Fandom ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪʀᴛᴇᴇɴᴛʜ, ɪᴄ.

The question hung in the air, pressing on him with an unsettling weight, prompting him to break their mutual gaze. In that fleeting moment, she felt a flicker of guilt. Her own fragmented memories haunted her, and she couldn't fathom what he had endured to find himself in this desolate place. And if his experience was any worse than hers, she felt a sympathy welling up within her–a quiet understanding over the apprehension.

At last, he met her gaze again. “I was trying to help someone and I ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Thought it was over for me…but now I’m here.”

She lingered on his words. They were simple, yet his eyes conveyed a depth of suffering that confirmed her assumptions. Apolline felt no rush to respond, slight relieved that he had chosen to continue speaking. Though this small sense relief felt only like a blip in her anxieties. Still, she sat struggling not to shudder from her fear–a mental game of back and forth, trying to control her mind from drifting off and thinking too heavily on any intrusive thoughts.

“The name’s Jax by the way. Wish it was under better circumstances but fancy meeting you here.”

Jax. She focused in and tried to shift her position, huddling her knees close to her chest--the cold still biting at her like a nagging dog.

“Apolline,” she replied softly, her fingertips barely grazing his before another figure emerged from the shadows, halting her movement. This newcomer approached with an unexpected lightness, exuding a strangely comforting aura that enveloped the moment.

As she stepped into the faint light, Apolline could see the blanket she held—a beautifully quilt.

Apolline was surprised by the gesture, meeting the girl’s eyes as Jax had already started to drape it over her.

Her hand clutched the blanket out of pure instinct, a strong desperation–her discomfort begging for relief. “I.. Thank you..” she responded, still bewildered by the gestures from the both of them. The dark-haired woman’s eyes seemed to serve as a window to her soul, reflecting Apolline’s own fear and turmoil in this bewildering situation. Yet, there was something else; a strange comfort emanated from her presence, something that felt like that of an old friend.

“Sit by the fire,” she invited, feeling a little more confident, “Please.”

Apolline scooted closer to Jax, allowing the girl to huddle in if she wanted to. Apolline scooted closer to Jax, making space for the girl to huddle in if she wished. She nudged the left side of the blanket toward him, hoping the gesture would extend the warmth of her newfound comfort. There was no need to keep this blanket all to herself when surely it was large enough to house all three of them in some way.

♪ tomorrow's taken ♪

og obscured Bethany's field of view as she stormed from the dance studio, fire humming through her circuitry. It was insulting that the Entity saw her as a spectacle, a plaything to point and laugh at as she tried and failed to dance to the standard she once held. She would not try, not for it.

She barely breaches into the mannequin room before the fog thickens, swirling up her plastic prison of a body. Bethany hesitates in the threshold, casting a wary glance around the dark clouds simmering atop the floor and how it gathers so effectively, a hive mind. By the time it engulfs her completely, she's somewhere else—a dark and manufactured dwelling. Leaky pipes, humid air, a bench pushed to the far wall and four cages adjacent it.

Bethany tilts her head as understanding sets in. Redirect your anger. Prey to torment. Entertain me.

Never one to question those above her, Bethany has half a mind to deny the request—send me back, leave me a heap on the floor. I'll gladly rot. But there's a tug towards the bench, to the mirror propped up beside it; covered in shades of paint all too familiar. This one in particular, warily, Bethany takes a step towards the painted glass, Coppélia. The performance uplifted her in the industry and Bethany had sat cross-legged in the studio, painting the colours of spring and with a striking shade of red crossed over her art.

Instinctively, Bethany relents and closes the distance, her hands snatching the object of her desire from the bench. A shard of glass. It's sturdy, giving the illusion of being crafted this way. Harsh swipes of black, red and violet paint adorn the glass, leaving her a small window to view her reflection—resignation glares back. There was no escaping what the Entity had made for her, not with the power to remind her of what came before; before Vaughn, and the factory, and the suit. Before it all, there was dance, and music, and art.

The Doll looks upwards, sensing the presence of others within her realm. The Entity itself looming above, taking a firm hold of her mind and instincts, guiding her to the one emotion she had never been able to place when so much was taken from her: rage.

---

For a while, Jack thought things weren’t going to be so bad—until he heard Rowan speak, his words daunting. All of this shouldn’t be here. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice hitching as he pushed himself back up to his feet, trying to match Rowan’s height, that dreadful feeling back tenfold. “Wait—say it again. Please.”

But before he knew it, the fog was back, thicker than ever. The comforting light from the fire vanished, taking everyone else with it. Alone.

"Greta?" Jack's voice echoed as he called out, waving his arms through the dark fog, hoping it would be enough to cut through its suffocating grip. "Rowan? Where are you guys?" His words grew fainter, swallowed up by the heavy mist as it wrapped itself tighter around him. A shiver tickled down his spine, but he knew it wasn't from the cold. There was something deeply unsettling about the way the fog grew, as though it were alive, taunting him. Knock it off.

His heartbeat hammered in his ears, the oppressive darkness pushing in from all sides, smothering his senses. But then—almost as if obeying his desperate plea—the fog began to thin, its presence unraveling like tendrils of smoke dissipating in the wind. Slowly, the world around him shifted and cleared.

Jack blinked, disoriented, as the fog finally lifted, revealing a somewhat dim, empty room. The atmosphere felt heavy, unnatural. His heart told him to collect his bearings, but his mind told him that he wasn't safe. Feeling conflicted, he decided to do something in between, standing in place as he did a slow turn around the room, only to be met with the ungodly sight of white mannequins. "Holy fuck—" Okay...not at all creepy.

There were a couple of lights above him, casting jittery shadows as they flickered erratically, the light cutting in and out in a rhythm that set his nerves on edge. It didn’t help that the distorted figures of the mannequins before him looked worse for wear than he felt. None of this looked familiar—was familiar to him—but...neither was the campfire.

His hands shook with anxiety, hair sticking to his forehead. Jack did his best to pull himself together, the droop of his eyelids weighing heavily—he couldn’t believe his body was begging for rest when he was in the middle of fucking nowhere. Is everyone okay? Are they here with me? He tried to gather his bearings, to make out where exactly he was, but the only conclusion he came to was that he was in a disturbed room that made his skin crawl. Shielding his eyes from the flickering lights, Jack advanced toward the multiple rows of broken models, making out eerie appearances—fallen lashes, missing and contorted body parts of the marionettes—smears of makeup and something else Jack couldn’t quite make out from his angle.

A storage department, maybe? he thought, eyeing the scattered boxes littered around the room. He felt compelled to walk through the displayed dolls, a table peeking out at the other end of the room. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Jack squeezed through, doing his best to avoid touching the damn figurines. Through the cracks, he could fully make out the sight of a workbench with various belongings placed on top, and there was a distinct feeling of need pulsing in the back of his head. Feeling rushed and uncoordinated, Jack caught his foot on the leg of a mannequin, a yelp of surprise escaping him as he struggled to catch his balance. Successfully, he stumbled away, no longer within reach. Unsuccessfully, though, he made a shit ton of noise as the row of disturbed dolls tumbled to the floor.

"...Fuck."

---

The Doll pivots sharply as a clatter of noise resonants from above. Her face turns imperceptibly to follow the commotion and pinpoint exactly where it originated from. Her feet carry her to the basement stairs, though she hesitates at the bottom step—catching sight of the mirror, a compelling urge to. . . walk into it? It feels like a lifetime before The Doll can tear her gaze from it and continue her ascent up the steps.

She navigates from the backrooms and onto the stage where she danced her last performance, adding to her fury. She treads across the vinyl flooring, the pitch bouncing off the expansive space and The Doll clenches the shard in her hand. It was curious, to hold something so sharp and feel the weight, the sharp edges and not suffer the pain of its bite.

Diverting off the stage, The Doll throws herself from the elevated floor and onto solid ground—the jeté sneaks itself into her leap. Satisfaction seeps into her wiring at her landing such a simple but graceful move, sharing the space with her growing rage.

Cast in golden hues from the spaced sconces on the walls, The Doll sticks hard left to the endless rows of seats covered in a striking red fabric until she reaches the entrance of the Manufacturing Center. Ignoring the points of interest such as the fabrication machines and workshop tables with blueprints littered across the space, she makes for the source of the commotion: the Mannequin Room, where she'd lingered just moments before.

Coming to a halt at the doorway, The Doll's head falls into the angle of a silent question—what are you doing here? Get out. Her insistence to make this stranger leave has nothing to do with concern for his well-being, to warn him against the Entity hiding in the depths of darkness around them; eyes embedded in the walls so as to not miss a single second of the entertainment it desires. No—it's none of those. Get out before I make you.

The lone intruder, two inches shorter than herself, stands at one of many workbenches in a sea of fallen mannequins. His mess of dark hair conceals his face, but she notices his attention fixated on a box of doll legs—the same she almost toppled into herself. She takes him in, all of him; the slouch of his pinched shoulders, frustration mixed with exhaustion. The Doll blinks slow, a mechanical fwick reverberates softly as plastic meets plastic.

---

Richie didn’t make it all the way to the campfire before a swirl of the fog seemed to swallow him whole. It happened too fast for him to even notice what had happened until his vision cleared up and he was enclosed within four walls. “Dude?” He called out as if it wasn’t immediately obvious that he was alone. After a few more seconds of reorienting himself in his position, he finally began to move. He tightened his grip around his flashlight and flicked it open.

Dressing racks littered the entire room, and various costumes hung from them. He flipped through them— they weren’t theatrical outfits but seemed more in line with something for dancing? A lot of them seemed fitting for ballet. Regrettably, none of the costumes seemed to be his size or practical enough to wear instead of the scrub suit he had on. Oh well.

He continued to make his way around the room, curiously peeking through everything. Richie didn’t know where he was but he felt like he needed to memorize it— just in case he needed to run or hide or something. It was just a gut feeling but something like dread had sunk into his very being and if there was something he learned over the years, it was that he had to trust his instincts. Besides, everything about getting teleported somewhere within practically a few seconds by some weird fog was wrong no matter what angle he looked at.

He ended up in front of a red cloth that was hung, forgotten to the elements. Something about it looked so… important? Enticing? Or rather, something that he should grab. The streamer grabbed it and laid it out on the ground. For a moment, he expected to see something like instructions sewn into it like one of those horror video games he loved to play so much. Alas, there was no such thing to guide him and he had to bite down the disappointment. He reached down to fold it up again when there was a sudden crash from beyond the room.

Other people are here?

Richie stood up and headed to the door, forgetting about the red cloth entirely. For the first time, he opened the door. Beyond it looked to be a big stage which he guessed made sense considering he appeared to be in a dressing room. The lights flickered and that was when he noticed it. She? Whatever it was. But something moved across the stage, entering another room further in, but it looked big. And it looked metallic. He quickly, but gently, closed the door again and crouched down. It looked distracted so there was no way it spotted him. What was it anyway? It reminded him of those animatronics in Chuck E. Cheese but more advanced? Where was he?

But the feeling of terror was undeniable. Whatever that was, it was dangerous and he didn’t want to run into it without anything to protect himself with.

He took a few deep breaths before standing up. There had to be something in this dressing room that could help him. Richie began to open every drawer, cupboard and trunk he could find. Maybe a lead pipe or even a cane or—

Or… a baseball bat!

Richie pocketed his flashlight for a moment to try and swung the bat a few times. It was a bit too light and definitely wasn’t up to par with professional bats but it could probably give a solid hit. He’ll take it. With that, he felt brave enough to venture out of the dressing room. Maybe he’ll find someone else that wasn’t that weird robot.

---

“Definitely not normal.” Cyra agreed with the man with brown hair, her dark gaze giving him a once-over as if assessing him. He didn’t seem threatening but in a situation like this Cyra knew she couldn’t be too sure. They may have been stuck here like her but that didn’t mean they would have her best interest at heart.

Both of you. Where were you before this?

Fingers deftly tapped against her arm. Should she be honest? There was no way either of them would believe her if she said that she was swallowed up by fog before waking up here. Saying crazy things like that is what landed people in mental hospitals, but was it crazy if it was the truth? And judging by what the woman had to say Cyra’s experience didn’t seem too far off.

She opened her mouth to speak, ready to talk all about how someone- or rather something, took her away while she was trying to head home from skate practice but before she could speak the fog came back, just as cold as before, swallowing her whole. “No, no not again.” Her heart began to hammer loudly in her chest and she shut her eyes close. Why did this keep happening to her?

It was dark all around and somehow Cyra felt even more unsafe than she had when she first woke up in the woods, almost as if her body and nervous system knew that she was in danger without her even knowing where she was going or what was happening. I just want to go home. Eventually, the fog began to disperse but the unsettling feeling in the pit of Cyra’s stomach refused to go away.

She blinked her eyes, raising a hand to help shield them as they began to adjust to the light source that seemed intent on blinding her. As she looked around, something in her mind told her to stay on guard. She once again found herself in an unfamiliar location, the only difference was that this time Cyra was completely alone and she couldn’t figure out if that was better or a million times worse.

For a moment Cyra considered calling out to see if either the woman or the man she had just been talking to were around but before any words came out something in her mind told her to shut up and be quiet. Where am I? She wondered as she began to look around. All Cyra could see were a bunch of paintings— on the wall and scattered across the ground as if something tossed them around haphazardly. Am I in an art studio? She wondered as she traveled around the area, brows furrowed in thought

Cyra eventually found herself standing in front of a desk, a pile of art tubes sorted off to the side. As she stared she noticed something that didn’t fit into the surrounding area and her mind told her to grab it. Reaching forward, Cyra's hand wrapped around a..bat? “Huh.” She muttered quietly to herself, spinning the object around lazily in her hand. It felt lightweight like it would snap in half if she swung it just hard enough. Still, it didn’t hurt to have the extra protection right? I wonder what else is in here that I could use…

She jumped in her skin when the sound of a loud crash reached her ears. Was someone else here? Goosebumps rose along her skin and Cyra decided that maybe staying here wasn’t a good idea anymore.

As she was about to leave Cyra spotted someone through one of the studio rooms. It wasn’t anyone that she could remember seeing at the campfire but they looked just as lost as she felt. Should go meet up with them. Strength in numbers or whatever bullshit they said in horror movies to make themselves feel safer.

Walking through the entrance to the art studio she was in, Cyra vaguely noticed the shape of what looked to be a can used to hold gasoline. Something in her body screamed at her to take it, her mind recognizing that it was important— even more important than the bat she was holding— though Cyra wasn’t sure how she could even tell. If there was a gas can here though maybe there was a car somewhere as well. That on its own was enough motivation for Cyra to grab the can in her free hand. Worst case scenario she would just have to ditch either the bat or the can.

Exiting through a door to her right Cyra found herself in a large parking lot. For a moment she thought about making a run for it but something told her that running would be futile. The sight of a car caught the corner of her eyes and she began to walk towards it. Can I use this can on it?

---

For some time, Jack was glaring at the box filled with what appeared to be broken-up body parts—legs, it looked like. Despite the ruckus he made, he was lucky enough to reach the workbench, his eyes catching sight of a lonesome walkie-talkie alongside a piece of red cloth, the fabric soft against his fingertips. It feels real, all of this. Weird. With that thought, his eyes flickered back down toward the large box again, no doubt deep and unnerving just to torment his already weakened state. And was it working?

Pocketing the walkie in his back pocket, Jack bravely reached into the box. Last second images flashed through his head as he touched a leg—the mouth of the cave, the tendrils sneakily extending, and then him being stabbed through the shoulder—yanked into this very nightmare. Startled and with his head pounding, Jack yanked his hand away, a gasp escaping his lips as he practically threw himself back. He brought his hand up to rest against his head, a huff of frustration slipping out as his leg moved before he even had time to think. His foot connected with the box, kicking it over with a grunt of exhaustion that was as clear as day—and then the bat rolled out, along with the other useless crap.

