LOCAL/ARTIST

Kinger is currently standing by a large boulder, counting seconds.

Now, you may be wondering; just how large is this boulder? Kinger would say about the size of a garden shed. He would also say, if you were to ask him this, that this is not very relevant. 

The more relevant question is why. Why, exactly, is Kinger standing by a large boulder, counting seconds. After all, he has been on the move for the past god knows how long, so he must’ve stopped for a good reason, right? This question— though more relevant— has a much simpler and more accurate answer.

That answer being; Barnaby asked him to.

And Kinger just… did. Without questioning anything whatsoever, despite the fact Barnaby had stopped mid-tangent about candyfloss agriculture, which was actually quite interesting, and he wanted to hear more of.

Kinger...didn’t want to be rude... 

He quite likes Barnaby, really! And Kinger is well aware that social cues aren’t his thing. Not in the way he doesn’t understand them, but that he understands them the same way you understand traffic laws; erratic and subject to change on the whim of an individual who will still punish you if you get them wrong, unless you’re around certain people who typically all follow the same hyper complicated set of rules, but sometimes also make up weird arbitrary ones just so they can punish you anyway, simply because they happen to be one of those weird people who don’t like the fact your car was made in China.

Following this metaphor, Kinger thinks Barnaby would be rather like an over-enthusiastic cyclist.

Anyway, the point is— Barnaby is acting…Odd.

Well, Kinger thinks so. He’s not usually one to over-analyze other people’s behavior— he kicked that habit in high school when he couldn’t find a single person who wasn’t disgusted by rhino beetles and promptly lost interest in friend-making— but still, it’s a bit out of character for him to stop mid-tangent like that. And go quiet like that. And stutter so much. And look so...nervous.

But Kinger has decided not to think about this; He’s counting seconds, and he’s not thinking about high school. He's counting second and he's making quite good time with it, because... Well, surely he can muster up the patience not to fidget while Barnaby does whatever it is he’s doing back there, right? He owes him that much. Goodness knows he has quite the debt to repay when it comes to patience. Barnaby has had to stop and wait for him to catch up so many times by now, he must be sick of it...

The point is, Kinger is standing by a large boulder counting seconds because he wants to be a good friend.

After all, Barnaby is the only reason he’s not still wandering like he was. Alone. In the dark. 

In the…quiet.

And who likes quiet, right?! Kinger much prefers the cluttered, head-filling rambling Barnaby produces!! It’s much, much easier to ignore— to ignore, when he focuses on Barnaby. 

Anyhow, the point is, It’s ...important to Kinger that he understands Barnaby’s mental state. If he has a mental state that is, being AI and all…Gee, he’s still not used to NPC’s being so complex! Back when he joined they weren't nearly so— well, anything, really. 

The pawns were feisty, sure, but everything was rather surface level. Behind the bombs and swords and battlefields and pointy things and accusing him of being a womanizer, there really wasn’t much of substance. Like a sandwich made solely of cheese; pretty good for about two seconds, then extremely hard to enjoy unless you’re particular for that kind of thing. Kinger makes a mental note to remember that excellent metaphor.

Not to mention the UI! There used to be UI and— whatever did Caine do with that? The health bar, the ammo count, the inventory, the meter telling you how long you have to blink? That used to be so helpful, apart from the blinking one, and getting a moment of peace when he died was nice— now he doesn’t die. Well he would anyhow, but it’s still not nice getting stabbed, with no death screen or baritone male voice telling him he wasted something (presumably his life.) It just went on and on, and none of it ever mattered that much. But it still all hurt the same in the end, even though none of it was, or is, real. But it felt so real. Much more so than anyone else seemed to feel. Being crushed, pain spiralling into him in bursts of lost anatomy, the ghosts of screaming nerves— so deep and so sharp, like bone splinters slicing open organs that weren’t there, and— and, well, you don’t notice things like that. A normal person wouldn’t. But when it happens over, and over, and over, and people stop showing concern; stop trying to help you, because their bodies are rubber right through. It’s agony, but it’s new, and everything else is monotony. So it’s a novelty. And you notice things about it!

Kinger thinks that’s probably not healthy. But not much here is, is it! After all, the White Chess Queen thought she knew him. And he never knew what happened to that checkered world, and his head hurts now , and the bombs were falling from the sky, and the sky was falling down in the shape of her jagged silhouette, and his mind fell down soon after, and he still remembers the—

Kinger blinks. I lost count.

He shakes himself back into focus, the taste of blood stinging in his mouth. It’s started to become a habit, which he’s rather proud of— biting his tongue may be painful, but more importantly, he doesn’t have to wait for Zooble to elbow him anymore! He briefly wonders how they’re doing right about now, but— but, right, Barnaby! Barnaby, Barnaby, Barnaby… acting weird. Does he get hungry?

