Chapter Text
Buzz Dooley is more than a little mad. He’s a month and a half from turning 13. He’s allowed to stay up till 9 on school nights (10 on weekends), he can ride his bike to the store alone, and his mom sometimes lets him watch R-rated movies like All Saints Eve, as long as he doesn’t repeat any of the curse words the characters use.
So it’s totally stupid that he’s not allowed to join in on his uncle’s birthday trip. They get to leave the city and see the attraction! Not that he even knows what it is, or cares for that matter, but he’s never gotten to leave the city! Not even when his mom had to drive to another state to bail Nanny Dooley out of jail! He would do anything to see something other than the crumbling metropolis he’s been raised in.
But nonetheless, he finds himself packing probably oldest car in the city with bags as his Uncle Pat and Mr.McQueen finish getting ready. That’s another thing! Why does Mr.McQueen get to go? Sure, the man has essentially been apart of the family before he was even born, but his mom made a big fuss about this being a private thing for the two men that he gets the feeling Mr.McQueen is the reason he can’t go.
Whatever.
He focuses his annoyance into lifting a surprisingly heavy dufflebag. The others went by fine, and he was able to sort of toss them in, but he has to lean back to lift this one, and it’s making his knees shake as he tries to do so. With one more solid heave, he manages to get it into an actual position he can hold it in. But not for long, as he feels his grip start to give against the entirely too smooth polyester of the bag. It starts to sag to one side, and he tries to adjust his grip, except it starts to slip even more on the other side. He stumbles back, trying to find his balance, only to trip over his own feet. He braces for the fall against the concrete.
But he doesn’t hit the concrete.
In fact, he doesn’t hit anything.
Two hands have caught him under the arms, and Buzz finds himself glaring at the apologetic smile of his uncle, who doesn’t waste a second before taking the bag out of the boy’s arms as if it weighs nothing.
“Bug, y'know you can ask for help.”
“I don’t-“
“I know, I know. You don’t need any help. But maybe you can try to square your stance like this? It’ll help with your balance.”
Buzz continues to glare as his uncle hands back the bag, but he does change his stance. He would never admit it helps though, as he loads it into the car.
“I’m still mad at you.”
“Which you are allowed to be. Patty says dinner is almost ready and she wants you to set the table. So how about you go do that and I finish this up, alright?”
He gives his uncle a once over, before rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, sure I guess… And thanks or whatever.”
He doesn’t see his uncle give a sad smile as he heads inside.
It’s almost 7 by the time dinner is done, and the men finally finish preparing to leave. He’s still not happy, but he’s stopped moping around and instead settled for simply sighing loudly and staring out the window to the car. Until his mom gave him a “stern talking-to” about “being polite” and either “accepting the fact” that he’s “staying home” or he’ll be “grounded for a week.”. He would roll his eyes, if it weren’t for the fact that his mom is nowhere near as lenient as his uncle.
Mr.McQueen ruffles his hair and gives him a smile that says “I’ll make it up to you later” before starting the car, but his uncle takes a bit longer. He gives the boy a tight hug, which Buzz refuses to return. He tries to ignore the tinge of sadness in the man’s grin as he pulls away. He’s already made up his mind, and he can’t back out now. He tells himself he’ll make it up to the man somehow.
At least he waves as the two drive away.
“You’re going to give him a hug when he gets back.” His mother says, less of a demand and more of a statement.
“Yeah, I know…” It doesn’t come out as gruff as he would like. More regretful than anything.
“Also you have dishes tonight.”
Buzz groans, turning to head inside. But he’s stopped by her hand on his shoulder.
“Lovebug-”
He grimaces at the nickname but lets her continue. Or at least waits for her to. But she doesn’t. She just brushes his hair behind his ear. He tries to avoid her gaze. He knows she feels guilty about the scar. But it’s so small, he probably barely felt it! And how could she have known that would happen?
“How... about we pop over to the rental store and pick up that movie you’ve been wanting to see. The… the shriek one, is that it’s name?”
“I thought you said it was too violent…”
“Well, I’ll cover your eyes if it gets to be too much, alright?”
It’s late. He doesn’t actually know how late, when he wakes up to a rhythmic beeping sound. It’s faint, almost muffled. But even after a few minutes, it doesn’t let up, driving him out of bed and into the hallway. It’s dark too, but he can just barely see with the little light from the stairwell. Mom is probably still awake after that movie. He hears a scream, and sighs. He’ll never understand how his mom can love horror movies but hates it when he watches them.
The beeping is coming from his Uncle’s room, and he slowly creaks open the door. It’s still muffled, but he finds the source in a sidetable drawer next to the bed. A Gotchatami, probably as old as he is. It’s faded yellow case is cracked, but it’s still chirping, begging for food. He almost laughs, feeding the poor little program as he walks back to his room. Maybe he can make up for the hug by keeping this little guy alive while his uncle is gone. Yeah, he can do that. After a few minutes of taking care of it, the program gives a satisfied beep, pixelated creature giving a little wave before Z’s appear and begin to float around it. He yawns himself. It is pretty late… He should probably- what’s that sound? A car door?
His body moves on it’s own. He doesn’t know why he feels an overwhelming sense of dread, but it builds in his stomach as he slowly walks to the top of the stairs. There’s a frantic knocking at the door, and he almost wants to open it himself, but his mother beats him to it. He remembers he shouldn’t be awake this late, and slinks back into the shadows. He can still see what’s going on, but they can’t see him.
“Francis? Oh my god, what’s going on? Did it not go well? Where’s Patrick?”
Mr.McQueen? The sinking feeling gets worse with every second that passes. He can’t hear the man’s voice from here, but he can see his mother lead the man in, shaking and pale.
And then she says one sentence that makes his blood run cold.
“What do you mean he’s gone?”