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Chapter Text

"...So, lass, ah'm callin' to say it was nice knowin' ye."

You hold the receiver of the phone close to your ear. The Conductor's called and he is very clearly drunk.

"Did ye hear the news? DJ Peck-Neck's retired! Can ya believe tha'!" The Conductor hiccups. "He's gone. Ah guess it's not news annaemore... it's been a week or two since annaewon saw 'em. Sorry ah haven't said so, it all happened so fast an' ah went through some... ah, things." Hiccup. "Ah didnae even have a chance to tell 'em not to let the door hit his tail feathers on the way out! Can ye believe tha', lassie?"

You ask what the Conductor meant by the first thing he said.

"Whazzat now?... Oh, aye, right! Ah'm goin' to eat a revolver tonight; one of me own movie props, 'cept it actually works. After a few more drinks, tha' is." Hiccup. "Ah took one last ride on me train and ah blew it sky high. Then ah called you... Ah wanted to say bye and thank ye for bein' a good friend..."

You tell the Conductor that you're touched and you also consider him a good friend. You also tell him you're coming to pick him up. You ask where he is.

"Well, ah'm just in me dressing room. It's night here at Dead Bird, nice an' quiet." Hiccup. "No one to bother me. Ah'm the only one who comes here anymore annaewae..."

Thirty minutes later you've piggybacked a sleeping Conductor onto your ship, a bit of his drool slipping down your hat and into your hair. You're thankful you're so dang strong.

*

As you watch the Conductor sleep like a stone in your bed, the Snatcher hovers close by. His glowing eyes twitch. Suddenly he snaps his claws.

"That's it! I remember this guy from that red hooded jerk's palace..." The ghost peers over the owl's body with a hint of disgust. "What even is this thing? A dog? A dragon? You keep some strange company, kiddo."

You tell him the Conductor is an owl. You think.

"That thing is not an owl." He points at the Conductor who gives a ridiculous snore. "If that's an owl, I'm an owl."

This is when you explain to the ghost that your friend called you to say he was planning on shooting himself in the mouth with a revolver. The Snatcher barks a laugh.

"Suicide? How cheap," he says softly, his grin reaching his eyes. "A good death should be unexpected! Fear of death glinting in an eye... priceless." He glances down at the Conductor, who has gone very still in his sleep. You watch him as well. The Snatcher turns to you. "Say, here's an idea, kid! Throw him out the airlock. I think it'll be a win for everyone, especially the owl. We'll be doing him a favor. Whaddaya say?"

You never really forget how cruel the Snatcher can be, but his callousness surprises you in this moment. You shake your head. The Snatcher's grin disappears.

"When I decided to live on this ship to kill you over and over I didn't sign up for a drunk, suicidal excuse for an owl crowding my scene." The Snatcher looks pettily at you, letting himself enlarge a bit. "Either he goes or I go."

You helpfully take the Snatcher's hand and lead him to the airlock. He swipes his hand out of your grip.

"ALL RIGHT!" he bellows, his voice reaching a frightening decibel. You cringe back on instinct. "What do I have to do to make you leave this thing behind?" His eyes flare with anger.

You think hard. The Snatcher is capable of a lot. What could he do to help the Conductor? You ponder and the Snatcher impatiently watches. Eventually, his anger turns to boredom and his frown turns more tepid. You hold up a finger when he's about to speak.

"Oh, no, I'm not waiting any longer! Make up your mind, kiddo!" he says. His voice lowers to a demonic pitch, his shining eyes wide discs. "I don't want to have to throw that mutated bird out of the ship myself."

Lucky for you, you have thought of a plan. Something to keep the Conductor occupied, accompanied, and himself. There's no one as annoyingly antagonistic as the Snatcher, and the Conductor almost has him beat. You wonder at your choice of friends. As you explain your idea to the Snatcher his frown turns to a curious smile, his black fangs glinting.

*

The Conductor wakes the next day around noon (by your calculations.) He moans and holds his forehead, squinting at the light of your room.

You ask him if he remembers last night. He hesitates. When the fronds at the back of his head lower, you know he has.

"Ach, lassie... Ye must think the worst of me," he says miserably.

You shake your head. When he looks unsatisfied, you reach out to hug him. He stalls, then returns the gesture with so much force, you feel his heartbeat against you. He pulls away quickly, self-consciously.

"Well, ah'll be on me way." He looks around for his hat, which you've placed on a table beside the bed. He takes it and fixes it upon his head. "Thank ye for the warm bed. Ah've got to, ah, get back to me studio and..." He doesn't finish the sentence. However, he continues pulling himself up and out of the bed.

When his feet touch the floor, the Snatcher emerges in front of him, a grin the size of the moon spread over his face. The Conductor yelps, utterly startled. The Snatcher clears his throat.

"FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!" he yells, lifting his claws like talons upon prey. The Snatcher cackles for a few seconds and you wait impatiently for the theatrics to end.

"Wh-who in the pecking globe are you?" the Conductor squawks, then pauses. He frowns deeply. "Wait er minute, ah know you. Ye was at that red hooded jerk's palace!"

The Snatcher grows a few sizes smaller. His face softens. "Very observant."

"So, ah friend of yer's, lass?" the Conductor says, peering at you (you think, he has no eyes.) You shrug. This might end badly, you realize. You're a child and that honestly goes unchecked at times.

"Have I got a deal for you, sir!" The Snatcher rubs his inky claws together. "Our shared friend has relayed to me you may be a little... lonely? Would you say that accurately describes you? From 1 to 10, what do you think?"

The Conductor swallows. His tail feathers touch the edge of the bed. "Ah... ah suppose tha's true. But it ain't nothin' ah can't handle meself."

The Snatcher tuts. "Well, I think we all know that's objectively a BALD-FACED LIE."

The Conductor looks horrified. You begin regretting.

"How's about this, Conductor." The Snatcher's jack-o-lantern smile trembles with heat. "If you give me your soul, I'll stay by your side forever." His voice raises a dissonant octave. "And I don't mean I'll be literally at your side all the time! God, no." He shivers at the thought. "I'll just be, well, a 'friend' to call when you think about having revolver for dinner again." He chuckles. "You could even sign a few extra contracts for me. Help a soul(less) mate out, if you need something to do..."

A piece of paper, burning at the edges with violet flame manifests before the Conductor.

"Ay!" The owl yelps as one of his yellow feathers darts from his backside, floating up in front of the contract as a pre-dipped writing quill. The Snatcher snickers.

It becomes clear after several moments of awkward hesitation that the Conductor is having trouble signing the contract. His eyeless face is lined with questions, confusion. The Snatcher sees this.

"Listen, you mutated pest," he says, raising his voice once again. "I'm offering you purpose! Purpose for me. Take it or leave it."

You know this situation well.

"Seems like a win for the kiddo, regardless of how you feel. She really doesn't want you dead." The Snatcher hovers behind you, giving an overemphasized pout. The Conductor seems affected by this, turning his beak to you. You feel a tinge of shame. "Do you want to disappoint her?"

"But... M-me soul?" the Conductor says softly. He places a hand upon his breast. "Ye really want me soul?"

"A bit slow on the uptake, aren't you? Yes, you poor bird, even a soul as pathetic as yours; I'm not a picky spirit." The Snatcher cackles, an ugly sound. "You were about to throw it away anyway, weren't you?" He disappears into the floor, then snakes up the Conductor's side, startling the owl once again. The ghost's voice lowers to a seductive crawl, his claws playfully adjusting the Conductor's fuchsia tie.

"Give me your soul. It's a sin to be wasteful, don't you think?"

