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Chosen and Dark have been, certainly, for a long time. They were made for each other, their souls perpetually intertwined in the dance of life as they could only move forward from what one could say were “humble beginnings,” though maybe other descriptors would be more accurate to their wonderfully unique experiences made for only them.
They began bruised and bleeding, one clenching lightly burned fists and another trembling in fear, eyes blurred and halfway covered as they tried to protect their head and delay certain death. The two began in searing, tearing rage as the god of their computer simply left them to fight until death like desperate animals, never seeing beyond the here and now and surviving another hour. They began in escaping, clawing and ripping at the fabric of the world until they broke free, the wind screaming in their ears and pulling them and taking them away to freedom. They began falling.
The sky was beautiful. It still is, really. The stars above gathered in clusters and strings, swirling in the vast expanse. Millions of little bits of light dappling the black and coming together to bring just enough gentle illumination to see. Orange and yellow and red from black and red hands, the rest of their bodies just along for the ride as they watched the earth below them rush by. It’s like the pain of before no longer exists; they’re free. They didn’t pay too much attention to where they were going, simply side by side and intertwined and living and breathing and loving and hating.
They landed eventually in soft grass, and Chosen then decided that said grass was his favorite feeling. The two laughed despite the nearly overwhelming pain, holding onto each other with claws dug into flesh and blood and sweat mixing into a watered-down red. In the tight grip and embrace, Dark eventually speaks for the first time since the two first met, his voice hoarse and breaking but still soft and warm.
He asks “Who are you?” into Chosen’s shoulder and Chosen doesn’t respond for a few moments, thinking through hollow years of confined spaces and broken ankles and the world around him going dimmer by the second. A short hum left his lips before he finally found the words. “I’m not sure.”
Dark let out a sound between laughing and coughing (or maybe it was a mix of both), and tore himself away from Chosen’s hold on them and their own on him, licking split lips.
“Well, uhm... huh?” Dark can’t seem to keep himself from continuing with his warm laughter and smiles, and Chosen likes that, though not quite able to reciprocate. “I guess… Maybe I was too, what’s the word,” He gestures with his hand, his sharp, black nails glinting in the light of the stars. Chosen thought it looked nice. Maybe he just thought everything was nice, because they had escaped, and Dark was there, and Chosen liked Dark. “Oh, vague!” Dark picks up talking again. “Maybe I was too vague. So, what’s your name? What should I call you?”
“You asked the same thing twice.” Chosen couldn’t help but notice, and the acknowledgement slipped out before he could realise what it is that’s leaving his mouth. “It’s fine, though,” he quickly corrected himself. “Name’s The Chosen One. I guess… Chosen, if you want it to be easier.”
Dark’s thinking hum is also warm, at least moreso than Chosen’s. Chosen figured it was because their voice wasn’t as damaged. “Well, nice to meet you, Chosen. I’m The Dark Lord. Dark. You can call me Dark.”
And so the two beaten, near-broken figures, flesh and blood and bones held close, now named Chosen and Dark, settled in the soft and comforting, but still wildly growing foliage.
Dark patted down the grass and fern, and his fingertips brushed against a fuzzy white. He brought his nails down to the dirt, digging the small plant out so very gently as if it would break apart and die if he wasn’t as careful. He holds it up and observes each fuzzy, white piece of whatever this is, pulling one singular one out between his fingers.
“I think you’re s’posed to blow them off,” Chosen pipes up from about a foot away, leaning back on his hands and staring at the open night sky. “I read along with something he was reading once. So… yeah. You blow them off. The flower’s called a dandelion, ‘nd those are the seeds.”
Dark looked over, pivoting his body a bit to face their companion, his face one of confusion. Chosen smiled at them, though, and they took that as convincing enough and blew the seeds off the dandelion, the wind picking them up, swirling them in the cool air and carrying them off into the distance. In grounds far away, seeds land and grow and weeds choke out life.
Dark keeps the stem between his fingers, observing every part of it to the best of their ability. Chosen practically drags himself over to Dark’s side, leaning on them and watching at every little thing they do. Dark eventually splits the stem down the middle, claws digging deep and tearing. It’s a peaceful tearing, though, the seeing of the inner workings of something no longer.
The end of this observing led into the two falling into closed eyes, slow, even breathing, consciousness slipping away in the warmth of the other and the world fading out, for it did not matter in this moment.
The house they ended up with was never the most great and elegant thing, but Chosen and Dark made it their home, their place of solace and protection. They had the typical rooms that one would expect, plus the upstairs observatory that, yes, was both of theirs, but was primarily used by Dark over the years. They hadn’t made their home perfect by any means, but it was theirs and they were together.
