Chapter Text
When Dark died, Chosen did not weep. He did not wail. He did not cry or drop down to his knees, begging that Dark was going to be okay after the laser pierced through his chest.
Chosen just stood there, watching the dust settle around his feet, asking if what he did was enough.
And the world continued on.
Chosen found his way to the kitchen, firmly grasping on the empty cup he had brought from his bed. He rubbed his eyes with his other hand, trying to clear his vision from his sleep.
Out of habit, he stumbled to the calendar placed beside his fridge, picking up a nearby pen and ready to mark down his plans for the day. Notes about reminders, tasks, incoherent phrases that only he understood had covered each inch of the page, written in a red ink that bled with each word.
But today was different. Instead of a list of tasks, the pen was met with an empty date with a simple circle around it. And by the way the leaves have fallen, the flowers wilted, the blistering heat of summer warmed the morning air, Chosen knew that the day was coming.
It was August 18th. Today marked the first anniversary of their fight…and Dark’s death.
Chosen often blamed himself for his death. He was the one unable to tell Dark that he didn’t want to destroy anymore. He was the one who spent years unaware of the signs that Dark was planning for something more, and most importantly of all, he was the one who was too afraid to tell Dark that he didn’t want to injure any more sticks.
But that meant hurting his bond with Dark, and Chosen valued him more than anything else. So in the end, he kept silent, until they grew further and further apart and neither of them knew what the other wanted. What was left was him acting out of fear, and Dark blasted into pieces.
He couldn’t even muster the courage to search for Dark’s remains in the crater that Second carved into the ground. He knew that it was his impulsive actions that led to the disaster– his actions have always resulted in complete destruction. Trying to search for any living being in the wreck was futile.
No one would mourn Dark. Well, no one besides Chosen. Neither of them deserved to be grieved after all the grief they committed to so many.
Chosen swallowed the lump in his throat as he brought down the pen. He wasn’t particularly sure why he had marked this day as empty. Did he really have nothing to do today? No errands to keep his mind off?
The stick passed a quick glance around him, and sighed at the mess of cushions, papers and dust that littered the floor and the furniture, left untouched since Chosen became the sole resident of the house. Despite how much the house has deteriorated, Chosen did not find the motivation to fix them into place. He placed his hand to the fridge’s door and opened it instead, checking for anything to eat first for breakfast before he could ruminate more about his plans for the day.
The fridge only held two days worth of milk and a haphazardly thrown turkey sandwich inside. Reaching for the milk carton, Chosen poured himself a cup before taking the sandwich to eat. He bit into it, not minding the bland taste of stale bread.
Noting the empty fridge, he supposed he should get more groceries to restock his supply. He would spend his day among the other sticks in the city, which would be away from the emptiness of the house and away from Dark’s lingering presence. Chosen glanced at the calendar and confirmed that he had planned on restocking the following day. It couldn’t hurt to move it a day earlier.
Finishing the sandwich, Chosen rumaged through the kitchen drawers to grab his dark muddy red cloak. He draped the soft fabric over his body, fastening the button at the neck and letting the hood rest on his shoulders for the time being. Without another minute wasted, he left the house and placed his feet upon the soft grass.
Lighting his palms, Chosen propelled himself into the air.
__________________________
When he reached the edge of the city, Chosen opted to walk, pulling the hood over his head to avoid recognition. He strolled down the farmers market, blending in easily with the crowd.
He checked to see if he had left his wallet in his cloak, breathing a sigh of relief as the corner of leather peeked out in his pocket.
“Hey you in the cloak!”
Chosen tensed. He turned around to meet a short stick and his stand.
The stick smiled at Chosen, “Are you interested in buying any berries? They are fresh from this season!”
Figuring that he had plenty of time to lose, Chosen walked up to the stand, examining the boxes of blackberries and raspberries presented on the wooden stand. He wondered what the latter tasted like. Would the flavor be different or similar to the tart flavor of blackberries?
The vendor seemed to notice Chosen’s hesitation, offering him a blackberry to try. Chosen popped the berry wordlessly into his mouth, tasting the familiar bitter taste on his tongue.
The stick glanced to the sky before turning back to Chosen, “You know, it’s been exactly a year since that weird green light was spotted outside the city.”
Chosen eyed the stick, unsure how to respond.
After an extended period of silence, Chosen decided to humor them, “A year, huh?”
