Work Text:
If hell is a place on earth, modern corporations have perfected the formula. It’s another summer working at the fast food chain called Bendy’s, a low-paying job Fluixon got through nepotism and a hard case of ‘Resting Neutral Face’ syndrome. The place is loud, chaotic, and constantly demands attention 24/7.
That's why Flux stopped smiling two days into this job three years ago. He wasn’t paid to smile. Besides, the manager did mention that gas station tweaker incidents have decreased the more times Flux mans the cashier.
The truth cannot be farther from that.
Just like all statistics reported by the government, the numbers lie.
It is 22:05, four hours into Flux’s shift and the start of the witching hour. His coworkers give him small reassuring smiles and encouragement, even as they congregate to the back to avoid the cashier.
The glass door opens. A man in a medieval outfit walks in carrying a blue axe on his back, a confused look on his face as his eyes darts around.
“Good evening, welcome to Bendy’s. How can I help you?” Flux says, catching the attention of the white haired man.
On the corner of his eyes is one of the cooks, hand already poised on the telephone to call the police.
The man’s eyes wide open with shock, taking a step back like he just saw a ghost. Fluixon’s impeccable ‘web-novel protagonist’ poker face is still on his face, but no one wouldn’t get annoyed if someone looked at them like they should be dead.
“Flux? Is that… you?”
“No, my name is Oskar.” Fluixon lies like a liar that he is. “Do you need help to call the police?”
“No… no, I’m not on good terms with them.” The mann says, out of breath, like he’s still reeling from the sight of Flux in front of him
The cook is already calling, good. Flux should ask the manager to raise his pay.
“It’s you, isn’t it? Fluixon ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇?” His full government name sounds like a vocal stim coming from this guy. But Flux doesn’t judge as long as this guy does it behind bars. Preferably forever. “How could this… You–you’re dead! I killed you!”
“If you're really hungry, I recommend the combo meal number 3.” Fluixon answers, pointing at the menu in front of him. “A good lemonade and chicken is always good for the mind.”
“The colosseum–the fight–You betrayed me, Flux. Why… Why are you so calm?!” The man raises his voice. From this distance, the man can’t lunge at him over the counter. But Flux has tried to do it before with varying degrees of success. Well, at least his eyes aren’t red and there’s no dizzying smell of alcohol. “Are you satisfied? Is that why? After you cast me into hell, you decide to brush your hands off me? Answer me, Flux!”
“Customer, you’re scaring the others. Please lower your volume.” Fluixon says, his hand reaching to the device underneath the cashier.
At least the man looks apologetic enough, even though he still looks like a cosplayer that lost his home gambling in the casino. “Sorry, sorry…”
There is silence as both stare at each other. Honestly, now’s not the time for it, but Flux racks his brain on which character this drenched racoon is cosplaying. Maybe from a murder mystery? No, this guy looks like he’ll be the first red herring that gets murdered on the second night. A knight? An adventurer from an obscure DnD podcast?
“...Cool outfit, man.” Flux says, just so the man’s searching gaze can stop roaming at him. This guy’s a mess, he looks like he’s going to cry if Flux told him to fuck off.
“Oh… thanks.” The man fiddles with the clasps on his robe before looking up at him with the most convincing puppy eyes. Too bad Flux’s a veteran fast food employee, his emotions are dead as long as he wears his uniform. “Flux… do you really not remember me?”
“No, this is the first time we met.”
“You must remember– c’mon. Guess my name.”
“Um–” Flux’s eyes dart to the first thing he saw on the menu. “–Sarsaparilla?”
Instead of the usual ‘are you kidding me’ expression, the man looks genuinely shocked. Is this man for real? Whose parents name their child off a soft drink? Not that he can call the kettle black, Fluixon’s own name is just a misspelling of the time derivative concept in calculus.
“...Oh my god.” Indeed, now the man’s eyes are honest to god watering. He covers the lower half of his face with his hand. “Flux, what happened to you? After–After I killed you?”
Fluixon counts to three before letting go of his poker face. He gestures for the man to come closer to whisper. “This isn’t the time and place, lower your voice. I’ll tell you everything.”
For someone who’s most likely a criminal or a stalker, the man does not think twice to lean into Flux, like he trusts Fluixon to never do him any harm.
“...You’ve missed me, haven’t you?” Fluixon starts, staring into the quivering golden eyes. The man looks at Flux like Flux hung his moon. “I’m sorry, it must’ve been hard after you… killed me.”
The man looks so vulnerable up close. His handsome face is wasted when it's this close to bawling. Poor him.
“So thank you. Thank you for finding me once more.” Fluixon continues, putting on a soft smile.
“Flux…” The man is crying now, shoulders shaking, face red. “I-I– mourned, you, while the world celebrated your death.”
“Even when I betrayed you?”
“I–of course! You said it yourself, didn’t you? You’re still–” The man sobs. “–you’re still my friend! Ugh–huu–”
It’s 22:15. There’s a grown ass man sobbing in front of the cashier of a Bendy’s. There’s a cosplayer openly breaking down as he tries to wipe the tears and snot on his face. It’s 22:15. There's blue, white, and red lights coming from a distance, seen through the glass door.
“Flux–” The man calls like he’s afraid Flux will disappear again.”–I’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too.” Flux says, stepping back and raising one of his arms for a hug.
The moment the man smiles–an honest to god genuine smile, with charming dimples and boyish look, Fluixon raises his other arm with the taser he’s been holding onto. He presses the trigger to shoot at the man’s chest.
“Urgh!”
The body collapses on the ground. It’s 22:16.
“Good evening, officers.” Flux says as two familiar men come in, not even weirded out by the spasming cosplayer on the ground.
“Evening, troublemaker. You're not hurt this time, are ya?”
“Thankfully, no. This man came in at 22:05, knew my full name, and falsely claimed to know me. I know y’all don’t take stalker cases seriously but at least let me write a cease and desist this time.”
The two officers look at each other. “Well, that makes it the fourth this month.”
If Flux believes in a higher power, he might have connected the dots about the strange people recognizing him. They called him a traitor, an architect, or some variant of war criminal, usually followed by an assault attempt. Now another one has called him a friend, with additional information that this ‘friend’ killed him after his betrayal.
But Flux is just a Bendy’s worker. He has college applications and family matters to worry with instead of believing in a higher power. Higher power doesn't pay his rent or his Jansilas fanmerch afterall.
“F-Flux… No, don’t leave me… not again…”
The cosplayer gasps out as he is cuffed and carried by the two policemen out the door. He looks even more disheveled, truly the representative of a freshly-electrocuted sopping wet racoon.
Fluixon gives him a little wave. “Goodbye, Mister Sarsaparilla.”