Another portal appeared out of nowhere. Baba Chops stomped her hooves and groaned, "Another one?! Seriously? We just barely unplugged Mint’s Hints, and now the ballroom is spitting out more trash! My wool is already frizzing from the static!"
Doug approached the portal and stuck his head in to see. He pulled himself back into the ballroom. "It... actually looks nice? Like an island. A resort or something."
Mollie Macaw asked hopefully, "An island?! Is it the island? The one where my crew and I sent Skurv the Coyote packing to Davy Jones’ locker?"
Doug shook his head, "Doesn't look like pirate territory, Mollie. It’s too... clean. Or at least it’s trying to be."
Simon Smoke yawned and stretched his arms. "Clean? Tropical? Say no more. That sounds like the R&R we’ve earned after dealing with those creepy Reaper Nurses. I’m hitting the beach."
Doug stood in front of Simon. "Hold it, Simon! Don't be a dim bulb! Every time we think we’re getting a vacation, something tries to harvest our souls. We don’t know what’s waiting on the other side of that glitch."
Poe nudged past them to take a look. "Move aside, let a professional investigator handle this." Poe stuck his head in. Icky Licky looked ready to kick him into the portal when Maggie Macho stopped him.
"Don't even think about it!" she snapped.
Poe squinted his eyes and saw a giant goose dressed like a chef in the kitchen. He was racing around the kitchen with stoves catching fire. Poe pulled himself back in and said, "I see a goose. A big one. He’s wearing a chef’s hat... and he’s cooking something. Smells like... well, it smells like something is definitely burning."
Bierce glided over, her heels clicking sharply against the polished ballroom floor as she squinted at the new, flickering tear in reality. "Oh! Another one. How nice to have some variety, though I must say, Malak’s taste in architecture is getting lazier by the minute. A resort? It looks like a cheap postcard from a world that forgot how to render its own shadows." She fanned herself and looked at Poe. "And who is that charming fellow in the hat? A goose playing chef? How... quaint. He reminds me of a guest I once had—very enthusiastic about his craft, right up until the moment he realized he was the main course. If you're going in there, Doug, do try not to let him add you to the menu. I’d hate to see you wasted as a garnish before you’ve brought me my ring pieces."
"You know this place, Bierce?" Doug asked.
"Not personally, love. But I know a personal hell when I see one. That ‘resort’ isn't for relaxation; it’s a graveyard with a better view. That goose isn't just cooking; he's waiting. Clock's ticking... are you going to stand there catching flies, or are you going to see what’s truly on the stove?" Bierce asked.
"I don't think there is any ring pieces in there." Icky Licky said.
"There weren't any in Mint's Hints either, but we had to shut down the portal. All we need to do is close this portal and get back here." Mollie Macaw replied.
Doug said, "Mollie’s right. If we leave it open, whatever’s cooking in that kitchen might decide to wander into the ballroom."
Icky Licky stuck his head in to look. He pulled it out, roaring with laughter. "It's so funny in there! The goose is running around with the stove blazing and his chef's hat is on fire! Hasn't he heard of stop, drop, and roll? Or has he have any sense to take off his hat and stamp on it?"
"Oh, sure, hilarious! A giant waterfowl turning into a Thanksgiving dinner early. That’s exactly what I want to see before I lose my mind in another glitch-trap." Baba Chops complained.
"You don't understand! He’s squawking like a squeaky toy!" Icky guffawed.
Bierce tapped her foot impatiently, the sound echoing like a ticking clock. "Well, aren't you shutting down the portal or not, Doug? I haven't got all eternity—well, actually I do, but my patience is a much shorter commodity."
Doug adjusted his gear, looking determined. "Yes, ma'am. We’re on it. Come on, Icky, stop rolling on the floor—you are coming with us! We need those reflexes."
Icky Licky wiped a tear of laughter from his eye, still giggling. "Oh, fine! But if I get goose feathers in my teeth, I’m sending you the dental bill."
Salem Skunk leaned against a velvet-covered pillar, lazily waving a paw with a sly wink. "Have fun, boys! Try not to get 'overcooked.' I’ll stay here and keep the upholstery smelling... interesting."
Mollie Macaw drew her cutlass, pointing it toward the shimmering, pixelated tropical horizon of Nulla Terra. "Pip, Chip, and Tikki, you are coming with me. Our first pirate adventure! And this time, we're raiding a kitchen!"
The three birds saluted in perfect unison, their colorful feathers ruffling. "Aye, aye, Captain Mollie!"
With a collective breath, the group leaped through the portal. The elegant gold and velvet of the ballroom vanished, replaced instantly by the smell of burnt grease, the sound of a frantic MIDI soundtrack, and the sight of Giovanni Goose shrieking as his tall white hat flared up like a torch.
"The stoves! The STOVES!" Giovanni honked, waving a spatula wildly. "The critics are coming! Turn them off before the grease reaches the curtains!"
Doug lunged forward, his boots clattering on the checkered linoleum that flickered like a dying monitor. "Move it, Goose!" he yelled, shoving past the frantic chef to slam the dials on the industrial ovens. With a heavy clack-clack-clack, the roaring blue flames died down, but the air was still thick with low-poly black smoke.
"My hat! My reputation! My cranium!" Giovanni squawked, running in a tight circle while his chef’s hat acted like a chimney.
"Icky, grab his wings! He's tracing a circle in the floor!" Doug commanded, eyes darting around the glitchy kitchen. He spotted a rusted sink in the corner, but instead of a faucet, there was just a hovering, rotating Water Bucket icon—a classic Shipwrecked 64 prop.
Mollie Macaw and her crew weren't waiting around. "Pip, Tikki! Secure the perimeter! Check the pantry for any of those... 'Starling' things Poe mentioned!"
