There’s a difference between a bully and an aggressive Toon

by legallyweird

Summary:

Dandy and Shrimpo we got into a heated argument! Shrimpo grows frustrated with how he runs the shop. Tension quickly boils over, leading to a chaotic verbal bash between the two. Amid the heated argument, Dandy throws down a bold, unexpected bet—delivered with the intensity of a wild tune.

Notes:

For the love of God, give me ideas for side content, please I just want to interact with y’all. Trust me. I’m nowhere near running on his ideas. I just don’t wanna put everything I want into the story. I like to hear other people opinions too.

Chapter 1: A fresh start

POV: Rodger

Toodles had a craving for a midnight snack, and Rodger really didn’t like his lucky eight going anywhere alone so he tagged along. It wasn’t like he was doing anything important anyway, just sleeping..

(It was something his partners forced him to do every now and then drag him away from his work because they couldn’t seem to grasp that research outweighed things like bodily functions. Still, he never argued.)

As the duo crept closer to the kitchen, the calm of the night was shattered by the sound of shouting. Loud, heated yelling echoed through the halls one voice easily recognizable (they only ever spoke in shouts), but the other… that was the surprise. Of all the Toons it could’ve been, it was Dandy.

for a moment, they both look at each other for moment

“They’re having a bit of a verbal altercation, by the sound of it,” Roger muttered, feigning indifference though he was clearly eavesdropping. “Can’t say I’m shocked, though I rather hate to admit it neither of them’s exactly a favorite in the group.”

“We could probably get better info if we, um… got just a tiny bit closer,” said the nosy little Eight Ball. She wasn’t really trying to be sneaky about it not exactly but she did hate the thought of making Roger do something he didn’t fancy doing. Lucky for her, they were both terribly nosy… just in their own kinds of ways.

(Roger really love to help out in anyway possible so interviews and research is one of his main go to kinda like a therapist, but…. Weirdly obsessive, but in a good way, I guess.)
(Toodles of those are just a kid and she looks up to Rogers so he begins to have the same mindset just in a kid like way.)

As the detective and his assistant leaned against the wall, they strained to catch fragments of the conversation still muffled by the closed door, but just clear enough in places. Oddly enough, it sounded as though Dandy was the one pressing the matter. The aggressor, even. A strange role for him to play.

“I’m damn sick of folks dragging their sorry asses into my office, whining about you and your bullshit attitude.
Can you just for five goddamn seconds keep your shit together without turning it all to ash?”
The star of the show practically trembled with anger no one could reasonably blame him, considering exactly who he was addressing.

“I FUCKING HATE THAT YOU ACT LIKE I GIVE A SHIT ABOUT HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE TALKING ABOUT ME!!! AREN’T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE THE FUCKING STAR OF THE SHOW?!?!? WHY THE HELL DON’T YOU TAKE MY PLACE THEN, AND I’LL RUN THIS STUPID ASS SHOP YOURSELF?!?!?”
A loud, dramatic thud echoed through the room but it wasn’t the sound of a blow. No, it was the unmistakable noise of the flower-faced gentleman facepalming himself, utterly exasperated by the sheer absurdity of the conversation.

POV: SHRIMPO

 

The flower can’t handle the conversation of the mighty SHRIMPO! To the point where he is about to transform, the rage is really getting to deform a star of the show, and it couldn’t make Shrimpo felt more victorious. He honestly didn’t care if he lived or die. After this situation all he wanted to do is get under the skin of that stupid flower.

“THE ONLY REASON YOU’RE EVEN AT THE SHOP IS BECAUSE YOU SUCK AT EVERYTHING!!! YOU SUCK SO BAD YOU COULDN’T EVEN REVIVE YOUR OWN GODDAMN SHOW!!! I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY THEY CALLED YOU DANDY CAUSE YOU SURE AS HELL AIN’T HANDY WHEN IT COMES TO ANY FUCKING SITUATION!!!”

The shrimp truth be told had been sitting on this insult for the past three weeks. All he needed was the right moment to use it, and this was perfect. Days spent thinking of what would actually hurt… and now, finally, the star’s big show came at just the right price.

The flower was practically burning through his seat with how furious he was and that only made the shrimp’s smile more genuine. It was rare, but this moment? This was the perfect time to strike.

“Did you just say I suck?”

The flower pushed back from his chair, claws digging deep into the wood like they were itching for reason to snap.

“You the tune who was quite literally MADE FOR TERRIBLE DECISION-MAKING?”

His voice cracked like a joke mid-bite.

His once-chubby, unthreatening frame began to shift slowly, grotesquely into something far more twisting, far more pissed off. Skin peeling. Body rising. The kind of transformation that warned storms to back off.

But just before it could go full nightmare, he stopped.

Sat back down.

Let out a slow, deliberate exhale through his nose.

And forced the smile.
That Dandy smile. The one that said, “I’m fine,” but felt more like, “I’m choosing not to kill you. For now.”

He was good at that smile.

Hell, he was infuriatingly good at it.

“You know what shrimpo…”

The flower spoke softly, trying his best to remain calm even during this time

 

“Look Shrimpo… I could sit here and give you the full speech. Tell you how you’re quite literally designed to be worthless.”

He stopped mid sentence to leaned closer towards the shrimp.

“But I won’t. Because I think you already know that. You’re living it. Every miserable tick of your little meat-clock proves it.”

He flicked the pencil off the desk with a snap of his fingers and grinned that same grin that looked like it belonged on a wanted poster.

“But here’s the real game, FRIEND.”

He held up two fingers, then slowly added a third.

“I bet no, I guarantee you couldn’t go two weeks without fighting, pushing, or yelling something that isn’t necessary nor needed.”

A step forward. Voice lower. Meaner.

“Two weeks. That’s it. And I’ll even sweeten it. You beat the clock? I grant you three wishes — anything within my charming little range of reality.”

He stood straight again, brushing invisible dust from his lapel, his grin sharpening.

“Because honestly… I’d love to watch you try.
I want to see the moment you fall.

Because failing?
That’s the one thing you’ve ever been good”

As the flower sit there as if he won the Almighty shrimp
(something he calls himself) was about to make a drastic decision in his life, which probably will change it forever.

“I ACCEPT YOUR STUPID FUCKING CHALLENGE—AND I’M GONNA WIN, BECAUSE SHRIMPO ALWAYS FUCKING WINS!“

“Ooooooo by the way,” he purred, voice thick with something venomous and sweet.
“But I hope you know…”

He leaned in, eyes glittering like glass just before it shatters.

“This little wager? This cute little challenge you think you’re running?”

His grin stretched. Too wide. Too calm.

“It means I get something in return if you lose
‘But I’m not gonna tell you what it is.”

 

“Because I want it to be a surprise when it happens to you.”

A pause. A beat. Then that fake innocence slid back in like a mask he’d worn too many times.

The shrimp agreed eagerly, without a second thought for the consequences just as the flower had hoped. But before he left, he stopped by Dandy’s still open shop and grabbed a single bandage. Paid for it, too. The crustacean had a brilliant idea at least, in his own eyes. If he couldn’t say anything bad, then perhaps it was best he didn’t say anything at all. With a determined glint, he slapped the two bandages he’d just snatched into an X shaped seal over his mouth. A self-imposed silence. If he couldn’t badmouth anyone, he figured, then surely he’d win this argument… in his own strange way.

He threw his head back and laughed a wicked, booming howl that echoed off the walls like mockery given form.

“There he goes!” he cackled, wiping a fake tear from his eye.
“Little rage shrimp storming off like he owns the ocean!”

 

The others in the room barely reacted. At this point, Shrimpo’s outbursts were like background noise loud enough to hear, but easy enough to tune out.
Like a smoke alarm in a burning building.

But The Flower?
He soaked in the attention. Drank from it like wine.
He didn’t just laugh at Shrimpo.
He thrived on how little it mattered that Shrimpo was mad.
That was the game.

And The Flower was winning.

 

POV: Rodger

After the little girl, witness all this went down She had an epiphany, her eyes lit up like stars in the night, and she began to plan something taking her father figure and dragging him, practically without a second thought as a two run into Roger‘s room

“Toodles if you don’t mind me asking, why are you dragging me into my own room?”
The detective said with no response towards him, but the lucky eight was cooking up something in that big brain of hers so he decided to let it play out.

She sat me down in front of my own bed and made sure I stayed there, no questions asked. Then she started digging through my closet for something I already knew she’d go for my chalkboard. One of her favorite things in the whole room, mostly ‘cause she likes messing with the chalk like it’s some kind of toy. She started drawing, scribbling something fast, too fast for me to keep up. I could only catch bits and pieces it was all getting drowned out by the dust storm. Not to mention, her hand was moving like lightning i’ll be surprised if there’s any chalk left for me later that’s not the point. Once the dust finally settled, I adjusted my one eye and leaned in to see what she wrote down.

‘Operation helps shrimpo!’
Toodles had drawn up quite the plan thoughtful, detailed, all for the sake of helping the crustacean. And bless her, her heart’s in the right place. But truth be told, this isn’t the sort of thing one simply pulls off overnight.

Before Roger Could even give out his opinion to Toodles already cut them off.

“I know he’s not the greatest person. Not even close. And I can’t really think of a nice way to call him decent either… but you’ve got to understand he didn’t pick any of this. He never got a say in who he wanted to be. They all just shoved him into that part, like Dandy said, like he was some storybook bully already written before he even opened his mouth.”

So she stood her ground arms crossed, feet planted, heart thudding because she wanted to help that Toon. Not because it made sense, or because anyone told her to. Just… because it felt like the right thing. The nice thing. And sometimes, that’s enough.

Rodger stood up in quiet defeat. Truth was, he could never really say no to her especially not with how demanding and unyielding she could be. All the things he wished he’d been when he was younger, wrapped up in her. With a soft brush of his hand across her cheek, he accepted the idea, nodding slowly up, then down giving in without a word.
“I can agree to this,” he said, “but we’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Odds are, we’ll catch him hanging around with Finn during the day and if he hasn’t already broken his bet, we’ll figure out what to do from there.”

The young toon practically exploded with excitement, jumping up and down like she’d just been handed the keys to the kingdom. To her, this wasn’t just a task—it was her very first important mission. With a squeal of joy, she bolted out of the room, nearly blitzing poor Rodger in the process as she zipped past him like a firecracker on a sugar high.

Rodger blinked, dazed, then chuckled under his breath. There was so much life packed into that tiny frame. He couldn’t help but smile as he shuffled toward the bed, a quiet ache in his bones reminding him just how old he was feeling tonight.

He sat down with a sigh, lifted the blanket, and eased himself under it slow, thoughtful, like every motion was tied to some memory. Staring at the ceiling for a moment, he let it all settle in. What mess have I gotten myself into now?

But the more he thought about it, the more his grin lingered. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. There was something oddly refreshing about it chaotic, sure, but kind of… fun. And who knows? If we can actually get the shrimp to win that bet, we might even get something out of this.

He closed his eyes, still smiling.

Let’s see how far this thing goes.

POV: Narrator

 

When fresh steam rose from the warm oven tray,
The scent of sweet cake drifted into the day.
Strawberry, focused, was baking with care,
While Cosmo just sighed with a sleep-heavy stare.

He glanced to his side with a soft little grin,
Noticing them as the morning slid in.

“Worn out, huh? That’s what you get for pulling an allnighter. Should’ve listened to me and chilled,”
the strawberry said with a lazy flick to the back of Cake Roll’s head.

He smirked, but there was no real sting in it just enough to say “I told you so.”
Cake Roll didn’t even lift his head from the counter, too tired to talk back.

With a small sigh, Strawberry shook his head and draped a soft blanket over his friend’s shoulders already prepared, like he knew this would happen.

“You spoil me…”
the exhausted Sweet Roll mumbled, voice muffled against the counter.

Without missing a beat, Strawberry flicked his ear and said,
“We’re sweets. ’Course we spoil each other—who else will if we don’t?”

“That was awful,” Sweet Roll groaned. “You’ve been hanging around Looey too much… but somehow, you still can’t land his sense of humor.”

They both cracked up, a shared little laugh that filled the quiet room.
It was soft. The kind of peace that felt earned. The kind that made the world feel okay for a second.

And Moore? Moore was definitely gonna be mad he missed this.
At least, until—

BANG.

A heavy kick hit their door like it owed somebody money.

They didn’t even flinch.

Strawberry sighed, already pulling the blanket off Sweet Roll’s back.

“Of course he’s up first…”

 

Cosmo said with irritation in his voice, he didn’t hate the shrimp, but he wouldn’t like some peace and quiet for a few moments, but that would have to wake as the shrimp is quickly approaching their spot

Sprout had been halfway through a sentence, ready to give Shrimp a piece of his mind—
but then he stopped, blinking once… then again.

Something was off.

His eyes narrowed. There was something around Shrimp’s mouth.
Not food. Not sleep crust.
It looked… like tape? A Band-Aid?

He stared, unsure if he was just sleep-deprived and seeing things.

Still, the image didn’t go away.

Sprout slowly raised a hand to his own mouth, mimicking it without thinking.

“I know we don’t talk much,” he said, cautiously. “But… uh, what’s going on with your… situation?”

Cosmo looked up, brows furrowed, caught off guard.
“What situation?”

Then he followed Sprout’s line of sight.
Saw what he saw.

And just like that, the mood snapped.

Shrimp’s face dropped. Tension hit like a wall.
Not a word. Just a sharp glare, frustration rising fast—
and without saying a thing, he turned on his heel and stormed back into his room, slamming the door behind him.

The sound echoed.
Cosmo stayed frozen.
Mouth still slightly open.

“…He didn’t argue. He didn’t yell he didn’t talk bad about anything. He just left that interaction. We just had probably woke me up and I don’t think I could ever fall asleep again.” he muttered

The confusion thickened, lingering in the air between them like dust in sunlight.

They were still letting the silence breathe, trying to brush off the awkward mess Shrimp left behind—
when his door creaked open again.

Heavy steps.
Low, deliberate.

Shrimpo emerged, same scowl carved into his face like it’d been etched there for years.
But now… he had something in his hand.

An old notebook.
Tattered, the edges curled like they’d been through storms.
Pages folded, some torn clean in half, the whole thing held together by a spine that was barely holding on.

He walked straight up to them, fists clenched tight around the book.
His eyes never wavered—piercing, loaded, unreadable.

Like he wanted to scream.
Like he was choking on every word he couldn’t say.

But he didn’t.
Not yet.

He just stood there, the notebook shaking in his grip, like it had weight no one else could feel.

Sprout glanced at Cosmo, but even he didn’t move—
whatever this was… it was deeper than anything they’d guessed.

And Shrimp?
He didn’t hand the notebook over.
Didn’t explain a damn thing.

He just stood there like he was daring one of them to ask.

Like his silence was louder than anything he could scream.

One of the Band-Aids on Shrimp’s mouth started to peel—
just a little, just enough to notice.
Probably from how hard he was trying to speak.

His jaw tensed. Lips trembled.

Then—smack.

He slapped it back on.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.

Each time more frantic than the last.

Cosmo and Sprout weren’t just confused anymore.
Now they looked… concerned.
Like something was really wrong.

Shrimp didn’t say a word.

Instead, he ripped open that ragged notebook, hands shaking, and started scribbling—
furiously, like he was outrunning a scream.

The pen carved deep, nearly slicing the paper,
then he ripped the page out, fast,
and threw it at them.

It didn’t hit.
Just fluttered down gently between them like a dead leaf.

Sprout blinked.
Cosmo tilted his head.

On the page:

“I will have a cupcake from the Almighty Shrimp.”
With a tiny, angry doodle of a shrimp wearing a crown.

Both their jaws dropped—low.
Like cartoon-level “what the fuck” low.

Because Shrimpo
the loudmouth,
the “HATE” machine,
the king of inconvenience
and casual cruelty
was now the quietest person in the room.
And the only thing he wanted…
was a cupcake.

And he was asking permission to get it.

No arguments.
No insults.
Not even sarcasm.

Just a note.
Just a stare.

Sprout and Cosmo exchanged a long, long look.

Then silently handed him the cupcake.

Shrimp snatched it, turned, and disappeared back into his room without a word.
Door shut. Lock clicked.

Silence.

The air sat thick between them for a moment, until the taller Toon finally broke it.

“…Who lobotomized Shrimpo?”

CRACK.

Cosmo punched him square in the shoulder.

“First of all,” he snapped, “stop watching those weird videos with Vee and the Mask Twins.”

Sprout winced, rubbing his arm.

“Second of all, I don’t think any of our friends would ever hurt him that bad, and you shouldn’t even joke like that.”

The bite in his voice softened, drowned in the worry creeping back into his face.

“…But seriously,” Cosmo whispered, his eyes drifting to the closed door,
“what happened to Shrimpo?”

A few hours passed without much noise—
but that silence? It didn’t feel right.

Not with him locked away like that.

Cosmo hadn’t moved from the couch much.
Not really watching the screen.
Not really hearing Sprout babble on about some dumb video Vee showed him.

He just kept glancing at the hallway.

At that shut door.
That quiet.

Too quiet for Shrimpo.

Not that Cosmo liked the guy.
Shrimpo was a certified pain in the ass.
Loud. Rude. Impossible.
But still…

Cosmo’s felt bad for the shrimp because he thought it was a situation that happened to him. They made him react like this.
Like something invisible had grabbed Shrimp by the throat and wouldn’t let go.

And Cosmo?
He’d always been the kind of guy who cared, even when he really, really shouldn’t.
This felt like one of those times.

Sprout noticed.

He sighed, plopping down next to him with that half-annoyed, half-soft look he got when he didn’t know what else to say.

“You’re worrying too much,” Sprout said, kicking his feet up.
“It’s probably just another stunt. You know how he is.”

He paused.

“Maybe he’s just… getting creative with this one. Who knows?
Trying to freak us out in some new annoying way.”

He laughed under his breath.

“I mean, he’s probably in there giggling to himself like,
‘Heh, what if I just traumatize them into giving me cupcakes?’”

Cosmo didn’t laugh.

Didn’t even smile.

Sprout’s chuckle faded out.

“Okay, maybe… not funny. But you get what I mean.”

Cosmo stared ahead, jaw tight, his voice barely above a whisper:

“Yeah, I get it.
It’s just—
he doesn’t usually stay quiet this long.”

Another beat of silence passed.
This time, they both listened to the hallway.
Still nothing.

No smart remarks.
No banging.
No screaming about someone touching his stuff.

Just that goddamn quiet.

And it was starting to sound like suffocation.

Toodles and Roger, with Glisten right behind, all stepped out of the room still chatting, just in time to spot Sprout trying to cheer up Cosmo — like something bad had happened. And oh no, she thought, please tell me Shrimp didn’t lose the bet already.

She dashed over to them, words tumbling out before she could stop them.
“What’s wrong with my favorite desserts?” she asked, trying to sound playful, like everything was fine.

But really, she was hoping — praying, even — that Shrimp was still in the game. Not that it really mattered, not really. She liked to act like she didn’t care either way. But the truth was… this felt like her big mission. Her chance to actually help, to fix something for once. Even if she was the only one who said it out loud, she had to try.

Cosmo and Sprout both jumped as the little girl zipped into the room at blinding speed, her sudden entrance a streak of motion and wide-eyed energy.

They both laughed. Genuinely, this time.

“Everything’s fine,” Cosmo said, waving her down with a chuckle. “Nothing bad happened. Just had a… weird encounter, to say the least.”

Sprout leaned back against the couch, arms behind his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
He was clearly still trying to wrap his head around the whole thing himself.

“The fussy shrimp came up to us,” he started, voice drifting between casual and unsettled, “and instead of yell-yelling, or scream-screaming, or insulting my entire bloodline—he just… sat there.”

Cosmo nodded slowly. His smile had faded.

“He didn’t throw anything. He didn’t call us names. Of course he did look pissed but—just… it felt like he didn’t want to speak, and that’s the most confusing part about it.”

Sprout continued, brow furrowed now. “I mean, yeah, he kicked down his door like usual and stomped across the place, but then… nothing. No chaos. No yelling. No fire in his eyes. It’s like—he was trying not to be him.”

As those words hit the air, the little girl’s eyes went wide. Real wide.

Then, without warning, she practically jumped into the air, spinning to face the hallway like something clicked hard in her head.

Roger, standing in the background, had seen this pattern before. He let out a long sigh, already shaking his head before a word was said.
He didn’t like where this was heading.

And glisten with his ear set up high was interested within a Tea that was being made in front of him Curious of what it was building up to be.

Toodles was bouncing up and down, practically bursting with excitement as she pointed toward Roger’s room.
“Alright, everyone! Follow me!” she shouted, already halfway down the hall before she realized no one was following her.

She skidded to a stop, whipped around, and came jogging back, arms flailing just a little as if the urgency was leaking out of her fingertips.
“Guys! Come on! This is serious!” she huffed, stomping once for emphasis. “This is a major case like, big big! A case that I, personally, will solve. With or without you. And when I do, everyone’s gonna know me as the one who cracked the code of Dandy’s bet!”

She didn’t even wait for a reply just spun on her heel and took off again.

The rest of them just blinked at each other, caught somewhere between confused and amused. All except Roger, who let out a small sigh the kind that meant “here we go again” and followed after her with a shrug. The others, still curious enough not to miss whatever nonsense might happen next, shuffled along behind.

And she waved everyone within first one being Roger, who practically understand the gist of what she’s talking about because of their interaction of last night.

the second behind him Cosmo and sprout due to having a interaction with shrimp that is basically the main subject of today’s matter.

And a third behind glisten….He likes drama he’s there for drama.

Toodles and her assistant — Roger (who, to be fair, owned the room, the chalkboard, the chairs, and practically everything she was using) — had officially declared the space their case headquarters.

It was all for The Bet.

With her hands behind her back and a little bounce in her step, Toodles paced the room like a tiny general, explaining the previous night’s events with the gravity of a high-stakes mystery.

The others watched with fond amusement. Nobody stopped her — mostly because everyone liked her, and honestly, she made the whole thing more fun.

“Now,” she began, adjusting an imaginary tie at her collar, “at precisely 9:00 PM, myself and my second-in-command — Roger — were out acquiring evening rations—snacks,” she clarified with a serious nod, “when we heard a most ruckus shouting match between Dandy and Shrimpo!”

She turned sharply, arms sweeping as she spoke.

“So obviously,” she said with theatrical emphasis, “we investigated. And eavesdropped.”

She paused, then gave herself a tiny smack to the forehead.

“Wait — no, no — I mean, we overheard! That’s the proper way of saying it!”

That earned chuckles around the room. Toodles grinned, encouraged by the response.

“Yes, yes, yes — we overheard the entire conversation, with our heads pressed right up against the wall like proper sleuths!”

The laughter got louder. Even Glisten piped up, flicking her hair back with a smirk.

“I knew I liked you, darling. You’re no better than me.”

Roger, arms crossed and brow raised, gave a quiet sigh.
“I will neither confirm nor deny any wall-related actions. Now let’s try to stay on task, Detective.”

Toodles cleared her throat and gave a dramatic point toward the chalkboard, as if nothing had happened.

“Ahem. As I was saying—during the overhearing, we discovered that Dandy was antagonizing Shrimpo. The terms were this: if Shrimp could go two whole weeks without blowing up at anyone — no yelling, no violence, no pushiness — Dandy would grant him three wishes.”

She paused and raised three fingers dramatically.

“Shrimp, of course, said something about being the best at everything ever and how he’d win easily—blah blah blah, you know how he talks.”

Toodles turned, beaming now.

“And my job, as a real detective — the detective — is to help him pull it off. And when I do, I shall be known forever as the brilliant mind who tamed the shrimp! The only one who ever could!”

She struck a pose.

Roger gave the room a look that said, I did not sign up for this, but made no move to stop her.

Glisten, lounging with the elegance of someone who owned five silk robes and wore them all at once, took a dainty sip of the tea he’d brewed himself nothing too fancy because Teagan was still asleep at the time. He didn’t even glance up as he spoke, voice smooth, sharp, and most of all intrigue in something else.

“Well, as much as I adore talking trash about Dandy pompous glitter sponge that he is and that delightfully unhinged goblin you all still insist on calling Shrimpo…”
He paused, swirling the tea in his cup with a lazy flourish, eyes finally lifting with a glint of something sharp underneath all that sugar.

“…I must say, darling, something’s not adding up. Shrimp doesn’t care about wishes — he barely cares about hygiene. And you expect me to believe he’s keeping his mouth shut out of the goodness of his heart?”
He raised a perfectly plucked brow.

“No, no, no. There’s a wrinkle in this little tale of yours, detective. Something you’re not saying. And I —” he leaned forward, grinning like a cat at a confession booth, “— simply must know what it is.”

