"Greeeeg."

"Hm?"

"It's getting late, don't you gotta go to work?"

"Mm, I'll just call in."

"Really?"

"Of course. How can I possibly leave my adorable Ben-Ben?"

Google watches the memory, trying to imagine how it felt to hold...'Ben Ben' close like that. He watches how they just laid there, content with doing absolutely nothing. Ben in his—Greg's—arms. Content.

He scrolls through other salvaged memories, curiosity of his old life driving him. Plenty of memories where he has Ben secure in his arms, others where they're joking around, the occasional kiss or two, and...

He pauses on one memory that seems rather distorted. An option to restore it pops up.

"..."

He clicks yes and waits for it. Soon enough, a clear video comes up with Ben shaking.

"GREG! I—I can't, I screwed up!"

"We can fix it, just tell me what's wrong."

"You can't do anything, no one can. I'm not, this is, this isn't any of your business. You shouldn't have to deal with any of this!"

"I want to help you, Ben."

"No one can help me. Just, just leave me alone, I can't put this on you. I don't want to see you get hurt."

"I want to be here for you. Let me be here for you."

"...Greg..."

"I will always be here for you, Ben. Through the good, the bad, the ugly, I have your back. Let me be here for you. We'll get through this. Together."

Google allows himself to recall how it felt having Ben hold his hands the other day. They seemed so assured, secure even. As though nothing could ever get past them and everything would be okay. But Google couldn't let him anywhere near this life. If any part of him really cared for him, he cannot allow him to get involved in this story.

This is something he has to deal with, alone.

"Google."

Google jumps, closing the screen quickly. "Y-Yes?"

The Author raises an eyebrow. "What were you doing?"

"Er, just, looking over some articles."

"Mhm..." He shrugs. "Well, it's time to go after your next victim."

He blinks. "Wh, already? But, we just started to move things to the other place. And that detective person was just by here again, we need to get out of here."

"I understand that but that shouldn't concern you. Nothing that deals with me should concern you. What should concern you," he holds up a journal part of him feels he has seen before, but where?, he is uncertain, "is your part in the story. You have needs as a character. You need to grow into who you are and who you are meant to be. You can't do that if you're here squabbling over moving trivialities. Do you understand?"

"How are you going to get things moved?" Google asks.

He smiles which, from what Google has learned recently, is not really a good thing. "I'll get it sorted. For now though, it seems like you are running late."

He blinks. "Late? To where?"

"Well, that's for me to know and for you to find out. Now go."

"...Where though?"

The Author's eye twitches. He opens up the journal and begins scribbling down something.

Google feels himself stand, walking towards the door but running into the wall a couple of times before proceeding to actually go through the walkway. He continues down the hall until he reaches the front door which he fails to open and, instead, walks into it. He tries to move his hands but catches onto a voice.

"Google could not do anything for himself. It seems Google is incapable of doing even the simplest of things such as opening a door without being told to. Sometimes it is a wonder how he is meant to be an intelligent robot doing much of anything. All he can do is walk into things. Poor, poor thing."

"Okay okay stop! Please, I can move, I can move!"

"You can? Are you sure?"

Before Google has a chance to answer back, he becomes completely stiff, his lips sealing shut. He feels the Author stand next to him, leaning close to his ear as he whispers, "You do not get to ask questions. You are a character in my story. Do not forget that." He opens the door, hitting Google and causing him to fall backwards. As he falls to the floor, he gains back control of his limbs. "Now go."

Google only offers him a single glance before heading out the door, said door slamming closed behind him. He stands there for a moment, trying to understand what he has gotten himself into. This isn't some game and it does not seem like the end is anywhere in sight.

He pauses, thinking back on the other narratives he had read. Those characters were not fictional characters.

They were real. Just like him.

Everything that happened to them was real—

"Would you care to be chased out of the building with a bat or will you move it?"

Google lingers only a moment more before heading out, thoughts running rampant in his mind, his system once again threatening to short out but he couldn't allow that, not now. He needs to stay awake. Alert for whatever the hell the Author has planned next.

So, the Author did not actually have someone for Google to go after. He simply wants to observe what Google does on his own. Google does not understand that the writing is conveyed through what is given and what is taken. The Author could do whatever he would want to the character whenever he would feel like it but it is the job of the character to work with what is given. If the Author interferes too much, the story becomes dull and one sided. People can be unpredictable, even androids who are not completely certain in who they are can change.

The Author needs him to write out a story, a series even if he stays and cooperates. As long as he does that, then the Author will guide him around and do as he sees fit in his new life. Whenever he interferes with it, it'll only be to cause tension. One has to keep the story going after all. In a world with infinite possibilities, there needs to be some order.

With that thought, the Author heads outside, following a couple of blocks behind Google and maintaining the distance, his journal on hand to write whatever needs to be written. He can worry about scribbling away the location of Google's things to the new apartment later.

"So you got another tip at a hot dog stand?" you ask as Jim orders a few hot dogs.

