The Cellar.

In general, cellars are very dark, damp, and overall unpleasant places. This one is no different, with its winding brick halls and crannies, glitching textures and sparking firewalls licking pain to anyone who gets too close to the ceiling. It’s a miserable place, and even more so now that so many Abstracted are packed into it — Beneath the shallow ripples, hundreds of abstracted writhe and crawl and skitter through the depths, many of them moving through very unconventional means. 

Every flavor of sanity and insanity, from calculating minds to rabid ferality, has a representative in their midst. Abstracted performers claw and writhe in a sickening whirlpool in the place Queenie had been, fighting to get a look at the hole that swallowed her — a gaping maw of a thing, black as black can be. They claw at eachother, fighting to poke their noses/teeth/tentacles/mouths out into the new empty space, the eyes bursting from every orifice of their twisted bodies blinking curiously. Some Abstracted — mainly those that still have a vestige of sanity — rest wearily above the surface, constantly keeping watch over the cellar door. They steer clear of the chaos, muttering tiredly to eachother as they lie in wait for any new arrivals. Such as Kaufmo, who joined their ranks a week ago. 

Kaufmo has not been having a fun week.

Kaufmo has not been having a fun few months, actually, what with getting stuck in digital purgatory then being graduated to digital hell the instant he stopped participating. Like, dammit, can’t a guy rest? Just once? Sure he scribbled over the walls a bit a lot, and yeah, maybe he lashed out at Caine a few times — but he was being suspicious! Y’know, at some point Kaufmo just realized he needed a break from everything, so he took one! And maybe a few more! So sue him, the quiet was nice — but yet the moment he skips a few adventures, bam! He’s in unending-fcking-agony. Yeah, sure, he has his memories back, big whoop, he’s an idiot of a construction worker nobody’s gonna miss. Because knowing he likes MI5 over MI4 is such a great comfort when he’s a nauseating sack of polygons the size of an elephant.

To reiterate; Kaufmo is not exactly happy about being here, nor is he happy about the cellar currently being absolute chaos, what with Kinger showing up and barfing his brain-yarn everywhere. He’s a cracked bottle thrown into a raging sea, and to be absolutely bloody honest, Kaufmo is baffled he’s still alive. The guy has a mind like a gecko on ketamine, held together with duct tape and a prayer — Kaufmo can’t believe he’s not frothing at the mouth yet. Kaufmo can barely wrap his head around the fact this scrawny, shivering, beaten-up man is actually human.  

Now, Kaufmo has already heard a lot about Kinger, courtesy of Queenie. She talks about him often, and being one of the only people in here with stories that don’t involve drug trafficking or something illegal, most all of the abstractions know by now how deeply important he is to her. 

And yet, they’re still trying to kill him. Even though Queenie has been taking care of them all for years, they’re still trying to kill the one person she cares about most. 

And that makes Kaufmo angry .

He has no real, personal reason to care about Kinger. Barely talked to the guy. But he does care about Queenie, because Queenie is the one who held off the insanity for him when he first fell in here. She’s the one who explained. She was the one thing keeping everyone from going feral and tearing eachother apart. And Kaufmo knows that if there’s one thing he can do to return the favor, it’s this — Protect Kinger when she can’t. Because damn it, if nobody else is going to do it, he might as well!

Y’know, speaking of Kinger, he’s currently in the middle of a panicked screeching match with Socks. What the actual subject is, Kaufmo isn’t exactly sure. From what he can pick out, they’re more simultaneously ranting about Queenie rather than having an actual conversation. The words “my wife” and “gone” have appeared in the same sentence about sixty-eight times, and Kaufmo isn’t sure how much more of this he can take. Nothing I ain’t used to, anyway… he thinks darkly, casting his mind back to Ragatha and Jax’s constant battles. Time and time again that Ragdoll would try so hard to bash it into the bunnies head, be decent to people, you prick, and time and time again, Jax’d shoot back some self-absorbed “woe-is-me-i-have-it-hard-too-y’know” stuff that — presently — makes Kaufmo want to rip his head off. That doll deserves better… 

Kaufmo shakes his head (nub?) with a growl. Not important. He quickly directs his attention to the eye currently staring Kinger in the face, and his perspectives shift, checking the guy isn’t dying or anything. 

Kaufmo would grimace, if he could. Okay, probably not dying, but geeze, Kinger somehow looks even more unstable than he did as a googly-eyed chess piece. And that’s really sayin’ something, considering (in Kaufmos shoddy memory at least) he constantly looked like a sock puppet two hairs away from a mental breakdown. Now he looks like…well, a human sock puppet two hairs away from a mental breakdown. He’s shaking like a leaf in a snow storm, his hair spiking everywhere, the textures occasionally flickering — Not to mention the cut on his hand, n’ how beat up he must be from being thrown around like that. 

Geeze, n’ i thought Quin had it bad. Kaufmo mumbles internally, referring to Queenie, who — unlike most abstractions — prefers to use her real name. His own true name is Riccardo, apparently, but Kaufmo finds its easier to just…ignore that, until he sorts himself out. At least people listen to her, but Kinger… Kaufmo can't remember even one time someone listened to the guy. He’s always just been so darn ignorable. Kaufmo wasn’t even around back when Queenie was alive, but Hoo boy, when he got there Kinger was already a wreck — doesn’t seem to be doing much better now, to be honest. Friggin weirdo. Endearing frigging weirdo, but, still…

“ Hey, Kaufy, snap outta it! You’ve been super quiet, what did you see?”

Kaufmo blinks, broken out of his thoughts. Socks is glaring at him with all five of her “face-eyes” as she calls them, and Kinger is still crammed into the small crevice of breathing space he creates, looking perhaps anywhere but into the neon eye above him. Kaufmo kicks a particularly overzealous abstraction away with one leg, and shrugs, despite the fact he knows Kinger can’t actually see it. 

“ Whaddya mean, ‘what did I see?’ I didn’t see nothing with all them whackos pushing me around!”

He snaps, and Socks whacks him with a tail, snarling.

“ Come on Kauf, you were closer than I was!! You barely ever get shoved around anyhow, you’re literally made of knives!”

She cries, and Kaufmo growls — but she does have a point. Annoyingly.

“Okay look, fine, all I know is one moment Queen was defense-curling ‘round Kinger, then the next, poof! An’ people were screamin’? I dunno, man I just —“ 

“—KAUFMO!!! Be more specific, you soggy wet sausage!” 

Socks screeches, and Kinger visibly winces. But the creative insult makes him chuckle a little, which unfortunately leads into a cough. Still, he seems to be fond of the little cat. Well, big, many mouthed cat, nowadays. 