Your friend shudders, his feathers puffed out about his collar. The scene is uncomfortable but you can think of no better circumstance. Everything the Snatcher has said sounds like, at least, a way for your friend to give himself more time to think things over. That is all you can ask, for now.

"Ah don't know..." The Conductor takes one step back from the hovering, malevolent contract, right back into the Snatcher's gait. "I-its me soul we're talking about! Even if ah, even if ah was thinkin' about-"

"Come ON, you don't even want it!" The Snatcher roars. "The kid wants her's, as far as I know, and she gave it to me much easier than this!" He laughs, his shining eyes wide with anticipation, his dark claw reaching down to take the Conductor's trembling hand. "As some old goat once said, I will guide thy hand. Now, are you a lefty or a righty, friend?"

*

It's been a week since the Conductor has started living on the ship with you and the Snatcher, to the ghost's chagrin. On the other hand, you're only happy to host the Conductor so you can keep an eye on him. Perhaps he’s feeling that accountability, though he won’t say so. This morning, the two of you eat toast in the kitchen.

"Ah'm happy to say ah haven't taken on anythin' involving merrder," the owl says, taking a bite of his toast, glistening with jelly. "Tha's where ah draw the line."

You sheepishly look into your lap. Hoo, boy, maybe there are things you can't mention, ever.

"Ain't so bad as ah thought it would be, not havin' a soul." The Conductor swallows the toast, hums. "Feels about the same, maybe ah little emptier, like ah lost some weight. Ye gave yer soul to that peck-neck once, too, aye? How'd that go for ye, lass? Forgot to ask..."

You explain it wasn't entirely by choice... and that the Snatcher almost decided to kill you when you weren't useful to him anymore. It strikes you after the words leave your mouth that this might not be encouraging or helpful in the slightest, especially with what the Conductor is going through. However, your friend only sighs and looks thoughtfully across the table at you.

"Aye, is that right?" He scratches the feathers of his neck. "Well, ah don't know why the haunt even took me up in the first place, then. Ah'm not much useful. Ah'm mostly doin' busy work for 'em, cleanin' that ugly forest, handin' off mail to a bunch of blessed spirits. Ya think he'll do me a favor and kill me soon?"

You vehemently deny this. The Conductor laughs.

"Sorry, ah know ye don't think that's funny." He grows wistful. "It ain't funny..."

You explain that the Snatcher is your friend now, sort of. He wouldn't do anything to really hurt you, even if he constantly implies he would. Maybe. You think. You keep that last part to yourself. The point is that you don't think he'd hurt the Conductor because the Snatcher knows you care about him.

"Friend?" The Conductor's beak turns toward the kitchen door. It's ajar and the two of you can see out into the control room, the black-purple of space just in view. "The ghost calls me his friend, too. Ah don't think ah believe it." He faces you once more. "You, on the other hand, ah got no doubts about ye."

You smile back. It's a wonderful feeling. It's almost as if everything's back to normal.

"Everythin' ye've done for me, can't say ah deserved any of it. Lettin' me stay here...not to mention puttin' up with me movies, savin' me skin, savin' me grandkid's skin..."

You flinch. Better he doesn't know you caused the situation where his grandkid's skin was in peril in the first place. You decide to mention that he saved your skin, too, once.

"Ah, ya mean when Grooves," he stops for a moment. "Wasn't anythin' that was. Anywae, ah just wannae say ah'm glad ah have ye."

You tell him the feeling is very mutual.

You hop down from the table to get some orange juice. You specifically pour the juice into your favorite sippy cup, the one with stars on it. You've outgrown it but it's the only cup you have with stars and that's that. When you return to the table, the Conductor has leaned his elbow on the table, his hand cupping the underside of his beak. His frown creases his face.

"That ghost'll never be me friend. He dunnae care about me and ah don't need 'em to. He's got me soul and that's all. He's a blighter." He grimaces. "Ah've got enough ah that, dealin' with meself."

You sip your juice quietly. What to say? Perhaps this was a mistake. But he's here now, and that's a start, isn't it? The Snatcher's holding the Conductor hostage, in a sense, and that's... good? Yeah, good.

Your friend glances at your sippy cup and raises his brow.

"Have ye got annae champagne, lassie?" He releases his beak, smiling. "Ah'm dying for a mimosa."

You give him a look which explains you are a child.

*

You return from the Alpine Skyline with fresh eggs and fruit. You're met with an incredibly strange scene.

You find the Conductor and the Snatcher sitting (approximate of sitting for the ghost) on the pillows in your bedroom. They don't notice when you peek inside.

You realize the Conductor is weeping. The Snatcher's face is neutral, his smile gone, his glowing eyes watching the owl without judgment. The Conductor removes his hat and wipes at his face with his sleeves. He sniffles loudly, an incredibly mucous noise, and hiccups. The Snatcher does not make fun of him. He says nothing.

You leave so as not to disturb them. Wondering, you almost trip over Rumbi on your way to the kitchen.

*

Later that day, in the laundry room, you ask the Conductor how things are going with the Snatcher. Your friend is folding a shirt of his. He lifts his shoulders and drops them.

"About as well as they could be, lass. He hates me and the feelin's mutual. Ah'm doin' all right if that's what yer askin'."

You lie and tell him the Snatcher told you about what you saw earlier that day.

"He WHAT?" The Conductor throws down the shirt and spins to look at you. Uh oh. "Th-that black-an'-blue, contract-makin', clown-grinnin', fool-spoutin', PECK-NECK!" He continues to mumble curses, lots of peck, visibly fuming.

You realize you might've screwed up. You lie again and tell the Conductor you forced the Snatcher to tell you how the Conductor was really doing. The owl stops where he is: angrily pouring too much detergent into the washer. He sets the bottle down and folds his arms.

"Oh, well ah know that ain't true." Dang it. "No being live or dead can make that haunt do anythin' he dunnae want to do. Even ah know that."

You wait a few moments to see if the Conductor lets you off the hook. No dice. He taps his foot expectantly.

"Lass, were ye spyin' on us?"

Yes, yes you were.

The feathery fronds sticking off his head lower. "Eh, wh-what did ya hear?" He's nervous. He's blushing.

You explain you only saw him crying. You're glad you didn't hear or see anything else, from the way the owl is anxiously listening to you. When you finish, the Conductor lets his arms fall to his sides. It looks like he believes you.

"Well, ah'm sorry ye had to see that," he says, dejected. He turns back to the washing machine. He presses the on switch.

You tell him it's fine. You’re glad he’s letting himself express anything. You mention that the Snatcher seemed to be listening to the Conductor and it surprised you.

"Well, me and the haunt were talkin' a bit about... things we cannae change. It started normal, us tauntin' and jibin' one another, but he said somethin' ah couldnae let 'em get away with." He sheepishly leans against the washing machine. "Might not have helped ah'd had a few drinks before, down in Mafia Town..."

Something tells you from his demeanor that the Conductor is not telling you the entire story. Both of you are dancing around each other. It sucks, but it makes sense. He has his pride and you have your skeletons. Secrets are okay.

"The Snatcher," he says the name for the first time, "he did lend me his ear, if only for a bit." The admittance seems to frustrate and humble the Conductor. "Mustae been a fluke."

Great. This is good.

*

"Listen, kiddo, I don't think I can go through with this whole Conductor thing..."

You're sitting beside the Snatcher in the gallery, your butt in a comfy chair, his lack of butt channeling up out of the floor. You wait for him to go on but he pauses purposefully and raises a curved eyebrow.

"Did you paint these?" the ghost absently asks, looking about the room.

You shrug.

"What do you mean?" His voice gains weight, anger. "You don't know if you painted a painting on your own ship? There's even one of me!" He jabs a claw at the portrait.

You peer around the room at the paintings of yourself and others. You blow on the cup of chai tea in your hands. Yup, don't know where these came from. Don't need to know.

