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Snorpy couldn’t sleep.
Correction: Snorpy couldn’t sleep again. He’d never been the most…gifted when it came to sleeping through the night, and he considered that a blessing in some regard. It was important to never let one’s guard down, especially while remaining on the lookout for Grumpinati activity. It came with its own cost, though, as once again he found himself mulling about the mill and trying to find ways to occupy himself until the tiredness finally won out against the insomnia.
He could make out the glow of several of his flares from the window. Currently, they were the only thing keeping the town protected at night. He had brought up the idea of sleeping in shifts several times in the past, just as a security measure, but nobody took him up on the offer. Eggabell had been the only one to even entertain the sentiment, but, well, she was gone now, which left him on his own. As far as everyone else was concerned, the hut walls and fences were enough of a defence to not worry. He remained uncertain.
Looking over the settlement was a job that fell to him, then. Snorpy grabbed a chair and dragged it over to sit. It would save him a bit of energy in the long term. Despite the physical changes that came from consuming Bugsnax, it hadn’t done anything for his admittedly pitiful stamina. He was perfectly happy as an indoor grumpus, thank you very much.
As he rested his elbows against the sill, he could swear something shifted in the darkness. Now perfectly alert, he leaned forward for a better look. Had it just been the shifting flames of the torch? No, no, something definitely was moving, but-
To his annoyance, or relief, he realized after a moment that it was just their newest member of their little island community, the strange journalist that Lizbert had invited on such high recommendation.
They were a grumpus of few words. Of course, their interview questions were well-written and erudite, but they never felt padded with extraneous or unnecessary words. Snorpy respected that about them, intellectual but never condescending about it. Floofty could certainly take a few lessons from them…
He shooed the thought away. It didn’t answer the question at hand, why exactly were they out and about at such a time of day? They hadn’t been off collecting Bugsnax for a couple of days now, were they off on a new excursion? No, that didn’t make sense, either. The journalist tended to leave during the day, it was safer that way. Nor did they appear very interested in any of the paths out of town. Their attention was somewhere else, someplace that Snorpy couldn’t discern from a glance. He tried to keep an eye on them as they passed through, though it was a little tricky. Their fur was a bit similar to Wambus’, but darker to the point where it was very difficult to even see them past nightfall unless they were moving. The remnants of their exploration and Bugnax-catching excursions tended to cling to their pelt- bits of plants, sand, pebbles, leftover water from the springs dripping off- and at a distance, the junk glinted in the light like tiny stars. If they weren’t his trusted old chum, Snorpy would likely have studied them as some sort of cryptid. Or at least prodded them to take a bath. The only consistent way he could find to follow their movement was to look for the glint of the snaxscope that hung off the strap on their shoulders. Perhaps insomnia had struck them as well, and that was why they were out and about at such an hour.
As he watched their little unexplained journey, something else eked into his vision. The bright pink was hard to miss, and, thankfully, perfectly familiar to see at this time of night. After long enough, everyone knew what they were supposed to do upon seeing Gramble sleepwalking across town, even if half of them just ended up ignoring him anyway. A couple of firm nudges were enough to wake him up, to which he’d fretfully excuse himself to head back to his proper bed and hopefully stay there for the rest of the night. Snorpy had made watching it part of his sleepless routine, perched by the windowsill and waiting for the rancher to pass by.
Indeed, that seemed what the journalist was going to do once again. As soon as they noticed him, they headed in his direction. Instead, however, he watched the journalist approach the short grumpus, kneel down to his height, and pluck him right off of the ground.
Snorpy had seen the others pick Gramble up before, although he never seemed especially happy when it happened. Wiggle’s sheer difference in height compared to him meant that she’d swept him off the ground accidentally multiple times, and during one of his recurring squabbles with Wambus, the farmer had grabbed him by the scruff of his sweater in a display of intimidation. Neither had looked particularly comfortable, even before Gramble started shrieking in terror while dangling two feet off of the ground. He didn’t expect this to be different. It was still fundamentally the same, whether it be dragging him around or simply picking him up for some reason.
To his utter bafflement, he watched as Gramble settled further into the stranger’s fur, practically purring in contentment.
He…he was enjoying himself? That didn’t make sense. Nor did it make sense why the Journalist was carrying him. They had never come across as the cuddly type. Strange. Very strange. Snorpy would have to keep an eye on them. There was a chance that this was not in fact the journalist he knew, but some Grumpinati-produced clone sent out on a test run. It would very much explain their odd behavior, wouldn’t it? He had to be vigilant.