Catching his breath, Jack realized he felt like he was going to drop any second—his body trembling even though he was warm, his concentration slipping by the minute. Drowsy and beat, he advanced toward the discarded pile, bending down to pick up the bat. He tested the grip of it in his hand, quickly concluding that the thing was rather flimsy. Well, this will be useless, he thought, tempted to toss the damn thing back into the box—the mess not worth it in the end, it seemed.

Turning on his sneakers, Jack moved to walk out of the room, only to freeze mid-step—his shoes making an uncomfortable squeak as he paused, staring at the figure blocking the doorway.

The Doll lingers in the doorframe, blocking the only exit not leading straight into a dead-end. She notes how his face falls from its disgruntled image and gives way to shock. Expressions of awe and wonder were more expected when she had been human, when she was Bethany the ballerina—now, being scrutinized in such an apparent frightened manner, she felt. . . offended.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there—one hand gripping the bat, the other halfway up in a faux surrender just above his hip. He knew he looked pathetic; sweat clung to his hair, his brows pinched as his eyes remained wide with fear because what the hell is that? But he couldn’t help staring, his gaze flickering between the mess of scattered legs across the floor, the body parts of disfigured mannequins—and then back to what he thought might have been some huge freaking robot.

Holding back his nerves, Jack probably did the second stupidest thing that day: he broke into a sprint toward the other entrance at the end of the room, animatronic be damned.

The Doll observes his attempt at an escape for a moment, oddly amused as he trips over the scattered doll limbs in search of solace. The seconds tick by as her gaze tracks him around the workshop, the lights begin to flicker in earnest—perhaps sensing her anticipation to engage in the chase, to remind any and all trespassers that this realm belongs to her.

He manages to stumble his way to the Dance Studio, and The Doll thunders forward to prevent him from seeing the remnants of what the Entity had left behind for her, the evidence of who she was before. No one can see it, The Doll seethes inward, nimbly navigating the mess of mannequins as she gains on her target, no one can know.

Weapon in hand, she advances fairly quickly despite the added weight of metal within her—the sound of her approach deafening as a result.

With his back to it, Jack thought this was it—the sound of heavy machinery clanking and thudding was deafening, his mind betraying him into believing he was back at his job. The faint smell of something fried hit his senses, causing him to recoil even further away from the colorful robot. The hesitation on his end was enough for a hand to grab hold of him, an arm pinning his shoulder back against the wall—preventing him from discovering more of the room.

Slammed into the wall, Jack felt a fresh wave of pain shoot through his skull. Alright, that hurt. What the fuck. Grunting in pain, he instinctively tried to reach up to grab his head, only to realize his hand was still very much holding the bat from earlier. Without thinking—running purely on fear—he made a split-second decision to swing the bat with force, the sound of it splintering on impact meeting his ears. The arm holding him back released, giving him the opening he needed to get the hell out of there.

The Doll reels back sharply before her body freezes up, the circuitry within sputters and sizzles at the collision. The mechanisms within try and fail to spark into action. The bat lay useless and splintered at her feet, broken on impact. Why can't I move? The troubling thought morphs into concern as her vision tunnels, darkening at the edges.

Running straight to the door, Jack quickly glanced over his shoulder to see the figure of the robot standing eerily still, her back now turned to him. The smell returned, stronger, and he could make out the sound of something sparking, flashes of white and blue flickering off the walls. Moving backwards with his gaze fixed on the robot, Jack stumbled out, the fear leaving him chilled throughout his body. I need to get the hell out.

A mirror propped up along one of the work tables reflects The Doll's crooked stance. Her vision just barely notices how she's bent at the hip, angled to the right—exactly the robot caricature she had performed on stage. Travelling up the length of her stilled body, she flinches in alarm—a small twitch in her neck pivots her head the opposite direction—her eyes, blackened save for the pinpricks of white that act as pupils; replacing the shade of pink the Entity had granted her.

She stares and stares and stares until The Doll can force a blink. Her eyes are normal, back as if none of it had transpired. Disgruntled by how the bat had stunned her, she kicks the offensive object across the room. It slides on the concrete, splintering further as it catches on limbs and workshop table legs. With full control of her inner-workings, The Doll exits the Mannequin Room in search of him.

Not looking back and working overtime, Jack sprinted from one room to the next, his thoughts locked in a frantic loop of wake up, wake up! — refusing to accept that this might be his reality now. Consumed by his panic and tunnel vision, he felt something solid collide into him. Disoriented, he only realized after hitting the ground that it was someone he had run into. The two of them lay there in a heap, and for a brief moment, Jack was content to just stay down, the crushing fatigue of sleep making his limbs feel heavy, the adrenaline wearing off.

Blinking, he took in the sight of the stranger—a man in scrubs. Scrubs? Is he hurt? Is this… a hospital? "It... it isn't safe here," Jack started, his voice raw and strained as he raised a trembling hand to rub at his chest where they’d collided. "We have to get out. Now."

---

An ally, thank God. The man Ben was talking to seemed nice enough, if a bit overeager. He patted Ben’s back hard enough that they almost stumbled forward, but years of training to be a knight helped them keep their ground. They blinked, giving the stranger a small smile before opening their mouth to reply. But just as they started to speak, Ben’s words got washed away by the sudden influx of fog. It had been pervasive before, but not nearly this dense.

Ben glanced around, trying to make out anything in the sudden darkness, but it was nigh impossible. The friendly stranger had completely disappeared from sight, and Ben couldn’t hear his voice either. She took deep breaths, trying not to freak out. This fog was just a strange weather occurrence, surely. Living in England had meant she had seen her fair share of fog, but this was something else. Like a living beast, almost, the way it writhed and thickened of its own accord. There was something sinister in it, like the folk tales she had heard when she was young. It set her on edge even before the fog started to clear again, revealing vastly different scenery than before.

Ben blinked to clear his eyes; was this a strange dream? Perhaps this entire day had been a dream, and he would wake up in his bed with the day to himself to wander the woods. But it certainly looked real. And, he discovered as he brushed a finger across an odd mask, it felt real too. He shuddered, taking in the new space he was in. There were jovial lights strung in the ceiling of the hut, contrasting the otherwise dejected atmosphere. The wall of masks was unsettling, but nothing in them moved, so it was probably fine. The hut had an odd striped pattern in garish colors, which seemed to be the theme for the room. Was this a large version of the cloth buildings the group had been putting together earlier? But if that were the case, where were the others and how was he already inside? He frowned, creasing his eyebrows as he headed outside the building, intent on figuring out what had happened in the brief moment where the fog thickened. It almost seemed as if he was somewhere else entirely, and if that had happened earlier, logically it could happen again, couldn’t it?

They frowned as they exited the cloth building, taking in the smooth, dark surface of the ground below them. Lines were painted on it–perhaps they were some sort of language or instructions? There were plants around and the sky was a stormy gray, so that much at least was somewhat familiar. The texture of the ground was interesting; much smoother than any road Ben had traveled. The horses much love this terrain, since it was probably easy to traverse. As they stopped staring at the scenery, they noticed what appeared to be another person heading towards a large, metal object with wheels. Some sort of carriage, perhaps? But where were the horses? This new setting was even stranger than the last one.

Ben walked quietly towards the person, studying her. She didn’t seem hostile, so it was probably fine to speak. Having allies would definitely be helpful in this situation. So she called out, keeping the level of her voice from getting too loud (due to a vague feeling of unease that her years of training had taught her meant this place was not safe): “How fare thee?”

Spinning on her feet, quick and precise, Cyra dropped the can of gas she had been holding before lifting the bat behind her head ready to take a swing at the sudden sound of a voice behind her. Shock clouded her features as she took in the site of someone dressed in...a knight costume? “….Hi.” What kind of old fashioned greeting was that? And why would they wait until they were right behind her to say something and let her know they were there?

Realizing that she was still holding the bat as if she were going to hit him, Cyra dropped the object down to her side. “Sorry you scared the shit out of me.” Hopefully he didn’t take offense, not that she really cared if he did but considering the circumstances she didn’t want to potentially start off on the wrong foot. Clearing her throat Cyra gestures over to the car. “I’m trying to see if I can get this car running. Mind helping me?” Four hands were always better than two and if they worked together Cyra had a feeling that they could get it running much faster than if she had to do it alone.

Thankful that he hadn’t been hit with the wooden object, Ben could only blink at the girl in front of him. What was a shit and how did one scare it out of someone? And more importantly, what in all Hell was there a car? And why did it run?

Feeling incredibly foolish, Ben ventured to ask “Uhh…what is this car you speak of? And how dost thou maketh it run?” They tried to project a friendly presence, but that was difficult when half of the words out of this girl’s mouth might as well be a foreign language. Had Ben washed up elsewhere in the world? This certainly wasn’t England. Everyone here had strange accents and clothing, despite the fact they were clearly speaking some form of English.

One thing that Ben had noticed was the jug that the young woman had been holding earlier. Was it a type of waterskin? Ben realized suddenly how thirsty she was. Maybe she could ask for a sip of the wine this girl had. “If it pleaseth thee, I would also like a sip from your waterskin.”

Cyra couldn’t help but to stare at her new companion as if they had grown a second head, her brows furrowed in confusion and brown eyes squinting to look them over. He didn’t look like he was hurt physically but that didn’t mean he hadn’t gotten hit over the head at some point and was now acting this way. “Look if you’re not going to help me that’s fine but you don’t need to keep up with the weird medieval act you have going on either.” Frankly it was a bit creepy and considering the circumstances Cyra found it to be annoying. Her annoyance only grew as the man continued, her eyes closing and her brows pinching.

“Why would you drink out of that? It’s gasoline not water.” Cyra stated before her brown eyes reopened and she looked toward her new companion with a perplexed expression. Anyone with eyes could see what Cyra had carried over with her so either this person was completely clueless, and idiot, or suffering from a head injury.

Ben blinked, unsure what this girl was trying to insinuate. It clearly seemed that she thought them to be jesting about something, though what, Ben did not know. They were not acting, and though confused, they wanted to offer what assistance they could. There was some sort of communication barrier; it seemed their dialects must be quite different than Ben had originally thought.

“Ah, I thinketh perhaps our dialects of the English language are unknown to each other,” she admitted, scratching the back of her neck awkwardly. “I fear I do not understand. What is this gasoline thou speakest of? Not a type of wine, I suppose, or it could be drinken. ‘Medieval’ is a strange term as well, to be sure. Pray, where dost thou hail from?”

Where dost thou hail from? Seriously, was someone playing a practical joke on her right now or something? Cyra took in a deep breath and waited a few seconds before blowing the air out through her mouth. Getting annoyed and frustrated wouldn’t help her right now. Clearly whoever this woman was she didn’t understand what was going on. “I’m from Los Angeles.” she finally answered.

Picking up the jerry can Cyra began to examine the car, clearly looking for something. “It’s gas.” She repeated, throwing the woman another confused look. Cyra let the can hang limply at her side as she kept walking on the vehicle. “You know? Gas? For the car.” Was she really having to explain how gas worked to a grown woman right now? What had her life become? Eventually Cyra found what she was looking for. “Ah ha!” The gas cap! Opening up the cap Cyra twisted off the little cover that protected the fuel tank. Once it was off she began to pour the gasoline into the tank until there was nothing left in the can.

The explanation that the young woman gave him only served to make Ben more confused. She clearly seemed to think Ben was foolish, but her strange terminology and these foreign objects did not make any sense to him. So he felt a bit chastised despite not entirely knowing what for, which angered him a bit, if he were honest. He was no fool! This place was just strange, was all. And so was this woman. What was Lost Angeles? Certainly not anywhere Ben had ever heard of before.

“Prithee, what manner of beast is a car? These terms do not maketh any sense! Using a shortened form of a word as an explanation tells the one who asketh nothing! Why, thou might as well telleth me that a clergyman is the same as one who works as a member of the clergy.” They huffed, crossing their arms. Though they were upset and confused, they did feel they should be working with this woman instead of arguing with her. “I haileth from London, where the good King Henry VI resideth. And I apologize for my outburst. This place is disorienting and I fear our dialects are too different for me to make sense of some of what thou speaketh of.” They frowned, still trying to parse out what exactly the woman meant for them to do.

Cyra tossed the now empty jerry can onto the ground. Now that she no longer had any use for it she didn’t see the point in hauling it around with her. As the woman began to go on a rant she felt a migraine beginning to form in the crease of her brow. All she could do was stand there, face twisted into a look of astonishment as this strange woman continued. Oh my god I’ve died and this is my own personal hell. She lifted her arms to cross over her chest, hips shifting to rest her weight against her good knee.

“King Henry the VI-“ She scoffed, now utterly convinced that a prank was being played on her. Either that or this lunatic wasn’t taking any of this seriously. Last Cyra checked the person in charge of England was Queen Elizabeth, not Henry the VI. “Seriously? You’re claiming that King Henry the VI is your ruler? That dude died hundreds of years ago.” Cyra rolled her eyes before she began to make her way towards the driver’s door of the car. “If you’re going to fuck with me at least try to be convincing.” Pulling open the door, her eyes landed on where the car keys would typically be in the ignition- cursing silently to herself when she realized that they weren’t there. Closing the door harder than she needed to, Cyra lifted her hands to cover her face. If the car keys weren’t in the car that could only mean that they were somewhere inside of the gigantic building and Cyra truly did not want to go back in there.

Ben blinked, frozen to the spot. Dead? Hundreds of years ago? That could not be right. Did this person mistake the ruler for someone else? But Ben had clearly said Henry VI. He chewed his lip, trying desperately to understand the situation. Strange language, strange contraptions, this woman getting more and more angry at his lack of knowledge of these things. Either Ben was far away from Christendom, or he was in another place entirely. Was this perhaps Hell? Had he somehow died out in the forest, alone? Was this his punishment? But for what? He wasn’t perfect, but surely he didn’t deserve Hell.

The only other explanation for this could be…some sort of witch’s spell, perhaps? Had they been sent to another time entirely? Was that the cause of the ornery reactions to their (quite understandable) questions? Were they in the future?

“Who is the king then? If not Henry VI?” Ben asked, wanting to help but feeling entirely useless. Her hands dangled at her sides, itching to join and get working on this…car. But even if she wanted to, she had no clue where to start. “Dost thou knowest who rules Christendom? And who rules…Lost Angeles? Is that correct?”

“The Queen is Elizabeth-“ Cyra cut herself off with a pinched brow, a hand raising to press against her forehead in aggravation. There was no way she was having this conversation right now. She must be going crazy.

For a moment, Jack didn't pay attention to anything but himself, trying to steady his breath, his hand running through his hair, messing it up further. Did we live? Is it over? The thoughts swirled, but something about it felt too easy. As he gathered himself, he looked around, taking in their surroundings. It was dark, just like he thought—nighttime—and there, parked not far from them, was a car. Two people stood near it, one of them oddly familiar.

With a gesture toward the man, Jack motioned for him to follow. His body moved on instinct, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as hope surged past his nerves.

"You—" he called out, voice raw with urgency as he closed the distance. "I remember you. I saw you at the campfire. Is—" Greta, Rowan...are they here? "Is anyone else here?"

When Cyra heard the sound of someone calling out to them she picked up her bat on instinct, body too highly strung to keep being surprised like this. When the man got closer and she could make his face out more in the darkness she felt a faint wave of relief wash over her at the familiar face. “Jack.” Cyra could vaguely remember that being the man’s name and if she was wrong then she wasn’t sure she really cared right now.

At his question she shook her head, “I haven’t seen anyone else besides her,” She jerked her head towards the woman in her knight costume, her eyes moving in a slight roll. Out of anyone she’d met so far Cyra knew that she was her least favorite at the moment. “Who’s that?” Her attention turned towards the other man that had come running out of the building with Jack.

Jack listened quietly to everything Cyra had to say, feeling the little hope he had left flicker and fade at her mention of not seeing anyone else—except for them. Okay, that's a group we can work with, he thought, trying to stay pragmatic despite the grim situation.

When Cyra asked about the man he had been with, Jack shrugged, the answer as uncertain as his feelings about their next steps. "No idea," he replied, his voice curious as well, "but he's quick."

