“I *sproing oing oing* -king hate this place...”

 

Pomni mutters, huddled underneath the large white banquet table. Today was her fourth adventure, and she nearly got set on fire by a dragon today. A dragon . The moon had perched nobly atop a cardboard tower, a “maiden” Pomni had to “rescue” because of things like “fun” and “basic moral decency”, which Pomni has long since forgotten the meaning of. Did she mention she hates this place? Because she hates this place. Above, somebody mentions her name, and there’s a shuffling — one corner of the sheet lifting up so a familiar purple face can peek under. Pomni doesn’t look at him, her large eyes filled with the usual my-life-is-one-long-existential-crisis squiggles. Jax snorts, letting the cloth flop back down.

He straightens up, meeting Ragathas eyes and shrugging.

 

“ Nah , she’s fine.” 

 

Jax responds, in possibly the most incorrect sentence ever uttered, and damn well knowing it. His shit-eating grin only widens when Ragatha rolls her eyes — or, well, eye, — with a world weary sigh, pushing herself back from the table with a scrape of chair against plastic. 

 

“Sure, Jax...”

 

She mutters, and takes a moment to gather energy, before ducking under the table herself. Jax watches her go with the same smug rabbit smile, then shrugs and hops up himself, stuffing his hands in his overall pockets. He wipes his mouth (there are no crumbs) with one of his own stretch-putty ears, and turns to walk off, satisfied with his chaos-causing for the moment.

 

“Welp, no need for me to hang around here — Im’a go to the lake,” 

 

He announces, pausing to stretch and nearly bending his rubbery spine straight in half with the motion. 

 

“You comin’, Ribbon-Face?”

 

Gangle gives him a silent stare that says wonders, still holding the broken shards of her comedy mask. Needless to say, she’s more depressed than usual — she had not eaten during the digital banquet, as she, being arguably the worst-off out of all the cast, has no stomach. Instead she just stared forlornly down at a slice of fruit cake, trying to remember what food tasted like, eons ago when she could still eat. She misses fruit cake. And clothes. She also might start sobbing because of these two things, since her comedy mask is broken.

 

“O-only if you promise to —“ she interrupts herself with a pitiful sniff, ribbons trembling, “ t-to find me some glue. ”

 

Gangle looks down at her affectionately-dubbed “UwU” mask, currently in shards, and very nearly bursts into tears. Jax groans melodramatically, as if the task is such a great effort to him — Then sighs and waves one gloved hand over his shoulder, already walking off. 

 

“Yeah yeah, sure, just c’mon.” 

 

He mutters, his ever present grin going sly, almost certainly planning something. Gangle follows him obliviously, seemingly completely forgetting the hundred other times Jax has tricked her into doing things like falling into holes, or off of high things, just for the funsies. It seems his coping mechanism for the hopelessness of the situation is to cause as much chaos as possible, treating the entire day as his own personal comedy skit, much like a twisted, tumblr-sexyman version of John Maulney. 

Zooble is, as expected, already long gone.

Everyone is gone — leaving Kinger alone at the gigantic table, his globular eyes roving around in irregular twitches. He is undoubtedly the least sane of all of the digitized cast, but also, weirdly, the easiest to coexist with. These electric-blue eyes stare into nothingness, disattached hands fiddling nervously. Very quiet. Very much too quiet. “AH!” He shrieks, and is surprised to find himself on the floor, having shrieked himself right off his chair. Huh! Weird. Is he weird? Maybe he is. He’s forgotten…

There’s a bubble like ‘pop!’ and suddenly, Kinger is staring up at a rather exuberant set of dentures.

 

“AH, KINGER! JUST THE MAN I WANTED TO MEET!”

