Life really likes giving Kinger curveballs, huh?

Huge tower walls loom before him, glaring bright reds and pinks in his stark torchlight. Kingers jaw remains slack as his eyes follow the huge spire up and up, towering over him where it disappears into the gloom. It’s huge, slathered in icing and Abstraction oil, a single pitch-dark slit of a window gazing back down at him. A thick, rotting striped carpet spreads out under his feet, sloping down all the way up to two massive doors — slabs of chocolate, a giant peppermint split across them like a lock — which loom on crooked hinges, slightly ajar. The stench of syrup and other sticky things hangs stuffily in the air, the sharp copperish tang of Abstraction clinging to its edges like lingering rot. 

It’s a…a castle? Fortress? Kinger realizes distantly, Like the one…F-From last week…

Kinger blinks, his mouth hanging wide open. This is the canyon? The candy canyon? It must be, but — no, that place was different. The sky was blue there, there were — it was made of wafers, not…rock candy? Candy stone? This is all wrong! some part of his mind screams, but it’s lost among his other thoughts, which mainly consist of things like;

 

“I have got to stop doing that…”

 

Kinger remarks shakily, and promptly jumps out of his skin as a shard of peppermint skitters its way down the side of one tower. For a second, he can almost make out a figure standing atop it — But it’s gone when he blinks, and Kinger quickly carries on. Don’t look at them, they’re not real. He reminds himself firmly, ignoring the disturbed dust that almost looks like footprints.

He’s just glad the shadows don’t take the shape of her, this time. That’s a mercy.

A prickle of unease goes up his spine as he walks towards the massive gates, syrup-stained fabric sticking to his shoes with every step. The air hangs heavy with the smell of melting sugar, and Kinger gets a distinct sense that he’s…not meant to be here. It’s too quiet. Too empty . There’s no loud circus music, no overbearing yet unseen time limit, no adventure to be had here — he’s walking through what is essentially the corpse of one. He has no idea why this place is in the cellar, but he can guess. Broken or dangerous things get put in the cellar, and…old game maps must be treated the same?

It makes sense. Caine was never one to waste space…

He has plenty of time to think about it, the walk down to the gates surprisingly lengthy. The slope creates a kind of optical illusion, making the distance seem a lot shorter than it actually is, and the gates a lot smaller than they actually are. They're monolithic in size, towering over him like some huge monument. Kinger feels like an ant, gazing up at the candy-castle palisades now rising over him. Kinger hunches his shoulders, head low — The hair on the back of his neck raises, and he shudders — he feels watched, for once. Despite how empty everything feels. It’s an…unwelcome feeling. Like he's trespassing on someone's property – or more fittingly, grave. It's how he thinks it would feel to walk through all those X’d off rooms that belonged to oh-so-many old friends.

Old friends that are all stuck down here with him.

Kinger could’ve sworn he saw a figure, in that single dark window. But nothing is there when he turns his torch to it, and Kinger has no reason to trust anything outside it’s beam, when phantom hands still wave lazily in his periphery. They clap in false applause as he passes under the massive candy gateway, and wraps himself tighter in his wife’s cloak. The weight of it helps, a little, but the goosebumps seem to stay no matter what he does. If she were here, she’d probably blow on his hands to warm them up, like those winters long ago.

Kinger cautiously pokes his head around a corner, and finds himself staring out into a courtyard. 

Just like everything else, it’s huge. Looming circular walls shape the grounds, glitch-stained sugarpaper grass wilting miserably under the pitch-black sky. Fountains of chocolate, black in the low light, the stench of diabetes-inducing levels of sugar staining the air. The paths are made of peppermint pebbles, which — thankfully — do not stick to his shoes like the carpet did. Kinger is honestly unsure if he can even eat any of this, but by this point, he’s is nearly desperate enough to try. Kinger eyes a nearby lamppost, made entirely of what looks like fudge, but shakes his head. No, he’s not that desperate. Yet. Maybe later.

A flash of movement catches his eye, and Kinger swings the torch to the left, eyes scanning. 

Nothing. Either his mind is playing more tricks on him, or he’s being watched.

He probably isn’t — who would even be, down here? — but Kinger still isn’t so sure about this place. The looming tower walls, the imposing nature of it. He’s seen it, or at least a version of it in the daylight, yes, but…this is different. It’s twisted, rotting, slightly off. It’s freaking him out, to be perfectly honest — and though Kinger would like to say he isn’t the type to scare easily, he almost definitely is. He is, by his own admission, a bit of a coward, and certainly feels like one. After walking down all those tight corridors, the gaping open space of the courtyard makes him feel horribly exposed. His footsteps echo loudly in the deadened silence, the torch beam swinging left, right, left, right…

Something moves. Kinger nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of shifting rubble — The “run from tigers” part of his mind screams at him to move, and Kinger scrambles back like a scared rabbit, chunks of dislodged candy tumbling towards him, a few marble-sized shards rolling up to his feet as Kinger flicks the torch up, praying he won’t —

…Oh.

 

“Guter Gott…” 

Kinger mumbles under his breath, hand clutching over his pounding heart. 

“… Please don’t scare me like that!”  

The disjointed NPC does not appear to hear him. It continues to glitch, jerking back and forth, limbs twisted ragged like a splintered doll. The longer he looks at it the more uneasy he feels, and Kinger carefully nudges the poor thing into a less excruciating-looking position. It jolts the instant he touches it, and Kinger hops back just as it releases a spew of half-mangled words.

“kK—-skkrrr—!” It chokes, it’s fingerless stubs of hands scraping at the sugarsweet dirt. “ G gk—! R-r-ren— re nnen- k-!”  

Its head slams out a harsh beat on the ground, Kinger flinching with every impact, mumbling a weak “Crikey!” Under his breath, in that charming ‘12yr old repressed christian’ vibe most of his dialogue has.

“ D-Dut— ee ss——ss—kkk—“ 

It hacks out, and Kinger — well, to say he’s unnerved would be a crime against prose and fair description. It’s more akin to appal, a deep sense of this is genuine, this is not an act, this thing is suffering, prickling up his spine. An NPC acting reasonably and genuinely is rarer than Caine admitting to his obsession with the Princess bride, and Kinger looks around for whatever might be causing this.

“I — are you okay?” 

He asks it, in genuine concern— The NPC only gargles in return, almost like it’s choking on something, despite its lack of a mouth. Kinger reaches out, moving to help it up — He has no idea what is wrong with the poor thing, but he knows that whatever it is, it shoul be easily fixed, right? NPCs are to AI what microwaves are to ovens, playing one role or another, so no problem it has can be too complicated, can it? The mannequin itself hacks and coughs in an uncomfortably living way, one of its trembling arms reaching out for him, before suddenly snapping backwards. A harsh screech erupts from it, and Kinger flinches at the crack of breaking rigging, a few strangled consonants still dying in the air as the neck…

Kinger feels like he’s just witnessed a death! 

Another one for the trauma bingo, then.

“You’re…You’re just resting.”

Kinger says, as if that would make it true. His words echo hollowly in the silence, bouncing off the many walls and towers. I…I wouldn’t feel right just leaving it there… he thinks, eying it nervously. Shouldn’t I move it, at least?  

Kinger moves forward, holding the torch in his teeth as he carefully pulls the mannequin from the wreckage of the window and props it up on a nearby wall. He dusts some glass shards off its head with a weak smile, giving its photorealistic wooden shoulder a pitying pat. Its legs are entirely shattered, black goo oozing from the splintered stubs.

“There you go,” he tells it, though it sags limply. “Nice and comfy.”

Kinger stares at it for a few moments, before realizing he’s talking to a corpse. He promptly reassesses his sanity for perhaps the seventh time this hour.

Something clatters behind him. The sudden noise of tumbling candy shards is semi-familiar by this point, and doesn’t scare him as violently as it had before. Please don’t be another hallucination, please don’t NOT be another hallucination, maybe don’t be anything at all? That would be nice — Kinger rambles internally, making an effort to be calm and sane as he swings his torch beam toward the sound, eyes scanning the rubble. He sees nothing, not even the flashes of movement that usually accompany this sound. 

