#ZapphAtext

[zapphattack]

WiP: Witness Marks

Public execution in TOG, a witnessing, a clash of ideals and morals - prompt

obs: in lieu of a context, i suppose i am free to take the liberty of taking inspiration from the rp for the context of the execution, given that it works out as a mutual point of interest of the characters depicted whilst being a scene that will never actually be witnessed by them since they’ll be doing something else at the time of the execution anyway. this way i won’t be stealing a scene away from the rp but don’t need to make up an entire context - C

Children would always find a way to witness the parts of the world adults claimed to be improper for their eyes. A son staying up too late and overhearing the business of his parents, slinking back down to his room and making it a gravesite for the memory. “It’s part of being a child. It’s part of staying a child.” For undisturbed memories which you could relive endlessly and violations of the taboos of the society of men did indeed come most frequently in youth. It was a reality most common for a boy to watch grownups warily through cracks on the roofing or slits on the windows, observing the chasms of impropriety hidden from impressionable eyes during most hours. “More than actually growing, it’s collecting secrets that’s the biggest part of becoming an adult.” A child perhaps is like a lockbox of adult secrets until they themselves became the adults whose secrets they bore. 

It was a matter of perspective if the hidden worlds of children and adults collided or were of mutual exclusivity, if one witnessing the other was a trait of self-determination or a sign of transition. Caspar Kain would say children are defined in opposition to adults, that to adhere to the rules of adults was to be integrated, perhaps even consumed, that it was exclusively a child’s place to witness the affairs of their elders in spite of custom. Notkin, on the other hand, always in opposition to Khan, intentionally or not, found intruding on the world of adults to be the sobering experience that matured a child into one, a slow corruption, though childhood wasn’t a virtue in itself. 

Khan perched on the steady arm of the statue adorning his family home’s courtyard, feeling the docile breeze of a low altitude, wistfully wishing for the bite of whistling winds, such as those that ran by the Polyhedron’s peak. Indifference touched the surface of his skin from within as he watched laborers toil in the construction of a stage, preparing for a spectacle with no encore, the closing of the curtains of a life. Thinking of it so poetically left Caspar cynical, wondering how one could sanitize an execution into an affair of entertainment. It was mere necessity that tied ropes around men’s necks, it was pragmatism that pulled the trigger. Any satisfaction gained from such business was entirely up to the mind of the beholder or executioner. 

The workers spared by the theater director worked much more efficiently and animatedly than the men of the watch, chatting amicably as they hammered nails onto what may as well be a coffin, following the familiar motions of stage maintenance and construction. The Inquisitor’s men simply supervised silently, looking like carrion birds in their expectant stillness. Caspar wondered if the Polyhedron was built in such mundane circumstances by such menial labor. 

The morning hours were soon to end, bringing the town closer to the moment of Artemy Burakh’s fated demise. The apathy with which people passed by the makeshift site spoke to the widespread sentiment about the man himself and life in general in recent times, although whichever conclusion he was pondering was cut short by uneven footsteps at his blind spot, strides languidly coming to a halt at the base of the statue. Caspar looked down to see Notkin crack his fingers before heaving himself up the pedestal, sitting with his bad leg dangling. Only when he settled comfortably did he look up at Khan, tired eyes still bearing some levity, though it was clearly insincere. “Mornin’.”

Caspar’s breathing stuttered a bit, caught between the casual greeting and the visible signs of injury on the other boy. “...Lovely day for an execution, don’t you think?” His tone of voice was flat, not dignifying the event with the weight one would expect. Notkin’s eyebrow twitched, but he was otherwise silent, seeming exhausted beyond what should be reasonable for someone not bedridden. “You look like you had a brush with death yourself.”

“Astute observation there, Khan.” The boy sighed, posture relaxing not in comfort but a resigned concession, like an animal going limp in the grip of a predator. “How about you don’t  comment on things you know nothing about?” With his eyes closed and fists unclenched, the lines of his body and face seemed soft, maybe even refined. Caspar wondered for a bit where the delicate grace came from before realization struck him with the memory of his reflection, a foggy mirror in the hallway of a home he only recently returned to. This was fragility, like hollow china, a person drained of what had once made them greater than whole. He knew those slightly curled fingers, shaking almost imperceptibly; he was familiar with slightly parted lips and lidded eyes; all signs of dulled senses and blunted intentions he saw in himself ever since losing his everything were present in this boy sitting just below him.

Khan flexed his fingers, knowing the circulation would never return to them the same way. “I know better than you think.” Notkin seemed to almost willfully ignore him, but the fugue of mourning was dispersed momentarily by a real flicker of emotion in his eyes, widened in reaction.

“The Dogheads…” Notkin spoke with not a drop of old grudges in his tone, pausing the syllables as if dragging them back, as if the effort would somehow stop them from leaving. They both knew better than to expect to keep anything they ever loved at this point.

Khan crossed his legs and leaned forward a bit to maintain eye contact, feeling somewhat relieved to have someone else’s problems to concern himself with. “Then the Souls didn’t fare any better, did they.” There was no point in phrasing it as a question. “My condolences, Notkin.” Caspar hoped the honesty shone through, though he felt shame for the real strain in his voice.

His rival’s expression pinched, a complicated cocktail of reactions fighting over predominance. “...I’m sorry about your Dogheads. I bet they put up a good fight.” Caspar considered almost hysterically how they seemed to be adding to each other’s grief but paradoxically comforting the other.

“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there.” ‘I was with you’ went unspoken, but it weighed like a mantle soaked in blood. 

Notkin’s eyebrows furrowed and he bit his lower lip, looking like a child that had yet to ever process a new emotion. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t regret it.” Caspar himself wasn’t sure if he meant that, but he would fight for it to be true. “I’m ashamed, perhaps even humiliated, but I don’t regret it.” He’d wondered what it said about him, late at night, lying on his soft bedding and imagining the best of his wards in rough cots, at worst on their deathbed. It was painful to come to terms with how readily he would say he’d let it happen again, not out of a sense of predetermination, but merely due to the logical conclusion that he would still choose to have consulted with Notkin while his domain was violently ravaged. He considered it may be cowardice to so easily accept powerlessness in this situation. 

The other boy let go of his lip, now red and torn at points, withdrawing a pathetic few raisins from his pocket and practically inhaling them. Notkin swallowed with his eyes tightly shut, and perhaps Khan was jumping to conclusions when he imagined that the boy’s throat must be ravaged, thirst and sickness worsening the condition of where he’d likely shouted until he could no longer summon his voice, one boy crying for dozens of his silenced friends. 

Caspar was broken out of his reverie by movement on the square before the Cathedral, a small crowd slowly expanding while officials of differing ranks and authorities bustled lifelessly, exchanging papers and curt orders. Aglaya Lilich stood on the improvised stage, murmuring lowly with Daniil Dankovsky, both of them pensive but focused. It was a matter of time before the event started, and his companion seemed to draw the same conclusion. Neither of the boys looked at each other as they spoke, too busy surveying the spectacle to come. “Out of all the things anyone with the Inquisitor’s power could be doing while we all die at the hands of this fucking plague, they’re wasting resources to kill a person instead.”

Khan wondered if Notkin was reaching an emotional breaking point or if this topic of discussion seemed to him like a worn debate, perhaps even a source of comfort. It said much about their situation that gossiping about an execution was a refreshing break from the circumstances of their lives. “It’s about morale. Besides, the man is partially responsible for the death toll, given his responsibility and how he butchered it.” 

Notkin looked at him over his shoulder, an askance expression that somehow didn’t convey the weight of a debate about a man’s life. “Killing him won’t solve anything.” The way he looked at Khan conveyed all the old arguments he’d ever given before, though now there was an edge of desperation, as if he wanted to revive his convictions for the sake of his sanity. “Burakh may be incompetent at the worst times, but his attitude and failures don’t mean he deserves death.”

“His few virtues don’t mean he deserves life either.” Caspar’s apathy was genuine, though a part of him did find Notkin to be within reason to protest. “The man was careless and volatile, his intervention did very little to assist those in need.”

His rival glared up at him, and the restlessness of his posture pointed to a coiled urge to move, maybe tug on Khan’s leg, if only to let out some of that bottled energy, childish though the gesture was. “He saved your life! You’d-” Notkin interrupted himself, clearing his throat with a grimace and pinched eyes. “You’d be dead twice over if it weren’t for him.”

The gentle breeze had stopped a while ago, leaving the district in a miasma, as if the world itself held bated breath. “He was only doing his due diligence.” The open air almost paradoxically muffled their conversation, the only real witness of it the sky and perhaps the statue upon which they perched. Two birds on a wire, two boys of very different feathers. “If anyone did more for me than they ought to, it was only you.” His eyes shifted away from Notkin, wandering the faceless crowd, up the buttresses of the Cathedral, catching on crows and doves roosting on the eaves. The sky was clear in the most unfortunate way, completely smeared with a homogenous steel gray.

Caspar could feel Notkin’s eyes still on him, perhaps even more intently than before. “...What does that even mean?”

“Whatever you make of it.” He shifted sideways, lying cradled by the statue’s arm, still following the horizon with his gaze. “Burakh’s death, deserved or not, will serve a purpose. Isn’t that more than can be said for his pathetic attempts in life?” 

The cruelty of the statement seemed to quell something stirring behind Notkin’s eyes. “Nobody gets to decide who lives and who dies, much less for their own purposes.” 

Khan shrugged, spotting a group of Saburov’s watchmen escorting the governor and a hunched figure he was all too familiar with. “It’s what happens. Those in power will manage it as they see fit, and the pawns fall accordingly. The Inquisitor, Saburov, Fat Vlad…” Caspar tilted his head slightly to indicate the oncoming procession.

“And you.” The boy’s response was flat as he stood up, biting back a groan, leaning on the body of the statue for leverage. Caspar didn’t think Notkin had any real affection for Artemy Burakh, but the way he pursed his lips revealed a vulnerable sympathy that some would call naive. He himself wasn’t sure if that was the case or not, despite disagreeing inherently. “You’re neither a judge nor an arbiter, life and death aren’t tools for you to wield so callously.”

“Neither are you, so you can’t decide what I can or cannot do.” He looked at Notkin’s clenched jaw out of the corner of his eye, seeing something similar to a powerless frustration one might feel upon seeing a bull be led to the slaughter, which seemed an apt metaphor. “I don’t know about the Inquisitor, but I don’t expect everyone to agree with my choices. In the end, I sleep better at night knowing my actions are lessening the violent and insidious disorder that runs amok.”

Notkin met his eyes evenly, crossing his arms. “I’m happy for you. At least you can sleep at all, knowing the consequences of your actions.” There wasn’t much to tell apart sincerity from irony, it was as if Notkin himself spoke without knowing how he felt.

As Burakh was led onto the stage, Aglaya and Saburov met eyes with a respectful nod, some satisfied solemnity straightening their postures before the governor raised a hand to dismiss his men and allow the Inquisitor’s peons to take their place. The gathering onlookers spoke in hushed whispers, roiling like the currents of the river in a steady rumble, and though nothing could be heard above the lilting comments, a charged exchange seemed to take place between Dankovsky and Burakh in the periphery of the Inquisitor and governor’s succinct conversation. Khan couldn’t help but shift to sit properly facing the event, sneaking a glance at Notkin. He couldn’t describe what exactly passed between their gazes as their eyes met, but it had a drop of kinship otherwise unknown previously.

“Think we’ll ever be in that position?” Khan couldn’t help but ask, looking intently at Dankovsky’s affronted expression, the tension in the man’s frame like a coiled serpent readying a strike. 

Notkin huffed, gesturing between the actors onstage. “Which one? I doubt either of us would be an Inquisitor. Seems I'm the likeliest candidate for cadaver. Thinking about executing me, are you?” Burakh looked solemn, nodding along and murmuring interspersed comments to Dankovsky, though his deadened eyes scanned the crowd, a man looking back at the people he swore to protect, now apathetically watching him be sentenced to capital punishment at the hands of the Capital dandy. The irony was scornfully delightful, though only a cold dread remained when Artemy’s eyes met Khan’s for a moment.

Caspar looked sideways at his rival, feeling a levity foreign to the ongoing context.”If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be here.” To think casual death threats during an execution would be the most relaxed he felt in such a long time. 

With a final nod, Saburov stood back with his hands behind his back, looking the picture of a dutiful governor, though the sallow skin and creased clothes told of what town he was governor of. The Inquisitor stood taller, chin raised and chest puffed, projecting her voice between the tall walls of the Cathedral and Crucible. “Artemy Burakh, by order of the Governor and with the acquiescence of the Inquisitor, you have been sentenced to death by execution. Your crimes of violence, malpractice and neglect speak for themselves. Have you anything to say for yourself, knowing it will not change your fate?”

Having little interest in the event itself, Caspar slid down from where he sat and leaned on the statue beside Notkin, scrutinizing his companion’s pensive expression. He mildly kept track of Burakh’s response, listening to the deep rumble of the man’s disused voice. “I didn’t commit those crimes, so I have no excuses to give for acts I don’t claim. As for my failings as a healer, I admit I did not accomplish the miraculous, but neither did any of my colleagues. My only hope is that this will change after I’m gone.” The man turned to Dankovsky, melancholic regret clashing with bitterness in his expression. The Bachelor was impassive but for a sharpness in his eyes, venomous and unforgiving. 

Notkin’s breathing quickened ever so slightly, chest rising and falling with a few stutters, minor grimaces passing over his visage in moments of pain. Caspar wondered what wounds would be painted on him underneath his shirt, how painful it must’ve been to walk to this place just to witness the tail end of a tragedy. Aglaya hummed shortly before cutting the silence. “I’m sure your colleagues appreciate the hope. One of them deigned to request a direct role in your death, however, so perhaps your conscience shouldn’t be so clear. Daniil Dankovsky, at your discretion.”

