universes, and in each one the Justice League exists, but with differences. They explain it better in the animated shows and some movies.

—Animated… shows? Movies? With more stories!? —Chosen’s eyes widened.

Alan nodded.

Wow, this conversation was turning out calmer than usual.

—Of course. There’s a whole catalog. Some are really good. Want to watch one?

—YES! —he shouted. Then quickly covered his mouth, moved awkwardly, coughed into his hand, and struck a fake tough-guy pose. —I mean… ahem… yeah, yeah, only if you have time.

He shrugged his shoulders like a teenager.

Alan had never thought of that until now.

He pushed the thought aside and typed: —I’ll show you my favorite. This one explains alternate universes really well.

—Oh. What’s it called? —Chosen asked, a bit more confident, sitting near the taskbar.

—Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths. It’s a classic. —Alan opened the page on Google. —Aren’t you going to sit on the guys’ couch? By the way, where are they?

Chosen looked at him for a moment. Then scanned the desktop until he spotted the couch.

—They went to Minecraft. Green said Orange was having trouble sleeping. —He said it casually as he dragged the couch over.

Alan felt a heaviness in his chest. So Orange was struggling too. And because of him. He blinked, pushing that thought aside for later. Chosen had already set up the couch where he could see best.

—Want me to make popcorn? Or maybe some letters?

Chosen blinked, genuinely surprised by the offer. —Uh, yeah. Letters would be fine. Although… I’d like to pick them myself.

—Okay. Let me turn on the virtual keyboard so you can choose, while I grab my own snacks. —He drew a big bowl. —Here, you can put them in. I’ll be right back.

And with that, Chosen watched Alan leave the room.

Was he really about to watch a movie with his creator?

It felt strange… but he didn’t refuse the offer. He really wanted to see this movie.

So he walked over to the touch keyboard Alan had left for him. He picked up the large bowl that had been drawn and started typing into the open Word document.

The letter “I” in AGENCY FB font tasted pretty good.

Alan came back with his own snacks, while Chosen already had his own bowl of alphabet letters. What he didn’t expect was that Alan would draw him a drink, but Chosen accepted it.

And the movie began.

And for Chosen, just seeing Superman animated with that voice was enough to make him wiggle his legs in excitement. Diana’s voice, Flash, Green Lantern, Hawkman, everything felt so incredible.

Neither of them noticed.

But for the first time, they just stared at the screen in silence, sharing a little world that neither of them thought they could share.

Until the villains appeared.

—That guy looks like Batman, but… weirder? —he asked when Owlman showed up.

—He is Batman, but from another universe. He’s evil there.

—What do you mean evil? Batman can’t be evil.

—Well, on that Earth he is. He’s not your Batman. —Alan corrected him with the same patience a fan uses to explain something to a newbie.

During the dialogue scenes, Chosen just watched, sometimes murmuring things like “mmh” or “that suit is awesome,” but when the first big fight came, something changed. His eyes widened, and suddenly he jumped up.

—¡WOAH! ¡DID YOU SEE THAT?! —he shouted while kicking the air, then another kick, and then he struck a fighting pose, imitating Wonder Woman.

Alan glanced at him from the corner of his eye, holding back a laugh.

In the middle of a spin, Chosen realized the cursor was right next to him, watching with that invisible yet obvious gaze. He froze.

—…ahem. —he coughed, scratched his head, and sat back down as if nothing happened, grabbing a big handful of letters and stuffing them into his mouth.

Alan didn’t say a word, he just drew another drink, this time orange-colored, and passed it to him. Chosen grabbed it quickly and shoved it into his mouth. Liquid and all.

Alan smiled and turned his eyes back to the screen, saying nothing more. The rest of the movie went by in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable: it was comfortable, almost warm. A moment of peace, with a bowl of drawn popcorn and a universe full of superheroes as the excuse to be together.

And the movie ended.

—I’ll admit it, it was good. I think I understand the INJUSTICE comic better now. —he said, stretching on the couch.

—I’m glad you liked it. It was my favorite movie when it came out, I even managed to get an action figure of this version of Batman.

—Collectible figures?

—Yeah! Hold on a second —Alan got up and grabbed the owl-shouldered figure before sitting back down. —Here, it’s outdated now. But I bought it with my own money.

Chosen nodded, a little jealous that he couldn’t have his own Superman.

An alarm went off on the computer.

It was already 10 p.m.

Wow, they had spent the whole afternoon and night.

—I have to go to sleep.

—And your family? —Chosen asked. Not that he really cared, but he hadn’t heard the noise of small humans.

—They’re having a sleepover at their friends’ house. And my wife’s on the night shift. So I took the chance to get some work done today since I was alone.

That gave Chosen a confusing pang in his chest, —…oh… I interrupted your work time…

—What? No, no, no. It’s fine. I don’t regret watching a movie with you, it was… actually very nice.

He smiled. And Chosen smiled too.

But the awkwardness came back. Neither of them was used to being in the same room without fighting. Alan was the first to get up.

—Well… I’m going. If you want to watch more movies, I’ll leave the page open. Just make sure you don’t turn up the volume too much, please.

Chosen perked up when he saw the page menu.

IT WAS GOING TO BE HIS PERSONAL SUPERHERO NIGHT!

—THANKS! —he shouted while jumping with excitement.

And with that, Alan stood up and left the room. Leaving Chosen diving back for more letters.

Alan was outside the room. He walked around the house making sure everything was fine, closed windows, doors. AND THE DAMN GAS. He went upstairs while sending messages to his wife, telling her he was going to bed.

Once in bed, he thought more carefully about what had just happened.

He had spent a pleasant afternoon and evening with Chosen.

He smiled to himself as he closed his eyes.

Maybe he could have a good relationship with the black stickman.

Wednesday morning, Alan’s mind reminded him like a stamp that only two days remained until his meeting with Orange.

His morning was quiet overall, the kids were at school, his wife needed rest, so he was in charge of the house. Everything was already done, he just had to warm the food when the kids got home.

In the meantime, he kept working.

Although his thoughts kept circling back to the little time he had now.

And he didn’t know if he was ready or not to be honest.

He caught a glimpse of Chosen coming out of the folder, kicking the air. Then tossing an old file and burning it with his heat vision before freezing it with his cold breath. And then striking a Superman pose.

He didn’t know Chosen could be that powerful.

—Good morning, Chosen— Alan said as he kept animating.

—Huh? Oh yeah, good morning— Chosen replied awkwardly and stretched his back. —I didn’t know the sun was already up.

Alan blinked, —you stayed up all night?

—Yeah, and I don’t regret it. —he said, puffing his chest before yawning. —My eyes burn.

—You can sleep for a while, I won’t make much noise.

—No, this is fine. —he said as he climbed up the animation program and just sat there.

Alan kept drawing, but from the corner of his eye he saw Chosen swinging his feet. But he also noticed expressions he rarely saw in Orange and the color crew.

That expression when someone wants to tell you something but waits for you to ask first.

Wow, when did he adopt another digital kid as a son?

—So, what else did you watch yesterday?

—FLASH! GREEN LANTERN! Although I thought it was kind of illogical and weird, it didn’t match the comics and that disappointed me a bit. WONDER WOMAN! SHE’S AMAZING! I liked the second one more, because she sees again the boy she fell in love with.

Alan could only watch and listen to Chosen speak.

He had never heard him talk so loud, fast, and fluent.

Was this the real Chosen?

His mind took him back to memories of when he used to talk with his mother about his favorite superheroes and how amazing the movie had been. He did the same with his sisters.

Listen. Just listen.

Why had it taken him so long to do this?

—The Teen Titans one, well the live action was great. But I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite. —He sat back on the big couch and breathed again. Staring at nothing, placing his hands on his lap. A melancholic sigh.

—Are you tired? Want me to draw you a drink?

—No…, I was just thinking.

—Oh… And what are you thinking about? —he asked, leaning back on the couch, checking the time. His kids would be home soon.

—I… I wish I could be a superhero— he whispered. Alan blinked, —I mean…, I have powers, I can fly. A-a-and do you remember that city you saw when you were there?

—The stickman city?

—YES! There’s always one or two powerful stickmen with powers showing up there. Some are bad, and even though the police manage to stop them, it’s always good to have someone with powers, right?

Chosen smiled while looking at him, as if seeking confirmation from his creator.

An innocent. Hopeful. Look.

And Alan…

Alan panicked.

What was he supposed to say?

One part of him, the realistic one, screamed that it was impossible. Chosen was a CRIMINAL, a terrorist in that city, he had seen it. Victim had forced him to see. Part of him wanted to laugh, but another part… another part felt a tightness in his chest. A hero? He knew that with such a stained past, he would never be seen that way.

But then there was his kinder side, the one that wanted to keep everyone happy.

That included Chosen.

And he knew he had to answer quickly, because he could already see Chosen lowering his shoulders in disappointment.

—I-

—DAD! WE’RE HOME!

—R-REALLY?! I’M COMING! —he silently thanked that interruption. He turned back to Chosen,

—I’ll… I’ll be right back, I need to take care of the kids.

—Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don’t worry.

And Alan left the office. Leaving Chosen with a strange feeling in his stomach.

Why had it taken him so long to answer?

He pushed those thoughts away and focused on Google.

He still wanted to know how the Teen Titans live action series ended.

Alan took longer than he imagined. Of course, he had to help the kids with their homework, he wasn’t going to be a bad father. He had sworn that to himself and he was going to keep it. But he couldn’t be perfect either, his thoughts kept drifting back to Chosen.

He wanted to be a superhero.

And Alan wished it too. He really wished it. He wished that the black stickman could be happy, he didn’t care how, as long as he was happy.

After all the damage he had caused, it was the least he could do for him.

But how?

Chosen had literally ruined all his chances by becoming a digital terrorist. And that was something Alan couldn’t control.

Something beyond his limits.

And while his children—who were growing up so quickly—went upstairs to worry about their projects, Alan felt that his fatherhood was slowly stepping aside so they could have their chance to grow and live.

To be good people.

Oh man, the nostalgia of seeing them grow so fast was consuming him.

He still remembered playing superheroes with the youngest—

Wait a second…

THAT’S IT!!

Chosen was focused, wondering how it was possible that the transformations of the “magical boy” looked so fluid and realistic. He wondered what it would feel like to turn into an animal.

—CHOSEN!! —Alan shouted as he rushed to the computer. Chosen jumped, —I HAVE AN IDEA!!

—…huh?

He wouldn’t deny it.

Chosen felt so powerful holding those little blue boots in his hands. Along with the cape. Red. Beautiful, long, just like Superman’s. He looked at himself in the full-body mirror that Blue kept in his room.

A… beautiful energy.

He didn’t know how to describe the feeling in his stomach. He only knew it was good, warm.

AOL knocked on the room’s door, making a sign that everything was ready.

Chosen gave a thumbs up while putting on the boots. Alan had removed the prison ball while they were designing his suit. So the little boot slid in easily. He looked at the mirror and struck the Superman pose.

It was only going to be a game, true.

But Alan had given him permission to punch the desktop programs as hard as he wanted. And they could do the same back. The goal was to make it look like a real fight.

Somehow, the computer programs seemed very excited about the idea.

Anyway, he headed to the door for his grand entrance.

And then he descended. Red cape waving. Shiny gloves. Gleaming boots. A landing pose with one fist on the ground, one knee bent, digital wind dramatically blowing the cape.

It was Chosen.

—STAY CALM, CITIZEN! THE CHOSEN ONE IS HERE TO SAVE THE DAY! —Chosen declared, pointing at the building.

Chapter Text

And while Orange watched Chosen walk away all embarrassed back into one of the computer’s folders, he turned his gaze to the rest of the PC.

All the programs had already started helping Alan clean up the area.

The playtime seemed to be over.

—So… you guys were playing? —Orange asked, looking at Alan.

Alan dropped the piece into the recycle bin and turned his attention to Orange, who was staring curiously.

Alan gave a nervous smile. —Ah? Hahaha, yeah. Uh… we were watching a couple of superhero movies and… well, I saw Chosen getting really into character, so I thought it’d be a good idea…

—You set up a whole scenario… just so Chosen could play? —Red concluded.

If Alan was trying not to look embarrassed, he was clearly failing.

His eyes unfocused, a crooked smile, and shoulders practically at his ears. Clear signs he had been caught.

—Awww, that’s sweet. —Blue said.

—Yeah. It’s really cute that you and Chosen have something in common. —Yellow added.

—I honestly expected the whole PC to be on fire when we came back. —Red elbowed Green, cutting him off.

Alan let out a small, more relaxed smile at that thought.

That, in fact, was exactly what Orange wanted. He didn’t expect Alan and Chosen to have a close bond like the rest of them, but at least a relationship where they could talk without fighting by the third sentence.

—Do you guys want to help us clean up? —Alan asked, picking up a drawn building.

—Sure! —they said happily, and started helping the other programs.

The rest gathered up the debris and stacked it, while Orange went into the Animated program to grab the eraser tool.

—So, how do you feel, Orange? Chosen told me you went to Minecraft to… take some time for yourself.

—Oh… uh, yeah…, I feel better now. We spent those days at King and Purple’s house, so it’s not like we went camping or anything, hahaha. —Orange said with a smile, brushing it off.

But Alan felt a twitch coming.

—…Purple. The same Purple who betrayed you guys like, six times, and made you do an endless parkour. Not to mention invaded my PC.

Orange froze.

Oh, right… Alan still didn’t trust Purple.

