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Chapter 11.
Bring Your Kids to Work Day, Part II, Part Two
Snitch pulled out a worn wallet from his back pocket and retrieved two crumpled dollar bills. Straightening them out as best he could, he inserted the first single into the slot.
He was thirsty, and he was tired. It had been so unbearably hot and muggy last night in his family's apartment—with their broken air conditioner—that Snitch had barely slept a wink. Instead, he ended up playing games on his PS3 on the couch until about four in the morning, when he finally fell asleep. Now Snitch could barely keep his eyes open, so he decided it was the right time for a shot of sugar and caffeine.
The soda machine, however, had other plans. It spat out his dollar, rejecting its sad and wrinkled state. Snitch tried his other bill; that, too, the machine haughtily rebuffed.
"Oh, come on," Snitch groaned. He pulled taut the bills and wiped them against the corner of the machine, trying to iron out the wrinkles. Then, he tried again.
The machine still didn't accept either bills.
"This machine hates me," Snitch muttered miserably.
"Looks like you could use some help," came a voice from his right.
Snitch turned to the right and saw nothing; then he looked down, and saw a pair of kids watching him expectantly. The redhead was chewing on one of those expensive chocolate cigars. The blonde had his hands shoved into his pockets, an unassuming expression on his face.
It was the one with the cigar who had spoken. He held up two crisp dollar bills. "How about a trade?"
"Hey, that's real nice of you, kid," said Snitch, grinning. What a relief! Snitch could get his coke now. Some kids are really cool, he thought gratefully as he extended one hand with his bills and the other with an open palm, expecting the kid's trade.
The kid snatched Snitch's dollars. Then, to Snitch's incredible surprise, the two kids whirled about face on their toes, and took off, launching down the hall.
"Hey… hey!" he shouted after them.
"Sucker!" the kid responded, waving the singles—his singles—in the air.
There was no way he was losing two bucks to those now uncool children. Snitch ran after them, his long legs rapidly closing the distance between him and the two kids who had stopped at the elevators. The boys turned around and saw Snitch coming. They shot across to the left and pushed mightily against a heavy door, leading to the stairwell. Scurrying down the stairs, they did not chance another look back. They didn't need to. They could hear Snitch's footsteps echoing behind them.
Down and further down they ran, until there were no more stairs left. The boys had reached the basement. Snitch desperately wished he had consumed some caffeine in the morning—the lack of sleep was messing with his speed and response time.
He heaved himself against the door and emerged into the basement. The boys had already reached the far end of the hall. Only the door to the supply room and custodial closets remained there. There was nowhere left for them to run and they knew it. Snitch called on his last energy reserves and sped past the mailroom, past the employee lounge. "You kids better give me my money back!" he demanded angrily.
Just as he finished his sentence, just as he made it within five feet of his targets, a clatter reverberated through the hall. Too late did he see the mass of marbles rolling towards him.
"Whoa! Whoooaa!" Snitch cried as he treaded wildly over the marbles, stumbling and slipping, his arms flailing as he futilely tried to regain balance.
The door to the custodial closet directly ahead of him suddenly swung open wide. He didn't realize that he had crashed into its dark interiors until he felt the pain on his forehead and heard the clang of buckets and mops crashing down on him. "Guh…" he moaned as he slid to the floor, clutching at the throbbing pain on his head with both hands.
A thud! momentarily took his attention from the ache. The door had closed. He was enveloped completely in black.
"Hey… hey, guys!" Snitch crawled to the door, still holding his forehead. Reaching up to the knob, he gave it a twist.
No give.
No give? Was he locked inside the custodial closet? Did those kids actually lock him inside the custodial closet?
"Oh, no, no, no… guys, this isn't funny!" Snitch shouted, pounding at the door. "Let me out! Ow, my head…"
Just beyond the door, Snipeshooter whirled around his fingers the keys he had pinched earlier from a custodian. "All in a morning's work," he said with a satisfied nod. "Nice work, Devon! Not bad for your first go."
"That was fun," Devon said enthusiastically.
"And Boots, my man! Awesome timing with the marbles, as always."
"It's what I do," Boots responded with a nonchalant shrug.
