Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

MePhone3GS stood awkwardly outside the bay door of the MeMacG3. A gentle breeze stirred up the clouds that supported MeCloud Headquarters, causing bits to break away and lazily drift into the open sky. A piece of fog brushed against 3GS’ screen, obscuring his vision. He waved the cloud away, wishing he had a front camera to avoid scenarios like this. 3GS couldn’t afford to be distracted at the moment, or ever, for that matter.

Right now his attention was focused on MePhone4, who had refused to budge from his spot inside the ship for the past hour. He stood just inside the doorframe, frozen with his hands gingerly clasped close to his chest. 4 seemed like he was about to take a step outside any second now, but he had been that way from the moment that 3GS had walked out the door. 3GS could not foresee 4 following through with the action any time soon. He coughed politely. MePhone4 averted his gaze from where it had been fixated on the smooth plastic floor.

“You know... maybe I’ll just stay in here,” he blabbered, knocking on the doorframe. “The wind feels awfully blustery out there right now. I’d hate to fall. You seem good though, why don’t you go on ahead? Don’t wait up for me.” 3GS turned his attention to the clouds, assessing 4’s claim. Despite the wind’s previous assault on him earlier, the weather could not have been fairer. He went to relay this back to 4, who was suddenly extremely preoccupied with trying to tiptoe as silently as possible towards the MeMac’s control panel.

“Where are y-you going?” Inquired 3GS. 4 froze mid-step.

“I’m not going back to the island!” He defended, whirling around to face 3GS.

“I didn’t say you w-were, or that y-you couldn’t.” 3GS pointed out. MePhone4 looked abashed.

“I just… don’t think I’m ready to come back here to MeCloud. It’s just….”

3GS observed the shining glass building. The sun hit it at the perfect angle to make it appear as if it were glowing. More like blinding. That makes two attacks on his vision today. “T-too much?”

MePhone4 rubbed his broken arm slightly, looking down. “What if it’s changed?” He asked. 3GS had to strain a little to hear the question over the distance, but when it finally processed he found himself pondering over the implications. 3GS had been in that same storage closet for so long, he supposed he had forgotten to consider that the outside world might have been changing without him. He had admittedly not gotten the best view of the building as he rushed down the halls to where he thought Cobs might have parked the MeMac. But from what he had seen, nothing had really differed from his time. Still the futuristic white plastic, glass, and light wood that was so characteristic of the company.

3GS maybe found it a little ironic that a place so obsessed with inventing the future was so unchanging. Perhaps a brand aesthetic was more everlasting than the product itself. The MeMacG3 was certainly no exception. The ship’s teal clear plastic hull was iconic indeed, but MePhone 3GS knew that the style had been long out of fashion even by his time. What was it that Cobs had always said? Keep moving forward? Or maybe it was something about being the richest man in the graveyard. Irrelevant, but, whatever. MePhone4 eyed him nervously.

“It’s s-still the same place that y-you know,” 3GS finally answered. 4 deflated even further.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” he muttered. The low sun reflected on the cracks in his screen. 3GS’ hand drifted towards his own shattered glass. He hadn’t asked 4 how his cracks came to be, but if it had been anything like 3GS’ experience….
Maybe it would be better if they didn’t go back to Meeple. At least for a little while.

“We will s-spend our t-time somewhere else, then,” 3GS decided, climbing back up into the ship. 4 quickly stepped out of his way in surprise. “No use standing out h-here.”

When 3GS turned back to face 4, he expected him to appear relieved, not whatever it was written all over his face now. Worry? Fear? Some conflicting mix, perhaps. 3GS continued towards the controls. He wasn’t very good at emotions, but he knew that sticking around Meeple’s front lawn was far from helpful.

“Sit d-down, this c-could get bumpy.” 3GS had just initiated launch when a familiar buzzing rang out from behind him. He glanced through his back camera to see 4 attempting to keep as still in his seat as possible, an unknown number flashing across his screen.

“A-are you going t-to take that?” 3GS asked tentatively, trying to lighten the tension in the air. 4 jolted up as if caught-red handed and promptly declined the call.

“…No,” he grunted.

