Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

DAY THREE OF THE BET.
Rodger muttered it aloud, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand as he sat up in bed.

“Right then. Day three… of this absolutely brilliant idea.”

The sarcasm practically dragged itself out of his throat. He reached for his coat, slipping into his usual ensemble like muscle memory. The tie came next—tight, proper, familiar. Too familiar.

He stared at himself in the mirror for a beat, letting out a long, tired sigh.

“…I really ought to start sayin’ something else in the mornin’. Gettin’ rather tired of this little ritual.”

He grabbed the glass cleaner from his desk and gave his magnified faceplate a few solid spritzes. A swipe here, a polish there—until the surface shone just enough to face the day.

Rodger adjusted his collar, gave one last glance toward the ceiling as if hoping it might grant mercy… then opened the door.

And there he was.

Not Toodles.
Not Glisten.

Shrimpo.

Standing right there in the hall, like some half-forgotten riddle first thing in the bloody morning.

Rodger blinked once, then rubbed the corner of his eye with the heel of his palm.

“…Well,” he muttered, under his breath. “Aren’t you a revelation.”

Obviously, Shrimpo didn’t say a word at first.
He just sat there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, staring daggers across the room like the silence itself owed him something.

They stared at each other.
Too long.
Long enough for the tension to get uncomfortable—then infuriating.

Finally, Shrimpo huffed and broke:

“WELL, MR. DETECTIVE, AREN’T WE GONNA DO SOMETHING?”
He threw his hands up.
“SOME NEW TRAINING EXERCISE? SOME LEVEL OF NICENESS SO I CAN STRANGLE SOMEBODY WITH IT WITHOUT USING MY HANDS?”

No one could tell if he genuinely meant to strangle someone with words, or if he was just that stupid—or that sarcastic. Honestly, the money’s still up in the air.

As the two Toons walked side by side down the hallway, Rodger’s steps were casual but calculated, the low tap of his shoes the only sound keeping pace with the overhead lights. He was pushing something in his mind—chewing it over, really. He understood why he was here. He’d lost a bet. That much was obvious. But that didn’t explain why he hadn’t left.

Rodger wasn’t the type to linger without purpose. Being around people like this, in this environment? It grated on his nerves. And yet… here he was.

So either he was punishing himself… or something in him wanted to stay.

With a small huff through his nose, he pulled a fresh leather-bound notepad from the inside of his coat. It was sleek, a bit too fancy for him—clearly something the Handlers had once owned and forgotten. He’d taken it. Salvaged it. Gave it a purpose. Like he tended to do with everything he couldn’t explain.

Flipping it open with a bit of flair, he clicked his pen once, then glanced at the shrimp walking beside him.

His voice came out smooth, unimpressed, and just a little amused.

“So, Shrimpo… would you like to tell me why exactly you are… tolerating my presence, as you might put it? I’m surprised you haven’t strangled me yet.”

He didn’t look up as he said it—he was already jotting something down. But the corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely. Almost like he was hoping the shrimp would say something honest for once.

“OH MY GOD, YOU START THE DAY WITH THESE QUESTIONS? I HATE THESE QUESTIONS…”
Shrimpo groaned loud enough to rattle the room, flopping his arms around like a dying actor on a stage.

But despite the noise, he answered anyway—because he’d rather eat glass than be tortured into another questioning session by the detective.

“IT’S BETTER THAN DOIN’ ANYTHING ELSE IF YOU NEED AN ANSWER, CYCLOPS.”
He stabbed the nickname like it came with a dagger.

“AND BESIDES, IT’LL KILL THE RUMORS OF ME BEIN’ FRIENDS WITH THAT FISHBOWL.”
He tossed up a finger like it was some kind of divine decree.
“IT JUST PROVES THAT I CAN HANG OUT WITH ANYBODY, BECAUSE THE GREAT SHRIMPO IS GREAT AT EVERYTHING—INCLUDING TALKING!”

As the two of us kept walking—longer and longer after our weird little chat (which, for some damn reason, the detective actually wrote down)—I didn’t bother asking why. I just assumed it had something to do with my greatness. I mean, what else would he be documenting?

Rodger eventually got to where he was going: the main lobby. His little table. Probably dreaming about his boring breakfast like it was royalty food or something. And of course, I was right behind him. Not ’cause I care or anything—just didn’t have anything better to do. My usual hobbies—y’know, harassing people, sabotaging a few things here and there—were kinda on pause. So, I figured, hell, I’ll sit with him. For now.

“WHAT ARE YOU GONNA EAT, AND CAN YOU EVEN EAT? I DON’T EXACTLY SEE YOUR MOUTH ON YOU.”

Shrimpo said, leaning forward with the most exaggerated squint known to Toonkind, like somehow staring harder would suddenly reveal a hidden jawline.

Rodger leaned back in his chair with a sigh, folding his arms and casting a glance toward Shrimpo that somehow felt both passive and piercing.

“Shrimpo, as much as I’m flattered by the… proximity, I’d very much appreciate it if you respected my personal space. I believe clinging to someone uninvited still counts as rude especially when it comes to Dandy standards.”

SHRIMPO IMMEDIATELY LEANED BACK, TWISTING HIS ARMS WITH A LOUD, ANNOYED SIGH.

“FINE, THERE’S NOTHING I CAN DO WITHOUT EVEN BEING SLIGHTLY MEAN. WHAT IS THERE TO DO IN THE MORNING IF I CAN’T DO ANYTHING!!!!”

He flailed his arms like a dramatic cartoon opera singer mid-finale, then slumped over the table like his soul had just left his body.

“CAN’T HARASS, CAN’T SABOTAGE, CAN’T EVEN CALL THAT FISHBOWL A STINKY FAILURE. WHAT’S NEXT, HUH? KINDNESS SCHOOL? YOU GONNA GIVE ME HOMEWORK ON HUGGING??”

Rodger didn’t even look up from his notepad, just flicked the pen in his fingers like he was already writing the inevitable.

“I’ll give you a moment,” he said coolly, “to slowly come to terms with the fact that what you’ve just described… is precisely what we’re doing with Brightney tomorrow.”

the realization of what he agreed to do with the librarian—which, in the most tragic twist of fate, was basically learn how to be kinder—Shrimpo’s whole face twitched like he’d just remembered a debt in emotional taxes.

“NOOOO!!!”

He immediately did the only thing he knew: violent, shrimp-themed self-therapy. He started yanking on his antennas in a fit of frustration, letting out a series of guttural, shrill shrimp screams.

“IF I CAN’T BE ANGRY AT ANYONE ELSE, I’LL JUST TAKE IT OUT ON ME!! AGGRESSIVE KINDNESS?! WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING?! I SHOULD’VE JUST JUMPED INTO A BLENDER AND SAVED MYSELF THE EMBARRASSMENT!!”

Rodger moved fast. Quicker than he expected himself to. His hand closed around Shrimpo’s wrists, firm but not cruel, gently guiding them away from the frantic grip on his own antennae.

“Right, that’s enough of that.”

His voice wasn’t sharp, but it had weight. Measured. Heavy with the kind of concern he didn’t often admit to having.

“I understand this whole… emotional combustion is unfamiliar territory for you, but self-destruction isn’t the noble substitute for hurting others. It’s still harm. Still cruelty—just pointed inward.”

He let go slowly, watching Shrimpo’s face.

“This isn’t going to be easy. It’s not supposed to be. But if you really want to prove Dandy wrong, you’ll need to stop echoing his voice in your own head.”

A pause.

“Because if you’re still being awful—even to yourself—then frankly, you’re still being awful.”

Shrimpo was never seen with this level of rage before—at one person, at least. His eyes squinted tightly until they practically burned red with frustration. His fists clenched so hard his small shrimp arms trembled with the effort, and there was a wild, restless energy bubbling up inside him, almost like he was foaming at the mouth. It wasn’t just anger—it was the sharp sting of someone crossing a line that should’ve been sacred: the right to do what he wanted with his own body.

Rodger—Rodger—had stopped him. Not just interrupted, but outright stopped him from doing what he wanted to do to himself. That simple act shattered something in Shrimpo’s core, and the furious thoughts flooded his mind in an uncontrollable torrent:

NO ONE CAN TOUCH ME!!!

NO ONE CAN STOP ME FROM DOING WHAT I DO TO MYSELF.
NO ONE EVER HAS. NO ONE EVER CARED ENOUGH TO.
SO WHY THE HELL DOES HE?

I’M A BULLY. I KNOW I’M A BULLY.
I’M LOUD. I’M RUDE. I TALK TOO MUCH. I MAKE PEOPLE MAD JUST TO FILL THE ROOM WITH SOMETHING.
NO ONE LIKES ME. HELL, NOT EVEN BULLIES LIKE BULLIES—SO WHY THE HELL WOULD A ANYONE OR ANYTHING CARE ABOUT ME?

I GET WHY PEOPLE HEAL ME. THAT MAKES SENSE.
I’M IMPORTANT.
(Insert loud incorrect buzzer)
I’M GOOD AT WHAT I DO.
(Insert loud incorrect buzzer)
I’M THE ONE WHO GETS THINGS DONE.
(Insert loud incorrect buzzer)
THEY NEED ME AT FULL CAPACITY SO I CAN GO ON RUNS, SO I CAN KEEP DOING MY JOB, SO I CAN KEEP BEING… USEFUL.
(Insert loud incorrect buzzer)
IT’S NOT ABOUT ME. IT’S ABOUT THE MISSION. THAT I UNDERSTAND. THAT’S FINE.

BUT THIS? THIS IS DIFFERENT.
THIS ISN’T ABOUT PATCHING ME UP.
THIS IS HIM GETTING IN THE WAY OF ME DOING WHAT I WANT TO DO TO MYSELF.

AND I SHOULDN’T LIKE THAT.
I DON’T WANT TO LIKE THAT.

Those thoughts burned hot and sharp, like a storm raging inside his chest. He wanted to scream them out loud—to yell, to throw something, to release the pressure building in every fiber of his being. If only there had been something near his hand, something to hurl in pure frustration.

But he didn’t.

Because, even though he hated it, even though every ounce of his being screamed to lash out—he didn’t want to.

That reality hit him like a freight train, confusing him more than anything else. It dimmed the fire that had flared so fiercely in his eyes just moments ago, leaving behind a flicker of something new—uncertainty. His shoulders sagged under the weight of that confusion. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he turned his head away from Rodger, his frown deepening. His face no longer burned with rage, but with a raw, unsettled bewilderment. Arms locked tight across his chest—the only anchor he had in that moment—because everything else felt like it was slipping through his grasp.

He still hated Rodger for what he did.

But somehow, with every confused thought swirling inside him, that hatred was not as sharp, not as fierce. If anything, it had softened—faded a little, swallowed by something he didn’t quite understand yet.

He hated him… less.

“DON’T DO THAT AGAIN. DON’T TOUCH ME AGAIN.”

He said it quiet. Not like him. Not with the usual fire and screech and big, stomping words.
No caps-lock in his throat this time—just a low, sharp tone that barely made it across the lobby.

Almost like…
He was talking normal.

It got too quiet. Annoyingly quiet.
The kind that sticks to your skin like wet clothes and makes you twitch.
We just sat there—doing nothing, saying less.

He tried. Tried to say something like “sorry,”
But I cut him off before he could even get past the “s.”

“SAVE YOUR APOLOGIES. LET’S JUST DO SOMETHING. GET SOMETHING TO EAT. I DON’T KNOW—JUST ANYTHING. DON’T APOLOGIZE. I HATE APOLOGIES. THEY’RE STUPID.”

Because they are.
Because they don’t fix anything.
Because they make everything more confusing, than it already is.

Rodger stared at him for a moment longer, blinking once. He hadn’t expected to see that—not this soon. Not from him. He’d seen many things in his line of work—grief, guilt, rage—but something about the way Shrimpo folded in on himself, all sharp edges turned inward, made Rodger pause.

And he didn’t like pausing. Pausing meant feeling.

So, he defaulted to something practical.

“Well,” he started, clearing his throat with the faintest shift of discomfort, “you can’t very well start the morning on an empty stomach. Not good for your—er—emotional digestion. Or any digestion, really.”

He stood straighter, brushing nonexistent dust from his jacket.

“Come on. Let’s find something to eat. After that, I was thinking of going on a bit of a run—bit of recon, information gathering, the usual. You could tag along if you fancy.”

He glanced sideways at Shrimpo, tone still light but not flippant.

“Not that I’m desperate for company or anything absurd like that. I simply think it wouldn’t be the worst thing, having you about.”

A small shrug. The most unspoken way he could say: You’re not alone, mate. Not today.

Shrimpo crossed his arms again, leaned way back into the chair like the world owed him a nap, eyes half-lidded in that usual annoyed stare. He stewed in thought—just a little longer than normal—and came to a conclusion.

He didn’t say “fine.”
Didn’t say “okay.”
Didn’t even grunt.

Just let out a sharp little “TCH.”
A breath through his nose with enough edge to cut a seatbelt—
the kind of sound that, if you knew him, meant “whatever, sure.”

“Well, come on then,” Rodger said, rising from his seat with a light exhale, brushing his coat down like it mattered. “The day’s still young and, quite frankly, I require my early morning blueberry muffins or I’ll start investigating people out of pure spite.”

His tone was as casual as ever, but it carried that signature Rodger blend—half-joking, half-truth, and all veiled concern.

He stepped away from the table with the grace of someone who’d made exits like this a habit, his shoes clicking softly against the floor as he walked ahead. To his surprise, he heard a second set of steps behind him. Shrimpo had followed without protest.

Rodger didn’t comment. No teasing. No dry quip. He just let the silence settle between them like a comfortable coat.

Luckily, when they reached the diner counter, a small tray of blueberry muffins had already been left out—likely from yesterday’s batch. Still warm enough. Still good enough.

He gave a small nod of relief. No need to ask Sprout. Less interaction meant less awkward tension—a quiet rule Rodger lived by when it came to the lad. Their relationship wasn’t exactly volatile… just prickly. Better not to poke the bear when pastries were within reach.

Rodger plucked one of the muffins from the tray and passed another toward Shrimpo, casually.

“Here. Eat. I don’t want to be seen with someone who looks half-starved. Ruins my credibility.”

“I HATE BLUEBERRIES,” Shrimpo said with his mouth full—right before shoving the entire thing into his face in three aggressive, spiteful bites.

Rodger distinctly grabbed another muffin, this one smaller and slightly squished, and passed it toward Shrimpo without a word. Then, with the same calm purpose, he returned to the booth they’d occupied earlier—settling into the corner seat like he owned the place.

Once seated, he pulled a worn leather-bound notebook from his coat and laid it on the table with practiced ease. A small click followed as he flipped open a compact tape recorder, setting it beside the notebook like it was a second pair of eyes.

He glanced up, one brow raised just enough to convey dry amusement.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth and slightly tired but never impolite, “I reckon you already know where I’m going with this.”

There was a pause, not quite heavy—just intentional.

