A/N: For the record, this is not my usual style of fic. AvA 11 is hopefully coming out the month after writing this, [+update at this Wattpad cross-post, it's releasing in three days!!!] so I'm going into this knowing it's gonna be immediately rendered incorrect. I love my AUs, but I much prefer writing them with knowledge of how canon ends/goes, to bring things full circle or to end the necessary conflicts in the right ways.
What I'm saying is this fic has a plot, but not really an ending??? Which I'm not a fan of, but ah well. If you read this and end up with a sick idea on how it could end, let me know I beg of you aaaah~
Anyway. I love these freaking lil stick figures. Guten appetit, ig (I'm not German)

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To err is human, or so they said.

Stick-figures were not human. But there was something in them beyond code, something that made them alive, and perhaps that was the same thing.

The Chosen One wasn't quite sure who 'they' were, whoever said that quote, but he had spent enough time across the internet in his stint as a personal pop-up blocker and in his... travels to have heard it at some point, so it didn't really matter.

Who-said-what-about-who aside, his point still stood. People eventually let their guard down. People eventually made mistakes.

Which meant: they couldn't keep him here forever.

It had been... roughly five days since his capture, as well as Chosen could tell. The origin-less light within the Box never turned off, which was... far more unnerving than he would ever admit to himself. Sleep was no accurate marker of time, nor was the food delivered to him. The food was given not infrequently but definitely irregularly, and he was sure that was just another of that grey bastard's tactics to leave him mentally unsteady.

Chosen hated the fact it was working. Just a little.

All the more reason to escape. He had to. And now, he had a plan. And it started like this:

Curled almost foetal in a back corner of the Box was a mildly agonising way to spend the past several hours, but it didn't concern Chosen much. He was already in pain from Victim's... visits. What was a little more?

That was something else that was on Chosen's list-of-reasons-to-get-out-of-here-immediately. Victim's tactics seemed to have changed, after that first fight where he beat Chosen near senseless and invaded his mind to plaster his memories on the wall.

(Why did he have to see that day again? He had spent every moment since trying not to relive it. He didn't want to see- see when Dark- when he- and now his best friend was-)

Victim had wanted noogai3- Alan. He wanted Alan. Chosen had no idea why. He didn't really care. He did care about the fact that Victim didn't seem to need Chosen anymore.

Sure, Chosen had had his memories invaded once or twice more since, but whatever was or wasn't there seemed obsolete to the grey Hollowhead, now. Chosen was a little concerned as to why. He was also a little concerned about what Victim did to things that were obsolete.

It was only par to the course that Chosen got the code kicked out of him in those visits as well. Just as a reminder. Just so Chosen couldn't forget how powerless he was.

Had he fought back? ...No. He hadn't. He told himself he hadn't because it was all a part of the plan, not because he couldn't.

See? That was the bad part of how his escape plan involved remaining motionless on the floor for an indefinite amount of time. You didn't have much way to stop dwelling on things.

(He could imagine Dark trying and failing to stay still for so long. UGH, Cho- couldn't you have made a plan that happens faster? I'm about to die for REAL. AGAIN. In the emptiness of the Box, it was almost like Chosen could truly hear his voice.

...He really did need to get out of here.)

He mustn't move, though. Chosen was sure he could be seen from the outside of the Box- something else he hated- so it was imperative he sold the illusion of his... injury? Oncoming death? Maybe they would think he had finally cracked and had gone brain-dead from having his head smashed against the floor one-too-many-times. It didn't matter what they thought. Just as long as it worked.

Blood dripped in a slow line, caressing the curve of his wrist with a bright line of red. It was what Chosen locked his gaze onto, intentionally unfocused to complete his listless image, trying not to think about how he was so damn glad to see any kind of colour other than the white of the walls, the dark of his skin, the blue of that lasso.

He had sharp teeth. It hadn't taken too much effort to pierce his skin enough for a suitable amount of blood to smear on his face in a way that looked concerning. Perhaps unnecessary, but he wasn't taking any chances.

The pain was not something he was stranger to- certainly not a problem. And now his illusion was complete; laying slumped against the wall, staring at nothing, scarcely breathing, completely motionless, smeared with blood.

