Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Caliborn awoke from his slumber, half lying on the rock solid ground of his planet, half laying down on something soft and squishy. He didn't remember when he fell asleep, or who put that blanket on him, but he sure as hell knew what he was gonna do next. He sat up and saw where he'd fallen asleep today - sprawled over striped blue hat's lap. It wasn't uncommon for him to do so - he'd previously slept on piles with the purples and the striped orange and red hats, on top of the giant striped maroon hat, even on the arms of blue hat, once. It didn't really matter to him, which one of the cushy frogs he made of bed every night. They were there to serve him anyway, and they were nothing but giant sentient puppets to him. The aforementioned puppet barely noticed his absence, instead just unconsciously adjusting himself on his ass and continuing to snore away. Caliborn looked at him with a mix of disdain and disgust - his favorite disses, as it were - but striped blue only answered with a soft snore. Lazy lay-about. 

He stood up, and met purple hat and yellow hat already up, who interrupted their jig to wave him a good morning. His salamanders kept dancing with each other and never let him watch, and it made his blood boil. Why are they so keen in putting on a show, if they're gonna stop it every time he shows interest in it? Caliborn twisted his face into a frown as they approached, and yellow hat started talking. 

"Top o' the morning, Caliborn! Had a good night? Many dreams were had? What's the skinny for today, m'lord?" he held an alert, cocky stance, and boy, he wouldn't shut up. Caliborn hated how giddy his leprechauns got during down time. Always talking to each other, and not with him, and saying things he only halfway understood. It drove him mad, for sure, and it came to mind as he shifted from one foot to another glancing up at yellow hat, pondering what he should answer.

"I told you before," the cherub started, tugging on his covers, a growl of impatience at the back of his throat. "I have to work on my Masterpiece. It has to be done in time. Such amazing arts and crafts skills can't be kept from the public."

"What public?" it was purple hat's time to interject, and the little munchkin watched his Lord with interest through his pupiless eyes. "Are ya gonna put on a show for us, my Lord?" 

"Are you dense, purple hat. The public is such of a nature that none of you, little simpletons, could have. It is what pulls the curtains and peeks. Into my quest for infinite power. And hoes. I request hoes too."

"If you want I could be your h--" the small one started, innocently, but got interrupted by the loud yawn coming from behind the kid - it seemed like striped blue hat was up. He itched his little eyes and scratched his big belly and blubbed a good morning to the other two, who reciprocated in the same jolly fashion as before. Fucking hell, how Caliborn hated their neighborly approach to socialization. None of them attempted even a single mind game. Green peasants, the fourteen of them.

"looks like the Lordling's workin' on his Masterpiece today," yellow hat started, leaning onto a particularly big piece of rubble which striped blue had made into a corner for himself to sit down and rest for the night. "I think it's gonna look pretty awesome when it's done."

"Oh that's great!" blue striped shifted to give Caliborn a big grin, his crooked mouth and sharp, but inoffensive teeth stretching into something amicable and encouraging. "I wish you could tell us what it is, my Lord!"

"I won't tell you geckos anything," Caliborn crossed his arms, and the blanket he clinged on slipped from his shoulders to the floor unceremoniously, "that will jinx it. Plus you are all working on a need to know basis, as it were. So that means, that you don't have any information that I don't wish you to need to know. You are gonna get in my way and make me fuck it up."

"Aww, that's okay, Skittle. Maybe you can show it to us some other time!" striped blue replied with the same dopey smile and Caliborn frothed at the nickname. The brussel sprouts had given him that name one night while they communed around a campfire like the simple lifeforms they were and he himself was too busy furthering his art skills to pay them any mind. And then, unattended, they schemed against him and named him against his wishes. A bunch of useless drats, they were.

"No! You have nothing to do with it!" Caliborn shouted, and that got the attention of the other leprechauns, who were all not very far away, and in different stages of awakeness at that point. "I won't stand for this!"

"Maybe you can sit on it then--" yellow hat started, and got an elbow to the side from purple hat to shut him up. Caliborn stormed off to sit at his station to get working on his artistic endeavors, pulling up his colorful clay and his art supplies. The leprechauns came together then to watch him as he muttered to himself and typed away at his console, most of them there except a couple of the bigger ones and the slumbering blue hat, whom Caliborn himself once described as 'a sleepy bitch'. 

Maroon hat watched him go by his business, and sidemouthed:

"Y'know, I think we should get Skittle some breakfast."

In response to that, red hat lisped up.

"The boys're already out lookin' for som'th’n to eat, chief."

"A child can't grow well without his nutrients, I'll say," Striped blue hat spoke up, "I can cook 'im something yummy to eat. Who's bringing it to him then?"

They looked between each other. Maroon hat shrugged.

"Well. Usually whoever's askin'."

"Aw."

Orange, striped green, striped red and striped maroon returned. Green got out of the bush he hid in for the last twelve or so hours. The sleepy bitch woke up, rejoice! Breakfast was served and plated on a nice little bowl for Caliborn specially, and striped blue waddled up to Caliborn's creation station, loosely followed by maroon hat as moral support. The cherub stopped as he approached, and glared at the bowl.

"What's this?"

"Repast, my Lord."

"No candy? What? Are you trying to kill me? Your conspiracy won't get any farther, gnome!" he stood up, assuming a combative stance. Striped blue cocked his head, confused.

"Oh I would never do that, my Lord! I thought you'd like some sauté'd--"

Caliborn grabbed the bowl off his hands, inspecting it with his face and also his mouth.

"This seems..." He munched on a strip of meat. "...Passable. I'm just eating because I'm hungry. Your insolence will be unpunished. This is in fact really terrible, and not at all good. You suck at cooking."

The rotund leprechaun stepped back, watching the boy eat with delight. Knowing his Lordling was well taken care of and healthy was what made him the happiest. It's what he was made for, after all - aiding his Lord, in whichever way he could. Maroon joined him, and before the two could speak, Caliborn started another of his rambles, between munches. Eventually, other leprechauns approached, as he spoke, drawn to his words like moths to a flame. 

"The Masterpiece is vital. I have to share it with my audience. I have to tell them the vision I had, the prophetic fruits of my labour. Then I will finally defeat the big serpent and claim my Treasure. Then maybe. Maybe. I can fit in my schedule to have iced cream desserts. With the boys."

"Fight's gonna be hard, innit." Orange hat casually broached the subject, "we're gonna be around for that."

"No! This is beef between me. And the elusive snake. A private affair. Intimate, one might say. But you give me an idea, orange. You." The cherub tossed his breakfast aside and pointed to maroon. He jumped in place a bit acknowledging his summoning.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"You come with me. To the cuboid item creation station."

"The alchemiter?"

"Follow me."

And so he did, being lead towards the remains of the boy's quarters. He rummaged through his pile of things, finding an old alarm clock and a pistol with no ammo that he discarded a good while before, and raised them up to his leprechaun.

"I am going to concoct the most ingenious of devices." Caliborn spoke with the items one in each hand, as he walked back outside to the alchemiter. "By simply adding together a clock and a glock. I will create a time gun. To help me defeat Yaldabaoth."

"W-why do you need me here again, my Lord?"

"I need a witness man to witness history."

Smiling from red cheek to red cheek, the cherub put himself to work. It wasn't that hard to do, or that cumbersome, but it still brushed the leprechaun with him the wrong way. It felt to him a bit premature and dangerous to do so, even if, to be quite honest, the alchemizing process was fairly simple.

"Caliborn, I think you should take more care with what you're--"

"Shut up, minion. I know what I am doing."

The alchemiter flashed white, and the Time Gun was there, in all its time gunness. Caliborn took it, felt its weight on his hands. Solid. Sharp looking. This would do some great deal of damage for sure. He pointed it at maroon hat, blinking one eye as he did so. The green man straightened up his posture and raised his chin in suspicion, stepping backwards just a tiny bit.

"My Lord? What are you doing?"

"Heehee. I need a test dummy to know what it does, don't I?"

"B-but do you have to wave it at me, sir?" maroon pointed vaguely with his crowbar at the direction of the mechanical bunny that followed Caliborn around like a pet and a toy fused in one, "why don't you test it on that thing? At least you can repair it if you cause some damage, you know." 

"I'm not going to hurt dear, sweet, precious Little Seb. I have fourteen of you frogs. You think I'd miss one? Stand still." 

Caliborn opened up a diverted grin as he squared up his shoulders to take better aim.

"Sir, I beg you. Please." 

Maroon felt compelled to run, but he couldn't. He didn't have the strength to contradict an order from his Lord.

The gun was fired. He raised his crowbar instinctively, and the bullet hit it.

Everything went white.

The crowbar's innate ability of negating every time-bound power was something astoundingly powerful, and that's why Caliborn trusted the apparently least stupid of the elves to wield it. He could not believe it had been used against him, just now, against his own will. Maroon hat would pay for that. If only he could see, so he could smack that plush triangular man right where it hurt. Right now, everything faded from white to darkness, and everything he felt was grain, coarse and cold. 

Caliborn thought maybe opening his eyes would help.

He saw the stars. Countless of them, a sight not much different from what he was used to. He found two moons - pink and green, and that brushed him as odd. If there was to be two moons, they should at the very least be red and green. This just seems like a waste of a perfectly good color scheme.

He sat up, and the sand around him accommodated on the space he previously filled. The sand dunes extended for as far as he could see, rocks protruding here and there at the distance. The chilling wind cut against his skin, the sand giving his arms painful reminders that they were uncovered. He hadn't been wearing his cape. Blue hat took it for a wash the previous day, Caliborn now remembered, fucking unbelievable. Now he was stuck there, no civilization for miles on end, alone on an empty void. Oh, woe is him. He’s fated to die.

He turned to see what was behind him. Oh look, a house.

A big chartreuse mansion stood cut against the sky, not very far away from him. Behind it, the smog and light of a town in the horizon, something he never imagined to see. Standing up, he gazed upon his new destination.

Whoever was in that house was gonna receive an extraordinary visit from a very special guest.

Chapter Text

"For the last fecking time, they're the same weight!!"

"I don't understand why you got yer knickers on a twist, dear, steel is just heavier than feathers."

"NOOO, that's not what I'm saying!"

"What, you're gonna say it's not, then?"

"No, my Lord, it is , Doze, but–" Itchy stopped his half-buzzed attempt at explaining a joke to Doze with a growl of impatience. Sitting across the room from them, a couple of the other boys watched their display of stupidity diverted, squawking boisterous laughter. Quarters took a swig of his beer and raised it to Itchy, grabbing his attention with a little noise from the back of his throat.

"Hey, try it again, Itchy, c'mon. One last time." Matchsticks, Trace and Fin, piled next to him, sent their nods and grumbles of approval. 

"Okay fine." He sighed heavily, and turned back to Doze, who sat neatly on his own chair and took this opportunity to sip on his own spiked tea. "Are you with me?"

"Yes."

"Okay now pay attention to me."

"Alright."

"I'm gonna say it very slowly so you understand what I'm saying."

"Move along, dear."

"Urgh – I have a kilogram of feathers and a kilogram of steel. Two kilograms. One of feathers, one of steel. They're both one kilogram." 

"Okay."

"Now Doze, which one is heavier?"

Doze pondered it for a moment, staring at number one's pupiless eyes, a wide-eyed stare of someone who is certain of what he's about to say, but others keep making him second-guess himself.

"Steel."

Far from there, in the courtyard, Caliborn jumped down from the outer wall he just climbed into some well cared for bushes inside, and heard a scream of indignity and echoing laughter from deep within the walls of the house itself. If there are people here, maybe he could take their stuff and gather resources, so he could see what was the deal with this town. He had never been in a town before, but he figured it'd be an interesting place to go up the ranks and become ultimate town lord. Or whatever town leaders are called. Taken from his ultimate quest and thrown in an unknown environment, he had to put his Masterpiece on hiatus now, to focus on more immediate matters, such as how he was going to get inside. 

He examined the house: big, sturdy, but not exactly new – there were cracks on the walls' paint job and it seemed faded due to weather. Nevertheless, measuring it up and down, the cherub figured it wouldn't be hard to break in. A quick walk around the perimeter and he spotted an open window – on the fourth floor, a window open enough to be climbed through, the curtains inside waving with the breeze.

Caliborn could make quick work of this breaking and entering with his trusty – where did it go. His crowbar, his powerful juju, was escaped from his hands, forgotten on the mittens of that bothersome triangular green man. None of Caliborn's sylladex was available, or even accessible for that matter. He must've left the physical embodiment of this abstraction in his other pants. Fuming, he glanced upon the trough going up and just about next to the window, and figured that would would have to do for now. 

Inside was mellow-lit, with some ambience music coming from some place in the expansive room, sumptuous and dark furniture casting deep shadows onto the walls. It was hard to see where the dim lighting came from, for the chandelier was unlit but Caliborn couldn't find other sources of light. His presence as he stepped down from the windowsill onto the fluffy carpet inside seemed to alert another figure in the room, and he squinted his eyes to see. 

It lounged on the large bed next to the open window, the dim yellow light and the contrasting cool glow of the moons outside reflecting onto its surface and showing just the right amount of shine and polish to paint a slender feminine silhouette full of little specks of light, like marble under the sunlight. She reached to put a glass of something down on the bedside table to her side, as she spoke in a velvety, almost sultry voice and turned to face Caliborn.