“Would you care to do an interview? You know, so I can get to know you better. Or at least pretend I do. Helps me sleep at night.”

He clicked the recorder on. It gave a soft whir as it began spinning.

“I HATE INTERVIEWS,” Shrimpo grumbled, as if the word itself tasted worse than the blueberries.

Rodger didn’t even glance up from his notebook as he muttered it

“You hate everything.”

“WELL, I THINK HATING EVERYTHING IS BETTER THAN LIKING EVERYTHING,” Shrimpo snapped, practically slamming his arms down on the table like he was trying to knock the fake cheer off it. His words hit like blunt objects—sharp, but tired.

“EVERY TOON YAPS ABOUT LIKING EVERYTHING—IT’S SO SICK,” he spat, dragging out the last word like it tasted bitter. “THEY WAKE UP SMILING, BRUSH THEIR TEETH WITH OPTIMISM, THEN GO TO BED AFTER HUGGING THE SAME TOONS THAT MAKE THEIR LIVES A LIVING NIGHTMARE, LIKE THAT’S NORMAL.”

He flopped back into his seat with a dramatic thud, arms crossed again, like they were a seatbelt holding in whatever explosion was simmering under his skin.

“IT’S BETTER TO HAVE MORE THAN ONE POSITIVE EMOTION EVERY FIVE SECONDS. DON’T YOU EVER GET TIRED OF LIKING EVERYTHING? AND EVERYONE ELSE AROUND YOU LIKING EVERYTHING? IT’S EXHAUSTING. IT’S FAKE. IT’S BORING. SOMETIMES I WANNA SCREAM JUST SO I KNOW I’M NOT STUCK IN A TOY COMMERCIAL WHERE NOBODY EVER GETS MAD.”

He looked off to the side now, not at Rodger, not at the food, just… away.

“You say that as if you know everybody likes everything.”

The retort came sharp and clipped, but without any real venom.
“A fair bit of Toons dislike things just fine,” he added, his voice softening just slightly, “they just don’t announce it with a foghorn and a tantrum.”

He examined the muffin in his hand, eyes narrowing with subtle calculation. Then, with no warning, his eye stretched upward, widening into a monstrous grin that split clean across his face. His eye vanished altogether, replaced by a jagged, fanged mouth that snapped the muffin up in one horrifying, clean CHOMP.

A single blink later, his face returned to normal—expression blank, eyes unbothered.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, utterly casual.

“Blueberry,” he said. “Not my favorite either. But it’s quiet.” A pause. “Unlike you.”

“FIRST OFF, I HATE THE FACT THAT YOU DON’T USE YOUR TEETH TO SCARE PEOPLE,” Shrimpo said, pointing a finger like he was accusing Rodger of committing some kind of comedic crime. “IT’D BE FUNNY AS HELL TO SEE YOU JUST—RAWR—FLASH THOSE CHOMPERS AND WATCH SOMEONE SCREAM.”

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing, voice getting sharper with each word.

“AND SECOND, NAME ME A FEW TOONS THAT ACTUALLY HATE OTHER PEOPLE. BESIDES ME. GO AHEAD. I’LL WAIT.”
His tone dripped with sarcasm

Rodger took a slow breath, one hand loosely adjusting the cuff of his coat like he was buying time—not to stall, but to speak with precision.

“Well,” he said finally, voice quieter now, less dry and more… deliberate. “To be frank with you—Astro has a strong disliking toward me. That much is crystal clear.”

He leaned slightly on the diner counter, his posture composed, but his gaze distant—like he was checking memories instead of muffins.

“Sprout’s not fond of me either. And Vee, well… she sees me more as an inconvenience than an actual person, I reckon. The feeling’s mutual on better days.”

He exhaled through his (nonexistent) nose, not a sigh, just… tired honesty.

“And Yatta? Can’t say she hates me—but when she looks at me, it’s not me she’s seeing. She’s watching how close I am to her friend. Always calculating whether I’m a threat.”

He turned his head slightly, eye drifting toward Shrimpo now, sharp again—but not cold.

“But Astro… Astro doesn’t just dislike me. He resents me. As if me being in the room changes the air.”

Rodger paused, then offered a wry, brittle smile.

“Can’t say I blame any of them. I’m not particularly easy to like. But I show up. I do the job. I try not to make things worse.”

He turned back to his now-empty plate, brushing away a few lingering crumbs.

“And between you and me, mate… that’s all I really know how to do.”

Shrimpo opened his mouth like he had something clever locked and loaded—arms already halfway up in dramatic preparation—but the second he got to the name, he stalled.

“AND WHAT ABOUT… A—A…”
He clicked his tongue, looked to the side like he was trying to remember a math equation he definitely knew but refused to say out loud. His eye twitched. His arms slowly lowered.

“…ASTRO,” he finally muttered, the word hitting the table like a dropped fork.

It nearly killed him not to say BADstro. He worked on that name.
(it took him exactly 2 seconds to think of it and it happened basically a few weeks back)

“WHY DOES THE MOON GUY HATE YOU?”
Shrimpo said, finally landing on a name that didn’t sound offensive or mean—which was rare for him, and a little uncomfortable, if he were honest. He hated using people’s first names. It felt too soft. Too familiar.
“HE’S ASLEEP HALF THE TIME. HOW COULD HE EVEN BE CONSCIOUS ENOUGH TO HATE YOU? YOU’RE JUST LYING, AREN’T YOU?”

He leaned forward on the word “lying,” his finger pointing sharply in accusation.

Rodger calmly pushed aside Shrimpo’s sharp finger—gently, with that same disarming ease he always wore like a second coat—and answered without a flinch.
“Well,” he began, voice steady and measured, “apparently in his eyes, my personal hobbies—or rather, the things I do—are either annoying or invasive.”

He tilted his head slightly, as if mentally reviewing the file on Astro in his mind, eyes narrowed with faint distaste, not for the person—but for the misinterpretation.

“Even though I make a point to ask for people’s permission when it’s anything sensitive—like records. Even interviews. I ask. Every time. And if they say no, I won’t push them for her. I asked for a different day and if they say stop…..I would try to stop talking to them for like a week or some days but at least I know when to draw the line for sometime.”

His tone didn’t rise because, he didn’t see it as anything but simply facts.

“But still,” he said with a quiet breath, “he sees it as some violation. Like curiosity is some sort of crime.”

Rodger looked down for a second, brushing nonexistent dust off his sleeve, before his voice dropped a little, just enough to sound honest in a way few people ever heard from him.

“So I avoid him. Entirely. Not because I’m afraid of him—but because I hate upsetting people… especially someone who already seems like a walking open wound.”

He looked back up at Shrimpo with those calm, unreadable eye.

“You’d be surprised how often that’s the reason I stay quiet.”

“what?”

It slipped out soft, not like his usual tone—not barked, not laced with sarcasm or bite. Just… confused. Stunned.
It was so uncharacteristic, so unlike him, that the air around him felt off, like the static after a TV cuts out.

“SO YOU’RE TELLING ME THE GUY THAT INVADES PEOPLE’S DREAMS AS A SUPERPOWER BASICALLY TOLD YOU YOU’RE INVASIVE?”

Shrimpo stood up fast, the chair scraping behind him, like the sheer nonsense of the sentence gave him physical energy. He planted his palms right in the center of the table, leaning in so close to Rodger’s face, he could probably smell the blueberry muffin he hated.

“USUALLY I’M THE DRAMATIC DUMB ONE,”
he jabbed a thumb toward himself with a crooked grin that didn’t reach his eyes,
“BUT THAT TAKES IT TO A WHOLE NEW LEVEL OF HYPOCRITICAL.”

Shrimpo burst out laughing. Not the kind of laugh he usually fakes to get under someone’s skin—but a real, uncontrollable, stomach-clenching how-the-hell-is-this-real kind of laugh. He tried to hold it in, even covered his mouth with one arm, but it only made the wheezing worse.

“OH MY GOD—”
He smacked the table with one hand, his other still gripping his stomach.
“HE REALLY SAID THAT TO YOU?! THE DREAM GUY?! THE ONE WHO SITS IN PEOPLE’S HEADS?!”

He slid back in his seat like he was being physically knocked out by the irony, eyes wide and watering, not from emotion—but from genuine hatred dipped in something almost like joy.

Rodger stared at Shrimpo, who was practically doubled over in laughter, sharp teeth flashing between wheezing gasps. At first, he just blinked, letting the absurdity of it all settle in like morning fog.

Because really… he wasn’t wrong.

Astro—Astro, of all people. The glowing, cosmic god-child who literally dug through people’s subconscious minds for a living—had called him invasive?

It hit him like a delayed punchline.

Rodger let out a breath, shook his head once, and tried to resist it. But the corners of his mouth betrayed him first. Then his chest started to shake. And then it all came crumbling down in a dry, wheezy laugh that grew louder with every second.

“Oh bloody hell,” he muttered between chuckles, hand over his face now. “I’ve just realized I’m letting the dream-leech lecture me on boundaries.”

His voice cracked mid-laugh, something rare and undignified, but far too honest to stop.

He leaned forward against the counter, nearly matching Shrimpo’s pitch now—laughing so hard his shoulders shook, his face a rare picture of pure, unfiltered joy.

While Shrimpo and Rodger were caught up in their loud fits of laughter, drawing attention without even trying, Gigi—half-dragging her sweater across the floor like a blanket and looking like she just woke up from a nap she never meant to take—wandered over to the group with that usual slow, easy pace of hers.

On her way, she casually reached out and plucked a soda can right off the edge of someone’s table—didn’t look at the name, didn’t ask, didn’t pause. She popped the tab before she even reached them, took a long drink like it owed her something, and slid the empty can deep into the folds of her sleeve like it had never existed.

By the time she finally strolled up beside them, her eyes still half-lidded, voice low and breezy like she’d just finished a bath, she tilted her head and asked,
“So… what’s so funny, you two? Somethin’ good happen. gotta be interesting. I don’t ever see the shrimpo actively smiling with anyone.”

“BECAUSE I HATE SMILING. SHRIMPO NEVER SMILE.”
he said, flat as ever, the grin gone like it never existed.

Rodger cleared his throat, smoothing out his coat with a sharp tug as if he could straighten the embarrassment out of himself. His tone returned to that crisp, calm register, though the faint pink at his ears gave him away.

“Ignore him, Miss Gigi,” he said, gesturing mildly toward Shrimpo with a flick of his wrist, like he was excusing a child’s tantrum rather than a cackling shrimp-demon.

“It’s a pleasure to have you over here, truly. But if you’re wondering what all that nonsense was about—well—” he glanced off to the side, suddenly very interested in the countertop. “Let’s just say I was… momentarily compromised.”

He cleared his throat again, voice quieter this time. “Apparently, I had a bit of an oversight. The lad made a rather ridiculous observation and—well—it caught me off guard.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling softly.

“It made me laugh a little bit,” he admitted, as if the words were treason. “Which I suppose is a crime now, judging by the looks I’m getting.”

She gave them both a lazy smile

“Well, anyway,” she said, tone light but with just a hint of challenge, “you gonna hurry up for the run or what? Me and Connie already gettin’ ready. You did say you were joining—don’t tell me you’re backin’ out now.”

Rodger gave a quiet nod, almost solemn in its subtlety, then tilted his head with that familiar glint of dry amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Well, that’s very noble of you,” he said with a touch of sarcasm laced just thin enough not to offend. “A promise kept in this place? Miracles do happen.”

“YEAH, YEAH, YEAH—I’M JOINING MOSTLY BECAUSE I NEED SOMETHING TO DO, AND IT’D BE KIND TO LET Y’ALL GET ASSISTANCE FROM THE MIGHTY SHRIMPO!!!!!”
he declared

“I WILL GO GET MY TRINKET AND MY LUCKY BRICK AND I’LL BE AT THE ELEVATOR. DON’T WAIT FOR ME. I HATE PEOPLE WAIT FOR ME.”
the shrimp shouted over his shoulder—
right before proceeding to waddle off at the slowest possible pace shrimp-ly imaginable.
(Finn possess me for a moment)

Rodger had just started to push his chair back, fingers already curling slightly like he was preparing to scoop up his trinkets—his tools, his notes, anything he might need for the job—when Gigi’s held up her arm, stomping the detective.

“You’re not using him for some kind of discovery, are you? Tracking something? Testing a theory? ’Cause your track record’s lookin’ a little too aligned with experiments lately.”

They paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Look… I don’t like the guy. Don’t hate him either. But I don’t want to see him get hurt. So tell me—what exactly are you doing with him?”

Rodger sighed

“To explain it simply…”
He paused, voice already low as he pushed himself up from his seat, “Dandy made it abundantly clear that he was made to be miserable by the Handlers. And sure, we all were—”
He waved a hand, vague and half-hearted, “—but he’s the one who can’t seem to breathe without interference. Can’t make a single choice that doesn’t echo back into someone else’s plans.”

He started down the hallway slowly, his footsteps soft but his posture stiffer than usual. Gigi followed, arms folded and expression unreadable, though Rodger knew better than to think she wasn’t reading everything.

He spoke again, voice quieter now—like the hallway demanded honesty.

“And my daugh—…”
He caught himself, I shifting towards the floor immediately at the thought of considering her actual family almost afraid of the idea of it.
“Toodles… wanted to help. Came up with some big idea to make a difference. Grand as always.”

He reached his door and placed a hand on the knob before looking over his shoulder at Gigi.

“I’m not doing anything wrong, far as I see it. Just getting to know him better. If her little plan’s going to work at all, I want to be sure he’s worth the effort.”
Then, almost like an afterthought, he added dryly,
“Though honestly, I’m still waiting for the day he decides to deck me for asking too many questions.”

As Rodger stepped into his room, eyes scanning the shelves for some specific trinket to help him with today’s mission, Gigi—who had, unsurprisingly, wandered in behind him—was already letting her gaze drift across the space like she was shopping.

She poked around idly at first, bored curiosity in her body language, but nothing in particular caught her eye. That was until she noticed a small photo tucked partway behind a few books on the corner shelf—just enough hidden to make it interesting.

She slid it out without asking, already smirking.

The picture was… well, intimate. Glisten was leaned in close to Rodger, one arm draped casually over his shoulder. He was the one who took the photo, but it wouldn’t pass as a normal selfie—not with the way he was practically wrapped around Rodger, looking like he was whispering something wicked. Rodger, surprisingly relaxed, in this angle, Gigi couldn’t see Rodgers eye, but she could tell it was staring at the other.

“Damn, old man,” Gigi said, holding the photo up like evidence at a trial, “I didn’t know you had game like this.”

She gave him a teasing glance over her shoulder.

“Maybe you oughta teach Connie a thing or two, ’cause in this picture? Glisten’s damn near melted on you.”

She chuckled, slipping the photo right back where she found it—not out of respect, but just to make sure Rodger knew she could find it again.

Rodger’s glassy face bloomed into a flushed, rose-pink shimmer, the color shooting through his usually calm features like a signal flare. His posture stiffened, movements fumbling as he rifled through a small pile of odd trinkets scattered across the table—half-sorted, half-forgotten.