Stay on topic, Kinger. Focus on the real. What’s real? Well, the rock against his back is solid enough to be real, isn’t it? Yes. Okay, back to thinking about Barnaby.

Kinger wonders if caramel is magma down here. Wonders if gold grows under pressure in the form of lemon-flavored starbursts. He can’t taste anything but the inside of his own mouth, and the faint blood between his teeth. There’s nothing edible here, he knows that— knew? 

Stop it. Stop it, stop that— 

What was he thinking about? 

His mind feels like it’s full of mold. Growing on the walls, slick and slimy with forgetfulness. Like he needs to take a spoon to the inside of his skull and scrape out that nagging itch, pull out whatever roots the shadows (not there) have put down in his head. Making him dizzy. Confusing him.

He thought he was getting better at this.

Kingers face twists. He folds his arms around himself underneath her cloak, stuck staring into the darkness, where hundreds of eyes stare back at him. Their pupils bloom in the shape of chamomile flowers.

“Stop that.” 

Kinger grumbles under his breath, keeping his eyes fixed on his shoes. He’s not speaking to anyone in particular; mostly just to the world in general. Certainly not to the shadows, or the eyes, both of which clearly do not exist. I’m going to get a headache, he adds inside his head, rubbing his forehead and completely ignoring the fact he already has one. You could probably synchronize a luau to the pounding behind his eyes. 

Kinger screws his eyes shut and grits his teeth, though that makes it worse. The pressure behind his eyes is increasing. He is, persistently and uncomfortably, reminded what silence does to his mind.

“Barnaby?” 

He finally risks, leaning back against the boulder he was told to, by no circumstances, look behind. No more quiet. Where’s that chatter of his…?

“Barnaby, are you okay back there?”

He asks, desperately searching for a rhythm, a distraction, anything. Walking is a rhythm. Breathing is one, but it’s not enough. Clicking his teeth— clicking his teeth is a rhythm for colors, not the blackness. Staring out into the darkness is not a rhythm at all. His fingers tap against his hip in a weak replacement — Index, thumb, pointer, thumb, pointer, index. Index, thumb, pointer, thumb, pointer, index…

Thankfully he doesn’t have to wait long for a response. There’s a small sound from behind the boulder— the kind of quick, back-of-the-throat noise you make when surprised— followed by clicking, moving dirt, some very quiet PG cussing, the sound of someone fumbling with (and dropping) a gun several times, and a loud skittering of pebbles being displaced. Then, finally, a soft green glow spills over the back of the boulder, sudden as a breaking dawn. Kinger watches in a kind of numb relief as the eyes in the shadows fold closed like butterfly wings, the scratching in the back of his head easing along with them. 

Thank god, he thinks, feeling a tap on his shoulder. He looks up, and there’s Barnaby. Or— well, a very high-definition front-seat view of Barnaby’s nose. 

“…Hello there,”

Says Kinger, not knowing quite how else to react to a high-definition front-seat view of Barnaby’s nose. “Again— are you alright?” 

“Jus’ peachy! ” 

Barnaby replies, and Kinger ducks just in time to avoid a tail to the face, Barnaby flipping himself right over the boulder. And he really does flip; a head over heels backflip to be exact, rolling mid-air like a reptilian acrobat. A very clumsy acrobat who immediately loses balance and falls back on his tail the moment he lands, but an acrobat all the same. And, to his credit, he did land on his claws! For a second or two, anyway.

“Absolutely—"

Barnaby continues breathlessly, brushing pink dust off his nose.

“in-can-decible!”

Kinger adds that to an internal list titled “words Barnaby has read but not heard” under the “mashups” subsection. ‘Incandescent’ and ‘incredible,’ probably. Now wherever did he come across incandescent?

“Oh, well— good, that’s good,” Kinger replies, dusting off her cloak. "I’m just wondering, what were you doing back there? You took…a while.”

A good twenty minutes, actually. Kinger turns his head to glance at the terrain beyond the boulder, half expecting to see a giant trench or some brand of explosion. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate the break,” He adds absentmindedly, “but, you know. I wonder.”

As we all know, ‘wondering’ is often a synonym for ‘worrying.’ Albeit with good reason this time; Barnaby did mention having a bazooka in that inventory of his, and Kinger can’t access his own anymore, so there’s no chance of using the quick-slot glitch to check what else he might have. Some paranoid part of Kinger cringes at that realization – hammerspace (as Barnaby calls it) has served him well over the years, its many glitches allowing him to do everything from pass messages to stealing bombs from Jax. It's unnerving to lose access to it. A lot of things are unnerving, really, but that one is the safest to think about.

Thankfully, he spots no scorch marks or trenches, apart from some scratches in the dirt. Un-thankfully, Barnaby looks like he has a frog in his mouth, and the frog is a very bad liar.

