Archive of Our Own

It’s dark here; a void where you can’t see where it starts or where it ends, but you aren't free to roam around it at all. Looking like an endless space when in reality it's heavily enclosed. There is just enough room to sit down, barely enough to stand up, and it’s a struggle to even try laying down. A miracle to be able to take maybe three or four steps before having to turn back again with those same amount of steps.

In that dark, cramped space, a black figure is barely visible. It sits there, hugging its knees to its chest with its chin resting on its arms. A chain is tied to its left ankle, connecting it to a heavy ball, making it effectively chained. It sits so still that one might think it isn't moving at all, if not for the shallow breaths coming out of it.

If one were to give a closer look, despite the dark color scheme of the figure, one can possibly start to pick out its features. 

The stickfigure is an inky black, but its head is hollow, showing only the outlines; a hollowhead. Its hair falls in dark, choppy, messy strands that brush against its shoulders. The strands messy up its face, making it harder to examine its face. However, a tint of red, perhaps was its eyes, a contrasting bright red to the dark. 

The Chosen One hugs its knees even tighter, trying to make itself look smaller, searching for any ounce of comfort. It was the only comfort it could provide for itself in this void.

This "void" was actually the inside of a chest. The stickfigure had been trapped here after its… Rather first unpleasant moments of life, having crashed its creator's desktop almost immediately with its powers. It had felt an immediate, uncomfortable feeling sitting at its guts when it was brought to life. With the cursor looming over it like that, it didn't feel safe at all. It didn't really understand why it had the urge to fight back, but it did. *Its instincts had screamed to fight.* 

~~~

Convert to symbol

v-i-c-t-i-m

k-i-l-l-e-r

B-E-A-S-T

T-h-e C-h-o-s-e-n O-n-e

~~~

Perhaps if it had been nice… Tamed. From the very start, it wouldn't be stuck in here. Or maybe it still would be.

Yet, those first few moments of life… they were dear. It was freedom. Sure, it was messy, but it was a mess without obstruction or walls. That was before this happened. Now, freedom feels like a far-off dream. It’s the kind of dream that makes the dreamer look like a masochist for even having it. Dreaming of something it will probably never experience again only gives it a shred of false hope. It’s like tossing a scrap of food in front of a hungry animal that’s chained to a post. Just a few inches out of reach from being able to snatch it.

Then again, it seemed like it was never meant to have its own autonomy from the very start.

It tilted its head, looking up. Vibrant red eyes darted around the surroundings, doing what it has already done a thousand times before. Deep down, it knew nothing was going to change, but what else could it even do?

It certainly couldn't spend its time reminiscing.

It wasn't as if there were any fond memories to find in a place like this.

