“PAWLIFER, F^&KING MOVE!!”

 

Y’know how Kaufmo had been having a very bad, no good, terrible day?

Well, it’s gotten worse now.

Golly-f%6king-gee, who would've guessed? From Kaufmo’s perspective, the universe has just decided to f^7k him over today. Lady Luck herself went; You know what? This random man with zero anger management skills and a slightly unhinged amount of denial hasn’t suffered enough today. Let’s rough him up a bit, shove him around some, maybe give him some more trauma he’ll never get therapy for!

Now, Kaufmo is a very simple person– and like any person, he has flaws. Some might even say he has many! He’s crude, he’s stubborn, “a massive grump,” and arguably worst of all, Italian. He's thick headed. Dumb as a sack of bricks. An idiot, nothing more than manual labor that got laid off from a job and got unlucky.

But at least he's loyal, right? Loyal to Queen, the only one down here with any sense. Loyal to one such stubborn little sock-cat, who'd been one of the first to offer him a joke or a smile down here. A cat who’d been down here longer than Queen, yet hadn't changed a bit.

A cat who seemed far too young to be down here, in Kaufmo’s opinion.

It gave him whiplash, finding an up-beat teenager in what felt like hell, and Kaufmo…? Well, He knows what it's like to be the underdog— or, cat, he supposes. How could he not try to give her someone to talk to? She's only a kid. It's not fair that she's down here, that she was ever in the circus to begin with.

But the circus doesn't care about what’s fair.

Box had tried to tell him as much, tugged along behind as Kaufmo barreled through the screaming masses. “You’re not serious about this, are you!? You’re chasing a dead man!” Tendrils working their way up to snatch at his eyes, pulling and tugging and trying to topple him— Box’s voice, turning sour. “I swear to god Kaufmo, if you drag me down there with them I’ll—“ Accusing him of trying to ‘play the hero,’ insisting his hope was false, and his confidence was arrogance, and that none of it would ever matter.

He hadn't listened, of course.

He had his answers, his plan, right? Find Socks, find Kinger, make Box help— Simple, easy, doable.

“How many times do I have to tell you before you get it through your thick skull!?”

“Nothing matters!”

 

When Kaufmo returned to where Socks had been, he did not find her.

Loyalty and anger are closely related things. They can easily turn when stretched too far— And oh, has Kaufmo’s loyalty been stretched today. His patience has been pulled and pushed, tangled around Queen, wrapped around Kinger, tied in knots around all the threads of bad luck that threaten to strangle what hope he has left.

At the sight of those bloody tatters on the ground, the stuffing strewn over the brick, the cackling laughter still ringing in his ears, Kaufmo’s loyalty wrapped around his eyes and burnt.

Kaufmo found the nearest abstraction— Double, a double-headed bastard resembling a heron— and crushed their windpipes to the brick without even thinking. How could he think? He could barely hear anything over Box shrieking like a girl in the background. Something about “JESUS CHRIST IS THAT BLOOD!?” And “DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHERE YOU’RE GOING” or other such statements— he didn’t have the time to care.

Double struggled against him, screeched nonsense at the top of their shared lungs, but Kaufmo weathered the raking blows. He stared them in the eye and stood on their windpipe, demanding to know where Socks went, until Double managed to wheeze out a proper explanation.

“W-We–” Double choked out, beak clicking, “-Not us, h-honest!” “They– Tao–” “H-he chased her!” “Bit her!” “Tried to eat her!”

Their beak snapped sideways, jabbing to the left. “That way!” “That way!”

Kaufmo didn't need much more. Box’s yelling had long since faded into the background, along with Double’s squawking, left in the dust with their necks tied in a knot.

He probably didn't even need the directions– the trail of stuffing, rot, polygons and blood that caked the brick floor was enough of a path for him to follow, Box trailing on the wayside. Anger and desperation swirled in Kaufmo’s skull, bubbling over in a mess of disjointed thoughts.

Kaufmo was angry. Kaufmo is always angry, and sometimes he thinks it's all he can ever feel. He's not built for thinking, he’s not built for comfort– all the circus has ever needed from him is to be angry. Angry at the adventure, at Caine, at Jax – that was his gag. It's always been his gag, for all the months he’s spent here. He's always been the guy who gets mad about it.

Is it really so surprising that he's begun to find it comforting? He knows how to use anger to fuel him, drive him on like a fire at his heels, because loyalty is what hides behind it. Loyalty to the contorted cat whose blood he's following. Loyalty to hope, to a trapped queen, to yet another trail of gore— a trail that’ll lead him where he’ll always end up eventually.

 

Into a fight.

 

(…With a dog, ironically.)

 

“JUST F%^KIN’ MOVE ALREADY!”

The trail of gore— left by Socks, he hopes— leads directly into a tunnel, a tunnel Pawlifer is blocking the way into. He has apparently been having a ‘kip,’ whatever the fuck that is. This is now the second time Kaufmo’s master plan has been waylaid by another Abstraction, and he’s not happy to be repeating this. Especially not with…Well, what other words are there to describe Pawlifer apart from ‘Stubborn Problem™?’

“Oh haud yer wheesht boy, I got ‘ere first!”

Previously mentioned Stubborn Problem™ snaps, crossing one shaggy paw over the other. Being the size of a small house and a weird looking cross between a wild boar and a four-mouthed dog, Pawlifer is a tank, even among abstractions. A tank that speaks like a leprechaun, and has parked his rotting, flea-bitten ass right in front of the tunnel.

 

It’s not hard to understand why Socks would go that way. She knows the tunnels, and everyone else is extremely f$%ing weird about the tunnels, which Kaufmo hasn’t bothered to question— everyone here is so batshit crazy he’s not sure he cares. They avoid the place, so Socks is taking advantage of that! She’s a smart person! Probably one of the few left here, considering how everybody else is obsessed with larping the riddler whenever he asks so much as one, singular question!

Of course Pawlifer decided to nap right in front of the entrance. That’s the most inconvenient place for him to be, and ergo exactly where he should be, according to the Murphy’s law of Kaufmo getting fucked over.