Icky Licky, still snickering, leaped onto Giovanni’s back. "Hold still, Mr. G! I’m going to stamp this out, or at least see if you taste like smoked poultry!"
Doug grabbed the bucket, but as he dipped it into the sink, the music suddenly pitched down, becoming distorted and slow. The bright tropical colors of the kitchen drained into a muddy, sepia gray.
"Uh, Doug?" Pip chirped nervously from the doorway. "The stove is off... so why is there a shadow shaped like a person standing in the walk-in freezer?"
"Fire first!" Doug barked, ignoring the creeping chill from the freezer. He swung the heavy bucket in a wide arc, sending a pixelated splash of water directly onto Giovanni’s head.
Ssssssssss!
A thick cloud of white steam erupted, completely engulfing the frantic goose. When it cleared, Giovanni was standing still for the first time, his hat now a soggy, blackened lump drooping over his eyes. He let out a long, pathetic honk of relief.
"My hat... my beautiful, towering achievement..." Giovanni whimpered, patting the wet fabric. "But the kitchen... it's not a furnace anymore. Thank you, stranger. You have the soul of a sous-chef!"
Icky Licky hopped off the goose's back, shaking water off his fur. "See? Much better. Now you're just a wet bird instead of a fried one."
But the relief didn't last. The distorted, slow-motion music didn't snap back to its upbeat tempo. Instead, it cut out entirely, leaving the kitchen in a heavy, suffocating silence.
Mollie Macaw gripped her cutlass tighter, her eyes fixed on the walk-in freezer. The shadow Poe had spotted wasn't just standing there anymore—it was starting to unfold, its long, thin limbs twitching with a sickening, mechanical sound.
"Doug," Pip whispered, his feathers standing on end. "The fire is out... so why is that thing still getting closer?"
Doug didn't wait for the shadow to finish its jittery unfolding. He raised his hand, the Shock Blast humming with a crackle of blue energy that looked blindingly bright against the sepia-toned kitchen.
BOOM!
The blast struck the freezer door, sending a surge of electricity rippling through the metal and into the dark figure. The shadow let out a sound that wasn't a scream—it was the screech of a corrupted audio file, a high-pitched digital static that made Pip and Tikki cover their ears.
The figure—a Starling, thin and twitchy with unnaturally long limbs—convulsed as the electricity forced its "glitchy" form to solidify. For a second, it flickered between a man in a security uniform and a rotting, eyeless version of Giovanni himself.
"Gah! My eyes! My pixels!" Giovanni shrieked, diving under a prep table.
The Starling stumbled back into the frozen hanging meats, the Shock Blast having momentarily stunned its AI routine. But the freezer door didn't stay shut; the blast had blown the hinges, and the cold, dark mist from Layer 2 began to spill out onto the kitchen floor.
Mollie cheered, "Nice shot, Doug! But it's getting back up! Icky, get the goose out of the line of fire!"
"That thing looks like it's made of bad memories and static! Is it... is it supposed to have that many joints in its arms?" Icky Licky said, no longer laughing.
The Starling's head snapped toward Doug, its neck tilting at a 90-degree angle. It let out a low, rhythmic clicking sound—the sound of a Geiger counter hitting a hot zone.
"Another one, Doug! Keep it cooking!" Icky Licky cheered, though he was backing away toward the exit.
Doug didn't hesitate. He leveled his hand again, the blue hum of the Shock Blast reaching a high-pitched whine before he unleashed a second, even more powerful surge.
CRACK-BOOM!
The blast hit the Starling square in its glitching chest, throwing it backward into the freezer’s hanging meat hooks with a sickening squelch of distorted audio. The creature's form flickered violently—turning from a shadow to a jagged, static-filled mess—before it slumped over, its limbs twitching in a broken animation loop.
"That'll hold it! Move, move, move!" Doug shouted.
He reached under the prep table and grabbed Giovanni Goose by his soggy, soot-stained collar, hauling the frantic bird to his feet.
"My recipes! My soufflés!" Giovanni honked, his wings flapping in a panic. "The critics are going to give me a zero-star review for this!"
"Forget the review, Chef! You're the one on the menu if we stay!" Mollie Macaw barked, pointing her cutlass toward the kitchen’s swinging double doors. "Pip, Tikki, clear a path! To the resort!"
The group burst out of the kitchen and into the blinding, oversaturated sunlight of Broadside Beach. The transition was jarring—from the dark, rotting sepia of the freezer to the neon-blue ocean and yellow sands of the island.
Giovanni thanked them, "You saved my life! Thank you for getting me out of there."
"Where are we?" Doug asked.
"You’re on Broadside Beach, of course!" Giovanni Goose huffed, straightening his charred chef’s hat and trying to regain some dignity. "The premier vacation destination of Nulla Terra! Or... it was, before the 'technical difficulties' started. Thank you for the rescue, truly. I was nearly overdone!" [3, 4]
Doug squinted against the neon-blue glare of the ocean, his hand still hovering near his Shock Blast. "Broadside Beach? It looks more like a corrupted hard drive."
The goose chef asked, "How did you defeat the shadow, Doug?"
"He's a witch." Icky Licky grinned. "He used demonic power to stop the shadow."
Giovanni’s eyes bugged out, his beak hanging open in a comical, low-poly gape. He scrambled back a few paces, nearly tripping over a hovering beach chair. "A... a witch?! Demonic power?! Oh, heavens, I’ve been rescued by the occult! Is that why the stove didn't explode? Did you curse the grease?!" [3, 4]
Doug shot Icky Licky a murderous glare. "I’m not a witch, Giovanni. It’s just technology. He’s just... having a laugh at your expense."
