Summary: Sanderson called in sick for work. Not entirely believing him, H.P. calls up Anti-Sanderson for confirmation, and learns more than he wanted to.

Characters: Anti-Sanderson, H.P.

Rating: K+

Prerequisites: None. The anti-pixies appeared in the FOP video game, "Clash With the Anti-World." The events of that game aren't considered canon, but I was fond of the wild green party animals, so I adopted them.

Posted: July 20, 2016

89. Not (Pre-series)

Thursday September 21st, Aurora 133

Year of Breath; Autumn of the Patient Dormouse

The snapping, fizzy, bubbling, boiling noises did nothing for the screeching headache twiddling like three whirling birdies about his pointed ears, but then again, jumping on the bed for two hours and making grabs for the obnoxiously-high windowsill hadn't been doing anything for his headache, either. So, when the scrying bowl began to shoot up streams of water, Anti-Sanderson made his way hand-over-hand along the wall, taking more care than he otherwise might have not to step on any broken glass or stray soda cans pockmarked with heavy dents.

"And at this time a' day?" he seethed. Running claws through his tufted blond hair - Where had his hat flounced off to? - he found himself groaning in a very un-Anti-Sanderson-like manner. "It's gotta be two in the afternoon. Maybe even 1:30- gotta be only 1:30 now. C'mon, how's an anti-pixie s'posed ta take a nap with all a' this racket going on? I'm coming, yeesh! Cool ya jets, salt-paste!"

Upon reaching the desk, he stuck his finger in the wide black dish and carried it with him back to the crumpled bed. By the time he'd repositioned himself among the pillows, the reflection of his green fur and his new, cheerful smirk had melted into another face entirely. A somewhat older face lined with maybe a wrinkle here, maybe a faint dash of gray-white on top there. The thick black hair cowlicked twice in the front just like his own.

"H.P., bucko! My fav man! Stayin' chill, I hope?"

"Quite. Dude." The Head Pixie squinted down through the shimmering water on his end with eyes that told Anti-Sanderson like, half of everything ever. They trailed around what little of the pink room he could see from his position. Obviously, he was not impressed. Poor soggy sock probably would have preferred sterling gray, and fewer of the half-off coupons from restaurants and flyers for dances that had come and gone centuries ago that were tacked along the cracked and grubby walls. "My time is not a commodity I can afford to waste, so please be quick in answering. I wanted to know, are you feeling well?"

Anti-Sanderson pulled his lips back from his fangs in a grin. "I'm like mega hungover right now, brah. We broke out the non-diet soda and gummy bears last night and crashed hard. Not that partying i'n't what we do every night and not that we ain't used ta copin' with it. 'ey, if you see Anti-Cos, tell him he got the best big brother in the universe, 'kay peaches? Ol' Anti-Schnozie runs a tidy ship after we's all stumbled back ta bed."

The old fart snapped his fingers twice beside his ear. Beyond him, his office was three shades of purple and lined with old books on shelves that Anti-Sanderson guessed from the layers of dust were probably for show. Gotta look smart. He'd probably chosen that location to make his scrying bowl call on purpose. "Let me rephrase my question. Aside from the obvious, are you feeling well?"

"H-Pop, I never, never, neverland feel well. Eight times out a' thirteen, I wake up in the middle of the night to puke myself silly, and then I go looking for more junk food t' fill the void. Why?"

"Answer first and then I'll explain."

A secret? That prompted Anti-Sanderson to cock his head to the right. What was Sandy Prime getting up to over there on the other side of the Divide? Attempting to keep the curiosity out of his voice, but slipping enough in beneath the casual overtones, he said, "Aw, tell me why, cootchie-coo."

The Head Pixie's wings flickered up around his shoulders, but he forced them down again and set his jaw. All without looking up from whatever it was he was scribbling across various parchments, mind you. "I want your answer. Be grateful I'm allowing you to give it verbally rather than forcing you to file it in the proper format."

"I'm… I s'pose I'm not feelin' too great, nah. Not really at all. Not not not not not not… Why?"

