Chapter Text
Alan moved the cursor slowly and carefully, away from the box where the stickmans—his kids—were taking shelter, along with Chosen. All of them were injured and exhausted. Chosen and Yellow were the ones who looked the most hurt.
He brought the cursor near the edge of the box, letting the stickmans climb out one by one. The only one he had to lift out was Yellow, who could barely move. They didn’t even need facial expressions to show how affected they were. Alan was certain none of them could fake a limp for that long, let alone the dark bruises and marks covering their bodies.
Chosen, Yellow, and Orange had several of those.
But Chosen’s looked more like whip lashes. Just like the ones Alan’s cursor had… plus the spear stuck through the center.
Once he got Green out of the box, he moved toward Chosen. True to form, Chosen waved him away and climbed out of the box himself, landing ungracefully outside.
Alan just rolled his eyes at the proud stickman.
Then his gaze turned to Orange—his precious kid—curled up in the corner of the box, staring blankly, hugging his knees, head down. Alan slowly moved the cursor closer, giving him a gentle tap, guiding his hand as delicately and slowly as he could.
Orange responded sluggishly, but let Alan carry him out of the box.
Outside, Alan saw the other programs on his computer, trying to help, with Blue taking the lead. Green tried to stay composed while wrapping Yellow’s wounds. Red approached Chosen with the same kind of bandages that the Google program had provided.
Firefox approached Orange with what looked like a healing potion—Alan guessed it was something to ease the pain.
His eyes scanned the entire screen, counting the stickmans for the fifth time—fifth time in what must have been six hours.
They were all there.
All of them were on his computer.
All of them were safe.
Finally, he let go of the mouse, removed his glasses, and rubbed his face, sighing heavily while closing his eyes—burning from keeping them open for six hours straight.
The six most stressful, awkward, drama-packed, twist-heavy, bite-you-in-the-ass hours of his life.
HOW THE HELL COULD HE HAVE FORGOTTEN ABOUT VICTIM!?
He blamed himself… and yet he didn’t. Victim’s case was eighteen years ago. Eighteen years of radio silence. Eighteen years thinking all of this was just a game. Thinking they were just animations.
The memories rushed back through his head like a storm.
Chosen showing up in his computer—strangely hurt and glitching.
Now he knew where those glitches had come from.
Then Chosen dragged Orange away through the strange portal of the internet—not before setting Adobe Animation’s program on fire. After that, the color gang followed Chosen through the same portal, leaving Alan alone with a massive hole in his animation software.
About three hours passed. He even managed to finish the rough sketch of the flower animation Virabot had destroyed.
That’s when he realized the stickmans still hadn’t returned. And even though he appreciated the drama-free time, something in the back of his mind kept nagging at him—
Like he was missing something.
Maybe another adventure. Like the one they had in Minecraft.
Then came a distress message from Yellow. His first reaction was to laugh—not a full laugh, more like a smirk followed by a tiny chuckle. One of those “I knew it” kind of laughs.
And then he clicked.
But instead of reappearing on the cliffside, he found himself in a white void.
Confused, he moved around, looking for Yellow—or any of his boys who might’ve called him—but nothing.
Until he saw it.
A gray figure.
A gray figure with a hole in its head—like Second.
He remembered raising an eyebrow and muttering a drawn-out, “Oookay…” as he tried to figure out what situation his little color stickmans had gotten him into this time.
He didn’t get much time to think, because the gray figure moved—wielding a black lasso with white edges.
Was that the Lasso Tool from Adobe?
It swung the tool skillfully before throwing it in Alan’s direction. At first, he didn’t really move. He wanted to see what the hollowhead thing was up to. That thought disappeared the second the lasso tried pulling his cursor down.
That was a hard NO.
With not much effort, he managed to free himself from it, but all that did was make the gray figure more persistent. It kept attacking, forcing him to dodge and struggle loose—until there weren’t just one, but six gray figures. Each wielding different weapons that looked all-too-familiar.
They attacked, one after another, leaving visible black streaks across the cursor, trying to take him down again and again.
Until his patience ran out.
At first, it was kinda fun—but it was getting repetitive.
He got tired of dodging and clicked on the gray stickman holding a large shuriken, flinging it across the white room. The figure vanished on impact.
He hoped that would serve as a warning.
It didn’t.