“Well…” Toodles said, her voice softening, the energy draining just a little from her shoulders. “If there’s one thing I can tell you — it’s that Dandy was talking about Shrimp like… like he was made to be a problem. Not acted like it. Made like it. Like… built from the ground up to be bad at everything. Even being bad, he said.”

She looked down at her hands. “That’s why you never really hear Shrimp say anything that’s truly cruel. He just hates people. All of them. And… Dandy said that’s the point. That his whole existence is meant to be worthless. Just a throwaway Toon.”

The room fell quiet.

No one gasped. No one looked surprised. Honestly, hearing something that harsh from Dandy wasn’t exactly shocking — not for any of them. But the part that stuck with them… was that Toodles had heard it. That she’d had to sit there and listen to it all.

And even with everything Shrimp had done — the yelling, the violence, the mood swings — for a moment, just one, everyone in that room felt something they didn’t expect to feel.

Sympathy.

Not because what he’d done was excused. Not even close. But because, suddenly, it made a little more sense why he always acted like the whole world owed him something.

And why he never really believed anyone could love him in the first place.

Cosmo was the first to break the silence, voice softer than usual but steady.

“Well… it does seem like he’s trying,” he said, glancing down at his hands, then back up. “In his rough, dumb, shrimp like way he is making an effort. So maybe we should try to help him out.”

He let the thought hang in the air like dust in the sunlight, eyes slowly scanning the room to gauge everyone else’s take on it.

Sprout exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. He didn’t hesitate.

“We can see what we can do,” he said bluntly. “But we shouldn’t drop everything just to save the guy.”

His tone wasn’t cruel, just cautious. Sprout never was one to sugarcoat the truth.

“He’s making an effort, sure. That’s worth something,” Sprout continued, nodding slowly, “but we still gotta stay aware of who we’re dealing with. You can have some nice days… that don’t make you nice.”

His words settled over the group like a slow fog
honest, maybe even protective.

Sprout let out a tired sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Look… I’m not saying we throw a damn parade,” he muttered, glancing toward the hallway. “But if he’s trying, even a little… I guess we owe it to him to at least meet him halfway.”

“Eh… not like I got anything better to do,” he muttered, shrugging. “Might as well spend the day with my best friend—even if it means dealing with that loud-mouthed shrimp.”

Cosmo gave him a side-eye smile, clearly catching the hidden warmth buried under the sarcasm.
“That’s your way of saying you care, huh?”

Sprout clicked his tongue and looked away, arms crossed.
“Don’t push it.”

Cosmo start messing with sprout purposely getting on his nerves, but they both know sprout wouldn’t do anything about it

We turn our attention to Glisten and Roger.

The tea was long forgotten now, cradled loosely in Glisten’s hand as a grin worthy of a cartoon villain spread slowly across his face — all teeth, all intent. His eyes sparkled like polished knives. He was absolutely going to abuse this situation… but even he wouldn’t dare crush the little girl’s detective fantasy.

Not yet.

“I shall assist,” he said, each word dripping with false humility, “but only on one condition.”
He delicately raised a finger like a man delivering a royal decree.

“I cannot — and will not — do anything alone. Not with him.”
He gestured vaguely, as if the mere mention of Shrimpo’s name might stain his silk sleeves.

“I am not — repeat, not — dealing with that abominable creature. I don’t care if he’s ‘trying to change’ or finding inner peace or whatever fairytale nonsense this is.”
His tone curled like smoke, poisonous.

“I have standards,” he said with a mock gasp, placing a hand dramatically to his chest, “and I will not lower them to the point where that screeching menace appears in my reflection.”

He gave a satisfied nod, then took another sip of his tea — pinky raised, of course — as if he hadn’t just declared war with silk gloves on.

Roger cleared his throat, stepping in right after Glisten, his voice steady but carrying that familiar dry edge—as if he were announcing the weather rather than volunteering for a wild goose chase.

“I’m perfectly fine helping out with this. Besides,” he added with a faint, tired smirk, “it’s about time I got my interview with him. And if Glisten’s not keen on doing the whole ‘heart-to-heart’ routine alone…” He shot a sideways glance at Glisten, lowering his voice just enough so only the older ones caught the meaning, “well, I’d be more than happy to tag along. Wouldn’t want him making you uncomfortable, now would we?”

Glisten tossed back a dramatic eye roll, a sly smirk playing on his lips.
“Darling, please. You know you just want to babysit me because you can’t handle the solo.”

Roger gave a dry chuckle, clearly unfazed.
“Maybe. But I’ll have you know, keeping up with your sharp tongue keeps me on my toes.”

For a split second, Glisten’s smirk softened into a brief, almost secretive smile — just enough to catch the light — before he snapped it back into his usual sassy grin.

Roger noticed, of course. And maybe, just maybe, it made him smirk a little more to himself.

Just as Roger and Glisten’s little moment settled into the air like dust in the sun, Eight Ball cut through it like a hurricane with a mission.

“Alright, you two can stop flirting now!” she shouted, hands on her hips like a commander giving orders. “We’ve got a shrimp to help!”

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and ran full-speed to the door, flinging it open with the dramatic force of someone who thought they were about to save the entire world. An imaginary gust of wind swept through the room, ruffling absolutely nothing—except maybe the vibe—and brushed across her shiny, cartoony eight-ball head like she was in a music video.

She spun around, grinning from ear to ear.
“Let’s move out, detectives!”

And just like that, she skipped out into the hall — a bounce in her step, arms flailing like airplane wings — leading the way toward Shrimpo’s room, full of confidence, chaos, and a heart way too big for someone her size.

Roger gave a slow blink. “Flirting?” he muttered under his breath.

Glisten just winked. “Mmhm. You wish.”

Cosmo was right behind the little eight ball holding her hand as she skipped
Roger practically jogging to keep up the pace with the Toons ahead
Sprout and glisten are in the back. They’re both only here because they dragged into being here but they’re on for the ride at least.
Until they finally reached the door!

SHRIMPO: POV!!!!

 

HE FUCKING HATES THIS STUPID, GODDAMN CHALLENGE. HATES THAT HE EVER AGREED TO IT. HATES THAT HE’S GOTTA SPEND THE REST OF HIS WEEKS TRAPPED IN THIS BULLSHIT. HE KNOWS FOR A FACT THAT IF HE STEPS OUTSIDE, HE’S GONNA SNAP—HE’S GONNA SHOVE SOMEONE, MAYBE WORSE. AND THAT INFURIATING LITTLE FLOWER? THAT THING REALLY GOT UNDER HIS SKIN LAST NIGHT, REALLY FUCKING SHOVED HIS BUTTONS IN.

SHRIMP HATES THAT HE WAS EVER MADE LIKE THIS. HATES THAT THEY THINK THIS STUNT IS GONNA SHAKE HIM. HE STARTS RIPPING PAGE AFTER PAGE OUT OF WHATEVER THE HELL HE WAS WRITING, SHREDDING IT, SCATTERING IT, SCREAMING THROUGH HIS TEETH. HE HATES HAVING TO BE QUIET. HE HATES THE WAY THE WALLS FEEL LIKE THEY’RE BREATHING. HATES THAT ANYONE THINKS THEY’VE GOT THE RIGHT TO TELL HIM HE’S BAD—WHEN BEING BAD IS THE ONLY FUCKING THING HE’S GOT LEFT. THE ONLY THING THEY DIDN’T RIP OUT OF HIM.

HE’S BAD BECAUSE THEY MADE HIM BAD. BECAUSE OF HIS STUPID, FUCKING HANDLERS. BECAUSE OF THAT DEAD, ROTTING SHOW THEY DUMPED HIM IN LIKE TRASH. HE HATES THE WAY THEY PULL HIS STRINGS. HE HATES EVERYONE. HE HATES EVERYTHING.

HE HAT—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

WHO THE FUCK IS KNOCKING AT MY DOOR RIGHT NOW?

I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD—IF IT’S GOOB OR FINN, I’M GONNA LOSE IT. I ALREADY TOLD BOTH OF THEM I DON’T FEEL LIKE FUCKING TALKING TODAY.

AS SOON AS I SWUNG OPEN THE DOOR, STILL RE-PLASTERING THE BAND-AIDS OVER MY MOUTH TO STOP MYSELF FROM SCREAMING IN SOMEONE’S FUCKING FACE, I WAS MET WITH AN UNUSUAL SIGHT—THE LITTLE BABY EIGHT BALL, STANDING HER IS THE HOMO GLASS DUO AND THOSE TWO FRUITCAKE THAT’S WHERE THEY’RE ONLY FRIENDS, BUT YOU CANT GET ONE WITHOUT THE OTHER POPPING UP BEHIND, LOOKING LIKE THEY WALKED OUT OF A GODDAMN SOAP OPERA.

SHRIMP JUST STARED—NO WORDS, NO BREATH, JUST PURE FUCKING PUZZLEMENT DRIPPING DOWN HIS FACE. HE LOOKED LIKE HE WANTED TO SCREAM, WANTED TO COMBUST, BUT THE BAND-AIDS KEPT HIS TEETH CAGED. HIS EYES WHIPPED BACK INTO THE ROOM LIKE HE LEFT THE STOVE ON, SEARCHING DESPERATELY FOR ANY SCRAP OF PAPER HE HADN’T ALREADY TORN TO SHREDS.

HE FOUND ONE—BARELY INTACT, CRUMPLED AT THE EDGE OF HIS DESK—AND DASHED TO IT LIKE HE WAS RUNNING TO SAVE A PART OF HIMSELF. HE DUG INTO HIS POCKET, PULLED OUT THAT HALF-CHEWED PEN—THE ONE WITH THE TEETH MARKS, THE SHRIMP TRADEMARK—AND STARTED WRITING LIKE HE WAS STABBING THE PAPER. OVER AND OVER. INK SPLATTERING. WRISTS TWITCHING. LIKE HE WASN’T WRITING—HE WAS BLEEDING OUT.

HE SPUN AROUND AND SHOVED THE PAPER TOWARD THEM, HAND TREMBLING, BREATH SHORT, EYES BURNING.

IT READ:
“WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHY ARE Y’ALL HERE!”
AND RIGHT UNDERNEATH—A LITTLE DOODLE OF SHRIMP HIMSELF, TEARING PAPER APART WITH HIS TEETH.

She stepped up again. Gentle as ever. Tiny hands tucked behind her back, like she thought that made her less threatening. Her big cartoon eyes were locked on me like I was a wounded animal instead of a pissed-off powder keg.

“Look,” she said, calm as hell, “we all know about the bet you made with Dandy. And we all agreed — we’re gonna help you get through it. Whether you think you need us or not.”

Her voice wasn’t loud. She didn’t shove it in my face. She never did. That was the worst part. That softness, that sugar-coated certainty, like she could kindness me into giving a shit. Like I didn’t see right through it.

And the others? Of course they were here. She got to them. All of them. Not by yelling. Not by threatening. Just by existing. Just by believing hard enough. Somehow that was enough for them to follow her, no questions asked.

It made me sick.
No—it made me boil.

Because now I was stuck. Surrounded. There was no way to tell her to fuck off without the rest of them hearing about it. And I knew exactly how that would go— Roger would most definitely defend his precious little angel probably giving me a black eye too. Glisten would probably drop off the meanest dirt about me and give it to everyone. Not to mention Dandy will be in the background watching from the cameras he put up and see me being mean making that deal over..

So I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. My whole body was buzzing from how much I wanted to scream but knew I couldn’t. Not without making it worse. Not without handing them the win.

She gave me that little nod like she’d just decided something for the both of us, then gave a smile that made my teeth itch.

“‘Cause you’re not doing this alone. Not anymore.”

And all I could think was:

Fuck you. Fuck all of this. I don’t want your help. I don’t want your nods. I don’t want your forced-friendship bullshit wrapped up in smiles.

But I couldn’t say it. Not now. Not with them all watching.

So I swallowed it.
Like everything else.
And let the anger rot where they couldn’t see it.

I turned around before any of them could see what was on my face—because it wasn’t just anger anymore. It was humiliation. Rage’s uglier, quieter cousin.

My fingers curled so tight around the doorknob I could hear my knuckles crack, and I slammed it shut behind me without another word. Not hard enough to break it—but just loud enough to remind them whose space this was.

I leaned against the wall and let my head fall back, eyes burning holes in the ceiling like maybe I could punch through it with hate alone.

“You’re not doing this alone,” she said.

Bullshit.

I’ve always done it alone.
I do it alone because when I don’t, people make speeches like that.
Because the second you give someone your ribs, they try to crawl inside and fix what they don’t understand.

And the worst part?
The absolute, soul-curdling worst part?

She’s not wrong.

Not about the help.
Not about what I need.
But fuck, that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

My eye was practically pulsing out of my skull, and my hands were so deep into my own skin I swear I was about to start peeling. Everything was too much. Every voice, every breath, every look—they all pissed me off. And the fact that they were willing to help me? That made it worse.

Like I was some group project pity case. Like they’d all taken a vote and decided I wasn’t allowed to drown in peace.

But I had no choice.

I grabbed my notebook—half-full of scribbled threats and ink-stained silence—and followed them out. No words. No looks. Just my shadow clinging to theirs like I was being dragged behind it.

He was definitely gonna hate this week.
He already fucking knew.

Chapter 2: Step on the beginning of it

Summary:

Shrimp reluctantly agrees to come along and their first day they spent basically sleeping over to see what they can do and the only reason they’re sleeping is because they don’t know how to say no towards the smaller angel
(Toodles)

Notes:

Again, fuck you I don’t know how to do this shit I’m trying my best

As we finally made our way back into Toodles room—with Shrimpo dragging behind us like a bomb on a timer—we started to see what this week was really doing to him.

The walk through the halls was quiet, but not silent. Every step came with eyes. Countless Toons stopped what they were doing just to stare. Like they’d never seen him like this before. And maybe they hadn’t. Not like this—mouth bandaged shut like he was locking the world out with tape and spite. A walking contradiction, loud in everything but voice.

You could see it crawling under his skin. The way his fists stayed clenched. The way his shoulders locked. He wasn’t just uncomfortable—he was humiliated. Like every glance felt like a knife to the ribs.

And everyone could tell.
He hated being looked at like that—like something broken.
Like something small.

And the worst part? He couldn’t scream.
Not yet.

Some looked concerned. Most were just confused.
And a very, very small few…
They were smiling.

Not the kind of smile you offer someone who’s healing.
No—these were the crooked little grins you give when you think someone deserves to fall apart. The kind that says, “I know what you did.” Or worse, “You got what’s coming.”

Shrimp couldn’t even tell who was doing it. Couldn’t pick out a single face.
Didn’t matter.
He was too angry to focus—too angry to breathe.
This wasn’t regular anger. This was that deep, buried, feral kind. The kind that coils around your ribs and whispers things you know you shouldn’t do.
And the fucked-up part?

He didn’t know how to get it out without hurting somebody.
And the only body he had permission to destroy was his own.

Because technically—technically—that worthless fucking flower had said “respect others.” Not “respect yourself.”

So he started pressing.

Fingers digging into his skull, slow and brutal, like he was trying to squeeze the thoughts out through pressure alone. At first, no one noticed. It looked like he was just covering his face—maybe embarrassed, maybe tired.

But the longer he stayed there, the more the world around him warped. The more eyes he could feel. Like they weren’t just watching.
They were judging.
Mocking.
Throwing daggers with their silence.

And all he wanted—more than anything—was for someone to say something.
So he’d have an excuse to lose control.

As Shrimpo stood there, anger slowly gnawing away at him from the inside out, Toodles turned — like something just tugged at her gut.

He hadn’t said a word, but she didn’t need him to. She could see it.

She was one of the few Toons actually smaller than him, and from that angle, she caught it clear as day — his fingers, clenched so hard into his gloves, they looked like they were about to burst. White at the knuckles. Pressed so deep they were almost leaking at the seams.

Her expression shifted — excitement gone, replaced with quiet worry. Without a word, she reached up and tugged gently on Roger’s long coat, her small hand curling into the fabric like a silent alarm.

He looked down at her, then followed her gaze to Shrimpo.

And just like that, Roger’s shoulders straightened a bit. The detective mask slipped into place. He didn’t say anything yet — he didn’t need to. Not when Toodles had already done the hardest part:

Noticing.

There wasn’t much Roger could do in that moment — at least, not with words. So instead, he did what came naturally: he took quiet action.

With a low sigh, he reached out and gently grabbed Shrimpo by the wrist — not hard, not yanking, but firm enough to leave no room for argument. With his other hand, he nudged Toodles forward beside him, and the three of them quietly made their way toward the nearest door: Shrimpo’s room.

Shrimpo didn’t say a word. He didn’t fight it either. Truth be told, he hated the whole thing — the touch, the silence, the sense of being handled — but if he had to choose between standing there in front of everyone or retreating into his own space, he’d take the second option every time.

Roger pushed open the door.

What he saw inside stopped him in his tracks.

It wasn’t just a messy room. It was a screaming room.

The kind of place where someone had been trying — and failing — to hold it together for a long, long time.

Notes scattered everywhere. Ripped sheets, half-finished sentences, most of them just angry scribbles, declarations of hate, crossed-out phrases repeating like mantras. Drawings — too many drawings — all of them of Shrimpo himself. Sometimes calm. Sometimes monstrous. Sometimes barely recognizable.

And the walls…

There were holes. Clean, intentional ones — not like someone had tripped or flailed, but like someone had put their whole body into it. Fist-sized. Lined up. Repeated.

Roger stepped closer, eye narrowing. He crouched to inspect the edge of one, noticing the faint sheen of dark ink pooled inside. Toon blood — that deep, inky black. Still fresh.

One punch each, he thought. No hesitation. No flinch marks. Clean impact.

Shrimpo had done some damage. And not just to the room.

Roger stood back up, slow and quiet. His hands slipped into his coat pockets as his mind began to wander — analyzing, cataloging. But then he shook himself out of it, snapping back to the moment.

No, he mumbled to himself, under his breath.

“I’m not here to study you.”

Even if part of him wanted to.

Even if there was research to be gained, insight to be found, papers to one day write…

No. That wasn’t why he was here.

He looked at the kid standing stiff in the doorway. Looked at the tiny hand still clinging to the edge of his coat, watching from just behind him.

He was here for her.

To do it right.

To help the crustacean — not for himself.

But for Toodles, and her big mission.

Toodles gently closed the door behind them with a quiet click, sealing off the room from the outside. But even from behind the wood, the muffled sound of voices began to rise — the rest of the group gathering, murmuring with curiosity just outside.

She didn’t look back. She was too focused.

Inside, Shrimpo still looked like a boiling pot with the lid clamped down. His shoulders were stiff, jaw clenched so tight it could crack, eyes burning like he wanted to set the whole room on fire with a look.

But something shifted.

Not much — barely a flicker — but it was there.

His eyebrows, once furrowed in full rage, relaxed just slightly. His fingers, which had been dug into his scalp as if trying to rip the anger out of his own skull, slowly slipped down and hovered near his sides.

He wasn’t calm. Not even close.

But… he was listening. Even if he’d never admit it.

Toodles didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

She spotted it first — the old punching bag slumped near the back of the room, tucked behind the door. The chain meant to hang it from the ceiling had snapped clean off, and now it leaned pathetically against the wall, beaten and folded in on itself like it had been through war. Which, judging by the marks and dents in it, it had.

He must’ve wailed on it for hours. Maybe days.

Toodles gave it a long look… then turned to Roger and pointed toward it without a word.

Then she looked up at him and gave the smallest of nods — a silent order, one only Roger would catch.

Roger followed her gaze. He understood immediately.

With a slow, quiet sigh, he walked over to the broken bag, squatted beside it, and with some effort, hefted the heavy thing up by the straps. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask questions. Just held it in front of him — solid, steady — and gave a faint nod of his own.

Shrimpo stared at them both, baffled.

He narrowed his eyes, looking from Toodles to Roger and back again.

And still — he said nothing.

But his fingers curled slightly into fists.

Not out of rage this time. But… recognition.

He stepped forward, just one foot at first.

Then he reached up — slowly, testing — and pressed his knuckles lightly to the bag, like someone reaching for a memory.

And then, without fanfare, he drew his fist back.

Toodles didn’t flinch.

Roger didn’t move.

And the punching bag waited — patient, hanging from the hands of a man who had no reason to be here except that a little girl asked him to be.

Shrimpo cocked back his fist.

And then — crack.

He let it fly.

The punch landed flush against the bag with a deep, echoing thud that vibrated through Roger’s arms. And in that split second, it was like a pressure valve had popped in Shrimpo’s chest. A grin — wild, crooked, alive — spread across his face.

It felt good. Too good.

It had been forever since he’d hit something that didn’t hit back. Something that didn’t cry, complain, or run away. Something that could take it.

And more importantly — something he was allowed to hit.

Shrimpo gave Roger a quick, devious glance — the kind that says “You’re gonna regret this” — then went to town.

One punch.
Two.
Three.
Four.

It stopped being about control real fast.
The bag rocked under the blows, bouncing and twisting, the room shaking with each hit. Roger held on tight, grimacing slightly with the effort, but he didn’t stop him. Not once.

And outside the door?

The pounding grew louder. More erratic. Sharp smack-smack-CRACKs that bounced off the hallway walls like fireworks.

The small group that had gathered around Toodles started shifting on their feet. Eyes darted. Voices dropped to whispers.

Worry was starting to settle in.
Little do they know someone was watching from afar.

Dandy had only caught glimpses — muffled bangs, a few panicked faces, and a mirror darting past the camera feed. The footage was grainy, cheap. But that didn’t matter. He didn’t need context.

He smelled disaster.
And it smelled delicious.

From his own private elevator — distant from Shrimpo’s room, but loud enough to wake God — came the ding that turned heads. Even Glisten looked up, mid-sentence.

And then came Dandy.
Descending like a goddamn curtain call.

His boots echoed across the common floor, slow and full of that overconfident strut. His eyes sparkled like bad news wrapped in glitter, and his grin — wide, bloody, knowing — stretched just a little too far.

“Bravo, little man,” he said, voice smooth like spilled syrup.
“Exactly seven hours.”

He began to clap. Slowly. Mockingly. Each slap of palm against palm punctuated with poison.

“But next time,” he drawled, letting the words ooze,
“We really need to work on that behavior problem.

Too bad, so sad — we’ll fix that later.”

He brushed Glisten aside with a soft, almost affectionate touch — the way someone might move a lamp out of their spotlight.

“You lost the bet.
And now you…”

He ran a single finger across the door, dragging it open like he was revealing a prize.

“…owe me and Roger an apolo—”

He stopped.

Mid-word.
Mid-grin.

And what he saw was not what he expected.

Inside the room:
• Roger, clinging to a punching bag like a man hanging off a cliff.
• Toodles was in the corner on ripped beanbag bleeding its stuffing into the floor.
• And Shrimpo.
Band-aid across his mouth.
Smiling.
Full teeth. No shame.
Like the villain who finally cracked.

Dandy’s smirk twitched — not gone, but shifting. Calculating.

Dandy’s grin curled wider, sick with delight as he soaked in the chaos before him — and he didn’t miss a thing. Roger on the floor, barely lifting a thumbs-up like a man who fought God and lost. Toodles waving awkwardly like this was a sitcom. The mirror, frozen halfway down the hall. And Shrimpo…

Shrimpo was standing dead center, arms pumping wildly in the air like a kid who just knocked over the moon.

“SHRIMPO WINS!”

The words were muffled by the Band-Aid plastered across his mouth, but the sentiment?
Crystal clear.

Dandy placed a hand over his chest — mock-genuine, his voice syrupy with fake sincerity.

“Isn’t this just a very happy misunderstanding?”

He turned slowly, theatrically, giving The Flower his full undivided attention as if the rest of the room didn’t even exist.

The Flower, naturally, basked in it — the spotlight, the stir, the drama. He gave the tiniest nod, the kind that could mean “yes,” “no,” or “watch your back.”

Roger groaned on the floor, weakly flapping one hand to let everyone know he was alive — barely.

And Shrimpo?
He kept on dancing. Kept on winning.
He looked unhinged.
He looked proud.
And Dandy couldn’t stand it.

His smirk cracked just slightly at the edges — not from anger. From curiosity. From the sheer confusion of seeing Shrimpo do something right.

“Well, Shrimpo…” Dandy muttered, eyes narrowing.
“You’ve managed to prove me wrong. You can last more than a few hours. I still don’t believe you can last two weeks though but let’s wait and see.”

His voice dropped into a slow, honeyed rhythm.
“This might turn out to be a very… fun solution, indeed.”

The Flower stepped forward, facing Shrimpo with a grin so gentle it felt unnatural — like a lullaby with a blade behind it.