If he had any kind of captor interested in keeping their prisoner alive, it would be enough to cause trepidation.

He hadn't fought back, not in ages. He has acted helpless. He hadn't tried anything. He had made his captors let their guard down. He could make them make mistakes.

He hoped, at least. This would only work once.

The whoosh of the hatch opening after so long waiting was enough to make his heart race. But beyond that, he did not move. Not yet.

The footfalls of a guard entered Chosen's perception. He did not hear the door shut again. That was mistake number one.

The guard set the cold, basic meal carelessly on the ground, watching Chosen for a reaction. Chosen didn't move- not even the pattern of his breathing. The guard grunted, a little confused. They didn't call for backup. Why would they, when the prisoner had been rendered harmless? -Mistake number two.

A pair of boots entered his peripheral, the guard wearing the grey of their boss like a uniform, as all these lackeys did. Chosen didn't bother wondering if this guy had a colour underneath, or if that had somehow been bleached from them when they joined this company. Maybe who they once were wasn't there anymore. Part of Chosen hoped so- it eased his broken morals over what he was about to do, at least.

One boot nudged his side roughly. Coming within Chosen's reach- that was mistake number three.

And really, one was enough.

He waited until the guard leant down, looking for signs of life, when Chosen launched.

One hand immediately covered the guard's mouth. A scream at this stage would be... inconvenient. He twisted the guard around with the other hand, locking his arm beneath the guy's chin into a headlock. The whole thing took a matter of moments, barely leaving a single second for the guard to react.

They were certainly reacting now- squirming in Chosen's super-Stick-strength grip and letting out muffled sounds going unheard beneath Chosen's hand. Whether they were threats, calls for help, or pleas for their life, Chosen didn't really care anymore.

Leaving behind nothing but a scattering of ash would have been ideal, but when Chosen summoned a fire into his palms... nothing happened. Heat licked at his palms, dying like a spark with nothing to burn.

He withheld a sigh. Of course. Just his luck, that his powers would decide to be difficult now. Inconvenient, but he could change plans easily enough.

He tucked the snapped body behind the console outside the Box. It wouldn't stay hidden for long- the Box was open and empty, for one, but he was out, and right now, that's all he cared about.

Now to get out of this damn building, and get as far away from it as he possibly could.

The door to this warehouse hangar was there- right there, leading to corridors and eventually an exit, but as much as he hated it, there was something Chosen couldn't leave without. Someone, to get specific.

In truth, Chosen had no damn idea where they were keeping the orange kid, but he could make a guess.

In moments that the door to the Box had been open, he had glimpsed a cell- over-glorified cage, really- across the room. In the times that door had opened, acquainting himself with the scenery hadn't particularly been his priority, but that was his only guess. If the kid wasn't there, getting out of here would be infinitely more complicated. So he would go with any guess he had.

There was another control panel beside the cell, producing readings like [SHUTTERS DOWN], and [LOCK ENGAGED]. At least these people were straightforward, Chosen appreciated as he hit the button that changed the reading to [DISENGAGED].

When he pushed the door open, however, he was met with darkness. Even as he stepped into the cell, there was no sign of the kid anywhere. Which was. Problematic.

That was, at least, until a solid weight landed on his shoulders from above, colliding painfully with his already abused body and knocking him hard to the ground.

The weight was gone just as fast and Chosen rolled, stumbling back to his feet just in time to grab ahold of the small, bright figure who was making a run for the open cell door.

Huh. Not a bad escape attempt, for a kid. Chosen was a little impressed.

He shoved the kid against the wall with one hand, the other miming to shh. Chosen still wasn't sure if there were any guards within hearing range. There would still be surveillance systems, which meant they were running out of time. Someone would have already noticed his absence.

The kid's eyes went wide, noticing who- exactly- had just entered their cell. They nodded, agreeing to silence, and Chosen released them from the wall.

Right. Chosen eyed the kid, before heading towards the door. Keeping his voice low, he gestured for them to follow. "Let's go."