"Yes, yes we were told that the letter man was walking around here, somewhere..."

"That'll be 6$, sir," the hot dog vendor says.

Jim goes to pull out his wallet but comes up with a small notebook instead. "Oh no. Jim, Jim my wallet has suddenly transformed into...a notebook!" He looks into it. "With no words! How are we ever going to feast on the warm buns, the juicy meats of the not-dog? We're doooomed."

"..." You sigh, forking over the cash. "Here, come on, we have work to do."

"Thank you, Detective. We promise that this food is essential for us to solve this case. We will catch this letter man!" He hands cameraman Jim a couple of hot dogs before squatting on the ground, hobbling forward. You roll your eyes as the other follows in suit, you soon doing the same...normally, of course.

"So, where was he spotted?"

"Well, that's the thing," he looks around. "He was walking on this street, back and forth. Multiple times, seemingly unable to make up his mind. Hardly anyone really noticed him despite how he is walking around with a single letter on his shirt! That actually appears to glow, much like the moooon..."

"Some people just don't pay attention. It's on a blue shirt as well so it probably is just pushed as some t-shirt. His other features don't really make a stark contrast to others either."

"Mm...the Jims don't trust letters. They can mean anything, anything at all. Even the word letters can mean other things..."

"Word letters?" you dare to ask.

"Yes, the 'word' letters. You take some letters that seem to make a word but THEN!" He turns back to you, holding his microphone up close to him. "Each letter has a separate meaning! For example: F.U.N. What does that spell?"

"Fun?"

"YES. BUT!" He looks around. "Each letter means something different. It could mean Friends, U and me, and aNywhere and any time at all. OR!" He turns back to you. "Fire that burns down everything, Uranium, and No survivors—"

"You are seriously referring to Spongebob? A kid's show?"

"...Maybe. It is very informative and still makes our point."

"..." You hold your head. "Alright, word letters, right. So you think this 'G' holds some sort of meaning?"

"That will connect us to our mysterious fire-house person, yes, yes." He hobbles forward. "Like "Gas"."

"Do you really think it would be that obvious?" you walk ahead of the lot. "I mean, if they really wanted to be captured, there are other ways of doing it. The G has to stand for something else..."

"Like what? Guardian? Gorilla? Perhaps they are secretly a hairy beast; it would explain why they were so strong! With their four arms—"

"I thought he had two?"

"Hush hush hush—" He looks into one of the buildings. "Perhaps it could mean something like Grapes. Blue shirt, darken it a bit and suddenly, he's a grape! It would make perfect sense."

"...Except that he's not a grape."

"We haven't tried to eat him. He could be disguised as a human. Yes, yes it's all coming together..."

You take a breath wondering how the hell it is that the two ever really got involved in any of the cases before. They associate the most random things together and believe in it entirely, and yet somehow, somehow they manage to actually locate people that can be suspects for something. And this person, whoever they were, they didn't want to stick around for questions.

Of course, again, they could've been running for other matters: such as the Jims. They can be their own kind of scary. Still, it doesn't completely add up. If you could find them, maybe you can get some answers. At least erase him from the list of suspects and more onto the victim of two demonic crawling people.

You feel someone shove past you with a hollow "Sorry" exiting from them before continuing on their way. They are wearing a grey suit, dark hair...but that's all you can see. For some reason, your gut churns and you feel extremely uneasy as they continue on. It even feels like it's cold—

"Dark! Oh dear," another person bumps into you and faces you. The first thing you notice is the mustache plastered on his face, curling up on the ends with hints of...pink? "Sorry about my friend there, he's, uh, had a long day." Your eyes meet his and he stops talking for a moment, tilting his head. "Do I know you?"

Before you can ask what he means, he looks behind him again. "Shoot, I'm going to be late to the party. Uh, another time!" He runs ahead, leaving you and the Jims baffled. Brownish suspenders, yellow shirt, beige pants...

The Jim with the mic stands up next to you, not looking to you but, rather, watching them intently. "Do you know them?" he asks, almost quietly.

"What, do you think they're involved in the case?"

"..."

You have not seen Jim this quiet before, not immediately hopping around from place to place. He is nearly still. "Jim?"

He blinks, shaking his head and looking over to you. "Yes?"

"Are you alright? You kind of went silent there."

"I did? Hm." He looks down to the ground for a moment before crouching again, hobbling forward. "Come, we should see if any of the owners in these buildings noticed him. Maybe there is someone who saw him!"

You raise an eyebrow, looking over to the other Jim who simply followed him in suit. Is no one going to talk about what happened?

You push out a sigh, shaking your head and making a little note to ask the two about it later. There's always time to ask about these things later...

Just as you are about to go into the first building, you hear cars screeching and crashing somewhere in the distance. You blink, looking to the Jims but they are already running to the scene. "I, guys!" You run after them, putting away your notes and keeping watch of your surroundings. What the hell happened?