One day, when the sun’s heating glow was hidden back behind increasingly black clouds, Chosen and Dark had been gathering materials from the town closest to the thick, cozy wooded area they had made their home in. Neither of them particularly enjoyed town runs – the place was noisy and oftentimes bright, the fluorescent lights specifically making Dark want to “blast my eyes out,” and the people gave them wary looks – but this one had gone more positively than the typical. They held bags that they had from many trips to the grocery store ago in one hand, then each other’s second ones, their fingers laced together.
“...y’know, they really shouldn’t’ve gone that direction. Like, all that character development now pretty much for nothing? I could’ve done better by, like, just thinking for ten minutes!”
Dark had been on a rant about some book series that Chosen didn’t remember the name of for their whole journey back, how the author didn’t do anything right, something, something… It’s not that Chosen wasn’t paying attention, but Dark’s words have a way of blending together, three or four becoming one mix of sounds. That and the clouds overhead, the wind picking up, and the clear incoming rain. Chosen loved hearing Dark talk, but right now there’s a priority. Chosen figured that it’d be about 20 more minutes of walking before they reached their house, and with how the clouds looked, they’d likely have to pick up the pace to get inside before the rain hit. Dark squeezed Chosen’s hand after a bit of his contemplating, and while at first Chosen assumed it was because he wasn’t really listening to them, they were actually pointing out the scene around them. It was perfect dandelion season, and with the wind blowing through everything with the force to rip leaves off trees, the seeds are now all leaving at once, dancing in the air in the same way they did that first night. Chosen and Dark stood hand in hand now, watching the beauty around and feeling the memories flooding. Seeds land and grow and weeds choke out life.
“It’s prob’ly gonna rain soon,” Chosen said after he felt the two have had ample time to see, squeezing Dark’s hand. Claws dug into flesh. Dark nods in response, the wind growing more violent and ripping away leaves like a desperate animal, trying to break apart the earth. The two started to run through the field without a single word exchanged, their feet hitting the trampled-down grass and fern, worn down that way from the often back and forth on that path only. “Don’t worry, we’re totally gonna beat the rain home,” Dark said, his legs going back and forth endlessly like a machine, pulling them forward and crushing down anything that dared to still stand on their path.
Nature, however, waits for no man, and Chosen and Dark found themselves, twelve minutes later, in their house and soaked through with rain. Dark took Chosen’s grocery bag as he pulled the door closed against the wind, keeping the cold out and the world away. They spent that night with fire from their hands and soft fabric in surrounding.
Newgrounds was somewhere most had at the very least heard of; a place many came from, the breath of life forming through line after line of code and thumbnail and constant, unforgiving frames moving forward, forward. But Chosen and Dark are more unforgiving than the wound up strings of fate, even, fire coursing through increasingly calloused hearts and broken up veins, arteries. The attack was hardly prepared for, simply eyes shining through strands of hair, somewhat singed at the tips, and crescents indented into rough palms, silent communication and two beaten, near-broken figures, flesh and blood and bones tearing everything apart.
The people there, going about their daily lives in the innocence one possesses when one is under the impression that their life is not in danger, didn’t see anything coming. They wouldn’t be able to, really, information travelling via word of mouth from other sites tended to get lost among the feral, primal terror and dwindling number of surviving individuals. So when fire rained down and ash coated the ground and the buildings and the insides of the poor walking animals’ throats, the sky blacking out and the deep, searing burn glowing, they were utterly helpless, like ants scattering from their nest as a stick is sharpened at the tip and forced in. Chosen and Dark hide from the world as terror reigns, intertwined in flight as the world starts to char and fall off at the edges. Buildings are falling and civilians gathering close, whatever they can find of a military assembling with firearms and a desperate desire to survive just this day. Chosen and Dark, gathering fire in their hands and too much time of anger in all the rest of them, do not fulfill this desire for many.
“C’mon, c’mon, get down! Down, down here, they’re gonna see you!”
“Wait- No, they’re out there! We have to save them, look, they’re trapped under some stuff!”
“Get up! Run! Go find safety!”
“C’mon, we have to go! Stop just sitting there!”
Shouts are exchanged, names are called, and everything the animals have known burns to the ground. A high five on hot metal finalises the massacre and the strings of fate tighten around two people’s necks. Dark ignited palms and only god knows what they did; Chosen simply stood, assessing the damage, eyes scanning over the deep, penetrating burns melting down, taking in the pain. Hair sticking to his sweat-soaked neck, clothes touched by flame enough times to eat back the ends of his sleeves, Chosen feels a bit of this pain. Not enough of it, however, to do anything about it. He claws away fate’s noose and joins Dark in their perpetual intertwined dance.
