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“Just find a way out…. Just find a way out…”
The Hero, no, no, Ranboo mumbles the phrase to himself over and over again, like the words themselves are enough to manifest an exit right in front of him.
God, if only.
As it stands, they’re not making any headway. The mall is worryingly spacious, and they’re not even on the ground floor. They don’t know where they are or what’s happening to them- What’s happening? How long have you been here? Who even are you!?
“Focus…” Ranboo orders himself. The alarms are blaring in his ears, Hetch has left him with nothing, and employees peer at him from every storefront. It’s only a matter of time before they’re right in his face, shoving that symbol over him like Sneeg- fuck, Sneeg, how could he forget? Sneeg almost left, he was screaming, why didn’t Ranboo do anything!?
Distracted by their lack of action, Ranboo doesn’t see the wall in front of them until it nails them in the cheekbone.
Scratch that, it hits the metal covering their cheekbone.
They revise their earlier thought. They know why they didn’t do anything.
This fucking mask.
The broadcast, whatever it is, he’s only been a part of it because of the thing on his face. It made him act that way, act like he didn’t even care when he was tearing into Charlie, when Sneeg was screaming, when all those people died right in front of him, and he could have helped them if not for- oh fuck, oh God…
Ranboo shakes their head violently.
They don’t care how this thing got on them. They just want it off.
But Hetch warned you about that.
(“It’s the only way I can communicate with you… There’s alarms set in.”)
Ranboo shakes his head. Hetch left him alone. The alarms were already blaring.
What’s stopping him from pulling it off right now?
Nothing, Ranboo realizes as they place both hands on either side of the metal plate. Nothing at all.
Ranboo tugs harshly, with more strength than the other attempts, but he doesn’t even feel it loosen. A growl rushes in his throat, anger spilling into his fingers.
God damn it, let them do this one thing!
They lose their grip and exhale frustratedly. “No good,” they mumble. “No good, try again, try again…”
Not here, though. He’s too exposed. And something’s clearly stopping him from just ripping it off, something physical. There’s a bathroom at the corner of his eye. He dashes to it, glancing at the drone that’s been following him this whole time.
They really have no choice but to trust Hetch in letting this drone follow them, but Ranboo does not trust the audience beyond the camera strapped to its chest.
That still unnerves him. There is a completely unknown amount of people watching his every move, seeing every mistake, seeing everyone he’d let die. Surely they hate him by now, right? After everything he’d done?
But when Ranboo shuts the door before the drone could follow him into the bathroom, the idea that the camera could also be connected to the company that wanted him under its control is his biggest concern. Who knows what it’d do when it knew he was trying to tear off the weird device attached to his face?
Ranboo sure as hell doesn’t want to find out.
Thankfully, the drone doesn’t try to break the door down, but Ranboo highly doubts it’s gone.
Ranboo’s shoulders drop in relief at the solitude. They can’t remember a time they’ve ever been totally alone. No cameras, no employees, just them.
The respite is soured when the smell of rot reaches them.
He locates the source easily. It’s hard not to see the pool of blood from under one of the stalls. An arm hangs limp outside the door with a pocket knife next to its hand. Ranboo gags as he vaguely wonders if he knew the person it’s attached to.
They’ll need that knife, though. They’re not sure if it’s for the mask or something else.
The teenager kneels near enough to reach it. He grabs it and quickly backs away from the corpse, positioning himself in front of the sink.
“Okay, right, this… this should be easy enough…” they mumble. They tilt their head, taking a good look at the mask’s back strap and the latch with the company’s logo on it.
Ranboo stares into the sink’s mirror, gingerly placing the knife under the latch. They find the connection between the latch and the back of their head and press the blade into it. Surprisingly, the sawing motion is enough to cut through the material. They grit their teeth as unexpected pain pulses from their neck, but they push forward until the latch disconnects.
Well, partially.
Rather than coming off, the mask seems just as tight as before. Ranboo scrutinizes the back of his head.
There is still metal where the latch was connected. It seems to dig into his skull. The area around it is numb.
“Okay,” Ranboo swallows. “Okay… i-it’s fine, one thing at a time…”
Right as they hold the strap, they freeze.
No. Frost creeps up their spine. Their thoughts are chilled as something between their eyes seethes no, no stop, that’s bad- “Leave it on leave it on LEAVE IT ON-!!”
The cold spits out of his mouth. Ranboo’s hands are clammy but do not let go.
“Stop, stop, STOP- it’s good, it’s good, it’s the only thing keeping me from-“
They snap the latch in two.
The ice leaves their mind. They clear it from their throat. They wince and try to take the rest of the mask off.
