Only moments later was the policeman in the "chair", securely strapped down by his arms, legs, and stomach. Good Cop kept a smile all the way, though he hated being restrained as such. After posting an old picture of Good Cop above the officer's head, President Business disappeared to who-knows-where to get the last instruments he needed.
Good Cop softly sung "Everything Is Awesome!" while he waited, trying to drive away the apprehension gnawing at his gut. He was about to sing the chorus for the second time when -
Stop that.
"What?"
Your singing. I hear that song everyday, I'd like a break from it.
"Oh, okay, buddy! Sorry if I annoyed you."
When Bad Cop said nothing else, Good Cop turned his attention to his surroundings. He let his eyes wander around the room, taking in all the sights. Though looking at all the relics from a safe distance was somewhat fascinating, it did nothing to help his stomach stop churning.
"Are you nervous?" he finally asked his Bad side.
Bad Cop didn't reply right away. I don't think this is a good idea.
Meaning yes, he was nervous.
I'm only worried that something is going to go wrong.
"Me too," Good Cop confessed, shaking his head. "But I'm willing to take the risk if it means we can do our job better. Besides, it's really nice that President Business wants to help us out."
I...suppose so.
A familiar thudding noise sounded from outside the office. When the heavy doors swung open, Good Cop almost gulped. President Business stood in the doorframe, sporting his gigantic boots.
With just a couple strides, Business made it over to the trapped police officer.
"Why are you wearing those, sir?" Good Cop asked, forcing back a shiver.
"So I can get a better artistic angle," Business replied casually, peering through his claw hands. He took a half-step closer, then lowered his height. "Perfect!"
Good Cop glanced at the robots gathering beside Business. One guarded the nail polish remover and Q-Tip, another held a small hand mirror, and the last six divided the job of holding the three pens amongst themselves.
"The stuff Bad Cop used to draw your face is permanent," Business explained, bending over to prod Good Cop's markered face. "But I think I can use the Po'lish Remover of Na'il to get it off. Then I can apply the new stuff."
Switch.
Bad Cop frowned skeptically. "Are you sure this is going to work?"
"Positive. Now, Bad Cop, not that I don't absolutely love it when you switch in and all, but I'm going to need you to stay undercover until I'm finished. That will probably take..." Business tapped his chin thoughtfully. "...An hour or so."
"What?!"
"When Good Cop's face has been successfully replicated," he continued, ignoring Bad Cop's outburst, "you can go on with your regular patrols and interrogations."
"But what about the city?" the policeman asked, sounding more than a little distressed. "What if there's crime? I need to be there!"
"Yes, because you're the only cop in the entire police force in the whole wide world," Business responded with a roll of his eyes. "I'm pretty sure the city can handle an hour without you."
The officer scowled at that.
Business took hold of the Q-Tip before looking at Bad Cop again. "Okay, everything's ready. Let me see Good Cop now."
Bad Cop took a deep breath.
Switch.
Good Cop grimaced at the Q-Tip in President Business' claw hands.
"Are you ready, Good Cop?" Business gave him a reassuring half-smile.
Shaking off some of his anxiety with a grin, he replied, "Yes, sir!"
The president held the Q-Tip above the policeman's head. "Hold absolutely still."
Good Cop nodded, then shut his eyes. He heard his heart thumping in his ears.
As swiftly as he could, President Business wiped away Good Cop's scribbled face. It felt like fire, and he started losing consciousness, but the cop refused to panic. He reminded himself again and again that it would be over soon; that he would be alright.
Before he could black out, Good Cop felt a chilly splash of ink on his face, beginning at where his mouth should have been. In between short pauses came more and more cool dabs, soothing away the flaring pain.
About a half-hour later, Good Cop sensed that his mouth had been completed. A little while after that, vision returned to his left side, albeit it was a bit blurry. Soon he could see out of his new right eye.
