Brush D. Rush awoke with a gasp, his chest aching where Agent Privacy's blow had struck. The clean realm's shimmering grids were gone, replaced by the cozy glow of a digital cottage, its walls woven from streams of ancient code, flickering like telegrams on old paper. His paintbrush lay beside him, its corruption energy pulsing faintly, tethered to his soul. Blood no longer seeped from his side, but the memory of defeat burned.
An old man sat by a virtual hearth, his avatar a patchwork of pixelated robes and wireframe spectacles, his beard a cascade of binary threads. "Telegrammy's the name," he said, his voice a warm hum, like a modem's handshake. "Found you half-dead in the data streams, boy. Your friends—Willie, Disco, and those glitchy rebels—are safe, hiding in my sub-node."
Brush sat up, wincing, his brush vibrating with Glitch's lingering laughter. "Where are we?" he asked, sensing the cottage's code was older than the DeadNet, rooted in a forgotten corner of the digital world.
"An archive realm," Telegrammy replied, his spectacles glinting. "Safe from Rooteye's roots and Privacy's wrath—for now." He leaned closer, eyeing Brush's brush. "That corruption energy's eating you alive. I can teach you to master it, make it yours, not Glitch's."
Brush gripped the brush, its chaotic pulse tempting but dangerous. "Why help me?" he asked, his deaf ears relying on the brush's vibrations to parse Telegrammy's intent.
"Seen too many fall to chaos," Telegrammy said, his voice heavy. "You've got a spark—soul and corruption fused. I know old code, tricks from the dawn of the net. I'll train you to wield it, not burn out." He gestured to a glowing terminal, its screen displaying patterns of controlled chaos. "Start by painting focus, not fury."
Brush hesitated, the memory of blood loss and Privacy's absolute strength fresh. Willie's fierce gaze and Disco's sparkling kittens flashed in his mind, alongside Pirware, Malrus, Poro, and Hubo's fight for their kin. He nodded. "Teach me."
Telegrammy smiled, his hands weaving code into a training grid—a virtual arena of shifting data streams. Brush swiped his brush, painting a shaky line of corruption energy. It flared wildly, but Telegrammy guided his hand, teaching him to shape it into a steady pulse. "Feel your soul," he said. "It's the anchor."
Hours passed, Brush's strokes growing precise, his corruption bending to his will. Outside, Rooteye's roar echoed faintly, and Privacy's shadow loomed. Willie and Disco entered, their faces tense but hopeful. "We've got a plan to hit the base," Willie said, "but we need you stronger."
Brush's brush glowed, its energy now a controlled storm. "I'll be ready," he said, Telegrammy's lessons fueling his resolve as the fight for the seven cores drew closer.