Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Victor has always liked dolls. Maybe it had come with being the only son of a Toyshop owner, or maybe it’s simply in his nature. He likes looking at their pretty or funny faces, likes positioning them, likes the interesting stories little children come up with while playing, oftentimes way more savage than one would think.

Most of all, he likes making them. Likes carving little bodies from formless wood, likes sewing together soft little toys from big swaths of fabric.

It had only been natural, that he would take over the shop from his father one day. He didn’t mind it.

In fact, he was glad. It had been what he wanted all along.
The Toyshop of his childhood, the playground of so many creative adventures, his own little paradise – his at least. His Toyshop.

And he had every intention to make it successful.

Make it successful he did, the most successful Toyshop in town. Children loved his dolls, his airplanes, his little tin soldiers. Older children loved his boardgames and puzzles. Of course he had the classics – chess, snakes and ladders, cards – but sometimes, he came up with new ones. Just for the fun of it. They didn’t sell as well, without the safety a well-known game provided, but he had a steady trickle of regulars which were interested in his newest creations.

He was happy. All was well.

Until a new Toyshop opened up. It happened quickly, leaving no time to hear about it through the grapevine, or come up with a battle strategy, like he normally would.

It just appeared overnight, like mushrooms sprouting in damp grass. Popping up in some dirty street like a Jack in the box.

It annoyed Victor. He liked planning things out, and there was nothing he despised more than surprises.

He decided to ignore it. After all, his Toyshop was the best, with only the highest quality toys, the best games, the prettiest ballerinas spinning in circles.

Victor had nothing to fear, with his steady stream of costumers, and his little circle of much appreciated regulars.

Except… the longer the new shop stayed in town, the more that steady stream slowed, gradually turning into a slow trickle. By the time his first regular stoped showing up, he decided to investigate.

What was it about this new shop, that made his long-term customers leave him, never to return?

What was this other owner doing, that he didn’t? Was it the toys? The games? The prices?

He vowed to find out.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Emporium”. What a stupid, false name.

Glaringly obvious that it had been designed to sound whimsical and fun, not a splinter of truth to it.
Not like his Toyshop at all, which is named after his family name, and has been passed down for generations.
He has no need for such cheap gimmicks. He has tradition, quality, passion.

And yet, his customers dwindle.

As much as he hates to admit it, there must be something about this “Mr. Emporium” that makes him worthy competition.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, he pushes open the door stepping into the den of his enemy.

It’s like walking into a fantasy, or some elaborate theatre stage. The room looks nothing at all like a toyshop ought to look. No system recognisable in the disarray of toys. No price tags, no smaller, cheaper toys at the counter to make small children convince their parents to leave a few extra bucks.

How did this man manage to beat him? Hell, how did this man manage not to succumb to bankruptcy on day one? It makes him angry. Angry, and… curious.

He glares at a shelf filled with (admittedly quite well made) dolls, as if it might make them give up the owner’s secret. His gaze wanders over the chaos, the toys strewn around.

No, not exactly strewn around. He knows how that looks. These toys are placed. Each of them carefully, lovingly placed to create a picture of absolute chaos.

‘Gaudy,’ he thinks, drowning out the much quieter voice in him that tries to call the spectacle charming.

“Ah, Guten Tag! Zo lovely to see a new face around! What can I be ge-helping you with?

”

Victor cringes, then turns around to regard the shopkeeper. 
Grey curls, a red apron, dazzling smile, and blue eyes most women would kill for.

“You can stop that ridiculous show of yours, I’m not looking to buy.” 

 The man’s face doesn’t fall, like he’d secretly hoped it would. He just keeps smiling that same smile, unperturbed by his rudeness

“Why not? You do not be ge-liking ze games?”

The shopkeeper pulls that expressive face of his into an over-blown pout. Victor can feel his nerves fray in real time, every piece of cruelly butchered faux german pushing him closer to the edge.

“I love games. I make games. But unlike this-, this joke of a shop, I actually take it seriously!” 



He gestures wildly at the chaos around them, but the man’s eyes never waver.

“So I’d appreciate it if you could stop this cheap play act, and tell me who you are, and why you’re stealing my customers.”

He shouldn’t be getting so angry, it’s unprofessional.

And such a thing as “stealing customers” doesn’t exist of course. It is always a clients choice which business they wish to purchase goods or services from.

But this man seems to have a unique ability to get on his nerves. 

As he does at this very moment, bowing with a sanctimonious expression, instead of snapping back after his rude outburst.

“Why, I’m the Toymaker! And you are….?”

“annoyed,” Victor grinds out, ignoring the obvious request for his name. If this ridiculous man insisted on his histrionics, he wouldn’t bother being polite either.

“I’d like to speak to your boss. Is he around? I can come back when he is.”

“Ah, I’m afraid zhat is me as well, love.”
Great. Just his luck, that this clown would he the owner as well.

Victor can already feel his headache from earlier coming back, doubly as vicious. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, suddenly exhausted.

“Oh no,” the bane of his long, stressful day drawls, immediately making it worse. “Ist ze angry man having ein headache? how unfortunate.”

Victor would love to tell this ridiculous clown just where to put his sympathy. But that would hardly help his goal.

Right. His goal. What was it again, exactly? 
God, he can’t think properly when his head feels like it’s being split open.

“Ugh, I can’t- this is-. Why can’t you just be normal for one second? I’m merely trying to have an adult conversation.”

The man is still smiling. Does he ever stop doing it?

“Listen. My customer’s are leaving me, and it started when you popped up.”

If only he’d disappear again. Everything had been going so well.

“I want to know what exactly makes you so much better than me.”

“In their eyes at least,” he adds, with a pointedly disdainful look at the shop.
The man would be a fool to tell him. It’s worth a try anyway, since nothing about his behaviour so far has indicated that he isn’t exactly that.

Besides, he can use the time to scan the toys, attempting to figure out if there’s anything special about them.

“What’s your deal? Do you just give toys away for free? You flirt with all the ladies, enchant them with your handsome face?”
He’s stalling. The toys look normal, if admittedly, a stellar quality. But that should not be enough to win over his carefully cultivated customer base of multiple years.

Damn it, he isn‘t making any progress like this. If only the man would just tell him.

It’s not like he can just track down former customers of his, standing by their window at night like a spurned lover, howling why they left him.

“What‘s your secret?”

Finally, finally, the man stops smiling. Straightens his posture, drops the accent.

“Play a game with me. Then I will tell you.”

…A game. The man wants him to play a game.

And here Victor was, thinking they could finally talk like adults.
What a foolish hope.