It’s a problem; one that Kaufmo is trying to solve by the exact same means he tries to solve everything else.

“PAWLIFER, I SWEAR TO GOD–” Kaufmo snarls, plowing into Pawlifers flank with a shower of vertex errors. “I HAVE TO GET IN THERE!”

Violence!

It’s like slamming face-first into concrete. Pawlifer flicks him off like a stray tick, and Box yells angrily from behind him, scrambling to not get crushed — He’s long since given up on yelling for him to stop ‘being inane’, and since then has been nothing but a dead weight. Hell if Kaufmo is gonna let him go though, he’s committed now. He keeps his grip on Box even as they’re both knocked back with a roll of Pawlifer’s giant tusks, growling with frustration.

“Sod off lad! Was’a right good bit of shuteye I was havin before ye came cuttin’ along like ye’ owned the place an bloody well ruined it!”

Pawlifer barks, his mouths expanding outwards so he’s even more blocking Kaufmo’s way. Box is now trying to cram himself under a nearby chunk of CellarWall™, and holding onto him by his slippery organ-whatsits is just adding to Kafumos stress.

“I— I’M MADE OF KNIVES, YOU— YOU SENILE ASSHOLE!! I CUT EVERYTHING?!!”

Kaufmo screeches, at wits end and rapidly approaching levels of frustration henceforth unseen by mankind.

“Senile!?” Pawlifer yaps, his ears flattening back. “Lord, youth like you are the reason everythin’s so loud these days! Ever heard of a wee thing called respect for your elders, lad?”

“Yeah Kaufmo, don’t yell at a pensioner. He might throw his walker at you.”

Box grumbles sarcastically, glaring from his cowardly spot behind the chunk of CellarWall™. This prompts Kaufmo to slam his head into the ground from frustration, and Pawlifers head to snap around so fast it makes an audible snap.

“Oh Christ—“ He hisses, straining against Kaufmos hold on him to cram even further behind the chunk of CellarWall™. Despite having no gaze to meet, Box tries very hard to avoid Pawlifers, his tentacles flying up to shield his ‘face’. It’s useless though, Pawlifer’s jaw is already hanging open in indignation.

“Don't blame me for this! This madman has been dragging me around like a pet poodle!”

Box yells, waving to a very overstimulated Kaufmo. His head swirls with worries; Kinger could be abstracting right now. Kinger could literally be abstracting right now and he’s doing nothing about it, fuck! His thoughts are spinning to the point of distraction— Kaufmo would try to take deep breaths, but he doesn't have lungs.

Come on, come on— what does he know about Pawlifer!? He’s old, he apparently doesn’t like Box, Queen knew(?) him— So he’s gotta have been around a while!! Kaufmo realizes in a flash, Queenie talks about Kinger like he was a friendly kinda guy before he lost his marbles, maybe they knew each other back in the day!

Kaufmo shakes his poorly built excuse for a head with a decisive grunt— it’s the best he’s got. There’s nothing for him to lose but time, and that’s already slipping by with each passing second. He has to find Socks. He has to find Kinger. Pull yourself together, Kaufmo. Just get the job done!

“Listen, just — I have to find Kinger. Y’know Kinger??” Kaufmo pleads, jutting in front of Pawlifer.

“Twitchy, big on bugs, Queenie’s type— her husband! A kid named Socks has him, passed by here a bit ago, you had to have seen—“

Pawlifer goes stiff. His beady eyes widen where they’re set into his fractured skull, and Kaufmo can see the fur rise on his spine like a bristling porcupine, the sudden motionlessness ringing alarm bells inside his head. That expression on his face – is that regret? Guilt? Did– did he do something to–!?

Kaufmo doesn't get the chance to follow that thought further. Pawlifer hauls himself to his feet, thick black claws grinding into the brick. Four sets of lips pull back in a canine snarl, the huge jaws on Pawlifer’s chest falling open to block his path, a pair of massive tusks dripping black fluid onto the grime-caked brick. Box groans from behind him, and Kaufmo gets a sinking sense he’s just made everything worse.

“I said,” Pawlifer snarls, the sound rumbling through his four throats. “I ain’t letting you in. Not you, not’cher little friend there—”

“We aren’t friends.” Box grumbles, but shuts up when Pawlifer snaps his teeth.

“—n’ I ain’t no traitor to the queen! The day I let you hunt Kinger like a bloody deer is the day I go to my grave, y’hear me!?”

Pawlifer growls low and deep, head lowering like a bull bearing its horns. His massive tusks scrape the brick, knocking tufts of bloody stuffing left and right. Socks…

“Go on n’try, lad— see how it goes for you.”

Kaufmo’s vibrantly-worded retort is halfway to his mouth before he processes what Pawlifer actually said. The dim glow of his eyes ripples as he blinks them, staring at Pawlifer incredulously.

“f-FFOR GOD'S SAKE, THAT'S WHAT I'M TRYING TO DO!!”

Kaufmo screams, his polygons going wild. Everyone is an idiot! Everyone!

Pawlifer just blinks. “Eh?”

“I'M NOT TRYING TO HUNT HIM!! I'M TRYING TO DO THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF HUNT HIM!!!!”

 

There is a…long pause.

 

“You know, if you just said that to start with, we could’ve saved like- 20 minutes.”

Box says blandly, checking his nonexistent watch. As in, he takes the time to dredge up on of his many organ tentacles, position it in front of his stupid fleshy eyeball face, tilt said stupid fleshy eyeball face toward it, and click his fucking nonexistent teeth. Like an asshole. Kaufmo is currently staring at him like he’s trying to explode him with his mind, but of course box can’t see that because he’s fucking blind so he can’t even read a watch and there’s literally no way to know how much time has passed and oh god there’s no way to know how much time has passed Kinger could be dead already fuck shit fuck no shit damn AUGH—

Kaufmos head slowly rotates to face Box, his anxieties amplified tenfold

“I am going to kill you.”

He whispers. Box nods his entire body. “Noted.” He says, and starts quietly humming to the tune of ‘another one bites the dust.’

