Ryan Taylor Petron (born 21st October 1998), known online as Rypetron, is an English YouTuber, comedian, and vlogger known mainly for his YouTube video content, which mainly consists of daily vlogs and comedic formatted videos. Born in Manchester, England, Petron originally pursued a career in journalism whilst studying at Manchester University. In 2018 during his time at university he registered a YouTube account under the name Rypetron, where he would upload videos practicing his delivery of news stories that he had developed for his course which have since been deleted. After leaving university for unknown reasons in early 2019, he has since started uploading full time to his channel, where he has amassed over 1.5 million subscribers.
Petron’s most noted YouTube content is his daily vlogs, showing his lifestyle and day to day activities to his audience, as well as producing comedic content with his friends. His content has been praised as genuine and unfiltered, but also received as abrasive, and in some cases, met with controversy…
The velocity of the high street is juxtaposed with the beauty of sun kissed pavements, the sky oozes blue as the birds spread their wings and glide through the sky. The breeze outside is refreshing, with the wind blissfully wandering around the slowly waking giant of the city. Workers in suits stroll from point A to B, lovers link arms and swan down the street at a leisurely pace. The sound of laughter a welcome disturbance from the urban shout of city life. The chatter of the outside is soothing, waves of sound quietly crashing on the nearby buildings, seeping in through the open window of my apartment. The flickering recording light warms the room with a sense of security as I tap the microphone that softly embraces the top of the camera; checking as always that the sound is recording, that my ideas are captured within the fine fibres and ready to be shared with the world. I gaze endlessly into the jet-black lens, a looking glass allowing countless people to set aside the difficulties in their lives for even just a few minutes, just to watch some guy they don’t even know do some comedy skits and show everyone his day to day routine. I look in the mirror and slick back my hair to achieve that signature look as I practice my intro, my smile becoming increasingly goofier with each stumble on a word. I leap out of my chair to quickly adjust my background, each poster and plaque precisely placed to maximise the space in my office. My one million subscriber plaque hangs proudly in the centre of my wall, surrounded by pictures of me and some of the amazing people I have met along the way. This job gives me the absolute privilege of meeting the most incredible people, people you wouldn’t get to meet at your standard 9-5 office job - it certainly beats sitting alone in my old university flat, that’s for sure. I power on the gathering of glistening lights over the camera, a luminous halo, illuminating my face and lifting the room even more with a tremendous energy. I make sure the camera is in its designated position (so nobody sees my Spider-Man pyjama bottoms), before I hit that record button and the magic begins. As I begin it feels that all the pressures and troubles in life have been extracted from my body, my body goes into this state of autopilot, my arms moving graciously in an almost dream like routine, as my face beams. I glance at the feedback of the camera, as it blushes at my energy, eliciting a quiet and harmonic hum in unison with the mechanical whirls of my computer, my eyes glistening as I make sure that everyone looking at me on the other side feels comforted, feels secure, feels like I am their friend. As my performance comes to its glittering end, I boldly state those same words I always use to end with, my catchphrase, Rypetron out. The light of the camera slowly dims to nothingness and I slump back into my chair with an exhausted sigh, with the brightest smile on my face.
That was all about to change.
The phone glances at him with uncertainty, before exploding with noise. Normally he would have no problem with this; he would be fine, but something feels off. These noises would be considered normal had he dropped a video around 5 minutes previous, but the video needs extensive editing before it is anywhere near ready to be shipped out. The pings from the notifications increase in speed, a demonic orchestra spewing sounds. The notifications pile up like pillars of corpses in the aftermath of a war, each body of text getting bigger and bigger, accelerating down the phone screen with urgency, completely overflowing and drowning the young man. The screen tries desperately to distance him from the deafening cries trapped behind it, the force becomes too great and he unlocks the phone. A curious Pandora stupidly opening that dreaded box.
@Rypetron, I can’t believe I watched this monster and thought he was a good guy, what a joke. #CancelRypetron
104 Retweets.
1,878 Likes.
Can’t believe @Rypetron said all that shit, guess you never truly know who you are looking up to after all. #CancelRypetron
240 Retweets.
3,592 Likes.
You’ve just made the news @Rypetron. Don’t see how you’re gonna get out of this one. #CancelRypetron
1,374 Retweets.
10,301 Likes.
What could they possibly be talking about? Maybe they got the wrong person? Everyone knows Ryan would be the last person to get into any sort of drama, right?
