Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Oh god, I can’t breathe.

No other thought filled Weepy’s head more as he mindlessly clawed his way through the soil around him, trying to figure out which way was up. He felt the night breeze on his hand and burst upward, dirt in his mouth and up his nose. He coughed profusely, and rather suddenly fell forward onto the ground. The bottom of his body felt numb, maybe from the fight earlier that day, and normally he would be completely facedown after falling over, per his anatomy. But instead his eyes were at ground level, looking straight ahead towards the distant fence. Strange. The numbness was starting to fade, and Weepy was so groggy that he would have fallen right back to sleep if he didn’t hear Psycarrot shouting out into the night:

“WHAT DID THOSE BRATS DO?!”

At that point Weepy started trembling as the numbness went away enough for him to discern what had caused it, which after some thought made an inkling of sense. After all, he wouldn’t remember after so much time what it felt like to have legs.

———

“And that should be the last one!” Mugman chirped, cheerfully tossing the final contract into the flames. “Cuphead, we did it! We saved everyone!”

“Yeah, it sure must be crazy for them, huh? I don’t even remember what any of those guys were like before their contracts. They could’ve been in debt since we were born!” Cuphead exclaimed.

“Wow! We should tell ‘em the news! They might not even have noticed,” Mugman pointed out. “Plus, they’ll be so happy we helped ‘em out!” Cuphead added. “We’ll be heroes!”

“I dunno… we did beat ‘em all up first. I wouldn’t be too happy about that,” Mugman murmured. Cuphead paused, then shrugged it off. “I think they’ll be able to forgive us. We did save their souls, y’know.”

“I guess you’re right,” Mugman capitulated, still feeling unsure. But there wasn’t any point in arguing with his brother. They’d know who was right soon enough, anyway. Cuphead’s excitement was infectious, however, and Mugman was bounding right alongside his brother out of the casino, into the city, through the carnival and back to the first isle.

“Gee, sure is quiet,” muttered Mugman. This Isle was always peaceful, but it was pretty dead silent by the time the brothers arrived. Neither friend nor foe showed their face, and the forest was devoid of the usual chatter. “Huh,” said Cuphead. “Guess we should just head on back to Elder Kettle then. He’ll be happy to see us for sure!” Mugman nodded hesitantly and they set off. Mugman glanced through the trees, searching without direction for any bitter familiar faces. Goopy le Grande, maybe Cagney, but neither could be seen watching from the brush or coming the brothers’ way. The quiet and the emptiness of the surrounding landscape was becoming increasingly unhinging.

“Hey, wait!” Both the brothers jumped involuntarily as a high, wavering tenor broke out from the thick wall of silence. They turned to see a short, pudgy man rushing over to them. His cheeks were flushed, and his honey-colored suit was oddly sullied with dirt and grass. He wobbled as he ran, as if both his legs were asleep.

“You… you,” he panted. “You burned all the contracts, didn’t you?” Cuphead and Mugman exchanges confuses glances. “Er, Yeah, we did. Who’s asking?” Cuphead questioned.

“Ohhh, ahem, I was, afraid you’d ask, though really it was unavoidable… stupid… w-we fought, earlier. Though I don’t expect you’d recognize me…” he trailed off, absentmindedly trying in vain to clean off his suit.

“What? I can’t say I remember anyone like you…” Cuphead admitted. “Could you remind me, mister?”

The man shakily hitched his thumb over his shoulder, towards the garden. “I live… there… with my, ah, friends…” his voice broke at the last word, and he looked poised to break down. Mugman scratched his head. “Well, that can’t be right. That’s where we fought the Root Pack. There weren’t any…” he trailed off. The voice, the mannerisms, the flushed cheeks… they were unmistakable. “Are… are you that onion?!” he exclaimed, barely believing his own words. Cuphead gave him a patronizing glance. “No, he’s not that onion, Mugs. You really need to get your eyes…” he trailed off as well, mirroring his brother, “checked…”
The man cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Y-Yeah, I’m… I was that onion you guys fought. A-and my friends, they’re the rest of the Root Pack, but they’re also like me now. This is how we… used to be.” Cuphead and Mugman stared. “This is ridiculous,” Cuphead finally sighed.

“N-no, I can… come over to the garden, please. I can’t explain how this is, but my friends can. It’s… everyone in the isle is like this now.” The brothers tensed at that. Was that why everything was so quiet? “Okay,” Mugman finally said slowly. “What?!” Cuphead cried. “This all doesn’t seem like a good thing, Cuphead. If there’s something we did without knowing, the least we should do is know what we did.”

The man smiled in relief, the same smile the onion had when he first emerged during their battle. It was eerie, how different and similar the two were at the same time. “Thank you, so much… follow me, please.” The brothers obliged, Cuphead more reluctantly. He hoped Elder Kettle wasn’t too worried about them. He hadn’t heard from them since they left the first isle, and before their adventure he was the type to worry if they got back from the carnival even five minutes later than expected. Cuphead couldn’t even imagine how the old man would feel if those five minutes turned into five hours. But Mugman was right. If the silent isle could be attributed to some quirk in the debtors’ deals that they didn’t know about, they couldn’t rest easy just yet.

“Just warning you, the guys… aren’t happy right now. In fact, I’m about the only one in the isle that doesn’t mind being back like this…” At that, the gate to the garden was pushed open with a creak to reveal the underwhelming sight of two other men bickering at each other. One was taller than the other, which he was certainly taking advantage of in whatever argument they were having, and the shorter one looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Both were also sporting dirt-choked clothing, and the taller one’s orange hair looked fit to defy gravity while the other’s matted brown curls seemed set on pushing through to the Earth’s core.

“Look, it wasn’t my fault someone thought we didn’t need a house anymore!” the shorter one snapped.

“Well, you did the deed! I just threw out a bit of foresight!” the other retorted.

“Oh, yeah, some foresight that was! The same foresight that got us into this mess in the first place!”

“And you didn’t have to go to the casino, either! But I suppose we’re all equally guilty of that…”

“No, no, you pulled the trigger! Me and the leaky faucet had no choice but to go along with your stinkin’–“

“Ahem, fellas, I ah, brought guests…” The two looked over towards their company. The tall man’s eyes narrowed and he marched over, his intimidation offset by the same wobbly gait that the pudgy man had before. He stopped in front of the brothers and bent down to meet their eyes, as he was easily twice as tall as they were. “I hope you know how lucky you are,” he scoffed. “If it were any other way, I’d smash you to pieces right now.” His glare told them he wasn’t joking. It was almost hypnotic, as it had been when they’d fought, and the brothers found themselves searching for floating carrots in their peripheral vision. “Ahem,” the first man broke in. “They actually don’t know, really. I mean, yes, they know how, how… they don’t know about the catch,” he finally forced out, fastidiously wiping his brow with a handkerchief from his vest pocket. The tall man cast a glance askew at his compatriot. “Go on.”

“Ahuh, before we start, I guess you should know our names. Or at least, um, the ones we gave ourselves after the contract. It’s been so long, we don’t remember who we used to be,” he admitted forlornly. Cuphead and Mugman stood agape. How long was so long, to the point that they forgot their names? “I’m Weepy,” the pudgy man said, putting a clammy hand to his own chest. “Pretty… easy… to remember, heh… he’s Psycarrot,” he continued, pointing to the tall man, who glared again in response, “and that over there is Moe,” Weepy finished, turning to the brown-haired man, who was starting on his way over. “Don’t think you’re off the hook with me, you little finks,” he grumbled. “I’m just as mad as carrot-top over here.” The brothers didn’t know what to say to that, but they were nevertheless intimidated by that sentiment. Then, without warning, Psycarrot and Moe plopped into sitting positions, Weepy following suit. Cuphead and Mugman stared, then shrugged and sat down too.

“What?” Moe barked defensively. “You go without legs for ten-odd years and try to stand for an hour without falling over!” The brothers stayed silent. Aside from Weepy, their former foes seemed very on edge. Hopefully they would find out why.

“Right,” muttered Psycarrot, absentmindedly digging his fingers into the soil. “You know about the contracts. You beat everyone senseless for ‘em. But what you didn’t know, and I wager the Devil didn’t care to mention it, is that there’s a catch to every one of his contracts. We all wanted something. I can’t speak for everyone, but we for instance wanted two things: bigger crops, and some way to keep trespassers out. Folks broke in our garden all the time, see. Any good crops we had got stolen, and the soil was getting worse by the day. So we moseyed on over to the Devil’s Casino –“

“You moseyed on over to the Devil’s Casino,” Moe butted in. “We were just along for the ride.” Psycarrot shot him a look and continued. “Nonetheless, we got that sleazy dice man’s attention, and soon the boss himself appeared to talk business. I gave him our plight, and he said he could help. But his idea of ‘help’ was different than what we’d envisioned.”

“An understatement…” Moe grumbled under his breath.
“He reasoned we could benefit from some powers of our own, like the kind he used. Dark magic. And his answer to the whole crops thing was in the catch. The catch is this.” Psycarrot leaned in, as if telling a secret. “Anytime anyone makes a contract in that casino, the Devil changes their form. He always comes up with some stupid reason, but I think it’s only for his amusement. His excuse for us was that if we wanted to know how to grow our vegetables right, we’d benefit from…” here he rolled his eyes, “…being vegetables ourselves.” Weepy shuddered, and Moe scoffed and picked up where Psycarrot left off.

“It sounds like a bunch of hooey, sure, but it worked. We were so big an’ powerful that no one dared come close to our garden, and even the form change gave us new perspectives. We started growing things right, and honestly it was kinda easy to get comfortable. I forgot how stupid and weak I am like this,” he argued, gesturing up and down himself. “Speak for yourself,” Weepy countered. “It was absolutely dreadful for me. It felt so wrong to not need to eat anything, and… and to just be made of thin layers of leaves…” He quivered, and his companions rolled their eyes. “Anyway, all the contracts work like that. And for the most part, everyone was happy with what they got. We got used to our new lives, yada yada yada. But now things are back to the way they used to be,” Moe pointed out accusingly. “We haven’t been like this in so long, and it ain’t fun to get used to. Why d’ya think we’ve all been digging around in the dirt like weirdos this whole time? And I’m hungry. I haven’t been hungry in years. It hurts to be hungry. And nothing in our garden looks appetizing anymore, for obvious reasons I hope…”

“We’re grateful that you freed our souls, we really are,” Weepy reassured them. “But everyone’s in a tizzy right now because by burning the contracts, you boys voided everything in them. Think about it. Anyone you fought who wasn’t already human… think about what they’re going through right now.” The brothers considered everyone they’d gone up against, and their faces scrunched up as they found some particularly disconcerting cases. At the end of it all they had more questions than answers.

“B-but…” Mugman stammered. “If you guys got used to being vegetables an’ all that other stuff, why can’t you just get used to being back the way you were? I’d think you’d even get used to it faster, right?”

“That’s not the point,” Psycarrot answered. “Everyone, except for Weepy I suppose, turned out liking themselves better after the fact. We were strong, and had a place, and now we’re just a pack of bitter farmers who don’t even want to farm. You see the problem?”

Cuphead and Mugman considered everything they’d heard. They understood what Psycarrot was saying, even if it didn’t make all that much sense. Mugman thought they should at least talk to everyone they’d fought. Apologize for unwittingly rendering them even more unhappy than they’d been before, but then help them ease back into their lives. It was the best they could probably do, since their contracts were gone forever. But he got the feeling Psycarrot wouldn’t take that answer. So he instead formed a false plan of action.

“There are still debtors we fought that were human, right?” he asked. Psycarrot raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Well, how’d they work that out with the Devil? Are they double-debtors or something?”

“I don’t know. What does it matter?”

“Maybe we could talk to them. They might know more about the catch, enough to manipulate it themselves. Like, uh, what about Hilda? She could turn into all kinds of things! Maybe she knows how to control it!” Psycarrot’s brows knitted together in thought. He seemed to have less cognitive power than he did under his contract, and it was clearly bothering him. “I suppose… that isn’t too far-fetched…” he muttered. “You’d need a companion. If you really are thinking of going to Hilda, I don’t imagine she’ll be very pleased to see you.”

Mugman looked at the thin man expectantly. He clearly wanted to go with them, though perhaps not as much for the brothers’ protection as for his own potential benefit. “I can go with you,” Psycarrot finally said casually, pretending not to care either way. “I-I can go too!” Weepy squeaked awkwardly. “I… I just want to get out of this garden…” he murmured, avoiding eye contact with his friends. Moe groaned. “I ain’t going anywhere. You airheads can go on a fancy adventure all you want, but someone’s got to watch the crops.”

Weepy cocked an eyebrow. “Moe, we don’t really–“

“Good idea,” Psycarrot interrupted, shooting his sensitive friend a meaningful glance. “We shouldn’t be out for long. We’ll likely get tired from walking by sunset anyway.”

Mugman smiled. “Great! Let’s go–“

“Wait,” butted in Cuphead. All eyes turned to him. “Don’t get me wrong, I really want to help everyone out, but can we at least stop by home and let Elder Kettle know we’re alive? I’m sure he’s worried sick about us…” Mugman put a hand to his mouth. “Oh gosh, you’re right! I forgot about that. Maybe he can wash your clothes, too!” he added, addressing their new companions. The two scanned their mud-stained clothing with underlying disapproval. “That would be desirable…” Weepy muttered.

“All right,” proclaimed Psycarrot. “We’ll stop by the old coot’s place. But it’s straight to Hilda after that.”

“You got it!” Mugman confirmed. Him, his brother, and the Root Pack all stood up. “Be seein’ you,” Moe muttered half-heartedly, plodding off to some corner of the garden to do whatever work he was planning on keeping himself busy with. The remaining four set off through the gate, Psycarrot closing it behind them. He was carrying a pair of tall black rubber boots, which seemed to be his footwear of choice, but seemed hesitant to put them on even after leaving the garden, digging his bare toes into the grass as if probing it for information. The brothers wondered how strange clothing in general had to feel for them. Weepy didn’t seem too uncomfortable, however, fully appreciating the green landscape around them. He must have been so bent on getting their attention earlier that he didn’t even think about what he hadn’t seen in years. There was that word again, “years.” Cuphead was uncomfortable thinking about how long, possibly, the debtors had been used to the forms the Devil has given them. And he and his brother had flung them back to square one with one flick of the wrist to the flames.

He wasn’t sure what Mugman thought he could do to make the situation any better, but at the same time he didn’t want to leave his brother to talk to these potentially dangerous people alone. The Root Pack would probably be the most forgiving of their foes, and though Mugman’s blind kindness knew no bounds, that wouldn’t make the former debtors go any easier on him.

As they began walking towards the brothers’ childhood home, Cuphead felt a familiar twinge in his gut. It had been present throughout their journey to save their own souls, and it had finally laid off once they’d burned the contracts. But now it was back, and stronger than ever, and Cuphead was strangely unsettled by it. Because once the twinge came back, he suddenly wanted nothing more than to stay at Elder Kettle’s house once they got there, sleep the pit in his stomach away, and forget everything that had happened in between burning the contracts and lying down to sleep.

And the only thing scarier than that was that Cuphead didn’t trust himself not to give in to that selfishness, and leave his brother at the mercy of agitated psychotics.

Chapter Text

“Oh, my boys! I was worried to pieces while you were away!” Elder Kettle sighed as the brothers embraced their grandfather. Cuphead wanted to stay in that welcoming embrace forever, though he knew it was a ridiculous notion. Elder Kettle seemed to notice his lack of energy, however, and stood him up manually. “My dear boy, you look absolutely whipped! I suppose you two can tell me all about your adventure after a good nap…”

Psycarrot cleared his throat from the liberal distance at which he and Weepy were standing from the porch. “We can’t stay long…” he muttered. Elder Kettle eyed the pair skeptically, then his eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, my goodness!” he exclaimed, walking out to meet them. “I haven’t seen you fellows in years! Especially not as you are! That contract sure rooted you in place, didn’t it?” Psycarrot rolled his eyes at the wordplay. “Yeah, well, s’not like we were complaining. Your boys are trying to get us back where our contracts had us. Old habits die hard, and in our case they’re set to be damn near invincible.”

“Not in front of the children!” Elder Kettle reprimanded his language. “Oh, please. They’ve been to Hell and back, fought the baddest of the bad and the rudest of the rude. I think they can handle a cuss,” Psycarrot groaned. Weepy wrung his hands absentmindedly. “Must you try and pick a fight with everyone?” he murmured, a question that went unanswered.

“Well, I must say your attire looks worse for wear,” the kettle commented. “How about we wash out your frippery while the kids rest their eyes? Like you said, they’ve been through a lot.” The two former debtors exchanged glances, and Weepy started towards the door, lightly pulling Psycarrot along by his shirt sleeve. It wasn’t a tough grip to break, naturally, but Psycarrot wasn’t about to act out only to render his companion an irritating, inconsolable mess. Once the lean man set foot across the threshold and onto the hardwood floor, a shiver went through him. He hadn’t been on any surface besides dirt or grass since they made their contract, which was years ago. He barely recalled the last time he felt hardwood floor under his bare feet, and wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He missed the form the contract had given him, but the melancholy, almost nostalgic feelings shot into him from things even as simple as touching hardwood floors were holding him just as enraptured.

“Hey…” Weepy was nudging him apprehensively. “Are you alright?” Psycarrot realized he hadn’t moved for some seconds. “Yes, yes,” he muttered, like it didn’t matter. Weepy knew him well enough to tell that it did, but he thankfully didn’t have enough of a backbone to say anything. Well, he didn’t really have a backbone at all for a while, did he? Ha ha. Psycarrot disgusted himself sometimes with his own pseudo-cleverness.

Some time later, Elder Kettle gave his unexpected visitors some old clothes to wear from a dusty trunk in the stairway cupboard. Then, Weepy filled the kitchen sink with water while Psycarrot set up a clothesline on the back porch. Here the latter could redeem himself; if there was one thing he’d been able to keep throughout the course of their contract, it was his dexterity. The cup brothers were asleep upstairs, and soft waltzing music played over the phonograph in the front room. “Say, Mister Kettle, if you don’t mind me asking,” Weepy prompted, scrubbing the dirt out of his friend’s shirt, “why do you even have the clothes you’ve lended out to us? I don’t imagine you’ve got much use for them…”

“Oh, well…” the kettle trailed off as he ironed out Weepy’s vest, “I lost a bet or two myself in my day.” Psycarrot poked his head in from the back porch. “You made a contract?” he asked incredulously. “No, no, I would have given up the ghost by now. I hung around that blasted casino quite a bit as a young man,” he clarified in a faraway tone. The two had stopped working and were leaning in expectantly. The old man chuckled. “Well, if you boys are that interested in my bad decisions, then why don’t we take a break?” He took the vest off the ironing board and laid it on the kitchen table. “You’re lucky I like telling stories.”

Weepy finished up the shirt and handed it off to its owner, who clipped it onto the line outside. The three migrated to the back porch, and sat facing out at the wall of trees that separated the house from the ocean. There was a slight breeze, but it complemented the warm sunny weather nicely. Elder Kettle cleared his throat.

“Well, it was wartime, so all anyone wanted to do was forget about their troubles. I was on leave when I wandered into the casino one night, with a lot in my head that I didn’t want in there. Then I went back, many times. I didn’t gamble at first, just drank. But one night that King Dice sought me out, struck up a conversation. Perhaps he wanted me to play as well as drink. He certainly didn’t indicate it, just asking questions about myself and what my story was. Eventually, he admitted that he’d planned on easing me into his master’s hands, that I’d seemed a perfect candidate for a sucker. But he said he liked my attitude, as I was a spunky fellow even then.

“So we formed a sort of friendship, at least I imagined we did, ‘til one night when he proposed a bet. Not exactly a contract, but we were at the races and he noticed I was a little too confident in my foresight. His idea was that if I won, all the money that everyone had bet on the race would go to me. He could work things out that way. But if I lost, his master could have his way with me. Not take my soul, mind you, I think he liked me too much for that treatment, but there was instead an uncertainty. I’d never met his master, you see. But I was caught up in my own ego, and agreed. I lost, Dice explained the situation to the man himself… and this was my lesson,” he finished, gesturing to himself. The former debtors stared in twisted awe. “How did you get that sleazebag to favor you?” Psycarrot finally asked. Elder Kettle laughed. “Well, I wasn’t the most reverent of men. I was very blunt about everything, quipped until I was too drunk to speak, and despite being at rock bottom for most of my life, I always kept a smile on my face. I think Dice saw a bit of himself in that. But I can’t claim to know. I’d be lying if I said I cared an inkling about that low-life anymore.” He turned to the two. “I imagine you boys are rather annoyed at my comparative fortune.”

“Well…” Psycarrot muttered. “At least your form has no benefits.”

“Oh, you’re right there. I can't do certain things like I used to, but other than that there isn’t much change. Pure humiliation, that’s what he wanted. It’s all comedy to him. But you got the short end of that stick, I know. I wish there was something I could do to help, but I haven’t a potion strong enough to negate contract magic,” the kettle admitted forlornly.

“But your, er, grandchildren, they said they can help! Or, at least, they’ll try,” Weepy piped up, seeming stuck between comforting the kettle and not wanting the brothers’ help in the first place. The kettle smiled. “I trust they’ll do their best. They’re good kids.”

Psycarrot stood up. “Speaking of which, we ought to finish the laundry. Then we can be off.” As much as he liked feeling better hearing how someone was just as stupid as he was with their gambling, he really wanted to get moving, away from the small house. He was getting comfortable, and he didn’t like it. Weepy followed suit, and each returned to their respective positions. The rest of the process passed in silence, save for Elder Kettle softly humming along to the phonograph. Once every piece of clothing was clean and dry, Weepy and Psycarrot changed from the borrowed clothing, that likely wouldn’t be used again, and back into their own accoutrements.

As they re-entered the main room having changed, they found Mugman sitting groggily at the kitchen table while Elder Kettle was pouring hot water into his head from himself. He caught the two staring, and chuckled. “I suppose this looks strange to you,” he prompted. Weepy averted his gaze in embarrassment. “I mean, it just looks a little wrong,” Psycarrot vocalized. “Well, it’s all relative. If your stove was alive, say, I reckon you would find putting food in it suddenly uncomfortable,” the kettle suggested, grinding tea leaves and putting them in a small metal strainer. “But it’s still a stove, and has a function. It can choose whether or not it likes that function, but it certainly won’t feel out of place to perform it. I’ve lived long enough to know that one can’t simply fit the activities of other sorts of people into their own human understanding. There isn’t really a human equivalent to what Mugman and I are doing right now,” he pointed out, dropping the strainer into Mugman’s head. “And it’s a trifle more efficient than simply boiling water in a separate kettle.” Mugman reached into his head and took out the strainer, then put his straw back in and sipped at the tea inside. “You had some such habits as well, did you not?” he asked, looking askance at Psycarrot’s still-shoeless feet. The man sneered and finally put on his boots. “Doesn’t count,” he muttered.

“Say, Mugman, where is that brother of yours?” asked Elder Kettle. Mugman spoke up, a lot more awake than he was seconds ago. “He’s still upstairs. I think he’s still sleeping, but you know how he is.” The kettle rolled his eyes. “Oh, do I. Sit tight, fellows. I’ll be back in a blink.” He left up the stairs, muttering something about the ways of children.

——-

“Cuphead? I know you aren’t asleep. If you’re tired, I can make you tea,” Elder Kettle suggested, entering the boys’ room. Cuphead lay on his bed unmoving, Head propped up as usual so that his head wouldn’t spill. Elder Kettle sat at the end of the bed patiently. “If there’s something you need to talk about, I can listen,” he prompted. Cuphead’s eyes cracked open reluctantly. “Anything?” he asked. “You won’t be mad?” Not the best precedent, but the kettle could tell he needed to talk. “Yes, anything,” he conceded. Cuphead sat up slowly.

“Ever since I got me and Mugs into this mess, I’ve had this… pit in my stomach. It’s like… when you say something bad to someone that you don’t mean, but you know you can’t take it back. I’d never felt anything worse. I thought it’d be gone when we freed everyone, but…” he faltered, and his lip began quivering. “It’s still here, and… and I kinda don’t want to go along with Mugs and the guys we fought, ‘cause… I don’t want it to be there anymore.” Elder Kettle downcast his gaze and sighed. He knew that pit. He’d hoped neither of his boys would ever get it themselves, but he realized he was a fool to think that. He scooted up the bed, and put his arm around Cuphead’s shoulders. “I know what you’re going through,” he said. “But keep in mind that your brother is probably going through it as well. He’s simply found a solution to combat it.” Cuphead stared into space in thought. “But there isn’t a solution. He can’t possibly think he can help…” he trailed off, coming to a realization. “There’s no point in not trying anyway,” Elder Kettle vocalized. He stood up. “I won’t force you to go along. You have been through a lot; facing off against the Devil himself is no cakewalk. But your brother is in a little over his head, despite his good intentions, and I don’t think your absence would help matters.”

Against his low spirits, Cuphead cracked a smile. “That’s not much of a choice at all.” Elder Kettle returned his smile. “I’m glad you see it that way. Now shake a leg; you don’t have very patient companions.”

——

After Cuphead finally came downstairs, the four set out again, with clean clothes and refreshed minds. “I didn’t think we’d spend such a long time making absolutely no progress,” groaned Psycarrot. “What a waste.” Weepy averted his gaze, but Psycarrot noticed his shoulders trembling. “Oh, come on. What was so tragic and horrific about that statement that it warrants that brand of input?”

“The kettle was… really nice to us,” Weepy murmured, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “He helped clean our clothes, and he told us something real personal about himself. He didn’t h-have to do that, you know, considering who we’ve been.”

“Something personal?” Cuphead asked, increasing his pace. Everyone was compensating for Psycarrot’s speed: he had the longest strides, and was walking quite fast. “Yeah, about his time at that stupid casino,” Psycarrot clarified nonchalantly. Now it was Mugman’s turn to speed up. “Elder Kettle used to go to the Devil’s Casino?” Weepy seemed to realize there had to be a reason why the brothers didn’t know about this and gestured to Psycarrot to stop talking, but the tall man continued with a self-important smirk on his face. He wasn’t in the mood to be reverent. “Yeah, made it good with mister King Dice until he lost a bet. Same idea as us, minus the contract.” Weepy was back to holding tears back, but Psycarrot was through dealing with that. “Wow, really? So you mean… he wasn’t a kettle at one point?” Mugman asked quietly, as if the question was a curse. “Yeah,” answered Psycarrot, before chuckling at a new thought. “Wonder where he got you mugs.”

They continued towards the observatory where they expected to find Hilda in silence, the cup brothers now sporting the same existential thousand-yard stare plastered on their faces the rest of the way.

Chapter Text

“So this is the observatory,” Mugman proclaimed as the group approached the large domed gray building at the top of the hill. “Obviously, genius,” Psycarrot scoffed, not bothering to mention that he’d probably never seen it before. “What’s your next groundbreaking observation? That we should enter via the door?”

“Precisely!” Mugman chirped, either oblivious to the sarcasm or simply not caring. He seized the doorknob and yanked it, only to find that the door was locked. “Phooey. Maybe she isn’t home,” he remarked, trying to see anything through the windows. “Any other day, I could break the door down…” Psycarrot muttered. “Any other day, you wouldn’t even be able to be here,” returned Weepy softly.

“Mugs, we can blast the door open,” Cuphead suggested. “Great idea, Cuphead! Let’s do it at the same time, the lock is probably pretty strong,” Mugman pointed out. The brothers pointed their fingers at the doorknob and blue energy shot out, making short work of the lock. Their accomplices flinched involuntarily, remembering being at the receiving end themselves. “Gee, I hope she doesn’t mind that we busted up her lock,” Mugman murmured, pushing open the door.

They entered a large, high-ceilinged room full of all sorts of displays and various pieces of complicated-looking equipment. It was dim, but the light from the round windows glanced off of gold-plated models of the solar system, glass lenses on intricate telescopes, and the pristine marble flooring. “Gee, I never expected this joint to look so posh,” Cuphead admitted, glancing around the whole room in awe. “Guess she got lucky at the slots or something,” Psycarrot mused. “No one in this neck of the woods would stick around if they had cash like this.”

“Well, you wouldn’t,” Weepy pointed out. Psycarrot cast a beleaguered glance towards his friend. “Man, since when were you Moe? I thought that stick in the mud staying home would free me from such lampooning.” Weepy flushed and turned his eyes downward. “Sorry,” he murmured, his voice already in that damp, heavy tone Psycarrot hated to hear for a variety of reasons. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he denied dismissively. “Just kind of funny, is all.”

“Well, she isn’t anywhere down here,” Mugman said, having searched the giant room around them. “But there’s a staircase that away, so maybe she’s up on the highest floor.”

“Staircase?” groaned Psycarrot, hanging back. He was still having a hard time just walking, he doubted he could climb a large set of stairs. “C’mon,” said Cuphead. “You said she won’t be too pleased to see us, right? Isn’t that why you came in the first place?” The tall man furrowed his brow, a recognizable habit, and sighed melodramatically. “I don’t suppose I can argue with that,” he admitted, marching over to the staircase and gripping the railing so that his tan knuckles blanched defiantly. The cup brothers followed, and Weepy apprehensively brought up the rear. If Psycarrot didn’t think he’d do well with stairs, then Weepy could expect to break both his legs.

The staircase was narrow, and the walls were gray and dark, no windows to make the space at least moderately less claustrophobic. There certainly wasn’t much to distract from how tall and steep the stairs were, and the top floor had to be dimly lit as well, since there was no visible light squeezing through from the top. But they eventually hit the final step, and the only clear indicator that there was anyone in the room besides the four was scattered flashes of gold, which seemed to produce light themselves rather than reflecting. As they advanced into the room, the gold frantically rushed to a new position and a click sounded, causing a set of metal panels to uncover the long windows towards the floor. The four squinted in the light.

“How did you get in here?” the woman wearing the gold snapped. “The door was locked.” Psycarrot finally blinked the sun out of his eyes (yet another thing that wouldn’t have been a problem any other day, he was bitterly reminded), and opened his mouth to speak before being cut off. “You? What business do you – and them. I see how it is.” She’d noticed the brothers behind him. She really hadn’t changed at all, though she seemed to have lost a spring in her step. She’d always been pushy, but in the one or two times Psycarrot had seen her while under her contract, she used to have a little more fun with her pushiness.

Psycarrot struggled to find words. “Look, Ms. Berg –“

“Don’t you ‘Ms. Berg’ me! Can’t even let me wallow in my powerlessness…”

“Well, pardon me, but these folks don’t have it much better,” Cuphead pointed out. Hilda glared at him. “You don’t get to talk, cupface.”

“We’re trying to help you!” Mugman burst out. “We didn’t know all this would happen, and… we’re looking for a solution! That’s why we came to you.”

“Me? What solution could I possibly have?”

“Look, we all know about the catch,” Psycarrot explained. “But you seem to have evaded it, at least in a sense. You could switch forms at will, something no other debtor I know can do. You’ve got to know something more about this whole racket than us, right?” Hilda looked blankly for a moment, then laughed. It was still as biting and harsh as if it still inflicted physical pain. “First of all, I don’t know any more about the Devil’s conniving tomfoolery than any other bloke or broad this side of the isle. I just returned his deal with a deal of my own: that I could switch at my leisure, but I had to take my new form for over half the day, otherwise my soul was his to keep. It was for convenience’s sake; I still wanted to have my observatory, catalog any new stuff I could only find with help from my contract. He made the form a blimp just to make the whole thing less appealing, but got sick of it once he realized that I couldn’t care less what I was, as results were results. That’s how I got in debt, but you didn’t come here to hear me not answer your question for an hour.” She laughed again at Psycarrot’s poorly concealed disappointment. “You boys just don’t know how to haggle, is what I’m saying. It would be too late to change that, but…” here everyone leaned in, “you’re wrong about another thing. There are plenty of folks who’ve weaseled out of the catch.”

“Hey, yeah!” exclaimed Mugman. “Didn’t you even imply you knew about the human debtors?” he asked Weepy. The round man shuffled around awkwardly. “I was mainly just thinking about Hilda… guess I can stop feeling bad for thinking I exaggerated.”

“Yeah, surprising how much you get around as an air vehicle,” Hilda said sarcastically. “Let’s see… Sally Stageplay, Brineybeard, Dr. Kahl…”

“Actually, that contract was for his robot…” muttered Cuphead.

“Oh, sure, that’s what he wants you to think. But those folks are sharp. It’s no wonder they got out of the catch. You need some folks with you who know how to deal with those sorts. Or at least people who’ve left their end of the isle.” Psycarrot bristled, clearly not handling the various jabs at his intelligence very well. “Well, who’d go with us, huh? You?”

“Hmph. It’s not my problem,” she scoffed. “I can deal with this sort of thing. I’m used to looking out at unattainable dreams all day.” Psycarrot put up his hands impatiently. “Wah, wah, I’ve already got one crybaby to deal with. You can’t just sit around wishing you hadn’t lost everything. Wishing doesn’t mean jack. Take a break, lady.”

This brief speech earned him a swift slap in the face, sending him reeling and clutching his rapidly reddening cheek. “Oh, god, are you all right?!” Weepy cried, rushing to console him. Psycarrot pushed him away. “Jeez, lay off. She didn’t bloody me up or anything.”

“I could know anything!” Hilda exclaimed. “Everything I’d ever wondered, even things that were barely specks in my telescopes, I could know everything if I just knew how to get there. I could become the moon if I wanted to. The moon!” She whirled around, arms out towards the heavens as if imagining a moon there. “But enough about me. Shoot, enough about you. Your troubles are small potatoes, pun intended.” She turned to Mugman aggressively. “You said you wanted to help, right?” Mugman nodded frantically, quite uncertain as to what she had in mind. “However I can!”

“Then let me drop you a line. Stop by the garden, the one near the Die House.” All four grew tense. “Y-you mean Cagney’s?” Weepy implored quietly. Hilda nodded. “That’s the one. I’ve been keeping an eye on it all morning from here. Just dreadful.”

“Ugh,” groaned Psycarrot. “You couldn’t pay me half a coin to see that thorny cad.”

“Fine, then. Go put yourself in dirt up to the neck, so your sensibilities aren’t quite so rattled. But if these pint-sized wretches really want to make things better…” she paused to suddenly grin at the brothers’ growing indignation at her reckless slandering, “…Then consider this a test.”

“Why don’t you come along?” Mugman suggested, partly out of reason and partly out of nerves. “Surely he knows and likes you better than he does us, and he’ll actually want to talk if you’re there…”

“Psh, that pressure cooker doesn’t like anyone. If anything, he just about tolerates anyone who’s not him or his posies. But sure, I was coming along anyway. Wouldn’t want to miss this moral display.” The brothers gulped. They doubted she’d make the situation any better if that’s what Cagney was really like, even outside of his contract. Hilda saw their faces and scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. “Believe me, it’s not me you should be worrying about.”

—-

Even yards away from the garden, the brothers and their companions could already hear some kind of commotion. There were voices arguing, at that distance inaudible. Psycarrot, who along with Weepy was reluctantly following behind, sighed in annoyance. “That’s Cagney, all right. I’d know his nails-on-a-chalkboard voice anywhere.”

“Well, obviously, but who’s he talking to?” Mugman asked Hilda. She sighed as well, though sounding more exasperated than irritated. “I won’t beat around the bush; he and Goopy never got along.”

“Goopy le Grande?” Cuphead asked.

“No, the other big loudmouth debtor named Goopy. Obviously Goopy le Grande! I swear… anyway, I’ll leave them to tell you why. But be warned, neither will be very friendly. And when you see Cagney… keep your mouths shut.”

“Why?”

“That’s the test.” Mugman thought that last part was rather silly and frankly unreasonable, but he couldn’t think of many debtors who ever used common sense. They were barely feet away, and now more words could be made out.

“…stomping around with your big stupid feet, murder for you is a literal walk in the park!”

“Well, it ain’t your park, mister –“

Mugman came out into view followed by everyone else, making a bit too much noise with his arrival. He wanted their attention, but he didn’t think it would be this awkward. But the situation grew even more unsalvageable once he took in the scene before him. There were two men, all right, but the situation was the exact opposite of what Mugman has expected. One man was clearly Goopy: he was tall but heavyset, wore a wide, condescending grin, and even had that same little point in the part of his brown hair as he’d had on his head under his contract. But the other man…

“What? You standing there to be shot?” he demanded. “Because I can oblige.” Mugman almost stumbled back, as it was the same voice he’d heard. He even carried himself the same way, but the one difference that Mugman had least expected was that Cagney was no taller than he was. He had to be under five feet, and suddenly it made sense why he would be so agitated. Psycarrot started snickering, and even Cuphead was fighting a smile. Mugman was frozen, not knowing what to say.

“Oh, delightful. You brought a whole convention of people I was really hoping to see today. You know, I should have made tea or something. Because I do that, right?” His sarcasm seemed directed at three different people, but the last rhetorical question was clearly meant for Goopy. The big man smiled in Mugman’s direction, oddly cordial for someone having wanted them dead at one point. “Don’t you worry, kid. He can’t do anything besides throw his tantrum.”

“Oh, a gentleman! A true form of honor! Give him a hand! Or better yet, a pair of shears to the arm!” Cagney picked up this very tool from the ground and ran at the other man, only to be stopped in place by his extended gloved hand. “Eh, see here,” he chuckled. “All bark and no bite.”

“Fellows, will you knock it off?” Hilda snapped, marching over. “I thought you’d run out of empty words after a few hours.”

“You should take a class from this rattlecap! He’s got enough bird-brained slurs to fill the dictionary!” Cagney snarled.

“Well, you’ve got enough to fill a book as tall as your shoulder. But that ain’t too many more,” Goopy retorted, grinning lazily. Cagney doubled his efforts to jab his shears into the big man’s arm, grumbling various inaudible profanities.

“God, do I have to break both your noses for you to shut up for two minutes?!” Hilda shouted. “These idiots are trying to help get you back how you were! Don’t be even bigger idiots by completely ignoring them.” The two finally turned with boredom and annoyance to the rest of the group. With his wide-brimmed sun hat turned upwards, Cagney could be seen to even have the face he’d had before their fight, before he showed what they’d assumed was his true face. And even now, they’d still assume his contract form to be his true form. It certainly fit his personality better than what they were seeing. “Reversing your oversight,” Cagney summarized skeptically. Mugman finally found words. “Ahem, yeah, we… we didn’t know about the catch. We also didn’t know it could have consequences like…”

“Like me,” Cagney finished, rolling his deceivingly friendly eyes. “W-well, I mean…” Mugman started hastily. “What, you thought everyone around here just wanted magic powers?” Cagney asked rhetorically, throwing his arms up. He moved his arms a lot when he talked, another enduring trait. “Didn’t think cups as fragile as you could be so dense. You ever wonder why this imbecile loiters around in the forest, of all places?” he asked, gesturing to Goopy. “He has terrible allergies, did you know that? Can’t stand my beautiful flowers. But does he leave? Of course not! Because he thinks he can do whatever he damn well pleases.”

“Hey, you’ve got yourself a garden,” Goopy returned. “I’m pretty sure you’re just supposed t’ grow stuff in the garden.”

“And I suppose none of us are supposed to leave our end of the Isle, ever? You just don’t understand how this world works. Everything can think, and speak, and feel. There isn’t an explanation for it, but you shouldn’t have to need one! Certainly not to stop you from preventing my flowers from growing to their full potential or killing them because you don’t understand the concept of claustrophobia!”

“Wait, wait! Slow down!” Mugman cried. “What are you talking about?” Cagney faced him with conviction in his eyes. “Why, I’ll tell you. I don’t think I’d ever not tell this story.”

“Yeah, even after retelling it several different times this morning,” Goopy groaned. “Why don’t you just get over yourself? Shouldn’t be too hard,” he added with a chuckle. Cagney clenched his fists. “First of all, that’s rich coming from you. Second, you’re dense if you think I care whether or not you’re tired of hearing a story that far more important people need to hear.”

“Didn’t know we meant so much,” Cuphead muttered with a mischievous smile. Cagney pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I… it’s all relative, all right? Either way, you’ll hear my story… whether you like it or not.”

Chapter Text

“Good morning, mister. How do you do?”

“Oh, ah, I’m all right. But it’s been a little dry lately, you know. I could use a bit of water.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for.” Cagney poured from his large watering can onto a patch of daisies, all of them smiling up at him pleasantly, an expression he returned. “Anything else I should know? I’m no mind reader on all that goes on in the soil, you know.”

“Well, we heard rather dreadful news from the west part of the forest. Apparently several of the flowers over there have been… stomped out…” one of the daisies trailed off, looking disturbed. Cagney put a rubber gloved hand to his mouth. “What? Who would do such a thing?”

“Perhaps it was an accident!” another daisy piped up. “Some folks just don’t pay attention to what’s under their feet, you know.”

“Well, in a world where most every flower thinks the same as anything that walks and talks, I’d think watching out for them merits priority,” Cagney muttered, straightening his back and setting his can down. “I’ll see if there’s a problem. It is likely nothing, but if some bloke is causing trouble… someone’s got to raise hell about it. Have a lovely day!”

Cagney had many more stops to make on his way across the forest, but he didn’t mind. The west side could wait, and it was a beautiful day outside. The trees formed a thick canopy over the forest floor, the sun just piercing through gaps in the leaves. The weather was warm but not too warm (though yes, a tad too dry), and there was no wind, giving the surrounding environment that stagnant, picture book feel that Cagney thought of as the icing on the cake. And the cherry on top of that icing on the cake were the mingling scents of all the flowers Cagney had planted among the trees. He watered said flowers along the way, wishing them well and having bits of small talk. They really were the only sort worth talking to, as almost everyone else around the isle was too self-absorbed to socialize.

Finally, Cagney was approaching the area of interest, which he had heard more on during his trip over. Not only had more flowers been snuffed, but the creatures who lived in the trees had also dished grievances to Cagney once they heard he was on his way to investigate. The gardener was becoming less and less sure that what was going on were harmless mishaps. He heard a consistent thwacking noise which grew louder the closer he got, which sounding like something was being thrown against a tree. He heard the shuffling of feet across the grass, and deep, exasperated breathing, and when he finally entered a clearing he caught sight of the source. A big man in boxing gloves had chosen to train in the forest, practicing footwork and throwing punches into the air… as well as at the trees. That explained the tree critters’ agitation. Cagney had barely any time to think of how to approach the man before noticing a group of small dandelions in his path. Without thinking, he dove for the flowers and formed a protective barrier around them with himself, accidentally tripping the boxing man in the process. The ground shook as he hit the ground.

“Oof…” he groaned, clunkily getting to his feet and brushing the dust off his blue shirt. He noticed Cagney, who was consoling the dandelions. “Hey, little guy, who d’you think you are, trippin’ me up like that?” he snapped, rubbing the back of his neck. Cagney hastily got to his feet as well, indignant. “I am not ‘little.’ But that’s besides the point.” He put his arm out towards the patch of flowers. “You do realize you could have killed these flowers, right?”

“...Nah, but what of it? Stomped a bunch of ‘em already. They’re in the way. Plus, I’m allergic.”
“Wh- you- bu- ...I can’t even begin to describe everything wrong with what you just said. Why would you lumber around punching trees — trees that are home to dozens of animals, by the way — if you have allergies?”
“Hey, I’m as contemplative as I am handsome. I like forests, they’re out of the way. Nice place to train. I just can’t deal with the flowers.” Cagney crossed his arms. “Well, you must not be as contemplative as you imagine yourself. Potshots aside, I happen to be the gardener around here. If you want to go around committing casual murder, you’ll have to go through me.” The big man sized him up, then laughed. “You? Ain’t all that much to go through. Besides, murder’s a bit of a strong word. They’re flowers. Flowers get stomped, plucked clean, and put in vases all the damn time. An’ even though I don’t want you to, you can always grow more.”

Cagney bristled. No one had ever been quite so insensitive to him before, or, of course, taken such insulting advantage of his stature. “Mister, I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously. Flowers shouldn’t be seen as… disposable objects of beauty. They think, talk, and feel pain just like anyone else.”

“Well, do they do anything besides sit around an’ look pretty? Nah. There’s hundreds of ‘em, and if you can grow ‘em all you want, then I don’t imagine there’s much importance to go around. I’m willing to bet all these posies combined aren’t half as important as moi,” he declared, striking a self-important pose. He took note of the setting sun. “Well, I’ve got to be moseyin’ on home. Good talk, short stack.” With that high brow line, he turned his back on Cagney and started his way out of the forest, leaving a very angry gardener.