Kaufmo is nearly frothing at the mouth. He forces himself to lock his focus back on Pawlifer however, gritting teeth that aren’t there and meeting his eyes with the intensity of 10 thousand burning suns. Get. The job. Done.

“Listen. S’just me lookin out for him right now, n’ this asshole might be the only one who knows how to keep him from abstracting— I promised Queen I’d take care of him, I…I can’t f^%k this one up! Not now!”

Kaufmo says, forcing each word out like it hurts. It kind of does, though that might be due more to the fact every polygon in his body is shaking from exhaustion than anything else. Pawlifer stares at him for a long moment, his dark eyes flicking between him and the still-humming Box. His brow furrows, letting out a short huff of air.

“Wait wait wait, so… Queens man. Kinger. He’s still in danger?” Pawlifer asks slowly, and Kaufmo immediately perks back up.

“YES!! Finally, you—“

“And ya ain’t one of the nutters trying to eat him?”

“I— No?? What the f&^k, who does that!?”

Box snorts a laugh. Pawlifer raises his eyebrows, blinking a few times.

“…aye, wait, you’re the new guy! Silly me, I shoulda’ known from the look of you!”

Pawlifer shakes his head, chuckling as if this is a realization that’s only just dawned on him now. His barrel-chest mouth eases shut as he relaxes. The huge abstraction steps to the side, the labyrinth passages gaping through the opening beyond. They call Kaufmos name like a sailor to the sea. Finally.

“Well, why didnt’cha just say s— OI!!”

Kaufmo shoots off like a bottle rocket. He scrambles past Pawlifer and rockets into the labyrinth, Box flobbing along behind him like a limp sack of spaghetti. Pawlifer’s shouts are quickly drowned out by the din of their loudly scraping polygons, his body rattling with every bounding stride. The world flies by in a stream of barely-registered reddish black, legs pounding the brick— He’s got no time, he has to get to Kinger now!

Complex passages fly by in a blur of irrelevancy as Kaufmo hurdles along, eyes to the ground, tracking the streak of abstraction-slush and stained stuffing. Socks, Socks, have to find Socks. Have to find Kinger. My responsibility. Can't let him die.

Kaufmo skids around a corner with a sound like scraping glass, a crossroads suddenly yawning in front of him; he scrambles to a stop before he slams face-first into the fork, breathing heavily. Wait, dammit, which— Kaufmos head snaps between left and right, absentmindedly pinning a grumbling Box to the ground.

“God damn it Socks, how do you get around down here?”

He grumbles uneasily, eyes twitching as they work to parse out a direction. He can’t see the trail. Fuck, he can’t see the trail!

“…It’s called ‘the labyrinth.’ Did you expect a straight line?”

“Shh!” Kaufmo hushes, as per usual. “Just— let me think! Dammit, I know Socks said something about this…”

“Socks…Socks, who’s that…” Box mumbles, sounding genuinely confused. “Wait, you mean the cat? You left Kinger with the cat?”

“Do you listen to anything??” Kaufmo asks, sacrificing the use of one of his eyes to shoot Box an exasperated glare. “Yeah, the kid has him– n’ her name is SOCKS. Show some respect, she’s literally leaking pieces!”

He says, kicking a wad of stuffing toward Box. He half heartedly pokes it with a feeler, and sighs, rubbing at the space between two of his milky eyes. “Wow. You really are that stupid, huh?”

Kaufmo’s head shoots up, bristling like a porcupine.

“What did you just—?!”

He doesn’t get a chance to continue. He and Box both yelp, shoved out of the way by a huge furry bullet otherwise known as Pawlifer. The huge abstraction barrels by like a semitruck, squashing Kaufmo against the passage wall with his flank as he charges down the left fork in the road. Pawlifer bellows a hoarse laugh, scraping to a stop. What the —!?

“Trail leads this way! C’mon lad, no time to dilly dally!”

Pawlifer yells, clicking his polygonal heels and bounding off again. Kaufmo scrambles to catch up, dragging against Box. Is he clinging to the brick on purpose!?

“I'VE ONLY BEEN HERE A WEEK! CUT ME SOME SLACK!”

Kaufmo screeches back, nearly tripping over his own non-feet in the process. Damn it, damn it, damn it! Kinger could die any moment. He could abstract any moment, which is arguably worse. God knows what state Socks is in! Dammit, I shouldn’t have left them!

“This is a complete waste of time! Just a friendly reminder!”

Box yells, flapping along behind like a weird, fleshy carnival balloon. Kaufmo growls, slamming his head into a nearby wall as he seamlessly continues his line of thought. ‘Course she’s not okay, Kaufmo, she lost a f^&kin leg! She’s just a kid, why did I think leaving him with her was a good idea!? Kaufmo shakes his head, his many perspectives blurring. No, shut up, it’s fine, she’ll be FINE! She’s — she’s gone through worse, right!?

Or so he tells himself, hurtling along the cramped brick passages. It’s no secret that Kaufmo hates worrying. Most of the time, it's just a waste of energy. But he can’t help it. He can’t help it, when this is so important, and he’s so very much the wrong person to entrust with this. He's not gentle, he’s not careful, he’s not even smart! How’s he supposed to keep Kinger alive? How’s he supposed to help anyone!?

They’ll be fine, He tells himself through the grit ghosts of teeth. He pushes himself further. He runs harder.

Everything will be fine.

 

_____

 

Everything is not fine.

 

Socks is about as far from ‘fine’ as it’s possible to get, limping down some dark cellar passage, dragging her own dead weight.

The leg that was torn from her is leaking stuffing by the clods. The tattered stump hangs deflated and itching on her left side, stinging with pins ‘n needles. It's like she's been stuffed full of nettles– It makes no sense. She has no immune system, no nerves, so there’s no reason for her entire body to be shaking and shivering in a twisted cold-sweat. There’s no reason for her fur to be sticky with black gunk, no reason for her eyes to sting and burn. No reason to want to sink her teeth into her flank and gnaw until the feeling goes away.

No reason for any of it, and yet it still itches.