“Nothin’!” 

Barnaby blurts, his tail swishing a nervous divot in the dirt. ‘LYING, (BADLY)’ might as well be written across his face in green glitter pen, what with the way his tail is curling up, and his claws remain firmly behind his back. 

“…Imp-p-ortant,” Barnaby scrapes out, after a moment of apparent moral agony. “Nothin’ important, to, uh, to you anyway! Nothin’ at all important,“

He tacks on ‘important’ like it’s the only thing holding his conscience together, cringing so hard his teeth have to show up to complete the expression. Kinger gets the subconscious urge to pat his shoulder in sympathy— this looks painful. He really does follow that cowboy code of his, doesn’t he?

“H-Hows’about we get going, huh?? Yeah?? Good plan???”

See? Odd.

Kinger narrows his eyes for a moment, then remembers his face has expressions and stops. On the one hand, Barnaby is a terrible liar. That’s comforting! On the other hand, Barnaby is lying. Or rather, lying and trying to avoid lying through omission. 

Well, if he’s trying to avoid lying by framing it as nothing I’d consider important, Kinger reasons, then it really musn’t have much to do with me, otherwise that’d still be a lie. So why is he trying to hide something? Is he embarrassed? Ashamed? Plotting to kill me? Doesn’t want to look stupid in front of a player? Doesn’t want to look stupid, point blank? 

…So, Kinger thinks, either he’s plotting to murder me, or he's embarrassed. Possibly both.

Kinger watches the cartoon beads of sweat slide down Barnaby's forehead. More of them spawn the longer he holds his deadpan. So if it’s not about anything I did, then…The Princess? He’s embarrassed because he’s doing something to do with the Princess and he doesn’t want to look stupid…?

Then, and only then, does Kinger get it. 

Ah, so that's why he talks about her so much.

Kingers fondness for Barnaby only grows at the realization. Though, he probably should’ve guessed this was the case the last fourteen times Barnaby went on insane tangents about how amazing and cool and awesome the princess is. Caine’s eternal love of The Princess Bride really does seep into everything he creates, doesn’t it?

Barnaby does indeed launch into many, many metaphors; once dealing with whatever it is he retrieved from behind the boulder, that is. He is apparently such things as being surer than “sugar shocks hittin’ in sandstorm season!” And “caramel cracklin’ under hot summer sun!” and Kinger, personally, cannot properly memorize a single one because they go by so fast.

Part of the reason they go by so fast is because Barnaby is talking very quickly, while also trying to maneuver something he’s hiding behind his back.

Kinger pretends not to notice that he has it, or that he’s dropped it five times, and takes great interest in politely staring into the middle distance until he’s done. Barnaby drops the mystery object two more times, and curses once— whatever it is, it’s clipping through the ground like crazy. It sounds like the physics engine having an aneurysm. (Kinger discreetly steps back in case said engine decides to launch it, remembering the many times he had his head blown off by a stray crate.) 

Even once he’s done there’s still a very noticeable new lump in his satchel, but Kinger pays it no mind. It’d be impolite to mention it at this point. 

“Now, uh, what was I talkin’ about?”

Barnaby asks, looking a bit out of breath. It’s the strangest things that tire him out— he can run for hours, but a bit of stress makes him deflate like a balloon. Kinger runs through the list of subjects Barnaby has gone over in the past hour, and settles on the one most likely to spark an hour-long rant.

“The princesses' favorite kind of candyfloss, right?”

“Oh yeah!!”

Barnaby lights up like a Christmas tree, bounding forward on all fours like an over-excited labradoodle. 

“So o’ course there’s tons n’ tons n’ tons o’ kinds of candyfloss but SHE only likes these real spesificicer kinds with the fancy names n’ things, like dragon’s beard and fairy floss an’ cottonwood—“

“Cottonwood?”

Kinger pipes up, with genuine interest. The name is both familiar and unfamiliar to him. Familiar in that he’s definitely heard it before, unfamiliar in the fact it’s not a cotton candy he’s ever eaten. Barnaby nods vigorously, grinning.

“Yeah, the fancy kind, from the big city! …I think, anyhows...” 

Barnaby walks backwards, a small frown flicking across his face. This is the fourth time Kinger has seen him do that, and it still looks weird. 

“I mean, there ain’t a city bigger than the castle town n’ all that, so I guess it must be from there? Or outside the frontier, cus y’know, the frontiers gotta be in front o’ something to be the front ier, so…it must be from where you’re from, pardner! Say, you ever eaten it? What’s it taste like?”

“Well, no. However, I have eaten cheese floss…I couldn’t really taste it that well, but, I’d say it was…” Kinger taps his chin for a moment, mulling over it. “… Bad.”