The two of them sat in silence for a moment, the only sound being the creaking of the steering controls and the dutiful whir of the MeMac’s fans.
The number called again, breaking the silence into a million pieces.

“Maybe you s-should take it.” 3GS offered. 4 sighed shakily and pressed the accept button.

“MePhone? Is that you? Did Fan get me the right number?” 3GS startled a bit as a grating voice blasted over 4’s speakers.

“Test Tube? What’s uh- what’s up?” MePhone4’s voice cracked as he struggled to keep his composure, frantically turning down the volume on the call.

“Oh golly it is you! I wasn’t sure if it was because you weren’t picking up, but I thought that you might do that anyway so I called again to make sure.”

“Uh. Right…” 4 trailed off uncomfortably, but 3GS couldn’t figure out what for. Another complicated emotion, most likely. “So why…?”

“Why did I call you? Right. Well I was thinking that you left with a cracked screen and broken arm with no real way to get it fixed- there was no way you would go to Meeple to get repaired - and you also had that other MePhone model with you who looked pretty dinked-up too. I have a little lab set up back on the island by the hotel that you could drop by to get all fixed up.” She seemed to sense 4’s hesitation at the idea and pressed on.

“It would only take a few days or so, and my lab is a little ways away from the hotel so I’m semi-confident you wouldn’t be interacting with anybody, unless they decide to go barging in unannounced like they always do….” That last part was said in a mutter that 3GS supposed Test Tube was used to being frequently interrupted in her solitude. “B-but I’ll make sure that no one comes to bother you two! Nobody has to know you’re there! MePhone, I know you’re not exactly on the best terms with the others right now, and I… feel some ways about it, but I’ll put it aside to know that you’re at least doing physically okay. It’s the least I can do. So… please come over? I’ll send my lab’s coordinates. Test Tube out.” A text notification pinged moment later with what 3GS assumed were Test Tube’s coordinates. 3GS peered at 4, who was curled in on himself a little.

“Shall I input the c-coordinates into the computer?” 3GS asked, awaiting his orders. When 4 didn’t respond, 3GS softened a bit. “It’s y-your c-call.”

“Full speed ahead,” MePhone4 grimaced. “We’re headed back to Inanimate Island.”

Chapter Text

Ballpoint Pen idly sipped from his coffee mug as he peered out his tiny apartment window at the rainy streets below, watching objects scurry around trying to avoid being caught in the worsening weather. A panicked ocarina made a mad dash for shelter as sheets of rain lashed against the pavement. Ballpoint narrowed his eyes at a brief glimpse of a camera ducking into a shopping center. Nosey, nosey.

Ballpoint shuttered the blinds then turned back to his desk. Open on his monitor were a few tabs with miscellaneous errands he had kept for a rainy day. Well, no better time than now, I suppose. He flicked through the tabs with mild interest.

An online shop for glasses frames, reviews for a local restaurant he wanted to check out, an order tracker for the latest novel from his favorite author announcing that it would arrive later that afternoon… Ballpoint paused on an article headlining his name. He had been putting off reading it, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. It’s not like he didn’t know what they were saying about him, anyways.

Ballpoint gave a dry smirk as he clicked on the article. Skimming it revealed that it was yet another baffled journalist reporting on his latest achievements. Of course. The news, despite their desperate digging, could never come up with any dirt on him. Ballpoint Pen was an utter mystery to them. An up-and-coming critic appears out of the blue one day and makes a name for himself just like that? It seemed like fantasy. If only they knew the half of it!

Ballpoint reclined in his desk chair and took a long drag from his coffee. His story might sound incredible, but it had been tough work climbing the ranks of notoriety. He might’ve had the vision and the character, but his name had been practically nonexistent. It had taken several small publications in local journals for people to start recognizing his talent, and he was lucky that the LIMES Magazine even took a second glance at his writing. From there it was a game of knowing who’s who and what’s what. It had been difficult, but once he had managed to get his foot in the door it was simply a matter of time. A severe weather siren in the distance shook Ballpoint from his reverie. He glanced at the clock. He should really get some actual work done.

