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“No one leaves here alive.” Dark snarled.
In an instant, all hell broke loose.
Agent released his grip on Chosen and lunged forward, pause in hand. But Dark was faster. He pointed wordlessly and H4CK3R sank a blade into the tall stick’s chest. Agent toppled without a sound, and the workers scattered, their panicked screams tangling together into a cacophony of terror.
Chosen’s heart seized. He could barely think above the desperate clamouring of the crowd. The only thing in his mind was endless shouts of alarm, paralyzing him. A shoulder slammed into him and he toppled to the floor, swarmed by the panicked masses.
Caution. A virus has been detected.
The echo of the sound in his mind surfaced, unbidden, layering overtop of the commotion. He yanked frantically at his bindings, but the effort was futile. They held fast. Death was coming for everyone in this room, and then he would be dragged back down into darkness; a prisoner once again.
No. He refused to let that be his fate. He sucked in a trembling breath and banged his bindings against the floor. They did not release, but he thought he felt them loosen. Or maybe it was just his bones that had cracked against the concrete. No time. Dark’s maniac cackle was far too near, and Chosen didn’t want to know what punishment his former partner had in store for him.
He dragged himself across the floor, heart threatening to rip itself from his chest and leap out his throat with a vengeance. He had only shuffled a few inches before a worker’s foot collided with his side, right where his shoulder met his chest. He bit back a scream, tears blurring his vision. Cursors, that hurt. Was that normal? Was it normal to feel like his ribs had snapped like dry twigs?
Just keep moving. His head was spinning, and he could barely think straight; the singular impulse remaining in his mind was his drive to get somewhere, anywhere, and be out of harm’s way. Could the antivirus get him if he made it to a vent? Where was the cursor? Where was he? He could see Dark’s graceful silhouette whirling and slashing through the crowd, deadly and beautiful. He stopped.
A wordless scream of pure, unfiltered rage tore through the air. Chosen lifted his head in time with Dark, as they both turned their gaze to behold the blinding chartreuse singularity that was The Second Coming; eyes blazing with divine light.
Chosen was going to watch Dark die again. His heart did a painful little twist in his chest. There had been so much death here already. This wasn’t right. This was carnage. But it was the only way it would end.
But Dark was faster this time. He threw out a hand. “Stop him!” he snarled. No one else would have noticed the undertone of pure, primal terror in Dark’s voice, but it was all Chosen could hear. H4CK3R rushed forth, slamming into Second with the horrible sound of breaking glass.
Second’s eyes rolled back in his head and fluttered shut.
“Hazard! Use the nuke, now!” A small, terrified voice could barely be heard above the commotion. But Chosen’s ears pricked up, and his blood ran cold.
Nuke?!
As if in a trance, he forced himself to stand. He no longer registered the sickening waves of pain radiating from his useless body. There was only motion. Where could he go?
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. The dark iron bars and solid shutters. It was terrible; the yawning cavernous mouth of the Avast Antivirus chest. He wanted to scream and fly and burn it all down.
Instead, somehow, he sprinted to the cage on autopilot and slammed the door. In one last, swift motion, he reached up and yanked the steel shutters to the ground.
Darkness swallowed him, dissolving whatever temporary composure had seized him. But he didn’t even have time to scream before there was a deafening boom, and his senses shut off entirely.
There was only thought and light and a high-pitched ring reverberating through his cranium. He could feel something warm and wet trickling from his face. Tears or blood, he couldn’t tell. He felt entirely untethered from reality.
Maybe Dark was dead.
Maybe Second was dead.
Maybe Newgrounds was gone.
Maybe Alan’s PC was gone.
Maybe Chosen was dead.
Maybe this was all just a horrible dream.
Maybe he never existed at all.
Cursors, he hoped so.
…
He wasn’t entirely sure if his eyes were open. The darkness was pitch-black and all-consuming. Chosen felt as though he had been shaken around inside a jar while he was unconscious. For a brief, panic-filled moment, he clawed at his ankle; the memory of darkness and shackles rising up from the depths of his mind to greet him. But there was nothing there but the softness of his own skin.
Nausea speared his gut suddenly and he gagged. His head was spinning, and he could barely hold a coherent thought. Stars danced in the corner of his eyes. In his confusion, he rose to stand and attempted to walk… somewhere, anywhere.