Richie followed close behind, thankful to see other people and one of them even knew the man he was with! So Jack was his name. He really did look like a Jack now that he thought about it. For a moment, he surveyed the surroundings— there appeared to be some weird fog on the horizon. Something about it felt off yet familiar all the same.

When he was addressed, he pulled his gaze back to the woman and gave her a two-finger salute: “Richard… or Richie, whichever you prefer.” He offered what he hoped was a friendly grin even in their circumstances, but he turned back again to the factory doors. No crazy robot had come out to kill them yet thankfully. What a nightmare. Once he was satisfied with their apparent safety, he turned back to the group and now observed the woman’s companion.

“Cool ren faire costume by the way.” He threw the compliment to the “knight”. It wasn’t all that rare to see people with seemingly authentic costumes wandering around during this time of year— cool enough that standing outside in full plate wasn’t going to cook you alive but dry enough that it wouldn’t rain. “Does this bad boy run?” He asked, patting the car that looked like it had seen better days. In fact, he was pretty sure he was looking at an antique sedan.

“Cyra.” She introduced herself out of habit rather than politeness. Her hand held on to her bat tightly and her gaze followed Richie’s to the car. “I wish. I found a gas can earlier and put the gas in it but there aren't any keys and I don’t know where to find them.” Hot wiring the car entered her brain but something in her gut told her that they weren’t getting this stupid vehicle to run without getting the actual keys to it.

"Maybe—" Jack stopped himself, the words catching in his throat as he contemplated the idea he dreaded mentioning. Maybe we should go back inside. Look around. The thought unsettled him, but he knew they might not have a choice.

"You said you found gas earlier?" he asked, his voice hesitant but probing as he turned to Cyra. "Inside the building…right?"

Cyra nodded her head, gesturing over to the empty gas can she’d tossed aside as she no longer had any use for it. Perhaps it could be considered littering but they were the only people here that she knew of and the fact that they were more than likely kidnapped and being held against their will trumped her feelings about the environment and ecosystem.

“Yeah it was in some weird art room I woke up in.” She answered, turning her gaze back to Jack. “Maybe the keys are somewhere inside too?”

Jack's gaze followed the direction of her gesture, landing on the empty jerry can. His mind raced, weighing their options, as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. His brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the situation they were all caught in.

“I woke up in some storage area. There was—” he began, casting a quick glance toward Richie. Should he tell them about what they both saw? After a brief hesitation, Jack decided against it, giving a curt nod in her direction instead.

“I think it might be our best bet to head back inside—together.” The words felt heavy as he exhaled deeply, his hand finding the back of his neck, rubbing away the anxiety. “And probably make it quick too,” he added, the unease in his voice betraying his attempt at remaining calm.

Cyra nodded her head in agreement. There was strength in numbers and with four of them here surely they would be fine right? “I think that would be our best bet. We can’t stand out here forever expecting the keys to just magically fall into our hands.” Thought that would be fantastic if they did.

Ben watched the conversation, utterly flummoxed. There were more of them?? Where were these people coming from? Their attire and speech was equally as strange as his companion, and he could barely keep up at attempts at conversation. How did everyone else seem to understand this “car”? Was it a cruel joke they were playing on him? If it was some sort of jest, it was not funny.

So Ben focused on the comments directed at them. “Ren faire…?” they asked, brows furrowed. “I do not knowest a festival by that name. And I am not donning a costume. The name is Ben, knight of the land of England, servant of King Henry VI. I do not comprehend of which manner of thing thou speaketh, with words such as ‘gas’ and ‘car’.” There. They said their piece. And they prepared to continue to be ignored. Where was the kind man from earlier?

The knight’s manner of speaking was pretty ancient— almost as if he was watching some sort of period drama. Richie was about to make another joke to jab at the knight until he looked them straight in the eyes and found genuine confusion and curiosity. Was… was the knight actually telling the truth? That they were actually a knight of King Henry VI?

That would be… so weird, wouldn’t it? Then again, when had he seen animatronics walking around with no effort at all? Even in his time, technologically advanced as it was, Richie had never seen such advanced AI. So why wouldn’t there be a knight of some medieval age of England here? He looked helplessly to Jack and Cyra before going back to Ben. “So you’re… you’re legit, er, actually a knight, huh? Well, um, a car is basically a… carriage without a horse?” He supplied, trying to think of which time-appropriate invention was present during Ben’s life. “And gas is like… shit, you have coal right? It’s something like that.”

Jack's attention snapped to the side at the small commotion, his conversation with Cyra interrupted by the unexpected scene unfolding before him. Flashing her a brief look, he advanced toward the source of the noise, eyes narrowing as he took in the sight—a knight, or at least someone who looked like one. Jack blinked, feeling a wave of disbelief wash over him. A robot earlier, now a knight?

Despite his confusion, Jack didn't make a jab. His features softened, even if the confusion lingered heavily on his face. He gestured toward the knight, trying to connect the dots. "You were at the campfire, right?" His tone was cautious, unsure if he was remembering correctly. "Did you also just—wake up out here, or—" Jack turned briefly to face the entrance of the building, still trying to make sense of everything. "In there?"

Ben blinked, a bit surprised at the contrast between these people and her earlier companion. They both seemed to genuinely believe her, thank God. At least they did not continue to accuse her to coming from a gathering called “Ren Faire.” Which Ben still had yet to understand. But as the man, Richie, explained, Ben nodded, finally starting to understand. They must be in some more technologically advanced space, though where that was Ben had no clue.

And the other man seemed to recognize him. Good. So he wasn’t a complete fool after all. “That is correct,” he replied, glancing in the direction of the cloth building he awoke in. “I awoke in that cloth contraption after finding myself at the fire with that group of people. Wast thou also there?” As he turned to Richie, though, he frowned slightly. “A carriage I understand…but how dost it run without a horse to power it? ‘Coal’ is a foreign word to me also.”

As Jack’s attention was pulled away by the other two, Cyra decided to stand off to the side. Her arms lifted to cross over her chest and she leaned against the car with a tired huff. Brown eyes glanced over and she listened in on to the conversation, annoyance building in her veins. Were they really entertaining this behavior? They could seriously believe that this man was an actual knight from hundreds of years ago! That wasn’t physically, scientifically, or even religiously possible.

Richie slowly nodded but didn’t respond for a moment. How was he going to explain what a car was and what coal was? What was the medieval equivalent of power?! Richie wasn’t even a suitable person to learn this from. Every technical thing his friends had taught him flew over his head! Still, he wasn’t going to give up! “Well it runs thanks to— wait give me a sec…” He tested out the door and was relieved to see it open. However, much like what Cyra said, this damn thing wouldn’t run without the keys. He reached down to pop the trunk and circled around to raise the hood up. “That’s the engine. It’s… it’s practically the horse! The gas is like the, um, the grass? That feeds the horse? Which is this engine.” That sounded… kind of right?

Then, his eyes roamed to a glaring problem. “Um, guys?” His gaze remained glued to the empty socket where the car battery was supposed to be. Both of the clips were dangling with nothing attached to the other end. “Looks like the keys aren’t the only problem. We need the battery too.” Richie wanted to suggest that they should just make a run for it but another shiver down his spine convinced him that it was a bad idea. They either had to finish this car or not leave at all. He turned to Ben and the struggle truly began. “The car battery is like… this rectangular thing? Fuck I don’t know what this car’s battery looks like. But we really need it if we want to use the car to get out faster.”

Jack's eyes darted between Richie, who was animated while trying to explain what a car is to Ben, and Cyra, whose exasperation practically screamed, we're wasting time. He was starting to feel the same, his thoughts racing as he tried to assess their next steps. His gaze kept bouncing between their little makeshift group until it finally settled on Richie, who abruptly stopped talking and popped the hood of the car.

Jack’s frown deepened when Richie beckoned them over. Keeping his arms crossed, Jack approached slowly, his nerves on edge as a sinking feeling crept up in his gut. “What’s wrong?” he asked, already suspecting the answer but hoping he was wrong.

But when Richie stepped aside, Jack’s heart dropped. The battery was gone. Missing. Jack let out a frustrated exhale, his earlier sense of dread solidifying into a knot in his stomach. Of course, it couldn’t be easy. "Maybe—maybe it's inside?" Jack offered, “it has to be somewhere...right?

When beckoned over Cyra let her arms drop to her sides with a sigh. What now? She thought as she moved to stand beside Jack, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she turned away from the car and brought her hands up to cover her face for a few seconds. She sucked in a deep breath to keep from screaming out of frustration. What the fuck was this? Some sort of sick joke? How did the car not have a battery of all things? Keys, gas, those things she could understand being missing but the fucking battery?

As Jack spoke Cyra let her hands drop from her face. Feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to help and standing out here questioning what to do wouldn’t help either. “The only place to look is inside.” Her gaze drifted to the building, “Might as well get it over with right?” Despite the fear that clutched at her heart Cyra let her feet begin to lead her back to the entrance she’d left through earlier.

Richie glanced at Jack with some uncertainty. He had a point. If the jerry can was obtained inside, then that would logically mean the other things they needed would also be inside. But there was a fleeting moment of fear that threatened to overwhelm Richie. He really didn’t want to know what tons of metal and an advanced AI could do to a flesh body. Still, this was their ticket out and he didn’t want to leave everything to his new companions because of some stupid fear.

He always faced these head on!

“Yeah! Robot thingy be damned!” Richie cheered as he followed behind Cyra. At least Cyra also had a bat to be used when they do encounter her. Two hits is better than one, right? Surely this would give them ample time to escape. They just needed to find two things and they were out of here. “Went through the costume department and stage earlier but I didn’t see anything like a car battery by the way. Those are like, extremely far back the building.” Oh how he wished he had a map or something to show the layout of this place to make it easier for all of them.

Jack stood by the hood of the car, his eyes flickering between it and Cyra as she descended toward the building. Guess we’re doing this, he thought, the anxiety bubbling up in the back of his mind. He could only hope that she—or whatever it was—wouldn’t be around.

Just as Richie followed behind Cyra, Jack froze. Robot thingy be damned!... Dammit. His gaze snapped to Ben, and he offered a sheepish look before advancing towards the two, nerves flaring up again, his head spinning with apprehension.

"Yeah...about that," he started, clearing his throat, his eyes darting guiltily to meet Cyra’s questioning gaze. "There's, um...there's a robot sort of lurking around. She chased me—that's why we were rattled as fuck." His voice trailed off, but the tension remained, the memory of the encounter suddenly a bit foggy. Weird.

Cyra was within a few feet of the door before Richie’s voice cut threw the determination that was controlling her mind. She came to a complete halt, body stiffening. Robot thingy? Her head turned first, brown eyes finding Richie’s with an intensity hot enough to burn. Before she could ask what the hell he was talking about Jack spoke up, adding more context that only made her skin bristle and a slew of curse words formed in her mind that she had to force back down her throat before she went on a tirade.

“So what you’re saying is that there’s a man-chasing robot in there,” Cyra pointed towards the door, “and you’re just bringing this up now?!”

“I, uh—I actually think it’s a girl,” Jack corrected, his hand instinctively rubbing at his neck as the anxiety clawed at him. Why the hell am I getting worked up again?

"Look," he added quickly, trying to keep the peace, "I didn’t think it’d be an issue. If I could outrun her, then we all could." He gestured between the group, including Ben, his voice picking up momentum. "Bigger in numbers, right?"

Richie felt like he said something he shouldn’t have when Cyra stopped and Jack looked defeated for some reason. This feeling solidified into fact when she glared at him and his entire body froze. Forget about getting killed by the robot, Cyra might just kill him first! The heat was off him when Jack, mercifully, spoke up.

“So you didn’t see it when you were in there?” Didn’t that just mean that their little monster of the week robot was just a singular entity? That would mean that as long as they kept their distance at all times, they would be safe. “A-Anyway, even if there is a killer robot in there, we really need to find those items. We got a bat and we got each other! ‘Cause it’s either that or walk through the fog and that shit is giving me the creeps.”

“Of course I didn’t see it!” There was no way she wouldn’t have mentioned seeing a robot chasing after her! It sounded delusional, it sounded made up like a kid’s fairy tale, but with the day she was having Cyra decided that it was not out of the realm of possibilities. She turned back to face the building, anxiety causing goosebumps to rise along her skin. Were they really going back in there? We need the keys and the battery. She told herself. How else were they going to get out of here?

Ben was listening to the conversation but only half-comprehending due to their limited knowledge of the specific dialect the others spoke. But they had gathered enough to know that this “car” was important, would get them out of here, and they were working together to escape the clutches of a strange woman. Wanting to get out of here as soon as possible, it seemed that Ben had no choice but to agree and help the others. “I may not understand what is going on, but I shall do my best to help us all escape this horrible place. I am eager to be on familiar ground once again and away from this terror of whom you speak.” They looked at the others, determined to get out of here if nothing else.

“Thank you...Ben,” Jack felt his features softening as he listened to Ben's determined words. Something about their confidence sparked a flicker of reassurance in him, grounding him for a moment. We’re really doing this. Despite it being his idea, the unknown gnawed at him—she, or whatever that thing was, might be lurking just beyond the door, waiting for them.

Jack took a deep breath, glancing around at the group. His chest tightened with unease, but he knew they had to push forward. Swallowing hard, he silently hoped they'd make it out—together.

Cyra closed her eyes for a few seconds, mentally counting to ten before reopening them. Maybe Jack was right. There were four of them and apparently only one robot, even if it did show up it couldn’t take on all of them could it? It was just a bunch of metal forged together. “Yeah thanks.” She responded to the knight though her face still looked towards the doors. Fuck this. Despite the nerves in her body telling her she was heading towards danger Cyra walked forward. “I’m going in.” She stated, not bothering to turn to see if anyone else was going to follow her even if silently she prayed that they would. Grasping the handle to the door in her hand Cyra pulled it open, a chill looming over her as she stepped back into the building. She swallowed the moisture in her mouth, dark eyes glancing around as she debated which way she should go.

“I’ll head in second,” Jack said, his voice steady as he tried to meet Cyra’s gaze. He watched her carefully, noticing the way she took a moment to hype herself up before stepping towards the building, which loomed ominously before them. True to his word, he followed close behind, feeling the tension creep up his spine the moment he crossed the threshold.

Once inside, the air seemed to thicken, his limbs feeling heavier as though the very atmosphere was pressing down on him. His head pulsed with a dull ache, but he did his best to mask it, walking with purpose despite the growing discomfort. “Did you guys…also get a weird feeling?” he asked, rubbing his forehead as he ran his fingers through his damp hair, collecting moisture.

Sweat, he told himself, must be catching something. Gross. Still, he couldn’t shake the prickling sensation that something more than just nerves was at play. “Let’s make this quick.”

With everyone seemingly convinced that they should all go back, Richie let out a breath of relief. At least they were all going back together, it gave him an extra push. It wouldn’t be wrong to say that he seemed to be a little more energetic despite everything. He rushed over to follow the others, leaping into the fray of this freak-ass factory. Immediately, he looked over at Jack who seemed to have paled a bit. Feeling bad, he hung back a little and gave Jack a little pat on the back.

“Weird feeling? Aside from feeling like I want to throw up from nerves, I feel fine?” He contemplated for a moment. “Maybe after this, let’s get some Tylenol or something?”

Resisting the urge to lay on the ground and make a fool of himself, Jack did his best to keep everything down. The constant spinning in his head and the whiplash from feeling okay one moment to sick and tired the next was getting to him. A hand patted him on the back, and he glanced at Richie in confusion. I didn’t… flinch away? What gives? Instead of dwelling on it, Jack gave out a weak laugh in response. “You think they’ll have some of those hanging around?”

“Man, I do hope there’s a pharmacy nearby.” It wasn’t that hard to procure some over-the-counter medicine like those anyway. Even if it wasn’t a pharmacy, a gas station store had them too. Granted, they could find some on the road back to civilization… if there was one. Surely! Surely, there would be at the end of whatever miserable road had brought them here, weird kidnapping fog shenanigans aside.

