Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Mansion is dim and sleepy so early in the morning. It blends into the surrounding city, for once not calling attention to itself with neon and spotlights aimed at the sky. Only the light of the fountain illuminates it from above.

If anyone other than Swatch had asked for you so early, you would have found an excuse… But Swatch was Swatch. Pulling yourself together for an hour and providing your services is the least you can do for them.

Still, you loiter on the front steps and take a few minutes to steel yourself. Straighten your posture. Remember your manners. Avoid a panic attack. Stifle a yawn.

When you finally enter the Mansion, the noise of the waking city is replaced by Queen’s music choice of the day. Something twangy and smothered under cymbals and electronic beeps. After being run through the digital equivalent of a cheese grater, it has Queen’s classic bit-crushed feel.

The noise sinks right into your teeth and makes your eardrums tingle. You waste some more time listening and tapping your foot to the music. When the song begins to loop, you stop stalling and slip into the Cafe.

The smell of frying bacon and buttery pastries fresh from the oven greets you, and your stomach growls. Somewhere in the kitchen, dishes clatter against each other and muted conversations slip through staff doors that peek from behind pink curtains. There’s a clatter as metal hits the ground and someone laughs over someone else's muffled chiding before work resumes.

Above it all, a soothing song - more to Swatch’s tastes - plays from hidden speakers. You allow the familiar sounds of morning prep to ease some tension from your shoulders.

Swatch is not at the counter. Their usual post, framed by curtains and (sometimes) flexing Swatchlings, is empty. Their wares and vulnerable cafe have been left unattended. There’s not even a Swatchling whose bosom you could lean on for comfort in the absence of their leader.

A total scandal.

You will have to let it slide, given that the place is currently closed. Leaning against the counter, you wait for Swatch to pop up from behind it, some dropped item in hand. No head butler appears, which means they’re fussing over the Swatchlings in the kitchen.

Your eyes drift between a polished service bell sitting on its crisp doily and the closed kitchen doors. You imagine waltzing into the kitchen and a sea of faces turning to stare at you.

Your empty guts shrivel and you tap the bell. It’s soft ding fills up the quiet cafe, and the noisy kitchen falls silent. A few seconds pass before the hustle-and-bustle returns. Notably, conversations remain on pause to listen. Nosy as ever.

The doors swing open and Swatch strides through. Their beak is pointed up, talons clasped at their middle. Already they're braced for a rude guest or a complaint, judging by the stiffness of their shoulders.

Really what else could anyone want with them this early? You should have known better than to ring the bell. Stupid.

Swatch's voice is high and fake-pleasant when they speak. “Apologies for the delay, how may we serve you today?”

You clear your throat and they lower their beak enough to see you. Their eyes immediately dart to the elbow you have on their counter and their polite mask melts away.

“You’re early,” they coo. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Well good morning to you too.” Despite your dry tone, you smile. “I always knew Queenie only kept you around for your barrel-throwing skills. You’re the least charming person I’ve ever met. I have no idea how you’re the head butler with an attitude like that.”

Swatch’s sigh is so put-upon, you almost feel bad. You don’t, of course. You’re not falling for it. Not this time.

“I am quite charming; during business hours.”

They produce a kerchief from their suit coat and shoo you from their counter to wipe away whatever invisible stains you’ve left with tight, neat motions. Like a few fingerprints are gonna kill the cafe's vibe. Jeeze.

They tut to themselves as they put on their little show, continuing, “I also have excellent communication skills, it’s not my fault that you decided to come barging in here before I’ve even had a chance to make tea.” They tuck away the kerchief once they’re satisfied and raise a brow at you. “I said 8:30. Did something happen?”

All of their concern evaporates when you throw yourself onto their counter and scatter fingerprints everywhere. “Nope! I just missed you so much. I couldn’t be without that ol’ Palleta charm a second longer!”

“Mhm. I’m sure.”

“Yep.”

Swatch sighs, and chooses to ignore your mess for now. They maneuver around the counter and stop in front of you to cast a critical eye over your clothes. You copy them. Arms crossed, you scrunch up your nose and scrutinize them right back.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with their appearance. Even at the ass-crack of dawn, they’re as immaculate as the cover of a Butler’s Monthly. Hell, they’ve been on the cover a few times. You’ve seen it tucked into a drawer in their office.

Both of your stern expressions break at the same time, and you lean into one another for a tight hug. You’re pressed to their chest and surrounded by the smell of vanilla extract and those sugary lemon macarons they like so much. Your own chest is all at once too full, and you squeeze them as tightly as you can with arms that can’t even reach each other behind their back.

“Special treatment from the Queen's head butler? I know for a fact you don’t hug all of your guests.” Your voice barely makes it past their chest, muffled, and you’re thankful they can’t hear how gooey it’s gotten. Ugh. You get teased enough at work. “Did you add these to the menu while I was gone?”

“Hugs are reserved for friends and Swatchlings in need of consoling only. I’m afraid the general public would never be able to afford me.”

You snort. “And here I thought I’d tucked all my feathers away.”

They scoff and step back. With careful hands, they straighten the rumpled collar of your shirt and shake the wrinkles from your sleeves. It's more care than your bargan-bin, permanently bleach-stained outfit deserves.

In comparison, they're immaculate. Despite your best efforts. Not even crushing melons sullied their outfit, and you know from experience that they’re excellent at dodging projectiles.

“It’s good to see you.” They mean it, which again summons that annoying and tight feeling in your throat. “You must be busy, I swear I saw you more while we worked opposite shifts.” Their teasing tone is ruined by another critical once-over.

Whatever they’re looking for, they’re not going to find it. Sure, you’re dressed in your street clothes, nothing fancy, but they’re clean and you'd ironed them this morning before coming here. You’re not up to cafe standards, not in a million years, but you thought (well, hoped) you looked alright.

There’s nothing to fuss over! Unless there’s a tear you haven’t noticed and sewn up yet. Maybe it’s just shocking for them, to see you out of formal wear.

More likely they’ve noticed that the bags under your eyes are still hanging around.

“You’re not working too hard, are you?”

“I’m fine, Swatch.” Like anything could be harder than working here. You wait while they straighten your collar again. Their talon taps the embossed copper pin there, and they raise an eyebrow over their glasses. “From Crimp,” you explain, pride sneaking into your voice. “Didn’t even need to get a melon to the face to earn ‘em.”

You reach for the pins on their own lapel, giggling. They brush your hands away. With a hum, they dodge your final attack on their suit and drift back to their post behind the counter. You lean on it, minding your fingerprints this time.

“What’s up? I don’t think I’ve ever seen the front desk unattended before! Did Queen blow something up already?”

“No,” they huff, “and you wouldn’t have, had you come here on time.”

“Well now we have some time to chat, so...” You tap your fingertips against your arm. “What’s up?”

Swatch looks upwards for guidance and sighs. “If you insist. But I'm putting you to work if we're going to be gossiping.” They duck under the counter and resurface with a container of fabric napkins. “I assume you still remember how to fold these?”

You scoff and pluck a handful from their grasp before they can even offer it. Muscle memory takes over as you fold them into uniformity. Swatch joins you soon enough, mouth fading into a thin line.

Silence stretches between you, and you give them time to decide what to say, if they’re willing to speak at all. For all their huffing, they're just as bad a gossip as their Swatchlings, even if they choose their words carefully.

When they finally speak, their graceful, business-like tone is missing. Their voice is tight and exasperated instead, and you jump when you hear it.

“There was a maus in the kitchen earlier. How it got in, I don’t know, but I had to abandon my post to take care of it.” They pause in their methodical folding long enough to pinch the bridge of their beak. “It’s a simple enough task to empty the garbage at night, but someone must think otherwise.”

“Probably a Tasque dragged it in,” you sooth. “Who all fainted?”

“No one.” Some pride returns to their voice, and you glance up from your work. “I managed to shoo it out the back door before anyone overheated.” They sigh, “I shouldn’t blame the Swatchlings for it, It’s my own fault for being so inattentive this morning and failing to check the doors. It was just. A lot.” They close their eyes. "I hate maus. And..."

They hesitate, glancing from the kitchen to the cafe doors. You aren’t sure why they bother. To your knowledge, no one had ever caught them mid-gossip before, and if someone had... Well, they weren’t spreading that gossip around. It would really suck to lose the job you were programmed for.

“Did it like, sneak back in or something?” You ask when the silence stretches between you.

Swatch scoffs. “Of course not."

More silence. You open and close your mouth, fiddling with your current napkin. Pushing them never gets you anywhere, but their posture is still rigid, movements more methodical than usual.

“...Queen has been considering throwing a ball, with no hint as to when, of course. I have fallen a bit behind schedule, searching for suitable dates during my free time.” They shut their eyes again, as if looking at some mental list. “I will have to wrangle Her Grace into some sort of meeting eventually, and you know how She is about those. I have a guest list already drawn up, just in case, but She tends to change those kinds of things last minute. It's all gotten away from me, somewhat.” With a shake of their head, they change the subject, cheeks darkening a fraction. “I apologize. I didn’t call you here just to complain, as nice as it is.”

“Whaaat? No way.” You push your napkins next to Swatch’s, which are crisp and folded with straight lines. Yours are rough around the edges in their shadow. It doesn’t bother you as much as it used to. “Damn, here I thought we were just going to fold napkins all day and talk shit about balls.”

“Language.” Swatch sweeps the finished napkins back into the container and ignores your tongue when you stick it out. “But yes, you’ve caught me. Shame on me, giving in to temptation. But can you blame me for wanting to spend some time with you before you go scampering off into the aether again?”

“Yeah. Shame on you, Swatch. You’ve ruined the napkins with your bad vibes.” You didn't scamper.

“My vibes.” Their brow wrinkles, face contorting in rejection of your ‘youthful vocabulary ’. They aren’t even that much older than you! “I see. Well, I’ve wasted enough time with my vibes, then. Here.”

From under the counter, they retrieve a suit, shielded by a plastic jacket. It blinks from its default color to yellow in reaction to Swatch’s mood, but you recognize it anyway. Swatch hands it to you and you hold on with a light and careful touch, fingertips trembling.

“Oh wow.”

Swatch chuckles. “I thought you’d want to run out of here with it as soon as you saw it.”

They were right, no wonder they’d humored you for so long.

Color code #CCCCFF is sewn into the collar. Periwinkle.

Your ribs squeeze tight around your heart. You miss Peri’s nosy beak poking over your shoulder. Or any nosy beak. The Swatchlings always enjoyed listening to you complain, hanging onto your dull stories about shitty old jobs and customers. Tittering with laughs or gasps of delight over your blunt, impolite words. Peri would hush you all with a nervous giggle. Remind you to listen for Swatch so you wouldn’t get the whole group into trouble.

“This is his original, isn’t it? The one he was created in?” You slip your hand under the plastic to rub the fabric between your fingers.

It stays yellow under your touch. You haven’t seen him in this suit since the first month you’d worked here. During that first month he’d finally grown out of it and switched to the mansion-standard suit, his 'rite of passage'. He’d talked your ear off about it all day, preening whenever a fellow Swatchling passed by and congratulated him.

Its texture is slightly rougher, less comfortable than Swatch’s outfit, even with how worn-in it is. The updated suits are softer and have more give to them, code tightly woven. They’re bug-fixed as well, so their color-changing magic doesn’t react to just anyone’s touch. It would need an update, first of all, along with whatever else Swatch wanted you to do with it.

It's also expensive. Vintage in a fast-moving world like Cyber City, and more valuable for having come from the Mansion. You slip your hand out from under the plastic and set the suit on the counter, where it fades back to light purple.

“Yes, his Upload-day is coming up, and I thought you’d like to help me with a surprise.” Swatch pulls a folded piece of paper from their pocket and hands it to you. Written on it in their fine, neat script are measurements. Put together just the way you’d taught them to. “I hope these are alright, they’re from his most recent fitting.”

“This is perfect, Swatch. What did you have in mind?” You smooth out the paper, calculating in your head just how much Peri’s shot up in height since you’ve last seen him. Swatchlings grew fast, once executing their intended program. When you’d first worked with Peri, you swore he grew an inch each day. “Does he know about this?”

“Of course not,” Swatch scoffs. “It’s going to be a surprise. Besides, if he knew you were here he would have been waiting at the door to greet you.”

You flush at how soft their voice gets and sloppily pull your notebook from your Inventory. “Okay, smart. Cool. Anyway. Obviously, I’ll update it and let it out, but what else? Come on, don’t hold out on me.” You flip past pages of scribbled measurements and sketches until you find a blank page, and point your pencil at Swatch’s chest. “Show me.”

They can’t hide their smile, and a digital sketchbook appears with a clap of their hands. They turn the floating screen towards you and you lean as close as you can. “Yes, well, I did have some ideas.”

You raise an eyebrow at the digital canvas, completely covered by tight notes and sprawling ideas. “Oh yeah some. Sure, just a few.” You pinch and pull the screen to zoom in on a particularity complicated, sprawling design. When did they have the time to make all this? You struggle just to get dressed for work in time. “Okay, what’s this one? Walk me through.”

In less than an hour, everything’s settled, and your chunky, worn notebook is full of scribbled ideas and drawings made between you and Swatch. It’s good timing - all thanks to them, of course. The cafe opens in less than an hour, and half of your planning time had been spent trying to weasel in a peek at more of their sketchbook. Only their worn-in resolve from years of being head butler had kept the two of you on track. Barely. Once they start to gush about art, it’s hard to stop them. Why would you want to, anyway?

It felt like old times. Hearing them so happy and animated about something they cared so much for was energizing, and lifted your spirits in a way you’d desperately needed for a few weeks now.

As you get ready to leave, Swatch gestures for you to wait. They’re smiling, and the twinkle in their eyes has nothing to do with art. Not a good sign.

“One moment. Before you go, I have something for you.”

“Swatch.” You double-task, whining and putting everything back into your Inventory. “No.”

Completely ignoring you, they hold up a hand and disappear through the kitchen door. They return in a minute with a plastic bag hanging from their wrist. The Queen’s face is printed on the thin plastic, and you sigh at the familiar sight.

They place the bag of takeout boxes in front of you. Smugness turns their grin into something punchable. You would never, of course, but sometimes they really do tempt you.

“Swatch, no handouts. You promised.” It was enough that they’d indulged you with their time, especially since they were so busy.

“It’s not a handout, it’s leftovers.”

They push the styrofoam boxes across the counter, giving you no choice but to catch the warm containers or risk ruining the cafe’s carpet. Again.

There are three too many of them, and across the top box your name is written in Swatch’s elegant cursive. It lurks just below Queen’s embossed face. Your stomach growls and condemns you.

“If you don’t take it,” they continue, a knowing look on their face, “it’s going in the trash.”

“Maus gotta eat too.” They ignore your jab and look far too happy with themselves when the food disappears into your Inventory without your usual argument. “Seriously, this is too much. You know that.”

“No, it’s not. It’s cold and slimy and disgusting, and it’s been sitting in the kitchen fridge all night. You’ll love it.”

You wait for them to buckle under the weight of such an obvious lie. Swatch would never serve anything remotely ‘slimy and disgusting’, even as a joke. Not to mention the bag was practically sweating with warmth.

They don’t, winning in the end. Like usual.

“Fine.” You wish you sounded more begrudging, but you don’t have it in you. Your fridge is empty. Passing up free food right now would be idiotic. Besides, you normally eat frozen premade garbage. Cafe food is a gourmet treat, especially when compared to frost-burned enchiladas.

“I’ll text you updates, okay? It shouldn’t take too long.” You’re already thinking about snatching some thread from work. If you’re lucky, it’s stayed out of the disorganized back room and under the counter where you’d stashed it.

“Thank you, but please take your time. Periwinkle’s party isn’t for another month.” They reach for the vintage-styled cash register. “Now, if you give me a moment, I will get you some money for a cab-“

“Oh hell no!” Your neck hurts with how quickly your head snaps up. “Goddammit Swatch, not this time you-“

"Language." They pull up a sleeve to check a silver watch. “We’re nearly open for the day!”

“Sorry!” You cringe and glance over your shoulder at the empty doorway of the cafe. “But seriously. No.” You point your finger at their beak, and they just barely lean back in time to avoid a harsh jab. “No paying for favors. The last time I let you give me ‘cab’ money, I didn’t find out how much you’d snuck in until later.”

“That was the idea,” they grumble, eyes narrowing behind their glasses. “Well, at least promise me you’ll stay near the market square. If you’re going to be stubborn and walk, you’re going to be safe and stubborn.”

You’re going to say no, and they know it. Why waste time being ‘safe’ on the main roads, when you were plenty safe taking your usual route? With how busy it gets, you were more likely to get your pocket picked in the market plaza than anywhere else, anyway.

But Swatch fixes you with their most managerial gaze, and you relent. They did give you food. You have to give them something.

“Okay, promise.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“No ‘seedy’ streets.” You make sure your finger quotes are as sarcastic as possible in the face of their triumphant grin. “As requested by the head bird-tler.”

Whoosh, right back to looking annoyed. At record speeds, too. Your shitty joke doesn’t deserve such a swift reaction, but that’s the kind of exceptional service you can expect from Queen’s head butler.

“Alright, get out. No bird puns in my cafe. I have work to do.” Polite as they can manage - hiding a smile - they place a hand on your back and nudge you out of their cafe. “You’re allowed back after you think about what you’ve done, but I know that won’t stop you.”

Ignoring your giggles, they once more straighten your outfit for you at the door. No longer do you wear a suit - your new job doesn’t require anything fancier than a tee-shirt - but you wouldn’t begrudge them this. Swatch was coded to fuss over everything, and it was nice. Feeling like someone cared for you.

Their voice is quiet when they speak again. “Don’t stay away too long. The Swatchlings and I miss having you around and cleaning up your messes.”

“I never make a mess!” Dodging their hand, your eyes fall to your feet. “But yeah, I know. I’ve been busy.” Your shoe catches on a wrinkle in the carpet, and you concentrate on smoothing it out.

“We’ve noticed.” They search for your dodging eyes and smile when you relent and look at them. “Well, when you’re not busy, come visit. I won’t have you thinking I only call on you for favors.”

And you wouldn’t have them thinking you only visited for them, either. “I’ll visit soon, promise.”

“Good. Now get, you’re going to scare our guests away.”

“Never mind. You’ll never see me again, Palleta. Goodbye forever.”

Swatch just laughs at you.

Outside, the city is still waking up, and you start your walk to work at a subdued pace. If you could go any faster, you would, but your eyelids grow heavy once you leave Swatch’s presence. The spent social energy catches up with you quickly.

Cyber City isn’t quiet, it’s always making some sort of noise, but for now, things are subdued. The grid above is starting to change from purple to green, and some shops are still closed for the ‘night’. Others, closer to the main roads, are already open as employees swap shifts. For a short while, no one will have time to sell anything, too concerned with going home or starting their day. Perfect.

This lull is the best time to travel, and a big reason - besides visiting your old friend - that you aren’t bitter about having to be out of the apartment so early. All the most obnoxious stores are occupied with shift changes, and traffic is almost civil. Best of all, if you keep your head down and your eyes to yourself, most darkners ignore you.

But even with your morning advantage, you aren’t going anywhere near the market square, no matter what you’d told Swatch. You’ll take a nearby and less direct route, just because you promised them you’d be safe and stick close. Otherwise... it’s just not worth it.

Addisons aren’t all that bad. They’re friendly enough, quick-witted and funny, and despite their slogan - We’re Addisons, all we do is Advertise! - they aren’t always selling something. Normally you wouldn’t avoid them, but Main Street Addisons are different programs entirely. They own Main Street - or at least think they do. Sharks dressed like salesmen with a comical lack of boundaries. No way were you putting up with that today. They were assholes, even off the clock.

At least the programs that hang around the outskirts of Queen’s neighborhood know when to quit. They didn’t scan your internet search history without asking first. Or drag you into their stores to shove products down your throat. They knew how to run a respectable business, not needing flashy signs or prime real estate to draw people in. They aren’t as cutthroat.

They go about their business in a normal, sane way; relying on regulars rather than big one-time (cough, coerced, cough) sales. No one bothers anyone too much, and most are as content to ignore you as you are to ignore them. As long as they make rent at the end of the month.

You appreciate it, and they appreciate your returning business.

As you move further from the Mansion, the surrounding buildings become more familiar. Glossy ads and fancy stores fade into a mix of residential apartments and businesses, and you start to recognize the street names. You pass by familiar stores and even give a subdued wave or two to programs you recognize when you pass them.

When turning onto Codec Lane, you spot a familiar program through his shop’s window, and your smile returns. The old program has squished himself between two outdated media displays and is flipping his sign to ‘Open’. Mr. Bixby glances up and meets your gaze, and his small eyes light up.

He waves you over, and when you reach his store, he’s already shuffling onto his front stoop, fixing his glasses. You’re not sure what kind of program he is, maybe something pre-eBay, but his hunched shoulders and blocky purple head are a friendly sight.

“Crimp send you out here?” Straight to business. He’s brought his broom with him, and idly sweeps his chunk of sidewalk while you lean on his door frame.

“I haven’t even gone in yet.” You admit, tone rougher than it had been when speaking with Swatch. Bixby doesn’t expect the same kind of… energy, that Swatch does. Bixby, in general, doesn’t give a shit... As long as you show him some respect.

Which you are currently not doing. You have to side-step his broom when he sweeps his way to your feet. You abandon his door frame entirely when the broom follows after you, scratching your heels.

“Wh- cut it out! Anyway, why? Need something from her?”

Bixby gives up the chase in favor of leaning on his broom, now that his storefront is safe from your loitering. His wrinkled features contort at your question, and he sheds his smile. “Figured. I sent her a message about it, but no answer. She’ll send you back here once she hears it anyway.”

Great. “Why?”

He nods his head to the line of stores across the street. Their open signs are all off or turned to ‘Closed’. Weird. Normally one or two are open by now. When you look to Bixby for answers, he nods again and gestures for you to watch. So, you lean forward and patiently rubberneck with him.

Not a minute goes by before someone across the street flings open their door and tosses something onto the sidewalk. You’re too busy trying to figure out what the crumpled black and white shape is to fully understand what the shop keep shouts, but it’s nothing friendly. They slam the door and lock it just as the troublemaker sits up.

Maybe your eyes are bad, but you can’t name what the little program is. It could be an emaciated Plugboy, but it’s too small and colorless. It isn’t one of Queen’s unique and sanctified programs either, unless she’s been brewing up new software in a secret lab without Swatch’s knowledge. Unlikely. They would have warned you if Queen had released Frankenstein.exe on the city.

She wouldn’t, though. Queen was chaotic, not malicious.

The figure scrambles to its feet, and you realize the strange and angular shape of its head is actually swept-back black hair and a long nose. It seems to be wearing a mask at first, but then the plastic moves. The program’s brow creases, the ‘skin’ wrinkles, and its lower jaw shifts in place. It just looks like that. Like a marionette doll that’s yet to be painted, its face a living mask.

Pink and yellow glasses sit skewed on its face, and it shoves them back into place with a quick, violent jerk of its arm. You begin thinking of it as a ‘he’ as you watch his shoulders rise to his cheeks.

His fists squeeze shut at his sides and shake. The painted circles on his white face turn pink, then red, and flush across his whole face, accentuating streaks of gray at his temples.

He’s still grinning, but you don’t think he can physically stop, whatever he is. He doesn’t appear to be programmed with lips.

He looks like he’s about to boil over, but the program abruptly turns on his heel and heads to the next shop. While he waits in front of its door for the blotchy red to fade away, he smooths his hair back into shape with a few quick tugs and swipes. Shoulders squared, he pushes through the doors of the neighboring shop and disappears inside to try again.

It all happens in under a minute, leaving you dumbfounded. “… What the hell kind of program is that?”

“No idea. Little bastard clipped right through my front door this morning and wouldn’t leave until I threatened to call a ‘Lance, can you believe it? Knocked one of my tables over, too.” Bixby fixes you with narrowed eyes over his half-moon glasses and sniffs, raising his chin. “Whatever he is, I think he’s got malware. Or he’s sellin’ it. Told Crimp as much when I got her voicemail.”

Dammit. No getting out of it then.

“I’ll go deal with it.” When Mr. Bixby tips his head at you, you throw up your hands. “You’re the one that called it in! And I know what Crimp’s gonna say if she finds out I looked the other way.” You drop your arms with a blustering sigh and mumble, “‘Sides. I have to cross the street anyway.”

“Huh... Good luck.” He resumes sweeping with a careless laugh, too amused for your liking. “Tell Missus Recluse I said hi. An’ remember I’m sending one of the boys over on Friday.” He points the end of his broom at you. “Don’t forget. Stock’s low, you know.”

“Yes sir.” Missus, oh she’d love that. “See ya around, Bix, if that thing doesn’t kill me first.”

The fact that it’s a possibility doesn’t phase Bixby at all. He laughs at you again and returns to his shop without a single reassuring word.

Asshole.

There’s no sign of him lurking in the window, so you stick your tongue out and blow a raspberry. As you do, a shadow moves behind the glass. You turn and rush across the street, hairs on your neck prickling. Whoops. Maybe he hadn’t seen.

The tail end of an argument reaches its crescendo just as you stop in front of the store. You can’t make out what’s being said, but it’s loud. You lean forward to listen, but the inside of the shop goes silent just as you do.

So you wait, ears pricked, and soon enough there’s a crash. Someone shouts a booming, “GET OUT!”, and the door flies open. The mystery program is thrown through the door and tumbles down the steps towards the concrete, just like before.

Unfortunately, this time you’re in his way. He tumbles right into your kneecap with a wooden ‘clunk’ and you yelp, jumping back.

The program flops face-first onto the ground with a gargling, static-filled, “YE0WCH!”

Great. Hopping on one foot and holding your bruised knee, you glare down at him. You still can’t parse what he is, even up close, which should be enough to send you on your way, consequences be damned. But you can’t. Not with Bixby’s message waiting on your boss’s voicemail.

So you clear your throat, stop hopping around and measure your tone. It’s just like old times, you can almost feel the stuffy suit jacket on your shoulders.

“…Sir? Are you alright?” Ew. You do not miss customer service.

When he hears you, he stumbles to his feet and dusts himself off. He’s dressed like a little businessman, in clothes that used to be nice but are now 10 years out of date and shabby. A shame, they have a vintage charm to them. His slacks are the worst, though. They struggle to stay white, but sit more in the gray, instant mashed potatoes area, stained darker where they’re folded into cuffs at his ankles.

He has to look up to meet your gaze. His glasses obscure his eyes, but you recognize how his head cocks to the side when he zeros in on the center of your chest. Great. Your hands close tight against your sides and you brace yourself.

“AL-RIGHT ? I’M [The Greatest Deals In Town]! TAKES MORE THAN A LITTLE [Great For Rough Terrain] TO KEEP THIS [Number1RatedSalesmanCirca1997] DOWN!”

His bit-crushed voice shoots directly into the part of your brain responsible for migraines and irritability. You haven’t heard a voice glitch this bad in a while. Was he even using his original voice anymore? Could he?

Whatever he’s got, it’s bad.

In one jerky motion, he sticks a dirty, off-white mitten into your face. When you lean away, he lets his whole arm go limp and drop to his side with disturbing dead weight.

“NAME’S SPA -SPAMTON G. SPAMTON! YOU’RE. LIGHT nER<, [Correct Answer]?” He tilts his head again, and you’d be a fool not to hear the interest in his voice.

You should have swallowed your pride and taken Swatch’s cab.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

Keeping your voice polite is an act of pure willpower, and it still comes out stilted. Considering how out of practice you are, you’re doing pretty good! Though, your smile could be better. You can feel it sagging at the corners.

The puppet - he has to be a puppet, looking like that - silently picks up the slack with his over-the-top grin.

You keep trying, Bixby’s awaiting voicemail haunting you.

“Are you alright? Do you need a hea-“

“A [H] [Help!] HELPING HAND? [Nooooope] BUT YOU LOOK LIKE YOU NEED ONE, LIGHt<NER!” He invades your personal space with one quick step forward, going from inanimate stillness to energized in a second. He gestures with his waving hands in the direction of the nearby market. “YOU MUST BE A [New Customer], WANDERING AROUND [IRL] IN THIS [City, Town, or County] WITH NO [Avatar]! YOU KNOW WHERE YOU’RE GOING, PAL?”

“Uh.” He smells like hot garbage and various aerosol products up close. It’s not the worst thing you’ve ever smelled, but it’s unpleasant enough to throw you off. Even more than his rapid-fire speech already has. “I mean-“

He doesn’t let you respond, chattering too fast. Is he even listening? “THOUGHT SO! HOW;S THIS [Soundcloud Link in Bio]? SEEING AS YOU’RE [All Alone on a Friday Night? Path-]. 1’LL GIVE YOU MY PATENTED [Tour the Grand Canyon] [50% Off]. ALL I ASK IN RETURN IS ONE SMALL [[favor]]. GOOD DEAL [Great Deals!] RIGHT?” He reaches out to you, and you back away, hands up.

“Hey, no. I’m good.” Getting a word in edgewise is a miracle, and you’re not wasting it. Sure, he doesn’t look like he has an Inventory Buster on him, and you haven’t caught a virus from a darkner (yet), but he’s loud and too friendly, and it’s freaking you out.

His hand again drops to his side, like its strings have been cut. His head tilts a fraction, and the corners of his mouth fall a little, but the grin remains.

You’ve no sympathy for him, you know better. You cut to the chase as quickly as you can before he can start up again.

“I just wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt. That’s it. Have a good day.” There’s something wrong with him, what exactly you can’t tell, but you’re not sticking around to find out. Not when you can feel his eyes flick to your Soul after every other word. You’re not stupid.

There are only two things darkners in Cyber City want from a lightner; their money or (heaven forbid) their Soul, and you’re not parting with either.

Crimp would understand.

You turn to leave and stumble to a stop when he glitches and clips into your path. Particles of his code linger in the air like snow for a second before he literally pulls himself back together, and they return to him. You’ve seen the occasional glitch, even code failures that cause a darkners’ physical form to malfunction and dither, but never one this bad.

Shuffling back, you smooth a hand over your shirt, looking across the street for Mr. Bixby. His store is open, but there’s no sign of him through his window. He must be in back, counting stock. Damn, damn, damn.

When you turn back to ‘Spamton’, his grin is pinched at the edges, and he’s holding his arms out towards you, palms up. “NOW HANG ON! YOU CAN’T [Don’t miss out on these deals!] THIS! CYBER CITY’S A [[dangerous]] PLACE FOR A. LIGHT<NeR! YOU NEED A GUY LIKE. GUY LIKE. GUY LIKE. [Me!] TO SHOW YOU THE [[ropes]] IF YOU WANNA. W ANNA MAKE IT [Rolling With the Big Dogs]!” He gestures to some invisible product, sweeping his hand out to his side. The pose is familiar, like an Addison inviting you into their store. “NOTHING WRONG WITH GIVING AND [Getting and Taking] A LITTLE [Now Hiring Assistant Managers] BETWEEN [[BIG SHOT!!!!]’S.”

“I’m fine, sir.” Your voice is clipped now. You don’t understand half the stuff he’s saying and have no interest in what you do understand. Bigshot sounds like some sort of drug, and you are not getting involved with any of that. You’d never hear the end of it. “I’m sorry, but I don’t even know you.”

“I’M NO [stranger than fiction?]. IT’S ME! YOUR OLD PAL SPAMTON G. SPAMTON!” He steps into your personal space again, and approaches with empty hands held out to placate you. The effect is ruined by the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the fact that he isn’t looking at your face, but at your Soul. “I’M A [HonestMan]. I JUST NEED YOUR [[Help! Help me!]]. SOME [[Genorisity]]. [C’moooooooon] DON’T YOU WANNA BE [[Big]] KID?”

He steps closer. The desperation leaves his voice - not gone, just hiding - and his shoulders relax. He’s more confident, almost rehearsed, when he continues.

“YOU JUST GOTTA GRAB LIFE BY THE [[Silly Strings]]! WHY BE THE [[Little Sponge]] WHO HATES IT’S [[$4.99]] LIFE WHEN YOU CAN BE A [[BIG SHOT!!!]] LIKE ME ? AND I HAVE. JUST. THE THING. YOU. NEED. ALL YOU NEED IS A LITTLE           !!! THAT’S ALL! JUST SOME GOOD OL’ FASHIONED [[Hyperlink Blocked]], WHAT D’YA [Say Yes to the Dress]?”

Another step closer. Your scalp prickles.

“YOU WANT. IT. YOU WANT [Hyberlink Blocked]! WHO DOESN’T WANT [[Hyperlink Blocked]]??? YOU’VE GOT THE [[Light]], DON’T YA? SO SO SO SO-. SO SHOW IT OFF!”

What little people are out this early are crossing the street to avoid you and this little circus act he’s putting on. Your back is to a narrow alley between two stores, and he’s either consciously or unconsciously edging you towards it with his approach. Mr. Bixby is still nowhere to be seen. You’re alone.

The air becomes thick around you, turning dark at the edges of your vision. In your chest, your Soul pulses once in warning. Even if he doesn't instigate a Fight, your Soul is ready to leap into action anyway. It’s becoming more jittery with every step closer he takes, and so is the rest of you.

The tension in your chest snaps, and your mental battery hits zero. You can’t do this. Fuck it. It’s too early.

“Dude. Fuck off.”

The change in tone is enough to stop him in his tracks, and you back away while you can, putting distance between the two of you.

You’re not clueless, you know when someone’s trying to intimidate you. Or fleece you. Plenty of others have tried bluffing, violence, or throwing fast-talk at you. Trying to take advantage of your assumed naïveté. It’s never worked before, and it’s not working now.

It’s insulting that this Spamton guy thinks he can scam you. Or scare you. Or whatever it is he’s trying to do.

Giving him a wide berth, you edge around him and keep your steps purposeful and unyielding. “Go get your ‘favor’ from someone else.”

He’s misstepped and is at least smart enough to know it. Wringing his hands together and grimacing, his eyebrows knit together and perform sincerity. His body turns to follow you, but he stays put for now.

“I’M [Apologies], LIGH<TNER! I DIDN’T MEAN TO [Top Ten Frightening Ghosts Caught On Camera] YOU.”

“You didn’t. I’m just not interested in whatever it is you’re selling.” Maybe you look like an easy mark, but you’re not. He’s not wasting any more of your time.

You manage to skirt past him and hurry down the sidewalk, hoping your longer legs will give you an advantage. You’re 10 paces ahead and almost ready to relax when you hear the sound of small feet hurrying to catch up with you. Spamton is at your heels a second later, talking as fast as he can.

“WAIT, LIGH<TNER! I’M NOT TRYING TO [Sale!] YOU ANYTHING [currently]. I'M JUST LOOKING FOR SOMEONE TO MAKE A [[deal]] WITH! [No Biggie]! AND YOU’VE GOT THE [[Light]] I’M LOOKING FOR."

Annoyingly, he’s not short of breath, even though he has to scramble to keep up. He’s probably used to hassling people for blocks on end, and you’re just his latest victim. Great.

If you could walk any faster, you would. But with your pulse in your ears and the heaviness of your eyelids, you know it’s a bad idea. The last thing you need is to pass out near this weird little scam artist.

He keeps talking, desperation back in his voice. “I THINK WE’VE GOTTEN OFF ON THE WRONG [feetsies]. LET’S [Stop! Stop it!] AND TRY AGAIN.” He sticks a hand out while he power walks, still grinning.

You lift your chin and keep your eyes away from his. “No thanks. Stop following me.” Maybe if you threatened to call an Ambyu-Lance like Bixby had, he’d go away. It was a scummy thing to do, but you were dealing with a scummy little guy.

“BUT YOU HAVEN’T EVEN HEARD ABOUT MY [specil] DEAL YET!” He scurries in front of you and turns around as he yaps. You don’t let up, and he has to jog backwards to keep from being stepped on. “IT’S NO [Risky Investments That Just Might Pay Off] GUARANTEED! I JUST NEED YOU TO [Listen To These 6 Tips] FOR A [$@*%] SECOND!” Even with his strained grin and salesman bravado, he can’t keep the venom and frustration from seeping into his voice.

Really? He’s frustrated with you?

“If I wanted to get scammed, I’d go a few blocks down and find an Addison,” you spit. It’s time to leave before you give in to your temper and start something. “I’m not buying any-“

Static-infested laughter bursts from the program, almost too loud to come from his little body. You’re so startled you freeze in place and stare. He keeps walking backward until he’s a few paces in front of you, still laughing like you’ve shared a secret, gut-busting joke with him.

“HAEAHAEAHA!! ALRIGHT. YOU’RE. [Make Smart Choices Kids!], 1’LL [gived] YOU THAT FOR [[free]].” He wipes an imaginary tear from his cheek and reappraises you with eyes narrowed over his long nose. His tone loses its bravado and salesmanship, becoming conspiratorial. “YOU’VE BEEN [Around Town] LONG?”