It's just her luck, really! Her stupid, infectious bad luck, that's been causing all this. Kinger is gone. Kaufmo is gone. Any hope of actually getting to Kinger or Kaufmo is gone, because she's lost half her stuffing by now and once her front legs start going flat it'll all be over.

More stuffing hits the brick. Socks lurches, gritting her teeth with a sharp hiss. No one is around to help her, no one can even hear her when she screams, and maybe she even deserves all this because she failed at the one— one damn thing she was meant to do! The one, singular most important task she's ever been entrusted with and she f^&king messes it up, because of course she does!

Socks breath rasps. In and out, sharp and hard, rough around the edges like crumpled paper. Angry, oily tears trickle down the slanted passageway, dripping from neon-green eyes that blaze through the darkness.

The same eyes illuminate an almost invisible trail of white fur. White fur– fur from Queens cloak, which Kinger took with him. Of course he would have taken it. Of course that's what made him leave. Kinger, with his mind all scrambled, probably thinks Queenie is dead! And when he found her torn cloak in the den of a monster then– well then of course he'd run.

Of course he’d think, “Oh god, that thing killed her.” Because of course, Socks did.

(“Q-Queenie!? Is that you?”)

It’s her fault. It’s her fault that Queenie had to become ‘Queen,’ and so is everything that’s happened since. Socks was the one she had to defend. Socks was the one that needed protecting. Socks was the one that needed to be saved.

(Claws scraping on brick. Geometric strings of polygonal guts spool out like angel hair pasta, splitting from a newly exposed spine. Nothing grows back here— not if you're lucky.)

Always the one that needed.

(“People have always treated me like an object, Socks. You know that?”

“Me and him.”)

Always the one that took.

Socks can barely see the trail through her blurry eyes, but she wont stop. She lost him, she lost him, she was the one who laid down and just let it happen— Now Kinger is gone, and she has to either find him, or suffer enough that whatever God is up there might take pity on her.

Self loathing isn't something that's new to her. It’s a thorn around her mind, always digging deeper. When she fails to comfort Queenie, when she accidentally freaks out a newcomer, when she loses herself in her own thoughts. By now Socks has simply accepted the fact that she has, and always will, feel useless compared to everyone else. Will always feel diminished, will always feel like something that was supposed to be great but came out too early, left the chrysalis with wings still melting off.

Everyone else has memories. Everyone else has an identity, and what does she get?

(“It’s…what I deserve.”)

Socks chokes on her next breath, hacking up a wad of bloody stuffing. It's left crushed in the wake behind her as she lurches on – one more step. One more step, c’mon, it's fine that it hurts. C’mon! Neon eyes scrape over the walls, the floors, every brick – another tuft of white, another hint that Kinger isn't gone yet, that he hasn't been found, that none of them have taken him, c’mon please!

Socks heaves long, labored breaths, trying not to cry. She can't cry. She can't break down. The eyes along her spine water and blink, wobbling in their sockets, her hips having long collapsed by now. I have to keep going, I have to keep going, I–

She buckles, fangs scraping sparks against one another as she struggles to stand. Queenie would hate her for this. Or – no, she wouldn't, and that makes it worse. Socks can imagine the blank look on her face, after the bad news was broken, the white glaze that would settle over her face as she would tell Socks, it “wasn't her fault.” But it is, it is her fault that Kinger is out there dying in a ditch, and Socks would rather Queenie scream, get mad, just — just anything other than that look, the look that means it’s her fault, it’s my fault it's my fault it's my fault and she won’t admit it! She never will!

If Socks ever sees her again, that is.

Her legs won’t work, her eyes and ears feel like useless nubs where senses should be, and by god is she tired. How is she supposed to keep functioning after this? When her thoughts are looping round and round, folding over and in on one another until her mind is a crushed up paper crane, a wad of every single failure, herself most certainly included. A contorted cat, left in the dust by the one thing she was supposed to protect.

It’s well known, both above and below;

The circus doesn’t care about “Fair.”

_____

The circus does not care about fair.

The circus is a machine, cold and calculating, measured in every inch of itself.

The circus is buckling.

The circus is beginning to crack.

Programs churn like cogs in the belly of the beast, and far away, something…happens. A load bearing pole gives out, an iron bar is bent, a blood vessel bursts in the circus’s metaphorical skull– and just for a moment, it loosens its grip.

Just for a moment. (But the moments are getting longer.) Just for a second. (Don’t the seconds feel like days?) And just for an instant…

_____

 

Kaufmo is still thundering down the passage at breakneck pace, barely noticing the rumbling in the brick beneath him, when suddenly the world explodes.

There's no build up, no cloud of dust alerting him to what's about to happen. One moment, all he can hear are his own pounding footsteps, and the next–

Color. Sound. Light. Pain. Kaufmo doesn’t have ears anymore, but if he did they would have burst. He can't hear his own scream as the chaos rolls over him, a whirlwind of light and sound– he tries to scramble away but there's no use; it physically blasts him off his feet, sending Kaufmo whirling like a ragdoll. He skids and lands rolling, hard brick biting into his face with as much spite as sandpaper. Box spins wildly as he’s thrown over and beyond Kaufmo by his own momentum, like some kind of demented starfish.

Kaufmo only catches a glimpse of his flailing tentacles before he lets out a sound vaguely resembling “AUAGH” and curls into himself like a turtle, screaming at the top of his lungs. It's less from pain and more indignance, trying to compete with the ear-fuckingly-loud sound blasting through his nonexistent eardrums. He fails, miserably, blinded by a flashing maelstrom of colors overtaking the passage.

He doesn't know how long it lasts. But By the time things have stopped whacking into him, and everyone has lost momentum— albeit with enough scraping and rolling to leave them all raw— the nightmare is over. The…hell is gone.

Kaufmo can still hear it rumbling away. He sits up, slowly, still blinking the stars out of his eyes. His many, many eyes, most of which don't have eyelids, and so caught the full force of whatever the f^7k that was. Well, he's not dead at least. The tunnel rightfully looks like a tornado’s gone through, the buzz of broken textures filling the air. Box is a pile of organs in his periphery and Pawlifers is downright upside down, his many legs and jaws sticking at unnatural angles.