"You freak me out. Anyways, the Conductor." The Snatcher groans. "He's just not cut out for the contract business! He won't even kill anyone for me! He whines and complains as if his life depended on it. 'Peck' this, 'peck' that. What does that even mean?" He looks askance at you. "You never complained. Well, you never said much of anything, really." He blinks. "Maybe I should pop his head off today."

You remind the Snatcher that the Conductor wanted to eat a revolver. That seems important. Just saying, you add.

"Oh, boo hoo!" The ghost shoots up from the spot near you, his hands at his sides. "Everyone gets a little suicidal! You'll feel it, too, someday, when you're older. It comes naturally when you think about what you mean in this mess of a universe. It doesn't make you special." He says the last sentence with a note of revulsion. "You don't think I've felt it; that feeling of being tired with everything? Of course, I have!" He sounds genuinely hurt, offended. You wait until he continues. "Really, it's par for the existential course... that mutated excuse for an owl doesn't move me, kid."

You swing your feet where they hang above the floor. You wonder if you should tell the Snatcher that you saw him treating the Conductor's sadness quite seriously the day before. You know that would embarrass him, so you hold your tongue with every ounce of your being. Embarrassing the Snatcher is a very tempting idea. You decide instead to tell the ghost that you love the Conductor, so please don't kill him. The Snatcher comes back down by your side, frowning. You know you've got him when he exhales for longer than five seconds.

"Fine!" he shouts. "But he's annoying. And I blame you, entirely. You really must love torturing me. The amount of suffering you've inflicted upon my life has aged me hundreds of years, and I don't even age! You're diabolical."

You take a sip of tea with a smile. You and the Snatcher are quiet for a bit.

"That old bird told me he thinks he's worthless," the Snatcher says, breaking the silence. "That his grandkids deserve a better grandpa. That he's a hack director. That he'll never find love again. That I should kill him as soon as I can." His otherworldly face appears pensive, worried. It's as if he's re-digesting the information. "I mean, he's not wrong about that last one. I just," the Snatcher says, his eyes narrowing, fury coating his words. "I can't stand people that want to die! There's no fun in threatening a guy who wants you to pop his head off..."

You pat the Snatcher's ethereal arm and he doesn't pull it away. His grin returns to his face, though wilted. You can tell this situation is throwing the ghost for a loop.

You remember when you threw him for a loop, too, when you became friends. He'll never mention it, but it's impossible to forget how he clung to your spaceship when he thought he'd never see you again. Things worked out differently, so the Snatcher didn't have to change. He could pretend nothing happened, and you let him pretend.

You wonder how easily other people could throw the Snatcher for a loop if he'd only let them grow close to him. His horrible, unfair past doesn't have to define him, you think, and are startled by the thought because you're only a child.

This is good.

You tell him how much you appreciate him giving the Conductor a purpose, a strange source of love. You word it the way you believe he'd like to hear, with the phrase "owning his mortal soul" thrown in for a dose of menace.

"Don't mention it, kiddo," the Snatcher says, exhausted. He places his elbow on the flat top of your hat. "Ever."

Chapter Text

You’re beginning to think the Conductor misses home.

This morning he's looking out the main window down at the planet below where the Subcon Forest festers. The Snatcher's place has become a sort of double-home for the Conductor; he occupies it to complete tasks for the ghost frequently. Whenever he returns, the way he takes off his hat and unbuttons his coat with an air of success makes you happy. It seems like having a purpose is giving the owl a spring in his step, however menial the labor. When he has nothing to do- this is when you see him at his lowest. Thinking all this, how can you guess he wants to be home?

He is talking less. It's weird to see him abstain from being annoyingly loud. You haven't heard him even mutter the word "peck" in a day or two.

You step up beside him and he turns his beak to you. He has his hands folded behind his back, a very familiar posture.

"Good mornin', lass. Sleep well?" You nod. He nods back, looks out of the ship once more. You follow suit.

The planet is slowly rotating, the stars twinkling like something out of a fairytale. Your life is much stranger than any fairytale you were once read.

“So…” The Conductor scratches the nape of his neck. "Do ye think the Snatcher will give me soul back if ah asked nicely? I'm thinkin' ah should head back to work soon." Ding-ding-ding. "Ah'm afraid to even ask..."

You tell him the ghost gave your soul back because he wanted you to leave him alone. Now he lives in your ship. There's literally no way to predict what he'll do, he's that tsundere and fickle.

"Soon-dairy?" The Conductor looks skeptically at you.

It's an anime thing, you say. The Conductor only looks more confused. You'll have to lend him your Princess Codfish DVD. Codfish-chan is as tsundere as it gets. You explain what tsundere is without sounding like a nerd. You think.

"Ah," he says, still a bit quizzical. "I mean, ah think he might actually not mind me... that's, eh, 'dere' of 'em... suppose ah'll ask?"

You ask him if he's really ready to go home?

"I think so. I've still got a few things on me mind but ah can't take advantage of yer hospitality any longer, lass. Tell ya the truth, it's makin' me feel worse."

You can tell he doesn't want you to tell him not to go or that he isn't a burden. This seems like a decision he is confident about. You say you'll miss him.

"Aye, the feelin's mutual, lassie." He smiles at you genuinely. "But ye can always come visit yer ol' friend whenever it suits ye.”

You reach for his hand and he only twitches a bit when you do. He holds it back.

You watch space be space. Planet be planet. What is be what is.

You’re getting too deep for a kid.

You ask the Conductor what he’s going to do now that he’s blown up his train.

“Are ya kiddin’? I did love that train… but, ah’ll just get me another one.”

Okay.

“S’only a train…” he says carefully, but you can tell he’s not fully accepted the fact.

Okay. It’ll work out.

He nods again, firmly, squeezing your hand once.

*

There’s a loud argument happening in the laboratory. You can hear it through the wall in the kitchen. You think your friends purposefully chose to have the spat in a room far enough away from you so they could say words more inappropriate than “peck.”

Like “damn.” That one’s off-limits and even thinking about it makes you giggle. You’re so bad.

You hear a muffled slam which couldn’t be a door because the doors in the ship slide closed. You startle and get up because if that wasn’t a door it could’ve been the Conductor being pulverized. You rush to the laboratory, holding the brim of your hat so it doesn’t fly off. You make it into the hall leading to the door.

“ARE YOU SAYING I WOULD EVER, IN ALL MY ETERNAL BEING, BE ATTRACTED TO YOU?”

Oh, gosh. You enter.

The Conductor is on the floor, panting. He looks totally alive but distraught. The Snatcher is three times his normal size, practically filling the room, a lethal-looking fist raised. He looms over the Conductor, mid-tirade.

“WHAT AM I SAYING? MAYBE MY FIST IS A LITTLE ATTRACTED TO YOU, YOU MUTATED EXCUSE FOR A BIRD!”

You knock on the wall. Both of them jump a few feet. The Snatcher shrinks and looks away. The Conductor holds his hands over his beak. They both look anxious. Dorks.

You ask if everything’s all right.

“Well, he-“ the two of them say in unison. “I-” They stop, and you can tell this is mortifying for them.

If you had popcorn you’d be sucking it down right now.

“Aye,” the Conductor says, turning his beak. He wipes the corner of his mouth purposefully and stands. “Everythin’s hunky dory, lass. In’t that right, Snatcher?”

The Snatcher scowls at the owl with what you can only describe as pure hatred. “I’m not doing this.” He disappears into the floor without another word.

There’s an uncomfortable silence. Well, for the Conductor. You’re mostly okay and your little girl's heart is begging to ask something. The Conductor sees you trembling with anticipation.