"A likely story!" Giovanni squawked, clutching his wet hat to his chest. "First, the kitchen starts growing shadows, then a man with a glowing hand arrives to 'shock' the darkness away? It's all very... un-scientific! But," he paused, glancing nervously at the flickering horizon, "demonic or not, that power is the only thing that's worked so far."
Mollie Macaw stepped forward, her cutlass glinting in the neon sun. "Whatever it is, it’s keeping us in one piece. Now, Chef, if this island is as 'premier' as you say, where’s the exit? We have a portal to shut down."
Doug asked, "Are you the only one here on this island?"
Oh, heavens, no! I’m the head chef, not the sole inhabitant!" Giovanni exclaimed, his wings flapping nervously. "This is Broadside Beach! There’s usually a whole staff! My dear friends Bucky Beaver, Otis Owl, and Olive Otter should be around here somewhere... though I haven't seen them since the sky turned that dreadful shade of purple."
Otis Owl? Olive Otter?" Doug repeated, trying to keep the names straight while the sky flickered like a dying neon sign. "Sounds like quite the welcoming committee. If they're still around, they’re probably as spooked as you were back in that kitchen."
Giovanni nodded frantically, his wet chef’s hat drooping over one eye. "Oh, more than spooked! Otis usually keeps a sharp eye from the watchtower, and Olive... well, she’s usually by the tide pools, but with the water turning that strange static-blue, I fear she’s hunkered down in the Resort Boutique."
Mollie Macaw stepped forward, her crew—Pip, Chip, and Tikki—forming a protective circle around the group. "A watchtower and a boutique? This island is bigger than it looks. If we're going to shut this portal down, we need to find them before those 'shadow guests' do."
Icky Licky let out a low cackle. "Maybe the owl can see in the dark better than we can. Or maybe he’s just another 'Starling' waiting to peck our eyes out!"
"Don't say that!" Giovanni honked, shivering. "Otis is a scholar! A gentleman! Though... he has been staring at the sun a bit too long lately without blinking."
Doug said, "Let's go find this otter. Maybe we need to rescue all of you before we shut down the portal."
"To the Boutique it is!" Giovanni squawked, waddling quickly to keep up with the group. "Olive is a dear, but she’s quite sensitive to... well, to the world falling apart. She’s likely barricaded herself behind the high-end sun hats and novelty keychains."
The group trekked across the glitching sand, their boots making a strange, digital crunch with every step. As they approached the Resort Boutique, the neon signs flickered violently, displaying "SALE" one second and "VOID" the next.
Mollie Macaw kicked the glass doors open, her cutlass ready. Inside, the shop was a disaster of colorful beachwear and overturned displays. From behind a massive pile of Bucky Beaver plushies, a pair of nervous, wide eyes peeked out.
Otis Owl? Olive Otter?" Doug repeated, trying to keep the names straight while the sky flickered like a dying neon sign. "Sounds like quite the welcoming committee. If they're still around, they’re probably as spooked as you were back in that kitchen."
Giovanni nodded frantically, his wet chef’s hat drooping over one eye. "Oh, more than spooked! Otis usually keeps a sharp eye from the watchtower, and Olive... well, she’s usually by the tide pools, but with the water turning that strange static-blue, I fear she’s hunkered down in the Resort Boutique."
Mollie Macaw stepped forward, her crew—Pip, Chip, and Tikki—forming a protective circle around the group. "A watchtower and a boutique? This island is bigger than it looks. If we're going to shut this portal down, we need to find them before those 'shadow guests' do."
Icky Licky let out a low cackle. "Maybe the owl can see in the dark better than we can. Or maybe he’s just another 'Starling' waiting to peck our eyes out!"
"Don't say that!" Giovanni honked, shivering. "Otis is a scholar! A gentleman! Though... he has been staring at the sun a bit too long lately without blinking."
"To the Boutique it is!" Giovanni squawked, waddling quickly to keep up with the group. "Olive is a dear, but she’s quite sensitive to... well, to the world falling apart. She’s likely barricaded herself behind the high-end sun hats and novelty keychains."
The group trekked across the glitching sand, their boots making a strange, digital crunch with every step. As they approached the Resort Boutique, the neon signs flickered violently, displaying "SALE" one second and "VOID" the next.
Mollie Macaw kicked the glass doors open, her cutlass ready. Inside, the shop was a disaster of colorful beachwear and overturned displays. From behind a massive pile of Bucky Beaver plushies, a pair of nervous, wide eyes peeked out.
"G-Giovanni?" a soft voice squeaked. Olive Otter slowly stood up, clutching a decorative seashell like a weapon. "Is that you? And... who are the pirates you brought with you?"
"Olive, dear! These are... rescuers!" Giovanni announced, puffing out his chest and trying to look more heroic than a wet bird in a charred hat. "This is Mollie Macaw and her stalwart crew! And that man with the glowing hand? That's Doug. He's already 'shocked' one of those dreadful shadows into yesterday!"
Olive Otter slowly lowered her seashell, her whiskers twitching as she looked from Mollie’s sharp cutlass to Doug’s humming Shock Blast. "Rescuers? Oh, thank goodness. The sky... the sky went purple and the guests... they started walking through the walls! They don't want to buy anything, Giovanni. They just want to stare."
Mollie Macaw sheathed her blade with a confident click. "Staring is for landlubbers, little otter. My crew and I are here to unplug this island and get everyone back to the ballroom. Pip, Chip, Tikki! Secure the gift shop! See if there’s any 'swag' that can help us navigate this glitch-fest."
Icky Licky leaned over a display of Bucky Beaver bobbleheads, which were all vibrating at a frequency that made his teeth ache. "So, Olive... where’s that owl friend of yours? Giovanni says he’s been staring at the sun until his circuits fried."