What should have been a simple pull turns into Ranboo roughly peeling the wires away from the sides of his head. The cords are stuck to his face with some kind of adhesive.
Before he gets halfway through one side, he finds a smaller wire dug into his face. Ranboo blanches as he snaps it off like a weed.
Then he finds another just like it.
And another.
And another.
Pulling them out itches deeply, but they continue with a pained grunt. By the time they’re done with both sides, with more uprooted wires than they’d like to admit, Ranboo’s mask is still not off.
Something still connects it to the front of his face.
It’s probably wires connected to him, like the ones along the side.
Ranboo grabs both sides of the mask and pulls, and all at once there is something in his mouth. He gags as his tongue suddenly feels the invasive presence of tubes that, impossibly, dig into the roof of his throat.
Confused, Ranboo jitters the mask, but the things inside their mouth are attached to the controller as well as the expected ones along the ridge of the mask. They feel the thin tubes press against their lips.
Those were not there before. Or… maybe you just didn’t notice them.
Maybe you couldn’t notice them.
Their hands shake, but tighten. “Fuck this, I can’t stop now…”
Ranboo tugs sharply, and tears fill his vision as his throat stretches with the cords, straining his mouth and sending sparks into his brain. He stops, panting, blinking to clear his vision.
That’s not working.
They seize the knife and hold it to their face. Ranboo presses it along the edge of the mask, methodically cutting off the wires lining the spots under their eyes and chin.
It stings.
When the last bit is shaved off, he can pull the mask back a bit, and through the mirror Ranboo sees punctured skin where the rim used to be. It looks like someone cut his head open and stitched it back together. The pricked line bleeds. Ranboo feels it drip down his neck.
There are more wires on the inside. Ranboo dispatches them unsteadily. The pain is getting to their head. Their vision gets spotty for a moment.
They’re getting closer.
Ranboo tries to fit the knife into their mouth, but they falter when they realize how tricky it would be to move. Their fingers are trembling. They don’t trust themself with this.
If they really want this to be over with, they know what they have to do.
God, they hate this. Oh my god, what the fuck are they doing?
Saliva builds up in his mouth. Ranboo breathes. He can fit his hands around the final cords. He meets his own eyes in the mirror. He squeezes them shut.
He pulls, and there is fire.
Spine-bending agony electrifies his veins, boiling his blood and melting his skin. His vision mists, then goes white then red, bright and alive. His mouth is full of spit and iron and screeching and copper. He is no longer standing. The world is burning down around him.
Through the flames, Ranboo snags the wires that clutch his independence. His strength does not falter.
Something gives, and there is no longer a weight in their throat.
There is, however, blood.
Fresh air caresses their bare skin as Ranboo’s head drops, something mechanical hits the floor, and a gush of vomit is dredged up from their mouth. Crimson blends into the mess with ease, joining the bile and tears coming out of the pawn.
Ranboo gags as a new taste ejects from deep in their body, joining their spit eagerly. They have not tasted this before. This rancid, sour decay. It burns their tongue and scorches their teeth.
It’s battery acid, something in them whispers. There is battery acid inside of you.
Illogically, Ranboo can feel it come from his stomach. A sob is wrenched from his torn throat. He silently begs for an explanation, a justification, anything, why is this happening, what did they do to him, what is he oh God oh fuck-
Ranboo does not know how long the sludge pours from their face, sticking to their shirt, filling their nose with sickness and metal.
Eventually, the inferno ebbs. Ranboo inhales stale air like it’s water in a desert. Only when the nausea in his bones is weakened does he finally look at the device that held his freedom in a chokehold.
The mask is off.
It lies on the floor, slick with red.
Ranboo shudders, lifting his hand to his cheek. His fingers touch something wet, and he brings his hand to his face to see green- not green, red, it’s not green, why the fuck isn’t it green, he shudders as the patient’s red organs pulse and groan and Charlie’s screams drill into his ears-
Ranboo jolts, coming back to himself.
Blood is on their fingers.
They don’t know what they were just thinking about.
With a sigh, Ranboo holds themself.
The inside of his mouth is bleeding. Ranboo doesn’t know what to do about that. He presses his tongue to the sore spot, wincing at the throbbing it causes. Pricks like the ones along his face are on the roof of his mouth, but that’s not what stalls him.
At the back of his throat, there’s a metal panel similar to the one on his head.
They can’t feel the full width of it. It makes them gag.
There’s more wires in there, a voice hisses.
Iron and disease fill his insides. He forces himself to breathe through it.
A wail assaults their ears. The sound is monstrous and unknown, but Ranboo can take a guess.