 

Kinger jolts a second time, falling back onto the plastic floor with a muffled clank. He blinks up with bloodshot eyes at the ever-grinning ringmaster floating above him, red coattails aflutter, as always. Caine smiles down at the discombobulated chess piece with his usual innocent flamboyance, jawbones bending like rubber to curve into a cartoon grin. Kinger doesn’t have much of an opinion on him — he doesn’t have much of an opinion on anyone. His earliest memory is of falling out of the ceiling with Queenie, crashing into Caine during the middle of an adventure, and promptly having a panic attack. Ragatha hadn’t been around back then, or Jax, or Zooble — in fact, Kinger can barely remember who had been there. He can’t even remember the thoughts that had raced through his wooden little head, upon discovering he was wooden. Probably because he can’t really remember being anything else, just Queenie's calming presence, and a white rabbit patiently explaining things. Where is Queenie, anyway? Oh. Right, dead! Ha. Haha…

A slightly tone-broken “Ah…m-me?” Is all Kingers non-mouth produces in response, and Caine does a jolly little flip in the air, twirling his cane like a baton.

 

“YES, YOU, KINGER!!!!” 

 

Caine proclaims, jabbing his cane right at Kingers face. He swoops down, picking Kinger up by the pseudo-shoulders, for he has no arms, and setting him right way up. 

 

“COME ALONG NOW OLD FRIEND, I NEED YOUR UNIQUE SKILLS FOR SOMETHING SPECTACULAR !”

 

He cries, exuberant and very very loud. His voice booms around the neon walls, one plush-gloved hand tugging Kinger in the direction of a particularly shady corner of the massive technicolor tent. Kinger follows with little resistance, half heartedly clawing at the white tablecloth with some disgruntled “Eh!? Eh!” noises, knocking a few plates and four-polygon steaks onto the floor in the process. Caine is well used to Kinger’s various eccentricities and cheerfully tugs him along anyway, making a mental note to send bubble to go clean those up later. Can’t have this place being a digital mess!

 

“Wh-What is it you need me for?” 

 

Kinger asks, twitching slightly. People rarely need him for anything! People rarely talk to him, and he kind of likes it that way. He gets to be alone with his insect companions, and he prefers them to most of the others, save for maybe gangle. The two stand behind a large yellow pillar, hidden in the shade, out of sight from anyone still hanging around the banquet table. Caine checks around the corner, watching as Ragatha finally coaxes Pomni out from under the table. He waits until the miserable jester is out of sight, before clicking his teeth with a decisive “ha-ha!” 

Kinger watches Caine with both bowling-ball eyes. Somewhere deep down, he envies Caines ability to still make such a sound. He misses his arms, and lollipops, and having a mouth. Especially that cl-clack noise you can make with your teeth. He used to do that as a nervous tick sometimes. Making noises is weird when you don’t have a mouth — He hates it. He doesn’t mind it…he’s got a body. He just doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all, but at least the robe is soft! Positivity. It’s normal now. What’s normals-normal? He’s forgotten — insect collections, that’s all he recalls. He used to have an insect collection! Best in the state…so, that, and the fact he lived in the US. Whatever a US is. County? Country…? Communism? A guy with orange hair…

 

“Right!” 

 

Caine whispers, that is to say, ‘shouts quietly.’

 

“Yes — the purpose of my skillful acquisition of your attention is-” 

 

Caine’s voice quickly raises back to booming sports commentator pitch, unable to maintain the dip in volume for long.

 

“-asSISTANCE FOR POMNI!!!”

 

Kinger stares at him blankly. One of his eyes slides quietly to the left as the seconds tick on, Caine waiting patiently (if with much hand-fiddling) for the wayward eyeball to circle back around. There’s a few seconds of silent eye contact when it does, and Caine clears his nonexistent throat, taking a breath to continue —

 

“GAH!” 

 

Kinger screeches, promptly falling backwards. 

 

“Caine! Oh! There you are! When did you get here?” 

 

Kinger asks from the floor, tilting his wooden head. Caine tugs him back up again, kindly brushing the dust off the personified chess pieces shoulders and plowing doggedly on regardless. He’s not exactly one to be offput, even by Kingers odd bouts of short term memory loss.