"Rather early, are we, Spad– Aaah! " She interrupted herself as soon as she noticed the stout, somewhat matte and green figure half lit by the moon shine wasn't whoever 'Spad' was supposed to be, and quickly grabbed the sheets around her to cover her chest.

Caliborn, with eyes now adjusted to the penumbra, blinked twice in confusion, growing irritated by this hysterical female, and barked out a greeting. 

"Who are you?" 

The figure squinted her eyes, and faded into nothingness without a word, the sheets she held folding over themselves on the bed. Caliborn looked around the room, now recognizing it to be an opulent and luxurious open floored apartment, but couldn't find the mysterious figure anywhere. 

"Hello??" he stepped forwards, and from behind a room divider she came, fully clothed in an iridescent black coat, lighting up a cigarette placed on the tip of a holder. 

"I should ask you the same," she started, "since you're the one that's in my room without permission." 

"You could say that. I'm the one that calls the shots. So I think you should answer me first." 

" You call the shots, with that squeaky voice? How old are you," she blew a puff of smoke towards his general direction, "ten?" 

"No!" Caliborn glared daggers at her, his voice getting louder. "Actually. I'm twelve. Now gimme all your stuff, broad! I'll have a run-down of this city and I need supplies." 

The woman scoffed, diverted. 

"That's cute."

"I'm being serious." 

"Over my dead body. And I should say, you'd regret killing me if you tried." 

"I don't care! Your stuff, my hands. Now." 

"What can you even do to me? To my understanding, you're just a little child. I suggest you leave immediately before I show you to the clowns."

"I don't listen to anything a hoe has to say! If you won’t obey to my command, I’ll have to put you down and teach you a lesson!"  Caliborn blurted, and looked around for a makeshift weapon. 

She once again narrowed her eyes. 

Across the mansion, in the ground floor, a group of leprechauns enjoyed their last moments awake; some were already passed out drunk, some were giddy and alert, and sat around the lounge deep in conversation. Matchsticks, Itchy, Doze, Crowbar and Clover sat in a semi-circle around a table, while Fin, Trace and Quarters piled up in a nearby couch. Eggs and Biscuits leaned against each other in a fainting couch next to them, snoring softly. Number eleven was casually telling something he heard of recently to the awaken members of the group.

"They say it's a, uh... Medicinal, y'know?" Matchsticks finished explaining his story, who were either diverted, disgusted or just passively listening to conversation. 

"Wait, wait, wait, so you say that drinking your own pee is healthy?" Itchy asked, waving his hand around with a shit-eating smirk, aware of how much he was about to derail the conversation. Matchsticks shrugged. 

"Well I mean it's–it's water and other stuff right? So if you take the stuff out it ends up water." 

"Oh, so you'd drink it?" Fin asked and gulped down the last of his beer, his question followed by a bunch of encouraging and crass sounds from the others. Number eleven opened his arms, verbally pushed into a corner. 

"If you take the stuff out then–" 

"So you'd drink piss? Like, hands down?" Itchy once more leaned towards him from his seat at the table, and spread his hands on the surface as he spoke. 

"No, not like... The way it came, I was just saying that some people think drinking water that–that you filter from it can be good for you, y'know, like how–how some teas can make you feel good, y'know?" 

"This forget tea's making me feel good," Clover bubbled quietly and raised his cup towards Doze, the brewer of said delicacy, and Crowbar, sitting next to him, joined him and clinked cups. 

"Cheers." 

They all took a moment to drink their respective beverages, mostly in silence, and it lingered as they gulped and let a breathy note of satisfaction start and die in their throats. Silence danced around the leprechauns for a few seconds as they contemplated the air around them and each other's company, before Crowbar, looking vaguely towards the corner where the walls and the ceiling met, blurted out:

"What were we talking about again?" 

His question was met with another wave of silence, only shily parted by the breathing of his fellow felt members. Then, much like lightning striking across the empty sky, Itchy quickly kicked his chair back standing up, remembering their trail of thought. He pointed an accusatory finger at Matchsticks, his toothy grin and malicious gaze peppering his drunken teasing with child-like ill-intent. 

"Yeah, Matchsticks wants to drink piss!" 

"No I don't!" it was time for number eleven to stand up, and he rose his hands as if that would absorb him from blame, "why do you always do this, Itchy, you always make fun of me for learning about new, alternative stuff for your body! What's wrong with that?" 

"How much?" 

"Huh?" 

"How much do I have to pay you for you to drink some piss, right now?" 

"Nothing, I'm not gonna!"

"So you're doing it for free, then? 

"I – c'mon guys, this is not funny!" 

The rest of the leprechauns, laughing at their antics, teased him here and there. 

"So how much would it take to buy your dignity, Matcha?" Trace asked, with Fin's boisterous laughter tailing his words. Amidst ridicule, Matchsticks sat back down and pushed his own drink away from himself at the table, visibly annoyed. 

"Nobody understands my hobbies in this outfit." 

"Oh, I get it." Doze spoke up, and the laughter around him ceased. The taller felt rolled his shoulders, pointing at number two with his palm as if thanking him. 

"See? Doze gets it! You guys don't have to be douches ab-" 

"It doesn't matter that steel is heavier than feathers because they're both the same weight! Oh, such a fun word game, that is." Doze beamed, proud in his belated explanation, and went back to nursing his now definitely cold tea. 

The group once again erupted in laughter, while number eleven pinched the bridge between his eyes, leaning over the table. He was nowhere near drunk enough for this. The night would probably continue on until someone decided to retire, which could take a while, as far as felt house parties went, if it wasn't for Snowman bending the corner of the corridor, leaning against the wall by the entrance of the room. The lounge became very silent then; they always made eggshells out of floor every time she was around, even in a buzzed state. 

"Good evening, boys." 

The men around the room grumbled shy greetings in return. Seeing she was acknowledged, the carapace continued, raising her arm previously hidden around the corner she bent into the room from. 

"Whose rabid dog is this? I can only assume it's one of you's sad excuse of offspring, since it appeared in my room, uninvited, and anything this green must be your business." 

Hanging from the sleeve of her jacket by his teeth was Caliborn, feverishly trying to break skin with his pointy incisors. Unfortunately he didn't have enough jaw strength to leave a mark on the thick carapace, let alone pierce it. 

Around the room, there were several different reactions, as sobriety was sucker-punched into all of the leprechauns present as if they've been surprised by long-lost family suddenly paying a visit unannounced. And, for some of them, it actually felt that way. Some beamed in delight, some gawked in terror, and some were awaken by the commotion, probably with a terrible headache they needed to nurse before going back to sleep. The words "Caliborn?!" "Skittle!!" and "wuzzhap'ning?" were blurted out haphazardly, clustered in different little groups. 

Caliborn quickly detached himself from the flighty broad, ran his tongue over his fangs, and looked upon the band of frogs he was used to. Now there was some familiar faces, even if they looked a bit different. A bit grimier maybe, or worse for the wear, or just old, the same way a stuffed bear goes old and floppy. He didn’t quite smile, but something resembling a satisfied smirk twitched itself onto his, for lack of a better word, lips.

"My salamanders! I knew you had to be here somewhere. So. Which one of you will show me the ropes? I’m, what the kids call, new in town."

Crowbar sprung up from his chair, stepping closer to the cherub, an incredulous look on his face. 

"My lord, we... We haven't seen you in so long!" 

"What are you talking about, maroon hat? I saw you it was. About an hour ago I think. Which reminds me." Caliborn walked closer, looking up at Crowbar's pupiless eyes, his trademark wide open eyed frown in face, and kicked his shin with all his might. The leprechaun held his knee in pain, jumping in place, and then gestured broadly with his arms at the boy. 

"What was that for?!" 

"That's for fucking my Time Gun. You cannot pretend you didn't do it. I saw you knock it with my crowbar with both my eyes." 

"Wh..." Crowbar looked back at his fellow leprechauns, a silent plea of help. Nobody dared to move too much, still processing what was going on. Clover, kneeled on his seat and with his arms hanging over the back of the chair, shrugged. 

"Ya fucked 'is time gun, Cro."

"Excuse me," Snowman spoke up, " lord? Is this Lord English?"

"Well, not yet he isn't," Doze answered cutting through the uncomfortable silence, hands folded over one another resting on his gut. "He's just our little Skittle for now."

"Uh-huh. Okay." Snowman nodded, her deadpan tone conveying all the disdain in the world. "Well, shall we be needed, we will be in our chambers."

With her pompous and emotionally distant display of royalty, she stepped back, feigning to double the corner, and vanished, certainly going back to whichever affairs she was tending to before the little gremlin showed up at her room. Caliborn was then left alone facing the leprechauns piled up in the lounge room, and put his hands on his hips.

"So. Now that the whores are gone. Let's get back to business."

"Wait a minute," Trace called, in a tone that, Caliborn came to notice after a long time, was the tone his minions used when they were speaking to each other about him, much graver and serious-sounding than usual. He pointed with his thumb sideways towards Caliborn. "You're gonna let 'im stay, Crowbar? After all this time?"

"Well, I mean..." Crowbar turned his back to Caliborn, also adopting the same sort of tone. "He's our Lord."

"That he is." Fin complemented, visibly siding with Trace, "but, I dunno, I think we got, like... Different priorities now than to cater to a boy all day long."

"What, do you want us to put the poor thing out in the cold desert like he's an unwanted barkbeast?" Doze turned to them, gesturing to Caliborn with a palm and retrieving it.

"I mean... What'd he ever do for us?"

"Hey! Frogs!" Caliborn barked, his blood boiling for being disregarded like he wasn't even present in the room, "I will not let you speak of treason. I'll stay as much as I want. And take whatever I want. And you are going to assist me in taking over things around here, because that is what you were made to be. You said it yourselves!" 

"Well, that was a long time ago from our perspective, my lord." Crowbar tried to mediate the different sides of the room, looking back and forth between the cherub and the second-guessing mobsters. It did not seem to calm Caliborn's nerves. 

"Maroon hat! You’re second in charge! Tell these dumb cauliflowers to obey me!"

"Uh..."

"Crowbar, we ain't no babysitters anymore. We got jobs to do and you know it."

"Pfff, as if you'd do your job if Crowbar didn't ride your ass about it!" Itchy shot a jab at Fin, narrowing his eyes and nudging him with the back of his fingers, contributing absolutely nothing of value to the conversation. "Why not let the kid stay? Could be fun!"

"I will not be talked about this way!" Caliborn rushed forwards and stood up on an ottoman to be better seen. "You're all my minions and you will do what I say. And right now. I want you to give me a run-down of this place."

"I won't do fuck all for a worthless brat that treats us like shit." Trace raised his voice and his body, ready to impose what little height advantage he had on Caliborn, and at this time Crowbar stepped up too, standing on the way between them, raising his voice above the slowly crescent murmur around the room.

"Uh – We-we're gonna need a family meeting! Quarters!" he stammered and called, and Quarters got up from his seat, grunting at the effort, mumbling half-distinguishing words at the task he already knew to perform.

"Gotta do everything in this fucking..."

"What was that?" Crowbar shouted after him, as he walked across the room and out the entranceway towards a rope hanging from the hallway ceiling. He grabbed it and leaned onto it with a deep sigh.

"Nothing, sir."

“I thought so.”

The sound of a powerful bell echoed throughout the entire mansion, and the natural albeit uncoordinated buzz of leprechauns moving to assemble at the biggest smoking room in the lower floor echoed back. Caliborn followed the wave leaving the lounge, planning how best to punish these treacherous fuzzy pickles.

Chapter Text

Slowly, but surely, all of the leprechauns made their way towards the main living room. It was a wide open space that allowed access to the big stairs to the second floor, a few of the kitchens and dining rooms, and a multitude of clock, smoke, game and reading rooms. The chandelier was lit, very faintly, as the candles perched on it were already dying out; encapsulating the entire scene in a wavy penumbra. There was a fireplace to one side, close to the center of the mansion; and, on the windowed corner next to the entrance hall raised a short wooden stage, upon which laid a grand piano. Heavy drapes closed off this space from the side atria, and there was plenty of comfortable victorian sitting space, from sofas, to fainting couches, to armchairs and ottomans.

Soon enough, Die, Stitch, Sawbuck and Cans joined them, Stitch in a worn, but cozy bathrobe, and Sawbuck in pajamas. Some of the Felt retired early, it was true, and Crowbar, doing a mental headcount, as the leprechauns accommodated themselves, couldn’t blame them for it. Number Six, looking like he hadn’t had any sleep in 3 days, took a seat shyly in one of the sofas. Cans, mild-natured, but visibly grumpy, stood to the side without much ceremony.

As they assessed the room and saw the piece de resistànce – now entertaining himself with forcing Quarters to do coin tricks – they had their surprises, but subtle and silent. When Snowman faded in from nothing to sitting in an armchair, fashionably late, Crowbar got up the step to the stage to give himself some height advantage and called their attention:

“Hey everyone! Sorry to interrupt your night, but the reason I called this family meeting was –”

Crowbar was immediately interrupted by Caliborn, who jumped up the stage and climbed onto the piano seat, speaking loud and clearly as he ever did:

“Greetings, my brussel sprouts! There seems to be… Some fucked up shenanigans at play. So it looks like. From my perspective? I was only transported to some place I don’t know. Like the protagonist in one of these so called ‘ee-se-kai ah-ni-mes’. However. By executing continuous and exerting research I have deduced something groundbreaking. A considerable amount of time has passed for you.”

