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Jongler stood outside of the editing booth, trying to work up the courage to come clean. They pressed their ‘volume down’ button again, just to confirm that they were on mute. Battat was in there, putting together the final edit. The process was infinitely slower if he had to keep his Mike suit’s bulky gloves on, so each night, Jongler was his security detail, posted outside the door to keep anyone else out.
“I screwed up the sound. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll stay late tonight and try to fix it,” they mouthed silently. It helped dull the spike of dread that had settled deep in their gut ever since they ran back the audio track for the day’s taping and discovered that it was horribly muffled with static, to the point of it being unusable. They might have to retape everything.
Jongler knew they would never live it down if that happened, so they hadn’t added the file to the folder, hoping to fix it before Battat saw it. Unfortunately, they never got the chance. At the very least, they’d been hoping to tell Battat before he noticed, but they couldn’t just abandon their post. They looked at the clock down the hall, feeling each second scrape by. It was only a matter of time before he found out.
Before they could run through anything again, Battat opened the door a crack.
“Get in here,” he hissed, motioning sharply inward.
The sharp spike of dread that had pricked them earlier stabbed into them with cruel intent. He knew. They nodded and slipped inside the booth, knowing that anything else would only make him yank them in.
“The audio for today’s show is missing. Before you ask, yes, I looked in both folders,” Battat hissed as he looked up at them, gaze flitting to the door behind them. Jongler closed it for him. “Where is it?”
“I screwed up-” they started, before realizing that they were still muted. Battat rolled his eyes and hit their “volume up” button, sending an unpleasant jolt through their system. They glared down at him, immediately slapping his hand away. Battat drew his hand back and crossed his arms instead, looking to the side.
“I screwed up the sound today. It’s unusable,” Jongler said as levelly as they could, trying to smother their irritation that had flashed when he jammed their button.
“Are you kidding me?” Battat hissed, searching for any indication in their expression. Jongler didn’t bother responding; it was a rhetorical question. “Of course you aren’t. What is wrong with you?” Battat snapped. “How are you this much of an idiot? You handle sound every day! That’s your job! That’s all you do! How did this happen?!” He had clearly stopped caring about being too loud, as he dug into them without restraint.
“I wasn’t thinking,” they said, just like they practiced. “I’m sorry,” they forced themselves to add, though they felt significantly less sorry than when they had rehearsed it. Sound wasn’t all they did. They also had to stand outside the editing booth every night because someone was too paranoid to just lock the door. They held the thought back, not wanting to escalate.
“When do you ever think?!” Battat ranted, throwing his arms wide, “We’re screwed! We can’t come back from this, Mike would never-”
“I know I screwed up; stop freakin’ out about it. I’ll fix it,” Jongler said, interrupting him.
“Don’t tell me to stop freaking out!” Battat took a sharp breath, trying and failing to lower his voice, “Do you even know how BAD this is?!”
“I’ll stay late tonight to fix it,” they said, with little satisfaction. They had gotten all their points out. They doubted that it helped their case.
“You’ll just mess it up more,” Battat huffed, “I’ll fix it. Like I fix everything.”
Yeah, that wouldn’t end well. If Battat even could fix it alone, it’d take all night. He was supposed to take the opening shift tomorrow.
“Bad idea. Didya forget that you’re opening tomorrow?” Judging by Battat’s expression, he had forgotten. “I’m trying to help-”
“Well, you’re not trying hard enough,” Battat hissed, cutting them off. He wasn’t even trying to listen or find a solution; he was just trying to win. They hated that.
“Don’t talk to me like dat,” Jongler shot back.
“Why should I? You clearly don’t respond to anything else!” Battat doubled down.
At that, Jongler crossed their arms, matching Battat. They easily dwarfed him, and they both knew that, physically, he didn’t stand a chance. Battat shifted, hopefully uncomfortable with the reminder.
“You know,” Battat hissed, voice a bit smaller, “I am so sick of having to constantly run everything by you when I can’t even trust you to do anything right!”
“If you’re so on top of everything, then why do I hafta babysit you to make sure ya actually go to sleep?” If he wasn’t going to back down, then Jongler wasn’t going to either. They nearly regretted it after they saw his eyes widen in obvious surprise, but the feeling left as soon as he opened his mouth again.
“…Do you think I want you to nag me? Do you know how much work I could’ve gotten done if it weren’t for you?” He snapped, his tone turning petulant.
“Dat’s real funny. You woulda run yourself into the ground months ago if it wasn’t for me,” Jongler snapped back. It came out too easily—they had thought it for a long time, even fantasized about using it against him when he berated them, but never actually did.
Before now, at least.
“Let me make my own decisions. I’m an adult,” Battat said, with much less conviction than his earlier retort. Jongler hardened their heart against the obviously weak defense.
Shouldn’t dish it out if ya can’t take it.
“Coulda fooled me.” They couldn’t help themself.
“It’s not like that’s difficult! I just want, for once, for you to make a smart decision! Is that too much to ask?!” Battat pivoted hard, back to familiar territory, where he had higher ground.
