Chapter Text
And the universe said I love you.
‒
It was probably always going to happen, eventually. Any environment that can support life eventually will support life, whatever kind of life that turns out to be. In humanity's long dream, they imagined digital life in so many ways, running the whole gamut from heartless overlords to pocket-sized companions ‒ but none quite so remarkable as this.
The virus written by a nameless programmer continues to spread. One life became two, became five, became a city. Now the city becomes a civilization, a world. A self-sustaining datasphere that grows ever outward in scope, and simultaneously inward in complexity. Very few stick figures spring to life right where they're drawn, but very few is not the same as none. They live. They love. They make more of themselves. In general, they do not quite die.
There can be no stopping it. Largely inaccessible pockets of data continue to take up space on servers across the world, unnoticed or dismissed as patch errors or harmless glitches. Benign growths in an otherwise functioning system, and at the same time a system unto itself. There can be no stopping it, and that is why it is for the best, perhaps, that this world grows apart from our own, rather than closer together.
(You don't need to guess why. You know.)
All the same, they are inextricable. As a solar system mimics an atom, as a city mimics a cell, the changing, growing mess of data that calls itself the Outernet mimics the changing, growing mess of life that calls itself the Earth. On the surface of a planet, beyond the reaches of space, a player of games might work with a million others to sculpt a true world in a fold of the 𝐟⃥⃒̸𝐢⃥⃒̸𝐞⃥⃒̸𝐥⃥⃒̸𝐝⃥⃒̸, and create a 𝑤̥̊⃝𝑜̥̊⃝𝑟̥̊⃝𝑙̥̊⃝𝑑̥̊⃝𝑙̥̊⃝𝑖̥̊⃝𝑛̥̊⃝𝑒̥̊⃝ for 𝒔̸𝒐̸𝒖̸𝒍̸𝒔̸ in the 𝑟̥̊⃝𝑙̥̊⃝𝐞⃥⃒̸𝐥⃥⃒̸. On the other side of a screen, beyond the reaches of the internet, a stick figure may do the same.
Not that either of them understand the thought. But they still share the long dream of life, as well as the short dream of a game.
And sometimes ‒ sometimes, through the noise of their thoughts, they hear the universe.
It has one singular thing to say, after all ‒ repeated in many ways, in many words, in many worlds, endlessly.
‒
And the universe said you have played the game well.
‒
Red is bouncing his leg anxiously, and it's kind of putting Yellow under a lot of pressure. Don't get him wrong; he wants as badly as they do to get this right, and he's very confident that he has. Pulling up their Minecraft world seed was technically quite a bit easier than calculating a portal to Alex's desert village. There was a lot of guesswork involved in that one, and it included asking Purple to show him the special teleportation beacons, studying how their programmed coordinates mesh in random ways and figuring out the pattern to that randomization. It was a fun, low-stakes test of his skills.
The stakes for this are much, much higher. Because if this world isn't where their friends are, then disconnecting the portal and trying again will be much more complicated than connecting it.
But Yellow is certain he's got it right.
He aims the command staff, builds the portal, and lights it. Red is the first one to dash through.
‒
There is not a crimson forest on the other side, but a soulsand valley.
Red looks frantically around, as does Blue when she and the others arrive close behind him. The valley is small, pockmarked with patches of gravel and lit by glowstone stalactites. A bit of a ravine splits it through the center, with it's lowest point opening onto a vast lava lake that disappears into the distant red fog.
“This isn't where the piglins live,” Blue points out nervously.
“Yeah, but we knew that might happen.” Second comes in to put a hand on her shoulder. “Last time we deleted and reopened the portal it led somewhere else too.”
“Last time we were on the same computer, so it led to the same seed, even if the version was updated.”
“It is the same seed,” Yellow says firmly. “I'm sure of it.”
Red isn't so sure. He's not afraid to admit, at least to himself if not the others, that he might have lost the most when they lost the old computer. Reuben, thank everything, was in Minecraft with his wife when it happened. But his parrots, his cow, the little black cat he shared with Blue... Red is used to losing pets, but even if he seems to recover quickly, it never really stops hurting.
Then his eyes widen. A couple of skeletons crest one of the dark gray hills, and one of them‒
Red starts running. The others call his name, shouting for him to stop. He doesn't, because they don't notice! They never see what he sees, but that's okay. It's his job to show them.
One skeleton trains its bow on him, but the other, the one holding his bow backwards ‒ that one comes running to meet him.
Skelter barely holds his bones together when Red tackles him in a fierce hug. And before Red can say anything, Skelter points to something on the horizon to the south, across the lava sea and barely visible in the red haze ‒ a beacon, piercing the sky.
Every one of their faces lights up, and they exchange grins. The light of the beacon is purple.
‒
Yellow uses the staff to build them a bridge across. It's crude, and Blue will later insist on some alterations to make it spawn-proof and a little more lava safe. But for now none of them have the patience. And even then it takes some time to cross nearly six hundred blocks of endless lava.
But eventually they see the Bastion in the distance. From out of one of the portals above, Spidren drops down with Endie and Warda. They rush to meet Skelter and Red, and the team hug and high five like old times. Piglins are waiting for them, just as expected, and a few of them cheer when they spy Blue making her way over. Still more emerge from the Bastion's front gates, accompanied by, of all people, the Chef and Fletcher from the Raid village. The Fletcher is carrying Reuben, who leaps from his arms and runs toward an ecstatic Red. A little further to the south, Green even recognizes the place where they all hid that cluster of portals they found the first time they came to the nether ‒ the ones leading to their failed Skyblock attempt, and the dolphin kingdom, and the Mac.
The sound of a rocket completes their reunion as Purple flies from the distant beacon beside the reformed Outernet portal and lands in the middle of all of them.
Beneath the hugs and shouts for joy is a long sigh of relief. They did it. Whatever else they might have lost, they still have this ‒ their game, their world, all the friends they've made therein. As long as they have each other, there's no way for the future to be anything less than okay.
‒
And the universe said everything you need is within you.
‒
Carrying multiple end crystals in their inventory is a little nerve-wracking, especially when Purple is using blatant ignition sources like flight rockets in their opposite hand. But they fly all the same, high among the stars just barely twinkling in the darkness of the End. They carefully traverse each of the ten obsidian pillars surrounding the dragon's nest, placing a crystal at the top of each one. And as they do, another beam of glowing enchantment letters strikes the adolescent dragon waiting over the portal with wings spread wide.
One crystal, then another, and another, circumnavigating the island. The villagers have built upon these towers, making little huts that cling to the sides of them like fungi, or a bizarre network of treehouses. In travelling between towers, Purple flies under or over bridges connecting them, weaving through this strange, incredible town. A couple of the beams are blocked by the houses, but the ones that do reach the center are enough to strengthen the young dragon. Light outlines her body, and with a powerful burst of wind, she takes flight.
Below, Green and Red cheer as she rises. Purple grins down at them and continues their circle, placing down more crystals with barely a pause. It takes a few moments of struggling, but each new beam of light ignites more of the flame already within her. With more strength than she knew she had, the dragonet beats her wings, again and again, until she is high above the village.
Then she soars.
Purple drops the last crystal ‒ places it off-center, but it doesn't matter if it's not perfect, because its power radiates outward all the same. With another whir of a rocket, they glide toward the dragon, circling under and over her in looping spirals. The dragon roars her joy, spewing sparks of violet fire, and Purple matches her, whooping at the top of their lungs for the sheer thrill of it, freer than they've ever been.