Kaufmo growls, the wires and various uncomfortable organs (including what’s left of his human body, he thinks, ) shifting beneath his many writhing polygons — what did he see? He’d been pressed up against all the others, being smeared around like toothpaste from all the other bodies pressing into his. The “collective groupchat” (as Socks calls it) that is their shared mental connection consisted mainly of screaming, which was mostly Tao, but Hex and Pawlifer definitely pitched in. He couldn’t really see much, but…that blue flash. That screaming. The rush of sound. Something almost like —

“ KAUFMO!!”

“Okay alright GEEZE kid!” Kaufmo yelps, giving Socks a shove with one foreleg. “Look Kinge— actually wait, you were babblin’ about memories earlier, d’you remember your name?” 

Kinger blinks. Opens his mouth. Pauses, blinks again, then furrows his brow. Eventually he shakes his head.

“Right, well, it’s John,” Kaufmo says flatly, continuing on without missing a beat, “an’ look, I don’t wanna scare you, a’ight? But It felt like somethin’ took her. On purpose like, y’know? Something in the— the programmin’, or whatever the hell it’s called.”

“Ooh!” Socks interjects, her flank scraping uncomfortably against Kaufmos. He resists the urge to smack her — self control, Kaufmo, self control. 

“ It could’ve been somebody on the outside!” She pipes up hopefully, the eyes trailing along her spine blinking in turn. “ Or whoever's running this thing — That slimy Able guy that stuck everybody in here?” Socks continues, “Or maybe Caine? Whatever it was that took her, it left a big ole’ hole in the code, that’s for sure…” 

Sock’s tails continue to prod at the eyes of any hungry abstractions that get too close, warding them off. Her talons scratch at the brick. Her jaws drool. Kaufmo is distantly grateful that Kinger can’t see her right now.

“In the— the code? I thought you meant something…a bit less…chaos, than — than uh—”

Kinger fumbles over himself, speaking  hoarsely. He sounds like he’s swallowed a frog, his tired blue eyes blinking slightly out of time, and slightly lighter color than they had been before he was…whatever-this-is-ified. Kaufmo really has to ask him about that.

“…What was it again?”

Kinger mumbles, looking lost. Kaufmo would frown with him if he could, but he settles for an uneasy rumble as Socks continues to explain.

“ Nonono, its this great big tear in like…spacetime!” Socks replies, Kaufmo craning his neck out of smacking range of one barbed, bony tail. “ Or whatever the digital equivalent of that is. Digitime? Ugh, I dunno. Anyway it’s a big ole hole that keeps screaming random obscenities, stuff like that.” 

Kinger has an expression like he’s just been slapped. Not in a bad way, just in a “why and how did you just swing an east Eurasian bass that hard” kind of way. He blinks a few times to gather himself, then clears his throat and politely clarifies;

“O- Obscenities? ”

Kinger coughs, raising his eyebrows, which look rather like two bristly gray caterpillars glued to his face. 

“ Yeah, those sassy-ass error messages Sun set up. Ahh, you should’ve seen Pawlifers face when it called him a ‘white piece of shite’, nearly blew a gasket —not t’mention Tao ramming’ into it all the time.”

Kaufmo adds, and he feels the vibrations as Socks laughs, unfolding her mouths to begin talking again.

Spotting a chance to check on the tear itself, Kaufmo quickly casts his mind out into the sea of abstractions. His body stays behind of course, but mind and body aren’t really tied too tightly together, not here. Better check on it, make sure the dang thing ain’t propagating or something… Kaufmo mutters, locking onto the tear. It’s not exactly hard to find, what with the thrumming buzz of it constantly pounding in the background like it is…Box (one of the few calm, rational abstractions, if a bit apathetic) seems to be the only one still trying to get in, yet is consistently being firewalled. A neat pile of error messages lie stacked beside him in the void, the top one reading something very controversial and slightly homophobic. Kaufmo observes for a moment as Box carefully and methodically feels around the edges with his many millions of feelers ( lucky enough not to see… ) humming along to Jack Strauber’s Hamantha . Kaufmo pauses for a moment, double-checking nothing is wrong, before returning his focus to the conversation.

“— And as I was saying, if we shove you in it, you’d probably go the same place she did, and not be dying,”  

Socks is saying, waving some of her paws around with little regard for what the saberish claws slice into,

“ Which is good, because it would suck if you died! I mean, that can probably happen now…” 

She continues speaking, rambling on nervously. Kaufmo notes with concern that Kinger seems to be shivering. Not in the “badly rigged 3D model” way, not even in the “contemplating possibility of death” way, but in a way that prickles at some part of Kaufmo mind. Trembling , that’s the word, his teeth clicking out a constant background pattern. Nervous. Understandable, but there’s something about it that’s ticking him off.

“ Kinger, Oi.” Kaufmo interrupts, and Kinger blinks, his eyes foggy and faraway. 

“Hm?”

“ You’re shakin’ like a leaf, mate. You good there?” 

“O-Oh I’m —“ 

Kinger catches himself, and pauses, his mouth open. 

“…”

Kinger closes his mouth, his hands fiddling close to his chest. Kaufmo’s eyes narrow, watching how his eyes flick around like nervous insects — He ain’t gonna hold out much longer, Kaufmo realizes, Socks seemingly baffled into silence for the moment. N’ this wafflin’ about sure ain’t helpin’ things. 

Kaufmo, in typical Kaufmo fashion, makes up a plan on the spot.

“Well I ain’t puttin up with this a moment longer — “ he starts gruffly, shuffling around on the brick, “ Oi Tubesock, I need you to surpass your two-braincell limit and take over for me. I gotta go fetch Box, he’s probably the only guy who can clear a path for us. Got it Kittywinks?” 

Socks shakes her muzzles with a growl, glaring at him. Her many limbed body bristles, wrung out like a vile kind of fur-covered centipede. She hisses, rolling her five eyes.

“ Wow, two derogatory nicknames in one sentence! Somebody call the paper!” 

Socks hisses sarcastically, jabbing one particularly bold abstraction with the bony point of tail no°4. Many have withdrawn by now, milling restlessly like circling sharks. Waiting. Whispering. 

“Shut up n’ do it, furry.” 

“I mean, fair, and of course I’ll do it,” Socks snarls through her six jaws, “ but for Kingers sake, not yours. Soggy breadcrust.” 

“You already used that one, idiot.” 

  Kaufmo replies, flat enough to balance a coin on. He looks down at kinger, who has been muttering to himself for the past while and staring at his hands.

“ Hey, I’m getting up now.”

“Oh! Okay, have fun.”

Kinger replies absently, still staring at his hands. Kaufmo sighs, shaking his head — Queen, you sure do have weird taste. 

“ Do not move from this spot, got it kid?”  

He growls, turning to Socks. She scoffs, waggling a paw at him.

“ Yeesh, pulling out the proper grammar! Yeah, I’ll be fine, mom .”

