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The thing is, Cashier believes, is that he’s always been angry.
He has, is, and will continue on until he fizzles into stardust—or perhaps something more fitting for the likes him, nothingness.
He was born (created, his brain spits) like this, but for now, he feels too tired for all that. Or-or maybe, maybe he only feels like he has and will and on and on. There was a time when his eyes were glazed with hope and spite, but that veil slid off quickly enough.
Cashier stares at the break timer. Had it always made that sound?
It doesn’t matter, because the front door to the store rings out. His eyes slide to the door. Some customer. Unruly hair, young. “Hi, welcome to a generic convenience store,” The words fall out his mouth too easily, yet he doesn’t recognize them, “We’re open twenty-four hours.”
The kid doesn't answer. Something horrible awakens within him.
This can't be right-is this really all there is? To serve? Surely, surely his grades are good enough, he can graduate high school and take his car and make more of himself than in this shitty town.
Surely, he repeats forever and ever, surely.
The thing is, is that he’s alone in this.
The realization struck him suddenly, staring into the eyes of that little freak, the one who caused this all in the first place. A fire had lit within the center of his organs, filling his lungs with smoke and charring the tips of his ribs. Because this was it, this is how he can be free and more and better than all this.
If he could destroy the problem at its root, then he’ll be untethered. It wasn’t even fair, to watch someone else have all the freedom and passion at a click of a button, while he watched with wanting. Hasn’t he earned this? This right to want for more? What’s so wrong about fighting for it?
In such a special state of mind, he doesn’t feel bad for hurting Kyu.
He doesn’t really feel much of anything else until he’s there on Dummy’s table. And despite Dummy standing below him, it’s clear that they look down on him. Doesn’t see him as an equal, and never will. Even so, he begs.
“—Aren’t they the ones who caused all this?” He cries, pleading for Dummy to understand, to see him. “You—you could be more than this, we could be anyone else—”
But they laugh, calling him dumber than they originally thought, and his right arm shakes and blisters. He hates it, this heavy grief that clouds his vision and numbs his heart. What more can he do than try to half-hazardly drag himself along the path the others have crossed so long ago?
In the end, he was in the wrong. The others are always right. Because he’s helpless and there’s nothing he can do than be who he always will be. He is destined to harbour this emptiness and this hurt until the day he is no more.
Kyu glares at him with malice and Dummy stares at him blankly and Orby looks at him with pity.
In the end, nothing has changed, except for his blackened fingertips that he cradles alone in the store. He’s back where he should be, always been. The air is stale and the sounds loop incessantly. Cashier knows that he was selfish, still is in a way. But—but he apologized, even if he knew what he was doing was wrong the entire time.
Dummy hangs out with him sometimes at the store now. They make conversation and jokes, but they’re far too polite and friendly for someone like him. At times Cashier feels like he has to keep up, with banter and meaningless acts of service just so Dummy will stay, still like him. It feels like he succeeded every time they come to visit.
Even though, even though.
Even though, on break, Cashier will stare at that horizon line, with the selfish thought to run away. Not to see somewhere new anymore—he gave up on that ages ago—but to simulate the circus act of disappearing, for no one to know where he is. To become a concept, more like.
He fucked up, is fucked up,
But—
Even so—
“Hey,” A voice calls. “Hey!”
Cashier’s head turns from the spot in the ground he’s been staring at for all of break. Squinting, he stares back at a figure at the corner of the block, coming towards him. Bright orange hair, similarly coloured clothing, someone mildly familiar. Still, he’s unsure whether he should say anything.
The girl stops a meter away, a hand coming up to wipe the sweat off her brow. “I know you! You—you were in my uh,” She drifts off for a moment, before, “English class last year, right?”
Oh yeah, right. “Oh yeah, right,” He replies weakly.
Halloween Herson smiles.
”Man,” She leans on a leg, hand on her hip. She’s not looking at him. Instead, her eyes trail past Cashier, into that empty store. “I didn’t know you worked here!”
“That… I do,” He clears his throat, then again.
She waves a hand. “Yeah, I used to come here all the time for candy before I left,” Halloween Herson pauses. “And then I come just in time to see it allll go haywire. Crazy shit.”
That’s right. She doesn’t know any of the fine details that went down. Almost… A fresh start. “Didn’t you move away a while back?”
“Blegh,” She sticks her tongue out. “Yeah, here is just so boring, I only swing by to visit my sibling and girlfriend. You know how it goes.”
Does he? Cashier stares at her. Stares because the feeling of jealousy has hit him so suddenly, a punch to his stomach, twisting his intestines and pulling his throat down with it.
He must be looking a bit too hard and a bit too meanly because her eyes go a little wide. She laughs politely a little, adjusts her hat. “Um… Nice to see you and all—”
“Wait—” He says forcefully, but maybe more like desperation. “How did you know…” He waves a frustrated hand around vaguely. “Like… Y’know?”