“Dark, do you think we’re bad people?” Chosen asked this once, in the dead of night, as the cold wind blew past two upright animals, silhouetted by stars, the beauty never fading but the eyes progressively losing their perception.
“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s that simple, would you?” Dark replied, their claws dug into the dirt and torn out grass strewn about around their hands. “Like, I’d be inclined to say no. I think more people’d be inclined to say no, ‘cause we want to protect our image, or don’t want to accept something, et cetera, et cetera… But, y’know, things have happened.” They shrug, pulling one of their hands out of the earth to push their hair out of their face. They turn their head to look Chosen in his dulling red eyes, a smile just as warm as the ones from when the two first met crossing their face. “I don’t think I’m really a good judge of morality, but I’d say we’re doing fine.” Their voice is warm too, and if Chosen closes his eyes, he can imagine they’re back in the place they first landed, introducing themselves and holding each other through the night.
Chosen does close his eyes, and Dark rests their head on his shoulder to ease a bit of the tension. Chosen can no longer see the blood pooling, hear the people screaming, or smell the smoke.
Winter comes quickly, the leaves falling from the trees and decaying on the cold, hard earth below, the breaking apart hand of the cold gripping around everything and strangling things to death, leaving nothing behind but bones. Chosen and Dark had started to limit their town trips and bring home more at one time, both because of the cold and the constant paranoia clawing at their chests that someone will recognise them. So they were now curled up in the observatory, watching the snow gently fall and coat the ground in a thin white blanket that chokes the grass and blocks out whatever of the precious sunlight still remains.
“He’s still out there,” Dark murmured, and Chosen pretends that he didn’t immediately know who they’re referring to and stiffened up at the mere thought of him. Before he can even get a word out, though, Dark continues. “I mean… Yeah, you obviously know who. But I jus’… I dunno how to keep on knowing he’s still there and, like, he has a new computer now for gods’ sake!”
Chosen takes Dark’s hand and digs claws into flesh. Dark reciprocates.
“What’re you gonna do about this?” Chosen eventually manages to get out after a long time of sad, choked up silence, his voice rough and cracked. Dark lies, picking their words carefully with an even tone. “I’m not sure yet. But, y’know… we always find a way.” Maybe it wasn’t a full lie, really, they might not have been fully sure of a plan in that specific moment, perhaps only a bit of an idea that had been forming in the back of their mind during the past weeks. But the reassurance that came from the idea that Dark didn’t have any fully formed plans of horrific violence didn’t last forever. The strings of fate refused to let go, leaving behind red, angry wounds and the burns of tightening around the neck. The wind outside starts to blow bits of snow inside, and Chosen and Dark share a glance, sad eyes losing their glow meeting each other in the cold.
“Feels like it gets cold faster every year,” Chosen commented, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was entirely referring to the weather. Dark wasn’t either, but they stayed quiet and simply left the room seeking the warmth that left his voice and smiles. Chosen sat in the cold a while longer, staring out and watching things die.
Dark’s work was beyond exhausting, his eyes strained past the point he thought was possible and graphite-smudged hands cramping from sketches and notes piling up on the desk in the observatory. That being said, it was finally starting to pay off, with the ViraBot now being able to perform simple tasks like walking a few feet, and more recently, summoning a blade with the capability of disintegrating computer-made matter. Dark ran through all the code he has thus far, his eyes hardly able to stay open from – he checks the time on the corner of his computer – their twenty-one hour shift of coding and drawing and note-taking. They didn’t go scan back through everything like they normally would, this time just stumbling down the stairs and all but collapsing in their room, falling on the soft fabric of their dark, bug-themed bedding that they hadn’t washed in quite a while. They ignore the way their matted hair feels on the back of their neck, itching and dirty and tangled up way more than it should be, and make a mental note to at least start on that before continuing on the ViraBot. Dark pulls a blanket over his body with an aching hand, warmth starting to seep into his body and relieve the burden of conscience. They reassured themself that it will be okay and Chosen will be happy now that he will be one, as one does when faced with a moral dilemma about something one is making. Dark’s last fleeting thoughts are of them and Chosen out in their field, by their woods, watching the stars and celebrating victory at last, and sending off dandelion seeds like they always did, as one does to comfort oneself. In the back of their mind, weeds choke out life.
In the coming weeks, Chosen finally convinced himself that all the things he had been thinking about Dark and how they weren’t the same was unreasonable and really, nothing had changed at all besides things getting more peaceful, a good thing, a thing Chosen liked. He convinced Dark to take a break from his project, taking their now calloused but still somehow soft and gentle hand in his and taking the two of them outside. There was a bit of a heat wave going through, melting the snow and scratching, biting, and kicking until the cold’s chokehold slipped away and let some of the scars it left stitch themselves back together. The hardened earth is now wet, the blood of the sky seeping into the cracks and nourishing the broken-down grass, reaching up to the surface to have even a fraction of a chance at survival in this fleeting break in the cruelty of the winter. Chosen and Dark don’t sit down anywhere. But they do walk through the vast expanse of forest, the skeletons of trees and burning, melting grass and fern, and the clouds above, a brighter white than typical for this deep into the cold.
