Chapter Text
You wake up screaming.
Not a dignified scream either, full-volume, lungs-on-fire, what-is-happening-to-me screaming.
“AAAAH! WHY-?! ... Oh...”
You woke from a nightmare.
Wait a minute.
Your voice echoes in a way it absolutely should not, rubbery and exaggerated, like it bounced off invisible studio walls. The sound alone makes your stomach drop. That wasn’t your voice. That was high, shrill, and cartoonishly sharp.
You clap your hands over your mouth.
They’re not hands.
They’re rounded. Glove-like, instead of five fingers.
“What? Oh no, no, no.”
You scramble off the bed and nearly faceplant because your legs bend wrong, springy and light, like they’re made of foam instead of bone. You stagger upright and catch sight of yourself in a mirror across the dark room.
A short, grumpy-looking cartoon toon stares back at you.
Big eyes. Exaggerated scowl. Familiar colors you recognize instantly with a wave of dread.
“Oh my... I’M Shrimpo?!”
You grab your cheeks and pull to pinch yourself awake. They stretch and snap back.
Your scream round two is even louder.
“WHY AM I A CARTOON?! WHY AM I SHORT?! WHY DO I LOOK LIKE I’M PERMANENTLY MAD?!”
That’s when you hear that you're not alone.
From across a hall, a few thumps go off against a wall that startles you.
“Uuugh… Shrimpo,” a groggy voice slurs, thick with sleep. “Do you ever sleep?”
Next door, something thumps against a wall. “Five more minutes…” another unknown someone mumbles. “…or I swear…”
You freeze.
Oh no.
You know this place.
The hallway. The shared rooms. The thin walls.
You’re not just Shrimpo.
You must be Shrimpo in Dandy's World!
A pillow hits the wall near your room entrance with a dull thwack.
“Some of us are trying to SLEEP,” someone groans.
Then someone who you think is a toon voices out from down the hall.
“SHRIMPO!”
The walls practically vibrate.
“You are ruining my complexion!”
You hear the unmistakable clatter of a mirror being slammed onto a vanity.
“Do you have any idea what bags under my eyes do to reflective symmetry? Put a SOCK in it before I personally march over there and polish you into silence!”
You swallow.
That voice must belong to Glisten the mirror. And judging by the venom in their tone, they are not joking about their beauty sleep.
You stare back at your reflection, heart racing, mouth hanging open, surrounded by the muffled grumbles of irritated toons who clearly know exactly who you’re supposed to be.
You’re trapped in a cartoon body.
Everyone thinks this behavior is normal.
And apparently… Shrimpo not letting anyone sleep again is just another Tuesday.
You hyperventilate.
Your chest pumps too fast, too shallow, and your balance goes right out the window. You scramble backward, feet tangling under you, and trip over the edge of the bed like your body forgot how gravity works at this height.
“Oof!”
You flop onto the mattress with a squeak of springs. The bed rattles under your suddenly lightweight self, and you curl in on yourself, grabbing the nearest thing you can find.
A flat, ripped pillow.
You smash it over your face and scream into it.
Not the loud, echoing kind this time, thankfully. More of a muffled with I'm freaking out king of vibe way that comes out in an unfamiliar cartoony octave way.
This can't be happening. But it's real? You’re not waking up. Why can't you wake up? Are you having another sleep paralysis episode again? You hope not, but secretly find this whole situation more favorable than watching some demon figment of your imagination crawling up to you, frozen in bed.
Eventually, your throat burns and your arms shake too much to keep clutching the pillow. You let it fall at your side with a soft fwump. And just… lie there with it as it gave you company in your spiral. Breathing. Counting sheep in your mind. Maybe this was all just a weird dream created from your hyperfixation of the game Dandy's World. Maybe a sign that you should probably stop grinding the game past midnight almost every day.
After a long while, you shakily pull yourself upright and sit on the edge of the rickety bed.
Your legs dangle.
Short. Thin. Bright orange.
You stare at them in the dark. Curiously shaking the noodly limbs ending in oversized feet, cartoon joints bending in ways that would’ve horrified your old anatomy teacher. You flex one foot experimentally. It wiggles back like rubber.
You sigh, long and tired.