 

“YOU SEE KINGER, POMNI HAS BEEN VERY STRESSED OVER HER CHARACTER MODEL!”

 

Kinger does recall Pomni hiding in her room a lot. She had a mental breakdown over not being able to remove her hat…

 

“IT'S QUITE WORRYING, AND AS RINGMASTER, I AM THE ONLY ONE TO BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR ANY DISCOMFORT YOU ALL EXPERIENCE!!”

 

Caine explains, hands waving everywhere beneath his oversized jaw. Kinger nods along amiably, doing his very best to absorb the information.

 

“AND WELL, SINCE THIS DOESN'T HAVE TO DO WITH ANY ‘EXIT’ —“

 

Kinger can hear the confusion in Caines voice at the mention of such a thing, and a flash of pity strikes through him. Kinger has seen the AI clumsily talk down many hopeful searchers over the years, and every time, there’s that confusion. It’s not a matter of Caine not understanding why they want to leave, it’s that he’s simply unable to comprehend why the lack of an exit door keeps killing his acts. He is an AI, after all, but Kinger still feels sorry for him. He's nice in his own way, and even tried to help them look, long ago. But after seeing so many people — friends — abstract, Caine understandably fears the very subject nowadays. Kinger can’t blame him. 

One of them was Queenie.

“— WENT SEARCHING FOR A NEW MODEL FOR HER, AND, WELL, I HIT THE JACKPOT! THE BINGO! THE HOLE IN ONE! THE—” 

He misses Queenie. He misses her eyes. He misses the way she’d smile.

 

He does not miss the oil he'd seen seep across the floor.

“—THE GOLDMINE! THE BONANZA! THE…er…Kinger?”

Kinger looks up silently, his mind playing dial up tones for a solid minute. Then his brain comes back, and he abruptly jolts with a “GAH!” Caine quickly catching the hem of his cloak and stopping him from falling. Kinger mumbles a shaky “th-thank you.” Under his breath, blue eyes twitching in various directions. The pupils are more contracted than usual, and Caine “ hmm” s thoughtfully, tilting his jaws at the shaken chess piece with a worried look in his mismatched eyes.

 

“Kinger? Are you alright? You’re rather spacey-er today.”

 

Caine asks, as quietly as he’s capable of being. Kinger blinks at him, and recognizes the worry on Caines teeth. Oh. Huh, that’s not good. Kingers demeanor instantly relaxes, the chess piece giving Caine a rather tired “smile” — that is to say, his bottom eyelids pushed up as if he were smiling, which is as close as he can get. He misses being able to smile properly…not that he can remember the feeling of it.

 

“Hmm? No, just a wobble.”

 

Kinger replies amiably, blinking up at the worried ringmaster. Wow, he didn’t mean to get lost down memory lane like that! He needs to start paying better attention-tion-tion-ton-ton…now Kinger, none of that, he tells himself, and does his best to listen to his old friend. Gotta stay focused!

 

“Oh, hm…yes, another one of those… ”

 

Caine mutters, a hand on his chin, clearly not entirely convinced. Yes, Kinger has only gotten more and more unstable as time has gone on — but not in the rambling, broken-glass sort of way others have. With Kinger, it’s his attention span, not his personality. He remains as polite and genuine as ever, just more…detached. Caine is glad he hasn’t abstracted, very glad, but its still rather sad to see him space out so regularly. He must miss so much of their adventures!

 

“Well…PERHAPS THIS WILL CHEER YOU UP! I NEED YOUR HELP PRACTICING A NEW TRICK — ONE THAT SHOULD HELP OUR DEAR POMNI SETTLE IN!!”

 

Caine cries with renewed enthusiasm, and Kinger does actually cheer up upon hearing this. He loves new tricks, mainly because they’re new! Also due to the fact Caines idea of a “trick” usually defies physics and/or reason itself, so they’re very entertaining, and hopefully non painful. Kinger straightens up, now properly absorbing the explanation — Gosh, first Pomni, now a new trick? Maybe things will be “interesting” again! He misses interesting things quite a lot. Insects are interesting! He loves insec — nope, focus Kinger!

