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The Dark Lord is learning he's not very fond of the color orange.
This wasn't supposed to take even half as fucking long, he was supposed to pummel Chosen, finally be free of his mission, send the viruses, conquer the world. Easy.
So why was it very clearly not fucking easy?
Because of this orange kid. Built just like him and Chosen, but orange this time. How unique.
It doesn't care to learn his name. Nor his useless friends, all dead, easily. It was hardly a fight, hardly worth his time.
The kid looked at him with such vitriol it was finally starting to get amusing. Sure it was similarly interesting the moment the color quartet believed they could take him on, but that fun ended just as it began. With how quickly he wiped the floor with those four, it became even more of a challenge, asking himself ‘how fast can I kill the new kid so I can move on with my day?’ It was just a reminder of how pressing the situation was, really. How he had to act even quicker. He couldn't let Chosen get away, not after what they'd done. If he spends too long on one target, she could split, easy.
It thought it was done with this kid a good long minute ago. Sliced them to near pieces, and so why was he back, and better yet, why was he uninjured?
Dark will admit– he hadn't broken much of an actual, proper sweat yet. None of these hits had hurt even half as much as the initial fight, and getting slammed through a wall hurt a little more than he maybe wanted to admit.
A sharp pain suddenly shot through his back, neck, head, his shoulderblades already aching from the impact– the kid just threw a fucking boulder at him?!
He didn't have much more time to internally bitch about it, as the orange kid rose up, head and the sun overlapping, the light piercing through their head–
Dark's jaw went slack.
He blinked, and pain rocketed through his whole being, blindingly intense, so much of it that he stopped feeling it just about as soon as it began. His body was pulled and forced through miles of dirt, grass, and pebbles grating his skin, every part of him alight in agony.
He wasn't entirely certain when he stopped being conscious.
…
Similarly, he wasn't sure when he opened his eyes again, surrounded by the noise of skittering, every joint and muscle tense with pain as he laid bruised and bleeding in some crater. Certain parts of him hurt especially bad, able to feel the separation between various parts of himself despite being wedged back together.
He groaned harshly, headache already splitting his brain apart. It hurt more than hell. maybe he should've stayed dead. … No, no, then it'd be more embarrassing. Chosen would've found him all dead, like an idiot. or she already had. Fucks sake. She probably was just as embarrassed as him.
With much distress from his body, he sat up– with even more of it, he stood. His spiders hoarded all around him, but none lingered in the front. His steps were forcibly slowed, tentative, calculated.
He marched down to the water, not thinking for even a moment before throwing off his shirt over his head. He slid down the cliffside, and the virabots seemed to not hold interest in following.
Everything hurt. Understatement of the entire goddamn century. It was more like every nerve ending in him had been triggered all at once, every last one screamed. He tried not to care. He just .. wanted to get clean, at least. Smear some of the blood off. And the grass stains too, or something. Sweat clung to him uncomfortably.
In the water, it subsided. Kind of. If he squinted, metaphorically. He sighed, trying to relax. What the hell did that kid have up his sleeve? He hadn't gotten a good idea of it, considering the whole ‘eclisped by the fucking sun' thing, but.. there was green, right?
He's now feeling a similar distaste for the color green. A shame, because the correlating sticks' screams of his had been the second best. Well, maybe he was the best because he'd been the only one to properly shriek, the others had simply yelled or weeped, voice cracking soon enough. Sure, it was all interesting, but he'd always crave a good old fashioned screech. Who didn't?
It was similarly a shame due to the burst of it over his chest, already scarred over . He'd have to be looking at that for a while.
…
The water was nice.
…
He thought about Chosen. He tried not to.
. . .
Was Chosen alright? Where was she now?
No, no, what does he fucking care?
. . .
Dark sighed once more. What was he doing? He had to get back to work. Who gave a single shit if everything in him tried to resist that? He still had a world to conquer, goddamn it. He couldn't rest now.
If anything, Chosen would probably be even readier to kill him, now. He couldn't rest if she was bound to attack at any time.
That's.. that's what they had wanted, right? To kill him. For the whole mess he made.
He couldn't stick around here. Something about sitting ducks.. He always found that phase too childish, but it was too true right now, and nobody's around to hear him, so who cares?
His hand gripped a rock, knuckles apparently sore. He wound the other arm out behind him, only to find fire did not come out.
Instead, black dripped from his palm. It hovered over the water, apparently repellant. It went up his arm, a quick gradient into pure darkness.
That's.. cool, but how the fuck is he getting out of here, then?
Okay, cool is another understatement of the century. It's sick as hell. Still has the problem of now being uncertain as to whether he's getting out of here.
…Frankly, drowning to death out here would be even more embarrassing than having died in that stupid crater.
With a groan, he shifted to get to climbing. It was a long way up, and every injury was searing from the attempt at movement. He did not care. He didn't have much more time to kill, he doubted it heavily.
He started caring when the wind whipped past him suddenly, all sound gone except for the loud splash of the water enveloping him once again. It hurt.
