Chapter Text
The OSC has always strived towards perfection, ever since it was first created. An equal, passive home where all objects can roam the streets without worry of danger or those bigger than them. Or better.
And of course, OJ had always rooted for its success, and the success of everyone taking part in it. Of course, why wouldn't he? He wanted their society to be the best it could be. And would do all he could to make it perfect.
Even…sit there for hours…organizing ray guns. Yay.
OJ finally finished up on his work, not realizing how late it'd gotten until the darkness of the night found its way to him at the exit.
He didn't have much else to do. Despite how late it probably was, something inside him still ached to be productive. To do something. OJ was used to the feeling by now- he never figured out where it came from and why it stayed after all these years, but it seemed to just be a part of him. Even if it was bothersome.
It wasn't long until the hotel came into sight and he made it through the doors, being greeted with more silence. Though his mood brightened at what greeted him.
His son was settled on the couch in front of the TV, tears in both pairs of eyes as they stared at the screen with awe. He loves how the Cherries would always get immersed in whatever they watched. It was nothing short of adorable.
“Hey kiddos.”
Both heads turned to the object sitting beside them, their smiles growing wider. The left one didn't hesitate to cling onto him.
“Finalllyyyyy…You're back from work!”
“We've been waiting forever.”
“Mhm, finally got everything done, haha.” OJ held onto him, joining them at watching the television. It seemed like another Desperate Houses episode, but he couldn't help but ask. “... what're you watching?”
“I….don't remember.” Cherries paused for a few moments, their smiles dropping and instead seeming confused. “I think we're finishing this one episode.”
The exact one they'd watch over and over…why was OJ even surprised anymore.
Well, at least they both stopped crying. Comforting wasn't…. exactly in OJs field anyway. He instead gently pat their leaves, which were blue and rough under his touch. The ray didn't stop the plants concealed from graying, but at least they weren't crinkled.
“Pfft- can you believe her, OJ!”
“She just…ignored him again! What a loser…”
OJ didn't respond, instead sat there trembling in place. His son brought him back to reality through a tighter hug. His voice lowered, not trying to wake anyone. “... how was your day?”
“Huh.”
…
“...o-oh..”
The left cherry tapped his fingers against the glass, before looking up at the side of his head.
“Can't you take the band off a little? It looks uncomfortable.”
The other cherry nodded.
OJ just smiled and patted them again- he was USED to the weight by now…but obviously he wouldn't tell them about the chip, he didn't want to worry the poor kid. Besides, anytime OJ would mention it, there was always someone there to say some crazy things that hurt his head more than the bells.
“... Nah, I'm fine, really.”
They looked like they were about to say something, but chose to remain quiet. The two continued peacefully watching their episode together, and OJ tried to think a little about the houses, even if he already knew what was going to happen. But he couldn't care less, honestly: even if it was repetitive, it was the best quality show he was going to see. It's not like anyone here could do acting like that, or compete in a sh-
He winced, flinching at the sleeping boy who had done the same. The light from the TV began hurting his head, so he quickly shut it off and lifted the kid up, carefully heading up the stairway to their respective bedrooms.
No one watched the screen that night.
First thing that met his eyes when he woke up were the rays of light from his window, shimmering across the wood floor and his bed.
Wait, it was so…bright.
OJ sat up, slowly remembering the events from last night…he must've woken up late again. He promised he wouldn't this time.
The silence of the room was cut off by the door slamming open, where a blue object stood.
“OJ- get up get UP!! SOMETHING'S HAPPENING!!” Balloon shouted, pointing aggressively behind him.
OJ shot up in fear, immediately leaving the bed and pushing past Balloon to the lobby. The hotel was chaotic at times and he would definitely be warned of it, but something about the way they reacted told him this was different.
By the time he got there, most of the hotel residents were grouped up in the lobby, with more unfamiliar ones by the doors. It looked like members of the safety squad, as they all shared the same vest and metal head piece. He soon spotted Pickle and came over, watching whatever and what was happening.
“-and we all came to assure you, this man will be dealt with, and you are under the full protection of the O.S.C. until further notice.” Paintbrush turned to Box, who was holding a handful of pages.
OJ rubbed his eyes, watching the group move their separate ways, but still lingering in the room. He was left wondering what Balloon could've been freaking out about. “What's going on?”