That was a traumatic day for him, as it had been a chef themed adventure where Caine had tried to “TAKE PART” and “ENGAGE WITH THE AUDIENCE!” Which apparently included him making an Angel food cake…out of teeth. Realistic teeth. Slightly horrifying, and weirdly appealing to Kinger at the time, due to his lack of teeth at the time. Kinger shudders, running his tongue around his mouth to check they’re all still there.

Barnaby, as Kinger discovers, does not know what cheese is. 

Barnaby also, apparently, doesn’t know what milk is. Barring chocolate and strawberry milk that is, except Barnaby also has no clue what “strawberries” really are, or cocoa beans—  And so Kinger ends up explaining the difference between fruits, beans, vegetables, and gourds (or rather the surprising lack thereof) for thirty minutes, and Barnaby ends up asking questions such as what “growing” means, which. Hoo boy.

But Kinger doesn't mind, really. It distracts him from the shadows, which— well, for one, aren’t there. And for another, have been…persistent. And unsettlingly consistent. He keeps seeing eyes in the corners of his vision. He keeps feeling the hair on the back of his neck prickle with unease. He keeps seeing bits and pieces of familiar faces etched out in the darkness. 

…All of which, of course, do not exist! So he’s totally fine, and also genuinely warmed that Barnaby cares about his opinion! 

After all, people don’t pay attention to him much. Last time someone even asked for his opinion was when Gangle showed him the comic— no, man-ga she was making, and (after instructing him on how to read it) asked if he liked the characters. He, of course, said he did; overwhelmingly because he actually did like it very much, and only partly because one of them was based on him. That is, covered in beetles and looking in two directions at once. He wasn’t even deterred by the fact that she gave him a slightly ridiculous goatee, he just appreciated the gesture! And the inclusion at all, really! She really is such a good artist.

Oh, Barnaby and her would probably get along! Kinger makes a mental note to introduce them, if at all possible. Which, he promptly realizes, probably is not. I hope she’s doing okay. Jax took her to the lake, didn’t he? 

Kinger frowns. That’s worrying. And what happened to Zooble, again? Didn't Caine send them somewhere? And Ragatha. What happened to her…why did he even leave the tent in the first place? He remembers grass. He remembers feeling…happy. Which was weird. Come to think of it, what was he doing? How did he get down here? Why does he remember screaming?

Kinger shivers, and suddenly realizes he’s walking alone.

Turning, he sees Barnaby, stopped dead a few feet behind him. . He’s staring out into the darkness, the same expression on his face as there was when he heard the abstraction.

Kinger shivers as a cold wind blows past them. Barnaby doesn’t move, doesn’t shake his head and bound in front again— he just stares. This is not comforting, and immediately makes Kinger’s heart rate racket up a few figures. The shadows sputter on the edges of his vision, an entirely unhelpful Greek choir reminding him of how depressing his situation is. 

And Kinger, in no offence to Greek poetry, wishes that they would shut up. 

He joins Barnaby’s side, peering out into the darkness with him. A pool of dread settles in his stomach the longer the silence lasts; It’s bad enough that Barnaby has stopped filling the void with his endless anecdotes, but Kinger really doesn’t need the cause of that to be something lurking in the darkness. He doesn’t need to consider the possibility of another abstraction hunting their every step— the first encounter was bad enough. Everything is already bad enough.

Following the croc’s gaze, Kinger sees nothing but the darkness, thick and deep as ever. The shadows, as always, crowd on his peripherals. Eyes bloom like flowers in the darkness, faint figures and hallucinations taking root in the corners of his eyes. The shadows that aren’t there, of course, no matter how realistic the skittering shape in the darkness looks. Kinger grimaces, trying to focus on the soft light emanating from Barnaby. 

Barnaby, whose head sharply turns to follow one of the shadows as it darts across the path.

Kinger watches in horror as Barnaby’s eyes track the faint ‘hallucination.’ He— he can see it? He can see that one? Wait, that—

“Barnaby, what—?“

Is as much as Kinger gets out before a claw is slapped over his mouth, silencing him. Said claw tastes much like how an apple air freshener you find on the floor of a taxi might taste. Kinger is briefly concerned as to why he knows this, but that worry is quickly drowned by all his other, infinitely more massive anxieties.

“I—“ 

Kinger tries again, speaking around the claw. He’s once again cut off, a clatter of rocks from somewhere in the rubble catching them both off guard. 

Barnaby’s head jerks upwards like a gopher. If he had ears, they’d be pricked for sure, and that worries Kinger. The last time he looked like that, they nearly died, and Kinger had to watch a mannequin get brutally dismembered right in front of him. He doesn’t want to repeat that. He also doesn’t want to die.