“Fun, indeed.”

And for a moment, the two stood still, locked in a dead-eyed anime stare-off — full of weight, pride, unresolved spite.

Shrimpo stepped forward, his tiny fists clenched, determination blazing in his eyes.
The Flower gave a soft, mocking smile…
…and turned away. Shrimpo was getting aggravated again—visibly. The second the attention swung back his way, it lit a fuse. And what made it worse—what made his skin crawl—was the two Toons in his room, outside of Toodles, being all lovey-dovey.

Sweet voices. Soft touches. The kind of affection that made his blood boil.

He hated it. Hated how calm they were. Hated how they acted like this was some lighthearted moment and not a pressure cooker he was trying not to explode inside of.

But instead of expressing himself the way he wanted to—because he knew how that’d end—he started stomping. Hard. His right foot slammed the ground like a warning shot. Over and over.

Then came the finger—shaking, furious, and aimed directly at the door.

No words.
Didn’t need them.
Every single Toon in that room knew what that gesture meant.

Get. The fuck. Out.

Glisten’s eyes snapped toward Shrimpo, sharp and scorching.

“Don’t act like I came here just to antagonize you,” he hissed, venom laced with exasperation. “I’m only here because of your barbarian instincts — breaking everything in your path, including my possessions!”

His voice cracked like a whip, each word landing with theatrical precision.

Roger blinked. For a moment, he didn’t know how to feel. On one hand, Glisten had just defended him — publicly it was the first. On the other… he’d been referred to as a possession.

A very well-kept one, apparently.

Sprout glanced up at the sound of Cosmo’s pen

He wandered over a bit, real casual, peekin’ at the page.

“Glisten refers to Roger as his belongings… or possessions.”

Sprout blinked.

“…Well that’s a hell of a word choice.”

He leaned back, arms crossed.

“Didn’t know we was startin’ to own people now. That some new kinda crazy or just Glisten bein’ Glisten?”

He shook his head, muttered:

“One day off and y’all already speakin’ like plantation owners…”

Cosmo immediately shoved the notepad back into his apron and bumped into the tall, strawberry-colored Toon beside him.

“Don’t say YALL! Glisten was the only one who did this,” Cosmo said, giving Sprout a sharp side-eye like he’d just been personally insulted. “I’m not about to be lumped in with that mess. Absolutely not.”

He huffed, straightening his apron like that made a difference.

“Now come on,” he added quickly, grabbing Sprout by the sleeve. “I’d hate for them to find out we were eavesdropping—even if it was for their safety.”

Cosmo immediately shoved the notepad back into his apron and dragged the tall Linky strawberry along with him into the kitchen

Before the silence had a chance to thicken, the rest of the group began quietly filing out of the room. No words, no grand declarations — just a gentle shuffle of feet and a mutual decision to not get in the middle of that.

The door clicked shut behind the last one.

Time lapse a few hours later
Nothing really happened. shrimpo stayed in his room. All everyone else went on the runs.

 

It was nearly seven. The detective would be in his room by now — punctual as always, tragically predictable in that Roger sort of way.

Which meant it was exactly the right time for Glisten to knock.

And knock he did.

Right on schedule. Because of course, darling, when you’re carrying the weight of the day’s absurdity — the chaos, the disrespect, the emotional violations — there is no such thing as waiting until morning.

He stood at the detective’s door with a dramatic sigh already half-loaded in his throat, dying — absolutely dying — to complain. Vent. Monologue. Unload the endless irritation that had taken root in his flawless chest.

And this time? It wasn’t just about bad lighting or someone stealing the last cup of imported peach blossom tea.

No. This time it was real. This time, it was about that incident.

That infuriating little shrimp.
That unbearable moment in the room.
That line Glisten crossed — or maybe didn’t cross far enough.

And beneath it all, some part of him hoped Roger would… what? Understand? Scold him?
Stop him?

He didn’t know. He just knew that standing in that hallway, with perfectly rehearsed frustration burning in his voice — he needed to talk to someone who could handle it.

And that someone… was already turning the doorknob.

Roger shifted slightly in his chair, then — without saying a word — reached over and wrapped one arm around Glisten’s shoulders.

It wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t even snug. Just a slow, deliberate gesture — the kind of quiet contact that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t try to fix anything. Just was.

Glisten leaned into it like he wasn’t thinking about it, like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

He let out a long breath, the kind he usually covered with sarcasm or flair.
No complaint this time. No teasing jab.

Just silence.

Nothing was wrong — not really. For once. And in the rare absence of drama, the two of them sat there, wrapped up in the kind of stillness that only came when you knew someone long enough to stop filling the air.

Roger’s hand rested loosely on Glisten’s hand, thumb tapping once, twice — not from nerves, just thought.

Because honestly? He didn’t know what came next.

But for now, this was enough.

And Glisten didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Their hands slipped together without a word.

No dramatic glances. No breathless tension. Just… a slow shift. A brush of fingers. A quiet choice made in the quiet.

Roger’s fingers curled around Glisten’s with practiced ease — not tight, not asking for anything. Just there. Present.

And Glisten, for once, didn’t make a joke. Didn’t roll his eyes or mask the moment with flair. He just let his hand rest in Roger’s, thumb brushing across the back of his knuckle like he was tracing something that had always been there — even if he’d only just begun to admit it.

The best part about them — this strange little bond between dry logic and glittering chaos — was that it never needed to be fast.

Not when it felt this right moving slow.

Roger didn’t speak. Neither did Glisten.

They didn’t have to.

Sometimes, the silence was the point.

And in this one — finally — they let themselves breathe.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward — it was comforting.

No complaints.
No shouting.
No one barging in to ruin the moment.

After everything that had happened, they needed this — a quiet breath in the middle of the noise.

Then, Glisten stirred.

“Darling,” he said with a sigh, far too elegant for someone sitting on the edge of a bed, “as much as I hate to interrupt our little heartwarming bubble, I do have somewhere to be.”

He rose with practiced grace, smoothing out his shirt and tying his bow perfectly in place.

“Brightney Book Club,” he added, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve. “Apparently Vee got access to this dreadful thing called the Internet, courtesy of Dandy, and now they’re obsessed with watching something that isn’t just the gardenview.”

He made it a few steps toward the door — then stopped.

Turned.

And walked right back.

Standing before Roger again, something softer settling behind his usual gleam, he said:

“Roger… you are a very intelligent, thoughtful man. Painfully so. But please — do not let anyone hurt you. Even when you think it’s the right thing.”

His voice dropped, lower now, honest.

“Toodles, bless her shining little heart, isn’t always right. You’ve got to tell her ‘no’ sometimes. Especially when your gut says to. I know nothing technically happened to you today. But I didn’t like seeing you vulnerable — not like that. Not without context. Not for him.”

Glisten reached out, fingertips brushing Roger’s face, tracing soft circles on the smooth glass.

“That’s it,” he said quietly. “Don’t be dumb. Don’t get yourself killed. Especially not for research. Take care of yourself, love.”

He turned once more, heading for the door.

Hand on the handle. Then, one last spin.

“Oh — and by the way…”
He grinned, wicked and glowing.

“There’s a smudge on your face.”

Roger blinked. “What smudge?”

He turned, glancing toward the mirror.

And there it was — a faint shimmer of Glisten’s signature highlighter, gently pressed along the edge of his jaw.

He hadn’t even noticed.

By the time Roger turned back, the door was already closing with a soft click.

And Glisten was gone.

Roger sat hunched in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Glisten’s words were still circling his thoughts like a slow leak in a quiet room — persistent and hard to ignore.

He’d always known Toodles wouldn’t get a proper childhood — not here, not now. But he’d tried to make it decent, at the very least. Patchwork as it was.

Now, he wasn’t sure if he’d gone too soft… or just too far.

He glanced toward the photo on his bedside table. He and Toodles — she’d insisted he smile in that one, and he still looked like he’d rather be elsewhere. But she was beaming, so proud of her half-baked “detective agency.” A right little menace, she was.

He exhaled through his nose, voice quiet.

“So bloody worried about giving her a proper childhood, I’ve gone and forgotten that sometimes… even a stand-in dad’s allowed to say no.”

His hand brushed over his shoulder, where the soreness still lingered from earlier. That wasn’t going away any time soon.

The detective stood with a soft groan and walked over to the bed. Didn’t even bother changing out of his suit — he was far too knackered for all that. He pulled the thin blanket over himself and eased back into the mattress with a long sigh.

“No point stayin’ up,” he muttered to the ceiling. “Especially not after today’s little circus.”

The ache in his limbs pulsed faintly as he stared upward, eyes heavy but nowhere near closed. The room was dim and quiet, and still he couldn’t shut it all out. Couldn’t stop the gnawing questions. The weight of tomorrow, waiting just outside the frame.

He let out a tired, half-laughed breath.

“What the hell’s tomorrow gonna be like…”

He turned onto his side, pulling the blanket a little tighter over his shoulder.

Sleep wouldn’t come for another three hours.

But at least the room didn’t ask him any questions.

Notes:

If you’re still judging me and telling me, I’m doing bad, I like the criticism and I appreciate what you say at the end of the day because it helps me get better but still fuck you

Chapter 3: Something different….

Summary:

Toodles doors decide to pick up a new approach towards this little situation of hers. She could no longer be a detective. She had to become something worse…..

Rodger is considering strangling the shrimp
But yet she progress within him.

Notes:

Sorry it took so long. I had one of the worst weeks of my life
-heart issue
-Power outage
-talking to one of my ex (somehow the worst)
And worst of all family being family

The warm smell of muffins drifted in like a soft breeze under her door — sweet, fresh homemade.
Voices were chattering down the hall.
Toodles’ eyes snapped open.

Her nap was over.

She sat up slowly, blinked twice, then muttered to herself:

“Right then… it’s game time.”

With a dramatic roll and tumble off the bed that absolutely no one saw, she marched over to her closet and flung it open.

The detective outfit — one of her many “mission suits” — was already half-draped over a hanger like it had been waiting for her return.
Today was gonna be rough. So she had to be rougher.
No frills. No sparkle. Just black gloves, boots, and a serious face.

She suited up quickly. One leg in. The other. Gloves on. Boots tight. Her head extra shiny.

And then she stopped.
She needed one more thing. The accessory that tied it all together.

“Where’s my coat?” she whispered, digging through the closet like it owed her answers.

That old detective coat — the one a little too big for her shoulders but perfect for the drama of an investigation — should’ve made her feel ready. But the moment she touched it, something tugged at her brain.

This wasn’t really detective work, was it?

There was no trail of clues. No crime scene. No hidden suspect.
Just one crusty shrimp trying not to snap.

This wasn’t about solving anything.

It was about helping.

She let the coat droop in her hands.

“Maybe… maybe I’m not a detective this time…”

It bummed her out a little. Being a detective made things easier — everything was a puzzle, everything had a solution. But this? This was just messy, honest people-stuff.

Still, her brain kept spinning. What was this, then?

It wasn’t about heroes or villains.

There were no good guys, not really. Just Dandy and Shrimpo trying to one-up each other like a couple of worn-out rivals in an old western.

Two stubborn forces. No clue. No peace. Just… ego.

Like a gang war.
Like a turf battle.
Like—

“A mob case,” she gasped, eyes lighting up.

“Of course.”

She scrambled back to the closet and pulled out a tiny plastic fedora with a pick feather stuck in the brim.
A perfect mix of noir and nonsense.
(yes she stole it from glisten)

“Forget detective. Today… I’m undercover.”

She slapped the hat on her head, puffed out her chest, and gave herself one last look in the mirror.

“Mob bosses always think they run the game,” she muttered, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper.
“But they haven’t met me.”

Then, with the weight of the world in her little fists, she burst out the door to find her “crew.”

This wasn’t just kindness.

This was war.

With a fresh fire in her chest and the kind of serious determination only a well-rested eight ball could summon, Toodles stepped out of her room, ready to take on the world.

Roger wouldn’t like it.
He’d probably sigh real long and say something like, “You’re not actually in the bloody mafia, Toodles,” but that didn’t matter. Not today.

She had a mission.
And sometimes… sometimes you’ve got to make your dad sad for a little bit to save the entire neighbourhood.

But just as she took her first heroic step—

She paused.
Looked down.
And gasped.

Her outfit was all wrong.

This wasn’t “Mob Boss.” This was Detective On Laundry Day. Unacceptable.

She zipped back into her room with the urgency of a girl chasing destiny, tore open her closet doors again, and rummaged through every drawer like a raccoon on espresso.

What she emerged with was pure brilliance:
• A soft pink shirt (unassuming, classic, terrifyingly neutral).
• Pink pants (for movement, of course).
• A bowtie (to show she means business).
• Fluffy boots (because fashion)

She twirled in the mirror once, then leaned in close.

“Yes… everything is going according to plan.”

She pulled down her fedora hat, just a little bit just to make it look nice and mysterious.

But then — the final step.

A Mob Boss without a name is just a well-dressed criminal. She needed a title. A legacy. Something people would whisper when they saw her coming.

She stomped dramatically around the room, boots puffing with every step, deep in thought.

“Hmm… Madame Eight? Too posh.
Don Eightball? No, too generic…
Boss Bouncer? No one bounces in the mob…”

And then it hit her.

She stopped.
Smiled.
Tried to look evil. Ended up looking adorable.

“The Ferocious Eight.”

Perfect.

It was fierce. It was stylish. It rhymed. It was her.

She marched to her door with all the confidence of a rising empire, opened it softly, closed it even softer. Mob Bosses don’t wake the house. They respect the silence of power.

And now?

Now it was time for breakfast.

Because even The Ferocious Eight knew:
you can’t conquer a single soul on an empty stomach.

“I’m dangerous, not crazy,” she muttered to herself, skipping toward the main hall.
“Cereal first. Interrogation after.”

She padded across the tile floor, eyes sharp, bowtie slightly crooked, fluffy boots puffing with each step like silent little explosions. She scanned the room, expecting a quiet morning kitchen and a clear path to the cereal shelf.

But then she saw her.

A hush of calm.
A scent, soft and slow, drifted through the air like a lullaby made of steam and honey.
Chamomile. Sugar. A trace of lemon.
The scent strong like perfume belongs to the tea within Teagan teacup head or body hard to say which one.

And there she was.

A towering figure of porcelain grace, trimmed in gold, her round shape casting a protective glow under the hallway lights. She didn’t bend, didn’t force closeness—but somehow, she always made you feel like the world got smaller, safer, just by being near.

She leaned down as best she could

Her voice floated in like a rocking chair creak on a summer porch:

“And who do we got here? Well, hello there, sweetheart… where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“I’m sorry, toots, but that information is—”

Before Toodles could even finish her sentence, Teagan turned around with the grace that voiced her opinion of being cold that word, and it was not a high remark to say to leave.

The moment Teagan turned, that gentle but firm energy hitting like a feather wrapped around a brick, Toodles felt her stomach drop straight through her boots.

Her character slipped.

The Ferocious Eight shrunk down into just… Toodles.

“O-oh—oh my gosh, I didn’t—I wasn’t tryin’ to be rude, I swear!” she stammered, hands flailing in panic as she tried to fix the words that were already out there.
“I was just—playin’ the part! You know, mob boss and all that! I—I didn’t even know that word could mean somethin’ bad! Honest!”

Her voice pitched up with every word, her bowtie now crooked from all the dramatic apologizing.
She looked up at Teagan like a kid caught drawing on the walls — trying to be cool but really, really hoping she wasn’t in real trouble.

“I’m so sorry…”

Teagan wasn’t mad. Not even close.
But the word had hit her like a leaf landing wrong—unexpected, a little sharp. It wasn’t anger that crossed her face, just surprise. Like someone who found a crack in their favorite dish—small, but felt deep.

Still, just as quick as it came, her expression softened.
A flicker. A light switch. Warmth returning like it never left.

She leaned down just a little further—enough to meet the girl’s eyes without towering. Her voice came slow and kind, rich with understanding but never fake:

“I’m not mad at you, you sweet thing.”
She let a soft breath out through her nose, more amused than upset.
“Just very, very surprised, is all. That word—it ain’t necessarily bad, no… but some of us done heard it in real cold places.”
Her eyes lingered with that truth, steady and calm.
“And I’m one of them people.”

Then, with a gentle touch rare in the Toon world, she reached up and gave the girl’s cheek the lightest pinch—one of those bless-your-heart pinches, full of affection, not scolding.

As Teagan’s fingers lingered softly on Toodles’ cheek, her mind drifted back to the girl’s words—the part about pretending to be a mob boss. Now, heaven only knew why a little one would want to step into such a shadowy role, but Teagan wasn’t one to push too hard. Still, curiosity nestled deep in her heart like a quiet ember.

She straightened just a bit, still keeping that soft smile, her voice wrapping around the question like a warm breeze:

“Toodles, sweetie… if you don’t mind me askin’, tell me more ‘bout this mob boss business you got goin’ on.”

Her eyes sparkled with gentle encouragement, patient and kind

Toodles sniffled one last time, then spotted the box of cereal she was originally hunting for — the one with the marshmallows with moons and stars. (Astro reference)

She grabbed it with a bit more dramatic flair than necessary and held it close like it was evidence.

“Well… it all started with an argument between Shrimpo and Dandy,” she said, voice lowering into a storyteller’s hush as she poured cereal into her bowl like she was laying out clues on a crime board.
“Me and Roger were… well—eavesdropping.”

She paused mid-pour, then winced.

“Okay, okay, not just eavesdropping. I put my whole ear up against the wall. Real close. I may have leaned so hard I almost fell through it. But in my defense, I DIDNT hear the entire conversation.”

She plopped the milk in without looking, still spinning the story.

“Dandy was being mean, and Shrimpo was doing that thing where he pretends he doesn’t care but you know he does, and then this bet came up — this huge bet — where if Shrimpo could go two whole weeks without being violent or snappy or mean, he’d get three wishes. Three.”

She leaned in a little toward Teagan

“So I took it upon myself, as a local protector of peace, to help him win. ‘Cause if he doesn’t, that just proves Dandy’s right, and that’s… that’s a crime.”

She took a big spoonful of cereal, chewing loudly.

Teagan hadn’t said a word.

But she was still watching. Still listening.

With a slow, tender smile, she spoke—her voice calm, with the weight of someone who’s heard a thousand stories but still finds each one precious:

“This is certainly an interestin’ story, sugar cube… but what does all this have to do with you bein’ a mob boss?”

She waited patiently, her gaze never leaving Toodles’, inviting honesty without any hint of judgment.

“Mostly,” she said with her mouth half full, “because the Ferocious Eight realized you can’t really do detective work with this sorta thing.”

She paused, spoon in midair, spinning it slowly like she was stirring a whole speech in her head.

“Like, what are the clues? What’s the crime? There isn’t one! It’s just mean words and broken feelings and some crabby shrimp tryin’ not to snap.”

She flopped dramatically in her chair, boots kicking under the table.

“So, obviously… the next best thing is becoming a Mob Boss.”

She said it proudly. Like she’d chosen peace… by declaring war.

Sure, Toodles was sharp — sharper than most grown Toons, if she was being honest. That came with growing up under the watchful eye of Roger.
He taught her how to read people, how to observe, how to wait for the quiet between the words.

But at the end of the day, she was still a kid.

A kid who leapt to conclusions like they were trampolines.
A kid who decided mob boss was the solution to emotional growth.

Teagan let out a low, sweet chuckle, her eyes crinkling with warmth as she watched Toodles finish.

“That’s admirable” she said softly, and it wasn’t the kind of word tossed out to brush things off—it was the kind of genuine, proud admiration that made your chest sit a little higher. Like every odd detail in that story was precious simply because Toodles lived it.

She smiled deeper, like she was watching a flower bloom in real time.

“If you ever need my help… or want me taggin’ along for whatever you’re doin’, I’ll be more than happy to assist you, sugar” she said, placing a hand gently over her chest.
“’Cause to be honest—everybody deserves a chance. And I’m mighty proud you’re givin’ somebody else a helpin’ hand.”

She took a small step back, letting her hand trail across the hallway wall as she walked—a habit more felt than thought. Then, as she passed close to Toodles, she gave the top of the little Eight Ball’s head a gentle scruff. Just enough to be playful, just enough to say I see you.

She turned away, beginning to leave with that quiet grace she always carried—like the end of a lullaby.

But just before she rounded the corner, her voice drifted back, low and rich with meaning:

“You can’t expect the world to go forward… if no one’s helpin’ you push it along.”

And with that final, puzzling bit of poetry, the golden-trimmed teacup was gone—leaving behind only the scent of warmth, the echo of kindness, and a little Eight Ball standing just a bit taller.

“You can’t expect the world to go forward… if no one’s helpin’ you push it along.”

That sentence bounced around her head like a rubber ball in a tight room.

Toodles stared down at her cereal, spoon slowly twirling through milk gone all pink from the marshmallows. She got what Miss Teagan meant — kind of. That the world’s heavy, and if you don’t help push it forward, it just… stays stuck.

But it also made her feel weird.

Like, what did it really mean? Pushin’ the world? With what? Tiny arms? One spoonful of good deeds at a time?

She huffed.

“Too early for all that,” she mumbled to herself, eyes narrowing like the spoon was the one making her think too hard.

She snapped herself back into the moment with a quick shake of her head.

There wasn’t time to be confused. She had two suspects on her list, and if she didn’t interrogate them soon, the trail might go cold.
And cold trails meant missed clues.
And missed clues meant failure.

She lifted her spoon, a bit too fast, splashing milk against her cheek — which only made her bite it harder like that was on purpose.

“This is gonna be a tough day,” she muttered between chews, voice deep with fake grit,
“and I’m gonna show the whole world how tough I can be.”

The Ferocious Eight was back on the move.

The problem now was simple — and also massive.
Toodles needed at least two more people for her crew. Not just any people, but ones who had a genuine connection with Shrimpo. Folks who could act as calming anchors when the shrimp inevitably started steaming.

The current team?
Well, let’s be honest — they were mostly here for her.

Roger and Glisten? Basically part of her personal entourage.
Sprout and Cosmo? Great hearts, but they were here out of concern more than closeness to Shrimpo.
No one… really hung out with the crustacean on purpose.

That was the hole in her plan.
And a plan with a hole is just a sinking ship in disguise.

She paced the hallway, boots puffing soft little steps into the carpet, muttering names under her breath as she scanned the Toon crowd.

“Gigi?”
She paused. Considered it.
Then immediately shook her head so hard her bowtie flopped.

Nope. Absolutely not.
Gigi was too… likable. Too sparkly. Sure, she did bad stuff — a lot of it, actually — but everyone forgave her ‘cause she had that weird charisma. Total opposite of Shrimpo.

“Looey?”
Toodles made a face.
Maybe… but their relationship felt more like a one-sided friendship. Like, Looey thought they were pals, but Shrimpo looked like he was one awkward joke away from committing a felony.

“Poppy?”
She laughed. Out loud.
Absolutely not.
Poppy had the patience of a wick dipped in kerosene — and the second Shrimpo said anything sideways about her best friend Boxten, it’d be game over. Loud, spark-filled, possibly televised game over.

She let out a dramatic sigh and plopped down on a bench in the common area, eyebrows practically tied in knots. Her brain was working overtime, trying to piece together this jigsaw of a crew—

And then—

A hand rested softly on her shoulder.

Big. Steady. Familiar.

She hadn’t even noticed Cosmo approach — she’d been so deep in mission mode, she could’ve missed a marching band.

She looked up slowly, blinking back into reality as the soft-faced squirrel cake gave her a quiet look.

“Hey, Toodles, what are you doing pacing around?”

The chocolate cake spoke softly, his voice low and warm like he didn’t want to startle her.

“Your cereal’s gonna be soggy any second if you don’t finish it.”

He gently guided her back toward her seat with a light, almost playful push until she sat right back down

Toodles blinked up at him, the gears in her head still turning like clock hands on fire.

“Sorry, Cosmo,” she muttered, rubbing one eye with the back of her sleeve, “I just had my mind busy tryin’ to figure out who’s got an actual decent relationship with Shrimpo.”

She sighed and leaned forward, elbows on her knees like a tired detective on hour twelve of a case.

“Y’know… someone he doesn’t immediately wanna punch in the face or yell at for breathin’ too loud.”

Her eyes scanned the room again, but now slower — less frantic.
Cosmo’s hand was still on her shoulder, steady like a paperweight keeping her
thoughts from flying off.

“Got any ideas? ‘Cause right now, my best pick is a rock.”

The chocolate dessert immediately let out a chuckle. on ironically Shrimpo does have one favorite item and it just happens to be… A brick. Figures.

