Archive of Our Own ^beta

"You know you don't have to do this if you don't want to, Agent."

victim's words hung in the air between them. Agent took a moment too long to respond, yet his stance was firm as he spoke. "I know, Vic,” he reassured him, ”but I got this, trust me. I'll do it."

victim frowned. "But you don't want to."

No, he didn't want to. He did not look forward to going into the room that contained The Box. Dreaded it, even.

The simple yet intimidating structure didn't bring back good memories to Agent, nor did it to anyone else. The grunts, wails, screams, the fear and the anger, all lived within it in phantom imitations of themselves. It felt as if you were to walk into it, you could still see the crimson blood that painted the walls, see the glossy eyes on a terrified face that refused to let the tears fall no matter what, hear the pained voices — one young and wounded, the other quiet and heartbroken.

Although many months passed over the bitter memories, they were still fresh on everyone's mind. No incident that occurred back then could be forgotten that easily, whether by the victims or the oppressors.

Because, pain doesn't fade away. The mind veils it instead, but it never forgets.

Which is another reason his boss was so hesitant about letting him be in control of The Box. It no longer held The Chosen One within, but another individual — his once partner in crime.

Agent's memories of his time in The Dark Lord’s captivity were still vivid. The nightmares of his imprisonment still plagued him, every scar still throbbed with the reminders of what he went through in the crimson hollowhead’s hands. Although quite a while had passed over those times, Agent didn’t feel ready to face his torturer again.

He doesn’t think he ever will.

And yet, someone had to administer The Box while victim was in it. The Dark Lord was dangerously unpredictable, even as he had been heavily shackled and stripped of his weapons. Nobody knew if he had other tricks up his sleeves, and no one was eager to find out if he did.

Hazard had suggested to be the one to monitor The Box instead of Agent, and while he trusted his friend to do his job smoothly, Agent had declined the offer. He personally wanted to be the one to protect victim if things were to go haywire. It had always been this way after all, ever since he and Mitsi had hired him to be a guard at Rocket Corp. all those years ago.

He had already failed once. He wouldn’t allow himself to fail again.

“Let me do this, Vic. I promise, I’ll be alright. We both will be alright.”

victim didn’t look convinced in the slightest, letting out a sigh as he averted his eyes with uncertainty. Yet when he raised his gaze to Agent’s face, he could see the trust in his eyes, along with fear that he didn't bother to hide. Less for himself and more for Agent’s wellbeing. “Very well.”

Agent cracked a smile, hoping to give him at least a little more confidence as he brought a hand up to squeeze victim’s shoulder. “Y’can count on me, Vic.”

victim’s own smile creeped up on his face, giving a small nod to his friend. I know. I can always count on you.

-

In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Just like she taught you.

victim repeated the technique in his mind, struggling to calm his nerves as he raised his head to glance at himself in the mirror. A pair of tired and nervous eyes stared at him back. He held his breath before shutting his eyes and exhaling slowly, anxiety coiling in his chest.

It will be alright. You got this, you can do this, it will be fine. Don’t overthink it.

His hand found the tap and the sound of water running filled his ears. He cupped his hands beneath the stream of water before splashing it against his face, letting the droplets run down in rivulets. The coldness of it helped clear his mind a little, his thoughts running a little slower, his breaths coming in a little easier. He lingered in the moment for a minute, leaning against the sink with his hands gripping either side of it, focusing only on the sensations around himself, the sound of water still running, the coldness of it, the ceramic tiles of the restroom shining beneath the fluorescent lights.

He wasn’t looking forward to interrogating The Dark Lord in the slightest, even though he had volunteered for it. A long and heated argument had passed between him and Alan before it was decided that he was a better fit to face The Dark Lord.

He knew Alan, despite having known him personally for only so long — a couple months at most, even though their past went on for even further. He knew how hotheaded he could get, how he could let his emotions get the better of him, he had experienced it firsthand. victim wasn’t all that different from him, but he could keep a better check of his anger than Alan could.

The others had told him about the time when they had come to rescue Chosen from Barossa’s imprisonment, about how Alan had snatched onto the man’s collar and swung fist after fist at the stick’s face repeatedly. They had barely been able to pull him away from Barossa as one of them had worked to secure cuffs around his wrists. Alan’s knuckles had been split and dripping with blood, yet he had remained tense, as if he would pounce on the murderer again at any chance.

Safe to say, he didn’t trust him to not lose his temper, especially not with The Dark Lord.

Chosen had been another factor that led to the end of their argument, who had voiced his wish for Alan to stay with him. Alan hadn’t been very happy about it, but he had hidden it well from Chosen. Even if he had insisted, victim wouldn’t have allowed him to take the position instead of him, anyway. He knew Chosen shared the same concerns as him, more so than him, the teen’s benign nature urging him to prevent any kind of unnecessary violence as much as possible.

He splashed water on his face one last time before turning the tap off, grabbing the towel nearby to dry his face and hands with it. It wouldn’t be long before someone came to fetch him, and he had to make sure he was ready for this.

