By Ollie Linton
12:45PM, Saturday, 7th February, 2026.
The tracklist from the fondly titled Music for only the Epicest of Gamerz playlist still buzzes in my head as I follow EJ and Payton to our seats. We thought it would be fitting to dig up our old, albeit remarkably embarrassing, joint playlist from grade eight for such a momentous occasion.
We’re the first in the cinema, we made sure of that. This place doesn’t allocate seats for tickets, so we needed to secure our agreed upon spot in the centre of the row, two back from the middle. It’s the optimal distance away for us to see the whole screen without moving our heads, yet still close enough to be fully immersed in its illusion. This film has been three years in the making. The experience must be perfect.
The lights haven’t even dimmed by the time we sit down, the room so quiet we can actually hear the crunch of spilled popcorn under our shoes from the last screening. I look at my friends either side of me, buzzing in their seats almost as much as I am as they nurse their snacks and drinks. I adjust the brown foam moustache secured to my upper lip, and can’t help but laugh to myself about how ridiculous we look to outsiders. EJ and I are dressed up like Markiplier’s iconic character Wilford Warfstache, me in his 80s-era disco outfit, and EJ in his corny TV show host getup. Payton wasn’t quite so enthusiastic when we pitched our idea to dress up, but we’re just happy they’re here.
People begin to fill up the cinema, some in their own Markiplier cosplays, as the ads begin to roll. We pay the screen little mind, too busy whispering about our hopes and theories for the film. I don’t think I’m alone when I say I’d been half expecting it to begin with Mark welcoming us with a wave and his iconic, ‘Hello everybody, my name is Markiplier, and welcome to… Iron Lung,’ from the top left corner of the screen. So when it goes dark and a gravelly, age-sunken voice echoes throughout the room, it feels as though the entire theatre stills.
It hadn’t seemed like that long ago when I would sit at the back of the basketball courts in grade four with my old friend Tim, forgetting we were supposed to be paying attention to Mr Brown’s instructions, as we dug into the most recent Five Nights at Freddy’s teaser. Only now do I realise that was eleven years ago. We’d go home from school to watch the new Game Theory video, taking MatPat’s words as the unshakable truth, and come back the next day to debate our own theories. We’d spend hours watching jumpscare compilations on his dad’s old Windows 10 desktop, of course only from the King of Five Nights At Freddy’s himself: Markiplier. We’d tried playing the games too, but neither of us were very good. I still remind Tim every so often about how he got so scared when Bonnie caught him that he toppled the desk chair back, clapping and laughing in utter shock as he hit the floor.
I don’t talk to Tim much anymore, both of us busy in our quests to do something useful with our lives, but I wish he’d been here with us for this moment. Maybe one day we’ll catch up and watch it together, and we’ll stay up late into the night theorising like we always used to, now with far more eloquent understandings of cinematic interpretation than simply counting character buttons and toes.
The chilling intro quiets as the Iron Lung—an inescapable submarine—is deployed into an ocean of blood. The transition from the unknowable depths of red to the interior of the sub is hypnotising, and I know I’m in for an experimental, cinematic treat. We finally meet Mark, known as Simon in this universe, as he navigates the ocean with nothing but an x-ray camera and a map. We don’t yet know what he’s looking for.
It’s far from the low-budget sketch comedy EJ, Payton, and I watched religiously in high school, filmed in Mark’s house on a phone by his now-wife. We used to shamelessly perform the Dance of Italy on the stone ledge behind the library and quote skits from his videos through tears of laughter, uncaring that those who saw would make comments about us behind our backs. All that mattered was that we were happy. And for that, I’ll never forget those times. But even as his content evolved over the years into scripted Choose Your Own Adventure series’ made with an entire crew, stunts, and almost-qualified actors, it was nothing like the scene illuminating the cinema now. To think the college dropout who slathered peanut butter on his face and ran around his yard for a YouTube video, shouting, ‘I’m King of the Squirrels,’ is the same man now on the cinema screen, larger than life and looking down at rows upon rows of fans like even after all this time, he still sees us.
His makeup makes him look older, weary, but it’s clear that beneath it he’s grown so much since his simpler days of Let’s Play videos and light-hearted comedy. I can’t help but be proud of him for coming so far, fueled by sheer will despite Hollywood’s outright rejection of the notion of an independent film made by a YouTuber of all people. He reminds me how I’ve grown, too. Back then, I was an awkward little girl with blonde pigtails and a dream to be someone who really mattered. I’m not sure I matter yet, but I think she’d be proud of the still awkward, but content guy I’ve become.
Author Bio
Hey hi hello!
I’m Ollie (he/him), a third-year creative writing student here at QUT. I love all things fantasy and psychological thriller, but also basically anything queer that will ruin my already degrading sanity (thank you Dean Winchester). While my main focus is writing prose, I’ll never shy away from a chance to infect other mediums with my fascination for challenging the human psyche.
Keep an eye on ScratchThat’s socials for awesome and cool shenanigans from me and the rest of the team. We’ve got some exciting things in store.
But until then… *does a backflip*