His voice fell out rough and scratchy from his extended periods of silence. Annoyed, he tried to clear his voice, but found himself in a small coughing fit.
“Yep!” the stick replied, unaware of Chosen’s kneeling form. They hovered over to offer Chosen a raspberry to try, “I wonder if the Angel of Death was behind it.”
He quickly recovered and looked up, “What makes you say that?”
“Well that’s just a small rumor that’s been floating around today! Who knows what the Angel has been doing. That stick is crazy powerful.”
“I guess so.”
Chosen took the raspberry and tasted it, his eyes widening as he savoured the sweet tangy taste that filled his mouth.
The stick happily laughed as they observed Chosen’s blissful face, “That’s one is good right? It’s the first harvest of this season!”
“Oh, it is good,” Chosen agreed, opening his wallet before checking the price. Subtracting the cost to buy more milk and bread, he had only two dollars to spend, and that meant he was unable to afford the four dollars listed for the box of raspberries. Chosen sighed in disappointment, looking up at the stick, “I’m sorry, I don’t have enough. I only got two dollars left to spare.”
“That’s no problem!” the stick beamed, “I’ll halve the price for you! I know how tough it is out there these days.” Before Chosen could protest, the stick had already reached and placed the box into Chosen’s hands.
“I really don’t-”
“Take them! I already sold plenty.”
The stand was nearly empty when Chosen walked up, but he was not used to the display of sudden kindness. He fumbled with the box in his arms as he fished out his two dollars to give the vendor. “I- uh…thanks.”
The stick smiled, “No problem! You have a wonderful day now!”
Chosen timidly waved goodbye, before briskly walking away, box in hand.
With no steady source of income, Chosen couldn’t afford to spend as much anymore. He either relied on the cash he and Dark had stolen years ago or resorted to stealing, but that rubbed him the wrong way. Even if it was a good two dollars spent, it felt wrong to not pay the full price.
But he had an extra item to go with his haul and what he needed next was his bread. Chosen turned the corner to where the vendors sold their bread, paid for his bread and quickly left without a word.
The last thing that he needed was the milk. He navigated himself toward the nearby supermarket, weaving through the crowded street to the outer parts of the farmers market. Before Chosen went inside, a poster on the brick wall of the building caught his eye.
It was a standard sized paper with bold letters.
APPLY NOW
Chosen took the poster, holding it with his hand. The poster displayed a stick with sunglasses pointing with two rocket symbols on the bottom corners. Behind the stick were several photos of different sticks wielding different weapons; a sword, a bow, boxing gloves and presumingly, a rifle.
He read the description. It was an advertisement for three job openings at Rocket Corp. According to the details, they were looking for fighters, particularly those with special abilities. Underneath there was a date for the mercenary tryout event at the company building for applications, set later that week. Reading further, Chosen’s eyes widened at the wages listed. He wasn’t that well rehearsed with salaries, but he knew that it was significantly higher than any price given for a hire for a mercenary.
He wondered why such a company would require special workers. It must be something important if they paid that much for such a job. With such a chance like this, Chosen knew many would try to apply.
A sudden push startled him out of his trance, and Chosen dropped the poster and instinctively winded up to aim a punch at the assailant. Before he went through with the action, he recognized the orange hollowhead and relaxed, dropping his fist.
“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Second?”
Second brightened at the recognition of his voice, “Chosen? What are you doing here?”
“I’m getting groceries,” Chosen pointed to the box and bread, before noting that Second was also accompanied by his other four friends, “I should be asking you the same question. Don’t you all usually stay in the computer?”
Green chipped in, “Purple showed us a way to get here through the portals. We thought that today was a good day to explore around.”
Chosen wasn’t sure who Purple was nor what he meant by the portals, but he assumed it was a different transportation method the sticks found from someone living on the outernet. He sighed, “Yeah, I don’t know that much about this city. I can’t help.”
“That’s alright! We are used to navigating around new places.” Second waved it off and looked to the ground at the paper Chosen dropped. Second reached to pick the poster up, “Oh you have one of those posters! We’ve been seeing them all around the city! Are you considering checking it out?”
“No, I was just curious about the details.”
Second offered the poster back to Chosen, which he took, “Well, I think you would do well with meeting new sticks.”
Chosen stared incredulously at Second, poster in hand.
Second seemed to backtrack on that statement, fiddling with his hands, “I mean- It’s just that…we don’t meet that often ... and I think it would be nice for you to have some company.”
