Chapter Text
Stickman didn’t remember falling asleep. The first thing he knew, he was in some dark street. There was no apparent sky, but he assumed it was nighttime, or something of the sort. He stood in the middle of the road, though the danger of that fact remained inconsequential to him. The area was anything but duly to his senses; it was nothing like the empty plains he was used to. The pavement beneath him was an alien feeling, the sickly scent of cement or gasoline or whatever streets smelled like clogged his nose uncomfortably, though he quickly dismissed the sensation. Was he dreaming? He wasn’t sure how to tell. Somehow, he felt both alone and watched at once. He slowly swivelled his head around, feeling uneasy in the unfamiliar surroundings, looking for any sign of life, any trace of another’s breath or past existence.
“Huh…?”
Behind him, he found a rather familiar silhouette. Bean. He sat with his back to Stickman, slouching forward, arms hugging his knees tightly to his chest. He made no sound, almost alarmingly so.
“Bean…” Stickman whispered under his breath upon spotting the other man. Although he hesitated considering the circumstances, he slowly approached. Bean looked rather upset, sulking even. Stickman had always wanted decorum, to make communion with those around him, even those who had wronged him. His moral compass was, for lack of a better term, flawed. Sometimes he’d blurt out cruel comments he didn’t truly mean, and he knew he’d never live down the regret. He tried his best to be a nice guy, as self-effaced as possible, even when it backfired on him.
“Are you alright?” Stickman asked, keeping the best self-possessed demeanour he could. “You sure have seemed disgruntled lately… I wonder why!” His voice began to distort; he didn’t feel it but was subconsciously aware of it, yet made no effort to fix it. It sounded like something oddly familiar in a way he couldn’t quite word, like he’d heard it before—but from who? He didn’t care to dwell on the thought as he continued, “You can talk to me anytime, Bean. Just a skip, jump, frolic away from handling the kitchen—!”
“Don’t touch me, Stickman,” Bean suddenly interrupted, making Stickman falter and freeze where he stood. Bean’s voice was much lower, exhausted, maybe angry? Stickman stepped back slightly, his expression morphing into one of confusion or fear. “I’m not for the next challenge yet, Stickman…”
Bean’s body seemed to make a cracking sound as he convulsed, head slowly jerking around to face Stickman. His face was all… wrong. Melted and broken and simply horrific in every way, it almost looked inside-out. Stickman’s own expression twisted into horror at the sight. “Y͕ͮ̃ọ̢̬ͭu͎̅̃'̶͔̼̊ͤ͝r̥ͯ͜ͅe̤̜̼̐ ̏͢a̵͇̍͟ ̸͛͜'͠n̶̡̻̄i̸̱͈͝c̷͎͔͜e̢̫̫͊ ̴̣̲̮ͥ́g̱̭̻͊ͬ͝u̷̴̩ͅy̵̩͗͘'̢,̢̺̓͜ ̫̿̄Š͋͘͠ͅẗ̢̠̱͝í̡̠̣̇c̢͒̔ḱ̵̮m̷͉͞a̷̪̜͗͢n͇͟.̼̩͜͝.̈̾.͖ͩ͘” Bean rasped out. Even his voice was wrong, all wretched and almost glitchy, one could put it, it was somewhat hard to make out what he was even saying.
“No… no, no, no! I don’t want this! I was just trying to be kind!” Stickman shouted, tone laced with evident panic as he kept backing away, though Bean just kept following him.
