Chapter Text
“You have a twelve o’clock with the Zampanini project lead, a one o’clock with our help-desk manager, and a two o’clock with the Eyedlr head of operations.”
“SO, THREE HOURS WITH ALT, RIGHT?”
“That is correct. But after that… I see you’ve penciled in a ‘three-bro-clock’ lunch meeting with the Intern. A personal matter, or…?”
“...I DUNNO, DUDE. HE JUST CALLED ME UP AND TOLD ME TO MEET HIM FOR LUNCH. HE SAID HE HAD A WAY TO FIX MY PROBLEMS, BRO…”
“...Suspicious. Did you follow up with him in person?”
“I EMAILED HIM. I-- AH, SHIT.”
“Hm?”
“I JUST REALIZED. WE CAN’T CALL OUR MAIL SOFTWARE THINGY ‘EMAIL.’ THAT JUST SOUNDS LIKE E-MAIL.”
“This did come up at the meeting before you turned the room into a maze, yes.”
“HA! WHAT A MAZE, THOUGH. THAT WAS THE ONE WHERE I SCATTERED THE SLIDES LIKE PRESIDENT EVIL NOTES, RIGHT?”
“It’s called-- yes.”
“CLASSIC. ANYWAY HE SAID HE DIDN’T CALL ME AND HAS NO IDEA WHO THAT WAS OR HOW THAT HAPPENED.”
“And you’re still going?”
“UH, YEAH? I GOT PROBLEMS UP TO HERE, DUDE.”
“Up to your knee? That… can’t be very many.”
“COULD BE BETTER. COULD BE DOWN HERE.”
“I’d be surprised if they went all the way to the floor.”
“UH HUH. MAYBE YOU SHOULD GO ALL THE WAY… TO THE MAZE FLOOR!”
“...”
“...”
“Did you mean to teleport me somewhere aft--”
“I WAS ASKING YOU TO TAKE THE ELEVATOR.”
“Oh.”
“I THINK I LEFT A GUY THERE WITHOUT UNLOCKING THE EXITS.”
“Oh.”
“YOU SHOULD PROBABLY--”
“--Yeah.”
The South Ontonaut, the Rememberist of Quests, pops a bottle of champagne, screams at the sound, and nearly fumbles it right out of her trembling hands -- but, fortunately, the East Ontonaut, 80N-35, catches it with one of her four robotic extendo-arms. “ADMONISHMENT DISPENSED,” it says, with a wistful smile on its digital display. “I DON’T THINK I’LL GET TO HAVE MORE OF THIS FOR A LONG TIME, AHAHAHAH.”
“I guarantee you they still have fucking champagne in Arm 1, East,” the West Ontonaut says, sipping a glass of red wine. (She vastly prefers it to champagne because it looks like blood.) “Plus, how the fuck do you drink anything? Doesn’t it, like, fuck shit up in your internals? Or is this some Futurama-type shit where you use it as fuel?”
“I POUR IT VERY, VERY CAREFULLY SO IT LANDS INSIDE OF THE PITCHER PLANT I HAVE INSTEAD OF A CENTRAL CORE,” 80N-35 calmly explains for the twentieth time this week. “ACCORDING TO MY CALCULATIONS--”
“You don’t have to say ‘according to my calculations,’ motherfucker. I know you’re a robot,” she snaps, swishing her drink around. “Can you just talk fucking normally for ten seconds? I know you’re doing that aesthetic shit just to mess with me.”
The South Ontonaut blinks, accidentally overpouring her own drink. “Can you be fucking nice?? Roz, what’s up with you today?”
“I CALCULATED THEM. AND THEN CONSULTED THEM,” 80N-35 whines. “THEY’RE MY CALCULATIONS. I DO NOT DISPENSE LIES.”
“Can you dispense thirty seconds of quiet, Jimmy Fucking Neutron??” Roz bares her sharp teeth, and then downs her whole glass of red wine. “We get it. Skip the science lesson. If you can metabolize it, metabolize it already.”
“Roz, seriously,” the Rememberist chides. “Can you talk to us?” Roz rolls her eyes. Since she has three of them, that’s 50% more eye roll per eye roll, and the Rememberist finds this gesture extra withering. “A-are you sad Bones is going away? I thought you wanted--”
“It’s none of your fucking business, Minotaur,” Roz snaps, topping up her bottle of wine. “Boo, hoo, we’re losing the robot because she’s going to do her fucking job and go find the target. Should we throw a party? Should we call the crows you keep fucking recording instead of doing anything related to the reason we’re here?”
The Rememberist scoffs, offended. “I-- that’s-- I’m-- I’m helping! I-- the crows talk to each other! One of them saw the target. We, like, know that! They-- it’s the one that keeps saying Hello YouTube, but--”
“They all say that,” Roz says, unimpressed.
“Okay but one of them says it more,” the Rememberist says, running a hand through her hair. “Ugh. You are IMPOSSIBLE. Fucking-- if you don’t want to participate in the goodbye party, can you just, like… go step outside for a moment?”