Thank the Creator, the kid didn't protest. They both took off at a run across the desolate warehouse.

It was right about when they passed through the main door into the corridors beyond that an alarm began to blare. The flashing of a warning light reflected off another big door in their way, its unlock button entirely unresponsive.

The kid looked back to Chosen, those big eyes still wide. "What now? Do you have a way out?"

Chosen gave him a somewhat sadistic glare. "The parking lot. The trucks will have trackers, but we can dump it as soon as we're far enough away."

Throwing his hands up, the kid glared right back. "And how do we- ah!" A sparking vzzt flew over their heads, a glitch-gunshot hitting the door behind them and fizzling out in a shower of static. Guards, several guards, appeared on the other side of the warehouse, all armed. They had seconds before they would be overwhelmed. "How do we get there?" the kid finished frantically.

Chosen rolled his eyes. "Blast the door open!"

The kid backpedalled. "I- you do it!"

"Your powers are stronger, mine won't be fast enough!" Chosen bluffed. "Do it, now!"

"Stop yelling at me!" the kid defended, their anger building to match Chosen's. "You know I can't!"

"Do it, or we die." Chosen snapped, roughly shoving the kid to face the door. Glitch-shots peppered around them.

Chosen didn't quite catch the moment it happened, and he had a feeling the kid barely did, either. One moment, the door was solid before them, then there was a flash of blazing neon green, and the next moment the only thing before them was a smoking crater.

The shots had stopped- undoubtedly the guards running for cover. Chosen didn't blame them.

Then he glanced at the kid. The green- that electric colour that had seared its way into Chosen's memory- faded with a spark from the kid's pupils. They stared at their hands as if they were seeing them for the first time. Perhaps it felt that way.

Then, those eyes rolled backwards into their head and the kid collapsed, limp as if a switch had been flipped. Chosen sighed. He wasn't sure what else he had been expecting, really.

There was no movement from the other side of the hangar as Chosen gathered the kid's listless figure up, hefting them over his shoulder. Deciding it was too much to hope that the guards wouldn't return, he stepped over the door's debris and took off again, footsteps leaving imprints in the blast of soot on the concrete.

From that point on, leaving was... certainly not easy, but straightforward. Little hells, it was so much less efficient to run rather than fly, but he didn't have much of a choice in the matter. Duck through this corridor, follow this sign going that way, hide from a squad of guards here, ignore the pain his body was screaming about from carrying a person, so on and so forth.

Until eventually, running down one final hallway, a distinct thump caught his attention.

Chosen really had no intention of stopping, and truly, he didn't, but he did... hesitate, when he saw who was making the noise.

A clear sliding door seemed to lead into an office space, said door undoubtedly locked based on how the room's occupant was taking a fist to the glass to catch Chosen's attention.

It was another kid. Another of the kids, specifically- the yellow one. Chosen recognised them clearly; from the bay where they had been killed by- ...where they had been killed, and back on Alan's PC.

Chosen hadn't realised the rest of the kids weren't still there. He hadn't known that this kid- and the others as well, maybe- had been captured, too.

And based on the orange kid's willingness to leave, Chosen assumed they didn't know, either.

The second Yellow set eyes on Chosen's cargo was painfully obvious. Their face contorted, shock and desperation taking over their features. She banged at the glass again, mouth moving as she yelled something the soundproofing stole away.

There was a panel beside the door, one that could probably unlock it if Chosen spent a few minutes poking around. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could summon enough of a laser to shatter the glass. But that would take time Chosen didn't have. And there was no room in his plan for four extra dead-weights.

Maybe he could take Yellow with them. But given all their demonstrated willingness to die for one another, Chosen had a feeling they wouldn't be allowed to leave without the full set of children. Not an option.

And, well. The orange kid was still out for the count. As far as they knew, none of their friends were ever here.

So no, Chosen didn't stop. Not really.

Perhaps he would regret that later. A problem for another time.

x+x+x

This, as Yellow promptly decided, was the worst rescue mission in the history of... ever.

They shouldn't have underestimated what they were up against. They saw those strange sticks take down the black Hollowhead and Orange with his animations. They should have known they wouldn't make it past the parking lot.