He turns around sharply on his heel, missing the way his rival’s face falls for real this time, replaced by a dissatisfied scowl.

“I don’t play with competition. Good day, sir.” 

Chapter Text

“I don’t play with competition. Good day, sir.”

And Victor doesn’t. He doesn’t have the time for children’s play or stupid mind games, he has a business to run. 

If he can’t find out what makes this new toy shop so special, he’ll have to compete without knowing. 
Lower prices, novelty, a jovial attitude.
…nothing works. The numbers keep dwindling. 

Yet Victor refuses to go back. His pride doesn’t let him.

Besides, even if he played the darn game, why on earth would the shopkeeper, this “toy maker”, as he had called himself, tell him anything of use? Why would he want to give a rival business owner the ability to compete?
It would be an utterly stupid move, one that no sane person would make.

After all, running a business is war. A polite, careful, non-deadly war. 

No, if Victor had learned one thing from his father, it was that if a deal seemed too good to be true, it wasn’t.

He’d learned that the summer of fifth grade, when he’d begged his father for money to spend on candy, and his father had given it to him in exchange for taking out the trash.
He’d been surprised and excited, eager to agree.

What he hadn’t known, was that when his father said “taking out the trash”, he had meant for him to do so the whole summer. 

Victor had learned his lesson well. 



He keeps working. Ignoring that he loses customers left and right, that the finances start looking worse, he keeps doing what he does best: running a toy shop. 

 Every morning, he gets up, dresses in the ugly, scratchy sweater that gives his customers a sense of nostalgia. Has a slice of bread and some tea for breakfast, and then opens up the store.

Ignoring that he barely has any customers.

Ignoring when the customers stop completely, and he stands there all alone in an empty, quiet shop, confused and terrified out of his mind.

This shouldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening. Sure, success is nothing to take for granted, and luck can turn. 



But not to this extent. Not so rapidly and completely. After all, even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while.

Even if that horrible man had somehow started a smear campaign against him, he should still have at least one or two travelers a day, stumbling into his shop just before closing time, because they had forgotten to bring a gift for their children, or their beloved wife.

There’s none of that now. Just him, his empty shop, and his toys.

It’s frightening.

There’s only one thing he can think of that would make his shop be shunned so completely, and it couldn’t be that.

He’d been too careful, never indulging, never even considering.
No one could possibly know.

Nonetheless, maybe he should look into getting a pretty wife, once he has untangled this mess.
Just to be safe.

One day, having finally succumbed, and closed shop early, he meets one of his regulars on the street, and his heart skips a beat.

A part of him is embarrassed, because he should not feel so strongly about this at all.

Sometimes regulars found a business they liked more, it happened. After that, it was simple courtesy to ignore each other on the street, like strangers.

A different part of him is terribly glad to see her, even if it’s not in his shop. It had been so long that he had seen any of them, that a part of his brain had almost become convinced that they had ceased to exist.

“Miss Miller!” he calls out, “How good to see you here, it’s been so long.”

He sounds desperate even to his own ears.

Instead of cringing, or forcing an uncomfortable, embarrassed smile, like he had fully expected her to do, she stares at him blankly.

“Mr. Moore,” she finally answers, her normally chipper voice oddly flat, it’s good to see you. Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

Victor squints up at the grey sky, watching the fat, cold rain drops splash onto Miss Millers pale face.

Tries to detect a hint of sarcasm in her expression, yet all he finds is an empty smile the likes of which he has never seen on her before.

He shouldn’t care, but he can’t help the concern bubbling up inside him, at the unusual behaviour.

Normally, the clever young lady loves chatting, dropping witty comebacks and interesting facts left and right.

She always makes a point of coming by to solve his newest puzzles, smirking in triumph when she manages to solve them right in the store. Buying them anyway, in order to show them off to others, and because it’s the fair thing to do.

Or well. That was how it had been, before…

She looks so tired.

“Pardon, my rudeness, but are you okay?”

“Not because you didn’t stop by,” He hastily corrects his blunder, “I mean I’d never dare… it’s just, you look a little… unwell.”
Her unconvincing smile drops, as she avoids his eyes.

“I have to go.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he hastily replies, forcing an uncomfortable smile of his own. “I’m terribly sorry. Have a nice day.”

He watches her walk off, feeling dread coil in his gut like a snake.

He can’t help consider that with the direction she is going, she might very well be walking towards Mr. Emporium’s.

Chapter Text

After another week of not a single customer, Victor Moore gives up.

After getting up and dressing himself, he does not eat a slice of bread, does not drink tea. Does not open up shop.
Instead, he leaves his house behind, and goes – once again – to Mr- Emporium’s.

The shopkeeper greets him with that same smile, and Victor decides that he hasn’t missed this place in the least.

“Ahh, back so soon! You have missed ich, have you not?”

“Tell me what you have done,”
He demands, in lieu of a greeting.

“Nothing makes sense anymore.”

The man smiles, all teeth this time. A real smile. Victor doesn’t like it one bit.

“Zhe rules are important, don’t you zhink? Play ein game with me.”

There he goes again, with that game of his. The sheer intensity of his icy gaze as he demands it making Victor’s skin crawl, wanting to decline.

Then again, Victor thinks, I suppose it’s not a crime to be strange.

A game is a small thing to ask for in exchange for clarity, even if it’s a strange demand.

He has no choice. If things continue as they are, he would have to sell the shop, his shop.

The one his grandfather had built from nothing but a dream, and given to his only son, Victor‘s father.
Who, in turn, had nurtured and protected it like a beloved child, until the time was right to pass it on to him.

He doesn’t plan on doing the same, unwilling to have a son of his own. But that was a problem for much later in his life.
A problem he wants to have the privilege of experiencing.

He is a Moore, he can‘t let the dream die.
Not without fighting.

“If you insist.”

He didn’t think it was possible, but the man’s smile widens.

“Now, what game vill zhe lovely rival choose? Chess? Poker? Mikado?”

He’s giving the choice to Victor? Big mistake. He’s not eager to play a game with a man he barely knows, yet still wishes he knew less.

He wants to be done with this as quick as possible, to see if he keeps his word and tells him how he managed what he did. Or, what it is he did, to start with.

“Let’s play coin toss.”

The shopkeeper’s wide smile diminishes somewhat, and Victor takes great delight in that fact.

He almost expects him to argue like a child, that they should play a fun game. One that takes less than three seconds.

Surprisingly, the shopkeeper doesn’t argue. Instead, he fishes a silver coin from his apron, handing it to Victor.

“I choose heads. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Yes, go ahead,” the man answers, gaze fixated on the coin in Victor’s hands, watching like a hawk.
Is he seriously afraid Victor would switch it out for a trick coin, just to win? He doesn’t care enough for that.

