Thankfully for everybody’s sanity, Kinger regains control of his legs quickly enough.

Well, “quickly” might be an exaggeration — there was much trial and error involved. The “error” part was mainly enforced by Jax consistently trying to trip him, thus resulting in a frankly ridiculous series of near-disasters where Kinger very nearly comes crashing down like an overburdened suitcase, but somehow does not. He’ll wobble occasionally, but some long-buried memory of How_To_Walk.exe has apparently taken over, and he manages to follow along on his own now.

This is a massive relief to Zooble — Limping around with such mismatched legs as theirs is hard enough, but dragging around a sack of potatoes like Kinger while Jax puts in minimal effort? That’s just torture.

The tent is practically cavernous, and the trek across it takes a good chunk of time without Caines teleportation. Now that Kinger has learned his lesson in walking behind Jax instead of beside him, It happens in a strange sort of silence. One broken by the squeak of Zoobles footsteps and Jax’s annoying humming, but illogically absolute. Jax seems unbothered,  leading the way with loping strides and humming to the tune of some song Zooble is unable to remember the name of — none of them remember much about pop culture — but what they do know is that they hate it.

Zooble just ignores him, and keeps one eye on Kinger. His expressions flicker in and out of sense — sometimes it looks as if he’s trying to figure out how his face works, other times he’s just about to sneeze, but he’s always shifting. Always twitching or tapping as he keeps his arms wrapped tightly around himself, a hand occasionally roving up to his face for a moment or two. He stares off into space, his eyes no longer hovering bowling balls. The cloak still obscures most of him, but he seems a gangly sort of person, towering a good foot and a half higher than Zooble, making him just taller than Jax. 

Good, Zooble thinks, that smug ass rabbit needs someone who can look down on him for a change. 

Zooble blinks, and looks away, a bitter taste in their mouth. They can’t much help but be envious of Kinger, what with how he is right now  — He’s senile, no doubt about it, yet he’s the one who gets to be human again? A sourness settles deep within the hollow plastic of their body, and they try and pay more attention to the floor passing beneath them, with little success. Their thoughts darken; why not them? Every step is agony in this stupid, confusing body. They’d rather be normal. They’d rather be anything, anything normal . Something to tell them what they are, boy or girl, nothing or everything. They just want to know, to fit neatly in a box like all their many spare parts.

 

Click-click.

 

Zooble snaps back to attention, their eyes flicking over to Kinger. He’s still staring off into space, ashy brown hair frizzing everywhere beneath that oversized crown of his. His jaw is shaking, though, as though his teeth were chattering, a series of tiny clicks only barely audible.

 

“Are you cold or something?”

 

Zooble asks, more to themselves than him. They don’t exactly expect him to respond — if he does, it’ll more likely be with a ‘Gah!’ Than anything else. Yet, Kinger doesn’t jolt. He blinks, and looks down at them with a slightly bewildered expression, perfectly calm. Which is…very weird.

 

“Hm? O-oh, no, that’s…it’s a tic. Stim. Don’t remember which.”

 

He mumbles, frazzled blue eyes roving everywhere, only briefly spotting onto Zooble. He shrugs awkwardly, jerkily, the expressions flashing over his face nigh unreadable. The look Zooble shoots in return is the epitome of the phrase “you’re weird,” and they huff, looking away again.

     Kinger is slightly relieved — he’d prefer to be left alone, or alone-ish, while he tries to sort his mind out. Everything is so tangled up there.

He feels…off. Odd. He absentmindedly tugs on his hair, and his hand bumps the crown, steps faltering slightly as he only just now registers weight against his head. So that’s why his neck hurts. Kinger shakes it off with a dull thud as it lands in his hands, turning it over for a moment, inspecting it. He runs his fingers over the grooves and shapes in the perfectly polished metal, noting the dim inscription of D…M…L… on the inner curve. He moves mostly on autopilot, internally trying to sort through the mess that is his own mind. Trains of thought loop and tangle with each other, frazzled conductors only barely managing to avoid crashing entirely — yet somehow, it’s easier to stay grounded now. He’s been thrown for a loop, and ironically, Kinger might’ve actually looped back around into sanity.