—Ah… yeah… —he said timidly.

—And the same King who locked you up, killed a family of buffalos, enslaved an entire kingdom, and almost wiped out everything and everyone in the same game!

—…

—…

—…uh… yeah. —he answered in the quietest voice possible, with a nervous smile.

Alan buried his face in his hands. He took a deep breath, stood up, paced around, leaned on the wall, breathed again, turned back, and sat down in front of the monitor.

—B-BUT THEY’VE CHANGED NOW!! —Orange said, trying to defend his friends.

—…just help me clean up…

The cursor moved back to the start screen, and Orange felt he owed Alan a serious conversation later.

Oh cursors, he had postponed introducing Alan to King and Purple for far too long.

Night had already fallen, and Alan had gone to bed early. Something about going to sleep earlier, Orange thought.

Which was fine—he had scolded the human many times about having a healthier sleep schedule.

Whatever had happened to him, it must have been a real wake-up call.

—So what were you guys playing? —Red asked Chosen.

Chosen tried to hide behind Yellow’s laptop, avoiding their gazes. It was kind of funny to see him so embarrassed.

—N-nothing… it was just some dumb idea of the Creator’s, that’s all.

—Well, it couldn’t have been that dumb. —Blue said. —You looked like you were having a lot of fun, throwing punches and flying around so gracefully.

—Yeah! You gave an amazing showcase of your powers, Chosen! —Red added, imitating some fight moves. —We knew you had powers, but we didn’t know how many. You’re super cool!

Chosen tried hiding again behind Yellow’s laptop, scratching his head shyly. But Orange noticed a small smile forming.

—A-a-again… it was just Alan’s idea. I was just quietly watching a movie.

—Alan mentioned you guys watched a movie together. —Orange noticed how Chosen shot him a glare. Weird.

—You guys watched a movie together?

—IT WAS JUST A MOVIE AND NOTHING ELSE! —he jumped away from the laptop and crossed his arms. —It didn’t mean anything, we just decided to put aside our opinions and watch a movie together.

—Sureee. —they all said, clearly not believing him.

Chosen just rolled his eyes, still embarrassed.

—You know? You and Alan are actually very alike. —Orange said.

Chosen looked at him with a raised eyebrow, more reluctant than confused by the idea. —I mean it! You both like superheroes. You both feel like you have to be the older brother.

—And you both scratch your heads the exact same way when you’re nervous! —Red concluded.

—That… that’s just coincidence. He’s still the same idiot, controlling and manipulative as before.

—Doesn’t look like it. Just look at you. —Green said, holding a glass of water while still in pajamas. —He even took off your prison ball after playing.

At that, Chosen lowered his gaze to his ankle.

There was nothing.

Nothing was holding him back.

Nothing stopping him from leaving.

He even scraped his skin against the furniture, trying to see if it was an illusion or if it was real. It was real.

—…Oh… um… yeah, that… that seems to be the case… —He left Yellow’s laptop aside and looked nervously at Orange. —So, um… that means we can leave now.

—…leave?

—Yeah. You know, what we talked about… a few days ago. About starting over and leaving the Creator behind.

All eyes turned to Orange. And he felt trapped.

He took a deep breath and sighed. —Yeah… about that, Chosen. I’ve decided to stay.

—What?

—The time we spent in Minecraft… it really made me reflect a lot. —He fiddled with his thumbs in circles. —And I’ve decided to stay. I… I want to listen to Alan.

Chosen could only stare at him. Stare without being able to understand.

—You… you don’t have to… you’re not obligated.

—But I want to. —He stepped closer and hugged Chosen. —I know you’re worried about me… about us. And I appreciate it. But I’ve decided to wait until Friday and listen to Alan.

Chosen blinked, frozen in place.

—…I…

—Besides, it’s just two more days.

—Unless you count Friday itself as a day. —Blue murmured.

—Yeah… well, one day… maybe. WHATEVER! —He pulled away from the hug and stretched with a huge yawn. —Anyway, it’s time for bed.

—I’ll carry Red.

Green said, lifting up Red who was already sound asleep. Followed by Yellow and Blue heading upstairs.

—The way things are going, maybe you could even stay too, Chosen. —Yellow said with a yawn.

—That would be wonderful. —Orange mumbled as he walked to his room. —You and Alan being close… —he yawned again, already halfway through closing the door—. Goodnight, Chosen.

And the door clicked shut softly.

He was left alone in the living room. He barely managed to whisper a; goodnight, so faint, he wasn’t sure if he had even said it. He turned off the lights and let himself collapse onto the couch, hands on his lap, staring at the square ceiling in complete silence.

He didn’t even touch Yellow’s laptop.

He just thought. Going over every instant of these past days as if they were images burned into him. The hours of fighting, flying, shouting… sharing with Alan.

Alan.

That name weighed on him.

The same guy who had enslaved him and used him as a screensaver.

Locked him inside a tiny dark chest.

The same one who helped him defeat his partner when he couldn’t fight anymore.

…

The one who rescued him from Victim.

The one who helped him when he couldn’t stand on his own anymore.

The one who gave him a place in his home, even when he acted like a maniac.

The one who, yes, chained him again… but only to stop him from self-destructing.

…

The same one who spent two straight hours talking about superheroes with him, even if he yelled or got too carried away.

The one who built an entire city in his computer just so he could play.

The one who gave him the chance to feel like Superman.

Superman.

For an instant, he had been Superman.

His knees came up to his chest, and he curled up on the couch, turning onto his side. His breathing was heavy. His chest hurt.

What was happening to him?

Why couldn’t he hate him?

He WANTED to hate Alan!

He wanted to feel that same pure, simple rage again, the one that had kept him alive just days ago.

But now… now he didn’t.

—Shit… shit, shit, shit… —he muttered through clenched teeth, trembling.

He got up and left the house, running his hands over his face and walking without any clear direction. Just walking toward the main screen.

There it was. His exit.

The one he had dreamed of opening so many times.

But as he stared at it, all he felt was emptiness. A hollow pressure crushing his chest.

Was that what he wanted? To leave? To escape?

WHAT WAS HAPPENING TO HIM!?

He had wanted to leave. Escape. Be free again.

But…

He already was free…

He was free.

He had always been free here.

Alan hadn’t chained him again, just set boundaries. Boundaries that now… it hurt to admit it, but they were starting to make sense.

The dizziness hit him. Air refused to enter his lungs. His legs felt like lead.

Why couldn’t he breathe?

Why was everything spinning?

Why did his legs feel so heavy?

—Why…? Why…? Why? —the word repeated, faster and faster, more desperate each time.

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Wh—

A patch of orange fur appeared right in front of his eyes. Chosen blinked. The fur shifted around him. Warm. Not burning, just… warm. Then Firefox’s eyes looked at him.

When had he laid down?

Firefox was wrapping around him, pressing her paws and head against his chest. He lifted a trembling hand toward the fox’s head. And stroked her.

It wasn’t like the other times.

This time he felt it.

He actually felt it.

How had he never noticed Firefox’s fur was so soft and warm?

From his spot, he could almost read her thoughts. Thoughts that surely went something like: —Ah, this stick figure is not doing well. I’ll cover him and that’ll fix it.

He finished stroking the fire fox, stretched his arms to his sides, inhaled and sighed deeply.

So this was what a panic attack felt like, huh?

—…thanks… —he muttered, ashamed for how badly he had treated the fire fox— …I’m sorry… for… everything.

Firefox just turned around and lay back down, this time with her big tail over her face. She blew at the strands of fur getting in her nose and mouth, eyes closing as she tried to block it out.

—…I can’t breathe…

Firefox began snoring. She had fallen asleep.

—…okay, never mind, I’m your pillow now.

He had no idea what time it was, only that at some point he stopped being Firefox’s pillow. So he sat up and stretched his back. But whatever had happened yesterday left him with a painfully clear conclusion.

He wanted to hate Alan again.

Morning arrived wrapped in noise. The Color Gang seemed to be competing over who could make the biggest mess in the kitchen; Red was fighting with Orange because he burned the toast, Blue insisted the coffee needed more sugar, and Green, laughing, tried to save what was left of the juice.

The place smelled like a mix of smoke, bread, and overlapping voices that filled the air like a cheerful storm.

Chosen, however, stayed quiet. Sitting at the table, eating slowly, barely paying attention to the battlefield they called breakfast. His eyes weren’t on them, but on the void, calculating, chewing on every detail.

The decision was made; he would find a way to reignite the hatred against Alan.

—Hey, Chosen! —said Green brightly, holding a fork and a pancake—, now that you’re free from the antivirus restrictions, how about joining us for an online game? We’ll be nice to you.

Chosen shook his head. —You guys go…, I…, have something to do.

Green didn’t push and went back to his breakfast.

The Color Gang waved him off and ran toward the online game, leaving the screen in silence.

—Alright… —he muttered, standing with a serious look—. Time to end this lie.

He stepped out of the folder and saw Alan already drawing with cheerful music playing. Chosen walked forward, every step with a villain’s pose, pointing toward the cursor moving near the animation program.

—…Alan…, this lie has to end. You’re not taking me anywhere with you.

The cursor slowly turned toward him. Alan’s voice came warm and light, —Oh! Good morning, Chosen! I’m glad to see you up. Did you sleep well?

Chosen blinked in disbelief. —What…? No, wait… YOU CAN HEAR ME!? —he snarled, spitting the words—. I SAID THIS LIE HAS TO END… END NOW!

Alan tilted his head innocently. —…Ah! Did you already have breakfast? —Alan asked with a smile.

Chosen froze again. —WHAT!? That’s all you have to say!!? DID YOU EVEN LISTEN TO ME!!?

—Yes, of course I listened —Alan answered with disarming innocence—. I just asked if you’d had breakfast or not. If you haven’t, you shouldn’t talk about destruction on an empty stomach, I don’t work well without food either. Do you want me to draw you a coffee?

—N-no, I don’t want coffee! —Chosen snapped, clutching his forehead before retreating back into the folder.

Okay, his first attempt at intimidation failed. He needed another approach.

A few minutes later, Chosen marched out again, this time with more determination.

—Fine, listen. I can destroy every file you’ve ever created or saved. If I want, your precious animation will turn into an irreparable disaster.

Alan, adjusting his digital pen, replied softly. —Oh, that sounds like a lot of work! And I think we could just redraw the city another day, I still have things to finish. Do you want to help me draw?

—…What!? —Chosen almost choked—. NO! No, I don’t want to draw with you! I’m saying I’ll ruin you!

—Mmmm… Well, then maybe you’d prefer I make you some orange juice instead —Alan added seriously, opening the color palette—. More vitamins than coffee.

Chosen screamed, yanking at his hair. —Arghhh!!

He stormed back into the folder, kicking the leg of the desk on his way. Only to regret it as pain shot through his big toe.

WHY WAS ALAN SO DAMN HAPPY TODAY!!??

A third time, Chosen returned, breathing deep to steady himself. Intimidation wasn’t working. So now he had to be direct and cold.

—Alan, get this. I can destroy everything you care about on this computer. Your files, your photos, your essays… everything. Even that stupid cursor. I can make you suffer just to watch you fall.

The cursor turned toward him again, cheerful.

—Oh! Did Green annoy you at breakfast? That must be why you’re in a bad mood. I know what you need! A hug!!

Chosen’s eyes shot open wide. —WHAT…!?

Alan leaned the cursor toward him, as if genuinely trying to hug him. —Yes, it helps Orange, the rest of the gang, and even my kids. Do you want one?

—NOOOoo!! —Chosen yelled, jumping back—. Why are you like this!?

He frowned, a sting of frustration biting at him.

Not the reaction he wanted.

—Don’t get this wrong… just because we had a few good days, eating popcorn and watching movies together. Doesn’t mean I trust you!!

—…Oh… of course, I get it —Alan said, with a calmness that sounded too genuine—. I don’t expect trust to appear out of nowhere. I guess we just need time.

The words hit him like a soft wall impossible to break through. Chosen clenched his fists.

—Time? …Y-y-you… —the words stumbled out of him, sounding more like delirium—. You’re nothing but a distracted human! Too clumsy to see what’s obvious!

Alan blinked, then smiled.

—Maybe, but that distraction also let us get to know each other a little better, don’t you think?

Chosen’s jaw trembled.

He couldn’t believe even his insults slid off Alan like water over stone!!

WHEN DID ALAN ALSO STOP HATING HIM!!

So he decided to push harder. Something must still hurt him.

—Your attempts at acting nice are pathetic. I SEE IT! —Pointing at the screen—, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I found out you’re an even worse father to your human kids than to your virtual creations!!

Silence fell like a bucket of ice water.

The programs in the computer gasped. The sound made him turn his head to see them staring at him in disappointment. Those who had hands covered where their mouths would be. Some just looked away, disappointed.

Chosen turned his gaze back to the screen. Alan stopped moving. The naive smile vanished in an instant. The air thickened in the room, so heavy that even Chosen felt the weight of his own words.

He felt that… maybe he had crossed a line.

Chosen felt the pit in his stomach, a sting of regret he tried to swallow down with pride. But he also forced it down like a bitter pill.

No… I’m not backing down now.

—What’s wrong? —he forced a bitter smile—. Why so quiet? Did it hurt? Maybe because it’s true. You couldn’t even take care of a virtual stick figure. Did you really expect to be better with smaller humans?

Alan pressed his lips together, but said nothing. Chosen grew bolder, pushing as if stepping on an open wound. An insecurity.