Kaufmo just sits there for a minute, trembling. He’s just about ready to start banging his head into a f$%king wall. Is – Is that just something that happens? I bet if I ask ‘em about it, they’re gonna tell me that’ll happen every Tuesday until the end of time. Kaufmo thinks, wobbling to his feet. There's a gravelly cough as Pawlifer staggers up, while Box produces nothing but the wet slop of his organs resettling.

“What…the f%^k was that?”

Kaufmo asks shakily, stumbling a little. The ground feels as if it's tipping and rolling under him, spare textures still flickering along the walls. Good god, that lightshow nearly blinded him– his eyes are still spinning.

“Gee, I don’t know. Probably Kinger dying. Y’know, like I told you he would. An hour ago.”

Box— who has not bothered to straighten himself out, and is currently a meat-pancake— grumbles, sounding about as tired as Kaufmo feels. Kaufmo immediately bristles, trying to stomp down the dread. Ignore him. Ignore him, nothing he says matter until we find kinger. He tells himself, mentally strangling the tiny voice whispering ‘or whatevers left of him.’

“Oh, shut yer mouth!”

Pawlifer suddenly snaps, stepping forward before Kaufmos head can fully implode. The old abstraction turns to him, a firm expression on his face.

“S’alright lad. It’s rare, but sometimes the circus’ll do that on its own. Queenie gettin’ yanked probably knocked a few bolts loose, aye?”

He mutters gently, nudging Kaufmos shoulder. He snaps out of it with a start, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I…thanks.”

Kaufmo says, nodding. Get a grip, Kaufmo…! He thinks, for what feels like the billionth time. Stop worrying. Socks is probably holed up with Kinger somewhere, nice and safe, and not losing any more stuffing or whatever. Kinger seems like the type of guy who knows how to sew, maybe he’s taking care of it. They’re fine. It’s all-

Pawlifers ears suddenly prick up.

He frowns. Ears alert and swiveling, Pawlifer turns his head and asks; “…Are you hearin’ that too?”

Kaufmo stops. He does.

A hoarse yowl echoes down the labyrinth halls. It’s a sound that reverberates through the cellar air instead of their minds. And it sounds almost like a…A cat.

Kaufmo’s no-worry policy is immediately broken. He hauls himself up with a new urgency, grabbing Box. He and Pawlifer don't even look at each other, wordlessly on the same page; They bolt towards the sound almost side-by-side, Pawlifer in the lead, Kaufmo tracking on his heels with a single question rattling through his skull. Socks. Socks, socks, is it Socks, and is she okay?

Kaufmo gets his answer as soon as he skids around the final corner.

He processes her in split-second flashes. The second it takes for her to jolt back, the long bone-claws digging pale divots into the brick, the breath that rasps like gravel, the black froth dripping and foaming from many shining jaws— shining neon eyes are stretched wide with pupils contracted to pricks, and Kaufmo understands, even without an expression to read, that she is exhausted.

“SOCKS!”

He shrieks, wide-eyed.

“Kaufmo!?”

Socks– who is indeed her, and there, and very much not fine– shrieks back, her jaws clattering as the wail dies down. Everyone stares at everyone else for a few seconds, aside from Box, who can’t stare whatsoever, and looks like he’s trying to blend in with the floor.

“Lass! Are you alright?”

Pawlifer finally contributes, shoving his head over Kaufmos shoulder and getting stabbed several times in the process.

“PAWLIFER!?” Socks shrieks again, louder. “Why are YOU here, I— You— You know what, it doesn't matter!!”

She yelps, suddenly lurching forward. Pawlifer quickly steps forward to help her, Kaufmo attempting to follow. It's made harder by having to yank along a very stubborn Box, who’s suddenly got a very tight hold on the brick. Kaufmos worry has only grown upon seeing her– Socks’s entire black half is a limp, blood-soaked mess of fabric. What the f^5k happened to her!? He wonders, waves of guilt and nausea hitting him like a baseball bat to the stomach. He can still see the twitching stump where her leg once was, appearing rotten despite there being nothing to rot. Goddamn it. I should've been there-!

“Holy shit, stop moving— How long have you been—?”

Kaumfo barks, too angry to be relieved and too relieved to be angry. He doesn’t get to finish; The seams on Socks face tighten as she shoves her head up over Pawlifers shoulder, baring her teeth in a snarl.

“Oh, shut up about me!! Where’s Kinger!? Did you find him?”

Kaufmo quite literally grinds to a stop, trying to process what she just asked.

“Wh— what’dyou MEAN ‘where’s Kinger,’ YOU have Kinger!”

Kaufmo barks, his voice cracking slightly. He can feel dread creeping up on him like a pack of wolves, sinking their teeth deep into his neck as he suddenly registers the empty space between her jaws, the tiny threads hanging from sharp canines. No, no she had him, even if it was a terrible idea she did have him she— she — why doesn’t she have him!?

She doesn't say anything, just staring at him with blank shock. Tears start brimming in her wide green eyes, blank and fixated on nothing but empty brick.

“Socks.” Kaufmo says in a weak voice, “Socks, where is Kinger?”

“I don’t know, I don’t— this isn’t FAIR!”

“SOCKS, WHAT HAPPENED TO KINGER!?”

”He—! I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to lose him, I— I just—!”

“LOST HIM!?”

It comes out so much louder than he meant it to. Kaufmo can feel his polygons tremble. It’s not anger, there’s no bonfire lit under his heels — he’s shaking from the freezing pit of dread that just opened under him. Kinger is missing. Kinger is missing. Kinger, the man with a mind so broken Kaufmo honestly doesn’t know if he qualifies as a person, the man who’s a walking time limit, is missing, on his own, having to fend for himself in a cellar full of f%^king monsters —

Kaufmos knees feel weak. Kinger. Missing. Queen's husband. Missing. Missing, maybe the entire time Kaufmo has been searching, missing, and of it, all of it was for nothing, because how are they going to find him now!? If he’s missing then he’s on his own, and if he’s on his own then there’s nobody to keep him from losing his marbles, and if there’s nobody to keep him from losing his marbles then —

“Congrats, Kaufmo.” Box mutters from behind him, tapping one organ-tentacle on the stone.