"Keep holding still," the president advised, breaking the long silence. "I still have to draw on your glasses."
Slowly and carefully, Business slid the fine tip of the black pen from Good Cop's temple to his right eye, then circled it. He did the same with his left eye, drew an arc between the two, then brought the pen from the rim to his left temple.
President Business lifted the pen and scrutinized the cop's face. After a moment, he smiled proudly. "Done!" Reaching down, he traded the pen for the mirror a robot was holding and handed it to Good Cop.
"Tell me what you think." He unlocked the cop's right arm.
Good Cop lifted the mirror to his face - and his jaw dropped. In the reflection was an exact replica of his original face. Everything, from the frames of his glasses to the slanting of his teeth, looked just like they did before. It was as if his face had never been erased at all.
That's...impressive.
The police officer could hardly believe what he was seeing. He tried lifting his unoccupied claw hand to touch his face, wanting to make sure it was real. It was then that he realized his other arm was still restrained, and that President Business was waiting for an answer.
Good Cop's trademark smile stretched from ear to ear. "Sir, you...you did great! I look exactly like I did before!"
Business beamed.
"Sir, thank you so much! You did a fantastic job!"
"Oh, no problem, it was my - " He paused, and then his brow furrowed. "Wait a minute." Leaning forward a tiny bit, his eyes shifted back and forth between the cop and the picture above his head.
Good Cop frowned a little. "What is it, sir?"
Business' eyes snapped wide open. "Oh, no..."
"What, sir?"
Business smacked a claw hand to his forehead and groaned. "I made a mistake."
"Huh?" Good Cop said, narrowing an eye.
"Your face...it's off-centered."
The cop glanced at the mirror again. Unable to supress a second smile at his reflection, he said, "Looks just fine to me!"
"No, it's not!" Business snatched the mirror and shoved it in his face. "Take a closer look."
Good Cop squinted his eyes and looked harder. Actually, his face was a little off-centered. But just barely.
Business pursed his lips. "I'll have to start all over again."
Good Cop's stomach dropped.
Wha - no! No! We need to get back to protecting the city! We don't need to waste any more time just sitting here!
Good Cop had to agree; it wouldn't be a good idea to stay there much longer. He was content with his newly-drawn face, and both he and his Bad side should probably be getting back to work.
Meeting Business' eyes, Good Cop said, "No, sir, it's fine."
"Sure, it might be fine," he made quotations with his claw hands, "but if it's going to do you any good, it has to be perfect." He grabbed the Q-Tip from the bottle of nail polish.
Before Good Cop could protest any further, his mouth was painfully erased, along with the rest of his face.
Great. Can it get any worse than this?
Apparently so.
The second try, Good Cop's eyes were different sizes. Business promptly started over. Then the frame of the cop's glasses were too thick. Then his mouth was too small. Then the artist accidentally slipped, resulting in a crooked line stretching from the cop's forehead to his left cheek.
Hour after hour passed, and President Business was never satisfied with his work. But all of his mistakes (except the line) were hardly noticeable, and he was the only one who pointed them out.
Then, for the seventh time that day, Business dropped his pen and surveyed the officer's face with a calculative yet weary eye.
Though he had pressed upon himself no vigorous physical activity, Good Cop felt exhausted. He was stiff from being frozen in place for so long, and his face burned so bad that he thought one more wipe of the Q-Tip would end him for good.
Just when Good Cop dared to think he was finally satisfied, Business let out a loud, raspy groan. "Your teeth still aren't right!"
The cop's heart sank. "H-How?"
"They're crooked!"
Good Cop wriggled in his bonds. "I can live with crooked teeth! Honest!"
"No, you can't!" the president snapped, snatching up the Q-Tip in an almost psychotic fashion. "I have to do this right!"
"Wait!" Good Cop struggled to escape, though he knew the attempt was futile. "I, uh, I'm..." His mind raced through several options and grabbed onto a reasonable excuse. "I'm starving! A-And you must be starving! Couldn't we take a break? And try again later?"