“Gigi, you can’t be doing that!” he snapped, though his tone wasn’t angry so much as panicked, like a man caught off guard without his usual armor.

He shuffled a small gadget into his coat pocket

“I appreciate the compliment—genuinely—but my relationship with Glisten…”
He waved a hand vaguely in the air, avoiding eye contact like it might set off another wave of embarrassment.
“—well, ‘private’ is… not exactly the word. But it’s… complicated, alright? I don’t know what we are right now, but we’re close. Very close. And I respect that privacy. You should too.”

His tone softened only slightly as he glanced over his shoulder.

“You can ask about it later. Later. Not now. And don’t tell anybody. Please.”
A beat passed.
“And especially not Connie. She will try to use it against me as a prank.”

“Old man, you’re worryin’ way too much about it,” Gigi said casually as she stepped out of the room, hands tucked into the sleeves of her sweater, like the moment never meant much to her at all.

“Anyone’d be lucky to have someone as beautiful as Glisten—or whoever fits their cup of tea or… whatever flavor of heartbreak people chase these days.” She paused, glancing back with a lazy smirk.

“But hey—I’m happy for you. Really.”
Then she shrugged. “Honestly? I’m surprised you had any confidence left in that stiff old chest of yours to pull someone in. Guess there’s hope for the rest of us.”

And with that, she padded off down the hall.

Rodger splashed cold water onto his glassy face, the surface fogging slightly before clearing with a swipe of his sleeve. He muttered something sharp under his breath—something about “dignity” and “bloody timing”—as he roughly patted his cheeks dry. With a few rushed movements, he halfheartedly shoved his scattered trinkets back into their boxes, some neatly tucked, others just… tossed. He’d fix it later. Maybe.

Not now.

Right now he needed to catch up.

Pivoting sharply on his right heel, Rodger broke into a soft jog, his coat fluttering faintly behind him as he called out.

“Gigi!”

He found her down the hall, already on her way toward the elevator. His breath came in short, faint huffs as he caught up beside her, hands briefly on his hips, regaining his usual posture.

“First off,” he said between breaths, voice low but firm, “not so loud. I don’t want anyone hearing that. Again—it’s private. Please, just… respect my wishes about that.”

He walked alongside her now, trying to match her effortless stride, smoothing out the wrinkles in his coat like they might reflect his composure.

“Second,” he added with a sidelong glance, “I’m not that old. You don’t have to call me ‘old man’ every five seconds.”

Gigi grinned to herself, loving every twitch of annoyance she managed to pull from Rodger just by poking around in his stuff. There was something satisfying about it—like winding up a fancy clock just to hear it tick.

Still, she knew better than to push it too far. She wasn’t trying to end up with a reputation like Shrimpo’s, always one step away from being locked out for good.

“Fine, fine,” she said, lifting her hands in mock surrender. “I’ll leave you be… for a little while, at least.”

Then she turned, walking off with that trademark lazy sway in her step, her voice floating back through the hall.

“But I ain’t stoppin’ callin’ you ‘Old Man.’ You’re stuck with that now. Should’ve stopped me sooner.”

Rodger sighed, shoulders rising and falling like he was bracing for impact but getting a pillow instead.

“Fine… I’ll find a way to make this situation better for me,” he muttered, mostly to himself. He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly still flustered from earlier, but trying to play it off like it hadn’t gotten to him.

“I suppose this is the part where you lot—young adults with no sense of boundaries—start calling me a silver fox now,” he added, with a soft scoff of a laugh, his fingers curled just barely over his mouth like he was embarrassed to be amused by the thought.

As they reached the elevator, Gigi couldn’t hold it in any longer. She burst into laughter, head tilting back, sleeves shaking with the weight of it.

“The day I ever call you anything respectful,” she said between laughs, “is the day I personally return every single thing I’ve ever stolen.”

She wiped a fake tear from her eye, grinning.

“And trust me—by the time that happens, Dandy would need smaller pants.”

As Gigi and Rodger approached the elevator, they were met with the full crew for the upcoming run.

Tisha—quick on her feet and sharp under pressure—was a top-tier distractor. She worked well with teammates, could outrun most Twisted, and had a knack for helping others do the same.

Brightney, the team’s best extractor, could handle machines in record time and was especially useful during blackout situations.

Connie… well, she wasn’t exactly a standout at extracting or distracting—but she had a talent for staying alive, and sometimes, that was all you needed.

And then there was Shrimpo. Mostly there because of Rodger. His only real talent was attracting the attention of the Twisted—which, to be fair, he was excellent at. Beyond that? He was pretty much useless.

As Gigi and Rodger approached the elevator, they were met with the full crew for the upcoming run.

Tisha—quick on her feet and sharp under pressure—was a top-tier distractor. She worked well with teammates, could outrun most Twisted, and had a knack for helping others do the same.

Brightney, the team’s best extractor, could handle machines in record time and was especially useful during blackout situations.

Connie… well, she wasn’t exactly a standout at extracting or distracting—but she had a talent for staying alive, and sometimes, that was all you needed.

And then there was Shrimpo. Mostly there because of Rodger. His only real talent was attracting the attention of the Twisted—which, to be fair, he was excellent at. Beyond that? He was pretty much useless.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Connie huffed, waving a hand toward the group. “Excuse us for a minute—me and Gigi need to talk.”

Before anyone could blink, she practically shoved Gigi out of the elevator, leaving the rest of the crew blinking in collective confusion.
[Besides Shrimpo who simply just stated
“I HATE WAITING!”]

Once they were far enough that no one could hear, Connie spun her best friend around and grabbed her by the shoulders. With cartoonish intensity, she shook Gigi so hard her head flopped back and forth like a bobblehead.

“Really?! Rodger AND Shrimpo?!” she yelled, eyes wide with disbelief.

Even as her best friend shook her by the shoulders, trying to rattle some kind of explanation out of her, Gigi stayed oddly composed—like her brain wasn’t spinning from the motion, like this wasn’t even the first time someone tried to shake the truth out of her.

“I would very gladly tell you why I did what I did,” she said, dragging the words out with her usual laid-back drawl, “if you would, you know… maybe stop shaking me. at this rate, you might shake up one of the cans I have stored and you will be paying for it. I hope you know.”

She blinked slowly, her smile unbothered, eyes half-lidded as she added,
“Seriously.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Connie said, finally releasing her grip on Gigi’s shoulders. She took a slow, deliberate breath trying to reel herself back from the edge of full-on meltdown. Her eyes still flickered with that wild mix of disbelief and frustration, but her voice softened just enough to sound like she was trying to be reasonable.

“Now… can you please explain to me why on earth you brought those two? You know, Rodger and Shrimpo? The exact people I generally don’t like!?” Her tone teetered between sarcasm and genuine confusion.

“First off, you’re bein’ way too hard on Rodger. All he did was say your last name. Yeah, sure, he figured it out by diggin’ through the files and all that, but that’s just what he does. He doesn’t need to be so worked up over it. Everybody’s got a last name—some folks just keep theirs more hidden than others.”

She shrugged like it was no big deal, then leaned in a little, lowering her voice.

“And second… well, I gotta be real with you about Shrimpo. I just told him it’s okay if he wants to come along. But I’m not riskin’ my neck to save him.”

“GIGI!!!” Connie grown with an exasperated edge.

“Connie, I know, I know,” Gigi said, holding up a hand like she was trying to pause an argument. “Yeah, it was a bad choice on my part—no doubt about it. But look at it like this: he can’t get any of us killed. The guy’s too slow for that. At worst, he’s just gonna be a distraction if things ever go sideways.”

She gave a shrug, like that settled it—for now, at least.

Connie stood there, arms crossed tight over her chest, eyes narrowed but softening just slightly. She listened—really listened—to Gigi’s reasoning, and damn it, she wasn’t wrong. The logic made sense. More people meant less risk, more hands, quicker exit. But that didn’t make it easier.

She let out a long, theatrical sigh, eyes rolling toward the ceiling like maybe it held the answers or at least the patience she was running out of.

“Gigi… I get it. I do,” Connie finally said, her voice flatter now, tired in that way only best friends hear when someone’s trying not to take something personally. “You’re trying to make sure nobody gets hurt. You’re covering all the angles, like always. You’re being the smart one. But come on.”

She let her arms drop with a thump against her sides. “You could’ve picked literally anyone else besides that guy. Like—throw a dart at a crowd of Toons and you’d still land on someone less annoying than Mr. ‘I Hate Everything, Including Air.’”

Her tone dipped for a beat, just long enough to let something vulnerable slip out. “I just got a chance to go on a run with my crush, Gigi. I wanted this to be good. Chill. Normal. Not surrounded by chaos gremlins with egos and one-liners.”

But the annoyance in her chest was cooling off fast, replaced by that tired, reluctant acceptance she always settled into when she knew Gigi had a point.

“I’m not gonna be too hard on you,” she said, waving a hand halfheartedly. “Let’s just get this over with. The sooner we’re done, the sooner I don’t have to hear him say ‘I hate’ fifty times like it’s his morning prayer.”

“I promise you, girl,” Gigi said, wrapping an arm around Connie’s shoulder as she slowly guided them both back toward the group waiting at the elevator.

“You’ll get more than enough alone time, Brightney, I swear it. Plus, Rodger already said he’s gonna practically babysit the guy. He’s on this whole ‘help the shrimp become a better person’ mission or whatever. I don’t know what that’s all about, but hey—he’s actually trying, so what do you know? Maybe Shrimpo will do better this time.”

She paused, side-eyeing Connie just slightly, then muttered under her breath as they neared the elevator,
“…And if he doesn’t… I’ll pay you back. I promise.”

It was barely a whisper—half-swallowed by the hum of the hallway—but it still left a bad taste in her mouth. She hated giving people stuff. Really, truly hated it.

But for Connie? She’d bite that bullet.
Even if it felt like stabbing herself in the soul.

Gigi and Connie finally rejoined the rest of the group, the low hum of the elevator making the space feel heavier than it was. As the doors slid open, Gigi stepped out first—shoulders relaxed, sweater swaying behind her.

“Alright, ladies, gents, and whatever else y’all identify as,” she called out, hands on her hips as she looked over the group. “Everybody got their stuff? You better. ’Cause we’re movin’ now—before anything else tries to get in the way.”

“I have my equipment ready for the run, Gigi.”
Tisha stepped forward, adjusting her gloves with quiet precision before pointing down to her pristine, well-kept running shoes—shoes that looked like they’d been cleaned five minutes ago and somehow never touched dirt.
“These are designed for maximum traction and stamina. Lightweight, water-resistant, and personally customized. I don’t plan on slipping, slowing down, or—God forbid—getting sludge on them.”

Her gaze swept across the area with thinly veiled distaste, eyes narrowing at a distant trail of black goo slowly creeping near the wall.

“Hopefully, we can get this done quickly and efficiently. I don’t like being around all this… gunk. Just the thought of it touching my dress—this dress, mind you, the one I had specially treated for stain-resistance—practically puts me in emotional shambles. Honestly, it’s unsanitary, and I don’t think I need to explain how fast bacteria spreads in this type of environment.”

“You always keep yourself clean, Tisha,” Brightney said with a warm smile, patting the tissue box Toon gently on the shoulder. “You don’t need to worry so much. Just make sure you keep that head in the game, alright?”

She gave a reassuring nod, her soft glow flickering like a candle’s wink.

“I’m positive—no one else here could ever be as clean as you.”

A giggle slipped out of her, light and genuine, before she turned to adjust the satchel slung across her side.

“Anyway—my extracting tools are all packed and ready,” she said with a wink. “I promise you, these machines? They don’t even know what’s about to hit ’em.”

Rodger opened his mouth to say something—probably to remind everyone of some rule or give a last-minute rundown—but Gigi cut him off without even looking.

“Okay, I get it,” she said, waving a hand. “Everybody’s ready. Let’s go. Let’s not waste more time introducin’ each other like we haven’t all heard each other snore before.”

With that, she smacked the big elevator button with the flat of her palm, the metal doors groaning to life as they started their descent—one step closer to the run.

“Let’s make this quick,” she muttered, mostly to herself, “before somebody finds a reason to start bonding or some shit.”

As the elevator rumbled softly beneath their feet, humming its way toward the first level, Rodger stood at his usual post near the corner—hands behind his back, coat stiff, and expression heavier than usual.

But then his brow quirked.

Amid the usual sea of grim faces, idle chat, and last-minute stretches… was that a handheld cooler?

Right next to Shrimpo.

Rodger tilted his head like a curious crow, eyes narrowing in on the sight like it was some ancient riddle.

“…Shrimpo,” he started, voice already laced with suspicion, “Are you… intending to distract today?”

The question hung like a glitch in the air.

Everyone knew Shrimpo wasn’t built for speed. Or stamina. Or subtlety. His version of distraction usually involved shouting, snapping, or threatening to stab the machinery into submission. Not… coolers.

“You’re not exactly known for your-
“YES, YES, I KNOW I’M NOT GOOD BEING FAST EVERYBODY REMINDS ME!!!”
Shrimpo said interrupting Roger, arms crossed

The elevator hadn’t even made it past the first floor yet. Everyone inside looked like they already regret being here.

“THAT’S WHY I GOT A SIX-PACK SODA, SO I DON’T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT IT IN A STICKY SITUATION.”
He kicked open his overstuffed handheld cooler and started pulling out cans with all the grace of someone unloading dynamite.
They clinked together like weapons in a war chest.

“AND IT IS CONTAINING MY BULLHORN IF I WANNA YELL A TWISTED.”
He pulled the thing out dramatically, like he was unveiling a weapon of mass irritation.
The mic crackled from sheer proximity to his voice.

Rodger gave a very tired sigh. Someone else pressed back against the wall like they were about to evaporate.

“AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, THE GREATEST ITEM OF ALL—MY LUCKY BRICK!!”

And just like that, the mood shifted.

He lifted a 24-karat glowing brick, light pulsing from its edges like it came from a vault instead of a sock drawer.
On top? A beat-up sticky note slapped across the top with jagged handwriting that read:
“I HATE THIS BRICK, BUT IT’S LUCKY.”

The elevator went dead quiet. Even the soft hum of the descent seemed to lower itself.

Gigi’s eyes locked onto the golden brick in Shrimpo’s hands like it had its own spotlight. Her fingers twitched slightly in her sleeves, but she held herself back—barely.

She stepped a little closer, her voice smooth and composed, but there was a barely concealed hunger behind her casual tone.

“Well now… Lil Shrimpson, where exactly did you get that very valuable-lookin’ item?”

She tilted her head, smiling just enough to hide the chaos going on in her self-control center.

“I’m not sayin’ I want it… but I am askin’ how far you are from losin’ it.”

“DO NOT CALL ME SHRIMPSON.
YOU KNOW I HATE THAT NAME. I HATE IT SO MUCH.”

Shrimpo lifted his clawed hand, jaw already twitching with whatever insult or snide remark was bubbling at the edge of his tongue— something that will make him lose his bet and he was about to spit out.