Chosen appreciated Second’s concern. There was something special with that stick, always caring about the sticks around him no matter the circumstance.
He folded and placed the poster into the cloak’s pocket, “It’s all fine, Second. You really don’t need to worry about me.”
Second let out a sigh, “Yeah, I know. I just wish I could spend more time with you. It’s really hard to travel around when we either have to fall from the sky or travel miles from the city to get to your place!”
“Then I’ll travel to meet you and your friends sometime.”
“On the computer?”
Chosen slightly nodded before using his arm to block an incoming hug from Second. Second noticed his shift of energy, brushing himself off of Chosen.
“That sounds amazing!” Second smiled, turning to see that his friends had long left him to explore the market. The stick groaned, throwing his hands into the air in fond exasperation before pulling out a phone, “Text me when you’re coming alright? I’ll make sure everything is prepared for you. I got to catch up to my friends before they get into trouble without me!”
Second gently tossed the phone to Chosen in which the stick caught. Considering Chosen was off-grid, he smiled at the forethought. Second must have assumed that he would be hesitant to enter the computer unannounced. Admittedly, he was right.
Second ran off, waving to Chosen. He reorganized the items in his hold and returned the gesture with a subtle wave before dropping it, watching quietly as Second caught up with his friends.
Hearing the familiarity of their laughter sent a pang through his heart, reminding him of the times he spent his first few days free, laughing with Dark as they did whatever they wanted. He missed Dark. He missed his smile. He missed his insistent jokes and the way he would fixate on things and talk about them to Chosen. He missed him, even though he knew that if Dark stayed alive, the world would fall into destruction. Was it ever be the same with another stick?
He looked at the poster and sighed. He would have to think it over.
__________________________
In the darkness and empty silence of his room, Chosen laid on his bed. Once he had come home, his energy had dropped in an instant. His body felt heavy, as if concrete was poured into his heart and left there to solidify. It was like the crushing feelings have finally caught up to him once more, tearing his insides with a familiar numbness that haunted many of his days awake.
It always reminded him of his first days chained as an adblocker. He was like an animal running on pure fear and adrenaline, choosing fight or flight, overriding any sense of feeling. Those days had blurred into incomprehensible noise and colors, leaving him nothing in his memories and a single scar that encircled his left ankle.
When he escaped the PC, his vision was as vivid as ever, yet it still felt like he was watching a movie of his own life. He had no idea where this disconnect came from.
It couldn’t be from Alan, he had no ties with him now. He had changed when Second came around and Chosen did not feel any resentment to that. It couldn’t have been from Dark. He was now dead and the grief he had for him was the only thing he held on as real in this whole situation.
His cloak had been long cast aside somewhere among the piles that filled his room. He could have placed it back into the drawers where it belonged, but it didn’t matter in the slightest compared to the poster that he held loosely in his hand.
It was weird. He thought he was functioning normally today, but one simple paper had left him spiraling. He thought he was doing fine. He thought that he had long accepted this weird state he had been experiencing for years.
Chosen let out a deep sigh. He was always the resilient, independent, capable one. He couldn't let himself fall like this.
Setting the poster down on the bedside drawer, he reached for the fallen picture frame beside it. He placed it back up, revealing a photo of Dark and himself. They were laughing earnestly, with Dark slinging an arm right over his shoulder. They had found a small abandoned camera that day and completed a spar which Dark had won, resulting in a victory photo to mark Chosen’s defeat.
Dark would absolutely hate it if he tried becoming a mercenary. He would probably talk about how terrible it would be to associate with weaker sticks and how accepting a contract would be even worse. He would be frustrated that Chosen even thought about the idea of working and argue it was the opposite of the freedom Chosen and he wanted.
But sue him, Chosen wanted more. He wanted somewhere else to be.
Someone else to be.
Someone who isn’t someone who destroyed and killed hundreds.
Chosen shifted in his bed until he laid on his back, looking up to the ceiling.
Maybe it was time for him to attempt to run away from the guilt that eats him daily. Run away from the lingering presence of his friend.
Start anew. Find a job. Have a wage to live on. Meet new sticks.
Be a normal stick.
Be normal.
Was he normal?
It wasn’t in his nature to be so.
But he can try. The poster could be his chance.
__________________________
It was the day of the tryouts and Chosen was not ready.