Instead, he staggered, knees buckling. He must have been close to the wall of the chest cell because as he reached out clumsily, his hands brushed the cold steel surface and he collapsed against it, sliding back down to the safety of the floor.
He…
He was so tired. He could feel his eyelids drifting shut, or maybe they were already. He couldn’t tell. There was only darkness.
Chosen let his consciousness drift away into the shadows.
…
Time was meaningless when all he could see was the colour of ink and nothing at all. He tilted his head, squinting in the maddening blackness that enveloped him. Perhaps he could make out the vague outline of his hands?
Chosen missed his fire. His harrowing plunge in the bay had left him sopping wet, and he hadn’t had the chance to dry off somehow. Not that he knew how normal sticks did it. Either way, it must have been a while since the explosion because his clothes and hair were no longer dripping. Now, they were only mildly damp and ever so cold.
Wincing, Chosen hauled himself to his feet again, this time steadying himself against the wall before he could stumble. But he had only made it a few steps before the entire room shook, and he instinctively sank to his knees. Alan didn’t like it when Chosen emerged standing, and it only made the drop more painful.
Suddenly, a beam of light lanced across the room. Chosen shielded his eyes, hissing at the unexpected burn of the brightness.
“Hello?”
The feminine voice, light and airy, was barely a whisper, and filled with anxious vibration. Not Dark. His heart sank. He’d hoped…. What? That Dark would find him and take him away from this miserable purgatory like he’d done before? That he would hold Chosen close, pressing his lips against his own, and everything would be alright? Foolish.
“A-are you alive?” A delicate feminine voice asked again. He knew that voice. They had asked him a question before. Just now, maybe.
“Yes,” he said; his voice sounding wrong to his own ears. The tone was all blended together into a loose, almost slippery word. Would the other person notice? Maybe they wouldn’t like it.
Cursors, he was so tired…
He could just let himself drift away…
Chosen’s eyes slid shut.
…
“-ello?”
“-awake?”
What?
“Are you awake?”
Chosen’s eyelids fluttered open reluctantly to regard the figure leaning over him.
Spindly white limbs, and a flowing grey gown. Impossibly neat hair that drifted gently behind her. A furrow of worry etched across her face. In the dim light, she seemed to be aglow; an angelic figure crouching beside him.
“Oh dear.” she winced as she examined Chosen’s limp figure and battered frame. “You’re hurt!” She took a step towards him, then halted. “Are you… yourself?”
What a strange question. For some reason, Chosen found it amusing, and a small, broken chuckle escaped before he could stop himself. He dipped his head in what was meant to be a nod. “Kinda,” he slurred. “I’m not really me though. If I were, I’d be a lot less cold…” The words were tumbling from his mouth without any rhyme or reason and he internally chastised himself. Was he drunk or something?
The woman bit her lip. She seemed to hesitate; torn between concern and caution. At last, she carefully asked, “What’s your name?”
“...Chosen. But he took it.” Chosen frowned. “Aaaand now I’m no one.”
“I’m Mitsi.” the woman introduced herself. “Please try to hold still.” She held up a hand, and Chosen noticed that she was holding a familiar grey writing utensil.
He struggled to lift his head, regarding her. She flinched, startled, and began, “Careful-” but he was already speaking.
“That’s not yours.”
She blinked in surprise. “Hm?”
The pencil. It’s Second’s. He’ll probably want it back.” Chosen managed to say. Was Second still alive? Cursors, he hoped so. They’d all be doomed if he wasn’t.
“The child in the machine?” Mitsi echoed. She shook her head. “I can’t get to him. There are too many soldiers in the way. But don’t worry; I’ve used tools like these before.”
Chosen nodded slowly, feeling his energy draining away. He lowered his head to rest on the cool surface of the concrete, relishing the infinitesimally tiny amount of relief the chill brought him. He could feel vibrations thrumming through the surface, as though he were resting his weary head on the chest of a cold stone god, the way a child might press their head to a parent’s ribcage to hear the beat of their heart.
“Here. Let me help you.” Mitsi offered gently. There was a pause, and then something soft pressed up against Chosen’s side. He listlessly turned to look at it, and blinked slowly in dazed wonder.