“İ̵̴̵̱͔̃͐́͘͠ ̴̷̳͚̓͟À̶̢͔̠́͟M̷̶̸̵̬ͤ̊ͣ͟͞ ̴̸̢͛̌͌͞͠͠N̢͖̼̄̒̔͘͟͞Ŏ̵̙̞͍͛͒́͢͢͟T̷̡̡̳̈́̇ͤͦ͞ͅ ̸̷́̇͋̀͘Y̶̢̟͚ͨ͛̇ͥ̋̀͞͞͝O͙̤̥ͣ̒ͤ̀̀͟͠Ụ̸̹ͨ̽̀̀͢͞R͔͑ͫ̎͜ ̷̲̤̰ͪͣ͘͠͝F̶̢̞̖ͬ́͘͟͞Ṙ̵̸͗͌͟͠I̸̺̅ͤ̒̀͢͠E̸̴͕̯ͣ̆͟͝͝Ṋ͇̩̓ͯͧ̀́͢Ḋ̴̵̶̜̲͂̅̽̾͟,̸̬̿̿͘͝͞ ̸̸̡̲ͣͯ͠͞S̢̢̰̿͑̌́́͜͟T̸̸̩̠̠̏̅̽ͣ͘͞I̵̵̸̩ͯ̀͜C̣̃̏̊̈͘͞͠K̸̴̢̢̦̙ͧ͢Ṃ̶ͧ͘͜͟͠A̵̴̺͂̀͢͢N̷̴͕͓͕̉̆͝!̏̄ͪͧ͟͜͢͞” Bean reached out his contorted hand to Stickman, grasping at him, although futily due to their distance, of which made Bean speed up in his chase. It was now clear that this monstrous version of Bean had malicious intent, despite his hollow eye sockets; Stickman sensed anger lurking somewhere within. His breath sped up as he quickened his backing-up pace. This wasn’t the Bean he knew! Sure, he’d been more irritable as of late, but never THIS bad. He was going to die, he was going to kill him, he knew it…!
“BEAN, I DON’T WANT THIS! PLEASE STOP!” Stickman cried, eyes wide with fear, and his ears ringing obscenely, making his head pound with apparent agony.
“Hey! Hey, Stickman!” Another voice alerted Stickman, the source behind him, making him whip his head around to see the speaker. It was Telephone. Except… it didn’t sound like Telephone? It looked like them, but the voice was from someone else entirely. He stared at it blankly as it called his name. “Come on, wake up! Hey! Stickman!”
“STICKMAN!! WAKE UP NOW!!!”
That was a wake-up call enough for Stickman. He slowly stirred, senses coming back to him piece by piece as he found himself no longer on that road, to his relief. His vision was hazy at first, but it slowly unblurred as he found himself lying down on unfamiliar ground with two contestants staring down at him.
“You didn’t have to yell, y’know,” came the familiar voice of Spellbook, who was speaking to Glasses, who sat next to her.
“He most likely would not have woken up if it weren’t for me. Just sayin’,” Glasses pointed out with a scoff.
Spellbook quickly noticed Stickman’s awakening, beaming at him and shoving her face up uncomfortably close to his. “Ooh, wakey-wakey, Stickman! Goood morning!”
Stickman frowned at the sudden proximity, weakly pushing her away from him. “Dude, I just woke up, chill out,” he muttered, sitting up. He looked around in confusion, finding himself no longer in that white field that the contestant grounds were—well, were SUPPOSED to be. He was now in some sort of building, sitting on a pastel rainbow carpet that was rather matted and obscenely worn out (therefore uncomfortable to sit on), while the rest of the ground was wooden. The building was noticeably old, as many pieces of decor appeared dilapidated and almost mouldy or rotten, and some posters lined the brightly coloured walls that looked to be advertising new episodes for a kids’ show, all dated around the late 1900s. The location would’ve been barren if not for the fact that almost every other contestant was here too, talking and exploring, though there were a few who hadn’t awoke yet. “...where… are we?”
“Great question! That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out,” Spellbook chirped, helping the still-sleepy Stickman up to his feet. “There’s a sign over there if it helps.” She pointed in the direction where the room twisted slightly to become a short hallway, leading to an even larger room that looked like a lobby of sorts. Stickman had to squint slightly to see it in the distance, but there was a large, colourful sign that read “GARDENVIEW; Educational Centre and Museum”. It was oddly familiar in a way that Stickman couldn’t put his finger on.