Chosen entered the facility, making sure that the cloak’s hood covered his head completely, hunching his figure to prevent recognition from any other stick. He felt several eyes bore into his skin, but he wasn’t sure if it was due to his anxiety of being surrounded by so many sticks or if was due to the fact that he was surely going to get recognized by someone.
The applicants all filtered into a large waiting room with TVs strapped on each wall. Each screen displayed the same broadcast, showing a grey room with a box inside. Workers were scattered around the room, some taking notes, others testing the controls and one stood inside the box.
Another worker entered the waiting room, holding a clipboard. They called for a group of about thirty volunteers to come with them first, taking them out of the waiting room.
Chosen settled down on a seat in the corner of the room and watched through the TVs as those sticks were placed in line. One by one, each of them introduced themselves, entered the trial box, and demonstrated their fighting skills against the worker before leaving as directed by the standby workers.
The collection of sticks were extraordinarily strong. Some welded weapons on command, some had powers such as himself. Others relied more on their fighting skills than their abilities, pummeling the worker into the ground. And as with any group, there were also amateurs that found themselves stumbling and messing up, leaving the box determined to improve.
As the next few groups were called out of the waiting room, Chosen still chose to stay behind.
There were a couple of tryouts that stood out to him. One in particular was able to switch poses and pull signs out, and to Chosen’s slight amusement, nearly nuke the box down. On a similar tangent, there was also feisty fighter that was able to summon projectile weapons from their head, causing significant damage to parts of the box and the poor worker before anyone could stop them.
He tapped his foot anxiously. Based on the way the tryouts were turning out, it seemed that there was a higher bias on versatile power-based sticks rather than those who were skilled with fighting alone. If he wanted to get the position, he would need to use his own too.
However, that would put himself in a vulnerable spot. If anyone recognized his powers and connected them to the Newsgrounds attack and identified him as the Angel of Death… would he be able to get out of that uninjured? He doubted he would be able to fend himself from tens of skilled fighters all at once.
“Sir?”
Chosen readjusted his focus to stare at the worker.
“Excuse me. We are almost done with the tryouts.”
He surveyed the room, noticing that the last of the sticks were starting to get into place in the line. He was one of the last ones who remained seated.
The worker softly smiled, “If you’re still here for the tryouts, the line is open for any last applicants.”
His chest twisted out of uneasiness. Chosen wondered if he was even in the right stick to try for a job like this. He didn’t know anything about the process and he was putting himself in a dangerous situation. He wasn’t used to being around so many sticks for an extended period of time. He didn’t belong here.
He attempted to open his mouth to ask a question, but before he managed to say anything, the worker moved on to help another stick.
Chosen planted his sweating hands against the chair and took a deep breath. He was already here. He would just have to push through it. It was no different from any other challenge he faced, and considering his fighting background, it should be on the easier end of the situations he dealt with.
Pulling himself out of his seat, he followed the small crowd of sticks out of the empty waiting room and into the hallway, finding himself in the dreaded line. Chosen adjusted his hood once more, finding himself at the line checkpoint.
The worker greeted the stick, “Name?”
“Chosen.”
“That is a nice name,” the worker wrote something down before handing him a paper slip with a single number. “This will be the number that you will give to Agent. This is for the ranking system we have.”
Chosen gave a quick nod of appreciation toward the worker before continuing down the line. The number 131 rested on his hands.
He gripped onto the slip. Despite how much he feared putting himself out there, he knew he was doing it for himself. It was his chance of a new life.
It was not long before he was right at the box. The box filled the room with a subtle blue glow, casting soft shadows on the workers overseeing the trials. In front of the box lay a console and a tall black stickfigure that Chosen recognized as the same stick plastered upon the promotion posters. Based on what the previous worker told him, he concluded that the stick was Agent.
Chosen gave the piece of paper to Agent and entered the box, instinctually tensing into a fighting stance at the sound of the box whirring shut. He sharply turned to see several cameras and workers scribbling on their clipboards. He locked eyes with Agent.
He followed the direction of Agent’s hand which was pointed at the worker in the box beside Chosen, “You have sixty seconds maximum to demonstrate your skillset. Start when you’re ready.”
Chosen assessed the worker in front of him, noting the way the stick balanced themselves firmly to the ground. The worker seemed to lack strength, rather relying on their balance to gain an advantage over the fight.