Kinger frowns, his shoulders relaxing as he stares out over the vacant castle courtyard. Am I just so on edge that I’m hearing the things I expect to hear…? He wonders, scratching the back of his neck.

 

This small moment of self-contemplation does not prepare him to be bodily tackled.

 

Something slams into him from above, sending Kinger crashing to the ground with a shrill scream  — claws dig into his shoulder, not even hard enough to bruise, but the impact with the hard floor hurts well enough and Kinger screeches like any sane person would. He falls like a sack of bricks, angling himself to land on his back instead of face-first, struggling madly with whoever has decided to spectacularly worsen his already pretty f&^k-shitty day.

The person lands directly on top of him, pinning him to the ground by the stomach and screaming in a comically southern accent;

“What’d ya do to Bobby?!”

Kinger has no bloody clue who Bobby is. Kinger has never even heard of a Bobby in the Amazing Digital Circus. He's never met one, he's never seen one — he certainly has no opinions nor motives to do with any sort of Bobby, and definitely has no clue why anyone would be willing to beat the absolute shit out of him— as he assumes this person is about to do— over any kind of metaphorical, hypothetical, or otherwise intangible concept of a Bobby.

Now, Kinger has had the absolute shit beaten out of him exactly once in the course of his life, (an unfortunate misunderstanding involving a limited edition Shrek CD) and he is not exactly raring at the bit to experience that again, or, in fact, to sustain even more injuries on top of those he already has.

Therefore it's completely understandable that hearing the click of a gun does not, in fact, help.

 

Now I must take a moment here to pause.

If, on the very rare chance you are ever in Kingers current situation, that being pinned to the ground by someone with a gun (and yes I will explain why that’s happening, be patient dear) you absolutely should not do what Kinger does next, as it’s mind-numbingly stupid. If ever faced with a situation of stress or bodily risk, do not do what Kinger would do. Do the exact opposite.

Because Kinger, as much as we all love him, is rather shoddy at survival in general. as is perfectly illustrated by the way he immediately screams, flails, and tries to kick his assailant, despite the fact they’re currently straddling his waist and therefore nowhere near in range of his actual foot.  

 

Because…he’s Kinger.

 

And, because he’s Kinger and this would be a pretty bad story if he up and died halfway through, this somehow, miraculously ends up working. The person attempting to pin him is lighter than expected, and twisting himself like a budget Chinese fingertrap somehow manages to throw them off — they topple off him as Kinger flips over in the powdery pink dirt, his torch rolling clattering over the floor, plunging them both into darkness. Kinger scrambles for it, his assailant struggling madly on the ground nearby, the sounds of their shuffling and (weirdly tame) cursing loud in the still echoing silence. 

Standing in the beam of his fallen torch, Kinger bolts to his feet, panting hard, his shadow cast dark and sharp against his struggling assailant. 

A… crocodile struggles on the ground, its little legs waving in the air like a particularly drunk college roommate. Made of green and yellow gummy candy and wearing a distinguished cowboy hat, Kinger immediately recognizes it as an NPC from a previous adventure. What he does not remember is the rather important information pertaining to whether it's actually supposed to be trying to kill him right now. 

The crocodile struggles helplessly for a few seconds— Kinger, watching open-mouthed, is distinctly reminded of a turtle stuck on its back — before finally flipping itself over with its tail, grabbing its gun (a revolver, he recognizes) and scrambling to its feet, brandishing it at Kinger, panting heavily as it shouts a disgruntled;

“S-Stick em up!”

Kinger does absolutely no such thing, and just stares at it. The crocodile stares back, and there's a few awkward seconds as Kingers brain scrambles to form a coherent sentence. 

 

“You’re…holding that wrong.”

 

This is, objectively, the wrong sentence.

The crocodile-cowboy looks down at its claws, confused. Its talons, though only four-fingered, are, indeed, in the wrong places. One claw is cupping under the other — what was the name for that? Teacup hold? – and Kinger steps forward, correcting the creatures grip. It just…lets him pry one of its claws loose from where it had been cupping the handle, Kinger neatly repositioning it in front of the trigger. He also absentmindedly uses one foot to nudge its posture up a bit, making mental adjustments to account for the tail. It was off balance, just a bit, and it always pays to have good posture, and have your chest oriented—

The poor, confused NPC reacts as one might expect.

 

“ — you still have the safety on, too,”

 

Kinger points to the safety, which is, indeed, still on. For those of you that aren't living under the constant possibility of being shot like yours truly, the safety is the bit that keeps the gun from firing when you bump it wrong. So technically, he was never in danger — if it had tried to shoot, it still probably would’ve gone well, but he at least wouldn’t end up dead.

And what about the poor candy croc, you ask? Well, it has no clue what the sweet and sour f^&k it's supposed to be doing in this situation. You can't exactly blame it, considering it was probably only programmed for haha happy fun adventure time, and not depressed infodumping middle aged man. This is an NPC you realize, and he is not exactly programmed to be able to deal with this sort of thing.

“Wai-wai-wait, hol’ up!” 

The crocodile cries, smacking Kingers hands away and interrupting him mid-preamble about shotgun registration in Iowa.

“This ain't how it's supposed to go!”  

Kinger blinks. 

“It isn't?”  

He replies, befuddled. To be honest, he has no idea how anything is supposed to go. Or anyone. He lost the plot a long, long time ago, much like the author of this story — Though, they seem to be reveling in it. 

“ No! ” 

The crocodile cries, clumsily holstering its gun and staring at him as if he's gone insane, which he probably has, by medical standards.

“I’m supposed to point the gun atcha’, an you’re supposed to tell me what in tarnation you did to Bobby!” 

It insists, waving one claw towards the wooden mannequin still propped up against the wall nearby. Though Kinger is not exactly stellar when it comes to reading facial expressions, this…weird, crocodile-man seems genuinely distressed. Kinger briefly wonders why, before remembering the fact it just told him.

“Wait, you — you mean him? ” 

Kinger asks, pointing to “Bobby,” who is still bleeding black gooey stuff all over the floor like an A+ corpse. The crocodile nods, trying to rest its hands on its hips, failing since it has none. It frowns at him — or as much of a frown as a cartoon crocodile can give — its tail tapping anxiously on the ground behind it. Kinger, personally, is just thankful the gun is holstered.

 “Yeah! Bobby! My buddy! What on earth did you do to him — look, he’s missing — er —“  

The crocodile waves a claw around lamely, searching for the words. The word ‘leg,’ specifically, which one would think would be a non-issue, but neither crocodiles nor cowboys have exceptionally high IQ. 

“—Bits!” 

Kinger just stares, his mouth opening and closing with no words coming out. He looks at the mauled mannequin, to his own hunched-up twiggy self, then back to the crocodile. 

“You think — you think that I did that? Me? ” 

Kinger — well, he’s having a hard time believing that. He’s not an incredibly threatening-looking person, in fact he’s quite the opposite of a threatening-looking person. He’s not even athletic! At all! In fact, Kinger is 99% sure he never has been, even before becoming a chess piece devoid of all reasonable anatomy! And that’s saying something, considering Kinger is not sure of many things — but he is sure of the fact he’s essentially a twig. That is eternal, no matter what body he's in. It’s a fact of reality. Gravity, entropy, taxes, and him being a human stringbean — the day he builds any muscle at all is the day the sun turns purple and a politician tells the truth. Him lifting a fridge would cause the rapture. God himself would frown and check the assembly instructions, a fish halfway across the world would grow wings, a Canadian would take up a chainsaw and reenact the zodiac killings, Whenu would use a singular exclamation point! Kinger doubts he has enough upper body strength to snap so much as a broom! 

In short; Kinger honestly has no idea how anyone could look at him and think, ‘ yep, that scrawny middle aged man could break a mannequin in half, no problem.’

“Well who else coulda’ done it?”

The crocodile demands, and Kinger splutters, unable to even find words. 

“I— I don’t know! Sure not me! Do — do you need glasses? Do I lo o k like I could do that??”