"All right, let's get these marbles back in the bag and go to the cafeteria." He patted his stomach hungrily. "I heard they're giving pizza for lunch."
Human Resources
The phone hummed, its screen lighting up and calling for its owner's attention. A text message had arrived for him. Finishing the rest of the item he was entering into the database, Dutchy reached for his phone and checked his message inbox. It was from Specs, he noted, and it read:
COME DOWN TO THE MAILROOM NOW.
"Hell no," was Dutchy's immediate mental reply. But he read it again, and he couldn't help but note the urgency in the caps. He hated to say that the detail intrigued him, but it did. What was Specs doing down in the mailroom anyway? Didn't he declare that he would never step into that place again?
Sitting poised inside her office, Irish Flare's fingers flew over her keyboard, rapidly typing up an e-mail. Justine was at a conference today, which thankfully meant that she wasn't in the office to constantly look over Irish's shoulder and find some excuse to berate her work. It also meant, however, that Irish had to pull double the weight in the office.
A knock at the door. Irish looked up to see Dutchy poking his head in.
"Hey, Irish. You know who's on mailroom duty today?"
She sifted through the papers on her desk and found the printout of the Weekly Mailroom Assignments sheet. "Yes, Pie should be."
"Mind if I go today instead?"
Irish was surprised. "Is Pie okay?"
"Yeah, he's fine. I just wanna stretch my legs out. Too much sitting, it's not good for you, ya know?"
She thought the request over briefly. "Yeah, that'll be fine if you go today."
"Great." Dutchy beamed.
When he left, Irish shrugged her shoulders and returned to her e-mail. She found Dutchy's request strange: no one ever volunteered to handle the mailroom, and the last person she expected to do so was Dutchy. But she wasn't about to further question his rare offer to take initiative.
Finance Office
He hated having to talk to Mr. Snyder, the Senior Accountant. David took a deep breath and, hoping to get the encounter over with as quickly as possible, accelerated his pace to Snyder's desk.
"Excuse me, Mr. Snyder. I finished the reports you asked for," said David, carefully placing the papers on Snyder's desk.
The white-haired man peeled his eyes from the monitor and stared at David for an unnaturally long second. Slowly, his eyes moved to the papers next. "Is it in alphabetical or chronological order?"
"Wha—?" David had been working here for months—did Snyder really think that little of him? Why would the monthly financial reports be alphabetical? "Chronological, of course."
Snyder picked up the report and flipped through its pages. "Hmm…"
Now what? David wondered.
"Where are the departmental reports?"
David's heart skipped a beat as the fear of committing a mistake flared up in his mind. The momentary doubt flickered out and passed, however, as he was more than certain Snyder had asked for a summary of the company spendings from the last two months. He told the Senior Accountant so.
"Mr. Jacobs, answer me this: how are we supposed to send out the departmental reports by the end of the month if we don't have them?"
"With all due respect, Mr. Snyder, you never asked me to take on the departmental reports. Only the company summary."
"Mr. Jacobs. Once again you have me wondering why I bother giving you a task in the first place, when you can't even remember the said task," said Snyder, enunciating every word. He tsk-tsked and waved David away.
But David stood his ground, resentful but aware that there was no arguing with him. Snyder had only one point of view and it was his only. Unless you wanted to waste time having him ignore all your valid and justified points, it was best to steer clear of that route. Therefore, David begrudgingly offered, "Would you like me to work on the departmental reports?"
He smiled a smile that was more akin to a sneer. "Trying to redeem yourself, Mr. Jacobs?" he asked, his voice eerily mocking. "Fine then, I shall grant you one last chance. You may go ahead and put together the departmental report for this month. I will be expecting it on my desk by Friday. And please, try not to get confused this time."
David returned to his desk. "One last chance," a-ha! What was Snyder going to do? Not give him work? David took a seat and plucked off the Post-Its of completed assignments from his calendar board. On a fresh note, David jotted down "Finish dept. reports." Then he peeled off the note and stuck it under Friday.
"What was that about?" whispered Bumlets from the next desk. He cautiously glanced in Snyder's direction before continuing. "I totally remember hearing him give you the company summary report to do."