But Rodger had him clocked before the first syllable dropped.

Without even turning his head, the detective raised a hand placing it in between the two and spoke sharply, yet somehow still dry as dust.

“No need to say anything negative,” he said, flat but firm. “Just move on. We’re already wasting enough time.”

Ding.

The elevator doors parted with a rusty groan, the light spilling in from the first level casting long shadows across their feet.

A loud beep echoed through the hallway—the elevator had finally reached the first location. As the doors slid open, the group was met with a split corridor. Three would head one way, the other three would take the opposite path. Time to get this thing over with.

Tisha, Connie, and Gigi moved to the left. That side was more open—ideal for distractions, and likely where the Twisted would be lurking. Tisha took the lead; she was the best at baiting them and keeping others safe.

Gigi had her own reason for choosing the left: the big industrial boxes. They were full of loot most people skipped because digging through them left you completely exposed. But Gigi was willing to take that risk—she always was.

Connie wasn’t much for looting or distractions, but she came to keep an eye on her friend… and to avoid running into the librarian. That was reason enough.

Meanwhile, Rodger, Brightney, and Shrimpo headed to the right to take care of the machines. Luckily, both Rodger and Brightney were quick with their hands, and this section of the building had plenty of cover in case a Twisted broke loose from the other team’s path.

Shrimpo was extracting, too—sort of. His method was slow and completely unorthodox… but he was trying his best, and no one could take that from him.

When all was said and done, the group made a beeline for the elevator. Rodger, working the last machine, was the first to call out for everyone to head back early—just to make sure they got in safe.

Gigi was the first to arrive, clearly annoyed she hadn’t found anything she considered valuable. Connie followed close behind.

Brightney and Shrimpo showed up next—mostly because Shrimpo took forever walking, and Brightney, being the kind soul she was, refused to leave him behind. Not even with how painfully slow he moved.

Once Rodger finished up, he sprinted toward the elevator. Tisha, ever the reliable one, kept the Twisted looped and distracted until she was sure everyone else had made it inside. Then, with one last dash, she slipped in—last one in, just as planned.

It was a simple, clean run. No injuries. No complications. Just… nothing worth much in the end.

As the elevator doors slid shut behind them, Gigi let out a groan and slumped against the back wall, arms crossed and sweater sleeves swallowing her hands.

“I literally got nothin’ down there. Like—bare bones scraps. Not awful, but nothin’ worth braggin’ about either.”

She side-eyed Shrimpo with narrowed eyes, her voice rising just a little.

“How the hell does this shrimp find a golden freakin’ brick and I can’t even sniff out a halfway decent trinket?”

She sighed loud and long, then muttered under her breath,
“Universe really out here playin’ favorites today.”

“I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW I DIDN’T GET THIS ITEM TODAY GAMBLING MACHINE!”

Shrimpo responded towards Gigi with a huff.

The elevator lights flickered with a quick ding, followed by a mechanical whir as a hidden floor panel at the back slid open with flair.

Dandy rose up dramatically — like he was being summoned from the depths of a spotlighted stage, petals perfectly angled, coat pristine, smile already half-loaded.

“The star of the show has arrived,”
“—Here to bless your dull little lives with gracious items and stunning presence!”

His voice carried the air of something rehearsed, polished to perfection like it had been said a thousand times in front of a mirror.

But the moment he got a proper look at who was inside the elevator, his face twisted immediately — smile curdling like spoiled milk.

“Oh, Gigi,” he spat, voice sharpening like a blade dipped in glitter.
“Here to comment on my weight again, are we? Don’t think I didn’t hear your shriveled little voice outside the elevator, you jackass.”

Gigi finally tore her eyes away from Shrimpo, her frustration cooling as her attention shifted toward the flower-headed figure who’d interrupted their bickering. Her tone dropped a little—less annoyed, more direct.

“Well… at least now you know how I feel about you,” she said, voice steady
“at least you know I’m not Fake.”

Dandy didn’t miss a beat.

“I hope you get shitty items throughout this entire run—ANYWAY!!”

He snapped, practically throwing glittered spite in Gigi’s direction before instantly snapping back into performance mode.
He spun in place like a stage turn, arms wide, voice back in its usual velvet lilt.

“Welcome, welcome, to Dandy’s Deluxe Boutique! Home of your next mild disappointment!”

He was just about to rattle off one of his classic item pitch spiels when his gaze locked —
directly onto Shrimpo.

The shift was subtle.
Not dramatic. Not loud.
But intentional.

His grin didn’t fade, but it shifted — twisted slightly, like he’d just tasted something sweet that shouldn’t have been.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my little betting man.”

He stepped forward slowly.

“So tell me… how does it feel to be tolerable for once?”
“Let me guess — Rodger’s been babysitting. Holding your leash, wiping your tantrums, keeping you barely civil.”

He chuckled dryly, eyes narrowing just enough to make it clear: he was impressed.
But he’d never say it without twisting the knife.

“Color me shocked.”

“SHRIMPO WILL WIN, FLOWER—MARK MY WORDS, I WILL WIN! EVEN THOUGH I HATE BEING TOLD WHAT TO DO, OR PEOPLE HANGING AROUND ME, I HATE BEING A LOSER MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE—ESPECIALLY TO SOMEONE LIKE YOU!”

His fists were clenched, antennae twitching, voice shaking not with fear—but pure, unfiltered spite.
The words came out like a declaration of war…

Shrimpo had practically stormed up to Dandy’s shop, the two locking eyes like it was some kind of cartoon standoff. They stood there, glaring, neither one blinking—tension thick enough to sweep up with a broom. But before either could speak, Tisha stepped directly between them, arms folded and voice sharp with restrained irritation.

“Whatever this is, save it for later. Seriously—glare at each other on your own time.”
She glanced toward the timer ticking down in the elevator.
“Dandy, you have fifteen seconds left before we’re dropped into level two. Is there anything actually useful in your shop at the moment?”

Dandy turned to Tisha with that gentle, almost angelic tone — the kind that made your skin crawl because you just knew it meant something was wrong.

“Yes, Tisha, I do have some useful things in stock at the moment.”

He pressed his fingertips together delicately, voice light, sweet as syrup.

“A pair of jumper cables, a full med kit… oh, and a charming little eject button.”

The smile on his face was enough to make a nun suspicious — innocent, soft, too good to be true.
Because it was.

He’d already counted the tapes in his head.
And he knew.
They couldn’t afford a damn thing.

Silence hit the group like a thick fog.
Everyone stared at him.
No one said it.
They didn’t have to.
They were screwed.

And then—
Gigi, arms crossed, voice as flat as her luck:

“We’re not gonna see these items again for the rest of the run, are we?”

Dandy’s face didn’t shift.
He offered a small, one-word answer.

“No.”

And before anyone could speak—
before anyone could beg
or argue
or cuss him out—

He was gone.
Just like that.
Disappearing into the elevator’s back panel with a flick of his coat and the faintest sound of chimes.

“Wow,” the librarian muttered, just as the elevator gave a low ding and its doors creaked open onto the second level.

She didn’t move right away—just stood there, blinking into the dim hallway ahead.

“Dandy can be so unlikable at certain times.”

“Dandy can be such a dickhead,” Connie added bluntly, arms crossed as she float out of the elevator.

She practically gave herself a mental pat on the back for getting the whole sentence out without tripping over her words. In front of Brightney.

“Well now, Connie,” Brightney said, her tone soft but steady, “I don’t think that’s quite fair—judgin’ so harshly.”

Within that one statement, Connie immediately regret the words that came out her mouth.

“We don’t know what Dandy’s goin’ through,” Brightney said gently, her voice echoing just a touch as the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding.

She stepped out beside Connie, her light casting a soft glow across the dim hallway ahead—but her words were aimed back toward the ghost with steady kindness.

“He don’t allow us in. He keeps his walls tall, maybe ‘cause what’s behind ’em hurts more than any of us could guess. So I think… it’s unfair to speak on what we can’t see.”

Her gaze stayed ahead, but her tone dropped to something quieter. Wiser.

“Yeah, he’s rude sometimes. But that don’t mean he don’t care. He’s just someone who struggles with how.”

Then, she looked back at Connie—gave her a warm, earnest smile without realizing the effect it had.

Connie froze for a second.

Her whole body flickered—then flushed a vibrant pink.

“But what do I know?” Brightney added with a little shrug, her voice trailing gently as she turned the right corner, footsteps light against the floor.

“It’s nothin’ more than a headcanon—nothin’ confirmed,” she said with a quiet chuckle, half to herself. “But I like to believe it… that there’s good in all of us. You just have to see it… or find it.”

Her glow lingered a moment longer, like the last warmth of a bedside lamp after a long night. And then, just like that—

She was gone. Off to her machines.

Her light faded slowly around the corner

Connie couldn’t say anything back—not really. The words just… stuck somewhere behind her teeth. She glanced to the side, cheeks blooming in that soft, pale blush only visible if you really looked past her usual ghostly glow.

Her hand slowly crept up to her hair, twirling a few loose strands around her fingers in that aimless, absent kind of way—like she was trying to ground herself in something, anything, other than what she just accidentally admitted out loud.

And then her eyes drifted—uncontrollably, helplessly—to the spot where Brightney had just been standing.

There was nothing there now. Just air. Space. A faint trace of lamplight and the warmth of someone who was too bright to stare at for long.

But Connie looked anyway.

Mesmerized.

Gigi stood beside Connie, who looked like she’d just seen a ghost—frozen, wide-eyed, barely blinking. Her silence stretched long enough to be concerning. Gigi squinted at her for a beat, then tilted her head.

“Oh, no no no, you’re not doing that lovey-dovey stare again,” she muttered.

Then, with a grin curling at the corners of her mouth, she suddenly threw her arm around Connie’s shoulders catching her friend by surprise.

“Woo! Scissor me, timbers, Connie!”
Gigi practically laughing her ass off as she dashed away towards a machine

Connie laughed—full-on, teeth-showing, slightly-wheezing laughter—her earlier awkwardness shoved aside (or at least stuffed into a corner for later emotional spirals). Gigi’s prank had landed right on target, and as much as Connie hated to admit it, it was funny. Infuriatingly so.

She wiped a fake tear from her eye, grinning ear to ear.

“Ohhh, don’t you dare think I’m just gonna let that slide,” she warned, pointing at Gigi with a dramatic flourish. “I will get you back for this. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But after this run? You better sleep with one eye open, girl. One eye open and one eyebrow raised.”

Still giggling under her breath, levitating just slightly as she floated off to get back to her task.

“I DON’T GET IT. WHY WAS THE GIRL PINK FOR A TIME?…..I HATE THE COLOR PINK.”

Shrimpo stared, utterly offended, as if pink itself had personally wronged him in a past life.I

Rodger sighed—long, tired, and from somewhere buried so deep in his chest it practically echoed.

“I’m not even gonna bother and teach you the concept of embarrassment for today,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face like the weight of the conversation physically clung to him.

Without waiting for a response, he veered off toward the left, eyes landing on a pair of machines nestled close together beneath a flickering light. Perfect. Close proximity meant less chance of wandering distractions, and hopefully—hopefully—Shrimpo would take the hint and stick near enough to avoid triggering half the hallway.

“Come on, shrimp,” Rodger called over his shoulder, already kneeling by the first machine. “Let’s knock these out quickly.”

Shrimpo growled to himself, low and bitter.
“I HATE BEING TOLD NOT TO DO.”
But, despite the protest lodged firmly in his throat, he still dragged himself over, shuffling with exaggerated reluctance toward where Rodger was standing. His expression said everything his mouth refused to—annoyed, begrudging, and already planning how to complain about this later.

Tisha stood alone in the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind the last of the others. She was supposed to be the distractor this time—the one who kept the twisted at bay while the team did the real work. That was the plan. Efficient. Practical. Clean.

But as the hum of the elevator faded and the silence settled, a small breath escaped her lips.
Soft. Honest.

“…I want someone to leave with as well.”
She didn’t say it loudly—barely more than a whisper meant for no one but the cold steel walls around her.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the strap of her pouch. Then, without missing another beat, she straightened her back and walked off into the level’s dim corridors, every step as precise as ever.

“Nothing too serious to worry about,” she muttered to herself, brushing a few flecks of dust from her glove.
“Let’s just get back to work… keep these twisted things off our friends. That’s the job. That’s what matters.”

She moved forward, alone but unwavering—because someone had to keep things from falling apart, even if no one waited at the elevator doors for her when it was over.

Level by level, floor by floor, the group descended deeper into the heart of the facility. It should’ve been thrilling—an adventure, a chance to scavenge for the big finds. But for Gigi, who had practically spearheaded the whole idea and hyped it up like they were about to hit a jackpot, it was turning into a slow, frustrating burn.

By the time they reached level nine, her usual chill demeanor was starting to wear thin. She hadn’t found anything worthwhile—just scraps, crumbs, and hazards that weren’t worth the effort. Her energy was off. Not angry, not explosive… just drained. Bitter. The kind of aggravation that grows quietly in your chest and makes your shoulders feel heavier than they should.

Gigi let out a long, tired sigh, rubbing her face with one hand as she leaned against the elevator wall. Her voice came out lower, flatter, with an edge of tired humor she couldn’t quite kill.

“We’ve been here for thirty damn minutes… and I don’t have a single valuable thing to show for it.”

She turned toward Tisha, lifting her brows, her tone apologetic but clearly worn down.

“Yeah, I’m sorry for dragging this out… makin’ you wait those last five levels just for me to find a big pile of nothing. I really thought I’d get something—hell, even just the bare minimum.”
Her laugh came out dry. “Instead? I’ve been gettin’ chased, cut, and cornered by those twisters on every floor like it’s a hobby. I mean, really—this deep in and we still findin’ scraps?”

She shook her head, half muttering now.

“At this point, I might as well go dig through a landfill. Bet there’s more value in trash than in these damn rooms. Least the trash don’t try to kill you.”

She sighed again, softer this time, her voice returning to something a bit more like her usual self—tired, yes, but still trying to keep things together. She glanced at the others, as if trying to reset.

Gigi groaned as she face-planted into Tisha’s shoulder. Tisha, ever the calm and collected one, didn’t even flinch. She immediately began patting Gigi’s head with a quiet, comforting “There, there…”—gentle, steady, like she’d done this a hundred times before.

“Alright. Sorry. I’m done whining. Let’s just… keep movin’.”
Gigi said kind of muffled because of Tisha shoulder.

Connie came up beside them, quietly placing a hand on Gigi’s right shoulder.

“One last one floor!” Connie sang out, twirling midair like a ghostly cheerleader. “We see, that is for sure, something’s bound to bring you joy—what’ve you got to lose? Nothing!”

She threw her arms wide, voice bouncing with cartoon charm and just the right amount of mischief. Her smile was contagious, wide and unfiltered, the kind of grin only someone who truly believed in the moment could wear.

Then she leaned in with a wink, floating beside Gigi like a little devil on her shoulder.