Cars zip past on the road beside you. While you’re nowhere near the heart of the city, there are groups of people nearby. Commuting to work, meeting up in groups for breakfast. Your shoulders drop and your racing heartbeat slows.

“Does it matter?” Even if he’s decided to talk to you off-script, you know better than to answer. The last thing you need is him narrowing down your account details through a game of Twenty Questions. “I’m still not taking your ‘deal’.”

“OF COURSE IT [Whaaaatsa Matter?]! IN A [location: not found] LIKE THIS YOU NEED SOMEONE THAT'S BEEN [around the block savings] OR YOU’RE [[died]] MEAT. [You] HELP ME WITH THE [[light]] AND I HELP [u] WITH THE WITH THE WITH                . THE [City Livin’]!!! SO LET ME [Help...] YOU OUT, [[Sponge]]!”

You’re not falling for it. You encroach on his space now, and he’s the one to step back, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “What do you really want? No one follows a stranger around for just a favor.”

Honestly, you’d prefer if he’d just rob you at this point. You’re going to be late for work.

“JUST JUST JUS.T WHAT IT SAYS ON THE [Tin Man], LIGHT<NER! JUST A LITTLE [Assistance is on the way]!” He gesticulates, arms and hands winding over each other. “IT’S A [Top Secret Information Inside] FAVOR THAT ONLY A [Man Woman or Child] LIEK YOU CAN. DO. Y0U’VE GOT THE STUFF, I CAN [No Telling]!” He points his mitten-clad hand at your chest. “THESE OTHER [[chumps]] DON’T HAVE WHAT IT TAKES! THEY DON’T HAVE THE [[Light]]! I NEED SOMEONE TOUGH AS [Manicures 30% Off] FOR THIS KIND OF JOB!”

“But what’s the job?” You pinch the skin between your eyebrows, exasperation seeping into your voice. You can’t see a way to get out of this, not if he’s going to keep following you, and you’re not letting him find out where you work.

“THAT’S [answer not found]!” he chirps, and you stare past your hand at him. “NOT OUT HERE.” He flicks his wrist out and a card appears in his hand. “IF YOU’RE REALLY [No Interest Down!] ABOUT BECOMING A [[Big Shot!!!]] WE GOTTA GO SOMEWHERE [Update Your Privacy Settings Now] TO CHAT.”

Oh, this is definitely some sort of organ harvesting thing.

With your weariest of sighs, you drop your hand and make eye contact. He keeps on grinning under your glare, though the beads of sweat have returned to his forehead. His hand shakes, and the card trembles with it.

You look around once more, hoping for some sort of lifeline, but find none. Fine. This wasn’t a commitment, you weren’t losing, you were just... Ugh. No, you were losing. The growing smirk on his face told you so.

He’d successfully worn you down, and you’d given him an inch. That was a loss in your book.

“… You gonna stop following me if I take it?”

“NOW HOW’S THAT GOOD BUSINESS?” he laughs in your face. “[JK]! I AIN’T GOT TIME TO FOLLOW YOU AROUND ALL DAY, LIGHT<NER! I’M A SALESMAN NOT A [Dog Walkers For Hire]!”

If it gets him off your back… You can take a blow to your pride.

You snatch the card from his hand, fearing a trick, but his hand drops without fanfare. Apparently, that was all he wanted, because his shoulders immediately relax and he takes a step back. You don’t know if that’s a good thing, or if you need to start worrying even more. For all you know the card is a bomb. ATTACKS were weird.

He watches with hungry eyes as you turn the card over in your hands. Printed under his name is an address and phone number. They’re unreadable, blotted out with ink and enough force to leave creases. Written below in janky handwriting is simply ‘THE TRASH Z0NE’.

It is, ridiculously, a good card. Made of thick and expensive paper that’s starting to yellow with age at the edges. It looks like it’s from some Suit’s desk, not the guy who’s handed it to you.

It’s so obviously stolen that you have to bite your tongue to keep from laughing at it outright. Was everything about this guy pulled from an old cyber-safety PSA? You can hear Swatch’s panicked voice in your head, warning you about shady programs and the dangers of leaving the safety of Queen’s Loving Bosom.

That nearly breaks you. When you can gather yourself, and keep from laughing, you speak.

“Why can’t we just talk about it here? Or in a cafe?” Somewhere safe, where you’re not going to get vivisected.

“I ALREADY [Simon Says]! IT’S [Top Secret Info The Government Doesn’t Want You To Know]! CAN’T LET JUST ANY [[slime]] HEAR ABOUT THIS [Life-Changing Opportunities]!”

Fine. As long as he didn’t follow you to work.

“Alright. I’ll think about it.” You tuck the card into your pocket and promise yourself you’ll ‘accidentally’ lose it as soon as you can.

If possible, his smile widens, and whatever his face is made of creaks. Unnervingly fast again, he suddenly grabs your hand and tugs you down to his level for a jerky and honestly kind of weak handshake. His free hand leaves his pocket and slaps your shoulder, jolting you. As soon as he lets go, you stand up straight and take a pointed step back, scalp prickling again.

He ignores your discomfort. Or maybe he just doesn’t notice it. It's hard to tell what's going on in this guy's head. “MAKE SURE. YOU COME [[alone]]. IT’S [Very Important Data Enclosed]. NOW SCRAM! I’VE GOT [Honest] WORK TO DO! THE LAZY [worm] GETS NO [Viral Tweets That Will Shock You!] [LoL].”

Unbelievable. “Didn’t you just get kicked out of a store?” Several, it seems like.

He waves away your words. “EHEHEHAEHEH CAUGH T. ME. CAN’T [Pleased to meet you!] EVERYONE! SOMETIMES A [100th Customer] ISN’T IN THE [The Greatest Quality Around] OF MOODS.” He winks, and stage-whispers, “BUT THIS IS A DIFFERENT STREET. EAHEAHAHA! [C] YAH [Around Town]!” He slaps his knee, tickled, before scurrying past you.

You spin, desperate to keep your eyes on him, but he disappears into the shadows of the same alley he was just trying to back you into. Just like that, he’s gone.

Your feet start moving before your brain does, speed-walking you down the street and around a corner. A block away your mind finally catches up with you, and you look over your shoulder to search for a flash of two-toned glasses. Nothing. Still, you keep going, taking side streets you don’t normally take and even going as far as to double back and take a different route.

After 20 minutes of zigzagging around and useless detours, you stop under an awning to catch your breath and check the time. Shit. You should have just punted the little freak across the road and booked it when you had the chance. What’ve you gotten yourself into?

Pulling up your rarely used cab-summoning app causes you physical pain. God damned little puppet thing.

The ride you pay for (165D$! The economy is in shambles.) scuttles up to the sidewalk after another 10 minutes of restless waiting. It taps its foot and waits for you to get in, like you’re the reason it’s late. Cars, drama queens, all of them.

Before you get in, you take one last look over your shoulder. Your eyes linger on the nearby alleyways. Nothing. You’ve lost him, if he’d even bothered to follow you in the first place. You can only hope that you’d convinced him you were too hard a sell to bother with.

You climb inside the cab and with a chipper honk, your ride sprints into traffic. Clinging to your seatbelt while you’re jostled around in the back seat, you pray that you make it to work on time. Or if it’s not possible, that your car gets into an accident on the way.

Crimp is going to give you so much shit if you’re late.

Of course he follows them.

He’s been waiting years to run into someone with a Soul. He has to.

He needs NEO.

He needs [[H e a v e n]].

He needs [[Hyperlink Blocked]].

Only when they get into a cab and speed off does he relent and return to more familiar alleys. It’s frustrating - he had them! Right in the palm of his [Ant Sized] hand! He'd even kept up with their paranoid backtracking! - but there’s nothing to be done until his [[Deal Insurance]] kicks in.

He can wait a little longer.

Spamton retrieves the copper pin from his jacket and holds it up against the shining lights of the city. With a twist, he makes the sparks of light that reflect off of it dance. It’s not worth more than a handful of change, just some bauble sporting a lackluster design. Its only notable characteristic is the hint of magic on it, residual and faded.

But it was about to rapidly appreciate in value. Bring him one step closer to [[F r e e d o m]]

Chapter Text

The ride to work leaves you dizzy and nauseous. Your car drives like it has a death wish, slipping between lanes with only a pixel to spare between it and other vehicles. You count at least 4 near-collisions before you make yourself stop paying attention for your sanity’s sake. The ride is harrowing and leaves you holding onto your seatbelt for dear life and digging your heels into the floor.

It’s way better than your conversation with Spamton.

Work - The Needle & Thread - squats between a laundromat and a looming three-story torrent shop. Crimp’s little store is squashed between the two competing buildings, unnoticed and plain. Eyes tend to slide right over the smaller building and snag on the neon in the laundromat’s windows, or rest on the boastful ads pasted all over the torrent shop’s door.

N&T’s dull purple brickwork and faded burgundy awning disappear into the background of city noise and overwhelming colors without a peep. It’s large picture window is lit dimly from below and displays two custom suits. One is styled for a particularly small Virovirokun. The other is tall and trim with too-long arms meant for a Werewire. They’ve both been there long enough to gather dust, and if there was a sun down here, they’d be bleached from it by now.

Your little cab isn’t keen on sticking around. The moment your feet hit the sidewalk it shuts its own door and speeds off, chunky feet splashing in oil-slicked puddles. It beeps once in warning before speeding through a blind intersection and disappearing in a frenzy of metal and legs around a corner.

You don’t blame it for running off. This far from downtown there’s not many customers. Why pay all that money for a cab when you could take the bus?

A glance around assures you that there’s no sign of 1997’s number one virus, not that he could have possibly followed you. Nowhere for him to hide either - the shops here all share walls. Crushed together and compressed to make room for the bustling city’s many, many parking lots. It’s a fire hazard, but you’ll take the overcrowding over a dark alley. One less thing to worry about while you limp through your shift.

A tinkling bell announces your arrival to the shop. The door bites your heels as it swings shut and your knee twinges.

Inside the shop, the noise of the city is muffled by bolts of cloth and walls covered with shelves that burst with junk. The lighting is low; a muted yellow glow that you can only find here or back at your apartment. Crimp can’t stand the city’s default white lighting any more than you can. The dim shop is a welcome respite for your tired eyes and fried brain.

The smell of brewing coffee masks the musty scent of cloth bolts and burnt-out sewing machine motors. If Crimp has any mercy there will at least be half a pot waiting for you and not just an inch of almost-liquid simmering on the hotplate. You’re not betting any money on it, though.

Speaking of Crimp, there’s no sign of your boss amidst the table-displays and circular racks shoved into the cramped store. She’s missing from her usual spot at the counter too, next to the vintage-styled cash register. It’s not charmingly vintage, like Swatch’s. Crimp pulled it out of a dumpster a few years ago.

In her place, something neon green wriggles on the counter.

You side-shuffle through the counter’s bar flap, only lifting it high enough to duck under. It falls back into place behind you with a loud wooden smack. You approach the writhing mass cautiously. On the counter top, twitching and pinned in place with a mix of fabric pins, wall-tacks, and bent bobby pins, is a tangled mess of code.

As you watch, it struggles to pull itself back into shape, squirming like a fox in a snare. The needles are jabbed securely through the various zeros and ‘o’s that make it up, spreading it wide-open in a jumbled web of twisting binary. For all it’s writhing, the pins don’t budge, and it stays splayed open like a frog during a dissection lab.

Ew. You hate it when she just leaves them out like this. You doubt that if one of the local Programs decided to drop by that they’d appreciate seeing all this code spread out and on display.

Hooking a finger around a line of the taught code, you strum it. Your finger briefly experiences pins-and-needles at the feeling of raw code against your skin. A tinny, warbling note sinks into the walls and vanishes just as your boss comes blustering in from the back room. Her many arms twist and tangle with each other as she struggles to tie on her apron.

Crimp begins to apologize for the wait, only to cut herself off when she lifts her head and sees that it’s only you. All of her arms drop to her sides with a heavy, heaving sigh.

“It’s you… You’re late.” She shirks the apron off and slaps it down on the counter next to her science experiment. Not sparing you another glance, she hops onto a stool and starts pulling pins out of the code. It looks totally random to you, but nothing’s gotten tangled yet. She knows what she’s doing when it comes to this stuff, at least.

“I’m here, though.”

“Whatever.”

Ignoring her, you swipe your own apron from it’s hook on the back wall. The faded crimson color is unremarkable amidst all the peg hooks holding colorful thread and all the shelves stuffed with everything from cloth to spare parts. The shop is small, and Crimp uses every square inch of space she can. She’d hang things from the ceiling if she could get away with it.

Looking at the walls too long makes your eyes tired.

“If you come in through the front door again I’m writing you up.” Your boss’s face puckers up as one of her claws snag on a line of code. She shakes her hand free and irritably slaps the line of code back into place.

“You’re grumpy. Did I wake you up?” She doesn’t respond. “Cri-i-imp! I’m not walking another block just to double back when the front door’s right there. That’s stupid.”

She makes a noncommittal noise while you apron-up and adjust your name tag. She spares you one of her eyes to watch as you check your pockets. The other five stick to the code as she fights with it. When you peer over her shoulder to watch she graciously leans her head aside. One hand detaches from the mess to scratch at the russet-red fluff around her neck, sending a lock of her wild, springy hair flying into your face. As you sputter theatrically she pulls out the last pin.

Sproink! The code snaps back into shape. The irritating neon green disappears and the front-end’s crummy, ancient fabric scissors appear in it’s place. You raise your eyebrow.

“Wow. Looks brand new.”

Crimp swats over her shoulder at you and you shuffle away. “Practice,” she gripes, “since someone keeps using them to cut paper. Needed to reset the blades. Again.”

“Oops.”

“Right.” Crimp kicks the counter and her stool spins her to face you. Half her arms cross over each other and the rest plant themselves on her hips. “Speaking of oops…”

With her fangs all twisted up to match her glare, Crimp is an intimidating woman… even with her feet dangling off of the stool a good foot from the floor. She’s a good two feet short of the average spider monster, or at least the ones you’ve met. Crow’s feet hang around the corners of her 6 eyes and sometimes they crinkle into smile lines when she slips up and forgets to frown. The bags under her eyes rival yours today, and there are no smile lines.

You’re not dumb enough to think she’s too tired to bite, though.

“You’re late,” your fellow lightner repeats. She points the newly-sharpened scissors at your chest. “Bixby left a message, so I hope that’s where you were. Or did those upper-crust leeches have somebody they needed to impress?”

“No.” You snatch the scissors and tuck them into your apron. There’s no energy left in you to argue with, so you just shrug. “Don’t start. I just got caught up with Bix. He should have called, right?”

“Twice. Once to tell me there was trouble and then again to tell me trouble was following you home.” Crimp slides off of her stool. She grabs her apron and slips past you.

Tattling bastard. Maybe he had seen your rude gesture and decided to leave you to your hubris. Tit for tat.

“It was fine, I handled it,” you lie. Crimp doesn’t need to know all the juicy details of how badly it went. “It was some sort of virus selling malware door-to-door or something. Bothering people. Followed me for a few blocks but wandered off eventually and didn’t follow me here. I made sure. It didn’t need help or anything, either. It was just being annoying.”

Silence. Crimp leans on the doorway that leads to the back of the store, staring at you. She inspects you for damage with the same critical squint she uses when checking for loose threads and missing needles. Her fingers tap along her arms. One of her hands climb to her throat and tugs at the fluff there. She finally looks away to glance into the back room.

“Alright. Tell me about it before I leave.”

God. Damn it.

“Sure, boss.”

Crimp leads you into the back. The two of you squeeze past a flight of stairs and a pair of long work tables. The back room is stuffed with half-finished projects and boxes of supplies stacked on - and under and over and everywhere in between - more boxes. Most of the work tables have long since been sacrificed as storage. A few design pieces are cut out and waiting to be assembled on the two remaining empty tables, some are already half pinned to mannequins.

The break room is similarly messy. It’s not even a room, just a couch shoved between the stairs and some discount counters that Crimp installed herself. Boxes and racks of clothes crowd around the small area and give it a bit of pseudo-privacy, blocking it in. What counter space isn’t being used by the microwave and dirty dishes is also being used to hold even more supplies. The coffee table is more napkins and garbage than table.

The coffee pot is low, not burning just yet, but there’s barely a cup’s worth of drinkable sludge. A throw pillow and knit blanket have been kicked to one side of the couch. The cushions look slept in. You keep your comments to yourself as Crimp drops into her usual spot, swinging her legs onto the table.

She waves a hand at you, leaning back. She makes a show of settling down and getting comfortable, but still looks stiff and on-edge when settled, holding her legs out like sticks. Her arms crossed to her chest. You don’t think you’ve ever seen the woman relax.

“Alright, talk.”

While you brew yourself some coffee, you give Crimp the edited version of events. Lying isn’t hard when you mostly tell the truth. Keeping it short also makes it easier to leave out how stupid you were. How scared you were, as brief as it was. There’s not much more to say other than what you’d already told her, anyway. The coffee is ready by the time you’re done.

You check a pair of chipped mugs for digital dust before filling them up and handing one to your boss. Crimp sips on hers and watches you as you settle on a spare stool. The magazine and packaging-covered coffee table sits between you. There’s more magazines and abandoned napkins on it than when you were last in.

Crimp contemplates her next words, considerate. She settles gracefully on; “You look like shit, kid.”

At least Swatch had been polite enough to add a little fluff. Dress it up. Always the considerate host.

“Thanks,” you croak. “You really know how to lift me up. At least the virus thought I was hot stuff.” You curl a finger towards your chest with a wry smile.

Crimp leans forward, eyes sharp and focused on the center of your chest. “Did you get into a Fight with it?” An unspoken ‘is that why you look so exhausted?’ hangs in the air. “…Was it one of those freaks?”

“Worse,” you laugh, “He tried to sell me something!” Almost-but-not-quite a Fight doesn’t count. “You know I just look like this.”

Crimp huffs. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. It was just a little virus, Crimp. Just something Spoofing an Addison.” You flap a hand in dismissal. The cup in your other is so hot it’s almost scalding. Heat bleeds through the cheap ceramic. “Trying to Spoof one. It wasn’t very good. Gave me a nice card, though.”

“It gave you a card?” Crimp sounds reluctantly impressed. You fish the now-creased card from your pocket and carefully hand it to her over the coffee table. She holds it up to her face, expression screwing up and summoning wrinkles between her eyebrows. “Trash zone? …It is a nice card, though. Stolen, probably.”

“That’s what I thought.” You watch her hold the card stock up to the fluorescent track-lighting and twist it back and forth. You’d already tried that trick on the ride here - there was no seeing through the scribbled ink. “It was smart enough to use the name on it, too… It’s not some kind of Attack, is it?”

Crimp scoffs and hands it back to you. “No, it would have gone off by now.” She watches you stuff it back in your pocket, lip curled over her fangs. “Well… If it is, let’s hope it goes off when you’re out of my store.”

“You’re a real sweetheart, aren’t you?”

“Mhm.” She’s as satisfied as she can be that you didn’t fuck up too badly. She moves on to what she’s really worried about. “What did those snooty bloodsuckers at that Mansion want from you anyway?”

“Crimp.” It’d be nice if she at least pretended to tolerate your friends.

You can’t really be mad at her, though. She’s been staying clear of Queen’s radar for longer than you’ve been alive. Having you here is almost a guarantee that she’ll eventually have to brush elbows with Cyber World’s monarch.

A lifetime of calling Cyber City her home and one slip-up from you could ruin her life.

“I’m working on a gift for a mutual friend. It’s nothing bad.”

“Don’t they have their own tailors? Why are they wasting your time with their frou-frou bullshit?”

“Crimp- no- ugh. Why are you in such a bad mood?” The coffee is still to hot for you to stand. You blow on it and tip your head towards the back door. “Last night bad?” Couldn’t have been, you didn’t get any calls. You would know too, you were up all night waiting for one.

Crimp lifts her chin and snicks her fangs against each other. “How about yours?” She glances to the bags under your eyes. “You look more dead than usual.”

You press again, “What happened?”

“…Lilly didn’t show. She’s not coming back. Had to pull another double shift.”

Shit. You sip your too-hot coffee. It burns all the way down and makes you angrier. “You- whuh- You could have called! What the hell are you still doing down here? Go to sleep!”

“I’m working on it.” Some humor returns as she kicks her legs off the table and stands. Her cup sits empty on the arm of the couch, finished while you weren’t looking. “Wasn’t that bad. Vinny came in to help.”

At least she had a reason for not calling. It lets you feel slightly less useless. You tip back on your stool to peek through a gap in the stacked boxes. There’s no sign of neon pink loitering near the heavy metal door. The latch and deadbolts are all in place, too. “Is she still around? I haven’t seen her in ages.”

“Left about twenty minutes before you got here. Don’t be late next time.”

“Damn.” Maybe some other time. Your schedule has you working late shifts all next week. Maybe then. “Anything I need to worry about today? Pickups?”

Crimp stifles a yawn and twists. Her back cracks with a series of sharp pops. “Nope.” Another yawn, this one she can’t stop and you have to stifle your own. She twists the other way with less energy this time.

Sliding off the stool you abandon your coffee on the counter. Leaning your hip on it you cross your arms and raise an eyebrow towards the work tables. “What? No special assignments?”

“You want one? Thought you had Mansion-work to worry about?”

You shut up and mime zipping your lips.

Crimp turns towards the stairs. She makes a whispery, hissing noise that you’ve come to learn is her snickering. “That’s what I thought.”

The stairs don’t have railings. Just open air and a solid drop into the break area. Crimp’s only made it worse, stacking books and dusty boxes on the edges. Still, she flounces up them like she isn’t a grandma one bad fall away from dusting herself. It gives you a heart attack every time, and you watch her tip-toe around ankle breaking stacks of books with your lip rolled between your teeth.

Your boss gets safely to the first landing before turning and taking a seat right where the stairs take a turn and disappear. Her black eyes peer down at you and she points a single long finger at you.

“Behave,” she hisses.

“Of course.” You faux-bow and quickly add as she stands, “Uh! Swatch forced me to take some food this morning. I can’t eat it all by myself. Come down and have lunch with me?” You kick a magazine back under the coffee table and keep your chin pointed at the ground.

Crimp sniffs, but she’s finally smiling. Just a little, enough that her crows-feet make an appearance. “Looks like those friends of yours are good for something.”

“Yeah, I hang around them just to scavenge through their leftovers like a loose Tasque. If you’re going to be an ass you can just forget about it.” You tug at your apron and a thread comes loose under your fiddling hands. “Also are there any free mannequins that aren’t busted?”

“I don’t pay you to work on pet projects.” She nods towards a few tucked under a strip of canvas anyway, her voice is cheerful. “Go crazy. Usual shit - put it back where you found it when you’re done.”

“You hardly pay me anything at all, and I still come in. I could go home! Call in sick.” Get some damn sleep.

“You’re not allowed to go home.” Crimp moves into the dark and you hear her shuffling up the last few steps. Her voice drifts back down to you, muffled and gravelly, “You practically live here.”

“Only because you care so much about me and want me around! Why would I want to be anywhere else?”

“I can’t wait until the day you quit.” One of the steps creaks and she adds, “Also, I don’t know where the hell you hid my CC-Thread but put it back when you’re done with it. Call me down if you need a break.”

“Goodnight, Crimp. Oh- Bixby said ‘hi’, by the way. With a ‘Missus’ and everything. Wink, wink and all that.”

You can’t help but smile gleefully when you hear her embarrassed hiss. She doesn’t bother responding to you, too tired to get into that topic again. Her creaky door opens, shuts, and then you tune her out as she stomps into her living quarters.

With her nosy eyes out of sight, you go the cabinet you store all the junk you keep at work in and pull out an elastic knee brace. Once it’s on over your pants and pulled as tight as it can go over your bruised, aching knee, you get to work.

It should be easy today. It’s methodical, simple and familiar work. You could do it in your sleep. You might as well be.

Your energy doesn’t pick back up, even after your second cup of coffee. You chug a third, bailing water from a ship already submerged, and prepare to update Peri’s suit to the latest version. The pants that came with have to be wired into the set-up with an adapter. You find it buried under a box of zippers after half an hour of digging through Crimp’s hoard of crap.

The mannequin you’ve chosen chugs through Swatch’s measurements when you enter them in. It takes it’s sweet time, but eventually shifts and scales up to Swatchling proportions. The head even changes (For hats! The brand boasts on their website.) into a Swatchling’s.

For a moment it’s like Peri’s right there with you. Looming over your shoulder like old times.

He’s gotten taller since you last saw him. It’s… been a while.

The download starts. Estimated time is something ridiculous that shoots between an hour and 3 days. Speedy, for Crimp’s outdated hardware. It gives you an excuse to sit on a stool and drink more coffee.

It doesn’t really help.

The suit’s sitting alright, for now. The shoulders will definitely need to be let out. The pants you’re going to have to re-hem and do your best to make presentable. He’s gotten too tall. You used to be able to pat him on the head. Put your chin on his shoulder.

The download finishes with a ding that snaps you out of a doze. A floating screen appears listing the updates. No more reactive color-changes outside of designated user. Faster processing between color-switching. New anti-virus liner. Improved armor capabilities. Flame resistance. Expanded handkerchief storage. You don’t bother reading more - you don’t understand half that stuff anyway. The window gets dismissed and you head to the front.

Swatch’s copied designs get propped up on the counter. The Color Change Thread is just where you hid it, tucked behind the receipt basket. You pull your stool up to the mannequin, lock the color to default, and dive in.

Work is slow, even for you. Your hands shake, and you take more care than you usually do to avoid mistakes. Double and triple-checking how the fabric rests. Adjust the sleeves over and over to avoid awkward pulls from your embroidery. Spend a while intensely staring at one spot before you commit to marking it with chalk, let alone pushing a needle through the expensive fabric. This is important. You can do this. Stay awake for this. Get this done and done well.

And you do stay awake. Maybe the fourth cup of coffee actually helps. You’ll take what you can get, even if the caffeine worsens the shaking of your hands. It’s fine. You’ll manage.

But eventually, everything catches up with you.

You don’t know what happens. One moment you’re plugging away, Swatch’s design starting to take shape under your hands, and the next your vision goes blurry. Your head drops to your chest and your shaking hands spasm. The needle slides across silky, expensive fabric and plunges into the finger you’re using to hold everything in place.

You jerk your hand back but it’s too late. Red stains the cuff of Peri’s suit and soaks in. The needle slips from your finger. It swings once before sliding off the untied thread and plunging to the stress relief mat below. Gone forever, or just until it burrows into someone’s foot.

Frantically you dab blood away with your apron and tuck your injured finger into your mouth. No use. Your mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood and there’s a red-turning-copper blotch on the otherwise pristine fabric. All your mad dabbing does is push it further into the tightly woven threads and knock loose a poorly-pinned square of fabric.

It takes you three attempts to scoop it from the dirty floor. When you rise back up your vision goes dark at the edges.

It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. You’ve got bigger problems. It’s fine, and it has to be, because everything else is not fine.

That blood’s not going to come out of Peri’s suit without a miracle. You’ve gotten enough blood on cheap fabric to know that the finicky, expensive suit doesn’t stand a chance. You’ll have to change Swatch’s design now just to hide your stupid mistake. No chance you can find a washer that won’t just tear it to shreds or suck the color right out of it, either.

Swatch might be able to find somewhere that could do it if you asked. Hell, it could probably be done at the Mansion. You always used to just toss your suit jackets into the laundry room when you worked there, and nothing ever fell apart.

The very idea of Swatch knowing about this is sends a cold sweat rolling down your back.

They already think so little of you. Think you can’t take care of yourself. Can’t handle your job. Can’t handle their friendship.

And you can’t. Not really. You can’t even do this without screwing it up, something you’re supposed to be good at. Can’t keep in touch with people you consider your best friends. Can’t even get a proper night’s sleep like a normal person. Can’t function. Can’t take care of yourself. Can’t. Cant. Can’t.

“Damb-it,” you hiss and bite the tender finger still in your mouth. “Ow! Mofther-phucker.”

“What the hell did you do now?”

Crimp stands in the doorway, her arms crossed. She watches you scramble and knock your knees against the stand. Your work wobbles on the cheap mannequin and threatens to tip over.

“Nothing!” You stop the swaying mannequin with a leg and pray she can’t see the blood-stained fabric from this angle. Waving your bleeding finger, you plaster on a smile. “Stuck myself.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but is kind enough to shrug your behavior off. She looks better, like she managed to get a bit of sleep. You try not to feel jealous.

“Ouch. Are we eating or what?”

“Oh! Uh...”

The strain in your back finally makes itself heard, and your eyes pulse in their sockets. How long had you been working? A quick look at your phone shows that your shift is almost over, the time having slipped away right under your nose as you worked. Actual lunchtime has come and gone, and your stomach clenches.

“Sure… That sounds good.”

It’s better than sitting here and looking at all the new work you have to do.

Crimp chooses the stool when you join her in the break-room. You retrieve two boxes of spaghetti code from the fridge and slide Crimp her own box. You don’t bother microwaving yours. Plopping down onto the couch, you sink so deep that your knees sit level with your elbows. You have to lean forward awkwardly to keep from spilling food all over yourself. It makes your back feel even worse, but it’s fine. It keeps you awake. You dig into your food.

Cold and slimy, just as Swatch had promised. Just how you like it. They’d be mortified if they knew.

Crimp’s a civilized woman. She slides past the stool and goes to heat her food in the microwave. As soon as she opens the box she stops and stares down at it for a long moment. All her eyes narrow into confused slits.

“Hm.”

You look up from your own food, a noodle stuck to your cheek. “Whuh? What? ‘S it got olives on it?”

Your boss slowly tips the box until you can see inside. Nestled on top of a tangled lump of spaghetti-code is a zip-lock bag full of cash.

Swatch has drawn a small caricature of their own face on it. Doodle-Swatch winks at you, smug even when the sharpie they’re drawn in has melted and smeared from the humidity trapped inside the box.

Heat blasts across your face and you can’t make yourself meet Crimp’s eyes when she tosses it to you. Sauce splashes all over your arm when you catch it, and you can’t even bring yourself to care as you wipe it - and yourself - clean with a wad of napkins. Your boss starts the microwave up while you fumble the money into your Inventory.

Asshole.

Stupid, pretentious, nosy, meddling, asshole.

“…I’ll have to give it back later.” It’s a lame attempt to save face and Crimp laughs at you. Your shoulders rise up to your ears and you pick at your food. Despite your exhaustion and hunger, you don’t feel like eating anymore. You… just want to go home.

Crimp pulls her food from the microwave a second before the annoying beeping can start up. She spears her food with a plastic fork and starts mixing it violently. Sauce squelches revoltingly and noodles flop out onto the counter. You try to focus on how gross that is, rather than how gross you feel.

“If I’d known you’d be giving it right back I would have kept it for myself.” Crimp slurps a noodle and grimaces at the temperature. Deciding it’s good enough she hops onto her stool and points her fork at your chest. “Keep it. It’s not like it’s much anyway. Not to them. You should be charging double for all the work you put in.”

“They’re my friends, I’m not charging them anything.” What right do you have to do that, anyway? You can’t even answer their texts half the time. The idea of demanding money from them is mortifying. So far all you’ve done to the suit is stain and ruin it.

“Don’t be an idiot. Give ‘em the 20% family and friends deal,” Crimp says around a mouthful of food. “Charge ‘em 20% more for wasting your time.”

“How do you have any customers?”

“I’m just that good. Pass me a napkin.”

“For a raise? Sure.”

Crimp cackles. “There! Seriously though, give it here. If I get ink on this apron I’ll kill you. It’s my last clean one.”

“Then don’t wear your apron while you eat, idiot.”

“Watch it.”

When you lean forward, hand out, she swipes the napkins. She dabs at her mouth politely before going back to scarfing her food. There’s a blot of ink on the corner of her apron that you decide not to point out.

Crimp gets through another mouthful before she starts antagonizing you again. “At least that butler has a good head on their shoulders. They’re smart enough to know you won’t take what you’re owed.”

“God, just. Shut up.” You drop your fork into your box and press a hand to your face. “Forget you saw that. Don’t even… I don’t need it. They’re always babying me.” Embarrassing you.

“Good. Someone needs to keep an eye on you.” Crimp points her fork at you again, eyes narrowed. “You’re certainly doing a horrible job at it.”

“They were my boss. It’s- it’s ridiculous! I can take care of myself!”

Crimp shrugs. “Well, they obviously don’t think so.” When she sees your scowl she shrugs harder. “What! Give them less of a reason to worry next time. Get some sleep before you visit. Look a little more alive.”

“I get sleep. I just look like this,” you lie. “I don’t need them coddling me… you either! I’m fine- totally fine! I can’t exactly go crying to my bosses every time I have a problem or- or need money! Not if I’m going to have my own shop someday.”

“Pfft.” Crimp bites down on her fork and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. How close are you to that again? Kid, you know you can just sell your shit here-“

“I’m fine!” You shut the half-eaten box of code and get up, tossing it back into the fridge. You slam the door and a bag of forgotten chips falls off of the top and to the counter. “I’ve got independent clients. I’m getting there. It’s all online right now.”

Crimp nods, slowly. Her eyebrows are gathering together and it’s the worst thing she could have done, looking at you like she’s a second from apologizing. You turn away from her and scrub your hands in the sink, huffing and hiding behind your bent shoulders.

“I’ve got it.”

“Sure, sure. But if some rich fuck wants to sponsor you, why not take advantage of it?”

“Swatch isn’t rich.” You laugh at the idea. “They live in the Mansion. The rooms there are fuckin’ small and- and miserable. I don’t know how they do it, living there… Or you for that matter, living right above where you work.”

“Hey, I save a lot on gas.” Crimp snickers. You shoot her a glare over your shoulder.

“Not funny. You need to junk that car already. You can’t even drive.”

Crimp raises a set of hands and waves them at you dismissively. “It comes in handy.”

“The breaks are shot, it’s falling apart, and it’s ugly, Crimp.”

“I like it! I’ve had it forever. It’s great for big deliveries.”

You scoff. It’s just more junk, like all the boxes of crap in her store. You turn and lean on the counter, ready to lay into her about how dangerous that rusty hunk of flammable material is. Crimp stops you, raising a hand and pointing to your shirt.

“What happened there? You already lose this one too?”

“What?” You look down. There’s nothing but your apron and name tag. There’s a bit of sauce on your apron though. Damn it.

“The pin I made you.”

Your pin? You reach for it but find only the warm fabric of your shirt, and a small ripped hole. Pulling your collar out you find nothing but a tear in your shirt where it usually sits. You check your apron pockets - maybe it’s fallen off? No, nothing.

You’re speechless. Flabbergasted. You’ve never been flabbergasted before.

It’s gone. It’s been gone all morning. Gone since you let that virus sucker you into a handshake and pull you down to his level.

You’d fallen for a performance. A trick. Moving parts and colorful phrases to distract you, just so he could swipe something that was shiny and had a slim chance of being valuable. And you’d fallen for it, so overwhelmed by his novelty that you hadn’t even noticed him pocket it. Too inept to handle more than one thing at a time, you’d focused on all the wrong things.

It’s just a cheap pin. It doesn’t matter. It’s not worth anything. Not worth the energy you’ll waste being upset. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.

But it’s yours, and you earned it. Crimp made it for you. It’s yours.

No one has picked your pockets since your first day in Cyber City. It had happened once, and never again. You thought you’d learned what to look out for. Thought you were smart enough that it would never happen again. But here you are.

You’d be less pissed if he’d taken your phone. Or even your wallet. But your pin? The only one who cares about it is you.

“Oh my God.” Your cheeks simmer, your voice is so flat and heavy it sinks to the floor. “I’m going to kill that thing.”

Crimp smacks her lips and chews on her fork, leaving bite marks in the plastic with her fangs. She raises an eyebrow at you and squints a few eyes. “Clock out first.”

Spamton’s never felt so alive!

He’s got no idea where that lightner was headed to, but he knows where they’ll eventually return to. Where else would a lightner make their home? Why else hasn’t he heard a peep or a even a little rumor about them?

Queen has probably had them locked up tight since the moment they got here. Maybe she was planning on some big reveal full of explosions and barrel throwing. Maybe she’d just forgotten they were even there entirely.

Whatever the reason, he’s just thankful for his luck. If he could get back before them and set up, he might be able to squeak his way into the basement, lightner in tow. He doesn’t exactly have a plan past getting inside and finding that lightner, but it’ll work out. It’s a deal he’s certain he can make! He’s tempted to rub his hands together deviously, but the Maus he’s holding wouldn’t appreciate that. It’s already bitten him twice for his rough handling.

The Mansion only has one alleyway, and it’s all the way at the very back, hidden away for the sake of aesthetics. It’s stupidly clean and organized. Swept clean. Walls scrubbed, clean. Seems the Swatchlings don’t have anything better to do than organize and clean even the damn trash.