David shook his head and sighed resignedly. Bumlets, the lone Finance intern, had been a great help the entire summer thus far—they both worked tirelessly over the report that he just handed to Snyder. "Want to help on this one, too?"
"Sure," Bumlets said.
"Thanks a lot. Let me get you the details in a minute. I'm just going to ask Specs if he finished updating the template…" David sought Specs at his desk, but he was nowhere to be found. "Say, have you seen Specs? He's been out of the office for a while now, hasn't he?"
Mailroom
Dutchy couldn't believe what he was seeing.
With a cheeky grin, Specs handed him a mail bin. "All right, HR man. Do your thing."
Glaring at his friend, Dutchy grabbed the bin with a bitter huff. "I actually volunteered to come down here," he said to himself. "I'm an idiot."
Cafeteria
"Check out the whiplash action! Whup-ish!" Snipeshooter held Indiana Jones' arm between his fingers, tugging it back and forth as he emitted the sound effects of a whip, Jones' signature weapon. "Whoop-ah!"
"Cool!" exclaimed Les. "It looks just like 'im, too."
"Can't forget Indy's hat," reminded Patrick as he passed over the miniature fedora.
Snipes placed the hat on the action figure's head and adjusted it to an angle. Satisfied with the complete look, his thoughts moved on to the team before him. "All right, team. Let's do a recap of what we've done so far," he said.
Boots spoke up. "Snipes and me nabbed Indiana Jones first thing. Les, Tumbler, and Ten-Pin handled the mailroom. And then Snipes, Devon, and me again locked up some guy in the janitor's closet." He shrugged, as if the latest task had been effortless. "We got his two bucks, too."
"Score. Us: three. Pansies: zero. Job well done, gentleman," Snipeshooter commended with a pleased nod.
"When do I get to do something?" asked Patrick—a new member who, with Devon, had joined the ranks this morning. He was eager to join the fun.
"You're with me," said Les cheerily. "I've got a real good idea, too."
"We secured the materials for our main event, right?" inquired Snipes.
"Sure did," Boots replied. "Me and Les got them in our bookbags."
"Awesome. Man, it's gonna be epic." His team's matters settled, Snipes' mind followed the grumblings of his stomach and focused on the food they were promised. He stretched his neck upwards, trying to get a view of the front of the cafeteria. There, he spied that weirdo, Jonathan, standing behind two long tables, and a blonde lady carrying in a tower of white pizza boxes. With a frustrated pout, he muttered, "When the heck are they gonna give us food?"
Just then, Jonathan perked up, wearing a grin over his mousy features. He clasped his hand together excitedly and announced: "My little guests, it is now time for lunch to commence!"
Snipes and Boots shared a look of exasperation. "Who's he callin' little?" Boots muttered before they leapt out of their chairs and took off towards the tables ahead. Once there—their group besting the other kids to the front of the line—they each plucked a paper plate from the table and rushed to the blonde serving lady.
Acorn grasped the spatula in her hand, picking up slices of pizza with it and plopping them onto the waiting children's paper plates, wondering all the while if this is what most other Assistant's Assistants had to go through. She held back a glum sigh. It wasn't that she minded the special events—it was better than sitting behind the desk all day—it was that she had to spend the entire day next to Jonathan.
"Hey, I want a bigger slice!" demanded a kid with curly red hair.
Acorn bit her lip and forced a smile, knowing Jonathan was right beside her. "Here you go," she managed as nicely as possible, sliding a bigger slice of pizza onto his plate. "Charming children," she mumbled through her teeth when the boy rushed back to the tables with his friends.
"Aren't they?" Jonathan chirped. He turned to the kids. "Remember, kids: I'm hosting the Pulitzer Tour after lunch. Don't miss it! It will be most exciting!"
He wasn't a terrible boss. It was just that Acorn thought she earned a raise for all the work she did, not to mention all of Jonathan's prattling praise for Pulitzer she had to put up with.
She glanced sideways at her boss cheerfully greeting the kids, most of whom paid him little attention. When she really thought about it, however, all she truly wanted was a little bit of recognition. Was it too much to ask for a simple 'thank you' once in a while?