—Your apologies mean nothing. Pretending to look like a good person, but in the end you’re just a manipulator hiding your selfishness behind pretty words. You think I don’t notice? I learned to see through you.

Alan’s heart pounded hard, every word sinking deeper. He could feel the patience he had worked so hard to cultivate cracking apart.

He had sworn never to be like his father.

Chosen heard Firefox’s screech behind him. A screech that begged him to stop. He ignored it.

But there was no turning back now.

—You don’t even deserve the respect Orange insists on giving you —Chosen went on, still pointing at him—. If you had really changed, you would’ve taken responsibility from the very beginning and not hidden behind this little redeemed act!! But of course! It’s easier to pretend than to actually face the weight of your past actions. You make me sick.

Alan listened to everything, unmoving. And then he spoke, with a dangerous calm. Still trying to hold himself together.

—Watch what you say, Chosen.

—Or what? —he challenged, a spark of triumph in his eyes—. You’re finally going to admit that this whole “oh poor me” act is just a performance?

Alan let the pencil slip from his hand. He looked at him with a contained fury that froze the air.

—You want to play dirty? Fine!! —His voice cracked, but then rose—. Do you know what sickens me most about you, Chosen?

The stick figure blinked, startled by the tone.

Alan slammed his hand flat on the desk.

—YOUR DAMN HYPOCRISY. —His voice thundered across the room—. You go on and on about being a hero, about protecting, about saving… and since when? Since killing with Dark stopped being fun? Since you realized you were slaughtering your own kind? Don’t you dare forget. YOU were a monster too. A terrorist. A VILLAIN!

Alan leaned forward, his voice dripping with venom.

—DO YOU REALLY THINK PEOPLE WOULD EVER ACCEPT A TERRORIST AS A HERO!? —His teeth clenched as his hand twitched, almost slamming into the keyboard—. YOU’LL NEVER BE A HERO, THE CHOSEN ONE!!! You can fool Orange and the others, but I know who you are. And the worst part is, YOU KNOW IT TOO!!

Silence fell like a heavy blow.

Chosen’s face twisted, as if the words had struck his chest directly. Alan’s own chest heaved up and down.

The computer programs stared between the two. Stunned by what had just happened.

Chosen felt his cheeks were wet. He lifted a hand to them, finding tears. Chosen was crying. Long streaks streamed down his face.

That made Alan soften his gaze. He closed his eyes, grimaced, and sat back down. He removed his glasses and rubbed his face with both hands. Inhale, exhale.

He didn’t want to lose control like this.

Chosen was just a teenager.

A defiant, rebellious teenager. One who could break his patience far too easily.

— I… Chosen… I’m sorry… what I said, I—

— I hate you.

Those words hurt more than he imagined. —Chosen, I really am sorry, I shouldn’t have—

— I HATE YOU!!

— CHOSEN!!

The little stick figure suddenly burst into an explosion of fire. Alan had to blink at the blinding flash, and when his vision returned, horror struck him as his PC was under Chosen’s furious assault.

The memories of that day came flooding back as if it had been yesterday.

—CHOSEN STOP!! —Alan shouted desperately, slamming his hands on the desk.

He could see the computer programs struggling to defend themselves against the stick figure’s onslaught. He could see the despair in his programs’ eyes.

He needed to stop this.

He knew how… but… but…

He heard Firefox’s scream of pain, along with the others who never got back up. Chosen froze, staring in the direction of the fire fox. The dull thud of its body hitting the ground was like a funeral bell. It wasn’t getting back up. Even with fire raging around, with all the destruction.

It wasn’t moving.

She was dead.

The others were dead.

Everyone was dead.

He looked around and felt a sharp déjà vu. It was exactly how Newgrounds had looked. Him in the middle of the flames, buildings collapsing, the screams that once cheered him to keep going.

And then he saw it.

The gray-haired girl.

Dead.

Dead in Firefox’s place.

He killed her.

HE KILLED HER.

THAT WAS THE REALITY. HIS REALITY.

HE WAS A VILLAIN IN EVERYONE’S STORY.

Alan was right.

He would NEVER be a superhero.

He would ALWAYS be a villain.

Never—

—ANTIVIRUS, CATCH HIM! —Alan ordered.

The screen flashed the familiar red. Sirens blared. The programs that were still alive were shielded.

Shielded from him.

He didn’t even fight back much as the guardians struck him down and the chains of the chest dragged him back into the darkness. And then silence.

The villain had been defeated.

His mind reacted slower than his body. Soon he was thrashing, banging, trying to get out.

—LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! —he banged against the lid of the chest, even hurting himself—, YOU CAN’T KEEP ME HERE ALL DAY, NOOGAI!

Alan, on his part, removed his headphones, covering his face with both hands. Trying to hold back a sob.

His kids would be home soon.

They couldn’t see him like this.

—NOOGAI!!

His hand moved quickly to restart the system. And everything fell silent.

No more screams.

Alan stood up with a frustrated groan. Pushing his chair back and storming toward the stupid squeaky bathroom door.

He had to stand tall.

He had to stay strong.

Chosen felt that floating sensation. The one when the PC began to reboot. Rage had been replaced with helplessness. Helplessness with sadness. And sadness, with tears.

Being a hero… how stupid and childish that was.

Green was the first to leave the Valorant game, shouting in triumph.

—TAKE THAT, DARKLOLI543!! WE’RE THE BEST!! —shouted Green, raising his arms like he’d just won a trophy. —WOUH!!! —the others followed with equal energy, still riding the wave of the battle.

Red was the first to spot the strange object in the middle of the room.

—Hey, look! What’s that chest?

The others approached curiously, nervously laughing. But the joke ended when a desperate voice echoed from inside.

—GUYS!!

The five of them jumped back, startled.

—CHOOSEN!? —they yelled in unison.

—GET ME OUT OF HERE!!

Orange was the first to shake off the initial shock and quickly opened the chest. Chosen crawled out, dragging himself, the prison ball still attached to his ankle.

—Chosen! What happened? What were you doing in there? —asked Orange, full of concern.

The black stick figure raised his gaze. Everyone watched expectantly… but shame choked him. Telling the truth would make him look like the villain, and he couldn’t allow that.

So he gritted his teeth.

—Who else do you think it was? —he said bitterly.

Orange blinked, incredulous. —But… Alan… I saw you… you seemed fine together…

—I told you it was a coincidence! —spat Chosen—. He and I will never have a relationship. Never.

Red frowned. —You mean you had a disagreement and Alan locked you up as punishment?

—I DIDN’T START IT! HE DID! —Chosen screeched.

—According to the note Firefox just brought me, it says YOU started the fight, yelling, setting things on fire… and you killed her.

Everyone looked at the fire fox behind Red’s leg. Firefox growled at Chosen, fur bristling, and stepped out of the folder.

Now all eyes were on Chosen. They looked disappointed, arms crossed.

Orange ran his hands over his face, frustrated. —Seriously, Chosen? Did you really provoke him… just to give yourself a reason to hate him?

Chosen couldn’t look at him. He just wanted to disappear.

—…Orange… I… I’m sorry… but I can’t— —he began hugging his legs—, I can’t just have a relationship like you and the others have with Alan. I SIMPLY CAN’T HATE HIM ONE DAY AND FORGIVE HIM THE NEXT!

—What are you talking about? —asked Yellow.

—I saw it! When you went to Minecraft to have some space, and when you came back, OH SURPRISE! Orange was back to animating with Alan as if nothing had happened.

The Color Band looked at each other confused for a few minutes, but then they understood what the black stick figure was trying to say. Now they looked nervous and avoided his gaze.

His voice broke. —I can’t be like that. I just can’t.

—We didn’t forgive him —Green suddenly blurted out, raising his arms—. We were forced to!

Blue quickly tapped him on the back of the head, surprising Chosen while the others shot the green stick figure a death glare.

—…what? —murmured Chosen.

The band looked at Orange, as if waiting for permission. Orange sighed and spoke, —When we first met Alan… our first impression of him was terrible. Between him and me, we came to an agreement.

—What kind of agreement?

Orange lowered his head. —One that… included a contract. —He said it in an embarrassed, awkward tone—. I helped him improve his animations… and in return, he let us live in the PC and also protect it from viruses.

Chosen blinked, trying to process this new information. He looked at the group, hoping it was a lie. It wasn’t.

—…You’re telling me that all this time… you’ve been living under a contract.

Blue waved his hands nervously, —It’s not like we still live like that! Or at least… we don’t feel that way anymore… for years.

—DON’T YOU GET IT!? —Chosen shouted. He truly screamed, unable to believe what he was hearing. —That contract enslaved Orange! It chained him for life! And you accepted it!

The band looked uncomfortable. Especially Orange, who didn’t know where to look.

—…he changed, Chosen.

—Orange, I know you want to believe that. But THIS isn’t normal. IT NEVER WAS!

Orange just wanted to disappear at that moment. And Blue noticed. So he stood in front of him, followed by Yellow, Green, and Red, who stepped forward.

—It’s also not normal that you keep provoking Alan over and over, just to get a reaction from him and then complain about it.

Everyone looked at Red in surprise. He was usually more into hand-to-hand fighting, not words. But knowing that Chosen killed Firefox, and being confronted about it, made Red’s love for animals stronger than his impulse to punch Chosen.

The black stick figure opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Not even an excuse. Just a huff, and the dragging of his prison ball against the floor as he left.

—I wish I had left when I still could—. He murmured, closing the door behind him.

The band exhaled, exhausted. Orange hugged himself, Blue tried to comfort him. Green accompanied him to his room, while Yellow put water on the stove for tea.

When things were going well, something always pulled them back to square one.

Red thought as he crumpled the paper in his hands. He turned his head toward the outside screen. Tilted his head, confused to see nothing there. So he followed Yellow to the kitchen.

He had sworn something moved outside.

Chapter Text

—Do you have everything ready? —asked Blue.

—The notebook, the escape block, my stress toy to keep my hands busy, and—

—FOOD! —shouted Red, dropping a sandwich wrapped in paper in front of Orange like it was some secret weapon. —In case you get hungry.

Orange eyed it suspiciously, as if expecting dynamite inside, but still tucked it into his bag.

It was the day. Friday.

Four weeks fulfilled.

The tension could be cut from the very first hour of the morning. Silent panic bled through in the way Blue prepared a breakfast far too special for Orange, as if trying to infuse vitamins through affection. Red, with restless hands, had stayed up the whole night knitting a stress doll out of his sheep’s wool. Green appeared with an album full of songs; for relaxation.

Orange glanced at his older brother, almost begging with his eyes for someone to say this was all unnecessary. Chosen met his gaze calmly, placed a hand on his shoulder, and then pulled him into a hug that lasted only a few seconds. Afterward, he let him go with a sigh.

—You do know the meeting is still nine hours away, right?

The group turned toward the wall clock.

It was barely 9:10 a.m.

—…oh…

Red laughed a little. More out of nerves than embarrassment.

—Well…, thaaat… means we still have time to review the questions and—

—GUYS!!!

Green’s shout shook them like a fire alarm. The frantic footsteps pounding up the stairs already spelled disaster.

—What? What is it, Green!? —asked Blue.

Green bent over his knees, panting as if he’d just run a marathon.

—Green? —pressed Orange.

—IT’S YELLOW! —he gasped at last, lifting his wild eyes to meet theirs—. He just discovered something terrifying!

—What could possibly be that bad to scare him this much? —asked Chosen, not quite grasping the situation.

—THE CONTRACT!! —Green blurted out, trembling like a leaf—. Someone… someone opened it yesterday at three in the morning!

Their footsteps thundered toward the Explorer Folder, section HOME, where Yellow stood. He was pacing compulsively, fingers clawed into his hair, scratching at his arms as if trying to rip the fear straight out of his skin.

This couldn’t be happening.

The fear he’d carried for years had returned in the worst possible way.

And the current situation didn’t help.

That fear that had haunted him since the very beginning: the fear that Alan would change his mind.

That Alan would decide to delete them.

Yes, there were copies of the document. They had always known that.

But what good were they if the original changed?

What if Alan decided to revoke the agreement, the same way one deletes any other file?

Yellow knew. He felt it in his digits. That possibility had always been there.

That was before they became a family.

Before they called him Dad.

—He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t do it… there has to be an explanation… —he muttered under his breath, though his eyes screamed the opposite.

—YELLOW!!

They all lunged at him, wrapping him in a desperate embrace, trying to give him warmth against a cold that came from within. Orange was the first to reach him, clutching his arms around him with a strength that almost hurt. But when their eyes met, the plea was there; Tell me this isn’t real.

Yellow could only lower his gaze and point.

Name: AGREEMENT – STICKMANS AND ALAN

Access date: --/9/2025 3:20 a.m.

Everyone’s breathing shattered at the same time. The file had been opened at an hour when none of them were awake. None of them were awake to know what changes Alan had made.

Even Chosen could feel how serious this was.

The promise of a home.

No one wanted to open it. No one wanted to be the one to check if something had changed. Red was the first to gather the courage. With tense fingers, he opened it.

Chosen could only watch the color crew move slowly. As if the document were dynamite. They read slowly, too slowly, every line they had known for years.

Since… 2014!?

Wouh…

He knew a long time had passed for their creator and the stick figures to build a connection strong enough to see each other as father and children.

But he had underestimated just how LONG that time was.

Chosen kept watching the group move through every line and every letter. As if making sure everything was still in place.

A three-page file.

