The Rhythm's Price

Jamie’s thumbs pounded frantically against the buttons of his handheld gaming device, his eyes fixed intensely on the small screen where tiny eyeball-shaped warriors—Patapons—marched across a colorful landscape. The familiar chant of “Pata-Pata-Pata-Pon” escaped his lips as he tried desperately to maintain the rhythm that would guide his tribe to victory.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered, hunched over in his bean bag chair, the glow of the screen illuminating his face in the darkened bedroom. The mission was simple enough: guide the Patapons through the mountain pass while defending against the Zigoton army. He’d been trying to complete this level for days now.

Once again, the beat began to slip. Jamie felt it happening—that terrible desynchronization as his thumbs missed the precise timing required. On screen, his Patapon army faltered, their movements becoming erratic. The Zigotons seized the opportunity, raining arrows down upon the confused tribe.

“No, no, NO!” Jamie shouted, desperately trying to recover, but it was too late. The screen flashed red as his army was decimated. The words “MISSION FAILED” pulsed mockingly before his eyes.

In frustration, Jamie threw the console onto his bed. “This is impossible! How am I supposed to keep a perfect rhythm for ten minutes straight?”

As the words left his mouth, the screen of his gaming device began to glow with an unusual intensity. Instead of the expected game over screen, strange symbols pulsed across it—ancient Patapon runes that seemed to flow and dance. The light grew brighter, spilling out from the small device until it filled the entire room.

“What the—” Jamie didn’t get to finish his sentence. The light enveloped him completely, and he felt a strange pulling sensation, as if his very essence was being stretched thin. His vision blurred, and the floor beneath him seemed to disappear.

When the light finally faded, Jamie found himself standing in a vibrant, cartoonish landscape that he instantly recognized. The stylized trees, the rolling hills, the distant mountains—it was unmistakably the world of Patapon. Before him stood a group of the iconic one-eyed warriors, their large eyes blinking up at him in what appeared to be awe.

A slightly larger Patapon stepped forward, wearing an ornate mask that marked him as Hatapon, the flag bearer.

“Almighty one,” the creature’s voice was surprisingly clear, “you have been summoned to learn what you have failed to understand. The rhythm is not just a game mechanic—it is the heartbeat of our world, the source of our power and survival.”

Jamie stared down at his hands, which looked strangely translucent in this world. “I’m… inside the game? But how? Why?”

“Those who command without understanding must learn to feel the rhythm from within,” another Patapon spoke, this one adorned with feathers—Yaripon, the spear warrior. “The divine drums have judged you and found you lacking.”

“What does that mean?” Jamie asked, a sense of unease growing within him.

The circle of Patapons began to move, forming a perfect ring around him. In perfect unison, they began to chant, their voices rising in the familiar cadence that Jamie had tried and failed to master so many times.

“Pata-Pata-Pata-Pon!” “Pon-Pon-Pata-Pon!” “Chaka-Chaka-Pata-Pon!” “Don-Don-Chaka-Don!”

As they chanted, Jamie felt something strange happening to his body. A tingling sensation began at his feet, spreading slowly upward. Looking down, he gasped in horror as he saw his sneakers melting, transforming into something solid and metallic. The transformation was creeping up his ankles, turning his flesh into cold, unyielding steel.

“What’s happening to me?” he cried out, panic rising in his voice.

Hatapon continued to stare at him with that unblinking eye. “To learn rhythm, one must become an instrument of rhythm. To understand the purpose of Patapons, one must serve a purpose for Patapons.”

The transformation continued its relentless progress. Jamie felt the strange sensation reach his knees, a wave of cold replacing the warmth of his flesh. His legs were no longer legs at all, but a rectangular metal base, growing wider as it reached toward his hips. The steel was a bright red color, gleaming in the cartoon sunlight of this strange world.

Jamie tried to run, but found he couldn’t move. His feet were now fused to the ground, the base of something larger that was rapidly consuming him. The metal continued its progression upward, reaching his waist, where his body began to expand outward in all directions. His torso stretched and widened impossibly, his clothing disappearing as his skin transformed into the smooth, painted surface of a machine.

“Please, stop this!” Jamie begged, his voice quavering with fear. The Patapons only responded by intensifying their chant, the rhythm becoming more pronounced, more powerful.

The transformation reached his chest, and Jamie felt his internal organs shifting, disappearing, being replaced by mechanical components. Where his heart had been, he felt something cold and mechanical taking shape—not a pump for blood, but dispensing mechanisms and coin slots. He could feel compartments forming inside him, spaces designed to hold products, to serve.

His arms began to thin and elongate, the fingers of his hands merging together until they were no longer recognizable as human appendages. Instead, they became dispensing chutes, positioned perfectly at the front of what was now clearly becoming a vending machine. Jamie could feel his shoulders broadening, becoming the flat top of the machine.