He’d given up trying to find anything really good back here years ago. He was more likely to get caught making a mess than find anything. All the good [$%*!] gets melted in acid. Hell of a convenient disposal method.

Sticking to the shadows, he slinks down the alley. He climbs up a stack of wooden boxes covered in expensive wine labels and to a narrow window. It’s been left slightly cracked open for a few weeks now, venting kitchen smells into the less-than-dirty alleyway. He’s been steadily funneling Maice through it whenever he can bribe one into helping. He hasn’t been quick enough to slip inside more than once so far (during which he took a wrong turn straight into the kitchen and immediately got caught), but today he’s been luckier than he has in years.

The Maus squeaks when he shoves it through the slightly open window. He’s tried squeezing through himself, of course, but his head is too big to fit through the frame, let alone the small crack it’s been opened.

There’s a tiny thump, and he cranes his neck to peer inside. He can see a bit of the dim hallway, some of the wallpaper, and then the Maus as it rights itself. The little creature glares up at him for a moment, before skittering off to do the job he’s [[Paying]] it for. Little [slime] had asked for twice as much since it’d already gone in once this morning and been kicked out rather roughly. Whatever. As long as it got the job done. It’d all be worth it in the end.

As soon as it’s out of sight he tumbles down the stacked boxes and darts into position next to the door. Some lazy Swatchling has left a trash bag just outside the door, leaning against the wall and forgotten. It really is his lucky day.

Spamton buries himself under the bag and waits. He doesn’t even smell the rotting garbage inside at this point. It’s all just background noise to him now as he waits in anticipation. Sweat rolls down the back of his neck and his ears [[Ring, Ring]] in the silence.

A moment, a minute, and then he hears it. Swatchling voices raising higher and higher, and then screaming in panic. Their shrieks are high enough to shatter windows, or at least make his ball-joints rattle. There’s the confusing, loud sound of a group of people panicking. Something drops and shatters. A chorus of screams, and then the commotion starts to move closer and closer. The sound of stomping feet and fearful Swatchling cries get louder and louder until they’re right on the other side of the door.

A particularly brave Swatchling, suit a bright red, tosses open the alley door. The maus shoots out and disappears down the alleyway with an indignant squeak. The Swatchling doesn’t stick around to watch it go, turning and rushing back inside with a disgusted cry. There’s a racket of other Swatchlings answering with their own cries as their bravest member returns.

Spamton’s hand shoots out as the heavy door swings shut and just barely catches it. The metal door crushes his fingers, pinning them against the frame for a moment. The pain is worth it. He caught it just in time, his fingers just wide enough to keep the lock from catching.

He’s in. He’s crawling out from under the heavy trash bag and slipping through the door into a dim servant hallway and he’s in. Yes yes yes yes!

He’s been back here before - hell he’s gotten into a lot of weird places in the Mansion during his quest for NEO - but it still creeps him out a little. The servant’s hallways are always a little dark, a little dusty, a little less well kept than the rest of the Mansion. They don’t get used that often anymore. Queen likes to watch her [bird-brains] prance around and flex.

The wallpaper’s out of date, before even his time, and the carpet’s thin and worn from years of service. It’s a little creepy, it’s got the same kind of… forgotten feeling to it as the Basement. Digital dust gathers in the corners with scraps of old data.

Straight ahead is a hallway that he knows leads right to the kitchens, thanks to his last failed attempt. He can hear muted, still slightly panicked voices drifting from a square of light at the end of the hall. To his left is far more promising - unexplored dim hallways that open up to secret doors and different rooms all throughout the Mansion. [Jackpot!]

Spamton tiptoes down the hallway, sticking close to the walls as he makes his way deeper into the Mansion. He wanders the halls, keeping an eye out for anything familiar that could tell him what direction to head next. He takes random turns, trusting his luck, and for a while he’s completely alone.

He’s gotten pretty far into the Mansion (by his best guess, at least) when he finally starts to hear voices that aren’t drifting through the walls. He stops at a junction of adjoining halls. Spamton keeps low as he peeks around a corner to see what he’s dealing with.

A pair of Swatchlings lean with their heads close together over a full laundry cart. Their voices are low, suits both a matching, nervous seaweed-green as they gossip on the clock. They both have their backs to him and he quickly slips by as they whisper together, their beaks nearly touching.

“-recent… just saw her… not a week ago…-”

“-so unfortunate… hanging around those types of websites!-“

“-safe, so close to the mansion? Should we…”

“-happening much more often… Queen says-“

The sound of the gossiping Swatchlings fades away as Spamton darts down another hallway. His heart pounds in his chest and he takes a moment to rest against a wall as he catches his breath. He still has no idea where he is, but that’s not a totally bad thing. If he hasn’t seen this area of the Mansion during his many (many… many…) break ins, then he’s probably further in than he’s ever gotten before.

Spamton wipes his sweaty palms on his jacket before he creeps on. He passes a few doors that look promising, but when he tries the knobs they’re all locked. That could be good - it could mean he’s near the guest rooms, or something important.

Still, he’s getting impatient. He’s never been a patient man, and quickens his steps as he wanders the nearly-abandoned halls. He’s starting to get annoyed by this useless maze of hallways when he turns a corner and stumbles to a halt.

Laying in a beam of light in front of an open door is a large Tasque. The door behind it looks like it opens into one of the main hallways of the Mansion. He can see the very edge of one of Queen’s portraits. Spamton’s joy at seeing something familiar (finally) is squashed when the Tasque lifts it’s head and stares right at him.

He freezes, leg lifted to take a step. He immediately feels sweat run down his back as the Tasque sleepily blinks at him. It’s a big one, almost larger than him. Older looking as well. It’s been around a while. Long enough to know to look out for him, if he’s unlucky.

He’s always so unlucky.

Spamton clears his throat and speaks as quietly as is possible for him, “EHEAHEA. HEEEY THERE [Big B0 y]. YYY0U’REE NO RAT, ARE YA?”

Spamton shoos the Tasque with shaking hands. He hesitantly shuffles closer. The Tasque makes no move to stand up. It stares up at him with half-closed eyes, tail lazily flicking from side to side.

“SEE? YOU’RE A [One of the Good Ones] [Meow.wav]. JUST. STAY. THERE. AND LET ME [Keep Calm and Carry On]! DEAL?”

Spamton scoots closer, aiming to shuffle past and to the open door. The Tasque’s ears flick and he freezes. It blinks slowly at him before the program lazily hauls itself to it’s feet.

“[%$!&].”

Spamton turns tail and runs back the way he came. He hears a soft meow behind him and the sound of paws on carpet lazily giving chase.

“[%$!&] [@$!&] SH!7!”

He darts down random hallways, looking for any open door or alcove he could squeeze into. He takes a right and skids to a halt. Someone’s left a silverware cart parked right next to a door. It’s covered by a clean white tablecloth. Perfect.

He doesn’t hesitate, darting under the tablecloth. A small pile of plates clatter when he ducks under and he senselessly shushes them, like that will do anything.

It’s fine. Not his best hiding spot, but he’s done worse. There’s just enough room for him to curl up next to a basket of folded napkins and wait.

He holds his breath for as long as he can, and when he doesn’t hear the sound of paws coming down the hall towards him he sighs. The tablecloth flutters in front of his nose and he leans back against the basket of napkins to catch his breath. Okay. That was close, but once he’s gotten his racing heart under control he can start again. Try the door a few feet away, maybe he’ll luck out and it-

There is a very bit-crushed, grumbling ‘meow’ from the other side of the table cloth. The cloth starts to move as the Tasque begins pawing at it.

God dammit.

He’ll have to Fight it, or maybe he could ball up one of the napkins and toss it down the hallway? He is not getting kicked out of the Mansion by a damn Tasque. Not again.

Spamton crumples up one of the neatly folded napkins. He reaches to lift the edge of the cloth to chuck it down the hall and then book it. Just as he starts to lift the edge he hears the near by door open. He drops the edge of the cloth like it’s on fire and bites down on his knuckle to keep from groaning in frustration.

The Tasque ‘moww’s in greeting and Spamton resists the urge to slam his head against one of the cart’s metal supports when he hears who’s familiar voice answers it.

“Well where were you when I needed you this morning, hm?” Swatch’s voice sounds muffled through the tablecloth, but he’d recognize it anywhere. The cart shakes slightly and silverware clinks right above Spamton’s head as the butler sets something down. “Could have saved us all quite a lot of trouble if you’d been doing your job.”

God. DAMMIT.

Spamton strangles the air in front of him with shaking hands. He doesn’t have time to sit here and listen to [[Easels]] baby-talk a Tasque! He’s got to figure out where that stupid lightner’s staying in this stupid Mansion so he can set up for the most important deal of his [worthless] life!

The Tasque starts purring and Spamton drags his nails down his plastic face. Swatch coos and - at least he assumes it’s what they’re doing - starts petting the program. Heaven, didn’t they have a job they were supposed to be doing? Someone’s @$$ to be kissing? Why today of all days were they not in the cafe?

After a few minutes where all he can hear is the Tasque’s happy purring, Swatch speaks up again.

“Yes, you are a very handsome little program, but now we both should be getting back to work.”

Finally! Spamton silently punches the air in victory. He’d wait until bird-brain’s next stop, then he’d book it to the nearest unlocked door and make his way to a more familiar hiding spot. He’d just have to be patient and wait for the lightner to return. They couldn’t stay out in the city that long. He’d just have to lay in wait until-

The cloth lifts and he’s suddenly face to beak with Swatch. The butler’s eyes snap from the basket of napkins to his instantly, and the Tasque meows happily at the discovery.

Swatch gapes at him. “How in the-“

Spamton doesn’t let them finish. He chucks the fist full of balled up napkins right at their face. The butler squawks in surprise and while they flail, Spamton darts for the opposite side of the cart. His legs tangle in the cloth on the way out and he ends up dragging the whole cart down after him.

Plates and silverware scatter everywhere, fine china shattering and sending broken pieces flying. He hears Swatch’s indignant shout behind him as he gets to his feet and rushes down the hall in a blind panic.

Okay. Okay. He can still salvage this! He can find some place to hide out until it all blows over. It can still work out!

Spamton turns blindly down a hallway and screeches to a halt in front of a pair of Swatchlings. They’re the same damn ones he’d seen gossiping earlier. Their cheerful blue suits turn red with alarm at the sight of him.

He freezes. The Swatchlings freeze. They stare each other down for a second before Swatch rounds the corner behind him. The Swatchlings leap to action, both diving for him at the same time. They slam their shoulders together and go tumbling apart. Spamton darts between the space they leave behind as they both fall against the hallway walls. He’s laughing. A glitchy, manic sound. He runs in a blind panic, Swatch and Swatchlings making a racket behind him.

“Shit!”

“Language, Chartreuse!”

“Sorry!”

“So sorry, Swatch!”

“Are you two alright? Wait where did he-?”

Spamton’s hyperventilating, but also laughing maniacally from the rush. He turns down a different hallway while Swatch is left to deal with the two tonnes of Swatchling blocking the hallway.

Spamton continues running. It really is his lucky day! He [prays] it holds long enough for him to find an unlocked door.

He rushes down the dark halls, not sure where to head from here. He spots the door he snuck in through. He starts to flirt with the idea of bum-rushing the kitchens and taking his chances in the main hallways, and then he’s airborne.

One moment he’s heading straight for the kitchen, and the next his own collar is choking him. He’s lifted off the ground and hauled through the access door and outside. Spamton squints at the sudden change in light level, kicking his legs. A familiar voice speaks from somewhere above him, voice disappointed and a little out of breath.

“You know, I was beginning to have my suspicions about our infestation. None of my staff leave enough garbage around to attract vermin… And Tasque Manager runs a very tight ship.”

So much for this being his lucky day.

“H3333Y [Feathers]! HHHOW’S IT HANGING?” Spamton twists to try and look up. He’s got half a mind to bite Swatch, but he’s done that once in the past and the butler doesn’t give him the chance to try it again.

He’s unceremoniously dumped into the alley before he can even manage to turn enough to see a shadow. He tumbles onto his ass and glares up at the stuffy, annoyed butler that stands between him and [[Heaven]]. The door shuts behind them with finality. Thunk. He can hear the pair of Swatchlings faintly through the door, bickering before they fade away.

“Actually, I was having a rather pleasant day before you broke in. May I kindly remind you that you are not welcome on the premises, Spamton.”

Same old song and dance. Same old Swatch.

“YEAH YE34H, WHATE<ER.”

Spamton stumbles to his feet and makes a show of dusting off his already dirtied clothes. Welp, nothing left to do but try and make a deal.

“LOOK [Big Bird], WHY NOT LOOK AWAY JUST THIS ONCE? COME ONNN, I CAN GIVE YOU SUCH A GOOD DEAL ON [[Totally Useless Crap That Nobody Wants.]]!!”

Swatch sighs. They reach a taloned hand up to rub under their glasses. Their shoulders droop and their hand drops weakly to their side. They look down at Spamton with a hopeless, tired expression. They already know that he’s not going to make this easy for them.

“Please do not waste my time with another one of your so-called ‘deals’. I really do not have the patience for it today,” Swatch sighs.

“HOW ABOUT A [Chat one-on-one with Hot Babes]? I’VE GOT A FEELING YOU’LL REALLY BE [Lowest Interest Ratings in Town!].”

“I assure you, Spamton, nothing you say, or offer, will convince me to allow you inside. You were, and still are, permanently banned from the Mansion.”

Spamton rolls his eyes. Well duh, he wouldn’t be sneaking in if he wasn’t. “JUST [101 Office-appropriate Jokes] ME FOR A SECOND, WILL Y0U?”

Swatch crosses their arms and frowns severely at him. “Please leave, or I will have to fetch a Swatchling to assist you.”

Classic Swatch. Too good to get their own hands dirty. Spamton sticks his shaking fists in his pockets and gives his most award-losing smile. “COME OOON, I JUST HAD A FEW [Q&A]’s ABOUT THAT LITTLE [lightbringer] YOU’VE BEEN [Hidden]ING!”

That gets a reaction. Swatch’s posture straightens out and their shoulders go stiff. Their hands twitch and they lean back slightly.

Interesting.

“…I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“DON’T GIVE ME THAT [%#!&]! LIKE QUEEN’D JUST LET A LIGHT:<NER WANDER AROUND FOR ANY OLD [slimeball] TO SNATCH UP. THEY MUST BE A PRETTY [specil] CUSTOMER.” Spamton rocks from heel to toe and sneers up at Swatch.

Swatch folds their arms against their chest. “We are not having this conversation. Leave.”

“WHAT? AFRAID THEY’LL [You won’t find a better deal anywhere else]?”

Swatch… laughs at him. They drop their shoulders and rub between their eyes again, shaking their head. Spamton’s shoulders rise up to his cheeks and he clenches his fist.

“I assure you, they’ll want nothing to do with the likes of you, Spamton. A lightner has no need for a failed salesman.”

Swatch turns away. They turn their back on him and reach for the door with another chuckle. Spamton grits his teeth and lifts his chin, taking a half-step after them.

“WHAT DO YOU [nose-knows]! I’VE GOT GOOD DEA- HEY! HEY!”

Swatch doesn’t even turn to look at him. They’re ignoring him, unlocking the door. Turning their back on him yet again.

Fine.

Fine.

He hates being ignored.

“YOU WANT A [[Specil Deal]]??? HERE'S A [[Specil Deal]] [just] FOR YOU!!!”

Swatch leaps back from the door as a Pipis makes contact with the metal and explodes. The butler stumbles away from the door and rounds on Spamton with a furious expression.

“Spamton! Leave. I am not going to Fight with you over this. Please act with some sense for once.”

Spamton laughs. His hands shake as he summons another Pipis and lobs it straight at Swatch. The butler ducks to the side quickly, eyes wide in surprise. The Pipis hits the pile of wine crates and explodes, sending sharp pieces of wood flying across the alley.

“LOOKS LIKE WE'VE GOT OURSELVES A [Quick learner]!” Spamton laughs.

The world darkens around the two of them as they’re both pulled into the Fight. He’s going to get something out of this break-in attempt. Even if it’s just a few chips off of Swatch’s HP.

“DON’T YOU KNOW IT’S [Awful Bedside Manner] TO TURN YOUR BACK ON A SALESMAN?”

Chapter Text

Headache. A bad one.

That’s what you get for staying up all night, squinting at tiny threads in the dark. At least you can say Peri’s slacks are finished now. The hemming and fit adjustment only took a couple of hours. The subtle embellishments embroidered along the seams took 4 days.

As hard as you try, late as you stay up, embroidery is a time-consuming process. The suit is going to take the rest of the month. Maybe longer, if you keep working so slowly. You need to buckle down if you’re going to give Swatch their (deceitful, sneaking) money’s worth. They’re going to get what they paid for, whether they like it or not. You’re going all out. The suit’s going to be a show-stopper.

Screw your sleep schedule - it was already garbage to begin with. At least now you’ve done something more useful with your time than stare at the ceiling.

You definitely spent those quiet hours wisely, and not imagining a thousand ways to wring that little virus’s neck when you next saw him. Nope, you did something healthy. Like catching up on podcasts… Or watching videos of cats. One of those things. Whichever Swatch would find more believable.

There are also no plans to visit the Trash Zone after your meeting with Swatch, the heaviest object you can find in hand. What a silly idea. You would never. That’s just irresponsible. It’s not like you would hold a grudge over something as small as a pin. No way! You’re way more mature than that.

If anyone asks, you’re just going dumpster diving.

It’s Wednesday, which means it’s Beefcake Rotation Day. There’s going to be a whole new set of flexing Swatchlings cavorting around the cafe, just in time for lunch. Of course, that means that by the time you get to the Mansion there’s a line of excited patrons crowding around the cafe doors. More people have shown up than you expected.

It’s a really bad headache now. Why the hell did you sleep in?

You turn around and head right back outside. There are other ways into the cafe. Ones that don’t involve standing in line for half an hour next to excited, sweaty programs.

Queen’s gardens had entertained her at some point, long before you got here. A few portraits on the castle walls depict Queen dunking basketballs and chugging glasses of battery acid with the gardens as a tasteful backdrop. She’d never done more than use it to host a barrel-throwing tournament during your time employed at the Mansion. As far as you know, at least.

The opulent gardens are still maintained, but ignored. Queen’s interests lie elsewhere these days. She’s back on Minecrap, last you heard.

You’re pretty sure Swatch had to beg Her not to pour concrete over the whole thing and install an arcade in its place. They really enjoy the view. Or the occasional afternoon tea - schedule permitting.

Still, in a place like Cyber City, not many people have the patience to sit and enjoy the view. The gardens are abandoned when you cut through them, save for a few looming statues of Queen in various… interesting poses.

Cutting through the gardens turns an annoying trek around the Mansion into a 10 minute shortcut. It takes a little longer than usual, because you get lost in a maze shaped like Queen’s face. You can practically hear her making a joke about ‘Getting Lost In My: Advanced LCD Display. Wink Wink.’

You push through a dense hedge and step into the alley behind the Mansion with a new set of scratches on your arms and leaves clinging to your shirt. Better than mingling with strangers. Or worse, running into an old coworker with time to chat while you were trapped waiting in line.

Something’s wrong, though. The alley feels off. You don’t figure out what’s up with it until you reach your destination and find a bunch of wooden shards swept into a neat little pile by the dumpster, and a series of blast marks. They’re all faded, scrubbed or swept away or even covered by sand in some spots. There’s no hiding the one on the back door, though. Nor the dent left in the metal right below the doorknob.

You look up for some dumb reason. Like you might spot Queen flying around in her throne, tossing glasses of acid all willy-nilly.

This wasn’t Queen’s doing, though. You’ve cleaned enough of her messes to know the difference between the pixelated ash of her explosions and whatever… this is. The blast marks drag along the ground like oil when you scrub your sneaker through one. It sticks to everything and rolls up like greasy car exhaust under your heel. You have to run your shoe over a plank of shattered wood for a while before it stops leaving black streaks. It’s almost… organic. Like mold.

The metal door is oily against your knuckles when you knock on it. It’s been scrubbed nearly clean, but dark burn marks cling to the porous blue brick surrounding it. Faded but still there. The Swatchlings seem to have been too busy to haul out the acid wash.

No one answers your initial knock for some time. As you raise your fist to knock again, there is a series of clicks as locks are turned. Many locks. The door cracks open just a sliver and a black beak flecked with white spots pokes out of the gap. You recognize the white dewdrop shaped spot at the very tip of the beak as soon as you see it.

“H-Hello?”

“Keylime! Hey, it’s just me. Sorry I didn’t call ahead or anything, I know it’s a busy day. I was hoping-”

The door slams shut in your face. Two more locks click before the door is thrown open. A very short Swatchling stares up at you with wide, green eyes, her red suit quickly fading to match them. Other than the white speckles on the very tip of it, her beak is as dark and as black as her feathers.

“It is you!”

Keylime grabs your arms and drags you inside. You’re spun around and left to regain your balance in the unusually well-lit passage while she shuts the door and begins re-locking it. There are at least 4 new locks, all recently installed. They’ve been welded to the door.

Keylime twitters to you over her shoulder as she hooks one of the chain-locks in place, “Oh why didn’t you say it was you, oh I would have let you in much much much sooner! We haven’t seen you in so long! Why in Queen’s name are you coming in through the back? So silly! You don’t have to wait in line, you could’ve come straight in- Oh! Did you finally decide? Are you working here again? Welcome back!”

“Uh, no. No, no, Keys, I’m just here for Swatch. What’s going on with the alley-“

Keylime turns to you with a smile. Her feathers look disheveled, puffed up instead of slicked back and neat like they’re supposed to be. Her eyes are wide circles and she keeps glancing to the door as she speaks. “Oh! Swatch! Let me go get them! Let me get Swatch for you, I’ll be just a minute. They’re a little busy right now, oh yes. Please don’t go anywhere! Stay right here - so good to see you again! So good!”

She scampers down the hall and to the kitchen before you can even take a breath. Her coat has shifted to a nervous yellow by the time she disappears through the kitchen doors. You’re left standing alone in a hall that’s far brighter than it should be.

Since when was there time to worry about back end crap like keeping the service hallways tidy? The lights are on, all of them, with new bulbs installed. Someone’s vacuumed the musty smell out of the carpet, and the digital dust and codewebs that were gathered in the corners are gone too. A Tasque meows from somewhere down the hall to your left, and another one further away is quick to answer.

What the hell.

Is Queen sick or something? Was there an attack? No, it would have been on the news, right? But you don’t watch the news, so how would you know? You would have gotten an alert on your phone? Maybe. No one looked panicked on your walk here. The streets were as busy as ever… then again you had kept your eyes down in case you tripped and messed up your still-tender knee. Everyone around you could have been bawling their eyes out and you wouldn’t have noticed at all.

Swatch would have called if something serious had happened… right? If only to warn you to be careful.

It feels like eons before the kitchen doors open and Swatch’s familiar figure marches towards you.

They’re dressed up today, wearing a skirt instead of slacks. Your joy at the sight of them is soon squashed when you recognize the corset they’re wearing. A cleverly disguised back brace. It’s made to blend into their outfit so as to not ‘disturb the customers’. You would know; you were the one who made it for them. Their swishing skirt does a good job masking a slight limp as well.

Not good enough for you to miss, though.

“Are you alright? What happened?” Your voice cracks as you talk over them, interrupting their greeting. You hurry to meet them halfway.

Swatch stops short, hands up as you rush up to them. You do your best to mask your own hurt knee. Thank god you’d been smart enough to put the brace on under your jeans, sweat be damned.

“Wha- I’m perfectly fine,” Swatch says, “Just fine. But what are you doing here?“

“You’re wearing the brace!” You argue. You move to circle them and Swatch holds out an arm, expression flustered. “And you’re limping.”

“I-“

There’s a creak. Swatch glances back at a group of beaks poking nosily out from the kitchen doors. You can’t help but notice that they turn their whole body to look, instead of glancing over their shoulder. Stiff all the way up to their neck.

“…Why don’t we discuss this outside.”

All those damn locks have to be opened again, and you’re bouncing on your toes, biting your tongue until both you and Swatch are in the alley and the door is shut. Swatch turns to face you and you throw out an arm to point accusingly at the blast marks and the dented door. It’s the first thing that comes to mind that could explain their injuries.

“Did you get into a Fight? You?” Your eyes comb your friend for any visible damage. Other than the brace and a small hitch in their step (could just be a symptom of back-pain), you don’t spot anything glaringly wrong. They have more bags under their eyes than usual, too dark for their tinted glasses to hide. Their face is flushed, but that could just be embarrassment.

“I- no! Of course not. That is… entirely unrelated.” Swatch’s gaze lingers on the dark marks for a moment before they take a calming breath, eyes shut. You force yourself take one as well, hands trembling. “I missed a step while carrying an oversized tray. A common work-place accident. You know I… I don’t Fight.”

“So you are hurt.” Swatch scrambles to down-play it but you’re already marching towards one of the wine boxes that’s still in one piece. You kick it over to Swatch and look down at it with a pointed glare. “Sit down. Why are you working if you’re hurt? You should be resting. Sit.”

Swatch huffs, and lifts their beak at the crate.

They really must be hurt, though, because they eventually give in and sit down with a sigh.

“It is really nothing to worry about. I had my HP restored, I am just a little sore. More importantly, why are you here with no call? Periwinkle is working today, and it’s a Wednesday. You hate Wednesdays. You always said that it was too busy for your liking.”

They’re deflecting. You pull a .zip file out of your Inventory and shove the digital manila folder into their talons as you circle to stand beside them.

“Got the pants done. Wanted to surprise you.” Your voice is curt as you lean to look at their back.

Swatch sputters, looking between the file and you. “You zipped it? It’s going to get wrinkled!”

“That’s what you’re worried about? It- no, I had Crimp do it for me. She knows what she’s doing. Sit up and let me see what you’ve done to yourself.”

“Really, now.” Swatch shifts to try and turn their back away from you, shuffling their feet. You stubbornly follow after. “I had everything looked at. I was cleared. It was just a little fall, I got back up right after.”

That’s a heap of bullshit. “No way Dr. Kasper cleared you to go back to work. And if he did, he's an idiot.”

Kasper was no idiot, though. He had the Kasperkey name to uphold. Only the best for Queen when it came to Her in-house doctors.

Either Kasper had decided to take bribes all of a sudden, or Swatch had downplayed their back injury in order to skirt PTO. It wouldn’t be the first time their devotion to Queen had outweighed the care they should have for their own health.

Swatch gasps your name with prim, scandalized shock. “Dr. Kasper is an excellent physician. He would never- Hey!” Swatch grabs your wrist when you reach to un-velcro their brace. They firmly hold your wrist away from their side and you wiggle it ineffectively. “Do not.” They warn you.

“Does it hurt high or low?” you ask, ignoring their indignant squawking. “If it hurts on your spine you need to go lay down right now.”

“I am fine, I promise.” Their dismissive, high-pitched tone fades a little, becoming more genuine and serious. They tilt their head at you, eyes narrowing just a bit. Curious. “Just sore. Nothing is wrong with my spine.”

“So you didn’t lose a game of hot potato out here with some greasy arsonist?” Your voice comes out dry and disbelieving. Mean, almost.

“I did no such thing! It was S- the stairs. The stairs are entirely to blame.”

Swatch releases your wrist and you take a step back. With a heavy sigh you lock your eyes on the ground, trying to calm your racing heart.

Maybe you’re overeacting. Sleeping hasn’t come easy, and you’ve been staying up to work on Peri’s suit instead of laying in bed to rest. As painful and boring as that is, it’s necessary. You’re not on your A-game. Fraying at the edges.

You’re also in no position to judge how Swatch takes care of their health when you’re so dutifully ignoring your own.

Reel it in. Take a breath and compose yourself - you’re freaking Swatch out. They already have so much to deal with just on a daily basis, running the whole Mansion and the cafe as well. Don’t give them more by having a panic attack over nothing.

“Sorry... I’m sorry I just... I don’t like seeing you hurt, Swatch.”

Swatch is quiet for a moment before they sigh. They settle a hand on their knee with a chuckle and smile up at you. “I really am fine, but your concern is touching. And thank you for bringing me this,” they wave the .zip at you with a wry look, “even if you came unannounced… And zipped it.”

“Sorry! I totally forgot to text-” a lie. You’d hoped to sneak in and out without any fanfare. So much for that. “-and that it’s Beefcake day.“ Another lie. “But the .zip is good, I promise. Crimp does it for clients all the time.”

“That is not what it’s called.” Now Swatch is lying, everyone calls it that.

You snort and roll your eyes. They land on the dented door and your good humor fades. Concern seeps back in. “What happened out here, then?”

Swatch glances to the door with you. They sit up a little more with eyes narrowed in annoyance. “The… culmination of our series of break-ins. A Mauswheel formed. A rather large one.”

“Really?” Well thank goodness it wasn’t a virus. You’d been scared for a moment that one had made a try at infecting Queen. “…What’s with all that weird oily ash?”

Swatch shrugs, and then cringes and adjusts how they’re sitting. Right, only sore. Liar. “You’ll have to ask Tasque Manager. I was entirely uninvolved. Busy falling down the stairs, you know.” They smirk at you and you can’t help but huff and cross your arms.

It’s not funny.

But it’s also not your business. You don’t work here anymore. Swatch and the rest of the staff can handle a Mauswheel or two. TM could probably handle a whole troop of them.

Still, you can’t shake the nagging, itching feeling that Swatch isn’t telling you everything.

Well, who are you to judge? You tell lies all the time; you’re not exactly setting a good example.

Still…

From your Inventory you retrieve a cellophane wrapped cookie. A sticker emblazoned with your work’s logo seals it shut. A needle, tilted slightly with a thread wrapped around it like a snake. It’s the same familiar symbol that’s embossed on your (stolen) pin. You shove the obviously home-made treat into Swatch’s hands.

“Here. It’s oatmeal raisin, since you’re boring and birds can’t have chocolate.”

“I am a program, not an actual bird, and you have seen me eat chocolate before,” Swatch chides. They turn the package over, raising an eyebrow at a simple ingredients list stickered to the other side. “…Where did you get this? I didn’t realize you worked for a rival cafe.”

“I don’t.” You are so done working food service of any kind. “Crimp makes them. I… help. Sometimes. She has me hand them out as freebies when we make too many. Promo item or whatever.” You flap a hand dismissively, eyes on your shoes. “They’ll boost your HP a little, and maybe help your back feel less ‘sore’.” Arms crossed, you stare at the pile of splintered wood, leaning heavily on your good leg. “They’re good. Crimp’s a grandma, she knows what she’s doing.”

Cyber City is running hot today. You can smell hot plastic and sweat drips between your shoulder blades. Your cheeks are flushed.

“You? Help bake something? After all the complaining you used to do about having to get up early for biscuit duty!”

“That was different. Getting up at 3AM is different. And be nice to me or I’ll take it back.”

Swatch snorts. “Well… Thank you. But really, I’m fine. No need to worry about me.” Swatch flips the wrapped treat over again, staring at the logo for a moment before it gets set down in their lap on top of the .zip folder.

“I’d worry less about you if you took a day off.” You snip. “At least tell me you have a chair up by the counter to lean on. A stool? A semi-sturdy Swatchling? Please.”

Swatch silently straightens their skirt over their knees. You cover your face with a hand and try not to grind your teeth into a fine paste.

“Swatch Palleta, I swear...”

“There’s far too much to do! I can’t just sit around. The cafe needs running, I have meetings to corral Her Grace into, Tasque Manager is updating our security systems… That’s just today!”

“What, you can’t delegate a few tasks to one of the Swatchlings? Ask TM to supervise! She can handle a few of ‘em for a day or two. I thought you were training Chrome to run the front counter for you anyways? This is as good a time as any to see how they do on their own.”

“I don’t need help. I have been doing this job for nearly three decades, a tweaked back isn’t going to change that.”

It’s not just their back though! It’s everything. You worked with Swatch for half a year and you’re certain you never heard or saw them take a single day off.

In your frustration, you decide to be mean.

“Does Queen know you got hurt?”

“I fail to see how a little fall would require our Lady Grace’s attention. She is a busy woman-“

“I’ll text her. Right now.”

“You will not.” Some panic finally makes it into Swatch’s tone. They shift like they might lunge to their feet if they see you reach for your pocket. The two of you glare at each other, Swatch frozen in a tense crouch, and you with your hand at your hip like a cowboy.

You cede first, dropping your hand to your side. “Swatch…“

The sky-grid above is a deep green. Vibrant against the black, sunless sky of Cyber World. You lean your head back and stare at it. A little blue tailwheel airplane scoots by, interrupting the view with the huge banner it’s dragging after it. A toothpaste ad. The yellow Addison printed on it has sharp, photoshop-white teeth. They’re grinning, urging you to Buy NOW!

Ugh.

A sigh creeps out of you. You’re not here to fight with Swatch. You’re still mad about the stunt they’d pulled with the takeaway food. But it’s no reason to lay into them so hard. They just worry for you - like you worry for them. The ways you two worry for each other just… clash.

“Swatch,” you start. You can’t look at them just yet and stare at the ad as the plane meanders off towards downtown. “I’m sorry. I’m in a bad mood... Been in a bad mood. The other day-“

The back door swings open, causing the both of you to jump. Swatch immediately cringes, and you take a half-step towards them. Hand already up and extended, palm ready.

A taller than average Swatchling hurries out of the door, eyes scanning the alley for Swatch. He brightens when he spots them.

“Swatch! I’m sorry to interrupt. A guest-“ The Swatchling cuts himself off. He gasps your name, recognizing you the same instant you recognize Peri’s broad shoulders. He really has gotten tall. “What are you doing here!?”

“Peri what the hell are they making you wear?!” You shriek at the same time, already laughing.

Peri is dressed in one of the ridiculous Birdy Brigade outfits. The low-cut ‘suit’ hardly counts as clothes at all, and leaves very little to the imagination. You start to wheeze at the sight of him wearing tights and that stupid fitted bodice. It even comes with a stupid little bow tie. All he’s missing are the little rabbit ears and a clip on cotton ball tail.

“You look ridiculous!”

The huge Swatchling ignores you, rushing forward to scoop you up in his huge arms. You choke on your own spit and laughter as he spins you around. It’s not until you’re mid-spin that you remember the surprise present that’s just sitting in Swatch’s lap.

You slip your hands out from Peri’s arms to hold onto his beak. Your eyes dart to Swatch’s lap, but both the cookie and the .zip file have disappeared. Swatch is watching with a smug smile on their face that makes you want to throw a shoe at them, though.

The tension leaves your body and you’re limply swung around in Peri’s huge arms like a depressed cat. At least you hadn’t fucked up the surprise already.

Peri sets you down and gives you a proper, feet-to-the-ground hug. You squeeze him back as best you can. It’s like trying to hug a wall, with his broad chest. He smells like lilac and glass-cleaner. His goofy clothes are soft and freshly pressed.

“It’s so good to see you!” Peri says, finally letting go. He puts his hands on your shoulders and you have to steady yourself on your good leg. He’s like a damn linebacker now, or one of those big dogs that don’t know how heavy they are. “Why didn’t you come in through the front? Everyone could have said hello!”

“Why indeed,” Swatch muses. You ignore them for now, grinning up at Peri.

“You know I hate crowds. I didn’t think I’d be here that long. Heard through the grapevine that Swatch was hurt and came to check on them.” The lie comes easy, and the little jab hits its target. Swatch looks momentarily guilty in your peripheral. “But look at you! You’re huge! What the hell are they feeding you, smaller Swatchlings?”

Peri snorts, covering his beak bashfully with a wing. The purple blush on his cheeks matches his eyes. “Of course not!” Peri looks you over, the smallest frown appearing on his beak. He probably learned to hen from Swatch. “Are you working a lot? You look tired.”

Ignoring Swatch’s own pointed look now, you laugh off Peri’s concern. Patting a hand still on your shoulder you beam up at him. “I’m always working. I’m fine, though. Busy busy. Should have some free time coming up, hopefully.”

“Ah, in that case you should join us for afternoon tea when you have the chance.” Swatch says. You can’t send them a look - Peri’s gasping and shaking you too hard and with too much excitement for you to do anything but flail along with the motions.

“Oh, yes! We could have lunch together!” Peri hops in place. “I could bring out the little tea set. The little silver and pink one! I haven’t gotten to sit down and have lunch with you in so long! We could catch up! I could tell you about Mauve’s latest tiff with Papaya. They’re still arguing about how the silver cabinet should be arranged.”

You prop up your smile with the last of your social energy, for Peri’s sake. “Uh! Yeah. That sounds great, Peri.” It does, it really does you just… You haven’t gone out with friends in a long time… Not since you started working for Crimp. You’re not sure if you remember how to, actually. “I’d love to. It’ll be hard convincing a certain someone to take a day off, though.”

