(Y’know Ribbicks aren’t TV World natives? I spoke to a Shuttah and it told me they’re holdovers from the previous Dark World, before Tenna came ‘round and built the studio. I’ll have to corner one and see if any of ‘em have ever seen Mike.)

“We didn’t mean anything wrong,” pouted one Ribbick. “We just wanted to clean you up! You’re getting dusty these days, Mr Tenna.”

Its partner chimed, “A CRT needs to be squeaky-clean. (Sukkiri.)”

That’d be all well and good, if they hadn’t gone about it by lunging at the man and scaring the scanlines out of him. He’d jumped half a foot in the air—and with his size, come dangerously close to scraping the ceiling—and Mike had caught the assailants with their lasso before they could scramble any closer. Hard to do, what with how small they were, but hey: they weren’t the best cowboy ‘round for nothing.

(You’re the only cowboy around, now that that show’s cancelled! Don’t let it get to your head.

Don’t listen to him! He’s just jealous he can’t lasso like you.

In what world would I be jealous of that!?)

Mike could practically hear Tenna bristling. “I’m perfectly clean!” He straightened out his necktie. “Mike does my dry cleaning, my eyedrops, books my spa treatments...I’ve never looked spiffier! Don’t I, Mike?”

“Just dashin’.” ...There weren’t any spas in TV World. Where was he getting his spa treats?

“See!?” Tenna huffed and waved a hand, dismissing the pair. “Mike, make sure those two don’t cause any more trouble, we’ve got some real special guests coming in for today’s shoot!”

There was a new cartoon coming to one of the channels. Tenna had high hopes that it would recapture the kids’ attention, give them a reason to sit in front of the TV after dinner.

Off he went, striding down the hall.

“All right,” said Mike, rolling their shoulders. They crouched down and set to untying them. “You heard ‘im. Let’s get movin’.”

“No,” wailed the one on the left. Lefty, they decided. The one on the right, William, sighed in disappointment. “Well, maybe we can clean the cells...?”

Tenna’s footsteps got fainter. Mike pretended they were fussing over the rope for as long as it took for them to fade completely. “Hey,” said William. “Do you want a cleaning?”

“I’m good.” Mike pulled the rope away at last and straightened up. “You two’re free to go.”

“...To the cages?” guessed Lefty. “You’re trusting us to just bring ourselves there? (Sukkiri.)”

“Nah.” They finished rolling up their lasso and sent it back to Mike’s room. “Mr Tenna just said to make sure yous don’t cause anymore trouble, yeah? So don’t cause none, and we won’t have a problem.”

“Really!?” Lefty jumped up, bringing William along with it. “You’re the best, Mike!”

“Aw, shucks,” Mike said. They turned their head away, bashful. “No need for that, I's was just...”

When they looked back, the two were already gone: a pristine, clean trail marking their departure. “...Ah.”

“Gettin’ there,” said Jongler. “’M sorry, Plues. I know you and Batts were s’posed to be hanging out today.” Mornings with Jongler playing Mike meant Battat sniffing around for Mike Clues™ while Pluey followed, bothering him at every step.

She shrugged. “It’s all right,” she signed. “We wouldn’t have fun if we knew you were upset.”

“Guess that’s fair,” they conceded. “Still. Don’t feel too good, dat you ‘n Batts gotta reschedule on my behalf.” Well, actually, maybe Batts appreciated the extra time he had to ply Tenna for information.

“You would for us.”

“I’ll cover for one of yous tomorrow, then. You and Batts are on for Tuesdays, yeah? I oughta be good to take his evening shift. ‘s only fair.”

She didn’t have her cat head on, but Jongler knew if she did she’d narrow her eyes at them. She shook her head emphatically. “No way, buster! You and me,” she said, signing faster as an idea occurred to her, “You and me are going out tomorrow instead! While Battat is Mike!”

“Uh, Plues—”

“No!” She stood up and dragged them with her. “We’ll do whatever you like! Teleport wherever! Go out and be cowboys!” She summoned her gun, grinning wildly. Okay, Jongler could tell that one was as much for her as it was for them. Still, they were amused. “It’ll be a day just for you. Jongler’s day!”

“Juesday,” said Jongler, at the same time. Then, “Oh, uh—”

Pluey was waving her hands, contemplating. She signed, “Tuesday,” then fingerspelled JUESDAY, then something else Jongler couldn’t identify.