The leprechauns mostly kept quiet, although Caliborn could see with the corner of his eyes striped green hat sitting on an ottoman with an elbow to his knee and his chin in his hand, rolling his eyes. It was gonna be one of those nights. The boy didn’t let that get on his way, though, and continued, raising his hands as he spoke, like a proselyte.

“But fret not, minions! I am here once again, to guide you as the brilliant growing boy I am. You can start your worship right now, but I cannot be kept too long. I have a town to conquer.”

The Felt didn’t move, and Caliborn furrowed his brow in confusion. Before he could speak again, Crowbar turned to him, apologetic, and tried to convince him to stop.

“C’mon, my Lord, this is, uh, somewhat important. I need to talk to them and you can’t –”

“You cannot tell me what to do, maroon hat! Step aside!”

“Sir, please, we –”

“Shut up! You!” Caliborn pointed vaguely towards the crowd, “I need my fix of worship and entertainment!”

The adults fidgeted, uncomfortable, but didn’t move any way closer to doing what Caliborn so kindly requested. Their insolence drove the cherub insane. Not even the flighty broad was looking at him! Just smoking her gross, smelly cigarette, watching the garden outside. Those treacherous elves needed a reminder of who their real boss was. Proverbially frothing at the mouth, Caliborn abruptly launched himself towards the fireplace, causing a quick reaction of the Felt’s muscle, all mostly alert, sharp (Biscuits was still waking up from the drunken nap) and ready to act. Caliborn grabbed a poker, and localized the closest target – purple hat, small and fragile. As he growled and charged, Crowbar shouted, thinking fast:

“Start manoeuvre two-fourteen!”

With little delay, Doze shifted to look at the angry child; a slight, almost imperceptive change in expression as his power took effect, a small wave of blue winded Caliborn down and slowed his attack just as he was about to strike Clover over the head. As his expression changed in slow motion when he realized what had happened, Quarters lifted him up and sat him carefully onto a chair, tying him up with some spare rope they always kept handy behind the drapes in the corner. Number fourteen verified that the lordling was firmly tied, but not strong enough to hurt, and flashed a thumbs up to Crowbar.

“Should I cancel the unwind now?” Doze asked, turning to look at number seven, who faced Caliborn, assessing the situation, and shrugged.

“Wait ‘til the meeting’s over, I figure.”

With chaos controlled and gently placed into a side room, Crowbar got back up the stage, while the others settled back again.

“So, uh, you’re all aware of the situation. I’m sure everyone has some strong opinion one way or the other, and, uh… I wanted to hear them.” He opened a hand to the men (and Snowman) around him. “Should Caliborn stay or leave?”

There was a cold wave of silence, more uncomfortable than before, leprechauns mortified of saying their opinions as if that would guarantee them a death sentence. Snowman puffed out a cloud of smoke with a gentle sigh, and broke through the frigid silence.

“I don’t have a need for any child. This isn’t an orphanage.”

“Okay, but he’s…” Clover started, now perched on Quarters’ shoulder. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand it. He summoned us, we were literally made to serve him.”

“I would not bow to any of the filthy scientists that cloned me.” She flicked some ash on the ashtray. “Why would this brat be any different to you?”

“Yeah, well,” Fin started. “What good has he ever done to any of you? He won’t be playin’ anymore, not if he’s here anyway. So it’s not like we’ll be servin’ our original purpose. We’re just gonna be babysitting a power-hungry spoiled little brat.”

Others stopped and digested what he had said, and Die took the opportunity to add, quietly, staring at his juju doll:

“Well, he’s… He’s n-not very nice.”

“He doesn’t have anywhere else to go, though.” Sawbuck chimed in, pensively scratching his jowl. “He has no-one to take care of him.”

“He showed up out of nowhere!” Biscuits spoke up. “He didn’t even call before!” Eggs agreed vocally.

“Yeah! That’s very rude!”

“I say throw him in an orphanage.” Stitch tersely added with a rispid dismissive wave of his hand, with the voice tone to match. “Lots of kids in Midnight City also ‘showed up outta nowhere’. He’s not our business anymore and he’ll just stay in our way.”

“But we have to serve him!” Sawbuck replied with a hurt expression in his eyes. “It was what we were made for, we have to take care of him, he’s just a child!”

Stitch barked back. “Take care of him, pah! He was fine before us and he’s gonna be fine without us.”

“Sawbuck is right, Stitch.” Doze turned on his seat to face number nine. “Caliborn gave us life and purpose. We have to take care of the little lad.”

Trace jumped in to argue too, crossing his arms. “Gave us life! He brought us into existence to mock us and use us. How can you not see that?! We’re disposable to him, he doesn’t even care about learning our names!”

“He is a child , Trace! I could never let a child go uncared for if I can help it –”

“ Congratulations , pops!” Fin pointed an accusatory finger at him. “This ain’t fuckin’ about you! It’s like you’re brainwashed or s–”

“Hey!” Quarters stood up, visibly annoyed. “Don’t talk like that to Doze, you goddamn moldy sniffing mutt!”

Tensions arose, and the entire room erupted in arguments that dangered into physical territory. Crowbar screamed over them to regain control, tapping a few with the mean end of his juju to get the message across:

“Hey, hey! Settle down! Holy shit guys, don’t lose yer feckin’ marbles over this! The fuck’s wrong with all a’ youse?”

Trace pointed at Quarters with a thumb. “He started it.”

“Shut up! Let’s put it to a vote then.” Raising his right hand, he continued. “Who wants Caliborn to go away?”

Slowly, but proudly, Trace, Fin, Snowman, Stitch, Eggs, Biscuits and Matchsticks raised their hands. Crowbar looked over them, took mental note, and then lowered his hand, at the same time as he raised the other palm, crowbar pending backwards inoffensively in the crook between his index finger and his thumb.

“Alright now, who wants Caliborn to stay here with us?”

Doze and Sawbuck raised their hands immediately. Well, as close to immediately as Doze could anyway. Then, shyly, Itchy, Clover, Cans and Quarters followed. Crowbar, accounting for his own vote, and doing some quick math, furrowed his brow, sure that it didn’t quite add up. He relaxed his shoulders.

“Uh… Abstentions?”

At first, nobody moved. Peer pressured, Die revealed himself, fully conscious every single pair of eyes in the room was looking at him, trembling and insecure.

“Great.” Crowbar threw his hands, and pressed a thumb and index finger on his eyes. “We have a tie.”

“So… What’re we gonna do?” Asked Itchy from his spot leaning on the fireplace. Crowbar ran a palm over his his felty cheeks and chin, thinking of what to answer. Ultimately, he couldn’t decide on his own. He was just middle management after all.

“I gotta see what the boss thinks. Hey, Doc?” Crowbar started, first in a mumble, then loudly, looking up at the chandelier, waiting for an answer. “C’mon, Doc, I know you’re listenin’.”

The leprechauns looked between each other, not exactly confused but annoyed nonetheless; Stitch side-mouthed to Snowman:

“He does know nobody else can hear Scratch when they’re speaking like that, right?”

Snowman sighed, and turned her head to face him.

“Frankly, I’m afraid he’s moved past that and he’s just losing his mind at an alarmingly fast speed.”

They turned to look at Crowbar again, who tapped his foot and had his arms crossed.

“Fine! If you’re not answering here, I’m gonna pay you a visit. Matchsticks!” He pointed for his taller, wide companion to follow him as he stepped closer to the fireplace. “Do the fire thing.”

“Scratch’s office, boss?”

“Yeah.”

Matchsticks grabbed a flask from his breast pocket, opened it, and casually splashed some nondescript liquid on the lit fireplace. The flames danced up and flicked a bunch of colors – blue, yellow, deep red, green, purple – before settling in a deep forest green, crepitating just a bit higher than they were before. He pocketed his flask and showed the flame to Crowbar with a palm.

“There ya go, boss. But don’t forget about safety, aight? Feet first, and watch out for the hat.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Be back in a bit, lads.” Crowbar looked around to the rest of the Felt, pulled his pants on the thighs gently as he crouched to fit inside the fireplace. “Don’t go anywhere.”

With that, he walked into the fire, as they embraced and danced around him, taking him away.

The room silently waited for him to return. A cough to clear up a throat here, a sigh there. The sound of a cigarette burning with a long drag. Biscuits grew tired of waiting, and Eggs joined him steadily.

“Ninety-nine bottles o’ beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles o’ beer. Take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wa–”

“Shut the feck up, the two a’ you.” Stitch cut them before they got on a roll, and not much later than that Crowbar came back, rolling out of the fireplace with a heavy grunt. The flames returned to their original color while he stood up and brushed ash off his suit.

“Hate fire travel.”

“What’d Scratch say, Cro?” Matchsticks asked. Crowbar rubbed his neck, trying to find words.

“He was just… Sitting there. Y-you know the sound that happens when you call someone and the line is busy, so it just–”

“Huh.”

“Beep, beep, right. That was the sound that was… Coming out of him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So.” Fin stood up from his spot on one of the sofas, crossing his arms, an air of victory on his puffed chest. “What’s it gonna be, boss?”

Crowbar moaned, as if he tried to come up with a compromise on the spot. Finally, he caved in, blubbering before putting some strength in his voice:

“Caliborn will – uh – he’ll stay. That’s my word on it.”

A wave of both happy exclamations and disappointed groans came over the leprechauns, and he raised his voice.

“Yeah, that’s right, you better get used t’ him!”

He looked around, as the others started moving impatiently, and caught sight of Quarters giving him the stink eye. Defensively, he stepped closer.

“What is it, Quarters? What do you think we should do?” The taller leprechaun rolled his shoulders and answered:

“I don’t care much for it. I don’t care about what Caliborn has done to us, I don’t care about what you’re gonna do with him. I think even having this discussion is complete utter nonsense and that some of us are sobering up and would really like to brush their teeth and have a nap. It’s almost five in the morning, for Lord’s sake.”

“Y’know what, Quarters?” Crowbar put his hands on his hips. “You do get how this doesn’t help us at all, right?”

“Hey. You asked me what I thought. I’m just delivering the request, boss.”

“Okay. Fine.” Crowbar pressed the bridge between his eyes and turned to the others. Snowman wasn’t around anymore – she must’ve left when he was at Scratch’s office. “I say Caliborn stays, that’s the final word, and you all better shut up about it. Doze, Sawbuck, since you’re both so eager, help me set up a room for Skittle to stay and rewind him back to normal too. Everyone else, go get some sleep. We got shit to figure out in the morning.”

Just as gradually as the main hall filled up, it emptied out as they retired or got themselves to immediate tasks. The candles in the chandelier finally died out, engulfing the room in serene and dark quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of clocks.

Chapter Text

Crowbar haphazardly folded out the blanket coating the bed in the guest room they decided to use for Caliborn for the time being, after dusting out the furniture and changing the bedsheets, and the cherub looked at them with eyes squinting, a mix of confusion and discontent on his face.

“Alright, Skittle, hop in.” Crowbar said after doing so, pointing at the bed with his crowbar.

“I am not feeling tired, maroon hat. I had breakfast not long ago. Plus I don’t have the appropriate... Sleeping devices at hand.”

“The stuffed bunny, yeah, I know. It’s just that...” Crowbar rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find the words. “We’re tired, my Lord. It’s very late and we had a long day today. We wanna sleep, you see?”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“What if we tucked you in, my Lord?” Doze chimed in from the back of the room, next to the closed curtains, holding his own hands politely.

“Tuck. Tuck in?”

“Yes, like we used to. Well, we always tried, you never let us. You might find it easier to drift off then, I think.”

Caliborn gave him a long, suspicious look. Whatever blue hat’s game was, the cherub wouldn’t let him get his way. With how everyone was suspicious of the cherub earlier, Caliborn imagined he was trying to appeal to his wide array of emotions, such as confusion and anger, to gain his trust, only to stab him in the back later. Those droopy eyes and the little smile wouldn’t fool him, absolutely not. Who did this chucklefuck think he was?

Maybe Caliborn should play the fool for now, though. At the very least until he’s absolutely sure of what exactly the backstabbing would entail. He’d employ agents on it, even, if he ever managed to make allies in this backasswards world where elves weren’t subservient and did things like question him. Maybe maroon hat, who left with a nod just then, might be of service since he still looked loyal. The cherub crossed his arms and shifted his weight on his legs, staring back at blue hat.

“Fine. What does this ‘tuck in’ entail. Enlighten me.”

Doze widened his smile with a very short nod.

“Get in bed then.”

Caliborn crawled up the bed, and Doze slowly approached, pulling the blanket over Caliborn and brushed it, making sure the cherub was well covered and no crinkles were around. Then, he went for a pat on his head, as he would with the children at the Felt’s halfway house whenever he visited. Unaccustomed with the sudden closeness, Caliborn instinctively bit his hand, between the thumb and index finger. They stood still like that for a moment.

