[ti]private[/ti][002] Test the Waters

Saint is rendered speechless as his roommate comes strolling up to him, flinching when the man snatches the box out of his hands. Despite the dread that flashes clear on his face, the Professor sends them off on their journey.

Again, Saint is struck dumb by his argent's machinations. He’s lost in his own thoughts as they both walk out together, wondering why this is happening, wondering what divine being he had enraged to lead up to this—and then he hears the box being shook.

“I don’t—Finn that’s none of our business, stop shaking it!” Did he just hear a squeak? Is the content of the package alive?

But the man only laughs in his face, in the same manner he does whenever Saint tells him to pick up his shit or to stop pestering him in the middle of his studies. The mention of his prior offenses causes heat to burn painfully over his cheeks, his lip trembling as he says: “How is it breaking and entering if we already live together? And I paid you back for what I took.”

He sneers and moves to swipe the box out of Argent’s hands. “Now give me that!”

It’s a beautiful day outside. Or at least, beautiful by Route 3’s definition. The sky hasn’t drenched them yet, and the path is clear, easy as a tutorial—if they’d just stop squabbling.

For a second, a nightmare flashes before his eyes: Finn in uniform, standing at a podium, the scales of justice at his back. With a slip of his venomous tongue, the entire room kowtows, the world bending to his whims. Angelo is well-aware the man is the spoiled, rich son of a powerful family; it’s not often he’s reminded what the repercussions of that are.

A politician. Lawmaker. Harbinger of the end times.

“Stuff it, you gave me permission when I began doing your laundry,” is his retort, batting at argent’s outstretched arm. Tall people are pieces of shit! “And we aren’t kids. You’re in your twenties!”

But it’s futile. The precious package goes sailing across the air and cracking over a rock. Saint shoves off Argent, moving to grab it.

The wooden box cracks. Saint pauses in the middle, eyes widening as the pastel wood splits, tearing apart the Pikachu sticker on its side.

A thick black substances spills over the ground. Saint scrambles back as it reaches for his shoes. A pile of fabric emerges from the ruined box.

HI THERE, TESTERS! IT IS I, MIMIQUEUE!

IT APPEARS THERE HAS BEEN A LAPSE IN COMMUNICATION.

The fabric stirs, growing bigger, spilling more ink. Taking on the form of a giant patchwork Pikachu plushie.

THIS IS MEANT TO BE A TEAM EXERCISE, BUT MY SENSORS INDICATE A LACK OF CAMARADERIE HERE. LET US ADDRESS THIS DIRECTLY.

Giant claws emerge from under the Mimikyu, grabbing both trainers. Saint yelps, attempting to run, but the claw grabs him by his waist. He thrashes, watching as the ground gets farther from the soles of his feet.

DANGER IS THE GLUE THAT HOLDS FRIENDSHIP TOGETHER! NOW, BELOVED TESTERS – ESCAPE OR DIE.

It’s unfortunate that Saint was too busy being a human shake weight, else he might have been able to stop Finn from talking and given them a chance of survival. But the man had sealed their fates with an ‘oogie boogie’.

How sorely he wanted to tell Mimiqueue – there is no friendship here. No escape. Only die.

Everything turned black. Saint held his breath on instinct, screams dying in his throat until the color behind his eyes shifted to something brighter, and the ground turned into something surprisingly cushiony.

“Oof!” He bounced on the dusty bed, coughing at the clouds that puff up as he re-centered himself. He blinked a few times and took in the bedroom, and came to a very simple conclusion:

“This isn’t– they wouldn’t try to design a SAW scenario in a Pokémon game.” He was not saying this in hopes of getting a response from Finn, who was jiggling the door as if his fratboy wrists could fell locks. He was saying this to stave off a panic attack.

Okay. Okay. Well, the TV wasn’t shutting on and there was no scary mannequin threatening them with their lives, so this was likely just another puzzle. Carefully, maybe too carefully, Saint slipped off the bed, dusting himself off as he began to investigate.

The doll on the table was first. It was the only thing that stood out. His hand stopped where it began curling around its neck, and he began to gently pet it.

The doll did not respond, but it was very soft, so he took it in his hands. “… Finn, the door won’t break. Stop that.” He looked around, brows furrowing. Puzzles were… he liked them enough, but it was hard to concentrate when there was another participant. “Have you ever done an escape room?”

“Of course,” Saint rolled his eyes. He should have known better. Unless the other room contained a lifetime supply of Budweiser and bitches, it was unlikely of Finn to have the answer.

But the man was still moving, shoving a desk and jigging the bedframe. “Finn, I don’t think that’s meant to—”

It moved.

Well, shit. Taking the little Mimikyu doll in his hands, Saint walked over to inspect. The bed had indeed moved—but not far enough. It screeched across the floor for a few feet before locking down, too far to reach the window.

The floor under the bed was littered with VHS tapes.

Saint’s face scrunched up as SAW went back on the drawing board. He knelt, sifting through the tapes. Each one was labelled, though there didn’t appear to be a pattern.

“Should we play this?” Saint said, staring at a tape labelled MICHAEL.

The little antenna TV did appear to have a VCR, but no clear sign of where it plugged into a power source.

Saint didn’t say anything, only watched with a mild look on his face as Argent harrassed the TV into functioning. Technology is incredible.

“Do you ever think about the things that come out of your mouth?” Saint asked casually as Argent searched for a woman in the mysterious pile of snuff VHS tapes. He sighed, picking up the MICHAEL tape and putting it into the VCR. The tape slid inside and the screen devolved into static, gradually forming picture.

Saint took a step back in case a woman did end up on the screen, crawling out with black hair, perhaps. But what popped up was the very opposite. Little technicolor characters walked into view, their lines hazed by static but still vibrant, talking in chiptune-y voices.

“So, not porn,” Saint chuckled, not knowing whether to be creeped out or confused. Maybe both. The characters were at a party. Two of them appeared to be arguing.

“We should go home!” The one with unkept brown hair and bug-eyed glasses squeaked.

“No way, I’m having fun!” The one with shaggy white hair protested, grabbing what looked to be a barrel of sprinkles and dousing himself with it. “If you wanna go home so bad, get lost! Party pooper!”

The glasses character burst into cardboard tears. “You’ll get yourself hurt with all those sprinkles!”

A separate character was talking to the audience. “Uh oh! Seems like they’re having a fight. But know, even two very different people can be friends!” The little character cheered. “What’s important is that you set aside those differences aaaand...” The little characters all chimed in to say: “T-A-L-K! TALK!”

Saint pinched the bridge of his nose. What had started off cute had quickly devolved into annoying and—uncomfortable. The show continued, the party cheering the white character on as the floor became covered in sprinkles.

“Maybe we should pretend to get along. I don’t think this thing is letting us go unless we try.”

Saint had anticipated about a hundred different insults when he gave his suggestion.

None of them were that.

He blinked owlishly at argent, before flicking his eyes to the TV screen showing their Sesame Street versions experiencing Skittles Grain Entrapment, and to the little Mimikyu doll he was still holding.

It would’ve been easier to swallow if he’d just been called an idiot or something. As much as he hated to admit it, argent was right—despite sharing a room for how many months by now, they didn’t talk. They argued and pestered and cajoled, but they didn’t know anything about each other. It was a fact Angelo was happy to bury, as easily as he did burying himself in his room and his books, until it got thrown in his face.

After a brief face journey, Saint’s shoulders slumped. He moved from the TV and sat in font of argent and the pile of weird tapes, placing Mimikyu on his lap.

“Okay,” he said, already regretting this. “Twenty questions, then?”