Cyra ignored the men chatting behind her. This wasn’t what she was here for, if she wanted to talk she would have stayed outside. Looking around she felt overwhelmed. This place was huge—how were they supposed to find a car battery and a pair of tiny keys in this place? How did they even know that they were here, what if the car was just a piece of junk that had been dropped off at this place and left to rust? She clutched at the handle of her bat tightly taking her frustration out on the poor piece of wood.

“I’m going to go in there.” Cyra pointed towards the room on the opposite side of the art room she’d woken up in. It seemed as good of a place to start as any. Looking over her shoulder she looked at the others, “Anyone want to come with me or are we going to split up to cover more ground faster?” The thought of being alone with a robot on the prowl sent a chill down her spine but the faster they could find the parts they needed the faster they all could leave.

Ben had stood outside for a little longer than everyone else, mentally steeling themself against so many unknowns. But they had to follow the others eventually; if not, they would be alone and that was a terrifying prospect with something so far beyond their understanding running around. So they entered the building to hear Cyra speaking. Split up? Was that truly a good idea? They glanced at the others for their opinion.

“I’ll follow,” Jack responded, his words spilling out before he had time to second-guess them. But as the silence lingered for a moment, he realized he meant it. He’d said it before—there was strength in numbers, and sticking together was their best chance. There was no room for hesitation now, not with what he knew was lurking around.

Without another word, he fell into step behind Cyra, who led the way toward the room she had mentioned waking up in earlier. Just before stepping through the doorway, Jack paused, glancing back at the others. He gestured for them to follow with a quick nod, his eyes meeting theirs briefly in silent understanding.

“Same. I don’t really want to split up so soon.” Richie admitted as he followed the others into the party room. He pulled out his flashlight once again to give the party some more visibility besides the dim, flashing light that the factory provided them. “Just holler if you need any extra light.”

He began to wander around the room. It was pretty big with a lot of places that this weird robot could suddenly jump out from. Still, with each turn he did down a the room, the animatronic didn’t appear. Richie let out a breath before noticing something different— something bulky in the middle. “Pretty heavy duty generator…” He mused out loud as he approached it. Was the reason the lights were flickering was because the generator was broken? Interesting.

Ben nodded, trailing behind the others. “It may be best to stay together,” he agreed, casting a hasty glance behind the group. He was on high alert, nervous that some spector would jump out at any moment. As Richie approached the metal…thing (“generator?”), Ben glanced over at yet another foreign object, curious how the others might interact with it.

Cyra would never admit it out loud but she felt herself relax significantly as the others agreed to follow after her. As they entered the party room she followed Richie’s lead and pulled out her flashlight, flicking it on and watching as the bright light helped to illuminate the room. She began to look around, noting how creepy the place felt. For a party room it didn’t bring any feeling of joy into Cyra’s spirit. Everything in this building made no sense.

As Richie loudly showed off his finding Cyra made her way over. “Is it broken?” She asked, looking the generator over with a curious gaze. What would happen if they began to mess with it? Would it fix their lighting issue or would it make it so much worse?

Turn it off. Jack chided loudly to himself, his eyes flickering to the beams of their flashlights. Were they too bright? His mind immediately spun into overdrive, worrying that the lights would give away their position, revealing them to the robot from earlier. He grimaced at the thought, his memory dragging him back to the entrance of the cave, where his helmet light had barely pierced the thick, oppressive darkness. Don’t think about the cave.

Swallowing his unease, Jack moved around the room, his nerves fraying at the edges as the sight of an old machinery caught his attention. The place looked unsettlingly familiar. His pulse quickened, the room starting to feel too much like his job. The creeping fog, the blackened, twisting tendrils that always seemed just out of sight. The memory gnawed at him.

Without thinking, his hand snapped forward, reaching out to touch the generator—why? He didn’t know. The cool, hard surface beneath his fingers shocked him out of his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. What the hell? Jack pulled his hand back, unease prickling up his spine. The sensation that something was wrong, deeply wrong, settled into his gut as he stood frozen in place. “I don’t know why I just did that.”

Richie turned to the others as they made their way and he shrugged. “Don’t know too much about these things but I think so?” Still, he wasn’t going to risk and make things worse by diving into that. He could already hear Tammy loudly berating him about trying to fix things again when he clearly didn’t know how to. As he was talking, Jack seemed to have some sort of weird, mystical calling to the broken generator as he laid his hand on it.

For a moment, Richie honestly thought it would magically fix under his touch. Unfortunately, nothing of the sorts happened and Richie couldn’t help but feel a little bummed out. “Place got you on edge, I guess?” He looked around again, already feeling like the generator was honestly a lost cause. Who knows how long it would take for them to figure out what was wrong with it. In any case, they hadn’t really searched the room in earnest yet. “Well, our priority is the car right now so I’m gonna keep looking around if you guys wanna mess with the generator.”

At Richie’s words, Jack gave a solemn expression at the machine, his jaw tightening. “Yeah, you’re probably right about that.” This place was unsettling him.

At a suggestion that didn’t involve messing with the foreign technology, Ben immediately perked up. She had eyes! This was something that she could actually help with instead of standing awkwardly to the sidelines. Maybe then Cyra wouldn’t look at her like she was the town fool and had made a particularly embarrassing blunder.

“I can helpest thou look around,” Ben volunteered, hoping to be of some use. Standing around was really starting to make them feel like a leech, clinging to the others anxiously. He would be glad to busy himself with a real task.

Richie grinned and gestured for Ben to follow. “Yeah dude, I can tell you what a car battery looks like when we find it. Or like, whatever you don’t know just ask.” The man realized that might be… literally everything around them that was scattered on the ground but whatever, he liked talking. It put some of the edge of being inside this building off.

“We should all look around.” Cyra decided, removing her gaze from Jack after he weirdly touched the generator. Seems he didn’t even know why he had done it. At least nothing bad happened because of it so she would keep her thoughts about his strange actions to herself. For now at least.

As the others walked away, Jack lingered in front of the machine, the odd compulsion from earlier still haunting him. He couldn’t shake the unsettling urge that had made him reach out and touch it. Why? The question weighed heavily on him, nagging at the back of his mind.

Bending down, he examined the machine more closely, noticing it was missing several key compartments. Are they scattered around somewhere? In this building? The thought was absurd, but the simmering need to search for the missing pieces tugged at him, drawing him in deeper. I can’t be the only one feeling this way. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore—it was almost like something wanted him to find them. Curiosity in him stirred, the quiet compulsion now morphing into a gnawing itch to explore, to track down what was missing.

She walked away from the rest of the group, flashlight tightly gripped and illuminating her way. Honestly, despite the creepy vibe the party room had, it was well decorated. Cyra had a feeling that if it was properly lit in here that it wouldn’t be a bad space for a kids party.

As she walked Cyra shined the light across the various arcade machines there were. I wonder if any of them turn on, she thinks before deciding that trying would be a risky decision. What if she touched one and it roared to life, making a bunch of noise and alerted that thing Jack and Richie warned them about? “God this is such a fucking mess…” The woman whispers to herself. She’s almost ready to turn around and search another part of the room when something beneath one of the arcade machines catches the light just right and draws her attention.

Hopeful, the brunette walks over and crouches down to get a better look. When her eyes land on the battery that they need she almost feels as if she could cry in relief. “Hey guys I found it!”

Cyra’s shout jolted Jack out of his thoughts, and he quickly straightened up, his heart still pounding from the strange event that had overtaken him moments before. “Find what? Keys or the battery?” he asked as he hurried to meet her halfway, noticing the object in her hands. It took him a second to register it, but when he did, relief flooded his system.

It was the car battery.

Jack let out a heavy sigh, his hand instinctively going to rest on his chest. “Holy shit, thank god,” he muttered, the tension in his body finally easing. For a moment, he allowed himself to relax. “Looks like luck’s on our side for once,” he added, offering her a half smile as the weight of their situation momentarily lifted.

Richie perked up at Cyra’s voice and he urged Ben to follow to her. “Nice! We just need the keys and we should be golden.” They were so close to getting out of this place. Never had a place put him on edge so much as this one so he was more than happy to be one step closer to leaving. Worst of all, he couldn’t even take a video for this!

“We could keep looking around while you install the battery?” He suggested warily. Splitting up was rarely a good idea but he felt like they were on a good streak. They hadn’t encountered the weird robot yet so maybe they should keep riding on that luck. “You know, just so we’re more productive. And if anything happens, just… shout to alert the others?”

“I think Richie’s right,” Jack said, flashing Cyra an apologetic look. His eyes shifted from her face to the battery she held, a heavy reminder of what they were up against. “It might be for the best if we split this round—find the keys and just get the hell out.”

His voice was steady, though his mind still raced with the uneasy thought that maybe—just maybe—the robot he had seen earlier wasn’t real. He kept convincing himself it was a trick of the mind, even though Richie had confirmed seeing the same thing. “I’m sure you can handle it,” he added, offering her a small, tentative smile, hoping it would be enough to ease the tension.

Cyra wasn’t sure how she felt at the prospect of splitting up but someone did need to go install the battery so that when the keys were found they could book it out of here. Plus, the three of them would still be together and she would just be going outside…

With a nod she turned back towards the battery. “Alright.” Hopefully it wouldn’t be too hard as Cyra had never been the mechanic type but if it meant they could get out of here she’d do her best. Perhaps a little selfishly she wanted to get out of this creepy place and leave the searching to the others. After all she had been the one to find both the gas can and now the battery. She could leave the keys to the others. “I’ll go install this,” she tapped the battery for emphasis, “and if you guys haven’t come out by the time I’m done I’ll come back in to help search.”

With a plan out of the way Cyra stuffed her flashlight back into the pocket of her hood. If the robot Jack and Richie had mentioned was still somewhere out there no way she was parting with the bat she was holding in her other hand. “Try to find those keys quickly, yeah?” She sent a look towards the others before making her way out of the room and outside.

Jack's mouth tightened into a thin line as he mulled over Cyra’s words. Hope we’re being smart, he thought, swallowing down the urge to just say, forget this, let’s all run out. But instead, he forced himself to nod. “Be safe,” he said, his voice firm but low, as he watched her walk out. There was a sinking feeling in his chest as she disappeared from sight, the anxiety growing all of a sudden.

Once she was gone, Jack turned to face Ben and Richie, locking eyes with both. “I think I know where we could start,” he said, his voice gaining a bit more resolve. The memory of that robot figurine freaking out when he’d entered the room full of mirrors had been bothering him ever since. There was something off about it—something the robot maybe didn’t want him to see. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

“I think...maybe we could head to where I woke up,” Jack continued, the idea solidifying in his mind. “There was a back room there. I didn’t really get the chance to explore it.”

Ben bit his lip, thinking nervously about the mention of a robot. He still didn’t entirely understand what was happening here with that, but he knew enough to know it was very bad. The idea of heading straight towards an area where Jack had faced the thing was enough to fill Ben’s stomach with dread. But he was a knight, so it wasn’t as if it was the first time he was faced with a daunting task. He had pressed on before, and he would continue to do so now. He couldn’t let his fear stop him–even if this was a completely different situation than he had ever faced before.

So Ben nodded slowly, resolutely. They would understand what was happening here eventually, and until they did they supposed that they’d be following the others’ lead. “Then let us go anon. It seems to be a potential way to flee this place.”

Richie tried to think back to where he had bumped into Jack. So there was a back room from where he had come from? Damn, how big was this place? Then again, considering everything, it did make sense. “No complaints here. Any place we haven't combed through has the chance of having those keys.”

He went out of the room first, throwing a look to the exit where Cyra had disappeared from. Richie felt his heartbeat pick up as if he was going straight into danger… which, to be fair, he probably was. He swept his flashlight back to the inner rooms of the building and then flashed an uneasy grin to Ben and Jack. “Well, no time like the present. Lead the way Jack, I'll light the way.”

Jack hadn’t noticed Richie leaving the room until the movement startled him out of his thoughts. Snapping back to the present, he followed, stepping into the hallway just as a wave of pain shot through his skull. His head pulsed violently, the migraine hitting him hard and fast. He winced quietly, raising his hand to pinch between his brows, barely holding back the curses building on his tongue. Get me the fuck out of here.

He could feel his body growing heavier with each step, exhaustion pressing down on him. Fighting to keep himself steady, Jack gave a sharp nod, signaling the others to keep moving forward. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to rest, but he forced himself to push through. I’m about to pass out, he thought, his mind repeating it like a broken mantra as he blindly led them down the narrow hallway.

Finally, Jack gestured weakly toward the room on his right. His eyes flickered over the scattered mannequins inside, but he pointedly ignored them, his focus on the far end of the room. He moved toward the back, his finger trembling as he indicated the door he was chased into earlier. “There,” he said, his voice strained. “Last time she wanted me out of there desperately. I bet— I bet there’s something in there.”

---

The Doll circled back to the Stage, combing the rows of seats with a purpose so deep-seated she couldn't make sense of it. He was nowhere to be found.

A thought breaks through the static, why do I care so much? She stills, her pointed foot suspended in the air as she weighs it in her mind, tossing it around until something coherent falls from the jumble of white noise. Obsession. . . ? OBSESSION. It answers, ever present. Closer than before. Intending to banish the incessant whisper with a derisive 'go away', a feeling alerts her. There's more than one person here, in her realm.

Motivated, The Doll turns on her heels and thunders down the stage towards the place she intended to protect from outsiders.

Jack stood frozen for a moment, trying to appear unaffected as the others moved ahead. But the chill creeping up his spine overwhelmed him, his senses drowning under the pressure. His breath hitched, and he staggered slightly, his hand slapping against the wall near the entrance in a desperate attempt to steady himself.

“Hey— wait—” he mumbled, his words barely coherent, slurred under the weight of his growing dizziness. His free hand reached out weakly, grasping for someone— anyone—but his vision blurred, a dark haze quickly closing in. The sensation of his body betraying him was terrifying, but he couldn't fight it anymore. What the fuck—

His eyes rolled back, and in the next moment, everything went black as his body collapsed, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Thankfully, the way to the room Jack was talking about didn't have them encounter the animatronic. It meant that they were relatively safe, praise the heavens. Richie kept his eye and ear out. The robot was, after all, huge and likely heavy so they'd hear her first before seeing her. Hopefully. God, he really hoped so.

“Jack?” He called out as the man swayed before them, mumbling something Richie couldn't really hear or understand. “Jack-!” He choked back the yell as the man dropped before them and he raced for Jack before he hit the ground. He flinched when he didn't make it in time. Instead, he dropped to his knees and began shaking him. “Dude, what happened? Get up, we can't stay here.” When Jack didn't respond to his call, he moved to start lightly slapping their friend on the cheek. “Come on bud, wake up.”

Panic began to settle in his gut as he looked up to Ben. What happened? Was there a trap somewhere that they didn't see? He could still see Jack breathing and his heart was still beating. He wasn't dead. “Wait…” He leaned back on his ankles and looked back down at Jack. “He's just… sleeping?”

Ben stared back at Richie, clueless at any idea of what to do. They could dump on water on the guy to force him awake, but where would they find that? Clearly, Richie’s slapping had no effect. Why had Jack fainted so suddenly? He had seemed normal only moments before.

“What couldst hath happened?” Ben asked, a nervous chill creeping into her spine. But before the words were out of her mouth, she knew that Richie wouldn’t know the answer either.

The Doll comes to a skidding halt in the Manufacturing Room, catching sight of her reflection in one of the scattered mirrors. Why is it here? Pulled towards it, The Doll allows herself a momentary lapse in her quest to find the intruders, moving forward on auto-pilot. She expects the Entity to admonish the distraction, to set her back on track, but it stays silent—the only evidence of its presence is the soft flickering from the overhead lights.

A thud sounds from somewhere nearby, sudden and heavy. Her body flinches as if to pull away, but her legs refuse to move—INSIDE. Her upper body tips forward, inches from the painted glass. It distorts as she moves closer, her reflection sprinkled in waves of other scenes, of rooms? Her head tilts in interest, watching the snapshots of her realm in real-time until one snatches her curiosity—the Dance Studio, occupied.

