Nametags.

ORDER #001

— OFFICIAL ORDER SLIP —

DO NOT LOSE THIS

The Diner is never truly empty.

Even before opening hours, even after closing. Someone’s always sweeping shadows neatly into corners, polishing glasses, or tightening the screws on the barstools. The checkered floor lies beneath it all like a chessboard, and the staff move across it with practiced certainty; every character knows exactly which square they belong to.

Stationed across the floor tiles is a constellation of curiosities:

[Name Redacted] / Voidson · The Shift Manager

Name tag scratched out. The staff call him Voidson. Clipboard always in hand. He doesn't blink, and is prone to rearrange the furniture when you’re not looking. Sometimes you’ll catch him murmuring instructions meant for no one in the room.

The Neon Waitress

Quiet as a power outage. Glitter rounds her eyes. She glides between tables like she’s remembering someone else’s routine. She writes in a notepad she never lets anyone touch. She believes the Diner is alive and calls it “her”. Sometimes she hums along with the fryers. She smiles, but never at the jokes.

Miss Maraschino · Soda Jerk

Glossy and poised. Speaks like a vintage ad jingle. Her makeup never smudges, even on double shifts — no one knows how. May have once been human, but now she’s all lacquer and memory. Works the soda counter and remembers everything.

Darla · Waitress

She speaks quickly, like someone trying to beat the buzzer. Her lipstick always matches the day’s special. She moves like she’s in front of a live studio audience because, in her mind, she is. Canned applause follows her best lines. Her one-liners land with a sparkle. If you ask her about a weird customer, she’ll tell you everything — but somehow leave out the most important detail.

Griddle, Flip, and Burner · The Cooks

These three together function like a Greek chorus of heat and grime. Arms always crossed, aprons always stained. They rarely speak and never step beyond the kitchen threshold, yet they seem to know exactly what unfolds in every corner of the Diner. Do not touch their radio.

Static Patty · A Siren Through Static

Jinks’s trusty drive-thru speaker. Stationed at two places at once: greeting you as you roll in, and at the pick-up window where you collect your order.

A voice riddled with static, too calm to the point of unnerving. Like a siren luring you into the depths of the ocean, customers report forgetting their orders by the time they reach the window. Others say they remember something else entirely, things they never meant to say aloud. You’ll never see her, but she always sees you.

Line Nine

The payphone out back rings at midnight. Always once, never twice. If you answer, you’ll hear them: a voice, distant and fizzling with paranoia, mid-transmission like they’re reporting from somewhere else entirely. They don’t introduce themselves. They don’t ask for anyone by name. They just start talking, like you’ve picked up in the middle of a long, broken conversation.

The signal warps.

The words crack.

The call could blow out at any second, like a dream you wake from too early. The cord’s been cut for years. But the voice keeps calling.

Crackle ‘N’ Pop · The Local Radio Presenters

Radio’s usually perched on the right end of the pick-up counter with broadcasts about local happenings, weather reports, existential crises, and so much more. You’ve never seen them in person, but their voices feel oddly familiar.

Booth 7

They don’t work here — they are the booth. An immobile witness to everything. Always smells like maple syrup and old cigarettes. If you sit long enough, they start talking. Usually about diners that don’t exist anymore. Anything forgotten at Booth 7 is lost to the Diner, eternally.

I-C

They work alone in the walk-in freezer. Face always fogged up behind a frosty visor. Speaks in slow, half-thawed exhalations. Claims to be from the “Old Menu”. No one knows what that means.

Napkin Wraith

He’s all elbows, bandaids, and paper cuts. Made mostly of receipts and dry sarcasm. Doesn’t talk unless it’s to quote something you didn’t say.

Mopy · Janitor & Maintenance Guy

Always mopping, but the floor never gets clean. You can smell him before you see him: lemon, copper, and dust. He’s seen every version of the Diner. Keeps a keyring with locks no longer in use. Sleeps in the supply closet. Dreams in black and white. Says the Diner’s built on something older, and he’s the one keeping it from bubbling up. Talks to himself while mopping — or maybe to the whispers from the wall. Leaves water trails that spell out messages if you squint. Some say he’s always been here; since before the first order. He hums lullabies from diners that no longer exist.

That’s everyone accounted for — at least, everyone who should be here.

(After all, it’s only a handful of stars that flicker in a sky still stretching toward darkness.)

— END OF ORDER —

Thank you for dining at Jink’s.

Please check your pockets before leaving.

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