The phone rings and screams in a blast of anger so powerful it nearly knocks itself out of Ryan’s trembling hand. Beginning to sob, begging to know what is happening as his world begins to shift, each scream turns more and more demonic as time slowly drags on, the light diminishing from the room as the waves of sound outside turn into an eerie silence. As if everyone has abandoned their daily duties in order to watch, crowds of eyes staring at his window high up in the sky, with Ryan tragically trying to piece together how this perfect day was going so, so wrong.
“Why didn’t you get rid of those videos?”
“You’ve let so many people down, I hope you’re happy.”
“That stuff you were saying made me sick, you should be ashamed of yourself.”
He eventually gathered up the energy to swallow these statements with a painful gulp, and at once, as though it had been a swift poison, drooped lifelessly with his head buried deep into synthetic arms. Gasping for air, like a child that has thrown a tantrum, to the point where every wail hurts more and more, until even the tears grow tired and stop coming to his aid. After what feels like an eternity, raising that head from the imprisonment of his arms, he gazes into the mirror. The corpse staring back has a chilling aura, its eyes are lifeless, its scaly skin illuminated by the omnipotent screen of the computer, just so you can see the veins squeezing the life and purity out of the corpse. The creature’s hands are lifeless and sharp, angling knife-like fingers towards its throat, motioning across the neck with a malicious intent. The blades graze the top of the neck, trails of cuts emblazoned on the surface, pulsating a vibrant red before it proudly motions towards the blood that stains its cruel hands. Ryan moves slightly to try and elicit a response from this monster, it stares daggers through him and yet remains just as lifeless as before. Its face is blotchy with patches of drained dead skin, decorated with cuts and slashes imitating a sadistic smile on its face. He begins to feel his eyes burn with anguish and anger as the creature fixates its paralysing gaze, rendering his faltering limbs completely useless, this horrific figure, driven and derided by hatred.
The phone cries one last pitiful whimper, broadcasting a message from a name that is very familiar, but also, a name that feels very alien. Will Beaumont. A name that can end a man’s career in a fleeting moment, one of the very few people that can completely manipulate a story in order to give himself more views and relevancy. He must already know what is going on. Ryan certainly doesn’t. Previous interactions with Will have been scarce, mainly just giving each other feedback on videos early in their careers before taking completely different paths. His picture taints the computer screen, a tall and gangly man, his bones look weak, his ribcage bursting out of his pale skin, a soulless box of organs being held together by malice and a lot of subscribers. His slicked back hair an illuminous white, as if each time he dyed it he somehow channelled more ferocity and cunning into it. He wears a sinister smile, stretching across an uncomfortably large proportion of his face, with his beak like nose cascading a shadow across his weak lower jaw. Those eyes have seen their fair share of drama, acting as the judge, jury and the executioner to all that cross his path. His signature merchandise, a pink shirt with a spilt cup of tea emblazoned on the front of it, such a cliché symbol over his disturbing excitement for whenever somebody messes up. His current obsession with Ryan seems obvious now. His message contains a link and a winking emoji with 5 kisses unceremoniously attached to it. Ugh. Clicking the link, Ryan’s stomach sinks as he wipes away the burning tears from stained cheeks and faces his public trial.
‘Racist Rypetron Finally Exposed!’
Good afternoon everybody and welcome back to ‘Spilt Tea’ where we discuss YouTube in all its glory and see which of its pampered creators have fucked up this week. I am your humble waiter, Will Beaumont and this week we look at Ryan Petron, also known as ‘Rypetron’ and his horrific racist language that has been uncovered in some old videos. Yikes. As previously mentioned, old videos from Mr Petron’s account have unearthed themselves this week, depicting disgusting language towards people from a multitude of ethnic backgrounds. Take a look at this…
Undiscovered fears rear their ugly faces towards Ryan as he clamps his hand over his mouth. Videos that Ryan hadn’t seen in a long time, videos from his journalism course where he would read his articles out to himself to see how well they flowed. Videos that didn’t perhaps have the family friendly tone and imagery that his YouTube videos nowadays rely on so heavily. But this doesn’t mean he is a monster. He was on a competitive journalism course for Christ’s sake, he needed to write some gripping material, get that shock factor across, not hurt anyone. Right?