With little flourish, he tosses the coin, catching it in the palm of his hand.

“Tails. You win. Congrats.”

He couldn’t care less. The man though, beams brighter than the sun. It could almost be called adorable, if Victor didn’t despise him so much.

“Happy now? We played a game. Now tell me why my customers are leaving me.”

“Oh, but you didn’t win,” the shopkeeper answers, voice dripping with malicious glee. “Why should I give you a prize?”

This man would never have survived Victor’s father.

“We agreed to play for the answer, not that I would need to win for it.”

Blue eyes narrow in anger, and perhaps a tiny bit of intrigue.

“Very vell. You vill get what you ask for.”
For the first time since stepping foot inside this strange shop, Victor smiles.

“Your customers are unable to visit you, because I have trapped them, and turned them to toys.”

Victor stops smiling.

He’s so stupid, thinking if he played by the rules of this strange man, he’d actually get something valuable. He should have known it was all just a joke to him.

“So you don’t want to tell me. I see.”

It’s hard to keep the bitterness from his voice.
“I’ll be leaving then. Good day.”
He’s halfway to the door, when the man speaks up, stopping him.

“Victor.”

There’s no amusement in that voice now, no accent. It’s smooth, dangerous.

He turns around, suddenly feeling very cold.
“How do you know my name? I never told you.”

“I won,” the man repeats, ignoring his question completely. “You owe me a prize.”

“I never agreed to those terms,” Victor replies, throat dry.

“You agreed by playing.”

Victor opens his mouth, wants to explain just how ridiculous that is from a legal standpoint, but strangely, no words come out.

“Haggling won’t help you here.”

Suddenly the room is filled with a heavy atmosphere, tension so thick Victor can almost feel it clogging his airways. He eyes the door, debating wether he should take his chances, or if the madman would tackle him down before he could reach safety.

“What do you want?”

The man smiles, and it makes Victor’s skin crawl.

“You’ll work for me, from now on, ja?”

He doesn’t mean to, but Victor breaks out into laughter. It’s all too much, this strange madman knowing his name, saying strange things, and then demanding him to give up his life long dream over a silly lost game.

“Give up my shop, and work for you? That’s absolutely ridiculous. I’d rather be known a liar and breaker of my word. I’d rather be dead.”

He takes a step towards the shop entrance, before stopping and turning around again.

“Not that you had my word in the first place.”

Then he storms off to yank the door open.
Or, well, attempt to. The door doesn’t budge, even as he panics and pulls harder.

Had the loony shopkeeper somehow managed to lock it, without him noticing?
No, that was impossible. It had to be some kind of trick.

“This is ridiculous, open this door and let me out immediately,” he hisses, furious now.

Whipping around to demand it again, louder this time, he flinches to find the man already standing there, way too close. He hadn’t heard him approach at all.

Victor isn’t exactly short, has always believed himself a man of average height. In fact, he could have sworn he was almost as tall as the shopkeeper.

Now though, up close, the man towers over him. If he weren’t already with his back to the wall (well, door.) he’d take a step back, just to regain some personal space.

“Who are you?” He asks, unable to keep the quiver from his voice. No sane man would do any of this. Did he somehow manage to stumble into the arms of a crazed serial killer?

“Oh, but ich have already told jou, I’m the Toymaker!”

There he goes again, with that stupid accent.

“That’s not a name. What’s your name?” Victor asks, pressing his back against the door with more force, trying to find a lock or latch of some sort. Desperate to dismantle the barrier currently keeping him from freedom.

“It is.”

Hands clamp down on his shoulder, painful and inescapable like steel.

“Komm along now, there iz someone you should be ge-meeting.”

Chapter Text

The “someone” the Toymaker (Victor figures with how things are going he might as well call him by that ridiculous name of his) wants him to meet, turns out to be a small, porcelain ballerina.

Spinning in circles endlessly, to the same, ever repeating tune.
She’s beautifully made, the details in her pretty porcelain dress so intricate that Victor can’t help being jealous of the craftsmanship.

“You have met her, nein? Many times. I’ve seen it in her mind.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Why do you keep me prisoner to stare at this toy?”

“She came to take her brother’s place, you know,” the Toymaker continues, as if he hadn’t heard him.
“It was quite touching. And I had so many tin soldiers, but only a few ballerinas.”

Victor feels sick. He doesn’t like what the man is saying, doesn’t like how much the little Ballerina looks like someone he knows. He refuses to consider the implications.

“She liked you, you know. Sweet little Evelyn.”

Evelyn. Evelyn Miller.

What did he do to her?

“Your customers are unable to visit you, because I have trapped them, and turned them to toys.”

Maybe the man’s earlier words hadn’t been an ill-mannered joke.
Maybe they had been gruesome reality, and he is in deeper than he feared.

Hesitantly, he reaches out to touch the ballerina. Dreading what he will find when he touches it. Will it be stripes of flesh, painted white? or is the figurine carved from bone, the bones of a murdered woman?

…But no. To his relief, it’s really just porcelain.

His relief is short-lived, as the ballerina’s eyes snap open, fixing him with a wide stare. Her mouth moves, but there’s no sound. What is she saying?

Help me?

A tiny porcelain hand snaps closed around his finger, painful, and terrifyingly impossible.
The mute, blood red lips move again, and suddenly the meaning becomes crystal clear.

Run.

Snapped out of his incredulous daze, he rips his finger away in horror, determined to try his luck with the door again. If he has to smash the glass store front to pieces, so be it.

The man can’t stop him, occupied with catching the ballerina he had accidentally sent sliding towards the desks edge in his panicked flight, before it crashes to the floor.

Good.

He doesn’t get very far, running directly into something solid.

“What in god’s name-“ he get’s out, before long arms wrap around him, trapping him against a chest more solid than it should be.

The man at the desk winks at him, before disappearing into thin air, right in front of his eyes.

“T-That’s simply not possible…”

Then again, how is living, moving porcelain? How could the man have kept any and all customers away from him? How did he know his name?

“W-what are you?” Victor asks struggling to escape, struggling to keep his breathing under control.

It would do no good if he fainted now. As much as he wishes this was nothing but a nightmare to wake up from in cold sweat.

“Some ungodly demon, sent to punish me for… for my sins?”

It’s no good, the arms around him are unbreakable like chains.

“Silly humans,” the monster drawls, suddenly in a British accent.
“You all think you’re so important, don’t you? You’re obsessed with yourselves, you can’t help it.”

Finally, the devil let’s go. Victor stumbles half a step back, then stops. Uncertain if he will be granted more space, and even less certain if he wants to risk testing the creature.