The others kept attacking—until they, too, started vanishing one by one. Leaving behind the one Alan figured was the original.
The original one kept trying to catch him, moving swiftly around, dodging and lunging at him—disappearing and reappearing almost like a glitch. Until it finally grabbed him and threw him across the room, making him lose the lasso tool.
Alan reached out, trying to grab it—only to vanish the moment his hand touched it.
Annoyed, he turned his eyes back to the gray figure, which was now standing up with slow, tired movements. Then, a Text Tool appeared.
—I knew it... you never changed... Noogai.
His eyes widened at the sound of that name.
His old username. Only DJ, Programmer96, and Chosen knew that name.
He reached for the mouse again, blinking as he tried to remember who this gray figure was. The figure pushed the Text Tool toward him—a signal to communicate.
Alan accepted it and typed, —Who are you?
The figure stood tall, its body trembling slightly as if it were laughing. —You forgot me? It's me, Father!— it said, throwing its arms wide. —I'm your first test subject! VICTIM!
Alan let out a long, tired sigh at the memory of how they’d gotten to this point.
What came next happened so fast, so suddenly, that his brain barely processed any of it. He remembers having another brief exchange with Victim. But for the life of him, he can’t recall what they said—just that they started fighting again.
The white room resembled a workspace.
So, using the keyboard, he began spinning—rotating the view—until he spotted an exit. Strangely, he couldn’t just drag the cursor out of the white screen.
He left. And outside, he saw more stick figures—but with different styles and animation.
Then he saw Chosen, trapped in another white box.
He made his way toward it—but of course, he got attacked.
And yes—he admits it was kind of thrilling to punch, throw, and slam some of those stick figures around. But all he really wanted was to get Chosen out of there and find his boys.
He freed Chosen, who was injured and completely disoriented.
Then Chosen pointed toward the other cells, and that’s when the brown figure, drawn in a primitive style, jumped onto the cursor and stabbed it right through, the tip coming out the other side.
He was starting to feel sorry for his poor cursor—it had been through a lot.
He ignored the massive spear stuck in it, although he could feel the mouse sensitivity had gone down a bit.
With what little strength he had left, Chosen broke off the part of the spear sticking out from underneath and wielded it as a weapon, preparing to fight at Alan’s side.
Together. Again.
But beyond the rows of gray stickmen with weapons drawn, Alan saw him. Victim.
And in his arms—
He was holding Yellow.
HIS BOY. YELLOW.
He pointed at him with one of those weapons Alan guessed delivered electricity. And he saw Yellow trembling, with black and purple marks all over his small body. He looked further back, and there was Orange too. His little Orange. Trying to reach Yellow, possibly screaming for them to let them go.
Alan got angry, but he was also confused about what he was supposed to do.
His fist hit the desk out of frustration.
—This isn’t supposed to be happening. This isn’t supposed to be happening.
Then the wall to the left shattered—blown apart by an explosion, sending everyone flying, including Victim’s group. And just like a Fast & Furious movie, he saw a massive cargo truck crash in and destroy everything in its path like it had lost control, finally slamming into Orange’s cell.
Snapping out of his shock, Alan rushed over, Chosen keeping pace behind him. Once the smoke cleared, Alan’s lips curved into a smile. Inside the truck, Green, Blue, and Red stumbled out, dazed. The impact had been enough for Orange to break free and throw his arms around his friends.
Alan spun around, counting—one stickman was missing.
Yellow was on the ground, trying to get up despite a machine pressing down on his leg, and Victim stood behind him, approaching with a gun.
Alan saw red. That same sensation he got whenever someone hurt his children.
He grabbed Victim—and hit him. Just like he had years ago.
The other stickmen on Victim’s side ran, realizing they couldn’t stop him.
At some point, the place started filling with fire… and then smoke. The truck’s gas tank exploded, and flames consumed everything. But Alan could only focus on Victim, who was crawling, slowly trying to get away from him.
He was going to kill him.
He was going to kill him.
And this time, it would be for good.
And just as he was about to land the final blow—Orange stepped in between them. Alan blinked, his finger still pressing the left-click on the mouse, halting his final attack.
He saw Orange standing in front of Victim. Arms wide, using himself as a shield.
They stayed like that for a few moments, while the fire devoured everything around them. Alan snapped out of his trance, tossing his weapon aside and finally releasing the left mouse button. He picked up the TEXT tool scattered on the ground and typed:
—What are you doing? —Alan asked.
