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The busiest days come in the lead-up to holidays. Easter Toons spend nearly every waking hour working themselves ragged to appease guests. It is exhausting, but most of them enjoy it.
Nearly everyone.
At a craft table, Bassie Bloomington mechanically brushes pink paint across another wooden egg. She can’t help noticing children flocking toward Cocoa. For every child who approaches Bassie, five more approach Cocoa. Each one is another reminder of Delilah’s comments, ones Bassie cannot escape.
None of her schemes work. Nothing changes Delilah’s perception of her.
First, Bassie stopped asking Cocoa for help. Then she stopped walking beside her as often. Eventually, she stopped spending time with her altogether. Every additional step feels like another desperate compromise, another attempt to save face.
As the establishment closes, the Easter Toons gather around a park bench on their designated loor. Flyte is on a mission to fill his scrapbook so that, when he inevitably returns to the basement, he will have plenty of material to reminisce about. Eggson sits beside him, helping sort through the assortment.
On the other side of the picnic table, Cocoa and Bassie sit with a basket of eggs between them. Bassie insists on making more eggs for the children to hunt, though Cocoa ends up with more finished eggs. Bassie keeps a mental tally, sticking to it for long enough for Cocoa’s tallies to become the sole focus. Her gaze follows Cocoa’s delicate yet persistent brushstrokes. Every element on the egg seems precise. The color choices are better. The patterns are cleaner. Even the complicated movements required to create them look effortless. Nothing Bassie makes looks half as good.
“Do you need a color?”
The question strikes like a cold slap. Bassie’s eyes flicker around before settling on the chocolate bunny. She does not process the words quickly enough and hopes Cocoa will repeat herself. Thankfully, she does. Bassie promptly declines. Her thoughts begin to drift into a daydream, but Cocoa pulls her back.
“Do you want to know how to do the design?”
Bassie eyes her up and down, suspicious of the question. She knows Cocoa is outperforming her. There is no way Cocoa doesn’t know it. The realization becomes near undeniable when Bassie finally compares their eggs properly. The difference feels like a spike prodding the inside of her gut.
“Why?” Bassie asks.
Cocoa glances at her own egg, then at Bassie’s. Her fingers fiddle with her ears as her lips press into a thin line.
“Just asking.”
“Well, why?”
“Nothing. I just want to help. I’m sorry if it came off wrong.”
Bassie gives her a hard stare. Cocoa whimpers something beneath her breath before scooting farther along the bench. She places her egg among the pile.
Bassie takes one slow breath, then another. She scratches her head and listens to the petals in her basket head rustle together.
Bassie rises and begins tidying the table. After collecting the brushes, she drops them into a bowl of water. Paint slowly dissolves into a small pond of faded colors. Purples and pinks that once clung to the bristles, colors intended to create something beautiful enough to draw children's eyes, bleed into the murky brown history of every other discarded shade. The water gradually loses its translucence. Pastel swirls mingle together, briefly retaining an almost elegant reflection before everything compiles into a lighter-than-dark brown. Black appears in scattered splotches. Soon, the muddy water becomes too opaque to reflect anything, Bassie’s splitting image gone. Bassie regathers the brushes and returns them to a glass jar before taking the dirty bowl. Cocoa picks up the jar of paintbrushes and carries the basket of painted eggs.
They say goodbye to Flyte and Eggson before heading toward the elevator waiting inside its beautifully decorated frame. Whenever Cocoa tries to walk beside her, Bassie instinctively creates distance.
Again.
And again.
Eventually, Cocoa gets the hint. The walk to the steel elevator is silent. They wait for it in silence, too.
When the doors finally open, they board and stand near the center. Each passing level does nothing to change the atmosphere. The elevator shifts at random intervals. Gears work without pause to serve another party's objective. Chains rotate endlessly to keep the machinery moving. Water pushes and shoves through the surrounding systems, constantly threatening to spill. Paintbrushes and eggs, meanwhile, cause hardly any trouble. Every visible square inch is surrounded by icy grays and rotten browns, an endless reminder of how cold this place is.