 

“I’M JUST BACK FROM TRYING IT ON THE NPC’S, AND THAT SEEMED TO WORK, BUT I HAVE YET TO TRY IT OUT ON ANY OF MY SUPERSTARS. HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO GIVE ME A HAND, EH KINGER?”

 

Caine asks hopefully, and Kinger nods. However, he’s quickly distracted by a certain purple bunny leaning around the corner — Jax, his knees defying physics as they bend sideways.

 

“Eh’? Whassat? Did I hear something about hands? Cos’ lemme tell ya, I’m sure old Zooble-dooble has a couple to spare.” 

 

Jax jokes — or, probably jokes. Kinger has never quite been able to tell with him. Jax, in all his 7’5 rubber-rabbitoid glory, has always been quite difficult to read. When his smile is ever present, it’s difficult to tell whether or not he means it. He’s entertaining to have around, if a bit insensitive…Kinger’s not even sure why he smiles so much, when he could be making so many other, more Informative facial expressions. Not that he’s good at reading those, either.

 

“AH! JAX! HOW NICE OF — Actually, I wonder if…”

 

Caine trails off thoughtfully, and Jax catches the wayward train of thought. His ears twitch, fuzzy purple brow crinkling slightly.

 

“Ap-bup-bup, I see what you’re thinkin’, and no way! ” Jax snorts, crossing long noodle arms over his chest. “I ain’t gettin’ caught up in one o’ your experiments. ”

 

His grin widens, sly enough to be ripped right off a fox.

 

“Watching ole’ Hoo-Ha though, that I can get behind. Whatcha got cookin up in there, grain-brain?”

 

Jax asks, directing his focus back into Kinger. The chess piece blinks back at him with the same slightly unhinged nature he always has, silent. Jax has often observed that Kinger looks, and acts, like he’s constantly half-stoned — the bloodshot tinge to the edge of his oft-unblinking eyes does little to help the effect. Wonder if he might’ve been a hippie back on earth, Jax wonders distantly, It’d probably suit him, that senile old bat would fit right in.

 

“Entomology.”

 

Kinger replies simply, shuffling slightly inside his thick robe. Jax huffs, raising a nonexistent eyebrow.

 

“Yeah, I got no clue what that is. Anyway, carry on! Just…pretend I’m not here.”

 

Jax replies, backing off with a sly grin and narrowed yellow eyes. Zooble limps up beside him, making no effort to announce their presence. They’re here for free entertainment, just like Jax. Caine, who had been staring off into space, his attention span drifting merrily past Jupiter, suddenly snaps back into focus and grins. He claps with a pleased expression, his coattails fluttering in a happy little jolt.

 

“WELL I AM ALWAYS PLEASED FOR AN AUDIENCE!!”

 

He booms, Kinger jolting at the sudden raise in volume. Jax snorts, Zooble, as always, indifferent. They both watch silently — one in smugness, the other in boredom — as Caine swivels midair, flexing both hands in mock preparation. Kinger just stands there, eyes blinking slightly out of synch, and still giving the impression of a stoned teenager. 

 

“ALRIGHT KINGER, ARE YOU READY TO BE JAZZED?”

 

Caine yells exuberantly, his top hat wobbling like a drunk bobble head. Zooble raises their invisible eyebrows, and Jax grins wider, leaning against one wall. This should be good.

 

“U-Uh, Jazzed?” Kinger stiffens, suddenly looking uncertain, “you didn’t say anything about any Jazzi —“

 

“GREAT!!! NOW HOLD VERY STILL.”

 

Bit late for doubts now, Hoo-Ha, Jax thinks, just as the air bulges.

 

The world seems to buck and pull for a moment, swelling like a bulge under a rug — and when it bursts, smoke and confetti plume out with an anticlimactic “pop!”