Kaufmo huffs, but she says it with a grin. Friggin’ budget furry, Kaufmo thinks to himself halfheartedly, shaking his head and muttering to himself about sass.

Then Kaufmo stands up. 

Kinger, of course, immediately starts screaming.

The sea of abstractions hiss like spitting fat as Kinger flashes into view, the squeak of fear he produces much like a terrified chew toy. Kinger screeches, curling up into a ball on the brick as the sea of glowing eyes draw back to strike — they hiss and froth with glee, Kaufmo sitting back on his hind legs and snarling at the onlookers as Socks quickly weaves around him, smacking away one advancing mouth. Try it, his mind sends out in pulses of tumbling red, n’I’ll find a way to kill you for good. Kaufmo slams one glitching limb down onto the brick, shaking the floor with the impact. Many of the abstracted just laugh hysterically, one in particular, Tao— the most insane out of all of them— screaming loud enough to make Kaufmos nonexistent ears ache. Tao snaps his jaws, picked clean of bone as he lunges forward like a crashing tide, snarling with the rest of the cellar tracking on his heels. 

Perché ci nega questo, perché rifiutate!? Vediamo il sole, troviamo il cielo, bastardi egoisti, fateci entrare!

Many voices shriek, crying out from many twisted mouths and even more minds. Socks ducks into position before they ever get close, nearly flattening Kinger— who has been trying and failing to protest during the whole thing— and snarling with rabid froth, her legs locking up like the walls of a tank. Her tails flail wildly back and forth, lashing over any eyes filled with more than the usual amount of bloodlust. The sea of abstractions scream their frustration, gnashing and gnawing as they pile over eachother like angry toddlers.

Kaufmo shoves the sea of claws and ribs away with ease, growling at them to grow up as he passes by. Being literally made of knife-sharp edges has its perks, and when a particularly manic abstraction throws themselves at him in the name of revenge, all he really has to do is stand there and they get stabbed in the eye. Tao tries to tackle him, and Kaufmo jabs one knife-sharp limb into the sensitive innards that beat under his exposed ribs, sending him scrambling backwards with a cackle of bloody laughter. 

Ho intenzione di commettere un incendio doloso e quando la polizia mi chiederà perché ti sto per masticare il braccio, sciocco. Idiota assoluto. Fammi mangiare, ha quasi cinquant'anni comunque, onestamente ti aspetti che creda a quel casino caldo se lo faccio per fare i sessant'? Guardalo, è un geco nella pelle umana, spreco d'aria, LASCIALO MANGIARE

The abstractions scream, though it’s mainly Tao rattling off insults in between bouts of hysterical laughter.

“Vai a infilarti un cactus nell'ano!”

Kaufmo screeches back, and Socks cackles as he easily slams someone’s skull into the brick. 

“ NOW THAT,” Socks yells from behind him, “ WAS A GOOD JOKE!”

——

Kinger is…very not fine.

Granted, he hasn’t tasted “fine” in five years. He hasn’t had his sanity in even longer, and that brief taste of it only sours his mouth now. This day started as heaven, and it’s taken a nosedive into hell — At least that’s where he finds himself now, curled up on hard brick with a monster crouching over him and screaming in his ears. 

In reality, he shouldn’t still be hearing screaming. He shouldn’t be able to hear the abstractions writhing for control when they aren’t writhing for control anymore, blocked out by…by whoever it was that’s here? The creature, the monster, who speaks in the voice of an old friend. But what old friend? Kinger wonders, faces and names spinning in his head. He drags in another shuddering breath, his spine jarring against the brick, as he stares out into the darkness. Which face..? Little black and white cats, lion tamers with the heads of the beasts themselves— Another rabbit, white and cold and dead inside. Shambling shapes with tired eyes — who were they? Why is his head so clouded?

Why is his head so clouded now?

“ Hey! Psst! Kinger! You okay down there? ”

The monster above him growls, in the voice of a small cat. He knew that cat. He doesn’t know much at the moment, and Kinger doesn’t respond. What face. What face to the voice, to a name he doesn’t have for her— is it a her? Is a beast a her? Why can’t he think? Kinger stares harder, his gaze burning through the black. Can’t remember. Can’t place it.

“ Kinge-e-e-er? Kinger?”

His head is cloudy, like it had been. He’s how he had been. Some part of his mind curses and curls in on itself, bubbling over with frustration — I could think again, I was fine again, I was getting better I was going to be okay— A pit, a hole, a hole he couldn’t see. Where is he? No, he knew a moment ago. He knew. He used to. He used to so why doesn’t he now? Why won’t anything stay in his head? Why won’t anything stick?! Why can’t I think anymore, why can’t I care? Somethings missing, bitten out — or walled off. Don’t remember that, his thoughts whisper, think of anything else. Think of anything. Think of something. He’s so tired. He’s so, so tired and he just doesn’t understand.

Something sharp prods his side. Kinger flinches, but it continues poking around until it finds his face, and he’s forced to lift his head to avoid being stabbed in the eye — the motion is stiff and jerky, and it’s only then he realizes his hands are clutching his arms tight enough to bruise. He unclenches them, painfully slowly. His fingers hurt. 

“What did —?”

He croaks, then coughs. His head doesn’t knock against anything, and Kinger slowly sits up. Empty space, room to breathe — breathe. That only makes him more uneasy. At least with Kaufmo, he knew where the barriers were. At least then he knew he would get cut if he moved, had proof of it. Here, he doesn’t know what dangers await him. He barely knows what’s going on. 

“ Oh sorry, did I poke you?”

That’s begun to be a theme. Murky memories of this morning, when he…he was something else. A thing he hated, his head drifting along on an empty cloak. His understanding slipping from one hour to the next, his life a constant soup of zone in, zone out. Then when Caine turned him back…

“…Kinger?”

Kinger remembers the clarity. Like looking through frosted glass your whole life, and a rock comes through the window. His head had focused, the world snapped back into the present moment — he could think. He fit back into that hazy outline of himself he’d held onto for so long. He was okay. He was…and in the here and now, here he is again, zoning out, dropping into the past. But what else can he do, when something happened, and the past few hours are a painful blur? Like rambling paragraphs with no sense in them, like descriptions rattling from the margins, like readers staring brow-furrowed at the page. He has no idea where he is, he can’t force himself to remember how he got here without something in him hurting, and the darkness keeps speaking like voices in his head. 

If there is some author dictating his fate, Kinger would probably question their sanity.

His hands clench again, digging into the soft flesh of his arms as his eyes unfocus. The wave of reminiscence in his head rolls back, still waters rising — oh, what was he thinking about? Voices? Oh, right yes, voices, the voice —

“ -nger!! Kinger, oh my f@$#, can you even hear me!? I’ve been talking and talking but you haven’t — “

“GAH!” 

