Number Go Up: A Cape Escape Story

[fan art by HYPRKNETC]

Hey everyone, Keith here! My brain was cooking a prequel story for Jet in the background and I finally put it down on paper. This story makes a bit more sense if you've made it through at least part 9 of Cape Escape.

Hope ya'll enjoy!

-

A young coyote with an oversized green trucker’s cap was watching his best friend play by the creek.

Well, his only friend. This had been their private space for years now. It wasn’t much, but it gave the canine a reprieve from having to navigate other people. People were exhausting.

He perked up when an idea struck. His voice, mired in hormonal changes, came out uneven. “Did you want to play twenty… questions…” The boy had expected to feel eyes on him. To be heard and seen. But when his friend didn’t turn, when his ears didn’t even twitch, breaking the silence had felt like a transgression. He regretted speaking before the sentence was even over, the last of it tumbling out only as a meek obligation, no longer a question. Ignored.

The younger tiger was completely absorbed in his project. He’d been stacking stones for at least an hour now, and the resulting spire had long since become impressive. He seemed content to strip the bank of its every rock, so long as it fueled his needs. His limbs spread wide as he crab-walked in circles around it, scrutinizing it. It had to be perfect. The best. The biggest.

The coyote watched on, conflicted. His friend seemed happy, so he was also kind of happy? The chubby orange goofball’s adult canines were coming in, always peeking out of his mouth, slurring his speech. He drooled sometimes. It’s like the cat was being bullied by puberty. But those dumb teeth made his smile so big and wide…

He was doing it now, giddy from his own achievement. The sight gave the coyote such a strange feeling in his chest. What was it? He felt lighter, but also sick. Why was he thinking about the tiger so often these days? Why did he want to kick over the cairn that he’d worked so hard on?

A clatter. A wobble.

It didn’t matter. The cat was dumb. He always wanted more, and never knew when to stop. The tower project would be its own doom, and when it finally fell, they’d be alone again.

Pulling his hat down firmly, the coyote waited…

1,000 Subscribers.

100,000 Subscribers.

1 Million Subscribers.

FIFTY MILLION SUBSCRIBERS.

The coyote had grown into his hat.

“World largest cinnamon challenge?”

A mandatory meeting. He didn’t bother opening his eyes to see who had spoken. It wasn’t worth exposing himself to the harsh fluorescents. If he sat still long enough he might get a nap out of this.

“High stakes The Game?”

“What game?”

“You just lost it.”

An exasperated sigh. “Shut up.”

His ears perked from the twilight of consciousness when the tiger finally spoke up. “Guys, c’mon, focus!” His oldest friend was so different now. A confident adult, commanding the attention of every one of the dozens of employees he was currently holding captive. But the boy wasn’t gone, he was still buried deep within that toothy voice, even if only one person could still hear him. “The Minions Prison Break was a flop, so we need to make up for it with the next one. Remember, clickable premise!”

The chorus began. “Octopus Trials 2!”

“No sequels.”

“I Ran a Prison For a Day.”

“What is it with you and prisons?”

“I Ran a School for a Day?”

“I can’t deal with any more parents, man…”

“Escape Con!”

“Okay, I’m clicking. What am I getting?”

“Uh. Heh. Haha!” The donkey brayed nervously. You could hear it in his voice that all eyes had found him. “Shit, I dunno man, I was kinda just mashing words together with that one.”

“Well do it again?”

“Ugh…” A scratching. “Well, there’d be, like, cowboys…”

“Cowboys?”

“I mean, uh, like a western town. Tumbleweeds…”

“Tumbleweeds.” A feline tone flattened by disappointment.

A western town?

Gravity tore at the coyote’s guts and he reflexively lurched forward. He’d unknowingly tipped his chair back beyond his allowance and had begun to fall. The front legs slammed back home, hard, as he saved himself.

Embarrassed, he took in his surroundings, but the artificial lighting that had been baking his closed lids all afternoon was gone. There was nothing here. Nothing but the eyes, everywhere he turned, staring at him. Strange, mismatched, penetrating. But there was one reprieve: an orange glow. The tiger had focused on him, framed in white, questioning and expectant. A flutter.

“I-I…” The coyote coughed and cleared his throat. “I think I know a place. It’s, uh, close enough. It’s called Cape Karma.”

