Rigby screams, throat sore and breath short as his covered mouth both silences him and causes him to choke on his own spit. He cries, salty sweat from overheating in the suffocating layers mixing with his tears, burning his blind eyes. His nose is runny, and his lungs scream for air, but his runny nose is slowly becoming clogged. All the while, the world is shrinking. He's so tiny, the most insignificant thing possible, and what feels like a mountain is smashing him tighter and tighter. There's no escape, there's nothing, there's no air, he can't move. He's going to die. This is it. He's going to disappear and die.
All at once, the confinement around his head is lifted, and he can see and hear again, but he can breathe! Finally, he can breathe! He gasps harshly, drawing in as much of the sweet air as he can, but accidentally chokes on more spit. Trying to see also hurts; his eyes still sting, and the bright lights are not helping.
"I told he was claustrophobic, you little twerp!"
"Quick, get the rest off of him." There is a lot of tugging and pulling, but eventually, the bindings are gone, and the mountain lifts from his chest. As soon as his legs are free, he scrambles to get away.
"Woah, bro, calm down, it's just- oof!" he bumps into someone solid and back peddles, swiping at whoever it is.
"Give him room; he needs to feel safe to calm down." A sturdy, older voice says. Rigby can feel the people around him move away; there is more air he can breathe. Slowly, his vision returns, and the stinging subsides; blurry sight becomes clear, and frayed nerves and adrenaline reduce to a simmer. Rigby can then see his friends around him, all looking concerned.
"Guys?" wheezed Rigby, his lungs and throat sore.
"Hey dude, glad to see you're alright." Said Mordecai, smiling down at his friend. A murmured chorus of agreement from the others follows.
"Where are we?" Now, just taking in their surroundings, Rigby feels uneasy. Like the stretch of park he had walked through to get to the dumpsters, everything is covered in plastic wrap or is made out of it. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, even the air itself seems to be made of plastic as the smell of a running laminator is so thick he practically tastes it leaving a sensation of thin plastic film on his tongue.
"I'm glad you asked!" Came a new voice, different than all his friends; it was high-pitched and unfamiliar. Turning around, he sees the hooded figure that ambushed him at the dumpster standing behind prison bars made of nigh-invisible plastic. Anger lances through Rigby's tired body, the adrenaline surging once more, "I'm-"
"Dude, what's your damage?! You about killed me!" The yelling causes Rigby to descend into a fit of coughs. The person snorts.
"Pfff shut it, drama queen. Now, I'm-"
"Someone having a panic attack isn't a joke, bro. Rigby could've had a heart attack for real." Says Muscle Man.
"Stop talking over me!" The culprit screaches. Everyone goes quiet, "I can't believe you losers are the ones who ruined everything. Like, out of anyone it possibly could've been, it was just a bunch of low-wage labor jockey bums." Their captor collects himself momentarily before crossing his arms, attempting to strike a menacing pose.
"Ok, listen up, 'cause I'm not gonna repeat myself. I am the great and awesome Estate Street, and you're going to show me the respect I'm owed! You are all probably wondering why you're here. Nothing new for you old people, so let me illuminate the charges against you."
"Charges?! We haven't done anything to you!" Yells Benson.
"QUIET! Do you need batteries for your hearing aids or something?! I'm the one talking. I'm in charge, so shut up and listen to me! You're all convicted of destroying the greatest artist who ever lived!"
"Who?" asks High Five Ghost.
"Who?! Do you bozos really not remember?" Rigby's head is starting to ache. The creep isn't making sense, so he tunes out most of the back and forth. Looking around, he sees that their cell is made of plastic, much like everything else, but the ground is firm and has no give to it. A bed, if you can even call it that, is in the corner, but it looks more like a pile of crumpled plastic with a thin layer of wrapping to hold it together. Looking through the cell walls, more plastic forms in the shape of furniture, walls, ceilings, and floors with seemingly no end can be seen. A world made of plastic.
"HEY!" Rigby startles and looks back at the jail door, "you will pay attention when I'm talking!"
"He does not need to do as you wish, you rapscallion." Declares Pops. Estate Street fumes and looks like he's about to throw another tantrum when Mordecai speaks up.
"I get it now!" All eyes turn to him, "The focus on the Park, the weird revenge schtick, the clothes, the cheesy name that totally isn't real…"
"HEY!"
"You're just an angry fanboy of that spray paint dude who got arrested."
"PARK. AVENUE. Wasn't any 'dude.' He was a visionary! A prodigy of paint!"
"Wait, all this is because you're mad your idol went to jail? He defaced park property, led my employees on a chase, and then gave a full confession! And now you're kidnaping us and destroying the park for what?! It's not going to get him out of jail!" says Benson, slowly glowing redder in his anger.
"Park Avenue DIED in prison, and you all helped to kill him!" A collective 'what' resounds from the park workers, "Yeah, that's right. Park Avenue is dead, and Patrick Avinowitz walked out. He works now as a youth minister at the local community center doing art classes for 'troubled youths.' Worse, he does seminars about how tagging is WRONG! That 'destructive' freeform public art should be discouraged! Don't you see? Can you not understand now why you narcs are here?"
"It sounds like, despite it all, he was able to turn his life around for the better. You should be proud of him and follow his example instead of seeking mindless revenge." Says Skips. Estate Street loses it, stomping in circles outside the jail door and kicking random plastic creations for a short while before turning back to them.
"I guess there's no getting through to you old farts. All that's left is your punishment."