Barnaby suddenly grabs his arm. Before Kinger can process anything, Barnaby has tugged him down to the ground; Kinger could have resisted if he wanted to, but despite the fact he has no clue what’s happening, he doesn’t. After all, the last time Barnaby tackled him to the ground, it saved his life— so he lets himself be yanked to the ground, hunching his shoulders to keep his head below the rubble. Another abstraction. It must be another abstraction. 

Barnaby has his revolver in hand, which can’t be good. On a closer look, it seems that the gun still has its safety on, which reassures him that it’s nothing too bad. Either that, or he just forgot to switch it off? But—

Barnaby suddenly punches himself in the stomach.

Kinger jolts in surprise as the torch glow dies, and after a sequence of the absolute worst choking noises Kinger has ever heard, the flashlight drops into Barnaby’s claws. He hands it to Kinger, who upon taking it in a sort of stunned daze, discovers that it’s somehow still bone dry. Not that he’s complaining, really, he’s too confused (and concerned) to care. 

Barnaby twists back around to face the darkness, making a series of vague hand gestures that Kinger cannot begin to decipher. Evidently, Barnaby thinks that he got his point across, rolling to a nearby boulder. Desperately wanting anything but to be left behind with whatever they’re hiding from, Kinger scrambles behind him. Before he can catch his breath, Barnaby points to another nearby piece of debris and gets down on all fours, leaping to the next hiding spot. 

This process repeats a good 7 times before Kinger finally gathers the courage to say something.

“Barnaby, what on earth are we doing?”

Kinger hisses, crouched behind large boulder number eight. Barnaby is pressed low to the ground beside him, tail lashing long and slow.

“Shh!”

He replies, his face masked with concentration. It’s disconcerting seeing him without his smile, and everything else certainly isn’t helping. 

The revolver is still out, safety still (thankfully) flicked on. It makes Kinger…nervous, and the shadows are worse as a result. The shadows that aren’t there, which are not spitting and writhing at the corners of his vision, creeping closer the longer the torch is off. His fingers twitch. They have human faces. He hates the fact they have human faces.

To be honest, Kinger still doesn’t know what just happened. All he knows is that there was a flash of shadow over the path that he’d assumed was a hallucination, but apparently wasn’t, and then Barnaby pulled a Craig McGill, which…speaks for itself in terms of oddness. After that, his life has been nothing but a long string of quietly creeping from one boulder to another, without a single word said. They’re hiding, yes; but with no sign of any threat they should be hiding from.

Considering Barnaby's usual demeanor, the sudden mood shift is unnerving at best, disturbing at worst.  Quietly dashing from hiding spot to hiding spot isn’t really… Barnaby behavior! He’s usually about as stealthy as a drunk horse, and Kinger loves him for it, but now he’s unsettlingly silent. It feels wrong. It feels— off.

Well, at least he coughed up the light! And the way he did that certainly was very Barnaby. Kinger still has it clutched tightly in his hands, its battered rubber handle remaining perfectly dry despite spending the better part of a slow-mo decathlon suspended in whatever Barnaby has in place of a stomach. Kinger’s glad to have it safe with him, at least. He hates not being told what’s going on; after so many years in the circus, adventures became predictable, and this situation is about as far from predictable as Kinger is able to get. Someone else might’ve been better at dealing with that, but Kinger is— unfortunately— himself. Flimsy, inattentive, and constantly twitching. 

“Barnaby, I’d really appreciate if you—“

“Shh!!” Barnaby hisses again, finally sparing him a glance, “I’ve nearly got ‘im!”

Kinger resists the urge to demand exactly who Barnaby’s ‘nearly got,’ instead taking the coward’s route of shutting up. He chews on the inside of his cheek, peering off into the darkness with wide eyes. The torch rolls back and forth between his palms, a tentative reminder that light still exists. 

The darkness is so thick around them both he can barely see three feet in front of his own face. His knees are a murky suggestion, and his shoes? God if he knows where those went. All he has is his senses, now, and what they tell him is both A: not helpful, and B: very worrying.

One: Barnaby is no longer speaking.

Two: Barnaby is no longer moving.

Three: Kinger no longer has any way of knowing he’s not alone.

That thought is so intensely terrifying he moves without thinking, shooting out a hand to grab for Barnabys tail. The stress means his grip is tighter than it should be, and he immediately loosens it so Barnaby can pull free— but there’s no resistance. Barnaby's tail sways ever so slightly back and forth in his loosened grip, but there’s no flinch when it brushes his hand. An idle animation– No reaction. No resistance. No proof that Barnaby can hear him, or see him, or that he’s even— god damn it, it’s too quiet!

“Barnaby!” He hisses through his teeth, and thank god, Barnaby finally moves.

“Wuh?” Barnaby grunts, lifting his head—  “Oh— pardner, c’mon, I’m tryna’ sneak up on it here!” 