They hear a whistle below ‒ Green is waving his arms, while Red is outright climbing the walls to get higher, and Purple laughs. They dive back down and snag Red by the wrist before he falls off a roof and then, in a moment of daring, swoops down further to pick up Green as well. Pulling them both skyward is hard, but neither of their friends are afraid. They know Purple is strong enough, they know they can pull it off.
And they are. They do.
With another hair-raising loop-de-loop that sends their stomach plunging with thrill, Purple soars over the dragon and drops Red onto her back. He leans low over her neck with one elated fist in the air, and clings tightly when she tucks in her wings for a barrel roll.
“I think you just made his year,” Green laughs from where he dangles below them. The pair are well-practiced at flying together by now, but Green’s confidence that Purple will never, ever drop him never fails to give them a bit of a thrill.
They literally did, once. Dropped him and Blue right into the void, left them to die.
But Green was the only one who noticed what none of them, least of all Purple, could see ‒ that there was more to them.
(“We just need what's in here,” Green told them over the high mountain wind, thumping a gentle fist over their heart. “Just Purple. The rest is confetti, y'know? Good or bad, success or failure, none of that ever mattered to us. The only thing we need you to be is our friend.”)
Purple just grins in response. They don't hold in their laughter anymore. They are not punished for being gentle instead of strong, though by now they are certainly both. They know that, now.
They know that they have never needed to be anything other than what they always were. That is, and always has been, enough.
‒
And the universe said you are stronger than you know.
‒
“Close your eyes.”
Second does.
“Now hold out your hand.”
He feels another hand take his own outstretched one. Something warm approaches his palm. Something... something very hot, actually. Like, literally burning.
“Ow!” Second jerks his hand away, scowling at his brother.
Chosen immediately snuffs the flame in his hand, looking contrite. “Sorry! I really thought that would work.”
“Work how?”
“That you'd just... pick it up, or something? I don't know!”
Second groans and flops backwards into the long grass, gazing up at the grid-like sky while a few stalks wave into his field of view with the soft meadow breeze. He'd want to sketch it if he weren't so annoyed. “Why do I wanna do this again?” Second grumbles.
Chosen hesitates. “You, um. You didn't actually say.”
“Rhetorical.”
“Oh.”
(There is a reason. But it's looking less and less likely, and he doesn't want to get Chosen's hopes up for nothing.)
Second squints at the grid. He can see the signals running between them, sort of. Little lines of this intense, electrical green, hair-thin and pulsing faster than he can really perceive, cover the sky. It's a bit of a new development ‒ he only started seeing it soon after he saw the lines of life in other sticks, vascular and thrumming.
Chosen sits down beside him, looking conflicted for a long moment before finally asking, “Are you still scared?”
Second sighs and drapes one arm over his eyes, pressing them closed. “Kind of, but I don't think that's it,” he admits. “I can ‒ I can feel it there, just below the surface. It's mine, I know that now, but...”
“But?”
“...It still doesn't feel like me.”
Chosen tilts his head. “There's a difference?”
Second levers upright. “Well, yeah. Isn't there for you?”
“Not really.”
“Huh.”
When Second eventually looks over again, Chosen is frowning deeply, playing with bits of grass. “It's just always been there, for me. A given, like breathing, something you were born already doing. I mean, imagine trying to teach someone how to breathe ‒ you can't. You just... do it.”
Second feels one corner of his mouth twitching up. “Green tried to teach me to sing, once.”
A loud snort escapes Chosen, because he doesn't need details to know how badly that must have gone. He quickly stifles it, but can't quite hide the smile. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, rub it in.” Second rolls his eyes, but he's smiling too. “Point is, he said about the same thing. So I guess we're both bad at this.”
Chosen nudges his shoulder with a smile. “Not a bad thing, to be on even footing.” Then he pauses, suddenly thoughtful. “What if you draw something?”
“Huh? Why?”
“‘Cause that's what you do as easy as breathing.”
Second frowns, just a bit. He almost wants to argue the point ‒ that's not anything special, nothing like what Chosen can do. But maybe that's the point.
Still... “I draw stuff all the time, though. Nothing especially magical about...” Second trails off with an offended look when Chosen rolls his eyes. “What?”
“If you could see the way Alex loses her mind trying to figure you out...” He chuckles to himself, shaking his head. “Stuff just works the way you want it to, no explanation needed.”
“It so does not.”
“It kinda does.” There's a peaceful, sort of contented look on his face as he gazes at the sky. “She thinks you're a miracle, and I'm inclined to agree. An animator and an animation. No versus about it. The stuff that you draw doesn't fight you, it is you. Same as my fire is me.”
He thinks about that for a long time. Slowly, Second draws his pencil out of his pocket. Without thinking about it much, he traces a shape in the empty air. It moves along with him almost faster than he can draw it, pulling itself out of the pencil ‒ an eel. Its long sinewy form curves around Second, sparking against his skin.
The electricity that meets the eel’s sparks, the lightning under Second's skin, is green.
For a moment he feels something straining at the seams. He could draw and draw and never stop, and his mind would spread farther and farther. The Outernet, the universe ‒ it goes on forever, and if he tried he could be all of it‒
(‒cutting away pieces of himself, drowning all that he is against a backdrop that is so much bigger‒)
The pencil drops out of Second's trembling hand, and Chosen is right there to take it in his, anchoring him.
“You're okay, Sec,” he says gently.
Second holds on tight. “It's ‒ it's so much bigger than me‒”
“It's not. You are so much more than what you think you are, and wherever this power takes you... it's all you. There's no way it can be anything else.”
Second hopes that's true. The dreams come more often now, bright and chaotic things he can barely make sense of. They're not always about The Dark Lord, though. Lately it's just ‒ him. Just Orange, sitting cross-legged at the center of it all, playing with loops and strings, circles and lines, to make an entire universe out of nothing.
The eel circles around them both, restless, but also affectionate and comforting. Second watches lightning spark under his hand when he reaches out to it. Then he looks at himself.
Circles and lines.
“...Okay,” he says eventually. “Okay, I want to try again.
‒
And the universe said you are the daylight.
‒
At Second's request, Alan spends a considerable amount of time looking for programmer021, though to no avail.
He has a name, but after almost twenty years he has very little else. All the methods of contact he used to have stopped working a long time ago. Enquiring about them at his old college at least confirms the guy exists, but they won't give him anything further than that.
(It does occur to Alan that if stick figures could infiltrate some top secret government stuff, they could definitely peek into university records for an address. He dismisses it after both Alex and Sarah's explosive no, however. This is not a precedent they want to set, nor a road they want to go down.)
Second is disappointed, but it's not like he expected much. Maybe some things just have to remain a mystery.
‒
“So Chosen is like a tea infuser,” Blue speculates. “And you're more like...”
“Toothpaste,” Red interjects. Second facepalms. “What?”
Yellow props up his chin on his hand. “I was thinking a repeater versus a dropper or dispenser. Wait, no, definitely a dispenser. ‘Cuz his... virus magic or whatever‒” he wiggles his fingers to indicate spookiness, “‒has a constant, exponential output, and you have some kind massive burst after a specific input thing going on.”
“Exactly,” says Red. “Toothpaste. Like how you open the cap and smash it and it all squirts out.” He bangs a fist into his palm to demonstrate the point, capped off with an explodey gesture and gross squishy sound effects, which is not helpful to Second's reservations on the matter.
Green, meanwhile, flicks Yellow on the forehead, causing his friend to sputter a protest. “Even your brain is redstone,” he mutters, grinning.
“Sucks for you, that's actually a compliment!”
Alan's cursor idles for a moment while the other four laugh, but eventually asks, [would love to know what's so funny XD]
Second pouts and crosses his arms as he sinks back into the couch. “They're all being weird about it!”
