You Get Me: Sequel to You Got Mail

“What!?” Steampunk blurted, his hands shaking. “I…I…If you think you can buy my forgiveness you have another thing coming! I refuse to be bought by anyone!”

You Get Me: Sequel to You Got Mail

Overlapping voices and laughter filled the air and thus provided the perfect atmosphere for his guest. He always did prefer louder locations, the nosier the better, I am going to have to ask him how exactly echolocation-vibration sight is works, Mousse thought, whilst the rich nutty coffee aroma of coffee filled his nose. After a moment, he gently sipped at his hot mug as opposed to staring back at his friend of over one hundred years.

“You are an idiot,” A thick English accent seethed, followed by the sharp whistling hiss of steam that often accompanied the fellow toon. “What were you thinking!?”

Mousse did not answer, with a heavy steel ball of dread weighing down his stomach he simply glanced around the café. His café. The floors were made of thick black wood that Mousse still did not know what kind of tree it had come from. Meanwhile the walls themselves were painted summer gold with a large mural image depicted a red squirrel running in the forefront whilst holding a large basket of walnuts, chocolate truffles, and coffee beans. Behind the fleeing squirrel several other ones with grey, beige, black, and even brown fur chasing after the lone red one. It had taken a long time for Mousse to find a painter willing to create the image in his head, even though things for toons had changed, there were still humans that refused to work for a “drawing” or “doodle”. But the search had paid off in the end, even if the humans refused to be credited for their own work, the painting brought hundreds of customers to his shop.

The shop itself was filled to the brim. The brown cushioned rocking chairs spread generously throughout the café were all filled. The cream-colored beanbag chairs were stuffed with at least two to three occupants, most likely with close friends or couples comfortable with being so smooshed together. Golden glass side tables were stacked to the brim with teas, coffees, and homemade sodas alongside cakes, cookies, and his shop’s famous chocolate mousse. At the service counter, nearing the back of the store, a long line of customers waited for their turn to order while the employees behind the counter did their best to make food, clean up dishes, and attended to requests as soon as possible. Most of his employees were toons; a fruit bat here, a clown there, and so many more that were grateful to have a job. The three human employees he had on staff were nowhere to be seen.

They are likely lazing about in the break room, Mousse grumbled and narrowed his eyes, he would really hate to fire them but those three never seemed to want to work. I get so many complaints from my human clientele that they want more of their species represented in the shop, and yet, all I seem to hire is whiny slothful bigots every single time.

“Mousse!” A familiar British accent finally forced Mousse to look at his friend. The toon, a steam powered robot made of mahogany wood, wore a surprisingly prominent frown on his mug. His hair, resembling a buzz cut, was a set of thick pipes that allowed near transparent puffs of heated air to escape his enteral frame while a speaker took up the place of where of eyes would have been if he were human. Around his neck, his friend wore a silver necklace with a matching key on it, that he and Mousse both knew went to the visible steel lock on his chest. “I did not come here for stories, I already knew what happened. Now tell me, where did you go after you received the email?”

Mousse hummed, taking another sip of his coffee which was admittedly more chocolate than caffeine. “Steampunk, you seem to be jumping to conclusions. Whoever said that I responded to it? I may have contemplated over it, but I never said I agreed to the terms that mystery serial toon killer had set. I simply—”

BANG! The squirrel toon flinched, the buzzing murmurs of the café around them quieting slightly as Steampunk slammed his hands on the table. His speaker rattled, causing the normally clear voice of his friend to come out laced with ear ringing feedback and static like it always tended to do when Steampunk was distressed. “Simply what!? Cut all contact with me!? I could have helped you! My creator died at eight years old, I know and experienced a grief so powerful that it broke a marriage. How come you did not trust me to give you counseling or even just an ear to vent to? I could hav—”

“I needed to grieve on my own terms,” Mousse cooly stated, even as his inky heart ached underneath his fur. “At the time, I could not see you as anything but a memory of my creator. You and she got so close especially after…after you were cast out. It was great at the time, having another toon to talk to. But when my creator died, every memory I had of you was tied to Madaline. I could not go to you for counseling because you were part of the very issue I was facing,” It was hard to hold a whisper, but Mousse managed as much, lest some of the nosier customers caught on to the finer details of what they were discussing.

For a beat, nothing but silence rained, the clinks and clanks of cutlery filling the gap of noise. Steampunk took a deep breath and sighed, a stream of semi-white fog escaping the pipes at such an alarming rate it created a literal cloud over his head before it slowly dissipated. “I…I hate that what your saying makes sense,” Steampunk groaned, slumping in his seat. “Just please do not disappear on me again, okay?”

Mousse smiled, rummaging through his fluffy tail before pulling out a stuffed bulging envelope. “I plan to make sure of it,” He tossed the white rectangle at Steampunk, the envelope flying through the air before gently skidding across the table only to stop in front of the toon he deemed the most deserving of such generosity.

Steampunk tilted his head, Mousse shrugged refusing to give anything away, and so all the slightly older toon could do to answer his internal query was grab the packet and open it. At first, Steampunk seemingly did not react, but as his fingers filled through each and every last bill his jaw visibly slackened, and his speaker squeaked out a sudden burst of picky feedback. “Wha-What!?” Steampunk stammered, having to take a breath to keep himself from screaming. “This is one thousand dollars! Are you selling yourself?”

Although, it did sting to hear Steampunk ask him this, it was not uncommon for unemployed toons or recently abandoned ones to sell themselves for either pleasure or for the premium ink that made them up. Mousse could understand why Steampunk would jump to such conclusions, but… “Nope, the shop is just doing that well, I recently even managed to sign a few contracts with some out of state stores that will allow my goods to be stocked on their shelves so more money will come rolling in soon,” Mousse pressed a hand to his chest, yep, he could feel his heart collide with his hand. “I would like you to join me, work here, and makes friends with other toons. Maybe we can even repair our friendship and find ourselves a new status quo after a little while.”

“What!?” Steampunk blurted, his hands shaking. “I…I…If you think you can buy my forgiveness you have another thing coming! I refuse to be bought by anyone!”

He shook his head, the stinging in his chest feeling more akin to a stab at this point. “I am not trying to purchase anything from you, let alone your autonomy, think of this as more of an olive branch. You can refuse my offer, leave with the money, and we can never talk again. Hell, you can accept my offer and ignore me for the duration of your employment or until we begin to monochrome, whichever comes first. I will not be mad about whatever you choose. This is your choice,” Mousse stated, before shooting a small smile at Steampunk.

“So? Do you know what you wanna do now? Or do you need more time?”

Steampunk ran his fingers through the bills again and, even though he lacked any eyes, Mousse knew his dear friend was staring deep into his core.