Kinger asks, his voice cracking up an octave. He waves to the disjointed corpse, which has now decided to start clipping through the floor. It’s a nice aesthetic touch, and a good callback to the fact it’s a digital construct. All in all, A-plus — or dare I say it — A- star Corpsing Technique.

The crocodile opens its mouth, then takes a second look at him, and promptly closes it. It’s snout scrunches up like a muppet, looking Kinger up and down with a frown. Kinger, again, really isn’t sure why it needs to, when he is a human string bean, but hey! Maybe NPCS have different standards of what ‘hulk capable of snapping mannequin in half’ looks like. Kinger wouldn’t be surprised! This isn’t even the weirdest thing that’s happened to him today!!

“…well, no…”

The crocodile mutters, 

“But still! Why were ya’ standin’ by him then!?”

“I— wha— because he looked like he was in pain? And I have been in pain for quite a few hours and am also very tired? I would’ve very much liked someone to try to help me if I were — were choking , but, I don’t know. I’m — I’m very tired.”

Kinger trails off lamely, staring at the ground. He was just sort of working off basic human empathy, there. He wouldn’t want his mangled corpse to be left hanging out a window. Then again, it’s probably not a good idea to be arguing with the gun-lizard? Kinger isn’t the best diplomat by any means — in fact he’s a very shitty one — but then again, he also hasn’t had any sleep in…what, twenty years? Two? An amount of years, anyway. 

He's also not looking to get shot today, with peppermint pistols or any other kind of gun. He’s 98% sure he would not survive it if he did, and Kinger really does not want to think about his new ability to properly die. Probably. Considering he can bleed. Wait — can he? He’s pretty sure he can. If he got shot, would the circus censor it? Would it pixelate the wound? Or would he just graphically bleed out on the floor, as the very first person to die in a digital dimension? Would his soul still be able to move on, or would he be stuck as a digital ghost? Wait. Does he believe in ghosts? Is he religious? Wow that’s a big question he should probably think of later — He might just…abstract. That’s probably the least horrifying opinion, come to think…would his corpse still rot the same way? He vaguely remembers working as a coroner for a while, so he does know that the rate of decomposition varies wildly depending on the environment and local range of bacteria, but there isn’t any bacteria here, and come to think there probably haven’t been any scientific studies on what happens to human corpses in digital dimensions so ironically he would be technically making history and —

He should stop thinking about this.

The crocodile huffs, snorting a cloud of pink dust out its nose. It looks him up and down, one claw propped on its chin in thought, expression scrunching up like a middle aged woman picking out a new couch. Kinger is far too tired and existential and plain old hungry to devote any mental energy to figuring out why, exactly, it is regarding him like a couch, but he just hopes it’s not going to kill him. Graphically. With a gun.

“Well…ya do look kinda…” 

The crocodile pokes him in the chest with one soft claw, frowning. 

“Scuffered up.”

It observes, very observationally, in the way that a person with eyes would describe what they see, with their eyes.

Kinger, who is also a person with eyes, is currently observing (with his eyes) the fact he’s absolutely caked in candy dust. He takes advantage of the pause in the conversation, scrabbling at the chunks clinging to his elbows, grimacing as it sticks to him. His hands are absolutely coated in the stuff, Kinger carefully brushing peppermint shards off her cloak, picking chunks of candy dust out of the velveteen fabric. He’s lucky it’s so durable, just like she was. For some reason the fur hood is stiff when he runs his hands through it, and Kinger ruffles it as best he can, hoping that he didn’t somehow get syrup in there — He doesn’t want to damage it more, considering it’s all he has left of her.

“Welp,” 

The crocodile pipes up suddenly, making Kinger jump exactly two inches.

“I’ve decided! Ya don’t seem like the murderin’ sort!”

It proclaims with great importance, its demeanor doing a sharp 180 and crashing somewhere in the vague vicinity of Canada. It’s entire body seems to shift from “indecisive serial killer” to “Hiya friend!” The crocodile grinning at him with a slightly open mouth, its pink tongue showing through like a particularly pleased golden retriever. 

“N’therefore, I ain’t gonna shoot ‘cha!”

It adds, nodding decisively. 

“Oh. Thank you, that’s very nice.”

Kinger replies, and the crocodile nods again, sticking out a claw with a big ole’ country grin. Kinger is vaguely reminded of Mr.Clean, whoever the hell that is. Probably a band. 

“The names Barnaby! Whatcha doin’ all the way out here in the Betas, friend?”

The crocodile — a he , Kinger would think — asks with sudden, and therefore alarming amiability, tipping his hat. He grins, seemingly oblivious to the fact Kinger is staring at his claw like it’s a rattlesnake about to strike. 

Kinger looks from the holstered gun, to the hat, to the open claw, to the gun, to the tail, to the grin, to the gun. He’s pretty concerned about the gun, understandably. Kinger squints at…’Barnaby’, double and triple-checking the crocodiles expression for signs of aggression, yet finding none. Still, this man (crocodile? Alligator? Licensed confectionary? Digital felon?) did try and shoot him, and tackle him to the ground, and threaten him with a gun, but…Kinger just isn’t the type to hold a grudge! Never really has been. Cowboys aren’t generally bad guys, and Caine has a borderline unhealthy obsession with narrative tropes, so it should be fine.

Again, kids, when in a bad situation: do not do what Kinger would do!

Kinger tentatively reaches out and shakes hands with…‘Barnaby.’ It’s sort of squishy — Kinger supposes that’s because he doesn’t have bones. Despite that, Barnaby still shakes his hand so vigorously Kinger swears his arm might pop off. He somehow gets the sense this cheerfulness is uncharacteristic for him.

“Nice to…Nice to meet you? And, uh. Walking. I’m walking. Have been for hours, actually. Possibly days.” 

Kinger replies, hesitantly enough that it comes out like a question. He's still kind of getting whiplash from the sudden change in tone — two minutes ago he was being held at gunpoint, and now everything’s….fine? He thinks? Is this some weird new variation of sarcasm, or is he just like that? Kinger wonders, uneasily. Barnaby, however, seems completely unperturbed. He taps one foot on the ground absentmindedly as he releases Kingers hand, resting it on his holster— something Kinger himself does not exactly appreciate, but knows probably isn’t…intentional, right?

“Nice to meet you too, pardner!”

 Barnaby says cheerfully, tapping a rhythm onto the hilt of his gun. He tips his hat — is this the second, or the third time that he’s done that? — and looks Kinger up and down, cocking his head to the side a bit.

“I gotta say though, I ain’t ever seen anyone who looks like you do! Not even in the concept art!”

He remarks, poking Kinger in the stomach hard enough to make him cough.

 “What are you, anyhow? A really weird candy golem or somethin’? Ya don’t match the artstyle at all! Or the color scheme!”

Barnaby continues, gesturing to his button up — which used to be light blue, but is now…well. Smudged light blue. To say Kinger doesn’t know how to respond to that is an understatement. It’s such an understatement that I have no words to express to you how much of an understatement that is. It’s like that statement, right there, entered his brain and flipped his understanding of the situation on its head, and knocked over a few boxes on its way out. Golem? Weird looking? I’m not weird looking. Am I? I might be. I probably am. Kinger feels terribly insecure for about three seconds before remembering, ah yes, being human! That.  

“Oh! Oh, no, no I’m — I’m a person. A human person.” 

Kinger replies, chuckling a little. He keeps forgetting, but it’s nice to remember again. He gets a strange little kick out of it each time, like finding a dollar in your pocket, except instead of a dollar it’s a tiny, microscopic little reminder that things were once Right and Okay in the world.

Barnaby immediately, though unintentionally, ruins this. 

“Are ya sure?”  

Kinger just stares at him.