The Bachelor stepped forward, putting himself side by side with Burakh before quickly turning and pointing a revolver at his head point blank. His lips moved, though no words could be heard above the murmurs of the crowd. Burakh fell to his knees, facing Dankovsky with clear eyes and parted lips. The anticipation made it clear the executioner was seconds away from pulling the trigger, and Caspar felt Notkin’s fingers twitch next to his hand, touching him like static electricity. Khan felt the need to keep his eyes straight ahead, unblinking, observing the execution with full clarity, so he could very clearly distinguish the next words formed soundlessly by Dankovsky’s lips. “Vade in pace.”

The gunshot didn’t startle him as much as Notkin jerking his head aside in anticipation, and he was keenly aware of the head that fell onto his shoulder, the shaking of his rival’s lips with each unsteady intake of air, the fingers clenched in his from an overlooked movement. Silence finally settled upon the street once the body fell with a dull knock on the tainted stage. Caspar wondered why he felt as if the blood splashed on his face from this distance, an impossible sensation, though he reached with his free hand to wipe his cheek, looking down and seeing his fingers clean as they were before. If his body was clean, then that meant it was his soul that was tainted. He exhaled, feeling as though he’d let go of his last memory of Artemy Burakh, a man he had no lost love for. 

Caspar felt the time pass, in his mind and at his fingertips, holding his pocketwatch and feeling the ticks. In the courtyard of the Crucible he could allow himself to relax, letting the surroundings fade away and simply processing the events of the past while. They sat close together for long enough that the stage was almost completely disassembled by the time Notkin moved again, though it was only to unfold his bad leg from where it was bent in his crouch, letting it lie parallel to Caspar’s own outstretched leg. He was completely still as he paid attention to Notkin, picking at all the reasons he could imagine for the boy to shut down so easily, especially in his presence. Exhaustion, pain, shock, fear, anger, sadness. All the terrible feelings in the world didn’t explain why he’d allow himself the vulnerability to be in such a state with Khan, but he realized that pondering it any more would only serve to stick needles in his own heart as if the source of the bleeding wasn’t the whole.

“Khan… What’s real?” He felt Notkin lift his head, hooking his chin on Caspar’s shoulder to regard him tiredly. “What do we have left?”

Caspar gazed at him sideways, expecting brokenness and being met with resolve. This wasn’t a question coming from a place of despair, but a tangible gathering of thoughts. Khan had refused to consider his losses as irreversible, yet here was Notkin facing the abyss with wit and determination. “...You shouldn’t be asking me this. I was never taken with reality, was I.” Either he’d lost circulation in his fingers and was getting phantom sensations or Notkin tightened his hold, and it was impossible to tell which possibility was more real. “You tell me.”

His companion licked his lips, hooking the fingers of his free hand with his thumb and cracking the joints. “...Do you think you could get your Dogheads back?” Caspar felt his breath catch before he could consciously react, a sting behind his eyes giving little warning before he felt a warm tear intersect the phantom bloodstain on his cheek. Notkin reached out to wipe it away with gentleness Caspar hadn’t felt in a lifetime, and the action was entirely self-defeating, prompting him to weep more, feeling a bone-deep shame for how the touch finally seemed to remove the stain of death from his face. “Then we’re reduced to equals again. I have you, you have me, nobody has us. Not even Burakh is here anymore, nothing ties us together.”

“No longer bound, are we.” Caspar felt more unmoored by this than when he had willingly left his place in the Kain estate. No love was lost, but the finality of Artemy’s death brought into question every other loss sustained thus far, leaving little room for doubt as to the conclusion. There was nothing left of the futures they had built themselves. “What will you do now?”

His rival sighed, lifting their joined hands in accident, as if he’d forgotten they were held, and something in the gesture gave him pause. He brought Caspar’s hand to his chest, covering it with his own, looking down at them in thought. “Wait for it to stop, I suppose. Same as always.” The rhythm of his heart was faster than Khan’s, and to him it felt as if it were restrained by the ribcage, an irrational sort of thought, and Caspar wondered what it would feel like to hold that gentle but steadfast heart. It took him a moment to realize he already was, in a way. 

Caspar didn’t know what else was left of his dreams, so all he could bring himself to say was “I’ll wait with you. Always.”

[zapphattack]

i posted part of my fic

Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: Fear & Hunger (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Enki Ankarian | Dark Priest/Cahara | Mercenary Characters: Enki Ankarian | Dark Priest, Cahara | Mercenary Additional Tags: Marriage, (the bad kind), Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Anal Sex, Riding, Smut, but like, Despair, Angst, Fear of Death, POV Third Person, Enki POV, Ritual Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, Nobody is Dead, but at what cost Series: Part 1 of Theia Impact Summary:

Separated from their travel companions in the Thicket, Enki and Cahara find themselves delving deeper into the dungeon for lack of options. The further they go, the lesser their chances of survival, until one critical encounter leaves the dark priest with little choice but to commit to an obscure and profane ritual when threatened with the death of his only companion.

“Hammers and nails. The sound of one going through his palm and how he’d accepted his fate, the look of mourning on the faces of those who helped him make himself a monument to his own hopelessness. Not again, never again.”

[zapphattack]

Abandoned: Dogs See Dogs - Modern AU [Clara-centric, gen]

the title may give you preconceived notions but i assure you this is not anything you'd expect from me. this is from a defunct modern au of gorkhon that i used to sketch stuff for during class, not much to say for myself given how i don't think of it much anymore

Clara was in trouble. Nothing she couldn't settle, of course, she was adept at solving issues, it was the sole reason she was still alive. Probably. She honestly couldn't recall clearly most details of her life leading up to this moment. Either way, she needed cash, because she was almost certain she'd be turning 18 in a few months and she knew what happened to kids in shelters who became legal adults. She had to leave her foster parents at some point in the near future, the Saburovs didn't need her brand of trouble on top of their already notable pile of responsibilities managing the hellscape that was the school year-round. 

The campus was quiet as she lurked, dawn threatening to break in the next hour or so. Gorkhon University, funded by Olgimsky Enterprises and built by the Stamatin Brothers and Co with direction from the Kain Institute of Science and Education, headed by the Saburov Group of directorial principals. A private school with unorthodox practices like open program learning and an overpriced list of extracurricular coursework, public access libraries and laboratories alongside private collections of anything ranging from artwork and literature to patented chemical formulas for pharmaceutical drugs, student housing going from absurdly cheap studio aps to bizarrely expensive lofts, and sporting a passable high school campus as well as a very well-rounded college education program. 

It was conceptually utopic and functionally a mess of bureaucracy all the way up and down the chain of endless systems keeping it all from crumbling under its own weight. At least the three pillars kept each other in check, and consequently themselves busy enough to make loitering the grounds a minor offense overlooked at most times. 

The architects that made the place opted for the baffling design choice of having as many alleyways and pavilions between buildings as there were open streets and elevated walkways connecting everything, like a freaky attempt at an architectural nervous system. Worst of all, it worked like a charm to maneuver places easily without crowding the main pathways between building sectors. Clara thought that the librarian, or whatever position Lyuricheva held officially, deserved more credit for being the glue to the Stamatins' barely cohesive vision for the buildings. planning all the roads seemed like a nightmare when taking into account the creative decisions Peter Stamatin adamantly defended and Andrey Stamatin made a reality.

As it were, Clara was glad for the elevated footpath she took, because it led her to the most fateful piece of glossy A4 paper she encountered up to this juncture of her life. It was in a graphic artstyle with neon colors highlighting the text “Diamond Dogfight: Battle of the Bands!” at the top of a rather crowded poster. Below there were cut-out pictures of people singing into microphones or playing what one could presume to be sick guitar riffs. Alongside the images were a few blocks of text reading “Participate in the newest talent scouting efforts of the Ace of Diamonds Theater and Circus Troupe! Sign up today with at least two other bandmates and compete in a tournament-style round-robin elimination competition. Impress our panel of judges to win a grand prize of 100,000 rubles!!” and she spotted a QR code at the bottom corner alongside an email address and phone number labeled “Ace of Diamonds contact info”.

 She barely registered her phone in her hand, mind running wild thinking about how neat and tidy this solved all her problems as she scanned the code, which led to a sleek website sporting a huge block of logos at the top she could imagine was a list of sponsors. In that list was the clock of the Kain Institute, the bull of the Olgimsky Industries, the bold S of the Saburov Group, as well as some smaller icons depicting the Steppen symbol of the Khatanghe Initiative Fund, the geometric logo of Polyhedron Project and the blazon of the Town Hall. Clara was almost amused by how the three big logos competed for attention, the two at the sides raised a bit above the one in the center, clearly a design choice settled on after a long argument by the families as to how to make them equal in the layout.

She skimmed over the introduction page below that had the same text as the poster before tapping on a tab labeled “Rules and Sign-Up”. A much less cluttered page listed numbered rules about band size (3-10 with two categories for smaller and larger bands), song lengths (3-6 minutes barring extraneous circumstances), set decoration and costumes (irrelevant for scoring), the validity of cover songs (valid, but evaluated on different grounds compared to originals), going for about 20 bullet points. The interesting part was the List of Clauses, an additive ruleset about optional gimmicks in the competition. 

Clara’s attention honed into a topic called the “Dog Eat Dog Clause”, which stated the following: “a band may only add members during the competition if they are from another group the band defeated previously, but a member can only be added if they were the last group defeated by the stated band; only one member may be gained each round, and this clause is only valid if all parties agree to the partnership and the resulting band does not exceed the member limit of their given category. The Board of Judges will not be mediating disputes between bands, and any deals involving splitting the prize or other such topics are not to be brought up to the organizers.”

Now, Clara knew she wasn't exactly the epitome of popularity, so this rule opened some doorways for her to advance in the competition without having the strongest starting lineup of players. If she could just get two halfway decent musicians to join her for the first set, even if one left in the middle of the tournament she could still convince her rivals to lend her a member. 

She scrolled until she reached the sign-up form, skimming it halfheartedly until something caught her eye. In small print at the bottom of the form was printed the phrase “Only participants of the student body or junior faculty members are eligible for the cash prize. This includes Gorkhon High and Gorkhon University students and faculty. Outside competitors are eligible for a scholarship negotiated with the Gorkhon Board of Directors if chosen as winners.” She vaguely heard the sound of metaphorical doors closing at that moment

--

Having a teenage girl wander around the university campus was never an overly common sight, but it wasn't bizarre enough to warrant comments, so Clara trudged the halls on what she had decided to call a scouting operation. She wanted the prize, she really did, but there were a few issues with that. Specifically the fact that she was never officially enrolled in either the High School or the University division of Gorkhon. 

She was morally the foster child of the Saburovs, but she had no documents proving her legal existence, so she couldn't enroll in school very easily, and she was only taken in recently, so it'd be weird to ask to enroll at this point, especially since she had no recollection of prior school experience necessary for an entry test. The Saburovs let her have total freedom outside of the house, and she could leave whenever she wanted, so it never came up and they were rather neglectful in regards to such things, in truth. Sure, they fed and housed her, but after she was deemed independent they let her do whatever she wanted. 

But back to the issue at hand. She could try to forge a student ID with the level of access her foster parents had. She almost did that, but she had looked at the panel of judges on the website of the competition and immediately shot down the idea. Student Body President of Gorkhon High, Victoria “Capella” Olgimskaya Jr was one of the main judges, and she'd get caught in an instant if she were to pretend to attend, and it's in the middle of semester, so not even the transfer student excuse would work. Therefore, she would attempt the boldest, most unexpected maneuver of all: convince Gorkhon U students or junior faculty that she was totally a student of some obscure college and they should very much trust her and join her band.

She'd been wandering for about an hour, and there were some noteworthy candidates, but she needed to be subtle in her choices. Her bandmates needed to be quick-thinking or skilled enough to pick up an instrument and play it alongside her, but gullible enough to take part in her scheme. Potential business partners needed to have motivation to win but not demand too much compensation, so either someone meek but skilled or an arrogant talent that could be easily swindled.

It was 7 am by the time she strolled around a dark corner outside the science lab building, where she spotted a figure hunched over in what she could see as a biology or medical sciences lab littered with papers, books and various sundry chemicals. Whoever it was had been there for a long time, and their shoulders were hunched shallowly over a microscope, left hand scribbling furiously on a notepad without raising their eyes from the tool. She decided to do some recon. 

--

Daniil Dankovsky had spent all night trying fruitlessly to make some kind of breakthrough in his research into human vitality and death. That's what she could gather from observing him from outside after she came back from her extended reconnaissance. At this point he seemed to just be analyzing chemical components of random solutions he found in the lab, noting cell behavior and whatnot for the hell of it. 

Med school alumnus, pathophysiology consultant and researcher endorsed by the Kains, he had the run of the lab until morning classes started without supervision, which was somewhat remarkable in itself. Apparently he was also dead tired, as his writing was decreasing in quality from “cursive doctor handwriting” to “not picking up the pen from the paper and gliding every word together like lopsided fairy lights”. 

Clara poked her head into the lab from her position on the window, which was brightly lit by the morning sun. The thin curtains drawn over the windows fluttered in the breeze and ruffled the man's hair as he muttered unintelligible things under his breath. She knocked on the glass, watching as he stopped his ministrations to push his dark bangs away from his pale face. He looked objectively terrible, and the girl cleared her throat to no avail in a futile attempt at being acknowledged. Nothing. She slid over the windowsill and dropped soundlessly into the room, smelling the sharp tang of chemicals and coffee from the bench where the Bachelor of Medicine worked. 