“So… I’m really Shrimpo,” you mutter to no one.
The room stays quiet, and so does the outside of it. Everyone must have finally fallen back asleep.
You sit there longer than you realize, mind drifting between panic and numb acceptance, replaying everything you remember about Dandy's World. The rules. The characters. The setting. None of which included you being inside it apart from being the player.
At some point, the darkness changes.
A soft click echoes down the hall.
Then- whrrrr.
Overhead lights flick on all at once as the Care Center of Gardenview wakes up for the day. Bright, sterile light floods the hallway… and pours straight into your room.
“Gah!”
You painfully squint and look around.
Yeah.
It’s exactly how you remembered.
Shrimpo’s bedroom is a disaster zone.
Holes crater the walls like someone lost a fight with drywall. Punching bags hang crookedly from the ceiling, duct-taped in several places. Air horns-plural- are scattered everywhere, some crushed, some suspiciously modified. Scratches, dents, and dents inside dents cover nearly every surface.
Orange themed room with tons of plastered on Shrimpo posters scattered around the walls.
Nothing is clean beyond some dusting and sweeping. And it sure as hell didn't make you feel or look safe.
And because there are no doors, because of course there aren’t, you can see straight into the hallway from your bed. Empty for now, but open. Exposed.
You sit there, small and orange and very much not dreaming, surrounded by the evidence of Shrimpo’s… lifestyle.
…Okay, you think, rubbing your gloved hands together.
Step one, you say quietly as you shuffle around, trying not to make too much noise to avoid waking anyone up again.
“Don’t scream.”
Somewhere down the hall, you hear similar faint movement of cloth.
You have a feeling today is going to be interesting, whether you want it to be or not.
Thud
You stiffen and straighten up the moment you hear more movement.
Soft footsteps. Groans. The low murmur of half-awakened toons starting their day.
You stay completely still on the bed, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the open doorway that led directly into the hallway. With no door, no privacy, you feel like you’re on display, like anyone could glance in and see you sitting there breathing wrong, or existing wrong.
Toons go through their daily morning routines.
The toon from across from you slows, glances toward your room, and immediately speeds up. Taking a wide detour, pressing themselves closer to the opposite wall as if Shrimpo’s room might explode at any second.
…Yeah. That tracks.
No one pokes their head inside to check up on you. In fact, to your delight, they seem to be avoiding you completely. Just the way you like it.
You listen as the sounds drift farther away: chatter growing louder, footsteps converging, then the distant clunk and mechanical hum of the big elevator heading down.
Breakfast.
Once the hallway finally empties, you sag forward and rub your face hard with both stubby hands.
“…What am I supposed to do now?” you mutter.
Your voice echoes softly off the battered walls.
Tell someone?
You picture walking up to a toon- or worse, one certain flower- and blurting out, Hey, I’m not actually Shrimpo, I’m a human who got transmigrated into his body!
You snort weakly.
Right. Because that would go over well.
Who would even believe you? Shrimpo’s reputation in Gardenview is legendary, and not in a good way. Loud. Aggressive. Short-tempered. The resident bully everyone avoids rather than confronts.
No friends.
Well…except one.
Your gaze drifts toward the hallway again as a name surfaces in your memory.
Finn.
The puntastic and fact-spewing toon with a fishbowl for a head. Always cheerful. Always talking about his interests. Orbiting Shrimpo like he either didn’t notice or didn’t care how awful Shrimpo could be.
You frown.
Did Shrimpo tolerate Finn?
Or was Finn just too naive to realize he wasn’t wanted?
Either way… that was it. That was the only connection you had. And even that one felt fragile.
You exhale slowly and slump back against the bed frame.
“Great,” you whisper. “I’m the most untrustworthy toon in Gardenview.”
Your fingers curl into the sheets.
Looks like there’s only one option. For now, at least.
You’re going to have to pretend.
Pretend to be Shrimpo. And pretend you belong here. Force yourself not to be terrified of messing up every interaction just by existing wrong.
You glance once more at the chaotic room, the evidence of someone else’s anger.
“…Just until I figure something out,” you promise quietly.
The Care Center hums around you, fully awake now.
