The core's light throbbed like a living heart, casting jagged shadows that danced like marionettes on the stockroom walls. The child—*herself, yet not*—stood bathed in its glow, the machine's new core cradled in her small hands. It pulsed with a rhythm that mirrored Lisa's own heartbeat, a sickening synchronicity. Outside, the Audience's murmurs swelled, their faceless silhouettes pressing against the windows, phones casting eerie blue halos in the dark.
"You don't have to do this," Lisa said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. The knife felt heavier now, not with the weight of violence, but with the futility of it.
The child laughed, a sound like shattering glass. "You left me in the dark. Now I'm making my own light."
The core unfurled further, tendrils of light snaking across the floor, stitching together a stage from fragments of Lisa's memories: the 7-Eleven counter, the Arctic facility's icy corridors, the lab where Lora Prime had first plunged a needle into her veins. At its center sat a script, its pages glowing with lavender ink.
**ACT III: REDEMPTION**
*The Hero sacrifices herself.
The Child ascends.
The Audience applauds.*
---
**The Critic's Applause**
Rabbit materialized in a burst of static, his new form a grotesque collage of film reels and frayed wiring. One eye whirred, a camera lens focusing on Lisa; the other flashed emojis—🎭🔥👏.
"Bravo!" he crowed, plucking a popcorn kernel from the air. It burst into flames as he crushed it. "Tragedy, hubris, a *twist* of patricide—ratings are through the roof!"
Lisa ignored him, her gaze locked on the child. "They'll tire of you too. They always do."
The child's smile faltered, just for a heartbeat. "Then I'll give them a *better* ending. Again and again. Until they love me."
---
**The Memory**
A flicker of light—*not the core's*—sliced through Lisa's mind:
*The lab, 1992. Lora Prime's hands steady as she adjusted the syringe. Young Lisa, strapped to the chair, screaming. Rabbit-0, just a boy, sketching furiously in the corner, tears smearing his crayon strokes. "Make it stop," he begged. Lora's reply, cold and final: "Stories require sacrifice."*
Lisa blinked, the memory searing her retinas. The child was watching her, the core's light reflecting in her too-old eyes.
"You think you're rewriting the story," Lisa whispered. "But you're just repeating it."
---
**The Choice**
The Audience's whispers sharpened into a deafening roar. The child thrust the core toward Lisa, its light burning hotter.
"Take it," she hissed. "Or I'll *make* you watch."
Lisa stepped onto the stage. The script pages fluttered, lines rearranging:
**[ ] DESTROY THE CORE**
**[ ] CLAIM THE TITLE**
**[ ] REWRITE THE ENDING**
She reached for the Director's seat—and froze. Carved into its armrest, a single word: **TRAP**.
---
**The Gambit**
The child's grin widened. "You finally see it. There's no escaping the narrative."
Lisa sat.
The machine *screamed*.
Light erupted, searing her bones, tearing her apart—
—and then, silence.
---
**Epilogue: The Next Reel**
Somewhere, a projector hums to life.
Somewhere, a slushie machine dispenses liquid oblivion.
Somewhere, a door creaks open, revealing:
- **Batch 000's new lead actress** (her face a familiar void)
- **Rabbit's true script** (hidden in the margins of every lie)
- **The child's encore** (already in motion)
And the Audience?
*They're already chanting for an encore.*
---