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A victim is only made to be harmed, injured, or killed as a result of a crime or action.
There wasn’t any other feeling victim was aware of. Only the throbbing, non-stop, overwhelming pain. And even that was starting to fade into the normal numbness he’s familiar with as soon as he was born. Along with the never ending pain, of course.
victim didn’t know why he was created. Only to be someone’s punching bag, a reliever? Countless scars littered his simple black stick body. But it was hidden from his creator, too small to be seen. At this point, victim died too many times to remember how he died each time. All he remembered was the searing pain engulfing every part of him, the mind consuming fear, and his unhearable screams that even he himself can no longer hear.
Why was he created?
He wanted to ask his creator, but he knew the answer. His name, the one defining thing he really knew besides the pain and terror that was now fading into the numbness he was too familiar with. victim.
He was just a victim, just someone to be killed, tortured, bullied. Someone unimportant, someone unmemorable, someone only there to get hurt. That was why he was created, right?
victim looked to the blurred shape outside of the screen. If only he can ask his creator for reassurance. But did he really need it?
To be told he was nothing but a victim.
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A hero’s ending isn’t always happy.
The Chosen One wasn’t happy, that was all he could conclude. He felt empty, powerless and power stripped in those cold, heartless yet seemingly unbreakable chains despite who he was supposed to be. He was supposed to be strong, to be inspirational, to be life saving, to be all those countless things The Chosen One wasn’t. He was supposed to be more than just weak black lines, yet he didn’t feel like anything else.
The Chosen One thought he knew why he was created. He thought it was to be useful, to be powerful, to be the meaning he was named after. Instead he was exactly the opposite. Was it really just because his creator wanted an ad blocker? The Chosen One wasn’t aware of himself doing anything else rather than waiting for his creator to summon him, burn a few meaningless ad boxes, and go back to darkness once his creator had no more use for him. He could try fighting, try escaping, try finding the freedom that is all he ever desired.
But it wouldn’t work. He was too weak, too afraid, too broken. He tried too many times for it to work, and what would he really do if he escaped? His creator can just summon him back, like he did so many times before throwing him out into pitch darkness again. Dread engulfed him. He wasn’t the hero he was named to be, just some broken, useless lines.
Why was he created?
He wanted to ask his creator, but he knew the answer. His name, the one part of him that wasn’t shattered into pieces and is still somewhat presentable. The Chosen One.
He was supposed to be someone who is out there doing significant, memorable things. But instead he was here, broken and miserable. Was this really what his creator intended?
If this was what being The Chosen One was supposed to be like, he didn’t want to be it. A person without freedom, only there for the people’s needs but never getting his own, someone only able to listen to the ‘script’ that his creator decides. That was what he was supposed to be, right?
The Chosen One looked at the blurred shape outside the screen—the barrier. If only he can ask his creator for the answers he didn’t have, for the freedom and happiness he didn’t have, for the key from these chains he had—both figuratively and literally. But did he really want to know the answers, the key?
To be told he had to be The Chosen One.
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A villain would always be defeated and killed by the hero.
Flames engulfed The Dark Lord. Bright lights shone all around him, and he was ever aware of the screaming and burning that was happening around him. That he caused. But The Dark Lord didn’t care. He shouldn’t be caring about the lives of those countless normal people that he was supposed to destroy. He shouldn’t be caring about the buildings he set to flames, the ground he burned, the lives he crushed. He should be glad and happy for all this destruction, he should want more of it, he should want the whole world as his to destroy.
Destroy. That was why he was made. The Dark Lord knew that very well. He was created to destroy all that these ‘good’ people went to build, he was created to be someone people only feared and never loved. He was created to be a threat, he was created to be an enemy, he was created to be a villain. To be ruthless and heartless, to be insane and laugh at all the bloodshed. The Dark Lord knew he was serving his purpose correctly, just as his name told him to do. That’s why he didn’t care about the countless lives he ruined, that’s why he didn’t cherish the smaller things in life, that’s why he was ambitious and insane. Like he was supposed to be.
Why was he created?