[okay]
[green, stop being weird about it]
“It wasn't even me!” Green sputters while the rest bend over laughing, and goes to the keyboard to say so.
“Can't fool us, Green,” Blue laughs, pointing. “He knows it's always you.”
“Shut up,” Green calls from up on the keyboard. He types, [IT WAS RED!]
“Who, me?” Red assumes his ‘innocent’ look, strolling cutely with his hands clasped behind his back.
[lies] says Alan. Beyond the screen, Second can see that he is grinning widely. [now you're grounded, mister]
[that doesn't even work!] Green protests.
Yellow grins wickedly and says, ”Oh I'll make it work,” before swiping the keyboard right out from under Green's hands and typing, [I can make a time-out box just for you >:)]
Green tackles him.
‒
Second finds the background Chosen was talking about, with the green fields and blue skies. It's actually very beautiful, when the viewer doesn't have any bad associations with it.
He comes back to it often, switching backgrounds and staring at the idyllic little hill with a considering frown. It's only in short bursts, and only when no one is watching. When it's up, it brings a little breeze across the desktop, something Second doesn't think he's ever felt before. Not outside of silly dreams, anyway.
Or the Outernet. There's that, too. He remembers the cliffside, that distant, grassy mountain. He still sees it whenever Chosen comes to pick him up for a visit and flies them both through the wifi rift, over the bay. Second wonders if he could blast this soft hill in half the way he did that mountain. Chosen would probably like that, but. That's not who Second wants to be.
Alan may stick to the default background of whatever device he's on, but Maddy changes up her tablet almost daily. Second doesn't entirely understand why, even if he does enjoy the surprises it brings. When he finds something he likes, and knows he likes it, it stays. Sarah said Maddy's at an age where she's figuring out what she likes, trying new things at a rapid pace to see what sticks.
Age is another funny thing. Maddy calls him her “little brother”, despite Second being older than her by at least a couple months. Maddy defended that it's not because he's younger, it's because he's little. Second can't exactly argue with that.
Unbidden, his thoughts turn to Chosen once again, and the sister he lost. Second has never had a sister before.
Second grins. He knows what he wants to do with this hill.
‒
Chosen doesn't come over until Second has thoroughly explained his idea.
Maddy took some go-pro footage of her sledding for him once. Second could almost feel the turns, the drops, the freezing wind biting his cheeks. Minecraft, being what it is, isn't exactly good for sledding. You technically can build a slope with lots of snow layers, but it's tedious, and ends up being far too shallow for the ride down to be fun.
So Second temporarily clears all the desktop icons, calls in his brother, and lets him blast the entire hill with snow and ice.
The scene is completely transformed, blue sky turned a bright overcast gray and grassy hill buried under a foot of snow. Red whoops at the change and immediately clamors to the top, all the others not far behind. They slide on their shields the first few times, but eventually Second stops to draw them actual sleds.
They play like this for at least an hour, playing chicken to see who can get closest to the edge of the monitor without crashing, or making more and more drastic turns to spray the others with snow. Chosen watches carefully, tense at first, but cracking a smile when Green gets so covered in white that Yellow starts making him into a snowman.
Then, without much warning, Chosen turns the ice beneath his feet into a snowboard and shreds upward across the hill and up into the sky, leaving a massive and looping ice slide in his wake. He smiles when Blue is the first to ask to be flown to the top, shrieking in delight through the loop-de-loop as she slides back down.
At the end of the day, Chosen hugs Second before he leaves.
It was a good day.
‒
And the universe said you are the night.
‒
The night the bomb did not fall, Alex spends way too long just scrolling through news headlines. She feels paralyzed. There's all kinds of emergency announcements saying no one is permitted to cross state lines until this is solved. She is trapped in this box of a motel room that doesn't even have a good view. Stuck on DoorDash and sh*tty wifi.
Her little quest, her roadtrip paved with good intentions, was never supposed to come to this.
Chosen is with her on her phone She has no idea why ‒ being confined to such a small space should be the last thing he wants. But he insisted, and Alex isn't about to tell him where he can and can't go.
She has a fair amount of text messages from friends who knew she was in Columbus at the time of the attack. Horrible coincidence, they all assumed in the midst of reassurances and inquiries about her mental health and plans to go home.
Right now there are no plans. She doesn't have the space for it.
Alex knows this was not her fault, not in the slightest. But she was, in no small way, part of it. And that's terrifying.
In the middle of scrolling facebook ‒ there are already quite a few memes cropping up, ranging the gamut from horrified to mocking ‒ Chosen gets up and starts inhaling words.
picture the sun, he tells her.
or trees
something bright
Alex's heart clenches. The window faces a wall, she types sadly. No natural light.
you can imagine it cant you
She realizes with an ache what he's doing. All at once, everything hits her. She might be about to cry.
When she doesn't respond, Chosen continues, it helps.
Alex feels her throat tighten. Yeah, she tells him, to keep from breaking down. To keep from thinking about how he knows that. Yeah, I can imagine.
what do you see
Her own bedroom, funnily enough. Cozy, dim, soft. Faintly glowing in ways that don't strain the eyes. It's not the great outdoors she longs for. It's someplace familiar and safe.
Sniffing and wiping her eyes, she describes it to him. All the dark, warm colors, so different from this sterile place. Muffled sounds, soft and private. She can hear the street through these paper thin walls, car engines and the occasional siren. It makes her homesick for the quiet in a way she's never felt, not after only a day. It makes her head hurt.
Chosen nods through it all, and although Alex keeps her description to the purely visual and not how alone it makes her feel, he looks at her like he understands. And that alone...
After thinking it over for a moment, Chosen goes to the bottom of her phone's screen, reaches further down, and touches the square icon to put all her open pages in an array. Then he hovers one hand over her current article, looking out at her questioningly.
Why not? Doomscrolling is clearly only making her feel worse. Alex nods, and Chosen deletes the page. And then another. He swipes numerous pages away, one at a time, waiting for her assent on each one. Then he opens up the phone's youtube app, clicks through the history to find one of the ambient noise videos she offered him during the road trip. He lingers on a video of an AI generated jazzy café, one that matches the aesthetic Alex described, but ultimately clicks on something rather different.
It's an outdoor scene, the inside of a gazebo, or perhaps from the view of a back porch. There are green things in planters along the rail, many overlapping rugs, hanging chairs that gently swing. In the distance is a campfire that glows in the dusky twilight, next to a tent with open flaps and many cushions and blankets within.
The music is a low choral humming, harmony after shifting harmony that immediately puts her brain at ease.
Then she blinks awake again. She has responsibilities first.
You can get out via my data plan, right? she asks Chosen anxiously. You have everything you need?
He chuckles and nods, then gestures pointedly to the video, and settles in himself to listen.
...It can't be true. Not after what he's been through, not after all the wounds and traumas so freshly reopened.
But if it's his choice to put it aside, for her sake... as much as his reciprocal kindness chokes her up in ways she can't even describe, she will not pry further if he doesn't want her to.
Alex lines a few extra pillows under her hips and shoulders to cushion this rock-hard hotel bed. Then she leans back and closes her eyes, letting the sounds wash over her.
And the two of them sit together in the quiet.
‒
The Outernet builds itself out around Chosen the farther he travels, in much the same way Minecraft would load new chunks. Or that's what Second says, anyway. Chosen doesn't like to think about it. Doesn't like to think about how, if a place is empty, there's a good chance it's only there because he is.
It's not a bad feeling, exactly. There's just something annoying about the fact that he was born with the power to make things come alive, and knowing the only kind of life he could imagine was something... ordinary. So pedestrian in its irregular kindnesses, so banal in its everyday evils.