Kinger screams, his head shooting up so fast his neck twinges. He winces, rolling his shoulder and feeling it ache— he’s trembling, that’s bad— but it’s a bittersweet feeling, nice to know it’s there, yet the pain itself…wait, was it gone? What was he thinking of. Kinger stares off into the darkness for a moment, squinting. Wait. Right. Hearing. Can he hear, yes, he —

“I— I can. I can hear you, yes, ah…” His mind blanks, spitting up something random in place of a name. “ Kopfhörer ?”

There is silence from above him, aside from the dim scratching of creatures, out there in the dark. He feels like he’s made a mistake. Some other part of him whispers about that being irrational. Sometimes he feels like he’s not even himself at all: just a bunch of smaller people, arguing constantly.

“ …Kinger ,” 

Someone begins, caution filling the air with a fine lining of well-placed worry, 

“… Kinger, are you like…good? Do you know what’s going on? Who I am?”

Kopfhörer-Nutzerin, his mind supplies, but Kinger shakes his head. No, not that. Not this or that or anything — what’s happening? Who is he? No, no don’t be silly, I know that one. Of course I do, I’m…

“I’m…Kinger…?” 

He mutters to himself, brow drawn,

“But I’m not. Not quite.”

Well that doesn’t make sense, I — I can’t be two things, Kinger thinks, staring down into the blackness hiding his hands from view. Can I? Can I be two things? Two people? A man named John sits behind his eyes. A character named Kinger sees through them. Neither is in control. Neither knows what’s happening.

There is silence from above him.

“ H…Hold on tight, Kinger, okay? Can you do that? We’re, uh…going to try and take you to Quin!”

Kingers head jerks up, like a dog pricking it’s ears. His eyes flick upward, staring into the darkness, the pathways of his mind lighting up like a sparkler — it’s a burst of free thought in the fog. Memories. Warm hands. Amber eyes. Someone who cared about him, once. “I love you.”  “Hey, that was my sweater, you thief—” “I miss you.” “Go on without me, ho n. I’l l b e alright, oka-y-? “

How long has it been, he wonders, since I could remember her face?

Too long.

Too long…

“…Quin?”

He asks, distantly. Like a sparkler, the clarity doesn’t last long, burning down to his fingertips. But it’s enough for him to light a flame — a tiny tea candle, flickering in the dim cavern of his tired mind. Walls recently constructed loom inside his head, blocking out the mess of horror, the memories of foreign thoughts meddling with his own. But they waver. 

“ Y-yeah, Quin! Y-you remember her, r…right? Please tell me you remember her.” 

It — she? — sounds nervous now, the monsters voice shaking slightly, like a top spinning on its edge. 

“ F!@#, I'm not good at this stuff…”

Kinger is silent for a long, long moment. Quin. Quin… his eyes glaze over for a moment, moments flickering just out of reach. I know her. He thinks, with more certainty than he’s had in what feels like years. I love her.  

Now that, that’s strong. That’s solid. That’s real. Tinged in burnt edges of embering grief, but it’s real. Steadfast and there, twinging whenever he thinks the name — His mind feels like knives and eyes, but it’s not pain. The darkness surrounds him, swallows him, but it’s not complete. In it, bare flickers remain. A tea candle in an empty room, the distant, starry glow of memories too wounded to pull up now, but warm enough to soothe the wounds. He knows who she is, and he refuses to forget — he’s not that far gone, not yet.

“My partner.” 

Kinger says after a moment, lifting his head. A part of his heart that’s still somehow intact speaks for him, his eyes slightly glazed. It hurts, somewhere deep and muted in his mind. The place where memories of her still lie in haphazard piles, right at the bottom of another acid-burned hole in his mind, walled off by a part of himself still desperately trying to hold onto sanity. Too painful to think about, too dear to forget. Too close to his heart to rip it out without stopping. Too sharp to look at without cutting himself. To remember her fully and clearly would be to surrender himself to the mercy of another breakdown, and he won’t, can’t, isn’t, sane enough to break.

Were he more coherent, it probably would’ve broken him. But, thankfully for him, the incoherency is thick as fog — half his thoughts are currently devoted to creamed corn, a quarter is bothered with how cold his hands feel,  a tiny sliver inbetween trying to focus on what’s actually going on around him — That being, the small breath of relief from above. 

“ Yeah, Quin. Your wife. Yeesh kinger, you really had me scared for a moment there! Anyhoo, as I was saying, what happened is—“

The voice quickly regains its cheer, Kinger rubbing his arm absentmindedly. His head aches like a muscle overworked. How long has it been since I last slept? He wonders, not listening to the words spilling from above. He blinks, his face feeling stiff and tired. Worn, that’s the word. He feels worn. Too long, Kinger decides through a haze of fatigue, pulling his legs up close to his chest. He rests his chin on his knees and stares silently off into the blackness, shivering slightly. Every inch of him is freezing. It wasn’t a moment ago.

“ Kinger! Are you not listening again? I was in the middle of explaining what’s going on and where you are and what the point of this all is and what’s happening and —“

Kinger quickly tunes back out again, frowning. 

The thing that had poked him earlier suddenly moves, scraping quietly across the brick, and Kinger reaches out on a whim. His hands find something hard and cold, unevenly smooth to the touch yet strangely fractured. Bone, he realizes, his eyes widening slightly even in the tangible dark. He draws it closer. It’s sharp. Sharp enough to cut. It buzzes like an analog television, and Kinger quickly releases it. Whatever it was, it slithers quickly and quietly away.

“…What was that? Was it you?” 

Kinger asks curiously, scratches and small howls peppering the muffled world outside. He tips his head up to stare into the velvety darkness above, his eyes flicking around though there is nothing to see. Figures dance just at the edges of his vision — hands, eyes, claws. Normal, for him. Normal, compared to the past few hours. Probably just hallucinating again! He notes offhandedly, not stopping to realize that’s probably a very bad sign. That’s normal, he assures himself, I’m fine, he lies.

The thing, the huge breathing thing that guards him, doesn't hesitate to respond in an up-beat voice that does not match the situation in the slightest. 

“ Yeah, my tail— or, uh, arm? It’s kinda hard to tell the difference. Anyway, it’s a claw-lookin thing, y’know, cus I’m a cat.”

The thing above him rattles off cheerfully, and Kinger clenches and unclenches his hands for a moment, thinking. A beanie-baby cat, he remembers faintly, arrived with Ragatha, then… A flash of screaming. Black oil staining the ground. A scream, as a tiny felt shape hurtled downwards into the blackness. The loss of a friend. The loss of a life. The loss of a madman, hurtling down on her heels…

“Cats don’t have bone tails,” 

Kinger replies after a moment. He curls his hands tighter in his lap — they’re shaking, as does the voice of his…guard? When they next speak. 

“ Uh, don’t — don’t think about it too hard?” 

