Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ranboo fidgets as the two make their way to the set. Getting to and fro from various episode sets is a route long memorised, knowing which empty plant pots and walls to hide behind and when; all actions getting close to second nature now. This does nothing for the constant cloud of paranoia making itself home around Ranboo, and honestly for pretty good reason. He’s been in constant survival mode for the equivalent of a month or two at the very least. Charlie hopes that taking a breather- as much of a breather one could get in here- might ease the tight knot of nerves the kid has wound himself into. Thus, Puzzler’s wardrobe. Or whatever the place is called, Charlie isn’t picky with the names. 

The walk there is uneventful in a physical sense. Security, thank his lucky stars, hadn’t reared its ugly head yet as it so often did. Charlie wasn’t dumb enough to think it never would- he’d become intimately acquainted with its claws way too many times to think like that- but it wasn’t here yet. 

Emotionally, the walk there may as well have crushed him with a comically large piano and laughed in his face about it. Because something happened and they aren’t talking about it. Ranboo is the most courageous kid Charlie has ever met and probably ever will. Desperation only gets you so far and if that was all that was keeping Ranboo going they would’ve given up loops ago. Ranboo is one brave fucking kid. They had, for all intents and purposes, successfully enacted and completed a plan to get Charlie killed. Get lots of people killed. And they had still gotten back up, gotten back to escaping. 

The kid trailing behind Charlie now looked like a few choice words would break them in half. It made something in Charlie’s chest crawl. Something not just happened, something changed. And he is going to fucking kill whoever did it if it’s the last thing he does.

Ranboo trips slightly as the flooring transitions from tile to carpeting.

Charlie doesn’t mention it.

The walk continues like this for the better part of 10 minutes. The odd Employee roamed idly about the floors, and Charlie would lead the way and Ranboo would follow meekly behind- save for whenever they saved Charlie from making a wrong turn. Sue him, he’s new to the whole “keeping his memories thing” and yes he may be a little bit overwhelmed with the whole thing because first of all it makes no logical sense for time to loop around them but then again Showfall Media makes no sense and he’s trying his best to be there for the kid because he gets a horrible familial burning in his collarbone whenever he thinks of what they went through and is still going through-

Ranboo tugs on the back of his shirt before Charlie walks into the side of a cabinet.

-and his internal monologue has become nonsensical rambling. Awesome, real helpful Charlie.

Ranboo is looking at him with the air of a kicked puppy. Or- no, more like the air of someone who just watched someone else shoot a puppy then put it in a meat grinder. Either way Charlie doesn’t like the expression on Ranboo's face. Their eyes don’t belong on someone so young. The poor kid looks like he’s been through the wars. It’s plain trauma. Charlie internally curses Hetch’s name into the dirt, as has slowly become a tradition whenever he thinks particularly hard about the situation. 

Charlie takes a moment to mentally slap himself back into the present moment, however shitty the present moment has proven to be, and takes stock of the surroundings. No immediate or imminent danger, save for himself almost giving himself a new bruise with that cabinet. Charlie then mentally slaps himself again because how had he managed to get so lost in his thoughts to not pay attention to where he was going? He knows first hand that this place is dangerous and he just daydreamed instead of looking out for Ranboo? Some good he’s doing.

First note of order is that they successfully reached the Puzzler’s Wardrobe/Set which means that he can finally try and lighten the mood. 

Ranboo had been standing by Charlie, idly looking over the various assortments of clothes, wigs and miscellaneous items in an attempt to completely ignore the whole situation that had lead them here to begin with and had, like he said in his previous inner monologue: settled a growing rock of worry right in Charlie's chest. Whenever they notice Charlie looking at them they physically straighten up to try and look more put together than they clearly were. 

It’s weird. A lot of this situation is weird. Honestly weird is an understatement. Charlie should say something to break the strange silence coating the two of them, and he’s not sure why he can’t. A million words and questions come to mind such as are you ok what happened what did you see how can I make it better , all swirling and twisting together in one mass of fear, worry, anger and care. Everything knots together in his heart and by the time it’s reached his mouth no longer makes any sort of sense. He wants to say a lot of things. 

What's wrong?

Who hurt you?

What happened?

How can I help?

Please let me help you.

It will be ok.

But what came out of his mouth instead is-

“Want to dress up?”

—

Ranboo isn’t doing very well. To most this looks like a very surface level observation, obviously they aren’t doing very well they’re stuck in an everlasting psychological horror time loop. It’s not going to be a walk in the park. But to Ranboo the thought mentally fucks them up a bit. There hasn’t been time for self reflection. It’s all been a constant run-hide-scream-cry-blood-wake up repeat so an actual moment in a comparatively healthy environment to just pause and think about it…yeah Ranboo isn’t doing very well. Yes maybe the last time they properly broke down didn’t end well- 

-LED lights flickered tauntingly and a wave of blissful apathy momentarily soothed the fraying edges of his sanity as he straightened, no longer concerned about why his shoulders heaved painfully with choked sobs and the hole in his chest yawned wider -

-so they’re definitely not repressing things at all. No, totally not. Honest. 

Ranboo was expecting a serious talk. Maybe some tears, some burning shame and perhaps even worse rejection. So the question of “Do you want to dress up?” comes largely out of left field. Charlie was meant to address the last loop. Ranboo had gotten so used to the routine of the day, 7 minutes till the door is kicked down, give Charlie a mediocre explanation, run for life, repeat, that he felt wholeheartedly out of his depth now that that schedule is broken. Charlie was meant to be doing…something. Meant to ask why he’d just ignored him in the kitchen. Not invite him to try on outrageous clothes together. What do you even do with that question. 

Obviously you agree.

So ten minutes later Ranboo is browsing through clothes (why does The Puzzler even have this stuff?) and trying on the mismatched jewellery and knickknacks in draws and on shelves. There’s an interesting black and white dress with a long slit up the side that actually looks like it could be his size. Ranboo fumbles with the clip of an expensive looking necklace. Charlie stares at a pair of jorts with a complicated expression. It might be offence. Nothing goes wrong. (Charlie stabs himself with a pin by accident, but compared to the usual of being mauled to death Ranboo doesn't count it.)

He knows this is stupid. He should be watching for danger, or breaking down or making an escape plan. He also knows that if he does try and escape right now then he will break into an inconsolable mess and that's wont help anybody. So glitter eyeshadow it is. Metaphorically of course, The Puzzler rather annoyingly has no makeup in here, but he does have wigs and dresses…

“Hey Ranboo! Check me out!”

Ranboo turns and is greeted with the sight of Charlie nearly breaking his ankles in platform heels. A grin breaks out under their mask and Ranboo fights the urge to double over on the ground and laugh at him. Charlie continues to take baby steps like a drunk baby fawn, completely undeterred.

“Now I can finally-,” Charlie braces himself hurriedly on the wall with a yelp, “-finally be as tall as you!”

Ranboo almost wishes he had a phone to get a permanent photo of Charlie embarrassing himself. He appreciates Charlie doing most of the talking and the embarrassing stunts. Whenever he feels like saying something his throat just- closes up. Despite it, Ranboo shoves the kitchen to the back of his mind and laughs at Charlie. They’ve got a dress to try on, they seem to be doing a drag show at this point and they may as well commit to the bit. They can make up names and everything. Like- like Miss Beloved or something. It was a chance to forget about everything, just for a moment. Do some inner child healing. (He briefly flashes back to -pages and words and horror-) God knows Charlie needs some.

—

Charlie had not expected Ranboo to go along with it. 

Charlie is very aware that this is practically like putting a plaster over a bullet hole but Ranboo needs something and that plaster is better than nothing. It's not like there's anyone else experienced with this situation he can ask advice from. Cant exactly go on r/stucklikearatinamazerunbyacorruptcompanyusingmypainforentertainment and ask if anyone has a WikiHow. There’s WikiHow’s for all sorts of stuff, how to shower with a lemon, how to beat an ostrich, how to breathe.

There’s no WikiHow for this sort of situation though and he is very aware that he has no idea what to do. A very ‘the blind leading the blind’ situation, he muses. Having fun in this hellhole is already a massive demand, and if that fun helped even a little, and if it came in the form of bad quality drag shows, then so be it. 

They had made sure to shut as many entrances as possible because running away from an ambush in ridiculous high heels is impossible. And it looked like it had worked too. The two were alone. Or as alone as you can be in the mall. Charlie knows these rooms must be monitored and there’s no doubt cameras everywhere , but he prays to anything that Hetch will leave them alone this once. There's no cameraman following them around constantly, but the appearance of the cameraman in question has always been rather varied through the loops. How much Hetch would allow the audience to see was limited. Whenever an escape plan could work as entertainment, there was always predictably a cameraman tailing them five steps behind. At first they had tried to get rid of them, but the camera was so far the only Employee that did not actively attempt to kill them so it was reluctantly allowed to stay. If anything the only risk it caused was giving away their location, but Hetch probably had a million other ways of finding them either way. 