“Ah, sorry, I…” 

Kinger replies, as quiet as he can, cringing at the twinge of genuine exasperation in Barnabys voice. He’s reminded very much of Ragatha, though he’s not sure why— no no no, this isn’t like that…not that he knows what that is right now.

God, his head is more scrambled than it should be. Why did he do that? Of course Barnaby is there. Of course he’s still there, just like his knees and shoes and the rest of him is still there. He’s an adult, he knows how light works, he knows he’s not alone and it— it wouldn’t matter, even if he were. This panic isn’t him, is it? No, he doesn’t have distinctions like that, he’s just— muddled. Jumbled. Too many pieces and no reference for the puzzle. Oh, oh why does this always, always have to happen, and he’s always eventually just reduced to nothing but— but nothing?!

Kinger takes deep breaths. He focuses on how his lungs fill, shutting his eyes so at least there’s a reason for the darkness. In, hold, hurt, out. In, hold, hurt— He has lungs. He knows he does, because they hurt. He has blood. He knows he does, because he can taste it in his mouth. He has a brain. He knows he does, because it betrays him at his every step, but— but— it is him. So he has no one to blame. He’s in control. He’s in control of this. 

I’m in control of this, Kinger lies to himself, shrinking under her cloak. Focusing on how the fur feels against his neck, and not the faces in the darkness. 

It helps.

Kinger clutches the torch like a crucifix, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the demons which do not stand over him in tall, shadowy figures. 

He’ll just keep his eyes shut for now. 

…Things have not improved.

They’ve been crouching behind this godforsaken rock for ages , and Kinger’s tailbone hurts. He resists the urge to grumble as he crosses his aching legs— as quietly as possible, of course.

Well, at least closing his eyes helped. A lot, actually, he hasn’t gone down a spiral in a while! Still proud of that. After all, it's not like the shadows can touch him…mainly because they don’t exist, but also for other reasons, like physics! He’s still getting used to that being an actual viable reason for things, what with that floating glitch he found ages ago, and has abused ever since. Also the walking on water one, that one was fun… just like that time he launched a horse statue into the digital stratosphere! Why doesn’t he do things like that more often? Ah, he must’ve simply fallen out of the habit…

Kinger has been entertaining himself with thoughts like this for a while now. It’s comforting, like the cloak around his shoulders. He’s actually managed to retain some body heat after staying in the same place so long (another hour?) and his fingers have unfrozen some. 

The unease creeps in despite all this, though.

Kinger folds his arms over his stomach, trying to press the residual warmth into him. Shapeless anxiety surfaces, gnawing at his gut with needle-like teeth— or maybe he’s just hungry. Really, really hungry. Hungry enough to try eating a rock again; and rather lightheaded, which is worrying. 

…No. No, he’s just…disturbed. By Barnaby, mainly.

Barnaby, who’s been so strangely… quiet.

Oh, It’s stupid, really! That after being hurled into the cellar by means of something he can’t and won’t think about, it’s this that trips him up. A little odd behavior from an NPC that’s been isolated for who knows how long. A week in his mind could be months, could be years. Who knows? Certainly not Kinger, or Barnaby! And no way in hell is he going to bring that up! He’s not that bad at conversation!

Kinger rubs his face, a poor attempt at fending off the exhaustion. I need some coffee. Or maybe just something new to fiddle with, considering his shirt sleeves, and the new tears they have, are picked clean of loose threads. It’s odd to be actually wearing clothes, for once. Now that he’s sitting he’s noticing it more; the fact his shirt moves over his body instead of with it… it’s still nice though. It makes him feel far more protected than his old, purple cloak did. That was just his body, so having the cloak taken off him felt like peeling off skin.

His thoughts are interrupted, and Kingers eyes snap wide as the sound of rattling pebbles breaks the silence. Twisting to look, he only just catches a flash of movement as something skitters behind a pile of rubble. A very long-legged, spindly, arachnid-looking something. 

“What in god's name—?”

 Kinger says, louder than was probably wise, and is promptly tugged back down.

“Pardnerrr!” Barnaby whines, grabbing the torch. He gulps it down, a green glow flaring and spreading out over the surrounding rubble.  “C’mon, just lemme handle this!”

“Yes yes, sorry, It’s just—what was that? Is that what you’re hunting? Is it dangerous—“

Kinger asks, trying to lean around the boulder and getting promptly tugged back down again. The light is making him feel much better, and a lot less like tearing his hair out.

“—Ohhh, wait, is that a friend of yours?” 

“No!!” 

Barnaby says, worrying his claws and glancing anxiously out at the now faintly illuminated field of rubble he’d been watching. 