“...no, that… doesn’t help at all,” he sighed, pinching his nosebridge between two fingers.
“Well, it’s better than nothing, right?” Spellbook elbowed Stickman with her usual annoying, cheeky smile, trying to get him to agree with her. Stickman just rolled his eyes and said nothing.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Glasses grunted, practically responding for Stickman, as the latter was thinking the exact same thing. “We know the what but not the why or how.”
“I’m assuming the who could be Bean,” Stickman chimed in. “I don’t know anyone else who it could possibly be.”
“True. Though, still no why. Why would he bring us here?”
“Maybe for a challenge?” Spellbook piped in. Stickman and Glasses stared at her, then at each other, then back at Spellbook again, looking as though they might disagree with her, but then Glasses was the first to reply.
“I guess that could be a possibility,” he reluctantly admitted, pushing up his, erm, ‘glasses’ with his index finger. “But what kind of challenge would it be?”
“Maybe a scavenger hunt! It is a museum, after all!”
“...yeah, sure, okay,” Glasses replied flatly. “Whatever floats your boat. Aaanyway, I’mma head back to my own team. See ya later, alligator.”
“In a while, crocodile!” Spellbook called as Glasses walked off. Stickman could tell Glasses only left because he was tired of her bullshit optimism, but didn’t want to burst her bubble. It was for her own good if she was oblivious.
“Where are the rest of our teammates?” Stickman asked, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie absentmindedly.
“Somewhere around here, I’m sure,” Spellbook shrugged, her nonchalance somewhat off-putting in a sense. “They’ll show up.”
“Hey, Stickman!" A familiar voice called out.
“Speak of the devil!” Spellbook chirped.
Stickman turned to see Billboard approaching, looking characteristically anxious. His hands fidgeted at his sides, and his eyes darted around the room as if expecting something to jump out at any moment. "You're awake. Good. I was starting to worry that… well, that something was wrong."
"Something IS wrong," Stickman pointed out. "We're in some random museum instead of the contestant grounds."
"Right. Yes. Obviously." Billboard laughed nervously, the sound hollow and strained. "I meant, you know, wrong with YOU specifically. But yes, this whole situation is deeply concerning and I'm trying very hard not to panic about it."
"You're doing a great job," Stickman said flatly.
Before Billboard could respond, Watermelon bounded over with her characteristic enthusiasm, though Stickman noticed she moved a bit more carefully than usual, her eyes squinting as if the dim lighting was bothering her. "Stickman! You're up! Isn't this place super cool? Well, okay, it's kinda creepy, but it's ALSO cool! Look at all these old posters!"
"Watermelon, can you even see them properly?" Stickman asked, unable to keep the concern from his voice. He'd noticed her vision getting worse over the past few challenges, the way she'd stumble or miss things right in front of her.
"What? Yeah, totally! I can see just fine!" Watermelon insisted, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Everything's great! I'm great! We're all great!"
Stickman exchanged a glance with Billboard, who looked equally unconvinced but too anxious to press the issue.
“Some of the others are here too,” Billboard pointed out. “Like, eliminated contestants? But not, like, the fungus-ed ones. Just the ones that got off scot-free.”
"Oh, really? In that case, where's Tape Measure?" Stickman asked, scanning the room.
"Over yonder, I reckon," came a voice with a distinct Southern drawl. Tape Measure herself approached, jerking her thumb toward the larger lobby area. "Been scoutin' the place out. All the exits are locked up tighter than a drum. Windows look painted on—tried to touch one and my hand just hit wall. We're stuck here, plain and simple."
"Fantastic," Stickman muttered.
"Telephone's around here somewhere too," Tape Measure continued, "though good luck gettin' a straight answer outta them about what they think of all this."