He exited the restroom and entered his office, sitting behind his desk to wait, spinning the pen in his hand absentmindedly in a nervous habit. About ten minutes passed before he heard the rumble of the elevator working, prompting him to get up from his seat. His gaze slid onto the stuff on his desk as he waited for the elevator to arrive.

His eyes met his own, the photo of three sticks smiling sitting innocently on top of his desk. He glanced at his younger self, then at the other sticks in the photo next to him. A bittersweet feeling tugged at his heart.

Before he could lose himself in the memories, he was interrupted by the sound of the elevator door sliding open, revealing Orange’s timid yet determined face as he walked into the office. “Hi Vic,” he greeted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “They said everything is ready. Made sure the restraints are secure and stuff.”

victim nodded, trying to hide his own anxiety. He couldn’t tell what was going on in the teen’s mind, but he could tell that he was just as nervous as he was, if not more — he couldn’t blame him. “Alright. Let’s go then.”

-

Agent checked the panel in front of him for what felt like the umpteenth time, making sure everything was working properly. The power was on with no immediate risk of shutting off, the restraints were secure and functional, The Dark Lord's power statistics were lowered as much as possible —

A hand entered his vision, fingers snapping in front of him, making him flinch and raise his head to see who was there. His eyes met Ballista's, a grin stretched over the teen's face. “Oi. Outernet to Agent Smith?”

Agent waved his hand to fend off Ballista's from in front of his face, grunting. “What is it, Ballista?” He hadn’t meant for it to come out as annoyed, but the mercenary didn’t seem to be bothered by it.

“Nothing. Just couldn't help but notice you've been staring at that panel for the past ten minutes now,“ the teen shrugged, his grin faltering a little. “It'll be fine, you know? ‘s just an interrogation, boss. Press the gun to his head ‘till he spills the beans or whatever. Nothing we're unfamiliar with.”

Agent couldn't help but wince at the last part, making Ballista mirror the movement. “Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “Probably shouldn't have said that.”

“It’s alright. You’re not wrong anyway.”

Silence fell between them for a while.

“What I’m trying to say is, well…” the young mercenary began, waving his hand in the air, trying to find the right words. “Try to relax, yeah? Like I said, it’s just an interrogation. A QnA if you will. Nothing much to stress over. I’m sure the boss will be fine, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

Agent nodded in response, mulling over the teen’s words. He was mostly right in what he said, and Agent knew that already, yet he couldn’t help the anxiety that dwelled in his mind. At this point, he didn’t even know what caused it. The memories this situation brought? A low but present chance of security breachment?

Maybe it was The Dark Lord’s mere presence. He wasn’t very sure anymore.

“So, uh…” the other mercenary’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts again, eyes focusing back on Ballista’s face as the pixelated stick continued “...yeah. Don’t worry your old head man. I’m pretty sure everything will be fine.” A chuckle escaped Agent at the nickname, Ballista’s words dulling his worries at least a little.

“You’re technically older than me.” He was rewarded with an elbow jabbed into his arm and a snicker from the teen.

“Shut up.”

“Alright,” Agent complied, hands raised in a peaceful manner, a faint smile still on his face. Ballista gave him a friendly salute before moving back to his position near Hazard.

A few minutes of quiet passed before footsteps could be heard, prompting Agent to turn around. victim was walking in with Orange trailing behind him, who seemed like a coiled spring with how stiff his body was.

He straightened his posture and nodded in affirmation to his boss. “Everything is ready, sir.”

victim responded with a firm nod of his own. “Very well.”

-

The Dark Lord blinked sluggishly. The bright walls seemed to blink back at him, almost smugly, and he bared his teeth in a snarl.

It was so, so frustratingly boring in here.

His wounds from the fierce battle throbbed and burned, having been left untreated and open to the dry air. On top of that he was restrained by his hands and ankles, giving him little room to move in the stupid big white box, adding onto his suffering.

Nobody had come into the room ever since he had been put in here (Honestly, it didn’t feel that long. A few hours at most, maybe?), not even to give him food or a drop of water — could anybody even get in here? There wasn’t an entrance The Dark Lord was aware of.

He could handle being starved to an extent, but the boredom and loneliness was starting to catch up to him already.

Don’t get him wrong now, he didn’t wish for anyone’s company. Not in the slightest, no, especially if said “anyone” was going to be someone from Rocket Corp. He would rather rot to his death by himself, thank you very much.

He had thought about sleeping to pass time but quickly decided that he would rather be awake and alert should someone come in. He was already in a vulnerable position as it is, the least he could do would be to keep his guard up.

In conclusion, that’s what he had been doing in the past few hours, and it was starting to get tiring.

The sound of air shifting prompted him to snap his head up, the wall opposite to him sliding open to reveal the gray stick figure that he recognized to be the owner of the company.

Ah. So that’s how they get in and out of this place.

The stick — who he now remembered to be named victim, such a degrading name — walked in and the door slid shut behind him, plunging the two in complete silence. victim stood a few feet away from The Dark Lord, and he could tell that he was keeping his distance from him in case he would attempt something. Good for him.