“Y’know, you really need to get out more,” Chosen said, his smile reaching his eyes in a way it hadn’t in a good while and the red of his eyes looking, even if just for a moment, a little less faded.
Dark scoffed, though there was not even a hint of bite behind it, their tone almost cautiously nice and neutral and yes, yes, everything is fine. Not to say they weren’t actually happy with the circumstances and willing to make jokes, as they were, but Chosen still picked up on something slightly off. “Says the one that I practically had to drag outside because ‘it’s so dirty out there, you know what you can get from whatever all’s out there?’” And just like that, the little bit off disappeared from Dark’s voice and they and Chosen were laughing and joking again like they used to. Dark watched the way Chosen smiles and decided to mimic it, their own eyes already shining in the eased tension and casual conversation for the first time in gods know how long, but now even moreso, even if just to make Chosen happy. Dark noticed they did that a lot, but that’s okay because soon they’ll have something to both be celebrating and then Dark will not have to try as hard, and he and Chosen will just enjoy things like the old times, and in the distance, weeds will choke out life.
“Y’know, I think you’re really gonna like what I’ve been working on, once it’s all done,” Dark said, and Chosen smiled again, which led Dark to take his hand, holding it so very gently as if they were afraid of hurting him (though, they likely were). Chosen squeezed it in response and they took the message that being so careful wasn’t necessary, for it was just the two of them and nothing had come between that in a long while now. Dark grips Chosen’s hand tighter and runs, feeling his legs burn.
Dark has had, to their agony, “episodes” for as long as they can remember, in which the dull headache behind their eyes grows and their eyes lose their focus and then their color, and Dark’s shattered mind has only one thought, and that is to kill and destroy until blood coats the floor and there is a crimson-soaked body on the floor.
mission.The_Dark_Lord = destroy(The_Chosen_One)
Dark has come to learn that gods don’t play fair, and that they were created for that very reason. They were deeply imbedded with the instinct to kill, kill, kill, and that instinct cannot be pushed aside forever, for it's always there, watching, waiting, clawing at the back of Dark’s mind until it finally creates enough of a weak spot to take their body over, catching them by surprise and leaving a path of blood and entrails away from the shambles of a relationship. Chosen understood, of course, but that doesn’t mean he was always the slightest bit on edge, never quite trusting them enough to not look over his shoulder one last time.
The most recent of these episodes happened outside in their field, while Chosen and Dark were soaking up the sun before it hid away for the next few days, never daring to show its face even if to save lives. Dark felt the pain going through his head and then stabbing through their chest, their eyes blurring and unfocusing and their hands clenching harder into fists than Dark ever remembers them doing, which certainly was saying a lot with how their life had been going up to that point. The bout of chest tightening, legs feeling like they wouldn't hold them up, and feeling every perception their senses could pick up heightening, it almost felt like they were just on the verge of a meltdown and could tell Chosen so the two could go inside and Dark could cry as much as he needed and then go rest. But as they felt their thoughts slipping away and being replaced by constant drive and violent initiative, they wanted to scream and run and tell Chosen to try to fix them, their last one being one of choking anxiety of how to apologise to him afterwards. They were completely lost by the time they, no, it turned its head to meet Chosen’s eyes, two pairs of burning red colliding and Chosen’s expression instantly snapping into one of the same paralysing fear he had seen so many times in so many people over the years. It did not respond to this expression, though, eyes trained on the neck to connect fangs to the jugular and tear apart flesh. Chosen has seen and felt and lived through enough of these episodes to time his backing away perfectly with its lunge, their bodies momentarily suspended in what could seem like a graceful dance, the strings of fate tied around their limbs like they’re marionettes jerked back and forth endlessly. It has learned to be smart enough not to fall completely on the ground, now taking tight hold onto Chosen’s arm mid-fall, claws digging into flesh. Chosen turns and tries to push back, and is still however, met with teeth sunken into his neck. A bit too low, however, as it hadn’t had proper position and time to hit that perfect, deadly spot. Chosen gasped in enough air to not completely lose his footing, and with the most strength he has (though not all that much, as one tends to not have their full strength when something is latched onto one’s neck), pushed its head down enough to get it disconnected and on the ground where he can handle it and not be killed and save Dark. Deep, searing and crimson tears trail down the side of Chosen’s neck after, though he hardly even notices the violent ripping through flesh as it happens. Dark noticed. Through the fog, the acknowledgment of progress towards their programmed task reached them. It made them sick, and they wanted to do something, anything to make it stop and to help Chosen. He choked out a guttural scream and broken up “no,” tears forming and flowing and again-black eyes meeting red.