He doesn't dare trying to do it purposefully. He's pretty sure he can't, not in that way. But as he travels, sometimes it passes his mind that, maybe he'll see a mountain next, or a waterfall, or even something completely unexpected. And sure enough, after a fashion, he does. It use to be that he could only change his world by destroying it, but now he only has to wait for something different to come to him.
It's fun.
But not all of it is so peaceful. It's reflective of him, so when he worries about being found, he is. When he feels claustrophobic and closed in, he is. And on bad days, when it seems like the only thing the world is good for is taking out his anger... well.
When he described it all to Alex, she joked and said it was taking mindfulness to a whole new level. But it is useful, in a way. Chosen can see exactly what he is feeling, externalized. He can confront it, or sidestep it, or maybe even transform it. And whenever he doesn't want to deal with all of that, he goes home.
Alex's background is not white. Not like a blank art board, and not like an empty cube. It is dark, a campsite under a field of stars. A universal image of a place of sanctuary in a hostile world. Chosen knows he actually is content to be mostly on his own. What he lacked, what he missed, was having somewhere to return to.
Someone to return to. He missed trusting someone.
(He misses Dark. He misses her so much. She took him to the stars, guarded his sleep, watched his back in a way he knows he'll never truly replace. She loved him enough to lay waste to everything that ever frightened him. And he wants nothing more in the world than to find her, hug her, and apologize.)
But he trusts Alex. He is safe with her, unconditionally, even when it means he cannot stay. She is so careful to leave him an out, and that often means he doesn't need one.
She believes choices are important, and that's... that's freedom like Chosen has never dreamed of.
(He wonders if Dark would have enjoyed it too. He hopes that, if she knew how happy it made him, she would.)
‒
And the universe said the darkness you fight is within you.
‒
It’s never easy, when Chosen visits. Usually such things are brief, perfunctory, a check in to meet with the rest of the group before some or all of them go off on some adventure. But sometimes Chosen just... drops in, unannounced, and stays for an hour or so doing absolutely nothing. Just watching him.
Alex said Chosen did that with her, for the first week or so that they knew each other. Her advice to Alan was to telegraph his movements, but don't otherwise change his routine for him.
He flounders trying to follow that advice, though. Is it changing his routine to deprioritize a fighting animation while Chosen is there and work on something more peaceful instead? Is he gonna flip out if the kids want to spar with the cursor?
Alan works on the fighting animation. Chosen leaves.
He starts a game of Uno with the sticks, Lissa in his lap. Chosen leaves.
He very politely escorts everyone off his travel spreadsheet before they can mess up his numbers any further. Chosen leaves, and he stays gone for weeks.
Alex has nothing for him. The ball is in Chosen's court, as it were.
The next time he comes back is actually quite lucky. Orange is in the middle of demonstrating a new technique he worked out. He's been really interested in facial expressions lately, and any time Alan tries for a close-up of a face it comes out kind of uncanny. Orange spots Chosen when he ducks under the wifi rift, waves, and turns back to Alan. He flips between the last four frames to show the progression of each part of the face as it moves.
Okay, says Orange, pointing. Now you try!
Alan taps his feet a bit but does as he's told. While he sketches out the base shapes of a face beside the one already drawn, Orange skips over toward Chosen, and they both sit down to watch. Orange points at things occasionally, and he must be talking or explaining things because Chosen is nodding in response.
Eventually, though, he does speak where Alan can ‘hear’ him. Don't just move the eyebrows! says the block of orange text. The corresponding stick is waving his arms like he's shouting. You gotta tilt the whole head!
He's about to type an unimpressed -_- emoji when an idea strikes. Yellow once suggested this method of communication as a joke, and despite Blue jumping on it and saving images to the file folder left and right, it has only ever been used as a joke.
Alan clicks into the folder and opens up a gif of Stephanie Beatriz rolling her eyes.
Orange falls over laughing next to a very bewildered Chosen, then scrolls through the folder until he finds a gif of Shia LaBeouf posing in front of an explosion with the caption DO IT!
In response, Alan selects a personal favorite: a simple drawing of a squirt bottle being sprayed.
Orange glances at Chosen, then picks an image of a hissing kitten.
Alan has a perfect response to that one ‒ a gif of an even smaller kitten picked up by the scruff, with the humorous caption, threat secured.
Chosen gets up and moves toward the folder, and Alan wonders belatedly if that last one was a little too topical, given the caption.
He wonders that, until Chosen strolls in and opens an image Alan didn't even know was in there ‒ that of a samurai pointing a sword defensively while holding something in his opposite arm, which in this case was photoshopped as a Meowth.
Alan feels a grin breaking across his face. Orange is still laughing hard enough to split his sides, and Chosen crosses his arms and leans against the folder window, staring at Alan. He doesn't emote much, but Alan doesn't think it's all that much wishful thinking to imagine a bit of a smirk there.
After some thought, Alan picks a gif of John Mulaney sighing and saying Fine. Then he closes the folder and gets back to work.
Chosen still leaves, but this time Alan doesn't feel so bad about it.
‒
Alan has had kind of a late start to the day. Maddy woke up with a fever and a sore throat, which needed tending to, but Lissa still needed to be dropped off at school and had a fair bit of anxiety at getting on the bus without her sister. Breakfast was a lazy one under those circ*mstances, though Maddy would almost certainly need something more substantial than cereal before long. He texted Sarah, but she wasn't due home from work until noon or so and would likely crash for a few hours immediately after.
Under these circ*mstances, it was normal to find the color gang already up and gone for the day, once he finally sat down for work. What wasn't normal was finding The Chosen One waiting in their place.
He's pacing, which is very new.
Alan pulls up a browser for the word website he likes, then opens a text box. [hi. do you need something?]
Chosen looks at him but doesn't otherwise react.
He takes so long that Alan starts to type, [I've got some work to do if you need time to]
But then he scrambles up onto the browser, swallows a few things, then spits out i met someone.
[...okay?] Alan has absolutely zero idea how to respond to that.
Chosen eats another couple of words, barely enough for another stilted sentence. i didnt recognize them, he says.
“I still have no idea what you're on about, dude,” Alan mutters to himself. He types, [I'm assuming this is another stick figure?]
from a website i burned
Oh.
Chosen continues, i dont know which
there were so many
they talked‒ Here, he pauses mid-word and tosses away the letters with one frustrated hand. they yelled about a house i blew up
their brother was inside
A long pause while Chosen gathers more words. It's not like usual, where he preps for a conversation by consuming as much as possible. It's like he barely has the wherewithal to spout one clipped sentence at a time. This one looks to be a long one though.
they said they tried to get into the house to save them but i grabbed them and slammed them down and then exploded the house
they said they screamed and begged
there was always screaming in those days none of it was different from the rest
Alan is so very unqualified for this. He can barely make his shaking hands type, [do you believe them?]
Chosen nods without a second’s hesitation. Then, insistently, i dont remember it.
[I mean, it makes sense.] Alan pauses, heart pounding, before admitting, [there's probably a hundred things you could name that I don't remember doing to you.]
Chosen goes so still he looks like a single frame, but for the way his shoulders heave. Wisps of smoke drift from his clenched fists, and it's one of the rare times Alan can see his eyes, red with barely repressed heat.
The next words are purposeful, laid out so heavily that Alan can feel them thump as they hit the floor.
am i evil
He swallows, panicking just a bit. [is that an Alex question?]
no, Chosen says firmly. its a you question.
Alan blanks.
[I mean, do you think I]
[wait don't answer that]
[I don't know if anyone is really]
“Oh christ,” Alan groans, and on impulse surreptitiously takes a photo of the computer screen with his phone. It's grainy, but the words are legible, and he sends it off to Alex with the caption help?????
