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Zomboss was surprisingly still chipper even after being defeated by Plants after the interview.
At least, he seemed to be chipper. After all, his smile was tall and crooked as he strode forward into his lab, coat fluttering behind him. But, Tugboat pondered to himself, perhaps a Browncoat like himself wasn’t the best option to decipher the elusive mind of Zomboss.
Tugboat followed behind, the only one of the usual trio who was still able to walk after the brawl with the plants post-interview. Nigel had gotten his arms and legs mixed up and needed Dr. Patient to rearrange his limbs after several hours of hunting down several missing fingers amidst the brush. Leapfrog had gotten his head stuck in a pond after Grawrr Bear the Ultimate Face-Puncher (and Ultimate Jerkface, if you asked any zombie who’d dealt with the Bonk Choy before) had punched it off, and had requested the evening off to spend some much-needed time with his frog collection to recoup from the thoroughly traumatic experience.
That, alas, left Tugboat to attend to the boss and assist him in whatever he needed.
Part of him wished he’d thought to play up the headache from all those cabbages he’d taken to the head and ask for the evening off. It was quite hurty, and the sharp, artificial illumination of the lab lights wasn’t helping… then again, maybe it was the headache that was making it incredibly hard to remember that he should also probably be asking for time off. And his rumbling stomach. And his headache. And the over-bright lights.
“Tugboat? Tugboat, are you even listening?”
The snapping of fingers in front of his eyes made Tugboat blink, his meandering train of thought coming to a slow, grinding stop. Zomboss’ smile was now exchanged for an annoyed scowl, his gloved hands stopping and dropping once at least one eye managed to fix onto his boss.
“There. Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes!” Zomboss cleared his throat and resumed the tangent that Tugboat had missed with a renewed smug smile. “Now, I feel like the interview today went very well! Even with those plants interfering, I feel like I managed to spin an amusing enough story to keep those media hounds running in circles, right?”
Tugboat thought back, thoughts as sluggish as… well, a zombie. After a moment, a blurry snapshot of the earlier events played back and he shrugged. “Tuuugbooat.” It was fairly non-committal, and not wholly comprehensive of the strange, hard nugget of discontent sitting untended and festering in the middle of Tugboat’s mind ever since… that particular section of the interview. But the response would work well enough.
“I knew you’d agree!” Zomboss preened. “After all, anything I say is practically worth its weight in gold! And after I so generously gave my life’s story in all its gritty detail, I’d say that warrants cracking open a cold one, as the lay person would say!”
Tugboat just blinked slowly again as they continued walking through the lab, then up some stairs, then further until cold steel and tile turned into warmly dark wood paneling, fuzzy red carpet and light green patterned wallpaper.
As they went further into Zomboss’ personal quarters, Tugboat watched Zomboss change, ever so slightly. One wouldn’t think that a hapless browncoat like Tugboat would be able to catch onto such details - but, with how long Tugboat had been with his boss, the zombie had slowly ingrained the pattern into his faded memory until even the foggy repasts of his mind could stir back into clarity with the comforting pattern of habit.
With each step the sharp clicking of Zomboss’ boots softened, each stride more languid than his usual frenetic march when he would going about the labs giving orders, or out in public barking commands and gloating evilly. His arms, crossed behind his back with his gloves tightly clasped, slowly dropped until his arms swung freely, hands unclenching as the hard line of his shoulders slumped. And the sneering, waspish smile that so often graced the doctor’s face lessened into a pleased smirk that reminded Tugboat of a particularly fat cat he ate a comic about once.
They finally entered a location familiar to Tugboat: Zomboss’ personal library. There was already a fire roaring in the fireplace, casting a warm glow upon shelves and shelves of books in a sheer variety Tugboat could barely comprehend: ranging from technical textbook stuff only smart zombies like Zomboss could read without headaches, old and papery classics that Tugboat was banned from touching after munching something called “that’s a Moby Dick First Edition print, not a sandwich you buffoon!”, and even leathery magical books with embossed print shimmering unnaturally in firelight.
There were two big plush chairs sitting by the fireplace with a fancy table, with a big fancy metal tray with a small glass and a big glass bottle covered in fancy writing like Zomboss’ usually wrote with. Zomboss waltzed over to the chair next to the tray and, with great gusto, took a glass and poured bad-smelling liquid into it before downing it. The strong smelling liquid made Tugboat’s nose itch unpleasantly, but just like his headache he decided to stay silent about his discontent.