Ballpoint sighed and opened his latest review. It was a critique and analysis on some uninspired sci-fi thriller TV. The show was all the rage with the masses and critics alike at the moment, but Ballpoint felt it was all a little pointless. It’s like the writers kept trying to make a game of how many times they could reuse the same basic formula and get away with it. And judging from behind the scenes interviews he could confidently assume that no one involved was actually having a ball. He certainly wasn’t having one writing this critique.

Ballpoint clicked a few times in thought. His eyes flicked to the clock again. He knew he was putting the work off, but it couldn’t be less appealing at the moment. Ballpoint rolled his eyes. I should be taking my own advice here… I’m beginning to sound like someone else I know. Maybe I should go back to the drawing board.

He leaned forward towards his monitor and rested his empty mug on a worn coaster, preparing to clear the previous paragraphs he had written. The siren sounded once more, barely audible over the pounding rain. Thunder rumbled darkly outside, causing the lights in the office to flicker for a moment. Ballpoint paused, fingers hovering over his keyboard. He watched the lights with a bit of hopeful hesitation, but they didn’t waver. Ballpoint rolled his eyes, finally resigning himself to his work.

When the rain finally subsided, a delivery truck pulled up to Ballpoint’s apartment. The delivery boy, a baseball cap, carried a small box to the apartment office. The manager behind the desk, a bunch of purple grapes filing her nails, slowly blinked at him.

“Afternoon, ma’am. I have a delivery for a Mr. Ballpoint Pen?”

“Leave it here. I’ll page him,” the manager said. The cap nodded and handed her the package. She inspected the name. “Pen, huh? Always a bit of a recluse, that one.”

She leaned over to a panel with a ridiculous number of buttons and pressed one with the calculated speed of someone who knew the building like the back of her hand. Judging from the way she had filed her nails earlier, the baseball cap felt like he could justifiably back up that claim.

“Mr. Pen? You have a package at the front office.” There was no reply. “Mr. Pen?” The manager clicked her tongue impatiently. She rolled her eyes and leaned towards the delivery boy conspiratorially. “He’s usually pretty punctual, though,” she said with a wry smile. “Perhaps he’s lost in thought writing another one of those articles of his.”

The baseball cap perked up. “Oh? He a writer?”

The grapes waved her hand with a dry air. “Oh yeah, he’s a rather famous critic or something. He comes down to the lobby every so often to play cards - he’s got a mean poker face. Hah! Although,” she dropped her voice low and gave a look towards the window. “Since he’s a real big name in the entertainment business, he gets a few people coming ‘round to bribe him or stalk him. There’s a few cameras who drop by every so often. If you see one on your way out, tell ‘em to scram.”

“The bad weather doesn’t drive them away?”

“Rain or shine they’ll be there. Those rats are desperate for anything. Mr. Pen’s writing can make or break a man and they want to have any advantage they can get, severe weather or no. Dang siren was going off like a phone,” the manager muttered. “Now get out of here before your van gets blown away or something.” She waved him off.

True to form, a camera was loitering outside the apartment. The baseball cap asked them to leave a little more politely than he thought the manager would’ve liked, but it did the trick. The weather outside now was wet and gray, but nowhere near warranting an alarm. The cap wondered if the manager was overexaggerating her stories. She seemed the type.

She had a rather nasally voice, the cap thought as he drove away. And what kind of a name is Ballpoint Pen?

Chapter Text

Walkie-Talkie lay on her side in the grass, letting the cool air wash over her as the sun lowered over the horizon. She watched listlessly as an inch-worm craned its tiny body out from a grass blade, desperately searching for some sort of surface contact. As Walkie stared at its tiny gummy legs hovering towards her face, she wished that she had arms to knock the worm far, far away. Or she wished for legs to get up and leave. Or heck, even a mouth to blow air and scare the stupid thing into leaving her alone.

“Hey. Hey! I’m not the Floor! Back off!” Walkie barked to no avail. The inch-worm touched down on her face with sweet buggy relief and began bridging its way across her screen.

Listen. Walkie-Talkie was grateful to be alive. She really was. Being tied up in MeAfterlife was far from the existence she had been hoping for and WOW was she glad that someone had the sense to rescue her from that mess! But this…. Well, this wasn’t much better. The inch-worm suddenly decided that even though it was nearly halfway onto a new blade of grass, the distance was simply too far and that it must turn back the way it came and climb all the way up the length of Walkie-Talkie once again. This was the fourth time in the last hour. Walkie-Talkie screamed in boredom.