He broke the surface of the ocean again, gasping for air. For the shortest moment, he considered the possibility he was totally fucked. But that'd be stupid. He's THE Dark Lord, and The Dark Lord doesn't get knocked down by some stupid water, doesn't get humbled just because he can't fly at the moment.
So he tried again. Because what was he, if not stubborn? Dead, maybe, his head calls back. He.. really should be dead, shouldn't he?
And he is met with another failure, his physical ailments only getting more agitated. He was tired. Maybe he should've waited. But he didn't have time to wait, he had to do this quickly. … Dark didn't think he'd ever felt this awfully before.
He pulled a wet hand to his mouth, flicking it briefly and whistling a single sharp note, head craned up to the edge. His bots immediately began to pour down, and he smiled. He should've known they were still at his beck and call. He almost felt foolish for doubting them, or himself.
“Help me out here,” he spoke simply, his voice a bit raspier than usual, more gravelly.
The spiders chirped in unison, making an honestly impressive attempt to avoid hurting him any further. He should've seen it coming, they could probably detect how wrecked he was.
He got to the top, and one suddenly perked up to look at him.
’One Recording' it beeped out in morse code.
He hummed with confusion. “Play it,” he ordered calmly.
It nodded, and opened up a slot in its back to pop up a semi-shitty hologram. Poor thing must be damaged.
..Through leaves and foliage, there she was.
’..Dark?’ Chosen whispered, barely audible. He knelt beside Dark's body, gently holding up his head, other hand on his back.
Dark stiffened. Chosen speaking was not typically a good sign. She always spoke quietly, so most probably wouldn't have picked up her words. But he'd spent years listening. Or, trying to. Waiting to.
‘...Dark . . I'm so sorry..’ Chosen curled forward, now slightly leaned into Dark's chest. ‘..miss you .. already. Please .. I didn't mean to. … Sorry ..’
She was trying not to cry.
“..stop the waterworks recording. How long is this video?”
The timestamp showed 45 minutes. Dark scoffed. Why did Chosen stick around so long? … He quickly found most of the recording was Chosen just laying next to him, or holding him, staring at him longingly. Like with Dark's ‘death’, she lost a part of herself too.
…Dark scoffed. Embarrassing. Dark was– Dark was made, to kill them. Chosen getting attached was always their fault first and foremost. … Chosen, knew that. Chosen had.. always, known that. .. why did she ever try? Every time it'd woken her up with a brawl for their lives, they simply evaded as best they could and did minimal damage back. Any time Chosen wordlessly shifted into his bed instead of their own, he held back fire as he held him. He was made to destroy, his hands weren't supposed to be capable of being gentle. His teeth were sharp and his hands were rough.
So why did he ever hold back? Those nights he rocked back and forth, staring at them in bed as he gripped his wrist with a white-knuckle grip to resist setting everything ablaze. It'd be so easy, the voices were mellifluous. It wouldn't be very honorable, but it would finally get the job done.
Dark was haunted by those words for years. It was rare of him to confess to Chosen whenever it got bad. He simply grinned and bore it, to varying success. Something about Chosen knew how to read him, and he knew how to read them: an equal playing field. Sometimes Chosen could simply catch on that he was trying harder than usual to not kill her, the spars more intense and the play bites cutting deeper. Sometimes Dark could simply catch on that Chosen had been reminded of the past and do his best to tiptoe around the subject, make a distraction, or leave her be, if that was what she needed. Neither of them were ever good at words, especially not of comfort– they were enemies, why make peace?– so instead, they sat together, a head propped on the others shoulder and if they felt especially desperate maybe their hands were wound together, or a tentative hand on the back.
Dark could feel the ghost of Chosen’s gentle touches. He wanted one more sunset with them.
Dark felt the sun on his face and skin, and wished Chosen could feel it too, Dark felt so very fatigued and wished Chosen would hold him. It'd make it go away. It'd make it easier to bear.
His body was a weapon. It was not made to be held. He was a bomb ticking down. It was selfish of him to crave something so fickle like that. He had to stick to plausible things, like bloodshed. Not emotional stability. That's a fool's game.
He did not deserve comforting.
He sprawled out in the grass, and stared at the blue sky.
“Dark?”
He sat up so fast he nearly went blind from the pain, whipping around to check.
.. once it cleared, nobody was there. Just– a figment of his imagination.
It wasn't just the one time, like he thought it was going to be. The gentle call of his name, the ghostly sensation of touch that wasn't there, in hugs and hand holdings, in shoulder bumps and brushing legs. It haunted him. A shadow of the permanent guilt he apparently felt.
Sometimes he spun around, fists blazing, and nobody was ever there.
He made a little figure in Chosen's shape, once. He looked at it with fondness for all of a minute before remembering who he was and who she was, before picking it up and liquidating it right back into his hands with a violent squish, exploding slightly into viscera.
It was supposed to be once.
He was supposed to be past it.
Chosen wasn't coming back. They thought he was fucking dead. There would be nothing to come back to.