“I’m nothing from that silly bible of yours, and I’m not here for you. No, that honor belongs to someone else.”

“Then why bother keeping me alive?” Victor replies, struggling to regain his posture. Throwing an uneasy glance at the toys surrounding them. He imagines he can feel the force of their stares burning through his skin.

“Oh, they’re all alive in one way or another.”

That’s so much worse.

“Answer my question.” Victor doubts he’s in the position to demand anything, but that doesn’t mean he will not try.

To his surprise, the creature complies.

“You’re… fun to mess with, so to say. I was quite disappointed when you chose such ein short game.“

Despite the terrifying situation, despite feeling like someone had just thrown him off the deep end to drown, that fact still makes a small spark of satisfaction light up inside of him.

Knowing better than to try running now, he stands his ground.
Glaring up at the monster as if he were brave and not a second away from fainting.

“So we’ll play another game! What great fun!”

Cold fingers grab his chin, roughly forcing him to stare up into those piercing blue eyes. Maybe they never do blink.

“The game is this: if poor Victor is forced to lure fellow humans into my trap, lest he suffers a horrific eternity… what will he do?”

Chapter Text

“If poor Victor is forced to lure fellow humans into my trap, lest he suffers a horrific eternity… what will he do?”

“I…” Victor stutters, the fingers holding his chin burning like a brand, “I…”

To be truthful, Victor doesn’t know.

He doesn’t want to die. He wants to live. He wants to make toys, and games, and run a successful shop. He wants so many things. Some he could never have, and some that he could, if he managed to survive this… thing.

But he doesn‘t want to hurt anyone. He doesn‘t want to lure innocent people into this demon‘s lair, for him to torture and trap.

Maybe he can trick him somehow. Sabotage his efforts.

His chances are slim - but not as slim as when he‘s dead. Or whatever the equivalent this monster offers is. He doubts he‘ll be much use to his fellow humans in the form of a marionette.

“I suppose I have no choice,” he chokes out. Trying and failing to escape the hold the Toymaker has on him.

“I will work for you.”
Maybe, just maybe, he will manage to scare away customers, thereby ensuring their safety.

After all, it must be quite awkward to find a different toy shop owner working the register for a new shop you were hoping to try.

His old customers at least might prefer to walk away, rather than entering that minefield of a social situation.

At least Victor truly hopes so.

He hopes he can create a situation so awkward and truly uncomfortable for everyone involved that the people he subjects to it will never ever buy a toy again.
Not in this shop, or any other.

After all, he bitterly thinks, it’s not like I have to worry about losing customers anymore.

His beloved shop, that he had put so much work in, would go unmanned. No customers, no shopkeeper.

It‘s painful. Having the only thing that had ever truly mattered to him ripped away. His dreams, shattered. Popped like a cheap balloon by a monster with too many teeth, and too wide a smile.

But he has to keep his composure. He has to help others, or at least try.

So he does what he does best. Pushing his feelings deep inside him, shelving them in some dusty box in the far corners of his mind, labeled ‘do not open’.

Instead, he focuses on the present. The tangible facts of the situation, the logistics.

“Will you offer financial compensation?”

The Toymaker, which had thankfully let go of his face and taken a step back, freezes. Like a puppet without it’s master, he just… stops, mid movement.

“…What?”

“Well, with my normal way of income eliminated,” Victor says, trying and failing to keep the venom from his voice, “I will need a different way of maintaining financial stability.”

The creepy man hasn’t moved yet. Victor is quite sure now, that he’s neither breathing nor blinking.

How could he not have noticed before? How could he have been so stupid?

“Or shall I ready myself for a slow and painful death via starvation?”

It’s only half sarcastic. He’s regrettably unsure if that isn’t something this strange being might actually do.

Finally, the demon snaps out of his frozen state, returning to normal movement, like an automaton stuttering back to life after being repaired, cogs and gears clicking into place.

“Don’t worry,” he purrs, “I’m perfectly capable of keeping all my toys running smoothly.”

Victor decidedly ignores the not exactly unpleasant shiver the words elicit in him.

He doesn’t have time for this. Besides, it’s the worst possible situation for hidden, shameful desires to resurface.

“So, let’s say you provide for me. How will this work? I go home, and show up to work each morning, and in exchange you don’t kill me?
Or whatever horrific alternative it is you prefer.”

Gleaming eyes watch him, reminiscent of a cat stalking prey.

“Home? Why should I let you go home?”

“Well,” Victor replies, mouth dry, “I can hardly live here.”

It’s obvious, really. At least he very much hopes to convince the strange entity of that, in the hopes of keeping at least a semblance of freedom.

“Is that so?”

“People will talk. You’ll lose customers. Don’t you need those for your sick games?”

At this, the Toymaker genuinely seems confused, cocking his head to the side like a bird.

“Talk? Why is that?”

Oh god. Victor is not ready to have this conversation.

“They’ll think that-… that we-…” He stutters, trying to get air into his lungs.
Having this gorgeous, terrifying man stare at him like he’s a most fascinating riddle doesn’t soothe his anxiety at all.

“T-they’ll think that we’re… homosexuals.”

The word leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

“And?”

He can’t believe how daft this being, whatever it is, can be. How removed from the world did one have to be to not know such basic truths of society?

“No one would want to buy any toys from you, or play any games. Your shop would be shunned, and you’d end up destitute.”

Upon further consideration, maybe he shouldn’t have told the man. Maybe he should have let exactly that happen, accepting his exclusion from society, and the loss of his personal freedom as the price of other people’s safety.

It would have been… logical. The kind thing to do. Selfless.

Right now, Victor isn’t feeling very selfless. He’s scared, and angry, and anyway: it’s too late for that plan now.

Nonetheless a possibility he should keep in mind.

“Zo easy to vorget how backwards this little century is.”

‘this little century’. Yet another thing to file away for when he feeld like panicking completely.

“I suppose you can return home then,” The Toymaker drawls, filling Victor with heady relief.
“It’s not like a puny human will manage to escape my grasp.”

He could certainly try. No matter how powerful this being might be, there had to be limitations, right? Every monster has a weakness.

In stories at least.

“Although I do wonder… such games are so popular with zhe earlier kleine humans, and they will be again. Why do you people dislike them so much, in this time?”

Such games?
Could the entity truly be referring to…

“They- I mean we just think- know it’s wrong.”
He forces a smile, doing his best to breathe evenly.
“The bible says so.”

The Toymaker tuts, dismissive.

“There you go again with that silly book of yours. It’s so primitive and stupid.”