They should have known. Yellow should have known. If she had bothered to stop and think about it, then none of them would be here, imprisoned by an unknown company in an unknown place.

These people wanted Yellow, specifically. That much was perfectly clear. So, ergo, it was Yellow's fault that the others were hurt.

The others would probably disagree. But they weren't here, and that was the problem, so Yellow could think whatever she liked about herself.

The two guards escorting her through the halls seemed to be taking a pointlessly indirect route to wherever they were taking him, and the reason why became apparent when they passed a room.

The interior was dark, but the light of the hallway through the glass door allowed the three figures inside to be visible. Yellow's heart leapt into her throat.

Green was pacing, blood crusted on the side of his face. He glared up at the guards when they passed, but stopped in shock as he caught sight of Yellow.

Red and Blue were on the floor. Red followed Green's line of sight, one eye widening, the other swollen shut. Blue... Well. Yellow had been there to see what that stick with the sunglasses had done to Blue, even while she surrendered. She was awake, thank Alan, but she was slumped against Red in a way that Yellow could tell was concerning even in the fleeting moments she saw them all. She wasn't sure if Blue noticed her passing at all.

Green was yelling as the guards passed their cell and continued down the hall. Yellow couldn't hear what he was saying. She twisted in the guard's grip, trying to see them for as long as he could before they disappeared around a corner. She didn't struggle, though. Not much. Because that had gone so well, last time.

The room the guards deposited Yellow in had a reinforced glass door just like where the others were being held, but the interior seemed different. After activating the door's lock from the outside, the guards left, so Yellow hesitantly assumed it was safe to look around.

It wasn't very big, the space she was in. There was a simple bed tucked in the back corner, a meagre but clean bathroom in a curtained section. The clear centerpoint of the room was a desk, against the wall where the screen of the massive desktop was visible from out the clear door.

Now, this was curious. Yellow frowned at it, investigating wires and servers and desktops. She didn't risk turning it on. It was good tech, too- probably the most advanced she'd ever had access to. Why would they let her have this?

She didn't get her answer for another few hours, pacing and stewing about the mess they were in- probably exactly what her captors wanted her to do. There wasn't particularly much else to do, though.

Those answers came in the form of the next person Yellow saw, opening the locked door with ease and inviting themselves in.

They came alone, no guards in sight, standing with posture slumped with a casualty that Yellow found unnerving. Their clothes were crisply pressed and formal with a style Yellow could respect, if not for the whole running theme of monochromatics. They were grey like they hadn't seen the sun in years, grey like the freakily identical workers that delivered her here, but not quite the same shade. This stick's colour was almost... more washed-out, more bleached and dull, if that was possible. And... well-

They were a Hollowhead.

That made four that Yellow had seen, now. She had no idea what that meant. Another question to tuck away for later.

The stick smiled. It did not reach their shadowed eyes. "Afternoon. I trust you've found the accommodations reasonable?"

So this was the interrogator. Or boss. Or something. Starting out with the contrived pleasantries, before the threats came: Yellow's life threatened, or her friend's lives threatened. She didn't particularly like either option.

She crossed her arms and glared at this newcomer, mouth shut. For some reason, the Hollowhead found this... amusing. He pulled the desk chair out into the middle of the room, facing the bed that he then gestured to. "Please, take a seat."

An order, disguised as a request. At this point, meaningless resistance would be foolish. Yellow sat.

Across from her, the Hollowhead folded one ankle over the other, settling himself in as if this was a casual conversation between friends. Yellow found she did not share the same sentiments.

"Where is Second?" Yellow broke the silence, unable to wait any longer. "The orange stick your little attack-dogs kidnapped. Where is he?"

That smile made another appearance. "Where are my manners? I should introduce myself."

"You didn't answer my question." Yellow snapped.

"You may call me Vic," the Hollowhead continued calmly, completely ignoring her. "I am the owner of this fine establishment."

Yellow frowned. "Vic- what's that short for?"

Vic smirked, leaning forward in his chair. "What's Second short for?"

Yellow just glared, which only made Vic smile a little wider.