… some truly disturbing stuff. The hashtag #CancelRypetron is number one on the trending tabs across social media, with fans expressing their disgust towards the Manchester-based creator. His statistics and SocialBlade makes for some very entertaining content now. Mr Petron is yet to respond, but as always, we will be waiting to see the tea well and truly spilled from his side. Rypetron, if you wanna come on this show and try and defend yourself, my DM’s are always open darling. Tune in next time to see what this monster has to say for himself.
He races to the computer, frantically checking his statistics, the site plagued with red. Subscribers down. Followers down. Money down. Each falling number spiralling faster and faster as he struggles to comprehend the disaster unfolding in front of the entire world. Each blink resulting in losing more and more. The graphs and charts droop lifelessly, the troughs so deep that you might get stuck in there forever by just looking at it. The steep decline sharpens as its descent speeds up like flaming arrows being fired in his direction, a helpless target in a firing range, immobilised and tethered by hatred and fear. The realisation of what is about to happen hits furiously, unloading rapid fire punches without any remorse or sign of mercy. Ryan’s business emails make for morbid viewing, every brand and company that he has worked so hard to get on his side, every company that put their faith in him, every company that helped him on this journey, all recoiling themselves away from this toxic cancer.
“Dear Mr Petron:
We regret to inform you that due to these allegations and videos that have surfaced, we have decided to pull our funding from your projects and videos. We do not condone such behaviour and our image has been tarnished as a result of your actions and our association with you as one of our featured creators. We wish you the best in your future endeavours.
Yours truly, Your Financial Livelihood.”
The same message repeatedly splattered in his inbox, each brand severing their ties and leaving him to bleed out. Their support and money, all gone. Channels like Will’s are the main problem. They incite the angry mobs with ammunition that they can use to bring wonderful people like Ryan down to the ground, tarnishing his career just for their own benefit. In this age it is impossible to make a private mistake. Because soon enough everyone will find out. Some may point out this mistake online, or their opinions of your mistake. Maybe accompanied with a hashtag like #CancelRypetron. Everyone loves to see someone fall. It is just part of our lives now. We are there for their rise, then as soon as they get to the top it’s a race to see who can make them fall the hardest. Admit it. We love that little buzz when someone fails, it makes us feel superior in some way. People love to moan and complain about whatever they have to moan and complain about in that particular moment. In a society based on numbers it makes us happy seeing those numbers plunge to their lowest depths, monitoring every single second of their demise.
Ryan knew that the only way he could salvage the scraps of his career was to make a quick response. A video explaining everything and allowing him the chance on his own terms, not on those who want to show him off on a public trial and watch him fall. He needs this sooner rather than later before speculation turns to rumours, and more false narratives are turned into more apparent truths.
The flickering recording light slowly pulses, plunging the room into a cycle of light and darkness. The microphone’s embrace on the camera intensifies, its fibres still open and willing to listen. The void swirling inside the lens is mystifying, terrifying and yet at the same time makes this feel like this is all a bad dream. The looking glass with a somewhat familiar face staring back at his. He carefully positions his hair, caressing it and placing it delicately into that signature look. He gazes at his background, the one million subscriber plaque casting disapproving eyes over the room, expressing its disappointment whilst also giving me a signal. You must clear this up now, you have one chance, you can do this. The omnipresence of the studio lights overhead cast their doubts, their light tainted by this dark shadow underneath them. The swinging light of an interrogation room, casting the guilty in glorious light, before the darkness sucks it all away. The halo of light over his head is well and truly shattered. Placing the camera in its usual position (so nobody sees his Spider-Man pyjama bottoms) and hitting that button, the mechanical cogs come to a grinding halt. His mouth lays dormant in a state of shock, no sounds can escape the black hole where such horrendous words once used to dwell. What words could possibly be said to right this wrong? He has seen his fair share of half arsed apology videos on this website. Somebody making a mistake and trying desperately to cover their tracks, make excuses, blame the system, never owning up for their mistakes. He doesn’t want this video to be another falsity on top of those. This is the most important video he will ever make. The hours gruellingly crawl by. Each mistake getting him increasingly frustrated, slamming fists on the table, the clench getting harder and harder crippling his hand as his legs begin to tremble with a numbing coldness. Each clip in the edit seems distorted somehow, that corpse in each shot spewing nonsense with the most jarring contrast in his face, lifeless white skin that looks as if it has laid dormant for an eternity, with eyes that are holes of despair with this almost captivating charm to them. The words that come out of its mouth lack any definition or coherence about them, a stringing together of noises that sound alien and yet somehow, you can still tell it is insincere.