"Otis is still in the Watchtower," Olive squeaked, pointing a trembling paw toward the flickering silhouette of the tower overlooking the beach. "But he stopped answering the radio an hour ago. The last thing he said was that he saw something 'beautiful' in the static... and that the 'Starling' was singing to him."
Doug asked, "What's a starling? Is it a bird creature chasing after us?"
"A bird?" Giovanni let out a dry, rattling honk that sounded more like a cough. "I wish it were just a bird, Doug. A bird you can shoo away with a broom!"
Olive Otter hugged her seashell tighter, her whiskers trembling. "It’s... it’s not a creature, not really. It’s like a person who got folded the wrong way. They look like us—like the staff."
"I beg your pardon?" Doug asked. I saw a weird creature in the freezer in the kitchen. It didn't look like you."
"Oh, that... that was a Starling in its rawest form!" Olive squeaked, her voice trembling so hard the seashell rattled. "They start as us—or the people who were... 'put into' us—but then the code rots. The biomass stretches. They become those twitchy, long-limbed nightmares you saw in the freezer."
Giovanni nodded solemnly, his soggy hat drooping. "The one you saw was likely a 'Processed' version. When the island's stability fails, the mascot 'shell' cracks open, and the Starling inside—the Dweller—unfolds. It doesn't look like a cute goose or a bubbly otter anymore. It looks like... well, like a surgical accident made of static and bone."
Doug wiped a bit of pixelated soot off his sleeve. "So you're saying that thing in the freezer... that was you, Giovanni? Or what's left of the person who plays you?"
Giovanni looked away, his digital eyes flickering. "In a manner of speaking. It’s the 'Resident' of the suit. That’s why they’re so desperate to catch us. They want to fold us back into the darkness of Layer 2."
Mollie Macaw spat on the glitching floor. "I’ve fought many a sea monster, but a ghost-beast living inside a puppet? That’s a new one. If Otis is in that watchtower and a Starling is 'singing' to him, it means the shell is cracking. He's being 'refined' into one of those... things."
Icky Licky let out a low, predatory hiss. "I wonder if a Starling tastes as bad as it looks. Probably like copper and old TV sets."
Doug raised his hand, the Shock Blast humming with a fierce blue light. "We aren't letting that happen to the owl. If he's still in there, we're pulling him out before he 'unfolds'."
The climb up the Watchtower was like walking through a broken record. With every step, the wooden stairs flickered into a grid of green code, and the sound of wind was replaced by the low, distorted hum of a malfunctioning server.
"Otis! We're coming up! Don't look at the static!" Giovanni holleyed, his voice cracking.
Doug burst through the trapdoor at the top, his Shock Blast illuminated the cramped circular room. The walls were covered in monitors, all displaying the same grainy, black-and-white footage of the island's basement layers.
In the center of the room sat Otis Owl. He was slumped in a swivel chair, his large, feathered head tilted all the way back at an impossible angle. His eyes weren't amber anymore—they were glowing with a frantic, white television static.
"It's... so... high-definition..." Otis whispered, his voice sounding like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.
Mollie Macaw gasped, pointing her cutlass. "Doug, look behind him!"
Emerging from the shadows of the ceiling was a Starling. It was a spindly, skeletal thing, its limbs elongated like pulled taffy, draped in a tattered security uniform. It was hovering directly over Otis, its "fingers"—long, jagged needles of bone and metal—slowly stitching themselves into the owl’s feathered back. It was "refining" him.
The creature’s head snapped toward the intruders, its jaw unhinging to reveal a row of rusted, metallic teeth. It let out a piercing, digital shriek that rattled the glass windows of the tower.
"He's unfolding!" Olive Otter wailed, ducking behind Doug. "The Dweller is taking him!"
Doug leveled his hand, the blue energy of the Shock Blast surging to its limit. "Not on my watch. Get away from him, you glitchy freak!"
"Eat this!" Doug roared, the Shock Blast erupting from his palm in a blinding surge of azure electricity.
The bolt streaked across the cramped watchtower, slamming into the Starling’s chest just as its needle-like fingers were digging into Otis Owl’s feathered back. The impact was violent—the creature’s static-filled body convulsed, its long, spindly limbs flailing like live wires. A shower of sparks and corrupted pixels sprayed against the monitors, and the digital shriek it let out hit a frequency so high the glass windows of the tower actually cracked.
The Starling was blasted backward, its grip on Otis snapping with a sickening pop of distorted audio. It hit the back wall and began to "phase" in and out of reality, flickering between a skeletal shadow and a man in a tattered guard uniform.
"Otis! Snap out of it!" Mollie Macaw yelled, grabbing the owl’s swivel chair and spinning him away from the glitching monster.
Otis slumped forward, the white static in his eyes fading back to a dull, confused amber. He blinked slowly, his head spinning 180 degrees to look at the group. "The... the resolution... it was so high... I could see the scan lines of the universe..."
"Focus, feathers!" Icky Licky barked, poking the owl with a clawed finger. "You almost became a permanent resident of the basement!"
The Starling on the floor wasn't done, though. It began to crawl up the wall like a spider, its limbs clicking and snapping back into place. Its "face"—a smooth, featureless mask of grey static—tilted toward Doug. It was learning his patterns.
"It’s regenerating!" Olive Otter wailed, pointing her seashell at the creeping horror. "The island’s code is feeding it!"
Doug braced himself, his hand humming as it recharged. "Then we'll just have to overcharge the circuit. Mollie, get Otis and Olive down those stairs! Icky, stay with me—we're going to give this 'guest' a final checkout."
"One last charge!" Doug yelled, planting his feet as the Shock Blast surged with a blinding, flickering intensity that rivaled the island's glitching sun.
