Work Text:
The air inside the pavilion was electric.
Her eyes fluttered open for the first time as the spotlight caught her sequined skirt, sending tiny stars scattering across the painted ceiling. Music poured into her world, the chorus of children’s voices rising and falling like a tide:
“It’s a small world after all…”
Her legs clicked, the gears inside her turning with mechanical grace. The skirt flared, and she kicked in time with the others. Her smile was painted on, but she felt it radiating from her.
Rows of faces floated by in boats. Children pointed. Adults smiled. Cameras flashed, capturing her forever.
“She’s the prettiest one,” a woman whispered as she drifted past.
The words echoed through her like a heartbeat.
The prettiest one.
And in that instant, she wasn’t just a doll. She was a starlet. A showgirl. The Parisian dream of the World’s Fair.
The spotlight lingered on her, or so she believed. And she knew—this was her stage, her song, her forever.
The Fair went on, season after season, and she only grew brighter. The visitors adored the French Can-Can troupe, but she— she —was their favorite.
Children clapped their hands, enchanted by her ribbons. Couples laughed softly, pointing as she high-kicked with impossible poise. The flash of cameras became her applause.
“I want to see her again!” a boy cried one day, tugging at his mother’s sleeve.
“She’s beautiful,” another guest said.
The words clung to her like jewels. Each compliment, each passing glance, each click of a shutter—fuel for her painted heart. She began to dream between performances, imagining herself not as a doll, but as a cabaret star in Paris. The grand lights, the velvet curtains, the endless music.
She was a star before Lola was even written. A dancer, forever adored. The Fair ended, but the song did not.
She traveled to California, still wrapped in her Parisian ribbons, expecting the same adoration. Disneyland was a new stage, and she believed the audience would love her more than ever.
But something was different.
The room was larger, the lights brighter, the voices louder. The applause of cameras wasn’t as constant. Guests still smiled, yes, but their attention felt divided.
Then came whispers from the others. Newer dolls were being built. Fresh faces. Improved mechanics.
“Progress,” one of the older dolls sighed.
She laughed it off. Surely she would remain. After all, wasn’t she the prettiest? The darling of world’s fair?
But doubt had begun to gnaw at her painted smile. The day she saw them was the day her stage dimmed.
The new Can-Can dolls were dazzling. Their skirts puffed brighter, their sequins caught the light like stars. Their legs moved smoother, faster. They didn’t creak when they kicked. Their paint was fresh, their ribbons crisp.
The guests gasped and clapped, pointing at them with the same awe she once commanded.
And then—without warning—she was gone.
Lifted quietly from the stage during maintenance, tucked behind curtains, wheeled down a narrow hallway into the darkness of the storage room.
No goodbye. No applause.
Just silence.