Chapter Text
Morning arrived in Barbieland the way it always did—perfectly. The sun rose behind the picturesque synthetic-green hills, casting its light across rows of Barbie Dreamhouses, warming plastic-perfect palm trees, and illuminating ocean waves frozen in flawless crests. Upbeat music drifted down as if from the sky, like a cheerful alarm clock, waking every resident of Barbieland at the exact same time.
Inside Stereotypical Barbie’s Dreamhouse, Ken opened his eyes. He smiled widely, welcoming the new day. Sitting up confidently, the sheets fell away from his picture-perfect body as he rose with dramatic, athletic grace. Ken released a long, satisfying stretch, gazing proudly at his wall-to-wall portrait of wild horses charging through the Montana heartlands—his favorite painting.
He strode toward the veranda, draped in a leopard-print silk robe and aviator shades. Stepping outside, he struck a pose overlooking the cul-de-sac in an unnecessarily heroic stance, as though awaiting applause.
“Another perfect day,” he said aloud to himself.
He flamboyantly spun on his heel and made his way toward the bathroom, removing his shades and placing them carefully on the counter. Right beside them sat a glasses case labeled Bathroom Shades, which he promptly opened and swapped into—because yes, Ken wore sunglasses in the shower.
The water turned on… or at least the shower sound effect suggested it did. Though entirely imaginary, Ken still coyly dipped a toe into the “water,” attempting to test the temperature. He winced dramatically, making faces that implied it was freezing cold, adjusting an invisible knob until it reached what he deemed the perfect temperature.
Satisfied, he nodded to himself and hopped in.
After his shower, he stepped out, opening his arms and, almost as if choreographed, the shower slid away while a closet assembled around him. All around him, the walls were lined with shirts and pants of different styles and many shades of pink. Ken stepped forward, perfectly dry, removing his bathroom shades and hanging them on a full wall of sunglasses that appeared before him.
He perused the walk-in closet, scanning for a perfect outfit. A mint—and—pink striped button-down shirt stood out to him. Ken froze, and his eyes widened. His mouth fell open in reverent disbelief. Amazed at its beauty and beachy perfection.
“Oh. My. Handler… you’re perfect.”
He turned it over in his hands, admiring the stripes, the cut, the effortless beach sophistication radiating from the fabric.
“If only there were—” Ken gasped, discovering that not only had he found the perfect shirt, but it came with matching shorts.
He turned towards the mirror, posing in his newly discovered ensemble.
His first attempt: fully buttoned.
He smoothed the fabric down his chest, straightened his posture, and adopted an expression of refined sophistication — chin lifted, eyes distant, like a man who not just did beach, he owned beach.
He held the pose, considering the look carefully.
After some internal deliberation, he opted to unbutton the first few buttons.
He was amazed at the transformation.
He leaned against the mirror frame, flashing a smoldering smile. He raised an eyebrow in a casual Hey… how you doin’? way. He thought to himself Could I get any more devastatingly charming.
He nodded to himself. It was definitely better, but it still wasn’t perfect.
With sudden inspiration, he unbuttoned the entire shirt and let it hang open dramatically, turning side to side, letting it billow as if caught in an ocean breeze. He admired his reflection, flexing his pecks, nodding in approval.
He reached for a case on the wall of sunglasses labeled ‘Perfect Sunglasses’. With a triumphant fist pump and a little spin, he stood in front of the mirror once more and struck one last pose. Fate had provided him with the perfect beach attire.
He had, of course, worn this exact outfit many times. It was his favorite.
He happily made his way down to the kitchen, where a perfectly arranged table awaited him. He picked up a slice of toast and tipped a jar of jam over it. Of course, nothing actually poured out, but Ken still reacted as if he’d almost added too much.
Holding the toast up to his face, he took a confident bite out of thin air and chewed thoughtfully. He placed the plastic food back down and smiled to himself.
“Mmm…” he said, patting his stomach. “...I love cheat day.”
Before heading out, he paused by the front door. On the side table sat a dish holding his car keys and a picture of Barbie. Ken glanced at it warmly, then kissed his fingers and gently stroked the image’s lips.
“Miss ya, babe,” he said, casually, before turning and heading out toward the Barbie Dream Car parked outside.