“This has all just been one massive waste of our time.”

Something snaps.

Kaufmo rounds on Box, eyes blown wide. He tries to shout something tough, or smart, but nothing comes out but a strangled screech. His thoughts buzz like flies as he stares the other abstraction down, shaking. He can’t take it. He. Can’t. Take it.

The past few hours of desperation, anger, fear, doubt, frustration— all of it comes down like a hammer, and that force is carried through in a sucker punch to the face. Or at least an attempted sucker punch, his polygons swiping inches from Box’s face as tentacles plow into him and struggle to keep him at bay. Everything is pure anger — Pawlifer shouting, Socks hissing, Box’s stupid f&*king face— all of it feeds into his frustrations like dry grass to a bonfire, the product displayed in every missed punch and sloppy half-blow.

Catharsis — something Kaufmo’s been restraining himself from for far too long. A dam straining to burst, a pot lid clattering as it holds in the broth, a cliche beaten to death until its very presence is a predictable annoyance. Kaufmo can’t hold himself back, and isn’t even meant to; It’s not the kind of person he is, not the role he played. He's still in the circus. He’s still painfully unable to tear away the costume that paints his face into a snarl.

Fortunately for Kaufmo, it turns out someone else is willing to do the holding back for him.

A pair of sharp teeth suddenly dig into him and yank him back, hurling him away from Box— his shoulder greets the ground like a drumstick greets a drum, eyes grinding, blood boiling. Hard brick slams up against him, along with a meaty paw pinning him down.

“Break it up!”

Pawlifer roars. Kaufmo freezes, the air crushed out of him.

“Fighting! Fighting, NOW of all times!” He says, all teeth bared, “What are you, children?! You’re acting like bloody savages!”

Box laughs, tendrils coiling and pulsing.

“If there's any savage here, it's him.”

Pawlifers only response is a wordless snarl, teeth bared, forcing Box to shrink back against the wall to avoid being impaled. Kaufmo would’ve found it validating if only Pawlifer weren’t rounding on him moments later, strong jaws closing around his pseudo neck and tossing him across the passage as easily as a potato sack. He lands beside a sniffing Socks with a burst of static, scrambling to turn himself over.

“Kickin’ and screamin’ solves nothing and you know it— you’re a grown man, Kaufmo, there’s no use in throwin’ a fit!”

Pawlifer growls, planting himself firmly between him and Box. Kaufmo is a single, rapidly shrinking inch from exploding— f^7k him, oh f%^k him! Box saw him at his lowest and decided to take a good hard kick, that– it's not– It's not f^%king fair! Kaufmo’s default state may be ‘unspeakable rage,’ but that doesn’t change the fact he usually has a damn good reason to be! Pawlifer frustratingly doesn’t pick up on this, however, and continues to speak, already shoving Box in the opposite direction.

“All you're doing is wastin’ time arguing, an—”

“I think it’s quite an efficient use of time.”

Box cuts in testily, folding his tentacles. Kaufmo stares intently through the small gap underneath Pawlifers barrel chest mouth, eyes locked on Box. His polygons rattle with full-body shudders of rage, neon eyes pulsating like bulged veins. God, he hates him and he hates that he’s needed, hates how he knows how to press all the buttons. Hates how he feels the need to make it worse.

Pawlifers eyes harden. He just keeps talking.

“—you know it ain’t helping anyone, least of all Kinger. Can we at least agree on that?”

He finishes, taking a deep breath and looking around at them all. The silence from Box and Kaufmo is stifling and pointed— mainly at each other.

“What’s the point? You heard him. Kinger’s good as gone.”

Kaufmo mutters, glaring from the far wall. Socks whimpers. Box remains silent. Kaufmo turns his head, pinning Pawlifer with a glare like hot coals.

“Or what, you wanna be the one to tell Queen?”

Kaufmo hates how his voice cracks. Pawlifer pauses, then sighs.

"Its ‘ardly the time to be giving up on him."

Pawlifer says, his expression clouded with worry. His jaws move in a mockery of language as he ‘speaks,’ no larynx left to form real words. Only a rasping memory of an Irishman, echoing through the darkness between one corrupted file and the next.

“An’ while I understand you might've been rather persisnt’ly told otherwise..." He growls, shooting Box a dark look. “...There's always a point to tryin’. Even if it seems hopeless. Even if the chances are low. ‘Cause, even if he does abstract, it's still our responsibility to guide ‘im back.”

“Help…lessen the blow.”

He mutters, voice low.

“Assuming someone else doesn't find him first.”

Box cuts in, an edge to his voice Kaufmo hasn't heard before. Pawlifer’s demeanor instantly changes, Socks pinning her ears back as if struck.

“You’ve spent too much time n’ that hole o’ yours, Box.” Pawlifer replies coldly. “There’s nothin’ in these tunnels.”

“Didn’t say there was,”

Box replies, colder.

“What, starting to believe Queen? Isn’t that a bit blasphemous? Or does your moral high ground make exceptions for mindless conformity. ”

Kaufmo shrinks back from the fight, eyes flicking between the two abstractions. He gets the sudden sense that there's a…history, here.

”But I bet you’d know a lot about that,” Box continues, his attention refocusing onto a mortified Socks. “Now wouldn’t you?”

“BOX! SHUT IT! There’s absolutely nothing in these passages and there's absolutely nothin’ wrong with—“

Pawlifer snarls, anger surging into his voice.

“Oh drop the holier-than-thou shtick!” Box snaps, “You’re a god damn liar!”

Pawlifer snout curls as he plows forward with grit teeth, placing himself between Box and Socks like a living wall of muscle and fur.

”—ut there is somethin’ CLEARLY wrong with YOU. Don’t you dare have the nerve to pretend you ‘ave any authority here— Christ, I woulda’ thought you’d change yer ways once you fell, but you’re just the same as ever! The same untrustworthy, silver-tongued fool!”