As quietly as he could manage, Snorpy ducked out of the barn and tried to keep the Journalist in sight. With an unconscious Gramble still in-hand, they trudged up the hill and past the sauce farm. For a moment, he wondered if they were trying to abduct Gramble and sneak out of town in the direction of the grove. His snakified legs tensed, ready to lunge out and tackle them both to the ground if they so much as passed the town fence.
Instead, he watched them take a sharp turn into the open barn doors of Gramble’s ranch. No matter how tightly he would lock them at night, they always managed to come undone thanks to his sleepwalking. He’d futilely re-lock every time he was woken up and sent back to bed, but it never stuck. Snorpy had considered constructing some sort of complex, logic-based lock that could only be opened while one was awake and had all of their mental faculties about, but he hadn’t gotten around to it. Given their collective luck, it was likely Gramble would lose the keys to it, anyway.
The snax in several of the pens stirred, chirping curiously and prodding through the bars with spoons and feelers. The journalist- or their clone, perhaps, he still wasn’t sure- scaled the flight of stairs up to the loft. It was hard to see up the twisting barn steps, but he could make out the sounds of rustling blankets and the journalist’s low murmurs.
“I’ll try and lock it tighter this time.”
He wasn’t sure who they were talking to. Gramble? Themself? Their Grumpinati overseers?
“Goodnight, Gramble.”
Though he wanted to decipher more, Snorpy bid a hasty retreat as the footsteps started coming back down the stairs. He found a relatively secure spot on the far side of the barn. The journalist remained out of sight as they exited after him, but as he held his breath, Snorpy noted the sound of steps moving in a different direction than where he was. By the time he could see them again, they were passing the sauce farm and headed towards the pavilion, belonging to their most recently returned resident. It remained illuminated by candlelight, enough to see but not much more than that.
Shelda had passed out mid-meditation again, still sitting in a way that absolutely wasn’t doing any favors to her poor old spine. Apparently, the journalist agreed with his opinion on the matter. With a visible degree of cautiousness, they helped her lean to the side little-by-little until she was lying down properly on the elaborate woven rug. It wasn’t the most extravagant bed, but it still had to be much better than sitting.
Still kneeling, the journalist blew out the candles with a few quick puffs. “One must rest one’s body to keep one’s mind sharp.” They said, with a hint of teasing. “Goodnight, Shellsy.”
When they turned around again, there wasn’t much else to hide behind aside from the farm’s fence and trellis. Snorpy kept as low to the ground as he could, mentally cursing the brightly-hued fur he’d been born with. He waited to be spotted…and the journalist’s footsteps passed right by.
Bewildered, he nearly forgot to keep tailing them. By the time he caught up, they had made their way over to the next stop, Wambus and Triffany’s shared hut. There weren’t many shared spaces in Snaxburg, and with Lizbert and Eggabell gone, the only ones left were theirs and the one he shared with Chandlo. Not- not that it was quite the same thing, after all, Wambus and Triffany shared their bed as most married couples did. Chandlo had suggested doing the same, presumably as a way of saving space. It must have been some kind of joke. Just the thought of it made Snorpy turn flustered again. It had to have been a joke, right?
“You seem happy. Both of you. I’m glad.” When he blinked to attention, the journalist was standing over the bed. He contemplated intervening- nothing good could come from something like this, right?
Before he could decide, they turned and departed again.
“Goodnight, Wambus. Triffany.”
Before they could fully step out of the couple’s hut, they glanced over their shoulder and chuckled. “Goodnight, Cactriffy.”
The cactus offered as much a response as the sleeping pair did. The journalist merely continued on. Beffica’s hut was the next closest, and Snorpy followed them as they went. He still wasn’t convinced there wasn’t something nefarious afoot, and he wasn’t going to give up unless he found out what exactly it had to be.
It was obvious from a glance who the little house belonged to, even without the carving above the door. Beffica had plastered every inch of it with gaudy patterns and strewn trinkets. The sight of it distracted her uninvited guest, who abruptly almost fell over from a marker left on the floor. She had left an absolute mess all over the place, photographs and glue sticks and markers, and more. Tutting, they knelt down and began to tidy.
Aha, tidying! That had to be some sort of Grumpinati activity, didn’t it? That mess must have been a defense system that Beffica set up ahead of time in case of intruders. It had nearly slipped up the journalist, so now they were making sure that the next trespasser would have a much easier time breaking in for their own nefarious purposes!
Or…or maybe they could just be cleaning a mess. He wasn’t sure.