He didn’t fully understand the agreement. But from what he could read, everything seemed serious;

      The Stickman named Orange agrees to help the human named Alan in his work as an animator and artist.

      The Stickmans in the human Alan’s computer promise to take care of the safety and wellbeing of the Computer. Which is also their home and the working tool of the human Alan.

      In return, the human Alan Becker.

      Will allow the Stickmans named: Red, Yellow, Blue, Green, and Orange to live. Who promise NOT to destroy the computer and to defend it.

There were more words. But Chosen liked to eat words, not read them.

Except if it was one of his comics. At least those had pictures.

At the end, the signatures; Alan’s, and Orange’s, shaky, clumsy, barely a name accompanied by scribbles as if it had been scrawled with all the force of a child.

Seriously, his creator had made a deal with them?

—No… I don’t see any change— said Red.

—I KNOW! AND THAT’S WHAT DRIVES ME EVEN CRAZIER! —Yellow exploded, now pacing faster and throwing his arms around. —If nothing changed!! Then why did Alan look for it!!?? Why open THIS file among millions!!??

They had to pull him away from the document, while Green stayed behind, checking line by line, eyes locked as if he could detect something invisible. Even trying recovery programs he found on YouTube.

Blue prepared tea for Yellow, while Red brought him his emotional support sheep.

None of them asked how he got it.

Chosen stayed silent. Watching. The day everyone in the PC had been waiting for. The day that had everyone on edge. Now it was consumed by another drama none of them had seen coming.

And he didn’t know how to help.

Alan wouldn’t appear until 6 p.m.

And none of the PC programs seemed willing to support them by saying anything. He looked around; Firefox averted his gaze coldly, AOL turned his back. The programs still held grudges.

He scratched his head in embarrassment, lowering his eyes when Firefox bared his teeth at him before ignoring him.

Wouh, he really had wrecked his relationship with the programs.

He returned to where the others were. Maybe he could still help them somehow.

Green was still inside the file. Blue and Red were with Yellow, trying to stop his shaking.

Looks like the therapy sheep wasn’t working yet.

So he went to the only stickman who seemed not so shaken. Orange. Or at least that’s what he thought.

—Orange… —he called.

—He must have had some reason for doing it— Orange replied, pacing back and forth in his room, his hands restless.

—Orange.

—He does weird stuff all the time, even at night. Humans are like that, weird all the time— he said while taping his drawings all around the room.

—Orange.

—WHAT IF HE HAS HIMSOMNIA!? WHAT IF HE FOUGHT WITH HIS WIFE!!?? —he suddenly jumped into the hallway, walking in faster and faster circles.

—ORANGE!!

Chosen had to go fetch him. Literally. His younger brother, from the ceiling. He found him watering Blue’s plants up there, with the absurd calm of someone who had no idea how he got there.

—Orange… calm down. You’re…, you’re on the ceiling.

Orange blinked, incredulous. As if he couldn’t believe he was actually on the ceiling.

—I…, no…

He slowly climbed down, until he sat at the edge, elbows on his knees, staring at Red’s farm. The chicks pecking near their mothers. The sheep caring for their lambs. Even the pigs seemed more serene. A family.

In silence. Chosen followed his lead. Neither of them said a word.

—…do you think that… Alan… did…

Chosen couldn’t look him in the eyes. Shame was a wall between them.

What could he say?

That Alan had never changed?

That all the trust, the safety, that the color crew and his brother had built. Was destroyed by his selfish decision to never change and keep hating his creator?

Yeah.

That was a great answer to comfort his little brother.

So he just wrapped an arm around him in a clumsy hug. He hated contact, but this time he endured it.

—Just sleep, little brother.

—…It’s barely 10.

—I know… but it’s already too many emotions for just a few hours.

—…That doesn’t ma-

And Orange fell asleep. His body slumped against Chosen’s shoulder, leaving him with all the weight. Chosen could only sit in silence, staring at the place. And wait for 6 p.m.

—Have you slept at all, love? —Kaori asked, setting a hot plate of food in front of Alan.

He barely reacted, just lowered his eyes and murmured, —…thanks.

He didn’t answer her question.

Kaori watched him in silence. It hurt to see him like this. She had believed things were getting better; Alan was sleeping again, eating, even smiling a little. What had changed? Was work draining him again, little by little, right in front of her?

Seeing him sink into silence, dark circles beginning to carve themselves under his eyes, tightened something in her chest.

—I’ll talk to DJ later, —Alan said suddenly, as if to cut off any further conversation.

Kaori blinked, surprised. It was abrupt. —Sure, that’s fine. I’ll take the kids to my parents’ like we planned.

She tried to smile, but the shadows starting to hollow his face broke her composure.

—Alan…

—I’m fine. I just… had a rough night. That’s all. —He lifted his tired gaze and forced a small, shaky smile.

Kaori bit her tongue and swallowed her worry, pretending to trust him even though she felt helpless inside.

—Okay. Have a good day. —She hugged him hard, kissed him, and stepped back—. Say hi to DJ for me.

Alan waved as Kaori and the kids drove away. Only after the car turned the corner did his forced smile collapse into that same blank look.

He locked the door and checked the clock: 2:00 p.m.

At his desk, the video call took a moment to connect. The screen stayed black for a full minute before DJ’s face appeared. The tension was visible in DJ’s shoulders and the way he scowled, searching Alan for something—anything—that might prove he wasn’t as bad off as he looked. He didn’t find it.

Alan tried a smile, twisting his lips. —Hey… Kao sends her regards.

DJ’s scowl tightened; he toyed with one of his braids like a nervous habit. —This is absolute garbage.

Alan rolled the spoon between his fingers. —…it’s not his fault.

—YES IT IS! —DJ slammed his fist on the desk, making Alan flinch—. How can they keep up a lie for a decade!? Didn’t any of those years mean anything to them? Were they only kind to you out of convenience?!

Alan fell silent and averted his eyes. Deep down, he feared DJ was right.

He hadn’t meant to overhear them. He really hadn’t.

But panic had pulled him in—the fear that if the Color Crew found Chosen back inside the antivirus chest, their relationship would fray even further.

—I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!

Chosen’s ragged voice still echoed in his head. Alan had left the room to escape those shouts, that hate, but the squeal of the door’s screws had been enough to wake his children from their nap. He ran to the kitchen and splashed water on his face, trying to steady his breath.

He needed to calm down.

—It’s not my fault, —he kept telling himself. —It’s not.

He had been kind to Chosen that morning. He’d tried to include him, make him feel at home.

Had he failed?

He forced a breath, turned off the tap, and heard footsteps on the stairs; the kids were coming down. Alan grabbed a towel, wiped his face hard, and put on his usual mask—the dad smile.

—Did you sleep well?

Two hours slipped by: homework, races in Mario Kart, small hugs and kisses. The kids went back upstairs, happy. But the memory pulled him back toward his studio.

The damned door squealed again.

Alan went back to the kitchen, grabbed a small can of oil, and started lubricating the screws one by one. Once. Twice. Three times… until the sound vanished. He opened and closed the door several times, testing it.

At least he had control over something in this house.

He left the oil on the table and collapsed into the chair in front of his PC. The chest where Chosen sat was still exactly where he’d left it—silent. The quiet around it felt worse than any shout.

Alan exhaled, caught between relief and guilt.

Two hours.

Chosen had been locked inside for two hours.

Part of him wanted to open it and apologize. Another part wanted to leave him there until he learned a lesson. Either choice could end in disaster.

So he took the coward’s route.

He wrote a note.

It explained what had happened and justified why he’d had to lock Chosen away again.

He left it in Firefox’s paws and stepped back. He washed his hands of it—or at least he tried to believe he did.

That was it.

He didn’t expect them to arrive so quickly.

When he heard the Color Crew’s commotion as they returned, he hid the cursor away in the folders. He thought about greeting them, but decided not to. That would mean Chosen might freak out and possibly hurt someone—just because he, Alan, was in the room.

He didn’t want to be the controller. So he waited for them to read the note and convinced himself that that would be enough.

Not that it didn’t sting to hear Chosen say he’d never forgive him.

He understood.

Still… it hurt.

He started to relax in his chair and took off his headphones when he heard Green speak.

—We didn’t forgive him —Green suddenly blurted out, raising his arms—. We were forced to!

Alan’s hands froze midair, suspended.

—What? —Alan thought.

He shouldn’t be listening.

HE KNEW HE SHOULDN’T.

He shouldn’t.

But he didn’t take off his headphones.

—When we first met Alan… our first impression of both of us was the worst. Between him and me, we came to an agreement. —Orange’s voice came through.

—What kind of agreement? —Chosen asked.

—One that… included a contract. —He said it with an embarrassed, awkward tone—. I would help him improve his animations… and in return, he let us live in the PC and also protect it from viruses.

Alan couldn’t see them from where he’d left Chosen, but from the silence that followed, he could guess it wasn’t good.

The contract.

He hadn’t remembered it in… well… years.

What did that have to do with anything now?

—…You’re telling me that all this time… they’ve been living under a contract.

Alan blinked.

What were they talking about?

Blue spoke up, —It’s not like we still live like that! Or at least… we don’t feel that way anymore… it’s been years.

—DON’T YOU GET IT!? —Chosen shouted. He really shouted—. That contract enslaved Orange! It chained him for life! And you all just accepted it!

Enslaved.

It enslaved Orange.

He did…

I did?

Did I really?

No… no, it can’t be.

Wasn’t it friendship? Weren’t the laughs real?

The reason Orange started animating with him again… was it because of that contract?

There was never any real attempt at reconciliation?

No true friendship?

Was there even any?

There had to have been some, right?

They shared fears. Shared moments. Shared movie premieres. Shared achievements.

All of that…

All of that they did… against their will.

All of that was forced?

The ground seemed to shift. His stomach churned, ready to vomit. Alan ripped off his headphones and staggered. The door didn’t squeak this time. Nothing came up, but the feeling stayed.

And the conversation he’d overheard kept replaying in his head.

He hadn’t wanted to hear it. He really hadn’t.

I-I just… I just wanted Chosen…

He…

They…

…

…

His mind went silent. He got up and wiped his face. He looked at the wall clock: 8 PM. He began his nightly routine, locking everything down until his wife arrived.

Feeding the kids, giving them the last moments of his day.

He sent a message to Kaori.

—Hey love. Sorry I’m not staying awake for you this time. I have a bit of a headache, I’m going to sleep. I left the key where always :D <3

Kaori took a while to reply. —Okay. There are some aspirin if it doesn’t go away. Rest Al. :D <3

He showered, put on pajamas, and lay down.

But he didn’t sleep.

1 AM.

He was still wide awake, staring at nothing. His eyes burned, his mind racing. Processing everything that had happened.

1:30 AM

Tears began to fall. He hugged his pillow and screamed into it.

It was his fault.

It was all his fault.

Nothing had been real.

Nothing WAS real.

The realization of all those years crushed him as he cried over memories that had seemed beautiful, but now he knew none of it had been real.

He had forced them to be his friends.

Forced them to include him in their adventures.

Forced them to like the same game he liked.

Forced them into everything…

And Orange…

Oh, Orange.

He had completely enslaved him.

All those hours of practice must have been torture for him.

Did he even enjoy animation?

And if at some point he stopped liking it, but could never say?

Even as he tried to think of Orange’s suffering, the memories dragged him further back.

When his parents, during one of their many fights, said: I’m only with you because of THAT kid. If he didn’t exist, they would have separated already.

It hurt so much and shook his reality.

It was before his sisters were born, but he had made sure they never experienced that confusion. That moment was enough to make him wonder: how many of his friends were truly by his side because they wanted to be, and how many weren’t?

He felt so lost, confused, and above all… broken.

So with the maturity a thirteen-year-old could manage, he decided not to repeat the same mistakes he had made before his family had broken apart. He stopped doing their homework, drawing their projects, inviting them to eat or come over.

Only two stayed. But they slowly drifted away, seeing they wouldn’t gain anything from him.

Returning to being alone at lunch, drawing behind the trees.

He understood. He wanted to understand.

But it hurt so much to realize no child wanted to play with the half-Asian kid in class.

And that was the feeling now.

He understood… but it still hurt.

And pain doesn’t vanish just by growing up. It only gets easier to pretend it didn’t hurt.

Not even his stickmans had been real friends. All because of a contract.

His tears had stopped. He felt stupid for a 36-year-old adult crying over a friendship. But again, age was just an excuse against pain.

He opened his eyes again, a decision made.

He was tired of being the villain in other people’s stories.

Tired of forcing others to stay by his side, whether for benefit or obligation.

He went downstairs quietly and opened his workspace. The door made no sound this time—it at least helped keep his kids asleep. He sat in front of the monitor, making sure none of the Color Crew were awake. That included Chosen.

—Hey… hey girl. —He tapped Firefox lightly. She woke as any dog would when roused—. Sorry to wake you up so early…, but… could you do me a favor?

Firefox tilted her head but nodded. Not without stretching first.

—Can you find me a document from 2014? Its name is: AGREEMENT – STICKMANS AND ALAN

Firefox thought for a moment before diving to retrieve the file.

It took her a while, but she found it. Alan opened it. It was exactly as he remembered. Each word now felt like a reflection of how immature he had been at the time. He inserted his USB and sent the document. He hesitated a second over ejecting it. Then he did. Disconnected and said goodbye to Firefox

So he called DJ at that hour in the early morning, explaining a bit of the situation. They agreed to talk the next day, since it was already 4 PM, and Kaori would be back any moment.