During the ascent, Bassie notices Cocoa sneaking glances at her. Bassie tries anticipating them, hoping to catch Cocoa staring first. It does not work. Whenever Bassie thinks she has caught Cocoa, the roles reverse. Cocoa catches her instead, only to receive a meek response when she questions it. The strange tug-of-war continues. One catches the other. One looks away. Then the roles reverse.
Bassie needs it to stop. The longer it continues, the more restless she becomes. Her agitation causes the water nearby to spiral faster.
“What is it?” Her words sound more like a statement than a question. “Don’t give me an excuse. I don’t want to keep doing this.”
Cocoa’s ears droop. “Did something happen?” she asks, scrunching her nose.
“No? I don’t think so.”
Cocoa shifts harshly from one foot to the other, almost like the startup to hopping but never fully committing. Bassie normally lets something like this go. But an urge to keep pressing rises inside her. Problem-solving is necessary. If Cocoa, or any of the other toons, has noticed something, then it must be bad.
“I’m sorry if I did something,” Cocoa says.
“You didn’t do anything,” Venom slips into Bassie’s words.
“We don’t talk anymore,” Cocoa says. “And you space out a lot. You avoid me too? Maybe? It might just be me, but, y’know…”
“Tired.”
A gap stretches between them. Neither speaks. They stare at each other, each apparently waiting for the other to say something. How familiar.
“Well, Astro can—”
“I know.”
“…Right.”
Their conversation has so many holes it may as well be Swiss cheese. Bassie regrets bringing it up. The awkward stretches of silence, circling a problem neither of them can properly address, are worse than not speaking at all.
“The kids are noticing it,” Cocoa says.
The kids…?
Ding.
The chains prevent the gears from moving any farther. A few sparks shoot out, accomplishing nothing as the gear fails to push back and submits. The elevator gives a small jolt before settling. A tiny melody announces that the doors are about to open. The enormous steel doors retract upward, exposing the floor beyond. Caution lines divide the two sides.
Cocoa gazes expectantly at Bassie. Bassie refuses to look at her for long. Bassie walks in one direction, concentrating on keeping the contaminated water from spilling.
The final words replay in her mind. The sentence sends shivers through her and burrows deep into her thoughts. It will be something to obsess over tonight, not now.
Her destination, the kitchen, is occupied by Sprout Seedly and Cosmo. The two are having a wonderful time together, giggling as though nothing else matters. Sprout decorates sugar cookies while Cosmo bakes another batch. Flour coats both of them, smearing their aprons and any unfortunate clothing with dirty white streaks. Cosmo accidentally gets frosting on Sprout’s cheek.
“Sprout, I’m so sorry.” Cosmo can’t finish the sentence without laughing.
“You did that on purpose, you rat!” Sprout playfully accuses before giving chase.
“Nuh-uh! Stop!” Every time Sprout tries to grab him, Cosmo dodges.
If Sprout had not noticed Bassie standing in the corner, they would probably continue. He abruptly stops his antics and signals for Cosmo to do the same. Sprout looks utterly perplexed by her presence. Bassie gives a slow wave without taking her glare off Sprout. Hopefully, the distance hides what her eyes are doing. Sprout is about to wave back when Cosmo interrupts him with a complete wave of his own.
“You can set the bowl in the sink. I’ll clean it later,” Cosmo says.
Bassie approaches the sink, carefully skirting the edge of the kitchen. A few unwashed dishes already sit inside. She tilts the bowl. Dirty water splashes across the hard surface. Some land on nearby objects. Other droplets cling to the sides before slowly running downward. Eventually, all of it will reach the drain. Most already have. A few stubborn drops survive.
“Oh, actually,” Cosmo turns to Sprout. “I remember what’s missing. I have to get caramel.”
Cosmo gives Sprout a hearty hug before leaving. Neither seems particularly concerned about physical contact. They are both already filthy. They have probably hugged each other so many times that it comes naturally. Their arms pull their bodies together as though trying to occupy the smallest possible space. Fingers curl into folds of clothing simply because they can.