Chosen takes his chance and Dark is brought to the ground, pinned and as close to fully restrained as Chosen can manage. Blood streams down a torn neck and drips slowly, carefully onto the vicious animal below. It returns and thrashes and tries with everything in it to break away and destroy(The_Chosen_One) and. A sharp pain to the face turned the world darker, blackening and burning around the edges until nothing remained.
Dark woke up the next day with a concussion, Chosen silent, and an unspoken, but deafeningly loud understanding of what had happened.
The ViraBot project took longer than Dark had hoped, leading to countless more unreasonably long times at his computer typing line after line of code, deeply integrated commands that it could never go against no matter how hard it tried and tried to desperately break through the barrier and stop. But, with the sun shining through the open wall of the observatory, the birds singing, and Dark’s eyes hurting more than what they thought should be possible, it was finally complete. Dark mentally ran through every last detail of all the mechanisms, inner workings of his wonderful, beautifully destructive masterpiece of a creation, and prepared to leave the observatory after what felt like years and years of constant research, when, oh. Chosen opened the door, his hand lingering on the cool metal of the handle for a few tentative moments before he finally stepped in the room.
“Uh… what’s this?” Chosen asked, and Dark’s eyes lit up, deep void glistening and bright, cutting teeth exposed. Crescents indented into palms, though not for the usual reason of deep-rooted rage tearing into his chest and clawing at their skin for release. They took Chosen’s hand and pulled him forward, for a moment the universe acknowledging them as one as skin touches without breaking, suspended in space and time and everything melting away, and nothing else matters. The sun was shining and Dark was talking excitedly, explaining the ViraBot and all its components, abilities, and finally, the purpose and goal they’d been working towards this whole time. However, this wonderful moment did shatter, as does anything that ties the two in any way outside of the violent, ugly tightening of fate’s strings.
“...And while this is really just for him, just think how this could help outside that!” Dark’s words weren’t exactly innocent per se, but nevertheless still not designed to send Chosen’s mind spiralling in the way it did, instantly breaking through and surfacing the sickly smell of smoke and blood mixing together into the black liquid of loss of life. The images burned a gaping hole through his head, and there would never be a way for them to ever leave either of them, really. Dark did not intend to bring any of this back and push Chosen underwater and hold him there in desperation and panic. This happened, however, and Chosen did not realise Dark had even moved until they were already across the room and standing before what appeared to be capable of shooting with force greater than Chosen would want to think about, tipped with red and aimed up towards the heavens.
Dark loaded the ViraBot into it, now encased in a shiny red pod, nicely wrapping it all up together. A circular cutout opened and closed, swallowing the pod alive and keeping it held until ready for use, ready to turn everything to dust, withering each chunk, line, word, letter, byte of code until nothing remained. Chosen’s feet, for once, were not nailed to the ground and he could pick them up and dart himself over to Dark and try to talk some sense into them. They didn’t seem to realise that Chosen wasn’t entirely convinced of the use of this project, to put it lightly. To not put it lightly, he was still shaken down to his core as burns trail up his arms from palms past ignited for death. Dark typed in a few buttons and the first thing Chosen could think to do to deter them was shoving them over to the side, drawing a confused look from the other.
“Uh, hello…? What’s that for?”
“Dark you- You need to stop this!”
“Wha- Why?” Dark said, and they laughed. Gods, they laughed, and Chosen wanted to scream. “It’s not like anyone’s gonna get killed or anything, not like… Pf, it's not like Newgrounds, you don’t have to have a whole meltdown like you- we did after that one.”
The “we” was likely carefully added after the initial thought of their message came out; Chosen had seen Dark cry all along with him after the Newgrounds attack really hit the both of them and really, it gave Dark a bit of an advantage now in the argument of how much they actually care about human life lost, incinerated and turned to ash. Dark kept their same perplexed but amused expression, though it falters a bit as Chosen’s panic becomes tinged with anger.
“Dark, no, you can’t, you wouldn’t, we… You need to stop! Just stop!” Chosen is practically pleading, his palms pressed sharply against the side of the attached keyboard and leaving reddish lines in charred, deeply cut into hands, the strings of fate leaving similar marks around his neck, cutting into skin and aiming for the jugular.
Dark reached to press the button, fingers a moment away, centimeter above smooth plastic and closing in to finish the blow and pierce through worn-down skin.
