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The world screams.
No One isn’t unfamiliar to it at all, of course. He viscerally remembers the other times he made the world scream for mercy, made it beg for help that would never come. The times when he wasn’t no one, but the Angel of Death, Harbinger of the Blaze.
He’d thought naively, back then, that that is what the world deserved. Eternal fire and chaos. Death and destruction.
For pushing him into a little black box until he couldn’t breathe. For shackling his leg until it was broken and bruised and bleeding lines of red code. For coercing the stick he once considered his best friend into destroying him.
It wasn’t until he’d entered that place, the one of endless sunsets and trees and soft grasses, that he realized innocence existed.
Life existed outside of him, a life to enjoy and cherish. All these animations wanted was to live their lives. They had no hand in what had happened to him. He couldn’t blame them for Noogai’s actions. All they wanted to do was live peacefully and be free. Like him. Exactly like him and what he wanted to do.
And he was actively preventing that.
So when the Dark Lord left that beautiful world, hands blistering and blazing to destroy more in the name of bitter revenge, the Chosen One slipped a piece of cobblestone into his pocket before following.
Now, as the world screams again, as the building once known as Rocket Corporations explodes into smithereens, No One pulls out that same piece of cobblestone, still there in his pocket. He runs his fingers over the bumpy surface, tracing the divots and curves in the gray rock.
Despite the time and the corruption and the punches and the lashes and the suffocatingly cold water, it’s still the same.
The same!
The hollowhead almost laughs. They’d both been so self-centered back then, hadn’t they? Thinking they affected everything, and everything affected them? Thinking they had to get the whole world before it got them again?
Look at what this world did to you. It deserves to be destroyed, someone had spat once.
Well, Dark Lord, No One thinks. Here’s proof that there’s more to this place than just us. There will be more to this place, even without us.
The cell shakes again, and No One clutches the cobblestone as he is thrown violently against the wall. He doesn’t actually know what’s going on outside, but after seeing everything he just saw, he doesn’t really want to know.
He can’t see the Second Coming in that containment chamber again. Thrashing, screaming, crying chartreuse tears, seeing all the death occurring solely because of the miracle that is himself. It’s no one’s fault, really. It’s No One’s fault.
Another jerk, and the cell’s inhabitant is thrown against the other wall. He makes himself sit up with a groan.
Everything aches, layers of wounds upon wounds upon wounds. As the Chosen One, these would have simply hurt briefly, but then slowly ebbed away until they didn’t even leave scars. But now it’s different. It’s like he’s nothing now, just any old body. He wouldn’t say he adored his powers before, but without them, it’s like he’s been stripped away of everything that made him…himself.
Now there’s nothing to keep the pain from dimming. From H4ck3r, from the mercenaries, from the water, from Dark.
On top of that, his most recent injury, a fist-sized bruise over his stomach, is beginning to tingle and pain more. It’s also turning red. He’s never had the need to learn about medicine with his healing factor and everything, but he vaguely recollects something about how these were signs of a worsening bruise.
Great. Just great. He doesn’t know what he’d been thinking with that one. That Dark would see him and change his mind? That he’d actually untie him?
…No One wants to laugh again. Also cry. He’s never cried before, but why not start now?
Because while he wouldn’t admit this to anyone, ever - that is what he had been hoping for.
But he knows it’s undeserved.
The Dark Lord glides above the wreckage of what used to be Rocket Corporations with a wide grin on his face. Below him, the charred remains of the dead lie burning, and the air is sultry with fire and smoke. The brainwashed grays stand to attention, the sunglasses mercenary in front of them.
Dark glares at the dead again. Whoever threw that bomb would feel his wrath a thousand times over, because one of those corpses was almost him and that is utterly unacceptable. The rapidly beating heartbeat and fear and surprise is supposed to be for puny mortals, not gods like himself.
But no matter. It’s a few years too late, but he’s finally won. The world is about to be his to control and his to destroy.
He looks down at H4ck3r, floating below him with eyes glazed and arms limp like a doll with its strings cut. To think this was the stick, who, not even ten minutes earlier, slapped his hand away and turned their back on him?