They fumble out, Kinger wondering distantly if they might be uncomfortable, 

“ I’m still cat-ish. Just— just with more mouths. Anyhow, has anybody ever told you your hands are weirdly cold?”

They have, actually. Though when Kinger tries to remember who, his mind recoils. Something decides to curl up and scream at him to stop thinking about this right right now , and Kinger quickly does. He rubs a thumb over his palm instead, slick with a cold sweat. Something flinches inside his head. His thoughts twitch, rearranging. Are they falling in or out of place?

“…Where am I?”

Kinger asks after a moment, tipping his head back. It strikes him he’s supposed to know. Half of him feels uneasy not knowing, and and the other half can’t bring himself to care. Whoever he is doesn’t feel the boundary between them. The thing above hums uncomfortably for a moment, and he hears the tap of bone on brick. 

“… uh…well, right now, I’m standing over you? So you’re…uh, sitting under me?”

“Nono, I knew that,” Kinger says, flapping one hand — “I mean where. Also why. I have the what, half of the when, but I need the other three. Where-why-who.”

A pause. The air is oddly humid, thick like molasses, smelling strangely of copper. He wonders why they’re pausing — he makes perfect sense!

“ Well, um, I’m Socks! We…used to know eachother. Once. A long time ago.” 

The thing above him explains, with a hint of sadness. Kinger frowns, tilting his head. Socks…? Sock puppet? Muppet? Kermit. Kermit the frog. Frogs live in water. Ponds? What’s in ponds? Fish? Salmon. Cats eat salmon — Cat? Kinger nods, satisfied he’s figured out that the gigantic hulking creature above him is, in fact, a cat.

“So that’s the Who,” The weird big cat explains, “ The Why would be; so you don’t die, and as for the Where, you’re in a hole!”

“Ah, I understand,” 

Kinger says, not understanding at all, but also not questioning it in the slightest. Some bit of him mutters that he probably should question some of this. He obeys it, straightening up.

“But which hole? The Zooble hole? The cicada hole? The zombie hole? The dead rats and bird carcass hole? The polka dot hole? The not-so-infinite hole? The—“

“ No, Kinger —” The voice above him ( soc…sock?) sighs deeply, “ I meant you’re in the cellar!”

“Oh, okay.” 

Kinger replies, relaxing again. Cellar…Cellar.

Wait, Cellar?

“ WHAT!? ”

A tidal wave of panic absolutely obliterates whatever peace he had, and in an instant Kinger is right back to being terrified. His hands begin shaking, the sickening feeling of adrenaline constricting his chest to a prick.

“Wh-What do you mean the cellar!? The cellar as in — you mean I —?”

Words don’t obey him. They never did, and kinger fumbles over his own tongue as his heart rate rackets higher, too high. The thing crouching over him rumbles and shifts, his quickening breathing swallowed by the darkness — no echo. Trapped. Trapped —! No no, stay calm, I’m not trapped! Please, I’m not— I can’t be here, please say I’m not there, I can’t be!

“ Woah, kinger, he—“ Er hört zu “—y! It’s fine! I thought you knew? I promise it’s —“ 

Kingers blood runs cold. 

¡Lo está perdiendo...!

“I— I’m hearing them again.”

He stutters out, drawing his knees up close to his chest. Knees, he’s okay, he’s him, right? Right!? He’ll be fine, he— oh no he won’t. No he won’t. People who hear voices in their head are never fine in the end.

Sie kann ihn nicht beschützen. “K-kinger!! Hey, c’mon, it’s o—!” Sie ist nicht einmal ein Mensch— “—kay!”

“Oh no. Oh, oh no, no no no no nono nonononononono —“

His mouth almost moves without him. His chest is far too tight. The walls are closing in, he’s sure of it, his head spinning. He’s going to go back. He’s going to fall back into the chaos and he’s going to die there, this time — why does he have to be sane now, when it hurts? Why does his mind only work the way he wants it to when all he feels is knives and eyes? He shudders, scrambling back on the brick until his back hits something, memories crashing like waves — horror after horror being banished to the dark hole in the floor, the screaming, the splintering shards of broken wood tumbling over the floor, the —

His lungs catch.

Verletze ihn! Töte ihn! Reiß ihm die Augen aus! “—inger? Kinge—!” Du hörst uns, oh erbärmliches Ding, ich weiß, dass du es tust. Wir sind die Stimmen des Wahnsinns.

You’re going insane~! The voices sing, the voices scream. Versagen Mann!

Idiot, idiot, idiot, no wonder she died! — nothing personal, kid. — LET ME BREATHE! — mommy? Mommy!? — all your fault. — rip his mind to shreds! Use him, useful! — CONSUME CONSUME CONSUME — apple shampoo? — idiot, bug-eyed idiot — I remember him, too bad he’s gonna — oh, he’s never going to survive this! — why isn’t she eating him? — USELESS CAT WONT LET ME —  it’s cracking! He’s cracking! — look at his thoughts, look at his code, he’s close now, closer — LOUDER, LOUDER, KILL CONSUME USE CONSUME KILL — mom?!  — Porcelin shut up! — I want to go home, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I just want to — she’s not here to stop us, that bi — all his fault, all his fault, he deserves it doesn’t he!? — Ooh, look, is he going to —?

Kinger curls in on himself, and screams.

The sound seems to surprise everything that isn’t him. He didn’t know he had this much air still in this lungs, enough to drown out every single bloodstained sound vying for his attention. Why do they want him? Why is this happening? Questions he has no answers to. But if there’s one thing kinger can do — and do more effectively now that he has a mouth — is scream. The thing above him clenches up like a scared animal, the voices grind to a startled halt, a cacophony of whispers rising in the background. His hands are digging into his skull, but he doesn’t care — if anything the pain grounds him, grounds him enough to remember, somewhere amidst the chaos of his mind, to actually breathe. 

He drags in a single gasp of air, and starts all over again.

… and Kaufmo, lost somewhere down an obscure side passage in search of Box, raises his head. He squints down the gut-splattered brick hallway behind him, and despite not having ears, somehow picks up the distant sound of Kinger screaming at the top of his lungs.

I should probably do something about that, Kaufmo thinks blandly, continuing to not do anything about that.

He shrugs, turning back down the hall. Socks probably has it handled.

——

Socks, currently, absolutely does not have it handled in the slightest.

Now, Socks likes to think she’s a pretty capable person. Heck, she survived being stuck down in a literal sarlacc pit for what’s probably been…multiple years, by this point, she’s wrangled newcomers, she’s beaten Tao in a fist (paw?) fight before. But nothing, nothing on earth could have prepared her for Queenie disappearing. Queenie has been a constant through everything! Even when socks first arrived, there she was, and every day since the undisputed Queen of the abstractions has been present. An undisputed authority since the moment she fell to this pit.

And now she’s gone, her husband is here in her place, and he’s screaming at the top of his lungs.