He drags the file kicking and screaming and clawing onto the screen with all its force, over to its grave. This won’t save him. He turns the PC off. Rypetron out...
The days drag by as Ryan tries to shut out the chorus from the crowds that want his head on a silver platter. His phone encased in the sock drawer in an attempt to silence the cries, buried alive under heaps of Batman socks, with the narrow, grubby screen pulsating with horrendous messages. The cries are still there, muffled wailing under the stress of being the link between Ryan’s prison and the real world. The phone’s grave is littered with crushed cans and broken bottles, drained of all their life to try and give Ryan’s some temporary freedom. He hasn’t left the apartment since this ordeal unfolded. His only fleeting images of the outside are in full disguise of a hat and glasses when the delivery man knocks at the door with food, just in case he also wants to ruin his life. The eyes remain glued to his apartment window, with any slight movement resulting in a worldwide manhunt documenting his every move. The room stinks as the air trapped within it is tainted, clambering at the closed blinds that encase the window, the only viable option of escape it seems.
A knock at the door.
Either the delivery driver was now psychic and bringing him food before he has ordered it, or something even more worrying was standing right at the door. Slowly treading towards the door in an attempt to mask his footsteps, Ryan focusses his gaze through the peephole as his eyes scan the incoming threat. He makes out a familiar shape through the limited scope of the peephole, his eyes widening with surprise.
“Are you gonna let me in or am I just gonna stand here all day?”
The blurriness of the keyhole’s vision is juxtaposed by a bright, neon green hoodie. He has a tall, slim frame, with a narrow head sprouting out of the top of the hoodie, hair strands protruding from underneath a beanie that seemed very high up on his head. His arms were thin to a degree that a small breeze may have well snapped them in two, he clutches a crate of beer with wobbling hands, the weight clearly being too much to handle. A compassionate smile plastered on top of a pointy jaw with feeble facial hair hanging onto the small surface underneath his chin for dear life.
Anyone would recognise that jawline. Harry Stones.
Harry was one of the first creators to reach out to Ryan during the start of his career, giving him advice and collaborations on some of his most popular videos. One of Ryan’s first friends in the confusing world of social media. However, Harry was also one of the first to be fucked up from this world, when allegations had come out about Harry allegedly messaging a girl that was underage. His world crumbled in a similar way that Ryan’s was right now, with it eventually turning out that the girl was of age and just looking for clout to further her own social media presence, the angry mobs had left him alone, but by that time the damage had already been done. Harry’s brands had all abandoned him, his friends had left him, including Ryan. Ryan’s image couldn’t be risked during this time, the videos with Harry were deleted and ties were severed. Anyone that came forward to defend him at the time were mauled savagely by mobs of hungry zombies that were armed with nothing but one person’s word. A deadly weapon nowadays.
“Come on mate open up, I want to help.”
Why would he come here when Ryan left him high and dry when this happened to him?
Ryan’s hand carefully angles towards the handle of the door, willing to risk everything by letting this once familiar face into his space. The door opens reluctantly as Harry walks into the darkness. He pauses a couple of steps into the room, looking with subdued disgust at the state of Ryan and the room, but also with a look of sympathy, he had been there before after all. He places a hand on the slumped shoulders attached to Ryan, a hand that says ‘I know what you’re going through’ but this might be the only instance where that statement is actually true. The door closes behind them both, the space vanishing from the real world once more. They sit on the sofa, Ryan’s side more slumped from days and days of continuous hibernation, the imprints on the fabric stained with alcohol and dried remains of yesterday’s Chinese food. The TV trapped on a continuous static screen, each dead flicker squirming around the screen. Ryan’s eyes lock to the floor, the weight on his shoulders forcing his head down, with no strength to bring it back up. Harry goes to offer him one of the beers from the crate, before deciding against it after looking at the piles of corpses in the corner of the room spread around the floor like confetti. They sit in a silence that seems to last a lifetime, each trying to think of the right thing to say in that moment.
“It sucks being on the other end doesn’t it?” It wasn’t said out of malice, but Ryan understood he probably deserved that for the way he treated him all that time ago. He just keeps staring at the floor, preparing himself for a barrage.
“When I was in your position, it felt like the whole world wanted me down. Thousands of people sending me the most horrific messages, every minute. Even after everything got cleared up, it’s just like some people just don’t want to admit they’re wrong. They double down. The majority just find someone else to bother, but it’s something that always follows you. You just learn how to cope with it.”