Turned their back, just like he did?
The Dark Lord scoffs, shaking his head. He doesn’t matter one bit anymore, he’s no one - he doesn’t deserve any of Dark’s thoughts. Even though he once used to have all of them.
No more backs turned, he thinks, a rising feeling of something cathartic in his chest. He surveys his new army. No more betrayals. I can finally have friends with no strings attached.
Dark marvels at the machine he’s now built. Or, he supposes, H4ck3r has built, but Dark put in the effort to make this happen so he’s allowed to take credit, okay? The debris that’s been skillfully welded together to make the weapon, all of the components that had to have to fit perfectly, the six metal appendages rising out of the center to create what looks like a gigantic version of his Virabot - before his eyes catch on the stick that had the power to make it all happen.
The Second Coming lies limp in his chamber with his head down, matted curls covering his face. His wrists bleed red under their metal restraints from all the struggling and thrashing he did.
…he’s much smaller than Dark remembers.
Stick, is the one who’s haunted his nightmares (though he’d never admit it) for so many years really a child? Has he really forced a child into all of this?
Dark shoves that thought aside as he floats closer, grinning ferally. With each pang of doubt in his chest, he forces the grin wider and wider and wider, until it’s stretched thin and his lips ache and sting.
The Second Coming’s age doesn’t matter one bit, he tells himself. Because finally, he’s exacted the perfect revenge on the very stick who essentially killed him, who forced him to piece himself together from nothing. The stick who’s now forced to see people die by Dark’s hand, just as he once had. The stick who is finally getting what he deserves.
The stick who he chose to protect, the stick who he threw away their life together for.
“So, Return,” he drawls, tapping a finger against the chamber’s glass. The other doesn’t stir. No matter. He can talk to himself for all he cares. After all, he’s been doing it for years. “What are you waiting for? Ready to charge up and blast me into oblivion again?”
He phrases the question seriously, but it isn’t much longer before he’s doubled over in laughter. He’s really giggling, which is something he hasn’t done in so long. Stick, it feels great. To have the stick he is still very much afraid of being at his mercy, to further his plans. “Oh, wait! You can’t!”
He laughs again. “Don’t worry,” he pats the glass like it’s an old friend, though the stick inside most definitely isn’t, “you’re going to accomplish so many great things for me. Right after I tie up a loose end.”
Because it’s time. Time to remove him from his thoughts once and for all. The stick once known as the Chosen One.
All of this had been for him, originally. The stick who chose to hold his hand, all those years ago. The stick who he burned the world for. The stick who lay next to him under the IP stars, the stick who flew next to him over a glittering turquoise bay.
The first stick who turned away from him, and left him alone.
Now? Now he’s going to be the first stick culled in the new Dark Age.
What No One would give to talk with Dark one last time.
He doesn’t actually know what he would do if that happened. Apologize? Beg him to apologize? Both don’t feel right.
He feels…well, actually he doesn’t know what he feels towards Dark. Anger, most notably. Sorrow, a black, black sorrow permeating everything. Maybe a little bit of hope, that this can somehow end well. Maybe, if they can finally talk, No One can be completely honest and take accountability.
Because despite Dark being the one in the wrong here, No One isn’t blameless. Definitely.
Or - the Chosen One wasn’t blameless. He chose to let Dark continue tearing apart everything in their path. While he didn’t delight in the screams of civilians like he used to, he still let those civilians scream.
Seeing crimes and turning your nose up doesn’t make you correct, or morally superior. It makes you a bystander.
You chose to be someone who did nothing.
The Chosen One chose to do nothing, again and again and again. He satiated himself with empty assertions like I know this is wrong and I’m better than Dark because he doesn’t know that while spending his days doing absolutely nothing but muttering weak don’t do its and holding out unnoticeable gestures of stop.
And sure, he could argue that since Dark killed the woman, everything that happened to him today was undeserved. But No One knows. The sinking feeling in his chest tells him. Tells him…
The year was 2011, and Newgrounds was in flames.
Dark sped through the ravaged site, launching fireball after fireball as animations screamed and ran in every direction. Building fell, sticks burned, and Dark smiled, wider and wider and wider.