“...Sorry, what was dat, Plues?”

She shook her head, dissatisfied, and signed something similar: she moved her hand in a circle, with her pinky out as her wrist rotated. Oh!

“Is dat Juesday?” They asked. That circle motion was part of how most days were signed, and the letter J was signed by forming a fist with your pinky out, then arcing it so it shapes the letter in the air.

She nodded, brightening. “You got it!” She signed it again. “Juesday! That’s your day.”

“Aw, Plues,” they said, charmed. “Dat’s sweet of yous.” Normally, Pluey swapped to LSF in order to sign their names: holding a finger and punching it for battre, miming juggling for jongler. This was the first time she’d modified a sign for one of them. Some part of Jongler couldn’t help but feel special for it.

“Tomorrow is Juesday, no getting out of it,” she said. “I’m sure Battat will agree.”

“If he didn’t, you’d just make ‘im,” said Jongler dryly.

“That’s way too much work! And what if they talk anyway, huh!? Then they’ll get to say oh, you’ll never believe what Mike did!”

Well, talking isn’t working. At least she could tell Zapper she tried. Shadowguy lunged for Mike’s head.

Mike shrieked and jumped away. “What the hell are you doing!?”

“Mike,” he signed. “Take the head off, it’s making you say things.”

“This is exactly the sort of shit I’d say outta costume!” Just to prove it, he took the head off. “Fine! Don’t give me your gun! I’ll just...come up with something else!”

Yikes. “Let’s wait for Zapper to come back,” she suggested. “Maybe they can, uh, put those two in jail...?”

“YOU WANNA PUT A COUPLEA PIPPINSES IN JAIL JUST FOR POKING AROUND!?”

She gaped at him. “You want to kill them!”

He sputtered. "It—that's different!"

“Yeah? How?”

The door opened. Mike cursed and picked up the nearest thing to throw: a curling iron. (For the eight strands of hair he had. Yes, she counted, and yes, every day she woke up and looked at Mike and had to try not to laugh.)

“Hey, boss, bossette,” said Zapper, poking their head into the room. “What’s with all da racket?”

“He wants to kill people!” Shadowguy signed, and pointed accusingly at Mike. “With my gun!” She summoned it just to clutch it protectively.

“I’m trying,” he grit out, “To make sure my cover doesn’t get blown!” He waved the curling iron like it was a legitimate threat. “And I already said I wasn’t gonna use your gun, fur-for-brains!”

“...Well, whatever it is youse doin’, try to keep it down,” said Zapper. “I just passed a couple pippinses. Deys was gigglin’ about Mike bein’ a player, havin’ one of ‘em in his room one day, a shadowguy the next.”

Shadowguy couldn’t help it; she burst into laughter.

Mike stared at them. “Zapper,” he said. His face was frozen in an incensed grin. “Teleport me to where you saw ‘em last, wouldja?”

Zapper eyed the way Mike was wielding his iron and said, “Uh, I don’t think I’s can do that, boss.”

“What do I keep you two around for,” he seethed.

Well, he didn’t. Zapper had it in their head to mind him and make sure he wasn’t going overboard, not that they were very effective. Shadowguy just liked to bother him. Speaking of: she waltzed over and draped herself over him.

He sputtered and pushed her off. “What’s your problem now!?”

“WOE IS ME,” she lamented, staggering dramatically and sinking to her knees. “That my heart belongs to such a cruel, careless man!” She held a hand to her forehead and pretended to faint.

“Oh, nos,” Zapper said, and moved into the room to set their hand on her shoulder. They looked up at Mike. “Boss, how could ya do this to her?”

Mike threw his hands up. “I’m done. I’m done! I—am—out!” He turned to leave. Of course, the curling iron had gone up too, and gravity is a real and beautiful thing that exists, and Shadowguy looked on with unfettered glee as it dropped back down, right onto his head.

Thud! Mike was flat on the ground.

Zapper stood up in real concern. “Boss? Hey! Boss!”

Sure it was!! Jongler couldn’t go five minutes without complaining about Battat’s necktie. It was de rigeur for them to reach out and adjust his necktie even minutely. Rich of them; they constantly forewent the ‘spiffy!’ ascot Tenna insisted the zappers wear and went around sporting a bandanna instead. Like some sort of delinquent! Who did they think they were!?