“Ugh, that hits the spot,” his boss groaned as Tugboat drew near and stood by him, eyes drifting over to the mesmerizing dance of the flames. They still made his head hurt looking at them, but just peeking at them out of the corner of his eyes made it hurt less. And, as the zombie shifted in place and his joints shifted with an old pinch of pain, it was nice to look at.
Familiar.
It helped to make the foggy thoughts in his head resolve, just a little bit, from the usual head-clogging mess that made thinking hard to something a bit nicer. More familiar - like wiping off the dust and peering through a stained but still translucent window.
If he really focused, pushing past the throb in his head, Tugboat could almost imagine he could feel a different warm thing past the hotness from the fire, hear happy sounds that sounded like laughing, and even see the face of-
“Tugboat!”
The browncoat jumped - or, more accurately, burped and then turned in befuddlement. Zomboss raised an eyebrow at him, already holding another small glass full of the bad liquid. “You know, you can actually sit down this time. I trust that you’re at least mostly washed this time, right?”
Oh… oh! Tugboat perked up when he realized what Zomboss was offering and looked over at the beckoning, cozy high-back cushioned chair emptily facing where Zomboss was seated.
Wow, Zomboss really was in a good mood tonight, wasn’t he? The last few times Tugboat was in here, he wasn’t allowed to sit on the nice chairs after dropping a giant reuben sandwich on it once, forever condemning him to use an old, uncomfy folding chair carelessly shoved into a random corner in the library or to just stand.
Tugboat made sure to give his boss a smile to convey his gratefulness before shuffling over and flopping into the chair with a great sigh.
Zomboss lifted up the empty glass and moved to pour it. “Do you-?”
He stopped, then sighed. “Oh, right. You don’t like alcohol. Or even mocktails. Damn.”
Tugboat just hummed, and this time he couldn’t stop the remnants of his nose from scrunching up in disgust as the bad liquid smell hit them again. He’d only ever tried the bad liquid once after he was… when Zomboss had offered him some post-annihilating of the Anti-Bully Squad’s attempt to do bad things because of some other bad thing Zomboss had done to them when Tugboat might’ve been around to see but couldn’t remember for his un-life.
The liquid had immediately been spat out as something in him - more of the foggy somethings that came out at the little random things like warm fires and steering boats - recoiled in violent disgust and a cascade of pain bad head spinning lungs are full body not moving right. It was bad enough that he absolutely refused any nasty liquids, open or not, whenever he got to sail his humble little tugboat in the Z-Tech Factory shipyard, lest his chest and skin all crawl with bad, bad, bad things.
And even at this moment, Tugboat wished greatly that Zomboss would close up the nasty liquid bottle so he didn’t have to keep smelling it and getting more hurt burning pain no breathing on top of his headache. But given how Zomboss was still so cheerful, Tugboat didn’t want to upset the peace. So he kept quiet and curled up, his suit a thin layer between his bony frame and velvety plush material.
Zomboss took another sip as he looked somewhere past Tugboat, and for a very long moment the two just sat in a comfortable-enough quiet. As the flames crackled, eating away at piney wood and scattering sparks against the fireplace cover, Tugboat watched Zomboss sip and sip, and Zomboss himself looked nowhere in particular.
Gradually, though, a question formed itself on Tugboat’s purple tongue. And in the silence, he flinched at how it broke the peace with harsh, mispronounced verbage. “Bozz? I confused. Why you say we meet on boat in inter-vew?”
Tugboat cringed, throat hurting from the unusually long sentence as Zomboss paused mid-sip. The doctor raised an eyebrow, and after a long, drawn-out moment replied. “Tugboat, is that why you’ve been acting duller than usual?”
Tugboat just nodded, rubbing a hand on his neck in a futile attempt to soothe its scratchiness. The browncoat couldn’t help but tense, wondering if the out of field question would set off the doctor. After all, Zomboss hated when zombies asked stupid questions. And yet, Zomboss just looked at Tugboat with a… weird glaze in his eyes.
“...Tell me… what do you remember of the boat trip that I mentioned?” Zomboss said, voice unreadable as he slowly drained another cup of bad liquid.
Tugboat blinked. Zomboss… asked him to remember stuff? And not just recent stuff, far away stuff!
Tugboat’s brows scrunched up, grimacing as he forced himself to trawl back into his memory. Thankfully, it wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be - remembering things about beautiful, amazing boats usually came much easier than other things.