“Don’t think you can just… just insult my person, kill my friends, and walk away!” Cagney shouted after him. “And don’t even think of coming back, or there will be hell to pay!”
Cagney returned to his garden agitated and restless, running through his head what he might do if that self-absorbed ignoramus did return. Maybe he’d bring a shovel, put a dent in his face, or maybe the pruning shears, or —

“Hey, what happened? You don’t look so happy.” One of his flowers had noticed what was likely a concerning expression taking up Cagney’s normally bright, rosy countenance. “Oh, well, we have an antagonizer in our midst. Some rumbumptious bruiser who fancies that he owns the place.” The flower put its leaves to its face in concern. “Oh, dear. Looks like he left an impression.”
“Hmph. The impression I’m going to leave on him will be much bigger… and will hurt a lot more.”

“Don’t do anything rash,” another flower warned. “We know how you get when you’re angry.” Cagney sighed. “I know, I know. But how am I going to get anyone to respect me? Or respect us, for that matter? No one takes me seriously for a variety of reasons, and barely take time to stop for any of you besides to smell you… and that usually results in capture for the sake of home decor. It’s unacceptable.”
“Yes, but you try your best, and that’s what matters! We always know you’re looking out for us, and you can’t be everywhere at once! Just relax, and if that ruffian returns, try to resolve things diplomatically.” Cagney finally smiled. “All right, I’ll try. But if he doesn’t jive, then I don’t know how else this mess can be solved.”

---

The next day started out normal, the good weather persisting and spirits altogether better than the previous day. Cagney was hard at work trimming back rose bushes that were out of control and solemnly removing any flowers from the bushes that had passed and were only rotting away. But about halfway through the day, Cagney began getting the same bad news as yesterday. In the same spot, the same tragedies, and now that he’d told his flowers about it, likely the same man. He made much quicker time across the Isle, promising to come back to the flowers along the way. This was a more pressing matter at the moment.
“Back again?” the boxer asked nonchalantly as Cagney re-entered the clearing. “I should be asking you the same,” the gardener griped. “You have some nerve coming back here.”
“Well, it don’t take much when it comes to you. What’re you gonna do, fight me?” Cagney gritted his teeth. “Ideally not. Couldn’t you just… train at that clip joint on the water? I hear they’ve got fights over there.” The big man made a face. “Ugh, no. Only flies hang out at that dive, and their prize fighters are a pair of twerps.”

“You really don’t respect anyone but yourself, do you?” Cagney scoffed. “Eh, ‘s just that I ain’t found anyone as respectable as myself. Don’t think I ever will, though, I’ve set a pretty high standard,” the other grinned. Cagney opened his mouth to say something else, but was cut off. “Save it. Look, I’ll be straight with you. I don’t wanna hurt you. Just wouldn’t feel fair, y’know? You’re jus’... cute, y’know, with your rosy cheeks an’ bright li’l eyes. I like your face, I’d feel awful sorry if somethin’ happened to it. But at the end of the day, I don’t gotta be that sorry, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

“...So you don’t even care about what I’m saying. The only thing that’s stopping you from taking this all seriously… is because I’m some kinda dopey kid to you?!” Cagney snarled, trembling. The boxer chuckled, that stupid belly laugh that Cagney was sick of hearing. “You don’t even look that mad, y’know. Jus’ pouty. It’s real twee.” The gardener felt like he would burst. But he didn’t have a plan, and he had his plants to attend to. The shred of reason in him at the moment reminded him that tending to his friends was more important than his own pride. “You’re an insensitive simpleton,” he grumbled. “I’ll give you the rest of today. But if you’re still here by tomorrow, I will end this.”

“Aw, gee, I better show up just for that. Hope you’re as much fun to fight as you are t’ mess with.”

---

As soon as Cagney awoke the next morning, he grabbed a long spade and a pair of pruning shears, and set off towards the west side of the forest without a second thought. His flowers were about as fed up as he was, and he promised that he’d still get around to all of them that day because he would win, he’d walk away the victor. He’d hardly slept at night, tossing and turning with that smug grin in his mind and the same, stupid phrase bouncing around in his head. You’re jus’… cute, y’know, with your rosy cheeks an’ bright little eyes. Cagney would make him eat those words.

“All right, put ‘em up!” he shouted as he entered the clearing, the big man already there as expected. He chuckled. “Brought the munitions, I see. They’re taller ‘n you are.”

“God, read a book. Munitions aren’t blade weapons,” Cagney scoffed. “And you’re taller than I am too, but that won’t stop me from making you see stars! Have at you!” He ran at the boxer, unable to contain himself any further, and was immediately stopped by a fist to the face. He fell to the ground, blood spurting out his nose. “Heh,” the man chuckled. “Anyone ever teach you how to duck?”

Cagney barely missed getting pounded in the stomach by rolling to the side, getting back to his feet. He’d let go of his tools when he was punched, and the man swiftly kicked them into the trees. “Right, mano e mano. Let’s dance,” he grinned. Cagney went for his knees, but was readily pinned between his gloves. He was then thrown into a tree across the clearing, and felt something crack in his chest. Before he could recover he was punched upside the head, and finally had his arm twisted behind his back in a painful hold. “Say uncle,” the boxer hissed in his ear. “No,” spat Cagney. The grip only got more unbearable. “Say uncle, you little weed. I could break your arm, an’ I really don’t wanna do that. I already boogered up your little face…”

“Never. Get… off me!” Cagney struggled to kick or even bite something, but all that changed was the growing feeling of his shoulder being dislodged from its socket. He could barely take anymore, he’d be crying in the next second. “C’mon…”

“GAAH UNCLE UNCLE GODDAMMIT!” Cagney screeched, thrashing around uncontrollably until he was finally dropped to the ground unceremoniously. “Right,” the boxer announced, brushing his gloves together like he’d just taken out the trash rather than beaten a man senseless. “See you around. You’d better have your flowers outta this forest by the next week, or I won’t go so easy on you.” Cagney only saw his feet walk off until he couldn’t see them anymore, and then became painfully aware of what had been done to him. His arm was sore and almost numb, even if it wasn’t broken, he definitely had a couple of fractured ribs, and he was pretty sure his nose was procuring a small pool of blood under his face. The last of these was making him woozy, and he was certain he would faint.

The next thing he knew he was sat against a tree, with tissues jammed up his nose and an ice pack tied to his head. Before him was a woman, he thought he recognized her from the observatory…
“…Hilda, right?” he muttered. She nodded. “I saw the whole thing through one of my telescopes. I thought you’d need tending to.” Cagney chuckled wryly. “I’m usually the one doing that… to my… flowers, you know…”
“Hey, I… also came down here with a suggestion,” Hilda said. Cagney looked at her, confused. “Suggestion?”

“I’ve watched that brute come over here every day for three days straight. It doesn’t look like he’ll let up, and it doesn’t look like he’ll get much nicer. I don’t want to advocate this kind of thing, but… if you want to get rid of him, I’d try the casino. They can solve any problem. They sure solved mine.”

“The casino…? In Isle 3? I don’t trust that place as far as I can throw it,” scoffed Cagney. “I know, it’s a risk. But since I dealt with them, I’ve gotten results. I won’t force you, but… I don’t usually say these kinds of things, but I’m worried about you. I don’t know you too well, but that guy is dangerous. If he deems it called for, he’d snap you like a twig. Just think about it, okay? And be careful, they can be damned sneaky over there.” At that she summoned a cloud, and flew off back to the observatory at the top of the hill. Was that power from the casino?

Once Cagney had finally gone home, thankfully relieved of any watering he had left to do by a small afternoon shower, he had made a decision. “Where are you off to?” one of his flowers asked, noticing him preparing to leave. Cagney paused, for a moment rethinking his choice. If he went through with this, chances were many things might change. But one of those things was keeping safe the closest thing he had to family.
“I’m going to the other side of the isle. To do business.”

—-

Though he did feel slightly underdressed in the Devil’s Casino (a fitting name, he was sure), Cagney wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the atmosphere. Everything was bigger and louder than what he was used to, but he paid it all no mind. He was there with a purpose.

After meandering around for some time, mostly being ignored or tripped over, Cagney finally found himself dealt into a game of blackjack. He hadn’t brought much coin with him, but luck seemed to be on his side. His opponents bankrupted one by one, until there was just one player left. That is, until another man approached the table. A tall man in a purple suit, with a dice in place of a head. “Deal me in, Wheezy,” he ordered the cigar dealing the cards. The dealer obliged, and Cagney realized he probably had some kind of authority. Cagney still won the next round, and the final man was beat, leaving only him and the dice man. Cagney cut right to the chase.

“Do you own this joint?” He asked the tall man, who chuckled. “Why, no. I’m the manager, however –“

“Then you know whoever owns this joint. I wanna speak with him.” The dice man’s smile didn’t falter. “Heh, eager, aren’t we? You must really want somethin’ if you’re askin’ to see the Devil.”

“Yes, yes, well, take me to him. I don’t have time for you.” A dark look passed the manager’s face. “I see. Well, let’s do this. If you win this next round, I’ll take you to the boss. But if you lose, you’re out. Banned from the house. How’s that sound?” It sounded unfair, but Cagney wasn’t about to be ground down by yet another tall, leering narcissist.

“19,” the dealer announced at viewing the manager’s hand. He himself had 18, so if Cagney didn’t get higher than the manager, he was cooked. He turned over his own cards once they were dealt…
“Blackjack,” the dealer coughed. He’d won the round, much to the apparent shock of his opponent. This wasn’t apparent for long, as half a second later the manager was all smiles again. “Well, you sure got me. You must really want somethin’. Even chance is on your side.”

“As it is with the most motivated around here.” A new voice came from behind Cagney, and upon turning he realized it was the Devil himself. The scene seemed to fade around him, until all that remained in bright, empty space was him and the casino’s owner.

“I can tell you came in here with intent,” said the Devil. “No one beats my lackey at his own game. I’m sure a little birdie told you of my brand of charity?”
“Well, not entirely. All I know is you can help me,” admitted Cagney. The Devil grinned. “Man, I can do more than that.”

The world around them rematerialized, though now they were in an office with a long desk piled with gold, and a large chair with an ornate stained glass window behind it. “Have a seat,” the Devil implored, gesturing to a smaller chair before the desk with his smoldering cigar as he sat down himself. “Let’s talk.”

—————

“And there you go,” Cagney finished, pleased with the sympathetic expressions worn by those who hadn’t heard his story before now.
“Gosh, I never realized what your contract meant to you,” Mugman murmured.

“Don’t know why I’m surprised to hear how awful Goopy was, even before his contract,” Cuphead muttered, casting a disproving glance the big man’s way. “Well, when ya tell it so one-sided like that,” Goopy grumbled. Cagney whirled to face him. “What? Is any of what I said not true?” he inquired, suddenly taking an impassioned swig from the spout of his large watering can.

“…Nah, but–“

“See? And the only reason you made a contract was to hinder me further. Once you got your deal, you spread that… repulsive slime all throughout the forest, choking up the soil, making the land absolutely toxic!” Cagney shouted. “Is any of that untrue?!”

Goopy put up his mitts in exasperation. “Jeez, shut your trap! I’m sick of hearin’ you say the same damned thing, these folks prolly think I’m some kinda psycho. Ain’t that right?” he asked the brothers and their companions. The four averted their gazes awkwardly. “Thought so. Well, if mister clack-box here is through blowin’ off steam… How’s about you hear a little somethin’ from me.”

—————

Goopy had been training in the woods for four days now, counting the one he was currently in. He liked it a lot better than his tiny house, and a heck of a lot better than the grimy dive on the water. It was sunny, spacious, and quiet, though so far he hadn’t experienced much of the latter. He was sick of his focus being interrupted mere hours into his exercises by the same high, scratchy tone berating him for accidentally crushing two or three little flowers. No one had the right to sass him like that, least of all a baby-faced gardener three feet shorter than him. But since yesterday, he had the feeling he wouldn’t be bothered anymore. He hated beating up people weaker than him, but sometimes he just had to remind others of his greatness.

“Huh, funny…” It seemed to Goopy that the forest had suddenly gotten very quiet. The chatter in the trees had silenced, and even the general atmospheric white noise that could never really be traced seemed to have disappeared. He shrugged to himself, not thinking much of it. Maybe they were trying to spook him into leaving. He went back into his routine, moving his feet how he’d memorized, but suddenly tripped backwards. He managed to catch himself, and noticed that what had tripped him appeared to be a cupped, leaf-like hand held over a patch of flowers. This hand was in turn attached to an arm, which was attached to something behind Goopy that he couldn’t see. He slowly turned to face whatever it was, and almost tripped back over the hand from instinctively backing up.

Goopy was face-to-face with the largest orange and yellow flower he had ever seen. It had to be at least ten feet tall, and more alarming than that was the fact that it seemed perfectly capable of moving, and using what would normally be leaves as functional hands. It was grinning at him, in a strangely triumphant manner. “Did that little pill plant you?” he asked, relatively unfazed. “Too scared to shuffle on over here himself, huh.” The flower broke into a grating snicker, and brought itself closer to Goopy, who stood his ground. “I’m afraid not,” it said. “Of course, I wouldn’t blame you for not putting these pieces together. After all, I don’t imagine I’m as… how did you put it… cute as you remember.” Its aggressive, condescending expression then alarmingly morphed into a much tamer, more familiar face. It mockingly struck a pseudo-innocent posture to complete the picture. “Ringing any bells?”

Goopy, at realizing what — no, who was before his eyes, he tried and promptly failed to not look weirded out. “Gee…” he muttered. “You’re him, huh.” The flower’s face reverted and he laughed again. “Yes, yes, I am him, with a new face, and a new face calls for a new name!” he proclaimed excitably. “From now on, you’ll call me Cagney Carnation — while you still can, of course.”

“Ooh, scary. Well, mister Cagney Carnation, how’d you pull off this… carnival trick?” asked Goopy. Cagney’s grin dropped a little at Goopy’s nonchalance. “Oh, you know, a bit of dealing, a slip of paper, all at the low price of my soul, which, well, I don’t fancy dealing with any time soon, but that’s all besides the point.” He straightened up to his now admittedly impressive full height, and threw out his arms dramatically. “I made this decision for a reason. Hopefully my presence itself is enough for you to know to abide by my next statement.” He leaned down exaggeratedly until he was at eye level with Goopy. “Leave this forest, or face the consequences.”

Despite the surrounding silence, Goopy could feel thousands of eyes watching them from the forest. Granted, half those eyes were probably just flowers and other such inconsequential life, but Goopy had pride. Some might say a bit too much, but he wasn’t one to get hung up on details. All he knew was that if he walked out of the forest at that moment, then somewhere, he’d never live it down. He put his grin back on. “Nah,” he answered casually. Cagney’s eyebrows twitched upwards. “No?” he forced out in a low tone. Goopy shrugged. “I ain’t done for the day. Anyway, scoot. You’re gonna make me sneeze.”

Goopy scarcely had time to react before he was jabbed hard in his gut by a vine. He fell to the forest floor, Cagney looming over him. “I didn’t give so much to hear the word ‘no’,” he said, dangerously calm. “Though really, I should have done this sooner.” Suddenly, his face morphed into what looked like a machine gun. He twisted a crank at the back of his head, and seeds flew out and burrowed into the ground, immediately blooming into more vines. Before Goopy realized what they were for, they seized upon him, surprisingly tough, like steel wire.

“Now those, mister, are munitions,” the flower chided, paying no mind to Goopy’s struggling. “Do you know I can know if anything’s happening clear across the forest?” asked Cagney rhetorically. “It’s quite convenient. I can also grow new flowers, more mobile flowers, that can walk and see things that I might not.” The vines seemed to be getting progressively tighter. “I even understand much more than I used to, have grown, if you’ll pardon the wordplay, closer to those I care for. So by this point…” Goopy could barely move anymore. “I know exactly how I feel about people like you,” Cagney spat. The vines lifted Goopy off the ground, and tossed him into a tree. Goopy’s spine cracked something fierce. Before he could reevaluate the situation a corkscrew Of vines thrust out of the ground and into the underside of his chin. “I don’t want to be too blatant with parallels…” Cagney muttered, leaning over Goopy, who was stuck dizzy on his knees. “But you need to feel every ounce of what you did to me. Every ounce…” He seized Goopy’s wrist and twisted his arm around to his back. “…And more.”

Goopy grunted with effort, trying to get himself out of the hold. “And just what are you gonna do… once I ain’t a problem?” he asked, going for a distraction. Flower or not, Cagney was easy to get started. “I’m going to make certain that these woods are full of color, full of life,” Cagney exposited, not releasing the hold. “I won’t sleep until every patch of land has comfortably situated floral growth, until this forest is undeniably and irreversibly mine!” he proclaimed, voice rising with every word. “Because I tried to be cordial. I’m actually quite pleasant under the proper circumstances, but you, you, you brute, you insensitive slime, you forced my hand!” The hold was only tightening, and for the first time Goopy wasn’t sure he could take it. “You know what to say,” Cagney hissed. “Say it.”
Goopy struggled in a last effort, but that only made his arm hurt worse. He would never forgive himself for what he was about to do. “… Uncle,” he groaned, already hitting himself mentally. Cagney dropped him, and in his daze Goopy hadn’t realized that he had been lifted several feet off the ground. Cagney’s vines forced him to his feet, and pushed him towards the forest’s exit. “Don’t you dare show your smug face here again!” The flower yelled after him. “Or I’ll personally remove it so it isn’t a possibility!”

Goopy trudged off, tired and very hurt. But still, he was smiling. “A bit of dealing, huh?” he mumbled, rubbing at his spine. Cagney clearly didn’t know him well enough. After what had just happened, the last thing Goopy would be doing was avoiding the forest.

—————

“And there’s my end of it,” finished Goopy triumphantly. The four stared at Cagney, who in turn glared back. “What are you looking at?” he snapped.
“Well, all I said was true, ain’t it?” Goopy asked mockingly. Cagney scowled darkly. Goopy turned to the brothers and his fellow former debtors with smug vindication. “So, who’s the real loose cannon in front of you?”

Chapter Text

“Well, you still started it,” Cuphead finally answered Goopy, siding with Cagney, who didn’t believe that turn of events any more than Cuphead did himself. Goopy’s expression grew somewhat cross. “What? He made a contract with the Devil himself just to get back at me!”

“And you didn’t do the same thing?” Cuphead retorted. “Y-yeah,” Weepy piped up. “You could’ve just left him alone… he didn’t do anything to you…” he murmured, staying behind Psycarrot in case Goopy chose to be irritated with him in particular. Mugman stepped up as well. “But Cagney didn’t need to react like he did,” he countered. “He lost patience with Goopy, so Goopy lost patience with him.”
“Excuse me?” Cagney snarled, stepping forward. Cuphead stepped forward with him. “Yeah, what are you trying to say? Who wouldn’t lose their patience in that scenario?”

“Losing patience is one thing, but taking things as far as making a contract is concerning!” Mugman exclaimed. “And if Cagney didn’t make a contract, then it’s likely Goopy wouldn’t have either!”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t have stood up for myself?” Cagney demanded. Mugman put his hands up helplessly. “No, no, I’m just saying that things escalated in a way that they shouldn’t have. Aren’t things between you and Goopy at least a little less acidic now that you’re without your contracts?”

“No!” Cagney snapped, getting into Mugman’s face. “I’m still short, he’s still terrible, and now he has an advantage over me! I’m mad as hell, and he’s just peachy keen! Is that fair? Is that ‘less acidic’?” Mugman stumbled over his words. “I… I…”

“Okay, time out!” Hilda declared, pushing Mugman and Cagney away from each other. “Okay, at this point, you’re both terrible,” she addressed the two rivals. “Goopy, you beat this fellow to a pulp when all he wanted was to protect his plants, and Cagney, you’ve got revenge issues. But I don’t think this is a surprise to anyone. What’s a surprise to me is that you jabronies never got it through your skulls to apologize.” The two glared at each other.

“He doesn’t deserve an apology,” Cagney grumbled.

“I don’t owe this buster anything,” Goopy echoed self-importantly. Hilda pinched the bridge of her nose. “Well, you’ve got one thing in common,” she muttered. “Wait, hear me out,” implored Mugman, positioning himself in between them. Goopy and Cagney stared him down, and he gulped. Cuphead joined him, ready to shoot if things went south. “Now that you’re… without your contracts, don’t you think you could just… settle things in a civilized way? I know you couldn’t do it before, but… think of this like a second chance. Goopy, you just wanted to train in the forest, right? You didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Nah. S’not like this crumb believes that, though.”

“And Cagney, you care about your flowers a lot. You even said they were like family to you.” Cagney averted his gaze so that his hat concealed his face. “Yes. Though I don’t imagine this genius is familiar with that sort of selfless commitment.”

“It doesn’t matter what he’s familiar with, or what you believe. What matters is that technically, what both you guys want isn’t incompatible, see? You’re just… clashing.” Mugman felt a little stumped, believing what he said but knowing he wasn’t getting through to those hearing it. He couldn’t profess to know either Cagney or Goopy personally, and he really hadn’t the faintest clue which one of them was the problem. “If Cagney were to, say…”

“Oh, of course I’m the one who has to fix this mess,” the short man grumbled. “No, no, it has to do with your flowers!” Mugman clarified hastily. Cagney slowly turned a dead stare to meet the cup’s concerned gaze.
“What about my flowers?”

“If you were to plan next… season, or however time works with gardening to have a space where flowers won’t grow–“

“I can’t stop flowers from growing anywhere! Stopping growth means pruning! Uprooting! In essence, death! And they can’t help it, you know! Oh wait, you don’t know! You don’t understand a whit why it’s necessary for me to be this way!” Cagney’s voice broke a little. “Why… I feel the way I do about this,” he finished through clenched teeth. Mugman processed what he’d heard, and realized what the gardener was saying. “It’s because –“

“Don’t say it. If you know it, don’t say it. I don’t want to hear it fed back to me. I just want you to leave. All of you. Including him, him most of all, but your thinking you can… can fix this, it’s… it’s a joke with no punchline. Get out… please.”

Mugman stood silently, knowing that whatever he thought he should say would be wrong. Instead he slowly backed away, until he turned around to leave the garden. Cuphead and their companions followed him awkwardly, and finally Hilda jabbed Goopy in the gut to let him know that there would be hell to pay if he didn’t follow suit.

“Gosh…” Mugman murmured. “Gosh, gosh, I… I can’t do this.” Cuphead put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Mugs, don’t feel like you have to –“

“But I do!” Mugman burst out. “I have to… we have to help these people! You heard Cagney back there! I know you did, or you wouldn’t be easing me into giving up!”

“Easing you…? Mugs, wherever you go, I’ll follow! But you don’t know these guys outside of how dirty their fighting is, and we haven’t even left our side of the Isle yet!” Cuphead argued. “I want to help everyone, I really do. But we need to get serious, because I get the feeling we’ll run into tougher nuts to crack than Cagney.”

Mugman locked eyes with his brother hopefully. “You really think we can do this?”

“Mugs, I’m as sure as –“

“Okay, shut your grinning trap and clean the wax out of your ears, because what I’m about to say is pretty damn important.” The brothers turned, distracted by Hilda, who wasn’t letting Goopy make a clean exit.
“I’m not saying you’re responsible for all of this, but you were a damn strong catalyst,” Hilda started. “And I know you think highly of yourself, but pay attention for a little bit longer after I introduce my point. I think that you’re a trifle more reasonable than Cagney.” As predicted, Goopy seemed satisfied with that statement, but Hilda yanked him down to her eye level by the ear. “That doesn’t mean you’re nicer than he is, or smarter, or even who I trust more. But you got out of your bind more or less unscathed, while Cagney came out a straight basket case. And for good reason. So I’m going to take Cagney out of the equation. I’ll handle his garden, and I’ll handle you. And we’re going to settle this like adults, because I assure you that after a change of scenery, Cagney will be ready to end this properly. And he won’t wait for your self-important pea brain to catch up. Savvy?” Goopy sneered, but then grimaced as Hilda tightened her hold on him. “Savvy?” she repeated. Goopy groaned and nodded, and Hilda let him go. “Ya didn’t have to lampoon me in front ‘a the cup-finks,” He muttered, nursing his ear. “It builds character,” Hilda returned sarcastically. She turned to the brothers, who were torn between snickering and trembling in uncertainty.

“Sit tight. I’m going to talk Cagney into joining you,” she ordered. “What?!” Cuphead exclaimed. “You heard me. You’ve already got two tag-alongs, what’s one more?”

“I resent that,” Psycarrot protested distractedly, busy with assuaging a very emotional Weepy. Hilda paid his comment no mind, and went back through the trees into the garden.

“Weepy, pull yourself together,” Psycarrot groaned, shaking his friend’s shoulders. “You’re embarrassing me, not to mention yourself.”

“I just don’t feel like we can complain anymore!” Weepy cried, folding his soiled handkerchief away and procuring a second one. “It’s not like our crops were alive or anything! We picked them, same as usual, not even feeling strange about… selling off lifeless versions of ourselves as edible produce!”

“What on earth are you blubbering about?!” Psycarrot moaned. “It’s all in your head! You weren’t even thinking about it until seconds ago, and you were just fine!”

“Yes, but–“

“But nothing! If every conniption case we run into gives you an existential crisis, then feel free to jump ship and cry yourself dry back home!” Weepy began making an effort to control himself. “…You’re right. If anything, I should… be there for everyone, right? Maybe some of these folks just need a shoulder to cry on,” he murmured thoughtfully. Psycarrot’s face clearly showed he didn’t believe that, but he relaxed and put his hand on Weepy’s shoulder, cordially this time. “Sure.”

The four went silent as Hilda came back out of the garden, with a reluctant Cagney at her side. “He’s all yours,” she stated. “Have fun.” Once Hilda made certain that Cagney wasn’t immediately bailing on the situation, she re-entered the garden, presumably to start “handling his flowers” like she’d said. Cagney looked in no better shape than he had minutes ago, and seemed in no hurry to move on. “Ahum, mister Cagney…” Weepy started reluctantly. “If you, by any chance, need to talk about anyth–“

“No,” Cagney interrupted, abruptly turning on his heel and heading off in the direction of the first Die House. Evidently he expected them to follow. “Well, at least he’s leading the way,” Mugman proclaimed awkwardly, starting after the gardener with everyone else close behind. “Did I say something… wrong?” Weepy whispered to Psycarrot, voice wavering. “Nah. Just give him time,” Psycarrot responded, not bothering to drop his voice.

“Hm,” Cagney scoffed shortly as they approached the Die House. It seemed to have lost its red color considerably, and there were even a few cracks running up its sides. “Gee,” murmured Mugman. “That wasn’t like that when we came by earlier.”

“Probably got booted for losing to a pair of kids,” Psycarrot speculated flatly. “He did say he’d lost a bet…” Cuphead trailed off. Nevertheless, the door was still operational, and everyone went in. They were in and out fast, not fancying the idea of loitering around. It was dead silent in the square room, as opposed to the catchy tune that used to quietly pour through the air, and even the plants under the windows were drab and droopy, despite being artificial.

Once they came out into the carnival, the brothers felt the familiar sensation of entering a completely different world. The frivolous, bouncy fair music floated on the air from funneling speakers mounted on metal poles, and everything was saturated in some kind of bright pastel color. Psycarrot wrinkled his nose, cringing. “So what’s the incentive to come here again?”

“It’s fun here!” Cuphead explained. “They’ve got rides, food, and all kinds of fascinating stuff to go look at! Doesn’t your… farm ever get boring sometimes?”

“No. And even if it did, this sugary dump wouldn’t be my first choice to visit,” the tall man scoffed. Weepy tensed. “Psycarrot, don’t… say things like that. If there are debtors around here, I’m sure they don’t want to hear such words. …And our garden did get boring,” he muttered, trailing off with his last statement.

Cagney had stopped with the group for a minute or two, but then he was off again. “Hey, where are you going?” Mugman asked, speed walking to catch up. “I know someone around here,” explained Cagney grudgingly. “Hilda’s stupid loophole to get me out and about.”Mugman wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but started to understand as he realized what direction they were going.

The debtor they were on their way to see wasn’t where she would be normally, but instead sat at one of the tables just outside where the brothers had fought her. She seemed distracted, distraught almost, but once she glimpsed at least Mugman approaching, her face screwed up into a scowl. “Do you have a death wish?” she asked in a guarded tone. “Just because you’ve sent my artillery up in smoke doesn’t mean I can’t shatter you to dust.”

“Wow, observant as usual,” Cagney groaned, strangely casual. “And here I thought I had tunnel vision.” The woman’s yellow eyes widened suddenly. “Wait… I know that voice,” she gasped. Cagney bent over into an exaggerated bow. “Baroness,” he proclaimed mockingly.

“Ha! It is you!” The Baroness laughed. “I was wondering how you were taking all of… this. Didn’t think I’d get this kind of reveal.”

“Well, wonder no more. I’ll give back any respect you had for me, seeing as you no longer have a use for it,” Cagney grumbled. “Oh, come now. Why would I be losing respect for you?” she asked chidingly. Cagney waved a hand dismissively. “You flatterer. S’not like you can complain, you’re just… less pink.”

“Ah, rebounding my mock ignorance, I see how it is. See? Nothing’s changed, really. Except, I can’t fathom why you’d be in any proximity to these hacks after what they fueled their fire with last night,” she said pointedly, unfortunately remembering Mugman’s presence, and now Cuphead was there too with their companions. Mugman smiled awkwardly. “Er… hello, miss Baroness. I didn’t know you and Cagney, uh, knew each other.”

“Don’t change the subject, you numbskull. I’m surprised you aren’t home shuddering under your sheets, considering what you’ve done,” the Baroness snapped. Cagney stepped between them. “Actually, believe it or not, they’re trying to fix this. Trying to… get us back everything. Hilda tossed me in their mush pot of mushiness because I know you. Because otherwise, you and the others would tear them apart.”

“Well, it is nice chatting, but that’s a bit dramatic. The others are more… mocking than I am, you know, they won’t outright state their grievances. But that also makes them a pair of wild cards, if you know what I mean. Not that you pinheads deserve a warning,” she added, glaring at the brothers. “But Cagney isn’t buttering me up here, is he? Do you really care how we, self-centered criminals that we are, are dealing with losing our ill-gotten power?”

“Yes, ma’am, er, your ladyship, we do! We just thought you were all just… what you were, I guess. And we didn’t realize how important that… catch really was,” Mugman explained. “And as for the criminal thing, well, everyone deserves a second chance, you know –“

“Oh, I was just fooling with you about that. I have no regrets about what I did, except that I couldn’t get out of paying that sleazy Devil off,” the Baroness interrupted. “And breaking off my head within weeks of making the contract. That was… inconvenient.”

“You broke off your head?” Cuphead exclaimed. “I thought you’d gotten executed, or it had some kind of meaning, or –“

“Quit analyzing. Did you just think I was a strangely pink human this whole time?” the Baroness questioned. Cuphead shrugged. “No, I wasn’t that smart. I tiptoed around the Devil’s silly games by making my form just myself, but made out of a sort of candy,” she explained. “I didn’t think it was quite so breakable, so I learned that I could break off just about anything with no problem the quick and frightening way. At least it proved a fun act,” she admitted fondly.

“Act? What was the act for?” asked Mugman. “I have… well, had, thank you very much… a rather unique exhibition in the fair, as you know,” the Baroness explained. “Yeah, you’d show off all of the larger-than-life candy stuff you had, and put on a show with all of it!” Cuphead recalled. She’d never been his or Mugman’s favorite attraction (Mugman always found the magic shows more fascinating, while Cuphead gravitated towards the rides), but they’d stop and marvel every once in a while. “Yes, well, before all of that, I just made things out of confections. Large things, impressive things, but not alive, obviously. And not as lasting,” the Baroness added in a faraway tone.

“What does a Baroness need with making frivolous sculptures out of sweets?” Psycarrot asked from the back of the group skeptically. The Baroness laughed uncharacteristically loud, as she had upon recognizing Cagney. “You don’t get out much, do you?” she asked. “I’m not actually a Baroness, silly. It’s called a stage name. We’ve all got them, and we’ve all had them as long as we can remember. That was my act. I was the overseer, as it was, over a candy kingdom. If I was a true Baroness, I likely wouldn’t bother working a carnival job.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Cagney quipped. “You sure know how to talk like a stuffy millionaire.”

“And you haven’t let me forget it,” The Baroness sighed, rolling her eyes. “But I’m sure you don’t give a whit about my life. Just want to ease your conscience, since burning those contracts didn’t do the trick.”

“No, miss!” Mugman denied adamantly. “We just want to make sure nobody’s stuck in a bind because of what we did. And it’s important why you made your contract! If we don’t know how important it really was to you, then we won’t be making anything better! You’ve got to help us understand, see.” The Baroness searched the brothers’ faces, bemused. “All right, I’ll buy that. But if it’s a sob story you want, you’ll have to get all of us together. We all made our contracts for the same reason, really, but I won’t speak for everyone. Besides, I’d get quite the kick out of seeing you bend over backwards for the boys. If you think I’m being hard on you, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Suddenly, a positively manic burst of laughter sounded across the fairgrounds around them. Everyone turned, and Cuphead gulped. “Speaking of,” the Baroness continued coyly. “Brace yourselves. I hope you aren’t too sensitive to trash talk by wordplay.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, Bon Bon! Baroness! Vee-Bee! Guess what!” Beppi rambled as he bounded his way over to everyone, a cigar in one hand and a tank of helium under his other arm. “What is it?” the Baroness sighed. Beppi waved the cigar triumphantly. “I can smoke again!” he exclaimed, demonstrating this apparently astounding revelation by taking an exaggerated drag. “Impressive, to say the least,” the Baroness appraised sarcastically. “I suppose having a set of lungs to ruin helps in that endeavor?”

“I’ll say! Loved bein’ lighter’n air, but I’ll admit I never stopped lung-ing for a smoke every once in a while,” the clown quipped. He’d scanned the group while talking, and after locking onto the brothers for a split second he never set his eyes on them again. “Who’s your friend?” he asked, gesturing to Cagney. “Give it to me short and sweet.”

“He’s from the Isle across the water,” the Baroness explained. “Our residences are within view of each other, barely separated by one of the rivers. We’ve been talking for some years now.”

“Cagney Carnation,” Cagney introduced himself, putting out a hand. Beppi eagerly grabbed it, grinning silently and holding on for a bit too long. “...You know, by this point, I’d make my hand go flat and act like you’d done something wrong. It’d be quite the laugh! But, you know, now, funny enough, it’s fallen a bit flat, don’t you think?” Beppi asked, ever so slightly glancing over towards his former foes. Cagney took his hand back awkwardly. “You know, jokes are only funny when they make at least a bit of sense,” he pointed out dryly. Beppi paused and disturbingly put his mouth over the nozzle of the helium tank, twisting the knob and sucking up a fair amount of the gas inside, cheeks puffing outward in response to the sudden pressure. “Oh, don’t you worry. There should be at least a few patrons about who’d be cracking up right about now,” he finally replied, his voice about an octave higher than it was before, which the brothers realized was the voice they were used to from their early years of coming to the fair. “I thought you just had a really high voice!” Cuphead exclaimed involuntarily. Beppi finally turned to face him, grinning tensely.

“Well, I hate to spoil everyone’s sense of whimsy, but hey, they say what goes around comes around, and you know, I think a fair bit of whimsy has gone up in smoke lately.” The clown absentmindedly began trying to balance on top of the tank after laying it on its side, failing. “Hmm, no luck. I’ve been a little off-balance all day, gettin’ back a bunch’a dead weight an’ all…”

“Beppi, would you be a gentleman and get Djimmi?” the Baroness interrupted. “There’s something of moderate importance that the both of you are needed for.”

“Importance? Ha! This is the least important looking scene I’ve scene for awhile! And if I don’t reckon it’s important, I doubt that genie-us would even see it in that dusty crystal ball of his!”

“Well, it isn’t as if any of us have anything better to do, seeing as the park is a ghost town today, and wouldn’t you like our uninvited guests to know why that is in the first place?” the Baroness proposed. Beppi scanned the fairgrounds exaggeratedly, and shrugged indifferently as he took another shot from his helium tank. “Fair enough, but I ain’t gonna be the one running around whilst you all sit parked over here. The big blowhard is hiding out in his tent, tryin’ to get all his smoke and mirrors up and running again, since he doesn’t know half as much as he used to.” The Baroness stood up. “Very well, we’ll all go to him, then. Lead the way.”

Beppi started across the fairgrounds, everyone in tow, but after a bit fell back so that he was striding alongside Cagney. “So, mister Carnation, I’m guessing you’ve got something of a green thumb?” he asked, taking another drag of his cigar. Cagney kept his eyes on the ground in front of him. “You got it. Literally, until today.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. Explains why you’re so petal-lant. Also explains why the Baroness has been talking so dirty lately,” the clown snickered. Cagney swiveled to face him defensively. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, if you know the Baroness, you know she’s quite high and mighty with her diction.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, the past few years, she’s been a little less flowery than usual. Guess I know where she picked it up from, ha!”

Cagney’s brow twitched slightly. “I’m not some uneducated backwoods hick, you know!” he grumbled indignantly. Beppi put up his hand calmly. “Hey, now, I didn’t mean to set off such a short fuse!” He returned jokingly. Cagney gritted his teeth. “Well, you aren’t extinguishing it in the slightest…”

“Beppi, quit picking on him,” the Baroness ordered. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Picking on him! ‘Cause he was a flower! Good one, Baroness!” Beppi complemented, giggling. The Baroness rolled her eyes. “I’m afraid you’re on your own, Cagney.”

“Dandy,” muttered Cagney, sending Beppi back into hysterics with his own accidental wordplay.

The group approached a pyramidal tent, which, despite the knowledge that its occupant was without his usual effects, exuded a certain sense of mysticism. “He would have a whole other world in there,” Mugman murmured. “At least, it seemed like that.”

“Well, no use dwelling on the past,” said the Baroness. Beppi crept up to the curtain and pantomimed knocking on it like a door. “Knock knock!” he called.

“Beppi, go away,” came a deep, agitated voice on the other side. Beppi slumped. “Gee, you’re no fun today. Hey, nice rhyme!”

“Cripes,” sighed the Baroness, pushing past the clown and through the curtain. Everyone hung back, having not expected the Baroness to barge in as she did. “Well, get in here!” she called from inside. “Unless you’re scared of disappointment.”

“I might be,” Mugman admitted quietly, reluctantly entering the tent. It was dark inside, illuminated only by a dimly glowing orb on a table in the center of the room. In a chair before the table sat a man, whose head was tipped back over the chair and obscured by an open book over his face. “Look alive, Djimmi. You’ve got guests,” the Baroness ordered, nudging the book off the man’s face with her candy cane. He sat up sluggishly and cast his bleary eyes over the group before him before suddenly widening them dramatically. “Baroness, what evil have you brought into my abode?!” he proclaimed. “What demonic apparitions do I see before me?!” He curled his fingers into fists and tensed his shoulders upwards, and for a moment the brothers thought he was under some sort of tragic delusion. But a moment passed and he relaxed back into his chair, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers smugly. “Oh, hold a tic. My mistake. It’s just a pair of little teacups,” he said, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Cuphead narrowed his eyes, and Mugman didn’t know how exactly to answer. “Mister Djimmi –“ he started, but the barrel-chested man cut him off.

“Of course, of course, you want your fortune, your future, doesn’t everyone? Well, you’ll have to stymie your expectations, I seem to be a bit nearsighted today.” Cracking his fingers outward, Djimmi pulled a deck of cards from his vest and shuffled them around incomprehensible before spreading them out in front of himself. “Now, usually I’d have my client choose, for authenticity, you know, but I think I’ve got this one handled.” He delicately pulled a card from the deck. “Past… hmm, the knight of swords. Turbulence. Violence! Fighting, perhaps for a futile purpose.” He laid it down and pulled another. “Five of cups… ooh, a dark omen. Present disappointment. Unfulfillment! I wonder what it could mean.” The brothers waited for the Baroness to put an end to Djimmi’s nonsense, but she seemed to be enjoying it as much as he was. “Ah, the final card, your future, the untold! Major arcana thirteen. Death! Well, I think that one speaks for itself…”

“Mister Djimmi, we don’t have time for this –“ Cuphead started.

“Those cards weren’t a coincidence, were they?” asked Mugman skeptically. Djimmi stared, a bit thrown off, but then began putting away the cards and smiled mysteriously. “You’ll never know…”

“It’s a carnival trick, Mugs. Of course he’s just messing with us,” Cuphead answered in lieu of Djimmi. “Yeah, but how did he do that? We saw him shuffle the deck!” Mugman pointed out. “And he doesn’t have powers anymore!”

“I felt a negative vibration after that statement…” Djimmi trailed off dramatically. “One of wounded pride and not wanting to be reminded of glory long past…”

“We lost our contracts this morning,” the Baroness couldn’t help but remind him.

“Hey, yeah, how did you know where the cards you wanted were?” Cuphead asked, still thinking about what Mugman had said. Djimmi had started puffing away at his ornate pipe, and blew a perfect ring of smoke towards the brothers indifferently. “A good magician never reveals his secrets,” he stated. The brothers paid no mind to what he said, instead marveling at the smoke ring. “How did you do that?” Mugman asked. Djimmi raised an eyebrow. “It’s a smoke ring. That’s nothing. I could do so much more. Remember that one time I blew a cloud of smoke shaped like your decapitated head? Good times.”

“Djimmi, you’re supposed to be aloof and fickle,” the Baroness teased. Djimmi rolled his eyes and propped his feet onto the table boredly. “It isn’t worth it anymore. Especially if they’re just going to sit here wondering wide-eyed about two-cent sleight-of-hand gags.”

“I don’t blame you!” Beppi chirped from behind the brothers. “That’s like if they were amazed at one of my old numbers.”

“Wait, what did you used to do?” Mugman asked Beppi. The clown shrugged. “Boring stuff. I made fancy things out of balloons and cracked bad jokes, like any old clown.”

“Well, what kinds of things did you make?” Cuphead prompted. Beppi pulled a light blue balloon from his pocket and blew it up into a thin sausage-like shape. He then twisted and turned it in his hands with surprising intricacy, until some seconds later he finished, presenting it to the brothers in a new shape. “It’s a sword!” Mugman exclaimed, taking the now sword-shaped balloon by its “handle” from the clown’s hands. “Golly, that’s really something!”

Beppi stared in genuine confusion, then laughed. “Gee, you almost had me. I’m surprised my leg ain’t in need of a cast with how hard you’re pullin’ it!”

“No, no, I mean…” Mugman stammered. “Me and Cuphead have been coming here since we were real little, and I guess you’ve had your contracts our entire lives, so we saw you folks put on shows with magic, or whatever the contracts gave you. But you just made this, and… and Djimmi pulled those cards without needing any magic at all!”

“Surprised I’ve still got it,” remarked Beppi, mostly to himself. “But that ain’t nothing special, least, it wasn’t by the time we made our contracts.”

“Yes, yes, because Ms. Baroness supreme decided to fly too close to the sun,” Djimmi sighed, flipping through some sort of manual and seemingly only half-listening. Beppi snickered. “Quite literally,” he added. The Baroness frowned irritably. “I don’t appreciate your coy attitude,” she asserted tersely.

“Why don’t you tell us then, lady?” Psycarrot asked impatiently. “You said you’d give us the skinny if we got you and your carnie pals together.” Weepy stepped in front of his friend hastily. “D-don’t listen to him, he doesn’t mean what he says about others, really!” he pleaded stiffly. Djimmi waved a hand dismissively, still not looking up from his book. “The stage is a battleground. If we weren’t immune to such inane babble, we wouldn’t bother putting ourselves on public display.”

“Inane babble…?“ Psycarrot grumbled. The Baroness rolled her eyes and faced the brothers.

“Look, I didn’t think you boys brave or stupid enough to talk to these two. Hell, I didn’t think you brave or stupid enough to talk to me. And none of us owe you anything. You’re the ones who beat us to respective pulps, and you’re the reason this park is devoid of life today. You and your nonsensical ‘wonder’ may think cards tricks and balloon creations the pinnacle of showmanship, but I guarantee you that absolutely no one else thinks the same. If anything, you’ve completed a circle! Jump in anytime you like, boys!” she implored the other two, who were respectively sucking helium and haphazardly tossing unidentifiable bones around in a bowl.

Djimmi blew out a puff of smoke and drew his hands up with his fingers curled downward, like he was pulling up or materializing something, but nothing happened. He cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Force of habit,” he muttered.