—I've made my decision, D.

—And… is it what you really want to do? —DJ asked, pencil tapping his desk.

—I'm tired of being the villain in the stories of those I hurt without knowing it—. He raised his hands. —I don’t want to force them to stay just because they feel they must. If they want to leave… let them.

—And if they don’t come back?

Alan pressed his lips together.

Of course he had thought about it. And every time he imagined never seeing them again… it hurt. But it was the reality.

There was also another reality he preferred not to think about too much.

Because option two would hurt too.

—…that will be their choice.

They sat in silence. Alan fiddling with the strips of his coat while DJ looked at the drawings he had made of a giant cursor with five little stickmen on top. Playing. Now DJ saw them with a mix of sadness and anger for his friend.

The alarm beep broke the silence. Two hours left until six.

—I think you should get some sleep. Those little dark circles don’t suit you. They don’t show on me because of my camouflage color, but you… you look like a raccoon.

Alan chuckled softly. Of course, DJ would say something funny to break the ice.

—Yeah. I’ll do that. Thanks, D. I’ll call you later.

Daniel gave him one last smile before the screen went black. He stretched his arms behind his head, pressing his back against the chair, closing his eyes, hoping that his friend’s situation could improve.

Even though he already knew Alan’s decision, he hoped at least they could end on good terms.

Suddenly, the idea of having his own stickmen no longer sounded so appealing.

Chosen had to admit it. He hadn’t expected the stories of his younger brother being a complete sleepyhead to be real. He’d thought it was an exaggeration from the Color Crew.

—Orange… Orange… hey little buddy. —Red was poking Orange’s cheek with a stick.
Orange just scratched that spot on his cheek and kept sleeping.

—Alright… that’s it. Bring me some water, Green. —Blue ordered.

—Isn’t it a bit cruel to wake Orange like that? —Chosen asked.

—It’s 5:40 PM, Chosen.

—…oh…

Green carried a bucket of water and poured it over Orange’s face.
Quickly, Orange started making choking noises as he stood up, spitting out the water that had gotten in his mouth.

—GUYS! WHAT WAS THAT!!!

—Sorry, Orange, but…

—It’s 5:43 PM —Blue said, pointing to the wall clock.

It took Orange a few seconds to fully grasp what his friends were referring to. His eyes widened as he remembered what day it was.

Of course… the four weeks.

It was Friday, and only a few minutes remained until six.

—GUYS! —Yellow shouted as he entered the house. —He’s… he’s outside.

Well, arriving ten minutes early.

The morning excitement returned nervously. Blue handed Orange a towel to dry off. Red held the morning sandwich. Green had the backpack. Chosen held the orb that would help Orange get through the moment if things went badly.

Orange gave himself small pats on the cheeks and carefully took each item his friends held.
Each one a sign of their support, in case things went wrong.

He stepped outside the folder. He gave his friends a big group hug, dragging Chosen into it, like it or not.

And with a mutual smile, he stepped out.

He was greeted by AOL, who welcomed him and pointed to what seemed to be the option to create a new desktop.

—You’ll be our gatekeeper, huh? —he joked.

AOL puffed up his chest proudly as he opened the new desktop option labeled “meeting.” Orange chuckled under his breath as he jumped onto the new desktop.

He hadn’t expected it to be so… nice.

A background resembling a forest. One with programmed fireflies glowing around. The white and blue light of the moon set a peaceful, magical tone for the forest-themed wallpaper.

He kept walking until he found Alan’s cursor.

It was in the middle of a chair selection bar. Testing and removing the ones he didn’t like. Orange smiled to himself.

This was Alan Becker.

Alan paused when he saw him in the corner. —Hey! Hi, um… I was trying to set up a comfortable seat for you instead of the floor. I hadn’t thought about it before, it was a last-minute idea, so…

Orange had to signal him to stop. —This is… nice… where did you get it?

And he wasn’t going to deny it, the perfect wallpaper for a warm, relaxing environment.

—I came up with the idea, but Skim helped me with the movements.

—You really pulled it off.

Alan refocused on picking a comfortable chair. Orange admired the scenery for a few more moments before deciding they had wasted enough time.

—Alan… the purple one, the purple chair is fine.

Alan selected the purple chair and Orange set his bag beside him and sat. Out of respect, Alan placed the cursor nearby and leaned back in his chair.

And then silence.

Seriously, no one knew how to start this meeting.

Even though it was Alan’s own idea.

—…Um… want something to nibble on maybe?

Orange took out his sandwich, looked at it for a moment, then gathered all his courage and spoke.

—Alan… from the beginning… please. —He didn’t look at the cursor. He looked at the screen, at the real creator. —Who was your first creation?

Alan shivered off-screen. He picked up the stress ball and discreetly started reviewing what he already had on his phone. His mind had always been bad at keeping track, which is why he wrote things down daily.

—Sure… let’s begin.

Chapter Text

—Sure… let’s begin —he licked his lips and managed to keep his eyes on the screen—. My first creation was… a paper crane.

Orange stayed silent, waiting for something else.

—…Alan… —he said his name in an annoyed tone.

—No, no, no. I’m serious —he hurried to clarify—. My first creation was outside the PC. It was a paper crane.

It was back in his early animation days. Before creating Victim, before joining the Minecraft community, before meeting his wife, before moving out, before Adobe Flash changed its name… even before Pixar rejected him.

He had started with stop motion, and his first attempt at giving life was just a simple paper crane.

—It didn’t mean much at first —he admitted—, but for a beginner with no experience, it was a huge achievement.

—I see… but, can we skip that part and go straight to the tragic story about the guy who started all this? —He tried to sound polite, but couldn’t help thinking Alan was stalling for time.

Alan chuckled softly, looking more nervous than offended. He coughed a couple of times, took a sip of water, and spoke.

—Yeah, yeah, sorry. I thought it’d be a nice start. I want to show you something first.

He moved the cursor to the only folder on the desktop.

When he opened it, several pictures appeared. Orange had to stand up to see what Alan was trying to show him.

He didn’t recognize anyone in those photos.

There was a man and a woman… a human couple.

The man had features similar to Alan’s; narrow eyes, straight black hair. And very pale, almost unnaturally pale. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes. An Asian.

And the woman had more common American traits.

It took Orange a moment to realize who they were.

—…They… are… your—

—Yes, they are —Alan answered before he could finish—. My mom… and my dad.

His tone shifted slightly when he mentioned the man, but he quickly tried to recover his usual voice.

—Remember when I explained that humans and stickmans are very different?

—Um… yeah. What works in my world doesn’t work in yours. But… what does that have to do with this?

—It’s important —Alan said, moving to the next photo—. Here my mom was pregnant with me… it was her last few weeks. Do you remember when I explained how humans are made?

Orange tilted his head, confused.

—What? You came out of her… how? You’re… really big.

Alan had to cover his mouth to stop himself from facepalming.

Of course he wouldn’t remember —these were human topics.

—Yeah… um… about that…

—And how did you get in there? —Orange asked again, completely innocent.

—…I think Yellow would have better answers for those questions —Alan muttered, slightly red—. But let’s keep going.

Orange frowned, frustrated, while Alan switched to the next photo —a baby portrait.

—This is me when I was a baby —he said with a faint smile before going to the next one—. And here, a bit older.

Orange watched without looking away. Each picture was like a window into a part of his creator he had never seen before.

It was the same person, yes… but he looked different.

—I… don’t understand —he said, turning to him—. Why are you showing me this?

—I want you to tell me what you notice —Alan replied, pointing at himself and then at the pictures—. What do you see in them… and what do you see now?

Orange looked at the photos, then at him.

The difference was obvious.

—You look… older now. More… different.

—Yeah —Alan nodded—. That’s what happens to humans. They grow. —He closed all the images except one.— And here… here I was seventeen.

Orange studied him closely. The Alan in the photo had sharper features, messy hair, and was standing beside three women; two younger, one older. Probably his mother.

But something about that picture didn’t feel right.

Yes, Alan was smiling… but it was one of those empty smiles.

The kind you give just for the photo, when all you really want is for it to be over.

—…I… can’t see well. Can you show me more?

Alan flinched, looking almost embarrassed.

—I… didn’t let people take many pictures of me back then —he confessed with a weak smile—. I used to hide from the camera. There were a few I took by myself… but… I didn’t like what I saw in the image.

Alan opened three more images separately. Orange noticed that most of them were family pictures.

Christmas.

Thanksgiving.

New Year’s Eve.

They looked more forced than sincere.

—I like to think I’ve changed —Alan said in a pained, almost sad tone.

—But you have —Orange replied—. Just look at you. You’re bigger, taller, stronger and—

—I don’t mean physically, Orange… I mean inside. —He leaned back in his chair, squeezing the stress ball tighter—. I wasn’t a good person back then… Not that I was a criminal or smoked or anything, but I did cause my mom a lot of trouble.

Orange looked again, more closely, at the three pictures.

Now he could see the difference in Alan’s eyes.

One looked tired. Another, angry. And the last one… just uncomfortable.

Not looking at the camera.

—I don’t get it. What does this have to do with Victim?

Alan took a breath before sitting up straight and looking at Orange. —At that age… was when I created Victim.

Orange blinked, shocked, glancing between the younger Alan and the man sitting in front of him.

So much time had passed.

More than a decade.

Was Victim’s hatred for Alan really that deep?

Could someone truly hate another person for that long?

Wasn’t there some kind of expiration date for resentment?

A sting of sadness struck Orange at the thought.

—At first, I made him as a way to practice animation. But then I met someone named PROGRAMER46. I never knew who they were, only that their program helped me make a pet on my computer… since those were really popular at the time.

—Wait, wait. A pet? —Orange asked, confused.

Alan wished he could just disappear right then.

—…I… the reason I created Victim was to have a computer pet.

Orange had to shake that thought off.

Had Alan always seen them as pets?

Had they always been that to him?

—Like… a Tamagotchi? —he asked, trying to make the idea sound lighter.

It shouldn’t sound that bad… right?

—…No. He was… like my… project to destroy and rebuild. —He bit his lip, trying not to cry as he continued—. I… deleted him the first time. Then I recreated him… and deleted him again. I recreated him… and again. And again. And again. And again… and again.

With each word Alan repeated, Orange felt his stomach sink.

He hadn’t just deleted him.

He had destroyed him, over and over.

Flashes of the different tortures crossed his mind.

And the fact that Alan said it so simply —“I deleted him”— made his blood boil.

—Alan… you didn’t just delete him —he said tensely. Alan looked away—. You tortured him.

His lips trembled. And even though Orange had no face, Alan could feel his expression fixed on him.

That invisible stare weighed more than any other.

—…I didn’t know he was alive.

—You saw him run for his life! —Orange snapped, raising his voice.

—I thought it was just his programming! Something like an AI— he covered his mouth, nervous—. At that time, they were really rare and… I thought he had something special, something unique.

—YOU SAW HIM DROWN IN A FISHBOWL!

Alan stared, startled.

He didn’t even remember all the ways he had killed/deleted Victim.

There were some specific ones… but he had never said them out loud.

—YOU SAW HIM CRAWL AFTER YOU ERASED HIS LEGS!! —Orange shouted, stomping the floor in fury. His eyes felt like they could burst into tears, —YOU CUT OFF HIS LIMBS WITH THOSE… those… those weapons!

He had to stop.

He pulled out the sandwich Blue had made for him and started eating quietly.

Reminding himself that his friends were on his side. Safe.

And now… in his stomach.

—…How… do you know that? —Alan asked in a low voice.

Orange swallowed another bite before speaking.

—He… he showed us. To Yellow, Chosen… and me.

Alan’s eyes trembled. His grip on the stress ball grew tighter.

If they knew, the others probably did too.

That would explain their behavior lately.

They all feared him.

They all hated him.

They all…

—So what happened when you stopped torturing him? —Orange asked with his mouth full.

Alan blinked and came back to himself.

He’d deal with those thoughts later. For now, he had to focus.

He bit his tongue, remembering DJ’s words.

Let him talk.

—…No… I didn’t stop deleting him. Not until he escaped, around 2007, if I remember right. —He grabbed his tea, trying to untie the knot in his throat.

And it had only been fifteen minutes.

There was still Chosen and Dark to talk about.

—I didn’t hear from him again. Well… not until… a few days ago. —He scratched the top of his head, his body trembling slightly from the sensitivity.

Orange stopped eating and put the container back into his bag.

—Go on.

Alan felt so vulnerable that his instincts screamed at him to run.

He had to force his stupid body to stay in the chair.

—Right… Almost two years passed without hearing from Victim, and without creating any more stickmans. Until 2009. I was already in college, a little more stable psychologically… but I didn’t want another… well… victim.

Oh Jesus, that sounded awful out loud.

—I was about twenty at the time. I wanted a challenge. Something that pushed me. So I reopened Flash and used it to create Stickmans again… and I made The Chosen One. —He winced, remembering how their first encounter ended—. To this day, I’m not sure it was the best decision.

Orange took a moment before really processing what Alan had said.

—You mean… that guy, PROGRAMER46, was the one who gave you a program to create stickmen, right?

—Um… yeah, that’s what happened.

Orange looked at him, confused.

Wasn’t Alan supposed to be capable of creating stickmen involuntarily?

Then… why did he need a program?

He glanced at the clock on the corner of the screen.

He had questions, so many questions.

But he chose to wait and listen to the whole story—the true story—about his brothers and their creator.