The drive to the beach was short but filled with energy. Ken parked the car and stepped out boldly, covering his face as if paparazzi were waiting for him.
No one was looking.
He stepped onto the sand. Ah. The beach. His domain. He planted his foot on a cooler, chest lifted toward the horizon as Barbies and Kens went about their daily lives, not paying him any mind—but in his mind, he was exactly what everyone was waiting for.
“It’s time to beach!”
The music in his mind grew louder, brighter, endlessly perfect. Not a single crack in his illusion.
The beach was alive with its usual choreography of perfection. Barbies practiced synchronized volleyball dives. A group of Mermaid Barbies posed dramatically on their stone pedestals in the middle of the hard plastic ocean. Two Kens attempted to surf on waves permanently frozen mid-curl, striking model stances while absolutely not moving. Nearby, a Fitness Barbie jogged in place beside a Smoothie Stand.
Just as Ken stepped fully onto the shoreline, a familiar voice called out—
“Hey, Ken!”
From atop the lifeguard tower, Ken waved enthusiastically before sliding down in one smooth, unnecessarily acrobatic motion. He jogged over with perfect posture and unwavering confidence. To Ken, he was running majestically in slow motion. This was not the case for anyone else observing him.
Ken raised his hand, matching the same energy.
“Hey, Ken!”
They met halfway, exchanging a firm handshake that lingered a little longer than most handshakes do, both smiling widely.
“Great beach today,” Lifeguard Ken said, scanning the horizon with professional seriousness despite there being absolutely no danger.
“What can I say?” Ken replied proudly. “I do a mean Beach."
"Really strong beach energy.” Lifeguard Ken nodded. “I’ve been guarding it all morning.”
“Anything happen?” Ken asked with genuine concern.
Lifeguard Ken paused thoughtfully.
“…No.”
They both nodded, deeply satisfied.
“Well,” Ken said, stepping forward and planting one foot against a cooler between them. He rested his forearm on his raised knee, leaning with casual authority. “Keep up the great lifeguarding.” He shot him a finger gun.
“You keep up the great… beachin'.” Lifeguard Ken mimicked the finger gun back.
Another approving nod passed between them — the unspoken understanding of two Kens fully committed to their respective roles.
"Hey, look who's here. At the beach. Like always…" Allan, the one and only, called out, walking over to both Ken and Ken, carrying that familiar expression of polite awareness. Wearing his usual bright striped pink, yellow, and blue shirt and tiny blue shorts — the same outfit he always seemed to wear. In fact, it was the only outfit Allan wore. Mattel had only given him the one option.
Ken’s face lit up immediately.
“Allan!” Both Kens said it at the same time, pointing towards him with their unholstered finger guns.
Allan chuckled awkwardly. “Yeah. me.” He raised his hands halfway in surrender, half-heartedly going along with what he assumed was a bit.
Lifeguard Ken clapped him on the shoulder with enthusiastic approval. “Allan.”
Allan paused for a moment with an awkward smile. "Yeah. Still me."
"What brings you to the beach today, my friend?" Ken asked with a cheeky wink.
“Honestly? No real reason. I just like it here. The beach is great for morale.” Allan responded.
Ken nodded seriously. “The beach has excellent morale.”
Allan looked around at the perfectly looping activities. Two Barbies tossed a volleyball back and forth, each toss tracing the same line between them. Another group laughed at a Ken's joke all in identical rhythms.
“…It really does. Like, all the time.” Allan said in agreement.
“Got any plans?” Lifeguard Ken asked.
“Oh, you know,” Allan shrugged. “Thought I’d walk around. Or maybe sit somewhere. Maybe just exist near the water.” Alan answered. He smiled, nodding gently, clearly proud.
The Kens exchanged impressed looks.
“All great plans,” Ken said.
“Very intentional,” Lifeguard Ken added.
Allan smiled, encouraged. “I brought a book.”
Both Kens froze.
“A… book?” Ken repeated with exaggerated fascination.
“Yeah,” Allan said, pulling it from under his arm. “It’s called Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl. It’s a deep dive into the complexity of existentialism—”
The Kens nodded as though they completely understood.
“Nice,” Ken said confidently, interrupting Allan mid-sentence. He lowered and, once again, dramatically placed his foot on the cooler in front of him. “I own a book as well,” he said confidently.