“Y- Yes?? ”  

He manages, his eyebrows raising so high they nearly disappear into his hairline. He knows he’s a tad more realistic than anything else in the circus, but there are definitely human-like creatures in many different adventures — like the mansion! There was a…a lady, there. And…other places too, surely!! Sure, there were none here, but he doesn’t see what would be so weird about him in particular! Yes, fine, he’s a bit battered, but is that really so unusual? He got injured all the time, even before this! Almost every adventure, he’d be stabbed or crushed or thrown into a wall…and that still hurt like the dickens, even though he was cartoon, and there wasn’t really any lasting sign of it, or any way to treat it really, so he’d just sit there waiting for the pain to go away, and it probably wouldn’t for hours because Jax would keep pushing him and make it flare up again, so he’d have to hide and then everyone would forget about him until dinner…

…anyway, the point is, him being beat up isn’t that unusual, so he can’t really see what’s weird about this. He’s just…himself.

“Well, I mean, it’s just —“ 

Barnaby shakes his head, graciously abandoning the subject. 

“Ah, s’no use arguin. What’s yer number, anyhow?” 

Barnaby asks, resting a hand on his nonexistent hip, and Kingers brow furrows. Does he remember that? Probably not, but the first vaguely phone-adjacent number that enters his head should work fine instead.

“515-808-2364, why?”

Barnaby stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Wha…? No, no that’s not…is that an IP or somethin’? I meant yer you number!” 

Barnaby frowns, seeming genuinely befuddled. That or hungry. Kinger isn’t qualified to tell at the moment. He’s really craving cheese, for whatever reason.

 “Look — I’m NPC number #468, see? N’ you are?”

Barnaby waves to himself, then to Kinger, ridged brow raised. A little lightbulb goes off above Kingers head, and he smacks a hand to his forehead. Ah! It’s a weird digital-being thing! That actually makes more sense…

“Oooh! Nonono, I’m, I’m not an NPC, ” 

Kinger explains, laughing despite the fact it’s not really that funny and he’s probably just sleep deprived. 

“I’m — well, I’m me? A P-C. Not like the computer. Like NPC but without the N — You know what I mean, don’t you? P-Player character, that’s it! Yes, I’m that. One of those…people.”

Kinger doesn’t know what he’d be classified as these days, a player or a person or just a few strands of code…is he code, still? Or is he real, true flesh and blood, just standing on a pixelated stage? He can’t tell, rubbing his ‘infected’ arm as he thinks it over. The glitches prickle uncomfortably up his skin, and he’s disturbed to find its spread from his palm down over his wrist. Barnaby just stares at him a moment, before a similar lightbulb goes off above his head — quite literally, as this is the circus — and grins wider. Kinger does not appreciate the amount of teeth that are shown off. 

“Ooh! Yeah, I get it! Yer one of the tent folk! I knew I recognized yer voice from somewhere, I just couldn’t place it…”  

Barnaby remarks thoughtfully, tapping his chin. 

“You were that…that guy in purple, weren’t’cha!”

Kinger flinches. That day is murky for him, but he’s 90% sure he was injured during the course of it…so much of his world is a haze of confusion, and the memory itself is painful if only for the body he was in at the time. No, no, he doesn’t like remembering that. He doesn’t want to be that.

“Yeah, I remember you! My Alpha build saw ya through his binoculars!” 

Barnaby continues obliviously, pronouncing binoculars completely wrong and staring off into the distance with a nostalgic look on his face, despite that occurring only a week or so ago. A week or so ago, when Kinger was still drifting through that long haze of living as little as possible. Of remembering as little as possible. Of forgetting as much as he could, second to second, minute to minute, day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after…

“Let’s change the subject.” 

Kinger says, fiddling with the fur lining of her cloak. Those are memories he’d sooner just burn to the ground, along with the entire circus, if only there were a way out of it. That would be satisfying, watching it all go up like dry tinder. He could warm his eternally-cold hands on the flames! 

“Wh-Why are you out here, anyway? Don’t you usually hang out…other places? Or nowhere? I distinctly remember you being a place that’s…not here.”

Kinger asks, watching as Barnaby's expression shifts. He almost looks…embarrassed? It’s a strange expression on him. So is a smile, as if Kingers never seen him wearing one before. That’s concerning…

“It’s…well, y’ see, uh…” 

Barnaby rubs the back of his neck with one claw, gesturing to the massive peppermint tower with the other. It resides on the other side of the courtyard, looming imposingly in the distance. This, also, feels out of place. 

“I— well. I was tryin’a get into the tower, but…” he coughs awkwardly, clearing his throat. “…couldn’t get the gate open, and the walls’re too sheer to climb.” 

Kinger nods sympathetically. He only vaguely remembers the princess — the entire adventure was a blur to him, but from what comes to mind, it was mostly the usual anyhow. Ragatha fought with Jax again, Gangle was marginally happy for…at least a few minutes? Something important might have happened, but if it did he can’t remember. Something about buckets. His head is so fried from the constant flashbacks he barely has the energy to think back on purpose— however, he does have a ton of experience in things being too heavy for him to lift or carry, due to stick arms. He is not, as previously established, very athletic!

“Y’know, this stuff is usually co-op, so there’s two levers you hafta’ crank — that’s why I needed Bobby!” 

Barnaby continues, shooting “Bobby” a forlorn glance. The NPC remains bleeding over the floor, shards of wood splintering from its abdomen stained absolute black. It’s head is limp, no longer twitching as it had been. One of its arms is phasing through the floor — Kinger supposes its collision must be broken. 

“You need a second person to open the gate?” 

He asks, turning back to Barnaby, who nods solemnly. 

“I gotta check up on the princess — usually I stick around n’ guard her after Mr.C’s done testin’, but I haven’t been able to get in for, let’s see, uh…”

He counts on his claws for a moment, humming. Kinger waits patiently, feeling the cool cellar air shift imperceptibly around him. It’s nice having skin again, even if the wounds sting. Better than wood. Anything is better than wood, really… 

“Maybe a week or so? Definitely since Mr.Caine loaded the Alpha build…”

Barnaby concludes, then suddenly looks worried.  

“Now that I think about it, that’s a mighty long time for her to be quiet…usually she at least waves out the window!” 

Barnaby stares into the dirt with the same anxious look, seemingly lost in thought. Kingers brow draws together, and he looks down at his hand, glitching and aching. He looks up at the dark castle, looming and imposing. Then he looks at Barnaby, staring at the ground with a haunted look in his eyes. He seems like he needs the help — and the company, if he’s been left alone for a week. Even Kinger, who’s been continually ignored on multiple occasions, hasn’t ever had a week-long streak before! Not that he remembers, anyway…also, it’s not like he has anything else he needs to do.

“I could help you open it,” Kinger offers, “I don't know how useful I’d be, but…I am a person! With arms. I do have those now.”

Barnaby's head snaps up, looking hopeful. He seems to catch himself though, his snout wrinkling in confusion.  

“But…yer a player. Don’t you have a quest to be on or somethin?” 

Barnaby says, looking confused. 

“You hafta’ be down here for a reason, right?” 

Kinger stares at him blankly, the days horrors flashing through his skull. 

The skittering feeling of thousands, millions of moving bodies shifting around him, their tiny legs scratching his skin and trying to tear his humanity away from him. Pressing over his eyes, against his teeth, which ached because— for a few moments there, he nearly lost them. The endless fever of his mind being wrenched away from him, then falling, falling through the sea of glitches and confusion until he’d broken some seal, punctured some barrier. Teeth and eyes and the ravaging sea of corrupted minds that had crashed against his own, drowning him — who knew it was possible to get motion sick from thoughts — ? writhing and churning like the belly of a half dead animal, lurching with rabid bile. His bones shattering and re-piecing, and — blue. Something about blue. Then it’s just the slam of brick against his back, and the dark, terrifying ride through the cellar, clinging to the jaws of a monster over fifteen times his size. 

The horror of a mind dripping between his fingers.

 

“My only goal is to survive.” 

 

Kinger says into a dead pause, his expression blank. The not-there eyes still blink owlishly in his periphery, peering out in glistening clusters from the windowframes. He chooses to ignore them, his knuckles white on the torch still clutched in his hand. Barnaby is, again, completely oblivious, his sunshine-yellow face instead breaking out into a delighted grin.

“Well that’s just great!”