He instead pressed something under his table, illuminating the orb at the center and casting a white-yellow glow at the walls. He began contorting his hands into recognizable silhouettes of people in the light and started dramatically narrating over them. “Showmen put on shows. Shows are well-made! People, amazed.” The orb changed to a warm yellow, and his hands formed a person, a castle-shaped object, and a crowd of five finger-people. “Naturally, one ups the game! More prestige to their name. But in the summer, it’s rather hot, so their master work is shot.” The part of the hand forming the castle deflated as the light grew more orange. “Reputation lost! At, I’ll add, quite the cost.” The finger-people left. “Must revive her act! And so was made a contract.” The remaining thumb hopped over towards a figure with two finger-horns.The light dimmed to a foreboding red, and then finally was shut off. Beppi clapped enthusiastically.

“Delightful retelling! That deserves a hand,” he complimented. The Baroness pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance. “I didn’t ask for my reasoning in the form of a Greek tragedy!” she snapped. “You didn’t stop me,” Djimmi pointed out smugly. “I didn’t know where you were going with it!” she argued.

“So…” Mugman started slowly. “You made things out of candy, and you wanted to make something… better?” The Baroness sighed in exasperation. “I tried to make a life-size piece, and I happened to plan its exhibition on the hottest day of the year. Satisfied?”she griped, cheeks flushed. Clearly, this wasn’t a subject she was particularly fond of discussing.

“And you fellas couldn’t compete once she had her contract,” Cuphead surmised, pointing towards the other two, who flinched at his fingertip. “How could we? Her sugary parade could walk and talk! Compared to that, our gimmicks went sour!” Beppi explained.

“Wasn’t a bad investment, either,” asserted Djimmi. “Why pretend you know everything when you can actually know everything?”

“And why just run the show when you can be the show?!” Beppi added excitedly.

“Because your souls were the payment!” Mugman answered, not understanding their rationale.

“Well, that wasn’t a problem ‘til you fellas came along to save your own skins!” Beppi argued. Mugman realized he’d said the wrong thing. “That’s… it doesn’t matter anymore, okay? I’m sorry I mentioned it. What matters now is that you guys can still put on a good show!”

“But without our contracts, we’re subpar. And I in particular am a failure in the public’s eye,” the Baroness scoffed.

“But how long has it been since then?” Mugman asked. The others averted their eyes. “You don’t have to tell me, but certainly long enough for people not to care anymore! If anything, folks will like you guys more knowing you aren’t… I dunno, using an evil deal to make your shows better instead of working for it!” He turned to the Baroness, a little apprehensive. “And… before we came in here, in this tent I mean, you said that… we shouldn’t focus on the past. I don’t mean to hold what you say against you, but… all of you are focusing far too much on how terrible things were before your contracts, when there’s nothing saying that what happens now is going to be just as bad!”

The confrontation was suddenly interrupted by a loud clap of thunder from outside, making everyone present jump. Rain started pounding heavily on the roof of the tent, but it was clear that the surrounding slanted walls were in no danger of caving in. “I’ve got to go turn off the rides!” Beppi announced. “Can’t have anything shorting out on us. It’s about quittin’ time anyway, I reckon.” The clown bounded outside with reckless abandon into the storm. “Is he going to be all right?” Weepy asked worriedly.

“Yes,” affirmed the Baroness. “Though he’ll likely ruin his makeup, since it isn’t a permanent feature of his face anymore.” The room was thick with silence for some seconds. “Hey,” said Mugman. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Four-sixteen,” Djimmi proclaimed, and with no watch in sight Mugman could only guess that he was hiding one out of sight to give the illusion of knowing the time off the top of his head. But Mugman wasn’t about to rob Djimmi of what little pride he had left by bringing it up. “Gee, I didn’t think we’d be out so long,” he admitted. “I guess everyone’s got a lot to say.”

“Well, we’re not going back,” Psycarrot said pointedly. “We can’t anyway,” Cagney added curtly. “Hilda wants me as far away from home as possible.”

“But where are we supposed to stay?” asked Cuphead. Djimmi and the Baroness exchanged devious glances. “Well, you could room in the tower,” Djimmi suggested nonchalantly, examining his fingernails. “The tower?” Cuphead asked, before processing what he was talking about. “The… tower….?” he asked again, this time to no one in particular, thinking back with dread to the last time he’d been around the only nearby landmark they could be talking about.

“Did I stutter?” Djimmi asked smugly, getting a snicker out of the Baroness. “I’ll give you that one,” she conceded affably. “Really, though, it’s about the closest to actual room and board that isn’t where we live, or lived, I suppose, and we won’t be giving up our lodgings, particularly not to the likes of you…”

“But what about…” Mugman trailed off, afraid to finish his sentence. Djimmi chuckled. “Grim? Can’t imagine he’d be too miffed. He just loves company.”

Chapter Text

“Is there anything we should know about um… Grim?” Mugman asked apprehensively as the group traveled through the fair to the tower on its outskirts. They were huddled under three big umbrellas which Djimmi had naturally had in his tent (“be prepared, as they say!”): Cuphead and Mugman under one, Psycarrot, Weepy and Cagney under another, and the Baroness with the final one. At first, Mugman wasn’t sure the Baroness had heard him, as it was storming around them something fierce, but after a few seconds she shouted back at him. “I’d much rather you judge that for yourself!”

“Gosh, no one’s very helpful around here,” Mugman remarked, mostly to himself. “I wonder why,” Cuphead muttered, sounding more guilty than venomous. Mugman hadn’t checked in with his brother for awhile, and those empty, contemplative looks he’d get when conflicted about something had become more frequent as the day wore on. Maybe they would get a chance to reconvene in the tower, if its resident even allowed them to stay.

By the time they got to the tower, their umbrellas had been battered to the point that Mugman wasn’t sure they’d hold up anymore. The Baroness pounded on the large wooden door hard with a fist. “The door can’t lock,” she explained. “But I’d rather he let us in himself.” The group waited for some minutes, the rain around them refusing to let up. But eventually, the door barely creaked open, and all that could be discerned was a pale hand holding it in place. “Ms. Baroness?” came a voice barely any of them could hear over the rain. “Afternoon, Grim,” the Baroness replied cordially. “I hate to put such a horrendous burden on you, but –”

“It’s q-quite alright. I’m prepared to h-h-have guests,” the voice interrupted, becoming a little more audible and a little more familiar. “Sorry,” he added. “I didn’t m-m-mean to interrupt…”

“Don’t you worry your head about it. Well, they’re yours. Do what you will with them.” At that, the Baroness started off back towards the fair. “Wait, what?” Mugman asked, bewildered. He hadn’t expected her to leave them with such abandon. Either she didn’t hear his confusion or she simply wasn’t listening anymore, leaving Cuphead, Mugman, and their companions alone on the tower’s doorstep. “Well, come in.” The door had been opened further. “If you stay out m-m-much longer, you’ll catch your death.” The group filed in, closing the umbrellas. The door was heaved shut behind them, and in the candlelight of the stone brick foyer the brothers finally got a good look at who was once one of their most formidable foes.

They didn’t really know what they had been expecting, but it wasn’t what they saw. Grim Matchstick wasn’t any sort of impressive to look at: he had limbs like spaghetti, and while he was taller than them he wasn’t a very towering figure. His blonde hair stuck out chaotically upwards and behind him, like something had exploded in his face, a hypothetical that the charred ends of his hair did nothing to disprove. He had a thin, pointed sort of face, almost dwarfed by his nose, which looked like it had been snapped in the middle so that the front end pointed downward. The only thing left that was remotely frightening about him was the knowledge that such a pathetic figure could be capable of the suffering that the brothers had endured to wrest his contract away.

“Follow me, u-u-upstairs,” Grim prompted, starting his way up the long stone staircase with sconces lining its walls. The group complied, shivering a little. It wasn’t much warmer in the tower than it had been outside. Grim noticed their discomfort. “Don’t m-m-mind the cold,” he said. “I may not be… m-m-myself, anymore, but I can st-still get a fire going.” Cuphead cringed at Grim’s phrasing, implying that his time under contract was the only time he felt like himself. He wanted to apologize, but he doubted that would make things better.

“Here we are, the p-p-parlor. Sorry for the cl-climb. If it helps, I haven’t u-used those stairs in years myself…” The parlor did indeed have a functioning fireplace, making the room feel warmer immediately, as well as an assortment of cushions and a dusty red divan. On a cushion adjacent to the fireplace, interestingly enough, sat an unfamiliar man, with waterlogged red hair and a quilt wrapped tightly around him. “That’s just Wally,” Grim answered before they could ask. “He isn’t t-t-talking to you,” he told the cup brothers meaningfully before eyeing the other former debtors. “I’m not s-s-sure about you, though. Make yourselves at home, I s-suppose,” he added hastily. “There’s some s-soup cooking over the fire, and I h-h-have a bit of bread and cheese, if you’re hungry.”

“I’ll have some of that,” Psycarrot requested. “Please,” added Weepy, shooting his friend a displeased look. They were both incredibly hungry, having not eaten anything in years. Grim nodded and crossed the room to a wooden cupboard, retrieving a couple of small plates and one large plate with a half-finished loaf of bread. Cuphead and Mugman seated themselves on the divan, a fair distance from the unknown variable in the room. Cagney acquired some food for himself and sat next to the open window, where the rain was still beating down relentlessly. “So…” Mugman murmured as Grim sat next to the fireplace and stared into it intently. “I don’t imagine you’re very happy to see us?”

“Of c-course not,” he answered bluntly. “But you’re guests. A-a-and I owe the Baroness, well, a-any of them, more than can be measured.”

“Why?” asked Mugman. Grim tensed, taking a stick and toying with the flames before him. “It’s… n-nothing I’d like to tell you.”

“Did it have to do with your contract?” Cuphead asked, before being elbowed in his side by his brother. “Cuphead, don’t heckle him,” whispered Mugman. “But we want to help!” Cuphead protested. “We’re trying to get things back to the way they were, get all of you back the forms the contracts gave you!” Grim looked up, and even Wally shifted a little. “...You can’t d-d-do that,” Grim muttered, turning back to the fire. “They’ve burned up. You can’t br-bring our forms back, it’s impossible.”

“Well, we’re going to try. Besides, nothing’s impossible,” Cuphead returned. Grim sighed. “I’d l-l-like to believe that. But even if it c-could be done, you don’t n-n-need to know anything about my contract in order to succeed.”

“But we want to know, so that we understand, you know, what it meant to you,” explained Mugman. “We’ve been given plenty reason to believe that there’s more to everyone’s story than just bad luck and greed,” he added, casting a glance aside at Cagney under the window. Grim followed his gaze, confused, then returned to the fire. “I… can’t s-s-say that isn’t a noble cause. B-but… my story isn’t very pleasant to hear. For anyone. I… allow me t-t-to consider. At least until tomorrow morning.” His head twitched towards the flames imperceptibly as he seemed to hear something the brothers couldn’t.

“Soup’s on,” he muttered, taking a bowl and a ladle and pulling the lid off of the metal pot over the fire with his bare hand. He ladled some soup into the bowl and handed it over to Wally, who stuck out one stocky hand from within the quilt to retrieve it. “It’s hot,” Grim warned him. He nodded but didn’t say anything. Grim filled two more bowls and took them over to Psycarrot and Weepy with a pair of spoons. “Thank you,” said Weepy. Grim then walked over to Cagney, who seemed lost in the rain outside. “Would you l-l-like soup?” asked Grim. “No,” Cagney answered shortly. Grim walked back to the fire, and finally made two bowls for the brothers. Apparently he was intent on finding loopholes to communicate his disdain even in the imposed etiquette of being a host.

The brothers realized they hadn’t eaten anything all day, and set upon the soup as if starved. Psycarrot and Weepy proceeded to do the same, until the former tasted something that made him want to vomit. He spat out what he’d started to chew, and tried not to throw the bowl away. “What is it…” Weepy trailed off, slowly recognizing the orange vegetable in his friend’s hand. “Oh…oh…” he muttered, eyeing his own soup with discomfort and quietly putting it aside. “Is the s-soup too bitter? I may be a-a-able to find some seasoning…” Grim suggested, concerned. Weepy shook his head. “No, thank you. It’s just that… we, ah, used to be vegetables, under contract…” Grim’s eyes widened. “Oh, d-d-dear! I d-d-didn’t realize!” he stumbled over his words, frantically taking back the bowls. “I-I-It’s my fault, really…”

“I mean, you wouldn’t know to ask, right?” pointed out Psycarrot. Grim licked his lips nervously. “I s-s-suppose not, but… goodness, I feel like such a card.” A silent moment passed. “I… I didn’t realize y-y-you fellows were debtors…” Grim remarked, breaking the silence. “Yes, we were,” Weepy confirmed. “I’m Weepy, he’s Psycarrot. We were farmers, at that end of the isle,” he explained, gesturing in the direction of home. Grim nodded slowly. “I never went o-over there. I v-v-very well could have, under my contract… I s-suppose I just never had a reason to. Oh, ah, I u-u-used to be a dragon, you see,” he added hastily. Psycarrot’s brows went up with interest. “A dragon? Whatever for?” he asked incredulously, trying to imagine the man before him as he might appear under his contract. Grim wrung his hands anxiously. “It… it’s complicated.”

“Well, you don’t need to tell us!” Weepy assured him. “It’s just surprising, I guess,” said Psycarrot. “I wouldn’t think of a dragon as someone so meek.”

“Yeah,” Mugman agreed from the couch. “I thought you didn’t want anyone around. Djimmi even said you liked company in a real sarcastic kind of way, I didn’t know he was telling the truth…”

“Oh, he… he wasn’t wrong. E-E-Either way. After… things happened, I w-wanted to be left alone. But eventually I grew l-l-lonely, of course. Why else would I want the ability t-to… grow two more heads?” Grim asked rhetorically, flushing at his words. “I-It’s stupid, I know…” he murmured. Mugman put a hand to his chin in thought, trying to wrap his head around what he was hearing. He hadn’t thought of Grim’s previous extra heads being the result of loneliness, and it made sense. But why would he need that when he had the others at the fair? The cup could only guess that the answers laid in whatever story Grim was keeping from them. “I’d understand everything more if you told us more,” Mugman vocalized. The gaunt man shook his head adamantly. “Don’t p-p-push it, please.”

“Hey, mister,” Cagney suddenly spoke up, walking over. “You got an accessible roof?”

Grim quirked an eyebrow, thrown off by such a strange request. “Er… yes, as a m-m-matter of fact –”

“Great, thanks,” he interrupted, walking off without so much as an explanation of why he asked. Grim turned to the other former debtors with confusion. “Who –”

“Cagney,” Psycarrot answered. “Don’t mind him, he’s always like that.” Grim nodded slowly, gaze lingering on the doorway for several seconds before returning back to its vigil at the fireplace.

----------

“Wow-wee!” Beppi shouted, bursting back into Djimmi’s tent from the storm outside. “Sure is coming down out there!” The former genie glanced up from the almanac he was studying for a moment, only to involuntarily snort at his coworker’s appearance. “What?” asked Beppi. Djimmi reacquired his deliberate air of nonchalance and puffed at his pipe a few times. “Your makeup needs attendance,” he explained dully. Beppi pulled a mirror from one of many piles of junk at the edges of the tent and made a face as he examined himself. His strawberry and white face paint had almost completely been washed from its canvas, revealing for the first time in years the clown’s natural, pinkish pigmentation.

“Bleh, what an ugly mug,” Beppi remarked. “Guess I’ll have to start worrying about toxicity and all that rubbish again.”

“Well, it will do you good to have something to worry about,” retorted Djimmi. “Not everyone can be as carefree as you, you know.”

“Me? That’s a laugh. I’ll give you that I haven’t got two worries to rub together, but don’t tell me you’ve got any problems, mister all-knowing,” Beppi pointed out, taking off his ruffled collar and wringing the water out of it. Djimmi glanced up again.

“I think you’ve sucked down one helium tank too many. I’m don’t exactly know everything anymore.” The clown waved a hand. “Eh, you can pretend. You’ve got all the kooky lunar calendars and newspaper clippings you’ll ever need. Me, I’m off-balance, out of practice, I’m – what are you doing?” Djimmi was holding his book unusually close to his face and squinting at whatever was on the page. Beppi looked on in confusion, then snickered as he came to a realization. He dug through the junk in the tent until he came across a small black bag. He pulled out a pair of reading glasses and waved them in front of Djimmi’s face. “I think you’re looking for these,” he quipped. The fortune teller irritably pushed them away. “I don’t need them,” he denied. Beppi giggled.

“I never thought you needed these to see sense! Come on, you aren’t an all-powerful genie-man anymore, so you’re gonna need your glasses.”

“No,” Djimmi said again. “They make me look like an imbecile.”

“Oh, of course, because you don’t look like that trying to read without them,” Beppi returned sarcastically. He finally approached Djimmi from behind, reached over and put the glasses on his nose manually. “See? No blind eyes here!” Djimmi sighed and took them off. “I’ll just get contacts again. I shouldn’t have to endure this indignity.”

“I ain’t sayin’ you do. I’m just sayin’ that maybe you’ll be a bit more all-seeing if you can see better… or at all,” he added cheekily. “Don’t you have anything better to do than mock me?” Djimmi asked, not caring how he sounded. Beppi was notoriously hard to offend. “Eh, I guess I could get some sleep, get out of my wet suit so I don’t get the sneezes. But you know, I was thinking –”

“Really?” asked Djimmi dryly, still not looking up. Beppi rolled his eyes. “You stinker. Nah, really, I was thinking, and I realized that you don’t have anywhere to live anymore!” Djimmi didn’t answer, so Beppi continued. “‘Cause, you used to have your own fancy shmancy dimension in here, right? But, and not to step on your toes, you don’t got it anymore! And hey, you know, I’m a nice guy, and I’ve got a nice, shareable room in one of the old caravans! S’not all that roomy, but –”

“Beppi, I –” Djimmi checked himself. “I appreciate your offer, but I need to get my head screwed back on. I haven’t checked papers or anything in years, because the information was always… there, in my mind, or in the mind of my clients. Now, it’s like everything’s been scrubbed clean. It feels like I don’t know anything anymore, and… god, I don’t know if you’re taking any of this seriously. It doesn’t matter. Just leave me in peace.” Beppi frowned, genuinely it seemed.

“...Guess I don’t blame you for being a sad sack about all this, but maybe you could take a break from your books and… I dunno, look at what’s in front of you? I mean, you mighta lost a lotta power, but… you still got me, you still got Bon Bon, maybe Grim’ll even stop moping around in that dumb tower, and… Eh, I’m a clown. I don’t know much about sentiment and mushy stuff. But if there’s one thing comedy’s taught me, it’s not to take the past all that seriously. Sure, it’s good for a laugh, maybe a lesson, but at the end of the day, it ain’t all that important.” Djimmi knit his brows together, conflicted. Without the droll effects of helium in his voice, Beppi almost sounded rational. But in the end, he didn’t answer, and Beppi just shrugged.

“Well goodnight, mister brick wall. I’m gonna try and brave ol’ mother nature one last time. If your eyelids start feelin’ like eyelead, my caravan’s still open for business. Good luck gettin’ your book smarts back up to snuff,” said Beppi. He uselessly waved goodbye and ducked back out into the rain, leaving Djimmi reading by the light of his crystal ball alone. The fortune teller finally looked up seconds later, making absolutely certain that Beppi had left. He eyed the glasses on the table in front of him, then grudgingly picked them up and put them on before returning to his book. He really did see better with them.

----------

“Weepy, stop staring at that guy. For someone who’s always on my back about manners, you sure are exercising some huge don’ts in rudeness.” Weepy had had his eyes on the man by the fireplace (Wally, Psycarrot had heard) for some time, and made a flustered noise as he finally looked away. “He just looks so unhappy, and uncomfortable. Maybe he needs someone to talk to…”

“Then talk to ‘im. You’re not one of the cup-finks, so he won’t ignore you, hypothetically.” Weepy smiled in spite of himself at Psycarrot’s tacking-on of unnecessary scientific diction, one of many tactics he employed to sound smarter than he realistically was. “It isn’t that easy,” the pudgy man sighed. “I tried to just… talk to Cagney, and he didn’t want to hear it. Maybe this fellow is the same way…”

“Well, you never know if you don’t try.” Weepy bit his bottom lip nervously. Psycarrot rolled his eyes. “Jeez, if you’re that on edge, I’ll talk to ‘im for you.” The other’s eyes widened. “That isn’t really –” But Psycarrot was already off, taking a pseudo-casual seat next to Wally.

“So… Wally, right?” Psycarrot asked. The man didn’t move or speak. “Don’t worry, I’m not one of those little pills. I don’t even wanna bug you. But my friend over there thinks you need some kinda consoling, or emotional outlet, or something.” Wally finally turned to face him, revealing sunken, red eyes and a haggard face. “Then why are you talking to me?” he asked. Psycarrot froze a moment, not expecting such a question. “Um, because my friend’s a crybaby who doesn’t know how to talk to strangers,” he explained pointedly. “What?” Weepy asked from his spot nearby. “Oh, nothing, just giving this gentleman an honest image of your personality,” Psycarrot responded coyly. Weepy’s face screwed up indignantly, and he marched over. “You are not!” He turned to Wally frantically. “Uh, whatever he told you, it isn’t true, okay? At least not m-most of it… I’m sorry, I wanted to talk to you, I really did, but I was too intimidated and… and…” he trailed off, trying and failing to stymie the familiar inevitability of an emotional breakdown. He put his face in his hands, and turned to leave before the humiliation set in.

“What are you leaving for?” Wally suddenly asked him. Weepy turned back in confusion. “Wh-what?”

“There’s no need to be ashamed. I know how I must look right now, and it isn’t the most welcoming sight. That’s my intention, but you aren’t who I’m trying to ward off.” Weepy scanned the man up and down for any signs of deception. Despite his pained expression and standoffish body language, Wally was acting rather cordial. “Okay…” Weepy mumbled, sitting next to his friend, who immediately stood up. “Well, my work here is done. Farewell,” he announced, walking away. Weepy watched after him in disbelief. “You seem like you could use consoling yourself,” Wally remarked. Weepy flushed. “Well, I… I don’t have much of a reason to be. I’m just very sensitive. But I am a good listener, and… it seems like you need one of those.” Wally grunted indifferently. “There isn’t much to say. If you can believe it, I’m just trying to save face. And those brats lounging around in the same room where I’m developing hypothermia isn’t helping.”

“Oh…” Weepy trailed off. “Why? What did they take away from you?” The rugged man dropped his voice to barely a whisper. “My home…” he muttered, before pausing to blink unwanted tears out of his eyes. “... And something else,” he finished vaguely. Weepy could only assume that mentioning that “something else” wouldn’t lead to a desirable display of emotions with one’s mortal enemies sitting feet away, so he didn’t push the matter. “So that’s why you’re here, in the tower?” he asked instead. Wally nodded. “I was a bird,” he explained. “So my lodgings over the past ten-odd years don’t exactly work for me anymore. Just my luck that the sky decided to empty itself today.” Weepy put a hand to his mouth. “Goodness,” he murmured. “I suppose we’ll have to worry about the same sort of thing once we get home.”

“Oh, yeah. I overheard. You and your friend are… farmers, right?”

“Well, were. We haven’t really talked about it, but the idea of farming vegetables has grown rather sour in hindsight…” Weepy continued before Wally could question him further. “What about you? What did you do, before everything, and during it, I suppose?” The man smiled fondly while watching the flames.

“I was a falconer, at the carnival. Well, I trained all sorts of birds, really, but everyone always came to see the impressive ones. I loved what I did, and I loved my birds. I’ve always kept all of them, and myself, outside the carnival, in the hills and mountains. It’s very nice out there.” He frowned a little before beginning the next part of his story. “I grew a little concerned when everyone’s shows got crazy. I knew it was that casino, and told myself I’d never sign for the likes of the Devil and his lot simply to make my act more flashy. It was silly. People still came to see what I’d always done, even if they came less and less, and I was satisfied with what I had. I thought I was so mature.” He sighed and drew his quilt tighter around him. “But I didn’t foresee what my actual motives would turn out to be.” Wally was back to keeping his face tense, and Weepy decided to veer away from the subject of his contract again.

“Will your birds be okay in the storm?” he asked. Wally nodded. “They have their safe places. If they didn’t I wouldn’t leave them out in weather like this. I’ve always cared about them just as I do myself, as if they were my own…” he trailed off, his face contorting as he seemed to be fighting back an unwanted expression. “...Sons?” Weepy prompted innocently. Wally gritted his teeth and buried his face into the quilt, shoulders slowly quaking up and down. Weepy’s own eyes began welling up as he realized he’d struck a chord. “I’m sorry…” he murmured, putting a hand on the other man’s back sympathetically. “I’m so sorry…”

Several minutes later, Weepy came back over to where Psycarrot was sitting, unsurprisingly bearing reddened eyes and a soiled handkerchief. “Didn’t go so great?” the tall man asked casually. Weepy unexpectedly smiled as he sat down. “Actually, it went swimmingly. He said I did a good job helping him… let everything go.”

“Okay, I don’t believe that for one second,” Psycarrot returned skeptically. His friend rolled his eyes. “Well, naturally he isn’t completely trouble-free, these things don’t fix themselves overnight, but I helped!” he proclaimed cheerfully. “Isn’t that brilliant?” Psycarrot smirked, happy to see his friend actually do something he was proud of himself for accomplishing, not that he’d actually voice that happiness. “Good for you,” he congratulated nonchalantly. “Now you’ve just got to soothe the savage beast that is Cagney Carnation.”

Weepy chuckled softly, then looked around the room. “Where is Cagney, anyway?” he asked. “He asked Grim about a roof, so my guess is he’s upstairs,” Psycarrot hypothesized. “For an entire hour?” asked Weepy incredulously. The other shrugged. “If you don’t believe it, go check, mister friend-to-all.”

“Perhaps I will,” Weepy declared, sounding more confident than he felt.

-----------

The rain was starting die down, and even though he was soaked to the bone, Cagney knew he’d miss it in an hour. Everything felt so dry. His lips always seemed chapped, he always felt like he needed to pour a liter of water down his throat, and the sun, which had been his life-blood for years, was now becoming something to be avoided. All were changes Cagney could hardly stand, but he forced his will upon that lingering rage inside him, pushing it underneath the present, soothing feeling of raindrops on his face. Cagney flinched as something else started running down his face. From his eyes. Reason two why he’d come up onto the domed roof away from everyone else.

“Hey…” Cagney almost dropped his hat over the edge of the tower out of shock. He whirled around, ready to yell, and the fact that the person behind him was Weepy did nothing to stymie that desire. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on people, make their hearts jump out their goddamned throats? How’d you like it if I did that to you, you big baby?! Go away!” he shouted. The other man’s shoulders trembled, and he started making that stupid face. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead and cry. See if I care. Just do it far, far away from me,” the gardener snapped, turning back to the parapet, this time leaning his hat against it next to his feet. The pudgy man cleared his throat. “I just wanted to see how you were doing…” he murmured.

“Well, feast your eyes. Here I am, alive and well. Peachy! Dandy! How many more insipid colloquials do I have to throw at you before you leave me alone?!” demanded Cagney. The two were silent, though Cagney noted with irritation that Weepy wasn’t leaving. “It’s a little strange to stand out in the rain for an hour,” Weepy finally said. “Not all that healthy either, I’d reckon.” Cagney refused to answer. Weepy didn’t deserve his attention, and he was pretty sure his voice was beyond dignified usage judging by that stupid pit in his throat. Cagney cursed under his breath as he heard Weepy splashing his way over to the wall. “Goodness, it sure is wet out here,” he remarked. “If I’m not careful, I might ruin my shoes…”

“Then go back inside,” Cagney muttered under his breath. “I’m sorry?” Weepy asked. Cagney took a deep breath and swiveled to face the man next to him. “I said, ‘then go BACK INSIDE!’” he shouted, voice cracking on the last word. He gritted his teeth, trying to stop his bottom lip from quivering. He looked like a mess, and he knew it. “If you came out here with the intention to bring out the sad, empty husk within me, then congratulations,” he muttered darkly. “You won’t get a better show than this.” His flushed, waterlogged face reflected in the other man’s big, shiny eyes as he tried to find words. “Cagney, I… I just want to help…”

“Oh, yes, right, fine job you’re doing…”

“Stop it! I’m serious! Even if all you need to do is cry, that’s okay!” Weepy protested. Cagney’s eyebrows twitched upwards, nonplussed. “What did you think I was doing up here? Contemplating suicide?”
Weepy stammered inaudibly. “I mean I – I don’t know… I don’t… I don’t know what I thought but it wasn’t…” he trailed off, looking off into the cloudy sky guiltily. “I’m sorry. I just… want to do something useful. I feel bad, ‘cause, you know, I’m the only one who likes things better… now, so… I should be helping everyone else adjust to it all, you know?”

“No, I don’t,” answered Cagney scathingly. “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly fond of people for whom changing form was like changing clothes.”

“Oh..” Weepy trailed off, thinking of Goopy. “But I’m not like him,” he argued. “I hated my form. I was never very adventurous, but under contract I just felt… trapped. None of us could leave the garden, and it drove me up the wall. I got insufferable, I treated every mundane difference in my day like it was an immovable mountain. And it isn’t like that hasn’t left an impression. I was never this… delicate, this paranoid. The reason I’m trying to help is because I should have the strength to do that again. But…” he stopped, and Cagney heard his voice catch. “I’m sorry. I don’t deserve your sympathy. I’m just… frustrated, I suppose.”

Cagney kept his face in his arms, increasingly unable to find the energy to make Weepy go away. He could hear him crying quietly, trying not to make a ruckus. Just like Cagney was doing. There was something about that symmetry that stirred the near-nonexistent remains of Cagney’s disposition before everything, before his contract, before he was crying on a tower with his neighbor on a rainy night.

“Ahem.” Another voice sounded quietly behind them. Cagney’s shoulders tensed but he didn’t say anything. “Oh, mister Grim…” Weepy acknowledged. Cagney heard the pale man’s light, uncertain steps coming over, until he saw him hoist himself over the wall and seat himself on top of it. “I h-hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Grim muttered. “I just needed s-s-some time, and… this is the b-best spot on the roof.” Cagney could feel Weepy’s questioning eyes on him, and he just grunted in acknowledgement. Grim wasn’t the worst person to join them.

“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” asked Weepy, referring to Grim’s position. He shrugged. “I always s-s-sat out here, like this. It never s-seemed dangerous, because, well… I could fly.”

In spite of his established mood, Cagney turned a little bit. “What?” he asked. “My contract m-m-made me a dragon,” Grim explained. “Oh, right,” Cagney muttered, feeling like he’d already overheard that information. “How’d that work out?”

Grim sighed, staring out into the sky thoughtfully. “I really don’t know. I felt… l-l-liberated, I suppose, like I could b-b-be however I pleased, but… n-no one talked to me anymore, no one t-trusted me, because I was a monster. I had myself, b-but… I was unhappy, all the time. And I s-still feel unhappy, now… I don’t feel right, a-anymore. But my c-contract made me unhappy in the first place, e-even though I made it to f-fix everything…” he trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose exhaustedly. “Well, if you’re messed up, you’ve come to the right place,” Cagney said grudgingly. “We’re all broken here.”

“The sky’s clearing up,” murmured Weepy, and he wasn’t lying. The clouds were beginning to part, and the only indication of the past rain were puddles pooling in dented spots in the floor around them. “I never understood that,” Cagney suddenly stated. “Hmm?” the other asked.

“Why do people talk about the weather? At least with flowers, it makes sense, weather completely determines our – their health. But for everyone else, it’s just… the weather.”

“Well…” Grim started softly. “It’s something that e-e-everyone can talk about, something that e-everyone experiences. We’re all r-r-real different, and feel d-differently about different things, but at the end of the day… we’re all under the same sky.” The clouds finally dissipated completely, presenting the three with a starry sky and a bright, full moon. “Wow,” murmured Weepy. “This is… quite the view.” Grim nodded. “Th-That’s why this is the best spot out here,” he said. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“...Yeah,” Cagney finally muttered. “Yeah, it is.”

----------

The fire was down to its coals, though it wasn’t really needed anymore since the cold weather was beginning to mellow out. Wally was sleeping fitfully in the corner, occasionally half-waking himself with sneezes and coughing fits, Psycarrot was completely knocked out, and Mugman was snoring quietly against his brother’s shoulder. Unfortunately, Cuphead wasn’t sleeping a wink. He was tired, as tired as his brother, but too many things were swirling around in his head. Unpleasant thoughts, unkind voices, countless doubts. Cuphead tried to push them away. No, there’s no need to feel this way. We’re going to help all these people, just like they want. It’s not impossible, nothing’s impossible, we beat the Devil for crying out loud. No one’s happy anymore, they won’t be satisfied with just… apologies, consolations, whatever Mugs is trying to do. If we can’t get everyone back the way they were, then no one will walk away happy, and it’ll be all my fau –

“Cuphead…?” Mugman murmured, lifting his head up slowly. “Mugs,” Cuphead returned. “Is something wrong? Did you have a bad dream?” he asked. “No, but you were trembling, and it woke me up,” explained Mugman solemnly. Cuphead rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry. You can just lean against the couch, then. I’ll make sure you don’t spill.”

“You can’t sleep, can you?” asked Mugman. Cuphead gave no answer. “Cuphead, you haven’t slept since we stopped by home this morning! What’s keeping you up?”

“I don’t know,” lied Cuphead. Mugman crossed his arms. “Cuphead, I know you better than anyone, and I think you do know.”

“What are we doing, Mugs?” Cuphead asked. His brother made a face. “What do you mean? We’re helping out these people that we beat up for our own selfish needs yesterday!”

“Yeah, but who’s that helping?” the other argued. He gestured to Psycarrot. “He’s not sticking with us to feel better, he wants his form back. And the only reason anyone around here has left us alive for more than a minute is because we made that promise to them. Maybe we can fulfill it, but I know that you don’t want to do that.”

“We can’t do it!” Mugman said pointedly. “I thought that was obvious to you. Sure, these people don’t know that, or don’t want to believe that, but over time, it won’t matter! I hate that we beat them up, but their contracts really did make them monsters. It’s because of those that half the people we’ve come across have gone insane!”

“And they wouldn’t have if we didn’t burn up the dumb contracts!”

“Well, we can’t exactly fix that, can we? But you seem to think we can…”

“Yeah, because you’re think you can just talk everyone off a ledge. These folks don’t want that, Mugs, and definitely not from us.”

“Cuphead – “ Mugman started, cutting himself off as he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Grim, Cagney and Weepy had finally returned from the roof, all quiet and uncharacteristically pensive. “C-Can’t sleep?” asked Grim. The two shook their heads, and the gangly man knit his fingers together nervously. “Well, in that c-case, I can get this o-o-off my chest right now.” He bit his lip and sat down, tucking in his legs so that he appeared more perched than sitting. “I’m ready to tell you how I came to make my contract.”

Chapter Text

“Tryouts will begin in five minutes and counting, folks! Look alive!”

Grim jolted awake in time to hear that announcement, thankfully in its entirety. In a delirious spasm of post-sleep paranoia, the thin man checked the bag he had brought with him to make certain he still had everything. A couple torches, his lighter, lamp oil, and a sealed bucket of water, which Grim hoped wouldn’t be used. Safety aside, this was one day he couldn’t afford to slip up. There was also his numbered ticket, the one he’d taken off the roll when he’d arrived early that morning. He looked around at his apparent competition, which consisted of about every act in the business, from magicians to acrobats to contortionists. Grim wondered exactly how many open slots the fair had, since chances of making the cut seemed low just by viewing the number of entrants. Considering how hard everyone around him must have worked to perfect their craft, likely under a professional no less, Grim certainly had a bit to be nervous about.

The first entrant was called, and some minutes later they re-emerged from the large striped tent looking defeated. Whispers circulated, and apparently one found out if they were in or out right on the spot. Grim took that new information in stride, it was fair enough, no one liked waiting for bad news anyway. A few more were called, and each exited with the same defeated posture. Grim had watched a couple of them practice while they waited, and had taken them for true contenders, but apparently the final verdict hadn’t taken that long to deliberate at all, and had turned out negative. Grim was getting antsy, he wanted to get it over with, or he’d start rolling a double feature of worst-case scenarios through his head.

“Twelve!” Grim stood up immediately, almost too suddenly, and he felt a little awkward afterwards. But he chose not to lock eyes with anyone as he strode with outward confidence towards the big top wherein his fate would be determined. He ducked in through the curtain, which he found upon entry was being held for him by an unexpectedly welcoming clown.

“I ticket you’re number twelve?” he joked, smiling wide. Grim nodded and handed the clown his ticket stub. “Marvelous!” he exclaimed, tossing the stub over his shoulder carelessly. “Right this way, mister.”

Following the clown, Grim entered a wide arena with a dizzyingly high domed top, the same vibrant reddish-pink as the outside. Looking ahead to the other side he saw a long table, at which sat three people, only one of whom being dressed any sort of normal. Grim wondered if they were corporate figures or just members of the fair’s ensemble, but he didn’t want to say anything that could be perceived as wrong or rude. The big man smoking a pipe in the middle spoke up.

“All right, kid. What’s your act?” Grim looked around at the others a moment, confused. “Don’t you… w-w-wanna hear my n-name first, or –”

“We’ll worry about that later, if there is a later,” the big man interrupted. The woman next to him snickered. “There’s no need to be nervous, dear. Think about what you’re saying as you’re saying it.”

“Oh, I’m not th-th-that nervous!” Grim hastily explained. “I’ve just got a s-s-speech impediment…” The third man grunted thoughtfully. “That’ll be a problem if you’re planning on being in the spotlight…”

“Well, my a-act doesn’t involve me s-s-saying anything, so it shouldn’t b-be an issue.” Grim pulled a torch out of his bag, along with the small canister of fluid, the lighter and the water. “I breathe f-fire, you see.” The people at the table hummed thoughtfully. “No training, though…” the big man muttered. Grim flushed; he hadn’t planned on telling them that, and hadn’t a clue how the man knew about it. “N-n-not with a professional,” he admitted. “But I’ve b-been practicing for years, and… I haven’t h-h-had an accident in a long time.”

“Prove it, hotshot!” the clown egged him on, leaning against the table. “Well, er… f-for safety, I need someone to m-m-man the bucket,” Grim prompted. “I thought you hadn’t had an accident in a long time,” the clown said smugly. “I haven’t! B-B-But it’s proper p-protocol to –”

“I can extinguish you if things go south,” the smoking man interrupted again, waving a hand dismissively. “Get on with it.” Grim gulped, but nodded. He clicked the lighter on the torch, setting it blazing. He then popped open the fluid and poured a portion of it into his mouth, not even cringing at the taste, having gotten used to it over the years. The gaunt man filled his lungs to their full capacity, and began one long, controlled exhale, spitting the oil in the form of mist over the open flame. It was a simple technique to start with, but simple meant comfortable, and Grim needed to start comfortable. The oil lit, and the small flame expanded into a spectacular fireball. The blast was considerable, but Grim knew he could do better.

He poured more fuel and started again, this time exhaling in bursts, creating four smaller blasts one after the other. He started again, this time making one massive blast, and by his last attempt Grim was fully in his element, executing the maneuver he’d made himself, taking away the torch so it appeared he was breathing the fire from within himself alone, finishing off by spinning in place, so that the flames formed a ring around him until they dissipated. By the end, Grim was out of breath, and began chugging from the bucket to get any remaining fuel out in case of any negative consequences.

“... Well, color me impressed,” the gruff man finally said. “Guess some folks do their best with what they’ve got, huh?” he remarked, turning to the others with strange deliberation. The woman rolled her eyes and looked Grim over. “I’d say you pulled that off nicely. Thought you wouldn’t have the lungs.”

“We’re looking for something flashy, something new,” the middle man explained. “Something that dazzles and excites. I’m not sure if you’ve witnessed our own performances, but who we’re looking for needs to have a certain spark to stand alongside our spectacles. And you, no pun intended, seem to possess such a spark.”

“Really?” Grim asked incredulously. “Indubitably,” the man replied, blowing out a puff of smoke in the shape of a star. “You’ve got the job.” Grim gasped, clapping a hand over his mouth as he unexpectedly started tearing up. “Goodness, this is s-s-so embarrassing…” he stammered.

“Beppi, tell the rest of those mugs outside they can shove off,” the third man told the clown, who jumped to the task. “You got it!”

“Wait, wh-what?” asked Grim, confused. “We’ve only got room for one,” said the woman, grinning in such a way that neither comforted nor unsettled Grim. “B-but, not that I don’t want the job, but isn’t it k-kind of unfair not to give the others a chance?”

“Kid, those were all gonna be bad,” the big man said. “Trust me, I’m a genie. I know things.”

“R-Really?” Grim asked, impressed. “Then wouldn’t you already kn-know you were going to pick me?”

“Sure, I just wanted to get a kick out of watching a dozen saps fall on their faces.” Grim wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it, but didn’t have time to deliberate as the third man, the only person not dressed like an asylum escapee, approached him slowly. “Good work,” he congratulated. “I’ll show you to where you’ll be staying. Unless you’ve got an old place to worry about?”

“Oh, no,” Grim answered. “I was a-actually evicted around a week a-a-ago, so…”

“Jeez, that’s rough. Lucky you, then. Follow me.” Picking up his things, Grim complied and followed the man out of the tent and into the fair, which was starting to come alive. They’d closed it for the first half of the day for the tryouts, but they would never close down the fair for a whole day. “You’ll be starting later this week,” the man said as they walked across the fairgrounds. “We’ll give you time to think of a stage name, and time for us to start advertising your act.”

“Stage name?” Grim asked. “Yeah, what’d you think, our clown’s real name is Beppi?” Grim shrugged. He’d heard plenty weirder. “Anyway, it justs makes you sound more, ah, interesting. Flashy. Gives you an identity outside of ‘just some stiff with a torch.’ Savvy?”

“Yes, I s-s-suppose. What if I can’t think of a-anything good?”

“Then ask Djimmi. He holds his ego back enough to let the future take its course instead of downright forcing it to happen, but if you ask ‘im, he’ll spill the beans.”

“... All right.” Grim assumed that Djimmi was the genie, not asking for clarification since that assumption was likely obvious fact. “S-So, what do you do?” he asked. The man smiled genuinely for the first time. “I work with birds, kid. Not too many people appreciate it anymore since everyone stepped up their game, but it’s an art, it really is. An art and a commitment.”

“Isn’t everything that matters?” asked Grim, immediately wondering if he’d offended the other man, since he frowned. “Well, some folks just take the easy way, you know? Think they can’t get to the top themselves, so once they know how to get by through jus’ doing the bare minimum, they decide it ain’t even worth it to try harder,” he elaborated, getting visually worked up as he spoke. Grim had the feeling he was speaking from experience. “Are any of the o-o-other performers like that?” he asked. All he got in response was a meaningful glance, which he took to mean some kind of unspeakable affirmative.

“Here we are,” the stocky man announced unceremoniously, gesturing to a faded caravan. “Pretty barren, but it’s got the basics.” He dug a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door, allowing them to enter. The room was almost too dark to see, illuminated only by light emanating from the window, which strangely enough had bars rather than glass. “Sorry the window’s all creepy,” the man said. “All our caravans were for animals, back in the day, before they couldn’t afford to keep ‘em anymore.” He walked across the small room and picked up something, which was revealed to be a lantern as he lit it and the entire room was better lit up. The lantern rested on a rickety bedside table, which sat adjacent to a simple cot. There was an old wood chest at the foot of the cot, and unfortunately that was where the furnishings in the room ended.

“It’s a tr-tr-trifle cramped,” Grim admitted. The man nodded. “Tell me something I don’t know. This used to be my place, before I scraped up enough bacon to move out to the mountains. An’ I shared this room with my boy.”

“You have a son?” Grim asked. Another genuine smile. “Yeah, though he was a wee thing when I was holed up here. I’m teaching him how to look after the birds now. He’s real smart, you know, real responsible, that’s why I let him stay back home alone while I work.” Grim dropped his materials on the cot. “Well, I’ve g-g-got nothing better to do. Why don’t you sh-show me around? Unless you’ve g-got something to do, that is,” he added hastily, not wanting to impose.

“Nah, I don’t have a show until late. Folks like seein’ the raptors find things when it’s too dark for us people to see anything. C’mon, walk with me.” The falconer took Grim around the carnival first, since he admitted he’d never left his end of the Isle in his life, and after seeing it peddled around like the promised land for years it was admittedly less than he’d expected. Rides, lots of shows, some flashy attractions and funhouses, and of course food, which Grim was forcefully subjected to after mentioning that he hadn’t eaten anything since the night before the tryouts. The food was probably the best metaphor for Grim’s impression of the fair in general: there was a certain tangible falsity in it all, a hidden dullness behind the magic, but that facade, while thin, was rather comforting. People came to the fair to forget about their troubles, and it certainly did a good job of serving that purpose. The atmosphere simply wasn’t Grim’s cup of tea. Once they’d finally finished touring the fair itself, they began walking off towards the mountain range behind it. “You don’t mind if I show you the aviary, do you?” asked the man. Grim shook his head. “Not at all, in f-f-fact, I’m quite looking forward to it!” he assured, smiling. He was slowly but surely getting comfortable around the other performers, though he hadn’t talked to any of them for more than a few minutes yet, and the bird keeper was by far the easiest to be around, despite acting the most aloof.