The kitchen incident had been filmed. It made Charlie incredibly uncomfortable to think about. Either the audience saw that and just decided to not get help, or Charlie is going to be awarded an Oscar for Best Distressed Acting when they get out of here. Charlie wonders what the audience is seeing now. Since nothing life threatening has come their way for a solid hour and a half, Charlie hopes Hetch has ended the whole broadcast. It's very possible that they’ve cut to an ‘interval’ or something. An impatient audience will only accept that for so long. Charlie and Ranboo’s time wasting is limited. There’s always a timer ticking down for when you next need to pack up and bolt.

God he’s tired.

What mattered is that it looked like Hetch was leaving them alone. Considering it had been a good hour or so at least, it seemed like he was. This undeniably unsettles both of them as time goes on, but Charlie forgoes mentioning it for fear of ruining the mood. This is the first time in a long time Charlie remembers seeing Ranboo properly happy, and he isn’t going to get in the way of it. 

Still, the absence of Hetch-like issues remains. Because if Hetch isn’t getting the story back on track, he’s doing something else. And he has no idea what it is. There’s been a lot of that lately; not knowing things.  He’s missing a massive part of the puzzle and he knows it. Charlie once again prays on Showfall’s downfall and goes back to untangling himself from a feather boa. 

—-

Unbeknownst to Charlie, correct as he was, the eyes behind the security cameras drummed white gloved fingers against the table. 

Du-dum. Du-dum. 

The drumming crushed any other sound in the room, ordering all else to quiet. All other sounds obeyed without question. 

Du-dum. Du-dum. The drum of a rhythmic heartbeat. 

The Figure mused to themselves. This go around was an interesting one. The subjects had adopted a new approach. 

The Figure could be alone in the room, it would be hard to know for sure. It is too dark to see anything but The Figure’s hands, drumming, du-dum, du-dum, against the table. 

They watch. A very interesting go around, indeed. They will be watching this loop rather closely.  Their drumming ceases, but no other sound dares fill the space. The Figure tends to have that effect. 

They did found the whole project after all. 

—-

Back in the mall, Charlie sits on the floor between racks of clothes as Ranboo shrugs their jacket back on. Two hours of fun had ended, and now there's nothing to distract from the gaping emotional hole between the pair. Ranboo struggles slightly with the jacket. It has no holes, but the left cuff is fraying a little. Ranboo unconsciously messes with a loose thread. The red colour is a little faded. Charlie doesn't like how clean it is, as if none of the things Ranboo had gone through with it had ever happened. He wouldn't like it any better covered in blood though, so he dismisses the thought rather quickly. They had kept a few bracelets on. Ranboo looks a little more like his own person now, Charlie thinks in the privacy of his own head. Getting out of costume felt like a good call. No one wants to be murdered in a terribly fitting outfit. 

The elephant in the room is very prevalent now that the fun has subsided. Ranboo looks ready to let the elephant move in permanently, so Charlie speaks.

He’s not loud, or confrontational. Just worried.

“Something happened, didn’t it.”

There’s no need to clarify. Something must have happened between Charlie’s death in the SUBA and waking up in the kitchen. The fact rattles round in circles in his head like an old toy train. He can see how it’s been eating at his friend, and that won’t do. 

Ranboo, now seated next to him and looking everywhere else but Charlie, is smaller than he’s ever seen him. They’ve managed to curl in on themselves so much that their spine is bordering on a complete u-bend, reminding Charlie of a wounded dog protecting its vulnerable areas. It doesn't suit them. They keep pulling at the frayed thread of their jacket sleeve. 

Charlie is patient. Charlie is nothing if not patient. He will wait as long as Ranboo needs. Every loop, every time.

Ranboo looks like they’re about to say something, backtracks, then tries again. A painted noise forces its way out and is abruptly cut off before it could form a word. Charlie hears Ranboo’s teeth click shut and they pull their knees to their chin. The pointed angles of the mask makes the position look uncomfortable.

Charlie is torn. On one hand he doesn’t want to make a clearly bad moment worse by pressing the subject, but seeing just how badly it’s impacting Ranboo and doing nothing feels like getting stabbed. Their changes of behaviour all present terrible implications and Charlie has no idea what caused them. 

Ranboo looks more alert than ever, like letting their mind wander would kill them.

They won’t look in a mirror. 

Sometimes the way he looks at Charlie makes him feel like they know something he doesn’t, and he has a feeling that whatever they know is hurting. 

They keep touching the back of their head, where that disk thing is.

Ranboo hasn’t talked of an escape plan once today. 

They’ve taken off their jacket, opting to tie it around their waist instead. Like they don't want Charlie to see it. 

There’s a plethora of small details that Charlie desperately wants to string together into a cohesive answer as if he isn’t solving a jigsaw puzzle with half of the pieces. Feeling useless over it isn't going to help, but he can't really help it. Charlie is out of his depth. He is stuck in a cycle where it turns out his whole life is fake and everyone keeps dying. The one other person trapped with him is currently breaking at the seams and despite his urge to help-protect-care-save Charlie cant do anything about it. All he can do is stay here, in between racks of clothes he doesn't care about, and try. Brothers look out for each other.

Charlie shuffles closer to Ranboo, side by side now, and looks at them as if to reiterate the question. Tell me what's wrong. You are deserving of help. Tell me so I can help you. Let me help you. 

Ranboo wrings their hands for a long moment. 

Then, quietly, “Yes.”

It’s the answer Charlie expects yet Charlie’s heart doesn’t just drop, it rips itself downwards with the gravitational force of Jupiter and bounces off of his ribs like a terrible pinball game. Because that yes could mean anything. Anything that Charlie should’ve been there for. 

Charlie awkwardly offers a hand. He isn’t experienced at comfort but physical touch seems to be the best in his observations. He thinks back to the loop he finally remembered. The last loop. Sitting on the floor behind a barrier of furniture, holding each other close enough to hide from the world watching them. 

“Tell me about it?” 

Ranboo looks at the offered hand with an unreadable expression before something seems to relent and they lean their head on Charlie’s shoulder as a compromise. Charlie rests his hands in his lap and leans back. Take as much time as you need, I’m not leaving you. 

For a moment they just sit like that. Charlie cross legged on the floor, Ranboo leaning on him with their knees to their chest. 

Softly, “I don't know where to start.”

Charlie’s heart drops further. Multiple things happened then. Hetch is so dead when Charlie gets his hands on him. He tightly packs that anger away deep into his mind because Ranboo doesn't need that right now. 

“Start from where I left off?” He offers into the silence. Charlie cringes at his own wording, but it seems to help; giving Ranboo a place to start.

They snap the thread they were fiddling with. Slowly, ever so slowly, Ranboo’s hand finds Charlie’s. 

“Ok.”

Charlie knows then with 100% certainty, that he’s not going to like the recount he’s about to hear. 

Ranboo takes a shuddered breath in.

—Four hours ago, yesterday, or last lifetime (depending on how one looks at it).—

The SUB A’s shutters wail, old metal scrapes against itself as Showfall tries to force the locks open. 

The cacophony of Staff banging and pushing from every direction overwhelmed everything, drowning out the thumping of his heart and Charlie's crying.

The screaming was getting louder and louder and Ranboo couldn’t breathe-

“CHARLIE? CHARLIE-”

More Showfall employees held him down as he struggled, trying desperately to reach his brother-

A choked gurgling sound; silence.

No.

No.

Salty tears begin to sting as they meet the seams of the mask, and the Staff simultaneously turn their attention solely onto Ranboo. Now there are arms vice gripped around him, and he’s yanked backwards towards the shutters and the awaiting throng of Staff behind it.

The familiar yet no less manageable haze of panic wraps reality in a thick cloud, shooting up his veins like a live wire spark, letting them kick and squirm with the desperate and uncoordinated look someone would get from being electrocuted. Escape routes. They had made sure the shutters were firmly shut, a decision now more akin now to locking the lid of his own casket than keeping the monster at bay.  It was stupid to block off their only escape route. Stupid stupid stupid. Vents? There was a rusty old grate within stepping distance.  

The hands tighten around Ranboo’s torso and he gasps as the air threatens to be crushed out of him. Who’s he kidding? This is real, not a mission impossible movie. Vents are a no go. Another pair of hands closes around Ranboos neck and any options they had in that split second of planning time is strangled. Their scream is cut off, and suddenly they're pulled backwards and away, away, away from Charlie and towards, towards, towards Showfall.

It feels like every survival instinct is activated at once. Gloved hands grab at their jacket and scrabble for holds like one conjoined mass. They latch onto pockets, seams, collars with no goal other than capture. Fingers yank at their hair and dig into the sides of the mask for handholds making Ranboo cry out. A hand finds the disc at the back of their head and yanks them backwards further away from Charlie. It sends a flare of pain through his head so powerful that for a moment his vision whites out completely. Ranboo tries to break loose, they swear they do, elbowing and kicking and headbutting any limb that wasn't theirs. He probably would have bitten them if there wasn't a glorified muzzle on their face.