He didn't just fire a single bolt this time. He held his hand open, unleashing a continuous stream of raw, blue energy that latched onto the Starling like a tether. The creature shrieked—a sound like a thousand crashing computers—as the electricity began to "overwrite" its corrupted code. Its long, spindly limbs began to dissolve into white static, then into nothingness, as Doug pushed the output to the red zone.
Mollie Macaw grabbed Otis Owl by the wing, hauling him toward the stairs. "Come on, feathers! Move it or lose it! Tikki, help Olive down!"
Icky Licky watched with a wide, toothy grin as the Starling’s form finally buckled under the pressure. With a final, explosive pop of blue light and black smoke, the creature vanished, leaving only a burnt scorch mark on the watchtower wall.
Doug slumped slightly, his hand smoking. "He’s gone... for now."
Otis Owl shook his head, his amber eyes finally clearing. "The... the 'Director'... he won't be happy about that. He likes his 'guests' to stay in their rooms."
"Who's the Director, Otis?" Doug asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"The one who keeps the reels spinning," Otis whispered, looking toward the Main Stage. "The one who turned Bucky into a puppet. If you want to shut that portal, you’re going to have to face the man behind the curtain—and he has much bigger 'Starlings' than that one."
"Right," Doug said, shaking the static from his head. "We’ve got the bird, the otter, and the owl. Now we just need the beaver and the walrus."
Otis Owl adjusted his spectacles, which were still cracked from the Shock Blast. "If you're looking for Bucky and Walter, you won't find them basking in the sun. Bucky is at the Main Stage, trying to keep the 'show' running while the world dissolves around him. And Walter... well, Walter was taken to the Maintenance Tunnels beneath the stage. They said he had a 'leak' in his memory that needed plugging."
Olive Otter let out a small whimper. "The tunnels are where the Dwellers live, Doug. It’s dark down there, and the walls... they breathe."
Mollie Macaw slammed her cutlass into its sheath. "Then we split our forces! Pip, Chip, Tikki—you stay with Olive and Otis at the Boutique. Keep 'em safe and keep a weather eye on the horizon. Doug, Icky, and I are going to the Stage."
Giovanni Goose waddled forward, waving his wet spatula. "I'm coming too! Someone has to tell Bucky that the catering department has officially resigned!"
The group hurried back down the tower and across the flickering beach toward the massive, neon-lit Main Stage building. As they approached, the music changed to a booming, distorted organ version of the Broadside theme song.
Standing at the entrance was a tall, blocky figure with tusks and a sailor cap—Walter Walrus. But he wasn't moving. He was standing perfectly still, his eyes replaced by two spinning "Loading" icons.
"Walter!" Giovanni cried out.
Suddenly, a loud, cheerful voice boomed over the resort's intercom system, though it was layered with a sickening digital echo:
"Welcome to the Grand Finale, folks! Please take your seats! Bucky Beaver is about to perform his greatest trick yet: making all of you... DISAPPEAR!"
"One more jumpstart!" Doug shouted, leveling his hand at the frozen walrus. He didn't go for a full-power blast this time—he dialed the Shock Blast down to a precise, rhythmic pulse, aiming right for the spinning "Loading" icons in Walter’s eyes.
CRACKLE-POP!
The blue electricity danced across Walter’s tusks and sailor cap. The "Loading" icons flickered violently, turning red, then green, before finally shattering into a cloud of white pixels.
Walter Walrus let out a massive, deep-sea groan. "Ugh... my head feels like it was sat on by a blue whale. Who turned out the sun?"
"Walter! You're back!" Giovanni cheered, waddling up to pat the walrus’s flipper. "You were standing there like a statue! We thought you’d been 'refined'!"
"Refined? I remember... a man in a suit," Walter rumbled, his deep voice shaking. "He said he was the Director. He told me my memory was full and started 'deleting' my vacation! He’s got Bucky up there on the stage, Doug. But it’s not Bucky anymore. He’s... he’s plugged into the island’s main frame!"
Mollie Macaw looked at the massive stage doors, which were now glowing with a sickly purple light. "If Bucky is the battery for this whole glitchy island, then pulling the plug is going to be messy."
"I don't care how messy it is," Doug said, his hand still sparking from the blast. "We're shutting this portal down. Walter, can you walk? We need everyone if we're going to face the 'Director' in his own theater."
"I can do more than walk," Walter growled, slamming his heavy flippers together. "I’m going to show that Director what happens when you try to 'delete' a Walrus!"
The group—Doug, Mollie, Icky Licky, Giovanni, and Walter—charged through the double doors of the Main Stage. Inside, the theater was a nightmare. The seats were filled with Starlings, all sitting perfectly still and watching the stage.
And there, center stage, was Bucky Beaver. He was suspended by thick, glowing cables that looked like umbilical cords, his wooden tail twitching in time with the distorted music.
"Welcome, welcome!" Bucky chirped, though his jaw moved independently of his words. "The critics are here! Please, Doug... take a seat. The show is about to... CRASH!"
As the group stepped toward the stage, the upbeat MIDI music screeched like a needle dragging across a record. The neon lights of the theater strobed violently—shifting from vibrant gold to a sickening, fleshy red.
Doug squinted, his Shock Blast flickering in his hand. "Something’s wrong. The code... it’s tearing."
Suddenly, the world glitched. For a fraction of a second, the colorful "Main Stage" vanished. In its place, the group saw a cold, concrete basement floor littered with rusted medical tools and overflowing trash bags.
Giovanni Goose let out a horrified honk as the vision flashed:
In one corner, a man in a wet chef’s uniform (Gary) lay slumped over a deep fryer, his skin pale and blue.
Near a pile of crates, a woman (Olivia) was curled in a puddle of dark water, her otter mask cracked open to reveal a frozen, terrified face.