A power vacuum. One that every single abstraction would kill to fill.

Socks has no idea what to do. F#%k,  F$%k F^%k F$*k!   Her thoughts all shriek, her many two-polygon ears pressing back against her skull in protest to the scream filling the air. Even the other abstractions scramble back in surprise, hissing and scratching like wild animals — pretty close to what they are, really. Wild animals with nothing to lose, as they shake their heads and start advancing closer. Nononono! She snarls, her spine prickling as the eyes bubbling along it twitch wildly, no, no! Stay back, stay away from him!

The abstractions, as expected, do not obey her. They leap forward with frothing mouths and empty eyes, snarling and snapping from every direction — no, no, I can handle this! I can handle this!!

Three-polygon teeth bury themselves in her flesh, and Socks realizes something very crucial. 

I’m not like Kaufmo.

Another set of teeth. Another snarling chunk of her threatening to be torn away.

I can bleed.

She can feel the teeth recede for a moment, opening wide to bite back down, to tear her leg out for good. She can’t let that happen, she can’t, they’ll eat through her to get what they want she — in a burst of panic, Socks leaps to her feet, grabs kinger by the collar of his shirt (he only screams louder) and hauls ass.  

The hoarde of melted-together abstracted scream with some kind of twisted glee as she leaps away, holding kinger gingerly between two of her clumsy jaws. She tries her hardest not to touch him directly — don’t abstract don’t abstract please don’t abstract PLEASE don’t go through what I did god please — but every so often he’ll choke with pain as a drop of acid froth strikes him, yet other than that every thought or sound is drowned out by the sheer pitch of the screaming. Socks has no idea how a guy that thin-chested can make a sound that damn loud. She swears he’s going to choke on his own lungs if this goes on much longer. How is he going so long without taking a brea—?

Tao leaps in front of her. A shambling mass of impact-meshed bones, organs pumping sickeningly within their thin rib cage. His throat drips with bloodshot eyes hanging out on fleshy threads — biological, horrible, the first person ever to be trapped, and the most bloodthirsty out of all of them.

Socks swears under her breath.

HIYAHIYAHIYHAIHAYHAIYHAHAYAHAHAHAHAHAHHAYAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHH

Tao screeches, loud enough to rival Kinger. He lunges forwards with the ferocity of a crashing wave and the grace of a drunk duck, his clattering jaws wide and terrible. Socks vaults to the side, her many twisted limbs pulsing up and down as the crowd clamors behind her— Kaufmo is going to hate me for this, she thinks, eyes squeezing shut for the barest of moments, I promised him I wouldn’t move —!

C’MON C’MON C’MON LEMME HAVE MY FUN HA YOULLNEVERBEANYTHINGSTUPIDCATSTUPIDCAT NOTEVENREALNOTEVEN—

“ https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ ”

Socks screams back at him, using one sabered, polygon-ridden tail to slam his bulbous skull into the brick. Tao coughs up an eye with a cackle of laughter, donkey ears flickering as Socks bounds away. Her tails stream like ribbons behind her, Kinger now screeching something along the lines of “HOW ARE YOU SAYING THAT WITH YOUR MOUTH??” To which socks has no reply, because she’s using her best one to keep him from falling into the abyss, and that’s kind of important.

She cannot believe she’s doing this. She’s absolutely going to die in two seconds, by tripping over a rock or something absolutely stupid like that—  

Suddenly, Socks spots a familiar face amongst the sea of spectators, hostile and otherwise. This particular face, fur-ridden and dripping eyes out its mouth, twitches as she makes eye contact. The abstraction leaps into the fray, running alongside socks like a centipede built of fur bone and bird legs, eyes falling and dripping from inside its skull like bubbles.

The hell are you doing, kitten?

They ask, snapping their mangled jaws. Socks hurls herself to the side, ramming her shoulder into the abstraction and growling like all hell.

Trying to Kinger alive, what does it look like?!

Socks shoots back, leaping over the bloated form of another abstraction. The cellar is dark and lacking in any kind of scenery, but the screaming paints a bloody picture — the brick walls twist and writhe in odd patterns, and Socks snarls her frustration as she trips and half-stumbles over one stagnant cellmate. 

A twisted kind of cross-country race, that’s what.

they reply, sounding frustrated. Socks rolls her eyes. 

Lula, if you aren’t going to help me then — !

Socks shrieks as something clips her tail, a rush of taloned legs flying by. Socks cranes her neck around to see, earning an accidental kick in the shoulder from Kinger, who’s clinging to one protruding jawbone like his life depends on it. He shrieks continuously as Socks stumbles to a flabbergasted stop, opening two of her glowing eyes and gaping. A massive wall of fur blocks the hoarde that had been following her, pitch-black and shimmering like oil —  Eyes and mouths stick haphazardly from the matted tangle like protruding bones, thin stick-like talons scraping at the humid air. A monolithic, frankly horrifying abstraction, who Socks now owes her life to. She’s never been more grateful for the support.

Hows that for helping?

Lula, you absolute trooper, Socks only barely has time to think, before taking the chance she’s given and taking off in a wild sprint, Kinger still screaming the whole way.

Hide, Hide, Hide, Socks chants in her head, winding and ducking and weaving over and around her fellow abstractions. Lula howls well-crafted insults at the sea of abstractions behind her, holding back their fellows with coils upon coils of her own body.  

She knows where she’s going. The labyrinth, the maze of passages that split off from the cellar like veins from a tumor. Winding maps of claustrophobic passages and hidden chasms, even old room models. Always adding, always building — and socks, socks is the only one small enough to move around in there. At least to any real effect. 

Socks shakes her head, wincing as Kinger yelps in between shrieks. His voice must be close to giving out — He’s been screaming this entire time, and it doesn’t feel like he’s going to stop anytime soon. Socks is beginning to be concerned, worries filling her head even as she scrambles inside a side corridor, dragging herself on through the dark — what if I drop him? What if I drop him and I crush him by mistake? What if he coughs up a lung? Can that happen? Oh gosh what if that can happen — her head is so loud. Shut up shut up shut up, she tells herself, breath heaving as she drags herself farther down the passage with far too many limbs. Shut! Up!

Her tails, sabered as they are, click and clatter over the walls. Their plush paws drag along heavy with slime and rot from being stuck down here so long, and Socks struggles to breathe as she slows to a limp, panting heavily. 

Kingers scream tapers, faltering as they come to a stop. His breathing is almost as loud as hers, strained and hoarse from the chase. I hope I didn’t…whack him around….too badly, Socks thinks, between heaves of thick air. She’s just glad he stopped screaming. 

Socks flinches as a hand makes contact with one lipless jaw, one of many that protrude from her face. It trembles, shakily patting around, feeling out the contours of the sabarish teeth that sink from the pinkish flesh. She hears his breath hitch, and shudder harder.