“Yeah,” Roz says, smirking. “I can do that.” She grabs the champagne bottle, ignores the Rememberist’s bewildered questions, tucks it under her arm, and strolls right out, bringing a laptop with her.
“...” 80N-35 looks heartbroken. “DO I REALLY SOUND LIKE JIMMY NEUTRON?”
She does, unfortunately.
“OH.”
Sorry.
The Changeling is still waiting for her lunch date at 3:30 PM. She wishes she had a watch, not to check the time, but simply for tradition. She’d love to be able to tap her feet, sigh, and check her watch, but alas -- she’s certain the barista knows she’s looking at an empty wrist. This is no way to wait for a meeting. People must be staring.
Mercifully, though, if they are, they certainly stop when the door swings open with a cacophonous jingle and none other than the CEBro of Eyedol Games herself walks through the entrance of the cafe with a flourish. She cracks her knuckles, rolls her neck, and lets her gaze sweep the crowd, before shrugging and deciding she has no idea how to identify an anonymous caller. “SORRY, BRO,” she projects to the entire restaurant. “ICEBREAKER RAN LONG. SOMEONE SLIPPED, AND I THINK I LOST A GUY IN THE POLAR MAZE. NO ONE KNOWS ABOUT TEAMWORK ANYMORE. LOST ART, DUDE. LOST ART.”
The Changeling waves, smiling politely, and the CEBro turns on a heel and speed-walks directly towards her with a notably business-y stride. The Changeling tends to notice these things. She’s had a lot of high-net-worth individuals as clients, and there’s a certain number of digits in your bank account that’ll make anyone move like they’re expecting everyone else to dive out of their way. When her guest arrives, she extends her hand for a handshake, the CEBro’s face reflected twice on her red round glasses as she smiles confidently.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. You must be Miss--”
The CEBro scoffs, punching the Changeling lightly on the shoulder. “DUDE. NOT NECESSARY. MISS ME WITH THAT MISS, YEAH? YEAHHH!” She puts up her hand for a high five, the Changeling begins to reciprocate, and then the CEBro swings her arm like a golf club. She delivers a meteoric slap that ricochet s throughout the cafe, turning a few heads, and as the dust settles she nods approvingly. Giving the Changeling a thumbs-up, she spins and points towards the barista to order whatever this place calls a “number nine, large.” The Changeling orders only a coffee.
When the two have taken their seats, the Changeling sips her coffee. The CEBro bites the head off of one of her dino chicken nuggets, clearly immensely satisfied at the order, and then she places the headless reptile back on her plate, folds her hands, and leans forward. “SO, BRO.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“YOU’RE NOT MY INTERN. WHO ARE YOU?”
For a moment, the Changeling considers lying. It would be easy to convince her-- but she needs to take the roundabout approach here if she has a chance at success. So, instead, she says the truth with a sly little smirk, baiting her target with a gleam in her eye:
“A resurrectionist, ma’am. If you’d like, I could bring the Intern back to life.”
“HE’S FINE. I JUST TALKED TO HIM, LIKE, TODAY, BRO,” the CEBro says, with a terrible poker face, and the Changeling tilts her head ever-so-slightly.
“I mean the real Intern, ma’am.” Her eyes flick up. “Or wouldn’t you like to speak with the original Mr. Todd Brian Davidson?”
Roz’berry Bioluminescence Natasherd Clover Way is outside the base except for her laptop, a few crows, and me. I’m always here.
“I know,” Roz says, sighing. “Can you cut away from me again? I was in the middle of something.” No longer surly, now she just sounds exhausted -- and I’d wager it has something to do with the Pesterchum conversation on her computer. She has the chat client open on one half of the screen, a note page open on the other, and she’s talking to-- um. Could Roz’berry move her arm, please?
“No.”
Roz’berry knows I can still read it, right?
“Can you fuck off? Like, seriously. Just give me five minutes where you fuck off.”
She’s really letting that mushroom get to her? I’m surprised.
“DOC,” she snaps, teeth bared once more. “My fucking business. Am I not allowed to make fucking friends anymore?”
It’s just that I’m aware she’s been conspiring with her fucking friends about deliberately disposing of the East Ontonaut, Nessie. I’m aware she considers it to be a roadblock, and I don’t think she’s keeping the end of her parole agreement. I also know that she’s aware of where the target is, she believes.
“Fuck do you mean, I believe?”
She knows where a target is.
“Fuck’s that supposed to--” She trails off. “No. No, no, fuck, fuck no. You’re-- you’re fucking with me, right? You’re--”
I’m not.
“SHIT.” She drops the champagne bottle, letting it shatter against the concrete floor of the empty parking garage, and begins hammering the elevator button, hoping to open it as fast as possible. She thinks she knows exactly what’s about to happen. She doesn’t know the half of it.
I’m certainly not going to tell her.