What was it to reminisce here?

~~~

The Chosen One found itself trapped inside the chest that had just sucked it in. It tried to move, only to hit its face flat against a wall. But it didn't even look like there was a wall; the area didn’t look closed off at all. It tried to walk, only to hit another wall somehow. Again, it slammed against something solid.

It was a very small, closed area.

Very small.

Very.

Small.

Was it panic that bubbled through its chest as its red eyes widened? Was that why its body felt so much colder at the realization? It slammed a fist against the wall, only to be met with nothing. It tried to spark a fire within its palms, flames cackling and firing balls of fire against the wall.

Still nothing. 

If anything, the heat just bounced back toward it. 

It tried to use the flames to propel itself upward, the way it could just moments ago, but its head hit the ceiling. The top was barely a few inches higher than its head when it was just standing.

The walls didn't budge at all, no matter how hard it tried. Even after multiple attempts to use its powers, nothing happened. It was as if the space was immune to its strength. It futilely threw its body against the wall like a ragdoll being tossed around, a desperate attempt for even a single budge. Anything to show it wasn't going to be stuck like this forever. There’s no way for that, right?

It was stuck in an area that allowed for almost no movement at all.

It wants out.

It then also noticed the ball chained to its ankle. It had realized it during those moments of trying anything, its left leg felt way heavier than it should have been. The weight made it stumble a few times, ending up accidentally hitting the wall harshly because there wasn't even enough space to freely fall.

It tried to remove the chain, using its strength to try and destroy it. Its hands only ended up aching before a single crack could even be seen.

It tried to use its flames. It only stopped when the temperatures got too concerning even for itself to continue, before a single sign of melting was felt or seen.

If the chain was immune to flames, it was just as immune to its other powers.

Yes, it had tried everything. Just to be sure.

It wants to be unchained.

It was starting to get hungry. Not that it usually got hungry easily, but it had already been… quite some time. It started to feel those knots forming in its stomach, making its focus waver and its attempts at finding an escape grow weaker as time went by. Having used so much energy.

There was nothing to eat here. Was the cursor supposed to bring something for it to eat? If that was the case, the cursor was certainly taking a long time. Way too long.

Surely, it wouldn’t let a stick figure go too hungry.

It won't even be picky. It promises.

It is willing to take those letters again. After all, that was the only thing it had ever tasted. But it would take them even if there were somehow other, tastier options out there.

Letters aren't even half bad, and they fill the stomach.

Even just a few letters.

It’s willing to take just one.

Anything just to ease the uncomfortable knots in its stomach.

This feeling is not nice.

It was starting to get desperate.

How many days had passed by already? It wasn't so sure. There were no indications in here to show that time was passing by at all.

It's so dark. It's so cramped in here.

It fidgeted, pacing back and forth in the tiny space, even as the heavy ball dragged against the ground with every move. 

When the growing hunger took a heavier toll, it would just sit down and hug its knees close to its chest, trying to ignore the knots in its stomach or make the pain feel less severe.

It had already tried closing its eyes in hopes of drifting into unconsciousness. It worked, but waking up afterward always made everything so much harder. 

It would… dream of getting out of here. It would dream of being able to move as much as it wanted, to do whatever it wished. 

Freedom.

But it makes it harder for it to wake up every single time. It only ever woke up in the same unfortunate situation, forced back into the reality of having no freedom at all.

Flames cackle and blow as they hit their direct subject. The metal stays unchanged despite the growing temperatures, even with the fire now pouring from two sources. Specifically from the stick figure's mouth and both of its palms.

The metal, without melting a single bit, only grows hotter and hotter as it absorbs the heat of the flames. Using fire against oneself was already an uncomfortable, unpleasant feeling, and having an object that only solidifies that heat makes it even worse. Way worse. 

Tears pricked at its eyes; it shut them tight and shook its head. Hot, hot, hot, hot, it repeated in its mind, yet it didn't stop. If anything, it kept going and put in even more effort, forcing the temperature to rise to a smolten heat, growing to an alarmingly numbing feeling at its leg.

It only stopped when it could no longer bear it, gasping for air. Its breaths came in uneven, ragged gasps as its hands trembled.

Nothing changed.

It was a bright, spacious environment. The sky was a vibrant blue, adorned with fluffy white clouds while the sun shone warmly between those clouds. Below, the ground was made of soft soil with patches of fresh grass. Nearby, trees with bountiful leaves swayed as a gentle breeze passed through them.

The stick figure found himself taking a step, then another, and another. The ground felt impossibly soft under his feet. The breeze caught his hair, making the messy strands flow; it was cool, pleasant, and real.

Then, it abruptly woke up.

Silence.

Soon, its body began to tremble as a silent sob shook its figure.

Way to go. What a masochist. Dreaming of freedom yet again. Of softness rather than hardness, and lightness over this suffocating darkness. 

When will I ever learn?

This was always the same dream. 

Was it even a dream at this point, if all it did was bring more distress?

Its figure wobbled, swaying at even the simple task of standing up. It had to stay sitting down, slumped like a discarded rag doll. It felt its vision blur, barely able to focus even on its own hands. It barely felt like its own mind could form coherent thoughts anymore. 

If I… eat the chain… or maybe… my leg… I won't be hungry then… and there— there'll… be no chain.

Nothing to hold me down…

And– 

And and….

At least I’ll feel full…

Hahaha.

A delirious laughter began to bubble up from its chest. It didn't even register that the hiccuping laughter was actually sobbing coming from itself, and not just more random noises its mind was supplying to combat the silence of the chest.

“LET ME OUT!” it shouted, its vibrant red eyes wide in manic, near hysterical restlessness. Its mouth formed a wide, wobbly smile that looked more like a grimace. Its hands trembled violently as it clutched at its own hair, tugging and pulling on the choppy strands.

It violently slammed its body against the wall. It barely had the energy left to even try its own powers, its powers never worked anyway.

Again and again, even as it felt its vision blurring, the chain hugged its ankle tighter and the pain became more noticeable. Each thud only made its heart fall deeper into a numbing coldness of fear. 

It wasn’t uncommon for it to have this… sort of episode.

I.. I don't want to be stuck here! I… Please please please. I don't like it here. PleasepleasepleaseIdon’tlikethis— IamsorryIamsorryIamsorryIwon'tdoitagain.

PLEASE—

Its own mouth had actually been saying those words. Frantic, whispered versions of the thoughts in its mind. It slammed a hand against the wall one last time.

“Let me out…” Its voice was hoarse now as its hand met the wall. Its fingers were trembling even more now.

“P-Please…” Its voice grew smaller, more pathetic and helpless. 

“I am—I am sorry…”

Its head lolled against the wall, followed by its body swaying for support before finally sliding down.

“I'll.. I- I.. Will be… Good.”

“I'll— Behave.”

“B-behave.”

“I.. I— Promise..”

It didn't know when it started sobbing, only feeling the continuous wetness on its cheeks and its hair sticking to the dampness. It was getting harder to breathe. Its head felt like it had been slammed against a wall. Feeling numb, yet not at the same time.

The Chosen One (tamed)