The next sensations they felt were a firm grip felt deep into their arms, the world blurring around them, quick, harsh contact with the cool tile floor, and the rather abrupt presence of blood in their mouth. Fate’s strings tie in a knot around their wrists and they push themself up to their feet. Punches were exchanged between beaten, near-broken figures, flesh and blood and bones turned against one another from the very dawn of time. Flashes of light, energy, walls shattering; the sketches and initial plans for the ViraBot fluttered down to the floor, ash piling and distorting pictures.
One could argue for either Chosen or Dark winning in this scenario, Dark pressed the button and sent off the ViraBot to end a long-standing enemy, but not without Chosen sending their own self off, now leaving them alone and without resistance to fix anything he’d please. One tends to do this, pick out a clear winner in a conflict between individuals, find a hero to commend and villain to put one’s effort towards destroying. In this case, however, one could also argue that no one won.
Warmth rushed through Chosen’s palms and, after a moment of hesitation fueled by past events once thought to be pushed down and buried years ago, he found himself in the August sky, the sun’s rays cutting through the clouds to burn themselves into Chosen’s skin. And in the moments coming, he learned that the vast expanse of sky, endless and beautiful in blues and purples too many to count, is more of a ceiling, simply keeping life down and distracted. The implications hurt more than the impact.
Dark as well was thrown against a hard surface with much force, though this pain was paired with that of a small-scale explosion hitting their back, skin likely destroyed in a way they didn’t even want to try looking at. The scenery around them, feeling almost appearing two-dimensional as if some sort of set placed all around them hadn’t stopped moving since Chosen and thrown them – they’re just now realising that he had done that specifically and that it was why everything no longer felt real – and with the stabbing headache that quite literally felt like someone had shoved a knife in them, breaking apart skull and severing away brain tissue, they could hardly stand. They did pride themself in having a pain tolerance high enough that they could just wipe the blood off and continue on, but at this point their day had been bombarded with enough that they, even being themself, could recognise that their awkward and quite opposite of graceful stumbling into their hideaway of a small building was the right move. Backed away far into a corner, Dark lets sharp, heavy breaths turn to sob as the world collapses and the strings of fate tighten and cut in until they draw blood.
Chosen does not like the way his body feels as he comes back from the cold, dark box of the PC; his eyes are strained, doubling with every turn of them, his back still aches up and down from spine embedded, and his legs feel as if they could never hold him up again, trembling as he even thinks of taking a step. But when the kids that now lived on the PC bowed at his feet, repeating praises and thanks for saving their lives, Chosen straightened up and for a moment savored every last word as finally, for the first time, he had done something right. He did not notice as the kids followed behind him into the once-beautiful field and forest and lake he had built his home in so many years ago. He sees the strings of fate tie themselves around each of the kids, constricting them and cutting them off at their throats. No one else seems to notice the blood dripping from their mouths.
Dark has not really been, in all of their time of living, one to account for collateral damage. They are calculating, yes, weighing pros and cons to a nearly unnecessary degree. They watch conversations carefully to make sure every last word, movement, expression matches up and draws no red flags. Innocents’ involvement, however… in all pure honesty, they often can’t bring themself to care when someone involves themself in someone else’s problem and gets hurt as a result. Leaving the few that do not run and hide out of the equation simply gives them fewer variables and values to shift around. So as they stood at their console, fingers turned blue from strings pulled to suffocation dancing over the keyboard in not-quite elegance, they were not in preparation for five kids, terrified and soaked from the deep, sun-touched water. It isn’t like they were a high priority in the moment anyway, that would be Chosen, eyes burning and yet another punch. Dark almost would’ve laughed at this, if it wasn’t for them hitting their head on increasingly rough surfaces, opening wounds on their scalp and staining their already scarlet hair a tone darker. The exchange of bodily harm persisted in its ugly, age-old dance to no sog but the sound of the heart pumping life through the ears, two pieces of life connected for brief moments in fire, that above giving life and below taking away, flesh on flesh until melted, fused in the eyes of the universe until torn apart. Flipped over and washed out, Chosen and Dark are faced with each other again. Red eyes meet black, shaded by singed hairs and scar tissue; white teeth are bared and glinting off the sun, sabres and knives facing the world and threatening to tear into anything too close. Chosen and Dark are at one another’s level for a brief moment, tears trailing down faces and into mouths, enveloping numbed senses in the taste of salt. The strings of fate pull them into each other and salt mixes with iron.