Fury bubbles in her chest, at the intrusion of the scene of her death—a snore resonates through the mirror, the glass warbles the vibration and without thinking, she seizes the urge she felt back in the basement, the whisper telling her to go inside. Her hand passes easily through, the glass dissipating into what seems like water, and she steps fully through.

On the other side, her body smashes through the glass—it shatters upon her entry, the glass sprinkling the floor in a flurry of shards and fine dust. Part of her wants to marvel at what just happened, the transportation she'd been able to do, but her sights zero in on two figures besides the sleeping object of her obsession. There's a breath of silence and then she lunges forward, her hand outstretched for the nearest person.

The sound of glass breaking— the mirror right beside them shattered with no warning. Richie stumbled back from the shower of glass shards on them, the force enough to cut through his skin and landing on his hands with them was even more of a bad idea. Whatever scream of pain that he was about to release got stuck on his throat as the animatronic lunged forward— from the mirror? — and Richie forced his body to move.

His heart beat loudly against his ears as pure, primal fear was injected straight into him. The next thing he knew, he was already scrambling on the floor, pushing himself up and away from the Doll, ignoring the sting of his many cuts and the glass embedded into his hands and knees. He managed to keep his hold on the flashlight but he tried to grab his bat while scrambling but the pain of the glass caused him to let go. No time, no time, no time. He didn’t look back as he fled back into the mannequin room, frantically looking for a place to hide.

Ben froze as the mirror erupted in shards of glass, terror rooting his body to the floor. He had never seen anything like this creature. It was not of organic origin, no human or animal that Ben could recall. Instead, it seemed entirely manmade, cold and smooth. It was so far beyond the sort of inventions that Ben had come into contact with that it stole the breath from his lungs. How were they supposed to fight something so inhuman? It probably couldn’t even feel pain.

As the thoughts whirred through Ben’s head, they realized they had been standing there staring at this thing for entirely too long. They had to move before they met their untimely demise at its hands. But where could they go? They didn’t want it to follow them right to Richie, so trailing behind him seemed less of an option. As they searched frantically for something helpful to do, Ben knew they were wasting time. Too much time.

But, like it had so many times before, adrenaline kicked when nothing else did. Despite the hesitation, Ben ran after Richie for the moment. They could maybe lead the robot (that was the right word?) in the other direction after leaving the room? All Ben knew was they were no help if they were killed for standing still instead of running off.

The Doll pursues the two figures rushing out of the Dance Studio with a passing glance to the sleeping man on the ground—afterwards, she would return for him. Striding into the Mannequin Room, hot in their heels, The Doll maneuvers through the boxes of parts and doll limbs still strewn about the floor from him. Her fury rises into a crescendo at their carelessness, at the intrusion of her realm—get out, she might’ve warned under different circumstances, if the Entity wasn’t swimming behind her eyelids.

Glass shard in hand, she swipes at the one nearest to her—the one appearing to be from a different time period, one she had seen in movies and read about in novels.

As Ben ran, she heard the robot pursuing close behind. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she did her best to maneuver around the doll pieces placed around the room, trying to force the robot to make tight turns and hopefully put some space between them. But she knew that things were dire when the robot lunged for her, glass fragment in hand.

Ben tried to dodge at the last minute, so luckily the glass didn’t hit anything vital, but a thin line of blood appeared on Ben’s cheek. The robot was too close. But Ben wasn’t sure how to pull ahead, trying to sprint faster as they examined their surroundings.

Richie held his hand against his mouth and watched as Ben bolted out of the room with the robot following straight towards them. His stomach churned with guilt— but his fear kept him in place behind the rows of mannequins. Some of them had been tipped over, likely what he had heard earlier from Jack. It seemed like the robot was so hyperfocused on Ben to notice him there and he let out a shaky breath.

Once they were further away, Richie ducked down and moving back to Jack’s unconscious body. His breath become ragged as he tried picking off the bigger shards in his hand and flinging them off to the side. He wrapped his hand on Jack’s shirt and began shaking him more vigorously. “Come on Jack, the robot bitch is here. Wake up please.” He choked out, wondering how Ben was doing. However, no matter how much he was shaking Jack, the man was simply not responding. He grimaced at the blood that had imprinted itself on Jack’s shirt and neck from his shaking and slapping the man.

Jack’s thoughts were a jumbled mess, slipping in and out of focus as the world around him blurred. Where the fuck am I? His head felt like it was splitting in two, the throbbing pulse behind his eyes making it impossible to think straight. There was someone nearby—talking, yelling maybe—but their voice was distorted, drowned out by the relentless ringing in his ears. Every word was muffled, as though he were underwater. He heard his name faintly, something about waking up, and a curse, bitch, in there somewhere.

A sharp sting brought his attention to his cheek, the pain cutting through the haze for a brief second. What happened? He tried to focus, tried to open his eyes, but they felt impossibly heavy. The shadows around him swam together, and even though he could feel someone shaking him, trying to wake him, his body wasn’t responding. A faint grunt escaped his lips as he sluggishly raised a hand to squeeze the arm shaking him, a weak acknowledgment that he was still there—barely. But the effort was too much, his grip loosening as consciousness faded once more.

Inside of her mechanisms, her body thrums when the shard connects to skin, leaving a swipe of blood in the wake of The Doll’s slash. A sickening thrill at the clear evidence of bloodshed, even something so minor, awakens the presence nearby—a cavernous wanting opens inside of her, one that demands more.

Dizzy from her growing rage, The Doll’s hand falls heavy on their shoulder, her rounded fingers pinning them in place and the plates of her face shift, showing the gaps and wiring underneath, the rising whirs reaching a crescendo in her anticipation. “Why have you come here?” Her voice is melancholic, calm, but deafening in its intensity.

Ben’s blood ran blood as he felt the robot’s hand, freezing through the thin fabric of his shirt. He glanced up at her slowly, terrified, but still tried to buck out of her grasp. As long as he was breathing, he would put up a fight. “I…did not chooseth…to venture here,” he huffed between attempts to breaking free. “Release me…foul witch!”

The Doll’s head falls on a ninety-degree angle at their language, allowing herself a moment of confusion before she yanks them off the floor, using her newfound strength to hold them suspended in the air. “I don’t believe I will.”

The plastic of her eyelids blink and the power shuts out. There’s a soft but present alarm in the distance, sounding from the edges of the realm—from the fog. There’s an occasional flicker of light from a single bulb dangling between their position and the Dance Studio, a stuttered blink lacking the consistent rhythm the Entity had allowed before.

There’s a soft pink glow cast over the person she grasps tightly, from her eyes. Righting her head from its fallen position, she lowers them with a sudden jolt, their knees hitting the ground as she turns and pulls them by their left shoulder back towards the Dance Studio, towards her obsession.

Ben tried to escape from the robot’s clutches, but the strength of this inhuman thing was much greater than Ben’s own. They scrabbled at the ground, clawing on the hard floor until their nails started to bleed, probably leaving rusty streaks on the floor. Ben yanked as hard as they could against the creature, but the only thing that came of it was a sharp pop as their shoulder dislocated from its socket, causing them to cry out. “Thou livereter! Fie! Plague be upon ye!” But their cries were growing weaker as their struggle was clearly useless. They still kept wriggling, through, trying to break free.

Ben’s voice was getting closer and so were the footsteps of that robot. Jack was conscious but he didn’t seem like he was going to wake up. Richie sucked his breath in and grabbed his bat and moved forward, looking at any place in the dance studio where he could hide. The gen was… big enough and it was so dark. Where did the lights go? Whatever, whatever, he just needed to hide. Explanations could wait until later. Richie pressed against the generator, trying to keep his breathing under control as the Doll came closer and closer.

The Doll pushes through the Dance Studio’s door left ajar, tossing the person in her grasp on the floor besides the sleeping figure. Her fluorescent eyes land on him, pink rays of light falling over the man pointedly. She longs to speak, to pry out the answers to questions she understood would fall on deaf ears if she posed them to the Entity. It all felt suddenly very wrong. The vulnerability in the Studio, where she once was herself, a gasping and heaving mess at the mercy of a force much greater than herself.

As if sensing her small discomfort, it whispers, KILL. And she answers in kind, bending at the waist to grab the person she once held and reaching forward for him.

Behind Jack's eyelids, Jack could faintly make out colors through the sea of darkness, slowly being stirred back awake. Please—no more, he begged silently, feeling his chest tighten as memories of the cave resurfaced. The suffocating black fog, the way the colors of red and blue clashed and merged into something unnatural, flooded his thoughts. He knew what was waiting for him if he let himself slip again—those haunting, disjointed images, the terror he couldn't shake. He couldn't go back to that. He didn’t want to go back there.

His hand felt like it weighed a ton as he lifted it, desperate to shield himself from the blurry light that pierced through the haze. The brightness was disorienting, but then—just beyond his fingers, he saw a shape. At first, it was indistinct, a shadow against the light, but as his vision slowly cleared, his breath hitched. Oh fuck... it's her.

The second Ben was let go of, they started to crawl away, wincing at the sharp pain of their dislocated shoulder but pressing forward anyway. They would not give up even in the face of impossible odds, fighting to keep crawling in spite of the red hot stab of pain each movement of their shoulder caused. Blood from their facial wound dripped onto the floor underneath them, another reminder of their hopeless situation.

But before Ben could get far, she was once again being reached for by the robot. She tried to kick the creature, wondering if it would do any damage or just be a slight annoyance, like a fly buzzing in front of one’s face. But she had to try.

The Doll gives a frustrated yelp as the person kicks at her—her hand jolts back, shocked at their attempt to prevent the inevitable, before seizing them by their injured shoulder, her fingers digging into the tensed muscles purposefully. Try again. With her other hand, she grabs the sleeping one by the collar of his shirt, pivoting on her heels to drag them both towards the only exit of the Dance Studio.

Ben gave a ragged cry, almost a sob, as his injured shoulder was roughly grabbed. The white hot lance of pain temporarily caused him to cease his rebellion entirely, gasping.

Richie pressed his hands against his ears, trying to drown out Ben’s cries and the robot’s sounds. It was all too real. What would happen now? Should he go back to Cyra? He should probably go out and warn her. But… he’d be leaving both Jack and Ben. He peeked around the generator but he couldn’t see anything past a few inches in front of him due to the lack of lighting and he didn’t want to risk using his flashlight. Where is she taking them? He decided to follow behind them to get a sense of what was happening. Ben wasn’t dead yet so maybe… maybe there was a chance to get them out.

He followed them all the way to the manufacturing room and the robot seemed to be laser focused on going somewhere. Did she need to drop them off somewhere? He crouched behind a doorway as he watched those bright eyes head back to the stage— familiar territory for Richie. He looked back towards the area of the exit where Cyra would be. A part of him wanted to bolt out right then and there but…

Ben took the hit for him. Jack was still semi-unconscious.

He felt a loose piece of cement near his foot and he rolled it against his bruised hand. The pain grounded his fears. He was given this one chance to relive some part of his life, but that didn't mean he could just let others die in front of him, right? Richie took a deep breath and chucked the cement to Jack— hoping that the force would jolt him awake and let him have a moment to struggle.

The sudden impact against Jack’s chest knocked the breath out of him, panic searing through his body as he tried to make sense of what was happening. What the fuck? That hurt! His mind scrambled, still sluggish from the haze of unconsciousness, but the pain and confusion jolted him awake. His hands immediately clutched at his chest, where the ache spread like wildfire, and his legs kicked out, desperate to anchor himself to something—anything.

The realization hit him like ice water. He couldn't move. He was being dragged, his body limp and uncooperative. His heart raced, each beat echoing the dull throb in his head. The footsteps around him were heavy, purposeful, and mingled with the sound of someone crying—was that him, or someone else?

"Let—go," Jack rasped, his voice barely more than a strangled plea. His throat burned as he struggled against the hold, every muscle protesting as he tried to break free. His chest felt like it was going to burst, the pressure mounting as panic clawed at him. He twisted, weakly pulling at the bruising grip that held him.

The Doll falters, struggling with the both of them fighting against her grasp. She pulls and yanks at them, hard and hoping they just submit to their fates. “I won’t.” She bites back at him, ignoring the appeal in his tone. Her attention is drawn to the direction of where the cement had been thrown from. The weight of them both exhausts the clunkiness of her nimble body she has yet to get used to and she drops them both with a heavy sigh, reluctant. “Wait for me.” She sneers at them, blinking her large eyes before setting her sights on a man in hospital scrubs.

Jack’s world spun violently as her grip yanked him backwards, his body barely holding on. The harsh manhandling sent his thoughts into a spiral, making it difficult to latch onto anything but the dizziness and nausea clawing at him. His eyelids fluttered, each blink heavier than the last. It’s happening again, the words echoed in his mind, filled with helpless resignation. He wanted to scream—to tell her to fuck off—but his voice was gone, swallowed by the fog of pain and confusion.

The figurine's fingers released him suddenly, like a puppet cut loose from its strings. Jack's body crumpled backward, his head hitting the ground with a sickening thud. A sharp, white-hot pain exploded at the back of his skull, and his hand shot up to cradle his head. Wait for me. Just kill me.

Glass shard in hand and infuriated by his diversion, she descends on him, her eyes roaming over him as she considers her plan—it takes her all of a few seconds to reach for his arm, ripping it upwards and sending the weapon through the palm of his hand.

It was a mistake to think that a robot would be slow. He saw her chase Ben around so he should have expected it, and yet he was still caught off-guard when she dropped both of them and turned to him. Those menacing bright eyes being the only thing illuminating the area— and the spotlight was straight at him. But, well, Richie was used to that, wasn’t he? “Run! Go!” He shouted, trying to back away as quickly as possible. Get as much distance to give them more time.

But time was not something he could give. He couldn’t even get to his bat before Bethany had sunk a glass shard— not even a knife! — into his hand and he let out a scream of pain. His vision blurred for a moment yet he tried to struggle, to break free from the grasp of the robot. It was in vain, of course he knew that, but if he moved enough, she would spend more time orienting him properly. “Let go of me, you sad excuse of a Chuck E. Cheese animatronic!”

“Go to hell, bitch,” Ben spat out after being told to wait by this horrible creature. Like hell they would. With their remaining strength, Ben worked on crawling away again with one arm, their injured one trailing uselessly at their side as they determinedly inched away. Even if they could find a small place to hide for a moment while they were able to catch their breath and get back to their feet it would be immensely helpful. They wouldn’t waste the distraction that Richie was giving them, heeding his words as best they could with their injuries.

Ignoring the animatronic comment, The Doll pulls hard on the weapon still embedded in his palm, satisfied as his body rolls forward from the force and slumping onto his chest. She drags him by the shard in his hand, back to where the injured one attempts to crawl away. She presses her foot onto their shoulder, pushing until she hears the crunch of their shoulder—the bone splintering under the pressure—and bends at her waist, towering above them. Go to hell, bitch. “I’m already living it. With you.”

Snatching them up, she drags both bodies towards the stairs she had ascended at the beginning of this. There’s an absence in her mind where the Entity once was. Gone, completely. She’s acting on her own accord and the thought is both frightening and freeing. She doesn’t spare a glance for the exhausted one, flat on his back and cradling his head—her desire and want to punish him evaporated, he could wait.

She descends the steps with the two figures in tow, exhaustion setting in—it wasn’t a pain in her non-existent muscles, or sweat beating on plastic, but an overwhelming weight in her body. The metal within her growing white hot, simmering under the surface. The Doll takes her time caging them, wrestling with their frantic but tired movements, slamming the cage door closed on them both—and the power comes back on, the alarm from the edges of her realm quieting as quick as a heartbeat.

She watches in fascination as black spider legs, the Entity, fastens its black tendrils around the cage, locking them in place. CAGE HIM. The voice returns, desperate and demanding, and she turns to tread back up the stairs and find him.