“Me too!” Lifeguard Ken said immediately after.
Allan’s gaze bounced between the two Kens, eyes widening in impressed approval. He nodded repeatedly, lips pressed into an encouraging grin — the exact face someone makes when a friend proudly shows them something deeply uncomplicated.
“...That’s great, guys. We all own books”. He said warmly.
The music swelled. Waves shimmered. Somewhere along the background, a Barbie performed a flawless cartwheel purely for ambience.
Ken took his foot off the cooler. Adjusted himself and placed it right back on a cooler, again. Leaning in with casual authority…again.
“Allan, my friend,” he said proudly, “Planning your day is good and fun. But there's a huge difference between coming to the beach and being at the beach.”
“…What difference does that involve exactly?” he asked, perplexed. He was genuinely interested in what Ken was saying. Though unimportant to someone in the outside world, to Allan Ken was an authority on all things beach.
Ken grinned. "I'll show you."
Ken stared out into the horizon line dramatically. There was a long moment of pause.
Allan muttered in confusion, "Is he going to show us…?"
“He's already doing it.” Lifeguard Ken nods, completely impressed by Ken's amazing beaching.
Allan looked down at himself standing in the sand, then back up at them.
“…Wow,” he said, with subtle enthusiasm. “Nice!”
Allan tilted his head slightly, studying Ken with quiet curiosity.
“Hey, Ken – not to interrupt your amazing beaching. But…” Allan began to ask.
“What is it, Allan?” Ken kept smiling towards the horizon.
“I know the beach is your thing and all, but is a sweater really the best choice for the beach?”
Ken did not respond immediately as he was locked into his beaching.
He glanced down absentmindedly and then did a double-take. The music in Ken’s mind came grinding to a halt. He stared down at his own chest, expecting to see his favorite pink–and–mint beach shirt, crisp and tot.
Instead –
A faded baby-pink knit sweater draped over him. The fabric looked soft but worn, slightly stretched at the cuffs. Tiny embroidered edges circled the neckline. The sleeves hung just a little too long, bunching awkwardly at his wrists. It was a kind of sweater a mom might wear. A sweater made by that mother’s grandmother.
Definitely not beach.
Lifeguard Ken chuckled, “Ok, I didn’t wanna say anything AH-HA-HA. It’s definitely a new look for you.”
“...I…” Ken swallowed. “I don’t remember putting this on.”
Allan stepped closer with gentle concern. “It’s nice though. Cozy.”
Ken rubbed the fabric between his fingers, confused by its texture. It felt different from everything else in Barbieland – it felt real.
His panic was noticeable enough that some of the beachgoers began glancing over at him. Ken felt their stares like daggers. Ken, who usually loves being in the spotlight, felt something different from their stares. A strange warmth crawled up his limbs. Not a pleasant warmth. Burning.
His smile faltered, and he tried to explain the sweater away, “I don’t…” he muttered, “I don’t even own a sweater like this… I…who even wears sweaters…to the…the beach…I KNOW BEACH! THIS IS NOT BEACH!!”
Ken stared at the mysterious sweater he swore he had never seen nor recalled putting on. An unfamiliar sensation began to rise – his skin felt warm and cold simultaneously. A single bead of sweat slipped past his brow. He wiped it away quickly, confused.
What is this? What’s going on? My hands feel numb.
His vision started to blur at the edges. Allan’s voice sounded farther and farther away with every “Are you ok?” He spoke. Suddenly, it felt as if he were underwater, trying to breathe in air.
Ken frantically looked around, suddenly unable to steady himself. His breathing was uneven, his heart beat raced a mile a minute.
“Ken?!” Allan’s voice reached him, but it felt distorted – echoing from all directions at once, too close and too far.
Allan stepped forward and gently placed a hand on Ken’s shoulder.
Ken snapped.
He slapped Allan’s hand away and shouted: “DON’T TOUCH ME!”
The beachgoers nearby paused. Even the volleyball stopped betwix the two Barbies.
Ken stood frozen – humiliation crashing in behind the confusion. He turned and ran away, fleeing towards the Barbie Dream Car he had driven in on, slamming the door shut like it could seal the world out.
What in the world is happening to me?