“Oh, wow…” murmured Grim, becoming distracted by a magnificent tower adjacent to the mountain range. He hadn’t seen it on his way in, as it was somewhat tucked away. The man followed his gaze. “Ah, yeah, this place’s one ‘historical’ bit. They say that tower dates back to the early ages, even though it’s pretty far away from the majority of that old stuff over at the Ridge. Either way, no one goes in there, jus’ like no one goes in the mausoleum. Guess superstition lives forever.” They walked on, Grim still looking over his shoulder at the tower, intrigued by it.

The aviary wasn’t particularly deep in the mountains, rather it straddled the border between the range and the small field of grass next to it. It was a cabin-like house, with numerous bird houses and nests in trees dotting the landscape outside. Grim could hear the noise of twittering chatter from all around, and he wondered how the bird keeper managed all of it before moving outside the fair. Disquietingly enough, as they got closer, the birds around them grew quieter, even seeming to watch them. “They know me well,” the man explained. “Some of them I’ve trained, some just know the meaning of respect.” Nonetheless, Grim still felt a little creeped out as they approached the door.

The man knocked in a very specific manner, in a very specific sequence. The door unlocked and opened, revealing a small boy in an oversized button-down shirt, who beamed unevenly upon viewing the two. “Dad!” he cheered, putting his arms around the falconer, who chuckled and returned the gesture. “Now, junior, we’ve got a guest. Keep professional.” The boy turned to Grim excitedly, sticking out his small hand formally. “Hello, sir! I’m the son of the famed Wally of Wally’s Warblers!” He announced self-importantly. Grim accepted his handshake with a smile. “The p-p-pleasure’s mine. I’m afraid I don’t yet h-have a title that grand.” The boy frowned with confusion. “What’s the matter with your voice?” The bird keeper, though Grim supposed his name was Wally, sternly clapped his son on the shoulder. “Junior, it’s rude to ask folks that sort of thing. He’s just got a stutter, nothing’s the matter with that.”

“Oh, it’s q-quite all right,” assured Grim. “If I had a n-n-nickel for every time I was asked ab-a-about it, I’d be the richest in the Isle.”

“What have you done today?” asked Wally to his son. The boy straightened up again, like he was part of some military force. “I cleaned all the cages on the north wall, let the finches out to feed, and checked almost all the nests!” he listed proudly, and Wally smiled. “Good work, kid. Why don’t you run off a while and check the rest of the nests while I show this gentleman around?” The boy nodded and went off, humming a tune to himself.

“So, is Wally y-y-your real name, or…” Grim prompted. The man shrugged. “Not really, but it sounds nice next to ‘warblers’, and once I went by it for my act it stuck. I ain’t opposed to bein’ called it. All my coworkers go by their stage names nowadays, so really it’s jus’ easier.” Grim nodded thoughtfully, wondering if that was why his new coworkers hadn’t bothered to ask for his name.

A pigeon-type bird in a cage next to them began making a ruckus, and Wally opened the small mesh door, offering his arm as a perch. The bird sat content on the man’s forearm as the latter began scratching its neck fondly with his other hand. “Would you like to be his perch?” he asked Grim. “He’s a carrier, so he’s good with strangers.” The tall man shook his head. “It’s alright, h-h-he seems to be enjoying you more a-anyway.” Wally just shrugged and continued giving the bird attention. “So, y-you do falcons, and pigeons, too? In your shows, I-I-I mean,” clarified Grim. Wally nodded. “Folks are always impressed by the pigeons. I usually send a little message out here, junior gets it and sends a response back, the crowd goes wild.” He sighed. “Or at least, they usually do. Lately they seem pretty tough to please.”

Grim recalled the snippets of the others’ shows he’d seen as they’d passed through the fair. “I can i-imagine why,” he said. Wally’s lip curled irritably. “They didn’t really think much of me once they set themselves up,” he muttered, putting the pigeon back into its cage. “S-Set themselves up?” Grim asked, cocking an eyebrow in confusion. “Eh, it’s nothing you should worry about, kid. Sorry to get all doom and gloom on you,” Wally amended, forcing a smile.

“Dad, one of the finches broke a wing on his latch!” came the voice of Wally’s son over the rows of cages. “Did you forget to close it right again?” Wally called back before turning back to Grim quietly. “Looks like I’m gonna have my hands full for a while. You oughtta get back to your place, make yourself at home, or at least as much as you can. An’ think of a stage name before the others start talkin’ your ear off about it,” he advised. Grim nodded, exiting as the conversation between Wally and his son went on behind him, fading out.

“Nah, he was trying to get out! Got his feathers stuck, and –”

“If one of them wants to be let out, you let them out!”

“I know, but…”

The firebreather was deep in thought as he walked back to the fair, taking a detour for no explainable reason until he passed that tower again, that tower that no one went in. Grim would have to visit it sometime, or ask his coworkers about it. He was a friendly guy, but he liked his alone time, and the tower sounded like the place to have it, in this part of the Isle where everything was in the spotlight.

It was getting dark by the time Grim got home, or at least what would become his home. The caravan still felt cramped and bare, but Grim was sure he’d get used to it eventually. Around an hour later, when darkness had finally fallen and the lantern by his bed was on full blast, Grim remembered that Wally would have a show later that night. He wanted to see the bird keeper in action, especially since they’d talked quite a bit that day, but there was one important thing he needed to do first: find himself a stage name. If he didn’t do it that night, he likely wouldn’t until it was too late.

“L-Let’s see, er…” he mumbled, looking at himself and around the room for any inspiration. He picked up one of his torches from beside him on the bed. “Torch… torch...er? Oh, no, g-g-goodness, that’s a little grim,” he vetoed immediately, then thought some more. “Well, I suppose fire is q-quite grim… one’s considered a-a bit touched in the head if fire is… pleasing t-to them…” He dug through the rest of the things he’d brought, stopping a moment to appreciate a little matchbook. He had started training with those first, they’d given him the most burns, and the biggest lessons. “Heh, I suppose a t-torch is the same idea, it’s j-j-just a big matchstick,” he said aloud. “Matchstick… that’s a l-little catchy…” But Grim wasn’t all that creative, and nothing he thought of sounded great. The darkness grew more and more opaque outside, and Grim figured Wally would be starting soon. The firebreather began running back his thought process over the past hour, trying to grasp at something, anything. Little catchy, matchstick, torch, matchbook, touched in the head, fire is grim, matchstick…

Grim smiled as he finally had it. There wasn’t any need to write it down, he trusted he’d remember. With that victory undergone, Grim stood up, marched out of his caravan, and walked off to Wally’s open stage to watch his show.

---

“Grim Matchstick?”

The candy lady, whom Grim didn’t know whether to call Baroness or Bon Bon, gave the firebreather an incredulous glare. He kept his smile on. “Yes, that’s it. I-I-It’s mysterious, but friendly! A-And I don’t want to scare anyone, you know…”

“It is the name I foresaw,” Djimmi sighed. “I figured I’d seen wrong. But, it is your choice. I suppose there are worse things to call oneself.”

“Great! So, when d-d-do I perform?”

“Two days, let’s say,” answered Djimmi thoughtfully. “We’ve got to let the Isle know about you, give them time to get excited.” Grim nodded. “I must say, I’m qu-quite excited myself!” he admitted bashfully. “Well, get to practicing,” the Baroness suggested, standing. “Two days isn’t a very long time.”

Grim got to it straight away, gathering his materials and deciding to practice in the tower until his show. It was stone, so he wouldn’t have to worry about damaging anything, and there wouldn’t be anyone there. Practicing his act in there made up two of the best days in Grim’s life, as his anticipation grew by the hour. He’d always dreamed of performing in front of everyone, showing his skill in what he’d been ridiculed for trying to master for most of his life. It would be cathartic, to see everyone’s faces light up, and care about him.

The two days seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, and Grim didn’t even really look at the posters they’d drawn up for his act. All he knew was that there were a lot of people waiting to see him, excited people. Nothing else mattered to him at the moment. Wally was waiting for him backstage. “Break a leg, kid,” he said. “I know that’s been done t’ death, but –”

“No, I a-a-appreciate it,” Grim interrupted softly. “I am a little n-n-nervous, you know…”

“Ah, don’t be. You’re worth more than any of those three chumps these folks are used to. Go out there an’ show ‘em that.”

The firebreather smiled. “You sure are g-g-good at pep talks, mister Wally.”

“Hey, I’ve got a son. I gotta be.” Grim chuckled a little, then gave one last nod as he went up to finally showcase his lifelong passion.

----------

Grim trailed off, smiling a little. “Hey, uh, mister Grim?” Cuphead asked. “Are you alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. J-J-Just reminiscing, I suppose. That first sh-show was… an experience, really. S-So were the ones after it, but you d-d-don’t need to hear about them. To you, it’s just the s-s-same sorts of things I tried out with.” He averted his gaze. “Also, I m-may be purposely delaying… wh-what brought those days to an end.”

----------

It was a little windy that day, but so many had come to see Grim perform that he hadn’t really noticed. He certainly wasn’t attracting the massive followings that Beppi, the Baroness, and Djimmi did, but his popularity was swiftly growing. Everything was coming up his way, and he couldn’t be more satisfied.

He simply walked onto the stage and began. He never spoke with his audience, being self-conscious of how they would take his setback in that department, but it was never needed. No one came to hear him speak, they all came to see Grim do what he did best.

The show went as planned, everything was perfect, until the end, when the wind decided it wanted to kick up, and a boy in the audience decided he wanted a closer look.

Grim didn’t know anything had happened at first, just heard shouts and didn’t think much of them. But after finishing the blast, he saw it. Everyone before the stage seemed to turn into accusers and threats and Grim couldn’t breathe, but he could move. He dropped his torch and ran, off the stage, out of the carnival, not to his caravan but to the tower.

The firebreather sat against the inside of the parapet on the roof, knees drawn to his chest and shaking. He didn’t want to go back to the fair, he couldn’t, what he’d done was irredeemable. He didn’t know who to talk to, who would support him, he’d let down everyone he’d grown to trust. He must have sat there for several hours, not moving anything outside of trembling.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Djimmi suddenly popped in next to Grim, scaring the living daylights out of the man. “Sorry, mister,” he said jovially, lighting his omnipresent pipe and taking a seat. “Everyone’s been looking for you.” Grim tensed his shoulders. “T-T-To lynch me, n-n-no doubt,” he murmured. The genie waved his hand. “Nah, nah, people just aren’t too pleased to –”

“Djimmi, you d-don’t understand. I...I...I… I k-k-k-killed a...a...a…” Grim stumbled over his words as speaking became impossible. He couldn’t say it. Djimmi put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, now, I know what it’s like to let people down. Happens to everyone. But you’ve got to get past it, you know?”

“But… getting p-p-past it… I c-c-can’t even say it al-al-aloud…” Grim pointed out quietly. “Well, of course these things aren’t easy to fix. If they were, people wouldn’t get so caught up in them. But I know what you need. And when I say I know, I know.” Grim looked up at him, both expectant and suspicious. “Wh-Wh-What do I need?” he asked. The genie grinned.

“A change in scenery.”

---

Grim felt very out of his element in the casino, for obvious and not-so-obvious reasons. The atmosphere, of course, was different than what he was used to. The carnival could be a little crazy, but the casino was on another level. Everyone was screaming less than called-for phrases, drinking alcohol, and tossing everything they owned onto tables in hopes of getting lucky. Well, that wasn’t too different. Additionally, with all the fancy garments everyone was flaunting, Grim felt like he was only wearing underclothes by comparison, having not changed from the tights and sleeveless shirt that made up his usual look.

“See, Grim? Fresh surroundings, eh?” the genie proclaimed, more an “I told you so” than a question.

“Yes, I guess f-f-fresh is one word for it,” the firebreather replied politely. “I h-hope no one around here has heard of m-m-me, or… what I did.” Djimmi fiddled with his pipe irritably. “Well, you won’t be saying that after tonight. You play your cards right, the house solves all your problems!” Grim didn’t really have a rebuttal to that. He certainly didn’t know much about the casino, though he had heard of it before Djimmi brought it up that day. Growing up on his end of the Isle, it was impossible not to.

“So what’s your poison?” Djimmi asked, hovering before him.

“Er… wh-wh-what?”

He rolled his eyes. “What game do you want to play? They got craps, slots, blackjack, roulette, even damn claw machines! … You don’t know how to play any of those, do you.”

Grim shrugged. “I know what a c-c-claw machine is… but those are a-a-always rigged, right?”

“Everything here is rigged, Grim. What you’ve got to do is rig ‘em to work for you.”

“Easy for you t-t-to say, you can do anything!”

Djimmi smirked. “Not before I broke the system first. C’mon, Matchstick. You know you can.” Grim opened his mouth to protest but a hand of Djimmi’s making was already pushing him forward. There was a whole wall of those prize games, the ones with plush dolls and shiny things displayed tantalizingly behind a glass box. The carnival had a few of them, but these looked fancy. Impenetrable. Grim gravitated towards the claw machine at the end, which he figured involved at least a little skill to win compared to the others.

“All right, here’s some coin,” Djimmi said, dumping a sack of gold in Grim’s hands. “I’m off to strut my stuff. For the ladies, you know.”

“Oh, yeah. The l-l-ladies…” Grim muttered like he understood. The only lady he’d ever met was the Baroness, and she was quite enough. Djimmi tipped his turban. “Have fun. Win!” he ordered frivolously, before floating off to flirt around. He really seemed to have it all together. Grim wondered how much of it was owed to the casino, whatever he’d gotten out of “winning.” Speaking of which, to the claw machine. It was bright and shiny, and full of the sorts of toys such machines tended to guard away. Grim had no use for those, but Djimmi had told him that if he started winning at anything, important people would notice. Then he’d get anything he wanted.

On his first few tries, he was already failing. The controls were stiff and imprecise, despite the machine looking new, and Grim wasn’t even sure the cord holding the claw was long enough. His mind was pouring out like a faucet what he labeled as excuses. He just had bad coordination. He hadn’t played too many games like this at the carnival to begin with, so how could his failure be the machine’s fault? Either way, Grim grew more and more attracted to the idea of smashing the machine to pieces. His hands were starting to tremble irately, making it more difficult to control the claw, at least more difficult than it had been up to that point. Grim was feeling very self-conscious of his increasingly unstable mannerisms, certain he was worrying some onlooker, so he stopped and took a breath. Djimmi had broken the system. He couldn’t have always been as knowledgeable as he was, so if he could figure out the casino with no such benefits, then so could Grim.

“Lets see. The claw always stalls when I go to the r-right, and when I go to the left it goes f-f-further than I want it to,” muttered Grim to himself. He only had three coins left. He put in one of them and tried again, this time not wrestling with the controls but going with them, waiting for the claw to react in the way he knew it would. When his time to aim was up, the claw plunged downward… and caught something! Grim could feel the tension as the claw slowly and stiffly dragged its way over to the chute, and the sound of the plush doll hitting the bottom was music to his ears. “Yes!” he cheered out loud in spite of himself, before realizing that his victory didn’t really mean anything. “...N-N-Now what…”

“C’mon, we’ve got to go faster! Who knows how fast that bloke can go if he means to?” Grim turned, distracted by a commotion behind him. An adolescent and a younger boy ran past him frantically, the older one holding tightly onto a parchment. They dove into a crowd, and Grim couldn’t see them anymore. He heard another person fast approaching, and upon looking he saw a tall, well-dressed man with a die for a head, who ran up to where the two had disappeared and stopped, evidently having lost them. “Confound it!” he cursed, adjusting his disheveled lapels. “They didn’t pay their dues.” He then noticed Grim awkwardly holding his winning from the claw machine, and slowly smiled, going from irritated to smooth in seconds. “Evening, sir. You couldn’t have gotten that trinket from one of our games, could you?”

Our games? This had to be one of the important people Djimmi was talking about. Grim managed a smile. Despite speaking rather cordially, the man before him was a little intimidating. “Yes, s-s-sir, I did! Does that er, mean anything?” he asked, too polite to be demanding. The man snickered and stroked his chin thoughtfully. He sounded a little like Djimmi, he probably smoked a lot. Grim didn’t fancy that kind of habit, but he wasn’t about to judge who could be his ticket to being satisfied. “It could. I reckon I should see this with my own eyes. You’ve still got coin, I’m sure.”

“Oh, yeah, I d-d-do. How’d you know?”

“When you hang around a joint like this, you start knowing all kinds of things. Anyway, let’s see what you’ve got, mister.” Grim turned back to the machine, feeling anxious. He was sure he’d fail, now that the house was watching. He cleared his mind, remembering how he’d beat the machine the last time. And once he started, it was even easier than before. He won another toy without breaking a sweat. He looked back anticipant, to the man, who was now grinning so wide his smile took up half his face. “Well, it seems you’ve got this hunk of junk figured out!” he exclaimed, sounding maliciously pleased.

“Indeed,” came a new voice from Grim’s right. He looked just like the display at the front of the casino, meaning… “G-g-goodness!” Grim stammered. “You must be th-the Devil!” The newcomer grinned. “In the flesh. I understand you’re pretty good with fishing out those little tchotchkes,” he asserted, gesturing at the machine with his cigar. Grim chuckled nervously. “Well, I… I only won twice…”

“Third time’s the charm, eh? Let’s make a deal.” He pulled out a parchment from seemingly nowhere. It looked like the one the boy had been clutching earlier. “I happen to know there’s something you want,” he said.

“Gee, is it that o-o-obvious?” Grim muttered, avoiding eye contact. The Devil snickered. “No one shows their face in my casino unless they’re missing something in their life. So, what’re your troubles? There’s no limit on what I can do for you.”

“Oh… well, I… I work at the c-c-carnival, you know, and I… I’ve made qu-qu-quite the mistake,” Grim explained vaguely, not sure why he was so paranoid that he’d somehow horrify the Devil himself. The Devil snapped his fingers, liked he’d realized something. “Oh, yes, I recognize you. You’re their firebreather, aren’t you? You’ve gotten quite the press today.” Grim trembled involuntarily. “Oh, g-g-goodness, I didn’t even th-think of that. W-Well, then, I d-d-don’t suppose I need to explain…”

“No, no, not at all!” the Devil assured, waving a hand dismissively. “But you want to make things right, I see how it is. So, what is it you want? To hide? To bring that brat back? To up your game?”

“I want to… t-t-trust myself to breathe fire with… no m-margin of error,” Grim explained. “I w-w-want people to be comfortable with kn-knowing that… that I won’t b-b-b-burn them alive.”

The Devil grinned again. “Well, I reckon there’s only one way you can make sure.”

----------

“And then, w-w-well, you know. I won’t b-b-bore you with the details,” Grim mumbled. Everyone sat unspeaking for a few moments. “... What did ‘third time’s the charm’ mean?” Cagney asked, the first to collect his apparently surface-level thoughts.

“Hm?”

“The Devil said ‘third time’s the charm.’ What third time?”

“Oh, oh, yes. I th-think he just wanted to… mess with me. After we discussed the d-d-details, he offered to w-withhold payment of my soul if I w-won the machine again,” Grim explained. “Obviously, it… d-d-didn’t work out.” He squinted as sunlight began pouring through the window. “Oh, I… I didn’t mean to k-k-keep you from sleeping,” he apologized.

“It’s fine,” Mugman answered softly. “I don’t think we’d be sleeping anyway.”

“Thanks for the shelter, in any case,” Weepy said, smiling. Grim smiled back unevenly. “I-It wasn’t any problem, really…” A pounding noise came from downstairs. “Someone’s a-at the door.”

The group made their way downstairs, and Grim opened the door to reveal the Baroness with Beppi by her side. “Good, he didn’t kill you with kindness,” she said, without so much as an introduction. “Beppi, why don’t you explain what you’re doing here.” The clown tipped his hat with a grin. “Well, I know you folks are movin’ on to the next Isle, and I figured it might be of use for someone to come along who knows the place!”

“We’ve been there before…” Cuphead pointed out. Beppi rolled his eyes. “I mean I know some folks there,” he clarified. “Folks who’ll make us look reasonable.”

“He wants to make sure you don’t die. Isn’t that nice of him?” asked the Baroness with a condescending smile. “Sure it is!” Mugman answered with a much more genuine smile of his own. He turned to Grim. “Thanks again for letting us stay in your tower. And, uh… I’m real sorry,” he added quietly. The former debtor shrugged. “Well, you… you listened to me. That c-c-counts for something. I hope you f-f-find what you’re looking for.”

The group, now with six members, approached the bridge to the next Isle. “Where’s the Die House?” Cuphead asked aloud. Sure enough, the second building that had taken up the path between Isles was gone, save some rubble and a few small chunks of dull red stone-like material. Psycarrot kicked at one such chunk, nonplussed. “Eh, what does it matter? These things were eyesores anyway.”

“Yeah…” murmured Mugman, deep in thought pondering what scene would be waiting for them once they got through the third Isle. If they did make it through the third Isle, that is.

Chapter Text

“… Hm. Dunno what all the fuss was about.”

A full day had passed since the contracts were burned up, and only now had Moe finally caved in and left his and his friends’ home after ten years of never leaving. Well, if he were to ask a certain sensitive friend of his, the garden wouldn’t be so much a home as a prison. But Moe had never liked going anywhere, so he wasn’t too eager to go romping off into the wild blue yonder like his companions. But the indestructible itch of curiosity had pushed him out the gate that morning, and here he was. Trying to be impressed by grass, trees, and flowers. Any day before the previous morning, he could’ve seen all that from the other side of their fence if he was so inclined. Still, Moe found his recently reacquired legs walking him further out into the Isle, and his eyes pulling him every which way, trying to see as much as they could.

Against what he considered his better judgement, Moe kept walking, until he entered the shade of the forest. It was a change. But not one that would enrich his life, or astound him to the point of enlightenment. Nothing to see here.

“Hey! Watch where you’re stepping, please!” Moe froze, foot hovering inches above a small red flower. It looked up at him both worried and indignantly. “Oh, ‘scuse me,” Moe muttered hastily, kneeling to look at it closer. “You one of Cagney’s?”

“I’d reckon every flower this end of the Isle is! What’s it to you?” The flower asked, more polite now that it wasn’t in imminent danger. Moe cast a sidelong glance through the trees. “Well, I’d rather I didn’t run into the guy. Not that I’m scared or anythin’, just… don’t wanna deal with ‘im.”

The flower laughed softly. “He isn’t here right now. He left with the others, though grudgingly, to cross the Isle and find a solution to the whole contract dilemma. But don’t think you can go around the forest willy-nilly,” it warned. “Hilda’s looking after us while Cagney’s out, and so far she’s making a fine substitution!”

“Hilda, huh…” Moe hadn’t seen her in a while. “Well, where’s she?”

“Hmm, last I heard, she’s down by the clip joint!” recalled the flower. Moe stood up. “Great. Guess I know where I’m avoiding.”

“Oh, you two aren’t on good terms?”

“…S’not that, I jus’ don’t wanna talk to anyone right now,” Moe explained, which was half true. The half he didn’t divulge was that he didn’t want to talk to Hilda in particular. “That’s all right!” the flower assured him. “But, ah, I don’t mean to tell you what to do, but… Cagney was like that too, for awhile. And it didn’t really work out for him. You seem like a nice fellow, who just needs some nice friends!” Moe stared at the flower unamused, and it shrugged its leaves. “Well, those are my two cents on the matter. You can choose however you like.”

Moe opted to huff indifferently and march in the opposite direction of the clip joint, ending up at the observatory. He wasn’t sure why he’d gone there. The lock was broken, part of him wanted to see what was inside. He turned away. There wasn’t any incentive for him to go inside.

“How’s it hangin’, grumpypants?” Moe jolted and involuntarily let loose a string of various curses under his breath. He turned around against his better judgement, and sure enough, there she was. “How’d you find me,” he mumbled. Hilda shrugged. “One flower told me another’d seen you, said you didn’t want to see me, so naturally I came to the most obvious spot you’d go to mope around.”

“Obvious? You didn’t think I’d just be back home?”

“Nah. You act all dull and boring, and that you are, but you’re still human. In more ways than one now, I guess,” she added with a chuckle. Moe rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, this is why I didn’t wanna run into you.”

“Because I tell you things you don’t want to hear?”

“Because you’re annoying.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She got off from leaning on the wall of the observatory and walked closer. “Jeez, you’re a mess,” she remarked, grabbing the front of Moe’s dirt-saturated shirt. “Could’ve at least dunked this stuff in the river.” Moe swatted her hand away irritably. “Maybe this is the way I like it.” Hilda laughed hard. “You’re the worst liar. Really, though, I almost believe it. Some of this stuff looks fresh.”

“Ain’t like I can help it. We don’t have room an’ board anymore,” Moe grumbled. Hilda gasped softly. “You mean you slept outside last night? In the dirt?”

“S’not like I ain’t used to it – ow!” Hilda smacked him on the arm. “You blockhead! You could’ve asked anyone around here an’ they would’ve helped out! You can’t sleep outside, what’s the matter with you?!”

“Nothing! Why d’you gotta stick yer pointy nose into every damn corner a’ my –” Moe cut himself abruptly as they heard something snap in the bushes. Hilda curled her hands into fists and marched over. “Goopy, if that’s your mug in there, I swear…” she warned. Moe realized that this was a fine opportunity to escape further beratement, but for whatever reason some part of him was annoyingly curious as to what was about to transpire, so he remained rooted in place. Ugh, Psycarrot would be so damn proud of that one.

“Whoever it is, come out now,” Hilda ordered.

“... What’re you gonna do to us?” came a soft but gravelly voice from behind the bushes. “...You don’t sound like anyone I know,” observed Hilda. “But as long as you mean no harm, I won’t do anything, I promise.”

A few more moments passed, then a pair of kids slowly emerged from the cover of the forest. One was taller than the other, and likely older as well, but both were fairly young-looking. They looked disheveled and tired, like they hadn’t slept recently. “Oh, jeez, I’m sorry,” Hilda quickly apologized. “I didn’t realize you were kids…”

“We’re not!” the shorter one spoke up self-importantly. “He’s a whole fifteen years, an’ I’m nine an’ a half! But we’re even older’n that now, since, uh… well, it’s been twelve years, so that would make us…”

“Twenty-seven and twenty-one,” the older one finished evenly. “We were debtors.”

“At fifteen an’ nine?” asked Moe incredulously. The taller of the two nodded. “It wasn’t our finest hour.”

“Do you live on this end of the Isle?” Hilda asked, concerned. “Not really,” the tall one said. “I mean to say, we don’t have a place to stay anymore.”

“He means to say, we were two of Inkwell Isle’s roughest, toughest bruisers for miles!” the younger butted in. “We kept that floating bar in business!”

“Wait, you’re the clip joint’s prize fighters?” asked Hilda surprisedly. “Were,” the older one corrected. “He’s Ribby, I’m Croaks. We fought and made our living off of fighting for years. They just kicked us out yesterday.”

“They kicked out a pair of children?”

“Well, that’s why we made the damn contract in the first place,” Croaks sighed, running a hand across his bleary face absentmindedly. “So if you don’t have a place to stay, does that mean you slept outside too?!” Hilda exclaimed. The two nodded, and Ribby spoke up confusedly. “Wait, whaddya mean by t–”

“All three of you, wait right here. I’ll be back.” Moe stared after her irritably. “What the devil are you doing,” he asked flatly.

“I’m going to get together a picnic, and so help me, you’re gonna like it!”

---

No less than half an hour later, Moe, Hilda and the former prize fighters were all seated across the bridge from the observatory on a red checkered blanket with various foods laid out before them. The brothers dove in immediately, while Moe defiantly kept his hands to himself. “You got folks?” he asked the two, remembering Weepy’s neverending melodramatic tangents about the importance of making small talk. They shook their heads, Croaks swallowing his chunk of bread to answer.

“We grew up on the other side of the Isle, the wrong side. Our folks got axed when we were real little, and we got taken in by a local gang, ‘cause they thought we had potential. Things didn’t work out with them, so we made tracks all the way over here. It ain’t that sensitive a subject… pretty sure Ribby here doesn’t even remember ‘em.”

“Nah,” confirmed Ribby around the food in his mouth. “Croaks gets all choked up ‘bout it sometimes, though.” Croaks punched his brother lightly on the arm, though not, it seemed, in bad spirits. “Anyway, there’s your answer. We don’t got anyone.”

“So why did you go to the clip joint? Doubt you’d find decent folks there in a decade,” Hilda commented, rolling her eyes. “Bein’ the best fighters around was what we always wanted!” Ribby answered enthusiastically. “The fellas we hung around with way back when wouldn’t give us a chance, thought we were in over our heads. We were so fired up when we learned there was a venue around here, but then they wouldn’t let us in either! ‘Cause we were little,” he added grudgingly.

“Putting kids in the ring boosts business, but it’s bad for reputation. I mean, not that the place had a good reputation to begin with, folks call it a clip joint for a reason, but I’ll bet since we fought those cups the atmosphere in there’s gotten… dirty. Or at least dirtier. Didn’t stop ‘em from kicking us out when we lost our contract.”

“So yer contract made you… older?” Moe asked hesitantly, a little disturbed at the prospect. Croaks sighed and nodded. “There was no way they’d let us fight otherwise. An’, well, at the time, fighting was the only goal in our sights. We were starry-eyed brats, an’ that casino only made things look brighter. We didn’t regret it, either. Everything was peachy in our eyes, for twelve straight years. Everything jus’ kind of… stopped moving, an’ we were okay with it.”

“That sounds… a little terrible,” Hilda said. “But does that mean you’re okay with those twerps burning up your contract?” They shrugged. “I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinkin’ lately,” Croaks admitted. “An’ yeah, we were real stupid to make such a deal, but –”

“We don’t have anywhere!” Ribby butted in. “Sure, it’s nice to not be in debt anymore, but we can’t fight anymore. Plus, I’m little again. I hate being little,” he griped, crossing his arms restlessly. “Well, you’re supposed to suck it up until you don’t gotta deal with it anymore,” Moe muttered. “You gotta grow into yourself.”

“Well, I did!” Ribby countered. “I was just fine under contract, and now I’ve gotta wait what, ten years ‘til I’m not a damned kid anymore?”

“It’ll give you plenty of time to mature for real,” Croaks pointed out cheekily. “Ah, shut up,” Ribby retorted, pushing his brother away playfully. “You’re so full of it.”

“Full of what?” asked a voice from further down the hill. All four turned and Moe groaned aloud as he realized it was that kettle. “Mister Kettle,” Hilda addressed, sounding at least a fraction as unwelcoming as Moe felt, so he could at least rely on that solidarity.

“Miss Hilda Berg! It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?” asked Elder Kettle. He noticed her gaze dwindling to a small basket hanging from his arm. “Well, I don’t think it’s a well-kept secret that I can’t resist a good picnic!” he explained jovially, sitting down. “And this seemed like quite the get-together! You don’t mind, of course.”

“Actually –” Moe started, but cut himself off. Rude, a small part of his mind reminded him. The kettle smiled his way. “Ah, I wasn’t sure when I’d see your face again, mister…”

“Moe,” he finished bluntly. “Moe,” Elder Kettle repeated, taking a set of small teacups from his basket along with a separate teapot. Everyone glanced at the latter involuntarily. “I’ve been told using myself as a vessel can be rather… off-putting,” the kettle went on, filling up the teacups. “And I do want to make a good impression.”

“Usually those start with an actual invitation to do so,” Hilda muttered, nevertheless taking a cup of tea. The kettle’s expression grew somewhat downtrodden. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just a trifle excited, you see. I’ve hardly seen hide or hair of any of you fellows in years, and now that you’re out of your binds, I figured I could finally see you again, as you are.”

“You thought we’d be happy as we are?” Moe couldn’t help but ask.

“I suppose it was a bit of an oversight,” he admitted. “That casino really does give folks what they want. But after some time, I’d think you’d get sick of having everything you want.”

“Oh yeah? What about you? You ever get sick of what you got?” asked Hilda quizzically. Elder Kettle averted his gaze. “That isn’t what I’m referring to.”

“I’m not trying to say what you’re referring to. Just asking a question,” she said, sipping from her tea again. The five sat in silence for a bit, until Elder Kettle finally seemed to notice the two brothers sitting across from him. “I don’t think I’ve seen you boys before,” he remarked. “Why, you can’t be more than children! I have two of my own, you know –”

“We know,” Ribby interrupted. “We fought ‘em not four days ago.”

“Oh! Well, then, you must be –”

“Debtors, yes,” Croaks broke in. “It’s behind us now. All you need to know is that we’re out on the streets, thanks to those kids of yours.”

“Oh, dear,” the kettle murmured. “You’re welcome to stay under my roof, if you like.”

“I’ve got more room in the observatory,” Hilda countered. “But hey, stay where you like. Long as it’s not outside,” she added, casting a sidelong glance at Moe, snickering as she happened to catch him in the act of sneaking sips of tea and bites of crackers. He stuck out his tongue in response, too hungry to give much thought to manners anymore.

“Miss Berg?” Hilda turned around to see a flower behind her, and instantly softened her expression. “I told you all, Hilda’s fine. What’s the matter?”

“Er, a couple of flowers were snuffed near the shop. It’s him again.” Hilda clenched her teeth. “He still there?”

“No, he’s gone home. Rather hastily, I might add.”

“What’s that idiot think he’s doing? He can’t hide.” She stood up. “Terribly sorry, but I have business to attend to. Don’t worry about all of this, I’ll bus it sometime later.”

“No, let me,” Elder Kettle proposed. “It’s the least I can do, to make up for… everything.”

Hilda shrugged. “Only they can clean up the mess they made. But sure, go ahead.” She turned to Ribby and Croaks. “My offer still stands. You can stay at the kettle’s place, or my observatory. I don’t mind either way.” Finally she started pulling Moe to his feet. “You’re coming with me.”

“What? Why?”

“Goopy’ll be less of a dirtbag if there’s someone around to see me chew him out.”

—-

Hilda pounded relentlessly on the door of the hut she’d dragged Moe to, growing more irritated as she received no response. “I’ll break a window if I have to!” she finally shouted.

“Jeez, you sound just as bad as he does,” Goopy’s deep voice finally came from behind the door. Hilda tapped her foot impatiently. “I don’t know how I can sound any more sane, given that you haven’t changed one bit! I sent Cagney away so you could have a chance to think about what you’ve done, and so far you’ve been avoiding me like the plague. Stomping flowers that I’m in charge of until their usual facilitator returns is not going to help your case!”

“I stomped ‘em on accident, okay?!” he shouted from behind the door. “Wasn’t looking where I was goin’. There, you gonna leave me alone?”

“Not until you come out here and start talking things out like a reasonable human being.”

“Well, cut me some slack, I haven’t been one in years –“

“You know damn well what I mean! Get out here right now, or you’ll get the mean end of my insult arsenal! I’ve got an audience and everything,” she added, nodding at Moe, who rolled his eyes. He supposed he preferred watching Hilda lampoon someone besides him to being stuck at a picnic with a pair of manchildren and his enemies’ over-enthusiastic grandfather.

Goopy finally came out, looking haggard and unamused. “What,” he groaned, leaning on the door frame.

“Have you actually talked to any of the flora around here?” Hilda asked casually. Goopy shrugged. “Nah. What else am I gonna learn besides ‘you’re the worst creature ever to exist, right up there with the Devil and his footstool of a lackey’?”

“… Well, I admit that’s rather unfair, but not without reason. You need apologize to these poor flowers, that is if you’re actually sorry.”

“Well I would be if I knew why what I did was so damned terrible!” he argued. Hilda grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him down to her level. “If you just can’t fathom what you did being so wrong without a specific example, how about you consider what you did to Cagney?” she hissed.

“Yeah, yeah, he lost some power, got his knickers in a permanent twist –“

“You drove him insane, you twit. He’s always been high-strung, but he used to be fair. He tried talking first, but you let him know loud and clear that the only way to get anywhere with you was violence. You killed the only things he’s ever cared about, and revelled in your oh-so-honorable glory. You made him feel like nothing, to the point where being a ten-foot flower became a perceived high point of his life! And now he’s angry, prideful, unreasonable, and self-loathing, all because of you,” she finished venomously, jabbing a finger at Goopy’s chest. “Don’t you think that warrants some level of apology? Or do you need more proof that destroying someone’s life is a bad thing to do?”

Everything was quiet around them. Even the forest seemed to be listening. Goopy finally pinched the bridge of his nose exhaustedly. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll go chat up some damn flowers, long as you get off my back.”

Hilda sighed. “I suppose that’s the best I’ll get out of you. But I’ve got my eye on you. Cagney has flowers everywhere, and they aren’t shy about telling me anything that goes on at this end of the Isle.”

“Yeah, I got it, ain’t no big thing,” he mumbled, lumbering off through the trees, presumably to begin his imposed task, leaving Hilda and Moe alone in front of his house. “Well,” Hilda said, brushing off her hands. “That’s taken care of, at least for now. I wasn’t expecting him to cry repentance or anything. Come on, let’s go back to the others, as detestable as that sounds.” They started off back in the direction of the picnic they’d left behind.

“Hey, uh, Hilda…” Moe muttered, deep in thought.

“What?”

“That all sounded real bad, an’ I sure as hell didn’t know any of that before today, but… how did that guy mess up Cagney so bad? Cagney could take ‘im no problem.” Hilda stared at Moe quizzically. “Have you seen Cagney without his contract?” she asked.

“No… but I always figured he was… tall, an’ rude, I dunno, somethin’ like that…” Hilda blinked.

“Moe… Cagney’s barely four feet tall.” Moe stopped walking. Hilda followed suit. “You’re kidding me.”

“Why would I kid about something like that?” Moe said nothing, memories running through his head of the few times Cagney had come over to their garden, and done nothing but build himself up and talk big, scared them with the things he could do and would do at the drop of a hat. At hearing the truth from Hilda, therefore, Moe could hardly hold his expression, and the corners of his mouth started twitching upwards involuntarily.

“You laugh, you get a black eye,” Hilda threatened, dragging Moe back along towards the bridge to the observatory.

“Hey, you gotta admit, it’s a little funny.”

“...Sure, but Cagney doesn’t think so, and as much as I’d rather he have a sense of humor about this whole thing, I can’t really blame him. So for the time being, keep your mouth shut.”

—-

“Is everything alright?” asked Elder Kettle, in the process of putting away everything when Hilda and Moe returned. “Yeah,” Hilda answered. “Just helping out a friend.”

“Hey, ah, Ms. Berg, we’ve decided to stay at your place,” said Croaks. “That’s alright, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course, I already said so. Go on in, make yourselves at home. Just don’t touch any of the equipment,” she added. The two nodded and headed off across the bridge to the observatory. Moe tried to sneak off back home as well, but Hilda swiftly grabbed the back of his shirt collar. “Not so fast. It’s going to be a cold night. If you’re going to evade social interaction, do it in the observatory.”

“Ugh, fine. If that’s how you’re gonna be, then I might as well help you get all this stuff inside.” Hilda gave him a saccharine smile. “That would be lovely.” Moe rolled his eyes and started on his task, putting the folded blanket under his arm and taking a stack of small plates as he walked off to store them away.

Hilda turned to Elder Kettle. “Oh, and, um, thanks for putting things away, I suppose.” The old man smiled. “Not a problem! If there’s anyone who deserves my assistance, it’s you fellows. I hope I wasn’t too much of a bother, I got the impression I wasn’t very welcome…”

“... Everyone just has a lot to think about right now,” Hilda said, keeping her gaze averted. “Everyone just needs time, you understand that, right?”

“Of course, I know, it’s a bit early to try and make amends for everything.”

“Well, you aren’t the one who threw the contracts in the fire. Sorry for treating you like you are.” Hilda gathered up the rest of the supplies and started off back to her home. “I hope your boys find what they’re looking for… and I’m not sure if I mean that. Good day, mister Kettle.”

Elder Kettle watched her go until she disappeared into the observatory, and sighed. Inkwell Isle hadn’t been the friendly paradise of its usual description for some time, and now he felt foolish for thinking that his grandchildren burning up the cause of that would change anything. He didn’t immediately walk back to his own home, instead opting to walk around the Isle for a bit. With no one around, nothing seemed very out of the ordinary, in fact everything felt considerably more relaxed. For so long the inhabitants of the Isle had lived in unwonted fear, as certain places became nearly impassable due to their nearby residents. If anyone went within twenty feet of the vegetable garden without a pre-established purpose of going there, they wouldn’t walk away without first being disoriented or given a carrot to the eye. If anyone went through the forest, there was no telling what leafy or gelatinous menace would have their way with them in there.

Elder Kettle hummed thoughtfully at this second recollection, noting that the twisting thorny vines that had always taken choking residence over the forest floor were now absent. As young children, Cuphead and Mugman had always asked about them, and Elder Kettle never dared capitulate to their demands until they, as he should have foreseen children to do, decided to pick a few of the forest’s numerous varieties of flora to satiate their boredom, as Elder Kettle had not allowed them to go far from home that day. He’d never berated them more harshly, so worried he’d been for their safety. They were confused, and Elder Kettle had resorted to what he did best: telling stories. He painted a terrifying picture of their possible fates, explaining that the vines in the forest were not simply akin to ivy run wild. A terrible beast had beget them, he’d said, an unfathomable monstrosity that wouldn’t hesitate to… here he’d stop, remembering he was talking to children, and instead showed them a glance that hopefully gave them the right idea. Long story short, he’d concluded, never pick any flowers ever again. He wouldn’t have enough glue if they did. He of course had to seek out said monstrosity to ensure that that hypothetical would remain a hypothetical, and thankfully he had been correct in assuming that he had indeed been exaggerating.

Now Elder Kettle smiled, as his memory had given him some hope. Even the worst of them, at his worst, had proven to have a shred of humanity left within him. Perhaps, then, all of them did. But, of course, time would tell –

Thock!

The kettle’s cane had set a bit of stone scattering out in front of him. A distinctly red piece of stone. He walked to it briskly and bent down to pick it up, only to watch it crumble to dust before his fingers could grasp it. He furrowed his brow and straightened back up, looking to the building it would have come from. But instead he found himself looking across the clearing to an unobstructed bridge. He didn’t know why he was surprised. Being defeated, of course the Isle’s top menace wouldn’t stick around much longer, retreating to either find another place to ruin or prepare himself to ruin the Isle anew. But what struck him, he realized was that it appeared that the Die House had crumbled. Deteriorated. Given not negligence, but ruin. Of course, they would never be treated with any sort of reverence, but this seemed a sign of sorts. A very interesting sign indeed.

Elder Kettle, deep in thought, turned around and started walking back home. Not to retire, but to prepare. If the scenario his mind was constructing was reality, then he needed to be there to see it. He wanted to be there to see it.

Chapter Text

“Gee, this place is just as busy as I remember,” remarked Mugman quietly as he and the others stood just outside the city, watching its nonstop shuffle.

“Ah, this place is always busy,” replied Beppi. “Always hustlin’ an’ bustlin’! It’s gotta, here’s where they crunch all the numbers an’ make all the stuff!”

“I know, Elder Kettle told us all about it when we were little, and we’ve been here before, obviously. I never really got used to the feel of it all, though,” Mugman explained.

“Well, I’ve been here even less,” pointed out Psycarrot. “And I reckon the rest of us can say that same, ‘cept the clown. But standing around being intimidated isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“He’s right,” agreed Cuphead. “Who’s up first? There’re lots of debtors around here who got on without the catch, right?”

“Right,” said Mugman. “Let’s see… the port is right over there,” he said, pointing right, “and it’s the closest to us. So we should start with Brineybeard, huh?”

“Why’d you wanna go to him?” asked Beppi, looking confused. Mugman mirrored his expression. “Uh, because he’s a human, and he was that way even when we fought him?” Beppi stared a second, then giggled. “Then sure! Sure we can see ‘im. Haven’t seen his mug in years anyway! Besides…” He looked around exaggeratedly, but still meaningfully. “It ain’t great to hang in one place for too long around here.” On that ominous note, Beppi started off toward the piers, the rest following behind. Cuphead looked apprehensively over his shoulder, as he was pretty sure he’d seen something out of his peripheral vision. Naturally, there was nothing there, so he figured it was a safe bet to stick close to his companions.