As if summoned, Telephone appeared from behind a dusty booth that seemed to previously sell trinkets of sorts, their form eerily silent as always. They lifted one hand and a crackling voice emerged—some recorded message from who-knows-when. "Please remain calm. Everything is under control."
"Yeah, that's real reassuring," Stickman said.
Around the room, other contestants were beginning to stir. Stickman spotted Whisky sitting alone near a wall, looking miserable and lost. Stickman quickly averted his gaze; he didn't want to think about Whisky right now. Paper Towel Roll was pacing anxiously near the Blue Skateboards group, clearly worried about his son being on a different team entirely. Junior himself was with Team Bacon Bread, huddled together near an old educational display about the water cycle. Neptune was there too, shouting something incomprehensible. Vitamin C just hummed quietly in response.
Gatorade Cap caught Stickman's eye and gave a small, uncertain wave. Glasses was talking animatedly with someone, though Stickman couldn't see who.
Marker was examining the wallpaper pattern with intense fascination, occasionally muttering cryptic observations that no one else could understand. Birthday Cake sat in their wheelchair beside Whisky, the two having found each other despite the team separation.
"Hey, uh, where's Emily?" Stickman asked, suddenly realizing he hadn't seen the kid yet.
"Still asleep over there," Spellbook said, pointing to a small form curled up on the rainbow carpet. "We figured we'd let her rest a bit longer. She's just a kid, after all."
Stickman nodded, though something about that felt off. Emily was usually one of the first ones awake, bouncing around with endless energy. But maybe the strange circumstances had exhausted her more than usual.
"Also," Billboard added quietly, leaning closer to Stickman, "have you noticed who's NOT here?"
Stickman frowned, mentally going through the roster. "Miniature Portrait, Magazine, CD, Potato Battery, Balloon…" His voice trailed off as the realization hit. Those five were gone. Eliminated. Dead, if Bean's show had taught them anything about finality.
"Yeah," Billboard whispered, his anxiety ratcheting up another notch. "I keep expecting them to show up, but… they're really gone, aren't they?"
"They've been gone for a while," Stickman said, though the words felt heavy in his mouth. He'd tried not to think too hard about what "elimination" really meant in Bean's show. It was easier to just focus on survival, on the next challenge.
"Right. Right, of course." Billboard's hands trembled slightly. "I just… this place makes everything feel more real somehow. More permanent."
Before Stickman could respond, a loud exclamation came from across the room. Paper Towel Roll was standing near what looked like a reception desk, holding up a piece of paper. "Everyone! I found something! Looks like a note!"
The room's chatter died down as contestants began gathering around. Stickman, along with his team, made their way over. Paper Towel Roll was examining the paper with a deep frown.
"What's it say?" Whisky asked quietly, joining the growing crowd.
"Should we wait for everyone to wake up first?" Spellbook suggested. "It seems only fair that everyone hears it together."
"Good thinkin'," Tape Measure agreed. "Let's rouse the stragglers."
It took another ten minutes to wake the remaining sleepers. Emily finally stirred, rubbing her eyes groggily and immediately asking where they were. Banana was disoriented and immediately went looking for Money Man, who woke up grumbling about golf and inconvenience. Birthday Cake had already been awake, having woken earlier than most, and Whisky had been staying close to them.
Rock just sat there near a display case, looking around with a simple expression of wonder. "Rock… is here," he stated plainly.
Finally, everyone was conscious and gathered in a loose semicircle around the reception desk. The note lay flat on the dusty surface, and after a brief discussion, they decided Gatorade Cap should read it aloud, given her clear speaking voice.
Gatorade Cap cleared her throat and picked up the paper. Her expression grew more troubled with each line she read silently before speaking.
"Alright, here goes. It's from Bean." She paused, then started reading:
"To my contestants,
If you're reading this, you've woken up in Gardenview Educational Centre and Museum. I want to start by saying that I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you expected, and I know you have questions. Unfortunately, I can't answer most of them right now.