Business stopped, some of the frustration on his face melting into a look of contemplation as he lifted one side of his unibrow. "Hmm...I don't know..."
Good Cop shifted, trying to avoid touching the Q-Tip that hung dangerously close over his wide eyes. "M-Maybe you can't get my face right because you're hungry. No one can work well on an empty stomach."
Some of us can.
"Well..."
Good Cop shut his eyes and turned away, knowing that the Q-Tip could slide across his face at any second. But when the fiery sensation failed to press against his cheeks, he pried open one eye. Business was staring off into space, still considering the suggestion.
After what seemed to be an eternity, the president nodded. "Fine. We'll take a quick break."
Deep relief swept through the policeman, relaxing his tightly-clenched muscles. Business lowered the Q-Tip into the bottle of nail polish remover, then minimized his stilt boots.
"Robots, release him."
The robot minions unlocked Good Cop's cuffs, consequently making him fall flat on his face. He was still for a moment, taking time to recover from the blow and to relish his sweet freedom.
By the time Good Cop pushed himself up, President Business was already calling his assistant.
"Velma, tell the cafeteria bots to send up two glasses of water, two pizzas, and..." Business looked at Good Cop. "Do you want a croissant or a doughnut?"
"Uh, croissant, please..."
"And two croissants," he relayed into the intercom. "And make it quick. Please."
The food arrived in about fifteen seconds. Business sat at his desk, Good Cop positioned at the left side of it. During the course of the meal, Business made conversation, generally about the Octan Corporation and the like. Good Cop tried to contribute to the mostly one-sided discussion, but found it hard to do so when he realized that Business glared at his teeth whenever he said anything.
Good Cop eventually gave up and settled for listening quietly as Business continued. Occasionally, he sneaked a glance at his reflection in the shiny desktop, trying to see what was so bad about his teeth. He didn't see how they were crooked in any way.
Just as Good Cop finished off the last of his croissant, a beeping noise came from the president's office phone. "President Business, we have a problem."
Business cocked his unibrow as he pressed a button. "With what?"
"Your new employees are having difficulty choosing the new furniture for the board room. They can't agree and have asked for your advice."
"New furniture?!" he cried, straightening up. "I told them to use the old stuff!"
"They must have misheard you, sir."
Business threw his head back against the chair and groaned dramatically. When he was finished, he said, "Fine, I'll go take a look. Tell them I'll be there in ten seconds."
"Yes, sir."
Removing his hand from the phone, the president stood up. He made his way down the steps, muttering to himself. "If you want something done right, you've gotta do it yourself."
Just before he exited, Business turned around to give the cop a threatening look. "Stay here. I'll be right back." He paused. "Robots, come with me."
The robots obeyed without question, the doors banging shut behind them. The resounding slam lifted a huge weight off the cop's shoulders. He leaned back against his seat, inhaling deeply. The intake of oxygen was like a blast of cool tranquility, kicking out the sickening pressure he had felt all day.
We have to get out of here!
And then the stress came tumbling back.
Good Cop sighed. "I know. But..."
What?
"We can't just leave President Business. He's trying so hard to help us."
If I'm restrained on that miserable excuse for a chair any longer, I'm going to lose my mind!
"But I'd feel so bad if we just left."
You'll get over it! Bad Cop stopped for a moment. Unless, of course, you'd rather stay here and let your face burn off.
A sudden rush of hysteria overpowered Good Cop's hesitation. He pushed himself back from the desk so fast that he almost toppled over his chair. "Okay, let's go!"
Switch.
Delivering a powerful side-kick to the chair, Bad Cop leapt down the red steps and ran to the exit.
Um...
"What?" he groaned, slowing a little.
Can I leave a thank-you note first?
"No!"
Bad Cop sped up again, eyes locked onto the gateway of his freedom. Just when he could touch the doors -
Wait!
