Chapter Text
The darkness nearly consumed the room, leaving but the small beam from the desktop lamp illuminating the stack of draft papers. A short, stubby figure sat upon a stool, leaning head-on-hand with an elbow balancing on the desk. Just as the room reached its 5th minute of pure silence, the figure moved slightly, the desk shaking, causing a fountain pen to nearly roll off. The small monster’s hand suddenly shot from its cheek to catch the pen before it could even think to start falling. The organized papers, sitting patiently, were filled with a mixture of opinionated and informational ink, with occasional smudges and scribbles, both in ink and in words. The sigh that followed came from Plaque Cuspid. Who else could it have come from in the otherwise empty room, being as reclusive as they are?
If one were to prod another monster on Bone Island and point at the disgruntled Denchuh, asking who the poor-looking magical was, the monster you gave the question to would most likely scoff and mutter something about a “weird journalist”. The Denchuh was definitely as weird as the others all have said. If Plaque were to ask a favor of someone, they would do so with their voice as sharp as their teeth, yet still as quick as a shooting star, as though trying to escape from the other’s sight as soon as possible. Plaque always seemed to roam about with a grouchy yet ever-so-slightly somber look on their face; it wasn’t a surprise that everywhere they went, it was like a storm cloud had stalked just behind. And in their reluctant hikes, missing posters always created their trail.
Plaque’s grasping hand returned the pen to its holder before their finger began to trace lines in the air, just above the first story at the top of the stack. They’d always read over their drafts time and time again, making sure whatever their aching hand had worked so hard for hadn’t any nonsense poisoning the story. As their finger traced to the bottom of the page, skimming over an entire report about a murder case written in letters as small as their creator yet far from being as messy, their hand dove down, pinching the bottom left corner of the top page and dragging it to the side to see the next page. Scrutinizing the second report with the same Glowl-eyed proficiency, they abruptly stopped in their tracks as their eyes took in the pile of identical names that struck painful familiarity.
Maxillary. Maxillary. Maxillary.
Without a second thought, Plaque’s hands slammed onto the sides of the stacked papers, grasping and throwing them all into the bin. It mattered not to the sharp-toothed journalist whether the other papers were contaminated with the same stinging memories or not–though, typically, once that name glued itself to its first paper, it always found a way to bleed through into the other stories.
Always with them, Plaque’s mind told itself, as if it wasn’t the exact reason for the mess. As if the pain wasn’t permanently carved in, the wound the situation left still bleeding, having not scarred or even scabbed, even after all these years.
Just as soon as the Bone Island bell had tolled, signifying the new hour, Plaque pushed themself off of the stool, making small stomps as they stormed out of their workroom, and soon after, their house. A breath of the outside air had always soothed their nerves. After all, despite the remains that so covered the floor of the island, the air was as alive as alive could be, unlike the eerily silent dread that was Plaque’s humble home. Plaque trod across, the ground crunching slightly below their feet, no exact destination in mind. Their gaze had stayed down low, with Plaque trying to keep themself calm.
Missing posters, unique monsters on each one, seemed to be plastered everywhere in the Monster World. The journalist wasn’t quite sure, but if they had to guess, they would say that there were most likely 7 unique missing posters on each island at the very least, disincluding the islands in the Pocket Dimension. It was surreal to the toothy monster, especially since the estimated amount of missing monsters in total had drastically increased since 12 years ago. Since their sibling went missing. Since Maxillary was gone. Oh, poor, poor Maxillary… Plaque missed everything about them. How the cheer that radiated from them always made even the crankiest of monsters crack a smile. That cheeky grin whenever they were about to deliberately, yet playfully, annoy Plaque. The memories that were replaying in the journalist’s head made them regret pushing Maxillary away.
Plaque hadn’t realized how distracted they were by their reminiscence until a voice snapped them out, speaking with a tone tainted with nearly comical concern.
“Oh, dearie! You, over there! You look… pained. Are you alright?”
The Denchuh turned in the direction of the sickeningly sweet yet somewhat genuine voice. As though it were a scripted act on stage that they hadn’t been informed about, something of a solid rainbow shot out to grasp their right shoulder and pull them behind a building. Plaque’s usual half-lidded eyes widened—not just from the shock that came from being abruptly grabbed. Their eyes focused on the cheery monster who so pitied them.
“...Hello? Are ‘ya there, buddy?” The cloudy monster asked, tilting her body slightly to the side. “Do I have to shake you awake? Are you unconscious, or just unable to speak? Though, I suppose you ARE, given that you’re a vocalist after all…”
“I can talk,” Plaque’s eyes narrowed, a concoction of confusion and annoyance brewing in their head. “Also, you aren’t the only one with a myriad of questions. So, if I may ask, what is a Whiz-bang like you doing here on Bone Island?”
“Oh, don’t you worry your gnarly little jaws about that! It’s you that you should be worryin’ about! Look, I get that you’re supposed to be the sad and broody one of your severed pair, but something’s clear! You’re wasting away, aren’t you?” The Whiz-bang frowned slightly, her expression clearly born of worry. She floated closer a small amount, to which the disgruntled Plaque responded with a step backward.
“...How do you already know so much about me?” Plaque interrogated, their tone evidently concerned yet calculating, a rare thing for Plaque’s usual monotone. “We’ve only JUST—”
“I knew a Kayna here! She told me all about the residents that she knew, and she’d been quite the frequent reader of the news. She’d always notice your little ramblings about your sibling slipping through,” The clouded monster tipped a tad bit to the right. “Most of the time, she’d rattle off on how she was worried that you might lose your job because of those.”
Plaque would have raised an eyebrow if they had any. “Obsidy? Her?” Their eyes drifted to the right, their mind putting details together quickly like a jigsaw puzzle. “The Kayna who went missing… exactly two weeks ago?” Shooting back, their eyes latched back onto the Whiz-bang in front of them—by Galvana, why did she look so familiar? Plaque hadn’t felt so weird about something ever since they’d long ago written the report about the blue HippityHop that was found dead… alone.
“Yes, yes!” The Whiz-bang beamed before shaking to calm herself down. “Obsidy traveled a lot, right? So it’s no wonder she’s been on Light Island. Whenever she did visit, we’d always talked about a TON of stuff; current events, stories we liked, EVERYTHING in our lives. She was always a good listener, and I’m worried SICK about her!” The cloud’s eyes started to tear up as she spoke, but she sighed and wiped away the raindrops. “She’s not who I’m here for, though. I’m here for you. I know where your dear sibling is.”
Plaque was nearly stunned into the same silence found in their living area. They glanced at the ground, left, right, before their eyes sprung back to meet the Whiz-bang’s. “...I don’t even know your name yet. What an… unorthodox way of getting to know someone.” Plaque stated bluntly, reaching their right hand out for a handshake. “Plaque. Plaque Cuspid. Though, seeing as you know who I am because of your little friend, I suppose introducing myself is of no use. Anywho, who may I have the pleasure of meeting today?”
The Whiz-bang left Plaque hanging for quite a bit, her expression subtly shifting to smugness. With speed and force that nearly hurt, she grabbed Plaque’s wrist with her gloved hand. Something hidden underneath her glove—a syringe, mayhaps—had pricked and prodded into Plaque’s hand. “Cecelia Wellington,” She giggled, twisting her hand, likely pushing down the plunger of the syringe, “but you may call me CiCi!”
With that, Plaque’s vision dove into dark ink. Their body slowly but surely grew heavier, weaker, limp, with their mind fogging up. They fell as fast as they’d stormed out earlier.