NO NO NO WHAT DID YOU DO

The tiger grunted and shrugged, tired. “Well, it’s not like we’ve got anything else on the board today. Real dry spell, guys.” As he turned, marker in hand, the connection broke. It was as if the color had left with him. When did he get so far away?

“No, look at me…”

YOU CAN’T TAKE IT BACK YOU CAN’T TAKE IT BACK

The eyes. His clothes felt loose, his hat too big.

“LOOK AT ME!”

_,.-'``'-.,_,.='``

Jet startled awake to a dark room, swatting at the void. At what, exactly? He felt hunted. Like prey. Wait, what was he even thinking about just now? Shit, dreams were so fucking stupid. Like those times where he’d thrown off his sheet, convinced he was covered in spiders.

“Ugh.”

The coyote groaned, stretching his limbs out, buck-ass naked, as reality reclaimed him. There was plenty of space, and no one to disturb. He had been a bit ambitious when he requested a California King for his room. There had been jokes, rumors that he leveraged his station at the Mannplex to pick up zoomer chicks, but the only body that had ever warmed this mattress was his own.

Reaching for his phone, Jet realized that he’d rolled over onto the vacant side again. Seems he’d made a habit of it. Dragging himself back across to the nightstand, he checked the time.

1:42 P.M.

“Fuck…”

Jet rubbed at his eyes, steeling himself before swinging his long legs out of bed and standing wobbly. He dressed himself in the dark, powering through the routine discomfort as his anatomy complained against his underwear. Shirt, jeans, boots, hat.

He threw his door open, squinting against the rude office lighting of the dorm hall. The coyote paused to crack his back, then headed left and pushed past a heavy door into the Mannplex proper. He fucking hated it here. 50,000 square feet. It felt like being outside, but he still wasn’t allowed to smoke.

Distant voices faintly tickled the senses, nearly unnoticed. Melvin was sitting at a table with two other figures at the far, far end of the building, their backs turned. There were cameras. He was in the shot, wasn’t he?

Great, another one for the wiki. Jet had been informed that some internet weirdos had taken to calling him The Green Man and tracking his infrequent appearances. Something called an “ayarjee.” Stupid. The audience managed to conjure up breathless excitement for absolutely anything, it seemed. He had zero interest in introducing himself.

Grumbling, he gave a limp wave to any potential parasocial onlookers as he followed the wall to the break room.

“Boy you smell like a gym bag caught fire.”

Jet exhaled through his nose. “G’mornin’.” The sound was barely identifiable as language.

“Mornin’? Breakfast ended four hours ago, kid.”

He just pushed past the stout beaver. “I’ll manage.” Fuck, he needed to quit this job. Move back out to, well, anywhere. Back to real life. How does anyone stand this place? Fuckin’ content barracks.

Jet’s mission for a full belly and a clear head were forgotten at the sound of Melvin’s voice. “I really do just try to make the best video possible, every time.” The performer voice. Trying to sound charismatic always made him sound like a cartoon character as he maneuvered around his dental speech impediment.

Jet resented The Voice.

He dragged his feet over to its source: a monitor left barely visible past a huge, top-heavy rabbit. Jet leaned on Goose’s shoulder to get a better look, who quietly sniffed but otherwise didn’t react. The screen displayed two dogs and a sabretooth sitting in a staggered semicircle, all with matching microphones and smiles.

“Sam and I have seen your finances, and what a shock! You really do just throw it all back in, don’t you?”

Melvin wore a strange grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “I sure do, Connor! Every dollar we make goes right back into making the next video even bigger. The side channels? Mr. Mann Reacts? Those are just bonus revenue that fuels the main channel even more, so that I can focus on making the biggest video I can, every time. It’s all I think about, really.”

That’s idiotic.

“Mr. Mann is such a genius!” Goose was leaning in, enamored by Melvin’s single minded dedication to growth.

Jet wasn’t having it. “Who let these chucklefucks in?”

“Wha-? Don’t you know?” The fluffy guy leaned in conspiratorially, whispering, as if he were imparting great wisdom. “These are those famous documentarians, Connor and Sam!”

“What, like the Discovery Channel?”

“What’s the Discovery Channel? No, I mean they’re on YouTube!”

“Ah, I don’t have a YouTube.”