Barnaby cries, throwing his arms out wide, Kingers highly traumatized mannerisms flying right over his head with a nice little whoosh. He then, to Kingers great surprise and alarm, whips out a long-barreled shotgun , seemingly from nowhere.

“I protect you from the giant shadow monsters, n’ you help me get past the gate!” 

He says brightly, arming it with a satisfying ch-chunk. Kinger just stares at him, mouth open, the cogs in his brain grinding against eachother with a satisfying shower of sparks and odd clunking noises.

He is, again, holding the gun wrong. 

“Where…Where on earth did you get that from?”

He asks, in mild disbelief. Barnaby just shrugs, grinning.

“ ‘ammerspace! There’s loads of models in there!” 

He replies, and it takes a moment for Kinger to both A: un-southern the pronunciation, and B: remember what, exactly, that even means. A fancy word for ‘inventory’, he thinks. He didn’t know NPC’s had those…Barnaby turns and points across the courtyard, towards the massive center tower. That still feels weird…is that meant to be there?

“The gates are just over there — c’mon, I’ll show ya!”

Barnaby says happily, then swiftly turns and scurries off into the dark. Kinger jumps, having to scramble to keep up with him — who knew NPCs could be so fast? Or crocodiles, for that matter…Or is he an alligator…? The torch beam wobbles as he runs up beside Barnaby, who (thankfully) slows down for him. He walks with a swagger in his step, and Kinger barely gets two seconds to catch his breath before Barnaby pipes right back up again.

Kinger really, really hopes he isn’t going to regret this. 

 

———

 

They travel across the courtyard in perhaps the exact opposite of silence. If misery really loves company, then Barnaby might have to change his name — because he talks. 

A lot.  

Kinger is starting to believe isolation can take just as much of a toll on NPCs as it does humans — Barnaby seems over the moon to have someone to talk to, chattering on about absolutely everything yet also nothing at all. He rambles about the week he’d spent trying to get into the tower, which segways into a rant about the layout of the castle and how strong the wall are, and didn’t Caine do such a good job designing it, and how he wishes he could come here more during adventures when it’s all “spit-shine clean!” 

In fact, his personality is so bright and saturated that Kinger feels like a teabag in comparison. An unnerved teabag, because he just can’t shake the feeling that this is extremely out of character for him. Also, he doesn’t think he was named Barnaby before? Or that he was this chatty? 

What did he say…? Early build? Maybe that means he’s walking concept art…I didn’t know Caine made those. Still, in-character or not, Barnaby is the first person to be relatively hospitable to him in the last…well, ages, and Kinger is achingly relieved to have company. It’s nice to walk beside someone as an equal for once, instead of being shoved from place to place like some kind of ragdoll…in fact, it’s nice to just walk, without the desperation of hunting shadows stiffening his every step. 

And company! Company is great! Especially company that doesn’t torture, shove, ignore, make fun of, hit with waffle bats, set on fire, abandon, trick, or pity him every few seconds! Barnabys endlessly chatty nature may be persistent, but it’s also extremely comforting, at least to someone who’s been essentially haunted for the past few hours. It gives Kinger something to focus on that isn’t his own thoughts — plus, the shadows haven’t opened their mouths in a good twenty minutes now, and Kinger is absolutely certain it’s because he has an actual person to pay attention to instead.

“Anyhow, have you met the Princess? She’s a real peach, ain’t she?”

Barnaby asks suddenly, beaming at him. Kinger blinks, surprised to be included in the conversation. He’s going to have to get used to that now he’s capable of sustaining one.

“What? Oh, no, not to my memory,” He replies truthfully,  “but I might remember later.”

Barnaby gasps, his white eyes widening like mini-moons. 

“You ain’t ever met the princess?! But she’s great!! Amazin’! Gee, there’s a bunch you gotta know before you meet her — she’s royalty ya know, real important! You gotta know the eta— ecca—“

“Etiquette?” Kinger asks, and Barnaby nods vigorously.

“Yeah! The polite-y stuff!!”

Barnaby immediately launches into a huge rant about candy canyon etiquette, making wild hand (and tail) gestures as he speaks. Kinger nods along during the entire thing, Barnaby's tail making a slithering sound as it drags over the pebbly path. The pebbles are, in fact, mini peppermints, the path they follow sticking close to the palisade wall of the castle. It’s huge — higher than a wall has any right to be, and scored over with a concerning amount of scratches, crumbling holes in the palisade walls revealing hollow insides wreathed in gaping black.

Kinger reaches out to trail his hand over one giant divot in the pink stone. it's as deep as his entire forearm, the glitches around his infected hand calling to the black smears within. He winces, snatching his hand back just as Barnaby thwacks his tail on the path.

“Hm?”

Kinger asks, looking up. Barnaby gives him an injured look, his snout scrunched up in a pout.

“Hey! Were you listenin’ to me? This stuff is important!”

Kinger blinks, raising his eyebrows. Of course he was. What else would he be doing? Thinking dangerous, nostalgic thoughts that could trap him in a memory and leave him somewhere entirely unfamiliar, alone in the dark and the fear with nobody to talk to and just shadows of her for company? Kinger, personally, prefers the etiquette!

“3/4ths bow, one second, head raised, smile. Kiss hand if offered to you, and refer to her as her royal sweetness, not her name, unless she tells you to, which she probably will because she’s amazing.”

Kinger parrots, offering Barnaby a smile. He has experience with being ignored, and it’s not…nice, one could say, to experience. Even if you’re used to it. Especially if you’re used to it.

“Don’t worry. I listen.”

Barnabys eyes widen, before his snout splits in a delighted grin. His tail actually starts wagging, making a thwacking noise as it whips side to side. 

“You WERE listenin’! Haha, you really had me goin’ there, pardner — you’ll do great when I introduce ya to her!”

Barnaby proclaims happily, a new bounce in his step. Kinger feels a sudden silence of kinship with him — they’ve both been left alone more than is probably healthy, in his opinion. At least they can pay attention to each other now, right? … speaking of alone, Kinger wonders, why has the princess been silent for a week…? 

“Ah — Why are we checking on the princess, by the way? Is she in danger?”

Kinger asks, raising an eyebrow. He’s fairly sure he just interrupted Barnaby by mistake, but he doesn’t seem to mind, sticking the shotgun he’d been carrying in his holster— it fits, somehow— and suddenly looking more serious than Kingers seen him yet.

“Well, nah, but she could be. I always gotta check on her, just in case!”

Barnaby replies, with a great sense of purpose. He puffs out his chest proudly, the pudge at the bottom of his body shooting up like a cartoon character. He looks like a rooster, or maybe just Pawlifer back when he was actually happy. That orange dog always had an ego bigger than was good for him…

“It’s my duty to protect her royal sweetness! I’m a Cowboy, n’ cowboys protect their lady friends — that’s just how the liquorice twists!”

Barnaby nods importantly, and Kinger shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. Despite how overly chatty he is, Barnaby's enthusiasm is endearing regardless. Kinger can’t remember the last time he spoke to someone who wasn’t burdened with the inescapable horror of digital existence! It’s very refreshing!

“What’s so funny?”

Barnaby asks defensively, and Kinger just shakes his head, a small smile on his face as he waves a hand.

“Oh, nothing, you just — well, reminded me of someone…”

Kinger winces, shaking his wrist out. Holding the torch this long has made his fingers stiff…

He switches the torch to his mouth, freeing his hands to give his knuckles a very satisfying crack. Barnaby's eyes go wide as saucers at the series of cracks and pops, his wagging tail sticking out like an exclamation point.

“Boy howdy, were those yer bones!? ”

Barnaby shrieks, and Kinger jumps. His hands instinctively shoot up to his chest like a child caught doing something they shouldn’t, blinking back at Barnaby with raised eyebrows, torch still held between his teeth. 

“Um…” Kinger mumbles around the torch, spitting it back into his good hand. “…Yes? You seem concerned. Is something wrong?”

Barnaby stares at him like he’s grown a second head. 