“What?” he asks incredulously.

You ask the Conductor if he has a crush on the Snatcher, giggling.

“Ah, ah, ah, crush?!" he yelps. “That… that peck-neck is about the least lovely bein’ ah’ve ever had the displeasure of layin’ me eyes on!”

Nevermind the fact your friend has no visible eyes. He’s very specific and you giggle again. Oh, how you giggle. The Conductor’s turning red.

“Lassie, don’t be gettin’ any ideas ya shouldnae be gettin’.” He preens his feathers back on his head, having become disheveled during the argument. “I certainly have takin’ a shine to the haunt but ah’d rather eat me own tail feathers than… y’know!”

You decide to let it go for now. You can tell he’s becoming upset and you don’t actually mean to hurt him. You tell him you understand in a way he seems to accept. He dusts his collar and clasps his hands together.

“Now, ah am glad to see ya. I actually wanted to propose a litt’l outin’.” He clears his throat. “How’d ya like to have a picnic with me up in the Alpine Skyline? My treat. A little thank ya present before ah head off.”

That sounds nice. You ask him if the Snatcher agreed to give him his soul back. The Conductor takes on a frustrated look.

“No.” He folds his arms. “No he din’t. I asked why and, whaddaya know, he wouldnae give me a straight answer. Kept skirtin’ around the question like he was afraid to tell me somethin’.”

You have a feeling you know what happened before you arrived. The Conductor must have implied something the Snatcher really didn’t like… or didn’t want to admit. The side of you that likes to make your toys kiss is delighted. You ask what the big noise you heard was. The Conductor seems confused for a moment, but then he grins.

“When the haunt grew up to the ceilin’ he right bonked his head!” He laughs. “You should have seen it. I’ve never seen ‘em so flustered. Priceless.”

You are very sad you missed it. You ask your friend if he’ll be all right without a soul from now on?

“Aye, ah think so.” He puts both his hands on his breast. “Feels like a hollow cavity in me. I’m gettin’ used to it, but sometimes it feels like the Snatcher’s not got me soul but me heart for how empty it is.”

You recall the feeling.

“Anywae, he’s told me ah’m not off the hook when it comes to workin’ for ‘em. In the same breath, he’s tellin’ me he’s done comin’ when ah call for ‘em! Pah!” The Conductor puffs up his chest. “Once ah’m back to Dead Bird, ah’m not on his clock or anyone’s!”

Somehow, you imagine that conversation not going well. However, if the Snatcher hasn’t killed the Conductor at this point, he probably won’t ever. That’s the most easily identifiable “dere” in his personality.

The Conductor goes to the kitchen to prepare your sandwiches and such. He really seems to have improved, you think, as you steer the ship for Alpine Skyline. You’ll have to pick his brain a bit more on your lovely picnic.

*

“Well, this is the pits.”

The Conductor and you are huddled beneath a hanging tree. Rain falls in torrents in front of the both of you, melting the half-eaten sandwiches and cookies on your tragic picnic blanket. You barely got to have a picnic before the drops began to fall.

The Conductor shakes his head quickly, a spray of rainwater shooting from his disheveled feathers. He holds his arms to himself, clearly cold. You mimic him. This is the pits, you say, too.

“I’m sorry, lass,” your friend says miserably. “What a peckin’ waste. I couldn’t find a forecast so ah just prayed for the best. See where that’s got us…”

You tell him it’s not his fault. Weather can be unpredictable on unfamiliar planets.

“It is me fault!” He looks cross now, clearly not with you. “I could have picked any other place and…” He stops and you see his beak tremble. He balls his hands into fists. “Oh,” he mutters and covers his face with his arm.

This is not how things should be. You put your hand on his elbow. You ask what he’s crying for?

“I don’t know,” he admits. He hiccups. “I know, it’s not that big a deal. I don’t know why ah’m so sad.”

He sits on the wet ground, certainly dirtying his pants. You sit beside him, tucking your cape under your butt. You wonder what’s on his heart, figuring it has to do with many things, the Snatcher certainly involved, but you shouldn’t pry. You watch the Conductor cry for a few minutes without touching him. You know from home, sometimes it’s good to just be there for someone, even if you can’t help how you’d like. When he begins to calm down, you decide you’ll be helpful and clean up what’s left of your picnic. The rain doesn’t look like it’ll be letting up anytime soon, but you’ve got to get this done.

You do your best to face away from the direction the wind and rain are blowing. Still, it chills you to your little bones. The cliffside the two of you picked out for your picnic is slick with mud. The wet earth has run onto the picnic blanket and the food. There’s really nothing to be salvaged, you think as you look upon the mess. You peer back where the Conductor is. He’s beginning to stand, fixing his hat on his head. He raises a hand. You shrug at him. You bend down to take a corner of the picnic blanket, just to try and save something.

This is when the ground gives way.

Your feet are sinking down into the mud. Before you understand what’s happening, you’re slipping onto your stomach and then falling and the world is becoming a scene of brown brushstrokes. Nothing is certain until you bump your chin painfully and grasp onto whatever is it you’ve got. It’s a bit of rock jutting out from the cliffside amidst the pouring mud which coats your face. You feel caked with the stuff. It’s hard to breathe. You look up when you hear a cry.

“Lassie!”

You wipe your sleeve over your eyes quickly. It’s the Conductor, reaching down towards you, far away.

“Take me hand!”

You reach out, straining. You can’t quite grasp the yellow, feathery fingers. The scene becomes clearer as you blink the dirt from your eyes. The Conductor’s beak is molded with fear, his torso dirtied by carefully leaning over the remains of the muddy cliff. He’s trying and failing to snag even a finger of yours. You just can’t reach.

You tell the Conductor you can’t reach. It’s too far.

“Snatcher!” your friend cries, suddenly. “Ya bleedin’ ghost, help! Peckin’ do somethin’, anythin’, please!”

The crappy rock you’re holding onto makes an awful noise and then, predictably, breaks. Then you’re falling and falling and you blackout because you don’t want to know what happens next.

*

You open your eyes.

The Snatcher is looking down into your face with a puzzled expression. He registers you waking and blinks a few times. A nonplussed look comes over him.

“I thought you might have died from fear,” he says, raising his eyebrow. “Now that would’ve been embarrassing, kiddo.”

He’s holding you, hovering somewhere deep below the Alpine Skyline, between where you were and the further dark, abyssal pit of the skyline which definitely would have killed you.

It’s foggy but you can see the Snatcher’s eyes because of the quivering yellow light they always emit. You ask the Snatcher if he caught you.

“No,” he says with an exaggerated scowl. “Yes, I caught you! Are you or are you not dead?”

You thank him, one of your hands grasping a tendril of his hair. He pulls away a bit.

“Yeah,” he says, hesitant. It’s still raining and you watch the drops fall on his dark violet “skin” in trails. You’re cold and you shiver. You say “brrr” to be annoying.

“It’s not that cold,” he chides.

You smile. You look up. It’s so foggy and you must be so far down that you can’t see a thing. The Snatcher hikes you up in his arms, beginning to ascend.

“Let’s get you back before the old bird has an aneurysm or something.”

*

The Conductor throws his arms around you as soon as the Snatcher sets you down. He spins you around and laughs in a way that tells you he is both relieved and nearly close to that aneurysm the ghost mentioned. He holds you at arm’s length, his feathers probably the most disheveled you’ve ever seen. You’re both pretty drenched and covered in mud.

“Yer alive! Oh, I was so afraid, lass!” The Conductor gives your arms a shake. “Don’t you ever do that to me again!”

You agree not to, thoroughly vibrated by your friend’s visceral reaction.