Clara had been elaborating a game plan for the past two hours, debating what kind of people she should recruit to get what she wanted. She had settled on students from an area not directly involved with the arts, as to not be overthrown by her bandmates. Alongside that, anyone in the field of psychology or sociology might be curious about herself and her supposed major, and that was dangerous if she wanted to keep up her ruse of being a student, as well as the more sociable students of such fields possibly not accept her as a classmate if they don't recognize her. Her final choice was a field of research technical and precise enough to have decent musicians but eccentric and busy enough not to question her presence in the school. Med students. 

She hopped onto the table where the man worked, decided on who to try to recruit. Clara probably wouldn't get very far with this one, but a test run of her script wouldn't hurt. She had seen him working since she started scouting, and when asked about him the staff and assorted students around the block informed her of his habits and name, and she brought up as many files as she could access about him from the directorial database. He was a maniac. 

“Muttering gibberish, are you? Perhaps you should vacate the lab soon, your time's almost up anyway, Dr Dankovsky. Get some rest.”

The man startled next to her, and he jerked his head towards her in a manner befitting a spooked lizard. Or perhaps a snake. He looked her up and down before speaking “It's not gibberish, it's latin. And I don't have a doctorate.” His eyes narrowed at her. “Which you would know if you knew my name. Who are you, little girl? Why are you here?”

Interesting that he'd seem offended by her using a title above his station with him. Most men that entrenched in their own work would preen at being overestimated. Still, she had to answer. “I heard you were hoarding the lab, thought I might come in and burst your science bubble to let you know. A favor, you could say.” At his suspicious look she added “I'm Clara.”

“Daniil Dankovsky, Bachelor of Medicine and founder of Thanatica.” Thanatica. She'd seen that somewhere before. “Although you already knew my name. How did you get in here? The door is locked, I don't like being disturbed.” he added, almost as an afterthought. She looked back at the window, then at him. He gaped for a moment before schooling his expression into a look of disbelief. “We’re on the second floor.”

“I didn't say anything!” she quipped, smile in place. This was turning out to be more fun than anticipated. “Anyway, regardless, you might need to vacate the premises in a few minutes. I was hoping to take up a little of your precious time to make a proposition.” Dankovsky looked dubiously over her before she added “business proposition, that is.” which didn't really make a dent in his expression. She stifled a giggle as he shrugged, a gesture that seemed uncharacteristic of somebody who put so much effort into seeming competent and intellectual, but he was fresh off an all nighter, so it's to be expected. 

The Bachelor picked up his things, shoving a comical amount of hardcover books into his bag alongside three separate notebooks filled with sticky notes and tabs. She busied herself with the microscope, fiddling with the dials and cataloguing every fidget she could draw out of Dankovsky with her callous handling of delicate equipment. As he closed his, frankly, extremely unwieldy oversized handbag, he snapped at her “Stop messing with that! You'll break something and I'm the one who'll pay for it.”

Clara was a little taken aback by the silence as they trudged out after Dankovsky locked the lab back up. She curiously followed in his steps, wondering when he would finally ask what she wanted, but wanting to see where his steps would lead. They were going the scenic route to some place, she could tell that much, as he followed brick pathways through patios and wove his way through elevated walkways in the vague direction of either the joint campus cafeteria or the Gorkhon Library. She periodically stepped on the backs of his leather shoes, successfully removing one entirely on her third try. He tripped but managed not to fall on his face, turning towards her with a murderous glare. Clara smiled crookedly and brought her hands up in surrender. 

“You're a little pest, girl, and you're successfully lowering my willingness to listen to your proposition with every passing moment.”

[zapphattack]

Draft: "13 Seats In The Anatomy Theater" [Segment: Utopians Prologue]

a continuation of the concept of the dinner of 13, a conversation between daniil, andrey, and maria

The Crown of the Crucible buzzed with activity, although Daniil Dankovsky was not responsible for most of the movement in the space, only stepping stiffly out of the way of a delighted Andrey and an exasperated Maria as they thrummed from room to room like the ants he used to observe under a magnifying glass as a child. The difference in this case being that he was the one liable to get burned, not them. Despite his pride, he was willing to admit how out of his depth he was in this situation. “And what of it? How special can a dinner be if it's not hosted in one of the Families’ homes?”

Andrey looked over his shoulder as he shrugged on a silk blouse, clearly too tight on his shoulder but strangely well-fitting over his chest, mirth coloring his expression more than the makeup he thieved from Maria's vanity. “Danko, it's precisely because it's not in a great home that this is so important! Neutral territories and all that.” 

Maria passed by them, still wearing her dressing gown, pausing her fingers from combing through her hair to backhand Andrey's shoulder and start unbuttoning the blouse, huffing. “Stop rifling through my belongings, Stamatin, or I'll find a way to make handcuffing you seem unpleasant.” The man laughed, and Daniil wondered if this was an elaborate ploy of his to draw Maria's ire, be it for his own personal enjoyment or to distract her from the nerves Andrey swore she must be feeling when confiding to Daniil. “And the dinner is special only due to its significance, despite it not being tied to the families. If my participation goes as I hope, that might change for next year.”

“Which is to say..?” The Bachelor didn't falter under the gazes of both his companion's only by virtue of his patience running thin for the local practice of obfuscation. “The Kain name need not be tied to all things, it's a disservice to your family's prestige to involve it with every menial practice of this backwater town.” As he spoke, Maria carefully but firmly extracted her blouse from Andrey and exhaled in what would be a groan if performed by anyone lesser. The architect merely stretched his arms as if prompting his blood to resume circulating. 

“It's a bit different, friend. This equinox thing seems to be a tinge more relevant than whatever Kin tradition you must be thinking.” Andrey rooted through his previously abandoned suitcase to pull out a loose cotton shirt and leather pants, talking as he removed his current clothes shamelessly in the open room and dressed himself with not a care to give for much of anything. “It's been a while since it happened last, before Nina died, I believe. Something to do with dividing responsibility between the participants of the dinner.”

The Bachelor felt the corner of his lip twitch, standing fully dressed while his compatriots lingered in varying states of undress. “Responsibility for what?”

“Everything.” Maria's voice carried the same weight as always, but her tone of voice was blasé. “Last time an equinox passed with recognition from anyone, it was held simply as a gathering between my mother, pray her slumber be restful, and Victoria Olgimskaya, may comfort find her soul.” The Mistress heir continued speaking even as she hid herself behind a privacy screen as she changed. “They’d divided the day and night between themselves and brought on balance and peace, or so it's said. Could you take this to my wardrobe and hang it up, Daniil?”

Dankovsky took the dressing gown folded over the screen and picked stray hairs from the soft fabric. “Enlighten me as to why this time around the affair seems to include a great deal more people, if you would.”

When he turned back to the room, it was to find Andrey fully clothed and spritzing himself with what would no doubt be Maria's perfume, an easygoing smile ever-present on his face. “The time of the dual Mistresses has long passed, friend. We're ushering in a new era after all this pestilence nonsense, yeah? I don't reckon I can say whose idea it was, but from the legacy of Simon Kain’s vision we, the Bound, get to be included.” The man paused and looked out of the window momentarily, sight catching on the other wings of the Crucible. “Well, some of us. An even split, four of each inclination. The details escape me.”

“And why am I included in this spectacle?” He was unsure if he'd rather be overlooked as a participant in the Town's future, given the immense headache that came with managing the expectations of the entire settlement for two weeks of crisis.

Maria walked out from behind the folding screen wearing a fitted gown of black and silver tones, picking at invisible specks of dust on the spotless dress. “You, dear Bachelor, whether you like it or not, are now a pivotal instrument of the Utopian mind. Artemy Burakh and the little miracle worker will be there too, undoubtedly to present their own designs on the future now that the present is secured. It's only natural you join us too.” The woman linked her arm with his, leading their entourage outside just as a knock rang out from the door of the Crown. She gestured for Andrey to open it. 

“Ah, seems I'm just in time to join you. A pleasant enough evening for a stroll, isn't it, Miss Kaina?” Vlad Jr stood on the steps, groomed appropriately enough were he not joining a trio of finely dressed people. The man seemed to take his visual inadequacy in stride easily enough, and so they began the walk to the Shelter.

[zapphattack]

[Excerpts] Moments in Time - Changeling Fixes Scissors

[based on that rumor that the changeling could fix anything with just her hands, a little exploration of faith-based powers through the lens of inevitablity/preconception]

Of all the latent talents she was told she possessed, the ability to unlock doors and fix sharp objects simply by laying her hands over them was news to her. She masked her surprise and fixed the Bachelor with a look she’d carefully crafted to unsettle people. Well, the look itself was just her face as it was at rest normally, but directed at someone for a long time. It worked well on those who mocked, just as the Bachelor had prior.

“Would you like me to show you?” a bluff. The Changeling didn’t think she’d fail to perform the act, just that she didn’t think she’d be able to hide her surprise and glee at doing it successfully, which would only fuel the Bachelor’s mockery of a teenage girl. She could remember a distant memory of an event that was yet to happen, him sneering at her triumphant expression and mocking how even she didn’t expect her own miracles to work.

“No, I have more pressing matters to attend to that aren’t watching parlor tricks performed by a pickpocket proficient in sleight of hand and pilfering purses.” a success, if a minor one.

~+~

She tailed the Haruspex to his lair one day, for no good reason other than boredom and curiosity at his affairs. Regardless, she slipped behind him as he opened the door, bringing a finger to her lips as the Wonder Bull looked on, with eyes too intelligent to be trusted. She would request the bull for his silence, so that he would not tell on her to the Ripper, and if that was a strange thing to do, one would take it up with her and her bovine accomplice. When it lowered its head in acquiescence, she drew herself into the large man’s shadow, almost as if it were where she was meant to be all along.

With a slouch such as Burakh’s, she almost feared he’d see her hand slip into his pocket, but she was only his shadow, an extension of him, so she grasped the broken scissors inside and tallied that a success when he moved inside the door with nary a whisper of cloth when she pulled away.

The Lair was dark, as most buildings were at dusk in the town, but it smelled of dirt instead of dust, layered with the sharp and spiced scents of twyre, and underneath it all was the sharper tang of blood. She was only dimly registering the Ripper removing his smock and pushing the sleeves of his sweater up to slouch over a desk as she sat on a crate soundlessly. 

Clara ran her fingers over the rusty pieces of a tailor’s scissors, not a dent on the blades and yellowed at the handle; she could doubtlessly resonate with the emotional significance of the object, cherished by its previous owner. Besides the Haruspex, that is. She hummed, immersed in her thoughts, only to be wrenched out of them by a curse muttered in a language she was familiar with, yet could not begin to understand.

Looking up, her gaze connected with Burakh’s, who was still cursing under his breath and leaning away from her. Funny, such a big man would keep his voice so low even in his own home. Or, the closest thing he had to one.

“Hell, Clara, you can’t just sneak into places like that, you’ll get hurt someday.” He said that with the voice of someone who’d had to give such advice previously. It seems the children he associated with were most, if not all, ardent home invaders looking for trouble they could not handle if they found it.

“I’d wager you’re most likely to hurt yourself when I inevitably surprise you again. I advise you to get used to it, wouldn’t want to have a heart attack next time.” She quipped, holding a scissor blade in each hand. Two halves of a whole, yet layered together, they would not look exactly the same, similar to a pair of hands. 

She noted him muttering “next time, of course.” with a voice of resigned acceptance. “What brings you here, anyway?” he looked to her hands, fingers drifting slightly to the smock laid on the back of a nearby chair. “Did you… pilfer those from my pockets?”

The Changeling looked to the metal pieces, then back up to him, kicking her feet on the box she sat on. “Temporarily. Think of it as borrowing, if you’d like. Actually, I’m doing you a stellar favor, my dear Haruspex! I will fix these scissors before your eyes, just you wait.”

He looked apprehensive, and she could sense a near future, a present where he told her sternly, but not unkindly, not to play with scissors. And yet, that path was no more right before her eyes, like fading mist, as he only motioned for her to go on, perhaps knowing his advice would go unheeded. 

With a wink, she drew his attention to her face, hiding the slight shake of her hand as she clasped the two halves of the tool, the weapon, this mundane instrument, between her cooled fingers, muttering prayers she knew were mostly only for show. The rough grit of rust stained her digits as she felt, like all her miracles prior to this, the capacity of it burden her mind lightly. Just as she knew the truth in her premonitions, she knew at this moment she would fix the broken thing she held. It would happen just as the sun rose and as the water of the Ghorkhon ran, it was the natural course of things.

As she unclasped her gloved hands, she was met with a pair of scissors, rusted and old, but united, as they should be. Pride unfurled in her core, a victorious smile turning smug as she looked up to face the Haruspex. He looked as impassive as ever, if one were to only look superficially, but his eyebrows were raised and his hands flexed, as if testing his lucidity or imagining the tool fixing itself in his own palm. He puffed out a breath, slightly shaking his head.

“It seems I’ve witnessed a miracle once again. I hope you didn’t cut yourself while performing it, little Changeling.” and she almost bristled at the title, yet he said it with a levity only achieved by a man such as Burakh. They say anything can sound an insult if said the right way (or the wrong way, for that matter), but the Haruspex seemed to be able to do the opposite, making soothing and affectionate terms out of words once borne of mockery and cruelty. His kindness was nice, but uncomfortable, like a hand-me-down sweater too big for her.

Clara chose only to say “So you’ve bought the Wonder Bull now, what have you decided to call it this time around? I can never remember. Was it Noukher?” and his confusion was more familiar than whatever he had expressed previously. She appreciated kindness, but much preferred to vex others.