He had sharp teeth, Yellow noticed. Orange had those. So did that red Hollowhead; they had never stopped grinning, when they- when-

That wasn't something Yellow could think about, right now. Priorities, she told herself.

Vic cleared his throat, sitting back in his chair once again. "By now I assume you are wondering why you are here-"

"No shit."

"-which is a situation entirely dependent on your... cooperation."

Ah. Of course. Funny how she wasn't surprised. Yellow crossed her arms. "You do know I'm a kid, right? What use am I to you?"

"You," Vic stressed the word in a way that made Yellow's skin crawl. "Happen to have a certain skill set that your friends do not."

...did she, now? Yellow eyed Vic at a squint. She did not like where this was going one bit.

Vic reached behind himself to pull something out, and after a brief instinctual moment of internal panic, Yellow noticed it was a screen, and not, in fact, a weapon.

A screen that Vic held before her, displaying an image of...

A cursor.

Alan's cursor. That was Alan.

How she knew it was Alan, Yellow had no idea. But that didn't particularly matter. What did matter was- well. What the hell?

"I want you," Vic said slowly, "to summon it. Bring him here."

Yellow could feel the hard thumping of her heart echoing in his head. Vaguely, she wondered if Vic could hear it too. "A cursor?" Yellow barked a laugh, hoping it didn't sound as fake as it was. "They're not real."

When Vic's eyes grew dark, it was like the temperature in the room dropped. Why else would a shiver snake up Yellow's spine, pinned like a bug under that bleached-blue gaze?

"This isn't one of your little games, kiddo." Vic snarked, ice dripping from every word. "I don't like being lied to."

Vic tapped, and a new image filled the screen, sending Yellow's heart dropping to collide with the floor. It was Alan's cursor, projection lasers still firing to summon the new player into the Hollowheads' fight by the bay.

How did Vic get this footage? Yellow would have noticed any kind of cameras- there hadn't been any. How did he have this?

And there, blurry in the background, was her. A distant image of Yellow, the others at her back, as she tapped away at the console in the shack. Her- summoning Alan.

Well.

Crap.

"Not just any cursor, as I am sure your clever little brain is trying its hardest to find loopholes." Vic placed the device in his lap, steepling his hands over it. He slumped downwards, lowering himself to look Yellow in the eyes. "This cursor. From the device of our dear, mutual friend."

So he could track the cursor's origin right back to Alan in the Out-of-net beyond the Outernet?

That was never going to happen, not on Yellow's watch. But she could bluff. For the sake of her friends.

She squinted at the stick before him. "Why?"

Vic's teeth glinted in the low light. "That's none of your concern."

That sure sounded comforting.

"You have access here to everything you should need," Vic nodded, the mask of a businessman dropping flawlessly over the glimpse of that dark thing with big teeth. "And if you need more tech, or if there's anything else you want, all you need do is ask. I have no intention for your stay here to be unpleasant."

"What if what I want is to leave?"

"Of course you can," Vic gestured both hands in a facsimile of surrender. "As soon as your job is complete. The duration of your stay is entirely in your control."

Yellow mused, a low note of consideration, raking her eyes over the sardonically neutral expression Vic wore, sticky honey-sweet. "I can agree to those terms." Vic really wouldn't like lying, after this. "But I have conditions of my own."

Vic raised his eyebrows, head tilting. "Naturally."

"Take me to Orange. Right now. I want to see for myself he is alive and unhurt."

Vic's jaw worked as he seemed to consider for a long, agonising moment. Then, he took the device in his lap and tapped it a few times, before turning it back to Yellow's view.

A security feed filled the screen, the hopefully-unforged timestamp promising it as a live feed. A sparse dark room- and room was a generous term- was revealed in faded night-vision from the camera's perch near the roof. Even through the recording's colourless wash, the form huddled in the corner was unmistakable as Yellow's friend.

Oh, Orange. The young Hollowhead looked terrible- a few stray bruises lingering from his capture, eyes squeezed shut; looking swollen from crying. Yellow hoped desperately it was truly nothing but the trick of the light.

"You mustn't have heard me correctly." Yellow snarked. "I said take me to him."

