Work Text:
This place was dark.
Not the pleasant kind, where stars glittered and the moon watched kindly. Not like the cool, quiet nights Glisten spent accompanying the other Toons, with the calming buzz of conversation to bade away the discomfort of his silent room. This place was like paste. Ichor-dark and twice as suffocating, waiting to swallow him whole.
Glisten had been curled up here ever since the elevator door had closed.
Dark, and cold. But never alone.
Every now and again he could hear them. Sickly wheezes or feet-dragging steps, patrolling until exhaustion and getting right back to it after a nap. His sight had dulled in this blackout. Most of his senses have.
The cloying sweetness of candy and pop had only comforted him for so long on this floor. Now just the thought of eating to sustain himself made him sick. But he had to. Had to scavenge when the twisted toons were asleep, then carve himself a hiding spot, rationing and waiting some more while they hunted him.
His sense of presence had failed him the most. Every so often he felt distant, wading into some waking nightmare. Like fading memory, distorted with time and scant of any emotion but the fiercest.
Most days he was anxiousness. He was desperate loneliness. And that was it.
He was not alone, no. But he was so very, very lonely.
In his weakest moments, he left his fortress to speak to them. Only for a moment, only to talk to something. Speed candy and soda pop could only bail him out so many times.
They left you.
Glisten tucked himself further into the box fort he'd crafted for cover. The Twisted Toons paid attention to movement, but he found they never really messed with the floor much. Anything he'd built over the.. time.. he'd been here, they simply ignored it.
No matter how decadent the fort.
They figured you out and left you.
Really, it was almost insulting. He was sure he could make a light-up display with 'TOON HERE!' flashing and they'd still ignore it. They truly were the worst audience.
Why would they ever come back for a useless toon like you?
But what could he expect? Brusha never saw the high art of his creations, why would a twisted version suddenly find an appraising eye? Goodness, how tragic. Even becoming twisted can't fix poor taste. Glisten giggled to himself.
They're not even looking for you.
He pulled his knees to his chest. It had been a while since he'd heard movement. Maybe the twisted toons were asleep? He poked his head out, straining his eyes in the dark. He's gotten better at making out shapes, and gotten way better at catching slight motions. Near-perfect! Which is well on its way to becoming perfect, which is to say it is perfectly useful in catching the absolute stillness of the floor.
They must be napping. He was perfectly sure of it. Though nothing could be said of how long they'd been napping, or how long Glisten would be able to venture without having to look over his shoulder.
Still, he ventured. He had very little free time away from all his persistently chasing fans, he had to make the most of it! Even if it just meant checking on the machines to have something to do, or searching through boxes for anything other than candy.
He found time ebbed and flowed in indistinct sequences. One moment he was scrounging around, next he'd been watching the cartoons still flickering on the old tv boxes in the moments the blackout left the floor, staying there long through the twisted toon's naps. Then he was running. Hiding. Eating, nauseous. Watching the elevator. Waiting. Sleeping.
To call it routine would an overstatement. There was no structure, the Twisted Toons didn't follow a schedule so he wasn't able to make one either. But he had things to occupy himself.
Mostly watching the old cartoons every time he felt like he was forgetting one of their voices. Their actual voices, not the warbled versions the Twisted Toons gurgled through ichor. That he had a very clear memory of.
He hated to admit it, but it was... fine. Ugh, how his standards have fallen.
He had the cartoons. He had food. And nowadays, the twisted toons didn't bother him even if he sat all day in front of the tv. They must've confused his brilliant self with a glorious mirror. Surely. Which suited him fine, he didn't want to move away from the screen.
Time was not meaningful here anyways.
But sometimes, when the reruns skipped forwards, backwards, and lost their place, his mind wandered. Sometimes he watched the twisted toons instead, walking their practiced routes stained with ichor, muttering to themselves. He knows-He knows how insane it sounds, but he could swear he hears them speak. Not to him, they didn't have the awareness for that—at least, they didn't seem capable of that—but their rambling had some coherence if Glisten focused on them.
Brusha usually talked about artist's block. Finn made his horrible fish puns, Tisha made comments on the state of the floor, Sprout reminisced about the garden. It was almost enough to make Glisten think he had his friends back. Enough to make him wish, despite the often horrific sight of them, Twisted Rodger or Astro were here. But then they repeated themselves, always, like a broken record. Each time less like themselves. And Glisten felt wretchedly alone again.
And then, sometimes, he heard noise from the elevator. Distant, grinding gears.
Embarrassed as he was to admit it, even if only to himself, he watched those doors a lot more than he should. He had plenty of other things to focus on—the twisted toons, his dwindling food supply, the unpolished state of himself—but the elevator always stole him away. Sometimes, for hours at a time, he stared at it. Willing it to open.
It never did.
Now, the cartoons still playing on the tv were far less disappointing. If he tried hard enough, he reminisced on the little gatherings the toons'd had after airing. The watch parties, end-of-season picnics, the holiday dinners. It was enough to delude himself into thinking they were more than coworkers. Foolish to think it now. Family wouldn't have left him on this floor so long.
No, no! They were looking for him. How could they forget a toon so brilliant? It was only taking so long because he was on such a low floor.
What floor was he on again?
Oh, please. There were plenty of capable toons! What a ridiculous question. He was sure they'd be capable of reaching any floor he could! Well, it was difficult to match up to his perfect runs, but it wouldn't take all of them so long, would it?
… How long has he been here?
"They must be so distraught over my disappearance that they're struggling on the floors!" Glisten remarked to himself, busying with recounting his meager supplies again. He had two soda pops left, a protein bar, and some gumballs. The floor restocked itself now and again—every third day, perhaps? If he could count days by the toons' infrequent naps—but it wasn't always food being left. Bandages were vital! But they couldn't do much to bade away his hunger. He had quite a few recommendations for whatever force is leaving them behind, but it always swept by out of his notice.
Well, whoever or whatever it was, he couldn't complain too much. Outside of the fact it was always candy. But he wasn't complaining! A toon as perfect as him could adapt to anything, even ridiculous amounts of candy and useless items. He had a sweet tooth, but after so long he'd had well over enough. But he wasn't complaining.
Another noise came from the elevator. Not the creaking or usual grinding, but different. Louder. Closer.
All at once the emptiness of this floor was crushing.
They're here. They're almost here. They've come for me.
Glisten rushed to the elevator. The toons were awake, but they didn't do much else but glance his way. They didn't matter. All that mattered was the elevator was here. He stood at the closed doors, waiting, listening.
Waiting.
And waiting.
And the elevator moved away.
For one terrifying moment, Glisten was sure he'd never get to leave. By the next, he was back in front of the tv, watching one of the early episodes of Vee's gameshow. Back when they picked kids from the audience to compete against toons.
uh. tbc :)