[zapphattack]

[Excerpts] Moments in Time - Changeling Time Loop Scenes

[part of the premise of moments in time was the changeling being stuck in a loop of reliving the events of the game until she reached an ending that satisfied the condition of an unequivocally good ending. at the time it meant me wanting everyone to survive but costing her a great deal of sanity. i never got far with the premise, as it was too burdensome for a novice writer]

Clara could only imagine how many memories she held deep in her psyche at this junction. It was a turning point in her existence, not being numb and empty, but accompanied by the comforting buzz of unconscious knowledge, wisdom that only seeped into true awareness in her dreams and premonitions. The first times had been the most excruciating, the confusion and hurt seared her brain every step of the way out of that muddy grave and into a bigger coffin; a coffin fit for a bull the size of a town, a coffin that held dreams of long-gone hosts. A tomb the size of the world.

A sense of wrong had chased her every step, she had felt as though she was an actor on a stage rehearsing, only to be told it was already time to act out a play she didn’t know the script for. Every response she gave to others came with a jolt, a shock that told her she’d said something wrong; her confused and anxious words only served to prompt looks of disappointment in others. There was an epidemic, a plague, and she was only a girl with no memories at all, so why do they look upon her asking for a saint? She could not be any of the things she’d been told she was, why, she couldn’t recall creating miracles or stealing objects. Something was deeply wrong.

The only time she had felt some semblance of right in the world, a correctness she’d never felt before, was when she gazed at the two acting doctors spearheading the effort against the pest. Of course, that was a rather generous description of their actions, which more closely resembled desperate attempts at grasping the reins of a situation above them all. Yes, they were familiar in the same way she could look down at her hands and discern they were hers, in the same way one could look in a mirror and instantly determine which muscles would change one’s expression on their twin visage. They were the Bachelor and the Haruspex, and the Changeling knew they were to be as light and dark are to each other, halves of a whole, mirror images that created a cohesive narrative, united by dusk and dawn.

~+~

Clara felt as though, if pressed, she could accurately describe the experience of death. There always lingered inside her a sense that she had already gone through everything before, a feeling of stagnant deja vu which she carried like a satchel on her person, a familiar weight. It was a blessing, surely, to not be caught completely off guard, to always know what to say, but it also irked her at times, to know a conversation would go nowhere, or feel the cold seeping into her boots before even stepping outside.

There were worse things, though. The loss of the feeling would strike her like if she were rolling out of a bed tangled in warm blankets, only to unravel when she hit the hard ground. Not that she had the luxury of blankets and beds, even in metaphor. As it were, unexpected events would shake her to her core and exhilarate her both at once, a shot of adrenaline and juvenile glee at facing a new experience. It was as if her saintly mask would melt away to reveal a scared but excited girl, and only a girl.

The source of such unexpected events was almost always Dankovsky or Burakh making choices different from what she would expect, drawing the rugs from under her bruised feet and leaving her to recollect the pieces of her shattered premonitions. If this was what it felt like to be a Mistress, she had newfound respect for the unruffled dames of the big families.

[zapphattack]

[Scene] Threads Snapped, Cut Ties - Termites "Rule Of Rose" AU

a rewrite of the confrontation between jennifer and wendy as notkin and capella while the other aristocrats watch

The silence lasted past the moment Capella left the room, stretching longer than her shadow fading from the doorframe. It was a stillness of hesitation, like hearing a creak in the floorboards and freezing completely, waiting for something to happen next, not knowing what could come of the oppressive gloom. It was an extended stretch of complete blindsightedness, the so-called aristocrats like deer in headlights, caught by the unexpected outburst and suspended by taut strings, with their puppeteer long gone. Notkin wondered how long it’d take for them to fall limp.

Sticky’s eyes were narrowed and moving, standing farther back and scrutinizing his three superiors as if calculating which one would be next to fall. A pawn waiting for the bishop’s sacrifice, perhaps. His eyes lingered longer on Murky, whose bearing hadn’t changed but for the curling of her fingers into a clenched fist, as if the willpower to hold back on reacting to the spectacle physically necessitated an outlet, tension similar to someone watching a line of dominoes fall in chain reaction, knowing there was nothing to be done. There she stood, an emptiness in her eyes that only grew shallower, as the reality seemed to sink into them all. In contrast, Taya wrung her hands with squinted eyes, mumbling to herself so unintelligibly that one could only glean her murmuring the names of those in the room, restructuring the pyramid of their broken game like a brittle tower of playing cards. Finally there was Khan, tallest in the line yet possessing no more presence than any of them, shifting his weight from foot to foot, biting the nail of his thumb while his blank stare bore into Notkin, though maybe those intense eyes were only upon his because he stood directly between the boy and the doorway where Capella had just escaped from. 

When it seemed like they had all internalized the reality that their leader wouldn’t be back, Sticky approached Murky with deceptive care, bending down to whisper to her, the girl nodding in small movements. Khan and Taya watched the pair until the Baroness huffed in disinterest and pivoted to address the Duke. “Who gets to be Princess now?” 

Khan grimaced, eyes flitting towards the door, not Notkin, it was happenstance that Notkin was in the way. “By seniority, I get to be Prince. Or at least regent, if Capella decides to come back.” He trailed off, crossing his arms. 

“As if age matters! You don’t get to choose to be the leader just because you were Capella's favorite! She’s gone now.” The girl squawked. “And she’s not coming back, not if he’s still here! So I say the new Princess has to be whoever cares more!” The mere fact she was the one making that proposal implied the inevitable choice to circle back to Taya.

Notkin had almost forgotten there were two other people in the room until Sticky piped up, hand on Murky’s shoulder. “Well, I think the next leader should be elected. It’s only fair.” 

“You only say that because you’ve already found a way to bribe Murky into voting for you.” Khan drawled, sounding awfully bored despite the venom in his tone.

The blond boy sniffed once in disdain. “What about it? My proposal is still the most fair, not my fault I definitely win if we’re on even ground.” Taya scoffed, walking up to Murky and pulling on her hand as if physically taking her away from Sticky would diminish his influence over her. “Or we could fight. I’d win in a duel against any of you.”

“Not all of us.” Khan said matter-of-factly, and this time there was no doubt as to whether he was looking at Notkin or the specter of Capella’s absence. “As we’ve clearly been shown. There’s a more vicious competitor.” Notkin wasn’t sure if he was imagining the admiration in the boy’s voice. “If we’re going by fighter’s logic, the crown’s his. You should challenge Notkin to a duel for it instead of scamming your way into a democratic victory like a weasel.”

It was at that moment that understanding of what he was witnessing dawned upon Notkin like the cold water he’d once been doused in, though there was no shame in the cold this time. “I’m not playing your stupid games, even if I get to be the bully.” He hissed, turning to the limp and bloodied sack in the corner of the room, fighting the sting behind his eyes. “You people can fight for your shitty crown, I’m going to bury my friend.”

[zapphattack]

[Excepts] Moments in Time - Dialogues

[moments in time was my old document of random writings i did for pathologic, looser than my current works in between streams of the gorkhon. these dialogues don't mean much to me but they may be interesting to someone out there]

"How does one cope with their failures?" "I suppose one should let it go and move on, so as to not be dragged down by past mistakes." "But what if such failures had yet to happen?" "Then one would not need to worry about them." "You have a point. An exceedingly simple point that I don’t completely agree with, but nonetheless..."

~+~

"You both choose to lend credence to only what you arbitrarily believe to be possible, refusing to accept what you’ve witnessed of me before your own eyes. How is following Lines and observing microorganisms more believable than miracles of which you’ve experienced firsthand? You speak of a town that does not listen to reason and yet go on to complain when it is your reason that’s shunned, while being samely unjust in disregarding my own work, which you deem impossible by virtue of your own ignorance. You fear that which you cannot explain, just as the townsfolk do, and that is the difference between us."

~+~

"It seems you live up to your reputation, both good and bad. How goes it, Ripper? Divining any answers from the entrails you spill?" "Is this about that name you presented me with? Regardless, it’s unsafe to wander the streets so late at night, little Changeling." "Better the streets than the alleyways, wouldn’t you agree? And besides, the most dangerous thing wandering the pavement is undoubtedly you." "I concede to you that, but I may not be for long. You remain in danger of greeting the lesser evils anyway, my presence changes little. I cannot scare away all the dangers with my mere being, and even that does little to dissuade desperate bandits." "In the end, my smaller stature may be more advantageous to me than your bulk, then. I blend with the shadows that you cast, the light reveals you as it hides me. Even the biggest bull with the sharpest horns may be slaughtered if caught unawares, but prairie mice hide in his shadow. Careful you don’t fall victim to a butcher who cuts your pockets just as you cut flesh now." "Your concern touches me, little mouse. I promise I won’t be long in my work. Do try to keep safe yourself."

~+~

"Changeling. Care to explain what I just witnessed?" "What needs explaining to you, oh dandy Bachelor?" "You’ve killed a man without touching him. I want to know how." "I can do miracles. I’ve stated as such many times. The work of my hands does not limit itself to healing." "Would you cease toying with me? This is serious. One cannot simply wave their hand at a bandit and walk away unscathed. What did you do?" "Why even accost me and ask such things in the dead of night if you refuse to believe in what I say and what you saw? Your logic no longer serves you here, if it only leads you to disbelieve what you witness with your own eyes." "What you tell me just happened cannot happen. It’s an impossibility. I must understand how it came to be." "There are things you must learn to cease trying to understand, Bachelor. Especially since it’s so convenient to you to dismiss me as fiction but stare at the Polyhedron as fact. You choose to enrapture yourself only with wonders which serve you, and scorn those of others." "You cannot deny what is true and blur it with falsities. There is only one truth, what you speak of is opinion. Your opinion is that you perform miracles, when in fact you cannot explain rationally the acts you claim as your doing." "And how can you be so certain that what you see as truth isn’t only your opinion masquerading as empirical, as you men of logic call it. You have no leg to stand on." "I have no time to debate this with a child in the middle of the night. Go back to your nest and keep out of the way, street rat." "Better an honest street rat than a slithery snake poisoned by its own venom and conceit."

~+~

"Oynon. Put that thing down, you’ll hurt yourself." "Are you sure of that? Or are you only afraid of me deeming you worthy of a bullet in you as well?" "It seems we both forsake the hippocratic oath. I wonder why you choose to wander at night shooting at any shadow that so much as moves the wrong way." "Is there such a thing as a shadow moving the right way? Regardless, I do not owe you any explanation. I need only say I was in the right to defend myself." "A shadow must always move to accompany its source, I thought you’d be aware of that. Walking at night is not an activity I’d advise you partake in, not if you value your life and your purse." "It figures this town would consider brutes and savages as commonplace as rats. It’s a wonder you didn’t succumb to bandits far earlier than this plague business. Even the children partake in gang activity. What else, will you loot the corpse of its organs just as he had taken the few valuables in this house? I wouldn’t be surprised if you were indeed a butcher just like your kin folk." "Don’t forget I learned part of my practice in your capital, emshen. The only difference is context. I’d say you couldn’t possibly understand the reasons which motivate me to do what I do, but you could attempt to comprehend. Alas, you refuse to."

~+~

"If you were to choose a finger of mine to cut off, which would you?" "What sort of absurd hypothetical are you presenting to me?" "I’m only curious, Bachelor, lighten up. Besides, it’s merely a simple hypothetical. Indulge me this once, you dull man." "Why insult me if you wish for my cooperation, then. Regardless, which is your dominant hand?" "I’m ambidextrous." "Well, then I suppose this one, if I were to choose." "My right little finger? How come?" "It’s expendable and out of the way, hardly noteworthy if you were to lose it. You wouldn’t miss it and would retain use of the hand." "Ah, I suppose if one can hold a teacup without such a finger it is superfluous, then." "Quite, if you want to put it that way. I only ask that if you’re to lose a finger as punishment for theft, you not come to me seeking help, Changeling." "What a brutal practice. Is it common?" "Cutting limbs as punishment for crimes is a barbaric and antiquated concept, however, I wouldn’t put it past this town." "I was asking of your blatant disregard for my health and safety, actually."

~+~

"You know a great deal about the human body, yes? If I were to request you to cut off one of my fingers, which would you favor?" "Is this a jab at my infamy as the Ripper? I’ve not left any corpses fingerless, Clara." "Oh no, it’s merely a thought exercise. Humor me." "You’ve been spending too much time with Dankovsky and his theoretical rambling. Still, I’ll answer. You’re ambidextrous, right?" "Yes, how’d you guess?" "It’s observable. In that case, pragmatism dictates the left ring finger go." "How so?" "The world favors right-handed people, and the ring finger cannot move independently from the others anyway. Most importantly, the wound would be at less risk of infection or reopening due to carelessness or nerve damage. If one were to cut the little finger, it’d be fairly unavoidable to bump it against surfaces callously, especially if the stub becomes numb. It leads to ease of infection, soreness, and brittle bones. As well that losing it would cripple your grip strength more than the ring finger. "Oh, how thoughtful of you to consider my long-term comfort. I am a menkhu, a surgeon. My priority is my patients’ health and safety. That being said, try to keep out of trouble, Clara. If you’re hurt, you can come to me for help." "You’re kinder than a saint, Haruspex. I would know, I am one."

~+~

"Stop looking at me like that. " "Like what?" "Like you know everything. It's unsettling and unbecoming." "What if I do know everything? Might I look like this then?" "It's impossible, one does not and cannot know everything, least of all you." "Well, I don't know what I don't know, therefore I know everything. It's simple logic, as you'd say." "That's a childish sentiment."