“It was one mistake!” Jongler fired back.
“One incredibly expensive mistake!” Battat returned the fire. “It could blow up everything! Mike wouldn’t screw this up!”
“I know!” Jongler snapped. “I know dat! I said I was going to fix it!”
“And I said-” Battat stopped himself, before narrowing his eyes and speaking at a normal volume, “You… you just can’t seem do anything right, can you?”
The words washed over them in a frigid wave.
Every other time he berated them, they brushed it off as something he said in the heat of the moment. He’d apologize a few days later for blowing up at them, and they’d be over it. This time, it felt like the truth had slipped out.
Battat rubbed his face, turning away from them.
“Yeah. I guess not,” they gritted out, successfully resisting a violent urge to just throttle the guy.
Battat didn’t respond, still not facing them. He wasn’t going to take it back.
“Alright, then,” Jongler said, after a moment of silence. There wasn’t anything left to say. “I’m done.”
“What? You’re quitting?” Battat turned to face them, eyes wide.
“Yeah. I’m makin’ a smart decision, for once,” they shrugged with feigned nonchalance, and undid their bandana that they kept around their neck. They balled it up and threw it to him.
Battat caught it and looked up at them, obviously about to say something. Before he could get the last word, Jongler opened the door and left.
That was that.
As it turned out, neither of them had thought to tell Pluey. She had to discover it for herself the next day, when Jongler was suddenly nowhere to be found.
She first heard Jongler’s side when she came up to them in a panic, after Battat told her that they were simply “gone.” She asked if it was true (it was), if they were leaving for good (they were), and if Jongler needed to talk about the whole ordeal (they were fine).
When Pluey was about to leave, Jongler stopped her.
“Hey, when ya see him again, tell him dat he’s made himself perfectly clear; he couldn’t be a nicer guy if his life was on da line, because dat’s just who he is. And y’know what? He ain’t ever gonna change.”
Pluey asked if she should really tell him all that, and Jongler nodded. So, she did. Battat responded in turn.
“Tell them that there’s no point changing for someone who’s just dead weight anyway. I don’t need someone who just gives up when it gets hard. And, you know what, being nice is something you gotta earn! You can’t screw up all the time and expect everyone to just coddle you. Also, tell them that I fixed their stupid mistake in one hour! Yes, one!”
The first few days continued similarly. As the two came up with lines they should’ve said during the argument, they bitterly told Pluey to tell the other (without leaving anything out). Pluey, to her credit, editorialized very little. After a week passed, she noticed that they each had very few sharp words left for each other.
That Monday, she clocked in to find Battat already sitting at the table, nursing a coffee. He’d brewed enough for her to have a cup, too. She poured herself one and sat across from him.
“How are they doing?” Battat said quietly, after a few minutes of silence. “I haven’t seen them. It’s… harder to spot them without their bandana.”
Pluey told him the truth: Jongler seemed fine. They seemed a little bored, but they were getting along with the other Zappers well enough.
“That’s… good,” Battat murmured, looking into his coffee.
Pluey sighed softly, looking at him.
What she left out was her observation that Battat was obviously taking it much harder than they were. Jongler used to wait for him to wrap up on most nights; Pluey didn’t. She didn’t try to keep Battat from overworking himself with the same devotion that they did. With no one left to stop him, Battat had been sleeping at the office more days than not.
Later that day, after exchanging some pleasantries and a brief hug, Jongler asked her a similar question.
“He doin’ okay?”
Pluey couldn’t lie; no, he wasn’t. He wasn’t bothering to properly clock out anymore. She saw through his excuses—his theory board had gone through some dramatic developments, despite his shoddy alibi of always just “clocking in early.”
“Dat’s why I pushed for the couch in the room, which he still hasn’t gotten,” they sighed, visibly frustrated. “He’s an idiot. He always does this, where does he think he’s gonna end up if he keeps running himself straight into the- No. I’m done. He… ain’t my problem anymore,” they cut themself off suddenly, crossing their arms. “Tell him dat he can keep having a pity party. I don’t care.”
It wasn’t the reaction that Pluey was hoping for. She didn’t respond, just watching them as they looked down the hallway, watching a Zapper and Pippins walk together.
“Don’t… actually tell him dat. Please,” they murmured lowly, after a moment.
Pluey nodded with a small smile. That was an improvement. If they could just apologize to each other, things might go back to normal.
Weeks later, Pluey realized that it was much, much easier said than done. They had both practically begged for the other to come back, but neither of them would consider telling each other.
Battat first admitted it after Pluey decided to bite the bullet and just drag him out of his office after a string of all-nighters—she knew he wasn’t “just about” to head home. Instead of pushing her away, he had clung to her, stopping her in her tracks. Of course, she hugged him back and heard him miserably confess into her shoulder: “I’m sorry. It’s too late, I know that, but… I’m sorry. I didn’t want them to leave. But they’re gone, for good, and… probably happier than they ever were here.”
She hugged him a little tighter.