“This can’t be happening,” he whispered, his voice already sounding different, more hollow, as if echoing within a metal chamber.

The transformation continued its methodical progression up his neck. Jamie tried to scream but found his voice cutting out as his throat changed, the vocal cords disappearing. His neck thickened, becoming part of the solid unit that had once been his human body. His jaw stiffened, his teeth fusing together, his tongue dissolving away into nothingness.

His face began to flatten, losing all human features. His nose disappeared entirely, melting into the smooth metal surface. His ears folded inward and vanished. His mouth sealed shut, leaving nothing but unbroken metal. His eyes remained the last human part of him, wide with terror as they watched the Patapons continue their rhythmic dance around him.

Then, finally, even his eyes began to change. His vision blurred, then split, as his eyes transformed into two small, rectangular displays. One would show prices, the other would display product selections. The sensation was bizarre—he could still see, but his field of vision had changed completely. It was as if he was looking through two small windows at the world outside.

Finally, the top of his head flattened and expanded, completing the perfect rectangular shape of a vending machine. Inside what had once been his brain, mechanical parts clicked into place—circuits instead of neurons, wires instead of blood vessels. His thoughts remained, but they were now housed within an electronic system rather than a human mind.

The transformation complete, Jamie stood before the Patapons as a bright red vending machine, completely inanimate and immobile. He could still see through his display screens, could still think and feel, but he could not move or speak. Where once had stood a frustrated human boy, there was now only a perfectly formed vending machine, gleaming in the strange light of the Patapon world.

Inside his new form, Jamie’s consciousness screamed in horror and embarrassment. He felt exposed, vulnerable—despite being encased in metal, he felt more naked than he ever had as a human. The total immobility was terrifying. He couldn’t even tremble in fear. He was fixed in place, a prisoner within a mechanical body that offered no means of expression.

The Patapons circled him, their large eyes examining his new form with curiosity. Jamie could still feel—not through skin, but through sensors that detected pressure and temperature. He could feel when one of the Patapons tapped at his metal exterior, the vibration traveling through his entire body.

“The Almighty is now the Great Provider,” Hatapon announced, addressing the gathered tribe. “Through rhythm and service, perhaps he will learn what it means to guide our people.”

A Tatepon warrior approached, poking at Jamie’s coin slot with his shield. “What does it provide? Does it give weapons?”

“Perhaps food?” a Kibapon suggested, tapping Jamie’s dispensing chute with his horn.

“The Great Provider gives what is needed when the rhythm is respected,” Hatapon explained. “Insert an offering, play the sacred rhythm, and the Provider will respond.”

To Jamie’s horror, he felt something being pushed into his coin slot—not currency, but a small, glowing stone that the Patapons used as a sacred item. As it dropped inside him, he felt a strange compulsion, a programmed response that he couldn’t resist. Inside his mechanical body, products began to form—weapons, food, power-ups that the Patapons could use in battle.

“Pata-Pata-Pata-Pon!” the tribe chanted, beating their drums.

With each perfect beat, Jamie felt something sliding through his internal mechanisms toward the dispensing chute. When the sequence was completed correctly, a small spear popped out from his dispensing slot. A Yaripon grabbed it eagerly, holding it up in triumph.

“The Provider has blessed me!” the spear-wielder called out.

Other Patapons began to line up, each eager to offer a sacred stone and play the rhythm that would cause Jamie to dispense gifts. He had no choice in the matter—his new body responded automatically to their rhythms, dispensing items when they played correctly and remaining inactive when they failed.

“Look how useful the Almighty has become,” a Dekapon laughed, his large belly shaking. “Before, he could barely keep our rhythm. Now he serves us perfectly!”

“I prefer him this way,” a Megapon added, the horn-shaped mouth on his mask amplifying his teasing words. “Silent and helpful, instead of leading us to defeat!”

Jamie’s consciousness burned with humiliation. He had been transformed from their god into their servant, from commander to commodity. Yet he could do nothing about it—couldn’t speak to defend himself, couldn’t move to escape, couldn’t even express his distress. He was, in every sense, an object now.

“Do not mock the Great Provider,” Hatapon scolded the others, though Jamie could detect amusement in his tone. “Remember, he watches and learns. Perhaps one day, if he truly understands the rhythm, he may return to his former glory.”

“Or perhaps we like him better as our vending machine,” a Yumipon archer quipped, shooting an arrow into the air that landed perfectly in front of Jamie. “At least this way, he’s useful!”

The tribe erupted in laughter, their single eyes crinkling with mirth.

Days passed, turning into weeks. Jamie remained in his vending machine form, serving the Patapon tribe. Each correct rhythm played before him would result in him dispensing exactly what the tribe needed most—weapons before battle, food after victory, medicine when they were injured. He had no control over what was dispensed; his new body seemed to know instinctively what was required.