...Well, Mike always let it slide. So it wasn’t too big a deal. What he wouldn’t pardon, however...

“Yours could use a little fixing, too,” he said flatly. “Not sure wearing it like that’s dress code compliant.”

She had it tied around her forehead. “Aww, Battsy, don’t be like that,” she said, and leaned in, grinning. “You wanna tie it up nice and proper for me?”

He yanked it off their head, sending it into a slow spin. They giggled. “Hey,” they said once it stopped. “Hey. Wanna bet on somethin’?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, you do. I bet,” they continued, heedless of his groan, “Hmm. I bet that...you won’t last two more glasses of that before falling flat on your face.”

“HA!” Easy win! Battat felt nothing. Jongler must have given him something non-alcoholic. He made sure she could get a nice view of his sneer. “You’re on. Ramb! Another two glasses of this, please and thank you!”

“Ooh. Please? Thank you? Wow, Battsy,” marveled Pippins. “Didn’t know you had it in you. Guess that zapper of yours is teaching you some manners.”

“Keep your mouth shut.”

“There he is! Our little charmer.”

The bartender himself popped up from who knows where before Battat could lunge at them. He eyed Battat’s glass of neon slurry. “Are you sure about that, mate? Two glasses?”

“I’m sure.” He shot a glance at Pippins and straightened up. “Make that three, actually!”

“And these are for you,” said Ramb slowly. “Not for your partner over there?” He jerked his chin in the general area where Jongler was; they were easy to pinpoint, being taller than the rest of their cohort.

Pippins laughed.

Thanks a lot, Ramb. Battat sighed. He stalwartly ignored the flush creeping up the back of his neck at the thought. They were coworkers. Coworkers! “...Not for them, no.”

“...Well, suit yourself,” said Ramb. “Customer’s always right, yeah?”

Battat could practically hear Tenna’s voice in his ear. Mike, this is vermilion, not crimson! “Make that four.”

Ramb’s brows raised. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “If you’re sure.”

“Oh, Battsy,” Pippins said as Ramb brought up the bottle, voice one of wonder. Battat began to think he had made a mistake. “You’re going to die.”

🍸

He was going to die.

“I feel perfectly fine,” he said. Not slurring, thankyouverymuch! He was not letting some sort of cursed drink lay him low, no sir! He’d been Motormouth Mike in sickness and in health! On the heels of three all-nighters! In the throes of a vicious cold! A little drinking had nothing on him, nothing! “Heh. You ready to eat your words?”

“You still got three glasses left, Battsy,” they said sweetly. They picked one up and waggled it in front of his face. “Bottoms up!”

Boy, was it getting hot in here or what?

So! All right. He’d concede (not aloud, of course) that maybe he’d miscalculated and the drinks, even if not alcoholic, weren’t meant for non-tech darkners. Battat could swear every cell in his body was buzzing. A frightening ringing had begun in his ears sometime around halfway through his second glass.

Like hell he’d quit, though. He looked Pippins dead in the sunglasses and took the drink just as a loud sound cut through the din: the zapper at the head of the pack had clapped his hands. Battat and Pippins looked over as the rest saluted and began to disperse.

“Looks like your pal’s free,” observed Pippins. She smirked, eyebrows waggling ridiculously over her shades. “Lucky you! I’ll leave you two alone, huh?”

“I keep tellin’ you,” said Battat, exasperated. “They’re my—Jongler,” he called, catching them looking around in confusion. He waved and his arm lagged. Yikes. “Jongler! Hey!” He waited at the same place every time! Mostly! All right, maybe only sometimes. Like that one time, or the other one, which were definitely occasions that were real and had happened. Whatever! “Over here, bozo!”

Whether Jongler had found him or not, Battat didn’t see; instead he turned in faint concern as Pippins snorted and began violently coughing. “What the hell’s gotten into you? Do you need me to do the Heimlich? Hang on.”

“No,” she choked out. Still, she managed to laugh in his face. “Oh my god, Battsy, don’t you dare! You sucked during that first-aid workshop!”

“EXCUSE ME?”

“You’re gonna kill me!”

“Fine!” He threw his hands up, face burning. “Hack yourself to death, see if I care!”