"Woah, bro, are you gonna kill us or something?"
"What? No! You losers are the ones in the wrong! I'm no criminal. I'm an artist! I'm just going to do my art all over your stupid park, and in the morning, once people come and see it, they'll call Health and Safety to complain and shut that stupid place down for good, and you'll all lose your lame jobs. Anyway, I'm going to get really started messing up your park, so sit tight and try not to soil your Depends while I'm gone. You'll all be free shortly after the inspectors arrive." Estate Street then 'spits' a long stream of plastic wrap that forms a loose weave pattern over the jail door, enough to let air through but nobody out. Then the teen menace leaves, passing through near-invisible corridors until there are too many layers between the group and their captor to see him anymore.
The others begin talking about plans of escape and the ridiculousness of their situation. Meanwhile, Rigby now notices that one thing, a person, is missing.
"Where's Thomas?"
"Estate Street said he fought him for a while then chased him out of the Park when he caught him outside the bathrooms… alone." Says Benson, a severe frown wrinkling his glass brow. The maw in his chest that had taken a sidestep in favor of his panic attack earlier makes itself known in full once more.
"Benson, I know what you're thinking-"
"Good. Then you can keep quiet."
"He was going outside to get cleaning supplies so I could clean the bathroom while we waited for the shift to end. I swear!"
"RIGBY-"
"Benson, now isn't the time for that. We need to focus on getting out of here and stopping Estate Street before he can proceed with his plan." Says Skips. The gumball machine sighs and rubs the stress from his eyes.
"You're right, Skips. Rigby… go over to the corner or something while we figure this out." He wants to protest his heart out at his boss, not believing him, but Thomas' voice whispers what he said earlier in his ear. Rigby isn't happy if this is what the long road looks like, even with all the extra work he'll be putting in. But imagining Thomas disappointed at him now like the others…
"…Ok Benson." Rigby replies as he gets up and lies on the plastic bed, the stress from earlier catching up to him almost as quickly as his head hit the plastic pillow; his attention starts to waver, and his eyes droop. The conversation between the others resumes and provides background white noise for a while before they try various ways to escape. Rigby turns his back to them and tries to fall asleep. They will figure something out, he's sure.
Time has passed slowly in the plastic cell, but the park crew, sans Rigby, has continued their attempts to escape non-stop. Right now, they are attempting to stretch open a hole in the weave bars enough for Fives to escape. It's around escape number thirteen or so by Rigby's semi-lucid count. They haven't asked for his help once, but it's alright. It's nothing. Even if the void in his chest whispered otherwise. As the others continue their attempts, a presence sits next to Rigby. A soft 'ahem' perks his ears and pulls Rigby from his drifting between awake and asleep.
"Pardon me, Rigby." Comes the soft voice of Pops. The raccoon turns over and blinks his sore eyes, willing them to focus.
"What is it, Pops, need something?" The older man sits against the wall beside his bed, looking at him in concern.
"Are you alright? You've been awful silent this whole time and awfully compliant with Benson's request."
"Just doing what he told me to do."
"Indeed. It is most unusual, and after you had that awful scare. I was afraid you may have been more affected than it seemed." Rigby turns over again to face the wall and away from Pops.
"I'm fine."
"Oh, alright…" The grunting and protests from the front of the jail door fill the uncomfortable silence. Rigby could feel the other shifting around, likely trying to think of something to say. He was fine. Even if the gaping hole feeling in his chest was worse than ever, he would be fine.
"Rigby?"
"Yes, Pops?"
"Did you really clean the loo like you said?"
"That means restroom, right?"
"Indeed, it does haha!"
"Yeah… just number… ugh, I don't know, nine, I think. I messed up the men's room trying to mop and had to fix it. It took forever, but I got both sides done."
"Why?" Rigby felt frustration brewing in his gut. He doesn't want to deal with an interrogation right now.
"Because I'm not used to mopping. I didn't know you had to sweep the dirt up first and-"
"No, oh dear, pardon me for interrupting, but what I meant to ask was why did you wish to clean the loo in the first place?" Rigby thinks back to Thomas, his stern looks, the smiles from earlier, the handshake… he could feel himself curling in on himself.
"Because I… I don't want you guys to think I'm useless anymore. I know I'm a screwup, but Thomas gave me a chance to prove to him I could be more… and I didn't want to disappoint the only person left who would do that for someone like me…" Rigby hopes Thomas is alright. Doubt keeps seeping into his mind if he thinks about it too long. After all, Estate Street could have lied about just running him out of the park. He wants to repay the intern for his kindness and can't do that if Thomas is dead. The raccoon is broken from his musings when a butterscotch lollipop is placed before him. Grabbing it, he turns over again to see Pops looking at him with happiness and understanding.
"Perhaps when we are free, you can show me your work? After all, despite your history, if you wish to turn a new leaf and have made steps to do so, one cannot deny the facts should they be in one's face." Rigby can't help the small smile that elicits from him.
"Thanks Pops. Although at this rate…" Five shoots back from the plastic weave door suddenly to smack into the wall next to where Pops is sitting, then slowly slides down to the floor. The others slowly stand up from where they had fallen back from the rubber band-like effect. Their efforts to push the Ghost through a gap have failed like all their other attempts. Muscle Man leaps onto the mesh and begins wrenching the bars back and forth, squealing in his desperate rage, "…I'm not sure we'll have the chance before the Park is shut down."