Pens and paints and markers went back in a drawer, and pictures in a stack atop the dresser. The journalist shook their head. “Troublesome as always. Goodnight, Beffica.”
Off they went once more, with Snorpy trailing behind out of sight. The next hut down the line belonged to their resident one-hit superstar. Still undeterred, Snorpy watched them enter it. Wiggle had left a record on the player to help lull her to sleep. It had long run out of music, now only running on the remaining dead wax as it spun. They lifted the needle from the turntable and put it back to its place of rest. Their other hand twisted the black knob nearby, and the spinning slowed to a halt.
“It’ll dull the needle if you leave it,” they noted, once again to no reply. “Goodnight, Wiggle.”
Though still unconscious, the singer murmured something incomprehensible.
Off to the next stop, it seemed. This one belonging to their interim leader. Aha, Snorpy could see it coming all along! Even if he was just a placeholder head, he would still be the first to be targeted by suspicious forces seeking to undermine their little community. Incapacitating Filbo would kneecap the social structure of Snaxburg in some way or another, it would only be a matter of time. The journalist, real or fake, must have meant this on purpose.
Yet there was no incapacitating. Not even a mild inconveniencing, really. They selected one of the strewn Grumpy Baby dolls that had been left on the floor and eased it under one of the sleeping mayor’s arms. Filbo’s response was immediate, curling around the toy and smiling faintly. The journalist grabbed his quilt and pulled it back up until it covered him properly again.
“Lots of work to do tomorrow, Mayor Fiddlepie. Make sure to get plenty of rest.”
Snorpy found the thought crossing his mind that nobody had ever actually referred to the clumsy grumpus as ‘Mayor Fiddlepie’ before, nor any other derivative of the sort. Were they expected to? Previously, nobody had any sort of respect for him or his authority, so naturally, nobody was inclined to use any kind of title. Maybe Filbo had finally earned it.
He stayed hidden on the opposite side of the hut as they came back out. Once again, he seemed to evade detection. The journalist ventured across the path over to Cromdo’s hut. The small personal carving above the doorframe had been tacked over by his garish, hastily-made ‘CROMDO MART’ sign that somehow had not fallen yet despite how much it swayed in the wind. It wasn’t much of a mart, anyway. He’d started selling drinks from a little wagon parked out front, but the hut itself was still devoted as a place to sleep.
Cromdo himself was currently splayed out across the bed, one arm and one leg dangling off like limp sea kelp. His snoring rumbled like an old motor. Snorpy hadn’t the slightest idea how the journalist could stand the noise just as a passerby, let alone intentionally go inside his hut to get right next to him. Still, something about the sight appeared to bother them.
“You’re going to strangle yourself.”
They undid the knot on Cromdo’s still-worn tie. As soon as it was loose, they deftly eased it out from around his neck, only risking a couple of light tugs for the part that was stuck under his sleeping body. Once it was spooled out in their paws, he watched them re-do the tie- hmm, Snorpy hadn’t pegged them as someone who knew how to do that- and hung it alongside the rest of the conman’s collection that hung from a set of pegs on the wall.
“There. Ready for tomorrow. Goodnight, Cromdo.”
Floofty’s bed was empty, as it was most nights. The journalist offered it no more than a distant glance before bypassing their sleeping space entirely and heading toward the research tent. They blew out the lit lamps as they went, gradually darkening the sample tables and specimens. Floofty, as expected, was still sitting at one of their tables, their cheek mushed against one coconut arm. It seemed the solid shell was comfy enough as they dozed away, unbothered by their surroundings, even as the journalist approached their side.
They seemed to contemplate the idea of scooping Floofty up as they had with Gramble, but ultimately decided against it after a few moments of consideration. Snorpy let out a sigh of relief. He had tried that himself before, on a couple of occasions where his sibling had passed out in their lab from exhaustion. It didn’t matter how stone-still they seemed to be, as soon as they were pulled on, Floofty would snap awake and bite down on the nearest grumpus limb they could locate. Which, on one occasion, had been their own forearm.
Instead, they took the far safer option of working with what they had. One of the comfier-looking tarps from Triffany’s table was taken and used as a makeshift blanket, tossed over Floofty’s unconscious body. As soon as it draped across their back, Floofty murmured something in their sleep and gripped a fistful of the material in their transformed paw.
…For a moment, Floofty looked just like they had when they were both young grumps, back when they had been small enough to share a room and not constantly argue over the space. It was foolish to reminisce, but sometimes Snorpy just couldn’t help himself. He wanted to know where it had all gone wrong. There must have been some point somewhere, that tipping point where the two of them became fundamentally incompatible. He never hated his sibling’s fierce independence and sense of curiosity, Snorpy just wished he knew how to be a better brother in a way that didn’t enable them further into risk.