"Until some... new information has been evaluated, I'm afraid it's unsafe for little Orange to have any kind of visitors," Vic retaliated.

What the hell did that mean?

"I'm who you want, right? He's useless to you. All my friends are. You don't need them. Only me." Yellow's fists clenched creases into the tight sheets on the bed. "Let them go free. Unharmed. And never touch them again. Then I will do what you want." Or more accurately- bluff for as long as it took for the others to rescue her. Or for as long as it took for Vic to decide Yellow was useless too, and kill her. Whichever came first.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that."

Yellow glared. "Why the hell not?"

"If I let your friends go, then I will have no leverage over you, now will I?" Vic explained, patronisingly gently. "Surely you can understand."

"If you kill them," Yellow grit her teeth. "Then you will get nothing from me. You'd have to kill me, too."

Vic smiled again as he stood in a fluid motion. Not with the teeth of a predator in the dark, but with the pleasantry of someone who genuinely enjoyed manipulating someone into nothing more than a puppet at the end of his string.

Yellow genuinely didn't know which smile was worse.

"I have no intention whatsoever of killing your friends," Vic called over his shoulder, stalking towards the door. "Just remember, it is your stay which I have no intention of being unpleasant. I make no promises about anybody else."

All in all, Yellow found that- ...concerning.

Victim tipped his head, a diplomatic farewell. "I'm sure we can come to an entirely beneficial conclusion, my friend." The door opened with a woosh, before reversing into a close the moment the Hollowhead was in the hallway once again. Vic leant to speak through the closing gap of the sliding door. "We'll be seeing each other again soon. I can assure you."

And with that wonderfully thoughtful threat, Vic was gone.

Yellow let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding- resignation where relief was meant to be. She flopped backwards onto the bed, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes.

Yep. Best rescue mission ever.

x+x+x

He roused first to the rumble of a vehicle below him, the vibration of road-noise. Fog thickened his thoughts, and he was freaking tired, but he found motivation to open his eyes with the entirely disorientating realisation that he had no idea where he was.

Raising his head from where he was slumped at an uncomfortable angle took an altogether mammoth effort, but somehow he managed it. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he took in the interior of... what he assumed was a car. He'd never been in one before.

Wait.

Sunlight. Sunlight.

He was out. Out of that place with their locked doors and awful tech and demands, grey plastered on every possible surface. He was out.

The wave of relief that washed over him made Orange almost worried he was going to pass out again. Then he decided that was probably a bad idea, considering he did not know where this car was going. Or who was driving.

The familiar black Hollowhead in the driver's seat let their gaze dart only briefly from the road before them to glance at Orange before looking away again, expression indecipherable.

Orange didn't like it. He scrutinised the young adult next to him, wracking his memories for any clues that lead them from their hasty escape to in a car to who-knows-where.

It didn't take him long to come up empty, deciding to break the silence. "What happened?"

Another of those fleeting glances, a return of scrutiny. "You blew the door. I got us out."

That really cleared things up. Orange frowned. "I- I did? I didn't think that would work. I don't..."

"So you really don't remember using your powers?" The stick's voice was low and gruff, probably courteous of the streaks of bruises around his throat. He sounded more curious than anything, but the two of them had had this conversation before.

"No!" Orange found himself snapping. "I told you back on the PC I didn't know what you were talking about. I didn't even know I had them, until I saw the fight on the screen."

A flicker of surprise, possibly even unease. The stick's jaw worked. "You saw all that?"

Orange shrugged, uncertain- the stoic Hollowhead's glimpse of a reaction surprising him a little. "I mean... only a little. They shut me out after that." It had been pointless to do so, which was just salt in the wound. Locked-down cell or not, Orange had no hope of tapping into these apparent powers and breaking out. He was stuck where he was, coldly comforted by nothing but the hours of silence and loneliness, and the haunting, haunting knowledge of what he now knew he could do. It hadn't seemed real.

The Hollowhead hmmed, eyes on the horizon. Green hills stretched before them, faded by distance.

