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Bits and pieces of shattered code drift down from the sky, silent as snowflakes and sharp as ash. In the gray half-light, the ruins dotting the landscape look like clawing hands reaching up – up – up for something that they cannot have but still desperately hope for.
The wanderer tilts his head up to the sky for a brief moment as he crests the ridge, letting the code sting his cheeks. It hurts, but the pain is real. It’s a reminder that the wanderer is, technically, not yet fully dead.
He turns, scanning the landscape with narrowed eyes, and pauses.
A stick figure lies face down amid the ruins, a flash of color in the gray.
The wanderer hesitates, wondering whether to approach. Then he sighs, and begins making his way down the hill. His footsteps crunch as the debris shifts underfoot, and he ends up sliding the last several feet in a miniature rockslide.
The stick has not moved since the wanderer started down the hill. The wanderer takes a step closer to the stick, and wonders if – perhaps – the stick is dead. They look dead.
Deep red stains their clothes in three different places, signaling serious wounds. Their skin is already graying as their code corrupts. It’s a familiar sight to the wanderer, who has seen firsthand what being exposed to the Undernet does, but the thin, white lines etched like lightning across their exposed arms are something new and different.
The wanderer crouches, grasping a pebble between forefinger and thumb before flicking it at the stick. The pebble hits their shoulder, bouncing off and losing itself amidst the thousands of other small rocks covering the ground.
The wanderer edges a little closer, until he can reach out and nudge the stick with his staff. There is still no response.
Confident that the stick presents no immediate danger, the wanderer kneels beside them, grasping their shoulder and rolling them over. Then he sits back, contemplating the face he finds.
It’s a girl stick. She looks young, but there are frown lines at the corners of her eyes and even in sleep – or death, whichever it may be – her face is set into a frown. She’s – pretty, the wanderer realizes with some surprise. Pretty, despite the same white lines which cross her arms raking across her face, too.
The dull ache in the wanderer’s chest sharpens at the thought. Beauty of any kind has no place in the Undernet. This place is too harsh, and beauty is too fragile. Her color is fading more quickly now, and the bold, vibrant hue is dulling.
It hurts to see it go. In a way, the once-bright color of the other stick’s skin reminds the wanderer of home.
The wanderer notes the shallow rise and fall of her chest, and bites his lip as he realizes that she’s still alive.
The smart thing to do would be to leave, now, before the stick wakes. The Undernet does things to a stick, and there’s no telling what state she will be in when she regains consciousness. The wanderer is blessed – or cursed – to be one of the few sticks who retain their lucidity after ending up in this place, but she may not be.
But the wanderer cannot bring himself to move. It’s been so long – lifetimes, it feels like – since he’s seen another stick. The possibility of just one gentle word, one kind gesture, one rare moment of connection paralyzes him. He’s been alone for so long, alone and afraid, and he wants to be seen. He wants to be heard.
He wants…to not be alone.
He stays where he is, crouched by the other stick’s side, watching each breath she takes with painful hope. The silence weighs down upon the wanderer as he watches and waits. Code dusts his shoulders, piling up bit by bit.
He watches as the last flicker of color dies away from the other stick’s face.
He startles as the stick’s eyes open and lock onto his face with fierce desperation burning in their depths.
Everything hurts.
It takes all the searcher’s effort not to scream as she opens her eyes. Her vision is blurred, everything swimming in and out of focus, but she can make out the shadow of another stick crouching close beside her. Her eyes snap to their face, and pain shrieks through every nerve she has as she tries to make it out.
The other stick startles, skittering backwards. Something long and thin whips between them and the searcher, and it takes a long moment for her to realize that it’s a staff. The other stick is holding it out, as if to ward her off.
As if they’re scared.
The searcher moans, but she forces herself to roll over. To get her hands and knees under her, somehow, despite the pain searing through her. She can barely support herself, and she knows even before she tries it that she will not be able to stand.
She sits, instead, blinking hard as she tries to focus on the other stick’s face.
“Who – ”
Her voice is a croak, harsh and rasping. She winces, and tries again, a little more softly.
“Who are you?”
The other stick stays where they are, though the staff dips a little.
“Where am I?” the searcher asks, feeling her heart rate pick up as panic begins to trickle through her. “Where?”
Where was I? she doesn’t ask. I wasn’t here before, but I don’t remember…where I was…before…
A lump grows in her throat, anxiety choking her as she struggles to remember where she is and why. Fear and determination linger in the back of her mind, remnants of a last, desperate choice, but she doesn’t remember why.
“Hold – hold on.” The other stick’s voice is just as croaky as hers. “Not yet – not yet.”
The searcher closes her mouth, reaching out with a trembling hand. Gently, with two fingers, she touches the end of staff, pushing on it a little so that it dips just a fraction.
“Safe,” she says, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Not a threat.”
The other stick’s breath hitches into a short, stuttering gasp.
“No rage?” they ask, and the searcher feels something inside her still at the tone of their voice.
“No,” the searcher says, swallowing despite the lump in her throat and her growing fear. “No rage.”
“No burning?”
“No burning.”
“No bloodlust?”
“None,” the searcher says, and holds up her hands, palms forward, fingers relaxed. Peace, the gesture says. I won’t hurt you, it promises.
Agony surges, and the scream is almost out of her mouth before she chokes it down. She can’t stop the broken whimper that tumbles, unbidden, from her lips.
The other stick cocks their head, letting their staff rest on the ground. Then they move a little closer.
“Safe,” they say warily. “Not crazy. Not evil.”
“Safe,” the searcher promises.
The other stick drops their staff completely, scooting forward so quickly that the searcher startles, almost jerking back before she catches herself. Her vision has begun to clear, if only a little, and they’re close enough now that she can make out their face.
It’s a male stick, and she thinks he’s young. It’s hard to tell, though, because his face is all sharp angles and harsh lines. His hair is thick and long, pulled away from his face into a tight knot, and his clothes are ragged.
He reaches out, but hesitates before he actually touches her. His fingers curl inwards, trembling.
“Safe,” the searcher says again, reaching out and taking his hand between her own, which are shaking even harder than his. She’s so tired, and in so much pain, and so afraid.
“Safe,” he echoes, and then bursts into tears.