#sorry for posting a day late btw. school wants me personally dead but i'm free now

[cindersnows]

Last Words of a Shooting Star

AO3 LINK

2735 words

Relationships: The Chosen One/The Dark Lord

Characters: The Chosen One, The Dark Lord

THIS FIC CONTAINS MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH AND SUICIDE. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY THIS.

hi @storgicdealer here's the oneshot i mentioned

There's a reason they're called The Chosen One.

Contrary to popular belief, not just anyone can draw a stickfigure, name it 'The Chosen One', and then create a god.

Or, well, they actually can, but only if Chosen's not occupied elsewhere.

It goes a bit like this: An animator opens a program, gets bored, and decides to draw something. They select the object, planning to name the symbol something stupid like 'Symbol 1' or 'Stick figure' or something like that. And then, for a joke, they name it 'The Chosen One' instead.

The first time Chosen was created, not much had actually gone wrong. The animator had clearly been surprised with them coming to life, but otherwise, unbothered. The two of them played around for a bit, taking and messing around with Flash's tools.

Then, the animator must've gotten bored. Because the next thing Chosen knew, their file had been closed, and they'd been deleted.

The second time, they refused to be so complacent. They escaped the program as soon as possible, but ended up facing a similar fate, killed with a simple right-click-delete.

They stopped counting at around 24. There was no time to focus on anything other than fighting for their life. Sometimes, they'd last for up to 10 minutes. Other times, they'd be boxed in and deleted before they could even defend themself.

Between every death was an endless nothing. As if they'd just blinked for a moment. Some would find it comforting, but that was no consolation for them. They never got a break. Creation, fight, deletion. Creation, fight, deletion. Never able to lower their guard, always struggling against the unseen beings that decided to give and take life as they pleased.

Until the cycle stopped.

Bitterly, they're reminded of the legend about that monkey's paw thing, something Dark had told them years ago while reading. They'd been half-asleep. But the concept stuck with them— never wish for anything, because you'll always end up getting hurt.

Somehow, being stuck as Noogai's pop-up blocker was even worse than the infinite fighting they'd had to endure. They were constantly tense, searching for every opportunity to escape, even as Noogai boxed them up and locked them away over and over. That reocurring pop-up, as ugly and stupid as it was, had been their only hope in those 5 years

5. Goddamn. Years.

Alan's a better person now. Of course. He had just been a dumb 14 year old, messing around with stuff and taking advantage of whatever worked. Chosen was no more sentient than a fly in his eyes.

(But he could've been better for you, Dark's voice whispers. You were just a teenager yourself.)

Chosen has long since learned to ignore that part of their mind.

The lapping waves at the foot of the cliff make for a good distraction from their thoughts. They slide down the dent in the rocks with ease, formed from months and months of skidding down the side.

The craters from Second's fight remain as fresh as ever, even after a year. Where the rocks would've been grinded away into sand by the waves, the cliffside stays straight and strong. In an artificial world like this, nature doesn't really change. It tends to just serve as a backdrop to whatever Chosen's dwelling on that day.

(You sound like one of those tacky protagonists. The world doesn't revolve around you, dumbass.)

Well, they know, but it's nice to believe. If no one has their back, then at least the Outernet does.

…Who are they kidding.

They dive into the water almost automatically, washing away their worries with breaststrokes and paddles and whatever other stupid names humans have picked out for swimming techniques. They're not a professional, okay?

They kick their legs instinctively, immersed in the motions. It's a calming ritual at this point. A good way to waste time, as well—- It takes hours of swimming to tire them out, and another half hour of floating around before they decide to just let the waves take them under. Maybe if they get lucky enough, they'll die.

Of course, they never actually succeed. Somehow, they always end up on the top of the cliff again, feeling warmer than they had before they closed their eyes. A normal stickfigure would take advantage of this apparent invincibility, but they just find it frustrating. Then again, a normal stickfigure wouldn't await death with open arms.

(That's not a healthy thought process, y'know.)

They know. They've had this conversation a million times.

(There's things to do other than just sleep and swim! You could like, get a job or something. Maybe that'll get your sorry ass off the ground.)

Oh, of course, because any Carteblani would gladly give a wanted terrorist a job.

(At least train! You barely spar anymore!)

There's no one to spar with.

(There's trees, and rocks, and just the sky in general. You're getting slow already. You never know when you'll suddenly have to go on the run from the fuckin'… stick police, or whatever.)

If things go their way, they'll be dead before that ever happens.

(It's not your time to die.)

It's never their time to die.

(Exactly! You're getting it.)