Jax flinches, the sound echoing through his sensitive ears. A cutesy cartoon puff of smoke plumes in the air, Caines’ shoulders slumping from effort as it escapes its cartoon boundaries and becomes a lot less cute. The smoke quickly spreads, blurring the world into a thick haze, and Jax coughs, waving a hand to try and clear some away — uhg, shit, tastes like asbestos. Zooble stoically breathes it in with a death glare, clearly too spiteful to give into something as pesky as lung cancer. Their clawed arms are folded as Caine groans dizzily from above them, looking like he’s had seven shots and ridden a rollercoaster. It’s kinda odd…usually the smoke here doesn’t act like that. This looks like a realistic haze, not a cartoon one. Eh, prob’ly nothing…How’s Hoo-Ha doin’?

Jax’s ears prick, picking up a dull groan from a nearby blur of purple. He squints large yellow eyes through the haze, trying to make out whatever weird affect or gimmick was just slapped on Kinger, so he can jump the gun on teasing him. That’s usually what happens when Caine gets someone to help him with a ‘trick’ — the one and only time Jax fell for it, he was bright yellow for an entire week . It was miserable. Caine himself floats above them, looking uncharacteristically subdued, his eyeballs swirling as though dizzy. Huh… Jax frowns, glancing back at the lump of purple that is Kinger.

 

“Oi, Blockhead! You still alive over there?”

 

Jax calls over, stepping a bit closer to the lump of purple velvet. It twitches, and Jax is suddenly blinded by a flash of reflected neon lights, the shine bouncing off a gold crown. He winces, squinting at the offending hat, sitting nestled atop a mop of graying brown h — Wait a minute. Jax steps back, his yellowy eyes widening as Kinger sits up with a grumbled “ugh…” He looks up, meeting Jaxs’ gobsmacked gaze with bleary blue eyes. The eyes blink, then flick to Zooble, who has frozen in place, staring at him with a half-awestruck, half-murderous look on their face. Caine is still dizzy, wobbling like a drunk horse — 

But right now, everyone is focusing on Kinger, for reasons such as;

 

Jax has, miraculously, lost the ability to speak.

As soon as the word leaves his mouth, Kinger immediately becomes aware of it. And his entire face. He slaps a hand over his mouth on instinct alone, eyes going wide as dinnerplates and — eyelids . His hand is. well. it’s pressing to his face, a much more squishy face than usual, and his wrist is attached to something. Also, his face moved. Also, he has a face. Also his elbow hurts. Also he — ELBOW. Kinger tries to think “wait a second,” but doesn’t get past the word “wait.” WaitwaitwaitwaitwaitWAITWAIT — He begins shaking on the spot, one hand still pressed tightly over his mouth as he starts vibrating like a badly calibrated children’s toy on cocaine. It’s a very weird feeling, because usually, you don’t notice having skin. You just have it. But for poor old Kinger, who’s long since forgotten the feeling of ‘being him’, is getting bowled right over by the sensation — even rightness feels wrong when you don’t remember it. 

Jax finally regains the ability to form sentences.

 

“Wha — b-bu -huh - wha ???”

 

Not coherent sentences, but sentences. Kinger barely hears him, and does not move an inch. His head is grinding gears right down to the teeth, some long-forgotten part of his sanity going hey, I’m still here, and clumsily attempting to take charge of things. It’s not very successful, his brain (which exists, now,) desperately trying to restart everything back up and remember how to be itself before it dies and forgets again. Youd think his first reaction to this would be joy, but Kinger himself doesn’t have the mental space to feel much of anything . The inside of his head is a Molotov cocktail of internal turmoil, sprinkled with oh, y’know, the sheer overwhelmingness of suddenly being aware of every single limb you haven’t had for years. He has elbows.

 

“What,” 

 

Jax finally manages, jabbing a finger to the twitchy, very humany human on the floor,

 

“The *boi-oi-oing!* -uck?”