"Hmm." He licked his finger and picked up another page. He picked it up- didn't even turn it, and still licked his finger. That fact might have slipped past a lot of anti-pixies, but not Anti-Sanderson. He noticed, and it made him bring his sunglasses down from his electric yellow hair so he could narrow his eyes without being obvious about it. Was the Head Pixie even working on anything at all, or was he just trying to put on the act of looking busy to put Anti-Sanderson on the defensive?

H.P. said, "Sanderson sent a message that he's too sick to come into work today. It's not like him to lie, but I wanted to know if that was true before I hunted him down and risked exposing myself to unnecessary germs. Being his anti-self you're synced up to him, so I thought I might ask. I'm now realizing my mistake."

"Not a prob, not a prob, not a probolita." He licked his lips, then tapped a long nail against the side of the black stone bowl. "'ey. 'ey, I know what'd make him feel better. You should ask me what I'd do, potato chip."

A grimace. A brief glance up, then down. More rustling paper. "Should I? I think I would rather not."

"Go on. Ask!"

"Very well. What do you think would make Sanderson feel better, Anti-Sanderson?"

"You should get him a drink of water, then bring him a hot cloth for his face and rub it for about two minutes. Leave it there while you… what was… Oh, yeah." He clapped his green hands twice. "Get a tub of ice cream ready for him. Cream soda is the best. And no stuffy blankets on the bed. That's what Anti-Schnozmo does. And he brings me orange juice."

"I'm not going to fawn over him. I have neither the time nor desire to do that, and I don't want him to start playing sick for attention."

Anti-Sanderson shrugged. "You asked, H. Give 'im some sugar for me. I've been passin' lonely nights since you told him not ta stray over here, and especially past his curfew."

Now the Head Pixie really did look up and hold his stare. Lavender eyes to lavender eyes, separated by a shimmering sheet of water. "You ran him ragged for three weeks straight forcing him to play disc jockey without hardly a break. He was pushing himself to make it through every day of work. As long as he was meeting his deadlines, I allowed it. Until I realized he was running purely on coffee fumes. He passed out in the middle of a presentation, bubbling at the mouth, and didn't wake for an entire weekend. Someone had to draw the line."

"Aw, well, you know me. Can't tell a C-flat from a J-sharp. But I did let 'im away from spinning those big black discs a few times here and there. He's not the worst dance partner I've eve' twirled around by the fingertips, and his clumsy inexperience blends in just fine 'longside our own unsteadiness. And I made 'im happy, didn't I?"

Anti-Sanderson thought he picked up the slightest ounce of hesitation before the Head Pixie said, "He appeared to be."

"He's a sweet chip. Gives me smiles when I'm close enough I could ruffle his hair, which sometimes I do. It's disgusting that you try to suppress that cheerful side of him with a palm a' saliva and a disapproving eye. It's not an adolescent phase. I'm tellin' ya, H- if you'd just show the duckie a little love every once in awhile, maybe he wouldn't be so desperate for my approval. You either gotta treat 'im right, or let me sub in like a regula'."

Apparently, for a brief moment the Head Pixie stopped addressing the anti-pixie to snap that Sterling needed to find something more productive to do than folding paper boats out of old contracts. Then he returned and adjusted his glasses. "Sanderson knows what I expect of him. If he fails to meet my expectations, he'll lose his privileges. It's as simple as that. Your self-destructive influence is what cost him the final shreds of a chance he had at vice president position, in case you were wondering. He'll be finding out about that at the ceremony tomorrow night. We'll see how much he wants your 'love' then."

"That cuts, pal." Anti-Sanderson flicked a fluff of white from his foot and swapped the scrying bowl to his other knee. "Listen. Can we get a li'l less a' the guilt trip next time, sugar packet? You're just gonna make me feel sicker'n I already am."

"I'll let you schedule another appointment of praying to your porcelain god, then. Though I rather suspect that persuading Sanderson to believe I was his villain and you were his hero so he might lose everything he's always believed he wanted was your plan all along. You're his anti-pixie, after all, and you feed off his misery."