Did no one REALLY have the foresight to at least mount Walkie up on a tree or something? Did she really just have to lay here forgotten forever? She couldn’t do anything like this! She couldn’t HELP anyone like this!

Walkie pinged out a signal hoping that someone would answer her. It’s not like anyone had in a long time, but hey! millionth time’s a charm, right?

She waited. And waited. The sun was a sliver over the water now, the sky a deep pinkish-orange. Maybe they weren’t going to come…. Walkie-Talkie dialed down her frequency and tried to settle down for another long night. Sleeping was out of the question. She never needed it, anyway.

Walkie-Talkie counted the minutes passing, or at least the amount of time it took for the worm to do another lap around her speakers. Walkie thought back to her days on Indefinite Island. It may have been a bit boring in that permanently-twilight purgatory, but she sorely missed having real company. Sorry-not-sorry, bugs!

Walkie suddenly halted her counting. Someone was hovering over her. Watching her. And it wasn’t that annoying beetle from a few days ago. Their silhouette was difficult to make out in the moonlight, but she half-registered a familiar rectangular figure.

“MePhone? Is that you? You came back! I’ve been waiting foreverrrrr!” Walkie squeaked, hope gushing from her speaker. The figure stepped closer into view, and Walkie gasped.

“O-oh, you’re —”

Walkie-Talkie stilled. The inch-worm rolled onto the grass, uncaring and content.

Chapter Text

To-Do:
- Make breakfast (waffles, pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs, muffins, orange juice, coffee, milk, fruit)
- Buy groceries from Walmart (toilet paper in bulk, more eggs, milk, bread, window cleaner, toothpaste, hand soap, new lightbulbs for lobby, foam edge trim)
- Clean floors 6-3
- Make lunch (sandwich bar: ham, cheese, turkey, veggie)
- Clean floors 2-lobby
- Dinner (Mic and Cheesy volunteered LET THEM HANDLE IT!!! DON’T WORRY)
- TAKE PAPER OUT (RONZANTO’S @ 7:00)

OJ hunched over the kitchen countertop, staring at his errands list as he anxiously tapped a pencil against his glass. Another long day managing the hotel was fine. Just a regular Tuesday for him. Except today wasn’t a Tuesday, it was a Friday — and Friday nights were his and Paper’s newly agreed-upon date nights. OJ was excited for the one-on-one time with Paper, but leaving the hotel in the hands of too-eager volunteers put him on edge.

“They’ll be fine, I’m being ridiculous, they were okay when I got kidnapped by MePhone for his third season and they’ll be alright now,” OJ muttered to himself, trying to ease his nerves. When that didn’t work, he brewed himself a pot of coffee and dumped the whole thing in his glass.

“Might as well fight jitters with jitters on your terms,” he had said to a concerned Paper the last time OJ was this anxious. “Just call me Orange Joe!”

OJ was halfway through flipping bacon when someone coughed behind him. Startled, he shot up and smacked the rim of his glass on foam trim edges lining the cupboards above him. OJ went stock still for a heart-stopping moment until he assessed that he thankfully wasn’t cracked. Letting out a long, shaky breath, OJ slowly turned to the object behind him.

“OMGA! That was a close one. Sorry OJ,” came a muffled voice from within a massive roll of plastic bubbles. “The whole world’s a death trap to us glasses, huh. Can’t believe I never noticed it before. By the way, we’re out of bubble wrap.”

OJ stared at the shiny lump that was Lightbulb for a second before dragging a hand across his face and scribbling “bubble wrap” to his list of things to buy that day. He swallowed and opened his mouth to ask her how she was doing, but Lightbulb interrupted his thoughts.

“Oh uh, Pickle wants to talk with you about you-know-who for a second. I’ll be seeing ya, OJ! Good luck on your date! ‘Scuse me.” Lightbulb grunted and waddled through the narrow kitchen. Pickle squeezed through the swathes of plastic sheets, gasping for air when he crawled out the other side, his eyes brightening when he saw OJ.