Swatch puffs up a little when the two of you both send them a pointed look. “The two of you will just have to go together. I’m afraid my schedule is fully booked.”

Sighing, rolling your eyes, you poke at Peri’s outfit. “Speaking of fully booked. When the hell did you start working Wednesday? What kinda bet you’d lose to have to wear that?”

A small voice in your head reminds you that you would probably know, if you bothered to reply to any of your friend’s texts. You ignore it. You don’t need the extra pressure while you try and flounder your way through this social interaction, goddamn it.

“Isn’t it nice? I joined the Birdy Brigade today-“

“That is not what it’s called.” Swatch cuts in, eyes wide. “That is absolutely not what it is called-“

“Oh. The Bodice Brigade?“

“No. Periwinkle-”

“It’s the Beefcake Brigade, Peri,” you add helpfully. “That's the Queen-sanctioned name.”

“Absolutely not! It is not a brigade of any kind, and furthermore the outfits are entirely optional. As much as Her Majesty enjoys them, they are not a requirement. Anyone under the employ of Her Grace may don this particular uniform at any time-”

“Really? I’m almost certain I’ve heard dear Queenie call it ‘Well-Endowed Wednesdays’.”

“Please. For the love of - Periwinkle. What did you come out here for? I’m needed? Please tell me I’m needed.” Swatch rubs their temples, ignoring your snickering.

Periwinkle pats your shoulder while you blow a raspberry at Swatch. Their disgusted expression is worth how childish it makes you feel. “Oh yes, one of the guests has a coupon that looks a little, um… Suspect.”

“How suspect?”

“Er, hand drawn?”

Swatch shakes their head, but there’s a little smile on their face. “Well I will give them credit for creativity. Now,” Swatch stands with a grunt. “I’ve sat here long enough. I’ll go-“

“Don’t you dare count this as your break,” you hiss at them. Swatch huffily lifts their beak and you poke Peri’s arm as you speak, “Peri, make sure they take a real break. Glue them to a chair if you have to. Sit on them.”

“That will not be necessary,” Swatch huffs. They raise their hands defensively when Peri looks towards them with his head tipped slightly, a bit of a smile on his face. “Periwinkle, you will do no such thing-“

“Peri! Peri, honey, I will buy you a new tea set if you make sure they rest. Two new tea sets if you sit on them for real.”

Periwinkle taps his chin, eyes narrowed in consideration. “Hm… Well…”

“I am done. I am heading inside now. Periwinkle don’t dilly-dally, and make sure they take a safe route to wherever they’re headed off to next. Or at least do your best to convince them to say that they will. Use force if you must, you have my permission.”

“You are so rude, Swatch.” You slap your hands to your hips, huffing and puffing theatrically. “I’m a valued customer and this is how you treat me? Why I never! I will be reporting this to your supervisor. No- your manager.”

“I am the manager.” Swatch grouses. “Goodbye. Visit again soon and be safe for goodness’ sake.”

The door swings shut behind Swatch and you’re left alone in the alley, snickering with Peri.

“Have you really been alright?” Is the first thing Peri asks. Your shoulders drop a little, and you sigh.

“I’ve been… alright. Just tired. The usual, Per.” You stare at the buttons on Peri’s chest for a moment.

Peri makes a sympathetic little cooing noise, and pats your shoulder. You would laugh at the ridiculous image; this beefcake of a Swatchling, patting your shoulder like you’re a sad child. But you’re too tired. It’s a little too real, right now.

“Let me at least walk you to the front of the Mansion,” Peri offers, trying to be cheerful for the both of you. “Or you could cut through the cafe! Say hi to everyone!”

“Nah, no. No no no.” You pat his arm and shake your head. “You gotta go back in there and get sweaty money tucked into your clothes by weirdos. Go on, Per-bear, I’ll be fine. Tell Swatch that if they’re gonna worry about me they gotta do it sitting down.”

Peri hesitates, but eventually concedes. He leans down and holds you close for a moment, hugging you tight. “Alright… See you soon? Text at least?”

Your mouth feels dry when you nod and promise, “Yeah! Of course. See you soon. We, uh. We gotta have lunch after all.”

Nodding, apparently cheered up by your pitiful promise, Peri gives your head a little pat before he disappears back into the Mansion. You hear the locks all turn and latch, and then you’re officially alone.

You stand in the middle of the alley, eyes locked on the blasted, dented door for a while. The mystery, oily ash stains. The weight of your phone in your pocket feels like a lead ball. A promise you know you’re going to break.

Fuck.

Well, you already feel awful. You may as well head to the Trash Zone and take it out on someone who deserves it.

Chapter Text

Cyber City is wide awake and screaming. Cars zip by, roaring toward the highway. Ambulance sirens wail far off in the heart of the city. You leave behind Queen’s Mansion and return to more familiar streets and an ache worms in behind your eyes and down your jaw, where it hooks its claws in. Every passing car and group of happy programs chattering and laughing cinches your jaw tighter and tighter. You’ll need to ask Crimp if she’d consider shelling out for dental. There’s no way your teeth make it to the end of the year like this.

It made sense to skip the bus 30 minutes ago. The walk was supposed to help you cool off. Give you enough time to convince yourself that it wasn’t worth it, wringing that puppet’s neck. That you should settle for just asking him for your pin, instead of taking him by the ankles and shaking it out of him.

Instead, you’re irritated and in pain, your mood more sour than ever. Kindness and patience are the furthest ideas from your mind. All you can think about is if Spamton’s head will pop like an overfilled bike tire if you hold him upside down for long enough.

Your pocket buzzes. When you fish your phone out you spot a text in one of the very few chats you bother keeping alerts on for. Heart stuttering, palms sweating, you open it. 

Better to check your texts than risk catching the eye of someone you might know. Or worse, someone who knows you as well as who you work for. Someone with a message they need passed on to Crimp… and honestly your patience is threadbare as it is. 

The text is from Swatch. Your feet catch on the edge of the sidewalk. A group of loud Plugboys clogs the way and you stumble aside to let them by. They pay your pinched expression no mind as they pass. Bad news already? Did they not like the design? Was the .zip bad? Loose threads?

Tweetie Pie: What in Queen’s good name did you do to these pants? How long did this take?

One hand stays clenched into a fist and buried in your pocket, damp with sweat. The other texts a quick and sloppy reply - your usual style.

You: wntd 2 make sure u got ur MONEY$ worth.

A slight delay. Fewer and fewer people pass you on the sidewalk as you continue your journey. A right turn takes you away from familiar streets and down a dingy, unkempt road. The little dots show up to let you know Swatch is typing. They disappear. Reappear. Disappear.

You hope they’re on a break, or squirreling (magpie-ing) Peri’s gift away in their office. It’s probably the closest thing to a break they’d willingly take today.

Ding.

Tweetie Pie: I take it you were not pleased.

You: (:

Tweetie Pie: I apologize. It was deceitful, but I saw no other way to compensate you for your hard work. You would never have accepted payment outright.

You: ur right

You: I wuldnt hav

You: (: (: (:

You: looks like I will hav 2 make up th difference!!

Tweetie Pie: I see you’ve already started.

Tweetie Pie: Well… at least use the money to cover the cost of materials. Or to make up for other projects you’ve had to set aside to work on Periwinkle’s gift.

Tweetie Pie: I know something this big takes time, and how little of it there is to spare. Especially with your busy schedule.

The buildings grow shabbier. You’re wandering further and further from the city’s bustling center. Away from ‘safe’ streets. Sidewalks become dilapidated. You see fewer people out and about on errands. Only a handful, which soon diminishes until you’re the only living Soul around. At least out in the open.

You: yea... o ur dead 2 me btw

You: rotten trick 2 pull

Tweetie Pie: Again, I apologize.

Tweetie Pie: Ah… But will I at least be getting a funeral? Maybe a small ceremony, to honor my tireless devotion to my job? 

Tweetie Pie: A heartfelt eulogy from my dear friend?

You: nah

You: im gonna hav the ‘lings put u in the frzr 4 now. Got 2 w8 until spring 2 bury u

You: but hey we put u nxt 2 th frzn sorbet u like! The lemon kind

You: guests wnt 3 kno th new recipe tho. Nooooooooot big fans of all th feathers they r finding in it. yelp reviews r down. 2/10.

The Trash Zone doesn’t have any official entrance… But it’s not exactly a hard place to find. 

Follow your nose once you’re on the ‘bad’ side of town and you’ll find it eventually. Creeping in along the edges of low-end neighborhoods. Growing bigger and bigger every year it’s not cleared out.

Swatch would have an aneurysm if they saw you walking around these neighborhoods with their ‘suspicious domains’. No escort at your side. Silly. There’s not even anyone around to pick your pockets, and you’re not exactly wearing Mansion finery - you’re in your diving clothes. Old jeans, and a faded shirt you won’t mind getting ruined. Hardly the kind of prime target that might be wearing a Rolex.

Trash lays in heaps and piles everywhere. It overflows from dumpsters that the city doesn’t bother with anymore. Most of these old buildings and domains were abandoned when interest went elsewhere. The occupants were either lucky enough to move out… or unfortunate enough to be buried here with the trash. Left on their own to deal with the piles of corrupt data and rot on their front doorsteps. 

No one’s out and poking around but you. The sidewalks are empty.

Ding

Tweetie Pie: That’s

Tweetie Pie: Light, that is disgusting. I am trying to eat. Please never share with me your plans when it comes to disposing of my corpse.

You: UR EATING?!/??? Hell haz frxzn over!!!!!

Tweetie Pie: Ha ha.

They’re probably on a ‘Swatch Break’. Walking, texting, and eating a quick bite of something as they wander the servant hallways. In search of some thing or task that they in particular just have to be responsible for. 

If Swatch is ever caught sitting, they’re either sick or off the clock… and you’re pretty sure they’re available 24/7. At least when it comes to Queen.

Tweetie Pie: That reminds me - please let Miss Crimp know that her baking skills are superb.

You: thinking about yr own corpse reminds u of her cooking?? woooooow swatch

Tweetie Pie: w

Tweetie Pie: No. Stop that. She’s very skilled! 

Tweetie Pie: I’d quite like to steal her for a day and have her visit our kitchens.

The laugh that squeaks out between your teeth echoes down the empty street you wander. You wheeze and shake your head. No way. She’d be happier to hear her cooking reminded them of a corpse.

She’d frighten all the color off of the Swatchlings, too. There’s too much touching and crowding and care and friendship and ‘Oh, we’re just checking in on how you’re feeling!’ for her to stand. She would flat-out refuse to enter the cafe, and that would only be after the impossible task of getting her within spitting distance of the Mansion. 

You would have better luck learning to fly. Or convincing Peri that tea parties were a waste of time.

You: lol. She will LUV hearing tht.

For every five shops you pass, four of them are closed and derelict from neglect. The ones that remain open are dark inside. The lights turned low, or off entirely with no customers around. No use wasting the electricity.

Trash of all kinds crowds the alleys in great, looming swaths. Boxes, busted Ad displays, furniture, leaking batteries… A bit of everything.

While the store owners have done their best to clean up their little chunks of sidewalk - some even hanging curtains across the alleys to hide the trash - they can’t hide it all. Or the smell. It spills out into the streets, no way to stop the inevitable, growing and creeping mess.

You: o hey BTW ur back ny bttr?

Tweetie Pie: I do feel better after your treat. Thank you for asking.

Tweetie Pie: …Though I am straining my eyes trying to decipher your frankly sloppy texts.

Tweetie Pie: I’m worried that I might be renewing my prescription early this year.

You: good.

Tweetie Pie: Which are you saying ‘good’ to?

You: ya

Tweetie Pie: Ah.

Tweetie Pie: I see.

Tweetie Pie: Well, I will keep that in mind the next time you come to me begging and tugging at my tailfeathers for expired pastries.

The smell of damp and rotten data permeates the air: sweet and sharp. It’s sunk its way into the concrete and brick. Even scrubbing the walls with Queen’s Best Acid Wash TM probably wouldn’t get rid of it. 

There wouldn’t be a point, anyway. Mountains of trash loom just on the other side of this street. Crammed flush against the shops and run-down apartments.

Between quick texts, you peer down every alley you pass. Searching for an access point. One preferably not choked by trash or full of broken glass.

You: haha no u wnt u luuuuv me

You: sides sum 1 needs 2 eat em. U didn’t hav maice when I was around just sayin

Tweetie Pie: My, what a claim to fame that is.

Tweetie Pie: You know I’m starting to think you were too violent when fighting them for scraps. You frightened them all away, and only now are they brave enough to return, sending their strongest in first, just in case.

You: MEAN.

Tweetie Pie: Please, try and take it as a compliment. There are worse things I could call you than Queen’s most effective pest repellent.

Tweetie Pie: Like stubborn. Or even bullheaded, if you’ll pardon my language.

You: u r awful 2 me palleta.

At the end of a narrow alley, squashed between buildings, you find your entry point.

A chain-link fence, probably put up to keep the trash at bay, has been peeled aside with a few clever snips from a wire cutter. It’s zip-tied to itself to keep the passage open. 

A well-worn path weaves between the trash bags and junk lining the alley. Someone had tossed a stained mattress over the fence to hop it at some point. Now it just hangs limp and soggy, dripping grey liquid.

Trash piles smother and block up the little passage. Small kitchen bags, cardboard boxes, and broken appliances all crowd the little deer path. Garbage from the locals who don’t get pickup service anymore. It’s a popular dumping ground, or at least the neighborhood’s latest.

It’s as much of an entrance as you’re going to find without researching where the official one’s been buried. But you’re not going to bother looking it up or futzing around with the city’s awful bus schedules just to find yourself before a locked gate. Not when the back door has been so kindly left wide open.

You: nyway gtg. Work.

You: rest! Take a br8k! Or else I will tell Peri 2 put u in time out w/ his ASS!

Tweetie Pie: Language.

You: XP

Tweetie Pie: But alright, have a good day. I hope you’ll be visiting again soon.

Tweetie Pie: It was a pleasant surprise, having you stop by. Very unexpected. 

Tweetie Pie: The kitchen staff were quite fussy about you not coming in to say ‘hello’ when I returned alone.

Tweetie Pie: Olive, in particular, wanted to get your opinion on a new Brownie Byte recipe he’s been working on.

You: aww

You: ill say hi next time.

You: txt u a suit upd8 l8r

You: get sum REST! Not jus 5 mins pacing in ur office!

Tweetie Pie: No worries. I assure you, I will be sitting down soon.

You: closing is not

You: TAKE A REAL BREAK SWATCH!!!!!!!!

Tweetie Pie: Have a good day and be safe. =)

Awful, smug bird. You swap your phone for wrinkled cardstock. The business card you’d been ‘given’ makes no indication of where in the Trash Zone Spamton’s rotten little shop of horrors is located. Just that it’s there. Probably.

The smell of trash worsens as you duck through the fence. You tiptoe around toppled and rotten cabinets and down the little winding path that makes itself known. It snakes between mountains of garbage bags that get taller and taller. You feel rather than see the area around you and beyond the garbage opening up. No more buildings, at least for now. You’re in the Trash Zone proper.

A few of the defunct railways run through here, wobbling on their stilt-like trestles. The only ones you think get used anymore are near the Mansion, and those are only up and running during special occasions, if at all. Like when Queen feels like tossing acid at moving targets. Or for launching fireworks.

Nowadays, most programs just take the bus. Or the subway, if they’re desperate enough to stand the overcrowding. Everyone else has hopped on the car trend - well, everyone who can afford it. Rumor has it that Queen’s getting into go-karts, next.

Crimp’s told you before that the Trash Zone’s been spreading like mold towards the low-end residential districts and shops for a few years now. Exploding out of its intended sector. It’s one thing to hear her complain about it - it’s entirely another to actually see it. She wasn’t exaggerating.

There are entire buildings buried under the trash. Old structures tucked away amidst the raised rails. You’re not sure what this whole, strangely open space was originally zoned for. A failed amusement park? Shopping district? Hopefully, the residents got out of here before it reached this point… but you have your doubts.

The looming rails are rotting away. From the wooden scaffolding to their concrete foundations. Molding and ruined, they reach for the empty sky and cast a cool shadow over you as you pass. Broken ads, glitched data, and strangely shaped trash bags occasionally block your path.

When you crane your neck back to look up and suck in some fresh air, you spot a few snarled and twisted rails dangling right above you. The whole structure creaks. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but you swear it sways a little. You’re quick to get out from under its shadow.

Safe. Super duper safe. Great place for a shop, Spamton. In fact, you could open up a children’s hospital! Hell, you’d perform open heart surgery right here if you could. It is simply the perfect location.

There’s plenty of rusty rebar lying around, just waiting for someone to cut themselves on. Snagging a piece makes you feel better, and the one you wrench from the trash bag it’s skewered has a blunt (…ish) end. It’s nice and weighty in your grasp. The balance is off, too heavy to one end, but it could do some damage. Or at least give a short, thieving puppet a good scare when waved around in a casual, totally non-threatening manner.

If you can find him in this mess.

Strangely, there are a lot of trashed cars piled in heaps everywhere. They’re familiar, all similar models. Rusted to ruin, the paint chipped away and showing the metal skeleton beneath. You have to prod aside a few jagged edges with your impromptu Persuasion Device as you explore.

The farther in you venture, the higher and older the trash gets around you. The air is heavy, and more and more of the city’s light disappears, blocked out. Walls of garbage muffle everything. It’s hot, the trash bleeding heat as it rots away. Everything is muggy and heavy and foul. A garbage sauna.

But, if it weren’t for the smell, the mold, and the general awfulness of this place, you wouldn’t mind it. It’s nice to have a bit of peace and quiet. You can barely hear the highway from here. While the forest of trash obscures the sky, you aren’t missing much. Just darkness filled with more and more floating ads as airspace is bought up. It’s nice, not having neon blinding you every time you look up.

Maice fight over scraps in wriggling trash bags, a pale echo of the city’s usual hustle and bustle. No other signs of life save for the little squabbling programs.

Angel above if this really is some organ harvesting thing, you’ll be in real trouble. No one even knows you’re out here.

In the gloom under one of the rails, you spot a path. Covered by trash, but more passable than anywhere else you’ve been while here. In the dark, you make out buildings. Squat, long abandoned and looted. Lost in the shadow of some defunct project that had probably spent millions buying them out. Displacing their owners and residents to who knows where for who knows what reason. All for nothing, in the end.

The trestles seem secure enough, not as wobbly with two stories of trash holding them up. You duck into the gloom and start poking around the edges of the hidden neighborhood.

Every building you peer into is empty. Already picked clean. Hulking Maice, fat on old data, dart into the shadows when they sense you staring at them. There aren’t any ‘Wheels around, thank goodness. You’re not TM. A Mauswheel would be trouble for you. If you run into a ‘King while out here? You’re dead meat.

Graffiti covers most of the walls here, mostly tags. Some of them you recognize. That snake one’s been popping up quite a lot lately. Some sort of Ouroboros? Maybe it’s a new gang. 

More likely a symbol from some popular video game you haven’t had the time or energy to play. There’s that musical note you’ve seen around. It’s some group of kids’ little revolution symbol if you remember correctly. It’s cute, but they can’t seem to settle on a cohesive design.

As you wander, you find signs of old Fights scarring some of the buildings. Ash left in electric arcs on the ground. Blast marks and craters. A few collapsed walls and dented dumpsters.

Dark stains splatter the porous brick walls occasionally. Dried and old. You don’t let yourself linger over them.

More mundane are the stripped radios and discarded needles. Dumped electronics that should have been recycled. More gutted cars.

But no shop. No Spamton.

It doesn’t make sense. There should at least be someone hauling trash, or searching for a car with an untouched radio. Some kids practicing tags or just loitering. Fucking around with their buddies. But it’s just you.

You don’t dare go much further in. Both Swatch's and Crimp’s voices are warning you in your head about the dangers of abandoned buildings and unclaimed territory, respectively. So, as much as it pains you… maybe you have to give up the idea of getting back your pin.

Not that you haven’t tried already to let this whole thing go… But you just haven’t been able to. It’s stupid that you can’t, you are fully aware of how stupid. But your teeth still grind and your heart still races when you think about letting that little Spoof win.

Crimp can make you a new one with a flick of her wrist. She won’t even complain that much. Hell, she’s done everything but force you to wear a new one by this point. Insisting you’d be safer wearing one than not.

In your humble opinion, you’ve got a shining, tempting beacon right in the center of your chest. One that makes any protection she thinks her pin will grant you negligible. Not when there’s a Soul on the line.

The buzz of the highway fades back in as you leave the rails and their hidden neighborhood behind. The garbage slowly peters out until you can make out an actual road. It runs parallel with one of the raised and more rickety-looking rail lines. 

It’s not where you came in from - nowhere near, honestly, but it’s alright. The highway is loud here, and if you can find that, you’ll be fine.

What a waste of a day, though! You fling your rebar off in a random direction, listening to it clang against something metal. Garbage falls over somewhere out of sight. Not your problem.

At least not until you hear a loud thump and someone yelps just around a pile of garbage bags and crumpled washing machines.

A pink blur shoots out from behind it and darts down the street. It shoots right past you, leaving you to flail back into a defensive crouch a little too late. It flies a few feet down the road before skidding to a halt and whipping around. A large Virovirokun stares over her shoulder at you with wide, rapidly blinking eyes, spear raised above her head. 

The corners of your mouth slowly twitch into a grin.

“Vinny! What are you doing out here?”

Your coworker sniffles wetly. She lowers her glitching weapon from its defensive position and uses it instead to scrub her running nose. Her snout wrinkles into a grin.

A pin just like yours sits on her collar. It catches the light as she floats to you, and your eyes linger on it. You make yourself look away as she starts up a grimy cackle.

“Me? I thought ya didn’t go dumpster diving anymore, Doc?” Her laugh is quickly cut off by a stifled sneeze.

Hell.

“Sick again?” You brush your hands off on your pants before diving into your Inventory. “I thought you were getting better?”

“I was,” Vinny huffs. She floats in circles around you while you search. “I’m getting more poison from the old lady later.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad, you brat.” You frown when Vinny’s eyes rapidly flip between normal and spiraled. She soon makes herself dizzy, orbiting you, and sniffles right into your ear. The smell of ozone and cough medicine wafts off of her and stings your nose. “Here it is.”

A white chocolate macadamia cookie appears in your hand. Her favorite. The virus is quick to snatch it and tear into it, spitting aside the wrapper. Honestly? She eats most of the plastic anyway. She doesn’t glance up when you cross your arms and stick her with a raised brow.

“You know Crimp can just have me or one of the boys run you a refill next time.”

Vinny scarfs her cookie. Crumbs fly everywhere. There’s a flicker of green healing magic that sparks in the air around her mouth, and her next few sniffles gradually stop being so ragged until finally clearing up. You’re helpless to stop the pleased smile that cuts down your scowl, ruining whatever effect you hoped to have on her.

“’S fine,” she chokes out around her full mouth. She coughs a few times before continuing. “I work today. Was gonna get a refill before I came in, but there was a Shrink.”

“Not near the shop?” Shit. Your rust-stained hands grip your sleeves. You just checked your phone, and it hasn’t alerted you to a text from Crimp or anything like that.

“Naah. They were prowling around my usual bus stop. Didn’t want ‘em poking their damn needle noses where they don’t belong, so I sneezed a few arrows their way an’ let ‘em chase me out here.” Vinny twirls and gives a little bow, giggling when she floats upside down. Her nose brushes the asphalt, and she sneezes herself right-side up. “It’s funny that they still think they can catch me.”

“Yeah. Really funny.” With a nudge from your elbow, she spins away from you before returning. One of these days she’s going to piss off the wrong Ambyu-Lance and bring a whole heap of bullshit right to Crimp’s front door. “You know she’s going to actually kill you this time if you bring another worm to work.”

“It’s not a worm!” Vinny’s cheeks darken. “I don’t even have a bug.”

“Mhm… Hey, what’s this, the third time you’ve taunted an Ambyu-Lance this month? You’re pushing it, Vin.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I’ve been bothering her for months. She gets soooo mad when she can’t catch me!”

“She?” You lean back. Raise an eyebrow. “I see.”

“No, you fuckin’ don’t. Close your damn eyes.” Vinny shoves you with her shoulder, and you barely keep your footing. “ANYWAY. What are you doin’ out here, Doc? I thought ya swore off dumpster diving after Crimp got on your ass about that infected cut?”

“Don’t remind me.” The scar on your elbow is raised and pink, even now. Crimp still gives you shit for it. “I was going to meet someone out here, but it was a bust.”

Vinny tilts her head slowly. “Work someone, or…?”

“…No. Just someone.” Your eyes cut to the side when Vinny grins.

“Ohhh? And you’re giving me a hard time?” 

She leans her weight against your side. You elbow her away and bite back a laugh when you stagger. Vinny is dense. Absolutely packed with stolen data. What she doesn’t eat, she usually sells on the side when she needs extra cash.

She continues, “Meetin’ a cute program? Out here? That’s gross! Are lightners into garbage, or izzat just you?”

“Shut up,” you gag. Pretend to choke yourself and die. Vinny pokes your side with her spear until you lean away to escape the ticklish jabs. “No. It’s that little Spoof that stole my pin. Said he had a job offer at his shop, and I guess when I didn’t rush to take it, he snagged my pin. Came to find him but…” You gesture vaguely at the empty street and piles of trash.

“Oh, that guy Bixby called in? I heard ‘bout that.”

“Of course you did.” 

Vinny had probably listened to the voicemail before Crimp even knew the machine had one on it. Everywhere you work, you’re surrounded by a bunch of filthy, nosy gossips. Vinny in particular is worse than every Swatchling combined. She probably knows your social security number.

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” Vinny narrows an eye at you. “Are you out here meeting… Trash Guy? He’s the one that filched ya? Ohmygod!” She erupts into a fit of cackles, her voice echoing down the empty road. You gawk at her, face hot as she spins around you like a top. “Everyone knows to avoid that guy! Even the Shrinks don’t bother with him anymore!”

When she floats by in her tizzy, you dart a hand out and pinch the hem of her cyan dress, careful to use your knuckles. A sharp tug spins her around to face you and your locked teeth. Your tongue is stuck in your mouth for a moment.

“Vin. Vinny. Sweetie. You know him? Where is his shop?”

Her face wrinkles, lips peeling back in a grimace that reveals her little fangs. “Ew, no. I know of him. Even I don’t wanna catch what he’s got. Yuck!”

Vinny blows a raspberry, eyes screwed shut. You have to lean back to avoid the spray, not wanting to catch what she’s got. “Oh-kay, but you know where he is?”

“What are you talking about? Isn’t he like, right down there?” She nods vaguely over her shoulder and towards the direction you just came from. When your hands clench, she tugs her dress out of your hands and floats away nervously.

“Right. Down. Where? ”

A thin but worn path worms between piles of garbage and under a snapped trestle. Vinny leads you through a graveyard of busted, rusty cars until a door emerges from the shadows - clean and pristine. It’s buried in trash that’s piled high against an old, squat building, but the door looks out of place with how well taken care of it is. 

A handmade and slightly soggy cardboard sign hangs from a nail on the door. ‘0PEN!!!’ screams scraggly handwriting. The penmanship is irritating and familiar, but just in case you fish out the business card and hold it up to check. It matches.

Vinny lurks behind you, watching as you begin to kick at garbage and crumple the card in your fist. You grit out in an annoyed growl, “Why didn’t he say it was right off the damn highway?! ”

“How far in did you go?” Vinny spins a few delighted circles above your head, laughing. “Is that why you stink?”

“Vinny, Angel above, shut up.”

You could have spent today at home enjoying a day off. Working on Peri’s gift. Sleeping. Instead, you waded through the entire Trash Zone like the fool that you are.

Kicking a rusty car door does nothing but leave a streak of filth against the chipped and fading red paint. The buzzing highway mixes with Vinny’s snickers. Another kick doesn’t make you feel any better. Your toes hurt.

God damn it.

“Alright.” Your phone dings a few times in your pocket, but you ignore it. No distractions, your glare fixes on the door. “Welp. Thanks, Vin. See you later.”

The snickering grinds to a halt. “Wait, what? Hey, no - come on.”

Vinny floats down to your side and nudges your elbow. She tries to gently guide you - push you - away from the door with her nose. Unbalanced, you scrabble to both get away from her and keep yourself from falling ass-first into the trash. Your shoes slip over muck and old newspapers.

She keeps pushing at you. “The guy’s weird. Like weird weird. I didn’t know you were going in! I just thought you were gonna do some fun, harmless vandalism- hey!”

With a grunt, you throw your entire weight against her. She squirms, but an arm slung around her neck keeps her locked to your side. If you’re going to be covered in trash, she’s coming down with you. You go limp. 

“Stoppit! Don’t you dare! I will let you fall! Stop! Stop being a baby! Doc!”

“I’m not,” you whine. Like a baby.

Her squirming threatens to buck you off. Using her shoulder, you regretfully haul yourself back up and ignore her annoyed bark. She darts between you and the door and prods at you with her arrow. If only you’d kept that rebar, the two of you could joust. Instead, she pokes the hell out of your stomach.

“Do you even know how pissed Crimp is gonna be if I let you go in there and you get dusted or deleted or exploded into a red mist or whatever it is lightners do - in Trash Guy’s shop?!”

“I’m not going to… I don’t do any of that.” A slight shove with your palm, a twist, and you’re sliding past her arrow. She’s left spinning while you pat your pockets and shrug. “He’s a shrimp. I just gotta… punt him if he gets rowdy.”

“Doc. He’s a creep.”

“I know. I’ve met him already.” You halt in front of the door and frown back at her. “He’s not as bad as half of those guys that come into the shop after they find out I’m the one up front. It’ll be fine.”

Besides, you’re already here. You can’t not go in. Anger simmers away under your skin, reignited now that you’re here. Your shaking hands itch to take it out on someone who deserves it. Or throw something roughly Spamton-sized at a wall.

Vinny’s ears drop. She groans. Tosses her head like an upset horse. Spins in a circle. “…Fine! I’m not saving you when you get your ass beat or corrupted or - or whatever!”

“Okay.” With a quick swipe, you run your sweating palms against your jeans. Smiling, you angle your shoulder toward the door. “That’s totally fine. Tell Crimp I love her and where she can find my body if she wants any of the cash I still owe her. Or spare parts.”

“Fine!” Vinny spins in a restless circle, growling to herself. She rapidly stabs a trash bag to ribbons before turning around to point her spear right at your chest. “20 minutes! And then I’m dragging whatever’s left of ya out!”

She doesn’t have to do that - she should have split already. Her words turn your grin genuine. Your petty quest for revenge isn’t her problem, but there she goes. She plops down onto a trash bag to wait for you.

“Thanks, Vin. I owe you one.”

“Yeah, ya do!” Vinny’s pointy, little ears twitch. “Be careful."

One hand finds the doorknob behind you, while the other tosses her a thumbs up. No one inside gets a courtesy knock. With a shove, the door flies open and you march inside.

That’s… a lot of trash. Everywhere. Trash for walls, shelves squished between stacked garbage bags that precariously hang on. More trash on the shelves, though it looks… deliberate. Trash that’s for sale? Bold move.

None of it looks any good, and there’s no distinguishing what’s for sale from what’s holding up the walls - at least not to your eyes. Media displays on one shelf are hacked and clamped together to make something that barely works. It glitches and strains to show some old car ad that’s too corrupted to understand. Rugs are thrown out over the dirt floor and price tags are still attached even though they’re in use and dirty. Another nearby shelf holds a broken sword all by itself, the blade held together by tape. 

Vials of glitching squares floating in silver, glowing liquid perch on every shelf, filling up any available space. The containers are… vaguely familiar, but you can’t place where you’ve seen them before.

Straight ahead, right above a slumped, black-haired figure, a splash of color catches your eye. It’s half covered by a rotting pink curtain, but there’s a mural there. The sky.

Bright summer blue made up of mismatching shades. White clouds, painted with something soft - cloth or rough fabric to give it an authentic, fluffy feeling. Curly fibers still stick to the brick, stained white and dried onto the wall.

The sun isn’t right. You haven’t seen it in a long time, of course, but it’s not been so long that you’ve forgotten. 

Bright yellow. Vibrant and unreal - almost cartoonish. It’s been painted with fragmented, sharp angles. Impressionistic shards that splinter into sun rays. Broken and jagged shapes shoot away from an impact point like shattered glass. The yellow used to paint it is nearly white and hurts to look at.

It’s beautiful. You can’t help but think that Swatch would love this.

Spamton looks like shit.

Someone’s beaten you to the punch. He’s slumped over in the ragged chair he’s sitting in. A fading bruise discolors his cheek and eye socket. A gross, dirty gray mark that you suppose must be what plastic flesh looks like after a good, solid hit. A faint, delicate hairline crack sneaks from his segmented jaw and up the side of his cheek, where it disappears under pitch-black lenses. 

When the door squeaks shut behind you and you step toward him, trash crinkles loudly underfoot.

His lenses flicker to blinding neon pink and yellow. The colors shuffle a moment as Spamton’s grin cants with a glitch to the unbruised side of his face. It gives his smile a crooked leer as he slaps his hands down on the ‘counter’ he sits behind and straightens up, prompted out of sleep mode by your presence.

“HEY HEY HEY! IF IT ISN’T           ! FINALLY DECIDED TO SWING BY? I THOUGHT YOU’D [Click Here To Skip Ads] TOWN!!” His voice is as loud and annoying as you remember and echoes strangely in the cramped shop. You swear you can hear ringing in your ears even after it fades. Barely there, like the hum of telephone wires. 

If your tinnitus gets even a fraction worse than it already is, you’re going to blow up.

This time, his hands are bare, splayed on the counter next to a chipped mug filled with something that could be coffee but is far too dark. He has… strangely intricate and jointed fingers. They’re as articulated and complex as human phalanges. Scuffed with wear and tear, the plastic is foggy in some places. Worn smooth at the fingertips at a slight angle that almost makes the ends sharp.

He catches you staring and scrambles. His white face is gaunt and papery, framed by all that blue, and he looks like an excited Muppet as he flails his arms too fast for your eyes to track. 

“[WWW.] WELL WHAT THE [#&%*] ARE YOU DOING STANDING IN TH E [oVerhead Windows and D0ors] LIKE A [[useless slime]]?! COME IN AND [Pop a Squat]!”

He pats the box he’s using as a counter with the speed of a Gatling gun, leaving a dent behind in the soggy cardboard. His mittens are somehow back on, and he gestures with them for you to take a seat on a wooden stool placed on the moth-eaten rug right across from him. A broken umbrella handle has replaced a missing leg, crudely secured with rope and zip ties. It rests at an angle, and there’s a stain right in the center of it.

You’ll stand.

He’s not going to catch you off guard this time. You’re here with a purpose - all you need to do is get your pin and leave. Preferably before he can start into a sales pitch. 

No pleasantries, you aren’t here to play nice and be polite. He was not going to railroad you or distract you this time.

The trick to any flighty customer, just like with a fussy child who refuses to eat their veggies, was to get them to swallow as much garbage as possible before they realized what they were getting. Or before they kicked your teeth in, if you happened to startle your customer - or [darling] child! - by popping unexpectedly out of a [[Dumpster]].

Thankfully Spamton has the [Feel right at Home] [Join our Team!] advantage this time. He’s on his turf and has a natural talent for spewing insane amounts of garbage in a single breath. Honed to perfection over the years.

“Spamton-”

“I KNEW YOU HAD A [[I can’t see! Help!]] FOR A GOOD DEAL!” He doesn’t acknowledge the shift from salesman cheese to horrified whimper and back at all. Nothing he can do about it. “TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH! BUT. YoU;RE HERE NO W, WHICH MEANS YOU’RE [Contractually and Legally Obligated] TO LI$TEN TO MY [neigh.mp3] [$%^*]!!!”

Up goes the lightner’s brow when they hear his garbled, bit-crushed speech and the loud screeching dial tone that censors him. It’s fine. He’s had hard sells before, and he’s been rehearsing this speech for years. He’s got this.

“Uhm.” They take a moment, looking him up and down with that raised brow before they start to shake their head. “Oh, absolutely not. You-“

“ANYWAYWAYAY!!!!1! I’M GLAD YOU COULD [Make it Count!] I CAN SEE THAT YOU REELY [Do] WANT TO [Make it Big]! WHO DOESN;’T?! BUT Ho0OOW? HOW CAN YOU BE? WELL, IN THE D-”

“No.” They make a cutting motion with their arm and step right up to his counter. “We are not doing this.” They point at him, finger an inch from his nose. He squints, but holds his ground instead of leaning away. “I’m here for my pin, and that’s it.”

Well $%*^! He knew they were going to be annoying about that, but he’d hoped to get more than the opening lines out before they managed to interrupt him. What happened to that little ‘yes sir’-ing pushover from before? He must have hit their bullshit tolerance when he [Repossessed] from them.