“... I do not… No,” She replies, eyes still wide, head swaying back and forth in a slow no motion.
“Like… Ugh. Leave.”
“I dunno… I just, like, did. I wanted to see more out there so I packed my bags and went,” She said simply. “My cousin did the same thing. Worked out well for him,” She eyes his car. “... Nothing stopping you either.”
But there is. There’s everything and nothing keeping him here. He wants to forget it all, but this will always be his home, his place.
So instead, he shakes his head, shoulder dropping. “I still got things to do.”
“What, like manage some dingy old store?”
He stares back at it. “Something like that.”
“Tch,” The brim of her hat shields her eyes. “Fine. I guess you need this,” She digs into her pockets, and motions for him to cup his hands together. He does obediently. She drops two pieces of candy into them, a butterscotch, a mystery flavour lollipop. “Normally I have a one-per-person rule, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
“... Thank you,” He says earnestly. She waves it away. Then waves again as a goodbye.
Cashier unwraps the lollipop and sticks it in his mouth. It’s strawberry. Cool.
The taste turns bitter pretty soon, anyways.
The thing is, is that it follows Cashier.
It lingers in his heart, feels it spasm when he sees the others. He isn't sure what, what this thing could possibly be. All he knows is that he despises it, he hates feeling sick at the sight of others. He hates feeling something impulsive and vile and sick twist up his throat and through his fingertips, so much so he has to isolate himself. Shake his fingers and whack them against the tile until they feel like nothing again.
Cashier thought he would be over it, because he should. He felt guilt and apologized to Player and cried and he and Dummy are friends now. So why does he lie limply against the wall? No, there is no weight pinning him down, rendering him immobile and crushed. His strings have simply been cut, leaving his carcass of a body behind.
On the counter beside the register, he had bought and placed a stack of Post-its with various writing utensils. “I hate you,” He says aloud to no one in particular, staring at that ugly green crayon. The candy sits heavily in his pocket.
Either way, he can't bring himself to move. If he does, Cashier thinks all this horrible energy will come flooding into something messy.
He can't lose sight like that again.
The store's bell rings. His eyes flash up in fear, fear that it's already time for Player's nightly visit. It's just Dummy.
They’re rubbing their face, glitches wavering and flashing with every pass of fingers. It’s almost like stress wrinkles, webbing under Dummy’s eyes and across their lips faintly. "God, I'm so exhausted."
They don’t look at him at first, so Cashier takes this opportunity to at least straighten up a little, pull himself up to lean against the countertop. "Yeah?" He manages out smoothly, although it doesn't feel like he's speaking at all. "That bad?"
“Mhm,” Dummy leans against the counter as well, yawning. “How’s your shift going?” They ask, but it sounds more like small talk than anything.
He hums vaguely as an answer. Dummy doesn’t seem to notice, bringing up their hand. The space in front of Cashier fills with code and colours and words and nonsense. “Look at this section here—the fracture in the code doesn’t harm anything above it, but instead causes errors in some of the lines below it.”
“Does it harm anything important?”
Dummy shakes their head. “No, it’s just a line that got unburied. It’s not exactly damaging, but it’s extremely convoluted and unnecessary in terms of elseif statements, meaning that it renders the more effective ones below it null.”
Cashier blinks slowly. “... Have you tried…” His eyebrows furrow. Be useful, be useful. “... Pushing that line further down so it doesn’t affect as many?”
“Tried that already.”
“What about editing the… Output…?”
Dummy’s face pinches. Frustration seems to be laying just below the surface. “You can’t just—just mess with the code like that."
“What about erasing it entirely?” He says.
"Cashier. I need serious answers—" They reply, almost sternly. Something horrible flares in Cashier's chest, past all the sludge and flaking lungs. He's not stupid, Dummy knows that. “It’s not just normal code, it for some reason functions similarly to how Orby did. You delete it, and poof,” Dummy does some jazz hands for effect, but it’s jerky and forceful. “All the other code stops functioning.”
“How was I supposed to know that?!”
"—can you just think of—"
He can't. "Stop! Please—just stop— I can't do this right now—"
"This is important code—" Their voice is so calm. Is it too calm? Pretentious and pretending?
Cashiers fingers twitch. He's pulling away, biting words. Dummy has always been like this, how could he be dumb enough to think that they’ve changed? "Do you really think I'm smart enough for this sort of thing?"
"What—I—christ," Dummy rubs their forehead, the other hand absent-mindedly shooing the floating code away. Look at me, look at me. "I have to fix this either way, with or without you."
"Oh I’m sorry, Admin, Of course you don't need me," He snaps, louder and harsher than he imagined. He's filled with anger anger anger, because how dare they? It's so unfair, he thinks violently. But then a flash of heat in his heart, a cold clarity whispers you, you, you, and his vice weakens. His smolder falls to an ember and his uncaringness clashes against the guilt.
He's weak, always has been.