“OJ! Hey, how you holding up?” Pickle grinned half-heartedly. OJ barely registered the attempt at casual conversation, still staring after Lightbulb’s bubble wrap swaddle.

“Er, uh. Not great I see.” Pickle grimaced. “I don’t think it’s really sunk in for Balloon yet. I mean, he used to accidentally pop all the time and now….” He rubbed the back of his head, uncomfortable with the grim air Lightbulb left behind. Pickle’s eyes flicked to the foam edges everywhere. “And Test Tube is being, well, Test Tube about this. She’s probably still trying to solve our sudden mortality problem. I haven’t seen her outside of her lab for days. I imagine it’s got to be pretty hard for all of you being so fragile… I just wish I could do more to help.” He continued lamely.

“Uh. Yeah.” OJ said, finally snapping out of his trance. “You could help me buy groceries later.”

Pickle blinked. “Oh. Sure, OJ. Not exactly what I meant, but sure, I can help with that.”

Even though the conversation seemed over, Pickle continued to linger in the kitchen. OJ watched him out of the corner of his eye as he went on making the rest of breakfast. He saw Pickle take a deep breath to steady himself, but before he could ask OJ for whatever favor he no doubt wanted, a miserable wail pierced the silence.

Pickle instantly deflated. “Could you-?”

“Take care of him? Yeah. Make sure this bacon doesn’t burn.” OJ strode outside the kitchen and towards the living room lobby.

“Thanks!” Pickle sheepishly called after him. He picked up OJ’s tongs and glared at the sizzling bacon. “Don’t burn, don’t burn, don’t burn….”

OJ followed the obnoxious sobbing to the couch where Bomb awkwardly stood by, game controller in hand. “He’s b-b-been t-there fo-for HOURS hogging th-the TV.” Bomb said, glancing at the distraught figure on the couch. “P-Pickle and I c-c-can’t play our game!”

OJ sighed. “I got this,” he said to Bomb. “Pickle’s in the kitchen. Could you help him finish breakfast for everyone?” Bomb gave him a sharp salute and wandered off into the kitchen. OJ dimly hoped the two of them wouldn’t cause a mess.

OJ then turned to the couch. The TV was a staticky blend of cereal advertisements. “Hey Springy, are you doing okay?” He asked.

Springy gave another teeth-grating wail that made OJ wince. “What do you think?!” They cried. OJ shifted from one foot to another. Great.

“Springy, listen, I know I agreed to let you stay here until you managed to find a place of your own, but you’re disturbing my actual guests here at the hotel. Are you sure you couldn’t find work at the company?” A Springtastic commercial crackled to life on the TV screen.

Springy turned to face OJ with an irritated, wet glare. “I TRIED!” They cried, burying their face in their oversized ratty mittens. “I went up there, said I was their real-life cereal mascot in the metal! Things were going so well, until, until—!” A glitch shuddered through the spring, sending them back into hysterics. “I j-just can’t get it under control!

“They said it wouldn’t work out— my glitches scared all the kids away, and they couldn’t understand what I was doing there. They thought I was a prank or something e-evil come to haunt them! It was s-so EMBARRASSING! What kind of IDIOT makes a representation of their childhood memories but doesn’t have enough good memories to complete t-the D-DAM-ugh PROGRAM?!”

OJ paled. He hadn’t even considered the fact that their Springy wasn’t the actual mascot of Springtastic Cereal. Those executives must have been terrified. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. This was getting a bit too close to existential MePhone territory. Pivot. Pivot!

“W-well, uh, what about your robots? Weren’t you having some success making those? Why not make your own line of toys? It could be your big break!” OJ desperately suggested. Springy paused their sobbing, considering OJ’s words.

“I did like making those…” they mumbled. “That was my original plan anyways, I just got so caught up in the idea of getting outside the game that I guess it got waylaid. That and the fact that I was trying to replace the contestants with them, which no one liked… so maybe I shouldn’t—”

OJ’s eye twitched. “Why not come up with your own ideas? Or you could at least ask any of the others if you could have your toys be inspired by them, rather than replace them. I’m sure at least a few others would be happy to help.” He grit his teeth and prayed that his words were convincing.