“Now, Briney’s a bit, ah, out there, likes to mess with folks, and – hey, what am I sayin’? You fought the guy, should know ‘im pretty darn well,” Beppi chuckled, seemingly at an in-joke that only he was in on. Mugman chose to pay him no mind, as overthinking things didn’t tend to do well for his nerves.

Behind Mugman and Beppi, Psycarrot was growing increasingly annoyed at his friend’s restless behavior. “Quit lookin’ around like that, would you?” he hissed. “You’re giving me the willies.”

“Well, this isn’t a place to lower one’s guard!” Weepy pointed out. “I, for one, don’t have much experience with cities, but they’re very complicated! Requires a lot of attention, when there’s so much to worry about in one place…”

“He isn’t wrong,” muttered Cagney. “Huh?” asked Psycarrot.

“There’s definitely someone following us. Maybe a couple of someones. But it’s better to look like you know what you’re doing. If you’re all flustered, they’ll look at you like you’re holding a ‘mug me’ sign.” Weepy gulped and wiped at his forehead with a handkerchief. “Well, you’re certainly helping me achieve that ideal,” he replied irritably.

“Eh, fair’s fair.”

“What?”

“S’not like you haven’t done the same for me.” Weepy looked off confused until he recalled the inception of their conversation on the tower. “Oh. Well, there isn’t a need to perpetuate it,” he said finally, wringing his hands to keep them from trembling. Psycarrot sighed and pulled them apart. “Keep your arms down, it looks so stupid when you leave ‘em hanging in midair like that.” He noticed Weepy staring at him. “What?”

“...I’ve been doing that for years! I reckon I picked it up under contract, and that was ages ago! Why didn’t you tell me?” Weepy demanded indignantly. Psycarrot shrugged. “It kinda worked better under contract. Didn’t mean I wasn’t annoyed to tears by it, but it was better than looking at ‘em just… sitting on top of your sides.” Weepy cringed at the memory. “I suppose that makes sense, but… nevertheless.”

“I mean, no one saw it…” the tall man trailed off. Cagney looked from one of them to the other. “Do you always argue about the most idiotic things?” he asked. Weepy flushed and averted his eyes while Psycarrot rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, when you’re stuck on the same patch of land for over a decade, stupid tiffs are all you can get into –”

“Stupid tiffs are all we’ve ever gotten into!” Weepy interrupted. “That’s why Moe and I didn’t put up a fight when you wanted to go to that awful casino. The potential conflict wasn’t frivolous enough!”

“Hey, think that way all you like. Better than thinking that mess was all my fault.”

“God, I never thought I’d prefer talking to the cups,” Cagney groaned, speeding up so that he was in step with Mugman. The cup smiled cordially. “Do you really mean it?” he asked excitedly.

“No, you twerp. I’m just sick of their squabbling,” snapped Cagney. Mugman frowned. “Oh… well, have you ever met Brineybeard?”

“Kid, I never left my end of the Isle except to make my contract. Anyway, even if I did knock around this dump on the daily, I probably wouldn’t be wasting my time on some stiff named Brineybeard.”

“Well, it’s no more ridiculous than some other names debtors –“

“I’m aware. I’m trying to end the conversation. Because I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Don’t talk to my brother like that,” Cuphead warned in a low tone, speeding up just a little so that he came up on Cagney’s other side. The gardener snickered. “Why, am I going to make him cry? Fine, he needs some kind of reality check.” Cuphead pointed his finger at Cagney’s shoulder. “I think you’re forgetting that we’ve both fought through twenty-something people who wanted us dead.”

“Yeah, to save your own hides. And looky here, now you’ve got to deal with a real mistake, and you can’t take it. You just want to make yourselves feel better, and for once no one’s on board with it. Maybe it’s because they’re victims of the last time you tried doing the exact same thing.”

“I could shoot you right now, and it would hurt,” Cuphead threatened through gritted teeth. Mugman put his hands up frantically. “Cuphead, no –“

“Pipe down, mug boy. I’ve got this,” Cagney ordered. “I’ve taken worse beatings than yours. If anything, I could just bend your wrist a little too far, and ‘it would hurt.’ Real nice threat by the way. But who’s that going to help, huh? You’re not making yourself any more desirable in the others’ eyes. But oh, dear, I just won’t capitulate and bow at your feet just because you admitted you made a mistake. How annoying. Guess you’ll have to actually work to make things better, hmm? Maybe ‘sorry I ruined your life’ doesn’t fix everything! What a novel idea!” Their procession had stopped, Cagney had blocked Cuphead from walking further. “So yeah, I reckon someone needs to talk some tears out of you idiots, because so far you haven’t done anything but talk tears out of everybody else! And for what?!” Cuphead tensed his expression. “We’re trying to get you back to the –“

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard your dumb mission statement, I’m sick of hearing it come out all practiced-like in front of everyone we pester for a sob story! And all you do is affirm that yes, indeed, you messed up! But do you care why? Do you really? Of course you don’t! You just want to shut us up so we’ll act like you’re the heroes you thought you’d be when you chucked the last ten-odd years of our lives away!”

“A-are you saying you… don’t even want your form back?” Mugman squeaked tentatively. Cagney whirled to face him. “Oh, I want it back. I want it bad. But you ought to know that once I do get it back, everything’s not just going to reset, like the catch was never there. I’m fair, believe it or not, I believe in fairness, and so I’ll treat you fairly. And with the shallow schlock that you’re pulling, that scenario isn’t looking too great for you.” The beach around them was silent, save for Weepy off to the side, trying not to cry. Beppi had noticed everyone had stopped, and had looped back around to wait. “You done?” he asked Cagney. The gardener took notice of him and relaxed his posture, clearing his throat and straightening his hat. “”Yes, I think so. I’d like to be.” He started off in the direction they had been going, ignoring the brothers completely. Beppi shrugged. “Well, c’mon, fellas! Time’s important, or something like that!”

As they started walking again, Mugman socked his brother in the arm. “Cuphead! What do you think you’re doing?!”

“Jeez, no one apologized or anything,” Cuphead observed instead, looking around at the others. “Well, of course they wouldn’t apologize, you threatened to shoot one of them!” Mugman returned pointedly. “If anything, you should be apologizing!”

“You heard Cagney, apologizing isn’t gonna fix anything,” Cuphead recalled sarcastically. “Then think of something else,” his brother countered. “And… and I will too,” he added quietly. Evidently Cagney had gotten to him as well.

“Ah, there they are,” Beppi announced. “Don’t undersand what they’re doin’ on the beach, but I guess he doesn’t exactly have a ship anymore.” There were three people sitting on the beach, and as they drew closer the brothers recognized at least two of them. One was definitely Brineybeard, looking no different than when they’d fought him, and next to him was a rather slight young woman, with purple hair that could belong to none other than the other of the two seaside debtors, Cala Maria. They couldn’t see much besides her head, however, as a large red coat was draped over the majority of her body. This coat seemed to belong to the mysterious third man. He was larger than either of the other two, wore a mussed red beard, and a red and gold tricorn hat. At the group’s approach, he was the first to stand to greet Beppi. “Top of the morning, mister,” he rumbled. “Haven’t seen you in a blue moon, or two.”

“Haven’t seen you either! Probably not in, ah, ten-something years!” Beppi giggled. The man chuckled back. “Ah, you’re still funny. Not sure I get the punchline of this joke, though,” he muttered, pointing towards the brothers. “Oh, yeah, don’t start firin’ shots just yet, Briney. I’ll let them explain.”

“Wait, did he just call you ‘Briney’?” Mugman asked, confused. The stocky man grinned. “Guess you wouldn’t know, and Beppi here’s too much of a stinker to ever give it to ya straight. That bloke over there’s me first mate,” he explained, gesturing to the man they’d assumed to be Brineybeard, who gave a quick salute. “Though he might as well be me, he’s been such a loyal part ‘a me crew for so long that we could proll’y read each other’s minds. An’ that’s why he stood in for me, after I… uh… got taken outta commission.”

“You lost a bet, dear,” Cala Maria spoke up self-righteously. Brineybeard sighed. “Fine, fine, if ye wanna call it that, which I don’t. Anyway, I s’pose I was pretty far gone by the time ye boys came along, but ye did fight me.” Mugman and Cuphead thought for a moment, then the a smile started involuntarily spreading across the former’s face. “You were his ship, huh?” he asked. The pirate snapped his finger at the cup. “Right on target, boy. I was the scourge of the seas before everything, a real pirate’s pirate. I was the best at hustlin’, cheatin’, stealin’, made out like a bandit on everything, no strings attached. Unfortunately, the Devil already knew that, and knew how damned proud I was about it.” He wasn’t making eye contact before, apparently not very proud of that point. “He made me think I was winnin’, acted like the perfect sucker, but in the end, I played right into his hands. I was cocky, made a deal that would ruin me reputation, should I lose. ‘Course, ye know how that turned out.”

“You left out one very important part,” broke in Cala meaningfully. He turned to her and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, I… figured ye should say it, since I can’t seem to ever say it right,” he said. Her eyebrows knitted together in thought. “Hm. You’re right there.” She stood up and took off the coat, handing it back to Brineybeard, revealing a short, faded green dress that ended at her thighs, clearly designed with the intent to show off.

“I’d never been out to sea before he showed up,” she began. “Of course, I grew up around here, so I fancied the usual trips to the beach, but it never struck me to have anything to do with the ocean outside of watching the tides at work. Then one day, I saw a massive ship out in the distance. I was young, and airheaded, so I waved at it. I’d never seen anything like it, because the only ships we’d get around here were cargo ships, passenger cruises, those sorts of bores. Anyway, I didn’t expect it to dock, but lo and behold, it did, bearing the biggest crate of hot air in the Isle’s history,” she said, glancing at Brineybeard to catch his reaction to that statement. Apparently satisfied, she continued. “He pulled the whole ‘lone wanderer’ shtick, and I was quite intrigued at first, I’ll admit, but he grew tiresome quickly. Tripping over himself to impress me, when I hadn’t shown the slightest hint of being interested! He brought his whole crew over, and people were starting to get worried. It got to a point where I seemed to have only two decisions: let the populace live in concern for the growing number of pirates infesting the ports, or capitulate to this lunkhead’s declaration of… I still hesitate to call it ‘love.’ But, of course, I found an alternate solution. I made my contract, and did what I had to do.”

“You killed his crew?” Mugman exclaimed. “It seemed like the best option at the time. Briney was heartbroken, vengeful, whatever idiocy-inducing string of emotions you’d imagine, and tried to get me back. He backfired, as you’ve seen, which I of course delighted in back then,” she continued, smirking at the memory.

“But what about after? If you only made your contract to do one thing…” Mugman trailed off.

“Well, things grew rather complicated. I didn’t have much else to do, so I just decided to go out into the ocean, take advantage of my then-new mobility. But I, embarrassingly, hadn’t a clue how to navigate anywhere. So I just stayed back at the port, which got dull fast. I also hadn’t thought of the fact that my contract put my looks on obvious public display, and soon every man in the city wouldn’t leave me alone. So really, my original problem wasn’t solved in the slightest. I got irritable, stopped having any patience for the dozens of hopeless romantics on the piers and shores… and did some things I’m not very proud of. Long story short, I sort of lost myself over the years. By the time you boys came along, I just jumped to the conclusion that you were the latest of many who thought they could capture my heart.”

Cuphead spoke up, confused. “Wait, but… why were you leading us on, at the beginning of the fight? Not that, um, it was working or anything…” he added, averting his gaze awkwardly. The others, including Cala, snickered. “Well, like I said, I got bored. It became something of a form of entertainment, if not a sadistic one, to toy around with any bloke who came by,” she explained. “But that’s a terrible thing to do!” said Mugman. She shrugged. “I wasn’t really in a state to be considering morals. I did make my contract just to off a bunch of pirates, after all.”

“You two seem awful friendly to have a decade-long rivalry,” Cagney spoke up incredulously. Cala Maria and Brineybeard looked to the gardener, as if they were just noticing him. “Sure,” said Brineybeard. “Yeah, we wanted each other’s heads fer years, but it was kinda stupid.”

“Besides, neither of our contracts worked out very well for us,” added Cala. “And it isn’t like either of us had any good reason to make them.”

“In fact, if our contracts hadn’t knocked us off the wagon, we might’a given ‘em to these boys straight away,” Brineybeard mused. “An’ now that we’re back t’ square one, we’ve called ourselves a truce.”

“But how? She killed your men!” Cagney reminded him. Brineybeard shrugged. “Mopin’ about it ain’t gonna bring ‘em back.” Cagney fell silent, apparently without a rebuttal.

“So you’re… not mad that we took your contracts?” asked Mugman. “Oh, we were,” assured Cala Maria. “If you’d come here yesterday, we’d have tried to break your little handles off. Because I did like myself, I liked having so much power, and even Briney logicked himself into liking being a godforsaken boat. But, you know, we’ve had some time to think, and –”

“But what if you could get those forms back?” broke in Cagney. “‘Cause that’s what they’re trying to do.” The two stared, looking oddly conflicted, before Brineybeard shrugged again. “Try us yesterday.”

“I… you…” Cagney was unable to formulate a response, and opted to frustratedly walk off in between some nearby buildings. “I, ah, I’ve got to make sure he’s… safe…” murmured Weepy awkwardly, shuffling off after him. “Sorry about that,” said Mugman. “He was a debtor too, and –“

“Say no more,” cut off Brineybeard. “That there’s a mind I had for ten straight years. I know it pretty damned well. But are ye really tryin’ to get everyone their old selves back?”

“That’s the plan,” affirmed Cuphead. The pirate stroked his beard thoughtfully. “…I dunno what to tell ye, boy. ‘S really too soon fer us to know if we’re better off now, heck, we’ve been talkin’ about what we could do outside the Isle now that we ain’t bound here by our damn pride, but… ahh. If you’ve gotta make everyone else happy, then I guess we can at least say thanks for givin’ us a breather.”

“Yeah…” Cuphead trailed off. “Of course!” Mugman chirped. “Thanks for being so reasonable about all this. We didn’t know anything about this catch business beforehand, see…”

“Well, that’s the Devil for you,” replied Cala bitterly. “Always leaving out the details.”

“Y’know, we should proll’y catch up to your pals,” Beppi spoke up. “I ain’t sure they can handle themselves, even if that firecracker of a gardener thinks he can.”

“You’re right. We should be on our way anyway,” said Mugman. He turned to the debtors before him. “Thanks again,” he said. “I hope we can find a way to work this out right.”

“I hope you can too,” said Cala. “It seems you’ve got yourself quite the tough crowd.”

“Great seein’ ya, Briney!” exclaimed Beppi, shaking the pirate’s hand enthusiastically. “Your first mate too, of course,” he added. The second pirate, who hadn’t spoken a word the entire conversation, waved shortly. “Eh, don’t be sad,” the clown said. “Briney ain’t stealin’ your thunder or anything. I swear, sometimes I think you blokes are conjoined at the hip. Make of that what ya will.” He tipped his hat frivolously. “Either way, be seein’ you. Maybe over at the fair?”

“Ooh, I haven’t been in years,” remarked Cala quietly. “Well, if years means more’n ten, the place ain’t been changed all that much,” Beppi admitted.

“Oh, I don’t mind. I just want to be somewhere, anywhere that’s not this drab, awful port,” she explained, rolling her eyes.

“Hey, I ain’t complainin’. We need the visitors. All right, enough farewellin’. We’ve got some progress to make.”

“Good luck,” said Brineybeard. “An’ I mean that. Ye are just wee ones, after all.” Mugman chuckled softly. “Well, that’s no excuse for what we’ve gotten ourselves into. But thank you, mister – er, Captain Brineybeard.”

The four walked off the beach towards where Cagney and Weepy had gone, all silent with varying degrees of contemplation. Cuphead noticed his brother bearing a somewhat defeated disposition, clearly trying to push it underneath the pure determination he’d kept alive within himself since the beginning. And Cuphead hated the fact that at this point, he hadn’t anything left to say that could be considered a right answer.

“Hmm, where did those blokes run off to?” asked Beppi aloud, concern bleeding ever-so-slightly through his usual jovial tone. “The city ain’t that big. Maybe they –“

The clown grew too distracted to finish his thought, as several men in factory clothes had emerged from various shadows in the alleyway and surrounded the group, bearing handguns and blunt weapons alike. A final man came out, looking more built than the others and slightly familiar.

“Sorry t’ break up yer little quest,” he said, in a tone that indicated he wasn’t very sorry at all. The other men got closer, until each of the group had a weapon at their back. “But the queen would like a few words with you.”

Chapter Text

“Ah, dandy. Great to see you could make it to the party,” Cagney grumbled, seeing his compatriots brought over by the same sort of men who had apprehended him and Weepy. “I bet they don’t even want us, you know.”

“I know,” murmured Mugman. He turned as much as he could in his position to the man with the mustache, who unsurprisingly seemed to hold the most authority among them all. “Mister, surely your queen doesn’t want anything to do with other debtors, right?” He raised an eyebrow. “Other debtors? Is that what you folks are?” Psycarrot and Cagney nodded. “Hmm. Funny that yer knockin’ about with these finks. Her majesty might want a few words with you, too. Come on.” He opened the door to the tall, yellow, sweet-smelling skyscraper they’d been brought to. Mugman gulped and turned to Beppi. “H-hey, ah, y-you know her, right? The lady who runs this building?”

“Sure, she an’ the Baroness were in business for awhile, but after her contract, I ain’t seen much of her,” the clown shrugged. “She’s a real go-getter. Tough to argue with.”

“Oh, we know,” said Cuphead. “She gave us a real hard time.” They all stepped into a massive elevator, squeezed uncomfortably close. Nobody present could say they felt safe at the moment. The barrel-chested policeman cranked the lift upwards, which caused it to rise with surprising efficiency. They rose past many floors, many of which were full of desks, mostly empty. The brothers tried not to think how many of those desks had been made empty by their actions. Weepy looked a nervous wreck, a state the elevator likely wasn’t helping. Psycarrot was stiffly patting him on the shoulder, either not well-versed in consolation or simply not wanting to appear soft.

The policeman finally stopped cranking the lift as they approached the top floor, holding the crank in place as the group was pushed out. Once he left, he let go of the crank, causing the lift to alarmingly plummet all the way back down the shaft. Evidently, it had been out of use for some time. Before them was a large, dome-shaped pair of doors, adorned in gold and other such metals, all meticulously polished. For a pair of doors, it was quite intimidating.

“Open the doors!” The policeman barked. Several nearby men shuffled frantically over to the doors and heaved them open inwards. The group was marched forward, across the threshold and into a large, high-ceilinged room with a long red carpet over the marble floor before them. They walked across the carpet, up to a big, ornate wooden desk. Behind the desk, in a high-backed plush chair, sat a robust woman with dark hair and skin, wearing a gold-colored suit that matched the now out-of-place crown on her head. Her red-glossed lips curled into a frown as her eyes lay upon the brothers.

“I would say ‘welcome’, but you’re aren’t exactly welcome here. Nor were you ever,” she started, standing up and walking around her desk, taking the scepter off of it as she went. “Though I must say, I wasn’t expecting you to bring friends.”

“We’re not friends,” grumbled Cagney. She laid eyes on him and smiled condescendingly, waltzing over at her leisure. “Well, well, well. Aren’t you a little far from your patch?” She asked. Cagney lowered his gaze irritably. “I don’t owe you any explanation.”

“Oh, you don’t owe me anything, with how you’ve helped business. Though I do wish you weren’t in quite so much denial about it…”

“My growing flowers for my own reasons isn’t part of a business, nor is the natural process of pollination. Not that I care, but you’re under the impression that I was some kind of unpaid producer.”

“Goodness, you do like to pick fights. Well, if it’ll shut you up, I’ll say I owe you one. I don’t imagine you’ll have any tall orders for me,” she quipped, grinning. Cagney’s eye twitched and his captor tightened grip on his wrists, sensing that the former queen had struck a chord. She passed by Psycarrot and Weepy with mild interest. “These boys from your neck of the woods?” she asked Cagney. “At least one of them must be; you share the same tasteless attire.” Psycarrot bristled, able to discern that he was the butt of that statement. “I reckon if you swung by our ‘neck of the woods’, it’d be the other way around,” he snapped back. She quirked an eyebrow, amused. “What, you jealous that your friend can just manage to look more presentable than you?”

“Th-That’s…” Weepy tensed with attempted resentment, which was swiftly taken back over by anxiety. She laughed. “Good try, kid. Untie your tongue first.” Finally she laid eyes on the clown. “And Beppi, I recall. Always… what I hesitate to call a pleasure. But enough about you. If my man is telling me straight, you fellows were debtors. If that’s the case, you ought to sit back and watch the show.”

She turned to the boys. “I hear you’ve been going around heckling us debtors. Asking for stories. Is that true, or have my boys been wetting their whistles on one too many bottles?”

“Yes, missu– uh, I mean, your majesty?” Mugman stammered. She chuckled calmly, controlled. “Please, let’s not stand on formalities, child. If you’re going to get tongue-tied about it, then I suppose I’ll accept Rumor.”

“Well, then, ah, Rumor, it is true. See, we didn’t know that your contracts changed your forms, and –“

“Save your breath,” she ordered, holding up a hand. “I know your ‘mission statement’,” she quoted, casting a quick look at Cagney. “You don’t even need extra eyes and ears to know it at this point. You want to put a big bandage on this whole mess, reconcile, get the happy ending, I know. Why wouldn’t you? Children aren’t ever satisfied with reality.” She rested the hive-shaped top of her scepter into her empty hand thoughtfully. “Well, I’m not one to deny anyone what they want. It simply isn’t good business. So allow me to tell you a story.”

“O-oh! Great,” Mugman piped up, smiling unevenly. She paid no mind to him and began pacing, seemingly becoming submerged in the story she was about to tell them.

“I was born into a long line of businessmen,” she began. “Man upon man who had worked his way to the top, played fast and hard, risked high and won big. Real men of action. So you can imagine their dismay when, generations into their line, they couldn’t seem to procure a new man. Just a woman. That was myself, of course.” She twisted her scepter into her hand, brows furrowing. “But I wasn’t about to let some silly old taboo get in the way of continuing things as they should be. I worked hard, doing my best and more to rise to the top in a world where my sort wasn’t supposed to. But I got myself a company, got myself a work force, and got myself a reputation. Unfortunately, that reputation wasn’t a very good one.” Here she cast her gaze around at her workers.

“My force was undisciplined. My output was slow, and negotiations were disastrous. No one took me seriously, they thought I was silly for even trying to cross swords with the system.” She was drawing closer, scepter held behind her. “So when I caught wind of a place where dumb luck can get you anywhere, I knew what I had to do. I was weeks from going under at the time, out of ideas and out of patience. So at the time, that demon’s idea of maximum efficiency was looking mighty appealing.”

“Oh. I understand,” muttered Cuphead. “So, now that you’re back –“

“I was hoping you would ask about that,” Rumor interrupted, bearing a small, stiff grin. “You see, I used to have many more workers. They were neverending, in fact, as were the implications of my contract. And they were in on it, whether they liked it or not. One can’t afford to get sensitive in the business world. So, of course, when after ten or so years their so-called ‘nightmare’ came to an end, they fled. Some of those remaining are loyal to me, others, well… I’ve got to stay alert. I don’t imagine too many of them like me very much, especially after you brats came through.” Now she was lightly smacking the end of the scepter into her hand, looking deviously contemplative.

“And that sets me on another subject. Years of work, work, work. Years of progress. Years of building up respect, reputation, an empire. Years…” She snapped her fingers. The man holding Cuphead back walked him forward, up to the former queen. “And my colony’s been smoked out in a matter of hours,” she finished through gritted teeth. Cuphead couldn’t stop his knees from wobbling. He didn’t know what to say. But Rumor wasn’t finished yet.

“Tell me, teacup,” she said. “You and your brother, no matter how many times you were drowned, blown to bits, smashed to pieces, you always, annoyingly so, came back for more, unscathed. You laughed in the face of death, resurrection only one slap away, is that right?” Cuphead nodded apprehensively. “Yes, well, that was the Devil’s doing, hm? He wouldn’t want his pawns out of commission, his entertainment compromised.” Again, Cuphead nodded. Rumor laughed, louder this time. “Well, then,” she said, raising her scepter as Cuphead’s stomach dropped into his knees. “This will be cathartic, to say the least.”

“Cuphead!!” cried Mugman, tearing out of his captor’s hands and dashing towards his brother. “Mugs, no!” shouted Cuphead.

Time seemed to slow. Cuphead was too weak to stand, too weak to push his brother out of the way of the blow that was meant for him. All he could do was watch as Mugman leapt in front of the path of Rumor’s scepter, his head whipped to one side as a resounding, gut-wrenching CRACK sent a large chunk of porcelain flying through the air and skidding across the floor, leaving a gaping hole where it used to be. Mugman fell to the ground unconscious as the liquid in his head sloshed around, gravitating towards the newly created opening.

“No no no no!” cried Cuphead through tears, rushing to hold up his brother’s head as there was already a small puddle forming underneath it. “M-Mugs…” He stammered, barely able to see his brother’s delirious expression as he kept crying. He whipped his head to face Rumor. “I’m sorry!” he shouted. “I’m real sorry! He’s prob’ly more sorry than I am! We didn’t mean to do this, any of this, but… but… but you didn’t have to…” his voice hitched in his throat.

“I wasn’t aiming for him,” was all Rumor distractedly said, rubbing bits of liquid off the scepter. Beppi broke away from his own captor and slowly approached. “Ms. Rumor, I… I know you’re mad. We’re all mad really, in both senses of the word, but, ah, I can’t say that killin’ a kid’s gonna make you feel any better.”

“Hm,” she said shortly, looking deep in thought, perhaps for a moment legitimately conflicted. Then her brows knit together with a certain finality. “No,” she muttered, “but killing two will.” She raised her scepter again, but this time Beppi stepped into its path. “Get out of my way, fool,” she ordered.

“I’m afraid that ain’t gonna happen,” replied Beppi, keeping his cool. “Rumor, honey, bottom line, I can’t let’cha cut these twerps off like this.”

“After what they did to us?” she snapped. “They tore us to shreds, laughing all the way, and kicked us back to rock bottom! What kind of mercy do they deserve?”

“Well, they could’a handed our papers over to ol’ Scratch at the end of the line,” Beppi pointed out. “Replaced Dice, become jus’ as bad, worse proll’y, ‘cause they’re kids…”

“You don’t believe that,” she sneered. “You didn’t even think about it until just now.”

Beppi shrugged. “Maybe, but that’s besides the point.”

“Then what is?”

“Isn’t leaving the kid to cry over his brother enough for you?” asked Cagney suddenly. Rumor and Beppi looked over to him. “What’s two kids going to do for you that one won’t?”

“This one’s the worse evil, surely you know that,” she spat, gesturing to Cuphead. “His brother never came alone, always with him. And sometimes, it would just be him. But never was it just his brother. He’s responsible for all of this, including his broken brother.”

“Don’t tell me who’s worse, I fought ‘em myself. But I’m just about done with this hexagonal hellhole of yours, and I’d say now’s a pretty good time for that favor you owe me,” Cagney said pointedly. “Yeah!” agreed Beppi. “We blow this joint, with the little brats, and they’ll make things right, like they said. Besides, I know you have a conscience, somewhere in there. You just smashed a kid’s head in, there’s no way you ain’t thinkin abou –”

“Enough,” she cut him off. “You want out? Fine, get out. But if these wretches don’t fix what they broke, there will be hell to pay.”

“Great to hear! To do that, they’ve gotta fix what you broke first, so nice choice. Be seein’ ya, I hope.” He sauntered over to the chips that had hit the floor and scooped them up. “C’mon, folks, we’re outta here,” he called to the others. The men holding the rest of the group looked questioningly at Rumor, who waved a hand dismissively. “Let them go. It’s their funeral.”

Beppi had Psycarrot pick up Mugman, careful not to let the insides of his head spill, and they set off down the stairs. “Mr. Beppi,” murmured Weepy, who was almost as inconsolable as Cuphead was. “You s-sure seem…. confident about all this. D-Detached, even,” he added as a tentative afterthought.

“Well, I’m a clown. I’m pretty good with hidin’ the pesky stuff. But besides that, I’ve got a plan.”

“A plan? To do what?”

“To save the cup’s brother, duh.”

“Y-You can… save him?” Cuphead stammered through tears. Beppi rolled his eyes. “I can’t, I ain’t a miracle worker. But it pays to be friendly, ‘specially ‘round here. An’ I happen to be friendly enough with the perfect guy to fix your brother up.”

“He… he isn’t a debtor, is he?” asked Cuphead quietly. Beppi laughed loud. “Of course he is! What, you think there’s any chance of me not checkin’ out someone with a reputation? He’s a nice guy, though, really. Don’t lose your head over it,” he couldn’t help but joke, chuckling at Cuphead’s responding pout. They hit the bottom of the stairs, all wheezing for breath, except for Beppi, of course. “C’mon, the world doesn’t wait for the weak!” he proclaimed, marching off up the street. Everyone followed as best as they were able.

Finally, they came upon a surprisingly quaint house. It was in a state of disrepair, the front lawn overgrown and walls in the midst of peeling. A few broken windows was all it would take to complete the picture of abandonment. “Guess he hasn’t had time to tidy up yet,” remarked Beppi as they crossed the yard on the weed-choked concrete path. “Can’t blame ‘im, I suppose.” He stepped up onto the small porch and rapped on the old wooden door. It opened, though not all the way, as a chain was in place to keep it from opening further. A narrow, bleary eye appeared, squinting at seeing the clown.

“Beppi, vas it?” the man behind the door mumbled. Beppi gave a small wave with his fingers. “Yep! Sorry to bother ya, sure ya got a lot to catch up on, but we’ve got a situation,” he explained, stepping aside to show Cuphead, and Psycarrot carrying a broken Mugman.

“Ve,” the man repeated skeptically. Beppi nodded. A sigh. The eye disappeared and the chain was undone. “You couldn’t ask zis much of anyvone else, you know,” he grumbled, apparently not even getting the door for them.

“And that’s why you’re so darn great! Thanks millions, Werner,” Beppi said, opening the door wide for the rest of the group.

“Verner. And get in here fast, I cannot have zis much light.” As they entered, it was evident Werner wasn’t lying. The lights in his house were dim, though not to an offensive degree, and all curtains were drawn. “Bring zat insufferable child into ze kitchen,” ordered Werner, pointing in the right direction. Psycarrot followed his finger. “Ze rest of you, do vatever you like. I do not care, just don’t touch anyzing.”

“C-Can I come, please?” asked Cuphead tentatively. Werner shrugged. “Fine, long as you do not get in ze vay.”

Cuphead followed the former debtor into the kitchen, where almost everything was caked with dust. A lone feather duster on the table indicated some recent effort, but apparently the situation had been deemed futile.

“Right,” said Werner. “Do your heads come off?”

“Wh-what?!” Cuphead cried.

“If I take his head off, zere vill be less chance he falls and breaks more. Do you vant zat?”

“Y-yeah, but… they can’t go too far away! Elder Kettle always said –”

“I get it, I get it. I do not need ze whole story. You zink I take him across ze house for no reason? No, it is stupid.” He reached for the handle of Mugman’s head. “W-Wait!” cried Cuphead. “He can only take it off himself. W-With his own hands, I mean.”

“Oh. Vell, vhy didn’t you say so?” Werner lifted one of Mugman’s limp hands and wrapped his fingers around the handle, easily removing his head. Cuphead shuddered. Werner held the head, looking from it to the table thoughtfully. “Get me zat pot, over zere,” he ordered, gesturing with his head. Cuphead did as he was told, getting a small tin saucepan from on the stove. “What do you need this for?”

“I cannot set it down vithout emptying it.”

“You can’t do that!” protested Cuphead, holding the pot close to him. “That’s his soul inside! If it gets –”

“Do you vant me to fix your brozer or not? And it is no problem, probably, I’m just transferring it, no?” Cuphead screwed up his face with concern, but reluctantly set down the pot. Werner tipped Mugman’s head into the pot, the clear liquid inside filling it almost completely. “Very good,” he said, mostly to himself, laying Mugman’s blue-and-white striped straw on the table as well. “Ze clown has ze pieces, yes?” Cuphead nodded. “Good. Go tell him to bring zem in. You vill stay out of ze room. I know how to fix a broken cup.”

“You’ve never done anything like this before, have you?” Cuphead asked accusingly. Werner looked at the cup quizzically. “Vhen vould I ever do zis elsevhere? I do not know how… sentient teacup children vork, but I do know how to fix. I fought you in a veapon of my own making, zat vorked perfectly until you ruined it, it vould be razer disappointing if I could not glue a cup togezer.”

“But why are you even trying then? I mean, I’m glad you’re fixing Mugs, but… you’re being awful casual about us… doing what we did.”

“Hm. I fix ze mug, you fix nothing. I forget ze past, you von’t stop talking about it. Zat is ze difference between us, yes? I’d razer zat difference be vone in my favor. Right, vatever you’re out here trying to do, I am sure ve are vasting time. Go on, move along.”

Cuphead exited the kitchen, Werner’s last words festering in his mind. Beppi was in the living room outside the hallway, lounging on the dusty couch. “Ah, Werner needs the pieces,” Cuphead muttered distractedly, noticing that Beppi and Psycarrot were the only ones in the living room. “Great! Thanks for the word. The others are all around the house, by the way. Gettin’ comfy.”

“Not for long, I hope,” groaned Psycarrot. “I’m going to get hay fever if we stay in this house any more than we need to.” For once, Psycarrot was right. Cuphead felt like the dust in the air was clogging his mind. He meandered through the house until he found the back door, and opened it into a cramped, overgrown yard. There was an old stone bench besides the porch, which Cuphead decided to take advantage of. He sat staring out at the lake which took center stage among the city’s residences, though he supposed “lake” wasn’t the right word for it, as it was technically just part of the ocean. There was a certain word for it, Cuphead couldn’t think of it. A small whimper escaped him involuntarily. Mugs would know.

“Poppycock,” came a voice from the porch. Cuphead whipped his head to face its source, and didn’t know how to feel about it being Cagney. The gardener rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly, seeming unsure about something. “I was going to sit out here,” he muttered. “Wasn’t ever indoors under contract, obviously. Little claustrophobic.” He strangely didn’t go back inside, effacing himself as he usually would. “I… I can move if you want…” offered Cuphead.

“No, no, I’ll… go sit inside. It’s no bother.” He turned to go back inside. “Hey,” Cuphead stopped him quietly. The gardener turned to look at him, nonplussed. “What is it.”

“Thanks, for… for standin’ up for me, after Mugs got… you know. I didn’t think you would –”

“Eh, save it. I never could stand that woman. Trying to justify something that I wouldn’t have even questioned otherwise with nonsense. All she did for me was make pollination less of a hassle.” He waved a hand. “Whatever. Point is, don’t mention it. Ever.”

Cuphead smiled a little bit. “Well, whatever the reason, I appreciate it. ‘Specially after what we’ve done.”

“Yeah, well… It is a shame, about your brother,” he finally said. “I know that doesn’t sound genuine, but… I’m not great at lying, so make of that what you will.”

“...What if you are great at lying? I wouldn’t know,” Cuphead said. Cagney stared at him incredulously, eyebrows twitching upwards. “I don’t get you,” he said. “You were a right mess five minutes ago, getting me thinking about things, and here you are again all cheeky.”

“Thinking about things?” Cuphead asked, but Cagney had disappeared back into the house. Cuphead sighed and turned back to the water before him, Cagney’s and Werner’s words mixing and congealing in his mind. He could tell what happened with Rumor had gotten to Cagney, he couldn’t imagine how, but he was disgusted with the fact that with even the little leeway the gardener had given him his conscience was already forgetting about his troubles, pushing them under the rug.

Cagney was still right, and now Werner wasn’t any less wrong. Cuphead was the worse brother, he always had been. The debtors had doubted them along the way so far, calling what they were doing a selfish endeavor. They always said it to Mugman, he was the driving force of their whole journey after all, but he didn’t deserve to be accused of that. He’d jumped most enthusiastically at the thought of collecting debts to save their souls, at that point not even thinking of double-crossing the Devil, and he was the one who suggested they go to the stupid casino in the first place. The only reason he’d even come with Mugs to try and help everyone afterwards was to make sure he wouldn’t get hurt (which had proven an equally futile endeavor), because he didn’t want to see any more consequences to his decisions. He wanted the happy ending, and felt cheated. Like a child. And being a child wasn’t an excuse, especially not now. He still felt hollow inside, and he was still fixing nothing.

“Ahem.” Cuphead turned around to now see Werner in the doorway, shielding his eyes, and jumped up off the bench. “Is he gonna be okay?” he asked worriedly.

“Yes, yes, I have glued all ze pieces into zeir proper places. As long as nobody touches it, it should be dry in about ah, an hour and a half.”

“Oh… well, thanks so much! I don’t know how I can repay you…” Cuphead trailed off.

“Don’t even zink about it. I do not vant zat much to do vith you, still recovering, you know... but I vould say you freeing my soul makes us even, no?”

“Not too many others seem to think so,” Cuphead mumbled. “Vell, I vould razer you say you vere planning on saving me before you shoot me to hell, but same result. I don’t zink zings meant so much to me as zey do to your friends,” he suggested before shrugging. “Ah, zings have grown very difficult as of late. I know, vat an observation, but… I don’t know. Just know zat your brozer vill be okay, yes?”

“I – yes. Thanks again, mister Werman.”

“Verman,” he corrected, cracking a bit of a crooked smile. “Zough I suppose zat is not as fitting anymore.”

---

The clock told Cagney that an hour had passed, but it felt like time was moving slower by the minute. Everything was covered in dust, all Werner had lying around to read were crumbling wartime newspapers, and perhaps most prevalently Psycarrot had been running his mouth ever since Cagney had taken a seat. Beppi had long fallen asleep, and once Weepy had come down he instantly became the sole reason for the continuation of the tall man’s rant. Cagney didn’t even know what he was blathering on about, though Weepy seemed to, nodding and punctuating his friend’s sentences with periodic “of course”s and “I see”s. The only thing Cagney was learning was how the pudgy man got to be such a good listener.

He didn’t even feel like mumbling an excuse for leaving the room, just dragging himself off the couch and meandering over to the staircase, cringing at a badly patched up hole in the wall. For that cup’s sake, walls better not be this guy’s forté.

The stairs creaked even under Cagney’s meager weight, meaning that the house really was in a state of disrepair, or at least was really old. Nevertheless, the gardener was fairly certain he wouldn’t plummet through the floorboards on his way up. He glared around at the close walls, able to touch either side with his outstretched arms. He hadn’t been lying to the cup when he said he wasn’t used to being indoors.

He came up into a tinier hallway, with a cramped looking restroom and a second door that was barely cracked open, leaving Cagney to wonder at what was behind it. He reckoned poking around would be rather rude, but he didn’t figure now to be the time to start caring about manners.

Not wanting to make any noise, and knowing that the door hinges had to be rusty considering the state of the rest of the house, Cagney managed to slip through the small opening between the door and its frame. He put his hat back in its proper place, and scanned the room. It seemed to be a bedroom, but the cluttered desk piled high with papers and loose machinery begged to differ. The only light in the room would be coming from an old, spindly lamp on the edge of the desk, which at this hour was off, leaving the weak sunlight cast across the floor with the task of lighting the whole room.

Cagney shivered involuntarily as a draft came in. The window was open, the threadbare curtains stirred slightly by the wind. He quirked an eyebrow, wondering why it was open. The house was stuffy, sure, but none of the windows downstairs were open, where it was arguably more unbearable. He walked over and poked his head out the window, looking around curiously. Upon looking to his right he found the answer to his query. Werner was seated on the house’s slanted roof, his arms resting on his propped knees and a cigar clamped between his teeth. He was staring out over the cityscape, lost in thought.

“I thought you couldn’t deal with this much light,” Cagney said loudly. Werner snapped to attention in a spasm of surprise, almost losing his cigar, as well as his balance. “Gott,” he hissed under his breath. “You could give a man a varning, instead of a heart attack.”

“I’m bored. Sue me. Didn’t think you were so high-strung,” Cagney remarked, climbing out onto the roof with him.

“Vell, vhen you are in a var for some years, ze smallest zings can bring bad memories. And zat silly contract did not help.” He puffed at his cigar, seeming to chew it more than he smoked it. “How did you get in vithout me noticing?” he asked. “Zere is a reason I do not oil zat door.”

“I slipped through,” Cagney explained shortly. “I didn’t want anyone to know I was snooping.”

“Hmm. You are small. Zat can be useful, at ze expense of ozers.”

Cagney gritted his teeth. “It’s really not. Being small only makes it easier for folks to punch your teeth in.”

“Ah, zat is vat you think. Yes, small is less to go through, but small is also less veight to drag around,” Werner pointed out. Cagney scowled. “Well, I got served by a bloke who’s almost thrice as tall and probably tenfold heavier than me. Explain that.” Werner shrugged. “I do not know vat to tell you. Perhaps you do not understand vat you could do.”

“And how would you know?” snapped Cagney. “You’re no towering figure, but you’re not three foot five, either. Don’t tell me what I do and don’t understand.” Werner quirked an eyebrow. “I vas vonce far shorter zan you, you know,” he said quietly. “Of course, you vouldn’t know. I vas alvays a nobody, especially after ze deal.”

“Oh, that’s rich. Why would you make a deal to make yourself shorter than even me?”

“Because zat vasn’t vat ze deal vas about, dummkopf. You need to slow yourself, you are not ze only person who ever had problems.” Cagney leaned back onto his hands, annoyed but not about to argue otherwise. “Fine, then,” he said. “Let’s hear about this eye-opening deal of yours.”

Werner stared back out across the city, blowing shaky smoke rings thoughtfully. “... I am not so good vith stories. I never liked zem, zey vere alvays big, alvays false, alvays pointless. And mine is not so different, really. But if you are going to be so stubborn, to yourself and to me, zen I vill tell you. But like all of our stories, vithout explanation it all sounds like ze ravings of a madman. So, since ve have time, and you say you have nozing better to do… I vill start at ze beginning.”

Chapter Text

This is JN to WW, can you read.

WW to JN, yes, though there is much delay. This place is not the best for signals.

Can you at least intercept their signals.

Yes.

Good. We will routinely run signals daily to make certain that connection has not been broken. You will also report all that you receive from them.

Yes, I understand, I have heard this many times.

Stay professional. Report what you hear, keep the connection.

Report, keep connection. Over and out.

Werner removed the small headset from his ears, leaving it on his shoulders and rubbing at his temples exhaustedly. It had taken him days to get settled into the house he’d been put in to work, and almost days more just to set up his equipment correctly as well as in time to receive the message he’d just responded to. His bleary eyes wandered over to a small, fat book on the edge of his desk: an English dictionary. He rolled his eyes, being reminded of the icing on the cake of suffering. Living on an isle somewhere vaguely off the coast of the States, even if he wasn’t planning on staying for long, Werner wasn’t going to survive without at least attempting to learn how to communicate with the people around him, though the isle didn’t seem to just be comprised of people. He’d spotted living tableware, sentient turtles, and other such creatures that one wouldn’t expect intelligence from, or any life at all in some cases. It would have been a lot to take in, but Werner would rather spend the whole of his life on an isle of strange, intelligent nonhuman life than go through any of what he’d seen and felt in the years prior to his involvement with the assembly.

Hearing scratching at the door to his study (which was currently doubling as a bedroom), Werner smiled and walked over to open it. A small, grey cat rushed in, rubbing itself along Werner’s leg.

“Es tut mir leid, mein kätzchen,” he apologized softly, picking up the cat and sitting back down, letting it rest in his lap. He’d been too anxious to allow the cat in the room, in case it somehow interferes and severed the connection. Werner could not afford those kinds of mistakes. He cracked open the dictionary, deciding to practice with his cat. His hunger would force him out to ask someone for a decent meal eventually. “Hungry,” he read. That one was easy enough. His cat meowed. “Hungry?” Werner repeated as a question. Receiving another meow, Werner sighed and got up from the chair, taking the book with him. He padded down the stairs in his socks, and went to the kitchen, taking down a bowl from the cupboard. “Bo-ull,” Werner sounded out from the book, getting the proper food from the cupboard. “Food… in ze bo-ull… to ze cat,” he muttered out to himself, setting the food down. “Ich, ah, I, veel be hungry in time… no, no,” he shuffled through the pages. “Soon,” he said. “I veel be hungry soon.” His stomach grumbled, almost on cue. He took his coat, putting the dictionary in its pocket, and went out, making certain that the doors to his study and the house itself were locked tight.