Mitsi was drawing. She was guiding the pencil with smooth, precise strokes to form a mat of some kind. It was nothing fancy, but it had worked, and that was enough to amaze Chosen. He’d gotten his hands on some tools after he and Dark had hit a drawing site, back in the day. Neither of them could really make much beyond stagnant lines. Dark had kept them after that, trying to work out their secrets.
“You should lay here.” Gesturing to the mat, Mitsi gave a rueful smile. “I doubt the floor will be very safe or comfortable. I can try to draw you some bandages if you need. Where are you hurt?”
Chosen reluctantly shifted over, laying down on the mat. It was soft; almost spongey. It likely wasn’t anything better than a mattress, but after what felt like an eternity of unrelenting concrete and steel, Chosen felt as though he were laying on a cloud.
Right. Mitsi had asked him a question. What was it?
“Where are you hurt?”
Oh yeah.
“M’head hurts,” Chosen muttered, closing his eyes. “Ribs also. And shackles. Everywhere, really…”
Mitsi hummed. “Can you keep your eyes open for now?” she asked gently. Chosen obliged, staring up at the grey ceiling of the grey cell. It was all grey. He needed better words. Thinking was exhausting. His eyes weren’t supposed to be closed.
Chosen should be scared. He should be flinching and trembling and fighting, not pliantly obeying. Yet everything in him recoiled at the idea. It was all he could do to stay awake, let alone do anything else. He doubted he could even run in his current condition. If Mitsi wanted to hurt him, Chosen would have no choice but to endure it or die.
As Mitsi alternated between drawing medical supplies and carefully bandaging Chosen’s surface wounds, the sheep trotted up to Chosen and sniffed at his face. He regarded it listlessly. It licked his hair with its soft pink tongue in response.
Mitsi chuckled softly. “I guess Cloud really likes you.” she remarked. “She’s usually a bit shy.”
Chosen gave a small smile, bringing his bound hands up to run his fingers through Cloud’s soft white wool. His head was feeling slightly clearer now, and the throbbing ache had largely subsided, but the exhaustion still remained. Maybe the machine’s aura was healing Chosen a little bit as well.
On the topic of the machine… “How did you sneak past Dark?” Chosen asked.
“You mean The Dark Lord?” Mitsi’s expression darkened slightly. “I pretended to be a thrall and snuck out a back passage when he wasn’t looking. He wasn’t paying much attention anyways. I…” Her voice broke. “I saw Agent on my way out. He didn’t see me, but…” She turned away suddenly, scrubbing at her face with the back of her free hand.
“He’s gone.” Chosen muttered. “So is H4CK3R. We can’t save them right now.”
Mitsi gave a quiet sniffle and looked up at Chosen, eyes glassy. “They’re my partners,” she sobbed. “I can’t just leave them like that.”
Chosen slowly sat up, a yawning pit of dread and guilt opening in his stomach. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t roped Second into this, if he had just talked to Dark all those years ago, if he’d never escaped at all, then maybe everything would be alright.
“I’m so sorry.”
It was pathetic; laughable, even. What good did that do? Chosen had already tightened the noose himself, and no amount of pitiful apology would save the hangman that was the world as they knew it. Second’s little friends were probably vapour and ash on the wind, too young and hopeful for such a thing, and the only potential ally he had was the woman he’d practically murdered. No doubt she’d leave him to rot here if she knew the truth.
“I wish I’d never been created.”
Maybe then this would have never begun. He had been the butterfly, flapping its wings gleefully, unaware of the storm it would create. He could feel hot tears stinging his face and tumbling down his cheeks in fat wet droplets. Too little, too late.
A warm hand settled gently on his shoulder and he paused.
“I know how it feels.” Mitsi said, her voice quiet but firm. “I’m glad I’m not alone.”
Chosen sniffled, scrubbing at his overflowing eyes with the back of his hand. “But, if you knew what I-”
“I know.” she interrupted, her confidence wavering for a brief moment. Chosen’s blood ran cold for a moment, before she gave a hesitant smile. “But we’re on the same side now. And I’m not going to leave anyone behind again. Not if I can help it.”
Was this real? Was it possible anyone could be this kind? Or was it a trick?
“So what do you say we free Second, stop The Dark Lord, and get my partners back?”
Mitsi’s eyes shone in the dim light of the cell, gleaming with determination.
She held out a hand.
An offer.
“Deal.”