He smiles, wider than any mouth should stretch, making Victor shudder.

“Really, you should worship me instead.”

Chapter Text

Victor is ripped from his sleep by the shrill noise of his alarm clock.
For the first time in his life, he almost considers turning it off, and spending the day in bed.
Perhaps if he stays here, staring at the gently yellowing wallpaper, he can convince himself that the previous days (weeks, really) had been nothing but a strange nightmare.

Really, what has his life come to?

Sighing, he pushes the blankets off, abandoning silly plans of denial.

Whether he likes it or not, the nightmare he has found himself in is real. And though he would give everything just to be able to open his shop again, it could not be.

Instead, he dresses in his usual attire, takes his usual breakfast, and locks the door behind him as he steps out on the street.

The train station is uncharacteristically empty for this time. Or perhaps it‘s always like that, and Victor had just never noticed. He did rarely travel out of town, having a Toyshop to take care of.

Having had, he mentally corrects himself.

Now, with that obligation ripped from him, there is nothing that holds him here.
He might as well try to flee.

The price of the ticket is obnoxious, but he has little choice in the matter.

“One way?” the tired looking clerk asks, frowning at his lack of luggage.

“Yes please.”

Whatever might happen, he wouldn’t be coming back.

“Good travels then, sir.”

So he stands at the train station, clutching his ticket, and shivering in the cool morning air.

It’s quite beautiful. Peaceful, almost. The sky is brightening by the minute, turning from dark blue to purple. Stars blink out of existence, and the silence is broken more and more by the sounds of a city waking.

Victor tries not to think of what ties him to the city, instead focusing on the puffs his warm breaths make, freezing in the cold. Focusing on some pigeons, fighting over a crust of bread, or the yell of a man trying to sell the newspaper.

After what feels like a freezing eternity, the train finally arrives.
Big and loud, screeching on its rails as it slowly stutters to a halt in front of him.
He stands there for a moment, frozen in thought. Staring through the dark windows, at the sleepy faces behind them, obscured by reflecting lights from the trainstation, and frost flowers on the glass.

This is it then.

The doors open with a hiss, and Victor stops, dead in his tracks.

Instead of the dark train interior, he sees a bright, warm toyshop. Crammed shelves, colourful dolls, and a smiling man.

An all too familiar picture by now.

Trying to ignore the pit in his stomach, Victor steps through.

“Well, that’s just unfortunate.”

He hates how his voice wavers.

“You vere not ge-thinking of running away, were you?”

“I was,” Victor admits, figuring that there is no point in lying, when the Toymaker had quite literally spirited him here directly from the train.

“But I figured it might not work so well, which is why I am still on time for work.”

He watches the man closely, trying to gauge wether his reaction is more one of anger or amusement.
So far, it thankfully seems to be the latter.

Eager to change the subject and distract from his attempted escape, he presses on.

“What kind of work will you require me to do? Restock the shelves? Clean?”

A part of Victor hopes the Toymaker had forgotten about the ‘luring other humans in’ part. He really feels absolutely no desire to do that.

“Cleaning? Such boring tedious business. Even I’m not that cruel.”

No such luck then.

“Nein, you will be doing what you do best. Talking to customers, selling toys. Asking them if they would like to play a game…”

“I see.”
Victor swallows hard.

Ignoring his shaking hands, the nausea in his stomach, he steps behind the cash register, readies himself.

“okay.”

Chapter Text

The first customer is easy.
A nice old lady, looking for something to bring her grandchildren.

“Do you have any good toys to give to ten-year-olds?”

Victor glances at the rows and rows of shelves behind him, all packed to the brim, and cringes.

“Regrettably no. I’m sorry miss.”

She laughs, kind eyes crinkling in amusement. She reminds him of his own grandmother, always happy to give little Victor a cookie, or listen to him talk about his newest “game ideas”.
Which, most of the time, had lacked all finesse and structure.

“Very funny, young man. What can you recommend?”

“I’m sorry miss, but we’re all out,“ he doubles down.
“Maybe check a different store.”

Her gaze flickers behind him, landing on the hundreds of beautiful, hand-crafted toys.

“But…but-“

“Very sorry,” he repeats, hoping that she will be too well-mannered to call him out on his obvious lie.

She leaves the store, confused and slightly peeved.

But she leaves, alive and well, and that’s good enough for him.

The shop door closes, and he tenses.
The slow, sarcastic clapping that comes from behind him does little to help him relax.

“I did as you told me.”

“Sehr gut, ja, ‘talk to the customers’ I told you, and you did! Bravo!”

He refuses to turn around, stares at the counter.
If he is to be cursed by this monster, he will not give it the satisfaction of seeing him tremble.

“But Victor. I also told you to sell toys, did I not?”
The hand on his shoulder weighs heavy, yet he does not flinch.

“Do better.”

The second customer is less easy.
A small boy.

“I want this little monkey!”

“Why? It’s not a good toy.”

“I want it.”

“It’s very ugly. All the other children will laugh at you.”

“I know,” the child whispers, looking down. It’s so adorable he almost feels bad for him.
“But I love him. And I have the money.”

The Toymaker’s warning still echoes in his ears. Do better.

Victor stares at the little tin monkey, clutched in the little boys tiny hands, and prays to god it’s not cursed.

“That’ll be a penny then.”

“Thank you, mister! I will love and protect him forever!”

‘Ask him if he would like to play a game,’ the Toymaker’s voice echoes in his mind.

“Hey, little man. How’d you like to play a game?”

The toothy grin he gets in response is bright as sunshine.

“Gee, I’d love too!”

Victor smiles back.

“That’s too bad, because I don’t. Have a nice day though.”

The very moment the child has left, the floor dissolves beneath him, and he falls.

Perhaps he could have jumped to safety in time, but then again - he‘d already figured his “boss” might want to talk to him, after his newest stunt.

He doesn’t fall forever, as some primitive part of his psyche had secretly feared. It’s barely a few seconds until he lands in a comfortable leather chair.

Across from him, a familiar face.

Even now, he finds it hard to comprehend. Staring at such a handsome, well-dressed man, smiling politely as he lounges, cross-legged and relaxed.

“I-“ Victor starts, eager to justify his behavior.

“You ge-followed the exact meaning of my words, I know.”

Victor shuts his mouth. Contemplates. It’s so hard to read the creature. Is he furious? Amused? Indifferent?

He shifts in his seat, scans the walls for doors, knowing well that he has not the slightest chance to get away. There are none.
Instead, he stares down at the armrest under his clenched fist, smooth green fabric. Hadn’t it been leather only a second ago?

“Are you angry?”

He does not dare look up, too afraid of what he will see.