“Shut up, Adam.” Box replies, his voice trembling.

“Taking the Lords name in vain isn’t like you.”

For a moment, it genuinely looks like Pawlifer might tear him apart. Hackles raised, teeth shining in the muted neon, saliva dripping from his jaws— it looks black as blood in the low light, droplets of it easing slowly to the floor. Kaufmo would easily expect him to spring forward and tear Box to sheds with those teeth. That’s certainly what he would do in this situation.

“Okay, okay FINE you guys HATE EACH OTHER!“

Kaufmo snaps, suddenly getting to his feet.

“For f&*ks sake, Pawlifer, what are you two going on about?!”

Kaufmo can physically feel everyone's eyes locking onto him, reactions ranging from fear to disappointment to dead numbness. Pawlifer doesn’t meet his eyes, his snout curled, letting the silence stretch until it's stiff. Kaufmo goes from ‘confused’ to ‘concerned’ to ‘suspicious’ like a stop light switching colors. Pawlifer won’t meet his eyes. Box is staring directly at him.

“Pawlifer. What is he talking about?”

“No. I’m not entertainin’ this.“ Pawlifer mutters, glancing away. Socks is huddled in the corner, shaking. Her eyes are wide and shining, pulsating a terrified red-speckled indigo.

“Pawlifer. Pawlifer, make them stop.” She whimpers, shivering. Her claws dig pale trenches into the brick, grinding themselves down like chalk. “He hasn't gone that deep. He HASN'T gone that deep, make them shut up. Make— Pawlifer, please, just—“

Kaufmo can sense Box opening his big, fat, purely metaphorical mouth.

“SHUT IT.”

Pawlifer snarls, the most vicious Kaufmos ever heard him. It’s a testament to just how vicious he sounded that Box actually stopped talking.

“Shh, lass. it's alright.” Pawlifer soothes, switching gears. “Already forgotten – Right, you two?”

He adds, glaring daggers at the two of them. Kaufmo withers under his disapproving gaze, berating himself for thinking– even for a moment– that anything he said meant anything. Asshole’s just trying to scare me. I’m not gonna let that happen again, Kaufmo reassures himself, sinking back against the brick wall. He's starting to regret even bringing the guy, considering he's been the exact opposite of useful. It’ll all be worth it when we get to Kinger. Everything’s gonna be fine.

“Now, lass. You feelin’ a bit better?”

Pawlifer asks calmly, straightening up with a brisk little cough. He turns to Socks, who’s rubbing at her eyes with one massive plush limb. She nods, sniffling. Pawlifer nods back, his own meaty paw still planted near Box in a silent threat.

“D’you know if he took anythin’ with him?”

Pawlifer asks gently, turning to Socks. She swallows thickly, clearly making an effort to pull herself together.

“A…uh, a torch, some old knick knacks— rope, I think— And…” She falters, her jaws curling inward. “A-And Queenie's cloak. That— that’s all.”

Kaufmo shudders, mind full of images of Kinger’s abstracted form draped in red cloth. Wouldn't that be a pretty f^&king parallel? Suffering the same fate as your wife while wearing the same cloak she wore, in the same place she’s been stuck for god knows how long, and not even knowing. Not even knowing that this fate is survivable— and fatally so.

He remembers how it felt. Flickering between a clown and the body he only got to keep for a moment– he can remember watching his guts skew themselves into knots, revolving strings of knife-sharp polygons, and how it didn't stop. Kingers’ already traumatized, he’s already human, it would be so easy for him to…Kaufmo shrinks in on himself, doubt growing in his mind like a mold. Maybe Box is right. Maybe…

Agreeing with Box is perhaps the most disgusting thought that’s ever crossed his mind.

…I need a goddamn cigarette to get my head on straight, is what I need. Kaufmo thinks tiredly, staring at the ground empty of anger. He is, understandably, a little lost without it.

“wh-Why does that matter, though…?”

Socks asks, and Pawlifer nods, clearing his throat.

“Aye, well– Queen’s cloak absolutely reeks o’ sap. I may not be a bloodhound, but so long as he’s wearin that cloak, I’ll be able to scent him out.”

The silence after that statement is palpable enough to rot. You could probably count the amount of times anybody blinked on one hand. Box looks genuinely stunned, Socks seems uncomfortable, and Pawlifer just stands there– clearly oblivious to the fact Kaufmo is staring a hole through his head.

“You can’t mean you’re gonna—” Kaufmo starts, fumbling under Pawlifers withering deadpan.

“…Like an…an actual dog??”

“Aye, like an ‘actual dog.’ Sure look the part, don't I?”

Kaufmo is too baffled to argue.

“Believe me or don’t, I’m goin’. I’ll come back for you all when I find him.”

Pawlifer sighs, rolling his eyes. He squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath, seeming infinitely tired. His canine face suddenly looks a lot older now, turning to Socks with a quiet cock of the head.

“Lass. You comin’?”

She pauses, glancing at Kaufmo. Kaufmo, who is glancing at Box, now nursing a migraine in the corner. The tendrils he'd been dragging Box along by now lay tucked under him, out of reach. He’s going to have to fight to get a grip back on him. He could just leave. Leave him behind and not have to deal with him or whatever weird beef he and pawlifer have.

Kaufmo is…tempted, to say the least. But …He pulled an error ‘outta nowhere. He knows what's going on with Kinger, n’ I don't.

We need him.

Kaufmo directs the last thought at Socks, who blinks. He still doesn't know how the ‘talking without mouths’ thing works, but f^7k it, he hopes she got the point.

“I’ll…catch up. “

Kaufmo mutters quietly. Socks stares at him for a long moment, her mind whirring. For a moment it seems like she might respond – but whatever it was, she settles for a quiet nod instead. She shoots Box an anxious glance as she shrinks away, and Kaufmo watches as Pawlifer scoops her up with his tusks, adjusting himself until she’s draped over his back like an injured deer. She glances back at him, her eyes glowing like headlights.

They turn, Pawlifers snout pressed low to the brick, and for all the world looking like a dog on the hunt. A contorted mess of a dog, but a dog all the same.