This car was stolen, Orange noticed in the silence. Old mud was caked into the foot-mat on the floor, crumpled wrappers in the cupholders. A little amber-coloured puzzle piece was tucked in the nook of the door handle, and Orange picked it out. Its edges were worn, the print faded. Maybe it depicted a scattering of autumn leaves, once. He wondered what picture it made. He wondered where the rest of the pieces were, if this one wanted to be back to fill its spot in the artwork. That's what it was made for, after all. It needed the other pieces, the others needed it. Could puzzle-pieces want things?

A thought struck him. Orange placed the piece back down. "We're going back to the PC, right?"

More silence.

Something similar to panic gripped at Orange's chest. He sat forward in his seat. "Right?"

The man winced a little. "Kid-"

Orange's breath came fast. It hurt. "Stop. We need to stop." The access point to Alan's PC was by the ocean, and the hills mean the ocean was behind them. "We're going the wrong way! You need to turn around!"

"No. We can't go back." His tone brokered no argument, but Orange didn't care.

"Why not?"

"Victim wanted Alan. He'll have eyes all over that bay."

The grey Hollowhead? He wanted... he wanted Alan? Why? "Then we should warn him! My friends are there too, we need to tell them they're in danger!"

The black stick's expression pinched. "We're not going back to the PC. We are getting as far away from Rocket Corp as we can."

Far from Rocket Corp, and far, far from Orange's friends.

He- he couldn't. He needed to be home with them. They needed him. To- to keep them safe. If Orange wasn't there, they could- anything could happen to them. They needed him.

He was getting back to the PC, to Alan, to Green, Blue, Red, Yellow. They needed him. And he was not going to let someone stand in his way.

Orange wasn't wearing a seatbelt. The little alcove where the puzzle sat betrayed the door to be unlocked. Was the car going at a reasonable speed? Sure. But Orange had survived far, far worse.

With the immediate rush of wind when he shoved open the passenger door, Orange wasn't sure if the other Hollowhead called out or not. It wouldn't have mattered either way.

The next thing he noticed was the solid collision of the road beneath his shoulder, then the frantic whirlwind of sky- ground- sky- ground- sky- until finally, finally, he came to a stop in the grass beside the road.

Cursors, now everything hurt. But the screech of tires coming to a halt not far away was enough to encourage him back to his feet.

There was a paddock of some kind beside the road. Dizzily, Orange struggled through the wire fence, before taking off at a run.

"Kid!" a voice behind him roared.

Oh, hells. That was real genius of him- running from a stick who could fly. Heck, he wouldn't even need to fly to catch him; Orange really hoped he didn't end up with a fire-bolt in the back.

The sound of heavy running footsteps were muffled against the grass behind him, growing closer by the second. Crap, crap, crap. This was a stupid idea.

Orange was fast, but that didn't mean an adult Hollowhead wasn't faster. He couldn't keep this up- breath raking in and out of his chest, aching legs carrying him on adrenaline alone. There was only so much longer he could-

Something collided with his back and all of a sudden the ground was rushing up to meet him. The taste of blood burst in his mouth as his chin collided with the hard-packed earth. Stars exploded in his vision and Orange rolled onto his back with a groan.

Hitting the ground hard twice in less than a minute was just his luck, he decided a little hysterically.

The other Hollowhead picked himself up from the ground with a curse, brushing off dirt. "Damn, you're fast." He panted for breath, eyeing Orange on the ground before him. "...Are you-?"

What- 'okay'? Hah- no.

Orange just stared at the sky above him, every shade of pale blue. He wasn't quite sure if he could make out the individual device IDs from here in the pixel-like expanse, or if that was just the way his vision was spotting.

Where was Alan's? Was it visible from here?

If the others looked down through that hole in the PC, would they spot him, all the way down here? Looking back up at them?

It was-

It was so far away.

He really was alone, wasn't he?

Well- not actually alone, he knew that. But this wasn't who he wanted to be with- some strange, dangerous stick that he didn't even know the name of. He wanted his friends.

He had been alone before. It had happened. The whole fiasco with the portals when they first met Purple and Mango, for one. Those weird planes of existence he had ended up in a few times, with the equations and black holes and stuff. He had been without his friends before.