“I don't know- some psycho is running around the island apparently. Without anything on.” Pickle, who was one of his closest companions, carelessly passed the flyer to OJ, watching for his reaction.
OJ tilted it, reading the small text at the bottom, until his face filled with fear. Someone without their handicaps..? That was…kind of scary. He could remember the last time he'd seen this happen, with some red fan not too long ago. Except the Safety squad didn't come bursting through their hotel as if they were being over thrown that time. What could've been the deal now?
It was a surprise his glass didn't shatter from the shot in his ears.
“Don't worry about it.” Pickle took back the page, patting the drink's shoulder. “As long as we all stay inside, this should just pass. No one makes it that long anyway”
OJ nodded blankly, turning to the front doors closing and a group leaving the building. Everything returned to peace quickly, a usual behavior there. It wouldn’t be more than a few hours until that guy returned in handcuffs, everyone was seriously overreacting. “I'm going to go make myself something.”
Pickle nodded, leaving his friend to do his thing. The younger objects were already settled in the living room watching their cartoons, paying no mind to whatever happened.
OJ got himself a box of cereal: he wasn't a great cook at all, neither was anyone there in fact, so cereal was always the simple way to go. It was already almost out though, he'd have to remember to buy more later…
As he grabbed the last bowl from the cabinets, he couldn't help but notice the same white paper on the counter across from him. It wasn't crumbled like Pickle’s, so he could actually see the object in the picture clearly.
He set the food down to hold it in both hands, observing it for a long while. He didn't recognize them at all, but for some reason…was pulled to it. Curious. Could an object-
As the wailing went off by his ears, OJ simply crumbled it and tossed it in a nearby can. He didn't need spiralling while making food.
Pretty soon the paper on the flyer never returned to his mind, and the residents came to get their own fill. OJ made his way upstairs; maybe there was ONE thing he could do, if not return to work.
Microphone crossed his path, holding a small phone with a smile on her face. “Hey- uh, OJ would you-”
“Sorry, I'm busy right now.”
He didn't hesitate to move past her, ignoring her presence by his side. She twirled the bottle in her hand, nervously pacing.
“I-I know you have money! And …Look, I need to get something for my friend!”
The beverage stopped at his door and pulled out his keys, flipping through each one and paying little attention. “What.”
“Uhm,” Microphone showed him an orange prescription bottle. “Tissues needs medicine.”
…Really? That guy was basically a chunk of tubes by now! He didn't think he had lived this long… but OJ knew better than to say that out loud.
“...too expensive. You'll have to ask someone else.”
Microphone gawked at that. “No one here even talks to him anymore!! Not since, like, y'know. Plus- I mean…why not go to Walmart or something? E̶v̶e̶r̶y̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶p̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶n̶o̶w̶!”
OJ froze. Her words seemed to pump a spike in his brain, though he couldn't grasp them.
“... what'd you say?”
They both stood in silence.
OJ just shook his head, finally finding the key to his door and rushing inside for no real reason. “Whatever. I- …nevermind just go to Soap or something, she'll handle it.”
…He didn't mean to slam the door in her face. But honestly? He didn't seem to care right now, not with his head still spinning and some teenager yapping in his ears. His ringing ears.
He looked around for something to distract the pulses of pain in himself- it was like everything there was out to get him! The paper in his desk was blurring by itself, and random spots of his rooms looked…fragmented. It was like his dreams, but right before his very eyes. It didn't make any sense.
OJ popped in his cork and curled up on the bed, staring hard at the wall. His head felt like it was pounding…what the hell. Just don't look at the room….don't look at the room…
Silence fell. It wasn't until a few minutes- or hours, as how it felt for OJ, until he sat up on the bed and switched on the miniature television across from him. He wasn't in pain anymore, or worrying about whatever brought the pain, and focused on the screen for anything to distract himself with.
His program was then interrupted by a news bulletin. It wasn't clear at first what it could've been about, as the reporter, like all reporters, had a speech impediment. It was about half a minute until their excitement disappeared and they handed the bulletin to another object in view.
“At least they tried..” OJ muttered
“Ladies and Gentlemen-” said the other tall object, which looked to be an empty test tube. She must've been very intelligent, as the top rim of her glass was bulky and compiled with equipment compared to the others. And beautiful, as a mask was firm around her face.