That’s fine. He can work with short-tempered. He can work with annoyed. He rarely works with anything else, and he’s worked with far less for a long time.

“I;Mm [Seaside and Shore Vistas!] I DONT KNOW WHAT YOU’RE [Endlessly Yapping] ABOUT;;;. ANYWAY!” They start to stutter, and he pushes on, fixing his grin in place. “SO. YOU WANNA BE [Big] THE [[Biggest]]. I CAN DO THAT. 4 YOU. NOW, IN THE-“

“Look, I know you have it!”

The lightner crosses their arms, face twisting into a scowl. Their eyes scan the shop, frequently flicking to the mural of [ H E A V E N ] behind him. Each time they do, their expression twists up and sours. They quickly return to glaring down at him instead, lips slightly curled at his completely innocent and wide-eyed expression.

“My pin. The one you stole.”

He gasps, placing a mitten against his chest. The sound of his gasp distorts and turns into a high-pitched whine, ruining any sincerity he’d managed to fake.

“MEEEE? STEAL????! EAHAHEAHEA! [no.] NEVR IN MY WH;OLE [Just Last Week!] HAVE I STo.LEN A THING!” He smiles and sweeps a hand to the side. Dusts away the accusation. He’s heard that one enough times that it's background noise to him now. Just more [ringing] to ignore. “B-SIDES! I’M [Stock Item Missing] PINS, KID! [Please try dialing another number].”

“Do not,” they grind out, shifting their weight onto one hip, “call me that. And don’t even start. It’s copper. Small. Embossed. You ripped it off my shirt.”

“I’m [Terrified] I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN!”

He wouldn’t say ripped. He used a bit more finesse than just clumsily ripping it off. It’s not his fault that their shirt was too [Low Quality, High Prices] to handle his delicate, [Professional] touch.

“MAYBE I CAN [[Help! Please!]] YOU [Lost and Found] IT AFTER WE [speak t0 a representative] ABOUT YOU R  END OF THE DEAL! I’M A REAL [Friendly] and [Oh god help!]-FUL GUY, YOU KNOW.” His hands slip into his pockets and he makes a show of lazily shifting from heel to toe. It’s getting hard to keep pretending that his grin is genuine under their open derision.

Sputtering, they try to cut in, “What? I never agreed to any deal! You-”

Wrap up the elevator pitch and get on with it,  [Bigshot]! Seal the deal. Just gotta keep steamrolling. Wear ‘em out. The old Spamton Special.

“S-S-S-S- SSOOO! IN THE [Deep Abyss] OF-”

“Shut up.”

Spamton’s jaw clicks shut. His eye twitches behind his glasses. The lightner glares at him and forces eye contact that makes the back of his neck itch. He leans back slightly and fists his hands in his coat pockets.

“Give me my pin, then I’m leaving.”

“WHAT?! LEAVING? [y]!? YOOUUUU HAVE;NT EVEN LET ME [Pre.ss Start] YET!!”

He’s been waiting years for someone with a Soul to cross his path. He’s had enough heart attacks worrying that they’d already returned to the Light World when he couldn't find them lurking around the Mansion. Spamton’s not about to let this opportunity slip away - he may never get another!

“JUST HEAR ME OUT!”

His eyes flick to their chest. Their Soul shines there like a beacon in the [dark]. With a Light like that, getting NEO would be as easy as [Feelin’ the Breeze]!

Will. Be.

He needs it. If he manages to sucker them into doing most of the work before he takes it from them, all the better.

His glasses don’t lend him as much privacy as he thinks. The lightner takes a step back and again holds a hand over their chest. Blocking out that [[Beautiful]] Light.

“I’m not interested. Just give it back.”

He raises an eyebrow. Tilts his head. His cheek aches but he keeps smiling. “MUST BE ONE [speshul deaaaal~] IF YOU;RE THIS [Wind me up and watch me go-go!] ABOUT A LITTLE OLD PIN.”

Oh, now that’s an interesting look. Like they’ve smelled something sour. Probably him.

“It’s mine. I want it back. That’s all,” they growl.

“AM I PERHAPSE [Sniffing] SOME [Intense Sentimental Value]?” He leans on an elbow, settling his uninjured cheek in his palm. “LOOOK. I’LL CUT YOU A [deal]. MAKE JUST 1 SMALL [Concession Stands to the Left!] FOR ME. HEAR ME OUT, AND I’LL KEEP A  [peeper] OPEN 4 ANY PINS.”

A scoff. They cross their arms and lean their weight back onto one hip. The look they give him is poisonous. “You know where it is.”

“NOPE. AND I DON’T. HAVE IT.” The fist still in his pocket squeezes tight around the small copper pin where it’s been sewn into his pocket. No reason to risk losing it when he has a [deal] this big on the line. “LOOK, KID. WHEN YOU’VE [Helped] ME [[BIG]] AGAIN I CAN GET YOU AS MANY [lousy] PINS AS YOU WANT!”

Their lip curls. They don’t bother hiding their clenched fists. “You sold it already, didn’t you? Or at least lost it or- ugh!” They pinch the bridge of their nose, shoulders slumping. “Of course you did you little slimeball.”

“[[Slime]]??! ME??”

“Yes, you!” They draw their leg back suddenly, only to stop at the last second. Spamton’s preemptive flinch smooths out as they lower their foot back to the ground. Fingertips pressed to their temples, they take a deep breath and close their eyes.

A bead of sweat slips down Spamton’s back as he stands still and tense. His eyes cut nervously to the door as the silence stretches out a little too long.

Finally, before he can awkwardly break it, they sigh and drop their hands in defeat. “Fine. Just. Just tell me your scam already.”

Back on track! He’s an excellent salesman.

“EAHEHAEHA NO NO!!! IT’S NOTHING LIKE THAT! THIS IS A GR8 DEAL [4 u and m3]!! I [[Big]] AND YOU [[Big]] AND EVERYONE’S [happi]!!”

They do not look [happi]. Their lip curls. Fists ball against their biceps and crossed arms. Silence.

“YES. WELL. LOOK.” Spamton coughs. He worries his hands together and clears his throat. “THE SOONER YOU LET ME GET THROUGH THE DAMN [spiel] THE SOONER WE CAN COME TO A PEACEFUL [4k Resolution].”

A deep breath. Another second with their eyes closed. Then, “Fine.”

Oh thank [ H E A V E N ] his teeth were about to snap from how hard his jaw’s been clenched. He starts to laugh but cuts it off quickly with a sharp glitch that displaces his head a few inches to the right for a moment. The lightner draws into themself, arms tight to their sides.

Doesn’t matter. He’s got to [Sell Sell Sell] like his life is on the line!

Because it is.

“SSSINCE YOU CAME ALL THE  [Wey] OUT HERE, i’LL [gived] YOU THE [Rush Job? Not with Us!] VERSION!” his shoulders twitch and he grabs onto the counter to anchor himself in case another glitch rolls through him. “THERE’S A [One-way Ticket] TO TRUE [[Unrestricted Autonomy]] AND IT’S JUST A               AWAY!”

Sweat gathers on his forehead and he digs his nails through his gloves and into the soggy counter to keep from reflexively reaching up to wipe it away. His head glitches and the [script] he’s rehearsed for years slips away from him, twisting like a dropped ball of yarn. It’s gone. God damn it - no! It’s fine. He’s got this.

They’re just a stupid lightner, after all. He used to scam hundreds of them at a time back in his [10 Nostalgic Shows You DON’T Remember].

“THAT [A Great Deal] IS JUST [lyeying] IN WAIT FOR A COUPLE OF [Big Shot!!!]S LIK EUS TO GET OUR  [Grimey Little Freak] HANDS ON IT! LOCKED [Whimpering] BEHIND [Best Firewalls for Old PCs?] THIS HEAVEN-PIERCING [[Freedom]] [Hot-Rod Bod] HAS BEEN [Beg.] FOR SOME0NE TO FINALLY [Hijack] IT SINCE [<1997]!!;! BUY MY [[Keygen]] AND THAT [High-Quality Encryption] DOESN’T STAND A CHANCE! [As An Added Bonus] WITH YOUR [[Light]], GETTING INTO THE [Mansion] SHOULD BE AS EASY AS-”

“Wait! Wait. Stop.”

The glitching rant screeches to a halt. His head twitches, body spitting out garbage pixels that are quickly reabsorbed into his code. His jaw shuts with a hollow click.

“WH .AT?”

“Stop trying to sell me something.” 

Agitated, the [Lightbringer] shifts from heel to toe. Their eyebrows are knit together and he wonders if he was speaking too fast - or even coherently at all. [Heaven] knows he’s gone on some mindless rants before. Usually to maice who were too tired to [buzz off] and find another [[garbage heap]] to shelter in.

“God, I hate when… Just tell me what you want from me.”

Teeth grinding together, he swallows a knot of ad vomit. The counter barely holds his weight when he leans on it, bowing under his palms.

“… I NEED. YOU. TO GET. ME. SOMETHING.”

There. Easy enough for this [Snail Mail? Thing of the Past!] lightner to understand.

They tilt their shoulders back, eyes flicking down to his trembling hands. “Why can’t you get it yourself?”

“EHAHEAH I’M [Unexpected Item In Bagging Area].”

They squint. “What?”

“[Access Denied],” he grits out. "[Not Available in Your Country]. NO. [Out of Stock] NO I MEAN [$%^&]!” He slams his fist down on his counter. The sound it makes is a wet squelch rather than the bang he was expecting. “BANNED.”

“Oh… I see.”

Stormy expression calming, their shoulders drop. He has them! Finally. His shoulders relax and he stops gritting his teeth. His jaw pulses faintly with pain he’s too excited to notice right now.

“You want me to steal something you already tried to get,” they laugh. His [[Guts]] sinks. “No way. I am not getting my hands dirty for you. Especially if it has anything to do with Queen.”

“YOU’RE NOT. GETTING. IT. I’VE ALREADY [Calculate your Credit Score for Free] OUT HOW TO [Success!] WITH [No Down Payment]! NO [Wosh ur hands]! IT;S A SIMPLE JOB THAT [Retirement Benny. Fets] US BOTH! DON’T YOU WANT TO BE [[Big]] LIKE [Your Old Pal] M3??”

“If this is your idea of ‘big’,” they gesture to his shop. To his beautiful [[garbage]] walls and his [Highest Quality] wares. “I want nothing to do with it.”

“JUST. LISTEN.” He hisses. A glitch rips through his body and distorts him - the worst one yet. He feels the back of his head clip into the wall behind him briefly before snapping back into place.

“I did listen! You spewed a bunch of insane garbage at me and I didn’t buy any of it.”

“EHAHEA HEY!!! NO [Painful Truths] ALLOWED [In Doors] KID!” Their expression twists and he leans all his weight on the counter, holding himself up on his arms and getting into their space - as much as he can. “WWHAT'S NOT 2 LIKE ABOUT MY [Specil Deal]? I’M AN H0NESTMAN. I WULDN’T ASK U TO [Right Under Your Nose] ANYTHING THAT DIDN’T ALREADY [Sole Proprietor] 2 ME! I’M NO THIEIF!”

“Half of the crap in here is stolen!” They point to a twisted metal rack holding up a large chunk of the wall. It also displays a handful of [Quality] bow ties. “That’s from a SafeStop gas station!”

“HEY IT’S MY [Treasure] THEIR [Beloved] [Damaged Property]! NOTHING [Illegal Software Detected, Act Now!] ABOUT TAKING SOMETHING OFF A STREET CORNER OR FROM [Conveniently Unlocked Doors]!!!

“Oh my god.” They rub their face, shoulders slumping. “This is hopeless. I don’t know why I even…”

“N0W W8!!” He scrambles onto his counter. It sags and wobbles under his feet, made extra soggy by his spilled [Includes ‘coffee-like’ Products]. The lightner glares at him as he throws out his hands, palms out. “I JUST NEED YOU. TO LEND ME YOUR [[Light[[. JUST LONG ENOUGH TO GET [[Big]] AGAIN! I’LL MAKE IT  [Worth your Weight in] [junk]!”

They laugh at him. Shake their head. “See, even you think it’s garbage!”

“THAT’’S NOT. WHAT I MEAN  TTTO SAY! IT’S A GOOD [Deal]! GREAT [[garbage]] SPECTACULAR [$#^!]! THE BEST [absolute waste of time]-”

He smacks a hand over his mouth, forcing his jaw shut mid-interruption. His free hand shakes at his side when they smirk at him. His damned jumbled code - how many times had it blown a deal for him? Now it’s going for the [[Biggest]] one yet!

Arms crossed, they lean back. Their jaw is tense when they speak. “Look. I listened to your pitch. Are you going to give me my pin back?”

“I DON’T. H;AVE IT.”

“Well! Guess I’m done here, then!” They toss up their hands and shrug. “Waste of time. Should have listened to my boss…” they sigh. “Thanks for nothing."

With that, they turn towards his door. His body goes cold, and he scrambles off of the counter, nearly kicking it over. The [Junk] sitting on it rattles and his coffee cup tips over and rolls off onto the ground. Doesn’t matter.

He glitches forward and plants himself between the lightner and the door. Fists clenched, he shakes and points at them, refusing to move. Forcing them to stop.

“I-I-I DIDN’T [Knew] YOU WERE A LITTOL [Coward]! DON’T HAVE THE [[Guts]] TO MAKE IT [Big Shot]?!”

They don’t rise to his bait. They bare their teeth down at him in a grin that rivals his own, and never reaches their eyes. “Guess not! Either give me my pin or leave me alone.”

When they shuffle to move around him he scrambles back. Places himself again between them and the door. They tense, hands clenching at their sides.

“YOU. CAME. HERE.” He gently reminds them. His whole body is shaking, joints rattling.

“For. My. Pin.” They match his energy, standing stiff. “Not for your pitch, for my pin.”

“WELL WHAT A SHAME! YOU WON’T GET FAR WITH THOSE [Teeny Weeny] [Shramp Spashul] DREAMS!” He runs his hand through his hair, slicking it back. Puffs his chest out, and stands up straight. Does his best to look confident. “LISTEN. IF Y0U HELP ME [Get out!] WITH THIS I CAN GET YOU LITERALLY WHATEVER YOU WANT! SO JUST SAY [Yes Please!] ALREADY!”

“No.” They move to push past him again. He backpedals and darts in their way, nearly bumping them with his shoulder in his haste. “Dude stop.”

“JUST. LISTEN. TO ME.” He marches forward until they give in and back away. Their eyes are wide, darting between him and the door he’s blocking. He herds them back to his counter.

“I’ve been listening! All you’ve done is spew a bunch of nonsense! Maybe if you were honest and admit you stole from me, gave me my pin back -  I might be a little more friendly!”

“FFFINE.” No way he’s giving back his bargaining chip, but he does stop advancing so aggressively. His teeth gnash together. “BUT [haaay] WHAT’S [rong] WITH GETTING A LITTLE [Attention]? YOU WOULDN’T HAVE [Show Up Early!] OTHERWISE!”

He grins up at them. They aren’t impressed. “Yeah. I wouldn’t have,” they mutter, eyes cutting from him to the door again. “I don’t appreciate being stolen from.”

“SOUNDS LIEK U NEED 2 [Get Gud LOL] KID! EHAHEA THE ONLY THING ANY1 EVR MANAGED 2 [Stealed] FROM ME WAS A LITTLE [Everything]! [My Entire Life Savings]! AND YOU DONT [c] ME COMPLAINING.”

“Dude-”

His glitching cackle rises over their voice. “EHAHEAHEA! ;SIDES. AREN’T YOU AT LEAST A LITTLE CURIOUS. ABOUT WHY I;M SO [[desperate]] TO TALK TO YOU?” He points at them. Their chest. Their Light.

“I know exactly why.” They close a fist over their chest with a scowl. “You think I’m too stupid to see through your dumb scam? Just another clueless lightner, right?”

“OF COURSE .” He jerks his head and clears his throat. Resists the urge to thump the side of his head with a fist to [Nonstick Pans 30% Off!] the words. “NOT. LIST;EN. I WOULDN’T PUT IN ALL THIS [Blood Sweat and Tears Not Included!] IF IT WASN’T. IMPORTANT.”

“Important enough to steal from me?” they scoff. 

He nods. He still hasn’t looked away from that [Light]. It’s blinding. It’s right there. A glitch rips through his head, scrambling him, and he laughs with his teeth grit together.

“EHAHAEAHEA !!! YEs. I NEED. THIS. I JUST. NEED. YOUR [[Light]]!! YOUR [Help]!” 

His head jerks and his smile stretches painfully. Now that he’s looked at it, his gaze is completely locked on that bright spot shining behind their ribs. A beacon. A slice of heaven. [Hope]. 

“I JUST NEED YOU. TO LEND ME YOUR [Light]. JUST. HAND IT. OVER. [Help] ME.”

“What do you even need me to steal?” Their voice is weary. They shift, feet sliding slightly further apart. When he remains silent, they make a vague motion, reaching towards their hip. He stares blankly at their [Light] as they eye him. “Hey. Are you even listening?”

This deal has gone to shit. Most of his deals do. He needs to [Cut out Carbs] his losses. There's no way to recover this - not that he can see. Before, that was too public. Too many [Passangers] by who could jump in and rescue a Soul in need.

But this is his shop. It's just him, and this bratty lightner. He can do this - screw the sales pitch. He had a feeling it wasn't going to work on this lightner from the jump.

It doesn’t matter. Freedom is right there. Right. There.

He could have it, right now. He could have it in his [palms]. Right. There. All he needs to do is             . This is what he’s been waiting for. [Praying] for. He should just [Take it]. He knows he's strong enough.

Just [Take it].

[Take it]

[Take it][Take it][Take it][Take it] [Take it]-!

The door crashes open behind him. He leaps a good foot in the air, spewing a series of dial-up and error noises, broken from his trance. A Virovirokun tumbles into his shop, spiral eyes wide and lips drawn back in a grimace. She looks from him to the lightner he has backed against his counter, and rights herself.

“HEY!” She coughs. “I’M. Here… To, uh. TO SHOP!”

Vinny and her damn timing. You let out a sigh, shoulders relaxing and hands dropping from your side. Your vision swims dark and after a few blinks, it clears up.

Spamton twists around to frown at you. That dark, blank gleam is gone from his eyes. He glances sideways at you now with huge pupils. Side-eyeing you.

“I THOUGHT I SAID NO [Friendly]? NO [Incriminating Witnesses]! WHATS WITH THE [Eliminate Stubborn Pests]?”

“Rude!” Vinny barks. You just give him a helpless, exhausted shrug. You don’t have any words to give him right now. Your hands are shaking, and your stomach is tense.

Spamton grumbles. “WHAT. DON’T YOU TRUST YOUR [Old Pal] [Spamton!]? I’M A [Total strangers are harassing me on the internet] AFTER ALL!”

Another shrug and he finally turns to Vinny, who’s floated over to the large, broken sword. Spamton swipes his hair into order and goes to her, a friendly grin fixed in place.

As soon as his back is turned, you shoot Vinny a thumbs up and slump back against the soggy counter. What the hell. You’re such an idiot. Of course it was all some bullshit having to do with your Soul. What else would it be? It’s not like he knows you’re a tailor and wants you to try and salvage his raggedy suit jacket!

There’s no way the counter will hold your weight, but you linger near it just in case. Your ribs feel like they’re crushing your heart, and your hand curls around a weapon that’s not there. Well, not yet.

Your eyes fall to the disaster zone on the desk, lip rolled between your teeth. It’s easier to take stock of Spamton’s mess than to think about your own. Think about what might have happened if Vinny didn’t come barging in.

There’s… almost nothing on his desk. The chipped mug, ‘1997’ printed on its side with big, bubbly red letters is on the ground. Not broken, just resting on a now-wet trash bag. There are some scribbled on papers, the handwriting too scrabbly and awful for you to understand. Covered with shoe prints, now. As is most of the desk. A moth-eaten bowtie the color of sand is quickly soaking up the ‘coffee’ before it can reach the paperwork… And something bright red, just barely balancing on the edge of the ‘counter’.

A utility knife, and a good one. The handle is made of wood instead of cheap plastic. It’s stained a deep, rusted red, and parts of it are smooth. Almost shiny from wear and time. Old. The same kind of old as his stolen and scribbled-on business cards. The same quality as well.

After his… rant? Episode? After all that… you’re starting to worry he’s killed some guy and stolen his identity.

Vinny and Spamton’s voices drone on behind you, raising a little. You ignore them, save for a glance. Spamton’s waving his arms, distracted. Vinny looks annoyed. Your eyes dart back to the knife.

It’s not trash. Probably the only thing in this ‘shop’ that’s worth anything. Vintage, well loved. Pristine among the garbage and rot.

It’s engraved. The letters ‘S.G.A.’ are carved into the wood. Leafed with gold that has faded to a dull and muted hue, but somehow managed to stick around. The fact that it hasn’t flaked away speaks to its quality.

A crash behind you draws your attention briefly. Vinny is floating over the broken sword, which now lies on the ground. Still in two parts, of course. Spamton is waving his hands, stomping a foot, and gesturing to it angrily.

“I didn’t break it!” Vinny’s snapping. “It was like this already. You can see the tape on it!”

“EHAHA NO WAY [Jose]! YOU THINK I’D SELL [complete garbage] LIKE THIS? THIS WAS A [$$$] ITEM! YOU’LL HAVE TO PAY [With your whole-] [[wallet]] FOR IT!”

“Oh, bullshit! I wouldn’t pay for it even if it wasn’t broken!”

Vinny’s starting to puff up. So is Spamton, whose sly grin you can just barely see. He’s lost in his scam, and Vinny isn’t letting his attention wander. You look back down at the knife.

A memento? A gift? Another piece stolen from someone else’s life? Something important to him, if he’s kept it this well maintained. Useful, at least. You can’t imagine having to cut garbage bags open with your nails would be easy.

The right thing to do would be to slip one of Crimp’s cookies onto the table. Leave one of her cards as well - the one with all of those helpful phone numbers on it. All those resources.

Do what you should have done when you first met him. Your job. Then leave and put this mess behind you. Give up on your quest for revenge.

But fuck that. You know what kind of person you really are. At your core.

So, your palm slides across the counter. Your fingers brush against smooth, worn wood. A swipe and your hand drops casually into your pocket as you turn from the counter. You stride towards Vinny, who’s puffed up and ready for a Fight. Spamton too - is his head slightly bigger? Ew.

“Vinny. Let’s just get out of here.”

Spamton rounds on you immediately, missing how quickly Vinny drops out of being angry to looking relieved.

“WHAT!? BUT YOU- OUR [deal]!” He sputters.

Vinny’s already floating towards the exit, nodding at you pointedly. You don’t hurry. You make sure to smile - beam at him as you pass.

“You’ll be seeing me again. I want to talk more about that deal.”

“Oh. Really?” Spamton’s voice comes out small and with the least amount of static you’ve heard from it. He shakes his head and claps his hands together, grinning. “OH! WELL - OF COURSE! WE- I;M ALWAYS [Open For The Weekend]!” He follows you to the door, where you linger while Vinny spins in nervous circles outside. “YOU’LL REALLY [Insert Considerate Response] ABOUT IT?”

“Yep.” You’re all cheer and customer service. “You did say this wasn’t for anyone’s ears but mine, remember? Besides, you’re actually very convincing! "

He puffs up, fists on his hips. "OF COURSE I AM! I'M A GODD@MN PROFFESIONAL!"

"Mhm,"  Your voice is strained and you keep your smile tight to avoid dropping it. "…Well, see you later!”

Vinny starts to drag you by your sleeve almost as soon as the door shuts behind you. Once the two of you are a good 10 feet down the path, you grab her. Start shoving and pushing her forward, voice cracking.

“Holy shit, Vinny, go go go go go! ”

Chapter Text

Over the years, Spamton’s had a lot of [$%^^] stolen from him. His [Fame]. His [[Life Worth Livin’!]]. His [Hopes and Dreams]. [[Everyone You’ve Ever Known And Loved]]… Even his damn [shoes], once. But, it’s been a while since it’s happened right under his nose.

He’s still riding the high of a [Great Deal]. Looking forward to further convincing that lightner as he cleans the mess that’s appeared on his counter. He’s gathered his [One (1) Novelty Mug], [Several (5) Illegible Scribblings] [[ruined…]], [One (1) Painful Yet Fashionable Reminder], and his [[Error: Not Found]] from off the floor.

It’s about time he grabs a new counter from outside. This one’s falling apart. Hard to find good quality, [real deal!] [3% Or Less Sawdust Garunteed] counters these days. They just don’t make ‘em like they used to.

Wait.

The tinny tune he’s whistling sputters out. He squints at the belongings he’s piled on his chair. Some of his [[We’ve Got The JUNK!]] is missing.

Where the hell is [Baby’s Furst] [Expensive Trinket]? His- the [Large Selection of Cutting Boards in Stock]? His [$&*^]ing knife? The one he’s had for[never]?

He’s not exactly rolling around in [Cherished Keepsakes] out here. He keeps all of that in his [5 starz!!!] [Throw! It! Out!]. 

Sure, he’s running his shop out of a real [It’s Better Than Nothin’], but the thing is bright red. It should be easy to find among the muddy colors and discarded [Goods] turned [Golds].

…His eyes aren’t that bad yet.

But. Well. It couldn’t hurt to wipe his glasses off. There. Now where the hell is it?

It was on his desk earlier. Needed it in tip-top shape for his afternoon [Scroll Patrol]. It’s trash day for a lot of the nearby [suckers]. They’ve started to double knot their bags after finding their stinking [Treasuries] ripped up and scattered across the alleyways one too many times. He’s going to need the [Isn’t it cool? I’ve never been able to afford-] if he wants to restock this week and get something to [Just a nibble?]. Plastic on plastic doesn’t make for the best grip, especially when those [While! Supplies! Last!] upgrade to the thicker bags.

Is it under the [Counterfeit Alert]? He pushes aside the wet cardboard with his foot. Kicks around among the layers of trash bags and dirt that make up his floor. His hands squeeze his hips as he prods, eyebrows furrowed. He’s getting his damn shoes all dirty looking for this thing… it’s probably right in front of his [Wouldya L00k at the size of that!] nose.

Has it fallen from the chair? No. There’s just the folded cardboard he uses to keep the thing level. He scratches at his aching jaw, clicking his teeth together in an uneven beat. He probably shoved it in his pocket! - No again. Just the [Bargaining Chip] in there. Where the hell is it?

All things considered, he thinks his response is quite measured and reasonable once the loose screws in his head bump together and he realizes what’s happened. The cracking noise his teeth make when his jaw snaps shut and his teeth grind together is a little worrying.

“YOU GOTTA BE [[yanking]] MY [$%!^]!!! THAT LITTLE [light bulb] [Give As Good As You Get] FROM ME?!!”

“What did he want?”

The pair of you have kept a steady pace for a few blocks now. Not slowing until there are signs of the neighborhood changing. Better sidewalks. More people. The smell of trash fades away, replaced with car exhaust.

It’s little comfort when your pocket weighs heavily against your hip with your prize. Your Soul spasms in your chest like a snared raccoon, unbelieving that you’re out of danger. It doesn’t feel safe to stop yet, even though the two of you are a fair distance away, exhausted, and there’s no sign of pursuit.

Granted, Spamton might just be slow-going with those little legs of his.

“No, seriously, what did he want?” 

Vinny cuts you off. You nearly bump noses with her, skidding to a halt. A stitch has sunk its claws into your ribs. You’re panting, and Vinny carries on while you struggle to suck in enough breath for a reply. 

“I told ya that the guy was a freak, and ya went in anyway! I gave you time like I said I would, ‘cus I didn’t think he was that bad, an’ when I came in-”

“Vinny,” you start, taking a deep, painful breath. Something in your throat rattles wetly.

“When I came in it was gettin’ dark, Doc. You looked like you were gonna punch the guy! The two of you were pissed.”

Cars trundle by on the road. Sputtering motors and squeaking footsteps compete with your ragged breathing. A few streets over an Addison shouts about their latest sale - has to be an Addison, no one else sets their volume that high. Figures you would wade through trash all day just to end up in a different type of dump.

Vinny jabs at your stomach when your attention wanders. Choking, you step away, but she follows. Narrow eyes examine your face. 

“Talk.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” you wheeze. 

Pushing her arrow away you dodge her next jab with a half-hearted twist. You walk. Slowly. You only vaguely know this side of town, but you don’t want to stand still for too long.

“Uh, I’d say it was. I walked in on a Fight about to happen!”

Yeah right. You’d have never let the little bastard get the chance. “We were just talking.”

Vinny makes a garbled, choking noise and hurries after you. Sensing she’s about to start jabbing you in the back, you pick up the pace. “Talking?! The guy had ya cornered, and you were reaching for your weapon!”

“I know. But we weren’t going to Fight! It was just a… disagreement.”

“Disagreement, yeah. Sure.” Scoffing, your coworker nudges you down a side street. Seems she knows the area. You’re thankful for it. 

Here, the buildings are taller. There are more stores than homes, which means you’re blinded by ads wherever you look. Bright city lights glare at you as you’re guided around a corner. Everywhere you turn your head, you’re blinded by light or accosted by the ‘lowest prices this season’ .

The City’s blue color scheme is nice enough, but the LED displays attached to every visible surface are just gaudy. Hi-rises and their clean and slim designs are muddied with colorful ads. Impossible to miss. There’s nowhere to rest your eyes, so you stare at your shoes.

“Wha’d he even want?” Vinny floats backward so she can glare at you. While you struggle to keep your balance as the ground slopes downwards underfoot, she coasts above it. Fixes your attention in place with narrow eyes. “Because that was a hell of a disagreement over a- a what? He wanted you fer a job?” She jabs you right in the chest and you nearly fall. “I swear if you agreed to a job with that little freak!”

“Ow! I didn’t.” She keeps prodding you. Follows when you back-step, and you’re forced to grab onto her arrow and push it aside. The edge stings your hand. “I’m not an idiot - stop it. Just…” You squint and search for anything to look at other than her narrowed eyes.

Ahead, the sidewalk is swamped with a cluster of programs. They’re made of blue floating triangles that orbit a central, bright power source. It’s impossible to tell who is who with them all mingling together. They don’t move or even seem to notice the two of you when you stall at the edge of their group.

Flapping a hand, you point upwards. Vinny rolls her eyes, but rises high enough to fly over the group. Head down, you keep quiet and slip into the chattering crowd. If you’re lucky, they’ll just think you’re a rude asshole who doesn’t know how to say ‘excuse me’ and ignore you.

“Oh!”

Of course not - not with how today has gone.

One of them gasps and tugs on another’s arm - you… think it’s an arm - as you pass through their swarm. They eagerly point you out to their companions, buzzing in awe while Vinny shadows you above. 

“Never seen one in person before!” they ‘whisper’. Tittering giggles fill your ears and one jabs what is probably an elbow at the other.

“Ask for a picture!”

“No! Omg, I can’t!!! That’s so… oh could you imagine? Do you think they know Queen?”

For the love of… it’s not as if you can’t hear them. Your shoulders crawl up to your ears and you hurry on. If one of them calls out to you, you ignore them. Vinny makes it easier, dropping behind you with a buzzing growl that silences the chatter before following after you. 

Time to start wearing hoods again. It’s bad enough when a lightner fanatic shows up at work. You don’t need anyone following you home.

When you’re far enough from the gossiping programs, Vinny drifts in front of you again. You’re forced to stop as she stares at your face.

“What? ”

“Was it drugs? Did he want you to smuggle for him?”

If you weren’t still fighting that stitch in your side, you’d laugh. If only it were that simple. “Hah. No. He just…”

God damn it. Another headache pinches tight behind your eyes. You need a glass of water, but what you’re really craving is some horrible energy drink. It’ll get you through the rest of the day and chase off your inevitable crash for a bit. Sleep would be best, but you won’t be getting any of that, much as you need it.

“It was some sort of theft thing. At first.” You’re reluctant to say more and try to side-step around Vinny. She floats in your way again and you huff. “He wasn’t very… clear.”

Between the babbling ad-speak about firewalls and heaven, of all things, and his freakish advances when you didn’t roll over and comply… Well, you’d had a hard time concentrating on what he was saying. A hard time understanding what he actually wanted from you, other than to steal something for him. 

Something important. Or powerful. A body? He said something about a ‘hot bod’... Hell no. You knew you were right to suspect some organ-harvesting bullshit.

Vinny scoffs. “He can pay anyone to do that. Do it himself if it’s so damn important! Why would he want you?”

“…It was something from the Mansion.” You push past her and she lets you, ears perking up.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” 

Carefully, you glance over your shoulder. Check that you’re out of earshot from any gossiping programs. No need to get anyone riled up. You almost don’t want to mention it… but who the hell else would you tell? Crimp would freak out if you talked with her about it. Swatch would blue screen.

But It’s bothering you, and you don’t want yet another thing to obsess over at night.

When Vinny floats to your shoulder, you speak again. Quietly. “Then he started talking about my ‘light’.” Your lips press into a thin line, teeth biting your cheek. “Soul stuff.”

A passing car whisks away Vinny’s gasp. You miss her expression, squinting at the lights to avoid it. But you can imagine it.

“Circuits! He’s one of them?” She shudders. “Doc. You’re better off not gettin’ that pin back. Yuck.”

It’s busier here. There’s another hill. Flashing ads float above stoplights on this street, grabbing your - and drivers - attention. They flicker between different colorful photos and too-fast videos. Very safe, Cyber City. Very cool. 

Queen probably makes a compilation of the car crashes they cause every month. You should check her channel sometime.

More ads are plastered on every available wall. Every building. Eye-catching colors displayed in full HD. Any and all free space is crushed and crowded with colorful static. 

Could be worse. Further Downtown, it’s much harder to handle. Twice as many ads. The taller the skyscraper, the more room there is for them.

Nearly shutting your eyes helps. You’re reduced to taking little sips from your surroundings. It’s too bright to look at all at once. 

In your silence, Vinny takes the lead. Nudging you down the hill toward what looks like a blurry stick with your eyes almost shut. Near as you can tell, you’re just on the outskirts of one of the shopping districts. Not a route you’d ever take willingly, especially alone. Without Vinny - or your phone - you’d get lost.

The two of you - only you, honestly - stumble down the hill. There used to be a bus stop here if Vinny’s angry scoff has anything to say about it. Looks like there used to be a shelter, too. Now there’s just off-colored concrete and some rusty bolts that stick out at trippable angles. You nearly snag on one and kiss concrete in your struggle to stop.

The pole - your blurry stick - is bent like someone ran it over a few times. There’s only one sign left on it, almost new-looking. 

‘WARNING!!! Aggressive Poppups in the area! DO NOT FEED!’

There’s a large bite taken out of the sheet metal.

The two of you snort in unison. A phone appears in front of her, and Vinny snaps a quick picture. Once that’s done, she rounds on you, smile wiped away.

“Did he…?” She’s tense, already sharp angles rendering crisp and stiff. She glances across the street at a few passing programs before her eyes return to you. Dart to your chest. “Did he try for it?”

“No.” You wave off her concern. “It didn’t get that far.”

Thankfully. He’d never have gotten close if it had, though. 

Fighting holds less appeal to you these days, but that doesn’t mean you’ve turned into a helpless fool. You can still hold your own. Keep yourself from hitting 0. Even inflict some heavy damage! If… If you have to.

“Let’s drop it, alright? I’m not going back. He can keep the stupid pin.” No point looking for it anymore. He’d either sold it or done something weird with it.

A buzzing, floating ad detaches from a nearby wall as the two of you linger by the discontinued stop. Both of you groan as it floats straight for you. It’s some sort of ride-share ad made to target walkers, even follow them around. They’ve been a lot more popular lately. Popping up around old or decommissioned bus stops for the most part. 

Lots of flashing lights and pixelated cars fill your field of view. It lets out tinny honks that wheeze from cheap speakers. Your teeth itch, and you cringe at every squonk it makes. Duck your head further. Yep. You’re bringing the hoodies out again.

Vinny’s eyes linger on your chest a little too long. You wave her off and glare at your shoes, relieved when the ad you’re pointedly ignoring drops between you. Your chest is still burning and your breathing is slow to come around. Last thing you need is for Vinny to pick up on that.

Angel, it was just a brief run for your life. A short one. You shouldn’t be this bad off. You’re out of practice, your stamina used to be way better than this.

Doesn’t help that you haven’t exactly been eating like you should. No more meal planning, just energy drinks and ramen. Excersize? By the time you get home, you’re crashing. Maybe you should relent and take Swatch up on the food they offer you more often. They’d love that. Your stomach would, too.

Sick of the insistent way it bobs in front of her face, Vinny whacks the ad away. It squonks miserably, marks the both of you down as ‘not interested’ in its internal database, and swivels to search for new customers. It darts across the street toward a pair of programs walking with enormous shopping bags swinging between them. 