That boat trip that Zomboss had said was their first meeting was in fact a couple years after they met. The doctor had been in a costume mood that day, and was intent on practicing being a sailor for… some reason. Zomboss liked doing costume stuff like that. Funny enough, he did actually call himself Zomboat that day - at least, until he hurled over the starboard railing 30 seconds after Tugboat had guided the boat away from the dock.
Zomboss did eventually get better sea legs ever since recruiting the Pirate zombies, and Tugboat was happy that Zomboss still came down sometimes to do boat trips with him… even if he often also used that time to do more dress up in garish sailor outfits.
Tugboat croaked out all the information as it came to mind, and at the end of it his throat and head were now both hurting. Ow.
But Zomboss seemed pleased at least though. “Yes, that is indeed how it went… though I don’t know why you felt the need to detail my puking, Tugboat.”
“Tuuuugboat?” Tugboat shrugged and shrank underneath Zomboss’ scrutinizing stare.
“Mmm, whatever,” Zomboss muttered, though Tugboat could practically hear Zomboss mentally writing something down on the List. Slowly, he put down his glass and pushed himself forward on the chair, until his pulsating head was halfway to where Tugboat curled in growing trepidation. “Now… tell me, if that wasn’t the first time we met… what was?”
The way his boss’ fingers curled upon the armrests was reminiscent of a hawk’s claws preparing to dive upon a fish, the dull keratin leaving small scratches in the wood as Zomboss stared into him with a burning intensity. Tugboat faltered, and shut his eyes. Frantically, he wracked his poor aching head for any memory he could.
And to his surprise, it came faster than expected, though in jarring, blurred bursts. Perhaps it was the fear from being under those piercing, sickly yellow eyes?
Focus…. focus!
Tugboat had… had woken up on a lake, drifting and soggy after lungs filling stomach burning liver hurting boat sank you're sinking no one else is here to save you and hungry. He’d drifted to the shore, and stumbled away. He’d walked for… a very long time.
He’d… yes. He’d found Frogpantz and Nigel during that long walk. Frogpantz had been holding a frog… though it’d been dead. But it had been not reforming, edible, and they ate it because they were hungry and Frogpantz didn’t want to leave it alone in the sad glass case they’d been crouching next to, unmoving and… sad. Nigel had been standing with bloody hands looking angry at a warm, not alive anymore but edible food, and they’d eaten, which made the hunger go away for a little bit and made thinking better.
And then they’d walked further, through neighborhoods and strange camping places with big angry edible humans, and then a big sprawling place of brick buildings and fancy paths and flags.
It had been night, and they were looking for trash when they smelled… another like them.
But, not quite the same.
Incomplete. Sick. Rotting too strong and drawing them in through the sheer anomaly of the stench. And at the end of the smell trail, they’d found…
Tugboat tried to reconcile the lean, hungry and terrifying zombie watching him with the shivering, bleeding, not-quite-finished pale corpse in his memory. But it had been him - they both sounded the same, voice harsh and raspy but clear in the same way as the memory-Zomboss had snapped at them in anger (and a little fear).
But memory-Zomboss had still let them get close enough to smell, and close enough for him to look at them and get what they would later recognize as his “thinking” face. Tugboat too remembered looking him over as he puzzled over the off-scent: the splotchy pattern of green and pale peach skin, the limbs not covered by oversized yellow gloves and a scuffed school uniform halfway between edibility and decay, and then the head engorged and swollen irregularly, each sluggish pulse making the veins twitch and the almost-zombie flinch in pain.
Tugboat’s recollections got… foggier after this - partially because it’d been a while since their last meal and they were preoccupied thinking about how they missed boats but not the filling lungs not the burning liquid ever again. But he knew they’d been taken by memory-Zomboss to “my dorm” where they’d been crammed in the closet to “stay quiet so the humans don’t find you”. And then, memory-Zomboss had taken them back out and had each of them sit around as he stuck them with a tiny sharp needle (ouch, not nice) and then a lukewarm sandwich (not ouch, very nice) they scarfed down while memory-Zomboss had… done something sciencey?
Well, it must’ve been something important because they had let out a triumphant laugh after many times of having Tugboat and the others in the closet, then not in the closet, and then poked and then waiting and repeating. And then memory-Zomboss had used a needle, and then went from being a not-zombie dying thing to become… Zomboss.
This recollection took Tugboat even longer to relay, and at this point he was tempted to run to the kitchen and chug a glass of juice so his poor aching throat could recover from this much talking. But he remained sitting as Zomboss stayed perched on the edge of his seat, expression unreadable.