Ranboo is petrified, angry and protective all mixed into a very erratic soup. But the Staff persist, an immovable object meets unstoppable force, and Ranboo is stuck in equilibrium being pulled and clawed at with the furniture digging into his side as he is yanked every which way. 

His back collides with the sharp corner of the counter as he’s pulled towards the shutters, and his one free hand catches on a drawer. He forces his mind to ignore the overwhelming feeling of hands poking and prodding and gripping and plants his feet between the metal legs of the counter. Ranboo keeps hold of the drawer because his life depends on it. The grip holds and halts where he is, still being assaulted on all sides but at least no longer getting dragged. Please work . Force out every other sensation apart from white knuckling the drawer. Every inch of him hurts, he has to pull his arm out so tightly to reach it that it feels like his shoulder is going to dislocate. 

Ranboo searches blindly through the drawer with his fingers and immediately sharply cuts himself. He scrambles to find the handle of what has to be a knife. 

The handle slips through the blood on their fingers- when did that get there-  until Ranboo’s fist finally closes around something solid. It’s apparently perfect timing as one of the Staff members decides it's time to crush Ranboo’s foot under their heeled dress shoes and just like that Ranboo is dislodged from the counter and is ripped backwards again with a scream and a popping sound. Their left arm ignites in agony that threatens to make them pass out.  Something definitely dislocated. 

Knife tightly clutched in their one remaining hand, the other flaring in pain when it as much as brushes against something, Ranboo screeches and wildly swings the weapon at anyone in distance. The Staff are not human enough to scream, but a couple hands constricting him go lax and Ranboo pushes their way through the tangle of limbs as the blood of once-people stains their hands. It feels like cutting through thick, squishy vines as bodies continue to tear at him. Adrenaline dampens their own body screaming out in pain and mutes the ache coursing in their legs. Someone's blood spurts across their jacket.

“Come on, Ranboo.” says a voice in their head that sounds suspiciously like Charlie, “Get up.”

Escape routes. The only other door is the one that took Charlie. Ranboo rears back and donkey-kicks a Staff member still determinedly attempting to headlock them from behind. The once-person gives out, and Ranboo takes the precious second to bolt for the Staff Only door their brother had disappeared into. 

They bite down hard on their tongue as his entire left side continues to engulf his mind in glaring pain. 

The SUB A was a small shop, maybe eight good paces across at best, but getting to the door felt impossible. Every inch of the already small space was quickly filling in with Staff effortlessly packing themselves in between tables and counters like the picture of uniformity while Ranboo skidded haphazardly around corners with uncoordinated limbs. They barrel past the same cold face over and over again, any personality or defining feature striped away, the door was right there-

Ranboo nearly throws up and their fingernails scrape against the doorframe because Charlie is lying there. More hands begin to catch up to them. Ranboo kicks themselves into action as the Staff force their attention away from the body at their feet and out, out and away.

An Employee almost manages to get its arms around his neck again and Ranboo practically falls forwards, struggling and tripping past the Staff still lining the walls. His foot catches on something and Ranboo topples forward and screams as their dislocated shoulder connects with the ground. Something warm and squishy seems to break their fall - it’s Charlie, that's his blood on your clothes- but Ranboo can’t afford to pay it mind unless he wants to die here with him. He scrambles up with one hand, kicking away legs and bodies crowding around him and is up again in an instant. As soon as there’s breathing room Ranboo is gone. They push past the thinning hivemind of Staff and the cold nothingness of the Mall greets them as their trainers thunder across the tiles.

From then on the only thought is to run. One foot in front of the other until there aren't twenty more footfalls behind you. Adrenaline numbs the pain coursing through their entire body, and the thought of Charlie is forcibly forgotten until it's safe to even think about him again, in the same way blood is funnelled to vital organs and nothing else when freezing to death. Save heat, survive for as long as possible.

Mindless turns through corridors, slipping on steps and slamming doors, all motivated purely out of the need to live . Even when the mass of employees behind them dwindles Ranboo keeps running. The heartbeat in their ears and heavy thumping of breaths in their chest sounds too much like footsteps giving chase. It's only when the adrenaline begins to wear off and the burning in their legs starts to consume them that Ranboo drops to the floor, shuts their eyes, and pants trying to catch their breath. 

It’s only then that the rest of the spur-of-the-moment energy they had drains away and Ranboo is hollow against some random wall in some random room of the mall. 

They’re not empty exactly, their shoulder was still burning something hellish, and every bad emotion possible has congealed into one horrible disgusting lump between their ribs. 

Despair. Despair is a rather good word for it. 

It's not like they know any sort of first aid, and Ranboo doubts if he can relocate his own shoulder with no assistance at all. The voice in their head that sounds like Charlie whispers encouragement. Thanks possible-auditory-hallucination Charlie. It doesnt change the fact there’s absolutely no one reachable in the whole building that would be able to help. Ranboo fights off the urge to cry. Every escape attempt so far has failed. Even if they were to escape without Charlie, there's no way they could do it with a dislocated shoulder. 

Every. Single. Loop. Every single time, nothing ever works. No one ever gets saved. Ranboo can practically hear Hetch’s next gloating monologue already.

“Do you know how humans used to hunt in prehistoric times?” 

Ranboo cowers against the wall, winded and alone with his figurative tail held low. This isn't fair. Crying about it wont make the pain go away. Ranboo racks his mind. He can't relocate his shoulder, he has no ice or pain relief, maybe the next best thing is to make a sling? At least he needs it to not move because every time it does it makes them stifle a low keening sound because it fucking hurts. They don't have a sling. Their jacket is the only thing coming to mind. Shit. Shit fuck fuck fuck it all god damn it. Ranboo hopes Hetch falls down the stairs and breaks his neck. 

It takes Ranboo a full five minutes of hissing through his teeth and searing pain for them to take their jacket off without jostling their bad arm so much that they pass out.

It's an even more agony inducing period of time making and getting their damn arm in the sling. 

They keep telling themselves that it will pay off. That the pain will be worth it someday. Ranboo refuses to acknowledge that he believes it less and less each loop. He just has to hold out for a little bit longer. He thinks about the hot chocolate he’ll make when this is all over. Showfall is always one step ahead, but if he can always be one step behind then at least Showfall will never know any peace. The back of his head hurts. The Hetch in his head takes on a more patronising tone, like a disappointed parent. 

“Humans have very good endurance, Ranboo.” 

There was no clock in the room so Ranboo doesn’t know how long he spent boneless against the wall of who knows where. He was below ground level, that he was pretty certain of. He recalls a lot of Staff Only doors and tripping down many a stair in his blind escape. All things considered the room, basement really, was boringly decorated. Staff were probably the only entities travelling down here and any appreciation for home décor was removed along with basic empathy and all other emotions. 

The walls were grey. Not the type of grey where it’s smoothly painted intentionally that way, more like the grey you get when you fuck up the paint job and simply leave it there to peel away and dirty itself to reveal the actual, even greyer wall underneath. The stuff you make pavements out of, but vertical. The occasional pipe ran along and up. Water pipes maybe. A small off white circle sits unassumingly on the ceiling; a fire alarm, maybe a camera. He’s aware he's not thinking clearly. The back of Ranboo’s head hurts. Maybe they hit it on something. Ranboo doesn’t particularly care about any of these things. 

What Ranboo does care about is the door.  After a period of time lying on the cold uncomfortable floor of a cold and uncomfortable room, in pulsing agony, one has to get up and keep moving. Tears drying for now, Ranboo forces himself to his feet. He winces as his left arm (now wrapped tight against his chest) catches and bumps against the wall.

“They would hunt prey that was faster than them, but the prey would sprint and use up all of its energy.”

No rest for the wicked. It’s always run and keep running, no matter who you run past or falls behind you. Keep your focus on the ones giving chase and maintaining as much distance as possible between the two of you. Focus on escaping. No time for anything else.

“Come Ranboo, plan something, you’re good at plans you’re the planning guy.” Goes his internal monologue, still sounding suspiciously like Charlie. They frown.

Great job so far Ranboo, you’re going insane already. 

Faint sounds of methodical footsteps above him stand out from the low thrum of the pipes. No time to worry about irrelevant things. Ranboo manages a skimping speed walk in his exhaustion, and laboriously continues deeper into the lower layers of the mall. 

“And the humans would simply… keep up.” 

——-

In an undisclosed location within Showfall’s grasp, a man paces back and forth.

Hetch was pissed. Things had not gone to plan, and The Founder is probably going to blame him for it. 

Someone on the team had clearly fucked up, he thinks, while watching the stars of the story run completely off script via CCTV. Of course the control fucks up the one time they live broadcast a show. 

The few other sentient workers in the building with him who kept their autonomy were practically wishing they’d been masked when Hetch found out the show was going wrong. Asking (read: yelling at) the tech guy to switch to the technical difficulties interval screen in time for the viewers to not hear The Hero running his dirty mouth about the company was pretty easy, but it did not change the fact that the show was not at all on track anymore. 

Hetch doesn’t do planning. He executes the plan. The Founder is the one that makes the plans. The Founder gives him the plot points, Hetch writes the script. Hetch is the one that creates the dialogue, shapes the characters and the backstories. 