Your friend sighs dramatically and lets you go. He falls back onto his tail feathers, breathing heavily. You place your hand on the top of his head and he manages a wobbly smile. To be fair, due to the shape of his beak, all of his smiles are a bit wobbly.

“Ahem.”

Both of you look up. The Snatcher hovers nearby, scowling.

“Ah, aye,” the Conductor says, touching his hat. He swallows, adjusts his tie. “Thank ya, Snatcher. I mean that.”

The ghost looks off into the distance, taking on an appearance that communicates he is slightly bothered.

“Thought ye’d abandoned me, like ya said,” the Conductor continues. He sounds genuinely touched. “Well, we didnae quite finish our picnic here. We can take it back on the lass’ ship. Would ya like to join us, Snatcher?”

You echo this sentiment.

The Snatcher suddenly darts down in front of the Conductor, shoving a ghostly claw against the Conductor’s beak. The owl squeaks.

“Listen up, bird! Our contract doesn’t exist so you can call me to magically fix all your pathetic problems!” The Snatcher presses his claw. “It would be much easier for me if you’d just die. Don’t expect me to do this again, for the kid, or you!” He leans back, his voice growing low and menacing. “Got it?”

The Conductor is blushing and clearly petrified. “A-aye?”

“Great.” The Snatcher looks around for a moment. You can tell he’s done being a jerk and now has nothing else to say. Typical. “Now, don’t do anything else stupid that might involve me.” He dives into the ground and disappears.

The rain falls.

“In’t he a charmer,” the Conductor says miserably. You give his head one more pat.

Chapter Text

There’s an envelope on your lap in the morning. You sit up in bed and open it. You lift and gently hold the page of the Conductor’s letter in your fingers. A yellow feather flutters onto your lap.

My dear friend, thank you for all that you’ve done for me. His accent is utterly absent in his writing and it startles you. I’m not good at goodbyes. Yesterday, I think our better picnic in the spaceship was suitable. Not good at goodbyes, once again. Thank you. Come visit when you can. Your friend, Conductor. P.S. Left you a treat in your hat.

You take your hat from where it’s sitting on your nightstand and poke your hand inside. You pull out a package of bright red “cola cubes.” The bag smells sugary and delicious. You put it on the nightstand. Though you’d like to tuck in, you’d better eat breakfast before you indulge.

You say good morning to the Snatcher who is peering out the window of your bedroom. He doesn’t turn. His posture seems tired, void. You ask what’s wrong?

“Nothing.” He sighs and doesn’t get particularly aggravated with you. “Nothing, kid.”

The kitchen is quiet. You eat your bowl of Quest cereal and feel the absence of your friend. You wish the Snatcher ate so he could eat with you. Your chair creaks.

But, this is okay. This is how it was before. You’ve got to head home. Maybe it’s finally time you did?

You can’t help the tears when they come. You push your half-eaten bowl away. You fold your arms on the table and lower your face into them. You cry.

It’s so bad; your little heart. You’re so glad the Conductor feels better but you’d gotten used to his presence. It’s not so hard, but it is so hard at the same time.

You feel something ethereal on your shoulder. You peek out of your arms. It’s the Snatcher.

“What are the tears for, kiddo?”

You tell him you’ll miss the Conductor. A little.

“That old bird is my burden, now.” He takes his claw from your shoulder. He looks displeased. “Don’t cry over that guy. He’s a…a…” He rotates his hands together, looking for the answer. “Peck-neck.”

You say, hey, that’s what the Conductor says!

“I’m entirely aware of that!” The Snatcher doesn’t seem very proud of you for pointing out the obvious. “It’s such an idiotic thing to say, I wanted to.. Anyways.” He begins to descend towards the floor. “I’ll tell him you said hi.”

You watch him disappear. You have a feeling things are going to be okay.

*

Several months later, The Conductor sits at the base of a dead tree in the Subcon Forest.

Every tree is dead, really. The little scooter the Snatcher leant him idles nearby, puttering quietly. There is no mail left to deliver to identical ghouls, only time to think about… everything.

Everything. Right.

The Conductor, if he is not a good man, at least knew that to tell the Lass all of his problems in gratuitous detail would’ve been likely child abuse, or at least akin to it. There’s only so much one can explain, only so much one can expect, even from a friend, when they’re so young. And so the Conductor’s heart boils over with pain he’s kept silent. The pot has only opened to the Snatcher, and only slightly. The ghosts spot-on yet cruel enlightenment has pierced the owl to the core.

Dead Bird hadn’t returned to what it once was, as the owl had hoped. Half of it is utterly empty, littered with dusty, shiny props DJ Grooves left behind. The Conductor’s owls try their best, but the passion hasn’t been there in their boss. The newest film from the bird’s brain is a straight tragedy, something he’s never been fond of making. Now, he’s been thinking of maybe… making it… a direct-to-DVD feature…

What’s the worst of all of this is the emptiness on that other side of the studio. At night, the Conductor walks amongst the dark, dusty scenery and chugs back a bottle of something bitter, burning, comforting. Then he smells Grooves. The fruity perfume he used to wear. He smells that flamboyant, idiotic penguin.

And he misses him more than words can explain properly.

The Snatcher has kept good on his promise to not come on the Conductor’s calls. He’s only supernaturally urged the Conductor to tasks, a fate brought upon by the ghost still owning his soul. It’s been a lonely time. A time consumed by sadness and wondering if that sadness will, or could, ever end.

The Conductor is a proud bird. This is why he anxiously tugs at his tie, watching the violet leaves fall now and then. He fidgets and balls his hands into fists. He wishes for a whiskey with ice, an orange peel, and blueberries pierced through with a pretty toothpick. There’s something he really needs to explain to Snatcher and to do so would break that pride he has into little pieces.

There’s no choice. It’s this or the noose.

The Conductor stands, brushes the dead earth from his bottom, and plops himself onto the scooter. With every reservation, he heads off in the direction of the Snatcher’s modicum of a house.

*

The Conductor brings the teacup to his beak. It’s an old cracked teacup, kept by the Snatcher for god knows how long. The tea tastes as old as the cup. Still, he throws it back because it’s warm and it reminds the owl of warm times.

“Thank you,” the Conductor says softly. He sets the empty teacup onto the plate in his other hand. It makes a little clatter, a product of his jittery hand. “Wasn’t necessary, Snatcher.”

“It’s been a while, owl. I don’t mind offering a bit of hospitality.” The Snatcher sits in his lounge chair, arms folded. He gazes at the Conductor with eyes that say he hasn’t been doing much the past few months. “What’s on your mind?” He smiles cruelly. “Another loved one in terrible danger? Not interested.”

“No,” the owl says quickly, setting the teacup and its plate on the boards of the little house. Crickets chirp outside. “No, ah… ah just wanted to see ye. Like ye said it’s been… awhile.” He looks embarrassed. “Have a chat, some fellowship.”

The Snatcher raises an eyebrow. His grin widens. “See me? Well,” he says, rising somewhat from the chair, playful. “Here I am! Need anything?”

“N-no!” the owl cries again, sitting straight. “Not… necessarily. Onlae wanted to ask… if ye heart’s ever been broken?” He relaxes, crosses a leg, tries not to seem too interested. He is clearly very interested.

“My heart? Broken?” The Snatcher squints at the Conductor. He tilts his head, smiles. “Never.” He settles back into his chair comfortably, crossing his arms behinds his head. He closes his eyes peacefully. “Can’t have a broken heart if there’s no heart there in the first place.”

“Never?” The Conductor holds his hands in his lap.

“Nope.” The Snatcher opens one eye. “What? Have you had your heart broken?” He grins and props himself up. He balls his fists under his chin eagerly. “Oo, tell me! I love a good tragedy.”

