Chapter Text
Finally, after many failed interviews… Abigail has managed to find herself with a plausible employer.
It was a short gig, something she’s not unaccustomed with; most of her forms of income have been of the brief terms but this one is meant to settle her in for the end of the year, at least if she saves enough. Or something better comes around.
The man slid over the contract, the abstract logo of Playfellow Workshop bled into the page as a wall of words bled down like a river towards the hefty stash that she must sign. “Quite lengthy, ain’t it?” The man chuckled. “Bet’cha never seen a contract this long in your life.” He spoke, his voice sounding sleazy at the inappropriate implication.
Swallowing in her need to snark, Abigail dug into her purse for a pen but the swift hand of the man offered her his own; the red and gold shined from the stray shine of the sun and the young woman hesitantly took it.
Her throat tightened upon feeling his fingers brush against the heel of her palm, but she undid the cap and began to sign away.
Eyes rushed through the pages of law, policy, and hush-hush that she’s abiding herself upon every swift flick of the wrist; glossing through and capturing whatever information her brain sought interest in for question. The rhythmic tapping of the man’s finger on the table almost bore out the sound of people talking and porcelain clanking, but not the feeling of his smile burning into the being. “You don’t talk much, do ya?” He asked but Abigail simply kept signing at a quickened pace. “Figured as much. Such a shame though,” He sighed. “Pretty girls like you sure like to leave a whole lotta stuff to the imagination…” The pages flipped back as she sifted through. “Too bad I ain’t got all that. I’d rather experience it, do you?”
The stack of papers fell back into place as Abigail couldn’t hold it any longer, “Mr. Wilson, please—”
“It’s John.” He corrected her. “....Please. Call me John.” His smile widening, satisfied at this.
Biting the inside of her cheek, “... John, I’m done.” Abigail announces.
“I saw.” He nodded. “I saw…” John’s hand dug into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper and slid it towards her. “I hereby welcome you into the Playfellow Family,” He starts. “Everything you just signed makes you liable for any damages, leaks, or malpractice towards the company, its property, or other employees where then termination will be done swiftly and unceremoniously, without pay.”
Abigail took the note, reading: Richard Walker, 336 Apostle Road, Warren NJ.
“That is the name of the producer of the show and your boss. That address is the place where the studio resides.” John spoke but then turned serious. “Mrs. Stone,” He called to her, Abigail looked at him. “I’m obligated to let you know that everything that you see in the studio cannot be shared out to the public. We will find out if you open your mouth. Do you understand?”
The young woman furrowed her brow, “It’s… a children’s show.”
“I know.”
“Wha…” She scoffed. “I don’t understand—”
“You should follow that with heavy precaution. As they say in school, ‘snitches get stitches’ correct?” He continued. “Playfellow is very private about our lovely show. We just don’t let anyone inside and the fact that you’re being let in for such a short amount of time… it should say something to you.”
Abigail looked at the note before returning again to John. “I will ask again, do you understand?”
‘Strange…’ Abigail thought but nodded in response.
John took the stack of papers that she’s signed before throwing on the table four dollars. Covering the coffee he purchased for both. “Your starting date is on Monday. Get there at 7 am sharp and, ah,” Abigail watched him stuff the contract in his leather bag. “A little tip—-Make sure you talk, alright? Not everybody likes ‘voluntary mutism.’ It makes you look hostile.” John said, smiling with poisonous generosity. “Have a good day, Mrs. Stone.”
Abigail watched as the man left, feeling creeped out by his words before turning into a harsh scorn.
“Asshole…” She muttered, taking two of the four bills he threw and pocketing them with spite.
—
The radio hymned with the sound of the Beatles nestled between the rural sides’ inflicted static; the signal is always bad in these parts but the idea that this is the place of which a whole TV show for kids plays uninterrupted it only means that the place got cash.
The windows of her Gremlin were rolled down slightly so that she could let the cool air waft in and help her keep awake.