“Oh Victor,” the man’s voice drawls, sounding alarmingly closer than before. “I’m having fun.”

Victor’s head snaps up, incredulous.
To think that his disobedience, or well, malicious compliance, would be something positive to this thing? To think that he might not be punished for it? It’s a strange notion, but a hopeful one.

“I did say I wanted a game, did I not? And you’re certainly playing, only differently than I anticipated.”
He stays silent, unsure what to say. He doesn’t want to play. He wants to be free of this awful obligation, and he wants his fellow citizens to be safe.
He wants to return to his own shop, sell toys and games that would actually bring joy, instead of devastation, horror and grief.

“Ich am sehr excited to see what you come up with next. Only, we vouldn’t want it to get boring, would we?”

“I wouldn’t mind a bit of b-“

“I have the most delightful idea! You will not use the same trick twice,” the Toymaker continues, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.
“Or I will consider it cheating.”

’Cheating.’ Victor had never cared much about it. In fact, it oftentimes made games even more fun, especially to children. When a game lost its inherent charm, it was nice to spice things up by bending the rules a little. The thrill of beating the system, the playful outrage of the cheated one catching the culprit - it, too, was a game of sorts.
But the way the demon says the word, the way his whole face seems to harden sets his teeth on edge. Losing a game to him might be total devastation, but Victor suspects that perhaps being caught cheating might be worse.
“I… see. Very well, sir.”

Chapter Text

And so, their twisted routine begins.
Day after day, Victor chases away customers in increasingly desperate and strange ways, while the Toymaker laughs at him.
It’s exhausting, having to come up with ever new ways, but under the Toymaker’s watchful eyes, he does not dare risk any tricks.
He will just have to be creative.

The next time Victor enters the shop, the Toymaker is already waiting for him. Sitting at the counter, statuesque and still, staring right at him. Not for the first time, Victor wonders. If he were to cut him open, if he were to peel back that unblemished skin, what sight would greet him? Cogs and wheels and metal scrap? Cotton, as innards for the most exquisite puppet of a vile creature utterly inhuman? Hollowness, like in fine porcelain dolls? Maybe his skin needn’t be cut at all, maybe it would crack and shatter.
“Victor!” the creature greets him with an unsettling amount of enthusiasm.
“Toymaker.”
Only now does he notice the little doll held in those nimble fingers, small and unassuming. Panic floods through him, as he searches for similarities between the toy and the customers he had failed to chase away.
It takes him a few seconds to realize that the doll isn’t of the Toymaker’s hand at all. It’s one of his own. The realisation doesn’t make the chills go away. Quite the opposite actually. What is it doing here? It had been sitting on the shelf of his shop, gathering dust in a business closed indefinitely. Had the Toymaker gone there, taken it? For what purpose?
It feels wrong, to imagine him elsewhere. Logically, Victor knows his influence must extend past the confines of this shop, as the creature wouldn’t have been able to prevent his flight by train otherwise, but still. His mind refuses to picture him anywhere but here, surrounded by his creations, a king in his own right. So very linked with the shop, almost part of it.
“I see you have found one of my dolls.”

“Ja, ich was curious about my fellow Toymakers creations.”

Victor swallows, strangely nervous. This man’s opinion should not matter. He is evil, strange, and almost certainly inhuman. And yet… he looks around at all the beautiful, flawless dolls, the creative games. Regretfully, he does seem to care about the Toymakers opinion.
“And?”
“About as shabby as I expected from a mortal.”

Shabby?
His mind wanders back to the countless hours spent perfecting his craft. Crouched over a workbench, working with wood, or fabric, trying again and again until he produced nothing but the tidiest results. Painting beautiful or funny little faces, learning all the elements a game needed to be good. Challenging, but not too hard, manageable, but never boring.

Shabby.

Before he even realizes what he is about to do, Victor hears the slap, registers the burning in his hand.
He had just hit the Toymaker.

Afraid for the dawning understanding of what this means to catch up with him, he charges onwards instead.

“How dare you, miscreant? My toys are perfect.”

Taunting laughter fills the room, disembodied, coming from all sides. He ignores it.

“Even if there might sometimes be small flaws, at least I actually make my toys, instead of witching them into existence.”
The laughter stops abruptly, the Toymaker’s smile dropping like a stone.
Heavy silence, only broken by the sound of his quickening breathing. Surely, such disrespect can not go unpunished? Will he finally join the unhappy collection? Did he endanger his noble goal of driving people away for the base instinct of artistic pride?
When the Toymaker speaks, his voice sounds oddly level. No trace of that ridiculous accent he sometimes sports, no malicious glee.
“I assure you, I create all my toys the same way you do. There is no witching into existence.”
Victor bites his tongue, forces himself to nod.
“I don’t cheat.”
Again, Victor nods. “I wouldn’t dare say you do.”

Which doesn’t mean Victor believes him. He probably could, having no reason to believe otherwise, but he doesn’t want to. This man has taken his shop from him, his dream, his freedom. He wants to force Victor into luring more humans into a horrible trap. He simply cannot be a good Toymaker despite it all. The world cannot be so unfair.
The Toymaker, it seems, catches the carefully hidden but decidedly implied meaning of his words, and does not look happy.
“You don’t believe me.”
“You can’t make me,” he says, hoping it’s true.
Nonetheless, the Toymaker grabs his wrist, pulling him along. “I will show you.”
“You cannot make me believe you never used your magic. Even if you know all the crafts.”
This shouldn’t matter to him. He shouldn’t be risking the Toymaker’s ire over a matter of stupid pride. But for some reason, Victor can think of nothing more important right now.
“I can show you methods of civilizations long lost, methods of worlds yet to come. Would you really refuse, just because I insulted your work?”
Victor stays silent. Because yes, yes he would. Because the truth of the matter is this: pride really is all that he has left.
“In Ordnung, your work is schön, happy? I only denied it because it is so fun to watch you seethe.”

He might not know what “schön” means, but by the way the Toymaker had spit it out, like it left a bad taste on his teeth, he supposes it must mean something positive. A compliment, of sorts.
He smiles.
“Thank you.”
“Come along now, I will show you how I create my toys.”
***
As it turned out, there really was very little black magic involved. Victor would choose death rather than admit it, but it is terribly interesting to watch the man work. The way his nimble fingers expertly handle all kinds of tools, ones Victor knows very well, and ones he had never seen before. The way even the most bothersome of materials turns to something beautiful and intricate under the Toymaker’s watchful blue eyes. Every movement is art, no step ever failing, or turning out anything less than absolutely perfect.
It angers Victor, makes him jealous, and… impressed. The Toymaker, noticing his curiosity, beckons him closer.
“Do you vish to learn this technique?”
He should say no. He shouldn’t engage. But dear lord, he wants to. And what is there left to lose?
He takes the offered seat, takes hold of the strange tool, and lets the Toymaker guide his hands.
His concentration wavers, flickering between the tool, the new technique, and the hands grasping his, carefully, as if they might break.
Perhaps they would, considering the inhuman strength that the Toymaker seems capable of.
His hands don’t feel rough, as the hands of a Toymaker should, marked and changed by years of hard work – instead they are smooth and cold and strange.