The seconds passed by agonizingly slow as Springy mulled over OJ’s ideas. As diplomatic as OJ attempted to be, he really could not afford to let them continue crashing on his couch any longer. As much as it’s been bothering the other guests, their incessant crying irritated awake-all-hours-of-the-day OJ the most. He needed them out, now. For his own sanity. OJ tapped his fingers on the couch, tense. Come on, come on….

Springy sniffled. “Yeah, yeah, okay. I’ll give it another try. Maybe I should ask Bot for ideas, heh. Thanks, my fellow breakfast buddy!” They leapt up from the couch and gave OJ a light punch in the shoulder. “You’ve given me a new spring in my step!” They gave a final wink and bounced.

As soon as they were out the door, OJ sank to his knees and let out a huge sigh of relief. WOW that was exhausting. He didn’t think he could handle any more reminders of the mess they were in at the moment. OJ sat hunched behind the couch for a second, trying to stop his head from spinning. Maybe the coffee was a bad idea.

Just a few more hours of his regular mind-numbing tasks and then he can have a nice, special day with Paper. And OJ can pretend everything is normal just like it always was when II was still running. And everyone will be okay.

The sound of panicked shrieks and smell of charred meat brought OJ back to his senses. “OJ! OJ we need you!” Cried Pickle from the kitchen.

OJ slowly dragged himself to his feet. “He had one job….” He muttered.

Chapter Text

“Goodnight everybody! Thanks for coming!” Rusty Jo smiled as he flipped the closed sign on the front door. He stood for a second as he drank in the sight of his humble café. Well, it wasn’t his café yet, just a small little place that he managed, but one day it would all be his own. Everyone who came in knew that Rusty Jo had put his heart and soul into this place.

Darla, a sweet old teacup that would come in every morning at 9:30 on the dot, often said that the café had never been cozier than when Jo showed up. Her friend, a tissue box named Francine, would waltz in with a new quilted cozy 15 minutes later and laugh, ‘you got that right, the old sack is lucky Jo breathed some life into this dingy old shop or we’d all be long gone!’

Rusty always gave a nervous laugh at that, casting a sideways glance at his boss, a coffee bean bag by the name of Flo. He never quite knew if Francine meant that her, Flo, and Darla would have died by now or if they just would’ve gone to get coffee somewhere else. They were rather old for objects, after all.

Rusty shuddered. Being old sounded awful. He didn’t know how anyone could pull it off! At least if they were dead it meant they wouldn’t defect to the dark side, like to the Orionbucks down the street for example…. But they wouldn’t come back, Rusty reminded himself. Being dead isn’t just a waiting period for most objects. Not that he’d know, of course. There was only that one time when a fight went bad in Chicago….

Pointedly trying to avoid being reminded of mortality for the rest of the night, Rusty carried out his closing duties with a kind of unrelenting fervor. He dutifully emptied out the day’s uneaten pastries from the display boxes out front and packaged them up for the local shelter, carefully separating the ones with allergens and writing a short, sweet message on each of the packages. After setting them aside for the delivery guy, he began to clean the coffee machines piece by piece.

Rusty went about his tasks, restocking the milks, wiping tables, and pre-grinding beans for the opening shift. Finally, he went out back to prepare the mop bucket.

Rusty sighed in relief. As much as he loved working in the shop, he was looking forward to getting back to his apartment and curling up with his guilty pleasure show, “Desperate Houses.”

God, look at him. His old gang would say he’d gone soft.

Although honestly, Rusty liked it better this way. He absentmindedly grabbed the large bottle of degreaser and splattered it into the bucket, watching the blue liquid coat the bottom of the basin.

It was so blue….

It was only until his arm felt considerably lighter did Rusty realize he had just emptied the entire bottle of degreaser into the mop bucket. He cringed a little. Not much to be done about it now, he supposed. Rusty turned on the water faucet and paced around as it filled the bucket. He threw out the empty bottle without a second glance.

The mop bucket was brimming with soap bubbles now. Just as Rusty cranked off the faucet, he heard a familiar pinging noise. He stopped for a moment and cocked his head, wondering if he’d just hallucinated it. The sound beeped again.