It was a cold night, but considering that the last few nights had been just as cold, Werner was willing to bet that the city’s coastal nature lent itself to consistently breezy weather almost year-round. He was comfortable with that hypothesis, particularly since he hadn’t any way to test it. The isle, in addition to not being on any maps, had no place in any almanacs, encyclopedias, or even known radio frequencies. Werner had fiddled around for hours to find a single frequency that worked from his house. He’d ask some locals about the weather, or anything of that description, but though they seemed friendly enough, he knew it would be too much of a hassle. He could understand English well enough, having listened to transmissions in all sorts of languages over the years, but speaking it was a different matter entirely.

Werner hadn’t really explored the city at all either, so he didn’t really know where he could find a decent place to eat. He figured he’d just walk around until he found a place that vaguely resembled a respectable eatery, but he didn’t want to walk in the cold any longer than he needed to. He grudgingly pulled out his dictionary, searching for the proper way to inquire as to the whereabouts of a restaurant. Unfortunately, he didn’t think to stop to find what he was looking for, and soon collided with another passerby.

“Entschuldigen sie mich…” he muttered out of force of habit, trailing off as he ran his eyes over the much larger man he’d run into. His dumbfoundedness was less out of fear than confusion, as the man before him seemed to be dressed like a pirate. He even had an eyepatch, with a scar running through it. There were also two other pirates with him, of equal size. “What was that?” he asked. Werner stammered some nonsense to himself and flipped through the book. “Ah… esch-yoos me,” he read, cringing at his undoubtedly poor pronunciation. The man laughed and took the book from his hands “Ah, hey!” Werner protested. “Gif et to me!”

“What, you need this?” the pirate asked. “Huh, let’s see… ah, he’s a jerry,” he told his friends before turning back to Werner, who was trying to find a way around them. “Say ‘worrying wagons wear wet wheels.’”

“Uh, vorrying vagons vear –“ Werner started distractedly, only to realize they were taking advantage of his accent. “Zas… not… ah, funny,” he tried to say, but the pirates were already laughing. Werner was getting rather fed up with his current situation, his fingers starting to curl into fists. He sighed. “Hey!” he barked, getting the three’s attention. “Ged aveg. I need to valk,” he ordered, hoping he didn’t sound too aggressive. He didn’t want any trouble, especially from three men much bigger and likely stronger than himself.

“What, are ye gonna fight us?” asked one of the pirates. “No, I… I do not vant… uh… how do you say… trah-bul…” Werner insisted helplessly.

“Oh, vell, if zat is not vat you vant, zen ve vill be on our vay, laddie…” the pirate replied sarcastically. “But not before givin’ yer book a new coat’a paint.” With that, he tossed the dictionary into the dirty puddled water beside the curb, all three laughing as he did so. Werner bent down irately to pick it up. “Sheißkopf…” he muttered under his breath. The pirate, who was walking away, stopped and turned back. “What did ye say, lad?” he asked in a low tone. Werner stood up, smacking the damp book against his coat. “Du sheißkopf,” he said, louder this time.

“Ye talkin’ about me?” He asked. Werner narrowed his eyes. “Fick dich,” he snarled, walking away. A large hand clapped on his shoulder and whipped him back around. “I dunno what ye said…” the pirate growled, “but I don’t like the way ye said it.” Werner felt a pit in his throat, cursing himself for being so petty.

“Hey! Get your mitts off that poor guy!” The pirates all looked in the direction of the voice, seeing a fairly short woman in a small dress marching over. “You again…” the pirate groaned.

“Yes, me again. Just because your captain made you dock here and occupy this city doesn’t mean you can just terrorize its citizens,” she said pointedly. “What did this man ever do to you?”

“Uh, he insulted us, I think,” one of the other pirates spoke up. She quirked an eyebrow. “You think?”

“He doesn’t speak English,” the other explained. “Then how do you know he did? And even if you’re right, I’m sure he had a damn good reason. But enough pussyfooting around. Drop him and get out, or your captain gets a few choice words from me. Which’ll it be, boys?” she asked. They looked between each other for a few seconds, then the leader of the group sighed and took his hand off Werner’s shoulder. “C’mon boys,” he muttered. “He ain’t worth it, anyway.”

They lumbered off, and the girl rushed over to Werner worriedly. “They didn’t bloody you up, did they?” she asked. Werner shook his head. “No, no, I am fine,” he assured. “It ist no trah-bul.”

“Well, it is trouble, and it’s really my fault that those brutes are loitering around here to begin with,” she admitted. “There must be some way I can make it up to you.”

“Uh, vell, I need to find a restaurant,” he said slowly. “I do not know my vay… here.”

“Of course! You must have just moved here. Well, don’t worry. I’ve lived here as long as I can remember, so I know my way around. Heck, I’ll even pay!”

“Oh, no need, I haf –“

“I insist! I could even join you, if that’s all right with you. Tell you how things go on around here.” Werner mulled it over. He did feel a little lonely, having not talked to a friendly face in days beside his own cat. “Okay,” He finally said. “But you do not pay. Ve pay, ah, um…”

“Together?” she prompted. He nodded. “Well, all right. You really are too polite for your own good.”

“No, it is ze right zing to do,” Werner countered, meaning it. He was far from the most reverent person he knew. The girl rolled her eyes frivolously. “Call it what you like. Follow me.” She took off at a brisk pace, Werner following frantically behind. They winded through alleyways and backstreets until they finally came upon a café by the sea. “I come here pretty often. They specialize in seafood, obviously, but they have all kinds of different stuff,” she chattered, getting the door for him. They grabbed a table by the window and started browsing the menu.

“I have… zis,” said Werner pointing to the cheapest thing that was still food. The girl quirked an eyebrow, then laughed. “You can get whatever you like. I won’t mind. You look like you could use a decent meal, anyway.” He looked at her blankly, and she sighed. “Alright, I’ll get something we can share. That won’t be so awkward, will it?” Werner thought about it, and shrugged. She smiled. “Great!” As she called over a waiter and ordered, Werner’s eye was caught by a ghostly flash outside the big glass window, far off in the distance. “Vat…” he muttered. “Hm? What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Light… zere…” he haphazardly tried to articulate. She followed his finger. “Oh, the Express?” she asked. “I guess it is kind of odd.”

“Vhy does it… ah, glow?” He finally forced out, finding the proper word in the book.

“Well, I guess this is rather alarming to newcomers, but no one can actually use the Express. No one alive, anyway,” she explained. “It’s a train for the dead.”

“Ze dead?” repeated Werner, disconcerted. “How…?”

“Oh, it’s far from the strangest things you might find on the Isle. Even the place the Express runs past is stranger.”

“Vat is zat?”

“… The casino,” she murmured hesitantly. “If there’s one place you should avoid, it’s there.”

“Ah,” muttered Werner. “Zen ve… are not talking about it, yes?” She looked up briskly. “Yes, yes, of course. There’s no need to mope around about that dreadful place all night. So, where are you from? You sound German, but I don’t want to jump to conclusions…”

“Yes, I am from Germany,” confirmed Werner. “It is… ah, not good, how, ah, easy it is to tell,” he added sheepishly.

“Nonsense, I don’t blame you! You seem to understand me well enough.”

“Yes, I hear English on ze radio, but I do not speak it,” he explained.

“And what brought you to Inkwell Isle? Not too many people know where we are…”

“I am here to vork. Zis place is good for my vork. And, ah, ve do not need to speak, about my vork. It is… how do you say… personal,” he added.

“Well, that’s all right. I won’t pry,” she assured him. “But you must be able to at least tell me something interesting about your life. You seem like a guy with a story.”

Their shared meal, a platter of shrimp, arrived. Werner slowly dug in first, wondering if that was rude. He was very hungry, and didn’t feel particularly bound to etiquette at the moment. He realized she was expecting some kind of fun fact from him. “Uh… I have a cat?” he answered in the form of a question. She laughed. “That’s boring stuff. Come on, dig deep.”

“Vell, I ah…” he dug through the book. “Fought… in ze… var.”

“The what?”

“Ze… Great Var,” he slowly clarified. She gasped. “You fought in the Great War?!” She exclaimed. He nodded. “I did not do much fighting, I vas good vith machines, so I did zat. Not any kind of, ah, hero, you know…”

“Shut your mouth, you fought in an honest-to-goodness war! Even if you survived one day out there you’re a hero in my eyes,” she proclaimed. Werner rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Zank you… I zink… I do not know. Zose times are not, ah, good to remember. I am scared to zink of zem. It does not feel like I am a hero.”

“…Can’t argue with that, I suppose. Are you still… um, in the war?”

“…No. I vork vith people… about ze var, but I am not on ze front now,” Werner said carefully. “I am here because ze radio is easy to hear, I need to keep connection.”

“Oh, I see. If you ever have trouble with that, there are some folks I can hook you up with. There’s some guy across the city who’s nuts for that kind of stuff, you know, radios, machines, whatever. I dunno, but I can’t really say I know too much about what you’re doing.”

“It is okay. I do not speak about me very much. It is interesting, zat you know everyone in zis place. Vell, it is like zat to me,” he mentioned. She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, well, everyone kind of knows everyone around here. It’s a small city. The real weird thing is that it isn’t all that common for someone to know a lot of people in other parts of the Isle. It also isn’t too often that people around here ever leave the Isle. It’s a fine place to settle down, and lots move in, but if someone grows up here, they tend to stay. I can’t fathom why.”

“Vell, I ah… imagine zat some people here are very strange to ze vorld,” Werner guessed tentatively. She chuckled. “Yeah, I guess so. Living tableware and phonographs and such don’t really exist outside of here, I’m pretty sure. Honestly, that’s probably it. But no one really knows where those types come from. There’re old statues and stuff at the Ridge of the same kind of people, but there isn’t really a way for them to… you know, multiply. It’s something of a mystery, I guess.”

The plate was empty by this point, and the shared check sat at the edge of the table, paid. It was late, and Werner remembered that transmissions started in twenty minutes. “I need to go,” he said. “Zere is somezing I need to do soon, for my vork.”

“Oh, goodness! I haven’t been holding you hostage, have I?” she asked worriedly. He shook his head vigorously. “No, no, zis vas very interesting. I do not hear about places I stay very much, and zis place is very different from vat I see, ah, normally.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Zat… is not exactly vat I am zinking, but I do not –“

“I understand,” she said reassuringly. “I’ve never gone outside the Isle myself, let alone a totally different country, but I imagine adjusting is pretty hard. I’m pretty easy to find if you need anything, so, um… good luck,” she finished, smiling.

After that evening the days passed in relative monotony.

—————

“Wait,” Cagney interrupted. Werner turned to him irritatedly. “Vat?” he asked.

“What happened that night? You said ‘transmissions’, whatever the hell that means, started in twenty minutes. And now we’re what, weeks in the future?”

“Oh, did you vant me to go over days of listening to ze same schlock, nozing of note happening?” Cagney paused and rolled his eyes. “Well, when you put it that way… but you’ve been awful coy about what exactly you listened for.”

“… I suppose zat is fair enough. It doesn’t really matter anymore, but I vas vorking vith some ozers to, ah, ‘fix’ ze vay our country vas run. Zey vished to become a new republic, but zey needed to know ven vas ze opportune time to strike. I needed somezing to busy my mind, I vanted to forget my days on ze front, so I intercepted transmissions from authorities, about ze var, about zeir uncertainties. Anyvay, all zat you need to know is zat over time, I realized zat ze republic vas not going to fix anyzing. Zere vere signs overlooked, but zey vere clear. I knew zat zey vouldn’t listen to me, so I simply stopped doing my job. I did not give zem misinformation, but I did not keep connection. So vone day, some veeks later, I received ze message I knew vould come eventually.”

—————

JN to WW. You have not been keeping connection. You’ve refused to answer any of our warnings. We take this as an act of treason. We know where you are staying, and will come to forcibly remove you from the isle shortly. Over and out.

Werner leaned back in his chair, keeping his breathing even and considering his options. He couldn’t leave, that much he knew. He hadn’t the money to pay for transport, and he doubted any of the pirates on the shore would hear him out. He held his cat in his arms, feeling his heart palpitate underneath it. His nerves were getting to him, and it was getting harder to think. He was down to his last cigar, and his usual brand didn’t come cheap on the Isle. His hands were trembling, he hated when they did that. He needed something to level him out, something to wash the bad thoughts from his mind. He looked around the room for answers with abandon, until an advertisement caught his eye outside the window.

The casino. The one place he was told to avoid, and to his desperate eyes, it looked like his best bet for respite.

Werner entered the casino easily enough, he had been expecting some sort of security. Perhaps the name “the Devil’s Casino” was enough to scare off the usual riffraff. He also made good time in finding the bar, much to his continued surprise. The casino was a very big, crowded, confusing place, and he’d suspected that looking for anything in particular would take a lot of time. The bar was very ironically being tended by a bottle of whiskey, who noticed Werner as soon as he sat down.

“What’ll it be?” he asked. Werner looked in vain for a menu. “Vat are your prices?” he asked. The bottle let out a hiccuping sort of chuckle. “Don’t you worry about all that. Everyone pays eventually around here. And I’ve got everything, just name your poison.” Werner wasn’t exactly sure how any part of that statement worked, but he hadn’t the energy to care. “Uh… vatever is your best brandy,” he requested distractedly, once again not able to muster up enough conviction to want anything in particular. “Comin’ up, mister,” replied the bottle. “You got a lot to drink away tonight?”

“...I am only trying to get my head on straight,” explained Werner. “I am not zat sort, who… drown zeir troubles.”

“Nah, nah, I know your type. But you got troubles, yeah?”

“Of course. Everyone does. I suppose some more zan ozers…”

“An’ are you some?” Werner took the glass that had been put in front of him and looked back to the bartender suspiciously. “Vhy is zat anyzing to you?” he asked. The bottle huffed indifferently. “There ain’t any reason to mope around when there’s a solution right in front’a ya, is all I’m saying.”

“Vat solution?” asked Werner, taking a drink. “You are being, ah… not clear, vith vat you are saying.”

“Come on, there’s gotta be a smoother way to get my attention.” Both Werner and the bartender turned to see the source of the new voice, who slid effortlessly into the seat beside Werner. “Well, ya can’t expect a perfect opener, boss, ain’t like I’m ever sober…” the bottle rambled irritably. The man shrugged. “Guess I can’t argue with that, though it doesn’t sound all that ideal for someone wanting to keep their job… fetch me a martini, will you?” The bottle gulped and nodded sloppily. “Yessir, comin’ right up,” he assured him, rushing off. Werner acted natural, as he wasn’t in any mindset to interact with anyone at the moment, but he could practically feel the dice man leaning in closer. “You are some, aren’t you?” he whispered in Werner’s ear. The former soldier turned stiffly to face him, finishing off his glass in what he hoped was a standoffish manner. “Some vat? Zat vas not good ven zat bottle said it, and you make it sound no better!” he retorted.

“Someone with troubles. Not any normal sort of trouble, oh no, but an inescapable… trap,” the man elaborated, smiling. Werner didn’t like the way he smiled. “Who is to say zat it is in-es-cay-pah-bul?” he returned slowly, annoyed at how stupid that word sounded coming out of his mouth. “Well, why don’t you tell me all about it? We might want to take the edge off you first, hmm?” the man suggested. The bottle returned with his martini, as well as a fresh glass of brandy for Werner. “Looks like you’ll be holding your drink tonight,” the dice man remarked to the glass, who sighed in relief. “Now let us be awhile. But keep our glasses full, you hear?” The bottle nodded again and ambled off unevenly to the other end of the bar.

“You are… ze owner?” asked Werner tentatively, starting on his new glass. The other man smiled. “Close, but no cigar. The name’s King Dice, and it’s my gig to keep this joint up and running and respectable, you get me?”

“So you, ah…” Werner trailed off, unable to find the right word. “Manage,” King Dice finished for him. “The boss ain’t around tonight, he’s a busy guy, so I’ve got the floor. I usually do, but he’s left me up to all his dealings this time around.”

“He has a lot of faith in you, I zink,” remarked Werner awkwardly, not knowing how to respond to that. The drink wasn’t helping. The manager laughed. “You must be new around here, man. The boss has got more than a lot of faith in me. I ain’t his right-hand man for nothing. But enough about me.” He took up his martini, which looked to be barely half-drank. “I see somethin’, in your eyes. I know what it is ‘cause I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen it in the eyes of every stiff who stops by for a shot: desperation.”

“Vat am I ‘des-par-rat’ for zen, herr King Dice?” Werner asked sarcastically. He thought the added title of “king” a little much. The manager’s smile didn’t falter. “You tell me, that’s what I’ve been sayin’. I can’t help ya if ya don’t tell me the whole story.”

Werner’s second glass was empty, and he knew that had been a mistake. He never asked for help, much less from a clearly shifty casino manager, but his mind was too clouded for him to see that. So before he knew it, his situation was spilling from his lips, dipping in and out of English, to the point that in hindsight the fact that King Dice had understood any of it was astounding.

“Hmm. So you’re cornered, eh? Caught, like a rat in a trap,” the manager summarized, still grinning from ear to nonexistent ear. “Vell, I have not seen all vays to fix…” Werner rambled, trying in vain to resist whatever the man was about to try and sell him on. “That’s true,” Dice interrupted. “You haven’t seen my way.” He pulled a roll of parchment from his coat pocket, and Werner quirked an eyebrow. “Vat is zat supposed to be?”

“Your ticket to gettin’ outta your bind,” Dice explained vaguely. “Now, this ain’t no ordinary contract, that does any ordinary thing. This’ll help ya, all right. But things’ll change. You’ll change. Quite literally,” he snickered. “You are not making sense,” muttered Werner, wondering why he was still drinking. “Vat is ‘literal’ change?”

“Every one of these deals has what some might call a snag,” explained Dice. “See, you can’t keep yourself the way you are. You’ve got to become something else. In your case, I think this’ll work in your favor.”

“So you are saying… I am not, ah… human?” droned Werner, that statement not sounding as ridiculous as it should have to his mind. “Bullseye. This’ll help you hide, and make it all worth your while. This ain’t without its price, but you won’t have to worry about it for awhile. You’ll be ready to give up what you owe at some point, and we can be as patient as we’ve gotta be around here.”

“I… do not have to vorry about a lot of zings, in here…” Werner mumbled. The manager pushed a quill into his hand. “That ain’t anything to complain about,” he pointed out smoothly. “Now, I’m a busy man, and I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do yourself. So how ‘bout you sign, there on the line? Don’t you worry, everything’s in order, mister Werman.”

“Verman… is not my name…” muttered Werner, though his hand seemed to think the opposite. The manager grinned wider. “I think you’ll find I ain’t barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

---

The next few days would be the most oft-forgotten of Werner’s life after the contract, as his mind had gone straight to auto-pilot the moment he realized what his stuporous desperation had made him agree to. He had tried to mitigate the state of things, keep himself stable, because things weren’t really that bad. Certainly, he was about a sixth of his usual height, and his eyesight was terrible, but he had other, new ways of seeing things, and the form the contract had forced him into would serve to solve his problem. After all, when one’s back is against the wall, beggars can’t be choosers.

So perhaps there were countless other ways he could have handled the situation, or even more reasonable things the casino could have done for him, but he didn’t see himself giving those ways any names or dimension beyond hypothetical. And that in itself definitely was not the result of his mind being busy with the task of finding himself a functional place to stay, as he couldn’t exactly live comfortably in his house anymore, at least not in the same way. So Werner dealt with things, until mere hours into the first day, when he was made aware of the worst price to pay for being a rat.

He heard it before he saw it, though he wouldn’t have otherwise. His new ears twitched every which way of their own inclination, and his entire body went absolutely stiff. Something deep and unfamiliar was keeping him rooted, raising his adrenaline, but he could also feel it working in tandem with something else, something acquired from years of crouching in the depths of the earth and hearing the foreboding crescendo of footprints on the ground above. It sounded so much like that to him, now. But he knew those second feelings. He could deal with them. He ran, but behind him something clamped down, and he couldn’t get any further. Not on him, not completely, but on another addition, by that roll of paper he’d since wedged into the walls. He hardly had the time to turn around before what had been his cat decided to have a go at swallowing him whole.

There was hardly any tragedy to be found, not in the moment, and Werner could say little to mitigate his fate outside of letting out a petrified shriek in the small, high voice that he hardly recognized himself. He didn’t like to think of those next thirty or so seconds, and really he didn’t have to. All that mattered was that he finally kicked and screamed enough to be forsaken as food, and regained conscious thought in the hole he’d made a home of, panting in shallow bursts and drenched in sweat and spit. He muttered countless garbled phrases to himself for hours, until he could stand to move his limbs again.

They came looking for him a couple of days later, and considering how off-kilter his train of thought was, it was a miracle that Werner wasn’t found. Though he supposed if they did, they wouldn’t know it was him. He always assumed his cat had escaped the house that day, as he never saw it again. And somehow an entire week passed without his realizing that he had a missing tail to remember it by.

----------

Werner had stopped talking, though that change wasn’t very abrupt. His voice had gotten progressively quieter since he described the deal itself, and by this point he was struggling to get the last bits of use out of his cigar. This was fine by Cagney. He didn’t care to hear anything else on par with what Werner had been telling him for the past half hour or so.

“Need a cigar,” muttered Werner, and Cagney took that as direction to go back through the window. The veteran followed him, and Cagney waited in silence as he dug through the desk drawers, coming up short. He straightened up, taking a deep breath. “I am out,” he sighed. “I suppose zat means I must brave ze outside,” he added with a dry chuckle. He scanned Cagney’s face, and chuckled again. “I am sorry. I do not like zat story very much myself, and I do not know vat meaning it truly holds, now zat I have said it all aloud, but I hope it has given you… perspective.”

“...Well, you still didn’t like yourself under contract, yeah?” asked Cagney, absentmindedly realizing his question to be a little insensitive. Werner’s gaze dwindled across the instruments on his desk, like he was seeing them for the first time. “Vell, I vas ze vay I vas for over ten years, like many of us, and I vould razer pretend I am okay until I believe it zen be catatonic for an entire decade out of… grief, fear, vatever I have felt. And ven zose children showed up, all I saw vas zat zey vere servants of zem who had changed me, and vould not even allow me to sink completely into a new normal. Zat sounds… illogical, but I lost myself over ze years, lost ze meaning of logic.” He looked briskly back to Cagney, and cleared his throat. “But zat is anozer story, and I have rambled enough. Much time has passed. Ve should check ze cup downstairs.” He took off down the stairs, Cagney in tow, the latter uncharacteristically silent.

---

“He’s fixed?” asked Cuphead, jumping up from the bench. Werner nodded. “Zat is vat I said. But do not celebrate yet. Zere is a lingering issue.”

“What? What do you…” Cuphead trailed off. Werner gestured him inside, and they entered the dim kitchen. Mugman’s head was back on his body, fixed albeit cracked, but his eyes were still empty, his soul still in the pot on the table. “Why isn’t his soul back?” asked Cuphead quietly. Werner sighed. “It is not zat easy. Ze liquid, vatever connection it has vith you normally, does not connect to your brozer anymore. It is beyond my knowledge how to fix it.” Cuphead’s expression tensed, and he turned to the veteran accusingly. “You promised to fix him! You said you could –”

“I promised nozing. I said zat I could fix him. So I have. And I vould not be so calm about zis if zere vas not anozer vay. So do not be so angry just yet,” he implored the cup, some sort of reluctant pleading in his eyes. Cuphead relaxed his hand (he hadn’t even noticed it curling into a pointing position), and leaned back on his heels. “Okay. I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Right. Zere is a man, at ze edge of ze city. He knows how to fix zings, as I do, but he is much better at it. Furzer more, he knows how to deal vith… souls, minds, zose sorts of zings.” Cuphead looked up apprehensively. “He wouldn’t happen to work in a junkyard, would he?”

“I do not know about zat, all I know is zat he lives by ze Ridge, and he is good vith machines.”

“Oh,” muttered Cuphead. “He’s a debtor, then.” Not a very reasonable one, at that. Werner looked at the cup with pity. He just looked so miserable. “If it is a problem, tell him zat I sent you. Ve are not friends, really, but ve are not enemies eizer. He knows my name, and I believe trusts it. I vould come vith, but –”

“No, I understand. You don’t owe me anything. But thanks, for doing all you could to fix Mugs, and… I’ll try to put the past behind me,” he added as an afterthought, still unable to forget Werner’s earlier words. Werner ran several responses through his head, and deemed them all ineffective. So he simply turned on his heel and started back out of the kitchen. “I vill get ze tall man from ze ozer room. You can find everyvone else. I vill not be here ze rest of ze day, probably, and I cannot have people taking up space.” Cuphead nodded wordlessly, staring into his brother’s hollow eyes for a minute. He’d been lucky, coming across a forgiving face when the more polite of the two of them had been taken out of commission. But he wasn’t sure he could face their next former foe alone. And no one around seemed inclined to insist otherwise.

Chapter Text

“Where… *huff* on earth are we going?” panted Psycarrot. “Looks like we’re heading out to the end of the world.”

“You’ve never seen a junkyard before?” Beppi laughed. The tall man scoffed. “Sure I have. But that over there is practically a junk city.”

“It’s gotta hold three isles worth’a scrap,” Beppi reminded him. “Plus, I don’t think whoever hangs around here cares to do the job’a keepin’ it all neat.”

“Wait, you don’t… know the debtor at the junkyard?” asked Cuphead tentatively. Beppi shrugged. “Eh, probably’d know ‘im if I saw ‘im. I ain’t Djimmi, I can’t pull everyone’s name an’ favorite color outta thin air.” Cuphead nodded like that didn’t mean anything, but inside his stomach started churning all the harder. He could talk to people, sure, but he couldn’t make nice with anyone, that was usually Mugman’s job. He could get what he wanted, make people do what he wanted, but now he didn’t even know what he wanted. As far as he could see inside himself, he just wanted to forget everything in the past week had ever happened. That clearly wasn’t going to fly with over twenty people wishing the exact opposite.

“Hey…” Cuphead jumped a little at Weepy’s hand on his shoulder. “I won’t… try to say I know why you’re, um, shaking like that, but whoever this fellow is that we’re going to, I’m sure you’ll do just swell in working things out,” he assured the cup with a smile that Cuphead couldn’t bring himself to dismiss as false. That didn’t mean he had the strength to match it. “I…” he started, not having any plan how to finish. “No, no, don’t go through the trouble of putting on a show,” Weepy insisted. “I know that something’s going on in your head, though I can’t profess to know what it is, and it’s okay, really. No one’s being all that fair to you.”

“But they are –“

“INTRUDER.” Cuphead was cut off by an ear-shattering mechanical voice making all five of them jump. Beppi lifted his foot gingerly, revealing that he’d stepped on some kind of pressure plate. “Welp, leave it to the clown to set off the alarm,” he remarked, shrugging exaggeratedly. Mechanical turrets rose out of the ground around them, and metal gates blocked the way behind them, signs indicating that obstructing was not their only function. Finally, a speaker mounted on a nearby pole crackled to life, and a hoarse yet aggressive voice broke forth from it.

“Don’t think I don’t know who’s at my gate, especially if it’s someone as… crucial as you. This is quite the interesting bunch, I must say…”

“Mister, I… I know what you think of us, but…” Cuphead trailed off, words not coming to him. “The kid’s brother is empty, you see,” Beppi continued for him. “We heard you could help ‘im out with that.”

“Empty, hmm. Vague wording, all seem to be mutually gathered… blast, I can’t quite confirm…”

“Werner told us to come to you,” Cuphead spoke up. “He said you could… put my brother’s soul back.”

“…Werner? Werner Werman?! Ha!” the voice cackled gratingly. “Haven’t seen that little bundle of nerves in years! But, hmm, that is interesting. He trusts you? Him, trust… hmm.”

“Well, he… didn’t say you guys were friends or anything…” Cuphead muttered.

“… Oh, all right, I believe you. Werner rejects the very idea of any level of camaraderie above ‘ally.’” The gates rose, and the turrets dipped downward, seemingly deactivated. The group reluctantly started progressing again, only to be stopped by an engine-like noise growing louder from their left. Around the corner of the fence came a dishevelled-looking man riding in what quite plainly looked like a flying bucket, if one were to imagine it without a disquieting empty face front and center. “Hmm, haven’t seen all you folks before,” he mused, leaning forward precariously. “Besides the agonizing tea-brats, of course.”

“Well, one of the tea-brats needs whatever mumbo-jumbo you’ve got around here, so we can be on our way,” Cagney spoke up irritably. The man raised an eyebrow, his expression difficult to determine under his thick glasses. “My ‘mumbo-jumbo’ is called science, thank you very much, but I can’t exactly fault you for such petulance. If I didn’t have this splendid machine to putter around in, I’d feel a bit contained, too.”

“What’s that supposed to –”

“Empty, you say?” the scientist interrupted, flying over to Psycarrot, who was still holding Mugman. “Without a soul, you say? A cup?”

“That’s right,” said Cuphead. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “You have the soul, yes?”

“Yep!” chirped Beppi, holding up the canteen they’d been provided. “All that’s left is in here.”

“A liquid form! I’ve never gotten my hands on the likes of this before,” he exclaimed, scooping it out of the clown’s hands. “Werner does know I like my experiments… whatta guy.”

“Experiments?” Cuphead asked, expression tensing in apprehension. The scientist swivelled to face him. “Oh, don’t you worry, kid. Yer brother’s safe in my hands, literally now, ha ha! But really, you are in a hurry, aren’t you? You with the hair!” he commanded, pointing at Psycarrot. “Bring the little blighter this way. I’ll take ‘im in the garage, and be done in a jiffy!”

“I’m coming with you,” said Cuphead. A hand reached out of the bucket-thing’s mouth and held up a finger before his face. “That’s a no, kid. You wanna break stuff in the junkyard, go nuts. You can even climb on the darned robot if it strikes yer fancy. But I’ll rot in hell before I let a little twerp like you in my lab. Nothin’ personal, just facts.”

“What wasn’t personal about that sentence…” Weepy muttered under his breath. “Someone’s gotta find new ways to say what we’re all feeling,” Psycarrot retorted. “Even Cagney’s going soft at this point.”

“I’m not going soft!” the gardener protested. “If you don’t like my brand of lampooning, why don’t you do it yourself?”

“What lampooning? All I’m seeing are dead stares and pleading for your enemies’ lives,” returned Psycarrot. Cagney’s face screwed up in fury but he said nothing in response. “C’mon, champ, we don’t have all day,” the scientist implored dully, flying off towards a run-down garage across the dirt road. “And what are we meant to do?” called Cagney pointedly. The scientist waved a hand with wild abandon. “Second verse, same as the first. Whatever ya darn well please. Just stay away from my blasted garage!” The gardener groaned exasperatedly, stomping off into the mountains of scrap to do exactly that.

“....Hey, y’think you could carry this brat’s dead weight in your flying machine there?” asked Psycarrot, almost out of breath. “I’ve been carrying him for almost an hour.”

“Well, you can carry him for twenty seconds more,” the scientist returned matter-of-factly. Psycarrot rolled his eyes. “Who are you, again?” he asked, annoyed. “Kahl, Doctor Kahl, if you please,” the scientist answered shortly. “None’a that ‘some call me’ or ‘who I am now’ business. I got bigger fish to fry than explaining a laundry list of names to strangers. But I did earn the doctor bit fair an’ square. What about you? Can’t keep calling ya ‘guy who lost to a Tesla coil,’ it’s too long.”

“My hair isn’t exactly on my priority list, doctor. And it’s Psycarrot.”

“Hoo boy, that’s a weird one. Self-applied?”

“Yeah, got a problem with that?” Dr. Kahl shook his head. “Nah, nah, I made a contract, even my name’s half-invented. But at least I picked a good one.”

“Well, mine made perfect sense at the time,” grumbled Psycarrot. Dr. Kahl laughed. “What, so you’re a debtor too, and you made a contract to be a blasted carrot?”

“Maybe I did!” argued Psycarrot defensively. “Ha! Love to see that creative process. You’re not pullin’ my leg, though?” asked the scientist in a strangely intrigued way. Psycarrot cocked an eyebrow. “No… why else would my name be Psycarrot?” Dr. Kahl stroked his purple goatee thoughtfully. “Hmm, better and better. Lemme set up, get things rolling, I’m gonna have quite the mouthful of questions for ya.” He pushed up a comically huge lever beside the garage door, causing it to open. He then leapt over the side of his flying contraption and entered the garage, revealing himself to be about as short as Cagney was. Guess if I was that small and I could fly around six feet off the ground, I’d flaunt every opportunity to do it too, Psycarrot reasoned to himself.

“Right,” Dr. Kahl interjected, marching over to a rickety recliner and pulling it into the upright position. “Sit the kid there, you can strap ‘im down if you like. Wouldn’t want ‘im all broken again, would we?” Psycarrot followed the scientist’s instructions, scanning the garage as he did so. Heavy-duty tables were piled with numerous parts and tools, but also vials, flasks and beakers half-full to brimming with scientifically labelled chemicals and mixtures. “What is all this stuff?” he asked, intrigued. “Well, if ya want the saga, that’s a whole day unto itself. You want the index an’ additional notes, you’ve got yourself a few years,” answered Dr. Kahl facetiously. “An’ ya don’t seem like a city boy, so my guess is ya don’t even know half the tool rack.”

“I’m sure I’ve worked harder than any of your ‘city boys’ can say,” scoffed Psycarrot. “Seen more, used more –”

“What’s this?” interrupted Dr. Kahl, holding up a tool from a table. “... A wrench,” Psycarrot answered lamely. “Nah, only got it halfway. It’s a monkey wrench,” the scientist corrected. Psycarrot furrowed his brow self-consciously. “... You made that up,” he muttered. Dr. Kahl cackled wheezily. “I ain’t sayin’ you don’t work hard, just sayin’ ya don’t fix the same stuff.” He turned to the table and stepped up onto a metal footstool, putting the canteen down beside him. “Right,” he said again. “Business time.” He took an empty beaker and a pair of rubber gloves. Tapping his foot to some unheard song in his mind, the scientist cracked open the canteen and slowly poured its milk-colored contents into the glass container. “Hmm, not quite white, not quite clear. I wish I knew if all souls were this color as liquids…” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder self-consciously. “Well, get over here, just grab a pair of glasses!” he whisper-yelled at Psycarrot, like he was about to show him something secret. The tall man scrambled over, snatching glasses off another table on his way.

“Now, don’t touch a thing, unless ya wanna dig around for gloves.” The two stared into the beaker, as the liquid inside swirled into little eddies and bubbled slowly, though no outside forces acted on it besides its container. “It’s active, visibly ever-altering, it’s like… like… weak yeast, or… or…” Dr. Kahl stammered distractedly scribbling illegibly on a notepad. “...A brain?” Psycarrot finished questioningly. “Yes, perfect! That’s likely how it works too, no wonder it’s in their heads…” he affirmed excitably. “So, er, how exactly do you put it… back in?” asked Psycarrot. Dr. Kahl paused, then snickered. “That, dear boy, is the fun part… I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“... You are a doctor, right?” Psycarrot asked skeptically. The scientist laughed. “Why, sure, I’ve even studied souls, for years now, but they’re always… ethereal, you know, they slip right through your fingers, more metaphorically of course. Now I have a prime subject to answer all of my most burning questions!”

“Well, is that going to take long, because Cagney wasn’t just being surly, we’re on a mission here,” Psycarrot reminded him pointedly. The scientist scratched at his head absentmindedly. “...I could simply figure out how to make a soul liquid…” he suggested, mostly to himself. “We could try cooling it to post-freezing temperatures, see if it starts to freeze… yes, let’s try that!” He lifted the beaker with both hands, and carefully took it over to what looked like an old icebox. “That’s an icebox,” Psycarrot said aloud. “Don’t imagine it gets too low.”

“Pffha, you think a scientist would keep any old icebox in his garage? This baby practically triggers cryogenesis! S’how I kept up an’ shufflin’ after the contract,” he added as an afterthought. “What? Did your contract kill you or something?” asked Psycarrot, confused. Dr. Kahl shrugged. “Not really. That blasted Devil sure did try, though.” He closed the icebox and sat on a footstool, casually cracking his neck like fireworks. “I couldn’t get that darned robot to take a soul. I figured, hey, maybe I’ll figure it out if I’m the one inside ‘im, y’know?”

“That’s a terrible idea,” replied Psycarrot dryly. The scientist pouted. “Yeah, well, you can’t talk, mister Psycarrot. Hey, yeah, almost forgot the best joke I heard in years.” He took his notepad and pen from the table and sat back down. “Right, how humanoid were you?”

“I’m sorry?” asked Psycarrot, thrown off-guard. Dr. Kahl rolled his eyes. “I’ve got a former sentient carrot in my garage, I’ve gotta be a little curious. Or a lot. Answer the question.”

Psycarrot rolled his eyes. “I had a face, and arms,” he answered bluntly.

“No legs?”

“No. My legs are killing me right now, if that was your next question.”

“It wasn’t,” Dr. Kahl muttered, scribbling something down. “Did you have a brain?”

“Yes. I could control things with it.” Dr. Kahl’s eyebrows went up a bit. “Interesting… did you have a stomach? Lungs? Other vital organs?” Psycarrot ran a hand through his hair absentmindedly. “Well, we never needed to breathe, or eat, so I’d say no and no. I dunno about other vital stuff, but we didn’t even have blood, so…”

“No heart, then.”

“None of us had a heartbeat,” confirmed the tall man. “Us, you keep saying. How many were you?” the scientist asked. “Three. What’s that got to do with anything?” He shrugged. “I’d like to talk to each of you, if I could. If, of course, you were all different vegetables.”

“We were, but I’m not dragging Weepy in here. You’d prob’ly scare him half to death, get the waterworks going in record time, and I’m through with fixing his waterworks,” Psycarrot declared adamantly. Dr. Kahl raised an eyebrow. “Weepy… onion, was he?” he guessed coyly. Psycarrot nodded, and the other man laughed. “Good to hear none of you have a creative bone in your bodies. Right, we’re gettin’ off track. You’re all I need, anyway.” He scribbled some more. “So, no heart, meaning your brains worked via… nothing, and from the sounds of it your onion pal’s been a literal crybaby for years, meaning you had tear ducts, and of course eyes, without a skull… arrrgh!” he grumbled, crumpling up the sheet he was scribbling on. “It doesn’t make a lick of sense! Nothing in this blasted world makes any blasted sense!”

Psycarrot raised an eyebrow. “Well, of course it doesn’t, we made a contract with–”

“No, no, that’s not a factor! That horned cad went on and on about how science can get in the way, how I needed to make my contract just so, and I had to make sure my body didn’t rot to the bone while I was in the blasted robot, and it decayed at a perfectly reasonable pace, and… and…” Dr. Kahl trailed off, massaging his temples with two fingers each, a vein throbbing in his forehead. Psycarrot could certainly relate to that image, particularly with regards to the past couple days. Besides, he had a pretty sufficient explanation percolating in his mind for the scientist’s agony.

“Hey, you ever think… maybe the Devil took the way you think about stuff for granted?” he asked. Dr. Kahl looked up, vaguely bewildered. “What are you talking about?” The farmer shrugged. “Well, you seem to find science pretty important, unbreakable, whatever you want to call it. But the Devil doesn’t exactly have to abide by any such rules. From your point of view, barely anyone’s contract up to this point has sounded plausible. So he made you think that he had to follow the rules, and… well, I dunno the details of your contract, but it sounds like that was used against you.”

“...You’re saying the Devil can only make contracts as plausible as his sucker of the day thinks it has to be?” asked Dr. Kahl skeptically. Psycarrot rolled his eyes. “No, that makes too much sense. The Devil can do whatever the hell he wants. He was just messing with you.”

The garage was silent a minute or two, save the various machinery pumping away around them. Dr. Kahl rubbed at his eyes under his glasses groggily. “… You talk too much. Sharp, sure, but egad.” He stood up. “Let’s check on the mug kid’s soul, eh?”

“I’ll hold you to that, you know,” Psycarrot said, grinning a little. Dr. Kahl raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Your admitting my sharp wit.”

“Whaddya want, a medal? Any idiot can pull words out of a hat. The real wise guys are the ones who know when to do it. And when to flaunt it,” he added, grabbing a long pair of claw-like tongs. “Okay, out it goes. Then we’ll figure out how to actually get this baby back where it goes. Wouldn’t wanna keep you waiting too long.”

—-

Cuphead hated that his legs were still shaking, despite the fact that the massive machine before him was clearly broken. He didn’t have to be there, staring down its hollow eyes and into the busted-up void of its chest cavity, but some kind of curiosity had drawn him to it. It was probably over twenty feet tall, and would’ve been impressive and awe-inspiring had it not had the connotation of a near-unstoppable murder weapon.

“Gosh, is this the robot that fellow was talking about?” asked Weepy, approaching it from Cuphead’s right. Cuphead nodded. “He piloted it, I think.”

“It’s incredible. Frightening, of course, but the idea that something like this can work and work well… it’s certainly beyond my comprehension,” the pudgy man remarked distractedly. “Oh, it worked well,” confirmed Cuphead. “We thought it was impossible to take down for a while, thought maybe we should lure Kahl out of it somehow, but… well, you’re looking at our handiwork now.”

“Yes, I suspected… its head looks empty,” noted Weepy. “Did you boys take… whatever goes there for yourselves?”

“No, that’s where his flying thing goes. But I’m sure there’s some kind of machinery up there…” the cup trailed off thoughtfully. Weepy watched his face apprehensively. “Oh, I don’t really need to know –“

“Eh, he said I could. Maybe you guys’ll get a kick out of my own head smashing on the ground.” Cuphead started over to the robot’s left leg, and Weepy rushed after him frantically. “You can’t, that must be twenty feet up, it’s too dangerous…”

“Let ‘im go.” Weepy turned to see that Cagney had showed up behind him. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Weepy asked irritably. “He is the ‘worse evil’, right?”

“Slow your roll, you busybody. We can keep an eye on the brat together. Believe me, I’d rather not spend another two hours in the anxiety house,” Cagney groaned, though he seemed to be concealing more reasons why that was the case. Weepy didn’t push the matter. He’d learned the hard way that Cagney didn’t like being pushed.

Cuphead put his arms out on either side of him, walking along the robot’s tube-shaped leg like a tightrope. “So this is how that crackpot handled things,” Cagney muttered.

“Hmm?”

“I made a contract, he made a robot.” Weepy nodded slowly, understanding. “Well, you didn’t just make your contract because of that, right? And I’m sure he didn’t either.”

“Oh, I know. With science to make you as high up as you like, who needs to sell their soul?” Cagney asked rhetorically, throwing his hands up.

“…I’m sure he has the same sentiments on the matter as you. In fact, it’s a little obvious, seeing as he’s been compensating for his height since we arrived,” Weepy pointed out. Cuphead started up the middle of the robot, using the bolts on its edges as footholds. Cagney snorted indifferently. “I’m not saying it’s bothering me any. It’s just annoying how he’s got to prove himself like this. No one has any use for a robot this big, and… what the hell are you looking at me for?” he asked, noticing Weepy staring at him incredulously.

“Pardon, but… what exactly were you thinking upon making your contract?” asked Weepy quietly. Cagney bit his lip and decided that a selection of small rocks beside his feet looked very interesting at the moment. “…S’not the same,” he muttered.

“It… sort of is,” Weepy continued slowly, waiting for the inevitable blow-up on the other end. “I mean, he didn’t make a contract just because of that, and neither did you, really, but… um… I feel like you’re being a bit hypocritical here.”

“What do you know about it?” snapped Cagney. “I had to do what I did. I wanted, needed power and respect. Otherwise I was nothing. And now here I am, nothing once more, and this fink is building himself up, showing off everything he’s got, just because he can.”

“You… you used to do the same thing,” Weepy reluctantly pointed out. “Every time you visited our garden, you showed us that… that you could shoot us up, or constrict us to death, or even just look better doing those aforementioned things than we ever could. And you certainly… weren’t very kind about my sensitivities, ei-either. And I… don’t recall a reason ever being given for that.”

Cagney lifted a finger and opened his mouth to answer, and the other winced, expecting the worst. But Cagney didn’t say anything. His arm hung in the air, and his mouth stayed dropped, but nothing came out. He noticed his admittedly ridiculous posture and turned back to the ground hastily, arms pressed against his sides. “I’m sorry,” Weepy murmured after some seconds passed. “Don’t apologize,” Cagney said dully, not really talking to him anymore. “I don’t…” he started. Weepy couldn’t read his face, as his hat obscured it. “Hell, I don’t deserve it,” he finally forced out, almost too quiet to hear, turning on his heel and stiffly walking away, back into the depths of the junkyard. Weepy watched him go, softly wringing his hands absentmindedly. A part of him knew he hadn’t any reason to feel guilty, but the dominating thought persisted that he had just been unprovokedly rude.