He decided to be the first one to break the silence as an uncomfortable tension was starting to build up. “How polite of you to come visit me here. I was getting bored.”

He pointedly shook his wrists, the chains making a jingling sound as he did so. “Gotta say, this is terrible hospitality though.”

As much as the thought of knowing people feared him so much that nobody dared to treat his injuries — or bring food or at least water to him — made him ecstatic, the cuts on his body were starting to exude an unnatural heat, and getting weak to the point of needing to be taken care of was a thought he didn’t enjoy.

victim furrowed his brows, his expression taking on a serious look. “The Dark Lord, tentatively named The Chosen One’s enemy. Date of birth and place October 2nd 2011, ALANSPC,” he stated with a stupidly formal tone.

The crimson stick in question clicked his tongue. “That’s me,” he confirmed in a sing-song voice. “Didn’t know you also doxxed people. Y’know, along with the other things.”

victim ignored his words. “I have a few questions to ask you, and I would like the answers to be as clear and truthful as possible.”

Clear and truthful, eh? That was a bit too much to ask for.

The Dark Lord wanted to give him the image of someone who gave up on their goals, the false hope that they could get what they wanted out of him. He also knew that he wasn’t dense enough to buy it, but still, why not? He was incredibly bored, and you’d never know, maybe he could get some entertainment from it.

So he shrugged in response, seemingly nonchalant. “Okay.”

“Splendid. Now let us begin.”

From the corner of his eye he saw something appear, making him turn his head towards it swiftly.

A… chair?

Alright, now, unless he was already going crazy from the few hours of solidarity, he was pretty sure that hadn’t been there before. Because let’s be real, if that chair had been right beside him all this time, he wouldn’t have tormented his poor legs by kneeling on the floor for so long.

There was something fishy going on here, in this room. He wondered what other tricks the guy had up his sleeve.

The gray-clad stick gestured towards the chair. “Sit.”

An order. What was he, a pet?

...Oh well, that’s still an improvement from leaving him kneeling on the floor. Spared him the leg aches. He’ll make sure to give them a star more in his review.

He pulled himself up to his feet, cursing under his breath when his legs decided now to be disobedient of all times. Hoping the subtle trembling of his limbs wasn’t too visible, he sat down on the chair, leaning against the backseat. The cuts on his body throbbed in time with his head, making him want to grimace, but that would be a display of weakness, so he did not.

The chains pulled taut. They were only barely long enough for him to sit on the chair comfortably, he realized. Definitely calculated to be that way. Which sucked because that meant he wouldn’t be able to use the chair as a weapon should it be necessary.

Ha. It sure would’ve been funny if he could smash the stick down with a chair like he had done to him back then.

Once he settled, the lights in the room dimmed to a point that it gave their environment an ominous look, and a lightbulb seemingly appeared out of nowhere on top of their heads. Fancy.

victim cleared his throat, the yellow light illuminating his face giving him a horrid look (not to him, though). “Where were you in October 2011, after your escape from ALANSPC?”

He shrugged. Way to start an interrogation. “What did you have for dinner yesterday?”

victim frowned. “Do not joke with me.”

“I’m not joking.” He raised his hands as much as he could in a defensive way, giving the gray-clad man an incredulous look. “How do you expect me to remember where I was more than a decade ago?”

“Let me re-word it, then.” He folded his arms over his chest. “What were you doing in Newgrounds, on the aforementioned date?”

Oh. That.

He should have guessed, really.

He hummed, a smirk in his face. “Having some fun, I guess.”

It was likely the worst possible way he could word it, and he was absolutely relishing the look of disgust on the other’s face. “What, can’t a guy enjoy himself?”

“Enjoy yourself?” victim repeated, tone disbelieving. He seemed like he wanted to say more, but closed his mouth at the last second, sighing with a mutter under his breath. “Nevermind. We will skip this one.”

Now that was an unnecessary question, The Dark Lord thought, why ask something you already knew the answer of?

He had to have known his involvement in the Newgrounds incident, as Chosen had definitely told him about it. Or Agent could have, for that matter, as he had stupidly tried to confront him when he had been moments away from murdering him on the spot.

Then he realized that this was not going to be just an interrogation, but a confrontation as well.

The day of the attack on Newgrounds wasn’t anything special to him. He had attacked countless websites along with that nosy teen back then. It wasn’t anything worth remembering. For him, at least.

He had seen the posters, the headlines, the news articles, everything about that day. He had seen Chosen’s face plastered onto every paper — which was quite disappointing, mind you. He was supposed to be in the spotlight, not him.

“This is about her, isn’t it?” The Dark Lord questioned. “The previous CEO.”

“How nice of you to even bother to remember who she is,” victim snarled.

“Oh, please,” the crimson hollowhead scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I don’t care who she is in the slightest. And I don’t think you should, either.”

victim stiffened. “Watch your words.”

“I am giving you advice here. Be grateful, will you?”

