Case of Workbitch: On learning how to enjoy work, without bitching
Glitter gurgled in his organs. He felt like he was going to spew sparkling, purple barf from his stomach, erasing the delicious scone Jam had cooked. He coughed loudly, leaning on all four of his limbs and bringing the attention of the agents towards his prostrate visage.
Meringue strode over to him, pouring a strange, scarlet liquid from her porcelain, flowery teapot into porcelain, flowery tea cup, and made him drink it. It tasted like ash and he almost spewed it out if not, for her slender, dark hands stroking his throat, forcing him to swallow the heavy medicine.
He saw Baklava glance at him, her tan face grimacing in displeasure, and she scolded the other woman, "You shouldn't be wasting that on him. Look, I get what happened, but this is one of the larger worlds and who knows how many Glitter-drugged bitches we have to save?"
Meringue scowled. "That's unfair for him! Look at the guy; he's been her slave for too long. It's not even safe for us to stick with him if the Glitter isn't flushed out—"
"I know… just make sure we have enough power in the debugger when we rescue Russia, Finland, Germany, and Sweden. We'll need their power for when we attack the mainstream. You've heard reports from other universes; it's always the canon characters that take forever to de-Glitter."
"Understood," Meringue playfully saluted to Baklava, who looked strangely uncomfortable with the action, but covered the strange emotion on her face once she saw Workbitch looking at her. She glared at him, putting one callused, gloved hand to her revolver, which was clad in silver and black leather.
Meringue, oblivious to the tension going through the two, clapped her hands together as a sudden idea slammed into her brain, burrowing into the grey matter, "We should watch Sherlock again! Maybe Jam will say yes!"
"Let's watch Merlin," Baklava murmured quietly, "As much as I love the idea of Sherlock, I'm not really in the mood of watching it or reading the thousands of fanfictions with far too-much porn."
"Merlin's lame! And its porn is lame!"
"Look, let's not get into another wank this time." Baklava turned to Workbitch, "Bitchwork, what do you want?"
The glitter clouded his brain, whispering 'Hetalia' and 'Naruto' and 'Bleach' and 'Ew, real-life humans are ugly.'
"I love One Piece!" Meringue stuffed more of the ash-like liquid down his throat. He began to cough it out, but her hands smoothed and led the medicine down his esophagus.
[Jennifer stroked her hands down his throat, leaning on him. They were kissing, but he didn't know what was going to happen next. They were watching something on the telly (It was still playing some love comedy, but he could not hear it under the pounding of his heart), but something led to something and then to this. They stared at each other's eyes, both reflecting each other in their milky depths.
He knew he loved her – I – the – M – girl – O – of – G – his – E – dreams – N – Jennife – E.]
Something heavy as the ash that floated down and suffocated the City of Pompeii settled in his brain and he began to cry – glittering tears streaming down his face.
Jennifer.
Why did he let her go?
He did not hear Baklava's words, did not see her walking away from him nor Meringue reaching out towards him, did not feel anything except for the crack of her voice, misty from glitter and memory.
"Workbitch, I still – Imogene – love – loves – you – you very much."
And he saw glitter, pure and silver, and he was no more.
A shot rang out.