Gradually, Jamie began to understand the patterns, the perfect synchronicity required. From within his mechanical prison, he felt the rhythm of the world around him—the cadence of day and night, the tempo of the Patapons’ marches, the beat of their victories and defeats. Unable to do anything but observe and serve, he found himself attuned to the subtle harmonies that he had failed to grasp as a human player.

The Patapons grew accustomed to his presence. They built a shrine around him, bringing offerings daily and playing their rhythms to receive their rewards. Some still teased him, patting his metal sides condescendingly or using his flat top as a table for their meals.

“The Almighty looks good in red,” a Toripon would joke, perching atop Jamie’s machine form. “Though I think he’s gained weight since becoming our Provider!”

“I wonder if he misses having legs,” a Kibapon would say, while using Jamie’s side to scratch an itch on his back. “Though what use are legs to a vending machine? Better to stay put and serve the tribe!”

Each jest stung Jamie’s pride, but he had no means to respond. He could only dispense items in accordance with their rhythms, playing his assigned role in their world.

One night, as the Patapon tribe slept around his shrine, Hatapon approached alone. The flag bearer placed a sacred drum before Jamie’s unmoving form.

“I know you can hear me, Almighty one,” Hatapon said quietly. “The transformation is not necessarily permanent. The ancient texts speak of trials by form—where those who must learn are given shapes that teach them what they need to know.”

Jamie’s consciousness stirred with hope for the first time since his transformation. Not permanent? Could he possibly return to human form?

“But,” Hatapon continued, “the choice may not be yours to make. You must truly understand the rhythm, truly embrace your purpose. And even then, the drums may decide your fate. Some who are transformed find greater purpose in their new form than they ever had before.”

The flag bearer placed a small stone in Jamie’s coin slot. “When you are ready—if you are ever ready—the right rhythm will release you. Until then, serve with purpose, Provider. Learn what it means to be essential rather than commanding.”

With that cryptic message, Hatapon returned to the sleeping tribe, leaving Jamie alone with his thoughts.

Inside his metal shell, Jamie contemplated his situation. The humiliation of being reduced to a vending machine had gradually given way to something else—a strange sense of belonging. As a human playing the game, he had seen the Patapons as tools, as characters to be controlled. Now, immobile and silenced, he understood their dependence on rhythm, their need for guidance and provision.

Each perfect beat they played before him resonated through his mechanical form, and he had begun to anticipate the patterns, to feel a certain satisfaction when they completed a sequence correctly and he dispensed exactly what they needed to survive.

Was this to be his fate forever? A vending machine in a cartoon world, dispensing items to creatures he once commanded? The thought still filled him with a sense of loss, of dignity stripped away. Yet there was also something else—a purpose he had never felt when simply playing the game.

The next day, the Patapons prepared for a great battle against the Zigotons. They gathered around Jamie, playing their rhythms with unusual precision. With each perfect beat, he dispensed the weapons and armor they would need.

“The Provider has blessed us well today!” a Tatepon exclaimed, collecting a shield from Jamie’s chute. “Perhaps he finally understands his purpose!”

“Or perhaps he’s just a good machine,” a Yumipon laughed, tapping Jamie’s side with his bow. “Either way, we march to victory!”

As the tribe departed for battle, Jamie remained behind, fixed and immobile as always. Yet something had changed within his mechanical mind. He had begun to feel the rhythm of this world in a way he never could as an outsider pressing buttons on a gaming device. The pulse of it flowed through his circuits, the pattern clearer than it had ever been.

When the Patapons returned victorious, they danced around him in celebration, their perfect rhythm causing him to dispense feasts and treasures. In that moment, as he served their needs perfectly in time with their chants, Jamie realized that he had finally mastered what had eluded him as a human player—the true essence of rhythm.

Was this enough to break the spell? Would he want to, even if he could? Jamie wasn’t sure anymore. As a vending machine, he had found a strange kind of peace, a purpose that was simple yet essential. The embarrassment of his transformation had faded, replaced by acceptance of his new reality.

That night, as the tribe slept off their victory feast, the drum that Hatapon had left began to glow. Inside his mechanical form, Jamie felt something stirring—the rhythm he had finally internalized calling to him. If he could move, he would have reached for the drum. If he could speak, he would have chanted the sacred pattern.

But he could do neither. He remained what he had become—a vending machine, silent and immobile, serving the tribe that once served him.

And perhaps, he thought as his consciousness settled into the steady hum of his mechanical systems, that was exactly as it should be. The ultimate player had become the ultimate tool, the commander transformed into the provider. The rhythm had claimed him completely, turning his failure into service.

The Patapons had their vending machine god, dispensing exactly what they needed with perfect rhythm. And Jamie? Jamie had found his place in their world, one coin and one beat at a time.

After all, in the world of Patapon, rhythm wasn’t just how you played the game—it was the game itself. And Jamie had finally, irrevocably, become part of it.