And she apologized for her voice, as it was unfair for a woman like her to use. It was too melodic and clear. Too competitive. “I'm sorry-”
She began again in a shrill, wobbling voice, “A red, Chinese hand fan…unknown origins, has again escaped from rehabilitation, where he was held accountable for the fallback of handicap production. He is a genius and powerful object, and should be regarded as extremely dangerous. Even more than the OSC has recently listed”
A greyscale photograph of the fan projected on screen, flipping in different angles before returning to its right side. Compared to the tree behind their running figure, they seemed short.
The rest of their appearance was just chunks of metal, with so much technology it was concerning how any object could run in it, let alone walk. With the photo’s quality it was hard to tell what exactly they wore, but it looked monstrous.
Usually, each object had a neat pattern to their handicap, but this was far from that; scraps of metal hung from the fan, and it was hard to tell…but the object themself was even damaged under all the junk. You could barely see a fan at all.
“...If you see Fan.” Muttered the test tube. She then went silent when the shots came off in OJ’s ears “...wh- I'm sorry, what am-”
A distant shriek was heard, like of a door being torn off its hinges. Cries then rang from the television set, as loud banging crashed through the room.
OJ was hit with recognition, calling Fan’s name under his breath before his thoughts shattered.
When he opened his eyes, there was no photo. Only the living- panting, mangled man right before his screen. The fan rooted with wires and metal, with eyes full of the sight of death itself.
“You… you will NEVER cage me..” he growled with a sharp breath. “DO YOU HEAR ME? Even as I stand, aching… soured… bleeding… I am greater than anyone your OSC can DREAM OF. Because… because I am imperfect.”
Fan began tearing off the metal on his form as he spoke, the noise filling the room and overlaying his voice. As the handicaps were torn off, his body was revealed, with coats of dirt and marks so thick you could barely see the crimson color it held. Or its shape. No one in the studio dared to approach him.
Except one.
The test tube reporter rose, and once Fan caught sight of her… the death left his eyes, and all that remained was sorrow.
He didn't hesitate to pluck the mask and metal off her form. She was beyond beautiful. And soon her eyes saturated with the sadness shared with Fan.
“Test Tube…” he cracked a slight smile, tears swelling in his eyes as he gazed at her. She recognized him as well, and the next moment she was breaking down in his arms. He held her gently, unlike anything the other objects would've thought he was capable of.
“Oh no…no no what did…-” She picked her head back up, her eyes scanning his face. She opened her mouth to speak again, but couldn't form words.
Fan cut her off, “It's okay… it's okay now.” He reached her hands, giving them a tight squeeze. All he could do was laugh. “I… I thought you were already taken… but you're here.”
Test Tube looked to be holding back more tears, but her smile was wider than any object had shown on TV. A look of love strong enough to enchant.
And that was when Fan began to sway, wrapping his arm around her lower body and taking her with him. She didn't hesitate to follow his step, their movements synchronizing with each other. There was no music, but their heartbeats alone were a melody enough to consume them. To make them forget of the broadcast they were on.
The two didn't bother to let go of each other, only shifting closer as they continued. They didn't care for the marching behind the walls, they didn't care for the muffled voices shouting for them, they didn't care for the distant objects getting up and escaping the scene. Because even as Suitcase came through the doors, pumping her gun at the head of Fan and ending his life in a bang louder than any handicap…
Test Tube still found herself holding his charred body to her chest with a smile.
“To be…imperfect…is to be…”
Suitcase yelled for her to handicap herself once again, but she didn't respond. Only sitting there on her knees with her love until she was soon shot dead beside him.
The television tube burned out abruptly to the crash of glass, leaving OJ, shaking and sobbing silently, with his reflection.
He paused while a signal shook him up, still staring dead at the screen.
Someone then came through the door- Pickle. “Everything good?”
“...yeah.”
“I heard you crying in here…was it something on TV?”
“I don't…know… it's all blurry.” OJ muttered, still watching his reflection.
Pickle came up to him, patting his shoulder. “Forget sad things.”
“I always do.”
“As you should..” Pickle winced as his ears rang, before getting back up and leaving his friend to his lonesome.
OJ finally turned his attention away, now instead looking at the blurred spot on his desk that he tried avoiding before. He approached it carefully, opening the drawer it laid on.
And there he was again. As clear as day.
Paper.