~+~

"A raven is very similar to a writing desk, if you think about it." "How in the world are those two things even remotely similar?" "Well, they both exist, for one. That's a very specific thing that unites them." "Many things don't exist. Unicorns and dragons don't. fairies, mermaids, demons, angels. A fairy has more in common with a raven than the writing desk." "Ah, but think of a fairy. As a concept, it exists. As an observable thing? Many illustrations or statues depict fairies. Perhaps one cannot prove or disprove the existence of living creature fairies, that much is true. Still, the fairy exists." "A raven and a writing desk are still far too dissimilar. One is alive and one is an object, for one." "I never specified the raven to still be living. Perhaps it is dead and taxidermied. Stuffed, if you will. And a desk is only a dead tree mutilated beyond recognition, anyway, so it was once alive as well.  I still hesitate to believe your assessment that they are at all similar.  I would propose to you then to think of something that does not exist. Not a concept that can only live on as words and feelings, not lofty and unreachable ideals, but the true non-existent. The ideal equivalent of a new color, unfathomable. Take then, that feeling, the vague idea of what does not exist, and compare it to a raven and a writing desk. What you see is that they are far more alike than such a thing that does not exist." "What I find does not exist is the point of this conversation, Changeling. You have proven nothing to me so frivolously. It was a fruitless use of time."

[zapphattack]

[Excerpts] Moments in Time - Changeling & Death

[these segments were little studies into how to describe death and the aftermath of waking up in a new lifetime, dazed and dissociated. i also toyed with having each death take a toll on clara's body, losing fingers and eventually an eye with each failed attempt. there were also plans to explore the pathologic 2 meta-worldbuilding of the events being a play, but i went in a more overt paradoxical manner]

Death was a peculiar experience. Peculiar was a good way to describe it, as “harrowing” or “traumatizing” would be too little on a bad day, yet “panic-inducingly nightmarish” or “soul-shattering” is a bit much on a more pleasant day. Waking up from death was disorienting and a small bit horrifying, but she’d still come back up. The mere ability to stand up after such events was already significant enough to put them a peg down in the “mildly upsetting events to once-in-a-lifetime debilitating horror” scale.

Sometimes, she would run into the Bachelor in alleyways where one could try and fail to sort the shades of shadow between light and dark; or encounter the Haruspex on the edge of town where the steppe would lap at the fragile order constructed by the people of the settlement. Even less times, during those encounters, she’d be pensive, murmuring aloud the experiences of death and rebirth as if to make them somehow more real, spoken into lucidity. The men would listen, awed, enraptured, or disturbed, perhaps even bored, as she droned about horror and numbness, footsteps too light for a corporeal person, but too heavy for a ghost.

“What ho, did I see over yonder, I say? I welcome blades into myne bodies but somehow the cut still hurts like an intrusion, I suppose the skin was still broken into. How could I open my skin without it being a wound? No doors, only walls. Skin. Stranger still that when I grow accustomed to the pain it numbs and fades, cruelly depriving me of what I had made friends and peace with.” She kicked a pebble, the sound disturbing her into looking back at Burakh, who sat still, silently listening to her on the abandoned railway. He was picking away at a clump of grass. “No, not grass, swevery. Why, all grass has a name, and yet we only call upon it when it suits us. ‘Come, Clara, do us a miracle’, ‘Step aside, little Changeling, you’re in the way’. Names are what carry legacy, reputation, without a name I am only a different apparition with the same face. How could they know it was the same body if they did not see where I left to, where I came from? No name, no reputation, no recollection. What name did I hear in the darkness of the earth as I lay on my gravesite, waiting for my return? The dirt has no use for names…”

“A name given could be abandoned, yes. Who did give me my name? I cling to it still, like a child hugs a toy from a parent long gone, not even remembering their mother’s face. Tragic, tragic. Tragedy is meaningless to who dies, it is only a tragedy to Medea, yet her children see none of it, as only the living fear death. Medea? Who is Medea? Am I living or dead? Where have I heard that name? Is it latin?” The street was cold under her fingers, but they were too numb to notice. Dankovsky paused his rummaging of pockets from nearby, eyes darting to her before cutting the hum of the night stating “...It’s greek, actually.” Yet she did not acknowledge him as he sighed. “The time between death and awakening is always infinitely small, like waking up without knowing I was asleep in the first place, disorienting, yes, disorienting. Was I even oriented in the first place? Dreams happen stretched into the time we sleep, taking up time that does not exist when we are awake, yet we retain the memories. No memories, some memories, yet not of the past, of the present, and memories of the future still. Yet they don’t always match, a match that does not catch, yet it still burns away, to ash, to ash, to ash…”

~+~

The Changeling was without an eye. She could feel it, or the lack of it, as it were. Lacking an eye, two fingers, three doctors. What a sore sight. Literally.

– The cost is too high. I've played this too many times. I can no longer bear the brunt of such a toll. The Tower will fall. The Town will be leveled. My Bound will be sacrificed. Is it too selfish of me to wish to perform the ultimate miracle? Is it selfless enough of me to desire to save them all? I am the Devotress, my last wish every time is that I could've found a better way. I wake up as a Changeling after my death throes. 

Clara ran. She didn't know why, but there remained a sinking feeling of dread, alongside the stinging of the harsh breeze, cold. Her legs carried her to the theater, where the Changeling stopped at the lip of the stage, boots almost escaping its domain. The director turned towards Clara, away from the winded girl onstage, frozen in a moment of desperation. 

A theatrical sigh, befitting a man such as he. “You're downright terrible at meeting your cues, Changeling. Which is it this time, too early? Or too late?”

She passed by him with nary a glance. “I'd prefer my arrival to be too early, if it's all the same to you.” Clara reached out to the Changeling onstage, breaking the barrier between them and taking her own warm hand.

[zapphattack]

[Scene] Abject Cruelty - Termites "Rule of Rose" AU

basically a writing study for a rule of rose au, here's the hierarchy of the aristocrats for those interested

Princess of the White Rose – Capella

White Duke – Khan

Lilac Countess – Murky

Malachite Baroness – Taya

Gold Pauper – Notkin

Amber Thief – Sticky

The marbles rattled across the creaky floorboards, some falling into the valleys between the wood. Taya snickered at the way Notkin shuffled his feet to avoid the small glass beads, while Murky kicked the ones that reached her near the doorway back in their direction, closing the door with the telltale click of the key she kept chained around her neck. Khan’s fingers curled tighter around the upturned velvet bag, now empty of all the little colored spheres, and he took a moment to watch the last stragglers stop rolling before letting his eyes roam up Notkin, assessing him like one would a new possession.

“You’re in the presence of your superior. Kneel.” The command was spoken no louder than Khan’s normal volume, though it seemed to demand attention nonetheless. The boy gestured to Notkin with a hand, almost looking like he was extending it to receive something, palm up. “If you refuse to comply, you’ll sleep on a bed of marbles instead. Would you prefer that?” The disingenuous tone was betrayed by the serious atmosphere of the attic, Taya’s cryptic smile and Murky’s looming presence on the doorway boxing Notkin in. 

He looked down at the deceptively innocent-looking marbles, reflecting the candlelight warmly, seeing no gaps big enough to fit his knees. His hesitance prompted a scoff from Taya, though she was shushed by Murky before Khan could even begin to admonish any of them. Notkin only looked up when he heard the Duke step closer, leaning down to meet his eyes before gazing at the floor between them and looking back up, raising an eyebrow. “No.” Notkin responded, narrowing his eyes and holding his ground despite their proximity. “I wouldn’t. If anything, I’d prefer not to do either, actually.” 

If the other boy’s proximity felt like an imposition, his hand on Notkin’s head was blatantly condescending, and the force exerted on him only grew. “You don’t get to choose. Now kneel before I make you.” He scoffed, as if he weren’t already being forced. “If you keep being like this, I’ll make it so you can never move your legs again.” The frigid realization that the threat was wholly sincere, worse, possible to follow through with, weakened his knees, making the choice for him as he fell harshly at the slightest pressure on his head.  Khan’s fingers clenched in his hair, as if expecting him to fall over completely and trying to keep him upright.

The marbles were cold and hard, and any beauty seen in their glass façade was violently ripped away by the bruises they inflicted on Notkin, making him sore from the first minute on the ground, eyes stinging and jaw clenched, teeth gritted in frustrated humiliation. His vision was too blurry to see Taya clapping her hands sadistically, giggling with glee at the scene as if it were the most entertaining thing imaginable. It was difficult to hear the sound of the door unlocking under the buzzing of his ears, though he recognized the two sets of footsteps by virtue of familiarity, registering Murky leading Sticky to flank Khan on the side opposite Taya. His breathing was harsh and shallow, panic rising at the prospect of kneeling painfully for an unknown amount of time, swallowing any composure he pretended to have. With each shaky exhale the hair held by Khan was pulled, stinging despite the other boy not moving. His stillness as unnerving as the whispers coming from behind him. 

The Duke’s expression was more complicated than the blank stare of the Countess, the sadistic smirk of the Baroness, or even the veiled satisfaction of his fellow lowerclassman. Khan seemed somewhat distant, as if there was something stopping him from wholly enjoying the power he lorded over Notkin, an underlying tension that only served to stiffen his actions, making his handling of the pauper all the more painful.

[zapphattack]

Abandoned: "Pain & Pleasure" - Continuation

warning for mentions of wounds, surgical procedure, death and all that shit. this is being deleted on my drive because i don't care to continue this fic anymore

Notkin awoke to voices and the sound of shifting grass and singing crickets. He cracked an eye open only to be assaulted by the light of a lamp swaying with the movements of whoever held it. He groaned and closed his eyes once more, shifting a little and wondering what was restricting his movements.

“Shush, you two, he’s waking up.” A low voice rumbled from above him, and he could feel the thrum of it on his side, where warmth radiated. He discerned very astutely that he was being carried bridal style by Artemy Burakh, the slight sway indicating not only that he was walking but also that the man was indeed goddamn strong. He was a growing boy, so it wasn’t as if his weight was negligible, yet the menkhu gave no indication in his hold or gait that the added weight mattered at all. “Notkin, stay awake, for Boddho’s sake. It’s better not to risk sleeping.”

He opened his eyes hesitantly again, feeling sore and groggy. “You’re so fucking lucky, Khan. We’d be right to just kill you on the spot.” The voice sounded like Sticky, coming from near Notkin’s feet, where he could see the top of his friend’s head bob as he walked. “I mean, even if he lives, you fucked up so bad, you should be thankful if you only end up getting lynched.”

“Spichka, settle down. I’m sure it’s more complex than that.” The sky was still dark, and the air felt like the steppe, but Notkin imagined they were close to the lair. “If we were going strictly by what’s right or not, I should also be executed.” He was sure Burakh thought he sounded very reasonable, but it was hardly a convincing platitude.

A third voice had Notkin jolting in Burakh’s hold. “I don’t need to be defended, least of all by you.” Notkin couldn’t see Khan, as he was walking on the other side of Burakh, behind his head, but he did catch the man frowning at the words. “And I’m sure you’d love to be rid of me for your convenience, Sticky, but I’m afraid your personal grudge against me isn’t reason enough not to hear what happened.”

“By all means, Khan, explain in depth what possible excuse you have for trying to kill someone.” The lamplight dimmed, presumably because Khan held the lamp and shifted his position to glare at Sticky. “What’re you gonna do, stab me too? Fuck off.”

“Boys, you’re giving me a headache.” Burakh grumbled, looking down at Notkin. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.” He held back from saying he was really fighting the impulse to poke his wound again. The man looked ahead but tapped a finger on Notkin, clearly wanting him to elaborate. “In Khan’s defense, I did ask for it.”

“You mean you provoked him?” Sticky piped up, clearly feeling his righteous rage was justified. “Just because you can be annoying doesn’t give him a free pass to stab you.”

“Listen here, you nosy brat-” Notkin decided to cut Khan off for his own sake. Abrasiveness did not a serene environment make.

“I literally asked him to stab me. It’s fine.” The resulting silence was deafening. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but it’s not a problem.” He gave into the impulse and poked the hole in his side, slightly fascinated by how warm the metal of the shiv was, as if it drained his own heat. The flesh around it throbbed. 

“Unbelievable.” Sticky grunted before presumably striding ahead to avoid them, his footsteps growing faster and more distant.

Burakh sighed, looking weary beyond his years. “I hoped our conversation was purely hypothetical, but I guess I should’ve expected you to be, above all, impulsive.” He tilted his head to the left, facing Khan. “Although I never would’ve expected you to go along with something so blatantly foolish, Caspar.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child!” Notkin could imagine him bristling.

The doctor stood before the lair for a moment. “I will treat you like a child as long as you behave irresponsibly like one.” The door was opened for them, presumably by Sticky, and they walked inside. “Oh, Miskha, you’re here.”

Murky’s small voice almost sounded like it came from below Notkin. “Aba, I’m sleepy.” He felt a light tug on his jacket. “Is he dead?”

Notkin coughed out a painful laugh. “Not yet, kid. Maybe next time.” 

Burakh pinched him and grumbled. “There won't be a next time if I have anything to say about it…” He spoke up with authority summoned from a wellspring in his soul. “Mishka, I know it's late, but could you please go home? Have Sticky take you.”

“You don't have to tell me twice.” Sticky said, apparently forgoing pretending they didn't exist and mutinously stomping up the stairs and taking Murky's hand. “I cleared the table for you, Burakh. Good luck.” Sticky looked at Notkin with a mixture of anger, concern and resignation. “Get well soon.”

“Aw, thanks, Sticky.” Notkin pretended he had been addressed with a small modicum of sincerity. “G’night, Murky. Sorry I stole your dad for tonight.”

The girl looked unbothered besides the sleepiness in her eyes. “You need him more than I do.” She said, voice small but sharp, eerily similar to Sticky's annoyed inflection. They truly were quite the pair of siblings. 

Khan stayed quiet for the whole exchange, and Notkin was slightly forlorn at not being able to see him clearly from the angle he was held. When the two orphans exited the lair, Artemy sighed and walked down to his little workshop/operating room, settling Notkin on the stone operating table. “I don't want to keep you from whatever it is you do, Khan. Although I doubt you'd listen to me either way, you're free to go home. We'll talk about this later, and don't think I won't go to your family with this if you avoid me.”