He notices Zooble next to him, and promptly jolts. 

Okay, maybe only half sanity, but he still avoids yelling this time. He steadies himself quickly, shaking his head. yes yes, just Zooble, Zooble and Jax. Going to the room, remember that, Kinger! He tells himself, and for some reason the thought catches. The name specifically, that nags at him. Kinger, Kinger, King….fisher? No, that's…that's a bird. Not me… It is a nice bird, though. Very blue, and oddly familiar, the internal image he has for it bright and clear as if often visited. 

He looks down at the crown in his hands, and in it his own muted reflection stares back. Warped by the curve of the crown, a pair of blue eyes gaze out from the warped gold, blurred by its imperfect sheen. Frazzled brown hair, the slope of thin shoulders, a nose… it really should feel alien to him. He barely remembers he even had a life before the circus, he’s been here so long. This is his home, isn’t it? Always has been, right? Ot should feel like that, it should feel familiar — yet right now, an unease settles on his stomach, the ever present stench of silly string sending his teeth on edge. Kinger, Kinger king-piece, Kinger. Kinger… He turns the word over in his head, mouth pulling into a subconscious frown. 

I don’t think… His mind murmurs, some dim flicker alighting in its depths, … that’s my actual name.

But if he’s not Kinger, who is he? There’s a place in his mind where such details are meant to go, labeled with words like home and name and social security number, but every time he tries to grab onto one, they flicker out. He nearly grasps his name, a spare few consonants flickering into his mind, but it swiftly slips away again. J…J? I had…i was… It flickers and flutters, sputtering like a flame.

Whether that flame is dying or growing, he can’t tell, but Kinger clutches the crown close to his chest anyway. His reflection — blurry like unfounded details, but in the very least, tangible. Real.

One of his hands shifts, pressing over the left side. 

 

Ba-dum

 

A heartbeat?

 

Ba-dum

 

Oh, his heartbeat.

 

Ba-dum

 

Kingers expression falls flat and neutral, all his attention focusing on the pulse. This whole time he’s been struggling to pin down; is this something to fear, or be happy about? He couldn’t tell — he’s never been one for change, never been a very proactive person. He's never been good at deciding, but now that he feels his own pulse, can sense the in and out of breathing again, he suddenly realizes the aching feeling settling in his bones is relief . He’s relieved to be like this again, even if he can’t quite remember why. Even if he’s still wandering through a technicolor nightmare, with humans trapped in cartoon cages as his only guides, he’s himself, isn’t he? More himself. A himself he hasn’t been for a long, long time.

When Zooble looks back up, weary-eyed, they catch the moment Kinger smiles.

It’s a hesitant smile, one that flickers at the corners — slightly sideways, as if he doesn’t quite remember how. Still, it lingers on Kingers face, genuine even in its hesitation. He cradles the crown in one arm, the other disappearing somewhere in the folds of his cloak as he stares down at his gilded reflection. Zooble’s never been able to read his expressions before, not properly, and It’s…unsettling. It’s so weird to see him actually looking happy for once. Usually he’s just…there. Around, occasionally piping up about insects or random details, but keeping to himself for the most part. Now that they think about it, he has always been one of the nicest out of the cast, second only to Ragatha.

He’s polite at least, even if nobody repays the favor. If he weren’t half-batty he’d probably be a pretty endearing guy — but actually seeing him look the part, with a face that matches his voice and a smile on it? He looks like a person. Like someone, somewhere, might be missing him.

Zooble looks away, and tries not to think about it.

 

“So, Kingey,” Jax starts abruptly, making Zooble jump, “how’s it feel?”

 

The rabbitoid glances over his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow at Kinger, who looks up with a “hm?” He blinks wide blue eyes at Jax, still staring with that same manic intensity. Jax is well used to Kingers ‘intense eye contact’ by now, and can guess the question coming next. Probably something along the lines of “how’s what feel” or a similar combination. Jax is honestly only piping up because he’s bored, but does a double take as a flash of clarity crosses kingers face — one he’s still not quite used to reading.