—Nothing, nothing —he finally muttered—. What happened when you created Chosen?

Alan looked confused for a moment, but decided to let it slide.

—Well… it wasn’t exactly the best first impression. —He let out a nervous laugh—. He literally started attacking the cursor. Like he already knew that was his target to fight. I don’t really know.

Even now, he still didn’t know.

—I tried to stop him since he was making a mess on my computer. I was scared he might break it, and at that time I didn’t have a stable job to buy another one.

—So… you stopped him?

—Yeah…

—…how?

Alan shrugged until his shoulders touched his ears.

—The same way I’ve been doing it now.

He could feel Orange’s judging stare.

The latter just looked away, disappointed.

—Continue.

—After trapping him inside the antivirus, I used him as a screensaver. Whether it was for my thesis, research, homework… whatever I needed. —His voice trembled just slightly.

Orange took out his notebook and started writing.

He needed to confirm all this with Chosen himself.

—You kept him tied up the same way? With that prison ball? —he suddenly asked without looking up.

Alan grabbed his cup of tea with both hands and looked away, ashamed. He didn’t want to face the next question.

—Alan… —His voice slid out like a scolding.

Alan pressed his lips together, saying nothing.

—…Alan. What did you do?

—…I… didn’t know what happened when I didn’t need him. I assumed he was in some blank space or… maybe somewhere else inside the PC. —His tongue twisted, struggling to explain what he now understood.

The pen slipped from Orange’s hands.

He couldn’t be that stupid.

No… right?

—Alan, what did you do?!

—I… I didn’t know that when I wasn’t using him… he went back to the antivirus chest.

That was enough for Orange to understand everything.

The reason Chosen hated closed spaces.

The reason he needed a light to sleep.

The reason shackles felt familiar to him.

Orange could only hug his backpack, trying to absorb this new truth.

Alan watched him in silence, waiting for judgment.

—How long? —Orange finally asked without lifting his head—. How long was he like that?

—…Two years… it was two years.

—TWO YEARS YOU KEPT HIM LOCKED UP!? —he suddenly screamed, startling Alan—. HOW COULD YOU BE SO BLIND!? DIDN’T YOU SEE THE SIGNS!? DIDN’T YOU SEE HIM BEGGING!? DIDN’T YOU SEE HOW… how scared he was of you…!?

Alan felt that if he kept biting his lip, the bubble of blood would burst.

Not talking was becoming nearly impossible.

He grabbed the pillow he’d brought and hugged it tightly.

He needed to hold onto something.

Orange, for his part, also hugged the plush Red had given him—so tightly he felt it might tear apart.

A long silence followed.

Both breathing heavily.

Also, having anxiety… makes you hungry.

Alan, almost instinctively, grabbed his tablet and drew some bread for Orange.

He carefully slid the tray toward him and left it on the small table.

He expected Orange to reject it… but he didn’t.

—How did he escape from… your control?

Control.

That’s what they called it now.

—I-It was around 2011. I was twenty-two then. I was working on an assignment when… I used Chosen. Only this time, something happened. He managed to break free. —He leaned back in his chair—. And once again, he took control of the PC. So I decided to create who would become his nemesis.

Orange tensed.

—You mean Dark Lord?

—Yeah… Dark Lord. I created him to… finally kill Chosen. —He let out a small cough, nervous—. But it didn’t go as planned. They both managed to make peace and joined forces to destroy the PC.

—And did they?

—Yeah. My computer died that day. And with it, all my programs and files. I thought they both had died too, but as you already know, they’re still… they were still there. Or at least one of them, from what you told me.

Now it was Orange’s turn to get nervous. He started eating the bread at an alarming speed.

Alan’s expression changed. The tension and nervousness gave way to a melancholy calm.

—That same year I bought a new computer. I moved in with the person who’s now my wife —he smiled as he opened a photo of a younger Alan Becker and Kaori—. And that was also the year you came into my life, Orange.

Orange sat back down, studying the timeline in his notebook.

Different year.

Different age.

Different Alan Becker.

—That’s why you showed me your photos, isn’t it? —he asked in a calmer voice—. You weren’t the same as before, were you?

Alan felt like he could finally breathe. —Yes! I mean… yeah. That’s what I was trying to tell you. I wanted you to see that… I’m not the same Alan Becker I used to be.

—The old one was an idiot.

Alan had to laugh at that comment.

Because he wasn’t going to deny it. Every human teenager is an idiot.

—And that… that’s the whole story, Orange. Nothing more, nothing less. I don’t know what happened to Chosen and Dark while they were out on the web.

—I see.

Now it was Alan who pulled his knees to his chest, staring at the screen in silence.

Waiting for Orange’s next move.

Orange squeezed his backpack tightly, as if gathering all the inner strength for what came next. He finally managed to open it and pulled out a folder, to Alan’s surprise.

The pages inside were of different colors.

Oh, they’re from the others.

—I… well, they have some questions. Now that we know you weren’t always… good.

—The guys? Of course! I-I can answer them! —he tried to sound cheerful.

If they were asking questions, it meant his opinion still mattered, right?

—Was our friendship real?

Alan blinked, confused. —W-what? I’m sorry, what did you say?

—Our friendship. ALL OF IT! Was it real? The movie nights, the moments… were they real?

Alan’s brain struggled to process what Orange was implying.

Real?

What did he mean by real?

—I… don’t get what you mean. What do you mean by “real”?

Orange made a frustrated gesture, —I’M ASKING IF OUR FRIENDSHIP WAS REAL!! Was everything we lived through real? Those nights and days when you called us… your kids?

While Orange kept talking, Alan’s mind finally caught up.

The Color Band —including Orange— believed that everything they had lived with him had been nothing but part of the contract.

His hands landed on the laptop table, almost losing balance, but leaning closer to the screen.

—IT’S REAL!

Orange jumped at the sudden shout.

—IT’S REAL! I-I really love the songs Green writes! And yes! Even if I get tired of his requests over and over again… I REALLY LOVE THEM! —his voice rose and fell with emotion, but he couldn’t stop—. BLUE’S RECIPES! I’m not a great cook, and Kaori reminds me of that every day, but thanks to his recipes, at least now I won’t die of hunger. The kids love the one with strawberries!

Orange looked between the papers and the screen, with Alan spilling out words.

He was answering almost every question.

—Red, with his passion for animals! My daughter loves his encyclopedia! And Yellow has saved me more times than my stupid brain can count! If it weren’t for him, I couldn’t even make those dumb LED lights work.

Alan kept talking.

And talking.

Answering questions that hadn’t even been said aloud.

Was it real?

Then… it was all real?

Nothing had been fake because of the contract?

Orange wanted to smile, but every word that came from Alan brought back his memories of Victim.

The torture.

The contract.

Victim.

—Even you, Orange… —Orange finally looked outside the screen. And Alan, Alan had a big, genuine smile, his eyes filled with gratitude as he looked at him.— I can’t go back in time and punch myself, but I know it now. You taught me so many things I never thought I could do.

Orange’s heart stopped for a moment. —You mean… animation?

Was it out of interest?

—No. It’s true that without you I wouldn’t be where I am now. Not only in my career, but in my personal life. —The cursor moved to a specific photo. It was Kaori and Alan, and in their arms, their first child.— Remember when I sent you this picture?

—The birth of your daughter.

The image had colorful hearts—they had put them there themselves when Alan sent the photo. They were happy everything had gone well.

Though… they still didn’t understand how they’d had a baby.

—I know I haven’t been the best creator, nor the most bearable —Alan admitted, his voice cracking—. And there’s no “but” to excuse my past attitude. I’d like to say I was going through a lot at the time… but those would just be excuses and—

—ALAN!!

Alan looked up. Orange had moved to the edge of the screen, arms open.

A hug. One toward Alan.

Alan couldn’t hold back the tears anymore.

It wasn’t crying—just tears falling for everything he felt.

He didn’t even know if he was doing it right or wrong.

But there he was.

Crying.

—I forgive you, Alan.

—I’m sorry…

—You didn’t know—Orange tried to say, his voice trembling.

—You’re right… I-I should’ve seen the signs—he hugged the pillow tightly—. I should’ve seen something… I should’ve…

And there his words stayed.

In a quiet what if things had been different?

But there’s no changing what’s already done.

Alan drank the rest of his tea, trying to calm himself.

He shouldn’t be crying.

And yet, he was.

—I’m sorry… this isn’t my moment to cry. This is more about you, sorry—he said, taking off his glasses and wiping his face with his shirt sleeves.— Sorry for… sorry… I…

Orange went back to his seat, wiping his face too.

He looked at the colored sheets and smiled.

All his questions had been answered. Every single one.

And he hadn’t even needed to speak.

And he was happy.

As he put the papers away, Alan watched him. From his perspective, Orange seemed to be analyzing his reaction… as if he saw him as a pathetic villain begging for understanding.

He took a deep breath and moved the cursor.

—I… want to give you something.

He opened the photo folder; at the very end, there was a document.

Orange felt a pit in his stomach when he saw it.

The contract.

His lips trembled. He clumsily put the sheets away as the cursor pulled the file out.

—ALAN WA-!

—It’s canceled.

They both spoke at the same time.

Orange stayed silent, trying to understand what Alan had just said. The cursor moved closer, handing him the document. Orange took it carefully.

— I… I don’t… understand.

— It’s yours. You can tear it apart if you want —said Alan, with a clumsy smile—. Or burn it, or shred it… whatever you prefer.

Orange still didn’t understand. —But… if I tear it, the contract—

—It’s canceled.

Orange’s eyes went wide. He had to sit down; his legs were shaking.

Cancel?

—Y-you mean…? No… I don’t understand —he did understand, but his mind refused to accept it.

—What I mean is… now… you’re free —Alan said with a soft smile, traces of tears still in his voice.

Free?

But… he was always… free.

—B-but… what about the work?

—That doesn’t matter, Orange. You don’t have to stay anymore. You can go, explore the web where your friend Purple comes from, or that city we saw after Victim’s incident. It looked like a nice place to live, maybe… have your own life there.

Orange never thought that this contract was holding him that way.

He never imagined another life away from the PC.

So that’s how Chosen saw it?

Is this what he meant about being a slave?

But now that there was no contract…

Now that there was no reason to stay…

…

Was there a reason to leave, too?

Alan saw the hesitation in Orange’s eyes and went on. —Y-you could even settle down there, if you want. You don’t have to come back if you don’t want to. Of course, the PC will still be open, if you ever wish to return. ONLY IF YOU WANT TO!

But… did he want to…?

Did he want to leave?

—Y-y-you don’t have to come back. You don’t even have to think about me, or feel guilty.

It wasn’t mandatory to come back…

—You, Chosen, and the rest of the gang… you can all go.

Chosen’s words echoed in his head — to leave together and start over.

—Live your adventures with no curfew, no fear of breaking things. Just… live.

No limits…

Just be… free.

Free.

And then silence, only silence.

Letting Alan’s words settle deep in Orange’s mind. He looked at the contract — a simple Word document with letters that now felt impossibly heavy.

Then he looked at Alan, searching for a crack, a flaw that might reveal if everything he’d just said was truth, a lie, or just another trick.

But he found nothing.

There was only… a smile.

And Orange knew he had to say something, because Alan’s expression was beginning to waver.

— I… this… this is a lot to process.

—Of course! Yeah, yeah, I know. Too much happiness for one night haha —he laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck—. You can tell the others, I’m not forcing you to! I-it’s just… a… good piece of news to share.

Good news?

Orange stared at the contract. Then back at Alan.

For some reason, Alan’s words didn’t reach his brain easily, and he had to ask aloud.

—You… you mean that if we leave, we’re not required… to come back?

Alan, still smiling, with eyes full of understanding, answered —Yes.

—No matter how much time passes?

—Yes.

—We could settle in that city… forever?

—…yes.

—And Chosen? He—

—Oh, right! I’ll free him tomorrow or later today. Of course! If you plan to leave now, I can free him and—

—NO! No! No, no, that’s not what I meant, I just… asked. —His voice cracked; he needed to end this meeting. He already had what he came for.—…I… I need to talk with the others.

—Of course. I understand. Take your time, there’s no rush.

Orange picked up his things, stored the contract, and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He walked slowly, glancing around, thoughts swirling in his head.

Though deep down, he was still waiting for Alan to contradict himself.

—Orange…

Orange stopped. His heart jumped. He turned his head toward the screen, toward the cursor.

—…I’m sorry.

—…I know.

And that was it. Their last exchange that night.

Alan stood up from his chair and left the room. He was still smiling as he climbed the stairs. But the moment the door clicked shut behind him, that smile disappeared.

His expression twisted, and he slowly slid down until he was sitting on the floor.

—It’s the right thing —he repeated to himself, first in silence, then in a whisper—. It’s the right thing.

His fist clenched tightly.

Meanwhile, Orange crossed to the other side of the PC. AOL was playing cards with Firefox; both looked up when they saw him coming.

—…You two knew what he was going to say, didn’t you? —Orange asked.

Both programs just shrugged and went back to their game.

Of course, they would respect their creator’s decision.

Orange kept walking until he reached the others’ house. When he opened the door, only one pair of eyes was still awake —Chosen’s. The rest were sleeping, exhausted from waiting.

—Orange! —said Chosen, showing genuine relief on his face.

—ORANGE!! —And like falling dominoes, everyone woke up when they heard his name.

The group immediately surrounded him, wrapping him in a hug. Orange responded the same way, holding tightly onto his friends.

—Orange… what happened?