“Excuse me.” Doze said, smile now replaced by a more neutral expression, as Caliborn didn’t show any signs of moving. The cherub just fluttered his eyes, between the leprechaun’s hand and his pupiless eyes. Doze once again spoke, apparently unfazed by the bite.

“I can be here all night y’know.”

Somewhat parallel to this exchange, Sawbuck made his journey towards his own bedroom after tidying up Caliborn’s room. On the way he walked by Die’s room, and stopped in front of it. Something about the energy he felt from it made him feel like he should check up on Die, even if just to get a haphazard ‘I’m fine’ through the door. Number ten knocked on the door, two gentle raps of his knuckles. There was a little bit of stumbling behind, some fluttering of feathers, but eventually Die answered, opening the door just a crack. Sawbuck flashed him a warm smile.

“Star to my diamond! I was just checking on ya. Seeing if you were okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“Do you want to talk about...” Sawbuck made a vague gesture in the direction of the front of the house with his hand. “Things?”

“Do I want to, yes, sure.” Die replied, without much hesitation between his repetition and the answer, and let go of the door so Sawbuck could come in, occupying himself instead with holding all his chickens so they wouldn’t escape through the open door. The wide leprechaun walked in and closed it softly behind him, being careful not to step on any stray chickens while he strode his way over to sit at the foot of Die’s bed.

The bedroom was narrow and sort of cramped, with nine chickens serving as number six’s roommates; some hidden under the bed, some fluttering about, feathers everywhere. A stack of cubicles which served as their nests completely empty – they only went in to sleep, when they weren’t feeling like piling up with Die. Sawbuck knew all this and he knew Die enjoyed their company, even if it meant living in a messy place. It was what having pets entailed, he figured. As he sat down, Sawbuck thought for a moment, folding his hands together, coming up with a way to approach the subject. Once Die was sitting next to him, one bowtied chicken on his lap, number ten started, voice gentle as always:

“You’re not happy with Skittle being here, are you?”

“N-not really.” Die answered, not exactly meeting his eyes, busying himself with petting the bird on his lap.

“Then why didn’t ya vote for him to go?”

“Uh...”

Die stopped, his movements suddenly stiffening. When he was around Sawbuck, he knew he could relax his demeanor, but being put in a position to actually talk about himself and his feelings made him tense up again; he was famously terrible with words. Sawbuck couldn’t blame him for it, though.

“I... I don’t want...”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want Crowbar to think less of me. And I don’t want – I’m afraid – I don’t want Trace and Fin to be mad at me.”

“Pfff,” Sawbuck waved nonchalantly and stretched his legs, his heels sustaining them on the floor. “Who cares about those pool sharks anyway? They’re all bark and no bite, you know that!”

“Yeah...”

“And besides, we’re all family here. How mad would they be with you for thinking different from them?”

“You’re right...” Die looked down, content in petting the little chicken’s back. The bird had its eyes closed, seemingly enjoying it. Sawbuck let the conversation die there, taking this time to pet another one with one of his fingers, while it nestled itself to his side.

Die spoke up again, after a trail of impatient, but unintelligible muttering.

“He makes me so angry!”

“Who, Fin?”

“No, Caliborn. He’s-he’s so inconsiderate of everyone. And-and he’s pushy, and only cares about himself, and I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want him around, he upsets me. But at the same time I don’t want to... to do something that-that I might regret, because then he’d hurt me.”

“I think we can give him a change of heart. He’s still very young, he’s got a lot to learn.”

“Okay?” Die lifted his head, brow furrowed in discontent. “But I’m still gonna remember what he did to me. To us. I don’t like that-that you let... let him walk all over you. He doesn’t deserve your niceness.”

“I’m flattered, Die!” Sawbuck smiled, and as always it was very easy to hear his smile on his words. “But I still have faith in the little boy. I think we make ‘im nice with some good ol’ fashioned love.”

“He doesn’t need love, he needs some stabs. I wish I had a Caliborn pin.”

“Hey now, Skittle’s a child at the end of the day. You can’t say that, star!”

“I’m sorry!”

“No, it’s alright. I’m not gonna ask you to be buddy-buddy with him, or even talk to him if ya don’t want to... But could you promise me one thing?”

“What.”

“Could you not use this as an excuse to be all by yourself even more? I care a lot about you, Die – everyone does. It’s good to see you around the house and not, hehe, cooped up in your bedroom.”

“Uh...”

“And we’d love it if you had breakfast with us tomorrow. I’m sure we’re gonna have to reorganize ourselves and all and I think it’d be good for you to be around too. I can fix you tea the way ya like it. Could you have breakfast with us tomorrow?”

“Could I have breakfast with you tomorrow... Okay. I will. I will.”

“Oh, that’s great to hear, Die!” Sawbuck said, and then stopped to let out a big yawn, patting his big belly afterwards. “I’m gonna get some shut eye now, sugar, before the sun goes up. You should do the same.” He lifted himself up from the bed, which creaked back into place once the weight was off it. “You look very tired.”

“I will.”

Sawbuck flashed him another warm smile, and Die reciprocated with a twitchy, nervous one. Number ten then patted his shoulder in a silent goodbye, and left his room to finally go have his well-earned sleep.

Afterwards, the mid-morning sun shone through the slits of the closed windows of Fin and Trace’s bedroom, tinting the messy suite in a warm penumbra. The bodies on the bed shifted lazily, and Trace sat up trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. He put his arms up, stretching, his torso shaking lightly with the movement, and then stood up, going through his morning routine.

Fin stayed in bed, his snout pointing at the ceiling and mouth slightly opened as he snored softly. He wasn’t one to wake up early and, after what happened the previous night, he wouldn’t want to anyway. Nevertheless, rare were the days he had off, and not much time passed before a shirt was thrown onto him, landing on his nose and waking him up from his sleep-deprived stupor.

“Get up and get dressed,” said Trace, the culprit, once Fin showed signs of conscience. “Or the boss’ll give you lip again.”

“I don’t wanna,” answered number five, his voice mushed by sleep and muffled by the unbuttoned pastel green shirt tossed over his face.

Trace took a pause, standing next to his charmmate with a hand on his waist and the other handling a comb menacingly.

“C’mon.”

“Urrgh...” Fin let out something in between a growl and a moan, but his drowsy, lazy feet dragged him towards Trace instead, hugging him from behind and resting his chin on his shoulder. To the display of affection Trace didn’t react much, occupied with combing his head fuzz back and looking in the mirror. He was used to this sort of routine and quite fairly enjoyed delaying the start of a day in favor of a round of cuddling or so, but he hadn’t woken up in the best of humors, and neither did Fin as far as he could see.

“Y’know what, I’ve been thinking.” Number three squinted at the mirror, fixing the side of his slick back fuzz. The snout on his shoulder croaked out a little teasing chuckle.

“Heheh, you do that?”

“Shut up, put a shirt on.” He pushed Fin away swinging his hip to the side, gently, and Fin finally complied, sitting on the bed instead. Anything to delay a dreadful day.

“I was thinking about Caliborn and what we talked about yesterday–”

“Oh boy, here we go...” The sore subject was enough to get the shark moving and working towards dressing himself.

“Sleepin’ on it, I think tea and cakes were a l’il bit right. Caliborn is a shit of a brat but he’s still just, y’know, a brat.”

“Why should we care?” Fin blurted back while pulling up his pants, jumping in place, not really looking at Trace.

“We don’t need to, what I mean is that I’d feel pretty scummy tossin’ a 12-year-old to fend off for himself. Even if he’d be fine – I know he’s gonna be fine, but still...” Trace trailed off with a frustrated scoff.

“He can take care of himself just right,” Fin said, now occupying the space in front of the mirror, gently pushing Trace aside before tying his bowtie in place. “I think that’s just the minion instinct speaking.”

“Hey, I don’t have a minion instinct, you have a minion instinct!”

“No, dumbass, I’m talking about...” He stopped, trying to come up with words. “That thing we used to get. That l’il voice on the back of our heads, y’know, that need to do stuff for him. Sometimes even without him telling us so. Without even thinkin’.”

“Lord, I have that thing.” Trace shook his head, crossed his arms and focused his lousy eyesight on the lava lamp on one of their bedside tables. “Yesterday I really felt like giving Skittle a tour of the house when he told us to show ‘im the ropes. Minion instinct, is that the right term?”

“I dunno, I’m just... just sayin’ words. I feel like that too, sometimes. Used to feel more than I do now, but...”

“D’you think it ever stops? That it goes away? With time?” Trace finally looked up at Fin.

Fin stopped, and pet his lover’s shoulders, getting rid of stray hairs on his trenchcoat, and in turn Trace fixed his orange bowtie, slightly skewed in its place. The air around them was heavy and uncomfortable, the type of thick silence that nestles itself instead of a worrying truth that everyone knows, and yet don’t say, for saying it would make it tangible. Fin went from brushing Trace’s shoulder to patting his arms twice, as if putting a pin in the subject, and answered, voice low and despondent:

“Let’s have breakfast.”

Chapter Text

Mornings in the Felt Mansion could get hectic, as a house full of people tends to be when everyone moves in different ways as they go through their motions on their morning routines. However, it was a specific kind of disorganization – almost harmonic, shy of being orchestrated. Leprechauns would see each other in the halls and greet each other with a smile, whether in pajamas, underwear or fully dressed for the day, and would walk together towards one of the kitchens, arguably the largest, and scatter there once more as they fished for their desired breakfast food.

Nobody was in charge of setting the table, or putting the kettle to boil; usually, who got there first was the one to do it, and usually, who got there first were Sawbuck and Doze. They would get the kettle going, the pastries on the table, the bread to toast, exchanging a few words and ‘how do you do’s. This morning, however, they were silent besides polite nods and hums that they both knew meant the pleasantries they always exchanged. More people came in, passed the kettles and pots of butter around, and chatted quietly.

“So, what came of Skittle anyway?” Stitch asked, pouring some hot water on his mug, teabag already in. Doze answered, his back turned as he fixed some coffee while his own tea steeped in the counter.

“Oh, he’s having a little nap. Bit me hand while I was tuckin’ him in,” he showed one of his hands, twisting his body back momentarily to face Stitch for it. “But he let go eventually. Fell asleep holding me, actually, oh.” He stopped for a chuckle. “He’s a feisty little thing.”

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya all!” Clover arrived then, a skip in his step – he usually woke up in very good humor, and despite everything, today would be no different. Some grumbles and low words were given in response, while he walked towards Quarters at the stove and gave his side a big hug.

“Mornin’.” Quarters looked down at him with a fond smile, and pressed number four against himself  for a brief moment, before continuing the conversation. “‘s good that he’s taking his nap right now, give us some respite. Anyone wants eggs?”

“Why would anyone want me? What did I do?!” Eggs asked in a whine, still half asleep, while Biscuits fixed him some tea with milk. Quarters let out a little noise that replaced laughter this early in the morning.

“Not you, scrambled.”

“I’m not scrambled though, I’m just sleepy!”

Quarters sighed, and raised the spatula on his hand with a flair.

“Any takers?”

“I’ll have some,” Matchsticks replied, “make ‘em the way I like.”

“Burnt, got it.”

“Hey, you have to beware of salmonella, y’know. Have to thoroughly cook your eggs ‘n’ all.” He elbowed Die next to him gently, who didn’t know what to answer, so he just stared back at him nervously and nursed his own tea.

“Well how good can eggs really be,” Doze replied while spreading some butter on toast, “if they’re burnt to a crisp? Can’t taste anything then.”

“Better safe than sorry, pops.” Matchsticks pointed out, and at this time Itchy and Cans walked in. While Cans just strode patiently across the kitchen and went to prepare his preferred morning beverage, Itchy looked like he was up way too early. He always looked like that in the mornings, without his first cup of coffee of the day he was nothing but a bundle of limbs and a half-awake mind.

Cans made himself a tall glass of chocolate-flavored cold and refreshing milk, and leaned against the counter to drink it. Itchy responded to the few other leprechauns wishing him a good morning with a raspberry blow and sat at the table, dropping his forehead down. Such was the morning routine for him.

“Hey Boxer,” Quarters cracked an egg in a pan and looked sideways at Cans next to him. “What’d you think of yesterday?”

“Eh.” He took a sip of his milk. “It’s a lot to think about. Buck seems excited ‘bout it though, look at ‘im.” Cans pointed at Sawbuck with his cup, and Sawbuck chuckled in response, putting down his slice of pound cake.

“I was thinking, y’know, now that Skittle’s with us we need to make plans for him. I was thinking of a curriculum, cuz, y’know, if we teach him the ropes well enough he might even be able to go to school! Without burning it down in the first five minutes!”

“Wouldn’t that be fun, dear!” Doze replied again, putting the final two teaspoons of sugar on the mug of coffee he prepared.

“It would!” Sawbuck continued, as Doze brought his lukewarm tea and the mug of coffee to the table, and gently tapped the top of Itchy’s head. Itchy lifted it up, groggy, and, to the sight of the mug, began to nurse the drink, listening to number ten. “And besides, he needs friends his age, he always looked so lonely then and I think he’s still lonely now.”