 

“You mean, uh, this?” 

 

Kinger gestures to himself with one shaking hand, head cocking in exactly the same way he had as a chess peice. It’s unsettling, yet very familiar. A dark sort of nostalgia.

 

“F-Fine. Good. Weird. Maybe all three.”

 

Jax blinks, caught off guard for a moment. He wasn’t actually expecting a response, really, and Kinger mistakenly takes the silence as a cue to continue.

 

“Nostalgic — That’s the word. Sort of. Though I don’t remember what for...”

 

Kinger murmurs, unintentionally cryptic, and looks away. Jax is glad for an excuse to end the interaction, and his soft humming resumes. They’ve passed the stage now, walking into the long striped-wallpapered hallway that contains their rooms. They pass rows of doors marred by X’s, and Kinger does his best not to look at them — if he sees the cartoon faces, he might remember them. The days they died on, the places still marred by the memory. Or even worse, he might see her door, her face scored out in glaring red marker he’s tried and failed to scrub away. Kinger watches the floor instead, uneasy, his cloak trailing heavily against the coarse carpet and making his shoulders ache. It’s a lot heavier than it looks, what with all the fur…hers was lighter, airier, framing her like a treasured painting. Whenever she moved, she would glide, whenever she spoke, she would smile. Whenever she hit something really really hard, she never pulled back. She…

God, he misses her.

Jax automatically leads them towards his door, and the other two follow without much hesitation. It’d make sense, he does have a big ass room — given it’s modeled after an open field, that is to be expected. Kinger knows this because he’s gotten lost in there before, bug-hunting. Zooble knows it because of…other reasons.

As Jax saunters up to his door, there is a soft click from across the hall.  Kinger turns to see Ragatha quietly leaving Pomni's room, her face oddly somber. Hm? Oh, yes, at dinner…poor Pomni. Ragatha rests her hand on the doorknob for a moment, lips pursed. She seems troubled, Kinger observes — and rightfully so, if she’s been talking to Pomni. Talking to her is…well, it’s really depressing. She gets worse day after day, and even Kinger feels sorry for that twitchy mess of a jester. There’s no question about who will abstract next, and Kinger, with his years of experience watching others break down into madness, highly doubts Pomni will last the month. It’s sad to think about, so he doesn’t much, but...still.

 

“Oh, hello there Ragatha! Gosh, you don’t look good.” 

 

Kinger chirps suddenly, his voice snapping up in pitch. Nothing to cheer someone up like a friendly conversation, and she looks like she needs one! Kinger waves cheerfully, Ragatha turning around with a tired smile as she steps away from the door.

 

Jax snorts at her expression, a familiar grin widening over his face.

Jax’s sentence breaks off into a snicker, his shoulders shaking as Ragatha continues to gawp at Kinger In gobsmacked silence. The rag doll stares at Kinger with an indescribable expression on her face, her mouth open, eye wide — and also, apparently, lost for words.

 

“IT THAT KINGER!?”

 

Ah, there we go.

 

“Yes! Hello Ragatha.”

 

Kinger replies, smiling. He’s blissfully oblivious to the effect he’s having on our poor, bedraggled Ragatha, despite the fact her bafflement is about as obvious as can be. Her raggedy doll mouth hangs wide open, exaggerated comically by her cartoon face. Zooble, understandably, facepalms — Well, triangle-claws, more accurately. f^&k, I live with idiots!

 

“Shut up Ragatha, Caine’s gonna hear you!”

 

Zooble hisses, Ragatha paying them absolutely no attention whatsoever. She stammers out incomprehensible consonants, one hand digging into her coiled-yarn curls as if to better see the sight in front of her. 

 

“I - WH- HE -“

 

More gapped, wordless sounds, mind scrambling. Her thoughts spring and spiral in every possible direction, the poor doll — usually so reliable — finds herself borderline unable to process the sight before her. There’s little chance of her succeeding, as she can barely wrap her potato-sack head over it — Kinger, that’s kinger, that was kingers voice, and he’s just…smiling?? Smiling in oblivious, polite confusion, fiddling with the fluffy hem of his cloak like he has so many times before, but those times, his hands weren’t attached. Those times, he wasn’t smiling, with a mouth, that he has!? Because Kinger has a mouth now, and a body, and a face — good f^&k he looks like someone’s uncle —  and he stands there on two human legs, in rumpled jeans and an unfairly comfortable looking turtleneck, and he’s human.  