The boy in question stood proudly, leaned against the wall and looked directly at Notkin as he replied. “I want to stay and watch.” His voice was even, albeit tinged with a bit too much vehemence to be considered adequate. Notkin's blood burned and his nerves flared as he considered he was being looked at like a particularly vulnerable beast of prey presented before a ravenous tiger. 

Burakh was readying tools on his workbench, back turned to them and in complete ignorance to the heated exchange of stares they were partaking in. “This isn't a show, Khan. Your family must be worried. Go home.”

Notkin barked a laugh. “Do you hear yourself, old man? Khan doesn't give a rat’s ass what his loving family thinks. He hasn't been home in years, you know. He's as good as dead, where his dad's concerned.” He was sticking needles to see what hurt, watching his rival's muscles tense, his fingers tighten, his nostrils flare, his jaw clench. 

“The Polyhedron in my home.” He gritted out, finally breaking eye contact to glare at Burakh. “Not that it's any of your business, much less my father's. I'm staying.”

The man turned back to them, eyes flicking from one to the other with a kind of exhaustion he seemed to always carry. Notkin could tell, he was a tired man; strong, but gentle, a bull whose yoke bore too tight and too heavy for too long. “I'm not unused to working with an audience, given my more ritualistic work. Still, I'd rather not have to worry what your reaction will be.”

Khan scoffed and stood straight, hands in his pockets. “I'm familiar with violence, Burakh. No need to coddle, especially those not under your jurisdiction.”

“See, you calling it violence just tells me you haven't the slightest clue what you're getting yourself into. Surgery is not violence. Being able to stomach blood doesn't necessarily translate to being at ease watching surgical procedures, else women would easily be the more skilled surgeons.” He spoke evenly as he put on gloves and tugged his sleeves up, forearms toned and scarred. 

Notkin looked between his two present companions with words sitting on the tip of his tongue until he finally spoke them, just to have a say. “If it's up to me, he can stay. It's only fair he gets to see the damage he did.” He grinned with confidence he did not feel, focusing on taking his jacket off his shoulders to distract from the discerning looks he received both ways. 

“Don't encourage him.” Burakh said, at the same time as Khan hissed: “Your opinion hardly matters.” They looked at each other as if they had a lot of words to say but little desire to start this conversation. 

Burakh sighed with great weariness, seemingly reticent to give in his stance and essentially concede to Khan, which was fair. Khan had the effect of maintaining persistence while effortlessly chipping at his opponent's own resolve, all the while making it crystal clear that if he was given an inch, he'd ruthlessly take a mile. The man pointedly looked at Notkin before pointing to the boy's feet and gesturing at the table, so he obeyed and turned his hips to sit on the operating table the right way, resting his elbows on his knees. 

Metal clinked from Burakh’s workbench behind Notkin, who resolutely avoided meeting Khan's eyes boring into the side of his head. “If you insist on staying, make yourself useful, Khan.” The man sounded thoroughly exhausted, which was fair, given that he was woken up in the middle of the night to treat an entirely avoidable but possibly lethal wound. “Notkin, lay down. Khan, fetch me a bottle of antibiotics. The small glass vial with orange liquid will do, it has a drawing in the shape of a drop on the label.”

He could lay down, but his abdomen hurt with the throbbing of his bleeding wound, and he was interested in watching Khan when his back turned, if only to unsettle him; a reversal of action, if you will. His rival walked languidly to the bench near the machinery opposite Burakh, the name of which he couldn't hope to recall. It was funny to see him ponder the tools of a menkhu’s trade, even from the back; his head tilted slightly, and he raised his left hand to his face, probably tapping his curled pointer finger against his lip in thought. 

Khan's posture was always stiff in a formal way, not uncomfortable, but certainly posing an air of superiority; it rarely changed drastically, but shifts in the way his spine settled could tell a lot about his thoughts. Pondering the lair, he bore his weight on his right leg, tapping the heel of his left boot on the stone ground as well as his right pointer finger against his left bicep. The Kain boy was examining the machines and bundles of dried herbs as if they'd tell him something about the practice of medicine, a detached sort of clinical examination, as if he'd be mildly interested in unraveling the skill for himself. Notkin didn't know if he should be frightened to imagine Khan was more than capable of learning medicine if he saw fit to try. 

Too bad Khan wasn't applied enough for such things. 

The boy in question turned, taking the requested vial off the table with a sweep of his arm, almost as if it were an afterthought. He approached Notkin and tapped his nail on the glass, eyes tired but vigilant. “Drink. Doctor's orders.”

“Too bad I don't follow orders anymore.” When his response was met with narrowed eyes he continued. “I wonder whose fault that is, eh?” 

Khan clicked his tongue irately, setting the flask down hard enough to convey irritation, but softly enough not to be chastised for it. “Fine. If you intend to make pain and infection an accomplishment, who am I to take it away once I give it to you?” 

He drew close, their stares unbroken as Khan rested the tips of five fingers on Notkin's chest with force, pushing him back until he gave into the pressure and laid down, looking up at Khan. “Stay down. Play dead.” His pinky drifted to hover over the open wound, slowly lowering to enter his flesh shallowly, flaring the pain to a wildfire. Notkin drew a sharp breath only to let it go through his clenched teeth, eyes closing. “Good dog.”

A cough rang out from Artemy's general vicinity, startling Notkin and making Khan tense, consequently shooting another flare of fresh pain through the Soul-and-a-Half’s core with an aborted groan. “Caspar Kain, I realize you've grown used to saying and doing what you want, which is, I'd wager, a hereditary trait from your mother's side, but I want to make something very clear…” Notkin felt Khan retreat, taking back his hand and leaving invisible prints on his skin. Burakh approached and took the boy's hand, one finger stained with fresh blood; he looked stern, more so than expected for someone with the heart of a bull. He was showing his horns, figuratively. “I will not tolerate your rancid behavior. Not in my presence, and certainly not when it's directed at someone under my protection. You want to forfeit your place under my watch, fine. From now on, you're at best a nuisance, and at worst a threat.”

Khan seemed impassive, but the subtle twitch of his nostril and his widened eyes gave away how startled he was. His posture stiffened, as if someone had stuck a pin in the base of his spine, his shoulders tightening and his hands clenching. The Doghead leader was surprised and afraid, but when he spoke, a thick undercurrent of wondrous bafflement tinged his voice. “...I didn't think you had it in you, Burakh. I suppose my assessment of your temperament was wrong, you're hardly a soft-hearted pushover wearing a bull’s skull.” His frigid eyes were calculating as they roamed over the man. “I'll behave.”

Something about the docility of his tone sent shivers up and down Notkin's spine. He'd never seen Khan so submissive and pliant; it felt like a particularly hazy fever dream. It reminded Notkin of a cat picked up by the scruff of its neck. The satisfaction he felt at the sight was dampened by Burakh’s gaze pinning him. “And you don’t have the luxury of vetoing treatment. Take the antibiotics, Notkin.”

“...Can I opt out of the painkillers, though?” He felt the pressure on him double as Khan, previously looking away in chastised shame, turned to him with entirely too much discernment behind his eyes. Paired with Burakh’s waning patience, Notkin figured it was only a matter of time until someone in the room snapped, himself included. 

[zapphattack]

I'm so mad at Elon Musk that I'm actively going through all my Tumblr posts and retroactively sorting them in tags because i know I'll be using the good hellsite more now that the bad one is nigh unusable and I've heard of the wonders of sorting a blog's posts by tag

resulting from that is my writing being tagged ZapphAtext and my art being ZartAttack because i use social media to amuse myself. my reblogs will also get tags since I'm bored at the airport

[zapphattack]

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Bachelor I]

In the end, it was all for naught. Even the blood on his hands had served no purpose, making him feel like a misbehaving child after a tantrum, the room in shambles and nothing to be done. The Polyhedron was gone, and with it, hope.

Bachelor of Medicine Daniil Dankovsky flicked his wrist, distractedly penning down facts and data, if only to busy himself in the worthless lifetime awaiting him for eternity and onward. The few remaining orderlies bustled around the theater as he scribbled furiously onstage, shedding their ridiculous costumes to reveal faceless peons in a rigged war. What did it matter, anyway, they might as well wear bird masks for the rest of their puny lives, at least then they would distinguish themselves from the rabble.

The ink pooled at the tip of his pen, so he traced familiar lines with a hollow automatism. “Kain, G - dead (Sand Pest) day 10 of the Outbreak. Kain, V - dead (Sand Pest) day 10 of the Outbreak. Kaina, M - dead (Sand Pest) day 8 of the Outbreak. Olgimsky Jr, V - dead (Sand Pest) day 7 of the Outbreak. Yan, E —” The pressure of the pen’s tip on the parchment ruptured the fiber, his fingers noticeably sore and stiff.

An orderly still in uniform peeked over his shoulder at his work, voice muffled by the thick embrace of the mantle. “Miss Yan? I believe she died-”

The Bachelor got up, the legs of his chair scraping awfully against the stage, fists clenched around the pen in his grip. It seemed a betrayal that it didn’t snap in half. This trivial work could wait. He was bone-tired.

Who was he kidding? Wait for what? The inevitability of a death he had fought against and lost? A list of names once used by people long-gone, chronicling menial details. Names, dates, circumstances. Change any of these things and the truth would remain, glimmering in wet ink. Dead. Death had won.

Daniil Dankovsky left the hospital, perhaps never to be seen again.

[zapphattack]

Translation - Play: "Death of the Roses" [Khan and Andrey Dialogue/Conceptual 'Analysis' of the Polyhedron]

From a play I was writing about the Lilich sisters, the Mistresses and the Polyhedron

Andrey followed Caspar into his father’s study, his head tilted to look at the boy directly. “Don’t be like that, boy. You’re still young but there has to be somebody that interests you. Life is about more than just studying all day, or whatever it is you do. The best thing about being human is other human beings.”

Caspar grimaced. “Every time you visit I remember why my mother likes you and my father can’t stand your company.” He spoke with complete disregard to how Andrey smirked at his words.

“Ah, but I left a strong enough impression for them both to speak of me. Did Miss Maria comment about me, by any chance?” 

The young Kain hesitated, lips thinning. “Yes… But I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

They stopped before Victor’s desk, prompting him to look up to regard them both with an even stare.

“Father. Mr Stamatin wanted to speak with you.” The glacial formality of his tone and stiffness of his posture seemed unsuited to the occasion. Andrey elbowed the boy, spiting the seriousness he bore around himself. “How many times have I told you to call me Andrey, pipsqueak.”

Victor completely disregarded the clash of personalities happening before him with the ease of a man married to what would arguably be the biggest personality in town. “Thank you for bringing him here, son.” A subtle dismissal.

Caspar started to retreat before Andrey settled his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The boy can stay, he’s big enough to listen to us talk shop.” He disregarded the boy’s wide eyes and stiffened shoulder.

“Very well, then. What brings you to the Crucible, Andrey?” It was hard to discern if he spoke with apathy or resignation.

Andrey cracked his neck before speaking, making his present company wince. “I thought I ought to warn one of you, and I’m aware your brothers are more deeply invested in this, but decided to check in with yourself.” The way he explained himself seemed to be to nobody’s benefit, perhaps just to extend the exchange. “The Polyhedron is almost complete and ready to be erected.”

Victor spoke evenly, but his eyes reflected reticence. “It’s hard not to be invested in a project the scale of the Polyhedron, but proceed.”

“I’ll take that as a taciturn adherence to my brother’s ambition.” The architect’s tone indicated he took pride in that fact, even as he deferred credit to Peter. “Now, before I continue, I’d like confirmation on how much you’re willing to invest in this.”

“A lot, according to our expenses.” Victor spoke flatly, just enough subtlety not to seem rude.

Andrey’s expression remained pleasant. “Yes, of course, and Peter and I are grateful, but my question possesses a more… Metaphysical meaning.” 

“Metaphysical.” Victor echoed.

“Metaphysical.” Andrey repeated, perhaps only to be vague.

The men stared at each other at an impasse, Andrey with a slightly smug smile. Caspar turned to him after avoiding his gaze since he arrived, a sort of childish spark of curiosity in his eyes. “What metaphysical price could a construction have?”

The architect broke eye contact with Victor to clap a hand on the boy’s shoulder again. “Good boy, great question. Let’s say that a building in this scale had immense potential for mutation. Its mere existence is a crime against nature, which brings me great pride and completes my curriculum of illicit activities in this life, for now.”

“Your point being?” Victor asked, rubbing his forehead with a sigh.

Andrey tilted his head down, making Caspar feel patronized. “What does the younger master Kain think?”

The boy seemed pensive. “Everything that rises, falls. If the tower won’t, it isn’t going to follow the laws of physics.”

“Precisely!” His voice was excited, not a hint of indulgence to be found.

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “This is absurd, Andrey. Honestly, I thought you were working within the parameters of the realm of possibility.”

“An anecdote from the life of a charlatan, Victor: if the rules don’t favor you, change the game.” He was fully serious.

“What you’re doing isn’t a change of game, it’s cheating the laws of physics.”

“And I tell you, as an architect, that it’s entirely within our capacities. The circumstances around here seem to favor the strange and absurd.” There was a joy in Andrey’s aura that was rarely witnessed in the Kain home.

Victor spoke slowly, as if dreading what he would unleash. “I suppose you would know a bit more about the strange and absurd than me.” A sigh. “Very well, proceed with my tolerance, but don’t exaggerate.”

Andrey chuckled. “I think you maybe should’ve said that before my brother invented an inverted tower that cannot collapse.”