“There’s two people I can actually think of with a semi-decent relationship with the grumpy Toon,” Cosmo said, scratching the back of his head with a tired smile.

“He’s got a pretty interesting thing going with Finn. Shrimpo is of the rare people that actually listens to his fish facts—believe it or not. And he even talks back to him. Real conversation, too. Even if Shrimpo’s still yelling by the end of it.”

He paused, his hand still behind his neck like he was trying to rub the memory loose.

“And Goob…” he said with a small shake of his head. “Goob’s actually one of the few Toons who can physically touch him without Shrimpo throwing a full-on hissy fit.”

Cosmo shrugged. “Mostly ’cause they did a teambuilding exercise—Moore likely forced him to do it, to be honest. Y’know how Goob is. He’s the best when it comes to pulling people outta situations. With arms like that, we kinda had to make Shrimpo get used to it.”

He let out another short laugh, more from exhaustion than humor.

Her eyes narrowed, hands folded behind her back like she was standing at the top of some imaginary empire.

“Hmph. I see now,” she muttered under her breath, dramatically pacing one full circle around Cosmo as if he were some kind of advisor.
“The answer was obvious. The solution was always there. I simply had to do the one thing I never considered…”

She stopped with a stomp, finger in the air like she’d declared war on gravity.

“Ask people.”

Then, she turned on her heel — cereal box still tucked under one arm like it was a briefcase full of shady deals — and pointed toward the hallway.

“Thank you, my friend,” she said with a voice far too smooth for someone still missing a baby tooth.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

She tilted her head in that slow, dramatic way — like the kind of cool bad guys do in old movies right before things get serious.
Then, with all the fake menace she could muster, she tried to crack her neck.

But instead of a menacing pop, there was a stiff little squeak from her shoulder and a quiet “ow.”

She froze.
Paused.
Then slowly—very slowly—tilted her head back the other way like nothing happened.

“That was… intentional,” she muttered under her breath with a cough, eyes darting around to make sure no one laughed.

She puffed her chest out again, regaining composure with pure force of will.

“Right. Back to business.”

And just like that, she strutted off again, a tiny little stormcloud in pink boots, fully convinced she was the most feared force this hallway had ever seen.

“The Ferocious Eight has got some issues to squish… and some people to get.”

Toodles blitzed down the hallway, practically a pink blur of ambition.
Her outfit?
Bright. Loud. Ridiculous.
Definitely not her usual detective getup — which earned her a few confused stares from passing Toons. But she could not care less.

“Mob bosses don’t blend in,” she muttered to herself with pride.
“They stand out.”

She finally made it to her room, skidding to a stop like a cartoon spy on a mission. Carefully — very carefully — she opened the door and slipped inside, then shut it just as gently behind her.

“It’s rude to wake Toons before lunch,” she reminded herself with a nod.
That was a rule. Like brushing your teeth or not starting gang wars before breakfast.

Inside, she rummaged through her organized chaos, flinging open drawers and rifling through piles until — aha! — two pieces of paper and a pair of envelopes.

(Which, for the record, she definitely stole from Roger. But hush. Don’t tell him.)

She pulled out a black crayon, held it like a villain’s wand, and grinned deviously.

“A boss never invites. A boss summons.”

She plopped down and scribbled her invitations, tongue poking out the side of her mouth in deep concentration. One letter for Goob. One for Finn. She sealed them both with way too much glue, proudly admiring her handiwork.

“Forcin’ people to read? That’s evil and classy,” she chuckled to herself.

Mission: Recruit Anchors — underway.

She snuck out again, quietly shutting her door like a proper mastermind. Then zipped down the hallway to Finn’s room — unmistakable thanks to the wall of fish stickers, trivia posters, and exactly three “Save the Whales” flyers.

She slipped the envelope under his door like she was defusing a bomb, did a quick barrel roll for dramatic effect (completely unnecessary), and whispered,

“Mission one… success.”

Then she sprinted to the rear hallway — Goob’s turf.
This part was tricky.
Not because of Goob… but because of Scraps, Goob’s older sister. A nap-loving, eye-rolling force of nature who did not like being disturbed.

As Toodles rounded the corner, she spotted Connie and Gigi mid-argument, too busy debating cereal rankings to pay attention.

“Thank the Toons,” she whispered, tiptoeing past like she was avoiding lasers.

She reached Goob’s door, dropped the envelope with precision, turned on her heel —
—and froze.

Click.

Door creaked open.

And standing there, blinking slowly, still wrapped in a blanket like a burrito…

Was Scraps.

Toodles stared up at her.

Scraps stared down at her.

The little eight ball gave the most defeated, exhausted sigh imaginable.

“…Gosh. Darn it.”

“Hello there, Toodles,”
Scraps murmured, her voice muffled under layers of burrito-styled blanket. Only her eyes peeked out, barely open.

“What are you doin’ up here in the rare section, right outside my door? Shootin’ envelopes within?”
She squinted suspiciously, then added with a yawn,
“You know me and my brother sleep for a very long time.”

As the paper cat blinked at the envelope, her suction cup tail curling around it like a ribbon, Toodles stood frozen like a criminal caught mid-cookie heist.
Scraps tilted her head slightly — not in judgment, not even in confusion — just… waiting. Quiet. Still half-asleep.

Toodles swallowed hard.

Her cover was definitely blown if she stayed here too long. She had two choices:
1. Run away like a coward (a terrible mob boss move), or
2. Tell the truth, lose the mystique… but possibly gain a vital ally.

Goob was worth it.

So, the little eight ball adjusted her crooked bowtie, stood up straighter, and cleared her throat in the most dramatic way a child pretending to be dangerous could.

“I’m building a team,” she declared, voice cracking halfway through. “To help… Shrimp—

“No.”

It wasn’t mean. It wasn’t sharp or uppity. Just direct—straight to the point.
Toodles didn’t blink. Didn’t soften.

“You know how that shrimp can get. And I’m not gonna entertain this—
not if it means putting my little brother in harm’s way.”

“But your brother’s as big as a house and taller than a tree trunk! Not to mention, he’s an adult — at the end of the day, it should be his decision, right?”

Toodles took a breath, softening her tone just a bit.

“Everybody knows how much you care about him. We all do. But c’mon, Scraps — do you really think I’d put him in harm’s way?”

She leaned forward, eyes wide and honest now, her voice smaller but no less firm.

“I need him for this. Not ‘cause I wanna win a bet. Because I think he might actually help somebody like he always does — and feel proud of it.”

Scraps blinked.

At the end of the day, it wasn’t what Toodles said that caught her off guard—every word was true, and she knew it.
It was how she said it. No whining. No begging. No guilt-tripping like some glass-hearted girl their age.
Just strength. Clarity. Respect.

Scraps smirked beneath the blanket burrito, genuinely impressed.

“Fine,” she said, drawing the word out just a little.
“I’ll allow him to make his own decision… but I might drop in every now and then. Y’know, just to check on how he’s doing—if he decides to join.”

Toodles took a step back from Scraps, eyes gleaming with that same over-the-top, dramatic pride only a pretend mob boss could pull off.

“My plan… is coming together nicely,” she declared aloud, rubbing her little hands together like she was plotting world domination over a cup of juice.

With a sweeping motion, she popped off her hat and gave Scraps an exaggerated, theatrical bow — fluffy boots nearly slipping as she dipped way too far down for someone that small.

“Much obliged, Miss Scraps. You won’t regret this.”

Then, with zero warning and all the energy of a wind-up toy at full speed, she dashed off down the hallway like a comet in pink.

Her plan was practically falling into place — recruits gathered, letters delivered, foundation set.
But even mob bosses needed a break sometimes.

Toodles skidded back into her area, flopped onto her beanbag chair, and sighed.

“Alright. That’s enough crustacean business for one day.”

She stared at the ceiling for a moment, arms spread wide like she was melting into the floor.

“Tomorrow, I run the world. Today… I nap.”

Few hours later is currently 4 PM and we are Day Two into the bet let’s see how our Toon of Interest is doing at the current moment

Internal screaming.
That’s all Shrimp could manage right now. No noise. No outlet. Just pure, silent, chest-clawing panic.

Because somewhere between tossing in his sleep and rage-dreaming about strangling Dandy with his own stem, his Band-Aids had fallen off.

Gone.

Vanished.

And there was no way in hell he could step out without them.

He hadn’t practiced talking. Not even a little. His throat still felt like it would betray him the second he opened his mouth. Sure, he could bring his notebook—but he’d torn through damn near every page already, chewing through the paper with his rage like a rabid poet.

And now, here he was, scrambling.

He was throwing shit everywhere—pillows, drawers, socks, anything—desperate to find something to cover his mouth. A napkin, a strip of fabric, duct tape—anything.

Because he couldn’t lose.
Not to that flower.
That self-obsessed, main-character monologuing piece of walking pollen. There could only be one egotistical mess in this building, and it sure as hell wasn’t gonna be the one with petals.

“This isn’t happening—this isn’t fucking happening,” he muttered through clenched teeth, trying to wedge an old sock between his lips like it would magically fix everything.

And then—

Knock knock.

He froze.

First time in Shrimpo history, his gut twisted—not because he was scared of whoever was on the other side. Please. He was the mighty Shrimpo. Too brave to flinch. Too angry to fear.

But this time?

This time he wasn’t scared of them.

He was scared of what he might say.
Because if it was the wrong person, and if his mouth ran faster than his brain—dear God, he might lose this bet early.

He could ignore it. Pretend he wasn’t here.

Except ignoring the knock would be considered mean.

Which was technically against the rules.

And God help him, he really, really wanted to be mean right now.

He opened the door with shaking hands and a jaw so tight it could’ve cut diamonds. His whole body was vibrating—a walking grenade with the pin barely in place. Every muscle was screaming, Don’t lose it. Don’t lose it.
Not yet. Not just for seeing someone.

But God, even the sound of another Toon breathing too close to him was enough to make his blood boil. His eye twitched the moment the door creaked open, and of course—

No one was shocked.
No one gasped.
Because of course he was pissed off.

And standing there, with his usual smug, straight-spined, buttoned-up presence, was none other than Rodger—looking “professional,” as always.

Polished. Punctual. Probably rehearsed his damn sentences before knocking.

Shrimpo didn’t say anything—couldn’t. His mouth was pressed shut with a makeshift band of gauze and desperation, and his fingers were twitching like they were begging for a reason.

Because if Rodger said one overly calm, overly British, overly put-together word right now…

He didn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself from launching a chair through the hallway.

Surprisingly, Roger didn’t say a single word. Not one.

But that giant, smug, polished eye of his?
Yeah. That was doing all the talking.

I watched it scan my room—my private room—like he had a clipboard behind his back and permission I never gave. It made my skin crawl. He didn’t step in, but he didn’t have to. That eye was crawling through my stuff like it belonged there. And it was eating me alive.

God, I wanted to slam the door right in his face. Hard. Rattle-the-frame hard. But then I’d be a broken record. And I hate broken records. I hate repeating myself. I hate explaining myself. Hell, I just hate everything.

Then Rodger did something weird.

He pointed at something.

Didn’t say a word—just raised a finger like this was all some calm negotiation, like I wasn’t on the verge of punching a hole through the wall.

I turned to follow his gesture, confused and ready to snarl—and there it was.
The punching bag.

Of course.

I didn’t need to be a damn genius to figure out what he was trying to say.
No words. Just a pointed look. The bag. Then back at me.

Message received, loud and clear.

Without hesitation, I grabbed the bottom of it and slung it toward him like I was about to rip the damn thing in half. My grin came out crooked, twitchy, mean. I wasn’t just smiling—I was baring teeth.

Because yeah, part of me would love to rip that thing open.
But apparently it’s called a “stress reliever,” so fine. Whatever.

But then Rodger did something even weirder.

He reached up, grabbed the chain at the top of the bag, and started pulling it with him down the hall—my punching bag—like it was his now. Like I was supposed to follow.

And I did.

Angry. Confused. So fucking annoyed.

That’s my shit, and I don’t like people touching my shit. But I also really, really needed to punch something right now, and he knew it. Bastard.

Also… the silence?

I hated it.
But I also didn’t.

Not that I’d ever say that out loud.
Because I hate people who say they like silence.
Even though I do.
Sometimes.
When it’s convenient

As we were walking to whatever godforsaken location Roger was dragging me to, I started to piece it together—and I hated it.

It was the main area.
Next to the elevator.
Right near the stupid fucking tree where we go on our runs. The same spot where that stupid fucking flower hangs out sometimes.

And still, Rodger said nothing.

No explanation. No context. Not even a smug remark to soften the silence. Just kept dragging my punching bag across the floor like it belonged to him, like I wasn’t two seconds from lunging at his throat and snapping something vital.

I was this close—this fucking close—to strangling him on the spot when I realized what he was doing.

Rodger…
Was setting up the punching bag.

On the tree.

He grabbed a hammer and a comically oversized nail—of course—and stuck it right into the bark like he’d done this before. Slung the chain around it, tightened it down, adjusted the bag like it was a damn chandelier or something delicate.

Then, he did something even weirder.

He pushed it. Not punched—just lightly pushed it. Weakly. Like a breeze.
Like he was calibrating it for me or some shit.

Then he stepped aside.
And pointed at it.

Didn’t look at me. Didn’t smile. Just pointed.

I stared at it.

And I hated that I had nothing bad to say.

I hated that the setup was solid.
I hated that he didn’t say a word and somehow still got it right.
I hated that—for a flicker of a second—I didn’t feel like murdering someone.

I hated…

I hated…

This.
This moment where I couldn’t find anything to hate. And I hated it.

“……TH-……THA-…..”

The sound came out broken. Rusted. Like my vocal cords were tearing under the pressure. Saying that word—the one everyone around here says when something nice happens—felt like venom. Like swallowing glass.

It physically hurt.

My eyes started twitching again. My hands were trembling. My whole body was vibrating.

Because I hate being like this.
I hate being so fucking weak when people do shit like this.

I should’ve had something cruel to say.
Something mean. Cold. Sharp.

But all I had…
was this stuttering, goddamn choking syllable.

And silence.
Rodger didn’t say a word.

And maybe that was worse.

Rodger could clearly see the young man struggling — his jaw clenched, shoulders tight, like speaking at all was a full-body effort. It looked like it hurt just to get the words out.
That alone raised a few questions in Roger’s mind… but those weren’t for now.

Without even looking his way, the detective spoke softly, hands in his coat pockets as he stared ahead.

“There’s no need to voice your opinion on me helpin’ you out, lad,” he said, his tone gentle — not pitying, just matter-of-fact.
“It’s not a contract. You’ve no debt to me.”

He let a breath escape his nose, quiet, like it carried years behind it.

“Sometimes folk just… do. That’s all.”

Shrimpo’s expression twitched—just for a second. A crack. A flicker.

Then, without warning, he bolted toward the bag and threw a haymaker straight into its center. No hesitation. No buildup. Just pure, unfiltered violence.

Because hell no—he wasn’t about to look soft. Not even for a nanosecond.

And the second his fist collided with the bag, everything snapped into place.

This was different.
This wasn’t like the bag back in his room, pinned against the wall, chained down and suffocating.
This one moved.

It swung, it breathed, it fought back.

No wall. No resistance. Just air, freedom, and the thick bark of the tree a few feet behind it—close enough to feel real, far enough to let him go wild.

As long as he didn’t swing too far left, he was golden.

And God, he loved it.

He loved how the wind cracked against his face with every punch, how his fists sank deeper and deeper into the bag like thunder in motion. The impact echoed—boomed—off the courtyard like distant gunfire, like the universe was clapping for him.

He was smiling.
Genuinely.
Not that crooked, snide smirk he usually wore like armor—but a real, unguarded grin.

For once, it didn’t feel like pretending.

He didn’t care if anyone saw.
Didn’t care if the bag split.
Didn’t care if his knuckles bled.

But while he was busy throwing his whole soul into that canvas, the noise he was making—the sound of rage turning into rhythm—carried.

And a certain pair of shy eyes heard it.
Felt it.
And started drifting closer.

Boxten stepped quietly out of his room, the hallway’s dim light spilling gently across his shoulders. The loud noise had pulled him from whatever solitude he’d wrapped himself in, and he blinked slowly, trying to figure out what the hell was going on now.

Deep down, he already had a feeling.

And sure enough—there he was.

The same short-tempered crustacean who harassed him daily like it was a job he clocked in for. Boxten wished he could say he was surprised. But he wasn’t. Not even a little.

What did surprise him, though, was Rodger, standing there right alongside Shrimpo—calm, collected Rodger, of all people. The two were polar opposites. Night and day. Class and chaos.

That contradiction alone was enough to catch Boxten’s interest.

He cleared his throat—softly, like always. Just enough to make himself known.

“…Hey,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned just slightly against the doorway.
His voice came out a little breathy, like it had to fight past nerves just to be heard.

“What… uh, what are y’all up to, fine gentlemen doin’?”

A subtle half-smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. Not sarcasm. Not mocking. Just his quiet way of easing into whatever this was. Still cautious, still unreadable. But watching.

That big, quiet box of a Toon—Boxten—had wandered in, drawn by the sound like a moth to a bonfire. Shrimp shot him a glance. Quick. Sharp. Barely even a second long.

Then immediately turned back to the bag like he hadn’t seen a damn thing.

His fists flew again. Slower now. A little heavier. Less snap, more grind. But he kept going. Even when the rhythm faltered. Even when his breath started hitching in his throat.

Roger noticed. So did Boxten.

But neither of them said a word.

“It’s a long, complicated tale, my friend… but let’s just say, my current company and I—well—we’ll be helpin’ each other out, one way or another.”

He gave a faint shrug, like that was all there was to it—no need to dig deeper unless you fancied opening old wounds.

Shrimpo’s ears snapped up, and his eyes shot daggers straight at Roger.

Whatever the hell he just said hit a nerve—hard.

“I DIDN’T AGREE TO ANY OF THIS. DO NOT FORCE THINGS UPON ME THAT I DIDN’T AGREE TO. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE DO THAT.”

Because it wasn’t just what he said—
It was the fact that he finally said it.

“Sounds to me like you’re lettin’ Dandy get the upper hand over you,” Rodger said, quick as a whip.

His voice was casual, but the words had weight—measured, intentional.
He wasn’t just making conversation anymore.
This was him digging in—pulling at threads, poking gently at pride.
A rare move from the detective, but the moment called for it.

“Does that sound nice to you?” Rodger asked, his tone even, almost too casual.
“Feeding his ego? Fanning the flames of that ‘main character’ complex you loathe so much?”

He finally glanced over, one brow slightly raised.

“Because from where I’m standin’, it sounds a lot like you want that.”

It wasn’t cruel—just calculated.
Rodger knew exactly where to press.

Shrimpo was definitely shocked—though he’d die before admitting it.
He hated the tone that fly-lookin’ motherfucker was using. All calm and steady, like he was the adult in the room or something.

But truth be told…
Shrimpo didn’t know how to do this “nice” shit.
Not really.
Not without flipping a table halfway through.

And unfortunately, if he was gonna survive this week without losing what little sanity he had left, he was gonna need help.
Whether he liked it or not.

So he puffed out his chest, crossed his arms, and snapped:

“FINE. I WILL ALLOW YOU TO ASSIST THE GREAT SHRIMP — BUT DO NOT EXPECT US TO BE FRIENDS OR ANYTHING OF THE SUCH.”

And just like that, he spun on his heel before they could see the way his eye twitched.
Because compromise felt an awful lot like losing.

Boxten’s brow lifted—just a little at first. But then his eyes widened ever so slightly, like his brain was still buffering what he was seeing.

Because Shrimpo… was cooperating.

Not yelling.
Not arguing.
Not throwing something.
Actually… agreeing to something.

Boxten’s jaw nearly hit the damn floor.

He had never—not once—seen Shrimpo do the bare minimum of anything even remotely positive unless it somehow circled back to a personal win. And yet here he was. Going along with something he clearly didn’t want to do.

Boxten blinked, glancing at Rodger, then back at the shrimp like he was waiting for the punchline or an explosion that just hadn’t gone off yet.

“…Huh,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Then, under his breath, almost like he forgot other people were in the room:
“Didn’t think I’d see that today…”

He wasn’t mocking. Just quietly, genuinely impressed.
And maybe… maybe just a little more curious than before.

Shrimpo had been hammering that punching bag like it owed him rent—like if he hit it hard enough, it’d stop reminding him of everything he hated about himself.

Boxten watched from the side, arms crossed, shoulders leaned gently against the wall.
The sounds of fists smacking canvas, grunts muffled by sheer force, echoed like a drumroll winding down to silence.

Eventually, as expected, Shrimpo’s stamina folded on itself. Everyone knew he couldn’t last—he was all fury, no fuel.
One last punch—too wild, too forced—and the shrimp hit the ground hard, flat on his back, wheezing.

Boxten exhaled through his nose, slow. It wasn’t smugness. It wasn’t pity. Just… timing.

He stepped forward, each footfall quiet, deliberate—like he was trying not to disturb some delicate peace.

A group like this—a gang of mismatched Toons, thrown together by whatever thread held the world together on a crooked day—it was the kind of scene he usually avoided. Too loud. Too unpredictable. Too much to feel at once.

But this moment? This exact pocket of quiet? This was his chance.

He cleared his throat again, the way someone does when they don’t want to speak—but know they have to.
His voice still came soft, like it didn’t want to scare anyone off.

“I’m sorry… truly am for interruptin’ whatever y’all got goin’ on,”
he said, hands nervously rubbing together,
“But… may I sit down? Talk with y’all a minute?”

There was a pause. His voice didn’t match his usual energy—because this wasn’t usual.
Boxten didn’t do this. He didn’t ask for space like this.

But the image of Shrimpo two days ago still stuck with him.

Shrimpo, clamping a hand over his mouth just to keep from shouting.
Shrimpo, choosing silence—not because he wanted to listen, but because it was the only way to not be cruel.
That haunted Boxten more than anything else.

If Shrimpo was trying—even in his messy, crooked way—maybe this was the first time Boxten could sit near him and actually breathe.

So yeah. It was out of character.
But for once, curiosity outweighed caution.

He shifted on his feet, eyes flicking between Rodger and Shrimpo—waiting, quietly, for an answer.

Shrimpo immediately tried to growl—low, threatening, guttural.
But all that came out was a wheeze.
More gasp than growl. More deflating balloon than feral beast.

It was pathetic.
He knew it.
And that only pissed him off more.

Roger, of course, didn’t miss a beat.

“Sure,” he said smoothly, almost cheerfully. “This’ll be the perfect time to practice.”

Shrimpo’s eye twitched so hard it nearly popped out of his skull.
He was gonna kill that cyclops-looking bastard.
Just… not right now.
He needed to breathe first.

Roger slowly walked up to Boxten, slipping something into his hand without Shrimpo noticing—a cold soda, condensation slick against his fingers.

He’d expected Shrimpo to wear himself out quickly, but what he hadn’t counted on was Boxten stepping out of his room to join them.

Perfect.

Because now the real challenge was about to begin.

It didn’t take a genius to figure it out—Rodger wanted him to give Shrimpo the soda.

Boxten didn’t even need to hear it said. Just the way Rodger gave him that small glance, the way he subtly shifted his weight and looked toward the sweating, twitching shrimp practically melting into the floor.

He came out here to talk. Maybe listen, maybe learn something.
Not to be part of whatever this “group healing science fair” was.

And yet—there he was.

Because if there was one thing Boxten had never figured out how to do, it was say no.
Not properly. Not when it counted.
Even when his gut begged him to disappear back into the comfort of his room, of silence, of not being noticed.

So he sucked it up. Took the soda can. Held it like it might bite him.

His arms were shaky—not from fear of Shrimpo exactly, but from the weight of being seen. From the fear of messing up something simple.

He scratched nervously at the inside of his elbow, fingers twitching like they were trying to crawl away from the moment.
And then—like stretching a fishing pole past its limit—he reached out as far as he physically could without getting any closer than he had to, and placed the can directly in front of Shrimpo. Almost like he was feeding a stray animal he didn’t want to spook.

“…Hey man,” Boxten said, voice barely above a mumble, tripping over every syllable like they were sharp rocks.

“Uh—it, uh—it seems like you, uh—might need some energy or somethin’. Here you go…”

His words scattered like marbles.

And even though it was just a soda can, Boxten felt exposed. His breath caught in his throat for a second too long after speaking, waiting for a reaction—any reaction—wondering if this was the moment Shrimpo would snap back to his usual self and bark at him.

He swallowed hard.

Gosh, I should’ve stayed in my room.

With the last flicker of energy rattling through his tiny, rage-filled frame, Shrimpo practically pounced at the soda can in Boxten’s hand.

It startled the big guy—just a little—even though Boxten was nearly double his height and built like a walking refrigerator.