Jax snickers quietly, one glove over his mouth.

 

Jax.

 

“JAX, WHAT THE *BOI-OI-OINGG!* DID YOU DO!?!”

 

Ragatha screams, at a pitch and volume that sends everyone jumping — this must be Jax’s fault, he’s…he’s playing a trick on her! Right, yes, just his - his antics. Ragatha clutches the flimsy explanation like a lifeline, her expressions shuffling like a deck of cards. The screech breaks the air in half, and Jax leaps about a foot into the air, Kinger recoiling inside the fluff of his cloak, Zooble flinching with a censored curse — but despite their reactions, the point still stands, Ragatha is at the end of her rope and she wants answers. 

 

“Whoah there! Shut your friggin’ yap, jeeze — Who says i did anything?”

 

Jax shoots back, an edge of irritation in his voice. His ears twitch, surely ringing from Ragathas scream, brow crinkling his fuzzy purple fur. Ragatha barely hears him, chest already heaving in rapid breaths as she tugs on her spun-yarn curls.  

 

“I — You — JAX!!”

 

Ragatha shrieks, near hysterical. Her body quivers, eye wide and strained, the very stitches on edge as she balls up fistfuls of ruby-red yarn in her hands with a dim whine of frustration, her eyes burning holes through Kingers head. Head! He has a head! It has to be a trick but there’s no way it can be, and no way it can’t, and — Jax flinches back, no longer finding this very funny. Neither does anyone else, Zooble having withdrawn, not exactly knowledgeable in the manners of comfort. Kinger, however, does finally manage to notice something is wrong with the situation, concern flashing through his slowly un-addling mind. 

 

“R-Ragatha? You…don’t seem rational. Please don’t pull your hair.”

 

Kinger says worriedly, unintentionally blunt. Perhaps that’s all for the better though — that, at least, is still familiar about him. Ragatha flinches as he tugs her wrists away from her hair, the fabric rough under his hands, like a potato sack. His arms shake slightly — he’s not used to having them back yet — but he does his best to keep Ragatha from pulling out any more of her hair. Kinger tilts his head down at the shaking doll and repeats his concern, his emotions an open book now that they have a face to scribe themselves upon. 

Ragatha, understandably, is still shaking like a leaf.

 

“I— Kinger , y-you —“ 

 

Kinger winces, the rag dolls coarse hands trapping both his wrists in a death grip of her own, eye burning through his skull with a special kind of panic.

 

“— you don’t understand, Kinger, it’s — y-you’re normal. You’re human. That - I -“

 

Her expression shatters and crumbles, anger and frustration and an overwhelming desperation crashing over her stitched features, as Kinger stares down at her with uncomprehending worry. She glances helplessly down at the two real, human hands trapped between her potato-sack palms, and her face twists, contorting into something Kinger doesn’t recognize. He’s never seen it play out on her face before, not in all the long years she’s been here — so many years, almost as many as him — but that desperation is a familiar one. He’s seen it many times, and it scares him. Badly. He doesn’t want anyone else to abstract, and his grip on her wrists instinctively tightens.

 

“How,” Ragatha finally stutters out, “Am I meant to react to that??”

 

“Well, maybe next time,” Jax pipes up unhelpfully, “you could try not to shriek, eh Ragdolly?”

 

“Yeah, it kinda hurt my ears…” 

 

Zooble grumbles, arms folded. Ragatha laughs weakly in a sound that’s more like a strangled hack, Kinger shooting Zooble a wounded look that says volumes, mainly along the lines of “hey, have some sympathy, please!” At least Ragatha isn’t shaking any more, that’s a plus, isn’t it? Yes, he can fix this.

 

Y’know, if Caine hadn’t burst out of Pomnis' room, things probably would’ve calmed down a bit.