Security has been released.
Ranboo swallows the sour rot in his throat. He coughs unevenly. Red meets red on the floor.
They push themself to their feet lethargically, leaning against the sink. Their limbs burn but obey. They blink away the black splotches from their vision, meeting the mirror’s eyes.
They freeze.
His reflection unveils his face. The flesh is torn and picked through, raw and mangled. There are spots where he was less careful, where threads and metal poke out from his pores. Some of his skin is loose, revealing the meat beneath. Blood paints his face in vibrant splotches, oozing from the deeper cuts and dripping down his neck, caking his jacket. Sweat clings to his forehead desperately.
He feels a tear slide into one of the gashes on his cheek. Some would think he wouldn’t notice the sting through the blaze throughout his viscera, but they’d be surprised.
Ranboo clutches the edge of the sink, knowing that if they let go they’d fall to their knees as quickly as a desolate worshiper. They lean over the basin, managing to twist the knob with their free hand and let water run down the drain. They bring their shirt collar to the stream, struggling to inhale without choking on sulfur.
Their breathing is painful, but at least they’re breathing.
The teenager rubs the damp cloth over their face. They relish every moment of the liquid dousing the fires over each sore. They try to avoid the wounds with frayed wires.
The cloth brushes over his cheek. He gasps as something ignites.
The battery acid.
The chemical soaks their chin. Ranboo grits their teeth as they try to scrub it off. It smolders.
When the makeshift cleaning is as finished as he can get, Ranboo glares at his reflection. It doesn’t look better, but at least it doesn’t look worse. He’ll take what he can get.
The alarm faintly rings outside the bathroom. He looks at the door.
Get out. This part is over. You need to get out.
Ranboo takes a step and almost trips over his own vomit. It strikes him, when he glances at the stuff, that there’s nothing solid in it, apart from bits of copper and rubber.
Come to think of it… they can’t remember when they last ate. They don’t even feel hungry, but it’s been a while since they first woke up in the cabin.
The battery acid came from your stomach. What was it doing there?
He pushed the thought away with a whimper. He can’t do this right now, he has to leave.
Ranboo shoves the door open, just about slamming it into the camera drone.
“Oh-“ Ranboo breaks off with a choked, inhuman noise as their face sparks. Blood dribbles from their lips. They press the collar of their shirt to their mouth, panting.
His head feels alight.
No talking then.
…Okay, that’s fine. That’s fine.
It’s not.
The drone remains as motionless as ever through his outburst.
Ranboo blinks at it. The camera stares at him, its lens empty with unseen spectators soaking in every part of him. He looks down, opening and closing his fist.
Stop looking. Stop watching. Please stop.
But they can’t say that. Not anymore.
Ranboo starts walking briskly, making a gesture at the drone to follow him, since he knows it’ll do that no matter what.
Their steps are unsteady. They have to lean on the wall and, occasionally, on the drone. Not like it cares. As long as they're in the shot.
He spits blood on the mall’s floors. For that reason, he notices the slick, crimson trail outside of the security room.
Ranboo only lets himself brighten when he hears voices around the corner. He haphazardly covers his face with a hand, but he’s not sure if it’s for their sake or his. He breaks into a sprint to meet whoever awaits.
The drone matches his pace easily.
The camera over its chest blinks.
.
..
...
All things considered, Hetch is satisfied with this course of events.
The loss of the mask was unexpected and not exactly welcomed. It’s easily the best way to keep the Hero in check. It’s quick, manageable, and simple to correct any breaks in its processor. Not to mention how meticulous the attachment system is.
And then the Hero had to go and break it.
The director swallows down his rage. An act of rebellion like that will surely be punished down the road. Whether with the box or with their next show, Hetch will leave that to the dearly devoted viewers.
Nevertheless, the mask doesn’t matter in the long run. Its failure was a mere bump in the road, nothing that could pause the show.
If the Hero won’t dance to that tune, Showfall has others.
And Hetch is more than willing to use them.
The event has its benefits, too. The sympathy card is an effortless one to use with the watchers. They’ll fawn over their poor, pained Hero, and the choice will be all the more interesting.
It amuses him that the Hero won’t even be able to beg for their freedom when they’re strapped against the wall. It would just interrupt his explanation to the audience, anyway.
The mask over Hetch’s own face buzzes icily. He watches the Hero voicelessly try and pull his co-star out of the stream. Hetch makes sure the employees in that area are in position.
Everything is in place.
Everything is working.
Everything is just as the Founder promised.
Hetch smiles.
One way or another, the Hero will get the ending he deserves.