“Not to mention, you’re the main one who told me—and I quote—‘80% of gamblers quit when they’re about to hit big!’” she said, mimicking Gigi’s voice just enough to make her laugh. “Sooo… what if this is your big hit, huh?”

“One last one floor!” Connie sang out, twirling midair like a cheerleader. “We see, that is for sure, something’s bound to bring you joy—what’ve you got to lose? Nothing!”

Then she leaned in with a wink, floating beside Gigi like a little devil on her shoulder.

“Not to mention, you’re the main one who told me—and I quote—‘80% of gamblers quit when they’re about to hit big!’” she said, mimicking Gigi’s voice just enough to make her laugh. “Sooo… what if this is your big hit, huh?”

The librarian—who had been quiet up until now—chimed in.

“Me personally, I don’t approve of the fact that you’re telling your friend she should gamble her life for treasure,” she said in a single breath, her tone flat but fast, like she was reading off a warning label.

“But I’m positive everything’s gonna turn out fine, so…”

She said off with a small shrug.

“I HATE GAMBLING.”
(Do I even have to tell you who said it)

She phased halfway through her friend for dramatic flair, then popped out on the other side and pointed straight at the elevator doors—specifically toward the glowing, ominous number nine.

“C’mon. Floor Nine. Fate’s waiting. Regret’s boring. And let’s be real… this would be way less fun without you losing your mind over one last bad loot box.”

Her voice softened, just a little, under the humor.

Gigi stood there in silence for a moment, her eyes darting between the elevator level and her best friend. She could feel it in her chest—that itch, that stubborn spark that had dragged her down here in the first place. The whole run had been a bust so far, but something about the way her bestie said it… something clicked.

She groaned dramatically and rolled her eyes with a sigh that said “damn it, you’re right” louder than any words could.

Then she spun on her heel, raised her hand, and smacked the elevator button with a force that rattled the panel.

“Fine. FINE. Thank you, Connie, for reminding me that gambling is practically in MY FUCKIN’ SOUL.”

She looked toward the group, posture tall, voice theatrical, like she was onstage.

“I refuse to leave this elevator without winning something. I’ll die trying if I have to. I’d rather go out spinning a wheel than go to sleep knowing I quit too early.”

She leaned back with a grin, a flicker of that old sparkle back in her eyes—exhausted, sure, but reignited.

“So yeah—level nine it is, baby. Let’s make this last one count.”

As the other elevator door slid open with a metallic whoosh—just after Gigi finally made up her mind—Shrimpo turned his head with a scoff and spat out a line with prideful disgust:

“SHRIMPO WOULD NEVER CONVINCE HIS FRIENDS TO GAMBLE!”

Without missing a beat, Connie floated forward with a smirk and arms crossed.

“Yeah, because the almighty Shrimp don’t have friends, of course. You can’t convince people that don’t exist.”

Shrimpo whipped around like a kicked can, voice dripping venom:

“I HATE EVERYONE. I WAS MADE TO HATE EVERYONE. SO OF COURSE I DON’T HAVE FRIENDS. I KNOW YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE A GHOST, BUT I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE BRAIN DEAD ALONG WITH IT.”

As Shrimpo casually strutted off the elevator to explore floor nine—completely unbothered—Connie remained behind, stunned into silence.
(GAGGED)

Brightney blinked once, then again, clearly confused by what had just happened.

She leaned slightly toward Rodger, voice low but firm, her golden light flickering in puzzled thought.

“Now, I thought you said he couldn’t say anything mean. Or that he was tryin’ to be nicer ‘cause of some bet or somethin’? I’m pretty sure I heard that right.”

She gave Rodger a sideways glance, one eyebrow raised in mild disbelief.

“Didn’t that just… disqualify him?”

Rodger waved a hand dismissively.

“No, no, no, no, no—he’s not disqualified,” he said, casually but confidently. “If anything, if he was, we would’ve already heard Dandy say something by now. And the rule specifically was that he couldn’t yell, push, or do something else without raising first.”

He finally glanced up at Brightney with a slight shrug, completely unbothered.

“Technically, she started it. So he’d be fine.”

Tisha stepped out of the elevator with her usual composure, her boots clicking softly against the grime-covered floor as she scanned the level. This was her assignment: search for the Twisted. Keep them away. Keep everyone else clean, safe, and focused.

Somewhere off to the side, Rodger was crouched near a humming machine, monitoring its movements with that sharp-eyed focus of his. Shrimpo stood nearby, puffed up with irritation.

“Be more careful with what you say,” Rodger warned, voice dry as ever, not even looking up. “Just because you think it’s clever doesn’t mean it’s not reckless.”

The little shrimp muttered something under his breath and crossed his arms, clearly not loving the criticism.

Elsewhere, Gigi moved low and quick—rifling through cabinets, prying open stuck drawers, and kicking at the occasional supply box with mild frustration. She kept one eye out for anything dangerous, but her priorities were clear: loot first, twisted second. Most of the boxes were too rusted shut to open, though. No such luck.

Connie floated above the mess, casting a protective eye toward Gigi while also keeping tabs on Brightney, who was carefully working another machine. Every so often, Connie’s gaze would wander back toward Brightney…
(she is very obvious)

And Tisha?
Tisha searched.

Around every corner, behind every broken monitor, through flickering hallways stained in old ichor—she checked them all. Methodical. Thorough. Eyes sharp, steps silent.

But the twisted weren’t biting today.

Instead, she found a familiar shape: a twisted version of Connie. Pale, flickering, almost cartoonish in her mimicry. But Tisha didn’t flinch. That one wasn’t harmful. She just liked to possess machines. If you had even half a brain, you could spot her coming and just… not touch anything. Pointless to distract her.

Then, another odd figure: a twisted Rodger.
Once, he’d been trouble—disguising himself as one of the ichor capsules and tricking people into grabbing him. But now that everyone knew what the real capsules looked like versus the fakes, his little game was over. He was more annoyance than threat.

Two passive twisted. That was it.
Tisha scanned again—looked and looked, pacing tighter loops, listening for breathing or movement or anything worse.

But nothing else came.

Just those two.

Strange.

She frowned, brushing invisible dust off her gloves.
It felt off. Too quiet. But she wasn’t about to complain.

“Well,” she muttered under her breath, “if this is all we’re dealing with… I’ll take it.”

As I walked through the cafeteria, a strange stillness hung in the air—like someone had pressed pause on the world right before it all went to hell. The place looked abandoned, sure. But not old. Not wrecked. Just… paused.

The floor tiles still had shine to them, like someone had mopped it yesterday, though that shine was interrupted by trails of dried ecto residue and greasy footprints that led nowhere. Ketchup packets lay burst open on tables, half-unwrapped sandwiches fossilized mid-lunch, and a plate of fries sat on a tray like their owner had gone to grab a napkin and never came back.

There were mustard stains smeared across the countertop, bright and fresh-looking, like time forgot to rot them. And there it was—that fridge. Big. Industrial. Slightly open, humming low. The light inside flickered above piles of absurdly large, cartoonish pretzels stacked on the shelves like trophies in a snack lover’s shrine.

Machines dotted the space—coin-operated dispensers, glowing lockers, a vending unit jammed with expired snacks. Their screens blinked aimlessly, running in loops like they were waiting for orders no one was alive to give. I didn’t bother touching them. That wasn’t my job.

I wasn’t here to collect loot. I wasn’t here to chase machines or get caught up in shiny distractions. I was here to keep people safe. To keep things under control.
So I just… observed.

And for once, I wasn’t being chased.

No footsteps echoing behind me. No sudden screech. No black goo dripping from vents above. Just… space.
And silence.

I should’ve welcomed the peace, but instead, it made me feel exposed.
Moments like this don’t last.
Still, if anyone’s going to get chased, it’s better me than them.

That’s the job. That’s the responsibility. That’s what I do.

As I moved deeper into the cafeteria, stepping around an overturned trash can and carefully sidestepping a pool of half-dried soda, I saw her.

Gigi.

She was crouched near the far end of the room, practically nose to the ground as she rummaged through old containers and under the tables. Eyes sharp, hands fast. She wasn’t being reckless, but she wasn’t being gentle either. She kicked a box that refused to open, cursed under her breath, then immediately shifted her focus to the next cabinet.

Her hair bounced with each movement, and she still kept one eye scanning the corners—just in case. I respected that. She was a scavenger, but she wasn’t stupid.

She hadn’t noticed me yet.

So I approached softly, not wanting to startle her, but loud enough that she’d know it was someone familiar.
Someone safe.

I stopped a few feet away and folded my arms across my chest, waiting for her to glance up.

Then I let the words out.

“Gigi,” I said, with a slight curve of my lips—not quite a smile, but close for me.
“I got some great news for you.”

“It better be something good!”
Gigi said, sounding a little aggravated for obvious reasons.
“Like an item, like a useful item, like an item I’m actually interested in or like a—”

Before she could spiral further into my wishlist of treasures, Tisha calmly cut me off.

“I got it, Gigi.”
She exhaled gently, her voice soothing but focused.
“What I was trying to say is… it looks like there’s no real threat on this level. So, you’ve got time. You can comb through everything as long as we don’t finish the last machine. I should probably let the others know too. But yeah, the two Twisted I ran into? Passive. Both was basically harmless, and the other one hasn’t even been seen yet. If it’s out there, it’s probably just as quiet.”

My nonexistent ears perked up and shut down all at once, my brain zeroing in on the best part of what she said.

“So you’re telling me…” I blinked, leaning closer, hands gripping my hips with intensity.
“…I can basically treat this whole floor like a candy shop? Like I can finally open those crates, rummage through all those dusty corners I couldn’t check before because of that stupid ticking clock?”

Tisha nodded once, calm as ever.

And I lit up.

“Tisha!” I practically squealed, throwing my arms around her in an over-the-top, dramatic hug that nearly knocked her off balance. “You’re an angel. A gift. The real treasure on this floor!”

And before she could even respond, I spun on my heels and bolted toward Connie at full speed.

“CONNIE!!”

After Gigi darted off, practically skipping from excitement, Tisha remained behind, letting the sound of her footsteps fade down the corridor. A small exhale left her lips—half relief, half amusement.

“Might as well tell the other two,” she muttered to herself, turning her steps toward the hallway where Rodger and Shrimpo were last seen. “Even if one of them hate every word I say.”

She let out a quiet, amused chuckle. Shrimpo hated everything she said, on principle. And maybe she didn’t mind that as much as she acted like she did. She walked slowly now, letting herself enjoy the pace—not rushed, not hunted. It was rare.

And in that rare quiet, she started to notice things.

Small things.

Things she’d never really paid attention to before—not because she wasn’t observant, but because she was always too busy being the bait, the shield, the one yelling “Run!” while the others finished objectives. She was the distractor, always moving, always scanning for danger. Never stopping.

But now? Now she was just… walking. And it gave her time to think.
And thinking made her notice.

The food was everywhere. Again.

Hot dogs on trays, untouched. Burgers left on plates, still perfectly stacked. Half-finished soda bottles scattered across tables, some with condensation still running down the sides. A few straws still sticking out, like someone had just sipped and walked away.

She squinted, stepping closer.
Nothing was dusty. Nothing smelled spoiled.
Nothing had even wilted.

Her brow furrowed. That wasn’t right.

Her boots slowed to a near halt as she neared one of the burgers. It sat alone on a red plastic tray. She stared at it for a moment, then—against her better judgment—reached out and poked it.

Soft.
The bread gave slightly under her finger like it was freshly baked.

Her stomach tightened, but curiosity wouldn’t let her stop there.

She poked the patty.
Warm. Still warm.
Her breath caught.

This wasn’t some simulation glitch. This wasn’t a leftover memory. This was something else. Something too real to be background noise.

A wave of unease rippled through her.

She pulled out a small water bottle she kept in her bag of cleaning supplies, spritzed her glove, and began rubbing her fingers together like she’d just dipped her bare hand into poison.

“Ugh… disgusting…” she mumbled to herself, trying to shake the discomfort. She wasn’t squeamish—she’d cleaned worse. But there was something wrong about that food. Not moldy. Not foul. Just… wrong.

She took a few steps back and breathed in, gathering herself. Later. She’d deal with this weird cafeteria mystery later. For now, she still had something to do.

Turning on her heel, she made her way across the room, scanning every shadowy corner until finally—near the back—she spotted them: Rodger and Shrimpo, holed up in the kitchen area beside a machine that buzzed and blinked with quiet mechanical life.

Rodger looked focused, adjusting something on the side panel. Shrimpo, meanwhile, looked bored out of his mind, slumped against a counter, clearly doing the bare minimum.

Tisha gave a small smile, the confusion still gnawing at her from earlier, but her voice calm and direct.

She stepped forward.

“Found you two” she said

Rodger paused mid-turn of a crank, eyes narrowing slightly as he glanced toward her.

“Tisha, always a pleasure,” he said with a polite nod, his tone calm but edged with subtle suspicion. “But aren’t you meant to be keeping the Twisted occupied?”

He returned to the machine, fingers hovering just above the mechanism as he added.

“Unless they’ve all suddenly decided to take a tea break.”

Tisha stepped into the kitchen area, her voice steady as she approached the duo.

“You won’t need to worry about the Twisted for a while.”
She rested her hand on the edge of the machine beside them. “I only found two—and both were passive. One mimicking Connie, the other Rodger. No aggression, no signs of escalation. Based on that, I’m fairly confident the third, if there even is one, is passive too.”

She paused for a beat, making sure they understood this wasn’t some careless assumption.

“But.”
Her tone shifted, slightly lower, more serious.

“There was a discovery I made in the cafeteria. And I’d really prefer if you took note of it—maybe even logged it properly later. It’s… strange.”

“I HATE BEING LEFT OUT OF THE CONVERSATION.”

The asshole said randomly.

Rodger, blatantly ignoring whatever nonsense Shrimpo had just muttered, waved a dismissive hand and cut in smoothly.

“Anyway—forget all that,” he said with a sigh. “I’d be more than happy to take a look. Kindly lead me to the issue.”

He straightened his coat and gestured forward, calm and ready.

Tisha led Rodger into the cafeteria, where the counters were still lined with food and drinks as if frozen in time. She stopped by a tray and pointed to a lonely burger, its bun dented faintly with what looked like a fingerprint.

Shrimpo, bored out of his mind and far too prideful to bother doing anything alone, trailed after them—half out of curiosity, half for the entertainment of watching these two get oddly invested in a suspicious sandwich.

Rodger, leaning down to inspect the burger. He touched the bun, then the lettuce, and found—much to his quiet surprise—that it all felt freshly made. Warm bread, crisp greens.

Which made no bloody sense, considering this place had been shut down for years.

“This is a brain scratching discovery, Tisha,” Rodger muttered, his tone sitting somewhere between intrigue and irritation, like the burger had personally wronged him. He slipped a hand into his coat and pulled out a small, weathered notepad—the kind with curled edges from years of being jammed into pockets.