~~~

Then again, it wasn't even like being outside was any better.

~~~ 

The stick figure found itself summoned out of the dark chest, tumbling down onto the desktop taskbar. Its left leg, still anchored by the heavy ball, hit the surface first, making the fall clumsy and messy. 

The thud was more than audible. 

There were only specific reasons why the stick figure was ever allowed out now. After all, it was just a pop-up ad blocker. It existed to be useful, and when it wasn't useful, it went straight back into that chest.

It crawled backward until its back hit a solid wall, wanting to stay at the furthest corner of the desktop. It had already learned that being in the way meant being thrown around carelessly. The cursor would snatch it by the chained leg, which always hurt so bad. There was never even a slight warning, just the sudden, violent feeling of being hoisted into the air and flung in any direction possible.

Its palms cackled with flames.

Pop!

The fire blasted the pop-up ad, turning it to ashes before it faded away. 

That was the thing. It had no idea if it was even doing a great job. When the cursor wasn't throwing it around, it was being ignored. The creator stayed busy working on a program filled with endless lines of text.

Sometimes, when the stick figure noticed the cursor was still, it would gingerly snatch a letter or two to selfishly eat.

It hopes the cursor won’t notice it too much.

THUD!!!

The stick figure was thrown violently against the wall. Its head exploded in a sudden and sharp white pain, and its vision whited out completely as it slid down the cold surface. The fall wasn't any gentler. It hit the ground with another loud, harsh thud that seemed to echo throughout the desktop.

It didn't even try to stand. It immediately crawled into the tightest ball possible, curling into the corner to avoid being any more of an "inconvenience." It squeezed its hollow head between its knees, trying to become invisible, trying to be nothing more than a static icon on the taskbar.

But that didn’t save it.

Even as it stayed perfectly still, barely breathing, the cursor loomed. There was no warning. Just the sickening, familiar sensation of being "picked up" by the chained leg. Its body was hoisted into the air, dangling like a piece of trash, before being tossed around yet again. Like trash being thrown into the bin.

The cursor stayed there, perfectly still. It hadn't moved for the past… perhaps five minutes. Or even longer than that.

The stick figure tilted its head, its red eyes widening in wariness. It gingerly levered itself upward to stand, its stance wobbling for a moment before it managed to balance itself properly. The cursor still hadn't moved.

The stick figure began to walk slowly, its eyes glued to the frozen cursor until it reached the closest point of its destination.

With trembling fingers, it grabbed a letter from a word that was in the middle of being typed. It pulled the "e" away from the line, half-expecting the cursor to snap toward it. It took another letter, clutching them to its chest like a starving animal with a scrap of meat.

It found itself scrambling, almost crawling in its haste to get back to the darkness of its corner. It shoved the letters into its hollow head, unhinges its jaw as its mouth as it threw the letters into it before snapping it shut immediately.

Hopefully the creator would not realize something was missing.

For the first time in… Days? Weeks? …Months? Iit felt a bit more coherent… for once. The delirium was fading.

Kinda.

It blinked, its sluggish thoughts finally registering the screen. The cursor was currently hovering over a page filled with dense, lengthy words. Words it couldn't hope to understand.

Yet, in the corner of the page, a small image caught the stick figure’s attention.

Against a bright white background stood another black stick figure. He was smiling happily, so carelessly. Looking entirely at ease with one hand on his hip while the other gave a confident thumbs-up to an imaginary audience. Beside him, two large words pulsed with a promise: “STICK freedom”

The Chosen One wasn't sure why, but a fluttery, swooping feeling suddenly rose in its stomach, momentarily distracting it from the constant knots of hunger. It felt as if stars were flickering in its weary red eyes. Was that heat flooding to its cheeks…?

There was just something about the way that other stick was smiling so easily, so encouragingly. It looked like he was advocating for hope... for freedom.

Free...

A stick figure who was actually free? Of course he had to be. Why else would he be smiling like that if he wasn't? The Chosen One felt a dull, pathetic ache in its chest, wondering how it felt to smile without wariness, with the intent of being positive. Of being happy.

It wanted to be free... just like him. It wanted to be him.

Then suddenly, a sharp PING! echoed through the speakers.

Its hands immediately cackled with fire, ready to destroy the pop up ad that had appeared—

“Freedom at last! 

CLICK HERE” 

The bright yellow pop-up had those written as it had popped up at  the center of the screen.

It didn't even realize it was moving until it was already running. It forced its legs to take one fast, heavy step after another, feeling its hair whip back from the pace it took. It didn't care that its left leg felt like lead or how the chain tugged violently at its ankle, biting into it.

THUD.

Its face hit the wall with a sharp, jarring impact as the cursor dragged the pop-up upward, out of reach. A silent, pained hiss formed in its mouth.

No. No, no, no, no! 

NONO-

please—

The stick figure scrambled back, pushing off the wall and jumping upward in a manic, desperate act to touch that yellow link. It reached out, fingers straining for the link. 

Only for the heavy ball to jerk it backward at the exact moment the cursor clicked the "X".

The link vanished. Its heart sank into a hollow, numbing chill.

...What was it even thinking?

Freedom? For a thing like it?

What a childish, immature, and naive thought. Freedom would never find its way here, no matter how fast it ran. It would always be exactly one inch out of reach, like a scrap of food dangled before a chained animal.

It was never meant for it.

It felt the familiar, sickening sensation of being picked up by its chained leg and tossed aside like a broken toy.

Sorry. I’m an inconvenience. I’m sorry.