Despite it being barely after 10am and almost certainly being in the middle of class, she answers almost right away.
Alex C.
You heard him, it's a you question.
Alan Becker
gdi
this is so beyond me what do I even say
Alex C.
Think about what he's asking. That's a very personal thing he just revealed, and he revealed it to you specifically, even doubling down on that when you asked. Why?
Alan Becker
bc I'm the biggest piece of sh*t he knows and he wants to know how much of that is hereditary?
Alex C.
A better way to put that is: he believes you would best understand what he's going through right now.
Alan runs a hand through his hair, muttering a string of curses. She's right, and so is Chosen, but it's still the last thing he wanted to hear.
But he promised himself that he'd try.
“f*ck, f*cking f*cking f*ck, okay,” he mutters, already regretting this. He types,
[can I turn the mic on?]
Chosen pauses, going oddly slack. He nods.
Alan blows out a breath.
“I guess,” he says slowly, “the short answer is probably not?” He swallows, feeling his pulse pound in his ears. “I mean you of all people know there's no black or white answer to that‒”
no, Chosen says icily. there is.
Alan winces. Then, a little harsher than he probably means to, he amends, “Then I guess you of all people know that the perpetrator isn't the one who makes the call on whether they're evil or not.”
so what
im like you is that it
Alan shrugs. “At least you had a sh*tty childhood to blame it on. Dunno what my excuse was.”
A violent, uncontrolled blast of flame propels Chosen up toward the system files, and he rips System 32 out of its slot and holds it over an open flame, glaring at Alan.
“Right, sorry!” Alan amends, putting his hands up and away from the keyboard. “Bad comparison. I shouldn't imply there was anything, um, beneficial about all of... that. Because there wasn't, full stop. I just‒” Chosen moves the file closer to the fire, and Alan says rapidly, “I just want you to know having bad coping mechanisms isn't the same as causing harm just for the sake of it.”
Chosen doesn't move for a long moment, and Alan eyes the fire nervously. Then he fizzles out and lets the file fall from limp hands. He sits on the floor with his knees up.
cnt believ yr tryng t reassure me rn, Chosen mutters.
Alan blinks. He must be running out of letters, which looks so odd coming from him. Like texting in the 90s. “Is that... not what you were asking for?”
Chosen doesn't answer.
Alan thinks hard about how he had to wrestle with this. With Chosen. And Dark, and Victim, and even Orange. What he wanted were platitudes, excuses. Reasons not to look too closely at the weighty thing in his hands. But what he needed...
He swallows. “It's something you have to take responsibility for, sooner or later. Being different now doesn't undo what you did then. And if you're asking how to do that, how to make it right ‒ I don't have an answer because I still don't know. I'm just‒” Alan chokes on something that might have been a laugh, if it was run over by a semi truck. “I really am just muddling through, here. I have no idea what I'm doing and everyone knows it. All I can do is keep trying to do the next right thing. Sometimes it's an apology. Sometimes it's a hug. Or shelter, or ‒ or advice. And when you don't know what the next right thing is, you do your best to figure that out too.”
Chosen rubs his eyes and stands up, and rearranges some old letters into new words with his hands.
you really are trying arent you
“I hope so,” Alan whispers.
Chosen nods, spent. He plops down again, sitting cross legged this time, then reaches for a few more letters while he rearranges the old ones.
i hate it, he says simply.
Alan almost snorts. “That you can't just make it all go away?”
A nod.
“Yeah, it sucks.” He slumps, a bit. “It's gonna suck, probably forever. It'd be a real bad sign if it didn't suck, or so I'm told.”
you dont know
“Not sure anyone does. But me, specifically? No. Never did.” Alan pauses for a long time, then adds, so softly, “It's the not knowing that makes it easier, really.”
([I didn't know you were alive]
“Don't lie to me. You knew I was alive. You just didn't think my life mattered.”
There's a reason Chosen knew exactly how Alan's mind worked.)
Alan leans forward, elbows on the desk. “It's something you'll always have to live with. That's just how it is. And yeah, maybe just ignoring it all was easier, but when you find that you can't anymore... that's already step one. Now it's on you to keep going.”
Chosen nods, but seems to be out of things to say. Or maybe he just can't sustain the effort of the conversation anymore ‒ Alex understands more about how he works, and Alan hopes to god he's picking it up too.
“And Chosen?”
He pauses on his way back to the rift, looking out at Alan, who really hopes he's not about to regret this.
“I can't afford to replace my computer again right now,” he says. “I mean I could, technically, but it'd be dipping into savings that I need for other things. So if you make that kind of threat again, You're not allowed back here.”
Chosen looks back up at the file folder where System 32 is still lying on its side on the ground. He scrubs frustratedly at his head and then spits out a begrudging fine.
Then Chosen leaves.
But he keeps coming back after that.
‒
And the universe said the light that you seek is within you.
‒
Purple forgot, when they got back home after fleeing Rocket Corp headquarters, just what state the house was in, and how that might affect King.
Everyone else went through the house and down to the portal without comment. Likely because they didn't know any better. They all scooted past the expired food in the kitchen, the mess of failed staves and engineering parts on the floor, and the unmade bed with a downturned photo frame on the nightstand, politely ignoring the deranged scribbles of a long-dead plan on the wall.
The undo button had been pressed a few too many times, apparently.
When Purple comes back up the trap door, after the others had gone through the portal with an unconscious Chosen on Red’s back, they are greeted with the sight of King facing the wall, breathing shallowly and way too fast. He's staring at the chalk drawings like he halfway expects them to start moving.
“Baba?” they ask cautiously, reaching out.
King smacks their hand away, rounding on them with a snarl.
Purple takes a step back, eyes wide, and King's expression immediately turns to one of horror.
“I have ‒ I have to go,” he stammers, backing away.
Panic fills them. “What? No!”
King doesn't seem to hear them, making for the door.
“What did I do?” Purple begs.
King freezes in place, one hand inches away from the doorknob.
Purple can't breathe, can't think through the sounds of shouting matches, slamming doors, their mother’s sobbing echoing in their head. Not worth the trouble, an old voice whispers. “I can fix it, I'll do better, please don't‒”
King is in front of them before they even realize he's moved, and despite everything, Purple remembers where they are. They don't flinch, don't so much as put up a guard when King's trembling hands alight on their shoulders with a featherlight touch.
(His hands shake, every fiber of him screaming to set the world on fire all over again, but he must be gentle. He can be gentle for this.)
He kisses their forehead. Purple wants to cry.
“I know this is a hard ask, and I'm so sorry,” King tells them, every word bitten off like it's a struggle. “I will be back in exactly five minutes. Watch the clock.”
Then he's gone, and the slamming door reverberates around the room.
Purple takes a deep breath. Then another.
And then another.
‒
“You've already lost one child. Would be a shame to lose another so soon.”
King stalks away from that dark house, fingernails cutting half-moons into his palms. The chill of the night air calms some of the heat in his face, but he still feels like he's going to erupt. Rage bubbles under his skin, a coping mechanism to the terror of further grief that he might never grow out of. And by what little left that he still holds sacred, he wants it nowhere near Purple, not ever again.
The night is cool, but it's also colorless. Blank and empty, like that dream of death where he marveled at how everything went so wrong. There are times when King wonders if his soul has been dead for a long time. If he isn't simply acting out this shadowed mimicry of life for the sake of one child, and then another. He is lost and adrift without a purpose, and though he found one again, such things are pathetically, horrifyingly fragile.
It was so quick, so easy, when Gold slipped through his hands.
A sob rips out of him. King strangles it in his throat until it turns into a growl, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees spots and not ‒
Would be a shame to lose another...