Cosmo exits the kitchen after an exchange Bassie considers completely pointless. For several moments, Sprout stands there like a lost child in a mall. He removes his baking gloves, turns toward the sink, and clears his throat. Then he notices Bassie watching him. Bassie startles at the eye contact. She has been staring for so long that she forgets she is actually standing in the room. For a moment, she feels more like a strange camera observing a scene. Her body may as well have vanished during the exchange.
“I don’t know this kitchen as well as Cosmo,” Sprout says, “but I can still try if you need help.” It makes sense that he would ask. That is probably the best false reason for Bassie to still be here. The real reason will not work.
Bassie adjusts her clothing and rearranges the flowers in her basket head. She moves closer to make herself appear more approachable, puts on a customer-service smile, and dusts off her charming tone.
“Oh, thank you. I was worried since Cosmo left, I would have to be put on hold.” She looks around for an excuse.
“I thought it would be cool to have Easter-themed cookies for sale. You seem to already be making some, so I wondered if…” She leaves the sentence open for Sprout to piece together, helps sell the point more.
She’s not being manipulative. She is not. What is happening is not a problem worth bringing up. It is a problem specifically for Bassie to deal with. Delilah brought it with her. Not anyone else.
Sprout takes the bait. “Right, right. I can spare you some. Cosmo and I weren’t doing much with them besides eating them together.”
Bassie suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. There is always something with that chocolate Swiss roll. Does he ever spend his free time without Cosmo? Why does no one question it? Surely everyone notices. Especially Delilah. Delilah’s attention to detail cannot possibly have missed something this obvious. And if she has noticed and still allows it to continue, the implication is not good for Bassie.
Sprout begins preparing the cookies. He searches through the cabinets and sets out a tray covered in plastic wrap. His baking gloves go back on. He removes another tray and skillfully tilts it, transferring its contents. Then he replaces the pan in the oven with the remaining cookie dough.
Sprout offers Bassie one of the cookies as a taste test. She walks over, blows on it, wraps it in a paper towel, and bites off the edge. The quality being good isn’t a surprise. Sprout’s a baker. He’s best friends with one. He’s just doing his role like he’s supposed to. Bassie thanks him and assures him she will use the batch. Whether she actually follows through depends on how far this excuse needs to go. She watches Sprout move toward the sink, apparently intending to occupy himself with dishes.
“You are good friends,” Bassie says randomly.
Sprout looks startled by the sudden comment. He may not expect her to continue talking when a conversation is already happening.
“Me and Cosmo? Well, yeah, definitely. We’ve been best friends for a long time.”
Bassie creaks a smile on her face. “Good for you.”
Bassie takes another cookie and slides it between her teeth, snapping off a piece.
“Spend a lot of time together?” she asks.
He nods.
“How much?”
“Uhhh… I don’t time my hangouts.”
“Rough estimate.”
“I don’t know. It depends. I hang with him out a lot, but I also have a job to do. We know being a main’s hard work.”
Something begins simmering in the back of Bassie’s mind, like a pot being prepared to boil.
The pot is already full. Ingredients float inside, unaware of what is coming. The pot sits on a stove. The match strikes. A flame catches beneath the metal and begins slowly heating the water. The heat has not reached the ingredients yet. Maybe one notices a few bubbles forming along the sides. Perhaps another sees feeble wisps of vapor curling toward the cold air above. Some might notice that floating becomes more difficult, but they dismiss it. Regardless of how they react, the ending remains the same. It has been decided long before any of them have a chance to change it.
“Did Delilah ever mention it to you?”
Sprout takes another cookie and leans against the counter.
“Mention it?”
“You and Cosmo.”
He stops chewing. His eyes drift away from hers as he works through the question. A picture of Sprout and his best friend is magnetized to the refrigerator.
“Nothing particularly noteworthy. Why? Is she saying something?”
The ingredients struggle to stay afloat. Heads bob up and down. No breath lasts long enough to matter. Bubbles rapidly burst around them like bombs landing one after another. Fog fills the air, obscuring everything.
“No, she didn’t. She didn’t say anything at all. Not a peep.” Bassie grits her teeth.
Sprout sets the cookie down on a napkin. He checks the cookies in the oven before slowly turning back. “Then why ask? Nothing happened.”
The ingredients sink to the bottom.