“Hey, mister Weepy!” came Cuphead’s faraway shout, breaking him out of his trance. He craned his neck upward to see that the cup had reached the robot’s shoulder, and was waving down at him. “Splendid work,” Weepy congratulated him. “Now, could you come back down? You’re making me dreadfully nervous!”

“The view up here is something else!” exclaimed Cuphead, ignoring him. “There isn’t a part of the junkyard I can’t see! … ‘cept in the garage,” he added as a disappointed afterthought.

“Yes, yes, so are you finished up there?”

“All right, all right, it’s kinda funny that you’re worried about me at all, y’know,” Cuphead mused, looking down the slope of the robot’s midsection. “Hey, I’ve got a swell idea!” Before Weepy could inquire as to what that idea was, it went into terror-inducing action before his eyes as the cup started sliding down the robot’s torso on his behind, arms up like he was on some kind of imaginary roller coaster. Weepy was sweating buckets as Cuphead had his head tilted forward so that the liquid in his head just barely didn’t fly out behind him, and he was sure he’d faint when the cup reached the end and flourished his journey with a flip and landed a little wobbly on his feet, the contents of his head about a half-second behind him. Cuphead scanned his face and laughed. “You worry too much,” he teased. “After fighting a bunch’a folks and gettin’ me an’ Mugs into trouble just as bad every other day before, I’d be lame if I didn’t know how to handle myself.”

“Well, I hope there’s someone around to worry for your safety…” Weepy trailed off, watching Cuphead’s mouth turn down into a frown as he found the answer to that question. Weepy found it as well and quickly backpedaled. “O-oh, yes, yes, but I’m sure there won’t be any trouble if you just –“

“Aaaaand viola! Toldja it’d be a breeze.” Both turned to the source of this exclamation to see Dr. Kahl, Psycarrot, and…

“Mugs…” Cuphead whispered, voice apparently having left him. He cleared his throat shakily. “Mugs!” He cried again, louder this time, and ran over to meet his brother. Mugman hadn’t time to respond before being tightly enveloped by the other’s arms, the edges of their heads softly clinking on contact.

“G-Gee, Cuphead, I just woke up a minute ago, maybe not so tight…” Cuphead quickly released his embrace and stood back hastily. “Sorry, Mugs, I wasn’t thinking about that! I just…” he trailed off, becoming distracted by the spiderweb of cracks that dominated the left side of Mugman’s face. He hadn’t really thought much of them before, but now he realized that from this point on, those cracks would remain for the rest of his brother’s life. He absentmindedly lifted his hand toward them, barely believing they were real, but left it hanging in midair, thinking that Mugman wouldn’t want his hand on scars that he was indirectly responsible for inflicting. But instead Mugman chuckled, and lifted Cuphead’s hand to his face himself. “It’s okay, Cuphead,” he assured him. “They don’t hurt or anything, and I don’t reckon you’ll push the pieces out of place.” Cuphead left his hand on the cracks, barely feeling them through his gloves. I did this, his mind repeated to him, over and over again, unceasing and persuasive.

His face screwed up as tears filled his eyes, and Mugman put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said again, his own eyes welling up. Then he chuckled and voiced the concern that Cuphead had just been poring over before they approached. “…Elder Kettle’s proll’y going to kill us, huh?” he asked. Cuphead gritted his teeth and nodded stiffly. He’s probably gonna kill me, his mind modified. He should.

“Right, not that I don’t love a sappy reunion, but are we done here?” asked Dr. Kahl. Mugman turned to face him with a bright expression. “Yeah. Thanks so much for getting my soul back where it’s supposed to be, that was real nice of you to do for someone like me.”

“Eh, think nothing of it. It was definitely more for me than you. But hey, if ya ever see Werner, tell ‘im we should get a drink sometime, catch up. An’ ask ‘im how the cat’s doing. It’s way overdue for re-inspection,” he added.

“Gee, I wish I saw Werner. He must’ve been a real nice guy, fixing me up and all. Well, I guess I’ll just have to find time to thank him! I didn’t know he did business with you, though.” Dr. Kahl shrugged. “Barely. He’s a fine mechanic, just didn’t have the resources. All I did was give ‘im what he needed, aside from the cat. A roboticist he ain’t. Anyway, enough chit-chat. Apparently you’ve got places to be.”

“Oh, yes! Yes we do! I guess it really won’t make much of a difference to you, though…” Mugman pointed out. “Your pal told me all about it. I think I’ll gain something of importance if you guys pull this off, but… eh, I’m pretty far gone already. Good luck, in any case,” he concluded.

“Thanks, miste– er, Dr. Kahl. Sorry for the trouble,” said Mugman sheepishly.

“Yeah, yeah, apology accepted, long as ya leave me be,” he replied curmudgeonly, though not in bad humor. Everyone gathered outside the front gate as the scientist left back to his garage.

“So, where’re we going?” asked Mugman. “I’m sure you all planned everything out while I was down for the count.”

“No, not really,” said Beppi. “We’ve kinda just been planning around gettin’ you back on your feet.”

“We go straight to the end of the line,” proposed Cagney bluntly. “None of these so-called ‘cheaters’ have had any answers. All we can do now is find the man himself.”

“No,” said Cuphead. Cagney raised an eyebrow. “Why not?” Cuphead’s stomach churned, and only got worse as he thought of going back in there, looking either of them in the eye, knowing they were looking for chinks in the armor. And they’d find them, they’d find them fast. “Because…” he trailed off, searching for a excuse sufficient enough to satisfy the gardener and finding nothing. “Because there’s still one more human debtor,” Mugs broke in.

“Are you even listening? That sort hasn’t been helping us in the slightest!” Cagney reiterated, annoyed. “Well, that’s because their deals worked in a way we didn’t think they did. But there’s one more, and I don’t think she has any such tricks up her sleeve. She never even turned into anything when we fought her,” he argued.

“No. We’ve been messing around for far too long. I’d even go so far as to say we’re boondoggling,” he added, staring down the cup defiantly. “You can’t possibly think I’m this stupid. I’m done throwing words around. Let’s go wheedle what we want out of that wretched skinflint so we never have to speak of this again, and the sooner that happens the better off we’ll all be.” The group was silent for a moment, waiting for Mugman to answer to the gardener’s accusations.

“… Well, I think the mug kid’s got a point,” said Beppi. “I reckon none of us wanna go right to ol’ Scratch if there’s some broad who’s got what we need right in front of us.”

“Yes… I don’t think he would be too keen on helping us, anyway, and certainly not without a price,” Weepy added. Psycarrot furrowed his brow then shook his head as well. “It just doesn’t make sense,” he admitted, shrugging. Cagney put up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Have it your way. I’m not stupid enough to march over there myself. Let’s go hear from miss who-cares.”

The group started off in the direction of the bridge to the casino, or more specifically the theater beside it. “Hey, Mugs,” Cuphead muttered. “Thanks.”

“Sure. But you owe me an explanation. We always said we’d tell each other everything, didn’t we? Because we’re brothers…”

“…And good brothers know each other like themselves,” Cuphead finished. “I know. But I’m… still working through stuff, you know? I don’t even know how I feel right now,” he lied.

“…Okay,” Mugman said reluctantly. “If you say so.” Of course, he didn’t believe his brother, but there were other things on his mind, too. If their last hope didn’t give their companions what they were looking for, they’d have to go all the way to the casino. Mugman certainly hadn’t planned that far ahead, but by this point it would be inevitable. Despite all they’d talked about and been through the last couple days, no one in their current company seemed to have changed. Everyone who had wanted their form still wanted the same, vice versa for the opposite, and Mugman was all out of ideas. He’d always kept his spirits high, his wit sharp and mind open. But now, having almost died and evidently for naught, Mugman could hardly hide the truth that inside, he was no more sure of himself than his brother was.

Chapter Text

“Cuphead, I’m a little worried.”

“Oh, now you’re worried?”

“Shush. I mean, this lady isn’t all that dangerous, she was easy enough considering how far we’d come to get to her, but she was kind of er… dramatic.”

Cuphead rolled his eyes. “She is an actress, you know.” Mugman pressed his mouth into an indignant frown. “I know that! But I’m pretty sure that until we snagged her contract she thought the whole fight was just a big show.”

“I don’t think she’d be that dumb. I think she was just messing with us. Almost everyone’s been reasonable enough this end of the Isle…” he trailed off, immediately regretting that statement. Mugman chuckled and hitched a thumb at the cracks in his head. “Yeah, almost,” he said. Jokingly, of course, but that didn’t make Cuphead feel any better. “I don’t think she’ll be that bad,” Mugman reassured him. “And if she is, I know we’ve got friends on our side. Like Cagney,” he added, chuckling again.

“Bite me,” the gardener responded dully from behind them. Cuphead really didn’t know whether the sentiment was sarcastic or not.

“Goodness, I haven’t been to the theatre in ages,” remarked Weepy as they approached the worn yet ornate playhouse by the edge of the isle. “Define ages, ‘cause you never went on my watch,” Psycarrot questioned pointedly.

“Oh, I do mean ages. I must’ve been only a child, it was all before we had to move across the Isle. I quite enjoyed it, nonetheless,” explained Weepy with a faraway look in his eyes. Psycarrot scoffed. “Well, I’ve never been. Suppose I oughtta give it a chance.”

“Ha! Stageplay ain’t exactly baby’s first theatre experience!” Beppi warned. “Her cavalcades are simple, but damn does she pour it on thick!”

“Stageplay? Sally Stageplay?” asked Weepy. “I remember seeing a show of hers… not to be a downer, but I’d think she’d be… expired by now.”

“Nah, that’s the thing. She’s a real stage star, always there, always doin’ what she does best! … Also, I guess she was a debtor,” Beppi added thoughtfully, before waving a hand frivolously. “Eh, Sal’s great. If there’s one bloke or broad in this city I ain’t on the fence about, it’s her.”

“Hey, the door’s unlocked,” announced Mugman, easily pushing the wooden double doors inwards. “That’s a new one.”

“Ooh, she’s expecting us,” whispered Beppi excitedly. “This’ll be good.” Mugman pushes the doors open tentatively, and everyone stepped into the foyer of the theater. Dim lights flicked on, pointing the way to the door into the house itself, which they all followed. “Great, my vision’s already kaput. This isn’t any help,” muttered Psycarrot as they entered the almost pitch-black theater. “Uh, Miss Stageplay?” asked Mugman aloud. “We need your help, and –“

“So it has been heard!” interrupted a loud, commanding voice from the front, on the stage. A light flickered on, revealing its source to be the debtor of interest. She wore a ragged dress, and looked haggard and wounded. “Two, alike in family, must repay their ignorance with open ears. So they approach their broken, beaten foes, in a hope to hear their story, in order that their remorse is not wasted… but little do they know!” she suddenly shouted, straightening up and tearing off her dress to reveal her blue one underneath, in perfect condition. “That some need not solidarity, but privacy! For always one’s dignity is one’s own, to hide from the flush of shame, of weakness.” Mugman sighed as he got the idea. She didn’t want them around. “But we don’t –“

“Do you? For it has been heard that the hardest hearts have the highest walls,” she crooned, barely talking to them anymore. Suddenly, Beppi rushed over and hoisted himself into the stage. “Hark!” Sally exclaimed. “A passing fool!”

“Indeed, and it is said that a fool is not the fool but he, nay, she, who dismisses his words,” he responded in a similarly melodramatic fashion. “I would count self-importance as one against the fool, but nevertheless, dear wandering bard, what hast thou to say?” asked Sally, raising an eyebrow.

“Though it may be that the hardest hearts house the highest walls, the hardest hearts may also conceal the softest of fears,” he pointed out. “Sometimes it is not retribution the damned seek, but a stoop to linger at for the last chance of shelter before the dead morning cold settles around him.” He flourished this last statement with a descent to his knees and a slow, melancholy lowering of the head almost to the wooden floor. Sally stared frozen a second, then laughed, echoing around the theater. “Ah, I missed you, Beppi!” she exclaimed. “Though I forgot why I wanted you off the stage: you ham it up even more than I do!”

“Eh, you’re bein’ tame by comparison,” Beppi remarked, standing up. “I know you like bein’ the star an’ all…”

“Oh, to hell with that persona!” Sally interjected. “After years and years of being in the limelight, there comes a point when one sees fit to become moderately self-aware.” Her eyes dwindled over to the rest of the group, before exaggeratedly whipping her head away. “Well, you aren’t imbeciles. Get out!”

“Miss, Beppi was telling the truth just now, when he was acting with you,” explained Mugman again, walking into the spotlight. “We don’t wanna pry, we just –“

“Ooh, intriguing scars,” Sally interrupted, seeing the cracks on his face. Mugman put a hand to them self-consciously. “Yeah, uh, that was someone else. It’s passed now, doesn’t matter, but what –“

“Does it? I reckon you all can say the same for your own scars, inside and out?” Sally addressed the rest of the group. No one made eye contact. “That’s what I thought. I’ve lived long enough to read a face paralyzed! And yours aren’t much less stiff… stiff with denial, I’ll say that much.”

“Yeah, okay, so that’s all well and nice, but how’d you get out of the catch?” Cagney asked, stepping up impatiently. Sally quirked an eyebrow. “What catch?” Cagney’s own eyebrows twitched up in response. “What ca– the same damn catch that everyone under contract had to deal with!”

“The catch that makes everyone choose another form to flaunt off all your contract powers in,” Beppi clarified. “I hadda do it, these folks hadda do it, but you didn’t hadda do it, so what gives?”

“… Oh, I feel I’ve heard something along those lines before, but I never had to deal with any such thing,” Sally answered, tapping at her cheek thoughtfully. “It must have been something they decided on after my contract.”

“What?” several people asked at once.

“When I said ‘I’ve lived long enough’, I for once was not being dramatic,” Sally explained. “I’ve lived in Inkwell Isle since its earliest days. I’m certain the casino wasn’t even in business during my childhood. And I didn’t make my contract too long after that. It’s been so long, I don’t even bother counting the years anymore.”

“So you didn’t even weasel out of the catch,” groaned Cagney, the answer being exactly what he expected. “You got out of it by…”

“Correct, I wasn’t even told of it. It was just ‘immortalization is your poison of choice? Your name and your soul, madam.’ I didn’t realize they ran that house so different now. Anyway, why do you need to know? Just because you feel the discomfort of reverting from an entirely different form does not mean you can exploit my own discomfort of facing long-alienated mortal setbacks,” she said pointedly.

“Well, that’s what we came here for,” said Mugman. “Th-the first one, I mean. All these guys need to get back everything the contracts gave them, and we thought if you’d gotten out of that catch maybe you’d know how to reverse it, or… something, I don’t know.”

“I’m afraid not, child. I would be sorry, but it is rather amusing that fate has not ceased in asking your repentance,” Sally admitted with a grin. “So all I will say is, good luck with the Devil. You’re giving him quite a selection of exploitable weaknesses.”

“All right then,” Mugman sighed. “Thanks, I guess. At least you aren’t mad about the whole contract thing.”

“Oh, I’m quite on-edge,” Sally assured him. “However, I like to think I’m more mature than I look. Bygones are bygones, and after almost a century immortality gets rather dull. I’d think the other long-time debtors could say the same and more for spending so long in a form not their own, with a soul debt hanging over their heads no less, but from what I see you’re dealing with the opposite effect. Quite a shame. Well, I won’t keep you.” She snapped her fingers, and the lights dimmed around her. “Oh, and Beppi, we really must talk sometime. I quite like your voice when it isn’t gratingly high-pitched.”

“Ha! I hadn’t even thought about that. Didn’t wanna haul around a tank through the city, an’ then I just kinda forgot. Funny how that is,” Beppi chuckled. It was true; after a time, nearly every member of the group had forgotten what the clown even sounded like on helium. In fact, the further they’d travelled along, it was becoming increasingly difficult to imagine themselves possessing similarly noticeable characteristics acquired under their own contracts.

“Alright, let’s go,” said Cagney, turning on his heel and walking out. “If you don’t want to keep us, we sure as hell shouldn’t keep ourselves.”

---

“Oh, shoot,” muttered Cuphead as they started across the bridge to the casino. “What?” asked Mugman, stopping with him. Everyone else similarly turned back to look at the cup with varying degrees of worry and annoyance. “Um, There’s one more debtor… er, I mean, there was one contract but –”

“Oh, shoot,” Mugman echoed his brother. “Do y’think they’ve got a bone to pick with us? Uh, well, no pun intended.”

“I dunno, who knows what they made that contract for –”

“Who’s they?” butted in Cagney, marching over. “Whoever ‘they’ are, they’re holding up the show.”

“Oh, the train that passes by the casino,” Mugman explained. “Last time, they were unavoidable, they blocked our path. They could do that again if they wanted and… they were a real handful. There was only one contract, but there were five to deal with.” Cagney cocked an eyebrow. “Well, kid, there’s six of us, I reckon we can handle it. Besides, if we’ve been knocked down a peg or two, so have they. It isn’t as much a problem as you might think.”

“...I know you just wanna go to the casino and get it over with, but –”

“Look, if they’re out for blood, I’ll take the brunt of it. I want this the worst, and you’ve already gotten your head smashed to bits. Whatever they’ve got, I’ve taken tenfold worse, and besides, my safety isn’t your business, savvy? Great! Glad we could work things out. On we go.” Without so much as a pause, Cagney started back on his way across the bridge, everyone slowly following behind. Mugman stared dumbfounded, Cuphead pushing him lightly to get him moving again. “...Did he just say that… he’d put himself before me?” Mugman asked quietly, barely believing his own words. “Nah, he just wants to get to the casino, like you said,” denied Cuphead.

“But if that was it, he wouldn’t… if anything, he’d use me as a shield,” Mugman murmured. “I wonder…”

Upon crossing the bridge to the final major landmass in Inkwell Isle, the train tracks running across the path to the casino appeared to be mercifully empty. Of course, that didn’t mean their usual occupants weren’t inside the casino, but the now-faceless and apparently empty train just barely sticking out of the left tunnel was enough reassurance to believe that there was nothing to worry about.

“Okay, stick ‘em up!” The group whirled back around, the brothers instinctively pointing their fingers towards whoever was accosting them from behind. Said accoster immediately put up his hands frantically, apparently not having thought through how he would handle the ensuing situation. “No, no, not really! Gee, how did I forget you actually had… guns, in your… hands…” he muttered slowly. “Well, I mean, I’m… one to talk about strange hands… ah, not my point!” He lowered himself to the ground a bit, as his translucent form had been hovering quite high off the ground. “...I can’t see you, but I know you’re staring… I’m just a ghost, there’s… plenty all over the Isle…” he said defensively, a mood that was offset by his apparent difficulty in efficiently forming complete sentences.

“It’s just that you’re still a ghost,” explained Mugman. Indeed, the former debtor who had stopped them, though looking quite different than he had before, was still not technically human. Certainly, he had legs, some wispy resemblance of hair, and the standard two empty sockets as opposed to his previous one, but he was still ethereal, floating, and blue.

“And you’re… still a cup, I’d think,” the Blind Specter retorted. “That’s not what he means, mister,” Cagney groaned. “Look, if you could just let us be on our way, maybe without another drawn-out string of words exchanged, that would be just dandy.” The ghost looked over in the gardener’s direction, trying to pinpoint his location.

“Oh, I heard others, that’s… that’s right. Well, I can’t let you pass, I’m afraid. There’s something we ought to… discuss.”

“Alright, how about we discuss that we’ve got places to be? I’m sure you just want the cups, and once we’re done in there –”

“What did he mean by… still a ghost?” interrupted the Specter distractedly. “Now that I’m… without my eyes, again, I would rather I wasn’t kept… in the dark, as it were.” Cagney rolled his eyes. “Look, there’s a thing in the contracts that says you’ve got to be non-human under the conditions of the deal. Everyone liked what the contracts gave them, and now we’re trying to get ourselves back.”

“Oh! Fascinating! I wondered why I only had one… socket under contract. So what did that make you?” he asked excitedly.

“If I tell you, will you leave us alone?” asked Cagney irritably. The Specter frowned and shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Me and my friend are on something of a… ticking clock, right now. And I might not have… my eyes anymore, but I’m still a ghost, and can do… lots of things, that you...wouldn’t like. I’d… I’d rather not, but…”

“It’s fine,” Mugman answered, smiling. “We’ll go with you, for just a little time.”

“What?!” exclaimed Cagney. “We’re not letting ourselves get sidetracked by some –”

“If you want to go to the casino, go ahead,” said Mugman. “But if there’s yet another problem we caused that can be fixed if we just know what it is, then we don’t have any choice but to help.”

“Great! Just go on towards the train, please. I’ll… be here, but you know, I’m… not the best with directions,” admitted the Specter bashfully. The group walked towards the train.

“...Where are you, anyway?” the Specter asked Cagney confusedly. “What,” he asked flatly, not in any mood to interact with him. “I hear you, but I can’t find where your… head an’ shoulders are,” the ghost explained. “You sound like a grown-up, but…”

“I’m short,” Cagney answered bluntly. “You’re probably in the right place, just try a couple feet down.” Some seconds later, an oddly cold hand alighted on his shoulder, accompanied by a gleeful chirp. “I found you!” exclaimed the Specter. “Gee, you’re as short as the cups! I didn’t realize… that’s so…”

“If you say cute, I’ll find a way to kill you again,” Cagney cut him off. The ghost put up his hands. “No, no, I was gonna say, it must be… a pain, to wait so long an’ never grow up.”

“I’m still an adult, you know.”

“I know that, but… I guess it’s kinda like seeing. That sounds dumb, but when I was little, everyone was talkin’ about how beautiful somethin’ was, or how... awful the skies were getting, but my sight’s been kaput since I was born, so… I dunno, this probably sounds real selfish to you. I, um, miss my eyes,” he finished hastily, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. “...Well, for awhile, I wasn’t this short,” Cagney mentioned, more out of lingering pride than relevance. The Specter laughed tersely. “Hey, for awhile... I wasn’t this blind!” he returned jokingly. “Right, here we are... the Express. Don’t worry, there ain’t no one in here anymore ‘sides T-Bone an’ I…” he reassured them, opening the door onto the car. Everyone filed in. “What about the others?” asked Cuphead.

“Oh, they’ve been… liquidated. They were never debtors, you know, just… employed by the Devil to keep us in line. But they… liked us, I guess, and were pretty great pals at the end of the day. Shame they couldn’t really… be saved,” he mumbled melancholically. After rapping lightly on a door, the Specter opened it into the next car, which appeared to be of the dining variety. A very familiar-looking skeleton sat at one of the tables.

“You could’ve just phased in here, Spec,” he pointed out. The Specter shrugged. “Manners. Plus, I brought… ah…”

“Guests,” T-bone finished for him. “Right, straight to business. Sit.” The cups hastily sat across from him, while the rest of the group sat quietly in other seats. “Didn’t think you’d have so many with you, but I could really care less at this point,” he started, sounding very tired. “We, that’s me and Spec…. We’re fading.”

“What?” asked Mugman.

“That Devil, he… well, okay. We both died early, obviously. Spec’s a kid an’ I ain’t quite past my prime yet. Details don’t matter, we died. Thing was, we didn’t want to. Again, obviously. Who wants to die before they’re done. We also weren’t the best of people, so when we kicked the bucket, we weren’t in the right place. The place you don’t want to be.”

“Hell,” articulated the Specter quietly. T-Bone nodded. “Yep. And we begged, damn did we beg, but you can’t really get rid of death. The Devil, I guess he was amused, proposed a deal one day. He’d keep us ‘alive’ and out of Hell, with some benefits…” here the Specter looked down wistfully at his hands, “... and we’d shuttle around the damned for ‘im. So we weren’t so much in debt, ‘cause our souls were really already his, but we were still under contract. And now that you’ve voided everything… we aren’t gonna be like this much longer. I know it isn’t right to hang on like this, but… we can’t go back to Hell. Spec, he… he really can’t go back there. So I know, it’s a lot to ask, but if you’re going to the man himself, please tell ‘im to let us go. Into the world, or into the other afterlife, anywhere that isn’t his. Please,” he added, voice hollow and face numb. The brothers stared, in simultaneous surprise and knowing guilt. It took a moment for either of them to find what to say.

“...It’d be our honor, mister T-Bone,” Mugman finally said. The skeleton slowly nodded and stood up. “Then it’s a deal. No, not a deal. A promise.” He put out his hand. Each of the brothers shook it. “Good luck. The Devil and his lackey are no joke, an’ I’m sure you know that already, but what’s coming… I reckon it’s more important than the last time you came through here, what happens in that cave. The Devil’s been beaten before. That isn’t anything new. But he’s never really gone away, an’ I don’t think he ever will. This time around… you’ve got to look ‘im in the eye, and tell ‘im exactly what you’re getting. Not what you want, he knows what you want, he knows what everyone wants. But you’ve got to tell him what you know he’ll give to you, a total certainty, understand?” The cups stared blankly, and he waved a hand. “Ah, you’ll get it when the time comes. You’d better, ‘cause if you don’t, I’ll be seein’ you in Hell.”

The group went back outside, waved their half-hearted goodbyes, and the two train crew-members watched them go listlessly. “You think they’ll… make it?” asked the Blind Specter quietly. T-Bone shrugged weakly. “I dunno. Guess we’ll find out sooner than later, with you fading by the second and my joints locking up.”

“T-Bone, I know it’s been a real long time since we… made that deal, an’ I should be just as… um, resigned as you are, but… I’m scared,” the ghost admitted, voice cracking a little. “I-I’m scared for me, sure, but… they won’t find what they want in there. The Devil doesn’t… work that way. What if we see them all in Hell? What if we do… go back there, and I’m… put in complete… comp...complete…”

“That won’t happen, Spec. I won’t let it, and they won’t let it. This isn’t the time to be pessimistic. The Devil feeds off that kind of stuff. We’ve got to keep alive what little hope we’ve got… and hopefully, they will too. All we can do is wait.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, you there! Mister, ah, skeleton?”

T-bone slowly dragged his head to face what appeared to be a kettle. He could hardly move anything anymore, and the kettle had unwittingly reminded him that Spec had faded enough to scarcely be seen. “T-Bone,” he muttered. “What’s your business, old man?”

“Did you see a pair of cups come through here? With two others, perhaps?”

“Sure. Went in the cave, ah… few minutes ago, maybe. There were six of ‘em, though,” T-Bone answered listlessly. “You their grandad?”

“…Something like that,” the kettle answered hesitantly. “Thank you. I’d assumed they’d gotten this far, but… I have been quite worried for them, you know. Facing against naught but enemies.”

Spec spoke up from wherever he was floating nearby. “One of the cups did have ah… um…”

“Cracks,” T-Bone finished. “Cracks, running down his face.” The kettle put a hand to his mouth. “Oh, god…” he murmured. “And what will that Devil do to them…”

“Better find out soon,” Spec pointed out. “No use in… just hoping it doesn’t happen.” The old man straightened up. “You’re right there… er, mister? I’m afraid I can’t see you.”

“Don’t worry… I can’t see you either!” Spec quipped back. If he had eyes, T-Bone would roll them. “Don’t worry about us. If you think they’ll find trouble, and believe me, they will, then I’d suggest you go on in there before they run into someone.”

“Oh, they’ll run into someone, all right,” the kettle muttered. “I just wish I could run into him first.”

—-

“… Ya know, it’s kinda fun to pretend that nothin’s different in that casino,” Beppi spoke up as they approached their final destination. “It is pretty… quiet. I don’t know why, but I thought it would be… I don’t know, busted up more,” murmured Weepy.

“Ah, don’t get disappointed yet. I’m sure the Devil had his way with the interior,” Psycarrot pointed out. “…Or his flunky did.”

“I’m not disappointed! I just thought –“

“Either way, whatever’s in there won’t be very friendly,” Mugman butted in. “I think we all have some idea of what’s in there.” Everyone nodded, Cuphead more slowly. He knew what was in there, but he didn’t know what state they’d find it in.

The doors were heavy as always but not locked or barricaded. In fact, it didn’t seem like anyone had tended to them at all. Upon pushing them open, it was apparent why. Psycarrot had been correct in his hypothesis that most, if not all damage to the casino had been done to the interior. Though perhaps the word was not “damage” but deterioration. The garish wallpaper was peeling in several places, the usually bright lights were dim or flickering, and as they entered into the main room, many of the machines and game tables had been overturned, scattering cards, chips and dice across the now-matted carpet.

“You know, I think I like the place better now,” Cagney said, kicking at a roulette ball with abandonment. “Really sets a humble atmosphere.”

“This is no time to fool around!” whimpered Weepy. “Any number of… things could be waiting for us in the shadows! And you know he’s somewhere around here…”

“What, mister Dicey McSleazypants? Please. If those ominously crumbling houses were any indication, that fink is pushing up daisies. But hey, I’m not stupid, so let’s say he is alive and kicking. I doubt he’s got the muscle to snuff us at this point. Devil probably kicked him where it hurts for being such a damned joke,” Cagney pointed out.

“I mean, we all lost to the kids too…”

“Not my point.”

“Guys, Weepy is half-right. If he’s around here somewhere, he’s got no reason to be nice,” Mugman reminded them. “So we need to keep on our toes. It might seem like six against one, but last time we fought him, he had plenty backup.”

“Oh, he’s got reason to be nice,” Beppi countered sarcastically. “He’s always got reason to be nice, he’s just never got any reason to mean it.”

“Well, yeah, just… we need to find some way to the Devil, and we’ve got to do it fast,” said Mugman. “The small tower where Cuphead an’ me fought him was gone when the six of us came back through, and that… makes me worried, but there’s got to be another way to get there.”

“Get where?” asked Weepy. “To Hell,” Cuphead muttered. “I mean, we’re kind of already there, but… you know what I’m talking about.” The pudgy man gulped and nodded. The group advanced through the large, high-ceilinged rooms, finding nothing besides more overturned tables and broken light fixtures. More of the same, and certainly nothing along the lines of some supernatural doorway to Hell.

“Dammit all! The hell is this bastard?!” Cagney swore, angrily heaving chairs and machines aside as if they hid the answer to his query underneath. “I’d think he’d damn well like the prospect of folks asking his services! Mighty easier than waltzing over and pouring on the persuasion yourself, ain’t it?!” Weepy slowly approached the gardener. “Cagney, you’ve got to –”

“I’ve gotta what?! I’ve gotta ask politely?! Repent to the godforsaken Devil?! I come all this way, stuck with foppish nincompoops like you, who don’t give a damn whether we fix this mess or not, long as everyone just… gets used to it, huh? Yeah, don’t mind how –”

“Cagney,” Mugman murmured.

“Don’t interrupt me! See, like that, there –”

“Cagney, stop, I hear something.”

“NO! All the damned time, what I’ve gotta say just ain’t –”

“CAGNEY I HEAR SOMETHING THAT MIGHT GET US WHERE WE NEED TO GO!” Mugman shouted. The gardener slowly turned to face him. “What.”

“Listen.” Everyone strained their ears. Somewhere, far off in the casino, the faintest lilting singing could be heard. “He might be our only way to the Devil,” Mugman said. “And I… I’m sorry for interrupting you. I really do care what you have to say, it’s just…”

“No, no, it’s nothing. Great to hear you’ve got some nerve, actually. Come on, we don’t have all day,” Cagney said, starting off towards the source of the noise. Everyone followed suit. “Oh, hey, um…” Cagney addressed Weepy. “What I said, I didn’t… it wasn’t…”

“It’s fine,” Weepy assured him with a weak smile. “I’m used to that kind of beratement.”

“No, it’s not, and you shouldn’t have to be used to it. I’m probably the reason you are, from…”

“...Under contract,” Weepy finished quietly. Cagney nodded stiffly before noticing the other man’s hands shaking.

“...You’re real scared, huh?” he asked. Weepy fiddled with his hands nervously. “A little. Well, that’s a lie. I’ve seen more of the Isle these past days than I have in my whole life, and I suppose I’m going to miss it, once we’re done here.” Cagney had no words for that, and discovered the act of finding any to be a futile endeavor.

“Everyone, shush,” hissed Mugman from the front. They were growing close to the source of the singing, to the point that it was now audible.

“Let her go, let her go, oh bless her…”

“Jeez, he sounds like hell,” muttered Psycarrot, unsuccessfully attempting to diffuse tension.

“Wherever she may be…”

The group rounded a corner and came upon the room the singing was likely coming from, though in there it didn’t so much emanate from one place as it resounded throughout the room, despite its spent, hoarse timbre.

“She could search the whole wide world over…...But she’ll never find another sweet man like me.”

He paused to cough violently, the chandelier barely quivering from the spasms accompanying such an outburst. The brothers decided this was a fine moment to slowly walk over to the crashed fixture, with their fingers subtly positioned at the ready in case of trouble. They searched for where his head might be, to ideally address him properly, but strangely enough couldn’t see any bright white to contrast the darkness, besides the gloves. They supposed they’d see where to look anyway if they only asked his attention.

“Ahem,” Mugman cleared his throat nervously. “M-Mister… King Dice?”

What they could see shifted under the weight of the chandelier, until eyes finally reflected the dim energy at their fingertips. Those eyes, however, were not on the unlucky side of a common gambling instrument, but rather a square-jawed, haggard dark face. Both the brothers froze. The still-familiar face smiled, that same smile, affirming that the man before them was indeed who they had expected to find.

“Well, hello, boys,” intoned King Dice. “I hope you’ll excuse the state of the place; the personel’s left it a fine mess.”

Mugman’s knees trembled, on the verge of buckling. “Y-You’re… you’re…”

“Human?” he finished quizzically. “Yes, real fine observation, that.”

“Y-You didn’t… there was no contract to burn,” stammered Cuphead. “Oh, there was. There’s always a contract to burn. Jus’ depends on who’s doin’ the burning. But that is another matter entirely, and I don’t think I can quite touch on other matters while still faced with this one, get me?” he asked, gesturing to the chandelier around him with his eyes. “O-Oh, right…” Mugman muttered.

“Wait,” said Cuphead. “You’re not going to hurt us, right? Not gonna hand us over or anything like that?”

“Boy, I reckon I’ve broke an arm an’ half my ribs. I don’t reckon I’m in a state to do any such thing,” King Dice assured him smoothly. Cuphead scanned his face for any sign of deception, knowing there wasn’t any point in doing so. The casino’s manager never had any form of intention written on his face. “All right,” he said. “C’mon, fellas. We can’t lift this thing by ourselves.”

Everyone reluctantly made their way over, and collectively heaved the chandelier upwards enough that Psycarrot and Beppi could hastily drag Dice out from under it, as he seemed in no state to move himself. As soon as they put the chandelier back the manager stood up shakily, sloppily retying a clearly shredded and nonfunctioning bow tie back into place. He pulled what looked like a small round mirror from his coat pocket, then tsked as he found it broken. “That’s a little redundant, I’d think,” he muttered, pocketing it again. He really did look like a walking corpse: his suit was shredded, his apparently slicked-back hair mussed almost beyond comprehension. His cheeks were hollow, and his left arm hung limply at his side, occasionally subject to spasms of motion as he tried in vain to use it.

“Well now,” he stated, scanning the group. “Didn’t think you’d get any suckers to come along an’ join the party.”

“Why wouldn’t we be here?” asked Cagney, the first to recover from the initial intimidation that even a broken, dehydrated King Dice could exude. “These finks couldn’t be trusted to get the job done on their own.”

“Mister Carnation,” addressed King Dice, smiling condescendingly. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? I ain’t ever even seen you under contract. Who’s to say it was ever made?”

“Me, mister King Dice,” Cagney sneered. “I wouldn’t be here if that contract, what it did for me, didn’t consume every damned thought in my mind every waking second.”

“Ha, now that’s some devotion. It’s adorable, really,” he complimented backhandedly.

“So’s your intent to rile me when you’re at your lowest.”

“Guys, please,” Mugman pleaded, stepping between the two before one ended up on the floor. “We need to get what we came here for.”

“And what did you come here for?” asked King Dice, grinning wider. “What was worth getting dashed to pieces, puttin’ up with rattlecaps and mollycoddles, all the way across the Isle?” Mugman resisted the urge to put a hand over his cracks. “We were on our way to see the Devil, but it seems he isn’t around, and it doesn’t look like you’re in good with him anymore…”

“You judge right, boy, but not completely. I’ve still got a bit a’ power left in me, despite appearances, and I could certainly get you an audience with the big man if ya ask nicely enough…” Mugman brightened up. “You could?”

“Why, sure,” he confirmed, nodding slowly, still smiling. He kicked at the floor and a hole opened up beneath his feet, with no discernable bottom. “S’that simple, boys. Not sure it’ll stay open for long, though.”

“Wow, that… was simpler than I thought it would be,” admitted Mugman, staring into the abyss. “It can’t be after this, though, right? The Devil’s gonna put up a fight, isn’t he?”

“Smart boy, thinkin’ of smart things. Unfortunately I’m pretty busted, as you can see, but you’ve got four along for the ride, all in shipshape,” he suggested, gesturing at the others with his functioning hand. Cuphead tensed his expression thoughtfully. “Will you be getting us out, or…”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about –”

“Boys! Don’t listen to another word!” All present whirled around to see Elder Kettle standing in the doorway, cane defensively out in front of him. This rigidity lessened considerably when he scanned the scene before his eyes, though he remained determinedly focused.

“King Dice,” he acknowledged, keeping his voice level. “I expected to see you again, whether I liked it or not, but I figured it would be in case of the latter… up until these past few days.”

“Ah, mister Kettle. Good to see you’re still as self-righteous as ever,” replied King Dice casually. “You don’t hafta hide that spark in you, y’know. I know why you came here, I can see it in your eyes. If I didn’t have trump cards of my own on you, you’d be just revelling in vindictiveness right now.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about,” Elder Kettle denied flatly. “What I do know is that you’re taking advantage of my boys, and I’m afraid I can’t allow that, now that I’ve got some semblance of control over the matter.”

“Your boys, Kettle? That’s a laugh. You’ve never done anything with their interests in mind their entire lives.”

“You can’t say that, Dice. I’ve kept them safe for their own good, but that’s besides the point. You’ve g–”

“No, no, let’s keep on with this. The kids are growin’ up, and I could care less about that, but if ya keep paintin’ yourself the way you do, you ain’t no better than the Devil himself.”

“What’s he talking about?” asked Cuphead. King Dice grinned again. “Are you gonna tell ‘em, or am I?”

“Dice, this has gone on long enough –”

“After losin’ a bet and gettin’ stuck in a kettle, your ‘grandad’ didn’t have much else he could do with his life,” King Dice started.

“Dice, if you –”

“Everyone in the Isle was dealin’, changin’ themselves beyond recognition, losin’ themselves, and there Kettle was, just a joe who lost a race,” he continued, voice rising despite its hoarseness. “He didn’t have no one to talk to, no one would listen, everyone jus’ stayed in their own lane and crushed anyone who crossed into it. So after years an’ years he came crawlin’ back in here, all needy an’ lonely. He wanted somethin’ more, something to care about, so –”

Elder Kettle cracked the end of his cane onto the marble floor, sharply cutting off the manager. “That’s quite enough, Dice.” The other looked towards the cup brothers and even the former debtors, all of whom showed varying degrees of shock, confusion, and disappointment. “You know, I think you’re right,” he agreed snidely.

“You… made a deal… for us to be with you?” asked Cuphead slowly. Elder Kettle stared, then solemnly nodded. “After changing, I couldn’t leave here, there were no two ways about it. And every day it seemed like someone had disappeared and been replaced by a thoughtless horror. It felt like I was losing my mind.”

“You said you didn’t make a contract,” Psycarrot muttered. “I didn’t,” replied Elder Kettle quietly. “We agreed that the day I died… my soul was the Devil’s to keep.” He sighed. “I didn’t make that deal all that long ago, you know. I thought I’d gotten off the hook, had more than enough time to spare, but… I began feeling weaker, faster than I should have. But that’s another thing entirely.”

“So the cups are only here, and made this whole mess, because of you,” Cagney summarized.

“And the only reason he was desperate enough to employ the casino to fulfill that desire was… because of us,” Weepy added forlornly. No one spoke for a moment.

“C’mon, Cuphead, we’ve got to fix this,” said Mugman, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We’ve got to do what we came here to do.”

“…Right, let’s get it over with,” agreed Cagney, starting over to the hold only to be stopped by Mugman. “Cagney, I think it would be better if… me and Cuphead went alone.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ve… just got a feeling,” he answered lamely. “I know that sounds dumb, but… can you trust us with this? Please?”

Cagney looked back and forth between the cups for some seconds, quizzically, skeptically, irritably, desperately. Finally he lowered his head and turned away, his expression unreadable. “Be careful down there,” he muttered.

“What? You’re just going to put your soul in their hands?!” cried Psycarrot. “I knew you’d gone soft. Well, I for one won’t stand for–“

“Psycarrot, please,” murmured Weepy, grabbing his friend’s shirt sleeve. “Just let them go.”

“Why? I know you couldn’t care less what these brats decide for us, but –“

“I care that you’re happy!” Weepy protested, tears forming in his eyes. “I’ve always thought you knew the right thing to do, to be happy, but… I don’t know if I believe that anymore. Whatever the children do decide down there… it can’t be any worse than what you have in mind.”

“… You can’t –“

“Please,” he begged. “If you can’t bear to trust them, please trust me.”

“…Fine,” grumbled Psycarrot. “But if you choose wrong, I suggest you stay out of my way,” he threatened. The brothers nodded reluctantly.

“Well, don’t you have quite the rapport with these fellows,” King Dice remarked patronizingly. “You are sure you don’t wanna take any of these fellas along?”

“I’m sure,” said Mugman. “That goes double for me,” Cuphead added. King Dice’s eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, but his face was back to normal in a heartbeat. “Alright, best not tarry, boys. In you go,” he prompted, working arm out towards the circular void. The brothers exchanged glances, and jumped in one after the other.

---

They found themselves on a wide platform, in the midst of the same vast, overheated cave they had become all too familiar with after attempts upon attempts to fix their first mistake. There wasn’t much too see, or at least not much that they wanted to see, and not much time to see it as before them, on the opposing edge of the platform, a long, ornate desk materialized, and sitting behind it was none other than the Devil himself. The only difference was that now he was without half of one of his horns, and his right arm was in a very badly concealed sling. Nevertheless, black eye and all, he was grinning just like his forsaken manager.

“I was under the impression you’d brought others along,” he stated, spitting a small flame to light a cigar. “We decided we could do this alone,” said Mugman bluntly, suspicious of that fact being what the Devil noticed first.

“Well, maybe you can. We’ll see. Come closer, will you? As you can see, I don’t have the best eyes right now.” The brothers slowly approached the desk. It didn’t seem like the Devil was in any mood to fight, or condition for that matter.

“That’s better. Now I can see the cracks all over your shiny, naïve little face,” he grinned. “Better that we’re a matched set, you know?”

“We’re not ‘matched’ in any way,” denied Mugman irritably. “And I’d think you wouldn’t stay hurt like this for so long, being the Devil and all.”

“Eh, I like leaving things to heal. Makes it seem like I’ve learned something, y’know?”

“No, we don’t,” said Cuphead. “If you know we came with others, then surely you know why we’re here.” The Devil took a drag of his cigar and grinned again. “Oh, yes. Indeed I do. You just ‘weren’t finished yet’, is that right?” he quoted. Cuphead tensed his expression, knowing that the Devil was just trying to get a rise out of him. “I didn’t know what the contracts did. Neither of us did.”

“Of course, of course, I’m not tryin’ to accuse you of anything, that’d just be silly.” He watched the brothers’ expressions. “And those debtors jumped straight on that train at the first opportunity, I reckon. Well, that ain’t fair. You oughtta be given a second chance, though it’d be your third with me. Ain’t like I don’t love watching those wretches stumble around in old vessels like they’ve been in a damned coma their whole lives, tryin’ and reaching for a time that as far as they know is outta sight forever more… but let’s not beat around the bush. I’ll give you just what you came here for.”

“What?” asked Mugman, confused. “That’s right,” confirmed the Devil. “I can give all those poor saps their forms back. Just say the word, kid.”

“...No, no, it can’t be that easy,” said Cuphead. “What exactly are you getting out of this?”

“Oh, a bit of advertising, perhaps, and of course entertainment value. But believe me, this is more for your own sanity than it is for any of theirs.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Don’t you want to fix this mess? Best you do it quick… before someone else you care about gets hurt.”