“Y-you’re abstracted.” 

Kinger says quietly, voice trebling and rough from the abuse it’s suffered. Socks blows out a huff of hot air through her snouts, ( she has exactly 22 ) and nods, gently setting kinger on the brick before her. Her glowing eyes reopen, and she lowers her face to be on level with him as he crumples to the ground, breathing heavily. He’s shaking. They both need a moment to breathe.

“Am I going to die?”

He asks eventually, looking up at her with terrified blue eyes. He smiles when he’s nervous, a habit of his Queenie used to mention. He is not smiling now. 

“ I hope not.”

Socks replies simply, folding two sabered paws under her chin and thudding onto the brick. Interestingly, now that she can compare herself to him, (and assuming he’s average) socks can finally say for certain that she’s officially larger than a semi truck. Still, he looks like he needs cheering up…

“ I- I mean, even if you did abstract, you wouldn’t die, so —“

“No.” Kinger cuts her off, shaking his head. There’s a weirdly coherent look in his eyes, a strange, desperate focus. He’s lucid. Sock wonders pitifully how long it’ll last. “No, not because of you. I mean because of this.”

Socks cocks her head, half her ears pricking up, the other half pressing down. 

“ You just gestured to all of you…?”

Kinger nods, his hands shaking so hard his fingers twitch, yet folded neatly in his lap. His eyes are…hollow.

“Yes. This. Me.” He chuckles weakly, gaze unwavering as it bores through her skull.

“I think I’m going insane.”

He laughs again, but it cracks, splintering into weak half-huffs of air. Kinger stares at his lap for a moment, silent. His hair is disheveled, his face scuffed, a bruise blooming over the line of his jaw. His thin shoulders hunch together, and overall, he looks…

He looks like a man who thinks he’s going to die.

Socks blinks. Her glowing eyes close, and without a word she leans forward, clamping her jaws back over Kingers collar. He shrieks as expected, but Socks doesn’t say a word until he stops. If he’s lucid now, then…she’d better make the most of it.

“ I’m going to take you somewhere safe. Kaufmo knows me, he’ll know where to look for me, or — or at least, he knows who’ll know.”

Kinger is silent. Socks doesn’t ask if he’s “there” or not. She knows he won’t answer, anyhow — he’s probably lost in his own thoughts, trying to figure everything out. Piece himself together. 

Either that, or…he’s given up trying.

Socks tries not to think about that.

She pads softly along in the darkness, lumbering and huge. She knows this place, the hollow halls of the affectionately-dubbed Labyrinth. Eyes and veins scour the walls, the still-living remains of abstractions that surrendered to self-mutilation, and finally gave in. Then again, they are still living, so she’s not too sure it counts. Sometimes, when everyone else is screaming, or silent, she’ll hide down here. Curl up in one of these hidden passages and watch with wide eyes and an open mind as the others scream and fight. And if Queenie called, there she’d be to help break something up! Because she was Queenies friend.

…and now Queenies gone.

This place is always changing. Sometimes the ceiling becomes so low, her back hips scrape the brick. Sometimes it stretches high enough that she can pretend there’s a sky above her. Sometimes, she can pretend that the bloated husks lying in the corners aren’t still remnants of people, their sallow eyes winking at her from the shadows. Sometimes she can pretend she isn’t dragging an old friend along with her — one who’s losing his mind, despite being in the right body, despite…well, despite the fact he’s held on so long.

But, Socks supposes, breaking the world can have a toll on you. That toll took everything it could from Kinger, and he didn’t have enough to give.

Still. Some lucidity is better than none, so here they are — holding a very chaotic conversation which, currently, is about the geneva convention. Socks has no idea what the Geneva convention is, and made the terrific mistake of asking.

“—ublic International Law, also known as the Humanitarian Law of Armed Conflicts, whose purpose is to provide minimum protections, standards of humane treatment, and fundamental guarantees of respect to individuals who—“

He rambles endlessly and feverishly, and Socks nods along as best she can. The bite wound in her flank aches, demanding her attention, but she limps with as much grace and dignity as she can muster — Nearly there. Nearly there, she tells herself, then you can sit down. Once he’s safe. Have to do it— for Queenie, as well as him. Queenie. Socks wonders forlornly where she is right now — is she okay? Is she doing good? Is she out of the circus, or just…floating around in a void somewhere? Is she…does she have company, at least…? Socks shakes her head, causing a disgruntled yelp from kinger, to which she immediately apologizes. He continues to talk without any acknowledgment, the legal terms getting more and more…vibrant. Socks isn’t sure if he knows what half of those mean, but then again, neither does she.

She’s worried about him. Very worried.

What if he really is losing his mind? 

No, no. He’s tougher than he seems, isn’t he? Of course he is, Socks tells herself, recalling a specific story Queenie once told. The one about him getting hit in the face with a shopping cart. Socks smiles despite herself, remembering Queenies exact words — ‘friend of ours was… slightly drunk, wanted to ride it down a hill, and poor John somehow ended up going with him. They both nearly died, but I swear, that man could survive getting hit by a truck. Luckiest unlucky man I ever met.’

If he really is the luckiest unlucky man, Socks reasons, then some luck must be due by now.

Socks is beginning to get tired. She drags herself around the final corner with relief, illuminating the dead end that awaits her with the glowing eyes along her spine. A hole in the wall, crumbled and worn along the edges — grooves in the brick from her own claws form footholds as she rises in her back legs, craning her neck up to the hole in the wall. Kinger just continues to talk seamlessly until she dumps him through, tumbling into the blackness with a yelp. It’s only a four-foot drop, which sounds like a lot but isn’t really, and socks half-collapses against the wall with a cavernous sigh.

He’ll be safe in there, she reasons, eyes falling closed. With all my other things. Hidden. Safe. Hiding. Her muzzle thuds against the brick, flank rising and falling in heavy puffs. Hidey-hole, socks adds with a faint smile, huffing air through her snouts. She’ll only rest for a minute. Then…then she’ll explain.

Just five minutes. Five…five minutes…

——

Dark. Everything is dark. Kinger blinks the haze out of his eyes, his shoulder pressed to brick once more. He grimaces, wincing at the ache reignited in it. What happened? Kinger has been hungover only a very few times in his life, but this is a distinctly similar experience. With some over he manages to roll onto his back, staring at the dim shapes swirling through the darkness, his head spinning in time. What was I…?

Kinger twitches. Geneva convention, Socks, screaming, “ I think I’m going insane.” Kaufmo, more screaming — uneducated pool noodle? — something….something else…

I’ve…I’ve finally lost it. Kinger thinks, staring blankly at the ceiling. He blinks, rubbing one wrist against his pounding forehead — how long am I going to be sane for? How long will this last? How long do I have before I’m not — ? Oh good lord he’s tired. Kinger can’t keep his head clear. Half of him screams that this could be the beginning of the end, that he’ll slip back into the fog, and the other half…wants to take a nap. Make that two-thirds. Okay, make that all of him — his bones ache, his head hurts, and the world is mental and physical pain.