And center stage, where Bucky had been hanging, was a man (Brandon) slumped in a chair, a needle still in his arm, surrounded by the hollowed-out husks of mascot suits.
"What... what was that?!" Olive Otter shrieked, clutching her seashell so hard it cracked. "I saw... I saw myself! But I wasn't an otter! I was... I was broken!"
"Those weren't cartoons," Mollie Macaw whispered, her cutlass trembling. "Those were the 'Residents' of the suits. Doug, this isn't a resort. It’s a tomb."
The scene snapped back to the "Stage," but it was different now. The Director’s voice boomed, no longer cheerful, but cold and corporate.
"The truth is such a messy thing, isn't it, Doug? It ruins the 'immersion.' You weren't supposed to see the basement layers. Now, I’m afraid I can’t let any of you leave. You’ve seen the 'raw footage,' and there are no survivors in the final cut!"
From the ceiling, the Bucky-Starling (the Brandon Lester entity) dropped down, its limbs unfolding with a sound like snapping dry wood. Its eyes were hollow, leaking black static.
Bucky-Starling: "Want... to... play... hide... and... SEEK?"
Doug used the shock blast on the Bucky starling.
The Shock Blast tore through the theater's thick, violet haze, striking the Bucky-Starling right in its flickering chest.
CRACK-BOOM!
The creature didn’t just fall; it stuttered. Its fur turned into a mess of jagged polygons, and the "Bucky" mask flickered like a dying lightbulb. For a few heart-pounding seconds, the cartoon beaver disappeared entirely. In its place stood the tall, gaunt figure of a man in a tattered, coffee-stained shirt.
Doug squinted through the static. Nailed to the man’s chest was a small, plastic rectangle that caught the blue light of his sparking hand.
"Brandon Lester."
"He's... he's a person," Mollie Macaw whispered, her cutlass lowering an inch. "Doug, that's not a mascot. That’s a corpse being puppeted by the code!"
The Brandon-Starling let out a sound that was half-sob, half-digital screech. His long, spindly fingers clutched at the name tag as if trying to rip it off. "I... didn't... want... to... STAY!" he wailed, his voice overlapping with Bucky's cheerful, high-pitched giggles.
"The Director did this to you, didn't he?" Doug shouted over the roaring audio. "He turned you into a battery for this nightmare!"
Suddenly, the monitors surrounding the stage flared to life. Every screen showed the same thing: a silhouette of a man in a high-backed office chair, spinning a gold pen between his fingers. The Director clapped his hands, "Bravo, Doug! You’ve found the 'Actor' behind the curtain. But Brandon is a professional. He knows the show must go on, even if the cast is... rotting. Brandon, dear boy, show our guests the 'Encore'!"
With a sickening crunch of bone and static, the Brandon figure snapped back into the Bucky shape, but now he was twice as large, his wooden tail growing jagged spikes and his eyes glowing a deep, glitchy red.
"Doug!" Walter Walrus roared, charging forward to intercept the creature. "We'll hold the mascot! You find a way to shock that Director right out of his screens!"
"Do what you did to Alastor Crum!" Poe urged.
"I'm not killing the director!" Doug yelled. "I’m just taking his finger off the 'Delete' button!"
Poe flapped his wings frantically, hovering near Doug’s shoulder. "Then short-circuit the connection! If he's the one puppet-mastering Brandon, you have to sever the signal!"
Walter Walrus and Mollie Macaw slammed into the towering Bucky-Starling, their combined weight barely holding the glitching mascot back. The creature’s wooden tail smashed into the stage floor, sending splinters of code flying like shrapnel.
The Director’s laughter echoed from every monitor, cold and metallic. "You think you can just 'unplug' me, Doug? I am the infrastructure! I am the ROI! To shut me down is to delete the very ground you're standing on!"
"Then let's see how you handle a power surge!" Doug yelled. He didn't aim for the Bucky-Starling this time. Instead, he slammed his glowing hand directly into the Main Stage Control Console.
BLUE LIGHT exploded from the terminal. Doug didn't just fire a blast; he poured every ounce of his Shock Blast energy into the island's central nervous system.
The monitors began to pop and sizzle. The silhouette of the man in the chair flickered wildly, his gold pen snapping in half. On the stage, the cables hooked into Brandon Lester began to glow a bright, searing white.
"Brandon!" Doug strained against the feedback, his teeth gritted. "Grab the signal! If you want out of this loop, you have to fight his 'direction'!"
The Bucky-Starling froze. The jagged spikes on its tail retracted. Through the mask, the face of Brandon Lester appeared one last time, his eyes no longer static-filled, but clear and filled with a desperate, human rage. He reached out and grabbed the glowing cables with his bare, spindly hands.
Brandon: "NO... MORE... ENCORES!"
The theater let out a final, deafening digital scream. The purple sky outside the doors turned to a blinding white.
The Director finally steps out from behind the static. He isn't a glitch or a monster like the Starlings; he is a man in a sharp, expensive suit, looking entirely too "high-definition" for this low-poly world. He adjusts his tie, a gold watch glinting on his wrist, and stares at Doug with a look of pure corporate disappointment. "You really are a stubborn bit of data, aren't you, Doug? I've spent millions trying to keep this 'resort' from crashing, and you come in here with a glowing hand and start deleting my best assets. Do you have any idea what a lawsuit like this costs?"
"Who are you? Doug asked.
"Who am I?" The man in the suit chuckled, the sound echoing with a digital reverb that made the theater floor vibrate. He adjusted his gold cufflinks, looking at Doug as if he were a bug under a microscope.
"I am the visionary who turned a failing animation studio into an immortal digital paradise. I am Mark Mullins, CEO of Broadside Animation. But to these poor, 'refined' souls around you? I am the one who gave them a purpose after their expiration dates."