“I don’t want your ‘advice’.” victim’s voice was steadily rising, not quite shouting yet, but the anger definitely bled through his words.

“That’s what’s wrong with the youngsters these days. He would never listen to my words either, ungrateful brat.” He cackled. “And look at where that got him.”

Chosen, stupid and naive Chosen. He had gotten hurt countless times in an effort to protect those he loved, and all he had got in return had been pain and more pain. And yet, he still struggled to protect those he cared for, with no regards to how much he got destroyed in the process.

He would never forget the absolute terror in his eyes on that particular day, powerless and helpless, ready to succumb to his fate as he mockingly reassured him that it would all be over soon.

“You speak an awful lot for someone who is at a disadvantage here,” victim commented. An unspoken threat hanging in the air.

“I am speaking the truth, though. Just like you wanted. It is a liability to care about others in this world. It makes you weak, leaves you vulnerable. That brat is a prime example of that.”

“Shut it,” victim snapped, “before I make you.”

He pressed his lips together, shooting him a smile that could have been mistaken for a friendly one if victim didn’t know better.

victim decided to not linger on the subject any longer than necessary, and instead reached inside his pocket to retrieve something stored in a small plastic bag, pulling the other hollowhead’s attention back on him again. He opened the zip lock bag and pulled out a transparent thing with ragged edges. “Now, I reckon that you know what this is.”

The Dark Lord squinted at the thing in the man's hand, the yellow light of the lightbulb reflecting off the smooth face of it. “Yeah. A piece of my virablades.” He glanced at it, then back at the man, his lips pulled back in a grin. “I would recommend you to not hold it with your bare hands though. Wouldn’t wanna nick yourself with one of those.”

victim pocketed the plastic bag, still holding the piece of the blade. “We have tested it. It's inert, and currently safe to hold.” He glared back at the restrained stick, looking unamused. “You do not need to worry,” he added with sarcasm.

Man. There goes his chance to cause unnecessary panic. He had assumed that they had tested it though, as they seemed clever enough to do that.

Back onto the topic. “So,” he said slowly, “What of it?”

“These blades,” victim started, moving the hand holding the blade piece to emphasize his words, “are not solid when they are active. According to those who have been in contact with them, they do not appear to be tangible, dissimilar to regular blades. Yet, as you can see, I am very well able to hold this one in my hand. It is presumably a type of glass, judging by its appearance and behavior.”

The Dark Lord nodded slowly while hiding the fact that he knew where this conversation was going. He did say he would respond truthfully, but that didn’t mean he would spill every single information willingly.

He was pretty sure victim knew that too, but he liked playing dumb.

victim took his silence as cue to continue. “I want you to tell me everything about it,” he said, lowering the piece he held in his hand. “The technology behind it, the reason you built them along with those robots, everything.”

The Dark Lord took in a slow breath as if he was about to give him a secret, straightening his posture in his seat, overworked muscles protesting at the movement as he did so. “The technology behind it, huh?” he parroted, letting out a huff that sounded like a contemptuous laugh. “I thought you were the clever one.”

His grin widened as the stick in front of him narrowed his eyes. “Don’t play games with me, Dark Lord.” There was an underlying dangerous tone in his voice. “You have agreed to be clear with your answers, and I want a straightforward response when I ask a question.”

“Or what?” The crimson stick sneered, his tone challenging. “What will you do to me? Torture for info? Break my bones?”

victim bristled. “I wouldn’t hesitate to do so. Give me the answers I am looking for if you do not wish for trouble.”

The interrogation was going downhill pretty quickly, ridiculously quicker than either of them would have liked, yet neither party seemed to be willing to back down in their statements and come to an agreement yet.

The Dark Lord let out a sinister chuckle. “Now, I’m not looking for trouble at all— and I’m pretty sure you aren’t either. I’m just saying, you should’ve been able to figure it out on your own by now.” The condescending tone didn’t leave his words as he continued, gesturing towards the man with a hand.

“You are the CEO of a whole company, aren’t you? All your rivals went bankrupt because they couldn’t compete with your corporation’s level of advancement. You’re the mastermind behind all this technology, you should be able to understand the mechanism of those blades.”

He raised his hands in a shrug as much as the chains allowed him, giving the impression of a friendly gesture. “I’m sure you can figure it out buddy, you know? It should be easy for you. Child’s play, even.”

The corners of his mouth stretched at the look of frustration that morphed on victim’s face. The stick let out a harsh sigh. “I suppose you’re going to avoid giving me a straight answer.”

He lifted his chin up, looking down at the man. “That is alright. Be as stubborn as you want. We will come back to this subject later, and I’m hoping that you can come up with a better answer in the meantime.”

He bit back a growl. You wish.

“Let us move on to the next matter.” He pocketed back the piece of Virablade. “Which would be, why you have built these weapons of war in the first place.”

The Dark Lord couldn’t help but let out a snort. “Weapons of war?” he mocked. “They were never weapons of war. Wars aren’t one-sided.” The vicious words didn’t seem to discomfort the gray stick at first glance, but he could swear he saw his hands tense with anger. Yet, despite that, he remained calm and collected.