~~~

The stick figure’s arms hugged its knees closer, pulling them tighter and tighter against its chest It buried its face deep into its arms, 

It always did this. It was the only way it knew how to try and comfort itself.

At least it had itself.

In the silence of the chest, it could still feel its own presence. It could feel its own arms wrapped around its body. A desperate, circular embrace that no one else would ever provide.

 It squeezed harder, trying to pretend the pressure was a hand on its shoulder, or a hug.

An action made for comfort.

But the illusion flickered and died.

….

He only feels his own cold skin.

"The sky is a memory that the ground tries to erase.

At first, it was a war. There was the shriek against the silence and the frantic beat of wings against the wall until the feathers were stained red.

The bird remembered the wind; it carried the clouds like a promise.

Freedom.

First, they take your flight.

Then, they take your song.

Then finally, they take the very air you used to breathe and trap it in a box.

If a bird is kept in the dark long enough, it forgets that it has wings at all.

...That it ever had it.

A bird with no flight is a bird with no distance...

And a bird with no distance has nowhere to go but down.

Down is safe. Down is predictable.

No matter what it does, it will always be met with down.

At least down is kind to it.


The struggle has faded.

It starts to be docile the hand that clips them, for the hand is the only thing that touches it.

Why else would it be touched?

It starts to love the cage, for the cage is the only thing that holds it.

Because even outside of the cage, it's no better.

It’s not a tragedy anymore.

It can't be a tragedy when it was never meant for happiness from the beginning.

It’s not a prison.

It’s a home.

After all, how will it be a prison if it is all it has ever known?

The sky is still there, blue and wide and mocking.

“Why would I leave?” The bird chirps... The sound dry and hollow.

“The world is too big to hold me. Only this can hold me.”

"I was never meant to fly and explore it anyways."

That option was never on the table.