“Goodnight, Floofty.”
In his distraction, the journalist had completely slipped his mind. A thought suddenly struck him that there was no other place left for the journalist to go in their night patrolling. Nowhere else but the mill.
He wasn’t fully sure why he turned and sprinted back inside the building and up the stairs. The journalist wasn’t someone to be afraid of, not even with their odd nighttime behavior. Were they? Snorpy could have just spoken with them as usual, perhaps even found a sort of bond in their mutual sleeplessness. Instead, he scurried off to his corner of the attic, and, much like he had done as a young grumpus when his parents had come close to spotting him up past his bedtime, burrowed under his blankets and pretended to sleep.
It took a few minutes for the sound of grumpus footsteps to enter the barn and begin scaling the steps. He wondered if he had been spotted. He wondered what would happen if he had been. Maybe the journalist-clone’s inbuilt Grumpinati programming would activate as soon as it saw someone not asleep, he couldn’t risk that! This was the safest choice to make.
They showed no signs of suspicion once they were in the attic. Maybe they were evident on their face. Snorpy wondered if it was worth risking a look. No, he couldn’t be reckless. Not now.
His hesitation was a wise choice. Of the two apparently-sleeping grumps, the journalist chose him to approach first. He wondered what exactly they planned to do to him. He left no mess lying around, nor any blankets, so what was there to do? Would they swipe his foil helmet, to render him more susceptible to Grumpinati suggestion?
The answer came in the form of hands on his body. The journalist’s paws lightly felt around the one article of clothing he consistently wore. It took him a moment to realize that they were looking for the strings that held it in place. The knots on his apron were tied too tight to undo, even if he wasn’t lying on his back. He could hear the journalist sigh, then felt their grip disappear. He resisted the urge to scoff. Of course he always kept his apron and supplies close by, it was precisely for that reason! He knew at some point the Grumpinati would sneak into his house at night, so he took precautionary measures to give him a bit of an edge in the case of emergencies.
Although, that did come with its own setbacks. The tools in his apron could still be removed, which was what the journalist immediately began doing as soon as their first plan had failed. Snorpy was shocked, probably more than he should have been, but it was that shock being the only reason he hadn’t already snapped to attention and lunged at the clone’s face to take them off guard and thwart whatever plan they were currently in the process of.
“Please don’t make noise, please don’t make noise,” they murmured, with a hint of anxiety evident. Another something was tugged from the pockets. “Pliers, he’s going to roll over and impale himself…”
He could hear the metal come to rest on his bedside table. They..they weren’t stealing his things? This was just like with the others, they were just trying to make sure he slept as well as possible…even if his planning had been all for naught, he had enough sense to be relieved at the lack of danger. Snorpy made a mental note to clear out his pockets before bedtime. As much as he preferred having all his tools at the ready in case of emergencies, he could admit there was a risk in keeping needlenosed pliers and wire shears so close to his sleeping body.
Once his pockets had been emptied, they just as gently slipped the heavy-lensed goggles off of his face. Alright, that one was his own fault. He knew better, the glass on the smaller lenses was fragile and the metal frames would easily bend if he put too much pressure on it by laying on them. It just slipped his mind so often, typically he relied on Chandlo to remind him if he forgot.
For a moment, they lingered, but said nothing.
Their footsteps moved across to the other side, nearer to Chandlo’s bed. Snorpy risked cracking one eye open to watch. His vision was much blurrier now, thanks to the lack of glasses, but he could make out enough. A lime-green blob and a blackish blob on the opposite end of the attic. The journalist-blob bobbed back and forth, likely analyzing to see if there was anything for them to fix as they had with the others. Apparently, they found nothing of concern with Chandlo’s sleeping arrangement, merely nodding and turning away. “Take care of yourself. Goodnight, Chandlo.”
He wondered why he hadn’t been given such a pleasantry as well. Not- not that he was envious, or anything. It was a small gesture, and one he was not even supposed to be aware of while asleep, but still. It was odd to be excluded.
No such gesture was given even after they passed by his bed again, in order to reach the stairs. A few of the steps quietly squeaked as they were stepped on, but otherwise, the journalist left as quietly as they’d arrived.
As they approached the exit, the footsteps suddenly ceased.
“Thank you for not saying anything. Goodnight, Snorpy.”
The millhouse door made only the slightest of creaks as it was swung shut.