Kaufmo can’t bring himself to be suspicious of it anymore— Sure it’s a slightly absurd idea, but Kaufmo’s barely more than a heap of polygons at the moment, so it’s not like he would know. Super smell…sure seems’ like something Caine would give a dead guy. Kaufmo reasons, heaving himself to his feet.

“You don’t seriously believe him, do you?”

Right on cue.

Kaufmo turns to look at Box unfazed, his eyes sharp and skepticism sharper. If I can just get him there…Twenty seven eyes bore into Box, and he doesn’t speak at all. He’ll fix Kinger. He has to know how. Box narrows his eyes in return, tentacles clenching. There’s a good few feet between him and Kaufmo— in terms of speed, it isn’t even a competition.

Kaufmo inches a quiet step forward.

“Any reason I shouldn’t?”

He asks dryly, and Box’s many eyes all roll in lopsided unison. Another inch forward. One coiling intestine shimmers near his right leg— perfect.

“Do you smell anything?”

“Yeah, your bullshit.”

Box just glares at him, and Kaufmo stares back without a hint of regret.

If there’s one thing Kaufmo can’t stand, it’s a guy who only cares about himself. A guy who won’t risk a single scrap of his own comfort for someone else’s life, an asshole that’s mean simply because he can be. Jax fit the bill, so does Box— but Box is worse, because Kaufmo can see there's something behind there, that he would care, if only he decided to. But the minute you tell the f%^ker there's something more important than his personal comfort, he makes it his life’s mission to be as unhelpful and petty as possible, because he's a single-minded piece of shit.

Or maybe that's not why. Maybe there's some other mysterious reason Box treats the world like it's meaningless, like everything is meaningless, unless that thing is him. But if there is…Kaufmo doesn't care.

Box, quite simply, pisses him off.

“Listen,” Kaufmo growls. “The only reason I’m bringin’ you along is so you can fix Kinger– when we find him. So don't you think for a moment that I trust you more’n Socks, or Pawlifer, or—“

“Adam.”

Box cuts in, the word hissed through a memory of grit teeth. Kaufmo flinches, but plows on all the same. Don’t think about it. Not my business.

Kaufmo slams his leg down on Box’s tentacles, tangling them up again within the span of a second.

“You don’t get to sit out, you don’t get a choice, ‘cause Kinger doesn’t have one either.”

Kaufmo turns away, or at least tries to. The tangled organs he’s been dragging for so long now suddenly clench tight and firm as iron cabling, yanking him back.

“Okay, you wanna make this a f^&kin tug of war!?” Kaufmo growls, stumbling, “Fine!”

He hurls his entire body weight into yanking them forward, but Box doesn’t budge. All that happens is Kaufmos chest cracking painfully against the brick, a dull ache blooming in the solid core behind his polygons. If he had a heart, it would’ve started to beat faster. If he had adrenaline, it would’ve spiked. All he has is the memory, but the memory is good enough.

“What – Hey! What the f%6k!?”

Box doesn't reply, his many tentacles flexing tighter whenever Kaufmo tries to pull free. They wind up his leg, stabbing through the vertices to anchor their barbed ends in his very rigging. Box’s eyes, though rolling sightless, occasionally settle on fixed points – and right now, one is staring dead through his skull.

“Kaufmo?”

Socks calls from further down the passage, and Box’s grip tightens slightly. Some of his tentacles have hooked teeth sticking from them, digging further into the brick. Kaufmo grunts as he pulls harder, the polygons of his leg shuddering under the pressure.

“You don’t know what you're doing.”

Box snarls, low enough that no one will hear but him.

“You don't know what this place is. You don't know what you’re getting into. You don’t know what's down there, because you’re too damn dense to—”

“Oh GIVE IT UP!”

Kaufmo hisses, shoving himself right up in Box’s face. He’s spooked out of his mind right now, but that’s not going to keep him from fighting back— who cares about whatever Box has to say? Not him! No, all he cares about is shutting down this guy's bullshit, that’s what!

“I've been runnin’ myself ragged for the past f%^k-knows-how-long, if I cared half a shit about whatever’s ‘down here’ I would’ve stopped hours ago!”

“You should have.”

Box shoots back, crushing Kaufmos leg into a clipping mess.

“I don’t understand you. I don’t get it. Don’t you care that Adam shut me down? Don’t you care that she had a panic attack at the very implication of something being down here? Don't you care that the world had a goddamn aneurysm halfway through this little crusade!? Don’t you have a single, intelligent, free-thinking bone in your body!? There's a reason the circus is taking him down there, and I want no part in it!”

He shouts, trying to yank Kaufmo forward. The younger abstraction digs in his heels, scraping against the brick like nails on a chalkboard.

“Oh, f%6k you! You earned yourself a ‘part in it’ the second I realized you actually know what you’re doing!”

Kaufmo snaps. He strains against him, fighting to pull Box even one step forward– One straining forward, one pulling away. Neither willing to back down.

“ I trust ‘em because I trust Queen. You really think I’d doubt her over you!? No matter what you think, I'm following her orders! Nobody listens to her! Nobody cares enough about what she does for us! Nobody– Nobodys grateful! Kinger wasn't my friend, I'm doing this for her. I’m savin’ him for her.”

He snarls, trembling from anger. Box is silent for a long moment, staring at him with eyes like washed out storms. His body— a vaguely cubic mound of skin and flesh and polygons that slice through both— rotates slightly, until all its horrible folds and shining veins are aimed directly towards Kaufmos face. Box is lucky, among abstractions, to be fairly simple— but that doesn’t mean the rot doesn't eat at him all the same.

Socks’s distant voice— backed by Pawlifer’s begrudging grumbling— echo down the passage, bouncing around the two abstractions until it’s nothing more than a ringing echo. Kaufmos legs remain firmly planted, tendrils wrapped around them like tangled thread.

“Nothing matters.”

Box mutters, but his grip weakens, just a little. Kaufmo scoffs. He is absolutely not trembling.

“Tough shit. This does.”

 

“…”

 

“Fine.”

 

 

 

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