Flashes of unfamiliar people raced through Ken’s mind – people of different ages, dressed in ordinary clothes. A quiet town he did not recognize flickered through his thoughts, fragments of a life that felt both distant and strangely close.
Ken began taking deep breaths, trying to steady himself. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Searching for calm. In a shaky voice, he began to sing softly –
I’m just Ken
Anywhere else I’d be a ten…
Doesn’t seem to matter what I do
I’m always number two
No one knows how hard I tried
Oh, I
I have this feeling I can't explain…
Driving me insane…
The images started to slow down along with his breathing. His pulse steadied, just slightly. And for a brief moment, something shifted. It felt like he was no longer himself. Like he was seeing through someone else’s eyes. A man sitting in a small bedroom, holding a Ken doll.
The passenger side door suddenly opened, snapping Ken out of his trance-like state. Allan climbed into the car, shut the door, and sat beside him. For a moment, they just sat there quietly, in heavy silence.
Ken tried to speak at the same time Allan did, and they interrupted each other.
“Hey, I’m sorry if I–”
Ken continued over Allan, “No… no Allan, I’m sorry. I don't know what came over me.”
They both stopped. The silence returned, even more awkward than before. Allan glanced down at his hands, then back up.
“I didn’t mean–”
Ken shook his head quickly, “No, it's not you. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that – I don't…”
Another pause fell between them.
Allan shifted in the passenger seat. “What happened back there?”
Ken exhaled sharply. “I wish I knew.” He gripped the steering wheel tightly, unable to look towards Allan. “It was a normal day. Everything was perfect up until you pointed out this darn sweater. I don’t own this sweater – this sweater?! I would never wear something like this, and then when you put your hand on me, it felt like–”
He stopped.
“Like what?” Allan asked quietly.
Ken frowned, trying to put the sensation into words.
“It felt cold,” he said slowly. “Like when you hold a large glass of a perfect, frothy chocolate milkshake, and then you touch something warm too fast, and your fingers sting a little.”
“Like burning?” Allan asked
“Like a cold burn.” Ken lowered his head. Confused. Uncomfortable with these new feelings and sensations he’s never felt before.
Allan studied him, “Has this ever happened to you before?”
“Of course not!” Ken said immediately. “My life is finally perfect, and now it’s…it’s – I can’t even Kensplain it right now.”
Allan blinked. “Ok…um…try regular-splaining it.”
Ken exhaled, frustrated but not noticing the light tone of sarcasm in Allan’s statement. “It felt like I was here but not here.”
Allan pondered the statement for a moment. “Disconnected?” Allan offered.
“Yes!” Ken responded, “I’m totally dis-Ken-ecting.”
“That's not what I sa–”
“From my truest Ken self.”
Allan paused for a moment, allowing Ken his moment of clarity before interjecting. “It sounds a bit like what happened to Barbie.”
Something about that statement landed.
The energy in the car shifted slightly. Ken slowed. Thought about it. About everything Barbie has gone through. About why she left and how she changed. His eyes slowly widened as though the answer had been in front of him all along.
“...You’re right,” Ken admitted, slowly turning towards Allan, building dramatic tension.
“Maybe–”
“Yes,” Allan said, gently encouraging him
“Maybe…!”
“Ye-e-es!”
Ken snapped upright, “Allan, that’s it!”
They both spoke at once:
“You should find your person like Barbie did and figure out what’s causing–”
“I should call Barbie and ask her to move back in with me and finally be toge–”
Allan stared at him.
“Wait, what were you going to say?” Ken asked, slightly embarrassed.
Allan let out an exasperated sigh. He tried again. Slowly. “Maybe someone… you're someone needs your help.”
Ken's expression changed slowly, softening.
“...My person?” he repeated. “You think someone out there needs… me?”
A nurse steps out into a waiting room holding a clipboard. She scans the room once and calls out softly.
“Lars Lindstrom”
A few heads shifted, looking politely around.
A quiet man in the waiting room looked up – slightly hunched in his seat, hands loosely clasped, his posture meek in a way that suggested he was always trying not to take up too much space. His expression was soft but distant, as if his mind were elsewhere, out of reach, and only now finding its way back.
He took a second to register his name being called.
“Lars Lindstrom,” the nurse called again.
He slowly stood and walked over, keeping ample space between himself and the nurse. In a low, shaky tone, he answered:
“That’s me.”