He stepped over the twitching, glitching form of Brandon Lester, his polished shoes not even catching a stray pixel of static.
"You see a tragedy, Doug. I see efficiency. Why let a perfectly good voice actor or a talented chef go to waste in a grave when they can live forever as a brand? I built Nulla Terra to be a sanctuary where the show never ends. And you... you’re just a 'glitch' in my quarterly earnings report."
"You're a monster!" Mollie Macaw scowled.
The Director simply adjusted his glasses, the reflection of the glitching stage dancing in the lenses. "A monster? No, parrot woman. I’m a businessman. Monsters hide under beds; I put them in theme parks and sell plushies of them for twenty-nine ninety-nine. It’s called legacy."
"Yeah, like what Elliot Ludwig tried." Icky Licky said.
Doug glared at Poe. "You wanna repeat what Mr. Crum tried to do to us? He maid foxes into androids! This guy is a necromancer!"
"Necromancer? How quaint," The Director sneered, his gaze flickering toward Icky Licky at the mention of Ludwig. "Elliot was an artist; I am an architect. He built toys; I build eternity. What you call 'necromancy,' I call a sustainable labor force!"
"Hang on, how did you know about Elliot? He is not part of this reality?" Poe asked.
The Director smoothed his lapel, a thin, predatory smile stretching across his face. "Oh, little bird... you think these 'realities' are soundproof? In the world of corporate acquisition, there are no borders. Playtime Co., Indigo Park, Fazbear Entertainment... we all swam in the same murky waters. We shared 'research notes' on soul-retention long before you were even a flicker in a developer’s eye."
He tapped the side of his head with the purple USB drive. "I knew Elliot. A dreamer, but too sentimental. He wanted a daughter; I wanted a franchise. When his 'Playcare' started to crumble, who do you think bought up the surplus biomass? Who do you think refined the process that kept Brandon here from rotting away into nothing?"
Doug's hand flared with a blinding blue light. "You bought his research? You're using the same '1006' nightmare tech to power a resort?!"
"I improved it!" The Director barked, his calm facade finally cracking into a manic grin. "Ludwig made monsters that ate the staff. I made mascots that are the staff! It's the ultimate cost-cutting measure. No benefits, no retirement, just... Eternity."
Icky Licky hissed, his eyes narrowing. "So you're just a scavenger eating the scraps of a dead man's sins."
"But Alastor Crum didn't know about us." Poe said.
"Because, he didn't dapple in magic, he was a robotics engineer." Doug said. "Mark Mullen seems to know about about dark magic."
"Magic? Technology? In this day and age, Doug, they’re the same department!" Mark Mullins laughed, a dry, grating sound that skipped like a corrupted audio file. He paced the edge of the dissolving stage, his silhouette flickering against the void. "Crum was a tinkerer. He played with gears and wires, hoping to catch a soul in a jar. But Broadside? We found the frequency."
He pointed the purple USB drive at Doug like a wand. "It’s not 'magic,' it’s Data Necromancy. I didn't need to know Alastor Crum to know his failures. He built cages; I built a symphony. I don’t just trap the soul, I reformat it! Why deal with the messy 'will to live' when you can just overwrite it with a 'Customer Service' sub-routine?"
Poe perched on Doug's shoulders. "Use Malak's powers on him, sorcerer."
The Director’s eyes widened, a flicker of genuine corporate terror breaking through his smug composure. "Malak? You... you’ve tapped into the Source Code of the Ballroom? That’s not just data, that’s primal rot!"
Doug felt the temperature in the theater drop to a bone-chilling sub-zero. The blue hum of his Shock Blast began to bleed into a jagged, oily black-and-purple static. It wasn't just electricity anymore; it was the same suffocating power that fueled the Nightmares of the Ballroom.
"You want to talk about 'Data Necromancy,' Mullins?" Doug’s voice dropped an octave, vibrating with an eerie, hollow resonance. "You’re playing with batteries. I’m holding the lightning that built the storm."
Poe dug his talons into Doug’s shoulder, his own eyes reflecting the dark energy. "Show him the 'Customer Service' sub-routine of a Demon Lord, Doug! Rewrite his contract!"
Mollie Macaw and her crew scrambled back, their feathers ruffling in fear. Even Icky Licky stopped grinning, his tongue retracting as he sensed the shift in the air. "That's... that's the smell of the Void. Doug, don't let it swallow us too!"
The Director frantically jammed the purple USB drive into the console, his fingers shaking. "System override! Security protocol 99! Brandon! Walter! DELETE DOUG HOUSER!"
The giant, glitching Starling lunged, its spindly limbs reaching for Doug’s throat. But as the dark energy surged from Doug’s hand, the shadows of the theater began to rise up like sentient ink, wrapping around the Starling's arms and dragging it back into the stage.
"Your 'symphony' is out of tune, Mark," Doug growled, raising his hand. The air around his palm distorted, reality itself beginning to fray like old film. "And the 'Director' just lost his union card."
The smug, corporate mask finally shattered. Mark Mullins stared down at the charred, glitching remains of his "assets," his eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and venomous rage. The way he looked at Doug was exactly how Ursula looked at Ariel after her precious eels were turned to sea foam—a transition from calculated villainy to raw, unbridled hatred.
"My... my Starlings," Mullins hissed, his voice cracking like breaking glass. "My high-performing... 'refined' staff... destroyed by a stray glitch like you!"
He clutched the purple USB drive so hard his knuckles turned white, his breath coming in ragged, digital gasps. The polished CEO was gone; in his place was a desperate necromancer watching his empire dissolve into static.
