(this bcb is a little long sorry)
“Oh, finally!” The Stranger crawls out of the van and walks towards Wilbur, brushing invisible dust off their suit. They look her over. “Hm. Different angle than I was expecting, but it should work. Come around back, the door on this side of the van is broken.”
As the Stranger leads Wilbur around the other side of the van, a woman (?) leans out from the passenger seat with interest. “Ooh, is this the newcomer? He’s cute—“
“Absolutely not. Marcelle, get in shotgun.” The Stranger flicked his hand towards the front of the vehicle.
Marcelle groaned but complied, grinning at Wilbur as she passed her by. Her joints were segmented, Wilbur noticed, like an endoskeleton. And it’s fairly certain it saw her blink sideways.
The stranger ushered Wilbur to into the now-vacant seat. A fairly buff looking man sitting on the other side— Al, probably— gave Wilbur the white guy (tm) smile/wince. (You know the one. The— 😐).
“Scooch over.” The Stranger nudged Wilbur into the middle seat of the car so that they could sit on the right. “Sorry, the van is only suited for four people. I would have put you in shotgun but I need to talk to you about the mission— and it would be unadvisable to have your back to Marcelle.”
“For fucks sake, Herb, I’m not an animal! I can control myself, thank you very much.” Marcelle turns in her seat to glare at her boss, then glances at Wilbur with a smile. “..However difficult that may be, with the current company present.”
“Uh, may I remind you of how many of how employees you’ve eaten? Peter? Or Emile? Or— most importantly—Natalie?” ‘Herb’ snaps back.
Al leans sideways towards Wilbur. “For context, Natalie was our previous HR officer. God knows why we need one, since we’re a maf— uh, unofficial business circuit.”
“Yes, and now that she’s gone, we’re stuck with that bitch Kerry.” Herb says, chewing aggressively on a brand-new blue Squrgle. “And have to pull out seven NDA’s every time we hire someone because Ms. Holier-than-thou would have an aneurysm if she knew about Treble.”
Marcelle snickers, idly inspecting her sharpened nails— no, wait. Sharpened fingers. She doesn’t appear to have nails. “Say hi, Treble.”
The person in the driver’s seat turns to wave, and— that’s a child. That’s a thirteen year old child, sitting in a booster seat in order to see over the steering wheel.
“This is our driver.” Herb introduces Treble to Wilbur. The kid stares at him, slurping soda ominously through a straw. “Paid volunteer, a family relative.”
“And Squrgle dealer.” Treble says, still staring at Wilbur.
“and the source of my Squrgle, yes. D’you have your keys, kid?”
“Good, get us out of here.” Herb pulls out a portfolio as Treble adjusts their floppy green frog hat and starts driving.
“Ain’t she a good kid? Going places, I tell you. Big future ahead of them.” Herb says proudly.
Treble is currently driving 35 mph, fiddling with the buttons on the car radio without even glancing at the road in front of them.
Marcelle sighs. “I’ll handle the music, squirt. Focus on the road.” She looks back at the others. “Song requests?”
(TFW your new coworkers consist of the shadiest motherfucker alive, an eldritch horror, a literal child, and some white guy)
Wilbur shrugged at the comment, following after them. Her boots clicked against the floor of the van as he clambered in, having to crouch to fit.
When he sees Marcelle, who she's assuming is the person the stranger warned him about, he blinks and waves slowly. The brunette tries very hard not to stare at her joints or the way she fucking blinks horizontally in favor of scooting into the seat.
The revived man has to lean downwards while sitting so it's head doesn't hit the ceiling, but it makes due. At seeing Al, he gives a small hum in greeting, crossing one leg over the other.
“So this is common for you to..?”
She trails off at hearing the list of names of people Marcelle has eaten, looking between Herb—apparently—and Marcelle. It pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing.
Wilbur mutters when told about Natalie by Al, and gives him a small smile in gratitude. Which doesn't quite do as intended as Wilbur's smiles always look threatening, but she's trying at least. But he doubletakes at the ‘unofficial business circuit’ bit; that's definitely not what Al said at first.
When Wilbur's attention is put over to the driver, his crimson eyes widen and her mouth goes agape. That is an actual child. Not like Tommy child. Like—an actual child.
She gives a delayed wave back, blinking confusedly at Treble just stares at him.
“Uh– right. Great staring skills, kid.”
The older says, inhaling deeply. Yep. A child is driving the van. What the fuck. And frankly, better than she can drive himself.
(average workplace! no matter how weird it is, there's always just A White Guy ™)