Taking that into account, Chosen let himself relax into the familiarity of the movement, rushing forward to the worker. The cloak upon him felt stiff against his body’s movement and the hood covered his vision, but he persisted, discombombulating the worker with swift punches to the face before using his leg to attempt a sharp blow to the worker’s lower body.
The worker blocked the punches and easily caught the kick with their hands, using the fraction of time Chosen was unbalanced to take a hold of Chosen’s leg and throw him off. The two sticks separated as the worker evaluated Chosen’s strength and confidently closed the space between the two. Chosen crouched low in an attempt to find his footing once more, taking another hit in the chest as the worker rammed into him.
He cursed under his breath, digging his feet into the ground as he skidded to one of the walls with the worker, hearing the pulse of the box’s glass bend behind him. He took a small step to the side and steadied his other leg against the wall and floor, taking the worker’s vulnerable position to elbow them in the lower chest and push the stick off, earning a wheeze from them.
If Chosen had enough time, he would be able to win the fight through endurance alone. But he didn’t. The tryout needed to be done quickly and impressively, and he was currently failing at both aspects.
Just before Chosen can further weigh his options, the worker returned on the offensive, throwing several heavy punches toward his head. He traded several punches back, pushing both of them back toward the center of the box.
The ceiling lights that lit up the box’s floor flickered above them as Chosen took the worker’s missed punch and threw them across the box, registering how the stick twitched briefly into pixels upon hitting the ground. He recognized the sound of static buzzing in the air, glimpsing at the sparks of electricity molding itself around his hands. The electricity sent sparks throughout the box as he released the contained energy, nearly short circuiting the technology placed around the box.
That must have been from his instincts activating from the fight. Pushing down his initial worries of exposing himself, he supposed it was the second best thing than using his fire. Most sticks recognized the Angel as the one with fire abilities after all.
The worker recovered from the shock and lifted themselves up. They held an arm against their chest in pain, glaring at Chosen with a face filled with frustration, confusion, and anger. Chosen paused, staring blankly at the stick. That was an expression Chosen knew all too well.
He has seen it many times under his blood-stained hands.
Noticing Chosen’s hesitance, the stick lunged toward Chosen, but instead of dodging it, Chosen planted his feet firmly to the ground. He switched to a different elemental power, delivering a blast of ice and freezing the stick midair in a solid ice shard.
When the blast receded, Chosen walked up and tapped the ice that encased the frozen worker, observing how the flakes of ice slid off and toward the floor. He felt the urge to melt the block down with his fire and pulled back, awkwardly stuffing his hands in the pockets of his cloak. With the stunt he pulled, using the last of his powers would be placing a huge neon target upon him. He knew he wasn’t used to controlling the minute aspects of his other elemental powers and he was clearly out of practice after a year's worth of wandering around.
“That’s enough,” Agent’s voice rang clearly through the air.
Chosen turned his head around, feeling the hood smack the side of his face which had fell off unnoticed, either from when he blasted the room full of ice or sent shockwaves throughout the room. He wasn’t sure which one it was. Adrenaline coursed through his body as he swiftly pulled the hood back over his head.
“I’m very impressed. I’m surprised that you weren’t one of the first to volunteer.”
He could barely hear the stick’s voice over the pounding of his own heartbeat. He straightened himself up to meet the stick, evening out his breath. Being in the box was not ideal, but based on the way Agent did not react at Chosen’s unhooded figure, he figured he was safe for now.
“I just wanted to see the competition,” Chosen answered simply as he rocked back and forth. He hated how much he was uncomfortable with this whole situation.
“Fair enough.” Agent nodded at the answer, crossing his arms, “Just a few questions before I let you go. What’s your cost for hire as a mercenary?”
“I’ll be fine with the wage listed on the poster.”
Chosen didn’t notice how Agent had a double take at that response, more focused on how Agent went to type something on the console.
“It’s usually not common that mercenaries with your skillset don’t ask for more.” Agent said before hastily adding, “Not like that’s required.”
Chosen shrugged. That was the least of his worries at the moment. “I’m just starting out. I’m fine with your initial offer.”
“I see. Then I have another question. Why are you applying?”
“A friend recommended me to apply to meet more sticks and I’d like to apply my skills into something new.” Chosen replied. He hoped the vague but honest answer was good enough to stop further questions. He didn’t want to come near of mentioning anything of his past.
Luckily, Agent didn’t have any more questions. With another quick round of typing and an audible click of a button from Agent, the box reopened with a whoosh. Chosen gladly took that invitation, and without a moment wasted, stepped out of the box, the warm air hitting his face unlike the cold temperatures enclosed inside the box.
“Thank you. One of my employees will lead you to the secondary room where you will be hearing about the results soon.”
Chosen drew a breathy sigh and relaxed as most of his nerves finally dissipated, hastily following the designated worker out of the room. He looked behind to see that a set of stats appeared on the console, but he could barely read his results before the next stick was ushered into the box for the next tryout. To Chosen’s relief, he also noticed that the frozen worker was taken out of the melting ice and the box and replaced by another standby worker.
With all of that done, he was glad to be out of the box. He didn’t acknowledge it until now, but something about confined spaces never sat right with him. But even so, trying out for a job for the first time will never sit right with him either.
The room the worker dropped him off at was almost identical to the original room, but instead of the hundred or so sticks crowding the place, there remained a portion of the applicants. There was an exit in the back where plenty of sticks had left following their tryout, but the ones that remained were indeed some of the best of the cohort, filtering the chance-seeking individuals out and down to a small group of experienced fighters. There was a rambunctious spirit throughout the room as sticks caught up with each other, networked, and introduced each other.
Out of curiosity, he let himself blend among the groups, quietly listening to their conversations.
__________________________
Agent double checked the list of ranks resting on the device. Based on the stats of the top three, they should have a powerful and experienced team of abilities, able to take down anyone. The only one that worried him was the stick resting in fourth place.
Taking a deep breath, he lightly knocked on the door and entered the dimly lit room. In the back, there laid the desk and the hunched figure looking down from their seat. He walked up and around the table and placed a hand on the stick’s shoulder.
Agent placed the device on the desk.
“Sir, we finished the interview process and have the list. We are going to hire the top three.”
“Agent, I already told you that you could hire anyone you deemed fit. I trust that you would choose the best ones.” Victim lowered their voice, “I was watching the recordings. Please get to the point.”
“Yes. Number four, Mercenary Tryout 131.” Agent pointed at the list, “Name: Chosen.”
“Isn’t it strange that he looks so similar to the Angel of Death?”
Agent grimaced at the bluntness of the question. The topic of the attacks was a touchy subject between the two. Even now, the lingering smell of smoke coating his lungs and the muted sounds of screaming in his ears was ever so present in the room.
However, he could not compare that to what Vic was dealing with. Agent knew Vic lost more than he ever did. They lost their love, their other part that always been with them since they first entered the Outernet. Agent’s bond with Mitsi could never compare to the bond the two had with each other.
“It is…but I advise we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. This stick doesn’t have the same abilities as the Angel.”
“Yeah…yeah, I know. He doesn’t seem to have any pyrokenesis…I searched every pixel. There’s no signs of sparks, nor fire, nor anything,” Victim strained.
Agent recognized the pain in their voice and softened, crouching down to met the grey stick’s eyes. Vic’s eyes had lost its lively soul ages ago. Agent took Vic’s hands into his.
“I’ll make sure we both get the revenge we deserve Vic. We are going to find a way. For Mitsi. For you. For everything that beast destroyed in the past.”
Vic did not react to Agent’s reassurance, their lip pursed into a tight frown. “You always say that.”
“Well that’s a promise I intend to keep.”
Vic sighed, his shoulders dropping all tenseness in his body. He tapped the screen to open Chosen’s profile, noting the high power and utility stats.
“So…him. He’s in the room right?”
“Yeah, he should be. What do you want to do with him?”
“I’m curious on who he is. His abilities are extremely useful.” Victim said, closing his eyes to think before opening them again. “I think it’s best to take him into the team.”
Agent agreed. The stick showed amazing potential in the box despite his lack of professional experience.
“Then who out of the top three do you intend to replace with him?”
“No, we will have those three and him.”
Agent raised his eyebrow, “Four mercs? Are you sure?”
“If my suspicions are right, then we can better observe him to understand his real motives. If not, we have an important tool to help us capture the Angel.” Victim clenched his fists with renewed determination, “It’s best to keep him around with the other three.”
Agent nodded, giving a gentle squeeze on Vic’s hands before letting go.
With their plan, he hoped that things would return back to normal one day. He hoped so desperately.
He just needed to fall into his role for the time being.
Agent stood up and readjusted his glasses, “I’ll let everyone know the results.”