Dark took a deep breath. He had to let go. He wasn't seeing them again. That was going to be difficult. Fuck.
It was his fault, anyways. His fault everything went to shit. He wouldn't have ever listened to Chosen. He would've if he knew it'd end like this. Fucksake. Fuck the stupid orange kid, ruining everything.
Chosen kept opening the door to an empty house. The light was never on when he entered, because Dark wasn't there to turn it back on.
Dust gathered in every corner. Sometimes, Dark called out to him– their name, a bit of a ruder greeting, or a ‘hey’ so calm and simple they almost forgot he probably wanted them dead right about now. He hugged himself, held his own hand, he touched his own shoulder and tapped the side of his own thigh. There was supposed to be some sort of physical connection that just wasn't there, he had to fill the gap somehow.
They slept in what was supposed to be Dark's bed, but whose was whose had muddled a long time ago.
Everything had been right where Dark had left it. Because why would Chosen have moved it? … They couldn't bear to look at it.
Sometimes he heard clicking, and would bunker under Dark's sheets and pillows, shifting and clinging closer to someone who wasn't ever there. But nothing was ever really there. Just like Dark. She had to bear it alone now.
Maybe, if she ignored the silence, the dust, she could pretend he was still around. Just barely out of their line of sight. Just in a different part of the house. Sitting right next to her, if they felt delusional enough.
It was just all too real. They saw him dead. And that was just it? That was the end. The person closest to them ever, gone before her last words could be spoken, gone in the one moment she blinked.
She let her guard down. They let this happen to themselves. They were such an idiot.
Chosen remembered, very clearly, sitting next to Dark's body in silence. She could've been there all day, but was too stricken with grief just by looking at him to make it come to pass. Fruition of the desire did not come to be.
…They were going to bury him today. Maybe not. If she can stomach it. The odds of that were not in their favor.
But Chosen went to the crater, and it was empty.
All that remained were black smears, displaced pebbles.
She tried not to panic. Where did he go? He was dead, right? Did someone take him? Did he really decompose that fast? What am I supposed to do if he's really gone–
Chosen stopped themselves.
..they sat, in the hole. Off to the side.
’I leave you alone for one day.’
They place their hand where his was, yesterday.
’...I already miss you.’
Chosen stared at nothing, yet can't resist the welling up of tears.
’I don't know what to do without you.’
Her life was.. was empty now. What were they both without struggle? She regretted every moment. She thought aggression was what she wanted. But the screams started to make her upset, and that– that game. It was so idyllic. Peaceful. She felt like, for the first time ever, she'd gotten to properly rest and relax. Dark was always there, pushing back. Started fights, always wanted more blood, more agony. Was it.. good that he died? Maybe. But she couldn't admit that. On that day, in the game, she considered that maybe, Dark was holding her back. Maybe Dark was the chain still around their leg. Maybe, she couldn't ever be at idleness, if Dark was still around.
But Dark simply standing there was still comfort. Home could be anywhere if he followed.
The knife kept twisting. She had to let go. They had to give up. Both were doomed, weren't they? Chosen was doomed to never succeed at talking it down, doomed to never know what to say at the right time. And Dark was doomed to never listen. Dark was doomed, right at the start, but they both ignored it. They lived life around it. Lived life around the impromptu fist fights, the fires, the bites. The scuffs in the floor, the holes in walls, the burns on counters and tabletops.
Chosen wanted to settle down. With Dark. Their brother. The only person who ever cared for them, and they were the only person in the world that anyone could look upon Dark with rose tinted glasses.
But Dark didn't want that. And there was nothing she could've done to make him want that.
But foolishly, they believed maybe, if they talked about it, they could've changed his mind. At the rate they were going, Chosen regretted punching Dark into the stratosphere. Maybe she could've just gently pulled him away. But Dark didn't do gentle, he wouldn't listen.
Chosen had to be drastic to be listened to. But what Chosen wanted was not drastic in the slightest. Chosen was quiet, talked in short choppy sentences, morse code, or not at all. Chosen wanted a house a ways away from society, but still close enough. Chosen wanted comfort. Chosen wanted Dark.
Chosen wanted Dark, to change. And maybe that was wrong. But all they wanted was for him to back away from the ledge. They wanted him off the murdering business. Was that really a bad thing?
Chosen wanted Dark, in his arms again. A short hug, a headbutt. Something was so intimately beautiful about washing the blood off his back, he wanted to be close to it again, but proximity would mean she had to condone violence. And she just couldn't anymore.
Chosen wanted to let the past go. Scrap the years of massacres. Maybe that was impossible. Thousands still died at her hands. But if they stopped while they were ahead, maybe everything'd be okay. Their relationship was built off of the harm of others. What did they do now?
..It's just that Dark would've never stopped. There was no way around the tragedy.
Either way, Chosen would've ended up alone. Either way, one of them had to die. And she knows, that realistically, Dark dying was better. He couldn't hurt anyone now.
But Chosen's heart still ached for him.
Even if he wasn't dead, somehow, he'd still want them dead, wouldn't he?