Classic Shrimpo bullshit.

But after the dramatic leap, he didn’t follow it up with claws or curses or one of his usual insults.
Nope.
He just stared at the soda for a second… then flicked the top of it until it popped open with a sharp hiss.

That familiar scowl—sharp teeth showing, eyes narrowed, like he was always two seconds away from biting someone—started to… soften.

Just a little.

And he hated that.

Because there was nothing to hate on right now. No pity stares. No dead weight feeling like he was slowing the whole group down.
This wasn’t the run.
This wasn’t him being dragged like some liability.

This was him, doing his favorite thing, hitting something until it stopped hitting back—
And then getting rewarded for it.

And yeah, that messed with his head.

So after a long sip, without meeting anyone’s eye, he muttered:

“I TOLERATE THE SITUATION.”

Easily the most confusing, backhanded, and vaguely polite thing anyone in the room had ever heard.

Roger blinked.
Boxten tilted his head.
Even the tree might’ve raised a branch.

But for Shrimpo?

That was practically a thank-you speech.

SHRIMPO
Without missing a beat, his voice low, sharp, and deadly clear:

“THAT STATEMENT AND WHAT HAPPENED HERE STAYS BETWEEN Y’ALL TWO AND ME. NO ONE ELSE EVER HEARD ME SAY THOSE WORDS — AND IT SHALL STAY LIKE THAT.”

“Yes, yes—no one’s goin’ to drag it into the spotlight,” Rodger said with a quiet wave of his hand, his voice calm and measured.
“I promise you, lad, I highly doubt anyone’ll be fussed about it by the time lunch rolls ‘round.”

He let the air settle before adding, gently but with a pointed weight:

“But you ought to be proud. If you’ve managed this on just the second day…”
He leaned slightly forward, just enough for the words to land.
“Imagine how far you might actually get.”

A pause. Then, with the faintest smirk—

“Could even give that smug git Dandy a fright.”

“GODDAMN RIGHT I WILL.”

Shrimpo practically shot up from his spot like he’d never been tired a day in his life—
Even though that little outburst probably drained half his damn stamina bar.

Chest puffed, arms flung wide like he just won a championship, he roared:

“SHRIMPO ALWAYS WIN!”

The soda sloshed slightly in his hand, but he didn’t care.
It was all about the moment.
And in that moment?
He was back on top—
Even if his legs were definitely shaking.

Boxten stood there for a moment, fingers twitching at his sides like they were still trying to process what he’d just done.

He watched Shrimpo—not too closely, not in a way that’d be taken wrong—just enough to make sure the soda wasn’t tossed back at him like a grenade. But the shrimp hadn’t moved much. Maybe from exhaustion. Maybe because he didn’t know how to respond either.

That was something they had in common, at least.

Rodger stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching them both like he was measuring the moment. Like he was waiting to see if something—anything—would click.

And Boxten… felt it. That eyes-on-him feeling. The quiet pressure.

He sighed, barely audible.
Then, with a shaky breath and a conflicted grunt of effort, he did something he never thought he’d do:

He pulled up his britches, physically and emotionally, and eased himself down onto the bench right next to Shrimpo. Not too close—he still respected the space—but close enough that it meant something.

His knees bounced once. Then stilled.
He didn’t say anything right away. He just sat.

It was the most vulnerable kind of silence—not the comfortable kind he was used to, but the raw, unsure kind that hung in the air like a waiting breath.

His eyes stayed forward, never quite daring to look directly at Shrimpo, but the message was clear enough.

I’m here.
Not for a fight.
Not for judgment.
Just… here.

And behind them, Rodger said nothing. Just stood. Watched.
Let the moment live on its own.

Boxten try to spark a conversation with the shrimp.
“ so…Shrimpo do you perhaps have any speech plans or ideas when it comes to talking to people?”

“ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT… YOU MUSIC BOX?”

He reached up, loosening the faded blue bandanna tied around his neck—it was an unconscious move, a little release of pressure. Something about finally speaking was starting to unravel the knots in his chest. Not fully. But enough.

And somehow, the next words came out smoother. Still soft. Still him. But with a little more ground beneath them.

“Y’know… instead of tryin’ so hard to be nice all of a sudden…”

He hesitated, eyebrows furrowed—not out of anger, just thinking through it, like he was doing a math problem in his head.

“…maybe you just try bein’ less mean.
Still honest. Still tough, if that’s what feels right.
But just… less sharp, maybe.
Aggressive without always bein’ nasty.”

He glanced over—still not fully at Shrimpo, more like past him, just enough to gauge the shrimp’s reaction without stepping on any live wires.

“Or… or if that don’t make sense, maybe you could ask someone like Brightney for help.”

There was a tiny curl of a smile at the corner of his lips. Something almost playful, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

“She always knows what to say. Even if she goes on those long tantrums where you forget what the original point was.”

He laughed softly—more of a breath than a sound—but it was the closest Boxten had come to lightness in days.

Then he looked back down at his hands, voice quiet again.

“I dunno. Just a thought.”

Still nervous.

Shrimpo blinked—hard. His brow furrowed like the word itself had just insulted him to his face.

He turned sharply, eyes darting to Roger like he’d just been personally betrayed by the English language.

“RODGER, WHAT THE HELL DOES AGGRESSIVE MEAN?!”

Rodger sat back slightly, arms loosely crossed, eyes calm but focused on Shrimpo.

“Now, listen here—‘aggressive’ doesn’t always mean throwin’ fists or shoutin’ someone into a corner,” he said, voice low and even.
“It’s when you come at somethin’ too hard, too fast—pushin’ without givin’ it a proper think.”

He paused, tapping one gloved finger against his arm.

“Could be the way you talk, the way you act, or even how you hold yourself. Doesn’t mean you’re evil, just means you’re not lettin’ anyone else breathe before you charge in.”
“And when folks see that, lad… they stop listenin’. Even if what you’re sayin’ is right.”

Then, a softer note crept in, not unkind:

“You’ve got fire in you, no doubt. But fire can warm, or it can burn the whole bloody room down. It’s all in how you use it.”

“Right, let’s clear this up once and for all.”

He pointed one finger slightly toward Shrimpo—not accusatory, just drawing attention.

“Aggressive is when you come at things hard. Pushy. Loud. Like a bull in a shop full of porcelain teacups. You’re not tryin’ to hurt anyone necessarily, you’re just… not exactly gentle, either.”

A beat passed before he continued.

“Mean, on the other hand… that’s deliberate. That’s when you want to cause pain. When your words are sharp ‘cause you know they’ll cut, and you choose to swing anyway.”

Rodger leaned forward slightly, his eyes steady.

“One’s just poor control. The other’s intent. And intent, lad… that’s what people remember.”

Then he leaned back, almost casually, letting the words settle in the air.

“So if you’re angry, fine. Everyone gets angry. But if you’re gonna let it out—mind where you’re aim’n it.”

The news broke his brain a little.

Shrimpo stood there, squinting like the word itself had sucker-punched him in the mouth. He’d heard it before—plenty of times, actually. People loved calling him that.

But they also called him a menace, a fire hazard, a “walking lawsuit,” and once, “emotionally radioactive,” so it all kind of blended together.

Still…
He could work with this.

It didn’t mean he had to stop being himself.
Not really.

Even if hurting people was the fun part.
There were… loopholes.

Suddenly, he lit up—like a kid who just got away with something awful.

“THE ALMIGHTY SHRIMP JUST CAME UP WITH A BRILLIANT, GREAT IDEA.”
His eyes gleamed. His fists clenched. His smile was downright criminal.

“I’M GONNA BE AN AGGRESSIVE TOON. I’M GONNA CHOKE SOMEBODY WITH MY AGGRESSIVE KINDNESS AND KILL ‘EM WITH IT.”

He looked so proud.
Like he’d just discovered emotional terrorism.

Rodger gave Shrimpo a long, pointed look, the kind that said he was choosing his words carefully… but only just.

“You, lad… need to turn it down.”
A pause.
“By a massive degree.”

Something started clicking in that loud, twitchy brain of his.
Twisting. Turning.
Aggressive kindness.

The words alone made him shudder with delight.
It was the only time “kind” ever sounded remotely interesting.

He rubbed his hands together slowly—dramatically—like he’d just cooked up the most evil, unholy idea known to mankind. His grin stretched wide, sharp as hell.

“I’M GONNA SLAP SOMEBODY WITH KINDNESS,” he muttered, eyes gleaming.
“REAL HARD.”

The exact second Shrimpo started rubbing his hands together—twitchy, tense, like something in him was winding up again—Boxten didn’t wait for the explosion. He didn’t need to see the storm to know it was coming.

He was already halfway up from the bench by the time Shrimpo started muttering something under his breath.
The shrimp even waved goodbye—sort of, kind of—but neither Shrimpo nor Rodger even noticed he was moving.

“Welp. That’s my cue.”

Boxten mumbled it under his breath as he gave a short, awkward wave to no one in particular and made for the door.

And then—SLAM.
Door shut. Conversation over. Soul preserved.

You would never catch this box in a bad situation.

He was the king of quiet exits.
The second things turned weird? He was already ghost.

That instinct?
Would make him absolutely useless in a horror movie.
The moment the lights flickered, he’d be halfway down the road—no questions, no dramatic monologue, no second chances.

Nope.
Boxten didn’t stick around for the aftermath.
He wasn’t built for tension.
He was built for exit strategies.

With a brand new, brilliantly unhinged idea rattling around in his skull, Shrimpo locked in on his new goal like a heat-seeking missile.

This was it.
This was his calling.
Aggressive kindness.

He snatched up the half-empty soda can with a sudden jolt of energy, downing the rest and crumbling up the poor defenseless, non-sentient can. The fizz stung his throat, but he didn’t flinch—he was too ready.

That grin.
That evil, toothy grin—the one he usually wore right before doing something deeply, criminally unkind—stretched across his face.

Only this time… apparently, he could do it nicely.

And that made it so much worse.

“Well… to say the least…”

Rodger trailed off, hands in his coat pockets, eye flicking somewhere near the ceiling as if the answer might be up there, stuck in the cobwebs.

He was trying to see the positive side of this—truly, he was. But for the life of him, he couldn’t quite figure out where the positive bit even began.

On one hand, yes—he was helping. Technically. Maybe even making progress.

On the other… Shrimpo looked like he was five seconds away from hugging someone so hard their spine cracked in half, then calling it “an unfortunate accident.”
An accident he’d commit with a smile and enough force to realign furniture.

Rodger exhaled through his [Nonexistent]
nose, long and slow.

“This is progress,” he muttered to himself.
“God help me, this is what we’re calling progress now.”

Rodger stood there, palm pressed to his glass face, smooshing it inward until his one eye looked like it was trying to retreat from the situation entirely. His brow twitched, his mouth twisted, and he sighed like a man trying to stay calm inside a slow-moving disaster.

“Right then, Shrimpo…”

His voice was flat, but not unkind—more tired than anything.

“Let’s pop off to Brightney’s room, see if she’s got a minute to schedule… whatever this is.”
He waved one hand vaguely in the air, the gesture as confused as his tone.
“Our little… aggressive positivity session, I suppose? Gods, I don’t even know what to call it anymore.”

He dropped his hand from his face, his voice slumping in defeat.

“Just label it whatever you like—something about bein’ kind, violently, in your own weird… crustaceous way.”

A beat.

“I need to talk with Glisten after this.”

“HONESTLY, ROGER, YOU NEED BETTER CHOICES WHEN IT COMES TO FRIENDS—THAT GUY IS SO FULL OF HIMSELF.”

Shrimpo muttered as he strutted past the magnifying glass like it owed him rent.

Then he spun on his heel, arms wide like he was presenting a game show win:

“BOOM! FIRST POSITIVE AGGRESSIVE COMMENT! I’M ON A ROLL! I’M GONNA BEAT DANDY’S BET IN NO TIME! I’M GONNA…”
He threw both fists in the air, chest puffed like a cartoon war god.
“WIN. BECAUSE SHRIMPO ALWAYS WINS!”

Roger stood there in complete disbelief, eye locked on the back of Shrimpo’s
(hoping and praying he can do what his twisted form could do just for that comment)
ridiculous little head as he strutted away like he just solved world hunger with a backhanded compliment.

His face said it all—
Confusion.
Disgust.
Anger.
And the unmistakable expression of “how dare this crustacean exist.”

He was practically throwing daggers just with his stare.

How the hell was Shrimpo so genuine about it?
So earnest in his own bullshit?
He was the textbook definition of selfishness—loud, messy, impossible—and the only creature alive who was proud of that fact.

It broke Roger.

The man just… collapsed.

Dropped straight to the floor like his spine gave up in protest, eye wide as he stared into the void beneath him. He mumbled curses into the ground—insults, profanities, possibly ancient banishments—trying to process what in the ever-loving hell this situation was.

He laid there for a moment.
In silence.
In suffering.
In awe of how one shrimp could defy all logic.

Then, with the slow, pained energy of a man rising from spiritual death, he stood up.

Composed himself.
Smoothed out his coat.
Deep breath.

And with dead eyes and clenched teeth, whispered to himself—again and again, like a chant to keep from snapping:

“You’re doing this for Toodles. You’re doing this for Toodles. You’re doing this for Toodles.”

He stepped forward, walking toward Shrimpo like a man approaching a very stupid, very explosive bomb.

Rodger climbed the stairs beside Shrimpo, coat shifting gently with each step, his hands in his pockets like nothing at all was wrong. But his voice—
clear as day, clipped and calm—
cut through the air like a scalpel:

“Insult my partner like that again,” he said without turning his head,
“and I’ll personally cut you open and study what’s left inside—just to see where your bloody wiring went wrong.”

Shrimpo, in classic Shrimpo fashion, was completely oblivious to the tension in the room.

Didn’t notice the twitch in Roger’s eye.
Didn’t clock the quiet fury leaking off his every pore.
Didn’t care.

He just puffed out his chest, tossed his head back like he was posing for a statue, and said:

“OF COURSE YOU WANNA RESEARCH MY BODY. MY BODY IS THE BEST. MOSTLY BECAUSE I’M THE ALMIGHTY SHRIMP.”

He gestured vaguely to the air like it should’ve applauded.

“EVERYONE ELSE’S BODIES HERE SUCK. BUT YOU WON’T HAVE MINE. I’M NOT GIVING IT TO ANYONE.”

Then, with a perfectly straight face and absolutely no understanding of how psychotic he sounded:

“I’LL MAKE SURE TO BLOW UP MY BODY THE SECOND I DIE. EVEN IF I HAVE TO DO IT IN GHOST FORM.”

And just like that, he went right back to sipping his soda like he didn’t just declare supernatural post-mortem self-destruction out loud in front of God and everybody.

INSIDE ROGER’S MIND, AS THEY APPROACHED THE LIBRARIAN’S DOOR:

RESTRICTED FOR LEGAL PURPOSES
RESTRICTED FOR LEGAL PURPOSES
RESTRICTED FOR LEGAL PURPOSES
RESTRICTED FOR LEGAL PURPOSES
RESTRICTED FOR LEGAL PURPOSES

He hadn’t even opened his mouth yet.

And before he could?

Shrimpo, in all his shrimpy brilliance, decided the best—and apparently only—way to get the librarian’s attention was to slam his forehead into the door.
Twice.

Bang. Bang.

Roger froze.

No dent.
No crack.
Not even a scratch on the damn wood.

Worse?

Shrimpo stood there like nothing had happened.
Like headbutting a door was a perfectly reasonable social interaction.

Roger stared.
Dead-eyed.
Soulless.

God, he hated this Toon.

The door creaked open, slow and gentle, and there she stood—her soft lamp-light blooming like morning sun as she peeked out to find the source of all the unexpected noise.

And there they were.

“Rodger and Shrimpo,” she said with a lilting little laugh, her voice rich with amusement and curiosity. “Now that’s an unlikely pairing of two Toons if I’ve ever seen one.”

She gently tilted her shade like a head-cock, half in surprise, half in delight. “I wouldn’t have guessed y’all’d end up at my door today—specially with most folks off on their runs.”

But she didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask for reasons or explanations. Just stepped back, ushering them in with a glowing smile and a warm hand wave. “Come on in. I reckon this’ll be a nice change of pace. Shrimpo, you’re new to my light, but that don’t mean you’re unwelcome. I always got space for a new page in the story.”

Brightney gave them both a sweet smile, the kind that almost made you forget she was also setting a boundary.

“I’d hate to have to rush y’all back out, I really would,” she said, her voice honey-smooth but laced with gentle urgency. “But I run on a tight little schedule, and this here? This is my free time—all fifteen precious minutes of it.”

She let out a soft chuckle, tilting her lampshade just a touch with playful grace. “So if y’all don’t mind, please, go on and say what you need to say. Quick-like. I still got a fanfic finale to finish and a group chat waitin’ for me with very strong opinions about chapter seven.”

 

“RODGER SAID YOU’RE THE LEAST HATED OPTION TO WORK ON BEING AGGRESSIVELY KIND WITH.”

A loud, genuine laugh burst out of Brightney—uncontrollable, unfiltered, the kind that lit up her whole frame until her soft golden glow flickered in delight.

“Rodger, I didn’t expect you to be a prankster!” she beamed, dabbing under her lampshade as if wiping tears of laughter. “Now that’s usually more Connie and Gigi’s style.”

She shook her head, still chuckling, her voice gentle as it rolled into something more sincere.

“But I’m glad. I’m glad you’re pushin’ yourself out there, tryin’ new things. It’s healthy, you know. Always said so myself—it don’t hurt to stretch your spirit every once in a while. Keeps the soul from gettin’ dusty.”

She smiled at him.
(Unintentionally ignoring the shrimp)

“I HATE FEELING IGNORED.”

“Well—” Rodger began, straightening his bowtie with a quiet flick of his fingers,
“—as much as it sounded like a joke…”

He stepped slightly ahead of Shrimpo, placing himself squarely in front without fanfare, as if shielding the lad from further questioning—or perhaps, shielding the questioner from the lad.

“The truth of it is, we’re attempting something rather daft. Trying to help the shrimp become… better. Temporarily, at least.”

He glanced back at Shrimpo for half a second, then returned to the point with a calm nod.

“One of our more promising options is testing out a little social experiment: teaching him to be nice… in a way that still lets him be aggressive, just not inconvenience.”

“Now see… once you put it like that,” Brightney said, her tone dipping into something softer, more thoughtful, “it’s soundin’ like you might actually be serious. And Lord knows, I’d hate to turn you away if that truly was the case.”

She turned, reaching behind her with practiced ease to grab a well-worn notebook off the table. It was thick with pages, corners dog-eared and sticky-notes poking out like petals from a blooming brain. Flipping through it with a practiced hand, she muttered to herself in quiet little hums.

“Let’s see here… book club… Gossip Hour’s with Vee and Glisten…. Ghoststories with Connie ‘til Friday… Oh—here we go.”

She tapped the page with a painted nail before looking back up at Rodger and Shrimpo.

“Around 8 PM, two days from now, I’ve got a lil’ opening. Just about an hour and twenty-five minutes free—exactly.” She gave them both a meaningful glance. “I’m a very busy Toon, y’all should know that by now. But I can make time… for this.”

With a calm flick, she uncapped her trusty sharpie—purple, glittery—and jotted it down in a flourish, then circled it twice. She takes schedules very seriously.

“I’ll gather what I can—information, helpful words, maybe even a verse or two of encouragement. Anything that might shine a light on your little shrimp situation.”

Her eyes briefly flicked to Shrimpo, then back to Rodger with a knowing look.

“But please, darling—do me a kindness. Make sure he doesn’t stir up a storm in the next two days. I can’t study if I’m also putting out fires.”

“SHRIMPO CAN EASILY BE KIND. I JUST CHOOSE NOT TO. BUT LOOK AT ME—IN THIS VERY MOMENT, I HAVE NOT INSULTED YOUR LIGHT ONCE. VERY KIND OF ME.”

Shrimp said, snapping at the librarian.

A moment of silence was slowly dragged within the room.

Brightney let out a long, tired sigh—the kind that came not from frustration, but from the heavy realization that this was absolutely going to be a long-term project.

“Shrimpo,” she said, her voice calm but weighed down with that teacher-patient exhaustion, “what you just did there… was quite literally the bare minimum of being nice. I wouldn’t even call it being nice. The fact you had to announce it? Honestly…… that’s just sad.”

She didn’t say it with cruelty—just a quiet kind of honesty that cut deeper than yelling ever could.

“But I’m a working woman,” she added, flipping her notebook closed with one practiced motion. “And clearly, this little shrimp situation’s gonna have to be handled by yours truly.”

She turned to Rodger, her expression softening just enough to show she meant it, even if it came with a warning.

“I can’t make you any promises, Rodger.”

Her hand rested gently on his shoulder, warm and steady.

“But that don’t mean I won’t try.”

Then, like flipping a switch, she whirled around, reorganizing her things in a blur of graceful, laser-focused motion. Her sharpie was capped and slotted, her papers stacked perfectly, her space reset with clinical precision.

She faced them again, sweet as honey and just as firm.

“I enjoyed y’all visiting. Truly. Gave me something different to think about. But now I’ve got a schedule to respect and a life to live, so I hope y’all enjoy the rest of your day.”

With practiced ease, she guided them gently but unmistakably toward the exit, her hand warm on their backs as she ushered them out.

“Take care now,” she added softly, almost in a sing-song, before quietly closing the door behind them.

“Bye” came her final word, muffled slightly through the wood—light, but definitive.

“HER ROOM SMELLS LIKE CINNAMON. BOOM. COMPLIMENTS.”

He threw his hands up like he’d just ended world hunger.

Brightney cracked her door back open just an inch—enough for her to peek through with one glowing eye and a raised brow.

“Oh—and Shrimpo?” she called, her voice sweet as syrup but laced with that unmistakable firmness.

“Good attempt. But once again, that ain’t a compliment. That’s more of a fact than anything else.”

She gave a soft chuckle—not mocking, just amused—then closed the door fully this time with a gentle click.

He immediately threw his hands up in the air like the world was personally attacking him, then stomped off toward his room, muttering loud enough for everyone to hear:

“I FUCKING HATE COMPLIMENTS—BUT I HATE LOSING MORE. SHRIMP WOULD NEVER LOSE THIS COMPETITION.”

Each footstep echoed like a tantrum with purpose.
Every word dripping with misery and ego.

Rodger peeled off in the other direction, hands tucked in his coat pockets, his footsteps slow but certain.

“Right then… I’ll be headin’ back to my room.”

He muttered it more to himself than anyone else, but there was purpose in his stride—and a weight in his voice he didn’t bother hiding.

“Could use a chat with my… adversary, let’s call her that.”

He gave the word a bit of an eye-roll as he said it. There was no real venom there—just weariness wrapped in old affection.

“Honestly, I need anyone that won’t spend the next hour yellin’ in my ear.”
“And I ought to check up on her anyway…”

A pause.

“Troublemakers don’t monitor themselves, do they?”

As he walked, coat swaying at his sides, Rodger kept his gaze low, his thoughts trailing just a few steps ahead of him.

In the quieter corner of his mind, a thought stirred—faint, but persistent.

“…Wouldn’t mind a bit of time with Glisten either.”

He didn’t smile, not properly. But there was a softening at the edge of his face, a flicker in his eye like he’d remembered something worth keeping.

“Would be… nice, really.”

He didn’t dwell on it. He never did. But it stayed there—gentle, warm, unspoken—as his footsteps carried him on.

 

The static pulsed once—soft, barely there—before stabilizing on a dimly lit hallway. The walls flickered under the cheap glow of flickering bulbs, casting long shadows that didn’t quite line up with the shapes that made them.

Rodger passed through first, his coat catching the light in sharp, sluggish frames. His face unreadable. Tired. Focused.

He turned the corner.

A few seconds later, the lens twitched.
A soft click.
A blinking red light.

They were being watched.
And they didn’t know.

CAMERA FEED – HALLWAY VIEW
The grainy footage crackled faintly — a familiar hallway, dim, slightly crooked. The angle was just off enough to feel watched. The lens blinked red.

The voice that came through was soft, thoughtful… even uneasy.

“Progress has been made…”
A pause. Breathing.
“This is farther than I expected. What is this… nervous feeling? Of course, I’m happy for him but…”

There was something in the voice that didn’t sound like Dandy — not the one the others knew, at least. Not the smug smile, not the swagger.
This one was… human. Concerned. Cracked at the edges.

Then — DING.

A loud, mechanical sound thundered through the facility, and a flashing red light pulsed from the control console deep beneath it all.
Back in the underground bunker, the room was silent save for the hum of machines and the flicker of camera feeds.