 

Kingers eyes — still the same muddy blue — blink out of sync with eachother, body shaking. His face is long and gaunt, spiky mouse-brown hair frizzing ridiculously, the streaks of gray in it making him look like a very frazzled professor. He hasn’t moved, most of his body still hidden in the folds of the deep purple cloak, but the shape of basketed legs can be seen jutting out from the fabric. Legs. Human legs, human head, human face — a face just as frazzled and bewildered as Kinger always is, with kingers' large blue eyes, and kingers’ hunch to his shoulders. A face and body which are, apparently, Kingers.

He looks just as stoned as he did before, so hey, at least that’s the same.

Caine steadies himself in the air, and laughs brightly, clapping his hands with a pleased look on his teeth. Jax has no f-ckign idea how the hell he’s being normal about this — but then again, Caine isn’t normal, never has been. 

 

“NOW NOW JAX, NONE OF THAT FOUL LANGUAGE, PLEASE!”

 

Jax just stares at Caine, lost for words. Zooble, meanwhile, had only just managed to collect enough of them to start speaking.

 

“You turned him back.” 

 

Zooble mutters, staring at the bewildered, very shaky Kinger with an odd look in their eyes. 

 

“You made him normal .”

 

Caine swivels midair to cock his jaw at Zooble, twirling his cane absentmindedly. He still seems completely unfazed, as if he hasn’t yet grasped the concept that he just made Kinger human again. Or alternatively, hasn’t yet grasped what that means. Their grasp on un-reality has just been blasted right out of their head, because Kinger is now a normal dude, and Caine…Caine did that. He…he can do that.

 

 He. Can do that?

 

“I WOULDN'T SAY HE'S NORMAL, HE’S USUALLY A CHESS PIECE, ZOOBLE! AND RIGHT NOW HES, WELL —“

 

The glare Zooble shoots at Caine might as well have been fired by a shotgun, because it very effectively stops him dead in his tracks. 

 

“Have you been able to do this the entire time?”

 

Zooble snarls, jabbing a claw at Kinger as they take a step forward. Their rubber foot squeaks like a dog toy, and Zooble flinches at the sound, the rage in their eyes darkening to aged crimson. Does he not realize that not being human is literally one of the more major reasons people here go insane? The body dysmorphia, dysphoria, whichever — whatever it’s called it hurts like a thorn in the brain, an itch over too-rubbery skin, and this whole time Caine could’ve fixed that. That thought makes Zooble want to grind their teeth, and the fact that they don’t have any to grind only strengthens the urge. Caines bowling-ball eyes widen in what is probably fear, Jax quickly backing out of swatting range in case blows start flying. Uh oh…

 

“ZOOBLE DEAR, ARE YOU-?”

 

“-Al right ?”

 

Zooble finishes for him, retching the word as if it were spoilt milk. The pure venom in their voice is enough to make even Kinger, quite preoccupied with his own sudden possession of lungs, look up. He gives a shaky attempt at pulling himself together, fails, then returns to his 364th existential crisis of the minute.

 

“No, Caine, I’m NOT alright — have you even *ba-boing* cking SEEN ME!? DOES THIS LOOK ALRIGHT TO YOU!?”

 

Zooble roars, waving their weird crab claw down at the rest of their mismatched body in wild indignation, Caine withering beneath the brunt of their rage. Jax has only seen Zooble like this a select few times before, and it almost always ends in violence. He would know — usually it’s directed at him!

 

“…Y-YES?”

 

Caine tries, squinting out fearfully from between his teeth. He nervously twists his cane round and around in his hands, cowering under the laser-eyed glare. Despite the fact that he controls basically everything, Caine is a massive pushover and Zooble, in typical Zooble fashion, has zero mercy for him. Their voice drops to a low growl, burning a hole through Caines jaw with a look blazing hot enough to kill.

 

“ Wrong. ”

 

They snarl, with enough venom that Jax — Jax of all people — steps forward to stop them from actually physically assaulting poor Caine, who looks on the verge of disappearing entirely.

