Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Montrose put all of his weight behind the sigh. It's not enough to merely act out a feeling, you have to sell it. Make it larger than life.

"Emerich, I understand fundamentally, that you are a genius. A brilliant mind that helped shape the world into what we know today. I know this."

The older man shifted uncomfortably, not used to praise. "Well- well- well, thank you, Montrose. I- I certainly-"

"Oh you know I wasn't finished. I was going to continue into saying 'Yet I cannot begin to understand any of your actions. Or decisions. Basically almost anything you do, Emerich.' Could you explain to me why you thought it was a good idea to remove our real, functional, REAL toilets and replace them with hard light facsimiles?"

Emerich, not good with confrontation, began to shake. The sight of the slight man quietly quaking in fear awoke something in Montrose. A vision of a young boy holding back tears and shaking as a larger man wound up to strike him filled his head. He cleared away the thought with a well-practiced shake. He was quite literally not that boy anymore. He was Montrose Pretty, gentleman thief, and he should conduct himself as such.

"Emmy, Emmy, Emmy." He said cooly, wrapping an arm around his partner to comfort him. "I'm mighty impressed by the talent and ingenuity you displayed here. And on a daily basis besides. I just think you need a little help focusing that energy— that brilliance— somewhere where I don't accidentally piss through some less than solid light onto my brand new lounging shoes."

The door to the workshop opened and a large man with hard muscles and soft features walked through the doorway.

"I heard screaming about shoes. Is Montrose alright?"

"Now there's a man who knows the business," thought Montrose. "He gave away his name, his body, his very identity to the role. You bury your old self and all the feelings you want to hide. And you carve out another you to be. It's... safer that way."

Montrose gives Emerich a squeeze before letting go and lifting his hands up to greet Beef.
"Beef Punchley as I live and breathe. Why it's been since lunch that I've been graced with your presence. I was just conversing with our good friend Emerich here and we've jointly come to the conclusion to not tinker with our terlet and if the need strikes, to find other commodes which with to do his dark work."

Emerich nods, still a little confused by Montrose's rapid shifting of self. As unsteady as Emerich is with most things in general, nothing keeps him quite on his toes like the mercurial Montrose.

"That's- that's right. Montrose here reminded me of a famous saying that must have just- well, it must have just slipped my mind. Don't- ah. Um. Don't-" his voice drops to a low, conspiratorial whisper "Poop where you eat." He straightens up, or rather, straightens up as much as he ever truly does.

Beef looks him up and down. "I have no idea what's going on here and I'm pretty sure I've heard you say the word shit before. But okay! You just say the word and I'll, I dunno, drop firecrackers down toilets and blow them up just so you can fix them or whatever it is you're doing."

Beef and Emerich began excitedly making plans about whose toilets to commit the most domestic of terrorism on as Monstrose wearily draped himself on the couch he insisted be in the room. Took off his mask and turned it to and fro in the dim light of the workshop. These two exhausted him in new ways every day, but as he looks at them with his eyes not behind his mask as they excitedly discussed exactly how to plant their explosive payloads for the most impact, he smiled softly. As much as they frustrate him, he never has felt more invigorated or alive as he does when he's with them.
He holds his mask a little more firmly and wonders if Beef and Emerich would have liked the young boy he flashed back to before as much as they like Montrose. But as quickly as that thought bubbled up, he fitted the mask back onto his face.
No use thinking about ghosts. He's got his role to play and he's going to play the hell out of it.
He stands, ready to find out his place in this lowstakes bombing session, when the door quickly creaks open.
"Hi boys! I brought fresh snickerdoodle cookies and some lemonade! I'm sure you're parched." Poppy's kindly old mug beamed proudly right before an oily rag slaps him directly in the face.

"GET OUT OF HERE YOU OLD PERV."
"GO AWAY, OLD MAN."
"LEAVE! NO ONE LIKES YOU!"
Montrose and Beef continue loudly berate Poppy long after he ducks back out of the door as a low and warm chuckle builds up in Emerich.

Chapter Text

"What do you MEAN you've never eaten the world's most important pizza?" 