Dozens of angles. Hallways. Kitchens. Corners.
Everything but the bedrooms.

And in the center of it all — Dandy, sitting in a half-lit chair, eyes reflecting rows of screens.

The world thought he could only see during missions.
They were wrong.

With a deep inhale and a flick of his fingers, he stood. Straightened his collar.
And smiled.

Not a forced smile. Not a cruel one.
A bright, colorful, deliberately curated expression — his mask made of joy and lacquered deceit.

“Showtime.”

With a soft metallic hiss, Dandy’s shop — an ornate little boutique on wheels, absurdly out of place in this grim facility — rose from the floor of the elevator, like a stage being lifted from the shadows.

The elevator doors opened slow, theatrical. Smoke? Optional. Theatric tension? Absolutely not.

And there he was.

Dandy.

Hands clasped together. Eyes glinting with secrets. Voice like sugar poured over gasoline.

“Hello, my dearest customers~!”

He gave a slight bow, flourishing one hand over the counter stacked with bizarre items, tokens, trinkets — some real, some not.

“How may I assist you today?”

“Hey Dandy… you can drop the act. It’s just us—me and Astro. We wanted to talk to you.”

The tall, glowing Toon sat slouched in the corner, practically wrapped in a night sky—his form cloaked in deep celestial blues that shimmered faintly, like stars twinkling through sleep.
One of the tiny orbiting stars gently nudged his shoulder, as if encouraging him to speak. He didn’t lift his head.

“…As your closest friend,”
he began, voice barely louder than a whisper,
“I know when something’s off.”
There was no anger—just quiet weight.
“I’d really appreciate it… if you told the two of us.”

The Flower crossed his arms, eyes narrowing—not from rage, but from the mild inconvenience of being read like an open book.

“Of course, y’all too,” he muttered, voice dipped in faux-anger but with no real heat behind it.

He exhaled through his nose, clearly more annoyed with himself for slipping than with anyone else.

“It’s just a little experiment, alright?”

He waved a claw vaguely in the air like swatting away a question.

“I’ll explain it later if you’re still curious. Y’all probably got a run to get back to anyway.”

His tone was clipped, dismissive — the kind of attitude someone uses when they’re two seconds from spiraling but really don’t want to talk about it in public.

“This isn’t the perfect time to talk about it,” the Flower said quickly, grasping at the excuse mid-thought like it was life-saving rope.

He pointed toward the elevator, hiding behind formality.

“Since y’all are here, you’ve got very limited time in the lift. So I’d appreciate it if you went t—”

He didn’t finish.

Because the two main Toons — Astro and Shelly — exchanged a long, knowing glance.

No words. Just recognition.

They knew.

Shelly, despite being the most muscular presence in the group — built like a walking fortress — had the softest eyes. She opened her mouth, about to speak up, ready to plead, to defend whoever needed it. That was just who she was.

But Astro, the more reserved, razor-sharp of the two, gently placed a bright blue star on her shoulder — and she stopped.

He didn’t need to explain it.
They both knew the truth:
If they let it slide again, it was never going to get talked about.

And then, calm but firm, he said:

“No.”

Just that.
No.

The word hit like a dropped knife.

The Flower’s claw twitched at his side.

That bright, fake composure flickered — just for a moment. Not gone, but visibly strained.

Because he knew exactly where this was heading.
And it wasn’t somewhere he wanted to go.

As the two stepped out of the elevator and disappeared down the hallway, the Flower lingered for a moment, staring at the closing doors like they’d just sealed his fate.

He let out a slow exhale, muttering under his breath with a sarcastic edge that barely covered the knot in his chest.

“Can’t wait for it. This is gonna be such a fun conversation.”

His voice dripped with bitterness, more to himself than anyone else.
Then, with a half-hearted roll of his eyes, he turned and exited the elevator — shoulders heavy with the weight of a confrontation he couldn’t dodge forever — heading back to whatever task he was pretending to care about.

Because no matter what he did today,
they were coming to his room.

Time lapse 8 PM directly

It was late.
The facility had finally quieted down, hums settling into silence, footsteps swallowed by still air.

Dandy was the last to leave the elevator — as always.
It was his domain, his little shop in a box. Selling oddities, watching faces, locking up when the show was over.

With a small metallic clink, he twisted the key, sealing the elevator shut for the night.
Click. Locked. Done.

And then came the walk.

He toiled with the keys in his fingers, one by one, step by step toward the main floor.
Long hall.
Long staircase.
Longer thoughts.

He could already feel it — the conversation waiting for him.

Not Sprout. Not V.
Those two would’ve kicked the door down and ripped answers out of him.

But Shelly and Astro?
No, they wouldn’t yell. They wouldn’t even raise their voices.

They’d just sit there.
Quiet. Calm. Patient.
Waiting until you ran out of lies.

By the time he reached the final stair, every footstep echoed like a countdown.
He prayed — genuinely, silently — that maybe they got distracted. Maybe they fell asleep.

Maybe they’d let it go.

He unlocked his door.
Swung it open—

“Fuck.”

There they were.

Astro, seated perfectly still in the corner chair like a silent moonbeam.
Shelly, near the desk, hands clasped in front of her like she didn’t want to pressure him — but she would.

Dandy tossed his keys across the room with a clatter, no longer pretending to care.
He reached down, scratched the top of his loyal companion.

“Hey, Pebble.”
The rock-dog wagged its painted-on tail.

He sighed and flopped onto his bed, one leg dangling off, one arm over his face.

The two Toons didn’t say anything.

They didn’t need to.

They just stared at him, quiet, soft, ready.

And oddly enough…
he was glad it was them.

If he had to tell someone…
It’d be these two.

“Come on, Dan! You can tell us—really, you can do it. You don’t have to be all shy with us. We’ve always got your back, no matter what.”

And if you want it in Shelly’s full voice—loud, loving, and a little rushed—it could sound like this:

“Come ooon, Dan! You can totally tell us! Don’t go all shy on us now—we always got your back, no matter what!”

The Flower could feel it.

That gentle, invisible tug — the way Shelly softened her presence, the way her eyes shimmered like she was reaching for him without moving an inch.
She was trying to use her ability on him.

Not physically.
Emotionally.
Spiritually.
Like maybe if she cared hard enough, the truth would spill out.

And he wanted to tell her — that’s not how it works.
She doesn’t get to will it out of him with kindness.
Empathy isn’t a crowbar.

But he didn’t say it.
Not because he was being kind.
Because he was tired.
So tired.

Tired in the way that made words feel expensive.
Tired in the way that made even pushing back feel like a loss.

So he just sat there, gaze fixed somewhere past the wall, letting the weight of her silent concern sit in the room like a second gravity.

“The more you don’t answer…”
he mumbled, the words swaying with a yawn,
“…the longer we stay right here.”

One of his little stars floated up and poked at his cheek as his eyes drooped halfway shut.
“I know you like your alone time just as much as anyone else,”
he added, voice slurred slightly by fatigue,
“but I’m not leaving until I know what’s really going on.”

A slow blink. A soft exhale. He looked like he could pass out any second—but still, he stayed.

Astro wanted more.
You don’t drop a bomb like that and just sit in silence.
But he knew this room.
He knew Dandy.
And he knew when nothing more was going to come out.

So, with a slow sigh, he pushed himself up—taller than most, glowing faintly, every movement like it was underwater.
One of the stars tried to guide him, circling near Dandy, but this time… Astro used his own hand.
Shaky, hesitant—one of the four he always kept hidden.

He reached out and gently placed it on Dandy’s forehead, brushing it softly with his thumb, as if grounding the storm brewing inside him.

“…I’m sorry we had to push this out of you,”
he said, voice barely a thread, heavy with both guilt and love.
“But you have to know… we were getting really concerned about your well-being.”

His hand lingered, the stars around him dimming slightly, as if honoring the silence that followed.
Astro didn’t need answers—not tonight. Just proof Dandy still had a heartbeat behind those eyes.

Dandy let out a breath — not quite a sigh, but the kind of exhale that says “this is as far as I go tonight.”

“I appreciate your concern. Really, I do.”

His tone was unusually soft. Measured.
“But right now, I think the best thing for me is a little… alone time.”

He stood up slowly, brushing himself off like he was removing the weight of the whole conversation from his sleeves.

“And don’t worry about VEE — I’ll check in on her.
She’s just been sitting outside Garden View, listening to music. Not sick, not injured. Just… sad.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly to the floor before snapping back to his usual focus.

“Something called ‘OK Computer.’”

He shrugged.
“Apparently it’s emotionally devastating or whatever.
But she’ll be fine. She just needs to get through this phase of hers.”

And then — snap — the showman was back.

He stood straight, threw on his signature grin, and pointed toward the door like a magician concluding a performance.

“Now, if you don’t mind— I think it’s best that y’all leave and give me a little peace.”

He raised a brow with mock dignity.
“I need my beauty sleep. I’ve got a whole line of annoying people to entertain tomorrow, and the last thing I need is to deal with ‘em sleep-deprived.”

He didn’t say it unkindly. But he said it with finality.
The wall was back up.
The door wasn’t closed — not quite — but it was very clear where the night ended.

Shelly gave him a gentle nod, her expression calm and understanding, like she got it without needing to say anything else. She moved toward the door without resistance, just a quiet presence, no pressure.

Astro lingered for a second longer — eyes locked on Dandy with that unreadable stillness of his, the kind that always made people wonder what he knew and when he learned it. Then, with a soft flick of his star-lit wrist, he turned and followed Shelly out.

The door closed behind them with a soft click.
No final word.
No confrontation.
Just space.

Dandy stood there for a moment.
Soaking in the silence.

It was warm.
It was rare.
And it was his.

He sighed, shuffled to the bed, and flopped onto it like a marionette whose strings had finally been cut. His shop coat slipped off one shoulder. His thoughts raced for a second—always did—but then slowed, lulled by the weight of quiet.

“Finally…” he muttered into the pillow.
“Five minutes without somebody breathing down my neck.”

And just as his eyes started to close, one last thought crawled up from the back of his mind.

Not a fear.
Not even regret.
Just a cold little whisper of what if.

“How the hell am I gonna explain to everyone what happens if this loser actually pulls it off?”

A smirk crept onto his face even as sleep started pulling him under.

“God, I hope he doesn’t.”

Then, silence.
No cameras.
No questions.
Just Dandy, finally getting the sleep he swore h desperately need.

Notes:

I don’t want this series to be all about Shrimpo and Toodles/Rodgers if y’all have any side stories or side plots, you would like me to make please say anything and I will do it immediately

Chapter 4: Day three of the bet Aplot

Summary:

Toodles gather up group to make the start of the team, but did something you wouldn’t usually do

Notes:

I’m tired and exhausted. I had an entire birthday just for no one to remember I exist and I’m just kind of sad about it.

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.

But as the two went down the hallway together, it became clear—they weren’t entirely alone. Someone had been watching them, brows furrowed with cartoon confusion. Those two, talking like that? That’s not something you see every day. And this one? Oh, they were definitely gonna run their mouth about it.

And just like that—splack!—a puddle of black ink darted off across the floor, limbs slithering into form mid-sprint. Blot was gone in a flash, his gooey frame twisting and streaking down the hallway. Not out of panic, not even out of duty. No—Yatta bet him a jawbreaker to do it. And he actually took it.

Blot oozed back into the kitchen like a sneaky shadow under sunlight, limbs folding into place as he reformed with a slick slap of movement. Yatta and Looey were already sitting at the table, breakfast half-eaten, a third plate waiting—carefully set off to the side. They never forgot each other. Not even once.

Yatta’s eyes lit up the second she saw him.

“Ooooh! There he is!” she sang, scooting to the side with a squeak of metal legs on tile. She patted the seat next to her and slid a jawbreaker beside his plate like it was currency for a job well done.

“So tell me—what was the Shrimp doing? We never see him go upstairs, especially not this early. Any dirty little secrets? Was he sneaking off? Did he say anything weird? Is he finally doing something wrong? Tell me—just tell me!”

She practically bounced in her seat, hands slamming the table with every new theory. Looey, cool as ever, reached over and pressed a hand to her shoulder to keep her from launching into orbit.

“Easy,” he smirked. “Let the ink spill first.”

Blot slid into his seat with a soft squelch, casually pouring syrup across his pancakes in a slow, looping spiral. He stabbed the first one like it was personal, then shoved it into his mouth in one big bite.

He chewed. Swallowed. Then, without looking up, muttered in his usual garbled reverse:

“.elbaticerps…tuq ,seY .regdoR ot gniklat tsuj saw eh…gnihtyna gniod yltneserper ton saw eH”

Yatta’s jaw dropped mid-bounce.

“Respectable?!” she squawked. “Shrimpo?! Are we talkin’ about the same guy? Low stamina,, angry eyebrow, practically allergic to kindness
—that Shrimp?!”

Blot gave a lazy shrug, cutting into the next pancake.

Looey leaned forward, elbow on the table. “What’d they talk about?”

Blot spoke again, this time a little more thoughtful—his words still reversed, but steady:

“.gnihtemos ekil…ssendniK”

Yatta huffed, puffing out her cheeks. “Oh, so he’s havin’ a moment now? What is this, personal growth?! I want drama!”

Looey chuckled, flicking a crumb at her. “Sounds like he’s trying to change.”

She slumped dramatically. “Ugh, boring. Someone wake me up when he does something illegal.”

Blot quietly took his jawbreaker and stuff in his pocket.

“Well, I guess the entertainment’s on backorder,” Yatta groaned, slumping over the table like a melting sundae. “What do y’all have planned today? Please tell me it’s something unhinged…”

She poked at her pancakes like they offended her. Looey grinned. Blot practically stuffing his face like there’s no tomorrow.

“Mmph—maybe we could hang with Gigi an’ Connie,” Looey mumbled around a bite of muffin, crumbs dotting the corners of his mouth. “They’re always up to somethin’… unpredictable duo”

He swallowed, waved the half-eaten muffin like it was a prop.

“Like, we’re chaotic, sure—but they’re just straight-up random. One minute they’re prankin’ Toons, next they’re arguin’ about whether soup counts as a drink. I don’t even know anymore.”

He popped the rest of the muffin in his mouth. “Kinda beautiful, honestly.”

Blot paused, then let out a syrupy hum as he casually wiped his plate clean with one last pancake swipe. His voice poured out in its usual backward twist:

“.syawla er’ yeht ,sniwt tfarC eht htiw tuo gnah nac eW…ebyaM”

He shot a slick, slow glance toward Yatta, a smirk practically oozing off his inky face.

“.?yaD ruoy pu ecips dluow ohw ,enO esoohc dluoc uoy fI…sniwt eht fo eno htiw tuo gnah ot dewolla erew uoY”

With a well-timed nudge of his elbow, he gave her that look.

Yatta nearly choked on her jawbreaker, eyes wide. “EXCUSE me?!”

Her voice pitched up as she pointed a syrupy fork at him.

“I don’t—Blot! I do not have a crush on Scraps! She’s just—she’s smart, okay? And speak so passionately about—GAAAH!!”

Looey burst out laughing, halfway choking on his muffin. “She’s spiraling!” he wheezed. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna give her a candy ring!”

Blot just leaned back in his chair, victorious, his gooey limbs forming a smug little heart shape in the air.

Before either of them could get another word out, Yatta struck.

Her right arm whipped around Looey’s neck like licorice lightning, dragging him in. At the same time, her left curled around Blot’s slippery throat in a mock chokehold, syrup still on her fingers.

“I will END you both!” she shrieked through gritted teeth, as dramatic as a Saturday morning cartoon meltdown.

Blot gurgled something backwards that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. Looey wheezed out a laugh, muffin crumbs flying across the table.

They didn’t fight back. They didn’t even flinch.

Because they knew—like always—she’d never really hurt them.

And honestly? It just felt nice to try. To act like chaos could bite, even if the teeth were soft.

The three of them tumbled into a mess of limbs and laughter, locked in the kind of bond you couldn’t build—only survive.

And then—wham—a blur zipped down the hall like a slingshot let loose.
Someone mentioned Scraps, and that’s all it took.

Despite being insanely sleep-deprived, Goob’s ears had a sixth sense for her name.
He crashed into the scene like a rubbery missile—arms dragging behind him like scratchy, stretched-out tubes, flopping and flailing with every step. His whole body bounced like a noodle in a thunderstorm.

He finally skidded to a stop at the table, eyes wild, pupils two different sizes, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon inside a washing machine.

“Did someone here wanted Scraps?”
Goob asked, squinting hard, like he couldn’t remember if he was awake or dreaming.

The three circus Toons just blinked.

Goob blinked at the three Toons, swaying slightly like he might fall asleep standing up. One of his rubbery arms smacked the floor with a lazy flap.

“I can go get her if you want,” he offered cheerfully, already halfway turning around like it was settled.
“She’s probably still asleep, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I just—y’know—barged in, maybe flopped on her bed a little, shook her awake real gentle-

“NO!” Yatta shouted, eyes bulging like candy gumballs about to pop out of her skull.

She sprang to her feet and bolted toward Goob, flailing like a cartoon in crisis. “I would hate to wake her up—especially for no reason! She just got mentioned in passing, that’s it! Don’t summon chaos when it’s sleepin’!”

She waved her arms due to how embarrass she is. Her face is a bright red color but Goob was none of the wiser

“Oooh… I get it…” Goob said slowly, eyes lighting up like he just solved a riddle no one gave him.

Yatta finally caught her breath, wiping imaginary sweat from her forehead with an exaggerated Phew!
But sadly… she wasn’t done. Not even close.

She turned, arms flailing dramatically as if the entire scene had drained the last bit of her cartoon soul.

Goob, still unfazed, lifted a floppy hand to his head and scratched lazily at his scalp.

“So… what was the conversation about?” he asked, genuinely curious, completely unaware of the mess he’d just plopped into.

Yatta opened her mouth to answer—words already forming—until she glanced over her shoulder.

And there was Looey.

Leaning back in his chair, arms wrapped around nothing, loudly making out with the air. Tongue out, exaggerated smooching noises filling the room like a bad soap opera. He even let out a dramatic little sigh.

Yatta froze. Her whole body locked up like a vending machine mid-fall.

The color drained from her face, only to rush back twice as strong. She spun around so fast it nearly unwrapped her pigtails.

“We were just—” she started, voice cracking, “—just talking about how great she is. As a person. Like, fun to be around. That’s it.”

Her words came out in a hurried mumble, every syllable laced with damage control.

Behind her, Looey gasped for air like he was mid-scene in a romantic tragedy. Blot gurgled something in reverse that probably translated to “You’re doomed.”

Yatta didn’t dare look at Goob. She couldn’t. Not while her brain was already planning out Looey and Blot’s last day on Earth—fireworks, poison, maybe a piano accident.

It was written all over her face.

Everyone with more than three brain cells could figure out how she was feeling at the moment.

(Everyone except Goob.)

In a last-ditch effort to reroute the emotional train wreck, Yatta spun on her heels with a grin so forced it practically squeaked.

She slapped a hand onto Goob’s arm—probably a bit too hard for casual contact—and blurted out with all the grace of a kid hiding broken glass behind their back:

“So! What do you have planned later today, my friend?”

Her voice cracked halfway through the sentence, but she held the smile.

Desperate. Awkward. So obviously small talk.

But she was trying.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to survive the next sixty seconds.

With a bright, goofy grin stretched across his face, Goob finally answered the question like it had just clicked in his head:

“Oh! Toodles sent me this invite thingy to be in her room around seven o’clock. Said it was urgent or somethin’—wrote it all cute too. Something about helpin’ Shrimp and needing my ‘*alliance’…’ whoever that guy is.”

He held out the crumpled paper proudly, the top corners shredded just a bit from his too-sharp claws.

“Anyway, it was real nice talkin’ to y’all!”
He waved with both arms like he was trying to flag down a plane.
“If you ever wanna hang out with my sister, I can totally set somethin’ up! I’ll even join if you want me there!”

And just like that, he was already halfway around the corner, still waving with that same beaming grin—like a happy little storm had blown through, left everyone stunned, and carried itself off on a breeze of clueless joy.

Yatta turned around slowly—too slowly.

Her smile was gone. Her eyes burned with candy-coated wrath, and the silence that followed was louder than anything they could’ve said.

Looey shut his eyes and smiled, accepting his fate like a man on trial who knew he was guilty and still kinda proud of it.

Blot, on the other hand, immediately shoveled the last of his pancakes into his mouth. No words. Just pure instinct.

The moment her foot shifted—bam—they were gone. Chairs clattered back, laughter trailing behind them like fireworks.

They were both faster than her, technically. But Yatta had cheats.

She yanked a candy bar from her belt and took a bite—her pupils dilated, her energy spiked, and her stamina shot through the roof like she’d eaten a rainbow dipped in jet fuel.

“OH, YOU’RE DEAD!” she screamed, blasting off after them like a living sugar missile.

The three of them tore down the hallway in a blur of chaotic limbs and shouting, nearly knocking over poor Toodles, who squeaked and spun like a wind-up doll.

“SORRY!” they all shouted in unison, barely breaking stride.
(Blot say “!YRROS”)

But Yatta wasn’t letting them off that easy.

Not this time.

They’d pay. In wedgies, in humiliation, and maybe even in glitter glue.

She was vengeance. She was fury. She was sweet and spiteful.

And she was gaining on them.

Toodles, still dizzy from being spun like a top by those three lunatics, wobbled on her feet like a wind-up doll with vengeance. Her curls were crooked, her vision was half-tilted—but her mission? Oh, her mission was clear.

She had work to do, and she wasn’t about to let motion sickness—or common sense—get in her way.

With a sudden jolt of resolve, she bolted down the hallway toward Rodger’s room, her head whipping left and right to make sure no one was watching.

RND spotted her speed-walking like a cartoon spy, but neither of them said a word. Toodles waltzing into their surrogate father’s room wasn’t exactly normal—but it also wasn’t worth questioning. They shrugged and went back to their day.

Meanwhile, Toodles shut the door behind her with a quick click, then slumped against it dramatically—like she’d just escaped a horde of zombies.

“Yes! No one saw me. My mission is off to a fantastic start.”
She whispered to herself with a smug little grin.

She scanned the room with laser focus, eyes flitting across shelves, drawers, coat racks—looking for one specific thing.

A notebook. His notebook.

She tore through the drawers, rifling through folded scarves and spare socks, muttering to herself all the while.

“C’mon… where’s the goods…”

And there it was. Buried like a secret beneath a stack of old receipts and lint: a battered, old leather notebook. The name “Rodger” had been aggressively scratched out with pen, and beneath it, in bold glittery ink:
“TOODLES.”

She held it up like a relic, a grin crawling across her face.
Carefully, she placed it atop the dresser, then smoothed everything else back in place—every drawer neat as if untouched.

Now for the other treasure.
The big one. The really, really heavy book.

She couldn’t remember the name—only that it was huge, filled with words she didn’t know, the kind mob bosses in movies seemed to say before making dramatic threats.

“If I’m gonna pull this mob boss thing off,” she mumbled, yanking open every book-filled nook she could find, “I need mob boss words.”

There was always one word she kept hearing lately.

“Manipulate.”
Or at least… something like it.

Rodger would mutter it sometimes, especially when Dandy was around. Usually with a tired sigh and that far-off look he got when he was thinking too hard.

“His tongue’s as manipulative as a two-headed snake.”
That’s what Rodger had said once—clear as day. The phrase stuck to Toodles like glitter in carpet.

She figured it had to mean something bad. Something evil, even. But also… powerful. Like getting your way without shouting or stomping. Just—talking. Talking so good, people do what you want.

Rodger probably wouldn’t like her even thinking about that word, but—

Eight Ball, seated near the doorway, glanced up.
She could see something flicker behind those big cartoon eyes. A silent pause. A shift.

Toodles froze.
This was… probably a bad idea.

There had to be a reason Rodger used that word like a warning.
He said it like it stung.
Like it was wrong to use it.
Like it wasn’t just about getting your way—but about taking someone else’s.

Still…

“I’m doing it for a good cause,” she whispered to herself.
“So it can’t be that bad… right?”

Shaking it off, she turned back to her search—and there it was: a massive, dusty book with some long, twisty title starting with a “D.” She didn’t bother reading the whole thing. Just flipped it open and started hunting.

Her finger dragged across the page, lips moving as she sounded it out.

“M…man…ip…you…lay…shun.”

She stared at the entry:

“Manipulation: to control another using words or actions.”

Toodles blinked at the page.
Read it again.
And again.

Then she slowly shut the book.

This wasn’t pretend anymore.

Toodles grinned ear to ear, eyes sparkling as she skipped down the hallway like a girl with a secret and a sugar high. Her notebook was clutched tight to her chest, practically humming with schemes. She’d just finished writing her next assignment—her next box to check.