But this- this was different. They weren't in a video game with blocks and magic potions, they weren't beyond the singularity and the puzzles he needed to solve to get back to them. This was- frustratingly complicated, with people and governments and danger in a place that was the whole world to some sticks, while Orange had hardly stepped foot here before.

Last time they had, all of them had died. All Orange's friends had been killed, and until very, very recently, Orange thought he had been, too.

What if it happened, again? Rocket Corp with their cells and weapons and technology and grey-ness. They could be coming for Orange's family right now. What if they all died, again, and Orange wasn't there to protect them?

Protect them, or die beside them, like he should.

No. Laughter bubbled in his chest, accompanying the tears that blurred his vision. No, he wasn't okay.

"Oh, shi- I- kid, I didn't mean to hurt you." The man rubbed at a dirt-smeared scrape at his temple.

Orange scowled as he sat up. "You didn't." He didn't like this... sympathy. He was tougher than that.

The man studied Orange's face with something that looked like scepticism, which Orange didn't understand until he reached up to his chin. The contact stung, fingers coming away smeared with blood. Damn.

It didn't even hurt that bad, he told himself as his vision blurred uncontrollably again, tears spilling down his cheeks despite his best effort to stop them.

Oh, for- he had been through far, far worse than a split chin. Why the hell was it this that brought him to tears?

"Don't run again," the Hollowhead warned. The anger in his voice seemed to have mellowed a little.

Orange stumbled back to his feet, glaring. He swiped angrily at his face. "Wasn't planning on it."

"Great." The man sighed with humourless relief. "That's great. Let's get back to the car- we're losing daylight."

"I'm not going with you," Orange spat, split chin aching as he spoke.

The Hollowhead threw up his arms in a frustrated gesture to the middle-of-nowhere expanse that surrounded them. "Doesn't seem like you have much of a choice."

"I want to go home. I need to warm my friends. They're back there, without me."

"You can't."

"They died to protect you," Orange snarled, well aware he was baring his teeth. "You owe them."

The man's lip curled in a return to the threat. "No- you fought to protect me, that day. Not them. They died to protect you. The only person I owe is you."

"Then take me back there!" Orange fumed. "You can fly, damn it! Just take me home, please!"

The man sighed, eyes rolling to the sky. "Do you want to protect your friends, or not?"

"That's what I'm trying-"

"The second you go within fifty klicks of that bay, those mercenaries will be all over you before you blink. Or worse, they'll let you go back to your PC, leading them directly to Alan. If you really want to keep your friends safe, you will stay as far away from them as you can."

Glaring to himself in the silence, Orange realised he was right. And he hated it. The wind rushed through the long grasses, whispering low. Blood was dripping from his chin, staining his shirt. "How long?"

"What?"

"How long do I have to stay away? When can I go home?"

The Hollowhead watched Orange critically for a long moment. "When you can use your powers."

Orange's eyes widened. "If I- if I do that, will I be able to- I could keep them safe?"

The man snorted. "Kid, if you get a handle on that green shi- that crap, nothing is about to get in your way."

"And you'll teach me?"

The answer was immediate. "Yes."

The man turned and started walking back to the car as Orange took a deep breath, nodding a little. Okay. Okay, he could do that. He could learn as fast as he could, and be back before they missed him. He could last that long. For them. "And they'll be safe until then, right? Promise?"

The man hesitated, just for a single moment, before he started walking again. "Sure, kid. Promise."

-----

A/N: Regarding Yellow's 'cursors aren't real' comment, I have a whole lotta headcanons around human-internet-users/cursors and how they're interpreted by those who live in the outernet. Won't bore you with them but I imagine it depends on place to place. Mostly, they're like cryptids/minor gods. Ask someone in Stick City and its like "Bro, they don't really exist. But there is a cult who worship cursors two blocks down, idk." Whereas ask someone who lives on a gaming website and it's all "Who, Jerry? Yeah we verse eachother on tuesdays"

Was Chosen and Second's escape clunky and totally contrived??? Maybe!!!! Shut up they needed to be outta there for plot reasons ok