The lights flickered in the workshop behind Poppy's Place as the Pals stood over a flier that Montrose had just slammed onto the wooden cable spool they are using a table.

Beef let out a light chuckle, letting his shoulders bounce at the thought of it causing ripples to course through his muscles. It's a practiced move, making muscles giggle, and one the prized arm wrestler knew well. "Now, Montrose, I don't think I'd call pizza from a rodent-themed kids' place 'the world's most important pizza.'"

"Actually, they won that particular court case so legally they are the world's most important pizza. Zest E. Mouse and his industrious friends are the purveyors of pizza of such profound cultural significance, that it must be legally recognized as such." With the tips of his fingers, Montrose flipped his cape back with a flourish to emphasize the drama of the moment. "That is why I find it so hard to believe that you two have never been! Especially since we have one right here in Ustaben."

Emerich tapped a finger to his lips deep in thought. "Actually," he said with a small gasp, as if the inventor himself was surprised he was talking "I think I have been before, now that you mention it. If I remember correctly the pizza was- well, the pizza was subpar, and- and it was loud! Loud and smelly. And I got-" he stooped, looking around conspiratorially. Beef and Monstrose playing along, also looked for whatever spies Emerich was keeping watch for. "I got really bad diarrhea. Just like a- a fire house of filth and ick."

A hand slapped firmly on his back, causing him to straighten with a start. "Wonderful, Emerich! You got the full dining experience of Zest E.Cheese! Why, any establishment can serve you good food but only a gen-u-wine Zest E. Cheese can serve you an experience that really sticks with you from beginning to end. Your leaky hinder is an integral part of the experience."

Beef shakes his head. "Diarrhea is a selling point? I'm not sure I want to go anymore, guys. I like my butthole enough I don't want to endanger it with pizza you admit isn't very good."

"But it is important pizza." Montrose leaned in close, batting his eyes under his mask.

"And it would follow that it's the world's most important diarrhea." Emerich piped in, simply happy to be included.

"He raises a good– if not disgusting– point, Beef. Don't tell me you're too good to eat at Zest E. Cheese? Or dare I say: too SCARED?" Montrose put a gloved hand to just under the mouth of his mask with a mock gasp. A moment later, Emerich noticed and copies the movement.

With a chuckle, Beef places a large baseball mitt sized hand on a shoulder of each of his pals. "Guys, you had me at 'important diarrhea.'"

All three of the erupted into laughter, echoing out from the workshop into the quiet morning fog of Ustaben.

Chapter Text

The three men known as Poppy's Pals stand in front of the glass doorway of Zest E. Mouse, its large letters standing proudly over the rooftop and next to the iconic image of the mouse mascot waving a friendly hello.

"This has been here the whole time?" Beef asks Montrose. "Like, the whole time. Here? This? Been?"

The masked gentleman nods serenely. "I'm not sure why you haven't been graced by our dear Zestariah Earnest Mouse before but it is my honor-no, my privilege- to be the one who gets to introduce you." Montrose sniffles as if crying, his mask still grinning happily at his companions. "Now, normally, this duty is a parental one so if you two feel the need to call me 'Papa' while we're in here, chase your bliss, sons." He raises a gloved hand to wipe away a tear. Whether it's for show or for a real tear is hard for either of his friends to tell, such is the burden of an actor.

"O-okay, Papa." Emerich said as he looked to Montrose with soft, wide eyes.

"So I did say that as a joke- a little goof 'em between pals but I must confess it did stir some not unpleasant feelings within me. Might be something to think about during some downtime but for now, let us venture forth into this Zest E.'s."

"I'm going to skee so many balls here, they'll have to name a lane after me." Beef boasted as he yanked open the twin glass doors.

Buzzers, beeps and boops, midi files of all sorts, and the sound of joyfully screaming children erupt out of the building like the noise was trying to flee. The much lazier smells took their time to approach, but were no less demanding of the senses. The smell of rubber and sweat was almost overwhelming, cut through with a hint of something organic and sour.

A short time later, the three left the counter, each with a ticket card ready to be spent on mild amusements. "Now boys," Montrose cooed as he gently draped his long arms over their backs, "What is the number one rule of this visit to Zest E. Mouse's Mouse House of Fun and Food?"