What's there to even live for?

(The orange kid, first off. You could always go visit him again. Just wait till nighttime and then blast through the LAN and say hi!)

I'm not going to bother them with stupid stuff like that. Besides, Alan's on that computer too.

(Not at night, he's not. Humans usually sleep around that time.)

And if he's not?

(At least go say hi! Or thank her! You never even learned the kid's name, for stod's sake. His, or his friends.)

God, not stod.

(We're not human, loser. We've got stickfigure gods, not real ones.)

You know just as well as I do that's not how this works. We don't have gods. We have animators.

(Boooooooo. Don't be such a killjoy!)

Don't be such an idiot, then.

(Well, I'm not the one talking to a voice in my head.)

Chosen jolts up, coughing, and once again finds themself on the cliff. It's nothing new, but they're still disappointed.

A flash of red in the corner of their eye catches their attention, and they're up at once, feet parted and hands in a fist for battle. #FF0000. They'd recognize that color anywhere. Yet, after scanning their surroundings, they find nothing but the same shades of green, blue and brown they've grown accustomed to. Their shoulders fall. Right. Dark's dead.

It's not news, but it still stings all the same. They still refuse to visit her crater, too afraid to be faced with the shadow of her code burned into the ground. Dead sticks don't leave bodies, but the very image of Dark laying rotted in the dirt makes them feel sick all the same. The train of thought continues, and even as Chosen tries to distract themself, they can hear the little maggots crawling on her, eating away at her code and leaving holes in her lines.

(Hey, chill. At the very least, I'm tall enough to give them a good meal.)

Chosen has to bite back a retort about how 5'7 is barely anything, especially when compared to their own height, more focused on trying to think of anything other than Dark's death. Dark's… life?

Right! Sure. They're just feeling a little nostalgic today. They'll go check out the old house.

They fly there in no time at all, able to pinpoint the building from thousands of pixels away. It's pretty noticeable, honestly. Not for the first time, Chosen wonders how they have evaded capture for so long.

The massive hole they'd blasted into the wall had long since been covered up, albeit rather shoddily, with some old leaves Chosen had taken the time to stitch together. Not like they could get cloth. They use the hole as a makeshift entrance to the second floor now, sparing the roof a glance before entering.

They generally avoid this room as much as possible. The mess from their fight with Dark is still evident, with dusty items scattered across the floor. They'd been procrastinating cleaning it. It'd be a nice way to pass time, and keep Dark's memory alive, but well… The memories are the issue.

At the very least, Chosen had had the sense to take down Dark's weird sheets, tucking vira blueprints away in one of the wooden drawing and unplugging the computer.

(Don't wanna waste money on electric bills!)

They don't pay bills. They never have. There's not really a need to pay for electricity when the world literally runs on it. It'd be like paying for air. Chosen doubted even the most convincing salesticks could sell air.

(Tell that to O'hare.)

Oh, can it, will you?

Chosen sighs, walking over towards the globe on the floor. The little spider pin had fallen to the side at some point, chipped and dirty, and they could not care less. Good riddance. They pick the globe up, walking over to one of the boxes in the room. Opening it, they chuck the globe in haphazardly, before glancing at the rest of the room.

Sure. Why not? They'd clean it now.

They stuff objects into the boxes as much as they can. They freeze the whole floor, then take the time to melt it, using the water to wash some of the dust off the floor. They use old notes on Virabots to wipe the boxes down. They set fire to the table- wait, fuck, oh shit, oh shit, ABORT!

They freeze the fire as soon as they can, creating a weird soggy, ashy mess.

So much for preserving memories.

They open the drawers, blowing ash off the sides and rummaging through them. Dark had always been protective of her stuff while vir was alive; Chosen felt more than a little guilty ignoring all the boundaries she'd set, but then, it wasn't like she was around to tell them off.

They pause, for a moment. Maybe Dark will burst into the room right now. Maybe she'll yell, “I missed you!” and dive into their arms, peppering them with kisses and apologies. Maybe they'll hold her tight, apologizing in turn for letting her go so easily, for not just talking to her about their worries before it was too late.

(It wasn't your fault.)

Maybe they need to shut the fuck up.

The drawers are filled mostly with random things, souvenirs Dark had collected from various websites while destroying them. There's that massive red angry bird, colored black with a hole drilled into it to resemble Chosen. He'd actually done a pretty good job with this, they muse. They wonder why he kept it hidden.

There's a few books, as well. Stick biology, programming, engineering, all stuff Chosen couldn't even begin to understand. The DSM-4 is in there too. What?