“Wh- Cuphead, don’t listen to him!” Mugman proclaimed. “My head… that wasn’t your fault!” He turned to the Devil. “And yeah, this new deal of yours is a bit suspicious. Why would you want to just give us what we want like that? You’ve got to want something in return, anything –”

“Well, mug boy, if you don’t mind a bit of turnabout, your little quest is a bit suspicious itself.” He leaned back, arms behind his head, the sling having mysteriously disappeared from around his right arm. “You’ve known about these debtors since… well, forever, really, all those fellas dealt with me loads of years back, and, y’know, you wouldn’t be inclined to help out someone your pops described to you as some ultra-deadly monstrosity. But the first time you’ve gotta face ‘em, get those contracts right outta their hands, you don’t even wonder why they’ve got their lot in the first place, how you could help ‘em out. Then you remember, oh, right, these folks don’t deserve to pay up, man, weren’t we a pair of selfish twits.” Mugman’s determined facade was beginning to crack. “So you burn the contracts, hooray, happy ending, right? Oh, no, no, there’s this new thing you gotta deal with, and you can’t just fight your way out of this one! No, god forbid, you gotta talk to these guys about their problems!”

Mugman’s eyes were on the Devil, but it was clear he was seeing nothing. “I know you’ve heard that spiel before,” he said, waving his cigar frivolously. “But I also know that every time you’ve heard it, you’ve always just shrugged it off, denied it, told yourself in your head ‘golly gosh, that sure ain’t me… that’s my brother.’”

“I-I…” Mugman stammered, hands and knees quivering. “Mugs…” Cuphead trailed off. He could see in his brother’s eyes that the Devil wasn’t wrong. “Now, I know. That’s one hell of a burden. And you’ve got the weight of twenty-somethin’ expectations on your chipped shoulders. So I’m making it easy on you. I’ll give everyone their forms back… and in case they ain’t satisfied, you’ll never have to face ‘em again.”

Cuphead knew what that meant, and even worse was that he knew Mugman didn’t, at least not in this moment. He watched his brother’s eyes, watched him think, shaking like a fence with no support, and felt like he was watching himself. He should have been the one shaking, conflicted over what was clearly a rigged set of choices, and Mugman would be the one to snap him out of it. But instead Mugman had been better at hiding his own weakness that Cuphead was at putting his on display, and he hadn’t the words to put together the pieces of his brother’s shattered conscience.

“So what do you say, kid? That sound fair enough?” asked the Devil, putting out his now-healed right hand. Mugman shakily extended his own, unblinking. “I guess… it’s the most I can do…” he murmured anxiously. “It...It’s a... “

“NO!” A bright bullet of blue energy burned a mark in between Mugman’s and the Devil’s respective hands. Cuphead was dangerously close to hyperventilating, but he kept himself as collected as he could manage. “This is not right!” he shouted. “We can’t give the debtors their forms back!”

“C-Cuphead… why?” asked Mugman, bewildered. “It’s what they’ve wanted… and what you wanted for them…”

“Yeah, but it’s not what you wanted! You knew it would be impossible for things to go back to the way they were, and you just wanted to help everyone go on with their lives! That’s why we spent so much time talking to people, we didn’t have to do that, even if you were really that in denial! The reason Psycarrot and Weepy are with us is because you heard them out! I just wanted to go home, but you didn’t run away like that! The only reason Beppi is with us is because he knew how dangerous the third Isle would be, and he wanted us to stay alive because you wanted to hear the whole story! And the only reason Cagney doesn’t hate us anymore, and I know he doesn’t, he can’t fool anyone if he tried, is because you let your head get smashed to pieces just so mine wouldn’t be! If the only reason you did all that was to kid yourself into forgetting that you’re just as guilty as I am, then you really went the extra mile!”

All was silent for a minute, save for the subdued crackling of fire in the cave around them. Finally the Devil began tapping his claws on the desk, leaning towards Mugman persuasively. “Come on, you can’t seriously think that’s for real,” he said, tapping the ashes off his cigar on the edge of the desk. “Why would everyone’s desires change at the drop of the hat like that…”

“He’s right,” said Mugman quietly, finally looking at Cuphead, and really at him, not through him. “You can’t just… change the past.”

“Oh, sure, you can’t change it, but you can sure as hell repeat it,” the Devil pointed out slyly. “If you keep ‘em human, they’ll always feel like something’s missing. Something unfulfilled, and you might think I’m down for the count, but years later, one of these days, they’ll catch an eyeful of what the casino at the end of the Isle has to offer. Rinse and repeat…”

“That won’t happen,” denied Cuphead, smiling a little in spite of himself.

“And why is that?” Mugman smiled to match his brother, having the same thought. “Because we’re gonna, god forbid, talk to the debtors more often.”

The Devil gritted his teeth, the front half of his cigar snapping off and burning up upon impact with the desktop. “Very well, then. I suppose I should have seen this coming. Well…” He snapped his fingers, and a swarm of demons rose from the edge of the platform behind him. “I can still have your souls, while you’re trapped down here with no way out!”

The brothers readied their fingertips, minds racing as they both realized in tandem that he was right. King Dice had sent them down there, but now they were certain he wouldn’t let them out. “It’s okay, Mugs,” Cuphead said, smiling. “We did the right thing.” Mugman nodded, smiling back. They would have been resigned entirely to such a tragic yet selfless fate, had a pair of small empty holes not opened up beneath their feet, dropping them into an unseeable yet promising void.

Chapter Text

“Mugs, if you sleep in any longer, I’m pouring coffee in your head, whether you like it or not!”

Mugman finally sat up completely, groggy and disheveled. “Alright, alright, I’m up. You’re making me tea, though.” Cuphead smirked, pouring the remainder of the dark liquid in the coffee pot into his own head. “You sure you trust me with that? I’m not nuts about tea like you an’ Elder Kettle, but I know which ones put you to sleep.”

“...Fair point. Elder Kettle can fix it for me.” The other cup shook his head. “No dice. He’s over at the farm, prob’ly to tease the… um, the folks over there about their taste in music for the tenth time.”

“Man, we’ve got to come up with a new, cool name for those guys. I get that ‘the Root Pack’ doesn’t really fit anymore, but neither do their names, so… eh, I dunno. I guess it isn’t my business.”

The two made their way downstairs and Mugman dug a box of black tea from the cupboard. “Aw gee, Mugs, you coulda asked me to get it for you…” Cuphead trailed off worriedly, seeing his brother standing on the countertop to reach the tea. Mugman looked at him confused, then chuckled in realization. “I didn’t get broken ‘cause I was clumsy, y’know,” he retorted jokingly, climbing down and filling the small stovetop kettle with water. Cuphead sipped at the coffee in his head, embarrassed. “I know, I know, I just… get worried sometimes.”

“Hey, don’t feel bad about it. I worry just as much about you sometimes, when you decide you’ve gotta climb the biggest tree in the forest or somethin’,” Mugman assured him, turning on the stove. “We’re both soundin’ like Elder Kettle,” Cuphead pointed out quietly. “He used to worry about us all the time.”

Mugman smiled. “C’mon, he still does, ‘specially about me, but I like to think we’ve shown him we can take care of ourselves… or at least, everyone else can take care of us.” A knock sounded at the door. “I’ll get it,” said Mugman, walking over before his brother could offer. He opened the door, and his stomach seemed to drop into oblivion at who was behind it.

“Ah, uh, good morning, mister…” Mugman trailed off. “I didn’t come to bother with names,” said the policeman, who hadn’t changed a bit in the past months. “I came with a message, and since you’re right here, it’ll be pretty easy to deliver.” He took out a crumpled piece of paper, which appeared to consist of personal notes rather than a message intended for someone else. “The q– my boss, with regrets for the delay, offers to you an apology,” he said. Mugman stopped himself from running his hand over the cracked side of his face; he really needed to break that habit. “A-An… an apology?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. In her words, ‘things have been rather obfuscated as of late, and I have tried to make up for what I have done through action. However, I have since realized that to be impersonal, and…’” he squinted, apparently unable to read his own handwriting, “‘... not indicative of my remorse towards the matter.’” Mugman was unable to find words. “I –”

“Impersonal? Well, if that’s her hang-up, why didn’t Ms. Fancypants waltz on over here herself?” asked Cuphead, who had come to join his brother at the door. The policeman shuffled around in place a bit. “Ms. Honeybottoms is quite preoccupied at the moment, and… uh, don’t tell ‘er I told you lads this, but a trifle ashamed,” he added hastily, briefly abandoning formality. “Things’ve been a bit dodgy over the past few months, and… well, she only really figured things out for good a few days ago.”

“Well, she has been real busy,” Mugman agreed. “Gee, her company’s been a real lifesaver to about everyone around here, and… about the whole incident, I… kinda let it go a long time ago. Still, it’s nice to know that she’s thought about it.” The policeman smiled small, so that it was barely noticeable under his mustache. “Very well, then. I’ll tell her m– Ms. Honeybottoms that her apology is well-received. I… we pray that no more… incidents befall you.” He tipped his hat and turned to leave.

“Hey, mister,” said Mugman, stopping him. “Tell Ms. Honeybottoms that… that if I, um, almost killed someone, I prob’ly wouldn’t have the stomach to face ‘em either.” The policeman stared, then smiled, wider this time. “Sure. Good luck, kid.”

“Man, you’re such a sap,” Cuphead teased as they watched him leave. “Always wanna make folks feel better.”

“Hey, Rumor doesn’t deserve that much flack for what she did. Honestly, I thought we’d both have to be carted to the casino in pieces, trying to ask folks to forgive us,” Mugman pointed out, closing the door. The kettle started shrieking, and the brothers rushed back to the kitchen.

“I know, I know,” assured Cuphead, sipping more coffee. “But I wish she’d actually, you know, own up to stuff, instead of just building things on the house for everyone, pun not intended.” Mugman shrugged, dropping the metal tea strainer into his head. “We’ve never expected anyone else to just up and apologize. If there’s anything that I’ve learned in the past few months, it’s that actions speak louder than words.”

The brothers heard the front door opening, followed by the telltale clanking movements of their grandad. “Boys, are you still here?” called Elder Kettle from the foyer. “You’d better not still be in bed…”

“Yeah, we’re in the kitchen,” Cuphead called back. Elder Kettle entered the room bearing an earthenware dish of some kind, and the brothers cringed as loud creaks accompanied his next few steps. “You want me to get the oil?” asked Cuphead. “Oh, don’t you worry about me,” the kettle assured him. “If there’s a bit of rust to trifle with, I dare say I can handle it myself.”

“What’s in that dish?” asked Mugman as Elder Kettle set it down on the table. “It smells delicious!”

“Oh, that? Well, the boys over at the farm finally got everything wired up, including a brand new gas oven! They’re still a bit apprehensive about using… well, what’s around them for culinary purposes, but apparently Moe is quite the cook!”

“Moe?” questioned Cuphead, almost choking on his coffee. “I’d think Weepy’d be better suited for that kinda… homebody stuff.”

“Oh, no, in their words, Moe just couldn’t restrain himself! It used to be a hobby for him before, well, the contract, and he didn’t take into account just how much he’d missed it,” Elder Kettle explained with a smile. Mugman carefully peeled back the aluminum foil covering the dish, further releasing the warm, savory aroma of whatever was sealed under it. “Ooh, it looks like… potatoes,” he said, confused. “Really?” asked Cuphead, lightly pushing his brother aside. “Wow, didn’t think he’d move past that taboo so quick,” he admitted. “But gee, I ain’t complaining. This looks like a damn good casserole!”

“Cuphead…” Elder Kettle warned. “You’ve been hanging around… well, someone too much, that much I know,” he finished hastily, finding too many acquaintances with undesirable language habits to blame just one.

“Hey, at least we’re not gambling anymore! Not for real, anyway,” Mugman pointed out, adding the last bit upon some reflection. They played no-stakes card games all the time lately, putting in dares and questions rather than coins. Elder Kettle sighed and smiled. “Yes, I suppose that’s a trifle worse than throwing uncouth words about,” he admitted. “But if you’re going to cuss around, I suggest you do it while I’m out of earshot.”

Cuphead rolled his eyes. “All right, we’ll go outside. S’not like we were gonna sit around doin’ jack all day, anyway.”

“Yeah, what’s the fun in that?” asked Mugman rhetorically, fishing the strainer out of his head, having been sufficiently caffeinated for the day. “You’ll save that casserole though, right?”

“Well, it’ll be reserved for any lucky fellows who make it back before dark,” replied Elder Kettle wryly. “Afterwards, I’d say it’s open season.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll be back in time,” Cuphead reassured him. “You can count on us. C’mon, Mugs!” Mugman grinned and joined his brother in bounding out the door into the Isle. Elder Kettle smiled after them, then winced as the rust under his mustache scraped at his mouth. He took out the oil can under the sink and rubbed at the offending coating, taking off an unfortunate amount of the metal itself in the process. It was getting to spring, and the weather was getting damper, but he’d never rusted over so terribly in his entire tenure as a kettle. The old man sighed, knowing the reason but not willing to admit it to himself. But he had to sooner or later, or he would be forced to admit it to his grandchildren. “I’m lucky they even still think of me that way,” he muttered, pouring himself a cup of tea. He shook himself out of his funk vigorously, knowing there was nothing to gain in feeling sorry for himself. He’d get his dues soon enough, and at the rate he was rusting, karma would find him sooner than expected.

—-

“What’re we gonna do today?” asked Mugman to his brother. “I dunno!” chirped Cuphead back. “Let’s just go around, see if anyone’s up for a game or somethin’.”

“I reckon not; everyone’s gonna be busy today, it’s almost the rainy season,” Mugman pointed out. As they walked along they were distracted by a small commotion over at the farm, nothing bad but it was something. Cuphead shielded the sun from his eyes with his hand. “Gosh, is that Psycarrot?” he asked. Mugman followed his gaze and mirrored his brother’s intrigued expression. They walked over to meet their acquaintance, who was talking with Weepy at the front gate. He was sporting a fitted tan suit jacket and a newsboy cap of the same color, and wore a polished-looking overstuffed backpack. It seemed he was set to travel somewhere.

“You’re sure you have everything? I could mail whatever you need, but –”

“I’ve got everything,” Psycarrot cut him off, rolling his eyes. “I wanted to pack light anyway, and you’ve already made me stuff every square inch of space in this thing with stuff I’ll never use.”

“Well, you always talk about the importance of foresight, so I figured you’d want to be prepared!”

“Yeah, I got the foresight to know I’ve got all I need –”

“Where are you going?” Cuphead interrupted. The two took notice of the brothers. Psycarrot straightened up and adjusted his cap. “I’m off to the city! About time, too. I’ve been mailing Kahl the past month or so, and finally pestered him into showing me the ropes of science, machines, that kinda thing.”

“Wow! Seems like you’ll be gone awhile, too,” added Mugman. The tall man’s smile faltered a bit. “Yeah… it’ll be, ah, something of an experience, you know? I’ll write and whatnot, just come by here every now and again.” He awkwardly pulled a cracked pocketwatch from his jacket. “Right, I gotta go. If I stay here any longer, you twerps could just change my mind. Always pointing out the tough things. Be seeing you, or hearing from you, I suppose!” he called in farewell as he walked off towards the next Isle. The three waved back in response, and Weepy put his handkerchief to good use. “God, why does he have to act so aloof about all this…” he murmured. “I know he’s through with this place, but he could act like he’ll miss us just a little!”

“Through with this place?” Mugman repeated. “Gee, he sure seemed ready to die on a hill for the farm ‘til now.”

“Ha, yes, that would be circumstances at work,” explained Weepy, wiping at his eyes. “We’ve tended to this land for years and years, and that always seemed like the only thing we’d ever do. But when Moe and I were losing any drive to go on, figuring nothing would change, Psycarrot swore he’d get us out of here one day. So yes, he was prepared to ‘die on a hill’, as you put it, if such an act would result in our crops turning a better profit. And he never faltered, never stopped protecting our livelihood, but over time he did end up forgetting why.” The brothers nodded solemnly, knowing what he was referring to. The pudgy man noticed their long faces and cleared his throat, straightening up. “But, now he’s finally off! This place was never for him, anyway.”

“Yeah, he sure looks the part,” Cuphead pointed out. “Never seen ‘im so put together.”

“Oh, that’s all my work,” Weepy chuckled awkwardly. “I wasn’t about to let him go without proper attire, at least as proper as we can afford. He resisted, naturally, with such biting remarks as ‘I’m not planning on being a lawyer anytime soon,’ and we had to compromise with just a jacket, and of course the hat. His hair is dishevelled as usual under there. Just... does not give a modicum of regard to style,” he huffed. The brothers held back smirks. If there was one thing that brought out an uncharacteristic conviction in Weepy, etiquette and style were in a constant battle for the top pedestal. “So, who’s in charge of the farm now?” asked Cuphead.

“I am,” said Moe, entering the conversation from around the gate. “Weepy’s got his own passions on the brain.” The other man flushed. “It’s just a hobby…” he muttered.

“What is?” the brothers asked. “He goes over to Berg’s observatory every so often. Likes to watch the stars,” Moe answered. “They’re… fascinating…” Weepy trailed off, wringing his hands nervously. Moe smiled good-naturedly. He’d been smiling a lot more lately. “Hey, everyone needs a hobby. Yours is just kinda… outta left field. It’s funny.”

“Well, so’s yours,” Mugman returned coyly. “I didn’t take you for a chef!” Now it was Moe’s turn to avert his gaze and rub at his neck embarrassedly. “Jee-eez, is the whole Isle gonna know by the end of the day?” he grumbled.

“Considering we gave a casserole to that nice policeman for Ms. Honeybottoms, I think that’s pretty likely,” Weepy replied sheepishly. Moe groaned, then shrugged. “Eh, fine. So I cook, what about it? That lady needs something to let ‘er know she’s doin’ things right.”

“I hope I’ve made myself one of those somethings,” Mugman added. “That cop was in the neighborhood to give me her late apologies.”

“Oh, good. That moment still keeps me up at night,” Weepy admitted. “I hope you and her can be on the same page one day.”

“Well, I don’t like to stay hung up about it. And I’m sure she can’t afford to either, with all the folks she’s been helping. I’m not all that important,” Mugman shrugged. A yawning gap opened up in the conversation, and Cuphead decided that they should move along. “I’m sure we’re keepin’ you from some kinda work,” he said. “We’re gonna keep toolin’ around the Isle, see if there’s anything we can get up to.”

“Yeah!” said Mugman. “Maybe see if we can slip some drinks down at the clip joint.” Worry and disapproval colored Weepy’s face. “Promise me you’re joking,” he pleaded.

“Of course they are, pally. They’re more responsible than that,” Moe assured him, casting a hidden smirk to the brothers. “Have fun, ya dips.”

“Will do,” assured Cuphead, smiling back. The brothers took off towards the clip joint, stopping at the sight of its recently appointed new owner leaning against a tree, as if waiting for something. “Morning, mister Goopy,” Mugman greeted the big man. He noticed them and grinned his usual grin, the one that had no setting besides aggressively smug. “Hey, kiddos. It’s been what, two months? I tell ya, ya gotta drop the mister. Makes me sound old. I already broke my back tryin’ to find a set a’ duds that flattered me for the job,” he pointed out, gesturing to the deep blue single-breasted suit and red bowtie he’d since added to his wardrobe. “An’ trainin’ the kids too… seems like the world wants to make me feel like a has-been all of a sudden.”

“You’re still fighting, aren’t you?” Cuphead asked. Goopy grinned. “Oh, yeah, absolutely. I’ll quit when I’m dead. S’just… I ain’t been doin’ so well lately. Maybe time’s finally catchin’ up with me, maybe I’m still gettin’ used to bein’… back, y’know…”

“Maybe you’re finally realizing how your ego blinds you to your mediocrity.” The three turned towards the new voice, though it was so distinct they could only expect to see one person behind it.

“Hey, Carnation,” Goopy greeted lazily, putting out his now white-gloved hand. “Nice t’ see ya in… good spirits?”

Cagney waited a few seconds before accepting his handshake. He hadn’t changed much over the months past, on the surface anyway. He had brought with him a small wagon carrying individually potted flowers, a large accessory that had become somewhat synonymous with his presence. They were all from areas that Goopy frequented enough to ask their removal, and rather than simply relocating them to his garden Cagney instead went around to others in the Isle, finding the flowers a much more drastic yet rewarding change in scenery in the care of others.

“Hesitantly so,” he replied to Goopy’s introduction. “I find it… irritatingly baffling that such an uproar arose from your specific aversion to flora, and yet I received a message from you requesting the exact opposite.”

“I’ll say. I thought you weren’t gonna show,” admitted Goopy. “Well blame, if you dare, the flowers. It was difficult to convince any of them that you would be any form of a desirable caretaker, let alone a companion,” Cagney explained through his teeth, tapping his foot as if trying to keep the beat with an improv jazz solo. “I don’t just give them out willy-nilly to any bloke or broad that asks, you know.”

“Yeah, I get it, flowers’re people too an’ all that.” Something resembling concern flashed past Goopy’s face as he watched Cagney’s eyebrows twitch up, like they usually did when he was angry or fed up with someone. “That didn’t sound great,” he amended hastily. “It sounded, um… like I don’t care about this stuff.”

Cagney sighed and turned to his wagon. “Well, at least you’re beginning to take notice of it. I suppose I owe Hilda for that. And you know, we all have a lot to learn, all got to watch ourselves.” He took out a pot about half the size of his head, which contained a light purple flower. “This is he. I’ll leave him to make a name for himself, carry out introductions, but it’s my end to exposit how he must be cared for.”

Goopy eyed the flower with a mix of interest and amusement. “It’s got the same shape that, y’know, you did…” he observed. “In the petals.”

“Yes, surprisingly good observation, he is a carnation,” Cagney explained. “Young, and by that I mean he was planted very recently. Carnations are full-sun flowers, they must not be placed in an overabundance of shade. Water, but don’t overwater, make sure the soil isn’t too thick, and please take him outside in the spring. Pollination is very important, if you want to keep having flowers in that pot.”

“That all?”

“Well, listen to him, I suppose. There sometimes isn’t any way of knowing if something is wrong without asking,” Cagney said. “I’d think that’s a given, but I certainly understand if you need to be reminded of it.” Before Goopy could tack on a retort to that, the gardener thrust a scrap of paper into his hand. “If you zoned out during any of that, here’s the instructions. Here’s the flower…” he handed over the flower, “… and I may not be all-seeing or ever-reaching, but I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere, despite the fact that per our agreement, the grounds around your joint are devoid of flora. Therefore –“

“I won’t hurt ‘im,” Goopy assured him. “If I hurt ‘im, you can bloody me up however you like. Hell, kill me. I’m just… tryin’ to work things out, you know, an’ your flowers are actually real nice company,” he admitted. Cagney’s expression finally softened a bit, and he averted his eyes. “I don’t want to kill you,” he said. “Things are moving fast, now that everyone’s getting out more, and we’re all trying to work things out, like I said, and like you said. It’s… things are…” he rambled, unwilling to put his feelings into words for who had until a couple months ago been his mortal enemy. “Anyway,” he finally said, cutting himself off. “Just take care of him. I know you’re busy, running a bar and training those kids and all, but know that you’re on thin ice. And always will be,” he added, looking Goopy in the eye. Before the boxer could respond, the gardener took up the handle of his wagon and started in the direction of the second Isle.

“Yeah, good day t’ you, too,” Goopy muttered. “That sounded real ominous,” observed the flower he’d been given. Goopy flinched a bit at his words. “Ha, gee, lookit me, forgettin’ you fellas can talk,” he said sheepishly. “Guess I’d better find a place for ya.”

“We oughtta be on our way, too,” asserted Cuphead. “Seems there isn’t much to do around this Isle,” Mugman added.

“Ain’t that the truth. Wish ya could could train with Ribby an’ Croaks, it’s still hard fer me t’ go easy on ‘em,” Goopy suggested. “Well, we wouldn’t be much help,” pointed out Mugman. “If we were their sparring partners, they’d have to go easy on us.”

“Yeah. May’ve fought our way to the Devil, but there ain’t much we can take at the end of the day,” chuckled Cuphead. “Only reason we survived was ‘cause the Devil wanted to jimmy his bet with Dice.” Suddenly Mugman snapped his fingers in realization. “That’s it! I know what we can do today!”

“What?”

“We can play our usual type of game, the kind we play so Elder Kettle doesn’t get mad at us for gambling… but we play it with Dice.”

“Ooh, I like that,” Cuphead agreed. “There’s plenty ‘a stuff I know he wouldn’t tell us on his deathbed, but if we make it a chance thing… he’s sure to go for it!”

“Well, good luck with that, kiddos. Be seein’ ya; I got a bar t’ run an’ a flower t’ look after,” Goopy said, lumbering back towards the bar on the water. He’d really cleaned up the place since taking over management, but that still didn’t break the shared habit of referring to it as a clip joint.

---

In their new quest to find King Dice in the third Isle, the brothers managed to catch up with Cagney just as he crossing the bridge to the Isle in between.

“Hi, mister Cagney!” greeted Cuphead. He glanced over to them, his expression still tense but in the process of relaxing. “Oh, hello,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t address you back there, but you know… I had business to handle.”

“That’s okay,” assured Mugman. “So what’re you going to the carnival for?”

“I’m not going to the carnival, just through it,” he explained. “I passed a flower onto Wally a few weeks ago, and I’m dropping by to check on it. And him, for that matter. He worries me sometimes.”

“You, worried about someone?” asked Cuphead incredulously. Cagney rolled his eyes. “I’m not made of stone, you know. Of all the folks I’ve given flowers to, he’s the one who’s needed it the most. He has friends, and he’s working for the fair again, but he was missing something. I’m certainly not the person to disclose what that something is, but I imagine it’s fairly obvious… especially to you boys,” he added. The brothers nodded. They knew they had nothing to do with Wally’s loss, but they couldn’t help feeling guilty about it.

“So are you boys just going to follow me around all day?” asked Cagney, clearly holding irritation out of his voice. “I’m not all that exciting.”

“Oh, no, we’re gonna try an’ get Dice to talk about himself!” Cuphead proudly asserted. Cagney raised an eyebrow. “I wish I understood why you pester that good-for-nothing sleazebag so much,” he said, before thinking a moment. “Well, I don’t, but… it doesn’t sound all that rewarding.”

“Wouldn’t you wanna know how Dice got to working for the Devil?” asked Mugman.

“How long he worked for the Devil?” Cuphead added. Cagney stared, nonplussed.
“...Yeah, I don’t think so. Honestly, I’d just leave the stiff alone. He doesn’t deserve the attention, anyway,” he scoffed. “In any case, be careful. It’d be a real downer if you fixed everything only to get snuffed by a bitter enemy months after the fact.”

“Golly, never thought I’d hear you say it like that,” murmured Mugman.

“Say what?”

“That we fixed everything.”

The gardener looked from Mugman to his brother, with an expression they couldn’t place. He tugged at his shirt collar awkwardly. “Well, things aren’t exactly hunky-dory, don’t get that idea in your hollow little heads. I’ve found a few fellows who aren’t complete self-important twits, and everyone seems to be mending fences, hell, even I am. But s’not like everyone got off scot-free, just… I’m not past everything, you know.” No one spoke for some seconds, and Cagney swiftly filled the silence again. “But hey, not like I’m complaining or anything. For being in a way I’ve despised for so long, having to get used to myself after so much time… it’s not half bad,” he finished, finally giving in to a smile. Then he cleared his throat, the expression gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Well, I’ve got places to go, people to see, and I reckon you boys do too.”

The three abruptly parted ways as they entered the carnival, Cagney heading off to Wally’s while the brothers started towards the bridge to the third Isle.

“Hey, fellas! Where d’ya think you’re goin’?!” The brother turned to see Beppi striding over to meet them, in what appeared to be a completely different outfit from his usual look. “The third Isle,” answered Cuphead. “We’re gonna pester mister King Dice.”

“Golly, if I weren’t workin’, I’d come right along. That sounds like a real laugh! Let me know how it goes,” he requested, grinning. “That a new outfit?” asked Mugman. Beppi looked over his clothes as if for the first time and struck a pose. “Ya like it? I figured it was time to shake things up. Can’t do much when your face is perma-red and blue, y’know,” he explained proudly. “Also, my hair finally started growin’ back. Funny how fast you can forget your own hair color!” he remarked, gesturing to the wavy tufts of reddish hair on either side of his head.

“Gee, it suits you nicely,” chuckled Cuphead. “You changing your act to match?”

“Well, I thought maybe I’d learn a few new things, but I don’t wanna rain on anyone else’s parade. Anything with fire’s off the table, for example, since Grim started easin’ back into his usual shtick,” he pointed out. “Oh, is he gonna have a show soon?” asked Mugman excitedly. Beppi nodded with equal enthusiasm. “Yeah, yeah, in about a week or so. He’s actually gonna do some kinda combined thing with Wally, they’ve been trainin’ for weeks. Trust me, when it’s comin’ up, you’ll know it. There ain’t enough ink in the Isle for all the posters we’re gonna make.”

“So you guys aren’t… bitter rivals anymore?” asked Cuphead. “Oh, we sure are, that’s part ‘a the fun,” Beppi assured him with mock-seriousness. “But, y’know, we ain’t gonna sell our souls for the sake ‘a bein’ better, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

“No, no, I wasn’t getting at anything, but that’s nice to know, I guess,” Cuphead said with a shrug. Beppi snickered and clapped the cup on the back. “Hey, lighten up, kid. It’s been a real pain to get the fair back up to its former glory, but we’re gettin’ there! Certainly helps that no one hates anyone’s guts anymore,” he added. “And that’s ‘cause of you! So don’t you worry your shiny heads about any ‘a our problems. The fair’s here for you to enjoy… so enjoy it!”

“And we do,” Mugman chuckled. “That’s what I like to hear!” Beppi exclaimed, snapping his fingers in agreement. “Right, I won’t hold ya hostage or nothin’. You go on along and bug the everloving hell outta that doofy manager! But, ah, one more thing.” He leaned in, the brothers following suit. “Ya know how Sally an’ I share a passion for the drama-comedy-type stuff?” The brothers nodded. “Well, in a couple ‘a nights, me an’ her are gonna put on a show for the first time, together at last!” he announced excitably.

“Hot dog! That sounds like a hot mess of a show if I ever heard one. In the best way, of course,” Cuphead remarked. Beppi giggled. “Oh, it is. It’s gonna be a disaster! An’ I don’t wanna sound desperate or nothin’, but it’d be just peachy if you boys could drop in on opening night,” he requested gleefully. “I’ll even get you in for free if you’re the stingy type.”

“Hell, I’ll go there every night, an’ pay for every showing!” Cuphead assured him. The clown laughed loud. “Gee, you’re sellin’ me on my own show more than I’m sellin’ it to you! Hey, ya wanna show up every night, be my guest. I just think it’ll be a great time, an’ you know, everyone’s still pretty squeamish ‘bout tryin’ new stuff. Add me to that list, is what I’m sayin’,” he admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck. Mugman chuckled, finally understanding. “We’ll be there, Beppi,” he said. “As much as you want us.”

“Heh, thanks, kids. Anyway, have fun with mister Dicey over in Isle three,” said Beppi with a goofy wink. The brothers laughed. “Oh, we, will,” assured Cuphead. “Don’t you worry.”

---

Cuphead and Mugman were still surprised that there had been anyone willing to take in Dice after his inexplicable mercy towards the brothers left him officially unemployed. The debtors voiced more hate towards him than they did for even the Devil. Maybe it was because he was more the Devil to many of them than the man himself. While a few of their stories were devoid of the Devil’s physical presence entirely, everyone could profess to King Dice seeking them out at one point or another, and grinding them down until they could see nothing but their faults, problems and unreachable desires. In any case, he’d been tolerated and ground down in kind by Werner for the past few months, an act the other debtors knew they’d never be able to keep up themselves.

Cuphead rapped on the door, which was opened by an eternally bleary-eyed Werner. “You are here to see Dice, I am guessing,” he started. Cuphead nodded. “Vell, I am not here to stop you. Zough it is lucky zat you come at zis time; sometimes he leaves for an hour or so, sits by ze railroad tracks and stares into zat blasted cave like his head is empty,” he rambled, letting them in. The brothers wish they could be surprised at that tidbit, but it didn’t sound out of place to them in the slightest. “Didja get any messages from Cala an’ Brineybeard?” asked Mugman excitedly. Werner shook his head. “Zey vent far out into ze Atlantic, ah, perhaps a veek ago. Any message zey send vill not reach my radio for some hours,” he shrugged. “I can try to reach you by telephone if I hear anyzing…”

“No, no, you don’t have to go through all that trouble,” Mugman denied adamantly. “I’ll just try and drop by more often.”

“Where’s he at?” asked Cuphead. Werner hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “In ze back. Since I have tried to stop smoking, I cannot stand his smoke in ze house. He finds zings to do out there; since ze gardener came by and began fixing ze yard, Dice does, ah, maintenance, sometimes… zough he vill not admit he does,” he added, cracking a bit of a smirk. “I vill let him zink it is his secret. It is not as if I afford him leevay in ozer regards.”

“Great; you got a deck of cards?” asked Cuphead. Werner gestured to the coffee table. “Zere. Do vat you like, just do not… you know, fold zem to ruin. But I hope I am right in zinking you are more mature zan zat.”

“You can count on us, mister Werman,” Mugman assured him, scooping up the deck from the table. “Thanks millions!”

The brothers went outside, already hearing slow melodious humming through the screen door. They knew they were going to give the former manager a bit of a scare, but at the same time neither of them really minded.

“Hey, mister Dice!” Cuphead greeted loudly. The tall man jumped, dropping a pair of garden clippers. He kicked them under the bush in front of him and turned to face them in one smooth motion. He’d finally forsaken tailcoats, it seemed, and was instead sporting a lavender button-down without even a vest or tie. But despite that, and his hair visibly beginning to break through whatever he’d wrestled it into place with, King Dice still looked as dapper as ever.

“Hello, boys,” he greeted, guarding his expression. “Come to try an’ weasel a sob story outta me again?”

“Not exactly,” answered Cuphead vaguely. “This time, we’ll make it even.” Mugman took the deck of cards from behind his back. “See, Elder Kettle won’t let us gamble anymore. So instead, when we play cards, we bet questions. You know, say someone’s gotta answer something if they lose. So we’ll ask you stuff, but you can ask us stuff all you want to. But whatever the question, you’ve gotta answer,” he explained. Dice stroked his chin thoughtfully, searching their faces for any signs of ridicule. Then his expression spread into his usual smile. “All right, all right. I got the idea. But just so you know boys… when you manage a casino, you learn to watch out for certain things. Like card counting, for instance,” he warned, eyeing them suspiciously. “Hey, we’ve got no sleeves to hide stuff in,” Cuphead pointed out jokingly. “This’ll be fair an’ square.”

“All right, then.” They sat down in the middle of the garden, Dice making a point of sitting on a rock rather than the ground. “Five card draw,” Cuphead announced, dealing out the cards. “I hope we all know the rules.”

“Don’t patronize me, cupface.” They took their hands and looked them over for a moment or two. “Okay, place your bets,” said Cuphead. Mugman nodded. “I bet… if I win, Dice has gotta say how long he’s been working for the Devil,” he proposed. Cuphead smiled. “I’ll raise you on that. If I win, he’s gotta tell us how he got to working for the Devil.”

Dice narrowed his eyes at his hand, then grinned. “All right. If I win this round, you boys have got to tell me if you’ve ever gone snoopin’ around where the casino used to be.” The brothers exchanged glances, trying not to inadvertently give him a silent answer to that question anyway. “All right, call,” said Cuphead. “No switching out cards.” The three lay out their hands.

“Yes!” cheered Cuphead. “Two-pair, kings and queens. Cough up, Dice.” King Dice rolled his eyes, and thought for a moment. Then he took a cigarette from his pocket. Lit it. Took a drag. “Come on,” Cuphead heckled.

“Jeez, didn’t your ‘grandad’ ever teach you boys patience?” Dice asked, annoyed. “Okay. Things were bad when I was a little brat like you. There weren’t no jobs, none that paid anyway, and there wasn’t a place I could call home. My folks kicked the bucket early on, an’ the Devil found me at my lowest. He wasn’t a father figure or nothin’, but he taught me business and respect. Trained me ‘til I was grown, an’ then he fancied me ready to have my soul ripped out for good. There. Answered your silly little question.”

“How long ago were you that young?” asked Cuphead incredulously. Dice furrowed his brow. “Well, boy, that’s another question,” he countered, grinning slyly. “Next round, kid.” The cards were re-dealt. “Okay, bets. Mine’s the same as before, but this time I want more detail,” Cuphead demanded, irritated. “Uh, I’ve been wondering this for a while, but what happened to those other guys we had to fight to get to you?” asked Mugman. “They weren’t around when we came back later on…”

“Mugs, that’s a stupid question!” Cuphead groaned. “So’s yours,” Dice pointed out. “I wanna know how things are with your ‘pops’. They can’t be picture perfect, eh?” Again the brothers fought to keep their expressions under control. “Call,” said Cuphead. Again they revealed their hands. “Ha, full house!” exclaimed Mugman. “An’ it beats Dice’s by highest card!”

“Okay, okay, I’d rather answer this one,” Dice mused, taking another drag. “Those stiffs are burning in Hell.”

“What?” asked Mugman. “But if you’re back here –”

“Use your brain, if you’ve even got one. First, I lost a bet. I think that’s pretty clear. Devil was also none too pleased I lost to you dips, so I was just thrown outta the fold. Worse punishment, really. Second, those folks had been dead an’ gone for a long time. If your soul gets sold to ‘im completely, you ain’t even a person anymore. They got lucky, if anything, gettin’ used for work. They don’t got much of themselves left, but it’s better to be stuck in a random body workin’ at a casino than subjected to whatever Hell’s got worming around under its skin, and if there’s anything they knew, it was that.” The brothers shuddered at the thought. “Oh, yeah, shudder away. It woulda happened to your little debtor friends if ya didn’t turn their contracts to ash.” He tapped the ashes off the end of the cigarette. “Anyway. I haven’t thought about those dirtbags in months, not ‘til you brought it up anyhow. Hell, I’m glad they finally got what was comin’ to ‘em. Buncha mindless gassers, every one.”

“See? Not as stupid a question as you thought,” Mugman bragged. Cuphead rolled his eyes. “Well, now I’m just creeped out. Next round.”

The three ended up playing for the next few hours, each having to answer at one point or another. The brothers learned that the Devil had never thought much of King Dice, even though the latter had always advertised the exact opposite. Of course, it was a little ridiculous to imagine putting how worthless one was thought to be on display when trying to intimidate, but Cuphead for one was always under the impression that the Devil’s dismissive attitude towards his lackey after he was defeated was something of a rarity. Dice, on the other hand, learned comparatively frivolous things about his former foes, things like which debtors they still feared talking to, how they thought they’d get anywhere even after proclaiming they’d put the Isle back together, and what they might do if (and when, he added) the Devil did come back.

“Well, he’s not going to straight up drag us down to Hell,” Mugman pointed out. “If we’re just more proactive about helping people through their troubles so they don’t feel like the casino’s the only way, the Devil should just move on, right?”

“Ah, see, that’s where you’re wrong. The Devil likes playin’ the long game, he’s got patience to spare. You could block that cave up with rocks for centuries and he’ll still wait around until some joe comes along an’ shoves one of those boulders aside out of curiosity,” Dice refuted, grinning in spite of himself. It was clear he knew the Devil would never hire him back, but he wasn’t very good at hiding the deep-seated, grudging admiration he still harbored.

“Well, if that day comes while we’re still around, then we won’t stand for it,” answered Cuphead. “But once we’re gone, if it’s got to happen all over again… well, it’ll happen again,” he finished lamely.

“It’s a real treat, y’know, seein’ you so dissatisfied with your own words,” Dice remarked, amused. “But you’re right. You don’t even have a picture-perfect ending now, it’s silly to think you ever will.”

“...One more round,” said Cuphead quietly, dealing the cards for the last time that evening. “And I wanna know… why you saved us, after we rejected the Devil’s offer.”

“...Me too,” said Mugman. Dice quirked an eyebrow. “Well, that’s hardly fair. I’ll bet on you boys tellin’ me… what all happened down there, before I rescued your sorry behinds, if we’re all sharin’ the same event.”

“Fair enough. Call.” They laid out their hands, squinting hard at them for a few seconds. All their hands were junk, but while both Cuphead’s and Dice’s hands had an ace each, only Cuphead had a king to break the tie.

“Jeez, of all the damn questions you could ask…” he muttered. “All right. You boys don’t deserve to have things sugarcoated. I wasn’t the one who rescued you, not really.”

“What?” the brothers asked in unison. Dice nodded slowly. “After you’d been down there some time, your pals started pestering me, they knew I was tryin’ to get back into the Devil’s good graces. He’d left me with enough power to get a second chance, and of course I jumped right at it. But they’d have none of that. That puny gardener, that lily-livered crybaby, the clown, the fellow with the stupid hair… I’m sure they woulda snapped my neck if I didn’t save you. I didn’t think you’d get ‘em to care about you like that. Folks ain’t… supposed to change, ‘specially their type, the type who get so attached to themselves, what they ‘should’ be. I just… wasn’t expecting it,” he admitted, grinding his cigarette butt into the ground. “Yeah. I didn’t have a change of heart, if that’s what you were thinking. I was ready to leave you brats down there forever.”

The brothers stared through him, speechless. “...Would you still leave us down there now?” asked Mugman tentatively. King Dice shrugged. “Who knows? I ain’t no different than anyone else you pulled outta their personal hell: I’ve been thinking. You do a lot of that when you’ve got to change for real.” The former manager stood up, looking towards the sky. “Shouldn’t you boys be moseyin’ on home?” he asked. “Kids like you got curfews, am I right?”

“Yeah,” murmured Mugman. “C’mon, Cuphead.”

“Oh! Mugs! Can we take the new Express?” asked Cuphead excitedly. “I hear it runs to the second Isle now!”

“Sure,” said Mugman smiling, though half-heartedly. He needed to do some thinking himself.

---

“Allll aboard, folks! Where’re you stoppin’?” asked the Blind Specter, in high spirits. “There’s only one stop,” returned Cuphead. The ghost chuckled awkwardly. “Yeah… I know. Just excited to be back on the job, I guess.”

“Ha, yeah. Those mausoleums get pretty dull after a while, I reckon,” said Cuphead.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong… the Legendary Chalice, she’s been real good to us, but… yeah, you’re right,” the Specter admitted sheepishly. “I’d rather be anchored to a train than a dusty old building.” He leaned out the window. “All right, T-Bone, let’s get going!” he shouted. The train lurched forward, and the brothers quickly took their seats before they spilled on accident.

Cuphead pressed his face against the window, watching the city go by. “Golly, can you imagine how great it’ll be when all the tracks are down? Rumor’s really outdoing herself with how fast this has gotten off the ground…” he trailed off, noticing his brother staring out at the ocean on the other side of the car, likely not listening. “Hey,” said Cuphead, quickly sliding in next to his brother. “You’re not still thinkin’ about what Dice said, are you?”

“...Of course I am!” Mugman admitted. “It can’t be true, what he said… yeah, some of those debtors started softening up a bit, but I couldn’t… they wouldn’t like us so far as to –”

“Mugs, Mugs, slow your roll,” Cuphead chuckled. “It doesn’t matter what happened back there, what matters is how things are now. Nothing’s perfect, observation of the year right there, but it doesn’t have to be. Cagney’s moving on, the Root– er, you know, those guys are moving on, Grim and Wally are gonna have a spectacular show in a week or two, and Beppi’s probably gonna burn down the theater with Sally!” Mugman chuckled softly at that, and Cuphead smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “No one’s forgotten what’s happened, and that can’t be helped, but they aren’t staying in it, you know? And that’s working out just fine for them. I think we’ll be better off that way too.”

Mugman cracked a smile, which turned into an absolutely tickled grin. “...You know you sound just like me right now, right?” he giggled. Cuphead scoffed and pushed at his brother playfully. “Hey, it ain’t the time to act one way if you’ve gotta act another. And you seem like you really need… you right now,” he chuckled. Mugman smiled in return. “Well… it’s still good to have you around, just the way you’ve always been. Maybe we both need a bit of each other.”

“Well, that is called ‘being mature’, boys!” Cuphead said in an exaggerated impression of Elder Kettle’s voice. They both laughed, and in that moment it felt like everything was just as it was before, before going to the casino across the Isle had crossed either of their minds. Mugman let himself feel like that for a moment, but then perished the thought. A lot of things had happened since that time, and couldn’t be allowed to fester, but none of it, no matter how tough, was worth forgetting.

The End.