“Concentrate, Victor, if you want to learn this.”
He ignores how the Toymaker’s touch makes his skin prickle, how his closeness makes his heart beat faster in… fear? Confusion? He does not know. Instead, he returns his focus to the activity at hand, to the forbidden knowledge he is hoping to learn.

He would not have expected the Toymaker to be a patient teacher, but it seems that when it comes to toymaking itself, he is much better company than usually. Careful, focused, almost… happy.
When a customer enters, no doubt wanting to buy a toy, Victor doesn’t even have to scrabble for an excuse, the Toymaker sends them away all on his own.
The whole experience is surprisingly pleasant. He hadn’t been aware, the amount of information and skill that his captor possessed, and that he was apparently willing to share them with him.
That is something he immediately integrates into both of their days. Not always, not the whole day, as he doesn’t want to overdo it. But just often enough to not be obvious, he asks questions. Lets the Toymaker explain, gets him to talk about toy related things.
What he enjoys most, is still when he gets the Toymaker to teach him something. He likes making things, had missed it. Enjoys the new possibilities that have opened up to him.

As far as Victor is concerned though, all time spent without trapping humans is time well spent.
It’s damn lucky too, that this new opportunity at distraction has opened up to him, because Victor is starting to run out of ideas. The few he has left are dangerously close to things he has already attempted. He is walking a fine line, a line that gets finer still with every customer that enters the shop.
And yet he keeps trying.

He waits until he can see a potential customer approaching, waits a bit more, to be absolutely sure that they’re bee-lining towards the shop door. Then, he sprints from behind the counter, flips the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ just before they can reach for the handle.
“I was ge-vondering when you would try that. It’s, how do you mortals put it… low hanging fruit.”
The glare Victor sends his way is scorching enough that it would have made anyone shiver, but the Toymaker just grins, pats his shoulder, and disappears like a ghost.
***
The teen stares at him, incredulous.
“You’re giving me 3 bucks not to shop here?”
“Yes,” Victor replies, offering his most radiant smile. “To never ever come back, to be precise.”
“Wow, you must be a case for the loony bin, but alright. Yeah. I’ll take your offer.”
***
“So you’re paying me not to buy the d-“ the little girl says, before he interrupts her, panicked.
“Not at all! Very different. I’m letting you buy the doll, but I’m buying it back, for thrice the price. Understood?”
“Well, sir. Not really. You’re being silly.”
“Yes,” he agrees, trying to hide the panic in his voice. “I’m… being silly. Is that okay? Can we be silly together?”
The little girl looks at him, with her big eyes, clutching the doll she had chosen.
“…mother says I need to grow up.”
Victor winces. He very much would like this child to grow up healthy and happy. For that, he would need her to stay childish for a bit longer.
“Your mother doesn’t have to know. Being a bit silly can be our little secret.”
“…okay.” The little girl shily agrees, hands back the doll. He places the coins in her small hand, waves at her as she leaves.
The ‘business owner’ part of him cringes, at the no doubt horrendous business exchange, but oh well. His personal funds hardly matter now, do they? His eldritch boss had agreed to “provide for him”, whatever that meant.
Still… the method had been a little close to the previous one. Different, but too close for comfort. The only sign that it was still in acceptable bounds, is that there is no angry Toymaker, telling him that he has “cheated”.
Really, he is playing with fire. He is running out of time, as he was always going to.

He needs to play his last card, his joker. And he needs to do it before it is too late.

The opportunity presents itself soon enough, as Mr. Willow (a polite businessman he half knows) steps into the shop, in search for some toys for his nephews.
Victor starts to sweat, waiting for him to select some games. His heart is racing, the palms of his hands clammy and disgusting. He almost can’t comprehend what he is about to do.
When Mr. Willow brings his selection to the counter, he offers him a smile.
“How much?”
Victor swallows, an all but useless attempt to get rid of the lump in his throat. He is standing on a precipice, pondering an action from which there is no coming back.
He takes one last look, and jumps.

“For a handsome man like you, it will only be three pence.”
Mr. Willow’s smile freezes.
He still gets out his wallet though, looks for the correct coins. Victor can not have that.
“It could be free, you know. If you were inclined to go to dinner with me.”
The obvious disgust that flashes across his customers face hits him like a wave of ice, like a punch to the face. But this is exactly what he needs.
“I really must go,” Mr. Willow says, abandoning his attempt to look for money, as well as the selection he had been planning to buy, and rushing from the shop.

Victor had never been so nauseous and terrified from achieving exactly what he had wanted.

45 years it had been his most well-guarded secret - ever since he had realized his affection and desire were inherently shameful and wrong. He had never indulged, had never even told a single soul. There were no hopes, no romantic fantasies. His shop had always been enough, and also the exact reason he had to be so careful.
But now, to win, to keep them all safe, all he has to be is openly and loudly himself.

A homosexual toyshop owner.

He will be an outcast, a social pariah, but at least in their quest to avoid him, the good citizens will also avoid the horrible danger of the Toymaker.

Victor smiles. He has done it, has saved them all. But at what price?