“As if I didn’t know.” Victor seemed to age as the conversation went on. “Make yourself at home, I need to speak to my brothers about this matter.” He waited for no reply as he took a sheaf of notes from his desk and walked out of the room with even strides.

Caspar relaxed noticeably and took his father’s seat, leaning back on the chair and crossing his legs, feet resting on the polished surface of the desk, fishing a travel-sized book from his pocket and opening it with the smooth motion of someone who took such a posture frequently. Andrey thumbed through the stacks of paperwork on the desk lazily, humming.

“When my father said to make yourself at home, I hardly think he meant ‘Of course, Andrey, please suit yourself to my personal documents with no regard to the privacy of the family’.” The boy spoke as if it were an absentminded thought but with an authoritative tone.

Andrey chuckled. “I’d take your criticism more seriously if you weren’t sitting pretty in his chair without lifting a finger to impede me, boy.”

“I don’t involve myself in the affairs of adults.”

“Sometimes I don’t understand if you want to be a contemporary Peter Pan or if you simply can’t wait for the moment you obtain the authority of seniority over others.” Andrey spoke as if he himself didn’t believe what he said, and it was only for the sake of responding.

They looked at each other for a moment, sizing the other up. “The Polyhedron will be ruled by the rules of which game, in the end?”

“We’re not sure yet. Peter says the tower will sustain itself like a flower, following biological precepts and forming its own lifelong fibers. He was always more creative than me, after all, he was the one who devised the Rose.” Andrey looked out the window, a grounded wistfulness tainting him.

Caspar narrowed his eyes at the avoidance. “And what do you think? You’re the architect who put the idea into practice.”

Andrey waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t know, but if pressed I’d say it’s a process a bit less organic. No, perhaps it could be organic, but certainly not natural. Let’s say I’m of the opinion that a sort of alchemy is possible in this specific case. The ascension of an object to a standard unreachable in nature itself, but at a cost.”

The book in Caspar’s grasp was closed audibly, and when he spoke, it was with intrigue. “Alchemy? Chemistry, you mean. The Polyhedron will suffer a transformation mediated by a sort of energy exchange?”

“Someone’s been studying.” The man said in lieu of an answer.

Caspar mirrored the prior dismissive hand gesture. “I’m surprised you have any interest in chemistry as an area of research.”

“How do you think I discovered the best ways to produce alcohol at home, squirt?” 

Caspar’s eye twitched. “You’re a questionable individual.” He firmly set his book down on the desk. “What could the Polyhedron possibly lack to become an edifice, then?”

Andrey rubbed his chin in consideration. “It lacks nothing, necessarily, only time. Let’s say we want to catalyze a process that is already in motion.” 

“I thought you said it wasn’t a natural process.” Caspar countered, slightly bewildered.

“Not yet, but given enough time everything becomes possible, and therefore impossible. Your uncles wanted the tower to be constructed in our time by our hands, and I admit I’m interested in seeing it in our lifetime. Lucky for us, my brother and I were born in the right place at the right time.” Not a trace of smugness could be found in his demeanor, only sincerity. 

Caspar tilted his head. “And what’s the catalyst?”

Andrey sat down on the desk and crossed his arms, settling in for a long conversation. “We’re not sure.”

“Your reticence points to the contrary.” The boy got up from his seat, eyes narrowed.

“Do you read the dictionary for fun, punk?”

Silence. Caspar crossed his arms and stared into Andrey’s eyes. The architect threw his hands up exasperatedly. “Bah! You’re persistent like your mother, and your dad’s dead eyed stare doesn’t help the matter.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I find it helps a lot.” Caspar spoke with a straight face, but he exuded smugness.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about, you have her sharp tongue and his obtuse determination. Unbearable, a union straight from Hell.” Andrey was clearly more peeved than actually unsettled.

Caspar raised his eyebrows. “Yes, and you’re intimately familiarized with Hell, seeing as you came directly from there.”

The man paused before guffawing good-naturedly, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Speaking to you is always a pleasant surprise, kid.”

“Pleasant enough to incentivize you to tell me what the catalyst is?” He didn’t even try to mask the cloying in his tone.

“You know, if there’s one thing we have in common it’s that when I was your age I was a lot like you, despite the precocious sense of humor. You’re clearly not going to give up, so I’ll tell you our hypothesis, but this stays between us and you’re not going to make any smart comments.”

He waited for Caspar to nod before continuing. “You’re asking the wrong question, we’d been doing so for a good while. It’s not about what the catalyst, but who. Peter agrees that the Rose requires human care, but we think such an edifice can only be cultivated by the hands of someone truly exceptional.”

Andrey thumbed the straps of his suspenders as he spoke warmly. “We had a colleague, Farkhad. a phenomenal architect. You might’ve heard that he was the one responsible for a decent part of the most impressive constructions around here. The Cathedral and the Stillwater were works made by his skilled hands.”

“I never understood the Cathedral. It’s not as if it’s a monument to a specific deity.”

“Of course not, boy. Time is a transcendental power in itself. If it suits you, you can even make a statuette dedicated to Kronos and erect an altar there.” Andrey was transparently making light of Caspar.

The boy disregarded the jab with an eyeroll. “Isn’t it a bit contradictory? A space dedicated to time?”

“Ask your uncles, they’re the ones who requested it be built. They wanted a space where time doesn’t pass within, but that alters its passage without.” He closed his eyes as if he could feel the flow of time on his face.

“And the Stillwater?” Caspar tapped his foot impatiently.

Andrey cracked one eyelid open with mirth. “Ah, that’s a bit more complex.”

“Is it?” A genuine query. “Isn’t it just a hostel? I know it can function as an observatory.” The comment would almost come off as haughty, were it not blunt.

“The Stillwater could be considered a Polyhedron prototype-” 

Caspar piped up, almost excited by the prospect of having something to add. “But weren’t the staircases to nowhere also prototypes? I heard my uncles talking about it.”

“A project so big as to shelter a human soul must have at least a hundred blueprints, fifty mockups, twenty prototypes and two iterations. The Stillwater was Farkhad’s.” Andrey’s claim weighed like absolute truth, as if those were tenets he lived by. Caspar supposed at least he followed some code of conduct, albeit only as an architect and not a moral person.

The boy hummed. “I don’t see the resemblance. The Stillwater is short and round, not a single edge. The Polyhedron is made up of at least 70% sharp edges and it towers over clouds, in the right weather conditions.”

Andrey seemed nonplussed by the skepticism. “Yes, and see the ingenuity of its concept. Farkhad thought that a building with the objective of hosting a human soul and nurturing its growth and ascension should be flat, to serve as a foundation and anchor the individual. The task of ascending would consequently be left to the inhabitant themself.”

Caspar’s expression cracked, perturbed. “But isn’t that the place where nobody can stand to stay for a long period of time?”

“Yes, which is why the idea was discarded.” The architect didn’t seem concerned about the fact. “The new guest shows a remarkable resistance to its adverse effects, I hope she stays. Miss Eva Yan is lovely company.” Caspar frowned at his smirk. “But don’t disconsider the importance of the house, its influence demonstrates that there’s merit in the idea that the spaces we inhabit have a profound effect on us.”

“Does this include our estate?” The boy looked around meaningfully.

Andrey spoke with mirth. “Worried?”

“Not at all.” His voice wavered, but his stance was firmly prideful. “The house is ours, it’s under our rules.” 

“I don’t doubt the young master can command his place of residence, but you underestimate the influence of the walls that surround us.” He grinned and leaned forward. “What makes you think the way you behave now isn’t entirely the influence of your environment?”

Caspar shivered visibly, the silence amplifying the weight of the words. “...You’re just trying to disturb me.”

“And I’m accomplishing it.” Andrey seemed delighted by the fact. “But that’s your opinion, maybe I’m trying to teach you something here.”

“I’d believe that more if you had expressed any interest in my education prior to this moment.” Caspar replied, retreating into the comfortable pace of idle banter.

[zapphattack]

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Haruspex I]

It was done. Artemy Burakh’s life’s work had been concluded in the span of less than half a lunar cycle. The lifetime of a fly exceeded the extent of his labor, finished in a mangled heap like if one were to force a sown seed to flourish in but a day's time. He felt ragged and pulled apart, tugged by the innumerable lines hooked under his skin. 

The Haruspex no longer remembered what life felt like before coming home. He couldn't tell if that was a particularly good thing, to be unmade and recentered in so little time. Birthed once more into a new existence defined by things he hadn't known existed but a month prior. 

It was as if the tectonic plates of his heart had shifted, chasms burgeoning and newborn mountains towering over his menial priorities of before. Connections ruptured, paths formed anew, all strange and unknown. 

Drawing his eyes away from a blurry haze of tepid water and dusty dishes, he caught sight of the town outside his old home's window. It was not his hometown, and the building he inhabited could hardly be reclaimed from the clutches of absolute tragedy. A roof was still a roof, nevertheless. He observed with melancholy as Murky sat on the old swing set, hinges creaking only when she shifted her posture, hunched and uninterested in playing, picking at loose strings in her threadbare clothes. 

The girl sometimes looked sideways to the second swing, freely tugged by the wind. She would grow weary and hold it in place, palm on the seat to simulate a weight that wasn't present. At one point Artemy witnessed Murky putting her doll on the perch beside her, only for her expression to close and her arm to swing, batting the intruder away with a muffled exclamation in her miniscule voice. “You're not the one who should be sitting there. Nobody is. Not anymore.”

Why did the Burakh house curse itself to shelter a brokenly split family? No pairs, only halves too jagged from loss to fit together; men with no brides, children with no brothers. After all this heartbreak, the Ripper still could not spare his ward from the loss he'd felt so long ago. Murky had barely gained a sibling, only to lose him to the clutches of what she’d naively thought was a friend.

He wondered if Ersher would mind if he buried Sticky alongside him, so they could at least not be cursed to be as alone as those they left behind. 

The window creaked, pulled shut by the wind. Foggy glass cracked before his tired visage, and he felt a foreign kinship with the inanimate.

[zapphattack]

Abandoned: "The Rule of Threes" - [Changeling PoV]

Heads up, this is a very old work that I wrote on a whim. It does touch on the implied romantic feelings between underage character, which I would not consider an issue At All, but I thought I might mention it. I don't really care much for this piece of writing, I wrote it on the side as I was making my own longfic, but maybe someone would enjoy it.

Clara had come to learn, in all her short time in the Town on Gorkhon, that there were few concepts so prevalent as what she came to dub the “Law of Threes”; if there was something or someone of note, it would always come in triads and trinities. Three families, with their three Mistresses, three members, three brothers, or some other trio (she almost convinced herself that her prior adoption by the Saburovs was a desperate attempt at bringing a third person to their family, a fruitless effort at cosmic legitimacy); the town was split in three parts, three neighborhoods to house the families and their nuclei of supporters, with distinctly different atmospheres and layouts, planned by three architects, although one of them died a long time ago, supposedly at the hands of the Stamatins, if Saburov was to be believed; even innocuous things like the three blonde women that each lived in a very different part of town seemed distinctly mystical to Clara (she almost came to think of them as the Dames to rival the Mistresses, distinctly less powerful yet somehow notable in presence; Eva seemed a tad frightened by the concept, while Yulia found her observations amusing, and Anna thought Clara insane, which was rich coming from her.)

One could imagine this was a product of a particularly cooperative drive amidst the townsfolk in the past and that these structures, coincidental or not, would soon go out of function. And yet. Three future Mistresses, three community leaders amongst the younger crowd with three very different approaches to power. The Kin had three leaders, although Burakh was sure to upset that balance, the Kains were still mourning a third of their patriarchs, the Olgimskys had three members with wildly opposing values. It came to her attention that she was a third of a whole herself, alongside the Bachelor and the Haruspex. So, she concluded it was part of the Town's nature, a Law upheld above all else. All things, when on the Gorkhon, will come in threes. 

Armed with this knowledge unknown or unacknowledged by most, Clara resolved to do as she did best: use it to cause mischief and further her goals. She wanted to have fun. 

Clara almost kept her conclusions to herself, but she wasn't surprised when one day Capella approached the bench she napped on with unhurried footsteps. The Changeling's nap had been somewhat fruitless, visions misting over her rest and leaving her drained, but it did leave her with a premonition of a visit by another clairvoyant. Clara lifted her feet for Capella to sit but lowered them again, putting her ragged boots over her lap. Capella seemed unconcerned about the dirt smudging her skirt. “You're restless.”

“And whose fault is that?” Clara spoke lightly, yawn breaking any tension in the phrase. “I’ve made a rather interesting discovery about the nature of society in the town, quite groundbreaking in theory. I can almost feel myself becoming the Bachelor with how scientific my research is.”

Capella raised an eyebrow elegantly, smiling indulgently down at Clara with her ginger hair fluttering in the wind. Clara almost felt ashamed about how much of an urchin she looked like in comparison to Victoria. “Do go on. I felt something stirring around here, I'm not surprised it was your mind.” Mistresses were quite nosy, weren't they? “I suppose so, although if you find it bothersome you might see fit to ask me not to meddle, Clara.” 

“You contradict yourself by reading my thoughts, Capella dearest. Did your mother not teach you any manners?” Capella's eyes widened for a moment, probably due to the callousness with which Clara spoke of her dear mother. Sometimes she forgot how her directness seemed to others: offensive, provocative, disrespectful. She'd never met Victoria Sr., she felt like she was more a legend than a person, to be spoken of with no need for much delicacy. Capella shook her head and hummed. 

“You're right, that was disrespectful of my part. I'll abstain from looking into your thoughts when I can, although I'm not a paragon of control yet. Sometimes things just appear to me.” Clara knew it to be true, their abilities were unwieldy at the best of times. “Tell me, then, what have you discovered?” 