To be fair, the crimson stick did enjoy pushing victim’s buttons. He kind of wanted to see when that curled up fist would connect with his face, when the man would finally snap.

“Do not change the subject, Dark Lord.”

Not fun at all. “Fine,” he retorted, his playful tone dropping in an instant. “You want to know why?”

He leaned forward, the atmosphere tense all of a sudden. The dim lights gave his face an uncanny look, giving him the appearance of something out of a nightmare.

“Do you know how it feels to be powerful?”

A grin stretched across his face. Unhinged. Disturbing. “The thrill of knowing that you wield a power so strong that it’s enough to make sticks quiver at your feet, begging to be spared. Begging for mercy, knowing it’s a simple flick of my wrist that’s separating them from death.” His eyes glinted, not from the light above, but with madness.

“But I don’t expect you to know that. Power would not be a subject you’re familiar with, would it be now, victim?”

Almost immediately the stick’s face shaped into a look of anger, his hands clenched at his sides. “Be careful about what you say,” he gritted out.

“What? Touchy subject?” The crimson stick nagged. “Hard to admit that it’s all you’ve ever been in your pitiful life, huh?”

victim looked ready to snap back, but he cut him off before he could say anything, the words spilling out of his mouth already. It was too late to back down, and he didn't want to back down in his words anyway. “I saw you cower behind that man that day. Agent, yes? He’s a brave one, I’ll give him that, but he’s not all that different from you.” His grin widened impossibly further, plastered onto his face like it was permanent. “He hides behind that tough guy facade. A little was all it took to break him. Bet you would be no diff-”

His head slammed into the wall behind him as victim was suddenly in front of him, his hand curled into his singed hair, the chair leaning on its back legs. He hissed as the strands were pulled. “Say one more word about any of them, and I will bash your skull through this wall.”

There it was. He had finally hit a nerve, a very sensitive one.

“He’s here, isn’t he?” He tried to turn his head away from victim, his eyes roaming around the room as if Agent would appear all of a sudden. “I know he is watching us, somehow, somewhere. He’s so stupidly protective of you, enough to risk his own life, that he wouldn’t leave you alone in here with me. Foolishness, if you ask me.”

His head was roughly pulled forward again and he braced himself for impact, but the hand in his hair halted at the last second. It stayed still for a moment, rendering him unable to look up to see the gray stick’s expression, the room silent except for the two stick’s breathing. Finally, a frustrated sigh reached his ears as the hand retreated harshly. The chair tipped forward and balanced back on all of its legs again. He shook his head slightly, his hair relieved from the strain.

That had been fun.

-

victim waved his hand in the air as if he was ridding it of a nasty substance, then let it drop by his side. He took a few steps back to be near The Dark Lord’s level of sight — and to maintain a distance from him. The Dark Lord kept his head bowed down, and for a moment victim thought he might have taken it a bit too far.

Not that he would regret it if he did. A concussion was the least of the things the murderer deserved if you asked victim, but he also didn’t believe he was the most suitable person to exact justice here.

A low chuckle escaped The Dark Lord, and victim involuntarily tensed. The crimson stick’s voice constantly grated against his ears and sent shivers down his spine, as if every sound
was a vow of pain, a reminder of the spilt blood and mangled corpses and destroyed lives.

“Feisty, hm?”

He didn’t respond. The silence lingered on. He could see The Dark Lord’s shoulders moving up and down with every breath in the dim illumination. There was a painful way to them, deep and slightly rapid. Despite having been paused ever since he was captured, it seemed that the few hours he spent conscious were enough for his injuries to take their toll on him.

I can’t say it wasn’t deserved, victim thought bitterly. I will see if I can get somebody to fix him up, regardless.

If he behaves, that is.

The red stick shifted in place. Leaning his head back, he eyed victim with a tired look, which put him off for a moment, seeing the criminal more miserable than he had ever seen him.

Which wasn’t by much, but maybe, just maybe, it meant that he was slowly reaching the end of his rope.

Right now, he seemed to be analyzing him, eyes roaming over him before focusing back at his face. victim tried not to squirm under the uncomfortable gaze.

Then, slowly, he spoke. “What is the catch?”

victim paused. “What?”

“This interrogation,” he waved his hand in a way to emphasize his words, “What is the point of it?”

victim hesitated, but made an effort to not show it. “That is none of your concern.”

The Dark Lord seemed to ignore his words. “I don’t get it. You captured me, put me in this weird room, and now you’re asking me questions I don’t see the point in answering.” He furrowed his brows, looking actually confused, and it was a look victim wasn’t accustomed to seeing on his face. The Dark Lord was always confident, always certain, never hesitant or confused. “You could just, you know, kill me and get this over with.”

His gaze burned into victim, its weight a discomforting pressure on the gray stick. “So why? Why get stuck in the past?”

Why?

A world on fire, buildings torn down into rubble. Animations of all kinds screaming, crying out for help. A wail especially familiar, silenced too early.