The damn robot had no mercy and Richie couldn’t think of anything else besides the pain in his hand and how he couldn’t feel anything from it anymore. He tried to struggle but couldn’t help but feel like he had done it all in vain when Ben was reclaimed too. He slumped back, trying to keep himself awake even when it was so tempting to just slip into some form of unconsciousness when all he could feel was pain.

When he came to, properly this time, the robot had placed them inside cages. Richie blinked a couple of times as the lights went back on, assaulting and insulting him all at the same time. Where had those been earlier! If he could see properly, maybe he could have hidden better! Or maybe even run away instead of feeling out spaces! But none of his complaints came to be heard as he backed away and leaned against the grates of the cage, holding his hand to staunch the bleeding to no avail. “W-What the fuck are you-” Tendrils around the cages, they’re alive and he scrambled to the middle of the cage just to avoid being touched by them. “Where are you- hey! Get back here!” The robot was leaving. Cyra and Jack were still in trouble. His eyes leveled to Ben, an apologetic look coming to pass. “We need to get out of here. Fast…”

Ben felt dizzy, their vision swimming with pain at the ruined mess that was their shoulder. If they thought the dislocation had hurt, it was nothing compared to this. Once the adrenaline was started to wear off as they realized the horrible predicament the cage presented, their wounds hurt more starkly than before with nothing to blunt them. The gash on their cheek stung. But they were still cognizant enough to understand Richie, glancing over to look at him after finishing their staring at the retreating back of the horrid robot.

“Yes, we shouldst attempt to find a way out of these cages,” she agreed, biting her lip. But that was easier said than done, and the black tendrils now enveloping the cages made it all the more difficult. That didn’t stop Ben from trying to find a weak bar or a way to pick the tightly shut door open with her uninjured arm, useless as the attempt may have been.

---

As Cyra exited the party room she did a Quick Look around just to make sure that the robot Jack and Richie had mentioned wasn’t hiding in the darkness ready to attack. Maybe they were just imagining it, she thought. They were in a high stress situation, who was to say that they thought they saw something that wasn’t actually there?

Using her hip to push open the door that led to the parking lot Cyra walked over to the car. “Okay this shouldn’t be too hard.” It was just a battery, surely it couldn’t be that difficult to put in. Setting down the bat she was still carrying Cyra popped open the hood of the car to see what she was working with. It took a few tries for her to figure out how the battery was supposed to sit but eventually Cyra managed to figure it out and when she did she shut the hood of the car back down with both hands, closing it harder than necessary in her frustration. Thank god that’s over. Now all she had left to do was wait.

She turned and rested against the hood, her arms crossing over one another as she waited for the others to come. As the minutes passed on, Cyra felt herself growing impatient. Seriously, how long did it take to find one pair of keys between three people? She’d already done the hard part of finding the gas can and the battery. Was she going to have to do everything herself?

No. No way.

She’d already done her fair share so if they wanted to take forever to find the keys then that was on them not her….

“Ugh!” This was so fucking annoying. The sooner she could get away from this hellhole and back home the better. With a loud huff of air Cyra pushed herself off of the car, snatching her bat along the way and stomping her way back towards the entrance.

The first thing Cyra noticed as she stepped back into the building was how dark it was now. She swore it was brighter in here before she left, what the hell happened? Did Jack mess with that generator we saw or something? She reached for her flashlight, pressing her thumb against the button. As it came to life, light illuminating her way, Cyra slowly walked towards the party room. With the lights off this place got ten times more creepy and she found herself regretting suggesting that they all split up.

She pushed open the door, wincing as it made a small creaking sound. “Jack, Richie?” She called out in a loud whisper. When she got no response back, Cyra had to assume that the others had left this room already and were somewhere else.

As she made her way back the way she came, something, or rather someone, on the floor caught her attention. “Jack!” Cyra knelt down beside the man. She pressed a hand against his chest, feeling for a heart beat and when she could sense the slow buh dum against her palm Cyra let out a relieved sigh. So if he wasn’t dead then what was wrong with him? Cyra attempted to shake him to see if that would stir him to life but he was as limp as a rag doll under her hands. Is he sleeping? Cyra felt another surge of annoyance building under her skin as she realized what his problem was. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” What was she supposed to do, carry him around? And what happened to Richie and the weird cosplayer?

When The Doll reaches the top of the steps, a sensation rolls over her in a wave—akin to her skin prickling. Sparks just underneath the plating of her body; a warning or her intuition, she couldn’t be sure. Until her fuchsia eyes settle on the sleeping figure, with a girl kneeling beside his body, a hand pressed against his blood coated chest and frustration set into her hard features.

Another one.

The Doll surges forward, her plastic feet hitting the Stage’s floor announcing her approach as she closes in on the two of them, her hand outstretched for the girls’ mess of dark hair, when she slips out just beneath her grasp last second—her fingers snag on the curls when the girl dances out of reach, leaving her towering above him and with a choice to make. Obsession, or another intruder. The Entity feels an indifference towards the decision, leaving her slightly perplexed. . . and perhaps that is what causes her to leave her obsession behind, pursuing the girl with her own free will.

The Doll leaps over his body and towards the girl with a menacing tilt to her head. “Why have you come here?” She repeats her earlier question, her voice clipped.

What is that noise? It sounded like footsteps running towards her but they sounded too heavy to be from Richie or the knight. She wasn’t sure if it was instinct or perhaps a sixth sense that alerted her to the danger approaching but either way Cyra felt an incredible urge that told her she needed to move.

She jumped away from Jack’s body just as the feeling of someone reaching out towards her startled Cyra out of her position. She could feel fingers weaving themselves through the ends of her hair as she scrambled to her feet. Cyra clutched her bat between her hands so tightly the skin around her fingers began to lighten. Her heartbeat loudly in her ears as she took in the sight of something looming over Jack’s body. Her eyes widened in fear and she lifted the bat next to her head ready to swing if necessary.

Her throat feels dry. She isn’t even sure she can speak with the fear and shock coursing through her veins but somehow Cyra manages to force something out. “Get away from him.” She tries to keep her voice firm, to stand up straighter to show that if this hunk of metal wanted to take her or Jack that she wouldn’t let it happen without a fight. She ignores the question the humanoid creature sends to her since Cyra has no way of answering it. How was she supposed to know why they were here? She wanted to scream that they were trying to leave but she forced herself to stay as calm as possible even if survival instincts told her to make a run for it.

Her eyes glanced down at Jack before looking back up to meet the eerie purple of the creature above him.

Get away from him. “Get away from here.” The Doll speaks, slow and precise. Her legs carry her forward at the same careful but purposeful pace, shortening the distance. Logic swims just out of reach, the knowledge that the Entity had orchestrated all of this—that no one was here of their own free will—but her barely contained fury cannot reason with it all, not when he sits behind her eyelids, watching the exchange with amusement.

Deciding to put aside her questions, The Doll makes another attempt for the girl.

I don’t even want to be here! Cyra wants to shout, to scream at the robot because who in their right mind would ever willingly be in a place like this? But Cyra does neither of those things. Instead she steels herself as the robot grows closer to her. Fear and anger nip at her consciousness but the primal urge to survive out weigh both.

Once the robot was close enough Cyra closed her eyes and swung. A loud crack could be heard as the bat she used broke upon impact. Cyra didn’t care though because it forced the robot to stumble, giving her enough time to turn on her heel and make a run for it off of the stage.

Again. The Doll hangs forward at the waist, arms dangling down with her fingertips brushing the floor of the Stage. Her eyes are narrowed, her field of view forced to tunnel as her pink eyes are once more replaced with pinprick white lights in the dark void of her eyes. Again. Her rage overtakes every other instinct within her, the one screaming to pick up the sleeping one and make peace with those three.

Shaking off the stun, her eyes blink back to normal and she wastes no time leaping off the stage, pursuing the girl down the aisle of seats. Exhaustion gives way to her tactful approach, no longer needing her strength but her nimbleness to carry her towards her target—she advances on the girl, her hasty movements desperate and wild.

Don’t look back, don’t look back! Cyra ran as fast as she could, feet pounding against the floor as she traveled down the aisle. She could hear the robot chasing after her and knew that if she slowed down even for a second that she would be done for. Her nimbleness allowed her to weave through the different aisles and seats, years of dancing giving her the skills she needed but despite how hard she tried to evade she could still hear that stupid chunk of metal behind her.

To make matters worse the longer Cyra ran the worse her healing knee began to feel. She wouldn’t be able to keep running like this forever but how was she supposed to out run something made of metal and wires? Cyra did her best to ignore the pain in her knee and tried to tell herself to keep going but it was to no avail. “Ah!” Her knee gave out and Cyra fell to the ground. No no no! she screamed in her head, body contorting on itself as she hugged her knee to her chest.

The Doll’s hand closes around Cyra’s ankle, dragging her body along the carpeted floor and silently hoping the rug burns hurt. Silent as a mouse, the only sound emitting from The Doll comes from the motors within her body, whirring sharply with each step she takes down the aisle. Placing her free hand on the stage, she hoists her body up with a newfound strength she was surprised she had, but drops to her knees to lift the girl up with her.

She drags her past his unmoving body, flicking her eyes over him absently to check if he was still breathing or even conscious. Satisfied she’d have enough time, The Doll tightens her grip on the girls’ ankle and pulls her down the stairs, her mouth spreading into a wide smile with each thud of her body on the steps.

Moving towards the free cage beside the one in scrubs, The Doll chucks the girl inside with reckless abandon and slams the cage shut, waiting patiently until the Entity closes its legs around the metal grid of the enclosure. She stares, hard. Roaming over the girl one last time, fixated on what had allowed her to catch up to begin with—her knee. No stranger to injuries such as that, The Doll feels a pang of something close to sympathy and turns abruptly before she can dwell on a former life, one that no longer was.

Returning up the steps to the object of her obsession, The Doll does something similar—she stares. Blood coats his neck and chest. She bends, sinking to her ankles and pokes at where the blood had smeared on his darkened shirt. Is he already dead? She didn’t remember hurting him, so she pokes again.

You seen it, didn’t you. Jack wandered through the endless void, Anderson's voice echoing in his ears, sharp and loud in the emptiness. He walked aimlessly, shoulders slumped, doing his best to ignore the flashes of scenes that were nothing but lies: Anderson alive, laughing, and no red on blue haunting him. Not real, Jack told himself, forcing his mind to remember the truth. He knew what had happened. He knew what killed Anderson.

The deeper he sank into the darkness, the louder Anderson’s voice grew, relentless, forcing him to relive what he wasn’t ready to face. Jack felt his body grow cold, almost numb to the surroundings, until a sharp poke stirred him. Someone—something—was touching him, forcing him back.

Purple and red flickered across his vision, and for a fleeting moment, Jack saw a woman with long red hair, dancing gracefully on a stage while the crowd clapped in applause. The sight captivated him, and for the first time since entering the void, he felt a pull, a desire to see more. He ignored the nagging sensation of the jab, inching closer to the vision. The hair, the dance—I don’t remember this.

Not yours to see, a voice whispered, and just like that, Jack was yanked back, the dreamlike scene torn from him. He blinked his eyes open, his body feeling heavy, his head still pounding. The dim light above blurred as it revealed the same figure from earlier, her mechanical body looming over him, stained with splotches of blood. The whirring of her gears sounded offbeat, distorted, but steady as she stood over him.

You took me away, he thought weakly, staring up at her. The sight of her brought a wave of defeat washing over him. Maybe she didn’t want to be here either—just like him, stuck, stolen from a life she once knew. "You don’t want to be here," Jack murmured softly, unsure if she could even understand him. His voice was a rasp, tired and hollow. He stared into her mechanical eyes, convinced now that there was more to her, a stolen past, a possibility. And neither do I.

With that, he laid still, feeling the weight of resignation press against him. Whether the others were dead or gone, he didn't know. Part of him hoped they'd escaped, found some way out of this nightmare. He wasn’t sure if he’d be that lucky. “What happened?” Why do I keep blacking out?

The Doll freezes, jarred from his statement. You don’t want to be here. But I am. Those steady jolts return deep in her chest, the ones that mimic a heartbeat, and her lips part to respond and confirm his assertion. His head falls back, defeated with another question on his mind. “The Entity.” If she were kinder, The Doll might’ve elaborated or left him to stew on it, to succumb to whatever infliction he seemed to be under as he came to and from consciousness.

Instead, her plastic hands wrap around both of his wrists and drag him down to the basement, where the others await him. Placing him in his adjoining cage, The Doll steps back to observe them all—encased in metal and claws of the Entity.

. . . Nothing happens.

“What—?” The Doll’s voice comes out as a breathless whisper, barely audible above the echoing sounds of wind from the fog, black smoke trapped in the wooden walls of the basement. Take them. I did what you asked.

Ben watched as the robot stared at them in dismay. She seemed frustrated, confused, desperate even. Despite the blood dripping from their wounds, Ben couldn’t help but feel a sick pang of satisfaction. Whatever she was trying to accomplish, it wasn’t happening. If Ben couldn’t escape, at least the robot could be inconvenienced. He let out a shaky laugh, knowing his sense of triumph was petty and likely short-lived, but he didn’t care. “It appears your scheme is not working,” he managed, wiping some of the blood off of his cheek.

“Aw, expecting something else to happen?” Richie wasn't much for pettiness and vitriol, but seeing the thing that stabbed you and your friends lost gave him some sense of comfort. His eyes swept from Jack to Cyra then back to the Doll. Still, with the robot around, there was no way they would be able to figure out how to escape the cage and get away. She would just overpower them so Richie sat there, glaring at their would-be killer.

The Entity. The thought consumed Jack as those cold, unrelenting hands gripped his wrists and dragged him mercilessly toward the basement. His body hit the ground hard, and without care, they threw him into a cage that looked like it had seen better days—if any. His eyes locked onto the swirling, inky tendrils moving just beyond the bars, his stomach churned with recognition.

It's you, Jack thought bitterly, his mouth forming a hard line as the memory of those tendrils stabbing deep into his shoulder returned. The searing pain, the helplessness, all of it came rushing back. He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white as a frown settled on his face. I know your name, you bastard.

If The Doll could retreat into herself, she would. What is happening? She questions it, knowing the presence lingers around them. Spider legs twitch around the cages intermittently, toying with the prey caught in its web. Her sigh comes out forced and harsh, stepping close to the one from a different time—their laugh cutting through her haze of confusion like a knife.

“Not my scheme.” She insists bitterly, her composure shattering in the face of their triumph even when caged.

Seconds stretch into minutes and her dwindling patience snuffs out. She paces around the basement, casting a look at the boarded up walls with smoke wisping through the open slots every so often. Do something. I want to be alone. Her misery of stalking her realm, made up of fragmented moments in time, memories she ought never forget—it was worth it over sharing the space with others.

“Yes. I am.” Expecting something to happen. “Why aren’t you dead!” ‘Dead’ breaks into a frustrated but frantic scream, the usual calm and melancholic tone The Doll had as a human fracturing along with what was left standing of her dignity.

“Why do you look and smell like shit?” Cyra couldn’t help but to snap at the robot, her voice bitter. How could she not be when her knee was in pain and she had just been dragged around like a fucking rag doll tossing her into a cage that was surrounded by weird black tendrils? If it wasn’t for the jacket she was wearing Cyra was sure that she’d have carpet burns all over her back and shoulders.

She sat in the corner of her cage, hands rubbing over her sore knee. She had been doing such a good job of taking care of it like her doctor told her to do. A few more weeks and she could have been back on track to compete. Now it looked like it didn’t even matter, if the robot was telling the truth they were all going to die. They couldn’t even attempt an escape with her right there and even if they could break out of the cage with her knee Cyra was in no position to run.

Her brown eyes looked over the robot with a sneer. “Clearly you don’t even know what you’re fucking doing.”

Cyra was right— this robot didn't know what she was doing. Richie thought back to it all. She expected something to happen once all of them were inside the cages but nothing did. They apparently were supposed to die, and the thought made him shiver, but they weren't. They were all still there well and alive. So, they all had to be locked up? So why was nothing happening? He didn't know either but he had enough information to create an excuse.