—Did he hurt you?

—Did he threaten you?

—We fell asleep and he hurt you!?

The voices faded when Orange raised his hands, asking for silence. He looked at all of them, his breath still trembling.

—I… I think now… we’re free.

Chapter Text

—Orange…

Blue entered the room, looking at her friend and brother, buried under the bedsheets. He’d been like that since yesterday, Friday.

Everyone had been left speechless after what Orange revealed.

The contract was cancelled.

They were… literally… free.

But for some reason, that word felt empty for all of them.

Blue sat beside her friend, who was staring at a drawing they had made for Alan back when he was sad.

Blue looked at Orange’s face.

He wasn’t even crying, just staring at the picture with an expression that held too many emotions at once.

—…Orange.

—…Uh?

—…

—…

—…Chosen is asking if he should pack the Minecraft game or if he can install it anywhere.

Silence fell again, hanging only in their exchanged glances.

Orange put the photograph down, threw off the blankets, and walked straight out of his room, with Blue following behind.

—Chosen, I don’t think we should pack without Orange —Green tried to say.

—Nonsense! We have to take advantage of the time before he changes his mind.

He said that as he grabbed Green’s guitar and shoved it into what he thought was the right place for a guitar.

Inside the Minecraft chest.

Then he looked around, headed straight for the kitchen, lifted the refrigerator over his head with both arms, and marched toward the chest.

All while Green, Red, and Yellow watched helplessly.

—…Do we really have to leave? —Red murmured as he stroked his pet pig.

—…He said whenever we wanted —Yellow said, clutching his suitcase.

A suitcase he was forced to pack by Chosen, who, like a hurricane, had thrown all of Yellow’s things into a random luggage piece and handed it to him while he was still in bed.

The door to Orange’s room opened slowly, revealing Orange, with Blue behind him.

Chosen shoved the kitchen appliances he had pulled out back inside the chest and looked at them with a smile.

—ORANGE! Little brother! Perfect timing, I already packed the kitchen and the fridge into the box. I’m not sure if I can also fit the house or Red’s farm, and—

—WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM!?

Orange yelled, shoving Chosen hard enough to make him stumble back.

Chosen looked at him confused. Orange’s eyes held anger… and hurt.

—What—

—YOU WANT TO LEAVE SO BADLY!? FINE! GO! GET OUT! —he shouted, stomping toward Chosen. —WE’LL LEAVE WHEN WE WANT TO!!

—So… we do have to leave? —Red asked timidly.

—I DON’T KNOW!!

—…Orange… let’s go take a walk, okay?

Blue offered. Orange took her hand and followed her outside. They walked out of the PC.

Where they were used to seeing a cursor playfully moving around. Now there was nothing—just the PC programs playing with a ball or playing cards.

Blue opened the window to their real house.

Not the Minecraft one. The house Chosen hadn’t raided yet to pack things.

He let Orange sit at the small round table on the floor while he went to make tea for both of them. Then she sat across from him. Orange took the tea carefully and drank it slowly.

—You know we’ll respect whatever decision you make, Orange. No matter what the others decide.

—…

—If you choose to stay, we’ll stay too. If you choose to leave, we’ll go with you. I know sometimes we disagree, but we’ll always be together, Orange.

—…I know —he said, looking at his tea with a small smile.

—We can stay longer before deciding anything. Alan didn’t give us a deadline —she tried to sound positive, trying to earn more time before the decision had to be made.

—…What if time just becomes uncomfortable? What if nothing ever goes back to how it was? What is this supposed to mean for us?

Blue could only stare at her tea, her worry reflected in her expression.

What did this freedom mean for them?

Where would they go if they left?

This was the only safe place they had ever known.

Purple had told them about the city, and the only time they had ever interacted with other stickmen besides themselves was when they rescued Orange and Chosen. Even that small moment had felt strange.

But then they remembered what Chosen said.

They could go to other PCs, other games, other places that weren’t the city.

But the idea of going somewhere else and calling it home… felt… confusing.

—Alan still hasn’t freed Chosen. So he can’t leave even if he wants to —Blue tried to change the topic. —Do you want something special today? I can cook your favorite food, no problem.

That seemed to brighten Orange’s mood, as a smile formed —thank you, Blue.

—And I think we’re going to have to make Chosen eat outside the house.

Orange let out a small laugh, —why?

—Because, brother or not, he’s a complete idiot when it comes to boundaries and respecting other people’s choices. —She said as she stood up and put her hands on her hips. —Now I need to convince him to take the kitchen out of the storage box.

Orange held his stomach as he laughed.

That actually was really funny.

The smell of freshly cooked noodles filled the house. The whole color band waited eagerly at the table while Blue served the meat slices, vegetables, and finally the noodles with incredible speed.

Everyone clapped as Blue served each of them their plates.

—Can I have one?

Everyone turned to look at Chosen through the kitchen windows. Blue was the one who walked over, handed him a bowl of noodles, and closed the window again.

—Are you seriously not letting me in?

—No.

And with that, Blue shut the curtains, leaving Chosen to watch and listen to the silhouettes of the color band from outside. Blue sat back in her place while everyone began enjoying their noodles with Green’s soft music in the background.

Feeling a little bit of normality.

—Ah! By the way. Yellow —Orange said, looking at him— where do human babies come from?

Yellow spat out his noodle broth right into Green’s face, who screamed, and Blue nearly dropped her bowl. Red stared, not fully understanding Orange’s question.

Chosen couldn’t hear clearly what caused the chaos outside. He rolled his eyes, dragged the prison orb to the middle of the PC, and sat down to eat.

Chosen didn’t understand why his younger brother pushed him that morning.

Weren’t they supposed to leave?

That was the plan, wasn’t it?

Alan cancelled the contract, gave them freedom.

Why were they taking so long to decide?

After finishing his food, he put the bowl aside and lay down. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs and stomach before letting it out slowly.

He wouldn’t deny it.

Alan’s PC was a peaceful place.

He guessed they would miss this part of the PC.

The silence, the calm.

He had a pleasant memory of his first time in Minecraft. He had built his own house, explored the water, stacked trees, eaten the strange food there, and watched his first sunset.

Peace.

It was the same peace he felt here.

Maybe that’s why it was taking them so long to leave him.

…

—What if I destroy the PC and force them to leave?

—Do that and I’ll make sure to give you a punishment you’ll remember your entire existence.

Chosen literally jumped, going into full alert mode as he saw the cursor activate and begin moving outside, circling around the black stickman.

Chosen huffed and crossed his arms. —If you’re looking for them, they’re in the house.

—I’m looking for you. I want to ask you a favor.

Chosen uncrossed his arms and looked outside the PC.

Alan was looking directly at him. And Chosen didn’t know if the intention behind that look was good or bad.

He stood in the bravest pose he could manage. —What do you want?

—That city we saw when escaping Victim. What’s it like? —Alan wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing asking.

He didn’t want to sound like he was planning something. He just wanted… to imagine a better future for his kids outside the PC.

That was a question he did not expect. Anything else—yes. But not that.

—Ah… well… it’s… a city. Big buildings, some houses outside the city, a market, farms, and… um… I saw these big propellers spinning outside the city, I’ve heard that’s where electricity comes from.

—No, no, no, I don’t mean that.

—Then you need to be more specific.

Alan sighed, rubbing his temple. —I mean, is it safe? Does it have good jobs? Does it have schools or community colleges to study in? Maybe universities with good scholarships? That’s what I mean, Chosen.

—Aaahh. Well… I… um…

The cursor leaned closer to Chosen, who looked around nervously, leaving Alan impatient.

—…what’s a school?

Alan covered his face with both hands in pure frustration, letting out a sound that definitely included curses.

—Why do you even care?

—I DO CARE! —Alan shouted, startling Chosen.

His voice echoed through the entire PC. Not even the programs dared move for a moment. Some quietly hid.

Alan inhaled deeply and let it all out. —I do care. I care.

Chosen stared at this human.

The same human who tortured him for months, the nightmare haunting all his nights, the reason he feared the dark. And now he was watching him get frustrated because he didn’t know if a thing called a school existed in the Ournet.

—Why is that important?

Alan looked at him—not annoyed, not obligated, but sincere.

—In my world, education is important to get a good job. Blue will probably become a chef—she’s good at cooking. Green is excellent with music, but I’m worried his songs won’t reach the audience he wants. Red loves animals, yes, but you need more than love to make a living from that. Maybe a zoo caretaker, or a guide…

As he spoke, Alan didn’t know if he was doing it for them… or because he needed to convince himself that letting them go wouldn’t end with them living on the streets while he pretended his conscience was clean for “freeing” them.

He needed to know he was making the right choice.

As Alan continued talking, Chosen didn’t fully understand.

He didn’t understand everything Alan was murmuring.

But somehow… he knew it mattered.

He knew because Alan was naming things one could do in the city, not things one could do inside the PC.

Chosen sighed in defeat.

He didn’t know if he would regret what he was about to do, but he hoped this was the right path to take his younger brother and his friends with him.

—If it makes you feel calm… I can go to the Ournet and investigate those places.

Alan stopped murmuring and looked at him.

Not like a threat, not like a freak, but like he couldn’t believe they were actually speaking civilly.

—…you… would do that?

—…I only care about them. And I’ll come back only for them, nothing more.

Chosen expected disappointment or complaints, but there were none. Instead, there was relief. And that confused him. He expected Alan to be sad that his golden ticket to animation was leaving.

—Wait…

Oh. Maybe he wasn’t wrong after all.

—You can at least write, right? Read?

—…

—…you don’t know how to write, do you?

—H-H-HEY! I can read!! I’ve read all the superhero comics!!

Chosen tried to defend himself, feeling so embarrassed under his creator’s stare that he managed only that pathetic justification.

Alan sighed, lowering his shoulders and trying to work with what he had.

—If I give you a camera to take pictures of the places and their information, could you do it?

—I… think so.

—…that’s enough.

And at that moment, Alan opened the animation program and drew a camera with several film rolls. He grabbed Chosen, who flinched from the sudden motion, and handed him the camera and rolls.

—You know how to use a camera like this?

—I do. I’m not completely clueless —he said as he stored the rolls in a bag Alan created for him. He took a picture and gave it to Alan.

Alan opened it: a photo of how the PC looked from Chosen’s perspective.

—Wow, that’s how the PC looks inside? Incredible.

—See? I can use a camera.

—Good. Now there’s just one more thing— and with that, Alan selected Chosen. He right-clicked and pressed the option to free him.

Chosen looked at his ankle.

He was free again.

He summoned flames from his hands and started flipping through the PC interior, agile and elegant. Of course, the PC programs stared at him warily, ready for any sudden movement.

Wow, they really hated him.

He finally landed beside the cursor, waiting near the Internet icon.

—How long do you think you’ll take? —Alan asked, leaning back on his chair, doubt hanging heavily in his mind about letting the black stickman roam freely.

Chosen shrugged. —I don’t know. But it won’t take more than a day. It’s not like there’s a rush.

—There isn’t? Don’t you have to help the others pack?

Chosen walked toward the portal. —I tried, and they only greeted me with dirty looks. They don’t seem in a hurry to pack —he said, opening the portal. —They look more like they want to stay.

Alan blinked. —Stay? Why… do you say that?

—It’s obvious, I’d say. Maybe they feel emotionally attached, or maybe Orange is thinking about how this change will affect the others. He thinks about everyone else before himself.

And as Chosen said that, Alan’s face shifted through several expressions.

One of them held many conflicting thoughts.

—Yeah… he tends to do that.

Chosen nodded, and before stepping into the portal, he looked outside the screen, about to say words he never thought he’d ever say to his creator.

—I’ll be back.

And for the first time, Alan wanted to believe him.

And with that, Chosen threw himself into the portal, which closed behind him.

The long tunnel was the next thing Chosen saw as that familiar sensation of freedom washed over him again. He could already see the end of the tunnel, shielding his eyes as the recognizable light of the Ournet welcomed him back.

The water was just as beautiful as always; the cliff where his lair had once been was still abandoned, still full of holes. He took a moment to really look at the scenery.

He never thought he’d miss it that much.

He dove down, reigniting the flames in his hands and feet, touching the cold water before heading toward the city in search of the places Alan had mentioned.

Far from his view, deep in the forest, the silent beep of an alarm activated directly on a different PC. A signal popped up on the screen; activity near the cliff, along with the image of a stick figure.

All of this reflected in the black glasses of the person watching the feed, who immediately called someone through their earpiece.

—Boss, we’ve got activity.

Orange watched from his hiding spot as Alan animated his next project.

And Alan hadn’t even called him.

He puffed his cheeks, slapped his own face lightly, and tried to shake off the feeling of rejection that had clung to him since yesterday. He stepped out of the folder and walked straight toward the animator’s screen.

—Hey! Alan.

Alan paused. Orange swore he saw a spark of genuine joy… but it vanished instantly, replaced by what could only be described as a customer-service smile.

—Hey, Orange. Good morning. —And he went right back to animating.

Orange rocked on his heels, watching the animation. Waiting… for something. A comment. A question. An invitation. Anything that would make him feel like he still belonged there.

—Do you need help? —He decided to take the first step.

Alan froze for a second, looked at the screen, then at Orange.

—Um… no, I don’t think so. Thanks.

—Are you sure? There’s not much to do in the PC right now.

—Did you all finish packing?

Silence dropped like a stone.

The confidence Orange had gathered crumbled with a single sentence. The atmosphere in the PC shifted, and Alan felt it too.

