Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Binglebops were no strangers to reconstruction. When your body plan is basically a colorful handbag and your self-defense capabilities boil down to “being so adorable that only a real jerk would try to hurt you,” you end up being conquered by a lot of real jerks. Dominator’s planet-busting stint was certainly the most extreme destruction the civilization had so far endured, but when push came to shove, the Binglebops had done pretty well for themselves.

The capital of New Bingleborp was a huge – for a Binglebop, anyway – city of painted stone and cutesy buildings. Banners and streamers hung above the streets, and colorful lights blinked a happy rhythm for the first Bingleberry festival post-Dominator. Nearby was a clamorous carnival that rivaled those of festivals passed. A cacophony of melodies competed for dominance from the hundred-or-so rides and booths, and Binglebops flit among the fair and city with laughter, songs, and other noisy merry-making.

They were rightfully proud of their city, and they flaunted this pride in their flag, which hung high enough in the city square to be seen from anywhere in the capital. A marble statue of Old King Bingleberry posed valiantly in the heart of the square. Standing over twenty Binglebops tall, he surveyed the Bingleberry festival with a debonair twist of his fabulous stone mustache.

It was too mushy-gushy of a scene for Peepers’s taste, but the gaiety that hung so thickly in the air made the crushing of spirits all the more satisfying. That, and the lack of any real defense mechanisms, made New Bingleborp the perfect first planet to invade post-Dominator. Right on schedule, the Skullship landed in the square, sending Binglebops running for cover.

The mouth opened, and platoons of chanting watchdogs emerged. They corralled the scrambling civilians, zapping any would-be escapees with their lasers. Peepers stood tall at the ship’s entrance and observed what could hardly be called a battle below. The soldiers were performing acceptably; it wasn't that the Binglebops could overpower them, but Peepers had been embarrassed by the watchdogs’ inconsistent competency before, so their progress was reassuring.

A small smile curled at his lids as he prepared to introduce Lord Hater. Admittedly, it was one of his favorite duties. “Attention, citizens of New Binglebopolopolis!” He mentally congratulated himself on pronouncing the town correctly. “This planet is now under the control of Lord Ha-gah!”

When he spun around to cue the next phase of the invasion, he was not met with Hater’s elaborate rockstar entrance but with Andy’s dumbstruck face and blasted microphone. They both jumped.

“Andy!” Peepers yelled. “What in glorn’s name-”

“Sorry, sir! I didn’t mean,” he scratched the back of his neck, “It’s – uh – funny story, actually-”

Peepers snatched him by the collar and yanked him down to his level. “Why,” he snarled, “do you so consistently go out of your way to cause problems – “

“N-no, sir!” He raised his hands defensively. “I’m not trying to cause problems, not at all. I just thought, surely we should document the comeback of the Hater Empire!” he intonated as though it were a question. “Besides, most of my viewers have never seen an invasion, not up close.”

They both trembled, Andy with fear and Peepers with rage. “You’ve got some nerve,” Peepers spat as he gripped Andy’s uniform tighter. “You’ve got some nerve. You think your stupid show is worth jeopardizing this entire invasion!”

“Please, Commander Peepers, sir! I won’t get in the way!”

A vein bulged in Peepers’s forehead. “You’re already in the way!” Shouts and cries of terror from below reminded him where they were and what was at stake.

“Just get out of here! Go!” he hissed as he unceremoniously shoved Andy aside. He took a quick breath to get back into character. “Lord Hater!”

Right on cue, the overlord roared as neon green fireworks shot from the Skullship and stained the sky. In a flash of lightning, Hater appeared at Peepers’s side.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled as agitation flickered across his face.

Peepers suppressed a twinge of irritation. “Sorry, sir. Shall we?”

Hater immediately perked up. “Yeah. I’m so ready to conquer every stupid planet in this new galaxy! Starting with New Binglebrap!”

“Bingleborp, sir.”

“Ugh. Whatever!” Hater sprung forward, landing on the scorched pavement in a one-knee stance. Sneering, Peepers raced after him.

While they bickered, a band of watchdogs surrounded King Bingleborp on the center podium. He cast resentful glares at them as they trained their lasers on him. Once he noticed Hater striding towards him, his gaze turned murderous, which would have been far more effective if he was neither purple nor less than a foot tall. All around him, the watchdogs herded his people in droves, zapping any stragglers.

“Well, well well,” Hater jeered. “Looks like I conquered your pathetic planet again, Binglebart.”

The king breathed a halfhearted sigh. “It’s Binglebo-”

“Shut up!” Lightning crackled in Hater’s fists. “You should be honored, Bingus-bort,” he hissed in mock praise. “Your stupid rock is to be my first step in re-becoming the greatest in the –”

“Hater! Are you here for the first Bingleberry festival on New Bingleborp, too?”

Hater and Peepers turned around so fast it was a miracle their necks didn’t snap. Sure enough, Wander stood at the end of the town square, waving frenetically and pulling a dopey grin.

Peepers saw Hater vibrate with rage from the corner of his eye. He threw himself in front of him, standing on his tiptoes to obstruct Wander from view. Just as he expected, Hater’s face twisted with fury.

“Sir,” Peepers snapped his fingers a few times, “remember your Wander Avoidance Training. You can do this.”

Hater took a long, deep breath. “Right. Thinking evil – but focused – thoughts.” He rubbed his temples and slowly turned around. Peepers’s chest swelled with pride.

“As I was saying, Bigger-boot –”

“Did you know that the first Bingleberry festival was held to celebrate the birthday of old King Bingleberry? Which is funny because King Bingleberry actually hated bingleberries –”

“Don’t listen to him, sir. Remember: conquering planets, torturing deposed rulers, blowing up entire systems…”

“Parking in disabled spaces, kissing fawning fangirls…whew. Alright. King Burger –”

“Oh, Hater! Wanna have a rematch for our Greatest in the Galaxy competition? That was so much fun!”

Hater shook violently. Beads of sweat dripped down his bones as his teeth scraped against each other.

“Sir?”

Hater made a weird, strangled noise. “Conqueringplanetstorturingdeposedrulersblowingupentiresystemspiratingcartoonsarguingonlineleavingnegativecommentsonfanfics –”

“Also, I think you're saying it wrong! It’s Bingleborp! B-I-N-G-L –”

Hater literally exploded. He discharged a massive surge of electricity, launching a shocked – figuratively and literally – Peepers into the crowd.

“DESTROYING WANDER!” he boomed, foaming at the mouth. He snarled like a wild animal and charged at the offending party, all the while shouting barely intelligible cries of frustration.

“Whoops! Here we go!” Wander said cheerfully. Giggling, he ran to the fairgrounds. Hater pursued, bowling down a gaggle of watchdogs in the process.

With no offer of help from his useless soldiers, Peepers pulled himself to his feet. He moaned with pain as his muscles twitched from lingering shocks. Staggering out of the crowd, he cast a forlorn glance at the chase.

“Fantastic,” he grumbled to himself. “I wonder how long it’ll take before –”

Before he could finish his sentence, he was knocked flat on his face. The blow didn’t hurt as much as he knew it could. He could only presume it was meant to get his attention.

He flipped himself over and found the Zbornak towering over him. She cracked her knuckles with a roguish smile. “How’s it goin’, Optic Nerd?” A couple of watchdogs gasped and muttered among themselves.

Every movement was met with protest from his aching body, but Peepers managed to stagger to his feet once again. “Ah. There you are.” Peepers laughed humorlessly. “I was wondering when you’d finally show up.”