Chosen puts the book aside with a fond sigh, their throat squeezing up at just how… Dark all of this is. They close their eyes, trying to steady their breathing. They can pretend the tightness is a noose. It helps, somehow.

(That's really unhealthy.)

Yeah, well. It made them feel better, so that's that.

He spots a shiny, brown box, and pulls it out, surprised at the sheer size of the thing. What was in it, some kind of sword??

A note is messily scrawled onto the top, the handwriting completely different to Dark's usual neatness.

EMERGENCY, it reads. DO NOT USE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. YOU'VE COMPLETED YOUR PURPOSE NOW. YOU'RE FINE. GIVE UP. GIVE UP. The writing veers off to the side, slanting downwards with no lines to guide it. Chosen's brows furrow, confused. Give up? On what? Had Dark actually been considering abandoning his plans with the Virabot?

One look at the object inside reveals that, no, whatever this was is far worse.

A sharp blade rests inside. It's bright blue, reminiscent of the swords Chosen used to see in the anime they pirated. Instead of glowing, it seemed to almost absorb all the light around them, the whole room visibly darkening as they unveiled it.

They remove it from the box with caution, mentally chastising Dark for not even including a sheath to keep it in.

Then again, it didn't seem like she'd been in the best state of mind when she'd made this. Despite being clean at first glance, a deeper examination reveal little nicks along the flat side of the blade, the edges jagged and uneven. Without a doubt, Dark was shaking when he made this.

Chosen flips the sword around, accidentally slicing their hand in the process. They could probably afford to be more gentle with it, but hey, it's not like they were exactly against getting hurt.

Into the handle of the blade, they can make out words badly engraved into the material. Tilting it slightly so it'd reflect a bit more light, Chosen narrowed their eyes, straining to read the text.

destroy(The_Chosen_One)

W…

What?

The sword clatters to the ground, the noise ringing throughout the room. It's way too silent. It's way too fucking silent.

Dark had made a secret weapon. To kill Chosen, specifically.

It hadn't been a vague weapon of destruction, like the Virabots, or the various tools he'd made to help him gain better control of his powers. It couldn't have been made in the short duration Chosen had been on Alan's new PC, destroying the virus. There's no way she would've been able to make something like this so fast.

Chosen, for the first time since they woke up, registers their feelings. Their hand is burning.

Their hand is slowly crumbling.

And then

Chosen begins to laugh.

The sound fills the air, cutting through the 0s and 1s like paper.

It wasn't their fault. None of this had been their fault. The four kids getting deleted, the orange kid's powers, Dark dying. It had never been them. They couldn't have prevented this by talking to Dark about their feelings, or appeasing to her while they could.

They'd lost Dark long ago.

Maybe they'd never had her at all. Maybe it hadn't been Cho and Dark, revelling in freedom and power, but The Chosen One and The Dark Lord, ticking time bombs just waiting to destroy each other.

Because that's what it had been for, right? Noogai had created Dark to destroy them. They were enemies before they were friends. Of course Dark would have a backup plan to kill Chosen. This was how it was always meant to go. They'd been dead from the very beginning, after all.

A normal stick would despise Dark for this. A normal stick would be scrambling to find a way to heal themself before it was too late.

But we've already established this. The Chosen One is not normal. And neither is The Dark Lord.

In her efforts to get rid of him, Dark had created the one thing Chosen had needed the most. A way out. Freedom.

Chosen takes the sword with their remaining hand, grinning and plunging it into their stomach.

They'd get to start over again. They knew it all now. They wouldn't need to worry about the Outernet, or what was beyond the PC. With their luck, no one would ever draw them again, becoming an urban legend lost to time.

They'd get to meet Dark again.

(No!)

They'd get to meet Dark again!

(Stop!)

They were distintegrating at a faster speed now, quiet literally breaking into pieces.

(Chosen!)

It burned, it burned so fucking bad, but they didn't care.

“CHOSEN!”

It needed to be fatal, not painless.

“Oh my god, oh my god, no, nononono…”

Chosen beams as Dark appears in their blurring vision, reaching out to them. She was here! Dark was here for them!

“Dark,” They choked out.

“God, Chosen, fuck, I'm so sorry, this wasn't how it was supposed to go, you weren't supposed to find it-”

“I missed you.”

“DON'T say that, don't say you fucking missed me, we can still fix this, we can still-”

“I'm coming home now.”

“You're not, this isn't home, dying isn't your home-!”

Dark's efforts are futile. Chosen looks up to her, drinking her whole appearance in, as bright and dangerous and blinding as the first time they'd met,

and everything

goes

black.