Red eyes that lost their light further with each minute, brought back at the last second, yet scarred forever.

A hand in his, cold, almost like a corpse. Every moment filled with the dread of that becoming reality.

Every single one of them, he witnessed helplessly. Every single time, all he could do was sit idly and watch it happen.

It wasn’t any different this time. Killing The Dark Lord would not bring the dead back. Killing him wouldn’t erase the pain of the people who suffered by his hands. It would only add another life to the many that left this world, regardless of how impure it was. It would be revenge, but it would be unjust.

He had learned it the hard way that revenge would only bring temporary satisfaction. It wouldn’t mend the hole left in anybody’s chest. The dull ache of grief would never go away.

“Because it is what must be done.”

Because it is the least I can do.

The bright red stick scoffed, seemingly unconvinced, but didn’t comment on it otherwise.

Silence fell over them once again, and victim cleared his throat before it could stretch on further. “Now, onto the next matter,” he announced, getting The Dark Lord’s attention back on him, the weight of his gaze burning onto him once again.

“There have been multiple reports of sticks missing,” he began, “sticks who had been abducted by you. When they were found, they were seemingly conscious yet unaware of themselves, lashing out at anyone who came nearby.” The Dark Lord rolled his eyes at his long explanation, but he kept on, ignoring him. “Along with that, they were reported to show similar changes in their bodies, such as red eye, claw and teeth color; and red marks on their bodies that are similar to hematohidrosis.”

“Yeah,” the crimson stick huffed out in response, distracting victim for a moment. “I know. You don’t need to explain my own experiment to me.”

victim blew out a breath, frustrated at the stick’s impatient behavior. He cleared his throat, continuing. “These individuals also seemed to be not in control of their bodies. Like there was another factor controlling and maneuvering them. Whatever it is doesn't seem to be infectious but that doesn't make it any less dangerous.”

“And you want to know how I did it.”

“That's right,” victim confirmed.

“Well, in that case,” The Dark Lord began, the grin returning back to his face, “good luck ever learning it because not even I know how I managed to do that.”

What?

victim stared at him, baffled. “How so?”

The man shrugged, “Like I said. I mean, it wasn't necessarily coincidental, but I could never begin to explain the process because it is as complicated as that.”

“But you have to have documented the experiments — you have before,” he pressed. There was no way he hadn't recorded the method of this mind-controlling bug he invented, but squeezing the knowledge out of him would certainly prove to be difficult.

“Oh, I have, obviously. It would be stupid of me to not do so.”

“Tell me where the files are, then,” he pressed.

The Dark Lord hummed. “Yeah, no.”

victim suppressed a sigh. He genuinely wasn’t sure how he was supposed to go on with interrogation. Perhaps he really should have let Alan handle this instead of him…

He shook his head, scattering the thoughts. No, he wouldn’t repeat past mistakes, even if it meant getting no answers.

There was one last card he hadn’t played yet. “Well then. How about a proposition?”

“Nope.”

“You—” victim cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose with a frustrated sigh. This guy was unbelievably difficult to reason with.

“Can’t you just listen to me for a second?”

“No.” The Dark Lord growled, and it was becoming apparent that both side's patience was growing thin. His head was down, breaths coming in and out slightly laboured. “Leave me alone. I’m tired of this, this stupid truth or dare or whatever thing— if you’re not here to kill me, then let me die alone in peace.”

“That would be inconvenient.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Say, if you agree to cooperate, you will be given food and water, and possibly have your wounds treated.” The crimson stick tilted his head, but did not react otherwise. “Because like it or not, we will not leave you to die here.”

The Dark Lord scoffed. “What is this, some kind of carrot-and-stick approach?”

“If that’s how you wish to interpret it.”

He could see the mental calculation going on in the hollowhead’s mind, weighing the pros and cons of accepting his offer. It was a slim chance, but it was worth a try.

The silence stretched on, and for a moment victim thought he would never respond, until…

“No.”

“No?” victim repeated.

“I don’t accept your offer.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, “it only makes matters more difficult for you.”

-

Maybe this was a bad choice.

He didn’t lift his head, unwilling to make eye contact with the gray stick again. Dignity be screwed, he wasn’t giving out the location of his only intact hideout that easily.

He heard the same sound that he had heard when victim entered the room, prompting him to raise his head. Another stick, lighter gray this time, walked in with a suitcase, opening it in front of victim, who took the item inside it. His vision was blocked by the hollowhead, preventing him from seeing what it was.

The worker left the room and the door slid shut again. victim turned around, walking back towards him with the object in his hands. It was something like a… visor?

“Now, if you could be so kind and stay still,” victim began, an ominous smile on his face that he certainly did not like, “we will take a quick look through your memories.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes widened. “What?” He let out an incredulous laugh, attempting to rise from his seat, but to his horror, his hands didn’t budge.

Looking down, he saw them fastened to the armrests.

Oh, what. When had they done that? How had he not noticed?