"What now?!" he hissed, skidding to a stop.
What if President Business set up those robots to guard the door? What if they see us and report to him that we're trying to leave?
Bad Cop's jaw dropped. That was a very probable possibility and he hadn't even thought of it. Cautiously, the cop cracked the door open a tiny bit and peered through. Sure enough, the eight robots were standing guard outside.
I was hoping I was wrong...
Clenching his teeth together, Bad Cop turned his back to the door and leaned against it. Now how were they supposed to get out of there?
Well...what about the air ducts?
Bad Cop looked around the room, then noticed an air vent on the left wall, about fifteen bricks off the ground. With his analytical eyes, he assumed it to be big enough for him to squeeze through.
He headed straight for it. "Good idea."
How are we going to get up that high?
"Oh, I've got an idea for that," he muttered, popping his claw hands.
A few seconds later, Bad Cop had forcibly booted the "miserable excuse for a chair" below the air vent and had climbed on top of it. Now able to reach the grate, he pried it open and forced himself inside. Making sure to reposition the grate back in place, he crawled through the cold airway. After about a length of twenty bricks, the airway widened considerably, allowing him to stand up. The first thing he met was a ladder built into the side of another airway. Without a second thought, he descended.
He left the ladder and sprinted down another tunnel, then came to a split path. Behind his aviator shades he scanned each option. Both looked identical.
Hmm... Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all...
I can help!
"How?"
Well, remember the first day on the job, when I accidentally locked the keys inside our office?
Bad Cop snorted. "That was incredibly stupid. Of course I remember."
Do you remember that I had to crawl through the vents to get inside because you refused to get help?
"Vaguely."
If you let me, I think I can remember how to navigate ourselves out of here.
Bad Cop's frown hardened with uncertainty. He felt that he knew better about these kinds of predicaments that required careful deduction and memorization. On the other hand, his Good side probably knew more about the ventilation system than he did.
After a long moment of thought, Bad Cop sighed. "Fine."
Switch.
Good Cop analyzed the pathways, then chose right. "This way, I think."
"You think"?
"Yep!"
...I'm not going to be very happy if you get ourselves lost.
Keeping that in mind, Good Cop traveled onward at a steady yet cautious run. Fortunately, he had picked up a few things from the last time he was in the vents, and he found that he knew the air ducts much better than he thought he did.
A little while later, Good Cop spotted a black grate with a nasty dent in the middle. He grinned as he dashed towards it. "This one!"
Why that one?
"You punched it open to get into our office, remember?"
Have you forgotten that this is the NEW Octan Tower? I doubt that President Business would have bothered to replicate our old office.
The airway narrowed, so Good Cop knelt down and crawled on. "Well then, why would there be a dent in the grate?"
I...don't know. But that doesn't mean it leads to our old office.
Good Cop gripped the grate and peered through. Unfortunately, the slots were too thin for him to see anything clearly. "Let's just try it anyways," he decided a moment later, shrugging nonchalantly. "I'm really sure it's our office. Or, at least, where it should be."
But your reasoning based on a dented grate is dangerously flawed.
Despite Bad Cop's warnings, Good Cop proceeded to give the grate a rough jiggle. With just a few shakes, it popped open, and he eagerly slid out.
The police officer failed to realize that the vent was about fifteen bricks off the ground, however.
Good Cop fell onto his back, the air knocked out of his lungs on impact. For a moment, all he could do was gasp for breath.
He had just caught it when his Bad side spoke again.
We're not in our office.
His stomach jumped, but only a little. Okay, so they weren't in their office. But they were out of President Business' office, henceforth another step closer to getting back to the station.
Looking to his right, Good Cop saw a long table with mismatched chairs alongside it. Close to the furniture were a bunch of people - the new employees, to be precise - that were staring at him like he was a two-headed cat.
He was just about to explain when he saw President Business standing at the end of the table.