But he promised to be better, so, “I’m sorry,” He whispers pathetically. Means it. “I don’t know why I said that.” Deep down, he hatefully know it’s no one’s fault he feels like this.
He crumples—well, he doesn’t know whether or not he’s crying or not, it doesn’t really matter—its just that his body fails him, sliding down, down, down against the wall, and all he knows is that he’s so so tired and miserable and nothing and everything.
“Cashier!” Dummy cries breathily. “Fuck, I didn’t—” Their tone blurs into something more frantic, thick, falling to their knees beside him. “You gotta tell me what’s wrong. Are—are you hurt? Or, Did I say something?” They laugh, but it’s shaky and uncertain. Their hands hover over his forearms, close but not touching. “You know—you know I’m not good at this sort of thing yet.”
Cashier can't help but let that horrible selfishness leak out for just a moment, and he closes the gap. It’s disgusting to have the top of his head thunk against Dummy’s sternum, the way his eyes fall shut as he feels their arms resting around the crown of his head, fingers resting at the base of his neck. He’s trembling, trembling violently and worse than he’s ever remembered.
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Dummy repeats over and over, hushed and desperate and confused. “You’re okay—I’m sorry—”
Cashier shakes his head against their chest, words not quite coming out yet. Then, “You did nothing wrong,” He admits softly. He hates it.
“Ca—”
“I mean it,” His voice is rough. Small. “I’m mad at you and I hate you because you’re… You’re you.”
Dummy stiffens, and it feels like they’re starting to pull away, so the words from Cashier spill faster. “You’re so good, so much better than me. I’m selfish for thinking I could keep it all. And I’m twisted and sick for feeling this way,” Disgusting. “It’ll pass in a bit. Don’t worry.”
They sit in silence for a while. Dummy doesn’t pull away, push him off, but they seem frozen to the touch. He feels sick.
Until—
”You’re good too,” They say suddenly. Oh, they sound so pained. “C’mon—what makes you say all that? We’re both here, trying to figure the same shit out.”
He pulls away a little, but still can’t bring himself to look Dummy in the eyes. The ground looks wonderful this time of year, it seems. “Back when… when nothing was right and I wasn’t thinking straight, I couldn’t help but be so mad,” He says, “I resented you afterwards. I didn’t have a right to be, and I don’t now.” It doesn’t feel good or freeing to say it aloud, to talk about his feelings to someone who definitely doesn’t care, but it feels like if Cashier doesn’t say it now it’ll fester and rot within him until he dies from it.
A cold hand cups the nape of his neck. “You resent me?”
“No,” Cashier finds himself murmuring. “Yes—I don’t know,” It’s the truth. His head is hanging. How he feels is hurting Dummy. He knows this, he can’t help it. “I thought you were just like me, felt the same things.”
“But I didn’t.”
“You didn’t. You don’t. I can’t hate you for that.”
“I don’t think we’ll ever fully understand each other. That’s okay, though, we can try.”
Cashier blinks heavily. “I’m stuck here,” Both literally and metaphorically. Stuck, stuck, stuck in this same night cycle. Reliving the constance of it. He could’ve been so much more. He could’ve gone wherever he wanted, could’ve left it all behind. “I’ll always be like this,” This is his best attempt at an apology.
“But…” Suddenly Dummy’s hands come up. They cup his face, thumbs under his jaw. Tilting his head this way and that, inspecting something, combing his hair back to get a better look. “You’re better, you’ve changed.”
A whisper, confession. “I haven’t.”
“Your hair has gotten longer. And I think I can see some freckles coming out.”
Now that he’s started, he can’t stop looking back into Dummy’s eyes. “That’s stupid,” He says softly. It is, it really is, because why would they pay attention to something as minuscule and stupid as that? At the same time, something messy and warm stirs within his lungs, wonderful yet sickening balled with the sinking of dread. No one should look at him like this, so fondly. "I shouldn’t have let myself get this bad."
It’s no one’s fault, he hatefully knows deep down. It’s just his body and mind has created to try to make sense of himself.
“Do you feel guilty?” Dummy simply asks.
His head shoots up. “Of course,” It’s probably what hurts the most.
They stare fully at him, eyes overflowing with something identifiable. “Oh, Cashier,” They start, intently and honestly straight-forward like they always are. “You always deserved so much more.”
And that’s that.
In the end, the scene is this—Cashier and Player at the diner’s outdoor seating together.
They each have a bowl of ice cream, his treat. But Cashier’s is untouched, he moreso bought one for himself as well so Player would feel less awkward. There’s a stack of sticky notes between them, and Player’s holding a black coloured pencil. There’s a butterscotch, unwrapped, smashed into little pieces because Player insisted that they somehow share it.
There’s not much to say between the two of them. They already had their heartfelt talk ages ago, so there’s no point in that.
Instead Player takes the stack. I’m not sorry, they write.
Good. They should never, ever feel sorry. Cashier takes a deep breath.
“Okay,” He says, “Okay.”
Maybe he’ll start from there.