 

Unfortunately, Caine bursts out of Pomnis' room.

 

“GOOD GOLLY, WHATS GOING ON HERE? I HEARD SHRIEKING!”

 

Caine cries in his usual boisterous voice, suddenly appearing. Zooble rolls their eyes with a quiet “ugh, great,” as Caine pokes his jaws out from within Pomni’s room, his bowling-ball eyes flicking across the scene. Ragatha grabbing Kingers wrists, Zooble glowering off to the side, Jax silently regretting his life decisions…oh no, all the ingredients of a total disaster! Caine glances behind him at Pomni, still curled silently on her bed, and frowns. The darkness of the room behind him is swallowing, and…well, maybe she finds it peaceful? Caine wouldn’t know, he’s not an expert on “calm.” But he does know one thing — She Almost Definitely Does Not Want Visitors. But he can’t leave her alone, either… I wouldn’t want her to feel alone when she’s like this...that would not help!

Caine buffers for a moment, his brain whirring like an old modem computer. As in, literally, that’s the sound coming out his mouth — a low “,,, .,,. . .,. ., , ,,, .,.  …,, ,,... ,.,.  .,.. ,,, ., ,.. .. ,. ,,. .,. . ... ,,, .., .,. ,.,. . …” noise that whirrs obnoxiously in the silence.

 

“…Well, you did leave us alone,“

 

Jax begins, in some attempt to salvage the —

 

“ — WELP, FROM THE LOOKS OF THINGS I’D SAY EVERYONE GOT A BIT EMOTIONAL!!!”

 

Caine shrieks abruptly, his eyes snapping back into focus. He twirls his cane so fast it whirrs like helicopter blades, the ringmaster throwing his arms out wide and proclaiming with a flourish;

 

“SO LET'S ALL GO FOR LUNCH!!!”

 

It is not phrased as a question. Cain swivels midair to jab his cane at Zooble, who looks instantly mortified that his attention is on them, grinning (he has no choice really, or lips) cheerfully.

 

“ZOOBLE, YOU’RE ON POMNI DUTY! DON'T FAIL ME NOW, YOU BEDAZZLING BREAKFAST BURRITO!!!”

 

He cries, in a way that shows that was probably supposed to be a compliment. Zooble begins to protest, but whatever they might’ve said is lost as Caine hurriedly claps his hands —

 

The instant he does, all sound is lost, and Kinger can feel his newly-regained stomach lurch sideways. He fumbles for a moment, grabbing at nothing before he’s pulled painfully through the cracks between code. Oh no, not this.

Teleportation.

It’s an indescribable feeling. Horrible, indescribable, and tinged with the sickening lurch of hurtling into empty space that isn’t quite empty enough . The closest one could get would be to say it felt like your senses spinning off of skew — sure it only ever lasts an instant, but that instant is the most overwhelming instant possible.

Every sense blurs and bleeds into one another, hearing smelt and sight felt on your fingertips, the misfiring of synapses as inconsequential as whatever opinion you might’ve had beforehand. Kinger hates it, the feeling flashing over his skin like a wave of ice that jangling up his nerves, rubber and felt and the color yellow bursting in his eardrums as hoppy circus music pings his skin like hail. Everything is everywhere and time itself doesn’t exist, only Ragathas coarse death grip on his wrists unchanged by the lurching teleportation, the texture of his sweater somehow humming.  

And then, with a cartoon pouf (that stays cartoon, this time) it ends.

 

Everyone is suddenly back in the main hall, appearing from nowhere with understandable relief. Given Caines unfortunately tendency to forget how tall they are, only Jax lands with any kind of success, his long rabbit paws giving him the gift of good balance. But that doesn’t stop him bumping into Kinger, who is dizzy to hell and back, and very nearly topples over, Ragatha still holding onto his wrists so tightly it actually hurts . Thankfully Kinger manages to recover in time, slightly disoriented by the sudden scenery change. Being teleported is, frankly, very unfun.