"You think you’ve won, Doug?" Mullins spat, stepping over the twitching tail of the Bucky-suit. "You think you can just walk out of my theater after bankrupting my legacy? This island is my design! If I can't have a sustainable labor force, then I'll make sure there’s no one left to collect the inheritance!"
Mollie Macaw leveled her cutlass at his heart. "The only thing you're inheriting is a one-way trip to the abyss, you suit-wearing shark! Look at him, Doug—he’s about to blow the whole circuit!"
Poe shivered on Doug’s shoulder. "He’s going to 'Delete All,' Doug! He’s going to take the whole resort down with him!"
Doug grabbed a chair and threw it at Mark, smashing his USB stick.The chair caught Mark Mullins right in the chest, the heavy oak frame shattering against his expensive suit. The impact sent him sprawling backward over the console, and the purple USB drive—the heart of his "Data Necromancy"—flew from his grip and hit the stage floor with a sickening crack.
Doug didn't wait. He lunged forward, his heavy boot coming down on the glowing plastic with the full force of a Malak-infused stomp.
CRUNCH.
A fountain of violet sparks and black static erupted from the shattered drive. The high-pitched digital scream that followed wasn't from a monster—it was the sound of Nulla Terra's entire server bank dying at once.
"NO!" Mullins wailed, reaching out with trembling hands toward the shards of his legacy. "My assets! My... my eternity! It’s all de-fragmenting!"
As the drive died, the red "Override" lights in Walter Walrus and Bucky’s eyes flickered out, replaced by a soft, tired amber. The Starlings in the audience began to dissolve into harmless white pixels, floating upward like snow.
"The contract is void, Mark," Doug growled, the dark energy around his hand fading back to a steady, calming blue.
Mollie Macaw sheathed her cutlass, looking around as the theater walls began to turn transparent, revealing the golden glow of Bierce’s Ballroom on the other side of the portal. "The island's sinking into the recycle bin, crew! Time to weigh anchor!"
Icky Licky grabbed a handful of Bucky-themed saltwater taffy from a nearby stand. "Tastes like victory and artificial flavoring!"
Walter, Giovanni, Olive, and Otis all huddled together, looking at the portal with a mix of fear and hope. They weren't "refined" anymore—just scared characters who wanted to go home.
The Director looked up at Doug, his face twitching as his own body began to glitch into a low-resolution mess. "You... you haven't seen the last of the board of directors, Doug... There are other... other franchises..."
With a final, flickering pop, Mark Mullins vanished into a "404 Error" cloud.
"Move it!" Doug shouted, ushering the mascots toward the shimmering rift. "Before the ballroom closes the tab!"
The group tumbled through the portal, landing hard on the plush red carpet of the ballroom just as the "Shipwrecked" rift snapped shut behind them with a sound like a closing book.
Bierce was standing there, fanning herself with a smug grin. "Well, that was a lovely bit of drama. I see you brought back some... oversized souvenirs. I hope they're housebroken."

***

Malak was at his desk as the doors opened up again. Skurv the coyote said, "Sorry to interrupt but this guy who calls himself a director is here to see you."
Malak didn't even look up from the ledger on his desk, his jagged, claw-like fingers tapping rhythmically against the dark wood. "A 'Director,' Skurv? Unless he’s here to offer me a starring role in the end of the world, tell him I’m busy calculating the interest on a few overdue souls."
Skurv the Coyote shifted uncomfortably, his pirate hat dipping low. "He's persistent, Boss. Says he's got a proposal for 'optimizing' the ballroom's efficiency. Something about 'Data Necromancy' and a new way to process the guests."
Malak finally raised his head, his blood-red eyes glowing with a faint, dangerous interest. "Efficiency? Most mortals just scream and run. This one wants to talk business?"
The doors creaked open fully, and Mark Mullins stepped into the office. Despite the glitchy, low-poly aura still clinging to his tailored suit, he looked perfectly at home in the presence of a demon lord. He adjusted his gold watch and offered a thin, shark-like smile. "I want revenge on Doug Houser for ruining my little starlings and my resort."
Malak's eyes narrowed, the red glow within them flaring like a dying star. He leaned forward, the shadows of the room twisting and lengthening until they reached the tips of Mark Mullins’ polished shoes.
"Revenge on Doug Houser?" Malak’s voice was a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. "You’ve come to the right place, Director. Many have entered these halls with that same pathetic spark of hatred in their eyes. But few have the... infrastructure to act on it."
Mark Mullins stepped forward, unfazed by the demonic pressure. He pulled a second, backup USB drive from his inner coat pocket—this one glowing with a jagged, sickly yellow light. "Houser didn't just break my hardware; he humiliated my brand. He thinks he can just jump between realities, playing the hero while my 'staff' rots in a recycle bin. I don't want your merger, Malak. I want to use your Nightmares to build a cage he can't 'Shock' his way out of."
Skurv the Coyote chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. "He's got spirit, Boss. A bit corporate for my taste, but he knows how to hold a grudge."
"A cage, you say?" Malak stood up, his massive, horned silhouette towering over the desk. "Doug is currently busy collecting my Ring Pieces. He thinks he’s earning his way out. If you want his head, you’ll have to wait in line—or, perhaps, you can provide a... 'specialized' obstacle for his next trial."
The Director grinned, the yellow light of the drive reflecting in his glasses. "I’ve already mapped his energy signature. I can overlay a 'corrupted' layer on top of your next nightmare. We’ll turn his little scavenge hunt into a mandatory overtime session he’ll never clock out of. I just need your permission to 'install' a few of my remaining Starlings into your hallways."
Malak let out a dry, rattling laugh. "Permission granted, Director. If you can make Houser’s life a living glitch, I might even let you keep whatever’s left of him for your... 'Deep Storage'."

End of Chapter