Put on your best smile Richie. “Well, I guess that means Cheska is still out there right, Cyra?” He said, confidently but with a bit of quiver in his voice. Fear, he should be afraid that “Cheska” will be caught. “I bet she's already halfway through with the car. Can't believe someone as confident about this whole thing would forget about another one of us.” Richie shrugged, ignoring the pain shooting up his arm. Damn, that robot did not hold back on gripping him while dragging him down here. “You really don't know what you're doing, huh?”

The Doll brushes off the majority of the girls’ insults, finding her voice grating in comparison to the unknown of what is happening. Clearly you don’t even know what you’re fucking doing. She drags her gaze up and down the girl on her hands and knees in a cage with a look that clearly says, and you do?

Her interest piques considerably at the mention of a new name—and a name to put to the girl with dark curls and impaired knee—and her frustration reaches a boiling point. Four cages, but five people? Why else is nothing happening?

For a reason unbeknownst to her, in a display uncharacteristic of her, The Doll’s hand curls into an iron fist around the cage of the injured one, the metal somewhat pliable to her plastic prison. I have to leave. Her glare finds him, where he’s all but dissociating, and knows she has to take the risk and leave—damn it. Her leg connects briefly with the cage under her grasp, a sharp and sudden kick that satisfyingly doesn’t harm her in the slightest, but dents the metal inwards.

“Don’t go anywhere.” The Doll sneers, a jab at their inability to leave and disappears into the mirror propped up in the far corner, bound for the Parking Lot.

The sharp clanging of metal against metal jolted Jack out of his thoughts, making him flinch where he stood, trapped in the center of the cage. His eyes darted toward the sound, just in time to see her figure disappearing through the mirror. A scowl twisted his face as he returned his focus to the claws of the entity that wrapped around the cage. His fingers twitched, half-tempted to reach out and pinch at the monstrous thing, though he knew it would do little good.

Cyra watched with bated breath as the robot disappeared into a mirror. What. The. Fuck. Was she actually in hell? Things like this just weren’t possible. Talking robots with a fully developed conscience didn’t exist, traveling through mirrors didn’t exist. She didn’t have time to waste on thinking about how impossible this all was though. As soon as that freak figured out they were lying they would have lost the one opportunity they had to escape.

Holding on to the bars of the cage Cyra used the metal to stand up, her face contorting slightly in pain as she stood on her bad knee. “We need to figure a way out of these things before she comes back.” How, she wasn’t sure but there had to be some way. She stared at the entrance to her cage. She had the intense urge to shove at it, something in her mind telling her that if she pushed hard enough that the opening would relent to her. She limped over and put her hands up against the metal before she began to push. The sound of metal creaking could be heard and Cyra swore she saw the section push away from the rest of the cage the tiniest bit. “Guys, I think I can force my way out of mine!” However, just pushing it with her arms clearly wasn’t going to be enough.

Taking a few steps back Cyra willed herself to ignore the throbbing pain in her knee. She took in a deep breath before she ran full force at the wall of metal in front of her, throwing her entire body weight against it and letting out a squeak of surprise when the cage actually relented to her and she fell forward onto the floor. Turning over onto her back she let out a low groan. God that felt like shit.

Ben watched Cyra escape her cage with wide eyes, impressed at the display. If she could get out that easily, surely the rest of them could manage? But as they looked back to their own cage, despair pooled like sludge in their gut. Unlike the rest of the group, their cage was dented where the robot had kicked it, leaving it potentially much more difficult to pry open the way Cyra had opened hers. Knowing it likely wouldn’t end well, they tried in vain to either pry or brute force it open with their uninjured arm, hissing in pain once they realized all they were doing was hurting that hand. Just perfect. Maybe after the others escaped, they could help Ben before the robot reappeared.

“My bars doth not open,” he added, staring dejectedly at the dent in the cage, just in case the others hadn’t seen him struggle.

He flinched when the door to Cyra’s cage broke open without much resistance and sent her hurtling to the ground. “You okay, Cyra?” He asked, worried that she had injured herself during the escape. He wasn’t sure how much time they had before the robot finally caught onto the ruse and returned to finish them off once and for all— but, even then, he didn’t want to rush Cyra and risk even more time spent on it.

He turned over to Ben. The cage itself was warped because of the Doll’s little temper tantrum. “We can probably find something here to open it with.” Richie reassured the knight, trying to sound as confident as possible. If they could find car parts here, surely there was a crowbar they could use to physically pry the bars. Or… anything that could help really. “Once we get out of here.”

“Yeah I’m fine.” Or as fine as she could be considering the circumstances. She pushed herself to her feet, thankful that nothing seemed to be hurting aside from her knee. “I have no idea how long your plan will keep her occupied so let’s try to make this quick.” Cyra limped her way over to the cage Richie was trapped in. Maybe his would break as easily as her’s did.
She wrapped her hands around the bars before pulling and her face scrunched up as she used as much of her strength as possible. Perhaps luck was on her side as the door pried open and freed Richie.

When Cyra made her way to his cage, Richie closed in as well. While he couldn’t use his other hand, he still figured he should help with forcing it open. He held onto one bar that she was and pulled with her— and it budged. Miraculously, it budged. Richie couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that came out of his lips when they had managed to secure an exit for him and he quickly slipped out. Still, he cradled his still bleeding hand close to him, returning to applying some pressure to it. “You’re a lifesaver.” He cast a worried glimpse to Cyra’s leg. She was limping and that would be detrimental during a chase. “I’ll get Jack out. You sit tight for a bit just to rest your leg, okay?”

He made his way to Jack’s cage, thankful that the man was at least awake this time around. He had a few choice words to say but he swallowed them back. That was frustration talking and arguing about all of it now would be detrimental. “Glad you’re awake, Sleeping Beauty.” He joked before moving to position himself to push open the cage’s bars using his relatively uninjured hand and his leg.

Jack's grip tightened around the cold metal bars of the cage as he watched Cyra break free and, with quick determination, release Richie from his own confinement. Relief mixed with an overwhelming urge to speak—to apologize for the chaos and confusion, to explain what little he understood about the situation. The robot, the one with the colored hair and adoration from the crowd—he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe they were wrong about her. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t their enemy. The thought terrified him. Was he falling into a trap, wanting to see the best in someone he should fear? What the fuck.

He bit back the words that clawed at his throat, shrinking into himself, a deep disappointment settling in. The signs were there, all too familiar—the same naive hope that had gotten him in trouble before. The shuffling sound of footsteps pulled him from his spiraling thoughts, and Jack glanced up, catching Richie’s concerned expression. A frown formed on Jack’s face, the instinct to push away rising. Just leave me, he thought, ashamed. I don’t know what happened.

But before he could voice his doubts, Richie cracked a joke, a lighthearted jab that somehow soothed the knot in Jack's chest. A choked laugh escaped him, despite everything, and he found the nickname strangely endearing.

"It’s…good to be awake. I’m—" Jack hesitated, wanting to say so much more. Sorry for everything—for not doing enough, for not understanding. But all that came out was, "Sorry for being an easy target." His voice was low, weighed down with guilt. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes as the familiar fog of exhaustion crept in, swirling behind his eyelids.

"Don’t know what came over me, passing out like that," he mumbled, glancing back down before helping Richie pry apart the cage.

Ben watched with no small amount of relief as the others got free, glad that things were going so smoothly. But their cage’s desire to stay wedged shut was anxiety-inducing. A small line formed between their brows as they struggled once again to open their cage. Please open, they begged internally.

“Should have just told me you were a narcoleptic buddy.” He said with a shrug and slowly the bars parted to allow Jack passage through it. “I wouldn’t have thrown that concrete block at you. It was pretty small, hope that didn’t hurt too much.” Even with some amount of remorse of what had happened after that, Richie had to admit— he was a pretty damn good shot. Maybe all those times spent exploring abandoned areas and throwing random rocks to check if something is structurally safe or not did have its uses.

“I’m not, but…first time for everything, right?” Jack flashed a weak smile, trying to match the lightness in Richie’s tone. He gave a half-hearted shrug before stepping out of the cage, the relief of being free washing over him. The air felt cleaner, lighter, as if the weight of the disgusting metal bars had been pressing on him more than he realized.

"Don’t worry about it—uh, it woke me up," Jack added, rubbing at his chest as he spoke. The pain still lingered, a dull reminder that it pulled him out from his slumber.

He stepped back to let Jack out before turning to Ben’s cage. “Maybe we can find like… a crowbar or something?” He stepped forward and tested the if it would budge but the warped part of the cage stubbornly kept it closed and a lot more difficult to move. “Let’s look around for a bit?” He suggested as he turned to Jack and Cyra.

When Jack reached Ben’s cage, he winced at the sight of the deep dent stamped into the metal. Damn, he thought, running his fingers over the boot mark. There was no way they were going to shimmy Ben out of there; the cage was too bent, too tight. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his own anxiety from matching Ben’s wide-eyed expression.

"Maybe—" Jack started, but his words trailed off as he tried to piece together a solution. His mind raced back to how they even got here. Cyra. The jerry can, the car battery, the way she somehow managed to force her way through the cage—everything had gone smoother once she joined. Looks like luck’s on our side for once, he recalled saying that to her. Worth a shot.

Jack straightened up, a spark of hope igniting in his chest. "I think we should get Cyra to help us out," he said, his voice a little too hopeful. “Trust me on this, we might all have a chance.”

Richie nodded and he peered around him to look to Cyra. “Yeah. What do you say, Cyra? Ready to move on again?” He didn’t want her to overxert herself but it was undeniable that her skill and extreme luck was doing them a big favor. Maybe they could even find the car keys while they were at it. They were all going to get out together.

Watching the guys work together was…something to say the least. The only upside was that it gave Cyra enough time to give her knee a break. Hopefully she hadn’t injured it again during the chase and the pain would subside once they were out of this place. She rubbed her hand along it, trying to massage out any pain when Richie and Jack’s voice reached her ear and she moved her gaze from her leg to look at the two.

With a nod she pushed herself to her feet and walked over. She wasn’t limping as badly anymore but if they needed to make a run for it again she’d definitely have to ask one of them to help support or maybe even carry her. “Let me give it a try.” She had been able to free herself and Richie so what was one more cage? Honestly, this was all going pretty smoothly. Almost too smoothly.

She looked at the knight’s cage, resisting the urge to cringe at the noticeable dent left by the robot during her little temper tantrum. “Okay, let’s all try.” Perhaps it was wishful thinking but maybe if all three of them tried with Ben pushing it would be enough to pry the door open.

Jack glanced over as Cyra approached, giving Richie a brief nod before stepping back to give her room. He watched her inspect the damaged cage with her usual focus, the doubt creeping back in. It was hard to shake the feeling that getting Ben out of the mangled metal was a lost cause, despite Cyra’s…unusual streak of luck lately. His arms crossed loosely in front of him as he stood to the side, keeping an eye on her while trying not to get his hopes up.

When she asked for them to help, Jack hesitated for just a moment before stepping forward again, placing his hands reluctantly on the rusty bars. He felt his jaw tighten, forcing himself to ignore the disgusting texture beneath his fingers. He was beginning to be weary of his own plan, but they had to try something. His voice low but determined, he muttered, "Count down?" glancing at Cyra and Richie, waiting for the signal to begin.

Richie followed the two towards the cage and gripped the bar with his uninjured hand. He wondered if the nausea he was feeling was from how tense everything was, the tentacles or the active blood loss he was experiencing but he grit his teeth and prepared himself. He didn’t want to drag the group down and hopefully it would all be quick and they can find a first aid kit. “Alright. On the count of three. One… two… three!”

At the end of the countdown Cyra pulled with all her might but even with all three of them trying to pry the cage open the damned thing wouldn’t budge. She tried again, straining until her muscles began to protest but it was to no use. “Fuck..” she muttered, looking over to Jack with a regretful expression. How were they supposed to get the knight out if the dent was preventing them from doing so? They also had no idea when the robot would show back up and Cyra knew that they were running out of time.

The Doll combed every corner of her realm, her footsteps deafening as she frantically searched for 'Cheska', impatience wearing beyond a thin line. Her penetrating eyes sweep over every nook and cranny in the Party Room, seconds away from lifting the arcade machines and throwing them out of her way, when a careful warning resonates in her mind: ESCAPED.

Frustrated at herself for falling for such a clear and obvious bait, The Doll wastes no time stepping into the closest mirror—resting at the back of a still-operating pinball machine—and crashing through the other side, into the basement with three of the four catches prying at the final cage. She doesn't dwell on the particulars of how one of them had managed to escape, her legs carrying her towards them to prevent the final escape, ready to embed the shard in her hand into the closest person.

From his position inside the cage, Ben noticed the robot emerge from a mirror, eyes wide. It would be better for the others to leave him in the cage and save themselves; it was what he would do if the roles were reversed, after all. How could he expect them to stay and turn what might only be his demise into a four-person slaughter? They hadn’t died the last time they were supposed to, but Ben wasn’t sure how long their luck would hold out. So, in spite of his body screaming at him to flee, he couldn’t, and he yelled to alert the others to the robot’s presence, in case they hadn’t already noticed.

“Run! The robot hath returned!” Their wide-eyed expression became one of defiance, eyes hard, as the robot got closer. Even if they were stuck in their cage, at least the others would escape, and she would still lose. The others would find a way out and live. And Ben would try to sneak again once the robot pursued them.

There had been little to no time for them to recover from the failed attempt of opening Ben’s cage as the mirror at the basement shattered and their killer appeared through it. This was, at least, something he already witnessed so the shock value had worn off. He quickly moved a few steps to the side, trying to get her attention on him. You’re not going to catch me again. He was only given a few seconds to react but she always charged forward with reckless abandon. So he prepared himself and just as the robot’s shard was going to make contact with him, Richie quickly moved out of the way and hoped she would crash straight into Cyra's ex-cage.

“We’ll be back, Ben!” Richie shouted as he ran for the stairs. It would be no good for them to stay in the basement while the Doll was present. Hopefully, by leading her away, Ben would have some chance to open their cage— or they could just return later with a better tool to help him with. Either way, they needed to focus on their survival and freedom first.

Jack spotted the shard in her hand just before realizing she had come from a mirror. His instincts kicked in immediately, yanking Cyra away from the looming figure as the purple figurine narrowly missed its mark. Seizing the moment, he followed Richie’s lead, grabbing Cyra’s wrist as gently as possible to guide her toward the stairs. He positioned her in front of him, ready to shield her from any incoming attack—the least he could do.

Sorry, Ben, he thought with a pang of guilt as they rushed forward. With his hand firmly on Cyra’s arm to support her entirely, he helped her navigate the stage once they emerged from the basement, their attacker still hot on their heels.

With the help of Jack Cyra was able to move much faster than she would have been able to on their own. She’d have to thank him when this was over as she was sure her extra weight was slowing him down. “Fuck does she never give up?” Cyra could still hear the robot chasing after them and it formed a pit at the bottom of her stomach. She knew they wouldn’t be able to outrun her forever and without the keys- shit the keys!

“Were either of you able to find the keys before she took you?” She asked Jack since Richie had run further ahead.

Jack did his best to keep Cyra steady, gritting his teeth against his own pain as he focused on getting her out. The escape was so close now, the basement behind them. His muscles screamed in protest, but he kept moving. At the mention of keys, he froze for a second, eyes darting wildly around the stage area. The rows of seats stretched out before him, overwhelming under the bright, warm lights. Damn it...

“Ge-Get to Richie, I’ll look around,” he said, voice strained as he took in their surroundings. Glancing over his shoulder, he didn’t spot the robot—at least not yet. Maybe he had a minute, just enough time to search. He nudged Cyra forward, passing her along to Richie with a small, strained smile, watching them retreat towards safety before turning back.