"Please, ma'am, I want some more," came a voice with an exaggerated English accent.
Acorn looked up to see Jack standing in front of her, holding out his paper plate, his deep brown eyes innocent—though not quite as innocent as young Oliver Twist's.
"Mr. Kelly, this food is for the children," said Jonathan pointedly, frowning.
Jack was undeterred. "The kids alone aren't gonna finish all that," he argued, pointing behind Acorn's head at the twenty-something pizza boxes still unopened. "Let us help take some of those off your hands before they get cold and no one wants them."
"Haha, Mr. Kelly. Nice try." Without a second's glance, Jonathan was back to serving the children.
Jack's eyes narrowed and went out of focus, as though he were carefully measuring his options.
It certainly was a nice try, Acorn thought to herself. At least, she was sold—though she wouldn't admit to whether it was Jack's logic or his Oliver Twist impression that convinced her. She met his eyes then, and he gave her an easy smile as he made to leave.
Acorn held up a finger and tilted her head to the right, silently asking him to wait at the far end of the serving table. He read her signal. When Jonathan was preoccupied with announcing the Pulitzer Tour to one of the kids, Acorn stealthily grabbed a pizza box and slid it towards the waiting Jack. He caught it smoothly in his hands and she fully expected him to hurry away before Jonathan spotted him.
But he paused a moment to grin and whisper something loud enough for only her to hear: "Thanks, Miss Acorn."
Human Resources
Two more e-mail responses and she would be all caught up—for the time being. It never took long for another flurry of messages to find its way to Irish's inbox.
She checked the time, saw that it was already half past two, and realized that she hadn't yet had lunch. Irish decided that, as soon as she finished replying to all her messages, it was time for a bite to eat. Just as she stretched out her fingers and placed them on the keyboard to recommence her work, Irish spotted from the corner of her eye a small boy standing inches from her desk. His dark hair reached down to his ears and his round eyes stared up at her inquiringly. She hadn't heard him come in.
"Hi Tumbler," she greeted, recognizing him instantly. This was the kid that took to Skittery almost immediately at the last "Bring Your Kids to Work Day."
"Hi IF."
A few seconds of silence ticked past as Irish watched Tumbler expectantly and Tumbler simply studied the office.
"Did you need something?" she finally asked.
He shrugged innocently. "No."
She squinted her eyes suspiciously. She'd dealt with her fair share of kids at the family Christmas dinners to know when one wanted something. "Okay, what is it?"
"What? Nothing. Just wondering."
"Wondering what?"
He shrugged again. She was getting frustrated now as a new message landed in her inbox—sent from Justine from her Blackberry. Irish sighed. This message she had to reply to immediately.
"I was wondering who that girl was that Skittery's always hanging around."
Tumbler's words sunk in slowly. "I… don't know. I wouldn't know anything about that," she stuttered, feeling inexplicably stung.
"But I thought you guys were friends."
Whatever gave him that impression? It was true—Skittery and Irish were friends. At least, she thought they were. In the last couple of months, she couldn't help but feel that a barrier had risen between them. At the first "Bring Your Kids to Work Day," Irish had tried to overcome that odd barrier by sitting with Skittery at lunch. It was there that she met Tumbler.
Ultimately, Irish failed to coax Skittery into talking to her. He uttered about two words as Irish chattered away, explaining to Tumbler how Skittery and she met as interns and how they quickly bonded over music.
A muffled ringing interrupted her thoughts. No doubt it was Justine, suspecting that Irish was gallivanting about instead of working in the office. Irish reached for her handbag and fumbled through its contents, extracting a compact, a piece of gum, her eyeliner, lip gloss, Metro Card, a crumpled pack of cigarettes, until she finally found her phone.
"Hello? Hi, Justine, how is the conference? Yes, I got your e-mail. Well, I… I was just about to send it. No, I… I had someone in my office so I couldn't—yes. Okay, I will. Right now. Bye, Justine."
As soon as the call was over, Irish took to her computer. She hated having to listen to Justine's berating. If she didn't reply to her e-mail within the next two minutes, she was sure to get an earful about it tomorrow.
