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Chapter Text

A magpie watches, within the hollow and hungry carnival. She sits atop tattered bunting strung across rusting poles, atop decayed and rotting signs. Her eyes are sharp in the whirlwind of flickering lights, her once dark and shining plumage swallowing what remained; a black hole in this forgotten place of dilapidation.

Those rare few who find their way in, curious despite the fear that leads them to clutch and cling to loose folds of clothes, regard her with wary gazes. It is her, they think, that stands out more than the corroded fairgrounds and howls of laughter hidden within the shadowed depths of tents. Her head tilts as they shuffle deeper in. Her beak clacks. A flash of dull white as wings flare open, and they cower when she takes flight.

She banks, swoops low over their heads. Never close enough to touch, but they flinch at the wind that drags through the ragged edges of her primaries and ruffles their hair.

It is then they catch sight of him, following the path of her flight. The proprietor. A tall man dressed in purple, arm held out to catch her, grinning something sharp. Something dangerous.

“Welcome,” he says, “to our show. We’re so glad you arrived.”

Chapter Text

The bar is near empty, but Michael tucks himself into a back corner booth anyway. It is a place designed for daemons of all kinds, but it is easier to sit out of the way of other patrons. Or at the least that is what he tells himself, as he watches the few other people chat with one another at the bar while he nurses his most recent round of scotch. Their chatter, and the chatter of the fragments of their souls, buzz low in the evening air. Metal fingers click against his glass as he taps against it.

Wenke sits, unnoticed, beside him. Her horns have grown dull and fur ragged. There is guilt when he looks at her (there is guilt when he doesn’t look at her. there is always guilt) gnawing and inescapable that he tries and fails to drown with alcohol. It burns only brighter.

“You should stop,” she says, eventually, as she always does. Her voice creaks with exhaustion. He takes another drink. She sighs and the world tilts on its hazy axis.

“maybe we should get to bed,” she usually adds while he ignores her. “at least drink some water.” Tonight she falls silent. He knows that she is watching the small group just as he is; jealous of what had once been and no longer is. The ache has long since settled in, countless years ago, pulsing behind eyes and within the throat.

Had they been younger. Had they been more whole and less ragged, they may have dared to join in. But that time had long passed them by.

Chapter Text

Asha walks through a public park on a clear and placid day in an unfamiliar Narrative. She breathes in the cool air of early autumn, taps an old notebook worn with use against her knuckles. Pwyll wanders beside her, nosing through nearby flowerbeds with a muzzle that had turned prematurely white. His ears twitch at the slightest of movement; they are not the only people in the park on such a pleasant afternoon, after all, and it would be rude to block the path.

"We should find a book on taxonomy," he says, almost idly. "These are incredible."

She hums in reply, turning on her heel to regard the small groups wandering the winding paths. Something small and sharp claws at her chest that may have been jealousy; may have been the edges of a hollow loneliness.

It has been years. And neither sight nor sound nor message from those she cared for most.

"Asha?" She realizes then that he had been speaking to her, and she missed most of it.

She looks down to meet his gaze. One eye dark and sharp, the other swirling with distant galaxies. No one notices. They never do.

"Sorry," she says with a sheepish grin and shrug. "Sorry. I'm just...thinking."

A foot thumps against the group. His clever eyes narrow. "About...?"

"Oh don't ask stupid questions." Another thump, this time of indignation. She waves it away with a flippant flick of her wrist. "Them. I'm thinking about... Well, maybe going to see if anyone's left a message somewhere?" There is a hopeful tilt to her voice, with the thick taste of ash in her mouth.

Silence falls between them, and Pwyll's nose twitches as he thinks. He heaves a long, low sigh that carries the burden of all their years. "All right," he says, drawing away from the flowers. He hops down the path, a few paces ahead of her. "But maybe we should enjoy this Narrative more, before we go."

She knows what he means, in all those things unsaid. To enjoy the day, the week, before the inevitable disappointment. She swallows the lump in her throat, and follows after him.

Chapter Text

It's a quiet night.

They have a lot of quiet nights.

Dinner eaten. Dishes done (left to dry in the rack, to be put away proper tomorrow). Jill and Marjolein settle in for the night in the living room of the home they've made for themselves. There is a comfortable ease in their distance. Nadim paces the back of the sofa behind Jill, ready to pounce on her shoulders, uninterested in the book laying open on her lap.

"You're making me tired just watching you," Basil says from his spot on Marjolein's knee.

"You're being dramatic," Jill chirps without even looking up from the old paperback.

Marjolein laughs, and with the movement nearly dislodges Basil from his makeshift perch. He repositions himself, ruffling his feathers in indignation, but the glare he gives her is only halfhearted.

"We should go exploring tomorrow," Nadim says, clambering down Jill's chest and placing his paws on her book. She gives a good natured huff but doesn't shoo him away, nor move her book. "You know, its a big place. We could."

There is a beat of silence. Basil clicks his beak. Marjolein and Jill look up at each other, studying the other's face. Jill's lips twitch with a smile, and Marjolein returns it with one of her own.

"Well," Marjolein says, eventually, "I don't see why not."

Chapter Text

There is a room in New Albion occupied by the living and the dead. It is filled with a haze of smoke and drink and the low thrumming pulse of the city's youth. All the while the dolls remain in silent vigil, until someone decides to take an interest.

Daemons for the once dead hover beside their still forms; peculiar things, small wisps of cloud no larger than a fist. Unable to take shape for whatever their original form had once been. Unable to speak, at least as far as anyone knew. The dolls are awfully quiet, save for the occasional burst of radio, so maybe it is much the same for the fragments of their souls not anchored to the mechanical body.

There is a doll who stands apart. His hands twitch at his sides as he watches the party from its sidelines. Two recent university graduates approach him, clinging to each other to remain upright, laughing and slurring some inane conversation he did not care to hear.

"Look," one says, pointing toward the exposed metalwork and cabling around his throat. He grabs at his arm before he can pull away, before he can leave . "I told you this one has a daemon, they all do."

"Wonder what it is." The other one leers close to get a better look.

He begins to move away, but the first holds him fast and uses his free hand to make an awkward grab at what counts for his jaw. He pulls his head to the side to better expose the wiring of his neck, where his daemon tries to hide. The second one looks closer, even if there is nothing for him to see that isn't like all the others and at least he is not stupid enough to try to grab at her ( not yet not yet not-- ). He cannot feel them and their touch but they are so close and he cannot leave, cannot speak and he knows they are there .

"I think I heard someone saying she's a butterfly."

"Doesn't look like much to me."

The damnable circuits finally respond to him. He lashes out, pushes away the one holding him. The Voodoopunk stumbles and loses his footing, landing on the ground with a surprised oof . A woman passes by and tsks at him and his shocked companion. She stops to help him to his feet.

"Stop harassing the dolls," she chides, almost a tease, with a roll of her eyes. She does not even pay him any mind.

Their conversation slips away from him as they leave him. He reaches up, slow and jerking, to try to cover her from view. He wishes he could hold her, whisper soft lies that everything would be all right, but he does not even have that much.

The party around them simmers into some kind of life, and they fade into the background. Alone until someone decides they shouldn't be.