“Oh, wow. I’m so happy for you. Of course nothing happened to you.” Before Sprout can respond, Bassie continues. “You spend every minute together, and nobody says a thing. You get to stay attached practically every second of every day.”
“Are you mad because I… like spending time with my best friend?” Sprout asks.
“Don’t be dense.”
“I’m not! I like my best friend, and I like hanging out with him. But I do other things too. I bake, I cook, I sign autographs, I entertain kids, and I do even more because I’m a main character.”
“You can do all of that with Cosmo. You do do that with Cosmo.”
Sprout finishes the cookie. He wipes the crumbs from his face with a napkin and throws it away. Then he approaches, only pausing to check the cookies in the oven.
Bassie retreats until they stand on opposite sides of the counter.
Sprout stands in front of the counter, the oven’s bright radiance projecting across his lower half. Without breaking eye contact, he turns on the sink and aims the faucet at the dirty plates. Water sprays across the stains.
“Are you okay?”
“Don’t do this. Don’t pity me like that.”
“It’s concern, not pity.”
Bassie audibly rolls her eyes. The audacity of this strawberry. He pretends to care while remaining completely oblivious to the real issue. Bassie does not know what she expects from someone already born into an advantage. It is almost comical how someone can be so blind and still take such pride in helping others.
“I can help—”
“Stop it. You wouldn’t bat an eye if I hadn’t explicitly come up to you.”
Sprout stares at her in disbelief.
Does she feel bad about saying it? Yes. She respects him enough not to want his feelings hurt.
Does she feel bad enough to back off? Somewhat.
She thanks him for making the cookies so she can leave. But Sprout wants to keep talking. He apologizes for observing her behavior, then presses the issue, insisting that he cannot be expected to know something is wrong if she never says anything. Bassie clenches her fists until her knuckles turn white.
She opens her mouth to speak.
The kitchen door opens.
Cosmo enters with a large bag of caramel crumbles tucked into the crook of his arm. He leans against the door and holds it open so Cocoa can enter behind him. She walks in as though nothing is wrong.
“Sprout, hey. I ran into Cocoa on my way back. She was returning paintbrushes to Scraps’ classroom,” Cosmo says. He sets the bag of caramel on a table and beckons Cocoa inside. Cocoa hobbles through the doorway. She waves at Bassie.
“Got the extra eggs in. Delilah liked them.” Then she notices Bassie’s curled hands, forceful breathing, and nearly frantic eyes. The sight puts an immediate damper on her mood.
Sprout plays nervously with his dangling pink-and-white striped scarf. His eyes dart between Bassie and Cosmo as though he is making a decision. He carefully backs away from Bassie. He looks like someone approaching an active bomb. Then he makes a subtle gesture toward Cosmo, apparently trying to get him to come over so they can talk privately.
Bassie notices.
Of course she notices.
He is going to tell everyone. He is going to expose everything so they can “help” her. She is not foolish. Bassie nearly storms toward him and grabs his arm, preventing another signal. The action draws everyone's attention immediately.
“No. Don’t,” Her voice is frighteningly quiet.
Sprout mumbles an excuse and tries to keep walking. It does not work. Bassie holds onto his arm. The grip is ironclad, though not strong enough to cause pain. Her eyes plead with him to stop. For a moment, Sprout seems to consider it. Then his gaze shifts toward Cosmo. A side is chosen.
He tries to pull his arm free. Bassie refuses to let him. Every time he pulls, she tightens her grip. One particularly hard tug forces her to use both hands. Sprout still manages to break free. For one moment, common sense disappears. Sprout is the only thing that exists in the world. Bassie screams without thinking and reaches for his arm again. Sprout reacts instinctively. He shoves her away as hard as he can. Bassie stumbles backward and slams into the counter. The impact reverberates through the room.
“I didn’t mean to,” Sprout stammers. Cosmo and Cocoa fall silent.
Bassie does not completely collapse. The counter anchors her. Her legs shake uncontrollably. An empty shock replaces every other emotion.