With a slight panic Emerich straightens up "I was unaware there was going to be a quiz! I would have studied or taken notes or..." the older man trailed off into incoherent stammering while eyeing the door nervously.

"'Absolutely no poop jokes. We've already done too many as it is.'"  Beef answered for his panicky partner, eyes never leaving a far-off arcade game. "You said we hit our quota."

"That is exactly right, Beef. No poop jokes, no fart jokes. In fact, let's just steer clear of that whole area of the human body. We have got to class up our sense of humor. It's worrisome how quickly we devolve into potty humor."

Beef grinned widely, with a twinkle in his eye. "Right. We have to find something else to be the butt of our jokes. Okay bye!" And without even pausing for the groan he expected to come, he dashed off nimbly snaking his way through the crowd.

"I swear to god I'd slap him upside the head if he wouldn't then fold me like a cheap plastic lawnchair." Montrose pinched the bridge of his mask's nose as if trying to will away a headache.

Emerich cleared his throat and begins to raise his hand before thinking better of it and lowering it again. "I think I'm just going to investigate this tantalizing game of whacking moles, Daddy."

As he slunk off, Montrose stood stuck in thought as though frozen, the world speeding around him. As life seemed to enter him again, he sighed wearily and with everything he had, as though for an audience only he could see. "I'm deeply regretting that particular bit and I fear I may have irrevocably damaged something in all of us."

Chapter Text

True to his word, soon Beef Punchley found his way to the skeeball machines. His professional showmanship and deft arms were a natural fit for the fine sport of skeeball and soon he drew a small but enraptured crowd.

"Y'see folks, it's all in the wrist. You don't become the world's greatest arm wreslter," he says raising his voice when talking about his career in order to draw further attention, "without focusing hard on your wrist. Go ahead, touch it. See what a championship wrist feels like." He offers his forearm to a fanny-pack wearing woman in catseye sunglasses. One hand squeezes his wrist with a ferocity often reserved for bachelorette parties and before long, as Beef began to discus exercises to develop your wrists specifically, her other hand finds itself sliding further up his arm, fingers tracing lines on his taut biceps.

The mountainous man flexes as he rolls a ball back into the crook of elbow, bouncing the ball back into his palm while subtly removing the woman's roving hand. It's not his first handsy housewife and maneuvers to remove himself from their grasp without diminishing the show are as well practiced as they have to be.

"Skeeball is a lot like love, and the ball, your lover. You have hold them tenderly but firmly." He looks at the woman as he winds up. "It's about giving your body to them and using all that you have to take the ball," his voice lowers to a sultry whisper as he bowls "where it wants to go." The skeeball lingers just for a moment on the lip of the hole before dropping. A buzzer does ring out, but it's drowned out by a cheer from the crowd.

Emerich Dreadway stands by a game of his own and is so focused on the action within, he doesn't notice the crowd around his friend and the subsequent lack of crowd around him. Showmanship isn't Emerich's strongsuit anyway. It's analysis. And currently, he's playing to his strength. He mutters numbers and angles as his fingers trace pathways over the plastic dome that bubbles over the gametable. Without removing his gaze from the rotating ball launcher, he taps his ticket card on the the reader, and readies his hand over the large orange start button. As the launcher swings back into place, he slams his hand down and the lights of the machine start flashing in a snake-like rhythm and a truly upsettingly upbeat version of"Pop Goes the Weasel" begins to sing out. His eyes bounce in time with the ball as it played off the colored rubber baskets on the prize holes. As it found it's way to the grand prize, it lazily spun the rim of the hole and fell, the game over as quickly as it began. Without waiting for the prize jingle to finish playing, he slapped his card back onto the reader and readied his hand over the start button again.