It was quite the drive here and it took some rushed coaxing towards her little sister to walk their little brother to school as she left the home. This, of course, wasn’t unrewarded as Jennifer’s teenage mind just had to make it all about her, incapable of realizing that the world doesn't revolve around her grace. But, what do you expect? Children of divorce are prone to be into dramatics.
Abigail could only hope that she actually does as she’s told and doesn’t abandon Daniel again.
‘Now is not the time to think about that…’ Abigail thought, her lungs rushing out a frustrated exhale. Her eyes caught sight of the lonesome building nestled between the trees, like it was hiding, and the rather stuffed parking lot.
Even in her efforts to arrive earlier than most, luck just seems to be all around her but not with her.
After securing a spot, Abigail hooked her purse and slammed the door shut; turning to face the building but stopping, for some reason. Maybe dread or pre-built annoyance.
The cold autumn air was deadly and it rubbed into her form but her view persisted; turning glossy, her mind drifted into all of the things that’s caused her discomfort before this one…
Will it be another to weigh upon her shoulders? Or, will it finally be a place for her to breathe?
As if. That’s never the case.
Starting a new job is never easy but it doesn’t get any easier from here. Knowing herself, Abigail was prone to make it worse; unknowing and un-apologetically but, can you blame her?
She’s not the ‘people’ person. She doesn’t ‘fit’ in naturally. She stands out, even more as time goes on because it becomes apparent that she is what many people seem to dislike.
The quiet. Abigail is… extremely quiet. Unnoticeable would’ve been preferable but unfortunately, that’s not her natural struck. She’s a lure; a bait of the worst kind.
You see, her cooperative silent nature seems to unnerve many people; they question, ridicule and even bully the things they don’t understand. Or, is it something they can't break?
It doesn’t matter. What’s not part of normality is sure to be pointed out, making her want to be shut in to protect herself from the cruelty of this world. But… in a world where you just can’t survive on loose fries off a brown bag and faucet water for long; Abigail is forced out.
To work. Because it gives her money; money puts food on the table, keeps the heater and running, and the bank men content as monthly payments of her father’s mortgage dues are generously deposited. Ensuring a roof over her head. And her siblings’ heads.
With a heavy weight upon her chest, Abigail marched forward. The killer breeze entered her lungs and returned warm against every step until her hand grabbed on the metal handle and she pulled it outwards; opening the doors of her new employment and, possibly new, hell.
The first thing that greets her is the alluring smell of cheap tobacco, the old woman at the front desk stapled, wrote and flipped pages at an unbothered state. Only a second later did she look up, taking notice of Abigail waiting there, and remained uninterested.
She threw on the surface a generic lanyard with the company’s Staff ID. No personality whatsoever.
“Abigail Stone?” She muffled croaked, lips tightly securing the almost gone cigarette from falling off her lipstick covered maw.
The girl nodded and the old woman pointed at the clipboard beside her, “Sign, take the lanyard, and head to room six. Meetin’s about to start.” She announced.
Abigail leaned to sign before the woman added, “There’s coffee in the break room and someone brought donuts. Help yourself. Or don’t. I don’t care.”
By the time she finished, Abigail put on the lanyard and the sound of the rather small gate echoed. She noticed the old hag staring and Abigail looked at her before, after a brief second, speaking, “Thank you…” Her eyes dropped to the golden name tag. “Lucille.” She finished.
Only then, Lucille turned her head and returned to her work, and Abigail walked through the gate.
So far, Lucille might be the only person she likes. A normal person would use this as motivation to get excited and look on the bright side; the only thing she took any sort of excitement in was the stale look of the coffee that was in the pot when she arrived at the break room. The intense smell of burnt grounds fell beautifully on the sight of the sugary donuts that were slowly, but intensely, being enjoyed by ants that have managed their break-in from a crack somewhere in the building.
Now, that did bring that magical allure Mr. Wilson said about two days ago. Truly Disney’s perfect competition. It revels in such a fantastic way.
However, there was something of interest.
A stray Playfellow Workshop employee’s pamphlet rests upon the forgotten corner of the counter. It’s the type of pamphlet you’d get at association booths in college but for work, of course.