The Conductor swallows. He scratches his neck feathers. He is hesitating very badly.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” The Snatcher leans forward further. “Well, now, you have to tell me.” His eyes narrow. This isn’t a suggestion but a demand if the Conductor knows what’s good for him. He does.

“Well, I-” The Conductor says. He stutters a few times. “I-” He slaps himself and groans. “D’ye know the DJ Grooves?”

The Snatcher raises an eyebrow, then snaps a finger. “The penguin you hate! He’s off on some fantastic, retirement planet, isn’t he?” His smile widens terribly. “Yeah, what about him?”

“I…” The fronds on the back of the Conductor’s head are utterly flat. Saying what he is about to say is a task, and not an easy one. He swallows again, stares into his lap. “I… ah was in love with ‘em.”

The Snatcher freezes, frowning. Then, he snorts. He throws his head back and begins to laugh uproariously.

The Conductor recoils. After he registers what’s happening, his sadness turns to utter rage. He stands from the chair, blood boiling. “What’s so peckin’ funny?” he cries.

“You!” The ghost tries to stop laughing, wiping a nonexistent tear from his eye. “You were in love with your rival?!” He bends forward, holding his stomach. “How cliche can you get? Even you know that’s funny. Oh, your life is hilarious, old bird!”

The Conductor is quivering with rage. “Aye? Well, yer’s must be a peckin’ circus if mine’s so funny!”

The Snatcher stops laughing. His smile becomes tense. “You have no idea what my life is like.”

“A peck-neck like you cannae have it too tough.” The owl spits on the floor, right beside the set teacup and plate. “All ye do is take and hurt people! Yer an unkind haunter, holdin’ me soul captive even after all ah’ve done for ya!”

The Snatcher is not smiling anymore. “Are you forgetting that I saved your life, you ungrateful-”

“Saved me life? Saved me life?!” The Conductor snarls. “Ye ruined me life! Ah can’t go home because of you!”

The Snatcher shakes his head. “I told you that you could go back to that stupid movie studio. And you have been! What are you talking about?”

“It ain’t the same anymore! It’s cold, it’s empty, it’s- it’s nothing! If yer not there it’s-” the Conductor stops mid-sentence. He holds the top and bottom of his beak, dips his head down. When he speaks again, it’s quiet. “I cannae go back because ah feel so lost. Ah don’t have Grooves and ah feel that. No one to banter with, no reason to become better.” He looks at his open hands. “I know ah should be making movies for meself but ah can’t stop what’s happenin’ inside of here.” He presses his hands on his chest. “There’s somethin’ prickin’ me heart and it’s tellin’ me the only way to stop the blessed prick is if ah was- if ah was… if ah was just gone.”

The Snatcher says nothing. He watches the Conductor and waits.

“I’m… ah can’t go back to Dead Bird if yer not with me.” He raises his chin and faces the ghost. “Ye probably think ah’m repulsive for what ah’m suggestin’...”

In a few seconds, the Snatcher’s face bursts into a grin. “Are you saying you’re in love with me?”

The Conductor yelps, all of his feathers puffing out. “I-I-I, no! Ah didn’t say that!”

The Snatcher lowers his eyelids. “I’m no romantic, oh, no, not anymore. But,” he says as he comes close to the Conductor. He wades in the air by his side playfully. “Sounds like a confession if I can remember how one sounds.”

The Conductor is unable to speak, having become a stammering mess. The Snatcher cackles, slowly rotating around the horrified bird.

“I’m a little offended; feels like I’m a bit of a rebound.” His tone is thick with sardonic delight to have found something so sensitive to prey upon. “How pitiful can you get?”

“Yer not a rebound of annae peckin’ sort!” the Conductor manages. He turns to where the Snatcher floats by, his feathered body all fists and venom. A nerve has been irreparably struck. “I was wrong! Ah don’t need ye, and ah don’t want to see ya ever again!” He pants. “I-I’ll show ya!”

The Snatcher’s grin grows wider. “Show me?”

The Conductor reaches into his coat and pulls out a large kitchen knife. He brandishes it in a way that’s clear he intends to use it.

“You’re threatening ME?” In a flash of lightning, the Snatcher becomes monstrous in size. His eyes burn with blazing white fire, his claws at the ready to tear the owl apart. The wind of the forest begins to whip the books off the shelves in the house. “AND I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS!” he shouts mockingly. His furnace of a smile spits ghostly embers. “I’LL MAKE SURE YOUR DEATH IS VERY, VERY PAINFUL.”

The Conductor looks purposefully up at his friend. He turns the knife on himself, pressing the tip against his breast.

The Snatcher freezes as if he’s glitched. In an instant he is at normal size, no longer burning, his eyebrows lifted high. The wind settles. One last book drops open onto the ground.

“Th-that’s right, ya unholy haunt.” The Conductor grasps the handle of the knife with both fists. “I’m followin’ through! Ye’ll be rid of me.” His arms tremble. “I know that’s what ye’ve been wantin’. Well, ah’m doin’ it meself, not a nasty claw of yer’s on me!”

The Snatcher doesn’t move, his face stuck in a look of pure confusion. The Conductor begins to shake all over.

“I’ll be free from yer torment! F-from all this peckin’ torment.” The wind howls. “It’ll be… it’ll be peaceful, like an endless dream.” He begins to push the knife. “Tell me grandkids and the lass ah love ‘em. Least I think ah did that right.” The knife pierces his skin.

The knife flies out of the Conductor’s hands, a little spray of blood following. It spins and lands, penetrating the wooden floor on impact.

The Conductor stares at his empty hands. There are two violet claws around his wrists. The owl lifts his gaze and finds himself face to face with a shrunken Snatcher.

“You idiotic bird,” the ghost growls, moving his face in towards the Conductor. The owl blushes, despite himself. “You stupid, ugly excuse for an owl.”

“B-but, why?” The Conductor is rigid with disbelief. “Why did ye stop-”

“You, you, you...” The Snatcher’s voice begins to rise in volume. “You ungrateful, awful, pitiful freak!”

The Snatcher releases the Conductor’s wrists violently. He glides back, growing in size until he resembles his normal, unnaturally sized self. He can’t seem to look at the astonished Conductor.

The owl, at a loss, tilts his head. “Wh-what on airth?”

“Ohhh,” the Snatcher moans, “don’t you GET IT?” The ghost throws his hands up in livid frustration. “You WIN! YOU GET THE GOLDEN KUPIE DOLL!”

The Conductor only gapes at him. “What in the peckin’ world are ye sayin’?”

The Snatcher slaps his hand on his forehead and slides his palm down his face. He rushes at the Conductor and grasps the lapels of his jacket. The owl stumbles back, his heels scraping the floor. He's being held up by the Snatcher at this point. “YOU IDIOT, YOU WON! I-” the ghost growls, “I-”

“You dunnae want me to die,” the Conductor says. He looks surprised. Then, the sides of his beak curve into a delighted smile. “You dunnae want me to die! Hoo-hoo!” In the most joyful voice he can manage, the Conductor shouts: “You like me!”

The Snatcher releases his lapels with such force that the Conductor falls back to the floor. “I don’t like anyone,” he cries, “especially not YOU!”

“Aw, the lassie was right, ye really are a tsundere.” The Conductor crosses his arms, pleased with himself despite everything. “Just a big ol’ tsundere, y’are.”

“A WHAT?!” The Snatcher’s voice cracks. “What is that? Seriously, what are you calling me?”

“It means yer a softy!” The Conductor puts one hand on his hip and points the other at the Snatcher. “Softer than a baby’s bottom.”

The Snatcher grabs the Conductor around the waist.

“GET.” He floats out of the little house. “OUT.” He readies his arms back. “OF.” Checks his aim. “MY FOREST!”

