This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Jigjag22 on 2024-10-30 16:03:22+00:00.

I wake up with a splitting headache, the kind that feels like someone took a jackhammer to the inside of my skull. For a moment, I think it’s just the aftermath of one too many cocktails at a gala or maybe a late night on set. But then, as my eyes focus, I realize something is horribly wrong. I’m not in my bed. I’m not anywhere familiar.

I’m in a glass cage.

The walls around me are solid, transparent, and thick…like I’m trapped in some kind of display case. I press my palms against the glass. It’s cold and unyielding. I bang on it once, then twice, the sound echoing dully in the enclosed space.

“Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

No answer. Only silence, like the world itself has been muted.

I scramble to my feet.

Beyond my cage, I see others…more glass enclosures. Inside them are people. Familiar faces. A pop star. A Hollywood actor. An astronaut. A Nobel Prize winner. A tech billionaire whose face has been plastered across every magazine for the past decade.

What the hell is this?

I bang on the glass again, harder this time. But no one looks my way. Some of the other captives are sitting motionless, their faces blank. Others look just as frantic as me, banging on their own cages, but it’s like they can’t hear me. Like we’re all locked in separate soundproof prisons.

I step back, my mind racing.

That’s when I notice it: the exact news desk from my studio in New York. It’s here, right in front of me, down to every last detail. And as I look around, I see it’s not just me. Each captive has a set that matches their life…a stage, podium, desk, lab, kitchen…all twisted reflections of the world we’ve been ripped from.

This has to be a dream. A nightmare. Any second now, I’ll wake up, and I’ll be back in my bed, back in control. But as I press my hands to the sides of my head, willing myself to wake up, the cold reality of the situation sinks in. This is no dream.

This is real.

A voice, cold and mechanical, crackles through the air.

“Take your positions, please. The show is about to begin."

Show! What freaking show?

My mind is racing, trying to process it all, but the pieces don’t fit. I look around and I see the others starting to move. One by one, they’re heading to their designated sets, as if they know exactly what’s expected of them.

I don’t. I stand there, paralyzed. That’s when the teleprompter flickers to life in front of me. My news desk, pristine and waiting, now has a glowing screen, and words begin to scroll across it. A news story. It’s about a political scandal, one I covered just a few weeks ago. But… how?

My mind tells me to sit down, to start reading, but my body won’t move. I’m still too stunned, too confused.

My eyes flicker over to the cage next to mine, and I see the famous writer I recognize from talk shows and book tours. He’s already seated at his old typewriter, fingers clacking away on the keys as if this is just another day at the office.

Everyone else is falling into line. The musician is onstage, tuning his guitar. The tech billionaire is at his console, tapping on switches. Even the boxer is throwing half-hearted punches at the air in his tiny ring, his face grim but obedient.

Everyone… except the chef.

He’s just standing there, fists clenched, trembling with rage. Then, in one swift motion, he throws a pan across his glass enclosure, the metallic clang echoing as it bounces off the thick, transparent walls.

“I’m not doing this!” he screams. His whole body is shaking, and for a second, I think maybe he’s right. Maybe we should all fight this.

But before I can even react, the gas begins to seep into his cage.

It’s fast…too fast. A thick, white cloud filling every inch of his enclosure. He stumbles back, eyes wide with terror as he realizes what’s happening. He bangs on the glass, harder than I ever did, but it’s no use. The gas is everywhere. I watch in horror as his movements slow, his legs give out, and he crumples to the floor.

And then it’s over. The gas dissipates, leaving his cage clear. And he’s there, lying on the ground, motionless. Dead.

A cold wave of dread washes over me, numbing my senses. My legs feel like they’re going to give out, but I can’t fall. I can’t make the same mistake. I force myself to move, one foot in front of the other, until I’m standing at the news desk.

I sit down.

The teleprompter is still scrolling, waiting for me to speak. My lips part, but no sound comes out. I just stare at the words, my body numb, my heart pounding.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

The voice returns.

“It’s time. Let the performances begin.”

Before I can fully process the words, a loud click echoes through the room, and my head snaps toward the entrance. A massive door at the far end of the hall swings open, revealing a crowd slowly filing in. Men in perfectly tailored tuxedos and women in luxurious ball gowns, each one moving with an eerie, deliberate grace.

But it’s not the elegance of their clothes that sends a shiver down my spine. It’s the masks.

Every single one of them is wearing a golden drama mask; some twisted into broad, exaggerated smiles, others contorted into expressions of sorrow. Comedy and tragedy, two sides of the same disturbing coin.

The crowd spreads out, moving closer to the glass cages, leaning in, studying us like we’re exhibits in some grotesque museum.

I feel the cold weight of their stares as a woman in a shimmering gold gown steps closer to my cage. Her mask is one of the comedy ones, a wide, manic grin frozen in place. She tilts her head, examining me like I’m some rare artifact. I want to scream at her, bang on the glass, tell her to stop looking at me like that…but I can’t move. The show – my show – must go on. I continue to read the news.

They gawk at the others too. I catch glimpses of them crowding around the glass enclosures, pointing, whispering…though I can’t hear what they’re saying. The writer. The musician. The boxer. The politician. All of us, trapped in our cages, being observed like we’re not even human anymore.

And I realize with sickening clarity that to them, we aren’t.

We’re their entertainment.

“It’s time to vote for your favorite performer. ”

One by one, the audience members pull out golden stickers from inside their jackets or elegant purses and begin pressing them onto the glass of their favorite performers.

A woman glides up to my cage, sticking one of the “Hall of Fame” stickers on the glass. Another follows, a man with a mask twisted in a demented smirk. More and more come, each adding their sticker to my cage, one after the other, until I lose count. I keep reading, trying to block it out, but I can’t ignore it.

It’s happening to the others, too. All of them are getting plenty of stickers. But I can’t tell who has the most. The masks give nothing away.

Then, almost in unison, the audience begins to step back, silently retreating toward the entrance, forming a line as they face us, their votes cast, waiting for the verdict.

The voice comes back to life over the intercom.

“And the winner of tonight’s Hall of Fame induction is… Beverly Belle.”

For a moment, I freeze. Me?

A round of applause breaks out, slow and deliberate. I can feel the eyes of the other performers on me, their stunned expressions mirroring my own.

Then the hissing begins. Smoke starts filling the other cages. Each one swallowed by a thick cloud of white gas. They panic, banging on the glass, but it’s useless. The applause continues as I watch, helpless, while the others fall limp inside their cages.

Congratulations, Beverly,” the voice says, smooth and unfeeling. “You will now be inducted into our Hall of Fame.”

Before I can react, my cage begins to lift.

Slowly, I rise above the room, the applause growing louder as the masked audience watches me ascend. I’m leaving. Finally. I’m getting out.

Higher and higher, my cage pulls me toward the ceiling, the marble floors and mahogany walls growing smaller beneath me. I’m shaking, trying to catch my breath as I feel the ceiling open up. The applause fades.

Then, with a sudden jolt, my cage stops. I blink, disoriented, as the light above me dims.

My heart sinks as I realize I’m not outside. I’m not free.

I’m in another room. Identical marble floors. Mahogany walls. Rows of glass cages.

And I’m not alone. More performers. More celebrities, all trapped just like me, staring out from their glass prisons.

The intercom crackles to life again.

“Welcome to the Hall of Fame ceremony.”

My stomach twists. No. Not again.