He leaned over the table, fingers brushing across the top bun, then carefully lifting it to study the lettuce and patty beneath. He wasn’t gentle for the sake of the burger—Rodger wasn’t sentimental about food—but because he was treating the whole thing like evidence at a crime scene. “Top bun… bottom bun… lettuce. All of it.” He pressed a thumb into the patty, frowning when the indent didn’t linger. “Feels like it was made five minutes ago, but this place has been dead for years.”

He straightened slightly, scribbling notes without looking at the page. “So fascinated by the twist, I almost didn’t clock the bigger picture—this place hasn’t aged a bloody second. Not the food, not the tables, not even the smell. It’s like the day resets the moment we step out… or worse, it’s been stuck in time entirely.”

He paused, staring at the burger as if it might answer him if he glared long enough. Then his eye twitched like an excited kid at a candy shop. “How in hell does this stay fresh? No mould, no decay—nothing. I’m glad you spotted it, Tisha. You’ve just handed me another mess of questions I’m absolutely dying to answer.”

Tisha tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing on the burger still sitting untouched on the tray. Its steam had faded, but it still looked… fresh. Too fresh. She kept her gaze locked on it as she addressed him.

“So… what do you make of it, Detective Rodger?”

Rodger glanced up from the machine, then down at the burger, then back at Tisha. Without a word, he pulled his battered notebook from his coat and flipped it open. His pen hit the page with such force it was as if the paper had insulted his family.

“Well,” he muttered, his hand moving in quick, sharp strokes, “my first thought is that the Handlers are behind it. Seems their sort of trick—controlled, deliberate, and… unsettlingly pointless.”

He paused for a moment, tapping the pen against the page, his eyes distant like he was trying to connect threads only he could see.

“But,” he went on, “I’ve got a suspicion that’s harder to pin down. A… sudden itch that says maybe no one is actively maintaining it.”

Tisha frowned, glancing from him to the burger. “Then why’s it still fresh?”

Rodger gave the faintest of smirks, though his eyes stayed serious.

“Exactly. This place isn’t coming back. No new staff, no regular upkeep. By all logic, it should’ve gone stale years ago. So either someone—or something—wants it to stay exactly like this… or we’ve just stumbled into another little corner of the facility that refuses to follow the rules.”

His pen scratched one last note before he snapped the notebook shut.

“Either way… I don’t like it.”

While the two weirdos were busy pointing and poking at the strange burger like it was some kind of ancient artifact, Shrimpo didn’t hesitate.
He just reached right in—swift and unapologetic—snatching it straight out from under their noses while they were distracted.

It looked normal enough. Actually, it looked too normal for something that had clearly been sitting there for… what? Years? Decades? Centuries?
Still, he didn’t care. He was gonna eat it.

Without so much as a sniff, Shrimpo sank his teeth in—no, launched his teeth in—taking a bite so big it looked like half the burger had been erased from existence in one go. He chewed. And chewed. And chewed.

The two inspecting the burger stared in shock and dismay at Shrimpo’s actions.

Everything about it was… fine. Painfully fine. Which meant he didn’t like it. Shrimpo didn’t like anything that was just “okay.” But the fact that it tasted normal somehow kept him going. He took another bite—smaller this time—and that’s when it hit.

His eyes widened. His jaw froze mid-chew. And then—

“EWWWWWW!!!”

He spat the bite right back out, hacking and wiping his tongue with the back of his hand like he’d just licked a sewer pipe.

“Fucking pickles—” he gagged again for dramatic emphasis,
“—I hate pickles!”

He held the burger out like it was suddenly toxic waste, glaring at it as if the pickles had plotted against him personally.

“Shrimpo!” Tisha yelled.
“Why would you put that in your mouth? You don’t even know what it is—or where it’s been!”

Rodger pinched the bridge of his nose and gave Shrimpo a long, tired look—the kind that said he’d already spent far too much of his life dealing with idiocy, and this was just the latest entry on the list.

“Shrimpo, that thing has been sat out here for years,” he said, his voice low and clipped, each word carefully sharpened. “No regular burger—no normal bit of meat and bread—can survive out here without rotting into something you wouldn’t feed to a rat. And yet there it is… pristine. Untouched. Like time’s politely ignored it.”

Shrimpo shrugged, still holding the burger in both hands like it was some kind of treasure he’d just dug up.
“I DON’T SEE THE ISSUE. IT TASTES LIKE A BURGER. LOOKS LIKE A BURGER. I’M FINE, I’M NOT DEAD, AND IT’S NOT ROTTEN,” he said, the words muffled slightly between bites. “YEAH, SURE, IT’S WEIRD—WHATEVER. I DON’T CARE. I’M GONNA EAT IT. IT’S BETTER THAN EATING NOTHING BUT SWEETS ALL THE TIME. IT’S NICE TO HAVE SOMETHING OTHER THAN SUGAR IN MY MOUTH FOR ONCE.”

He glanced at the others like they were the ones being ridiculous, then took another massive bite, chewing with stubborn determination, as if he had something to prove. “HONESTLY, Y’ALL ACT LIKE YOU’VE NEVER SEEN FOOD BEFORE. JUST LET ME ENJOY THIS.”

While Shrimpo spoke with his mouth full, the two immediately stepped back—but Tisha took three massive strides forward, closing the distance without hesitation.

“WHILE YALL WEIRDOS KEEP STARING AT THE FOOD IN THIS EATING PLACE, I’M GONNA GO SEE WHAT GAMBLING ATTIC, AND GHOST ARE DOING.”

Shrimpo rolled his eyes hard enough it felt like they might fall out, then shoved the half-eaten burger aside and stomped off, clearly done with the whole scene.

Shrimpo wandered off, kicking his short, stubby legs in front of the others, too restless to just sit around staring at food. He hated food—well, mostly. It was better than dessert, at least. As he shuffled through the hallways, his mind churned over the stupid idea of kindness. He was so sick of it. He hated how everyone else acted the same, all soft and polite, like they’d rehearsed it. But, like he kept telling himself—over and over, god, like a broken record—he wouldn’t lose to that loser. Even if the phrase drove him crazy from repeating it every damn five seconds.

As he neared the gambling attic, trying to fiddle with the orange wooden box inside, something caught his eye. He realized he’d just passed a bottle of mustard sitting beside a small pile of baked pretzels. He’d never had baked pretzels before, but they looked salty, not sweet, and that was enough for him. He grabbed three, tossing them into his hands and a bottle mustard for dipping, because, well, he liked mustard… but only in secret. He’d never say it out loud. Hated mustard, but liked that it wasn’t ketchup. That was the important part.

Shrimpo got closer and saw she was more than just struggling to open the damn thing—she’d probably been at it for a good minute or more, muscles tense and patience running thin.

Without thinking twice, he barked out, “JUST BREAK THE TOP OFF!”—like that would magically solve everything.

Gigi shot Shrimpo a sharp look, clearly annoyed.

“No, really—I should break it?” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I didn’t know that. I thought I was supposed to just magically say ‘Open Sesame’ and have it pop right open with my magical powers or something.”

She rolled her eyes hard enough to make it sound like they might fall out.

“Well, if you’re done giving me amazing ideas,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “you could actually help me open this thing instead of just sittin’ there judgin’ me.”

She jabbed a finger toward the crate, waiting for Shrimpo to make a move.

“WHY WOULD I HELP YOU? I HATE HELPING PEOPLE.”
Shrimpo Blurred it out.

“Well, if you don’t help, that’s straight-up mean,” Gigi said, her voice sharpening like a whip crack, but with an edge of weariness underneath. She crossed her arms, her eyes boring into Shrimpo’s like she was daring him to push back. “You just sat there, watchin’ me wrestle with this damn crate, doing nothing but judging every move I made like it was some kind of damn spectator sport. And that? That’s exactly how you lose your bet, little man. No second chances. No excuses.”

Shrimpo’s jaw clenched tight, a frustrated growl almost caught in his throat. His hands curled into fists at his sides, trembling just slightly—not from fear, but from the tight coil of anger and something else he wasn’t ready to admit. He muttered a bitter, “Fine,” low and reluctant, like admitting defeat but refusing to show it.

With heavy, stomping steps, he turned and stormed off toward the kitchen area, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like an invisible hand.

Two minutes passed like an eternity, the silence stretching thick between the group. Then, Shrimpo returned, cooler clutched firmly in his hands.

Shrimpo dropped his handheld cooler to the ground and started rummaging through it until he pulled out his lucky, golden, shiny brick—still pissed at the fact that he was being forced to do this. He wasn’t complaining out loud, though, because he knew he had to deal with it if he was gonna do what he had to do to win.

He grabbed the brick tightly in his hands, stomped toward Gigi, lifted the hand holding the brick…

Meanwhile, the other side of the map

Connie hovering there, her long floaty tail basically swirled up, pretending to listen but not really hearing half of what Brightney was saying. The librarian’s voice drifted on and on—gentle, animated, absolutely in love with whatever new stack of books had caught her interest this week. Every so often, her hands would flutter over the covers like she was revealing some hidden treasure.

And Connie? She just sat there, chin resting on her hand, eyes flicking between Brightney’s face and the soft amber glow of the desk lamp beside her. That light caught in Brightney’s hair, in her eyes, and for some reason, it felt like the whole world had been muted—like this little corner of the library existed outside of time.

Her chest was tight, her fingers fidgeting against her body. She’d been carrying this weight for so long—this buzzing, restless feeling that had followed her every time she saw Brightney smile. And now… maybe now was the moment.

She swallowed hard, holding her breath without even realizing it. Her thoughts raced—every excuse, every “maybe later,” every fear—shoved to the back of her mind.

No more hiding behind a bush, she told herself. Not this time. Not when Brightney was right here, close enough for Connie to feel the faint warmth radiating off her.

Her hand rose, slow and uncertain, trembling just enough to make her acutely aware of it. She reached across the narrow space between them, fingertips hovering, ready to rest on Brightney’s shoulder.

It had been a long time coming. She was right there.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Connie’s head snapped up the second the sound tore through the air Wild, uneven, like something slamming against wood in a desperate frenzy. It was followed by a sharp, panicked scream that froze the blood in her veins.

Her usual ghostly drift turned into a full-on blur as she shot across the floor, phasing through anything in her way.

“Gigi?!” she yelled, voice cracking with sudden fear. The echo bounced down the hallway, but there was no time to wait for an answer.

She skidded to a stop in the doorway, eyes darting around in frantic bursts until they landed on her friend. Relief hit her hard enough to make her knees feel weak—she was there, she was breathing—but the pounding in Connie’s chest didn’t slow.

“You’re okay? You’re okay?” she blurted, already moving closer, hands hovering like she didn’t know whether to pull her into a hug or check her for injuries. “I heard—god, I heard that banging and the screaming and I—” she cut herself off, shaking her head like she could shove the thought away.

Connie’s head snapped up the second the sound tore through the air—BANG! BANG! BANG! Wild, uneven, like something slamming against metal in a desperate frenzy. It was followed by a sharp, panicked scream that froze the blood in her veins.

Her usual ghostly drift turned into a full-on blur as she shot across the floor, phasing through anything in her way.

“Gigi?!” she yelled, voice cracking with sudden fear. The echo bounced down the hallway, but there was no time to wait for an answer.

She skidded to a stop in the doorway, eyes darting around in frantic bursts until they landed on her friend. Relief hit her hard enough to make her knees feel weak—she was there, she was breathing—but the pounding in Connie’s chest didn’t slow.

“You’re okay? You’re okay?” she blurted, already moving closer, hands hovering like she didn’t know whether to pull her into a hug or check her for injuries. “I heard—god, I heard that banging and the screaming and I—

Gigi practically yanked her best friend mid-sentence, cutting her off without a shred of apology, and dragged her closer like a kid showing off a miracle. She nearly shoved Connie’s face toward the open crate, her voice trembling somewhere between laughter and a scream.

Inside was treasure. Real treasure. Not gold or jewels, but the kind of loot that made Gigi’s heart skip—piles upon piles of rare, pristine gear. Smoke bombs stacked like candy jars. Jumper cables coiled tight, gleaming like fresh steel snakes. A medkit so well-packed it could patch a ghost. Even a single, perfectly folded band-aid sat in there like it was priceless. And then… an eject button. An honest-to-God eject button.

“We’re right—you were right—oh my God, Connie!” she gasped, words tripping over each other, hands hovering above the contents like she didn’t even dare touch them. “The amount of loot that’s here—this is massive. This is beautiful. I could cry. We don’t have to stay here anymore! This… this is it. This whole run? Done. Finished. Peak. Nothing’s ever gonna top this. Oh, I love it!”

Her grin was so wide it looked painful, her fingers twitching like she was afraid the box might vanish if she blinked too long.

Tisha Rodger and Brightney broke into a sprint the moment the scream cut through the air, their chests tightening with worry. The echo bounced off the cold cafeteria walls, pulling them toward it like a hook. Neither said a word—they didn’t have to. Both knew the sound could only mean one thing: their friend was in trouble.

Just for all three of them to be met with a truly baffling sight.

Gigi was practically shaking her friend back and forth—back and forth—back and forth—her face lit up with pure glee, grinning from ear to ear. Connie, meanwhile, was struggling just to keep her head on straight—literally—thanks to the speed of the shaking.

And then there was Shrimpo, lounging on a beanbag, stuffing his face with oversized pretzels and drowning each bite in mustard while it was still in his mouth.

To say the least, it was a confusing scene to stumble upon—especially after hearing such a loud sequence of noises: three massive bangs, a scream

Rodger’s eyes swept over the scene in a matter of seconds, piecing it together as neatly as if he’d been handed a case file. The main source of Gigi’s ear-splitting excitement was obvious—an absurd amount of loot spilling out of the crate she’d just managed to pry open.

Judging by the splintered edges of the wood and the golden carrot brick lying suspiciously close by, Rodger could all but guarantee the “opening” wasn’t the result of skill. No, it had Shrimpo written all over it—quite literally, considering the brick still had wood carvings embedded in it like some half-baked crime scene.

Connie’s presence was less clear. She stood nearby, looking thoroughly rattled, though Rodger didn’t feel any great urge to untangle that mystery. Not when the far louder and more obvious element in the room was Gigi, practically vibrating with joy, completely incapable of moderating herself.

Rodger’s eyes flicked toward Shrimpo with a sharp, dry edge as he spoke, voice low and tinged with sarcastic admiration.

“I must say, Shrimpo, this is mighty kind of you—to bash your way through that crate just so Gigi can have her moment of glory.”

“I DIDN’T DO THIS WILLINGLY. I WAS FORCED TO. SHE SAID SHE WAS GONNA TELL DANDY THAT I DID SOMETHING MEAN AND GET ME KICKED OUT OF THE BET.”

He said it between violent munches on the pretzels, his frustration practically spilling over.

“I HATE HELPING TOONS.”

“Oh, shut up, Shrimpo,” Connie snapped, arms crossed and a wicked grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You hate everything. Like, one time, you told me you hate the fact that I float. Seriously? What does that even mean?”

She cocked her head, eyebrow raised, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I bet you can’t even name one single thing you actually like. Go on—try me. Bet you’ll be stumped.”