Chapter Text

Victor’s peace of mind is short lived,
“Bravo,” comes a well-known, snide voice from behind him. “Seems like you have finally found a way to put an end to the fun.”
Wincing, Victor turns around. On the surface, the Toymaker’s voice is bright, cheery, sardonic as always. But the anger beneath is obvious and infinite. He can see it in the tense posture, in the frozen smile. In the way the simulacrum that is the Toymaker’s body is less perfect then normal, off in ways that he would be hard-pressed to explain.
He stares into cold, angry eyes, and swallows hard. No matter how much he might want to, now is not the time to cower.
“I won.”
Any trace of faux cheer flakes off the Toymaker’s face like old paint.
“I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest clue what you are talking about.”
For someone who claims to value games above everything, poker being presumably among them, the demon is bad at lying. If he truly didn’t fear Victor’s line of reasoning, he would surely keep speaking in that ridiculous accent of his, instead of slipping into normal English.
“You wanted to see me lure customers into your clutches. I prevented it. I won.”
Victor feels an odd mix of terror and vindication, watching as the Toymaker takes in his words, is forced to process them against his will. He seems not unlike a predator, caught in a trap, ready to gnaw off its own leg to get free.
If only he knew that that is exactly what Victor is planning to make him do.
“How could you have won, if we never officially played? You never did challenge me, did you, Victor? I’m sure I would remember.”
A challenge? Is that what it took? How horrible, to argue with a creature so very clearly operating by a specific set of rules, but to have no idea what those rules are.
And yet – it’s obvious they’re both grasping at straws. All Victor needs to do, is grasp at straws better.
“One could argue that you challenged me. Or have you forgotten your own words? You were ever so desperate to play another game with me. I remember it very clearly.”
In the corner of his eyes, Victor can see the wallpaper peeling, shelves bending and groaning. But the creature he knows as the Toymaker stays perfectly still, smile firmly locked in place. Not for the first time, Victor feels like a man in the eye of a terrible storm.
With the strangely intimate rhythm they had fallen into, with the illusionary safety of a rule set, he had almost forgotten the very real danger he was in. Had managed to pretend he wasn’t balancing on some great terrifying precipice, a tightrope with no end, waiting to tumble into a future of eternal inhuman torment.
Now, the taste of fear is thick on his tongue, coating his throat and making it hard to swallow.
With his fear, comes a heady rush of defiance. He will not cower. Whatever inch he had been forced to give, he will take back. And if there could be no salvation for him, he would do his best to become the most bothersome victim.
“Have I? I can barely remember. And even you did win –“ here, the Toymaker’s words turn from airy to downright vicious – “I’d never ever let you go. Previous prices will not be undone.”
For the first time in a long while, Victor smiles.
“Who would I be, to deny a lonely god its favourite plaything?”
God.
Whatever has him in its clutches is no god. It’s something far lesser, or perhaps more. Something playful and cruel, drifting without goal and sense and friend. But he needs it in a good mood for what he is to propose next. And whether it is the honorific or his statement, his plan works. There is interest where previously was only childish hatred.
“Nein?”
“No. In fact, I have an offer.”
For the first time in his life, Victor regrets not becoming a man of law, like his mother had secretly wished for him. He is treading such a fine line, with little to win and much to lose. And yet, he has to try.
Perhaps it is simply spite that drives him. The desire to take something from the not-quite-man that has taken everything from him. Or perhaps it is the memory of a tiny porcelain hand clutching his finger, telling him to run.
“She came to take her brother’s place.”
He remembers Miss Miller, delightedly solving all his puzzles and riddles. A bright young woman, full of life and kindness, gushing about her young brother’s accomplishments in school.
“After all, how silly of us to argue over semantics, like a bunch of squabbling children. I would be willing to put the whole thing to rest.”
He can taste his heartbeat in his throat, beating as wildly as if the fleshy little thing sought to escape his body.
“For a small favor between friends.”
The Toymaker’s eyes narrow dangerously.
“I will not cheat. I never cheat.”
Oh yes, Victor knows. It’s one of the few things he is sure of in this sea of uncertainty. Previously a relief, the fact has now become quite bothersome.

“How could this be cheating, if we never truly played at all? And how could we have played, if we both were to agree we didn’t?”
Silence fills the room.
The pattern on the wallpaper has stopped warping into incomprehensible patterns though, and that ought to be a sign the weight of his words is being adequately considered.
“What could you be ge-wanting, strange human, if not your own freedom?”
“It is the dilemma of-” my victory, he thinks, and swallows the words in a panic. “…the situation I’ve created, that it makes my freedom undesirable. There is simply no life to return to.”
The bitterness is obvious in his words, despite his attempts to hide it. To get this far, to get this chance, he had willingly destroyed all he held dear, as well as any chance of returning into polite society. Even if the creature chose to let him go now, no one would ever step foot inside his toyshop again. He might even be arrested.
“However, I would very much like for you to release Miss Evelyn Miller. This shop is simply no place for a young lady such as her.”
His voice is detached and businesslike, because if there is one thing he has learned, it’s that between these walls, everything is a game of sorts. Safer not to admit any attachment. Safer to keep one’s cards close to one’s chest.
Not that it would be a complete lie, anyway. It’s true, he likes Miss Miller. He will do whatever is in his power to permit her safe return to her young brother Rudolph. “Rudi”, as she calls him.
But if he is truly honest, first and foremost, he wants the Toymaker to lose. Even if neither of them would dare call it that out loud. He cannot leave, he is doomed completely, body and soul – but the Toymaker will have to give something up. And that fills him with vicious joy.
“If Miss Miller leaves, you admit that a game without rules can’t be won?”
There is suspicion, and rightfully so. Victor might have called it a favor between friends, but they’re not. Not friends, not strangers. Are they enemies? Perhaps.
No, even that word feels wrong. It’s subtly the wrong shape, an incomplete picture.
“Yes.”

Inhumanly blue eyes stare at him, unblinking, and he does his best to stare back. Then, a crash from a room that hadn’t existed in the shop since that fateful first day of his predicament. The sound of porcelain breaking.
He half wonders if the Toymaker had decided to kill Miss Miller completely, just to spite him. Then again, wouldn’t that still be better than the eternal torment she had been subjugated to? Ever spinning in that horrendous music box, conscious yet devoid of all agency. Trapped and alone, forever.

But there she is, alive, stumbling from that horrible room on shaking legs, like a fawn, fresh from its mother’s womb.
He sees the terror in her eyes, the endless confusion. She is pale and shaking, yet he envies her.
“Leave, Evelyn.” Says the Toymaker, studying his nails in feigned boredom. “I have no use for you anymore.”
“W-what- what is going on? I was just- where’s Rudi? Is he safe?”
“I couldn’t care less. Leave and find out. Or don’t! Run away with a lover instead, or whatever it is humans do in their spare time. Either way, I’m afraid our time together is at an end.”

She stares blankly, not understanding. How could she? Her gaze wanders to Victor, eyes widening almost imperceptibly.
“Mr. Moore? You’re…”
Alive? Not a toy?
“…here as well?”
“Indeed I am. You, however, should leave. Good day, Miss Miller.”
He watches her gaze flickering between the two of them, dangerously akin to something like understanding, but ultimately she lowers her head and steps around them, aiming for the door.

She doesn’t run. She walks calmly, never looking back.
Victor isn’t sure if he would have had such grace, had he been in her position.
In fact, even though he isn’t in her position, the urge to run is quite temping.
After all, there is a burning, terrifying question on his mind. One he isn’t sure he wants to know the answer to.
“What now?”