"Do mine pointy ears deceive me? You claim you knew it was my plan, and yet'cha never tried stoppin' him? Not true, not true. I think someone's lying ta me. Ohoh, yes I do. I don't much like lying. You're not quite the type ta letcha children make their own mistakes! You know what I think, gum wrapper?" He sat forward on his bed, smiling at his reflection in the black surface of the bowl itself- his face and jacket with all their clashing colors. "I think my Sandy-boy pulled a fast one over Big Daddy's big forehead, and you di'n't catch him 'til he got sloppy."

H.P. wrinkled his nose. "Think what you care to. I'm certainly not interested in being manipulated today and your words hold no power over me. All right. Before I hang up, I have one request to make: Will you connect me through to the Head Anti-Pixie?"

"Speaking."

After a moment of hesitation, the Head Pixie took off his glasses and blinked. "I'm sorry. I think you must be breaking up. Where did you say your father was?"

"Well, like, so do you wanna talk to my old man, or to the Head Anti-Pixie? Because one of 'em is down to half his marbles and the other is my pop. He ain't here. Can I fly a message?"

There were quick fingersnaps from the other side. "My time and patience are running to the ends of their cords. Please, if you would, grant me the chance to speak to the Head Anti-Pixie. I will not ask again."

"H-Pix, my friend, you've got him on the line like a flopping fish, right here and now." Anti-Sanderson looked about for his floppy navy blue hat flecked with yellow stars, and grabbed it from the floor between the bed and his overturned desk. Swinging it over his golden hair, he sat up again. The star on the tip twinkled noisily like in the song. "I overthrew the ol' wingbag a solid fifteen years ago. His cap and title rest on my head these days. So if you're wantin' a' hook up a mix-and-mingle with my folk, lay it on me. We cater."

At first, the Head Pixie seemed too lost to respond. Anti-Sanderson plopped back in his pillows and amused himself by running his socked feet up and down the wall.

"… You overthrew the old Head Anti-Pixie?"

"'Old' was right. Not that it was hard- Actually, it was easier'n it sounds, taffy tart. A couple of us were livin' it up on one of the higher roofs and he, well, he had an accident. If you remember, you tried ta place an embargo and a recall on our starpieces centuries ago. And, like anyone, we don't fly so well when there ain't much around ta 'ttract the magic field and it starts dryin' up. Broke a couple a' his bones in the fall (thought he mighta paralyzed himself for awhile there, but he walked it off) and crawled away somewhere ta nurse himself back to health. Again, all without magic, so I'd give him a whoop whoop if I were you and thank the Molpa-Pel that th'injury and sickness sync only works in one direction. Now, if you'da thought ta use a healing spell on you'self for no particular reason, he might've been up and full of drunken rage within a day or two. I may not be where I am t'day."

"Why?"

He rolled over and pulled the bowl closer to him with both hands. Elbows on his messy covers (or what was left of them- streamers, really). Fists on his cheeks. "Why do I do anything? I was bored. That's really all there is to it. Your friends the Anti-Fairies are creatures of bad luck, and we getta be the creatures a' bad habits. 'ey, don't get so steamed; the kook's all apples and oranges now and cheery as a sandpiper. He doesn't really mind that I've got his cap, so I just never gave it back. You know ol' Pops."

The Head Pixie appeared to be grinding his teeth against each other. He was no longer sitting in his chair, but standing above his scrying bowl with arms braced to either side. "Do your brothers support you in this?"

"I dunno. I haven't had a sober conversation with 'em for awhile."

"I see. Thank you for informing me of this… development. Although I wish you would have brought it to my attention as it happened. I like to document these things."

Anti-Sanderson stretched out and grabbed a can of cherry soda. He popped the lid with one claw as he usually did, and a fluffy pink stream swelled up in his furry face. "'ey, and don't start shootin' my Sandypop any expectant looks 'cuz a' this. I don't think he's worked out any plans ta overthrow you yet. He's a simpleton'n a coward, and he could never bring himself to do it. It's not in his goopy li'l heart. Not, not, not, nope. I like him. He's cute."

"Your input has been taken into consideration. I thank you for your time." He hung up with a snort.