“Hah! As if I’d ever miss a chance to put you in your place. I’ve been looking forward to finishing what we started back in the Blasteroid formation.”

Peepers was prepared to sling a few insults, but he faltered as the watchdogs encircled them. Good. They were finally about to make themselves useful –

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” they all chanted in unison.

Just when he thought his blood pressure couldn’t get any higher, Peepers found himself seeing red yet again.

“What are you idiots doing?” he spluttered. “Why aren’t you –”

Now, he was struck by a blow meant to hurt. Peepers yelped as he flew backwards. The crowd groaned, and before he could collect himself, a pair of watchdogs hoisted Peepers up by his armpits and threw him back into the makeshift ring. He teetered forward, reeling from the hit.

“Get her, Commander!”

“Go for the eyes!”

“Honestly, my money’s on Sylvia.”

The voices seemed so distant over the ringing in Peepers’s ears. His vision doubled, and he found himself struggling to stay on his feet. Somewhere, the Zbornak was laughing.

Peepers’s drab, logical brain stalled, but a few colorful thoughts bounced around his throbbing head. One, this day totally sucked, and somebody was going to pay for it. Two, he really, really, really wanted to hit something or someone right about now. Three, the Zbornak was annoying.

Enough neurons fired in sequence for him to steady himself and plot a course of action. He clenched his fists at his sides, his tiny body tight enough to snap in half. Then, he lunged forward and popped the still-cackling Zbornak square in the snout.

She stumbled backwards as the watchdogs whooped and cheered. Peepers puffed out his chest and lifted his chin. It was as close to looking down at her as he could physically get.

The Zbornak shook the hit off with a snort. “Now we’re talking.”

Their battle cries drowned out the mob as they rushed at each other. They seized hold of one another in a clinch, each party grappling for leverage. While the Zbornak had the clear size advantage, Peepers had been training for these skirmishes for an entire season of their lives. His uniform might not have shown it, but he had built quite the muscle mass over the last few months. He laughed breathlessly as he matched his opponent’s formidable strength.

“Had enough, Zbornak?” he panted. “Give up now, and I might just make your inevitable doom slightly less painful.”

His taunts were met with rapturous approval from the crowd. The Zbornak only scoffed.

“What, you want me to go easy on you, now?”

Before Peepers could fire back, he heard an infuriatingly animated voice from the edge of the crowd.

“Oh! My! Grop!” Andy gasped, facing an unseen camera and frantically jabbing a finger at their scuffle. “Commander Peepers might actually win against Sylvia. No watchdog has ever come this close to beating her one-on-one!”

“Andy!” Peepers barked. If a watchdog was in his place, he would have vehemently reprimanded them for losing track of their priorities on the battlefield. The irony was lost on him, however, because the Zbornak used his moment of distraction to land a nasty uppercut. The sighs of the crowd died away as Peepers flew into the air and landed into a cart of bingleberries with a wet splat. The sticky juices soaked through his uniform and covered him in a sickeningly sweet stench. Disgusted, he scrambled to climb out of the wagon, but before he could make it over the side, he heard a loud crumbling. He snapped his head to the statue, and just as he feared, the Zbornak let loose a series of furious kicks into Old King Bingleberry’s knees. Peepers strained to move, but his limbs turned more stone than the statue as a growing crack spread across Bingleberry’s legs. With a deafening creak, the statue split in two.

Peepers braced himself. Old King Bingleberry landed on the wagon’s shafts, and Peepers was once again launched into the air, but much, much higher. He screamed, flailing his arms wildly as the wind rushed past his ears and the figures below him receded. As he started to plummet, he covered his eye and resigned himself to the humiliation of being scraped off the pavement by his subordinates, but the impact never came. Instead, his descent slowed. Peepers was about to thank whatever deity was misguided enough to save his life, but he was yanked and swung back and forth at the waist until coming to a stop. He blinked a few times. He threw a look over his shoulder and turned pale. He was hanging from the flagpole – nearly fifty feet above the ground – by his waistband.

Adrenaline pumped its way through his veins and with it came an overwhelming surge of fear and embarrassment. To the watchdogs and the Binglebops, however, this spectacle was the highlight of their year. The explosion of laughter deafened Peepers even at such a distance, and as it reverberated in his skull like the drop of a hydroflask during a standardized test, never in his life had he felt so small.

His pulse thumped furiously behind his retina. “Shut up!” He prayed that he was too high for anyone to see his flustered expression. “You idiots! Get up here and help me!”

The laughter died down as the watchdogs stared at each other. None of them seemed too enthused to get him down.

The Zbornak leaned casually against the flagpole. Peepers’s heart stopped as the movement caused his perch to shift. “You know, fellas,” she started, “if you wanna enjoy the festival before rescuing Commander Buzzkill, he can’t punish you if you all go.”

Peepers stared in disbelief as the watchdogs actually deliberated amongst themselves before giving a loud cheer and rushing to the fair. The Binglebops celebrated as well and joined them. Meanwhile, the Zbornak was in hysterics.

She wiped a tear from her eye. “Don’t worry, Peepsqueak. I’m sure someone will get you once the festival’s over. You know, in a few hours. See ya!”

She ran off laughing as Peepers shouted obscenities at her. As she disappeared from sight, Peepers was struck with the horrifying reality that he was completely alone. The streets below were empty. His only company was the distant sound of calliope music and shouts of excitement.

He made a short-lived attempt to spin around and wrap his limbs around the pole, but the elastic wouldn’t stretch far enough without forcing it to, so he abandoned the plan as to not snap the band entirely. Next, he tried grabbing the pole above his head, but no matter how much he tensed his upper body, he couldn’t reach far enough. He groaned. His body ached already, and the smell and texture of ripe bingleberry juice against his skin was nauseating. He refused to imagine bearing it for several hours and instead focused all his brainpower in formulating an escape, but he was tired, he was filthy, and he was really, really over this whole situation, and so his mind remained empty. Just as he made another halfhearted attempt to reach above him, he heard the voice of the second-to-last person he wanted to see right now.

“Mr. Peepers!” Wander shouted cheerily as he waved. “Do you need some help?”

Peepers made a noise of disgust but shoved his pride aside. “Obviously!” He threw up in his mouth, but his only other option was to fall to his certain death, which was only slightly less desirable. “Get me down from here!”

Wander’s attitude remained insufferably cheerful. “Okie-dokie!” He stroked his goatee in thought. Peepers glared at his stupid face. The longer he stayed up there, the more blood rushed to his head. He counteracted the resulting dizziness with his seething hatred for Wander, which worked at first, but as he continued to just stand there, the pressure became unbearable.

“Are you just going to just stand there,” he huffed arduously, “or are you —“

“Wander!”

“Oh, there you are, Hater!”

And then came the last person he wanted to see. Hater dragged himself over, out-of-breath from the chase but still in laborious pursuit.

Peepers wasn’t a man for wishing, but in that moment, there was nothing on his mind but the pleading hope that Hater wouldn’t see him, that Wander would run off and continue their little game and Hater would follow. He would stay up there for a year if it meant Hater would never know.

As if he didn’t have enough reasons to despise the little orange freak, Wander waved a finger at Peepers like a toddler at the zoo. “Now you can help me rescue Mr. Peepers!” he bubbled with enthusiasm.

“Rescue — wha?” Hater panted. He followed Wander’s finger, and Peepers watched helplessly as Hater got an eyeful of his commander’s humiliating situation. There was a moment where they simply stared at each other, Peepers mortified and Hater utterly baffled. Then, Hater broke the silence by falling to the ground howling with laughter. Peepers was overwhelmed by the urge to vomit.