“I’m not so sure ‘bout that.” Trace joined the conversation after a few minutes of silent listening. “Some people are just beyond the point of rehabilitation.”

“Pah, nonsense!” Sawbuck waved a gentle dismissing hand at him. “Look at Fin over there, he used to eat all of Die’s chickens, and now he’s all fine! No chicken-stealing in months!”

“Wait, he still has chickens?” Fin perked his snout up from his toast. “I thought there weren’t any more!”

“I won’t let you near them anymore anyway...” Die mumbled under his own teacup.

“Yeah, you see,” Trace spread some jam on a piece of toast and continued, with a smug expression. “I think that proves more of my point than it proves yours, Cakes.”

“What matters is that he changed, alright. I think that if we think about each other, we all did. And if a bunch of old, scruffy frogs could, I think a little boy just starting his life could too!”

“Eeh...” Trace trailed off to number ten’s speech, rolling his eyes, and Sawbuck was about to respond when Crowbar walked into the kitchen.

Crowbar always had a very precise morning routine. He’d get up, stretch, suit up, write down the tasks for the day, and then go downstairs for a cup of joe and a team meeting. Then, he’d assign everyone the house chores, their business tasks, and off he went to complete his own. Today, it was no different. He got up. He stretched. He put on his suit, that he ironed last night just before getting knocked out in bed. However when he sat down to write the tasks, he remembered Caliborn, whom he imagined was either softly snoozing or wrecking havoc downstairs (as he didn’t hear any screaming, probably the former), and stopped with his pen hovering just above the page.

With Caliborn there, how would that affect their tasks? What should he do to accommodate his Lord into their routine? What were their plans for the long term? He didn’t know. And he couldn’t contact Scratch either. When the cueball head talked to him, it was a two-way mode of communication for sure, but Crowbar himself could never initiate it, and it’s not like there was a phone line that went from Midnight City to the green moon, anyway. Whatever number two – by rank, of course – was up to these last few days could wait to be investigated until number one – also by rank – was properly acclimatized. But the thing is, what troubled number three – three by rank and seven by hat – was that he didn’t know what to do with number one until number two told him what to do, and number two couldn’t be reached for unseen circumstances. What, is he supposed to think of what to do next by himself?

Crowbar’s no good at that, goddamnit. He’s just middle management.

Those were all the thoughts going through his mind as he walked into the kitchen and straight towards the freshly brewed coffee, pouring some for himself. “Good morning, everyone,” he started, with a matter-of-fact, polished and professional voice. The rest of the leprechauns settled down in a moment and craned their heads to listen to him, some already finished with their breakfast, some just patiently nursing their teas and pastries in silence.

“Everyone sleep well tonight? Good. So, uh, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since last night, and, y’know, everyone here has duties and nobody needs to put them aside to look after Caliborn.”

The others showed some communal signs of relief. Some relaxed shoulders here, some released breaths there, a few nods in approval. Crowbar however wasn’t finished.

“...But...”

It all gave place to a collective sigh, as some of them decided to turn back to their breakfasts or empty dishes to collect them to be washed. Crowbar tilted his head and scoffed, and raised his voice again to bring their attention back.

“Listen, someone needs to watch him, okay! So he doesn’t burn the mansion down, you know how it is, stop whining! So, with that in mind... Someone should be here to look after him and, I dunno, give him a tour of the mansion or somethin’, keep the boy distracted. So. Who’s it gonna be?”

The leprechauns looked at each other, like they were expecting each other to step forward. Or perhaps communicating something they were already settled in. Sawbuck then shrugged, and answered:

“Usually, whoever’s asking.”

Crowbar lowered his shoulders, frustrated. Somewhere in the corner of his eyes, Snowman faded in the kitchen, took the mug of coffee and the plate of toast left for her in the cabinet, and disappeared again, while Clover jumped from wherever the hell he hid to eat and cried out a diverted “zing!”. A few of the other men laughed jovially, and Itchy trailed behind the dying laughter with a slurred “haha, gottem.”

Number seven pinched the space between his eyes. Boy, it’s gonna be this sort of day, huh. He cut the meeting short then – no point discussing something the others didn’t want to talk about and probably already discussed in great lengths in private. He just rolled up the Chore Whiteboard and begun assigning each of them the tasks for the day, both house and gang related. Who does the dishes, fixes dinner, puts the trash out, dusts off the furniture, winds up the clocks, but also who’d go patrolling the territory, collect money from establishments, meet up with carapaces who were interested in buying some of their top of the line bootleg cherubian whiskey. Run of the mill, really.

“Oh, and another thing!” Crowbar stopped everyone before they left. “Tonight we’ll try talking to Doc again, see if he’s got anythin’ to say about this. Til then, keep yourselves in a holding pattern.”

“What does that mean?” Biscuits raised his hand, and didn’t wait to be acknowledged to ask.

“...Stay in touch.”

When all is said and done and they all scatter around to get to work, Crowbar patted his hat, adjusting it in place, put his mug of joe on the sink, and went to seek Caliborn, show him around the mansion.

Caliborn was up, when Crowbar opened the door to his makeshift bedroom, and was wearing his blanket like a cape with his arms buried inside a dusty trunk, inspecting its contents. Crowbar gave him the plate of breakfast they had set up the night before – Sawbuck left a slab of meat out of the freezer to defrost overnight, and Doze fetched some gummy worms from his candy drawer – and waited for him to finish.

“So, what do you wanna see first?” Number seven asked, as Caliborn sucked on a gummy worm.

“All of it. You said this mansion was built for me. So it is all mine. And as a prospective mansion owner-” Caliborn stopped to gobble up the worm falling off his teeth, glanced up at Crowbar’s bewildered face, and frowned. “I need to have a tour. Of my house.”

“Yes, of course, but what-what do you want to see first , my Lord?”

“Give me the scenic route.”

“Scenic route.” Crowbar repeated under his breath, and then tossed his crowbar up a little bit to grip it better, pointing with it to a general direction. “Follow me.”

Crowbar took him to see the place, starting from the last floor, and descending through the four stores of the mansion. He showed the little cherub the door to Snowman’s quarters (“explicitly off-limits, of course. Because she’s a girl and all.”), the sumptuous library, the third floor reserved for all of their bedrooms, the second floor with Stitch’s boutique and all the offices they could need in their business, and the ground floor, with its various kitchens and atria, doors to the cellar and finally, the courtyard. Peppered throughout the tour were countless smoke, reading, game and clock rooms, expansive and seemingly infinite green hallways, and every sort of decoration, from rugs, to cabinets, to vases and paintings.

Finally out by the courtyard, Caliborn snapped away from the boorish display, and stopped to look at the well-trimmed rosebeds. Who knew being a homeowner would entail so much meaningless walking and presenting. Crowbar tailed right behind him, keeping a vigilant look as he pointed to the artificial pond, the stone sculptures and the outside sitting area, where then he stopped, retrieving his finger.

Some sort of horned grey fairy sat on one of the benches, watching a little frog attracted by the oasis of greenery inside the walls, and kicked her legs softly and rhythmically, seemingly not noticing them at first. Caliborn noticed her as soon as Crowbar did, and did not hesitate to say hello to his new neighbor.

“Hey!” He abandoned the rose bed and ran towards her, stopping right in front of the girl. She looked back at him with a puzzling smile, but instead of talking to her directly, the boy looked up at Crowbar, pointing a claw at her.

“Who’s this broad taking up space in my garden?”

Crowbar looked at the girl, waving a short greeting. From the tip of her oscillating rust-colored wings, to her bandaged calves and round shoes, she struck him as oddly familiar, and he glanced back at Caliborn with a shrug.

“I don’t know, my Lord... She looks... Y-you look a bit familiar, actually.”

He couldn’t really place it. Something about the horns.

The girl flashed a big toothy smile back at him, glancing between the leprechaun and the cherub, long coily hair following her movement.

“Now that’s interesting!”

“What is it.” Caliborn answered, assuming his dominance stance. “You did not answer my original question! And now I have another one for you, hoe. So you have to answer them before I come up with more and then you get stockpiled.”

“Oh, I’m just passing by!” She waved her hand dismissively. “This already looks like such a fun timeline!”

“I’ll show you a fun timeline! And something about what happens. When people don’t answer my questions right away.”

Caliborn widened his stance, arched his shoulders back, gathering his power, and finally raised his hands to unleash it, growling. Nothing happened. His recently acquired god powers! Stolen from him! Did he leave their metaphysical embodiment in his other pants too? Impossible. Someone sequestered them while he were asleep that night, for sure. He knew treason would come soon, but he didn’t think it was this soon. With another growl, this time of impatience, he turned to maroon hat, who stood by at a respectable distance.

“Why is it not working?!”

“What, my Lord?”

“My powers! Where are they? Who took them?”

The girl gasped, starry-eyed.

“Who took them!” She parroted in sequence, almost as if talking out loud to herself. “This has to be the most fascinating timeline I’ve visited so far!”

“Why is she still talking?!” Caliborn turned his big frown to his leprechaun again. “Maroon hat, explain!”

“I’m not sure what’s happening either, Skittle.” Crowbar said, despite Caliborn’s disapproving hiss at the nickname, and then addressed the alien. “Hey, lady, do you happen to know?”

“I think I have a hunch. A hypothesis, I would say, in the back of my mind. Although...” She smiled again, with wide eyes that made Crowbar a little bit uncomfortable. “It might be approaching confirmed theory status very soon!”

“Well??” Caliborn threw his hands, and then put them on his hips. “What is it?”

“Oh, I thought you didn’t want me here, Caliborn!” She stood up, her wings fluttering to let her float. “I’m not gonna tell you after you called me names and threatened me with fake powers! I’m just a timeline tourist, but I think I’m gonna wait and see if you figure it out before event horizon! See ya!”

She then fluttered away, before Caliborn could swat her from the air, and left him with his curses and his increasingly anxious minion.

Caliborn went through the rest of his day as usual. He complained about his lack of powers, and attempted to test them again, with an exasperated Crowbar, and ingenuous Eggs and Biscuits, not getting much results. Then, he spiraled into a disillusioned self, not sure what he had done to deserve this. Then he stopped to drink some afternoon tea as invited by Doze, and did some coloring with some crayons Clover dug out of his bedside table.

The night creeped in, the sunset painting the pink and blue sand dunes outside the windows of the mansion a golden color, and the leprechauns once again reunited after supper to contact Scratch. Matchsticks did his thing, and Crowbar once more leapt through the fire.

He found himself in the fireplace right outside Scratch’s office, in his luxurious – and very green – apartment. The quiet of the place caught him off-guard, but he kept his nerves. He had to. Gathering courage, he knocked on the office’s door, and, when nobody responded, turned the doorknob and walked in.

The record playing in the white gramophone in the corner ran an empty scratching noise, the record itself finished, for who knows how long. Crowbar approached it and delicately took the needle off, and then looked up to Scratch’s desk. There he was, sat just as Crowbar had left him, unmoving.

“S-sir?” The leprechaun called, but, upon the Doctor’s lack of movement, he saw no alternative but to hesitantly approach the puppet. Withholding his breath, he reached to touch the cueball, delicately, and, for his own surprise, the head budged. The weight of life was taken away from him.

With another nudge, the puppet fell onto the floor unceremoniously, the cueball touching the floorboards with a muffled ‘clunk’, the limbs flopping on top of each other and bunched together as dictated by gravity. If Crowbar’s breath was held before, it certainly began hyperventilating then. With heart and mind racing, he searched all over the office for anything, really. A mcguffin, a message, a guide. Through piles of unread bimonthly Felt reports Crowbar turned in religiously (the twice a month kind of bimonthly) and half-finished scrapbooking, he couldn’t find anything useful. Then, he turned to the typewriter.

Scratch used it as some sort of computer, Crowbar had seen it a few times. He wasn’t very well versed in technology, that was true, but he could at least try seeing if that would lead him somewhere. Of course, he couldn’t find anything. White ink on white paper will do that. He took his hat off and ran his fingers through his fuzz, frustrated, tired, and a tiny bit – no, a huge bit – scared. He rummaged through all the papers again, aimlessly, practically snooping at this point, trying to avoid the puppet at all costs. He walked out the corridor, ear holes in attention for any bit of noise or movement. Nothing.

Defeated, he crawled back into the fireplace.

Chapter Text

A few days passed, in a routine not much different from Caliborn’s first day in. He took the time to explore every nook and cranny he had access to in the mansion, every empty clock room, burst into sleeping quarters unannounced with the purpose of playing one of his “ingenious master pranks” on unsuspecting leprechauns trying to get ready for bed. The reactions of the Felt gang to it were mixed – some tried avoiding Caliborn like the plague, others pretended he wasn’t there. A third group, more or less composed only of two blue-hatted people, tried to accommodate their Lord to the best of their ability.

Sawbuck, in his own merit, wanted to try broadening his little Skittle’s food horizons, with a traditional Prospitian cuisine recipe he’d gotten from a magazine: beef of moobeast, steamed vegetables, and a special onion sauce. He fancied himself a good cook, even though his specialty wasn’t exactly the main course, but more so the pastries and desserts you’d have afterwards. Nonetheless, Caliborn was attracted by the savory smells, and hovered around him in the kitchen, peeking over the counters and sitting still at once when lunch was served, but pouted when he saw the food on his plate.