The kids meant well, really, dragging their sore, cold bodies soaked through with water onto dry land, wishing they could take all the sun for themselves to dry the clothes clinging to their bodies, leaving nothing for all the rest. It was nothing more than self-preservation to hide in the nearest shelter as what appeared to be the gods fought to the death, blood and tears and torn skin. They did not come in to see the whole collective of ViraBots, all lined up in rows and poised to leave at a moment’s notice if they were only activated, but that is what they found. Red did not mean to cause the chaos she did when pressing the button she was presented with. And as panic overtook the five of them in the hearing of footsteps, it was among the ViraBots that they hid, fingers dug into concrete and breaths held. They did not come in to see Dark pull his bands on, reach up to heaven if only to curse it, and witness the embodiment of a paradox’s glowing void and deep-embedded bloodlust. This is what the kids were left with, though, fire and concentrated light.
Dark had spent seven years avoiding the touch of the god hiding behind a triangle, trying to attack from afar. They wouldn’t have said they were exactly surprised, though, when the image hit retina and photoreceptors and the mess of ideas that is the brain. That was, while decently shocking and opening more old wounds than Dark would’ve liked to admit, just another challenge. To the fear of the kids hiding around them, the ViraBots then woke up to aid their master, surrounding Dark once he recovered from the blood now covering the rocks of the cliff face. Dark watched, observed, and as he always does, took in and noticed; the god was clearly on Chosen’s side, helping him up and shielding him from any attack Dark tries to get in, the god transcending their coming from different angles; Chosen’s red-tinted scleras were less visible when the god had him covered, only Dark meeting his widest eyes. Dark gritted their teeth and brought forth their blade, plasma suspended in air surrounding their hands. Chosen and Dark spun and threw flames and circled the god, though reserving the worst of their weapons for only each other’s allies, silent connection in the dance still present as they propel and burn and sob through the ending of life, intertwined and living and breathing and loving and hating.
The kids of the shed watch on in horror as their god is destroyed before their eyes, and the strings of fate constrict and pull. Second ran on aching legs, each step sending stabs up through her feet and ankles through knees and thighs and neutralising through the rest of her body. The high god was down, but deities remained, closing in on each other and clawing out like cornered animals, desperate and terrified and with no other option but to attack. Second herself wasn’t any different, really, darting forward and bursting into another’s battle; somehow, though, in this moment, she did not care what sort of animal she’d become.
Dark’s eyes were once again meeting Chosen’s. They realise how much they note this, the way red and black feel as if touching in the void of space when it’s just the two of them in love and hate.
“I guess this could be the end, Chosen.” This was calm and calculating and everything they’d want in a statement of this kind, each word picked to give Chosen the sliver of hope needed to keep going, and all the menace needed to prove they were not backing down. “I’m sorry.” This, on the other hand, was not. Chosen just barely picked it up over the wind screaming and the ViraBots’ hissing and clicking, sounding almost natural, organic, but never quite reaching that mark, but the two locked contact the moment it slipped out and Dark once again tasted salt.
“Stay- Stay back!”
Dark did not look at Chosen again in his life after this moment. Their eyes trained on Second, this kid that joined the fight they were never supposed to be involved in, and the now-formed row of Red, Yellow, Green, and Blue in front of her. Dark landed his feet on the hard ground, feeling the impact through every nerve ending in his body. Their fists clenched and shook and a misstep later, they had one of the kids, Red, eyes wide and full of life even in this, in their hands. They did not hesitate in driving a blade through her, skin splitting and tearing and life draining into ones and zeros and blood coating hands, slipping through fingers and onto the ground.
Repeat process three times. The screams got louder every time, plasma cutting cleanly through with no resistance. Green, Blue, Yellow, three lives below them in the grand scheme of life’s strangling web, the apex predator tearing into the links below and breaking off the chain at the top.
Second was behind most of the loud screaming, that and sobbing until their throat was raw and painful and no more words would come out. They reached out to at least feel blood, the only remainings of friends no more, gone in an instant of violent, ugly action that only the worst of the world could ever go through with doing. Dark knew, in what they were doing, that this was true, and that he had promised Chosen that they would never do this, after he had been so shaken by the Newgrounds attack that he could only hold onto Dark and dig claws into flesh.
One would often think that empathy would stop a person from doing something along those lines. Really, empathy is nothing more than understanding another’s emotions, feeling them along with. One would not be wrong exactly to think this would stop a person from committing atrocities, a person would be less likely to hurt someone if they understand what their victim is feeling. One would not be correct about Dark, however.
Dark was not deterred by the stabs of fear and panic in through his chest as eyes unfocused and hands smeared blood of another onto small, shaking bodies, red blending in the clear of the lake water and staining soon to be torn fabric.
Second, in the moment plasma was forced through her body, hardly felt, only seeing the blade coming through the front, blood soaking into their hoodie, and the strings of fate cutting into her attacker’s wrists, neck, and her own entire body, arms frozen in place at her side and legs capable of nothing but falling. Blurs of bright red surround her and slashes cover her body, slicing cleanly through flesh, muscle, barely touching the white of bone, until she stops moving; also cut were fate’s constricting threads, now lying in a heap at her feet, caught on jagged rocks and unmoving.