“Aw, c’mon, Hater,” Wander chided, but Hater didn’t budge. He leaned down to whisper something into Hater’s ear while occasionally shooting Peepers a glance. Hater stopped, looked at Peepers, and laughed even harder.

Peepers’s face ran boiling hot. Wander gave him a sympathetic look. In return, Peepers visualized torturing him as if he could communicate to him the image telepathically by thinking really hard.

Wander furrowed his brows and crossed his arms. “Well, if you won’t help me help Mr. Peepers,” he pointed to himself, “then I’ll help me help Mr. Peepers!”

Hater’s laughter subsided, but there was an unsettlingly mischievous way he stood and smiled at Peepers. “Oh, I’ll help him alright,” he sneered. Peepers gazed with horror as Hater gripped the pole tightly in both hands. His heart pounded as even this small movement caused a harrowing jolt at the top.

“Sir!” he begged, “Please don’t —“ Hater violently yanked the pole back and forth. New Bingleborp became a smear of color as Peepers instinctively floundered for something to grab, but there was nothing, and so he bounced around like a puppet with a manic puppeteer.

Only when Peepers felt like his head would explode did the torment cease. He swung to a gentle stop as he fought to keep his breakfast down. Once again, he saw double as his head continued spinning. Below him, two frantic Wanders clung to two very annoyed Haters, although Peepers was unable to hear them over the throbbing in his ears. As the vertigo subsided and his senses gradually returned, the first thing he heard was the dreadful ripping of fabric. His head whipped around, and with wide-eyed horror he witnessed a tear split across his waistband.

He didn’t even have time to shout before he plunged screaming through the air. He screwed his eye shut and braced himself. There was no splat, no crunch, nothing. Just a soft, painless, thump. Tentatively, his eye blinked open, and he was astonished to find himself staring up at Hater’s puzzled face and cradled firmly in his arms.

“Sir,” he stammered in disbelief. “You caught me?”

Hater looked just as surprised as Peepers. “Uh – yeah.” He chuckled. “I guess I –”

He fell silent. Peepers stiffened at his unreadable expression. A smirk creeped slowly across his face as he shuddered with stifled laughter, and he dropped Peepers to the ground to clutch his sides. Groaning, Peepers rubbed his head as Hater’s uncontrollable laughter assaulted his ears.

He cleared his throat wearily. Hater laughed so hard he visibly struggled to breathe. Peepers was enraged. He stood to his full height – which wasn’t much, but still – squared his shoulders, and hissed, “Sir. If you would stop –”

“Uh, Mr. Peepers?” Wander interrupted sheepishly. Peepers pinned him in place with a silent but livid stare. Wander grit his teeth with discomfort and fidgeted with his hands. His eyes repeatedly bounced to Peepers only to look away in the same moment. Confusion chipped away Peepers’s anger as a sudden draft caught his attention. He glanced down.

His pants had ripped clean off. Commander Peepers of the Hater Empire was standing on an unconquered planet in his briefs. Death was suddenly the superior outcome, but unfortunately, that ship had sailed.

“Oh,” he peeped. His mind was an empty shell, and his traitorous limbs refused to move. Hater’s laughter was nothing short of agonizing, and Wander’s pitying gaze wasn’t helping.

He removed his hat and fished inside. “Let me see what I have.” He rummaged fruitlessly for much longer than Peepers preferred. When his hand finally grasped something, he withdrew it triumphantly, only to reveal a tiny white card with simple lettering that read “Back in 5.”

Peepers’s stomach dropped. “Whoops!” Wander chuckled uneasily. “I guess it remembers ya from last time, heh.”

Peepers snatched the hat out of his hands and covered himself. “Sh-shut up!” he stuttered, finally broken from his stupor. “This – this is all your fault, you know!” He found slight solace in Wander’s hurt expression. “You and your stupid zbornak, do you have any idea the time, th-the resources you’ve wasted –” he began to squeak with anger, and he hated it. He hated the childishly high cadence of his voice, he hated how stupid and pathetic he looked –

“Oh Peepers, you should see your face!” Hater wheezed. “You look – you look so –”

And that was the final straw. “You!” He stabbed a finger into Hater’s sternum. “If you would just listen to me for once – once, none of this would’ve ever happened!” Hater had the gall, the utter audacity, to look clueless. Peepers continued his rant, “I have endured years of abuse, years of disrespect for this Empire, and you can’t even be flarped to follow instructions so simple a child could do them!

“We would’ve been ruling the entire galaxy in the last season of our lives if you weren’t such a – such a – a –” The words caught in his throat. Even he himself didn’t know what he was trying to say; all the repressed frustration and embarrassment he had bottled away for years was finally uncorked and spilling out. He could sense the approach of angry tears, but he absolutely refused to cry on top of everything else that happened that day. So, with a yell of frustration, he stormed off to the Skullship as both Hater and Wander stood in stunned silence.

After a few steps Wander spoke up. “So – uh,” he muttered. “When can I expect m’hat back?”

Peepers hurled the hat as hard as he could. It caught the breeze and landed softly three feet ahead. He covered himself with his helmet, spun on his heels, and stomped back to the Skullship. Let the invasion fail, since he clearly was the only one who cared. He slinked miserably through the ship’s empty halls, down the elevator, and to his room. The door slammed shut behind him as he flung himself into bed and committed to screaming into a pillow for at least the next hour.

Chapter Text

A little over an hour later, Peepers mustered enough strength to fall out of bed. As he dragged himself to his feet, he was struck by a splitting eyegraine. He rubbed his temples with a groan and some lukewarm curses, then he wobbled over to his dresser and fumbled for some aspirin. When his hands found the bottle, he popped off the cap and tipped it into his palm. Completely empty.

He tossed it aside with some irritated grumbling. The headache seemed like the kind to stick around, so he begrudgingly decided to stop by the medbay and swipe whatever painkillers were available. Morphine preferably.

First, he had to shower off all the Bingleberry gunk. He slipped out of his soiled clothes and let them fall to the floor as he repeatedly muttered “ow” to himself. At least his past self had the foresight to have his own bathroom installed during one of the Skullship’s many, many remodelings. Even though it was roughly the size of a mailbox. He ripped open the curtain and clambered in, not even bothering to wait for the water to warm up. Besides, maybe the cold would distract him from the morning’s happenings.

It did not. The day’s events replayed in his mind over and over again. Every time he remembered being laughed at, his head throbbed harder, especially when he thought of Hater. He scrubbed his skin more aggressively as he remembered his little outburst at the end.

His one consolation was that most of the ship hadn’t seen him. Of course, the gossip from the foot soldiers would spread like the plague, which was not ideal, but it was one thing for the watchdogs to hear that Peepers was humiliated. It was another thing entirely for them to witness it themselves. At least, that’s what Peepers told himself. Maybe if he said it enough, he’d believe it.

When he was acceptably clean, he dressed in a fresh uniform, wiped any fruit remains from his helmet, and trudged to the medbay. He stopped briefly at a viewport to find that they were in open space. He quirked a brow, but shook his head and continued his trek. He’d figure out what happened once he could think without pain.

Every now and again, he passed a pair or pack of watchdogs. When he walked by, they spoke in hushed whispers and tried unsuccessfully to hide their grins. Peepers tensed and tensed. He knew this would happen, but it still got to him and he hated it. He wanted to threaten or scream at them, which usually hushed any unpleasant gossip or rumors. In this case, he reasoned that it was better to ignore them. If they saw that he was embarrassed, his image would suffer even more.