The Snatcher launches the Conductor into the sky, so high that the sky twinkles when he’s out of sight. Like some goddamn anime. The ghost brushes his hands together and stalks back into his house, desiring nothing more than a cup of tea and a good book he’s read a thousand times.

As the Conductor sails through space following a specific trajectory the Snatcher chose to send him towards Dead Bird, he folds his arms and smiles. He shakes his head.

“I’ll be seein’ that fool of a ghost tomorrow for lunch.”

Chapter Text

You’ve made it halfway home and The Snatcher still stays in your ship, sometimes for days at a time. Of course, you don’t mind. As long as he likes your company.

This afternoon, he gazes down at you where you’re sitting at your computer. You just bought a new keyboard and he can’t seem to stop watching you type.

“Why is that keyboard so loud? “ he finally says. “It reminds me of a typewriter.”

You explain that it’s a mechanical keyboard with blue switches.

“Switches? Where? Those are keys.”

You explain that the switches are underneath the keys on the keyboard. They make the keyboard sound clicky. The Snatcher frowns deeply at you. You shrug. It’s soothing to you, you say.

“What an annoying thing. I’m amazed at the way people come up with further ways to absolutely ruin life itself. And you make me suffer by having to listen to it.”

You continue typing. You check your email. There is a message from The Conductor. You smile and open it.

lookee it’s you

The Conductor has attached a transparent picture of a crow with a top hat on. There’s a large watermark over the image.

LOL. tell the ghost wer still on for a pint this evening, tho i’ve got a sparkling rose for the wee sissy canny handle real liquor

The Snatcher shoves your rolling chair aside and clicks reply. He shrinks his claws and begins typing, filling the air with insanely loud clicking.

This is The Snatcher. I am going to shove that rose bottle down your throat and watch you suffocate. Only when you die after writhing in agony, feeling your life slip away, will my anger be satisfied. I will

You place your hand on the Snatcher’s claw so he doesn’t break your new keyboard. He snarls at you. He clicks send.

Five minutes later, an email arrives from the Conductor. You tell the Snatcher and he shoves you aside once more, spinning you across the room. He clicks on the message.

wee sissy

The Snatcher picks up your monitor and tears it in half. After a few seconds of silence, the monitor sizzling, you ask the Snatcher to please go get you a new one. He lowers his eyelids at you, drops the two halves of the device. “Fine.” He sinks into the floor.

Maybe next time you can get him to break the computer itself. Brand new everything. Haha. You actually fear for the Conductor’s life.

*

“Hoo hoo, and look at this one!” the Conductor cries, placing another picture of his grandchildren into the Snatcher’s claw. The ghost’s hands are overflowing and pictures collect in his violet lap and onto the floor. He and the Conductor are sitting at the owl’s personal bar in Dead Bird, a place uniquely empty (not even a bartender is serving them) yet somehow lively by the soft country music alone. The ghost is barely holding his patience.

“As I said about the last one,” the Snatcher says with a demure smile, slightly quivering. “I. Don’t. CARE.”

“Oh, oh, and this one here!” The Conductor takes yet another picture from his wallet. “Lookit her wee ‘lil dress… ah got her it fer her birthday last year, y’know?” He sighs happily, gazing at the photograph.

The Snatcher muses on his companion for a few moments. Since almost killing himself, the Conductor has improved in attitude as his servant drastically. The ghost grins inwardly. Who knew a brush with death could help so much? Though, he personally knew the depth to which death solved many, many of his problems.

“The way that these creatures look,” the Snatcher begins, carefully holding a picture to his face. He can’t help his curiosity. “They’re as eyeless and bizarre as you are. I’m assuming they’re your biological grandchildren?”

The Conductor is surprised by the question. He looks up from the photo, tilts his head slightly. “Aye? And?”

“I thought you were into men?”

The words come so bluntly the Conductor goes ramrod straight. He sets the photo down. He carefully speaks. “Sure, ah’ve loved women. Don’t mean ah can’t… like men.” The owl lifts his glass of scotch and ice. “Rather personal question, in’t it, ye haunt?”

“My apologies,” the ghost says without a hint of regret. He watches the Conductor throw back the alcohol and peers at his own wine-glass of sparkling rose. He does prefer it. He lifts the glass and rotates it, spinning the pink liquid within gently. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” he says with a too-large smile.

The Conductor scoffs, mutters. He gestures at the Snatcher. “How about you, then? Any pups of yer own?”

“Oh, god. No.” The ghost laughs as he speaks. He takes a sip of wine. The mere thought…

“Never married before ye up and died?”

The Snatcher stops rotating his wine-glass. The smile leaves his face. “I had…” He narrows his eyes. “Someone.”

“Oh?”

“She killed me,” the ghost says with a slight chuckle. The Conductor waits for him to go on. When he doesn’t, the owl seems pensive, the fronds on the back of his head lowering slightly.

“You don’t mean… literally, do ye?” The Conductor lifts his glass to his jagged mouth.

“Literally, figuratively, tomato, to-mah-toe. Who knows?” The Snatcher seems uninterested, wishing to move on. He twirls the end of his tail around a claw, looking about the empty room. Then the ghost’s eyes light up. “Let’s play fair— my turn to ask a question. Did you ever get to second base with that penguin?”

The owl spits out his drink on the Snatcher’s face.

“Did you really have to give me the most stereotypical cartoon reaction to hearing something you weren’t prepared for?” The Snatcher says, wiping scotch from his face with disgust. “Honestly. I expect better of one of my servants.”

“Well ah wasn’t expectin’ ya to have such a filthy mind, ya peck-neck!” The Conductor runs his sleeve over his beak angrily. He begins pouring another shot into his emptied glass. “Second base, he says,” he grumbles, pounds the scotch bottle back onto the bar. “Second base! No, no, ah didn’t. Ah told ya he wasn’t fond of me that way.”

“Nothing?” The ghost drains the rose. “Did he even ever hold you?”

“Hold me?” The phrasing sounds off to the Conductor. After a beat, he decides the Snatcher must mean a hug. Maybe a sensuous hug? “Aye.” He quickly adds: “But, we’d both been drinkin’ and it weren’t nothin’ real.”

This doesn’t persuade the Snatcher, who is now genuinely interested in the way he is capable of. “What constitutes as real?”

“Well.” The Conductor adjusts his tie. “I could tell he didn’t love me the way ah loved ‘em. That sort of thing.” He turns his head away. “I could tell he pitied me. Pah.” The owl smiles ruefully in his liquor. “Don’t it seem like everyone pities ya, Conductor?”

The Snatcher rests his chin on his claws. He rises slightly from the barstool. “Well, you are disgustingly pitiful. That’s why the kid likes you. Pitying things is easy for children and idiots.”

“Feels like yer the only bein’ alive,” the Conductor pauses. “‘Scuse me. Yer the only bein’ who doesn’t pity me.”

The Snatcher throws his arms behind his head proudly. “I probably am. You’re an object of irritation to me, not pity.”

The Conductor grins, up to the challenge, naturally. “But you still like me.”

“Imagine that,” the ghost sighs without fighting. He frowns, studies the Conductor.

“I am thankful for ya, Snatcher,” the Conductor says offhandedly, pouring more scotch into his glass. He smiles and leans against the bar. “Ye’ve really made me a happier sort of owl.”

This sort of talk both infuriates and tickles the Snatcher. Him? Causing someone any sort of happy feelings? The opposite of his intentions, truly. “You’re aware I still have your soul?” He moves his face in towards the old bird, eyes glowing ominously. “It’s not a kindness to hold a soul hostage.”

“Maybe so. But the company does comfort this old director.” He removes his hat. “Now, there’s somethin’ ah’ve been meanin’ to ask ye. I know yer going to say no—”

“No.”