 

“Woahhh there Gobbledy-gook, this ain’t the time!”

 

He hisses, grabbing Zoobles “elbow” and swiftly dodging the punch they throw at his face.

 

“Let me go you * bonk!* * gloink! *rabbit, I need to * twang-ang-ang* inh throttle him!” 

 

Zooble shrieks, tugging against his grip, their words so littered with censor noises Jax only barely understands them. His ears flatten back against his head, pupils contracting in his i-mean-this-shit way, glaring right back.

 

 “Well don’t, ” Jax replies in the same dangerous tone, “we’ve got more important things to deal with.” 

 

His eyes flick pointedly to Kinger, who is curled with his back to the wall, staring at his ungloved hands like he’s never seen them before. He opens and closes them over and over, blinking slowly as the treamours in his shoulders increase. He seems utterly fascinated, flexing each of his ten fingers with a look of blank shock, gaunt face filled to the brim with fear and awe. It’s downright bizarre to see a realistic human person huddled in the middle of this technicolor nightmare  — like a badly edited photoshop joke, except nobody's laughing and the lighting is just a tad too realistic to be excusable. 

 

“Oh shut up, he’s fine, more fine than I f- *BingBing*- king am!“

 

Zooble growls, and lunges at Caine again, pulling free as their arm pops off. Jax hastily dives after them, looping both noodle arms around their polka-dot midsection in a Bear Hug Of Civility. He crams his chin atop their triangle head to force it down, growling under his breath;

 

“Not on my watch — if you go n’ kill him, he ain’t gonna get around to fixing the rest of us!”

 

Jax manages through grit teeth, distracting Zooble just long enough for Caine to slip out of the death glare and bounce right back up into ‘ringmaster’ mode.

 

“O-OH LOOK, IT WORKED, HOW WONDERFUL!” 

 

Caine cries abruptly, rebounding up into the air like a rubber ball now that the focus is off him, prompting bewildered looks from everyone but Kinger. Forgetfulness is one thing, but it’s been twenty minutes —

 

“I’LL GO AND TELL POMNI!”

 

Caine adds hastily, avoiding Zoobles burning death glare. He very quickly disappears in a puff of smoke, Zooble screeching an indeterminate expletive after him as Jax releases them. The Bear Hug Of Civility is ended, Jax hopping back to avoid a donkey kick to the shins for his efforts. Zooble turns on their rubber-squeak heel, the technicolor tent setting sickly tones over their neon body, as the full brunt of their fury is redirected into him.

 

“I hate you so much.”

 

They snarl, voice low. Jax growls right back, ears flattening once more as he huffs.

 

“The feelin’s mutual , polka-face. You think I liked havin’t hold ya back? I might get cooties .”

 

“Oh yeah, real mature. This, coming from a walking fursona.”

 

“Bite me, Mx.potatohead. Bite me.“

 

Soon, the two are nearly at the point of resorting to blows themselves. They stand toe-to-toe, growling in eachothers faces, until — abruptly — Jaxs’ ears prick. They twitch, his expression switching from anger to intense concentration. Jax holds up a finger, immediately pausing the fight in its tracks.

 

“Wait.” Jax pauses, his eyes flicking back to Kinger on the floor. “Is he…”

“…You got a reason? ” 

 

Jax adds, and Zooble elbows him, hard. They shoot him a glare, Kinger still vibrating unstably on the floor, his eyes indeed brimming. The pitiful effect is only worsened by the fact he’s scooched himself back against the wall, huddled in the muted shadows of that corner as if trying to escape the overwhelming technicolor of everywhere else. Judging by the way he’s scrabbling at his eyes, the tears might be more out of strain than emotion — human eyes aren’t exactly suited to the epitome of bluelight blasting on crack. 

 

“ Jax! Think for once, how’d you feel if you just suddenly got your body back after being a-“ 

 

Zooble fumbles for a moment,

 

“a- an armless lump for f- *boing* -ck knows how long? * sqoik* ck it, at least I have arms! ”

 

Zooble cries, and Jax falls silent for a moment. 