However, he only had so much fortitude. He took an elevator with two watchdogs already inside, and one of them was bold enough to snicker when he entered.

“Something funny, soldier?” Peepers spat.

“No, sir,” the watchdog automatically replied. He and his friend exchanged glances the whole time as if Peepers couldn’t see them. He exited a floor early just to remove himself from the situation without blowing up.

He huffed with relief once he reached the medbay. He entered the plain, white waiting room and spotted Olive, the ship’s chief medical officer, holding a clipboard and conversing with the receptionist. Olive was one of the older watchdogs on the ship, and the only one Peepers had any respect for. Peepers cleared his throat

The CMO turned, and upon seeing him, gave a polite salute. “Commander Peepers,” he greeted. “What brings you to the infirmary?” He set the clipboard down and leaned backwards on the desk. “Is Lord Hater ill?”
“No. Lord Hater is fine. I just need headache medication. Eyegraine.” As if encouraged, a pang of discomfort stung the corners of his eyes. He winced.

“Ah, of course. We actually just restocked. Please, have a seat, and I’ll get a bottle for you.”

Olive gestured to the modest seating area. Peepers nodded – it was the most gratitude he cared to show his subordinates – and sat down on one of the stiff, uncomfortable couches. The CMO left, and Peepers winced again as the doors slid shut.

He shifted with discomfort, both from his seat and from waiting with no one else in the room but the receptionist. It might have been paranoia, but Peepers swore he was casting him strange looks. The blue light certainly wouldn’t help his headache, but he pulled out his phone to distract himself.

He was immediately met with a text notification from the Zbornak. Curiosity got the better of him, and he clicked it to find multiple pictures from the fair, usually selfies with Wander or the watchdogs. He scowled and blocked her for the time being.

He wasn’t much of a social media person, so he didn’t feel like scrolling aimlessly. The idea of checking whatever Andy managed to film that morning popped into his head, but he dismissed the notion almost immediately. The invasion was a failure and certainly didn’t warrant any footage on Andy’s stupid show.

However, Andy was an idiot and broadcasted anything and everything to do with the watchdogs. He had a website – a flarping website – where he posted and archived episodes of his show. Against his better judgement, Peepers pulled up the page and clicked on the stream from that morning.

He skipped the first hour-or-so, which included his argument with Andy and his fight with the Zbornak – events he wasn’t keen on reliving. He expected to find footage of the fair or maybe even Hater chasing Wander. Peepers once learned that such incidents were one of the best liked segments of the show.

He continued to skim through the video until he came upon Andy crouched behind a bingleberry cart. The flagpole and Peepers’ tiny figure were in frame. Great. He assumed Andy would’ve caught his flight on camera, but it still stung to see it for himself. At this point in the stream, however, the watchdogs and Binglebops had already left.

Peepers felt sick. If Andy stayed behind and caught Peepers’s whole ordeal on camera, then the entire ship knew every humiliating detail. It was one thing for an invasion to go sour. It was one thing to lose a fight against the Zbornak, almost every watchdog had. It was basically a right of passage at that point. Peepers had been made to look like a fool, but it wouldn’t be the first time, and he knew how to force respect through fear. He could bounce back. But to go through that, and being ridiculed by Lord Hater, and falling helplessly into his arms, and having a meltdown in his underwear… it was humiliating, it was weak, and it was absolutely pathetic. He could hardly call himself a commander if the army he commanded saw him that way.

His eye was glued to the screen. The Peepers in the video struggled to gain a foothold against the flagpole as Andy provided worthless commentary.

“Wow, the commander’s in a real tight spot,” he stated obviously. “I don’t think he can – oh, wait! Here comes Wander, maybe he can – uh – I mean, grr! Sworn enemy of the Hater Empire and all that.”

Both Andy and current Peepers watched intently as Wander stood uselessly. Their conversation was mostly unintelligible, but Peepers could unfortunately still hear the panicky tone of his voice.

“Oh! And there’s Lord Hater. Maybe our supreme leader can – oh, wait. No, no he’s just laughing. And laughing. He’s – he’s still laughing. Oh! I think he’s gonna –”

Peepers felt a twinge of adrenaline as he relived Hater shaking the pole in the third person.

“Oh. Oh, that's rough.” Andy sucked through his teeth. “Yikes. I actually feel bad – oh my grop!” Andy exclaimed as stream-Peepers fell. “Wait – oh! I think Lord Hater caught him! Yeah, that’s actually kinda impressive. Oh, he just dropped him…oh.”

Peepers assumed Andy noticed his pants flapping in the wind.

“Wow, that’s, yeah, that’s even rougher.” Peepers’s eye twitched as Andy chuckled. It was difficult to make out the details, but the situation Peepers was in was still painfully obvious. “Well, I’d sure hate to be Peepers right now.” Video-Peepers was in the process of storming off. Current-Peepers felt lightheaded.

“Well!” Peepers jumped. “I think that’s enough of…that. Why don’t we see what our fellow watchdogs are getting up to at the fair? I’m sure that –”

Peepers closed the video and turned off his phone. He stared at his reflection on the black screen. He knew he shouldn’t, but he was physically unable to stop himself from turning the phone back on and opening one of the watchdog-run message boards he stalked.

It shouldn’t’ve surprised him. Every single post across multiple threads was laughing about what he just saw. There was an entire board of the same picture reposted a thousand times over: a blurry, out-of-focus screenshot of Peepers standing defeatedly in his briefs.

Peepers stashed his phone away. He stared at the sterile white of the opposing wall until the color burned and forced him to blink. He wanted to be angry. He should have been angry, but the only thing he felt was the lack of any emotion whatsoever. It reminded him of the void of space, but even space had stars and planets. This was just emptiness.

Olive must’ve gotten lost or something because he still hadn’t returned. Peepers denied the urge to look at his phone again, but doing nothing reminded him of the nothingness he felt, so he needed to do something. There was a plain black coffee table with a stack of magazines in front of him. With shaking hands, he picked up the one on top of the stack and thumbed through it mindlessly.

It must have been a tabloid. Every page was a substanceless prattle about celebrity trifles. An article titled “Where is Dominator?” caught his eye, but a quick perusal told him that it was just baseless supposition and critique of her “cyber-goth mixed with lavapunk” fashion style. He turned the page and gagged at a two-page spread of Emperor Awesome, immediately flipped through that, and came upon a full-page ad for some bizarre phone service.

The background was an agitating shade of red on which a yellow, triangular creature jauntily boasted “9/10 Bedlamites Recommend!” – whatever that meant. The service was called “Cipher Solutions” and offered “Life-changing inspiration or your immortal soul back – guaranteed!” Peepers snorted derisively. The body copy that asked, “Feeling worthless? Stuck in a dead-end job? Good guys ruining your plans for galactic domination?” was a bit oddly specific, but based on what he saw so far, the magazine seemed to be villain-centric, so it wasn’t too out-of-place. It was a ridiculous, if amusing, obvious scam.

“Sorry for the wait, sir.” Olive returned, painkillers in hand. Peepers tossed the magazine aside and took the bottle from him. “Our supplies were mislabeled.” He cast a dirty look towards the receptionist, who didn’t react. “I had to do some rummaging. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, that will be all.” He took out two pills and swallowed them dry. He left without another word.
Outside the infirmary, he wondered how he should spend the rest of the day. His schedule had been thrown completely off; normally, he would’ve been ruthlessly enforcing the statutes of the Hater Empire by now. He refused to linger on that thought.