A movement to her left caught her attention. Dragging her eyes from the screen, she spied Tumbler staring back at her with wide eyes.
Before she could ask what the matter was, he exclaimed, "You smoke?" He held her cigarettes in his hand.
"Tumbler, hand those over," she said, her tone no-nonsense.
He leapt from his seat and started backing towards the door. "Smoking kills!" And to her shock, he took off running.
"Tumbler!" she called, flustered. She ran to the door. "Tumbler, come back here—that's not a toy! Pie, catch him!"
Pie lazily looked up from his desk. "Wha?"
"I said—nevermind!" Irish herself sped down the corridor and out the office, trying valiantly to catch the agile Tumbler in her heels.
Already at the end of the hall, Tumbler was struggling to push open the ridiculously hefty door to the stairs. Oh, please, not the stairs! Irish thought frantically. "Tumbler!"
She shouldn't have called out. Seeing Irish closing in on him, Tumbler summoned all his strength to ram into the door and squeeze through the brief opening. He disappeared from her view.
She picked up her pace, the clicking of her heels now bouncing off the walls and echoing throughout the stairwell. Down and further down the winding stairs she went, listening all the while for Tumbler's footsteps ahead of her.
This wild goose chase for a pack of cigarettes? Yes, she answered grumpily. For one thing, cigarettes were expensive. The matter she was more concerned about, however, was what would happen if Tumbler's mother caught sight of her young son waving around Irish's smokes. There was also the disarmingly eagle-eyed Jonathan to worry about, who had a knack for popping in when least expected. She didn't even want to think about his reaction—it was sure to be annoying.
Gasping for air, Irish nearly collapsed when she reached the basement. She couldn't believe she had just run down over ten flights of stairs—and in her brand new shoes!
Emerging, exhausted, on the other side of the door, she immediately spotted Tumbler at the other end of the hall. "Tumbler," Irish called warningly, starting towards him.
"Hi, IF," he said brightly, as though this were all a game to him.
Upon seeing his innocent smile, Irish felt her irritation begin to dissipate. Tumbler was just a kid after all. Now that she thought about it, he was clearly bored and simply wanted someone to play with. But, as the throbbing in her feet reminded, did he have to come into her office and steal her cigarettes and make her run him down in her new shoes? Where was Tumbler's idol, Skittery, when she needed him?
She finally caught up with the mischievous boy. "All right, you had your fun. Please give those back to me now," she said, her hand outstretched.
"You want 'em?" he asked, holding up her cigarettes.
"Yes."
"What's the magic word?"
"Now."
He flinched slightly at her tone, but the impish smile was quick to return. "Okay…" he mumbled, taking a few cautious steps back. "Then… go get 'em!"
And then everything was a blur. Small, hooded figures darted all around her. The door ahead of her flew open ominously. Irish saw Tumbler toss her cigarette box in the air and, tipping forward, she tried ineffectually to catch it. She realized her mistake too late. Irish had walked right into their trap. She felt herself being pushed forward, through the open door, into the abyss.
Irish crashed into something soft, which in return let out a surprised, "Oomf!" She sucked in her breath before letting out a sharp yell and stumbling backwards. Her back hit the door—the closed door—and the panic set in. She was trapped in this pitch dark, crowded room… and there was someone else in there with her.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
A gasp, and then: "Irish Flare? Is it really you?"
She frowned. "Yes… who are you?"
"It's me, Snitch!"
"… Snitch?"
"Yeah, the IT intern. I sent you a poem on Halfsies Day, remember?"
She remembered all too well. Irish buried her face in her hands. Oh, god.
Finance Office
"Just got a text from Specs. He's been in the mailroom all this time."
"The mailroom? What's he doing down there?" inquired Bumlets.
David shook his head and sighed. "Remember what I told you yesterday about 'Bring Your Kids to Work Day'? Couple of the kids trashed the mailroom this morning."
"Wha—really?"
"Yeah. Specs was helping Dutchy clean up the mess. He'll be up in a few minutes so we can get started on that report."
Bumlets leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin contemplatively. "I remember Specs going on about how much he hated the mailroom, though."