And somewhere downstairs, breakfast is waiting for ‘Shrimpo’.
You reach your arm out of bed by muscle memory. Your hand pats the bedside. Then the floor. Then the little crate beside the bed.
Nothing.
Your breath catches halfway through the motion, and you freeze with your arm still extended before slowly pulling it back.
“…Idiot,” you mutter under your breath.
Of course, your medication isn’t here. No pill bottle. No routine. No carefully measured doses for depression and ADHD. None of it magically followed you into a cartoon world.
Reality settles in, heavy and unpleasant.
You swallow, jaw tight.
What happens if I don’t take them anymore?
Brain fog? Mood swings? Spirals?
You squeeze your eyes shut and exhale through your nose.
“My doctor won't be happy hearing about this...”
You swing your legs off the bed and hop down. Your legs feel weirder than you expect. You straighten up and stretch, arms up, back arching.
Yet everything feels wrong.
The room suddenly seems enormous. The bed looms behind you. The punching bag towers overhead. Even the walls feel farther apart than they should be.
Small.
You feel small.
It hits you in the chest, dragging up memories you’d rather not think about. Being overlooked, talked down to. Treated like you didn’t matter because you didn’t take up enough space.
You hate it.
Your hands clench into fists at your sides, orange noodle arms trembling just slightly.
“…Wow,” you mutter bitterly. “Guess that never really goes away.”
So much for your hard-earned growth spurt.
Then another thought slowly creeps in.
You pause mid-stretch.
If you’re not medicated anymore… then your emotions aren’t regulated. And your reactions will come out angrier.
You glance at the cracked wall. The dented furniture. The general aura of barely-contained rage that fills the room.
That would actually… fit.
A humorless huff slips out of you.
“So that’s it, huh?” you say quietly. “Unfiltered me.”
You look down at yourself—at the short frame, the cartoon fists, the permanent scowl that comes naturally to this face.
“Guess that makes pretending easier,” you add.
Because being irritable, snappy, defensive—being negative—that’s already expected of Shrimpo.
Hopefully, no one will question it. Or at the very least be surprised enough to look too closely.
You roll your shoulders once more and let your arms fall to your sides.
“…Fine,” you decide. “I’ll play the part.”
You might be a little late for breakfast about now, judging from the lack of footsteps coming from Shrimpo's room.
And eating something sounds nice about now that you made your resolve.
If you’re stuck being Shrimpo, you might as well survive like him.
You doubt that the meds would have worked anyway since you weren't human anymore.
You step out into the hallway.
The moment you do, the open space makes your skin prickle. The lights are fully on now, bright and unforgiving, casting long reflections along the polished floor. You keep your head forward and your posture stiff, doing your best impression of don’t talk to me as you start toward the big elevator at the end of the hall.
Your footsteps feel too light. It still feels off, especially since the toons didn't have any proper footwear. You could at least go for some sandals.
The elevator looms ahead, wide metal doors, scuffed from use, humming faintly like it’s alive. Your stomach twists. Elevators have never agreed with you, and in Dandy's World, elevators aren’t just elevators.
They’re gateways.
Dangerous floors. Hostile environments. Places where things go wrong.
You stop in front of it and stare for a second too long.
“…Of course,” you mutter, then step inside before you can chicken out.
The interior is even worse. Tall. Echoey. Buttons lining the panel, far more than any normal building would need. No clear labels. No comforting CAFETERIA sign. Just rows of mystery.
You hesitate, then jab the top three buttons in quick succession.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
Your heart immediately regrets that decision.
The doors slide shut with a heavy clang, sealing you inside. The elevator lurches, beginning its ascent—or descent, you’re not even sure which.
You cross your arms tightly over your chest, hugging yourself as the floor vibrates beneath your feet.
“Great. Just great,” you grumble. “Guess I’ll find out if breakfast comes with… whatever nightmare floor this is.”
The elevator groans, cables whining, lights flickering once for dramatic emphasis because of course they do.
You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, then open them again, jaw set.
You’re ready to get off this thing.
Ready to bolt the moment the doors open.
Ready for anything, or at least pretending you are.
The elevator continues its slow, ominous journey, carrying Shrimpo somewhere you really, really hope smells like food and not danger.