He decided to do some strategizing. After all, there were plenty of new planets to conquer, and it would occupy his thoughts for the rest of the day.

As he started for his room, the idea occurred that he should pick up lunch on the way. After all, the food court was on the same floor as the medbay. Besides, he wanted to avoid the watchdogs as much as possible, and it was nearly an hour before the lunch rush. He just had to walk in, get his food, and leave. In and out in less than five minutes.

Before he could change his mind, he turned and marched briskly to the cafeteria. He kept his shoulders back, his head up, and his gaze straight ahead. If the patrols he passed showed any signs of mirth, he didn’t care to know. He could suppress anything if he needed to, and right now, he needed nothing else but to get his lunch and get out of view as fast as physically possible.

He was disappointed, but not surprised to find that the food court was just as busy as it always was. Even in such a massive, open space, rowdy watchdogs shoulder checked each other to be first in the lunchline as their excessive gab echoed off the high metal ceilings. Peepers maintained his assertive posture as he strode to the front of the line. Being the Commander had its perks, after all.

Muffled giggling followed him. Peepers ignored it.

It was Taco Tuesday. Not Peepers’s favorite thing, but it beat starving. As he ordered the least spicy thing on the menu, unease prickled at the back of his neck. He felt hundreds of eyes upon him. He saw from the corners of his vision that his suspicions were correct. Cliques of watchdogs murmured amongst themselves as they watched him expectantly.

The commotion of overlapping conversations also dwindled. It was as if the entire food court expected Peepers to perform some great trick. He balled his fists and squeezed. Every now and again, he picked up snippets of chatter.

Nearby, he caught the words “Commander Briefers” which wasn’t even funny, but still got a laugh.

“I’m surprised to see him at all,” he heard from somewhere behind him. “I mean, if it were me, I’d never show my face again.” Somebody chuckled in response.

Peepers pondered how a taco could possibly take so excruciatingly long to make when someone in the room wolf whistled. His eye went bloodshot as the cafeteria erupted into raucous laughter.

The server finally handed him his food, which Peepers snatched flusteredly. He tramped out of the room as fast as he could without actually running. Even after the doors shut, he could still hear the uproar inside.

His brain buzzed with wrathful thoughts as he stamped back to his room. Along the way, he ate his taco in probably the angriest way anyone has ever eaten a taco before. He wiped sauce from his face as he considered possible methods of torturing an entire foodcourt’s worth of watchdogs. 

As he wondered about the max capacity of the ship's vaporization chamber, his communicator beeped. He clicked the answer button without looking at the contact, having already correctly guessed the caller.

“Peepers!” Hater yelled on the other end. “I need to speak with you. Now.”

Hater hung up. Peepers froze. He should’ve predicted that Hater was going to reprimand him after the spectacle that morning. Normally, he would’ve been terrified, but so much adrenaline had been pumped through his system already that he simply wanted to get the whole thing over with. With a groan, he returned to the elevator and slammed the button for floor H8.

Thankfully, floor H8 was only accessible to Hater and his inner circle, so there were no watchdogs to heckle Peepers as he made his way through the shadowy corridors. He was in no mood to endure Hater’s excessive grand entrances, so he took a detour to the side door that only he and Hater had clearance for. It was a fact in which Peepers took a great deal of pride under normal circumstances. After taking a moment to brace himself, he punched in the passcode and entered.

Peepers flinched as the flashing neon graphics on Hater’s TV blinded him the moment he opened the door. Once his eye adjusted to the light, he was greeted with the usual mess of wrappers and dirty clothes carpeting the floor. He tutted, disgusted but unsurprised, and cleared his throat. 

Hater was curled up into a ball on his mattress as he concentrated on a videogame. It was some fighting sim, and he was losing. Badly. The volume of the overly-exaggerated sound effects competed with Hater’s cries of outrage. It was the only battle in which he had a fighting chance.

Peepers clapped twice, and the room lights turned on. Hater hissed and covered his eyes.

“Sir,” Peepers began, ignoring his dramatics. “Is there a reason you called me here?”

“Oh, yeah.” Hater grabbed the remote and flicked the TV off as he swiveled to face Peepers. His expression was hesitant. He sat in contemplative silence as he searched for words.

Peepers fidgeted. He was relieved that Hater didn’t summon him just to make fun of him, at least, not yet, but his uncharacteristic seriousness was disquieting. Hater’s rare thoughtful moments were either caused or preceded by great danger, of which he himself was often the source.

His tone was pensive, but not accusatory. “We’ve been through a lot together. Over the years, we’ve seen many sides of each other. We’ve come to expect one another to behave in certain ways.”

Peepers was at a loss to even guess at what Hater was talking about, or why he spoke about their shared past with such sentimentality. It should have flattered him. Instead, it only put him more on edge. 

Hater watched him as if awaiting a response. “Yes, sir. We sure have.” He managed a slight smile.

Hater returned the grin, which relaxed Peepers a little, but he quickly swapped back to seriousness. “We fell into patterns, you and me. I,” he placed a hand to his chest, “I fell into patterns. I don’t think I’ve changed at all for years now.”
The notion that Hater was talking about that morning, specifically that he might be taking responsibility for it, popped into Peepers’s head. He almost dismissed the idea immediately, but he could drum up no other reason for Hater to be acting so introspective. Maybe – and Peepers knew he was really speculating here – he even wanted to apologize for how he acted. 

“I wanted to tell you something important. I wanted to tell you that there’s a big change I want to make.”

Peepers hung onto every word. If right now, Hater told him to jump into a black hole, he’d do it, no questions asked. “Yes, sir?” he murmured, his eye aglow.
“I know it’s Tuesday, and I always get tacos ‘cuz – you know – Taco Tuesday, but I’m really feeling taquitos today.” Peepers’s heart didn’t sink so much as it nosedived at terminal velocity. “Crazy, right? Anyway, make it happen for me, Peeps.”

Peepers couldn’t tell if he was holding in laughter or tears. “Are you serious?”
“What?”
“Sir, is that really all you have to say to me?”

Hater blinked at him. “Uh, yeah? What else is there to say?”

Something began to stir in Peepers’s gut. “I don’t know, sir.” He marched to the foot of the bed. “Maybe something about what happened today? Maybe something about what happened this morning?” He knew he was pushing it, but there was a rage bubbling inside of him. The repressed feelings were back, but this time, they gained the courage to speak up. That, or he had grown too tired to hold them back.

Hater seemed to genuinely consider his response. “Oh, yeah!”

Peepers slackened with surprise. “Really?

“Yeah! I wanted to let you know that the invasion this morning totally sucked. In case you didn’t already know,” he said as though it were a bit of friendly advice.

Peepers would’ve been less stunned if Hater pledged his undying love for Wander. “Really,” he exhaled.

“Yeah.” Hater either didn’t notice or didn’t care about Peepers’s reaction. “I mean, come on, C-Peeps. New Binglebip? During their weird little festival again? Kinda sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” He scoffed. “No wonder it failed like last time.”

“Hm.” There was a hint of derangement in his voice that Hater wasn’t perceptive enough to detect. “If you had such…objections to my plan, why not bring them up at one of our briefings?”

“The what now?”

Peepers stared him down. “The briefings I give to you and the watchdogs during the months leading up to an invasion? Those briefings?”

Hater’s face scrunched up like he was mentally performing advanced calculus. “You mean those meetings you make me go to?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Uh –” Hater’s eyes darted around the room. “I mean, yeah, those meetings!” He laughed uneasily. “Yeah, I totally would’ve told you how much your plan sucked then, but – you know – got a lot of leaderly duties going on –”

“Like what, sitting in your room and playing videogames all day?” Peepers snapped.