Oh, it was all coming together now.
Everything was lining up.
She could practically hear dramatic music in the background.

And that’s when she bumped into someone.

Thunk.

She stumbled back a step, eyes blinking wide in surprise—until she looked up.

Cosmo.
Of course it was Cosmo.

She gasped, then immediately giggled behind her hand, eyes sparkling like she’d just won the cartoon lottery.

“Oh my GOSH.”
Her voice pitched up in delight.
“What are the odds?!”

The hallway lights seemed to glow just a little brighter around her. The scene felt staged—like even the world knew she was onto something special.

She tilted her head, smile still glued in place.
“Honestly, I might as well be the main character of this whole story.”

Cosmo just blinked, entirely unaware he’d just walked straight into an invisible net.

Toodles held her notebook tighter, a fresh gleam in her eyes.

Target acquired.

Before poor Cosmo could get a single word out—before he could even rub the shoulder she bumped into—

Toodles changed.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t subtle.
It was like watching the sky go dark in an instant.

That bubbly, beaming smile?
Gone.

(She practically transforming into her evil doppelgänger in her mind, but in reality she’s just playing pretend as always)

She whispered under her breath, eyes narrowing with sudden determination:

“Ferocious Eight…”

Her head tilted slightly, just slightly, and her grin didn’t vanish—it twisted. Still there, but tighter. Hungrier. Less “school play,” more “interrogation spotlight.”

Her pupils narrowed ever so slightly.
Her voice dropped half an octave—not deep, not loud, but suddenly controlled. Like the room belonged to her now.

“Cosmo,” she purred, one finger tapping rhythmically against her notebook,
“you and I need to have a little talk.”

(Obviously not a real alter ego. Just something she made up in her head to sound cooler.)

She whispered under her breath, eyes narrowing with sudden determination:

“Ferocious Eight…”

 

The chocolate roll practically stared at Toodles in disbelief as the entire situation unfolded right in front of him.

He blinked once. Then again.
He decided it was better not to ask.

Instead, he cleared his throat—part cough, part excuse—just loud enough to break the awkward silence hanging in the air like fog.

“Anyway, is there anything you nee—

“YOU!”
Toodles declared, full of unshakable confidence.

She wasn’t exactly yelling—but the force behind the word sure made it feel that way. It echoed just enough to turn a few heads, and not a single part of her looked embarrassed about it.

She pointed dramatically like she was selecting a fighter in a video game, eyes locked with her target.

“I need you… for my shrimp crew.”

No further context. No explanation. Just pure, unfiltered Toodles energy.

Cosmo was reminded of two days ago.

He didn’t need to be a super genius to figure out where all this was going. It was clear as day—too clear.

“I wish y’all luck, of course. I truly do…” he said, voice steady but a little distant.

“…But I got stuff to do.”
“Like?”
She fired back immediately—sharp, fast, not giving him even half a second to dodge the conversation.

“Just in case anyone needed me to heal them and such.” he added casually

“There’s no needed for that—because we’re practically filled up on food right now. So there’s no point in sending anyone else on a run. Everyone’s been relaxing, and the only ones even going out are the Toons who can consistently outrun the Twisted. And even then, they’re barely out there for more than a few minutes.”

During her free time, she’d been studying everything she could to get Cosmo on her team. She wasn’t taking this lightly.

Cosmo might be kind, maybe even gentle—but that only made him harder to convince. And Toodles? She was more than ready.

She’d already set her plan in motion.
Three steps.
No shortcuts.
No mercy.

Right now, she was on Step One—what she proudly called:
Anti-Excuse.

“All right, that’s fair.”

Cosmo scratched the back of his head, not expecting that comment. It wasn’t technically wrong… but how did she even know that? It wasn’t exactly hard info—anyone could ask Dandy or one of the active Toons—but still, she wasn’t even active in the runs.

“I mean, even if that is the case—which, not wrong,” he said with a shrug, “I don’t see the point of me being there.”

He glanced off, his tone calm but distant.

“It’s not like I’m exactly attached to this. I do care about him—same as I do anyone else. It just doesn’t make sense to put myself in harm’s way when I could just… easily not do that.”

“But aren’t you supposed to be support? That’s your whole thing, isn’t it?
You heal people.

So why can’t you help this one?”
She said, crossing her arms

The icing on Cosmo’s head dripped ever so slightly, a slow little drop that gave away more than he meant to. He was sweating it now—getting pressured, even if no one said it outright.

“But that’s not what I’m trying to do,” he muttered, voice a little lower, eyes flicking to the side like he was looking for a reset button.
“I support people by feelin’… and physically. I’m not exactly one for therapy.” He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “I don’t think—at least not in here.”

Toodles dropped the act without a second thought. No more Ferocious Eight. No more puffed-up posture or cold glare. She softened—lowered her shoulders, loosened her face, and stepped just a little closer. Her tone came quieter, slower. Not breaking, but bending. Just enough to let it hit where it should.

Professional. But fake.

“…But what if he needs you?”

There was no guilt in her voice. Just honesty. The kind that makes it hard to look away.

His words came slower now, like they were being peeled from guilt.

“It’s just… not my position,” he said, almost like he was trying to convince himself more than her.
“At least… I don’t think so.”

“But in the show, you always talk about kindness—
Isn’t this the kind of thing I should be doing, then?”

She tilted her head slightly, eyes searching, trying to understand if what she believed matched what she saw.

“I mean, yeah,” he said with a small, honest shrug, “but I wanna do what I wanna do… comfortably.”

“But…”
Her voice dragged, already gearing up to push again.

“Toodles—I’m sorry, but it’s a no.”
Cosmo kept his tone calm, but the tension in his shoulders said otherwise.

“Come on.”
She leaned forward, practically weaponizing her puppy eyes like they were heat-seeking missiles.

“Toodles. No. I just don’t want to.”

“Why?”
Her hands went to her hips, brows raised like she was waiting for a pop quiz answer.

Cosmo sighed, looking away for a second, already knowing where this was going.

“Toodles—seriously—”

“Why?”
Sharper this time. She was relentless.

“No!”
He snapped without thinking, voice raising slightly, and instantly regretted it.
The silence afterward was sharp enough to cut a thread.

“So you’re telling me I shouldn’t listen to what you said on the TV? Y’know, about kindness?”
Her tone wasn’t playful now. It was pointed, digging in.

“Toodles… you know that’s not what I meant.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, the icing on his head drooping a little from the stress.

“Sounds like exactly what you meant to me.”
She folded her arms, lips pursed, staring him down like a disappointed mother.

Cosmo shifted in place, caught between guilt and stubbornness. “I just don’t see any purpose in doing something that doesn’t give me any reward—no. I need a positive action for what I do.”

And that was it.

No lightning, no thunder—just that one sentence.

It hung in the air like a bad smell.

Cosmo didn’t even realize what he said until he saw her expression—saw that tiny, knowing smile creep across her face like she’d just checkmated him.

That one simple line drove the nail straight into his own grave…
He’d just guaranteed his spot on her crew.

Toodles dropped her head, let her arms go limp at her sides like the weight of the world had finally caught up to her. Her voice came out soft, shaky—just the right kind of broken.

“…You’re right.”

She didn’t look at Cosmo, just let her words hang there like smoke.

“What’s the point of trying to help anybody if it doesn’t give you something back, right?”
A sigh. A quiet one. Heavy. Too heavy for someone her size.
“I guess that’s why Shrimpo turned out the way he did.”

She bit the inside of her cheek—not enough to cry, but enough to force a little quiver in her lip. Her hand casually slid behind her back, where she pressed one finger backwards, just slightly, just enough for her eyes to sting a bit. She sniffled once.

“…Maybe you’re right, Cosmo. Maybe the safest thing is to just stop caring. Help nobody. Do what’s easy. Look after yourself and… let everyone else fall apart.”

She glanced up at him now, just a flicker of eye contact. Then she looked down again.

“No one’s really gonna do the same for me anyway, are they? The only one who even tried is obsessed with facts. Probably just using me to get to know me better. I bet the second he’s done, he’ll disappear too. And I’ll be right back where I started.”

Another pause. Then she dropped the final dagger with a soft, trembling breath.

“…So yeah. You’re right. I should just worry about myself. ’Cause if I don’t, who will?”

Toodles didn’t even lift her head. Her voice came out like a whisper through a crack in the door—meek, small, and heartbreakingly calm.

“I always thought you were the kind one…”

She twisted the edge of her sleeve in her fingers. It was too quiet now. Her eyes stayed locked on the floor.

“…But I guess nobody deserves kindness unless they’ve earned it first.”

Her voice trembled just slightly—not enough to seem fake, but just enough to sound like she was trying really hard not to cry.

“I didn’t know it worked like that.”

She sniffled, barely audible.

“All this time, I thought being nice was just… something you do. Not a transaction.”

A beat. Then she looked up at him—big eyes, glossy but unblinking.

“But I’m just a kid. So what do I know, right?”

Her tone was so soft it could’ve broken glass.

“I guess I gotta learn early that being kind doesn’t mean anything unless someone benefits. That’s what grown-ups say when they mean ‘don’t waste your time.’”

She folded her arms, held herself a little tighter. Her voice dropped even lower.

“…I just wanted to help my friend. But maybe I’m being selfish again. I guess even that’s too much to ask.”

Her final blow came like the last note of a lullaby, gentle but weighted with guilt:

“Don’t worry, Cosmo. I’ll be fine. I should’ve known better than to ask someone like you to care about someone like him… or me.”

Within the mind of Cosmo…

…
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Cosmo stared at her face—too long, maybe. That knowing little grin, the victorious gleam in her eyes.
He had seen that look before. Usually on a Toon that just caught someone with their pants down in a prank, or a kid who figured out how to sneak cookies before dinner.

Why did I say that?!
Why did I say it out loud?!
WHY did I say it like that?!

He could feel every sprinkle on his icing scalp sweating.
His arms dangled at his sides in defeat, cupcake-colored fingers twitching as if reaching for the rewind button on life.

She was just a little girl. A big-hearted, relentless, morally stubborn little girl.
And he—he, Cosmo, the one who baked treats for anyone who looked mildly upset—just told her he needs a reward to be kind.

I sound like a villain. A capital V villain.
I just told the soft-hearted soul of the group that I charge for kindness.
I. Am. A. Monster.

His pupils dilated. The air around him felt thirty degrees hotter.
He smiled weakly on the outside.

Inside?
His mind was spiraling.

“Congratulations, Cosmo,” his inner voice mocked. “You just broke the spirit of the ‘kindness matters’ brigade. You absolute donut.”

He thought about apologizing, but she was already skipping ahead—mentally drafting a plan he knew he’d be part of now.

He stood there, frozen in his own sugary shame.

This… was how she got people.

“You know… once I take back everything I said,”
Cosmo muttered, voice barely above a whisper as he approached. His frosting-tipped fingers twitched with visible nerves, hands shaking like spoons left too long in cold pudding.

He crouched slightly to her level—not because she asked, but because guilt pressed on his back like a sack of overbaked regrets.
“You’ve made me see the errors of my ways…” he continued, forcing a nervous smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I need to be kinder to others. And I’m really happy you showed me the light.”

He placed a hand gently—tenderly, awkwardly—on her shoulder.
“This was a great story of courage. To stand up for something even when there’s no real reward at the end…”
He glanced up for dramatic emphasis but winced halfway through, as if even he couldn’t believe what he was saying.
“You are the greatest hero of all time.”

He gave her a side hug. Not a real one. A half-squeeze.
“And don’t worry… I will be there to help you.”
He gestured vaguely in the air
“Even though I’m positive you have enough heart to do it yourself.”

And with that—without waiting for her reaction—he backed away with the finesse of a cat that just knocked over a vase and is pretending it didn’t.
He tried to tiptoe off, eyes darting left and right, waiting for the moment she’d call after him, maybe tear up or run into his arms.
But she didn’t.

Toodles just stood there. Grinning. Like a perfectly innocent child who just checkmated a chess master with a single pawn.

Cosmo froze. Just for a second.
That smile. It didn’t look emotional. It looked planned.

He didn’t stick around to second-guess it.
The chocolate roll bolted—back to his room, to his bed, where he dove under the covers like a failed magician hiding from his own disappearing act.

And there, he groaned into his pillow.
Not because of what he said.

But because he almost crushed the spirit of the only girl in the building still running on hope.

…
Not knowing, of course, that she just played him like a violin made of sugar and guilt.

“Well, that takes care of two issues,”
she beamed, clapping her hands together with a satisfying smack. With a bounce in her step and a sparkle in her eye, she planted her hands on her hips like she’d just conquered a small country in heels.

She plucked the worn notebook.
Flipping it open, she found the right page and, without hesitation, jotted down two names in her delightfully loopy handwriting:
Cosmo ✔️
Sprout ✔️

As the hallway emptied and Cosmo walked off—silent, stunned—Toodles just stood there.

That warm, triumphant feeling she thought she’d get?

Nowhere to be found.

Instead, a slow, sour twist turned in her stomach. A quiet, creeping wrongness crawled up her throat like she’d swallowed something sharp.

She’d won, technically. But it didn’t feel like a win.

“Maybe I shouldn’t’ve said all that…” she mumbled under her breath, rubbing her sleeve against her face, even though there were no real tears to wipe.

Her voice dropped to a mutter, barely audible to herself.

“I wanna say sorry. Go back in there and tell him I didn’t mean it. That I’ll never do it again. I wanna…”

But she paused.

Then sighed.

“…But I don’t think they wanna see my face for a while. Not him. Not Cosmo. Not Sprout either, probably.”

She kicked lightly at the floor with the tip of her shoe.

The victory was bitter. Bittersweet at best. Mostly just bitter.

“Toodles, the great manipulator,” she whispered to herself with no pride behind it. “Guess that’s who I am now.”

She slowly dragged her feet into Rodger’s room, didn’t even ask. Just laid down on the floor without saying a word. The cold tiles helped a little. Not a lot. But a little.

She stared up at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded.

As the weight of everything started pressing down on her chest, sadness crept up slowly, like cold water filling a tub. Her arms were curled beneath her head, cheek pressed to the floor, eyes glazed and unfocused. She hadn’t even bothered to cry. It didn’t feel like she had the right to.

Then—

knock knock.

A pause.

Another knock. Not loud. Not urgent. But there.

Toodles blinked.

Who the heck would be knocking on Rodger’s door this early in the morning?
(…Well, “early” for the facility’s standards — it was already noon.)
Rodger never gets visitors. Not at this hour. Not at all.

She didn’t move. Just stared ahead. The air in the room felt thick and still.

The doorknob clicked.

It opened slowly. Softly.

And even without turning her head…
Even without lifting her eyes…

She knew exactly who it was.

Glisten swept into Roger’s room with the fury of a glittering storm, heels clicking like judgment itself, arms already flailing.

“Darling, you better be in here — because I am this close to strangling someone! Someone stole my last banana muff—”

He stopped.

The words caught in his throat like a pin in silk. His eyes landed on Toodles, sitting there—quiet, shoulders low, expression crumpled like tissue after a storm.

The room went still.

“…Toodles?” he said, softer now. The heat in his voice cooled, replaced by something gentler. Something real.

He let his hands fall to his sides, voice barely above a whisper this time.

“…What happened, sweet thing?”

“Hello, Mr. Glisten.”
Toodles said it without even lifting her head, her voice quiet—flat.

She didn’t need to look. The way the perfume of sparkles drifted in with the slow creak of the door… the soft little click of carefully polished shoes… it could only be him.

Glisten stood there in the doorway, one gloved hand still on the knob, the other resting on his hip. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it was thick. Weighted. He tilted his head slightly, his usual theatrical flair dialed down to something gentler, like a stage light dimmed for a sad scene.

“Now why’re you tucked in here like a wilted daisy on a cloudy day?”
His voice was as smooth as ever, but a little slower, more deliberate—he could feel something was wrong. He stepped further into the room, the door easing shut behind him with a soft click.

Still, Toodles didn’t move. She didn’t have it in her to put on a face. Not after what she pulled. Not after how she felt about it.

She just mumbled, barely loud enough to be heard,
“I messed up…”

Apparently, today he’s everybody’s therapist.
First Vee, now Toodles. Marvelous. He needs a vacation… and too bad there’s nowhere to go, because they’re all stuck in this glitterless hellhole.

That was the corner of his mind speaking — bitter, sarcastic, tired. But the rest of him… the part that mattered… simply breathed out a long, quiet sigh. No more dramatics. Not for now.

Glisten didn’t say another word as he stepped closer — just slipped into the bed beside her, all sparkles and silk and surprisingly warm skin. One arm cradled the back of her head, the other gently cupped her cheek, thumb brushing soft circles like she was something fragile he didn’t want to crack.

His voice came quiet. Lower than usual. Not sharp, not smug — just him, when he didn’t have to perform.

“Do you wanna tell me… what’s been bothering you?” he murmured.
“Something you did, maybe?”

Toodles leaned into the warmth of his presence—like curling toward a candle that couldn’t quite melt the ice behind her eyes. No tears came. Just that empty, distant stare. Her voice, when it finally crept out, was almost too honest.

“I manipulated Cosmo into joining my crew.”

She said it like an admission at a confessional. No excuses. No sugar. No spin. Just bitter truth spat out like spoiled candy. Her hands stayed still in her lap, fingers wrung together out of habit more than remorse. She didn’t look at Glisten. Couldn’t.

“I knew what I was doing. I studied it. Practiced. Picked all the right words to make him feel guilty.”
She swallowed. “And it worked.”

It should’ve felt like a victory. Instead, it just felt like rotting wood dressed up in gold.

“I don’t know what’s worse… that I did it… or that it was easy.”

Honestly, Glisten was surprised. And just a little impressed.
A girl like her? She’d never normally do something like that.
But the way she pulled it off so effortlessly…?
Honestly? Iconic.

Still, he knew Rodger wouldn’t be thrilled.
Even if he did secretly respect the nerve of it.

Glisten sat beside her, crossing one leg over the other with practiced grace. But his voice, when he spoke, was softer than usual — not dripping in sarcasm or sparkle. Just soft. Steady.

“Darling, you know you shouldn’t be doing that,” he began, brushing a strand of her hair out of her face.

“And sure, I could sit here and channel Rodger — do the whole ‘I’m disappointed but still proud of you’ routine — but I’m not going to do that. Because look at you. You’re already hurting over it.”

He leaned in, his expression warm.

“Whatever it was, you’ve already punished yourself more than we ever could. I know you — you’ve gone through every scenario in your head already. So I’ll say this once: I’d never hurt you. I’d never punish you. And Rodger? He wouldn’t either.”

He paused, letting that truth settle in the air like a gentle balm.

“Sure, he’d probably be disappointed. Maybe even a little sad you did it. But lay a hand on you? Never. At worst? A lecture. A grounding. Maybe a long sigh followed by a very British ‘I expected better.’”
Glisten gave a small smirk. “You’d be Scott-free by next week.”

Then, softer again, “Now… this isn’t an invitation to go wild. But I just want you to know: you’re not a bad person. If anything, the fact that you feel this much guilt over getting what you wanted? That tells me you’re still good. You’re still kind. You’re still you.”

His hand reached out gently, offering it like a lifeline.

“Now come on. Let’s go back to my room. Just you, me, and a full glam session. I’ll even let you pick the glitter this time.”

He winked.

“And no more tears — they ruin the eyeliner.”

As the two of us stepped out of Rodger’s room, I watched her—
That little Toon trying so hard to tuck herself back into the version everyone expects.
Not fully there yet. But she’s trying.
And I promised her I’d be right beside her while she does.

She’s not a bad person.
She just did a bad thing… for a good reason.
But that doesn’t mean we don’t have to talk about it.
Eventually.

I glanced down at her, then looked ahead.

“…By the way,” I started gently, “if you already convinced Cosmo and Sprout to join… does that mean you were planning on including me, too?”

My voice dropped just a hair — more thoughtful than accusatory.

“Because if I was wrong… about you leaving me out…
I’d like to hear that from you.”

Toodles slowly nodded, eyes still downcast.
The answer was clear… and so was the embarrassment swimming behind it.
But I didn’t let the silence stew too long.

“Fine,” I said, cutting her off before she could even open her mouth.
“I’ll join. Mostly because I enjoy having the spotlight centered somewhere near me—
and I refuse to let half of my lov—”

I paused.
Too soon.
Not yet.
“…Acquaintance,” I corrected, smoothing the word out with a sharp exhale,
“and a little sugar-cube like you wander off alone.”

I tossed her a playful glare, half-genuine, half-performed.
“But the second things go well—and I mean boring, dull, wrapped-up well—
I’m bolting. You lot have a tendency to linger in messes you’ve already cleaned up.”

She opened her mouth, but I waved her off and turned with a flair of my wrist.

“Come on. I owe you a makeup session anyway. Gotta get you dolled up for your big ‘crew reveal’ like the dramatic little starlet you are.”

Toodles practically leapt to my side.

And just like that, we slipped into my room.
Her shoulders lighter.
Mine just a little heavier but I’m not complaining at the moment.

As the hour shifted to 5:00 PM, Looey and Blot were a sorry sight—covered head to toe in healing tape and Band-Aids. Yatta had clearly done a number on the both of them… and not a single one of them regretted it, of course.

Looey and Blot were sprawled across the couch like two survivors of a sugar-coated apocalypse.

Looey lay sideways, his arm draped lazily over the edge like a towel left out to dry. He was wrapped in so many bandages he looked like a rejected mummy from a Halloween special—arms, legs, even one wrapped over his ear for some reason.

Next to him, Blot was upside down, his goopy form sagging off the cushions, head submerged in a bowl of half-melted ice. Little bubbles floated up every time he exhaled. It hissed slightly. It was unclear if it was working.

They wanted to laugh. Truly.

But every muscle in their bodies begged them not to.

Looey shifted an inch and winced. “Ow.”

Blot gurgled in agreement, slowly sinking deeper into the ice like he wanted to disappear entirely.

They said nothing else.

Just pain. Shared pain.

And maybe—just maybe—a little bit of pride.

Thankfully, someone stayed behind to help. The supports were busy elsewhere—Sprout was making sure the two got their just desserts for messing with Yatta, and the others were caught up in their own messes. But in the middle of the chaos, someone had to pick up their sorry behinds and actually do something.

Enter Finn.

He wasn’t exactly a healer—not in the conventional sense—but when it came to bandaging up broken spirits and sore bodies, Finn knew a thing or two. After all, he might’ve been a walking fishbowl of a Toon, but that gave him a deep well of knowledge when it came to water therapy. Not that you’d expect it from someone whose personality was more “goofy grin” than “healer’s hands,” but hey, who wouldn’t want to feel like a fish, floating effortlessly through cool waters?

He plopped down between them with a hum and a whistle, gently placing a damp towel over Looey’s bandaged forehead and another on Blot’s back. “Alright, gentlemen,” he said, glancing between the two with mock severity, “on a scale from guppy to great white, how bad we talkin’?”

Neither answered. They both groaned.

Finn grinned wider. “Yikes. She really put a WHALE-ing on y’all two!”

Looey let out a wheeze that could’ve been a laugh or a dying balloon. Blot’s eyes blinked slowly from the puddle of him.

Finn didn’t push them to smile. He knew better. But he stayed. Refilling the water, keeping the fans turned toward them, tossing in puns when the silence got too heavy.

Because someone had to be the one who stayed cheerful. And if nothing else, Finn was good at staying.

Finn looked them over again. Still a mess—bruised, bandaged, and barely able to groan—but at least the cold water was doing something. No magical healing like Sprout, Cupcake, or Cosmo. Just plain old elbow grease and a bit of water know-how. But it worked.

It worked.

“Hopefully y’all’ll stay outta trouble for a while now, huh?” he said, flashing that grin as he wrung out a towel. “You REEL can’t do nothing now.”

He laughed.

Alone.

But hey—he thought it was funny, and that’s all that really mattered.

He moved with that same easy energy, replacing the warm, stale water with fresh cold. A chilled towel found its way over Looey’s bandaged arm, and then came the big bag of ice. He dumped a handful into Blot’s bowl. Did it help? Who knew. But Blot hadn’t melted through the couch yet, so that was something.

Finn didn’t need to understand how everything worked. He just needed to help. And if he could throw in a fish pun while doing it, even better.

The two of them let out a low, thankful groan—somewhere between gratitude and the sound of broken furniture. They appreciated the help, the patching, the ice. They really did.

But it didn’t change the bigger issue.

They were still bored out of their minds.

Blot was the first to crack.

With a slosh and a sticky shlorp, he slowly lifted his head out of the ice bowl in front of the couch. Chunks clung to his face like snowflakes on tar. He blinked—one eye at a time—then let out a reverse-warped sigh.