Goose gaped at the coyote as if he had just discovered he didn’t have a face, and Jet took the moment to excuse himself. Rummaging through the pantry, he tensed as he heard a familiar, always sleepy braying behind him.

“Hey there Jet,” Moone called out, “ya ready to Escape to the Cape?” The donkey offered a matching pair of half-hearted finger guns, his head leaning slightly to one side.

“Sure buddy, whatever it takes I guess.”

“Aww, don’t be like that, man. Think of it as a vacation!”

Cape Karma. A vacation. Jet felt a chill.

“Right. A paid vacation where we work all day and sweat our balls off in the desert, with no lifeline if anything goes wrong.”

[fan art of Moone and Casey by DemonSkunk]

Moone clicked his cheek. “Whatever, man. I’m just happy to get away from all this for a while. I don’t know what to do with myself lately, really. It’s a lot of pressure being public as Mr. Mann’s first gay friend!”

Melvin’s first gay friend.

He continued. “Like, I don’t even really know if I’m gay, dude. Do I like dudes now? I dunno man, but ever since Casey came out he’s been so full of life, man, and I’m just fuckin’ crazy about Casey. Not like I’m worried about bein’ a queer or whatever. It’s just- I dunno if I feel gay, y‘know? D’you think you can be gay for just one guy, dude? I guess I’m probably overthi- hey where you goin’ bro?”

“I’m gonna go pack my trailer.” Jet said it through clenched teeth, with more venom than he meant to. All he had in his hands was a pack of cigarettes, a Sno Ball, and a black trash bag, but he had to get out of there.

He fumed all the way back to his room, where he proceeded to haphazardly scoop the essentials into the bag. A shelf of games, random clothes, his expensive collection of silicone frustration sculptures. Jet only snapped back into focus when he opened a drawer to find an old framed photo that he’d hidden away.

[fan art by CrimsonRabbit]

It was of him and Melvin, ages ago. ‘The Summer of 94,’ someone’s handwriting reminded. They were kids, side-hugging on a beach, leaning in close with sloppy, melting ice cream. They were smiling. Jet was smiling.

His shoulders slumped as he deflated in one long exhale. “What am I doing here.” The window creaked as he slid it open and lit one up. He’d just need to keep the smoke outside.

Jet wasn’t angry at Moone. Not really. Moone, Goose, Kurgan, Derek, they were all fine enough people. But he’d never felt more alone than he did now. The coyote had developed his skills, filled in for any odd job that was needed, learned to lead a team, and for what?

To become fodder for content, swept up in the wake of the boy who would be an empire.

He bit into the Sno Ball. The rubbery coconut and stale cake did not pair well with real tobacco, but he chewed in silence as he stared out into the lot, dropping ash and crumbs onto the tarmac. In the distance he could see his trailer, which he’d be living out of for the next week. Right next to it sat his bright red ‘82 Firebird, its hood rippling in the heat.

He glanced at his bag of belongings, then back to the pair of vehicles. Was he really ready to go back to that place? To let the world see it, after what had happened?

Or was he finally gonna man up and move the fuck on with his life?

_,.-'``'-.,_,.='``

The tiny coyote sat alone on a bench, dragging a stick around in a puddle, drawing little circles over and over again.

The adults kept trying to fix him. They were always looking worried, whispering to each other, as if he wouldn’t notice. But they were wrong. There wasn’t anything to fix. He just knew the truth: that he didn’t need friends. Friends were a trap. They made you care, and then they left.

Stove hot, do not touch stove.

So he stirred that puddle, content to be wise beyond his years in solitude. This was safe. This was how you win.

“Are you casting a spell?”

He heard voices sometimes, but they always moved on.

“No, please!” With a choking noise, a chubby orange cat fell into his view beside the water, writhing in pain. The kid reached one arm up at the canine, begging. “Spare me, great wizard! I’ll do anything!”

The coyote silently stood, turned, and walked away. Mechanical. He patrolled the chainlink perimeter of the yard, always moving, but without destination.

“Hey!”

A voice rang out behind him. He pretended not to hear it.

“HEY!”

He dragged the stick along the fence, the loud, rhythmic clangs drowning out the world, leaving him alone in the noise. This worked for a time, until striped arms suddenly sprouted from his sides and held fast to his chest. He felt a warm, soft weight on his back.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

So why was he crying?

_,.-'``'-.,_,.='``

[fan art by MobiusLeaf]