“Seriously? A mobile order? At this time of night? We’ve been looong closed! I thought I had marked our hours on the website…. Did Olive mess it up again?” Agitated, Rusty dropped his mop into the bucket with a wet splash and marched back to the front counter.

When Darla arrived at 9:30 sharp the next morning, she found herself facing a darkened café and locked door. She settled on the bench out front and rolled her eyes at Francine’s quirked eyebrow. The sun was high in the sky when Flo pulled up with jingling keys and a questioning look.

“Jo not here?” Her eyes flicked between blank stares as she jimmied the lock.

“Hey don’t look at us, old bat! He’s your employee,” bit back Francine, although missing a hint of her usual edge. “Didn’t he call out sick?”

Flo’s mouth pressed into a grim line.

Darla paled, evidently catching something in her expression. “Y-you don’t suppose—?” She whispered.

“I hope not. He’s a good kid,” Flo closed her eyes. “He really is.”

Francine’s brow knit together, lost. “What? What are you two talking about?” She grabbed Flo’s arm. “Is there something going on with Jo that I don’t know about?” She looked around wildly as if Rusty was going to pop out of the bushes at any moment, getting increasingly frustrated that the two were being so cagey.

Flo sighed and peeled off Francine’s clammy grip and ushered the two inside. She gave a little glance outside that did nothing for Francine’s nerves, then motioned for the friends to pull up a seat. The chairs made an awful squishy noise on the sticky floors.

Darla squelched closer. “Rusty Jo, he—“ she stopped short, evidently looking for the right words. Flo massaged the spot in between her eyes, crinkling the paper and emitting a slight roasted coffee smell.

“He used to be with a bad crowd,” Flo sighed. “I took him in after he got parole, I thought he turned over a new leaf, and it seems like he really has, but—“

“You’re worried he’s gotten himself roped into it again?” Francine said flatly. Darla wailed and clasped her face in her hands, sweet tea splashing onto the grimy floor. Flo looked at the mess uncomfortably, so Francine pulled out a tissue from her box and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” Flo grimaced. “And yeah, I am. You both know he’s done so much for this place, and now he’s gone AWOL… I’d just hate to see the kid get himself thrown in jail again, or worse.” Darla wailed extra loud at that. Francine gave her a tissue. “Normally I wouldn’t be worried, but Rusty’s been acting rather odd lately.”

Francine blinked. “Odd how?”

“He’s been skittish around smartphones. Weird, I know! Maybe he’s gone paranoid, thinks they’re all watching him or something. Or maybe he had some stock put into Meeple.” Flo’s mouth twitched into a strange, bitter half-smile. “Bad joke, sorry. I know I did. Cursed market crash, who could’ve seen it coming, yadda yadda. But I’m getting off topic. I guess it’s not any sort of odd-ness that’s cause for alarm, but well, one day Jo wasn’t returning my calls, and the next thing I know he shows up out of the blue with an old cellphone. Gives me his new number. Doesn’t tell me where he’d been or what happened to his old one. He’s been a little spacey ever since.

“You can imagine how worried I was after that! I mean, I practically took the kid in. I know he’s entitled to his own privacy, but with his past…. I’ve been on alert in case something like that ever happened again.” Flo reached inside her bag and pulled out her phone, smelling strongly of roast coffee.

“So this isn’t the first time Jo’s gone missing?” Francine muttered. Darla sniffled again, but she looked a little more composed with her face buried in a growing wad of tissues.

Flo waved her hand and entered a phone number. “No, but again this is just a worst-case scenario. Darla got me all worked up. I imagine Rusty’s just fine and we’re all worried over nothing. Some of us more than others. I’ll just call him.” Flo raised the phone to her ear and hissed quiet! to Darla.

A catchy jingle sang out from somewhere else in the café. The room temperature dropped a few degrees as Flo bolted up out of her seat. In a flash she dropped behind the counter and shakily stood up. Francine grit her teeth and Darla shot back under her tissues with a frightened wail.

In Flo’s hand was an old flip-phone with a scratched red case playing the theme song to Desperate Houses. Rusty’s phone.