This time, however, he hesitated a moment to long and the ball fell quickly into a no prize zone. Second guessing himself comes so naturally to Emerich and even when he's at his best, his biggest hurdle is sticking to his own plan. It's what cost his career, his friendships, even the love of his life. His hand lifts uncertainly from the dias as his eyes lose focus, stuck in a loop of self-doubt. He remains that way until he hears a victorious bellow from Beef, snapping the inventor back to reality. A quick glance at Beef, and then back over to the prize wall, and he was renewed. Maybe he doesn't have the confidence to pull it off on his own, but he's got others he has to think of. And when the chips are down, Emerich knows there's no way he'd let his new family go without. Bolstered by the thought of his friends and what they hope to achieve together, he starts to play again, soon racking up a streak that would lead him to a score on the machine no one else could achieve.

However, that's just two of Poppy's Pals. A quick scan of the playroom shows no Montrose Pretty anywhere in the hustle and bustle of Zest E. Mouse's Mouse House of Fun and Food patrons. Upon a closer look, a lock has been picked and the door marked "Employees Only" lies slightly ajar.

From deep within the dark back room of Zest E.'s, a circle of light zips around memorabilia and broken down machines. Montrose Pretty, gentleman thief, silently steps through the dusty hall eyes darting to every glint and gleam. The floorboard creak and sigh as he pushes on and the dust begins to grow thicker and more stale. Signs warning of danger begin to cover the walls and amusements, as well as reminders the Dentonic Corporation is not liable for any harm that would come to a body after leaving designated areas. Now on edge, the fluid movements of the flashlight become jerky and anxious as Montrose continues forward in his search. Suddenly, the illuminating circle sweeps over a large animatronic face with sharp, rusted teeth. And with a clatter, the flashlight falls to the floor.

Chapter Text

"Oh you are beautiful, aren't you?" Montrose purrs as he caresses the bear trap jaws of this hulking animatronic. "Mr. Mouse, I presume? Or can I call you Zest?"

The masked rogue takes a step back and admires the lifeless robot for a moment. "You truly are a work of art. If you forgive the expression, 'from toe to tip, that's an art.'"

He glances around. "And you're all alone? That simply will not do. No. You, my dear rusted friend, will be saved from what is about to unfortunately happen to this lovely cartoon eatery."

Montrose continues his scouting missing for a bit longer but he no longer had his heart in the possibly rewards as his mind was always casting wistfully back to the empty eyes of Zest E. Mouse.

The sun sets on Ustaben. Guests and friends alike get ready to turn in. But the blood orange glow painting the scenery falls on Poppu's Pals as they stand back in front of Zest E. Mouse's Mouse House of Fun and Food. The shadows change the face of the waving Zest statue that crowns the building into a grim caricature of an empty joy.

"C-can we go over the plan again?" Emerich says as he checks he has the proper tools for the countless time today.

"Really, Emerich? Are we doing straight up exposition now? Explaining the actions as we go?" Beef laughs.

"I could use the reassurance that the plan I have in my head is the same as the plan in your head." Spoken with the air of defensiveness that is usually reserved for children.

Montrose quickly and absent-mindedly adjusts his mask. "We are robbing the place of all value it holds and then burning this parmesan-crusted garbage circus to ashes."

"That's the part I'm unsure of, my friend! We are committing arson? I thought- that is to say, I was lead to believe- that you were fond of this place? Important diarrhea or something like that?"

Montrose stood as the building was bathed in the warm orange glow of the setting sun, the color and glints of sunlight foreshadowing it's demise. Flashes of a young boy crying as lights flash and a blur of children laugh. Then, as always with these visions, a large figure of shadow looms, and Montrose snaps back to reality before the young boy experiences the coming pain again.

"Something can be important and unpleasant, Emerich. You'd do best to remember this."

"I know this is sacrilegious around here, ironical even, but I'm all for destroying the past." Beef places a large, steady hand on his friends back and pretends he can't feel the small subtle shaking.

"Emerich, you grab whatever data you can from the machines. Game algorithms, credit card info. Whatever. I move the big stuff, including the animatronic. And-"

"And I am the harbinger of destruction bathed in flame and laughter."

"I was going to say you were eliminating the competition of our own arcade but chase your bliss, bud."

"I always do." Even the mask couldn't hide the smile Montrose had. A flourish of his cape and a crowbar appeared. "I always do."

KATHUNK!