Jongler admitted it a few days after Battat had, when they were drinking together at the bar after work. She could tell that something was weighing on them, and after some light questioning, they admitted: “I… miss how everythin’ used to be. I miss Batts. I don’t see him around anymore, and it makes me real worried about ‘im. I know you’re doin’ yer best, but… I know how he is. And, well, I miss bein’ Mike, too. Dis just… ain’t the same, at all. All I do is watch the same door and throw the same Pippinses in da cage, again and again. Anyone could do it.”
Pluey put a hand on their back, affirming that she would really like them to come back.
“I know, Plues. I just… Well, I wish he’d be a little nicer, and that ain’t that much to ask, is it? But he’s already made his feelings about me perfectly clear; he doesn’t want me around. So there ain’t anythin’ left to do about it.”
Pluey lightly suggested that, perhaps, Battat had changed his mind. Jongler just shook their head, taking a long sip from their drink. Pluey pushed a little bit harder after clearing her throat, saying that they didn’t really know that until they talked to him.
“He ain’t gonna change, it doesn’t matter how I feel about it,” Jongler said, not entertaining the thought.
Pluey had dropped it and ordered them another round, knowing when to give up.
Almost exactly one month after their fight, Pluey was sick of playing messenger. Neither of them would even consider talking to the other, even though they were obviously miserable without each other. And, more selfishly, Pluey had to pick up Jongler’s slack as Mike.
She was at her breaking point. It was time to escalate. Her plan was simple: lock them in a room together until they talked to each other. The only room that worked well was the editing booth—Battat didn’t need to be convinced to go in.
As it turned out, it was easy to trick Jongler into going in too. She just ran up to them in a panic and begged them to help her: Battat was badly hurt. It got them up immediately. They followed her down the hall, threw the door open, and went into the booth. The second they were in, Pluey slammed the door shut and stood with her back to it.
Inside the booth, Battat startled and scrambled to get his headset off as someone barreled into the room. He froze when he realized who it was.
“Jongler?”
He watched as Jongler’s gaze scanned him, their chest heaving with exertion. After a tense moment, they sighed and pounded once on the door.
“Dis ain’t funny, Plues!” They swore as they got no response from the other side. “She had da bright idea to… forget it,” they started to explain to Battat, but quickly abandoned the effort in favor of rubbing their forehead and avoiding eye contact.
“I… haven’t seen you in a while,” Battat said, fiddling with the microphone on the headset in his lap.
“…Yeah,” Jongler said quietly.
Battat stole a glance at them. He had so much that he wanted to say. He’d rehearsed it more times than he knew: I’m sorry. I was so horrible to you. I didn’t mean it and I miss you. In his braver moments, he had imagined going up to them so much earlier and trying to get them to come back. He never did; he couldn’t work up the nerve.
This was his chance.
“How’ve ya been?” Jongler broke the silence before he could.
“I’m sorry,” Battat said, too resolved to change course.
“I just asked ya how you’ve been,” Jongler repeated, louder.
“I heard you, I’m just… sorry. I was cruel, and… you do a lot for me that I didn’t give you any credit for. I… didn’t mean it, and I miss you.”
“Oh,” Jongler said quietly. Battat didn’t look to see their expression.
“I know it’s too late,” Battat murmured, “I just… had to say it anyway.”
“Batts…” Jongler’s voice was much softer now, “I miss ya too.”
He looked up at them, failing to hide his surprise. He didn’t know what to say; in his rehearsals, Jongler never just agreed with him. He could’ve sworn that their expression was almost fond.
“Do you… want to come back?” Battat whispered.
“Yeah. Please,” Jongler said immediately.
Battat just nodded, his eyes still wide in disbelief. Was this really happening? Was it really that easy?
After a moment, Jongler sighed and opened their arms. “Just c’mere, wouldya?”
Battat nodded, getting up. As soon as he got close enough, Jongler scooped him into a hug. Battat wrapped his arms around their neck, burying his face against them.
“You gotta be nicer, okay?” Jongler patted his back.
“I know. I will, I’m… trying to be better,” he admitted, quietly.
“Dat’s all I want.” Jongler gave him a little squeeze.
He smiled against their neck. He could hear the thrum of their electronics inside and tried to resist the urge to snuggle closer.
“Do ya still have my bandana?” Jongler said, after a moment.
Battat’s heart dropped.
“Oh. Uh, yeah, it’s… I know where it is,” he mumbled.
“Where?”
Battat mumbled something so quietly that Jongler couldn’t make it out.
“What was dat?”
Pluey chimed in from behind the door.
“It’s on your desk?! Really?” Jongler said, failing to conceal their amusement.
“Shut up!” Battat snapped. His face was suddenly much pinker. Realizing how that sounded, he adjusted his tone. “Just… grab it before your next shift.”
“Right. Uh, when… would that be?”
“Just check the schedule in the break room,” Battat said. Then, his voice quieted to a whisper. “Take one of Pluey’s.”
“Mhm. Good idea,” Jongler whispered back.