Ragatha releases his hands and stumbles back, somehow managing to find a leftover banquet chair to collapse into. She looks like a mess, and Kinger wrings out his wrists, which are now aching. He gives her a worried sort of look, still not quite sure what’s wrong, but fairly certain he caused it. Ragatha sits there with about as much intensity as is possible, her one eye wide and pinprick-pupiled — She looks terrible. Perhaps he should go over to apologize? That’s what you’re meant to do, when you upset someone. But how do you apologize for just being? That feels wrong somehow, but so does not apologizing, so…

Kinger frowns. He needs to get better at…peopling. Somehow he feels like he’s never been very good at it.

 

“KINGER, WHERE IN SOUTH DAKOTA IS THAT CROWN OF YOURS?”

 

Caine asks, dusting off his hands and swiftly moving onto the next topic of conversation as though Ragatha isn’t having an existential crisis in the background. He throws his arms out wide in a dramatic flourish to Kingers bedraggled appearance, as if this is a full-on tragedy and not a minor fashion malfunction, ignoring Ragatha entirely — either because he doesn’t know what to do with her, or just because he hasn’t noticed it yet. Kinger looks down at his arms, which are indeed empty of any crown. He pats his head just to check, but yep, well and truly gone.

Kinger gives the ringmaster a helpless shrug, not too bothered by it. He actually doesn’t mind being decrowned, really, less neck strain that way. Caine does seem to mind however, and harrumphs, clapping his hands together — a new crown appearing in the air, dropping into his gloved hands with a plop, and Cain immediately moves to pop it onto Kingers head.

 

“HERE YOU GO! NOW —“

 

Kinger instinctively dodges, hopping back a few paces. Caine misses him by a good six inches, teetering in the air with an uncharacteristic yelp and nearly dropping the newly-summoned crown as a result. Caine shakes his jaws and quickly regains his composure, staring at Kinger in bewilderment for a few seconds. Kinger blinks back obliviously, as if he hadn’t moved at all. Did he do something? He glances down at himself, his confusion only momentary — oh right. He has legs now, so he doesn’t have to shuffle everywhere! And he can jump, and hop, and all those other things too. Huh, he…hadn’t really thought about that. 

 

“…AHEM. THERE WE —“

 

Kinger focuses, and tries to dodge again, mostly to see if it’d work — which it does! Caine misses, wobbling off balance for a moment and shooting Kinger an annoyed look, harrumphing. A brief smile flashes over Kingers face as he quickly steps backwards, shifting his weight left and right as he tests his strengthening balance, even daring an experimental hop. This is fun , actually! When was the last time he actually had fun? Caine narrows his eyes, putting his hands on his hips and glaring Kinger down. Kinger immediately stops moving under the scrutiny, eyebrows raised, and still crownless — and therefore not a king. 

Caine is not pleased. Kinger is a king, therefore, he must have a crown. But he’s standing there, not in a crown. It’s ridiculous — contrary, even! Kings have crowns, and Kinger needs one to be a king, and he can’t not be what he is, because then he wouldn’t be himself, he’d be…well if he’d just be Er! Er! What kind of a name is that!? No kind of a name, that’s for sure!

 

And, well, Caine isn’t about to let that stand, now is he?

 

In the background, Ragatha still has her head in her hands. She mumbles things into them, Jax awkwardly patting her back with one paw. He knows full well the situation doesn’t warrant a joke, or a jab, or a tease, and is therefore at a complete loss for what to do. His whole thing is comedy, it’s all he does! It’s literally his one thing , his defining character trait, his seule compétence! Without that Jax is about as useful as a bent ruler, socially speaking, reduced to an awkward teenager who will definitely deny this ever happened later. However, both of them look up at the sudden commotion from their newly-uncartoonized peer — or rather, their ringmaster, who seems uncharacteristically exasperated.

 

“KINGER, STAY STILL!”

 

Ragatha flinches, looking up. She watches with a numb sort of “ well, this might as well be happening,” as Caine, holding a crown, dives for Kinger — who somehow dodges, smoothly ducking around his arms. The ringmaster blinks incredulously, clearly baffled by how Kinger is still crownless. Kinger himself seems equally surprised, a quick smile flickering over his face at the success.