Sadly, it does not get hit by a car. 

Your companion sidles up to you and sticks to you like glue. Apparently, she’s realized that you’re just a fragile little Soul in a meat suit. Vinny goes so far as to keep herself between you and the busy road while she fiddles with her phone. 

As if you’re going to faint and fall under a car the moment she looks away. At this point, you’d do it just to piss her off.

She’s not moving, just prodding at her phone. The shoppers across the street are quickly skittering away from the annoying ad. It’ll come back here sooner or later. Time to scoot.

“Vin. Let’s go-“

Vinny shushes you and furiously taps at her phone. No idea how she uses it when she only has two feet and an arrow. Magic, probably. You’d failed Monster Biology in school, so who's to say. 

She’s a darkner, though. You’re not sure that class would have helped. They’re a lot different inside than lightners.

“Look.” She flips the phone so you can see the screen. Points out the time buried under a million text notifications.

Oh. It’s… past noon. You spent your entire morning in the Trash Zone. Great.

“I’m late,” she hisses. She spins it back to face her and by the way it bobs and her eyes narrow, you can guess she’s texting. “I’m soooooooo fired.” She sinks.

“No, you’re not.” A little nudge from your shoulder sends her bobbing away. You kick away a discarded chip bag as she meanders back to your side. “Seriously. If she didn’t fire you when you ate an entire box of buttons because you thought, and I quote, they were ‘really bad old lady candy’, I’m sure Crimp won’t care if you’re a little late.”

Hell, Vinny could set the place on fire and Crimp would still keep her around. Gossiper though she is, she’s the best delivery girl Crimp’s ever had. You heard it straight from the spider’s mouth. ‘Sides, it’s not the kind of job you can get fired from. Not unless you really fuck up. 

As soon as Crimp hears that you’re involved, she’ll know it’s not Vin’s fault. You’re the one who dragged her into one of your messes.

Vinny raises her eyebrows at you. You’ve seemed to have cheered her up a little. Then she snorts and fixes you with a smile you don’t quite like. Oh no. Too cheered up. Shit.

“Of course you’d say that.” She rolls her eyes, sighs, tosses her head. Performs at her most utterly dramatic. “Put in a good word for poor ol’ Vinny girl, will ya?”

“The hell does that mean?”

Lips pressed together, she tosses you a shrug and floats away. You scramble after her as she heads for the corner of the block, phone still bobbing in front of her. You have half a mind to snatch it from her.

“Dunno, Doc.” 

Vinny spins a little. Turns upside down to grin at you once she reaches the corner. You huff and ignore her while you lean down and pull your socks up from where they’ve slipped down inside your shoes. 

“You’re the little mini-me. Always gettin’ away with shit.”

“Vin.” Face hot, you’re glad your head is bowed. You fumble with your socks. Lots of holes in this one. Need to stop at the 99-cent store for a new pack soon. Running around in trash all day has left them worse off than usual.

“Junior,” Vinny coos. She tilts her head and considers you when your head snaps up. “Teacher’s pet? That fits… Ohmygod, wait, wait! What d’ya call baby spiders again? Aww!! You’re the Boss’ little spiderling!”

That’s it. You lunge for her and miss. Bad angle - you weren’t ready for it, that’s all. Nothing to do with being out of shape.

Orange-stained fingertips just barely brush her dress as Vinny rises out of your reach, still upside down. She spins above you like a top, snorting. If she drips any snot on you, you’re going to fold her flat ass like origami. She’ll have to be mailed in to work.

“Do you use your head for anything other than spewing nonsense?” you hiss. 

Swatch has said nearly the same thing to you before. You refuse to think about it, and what it says about who you view as a role model. No energy to unpack that right now.

“Anyway.” Vinny lowers herself into your line of sight only after you stop lunging for her. You don’t allow her the satisfaction of seeing your face - you hide behind hunched shoulders. “What were you and that little freak arguin’ about before I came in? Just, uh… that?”

Of course she’s still on ‘that’. Grimacing, she gestures at all of you before zeroing in on your chest when you turn to face her. You swat at her and she lets herself spin away before she returns with a nervous laugh.

“It… seemed like you two were going to get into it. Like, genuinely, Doc.”

That gives you pause. Yeah, you’d been frightened and angry - mostly angry - but you weren’t… You had better control over your temper than that. You were holding it together. It all would have been fine, it…

In your chest, your Soul shudders. Your heart still races, and there are bloody crescents in your palms from your nails. They pulse quietly in time with your rapid heartbeat. The little slices are too close to the rust that stains your palms. It’s probably fine. You’ve had your shots.

But… It’s been a while since you were that… annoyed. That angry. That anything. The rush of emotions has you feeling spun out. Running away isn’t entirely to blame for how spent you feel, even with your poor health.

Normally, you’re too tired to snag on ‘annoyances’. It’s easier to let things go. Not like you’ve got energy to spare on getting upset these days.

You’d have been fine if it had reached an actual Fight, though! Totally. He’d probably be the first darkner to get you sick, but that’s all. You could have fended him off just fine if someone’s temper snapped before Vinny rushed in. He hadn’t been that threatening…

Blank-eyed. Hands clawed and grasping for you. Whole body shaking. Mask-like face covered in a sheen of sweat. Blocky teeth grinding. Unresponsive to your increasingly panicked questions as he advanced. Eyes locked on your soul. Mouth moving, tracing words silently with religious fervor.

Then he’d been fine. Back to ‘normal’. Like it hadn’t happened at all, making you feel like an idiot for your racing heart and dry mouth.

The skin across your back pulls tight. Prickles. Rolling your shoulders, you clear your throat and cross your arms across your chest. 

It’s over with, now. No pin, but you got even. Crimp will make you a new one like she’s been offering. Things can go back to normal.

“Did it at least seem like I would have won?” you dare to ask. Vinny’s laughter is your answer. She dodges your halfhearted swipe, laughing harder when she sees your face. “Shut. Who are you texting?”

“One-a the boys.” Vinny gestures toward the old bus stop. “Nearest stop is like a 20-minute walk from here. ‘S not worth it.”

Huh. You cross your arms and shift from heel to toe with a hum. “You’re not calling it an emergency, right?” 

No reason to get priority when the cabs were probably out skimming the lunch rush.

“I’d say almost getting your Soul stolen counts as an emergency,” Vinny hums. 

Now you do lunge for the phone. You nearly get it, hand darting straight for it before it’s whisked out of range. Your feet scrabble under you and you halt your momentum just before stumbling into the street. You spin around and get ready to lunge again. 

“Do not tell Bixby that I almost got my Soul stolen! Are you insane? If he thinks that’s true and he tells Crimp-!”

“I’m not! Gears, Doc.” Vinny wrinkles her nose at you, floating up and out of reach. You can’t jump as well as you can lunge, and she knows it. “’M just seeing if anyone’s close that could swing by and pick us up.”

Relief. You still manage a half-hearted swipe at her, on principle. Your chest hurts, ribs too tight around your heart. “Good. I don’t want to end up under house arrest.”

“You’re not already?” Vinny stashes her phone away and smirks. “I don’t think you’ve ever gone on a delivery. ‘Least not since you started helpin’ after hours.”

Hunching your shoulders, you blow a raspberry at her. “I used to. I was…“ very bad “Fine. At it.” Too slow. Too nervous. Drew too much attention. “I’m better off in store.”

Vinny smiles. She sinks and leans her shoulder on yours. You grunt, tilting with her weight. Glare at her from the corner of your eye.

“Ah, well. Can’t beat perfection, huh?” She preens and lifts her nose. “Like you said, slowpokes like you are better back at the- HEY!”

She squawks when you wrap your arm around her neck and grapple her. She kicks, but you got lucky and have a good grip. You grab your wrist with your other hand and let your feet slide out from under you. 

“Giddyup then, asshole.” Vinny squirms in your grip and twists around while you laugh. “If you’re so fast, then start flying us- OW! ”

She bit you. Right on the fat part of your bicep. She squirms away and you’re quick to skitter back, clutching your arm. 

She aims her arrow at your head, face flushed. “I’m not a horse!”

“You bit me!” You roll up your sleeve. No mark, just spit. Maybe a bruise, soon. “You bit me?! ”

“I’ll do it again!” 

She jabs for your stomach and you let her hit her mark. Clutch your belly and pretend you’ve been gutted. Your theatrics earn you a firm bop on the back of your head. 

“What’d you snatch from that trash heap, anyway?” She asks while you whine and rub your head.

“What makes you think I snatched something?” Hand to your chest, you step back, but you’re already reaching for your pocket. “I don’t snatch.”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t.” You’d used a little more finesse if you said so yourself. You’re no professional thief, but you’d felt rather smooth tucking the knife into your pocket. It’s probably the coolest thing you’ve done since… ah, back when you worked at the Mansion. You caught a plate before it could hit the floor. ‘S all been downhill from there.

When you hand over the tiny pocket knife, Vinny laughs but keeps any comments on its size to herself. She flips it back and forth, muzzle scrunching up when she spots the engraving. You don’t have the energy to stop her when she vets it by biting it. Her teeth ‘tck tck tck’ against the treated wood and your face wrinkles in disgust.

“Weren’t you just saying how gross he was?”

“Yeah, but that was for your benefit.” Vinny shrugs. “’S not like I can catch anything else.” She flips the knife over a few times before, thankfully, wiping it clean on her dress. She hands it back. “Well. That sure is a knife.”

“Yeah, well.” You play with it in your palms. Flick open a screwdriver attachment. “Only thing that looked valuable.” 

And like it might sting to lose. See how he likes it.

“I would have gone for one of those weird vials of poison.” Vinny nods to herself, expression very serious. With nothing else to do - or put in her mouth - she turns her attention toward the end of the street. “That, I could sell.”

“Yeah? Expert opinion?”

“My expert opinion is that I woulda gotten the guy’s wallet, too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” you snort. Fiddle with the knife and all its little attachments.

You’re not… proud to have stolen something. Your hands feel gross, rust and grime aside. But you don’t have to defend yourself to Vinny of all people. She’s made quite the career out of selling stolen data. Still. Doesn’t stop you from feeling like you need to. You flick and fiddle with a corkscrew attachment as you rock from heel to toe.

“Well…” Vinny starts slowly once the silence has stretched too long for her. “Do you feel better now, at least? Like, was it worth it?” 

“I didn’t really think it through.” Pain pulses behind your eyes and you grimace. It was one thing when the guy just wanted your attention. Now he’ll be just as vindictive as you and have another reason to try and find you or make a ‘deal’ with you. 

Or worse. Little weirdo. Here’s hoping he doesn’t care enough about the shitty knife to come looking for it. 

Vinny waggles her arrow at you and delicately pokes the tip of your nose. “You??????? Not thinking things through when you’re angry? Hmm! Sounds to me like you’re back to normal- OW.”  

Vinny shoves you away, her arrow poking your cheek. You swipe at her nose and get in another slap with a little reaching.

“Don’t hit me in my face zone when you’re holding a knife??? Are you insane?” Vinny seethes. Prods for your chest.

You palm it aside and shove the arrow back at her. She floats higher with a squeak. Bops the top of your head with the flat side of her weapon in retaliation. Tunk. Ow.

She watches with narrow eyes as you slowly and deliberately unfold the spoon attachment. You wave the rust-stained utensil in her direction. A car honks nearby and her ears twitch, but her attention stays locked on your ‘weapon’ and your smirk.

“There. Not a knife.” You move to your tip-toes to prod her with it, making a menacing scooping motion. Vinny smacks the back of your hand so hard you nearly drop it. “Ow! Goddamn it Vinny! ”

“I was being nice! I was being so nice to you and cheering you up and you hit me!” Vinny wails. Hits your shoulder repeatedly while you laugh and shove the stupid thing back into your pocket. “I even got us a cab!” She points behind you and you turn around to find that, yep, one is pulling slowly to the curb corner.

It’s one of Bixby’s. Old, rusted, paint more orange than yellow. SureTaxi logo faded and peeling off the side. Spewing enough exhaust that it’s almost a smog machine. 

Cheapest cabs in the city. You and Vinny ride for free. Just how Bix affords to keep running his little shop and his awful cabs stays between him and Crimp.

While you’re distracted, Vinny whaps your shoulder and spins you the other way. She’s already clambering into the idling cab when you whirl back around. Swearing, you lunge in after her. 

Familiar laughter halts you just before you can grab Vinny by the collar of her dress. Your head snaps up to face the driver’s seat.

The cabbie is a Plugboy - they usually always are. The little ivy cap he wears has a new patch sewn in it. It’s more patches than cap at this point. His bronze pin, scuffed and worn, is perched on the hat near his ear. 

He’s grown out his fur a bit since you last saw him. To be fair, it’s been quite a while.

“Martin!” Your voice cracks. You dive between the two front seats. Throw your arms around his shoulders and almost drag him down with you. His laugh is as familiar and welcome as your favorite song.

“Surprise!!!” Vinny titters. She shoves your feet out of her lap as you press a kiss to Martin’s cheek, nearly knocking off his hat. “Now you have to be nice to me.”

There’s no point telling her to shut up. You’re too happy. Martin laughs in your ear. Wraps his warm teddy bear arms around you.

“You didn’t tell them I was coming?” He worries above your head. The static in his voice causes a few strands of your hair to float into his face.

“No, because she’s awful.” You squirm into the front seat, only kicking Vinny in the side on purpose once. She barks, shoves you away, and you right yourself with a huff. “I thought you were in the office now? Why are you out driving?”

Martin blinks at you. His seat is set high - the car modified for a Plugboy’s smaller body. He’s nearly eye-level with you as he glances back at Vinny. “Uh. Everyone else is busy, and Vin said it was an emergency…?”

“Yeah. I’m late.” Vinny buckles herself in, basking under your dirty look. The car doesn’t start rolling away from the curb until you’ve buckled yourself in as well. Martin switches the meter off before gently coasting the car forward.

Martin glances your way. Smiles. You’re beaming right back, cheeks aching.

It’s been at least 3 months since you’ve seen him. Not since he started running the cabs during the day for Bixby. He hasn’t had time to swing by N&T, and you haven’t had the energy to spare for a visit. 

Still, he’s been checking in on you. Crimp got a call from him last week, asking after you. ‘Making sure you’re still alive’, she’d paraphrased. You’ve assured him a million times he doesn’t need to worry about you anymore, but he still calls.

“Aaand some guy tried to swipe their Soul today too, soooo…” Vinny clicks her tongue. “Ya. Emergency.”

“What?!” The car swerves. Martin starts to pull over, his hollow eye ports wide. “What?”

“Ignore her.” You pop open the glove box, ducking under Martin’s dropped jaw to dig through it. Mostly receipts and the company gas card. Empty otherwise. “How are you doing on handouts?”

“Uh, almost out but- Wait. Wh- No! No no no, back up.” Martin’s shoulders tense as he keeps his eyes on the road. He’s an excellent driver and never lets his attention waver from the road. Even when you can feel the glare he wants to shoot your way. “Your Soul? Soul- Soul?! What happened?”

“Nothing,” you hiss, tossing a wadded napkin over your shoulder toward Vinny’s laughter. “She’s exaggerating. I went to pick something up and the guy was weird. That’s all.”

“Weird how? ” Martin rasps over Vinny’s growing cackles. There’s no more garbage to toss at her. Keeping your eyes on the passing buildings, you dig through your Inventory.

“He-“

“Had ‘em cornered in his shitty shop,” Vinny chimes in. Martin gasps. Your head drops and nearly hits the dashboard.

“I was not. Cornered,” you groan. “He was just... a lot. Sick. He was some kinda Addison Spoof. Programed a little too pushy, that’s all. Had some glitching.”

The radio is off, so the cab is silent except for Vinny’s derisive snort and the crinkle of plastic as you shove a few handfuls of wrapped cookies into the glove compartment. These have cards taped to them, N&T logo on the front, and a list of helpful numbers and addresses on the back. You’d had to peel the card off when you gave Swatch theirs. The extra, loose card gets tossed in as well. It’d do more good here than rotting in your Inventory. 

Probably should have ended up on Spamton’s ‘counter’, but you’re not feeling very charitable toward him just this minute.

“Maybe… I mean…” Martin clears his throat. “…Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go back to working at the Mansion?”

The glove compartment clunks loudly when your knee jerks and slams it shut. “It wasn’t work, Martin. It was a me thing. Personal.”

Vinny’s pointedly quiet in the back seat. Mentally, you throttle her, glaring past your reflection in the window. The street names are recognizable, now. At least work’s close. You keep your eyes on the passing empty shops.

Martin clicks his tongue in the following silence. “Alright…” 

He thinks he’s sneaky, driving under the speed limit. Slowing down. His eyes flick to the rear-view mirror and you stop yourself from whipping around to see what sort of face Vinny’s making. 

“...Are you sure you’re okay?”

“It’s fine. Vinny’s just stirring up trouble.” You finally crack and look back at her. She shrugs, all innocent smiles under your glare. “Like usual.”

“No comment,” Vinny chirps. “Just thought it was something you should know.”

Martin sighs. He coasts the cab toward the sidewalk. Work is still a block away, but neither you nor Vinny complain. You know the drill.

“Well! It was nice getting out of the office!” He injects cheer into his voice as he puts the cab in park. Smiling, he looks back over his shoulder at Vinny. “Even if I nearly got a heart attack out of it.”

She winks, tongue out. You don’t have the energy to lunge at her again. Instead, you lean over and pull Martin into a tight hug as Vinny slips out of the car. He hugs you back, and for a moment your throat closes up. 

Too many hugs today. First Peri, and now this… God. You need to lock yourself in a coffin and sleep off all these mushy feelings.

“Stop worrying about me.” You pat his shoulder and let go.

Martin fixes his hat in the mirror as you unbuckle. He’s only a few years older than you. Worry lines crowd his forehead.

“I’m good. Crimp’s keeping at least one eye on me. I’m not getting into any trouble.”

Martin raises an eyebrow. You raise one back. He relents with a sigh, a smile cracking his frown to pieces. 

“I know, but I can’t help worrying. I’d feel awful if anything happened to you while you’re staying here.”

“Nothing’s gonna happen.” You crack the door and let your foot rest on the sidewalk, not leaving the cab just yet. “I know what I’m doing now. I’m not gonna get run over by any cars.”

Martin snorts and covers his mouth with a paw. He tries not to smile. Fails spectacularly. “Hey, that was scary! Don’t joke about that.”

“Noise you made when you pulled me out of the road was kinda funny, though.” Martin waves you off and you laugh, finally slipping from the cab. “I’m good, Martin. If I get in trouble, I’ve got a handful of brains at the Mansion I can pick. And if I get into real trouble, I’ve got Crimp. You set me up good. Stop worrying.”

“I’ll try!” It’s an empty promise, but Martin’s laugh is genuine as you shut the car door.

He waves to both you and Vinny before pulling away. You really do hope he stops worrying. That everyone does. 

It’s not worth it. You’ve got everything handled. Hell, you’ve been here nearly a year by now! You know better than to do stupid things like walk into the street without looking.

Still, if you were in Martin’s position and found a clueless lightner just wandering into traffic, you’d want to keep tabs on them too. Perhaps you wouldn’t go the extra mile like he did, dragging them to the Mansion to meet the Queen ASAP… But yeah. You’d linger.

Vinny bumps into you. She’s grinning, sharp teeth making her smile look more like a leer. “You know. If you two had worked out, we coulda called ya the ‘Doc Martins’.”

Breathe in through your nose. Out through your mouth. “Vinny. Question. Do you ever just walk around on the ground?”

“What? No! Well, I mean maybe at home - why?”

“You’d be easier to kick if you were down there, is all.”

Nothing’s changed at work when you and Vinny arrive. Same dusty windows and the same familiar bell ringing to announce you’re there. You dodge the door when it tries to bite your heels this time.

It’s quiet inside. A nice reprieve, as always, from the noise of the city and… and the day. Just the whole damn day.

Crimp sits at the front counter, hand stitching ruffles into an asymmetrical yellow skirt. Most of her hands tend to that, while the remaining take quick notes on a legal pad leaning against the counter. 5 eyes remain locked on the sewing project, but her note-taking is confident. How she doesn’t get it all mixed up is a mystery to you. Blessing of being born with multiple eyes, you suppose.

“Gooood afternoon, Sawbones!” Vinny sings. She floats over displays, cutting straight to the counter. Crimp’s face twitches and her elbow jerks, nearly stabbing herself.

“Don’t. Start that. You’re already late. And you.” She doesn’t even look up, pointing her needle at you. You freeze between two racks and put your hands up. “Go away. You’re not on the schedule.”

You...?

Ah.

That’s right.

It’s your day off.

The whole reason you’d left your apartment today was to spend it searching for Spamton once you’d dropped off the pants. With how that went, you’d forgotten.

Vinny hovers over the counter, snickering. “I was wondering when they’d notice! Come on, Boss. Shoulda at least let ‘em get to work first.” When you lunge between the racks and straight for her, she darts into the back with a shriek.

Autopilot had you following her thoughtlessly. You’d meant to ask Martin to drop you off on his way back.

“Well.” You take a deep breath and clap your hands together. Perch them on your hips afterward. Smile - it’s totally a smile. It better be. Your face hurts. “I am. Here now!”

“I’m not paying you,” Crimp huffs.

Knees popping, you squeeze under the counter. Let it slap down loudly. Crimp’s eyebrow twitches again and Vinny’s muffled yip reaches you from the back. Your boss pushes some of her hair over her shoulders while you seek out your apron. She abandons her note-taking and sewing and spins in her chair to glare at you.

“This isn’t a hotel. Go make yourself-“ She stops. Her face wrinkles up, and she slowly leans away from you. “Why do you smell like that?”

“What?” You smell? Oh, damn it all-

“They were in the Trash Zone!” Vinny shouts. “Like in that thing!”

It’s not. That bad.

Face screwed up, you tuck your apron over your arm and flee to the back room. There’s a three-second delay before Crimp shuffles after you.

Vinny’s at the very back of the store, nearly hidden behind stacked boxes and draped fabric. The way back. Past the workstations and the boxes that get rummaged through most frequently.

There’s a metal filing cabinet against the back wall, right next to the back door. She’s nosing through it, her satchel already laid out on the chipped and worn wooden table that runs along the back wall, stopping just short of the metal side door off to the left. 

The room it leads to takes up half of the space back here, an obvious ad-in with how it juts into the otherwise open-concept room. It’s easier to ignore when you get over to the cabinets in the kitchen, unable to see Vinny loading up for her route.

“The hell were you doing in the Trash Zone?”

Crimp tails you, tossing her skirt onto a worktable as she passes. You sulk into the break room alcove and wave her off. Hissing, she snags your wrist with one of her bony hands.

“Did you get another cut? Why are you covered in rust?”

“They were gonna beat some guy up!” Vinny shares helpfully. Her voice bounces off the walls and into the break room, loud and clear.

Crimp uses every ounce of her grandma strength to drag you, sputtering, to the sink. Something clatters in the back. Sounds like the route clipboards being tugged off the wall and slapped onto the table.

“They had a biiig rusty piece of metal and threw it right at me!”

“It’s not like I knew you were there!”

Crimp shoves your hands in the sink. You’re smart enough to leave them there when turns on the water. Hot - Ouch!

A look from her keeps your hand still. She starts searching through cupboards and you groan.

“It wasn’t a big deal. Everything worked out.” God damn it, Vinny.

Crimp fixes you with every one of her eyes. In one hand, she’s holding a box of baking soda. You’re sure she’s considering beating you with it.

Instead, she dumps the box into your hands and you scrunch your face at the texture. Scrubbing, you do your best to get the rust off - ignoring the stinging in the minor cuts on your palms - and are unsurprised when most of it washes away. Figures she’d know some trick to get rid of it. Grandma.

Crimp stands back with a stilted sigh once your hands look less orange. She presses a pair of hands to her temples. The way she tilts her head back and squints at the ceiling really reminds you of Swatch. Shit. You're in for it now.

“Was this about that stupid pin?”

Silence. You scrub your hands and hunch your shoulders. Vinny’s stifled laughter grows into a cackle. Crimp leans to peer around the corner and glares at Vinny.

Her laughter only gets louder, mixed with a buzzing noise now. Sounds like she’s getting a real hoot out of all of this. Good for her.

“Enough of this.” Crimp passes you. Yanks open the fridge with clicking fangs. “Come here.”

Hands still dripping, you shuffle over. She slaps the fridge closed, a cheap beer in one hand - hey, who are you to judge? She lives here. 

Crimp rips the cap off with her claws, and the bottle is abandoned on the coffee table. She digs her claws into the cap. Twists. Pulls. The cap comes apart like string cheese in her hands. Teal magic sparks and you squint against the bright light. Not that it helps. You can see it with your eyes closed, anyway.

She mashes her hands together. Pulls the mess of metal-turned-string back together like wet clay. A few twists, some pulls from extra hands, a last flash of magic and she’s done. It took less than a second. Muscle memory to her at this point.

She thrusts a new pin into your hands. It’s identical to the one you’ve lost. They all are.

It’s also still warm with leftover magic. Your fingers tingle and stick to it for a moment while it fades. You can’t help but wipe them across your shirt, even though you know there’s nothing there. Something about polymorph magic, Crimp’s in particular, always feels so sticky to you. It’s probably not a genuine feeling, just bias because she’s a spider Monster. No one else has complained about it, at least.

“Wear it. Especially that far out, and especially if you want to keep your job.” There’s heat to Crimp’s voice, but no bite. She crosses her arms. “Honestly, you… Ugh. Go help Vinny pack.” She scoops up the beer and uses it to gesture toward the back. “If you’re gonna be here, you’re taking my shift.”

“You decide that before or after you opened a beer?”

Crimp shoos you off, returning to the front. You sulk back through the mess to join Vinny. The new pin feels disingenuous and heavy when you slip it onto your apron. Gross. Wrong. It’s not your pin.

Crimp doesn’t get it, and you don’t know how to explain it to her. There’s no easy way to dump ‘I used to cry over someone taking my favorite pencils in middle school, and I liked the pin you gave me a hell of a lot more than I ever did those pencils’ on someone without sounding insane. Or being pitied.

Just have to suck it up. You’re an adult. Too old to be sentimentally attached to useless trinkets. Too old to still feel bad about hurting a thing’s ‘feelings’ when you lose it. It’s gone, and now you’ve got a new one. End of story.

Vinny’s fumbling compressed .Zip files into her satchel when you join her. Annoyed as you are, you hold it open for her, earning a grateful nod as she turns back to the cabinet. A few more files get loaded up, and she floats over to the clipboard she’s left on the table. Today’s list found, she tears the sheet off with the smallest grimace. Must be a long route.

“Didn’t realize you had another week on delivery duty,” you muse. There’s no point being mad about her teasing and meddling. You deserved it, dragging her into your mess. Her ‘tattling’ is just her being worried about you. 

You hope.

…

If she secretly hates you, you’re going to crawl into a dumpster.

The filing cabinet locks automatically when you shove it shut with an elbow. Click. Vinny noses her head through the satchel’s strap. The bag is stuffed full to bursting, but the good thing about compression is that it lowers the weight significantly.

“Yep. I traded!”

She nudges the clipboard back onto its hook. Floats over you rather than around. Your eyes flick briefly to the side room before you turn around and walk with her to the door.

“Who with?” Another tug on the cabinet as you pass. Double-checking locks on autopilot.

Vinny’s quiet, nudging the chain locks out of their holsters with her arrow. You’re not a fan of the smile on her face. It’s shown up too many times today.

“Hype,” Crimp says from behind you. 

She scoots around you to tug at Vinny’s satchel, situating the strap neatly across her chest so it won’t hide her pin. She stares at you when you groan and whine your way to the wooden table. Her eyebrows shoot up when you lean on it with another theatrical groa. She pinches the skin between them with a sigh.

“What? Why are you mad at Hype now? ”

“I’m not mad, I just…”

“They made a bet with him that they’d find their pin. They lost, obviously.” Vinny winks at you. “Whomp whomp.”

“How do you know about that?” You’re too tired to put much heat into your voice. There’s already a guess in mind.

“I’ve got friends other than you!” Vinny shrugs and winks. “He owed me drinks for the switch. Went to that bar nearby after work.”

“He decided to talk about work instead of all his other drama? Something’s wrong with him. He’s starting to like it here.” Snickering, you kick a leg gently against one of the table legs.

Crimp makes a ‘tsst’ sort of noise. Like she’s scolding a dog. Might as well be with you and Vinny around. She opens the back door and nudges Vinny out and into the back alley.

“Enough. Vinny, go do your rounds. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Vinny’s cheeks are pink. She wiggles away from Crimp’s hands and floats down the back stairs. Her spin and bow have a bit more flair and grace to it than usual. Gross.

“Yes, Ma’am!”

“And be careful.” 

Crimp gestures to the back alley. Empty, save for the dumpsters and back stoops of other businesses. Some trash, but not a lot. People tend to keep it clean around here. There’s a vaguely car-shaped tarp tucked against the side of the building. Crimp’s death trap. One day, if you’re lucky, someone will steal that awful old car.

“Keep your nose out of trouble.” Crimp lowers her voice. “Bixby heard on the radio that there was another attack this morning.”

All the teasing energy disappears. You look from Vinny to Crimp, lingering in the doorway with her. “Another? That’s three this month.”

Vinny hurries back up the steps, ears pinned back. “Was everyone alright?” Her usual playful tone is gone. Her voice is quiet and flat. “I’ve been hearing rumors that someone died during the last one.”

“Not this time. Took a whole troop of ‘Lances to catch it, though. It was a big one.” Crimp pokes the end of Vinny’s snout. “You’re already sick. Don’t think I didn’t hear you sniffling. Don’t go drawing unwarranted attention right now. No need to get yourself labeled as Infectious while everyone’s so riled up.”

Vinny sends you a look, but nods. “Well… Alright. You want me to check on Bix before I get back?”

Some tension leaves Crimp’s shoulders. “Please. He’s been putting off updating his shop’s firewall. ‘Cabs take priority’. See if you can guilt him into it.”

Crimp shuts her out once Vinny nods. She slips the locks back into place while you linger by the cabinet. Her rankled attitude makes sense to you now.

“Didn’t know there’d been another...”

Crimp rubs her temples in your peripheral. Her mouth opens, and she hesitates. She shrugs instead of saying what she meant to.

“Just be nice to Hype tonight,” she warns. “Don’t scare him off. His shop’s in a good spot.”

You grab the subject change and hold on tight. “I am always nice! So nice!” You wave a hand at her, mocking how she usually shoos you. “Go on. Get. Go to bed.”

She stares at you. Squints. Slowly, Crimps arms rise and cross. You wave a little more frantically.

“Go!! Consider this me repaying you for the CC-Thread! I uh. I’m gonna end up using all of it.”

That, she accepts. Granted, with an annoyed sigh and a mumbled remark about ordering more. At least her shoulders drop. You follow her to the stairs, hands tucked into your apron.

“Nothing you need to worry about tonight. Everything’s prepped.” She nods to your stained hands. “Don’t touch anything.”

“Okay.” Nice. No prep means you can hover around up front.

She’s right about not touching anything, though. Your hands are still orange. Which means you can’t work on Peri’s gift tonight unless you want to ruin it or grab some gloves from the back.

“Any Leaks coming up?”

Crimp clicks her fangs together and hesitates at the foot of the stairs. She scratches her fluffy neck, head tilting to the side as she thinks. 

“Mm. No. Won’t need you ‘till the end of the week. Monday night, as long as we don’t get any surprises. Keep your phone on.”

“Always do.” Poor thing hasn’t been shut off for more than 30 minutes since you started working here. The battery’s less than useless. “Hey. I need your old lady opinion on something.”

“Charming.” Crimp’s already a few steps up. She turns with a grimace and holds out her hand expectantly. You fish the utility knife out of your pocket and hand it over.

With an expert twist of her wrist, she flips the blade out. She frowns at the chipped metal and taps it with her claw before cycling through all the different little attachments. Grimaces at the wear and tear.

“Know anyone who’d want it?” You should have asked Martin. He’d have known right away.

Crimp shuts the knife up while you shift from heel to toe. She turns the red-stained wood over in her hands. Frowns at the initials. If she sends you a suspicious squint, you’re careful to give nothing away but a shrug and an innocent look.

“Maybe.” 

She traces the initials before flicking the blade out again. Runs her claw over the chips there. A bit of rust stains the hinges, and the whole thing is dull and in need of sharpening. A little fleck comes off the edge of the blade when she presses her claw against it. Crimp tuts and shuts it again.

“Bixby might know an old coot who’s a collector. Want me to clean it up for you?”

She’s being nice. Must feel a little bad about the pin. If this is as much as she’s willing to show it, you’re thankful. You hate it when she gets sincere.

“What’ll I owe you?”

Crimp chuckles. She drops the knife into the pocket of her long skirt. Again, she starts up the stairs, carefully sliding her feet past the clutter. “Behave tonight and call me next time you hold up my delivery girl. Had me worried.”

It’s a few hours into your shift before you hear the usual knock on the back door. Three raps, a two-second pause, and two more quick raps. Took him long enough.

Already sighing, you slide from your spot leaning near the register. Head to the back door. You’re sure to take your time unlocking everything, which earns you another series of knocks. These are more urgent. When the door finally swings open and reveals your visitor, he’s tapping a foot, arms tightly crossed. You think.

The humanoid program standing on the back stoop is too tall. They’re blurry, obscured by a black shadow. Limbs vague and wavering. The only clear thing about them is the black trilby cap and sunglasses sitting where a head and face are only being vaguely hinted at under the shadow.

You’ve no clue who he thinks he’s fooling.

“Finally!” The voice coming from the shadowed figure is distorted. Artificially low-pitched. You’re shoved aside without even a ‘hello’ as your guest hurries inside. “I thought Crimp was passed out again, and I’d have to walk all the way around!”

“Hi, Hype.” You push the door shut and begin re-locking it. “Looove the new look.”

With some flair, Hype pulls off the hat. The ‘disguise’ - you aren’t feeling generous enough to call it that - drops away with a fizzle, revealing the slim Addison beneath. He’s a dark green that’s nearly black. Phthalo Green, Swatch would call it. 

Not very eye-catching when your competition comes in shades of neon. He was more interesting to look at with the hat on.

Hype pushes back his bangs and tosses the Cap onto a random box. Done again with unearned, dramatic flair. “Don’t even bother with the locks. I’m not planning on being here long.”

He summons his Inventory screen. It’s an irritating bright blue, the size of a sheet of paper. He swipes through the displayed catalogue-like list.

“Crimp’s rules,” you say. Pain in the ass though it was, you’re not arguing with good sense. “What’s with the getup?” Not that you really want to know all the details he's sure to give, but it’ll hurt his feelings if you don’t at least ask. Give him the chance to talk about it.

“Do you like it?” Hype preens and snatches the hat up again to show it off. The edge of it clips the floating display, making it fizzle and pop. He twirls the hat around, showing off different angles that all look the same to you with the bravado of a man showing off a brand-new car.

It’s… A normal black cap with a white stripe on the brim. The usual style. Cheap. Boring. Out of fashion. Kind of douchey. You wouldn’t be caught dead in it.

“I figured I’d splurge on one of the newest In-Caps if I’m going to be coming out here.”

Hah.

“Please. You’re barely outside of Queen’s Domain,” you scoff.

Besides, Incognito caps don’t actually work. Stupid thing to waste money on when he’s only hopping a few websites away from the usual searches. You try not to grit your teeth while you give the back door the usual tug-check.

“Which one of your buddies convinced you to buy more of their crap this time?”

Hype flounders. Twists the cap by its brim. He glares at you for a moment, slowly lifting his nose. Huffs. Puffs up like an upset rooster.

“I. Well… never mind who. It’s better to be safe than sorry!”

“You’re gonna get more attention wearing one of those things around here than if you’d just come in like a normal person.” You laugh. “Not like the neighbors don’t already know you.”

Hype’s face turns a darker, nearly blue shade along his cheeks. The useless hat disappears into his Inventory. Reappears as a new line of text on the screen hovering by his shoulder.

“Whatever! Let’s just get this over with.” He flaps a hand at you and turns to the table. “I don’t want to be here too long,” he snips.

Hype scrolls through his Inventory, face twisted into a scowl that wrinkles the bridge of his long nose. He jabs the little screen hard enough to make it flicker, looking like a cat that’s smelled something bad. Hopefully it's not you.

Taking a bit of pity on him - though not much - you lean on the table and ask, “Why? Need to get back to the ‘Puppys?”

He flushes more, lips twitching. Ducks his face behind the screen as he scrolls. Gosh, he has a lot of stuff on him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You gotta stop feeding those things.” You smile. “Vin and I saw a sign today, warning against it. Official city ordinance. It had a bite out of it, so you can’t be feeding them enough.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Totally unrelated, I need to get out of here A-S-A-P!” Hype turns from his screen and clasps his hands together against his cheek. He gives you a pleading, sweet look that would give a cherub cavities. “Do it for meee?”

