Chapter Text
Boxten was up again, I could hear him in his room all the way down the hall, walking around and muttering to himself. I rest my head in my hands, letting my face slide down it, feeling my features slip away into my skin. I can catch sight of myself in the mirror. It wasn't even like I was asleep in the first place. Of course I wasn't, I can never sleep the night before a run.
I'm not scared. I'd never be scared. There's nothing scary down there, apart from how bad the lower levels can smell sometimes. You just go in, run from the twisted versions of your old friends out for your flesh, extract ichor and suffer the eructating pain of unforgiving death.
Easy. Nothing that would rattle me, besides. Not even Toodles or Pebbles gets scared.
And Dandy and the handlers won't sedate us unless somethings wrong, and Sprout stashes the entire medicine cabinet for Cosmo and I don't want to go tell him I can't sleep and beg for meds because then he'll think I'm weak.
I'm not weak. I can handle all of this just like any other toon. Better than any other toon.
I was last in the run today.
The silence on the lower floors is unbearable. Just the horrible taunting static of the air buzzing bouncing off all the walls. The sound of your footsteps on the floor echoing everywhere and its so quiet, and just so alone that you can hear your breath, and even that sounds too loud, far too loud, and if you can hear it who else can? And it gets louder, each breath getting larger and louder until your backs pressed against the wall with your hand over your mouth begging yourself to stop breathing, just stop, your heart pounding in every limb, crying and you don't know why, alone.
And then there's them. The twisteds. Pebbles was the most recent addition to the lot. I remember how he whimpered in Dandy's arms, how Dandy stayed up all night, nights and days holding him as he cried constantly, writhing in pain. We all watched as he grew, as things slick with ichor erupted out of his body. We all watched as he stopped showing up to meals, and we all saw when he came back, just like himself, just like the others. And his twisted version saw me on the floor today.
A shiver runs involuntarily down my body.
My face hurts.
Along the hallway, I hear Boxten open the door to his room. He's sniffing, crying. It's that part of the night.
Sighing, I stand up and open my door. He looks over at me, wiping his eyes hard, and sniffing. I refrain from grimacing. "O-oh!" He says, but his voice is thick with sleep, and wobbling from the tears. "Glisten... I'm s-sorry, did I wake you?"
His sniffling and stuttering is pathetic, this is why I don't cry in front of other toons. "It's fine." I close my door behind me. "Another nightmare?"
"Another?" He looks at me strangely.
"Well... I hear sometimes." I shift, rubbing my arm behind my back.
"I wake you up?!" He seems distressed.
"No, no! I'm just up... practicing lines and stuff... sometimes." I swallow hard. Why hadn't I asked him if he was okay before? Should I have? That's on me right. I'm awful, why don't I ask him if he's okay? I've heard him sobbing his little eyes out so many times, am I that selfish? He must hate me. My nails dig into my arm.
"Oh... I'm sorry."
I shrug, "It happens." I walk slowly, towards the kitchen, and he follows me with slow, heavy footsteps. I hit the lights and they flash on, brightening the hallway. "You should talk to Astro." Grabbing a cup, I venture towards the sink, filling it and passing it to him. He takes small baby sips and I lean against the counter.
"I have." He says in between drinking, "I think he hates me but he says-"
"He doesn't."
"-he doesn't, but I don't know... they're recurring."
"Maybe he just thinks that your idea of a bad dream is a good one. Try talking to him tomorrow."
He nods slowly. Fuck. At least I managed to save that. I feel sick to my stomach for some reason that I don't particularly want to decipher right now. I fancy going to my room and pulling my hair out right now. "How'd your mandated writing going?" I ask, smiling like I'm fine.
"It's okay... Scraps is still helping me with grammar, but Goob's worse than me."
My smile extends to a genuine one for a second. I'm sure they're reading our writings. When we're not in our rooms, on a run. I don't get too personal in mine. "That's good."
"She says I'm getting better!"
"I'm glad. I hate those things."
"Why?"
I think for a second, swallowing. "Just can't find what to write about.
"You could write about this."
"Maybe..."
“I wrote about everything. The other day I wrote about how Pebbles looked at me weirdly and then barked. I don’t know why, or how I managed to fill a whole page. You don’t think they read them and tell everyone do they?”
I blink at his little rant. “No, probably not.” I lie. “All I know is Gigi writes in Flutters diary for her. And she’s definitely written about me.” I don’t even know why they put me on this floor. Obviously I can’t be with the mains, they all share a floor the lucky bastards. But these lot? Boxten, Scraps and Goob, Razzle and Dazzle I guess are okay, Brightney, Shrimpo?! I’m glad it isn’t Finn. I can’t stand his puns.
Couldn’t they have put me closer to the mains at least? Maybe with Gigi or Teagan or Cosmo or Rodger? But I get out on the starter floor? Do they think I’m that bad?
I’m better than a starter. Don’t be foolish. I’m a useful toon. I am.
“Are you okay…?” Boxten presses lightly, and I snap myself out of my thoughts.
“Y-yeah, yeah…. Just tired.” I fake a yawn. “I should get back to my beauty sleep.”
“Beauty sleep?” He raises an eyebrow at me.
“Well I’m not this gorgeous naturally!” I laugh, and I feel like I’m lying so hard my teeth will fall out of my skull.
“Oh… well thank you! And… goodnight.” He offers me a smile and I smile back before heading to my room.
But I don’t sleep, I don’t get beauty sleep. Might be why I need all this makeup. I lay there in my bed and it’s cold, freezing even. It’s so cold it burns, just like the floors below 15.
In the floors below 15 it’s cold, they’re far from the warmth of the garden centre. You can see your breath when you’re running away from a twisted with snapping jaws, and sometimes if you get below 50 your tears freeze to your cheeks.
I don’t think twisteds feel the cold. They don’t seem to mind.
All of Dandy’s little mains have twisteds. Of course they do, the special little fucks.
It’s not like I envy them, you can’t envy something that painful. I remember how Cosmo dithered over Sprout in his last few days. I remember the way he cried so hard I could hear it in the projector room.
I guess in the end my loneliness serves a purpose. No one will have to watch me transform, no one will suffer the way those close to you do when you twist.
They boast about it, everyone with twisteds. I guess you shouldn’t call it boasting, I’m sure they’re not proud every time they run into these slimy corrupted versions of themselves. But they talk about it all the time. Oh the fresh horrors, the audacities. They talk about what it’s like to change, how it feels. How it feels to have your core ichor drenched. They talk about their memories. How they remember everything up until twisting, and where they are now.
They’re boastful. Proud. They look down on people like me, those without a form. It’s like they have a club.
It makes me feel sick.
Why can’t they see I’m special too? I’m just like them, why won’t they treat me like it…
Tucking my sheets up around me, I roll over, still no closer to sleep.
I’ll show them. I’ll show them I’m good enough. I will. I know I will.