Just a Happy Ending

The Protector

Becoming one with the Projectionist... felt strange. Once the being had agreed to cooperate with Norman in the abyss, it had taken off its projector head and slipped it over Norman's. A tingle of electric current made Norman's vision blur before his eyes lit up like a pair of suns. He shut his eyes and recoiled, feeling more currents connect around and on his head.

"Calm," said the Projectionist, its voice coming through the static of the speaker. "We protect together."

The tingling passed. Norman felt his inked body again, with its ink-sodden feet, slender hands, and interwoven bits of machinery. He blinked his eyes open. The light inside them blinked too. He looked around, initially confused as to what he was seeing. "Hey, uh... what did you do to me?" he asked the Projectionist.

"Separate."

He reached up and tapped at the machine over his head. Then realization hit. Until now, Norman had been seeing the world as if his eyes were the glass of the projector lens. He'd felt a sense of touch through the entire machine as if it were his physical head.

Now, he saw through the lens from behind it, as if he were looking through the projector back in his booth. He tapped the metal again, realizing he felt the vibration underneath and heard the sound from outside, but the only sensation of touch was in his fingers. He couldn't feel through the projector anymore.

"You... you separated my head from the projector?"

"Yes."

"Does that mean I can..." he tucked his palms under the projector and gently pushed up.

"Do not!" the Projectionist barked. "Stuck!"

"Ah," Norman lowered his hands, "Okay, no self-decapitation."

He stood to his full height and tested his limbs, making sure everything else was still where it should be. "So what now? You gonna be my copilot?"

"Only when... you say."

"Oh. So like a hidden gun?"

"You call and we protect. Better strength."

Norman laughed, "Sounds like a plan!"

The Projectionist retreated. Norman felt its presence fade into the background, out of reach but not out of sight. His own voice came through the speaker again, clear of static as if he spoke with his own mouth. "Well, suppose we oughta get out of this nightmare," he mused, finding the door and expecting to be met with his projection booth and fake Buddy's deadpan stare.

Instead he found himself in an arena. A wide swath of sepia floor stretched out before him, ink falling like walls on every side. At the other end stood 'Buddy', still as a statue and shrouded in shadow. Behind Norman, the door slammed shut and four locks hammered into place.

"That's comforting," Norman muttered. He peered through the shadows, trying to make out what was happening to the thing wearing Buddy's form. He felt a twinge in the backseat of his mind. Suddenly, his view zoomed in like a camera while the light from his eyes narrowed to a spotlight. Neat trick.

The top half of 'Buddy's' bowed head was wrapped in shadows that dripped down his face. Slowly, 'Buddy' looked up, his eyes glowing pinpricks of white that peered above a flat-toothed grin too wide for the mouth.

"Demon King," Norman concluded.

'Buddy's' head tilted at a right angle. His hands lifted, summoning another pair of hands with long fingers that loomed large above the arena. 'Buddy' pitched backward and off the platform into the black. Then the Demon King revealed itself, emerging from the falls of ink and letting out a horrid cackle. Red threads spun from its fingertips and dug into the ground. They pulled taught and, with a flick of the beast's fingers, yanked up four figures, strung up like marionettes.