Clara clicked her tongue and sat up, practically perching on the other girl's lap with one arm around her shoulders, other hand gesturing as she spoke. “I haven't been here for too long, but I've made note of a peculiar phenomenon. See, everything around here is organized in threes.”

Capella's eyes widened slightly. “So you've noticed too. I could swear everybody knows and just doesn't speak of it, but when I asked my brother, he seemed confused!” She reached to grasp Clara's hand, unknowingly short-circuiting the smaller girl's brain. “Oh, how exciting! Maybe Maria knows, and this is just a Mistress thing. You should ask Katerina, seeing as she was the first third Mistress. Maybe it has something to do with her.” 

Clara chuckled. “I doubt it's related to that, maybe we only noticed because we're both observant.” Capella hummed in doubt. “But if every Mistress is observant, I guess your point still stands, White Mistress Olgimskaya Junior.” Her laugh sounded like a small silver bell, clear and pleasant, the exact opposite of the Cathedral's oppressive strike at that moment. 

“It's been lovely, Clara, but I must go. I'm quite busy today. If you ever wish to chat or have tea, you're always welcome at the Lump.” Capella gently pushed Clara's legs from her lap and daintily extracted herself from the arm that held her. She smiled at the Changeling as she turned away, and Clara was left somewhat forlorn. 

If locals could sometimes notice the Law, Clara decided she was fit to ask her own compatriots if they noticed it too, starting with the Haruspex. She followed him into his lair one day, carrying a stack of finely plucked twyre on her arms, scarf over her nose after her third sneeze. Offering to help him was a sacrifice necessary to gain his trust, even if the odor of the weeds was overwhelming. 

As the man set down a messenger bag on the table and removed his, in her opinion, absolutely hideous smock, he spoke. “Now, what do you want? I'm familiar enough with your behavior to know you're not helping me out of the kindness of your heart.”

“I'll have you know I'm very kind! I'm a saint, a healer, kindness is in my nature, just as it is in yours.” She dropped the twyre unceremoniously and sat on a nearby crate, heels rhythmically tapping the wood. “But it is true my intentions aren't the purest. See, I've made an observation and I'd like to know what you think of it.” He looked over his shoulder at her with a raised brow, hands still sorting the contents of his bag. “It's come to my attention that the town has a recurring motif of threes. Three Mistresses, three families, three healers, three sections. Have you noticed?”

His movements stilled for a moment, and he seemed to process the information before speaking slowly. “I mean, sure, I've noticed, but it doesn't mean anything. It's at most a coincidence, I'd say.” She scoffed. He lacked any sort of creativity, honestly. Did the world not dazzle him with its intricate mysteries? He was of such a simple mind. “Besides, it's always been this way, but it's such a tenuous and vague concept. I had three close friends, there are three layers to the body, it feels more like a pattern we assign to things with no bigger implications.” 

“Fair enough.” She slid down her perch and dusted her skirt, ignoring how he frowned at the torn garment. “I must be going, then. This has been enlightening, Haruspex.” She heard him mutter his own name dejectedly. Clara waved and began ascending up the staircase, brought to a halt by a blond boy at the top.

Sticky adjusted the weight of a backpack on his shoulder, looking her up and down before casually speaking. “The kids know about the three thing. Not in a mystical supernatural sort of way, more of a game made out of an observation.” She hummed, tilting her head to prompt him to continue. “There's this tradition, I guess you could call it, where kids and teenagers noticed that once you get to the point of liking people, the first is almost always one of three.”

“Wait, what? As in, when kids get their first love, it's always the same?” That was compelling. Color her piqued. “Who?”

“Not love, necessarily? It's more of a crush, an attraction. I think you could guess who, even if the list sometimes changes, but it's pretty much always Khan, Capella or Notkin.” It made sense, they were the oldest of the current children, the leaders of many impressionable kids, attractive visually and personally, in theory. 

Sticky seemed to grow nervous as Clara thought about it, fidgeting in place. She looked at him intensely, smile in place that clearly conveyed she wanted him to elaborate on something; he was smart enough to catch on and scoffed. “Why do you need to know mine? It's not relevant.” The Changeling leaned forward, noting how she was taller than him, but he would probably outgrow her soon enough. What a silly giddiness she felt as she thought that her life would go on after her first weeks of awareness; what a gift to be alive. “...It was Capella! God, stop looking at me like that!” He stomped down the stairs, huffing when greeted by Artemy. 

He'd lied, of course. It would be embarrassing for a boy as headstrong and rationally minded as him to admit his true feelings, especially since they were probably still in place, even if dimmed under the light of maturity. Capella makes sense as an easy object of anyone's affections; she was pretty and kind, trusting, patient, graceful and radiant, her manners were impeccable but her mind was sharp, and as a Mistress, she had an air of mysticism and excitement about her; Capella was very clearly a superior choice to anyone who thought it through rationally. 

Sticky knew that, and he also knew it would be somewhat shameful to admit he liked Notkin better despite it, but it was clear as day to Clara, a thread she could pull on until his feelings unraveled before her very eyes. It was adorable to witness Sticky in such a way after all his efforts at being taken seriously and acting mature. A whisper in her own voice told her she was biased, but she paid it no mind as she exited the dark abandoned factory to be greeted by sunlight. 

She sighed into the clear air, humming to herself as she thought of how this little investigation was progressing. Locals could notice these things, many of them with a variety of opinions or observations pertaining to it; the Law was known and observed, even indulged in by the younger crowd, yet one question remained: do the subjects of speculation notice the phenomenon pertaining to them? She'd have to ask the three involved, get a good sample of responses to understand this further. Scientific research was beginning to become fun and exciting. 

Capella was easy to reach, even without attempting to contact her mystically or some such, especially given the open invitation she’d given. Clara found herself in the Lump on a golden afternoon, crisp wind filtering into Capella's room and fluttering her curtains. Clara caught a stray piece of paper flying towards her as she entered, sheet music from where the other girl was playing the piano elegantly, hair caressed by the breeze and voice humming along with the ivory keys. The Changeling placed the sheet back where it belonged and promptly spoke, careless of the soothing song her voice cut. “Were you aware of how a third or so of the younger population has at one point been enamored with you?”

Victoria smiled. “Perhaps. Of course, it's not my business, per se, but I am well aware of the fact. It's become tradition at this point. It's amusing, if anything.” As expected of one as well informed as her. Clara thought of her next question with no intention of speaking it aloud. “Ah, but you must be wondering if the rule applies to me as well. I've pondered it myself, but I just can't seem to convince myself I truly find myself attracted to either of them. I think it has to do with how I perceive girls and boys differently, although I can understand how Notkin and Caspar can be seen as attractive in a distant, clinical way.”

“So then who was your first?” Clara asked, sitting on the window sill, scarf fluttering. “If you can come to that conclusion it must've been prompted by someone.”

Capella stopped playing the piano, closing the lid gently and looking at her companion. Clara felt pierced by her light eyes. “Grace, a long time ago. More recently, Maria. Although I urge you not to tell Khan about it, I'm not sure he'd take the information well.” She crossed her legs and sighed. “Regardless, I have no intention of following through on any designs. I have responsibilities above my own whims, and I have enough love to spare without a paramour in the mix.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, skin pink. “Although circumstances might change. The future is uncertain.” 

Clara felt her ears ringing with unspoken potential in the quiet room. She laughed to distract from her fluttering heart, shameful and imprecise. “If even the future White Mistress can't discern the future, God bless the poor souls of the world outside.”

The Changeling stayed a while to opine on Capella's songs, some original, some even having accompanying lyrics. She left the Lump with her hands warm and her voice humming new songs. Next mark: Khan. 

The Polyhedron loomed, as it always did, and Clara almost had second thoughts about climbing the hundreds of stairs until a Doghead standing watch spoke up. “Scared?” Maera spoke with amusement more than mockery, but Clara still bristled slightly. 

“Of course not! I just wonder how cold it must be so high up. I intend to find out.” her legs carried her up, her ascent slow and contemplative. Kids played on the platforms all along the structure, making up realities of their own make; someday they'd be put down onto the ground for the last time, and then it'd grow ever more difficult to make their dreams come to reality. Clara imagined Khan would resent the powerlessness of adulthood in the future, but perhaps the gains would make up for the losses. 

At the top of the Tower stood Khan, profile backlit by the coming sunset, posture regal and distant; Clara thought she wasn't imagining the small group of kids huddled nearby was whispering while watching him. She had her answer, but it'd be nice to get it from his mouth, so she stood next to him, head tilted to look into his eyes from her lower vantage point. He was short, but she was shorter; it was somewhat irritating. “You have admirers.” She simply stated. 

Caspar Kain sighed, eyes drifting to her with coldness. His hand retreated from his pocket and he idly swung a stopwatch as he spoke, tone even. “I'm well aware. Why do you care?”

“It's common for it to be one of you three. Do you know why that is?” She was curious what his observations would be, being that he was someone who liked knowing and dissecting things. “Are there rules to it?”

He turned to her, and consequently to where the group was watching him; Clara heard snickering and running footsteps behind her. “It's likely due to our notoriety, children often grow attached to figures of authority. Besides that, us three are very different, so we have what could crudely be called broad appeal. It helps that we're all… genetically fortunate.” He coughed into his fist, averting his eyes momentarily before composing himself. “It's nothing mystical or magical, if that's why you're interested. People like sorting things into groups of three, it has to do with social psychology and analytical tendencies, nothing about it is supernatural.” He seemed peeved by the idea, and the way he said it pointed to this being a relatively old argument of his. Clara imagined he and Capella disagreed quite a bit on such things. 

“You say that, yet you live in a Tower that Cannot Be. You lack imagination, Khan, sorry to say.” She was not sorry in the least, and by his raised eyebrow she knew he could tell. “But I concede that it may not be anything especially magical beyond the quirks of the Town.”

Khan pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing, moving to sit on a chair nearby. Clara perched herself on the arm of his seat, clearly too close for comfort, but she only gestured for him to go on. He hesitated for a second before relenting. “You asked about rules, but I wager you mean tendencies. Rules are enforced while tendencies are followed naturally; in which case there are some observable tendencies. Almost always it's one of us three, very frequently it'll be the one who's closest to the person, say, one of my Dogheads for me or a Soul-and-a-Half for Notkin, it's common for it to not last long, those sorts of things. Really, it's all quite pedestrian.” he spoke with an air of indifference, which would fool anyone who wasn't paying attention to the amount of thought he clearly put into this. He looked at her with irritation. “Stop looking at me like that, you're just like Capella and Maria.”

She raised her eyebrows in faux surprise, smiling lightly. “And if everyone's aware of it, are there any enforced rules?” 

He glared at her and spoke with a tone of voice too serious for the subject at hand. “Only one that you need to be aware of, in my opinion. Don't tell Notkin.” There was a story behind that for sure; Clara grew giddy at the thought of uncovering it. 

“Ah, so he's clueless. To what extent? If we suppose even you three went through it once, does he not know of his own inclinations? Does he not know he's involved?” She paused, laying her chin on his shoulder and speaking impishly. “Or does he not know he was yours?”

Clara retreated as he stiffened, standing up and stretching as the final rays of light shed their last warmth over them. She looked over her shoulder and snickered at his flushed cheeks and scandalized expression; Khan avoided her gaze and retreated into the safety of his domain, waving a hand at her in dismissal. He hadn't denied her claim, though. Only one more person to visit. 

Night falling was usually indicative that one should avoid the Warehouse district, clutch their own coin purse and be on their way home. Seeing as Clara had neither good sense, a coin purse, or a home, she strutted right into the lantern-lit alleys in the direction of the home of the Soul-and-a-Halves. The door was skewed open, so she knocked lightly and entered, greeted by the sounds of critters and the chatter of children; the cacophony would be disconcerting if she didn't find it endearing, and she whistled as she approached the back of the warehouse, turning the corner to see Notkin holding Jester with one hand and a potato in the other. 

“Now what might be going on in here?” Clara asked, voice colored with amusement as the boy separated his arms farther apart, much to the apparent dismay of his Half, who yowled and flailed uselessly, pitifully caught by the scruff. Notkin glared at the cat before very aggressively taking a bite of the potato, crunch audible even in the loud warehouse. The potato was raw. Jester stilled and Notkin let him go, the cat's tail dragging on the floor as it wandered away disappointedly. 

The boy sat down on a crate, chewing through his sentence. “What brings you here so late?” He took another bite of the root, which made Clara laugh. “Don't laugh, this is my hard-earned meal! Jester, the little imp, tried to take away what's rightfully mine.”

Clara nodded sagely, gloved hand covering her amused smile as she spoke. “Of course, the raw potato of kings! A luxury compared to what I've had to eat to stay alive before.” Their eyes met with the solidarity of street urchins, shared experience and struggle. “But that's not what I'm here for.”

Notkin gestured for her to sit before him and go on, sitting himself down behind a crude desk. “You always come around at weird times, ya know? Makes one suspicious.”

“Whatever could you mean?” He rolled his eyes at her. “It's not my fault most times are weird around this town, there's always something interesting going on.”

Notkin huffed, tossing the uneaten half of the potato to her. “Tell that to the Bachelor, he seems to think this place is boring.” He took out a knife and a crude lump of wood, seemingly to resume a whittling project of some sort. The silence was indicative of how she should be filling it.

“Khan or Capella?” If she ought not tell him, perhaps she need only ask.

Notkin chewed in thought before speaking. “Capella's kinder, Khan's smarter. She's nice, he's cool. She takes too long to make decisions but he doesn't think too far ahead. They're both pretty.” The boy kept mumbling before tilting his head. Clara bit down on the potato and almost choked when he said, with an air of finality. “Why not both?”

Clara could see the issue. “Fair enough.” When her friend only clicked his tongue impatiently, she offered “Personally, I'd choose Capella.” with a shrug.