“How’s about ya star in one of me movies? We could do a horror-western!” The Conductor takes on an air of excitement, one that the Snatcher can tell is habitual when the owl is on a creative roll. “Oooh, we could film the piece in Subcon! Aye, wouldn’t have to drop so many pons on special effects, now would we?…”

Everything the Conductor is saying makes the Snatcher want to die. Again. He scowls as the Conductor goes on with his farflung idea, as if the ghost were no longer there.

“And, and, now, hear me out—you could play me romantic interest! Business only, of course. A ghost as the romantic lead! The people love a good romance, an’ that’s—”

“No.”

“What’s the problem? People’re very acceptin’ nowadays and ah think a lot of people might appreciate—”

“That’s not why.” The Snatcher’s grip on his drink cracks the glass yet doesn’t break it. “I don’t do love. I don’t.”

The Conductor realizes he has breached some wall. He nervously plays with his tie. The Snatcher’s glass begins to leak its pink dregs onto the bar, onto one of the fallen photos of the owl’s grandchildren. The ghost glances to the side, aware he’s created a difficult atmosphere. Normally this wouldn’t bother him, but…

“Only meant a fictional role, Snatcher. Ah didn’t—”

“I know, I know,” the ghost hisses. He glares at the jukebox which sings a jaunty Southern tune. “Do you have a remote to turn that damned thing off?”

The Conductor reaches over the front of the bar, his tail feathers in the air. He comes back with a small red remote in his hand and presses it, pointed at the jukebox. The music cuts off mid-lyric. He looks to the Snatcher. The ghost sighs gratefully, rubs his temple.

“Friend,” the Conductor dares to say in the silence. “Why don’t ya tell me what happened to ye?”

“Because if I did, I’d have to admit you’re worth telling.” The ghost tries to stimulate some irony into his voice. He grins. “And you’re not. You’re an idiotic, suicidal owl with the most annoying accent in this galaxy.”

“An idiotic, suicidal owl with at least a lick of empathy!” The Conductor crosses his arms. “I’m peckin’ old! I’ve been making movies that’ve touched people’s hearts fer years. The fact ye don’t trust me…”

“I trust you to complete meager tasks for me. In return,” the ghost’s mouth spits a bit of fire, his eyes widening terribly. “I don’t desecrate your worthless little soul until it’s an unrecognizable stain upon the earth.”

“As if ye would.” The Conductor places his hat back on his head and smiles. “Ya don’t fool me.”

The Snatcher sighs; pretends to sigh, as he doesn’t have lungs. He gazes at his empty, cracked wine-glass. He looks into it. Then, he offers it towards the Conductor. “A refill?”

*

It’s deep night. The Conductor and the Snatcher linger outside Dead Bird in the emptied parking lot. The stars wink down at them, flecks of paint on a black-purple painting.

“Shame ye cannae get drunk, Snatcher,” the owl croons, stumbling a bit. He holds his jacket over his arm. “It’d be fun to see what kinda things ye’d spout.”

The Snatcher crosses his arms, watching the stars rather than the Conductor. “Anything you dislike about me makes me glad,” he says with little conviction.

“She loves you,” the Conductor says quite suddenly, equally lackadaisy. The Snatcher looks down at him and the owl turns his beak up to him, smiling.

“She?”

“The lass. She utterly adores ya.” The Conductor’s smile widens, a wobbly thing, wobblier with liquor. “In our emails, she tells me what a blessin’ y’are to her. She would be so lonely without ye, she says. She doesn’t cry ‘cause of ya. She ain’t lonely ‘cause of ya.”

The Snatcher’s lip twitches.

“I’m thankful. Ah can’t be there for her in person, but you—”

The Conductor stumbles as he speaks, begins to fall forward with a yelp. The Snatcher quickly grabs the back of his shirt, keeping him upright. He sets the owl back on his feet.

“I swear,” the Snatcher barks, releasing the Conductor’s shirt with an air of distaste. “Both you and the kid would be dead if it weren’t for me.”

“Might be true, that,” the owl cackles, minding his stature. He pushes his hands into his pockets. “Can I say somethin’?”

“No.”

“I love ya, too.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Ah, come off it!” the Conductor yelps. “Ah’m slightly tipsy. A wee bit. I can tell ye what kinda car model this’here is an’ ah’ve never seen it in me life.”

“That’s your car.”

“Right. Aye…” The Conductor touches the hood of the car. “Heh.” He rubs his hand on it’s surface. “Very smooth, this is. Cost me half the budget of one of me films.”

The Snatcher is thinking about what the Conductor said about the kid. Just because he was there? What stupidity is that?

“Ye going back to yer forest?” the owl says, beginning to open the door of his car.

The Snatcher eyes the drunk bird before him, clearly about to drive, and this catches his attention. Something deep within him says that driving now would cause the Conductor to die. And that wouldn’t be good. Or…? Why? Who knows. “Let’s not do this,” he says, shutting the door.

“Might be a good call.” The Conductor leans against his car. He hiccups. “Take me with ya to Subcon? I’ll be good company, can promise ye that.” The owl smiles suggestively. The Snatcher resists the urge to annihilate him.

“I’ll take you literally anywhere else.” The Snatcher touches the top of the Conductor’s hat. “How about this? Imagine your house. Very clearly.”

“Aye, me house. Ye mean the one not in Dead Bird? Er, ‘spose ah’ve only got a bed there...” The Conductor frowns in concentration. “Me house, me house, me house. Haven’t been there in a while, have ah? Ah can see me bed, me wee lamp. The picture of me little grandson on the dresser...”

The Snatcher and the Conductor sink into the ground, the owl still listing furniture and the like.

*

It is dark in the Conductor’s house. The Snatcher, shrunk to accommodate the small size of the room, turns on the “wee lamp” the owl spoke of. The old bird falls on his back on the bed against the wall. There are crickets chirping outside the window, maybe a frog? Definitely a frog. The ghost eyes his drunk avian compatriat.

“Snatcher,” the Conductor says sleepily, his legs hanging over the bed.

“What is it, now?” the ghost growls and approaches. He would like to go home, read a book, and forget everything that happened this evening.

The Conductor lifts himself up onto his elbows. He beckons with a lift of his chin. “C’mere.”

The ghost lingers closer, within arms reach of the owl. He scowls. “You’d better hurry up. I have souls to extract. Mail, that you aren’t dealing with, to deliver.”

The Conductor places his hands on the sides of the Snatcher’s face and presses the tip of his beak against the ghost’s cold, violet lips.

Shocked, the Snatcher doesn’t move. The Conductor pulls back, laughs.

“M’sorry, forget that,” the owl says, wiping tears of mirth from non-existent eyes. “M’sorry, really,” he says again, barking another laugh. He falls back onto the bed and, shortly afterward, stops moving but for the rise and fall of his chest. His hat lays awkwardly on the sheets. A stray, banana-yellow feather glides down to the floor.

The Snatcher’s shimmering eyes bare down on the sleeping form of the Conductor. Hatred, confusion, and a bizarre pang of melancholy drain him of words. His claws ball into ugly, shaking fists. There is a moment where he thinks he must kill the Conductor to stay himself. To stay sane. He imagines the infuriating owl’s blood spraying against the bedsheets, the wall, over the pictures of his grandchildren. Then there is a moment where he feels sort of… all right with what’s happened. He thinks about how the Conductor is not a jealous, intimidating person. That he won’t suffer because of him, outside of annoyance. This man won’t betray him. And that horrifyingly strange “all right” feeling is the one which compels him not to murder the Conductor where he slumbers.

And so, quietly, slightly pissed, he sinks into the carpet.