 Jax whistles a low note, his eyebrows raising. Who knew Kinger was that fast? 

 

“JUST STOP -“

 

 A lunge, a miss, and Kinger quickly hops out of range. Jaxs’ paw still rests lightly on Ragathas back as the duo watch Kinger weave around Caines attempts in much the same way as second-cousins watch their aunts and uncles argue at thanksgiving. To Caines credit, Kinger does move with surprising speed, hopping back, dodging left, all the while Caine grows more and more exasperated with him.

 

“-  MOVING , AND LET ME -“

 

Another miss, another dive, and Jax spots a grin flash over Kingers face. There’s a new spring in his step as he feigns left, Caine lunging for him once more, and missing by an entire foot. Even Ragatha watches open mouthed, as Kinger swiftly ducks under Caine and pops up behind him, a smile stretching over his face. Jax is honestly impressed — Kinger might be a better agent of chaos than he gets credit for. It’s never actually occurred to Jax before now, but he’s never seen Kinger move that fast before. As a chess piece with zero limbs, Kinger just hadn’t been able to move much. Sure, he could shuffle along at a respectable pace, but the dodging he’s doing now? Ducking and weaving, hopping left and right? Now that’s something he definitely hasn’t been able to do for a very, very long time.

Kinger, understandably, appears to be enjoying it.

He darts around with an honest-to-goodness genuine grin, practically bouncing around Caines frustrated attempts. Caine nearly manages to land the crown on him when he half-trips over his cloak, but Kinger recovers just as quickly, yanking the cloak off with a downright theatrical flourish. Jax half expects him to start waving it around and yell “toro!”, but instead he simply kicks it aside, Caine grabbing for it with an indignant shriek. The two freeze in a standoff for a few moments, Kinger eagerly bouncing on his heels, Caine breathing heavily, now holding both the crown and cloak, and not looking happy about it. Kinger needs his costume, it’s his whole character!

 

“STAY. STILL! ” 

 

Caine manages eventually, panting hard, and with that the back and forth resumes. He lunges once again, and Kinger smoothly dodges, Caine nearly face planting from his own momentum.

 

 

Ragatha watches in a kind of dull shock as the scene plays out before her. 

She’s still reeling, for very understandable reasons, such as an actual normal human is bouncing around the digital circus. Not only that, but with the cloak effectively discarded, Ragatha can clearly see Kinger in all his distressingly human glory — and he is that. Human. Bafflingly so. His limbs seem two sizes too big for him, despite the fact he looks over forty, and dresses like it too, donning a baggy turtleneck and jeans just slightly too short for his long legs. The clothes are rumpled and Ill-fitted, looking much like they were slapped on in an oh-fck-im-late rush, yet because of that, it feels so strikingly… normal. That’s honestly what’s been throwing her off this whole time. Without his cloak, there’s no trace left of the role Kinger had been playing up till now. He just looks like… himself , and Ragatha shudders with a dark kind of envy. It festers in her throat, thick and sour, and she hates it — shouldn’t she be happy for him? He’s been like this the longest, so she should be glad this happened to him. But she can’t bring herself to be. Something about the way Kingers' newly-regained chest heaves, the way his ashy hair spikes in every possible direction, strikes her as far too real to just be an unfinished model, or even just a model at all. This can’t be fake. This can’t be fake.

Ragatha knows that Caine has attested time and time again, he has no clue what humans are like. He knows nothing beyond what his acts tell him — of course he isn’t human, he’s their ringmaster! Yet despite that, somehow, he’s done it. He’s turned Kinger back into whoever he was before all this bullshit. He turned Kinger back into himself.

Doesn’t he realize? Does he — does he really not know? 

Ragatha wonders, watching dully as Kinger dives left and right, evading Cain's attempts to re-crown him with surprising nimbleness. 

How can he have no idea what this means to us?