“No way, no, screw this. I am not doing this.” He leaned backwards in the chair, growling deep from his throat. All of a sudden, showing weakness was unimportant, and what was important was that he had to keep his base hidden. Otherwise, if he ever managed to escape this awful place, he'd be left with nothing.

“That’s too bad,” victim said once again, nonchalant. “But you don’t get a say in this, not this time.”

His hand caught in his hair and he ducked to try to loosen it, but it was of no use. “What happened to the good-guy-with-morals image?” he asked, trying to hide the desperation in his voice.

The man shrugged in his peripheral, putting the memory scanner over his eyes, uncaring about the other’s protests and constant squirming. “Sometimes you have to do what is necessary.”

“This isn’t necessary,” he tried, barely hiding the panic in his voice. “Come on, take this off of me. I will tell you where it is. Just— Just take this off.” He almost pleaded, but caught himself at the last second.

“Is that not very convincing?” victim mocked.

“Now, rewind.”

-

Chosen sighed, laying down on his bed. “Alan?”

The man in question paused, looking at the younger stick. “Yeah, Chosen?”

“You’re doing the thing again.”

‘The thing’ being him walking back and forth in the room, which he had been doing for at least half an hour now, periodically glancing back at the clock on the wall.

“Oh.” He rubbed his neck sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m just…”

“Nervous?” He gave him a tired smile, sitting up on his bed. “Yeah, me too.”

He patted the spot next to him on the bed. “You're going to bore a hole into the ground. Sit down with me?” he invited.

Alan obliged, taking a seat beside the teen. They sat quietly, their worries dulled at least a little by each other's presence. Alan kept bouncing his knee, continued glancing at the clock on the wall, checking his phone every now and then to see if anybody had sent him an update.

Chosen had been quite nervous about this entire ordeal, too. Knowing his old mentor was in the same building as him was enough to send shivers down his spine, despite knowing that he was safe from him.

The damage had been done. It wouldn't be easy to heal from it.

A hand snaked onto his and squeezed, which is when he realized that he had been twiddling his fingers out of anxiety. He uncurled his hands, gently squeezing back the one on top of his. It grounded him, reassured him.

After a point, Chosen decided to break the silence. “Orange is there too, right?”

Alan hummed. “He said he wanted to be there during the interrogation.”

“He's brave,” Chosen commented, pressing his lips together, “unlike me.” Alan squeezed his hand again in response.

“Don't say that. You both are.”

“Doesn't feel like it,” he muttered, laying back down on the bed, legs dangling over the edge, his fingers drumming on his chest. Suddenly it was like he was the more nervous one, the thought of his friends and family being even near The Dark Lord making a pit grow in his stomach.

It wasn't that he didn't believe they could protect themselves, but instead the fact that he wasn't there to protect them in case something happened. He didn't even want to consider the possibility of his family getting hurt again.

He felt guilty about it, but he really didn't feel ready to see him again so soon— nor The Box, for that matter. He felt like a coward, not only hiding away from The Dark Lord but also preventing Alan from being there throughout the ordeal too.

“You don't have to be brave all the time,” Alan cut through his thoughts, as if he had sensed what was going through his head. Chosen hummed, not sure how to respond to that, but ultimately he didn’t have to as multiple ping! noises sounded from Alan’s pocket.

The purple stick pulled out his phone so fast that the screen was still lit by the most recent notification, several text messages sitting above everything else.

Orange: vic left the box

Orange: i think he's done

Orange: yeah he is

Orange: said he will explain the whole thing to u and cho as soon as he comes over tgere

Orange: there*

Orange: ill be with mr tango and the others jsyk

Alan skimmed over the messages quickly, then shot back a swift thumbs-up emoji to Orange. Chosen looked up at him as he pocketed his phone. “Is it Orange? What did he say?”

“He says they’re done. Vic will be over to tell us everything later.”

“Huh. I guess it lasted shorter than I assumed it would have…” Chosen hummed, thoughtful.

They were jolted out of their conversation by the sound of the door clicking open. Turning their heads around, they were faced with victim, who stilled in place when two pairs of eyes landed on him, standing by the doorframe awkwardly.

“Oh,” he said. “I should have knocked. Sorry.”

Alan reassured him that it was okay, gesturing for him to come in. “Orange had just texted me. I didn’t think you’d come over so soon.”

victim walked over to the couch nearby, dropping himself onto it with a tired sigh. “Yeah, well, there wasn’t much left for me to do. Agent and the workers will be handling the rest.” He shut his eyes for a moment, leaning his head back. “That sure was tiring. Mentally.”

When he opened them back he was met with two pairs of curious eyes staring at him. Their expressions were so similar that it made him want to laugh for a moment, seeing the two sticks looking at him like cats focusing on their targets.

Alan seemed like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, tying them over his chest one second, resting them on his knees in the next. Meanwhile Chosen was drumming his knuckles on the edge of the bed, obviously filled with as many questions as Alan did, but even then they remained patient, letting the other hollowhead take his time.

victim leaned his elbows against his legs, knuckles knit together under his chin, a thoughtful expression on his face. “So. First things first.” He looked up at the duo who were watching him intently, waiting for him to start.