In the front page there is the gang of the show Abigail is about to be a part of: Welcome Home.
Daniel usually is the one obsessed with these characters, and he was overjoyed when she announced to him and Jenny about her opportunity to work with it. He kept beaming about it, raving about his favorite character—the chicken lady. Or, whatever her name is. Seeing him happy makes her happy. Anything good out of Daniel makes her happy.
It only brought her a light sense of calm seeing Daniel be something other than mopping around about the divorce. She’s been trying to settle in with him more than usual, or allowed to, but there’s only so much she can do.
His excitement that his big sister gets to be close to his favorite show was doing more than she ever could.
“Hm…” Abigail exhaled. “Maybe he’d like this.” She declares.
And with the power of sticky fingers, Abigail put the pamphlet in her purse. Not sure if he’d be interested in reading an employee’s work booklet before bed, but Daniel might enjoy seeing something other than his personal Welcome Home library had to offer. Something new to obsess over, at least.
“That’ll cost ya, ya know?” A voice broke her trance and Abigail inhaled sharply and her heart leaped in, what she assumes, fear as she saw who it belonged to.
It was not a man. Well, it was man-sounding, but it wasn’t a man.
It was a puppet. Or, an actor? Yes. An actor, dressed like one of the characters. The bug one. But it felt odd, is there a person this tall in existence?
The thing was huge, standing close to her as it leaned on the counter. Two pairs of arms and legs were, rather comically, staged into a pose or two that melded together into one. One hand was perched on the hip; the opposite one on the chin (or lack thereof) as he leaned in. The remaining pair of arms were crossed at the lower half and the two pairs of legs followed as… one pair; two lefties crossed over the two righties.
A relaxed pose as this, supposedly, funny-guy remained as he looked at her. The masks’ eyes blinked innocently, somehow, shaking into Abigail the sense of uncanny.
“Jesus Christ.” She exhaled. “How long have you been there?”
The smile spread over the mask, strangely, and the actor straightened its posture. “A while. Been tryin’ to get your attention since I saw you eyeballing our friends enjoying their donuts.” He answered, “But you were so deep in thought, it looked like you couldn’t hear me.”
“Ah…” Abigail got sheepish. “Sorry, I do that when I’m thinking too much.”
Her eyes were everywhere but on the actor. “Anyways, isn’t it suffocating being in that costume this early? Aren’t we having a meeting or something before we begin recording or—”
“Ah, so you’re the no-show.” He added. Abigail’s brow furrowed.
“What—”
Then, from a distance. “Howdy!” A voice beckoned and the actor turned in the direction of it. “C’mon, man! We need you at scene four!”
Then, one of the hands from the suit grabbed at Abigail and pulled her close. “Hey— Look what I found!” He announced, yanking her forward. “It’s our no-show!”
An older man entered the room and his eyes widened, in the sense of getting caught, and he instantly put on a smile. “Howdy, don’t call her that!” He sheepishly scolded the actor and turned to her. “Hey— Abby, right?”
“Abigail.” She corrected, feeling a sense of scorn when hearing that.
“Yeah, sure—Hey, Howdy? Head over to scene four. We’re about to start.” The man instructed and the actor nodded.
A gentle pat was placed on her shoulder as the actor passed by them. “See you later, Abigail.”
She watched the actor walk away with a feeling of uneasiness, her mind drifting into those rare moments she saw the show with Daniel on the times she could. The actor sure knows how to stick into character without breaking yet there was something uncomfortable about it.
“Hey, did you hear me?” The man asked.
“Sorry, no.” Abigail answered quickly. “ What did you say?”
The man inhaled with a tight smile, “I’m Richard Walker, the producer of this show. Nice to meet’cha.”
“Oh. So, you’re my boss.” She stated.
“That’s right—And we’re late for production, how about we talk a little at break, OK? Come,” He insisted, grabbing Abigail by the arm. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
As she was pulled, Abigail looked back to see her purse on the counter. The flap of it wide open and she pursed her lips wanting to close it but Richard’s grip was hard enough to get the message across.
She’s late for work and they needed to start. With or without her.