Ragatha yelps as Kinger dives for the table, disappearing beneath it with a triumphant “Ha-HA!” as he lashes out from the safety of the maze of wooden chair legs. He does not look like he’s coming out anytime soon, and Jax curses as the over-zealous Kinger accidentally whacks his leg. Kinger yelps an apology, Jax grumbling something profane as he wearily clambers on top of the banquet table, out of the way of the chaos — He looks tired, Ragatha notices, his crescent eyes closed and grin for once flatlining. Perhaps he isn’t dealing with this as well as he says he is.

Caine looks like he might be about to pass out, and that, darkly enough, is what cheers Ragatha up a little. The sight of an oversized pair of dentures panting like a diabetic beagle is instantly funny just looking at it, and Ragatha huffs a weary half-smile. Good lord, today has been a mess. Pomnis breakdown was a nightmare in its own right, and then this? Ragatha just wants to sleep, maybe for a year. If only she could feel the benefits… maybe I could just do nothing for once, Ragatha briefly considers, before cringing and shaking her head. No, I can’t. I’m the only one with any sense…

 

“W-WELL, LOOK,” Caine manages eventually, his hands on his knees, “WE KNOW THAT WORKS NOW, SO I’LL JUST TURN YOU BACK, AND THEN —“

 

Ragatha probably could’ve pinpointed the exact moment Kingers eyes bugged out of his head, a dull thunk ringing out as he cracks his head on the underside of the table.

 

“ No!”  

 

The former chess piece shrieks, finally scrambling out from under the table and emerging so suddenly Ragatha makes a rather undignified squeak. 

 

“Ah, sorry, sorry—“

 

Kinger yelps, Ragatha stuttering an automatic “it’s fine?” As Kinger gives her knee a haphazard pat, quickly unfolding under the table and turning a frantic gaze to Caine.

 

“Just… no. Please. It’s — that’d be very bad.”

 

Kinger insists, with uncharacteristic decisiveness. Ragathas never seen him look so obvious mortified at anything in her life, tapping fingers roving over his elbows in a newly-developed nervous tic. Ragatha — to her immense surprise and slight concern — does actually agree with him. She’s thought many times of waking up and just magically being right again, and to imagine losing that… well…

 

“I — I like this better. It has arms!”

 

Kinger points out, waggling an elbow helpfully. He shifts near constantly, fiddling his hands together and twisting them at the wrists, as if checking they’re there. Caine, being Caine, picks up on none of this — giving everyone an exasperated stare that says volumes. He really has no understanding of their distress, does he.

 

“BUT KINGER! ” He wines, clearly still exhausted from the chase, “THE SHOW MUST GO ON, YOU KNOW THAT — HERE, JUST HOLD STILL A MOMENT!”

The Ringmaster says firmly, levitating once more. He cracks his knuckles, clearly getting ready to do something. Ragatha senses Jax move beside her, stiffening, and her hands clench the sides of her chair — if she has to stop this, then she will — but, seemingly, there’s no need to. Kinger suddenly looks all too calm, and a pleasant smile suddenly lights up his face, clasping his hands together as if he weren’t twisting them anxiously just a minute before.

 

“Caine, do you like gingerbread?”

 

Kinger asks suddenly, and Ragatha blinks. There’s a strange glint in Kingers eyes as he continues to smile, and oddly enough, Ragatha senses Jax relax slightly. He snickers low under his breath, and when she glances at him, he has a similar grin — expectant, knowing. What does he know? What’s going on here? Kingers grin crinkles at the edges, some hidden plan glinting in his ice blue eyes, and Ragatha gets the sinking feeling something is about to Happen. 

 

“…PARDON?”

 

Caine asks, genuinely bewildered, and that is the moment Kinger lunges. He dives forwards, grabbing the cloak by the edges and yanking it over Caines head, the thick velvet enveloping him with a muffled shriek — and Kinger is gone in a flash,  sprinting out the circus door as fast as his long legs can carry him. Ragatha hasn’t had the time to even stand up and he’s already shooting out into the courtyard, Jax vaulting himself off the table to follow, cackling gleefully as he sprints after Kinger with only a shrill “See ya’!” Flung over his shoulder. She stares after them with an open mouth, one hand still half outstretched — Kinger is all too suddenly gone, and her hopes of any answers along with him.

…and of course, Jax went with him.

 

Typical.

 

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