The smile you give him in return is as sweet as sugar. “Choke and die.”

The look falls right off his face. “Fine,” he grumbles. You can see him trying not to smirk behind his screen as he prods at it hard. It glitches out of existence for a moment as he finds what he is looking for on his long, long list. “Make it quick, at least.”

A large wooden crate appears in front of him and drops into his waiting arms. He barely holds onto it, quick to stagger it over to you and shove it into your arms. He dusts his hands off once it’s your problem, nose scrunched up.

“Come on, Hype. You know you’re supposed to .Zip them!”

Hype bats his eyelashes at you while you hoist the box up. Juggle and hop it for a better grip. Something inside clinks and rattles. Heavier than it’s supposed to be. When you drop it onto the table, there are even more clinks. Great.

A pointed nod to the cabinet, and Hype sighs as if you’ve asked him to start rolling his boulder up a hill again. Regardless, he fishes out a key and unlocks the cabinet. Hands you the correct manila envelope. Your fingers probe through real paper files before finding what you want, and you pull a few sheets from this week’s folder.

“You get too lazy to deliver everything, or what?”

“No.” Hype pulls one clipboard off of its hook. He signs his initials with a personal pen with his name engraved on it. “Somebody must not have come in. I don’t know - I don’t keep track of that kind of stuff. Not my job.”

“Dude.” 

You crack the box open and peer inside. Most of the wooden, padded compartments are empty, save for three. Two contain unmarked white plastic bottles. The third, a small glass vial full of a clear and thick liquid. Nothing broken, no cracked seals. The columns get counted. You mark down B2, D2, and G4 as‘undelivered’.

“If you’re slacking off, Crimp’s gonna be pissed.”

“I am not slacking off.” 

Hype primly smooths the wrinkles from his shirt. A new one - plain black like all generic Addison shirts, but lower quality. Not a name brand. The threads are coming undone at the shoulders. Must have spent too much on that In-Cap.

“It’s bad enough to have your people coming into my store to pick this stuff up. I’m certainly not going to start going out on deliveries like Vin-Vin when they can’t bother to show up. Are you kidding me? I have my reputation to think about!”

“What reputation?” you grumble. “Your little buddies don’t know what you’re up to,” not that they’d care, “and you’re not planning on being found out ‘till after your ’debut’, either.”

He huffs behind you as your attention shifts from the box to the side door. It’s alien in the messy storage room. The only cleared space in the entire store. Even the cabinet and table have some mess on them. Not the door. It has a semi-circle of clear and untouched tile around it like it’s affected by a force field. Crimp gets pissy if you even lean a broom against it.

“Besides,” you continue as you shut up the box. “You’re gaining customers doing this, right? Didn’t you say you’re making them buy something small if they want their shit?”

“I said that was an idea! I’m not actually doing that!” He pauses. Taps his cheek with a subtly manicured nail. “Not yet. Don’t know how to spin it, still working on a tag line.”

“I think it’s pronounced ‘blackmail’, Hype.” 

From your Inventory you pull out a Digital Key. It’s a small program, and without the UI cloak, it becomes nothing more than strings of code. Right now it looks like an ordinary house key for simplicity and aesthetic's sake.

When you hold it up to the scanner embedded in the wall next to the metal door, there’s a beep followed by the muffled sound of 3 deadbolts snapping open. It barely reaches your ears. The metal is so thick it might as well be a blast door.

“You know, you shouldn’t let Crimp hear you badmouthing her clients. Especially since she’s doing you a favor.” Not to mention he’s literally about to be one, once everything’s paid. Color Changes aren’t cheap.

The box is propped on your hip as you cart it from the table to the door. Hype hops up onto the empty spot left behind and sits there with a huff. He crosses one knee over the other and watches with no offer of help. It’s understandable. He can’t stomach the side room.

“Come on. Everyone bad-mouths their customers! It’s normal.” Hype adjusts the curving swoop of his bangs while you nudge the door open. “It’s how Addisons make friends. Besides, I’m almost paid up and I’ve been doing a good job! She can’t complain.”

“Doesn’t matter. Be nice.” With your foot, you prop open the heavy door and lean against it. “You’ll piss someone off.”

“Will you snitch on me?” Hype smirks and raises an eyebrow.

“Nah. I’ll just tell her you decided on a different color.”

“You wouldn’t! It took ages to decide which one!” Hype whines. “I’ve been so nice to you! I didn’t even bring up our little bet!”

“Hm, no idea what you’re talking about. Also, sorry! Can’t hear you in here.” You duck into the room before he can reply.

Overhead track lighting, stark and sterile white, flickers on when your movement is detected. The smell of disinfectant and bleach burns your nose while you tuck the box into an empty corner by the door. Crimp will figure that out later.

When you rise, your eyes snag on a shining silver drain a few feet away. Reluctantly, they follow the grout lines across the off-white tiled floor. All the way to the stainless steel table at the center of the room.

It’s prepped, like Crimp said it would be. Ready to go, save for a clipboard resting on one of the legboards. Client information is scribbled on the top sheet in Crimp’s looping handwriting, along with a bright yellow sticky note. A date is written neatly on it. You can’t help but take a peek. One you’re up for?

No. Not a date you work. ‘Sides, Crimp said there were no Leaks she needed you for. That’s not the kind of thing she forgets.

The stark, organized cabinets and overly clean smell of the room makes your empty stomach twist up. Clench worse than the Trash Zone’s stink had. You hate how bleach smells.

Quick as you can, you leave. Shut the door behind you and lock it. Hype’s inspecting his nails, kicking a foot idly. He doesn’t even glance up as the bolts slip back into place.

“Are we done here?” His eyes stay locked on his nails as the automatic lock engages with a cheery pip! behind you. “I need to get back to my store. I’ve got Domino babysitting and they couldn’t sell cheese to a Maus.”

“Hey.” You double-check the door like Crimp taught you before rounding on him. “They give you free food all the time! Be nice.”

“Yeah, and everyone else! They’re probably handing stuff out to anyone who walks into my store!” There’s no heat to Hype’s voice. His cheeks are flushed again. “Just let me sign out so I can get out of here.”

He slips off the table and reaches for the clipboard. Crossing your arms to your chest, you lean a hip against the table next to him. You wait until he’s initialed everything he needs to before you nod at his shirt.

“Want me to fix that cheap shirt before you go?”

He hesitates. His eyes flick up, past your shoulder, and his back straightens out. His head turns quickly to peer at the empty store. Heaving a huge, dramatic sigh, he tosses a hand across his forehead.

“I suppose. If you must. It is your calling, after all.” He fluffs his hair a little. “I need to look my best, too.”

“I’m just worried your shirt’s going to fall apart before you get back.” You bump his shoulder as you pass and ignore his rolling eyes. “Don’t want Domino to start giving you their clothes too, do you? Might as well move in at that point.”

Hype’s cheeks darken and he follows you to one of the sewing machines with a blustering scoff.

He might not know where that [thieving] lightner and their accomplice fled, but he knows where they’ve been. Codec Lane is a start, and for now, all he’s got to work with.

Of course, he’s been kicked off and preemptively [Lifetime Ban] from every bus in the city over the years, so actually getting there takes some time. The sky above has darkened a few shades, the grid fading to purple by the time he reaches his destination. He even took a shortcut and everything. Not his fault he couldn’t remember the damn [Located just down the street!] name.

There’s not much hope of finding that [Prices so Low it’s a St3al!] lightner around here, but it’s a start. They’d seemed [ComfortOfYourOwnHome] around here. Even as he’d pushed for his [Deal], he could tell by the way they retreated past alleys they couldn’t see with confidence that they knew this place. At least partially.

The shops are all closed by the time he slips out from an alley and onto the street. It’s quiet here. A few streets away, the hustle of [Open ALLLLL The Time] stores drones on. 

When he was last here, doing his best to sell his [Spamton Specil!] services or convince someone to [Help!] him, he’d noticed that a lot of the hardware for sale around here was old. Hell, some of it was [$%^!] he remembered from when he was a [Little Tike Trike].

Seems like the street’s full of a bunch of old coots hanging onto their ‘sites for as long as they can. Not the kind of place that gets frequented these days. No clue why the lightner was hanging around here. All the [Turn off the Flash, moron!] stuff was downtown.

Not much to see, [Bedside Manners] some litter blown into the road. Nothing valuable. He skirts up to a store with a large window and pulls himself up just enough to peek in. Not much. File converters for sale - really out of date. It had been a mess when he’d [borken] in, and it’s still a mess now. Dark, save for a screen saver flickering on an old display in the back. No lightner.

Well, they had to be somewhere. They weren’t at the Mansion, which he just [Plumber’s choice] couldn’t understand. That was the [High-End Luxury Items]! The place to be. He’d have thought they’d be living it up there, lavished with attention from [Hot @ss] while She bragged about having a ‘Real Life Lightner’ around. One of Her esteemed guests.

Maybe they were just [Stubborn stains? Not for long!]. 

Or stupid.

While he’s got his face pressed to the glass, nose bent aside, a door creaks across the street. Cold skitters across his sweaty back and he dives for the nearest shadow. Scrambles through it to crouch in the nearest alley, taking refuge behind an abandoned, soggy cardboard box. 

Keys jangle and he lifts his head. His eyes and nose peek timidly over the very edge of the box. His heart hammers in his chest and he digs his fingers into the dirty concrete below, praying no one spotted him.

Across the street, a hunch-backed and ancient program locks up his shop. He readjusts the glasses clipped to his blocky purple head. Squints at his keys for a long second before finding the right one. 

Spamton’s shoulders rise and he grits his teeth. It’s the guy who half-heartedly threatened to call an Ambyu-Lance on him. Right before hitting him out onto the street with a dusty broom like a hockey puck. [[Cheap]] move.

… Old people are nosy. Maybe he’d know something? Seems like the type with nothing better to do than people watch. Spamton gets to his feet.

“Hey! Stop right there, you!”

Gohj [$^@&]. Spamton chokes on a scream. A glitch jerks his head to the side, sending him tumbling face-first into the ground. It keeps from speaking up and exposing himself, at least. His hands clamp down on the top of his head as he skitters to crouch further behind the box. 

A familiar bobbing pink shape appears from around a nearby corner. Spamton’s eyes widen, and his hands shoot to shove his jaw shut before he can say the excited [BINGO!] that wants to leap from his teeth.

It’s that nasty little [pesky Pests] from earlier!

The purple program doesn’t flinch, even as her shout echoes down the empty street. He keeps his eyes on his door and the key in his shaking hand as the Virovirokun floats up to his side. She’s wearing a satchel across her shoulder and chest. Tan and unremarkable, save for the symbol stitched onto its front.

Spamton’s hand darts into his pocket. Curls around his [Deal Insurance] and traces the embossed image printed there. It’s the same. 

Okay. This was getting him somewhere! He’d noticed before she had her own copy of the [Bribery and Forgery] when he was winning her over with his sales pitch. His best guess at the time was that it was some sort of [Friendship Forever!] token the two [slimes] shared. Now he’s wondering if it’s maybe a club or something.

“Miss Vinerva,” the older program says with a nod. 

He turns to her only after the key is in his pocket, revealing a cane looped over his arm. Leopard print with duct tape around the handle. [Fancy]. 

“…The hell do you want.”

‘Vinerva’’s nose wrinkles. She scoffs, and it quickly turns into a sniffle. “Ew. Don’t ever… ew. Anyway! Boss sent me over here to yell at ya.”

She twirls in an excited circle as the old program stares up at her. He settles his weight onto the cane and nods.

“Yeah? About what now?”

“Yer shitty firewall.” The program scoffs and [Vin Lot Number] - or Vinerva, apparently - cackles. “Drop off too, but yeah, Bix. She’s on that again.”

‘Bix’ scoffs. “It’s fine. Just forget to turn it on sometimes. It worked when I first installed it, and it still works now.” 

He waves off her laughter and points his cane down the street. Opposite of where she appeared, and thankfully away from Spamton’s hiding spot. Still, he crouches lower just in case. 

“Walk me down to the station, then, since she sent you to babysit me. No use gettin’ into all of that out here.”

“Why do you even turn that thing off in the first place? Shouldn’t it be on all the time?” Vinny floats after him as the program gets his cane under him and shuffles down the street.

“Thing needs to rest once in a while. That’s all.”

“Uh… huh. I don’t think that’s how that works, Bix.”

“What d’you know? It’s my firewall.”

Spamton’s teeth gnash together. He lets the chatting pair pull ahead, not believing his luck. When they’re out of earshot he grabs the soggy cardboard - hey, it’d make an [Now He’s All Right!] counter now that he’s holding it. ‘S got some heft - and scurries after. He can come back for it later.

The smell of wet cardboard and trash trail him as he sticks to the shadows. Lingers to the far side of the street. He slows down once he’s just barely in hearing range, careful to scurry forward only when Bixby’s cane tcks against the concrete.

“I was expectin’ the skinny kid tonight.” The older program tilts his head and scratches his cheek. “He quit already?”

“Hah!” 

Vinny spins, and Spamton drops like a lead balloon behind the cardboard box.

He freezes. Holds his breath painfully, waiting for an alarmed cry. When none comes, he peeks carefully over the edge, biting his tongue. The 'Kun's turned the other way, back to him.

“Nah,” Vinny continues. “Traded. Needed the hours.”

“What you need is to lay down before that Bug gets any worse.”

The two round a corner ahead while the Virovirokun lets out an exaggerated sigh. “It’s not a Bug! I’m just sniffly! I’ve got seasonal allergies.”

The two disappear around the corner. Spamton lingers with his ‘shield’ for a moment before abandoning it. He darts across the street and nearly crashes into a brick wall. He regains his balance and peers around the corner.

They aren’t moving fast. The older program’s limping along while the [pest] floats around his head. They’re not in any hurry either. Still, he waits for them to turn another corner before he races down the sidewalk.

He’s a [Huff, puff, Blow0ut Deals!] mess when he skids to a stop. Too much [runnin’ and gunnin’] today. He hasn’t to dart [Around~Town] like this in a while. When his breathing’s quieted down, he peeks his long nose around the corner.

This street’s busier. There’s a flurry of subdued activity at a squat building down the block. It’s framed by two apartment complexes, and modestly lit by light spilling out of a deep garage. A handful of yellow cabs idle inside, one or two pulling away with friendly honks as the pair cross the street.

It’s an old building. The garage sits under a brick arch. A dim ‘open’ sign blinks in a window on the building’s other side, showing an interior seating area. A dim sign reading ‘TAXI’ flashes above the open garage and the smell and sound of idling cars spills from it.

A slew of Plugboys and Pluggirls stand around a small coffee and water station near the front of the garage. They wave and call greetings as Bix and Vinny enter.

“Hey Boss!”

“Delivery girl! Hey!”

“How you doin’ Mr. Bixby?”

“Hey so, Martin’s on a run right now and I’ve got a question about-“

Spamton takes his chance to dart across the street during the commotion. The spinning, excited Virovirokun’s grabbed everyone’s attention, babbling a series of greetings.

A hedge runs between the two buildings, barely providing privacy for the first-floor apartments. It’s sparse. Artificial and cheap, unlike the [real deal!] at the Mansion. It’ll do.

He slips behind rubbery leaves, batting them away from his face. Slips closer. The commotion is dying down as he trips over a small hole in the grainy fake dirt the hedges are ‘planted’ in. A round of laughter muffles the sound of his impact and the louder sound of his cursing. His jaw aches, and now so does his nose.

He scrambles to his feet as Bixby makes a shooing motion at the drivers. He limps further into the garage. Vinny follows, shifting the satchel off of her shoulder. The two disappear from view after passing through an open doorway. [$&*%].

He slips down the hedge line. The side of the garage is windowless, and the narrow space between it and the hedge runs straight to a back alley. Still no [to the Soul] to peer through.

A pair of taxis pull out of the garage behind him and he presses himself against the brick wall. No headlights spill down the narrow passage he’s crouched in to reveal him. Still, he waits until they’ve driven off before he runs for the alley.

As far as alleys go - and he’s an [Eeeexpert] - this one’s fairly clean. Not one he’s pilfered in recent memory, though he feels like he did find a rug or two thrown out behind these apartments once. There’s not much light -  a lamp hanging over said dumpster and a small bulb over the back stoop of the taxi station.

This wall has windows, and a dim light shines out of one and into the alley in a long, warm rectangle. Just below the window are two trash cans crouched in the shadows, as well as a long bunk seat. Torn out of one of the cabs, probably. Looks perfectly serviceable to him, save for a few springs splitting the fabric. If he wasn’t busy, it might be worth hauling back to sell for a [Measly Dollar].

Spamton slips along the side of the building and crouches behind the seat. Muffled hints of a conversation just barely reach his ears. Not enough for him to understand, damn it, but the two he’s been tailing are talking nearby.

It’s ten minutes until he hears the rhythm of the conversation shift. He crouches even lower and waits, fingers tugging at loose springs sticking out of the back of the bunk-seat.

The back door creaks open and the Virovirokun drifts lazily out onto the stoop. She waves her empty satchel like a flag as she turns to face the doorway, laughing about nothing, as far as Spamton can tell.

“Next delivery’s Friday!” She bows, snorting. “Until then, good sir.”

The older program pokes his head out of the doorway. Leans against the frame as he rolls his eyes.

“I know the drill. I’ll send one of the drivers over next time. Woulda sent one of ‘em over tonight if I knew you were out delivering.”

Vinny cackles, and the sound makes Spamton grit his teeth. She floats off the stoop, right over where Spamton’s hiding. He ducks, even though he’s already pressed as close to the ground as he can get. He goes unnoticed as the pink [pest] spins her way into the alley.

“Boss says we’re not supposed to scare off the new guys.”

“Twiggy thing’s a prick,” Bixby scoffs.” Liftin’ his nose at a little hard work.”

Vinny snorts. “He’s just like that. Y’know how those types get when their application for a shop over on Main gets rejected. He's mad he ain't pretty enough.”

Bixby leans out to pull the door closed, hooking his cane on the handle. “See how long he lasts, I guess. Not gonna be holdin’ my breath for ‘em, though. Tell the Missus I say ‘hi’.”

Delighted, girlish giggles echo down the alley. “Sure will, Casanova. Night, Bix.”

The last sight of Bixby before the door closes is a raised middle finger. The alleyway fills with cackling as Vinny turns from the door and drifts away. Spamton waits until she’s floating past the apartments before he breaks from cover. His footsteps go unnoticed under the sound of obnoxious giggling and humming.

Spamton trails after silently. Waits until they’ve passed a few buildings and are out of [Sights and Sounds!] of the Taxi place. He slicks back his hair before stepping out from the shadows of another alley dumpster. Putting on his most convincing smile, he slots his hands against his hips. 

Time to really [All Sales Final] it.

“HEY HEY HEY! IF IT ISN’T MY FFFF.AVORITE [Don’t Injesticide Pesticide] FROM EARLIER1!!! LONG TIME NO [C], PINKY!”

Vinny spins around. Her eyes widen and she gapes down at him. Her arrow swings around to point straight at his nose, nearly hitting it. He’s snuck up pretty close to her.

“Trash guy?! ”

“IT’S M3, [numberoneratedsa-!” 

He cuts that off right away, slapping his hand against his jaw. It clacks shut. He whisks aside his hand once the itchy feeling of a [Pardon our Interruption] passes. Hand extended, shoulders back, he strides forward.

“SOOOOOO GLAD. TO SEE YOU AGAIN, [Pal]! I’VE GOT [An Offer You Can’t Refuse] TO. [Demands] OF YOU.” He keeps advancing, and she adjusts the arrow to point it at his head. He keeps his smile firmly stuck in place and lifts a hand to brush it aside. “SSO. I NEED TO GET 4 [Hold That Just One Moment] OF THAT [littol] [bosom buddy] OF YOURS. YOU WOULDN’T HAPPEN 2-“

“Oh, I knew you were a freak!” With a twist, she slaps his knuckles with the thin [Sharp thinkin’, buddy!] side of her arrow and Spamton yelps. She floats back a few feet while he raises his hand to his mouth. “Nuh-uh. I’m not catching whatever you got. Go away.”

Willing his smile not to falter, he redirects his knuckles from his mouth to his chest. Not very professional to be [Suck up] on them in front of an [Esteemed] [Pest]. There’ll be time to lick his wounds later. Focus. His jaw aches and his teeth grind together.

“LOOK [See! Smell!]. I’M JUST [Searching for Love?] SOME INFO. SO LET’S MAKE A [deal]! YOU TELL ME WHERE TO FIND THAT [light, so bright] AND I GET OUT OF YOUR [Nair 4 for 3]. EASY [An dDon’t 4get peasy]!”

Vinny floats out of his reach, rising a few feet over his head.“I ain’t no snitch.”

His jaw aches. He slides as close as he can before she backs up again. He forces cheer into his voice, plastic creaking on the injured side of his face. “COME ON. IT’S [none] YOUR [problems with your connection?]! JUST SOME [Friendly Faced Business] BETWEEN ME AND          . MAKE IT [Take the easy way out] FOR ME, WILL YOU?” 

He waves a placating hand. The other smooths his hair back into shape. His armpits are wet and his suit feels stifling. He’s been running around all day looking for the damn lightner, and he’s not letting this opportunity slip through his [fingies].

“LET ME [insider trading] ON THAT [Confidential Files Enclosed] AND I WON’T BOTHER YOU AGAIN, [Pinky]. [Promises promises].”

“Are you stupid? I’m not telling you a thing! ‘S bad enough when you freaks show up at work.”

Spamton bites his tongue while she laughs at him. His eyes flick to the satchel hanging from her shoulder. Vinny stills and pivots her body, so the satchel faces away from him.

“SSSSSO. YOU TWO ARE [Work] CHUMS, HUH?” His head tilts a fraction. “WELL H0CHI MAMA, [lead detected] THE WAY!” He claps his hands and walks forward, rubbing them together. “LET’S GET THIS [Wrap it up guise]! SOONER THE [Two for one] OF US [chit-chat] THE BETTER!”

“No way!” Vinny floats higher. “Get lost, weirdo.”

“WEIRD? ME? YOU;VE NEVER BEEN MORE WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WR-[Right on the money!]. I’M A [R-e-s-p-c-e-t]ABLE TYPE! I JJUST WAN TTO [Chat with Hawt Babes Near u!]. NO [Honk! :o)] BUSINESS!” He gives her his best smile and even a thumbs up. His cheek twinges. He grits his teeth to keep the smile stuck in place. “SO JUST [Bury The Lead] THE WEY, EHAHA!”

“Take the hint already. I’m not interested. They aren’t interested. The two of ya are even now, anyway.” His eyelid twitches as she laughs at him. “Buzz off.”

The tittering and giggling is no longer in her voice. Her tone has cooled. Vinny shifts, squaring up and holding her position in the center of the alley. Spamton shifts his weight back into his heels. Crosses his arms across his chest under her more serious glare.

“WHAT, YOU [I owe it all to my Fans] THAT [Light the way] [cold hard cash] OR SOMETHING? I CAN KEEP MY [yapper] SHUT. THEY’LL NEVER [[100% Garaanteee]] YOU’RE THE ONE WHO [We’re the rats!].”

Vinny sputters. “What? No means no, dumbass.”

She turns away from him and coasts to a lower altitude. Spamton trips, feet skittering on gravel. He rushes after. He is not losing another lead on this damn [flights scheduled 3 days ahead] lightner! 

“HEY! [Comeback Spechil]! WE’RE NOT DONE [chat room full]!” He jumps and snags the end of her dress. Pulls her down a few inches using his weight.

“Wh- hey!”

“JUST [Spill the beans]! WHERE-“

White smoke explodes against his hand. He’s thrown back with a bit-crushed yell and crashes to earth. His hand still clutches a bit of blue fabric. His blurry gaze snaps up from his fist to the program floating in a thinning cloud of smoke above him. A set of purple arrows hover over Vinny’s head, aimed right at him.

“Are you nuts?” she snarls. “Don’t just grab people! The hell do you think you are?”

What’s left of his composure shatters. Spamton scrambles to his feet, dusting off his suit and grimacing at the feeling of gravel caught in his joints. 

“ME? YOU AND YOUR [nutcracker] FRIEND ARE THE ONES WHO PULLED YOUR [Regularly Scheduled] TRICK! SCAMMING HARD WORKING [hopeless cases] LIKE ME!!! I OFFER THAT [slime] A [this is your last chance] AND THIS IS THE [thank u~ card] I GET?”

He fixes his hair, shoulders shaking. Reel it in. Now’s not the time to lose his [tempertantrum]. When he’s at least a little more presentable, he gathers himself to try again. Clearing his throat, he takes a step forward.

An arrow above Vinny’s head flickers. Thunk, it embeds itself in the gravel at his feet, a breath away from the tip of one shoe. Spamton skitters back with a yelp, hands up.

“WOAH WOAH H3Y! WATCH IT!”

“Back off!” More arrows appear above her head. They start spinning slowly. “Get out of here, already.”

“WHAT ARE YOU THEIR [loyal customer] [woofer]?” He slides his feet to the right. Tries to sidle out of range, but Vinny spins to follow his movements. “THEY’RE JUST A [dime a dozen] [fell from above]! WHY’RE YO- AH!”

Three arrows hit the dirt to his right in quick succession. Spamton backpedals, hands up. His heels snag on his rolled pant legs and he falls onto his back. A thwip reaches his ears, and he rolls to the side a second before another arrow buries itself in the ground. His head and, more importantly, his [darling] face were just right there.

“LADY ARE YOU [Red crested Loon]?!” Two more arrows appear and shoot his way. Spamton scrambles away on all fours with a yelp. He skitters back, diving for the dumpster he’d popped out from behind. “WHAT’S YOUR [Problem]?!”

“I’m not losin’ my job ‘cus some Spoof couldn’t take a hint!” An arrow glances off the side of the dumpster high above Spamton’s head as he ducks behind it - ting. Lady’s got poor aim. Lucky him. “Now get!”

Spamton slips between the wall and dumpster, back scraping against the moist brick wall. He pops out on the other side and lobs an attack at her. Vinny ducks under a speeding $DEAL$ as it shoots past her cheek.

“DON’T [Please direct customer complaints] ME WHAT TO DO! I’VE GOT [goods amaritan] BUSINESS WITH THAT LIGHT<:NER!” He tosses a pair of $ale$ at her, shifting away from the dumpster. “I DON’T EVEN [take care of You this holiday Season] ABOUT THE DAMN [theivin and scheming]. THIS IS A MATTER OF LIFE AND [beyond], YOU                 !”

One of his attacks glances off of her shoulder. Vinny hisses and cringes, sinking a few feet. She fires more arrows his way and Spamton’s forced to back up again, dodging the arrows appearing at his feet.

He’s being backed down the alley the way he came. He’ll be fine one on one with a [little loser] ‘Kun, but not in a group fight. It's gonna hurt, but he doesn't have another choice. He swears he hears something crack when he opens his mouth, a handful of minitons spilling out. They race straight for their target. 

Vinny shrieks. He wasn’t expecting that, but if it works it works. She’s not even in reach of them - granted the [little nipper]s could jump pretty high - but flies higher, anyway. 

“EW! Don’t reproduce right in front of me!”

“THAT’S NOT WHAT THAT IS!”

The [Mini Me]’s chatter and parrot him, jumping and lunge at their enemy. Spamton rushes to get on Vinny’s other side, shoes slipping on gravel.

She shrieks in disgust. Waves her arrow. Every single [mini] disappears in a poof of white smoke, leaving behind white arrows embedded into the ground. Usually, it takes a few more shots than that to wipe ‘em out - [$^*#].

“OH [no]! MY [prodigy]!” Not good. He readies a DE4L$ attack and Vinny whips around to face him.

“Enough!” 

An arrow glances off his cheek - the already bruised one. Spamton’s thrown off balance, nearly spinning. He tries to widen his stance, but another arrow hits him in the leg, where it poofs into smoke. No piercing damage, but he feels a hearty chunk of his already low HP fall away. 

He falls to his knee. Skitters on all fours to get up again. The ‘Kun’s aim is suddenly excellent, and Spamton realizes that he might have been [play place]ed when an arrow appears in every direction he turns.

He’s forced to back up, barely getting to his feet. He’s pushed further back, each arrow closer to hitting his feet than the last. His panic builds until he leaps back in surprise, sure he’s about to be hit.

His back crashes into the dumpster, knocking the air from his lungs. He falls to his knees with a wheeze. An arrow whaps against his back mid gasp for air and he’s left coughing and struggling to get to his feet. Damn it. Should have known she was scrappy - the big ones always are.

Spamton moves to leap to the side, but it’s too late. An arrow snags him by the collar and he’s hoisted into the air, with a tearing noise. His vision fills with pink and snarling fangs.

“HEY! HEY HEY HEY-!” He kicks, barely hits something that feels soft. He only gets the one kick in before he’s being tossed back. 

Clunk, plastic on plastic as his head hits the dumpster’s upturned cover. He crashes into the nearly empty metal box with a groan. The lid is slapped shut above him and he’s in the dark with only his new [ouchies] and the smell of rotten food.

“I’ll do worse next time! Stay away from us!”

His groan echoes in the enclosed space, nearly covering the sound of Vinny’s threat. Silence as he’s left alone, his [clue] flying off in some unknown direction.

God damn it.

It’s at least a good half an hour before Spamton can bring himself to haul his [@ss] to his feet. If he’d known there’d be Fighting tonight, he’d have [F1]’d before heading out. That’s what he got for being [cheap].

He’s lucky. This dumpster’s got one of those plastic access doors on the back. Means he doesn’t have to wait until his leg stops hurting to try and hop out. Good thing about an empty dumpster - it makes for a less smelly than usual shelter. But [heaven] if they aren’t easy to get trapped in.

The [expletive removed] is long gone. Still, he limps out from behind the dumpster slowly, glancing up and down the alley. She’s long gone. With no way to track her, he’s out of luck tonight.

He could stick around the Taxi place. Hope [and pray] that the lightner showed up, or even lived in one of those apartments nearby. It’s a bit too risky, though. If just the one [pest] could hit that hard, he doesn’t want to know what it’d feel like to stir up the whole [nesting materials].

It’s proper ‘night’ now as he shuffles toward the nearest alcove. Nothing left to do but go back [home sweet home] and rest. What a string of [bad luck!]. If he’d kept his head and left [easles] well enough alone, left with his tail between his [limbs], he might have come out better tonight.

What is he thinking? It’s not his fault. How was he supposed to know the lightner would have a [guard dog]? It was one thing for [easles] to get all uppity about it. Lightners were their whole [deal]. But some random little virus?

He scoffs, slipping down the narrow path between two buildings and out onto the sidewalk. Who’d stick their neck out for some [loser] [slime]? She must owe the [lightbringer] money or something. Maybe that’s an angle he can go at next time? Oh yeah, there’s definitely gonna be a next time. No one got to [you’re gonna beat me up?] without [payin’] him for it. That’s just [bad 4 biznezz].

“Woah! Hey, you alright little guy?”

Spamton’s head snaps up. With his eyes trained on his feet - damn shoes were scuffed to hell - and the ringing in his ears, he hadn’t noticed he was nearing anyone. He’s just passing a Plugboy. One of the Taxi drivers, he notes with a bit of disgust. He’s leaning against an idling - frankly ugly - cab. On a smoke break, the [cancer stick] already half gone. He pushes his patchy cap back once he catches sight of Spamton’s face.

“Oh man. You get robbed or something?” He grimaces, dropping and stomping out the cigarette. Spamton’s eyes linger on the smeared [puffer] on the ground. He could [use and abuse] one of those right now.

“[Something] LIKE THAT.” He clears his throat. Attempts to get his hair in order. This is just damn [unprofessional].

The Plugboy swears. He glances into his cab before stepping closer. “You need a ride or something?”

“[You can’t afford me], HEHEHEAH!” Spamton fixes his glasses. They still feel crooked afterward. Looks like he’s gonna have to find where he stashed his pliers and rebend the frames again. He waves the Plugboy off, grimacing. “NOT UR [problemo] [pal].” 

He doesn’t need the pity on top of the lost Fight. His [pride n joy] can’t take anymore tonight.

He keeps walking. The Plugboy hops to reach through the open window of his cab. He pulls something crinkly out and hurries after him. Spamton’s shoulders rise as he reaches his side and shoves something under his nose.

“Here!”

Nose wrinkled, Spamton cautiously takes the offered item. He squints and holds it away from his face to see it properly. Cellophane crinkles under his fingers. It’s… a cookie. A plain sugar cookie. One of those [shop local!] ones that are homemade. There’s a card taped to it. An address printed under a familiar symbol.

“The snack should help with the pain, but if anything’s busted you should head here, okay?”

The Plugboy fixes his cap as Spamton carefully peels the card off of the treat and flips it over. More numbers and addresses. He recognizes a few from years ago - couldn’t help him then. Can’t help him now. 

The one on the front, though.

“Crimp’s a hardass,” the Plugboy continues, “but she never turns anyone down. Tell her Martin sent you over if you have any problems.” 

He steps back when Spamton’s head snaps up. Martin’s eyes widen a little at the sight of his sudden grin. The Plugboy clears his throat. 

“You sure you don’t need a ride? Your face is… it's uhm…”

“NO.” Spamton wiggles the card in the air. Flicks it between his knuckles, testing the quality of the paper. Not bad. His face aches from the grin splitting across it. “THIS’LL [work out] JUST FINE. YOU’VE REALLY [lend a helping hand] ME TONIGHT, [Pal].”

Chapter Text

The steady shh shh of the rain hitting the roof hooks its fingers into you, weighing you down. your eyelids fight to stay open and the smell of old, burnt coffee taunts you.

Someone - a dead someone - took your last energy drink out of the fridge. Again.

It’s. Fine. It happens. Maybe they missed the duct tape you slapped across the side with your name scribbled on it. Their eyes, perhaps, slid right over the tape you put on the lid, too. Or maybe, even, they missed the death threats you’d scribbled on some computer paper and magneted to the fridge. All easy things to miss.

In the end, it doesn’t matter how it happened. You’ve been left high and dry. No caffeine in sight. Crimp’s coffee can is as empty as the store at the early hour. You’re left with nothing to do but listen to the pitter-patter of rain on the roof, scribbling idly on a yellow legal pad. Peri’s gift is still out and ready to be worked on back at your apartment - not like you planned to cover a shift today.

Light rain mists the front window, fogging it up thanks to a broken seal on the old glass. The oil coating the road beyond rises to the top of the gathering puddles, shimmering in the city lights. Outside it’s as dim and sleepy as you feel. The city stirs while you struggle not to nod off. Your doodles of dresses and embroidery designs have long since faded into scribbles and half-hearted attempts to remember how to draw that one cool ‘S’ everyone liked making in highschool.

Floating ads clutter the sky and hide the .png clouds that float across the grid, generated to go with the weather. They part on occasion, exposing a sliver of the sky. The grid changes color gradually, slightly different with each appearance. From deep purple and toward a lighter hue that will eventually become green.

It’s slow. Any other time you’d welcome the rare peace, and the even rarer perfect conditions for a nap. But drifting off at work is the last thing you want to do. Not after the photos Vinny snagged of you last time.

Still, you’re getting droopy. Crimp keeps a stash of the good shit upstairs. The kind of coffee that comes with a warning. She stopped leaving it in the breakroom after everyone started drinking it like water. You’d call her selfish, but it costs an arm and a leg, and you’re one of the bastards who drains her supply.

After yesterday and... everything, you’re desperate for a wakeup call... But not death. No way you’re waking the beast now that she’s getting some actual rest. The poor woman needs it even more than you do. At least you manage to pass out sometimes - albeit in unfortunate or embarrassing places. Poor Crimp has to mix up a concoction of sleeping tinctures half the time to even get a wink with how high-strung she is.

If you really want a wakeup, you could check your texts. Other than rent reminders, credit offers, and other scams, you know there’s a text waiting for you. It’s been waiting since you got it in the Trash Zone. From Peri, judging by the amount of emoticons you can see in the preview. It’s definitely him... unless Swatch decided to get really funny all of a sudden.

Cars pass by outside, splashing through puddles. More appear as the city wakes up. Commuters and folks taking a shortcut through this part of town to avoid the highway bottleneck. The rain grows in intensity as the morning continues rolling in. The steady rushing sound of it paired with the cars passing by threatens to lull you to sleep. If only you could get this tired at home.

Where the hell is Vinny? She was supposed to be back at least half an hour ago. Either bix caught her up chatting, or she got to flirting with some of the Plug girls. Hopefully she’ll bring you an energy drink or something as an apology. From experience, you know that if you don’t chug one in the next hour you’ll be comatose on the nearest flat surface for at least 12 hours. No way are you wasting that much time.