Sprout’s footsteps approach. His frantic voice follows. Whatever he says fails to register. Her entire mind is locked onto the shove. Breathing becomes difficult. Her hands cling to the counter as though she might tear it loose. Her eyes remain fixed on Sprout. Bassie sees the fear in his face. She knows her eyes must be as crimson as the flesh across his back.
The pot falls.
Bassie pushes away from the counter, arms, and lunges like a predator striking. Her entire weight knocks Sprout to the ground. Years of frustration erupt all at once. Sprout barely has time to raise his arms before the first blow lands. He winces and lowers his arms slightly to speak. Another strike cuts him off. He manages to block the next one.
“Bassie!” Cocoa cries in shock.
“Sprout!” Cosmo shouts, frightened.
“It’s not FAIR!” Bassie screams.
Hit.
“I do EVERYTHING right!”
Hit.
“I work hard!”
Hit.
“I don’t complain!”
Hit.
“And she STILL says I’m not enough!”
Sprout curls tighter, desperately trying to keep up with her attacks and protect himself. His defenses begin to falter. He is running out of breath, so reaction time is worsening. Bassie’s voice breaks into sobs.
“She says I depend on Cocoa too much!”
Another hit.
“But YOU—”
Another.
“You stay with Cosmo ALL THE TIME!”
Another.
“Nobody threatens YOU!”
Another.
“Nobody says YOU should stop being a main!”
Another.
“So WHY ME?!”
Bassie stops when something suddenly yanks her backward. Arms lock around her waist. She screams as Cosmo tightens his hold, interlocking his fingers like a knot in a rope. Bassie claws at his forearms, doing everything possible to break free. She might as well be a wild animal fighting capture. Cocoa is nowhere in sight.
“Bassie, please stop!” Cosmo cries.
“Get off of me!”
Bassie twists and spins, searching desperately for an opening. She finds one. Cosmo’s large, broad chocolate Swiss roll head throws off his balance. After enough twisting, he stumbles sideways and lands on one foot. The imbalance lasts just long enough. Bassie shoves him away. His grip breaks. Cosmo crashes onto the floor.
Bassie turns toward Sprout. She grabs both of his ankles and yanks him back beneath her. The floor screeches beneath him. She attacks again. Bassie understands her physical weakness. Her strikes are not particularly destructive. But she does not want to let him escape without understanding what his power means to people like her. Cosmo tries the same tactic again. Bassie is more aware of him this time and shakes him off quickly. Her fists rise above her head, locked together. Tears blur her vision. The world has become red. Like the blazing flesh around Sprout’s eyes, everything in her sight seems painted in shades of crimson. Sprout instinctively raises his hands to block the incoming blow.
“Bassie.” One voice locks the room in place. Nothing dares move beneath the authoritative weight of it. Sprout stares toward the doorway. Bassie does too. Gardenview’s owner stands there. Delilah Keen. Cocoa, the clear culprit, clings to one of her sleeves. Delilah’s surveillance-like eyes are partially shadowed by her bangs.
Bassie’s mind races. Hundreds of possible explanations rush forward, whether it be excused or apologizes, anything that might convince Delilah.
Nothing comes.
“Get off.”
Bassie immediately stands and steps away from Sprout. Her hands slowly unclench. Then they begin trembling. The anger melts away. Her arms hang hesitantly at her sides. Sprout crawls backward until his back hits the wall. Cosmo rushes over to him. Cocoa stands behind Delilah, staring at Bassie in terror. Frosty smears cover the tiles. Bassie’s breathing becomes so shallow that she can barely feel it. Delilah glares at her. Bassie feels as though the stare alone could make her crumble.
She can’t speak.
Nothing will work.
It’s Sprout, a main toon. She just attacked a main character.
“Look at me.”
Never in her life has obeying a command felt more difficult. She has always taken pride in obedience, in her willingness to give everything necessary to satisfy Delilah. And now all of it is going down the drain. Delilah repeats herself. Bassie hesitates, then, with immense reluctance, she follows the order.
Delilah inhales deeply, then exhales. She does not appear any less angry. When she finally speaks, there is scarcely any room to mistake the conviction in her voice. Bassie trembles at the words before they even leave Delilah’s mouth.
“We need to talk.”