“Hol’ on, I think—“

Barnaby reaches for his gun. Every muscle in Kinger’s body goes stiff, and a claw is already up against his mouth before he can even think of asking a question. 

“Juuuust a second longer…” 

Barnaby mutters, easing forward an inch. He’s nearly soundless as he removes his claw, and Kinger wonders— briefly, through his mounting unease— how he manages it.

Unfortunately there isn’t much time for wondering. 

“THERE!”

Barnaby’s on his feet before Kinger even sees what he’s after— a formless bundle of legs and eyes twice the size of a Doberman, hexagonal body swaying seven-foot-six above the pepples like reeds in a storm. 

It and Barnaby lock eyes in a surprisingly mature way for all of half a second, before all hell breaks loose.

It’s like Tom n’ Jerry. Kinger swears Barnaby becomes a smear frame as he launches after the creature, nothing but a blur of light and talons with a wide open mouth. He bounds over the pepples at a scrambling four-legged pace far too fast for Kinger to keep up with, his own two legs tripping and stumbling over the uneven terrain as he does his best anyway. Barnaby slams face first into a boulder rounding a corner, the creature scales a mountain of rubble in under three seconds flat, Barnaby does it in two, and Kinger thinks he may be able to manage it in an hour. 

When he finally stumbles his way around the debris field, Kinger finds himself— and the chaos of the chase— somewhere completely unfamiliar. A tiny patch of flat ground among the mounds of rubble, which Kinger skids into with a large cloud of dust. 

Trying not to breathe it in as he heaves air from his lungs, he spins around just in time to see Barnaby herd the creature up against a wall. Trapped.

The thing scheeches as it finds itself penned in, scrabbling at the dirt with seven spindly legs. It’s not candy— it’s abstracted, a former gloinx maybe, now given limbs and a skin of gyrating polygons. 

Barnaby faces off with it, his body blocking any path out— Oh god, is he going to —!?

 Kinger doesn’t get the chance to open his mouth before Barnaby’s is cracking open.

He leaps on the creature like a dog. It’s twice his size, but the weight of Barnaby’s body forces its torso nearly to the ground— from there, he clamps his jaws around the place where leg and torso meet, a wet crunch splitting the air like a shot.

He might as well be shooting it, with how well the creature fares against Barnaby’s onslaught. Dragging it to the ground, he thrashes it back and forth like a dog with a toy, the blackened, crab-looking mess of chromatic aberration striking at his face as he does so— one long leg disconnects from its socket with a sickening pop of snapping sinew, Barnaby's claws pinning its core to the ground. It lashes desperately with the legs it has left, clocking Barnaby in the jaw, his hat knocked to the side, belt snagged caught and torn loose like wet paper — but his rubber teeth are digging into its convulsing center soon enough, and its screaming ramps in pitch. 

It cycles through prerecorded sound like a tuning radio, lashing, fighting, clawing at Barnaby’s face and eyes just like Kaufmo had. (But Kaufmo was a person.) Barnaby’s textures snag and pull like rubber, the neon skeleton flashing below (But how is he different?) the pistol is pulled, held by the barrel, sharpened hilt shoved into some vulnerable place (would Barnaby ever

The screams fall silent.

The screams fall silent, and only Kinger is left. Only Kinger is left, standing there, staring, the past few seconds burning into his mind. His lungs can’t find enough air, his throat feels too tight, too small. He’s far, far away and yet far too close, too aware of the aberration that grows up his forearm, too aware of all the ways that screaming could be his own. He— he can’t breathe, that—

That didn’t just happen , did it?

The screams fall silent. The shadows are quiet.

Barnaby remains very still. Hunched on all fours, his claws planted in what’s left of the creature. His tail lies limp on the pebbles as he slowly, slowly raises his head, shreds of sinew still dripping off it. 

Then, suddenly, sits up with a smile. 

“Whoo-whee, pardner— Did you see that!? Got it without even using a bullet!”

He’s smiling.

It looks almost…comical. Barnaby’s cartoon face, covered in viscera that still clips with his textures, fighting them even in death. There’s grimy black goo smeared all over his snout, caking his tongue black. It stains the glow of his body muddy and grey as Barnaby spits a clump of it onto the pepples, coughing, claws failing to wipe the black blood from his snout.

It only smears, and the light only dims further.

“Ain’t that somethin?? Never gotten one—“ Claws, just as black, pick the hat from the ground. “—so fast like that!! Jeepers, what a fighter!”

His claws leave black smudges over the hat. Kinger remembers dusting it off earlier; his hands feel like lumps of marble now, and he feels the infection in his arm gnaw deeper into rapidly-numbing skin. The corpse oozes as it is nudged by Barnaby's swinging tail, a bleeding hump of meat and polygon. The jagged lump of flesh Barnaby tore from its core lies pulsing on the peppermint pebbles, its convulsions growing weaker, and weaker. 