The Hero, Ranboo , has managed to fuck up every single one of those things. And even more frustratingly, Hetch has no fucking idea how. Fortunately enough, whatever previous knowledge Ranboo seems to have impossibly gained hasn't aided him for very long. Charlie has been apprehended, and it shouldn’t take too long to reinstate his programming. (Hetch would order a fix for whatever error seems to have broken him out of it, but The Founder had given advice against doing so. The Founder also refused to elaborate on why. Secretive bitch. It pissed him off.) It shouldn't matter too much. Every experiment has its hiccups; easy fixable hiccups. It's not brain science. Hetch snorts to himself. Not in the traditional sense anyway. 

Ranboo isn’t showing up in any camera feeds. 

Seething anger washes over him again.

Hetch kicks at his office chair. When they locate that fucking kid he is going to take delight in ordering his reset.

Behind Hetch, a head of messy blond hair peers in through the doorway and scrutinises the CCTV. And has been for a while. He is hurriedly scribbling down directions onto a slip of paper from the recycling bin. Blue eyes shine with uncertain determination.

—- 

Somewhere deep inside the mall, a kid paces back and forth. 

Ranboo is alone. Things have not gone to plan, now they’re worse off than ever. Do abused dogs end up missing the chain around their neck, if they go far enough? At least running for his life was a routine. There was hope there. A horizon line to sprint towards. I can get there, just a bit longer. Now there is not even that. There is just the ache of a dislocated shoulder, and the damp cold of being alone is Showfall’s lowest levels. 

“Steadily they would follow, and over time…their prey would get more and more tired.” 

Ranboo is exhausted. They were getting nowhere. If Ranboo had the ability to remember Greek myths then the never ending twists and turns of the lowest level would remind them heavily of the maze that trapped the Minotour. A hero walking towards either victory over the beast or certain death. Ranboo has a feeling about which fate was going to meet him today. 

Every single direction was the same concrete in questionable condition. The few and far between instances of footsteps echoing in far away corridors do nothing to help the possibility that he’s finally lost his mind and is hallucinating to keep himself company. The loops have destroyed any semblance of both his internal clock and sense of direction. This isn't very good when stuck in a basement of repeating corridors and nondescript doors. 

Well not entirely repeating corridors, they passed an out of order lift a few minutes ago. After a moment taken to pry the doors open they were greeted with the lovely sight of no lift, just the elevator shaft. Concerningly the drop down implied the existence of even deeper levels of the mall, and Ranboo resolves to not go down any more sets of stairs. They also try not to think about the broken body of a Staff member crumpled at the bottom of the shaft, lest they delve into complex philosophy feeling bad about it. They don't question how it got there, or who might have pushed it. It's not like they have time to think about it, they’re busy wandering aimlessly at a snail's pace as their legs burn with exhaustion and desperation grows. Very busy. 

Ranboo has about ¾ of a mind to lie down on the floor and let nature reclaim him when one of the distant footsteps registers as approaching. No, no, not again. He’s so tired of this. He can't go anywhere without those damned methodical footsteps always in perfect rhyth- hold on. Ranboo pauses. The footsteps coming towards him lack the normal clack clack of dress shoes. 

The footsteps, muffled like someone trying badly to be stealthy, round a corner and… it's not Staff. Words don't describe the relief that fact brings. Words also don't describe the confusion of the realisation of who it is. 

One of the Puzzler’s Rats stares at him. Even more strangely, it's the annoying one from the loop where he killed Charlie. The annoying-at-first one. His blonde hair is askew and rat costume in bad enough condition that it became clear he wasn't meant to be here. Huh. Huh? 

He was disobeying Showfall orders. He was disobeying.

What.

The Rat looks up from where his eyes were previously glued to the scrap of paper clutched in his hands- a badly drawn map, upon further inspection. Recognition sparks in his eyes and the paper is hastily shoved in a back pocket. 

“What are you doing here- hey!”

The blond kid grins, abruptly spins on his heels and bolts down a hall. Oh hell no, Ranboo wants some answers. 

“Get back here!”

Now if there ever were background music to the next 5 minutes of Ranboo’s life, it would certainly be clown music. 

——

Ranboo groans with exhaustion as the Rat rounds yet another corner, using one hand to prop themselves up on the wall as they stagger through the maze of corridors. The kid had an incredibly annoying habit of pausing just long enough to let Ranboo catch up before running off again. Every nerve in their body screamed that this was probably a trap, but they were past caring. He wanted a goddamn explanation and he was going to get one, even if that meant dying in the process. 

Ranboo glares at a camera as he runs past, face twisted in a grimace of pain as their arm jostles in its sling. He bets Hetch is having the time of his life right now. They grit their teeth and keep moving, ignoring the waves of agony washing over their body. The thought of Hetch calmly watching him suffer fuels him with enough anger to keep putting one foot in front of the other. That bitch.

Ranboo grits his teeth and keeps moving. The blonde Rat slows, turning another corner with the creased piece of paper still gripped tightly in his hands. Ranboo would have let out another sob of relief he was able to suck in enough air as he slowly limped forwards, closing the distance and rounding the corner in bitter triumph-

There was nobody there. It was a dead end. Just the spatial equivalent of a broom closet with one derelict looking side door. Ranboo felt like crumpling to the ground.

They bent over, bracing their good hand on their knee as wheezing breaths choked their way out of their throat. The taste of blood filled their mouth as they straightened, breath clouding in the damp, stale basement air. 

For one sudden, awful moment, Ranboo becomes aware of somebody standing in the space behind him.

Suddenly two bony hands shove them through the side door, which slams closed with a resounding bang and the click! of a lock.

Ranboo whirls and pounds at the door with their one good arm and a yell. 

“Let me out!”

The Rat winks at him through the small window of glass, mouths a sentence he can't decipher, and runs. Ranboo feels like crying again.

“And they would run out of energy.” 

Adrenaline melts away as quickly as it came, and all the ‘weak-alone-sickly-listless-pain-misery’ crawls right back to take its place. Animalistic yelling turns more into animalistic wailing and crying, until it petters off all together into relatively quiet panting sobs. 

Ranboo’s arm falls, and with the heaviest sigh known to humankind, they turn around to survey the room they’ve been locked into. 

As it turns out, ‘room’ was an understatement. 

He was in what can only be described as a small warehouse, but was more likely a dumping ground where they tossed things never intended to see the light of day again. Concrete walls, rows of filing cabinets, boxes, crates. Odd desks and unnamable objects. Buzzing filament light bulbs. Innocent-seeming papers stapled together probably containing a myriad of damning information. Including damning information about the people you’ve kidnapped, he assumes. Some kind of storage area for all the shit he has both been longing to know and also dreads whole heartedly.

He recalls the rat winking at him through the glass. God damn it. 

Ranboo feels an unnameable emotion that some would write poetry about. He just feels homesick. That's probably what it is.

hiraeth (welsh) 

NOUN

the homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past. 

He has to commend Showfall’s terrible approach to secret keeping. Keeping it all in one, findable, room? They really should've invested in a paper shredder instead. What if one lucky person happens upon it and sues the company out of existence? Or maybe Showfall just has really good lawyers. Or maybe Showfall is just such a big company that it wouldn't even make a dent. Ranboo decides to not ponder just how big off a mess his life has become without his permission. 

The most glaring issue currently obvious is the fact that this is a highly illegal information room and thus is definitely covered to high heaven with security measures. This begs two things: Whoever’s manning the CCTV 100% knows they’re here now, which means lots of bad things approaching very quickly, and secondly why the fuck did they leave the door unlocked.  

So Ranboo has limited time here. Always running out of time, always. No catching a break today, or ever. Ranboo exhales a miserable noise worthy of an undeserving peasant about to be publicly executed in 1692, resists the urge to collapse and cry until Security comes to kill him, and starts to read the label of the nearest filing cabinet. 

A lot of it appears to be money related; he’s recognising an abundance of ‘tax evasion’ adjacent words on the labels. He knocks his forehead against the metal of the filing cabinet and groans. They are never going to get out of here. Their life is going to consist of this same day, over and over and over for the foreseeable eternity. And they’re spending it with a dislocated shoulder, destroyed will to live, and filing cabinets. It could very well take hours to search this whole place for something useful. Ranboo would equate it to the size of your average Tesco, if he could remember the average size of a Tesco. Memory wipe perks. 

Showfall had helpfully labelled the cabinets in accordance to its contents but had, not so helpfully, locked them all. Sigh.

Well, Ranboo decides, have to start somewhere. 

He starts forward and immediately steps on something crunchy. He moves his foot, revealing a crumpled PR leaflet. Showfall has social media? ‘Entertainment Representative tip #3: When faced with negative reviews, delete them under the guise of redirecting them to a customer service number. We do not have a customer service number.’

Ranboo rolls his eyes to the heavens. Of course.