“We found his hideout’s location.” He internally grimaced at his next words, unsure how Chosen would take them. “He, uh… refused to cooperate, no matter what I did or offered. So we had to use the memory scanner on him.”

The teen didn’t respond, nor did Alan, but there was an air of mild discomfort around him. He understood it very well, the reason behind it.

“Agent and the others are going to infiltrate that place the day after tomorrow. He’s downloading the memory files as we speak. He said he would come here as soon as he was done.”

“Did he… do anything?” Alan changed the subject, slightly hesitant.

“Not really? Other than being an absolute pain in the butt.” Chosen snorted at that, then covered his mouth with a hand, grinning behind it. victim couldn’t help but grin back at him.

“So, uh… We didn’t get that much info from him other than that. Nothing about his Virablades, bots or that mind-controlling virus. We’re hoping to find something in his base.” Alan hummed in acknowledgement. Chosen glanced back and forth between them, swinging his legs absentmindedly. Bandages peeked out from the sleeves of his clothes, reminding victim once again who caused them.

He wouldn’t get into any more details on all the things The Dark Lord had said. If he were to do so, he was pretty sure that against what the crimson stick had been undoubtedly hoping for, it wouldn’t be him that would leave the building today, but his corpse.

They sat in the room for a while without further discussion, listening to the tick-tock of the clock on the wall. It was Chosen who eventually disturbed the silence. “What are you going to do with him..?” he mumbled, so quiet that victim almost didn’t catch it.

“Well, for one, he will get his injuries treated, and will be given proper f-”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Chosen cut him off. “I mean… what will you do to him… in the long run?”

Oh. “I…” He trailed off, unsure how to respond. He had thought about this for quite a long time, discussed back and forth with people on deciding what to do with the stick. Yet, he still didn’t have a good enough answer to that question.

He would not report him to the authorities, that was for sure. There were many people he could put his trust in, but the government was absolutely not one of them. Plus, he didn't want any… past acquaintances, to get their grubby hands on a criminal that was a potential threat to everybody.

He also obviously could not just let him go, and they refused to execute him, so there was currently one choice left.

“...Well, I am not sure, either. So, for now, he will be kept in The Box, until we come up with a better solution.”

The teen made a face at that, something in between anxiousness and displeasure, but he nodded regardless.

A knock on the door startled them all, and Alan called out to the person on the other side of the door. “Come in.”

The door handle jiggled, and they all moved their heads to see who had come in. Agent peeked his head in, his eyes roaming between each of them, then fully walked into the room. “Howdy.”

“Hi,” Chosen replied, the other two also giving their respective greetings. The mercenary moved over to the couch victim was sitting on, taking a seat on the other end of it.

“What did I miss?” he asked, leaning back in place.

“Nothing, really,” Alan responded. “Vic was explaining the details of the interrogation to us. Speaking of… how are you doing?”

“Me? I’m okay, really.” And he was truthful in his words, too. The whole thing had gone smoother than he had expected, so that was a relief.

…Except for one thing, that is. Because apparently whenever everything was starting to go a little too well, there had to be something to ruin it.

“He’s here, isn’t he? I know he is watching us, somehow, somewhere. He’s so stupidly protective of you, enough to risk his own life, that he wouldn’t leave you alone in here with me. Foolishness, if you ask me.”

The air had stilled in his chest when the stick had looked directly towards him, as if he had sensed his presence, though if one paid close attention, they would notice that he wasn’t actually looking at him, as he wasn’t able to see him.

But that hadn’t mattered to him at that moment. What mattered was that The Dark Lord knew he was here, he would break out, grab him and escape, then he would be trapped in a cold humid room and he would get hurt and experimented on and—

“Hey, hey, Agent,” Hazard’s voice broke through the fog that threatened to engulf his mind. His voice had a distinct feeling to it, as if he was underwater and Hazard was speaking from the surface. “Focus on me, partner.”

Hazard had pulled him back to reality before the panic seized him, and he was grateful for it.

“I’m glad,” Alan smiled with a hint of relief.

For the rest of their conversation they had discussed their plan of raiding The Dark Lord’s base. At some point, victim got up, announcing that he was going to go to his office for a while. Agent left soon after, and thus it was only Alan and Chosen who were left in the room. Orange-golden light shone through the windows, bathing the furniture in a warm blanket of various hues.

Alan checked his phone, then stood up, holding out his hand towards Chosen. “Orange had said he was with the others. I’m gonna go see them. You wanna come?”

Chosen nodded. “Yeah.” He stood up as well, taking Alan’s offered hand, and the two left the room, conversing back and forth. An air of relief had enveloped them after what had felt like forever, their chatter light and free from stress, something he had missed so much.

Their problems weren’t over, and would not be for a long time, but it didn’t matter for now. They were all safe, safe from the stick that had been a looming threat above their heads for longer than Chosen could remember, and that was all that mattered at the moment. There were still matters to attend, questions to be answered, but for now, it could all wait.