“This is wrong,” Chosen muttered quietly, but stayed in his place in the sky next to the red hollowhead, not wanting to move. He felt good saying that stuff, admitting it was wrong. He thought it meant he was good. But he didn’t feel the need to actually try and stop it. Ever.
Finally, Dark exploded a poor girl trapped fully under a rock, and Chosen reached his hand out, as if to halt the killing fireball, but ultimately did nothing.
That animation just wanted to live. Like him. But…when Dark wanted something, who was he to resist?
…he just as well killed the animation named Mitsi - the one miraculously alive today thanks to the Second Coming - because he sure as hell didn’t try to stop Dark from doing it.
“H4ck3r,” Dark says in a tone of mock sweetness, and it’s as if the gray hollowhead comes to life. “Find Cho - No One for me. Do a full scan of the entire area. Tell me if he’s alive, retrieve his body if he isn’t.” Dark doesn’t think for a second he’s dead. Noogai’s stick figures always tend to survive. It’s something they’re good at.
The gray hollowhead floats away quickly and submissively, and not even a minute later he’s back, head bowed. Dark raises a brow, and H4ck3r begins to speak.
“Status - No One is hiding in the Second Coming’s former cell. He is alive, but wounded. I also detected the presence of an Outernet anomaly with him -”
Dark ignores that last part, sudden desperation clawing in his chest.
“Take me to the cell,” he orders insistently.
H4ck3r’s mouth immediately snaps shut, and they wordlessly glide away. Dark follows at a higher altitude, movement noticeably slower.
.
.
…what does he even want out of this? To torment Cho? Torture him, punch him again? Beg him to admit he would’ve been better off if he hadn’t slapped Dark’s hand away? Scream out the pain he would never admit he still harbors? Not the physical pain from Return - but the emotional pain from knowing all he wanted to do was help? Dark wants all of it at once. Also none of it. It’s all blended together.
Because he isn’t wrong he isn’t wrong he isn’t in the wrong he isn’t he isn’t he isn’t wrong he can’t be wrong -
Is he?
Dark forces his smile to breaking point as he reaches his destination, and the question dissipates.
BANG.
The fireball is loud. No One’s head spins, and he finds his heart racing faster and faster.
But he sets his mouth in a thin line. It seems his wish came true. You know who this is. Don’t be scared.
Thankfully, he chose to sit in a corner of the cell, as the middle of it is now blasted wide open. He faces a sky that’s a dark, burgundy color, with clouds covering every inch and no sunlight in sight. There’s an acrid, burning-metal smell in the air that causes his nose to wrinkle.
He hears a resounding tap on the ground that can only be a step. Then, another. Someone walks into the cell.
No One looks up, and the Dark Lord is staring straight at him.
He hadn’t gotten the chance to really look his former friend over the first time he saw him, but now he sees Dark in his full glory, bathed in the light of the red storm outside.
The first thing he notices are his hands, which are dripping in black, viscous code. A little puddle of it forms on the ground. No One sets his frown tighter as he recalls the sensation of corrupted blades stabbing into his stomach. This is the code that formed the ViraBlade back in 2018, and then again today.
Dark’s hair is longer, and spikier, and more unruly, yet still styled to perfection. He’d always been the one to fuss over No One’s hair and appearance, back when it was shorter.
[“The whole world’s gonna see us when we take revenge! You can’t be looking like you just rolled out of bed!”]
Well, Dark certainly doesn’t look like he just rolled out of bed. The red hollowhead dons a lavish black cape lined in gold, complete with matching accessories and shining black wristbands which are only there for show, as they no longer form his blades. And his eyes…well, they’re harsher now. More manic now.
No One makes himself meet them head on, because despite everything, he’s not afraid. He knows what’s coming.
“Well,” Dark says sharply, smiling. “Looks like I’ve found you!”
No One knows what this is, knows how fake this tone is, but he still winces. He wasn’t prepared for the actual…conversation. “Dark -”
“You aren’t talking your way out of this one, Cho.” The use of the nickname with such a venomous tone makes No One flinch. He’d thought - he’d hoped -
He’d thought Dark maybe -
No. At this point, you don’t deserve mercy. But neither does he.