“THINK OF SOMEONE EASILY? I HAVE LEVELS TO MY HATE, AND I HATE THINGS MORE AND I HATE THINGS LESS. NOT ALL HATE IS THE SAME.”

As he said it, Shrimpo actually took a moment to think about the list in his head, but his mind stubbornly kept circling back to one certain person—the one who somehow ended up at the very top. The only person he’d even remotely consider a friend… not that he’d ever admit that out loud. Every once in a blue moon (and usually by accident), they’d get caught hanging out together—Dandy had even seen it happen once. Shrimpo hated the idea of actually being friends with anyone, but that stupid idiot with their gorgeous smile always managed to soften him up a little, even if just for a second. He still hated them, don’t get it twisted—it just wasn’t the same kind of hate he had for everyone else.

That thought alone was enough to make him blush bright red, which the entire group unfortunately noticed. In a panic, he slapped himself back to normal, vowing no one would ever see him like that again.

“NEVER MIND, I DON’T HAVE A PERSON. BUT I DIDN’T LOSE BECAUSE I DIDN’T ANSWER, BECAUSE… SHRIMPO WINS.”

“We are totally going to save that information for later,” Connie said, her grin widening like a cat that just spotted a canary. She didn’t even bother to hide the pointed look she shot toward Shrimpo—the shrimp who was currently trying way too hard not to look flustered.

“C’mon, it’s obvious,” she continued, her tone dipping into that singsong mockery only best friends could get away with. “Either you’ve got a crush, or you like someone just enough to get all embarrassed about it. Honestly? Feels like a fifty-fifty split to me.”

Shrimpo shifted in place, muttering something under his breath, but Connie was already basking in the tiny victory of making him squirm.

Meanwhile, Gigi—ever the opportunist—pulled out her diary without a word. She scribbled the whole thing down in quick, looping handwriting. (She only even considered having a diary because of Flutter, but now it was serving a much more entertaining purpose.)

She smirked to herself as she closed the book, already imagining how useful this little nugget of information might be in the future.

Rodger kept his pace a few steps behind the chaos, letting Gigi and Connie’s relentless badgering of Shrimpo fade into the background noise. His mind wasn’t on the teasing—it was on the bigger picture, the part no one else seemed to notice.

Sure, everyone knew the floors were dangerous. Sure, they all understood that nothing here—food, supplies, even the air—should be trusted. But as Rodger’s eyes drifted to the untouched stacks of sealed crates, a different concern gnawed at him.

Dandy’s been holding back.

Not just a little. Not just a harmless stash of “just in case” goods. No—Rodger could feel it in his gut. The scope of what Dandy was hiding was far greater than anyone suspected. These boxes weren’t random scraps; they were resources—possibly lifesaving ones. And if the pattern held true, if every crate had something useful inside, they could have been distributing them freely this whole time.

Instead, Dandy chose to keep them locked away.

The thought settled heavily, his detective’s mind already unraveling threads, weighing motives. Why hoard when you could help? What’s the angle? What’s the risk he’s not telling us?

Troubling, indeed. And trouble was something Rodger had an uncanny knack for finding… or uncovering.

Rodger felt the weight of the revelation sinking deeper, the threads of logic tangling into knots the more he pulled at them. His pen scratched across the notepad in quick, deliberate strokes—every line another piece of the puzzle, another theory that didn’t quite fit.

First, the unnerving possibility of a time loop, the eerie perfection of things that should have rotted years ago. Then, the undeniable truth that Dandy had been holding back—keeping supplies, tools, and resources locked away as if they were bargaining chips. They had all assumed, perhaps naïvely, that he simply couldn’t create these things fast enough. But now? Now it was clear he could. He always could.

Rodger’s jaw tightened. He’s choosing this. Choosing to let them struggle, to ration the “good” gear as though suffering was some kind of test. But why? Dandy wasn’t a saint, but Rodger had seen him care. He’d seen him shield younger Toons, even forbid Toodles from certain runs because of her age. That wasn’t the work of someone heartless.

If Dandy truly wanted them to fail, there’d be no point in pretending to be the good guy. And yet… here they were, caught between his moments of genuine concern and his calculated cruelty.

The thoughts churned faster. His handwriting grew sharper, heavier, tearing faint grooves into the paper. Pages turned with impatient flicks, each one filling with questions that spiraled into more questions. What if it wasn’t malice? What if it was fear? Or something worse?

By the time he realized how violently he’d been writing, two shadows fell over him. Brightney and Tisha had closed in, their expressions cautious—half concern, half curiosity—watching the detective spiral into his own notebook.

Rodger didn’t look up at first. He just kept writing. The moment he stopped, he knew the questions would catch up to him. And he wasn’t ready to be caught just yet.

Brightney knew better than to push her friend. She’d seen it before—how something could stick in Rodger’s mind like a splinter, keeping him up for nights on end as he tried to puzzle it out. He could be stubborn as bedrock when worry set in, and pulling him out of it was no small task.

But she also knew this—being here, on these levels, running himself ragged—it wasn’t doing him any good either.

“Rodger,” she said softly, stepping just close enough that her glow brushed his sleeve, “I know there’s nothin’ I can say that’ll convince you to stop. But… how about we finish the rest of the machines and call it for today?”

Her tone was gentle, but her words left little room for argument.

“You need rest. No more runs for you—at least for the rest of the day. I hate to sound like an overbearin’ mother, sugar, but… you know how you can be.”

She gave him a small smile—half teasing, half pleading—her lamp-light warm against the cool hallway air.

Rodger tried to adjust his stance, shifting his weight like he could somehow disguise what he’d been doing.
Terrible idea.
It was hard to look “normal” when he’d just been caught nearly carving his emotions—confusion, frustration, and something darker—into the pages of his notebook. His hand still hovered near it, pen trembling faintly.

Tisha wasn’t buying any of it.

Before he could get a single word out, she stepped forward and cut him off, her voice steady but not cruel.

“Brightney is right.”

Rodger’s jaw tightened.

She kept her tone firm, threading it with care so it didn’t turn sharp.
“I will never understand at the fact that you would genuinely put yourself at risk for information to the point where you are making yourself unlikable and intolerable to others Toons.”

Her gaze locked with his, unwavering.

“I will never understand why you think it’s okay to put yourself in harm’s way—physically or up here—” she tapped the side of her head, “—for someone else, even when you’ve got your own life to take care of.”

She took a breath, her voice softening just slightly.
“Toodles loves you. She looks up to you. How do you think she’d feel if she saw you like this?”

When Rodger didn’t answer, Tisha jabbed a finger into his shoulder, grounding the moment with a bit of physical weight.

“I hate being like this. I really do. But I know you. We know you. You won’t stop until you’ve picked this place apart and found every answer. And we can’t let you burn yourself out for it.”

Her eyes narrowed, but not with anger—more like she was willing him to listen.

“So here’s what’s going to happen: after this run, you’re going to your room. You’re going to lie down in your bed. And you’re going to forget about that hole thing until you’re actually ready for it. Understand?”

Rodger let the words tumble out in a slow, deliberate rhythm, almost like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was reassuring the others.

“I understand… I understand…”
He inhaled, long and steady, the motion strangely deliberate for someone without a nose or mouth. Then came the exhale—slow, almost shaky.

“I’m just trying to wrap my head around it,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “But for your sake… and mine… I’ll take a step back. I’m truly sorry for making you go through the trouble of worrying about me.” His gaze drifted for a moment, almost as if looking inward. “I’m not young. I’m… quite old to be doing reckless things like this. And I know—believe me—I know I can’t promise to stop entirely. That’s not who I am. But I can promise I’ll stop for today. I am… truly sorry, my friends. I’m far, far, far too old to be acting so carelessly with my own existence. It’s just how I was made… but I’ll do better. Today, at least.”

He turned on his heel with a careful precision, his posture rigid but his steps slow, carrying the weight of what he’d just said. The walk back toward the kitchen felt like it stretched across eons—centuries even. Shame was heavy on his shoulders, heavier than the pack he sometimes carried on missions. His single eye stayed fixed on the floor, the dim reflection of his figure warping on the polished surface with each step.

Rodger’s mind was relentless. They’re right to worry about you. You can’t excuse this. You can’t dress it up with clever reasoning or call it “just your nature.” You can’t help anyone if you’re your own worst enemy. That thought hit harder than he liked to admit.

Before he even realized it, he had arrived at the hulking, old machine in the corner of the kitchen—a relic of another era, its metal hide dark and dulled except for the bright red wheel jutting from the side. A tube of thick, shimmering ichor wound its way into the top, looking like some strange industrial vein.

The sight of it made him pause. He stood there, staring for a moment, and then, with both hands, began to turn the wheel. The metal creaked faintly under his touch. The repetitive, physical action was grounding, almost meditative, and in that rhythm, his mind kept circling back to the same truth: You need to do better by yourself.

The thought stuck. It didn’t leave, even as he moved with surprising speed, his focus sharpened by the clarity that had started to settle in. He finished with the machine without even realizing how quickly the work had gone, the satisfaction of a job done well sneaking up on him.

By the time he stepped toward the next machine, his steps had a steadier rhythm. And standing near it—bored, impatient, and exactly where Rodger expected—was Shrimpo.

“YOU LOOK LIKE…”

Shrimpo trailed off, his eyes narrowing as he tried to find a way to say you look like shit without actually saying it. His stubby fingers drummed against his leg while he thought, the pause stretching longer than it probably should have.

“YOU LOOK LIKE THE OPPOSITE OF HAPPY… AND THE ONLY REASON I KNOW IS BECAUSE I MAKE PEOPLE UNHAPPY, AND I CAN SEE WHEN SOMEONE’S UNHAPPY.”

“Thanks for your concern,” he said, adjusting his stance so he could keep working without looking directly at Shrimpo. “I’m assuming, Shrimpo… I’m just not feeling well at the moment.”

There wasn’t any dramatic sigh or drawn-out complaint—just a straightforward admission, like it took effort to keep his words measured. Even as he spoke, his hands kept busy, turning bolts and checking the machine, as if staying in motion might keep him from lingering too long

“TO BE KIND, I HAVE TO HELP YOU THROUGH THIS. DO I. I HATE HELPING PEOPLE!”

Shrimpo’s voice bounced off the walls, but inside his head it was louder—more chaotic. HOW THE HELL DO I MAKE THESE DISGUSTING FEELINGS COME OUT FOR OTHERS? He clenched his fists, forcing himself to think about something great, something good—even though the very sound of those words in his mind made his shell itch. DISGUSTING. MAKING PEOPLE FEEL GOOD. GOD, I HATE YOU, DANDY…

After a moment, he slammed a clawed finger into the air like he had just invented the concept of victory.

“I LET YOU ASK ONE QUESTION AND NO MATTER THE QUESTION, ALL MIGHTY SHRIMPO WILL HAVE TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH!”

He puffed out his chest, basking in the idea. WHAT’S BETTER THAN HIM? NOTHING.

(loud incorrect button)

Okay, fine—this will still be the best thing to help this loser get better.

“I DON’T GIVE THIS PRIVILEGE OUT TO ANYONE, SO YOU BETTER MAKE IT COUNT!!”

The moment Shrimpo finished laying out his proposal, Rodger didn’t even give himself a heartbeat to mull it over. His instincts kicked in before logic could argue otherwise.

Without hesitation, he slipped one hand into his coat pocket and pulled out his trusty tape recorder—its worn buttons and faint scratches showing just how often it had been used. He thumbed it on with a click, letting the faint whir of the tape spin fill the air.

His other hand left the machine he’d been working on mid-adjustment, tools still in place as if frozen mid-thought. He turned toward Shrimpo, his glassy eye narrowing just slightly in genuine curiosity.

“What do you like?” Rodger asked, his voice calm but probing. “This could mean as in a person, as in what you like to eat, as in anything. What do you like? What don’t you hate?”

The question hung there—bigger than it sounded—because Rodger wasn’t asking just to make small talk. He was fishing for something real, something that might slip past Shrimpo’s usual wall of sarcasm and complaints.

“WHAT DO I LIKE? I DON’T LIKE ANYTHING—THAT’S THE WHOLE POINT OF ME. I CAN’T LIKE ANYTHING. THAT’S THE BIG PICTURE. I AM MADE TO BE MISERABLE. I CAN’T LIKE ANYTHING EVEN IF I WANTED TO.”

Shrimpo said it without hesitation, like he was reading straight from a manual on how to be himself. No pauses, no consideration—just a blunt, stubborn declaration carved out of pure certainty. His arms crossed tighter, his jaw locked, and his eyes dared anyone in the elevator to challenge him on it. He wasn’t even trying to sound dramatic this time. He meant every word.

Rodger tilted his head slightly, the faint hum of the tape recorder still running between them. His tone softened—not out of pity, but with the careful precision of someone trying to pin down a truth without scaring it off.

“So… there is something you want to like,” he said slowly, his single eye locking onto Shrimpo’s. “But you feel trapped… unable to do so. Is that what you’re saying?”

He didn’t lean in or push for an answer—just let the question linger, hanging in the air like a door cracked open, waiting for Shrimpo to decide if he’d step through.

“DO NOT USE TRAPPED. I AM NOT TRAPPED. I AM MADE LIKE THIS. I CAN’T BE TRAPPED. I CAN NEVER BE TRAPPED. I AM UNTRAPABLE.”

Shrimpo’s voice came out sharp and fast, like he was swatting away the very idea before it could land. His stubby arms flailed for emphasis as his face twisted in pure irritation. He hated—absolutely hated—being turned into some kind of sappy metaphor. He wasn’t going to be anyone’s tragic little story.

“I WILL NEVER BE TRAPPED. I AM NEVER TRAPPED. I AM THE ALMIGHTY SHRIMPO!” he declared, almost puffing himself up in the process, as if volume alone could keep the concept at bay.

Then, with a grumble that sounded more like grinding gears, he added, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT OTHER FEELING OTHER THAN HATE. I CAN’T KNOW OTHER FEELING OTHER THAN HATE, BUT I DO HAVE LAYERS TO WHAT I HATE, AND THERE ARE SOME THINGS I HATE LESS THAN OTHERS.”

It was the closest he’d come to admitting anything that wasn’t completely miserable—though, of course, he’d never admit that part.

Rodger’s shoulders had eased a little, his earlier tension unwinding in small increments. The irony wasn’t lost on him—of all creatures to help him level out, it was Shrimpo.

This wasn’t exactly an “interview” in the formal sense, but it was still giving him something valuable—perspective, distraction, maybe even a strange kind of camaraderie. He’d thank the shrimp outright if he didn’t already know that kind of sentiment wasn’t exactly… well-received.

Instead, he clicked the tape recorder again, voice calm and measured.

“So,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “tell me—what are three things you hate the least?”

The way he phrased it carried a wry curve at the edges, half-teasing but still genuinely curious, as if inviting Shrimpo to dig through the rubble of his dislikes and see what stubborn little fragments of fondness might be hiding there.