—Alan… do you… really want us to leave? —He asked without being able to look at him. His hands were trembling.

—NO! —Alan cleared his throat, lowering his voice immediately—. No… I mean… like I told you, you can come and go whenever you want now. You’re not required to stay. If you want, you can settle down in that little town we saw… or anywhere else.

—…and if I decide we stay in the town? What happens to you? To your job?

Alan felt his throat close up. He instinctively bit his lips.

Chosen had been right.

Orange cared more about everyone else than about himself.

And the reason Orange still hadn’t packed anything was simple; he was thinking about him.

About what would happen to Alan. To his family. Whether he’d be alone.

—Me? Pfff… nothing. I’ll keep working with the guidelines you gave me and the lessons. I’m not your responsibility, Orange. You also have the right to have your own life outside this… PC.

—…but…

—A-and besides, I’m 34. I’m a full-grown human, I can take care of my own family. That’s my job. Yours is… to be happy however you want —he said, trying to sound kind.

But inside, something in him was breaking.

—But… the PC is also my home. It’s not perfect… but it’s…

—…It’s??

—…It’s a safe place for my friends. Like you said, there will be other safe places out there, and you’re probably right. It’s just… scary.

Alan smiled weakly.

He remembered his first move to university: freedom, excitement, independence… and fear.

Maybe that was what Orange was feeling.

That fear of taking the first step into the unknown.

Maybe… maybe the five of them just needed a push.

—And… after you finish drawing, what will you do?

—Me? Well, I’ve been thinking about taking my family to the beach. It’s been a while. And the weather’s nice.

—That’s great! Will you go through a portal? —Orange asked, genuinely excited—. I hope the portal is big enough for the kids.

—Portal? HAHAHAHAHA —Alan couldn’t help laughing—. No, no, in my world there aren’t portals like the ones you use.

Orange blinked in confusion.

—Then… how do you travel to other places?

—Well, it depends. Our world is round, so we have cars, planes, boats…

Orange listened as if Alan were describing a completely different universe.

—Oh! I see. And how long do those trips take?

—Depends. Sometimes two or three days. Not everything is close. And you need a lot of gasoline for transportation.

Another unknown word.

—What is… gasoline?

—It’s what cars, planes and boats use to work.

—…they don’t work on their own?

Orange came to a realization as Alan searched for the right words to explain how each human transportation system worked.

He knew nothing about the human world.

He knew nothing about Alan’s world.

The sound of something tearing open grabbed both their attention. They turned to see Chosen stepping through the portal with what looked like a huge backpack he could barely drag. He tripped and collapsed, exhausted, on the taskbar.

Orange looked at him, then at Alan.

—Oh. You already freed Chosen. —His tone was a mixture of surprise… and disappointment.

He’d thought he still had time.

—Yeah. I told you I’d free him sooner or later. I did it this morning.

—Yeah… I see. I… I’ll leave you two alone —Orange walked back toward the folder.

Not without first taking one last look at what Chosen’s freedom meant.

It meant time had started ticking.

And Orange still hadn’t made a decision.

Once Alan made sure Orange was completely gone, he immediately went to Chosen, who was still collapsed on the taskbar. He selected him along with the bag and set him down inside the animation program.

—So? What did you find?

Chosen sat in the blank space, dragging himself toward the bag and beginning to pull things out at random.

Trophies.

Framed pictures.

Newspapers.

Cameras.

More trophies.

Huge piles of notebooks.

—…Chosen… what?

—What? You told me to gather information from every school and university I could find, and I did —he said proudly, spreading the objects in front of him—. The hardest part was getting the trophies out of the display cases. I couldn’t do it silently, so I broke a few things. The books were easy though… even if they’re honestly boring, they barely have any drawings. But the stickman who was cleaning didn’t care and let me take the books and notebooks from those lockers. I don’t know why they had so many in different lockers.

—YOU ROBBED THE EDUCATIONAL FACILITIES!!??

—What!? No! I didn’t steal from anyone! They were inside lockers in a row. They practically belonged to no one! —Chosen tried to justify himself as he organized the books and trophies by the name of the institutions he had visited.

—Chosen… those lockers belonged to the students. They keep their stuff there. They were NOT abandoned; they’re locked so they can pick them up later!

Chosen processed the meaning.

He remembered the pinned photos.

The drawings.

The decorated lockers.

The names written in marker.

And then he looked at the notebooks in his hands.

Oh.

He had robbed them.

—Aaahhh… uhh… i-it was YOUR FAULT! YOU NEVER TOLD ME THAT! YOU ONLY SAID TO COLLECT INFORMATION!!

Alan puffed his cheeks in frustration and lifted his hands like he was ready to reach through the screen and strangle him. But he forced himself to calm down.

—Whatever, just let me see what you brought.

Alan, unintentionally, felt like he was flipping through university brochures for his own kids.

Which…He was.

Except they weren’t his human children… they were his digital ones. And the difference was that he wasn’t going to be there to see them leave.

He wasn’t going to feel pride.

He was going to feel emptiness.

He shook his head and forced himself to focus.

Chosen collapsed inside the screen, exhausted. Not physically. Mentally.

WAS IT REALLY NECESSARY TO FOLLOW SO MANY STEPS JUST SO HIS BROTHERS COULD HAVE A GOOD LIFE!!?

First, find a home near the city. Settle down. Have an identity.

Easy to say.

Second, visit every university, private and public, get documents, enroll them.

It sounded like an eternal punishment.

Third, always be there whenever they needed something. School projects, games, art expos, interacting with other sticks.

And fourth…

The part Chosen considered complete stupidity: saving for future wives, husbands, kids, nephews, houses, businesses… ETC. ETC. ETC.

HE HAD LITERALLY BEEN GIVEN AN ENTIRE LIFE PLAN FOR FIVE CHILDREN!!

—OH! And Chosen, I want to ask you one last thing.

—WHAT!? WHAT NOW!!?? —He was exhausted. Fed up. Overwhelmed. And now Alan wanted MORE!?

—I want to apologize.

—…what?

Alan inhaled deeply. Then he sighed, leaning closer to the desk. He looked straight at him.

No.

He looked at Chosen —not at a character on a screen.

For the first time, Chosen saw Alan’s real eyes behind the glasses.

Brown eyes full of… regret.

—I’m sorry… for everything —Alan said, waiting for any reaction. But Chosen only stared at him, unmoving—. For how I treated you from the moment you were born. I know ignorance isn’t an excuse and… all I can say is: I’m sorry.

—….. —Chosen just stared.

Because what else could he do?

Apologize too?

And apologize for what?

For destroying his computer that time?

For calling him a bad father and a bad husband a few days ago?

…

…

…

Oh shit, yeah, he owed him that.

—Hey —Alan said, giving Chosen a tiny tap on the head with the cursor. —You okay?

Chosen shook himself, trying to reorganize his thoughts.

—I… uh… thanks. And… um, I… I also want to apol… apoloooo… apolooo— apologize—

Alan frowned, confused. He couldn’t understand why Chosen was struggling so much with one word.

In fact, it was the first time he’d ever seen Chosen have a hard time saying anything.

—I WANT TO APOLOGIZE!! —he finally roared, flames bursting from his mouth.

Alan blinked at the sudden flare.

—…what are you apologizing for?

Chosen growled. This was emotional torture.

—For that day. For calling you a bad husband, for calling you a bad father. I don’t even know what you’re like with your human family! I JUST SAID IT SO YOU’D HATE ME!

Alan raised an eyebrow, even more confused.

—…Chosen… I never hated you.

—Pfft, nonsense. —He scoffed, crossing his arms.

—I’m serious, Chosen. I don’t hate you. Actually… I don’t even blame you for everything you did —he looked away—. I take responsibility for the path you took. My actions left you with wounds that pushed you to hurt others.

…

Wait, what?

—If I had treated you better. If I had been kinder. If I had thought before— Alan rubbed his face and hair, distressed—. They put you into situations that—

—Stop —Chosen said, surprising him—. Please… stop. Stop blaming yourself for things you didn’t know.

Alan blinked. Wasn’t this the right thing to do?

—I made those decisions, not you.

—But I was the reason you made them!

—FUCK! YES! THAT PART IS TRUE! —Chosen put his hands on his hips—. But the rest… no.

Yes, Alan had ruined the first years of his life.

But later, when the anger faded, when the adrenaline dropped…

He didn’t want to destroy anything anymore.

He didn’t want to be a directionless digital wanderer.

He wanted a place.

His place.

A corner in this huge digital world.

But instead, he chose to follow Dark. And ended up becoming what he was now.

—I was the one who chose to follow Dark Lord. I was the one who chose to support destroying those places even though I didn’t want to destroy anything anymore. —He hugged himself, avoiding his gaze—. I was the one who chose to support his plan against the Ournet… and kill those stickmen.

Alan blinked and could only shrink into his chair. Chosen mimicked him, falling back into his seat inside the screen.

Silence filled the PC.

Heavy.

Uncomfortable.

Guilty.

Both carrying the other’s guilt without knowing where to put it.

—You know? Orange says you and I are alike in many ways —Alan said, scratching the top of his head. The tingling made him shiver.

—What? PUFF, you and I are nothing alike —Chosen replied, doing the exact same gesture and shivering in the same way.

Firefox, the operating system, the file explorer, and even the calculator exchanged knowing glances with each other and with the reader of this story.

Yes.

They were more alike than they thought.

—You know? I don’t think you’re a bad father —Chosen said suddenly—. I mean… I’ve seen your photos on the PC. Those little humans look happy, even in the videos. And your… wife? She looks happy too.

Something inside Alan loosened.

A weight that had always been there, invisible and sharp, suddenly dissolved.

For someone like Chosen —a stick figure, yes, but one who had seen him at his worst— to say that… it hurt in the good way.

—…Thank you… I… do the best I can. —He said it with a sincere smile.

—By the way, about that guy… um… Victim? You don’t have to take his threats seriously. This situation is my problem. I’ll figure out how to deal with it.

Alan puffed out his left cheek, sighed, and looked at him firmly.

—By now you should know I’m also responsible for Victim’s anger.

—What I know is that everything started after the attack I did with Dark on the Ournet. Maybe I destroyed something important. Maybe that’s why he hates me. He already hurt you. Don’t worry about him now.

—…You… don’t know what happened there… do you?

Chosen hesitated.

—What are you talking about?

Alan grabbed the cursor, opened the drawing tool, and began sketching the figure of a female stick figure; long gray hair, a bone-white dress, and—

—STOP! —Chosen shouted, stopping him at once—. Stop… please, stop.

—…So you do know, right?

—What do you know about her? —Chosen asked, voice cracking.

—Not much… only that she was Victim’s wife. And that she died in the attack —Alan watched Chosen’s reactions, judging whether he should share what Victim confessed—. I also know… about the other attacks. About… everything you’ve done… up until now.

Chosen stared at the unfinished drawing. A deep, self-directed hatred lodged itself in his chest.

Of course Victim would spill his dirty secrets.

Why wouldn’t he?

—I’m a damn monster —he whispered, hugging himself.

—…I think that… we’re all monsters in our own way —Alan said softly—. Someone else’s monster.

Chosen let out a bitter laugh, kicking something invisible.

—I guess Orange was right. We do have something in common.

And yes.

They both knew it.

They both accepted it.

Two monsters trying to fix the world with the tools they have.

Bent or crooked.

Damaged or incomplete.

But tools nonetheless.

And accepting that… made the weight lighter.

—I’ll handle Victim’s rage —Chosen decided.

He didn’t want his brother or the others trapped in a fight that wasn’t theirs.

—Chosen. Victim wants to hurt both of us, he won’t only go after you.

Chosen stood tall, puffed out his chest, and declared: —So what? What else can he do besides locking me in a box and torturing me for days? Change my code? Strip me of my powers? HAHAHAHA.

He wouldn’t admit it, but a shiver ran down his spine at the thought.

—Besides, I have nothing to lose.

A loud crash boomed from the Minecraft house.

Alan and Chosen turned just in time to see Red running out with a box of TNT, followed by Green trying to hit him with a guitar, and Blue chasing both of them, desperately trying to stop the chaos.

—You, on the other hand… have a lot —Chosen concluded.

Alan’s eyes filled with tears he tried to blink away. And failed.

Because Chosen was right.

Victim now knew that Alan loved them.

That he cared.

That he would protect them.

And that made them vulnerable.

Victim might not know the exact “address” of his PC.

But Alan felt it was only a matter of time.

—Can you promise me that… if something happens to you… if you get hurt or if your code is damaged… you’ll come to me so I can heal you?

Chosen tensed up.

—I… usually take care of myself when I get hurt —he admitted, uncomfortable with the idea of someone worrying about him.

—Please, Chosen. I’ll feel better knowing you can trust me… and I can trust you.

Chosen’s defenses cracked just a bit.

—Fine… I’ll keep it in mind.

Alan sighed in relief.

—Thank you.

—But… I don’t get why you’re asking me this. Orange and the others don’t seem like they’re planning to leave. So… I think everything we did was a waste of time —he said, kicking a trophy.

—It wasn’t.

Chosen blinked at Alan’s serious tone.

There was something else.

Something big.

—Alan… what are you planning?

Alan pressed his lips together, chewing on words, then let out a defeated sigh.

—Promise me that… you won’t tell them anything… until they’re settled in the city.

Chosen felt he had made too many promises that day. And he was pretty sure he would break some of them by accident.

Miserably.