Hater raised his brows, then knit them together. “Hey, even an evil overlord needs to kick back sometimes.”

“From what?” His voice jumped an octave. “I’m the one who does everything around here!”

“Oh, yeah? Well, excuse me for overlooking your hard work, especially ‘cuz it really paid off today!”

Peepers hopped on the bed to get eye-level with Hater. “None of that would have happened if you would just listen to me! You never take me seriously!”

“Well, maybe I’d take you seriously if you weren’t such a nerd!”

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t need to be if you could run any of this empire yourself!”

“Well, maybe you could run your own empire if you weren’t such a weak, pathetic, nerd…you nerd!”

Touch was the first sensation to return to Peepers once he broke from his trance. His palm throbbed with the telltale sting of a strike that was stupid for multiple reasons. On the surface level, it was stupid because slapping any solid object was as painful as it was ineffective. It was suicidally stupid because this solid object happened to be Hater’s cheek.

Speaking of Hater, once he recovered from the initial surprise, he was less than enthused to be disrespected in such a way. Peepers watched his own quivering reflection in Hater’s eyes as the normally faint red in his sclera flared at full force against the green. He gnashed his teeth, and his towering form buzzed with electricity. 

Peepers had been in more than a few life-or-death scenarios – several of which involved Hater. He was used to thinking on his feet, even in the heat of battle. Even so, when it came to Hater, sometimes the best course of action was the tried-and-true method of a tactical retreat.

Peepers’s retreat severely lacked tact. He practically rolled out of the room as he tripped over his own feet while stuttering frantic apologies. He ran until he reached his quarters and threw his back against the door. Logically, he knew this wouldn’t save him. Inexplicably and, perhaps, miraculously, however, Hater didn’t give chase. He panted against the door waiting for an impending death that never came. Eventually, he backed away cautiously, coming to a stop against the foot of his bed.

Once his heartbeat slowed to a less overwhelming pace, the weight of what he had done sunk heavily upon his shoulders. He hit Hater. Beside the obvious health risk posed by assaulting an electric skeleton man with a violent temper, Hater was his superior – his idol – and he struck him without thinking. 

And he enjoyed every second of it.

That indignant little voice in the back of his mind was back, and it purred sweet nothings about how much Hater deserved it, about how he crossed the line that Peepers had been so graciously moving back for years. It was all Hater’s fault that he was such a failure, and yet Peepers had always swallowed his resentment. Didn’t it feel good to finally let it all out?

Peepers was far, far too intelligent to be swayed by such petulant feelings. What he had done was inexcusable regardless of Hater’s words. Those petty, burning words he only said out of vexation that his free time was being interrupted. He didn’t mean them. Surely, he didn’t mean them.

Peepers beat his temples as his thoughts spiraled. Hater might kill him or worse, fire him again. He’d deserve it.

Hater deserved far worse than a slap, the voice said.

Planning. He needed to do some planning. Strategizing would be a far better use of his intellect, and there was no better way to atone for his offense than to do everything in his power to make the Hater Empire thrive.

He sat down at his desk so rigidly that his spine formed a perfect ninety-degree angle. He reached for a pencil, but paused midway. The ad for the villain hotline sat neatly atop the usual clutter of blueprints, maps, and diagrams. The page had been carefully torn, so much so that there was barely any indication that it had come from a magazine at all.

Peepers picked up the page and examined it, completely perplexed. His mind immediately considered the possibility of a prank, but unless it was some inside joke, he saw no punchline. If a watchdog dared to enter his room uninvited, their intent better have been well worth it. This was far too inconsequential. The page had no special significance to him, and the only person in the room with him when he read it was the receptionist, who seemed far too lazy and aloof for any mischief. 

Peepers shook his head and crumpled the page. He had more important matters to attend to.

Just as he was about to toss it into the wastebasket, an idea popped into his head. If he remembered correctly, the ad promised “inspiration,” and he could certainly use some after the day he’d had. He scolded himself for even considering the thought. Even now, he was far above resorting to such silly tactics, but as he assessed the half-finished plans and empty blueprints, he realized that he had nothing. He was banking on the invasion’s success; the only completed schemes involved enforcing draconian rule over the Binglebops and conquering other planets in the system.

He sank with defeat. Before he could come to his senses, he smoothed out the page and withdrew his phone. He dialed the number and questioned every decision in his life that had led to that moment as it rang. Nobody greeted him when the line eventually picked up.

“Um, hello?” Peepers hesitated.

More silence. Worried that he dialed the wrong number, Peepers glanced back at the page.

“Is this Cipher Solutions?”
Maniacal, nasally laughter pealed from the other end. Peepers deflated. He cleared his throat, but he was undoubtedly unheard over the receiver’s hysterics. Before Peepers could hang up, the line abruptly went dead.

Peepers felt completely, utterly foolish. He would’ve been enraged if he wasn’t already so miserable. He supposed he deserved it for trusting anything out of a tabloid.

He threw the stupid page into the garbage and laid his head in his hands. Minutes passed as he vacillated between self-deprecation and blaming everyone else’s idiocy for his problems. Once he grew tired of wallowing in despair, he resolved to not leave his desk until he formed an immediate plan of action that was so foolproof even Hater couldn’t screw it up. If he didn’t come up with something, no one would.

Chapter Text

Peepers was the poster child for insomnia. When he wasn’t so wrapped up in a task or problem that he essentially hooked himself up to a coffee IV drip, stress became an even more potent stimulant. After so many all-nighters, his body took to dozing off at inopportune and often embarrassing times. There was an unspoken rule among the watchdogs to never, never mention the time Peepers passed out into his bowl of soup unless they wanted to scrub toilets with toothbrushes for the rest of their lives.

So when a pair of headphones mysteriously appeared in his room one day – although the star decals gave Peepers a hunch as to its origin – he made good use of them. The steady sound of his own voice reciting various platitudes was typically enough to lull him into an easy sleep. And if it boosted his self-confidence in the morning, nobody had to know.

With the tape, his dreams became neat, orderly, and predictable as his voice droned on and on. Tonight, however, there was only a comforting silence. Indefinable colors swirled and coalesced into a starry spacescape, but he didn’t feel as though he was floating aimlessly. Instinctively, he looked down and saw two planets supporting him, one under each foot. He yelped in surprise and nearly lost his balance, but with a wild flailing of his arms, he stabilized. He took deep, intentional breaths as he surveyed his surroundings. To his amazement, a multitude of planets dwarfed by his inexplicable galactic size arranged themselves to form a staircase into the infinite above.

There was nowhere to go but up. Slowly, carefully, he climbed the cosmic steps. Most planets he recognized, but every now and again, he stepped on one completely foreign to him. After a calculated leap from Flendar to Ziziks, he glanced up and saw the distant silhouette of some sort of platform. Determined, he continued his ascent. The passage of time – if time did pass – was incalculable. Minutes could have been hours, which could have been days, and yet Peepers’s goal seemed no closer. It wasn’t until he was about to give up that he seemingly instantaneously found himself at the top. He blinked as he took in the bizarre scene.

The only lighting came from a jet-black fireplace and the dim glow of faraway stars in the wall-less space. There were two shelves on opposite ends of the room overflowing with rolled-up blueprints. Peepers recalled long nights spent in a college library. This place had a similar soothing, sleepy atmosphere.