“Always so dramatic!” They wiped the tears from their eyes with a dramatic flourish. “Oh, man, we have got to hang out more.”

“Agree to disagree. You gonna start wheezing again?”

“Nooo,” they said. “Aw, Battsy, scout’s honor.”

“You scammed the Rudinn Rangers so badly I’m positive they have your face on a wanted poster even now.”

“Pippins’ honor,” she insisted, as though any such thing existed. “Look, I’m not gonna laugh at you anymore.”

“Wasn’t even anything to laugh at,” he muttered, and took another sip from the glass just out of principle. He could swear he smelled sparks.

“But you’re so funny,” they cooed. They leaned their face into their hand with an exaggerated moue. “One moment you’re callin’ the guy your Jongler, next breath you’re callin’ them bozo.”

“My WHAT?” He sputtered. “When’d I say that!?”

She tried leering at him, but she was grinning too wide; it was clear the only reason she wasn’t cackling was because she wanted to heckle him. “So used to callin’ ‘em your Jongler you didn’t even clock it? How sweet!”

He barely had time to react before a shadow fell over them. “Ey, Boss,” came Jongler’s voice. Their hand found his shoulder and squeezed gently. “What’d I miss?”

“NOTHING,” he barked, half in frantic fright. He covered it up with a glower as he faced them. There was no way they heard any of that, right? “Nothing! What took you so long!?”

“Well HELLO,” said Pippins. They lunged for Jongler’s hand and shook it vigorously. “It’s so nice to meet you! So you’re Battsy’s J—”

“JONGLER,” blurted Battat. Ugh. Yeah, okay, he heard that one. “WHAT is this drink you gave me!?”

“Oh, dat?” Jongler paused. “I’unno.”

That took the wind right out of Battat’s sails. He stared at them. “What?”

“I dunno,” said Jongler. “Hey, uh, Ramb!” The bartender was too busy being accosted by another pippins. They shrugged. “I jus’ asked Ramb what was good wit’ da other zappers these days. Aw, boss, did you gets me some more?”

Speechless. He was speechless. He let Jongler take the glass right out his hand.

Pippins made direct eye contact with him. “Say,” she said. Unfortunately, Jongler was between them now, so Battat couldn’t stop her. “Ain’t it nice of Battsy to buy you all those drinks?”

“Sure is,” said Jongler. “Thanks, boss! Oh, hang on, I think youse got a little somethin’ on your face.” They swiped their thumb across his brow and frowned. “Aw, it’s still there...”

Battat moved away before they could try it again. “It’s fine! It’s fine, I’ll just clean up in...I’ll just clean up later.” Gah, he’d almost said our room. That was it, Battat decided, he had to cut this short before Jongler could do even more damage to his reputation. Being clucked at and fussed over by a zapper... “All right, pack it up, pal! Time to head out.”

"Aww." Pippins pouted. “Leaving so soon?”

“Mike’s got us working on something tonight,” said Battat, which wasn’t even a lie, not really. “Okay nice talk good to see ya so SEEYA!” He was dragging Jongler off before he even finished.

“BYE-BYE, BATTSY,” they hollered after him. “BRING YOUR PARTNER OVER NEXT POKER NIGHT!”

Battat entertained a brief yet vivid daydream where her sunglasses came alive and knocked her head off her shoulders, tumbling across TV World forever and ever.

He hustled them out the door.

“Battsy?” Jongler asked, amused. He got the impression that if they could raise a brow, they would have.

“Don’t get any bright ideas,” he grumbled.

“I wasn’t, don’t worry,” they said. “After all, I’s already gots somethin’ to call ya, don’t I?”

“Oh?” That was news to Battat. “What’s that, then?”

“M’ pardner,” they said, their drawl in full force as they hugged Battat to their side.

GOD. “Don’t listen to her,” said Battat, face aflame yet again. “She’s just messin’ around.”

“I likes the sound of it, though,” said Jongler. “You and me’re partners in crime, sorta, ain’t we?”

“I guess so.” He glared at them. “Don’t you go spreading that around!”

“Yep,” said Jongler, popping the p. “Don’t worry, boss. And hey, I don’t minds you callin’ me your Jongler. Heh.”

I’M KILLING THEM, thought Battat. I’M KILLING THEM WITH MY BARE HANDS. He went to threaten them accordingly and pronounced it as, “Hrgrhuh.”

