Chapter Text
"Say, don't you think Boss is going a bit too far?"
"For once, I agree with you, Ballista."
Two sticks stood outside the Box, overseeing the "interrogation" process for The Chosen One. Well, the interrogation part hasn't happened yet. Victim was still busy "giving the subject a taste of his own medicine".
One was Primal, a tall stickman who looked like he came from the drawing of a caveman. He had a centaur-like build. The other was Ballista, a short and pixelated stick who was surprising calm. For now.
Primal narrowed his eyes as Victim once again choked Chosen using a lasso. The latter tried to break free and catch his breath, but was met with a harsh kick to his stomach.
"So much for interrogation," he rolled his eyes.
"Agreed. This is more like torture, don't you think?" Ballista chimed in.
"Tell me where he is!" They could hear Victim yelling from inside the Box.
Chosen weakly shook his head. He refuses to spill any information about Alan. Never. Even the day before, when they tried used the memory machine on him, he managed to force himself to blur his own memories, protecting both Alan and the kids that saved him on that day.
He tried to summon fire from his palms, however his power was nulled by Agent, who was piloting a strange console that connected to the Box.
"I don't even know who you are," Chosen rasped, "I refuse to give you anything unless you-"
"Don't get cocky with me!" Victim shouted, "You killed her! And you DARE try to play innocent!?"
"Killed who-"
Chosen didn't get to finish his sentence as a ridiculously powerful punch was sent to the side of his head, knocking him into oblivion.
There was the sound of a bowl clattering followed by an awkward gasp. Chosen opened his eyes, light instantly flooding his vision. He groaned and tried to stretch his arms, but found that he once more bound to the same gray chair and the same rope. As he lifted his head, he froze to see three familiar figures in front of him.
Primal.
Ballista.
Hazard.
And- wait. No Agent?
Chosen tried to lift his head and say something, but he was roughly shoved back down. Chosen let out a stifled gasp. However he was surprised when a glass full of water was held near his lips.
"Don't talk. Just drink," Primal said, holding the glass closer.
Chosen didn't have to be told twice. It didn't take long for him to finish the whole glass. There were splashes around his mouth, but it was worth it nonetheless.
Primal finally let go of his head and started to head back to the other two mercenaries. Chosen could see that someone (most likely Ballista) had spilled a bowl full of fruits to the floor and they were currently tidying up the mess while Hazard went out and fetched some new ones. He could hear Primal whispering a few things to Hazard.
"Eat these," Hazard approached him, expression still as flat as ever, "You haven't eaten anything for the past 24 hours."
Apparently their kindness didn't extend to the releasing his restraints. It was awkward for Chosen to be fed by the same people that captured him and more or less contributed to his current suffering. But hey, he can't complain, can he? This is the best treatment he's received so far from this place.
I hope they're being just as lenient towards Second.
What's left in the bowl were only the seeds that Chosen spit out. Hazard left the Box again, going somewhere to put the bowl away. Now, there were only him, Primal, and Ballista. Ballista approached Chosen's bound form curiously, which honestly creeps the latter a bit.
"So, you're The Chosen One? The terrorist? Hm, didn't expect you to go down easily," Ballista mused, however there was something off with his tone.
"I wasn't trying to kill any of you," Chosen replied dryly.
"Is that so?" Primal chimed.
"You know, you look pretty young," Ballista leaned closer, prompting Chosen to pull back a bit, "I thought you're supposed to be 30 year old depressed maniac. How old are you, like, 25?"
"I'm 17."
"Wait what."