What I CAN tell you is this: you are facing your final challenge. This is it. The last one. The winner of this challenge wins the entire show, wins everything. But there's a catch—there can only be one winner. One person. The last person alive.
I know how that sounds. Believe me, I know. But this is how it has to be.
The rules are simple: Each floor of Gardenview has machines that need to be fixed. Collect the necessary items scattered around each floor and repair the machines to progress to the next level. Complete enough machines on each floor, and the elevator will unlock, allowing you to ascend.
But you won't be alone. There are… others here. Things that used to be people you knew. They won't hesitate to eliminate you if given the chance. Stay alert. Stay quiet. Survive.
Throughout the floors, you'll find VHS tapes. Collect these. When you're in the elevator between floors, my shop will occasionally appear. You can trade VHS tapes for supplies—medical kits, tools, anything that might help you survive longer. I'll do what I can to help, but my inventory is limited.
The exits are sealed. The only way out is up, and the only way to win is to be the last one standing.
I'm sorry it has come to this. I truly am. But the show must go on.
Good luck. You're going to need it.
—Bean"
Silence fell over the group like a suffocating blanket. For a long moment, no one spoke. No one moved.
Then Money Man scoffed. "This is ridiculous. 'Last person alive'? What kind of sick joke is this?"
"It's Bean," Whisky said quietly. "He doesn't really do jokes anymore."
"So what, we're just supposed to KILL each other?" Gatorade Cap's voice cracked slightly. "That's insane!"
"We don't have to kill anyone," Spellbook said quickly, her optimism kicking in despite the circumstances. "We can work together! Help each other survive whatever's out there, and then… and then we'll figure something out when we get to the end!"
"The note says only one person can win," Marker observed, tilting her head. "The mathematics are clear. Subtraction through attrition."
"That doesn't mean we have to turn on each other NOW," Birthday Cake said, their voice calm and philosophical. "We can face the immediate threats together. The future is unwritten."
"Easy for you to say," Money Man grumbled. "Some of us actually want to WIN."
Paper Towel Roll ran a hand down his face, looking exhausted. "Can we just… focus on not dying first? Before we start worrying about who wins?"
"Dad's right," Junior spoke up from the Bacon Bread group. "We should stick with our teams, at least for now. Watch each other's backs."
"THE PROPHECY SPEAKS OF GREAT TRIALS!" Neptune suddenly shouted, making several people jump. "NEPTUNE SHALL PERSEVERE!"
Vitamin C just hummed thoughtfully.
Stickman's mind was racing. Last person alive. Machines. Things that used to be people. He thought of his dream again, of Bean's distorted face, and a chill ran down his spine.
"Well, we ain't got much choice but to move forward," Tape Measure said pragmatically. "All the doors are locked except… well, I'm guessin' those elevators in the lobby are our only way out."
"So we're really doing this?" Billboard asked, his voice small and frightened. "We're really going along with this?"
"Do we have another option?" Stickman found himself asking, hating how defeated he sounded.
Spellbook stepped forward, trying to rally everyone. "Look, I know this is scary. I know this seems impossible. But we've made it this far, haven't we? We've survived every challenge Bean's thrown at us! We can do this too! Together!"
"She's got a point," Glasses said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "We've been through some crazy stuff already. This is just… more of that. Right?"
"Sure," Rock said simply. "Rock… will try."
Emily tugged on Spellbook's sleeve. "I don't like this place. It's scary."
"I know, sweetie," Spellbook said gently, kneeling down to Emily's level. "But we're all here together. Your team's got your back, okay?"
Emily nodded, but she didn't look reassured.
The group began to splinter naturally into their teams. Team Larry—Stickman, Spellbook, Telephone, Billboard, Tape Measure, Watermelon, and Emily—clustered together near one side of the lobby. Team Blue Skateboards—Money Man, Banana, Paper Towel Roll, Birthday Cake, Whisky, and Marker—gathered near another. Team Bacon Bread—Glasses, Gatorade Cap, Junior, Neptune, and Vitamin C—stood together by the old water cycle display.