To destroy, The Dark Lord told himself over and over again despite his
friend’s
(no, a villain didn’t have friends, especially not with the ‘hero’) pleas. He just kept serving his purpose, what his name told him to do. The Dark Lord.
He was supposed to be someone heartless, dark, emotionless, cold, powerful, destructive. But did he really feel that way? The Dark Lord couldn’t tell with all that his name—his mind and purpose—is telling him, with all the screams that surrounds him.
(
But The Dark Lord knew that he already violated his purpose when he was ‘friends’ with The Chosen One. A villain isn’t supposed to be friends with the hero, but The Dark Lord was with The Chosen One. Or at least they used to be friends before he went to rule the world, like how he was ‘supposed to.’)
The Dark Lord couldn’t ask his creator the question. He’s unwilling to, and he wasn’t able to. How are you supposed to ask your creator, your enemy that question? The Dark Lord looked to the sky, where the thousands of computers—creators—live. Did he really want to know if he’s allowed to stop playing this role of a villain?
To be told he was the one forcing himself to be The Dark Lord.
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The Second Coming will return to Earth after his ascension to Heaven.
Orange didn’t know the real meaning behind his name. He never minded it, since all his friends are only named after their name too. But the more Orange lived with happiness as he spent time with his friend and creator, the more he couldn’t help noticing how no matter where he goes, the computer system seemed to be calling him something else.
Orange didn’t know why he was created. But it didn’t bother him much, since he had never questioned that. He never questioned why he would seem different from all the other stick figures he met, how his un-perfect hollow head stood out between all of his friends’ smaller and filled in perfect circles. He never questioned why the task manager showed his name as The Second Coming instead of Orange like the way his creator and friends called him. He never questioned the feeling of rage and power surging through him when his friends got hurt.
All until he met someone like him, except seemingly more broken. More dark, more experienced but in an unhappy way. More powerful, but at a cost. The resemblance between Orange and the black stick figure in front of him admittedly scared him. He remembered not wanting but also wanting to approach the older and more scarred stick, he remembered feeling a weird shiver at seeing him, he remembered feeling intrigued as he watched hands let up into bright orange flames. He remembered feeling worried about the black figure despite the two being more or less strangers. He remembered feeling a weirdly almost sad yet personal connection with the ‘stranger.’
Why was he created?
Orange never questioned that until he met the stranger. He didn’t see the need until that. He never viewed his creator with wariness and a strange twisting feeling until then. He never felt unfamiliar with his own name until then. Just simply ‘Orange’ didn’t seem right anymore. There was a deeper, more powerful feeling within him now.
He wanted to ask his creator about it, but for some unknown reason he was afraid to do that. What would Alan say? Orange didn’t have any clue.
Would he like being told he was someone else, that he was The Second Coming, not just Orange?
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“The Second Coming.” The orange stick figure startled at the sudden address of his name. His name. Was that really who he was? What did it mean? The name? What did Alan mean when he created him?
“That’s your name, right?” Orange—no, The Second Coming snapped out of his thoughts when he heard that close yet also unfamiliar voice again. He turned to see a pair of scarlet eyes looking at him in an almost soft manner. There was something reassuring yet also intimidating about that pair of broken yet also dangerous eyes.
“Yeah.” The Second Coming smiled. Despite The Chosen One’s powerful and destructive abilities, there was something about him that seemed to connect to The Second Coming. Almost as if the two were related in some way. “Though I normally go by Orange.”
The Chosen One hummed, a soft soothing melody. He looked peaceful under the dawn sunlight, all of what made him threatening seemingly to fade into something more calming. In this light, he didn’t look as much like his namesake, more like someone who was broken but is healing. “I like Second better, if that’s fine with you?”
“Of course,” Second replied without hesitation, which had The Chosen One smile softly. It was warm here, Second thought as he watched the sun sink down slowly. “Though that means I can call you Chosen too.”
“Deal.” Again Second felt that weird connection when Chosen’s bright red eyes sparkled. He wondered if that had something to do with the meaning behind his name.
The Chosen One’s Return.