Sawbuck stood next to him, proud of his culinary skills, with a dishcloth over his shoulder and his hands folded in front of his stomach, waiting for Caliborn’s reaction. The cherub poked around, inspecting one of the carrot cubes, and gave it a lick before tossing it back with a grimace.

“Ewww!! What is this gross thing?”

“It’s carrot, my Lord! It’s very tasty, tad bit sweet. I thought maybe you’d l-” Sawbuck started, but was interrupted promptly.

“I don’t want it! It’s not meat!”

“That it isn’t.”

“And it’s not candy either! You know I have a strict diet! You’re just trying to poison me, striped blue hat, I knew it.”

“N-not at all, my Lord! I was just-”

“Traitor!” Caliborn shouted, tossing his plate across the kitchen table. Sawbuck braced himself for retaliation, recoiling and closing his eyes, but Caliborn just stood up and stormed off to yell of his outrage to anyone who’d listen.

The hallways were empty, no matter where he looked. How dare these oversized geckos have ‘routines’ and ‘jobs’ and not be available to listen to how he ruined a perfectly good meal in a fit of rage! Running up the stairs and checking empty corridors and empty rooms, he stopped in his tracks at the sight of life, peeking in from the doorway into the tailor’s boutique.

The aforementioned tailor had his back to the door, stitching a faceless effigy hanging by its neck from a circular rack, humming a faint melody to himself. The atmosphere inside was quiet, inert, but to Caliborn that wasn’t a concern. He stepped in, at first lightly intimidated by the peacefulness, fidgeting with the lock holes in the doorframe, but quickly recovered his confidence; no way he’d let any of his minions see him in a moment of hesitation or weakness. He marched to the side of striped yellow hat, watching his craft, and asked:

“What is it that you are doing, striped yellow?”

The leprechaun silently side-eyed him, and looked back to his task at hand, as if that was an answer. The cherub, with a frown, poked his side with a claw, forcefully dragging his attention to himself.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!”

The tailor looked him up and down, with an annoyed expression, stopping for a brief moment to answer, and then turned back to the effigy.

“Working.”

“Don’t be cheeky with me, you needle fiddler! What is it. That you are doing?”

He sighed. All he wanted was to work in peace. This is why Caliborn shouldn’t be there.

“I’m fixing Egg’s effigy. Like fucking always.”

“So the elf with the striped purple hat gets hurt.” Caliborn replied, ignoring how tense the tailor was. “And you unhurt him. By stitching his hanging puppet.”

“Yes.” Stitch turned, and then stopped on his tracks, judging the accuracy of the answer weirdly specific. “H-how did you figure?”

“Haa haa!” Caliborn opened up a toothy grin, hands on his hips. “I am a boy-genius extraordinaire! And also you told me. Not too long ago. Before I was ee-se-kaai’d here.”

Stitch stared at him, unamused, without a clue as to what the fuck that kid just said, and with a short nod, returned to work.

“I see.”

Caliborn was still not satisfied with the conversation, and meandered his eyes around looking for something to strike it up again; his eyes fell onto a mannequin dressed in a sharp green tailcoat, with a dark green bowtie hanging over a tea-stain-colored shirt. The cherub pointed at it, curious and instigated, raising his voice to ask:

“Did you make that, fabric lackey?”

The leprechaun rolled his eyes, but answered nonetheless. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Make me a suit! I want a new suit! But make it nicer than this one. I want something bold. Something sharp. Something that allows me to become one with the, so to say, ah-eh-stethics of this town. So I can infiltrate the top ranks more easily, of course.”

Stitch looked him up and down again, as if questioning himself whether he was serious or not. Of course he was. Caliborn was never not serious if he wasn’t doing air quotes or cackling obnoxiously loud.

“You want it right now?”

“Yes!”

The man sighed, and fetched a measuring tape from a drawer nearby, putting it over his shoulders while he looked for some pen and paper. In the same motion, he pointed with a full palm to a platform next to a mirror.

“Hop up, my Lord.” Caliborn complied silently, and Stitch kneeled in front of him. “I’ll take your measurements. Should be done in a day or so.”

Caliborn stood there, hands on his hips, a big smile on his face as he imagined what his new clothes would look like.

“I want something that makes a statement. That lets me do my bidding and doesn’t stand on the way. Or make me trip. Something that captures my color scheme and makes my skin pop and shine. Something like... Like...”

As he struggled for words, he looked around the boutique again, between the effigies, the drawers full of supplies, the cloth stretches hanging next to each other on the wall, until they reached a cranny from where something flashed faintly. He craned his neck to see, and found what he was looking for. 

“Like that!” He jumped in place, pointing a full arm with a sharp claw in the direction of the hidden mannequin. Stitch turned his neck back to see, and stopped.

The spare Cairo Overcoat, what Caliborn was pointing at, laid on its mannequin with deep tears and holes, the stretches of space flickering rapidly, almost too quick to look at. Stitch knew that this meant the timeline was in distress. And judging by all the flickering, it was very, very bad. He slowly stood up, a worry wiping across his face as he took in all that it meant.

“Oh my Lord...” Were the small words he was able to mumble to himself, after patting Caliborn’s shoulder and giving it a little push to send him on his way. The leprechaun stood there, frozen, in shock of what it all meant; it usually never got this bad. Then, he snapped back into the present. There was much to be done.

He stepped towards the door, and shouted “Marco!” at the corridor. Whenever anyone needed unspecified help around the mansion, that’s how they let everyone else know. Faintly, like coming from a floor below, Itchy’s high-pitched, annoying voice replied “polo!” and, quick enough, he was by Stitch’s door, with a smile that, were it anyone else, could be mistaken for helpful.

“Ugh, why you?” Stitch started, looking down to him with his regular scowl.

“D’you want help or not?”

“Fetch me Crowbar. Quick.”

“Quick is how I do things!”

Itchy prepared himself, and wound up, running down the corridor and bunching up carpets on his wake. Stitch turned back to his boutique, taking off his hat and running his fingers through his fuzz, exasperated. A small sparkle noise made him look up to the effigies then, and a blunt-trauma injury sizzled on the forehead of Itchy’s, just as the aforementioned leprechaun shouted a disoriented “ow” from down the corridor. Stitch sighed again. What a day.

Not much time passed before Crowbar stumbled into the boutique, worried. Stitch had taken the time to lay out the flashing stretches of space, measuring the holes and tears in the Overcoat to prepare them for cutting. Stretches of space and threads of time were the only haberdashery supplies that could fix the Cairo Overcoat, and reflect its changes onto the real timeline. Being the keeper of time stability was a full time job for Stitch, and he juggled it between the full time job of seamster, the full time job of tailor, and the full time job of babysitting Eggs and Biscuits from afar. That’s four full times he stitched together precisely and methodically, and he did them just fine. But still, when it came to emergencies, he really needed some sort of support, or else all the jobs juggled would fall on the floor.

Catching his breath, Crowbar patted his own thighs, and asked in a hushed tone:

“Hi I’m here. What’s up?”

Wordlessly, Stitch walked towards the cranny he kept the overcoat and took it from the mannequin, and presented it to Crowbar from the tips of his fingers. Number seven recoiled with an exclamation.

“Fuck, it’s worse than I thought.”

“You know anythin’ about this?” Stitch asked as he folded the coat and put it on top of his desk, and Crowbar rubbed the back of his neck.

“I think I do… I didn’t tell you guys... I didn’t want you to freak out!”

“I’m already freaking out. Look at the state I’m in.”

Stitch opened his arms, and looked tidy and controlled the same as he ever was. Crowbar lifted his eyebrows, shaking his head sympathetically.

“Devastating. Listen, it’s about Scratch – he’s gone.”

“Gone? What d’you mean, gone?”

“I dunno, he just – he looked dead. I don’t even know if he can die, he’s just a puppet, right? But he was just... Limp. Empty. I dunno. These two things look clearly related to me.”

Stitch nodded, looked back at the coat and then again to Crowbar.

“D’you think it’s Caliborn?”

Crowbar tensed his shoulders, looking at the coat too, not really sure of what to say, stammering ‘uhs’ and ‘hmms’. Finally, he gave up, and swung his crowbar decisively as a start to his motion.

“I don’t wanna think about that right now. Just-just fix the coat-” He gestured to the continuously shredding article, already walking out. “I’ll be back here later.”

“Where you goin’?” Stitch grumbled as he disappeared in the corridor, and Crowbar stepped back and craned his head to say some last few words.

“I’m gonna get Scratch.”

Night fell and the two alternian moons shone in the sky, oblivious to all the trouble that was about to start, with the stars around them. The window to Snowman’s quarters framed them neatly, as a slender, stout silhouette cut against the glimpse of the sky inside the little apartment, lifting itself up.

“Took you long enough.” Snowman’s voice started, dismissive.

“It’s hard to do it with you watching.” Slick replied. “I get shy.”

“Please. I’ve seen you do worse in front of an entire speakeasy.”

“But they liked it.”

“So gross.”

“I said they liked it, not that it was decent.”

“I’m surprised this wasn’t faster, with what you’ve been taking.”

“You can’t rush perfection.”

Slick put the two empty bottles of champagne he was holding on the bedside table, as his kissmesis turned on the lamp as well, deeming the lighting a bit too dark for her tastes that night. He shrugged back to her, with a playful smile.

“I told ya I could burp out the entire alphabet.”

Snowman laughed, diverted. “You did.”

“Where were we, then?” He mumbled, and approached her, holding her face and curving down to kiss her, leaning onto her. She enjoyed it, but pushed him away gently when he leaned on, arching backwards and putting a hand on her forehead, in an almost theatrically rehearsed movement.

“Please, darling. Not today. I am much too tired.”

“What, tired from doin’ nothin’ all day?” He replied, hopping over her to lay down next to her on the bed; as Slick comfied himself up against the pillows, he took his time to look her up and down, and then nodded, with the faintest of awkward smiles hooking up on a corner of his lips. “You really do look like shit.”

Snowman eyed him too, caught off guard, coming up with something of similar insult to tell him. Kissmesisships could sure be exhausting.

“You don’t look so good yourself.”

“Yeah, I have a newborn back home. What’s your excuse?” He paused, and rubbed her shoulder gently; she leaned on it, enjoying the tenderness she didn’t get very often. “Y’know, Snow, you’re not comin’ in so hot today. It’s not fun to mess with ya if you’re not bitin’ back.”

“I told you. I’m tired.”

“Why? Are you sick?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’re you feeling?”

Despite the genuine concern on Slick’s voice, Snowman cut it off then, answering in her cold, royal tone she reserved for when she wanted to be left alone, which, despite the specifications, she used quite often.

“What’s it to you?”

“I worry about you, my beloathed!” Slick answered, mocking her voice with a stuffy one. She slapped his shoulder as a warning.

“Stop that.”

“Fine. If you’re not tellin’ me, I’m not gonna ask anymore. Jus’ tryin’ to be nice and I’m given the royal voice.”

“Spades.”

“Y’know it costs you absolutely nothin’ to be honest with me, just once. But you’re always... Makin’ a face, doin’ a voice. Doesn’t let anyone near ya.”

“Alright. You want something genuine? Shut up and hold me. I want to sleep if it’s not a bother.”

“Fine.”

She cozied up to him, and he wrapped his arms around her, watching the stars on her shell flicker faintly, almost too small to be seen in the dim yellow light of the lamp.

“If it makes you feel better, you can curse me under your breath after I fall asleep.” She mumbled, her face buried between his chest plates. He gave her a small, shallow laugh, tensing his torso for a short second.

“I’ll be happy to.”

Chapter Text

“Alright then, let’s see.”

Crowbar looked at the Stretch of Space in his hands, leaning his weight on the doorframe to Stitch’s boutique, speaking to the tailor in question as he fiddled with other important fabrics and cloths on his working tables. Next to Crowbar, laying on an empty trunk, was Scratch’s unceremoniously empty corpse. It didn’t decay, it didn’t ever so much as appear dead – it was simply hollow and inert. Sat like an unused marionette, it looked like it could at any moment just stand up as usual and request for his white blazer before teleporting himself away to his apartment. He didn’t, and wouldn’t, of course – but that wasn’t the only concern on Crowbar’s mind.

“Caliborn just... Appears, one night, and Scratch just goes silent and does... Whatever the hell this is.” He pointed vaguely with his wrist to the puppet. “And now the coat’s takin’ the brunt of it. We talked before, these aren’t just coincidences, right? Eggs and Biscuits can’t make this much timeline damage even if they were trying to do the most moronic things ever.”

Stitch didn’t answer, but walked towards number Seven and took the stretch out of his hands with a quick motion and a grunt, turning his back again to his table once more. Crowbar took that to mean that he should just continue speaking.

“I mean, I understand Scratch, I reckon. He always says that when our Lord comes, his time on this plane of existence will end and all that. Well, Caliborn is here. So I guess that means Scratch’s gotta croak. But... Did he have to? Does he not have a retirement savings account?”

Stitch rolled his eyes, shaking his head, not as an answer, but as a reaction.

“What’s gonna happen to us, then?” Crowbar continued, looking at his hands as he gestured through his logic. “Do we also turn into ventriloquist dolls when we die?”