“Well, duh!” He cries, throwing his claws in the air. “Bones ain’t supposed to make noises!! That’s not how they work!”

“…it’s how my bones work. And I quite like them.”

Kinger replies, brow drawn.

“Also, you don’t have any, so you’re not an authority on the subject.”

He points out sagely, and Barnaby frowns, his face scrunching up like a grumpy muppet. He crosses his arms (which are nearly too short to be crossed), and pouts. It reminds Kinger of that one Kermit meme that stopped being circulated in 2016, which nobody reading this will have heard of, therefore nullifying the reference. 

“Sure I do!! I got bones for days! Or — well, I mean, I got rigging , which is like the same stuff. But for me. So I know things!!”

Barnaby insists, and Kinger is distantly reminded of a toddler trying to convince him that a grape and a cookie are the same thing. 

“Yes, but I have more than you. I have two hundred and six. Also I went to college.”

Correction: he hopes he did. Kinger can remember living in an apartment with a roommate that kept silently judging him, which is basically the same thing, but still can’t actually recall graduation . Yet. He’s sure it’ll come back to him, probably at the most inconvenient moment possible, ever.

“Aw, come off it, no ya don’t! That’s too many! And what’s a college?”

 

And thus begins a long and completely pointless argument about bones, in which Barnaby refuses to believe spines exist, Kinger points out and names every single bone in his hand, and there is very little of plot-relevance. Barnaby eventually calms down a bit when Kinger explains it’s the ligaments making the cracking noise, not his actual knuckles, and the argument resolves with both of them agreeing that the human body is weird and that bones, generally, should not make noises. Unless it’s a flute, of course.

 

“Anyhow,” Barnaby concludes wisely, “don’t go makin’ that sound around the princess! It’s icky.” 

He sticks his tongue out with an exaggerated blegh.

“I had to. My fingers were just stiff from holding this thing,”

Kinger explains, waggling the torch. The beam skitters over several decorative hedgerows, which are presumably made of sugar paper. They line the paths, the one they walk on now running along the length of the castle palisade.

“Well lucky for you, I don’t have fingers!” 

Barnaby replies brightly, holding out a claw and making a grabby motion. Kinger stares at it with his eyebrows raised, a light frown on his face.

“ You want to hold it?”

Barnaby nods, with great enthusiasm.

“Anythin’ to make sure you never make that sound again!”

Kinger frowns, looking from him, to the torch, to his own protesting wrist. I could just switch hands, but…that would mean using the other one. The bad one.  Kinger shudders. Hidden in the folds of her cloak, it isn’t so bad, but… What if it breaks the light somehow, he worries, and I get stuck in the dark? What if using it makes it worse? What if Barnaby asks me about it and I have to explain? Oh god he doesn’t want to do that. He really doesn’t want to do that. What if the NPCs have some kind of antivirus code or something, and Barnaby just blips my hand out of existence? What if he has an antivirus code and seeing it makes HIM blip out of existence? If my hand disappeared, would I bleed? Would I die from blood loss? This is bringing up the rotting conundrum again. Would anyone — 

Kinger hands over the torch before he can overthink himself into a panic attack. 

It’ll be fine, he’s sure!

Barnaby grins at him, flipping the torch in his claws and sending the beam bouncing over the courtyard, the flashes glinting off of sugar spun lamp posts twisted like trees.

“Thankin’ ya kindly, pardner!”

He chirps happily, immediately pushing every single button it has. Kinger just nods, watching as he sets the beam on several different settings — when he reaches strobe, a tiny little epilepsy warning automatically manifests over Barnabys head. It bobs merrily in the air, helpfully reminding him that C&A is not responsible nor legally liable for any injury he sustains. 

C&A. 

Kinger looks away, a shiver going up his spine. Those letters make him…uncomfortable. 

C&A. It’s only two letters. Why do they make my hands shake? He wonders, curling them close to his chest. He hunches in on himself as the shadows open their mouths and laugh — no, no, that’s not real. Shake your head, move on. Move on. Why does his head hurt so bad…? C&A. What does that even mean? C&A…C and A. Caine? Caine and…Abel“…will see you now.”Gray door. Gray door. Gray door. Gray door. “Top notch, best in the” Humming. So much humming. Dust. Papers untouched. Secretary won’t meet his eyes. Eyes. Eyes. The computer is off. Phone is dusty. Who uses dial-up? He won’t open his mouth. Business” What is behind his teeth—? Red, blue. Red, blue. Red, blue. Velcro strap. W. Humming. Itching, itching, itching. “Abel Abel Abel “hy hello there!” Uncanny valley, red, Blue. Red blue red blue red blue red blue H hands eyes why won’t he? Red blue red blue red blue gray door. Gray door gray eyes instincts bristling like a bath of bloodied thorns “oney, what’s —“ hands burning arms tearing flesh dissolving to digital code is he living or dying or both all at once can a cell live in a circuit circus is he human or a copy of a copy of a copy of a man copy of a copy of a reloading Occu_J.B —  

Kinger shakes his head, catching himself with grit teeth. He doesn’t notice how tightly he’s squeezing his infected wrist, the ache in it prickling bone-deep. He doesn’t notice the fact the prickling had crept to his shoulder, sinking back down his forearm as he returns to reality. Not right now. He doesn’t know what will happen if he blacks out right now, when there’s someone else here, he doesn’t know what will happen, he  —

A flash of movement catches his eye. 

His head turns, breaking out of his spiral just in time to see Barnaby tossing the torch high in the air. He watches it sail up high, grimacing as the beam passes over his face, before it falls right into Barnaby's open…

Mouth!? 

 

“Did you just SWALLOW IT!?”

 

Kinger shrieks, a lot louder than he meant to. His voice echos around the vacant courtyard, and Barnaby jumps a foot in the air, tail curling under him in surprise. He lands with a loud crunch of peppermint pebbles and expression far too alarmed for Kingers liking, a claw flying up to his mouth. 

“ Shh!”  Barnaby hisses urgently, grabbing his arm.  “Not so loud, not so loud!! ” 

“You — you ate it!! Now we can’t see!!”  

Kinger shoots back, in a dismayed whisper which is still pretty loud. Barnaby just stares at him with a confused expression plastered over his snout. 

It takes Kinger a regrettable three or four minutes to realize he can see Barnaby's snout.

“…What. What is…how…? Why…? ” 

Kinger asks helplessly, gesturing to Barnabys…everything, which is now glowing . Glowing, like a glow stick, head to toe. Barnaby himself just grins, straightening up with his tail gently wagging.

“Cool, right? See, no reason to be hollerin’ like that!”

Barnaby says proudly, hands on his nonexistent hips. The color of his gummy-candy body stains the light soft oranges and greens, washing the darkness from a sizable circle around them both — Kinger blinks as he realizes it actually covers a greater surface area than the torch, if a little dimmer. Easier on the eyes too. The bright torchlight shines from his stomach surprisingly strongly, actually, considering Barnaby is already about a foot thick, and a little bottom-heavy on top of that.

He’s a walking nightlight.

“You puzzle me.” Kinger says, shaking his head. “Not in a bad way. But. You do.” 

Barnaby just grins, seemingly pleased.

“Well that’s good, cus’ I love puzzles! Best fun you can have without ridin’ something, in my opinion!” 

He explains proudly, tail wagging like a pleased dog. The dirty-minded teenager buried somewhere deep in Kingers brain briefly misinterprets that sentence, but Kinger knows full well that Barnaby is a Circus creature, and therefore G-Rated down to his rigging. He reminds Kinger of a golden retriever in many, many ways, possibly because he shares the same basic silhouette as your typical fursona, but also because his tail is wagging fast enough to make a little thwub-thwub-thwub noise. 

Or…it was.

Kinger stops, confused. Barnaby is standing stock-still, tail sticking out straight, white eyes contracting from wide full-moons to tiny pricks. Kinger frowns — if Barnaby had ears, Kinger is absolutely sure they would be pricked and roving like satellite dishes. Kinger straightens up, reaching out in concern. 