(It looks remarkably like a heart.)

Barnaby grins, his expression lifting even further as he seems to remember something. He squeezes his oil-stained claws together, and Kinger watches the black droplets ooze out from between them as if in slow motion. His racing, stuttering heart is the only thing time refuses to forget.

Black like abstraction. Black like errors. Black like dead data, black like—

Claws dig into the glistening chunk, spiking with errors; held up like a prize, tilted like a bleeding, oozing jewel. A grin, as it catches the tainted light.

“Mr. C is gonna be so proud of me!”

Kinger bolts.

The rubble flies by in a blur. He’s not paying attention, his heart fluttering and twitching like a dying robin. It’s nothing but a dead weight in his chest, blocking his throat as he no longer has to think about running, only breathing. Thorns in his lungs. Frenzied energy in his veins. The will to live coiled around his throat in a death grip— the anthem of fear tapped out on his spine. 

He only stops once he recognizes what’s around him— his head spins, stumbling as his adrenaline reserves run out— collapsing against the boulder they’d first hidden behind. In the dark. In the dark, and the quiet, and the not being able to see.

Barnaby wouldn’t. Barnaby wouldn’t, would he? Would he? He had a gun, he had the chance to, back there at the gates– the first gates, being slammed into the ground, a muzzle to his face– he could’ve fired. And he didn’t. Would he, had he known? Will he, once he finds out?

His arm throbs. Kinger tries to look at it, but it melds into the darkness, and — he can no longer feel where it is. Is he even moving it? It’s so numb. Shapes swirl in the jagged darkness. Long spires his mind conjures from fear, as if the creature dragged itself from the grave to loom over him and comment– not so different, you and I. 

What did this to him? When did he cut that hand, when did the corruption first start seeping in, when did the abstraction– why can’t he remember? Why has he been telling himself not to? Why does his head hurt, hurt, hurt like he deserves to be– how many people has he lost. How many people have died this death, how many times has he shut down and forgotten?

Kinger grits his teeth. His eyes prickle, hands shaking, heart hammering. 

No. No, no no no. Caine can’t do that, Caine can’t find him, can’t get to him, not here, he’s— even with everything, everything else that could kill him, at least he’d die. He’d die in a human way, his heart would stop, his mind would stop, he’d cease instead of linger like a shell of something that can’t— isn’t— that isn’t—

His hand finds his racing heartbeat, presses against it. It’s too fast, his lungs fighting to take in more air than he needs, breath hissing through clenched teeth. There’s— no, stop, stop it, His shirt pulls tight, fist clenched over his pulse. Barnaby isn't under anyone's control, Barnaby isn’t going to— to hunt me, I’m not an animal, I’m not— I'm okay. I’m okay! I’m okay and Caine can’t see me, Caine can’t get to me, or— His hands dig in further. As if trying to find someway to dig out that racing heartbeat, and wrap it around himself like a shield.  I am going to be okay. I’m going— I’m going to be okay, Barnaby won’t, Barnaby can’t kill— 

The gun in its holster. The muzzle, staring him down. 

Yes, he can.

The panic sets in. Kinger folds himself against the rock, a white knuckled grip on his own pulse, staring, shaking, lungs heaving— his hand hurts, but it doesn’t hurt enough. Numb and sharp and crawling with rot, and so much of it gone now. It’s not his anymore, it’s the claws of the eyes and shards of her face sinking into his skin, bleeding into his blood— oh god. Oh god.

Infected. Broken. Tainted. Abstracted. His fingers curl, the voices of so, so many filling his head. Voices he heard as he fell. Ladybugs, ladybugs and agony— How did he get down here? How did he get to the cellar, how did he stumble into one of Caine’s creations, and why in god's name did he stay? 

Something horrible happened that sent me down here, and now my only friend is going to kill me because of the mark it left. 

Something horrible happened, and now my only friend is going to kill me.

Something horrible is going to happen.

Rock scrapes against rock. His heartbeat quickens. 

A sickly green glow spills over the edge of the boulder, casting his shadow long and dark against the rock. It clings to his ankles like a cancer, Kingers heart pounding with a— with a need . A need to escape that moves him with more urgency than his own miserable pulse ever could. A need that drives his hands into the peppermint pebbles, that send the infected, abstracted, rotting palm digging into the shadow he’s tried so hard to ignore, desperately scraping past the low poly edges, and he finds—

A gap between textures. A sliver of space hidden under the dust. An escape.

He’s not thinking anymore. There’s only one option that comes to mind, as he numbly draws back his fist with well-practiced precision. He did this so many times. She did this so many times. 

They used to meet eachother down there, didn’t they?

“Pardner?”

Fear tears his mind to shreds, and he takes the plunge.

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