The first few cabinets and desks he doesn't bother too much with as its all money stuff and legal jargon that is no use to Ranboo. The drawer labelled “lawsuits” doesn't look very empty. Snowfall probably has enough money to pay them off and sweep it under the rug like it never existed. Showfall have historically been very good at that.

Sigh. Next few cabinets. Ranboo skims the labels. Rat Program, Chronicle 0, Ranboo Bakes A Ca - what.

“Ranboo Bakes a Cake? What the fu-”

Ranboo cuts himself off with a yelp as he straightens up and hits his head on a drawer. 

Ranboo curses under their breath. Fucking spacial awareness. This is what happens when you are 6 foot something and others Normally Are Not. The drawer that will probably give him a new bruise is only titled JRWI. The drawer itself is attached to the cabinet with the larger title of SCU. What's with all the abbreviations? Is it God taunting him by making him unable to understand all the secrets? Perchance.

 The JRWI drawer is leaking some weird substance. The drawer above it (marked The 100 Days Test ) smelt strongly like rot. Hm. Yeah he wants none of that. Nope, not opening that. That is more likely to contain a deadly biohazard than information. No thank you. 

The next few cabinets are covered in notes, stuck onto the metal with little cartoon bear fridge magnets. On closer look, Ranboo’s seeing a lot of government-y, federation-y words. Quite a few names he does not recognize, he spots a Mariana, a Jaiden, a Bobby… and every once and a while, Charlie’s name. (He wonders where those other people are. He hopes they are ok.) There’s a lot of binary code sequences. That is not a great sign. He’s just going to… leave that the hell alone. It practically screamed THIS WILL GET YOU INTO AN EVEN LARGER MESS IF YOU MESS WITH IT, thus, leaving the hell alone.

Another drawer labelled The Lostfield Incident had a lot of caution stickers slapped on it. Ranboo dismisses another section simply abbreviated to MCC. Ok. None of that felt like it would give him specific answers and he doesnt particularly want to know whats in some of those because all of them sound ominous as fuck (except Ranboo Bakes a Cake, what the hell is that).

It’s a few long boring depressing treacherous minutes of searching the clutter of various storage items when Ranboo gets to a particularly messily arranged section. By messy he means stuff everywhere. A lot of it was papers. Various bits of probably important files strewn around the floors, sticking out of draws, pinned to the wall like a noir detective movie. 

Upon closer inspection of the papers oh my fucking god those are people’s. People's lives. The people Showfall has taken’s lives. Missing posters. News reports. Birth certificates. Screenshots from people's private social media. Blackmail. Death certificates. Forged death certificates. 

He feels sick. So many people’s lives, thrown away like trash. These were people. With names and lives. He thinks of the Employee broken at the bottom of the elevator shaft. A person. Who were they? Was their file somewhere in here? They had a family. A family who will never have a body to mourn. Because there is a person dead in the elevator shaft. Oh god. Ranboo really wants to throw up.

Various files are pinned to a board, names and locations linking together the same last names the same last names; a family-

Ranboo snatches at the nearest file to his knees (Oh, he’s on the ground. When did that happen?) and clutches it to his chest, knocking his bad arm in the process, as if he can still save them. A few rouge tears blot the paper. His hands shake has he thumbs through page after page of names, of lives-

Jane D. Anthony JC. Lucy H. Bella F. Stanley and Mariella P. F Pines. Dr Gerald M…

It’s a terrifyingly long list. In bold capitals, a word under each face.

Accepted. Disqualified. Accepted. Accepted. Ranboo’s heart drops further. Showfall was scouting for Employees . Accepted. Disqualified. Ranboo’s noticing a pattern. Disqualified. Disqualified. Accepted. The accepted people tend to be alone. Accepted. Accepted. Alone with no one who would look hard enough to find them. Disqualified. Accepted. No one on the carousel mentioned people to go back to. Accepted. Accepted. 

Ranboo aches, and the pain in the back of his head worsens slightly. They stop turning the pages on a particular face looking back at them. 

MISSING PERSON: 

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY?

It’s the Rat that led them in here. He looks different out of costume sure, but the resemblance is uncanny. Same blond hair, if a bit shorter, same eyes. Same dead and buried memories of laughing together years ago. 

Tommy. Having a name to the face is… disturbing. The words in the file laugh at him.

Accepted.

Brighton beach. Last seen with his family.

A low definition photo is paperclipped to the page, unmistakably the Rat. Tommy. It shows him in a crowd of holiday goers, flanked on either side by two taller figures, siblings perhaps, seemingly arguing over ice cream orders if the van next to them gave any indication.  The one in a yellow jumper makes an exaggerated gagging motion as the other defends their pink ice cream. Neither are looking at Tommy. Tommy’s ice cream is melting onto the pavement. A shorter man in a green hat and Tommy's hair colour has his back turned to the family and sheepishly pays for a cone in the grainy background. A family. Tommy had a family.  

The worst thing is that the photo looks like it was taken across the street, maybe from a car. Tommy is looking right at the camera. He looks afraid. Very afraid. 

Last seen. Last seen. Last seen.  

Does Tommy's family know what happened to him? Did they turn around to ask him if he prefers chocolate or strawberry and see him gone? Did they get taken too? Ranboo feels really ill now. He thinks back to Tommy disobeying orders to show him this room. The wink through the glass. The mouthed sentence he couldn't make out. He hopes that wherever Tommy is now, that he’s alive. 

IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION, PLEASE CONTACT ███████ IMMEDIATELY. PLEASE BRING HIM HOME.

All the contact information is blacked out.

Ranboo keeps turning pages in numb horror. Showfall had been stalking a lot of people for a long time. A blurry photo through the window of a Starbucks as a woman in her 30s uses the free Wi-Fi to work on her laptop. Accepted. A photo from the street aimed at a bus, framing a man looking out the window unaware of the photographer. The motion blur strips away his features. Accepted. A man with his son at the park, the child making eye contact with the camera. The next photo is of the same man, now alone. Terminated. A wedding. The bride is mid-bouquet throw, the photo focusing on a bridesmaid making no move to catch it. Accepted. A photo through the window of a family home as two people in their early 20s watch Home Alone 2. Disqualified.  

The worst part is that they are starting to recognise faces. A familiar woman walking her dog. Niki. Niki who was shot dead in the bathroom, with a dog waiting at the door for its owner to return from the shopping run. Accepted. A young man being dragged away with someone else’s hand over his mouth, unmistakably Sneeg. Accepted. Ranboo closes the file quickly and represses a wave of nausea. Oh god.  

Ranboo puts the file gingerly down and doesn't cry, he doesn't. Family. Family. Ranboo doubles over until his forehead touches the concrete and grieves. 

——-

In an undisclosed location within Showfall’s grasp, Hetch scans the lower level’s CCTV. A skinny figure walks aimlessly through the hallways, rat costume askew. Tommy looks right at the camera. And flips it off. 

Hetch scoffs. That kid was trouble from day one. He’ll get someone to deal with it later, he has one much bigger fish to fry. 

Hetch watches a tall figure crumpled on the ground, like a prayer, clutching at papers. It’s a little pathetic actually.  

The fish has just jumped from the frying pan, into the fire.

——-

DAUGHTER DID NOT RETURN HOME.

MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE: DO YOU HAVE INFORMATION?

PLEASE BRING HIM HOME.

HELP US PLEASE.

HELP!

MISSING: HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

PLEASE LISTEN.

MISSING PERSON, PLEASE SHARE.

FIND ME.

HAS NOT BEEN SEEN IN MONTHS, HELP!

PLEASE FIND HER.

WE CANNOT AFFORD A REWARD, PLEASE HELP US.

MISSING: CAN YOU HELP?

PLEASE, INFORMATION NEEDED.

CALL ██████████ WE ARE DESPERATE!

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

RUNAWAY TEENAGER.

BRING ME HOME.

MISSING PERSON.

MISSING.

MISSING. 

MISSING.

“Then the humans would eat them.”  

Ranboo doesn't believe in ghosts because if they were real then the mall would be full of them. If ghosts were real there would be lost people wandering through the place constantly. If ghosts were real, Sneeg would be snarking at Charlie from the doorway and Ranboo would be butting in every now and then as they bicker together good naturedly. 

Ranboo is alone with his crying. 

There’s people out there. Families with a seat missing at the table. There are empty coffins buried out there. Ranboo does not move from his spot on the floor. Everyone inside this mall is missing. Gone. Vanished out of existence while Showfall hides in plain sight. Ranboo is a missing person. He is a missing person. He belonged somewhere. Out there, there is a person mourning a Ranboo-shaped hole in their lives. Showfall had dug their fingers deep and taken until there's nothing left. There’s thousands of gaping blank spaces outside, that no one has that capacity to fill anymore. 

Ranboo still sits shaking on his spot on the concrete. Because there is something lying on the desk on his right. And he doesn't want to look at it. So he keeps his head pointed at the ground, seeing but not really looking. Afraid that if he looks up, reads the words next to him, up on that desk, that it will all become real. It feels like death. 

Ranboo is kneeling, grieving, on the floor, with his neck placed on the chopping block. And looking up will send the guillotine down, down, down. 