"Yeah, he did and he does. He said he got suckered in by some pretty intern today," David explained with a chuckle.
"Ah, well, that explains it," Bumlets said, grinning. He stretched his arms above his head. "If Specs is coming up, I guess the mailroom is all fixed up?"
"Doesn't sound like it. Apparently, HR is sending down their intern to take his place in cleaning up the fiasco."
Bumlets perked up. "Their intern?" Briefly, he fiddled with his pen, tapping it anxiously on the desk. Polaroid was the only intern at HR, he knew. "You don't think they need more help, do you? I mean, it sounds like it's chaos down there. I wouldn't mind helping out…"
As Bumlets and David discussed the unfortunate state of the mailroom, neither noticed the arrival of two small hooded figures. These shadowed figures crept silently into the office. They carried between them a large and hefty garbage bag. It wasn't until they stood in front of David's cubicle that they were finally acknowledged.
"Oh hey, Les," David said, greeting his younger sibling. He nodded towards the blonde boy next to his brother. "Who's your friend?"
"This is Devon, our new pal," Les introduced nonchalantly. "We call him Slider."
"Cool; hey, Slider. I'm David, Les' older brother."
"Yeah, hi."
"What're you guys up to?" asked Bumlets, eyeing the bag in their hands.
"Ya know, this and that," Les answered vaguely. He tugged at the garbage bag. "Actually, we wanted to ask you guys for a favor."
"Yeah? How can we help?" said Bumlets affably.
"It's the stuff in this bag, see," Les indicated. To David and Bumlet's puzzlement, Les and Slider simultaneously swung the bag back for momentum.
They weren't quick enough to foresee the kids' intentions. Suddenly, shreds of papers, ping pong balls, empty plastic bottles, and other various stuffs flew into the air… and promptly fell on their heads. The two jumped back too late in an attempt to escape the falling junk and recyclables. David immediately realized they'd been had—by his own little brother.
"I'm telling mom!" he yelled to Les, who was already at the door. His brother turned round long enough to stick his tongue out at David.
"Have fun cleaning that up, suckers!" Slider shouted back.
Bumlets and David were rather dumbfounded and were gathering their wits when an ominous voice chilled the air: "What is the meaning of this?" Mr. Snyder was on his feet, eyes bulging with rage.
Flabbergasted as they were, the two were taken aback by Snyder's fury and could only sputter in response, pointing at the door through which the kids had disappeared.
David tried to explain. "It's 'Bring Your Kids to Work' Day… my brother—I mean—these kids, they, I guess they were bored…" He shouldn't have mentioned Les and now he was stumbling over his words—a rare occurrence for him, the Walking Mouth—trying to remedy his verbal slip.
"Your brother, Mr. Jacobs? The younger Jacobs is the cause of this disarray?"
"Uh…"
"I should have expected as much. Straighten this place up immediately," Snyder commanded. The chill in his voice discouraged argument.
"This sucks," Bumlets muttered once Snyder was out of earshot. "What's up with your brother, man?"
David could only sigh. He should have seen this coming. After the first "Bring Your Kids to Work" Day, Les had acted far too pleased with himself and David wasn't able to figure out why. Now he knew: his little brother was part of the rogue group terrorizing the company.
Mailroom
"I sure hope those two brought their water guns today," sighed Specs as he lazily tossed mail into what he hoped were the appropriate bins.
"Ha! Race and Swifty said they'd bring their Super Soakers? Man, I'm broke as hell but I'd pay to see them try get back at those kids."
The pair shuffled around each other as they tried to get the mail sorted. Even after several hours, their restoral efforts barely made a dent. The rogue children had quite a job of wrecking the mailroom indeed.
"Hey, I have a question," Dutchy piped up suddenly. "Why didn't these kids get Jonathan?"
Specs raised a brow at his friend. "How do you know they didn't?"
"'Cause if they did, ya think Jonathan would've scheduled another 'Bring Your Kids to Work' Day?"
Specs flung another a crumpled envelope and paused. "You're right."
"I mean, he's an easy target."
"The easiest target," Specs agreed.
"So why didn't they?"