“.taerg si sihT”

He plopped upright, water is still coming out of his ears.

“…but we’re so bored.”

Looey didn’t even open his eyes. “We gotta do something, man. If I sit here too long, I’m gonna fuse with this couch.”

Blot nodded, ice still sliding off his forehead.

“I’d love to help y’all out with that boredom problem,” Finn said, adjusting the towel on Looey’s arm with a grin, “but apparently Toodles sent me an invitation to her little… whatever-it-is. Wasn’t exactly clear. Just said ‘come over at a certain time.’”
He glanced at the wall clock and gave a playful wince.
“And it’s tickin’ closer to that time real fast.”

“Wait, wait wait wait wait—”

Looey suddenly pushed himself upright with a wobble, one arm still wrapped like a burrito in bandages.

“Goob said something earlier… about an invitation. From Toodles. Same with Finn.”

Blot lifted his head, slow and syrupy, and nodded in agreement—his body still half-melted into the cushions.

“gnivah m’I ,seY,” he mumbled.
Translation: Yeah, I remember that.

Looey squinted at the ceiling, like the answer might be up there. “I wonder what she’s got planned. Gotta be somethin’ important, right? But… why only invite Goob and Finn?”

Blot chimed in with his usual reasoned tone—warped and glitched, but grounded.

“.seitraap aep tnaw tsomla ,tael ta tsom ,sseug I—snoisacco emos no sseug I .seitraap aep evol llrig elttil ehT”

Translation: The little girl loves her tea parties. I guess it’s probably one of those. She asks every once in a while, at least on some occasions.

He sounded confident, but not certain.

Looey scratched his chin with his least-injured arm, nose scrunched in thought. “I mean, yeah… but when has she ever written actual invitations? Usually she just grabs ‘em by the wrist and drags ‘em in.”

He paused, gaze narrowing.

“…Nah. This feels different. Something’s up. Something interesting.”

Finn stayed quiet as the two of them practically talked right in front of his face, treating the invite big time event.

He gave a small shrug and held it up anyway. “Well… while y’all keep brainstormin’, I’m gonna actually figure out what this whole thing’s about. Might even say hi to Goob if I catch him there.”

With that same easy grin, he started making his way toward the door—still not entirely sure what he was walking into, but content to show up smiling anyway.

Neither of them said a word.

Looey and Blot just locked eyes… and followed.

They didn’t even bother putting the ice bowl back. They trailed directly behind Finn, creeping like two poorly trained spies—Blot’s footsteps squelching, Looey’s ballooned feet squeaking faintly on the tile. The hallway echoed with every awkward step.

It was impossible not to notice.

Finn stopped mid-stride, slowly turning with an unimpressed glance through his fishbowl.

“…You do know you could just ask Toodles to come along,” he said dryly, “instead of forcing your—SHELL—into everything.”

Looey immediately raised both hands in mock innocence. “Okay, fair, but like—we were literally just gonna do it as you walked in. So, y’know… shortcut.”

He shrugged, grinning. “Besides, what harm’s in joinin’ a tea party or whatever this is? Could be make-believe. Could be fun. Could be a great excuse for a new clown paint—which, by the way, was probably your idea in the first place.”

Blot, still strolling, laced his fingers behind his gooey head, elbows sticking out in his usual laid-back sprawl.

“.em rof kool dluow ti woh rednow I—?emahs eht pu peek I fI ,em no krow dluow pu ekam uoy kniht uoY”

Translation: You think makeup would work on me? Like… if I stayed the same shape? I wonder how it’d look.

Looey tilted his head, thinking. “Hmmm… Nah. It’d probably dissolve, dude. But hey, that’d be a fun disaster to watch.”

They all chuckled.

And then… silence.

The three of them stood still as the door to Eight Ball’s room creaked open slowly in front of them.

Inside, shadows moved. Lights flickered faintly. Something was happening—something none of them had quite prepared for.

Looey leaned in. “Sooo… y’all feelin’ brave, or stupid?”

Blot just smirked, and Finn adjusted his bowl with a tired sigh.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t just a tea party anymore.

Finn finally stepped into the room, the familiar clink-clink of water sloshing softly inside his fishbowl frame as he entered. Behind him, Looey and Blot lingered at the doorway, clearly unsure if they were allowed in—or just pretending to be polite for once.

The room, thankfully, was spacious enough to hold the growing crowd. Bright, cozy, and weirdly elegant in that chaotic-Toon kind of way. Finn took a moment to glance around, scanning the faces, making quiet connections in his head.

Goob—yep, expected him. Always nice seeing another bundle of joy in the room. Finn gave him a small wave and got an enthusiastic double-thumbs-up in return.

Glisten stood next to Toodles, who sat perched in a perfectly pink chair like she was holding court. She looked adorable—no question—but clearly trying her hardest to be intimidating. Finn didn’t have the heart to tell her that her little toe-tapping and puffed cheeks were doing more “cute fury” than “fearsome boss.”

Then there was The Mirror.

Yeah… the Mirror was already staring daggers at him. Finn didn’t even need to make a sound—just existing seemed to be enough to trigger that thousand-yard death glare. Probably because Finn’s jokes hit a nerve. Or five.

Best not to say anything.

And then, tucked into the right corner, was Cosmo—offering a soft wave and sitting beside a tray piled high with cookies. Homemade, if the smell was anything to go by. Finn lit up a little. Cosmo always brought the good stuff. Just… don’t tell Sprout.

He stepped a bit further in, water sloshing with his easy stride, and smiled like he always did. Whatever this was—it wasn’t what he expected.

As Finn fully stepped into the room, water gently sloshing with every stride, the two figures behind him hovered in the doorway just a moment longer—debating their next move like it was some life-or-death decision.

Then, almost in unison, they sighed.

“Eh, screw it,” Looey muttered under his breath, shrugging.

Without another word, both he and Blot wandered inside. Was this event even for them? Probably not. Were they technically invited? Definitely not. But at least it beat doing nothing.

So what if someone yelled at them? Wouldn’t be the first time. And honestly, between getting chewed out and sitting around bored with an ice pack and regrets, this sounded like the better deal.

Besides… maybe there’d be snacks.

Toodles sat perched atop a chair far too large for her. It sat dead center in her room like a throne—its size making her look smaller, but somehow more powerful, like a little queen of chaos.

Her head hung low—deliberately tilted, chin down, eyes peering out just under her lashes. She thought it made her look cool. Mysterious. Dangerous.

She waited. Silent.
Then, at the perfect dramatic beat, she slowly lifted her head.

Around her, the room was quiet—almost too quiet.

Two shapes stood near the doorway.
Looey and Blot.
Uninvited. Unbothered. Probably expecting snacks.
But before either of them could blink, the door clicked shut behind them.

They were in.
And now… they were hers.

Toodles began to circle the room, slow and theatrical, her head still tilted for effect. Her little feet made soft taps on the floor like a ticking clock. She eyed them both with that mock-mobster squint she practiced in the mirror.

“You boys just don’t realize it yet,”
she said in her best tough-gal accent—somewhere between old movie gangster and someone pretending to be one in a school play.

“But now… you’re stuck with me.”

She paused. Let that hang.
Then added, with a smirk:
“And I was gonna build a crew anyway. Numbers? Yeah—I don’t mind numbers.”

She finished her slow circle, climbed dramatically back into her oversized chair, and sat down like a villain in a cartoon opera.

She crossed one leg over the other and clasped her hands in her lap—just the way Rodger did when he meant business.

Now all she needed… was their loyalty.
Or at least, their confusion long enough to make them stay.

Toodles sat perched atop a chair far too large for her. It sat dead center in her room like a throne—its size making her look smaller, but somehow more powerful, like a little queen of chaos.

Her head hung low—deliberately tilted, chin down, eyes peering out just under her lashes. She thought it made her look cool. Mysterious. Dangerous.

She waited. Silent.
Then, at the perfect dramatic beat, she slowly lifted her head.

Around her, the room was quiet—almost too quiet.

Two shapes stood near the doorway.
Looey and Blot.
Uninvited. Unbothered. Probably expecting snacks.
But before either of them could blink, the door clicked shut behind them.

They were in.
And now… they were hers.

Toodles began to circle the room, slow and theatrical, her head still tilted for effect. Her little feet made soft taps on the floor like a ticking clock. She eyed them both with that mock-mobster squint she practiced in the mirror.

“You boys just don’t realize it yet,”
she said in her best tough-gal accent—somewhere between old movie gangster and someone pretending to be one in a school play.

“But now… you’re stuck with me.”

She paused. Let that hang.
Then added, with a smirk:
“And I was gonna build a crew anyway. Numbers? Yeah—I don’t mind numbers.”

She finished her slow circle, climbed dramatically back into her oversized chair, and sat down like a villain in a cartoon opera.

She crossed one leg over the other and clasped her hands in her lap—just the way Rodger did when he meant business.

Now all she needed… was their loyalty.
Or at least, their confusion long enough to make them stay.

Toodles was mid-speech—pacing, gesturing wildly, eyes narrowed into what was supposed to be a threatening glare. Her voice rose with each sentence, her little hands waving like she was conjuring doom from thin air.

It was meant to be intimidating.

It just… wasn’t.

Looey’s eyes were glued shut—so tightly it looked like he was trying to hold in a sneeze made of laughter. His cheeks puffed out, trembling with the pressure. Tears were already forming at the corners. Every fiber of his being screamed do not laugh at the little girl.

Blot, of course, noticed immediately.

He leaned in, pressing up close to Looey’s ear, voice low and glitchy:

“.flesruoy lortnoc. ti oD. ti oD t’no. yeH”

Translation: Hey. Don’t do it. Stop. Control yourself.

But that only made it worse.

Looey leaned back, away from Blot, squeezing his mouth shut and letting out a strangled wheeze. His laughter spilled down toward his legs, muffled into his lap like he was trying to bury it in his own fur.

Only Blot, that close, could hear it.

And he was trying to stay serious… but even his form rippled slightly, the Toon equivalent of barely holding it together.

Toodles, completely unaware, kept going—dead serious, full conviction—while two fools in the back nearly lost their minds.

Finn clapped his hands together once, the sound slightly muffled by the gentle swish of water inside him.

“Anyway, Toodles,” he said with a smile, “so what are we here for—mainly me and Goob, since you invited us?”

He leaned on one hip, looking her way with curiosity rather than pressure.

Toodles couldn’t keep it in any longer.

She had tried—really, really tried—to keep up her scary mob persona, the tilted head, the slow walk, the bossy little voice she practiced for days. But the second Finn opened his mouth, curiosity barely dripping off his face—

She exploded with glee.

Her whole act shattered like a dropped tea cup. She bounced upright in her throne-like chair, clapping her hands together and practically beaming like the sun broke through a noir film.

“WELL I’M SO GLAD YOU ASKED, FINN!”
She said it so fast it came out like one long word.

“Mainly because—we are here—to defeat Dandy—in a bet—against Shrimpo!”

She raised her arms like she was presenting the twist of a magic trick.

No more mobster.
Just a squeaky little girl again—one with stars in her eyes and a plan too big for her boots.

She spun in her chair, grinning from ear to ear.

“It’s genius, right?! It’s heroic!”

She paused. Then turned to the others with wide eyes.

“…Right?”

The laughter dropped instantly.

Blot and Looey snapped their heads toward each other like someone had flipped a switch. All the giddiness evaporated from their faces in a heartbeat.

“…What.”
(It was so bad Blot wasn’t speaking in reverse when he said this.)

Toodles immediately snapped her head toward Looey and Blot, arms crossed, face scrunched up like a stern teacher—but it was still very much the face of a small child trying very hard to look intimidating.

“This is what I get for inviting yourselves to stuff you didn’t even know about.”

She paused.
Blink.
Realized what she just said.

“…*Wait—I meant you invited yourselves, not me inviting you—ugh, you know what I meant!!”

She waved her hands around in a flustered little tornado, stomping one foot before puffing her cheeks and turning her head away dramatically. Theatrical offense in full swing.

“You ruined my cool line.”
She mumbled just loud enough for them to hear.

Then, under her breath—barely audible:

“…But I guess you can stay.”

She pointed at them sharply.
“But don’t mess up my plan again or I’ll dock your imaginary pay!”

“Anyway,” Glisten said abruptly, cutting in before the little girl start rambling on about random things.
“Apparently, we’re actually making some decent progress—according to Rodger, at least.
And our precious little Toodles just had to offer more help. Mainly because she feels bad that the poor lad was made to be this insufferable, walking tragedy.”

He rolled his eyes, hand on hip.

“And if we manage to help him through it, he gets three wishes.
That’s the real reason I’m here—because if anyone’s snatching one of those, darling, it’s gonna be me.”

“Well, that explains he bein’ here,” Finn said
“But what about the rest—besides the two sneaky ones behind me, of course?”

He leaned in just a bit, glancing toward Cosmo.

“No offense, but… why’s he here? If you don’t mind me askin’. I just can’t SEA a reason for him to be at this little crew.”

He chuckled at his own joke, of course—because someone had to.

(Small moment

Toodles’ whole face shifted.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.
But her smile faltered—just for a second.
Her eyes lost their shine, like someone dimmed the light behind them.
Her hands twitched slightly as if unsure whether to clench or fold,
And she quickly looked away.

Most of the room missed it.
All except Glisten.

Without saying a word, he made his way behind her and gently ran his fingers across the back of her head—
Not playful, not teasing.
Just grounding. Quiet. Steady.
The kind of gesture that said, “I saw. I’m here. You’re still good.”
Reassuring about her earlier actions)

Cosmo chuckled, scratching the back of his frosting-topped head, his fingers idly swiping a sprinkle or two to the floor.
“Obviously I’m not friends with the guy, per se,” he said with a shrug, “if he’s even friends with anyone, let’s be real.”

He shifted his stance, glancing off to the side for a second before continuing.
“But… I’m here because Toodles made me realize something. I wanna support everyone—if I could, if I can—then there’s no reason to stop just ‘cause there’s nothing in it for me.”

His voice softened, like even he wasn’t used to hearing that come out of his own mouth.
“And who knows… maybe that’s why it’ll actually work.”

He looked back up, giving a small, sheepish smile.
“Not to mention—” he raised a single chocolatey finger, “I’m also here to make snacks.”

“I’m here to support, y’know?” Goob said proudly, puffing his chest out.
“If the shrimp ever feels like gettin’ physical with someone, I’ll help him work through his issues—by tyin’ those issues down. By tyin’ him down. Right, Toodles?”

He grinned like he just said something deeply thoughtful, completely missing the raised eyebrows forming around the room.

Toodles breathed in and out quickly, her mind is still on the earlier incident, but she decided to power through and talk about it later at a better time.
then her posture lightened, her voice bouncing back to its usual cadence like nothing happened.

“That’s right, Goob!”
She beamed and lifted her hand high, meeting the eager dog’s paw with a sharp smack of a high five.

Then she pivoted smoothly, eyes on Finn now with a cheeky grin tugging at her lip,
“But you, mister,” she said, pointing a finger his way, “you’re here for a whole different reason.”

She placed her hands on her hips, striking a confident pose like she was unveiling a master plan.

“Since technically, you’re the closest thing we’ve got to actually defending the Shrimp, it just made sense. You’re basically the best bet we’ve got for making sure this whole thing doesn’t go sideways. So…”
She gave a playful shrug,
“Obvious choice to bring you along for the ride.”

She gave a little wink at the end,
as if she hadn’t just handpicked him for a war he didn’t know he was in.

“Golly, if you put it like that,” Finn said, one foot gently twirling on the floor like he was trying to be modest—but failing adorably, “then it sounds like there’s no better choice than to have me.”

He gave a playful shrug, clearly tickled by the idea of being considered friends with the one guy who wasn’t really friends with anybody.

“Well,” he continued with a bright grin, “I’d be more than happy to lend you my assistance, Toodles. I’m sure everyone else here would love to help you complete this mission too.”

He spun slightly, casting a finger-gun toward the two still-awkwardly-positioned Toons in the back.

“Isn’t that right, boys?”

Looey blinked.

Blot blinked… but slower.

With a grin stretched ear to ear like she’d just won the lottery, Toodles spun on her heel and—POOF!—a ridiculous, cartoonishly large toy hammer appeared in her hand like magic. She didn’t question it. She never did.

“Order in the court!” she shouted, completely abandoning her mob persona on the fly.

She raised the hammer over her head and SLAM!—brought it down on her desk.
It let out a pathetic squeak instead of a bang. She didn’t care.

Even as she tried to give off that mob boss vibe, she kept breaking character—whiplashing between ‘Ferocious eight’ and the hyper little girl who probably thought this was all just a fun game.

“Now!” she declared, spinning dramatically and pointing to her crew with the hammer like it was a royal scepter,
“This team needs a name. A real name. Something cooler than Shrimpo’s crew. Something that says: ‘Hey! We’re not just doing this to be nice, we’re doing this because we mean business!’”

She paused for dramatic effect, eyes glinting with excitement.

“Any suggestions, my faithful crew?”
She looked around the room with sparkles in her eyes like this was the most important decision of their lives.

She got up and walked towards her crown, looking around to see who should answer first.

The giant squeaky hammer slowly, dramatically turned… until it landed right on Finn, pressing slightly into his forehead.

“Troupe should be the name of the gang,” Finn offered brightly, finger raised like he was delivering a historical revelation. “’Cause that’s what a group of shrimps is called.”

He beamed with pride. “You know, fun fact—”

BONK.

Before he could finish, Toodles pressed her toy hammer right up to his mouth, cutting him off mid-fact. The squeaky sound it made was the only punctuation needed.

Finn blinked, eyes wide—but the smile behind them didn’t fade one bit.

He was used to this.
(Glisten never felt more proud in his life)

“By the way, Shell Shock? That’s a fin-tastic name, Goob,” he said, giving a playful finger-gun. “Clever, catchy, and just the right amount of pun. I’m proud of you, buddy.”

While everyone was still caught up complimenting Goob for the name choice, Cosmo stirred awake, slowly blinking like he just came out of a nap he didn’t mean to take. He sat up, crumbs of frosting clinging to his cheek

“Well, that’s fine. It’s a good name, don’t get me wrong,” he said

He stretched, letting out a half-yawn that turned into a sigh, then glanced at the nearest clock—or at least what he thought was a clock.

“But what about now?” he added, sitting up straighter with a small groan in his voice. “It’s getting late, and I don’t think we can do anything about this whole group tonight.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly more interested in the promise of sleep than social cohesion.

“Not to mention I’ve got stuff to do with Sprout in the morning about cooking,” he muttered, as if that alone was reason enough to call it a night. “He gets cranky when I’m late, and cranky Sprout is loud.”

“Who the hell says cranky anymore?”
Glisten scoffed

He simply blinked, once. Then twice. Slowly.

His head turned just slightly in Glisten’s direction like he might say something… but all that came out was a long, tired exhale through his nose. Not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff—just enough to say “I heard you. I’m ignoring you on purpose.”

“Honestly, I’ve met plushies with deeper comebacks. If you’re gonna say something back, at least make it interesting.”

Toodles gave a little stretch, her shoulders relaxing as she surveyed the motley crew.

“Right,” she announced, tipping an imaginary hat, “that’s as good an excuse as any to call it a day. Everyone needs rest—myself included.”

She tapped her temple with a grin.
“We’ll pick this up tomorrow—morning or afternoon, your choice. But you’d better be here, or I’ll track you down, I swear it!”

With that, she turned toward the door… then paused, hand on the knob, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Trust me, guys, this is going to be revolutionary. And I promise, by the time it’s all done, we’ll have recruited one more friend into the fold.”

She threw a backward wink as she finally opened the door and slipped out, leaving a silence charged with possibility—and the faint echo of her laughter down the hallway.

Toodles gave a little stretch, her shoulders relaxing as she surveyed the motley crew.

“Right,” she announced, tipping an imaginary hat, “that’s as good an excuse as any to call it a day. Everyone needs rest—myself included.”

She tapped her temple with a grin.
“We’ll pick this up tomorrow—morning or afternoon, your choice. But you’d better be here, or I’ll track you down, I swear it!”

With that, she turned toward the door… then paused, hand on the knob, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Trust me, guys, this is going to be revolutionary. And I promise, by the time it’s all done, we’ll have recruited one more friend into the fold.”

She threw a backward wink as she finally opened the door

As the door swung open, Toodles beamed brightly—hands on her hips, her whole body practically vibrating with pride.

“I hope everybody had a great time!” she sang, ushering them out like a proud host after a very dramatic tea party. “And don’t forget—we’re doing this again tomorrow! This time, with Shrimpo and Rodger, so y’all better be on your A-game!”

Everyone filed out with varying degrees of energy… but just before the last foot crossed the threshold, Toodles slammed the door shut behind them with a loud CLICK, then threw her arms wide in the hallway and shouted:

“Team Shell Shocked is in motion!”

Her gleeful declaration echoed like a gunshot. And what followed… was a very mixed reaction.

⸻

Looey practically crumpled on the spot, dragging both his ears over his eyes like a cartoon trying to disappear.
“I ain’t never sinned bad enough to deserve this…” he muttered under his breath, now waddling behind the group like a balloon burdened by shame. He wanted to flee… but hurting that girl’s feelings? No way.

Blot—stoic as ever—gave a slow, gurgly blink and started gliding along the floor, already daydreaming about what kind of snacks might be involved in “Team Shell Shocked.”

Glisten didn’t even look back. He had already fast-walked ahead of everyone, heels clicking louder with every step.
“She’s not serious. That name. That attitude. That shrimp,” he muttered.
By the time anyone turned to say something to him, he was already out of sight, probably muttering curse words in high fashion under his breath.

Finn smiled to himself, his hands in his pockets, kicking an invisible rock.
“She means well. And honestly… anything to keep Shrimpo’s head up,” he thought.
Toodles might be dramatic, unhinged even, but he appreciated anyone willing to fight for a friend—especially one like Shrimpo.

Cosmo peeled off from the group entirely, dragging his legs toward the elevator with a sigh that could deflate a planet.
He didn’t want to admit how drained he felt—not from the activities, but from the guilt. One misplaced comment, and suddenly he’s been absorbed into a child’s crusade. He didn’t hate her, but this wasn’t what he planned today to be.
“Sprout better be awake… though I’d bet my shoes he’s knocked out cold…”

And Goob…
Goob was just kind of there. Vibing.
He smiled at nothing in particular, his head swaying a bit.
“Shell Shocked… I should tell Scraps that I’m really good at naming stuff.”
He didn’t have a reason to be there, but he also didn’t have a reason to not be there.

While the footsteps and chatter of the others faded down the hall, two souls remained in that little room.

Toodles and the quiet.

Everyone else had gone, but her heart hadn’t. Not yet. Not with what tomorrow held.

She stood in the center of her room for a moment, frozen in the glow of her ambition, then let out a long breath through her nose. This wasn’t just pretend anymore. This was the first step—the first real thing she was going to do. Not for games. Not for fun. But to help someone for real.

She walked to her lamp, flicked it off with a little click, and the room went soft and dim as her mismatched night light glowed—casting pale blues and yellows across her walls like sleepy dreams made of cotton candy and worry.

Crawling under her blanket, she pulled close her scruffy little dog doll—the one with mismatched spots and one eye a little looser than the other. The stitching on the left ear was nearly undone, but she never fixed it. She liked him that way.

Holding him up to her face, she whispered in the quiet, voice cracking not with sadness but uncertainty.

“…Do you think I should tell Rodger about what I did in the Cosmo situation?”

The doll, of course, didn’t reply. But she wasn’t really looking for answers—just someone who’d listen without making it worse.

She lowered the doll to her chest, hugging it tightly.

“I know what I did was wrong,” she admitted, softer now, her throat thick, “but Glisten said I pushed myself forward… and that’s good, right? That’s something.”

The doll, once again, gave no wisdom. Just silence.

But she smiled faintly anyway, staring at the ceiling through the faint night light.

“Yeah… you’re right. It’s not about getting in trouble.”
She blinked slow.
“It’s about doing what’s right.”

A pause. A sigh. The tiniest smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

“I’ll tell him tomorrow,” she whispered, eyes fluttering closed as her arms wrapped tight around the little dog.
“I promise.”

And with that, the room fell still. The light buzzed faintly. And for the first time all day… she let herself rest.

Notes:

Again, like before, if you ever have ideas or suggestions, you wanna tell me to put into the story please do that. I just like interacting with y’all.

Chapter 5: Day three of the bet B plot

Summary:

Something something I don’t know

Notes:

Sorry for the super super high issues been feeling sad lately.

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.)

Notes:

if you’re judging me, fuck you

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Dandy‘s globe