“I’ll be quick!” he called out, forcing confidence into his voice as he backed into the room. His heart pounded in his chest as he ducked between the rows, hunting desperately for the keys. His eyes darted anxiously from seat to seat, his pulse quickening with each second that ticked by. Fuck, it has to be here somewhere...right? He muttered a curse under his breath, hoping for a small miracle—that maybe, just hopefully, Cyra’s luck could rub off on him.

With that thought in mind, Jack's gaze landed on a glimmer—a faint shine catching his eye beneath a crooked seat. Relief flooded him as he exhaled a heavy sigh. There they are. Without wasting a second, he dropped to one knee, yanking the keys free from their hiding spot.

His heart pounded as he bolted from the room, adrenaline surging through him. Bursting through the doors, he spotted Richie and Cyra just ahead. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” Jack shouted, tossing the keys their way with urgency.

Cyra caught the keys as they flew through the air towards her, stuffing them into the pocket of her jacket. She clung onto Richie as they all made their way through the building and to the exit. “I can drive but what are we going to do about the knight?” she asked as they pushed their way through the back doors, relief flooding her senses as she took in the car. Gas, new battery, and the keys there was no way it wouldn’t work now.

She didn’t want to be the one to say it out loud but the chances of them managing to sneak back in and help the man were slim to none. The robot was already chasing after the three of them so they had no way of sneaking back in, Cyra was unable to run on her own, and the door to knight’s cage was dented so even if they could make their way back without getting caught, how were they supposed to get him out?

"Better we make sure the car moves then we can plan around getting back to Ben?” Richie suggested, making sure to keep in pace with Cyra so they don't both stumble down. Still, he kept looking around to make sure the robot wasn't too close to them. Between the three of them, he had the best chance of distracting it enough so the others could get away. “I… I don't know how we'll get ‘em out but… we can't just leave Ben, right?” He asked them both, a bit worried.

Practically speaking, it would be for the best if they just left them behind but that didn't sit well with Richie. Ben had saved him, after all, and he had to pay them back for that. But even Richie's boundless optimism couldn't think of a way to get the knight out.

Ben watched as the others ran, part of them feeling doomed, but a bigger part of them feeling relieved that the others would make it out, even if they were forced to stay in this cage for a bit longer. Though they weren’t completely sure when or even if the others would be able to get them out of the cage. Well, for now they supposed they just had to wait it out and hope for the best. There was nothing else they could do, after all. So they waited for the robot to chase after the others.

But as she waited, Ben got a sinking feeling in her stomach. The nightmare claws of the thing Ben did not yet know the name of tightened their grip on her cage, inching towards her as the chase continued. She sucked in a nervous breath, glancing around in uncertainty as the appendages drew nearer, creeping inside the bars of the cage and reaching for Ben, almost hungrily. As a reflex, Ben threw up her arms to protect herself, wincing in pain as she blocked the creature’s first strike. She cried out the second time, narrowly avoiding being speared through the heart. But the third time, in pain and full of confusion, Ben was too slow to block the reaching grasp of the nightmare creature. The third time, the gangly limb grabbed her, squeezing as it pulled her up up up. She felt her body go limp, vision going fuzzy before all at once, nothing.

The broken knight looked almost like a toy in the grasp of the creature, life gone from his eyes before he disappeared entirely, gone to who knew where. That was it for him. Game over, thanks for playing.

We’ll be back, Ben! The Doll’s strike had missed by a hair, her obsession snatching the girl away before her weapon could connect and she turned, furious to watch the trio escape up the basement steps. She hangs back, staying near the person—Ben—they left behind. She had to be sure of what the Entity had expected from her. Kill him already. I did what you wanted. And it relents, tendrils snaking through the gaps of the metal prison and the spider legs strike, one by one.

She watches in fascination as Ben’s body fades, becoming incorporeal—a wispy smoke, resembling the fog surrounding the edge of the realm. Satisfied and motivated, The Doll marches up the basement steps to pursue the others—her basement mirror broken, unable to be used—in search for the nearest one she can use to cut them off. Closing in on the Manufacturing Centre, she wastes no time disappearing into the mirror and appearing in the Lobby, her graceful legs carrying her towards the entrance for the Parking Lot where she spots the three of them, nearing the lone red car.

With the keys now in hand, Richie held on tightly to Cyra to assist her in walking a little bit faster. As they passed by the manufacturing room, he spotted where his bat had been dropped— the blood on its handle a clear reminder of what had transpired mere minutes before. He let Cyra go on her own for a moment to retrieve the bat, giving them an uncertain look. Hopefully, the bat would be enough to deter the robot so they could get back to Ben.

Richie let out a breath of relief when they had reached the parking lot with no sign of the murderous robot anywhere. “Almost there guys. Once we get the engine revving we can-”

A loud, reverberating sound of a bell— a church bell? — but it didn’t give the same relief. Instead, he felt his hair stand on their ends and his stomach dropped. Something had happened. Something bad had happened and he frantically looked behind them. The toy factory seemed larger now, looming even, and Richie had every urge to drop everything and run. “We… we gotta…” He stumbled over his words as his movement became more frantic, hurrying Cyra along the parking lot carefully.

“Do you think Ben… should we still…” He couldn’t bear to finish the thought, fighting back the tears in his eyes. Was it from grief or pure terror, he wasn’t sure anymore.

Jack felt the vibration from the bell before he even heard the haunting chimes. A bell? He turned toward the building, dread washing over him, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as if warning him of something dangerous lurking nearby. “We…we need to go,” he stammered, backing away, his gaze shifting urgently to Richie and Cyra as he moved to catch up with them, the car just out of reach. He pointedly ignored Richie’s obvious distress, biting back his own grief. They were noble a person. “I don’t think Ben’s with us anymore.” Admitting it felt like a weight settling in his chest, and the ominous toll of the bell seemed to echo the finality of it—a death knell, cold and taunting.

The sound of the bell sent shivers down Cyra’s spine and she took the chance to set her eyes back to the building. What was that? Something in her mind told her that whatever the bell signaled couldn’t be good. The arm she had wrapped around Richie’s shoulder tightened slightly as the feeling of despair settled over her, her eyes leaving the building to look at Jack as he confirmed that the knight— Ben must have been killed by the robot, or perhaps something even more sinister. The feeling of guilt settled into her stomach. “What the fuck…” Realistically Cyra knew that there was nothing they could have done differently. Ben’s cage had been warped beyond repair and they hadn’t had time to find something to pry it open with before the robot came back but just because she knew something didn’t mean that she had to be happy with it.

Before she could try to push away the suffocating guilt that she felt, something in her body felt as if she were in danger again. Hurry, her mind whispered to her. It still isn’t safe. Cyra’s eyes trailed away from Jack slowly moving back to the looming building before her throat went cold at the sight of their tormentor standing near the entrance, watching them.

“She’s here- get in the car, get in the car!” She pushed away from Richie, instinct forcing her to move as she practically yanked open the door to the driver’s seat, pulling herself in and slamming it closed behind herself.

The confirmation was something Richie dreaded— the others felt it too. They didn’t need to see it at all. Cyra’s urgency had been the one to pull him back from his grief spiral, finally beginning to notice the heavier footfalls of the robot behind them closing in faster than ever. “Right, right!” He went around the front and vaulted over the car’s hood to save some time before opening both the passenger door and the rear passenger door. “Come on Jack! In!” The Doll was closing in far too closely, far too quickly and Richie gripped the bat tighter, prepared to smash into the robot if it came too close to Jack.

She's here- get in the car, get in the car! Jack nearly stumbled out of shock when he risked a look back. There she was, her figure looming ominously by the building she called home, then steadily closing the distance with unnerving speed. Startled into action, Jack picked up his pace, barely keeping up with Richie and Cyra.

He lunged for the car handle, wrenching the door open and diving inside, slamming it shut with a frantic clatter. "Drive—step on it!" he yelled, eyes flickering to the back window, scanning for any trace of her pursuing them. His breath came in shallow bursts as the tension began to ease, the world outside the window becoming a blur. "I think…I think she’s gone. I think we’re getting out!" His words tumbled out, a mix of relief and disbelief, his gaze never leaving the rearview.

Once Jack was safely inside the car, Richie slid inside the passenger seat, slamming the door closed. “Jesus Christ, I hope there’s something, anything, down this road we can stop over at.” He muttered, once more clutching his bleeding hand close to himself, grimacing at how some blood was now spreading across his scrub shirt.

The Doll pushes past her dwindling stamina, urged by the Entity to get her hands on the obsession—the others were bound to get away, but he would be hers. Nearing the idled car, and composure gone to the wind, The Doll's hand goes clear through the window. Glass shatters, just like the mirror, in a spray as she reaches in for him. With the last of her strength, she takes hold of his upper arm and wraps her free hand around his neck to pull him from the debris of glass and through the window.

I think we’re getting out! And what a load of bullshit that was.

The crash came before he fully registered it—glass shattering as shards exploded inwards, and Jack barely got his arms up in time, bracing to shield his face. The jagged pieces nicked his hands, but he was lucky enough to avoid worse. Then, a hand—livid purple and unmistakable—thrust through the broken window, fingers clawing at his sweater before tightening around his neck, yanking him forward.

He let out a muffled noise of distress, the shattered glass scraped along his body as he was ripped out of the window. Though his sweater took the brunt of it, pain still shot through him as he was wrenched closer to the nightmare, completely out of the car now. Jack hung a bit from her grasp, feet dangly as he did his best to break from her unrelenting grasp. I’m so fucking dead.

Knife. Pocket. Now. What?

Jack's mind raced as he chased after his intuition, releasing one hand from her wrist to fumble into the pocket of his sweater. His fingers met cold metal—a knife. Anger flared through him, irritation mingling with adrenaline for not doing something so simple to begin with since the beginning. He tightened his grip on the blade, frustration prickling his skin—thinking about the entity, being yanked and forced into this shithole—and he swung the pocket knife towards one of the figurine’s vulnerable neck slots. This has to work—this better work.

But it didn’t. Stunned, he kicked at the figure in desperation, confusion lacing his grunted breaths. It didn't work, what the fuck? Panic creeping into his voice, he yelled, "Let go—let go!"

The Doll flinches, expecting the stun to overcome her senses and leave her immobile, helpless but to watch him disappear safely into the fog. It skids off her plastic plating, just missing the mark and the whirring of her machinery reaches a crescendo, her anticipation vibrating through the body she’s imprisoned within. He kicks at her, desperate and panicked—and she feels the Entity attempting to pull her towards the Factory, the nearest mirror, to sacrifice him… but she relents. I don’t think I will.

Dragging her prey towards the upright mirror, balanced on the lone oak tree—a bed of foliage amongst the asphalt—she twists him in her grasp, her forearm tucked beneath his chin to hold him steady. She needed him to understand what she felt, the horror of seeing a fate impossible to overcome.

Jack fought against her grip, his feet scraping against the road as he twisted, desperate to escape. But it only seemed to draw him deeper into her grasp, a sinking dread clawing up his spine. His heart hammered, every ounce of his resistance feeling futile. Her forearm tightened around his head, holding him in place like a vice. Through the haze of panic, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror that was before him, the robot holding him firmly in place. What the hell? His own face stared back, pale and haggard, dark circles stark beneath his eyes, and a sheen of sweat glistening across his skin. I look like I’m already dead.

It dawned on him suddenly—She’s holding me. And what’s worse, he wasn’t bothered by it, not the way he should be. This was the third time since arriving that he noticed something off, that he was allowing himself to be near people, that he didn’t feel the usual urge to recoil from another’s touch. The twisted irony hit him, and he let out a low, bitter laugh, a mixture of disbelief and annoyance all in one. Of course, the entity would be cruel enough to strip him of even that, meddling with his mind as well as his trauma. You’re the reason why I don’t let people be around me.

“You’re holding me,” Jack said instead as he mumbled out those words, a detached clarity in his voice. “This place is so messed up.”

“Yes. It is.” She agrees, honest—and smashes him forward, connecting his face with the mirror. It splinters on impact, a deafening sound that might’ve triggered her if it weren’t for the persistent hum of her own body singing with the anticipation of ending this, ending him. It felt rewarding, to rob the Entity of this sacrifice—all mine. The Doll repeats the movements, pressing forward, yanking back, until their reflection disappears under the painted blood. Until the bell tolls and signals his end, that his stay is over.

The brutality of the kill was well and displayed at the rearview mirror— and something Richie couldn’t take his eyes off. The shock of the robot managing to get all the way to the car while they were speeding away wore off to horror— he tried to shift in the front seat and grab Jack but he couldn’t even get a grasp of his clothing before the robot had claimed him for herself. Slowly, he shifted back in his seat. There was nothing they could do short of slamming the car full reverse on her but if that didn’t work, both he and Cyra would just be stuck with her too.

“Oh God…” He muttered, feeling sick to his stomach. The tears he fought hard to keep in fell freely down his cheeks. They should have been safe inside the car, they should have been able to get away. They couldn’t save Ben and Jack had to be taken from them at the very last moment? That was just unfair! “We- we need to go faster Cyra. She- what if she does it again and-” I can’t lose you too. He urged his companion, his words being cut off by sharp intakes of breath from his sobs.

Cyra pressed her foot against the gas pedal as hard as she could. Despite the fear that coursed through her veins and the want to look back to see if Jack was still alive she kept her gaze locked in front of her. She couldn’t look back, not when Richie was urging her to go faster. “I’m going as fast as I can!” Her voice choked on itself, tears brimming in the ducts of her eyes that she quickly blinked away. She couldn’t cry right now because she needed to be able to see. They needed to get as far away as possible before that thing chased them down and did the same thing to them that she did to Jack.

Risking a glance in the rearview mirror Cyra noticed that the robot was no closer than she had been when she reached her hand into the car and pulled Jack out. Her heart was hammering in her chest and her fingers wrapped around the steering wheel so tight that her knuckles were turning right. “I think…” She looked back towards the front. She somehow felt safer now than she had this entire nightmare. “I think she’s not chasing us anymore.” Had killing Jack satisfied her? How sick and twisted was that.

“Oh… that’s… that’s good.” He shifted in his seat, desperately trying to wipe his tears with the collar of his shirt. The exhaustion of the entire endeavor finally crashed into him as adrenaline wore off and he leaned against the door of the car, letting his gaze go from Cyra to the road before them— or, well, the lack of it. The fog was too thick to see even three meters ahead. “Hope we can find a payphone, or whatever. Call the police or an ambulance.” He was sure that it would take so much more than just a few stitches to fix his hand. He can barely flex it now that it had completely numbed over.

It was starting to get colder too. Tired. But he needed to keep awake. He had to keep being awake or else he was going to die. That was how it went in the movies, right? Something about suffering from blood loss and he was sure he lost a lot of blood. So, he tried to fight through the exhaustion but his head was on the window and it was so comfortable. Before he even knew it, his eyes slipped shut.

“Yeah…a…payphone.” Cyra choked down a yawn. Why was she suddenly so tired? Had the adrenaline finally wore off and now her body wanted to shut down from all the running and physical labor she had just done? She blinked her eyes, willing herself to stay up. She couldn’t fall asleep while she was driving but god she was so sleepy. The logical part of her mind told her that there was something wrong, that the fog and the tiredness were strange but Cyra wasn’t coherent enough to make sense of those thoughts. She leaned forward, nearly resting her head against the steering wheel, as her brown eyes slowly closed more and more. Gotta..stay..awake. Her eyes shut fully as the exhaustion became too much for her to fight. Stay…The thoughts trailed off as sleep finally consumed her.

The Doll only drops her obsession to the ground once his face is unrecognisable, those hard features turned lumpy. Bending at her hips, she leans forward—enough to drag her plastic finger across the glass, painting a frown-y face in the blood. It's not personal, she thinks, glancing down as she steps over his body and strolls back towards the Factory, a bounce in her steps. She doesn't turn around as she hears the Entity's tendrils penetrate through the ground one by one, closing around the leftovers and pulling what remains into the void.

Jack Dollard, Cyra Ashford, Richard Tarly, Ben Banister, & Bethany Dunne 'The Doll'.

relic robotics

tags: