Chapter Text
Chosen wiped the rain from his face, squinting against the wind. The city below blurred into a bright mess of twinkling lights as he ascended higher, determined to reach above the clouds.
The thinness of oxygen meant that simply wasn't happening. He slowed his ascent, hovering in the rain as he caught his breath.
He knew he couldn't keep flying forever. His movements had already begun slowing, dizziness making him dangerously unstable. His fingers felt stiff, and his legs were starting to cramp. Blood loss had turned his limbs to lead, the weight of his own body dragging him down.
Twice now, he had descended alarmingly close to the ground, barely catching himself in time. It was unbecoming.
All he needed was to get to the outskirts of the city, then he could recuperate. If there was one thing Chosen appreciated of Dark now, it was the bastard's insistence on various off the grid safehouses. Rocket Corp would never be able to find him there.
Speaking of, they had to be miles away now. The whir of flying machines had faded into silence a while ago. Still, it would be naive of him to assume Rocket Corp stopped looking for him the moment they'd lost sight of him.
A flash of light in his peripheral had Chosen nearly jumping out of his skin. He whipped his head over his shoulder, heart rabbiting in his chest.
Nothing. No hoverbikes, no deadly objects being thrown at his face.
Just rain and the distant rumble of thunder.
A little spooked, Chosen continued his journey again. Rocket Corp had eyes everywhere. He wouldn't be safe until he was completely out of their reach.
The rain was pouring now, becoming a deafening drumbeat as it came down in a sudden torrent.
The flames encircling his hands wavered as rain pelted the stick from all directions. Steam rose from the air as the fire fruitlessly struggled to stay alive. He tried to summon more, but it was snuffed out before it could ignite.
The last remaining embers sputtered weakly, sparking sporadically before extinguishing completely.
Panic seized his heart. For a terrifying second, he was weightless, the wind howling in his ears as he plummeted downward. The ground, once so far below, rushed up to meet him with terrifying speed. He flailed, grasping at nothing but empty air.
There was a sickening crunch as he slammed into the concrete, white hot pain shooting through his entire skeleton. He crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut, landing in a heap of broken limbs. For a moment, there was only the high ringing of silence in his ears, cut through by his own ragged, broken breathing.
He could feel the wrongness in his body immediately—a deep, grinding throb and the nauseating sensation of bone grating against bone. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, sharp and metallic. He tried to push himself up, but the movement sent a lightning bolt of agony through his core, forcing him back down with a choked gasp.
He tried again. This time, he rolled onto his side, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the concrete. He dug an elbow into the ground, muscles trembling with the effort of holding his weight clear of the worst of the damage. It was a slow, ugly process, but he got one knee under him. Then the other. He stayed there for a moment, crouched on all fours, just breathing through the pain.
With a grit that felt like it was tearing his muscles from the bone, he began to crawl. Each movement was agony, his vision swimming in and out of focus. He didn't know where he was going, only that he had to get away from the open street. His eyes landed on a sliver of light under a door in a nearby building, the world narrowing down to the space between his broken body and that thin, yellow line of light.
By some miracle, he reached the door. He hauled his upper body against the cold wood, the world tilting and spinning violently. He wheezed, pressing a hand hard against the throbbing wound in his stomach, his internal pleading a silent, desperate mantra. Open, open, please just open.
To his surprise, his silent pleading worked.
He nearly fell forward when the wooden door he was leaning against suddenly gave way. He barely held himself upright, watching as the purple stick figure’s body language shifted from surprised to irritated. Before he even got a word out, the door slammed shut.
His mouth tasted bitter, and he restrained himself from gnashing his teeth in anger. He was a wanted criminal, he couldn’t fault anyone for hating him. It was fine. He would find somewhere else to stay.
Maybe under a bridge? Or some back alley?
Chosen staggered backward, turning on his heel. He didn't even make a step forward before the ground rushed up to meet his face. His gaze fell onto his wound, staring at it as it gushed through his fingers and dripping onto the wet concrete.
The thought of dying here crept into the back of his mind. He had caused pain to so many people; perhaps this was his karma. Strangely, he found a dark comfort in the idea.
At least Rocket Corp would finally stop hunting him. A sigh escaped his lips as he sank into unconsciousness.
"Shit!"
A string of hissed curses followed the exclamation. Chosen felt the occasional pressure of a stare, a sensation that would vanish as quickly as it came, followed by pacing footsteps.
Fueled by annoyance, Chosen blinked his eyes open and attempted to sit up.
Almost immediately, the stick figure—the source of the voice—invaded their personal space. He could make out the hint of a frown, but the details were washed out by the glare. The stick figure's hands fluttered nervously in the air, unsure whether to touch or retreat.
"Oh, man, you're awake. You’re awake. Okay. I was, uh…" The kid let out a breathy, nervous laugh that did nothing to hide his panic. "I was starting to get a little worried there."
They didn’t respond, instead prodding curiously at the searing hole in their stomach. The flesh was burning hot, an angry red radiating from the edges.