He then grabs his phone out of his pocket and shows Ryan, scrolling through countless comments ranging from months and months ago all the way up until today. The amount of faceless people spewing these awful messages is mind-boggling, they see one person do it and they all lose their minds and jump in. Ryan’s eyes widen at the sheer mass of it all, the whites of them emblazoned with the words of someone he didn’t even know. He gazes back at Harry, his widening eyes closing ever so slightly to a more familiar glance. Someone else knew what he was going through. Harry carefully places the phone back in his pocket, like a parent trying not to wake their sleeping child, before focusing back on the situation at hand. He clasps his hands together as he brings them up just below his lip, resting on the gap between lip and chin. He motions as if he has more to say, before deciding against it. The two lost souls stare blankly at each other, not making eye contact but focusing their attention on each other, a parallel of two misguided young men on a similar journey. Ryan breaks the silence with a muffled cough, forcing them both to break their line of vision.
“And have you learnt to cope with it?”
“That’s something I’m still trying to figure out to be honest with you. But it helps to have people around you, and I want you to know I’m here.”
This hit Ryan hard. Harry didn’t have to do that; besides, he was too afraid to do it when the roles were reversed. His eyes begin to water as he manages to let out a long-forgotten smile, it was only there for a few seconds, but that was the first time in a long time a smile had escaped his body.
“I really appreciate that mate, I just wonder how long this is gonna go on for.”
“Honestly mate, most people will get bored soon and move on. As soon as they see someone else that they want to bring down, they’ll focus on them instead. The people who’ve gone will come back, the brands, the fans, you. Just take this time to clear your head, start afresh. They will have missed you man.”
This sparks a small giggle from Ryan, a mixture of a small hiccup interrupted by a teary sniffle. This has always been about the fans, they were the reason he was able to leave university and do this for a living, they were the ones supporting him and allowing him to live his dreams. Both men stand up and look at each other, emotion brimming from them both as they embrace, the tears from Ryan’s eyes creating dark patches on the neon green hoodie, the stains getting larger with each passing second. Neither wanted to break the embrace, a cathartic release of emotion that was desperately needed from Ryan’s end. Ryan’s hand tightens its grip on Harry’s hoodie, a grateful grasp of soft fabric and kind heartedness. Eventually the two separated and Harry signalled towards the door, the gateway between this world and the outside. Ryan gave a conceding nod; he knew he had to go but he wished he could stay until this all blew over. The footprints amongst the dusty carpet signalling the way between the two worlds. The door opens and the light from the corridor looks inviting for a second, as Harry exits the dark and enters the light. Ryan hadn’t seen light in forever, his eyes squinting initially but widening at the warmth slowly after. Ryan stands in the dark, Harry in the light.
“Take care of yourself mate, this will all blow over. Use this time to try and better yourself, set some small goals each day, that helped me a lot. Just try to keep yourself busy and you’ll be back in no time.”
“Thanks Harry, I really appreciate you doing this.”
Harry pulls on the tassels of his green hoodie playfully, before lifting the hood all the way to the top. He winks slightly and Ryan raises his hand to send him off. Harry turns and descends down the hallway to the outside.
“Oh Harry!” Ryan yelled, his words reverberating down the empty hall of light. Harry stops in his tracks and turns to face Ryan all that space away.
“Yeah mate?”
“Drinks on me when everything goes back to normal.” He motions to the crate of beers that Harry left in the apartment. The empty cans spread amongst the apartment floor glistening in the light from the hallway and spiralling the light amongst the other inanimate inmates of the darkness, almost like a disco ball twirling delicately above the fallen.
“Think I’m gonna need a double in that case” as Harry places a hand on his neck and bellows a hearty laugh, his cheeks shoot up into the underlayers of his eyes as his teeth glow magnificently. His laugh gently pushes his body up and down on the spot, his feet crossed behind him before Ryan copies that hearty laugh; holding onto his sides whilst his feet edge on the border of his room and the corridor. Harry turns again and proceeds to the end of the corridor, disappearing in the lift as the doors shut. The lights start to disappear one by one, creeping towards Ryan’s apartment. Ryan’s laugh halts as he turns around and shuts the door before any more darkness can let itself into the apartment. He leans against the door and sighs. He walks back towards the office, stumbling into the prone bodies of the empty cans and food packaging.