Ranboo delays the inevitable for a long time. It hurts. The air is strangling him. Ranboo looks up. 

Two files. Paperclipped together, not to be separated. There are no names on the front, but Ranboo knows whose lives are in them. 

Ranboo slowly unwinds from his heap on the floor, and reaches one-armed to the files. It irritates his shoulder, but the pain that flares is an afterthought now. Somewhere between the floor and the desk, Ranboo’s hands stop shaking. 

The first thing tucked inside is a missing poster. 

MISSING: ████ , Charlie

AGE: ████

MISSING SINCE: ███ ,██ ,2008

And there it is. Ranboo just stares, winded. Reading it, he almost feels guilty. Like his viewing of it had somehow cemented Charlie’s fate, as if this could’ve been changed. 

Ranboo turns the poster gently over. As if damaging it would damage Charlie. There's too much that Ranboo can't bring himself to read. He sees a lot of research pages. Things labelled as Experimental. There's diagrams. Ranboo wants to throw up. Ranboo wants to cry again. Ranboo wants Charlie back. Ranboo wants to go home. Ranboo wants to stop reading. Ranboo wants to lie down in his childhood bedroom. Ranboo doesn't want to be alone.

IF FOUND, CALL: ███████

There’s photos, like Tommy had photos. 

A park. A kid with his back to the camera. A school playground. The kid is older now. He has friends. Accepted. Ranboo can't see his face. 

Ranboo doesn't see Charlie’s parents in any of them. Not properly, he glimpses no faces. He sees the hands that hold Charlie’s. They look old. Grandparents, then. 

A special sort of knife stabs at Ranboo’s heart. MISSING SINCE: ███ , ██ ,2008. Decades. Charlie can't see them again. 

There’s more photos. Showfall photos. 

A white, sterile room. Wires. People in white coats, masked all the same, as faceless surgeons. There is too much, too many. He spots what looks like past shows.  And the aftermath of them. Ranboo recalls the filing cabinets he passed. There is blood. The lab rat, the testing guinea pig. His brother. Ranboo closes Charlie’s file, before he can see something that will stay branded into his mind forever. Oh God.

—

Du-dum. Du-dum. Du-dum. Du-dum

—

The file paperclipped to Charlie’s reads “Hero” in bold font.

—

Du-dum. Du-dum.

Always watching. Always planning.

Du-dum. Du-dum.

—

Ranboo has photos too. Or, he did. Whereas the others had been clipped in, Ranboo’s photos had been glued. And then– ripped out. He was denied even this.  

MISSING: ████ “Ranboo” ████

AGE: ████

MISSING SINCE: ███████

There is no contact information to redact. 

The paper is ripped, parts of it coming away with the photos. The edge of it still remains, stuck so well to the page that it could not be removed without ripping the information beneath it. 

The fragments left do not tell him much. 

What appears to be the steps to a house. The bottom half of a small figure sits on them, reaching out to part of a cat barely in the picture. The name tag reads ‘Crumb.’ Next to the boy, a pair of women's shoes. Flat red ones with black straps. The faintest implication of socks, then the rest of her is ripped away. The kid’s shoes are red, like hers. Accepted.

Ranboo’s fingers lightly trail the blank space where the figure of his mother should've been.

Another photo’s remains. A glimpse of a cloudy sky peeking over a slate roof. The motion blur of the kid’s red shoes running past the camera, followed by a grey streak of dog. A man’s shoes stand on the path, a pair of women's shoes chasing the boy. They are a different style of shoe than the first photo. Black heels, not suited to the grass she’s running through. 

Another. Not much of the boy survived the rip this time, though the impressions of other children did, with different Velcro shoes lining up in the photo’s bottom corners.  Ranboo thinks he spots his red shoes among them. A brick building, maybe a wall, is behind them. The beginnings of a fancy iron gate.

More and more photos. Eventually, Ranboo loses sight of his red shoes. Grew out of them, maybe. Each photo, the shoes next to him change. Sometimes there are no shoes next to him at all. 

The last ripped photo. There are bags by his feet, he’s wearing faded white trainers. He’s by a black vehicle, assumingly a car, beside black dress shoes that lead upwards to the beginnings of some smart trousers. The camera caught Ranboo mid tumble as he strips over a bag. He gets the impression that dress shoes person is pulling at him. Or Ranboo was too eager to follow. The photo doesn't tell him.

—

Du-dum. Du-dum.

Are you watching, readers? 

Du-dum, Du-dum

—

Showfall photos, intact. Wires. ‘Experimental surgery.’ A scream captured in a freeze frame. Restraints. Prototypes. Shows. Blood.

Paragraphs on anatomy, studies, tests, experiments, reactions, deaths–

Ranboo shuts the file. 

Yeah, if ghosts were real, Ranboo thinks he’s found them.

 If ghosts were real Ranboo decides he might find Charlie’s here, sitting in storage like it’s Lost and Found. God, Charlie. 

There is an indescribable weight on his chest, in his chest, crushing him.

What would Charlie have looked like now without Showfall taking him away? Where would Ranboo have been? Would they still have been friends?  He dreams. It’s a desperate, needy thing.

Charlie would be on the swings, grinning with a missing front tooth and muddy velcro trainers. Ranboo would probably be in the sandpit, maybe the slide. Were they neighbours? Childhood friends? Did they even live close to each other?

What would he think of Ranboo now, saddled with decade-old survivors' guilt for a brother he never truly had? 

If ghosts were real Charlie would be here, in all his 10 year old innocence, with his biggest worry being what birthday present he’s going to get.

"Ha," the 10 year old that isn't in the room would say, "you got old!"

"So did you," Ranboo would say back. 

The kid would only laugh disbelievingly and stay waiting, cross legged on the floor, for his parents to come back.

MISSING BOY.

The kid that isn't there eyes him up and down. He clicks his tongue in the obnoxious way kids do.

"Who are you?" The kid would say.

"Your brother," Ranboo replies. 

10 year old Charlie giggles. 

"But you're a grown up."

"So are you."

The kid sticks his tongue out and grimaces.

"Nah, I'm staying young forever."

"Not to me."

Charlie’s grin is back, showing off his missing tooth. Ranboo wonders if he ever got his tooth fairy money. 

"What am I like? Funny?" The kid that isn't there strikes a stupid pose from where he is on the floor, "Handsome? Charming?"

"You'll entertain a lot of people."

"Well now you’ve made me look forward to it!"

"I…"

Ranboo trails off, because he's alone in the room.

They stare at the cover for the file again, trying to mask their increasing desperation for help that simply doesn't exist . The files were rather innocent looking when he first saw them, as innocent as illegal papers with the Showfall logo stamped on the front could look. Ranboo's whole life, Charlie's whole life, reduced to a few censored documents. Junk to Showfall. Worthless.

If he could at least get a date they went missing, perhaps he could search the missing persons directory if he gets out. When. When he gets out. 

"What are you doing?" The 10 year old would say. 

Ranboo would ignore the paper cut on their thumb and keep searching the same sentences over and over again. 

"Looking for you," Ranboo would respond.

The kid would frown.

"But I'm here. Am I lost?"

MISSING BOY. HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

Ranboo cannot respond to the ghost in his head.

"I'm not lost." The kid in his head repeats. 

"I know you're not."

"You know I'm not here."

The kid would gesture in the direction of where Ranboo left Charlie, the real one, the dead one, as if he were lazily giving directions with no care in the world. 

"Yeah. I guess you’re not." Ranboo responded to nobody. 

The room seemed to press in on him, the thick concrete foundation of this whole fucked-up organisation breathing dust down his neck. The blood on their hands was congealing, seeping slowly into the papers they clutched like a lifeline. Reddish-brown obscures Charlie’s name, and Ranboo has to fight the urge to either laugh hysterically or break down sobbing. 

Their arm throbs, a deep-seated pain that he’d managed to block out over the past few minutes with the pretence that he might find anything that could save them. Ranboo is just so , so tired.

“You look sad.” 

The kid fiddles with a loose thread from his shirt. He doesn’t make eye contact with Ranboo.

“My parents said I had to be a good boy and not make a fuss while they were gone. Do you know where they went?”

Charlie is looking at him now. Ranboo can see the tears gleaming in his eyes, hear the lump in the kid’s throat.

“They’ll be back soon.” 

The lie slips from his throat smoothly, like he’s done it a million times before. 

“Don’t worry. There should be a button in the heart of the facility that- that turns this whole place off. If we get to that, we can make it out.”

The kid’s face brightens momentarily, and he shuffles towards Ranboo slightly.

“Will you look after me until my parents get back?”

Bile rises in his throat at the innocent, trusting face that shines up at him.

“Sure thing, buddy.”

The kid beams, and just for a second Ranboo sees Charlie, sobbing and terrified, strung up in front of TV screens in the second before the box swings shut-

Ranboo blinks.

Their hands clench into fists, crumpling the documents that hold whatever fragments of their childhoods are left after Showfall.

“Will you protect me from the bad guy? He’s looking for me.”