 

“How’d I feel?” Jax repeats, his gaze flickering to Zooble with an unsettling intensity. 

 

“Delighted. Genuinely, actually, delighted — just for once.”

 

He mutters, ears twitching as a dark look crosses his face. He’d feel safe in his own skin. He wouldn’t itch with discomfort every time his limbs defy physics, wouldn’t experience the ghosts of facial features he can’t quite pin down. Iff he were back in the real world, well, he’d leg it to the nearest fast food place and stuff himself for an hour, then crash so hard the earth’d shake. Or go to a bar. He can’t remember what the buzz of alcohol even felt like, but he knows he’d much prefer to be drunk 90% of the time, so there’s that.

 

“ELBOWS!”

 

Kinger helpfully interjects, his voice cracking in the middle as he flails an arm around to display its general existence. He’s uncrossed his legs, which are surprisingly long, and splay out awkwardly as if he’s not quite sure where to put them. The sleeves of his turtleneck have been haphazardly shoved up, the rumpled cream turtleneck and skinny jeans only adding to his hippy-professor vibe. He does look stoned. Jax glances at Zooble, who is just glaring grumpily off into space with seemingly no intent of doing anything. Kinger himself is certainly in no place to take command of the situation, and Jax suddenly realizes — They’re just gonna sit here. They’re gonna let Caine go bippity-boppity-boo and pretend this never happened. Jaxs’ purple face scrunches slightly — why’d I have to get trapped here with a buncha’ idiots?

 

“All-righty then — guess it’s up to me...” Jax sighs, cracking his knuckles. “C’mon Zooble, help me wrangle Old Man McGee here.”

 

He calls over his shoulder, crossing the distance between him and Kinger in two long strides. A familiar grin flashes back over his face as Zooble stares at him incredulously, a vaguely-cobbled together blob of neon amidst the backdrop of this gaping technicolor tent. Jax mistook them for part of the scenery once — earned him a kick to the shins, that time. 

 

“What the he - heck do you mean, ‘wrangle’?” 

 

Zooble asks, carefully avoiding censorship with a flicker of frustration. Jax only grins wider.

 

“Well, it’s simple — we gotta do somethin about all this, don’t we?” 

 

He asks, grabbing Kinger's elbow. Zooble limps over with clear suspicion, automatically wary of Jax any time he shows signs of actually being proactive.

 

“Yeah…? And?” 

 

Zooble replies flatly, watching with a metaphorical raised eyebrow. Jax shrugs, still tugging on Kingers arm to little success; Kinger is a tad preoccupied with an internal mental breakdown, not that Jax cares.

 

“S’Easy-Peasy; all we gotta do is get him back to one of the rooms. Caine doesn’t go in there n’less we invite him, so it’s the safest place to sit’n’sort all of this out, eh?”

 

Jax explains, grinning smugly as he tugs a little harder on Kingers elbow. Kinger isn’t really listening to him, understandably, still reeling from the shock of suddenly registering his entire body all at once. Jaxs’ gloved hand feels like memory foam where it pulls against the crook of his elbow, the pressure of it re-alerting him to his muscles, which are beginning to ache from the strain of trembling this much. Kinger doesn’t know whether to laugh from the relief of having them back, or sigh because they’re currently boycotting him. Or maybe cry, just…for no reason. He doesn’t really have much reason on him at the moment.

 

“C’mon, whatcha waiting for? Help me hoist ‘Im up, he isn’t gonna get going on his own!”

 

Jax prompts, still grinning in that way that makes Zooble want to stuff horse shit down his throat. Him? Actually trying to be helpful? They don’t buy it. But he’s still frustratingly right.

 

“I hate you.” 

 

Zooble grumble, but begrudgingly crams their head under one of kingers arms, shoving him up. 

 

He just mutters something about arms. 

 

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