“No.”

“Then... That-that also doesn’t explain the coat. Why is it ripping apart? I don’t see any time anomalies around. Sawbuck’s when he has to be, and Die recently hid Eggs’ timer for some reason and he still can’t find it, so that’s covered. Uh... Lord when was the last time we had Cans on a fight? I don’t think he’s been punchin’ people lately. Man’s a saint. Could... Could Caliborn be the time anomaly?”

Stitch grumbled, now with a measuring tape hanging around his neck. The  blubbering noise of a handful of people moving and talking to each other a floor below just then caught Crowbar’s attention, but he was still not done with his thought process.

“But then how do we fix that? How do we send him back? And-and how do we send him back in a... Time-y fashion? So that it closes and irons out the timeline? This is a problem and a half, I’ll tell ya. I have stuff to do out in town today, I can’t... I – w-wait a minute, Stitch, I’m hearing some stuff downstairs, I’ll get back to you. Love our little chats, by the way. You’re very wise.”

Stitch hardly expressed any notice of him leaving, but couldn’t say the company wasn’t appreciated. Gave his earholes something to do while he worked.

Downstairs, a group of leprechauns chatted, gathering in the living room, seemingly preparing themselves for some sort of group activity. Crowbar was glad it was just that – with these guys, opening up any door or sliding open any curtain in search of a noise almost always guaranteed Crowbar to see some footloose unexpected action. This wasn’t the case then, as he noticed everyone piling up in front of the fireplace in the middle of the living room, and some shifting behind the curtains that lead to the side atrium.

Delicately, as if expecting some fancy footwork at any second, he used the hooked tip of his crowbar to split apart the curtain, and peek inside. There, next to the fireplace, stalked Caliborn, grasping some clothes on his arms. Just as Crowbar noticed him and frowned confused, Caliborn noticed Crowbar, and also frowned.

“You cannot be backstage, maroon hat. You have to sit in the audience. With the others.”

“W-what for, my Lord?”

“I am showing you all my newest wardrobe update. You cannot watch from here! You have to watch me from the fourth wall. Where the viewership stays!” Caliborn explained, pushing Crowbar out into the living room again.

“Alright, alright!” Crowbar answered, an awkward smile forming on the corner of his lips, as he let himself be pushed and gently took an empty spot in the frontmost sofa.

Next to him sat, surprisingly, Die, who busied himself with picking threads from his doll, and, upon glancing up to see who just sat next to him, tensed up, a blush slowly forming on the gap between his eyes. Crowbar gave him a ‘hey’, and he repeated it back with a wobbly whine. On the other side of the couch, sat Doze, who chatted joyfully with Sawbuck sitting in a nearby armchair. Cans sat on the floor, hugging his legs loosely, and Clover hung on his shoulders, petting his hair absentminded-ly. Eggs and Biscuits were also there, a little bit behind on the room, seemingly occupied with checking under the fainting couches and ottomans.

After some shuffling behind the curtains, Caliborn yelled “do the thing!” and the two big muscle came forwards, leaning on the back of the couch Crowbar was piled on with the other two, and Die then perked up, running his thumbs one last time on the doll before speaking.

“F-from the f-far away land of...”

“Louder, green hat!”

“F-from the far away land of E-urth–”

“It’s Earth! Earth!”

“–From the far away, m-mysterious land of-of Earth, we present... The m-magnificent, very smart, talented, b-boy-boy genius extraordinaire, Lord of All Time. It’s-it’s Caliborn.”

Caliborn then jumped from behind the curtains, donning his new garbs – a light gray linen shirt, with his symbol embroidered on the pocket, short pants, green suspenders and a short red cape, adorned with the stretches of space, that blinked and flashed gently. The cherub walked to and fro in front of the leprechauns, as if in a fashion show, twirling and grabbing at his cape; the leprechauns each paid attention to him in various degrees of amusement.

“Oh, such a handsome young lad...” Doze said, hand close to his heart. Sawbuck nodded along.

“Stitch did a damn good job didn’t he?”

“Tremendous.”

“I like the colors!” Eggs pointed at the cape, as Caliborn twirled it around. 

The other leprechauns said some more words of flattery, all genuine and interested. Finally then, Crowbar stood up, and approached Caliborn as the cherub admired himself in a side mirror. Surely taking the boy for a stroll around the neighborhood as he tended to his business would do good to acclimatize him to the world, he thought. The leprechaun knew Caliborn was in good humor, and decided the best way to go about it was flattery.

“Very good clothes, my Lord.”

“Thank you, maroon hat. I ordered them to be made myself.”

“Good, good. Listen, I need to go out in town to solve some business, how would you like to go with me?”

Caliborn stopped, and turned to Crowbar dramatically, a wicked smile plastering all over his face, showing all of his pointy teeth.

“Yes.”

“But you have to promise you’ll stay close to me, and you won’t open fire or assault the first person you see.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“Because, uhm... Because it’s a big town, y’see. And you could be overpowered easily.”

“I have all of you to help me.”

“But it’s still fifteen of us against... Who knows how many!”

“I like a good challenge, maroon. I will go to the garage now. I call shot gun.” Caliborn started walking, and Crowbar haphazardly strided to get in front of him, holding his arms up to stop the boy from continuing.

“But-but-but wait! What if we spice things up?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if, instead of going in guns blazing, you lay low for now, my Lord, and you infiltrate yourself pretending to be a defenseless little child, when in fact you’re learning all the ins and outs of the city, all without attracting attention to yourself. What do you think?”

Caliborn put his hand to his chin, deliberating on it with a sonorous ‘hmmmmm’. Finally, he gave Crowbar one of his satisfied smiles, the ones the leprechaun knew from experience to be genuine and to not be hiding any ill intent.

“That is a good idea, maroon hat. You’re not as dumb as you look.”

“Heh, how ‘bout that.”

“C’mon then!” Caliborn started a sprint towards the garage, and shouted “I still call shot gun!”

The trip to Midnight City was, in Caliborn’s opinion, very very boring. Just mountains of sand to see, and a straight line of unpaved road for ages. The novelty of the different sand colors, pink and green and blue, was lost very quickly in favor of staring at the cloudless sky and the approaching smog of the city. Not even the small, subsistence-based farms on the edges caught his attention, and he only perked up as he noticed the road had then become a smooth asphalt, and the houses got more and more close together.

A city! A real city! Basking under the unrelenting light of the Alternian sun, the edifices cutting against the sky with straight corners. Caliborn could hardly believe it. It was so much bigger than even the biggest of the consort villagers he pillaged and plundered during his quests on the different planets! Maybe... Maybe too big. As they stopped at a light and he watched the different carapaces come and go, busy with their daily lives, little ants carrying their own physical or proverbial weight, it almost felt too daunting to the cherub. He barely knew where to look, confused by all the movement and noises and lights, and sunk gently on his seat, taking care to see if maroon hat wasn’t looking at him. Indeed he wasn’t, busy smoking a cigarette and watching the people cross the street in front of them, one of his arms hanging from the open window of the green convertible.

Now out in town, the leprechaun adopted a different posture than in the mansion. In this place, he had a more solid reputation as a fierce leader. Nobody knew he slept in a onesie, or that he still had a crush on you-know-who. And nobody needed to know, because whatever he did in his free time and whatever was on his mind wasn’t of their concern. Crowbar owned half the town, and he made sure to look as intimidating as possible while in his half of the town, to not give any mooks any wrong ideas. As he waited for the light to turn green, he noticed a little carapace lady craning her head up to see past his shoulder, no doubt interested in the little green skull boy next to him. He looked back at her and tipped his hat upwards lightly in a greeting, and she moved along with a nervous expression, deciding to mind her own business instead. He curled up his lips, satisfied. Being respected indeed felt good.

Finally, they reached the destination Crowbar was heading – an opera house in a calmer street, next to a little park, some greenery that, while dislocated in a city in the middle of the desert, looked like a sight for sore eyes. The leprechaun and his Lord walked in, and as Crowbar did his business Caliborn couldn’t help but feel bored out of his mind. What else could he do but to press his face against the window and mope about while watching some kids play in the park across the street? His distressed whines and grumbles caught the attention of the opera house director, a prospitian who was constantly being a pain in Crowbar’s behind, and they tilted their neck to observe the cherub behind the mobster.

“Uh, is everything okay with your... Child?”

Crowbar twisted his torso on his chair to look back at Caliborn, who smeared his cheek all over the glass on the window, patting his claws rhythmically on the frame and looking distraught.

“Oh, he’s just, uh...”

“Maroon! I command you to do this faster! I need to meet the black and white creatures. That are hanging around outside.”

Crowbar sighed, running a thumb and index fingers around his forehead, and then shrugged. What was the worst that could happen?

“Y’know what – go, my Lord, I’m busy with this time waster over here–”

“Hey!”

“Shut up. I can pick you up later down there. Would you please just stay in the park and not walk around?”

“I’ll make the sacrifice.” Caliborn replied, smiling, and darted out the door to the office, down the stairs, out the entrance hall and again down the front steps of the theater, paying little attention as he crossed the street towards the park.

There, among the grass and benches, was a little playground, swingsets and seesaws on a small patch of grassless dirt, and in it, three carapacians, appearing around the same age as the cherub, maybe a bit older or younger. They sat on the ground and the swings, one of them laying their back on the ground while their legs bent over the middle of the seesaw, and stopped their chat as Caliborn approached with his cocksure attitude.

“Hey!” He asked, standing close enough, but at a respectable distance. “Who are you?”

“I ask you the same.” One of the two dersites, a sort-of tall child, with half of a suspender hanging on their shoulder and a mean scowl, asked, standing up from their swing.

“I am Caliborn, your Lord of Time.”

The dersite turned to the shorter one, who stood up from the dirt, and elbowed them with a smile. “Funny title, eh?”

“You two look like the little people in the purple moon.” Caliborn pointed at them with a claw, and then to the prospitian laying on the seesaw. “And that one looks like. A freak light mode version of them.”

“’That one’ has a name, freak .” The prospitian repeated the insult, putting their legs up and to the side so they could get up and stand next to the other two urchins.

“I haven’t asked.” Caliborn narrowed his eyes at them as they approached.

“I don’t know of no purple moon.” The taller dersite shrugged. “Only seen the two.”

“Yeah!” The shorter of the dersites agreed, flopping their oversized sweater sleeves. “They’re pink and green!”

“It’s a moon that exists in my dreams.” Caliborn explained.

The carapaces laughed, and the prospitian slapped the dirt off their skirt and the pants underneath, looking up at the cherub while doing so.

“You’re funny, green kid. Are you with the weird guys that live in the green mansion by the desert?”

“I like the one in the top hat!” The shorter dersite looked up at their lighter friend. “He gave me money for dinner once!”

“Yes!” Caliborn grinned again, happy that his minions were recognized. “That is my mansion, actually. The elves work for me.”

“Bullshit!” The taller dersite waved their hand dismissively, with the other arm over their head. Caliborn adopted a more aggressive stance, pointing at him and pouting.

“It’s true! I have a mansion and it’s fucking awesome!”

“Sure you do, buddy.” The prospitian smirked at him. He stomped his feet, making claw marks on the dirt.

“You cannot speak that way to me! I’m an orphan of father and sister!”

“We’re also orphans, you’re not special.” The shorter dersite spoke up, their sleeves hanging down despondent. 

Caliborn was taken off guard by that, recoiling on himself ever so slightly.

“Well... Mine died in a tragic murder accident!”

“That’s fine.” The prospitian replied, crossing their arms. “Mine dumped me on the street because they didn’t want me. Every orphan is tragic, dipshit.”

“But...” Caliborn grasped on the corner of his cape, still pouty. The taller dersite shrugged, adopting a more relaxed stance, like they owned the street.

“Alright, you wanna prove it to us? That you have a big mansion and these green fucks work for you? Throw a party at the green manor. I’m gonna send one of the boys to check every day, at dusk. Leave the front gate open and we’ll come. We’ll bring people too.”

Caliborn smiled, at the prospect of recruiting more minions, and at the idea of throwing a party. It sounded very easy to do in principle. Plus, what teenager didn’t enjoy a party without adult supervision? To Caliborn, that sounded perfect.

“You won’t regret it, chess people. I can guarantee you will be spared. Or even given a high position role in my new order. Above the broccoli men, even. When I become lord of this city as well.”

The carapaces looked at each other, rising brows, confused. Caliborn then felt the need to continue explaining.

“You see, as Time Lord, I conquer and destroy worlds.”

“Is this some kind of game?” The prospitian asked.

“No! It’s my character motivation!”

The taller dersite gestured towards him, tired of his apparent nonsense.

“Whatever man, just get the gate open for us.”

“Will do, shelled child.” Caliborn smiled again, devilishly. “Will do.”

Chapter Text

The whiteboard that usually held the Felt’s list of chores was backwards, propped over the little raised level on the mansion’s main sitting area, turned into a neat corkboard where the blueprint of a building was tacked on. On top of the schematics, a title, in printer paper cut carefully, “The Billious Opera House Heist (working title)”. Crowbar pointed to the entrance on the blueprint with his crowbar, showing the plan to the rest of the gang, neatly sat around the sofas, fainting couches, armchairs and stools.