“The bad guy?”

“Yeah. He’s getting closer.”

The child huddles in on himself, shivering slightly.

Anxiety flared in Ranboo’s mind. They could think of a few Showfall executives who fit that name. He leans forward.

“What does the bad guy look like?”

“Well, he’s really tall. And- and really famous! Everyone likes him.”

Ranboo grits his teeth. Showfall loves putting on a persona for the outside world, don’t they?

“He’s trying to find me. Every time I close my eyes, his face is like- like glowing in my brain.”

“Glowing?”

“Yeah, he’s got these- like glowy parts on his face? It gives me nightmares sometimes. He wants to kill me. A-and if you see him, you have to run away, ok? He’ll hurt you.”

“What kind of glowy things?”

Ranboo silently curses whatever new fucked up experiment Showfall has concocted.

“Like- these red glowing things that look like eyes. Please don’t let him catch us.”

“Listen, Charlie, you’ve got to run, ok? I’ll get rid of the bad guy for you but you’ve got to stay safe.”

The kid nods, trembling. His eyes are wide and full of fear, but not for himself. Ranboo realises with a twinge that Charlie is afraid for them.

“Remember to look out for a white and red jacket.”

Ranboo freezes, glancing at the blood-soaked makeshift sling on his left arm. Most of the white was stained a garish red, blending with the dyed fabric.

Oh.

Oh.

Red LEDs flicker on in the corner of their vision.

Charlie blanches, scooting backwards until his back hits the wall. 

“Please, please don’t hurt me, I’m sorry-”

The kid cowers away, visibly shaking. The red lights glare accusingly at Ranboo from the reflection of Charlie’s plastic dinosaur glasses.

The kid is sobbing, arms wrapping around his stomach protectively.

“Please don’t put me in the box again, I don’t want to go-”

“No, no- I didn’t want to, Charlie, please-”

Charlie screams and flinches back from Ranboo’s outstretched hands, eyes wide with terror as sobs catch in his throat.

“You’ll- you'll cut me open again!”

Ranboo’s heart audibly shatters. 

Charlie hiccups, fat tears sliding down his face turning betrayed eyes towards Ranboo.

“I want my parents. You said they’d come back. You promised to look after me.”

“Charlie-”

“I want to go home. ”

“No, please no Charlie I just want to help you, to protect you-”

They reach out again towards the kid, arms outstretched, trying so desperately to convey that they would never want to hurt Charlie-

Their arms envelop nothing. The room is empty. 

In the dim lighting, the neon glow of the mask washes over the rows of filing cabinets like spilled blood.

des·pair

[dɪˈspɛː]

NOUN

the complete loss or absence of hope.

“Do you feel tired, Ranboo?” 

Ranboo’s hands shake. It’s not fair. They’re so exhausted. All their energy, will to survive, falls away. 

There’s nothing they can do.

Red LED glares.

Ranboo’s head hurts;

a familiar throbbing ache in the base of their skull.

It’s hopeless.

They’re hopeless.

Hopeless.

           Hopeless…

                                    Hope

                                                                  less

…

                             No.                                                              

                                                                                                                                                           Never mind.

                                                                Don't worry.

            It’s all                                                                                                         ok.

                                                                                                                                                                Your hands are 

                                             Moving.    

                                                       Pay it no mind.

       It doesn’t 

                                                matter.

                                                                                                                                                                       Nothing is hurting you. 

                                                                               You        

                                                                                                                            are fine.

                 No one is in

                                                                                              danger.

 ——

Hetch white knuckles the desk. 

“Keep going.”

The employee impossibly hesitates.

“ Now.”

——

           You are a hero.

                                   The Hero.

                                                                                                                                                                      That’s ok. 

                                           How long have

                                                                                                                            you           been here?

                   Pay it no mind.

                                         but

                                                                               wasn’t there                                                                             someone

                                                                                                           with you?

                           Why does something 

hurt?

The mask flickered again, and Ranboo stumbled back into his body, head reeling from the overwhelming sensation not unlike having a strong hand root through his brain. Fuck.

They looked around. The dimly lit documents room stared back at him, objects glinting amongst shadows as if mimicking the glare of a camera lens. He isn't in the spot he remembers sitting. Ranboo raised a hand to drag through his hair in desperation, ignoring the fistfuls of shredded paper that fluttered to the ground in clumps-

Wait.

He looked down, racing thoughts jarred into focus by a sharp twinge of pain from his injured arm suddenly twisted in its sling. Remnants of torn-up documents littered the floor, dense blocks of text and blurred-out pictures visible in fragments amongst them. The Showfall Logo gazed tauntingly at him from the jigsaw-puzzle pieces as if in triumph. It looks like they did invest in a paper shredder after all.

Look at what you’ve done. We couldn’t just let you take these, could we?

The shreds of unsalvageable paper blurred as Ranboo sank back down to the floor, clutching at tatters of their previous lives as if desperately trying to piece them back together, to rewrite the past-

Their head still hurts. No, the chip in the back of their head hurts. That's what’s been hurting. LED lights flickered tauntingly and a wave of blissful apathy momentarily soothed the fraying edges of his sanity as he straightened, no longer concerned about why his shoulders heaved painfully with choked sobs and the hole in his chest yawned wider.

Then the mask darkened again, plunging him back into a rapidly spiralling panic at what he’d done . They’d torn up the only evidence of any life lived outside of Showfall, destroying what could be their shot out of here. The fact that they could return next loop didn’t matter. Showfall would keep fucking with their head and make sure they never got anywhere so what was even the point-

Ranboo went still.

Showfall would keep fucking with their head. 

The LEDs flickered weakly as if in protest as they ran their fingers over the sharp edge where smooth, brutal metal met flesh. Faint lines of crimson bloomed on already bloodied fingers and left trails of red on shiny uniform grey.

Ranboo didn’t care. They wanted this thing off.

>_>_>_>_>_>_>_>_>_>_>_>

He dug his fingers into the corners of the mask and tugged, biting back a curse as wires twisted painfully into skin. This was going to be more difficult than initially anticipated. 

Scanning the dim room for options, their eyes landed on a letter-opener gleaming indistinctly in the murky shadows. Well, it was better than nothing. 

They stepped over the scattered documents and raised the makeshift weapon with a shaking hand, trying to steady their erratic breathing as another electric current of pain ran through their left arm. They’d been through worse. The main objective was just to get this over with before Showfall could intervene and stop them.

With a sort of reverent terror, they held the blade to the bundle of wires next to their left ear. It wasn’t like they hadn’t done anything like this before. Although dying was easy. Destroying a symbol of Showfall that they couldn’t remember living without? It felt almost sacrilegious.

Ranboo took a deep breath in.

On the exhale, they jerked the blade forward and sawed partially through the wires, sending vibrations reverberating through his skull as the mask heaved uncomfortably against his head. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. The smooth chrome of the mask sliced stinging red lines into his skin as it was tugged back and forth by the movement.

LED lights flickered, sending a pulse of electricity through the frayed wires. They retract their hand with a sharp inhale, the sharp spike of pain almost immediately dulled by the familiar all-encompassing wave of soothing apathy. Gentle suggestions lapped at the corners of his mind, prompting him to just let go of the blade-

No. 

The lights flashed briefly and died, and he took the opportunity to continue sawing at the wires, gritting his teeth against the recoil as they snapped one by one. Ranboo hisses in pain as the blade reaches their skin, cutting through the remains of mangled and frayed wires

Right. One side down.

They begin working on the other side, the repetitive motion emphasising the ache in their already strained limbs. The smooth metal of the mask gnaws holes in their cheeks as it scrapes against their skin. Ranboo tries to control their breathing, shutting his eyes tight against the pain as he continues to work his way through the wires. The mask stutters over their skin as they brace it against their shoulder to stop it from moving.

The last wire snaps, and another electrical pulse sputters out weakly as it brands hot sparks into his skin. He winces for a moment before the realisation sets in.

The mask is no longer attached.

A sigh of relief escapes their throat as they set the blade down and place their now free hand on the mask. The near-dried blood on their palm smears over the pristine metal like a promise. Ranboo hesitates for a moment, then tugs on the mask.

He cries out in pain again as the mask wrenches at his face, clinging like a parasite to his skin.

Wait.

What?

But he’d- he’d cut off the wires holding the mask in place, surely that would-

They tugged at the mask again, with more force this time, sure that maybe it was just their imagination-

No. 

It was real.

The mask was somehow attached to their fucking face-

Ranboo couldn’t breathe.

The mask was fucking bolted to their face and they couldn’t get it off, couldn’t ever escape what Showfall had done to them-

Their breathing was rapid, panicked. They barely noticed their shaking hand picking up the blade.

Ranboo suddenly became aware of the cool metal of the letter opener pressed against the raw bleeding skin where the mask had chafed. They had to do this. They couldn’t stand another minute with a glorified fucking muzzle on their face. 

They took a shaky, shallow breath in and began to cut.