The front door jingles abruptly, causing you to draw a harsh line through your latest attempt at a fancy ‘S’. Your heart squeezes and nearly pops in your chest and you straighten out. The sharp comment you have locked and loaded for Vinny dies on your tongue. It’s not Vinny in the doorway, soaked and bearing caffeine themed gifts. It’s someone much worse.

“Ricky...” you groan and make no effort to hide the annoyance souring your tone. No point. Crimp’s a firm believer in telling customers to fuck off, and will back up most of the comments her employees make. Unfortunately, this guy just can’t take the hint. “Ricky. It’s too goddamn early. The hell are you doing here already?”

A lanky program lingers in the doorway, the heavy door snck ing shut behind him. Mostly light blue, he’s got a head shaped like an upside down, very angular magnifying glass. The only part of him that’s ‘3D’ for lack of a better term. The rest of him is flat as a sheet of paper, and soaked. His shoes, thin as they are, are splattered with mud. You’re not sure if the missing texture pattern of black and violently bright pink is a fashion choice, or if he’s missing some code, but it’s ugly and sets your head to aching immediately.

“It’s gotta be coming down 3 pixels wide out there!” He ignores your sour tone, grin wide and excited under the plus and minus signs that represent his eyes. They glide across the ‘glass’ of his face and dart around the shop.

“I don’t care if it’s coming down in buckets, Ricky, you- wipe your shoes! “

He stops a few steps from the door and casually spins in his heel. He leaves more of a mess as he ambles back to the welcome mat to scrape off his shoes. Where the hell did he even find mud to tromp through? Jackass.

Ricky is... one of yours. One of your fans. He - or any of them, actually - haven’t swung by for a few weeks. Part of you had hoped they’d all gotten your not so subtle hints. Or, since Crimp was here the last time Ricky in particular swung by, they’d all gotten the message a little more clearly. Hard to misunderstand Crimp’s mean mugging and hissing.

Guess not.

“Sorry, sorry!” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. Ricky prances up to the counter. His wet elbows plant themselves in front of you, holding remarkable amounts of water for someone so flat. He grins, revealing a digital display of perfect teeth. “I haven’t seen you around lately!”

Would have been nice to know that he’s been poking his head in and looking for you.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

He’s leaving puddles on the wooden counter. There will be wet spots for days. The varnish has long since rubbed off of the wood. You learned this the hard way when a particularly large spot of drool stuck around after one of your impromptu naps. Didn’t leave until you found some sandpaper.

“What do you want?” you continue.

Ricky laughs boisterously. Your ears ring, even when the sound has sunk into the walls and the yards of fabric that fills the store.

“Ah come on now, buddy! We didn’t even get to finish our conversation last time! I just wanted to pick up where we left off.” Ricky has a buzzing kind of voice. Unlike Vinny’s, it’s grating rather than pleasant and bubbly.

When your lip twitches and curls, you don’t bother stopping it. Last time, yeah. When Crimp had gotten so sick of the guy sticking to the counter all day like chewed gum, she’d sent you to the back. And when he failed to get the hint or leave, Crimp had to give him a verbal lashing. It wasn’t even directed at you, and you’d still walked around with your back straight for the rest of the day.

“Don’t call me that.”

Skin prickling, you kick at the base of the counter, your legs bouncing. It jolts Ricky’s chin where he rests it in his palm, so you keep at it. Kicking rhythmically, you glare at him. If he were short, more puntable, your own tongue might be sharper. But you know better than to go after an opponent out of your weight class. He’s scrawny, but he’s tall.

“If you wanna know more about Light World stuff just - look it up.”

The running theme with these weirdos who happen to hear about you, or see you through the window while passing by, seems to be a general infatuation with the Light world. Not just in you, though you are totally flattered to be a ‘great example of a human Lightner - almost textbook’, as someone once pointed out to you.

There’s gotta be a club or something. You swear they all come in and ask the same questions. It’s weird.

Sure, darkners have a... general interest in the Light World. They’re ‘Made to serve’, or whatever, if you believed any weird scriptures or ‘prophecies’ about it. but more often than not, most of the darkners you meet are a little starstruck sometimes, sure, but mostly polite. Or at least smart enough not to lean right in your face and ask you what a sunburn felt like in excruciating detail. Or about SOULs or the Roaring in some cases which - you don’t even know what the hell that is. As for Soul knowledge? Not your forte. You went to college on a sports scholarship, not your smarts.

Right on cue, Ricky leans forward. You lean back. Scrunch your nose. He’s got that same staticky smell that most Cyber Citizens have. Abstract or feathered like a Swatchling, it doesn’t matter. They all kinda smell like hot computers when you get down to it. Ricky smells... not gross, per se. Just sharper.

It makes your nose scrunch up and reminds you of bad chemicals. The kind you shouldn't be in an enclosed space with for too long.

Grabbing the edge of the counter to keep yourself steady, you lean back as far as you can on your stool. The urge to sneeze tickles your nose and you squint.

“Well, well how about you, then?” Ricky smiles, and his face display creates creases around his ‘eyes’. “I’ve got plenty of questions about you! Come on - I’d love to get to know you better. I think you’re the first Lightner we’ve had down here. Well, besides your boss.”

Human, is what he means. Maybe you’re on edge from recent events, but you can’t help but feel his eyes dart down.

“I’m working.” The skin under your left eye twitches. You gesture broadly to the empty store. “Like I always am when you come in here and bug me.”

After the disaster at the Trash Zone, your temperament is more than a little frayed. Lack of energy drinks and the heavy exhaustion draping itself across your shoulders doesn’t help either.

“So, Ricky, why don’t you-”

He grabs your hand. The one holding onto the counter. It’s wet. Cool from the rain. Thin like paper, it wraps around your hand and clings to your skin like a wet sheet. He tugs on your wrist in an attempt to pull it away from the edge. Your nails bite hard into the wood and electricity darts up your spine to the base of your skull.

“How about after work?” He pushes. “I know this great bar downtown. It’s not fa-”

“Dude!” Thank the Angel that his hands are wet and so very thin. It makes whisking your hand from his easy. Slips right out from between those paper thin fingers.

Grabbing is the last straw for you. Crimp has always been very clear - anyone gets too handsy, they’re getting kicked out. Ricky has been one of the more... polite fans for a while, but lately he’s gotten pushy. Your skin feels like it’s shrink wrapping to your bones. not so subtly, you wipe the back of your hand on your apron.

“Out.” You point to the front door.

He stares, his eyes comically wide. He slaps his hands against his chest, gaping down at you. It looks and feels disingenuous. Overdone. The shock and surprise he’s miming doesn’t reach his narrowed eyes.

“Hey, come on sweetheart! I don’t mean it like that.” He smirks. Like the very idea makes him bite his tongue to keep back a lap. “I’m flattered, really. But ‘s just that it's so rare we get Lightners down here, you know? Let alone a human! It;s a wonder Queen doesn’t have you filed away under lock and key, away from us average joes. Ya can’t blame me for being curious!”

No. But you could hit him with a bat. Crimp keeps one under the counter to wave around once and a while. You’ve had to brandish it yourself at a few of your fans. With your shoulders hunching up to your ears, your hand twitches toward it.

“Great, cool. Like I said, look it up dude.”

Ricky leans forward, flat palms flush with the counter. His eyes narrow further.

These freaks always get mad in the end. It’s just a matter of time, and how many boundaries you refuse to let them push. It used to freak you out more. Now? You’re used to it.

“Hey, now,” Ricky says. “Don’t be a-”

The door swings open behind him, hitting the bell hard enough to bounce it off the ceiling. The heavy door clacks against a bookcase set between it and the picture window. Ricky jumps twice as high as you do and whirls around. The shelf the door hit rattles, the antique bobbins on it shaking. A few topple and hit the carpeted floor with dull thunks as Vinny barrels through the door and crashes into a rack of clothes.

A sleeve flops across her wet snout. She shakes it off - along with half a gallon of water - with a snarl. With a face like that, you’re not going to tell her off for getting the carpet wet. Too many teeth to contend with.

Ricky looks from you to Vinny with raised eyebrows. Hand to your chest and heart thumping under your palm, you stare with your own eyebrows raised.

Vinny shakes off the clingy dress rack she’s bumbled into. She jolts away from it, swaying in the air, and opens her mouth. The air she draws in to speak is hacked and coughed out when she spots Ricky. He stands there dumbly as hacking quickly turns into barking.

“Ricky! Get out!” Vinny jams her arrow in the direction of the door as it swings shut.

“I.”

Ricky looks at you. Looks back to Vinny when your growing smirk doesn’t have the answers he wants. This wasn't a part of his plan, apparently. When his head swivels to stare at you hopefully, he props his grin back up. It’s mostly disappearing under the flush rapidly appearing on his cheeks.

“Well, maybe later we could-”

“Ricky! OUT!” Vinny aims her arrow at him now.

What a treat. You’re never around when Vinny tosses someone out. Either the two of you are on opposite shifts and you have to hear second-hand gossip, or she’s taken another week of delivery duty.

“Wait- but-” Ricky looks back at you helplessly. By now you’ve regained enough of your wits to put on your best customer-service smile. When you just nod toward the door, his feet start dragging in that direction. “Well... we could-”

Vinny darts up to him and pokes her arrow right into the cither of his chest with enough force to bend his paper-thin body.

“Out!”

She prods him to the door, opening it just enough that he can slip through. She shoves him through, ignoring his stuttering.

“And don’t come back, you're banned!”

The door slams shut in his face, cutting off his rising protest. Vinny flips the lock, chest heaving. She glares out the front window, standing guard until Ricky sulks off. Only when he disappears around a corner down the street does she exhale.

“Bravo,” you say. You clap, a shit eating grin splitting your face. It’s like you’ve witnessed a rare bird in flight - usually it’s Crimp perma-banning these weirdos.

When she keeps her gaze silently locked out the front window, your clapping slowly trails off.

“Vin?”

She spins and faces you. Her spiral eyes are absolutely tangled. They pin you to your seat.

“Where’s Crimp.”

Shit.

“I, uh... Why?”

Vinny makes a sound half way between a snort and a scoff. She shoots across the store, flying right over the counter. She passes you without a glance and darts into the back room.

A shudder rolls across your back, spurring you to rush after her. You trip over your feet and bounce off of the doorframe in your haste. Grunting as hard angles crash against your side, you tumble into the back room.

“Vin, wait. What is it?”

Vinny hovers near the stairs. Her eyes glide across the mess before coming to a halt at the side room. Tiny trembles race across her form, shaking free droplets of water that cling to her sharp angles. she spins in a restless circle, shedding more water. When she faces you, her expression is impatiently expectant.

“Uh. She’s still sleeping, Vin. Like usual.“ You swallow around whatever has suddenly taken root in your throat to choke you. Continue. ”What’s going on?“

Again, she ignores you. Before you’ve even finished speaking, she’s zipping upstairs. Shooting over the clutter like an arrow. Fast enough that she crashes against the landing wall and bounces off of it like a balloon. Shaking it off, her head whips like a dog’s before she disappears around the corner. Crimp’s door creaks open with a shrill whine and slams shut again in the same heartbeat. You’re left alone in the ringing silence that follows, frozen where you stand at the foot of the stairs.

Shit.

Bixby. It’s Bixby, it has to be. The stupid old bastards finally met a would-be robber that wasn’t scared off by his empty threats. Worse, an attack. Crimp just mentioned how frequent they were getting - and his damned firewall! You’ve known just as long as anyone else about how old and unreliable it is. That damn Spoof had been able to clip through it for Angel’s sake. If a little spoof could do it, then anything could.

With trembling legs you ascend a few steps. Straining to listen, you hold your breath. Listen for any wails of grief over the blood rushing through your ears.

There are none. Only an irritated and familiar shout muffled by the floorboards. Crimp, rudely awoken no doubt. Vinny’s higher pitched voice is easier to hear than the rumbling tones of Crimp’s sleep-clogged voice.

“-situation!” Is all you catch of Vinny’s high pitched barking. You scurry up another step. Low tones, snappish, as Crimp grumbles something back. Vinny’s voice pitches low. Serious. You strain to hear.

Nothing. A beat of silence. You risk lifting a foot to get a few steps closer.

“What?!” Crimp’s shout cuts through the silence. You flinch hard enough that you nearly tumble ass over teakettle off the side of the stairs.

Stomping footsteps send you scurrying back down. A child caught listening at the door. You’ve only just reached the base of the stairs when Crimp’s door squeaks open. She appears on the landing a moment later, stumbling into view. Her hands splay against the wall and she catches herself before she can fall down the stairs. Her mountains of hair threaten to topple from her curlers. A faded, oversized Phishing tournament shirt hangs off of her. Every one of her eyes are wide open, bright and aware despite the bags under them.

Vinny appears behind her, lingering in the dark. A fidgeting pink blur. Crimp’s sharp gaze locks onto you and your breath catches. Your boss stumbles over the mess on the stairs on unsteady feet. Your hands shoot out to catch her when she pitches too far over the edge. She waves your hands away as she regains her footing.

“What happened?” Your voice is pinched and comes out as a squeak. “I- Is it Bix?”

“You’re going home.”

Crimp stalks past you and straight for a yellowing plastic phone mounted to the opposite wall. Vinny descends at a slower pace as you stare. When you catch her eyes, she looks away and floats to the couch.

It’s suddenly hard to breathe.

“What’s going on?”

No one answers you. Your stomach cramps and you stumble after who’s closest. Crimp leans her shoulder against the wall, keeping her back to you. Her fingers fly across large plastic buttons, phone cradled between her cheek and tense shoulder.

“Crimp?” Your own voice makes you flinch. It sounds too much like a child who’s grasping at an adult’s shirt. “Will one of you tell me what happened god damn it?”

“What happened?” Crimp rounds on you, lips peeling back. “What happened is that your little friend from the Trash Zone attacked Vinny.”

“What?!” Shock turns your stomach.

Vinny avoids your wide eyes, settling into the couch cushions. Now that she’s not a pink blur, you get a good look at her. A rip on the hem of her dress stands out. A small scratch on her cheek - shallow and already scabbing over. But it’s the most damage you’ve seen on her since you two met. She tries to jerk her head to the side and hide it, but she’s a second too slow.

Crimp grabs your attention again with her barbed tone. “He followed her to the station. Jumped her right after her last drop.“

“Jumped her?!“

The phone line rings softly from it’s old speakers. Vinny refuses to meet your searching eyes, lip poking out in what’s almost a pout. With how she’s avoiding looking in your direction, it’s probably guilt.

“Are you okay?” The thickness in your throat grows. Sticky and hard to breathe around, let alone speak.

“I’m alright.”

She still won’t look at you. Not for longer than a quick glance to place your location as you draw closer. Her expression scrunches up a little more with each step you take. When you raise your hand, her eyes dart and lock on it. When your shins bump into the coffee table, toppling a stack of magazines, she clears her throat.

“I’m fine! Guy just surprised me. Took care of him.” Her eyes trace the spilled magazines rather than look at you. “But... uh-”

“But he was looking for you. ”

When you face her, Crimp raises a hand. She pinches a set of fingers at you with a scowl, cutting off your sputtering before it can even get started.

When someone finally picks up the line, Crimp mutters a brisk request for a cab into the receiver. She slaps the phone back into its cradle and rounds on you.

“What the hell did you get yourself into?”

“Wh- nothing!”

She points a claw at you and your hands fly up. You want to look back at Vinny. Find some support. But Crimp keeps you pinned in place under her gaze.

“No, he- it was nothing! Just some scammer guy messing with me.”

Harmless, you thought. Creepy, but nothing special. Like you said - just some scammer.

“Then why was he following Vinny around? Asking for you? Attack her? Kid, what did you do? ”

You bristle. Croak and stutter. You’re suddenly scrambling to pull up your guard now that you're on the defense.

Vinny answers for you, her voice unusually tart. “They took a knife from him after he wouldn’t return their pin.”

“Vinny!” Your voice cracks, cheeks flush. “Snitch!”

“You shouldn’t have taken it!” Vinny snaps back, surprising you with her venom. You go silent as she huffs. “I told you goin’ in was a bad idea. An’ now -“

Crimp hisses. Vinny dodges your gaze and fixes her eyes on your boss over your shoulder. Her mouth thins into a line, and when she continues her tone is more even.

“It didn’t seem like he was too hung up about that. What he really wanted was to know where you were. ‘Just to talk’, he said.“

Now cursing as well as hissing, Crimp paces. She pulls curlers from her hair, pocketing them as she goes. She snicks her teeth together in an agitated rhythm while you stutter out half formed protests.

“Great.” She rubs her temples, loosening more curlers. “Another one of their freaks?”

“Hey, no -“

“Yeah. Wanted to make a deal with ‘em.“ Vinny sighs. She leans her chin against her arrow and frowns. ”Real pushy about it. Plus Ricky was here when I got back.“

“Ricky too?“ Crimp spits.

You’re being ignored. Left out of the conversation. Face burning you cut into Crimp’s path. Shaking hands clutch at your sides and you force a firmness into your voice you don’t feel.

“It’s not that serious. He’s not one of those.... He’s just some-“

Crimp jabs you in the chest with a claw. Right against your sternum. You flinch away, skin stinging. She glares up at you with slitted eyes and steps after you.

“You have no say over how serious this is or isn't,” she snaps. “He attacked one of my employees while she was out on a job. While you were here, alone, with another one of your fans. It’s bad enough that we’ve got the ones coming to the store to deal with - I don’t want one that’s willing to start a Fight showing up.“

Another prod has you stumbling back. Crimp herds you. Boxes hit your heels, tripping you up as you’re slowly but surely pushed toward the back door.

“Vinny can hold your own,” Crimp continues. “But you are not equipped to deal with someone willing to start Fights over a Soul.”

Pointed jabs and Crimp’s steady approach backs you up. She’s too quick, giving you no time to glance for obstacles. You sputter while she gets her jabs in, shaking your head. Hands up you attempt to ward both her jabs and her words off while Vinny peeks around the cabinets to watch.

“It’s not- Okay, he mentioned a ‘light’ but that wasn’t what he wanted. It wasn’t like it is with the usual guys. He just-“

“You’re off ‘till Monday.”

Crimp slips past you, the finality of her words ringing in the air. She weaves through the clutter to the back door. Vinny starts to speak up, and you ignore her. Spin around, chase after your boss. When your hip clips off of a box of fabric and knocks it over, you ignore it. Bolds of silvery tulle spill across the floor and under your feet. Trip you up. The air is too thick, you can’t breathe it.

“Yuh- Crimp you can’t! I need those hours.”

With her back to you, Crimp ignores you. She begins to unlock the door. A dry shuffling behind you indicates that Vinny’s cleaning up the tulle.

“I’ll compensate you on Monday night.” Crimp’s voice is clipped. She doesn’t turn to face you.

Like a lost puppy, you scramble after her. When your lip begins to tremble, you bite it viciously to stop it. Tasting copper, you can’t manage to make yourself swallow. It lingers on your tongue, and your eyes sting.

Not now, god damn it.

“You can’t take me off the schedule,“ you nearly laugh. ”You’re already on a skeleton crew! Who- there’s no one to cover for me!“

“We’ll figure it out. We’ve made due before.”

Crimp flicks open the final lock. Leaving one hand on the knob she turns and points at you.

No. She’s pointing too low. She’s pointing at your Soul.

“You need to lay low. Stay away for a few days just in case your little fanclub shows up with a new member.” Her tone softens. It hurts all the more. “You’ll be safer that way.”

“Safer? I can- I’m fine! Vinny held him off, didn’t she?“

Vinny squirms when you point back at her. She pretends to still be fixing the box of tulle while you try and force eye contact.

“Vin?”

“I was fine, sure, yea, but...” Her eyes flick over your shoulder.

Crimp pushes the door open and gestures sharply to the wet alley outside. Cold air blows in, bringing with it the smell of the rain that’s now stopped. Even in a computer-world, you swear the smell of rain carries with it a hint of something like fish.

“Can we talk about this? He’s not... no one is after my stupid Soul!“ Shaking hands reach up and you tug at your shirt. Pulling loose threads from your apron, you try to keep the fabric from touching your aching chest. ”He... He just wanted...“

“What? What’d you agree to?”

Crimp glares at you. Heat rises to your cheeks. When you clam up and squirm, she scoffs.

“Kid, whatever he promised you-”

“Why do you think I agreed to anything?!” Your voice cracks. It’s impossible to get a full breath of air. Not when Crimp won’t quit staring at you. She’s doing it wrong, too. She keeps looking down and you can feel Vinny’s eyes boring into the same place behind you.

Trembling hands tug the knot on your apron. You need something to do while you talk. Keep your hands busy, or else that rising, hot feeling in your chest will overflow. Explode and ruin everything.

“He.... wanted me to steal something,” you grind out. The bitten ends of your nails snag on the canvas-like fabric of your apron. “From the Mansion. I said no! I said no, of course.”

Crimp bristles, puffing up. Her teeth snck together. Her hari rises and the thinnest and stiffest of the strands seem to rattle.

“Of course it was that damn place,” she spits. “It’s always something to do with them.”

“How was I supposed to know?” Stomach churning, your hands lock into fists against your stomach. “A-And what does that have to do with-”

“what else would it be about?!”

She points blatantly at your chest again. Vinny lingers behind you, cutting off any hope you have of backing away from Crimp and her accusing glare. Cold air blows into the shop, blowing in more rain smell as well as bitter car exhaust.

“You worked there! It’s not like it is back up top. A lightner - A human living in this city is big news. Why the hell do you think I don’t bother sending you out on deliveries?“

Crimp reaches for you. With your heart thrashing in your chest, you can’t draw in the breath to protest. Her hands wrap around your wrists and forearms. She drags you, stumbling, out the door.

It’s cold. Cold in the way early, foggy mornings are. You trip as Crimp guides you away from the door. Two hands cup your arms while another pair works to whisk off your apron. Your protests are ignored.

She’s being gentle with you. Firm, but careful. Her hands barely brush against you, ais if she’s threading a particularly thin needle.

It’s a slap in your face.

“I cannot afford to have any of your Mansion sticking their beaks - or her Royal Monitor - into my business.”

Crimp’s voice has softened in places. Firmed in others. Like the hands on your arms. She lets go of you, and takes your stomach with her when she steps back, your apron thrown over one arm. She leaves nothing but a pit of ice behind.

“It’s bad enough with those fanatic freaks. But we’ve talked about this. that side of town-“

“He’s not even from around there!” You snap. “He- He has a shop in the dump for the love of... He’s got nothing to do with Queen, are you kidding me? He’s like us! B-Besides that, you know how careful I am!“

Crimp scoffs quietly. “Doesn’t mean he’s above sharing some information if he thinks it will get him somewhere. with Queen or with one of your fans.”

All the heat and anger is gone from her voice now. She rubs her forehead, standing between you and the shop. Behind her, Vinny lingers in the doorway. Keeps it from shutting.

Part of you wonders if you could make it past her. Get back into the store. Like if you cling to a table or mannequin hard enough, you’ll be able to stay.

“If he shows up and starts asking too many questions...” Crimp sighs. She crosses her arms against her belly and leans her weight on her hip. A hand breaks away from its companions and rubs her neck. “ Damn it...“

There’s too much pressure in your head. behind your eyes. You blink rapidly and dig your nails into your palms. Scrape away the scabs that have barely set. When your eyes catch Vinnys’, they don’t linger long. Guilt has given way to a simmering rage. Illogical, you know it is. She was attacked, she had to tell Crimp what happened... but the damn timing.

Anger doesn’t care why. Betrayal boils away in your stomach. You swallow around it.

“Crimp. I’ll take care of it.”

“You will not- are you even listening?” She rubs at her temples. “You’ve got enough of a target on your back as it is. Especially out here.” Her shoulders slump with a sigh. “If you had any sense you would have stayed at the Mansion where it’s safe.”

“... Crimp-”

“Go home. Stay home.” she pulls at the fluff on her neck. “Light, kid. I told you when you started not to go sticking your nose into trouble, didn’t I?”

Shame burns the ends of your nerves, leaving you feeling fried. Someone’s stabbing your brain with a hot needle, and your teeth crunch in your mouth as you grind them.

“What are you, my mom? You can’t just order me - you can’t fucking ground me!“

“I’m your goddamn boss.” Crimp stalks half a step toward you. Again she jabs your chest with a claw, glaring up at you. “If I say jump you ask how high. You knew exactly what you were signing up for when I hired you - I didn’t spare you any of the fucking details. So when I tell you to lay low, you lay low.”

You cringe back. That roiling feeling of pressure in your head grows. Crimp steps back and folds her arms across her chest. Aims her snarling glare at her feet.

Silence fills the alley. Your eyes drift to the plastic tarp that covers Crimp’s car. Tucked into the shadows off to the left. It’s easier to look at that, rather than Crimp’s twitching face.

Vinny clears her throat as the silence stretches long and thin. Crimp’s lips part. She breathes in. Tilts her head back up to look at you.

“So are you firing me or what?” you say. Keep your eyes lingering on gray plastic rather than crimson fur.

“Stop that,” Crimp snaps. She sputters. Drags a claw through her hair. “You know I’m not.”

The feeling in your stomach is acidic. blood still rushes in your ears in waves. The idea of meeting anyone’s gaze right now seems impossible.

It would be kinder, you think, if she actually fired you. At least then you wouldn’t have to come back Monday. Get those goddamn looks. You can feel Vinny giving you one right now. It crawls across your skin.

Crunching gravel off to your right breaks the silence. Yellow light washes over you. Crimp’s cab is here. It noses around the corner at the end of the ally. The lights blind you, but you keep your face turned toward it. Crimp hisses something to Vinny and the back door slips shut.

Crimp waves at you to get out of the way. Vinny’s gone, the door shut tight. No way to race back inside, illogical as the urge is.

Reluctantly you shuffle out of the middle of the alley. Arms crossed tight to your chest, you keep a good few feet between you and your boss. She knows better than to try and close the gap right now.

The cab crawls forward. With the garbage so regularly cleared away - Crimp’s orders - there’s enough space for it to fit. The only problem arises when it nears Crimp’s car. Garbage guy left the dumpster in the wrong place again. The cab has to slowly scoot between the two hunks of metal at a snail's pace.

Beside you, Crimp shifts from foot to foot. Every one of her arms are crossed tight against her stomach. At her height, she has to look up to have any hope of meeting your eyes. It makes it painfully obvious every time she looks your way and fails to say anything.

Once the cab rolls to a stop, she breaks her silence.

“Just. Lay low for a few days.” The Plugboy driving isn’t one you know. Small miracles. “I’ll call if anything changes, Or if your Spoof shows up.” Crimp’s voice hardens. She leans her weight on the hip further from you, eyes locked on the cab. “Don’t go out unnecessarily. Call one of the boys to get food if you need any.”

“Got it, Boss.” Your voice betrays you. Cracks.

Crimp’s head tilts. Quickly, you slip into the cab, falling into your seat. With your eyes down you jerk the door shut. They drift even lower when Crimp steps up to the cab.

She leans into the open passenger window as the cab idles. Her eyes lock on the driver. With how he straightens and fixes all his attention on her, you know he’s new. Dead giveaway when they’re terrified of her, but don’t yet know better than to show it.

“Make sure they get home safe,” she tells him. “Kid I... I’ll see you Monday night. Alright?”

She looks at you and you feign complications with your seatbelt. Finally, the cab pulls away. Only then do you look up. Just in time to catch the driver eyeing you in the rearview mirror. His face goes red and his eyes snap back to the road.

Things never change.

The buildings in your neighborhood look a little better than the ones near work... But not by much. It’s all window dressings anyway.

Nice awnings and some creeping ivy to hide cracked brick and a chronic mold problem. The apartments appear liveable from the street, enough so that abandoned stores are bought up quickly by bright-eyed entrepreneurs. Suckers looking for cheap leases in a neighborhood that looks promising. Landlords eager to convert small stores into even smaller apartments.

It’s a short drive. 7 or 8 minutes, compared to the hour-long walk you were expecting to end your day - morning - with. Doesn’t give you much time to sulk, but you’ve got all that surprise free time coming up. Plenty of sulking time to look forward to.

The cabbie keeps shooting you glances through the mirror. While you’ve done your best to steer your glare out the window and pretend not to notice, your nerves are raw.

He’s saved by his own distraction a block or so from your apartment. As you inhale breath to fuel a sharp retort, Ambulance sirens rise above the city noise and draw closer. Approaching from behind. Your driver nearly swerves off the road in his haste to pull to the side once the flashing lights appear in his mirrors. He dutifully puts the cab into park and twists over his shoulder to watch the ambulance shoot past.

Under the blare of sirens, he doesn’t notice the click of your seatbelt unhooking. In fact, he doesn’t notice you’re out of the car at all until he hears the door clap shut and spots you briskly walking down the sidewalk.

Through the glass you hear him sputtering. He hits the gas and the car awkwardly jerks before he remembers to take it out of park. You keep your eyes locked on the sidewalk, shoulders up to your ears.

“Hey!” He pulls up beside you, window rolled down. “Wait - I’m, I’m supposed to drop you off!”

Without looking, you give him a jagged thumbs up. “Yeah. Good job, buddy.” Go home.

Annoyingly, he doesn’t disappear into a puff of smoke under your dismissal. “I, but the address I  was given-”

“I live right there.” You point. Just ahead is a five-story building. Cyber City’s trademark blue bricks are faded here. The building’s more of a gray oatmeal color instead of bright and eye-catching. Old, and not maintained - not as well as the sparkling and modern homes in Queen’s neighborhood.

Moss adds a bit of color where it creeps in. Forming in swaths between damp and narrow alleyways that separate identical apartment complexes. The alleys here are always soggy, thanks to some hidden leak that no one’s bothered finding. Makes you almost thankful for a third-story apartment. At least the moss eats up the mold before it gets to your floor.

Home sweet home.

The cab’s wheels scrape against the edge of the sidewalk and the driver swerves, overcorrecting and grimacing. Not like any new scratches will be noticeable on Bixby’s old junk cars.

“But I’m supposed to -”

“Then park out front,” you snap. “You’re not following me in, I don’t care what you were told.“ You speed up a little, leaving him behind as you dart to the front doors.

You hop over the puddle that lurks in front of the lobby doors. It floods when it rains for more than a few hours. Today, the packages lurking by the mailboxes got lucky. Only a little soaked.

The carpet squelches under foot, stirring up a smell similar to leaf-mold, but more computery. Once the doors slip shut you shuffle to the side, out of view of the door’s window. You wait.

The cab doesn’t leave. The engine cuts off, and your heart sinks. Crimp’s serious about you staying put - you’ve got a babysitter.

Thin, rumpled carpet does its best to trip you as you storm upstairs. By the time you reach your floor, you’re a panting mess. Worse than you usually are, thanks to the hot anger that pulses through you. Beating in time with your headache. It’s a small mercy that you’re the only one out and about as you stalk down the hall. Pass the apartment doors crammed together like sardines.

Your apartment sits at the end of a hall. Squashed in like an afterthought. The lock fights with you a little longer than usual, thanks to your shaking hands.

Finally it opens a crack. The coat hanging off the back of your door bumps against the fridge when you shove it open. Squishing yourself against the closet you squeeze through. Shimmy out of the way until the door can slam shut. Snaking your hand into the mess of sweaters and coats abandoned to hang off the door hook, you feel around. When it finds the lock, you snap it shut. Home at last.

Cramped, but home. ‘Open concept’ your ass. The closet pushes you into the kitchen. Sure, the lack of walls gives it an open feeling with the limited space, but the fake roll out tile looks stupid against the scratchy carpet.

You kick off your shoes and nudge them under the kitchen table and its single chair. Barefoot, you shuffle further into your dark apartment.

Flicking on several lamps scattered around brightens up the place. Barely. Your apartment boasts three whole windows - and they’re all on the wall that faces the alley. You get a spectacular view of the swampy alley below, and about one whole crumb of usable light. Better than having to live with your blinds closed like the poor tenants with windows facing Downtown.

It’s messy, like you left it. Dishes clutter the wobbly coffee table. Dust clings to the old cathode TV. The lumpy couch holds your blanket and pillow, shoved crumpled to one end after an unsuccessful night trying to sleep.

The ‘living room’ is squashed into the corner of the room. The rest is dedicated to your ‘studio’. Taking full advantage of the pitiful light that filters through the windows. It’s... not much. Plastic folding table against the back of your couch acts as your work table, a cheap second-hand sewing machine stationed there. It’s too heavy for the table, the plastic bows under it. you  know in your heart that one of these days it will snap and spill into your lap while you’re working. But for now, it only causes a racket and shakes the hell out of any coffee cups you leave on the table.

The walls are lined with colorful and - most importantly - cheap shelving. Plastic drawers from dollar stores, filled with whatever scraps you can afford or steal from work. To cover the yellowing paint - and hide water damage and suspicious stains that you just know are mold - you’ve pinned scraps and yards of unused - or unuseable - fabric to the walls. It adds a splash of color, and helps make the light less blue.

Your second hand mannequin wilts next to the one you’ve borrowed from work. The project pinned to it - abandoned - looks musty and ugly next to Peri’s work in progress. Wrong color for what you’d set out to do - now it’s being ignored. Not like you had the cash to make the right choice. What was supposed to be a peachy dress looks more like tastefully draped deli meat. Granted, it’s well sewn deli meat. But, it still eyes Peri’s suit jealously.

For a while you stand in silence. Curl your toes into the carpet and ignore the piles of laundry scattered around. You trace familiar patterns in the moss growing on the alley walls outside. Quiet. The neighbors are at work, and the ones who aren’t are sleeping. Like you should be.

But you have all this free time. Your whole day is open. You could sleep, you could work on Peri’s gift. Angel knows the bathroom needs some attention. Hey, you could really clean this place up. Have guests over for the first time. Finally have that ‘welcome home’ party you’ve been putting off for half a year.

As long as you stay here. Inside your apartment. A place you spend as little time as possible in, even on your better days.

Your teeth itch at the idea of staying cooped up until Monday  night.

New texts are waiting for you on your phone when you check it. The text from Peri you promised you’d get to is buried under an avalanche of texts from Vinny. More appear as you watch. Long paragraphs. Lots of question marks.

A swipe sends those away. More swipes send the new ones away until they stop coming, and the only ones left are from Peri.

Fuck that. Vinny can sit and squirm. And you’ll avoid that fight until Monday.

Drifting to the couch, you sink into it. Click on Peri’s message.

It’s a photo, captioned with lots of smiling emoticons. Sneakily taken, it’s a bit blurry. Some great black feathered shape blocks out the bottom of the photo - probably a finger or feather. But, the context is clear enough.

It’s a photo of Swatch. They’re seated at one of the long counters in the kitchen. Specifically the one that used to wobble despite every coaster and bit of folded cardboard stuck under the legs. Did that ever get fixed? It looks crooked in the photo.

Swatch hunches over, seated on a stool. They’re glaring down at a heaping plate of spaghetti code while a flock of scantily clad Swatchlings surround them. This week - well, yesterday’s - Birdy Brigade . Mauve, Wheat, Olive, Sienna, and Azure - though it could be her twin, Sky - all gather around their boss.

They’ve successfully corralled them and are preventing them from fleeing the scene. The Swatchlings all hold out plates of food. Mostly the macarons and mini sandwiches they carry on trays and hand out to guests. Olive, on the other hand, is holding out a blanket. Neatly folded over his arm. He’s frowning the most severely out of everyone at Swatch.

And Swatch - don’t they just look absolutely thrilled at being the center of attention? The face they’re making is a far cry from their usual controlled demeanor. They're clearly mortified, lines drawn between their brows. One eye is squinted shut a little more than the other. Goodness, even a few feathers are out of place.

They always look so bad in candid photos - without fail. No chance for them to shift into practiced and poised grace before the flash goes off. Half the selfies you take with them have to be deleted once they get a peek at it. Well. You have to say you deleted them.

You save the photo and set it as your background - replacing a shot of the ferris wheel. You’re surprised to find yourself smiling. Just a little.

Swiping past Swatch’s scowling face you read the message attached. Time stamped yesterday, of course. You feel bad for the late reply, though Peri’s waited much longer before.

Per-Bear: Sneak attack! :^D We got Boss to take a real break!

Per-Bear: They threatened to fire us! （＾∀＾）

No mention of getting together soon. He’d mentioned it, but given your track record... Well, he’d probably decided it’d be easier not to bother.

Your stomach twists. It’s enough discomfort to keep you awake and squirming. Your eyes flick to the windows and you try to convince yourself you don’t hear the cab idling. No clue how long Crimp told the cabby to wait around - but you wouldn’t put it past her to ‘schedule’ him for an hour or two.

Again your stomach twists. Teeth grinding together, you start typing.

You: hey.

You: I have some free time this weekend.

You: Let’s go somewhere. Downtown. You pick.