Tap out, Kinger thinks to himself, as he pushes himself to his hands and knees. Time to…time to tap out.

His arms feel like Jello. He’s not a very athletic person, nor is he a very young one. Hell, he’s nearly fifty, circus years or not — it’s the most Kinger can do to try and drag himself into the corner of whatever little room he’s in, mind hazy. Various small objects tumble away as he sweeps them aside with one palm, what feel like dice and broken toys. Nuts and bolts, cold against his hands, even a very small ballet shoe, silk soft. A broken coin, dangling from a scrap of torn leather. A collar… Kinger thinks distantly, placing it to the side and feeling around. 

The darkness is thick and suffocating, enveloping everything. What he’d give for a light right now. What he’d give for the sun, or just a decent bed. My fortress… Kinger has half a mind to try and rummage in his pockets for a pillow or two, hand halfway to his hip before he remembers— ah yes. He probably no longer has an inventory. 

Suddenly, his hands meet something…different. 

Velvet. Thick, plush velvet. His hand closes into a fost, dragging it closer. He sits back, pulling the thing — ouf, heavy — into his lap, running his hands over it in curiosity. Please be a blanket. Something. Something soft. It’s big, that’s for sure. Thick and cushy like expensive carpet, patches of it stiff and spiky with dried…something. It’s even torn in places, his hands finding a thin padding underneath. But how big is it? Big enough to use as a pillow? Please be big enough for that.

His fingers suddenly find thick fur. Fake fur, he can tell by the texture, but fur. It lines the edges, thicker on the top and bottom, like…

…like his cloak.

But he lost his cloak, he tugged it over Caines head earlier, so…this can’t be his, right? He pulls it up to his chin, burying his face in the thick fur. If it’s his, it’ll smell of the jug of kool aid Jax threw at him yesterday. He takes a deep breath in, and is immediately hit with the stench of mildew, the bite of copperish abstraction-sludge lining the rotting scent. But, under it all…

Chamomile. 

 

“It’s my favorite kind, I think.” 

The shimmer of gold embroidery, her gloves cupped around an unassuming mug. The same smell drifting from it in thick wafts, a rubberhose kettle sitting silently to the side. A quiet night, one of many, when the moon was high and everyone else was quietly nestled away in their own spaces. Everyone else asleep, there they sat together. Touching, or not. Talking, or not. It never mattered. Never needed to. 

“Even though I can’t drink it, the smell just…calms me, you know?”

Her voice was always so…strong. Not intense, not brash, not firm, just so solidly there. Like a beam of the mahogany she was supposedly carved from. Shoulders lean against eachother, empty beneath the velvet, but the wood was real enough. Her rich mahogany leaning against his simple oak, the thick fur mane of her cloak bushing up against his eyes. She seemed distant that night. Sad. He knew, in painful accuracy, the numbness she was feeling — he felt it himself. The hollowness of knowing there’s nothing within, the existential horror of their very being. They just dealt with it in different ways, and each knew as much. He hunted through every inch of this place, and she stayed in her one corner. Some days she’d go with him. Some days he’d stay with her. And sometimes, the variety would help.

“I know,” he’d replied, gently leaning his crown to hers. “bugs have the same effect on me. Like it’s…what I’m meant to be doing, holding. It…fits me.”

She nodded, staring into the cup in her hands. The reflection in it. He always thought she was beautiful, of course, in that long solemn way where it’s ingrained into your very bones. This person, the deepest part of his mind knows, is beauty itself. Less because of her appearance, (if they were in it for appearances he’s sure she would’ve left him long ago) but more for…well, everything else.

They always said beauty was skin deep, but he always felt it radiated from her very core.

“…Do you…do you think we deserved this?”

She looked up at him.

“Do you think we deserved to become this?”

Her eyes were rusted steel. Worn down strength. He shook his head, resting his hand in hers — He couldn’t feel it, it’s warmth, if it had any. Not through the glove. The glove with nothing in it. But he cares with all he is, and that will always be felt.

“I mean, you definitely don’t. You’re too…” he short circuited between ‘good’ and ‘kind’ for a moment. “Too you. But, uh, if you think I —“

“F%$k no!”

“Well there’s your answer! Neither of us deserve it then.”

She’d huffed at him, and he’d only smiled in return. He’d given as much of a smile as he could — he hadn’t known then. He hadn’t known this would be the last night they did this. That this would be their last night. 

That when he came back from the adventure the next day, he would find blackness seeping under the cracks in the door.

That he’d never.

That he’d never see her again, after that.

Kinger stares down at the cloak in his hands. His face feels hot, like everything is crashing down on him in a slew of fire. It singes the inside of his ribs, charring them raw — he misses her. He misses her so much it’s like a hole in him, a burning, gaping chasm, chewing away at his organs like he’s starving to death — he hasn’t missed her like this since the first night, but back then he had so much less to miss. Now he has miles of churned up moments, the church, the bar, the beach, the street on a day like any other — and he grieves them. 

They were together, before this hell. Knew eachother, supported eachother, belonged to eachother. 

And now, she’s gone.

And he’s still here.

And I don't deserve to be.

It’s a cliche. A dreadful, overused line — why wasn’t it me? The sobbing protagonist screams to the stars. Why couldn’t I die instead!?

Kinger doesn’t scream those words.

He just screams.

It’s agonizing, it’s cathartic, it hurts his aching chest but it’s something. Muffled by the cloak, he screams until he runs out of breath— it’s different than the last time. Deeper, more guttural, from the very back of his throat, it is anger and it is agony and a million other emotions he hasn’t felt since he got down here, began to hurt again. Strangely he’s never felt more alive, more like a person than he does now. To hurt is to live, to heal is to keep living. So he screams until he needs to breathe to live, and when he finally does something catches in his throat. A jagged shard forces him to swallow, and swipe at his eyes with his teeth grit — breathe, breathe . It’s okay. In five minutes I won’t even remember, is the thought that makes him shake out a half-laugh, half-sob, like some kind of madman. In five minutes I’ll just be a senile bat again. A walking book of bug facts. Useless. Nothing but a shell.

These thoughts don’t help, and he knows it. So he swallows them, laughing instead. There’s no heart in it. They’re shallow as puddles on pavement — puddles he remembers avoiding, as she’d sloshed right through, not minding the wet shoes.

She’d always been stronger than him.

 

“You fit me too, you know.”

“Hm?”

“Like the tea. You fit me.”

She snorted, holding up one elegant glove, fingers intertwined with his.

“You could say we fit like a glove!” 

 

To live is to hurt. To heal is to keep living.

So Kinger grieves. 

 

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