“Are you—“  

He tries to ask, but is quickly hushed, Barnaby raising one gently-glowing claw to his mouth. His head is ever-so-slightly tilted, as if he’s…listening.

“Shh,”  

He murmurs, staring off into space. Kinger pauses, listening himself. At first, he doesn’t hear it. At first, he doesn't notice the shaking bushes, or the slight scent of dust in the air. 

It’s light and faint, but he hears it. The clattering of shaking rocks.  

Kinger looks down. The peppermint pebbles knock against his shoes, rattling like a jar of marbles. The lampposts click in their sockets along the path, manicured sugar paper bushes trembling  — all it takes is for him to press a hand against the palisade wall beside them, and he feels it. 

A heavy, rhythmic pounding. The growing vibrations send goosebumps up his skin, the hair on the back of his neck raising like a frightened cat. Humanity may have opposable thumbs and existential dread, but at heart they are still animals, Kinger included — And right now, the scared monkey in the back of Kingers mind is screaming run at a volume that drowns all other thoughts. His mind screeches to a halt, individual words flashing through his head. Earthquake, collapse, the end of the world, nuclear bomb — his hand is glued to the wall as he lifts his head to stare out over the vibrating landscape in horror. Dust stirs from the earth, sugar paper leaves shaking as something huge grows closer and closer. 

Kinger barely has time to react before Barnaby lunges for him, grabbing him by the arm and yanking through a hole in the palisade wall, sending them both tumbling headfirst into the darkness within. 

They land in a pile of limbs, Kinger somehow biting back a scream as they both scramble into the shadows — Barnaby punches himself in the stomach to kill the light, flattening himself against the inner wall of the palisade and gesturing for Kinger to do the same. The rumbling makes it hard to walk at this point, tripping and stumbling as he presses his back to the wall, just as an earth-shattering impact makes the ground roll like a wave.

Kinger swears he can feel his bones rattle. Tiny rocks and pebbles jump and dance in the disturbed dust as the tremors shake the very foundations of the world, shake the castle palisade itself, a thunderous scratching echoing from above as something huge claws it’s way over the castle walls. Kinger can hear thousands of slithering shapes scrape over the candy stone outside, tiny pebbles raining from above and dusting his hair pink. It stings at his eyes as he tries not to breathe, heart pounding out of his ribs like a wild bird — the dust rises and sticks in his lungs, itching and scratching. Don’t cough, don’t cough don’t cough —!  He thinks, prays , hands digging into the grooves in the stone. 

Kinger suddenly feels another mind rub against his own, sandpaper to his already bleeding excuse for a brain.

… notyetnonotfindglowseeit?imagining.findhimkeephimout…killit, that heretic! Dontthey….have to get back. Need to…I can't let that madman find her. A sorry shame— oh, now what’s that?whatsatwhassatwhatswth

Kinger ‘hears’ its thoughts in the same way you might ‘hear’ the crunch of flesh as a knife saws through your thighbone. The architecture of his mind is dwarfed by it just as he is dwarfed in reality, hunched terrified in the shadows. Kingers mind curls up like a terrified rabbit, hidden under the ferns from a fox with bloodied jaws— it hurts like staring into static, paralyzes him like a waking nightmare. His infected hand prickles with a bone deep ache, glitches calling to glitches, predator calling to prey.

The Abstraction pauses atop of the palisade, a moment of horrible silence rotting in the air as the entire structure groans under its weight. In the space between heartbeats he can hear it breathe. Low, heavy rasps, echoing like rolls of thunder through the stagnant air. The sound scrapes and bounces off the palisade walls, echoing through the entire structure — and there is one final creak and groan of its weight shifting, before it leaps down into the grounds with a tremor big enough to register on the Richter scale. The boom threatens to break his eardrums, Kinger squeezing his eyes shut as he listens to the feral rasping and huffing fill his fear to a boiling edge, the sickly glow of abstracted eyes illuminating his hiding place.

An eye. 

Its looking in.

The head rolls loosely over the ground, dry dust absorbing it’s blood like a sponge. The stench of it is thick with metal, stinging at his nose as every torn apart segment of the mannequin thuds onto the ground, more tendrils shooting in to grab and pull and tear it apart — Kingers mouth remains open, jaw tense, bile in the back of his throat. His heart pounds, eyes straining in the intense crimson glow, every inch of his body held stiff in primal terror. The mannequins chest thuds to the ground, clipping half into the dust, and Kinger can see right into the chasm inside, glitch stained and writhing. 

It looks like organs. It smells like a car crash. It feels like witnessing a murder, in real time. The ground shakes with a low rumbling from the throat of the Abstraction, and Kinger watches with tightly held breath as its eye rolls upwards and back, pulling — oh thank god, it’s pulling away! It’s colors dim, and the blinding light finally disappears as the eye rolls shut. The wheezing breath of the Abstraction fades as its tendrils slither out of sight, hissing and spitting black slashes like angry pythons. It lumbers away with agonizing slowness, step after dragging step, the whisper of moldering skin fading along with it. 

Barnaby has been completely motionless next to him this entire time, and Kinger only remembers his presence when the thwack of Barnaby punching himself in the stomach breaks the silence. The glow of the torch spreads through the palisade, bathing their crumbling hiding place in a dim yellow-green glow.

“You good pardner?” 

Barnaby whispers, quiet in the silence. A sound vaguely equivalent to “?!?!?! hghnn?!?!” Escapes Kingers mouth in return, unable to form words yet. His heart is hammering so fast he’s afraid it might rattle his organs to a pulp, not to mention the sheer amount of adrenaline pumping through his veins, his hands shaking like a parrot in the arctic.

Barnaby peels his long body off the wall with a sound like sticky tape, leaning over to prod Kinger in the cheek. 

“Pardner? Im’a need words now, you good?” 

He insists, and Kinger manages to pry one of his hands away from the wall to give a shaky thumbs up. Words are beyond him. They probably will be for a few more minutes at least.  

“Welp, that’s good enough for me! Jeeze, that one was big, innie’? Dunno what them critters think they’re doing, leapin’ around like that at their size, but they sure are loud about it!” 

Barnaby comments cheerfully, brushing the pink dust off his glowing stomach. Kinger just nods, still attempting to convince his muscles they’re no longer required to cling to the wall for dear life. He hasn’t felt fear like that since he was…well, last aware enough to be terrified by things. His hands feel like stiff claws, glued to the tiny grooves and cracks in the wall as if still anticipating being dragged out of his hiding place and into some giant maw.

“I…Hnh… big, ”  

Kinger blurts out, waving an arm in the direction the Abstraction went. Barnaby nods, twisting himself a full 180° to pick the candy chunks out of his spikes. 

“That indeed pardner! Shadow critters like that are all over the place round here.” 

He flashes a wide, genuine grin, tipping his hat with the point of his tail. 

“Still— I told’ya I’d protect you!” 

“I…right, thank you…Very…very nice…that you did. That.” 

Kinger manages, having to drag the sentence out of his brain like a wet cat from a bathtub. His limbs seem to have taken on the consistency of wet noodles as he pries himself from the wall, shaking head to toe — his face and hair are caked in dust, the fur mane of her cloak now a light salmon pink. He groans, twisting around as best he can to try and brush the dust and general grime out of it. It’s fine if he gets covered in ungodly substances, but her cloak is a sacred thing. He certainly cares more about its cosmetic upkeep than his own.

Seeing his struggle, Barnaby offers out a claw, making a grabbing motion. Kinger carefully removes her cloak, stuffing his infected hand in his pocket as he passes it to Barnaby, who thoroughly shakes it out. He’s silently grateful to be given time to re-order his brain — words don’t come particularly easy to him at the best of times, and during situations like these… 

“Boy howdy, this thing weighs more’n a groundhog on pie day!” 

Barnaby remarks, very southernly, thwacking the cloak with his tail. 

“How do you walk around in this thing?” 