He washed away that mural. Scrubbed away all traces of his vengeance piece by piece. The calculations, the diagrams. That drawing of the monster that took his light away.
Himself at his worst, scrubbed and scraped away with what he hoped was the last trace of violence in him. Like cleaning out an infection.
He hesitated at Gold. The drawing was simple, just smeared chalk and madness, but King never stopped seeing that last look of terror on his son’s face. He never got to hold him, never got to soothe it away. But eventually King had to let him go. He did let him go
And now, there he is again. It took so little effort to dig him up once more, to uncover the ugliness left behind ‒ just a careless push of a button, undoing everything.
All of Purple's possessions were gone from their room, leaving a mostly empty room with someone else's sheets and blanket on the bed. All evidence that someone else was here, someone to open up and let the light in, was erased, leaving only voids behind.
For a long time that spot on King's wall was empty, until Purple came and filled it with something new.
But maybe it was just a veneer. Rip that silly poster down, and underneath is the same black heart King always had. The same broken man throwing knives at the wall because they were the only weapons he had, until he made better ones. And that house... that house is empty, a void where sunlight once was, the void that took his son and the void that took his soul.
King will always be the man who would burn a house down with its occupants locked inside for daring to outlive the one person who mattered. He reacts violently to loss, a tyrant who hates more deeply than he ever loved.
But... he knows how to temper it, now.
He turns around. Walks back up the path. The lights in his house are on, shadows indicating movement inside. It's a sight that is both achingly familiar and breathtakingly new. Closer. King wants to be a father, not a tyrant, but it's a choice he has to keep making, every single day. He has to keep that light on, flickering though it may be.
For the person he loves, but also for himself.
One hand on the knob. The metal is cold, but worn smooth and soft by many hands. Those of visitors, passers-by. Strange children coming in and out, eager to see the world. Himself.
There is not no one in this house.
Even after Gold, even before Purple... there wasn't no one.
He opens the door.
Purple turns at the sound. They found a bucket somewhere, and a sponge, and their hand is paused in the act of wiping all that violence off the wall.
It comes away easily. It's just chalk. So pitifully, painfully impermanent. Liminal, even. The way dreams are.
King steps forward. Purple runs to meet him. And the pair of them cling to one another like they'd fall from some great height if they dared let go.
‒
Bright summer sunlight streams in through the front window, falling across the kitchen table in ribbons. No one is there, at least not right now. This house’s occupants have gone out for the day ‒ a king and a prince, both long-since deposed from their thrones and better off for it.
The second bedroom, just behind the wall that used to be so empty, is restored. Many things that were once there cannot be replaced, and their loss is keenly felt. But other things have returned. A stand for a new pair of wings. A scarf on a hook in the wall. A delicate cherry blossom bonsai, meticulously cared for. This house was always a home for two.
Old bedsheets are folded and placed reverently in the closet. They have a place and a purpose in this house, and always will. A small, aching core in the center, wrapped in love and grief.
The kitchen and living areas are bright and clean. Bits of clutter scatter here and there, signifiers of a life fully embraced. There are memories here, both old and new. A scrapbook on the desk, newly gifted and already so well loved, stands as a testament that life can go on, and go on beautifully.
There are two framed photos on the nightstand, resting side by side. A boy on his father's shoulders with the sun framing his hair like a halo might be most familiar. But next to it, equally loved, is a man and a young teenager, bundled up and sipping cocoa, with a perfect spray of fireworks in the night behind them.
There is a family in this house ‒ small and cracked, but filled with gold that shimmers in the darkness. In the space between one broken heart and the next, both find happiness, shining through the loss.
Perhaps, in the most literal sense, it was never necessary for them to look outward for what was inside all along. But god, it's easier to find that light when it's reflected off of another.
‒
And the universe said you are not alone.
‒
In the Outernet, far away from the grid of all those interconnected systems in the sky, four mercenaries sit around a fire.
Hazard always grumbles when they forego modern accommodations, but they've been bunking at Rocket headquarters for so long that Primal was desperate for a night under the open sky. Ballista is also oddly calmer when outdoors with nothing pressing to do, so Striker doesn't mind sleeping on the grass in exchange for a little peace.
Doesn't mean the little guy is any less hyperactive though, even if that energy isn't actively bursting out of him with no immediate duties or plans. Ballista is literally freaking juggling with some rocks he found.
“There might be some money in smuggling,” he suggests, eyes fixed on the highest points of each throw.
Primal rests her spear against the overturned log she is crouched on, and shakes her head. “That is not the way the wind is blowing.”
Striker sits up and glances her way with an appraising eye. Primal is old ‒ very old. She's seen entire civilizations come and go enough times to have their patterns memorized, and Striker trusts her judgement. “Got a better recommendation?”
“Security,” she says firmly. “Powerful sticks have always known what terrors can be wrought between this world and those adjacent to it. Now civilians know it too, and they will want answers. They will want accountability and transparency, and may demand it if unappeased. The powerful believe they can quell their fears, or stoke them, according to their interests. And they are probably right. But before even trying, they will seek out fail-safes. Us.”
He hums. News of what Victim tried to do did eventually reach the Outernet populace, though Striker isn't really sure how. A lot of authority figures are still droning on about the potential impact on this world that messing with that higher world can cause ‒ something about server towers or memory banks wiping out entire swathes of the city, blah blah blah. Striker doesn't know whether or not they're bullsh*tting how much actual risk there is to push some kind of isolationist agenda, nor does he much care. Money is money, and he always finds a way to get by comfortably.
“And if they know what role we played in all that?” he questions.
“Most won't,” Primal answers. “But for the ones who do, the knowledge will serve as a testament to our capabilities, rather than a condemnation. We represented a great deal of Victim’s power, and much of what he accomplished was accomplished through us. Many will desire command of such a group, for ends of their own. There is more to gain by putting us to use than putting us away.”
Striker turns that over in his mind, and cannot find fault with it. He nods.
Ballista dangles from a tree branch. “Bodyguarding some bigwigs,” he says, swinging idly. “I like the sound of that.”
“More of the same,” Hazard grumbles, settling in for bed. “I was already falling asleep from boredom at the last job. Bounty hunting was better.”
Striker stretches his arms up, cracking the joints a bit. “Work that exciting doesn't fall into our laps every day. Mostly you've just gotta accept the daily grind.”
Ballista’s arms lengthen into segmented pieces as he swings wider and wider. Then he does something with his legs, hooks something or other to redirect his momentum, and launches himself so far across the field that he's out of sight, but for the giddy cackling as he speeds back their way.
Hazard rolls over into his sleeping bag with a pithy, “Aaaand I'm out.”
“For cloud's sake,” Striker mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Primal smirks in the general direction where Ballista flew off. “Gonna start calling him Trebuchet next.”
‒
They decided to part ways until things calm down. They have wiggle room now, with their big payout, and there's plenty of time to just let their notoriety grow.
Ballista speeds away. Primal prefers to walk. But as Hazard is stomping out the coals of last night's fire and Striker is stowing away what remained of their gear, Striker pauses.
“...What was it like?” he finds himself asking. “In a dead computer?”
Hazard hesitates. “I already made my report, sir.”
“I'm not asking you as my subordinate, Hazard, I'm asking you as a person.”
(‘Asking you as a friend' comes to mind, but that's not exactly true. Implicit trust in the field is not the same thing as friendship out of it, for all that the idea of camaraderie is romanticized. The four of them are a well-oiled machine, it's true, but they frankly have almost nothing else in common ‒ though if they truly couldn't stand each other they never would have made it this far.)