"'Cause he's with kids all day, giving those company tours," answered Jack as he and David entered the mailroom, "and they won't risk attacking one of their own." He leaned his elbows against a turned-over bin and flashed an excited grin. "Guess what we learned?"
Dutchy and Specs, sensing big news, stopped sorting mail and stepped over packages towards their friends. "What?"
Jack spread his arms out wide and smugly announced, "Fellas, I'm immune."
"What're you talking about?" Specs questioned.
Jack pointed a thumb in David's direction, who looked downright sullen, and said, "Guess whose brother is a rogue?"
The bespectacled pair frowned. "You talking about Les? Les has gone rogue?" asked Dutchy.
"Apparently he'll terrorize his own brother," David mumbled. He then briefly described the flying recyclables fiasco.
"Chucked garbage at his own brother," Jack repeated, laughing.
"Wait, wait, wait. So the kid got at his own sibling… how does that make you immune?" said Specs.
"Guys," Jack began, as though the answer was obvious, "Davey's just his brother. Les and me are pals. Think about it—the first Kids Day, the rogue group went crazy on everyone on our floor... except me. Ergo, I'm immune."
"Oh," Dutchy uttered with understanding. But something bothered Specs about Jack's explanation. He vaguely recalled swapping nightmarish stories about the little terrors back in April with his co-workers, and there was one person who obviously came out of the day's ordeal unscathed, considering how oblivious said person was to the chaos that had swept through the company that ill-fated day. It was after a few moments of reflection when he was able to pinpoint the problem. "That's some solid logic there, Jack, except for one thing."
Jack looked skeptical. "What's that?"
"You weren't the only one on your floor who was unaffected on the first Kids Day. Skittery was spared, too."
Pegasus sulked as she waited for the elevator. It was almost 4:30 and still there was no sign of Mr. Jones or of his kidnapper. Preoccupied all day with hopeful thoughts of Mr. Jones' safe return, she was barely able to finish any work. With the chaos in the office — which included whoopee cushions, more exploding pens, more missing personal items and ransom notes, crank calls, mustachios on posters — no one on the floor was particularly productive.
She was on her way back to the Communications floor. She hated to be a pest, but Peg was compelled to visit Jean once more to ask about her brother's whereabouts. The elevator gave a ding! and the doors parted with a mechanic groan.
To Peg's surprise, Swifty and Race stood inside, appearing quite dejected and very obviously soaked. "What happened to you guys?" she asked as they sulked out.
"Nothin'," Race muttered sourly, trudging towards the Lab without a second's glance.
Swifty was more compliant. "We got beat at our own game," he explained as he lifted his Super Soaker, which was half-full of sloshing water.
He didn't have to clarify any further: Peg understood immediately that the rogue children had struck yet again. "How?"
"Pelted us with water balloons." Swifty rubbed at his temples, his disappointment clear. "Any luck with Indy?"
She shook her head. "I'm going to go ask Jeans again."
"Good luck."
I'll need it, she thought as she stepped into the elevator. Mr. Jones was not a toy — he was a collector's item. In a child's hands, the carefully sculpted Mr. Jones replica could get scratched. His detailed accessories could go missing. She didn't even want to think about what might have happened to his signature hat. When the elevator let her off at the sixth floor, Peg was ready to expect the worst. Filled with dread, she willed her heavy feet closer and closer to the Communications office.
Just as she pushed open the door, prepared to face the bad news, a voice behind her caused her to whip around. Eyes wide and ears alert, she zoned in on the voice and her footsteps feverishly lead her to its source. Turning the corner, she spotted him:
Mr. Jones' kidnapper.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll be at your desk," he said, speaking into his phone. "No, jeez, I didn't make any trouble, sis. What ransom note? I didn't write any—"
"You!" Peg roared.
Snipeshooter promptly snapped shut his phone, taken aback by Peg's sudden appearance.
"Give him back," she demanded.
"What're you talking about?" he retorted, regaining his composure.
"My Indiana Jones collectible action figure. You've had your fun, now return him to me."
"Why should I? By the way, you're in the guy's bathroom."
Peg paused. She was indeed standing in the men's restroom, but she was too desperate to recover Mr. Jones from the thief to care. "Listen, little kid," she said, pointing a menacing finger at him, "if you don't give him back, that's called stealing. I could report you for that."