Kinger just shrugs, his shoulders oddly exposed without her cloaks comforting weight around them. Exposed, and cold. He rubs his arms with a shiver, firmly deciding that if he ever does get back to the tent, he will never take its neutral temperature for granted again. He misses being warm, or simply anything that isn’t ‘generally uncomfortable.’ The soft yellow-green light of the (still swallowed!) torch fills the chasm of the inner palisade, and Kinger finds himself longing for a campfire and a good blanket. This wouldn’t be such a bad place to camp out for a bit, were they not on a mission, per se…

Once all the dust has been shaken from her cloak, Barnaby passes it back to him. Kinger receives it with a quick but grateful smile, and finds —  to his surprise — that Barnaby actually managed to knock quite a bit of the dirt from it. It’s almost as bright as it had been when she used to wear it, the velvet still frayed and stained in places, but lacking the thick dust of before. Kinger runs his fingers over it for a moment, pausing at the tear. That’s where it must have…split. When it happened…He sighs before wrapping it over his shoulders, shaking his head. The warmth settles back over him, and Kinger lets out a shaky breath, still recovering . 

Kingers gaze wanders to the snapped corpse, still lying splintered in the dirt. 

“Barnaby?” Kinger asks hesitantly, “Does, um…does that happen often?”

Barnaby looks up, making a confused little noise faintly reminiscent of a cat. Kinger points to the broken NPC, with an air of gingerness usually adopted by people who have just realized the retro show they are praising might not have aged as well as they thought. 

“Y’ mean the snappin’ in half, the shadow critters, or that particular shadow critter? Cus she’s a regular ‘round here.“

Barnaby asks, and Kinger nudges the disattached torso with his shoe, grimacing. It smells like motor oil and broken dreams. 

“All three? A-also, is he dead? Please say yes. It’d be so much worse if he survived.” 

Barnaby laughs, which surprises Kinger because dismemberment is not usually something that warrants laughter, nor was he trying to be funny. Then again, people only seem to laugh when he isn’t trying to be funny, so, he probably should’ve expected this.

“Dont’cha worry, Billy there is more croaked then a Mississipi toad!”  

Barnaby replies cheerfully, though somehow the realization that the mannequin had a name (and perhaps all NPCs do) does not help Kinger feel more comfortable about things.  

“Usually sideys ‘ave to be rebuilt from scratch, but mainers like me have backups! So, if I get snapped, it’d be sorta fine— I think— but with the others…not so much.”

Kinger stares at him blankly.

“And a side-ee is…?” 

“Sideys are the wooden ones,” Barnaby explains patiently, “Mostly just do what they’re programmed to, n’ Mr.C stores em’ here! But mainers like me have ai, n’ we’re green .” 

Barnaby holds out one arm and— and pulls up his skin, revealing a shiny, neon green mannequin arm underneath. Kinger tries very hard not to gag and nearly fails, his lips pursing as Barnaby wiggles it around for good measure. He even pops the socket a few times, rolling the fingerless stump of a hand and demonstrating how the rigging of his claws flash in and out of view, before tugging his skin back down like a sleeve. Kinger is pretty sure he’s going to have a nightmare about that, at some point. Or throw up. Maybe both. 

“Sometimes sideys turn different colors — y’know, just for the variety — but that don’t mean nothin’. I don’t think, anyway…”  

Barnaby trails off, lost in thought. Kinger just stands there, brow furrowed as he tries to compute all the new information, and waits for an awkward ten seconds before (tentatively) poking him. 

“Anyhow!” 

Barnaby says, snapping back to reality with a grin,  

“Billy there was a sidey, so, he’s grrk—! ” 

Barnaby jerks a claw across his throat in a universally understood ‘death’ motion, somehow missing Kingers nauseous expression. Kinger would probably be a truly Irish shade of green if he were still capable of turning that colour, but since he is (thankfully) no longer beholden to cartoon logic, he just turns a paler shade of purebred caucasian than he already was.  

“Please,” Kinger says weakly, “never do that again.” 

Barnaby shrugs, still grinning. 

“Jus’ so long as you never crack yer knuckles again!”

He replies brightly, and Kinger sighs, relenting with a world-weary nod. 

They set off again without much fanfare, Barnaby happily informing him they’re nearly to the princess. Just a “hop, skip, ‘n a couple of stairs!” Between them and their goal. Hopefully. There’s still the gate, and the stairs, and — if Kingers pattern of terrible luck holds up — probably ten other disasters, too.

Barnaby begins to talk, chattering on about something or other, but Kinger only nods along. His eyes are still fixed on the lumbering shape in the distance, tracking its loping movements, each of it’s footsteps filled with laughing shadows. From here it looks hardly bigger than a toy horse, but Kinger can still see the harsh beam of its eye sweeping over the distant gingerbread houses. The silhouette of thin legs stand out against the glow, shaggy fur hanging from some gigantic underbelly, the darkness wreathing it so effectively he can’t pick out its true shape. It must be taller than a skyscraper. Its mouth must be bigger than the maw of hell.

Its mind must be even more broken than his.

Kinger doesn’t realize he’s stopped until Barnaby stops too, tail making a slithering sound over the pebbles as he turns. They stand at the mouth of the palisade hole, rubble and oil still piled around Kingers shoes as he stands just inside its shadow.

“Pardner? Whatcha lookin’ at?”

Kinger doesn’t answer. He never takes his eyes off the distant Abstraction, its glowing eye growing ever fainter as it lumbers farther into the gloom. If he listens closely, he can still hear its footsteps. He can still feel the vibration through the ground, some instinct in the back of his mind reminding him that was once like me. That was once a human, with a life and a mind. That is the kind of creature that she was doomed to become. That is the kind of body that what’s left of her mind is trapped in. A deep pain makes itself known somewhere in the hollow space between his heart and the cage it sits behind, and the silence itself is tangible enough to suffocate in.

“Barnaby?”

“Yeah?”

Kinger pauses, lips pursed.

“Do you know where they come from, the…shadow creatures?”

He asks eventually, and Barnaby's snout makes a swishing noise as he shakes his head. Kinger sighs, his shoulders slumping.

“Thought not.”

He mumbles, finally taking his eyes off the faraway Abstraction. Its light still shines somewhere in the smog, but its shape is too distant to see now. That’s probably for the best, anyway. He can feel Barnaby's eyes on him, the greenish glow of the torch throbbing slightly as he shifts his stance.

“You alright there, pardner?”

Barnaby asks, cocking his head. Kinger just stares at the ground, and doesn’t answer. He shakes his head with a tired sigh, stepping out of the ruined palisade.

“Let’s keep going. Almost there, right?”

“Yeah!! Gee, I can’t wait for Princess to meet ya, I bet you’ll get along great — hey, didja notice how well the walls held up back there? Barely any rubble at all! Ain’t that sick? It’s cus’ Mr.C did this thing, he —“

Barnaby begins rambling enthusiastically about support starts, the grin right back on his face. Kinger nods along dutifully, following as Barnaby once again leads the way, chattering all the while. The swagger in his step is a pattern to match as best he can, and the rambling is a distraction Kinger accepts wholeheartedly, devoting all his attention to Barnaby's seemingly infinite amount of observations about the palisade architecture. Each step takes him farther from the shattered corpse in the dirt, farther from the glinting eyes that stare at him from every shadow. Farther from the fear. Farther from that uncomfortable reminder of his own impending mortality.

“—An all of em are separate assets! Physics ‘n everything!! I know that don’t sound like much, but it’s a real sign o’ quality! Mr.Caine is real good like that, y’know, I love watching him work on all the side houses and everythin’, it’s really — Oh!”

Barnaby snaps his claws, beaming brighter than the torch in his stomach.

“I bet you’d know about this one, bein’ a player n’ all! Didja know there are over a billion polygons in the tent roof?? The big C himself told me that one!!”

Kinger can’t help but smile as he shakes his head, setting Barnaby off on yet another tangent. No matter how bleak things are, at least he’s got a friend now, right? And soon to be another, if the Princess is really as amazing and kind as Barnaby says. Kinger hopes she’s alright, being trapped in that tower — though, hes pretty sure she’s fine. They’ll all be fine, so long as there are hiding places. So long as they’re quick enough.

After all, what’s the worst that could happen?

 

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