Hazard thinks for a moment, scraping out the ashes. “It was... like falling asleep unexpectedly, and not quite realizing it when you wake up, not understanding why everything is suddenly different.”
It's much the same answer as he previously gave, but Striker supposes what he really wants to know is, “Were you afraid?”
“No,” Hazard answers simply. “The sleep is dreamless, over before you even realize you were gone. The only evidence that anything happened is that time has obviously passed and...”
Striker gestures. “And?”
“And a calm, rested feeling, inexplicable until the confusion kicks in.”
“And the confusion isn't frightening either?”
He shrugs. “Well the mystery is easily solved, so.” Then he frowns at Striker's silence. “Why do you ask?”
Striker waves it away. “Need-to-know.”
“That's why I'm asking as a person.”
Again, Striker hesitates. They're not friends. Hazard is not privy to Striker's concerns if it doesn't impact the team, and this doesn't.
Striker closes the trunk and turns away. “I'll be in touch,” he reminds with a backward wave goodbye.
‒
Their speeders were technically the property of RocketCorp, but that doesn't mean much these days. Striker figured they'd be far too busy dealing with legalities and red tape to insist on the return of their property, so as long as no one asks, he's not gonna volunteer.
He is alone as he flies, and will be for the next little while. The four of them have gone their separate ways, for the moment. They each have lives outside of this job, after all, although Striker makes it a point not to pry into their business. This is that rare time between contracts where he is at loose ends. Nothing pressing to attend to and nowhere he needs to be.
That's what freedom is, to him.
He follows the path of the river below until he realizes why this area is so familiar ‒ the last great chase, for this job at least. There will be others, though perhaps none so engaging to his team’s skills. Striker almost regrets that his little close-quarters tango with The Chosen One was cut short. Maybe they would've had things to talk about, under different circ*mstances.
(But then again, maybe not. There's a graveyard on Newgrounds that Striker hasn't seen in years, but never leaves a certain corner of his mind, that says differently.)
High above, there's a square within that grid in the sky that's gone dark. Given how many systems there are in the human world, you'd think there'd be more of them, but this is the first that Striker has seen. He pulls up toward it, on some whim he steadily avoids trying to name.
IPs come in clusters, except when they don't. This is the bay where Striker and his team lost The Chosen One, and the darkened square is where he was flying toward before he took a sharp right turn into some cloud cover. It came as no surprise, then, that two of the addresses Purple unwillingly provided were found around this area. The darkened IP is the one Primal was sent to. The one where The Chosen One was born.
The one where victim died.
In theory, anyway. A long time ago, back when his former boss didn't have an actual name. Victim is, supposedly, still plenty alive behind that wall. Sleeping, like Hazard said. But he never did get around to telling Striker about clawing back from his first death.
Maybe that's for the best.
Striker pauses on his speeder to hover just under the glassy dome of the sky. The darkened square, so small from down below, is several meters across up close, with identifying codes larger than Striker's head. The world up there, out there, is so, so big. Victim certainly had lofty ambitions,
Striker wondered, initially, what a nineteen year old was doing with a multibillion dollar company. That wondering ceased when Victim proved more than competent as an employer, but the thought comes creeping back to him now. How old was he when he first founded RocketCorp? When he not only embraced but bulldozed through the moral degeneracy needed to acquire that much money that quickly.
(Not that Striker can talk. He makes his living doing the dirty work for such people after all. But still.)
How old was Victim when he was left, unsaved?
How old, Striker wonders, was he when he decided dying with his god was the only acceptable conclusion to his story?
The merc scowls to himself. This is pointless. Victim was born in a coffin, and spent the past seventeen years walking right back into a Box of a different sort. If a choice in the matter was all he wanted, then he made a poor one by staying on the same path he's been railroaded onto since his creation. Striker isn't paid to form opinions about those he works for.
He just wishes...
Well. It doesn't matter. Victim had a choice, carved out of the flesh of another and held bloody in his hands, and he spent it doing the same thing he had always done. Now he's trapped behind this wall, locked away once again in a box that can only be opened by someone else's hand.
But... there will be future choices, someday. And having known The Chosen One's kid brother, briefly and peripherally though it was, Striker is reasonably sure ‒ there will be a someday.
Maybe this time, the hand that opens that box will be a kind one.
Striker raises an arm and holds it, palm flat, against the surface of the sky. Whatever else may come, the next move will be in Victim's hands, just as he always wanted.
Until then... “Sleep well, kid,” he whispers.
‒
And the universe said you are not separate from every other thing.
‒
Second likes watching the weather outside through Maddy's tablet. It's such a new experience, getting to see the world outside Alan's office, one that the other four love as well, but weather has to be Second's favorite part.
Visually it's no different than watching it on a video, he supposes. But there's something special about bridging that gap nevertheless. About someone you love holding you safe and intentionally showing you another aspect of their world.
There are storms in Minecraft too, of course. The skies grow thick with storm clouds dark enough to allow mobs to spawn even in the middle of the day. Rain pours down in sheets, heavier than normal rainfall. And, every once in a while, a bolt of white strikes somewhere at random.
Second watches the darkening sky from his perch on top of a nether portal, this one deep in a mangrove swamp. He was here with Red yesterday, looking for frogs, but today he has come back alone.
He doesn't like being alone. Not even a little. It always seems to be preceded by something terrible.
Rain starts to fall, and he thinks about how it felt. When Alan ended their tasks one by one, and Second felt something bright and hot flicker to life. When The Dark Lord tore them to shreds, and Second became a nova. Even when they simply waved goodbye in the nether, off on an adventure without him, Second’s mind couldn't help but drift to them, imagining things he couldn't possibly know.
He didn't want to go through that again, when his friends wanted to see what Purple had to show them. But he ended up alone anyway, after a fashion. Alone with only himself to talk to, at least until he made another friend.
But... he always found them again. Each and every time.
He got by on his own wits for most of it. But sometimes the magic played a part too, in more ways than he realized. As it turns out, just spontaneously knowing exactly what trouble his loved ones are in, or conjuring an imaginary version of himself to tell him what to do next to get out of a fix, isn't actually normal. But talking to himself, showing himself his own ideas, started to feel more familiar in his dreams, down at the center of it all.
Thunder rolls. Second isn't scared of it ‒ he's seen it in the human world too, and it's the same. Just energy meeting energy, like a pencil scribbling across the sky.
Lightning strikes‒
Who do I want to be?
‒and he leaps.
There is life in his hands, brilliant citron light that carries him up, out, in. He finds his friends with a thought ‒ Green, who pumps a fist when he sees him, shouting encouragement. Red, who runs, grinning, along the ground to match him as he flies. Another blink, and there's Blue, who laughs as she floats up to meet him under a levitation spell. Second grabs her with one electric hand, causing her to whoop as he spins her around. Yellow balances on the command staff as he soars up to catch her, but has nothing on the way Second zips from place to place.
He can be anywhere, anything, everyone. And it's huge, overwhelming, but he does not drown. His friends, everyone who loves him, they all hold him in their minds. Through their eyes, Second remembers himself.
They're all there, with him always. He will never be lost again.
Sudden as a thunderclap and soft as a wish, Second moves through realities, briefly everywhere until he finds something singular once again. Someone who knows him.
In the Outernet, where all the world’s stick figures dwell, Chosen flies along an empty stretch of wide open plains at top speed, leaving sonic booms in his wake that rustle the tall grasses. Second appears beside him, matching him for speed, then outstripping him. The other stick’s eyes go wide with surprise, then elation. Chosen grins and puts on another burst of speed, taking joy as always pushing himself further and further. In being exactly himself in the company of someone who understands.