Wait. Stickman frowned. Rock wasn't with Bacon Bread. He looked around and spotted Rock wandering off toward a display case full of old toys, seemingly unconcerned with team formations or survival strategy.
"Rock!" Glasses called. "Dude, get over here!"
"Rock… wants to look," Rock called back, pressing his hands against the glass case.
"We ain't got time for sightseeing!" But Rock was already absorbed in examining a dusty teddy bear inside the case.
Glasses sighed. "Whatever, man. Your funeral."
The three teams made their way to the lobby, where three elevators stood in a row, each one looking like it had been designed for a children's museum—bright primary colors, cartoon decals peeling off the doors, and cheerful ding sounds that felt deeply wrong in the current context.
"I guess we each take one?" Whisky suggested.
"One elevator per team," Birthday Cake confirmed, wheeling themself forward. "The narrative divides us into three paths."
"Stop being so cryptic," Money Man snapped. "Yes, one team per elevator. Obviously."
The teams positioned themselves in front of their respective elevators. Stickman found himself standing with his team in front of the left elevator, which had a faded decal of a smiling sunflower on it.
"Everyone ready?" Paper Towel Roll called from the middle elevator.
"NEPTUNE IS ALWAYS READY!" came the enthusiastic response.
"As ready as we'll ever be, I suppose," Birthday Cake added.
Stickman looked at his own team. Billboard looked like he might throw up. Watermelon was squinting at the elevator buttons like she couldn't quite see them. Emily was gripping Spellbook's hand tightly. Telephone stood silently, inscrutable as always. Tape Measure looked determined, her jaw set.
And Spellbook… Spellbook was smiling, even though her eyes showed hints of fear. "We've got this!" she said brightly. "Team Larry's gonna make it through!"
Stickman wanted to believe her. He really did.
"Hey," he said quietly, just to his team. "Whatever happens up there… we watch each other's backs, okay? No one gets left behind."
"'Course not," Tape Measure agreed. "We're a team."
"Mhm!" Watermelon chirped, though her voice wavered slightly.
Billboard nodded, too anxious to speak.
Telephone played a recorded message: "Stick together. Survive together."
Emily looked up at Stickman with wide eyes. "You promise we'll be okay?"
Stickman hesitated. He wanted to promise. He wanted to tell her that everything would be fine, that they'd all make it out. But the dream flashed through his mind again—Bean's broken face, that horrible voice—and he couldn't bring himself to lie.
"I promise we'll try our best," he said instead.
It would have to be enough.
Spellbook pressed the elevator button. The door dinged cheerfully—a sound that would haunt Stickman later—and slid open with a mechanical groan, revealing a small, brightly colored interior with more cartoon decals and motivational posters about learning.
One poster caught Stickman's eye. It showed a cartoon character—some kind of anthropomorphic rainbow flower with a cheerful expression—giving a thumbs up. The text read: "Every day is a chance to grow!"
The irony wasn't lost on him.
"Well," Spellbook said, taking a deep breath. "Here we go."
One by one, Team Larry stepped into the elevator. Stickman went last, casting one final glance back at the lobby. He could see the other teams entering their own elevators—Whisky helping Birthday Cake with their wheelchair, Neptune shouting something about cosmic destiny, Rock still distracted by the toy display case, apparently having decided not to join his team after all.
The moment felt final somehow. Like once those elevator doors closed, nothing would ever be the same.
And maybe it wouldn't.
Stickman stepped inside, and the doors began to close. The last thing he saw was the faded Gardenview sign, its cheerful colors mocking in the dim light.
Then the doors shut with a decisive click, sealing them in.
The elevator lurched upward with a mechanical whir, and Stickman's stomach dropped.
The final challenge had begun.