The looking glass catches his glance, the man entrapped within stares with apologetic eyes that have a slight charm in them. The light from the computer screen glistens upon the defining features of his face as it slowly begins to bear resemblance to a man he once knew. His skin is certainly damaged, but the vicious cuts and scars are beginning to heal. He holds his face with delicacy, caressing himself and wiping away the tears that reside. Gazing at his neck where there remains the aftermath of an intense beating, the marks emblazoned upon his throat and neck reducing in their vibrancy, but they are still there regardless. The man places one of his hands over his neck to hide his scars, raising his head heroically as he manages what resembles a smile. This smile is not one of malice, but one of hope. Ryan smiles back at this man as he also begins to cry. Between each sob and hiccup they never take our eyes off of each other. Ryan finally pulls away as he looks around the room and notices his one million subscriber plaque on the floor, along with the other artefacts from when he was on top of the world. He picks it up and examines it with great pride, wiping off the dust and spilt alcohol from off of its brittle frame as it glistens with the light from the computer. Delicately, he hangs it back upon its proud mantle, overlooking the office as it once did before and overseeing the restoration project.
Hours pass, slowly picking up the fallen in the office, each camera, light, ornament, empty can or bottle, prop and even his phone. He caresses them and carefully sends them back to their homes. After moments of hesitation, he bravely manoeuvres towards the blinds, opening them and exposing himself to the blinding sunlight. But he doesn’t flinch in the slightest. Every drop of sunlight pounding against that aching body and mind. The window opens in excitement, the wind blows through Ryan’s dying hair, breathing precious life back into it and shaping it back into a more familiar shape. Clean air swirls through his nostrils as the horrific smell and atmosphere in the room begins to slowly dispel. Once again, he watches as the workers in suits stroll from point A to B, lovers link arms and swan down the street at a leisurely pace, the sound of screaming and crying has subsided, and the vibrant song of the city resumes its long-forgotten melody. Not one pair of eyes even glances in his direction. The phone begins to cough and wheeze, sounds not heard in a long time. Cautiously he approaches the phone in the manner that one would approaching a bomb, hands trembling as he exposes himself to the real outside for the first time in a very long time.
Everyone makes mistakes, we’re still here for you Ryan <3
412 Retweets.
1,394 Likes.
What you said wasn’t cool but at least you sounded genuinely sorry about it. You’ll bounce back in no time @Rypetron
638 Retweets.
3,689 Likes.
Hi Ryan, hope you are doing ok. We will always love you. Love Mum xxx
A half-smile etches across his mouth. Scrolling through all of the mentions over this period makes for a minefield. For every comment showing support and love, there are countless others calling him every word under the sun and expressing their utmost anger. He has made them feel this way and will never be able to apologise enough for this as he begrudgingly comes to terms with the situation. All he can do is be the best version of himself that he can be in an attempt for this to never happen again. There are going to be a lot of angry people, but there are just as many people that are sending supportive messages and want to see Ryan back on top, these people are the reason that the job is worth it.
The sunlight beams into the apartment intently, reflecting its glorious rays off of every screen and surface in the room, this is when Ryan glances back at the mirror and realise that the man in the mirror has vanished, he can only see himself. A man that is very much damaged, but a man that has the capabilities to get back to where he was. A man that worked incredibly hard to get to where he was and a man that acknowledges where he has truly messed up. He slowly moves towards the mirror as the reflection reciprocates. Placing a hand on the mirror, the reflection copies and they stare into each other’s soul for what feels like an eternity. He waves to the reflection, not a wave of goodbye, but a wave more like ‘see you around’.
Powering on the gathering of glistening lights over the camera, a luminous halo, illuminating his face and restoring the room to nearly resemble its once tremendous energy. Ryan makes sure the camera is in its designated position (so nobody sees his Spider-Man pyjama bottoms), before hitting record and the cogs begin to start spinning in the way they once did. As he begins it feels that all the pressures and troubles over these past few weeks are being extracted from his body, his body regains control of its rhythm, as his face beams like a child that has found a long-lost toy. Glancing at the feedback of the camera, as it stares in adoration at his energy, harmonically humming in unison with the mechanical whirls of the computer. His eyes glisten with determination as he makes sure that every man, woman, and child looking at him on the other side sees him not as a monster, but as the man he once was. As the performance comes to its glittering end, he boldly states those same words he always used to end with, Rypetron out. The light of the camera slowly dims to nothingness, and he slumps back into the chair with a relieved sigh.
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