In front of the hearth sat a spidery-legged coffee table, which housed a china teapot ornately decorated with foreign symbols. Beside the table, the space's only other occupant –  a yellow, triangular figure in a dapper hat and bowtie – lounged in a leathery armchair. He toasted a cup to Peepers’s arrival.

“Hiya, hotshot!” Despite no nose – or mouth – it spoke in a nasally voice drenched in an obscenely chipper tone. It took a deep drink from its singular eye. “You must be tired after all that climbing. Have a seat!”

Before Peepers could say that he really wasn’t tired at all, the triangle snapped its fingers, and a second armchair scooped him up and planted itself on the unoccupied side of the table. He had hardly collected himself before his host spoke again.

“Thirsty?”

“Uh-”

“Have a cup of infini-tea!”

It snapped its fingers again. A cup poofed into Peepers’s hands as the teapot rose from the table and gracefully poured him a generous helping of steaming, iridescent liquid. He eyed it suspiciously, then glanced up. The triangle watched him cheerfully, but expectantly. Peepers took a tentative sip. It certainly…tasted. He couldn’t identify any specific flavors, but the drink’s warmth put him more at ease. 

Evidently satisfied, the triangle smirked with his eye. “The name’s Bill Cipher,” he chirped, “but a smart guy like you probably figured that out already.”

“Bill Cipher,” he mused. “Oh!” He chuckled to himself. “I’m dreaming about that ad I saw.” The idea that something so insignificant imprinted on his unconscious mind amused him. He took a self-satisfied sip.

Bill sneered. “A dream doesn’t make it any less real, Commander Peepers.”

For a brief moment, Peepers was alarmed, but immediately chastised himself. It was his dream, of course he’d know his own name and title!

As if he could read his thoughts, Bill said, “I can see you’re gonna take some convincing. That’s alright! I’d never walk away from a challenge!” He drank thoughtfully. “We can get to that later, though.” He leaned forward. “Right now, let’s talk about that ad you saw.”

At this point, Peepers was more or less indifferent to the situation. If anything, he was somewhat peeved to be wasting valuable brainpower on this nonsense. He probably wouldn’t remember anything when he woke up. Might as well play along, he thought nonchalantly.

“Yes. The ad.” He drank again, appreciating the comfort the strange beverage gave him. “I thought it was a bit silly at first. Seemed like some tacky scam. But, it was the end of a long day, so I thought, ‘what the heck,’ and gave the number a call.”

“After your fight with Hater, right?”

Peepers paused. He buried his face in his teacup. “Yes.” 

Bill leaned back, lost in thought. Peepers tapped his cup nervously. Neither spoke.

Peepers felt obligated to break the silence. “I mean, is it really too much to ask for a little appreciation now and again?” he spilled. “A ‘good job Peepers?’ A ‘nice work?’ Even a simple ‘thank you?’” As he aired his problems, he gesticulated wildly, as if he could slap away his lack of approval. “All he does is complain and whine and –”

“Chase an orange hippie around the galaxy instead of conquering it?”

“Yes!” Peepers laid his head in his hand. Bill remained silent and allowed him to collect his thoughts. He heaved a pained sigh.

“After all we had been through with Dominator, I thought he’d be better. I thought he’d finally see the importance of staying focused and…and listening to me.” The last few words were softer, almost an afterthought. “Somehow, he’s gotten worse.”

Bill hummed in thought. “Seems to me you outta ditch that undead deadweight. You’ve got the smarts and the firepower to take over this galaxy ten times over!”

“Really?”

“Sure you do!” Peepers startled as Bill clapped his hands. The blueprints pulled themselves from their shelves and drifted over to their table one-by-one.

The first blueprint unraveled, displaying the plans for one of Hater’s past birthday presents. “A doom arena,” the blueprint rerolled and threw itself aside as a second replaced it. “A disaster blaster,” then came a third, “a mind combobulator? Buddy, you’re giving me ideas!”

Peepers eyed the blueprints with defeat. “These plans failed.”

All the blueprints were cast aside at once. “You know why they failed?” Bill asked, suddenly vexed. “Because Lord Bonehead was too busy being outwitted by a walking hairball and his pet dinosaur-horse to follow through with the plans you made for him.” Peepers flinched as Bill accentuated his statement with a sharp point. “You deserve to be ‘Greatest in the Galaxy,’ pal. Why not steal the empire from under his nonexistent nose like you planned to do all along?”

A red-hot well of shame boiled in Peepers’s core. “I can’t,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Bill’s cheerful demeanor immediately returned. “Of course you can! That’s what I’m here for!”

“What?”

Bill pressed a hand to his chest. “Call me a muse. It’s my life’s purpose to help guys like you help themselves!” Peepers glared at him. Without warning, Bill saddled up onto Peepers’s armrest and laid his arm over his shoulder. “Get this. I can solve all your problems. Work with me, and you’ll be ruling the galaxy in no time.”

Peepers squirmed within Bill’s embrace. “I’m not abandoning Hater.”

“That’s the best part! We can do it with or without Bonehead. You can decide if he’s worth keeping around. You’ll be able to rule with him, or over him. Up to you!” He returned to his chair. “So, Peeps.” He rested his arms behind his head. “What’ll it be?”

“‘What’ll it be?’” Peepers scoffed. “This is absurd. You’re just a dream. All of this,” he gestured at their surroundings, “is a dream!” More to himself, he muttered, “I must be more stressed than I thought.”

“Ah ah ah! I almost forgot!” Bill rose from his chair and hovered above him. “I need to convince you that this ‘dream’ is just as real as your ‘reality.’” Peepers’s interest piqued as Bill adjusted his hat. “Alright Peepers. When you wake up tomorrow, you’ll find that you were so exhausted last night, you fell asleep at your desk, which means you didn’t set your alarm.” Peepers tensed. “You didn’t wake up in time to make your boss’s breakfast, and boy, is he gonna give you a piece of his mind when he barges in at exactly five-past-nine!”

“What?” Peepers bolted to his feet, slamming his cup on the table. “This is ridiculous! You’re not real! You’re just a figment of my subconscious!”

“Tch, believe me, Peepsqueak.” Bill hovered just a few centimeters from Peepers’s face. His voice was gravely serious, and Peepers shrunk beneath his predatory glower. “I’m way too complicated for even your conscious mind.”

Like the flip of a switch, Bill was chipper once more as he gave Peepers some room. “Anyway. I’ll be around when you’re ready to change your mind!”

The space around them began to crumble like a fine powder. Peepers instinctively panicked.

“Enjoy waking up in a pool of your own sweat! Byeeeeee!” His voice trailed off as the dream collapsed into a shimmering dust.

Peepers bolted upright with a shout. He panted heavily, trying to piece together the fragments of his nightmare. He realized with horror that he was at his desk drenched in sweat, just as the strange creature of his dreams said. He rationalized that his unconscious body could have felt him perspire, and he simply dreamed about the sensation. This calmed him down until he heard angry footsteps approach his door. Peepers twisted around and peeked at his alarm clock. His limbs went limp and rubbery as he read ‘9:05.’

“PEEPERS!” Hater boomed from outside the door. The immediate threat of Hater’s wrath replaced Peepers’s remaining dread with chest-gripping terror. He never locked his door specifically so that Hater could come and go as he pleased – he never bothered to remember the passcode – but that didn’t stop him from blasting through the solid steel with a green explosion. 

When the smoke cleared, Hater towered over Peepers as he and his chair clattered to the floor. “I’m starving!” he roared, inches from Peepers’s face. “Why are you never around when I need you?”