He stopped typing and passed the tool to Orange, who lowered his arms—arms covered in purple bruises, signs of earlier beatings. Orange took the tool, and the text line appeared above his head, and he spoke.
—Please… Alan. Don’t kill him again. —said Orange, and Alan could guess it was a plea. —…Let’s go home. Please.
Then he used the Circle tool and threw it at the wall of the building, creating a large enough hole for the cursor to pass through while carrying the box with the stickmans inside, the Lasso tool wrapped around the cursor, holding the box.
He put his glasses back on and looked at his desktop screen again.
His eyes focused on the cursor. The remaining part of the spear was still there, along with some scratches. He hoped that once the computer restarted, the cursor would show up healed.
He saw Red jumping, like trying to get his attention. He put on his headphones and moved the cursor toward Red.
—Do you need something? —Alan asked.
Red shook his head, scratched the back of his head, and spoke, —Do you… do you want me to take that… thing off? —referring to the spear.
Alan brought the cursor closer to Red, nodded, and Red began pulling the spear, apologizing in advance in case it hurt. Alan didn’t say anything, but he smiled at the concern. After three tries, Red finally pulled it out completely, climbed down from the cursor, and raised both arms with the spear in triumph.
—Anything else you need? —Alan asked.
—Oh yeah, Yellow wants to talk to you. He says… he says it’s important.
Alan blinked for a moment. —Important?
—Yeah, he didn’t explain much. But he said it’s important… that it’s about… something Victim told Orange.
His eyes opened wider than they should have. No. No. No. No.
He was supposed to be the one to tell them when he was ready.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
—O-okay, where is he? —he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
—In the Music folder. He said he wanted some time alone once we finished bandaging him up.
—Thanks.
He clicked on the Desktop folder, catching a glimpse of Blue preparing more potions for Chosen, who was lying in the corner of the folder. He didn’t even care about his presence—he headed straight for the Music folder. And there he was. His smart boy. Wrapped in a blanket, with Green’s headphones on. Yellow looked up, letting Alan know he saw the cursor.
—Hey, Red said you wanted to see me. Everything okay? Do you want me to call Blue?— he asked gently, the way he usually did with his eldest son when something was bothering him.
Yellow seemed hesitant, slowly moving his head before finally lifting it.
—Victim told me a lot of things, Alan. He showed me what Chosen did… what Dark did…— That last part came out in a trembling voice.
He wanted so badly to hold him and comfort him. But all he could do was move the cursor closer and let him lean on it. Until Yellow sat back up and touched his cheek, where a purple bruise was starting to show.
—He also… told me other things… things about… you— he said the last part almost in a whisper.
Alan’s jaw tightened.
He wouldn’t have.
He wouldn’t dare.
Yellow let out a small, nervous laugh, —But, those were things you’d never do, right? Those… those were actions of someone really, really crazy. A heartless madman. And that… —he looked back at the screen— That’s not you… right?
Alan opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wanted to speak. He wanted to deny it. But he knew it was already too late.
—L-listen, Yellow… everything’s going to be fine. I promise. You… you just rest —he said, trying to keep a reassuring smile on his face.
Yellow nodded, but even he could hear the nervousness in Alan’s voice. And Alan knew, Yellow was never a dumb kid.
—He showed it to Orange too.
No.
NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO.
PLEASE NO.
—I’ll talk to him, don’t worry —he tried to sound as confident as possible while minimizing the File Explorer.
Back to the home screen.
Orange was still there, in the bottom right corner. Alone. Orange usually didn’t like being alone. Unless he was waiting.
Alan swallowed hard and slowly moved the cursor toward the orange figure.
—Hey… buddy. —He tried to sound cheerful, the way he used to—but his voice shook.
Orange barely turned his head, just enough for Alan to notice.
—The others are recovering well. Blue’s working with Google and Firefox. Red and Green are helping Chosen but… well, you know how he is… ha-ha…
Orange didn’t answer right away. He only mumbled in a slow, quiet voice.
—…Oh. That’s good.
He was still staring into nothing.
Alan felt that knot in his stomach. Orange already knew. He could tell by the way he refused to look at him.
He forced himself to speak.
—…Yellow told me that… he… told you some things.