The blade sliced deeper into their skin then they had anticipated, angled downwards awkwardly as he tried to manoeuvre it against the smooth chrome of the mask. Shit .

Their fingernails imprinted harsh crescent moons on the soft skin of their palms as their hand gripped the letter opener tighter. He tried to ignore the wet, sickening rasping sound of skin separating from raw flesh as it burned in the wake of the keen-edged metal. Tears slipped beneath the metal and sparked fireworks of agony over his flesh as Ranboo tried to painstakingly move the blade along the seam where his face ended and the mask began.

The blade shuddered to a halt as it struck something unfamiliar that sent excruciating agony echoing through his face. Pain splintered into his marrow as if the mask was anchored into his very bones . They didn’t let themselves think about how much truth there might be behind that statement.

What the hell even was that thing? Ranboo tries again to pull the blade past, biting back muffled cries as their muscles wrench in funny, fucked up ways and blood fills their mouth. 

Whatever the fuck it was, it seemed almost immovable. Was the mask fucking bolted to his skull?

Their breathing starts to speed up as they pull the letter opener out of the wound quickly, too quickly , causing more blood to start gushing through the seams of the mask. Ranboo’s mouth is filling with blood and their tears trace lines of agony through their bloodied flesh and they can’t breathe-

The mask is stuck on their face and they’ll never be free, never get out from Showfall’s grip because as far as they can tell there’s fucking barbed wire nailing the godforsaken metal into their flesh. 

They still can’t breathe, pain slicing into the palm of his hand as he grips the letter-opener tightly; grasping deliriously at any remaining shreds of control left to him like a starved dog. Blood glistens on his throat like a collar and all he can think of is the metal festering somewhere under his skin as shuddering nausea runs feather-like fingers up his spine.

Ranboo doesn’t register the pain as the letter-opener clatters to the floor and hungry hands begin to tear and rip at the razor-sharp edges of the mask with desperation-fuelled strength. His dislocated shoulder screams in protest as the sling rips. Bloodied craters on their face gape wider, sharp fingernails tearing wildly at raw flesh and muscle.

Slowly, excruciatingly, Ranboo digs out enough space to pry his fingers between the inside of the mask and his face. Half-mangled wires soaked in blood tangle with remnants of tattered flesh as their breathing slows and the horrifying reality of what they’ve done hits them. They can feel the sickening sensation of blood pulsing through slick exposed veins and brushing up against his fingers as its metallic stench chokes the air out of his lungs. Revulsion hits them like a wave, but it’s too late to turn back now. 

They swallow the bile rising in their throat, and begin to pull. 

Blood-slicked hands struggle for purchase on the smooth surface as they grunt in pain, screwing their eyes shut against the grotesqueness of soft tissue giving as metal rips its way through flesh and sinew and bone.

A pained, animalistic sound forced itself from his mouth as a horrific wrenching sensation sent agony rupturing through his nerves. The skin on either side of their mouth tore in mangled clumps as long, bloodied fucking nails slid stutteringly from his flesh. Wires slithered like pale, engorged maggots down his throat and overflowed from the gaping hole in his face as the mask clattered to the floor, taking large chunks of gums, teeth and skin with it.

They were crying, tears burning agonising fire into the mangled, pitted hole where the lower half of their face used to be. Gargled sobs wracked his bloodied throat as wires choked his vocal cords, pain splintering down dislocated cheekbones and erupting into waterfalls of blood that continued to splatter wetly onto piles of discarded flesh.

Ranboo slumped to the floor, vision blurring in the dim light as slippery metallic blood seeped into his clothes from the cold, unforgiving concrete floor. His hands scrabbled for purchase as he tried to pull himself upright against a pillar, stinging pain momentarily distracting him as the soft skin of his palms found the bloodstained blade of the letter opener.

A soft gasp pulls them from their dizzying descent into unconsciousness, and they look up. The kid stands in front of them, terror etched on his face. There are tears on his face. His lip wobbles. He points towards Ranboo. He mouths a word.

Monster.

Ranboo opens what used to be their mouth to speak, to reassure, gasping for air as they choke on blood-soaked scraps of words. The kid flinches, turning paler at the sight of the blood. His hands bunch the fabric of his shirt, and Charlie takes a fearful step back.

Ranboo tries to smile at Charlie, to reassure him that they won’t hurt him, but the fragments of torn skin and wire constrict painfully around the fraying zombie-like crater in their face, and more tears carve rivers of agony into their tortured flesh. All it does is show off his bloodied teeth.  

Idle sentences float inside his mind. They dissipate whenever Ranboo tries to catch them. 

Ranboo blinks, and Charlie is gone, leaving behind no trace in the dirt slowly staining with red. Their vision wavers, breath coming dizzyingly fast as their blood thickens and congeals slowly on the icy concrete.

His thoughts had to drag themselves across his brain like wounded animals in head-high snow. Bleeding to death. Won't survive for much longer, with the way its paws are frostbitten to unusability, and life force drip drip dripping away. Soon that animal will collapse into the snow, and watch it gradually turn pink as the hunter leisurely follows its maroon stained trail. Its fur will have matted and stuck together, the biting air nipping at the wound, taking chunks and chunks until the frost numbs its body. The animal’s eyes flick up as the cold steals the last of its body heat and its heart slows to nothing, and the hunter will rip the spear out of its side, and it will die. Cold and alone.

The last thing they register is a ringing in their ears as the pain fades to quiet oblivion, and then silence. He lets it. Gurgled bloodied breaths stop. Ranboo lies down in the snow.    

And then Ranboo wakes up. Charlie walks in and starts talking. It’s far away.

Ranboo just clenches and unclenches his hands, reminding himself that they can still move, staring at nothing. 

—— >_>_>_>_>_>_>_>_>_>_>_> ——

Charlie is looking at him. Ranboo shifts awkwardly from his seat on the floor having just metaphorically ripped his own chest open, pulled apart his ribs and placed his slimy, bloody, beating heart in Charlie's hands. He cannot see Charlie cradling it. Charlie’s voice is full of an emotion so caring and familial pained that Ranboo is not ready to ever identify as coming from his mouth.

“You just… accepted it? Gave up?”

There’s heartbreak in his tone.

They open their mouth, searching for words with the desperate helplessness of someone who knows they’re about to break.  Hot, damp tears tumble from his eyes and Charlie pulls them carefully into a hug as if they were a bomb about to go off. A low, whining sound rips from their throat and his brother’s arms tighten around him, one hand supporting the back of their head. Ranboo struggles through the choking sobs to voice the dread that’s been slowly curdling in the pit of his stomach since the first loop.

“We’re dead, Charlie. We’ve been dead for years–” Ranboo counts dejectedly on his fingers– “denial, bargaining, anger...” 

“Fuck the stages of grief, Ran!”

“Charlie-”

“No, fuck that. We have nothing to grieve yet! We are not mourning anyone because we are still alive, Ranboo. Nobody’s killed us yet, and they won’t if I have something to say about it.”

Ranboo chuckles wetly. 

There is an animal in head-high snow.

“I keep fucking falling apart , Charlie. I’m cold.”

They wave a hand vaguely in the air as if to encompass the sheer scale of how shattered they feel. He chokes back the sobs wracking his body, feeling Charlie’s grip tighten almost imperceptibly. 

Bleeding to death. In another life it will surely die.

“Every single loop I do this, like I shouldn’t already be used to this whole fucked-up mess by now. I’m slowing us down, Charlie. We’re never going to be able to escape with me having a fucking breakdown every 5 minutes.”

“No, no , Ran. I’m not going to let that happen. I promise to you now, I will always be here to pick you back up again. No matter what happens, I won’t leave you behind. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it together, yeah?”

But today, the entity following behind in its blood-soaked trail is not the hunter. A lamb nudges at its legs.

Ranboo only shudders, leaning his head on Charlie’s chest as muffled sobs turn to quiet whimpers.

No knife will slit its throat, the frostbite in its legs will thaw. It will not die today.

Charlie rubs a soothing hand up and down his brother’s back, gut-wrenching sorrow mingling with vengeful anger on Ranboo’s behalf.

Instead of numbing in the snow the animal is lifted into warm hands, washed and bandaged. It is placed next to the hearth, nursing a wound that shall heal into a smooth pink scar, and dreams of flying.

Ranboo’s uneven gasps slow into steady, peaceful breathing as their head lolls, quickly supported by Charlie’s hand.

Those warm hands will card through its fur gently as they hum a lullaby. Because Charlie is a good person. 

He combs his brother’s hair back from their face gently, feeling tears run down his face at the sight of Ranboo finally getting a moment of peace, even somewhat short-lived.

Charlie waits, and Charlie thinks. He locks eyes with the nearest security camera and glares at it over the rim of his glasses, clutching Ranboo to his chest. Anger at Showfall for himself, for his family , fuels a spiral of thoughts that solidify into a plan. A real, solid plan. One that, if executed properly, could get them both out of there.

When Ranboo shudders awake, Charlie will be ready. They will ask how long they’ve been asleep, and he will tell them it doesn’t matter.

He will tell them he has a plan.