“SHRIMPO DON’T HATE AS MUCH COMPARED TO OTHERS—AT LEAST BURNT DESSERTS. I LOVE WHEN COSMO BURNED THE DESSERTS AND I SNEAKILY, VERY SNEAKY, TAKE AT LEAST FIVE TO THREE BURNT BROWNIES. I TOLERATE THE FACT THAT IT’S BETTER THAN EVERYTHING ELSE SPROUT MADE.”

Shrimpo leaned forward as he said it, eyes darting around like he was confessing state secrets. His voice carried that strange mix of pride and defiance—like daring anyone to call him soft for liking something, even in the smallest degree. He crossed his arms after, muttering under his breath about how “tolerating” was not the same thing as liking.

Rodger let the chuckle linger for just a second before holding up his free hand in a placating gesture, still keeping the recorder trained on Shrimpo.

“That’s one,” he said evenly, “but tolerating isn’t the same thing as liking.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Shrimpo practically erupted—
“I KNOW THAT!!!”

Rodger didn’t even flinch, his tone staying steady but with the faintest hint of amusement curling at the edges.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he said, his eye narrowing in what passed for a reassuring smile. “I’m not making fun of you. I was just agreeing with the fact that they don’t mean the same thing.”

He clicked the recorder lightly, a small tick punctuating the pause.
“Anyway… that’s one. What’s the second one?”

His voice was patient but insistent, leaning in just enough to make it clear he wasn’t letting the shrimp wriggle out of answering.

“BACK THEN ON THE SHOW, I KEPT TOLERATING THIS RED VEGETABLE—I DON’T REMEMBER THE NAME, BUT I REMEMBER ONE THAT REALLY, REALLY HURT WHEN YOU BIT INTO IT. BUT IT DIDN’T HURT ME. I KEPT BITING INTO IT BECAUSE IT KEPT TRYING TO HURT ME, AND I KEPT REMINDING IT—NOTHING HURTS ME. SO I KEPT BITING IT, NOT BECAUSE I LIKED IT, BUT BECAUSE IT WAS A CHALLENGE, AND I TOLERATED THE CHALLENGE.”

Shrimpo’s voice was tight, his jaw clenched like he was reliving the fight all over again. It wasn’t about liking the vegetable—it was about proving he could take it. About showing that nothing could break him, not even a sharp, biting pain. That was his kind of strength.

Rodger’s glassy eye sparkled with a rare flicker of genuine delight as he processed the new detail.

“So,” he said, voice light but engaged, “you like spicy food—that’s very interesting.”

There was something about peeling back these small layers that made the puzzle a little less daunting, a little more human. He found himself leaning just slightly closer, as if drawn in by the unexpected.

“One last thing,” he continued, voice steady but inviting, “what’s the last thing you hate the least?”

He gave Shrimpo a faint nod, signaling he was ready to listen, to hear whatever small truth might come next.

This one was gonna be tough—dragging it out of Shrimpo was like pulling teeth. He twisted his arms around each other, clearly hating the fact that he was about to spill anything personal to a living soul. But Shrimpo is many negative things, and a liar wasn’t one of them.

Before he even said a word, Shrimpo glanced toward the kitchen, then stepped out into the hallway. He looked left, right, left, right, left again, then right one last time—making sure no one was eavesdropping. He’d rather die than have anyone hear this disgusting part of him.

When he finally returned, his teeth were clenched so hard they looked like they might shatter. His eyes were fixed on the floor like he wanted to melt right through it. Then, almost like a whisper—something completely new for him—he muttered,

“I tolerate Finn…”

As soon as it left his lips, Shrimpo snapped back to his usual self, as if the moment never happened. But then, with a harsh warning, he growled,

“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU TELL ANYONE THIS, RODGER, I WILL PERSONALLY BREAK DANDY’S BET WITH ME JUST TO GET BACK AT YOU. AND YOU WOULDN’T WANT THAT. GOT IT?”

Without waiting for a response, he bolted out of the room, a mix of embarrassment and anger twisting inside him—mostly embarrassment. After a few steps, he suddenly remembered his handheld cooler and lucky brick. Snatching them up, he shot Rodger a dark glare before stomping away so loudly that any nearby Twisted would know exactly where he was.

Rodger stared out for a moment, disbelief flickering behind his glass eye. The shrimp—of all beings—actually liked someone. And not just anyone, but that clever young fellow, Finn. A curious amusement stirred deep within the detective, something unfamiliar yet quietly satisfying. Pride, perhaps? Or the faintest hint of happiness that the shrimp had found someone to care for.

Am I really starting to appreciate the shrimp’s company? he wondered, the thought catching him off guard. Am I… taking a liking to the young man?

For a moment, Rodger allowed himself the rare indulgence of admitting that maybe, just maybe, Shrimpo wasn’t so terrible after all. And if he was honest with himself, he was actually enjoying the company—for the time being, at least.

Turning back to the machine, he grasped the familiar red wheel and began twisting it again, the steady creak filling the air as the mechanism slowly responded. The machine’s lights flickered to life, bathing the room in a dull red glow, and the shrill squeak of the elevator doors finally sliding open broke the silence.

As Rodger strode toward the elevator a realization came across…

Shrimpo… wasn’t completely terrible after all.

When the elevator alarm blared—warning the entire group to get moving—Shrimpo was the first one there.
Mostly because he was done. Done with the situation, done with himself for showing even a shred of kindness, and especially done with accidentally revealing personal information. He hated that moment with every fiber of his being… and, at the moment, he hated the moment even more.

Gigi, Connie, and Tisha were busy wrestling with the wooden crate Gigi had convinced Shrimpo to open earlier. Problem was, the thing weighed a ton—solid wood stuffed with metal supplies and other heavy gear stacked on top of each other. Getting it into the elevator was no easy feat.

Luckily, Tisha did most of the heavy lifting, practically shoving the crate inside herself. Obviously, she’d expect payment for that later. Sadly for Gigi, there was no weaseling her way out of Tisha’s grip this time.

Brightney and Rodger stepped into the elevator together—despite coming from entirely different rooms. Rodger was taking his usual slow stroll, while Brightney was buried in a dictionary, too absorbed to pay attention to where she was going. She bumped into at least two things before realizing maybe—just maybe—it was time to put the book down.

Gigi was practically draped over the open crate as the elevator lurched upward, eyes wide like she’d just stumbled upon the holy grail of loot. Every inch of her leaned forward, fingertips brushing over the organized chaos inside—shiny jumper cables coiled like treasure serpents, stacks of smoke bombs, a pristine medkit, even a ridiculous little band-aid sitting on top like some comedic cherry. She was practically vibrating.

“Connie—seriously—I appreciate you more than I can even put into words. If it wasn’t for you reminding me to the glorious ways of gambling, I would’ve never pushed myself to the ninth floor. Never. This—” she gestured wildly into the box, “—wouldn’t even be in my life right now.”

Her head whipped toward Tisha. “And you, single-handedly distracting that twisted freak by yourself? Then actually pushing the box here? No way I could’ve done that alone. I owe you big. Like… big-big.”

She didn’t stop. Her voice only climbed as she pointed around the elevator. “Rodger, Brightney—you two? Most of the extraction work on the machines was all you. And—bonus points—you dragged the shrimp in here to open my glorious box. The box I didn’t even know existed until today. Do you understand how insane this is?”

By the time she was done, Gigi was all but rubbing her face into the loot pile, almost cat-like in her adoration. “Truly, truly, thank all of you. This—” she pressed both hands into the tools like they were fine silk—“is the peak. We can retire. Run’s over. Game won.”

“You’re very welcome, Gigi…”
Her tone was light, but there was a sly undertone—half gratitude, half transaction. Without missing a beat, she extended her hand, palm open, fingers curling in a subtle beckon.

“I expect two items. Per day.”

“Two per day?!”

Gigi practically yelped, her voice cracking in outrage at what she clearly considered an absurd restriction.

“I mean, I get that the box looks like a lot, but we don’t even know how much is actually in here—it might be a tiny amount!” she argued, conveniently ignoring the fact that the crate was nearly two feet tall and three feet wide.

She crossed her arms, then jabbed a thumb toward herself. “Not to mention, it was my idea to even be on this run in the first place, so I think I deserve most of it…” Her voice dipped into a mutter as she turned her head to look anywhere but Tisha. “…if not all.”

“Asking for two per day is quite generous of me. I could ask for more, you know.”
Tisha stood her ground, arms crossed as the elevator began its slow climb back to the original floor. Everyone else instinctively shuffled to the corners, clearly deciding this was not their battle to get involved in.

“Generous?” Gigi scoffed, shifting the heavy crate closer to her side. “Even if there’s enough to go around, it was my idea in the first place. You wouldn’t have even seen this box, or thought to grab anything out of it, if it weren’t for me.”

“Oh, don’t start,” Tisha fired back. “Quit being selfish. Everyone here helped you get that crate—not to mention I was the one doing the most heavy lifting when it came to the Twisted. I hate being dirty or attacked as much as the next person, and with my OCD? It’s ten times worse. But I still did it because you’re my friend. So yeah, I expect some—if not a little bit—of compensation.”

“Heavy lifting?” Gigi leaned forward, eyebrow raised. “Last I checked, I was the one crawling halfway inside those big storage boxes. You didn’t want to touch anything unless you had gloves on.”

“Yeah, because unlike you, I’m not trying to risk a rash, tetanus, or whatever else is lurking in there. And while you were busy treasure hunting, I was running in circles with a monster that wanted to tear us in half. You think that’s easy?”

“You volunteered to distract it!” Gigi shot back. “Nobody told you to go leaping in front of it like some kind of hero.”

“And if I hadn’t, you’d be in a wooden box and a body bag right now.”

The elevator gave a low hum as the two locked eyes, neither one willing to back down.

”…” Gigi’s voice faltered for a second, unable to come up with a clean counterargument. She didn’t want to be selfish… but the idea of handing over what she fought for made her teeth grind.

Finally, she exhaled sharply. “Fine. I’ll go to my room with the box, count how much is in it, and then we’ll see how much I can split evenly.”

“Thank you.” Tisha’s tone dropped a notch—not exactly warm, but the tension eased just a little.

Gigi muttered something under her breath, hugging the crate a little tighter.

In the corner, Shrimpo told Rodger

“IT’S WEIRD WATCHING AN ARGUMENT I’M NOT IN.”

“That’s… incredibly concerning, dear,” Brightney said, her brow tilting as her light dimmed just a touch. “Especially for the average Toon.”

“But while I’ve got you here, Shrimpo,” Brightney said, her light flickering just a little brighter, “I’ve already got your things ready for tomorrow.”

She gave him a small, knowing smile—the kind that somehow managed to be both sweet and a little mischievous.

“I’m gonna need you on your best behavior, though. I’ve got a whole heap of activities lined up to help you with your little mission. Even if it’s just temporary, I promise—it’s gonna be fun.”

She tapped her notebook with her pen, almost proudly. “I’ve got a bunch of flashcards ready to go. And don’t worry, dear—I’m not gonna try to force you to be kind. But maybe… a little less mean? That’s the whole goal here, isn’t it?”

The elevator hummed softly as it descended, the cramped space filled with the quiet shuffle of Toons standing too close for comfort. Brightney’s voice tried to thread through the silence, gentle but persistent.
“Shrimpo…” she began, her tone careful, almost hopeful.

But Shrimpo barely registered her words. His eyes were fixed somewhere beyond the elevator walls, his body rigid, every inch of him shouting leave me the hell alone.

Brightney’s words hung in the air, unanswered, until Rodger’s elbow nudged him sharply — a silent insistence that cut through Shrimpo’s stubborn silence.

It wasn’t harsh, just deliberate — the kind of push that says, you’re not getting away with this. Like a quiet reminder from someone used to steering a wayward kid back on track without raising their voice.

Shrimpo let out a long, exaggerated sigh, dragging himself out of the silence he’d built around himself.
“YES, LIBRARIAN,” he snapped, voice heavy with reluctant compliance, “I WILL BE ON MY GREATEST BEHAVIOR AND PROMISE NOT TO STRANGLE ANYBODY. EVEN THOUGH I REALLY WANT TO.”

He shot Rodger a glare sharp enough to slice through steel, but Rodger only smirked, eyes calm and knowing — like he’d dealt with this exact stubbornness before, and knew exactly when to push and when to hold back.

The elevator doors slid open quietly, but the tension lingered, thick and unspoken — a silent understanding wrapped around them all.

A deep, exhausted growl tore itself from Shrimpo’s throat—raw and ragged, like the last spark of a dying fire. Before anyone could even blink, he was gone, stomping off with heavy, furious steps that hammered the floor like thunder. Each footfall was a sharp tap-tap-tap, loud enough to echo through the hallways, loud enough so they’d still hear it—even with him fading into the distance.

“You have an appointment with those two…” Connie said, her voice carrying a subtle undercurrent of disappointment that wasn’t quite hidden beneath her usual easygoing tone. It was like a small sigh, barely audible but heavy enough to make the air feel a little thicker.

She shifted on her feet, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve. “I was really hoping to sneak in some book recommendations from you later, Brightney,” she added softly, almost like a quiet wish rather than a demand.

Her eyes met Brightney’s for a brief moment, flickering with a mix of hope and hesitation—as if asking without words whether maybe, just maybe, there’d be time for something more than the usual library chatter.

“First things first—my appointment with them is tomorrow,” Brightney said with a gentle smile, her light softening like a calm breeze.

“But second? I always have time for you. You don’t need to worry ‘bout me ever forgettin’ you—not even for a second.”

Connie was sure she was about to melt right there and then. The way Brightney had said it—so gentle, so warm—it sounded like something out of a romance novel, even if Brightney probably hadn’t meant it that way at all.

But Connie wasn’t aware of that. All she knew was the sudden heat flooding her cheeks, the wild flutter in her chest, and the impossibly bright flush spreading across her face like wildfire.

Without thinking, she raised her hands and pressed them firmly against her cheeks, as if that could somehow hide the full force of the embarrassment.

She stayed like that, frozen in a blush that seemed to stretch on forever, until Brightney had stepped off the elevator and was out of sight—because there was no way Connie could handle being seen like this.

Not now. Not ever.

While the ghost was blushing her nonexistent heart out, Rodger and Tisha worked together to move the giant, heavy box out of the elevator. Gigi hovered nearby, trying to help but mostly just making sure no one tried to sneak off with her stuff.

“Well, she’s busy with her Yuri fantasy with the librarian,” Gigi said with a sly grin, practically beaming from ear to ear at the thought of all this loot tucked away safely in her room.

She glanced around the group, lowering her voice just a bit. “So, how ‘bout you all help me sneak this treasure trove upstairs without anyone noticing?”

Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “And don’t worry about your payments—I’ll try to get you your share. Just don’t expect it today. I need some serious time to treasure this entire box all by myself.”

She chuckled softly, already imagining the quiet moments alone with her newfound stash.

A montage of wacky situation Rodger Tisha and Gigi the box to her. (I’m very tired.)

(I really should’ve ended this off in the elevator, but I was too sleepy to think reasonably.)