Dark was now, after all of the years that had gone by leaving them behind, at the top of the world, all gods slain and the highest remaining deity assuming the throne. The ports opened along the cliff face, sites exposed for them to infiltrate, a virus entering a wound and breeding beneath the surface of the skin until it rots away. In the plan, weeds choke out life. Dark was not alerted to the presence of another until they were thrown upwards, towards the sun and the clouds and the earth’s ceiling, whiplashed and thrown out of orientation. During the moment in which the god fell, the highest deity had indeed taken the throne; Dark was correct in that. But as the blood dries on their hands and green light burns void-black eyes, they come to the awful, far-too-late realisation that she, The Second Coming in all her broken glory, was not the innocent prey; her green-sealed scars the wounds of a highest being. Dark’s blades retract and their approaching end sinks in, their heart pounding violently in their chest. The strings of fate tightened around their neck and the stool was kicked from beneath their feet. Light filled the sky and split apart a hill that had stood for millennia before, now torn down to the bone. Blast waves radiate outwards from an initial devastating explosion, singing grass and eating apart fallen wood for metres out. Seeded dandelions caught in the crossfire are blown away, and, resilient as ever in the wake of burning, weeds choke out life.
Screams rang out in the field nearby, grass no more and dirt surrounding a blacked body. They lasted for about ten minutes of agony, skin melting and bones settling into dust.
Chosen picked himself up, carried his bruised, battered body back to a home with a broken observatory, rooms exposed to the cruel, unforgiving world.
One could say Chosen and Dark has terrible, grand endings, their beautiful, broken dance once imagined to be neverending abruptly coming to a close in flames, the strings of fate no longer tying them together, though maybe words cannot encapsulate their wonderfully unique experiences made for only them. Skin fused from hands held years in time, torn apart violently left deep wounds exposed; no barrier remained to the viruses outside, all of which rotted away flesh slowly until there was no hiding the brokenness.
Chosen and Dark have not sat beside each other in a very long time, now years of time and painful deaths between the two. Dark is on their knees in the scuffed, white walls of the Box, flowers clutched to his chest; Chosen is on a grey chair, fastened to it with eyes covered. A singular lightbulb flickers above, gently swinging back and forth and brightness falling out.
“Y’know, I never knew they were flowers,” Dark says, letting all the dandelions spill out of his arms and onto the smooth flooring. “Thought they just… grew, made seeds, ‘nd died.” Dark’s voice is hoarse and breaking from last moments of screaming, but still warm, peaceful.
Chosen hums in response. “Well, good you know now.”
Dark picks up the golden yellow of one of the dandelions, holding the stem so very gently between his fingers. They brush their fingertips across the soft flower, careful not to hurt it. “I think there’s a lot of things I didn’t know.”
Chosen does not disagree, his mind pulling him through events too terrible to recount, bloodlust too strong to ever own and admit to either of the two possessing, acts committed that should never have even occurred as thoughts, even in their emotions formed from newfound freedom bordering on manic. Failures, events that would be categorised as successes in that time, tears and wounds and hating the world, and destruction left to happen regardless of agreement. Dark, in their time, did not know much; Chosen isn’t sure he did either.
“We should have done better.”
Dark takes Chosen’s hand, most of it covered in scar tissue but still, through everything, the same hand Dark had always held.
“Maybe. But I think you know by now I’m not one to come to for… morals. Think that’s your job, ‘tween the two of us. Besides, now you can only keep going. You’re all that’s left of us.”
“I’m not sure if I can do good, though.”
Dark makes a sound between laughing and coughing (or maybe it was a mix of both), loosening their grip on Chosen’s hand; Chosen grabs it back and they take the message.
“Well, can’t get much worse than 2011, can it?”
Dark has one seeded dandelion in all of them, its life cut short by a good month before the typical time for them to seed. He gives the dandelion to Chosen, opening his hand and placing the stem inside. Without a word, Chosen blows the seeds off and they flutter down, covering the floor near him.
There is no life to choke out.
“‘M not sure if I’ve said this before, but you’re definitely my favorite person,” Dark says, laying himself down on the smooth floor and flowers, humming softly to himself a song Chosen doesn’t recognise.
“Yeah, I’d say the same.”
The light eventually, after hours of swaying and flickering and creaking against the ceiling, runs out of life, engulfing the room in inky black void. Dark, the flowers, seeds; spirits sink into the floor, endless wandering ceasing in the serenity of closure found. Chosen feels warm hands brush against his neck a final time, pulling the strings of fate looser until they rest on his shoulders, no longer moving towards airways.
All is, certainly in this moment, at rest.