Peepers scrambled to his feet while stammering over a series of apologies. “I’ll be right there, sir!” he sputtered, tripping over his own boots. Hater crossed his arms with a huff. Satisfied with his tantrum, he stomped back to his bedroom after yelling at Peepers to hurry up. Peepers raced after him with the pleading hope that this was the worst of Hater he’d see today.

It was easy for Peepers to forget the events of the previous night during the hustle and bustle of his daytime activities. He quickly whipped up a batch of pancakes, bacon, and extra-fluffy scrambled eggs for Hater and fled the room before he could say anything else Normally, Peepers would deliver his morning briefing during Hater’s breakfast, but after their little spat yesterday, he really didn’t want to spend any more time around Hater than he had to. It wasn’t as though he paid attention to his reports, anyway.

Peepers hoped that after years of routine, the watchdogs could function one morning without his constant supervision. Once again, they disappointed him. Most patrols were in the wrong place. Multiple were absent completely. Somehow – and Peepers wasn’t even surprised at this point – he discovered one group of troops playing ‘spin the blaster.’ The safety of the weapon in question was, of course, off.

Two hours of shouting later, Peepers’s schedule was mostly back on track. Research, planning, yelling at a few watchdogs, budgeting, chasing some more good-for-nothing soldiers, more planning, all the while fielding mocking looks and whispered jokes. Then, he got the pleasure of what he called “overlord upkeep.” Hater’s laundry was washed, dried, and folded. His trash was taken out, and his dinner was delivered (two double cheeseburgers, a large fry, and an extra-large diet thunderblazz) with only one minor incident. Peepers received a loud and, frankly ridiculous, reprimand for interrupting Hater’s “hardcore gaming sesh” and causing his character to lose a life. Overall, a pretty average day.

When Peepers arrived at his room in the evening, he got a rude reminder that his door was, in fact, blown up that morning. Slapping a hand to his face, he made a mental note to call maintenance when he woke up. This being a regular occurrence, they would likely install a replacement by lunch.

It wasn’t until he flopped into bed, his body screaming with exhaustion, that the unpleasant memories of last night’s encounter flooded his brain. He stiffened, but after a moment of thought, he scolded himself for being so gullible. What happened that morning was a coincidence, he reasoned as he reached for his clock. He attentively set the alarm to 5:00, shooting a glance at the gnarled shadows cast by the hallway’s emergency lights. Once he was satisfied that there was nothing to go bump in the night, he returned the clock to his nightstand and donned his headphones. He passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

The next morning, Peepers’s alarm woke him from a mercifully dreamless sleep. He slapped the clock’s off button and rubbed the remaining drowsiness from his eye. After removing his headphones, he slogged mechanically through his morning routine with the addition of a quick order for a new door. Showered, dressed, and ready for action, he left to attend to his responsibilities having retained no memory of the night before last.

The morning proceeded mostly as normal. After giving the usual rundown to the troops, he spent an inordinate amount of time on his daily ship inspection for no other reason than to delay seeing Hater. They still hadn’t spoken about the incident. Hater had spared him so far, but Peepers didn’t believe for one second that he would simply forgive and forget.

Once he banished Andy to latrine duty for the rest of the month – after all, he hadn’t forgotten about the affair on New Bingleborp – there was realistically no other option than to check on his superior. It wasn’t an ideal time for confrontation; Hater was cranky at the best of times, but he was especially a bear in the morning. However, Peepers was certainly in more danger if the overlord went hungry. After preparing his favorites with an extra helping of pancakes, he reluctantly shuffled to Hater’s bedroom and accepted whatever fate should meet him there.

Peepers entered the pitch-dark room to the sound of heavy snoring. He crept slowly through the obstacle course of litter until he reached the bed. Peepers took a moment to observe the rise and fall of Hater’s chest. Once he was mentally prepared, he placed a gentle hand on Hater’s shoulder.

“Hey, buddy,” he cooed, drawing out the y’s.

Hater grunted.

Peepers continued, a touch louder, “Sir, it’s time to wake up.”

Sluggishly, Hater stirred. He grumbled indiscernible protests as he hauled himself into a seated position.

If looks could kill, Peepers would be a stain on the floor. However, he was used to Hater’s morning death glares, and he continued undeterred.

“Good morning, sir,” he said with manufactured buoyancy.

Hater grumbled indistinctly.

Peepers hadn’t been electrocuted yet. So far, so good. “Breakfast is waiting for you, sir.” He smiled so hard it hurt. “I’ll meet you there once you’re dressed.”

Hater groused some more before he relented. “Fine.”

Peepers couldn’t believe his luck, and he certainly refused to test it. He scurried out of the room while he still had the chance.

It took twenty minutes before Hater showed up, but Peepers was simply grateful he didn’t have to wake him up a second time. As Hater sat down at the oversized table, Peepers couldn’t get a definite read on what he was thinking. Hater never looked at him, not even accidentally. He was always grumpy after being woken up, but he was almost bashful in the way he picked at the tablecloth while he ate.

If Peepers had to guess, Hater was probably embarrassed to be slapped by his subordinate. If that was true, however, he should’ve zapped Peepers into fine dust by now. Peepers certainly would’ve done so. Instead, Hater sat uncomfortably silent as Peepers informed him on the standing and affairs of the Empire. Since the latest invasion was a disaster, he didn’t have much to say, for which he was grateful because it meant he could excuse himself from the awkward one-sided conversation. Hater remained silent even as Peepers left.

By the next day, Hater was back to his brash, arrogant self. In fact, as he blamed and insulted Peepers for everything from making his bacon a little too crispy to not having Wander imprisoned that very second, Peepers missed the strange speechlessness from the day before. The watchdogs, too, had become manageable again. While he hadn’t totally thrown out the idea of publicly executing Andy, he didn’t need to. The joke of the whole New Bingleborp disaster had grown stale, and the watchdogs went back to the way they always were: disinterested, inept, and completely worthless unless Peepers was actively shoving a blaster in their faces.

He should’ve been happy. He should’ve at least been relieved, but for reasons completely out of his grasp, he felt even more wretched than he did immediately after he was made a spectacle in front of Hater and the entire army. Day in, day out, he went through the motions of being everything from Hater’s commander, to his handmaid, to his punching bag.

By day four of this listlessness, he finally got an inkling to the exact shape of his misery. Being a laughing stock wasn’t an isolated incident; it was the status quo. He lost any semblance of prestige the second Hater crashed the Skullship on the original Bingleborp. But it had nothing to do with Wander. A good commander would’ve stopped him the minute he stood in Hater’s way. Peepers couldn’t catch Wander, he couldn’t even command the watchdogs’ respect or make them into anything more threatening than bumbling nuisances, otherwise they would’ve been ruling the galaxy by now. He wasn’t upset that Hater called him weak and pathetic. He was upset that Hater was right.

That evening, he spent another several hours at his desk, as he had done for the last four days. It wasn’t that he had no plans, it was that every plan had too many holes, too many variables he couldn’t account for. Flendar was a bust; they had strengthened their already formidable defenses after Dominator. Cluckon recently overthrew General McGuffin in a coup and stole his army, so they were out. And he was absolutely not trying New Bingleborp again anytime soon.

It was well past midnight, and he told himself that it was impossible to form a solid plan without sleep. Really, he couldn’t bear to look at his own handwriting any more. He stood up, shambled into bed, and slapped on his headphones. He didn’t even bother to undress since he couldn’t guarantee Hater wouldn’t barge into his room in the morning.

His voice asserted through his headphones, “You are strong. You are important. You are tall.”

Peepers laughed sardonically as he drifted off to sleep.