Jongler’s flush brightened to faint visibility. Battat's steps faltered. Well, fine, whatever. He’d let them have this one. Just once! He'd...

Oh.

"Jongler," he said. He stopped walking entirely.

They looked at him, puzzled. "Yeah, boss?"

Hands shaking, he took hold of their bandanna. He stood on his toes to get closer to their face.

"...Boss?"

"This is all your fault," he told them, and keeled over.

"BOSS!?" They grabbed him under the arms just before his face met the gross, gross carpeted floor. "Hey, boss, what's gotten into you!?"

Jongler shrugged, then sat up on the couch and did it again so Battat could see them. “Pluey hates those now. Says it don't feel right after findin’ out what Tenna's puttin’ in 'em.” They tapped at their notepad as they spoke, preemptively crossing out petnames they were sure Battat would chew their LED off for even thinking of.

“Well, that’s the point, they’re inedible otherwise! The topping’s the only real draw. And that’s all we’re gonna say about that!” Battat spun around and pointed warningly at Jongler, who held their arms up in acquiescence out of habit more than anything. They’d learned their lesson after the last time they’d had something less than nice to say about Tenna’s cooking.

(To Tenna’s face, as Mike, at that. Wasn’t a good day for constructive criticism, turned out. The endless cooking show reruns after had been miserable. Battat’s endless seething hardly held a candle. All that heat in their Mike costume...constant taste-testing at Tenna’s behest...Jongler shuddered to think about it even now.)

“Speaking of Pluey, where is she? He'd be more excited about this than I am.”

“Took her Mike shift early,” said Jongler. “Plus, wes already hashed out what I gets to call it. Mon amour?”

Battat fumbled his yarn. “Not within this lifetime, pal!”

“But Batts,” Jongler said, turning over on the couch to look at him head-on, “Ain’t yous my love?”

They dodged the ball of yarn Battat threw at them. Yep. They’d figured it was promising, and they were right; this was the most extreme reaction they’d gotten out of him yet. His scowl did nothing to undercut the flush on his face. "All right, that's it," he garbled out. "I'm callin' a moratorium on the petnames business!"

"Veto."

He sputtered. "THIS ISN'T A VOTE! Mum on the sweetums, sugarplums, and handsomes!"

Oh? "Is ain't tried callin' you handsome yet," said Jongler. "'Zat what you'd like?"

"NO," howled Battat, and pulled one of the pins from the board to point at Jongler. Heh. Got ‘im. "Zip it on the sweet talk, rubberhead!"

"How coulds I, when you calls me such sweet names," drawled Jongler. "'m only tryin' to return the favor, Batts." They didn't actually mind it overmuch; Battat was far more bark than bite when he wasn't Mike. It had grated on them when they were first getting used to him, sure, but over time...

They got up and made their way over to him, taking his sword-hand in theirs gentle but firm. They lowered it, leaning in. "So,” they said, watching his eyes go wide. They raised their other arm up to cage him against the board. “How's about it, handsome?"

He sputtered. His hand jerked, dropping the pin to the ground. I’s gonna hafta make sure he don’t step on it later, Jongler thought. They could practically see the gears turn in his head as he overheated. Poor guy was scrambling for a response.

Then Battat smirked. A little strained at the edges, sure, but Jongler could tell when he was trying to save face. He leaned into their space in turn, shifting his hand over in theirs until he was cradling it. He lifted it up to his mouth and pressed a kiss on it. “If my Jongler wants,” he said, eyes flicking up to look at them, “How could I refuse?”

“WHOA NOW,” blurted Jongler. Their LED flared. They were sure their blush was visible. “HEY THERE. HEY NOW, BOSS.”

Battat dropped their hand like it was scalding. “WHAT,” he said. “WHAT?”

Leave it to Battat to make a competition out of nothing and win anyway. “Well,” they said. Gosh! “If yous wanna calls me your Jongler then, uh, yous can go right ahead!”

His jaw dropped in unabashed horror. His voice squeezed out his body: “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYING?”

Jongler put their hand to their face, bashful. “Aw, boss,” they said. “I didn’t know you had it in youse!”

“Had what,” fumed Battat, flush back in full force now. “Out! Get out!" He'd moved forward to usher them out the door when he stopped. He went pale. "Jongler," he said. "Get the medkit."