“I know,” No One responds bluntly. He turns on the tone he knows best - the cold, unaffected, detached one. “But I’d at least like to say a few words. Didn’t really get to earlier, what with the punching.”
Dark scoffs, apparently not expecting the retort. “The stick I knew could handle a depowered punch to the stomach.” They both know how weak this rebuttal is.
“Well, the stick you knew is now no one,” he counters simply, and Dark visibly flinches this time. But Cho knows Dark, and he knows that the way Dark covers up his doubts is by doubling down.
Doing exactly that, the red hollowhead grins as he takes a step forward, “It’s nothing you didn’t deserve.”
“You’re right,” No One readily agrees, because he knows it’s true. All he brought forth as the Chosen One was fire and destruction. Taking that away is his karma. “But it’s not like you deserve what you have right now.”
That was the wrong thing to say, apparently. He’s slammed into the wall before he can even register what’s happening, feeling his head spin. The black hollowhead groans in pain, but doesn’t try to move as a hot, corrupted blade touches his neck, almost stabbing directly into it.
“I don’t deserve it?” Dark fists No One’s collar with his other hand, shaking in fiery rage. But he doesn’t frown. Instead, he smiles harder. “After what you did to me? You think I’m wrong?”
No One’s expression doesn’t change, but his own anger bubbles up. Yes, Dark, you’re wrong. Because we’re both wrong.
Dark must somehow sense the thought, because with a grunt, he slams an angry fist into the wall next to No One’s head. He vaguely wonders why he didn’t just punch him in the face.
“No, Cho - I’m not wrong. You’re the one who turned your back on me first! After everything that happened to me because of you and your damned Return, I deserve this!”
“You were trying to take over the whole Internet!” No One retorts, finally raising his voice. “All those sticks wanted to do was live freely! Just like us!”
“Just like you! You were just so passive. You didn’t want revenge on the sticks that just peacefully lived their lives while you were getting tortured and enslaved? You didn’t want revenge on Noogai? This world means nothing, and I was the one who realized that!”
“They didn’t know, Dark! They didn’t know! Because there’s more to this place than just us, and you need to get that through your thick skull!”
As he’s yelling, his fingers manage to find the cobblestone again. The proof of his words.
But this time, Dark notices.
Cho has a gray block with him. It’s hidden, but it’s there.
It takes Dark an unreasonably long time to place it, because it’s been so long. It’s some kind of stone, made of little rocks cobbled together. It’s from a game they both visited a long time ago, back when they were at the top of the world.
…Minecraft.
Dark remembers, now. How free that game looked, with its vast skies and tall peaks. Even in the Nether, where those ghasts and brutes lived.
That place deserved its destruction. How could it exist like that when Dark and Cho had suffered so much?
But now, it's here with them. Cho has a piece of Minecraft with him.
Dark sees red.
A fireball ignites in his palm, and he doesn’t think. Just does. The fire launches.
Next thing he knows, the cobblestone and half of the remaining cell is destroyed and Cho is screaming and clutching his arm, which is actively flaming.
Dark pauses.
He didn’t mean to do that. Dark knows the reason he’s here is to kill Cho, but he hadn’t meant to do that, right? Right? He isn’t wrong, right?
No doubts. No second thoughts. No doubts. No second thoughts. Keep going.
“So this is about that stupid game, huh?” Dark spits angrily, stepping back as the other stick slides to the floor, still clutching his burning arm and whimpering. “That’s what made you turn your back on me? A rock? There’s more to this place, huh? What more is there? Because all I see is a world that lived its life while you were tortured by Noogai! It deserved to be destroyed!”
And under any other circumstances, the next words would never come out. But here, Dark finds himself yelling, borderline crying, “All of this was for you!”
The silence that follows is oppressive.
Cho looks up. The fire on his arm has gone out, but it obviously isn’t healing as his powers are gone now. Dark used to always be able to tell Cho’s emotions. It was something he prided himself on. But now, the black hollowhead’s red eyes meet his own gaze unreadably, involuntary tears drying on his cheeks.