After an unbearably long minute, the doctor finally slid back into his chair. “Shockingly accurate. Impressive, Tugboat!”
The doctor finished his glass, leaned back, eyes still glinting even as his mouth hooked into a flat, neutral slant.
“Now, after all that recollection...Did you understand why I lied?” Zomboss asked.
Tugboat tilted his head, eyes wide in confusion. Oh no, this was a smart-zombie question, wasn’t it? Why was he asking Tugboat? Had he been testing him earlier!? Should he also have remembered other things!? Was he-!?
“It’s not merely a matter of being a… jerk or for a laugh,” Zomboss continued. Tugboat’s panicked thoughts crashed to a halt, and he relaxed. Oh, thank goodness. It had not been a question-question, it’d been a question that wasn’t a question, which was always hard to tell when Zomboss and other smart zombies used them. Of course, the latter usually meant the browncoat had to sit through one of Zomboss’ very intimidating speeches, but Tugboat was just happy that he didn’t have to answer a question and sighed in relief.
No, wait, he had to focus!
“-And it’s also not merely a matter of presenting myself as the superior intellectual above every other plebian corpse!” Zomboss paused. “…Well, okay, maybe it’s still a part of it. HA!”
Zomboss cleared his throat. “But anyway! There’s an important reason I have to lie, my dear idiot Tugboat.”
Tugboat tilted his head, and let out a strained, “Tug… brainz?”
“Mm, it does relate to what occurs inside the rotten brains of us living corpses,” Zomboss said. “Zombies by nature are driven by horde instinct. It’s like the human’s pathetic need to socialize and group up, but greater. More refined. Superior. It’s embedded into us, the need to group and hunt, and eat.”
Zomboss hissed out that last word, as a familiar flash of hunger made the doctor’s composure falter. In sympathy, Tugboat’s own stomach rumbled, the persistent pang of find feed, edible, no not edible, find edible, eat scattering his thoughts.
Zomboss had more control over his own hunger, and he composed himself a mere moment later as Tugboat let out a hungry groan with drool rising in his mouth. “And yet… even instinct can be broken should there be the appropriate prompt.”
Zomboss poured himself another drink, and took down another big gulp. Tugboat could smell the stench emanating from every absentminded rise and fall of his boss’s rotting lungs. How much bad liquid had he drunk now? Tugboat never remembered his boss ever drinking this much of any kind of bad liquid, even the brain-flavored ones. He had to be getting past his usual point of drinking too much bad liquid until he was falling down to sleep then get up in the morning even grouchier and more evil than usual.
“...You know what happens when a leader appears weak? Zombies no longer want to follow them. For even the mindless, if they detect someone is not up to the challenge of leading the horde… another shall supplant them.” A grimace twisted up Zomboss’ face, the familiar spark of hatred boiling in his yellow sclera. “I’ve built too much to let that happen now. Not because of a little bit of… of…”
Zomboss’ hand turned into a claw, and he raked his nails across the cushioned armrest. If he didn’t always make a habit of trimming his nails, he could’ve gutted the cushion easily, but even still threads frayed and broke as thick furrows were pressed into the chair.
Spitting it out like a piece of vile plant, Zomboss finished, “If an inconvenient truth like that slipped out… I would NEVER recover from it!”
Tugboat… didn’t really get what Zomboss was trying to imply. But he nodded - Zomboss usually liked that.
Zomboss growled, glaring into nothing. And then… he slumped, the burning hate in his eye subsiding for something tepid and resigned.
“...Tugboat. Perhaps I don’t give you enough credit,” Zomboss said, voice soft with all his prior energy sputtering away. “If it weren’t for you, Frogpantz and… Nigel, I guess, all with your fortuitous timing…”
Zomboss sank back, and for a moment in the waning firelight twisting about the colors, Tugboat could’ve almost mistaken this Zomboss for memory-Zomboss.
“...this is belated but… thank you, Tugboat, for being a peon of mine.”
Tugboat gaped. Was… was that a compliment? Was this Zomboss being genuine? Of his own volition?
Sweet Brainz, he really was sloshed!
Sluggishly, Zomboss’ eyes began to flutter, yet more odd machinations undoubtedly occurring in his head, never for Tugboat to understand. But out of respect, Tugboat maintained the silence as his boss began to descend into the haze before sleep.
“You… won’t tell of this conversation to the others, will you?” The scientist rasped, eyes wide and vacant.
Tugboat was quiet, but after a moment he nodded, for certain this time.
He always did.
After all, Zomboss was the boss.