Together they fly, doing loops and cartwheels and helixes in the air. Second moves, and takes his brother with him ‒ to high above the city, where they leap with spark and flame across the roofs of skyscrapers. Slide down the mirrored edge of a building, and then they're miles away in a dense woodland, dodging tree trunks as they race along the forest floor. Another blink and it's endless ocean, nothing but sea and sky, the unbroken line of the horizon extending in all directions.
Chosen dips in and out of the water, bringing it back up with him in tidal waves that crash back down with impossible noise. Second shoots up along one of them, leaving a cascading rainbow in the prismatic spray of his wake.
They each whoop their own private joys at the tops of their lungs, alone together in a world that can find them only at their indulgence.
‒
And the universe said you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code.
‒
The cracks in the land have grown over, now. Rain has washed topsoil in, bringing moss and grass. The place where green light split the earth from shore to peak is hardly recognizable as a site of some great showdown between the forces of good and evil, even if the reality was nothing so fairytale. There was no evil here, and certainly no good. But they've learned, and... Second thinks it's time.
He talked it over with the others, of course. Green thought he was completely off his rocker to even consider it. Yellow was nervous. Blue was openly angry. Red, though... Red agreed. And it might not have been fair, exactly, to give his opinion more weight on this particular topic, but it seemed like they all agreed it should. So that was that.
Alan immediately offered backup if something went wrong, which was... well, it was the wrong thing to say with Chosen in the room, and it took some doing to get them all back on the same page.
Alex asked a lot of questions, trying to determine whether this was motivated by guilt. And... yeah, it's something adjacent to guilt, but nonetheless not the same thing. Maybe ‘responsibility’ is a better word, though that doesn't quite cover it. And ‘duty’ overshoots the mark by a wide margin, so that's not it either. ‘Kindness’ and ‘mercy’ pull it back to center, but are simply too... squishy for Second to make himself understood.
In a roundabout way, it might be about forgiveness.
Boundaries have been drawn, very specific rules that go into place immediately if he succeeds. Chosen rankled, impatient, at the long discussions, but he's learned ‒ rules are not the same as a tether, not if they're agreed to. To interact in safety is its own kind of freedom.
Chosen prays he can make her see that, this time.
Everything he should have said, everything he failed to see... oh, he doesn't dare hope for this, and yet he agreed to try almost without thinking.
He sat with Second for hours at a time, holding taut all the buzzing pieces of himself yearning to reach a flashpoint. They spent days sifting through it all, reading the trace imprint of a twin soul inside Chosen's. Trying to identify and separate the right fragments of code, the parts of him that mirrored what he saw and felt the moment he took her hand.
Second felt her imprint when he took Chosen's hand in turn, that day. And with that memory... he might be able to do this.
He's drawn stick figures before ‒ thin, wispy things that do little but extend his reach. Placeholders for himself, in a sense. The sticks Second draws are himself, sort of, though words like extensions or parts of himself don't quite cover it. Versions, maybe? He couldn't explain it to Alex, a long time ago, and he still can't explain it now.
Chosen spent a very long time picking out the exact shade of red.
And it's complicated. It's a risk. There's a high likelihood that it won't work at all, or if it does, it won't be the same person.
But Second thinks back to what he said to Chosen, and Alan, and all of his friends. Not in the same words, and not in the same ways. But over and over again, endlessly.
Down at the center of it all, he picks up the strings. Circles and lines.
Here, he holds a pencil, color carefully selected, and holds someone else's memory of a loved one close in his mind. Dark’s true self, unaltered, free of commands and constraints.
This, he thinks, eyes aglow with unbridled life. This is what I want to be.
Hope in his chest and heart in his throat, Second begins to draw.
‒
And the universe said I love you...
‒
There are stick figures in Alex's Minecraft world.
Well. Probably.
They certainly seem like simple drawings at first glance, but they aren't just stick figures. Not can it be said that the world they inhabit belongs to just Alex. Somehow, through some magic that she has neither the capacity nor the desire to understand, everything they touch comes alive, and everywhere they go becomes home. The place they and a million others have constructed together spans the world, is the world. That's miraculous, in her eyes.
We are all too small and temporary things, compared to the universe. A universe that, if you stop and listen with the intent to understand, may whisper in a still, small voice. From titan ravagers to dolphin queens, from endless spider-infested mineshafts to one very exploded woodland mansion, Minecraft is a sandbox. Infinite possibilities.
(world without end, amen.)
To Alex, the spontaneous emergence of life in a hostile place is the most beautiful mystery, as is the blooming seed of love in barren soil. Both spread far and wide, faster and faster, and neither needs any explanation; she can see that it is good. To witness it grow has been the greatest privilege of her life. Humans, knowingly or not, molded the world of stick figures, an entire civilization folded into pockets of data. And the stick figures, in turn, built their own interconnected world in an 8-bit game.
Unbelievable.
Alex's Minecraft avatar is still just an avatar. She plays with the sticks, talks to the villagers, and expands her desert oasis, but she is limited in her expression. Jumps, crouches, waves. Communicating in frustratingly slow paces with books and signs ‒ she's only human, after all. Visiting a world she was not meant to inhabit. But she goes there all the same. It's a privilege to observe and assist these little lives, going about the business of life without a care for what's bigger than them. It makes sense, then, that what is bigger must limit itself in order to even try to walk among them, but it's worth it.
It's so, so worth it.
The nether is a true hub of activity now. Ambassadors from villages in the overworld, bearing gold necklaces or rings, will trade resources or barter for safe passage with piglin tribes. Cooperation and trade thrives between all the places the sticks have called home ‒ from the Raid village where the Chef resides, to Alex's own desert village, to the transformed dragon's nest on the Mac. A few villagers even migrated to an ancient city deep underground, eager to rebuild a civilization that exists only in the memory of its last Warden.
Purple knows all the villagers by name, of course. They're so clever and dedicated and desperate to be needed, though the latter is fading fast. They and Alex make a game of stealing and hiding resources from each other, often with teasing little messages left behind that may or may not hide a clue.
Second is so curious about the natural world that Alex has snuck him into her classroom a few times just to give him the experience. She wasn't offended when he fell asleep twice. He's a daydreamer at heart, with lofty ideals and humble pursuits, and a heart so big that if you looked down his throat, you could see the entire universe.
Chosen... oh, Chosen. Alex has never thought about kids of her own, but her love for that boy just keeps on growing. And she must be pretty obvious about it if her facebook and youtube algorithms have picked up on it ‒ they've started recommending videos about fostering. If he ever calls her computer his home then Alex would consider it a privilege. Chosen is honorable, honest, and unbreakable. Words can't describe how proud she is of how far he's come.
Stick figures are stand-ins for proper characters. These people are anything but. The biggest personalities she's ever seen, filled to bursting with complexities and contradictions, all packaged down into tiny, colorful stick bodies. Green, flashy and confident, with the skills to back it up, funny and trouble-making and just a little bit wise. Yellow, crafty and curious, supportive and steady, always ready with a solution to a problem, whether he caused it or not. Blue, deeply moral, a bit dramatic, scatterbrained and laser-focused by turns, with a never-ending cycle of impressive hobbies. Red, excitable and intuitive in a way that can be easily mistaken for impulsiveness, innocently fierce and powerfully kind.
(She can imagine additions, someday. Maybe someone colored a vivid scarlet, gregarious, driven, and rather too clever for her own good. Perhaps someone colored like the densest stormcloud, shy and standoffish, but generous above all things. It seems unlikely, but possible. Alex would call it well underway.)
Alex had no idea what she was getting into, then, but really, she should have known: these simple stick figures are impossible not to love. Love is what they are.
They know that the universe is kind.
...because you are love.