“I should have said something,” No One mutters wetly. “I should have tried to stop you before.”
Dark stays silent, not knowing what to say. He watches and does nothing as the other stick shakily rises to his feet, still clutching his arm.
“If it really - if it really was for me,” he continues, and Dark swears he can see new, fresh tears. “Then why didn’t you listen that day?”
Cho takes a stumbling step forward. “You decided that revenge is what we both needed. But it wasn’t. I just wanted to live with you. That’s all I wanted,” he rambles, taking another step forward.
That can’t be right. Dark clenches his fists, then unclenches them. He makes no move to stop the other stick, because his whole mind is a mess. He can’t even bring himself to smile, something which always erases his doubts.
“You didn’t tell me until it was too late,” Dark makes himself defend. “And if you wanted to live with me, why did you slap my hand away?” His hands fist in his red hair as he sobs out, “Why does everyone slap my hand away?”
There’s pain in his head from where he’s clutching it, and then suddenly there’s hands clutching his wrists, pulling them down from his hair.
“I’m not going to pretend I did everything right,” says Cho softly, yet firmly, holding Dark’s gaze. “And I know what’s going to happen to me in the next few minutes. But I want you to realize something. H4ck3r refused to work with you because you killed the person they loved. I - I refused to work with you because those five, that live with Noogai? They were innocent. People just want to live their lives. You aren’t the victim here, Dark. If you throw those lives away like they’re trash, why would people stay?”
And Dark…well, Dark doesn’t know what to say to that. “But they were bystanders, Cho, to what happened to you,” he counters weakly. He can’t admit he was wrong. He can’t.
“Being a bystander is knowing what’s happening, yet doing nothing. They were just uninvolved. That woman named Mitsi was uninvolved. The Second Coming, and his four friends - they’re uninvolved.”
Dark had always thought he was burning the world for Cho, and it deserved the fire. But…what he’s describing now? That people have lived their lives being…innocent? It's utterly unfamiliar.
He looks at the stick in front of him, to find his head down. The arm Dark fireballed is trembling, obviously still in excruciating pain. But so is the rest of his body.
“I - well, I was a bystander too,” Cho admits. “I should - I wish -”
A realization hits Dark, and he chokes.
He should have told me - he should have tried…but I wouldn’t have listened.
I was wrong, too.
There’s tears in his own eyes, now. But he can’t afford them. He can’t. He’s already here. He’s already won.
And he has to finish this.
His fist clenches. “I’m sorry,” he offers. He hopes Cho understands that he means sorry for everything, but most of all his imminent death.
Cho immediately raises a trembling hand, slowly wiping Dark’s tears away, always reassuring. Then, he takes a step back, letting go of the red hollowhead. He seems to realize exactly what’s about to happen. This is the last time we’re ever going to touch, Dark belatedly realizes.
Then, Cho sits down, an accepting position, with his legs lightly crossed over each other. He bares his neck, offering himself up completely for the final blow.
12 years. He’s known this stick for 12 years. Dark’s hands tremble, and he closes his eyes, feeling the warm wetness of tears slip down his cheeks. Willingly, one of the ViraBlades spawn in his hand. He opens his eyes again, and faces his former friend one last time.
It’s unfair, really, how hard Cho has to make this. Making Dark lose his composure, making him cry, sitting there, completely ready to die. He thought he would’ve been gloating, monologuing like an evil villain as he decimated one of his final obstacles. But he supposes that is the nature of their relationship.
“One last thing, Dark,” Cho says, and Dark halts in his movement, in his killing blow, because of course he does. “You will kill me today and say you’ve won. But your Dark Age will end, no matter how long it takes. Because even if I die, I’m still fighting. In my Return, and in every friend and ally he makes. So,” for the first time, No One smiles genuinely, “I hope I see you soon.”
Dark plunges the ViraBlade into his throat. The Second Coming is still asleep, so no chance of revival.
But instead of crying or begging for mercy, the stick once known as Chosen One still has that infuriating smile on his face.
Because despite everything…at least he isn’t going to be a bystander to his own death.