“Alright, so here’s the plan.” Number Seven started, grabbing a marker on his breast pocket and scrawling a few numbers on a scrap piece of paper tacked next to the prints. “Those guys...” He spoke as he wrote, “refused to give us the protection fees we so kindly asked. They’ve been sittin’ there all pretty on the money that they owe us, and since they didn’t exactly take the opportunity last time I went to town with Caliborn... We gotta do som’thing about it. Give ‘em... A little taste of what they’re risking - Fourteen, fifteen, there.” He finished writing the numbers of the respective Felt members, and let out a little quick sigh of finality. “So. While they’re downstairs performing the last show of the night, we’ll come in, rough the place up a li’l, then take the money and dip. They’ll get a taste of what they’re risking without our protection, y’see. How’s this sound?”

Everyone nodded along, some more interested than others. Crowbar started circling the numbers.

“It’s not gonna be too hard, so I’m only bringing the solids for now, you guys are just enough.” He stopped the tip of the market on top of six, and craned his head back, with a reassuring smile. “Die can break into the safe, right?”

Die nodded vigorously, palms pinned against his knees. Crowbar ticked number six and moved his hand up.

“And Trace and Fin have enough meat in ‘em in case any of these frou-frou types tries to stop us, eh?”

“Oh hell yeah!” Fin shifted his height between his feet excited, grabbed onto the back of the armchair Trace sat in; Trace himself bounced on his seat with the same energy, with a low, devilish chuckle. Crowbar ticked them, and then moved to the middle.

“Clover for good luck...”

Without saying anything, Clover gave him a thumbs up, perched on Quarters’ shoulders. Itchy perked up, excited to hear what he was going to do.

“What ‘bout me, boss? Kneecap duty? What about intel stealin’?”

“You’re gonna, uh...” Crowbar flicked his wrist around, before ticking the one, as if Itchy was an afterthought. “Be lookout.”

“What?! I hate doing that, it’s so fuckin’ boring! Why doesn’t Doze get to be lookout, he doesn’t mind!”

“Actually-” Doze started, but was interrupted by Crowbar, stepping down from the raised platform and pocketing his marker.

“Doze’s gonna stay here lookin’ after Caliborn, of course. Lord knows he’s not gonna be useful in a heist.”

“Oh, alright then.” Doze agreed, with an air of distaste in the way his eyes lidded at Crowbar’s comment that would probably go by unnoticed. Crowbar then addressed the whole room again.

“The stripes are gonna do the rounds for the night, bar Stitch who’s got his job cut out for him, but I already talked to him and he’s gonna be keepin’ an eye on the effigies for us. Can’t have some common hooligans doing shady shit in our turf, is that right lads?”

Matchsticks, Eggs, Biscuits, Quarters and Cans answered with pleased nods and exclamations, in varying degrees of excitement. Sawbuck had a smile of anticipation, but raised his hand with a question.

“Yes, Buck?”

“What about Snowman?”

“Snowman, uhm...” Crowbar rubbed the back of his neck, and put his other hand on his waist, crowbar dangling between his fingers. “I’m gonna have to take a gander at her. She’s been very aloof lately. More than usual, even. She could be useful on the opera house... I’m gonna look into it, alright?” He nodded, and Sawbuck nodded in retribution, satisfied with the answer. Crowbar made an open, broad gesture with his arms, looking around the room.

“Nice, okay. Any other questions, lads? Alright, get yourselves ready, I’m gonna check on Snowman.”

With that, he walked past the buzz of the leprechauns starting the preparations to their tasks, and went up the stairs to confront the overwhelming ordeal of staring up at Snowman’s doors. They were large and solid, standing imponent on the fourth floor’s lounge like they dared whoever stood in front of them to knock, like bait in a particularly unassuming spiderweb. Crowbar stared at the mahogany surfaces and the silver handles for a good while, raising and retrieving his fist a couple of times before knocking on them. He couldn’t lie – Snowman terrified him. And he was afraid of what she was possibly up to when she hasn’t really interacted with anyone in any meaningful way since the night Caliborn appeared.

He gathered up the courage and knocked on the doors. Nobody answered. He knocked again, and, met with silence once more, decided to enter. If she didn’t want him there, she’d shriek. Snowman’s quarters were more like a small open floor apartment than just a simple bedroom, with a lounge area, a kitchen area, a sumptuous bedroom and a bathroom. Those were the standards she demanded to live in, back then, so he and the boys made sure she had everything she wanted in here, although it did mean she was usually reclusive and secretive. What the other leprechauns thought of it, wasn’t really Crowbar’s business, but he himself was glad he didn’t have to talk to her very often apart from business. She wasn’t exactly easy to talk to.

He walked in to find the apartment not quite the same way he’d usually see it. The furniture was visibly used, with blankets laying over fainting couches, an empty snack package resting on a coffee table, a glass of wine on the sink, to be washed. Snowman wasn’t really the kind to do house chores (usually, she left them to the poor sap who knocked on her doors to deliver a message or something and intimidated him into doing them for her), but she would at least pick up any evidence that she is a mortal who needs food and warmth to live, so this state, although not even remotely close to what Crowbar would consider “a mess”, was still messy by Snowman standards. He called her, and walked further in when not receiving any response.

Snowman laid on her bed, the soft, cloud-like white nest of sheets, duvet and pillows framing her as the cushioned insides of a casket. She had a nightgown on, which wouldn’t be abnormal, except that at this time of day she would have already changed from her nightgown, were Crowbar’s understanding of the differences between a morning robe, an evening gown and a nightgown right. No, at this time of the afternoon she would be either in a morning robe, enjoying whatever she cooked herself for lunch, or in her regular dress and coat, idling with her smokes like she was waiting for someone to cross her way to act upon her devilish wishes. Right now, she only laid down. Crowbar walked up to the bed, standing at a respectful distance but close enough that he could be seen from her spot, and cleared his throat with two gentle coughs.

“S-snowman?”

She didn’t answer, but gave him sign of life, at least – twisted her head and repositioned her arms so she would face him, opening her eyes delicately. Snowman was always really elegant, and every movement she had was attractive and seemed to be rehearsed to be so. Even in this state, she didn’t lose this characteristic. The leprechaun thought she looked like a wilting black flower, the specks of stars in her shell gleaming faintly and reflecting the lazy light filtered by the curtains like they always were. The goldstone-like shine of her shell was good, Crowbar mused. Meant this wasn’t an immediate risk for the universe just yet. Taking that movement as her response, he continued, mumbling through his words like an elementary schooler who needed to talk to an adult, or a man too flustered to talk to his crush. Either way, he looked down at his feet.

“You... There’s-there’s, uh... There’s a heist we’re planning and we’d like it if-I was hoping, uh, y-your set of skills would-would be-”

“I am afraid I cannot.” She answered, softly, her regal tone muted by the low volume of her voice.

“Why? Is anythin’ wrong?”

“I am tired. Weak.”

“D-d’you want Stitch to look you over?”

“No. I want to rest.”

Crowbar fidgeted, trying to come up with any more questions, but failed. Snowman was very hard to get through.

“Alright, then... I’ll-Doze will be staying, he can bring you some supper later.”

“We are not hungry.” She made her tone more severe, even if the volume was still low and small. “There is no need.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll check up on you when we get back.” He turned around, and started walking back out, mumbling to himself. “And I swear if you’re fakin’ again...”

“What was that?” She called back, a genuinely curious tone in her voice, but he still froze in place for a small second.

“Uh. Nothing! See ya.”

Crowbar stepped out of her bedroom, closing the doors softly behind himself, and made his way down to the garage, already foreseeing some sort of bullshit to solve. He couldn’t remember the last time the leprechauns didn’t get in some sort of kerfuffle right before a heist. Seemed like the anticipation did nothing but drive animosities high, and number Seven was getting mighty tired of playing group therapist and breaking up fights. Nevertheless, that’s exactly what he found in the garage, already hearing Quarters’ powerful voice from the corridor.

“Get your scrawny ass outta there, Itchy!”

“Fuck no, I got here first, I get to choose where I seat!”

Crowbar walked in, and all the felt were scattered about, either mumbling quiet among each other, or watching Quarters hunched over the green convertible, yelling at an Itchy with the curly lips of a cat who’s been given way too many treats.

“Cans can’t fit in the sedan,” Quarters continued his argument. “We have to take the convertible you dense motherfucker!”

“I ain’t movin’, I got here first!”

“You always gets here first.”

“Then maaybee...” Itchy went, in a singy-songy taunt. “You shoulda come here earlier!”

“I’m gonna fucking-” Quarters started, ready to attack Itchy and rip him out of the car with his sheer strength. Cans stepped forward to intervene, pulling him back by his shoulders and halfway hugging him as a way to try to calm fourteen’s nerves. Doze stepped closer as well, trying to mediate between the two.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there Quartz!” Cans said as he pulled the taller leprechaun back, and patted his shoulders gently, but firmly. “No point in gettin’ trouble like that!”

“You two don’t have to fight about it!” Doze intervened, looking between Quarters and Itchy, who still hadn’t left the car.

This gave Crowbar a headache. He knew how heated people got over the cars. They only had three, the nice, sleek green convertible, that always gave them an edge when they left for the city, the black sedan with a faint green tint as well, that, while smaller and less pompous, still did its job well. A good getaway car. And then, there was the pea car. The car Crowbar had to beg on his knees for Scratch to grant them, when they desperately needed a van or something else that was big and spacious to carry everyone around in one vehicle, and when Scratch finally said “alright”... Well, it fit everyone in, alright.

But what a cost to public image.

Crowbar shuddered the thoughts of the tiny round clown car that defied the laws of physics away, and walked up to the fight, not really patient to deal with this sort of thing.

“Hey, hey, what the fuck happened here?”

“Itchy,” Quarters started, gently leaning Cans’ hands off his shoulders and shifting his weight on his legs. “Ran past us and sat his ass on the convertible and won’t let us take it.”

“I got here first!” Itchy cried in his own defense.

“Why do you always do this, man?” Matchsticks bent down laying his weight on the hood of the car and tried to level with Itchy. “We’re big guys, you know we can’t fit all inside the sedan.”

“Take the pea car then! I’m not getting out!”

“We’re not patrolling on the fucking pea car!” Quarters once again grabbed onto the convertible’s windshield and front door, making it sway towards him slightly. Itchy shrugged.

“Why the fuck not? It’s got space for the lot of ya and you’re even gonna get some extra because the other six of us are gonna be in another car!”

The tip of Quarters’ snout was now hovering over the smaller leprechaun, who still sat down, unrepenting and unfazed.

“You think people are gonna be scared of a fucking PEA CAR?”

“No.” Itchy used his index finger to push Quarters’ face away from him, and fourteen allowed it, straightening away. “But that’s what you get for being a goddamn slowpoke!” Number one turned his face over his shoulder, to look at Doze right besides the larger leprechaun. “No offense, though.”

Doze blinked. “There was none taken until now.”

“Okay then, now that that’s taken care of, let’s fuckin’ go!” Itchy bounced on his seat, banging on the panel of the car with anticipation, but Quarters once again leaned in.

“We’re. Not. Going. On. The. Pea. Car.”

“Then I guess you’re not goin’, isn’t that right?”

“Crowbar!” Quarters’ voice raised from a rumble to a yell gradually as he turned back to face the boss behind him, who stared with a perplexedly annoyed expression. Crowbar pressed his eyes and pinched the bridge between them, exasperation written all over, and then gestured broadly with arms and juju.

“Guys, for Lord’s sake, this is ridiculous! Itchy, get out of the convertible and get into the sedan.”

“But-”

“Get the feck outta there or I’m gonna fish you out with the mean end of my crowbar.”

“Ugh, fiiiiine.” Itchy begrudgingly hopped over the open window of the green car, and strode his way towards the other one, making a show of eyerolls and sweeping feet and curved shoulders, and then shut himself on the back seat of the dark vehicle. What a drama queen. The stripe-hatted felt members started walking towards the convertible, gently and in silence, but then stopped as another voice raised up.

“Y’know now I kinda wanna go in the convertible,” said Trace, scratching his neck and chin in thought. “It’s breezy.”

“Yeah!” Fin echoed. “We could do with somethin’ nice for a change!”

“Pal are you fucking out of your-” Quarters started, ready to do the song and dance again. Or rather, the yell and fight. Crowbar rushed to stand between the three of them, his patience fed up.

“Nooo, no, no, no, no, we’re not doing this again! Solids on the sedan, stripes on the convertible, and I don’t wanna hear a feckin’ peep about it!”

Clover bounced on his feet.

“Clover if you say ‘peep’ I swear to the Lord almighty...”

Clover, luckily, didn’t, giving Crowbar one of his patented earhole-to-earhole mischievous smiles, and climbed onto the black car in silence. Once everyone had settled in their seats, Crowbar joined the solids, and gave a hand sign for Quarters in the driver’s seat of the other car to go.

“Alright lads.” Crowbar muttered, turning on the ignition of the sedan. “Let’s fucking go.”

As the two cars drove past the gates and into the dirt road in the stretch of desert between the mansion and the city, vanishing over the horizon under the setting sun, Caliborn watched them through a window on the third floor, smile toothy and devilish. Time to host a party.