—Yeah… he did. —Orange replied, still not looking at him.
The discomfort itched on Alan’s skin. He wanted to close the screen, look away, escape from it all. His body was screaming to run. To get away from the screen, from the tension.
But he couldn’t.
Not this time.
—I… I didn’t know about Chosen and Dark either— Alan tried to sound understanding, as if there was still something that could soften the moment— That must’ve been a hard hit. I’m sorry, Orange.—Shifting the focus of the conversation. Alan was good at that.
Orange stood up slowly. His bandages tightly wrapped around his left leg and arm.
—You’re sorry?—he repeated, and for the first time turned to Alan. His gaze cut through the screen like blades—What exactly are you sorry for, Alan? Or should I call you… Noogai?
Alan felt the air leave his lungs. His throat dried up in a second.
—I-I can explain…
—EXPLAIN WHAT, ALAN!? —Orange shouted, his rage so raw that Alan instinctively pulled the cursor back. He had never seen him like this. Orange had never spoken to him like that. —That you tortured Victim for an entire year?! Is that what you want to explain?!
—Orange, I swear it wasn’t like that… not completely, things were more complicated...
—COMPLICATED?! —he said with a broken voice. He began limping toward the cursor, slowly but with determination, like Alan was standing right there in front of him— You locked Chosen in a chest for three years! Three! You chained him and used him like a slave!— Alan couldn’t even move. —And not only that! You CREATED DARK LORD!
Suddenly, footsteps. Whispering voices.
Alan noticed the others approaching from the edges of the screen.
Blue, Red, Green… even Chosen, who watched from inside a folder, arms crossed. Alan felt that stare. A mix of contempt and satisfaction.
—Liar! Liar! Liar! —Orange shouted— You said you didn’t know him! That you hadn’t made more creations! We trusted you!— He stomped the ground, finally letting out everything he had been holding in. —THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!— He grabbed the Pencil tool and threw it toward the cursor, barely missing it.—I HATE YOU! —he yelled, walking past the cursor to go back to his friends.
—Orange, please, wait! —Alan moved the cursor quickly, almost without thinking, catching Orange by the arm.
But then the fire ignited. From the left side, the others reacted. Their wounds didn’t stop them from rising in defense. Chosen lit up his palms.
The atmosphere changed.
It was pure hostility.
Alan immediately let go of the mouse button.
Orange froze… shaking. His eyes wide open, breath ragged.
He pulled back, like Alan was a monster.
He covered his arm.
—Orange…— Alan’s voice was nothing but a whisper now —Please… I know you hate me. I know I have no right to ask for anything, but…— He had to fix this. He had to try something.
—Give me four weeks. That’s all. Four weeks… and on Friday, six o’clock, I’ll tell you everything.
Orange looked at him with suspicion, not moving.
—Give me four weeks, and I’ll answer any question you have. No lies. I promise.
Silence. Orange seemed to think it over.
The pain was still there, visible in every part of his body. But more than anything—in his eyes.
—Why should I listen to you? —Orange asked.
—Because of the friendship we once had, Orange —Alan pleaded— Please.
—…Any question? With the truth? —he asked, his voice somewhere between anger and distrust.
Alan nodded with the cursor. He could barely contain his desperation.
—Yes. The truth. No more lies.
Another long silence.
Finally, Orange lowered his gaze slightly.
—…Fine. Four weeks. But if you lie again…
He turned toward his friends, who were waiting inside the folder. He walked a few steps, but before entering, he stopped and looked back at the screen.
—I wish… you had never been my creator.
And he left. The last one to enter was Chosen. He didn’t say a word. He just looked at him.
And that look… was worse than anything he could have said.
Leaving Alan alone, sitting in front of the desk.
He took off the headphones and rolled the chair away from the computer until it bumped into a piece of furniture. The hit was light, but it startled him.
His body trembled for a moment.
He blinked, confused, and brought his hands to his face. His eyes were burning.
He didn’t understand why he wanted to cry.
They were just stick figures.
Just characters on a screen.
Just data, lines of code, animated movements.
Just…
The tears came out without permission, breaking apart that lie he tried to force into his mind. He felt ridiculous for crying. Guilty. Empty.
They weren’t real.
Then why does it hurt like they are?
He was just grateful his wife and kids weren’t home to see him like this: Broken, by something he didn’t even know how to explain.