The purple stick figure across from them cried out in alarm, wrestling their hands away.
“Dude, it’s infected! Stop touching it!”
He didn’t understand. Why was he still alive? The injury was grievous; the fall from the sky alone should have been fatal. He should be a stain on the pavement, not lying on a couch feeling the feverish throb of an infection.
A sigh escaped him, drawing the stick figure’s attention. Their head tilted, and a soft, youthful voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “Just… try to lie still, okay?”
Now that he thought about it, they sounded much younger than he had anticipated. A teenager, maybe.
He watched silently as they returned to meticulously tending to the wound. Their small hands were surprisingly skilled and gentle, cleaning the injury with a practiced efficiency that spoke of too many years of experience. It was bewildering. Where in the outernet were this kid’s parents, why did this kid know about how to tend to wounds? He bit his lip. He didn’t know this stick, but they were already making him worried and concerned for their wellbeing. It was fair, he guessed. After all, they did save him from dying on the street.
He couldn’t let them know they’d rescued a terrorist. This kid was too kind to live in fear of him. He needed to vanish from their life as soon as he was able. For now, though, he was content to simply watch them work.
After a while, Purple finally sat back, surveying their handiwork with a critical eye. “There. That… probably needs real antibiotics, but I have a feeling you won’t go to a doctor. I’ll get you something over-the-counter tomorrow.”
“Why.” The word was a dry croak, startling even to him. He winced at the raw scrape of his own voice.
Their head snapped up, eyes wide. “Uh, no pharmacy is open this late…”
“No,” Chosen interrupted. “you helped me. Why?”
“I don’t know.” They took a shaky breath, voice faltering. “I couldn’t just leave you there.” They hesitated, glancing away as if the right words were written on the floor. “I’m… not usually good at this. The helping thing. I usually mess it up. Or… don’t even try. But I’m trying to be better.” Their shoulders sagged slightly under the weight of the admission. “What I mean is… I’m sorry. For slamming the door in your face earlier. I thought you were… someone else. I didn’t realize you were…” Dying, the unspoken word hung in the air between them. “You’re welcome to stay. If you want.”
Whatever. He would take the offer. He just needed a place to lie low until Rocket Corp called off their search party. He wasn’t about to drag anyone else into his mess. He’d already caused enough trouble.
"Thank you," he rasped.
Purple’s face lit up, a bright, genuine smile gracing their face. "No problem. You can bunk with me. I think I have a spare bed.”
The bed had not been at all what Chosen had expected. Instead of a normal, crusty, dusty mattress, Purple had dragged out a red and white one that was entirely 2D, as if it had come straight out of a video game. It felt familiar in a sense, but Chosen couldn't put his finger on it.
It didn't look soft in the slightest. wasn’t soft-looking at all. The whole thing was a perfect rectangular block, its sides unnaturally straight, the red surface flat and perfectly solid, as if painted on rather than stitched.
Purple stepped back, nervously watching Chosen's reaction. "Is something wrong? Is it the mattress? I- We can switch if you don't like it—" They babbled, obviously taking Chosen's lack of reaction as a bad thing.
"It's fine."
Their shoulders relaxed instantly. They still hovered a step away, though, as if Chosen might change his mind at any second.
Chosen stared blankly at the bed, weighing his options.
He distantly wondered if it was even a good idea to lie on it with how hard it looked, especially considering the state his body was in. Nothing about the bed suggested it would be gentle on his bruises or tender ribs.
Then again… neither did the floor.
He’d already been sleeping on wood and hard ground for days. Whatever this was, however stiff it appeared, it had to be better than that.
Carefully, he braced one hand against the edge and began to ease himself down. The movement alone made his ribs flare in protest, a tight, pulling ache that cinched around his side and stole the air from his lungs. He paused, jaw tightening, waiting for the spike of pain to ebb away. It eventually did, though not completely fading. Instead, it just became a dull throb.
He exhaled slowly through his nose as he lowered himself the rest of the way down, shoulders first, then his back, then finally allowing his legs to follow.
Purple hovered at the edge of the room, shifting from foot to foot, hands twitching at the hem of their sleeve. “Uh… is it… okay?” they stammered, voice tight and hesitant. “I mean… the bed… you—are you…?”
Chosen didn’t answer. He wasn’t used to anyone worrying about him, least of all in this soft, hovering way. He simply closed his eyes for a moment, letting his body settle into the bed, and gave the tiniest shrug, almost imperceptible. A single nod followed after a beat.
Purple let out a relieved breath that somehow escaped through the tension in their shoulders. “Okay,” they whispered.
Purple’s shoulders eased, and they sank into a chair near the door, still watching but less anxiously. Chosen allowed himself to study the room in a detached way, letting the details seep in. Dust motes drifted in the streaks of moonlight cutting through the window. The floorboards were uneven, scratched from long use. His muscles loosened, his breathing slowed, and the quiet pressed in around him.
For the first time in days, he didn’t have to fight gravity or pain. He let himself sink fully into the stillness, sleep washing over him.