"Oh no, please don't report me!" He rolled his eyes. "What's in it for me? You got something to trade for Indy's life?"
Peg was dumbfounded. Trade? She wasn't giving this kid diddly-squat for what he put her through!
"Whatcha got there?" He eyed the bag in her left hand. "Ya know what, I'll make this super easy. I'll return Indy… for those Crumbs cupcakes."
"Say what?" Peg clung onto the bag protectively. After all the trouble she went to to buy the cupcakes and safely transport them to work, there was no way she was going to hand them over to this rogue child. "No deal."
"Say goodbye, then." Snipeshooter roughly pulled Mr. Jones out of his backpack and started towards one of the stalls. It was clear that he meant to drown Mr. Jones.
"No! Wait…" She quickly weighed her options. On one hand, there was Mr. Jones. On the other, there were two friends who had been waiting all day for cupcakes. Peg sighed remorsefully.
A minute later, she walked out of the men's restroom with Mr. Jones carefully tucked in her arms.
The Lab
Tumbler raised his head above Skittery's divider. Skittery was hard at work on his computer, but once he caught sight of the Tumbler, he gave him a wry smile. "Hey kid, where ya been?"
"Hi Skittery!" Tumbler leapt into his cubicle. "You busy?"
"Sorta, nothing urgent. What's up?"
"I was just wondering," he said.
"Wondering what?" Skittery prodded when he didn't continue.
"I was wondering who that girl was that you were hanging out with all day," he finished.
Skittery lifted a brow. "What girl—oh, Peg? She's my co-worker. I was just helping her find something." He didn't mention that Peg, in order to track down Mr. Jones, was using Skittery as a shield as well as to lure members of the rogue group, for she was wholeheartedly convinced that Tumbler was a rogue. Skittery wasn't too sure about that. Tumbler had a mischievous side, sure, but was he one to wreak mass havoc on an entire company?
"I talked to Irish Flare today," Tumbler mentioned. "You guys are still friends, right?"
He didn't expect that question. "Huh? Yeah. Yeah, we're still friends." He couldn't help but ask, "Why?"
"I dunno. She looked kinda sad when I asked about you," he answered absently, fiddling with the notes and papers on Skittery's desk.
She did? "Oh yeah?" He feigned interest in his work, staring at his monitor. Cautiously, he asked, "What'd she say?"
"She said…" Tumbler trailed off and became silent. Skittery chanced a glance at the kid and saw that he stood frozen, eyes wide with panic. "Uh-oh…" he whispered.
"What is it?"
Tumbler, looking very guilty, hesitated. He twiddled his thumbs and fidgeted uncomfortably. Finally, when he saw no way out of his predicament with Skittery watching him so intently, Tumbler confessed, "I think she might be in trouble."
When Skittery got a full understanding of the situation — and dimly realized that Peg had been right about Tumbler being rogue — he moved quickly. He and Tumbler hurried up to Communications and tracked down Snipeshooter, from whom he snatched the custodial keys. Then they raced down to the basement and to the far end of the hallway. Tumbler stood back as Skittery knocked on the door while fumbling with the mass of keys. A muffled, frantic yell answered.
It took a few minutes, but he finally found the right key and, twisting it about in the lock, pulled open the custodial door. From the darkness, Irish Flare, appearing uncharacteristically disheveled and distraught, emerged. Her eyes watered with tears of relief. With no word of warning, she threw her arms around Skittery.
He stood stunned, even as Snitch — Skittery had wondered where this kid was all day — appeared out of the closet just after Irish, squinting from the bright light. "Skitts, you saved us!" he announced gratefully. And then he, too, wrapped his arms around Skittery. His next words came out muffled: "You don't happen to have some food with you, do ya? I'm starving…"
Author's Note: Finally. I can hardly believe it's been over a year since this has been updated! It's been ages since I've spent a whole day writing and, I have to say, I really missed it. Thank you's to Adren, Rags, Repeat, Song For A Rainy Day, Swayy, stress, Polaroid, Acorn, and Austra for your reviews!